Whooooo You Looking At?

Little House on the Prairie Redux Super Bored 50!

Whooooo You Looking At?

Last month my nephew David and his wife came for a visit from their home in Boston. It was the first time Sherry had ever been to California. Despite persistent drizzle and rain, this cute couple managed to see all the high points of the Bay Area, from North Beach to Alcatraz to the Embarcadero and Union Square, to burritos at El Farrolito and (my personal favorite) dinner at Desco in funky Old Oakland. Their last day with us, before they took the redeye back to Boston was a lazy Sunday; we capped it eating mac and cheese takeout from Homeroom and watching the Democratic debate.

After the debate ended we watched the local news and there was one story and one story only: the weather. Reporters on the street in rain gear, reporters at the beach watching waves hit piers, meteorologists in the studio: all united to give us a comprehensive, 360-degree view of NorCal’s major weather issue:

It’s raining.

You know how embarrassment doesn’t reach full flower unless someone’s there to witness it? That’s how I felt during that 6 pm news hour. Because in front of two people accustomed to the bone-chilling, months-long slog of a Boston winter, panic over ½ inch of rain really seems overblown. I mean, you may get your suede shoes ruined, and your hairstyle may not be at peak fleek when it’s pouring out. But – minus the freak tree topple – as long as you drive slowly and take common sense precautions, by which I mean don’t be the idiot at the end of the pier where a reporter is doing a remote spot about the rising tide and sneaker waves, rain probably isn’t going to kill you.

But you know what might? Owls.

The last few weeks, we’ve heard a nightly solo of “whoooo, whoooo, whoooo” from very close by. Like, in our yard close by. Anyone who’s seen Harry Potter understands my excitement: I thought I was finally going to Hogwarts. When that didn’t happen I reluctantly accepted that yes, we live near a canyon with lots of tasty morsels for owls to eat, and it makes sense they’d congregate nearby. Unlike virtually any other repetitive animal sound (I’m looking at you, neighbor with four barking dogs who keeps them outside all day) the hoot of an owl is neither annoying nor distracting. It’s just very cool. David and I even spotted the owl one night when he was here, sitting high atop my next door neighbor Chester’s tree, fanning his wings out every time he hooted.

The next day Chester and I were talking through the hedge, as we do. Chester is fantastic. He is a retired older gentleman from Louisiana, and I use the term “gentleman” deliberately. His cadence, his manners, his kindness mark him as one of the classiest guys I’ve ever met. Chester spends his outdoor time either a.) doing yardwork in blue coveralls or b.) smoking meat in his hand-built brick BBQ. When Achilles was still alive and needing to water our lawn every 30 minutes, Chester and I talked through the hedge all the time. Now it’s a special treat.

I asked Chester if he was aware there was an owl hanging out in his big redwood and by hanging out I was pretty sure it had taken up a pied-à-terre there. Chester did know. And proceeded to tell me that he’d recently seen an episode of Frontline in which a man was charged for murdering his wife, who had shown up at home one night with a big gash in her head and promptly died. I’ll shortcut it: wasn’t the husband. IT WAS AN OWL, who had swooped down on her head thinking she was prey of some sort, and gashed her with its talons, and that was all she wrote.

“I’ve told my daughters to be careful of this owl when they come to visit,” Chester said. Chester doesn’t ruffle easily – there’s a reason our girls know to get Chester first if there’s a hint of trouble and Mom and Dad aren’t home – so his look of worry, even partially obstructed by the hedge, meant something serious to me.

Now if I have to go out at night, to throw out some compost or walk up to the car, I yell, “It’s me owl, it’s me!” Then I put my hand over my head and run. It’s not to dodge raindrops: it’s to prevent an owlicide.

But at least, when it comes to matching my Boston relatives when it comes to stories about natural disasters that come from the sky, I can finally hold my head high.

Who am I? Someone who is going to see Vance Joy play at the Fox this month, that’s whooooo.