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There once was a narrator named Janice, who looked both left and right, like Janus, she tried to stay calm, write with aplomb, and not say anything too heinous.
Some of you may know her, some of you may not. Some of you may have read her before, others may not. She looks at the current moment from multiple perspectives, nodding to the past and glancing at the future. She is non-judgmental but has opinions; she ponders karma; she is grateful for what is but longs for what isn’t.
She was raised in central Illinois as a 4th-generation farmer, educated in Indiana, South Carolina, and Cincinnati, lived in five states and two foreign countries before settling in southern California 45 years ago, but don’t hold that against her.
Did I tell you she was old? She writes about daily life under the byline “Today in Claremont…” but Claremont is just a stand-in for community, your community, your life, rural or urban, digital or in your dreams.
Unforgettable: Fantasy of an Afterlife as Mourning Dove
Present Day, Southern California
Karma can go either way, but lucky for me, mostly the good parts reappeared, and a few wrongs were righted. My husband, Larry, and I collaborated in business for 35 years, and I came back as a creature with a closely cooperating mate. I couldn’t birth my own children, but I returned as a mourning dove who raises six broods a year. In real life, I had serious gut-health issues, but I returned with the ability to create nutritious crawmilk that I delivered to the gullets of my babies with beek-to-beek French kisses.
I miss independence; I miss adventure. I should appreciate that I finally got a male who shares equally in the domestic duties, but he is always here. His idea of a night out is sitting together on the wall rather than in the nest. His idea of exciting travel is migrating to the same place year after year. (Sigh) but at least he doesn’t have to ask for directions, so there is that. However, female doves don’t have the same cache as female humans. I’m supposed to be happy and coo about everything. That would suck if I could suck, but I can’t because I’m a bird.
In my prior life, I was the flamboyant one, the creative. He was the sensible one, the mathematician. When we met, I was statuesque and dressed with brightly-colored flair. He wore brown tweed jackets with suede patches on his elbows. Now I have no shoulders, I am the color of faded puce, and my only adornment is a collection of black spots. Spots!
The upside, however, is these dudes. Have you ever seen a male mourning dove? They are attentive and respectful as well as movie star handsome: lavender and blue rings around their eyes, muscular jutting chests, and remember that part about mating for life? That’s not so bad when you are Plain Jane married to Matthew McWhoopee McConaughy.
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The pandemic delayed my memorial, but the neighborhood wanted to gather, so something is happening now. Like a drive-in movie, people are social distancing in cars, lining the canyon, tuning their iPhones to a link for the audio, the video projected across the canyon onto the rock face. I’ve rehearsed with my new buddies to land and take off on cue, so that should impress, and I assume it will be noted that we are all birds of color.
I left behind a playlist for this event, including the old standards that I sang to my husband at the cabarets I gave for my 65th and 70th birthdays. I miss my two-octave range. Now I only have three notes. (And I used to think Ravel’s “Bolero” was boring).
Larry is playing a great audio of me channeling Natalie at the Hollywood Bowl, with Nat behind her on the big screen. Ready? Listen. “That’s why, darling, it’s incredible that someone so Unforgettable thinks that I am unforgettable…. coo”.