A Bird In the Hand

From earliest childhood I've been aware of the saying, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." As a little girl I thought it would be very cozy to have a bird in my hand, but even if I'd found one I wouldn't have dared to pick it up. My parents cautioned me that outdoor birds had "lice". Of course, looking back I see that any bird I could've caught would probably have worse problems than lice, but that was a good way for them to keep me from picking up birds. So it was just as well.

The meaning behind the saying is a good one, and one I've lived by (without thinking much about it) all my life. Appreciate what you have. Don't make yourself miserable longing for something else -- at least, not until you've done everything you can to make the most of the current situation. (And then don't just long for it, do something about it.) It's a theme that occurs frequently in pop culture: "Bloom where you're planted." "Love the one you're with." "Oh Auntie Em, I learned that when you go looking for your heart's desire, you shouldn't look any farther than your own back yard, because if it isn't there, then you never really lost it in the first place." Okay, that last one doesn't entirely make sense, but I've always liked it anyway because I've frequently found myself in Dorothy's situation: I've had the ruby slippers all along.

When I was in my teens I had some pet birds (parakeets), and I enjoyed having them in my hand. I learned at that time that a bird in the hand usually leads to bird poop in the hand, but that's just another life lesson -- about taking the bad with the good. (Or as my mother used to say, "Nothing's perfect; everything's got lumps in it.") With the bird's little claws gripping my finger I'd lightly stroke its warm, feathered back. Sometimes I'd even murmur to it, "You're worth two in the bush, you know that?"

I've even got an artist's conception of a bird in the hand:



Mom used to love going to craft sales, and back in the 1970s she found this plate, made by a local artist, which she thought "looked like me". I've kept it in my bedroom ever since then.

Saturday Morning In My Bathrobe: A Cosmic Experience

I was just reading this article (at which I'd arrived via my usual loopy daisy-chain of links), when I realized I was having a cosmic experience. Even as I "heard" the words of the article in the voice and cadences of its author, I heard that voice and those cadences coming from behind me: the TV in the dining room. Stereo? No, not exactly; they weren't saying the same things. But as I'd clicked on the article first, and then the TV segment had started, I thought it was quite the coincidence. (And you know how I am about coincidences.)

6FU Junkie Dodges A Bullet

Well, I think I'm addicted to old Six Feet Under episodes. With the series ending this Sunday I felt like looking back to when it all began, so the other night I popped in my tape of Season One. (Yup, I've got them all taped. Every season, every episode.) I meant to stop after the pilot, but somehow I couldn't quite press "Stop"... The same thing happens every night. I'm just enjoying it so much! Over the years the characters progressed and changed, and it's funny and touching to see how they were when I first met them. Kind of like watching old home movies. And as with the home movies, looking back with foreknowledge makes it all the more poignant.

Today was a better day at work than yesterday, but not much. It's always tough when I'm the only one there in my group; I either run myself nuts trying to fix things I don't know anything about, or feel guilty that I don't have time to try. Today it was the latter. But I dodged a big bullet -- at least, I hope I dodged it! An analyst was using a procedure that I'm responsible for, and it was blowing out when he ran it under a started task. It ran fine when submitted in a batch job. I'd never looked at the program before (hell, I'd never even heard of it!), and when I did, this is what I found in the first line of comments: "THIS PROGRAM IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART." I said to myself, Self, you are so screwed. But then I looked at our team's list of responsibilities by person, and noticed that two asterisks followed the name of this procedure. Down at the bottom of the list I found the notation "Contained". Dare I hope that that means...? I went over to my team lead's office and greeted him, "Here's your chance to make my day." And he did! My guess was correct, "Contained" means "No enhancements", and the change to enable the program to run under a started task would indeed be an enhancement. I'm so glad I noticed those asterisks! You know what I always say: I'd rather not risk my ass, but I'm just glad I've got an asterisk.

An Alarm in the Night: A Reminiscence

When I was a little girl, I was very aware of the sounds in my world. If I heard something I couldn't identify, I'd ask my mother or father what it was. There were lots of sounds to know. I became familiar with train whistles and the sounds of trains switching, factory horns, church bells, even (when the wind was right) clankings and crashes from the junk yard a few miles away: the original heavy metal. These were the sounds of everyday life, familiar and reassuring. Then there were more unusual sounds. Sonic booms were still allowed over residential areas when I was small, and I understood that when I heard one an airplane had just "broken the sound barrier". When sirens wailed, the police, fire department, or an ambulance were on their way. These always made me a little uneasy, knowing something was wrong somewhere. But there was another siren that scared the living daylights out of me no matter when I heard it -- but especially in the night. They called it the Wildcat.

The Wildcat! It was the fire alarm at Commercial Solvents, a chemical company located a few miles from my house. This was a siren unlike any other I've ever heard, in all my years: an eerie, spine-chilling wail that slid uuuuuuuuuuuuup the scale, then doooooowwwn --
EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeooooooooOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEE....
-- up and down a few times, then a series of short blasts, then back to the undulating wail. My parents explained to me that fires are particularly dangerous where chemicals are kept, so Commercial Solvents had an alarm that the fire department could instantly recognize and respond to. The short blasts indicated the department number where the fire was. What they didn't tell me, but I realized many years later, was that the Wildcat also alerted the nearby residents that there was a fire at Solvents, and it might be a good idea to turn on the radio. If the fire were to get out of control, we might have to evacuate due to possible explosions or dangerous gas escaping. They didn't tell me -- but I picked up on their carefully controlled tension in these times, and it doubtless added to my dread and horror of the Wildcat.

One sunny Saturday afternoon, when Dad and I had dropped Mom off downtown for her weekly shopping trip and were on our way back home, he said to me, "How'd you like to see the Wildcat?"

SEE IT? Oh HELL yes! I didn't say that, of course, I was probably six or seven; but my eager response assured him that I liked the idea. I had goosebumps, I was on the edge of my seat! We drove to a big brick building, a typical boxy factory-type place with a wide empty parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. This was Solvents? Home of the mysterious, dangerous chemical potions? I'd expected something more along the lines of Dracula's castle. About halfway between a side door of the building and the parking lot stood a tall pole, like a telephone pole, and on it was mounted a grey metal box about the size of a cereal box. Wires ran up from the box to a smallish siren at the top of the pole.

"That's it," said Dad.

I looked... and looked.... Man, it didn't look scary, but just knowing what it was -- even though I knew better, I half expected it to burst out wailing and blow my hair back but good. "Can I -- touch it?" I asked.

"If you want to."

.... "Will you come with me?"

Well of course he did, and with my big strong daddy to protect me I walked right over to the pole and touched my small hand to the box. "The Wildcat," I whispered, as a chill ran up my spine.