Don’t call it a comeback.
Long Beach From Home has RETURNED after a long hiatus. I know the tens of people (family) who read this blog has anxiously awaited this entry. I never went away, I just ran out of things to say.
This project started as a chronicle of my move from suburban Chicago to coastal California. It evolved into recaps of the previous weekend and summarizing humble travels. I didn’t want this corner of the internet to be a personal diary and failed to cross the line of over-sharing. I typed some entries in a veiled language without actually saying many meaningful words.
But now LBFH is back, just in time for summer. There will perhaps be weekend recaps, but my goal going forward to be to write more often but in shorter bursts. Entries may include beer reviews, Cubs angst, political fears, self-deprecation, and general observation. I intend to maintain the old format and include music in each entry:
Today I want to share a story. I have told this tale a handful of times since it happened earlier this month, but never in this space. And since I am still totally spooked and hesitant to step outside for a lap around the block, I will try to describe the situation.
It has become routine to eat lunch at my desk and then use the “lunch hour” to walk in the business park surrounding my office. I get caught up on podcasts while working off the chunky PBJ I just devoured. Sometimes I’ll go clockwise, sometimes counterclockwise, sometimes down and back, sometimes around the park. I’ll step away from my desk and into the sunlight, reach into my car to grab sunglasses and ear buds and go on my way. But this day it was different.
It was especially warm on this particular afternoon, and the parking lot was radiating heat. The black interior of my car was equally toasty warm. I reached into my car searching for my glasses in the center console and felt a WHOOOOSH near the back of my head. It was a calm day, so I didn’t think that was a sudden gust of wind. Before I had time to consider the source, another WHOOOOSH narrowly missed me. I back-pedaled away from my car and looked into the trees that guard the lot.
Perched on the corner of our building, hidden behind the tree was my nemesis. I’ve never been birding so I cannot give a scientific description. I only know she was larger than a pigeon and meaner than a crow. It might have been some sort of hawk, who was territorial of who occupied the space below her nest. We made eye contact as she WHOOOOSHed near me again and I barely escaped her wrath. I began my stroll and wasn’t ten steps further when she finally struck. The bird dive-bombed again from the top of the building and made direct contact with the side of my head, knocking the glasses off my face and onto the pavement.
I returned to the office 45 minutes later to share my tale and alert coworkers to be careful when leaving the office. We heard the birds chirping but all others escaped unscathed. These last two weeks I have tiptoed gingerly awaiting what may swoop down from above. Along the beach during evening strolls, the gulls and pigeons cross my path and my paranoia makes the scenery slightly less enjoyable. The Birds may have tasted victory, but I won’t let them limit the overwhelming pleasure of sunny California.
Melanie Daniels is the modern rich socialite, part of the jet-set who always gets what she wants. When lawyer Mitch Brenner sees her in a pet shop, he plays something of a practical joke on her, and she decides to return the favor. She drives about an hour north of San Francisco to Bodega Bay, where Mitch spends the weekends with his mother Lydia and younger sister Cathy. Soon after her arrival, however, the birds in the area begin to act strangely. A seagull attacks Melanie as she is crossing the bay in a small boat, and then, Lydia finds her neighbor dead, obviously the victim of a bird attack. Soon, birds in the hundreds and thousands are attacking anyone they find out-of-doors. There is no explanation as to why this might be happening, and as the birds continue their vicious attacks, survival becomes the priority.