The nests in my life, or at least the warm and welcoming ones, have been feathered by women. The men, myself included, are better at unfeathering and making a mess.
This Sunday afternoon as I lie on my bed, typing into the Notes page of my iPhone, working my response to this prompt, I hear the bellow of 25 mph winds outside, gusting upwards, and to the battering surf in conjunction. When I close my eyes, I am wafted away like a kite, although my typing deteriorates. I assume there are some savvy thumbsters among us who can type coherently on their little phone pad by touch, with eyes closed, and ears open to the prevailing roar of wind and waves, but with me, the direct sensation of the sound gets processed and diluted by my watch over my tapping left thumb. Even diminished, however, the roar transfixes me. It is so loud. It is so unrelenting. It is so beautiful.
Happily the forecast is for more and bigger wind.
Part of me wishes to be standing on the beach in the face of the wind, as I was a few minutes ago, feathering my inner nest with the adventure of being out there and yielding to it, which is a happy nest for me, living in the moment circled and filled by the aroused powers of nature. There will be time later to hunker under blankets and the spell of the late afternoon NFL game, featuring my hometown depleted Pats. There will be time later to do domestic chores around the nest, or to support their getting done with appreciative thanks, if circumstances permit me to get away with that.
I just checked my Weather app, thinking I heard some lowering of the din, but happily the forecast is for more and bigger wind.
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jonathancanterHere is what I said about myself on the back page of my 2020 humor/drama/politico novel "The Debutante (and the Bomb Factory)" (edited here, for clarity):
"Jonathan Canter Is a retIred attorney; widower; devoted father and grandfather (sounds like my obit); lifelong resident of Greater Boston; graduate of Harvard College (where he was an editor of The Harvard Lampoon); fan of waves and wolves; sporadic writer of dry and sometimes dark humor (see "Lucky Leonardo" (Sourcebooks, 2004), funny to the edge of tears); gamesman (see "A Crapshooter’s Companion"(2019), existential thriller and life manual); and part-time student of various ephemeral things."
The Deb and Lucky are available on Amazon. The Crapshooter is available by request to the author in exchange for a dinner invitation.
Thanx for your ever unique take Jon!
At the risk of angering my staunch feminist sisters I must agree it’s the distaff side that feathers – must be wired in that we do the gathering while you guys hunt.
And yes it’s good to hear the wind howling out there from the warmth of the nest!
Dana,
I am not a member of the feathering tribe (but each to their own interests and enjoyments), especially when feathering entails stepping foot in a store, or opening a catalog, or store website, which is when my throat tightens and I get a rash.
But, thank you for your warm and congenial comment.
Jon
Your title would make a good song, maybe just with new lyrics to Bob Dylan’s tune. Wonderful, descriptive story, but I can’t agree with your thesis about women and men as featherers, because in my experience the men are just as involved in picking out furniture, carpeting, art, etc. as the women. I’m sure it’s variable.
I’m super impressed that you can write a story on your phone (I don’t even write emails on my phone – if I read them there, I then go to the computer to answer them), and that you use your thumbs! Among all the people I know, Millennials use their thumbs to type on their phones and Boomers use their pointer. Guess you are young at heart (or at thumb?).
Suzy,
I type on my iPhone w just my left thumb; I am not ambithumbrous. My story, as I assume you realize, was a stream of consciousness walk through the loud elements banging around me: the wind persists these hours later, obliging me to walk backwards against it at the risk of putting my foot into a sinkhole or other dangerous thing, especially now as it it pitch black out there, with the wind and waves still roaring at and with each other. Jupiter has been large in the eastern sky this past fortnight, shining like the brightest star; I don’t know if the clouds will allow for a Jupiter sighting tonight.
Hope all is well with you and your nest. I love your description of the weather and am also impressed that you can do anything on your phone. My grandkids laugh at my efforts to text, so I have resorted to dictation and correction.
I marvel at the engineering acumen and purposefulness of birds 🦅 who make a nest. Nesting is fundamental to making a life.
Jon, my husband is MORE interested in the design elements of our house than I am. I’ll participate, but it is his religion. He does not participate in the cleanup, once it is all put together, however. Ah well…
I also enjoy your stream of consciousness, and thumb-nail thoughts on nesting, or whatever comes to mind.
I, too, was listening to the gale-force winds on Sunday on Martha’s Vineyard (we even walked out to dinner with friends in it). I kept checking the ferry schedule (some, but not all, were canceled), as I came home for the season yesterday and have an important doctor appointment (scheduled last July) in a few hours. If the ferry wasn’t running yesterday, I would have missed it. It made for a fraught couple of days, but all turned out well, and here I am.
I am glad your ferry ran. I hope your doctor appt was good. Welcome back to the mainland!! I’m still in Hull, and the rain, winds, and surf are all roaring without abatement.
A warm nest, sheltered from the elements, is lovely–as is the thrill of being out in the wild weather. You describe it well. To a point of course. Not when life and limb are threatened, and you can’t find the shelter from the storm.
Yes, to a point. When the guardrails get broken, and there is no place to run from the surge, best to be able to change the channel. Bob’s lyric, anticipating the risk and reward: “Come in she said, I’ll give ya shelter from the storm…”