Yesterday, in honor of our nation’s Independence I decided to travel back in time. I don’t go back to Blaine, the suburb I grew up in, very often. Something about the area doesn’t feel right and it makes me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Last night as Sister #4 and I were driving home along 169, I let out a huge sigh of relief as we crossed south of 394.

“Oh,” I said. “I feel much better.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Everything north of 394 feels like a different country,” I said. “It’s just weird, because I feel anxious when I’m up there. It’s like you have to run to get out or you’ll get stuck and never leave.”
“You’re just generalizing based on our weird family,” she said, referring to the gaggle of cousins and cousins’ kids who have never left Anoka country.
“Yes, to some degree. But then look at Jenni and Mark and Jeff. They’ve never even left their parents’ houses. It’s scary.”

We had spent the day at Jodi Hanson’s mom’s house eating brats and reminiscing about the old days. About how Jodi got grounded for scratching ‘I Love Tony Cobb’ into the bumper of her dad’s truck, or about how Amber Thom was nice to me at the bus stop. I relayed the story to my friends and family:
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Tooling around this morning running errands collecting the stuff that is vital to my well-being: a new coffee maker (mine gave up the ghost in a most inglorious display yesterday), the biggest bottle of gin I could find, and limes, I spotted a most curious bumper sticker.

Sitting at a red light behind a shiny, blue convertible singing along to “Bad Time” by the band who originally sang it that is not The Jayhawks I noticed the bumper sticker. “January 20, 2009″ said sticker’s the headline. “The end of the error” was the subhead.

Huh, I thought. What the fuck could that mean. I continued singing, pondering the sticker as the light turned. Ohhhhh. Nice one I said.

I blame the fact that I hadn’t had any coffee.

• MinnPost - 150 Minnesota moments we’d just as soon forget
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It was dusk. The odd time of the day when it’s not quite day but not yet night. FFJ was on her knees in the grass next to the pine tree, a yellow shovel in her hand. I stood behind her watching as she dug, the little dead bird next to my feet. I could see the string still wrapped around its wings.

A few minutes earlier we had stood in the living room of Supergenius HQ arguing about what to do about a dead bird. I argued in favor of burial, she was in favor of trash.

There must of been a look on my face that won her over. “You really want to bury it, don’t you?”
I nodded my head.
“Okay, let’s go.”

So there she was bent over in the grass on her hands and knees, a hot wind blowing through the humid night which smelled like the lilacs on the tree in the neighbor’s yard. I stared down at the dead bird, his two toothpick legs, mangled body.

“This is probably a bad time to start singing I see London, I see France,” I said.
“Uh, yeah.” She continued digging.

Bob Marley was singing in my head, Don’t worry about a thing. I said every little thing is gonna be all right.

“Well, there.” FFJ stood and brushed the grass from her knees and handed the yellow shovel to me. “Do you want to say a prayer?”
“I’m not the praying type.” Bob Marley continued, Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true. This is my message to you-ou-ou. “But thank you.”

Now my the poor little bird is in the ground and this morning as I drank my coffee before the Tibbles arrived, I realized the mourning dove was silent. Maybe for today, he is not so forlorn.

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I came upstairs over an hour ago to take a shower so I could go to the grocery store and get something to eat. Instead, here it is nearly 1 p.m. and I’m stinky and hungry. It’s all Ethan Canin’s fault. I’ve been reading his new novel America America this week and it’s getting to the point in the book where all I want to do is read it. I’d rather read this book than eat, shower, watch A Different World reruns, clean the house, or check to see if the dead bird is still there. That’s how preoccupied I’ve become. I don’t even know if the bird is still on the lawn!

In fact, the only reason I am sitting here typing instead of reading is that I’ve just gotten to a rather important part of the story, a part whose foreshadowing was so subtle that I tossed the book down and shouted “fucking brilliant.” Then I sighed in exasperation and jealousy. But really, it was so fucking brilliant that I had to stop and pay homage to the brilliance. Goddamn Canin’s good.

I was a little worried about this book. It started a bit slow and at more than 400 pages you gotta be magic to sustain a story that long. But, it’s Ethan Canin and I have no idea why I even worried for a second. After all, this is the man who wrote “We Are Nighttime Travelers” which is, I believe, the first short story to ever make me cry. I should have known I was in capable hands from page one.

When we last left the poor dead bird, it was swinging forlornly from the lowest branches of the pine tree. Sometime Saturday, the bird was blown from the tree and now lays feet up in the grass next to the tree. I was really hoping that once the bird was freed nature or the neighbors would take care of it. I don’t have that kind of luck.

Since the bird has been preoccupying my thoughts I decided this morning was the morning I was going to bury it. So armed with Nolie’s yellow plastic shovel, a plastic Target bag, and a steely resolve soaked with coffee, I set out to put the poor thing to rest. The sun was shining and the neighbors had all already left for work.

Oh no! As I write this, there is some sort of gardening implement combing the area where the dead bird is. This is a Bobcat-type machine that features a wheel with big metal spikes of death trailing behind it. I am afraid to look. But I have to look.

I looked. The bird is still lying there in one piece. But it sounds like big metal spikes of doom is returning for round two. Argh! And he’s going around the pine trees this time.

I looked again, the bird is still there.

Anyway, I tried to bury it under the tree this morning, but my attempt left me on my knees yakking coffee in the grass. I’m not sure why I thought I’d have the cajones to bury a dead bird. As far as I know, I’ve never touched something that was dead. In fact, at any wake or funeral I’m generally the person the furthest from the body and closest to the door, the one with the barely disguised look of horror as I watch people kiss their loved ones goodbye for the last time.

Fuck, I need a Valium and a plan B.

• Internet Archive: Details: Mike Doughty Live at First Avenue on 2008-03-23
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