Susan LaffertyOver the holidays, we watch old movies together.
“Wait for it….”
Expecting the coming punchline. Dialogue already in our heads. And on our lips. Story summoning memory.
We anticipate what we’ve already seen.
The birds swoop down toward me. Splattered mud of last year’s temporary nest still stains the corner under the roof of our patio. We’ve tried to deter them. A long rope of brass bells from India hangs from a nail nearby. I watch them pull at the strands of the rope. Loudly protesting this intrusion.
They try a new location. In the opposite corner. Instinct rules and they will not be stopped. We pile something in this new spot. Our attempt at a scarecrow. We wait to see whether they’ll leave for another place.
They’re obnoxious. All the chattering and swooping makes the back patio an unpleasant experience. But I know it’s how they’re wired. It’s time for nest making. Go home.
I kept a diary during my high school years. Daily inscriptions of great importance. “Went to the store and bought deodorant.” “My hair was so oily today at church.” “Studied Chemistry all afternoon.” A few details of my hopes and dreams and struggles spilled out on paper. But for the most part, I reported activities…or hair conditions.
Recently I found a few brief sentences recording a significant life-changing experience my senior year. In 1975-76 we were on furlough in Shreveport, Louisiana, and our family joined Highland Baptist Church. In September, we attended revival services there, led by Jack Taylor and Ron Dunn.