Bullock Texas State History Museum
Drinking = Bad; Torturing Migratory Birds?
RECEIVED Tue., Jan. 1, 2008
Dear Editor,
Well, here it is … 10am on Jan. 1, 2008. I could/should be sleeping. This is the last day of reprieve before five months of no holidays. But instead, I sit here writing my first letter to the Chronicle, trying to chase off the demons from the nightmare that woke me up. I don’t generally have pursuit nightmares (or any nightmares, for that sake), but I know the origin of this one.
At 11:30pm last night, my boyfriend and I are hanging out with friends who are about to light fireworks. Thinking it would be better to go Downtown and watch the legal/bigger ones, we start walking. We arrive at the south shoreline of Lady Bird Lake, just west of the South First Street Bridge, at about 11:45pm. A police boat is chasing a kayak off of the lake. We think it’s probably a good idea for him to get off the lake, since he has no light, and there are police boats running up and down the lake (i.e., he could be fodder). Next, we notice there is no one there … only a few people on the bridge and a handful of folks near us, just yards away from the floating fireworks. We surmise it’s the no-drinking policy that keeps people away. As our eyes adjust, we notice the fireworks appear to be located on or near the sandbar on which 100 great egrets and snowy egrets hang out every night. We don’t see any and are glad … until midnight.
The countdown reaches zero, and the fireworks start. The first ones explode at lake level, creating a 50-foot or so sphere of sparks. The egrets are there … behind the flotilla. We watch in horror as they try to escape the noise and shrapnel. They are twisting and flying and diving as if they’ve been hit. They might be hit. They might be injured and dying today. I don’t know. All I know is that it would have been really nice if someone had gone to the simple effort of chasing off the birds before the fireworks started, instead of letting them get tortured on “first night.”
The fireworks “progress” into mortarlike explosions. I think of Iraq veterans peeing their pants, as their families smile, glad to have Dad (or Mom or Grandpa or …) back and doing “normal” things. Geez, it’s time to go home.
So, the lesson for the new year … drinking = bad. Torturing migratory birds = good.
Well, here it is … 10am on Jan. 1, 2008. I could/should be sleeping. This is the last day of reprieve before five months of no holidays. But instead, I sit here writing my first letter to the Chronicle, trying to chase off the demons from the nightmare that woke me up. I don’t generally have pursuit nightmares (or any nightmares, for that sake), but I know the origin of this one.
At 11:30pm last night, my boyfriend and I are hanging out with friends who are about to light fireworks. Thinking it would be better to go Downtown and watch the legal/bigger ones, we start walking. We arrive at the south shoreline of Lady Bird Lake, just west of the South First Street Bridge, at about 11:45pm. A police boat is chasing a kayak off of the lake. We think it’s probably a good idea for him to get off the lake, since he has no light, and there are police boats running up and down the lake (i.e., he could be fodder). Next, we notice there is no one there … only a few people on the bridge and a handful of folks near us, just yards away from the floating fireworks. We surmise it’s the no-drinking policy that keeps people away. As our eyes adjust, we notice the fireworks appear to be located on or near the sandbar on which 100 great egrets and snowy egrets hang out every night. We don’t see any and are glad … until midnight.
The countdown reaches zero, and the fireworks start. The first ones explode at lake level, creating a 50-foot or so sphere of sparks. The egrets are there … behind the flotilla. We watch in horror as they try to escape the noise and shrapnel. They are twisting and flying and diving as if they’ve been hit. They might be hit. They might be injured and dying today. I don’t know. All I know is that it would have been really nice if someone had gone to the simple effort of chasing off the birds before the fireworks started, instead of letting them get tortured on “first night.”
The fireworks “progress” into mortarlike explosions. I think of Iraq veterans peeing their pants, as their families smile, glad to have Dad (or Mom or Grandpa or …) back and doing “normal” things. Geez, it’s time to go home.
So, the lesson for the new year … drinking = bad. Torturing migratory birds = good.
Happy new year you blind, selfish bastards,
Debbie Potter
Debbie Potter
