THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, June 23, 1995 TAG: 9506230620
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GUY FRIDDELL
LENGTH: Medium: 60 lines
During the spell of arctic air that gripped us last winter, my fear was for the mockingbird whose territory lies between the newspaper's parking lot and the courts building in downtown Norfolk.
That the silent gray bird, an epitaph of his frolicsome spring self, could survive biting gray days and frigid black nights without aid seemed impossible.
A mockingbird has to feed to fly. He could find nothing to eat, no insects, no berries. So, I bought boxes of raisins and currants and strolled about the lot flinging berries along the borders, humming the sowing song, but discreetly so no one would come dashing out to ask: ``Are you out of your mind?''
I had a reply ready: ``What possesses you to ask me if I've gone mad when all I am doing is walking around the parking lot strewing raisins and currants hither and yon?'' But something worse happened.
I was ambling about, chatting with Grayboy - who was perched, head cocked, in a nearby tree - when high above, a sea gull, reconnoitering, saw me.
In no time the sky turned white with gulls, screaming, diving to investigate the berry-flinging fool.
You recall the detergent commercial with the little white tornado that flew about the landscape? I was at the focal end of one that filled the air with hundreds of ebullient gulls. They were worse than crows.
By George, I thought, I wonder how St. Francis of Assisi would handle this how-to-do.
No matter when I showed, famished gulls came flying, mewing, ``Guy! Guy! There he is!''
They came from Virginia Beach, Ocean View, Craney Island, Chesapeake Bay and the Lakes of Suffolk, as they cried: ``Guy! Guy! Hi! Hi, Guy! Don't hide! We see you!''
How in the name of John James Audubon did they learn I'm Guy? I mused.
Then I recalled that when, alone and palely loitering, I am wandering about the parking lot every day looking for my car, security guard Margot, bless her, rushes out the door and screams: ``Guy! Guy! Your car is in the back lot!''
Or, on other occasions, ``Guy! Guy! you left your car on the street!''
In what seemed a brilliant stroke, I tried to dupe the gulls by making believe I was strewing berries but scattering nary a one. That only increased the clamor. ``Guy! Guy! With a sty on his eye!'' they cried, as they lit around me.
To move, I had to shuffle my feet. Looking down from the third floor, management said, ``What demented reporter is down there doing a soft shoe dance amid sea gulls?''
During the hubbub, Grayboy vanished, gone for good, I thought. But, lo, not long ago, he reappeared, perched on light poles singing his heart out all night, serenading his mate on the nest.
However in the world will that glorious fool feed his family, I wondered.
And went out to buy currants and raisins. by CNB