Egrets

It was a long Sunday afternoon in a Northport, Long Island, spring, with the sense of rebirth, of a quiet excitement around the more rural roads and lanes. Having absolutely nothing better to do, I had accepted an invitation to tea or cocktails at one of the more modest beachfront homes in the area.

Accepted reluctantly, because I was again without a job. No one was looking for over-the-hill TV journalists. I was in my early forties, and there was no one in my life with whom to build a future, or attempt to erase a past with far too much scar tissue. I put on a jacket from better days, a clean pair of jeans, loafers sans socks, a soft, well-worn, button- down light blue shirt, and proceeded to the house on Long Island Sound.

If I was hurting, and I was doing plenty of it in those days, the great swell of water, sea grasses, sand and bird song took off some of the jangled edges. For the moment it was enough just to be there. But my hostess, who looked upon me as a prawn, and her as having the only shrimp fork in town, welcomed me effusively.

The crowd was a mixed bag. I kicked my ass for having accepted, I was in no mood for the de rigueur small talk of such occasions. I had cut way down on the sauce and I attempted to hide out on the porch which faced the sound.

Alas, my reverie was not to be, for two matrons had engaged in a colloquy, with some degree of intensity, about a group of birds a hundred yards off.

“Edith, I’m telling you they are egrets.”

“Maude, this is one time you are not going to snow me under with verbiage. They are heron.”

“Edith, you know you can’t see more than a hundred feet even with your glasses. I can see them clearly, and they are definitely egrets.” There was definitely a touch of rancor in their exchange which had been going on for some minutes, and Edith was determined not to be overwhelmed.

“You wouldn’t know an egret from a pelican. I’m the one with the bird book and I’ve memorized their every characteristic, including the color of their legs which distinguishes the two birds.” It looked for a minute like Edith was definitely in the ascendancy when Maude, in desperation, turned to me suddenly and asked, “Young man, are those birds heron or egrets?” Without hesitation I looked, turned to the ladies and said, “Ladies, the heron have sent their regrets,” smiled, walked through the party and out the door. I still drive my family crazy with that dumb little story.