There is something about intellectuals. We happened to grow up playing with lots of kids in the neighborhood. But one family seemed to have had a little more brain power than the rest of us, and we should have seen the signs. As we raced in and out of houses and through back yards, their house was the one with the chess set at the ready and bookcases overflowing. Classical music might be wafting down the stairs, and every one of the kids played an instrument and played it well. Outside, badminton was their sport of choice with its origins in India, and its wiley shuttlecocks. We’d get lured into playing a match or two and really were out of our element with such refinement. If we were lucky, the intellectuals would take pity on us and let us score a few points or they might take our minds off of our defeat by launching into the history of the game back to the good old days in 19th century India, when it was known as Poona. They knew a lot about everything.
As we got older, instead of having wiener roasts over an open fire, this family planned elaborate progressive dinners, and we meandered from house to house for each course. They all drove classic, imported cars, sometimes with the tops down back while the rest of us were crammed into station wagons. The intellectuals took acting classes and were involved in the school drama club while we were trying to figure out which team gave us access to the dreamiest boys. They knew all the words to the cult classic Rocky Horror Picture Show and even convinced us to dress up at Halloween and give out candy in vintage black evening gowns purchased at the thrift shop. They sure had more panache that we did.
Be “owl wise” and look for barred owls in areas with large trees and near water sources. They often tend to stick to specific territories.
When there was a lull in the action, we could count on them to host a séance in which they communicated with some of their deceased, probably also intellectual, relatives. This was a very serious matter and we would gather around their dining table, dim the lights and connect with the dead. A question would be posed, and we would await a sign as an answer. That might come in the form of a slamming cupboard door, a flickering candle, a sudden big draft of wind. If necessary, the intellectuals could interpret the nuances, and many decisions were made around the table after conferring with the deceased. Sometimes, after our seances were over and our bellies were stuffed with cosmopolitan food, we would saunter out to their open-air barn and fall asleep under the stars. As we nodded off, I wondered if the intellectuals were going over prime numbers in their head or thinking about the Magna Carta. My mind was a blank slate, and as I lay there, I was tuned into a pair of owls that were calling to each other. It was comforting and something I could understand.
It’s hard to remember what kind of owls were hooting, maybe the barred with his “who cooks for you?” call in the dark. As birds go, they seem to fit the bill of the intellectuals with their large brown eyes and striped plumage. They roost on branches and can be seen throughout these parts if one is patient and quiet in the woods. And on those days when I am lucky enough to hear one calling or even better, I see one at the bird sanctuary in the pine grove, I feel like it is a sign. Now if only the intellectuals were around the corner to interpret it for me.