Steer clear of "The Gods Are Bored" if you are sick and tired of the long litany of laments. Today's is the biggest, most mind-boggling of all. It shakes me to the very core of my being.
Every year I rent a buzzard costume from a theatrical outfit in Ohio. Every year the price of shipping goes up. Granted, it's a big, bulky box. But it weighs about 20 pounds, including the box. How can that possibly cost $130 to ship regular rate via UPS?
And so, it was with deep regret that I suggested to the steering committee of the East Coast Vulture Festival that we forgo "Buzzy" this year. Even after I was willing to spend fifty bucks of my wages on the costume, it would be barely a drop in the old bucket.
The costume costs $225. For one day's rent.
Now, those of you with deep pockets -- don't reach out and feed my Buzzard Worship habit! It's a matter of conscience here. I could pay the whole thing from the ill-gotten gains I'll receive from the sale of the farm. I just think it's too much. And the festival is held every year. What costs $225 this year will cost $250 the next.
Gotta draw the line, even in Buzzard Worship.
The news gets worse.
This has been a very mild winter here in the Mid-Atlantic states. It was cold in December, but since Christmas we've been almost spring-like.
This has affected the roosting behavior of the buzzards. They are no longer flocking to Wenonah. They're bunking elsewhere.
Excuse me while I rend my garments!
Heir and I went to Wenonah in December, and the flock was there. Maybe a little smaller than previous years, but definitely a presence. With this warm spell, they've drifted away. Literally.
I've always been concerned that the winter roost in Wenonah would not be a permanent thing. Vultures do like to roam about a bit. They're probably looking for new adventures. After all, they're bored deities under the precise definition offered up here at this handy web site. But ... oh ... oh ... my precious Golden Purifiers! My sweet scavengers! The birds I love and live for! Gone, dispersed, blown away ... perhaps forever.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I hear a bottle of gin calling my name. Go ahead, publishing house -- shove my poor old novel into the storm drain! But the loss of the Winter Flock? TRAGEDY.