According to the papers it began sometime in early March, at the end of a bitterly cold winter in Boston, the season when everyone suffers from a bad case of cabin fever.  By all accounts, there were two art students involved, both from the Mass College of Art. Capers are certainly a big part of college life, but seldom do they get any attention from the media. During an especially raucous dorm party, George and Pauline hatched a plan to bring life to what they considered the stuffy formality of the Museum of Fine Arts. Exactly who first came up with the idea is argued to this day, clouded by the circumstances of the plan’s inception — the early hours of a booze-drenched Sunday morning.

For the grand opening of the George Seurat Exhibition in April, George and Pauline dressed up as the high-class couple in the painting “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Grand Jatte” — he with a top hat, vest and cane and she in a long dress with bustle, a hat with a purple flower, a black parasol, and an (albeit imaginary) monkey on a lead.

 “Good Afternoon” George chimed, tipping his hat as he approached a middle-aged tourist in a tiny polka dot studded dress, who was very intently examining Seurat’s pointillistic technique with a magnifying glass.

“Heavenly day for a stroll, is it not?” he added, as she turned to look at him, then back at the painting several times, with a comical mixture of disbelief and alarm.

Is this your idea of a joke?” she croaked.

Just trying to bring art alive for you, Madame” George replied with a bemused smile.

“Kooks!” the woman muttered to herself, moving hastily past the two impersonators to the next painting.

“Let’s move on,” Pauline whispered, as a guard began to approach them.

Meandering slowly through the crowd, nodding to people right and left, George and Pauline made a dignified exit.

“Next month the Paul Gauguin show opens,” Pauline said to George, giggling as she imagined the two of them in any number of scenes as scantily clad Tahitians.

“Oh now you wait just a minute, we’ll never to allowed to come near this place dressed in some sexy sarong?”

“Perhaps you’d like to bow out of this one, George?” Pauline teased.

“Quit now?” Remember whose idea this was to begin with, Pauline!”

Six weeks later, Pauline and several girlfriends were found sitting on a bench in the main gallery, forming a tableau that exactly matched the Gauguin painting opposite them entitled “We Shall Not Go To Market Today,” knees facing one way, faces another, very much like the Egyptian pose it was meant to capture.  The ladies were dressed in colorful yellow, orange and green shifts, with big hibiscus flowers in their hair, while George and a friend posed behind them in print shorts, sporting tropical bracelets. Undeterred by the fact that as many people were looking at them as at the Gaugin, they began to relish the power of embodying a painting rather than having to actually paint one.

Very soon heavy footsteps announced the approach of two security guards, flanked by a small bevy of media photographers.

“What do you all think you’re doing, anyway? the bigger one asked.

“X-rated if you ask me, Jim,” the other muttered under his breath, trying to straighten a sly grin.

“You’re all going to have to leave the premises immediately or be taken down to the police station,” big guy barked as he herded the colorful troupe to the museum entrance.

Zipping through the door into the May sunshine, George turned to Pauline and company and said, “Next time let’s do Picasso’s ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’!”

Buy a pair of binoculars.  You have a choice here.  The small ones that can comfortably fit into a waist pack are recommended unless you want to make a state about how “professional” you are. (Think of those photographers who carry huge telephoto lenses on their cameras). You don’t want to be mistaken for the Long-Beaked Booby, do you?  Two years ago a professional photographer was attacked by a gang of boobies while trying to photograph their nesting sites off the coast of Florida. Fortunately, he survived with only a wounded ego and a great deal of shit on his head!

Next, purchase a bird guide. It may prove to be of limited value.  In fact it may be pretty useless if you are trying to distinguish one from over eighty varieties of warbler! However, it will help you know a wading bird from a song sparrow.  If you cannot figure thst one out, you should probably consider another hobby.

Now you must practice finding small things in trees, on bushes and in the air.  Try static features at first. Winter is a good time to do this because there is no leaf interference. Go outside and find a tree. Look for something unusual — squirrel nests provide a good starting point. Locate the cluster of leaves with the naked eye. Bring the binoculars up to your face and see how quickly you can find it through the lens. Did you focus the lens?  That’s very important! At first it may take several seconds to find the target.  If it takes more than a minute, you again might want to consider spending your time in some other way.  However, you will improve with practice, and then you can advance to spotting moving things.  Start simple. Spot, aim and focus on the grey cat walking across the street. Now the boy on the red bicycle.  Let’s try the crow hopping along the telephone wire.  Hardest is capturing birds in flight. (It may be best to leave that until later, so you won’t get too discouraged.)  When you are successful most of the time you are ready to join the swelling ranks of bird lovers.

Check your local paper of Audubon Society to find out where and when birders hang out.  The Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA is a popular birding ground, especially in early May.  In fact, between 7 and 9 A.M. you will find clusters of avid birders throughout the cemetery.

One more question: Are you a morning person? If yes, continue reading.  As a beginner follow a few steps behind one of these bird watching groups. When you see a bevy of binoculars lift up toward a particular tree, do the same. (This saves you a lot of time, and increases your enjoyment, because you aren’t responsible for finding the bird in the first place!)  When you hear the names of the bird given, take note: a male Cardinal. Continue in this manner until you have two or three that will later be checked off in “My Lifetime Bird List,” found at the back of your bird guide.

Now it’s time to get friendly with the group. Move in closer and exclaim enthusiastically about the brilliant red of the male Cardinal, or your excitement in seeing an Orchard Oriole for the first time. You will be rewarded with welcoming enthusiasm and a great deal of knowledge about birds. With warblers, however, be prepared to witness more argument because their similar markings lead to lively disputes. (Picture a flock of pigeons scrambling for the last breadcrumb, or shoppers fighting over the last item in the Basement Sale!) This is a good time to drop back a pace or two, in order to learn and not reveal your status as novice.  Last spring a warbler dispute got so heated that the whole flock took off leaving a very chagrined group of birders!

When you reach twenty species seen and duly noted, it is time to evaluate your commitment to bird watching:

How is your technique?

Do you find our feathered friends easily?

How often do you get out to watch birds?

Are you keeping up to speed at work?

Do your friends refrain from lame jokes like: “Better not ruffle his/her feathers”? If your responses are negative to most of these questions, do not despair. Your investment in time and money is protected. Binoculars are non-discriminatory and the non-feathered possibilities for observation, endless.

Marge checked the cookbook: pre-heat the oven to 500 degrees. Done. Then she pounded 6 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves nearly to a pulp on a plastic cutting board (plastic is always safer than wood when dealing with chicken, her mother always said.)

One week ago Philip decided to move out and was too chicken to give her a decent explanation. He mumbled something about being sick to death of her cheesy taste in clothes and furnishings. They had lived together for a year, and it took him until now to tell her these things? What a jerk!

Using a wire whisk, Marge combined together 1/3-cup Dijon mustard with ¼ cup dry white wine. Such a stupid excuse just didn’t cut the mustard. (Ha! ha!) She was so engrossed in her inner ranting she didn’t hear the soft knock on the door. It was her friend Ruth, half an hour early. They were going to have dinner and see the movie “Dirty, Rotten Scoundrels.” What a great choice, Marjorie thought, as she emptied 2 cups of fresh breadcrumbs and 1 cup of grated Romano Cheese into a large plastic bag. Closing the zip-loc seal, she shook it vigorously, swinging it back and forth across her body.

“Boy, I wouldn’t want to be in there!” Ruth said, as she entered the kitchen, pointing at the bag.

“Oh, my God, Ruth you scared me to death! You’re early,” Marge gasped, letting the bag take a breather on the counter top.

“I know. Can I help?” Ruth offered.

“Sure. You’re just in time for the tar and feathering! Here. Pour this stuff into that dish.”

Ruth picked up the bag of traumatized crumbs and cheese and spread them evenly over the bottom of a large oblong baking pan.

“Now for the best part,” Marge said, as she took a drawn and quartered chicken breast, dripping with mustard and white wine, and dragged it back and forth through the cheesy crumbs. “That’s for all your stupid jokes, Philip!” she added, dropping it with dramatic flourish onto a greased baking sheet.

“Let me do one!” Ruth begged.

“Sure, take that big piece,” Marge replied.

“Here’s to the biggest crumb I’ve ever known!” Ruth declared.

“Right on!” said Marge, whooping with delight.

When they had finished epithets for the remaining four pieces, laughing wildly at their cleverness, Marge and Ruth moved in to the living room to break open a new bottle of wine. “Philip” was left to bake for 8 minutes at 500 degrees.

It’s the 4th of July and there is a big party at Ruby’s house. Ruby is a grey tiger cat with a beautiful white bib and white boots and mittens.

As she wanders through the legs of the guests she hears her Mom say to her friends, “Ruby is a wonderful cat. She is beautiful and very lively, but somehow she has lost her purr. We’ve never had a cat without a purr.”

“What’s a purr?” Ruby wonders. “How can I find my purr?”

The next day Ruby is playing in the grass and chasing butterflies. She hears a noise and sees a cricket sitting on a long blade of grass.

“Mr. Cricket, have you seen my purr?”

“No, but if you want to have what I have, rub your legs together really fast, and you can make a beautiful sound like mine.”

Ruby rubs her back legs together. Nothing.

“Harder,” says the cricket.

“I can’t,” Ruby replies, “I guess that’s not my purr!”

Ruby wanders down the path to the pond. She hears another noise.

“Maybe that’s my purr!”

A frog is sitting on a lily pad.

“Mr. Frog have you seen my purr?”

“No, but if you take a big breath and puff up your neck like a balloon you can make a magnificent sound like mine.”

Ruby tries, but only her cheeks puff out.

“Bigger,” says the frog.

“I’ll explode!” says Ruby, puffing her cheeks out until her eyes cross. “That certainly can’t be my purr.”

Ruby is discouraged and goes back to the porch to take a nap in the sun. Just as she is about to fall asleep she hears a whirring sound by her ear.
“What’s that?”

Looking up she sees a hummingbird hovering near a trumpet vine flower.

“Hi, I’m Ruby. Can you help me find my purr?”

“My name is Ruby, too! I’m a ruby-throated hummingbird. I haven’t seen your purr but if you beat your wings very fast you can make the wonderful sound that I make.”

“But I don’t have any wings!”

“Then try using your front legs.”

“Ruby tries to flap her front legs but she just tips over, dizzy. Nothing happens.

“Faster!” says the hummingbird.

“It’s hopeless. I’ll never find my purr.”

Very discouraged Ruby goes back to the house. For the next three days she does nothing but sleep in her favorite chair.

“I wonder if I will ever find my purr.”

Her Mom and Dad are worried.

“What’s the matter with her? She doesn’t want to play anymore.”

“Maybe she needs a playmate.”

The next day Mom and Dad bring home a kitten – a little orange and white ball of fur. Ruby is not sure she likes this. After all she is the mistress of this house.

Ruby chases the kitten as he races around the house, jumping up on Dad’s chair, tearing through the tunnel between the bed and the wall, and finally squeezing into the small space on top of the piano strings, where Ruby is too big to fit.

Tired out by all the racing around, Ruby lies down on the bed for a nap. Soon the kitten jumps up and snuggles up against her.

Ruby hears a strange sound coming from the kitten. “What’s that noise you’re making?” she asks.

“Oh that’s my purr,” the kitten replies.

“HOW DID YOU GET IT?” Ruby asks, excitedly. “I’ve been looking everywhere for my purr!”

“I don’t know. I don’t do anything. It just happens when I’m happy and sleepy.”

Ruby is amazed. She lies beside the kitten, listening contentedly. What a wonderful sound it is! Just as she is about to fall asleep, she feels a soft rumbling in her throat.

“I’m purring!” She snuggles closer to the kitten. “I’ve found my purr at last! It was right inside me the whole time!”

© 2006