That’s the beginning of a riff on ospreys that used to be in my manuscript. I researched ospreys to get the details right. In truth, the primary lectures I heard in this portion of the story concerned barred owls, which have ringed eyes to match the hoots that echoed outside my bedroom window growing up. The character who tells me about ospreys had done research in barred owls. Secondary and tertiary interests were ospreys and gopher tortoises, respectively. I wanted an excuse to talk about ospreys because I’m mad for them; so, I left out the owls and made him an expert in osprey. I bent the truth. Does that mean my work is not a memoir?
Today when I think, “they should be everywhere,” I’m recalling the big three-wheel trikes that old ladies used to pedal around St. Petersburg. This was a standard mode of transportation. I don’t remember seeing old men plodding down Pinellas Point Drive with a tennis hat to challenge the white hot sun, a brown paper bag in the basket behind the wide seat, and a fluorescent flag pole topped by a pom pom fingering the breeze.
I must be getting old because now, I really want one of those big three-wheeled trikes.