Part 111: Put a Bird On It

It's October 31, 2024. I’ve been on a news break. I don't read Heather Cox Richardson, I don't check political podcasts, no PBS News Hour, nothing. I did listen to an interview with a guy talking about how to season cast iron pans. I've been doing it wrong all these years! The guy says use flax seed oil and put them in the oven. I've seasoning my cast iron on the stove top with coconut oil. It's easier right now to focus on stuff I can change, instead of larger issues. I can change the way I season my pans, I can't really (after voting, sending money, writing letters, talking to folks who disagree with me) change the outcome of this election.

Since October 19th, I’ve attempted to “check out.” After we cast our ballots, volunteer, write “post cards to voters” what else is there to do but hike, cook, eat, hang out with friends, live your life? I’ll check back in on November 5th, watch the results with friends. If we are living in a failing society, no point in wallowing in the non-stop news cycle.

Last week, I took off with two friends (a couple, Sue and Tom. I'm a fantastic third wheel, if I do say so myself). We spent our time deep in the woods in the Methow Valley. Six whole days of peace, allowing for some stuff to leak in from emails and texts. Tom and Sue were plugged, and told me that Teri Garr had just died, then some texts came in from friends about her passing. We all loved her work, she was a gem. "Young Frankenstein" is a movie I can watch over and over, and I have.

Roll, roll, roll in zee hay.

If I hear something from a real person in my life, that's OK. I've kept in touch with the designer and illustrator (beautiful work) from the company that published my essay about Riley. We met for the first time back in 2018, when the publishers organized a reading at Green Light Books in Brooklyn. She sent an email asking about my book, (slow going). Then she wrote:

“I think of your essay every now and then. Unfortunately one of our presidential candidates gives me conman vibes.”

There’s something there, something that triggers this comparison, which is why I felt an urgency back in 2016 to finish writing these stories about my upbringing, and wanted to have them all in one place––this blog, but hopefully other places, too, who knows. I do feel guilty about comparing my father to such a dumbass, there are big differences between them. Riley was interested in history, he was a reader and writer, he held progressive views. For example, he believed that gay people were being stripped of their rights by outdated laws influenced by religion, he believed that there was nothing wrong with being gay, and in separation of church and state (obviously),and spoke out, even wrote about such topics–– even back when gay sex was illegal. Riley was for civil rights, said he was a feminist (well…actions speak louder on that point, but at least he said it). Riley wasn’t violent, nor did he promote or embrace violence. But the narcissism, the lack of impulse control, the desire to promote false information, the demand for loyalty without much loyalty in return, the failed business ventures, marriages, personal relationships, the bragging, the almost constant promoting and talking about themselves, the need to control the narrative (even if a false one), is there for both men on various levels of intensity.

Both Riley and Trump = traumatized men who traumatized other people, + filled with fear. + intense desire to be on stage/attention seeking + tricks = toxic.

How do you like that math?

Back to my bubble, hiking and "tree bathing"–– such a great way to stay away from media. On one trail, we went out to see the larches. I stood by a stream, eating a Lara Bar, which is basically nuts and dates, and a gorgeous bird landed on a branch so close to me, I could’ve touched it. The bird seemed fixated, unafraid... obviously I was a potential source of calories.

I took this photo of the fixated bird.

I crumbled up some of the bar in my hand, held it out to the bird, and it flew over and landed right on my hand. The bird didn't leave right away,it hung out there on the palm of my hand, chilling out.

I was able to repeat the whole experience when my friend Tom got out his camera phone.

I was thrilled about the bird landing on my hand making me feel like Snow White for a magical moment, and happy that my pal Tom M. snapped this pic:

Photo by Tom M. (below)

The bird followed us down the trail a bit, and I viewed the experience as a “good omen.”

When we got back to our rental house and looked up the bird, we read about what kind of bird it could be. We could be wrong. Birders, chime in now. We think it was a Canadian Jay, not sure.

This is part of what was in the description:

“Canadian Jays take advantage of whatever food they can find. A Canadian Jay was seen landing on the back of a live moose to eat blood-filled winter ticks.”

Isn’t that just like life? Beautiful and disturbing.

*

The dark and twisted side of Riley is still hard to come to terms with, and after all these years I still grapple with it.

Around the time I turned twelve, my father realized that my voice was changing, sounding more mature. Instead of thinking "my little girl is growing up", he attempted to see if I could impersonate a receptionist for him, lobbying for me to make some calls on his behalf. At the time, I was confused and reluctant, but didn't want to let my father down.

Riley hoped I could pass myself off as a woman that worked for him instead of a kid. One day, he campaigned to get me to place a call, feeding me lines to say, asking me to practice the lines, coaching my potential performance.

"This is the kind of thing that'll prepare you as an actress. It's good to learn how to control your voice, See?" He took a pen and wrote down the lines I was to say to the man on the other end of the line. "Don't worry, I'll dial," he said, as if dialing a number was my big worry.

But when it came time to play my part and say the lines, I choked. The whole thing was so weird and disorienting, my voice was shaking, and indeed, sounded like the confused child that I was. The man on the other end of the line was having none of it. Riley hovered close to me, trying to listen in, his cigar filling the air with a haze of smoke.

"Who are you? Tell Riley to make his own damn calls," The man said, hanging up the phone.

It was obvious, even to Riley, that I'd never be able to help him out with whatever schemes he'd whipped up in his mind. Completely baffled and mortified by the whole experience, I never told anyone. Not even my mother.

Perhaps something deep inside me screamed out, "don't be a tool" and the nerves, the reluctance, actually saved me. I could've easily become my father's enabler, and perhaps I have been at times. I already knew enough back when I was twelve to know he was probably doing something sketchy, and wanted me to go along, to help him out. Another side of my kid brain wanted to live up to my creative potential, and I felt bad about my unconvincing "performance" with the phone call. The most important thing in our family was to be creative, to be an artist, and I felt like a failure. I'd failed some test of my skill or talent that day.

Anyway. I write to understand, and what I understand is that my father was a manipulative guy who seemed not to know right from wrong, and he had a huge impact on my life.

*

On to something else. A website promoting Riley's old music had these three images, below, so I snagged screen shots. Perhaps these are some of the last "new" (at least to me) discoveries about my father, below:

Above: Here's Riley, using the whole "Cowboy Philosopher" title, although that was already being used by someone much more famous, Will Rogers.

Above: This one cracks me up. Why take out an ad if you're not available for bookings? He's moved on to a new name, "Dick Scott" one of many names he used during his lifetime. This one was from his Chicago days, so probably under contract in New York, so a new name for a new town. Early 1940s.

Ok, that's all for now. If I find out anything else, I'll write another blog. Hey, if you know any film directors who want to direct a film about Riley, let me know. Or Even if you know what that bird was in the Methow Valley, do tell.