Whistling Parrots

Two sisters. One dream. Now we fly.

I wrote this piece ten years ago, when my sister and I were still full-time educators. Together, we dreamed of the day we could retire and have a store with an art studio.

Little did we know that dream would eventually come true—not through a store of our own, but through my daughter and son-in-law’s beautiful space, The Oceanside Art Collective, which will celebrate its grand opening on November 8th.

Now we are retired. We are whistling parrots finally outside of our cages, preparing to sell our art and create in “an art studio right in the shop, so people could watch while we painted.”

Whistling Parrots

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival. —C.S.Lewis

I’m cozy in the nook of a deep-blue, brushed suede couch that nestles in my daughter’s apartment writing about yesterday’s adventures. My sister and I had stayed up late the night before laughing until our sides ached. Gina and I had come to Santa Monica to meet Elya’s new boyfriend, Chad. He was a gracious sport in the presence of two middle-aged women’s silliness and inquiries. In the end, he shined and we doted.

“Thelma and Louise,” that’s what my husband calls us. Two fifty-something women who are up for any adventure, and are certain that life offers them around every corner. We careen our necks and scamper off in anticipated pursuit. Yesterday, before my daughter came home from work, we parked and wandered into an antique store.

“Look at these gorgeous, old hutches.” I swooned over vintage-style cupboards painted crème with edges worn due to longevity upon this earth.

“If only we had a store,” Gina added, “these would make fantastic displays.”

“Yes, they would. We should have a store. I want a store.” I pouted and chortled about a future day when we could retire and open a vintage novelty shop. In my imaginings, I whisked away to see my sister as we bustled about our quaint little shop, chatting with customers and rearranging shabby chic end tables and hand-collaged frames.

“Imagine this one with linens spilling off the shelves.” Gina gingerly opened the glass door of a slender, cupboard.

“Oh yes.” I sighed.

“Why do we have to work.” She fumed.

“Someday we’ll retire and then we’ll open a store together.” I drew us back into our world of make believe.

Our little fantasy continued as we perused every portion of that store—from tapestry-covered chairs and wood-carved dressers to whistling parrots perched inside of an open-door cage. The rainbow-colored birds created the kind of whistles that a man makes when a good-looking woman walks by.

“I wish we didn’t have to work.” Gina repeated. “Then we could open a shop with a place to sell our art.”

“We could have an art studio right in the shop, so people could watch while we painted. I’d have to give up my oils because of the strong fumes.” I added.

Whistling parrots. That’s what we are. I thought—pretending to sing freely but all the while invisibly tethered to demanding jobs as educators. Bound by an inner requiem for the working woman:

· Pay the bills

· Be responsible

· Work towards retirement

· Dream but don’t walk away from reality

I envision our future tombstones:

“Here lies two Thelma and Louise, wanna-be sisters, JoDee and Gina, who dreamed of doing something unheard of—quitting their day jobs and opening a vintage store. How sad that they never pursued their dream but died tethered to their perches.”

I envisioned funeral guests sniffling and wiping teary eyes with tissues as they walked solemnly by our cage-like coffins.

My fantasies were interrupted by the remembrance of a dream my husband had earlier that year. “Hey, remember that dream Justin told me about? We had a u-shaped house, and he was looking through glass windows from his office into an art room on the other side. He said that we were painting in the art room. I wonder whether we’ll ever pursue our art fulltime.”

“That would be so amazing.” Gina whispered with a faraway look in her eyes.

“Then we could quit our jobs and open a vintage shop where we could arrange linens in slender, shabby chic cupboards and create displays to sell our paintings. We could chat with customers as if we were whistling parrots that got to wander outside of our cages.” I added.

We both smiled. And in that moment, indulging our fantasies was enough.