A Hill in The Middle of Nowhere

Holden Caulfield once wondered where the ducks go after the pond has frozen over. When I was a kid, I made up stories that they flew to a better place during a better time. It’s not that I was ruminating about Heaven. At 6, I didn’t really believe in Heaven. I just wondered if there was some sacred duck place where all the ducks would congregate. Other bird species were allowed, but no one else. That would include Canada Geese, Swans, Ravens, Owls, etc. All the birds would have their own little Heaven filled with unlimited running water from lakes, streams, rivers, you name it. Ample food to munch on and no duck—sorry, bird—would attack another.

I knew that I would never see such a place since I would never be invited, but it was a nice idea while it lasted. But it was dashed once my mother told me that all ducks (and all birds of a feather and colour) fly South for the winter. For a moment, I wondered where South was. But once I had a map in front of me, I realized that South was not a kind of Bird Heaven where only birds gathered but just another spot where humans could torment the poor winged creatures and throw small balled up pieces of bread at them like stones.

I’ve always felt sorry for birdkind. Mankind has roamed this earth as if he owns it, but he doesn’t. Those trees you’re burning? Those habitats you’re bulldozing? That sky you’re polluting? All of that is thanks to mankind. And I know it’s sexist to say “mankind”. It’s humankind. But it ain’t. Not in this context. Mankind has destroyed the earth. Humankind is trying to save it. But it’s too late. One day, the earth will just melt away or freeze up and the world will just be a desert or a tundra.

I think about these things as I sit up in my million-dollar house way up on that hill. You may have seen it while you were crossing over the bridge that runs over the Hoover Dam. If you didn’t, it’s on the Nevada side. The Dam runs along the border between Nevada and Arizona. Two states I have lived in, consequently. So, you would think I’m American (or from the U.S.A. for those of you who don’t like calling Americans “Americans”), but I’m actually Canadian. Haven’t you noticed my Canadian spelling? Or maybe it’s the Queen’s English. I don’t know anymore. Nor do I care. But you may know the city I was raised in: Toronto. If you care about provinces, I lived in Ontario. Toronto, Ontario. There: some geography.

Now where was I? Oh, right, birds and my million-dollar mansion. I guess there aren’t really mansions that are less than a million dollars. I mean, don’t you have to be a millionaire to afford one of these monstrosities? Probably. I should know, but I don’t. This house was given to me. An old friend of my father’s died and left me this house. The rest of my family was already dead. COVID. It was a rapidly spreading disease that took down everyone in their prime. The only reason it didn’t get me was because I was living in the Arctic at the time. Bird watching. A virus can’t really get you at those temperatures.

When I came back to Bullhead City, Arizona, I learned about the tragic news when I got a call after I arrived back at my apartment. 3475 McCormick Boulevard if you’re ever in the area. I rushed to Western Arizona Regional Medical Center as if that would help, but it obviously didn’t.

“I need to see my family!” I spluttered at the front desk.

“Sir, calm down. May I ask your name?” the nurse asked me.

“Malcolm! Malcolm Partridge.”

“Do you know which room your family is staying in, Mister Partridge??”

“No. I just…just…hoped…”

“Hoped what? Mister Partridge, you’re not very clear.”

“Nevermind,” I said. “Forget it.”

And I walked out of the hospital realizing the dark reality: my family was dead, and no nurse or doctor was going to bring them back. I was alone. For the first time in my life, I was utterly and completely alone. It was a terrible feeling. And when I got the call from my dad’s friend’s lawyer, it was quite a shock. Why would I be inheriting a million-dollar home from my dad’s friend and in another state, too? I didn’t even know my dad’s friend.

“Because son.” spoke the lawyer. I was 25 at the time. “You are the only one left in your family. And Bill left strict instructions that if your father wasn’t around, the house went to you.”

I didn’t argue with the man, just asked him for the address. And when I got there, I realized that this was the perfect definition of my life: living in a house that overlooked a dam. Remote. Separated. Damn, how far the mighty had fallen. Why my father’s friend Bill had decided to live up on some hill so he could look over a dam is anyone’s guess, but I didn’t argue about it. There was a pool, a hot-tub, six bathrooms, seven bedrooms, two kitchens, A garage that held five cars, and a balcony on the third floor so you got a nice view of the canyon and the dam. And I know what you’re thinking: “Castle on the Hill”, “Mansion on the Hill”, “House on the Hill”. Well, basically all those song titles were my new home. And I’ve been living here for 30 years. That means I’m currently 55 if you’re terrible at math.

There’s not much to do here on this hill. Skyline for miles around (sorry, kilometres). I haven’t brought a woman to this house in years. I haven’t really brought anyone here in a while.

I guess I like the seclusion. I retired from my job as an ornithologist, but I still bird watch. There aren’t that many birds that visit the canyon, but when they do, I thank my lucky stars for having this perfect viewpoint. I sometimes take pictures and post them on Facebook or Instagram just so I can share with the world what I get to appreciate in my own backyard. But normally I just keep to myself. Read books. Mostly mysteries. Sometimes romances. I just finished the whole Michael Connelly series. There’s a lot of books in that series. Thought of starting Longmire. Cowboys protecting the law? I’m there. Cowboys though may be too close to home. We’ll see. I’m probably gonna die up here in this heat. Bird watching. And there’s no frozen pond.