The eighties were a busy, change-filled decade for me. They started in January with me sliding on the ice through the misty gray winter, working as a sign language interpreter in Flint, Michigan, and before the month was out, I was in sunny Tucson with a new job as the Property Master for the Arizona Theatre Company. The job turned out to be a miserable experience, though warmer, anyway, and when Grandma Bateman died that spring, I seized the opportunity to leave the job and go help settle affairs in Missouri. Back in LA, I did a couple years’ stint working for an advertising agency as an account executive and the production manager for the art department. (which consisted of only two people) The pressure of overlapping deadlines and high stakes was too much for me and I went back to interpreting again at PCC for another year until serendipitously hooking up with Mattel in ’84.

I consider the period as my Pasadena Days. I had searched for eight months before, in April of ’81, I landed a sweet, one-bedroom, classic California bungalow resort cottage set in a little village of 36 units running up the center of a block. Built by the Heineman brothers in 1911 as a study for their next project, the world’s first motor hotel, it had become a magical garden with towering camphor, pine, and palm trees and a lush diversity of plants, trees, and flowers. No two bungalows were alike and they featured river rock porches, handmade brass hardware and fireplaces. Flocks of wild green parrots adorned the high canopy and in the winter, the orange trees offered both ripe fruit and blossoms. A special paradise in the center of a sprawling, smoggy city.

The villagers exhibited the same diversity as the flora. Mostly composed of those attracted to such a bucolic haven, there was a constant succession of artists, musicians, writers, chefs and such. Cats outnumbered humans and had set up their own boundaries and neighborhoods, while the diverse bird population enjoyed the relative safety of the sheltering trees. The nights featured less domesticated critters such as skunks, raccoons and opossums and an occasional, though rare, feral dog or coyote sniffed through.

Magical places often harbor magical events. “The Court” was such a place.

Spontaneous porch parties would erupt at the slightest provocation. The array of creative people and the communal arrangement of the bungalows lent itself to interaction and broadened your living space while still providing individual privacy.

It has always amazed me how a simple thing or tiny course deviation can unexpectedly change your life forever.

One day as I hurried late for work, I left by a different direction, having had to park on the street the night before. As I trotted down the walk, I was hailed by a new neighbor whom I had never seen before.

“Um…excuse me, sir? Can you help me?” she entreated,” There seems to be a …parrot?! Er…climbing up my screen door. I’m afraid the cats are going to get it.”

Sure enough, several cats had gathered around in pounce mode while a bright green parrot clawed its way up her metal screen. We concluded that it couldn’t fly or would have done so already. I interrupted the cats and slowly approached the increasingly anxious bird.

“Get something to put it in, like a trash can or something.” I suggested to the worried redhead on the other side of the screen.

She reappeared shortly with a wicker clothes hamper.

“Perfect. Now what do we do? I’m afraid to just grab it barehanded.”

“Maybe you can just put the basket over it.” and moved to open the door. Suddenly the bird fluttered to the ground to escape and was immediately sent upon by three diligent cats. Squawking and flapping, it struggled toward the hedge. Before it could get under it, we dropped the hamper over it and managed to get the lid on.

“Oh, thank you! My name is Ruth. I just moved here.” she said with a handshake.

“Hi, I’m Dave. Welcome to the court.” I responded.

“Well, now what do we do with it?” she pondered.

A call to the Humane Society referred us to The Bird Lady of Pasadena. We loaded the hampered bird into my VW Bug and drove the short distance to her house. Stepping out of the car, we were greeted by a chorus of cheeps and chirps and squawks and caws coming from inside a dilapidated bungalow. Inside, every available space was occupied by cages with rescued birds who the old lady voluntarily nursed back to health and then either released or found homes for. Had I not already been late for work, I’d have stayed to learn her undoubtedly amazing story. We thanked her and hurried out.

As a result of the unexpected adventure, I had a chance to form a strong friendship bond with Ruth. A year later, we developed an act for the Renaissance Faire based on a gargoyle costume I had made once for a Halloween party. Lady Ardora would lead Kaliban, the gentle gargoyle made animate by enchantment, around by his golden leash, as a protector and companion to her while her Lord was away on his journeys.

Ruth’s roommate Diane was a producer for a small film company in Burbank. She had seen the costume and knew that I had studied theatre so when she was looking for an Art Director for a series of industrial films she was working on, she gave me a shot at it. The next year, a colleague of theirs asked them for a referral for an Art Director for a special project he was doing for Mattel Toys and I found myself doing sets and art direction for their line presentations. After the project ended, Mattel started calling me directly which led to a seventeen year freelance career with them which included working in the photo department and traveling internationally, setting up their toy fair displays.

   All because I stopped to rescue a parrot.

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