I’m probably the only person who could tell you, just off the top of my head, what brand of camera James Stewart was packing in the 1954 Hitchcock thriller “Rear Window.” It was an Exakta, same as the one I bought at Barney’s Photo Shop in 1958. It was my first single lens reflex and the only SLR in the entire county.
Were there any other similarities between the adolescent me and the hot shot sports photographer played by Stewart? Probably not, although I did spend a great deal of time in a small room by myself. However, Grace Kelly never came by to visit, and I couldn’t very well spy on my neighbors from a basement window. Nor did I own a decent telephoto lens—not until just recently. With it, I now manage to keep a close eye on happenings outside my window, and here’s what I’ve learned:
Did you know that it’s mating season in the treetops? Previously, I never gave the subject much thought; however, nowadays it’s all I can do to avert my gaze. Every which way I look, birds are pairing up, or at least trying to. Nearby, a male Northern Flicker is rapping out coded invitations from atop a telephone pole, pausing between transmissions in hopes of receiving a response. Meantime, a hopeful mourning dove casually sidles up to an unaccompanied female, hoping to make a good impression.
Then there’s a sparrow couple who’ve been going at it practically nonstop. Evidently, they have gotten the memo that the coronavirus isn’t transmitted by sexual intercourse, provided there’s no actual intercourse. I’m reminded of how the dating game played out when I was a student at Brigham Young University. There, unwed co-eds got pregnant on a regular basis, in spite of a so-called “honor code” that prohibited any and all premarital sexual activity. But please don’t ask me to explain how the process works, because I never did manage to figure it out, and thus graduated a virgin. First in my classs, in at least one category.