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It all started the Saturday before Mother’s Day. The weather was gray, the clouds thick and low and taunting, the heavy rain forming within them threatening to fall the moment I walked out of the house. I was depressed. Angry. Here it was mid-May, and still, the skies were dark, the air far from warm.
Anyone who knows me knows I hate the cold. While most of New England revels in the changing leaves each fall, looking forward to cozy fires and pumpkin lattes, powder-covered ski mountains, and wood-paneled lodges, I spend most of the months between November and May pining over warmer weather.
Instead of skiing, I peruse real estate in South Carolina and Florida. While my kids are out sledding, I plan hypothetical trips to tropical locations. And as soon as stores start stocking resort wear, I find myself unable to look away, the bright pinks and neon blues speaking to me in a way flannel and wool never could.
Given my hatred of the cold, it should come as no surprise that my sun-loving heart has a soft spot for arguably one of the most tropical symbols of all. Flamingos.
We talk about flamingos quite regularly in our family. Just ask my four-year-old, and she’ll tell you. When flamingos sleep, they stand on one foot. And flamingos are pink because they eat brine shrimp. Which they consume upside down. On vacation, we go flamingo hunting, our trip is incomplete until we’ve spotted one of those eccentric, majestic pink birds.
So on that dreary Saturday, as my anger at the weather grew, I found myself killing time at Marshall’s. But it seemed my frustration had clouded my vision. Nothing caught my eye. I started for the exit.
And that’s when I saw it. A slightly-bent box advertising two 1950s-inspired plastic flamingos, sitting sideways in the center of a summer display filled with cooler bags and melamine picnicware. The flamingos were bright pink with metal legs, a gaudy homage to Old Florida, a love note to sun worshippers everywhere.
I ran over to them, my pulse quickening as I approached the display. As my hands wrapped around the dented cardboard, questions flooded my mind. Had the damaged box hurt its contents? Were there really two flamingos tucked into such a small space? And what would my husband say if I came home with plastic lawn ornaments for our front yard?
I decided not to wait for an answer. Instead, I peeked into the box, confirmed the presence of the flamingos, then jogged over to the line for the register. There, I gladly waited the fifteen minutes necessary to make those flamingos mine.
At home, the flamingos were a huge hit. Even my husband loved them, encouraging me to give them a spot of honor in our front yard. My heart swelled with pride as we enacted our warm-weather shrine front and center. And then, birds in place, I got to work bragging, sending pictures of my new prized possessions to everyone I thought might respond. We live on a quiet street; I couldn’t wait months for their reactions.
As the days passed, the flamingos became like family members. We talked about giving them names (we still haven’t agreed on any), we spoke to them about the local wildlife, and we rearranged their positions as flowers sprouted up around them in the garden. And like a proud parent, whenever we had visitors, I showed them off.
“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” I’d say.
“They’re really something,” I’d hear back.
Not everyone seemed to share my enthusiasm for bright pink plastic. But still, my spirits could not be dimmed. My kids loved them. The weather was improving. It was flamingo season.
Which is why I thought nothing of it when my kids bounded into the house one day in early June, talking about how great my flamingos looked. I knew they looked great. I’d checked them out myself just that morning.
But a minute into the conversation, I was confused.
“I can’t believe you got another one,” my daughter said.
“And this one is so fancy,” said my son.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Did our flamingos give birth?”
We ran outside together. There, right next to our front door, was a glorious sight. A beautiful pink blown glass flamingo, complete with a solar-operated light we still haven’t figured out how to work.
“Where did this come from?” I asked, staring at the kids. “Did Dad get it as a joke?”
Everyone shrugged. My husband was working in the city. His involvement seemed unlikely. I took a picture and then started sending it out like a mugshot, asking the same friends I’d been flooding with flamingo pictures if they were behind the joke.
But no one claimed responsibility. My confusion grew.
“Check the Ring! Check the Ring camera!” the kids echoed as I expressed my bewilderment.
So I did. Huddled around my outdated iPhone, we pulled up the footage. An unfamiliar white car. An unidentified female. Who never once looked up at the camera.
The mystery grew.
Had someone seen our flamingos and thought we needed another? Or decided to leave their own cast-off in our yard, thinking adoption was the better option than a landfill?
As I said, our street is quiet. The only people who come down it usually have a reason to be there. It seemed unlikely a passerby would see our flamingos and decide to leave their own.
So I continued to ask and wait. I was sure one of our friends was behind it. But after a month passed, I began to wonder. So I started threatening. Tell me now, or I’m writing about this!
Still no one spoke. Maybe because they wanted to see me express my love for the flamingo in print. Maybe because they, too, didn’t know how the solar light worked. Or maybe because deep down, they were ashamed of their own love for such a flashy bird.
To this day, I’m unsure. The mystery remains.
