For the Birds

My mother hated birds. Seriously. They pooped on her car. She believed that if a bird got in the house, someone would die. And she had proof. My stepfather found a dead bird in the fireplace, a few days later he died after trying to save her life.

Should I tell you that story now, or save it for another post?

Okay, if you insist—here goes.  

My mother had some repair work done on her car at a local garage. The next day she went out to the driveway and started the car. Whoof! It was engrossed in flames. My stepfather saw this and rushed out to her, opened the car door with flames shooting up, and pulled her out. In most cases that would be the happy ending of the story.

 

But Tom was recovering from esophageal cancer and had a hole in his neck from the surgery. The smoke entered his lungs.A couple days later he was the one who died from the fire. But, to my mother, it wasn’t about cancer or smoke, it was that damn dead bird in the fireplace.

 

I have a lot in common with my mother, except that I really like birds. 

Tiny hummingbirds who fly so fast, I hold my breathe watching them at the bird feeder. I keep a tomato cage near the feeder and sometimes they’ll sit a minute, probably thinking up a flight plan.

I have a nice video of hummingbirds in the garden...but it won't load. Drats.

Last summer I went into the guest bedroom and heard chirping. I looked all around and then discovered a robin’s nest on the windowsill. After that I’d check everyday on the egg progress. Ms. Robin got used to me talking to her and stayed seated. Dad wasn’t as comfortable with me. And then there were babies…mostly consisting of open beaks. Sad part is we were in Wisconsin when the babies flew off. We missed graduation.

And then there’s the big, big birds. Not as in Sesame Street, but as in Turkey Vultures (should that be all caps?). They’re very ugly in close-ups. But in the sky, floating on air, they are exhilarating. They have a wingspan of 68-72 inches.

 

Turkey Vultures are raptors. Carnivorous clean-up crews. My granddaughter, Kristen, told me that because they eat roadkill and already dead animals, when finished with their lunch they pee on their feet. It works as a disinfectant for bacteria.

A lone bird will appear overhead. Watch it. And then another will join, and another. On Christmas eve I counted 18. They don’t even have to think about Covid. On the ground they’re a ‘committee’. In flight a group is a ‘kettle’. 

I only see them in flight. They rarely flap, mainly they catch the airwaves and soar. I feel something inside me lift with them, entranced by the community of them. There is joy and wonder. 

 

Happy New Year, my friends. 

Let your heart take flight like a bird, but I wouldn't suggest peeing on your feet.