Flying Lessons

When I was growing up, my parents were pretty strict about what I could do, where I could go, and more particularly, with whom. They did, however, have the good sense to be indulgent with me where strays were concerned - first with animals - later with people. Some of the lessons I learned from these experiences will stay with me forever. Some were warm and nurturing; others broke my heart.

Mostly I brought home cats. There was the tabby that followed me home from the bus stop, the tiny yellow kitten from the litter my best friend's cat had, and a half grown black and white cat I found in a field. We also had a dog that I got for my fifth birthday. She was a menace for a couple of years, digging holes in walls, ripping curtains from windows and basically chewing everything in sight. I loved her madly. I dressed her up, taught her tricks, talked to her and otherwise delighted in her company. She had to be put to sleep when I was seventeen. I had to stay home from school because of my ache at her loss, and my parents allowed me that, too.

My brother brought home strays too, although not with the frequency that I did. I remember him striding up our front lawn carrying a snake her had caught. The next thing I heard was my mother shrieking from an upstairs window, "That snake is NOT coming in my house!"

Every mother has her limits, I suppose.

Every now and then my parents themselves were rescuers. On a Sunday drive (probably to get away from my brother and me) they found a scared tiny kitten right on the white line at the roadside out in the middle of nowhere. My mother scooped her up and brought her home. She slept snuggled in my arms all night, purring blissfully. The next day when my mother took her to the vet for her first shots we learned that all four of her legs were broken. The vet suspected she had been thrown from a moving car and thought it best to put her to sleep. It still makes me happy, decades later, that the last night of her weeks old life was spent in a warm bed, a teenaged girl softly stroking under the nameless kitten's chin as she dozed peacefully.

Although the first time I brought a guy home for dinner was when I was five (favorite family story) by the time high school rolled around so did boyfriends. Some were around a short time, others longer. Most were welcome at our house.

After a couple of weeks of dating my then boyfriend, he offered to drive me home from my first year of college for the summer. He spent a lot of time in my parents guest room, having just graduated from college and in a training course in Virginia. He drove up every weekend to see me for months. We got married the following year.

Which brings me to the real subject of this story: Birdie.

Immediately after our honeymoon my husband had to report to Germany for a three year assignment. Knowing he would be in the field for six weeks on a training mission with his battalion, I decided to stay put in New York until he was back on base.  I spent that summer lifeguarding as I had the four summers before. One day at the pool where I worked, I saw a boy carrying a box. I peeked inside and there was a little ball of fuzz - a baby sparrow. The boy was about thirteen, and had found the bird on his way to the pool. Thinking about her baking in the box while he swam for the day was too much for me.

"Can I have it?" I asked.

He handed me the box. I kept her going through the day by giving her water and some worms I had coerced some of my swimming students to dig up for me. That evening, once again, I came home with a stray.

I fixed up a cardboard box with a window screen for a top for her, and by evening she settled in and slept. My Dad went to the local fishing equipment store and bought some worms. I can still remember that summer - a white take out box full of worms in the fridge along with the milk, eggs, and other things normally found there.

Not knowing what we were in for, we soon found out. She wanted to be fed starting at dawn.  Mother birds, if you've ever stopped to watch them, spend the entire day hunting up food for their brood. ALL day. This meant one of us always had to be home to feed her. She ate every half an hour, maybe every hour. Like human babies, as she got bigger the time between feedings stretched out a bit. 

We had to chop the worms up; this was my Dad and brother's job. I could touch the worms and feed them to her, I just couldn't bring myself to slice and dice a live one. I fed her with an eyedropper full of chopped up liquified worms at first, then a bit later, tweezers. She also became fond of canned dog food.

"Birdie," as she became known, quickly charmed all of us. She was a good diversion for me, newly married and anxious to explore Europe and start my new life.  She immediately learned that someone standing over her box was a likely candidate to give her her next meal.  All you had to do was look in the box, and she would be sitting there flapping her tiny wings, mouth wide open expectantly.

Although we all thought she was adorable, Birdie could definitely complicate life. One time I was home alone with her and had no worms chopped up.  She was letting me know in no uncertain terms that she was hungry.  I called a lifeguard friend, begging him to help me, and he agreed.  I drove the worms over to him and he chopped them up for me - on his mother's cutting board.

I remember my brother, out of school for the summer, on more than one occasion saying, "I'm NOT staying home with that bird!"

Since she was my baby, so to speak, I knew she had to learn to fly. I spent a lot of time with her perched on my finger, raising my arm up and down gently as she instinctively caught the draft and flapped happily away.  After several weeks of this, her baby down making way for full fledged feathers, she left my finger and sailed across the living room.

Birdie was well on her way in life and so was I.  It was time for me to join my husband.  My parents took me to the airport and stayed with me until my flight was called.  They were delighted when I spotted Herbie, my college cafeteria manager, and his family waiting to board the same plane.  (I couldn't help but wonder if they would have felt the same if they had known that Herbie, at an end of the year campus party, reached down, took my loafer off my foot, poured his beer in it and used it as a mug. And that I had keys to the cafeteria so if my crew wanted a late night snack, we didn't have to hit the vending machines. Lots of giant tubs of ice cream with about 25 people with spoons were hit up in the middle of the night)  My flight was called and I said goodbye to my parents.  They remember watching until I disappeared into the plane.  They mostly remember, that at the age of 20, I didn't look back.  My father said my mother wept the whole car ride back home. Not having been away from them for more than a couple of weeks, I was going to live in a different country for three years.  I was young and fearless then, I don't know if I could do that now.

Once on the plane, I introduced myself to my seatmates, a middle aged gentleman traveling on business, and an older woman going to visit relatives. I always figure if you're going to be elbow to elbow with somebody for seven hours, you might as well be friends.  I chattered away excitedly, telling them all about my recent wedding, and that I was in fact, on that very  plane to join my new husband. Just then a flight attendant approached me with a glass of champagne, handed it to me and said, "This is from a gentleman in the front of the plane."

Herbie sending me a congratulatory drink.  My seatmates weren't so charmed with me after that, and it sort of amused me not to explain.

Birdie was now in my parents care.  She flew more and more, and one day my mom took her out on the back deck and let her go.  As evening came, while Mom was out watering plants, Birdie came back chirping and fluttering.  Mom went inside and got Birdie's box, lifted the screen and Birdie immediately flew into it and hopped into her makeshift nest.  Mom took her inside for the night and released her outside in the morning.  And so it went for several weeks. When Birdie had had enough for the day, she would patiently wait on the deck perched in the spider plant, or not so patiently, she'd hang on the screen door until she was taken in for the night.

One day my mom was in the front yard and saw my brother walking down the street, talking, but alone. As he neared, my mom asked, "Who are you talking to?"

"Birdie," he said, pointing to her, as she accompanied him back home, flitting from tree to tree as he walked.

As fall approached it became clear Birdie was restless, yet still attached to my family.  Afraid she might approach a stranger or make another mistake that might befall a tame but technically  wild bird in suburbia, my parents decided to release her far from home in a forest.  She was now feeding entirely on her own.  One last time they put her in her box.  This time she got a car ride.  They drove until they felt they found a good spot for her, then got out and let her fly.  My parents told me that Birdie didn't look back, either.

The lessons I've learned from bringing home strays? Don't bring them home if you can't give them what they need.  That sometimes the things you think you are helping wind up helping you.  That it pays to be generous and fearless with your heart, and if you are not you will miss much - and yes, hurt less.  If someone or something works its way into your heart, embrace it and be thankful.  I've learned that love is the most special and valuable gift you have to give.  Be sure the things you bestow it on are worthy and deserving of it.  If they are, love with enthusiasm and passion.  Expect and accept the same in return.  When you love someone, tell them. Simple? Yes. Say it out loud.  Tickle their ear softly with it. Sing it to them. Write it down, fold it up and put it in a pocket, a briefcase or a lunch box for them to find.  And lastly, no matter how much you love something or someone, or they you, if one of you needs something the other one can't give, sometimes it's kinder for both of you, to fly.

post script:  Last summer my daughter was taking our dogs out for last call. 11 pm or so. She came in yelling "MOM! There's a baby bird in the grass! We have to help it!" And so it goes.