The deck we built on the back of our house turned two on
Memorial Day. My wife and I waited so
long to get one, though it was on our minds from the day we moved in eighteen
years ago. Dan turned two that first
summer and Lucy started school that fall. Obviously there were a lot of expenses with
the children and both Kathy and I had just started new careers. Finally, in 2014, we had the money at a time
when no other big-ticket items were breaking down.
Fortunately, we’ve enjoyed it as much as we hoped we
would. After a long day at work, it is
the place I want to be in warm weather.
Frequently, my wife will find me there when she gets home at
five-thirty. I’ve changed out of my work clothes and enjoyed an adult beverage
by then. Flash, the geriatric guard dog,
stands sentry at the back steps, occasionally rising to walk his beat, peering
through his cloudy cataracts at threats both real and imagined.
What I had not anticipated was the amount of time we would
spend in complete silence, just enjoying the breeze and the sounds of
nature. Our television alternative in
those quiet hours is an Art Fair birdhouse, built for the small, picked-on
members of the avian community. Its tiny
aperture is ringed by metal decorations, so the larger birds don’t peck away a
larger entry and consume the eggs or baby birds. A pair of wrens moved in and started a
family. We watched avidly as a Real Housewife of Washtenaw County brought
bedding and sustenance to her young, while Daddy perched nearby, putting the
fear of God into any creature that ventured too close (Kathy included). We waited eagerly for the big day, when we would
see the young wrens emerge and leave the nest.
That is not to say this was the only bird family in the
yard. There were many. One family we had to shoo away, as the
piercing sound of blue jays at dawn was more than my wife and I wanted to
hear. When they attempted…several times…to
build a nest under the eaves outside our bedroom window, we impeded their
progress. When they didn’t get the hint,
we stuck a small mirror in the place they kept returning to. The reflection of ‘another’ blue jay in their
preferred spot finally made them move elsewhere.
There was also a nest of robins near the porch, the adults
robust and industrious. The cacophony
from their family room rivaled a euchre game at my parent’s house. Because of their size, their sound and fury,
you tended not to worry about the robins.
But sometimes appearances are deceiving.
While we were still waiting to see the baby wrens, we saw
one of the baby robins laying on the ground, near the trunk of the tree. It was clearly not fully mature, its feathers
still of the fluffy, white variety, though its body was of a fair size. The adult robins seemed concerned, but not
overly so. They would perch nearby and
look at the baby pleading for help before returning to the task of feeding the
rest of their young in the nest.
Any of you that know me are aware that I am no ornithologist. In fact, my idea of ‘outdoorsy’ would be a
day game at Comerica Park. But I didn’t
want to sit there and watch the little robin die. We have always used laundry detergent that is
fragrance-free, so I slipped on a pair of latex gloves and found a T-shirt we
used as a rag and wrapped it around the errant nestling. The adult robins watched with interest, but
nothing more. My thinking was, if this
bird is just a day or so away from flying, maybe it has a chance, if the adults
will feed it. We beckoned the dog inside
and waited, peeking out the window, watching for cats and other predators. At around dusk, our patience was
rewarded. The robins began bringing food
to the bird on the ground. Our spirits
buoyed, we went to bed hopeful.
Alas, it was not to be.
The temperature sank to fifty-seven degrees that night and there was dew
on the ground. The cold had claimed the
baby bird. Though we’d known there was little
chance that we could interfere with the cruelty of nature, we were glad we had
tried. We mused on the corollaries to
human parenting. Though we rarely see
emotion from non-domesticated animals, we wondered if they remember the ones
they have to leave behind for the safety of the others, while discussing the
human parents who’ve had to make tough decisions. At the
moment a child is born, we hope and pray that our baby isn’t taken from us by violence,
a random illness, an accident, or an ill-timed, poorly planned escapade. Yet it happens. Every day, good parents bury children. The next day they have to get out of bed and
take care of their other children and themselves. Cruelty of nature, indeed.
A couple of days passed, as well as the mini-funk we were in
over the baby robin. That was when we
noticed that the wrens were gone.
Gone! As in, not a trace. The birdhouse was intact, with nothing but
fluff left inside. No signs of violence
were seen. The family had decamped,
leaving no forwarding address. While we’d
watched and worried over the baby robin, another family had moved on. Perhaps one morning before I was even out of
bed, Mama Wren had announced that ‘today’s the day’ and marched her young
charges to the door of their house, imploring them to do what they had been
born to do, and they did it. When
everything happens as it is supposed to, we seldom take notice, do we?
A month has gone by since then. Though it is still mid-summer, the shadows
have shifted subtly, suggesting that this year will be like the last. The leaves will fall, the air will chill and
next year the cycle will begin again.
But something will be different in our human nest next year, as our baby
bird prepares to take flight, testing his wings, applying knowledge both
learned and inherited. We feed them, we
warm them, we teach them to the limit of our abilities and watch them go. It is
heartbreaking and heartwarming. The idea
is foreign to us at times, and yet it is what we were born to do.
I found a wren feather on the ground near their old house
and stuck it in the brim of my hat. I
suppose you could call it a feather in my cap.
I may watch from the sidelines feigning disinterest or I may chirp my disapproval
on the wire. But I will never forget the
precious gifts that came from my wife’s eggs, nor will I forget the wonderful
times we had in our nest. Freebird, fly!
