How's Your Bird?

Steve Allen used to say that -- "How's Yer Bird?" I believe Frank Zappa recorded a song with that title. I heard it from my brothers-in-law; it was their favorite greeting for a long time. I didn't know what, if anything, it meant but it was very funny. What the hell is she talking about, you ask. What brought this on??

Well, I bought a really neat bird feeder last week. My very quiet little patch of a garden has had no visitors except a squirrel who's courting his early demise by digging up my plants. I've been hanging out a suet square which has been the sole property of a greedy Blue Jay. So when I went into the pet store to fetch another suet thing, I saw this bird feeder. I was inspired; bought it and a moderately large bag of sunflower feed. I filled it and hung it on a hook that I placed on a slim branch of this very peculiar, Dr. Seuss kind of tree in the garden. It did not take long for the word to get out. Easily a dozen and then another dozen birds of all bird-species arrived and emptied that feeder before evening. Suffice it to say, I need to fetch another bag of seed; maybe a second feeder. It's very lively back there now. There are birds hanging out in the funky tree; I am awakened in the morning by bird songs and chatter right outside my window. I realize that I have always, in one way or the other, lived with birds. It sounds pretty silly, but I have a history with birds!

My mom had a canary. For years. He provided lots of charm to the old kitchen on East 10th Street in Brooklyn. He lived an inordinately long time for a canary. When he died my mom took him to the pet store to find out why. (I think she wanted an autopsy!) She was bereft. This didn't make sense to me until my parakeet -- Boobo -- died after living with me for easily 10 years. Boobo didn't speak but was really smart -- really! I lived in an attic in Jamaica Plain; when I'd come home from work, Boobo would somehow hear me climbing those stairs to the third floor and would immediately make this funny sound. I finally figured out that he was making the sound of my answering machine being rewound. It was really the only sound he'd copy. But he recognized me; and he was very entertaining if you sat in front of his cage and chatted him up.

I got another parakeet when I moved back up to Beverly in 1997. I called him Shnipsel. My grandpa, Pal, called bow ties shnipsels. I think it's a comical word. Then a over-zealous friend brought me a second parakeet. I called him Pushkin. Sadly for me, the birds had each other for company and no longer paid attention to me. They didn't even sing or chirp very much. They just picked at each other's feathers. One day, after 9-11, I came home from work feeling very distraught. I had just been laid off. Without thinking, I covered the cage, grabbed the extra boxes of bird food, and took the parakeets to the local animal shelter. They were adopted within 24 hours. I can't really explain what that was all about.

My favorite bird was a Cardinal who kept me company in Pittsburgh. I was expecting my first son; I was very young; my husband and I were very poor, and ill prepared to become parents. I (literally) had an apple and half a cup of left over breakfast coffee for lunch every day for several months. One day I saw the red bird sitting on my window sill. I quietly opened the window. He left, of course. but I placed a slice of my apple on the window sill and walked away. He came back, ate the apple and took off when I tried to approach. Before long, however, he'd wait there; I'd open the window, put down his share of lunch, and we'd hang out together until the apple was gone. Then he'd leave. Come to think of it, there was a picture of a Cardinal on the bird feeder I bought last week. Maybe that's why I bought it. Maybe I was hoping a red bird would come. I'd like that.

When my grandma Jennie was ill, a Mynah bird came to her window. Jennie invited him in; my mom shlepped out to her apartment with a birdcage and the usual accoutrements. The bird was a great mimic and kept Jennie company and amused until she died. I went out to Jennie's apartment after her funeral. I think I was expecting to see her there. The bird was gone. Window closed. Cage door closed. That's always been a mystical puzzle for me.

So there are flocks of birds in my garden. And it's suddenly alive. Read The Selfish Giant; it comes to mind -- a silent place coming to life because of a small offering. This is my very small offering today. But prophetic coming from one who grew up with the Blue Birds and the Elm. Blesséd be.