“You have EIGHT birds?” is something I’ve heard more than
once. Well, it’s not like there are 80
of them. Let’s be real. And, no, they don’t fly free in the house or
in the bird room. My grandmother used to
say to me, “I’m going to drive to Syracuse and open a window and let those
birds out. Maybe then you will find a
husband.” That was twenty five years
ago. Maybe she was right. But I can tell you that I’ve never received a
questionnaire from a potential date that included the question: “Are you harboring exotic birds of any size in
your apartment or home? If so, exit
questionnaire now.”
And for some reason I have tried to explain or justify to
people why there are eight birds in my house.
As if I need to. No one ever asks
Holly Hobby figurine collectors why they do that. No one asks model train enthusiasts why they
spend hard earned money on things that are not even life-sized. In fact, we call them “model” trains because
the phrase “toy” trains seems to imply something we consider negative: adults playing with wholesome things.
The other day a new friend walked into my home and almost
immediately busted me verbally for having an inflatable nativity scene on my
front lawn. She called it gaudy and
tacky. Without missing a beat, I advised
her that I find that scene wholesome and child-like and fun. And then I followed with my political
commentary that if everyone who gets cranked out of shape that the town,
village, city, whatever doesn’t display a nativity scene would just put one in their own yard, then we
wouldn’t need to have the discussion, would we?
Sheesh.
But back to the birds.
The topic is a fine example of people applying judgments based on their
own preferences. I like veal. I like veal marsala a lot. I like veal francaise
just as well. And if I could, I’d
probably eat that once a week. I have
sat in on cafeteria lunch discussions about foods and had people react as if I
was an utter barbarian for eating veal.
And I always ask them: “what do
you have against chickens?” Think about
that. Why is it okay to eat fish,
chicken, a golden arches hamburger or whatever 
and yet I get vilified for
eating veal? Stop anthropomorphizing
animals. It will just get you in
trouble. Again, get your eyes and hands OFF my plate,
or I am not responsible for how your hand feels after I stab you with my fork. You think I’m kidding. Try me.
I must admit I do have a checkered past with fowl. Most particularly, chickens and ducks
shuddered at the thought of me in my childhood years. Growing up I had access to animals that city
kids would not have had: my uncle had
the family homestead of my grandparents on a few acres of land which was
abutted by a murky, lagoon that we called, “The Pond.” My mother used to call it “Murphy’s Pond,”
but he already had his laws and I felt rightfully it was my pond but again that says more about me and my mentality than it
does about her.
On this pond in rural Western Massachusetts, I spent many a
happy canoe ride with my uncle, siblings and cousins. We net-captured turtles and bull frogs and
snipped beautiful (albeit, stinky) water lilies for the kitchen table. We rode the tire swing that was suspended for
decades from a great oak tree. We rode
the family-shared mini bike all over hill and dale until the mothers were
completely stressed out that we might be going too fast or riding too
recklessly… the days before helmets and mandatory car seats. It was idyllic. Yet it was real.
It may not surprise those who know me personally to learn
that, among the cousins, I was the one who was, shall we say, fixated upon the
animals? At lunch the other day someone,
some professional adult, for some reason, asked how it was possible to catch a
wild rabbit… like it was a rhetorical question answered by: “you can’t.”
I couldn’t tip my hand, but I know how.
First, you chart the rabbit’s typical course: if it sat in the tall grass slightly to the
left of the barn and you startled it, it shot off like a rocket around the back
side of the barn and zipped down into the hole at the barn’s foundation. Well, at least that is how it works if there
is no discreet blue colored bucket that had been positioned against the
hole. Have you ever seen a rabbit make a
U-turn in a bucket from floor to ceiling and then ricochet outward, trying to
think of its Plan B? That’s all I can
admit about that escapade.
A part of my childhood pre-occupation became a study of
cause and effect in capturing wildlife. I
noted that ducks have some sort of mechanism that attracts them to pieces of
stale bread. They are truly
indiscriminate when it comes to a free meal.
Also they can’t get the idea that as bread is tossed out to the pond,
and the distance, say, from water to shore is incrementally decreased,
eventually, they are eating at your sneaker:
which is when you reach down and grab them by their neck. At that point, you have to move it into a
football-hold-side-carry really fast before they squirt your sneakers. This I know.
Then I ran break-neck speed with my prize honking the whole way. I was yelling, “Uncle Johnnie, Uncle Johnnie,
Uncle Johnnie I CAUGHT A DUCK!” You’d
think he would have appreciated my hunting prowess. But, no.
In the days before ethnic sensitivity and political correctness, he
yelled out, “CHRIS- THAT DUCK BELONGS TO THE PORTUGIE ACROSS THE POND!” I hadn’t captured a wild duck? How dumbfounding. The duck was relieved when I returned it to
the water’s edge – both she and I wiser for the escapade. She hit that water at full throttle kind of
like the cartoon characters that spin their feet in the air and make that scrambling
noise. I still get nostalgic around
ducks.
And then there are chickens.
A little red hen taught me one of the most valuable principles that an
adult can use in real life when dealing with disappointment. Picture this: A picnic table painted a strange pale greenish
white. A hen. A pre-teenager with nothing better to do than
test the aeronautical capacity of chickens.
Again, grabbing the chicken before she realized it, I jumped us up to
the top of the picnic table and shot her into the air. THUNK.
What the heck? I tried it again
and she was really, shall we say, perturbed at me? THUNK.
Then the yelling came. “CHRIS. LEAVE THAT CHICKEN ALONE.” Well, I wasn’t bothering it, per se, I was
just trying to stretch its capabilities.
I mean, eagles boot their babies out of the nest at some point and they can fly, can’t they? So, the principle is this: there will be people in life that no matter
how much we want them to “fly” in an area or ability, they just cannot do
it. Chickens are not, by the Creator’s
design, able to fly. Flutter, yes. Fly, nope.
Their wings are too short to catch the air upon which flighted birds
soar. It is best that once we realize
chickens cannot fly, that we not frustrate ourselves and the chickens by insisting we can launch them to higher
things. Just accept the limitation and
appreciate what you have. It makes for
more peaceful co-existence.
So, let’s get back to the initial question of why I have
eight birds. I think it is because I
like how they sound in the morning when I am waking up. It reminds me of what I like best about
camping. Consequently, it’s like camping
in your own house with hot water shower, flush toilet, stocked refrigerator and
the songs of happy birds. There. Are you satisfied?
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