The Bird
Summer visits to my grandmother’s house (who preferred to be called “Nanny” because grandma came off as “old”) were not very common, but for one summer in particular I was there every other week.
Nanny was of the old school mentality where, as for kids as much for dogs, if the sun was out you were out. It didn’t matter what was on TV or what video game you had, if it wasn’t outside, you weren’t going to see it.
Living somewhat in the “country” most of my outside adventures involved smashing ant hills, climbing trees, wandering through the woods (sounds dangerous in retrospect) and all that other fun, stupid stuff you do by yourself with no other kids around.
One day while I was poking around in the woods (stacking rocks and claiming to be a pirate or some such shit) my attention was suddenly grabbed by something in the sky. A flock of small birds were whizzing about through the trees as if practicing evasive maneuvers. I assume this was training for some bird equivalent of an air show (they have them - so shut up). One of the birds peeled from the flock and at about warp three (in relative bird speed) and hit the side of Nanny’s van. It hit with enough energy to make a loud thud and dent the side of that beautiful Chevy.
The bird stopped moving.
Nanny was of the old school mentality where, as for kids as much for dogs, if the sun was out you were out. It didn’t matter what was on TV or what video game you had, if it wasn’t outside, you weren’t going to see it.
Living somewhat in the “country” most of my outside adventures involved smashing ant hills, climbing trees, wandering through the woods (sounds dangerous in retrospect) and all that other fun, stupid stuff you do by yourself with no other kids around.
One day while I was poking around in the woods (stacking rocks and claiming to be a pirate or some such shit) my attention was suddenly grabbed by something in the sky. A flock of small birds were whizzing about through the trees as if practicing evasive maneuvers. I assume this was training for some bird equivalent of an air show (they have them - so shut up). One of the birds peeled from the flock and at about warp three (in relative bird speed) and hit the side of Nanny’s van. It hit with enough energy to make a loud thud and dent the side of that beautiful Chevy.
The bird stopped moving.
What I saw was not flattering. There lay a tiny bird with its tongue hanging out and its eyes wide open. There was an initial twitching that subsided and then the bird laid motionless.
My uncle must have heard the impact and came over to my side and saw the bird. We scooped him up in a Tim Horton’s donut box, which I filled with dandelions, and we buried him next to the tree line. He said a couple of words and then we went for supper.
Nanny made me wash my hands (hated that) and we started eating. The whole time I was thinking about the bird.
When supper was done I rushed outside (I never did this, I usually put up a fight when it came to going out) and went back to the burial site. It was a little brown square of reddish brown earth surrounded by thick grass.
To this day I don’t know what compelled me to dig the bird up. Perhaps I was simply curious.
I dug with my bare hands and pulled out the box. I brushed it, and stared at it. I remember distinctly thinking “why am I doing this?” but I opened it anyway.
What happened next?
Well, the bird flew away.
Moral of the story?
Don’t stick your limp bird into dirty boxes. ( I don't know what that means )
My uncle must have heard the impact and came over to my side and saw the bird. We scooped him up in a Tim Horton’s donut box, which I filled with dandelions, and we buried him next to the tree line. He said a couple of words and then we went for supper.
Nanny made me wash my hands (hated that) and we started eating. The whole time I was thinking about the bird.
When supper was done I rushed outside (I never did this, I usually put up a fight when it came to going out) and went back to the burial site. It was a little brown square of reddish brown earth surrounded by thick grass.
To this day I don’t know what compelled me to dig the bird up. Perhaps I was simply curious.
I dug with my bare hands and pulled out the box. I brushed it, and stared at it. I remember distinctly thinking “why am I doing this?” but I opened it anyway.
What happened next?
Well, the bird flew away.
Moral of the story?
Don’t stick your limp bird into dirty boxes. ( I don't know what that means )