A Bird In Hand

Spring days are days of possibilities. The budding of life in all its floral and faunal manifestations seems to electrify the atmosphere with an energy that inspires the imagination. Such was the feeling I had when I awakened that particular morning. I knew that a great adventure was in store, and the warm sun beckoning through the gaps in my curtained window and blazing an enchanted trail through a swarm of tiny dust particles seemed to invite to me to begin a day that was ripe with potential. I knew that today, my older sister and I, for the first time, were journeying to my favorite place, the local park, without benefit of parental supervision. True, it was only around the corner and down the street; but three blocks, in a primary grader’s world, is a distance that can take you to the moon, the stars, and beyond. And true again, there would be city park personnel to oversee us, and organized activities to take part in once we arrived there; but they weren’t our parents, nor our uncles and aunts. That made all the difference.

My mother chastised my sister, seven years my senior, even before we left the house. “You keep him in your sights all day, or I’ll have your hide. He’s just a baby. Don’t prove me wrong in deciding to let you do this, I’m warning you!”

“Don’t worry mother,” she assured her. “It’s only the park. We can hear you calling us all the way from home if we listen hard enough.”

My sister, of course, had no intention of babysitting me all day. As a young lady on the verge of becoming a teenager, there were plenty of boys included in her game plan for the day. I wasn’t on that roster. So, about eight seconds after arriving at the park, I found myself plunked down on a picnic table with very specific instructions.

“You sit right here until one of the counselors comes to get you. They’ll be coming out of the game shack right there within about fifteen minutes or a half-hour, and they know you’re supposed to be here. Now, I have things to do, so I’ll see you in a couple hours when it’s time to eat lunch. Your fanny better not leave this bench until they come, or I’ll have your hide! Don’t prove me wrong in deciding to let you do this! I’m warning you!”

At my tender age, I had not yet heard the words “déjà vu,” but that little lecture had me scratching my head and wondering why something about it seemed so familiar. Nevertheless, it made an impression on me. So I patiently sat as instructed. Then my sister turned her back and walked off. Away I ran!

Oh, the park! So much to do at the park! There were garbage cans to explore – the big ones painted green and chained to the trees to keep them from escaping. There was the World War II tank, with cement poured down its cannon to prevent kids from firing it at surrounding houses. There was the amusement park, with the little cars that raced around a clickety-clackety track of wooden planks. There was the playground, with its merry-go-round that made me seasick; its swing sets; its teeter-totters; and its monkey bars that the bigger kids could reach without assistance. And last, but not least, there was the snack trailer, with the popcorn, the cokes, the pixie-stix, and that most magnificent of all treats, the big spools with their pompadours of pink, sticky, melty-in-your-mouthy cotton candy. Oh, this day was going to be grand!
I had just decided upon my initial destination, when I heard my name called by a voice that made me swoon.

“Kent! Kent! Looky here. There’s something I want to show you.”

It was Lindy, my neighbor, and, me oh my, the most incredible creature on the planet. I didn’t subscribe to the theory that girls were inherently icky, but if I had, Lindy would have been exempt. There was just something about her. She had long dark hair that sparkled and shined even on cloudy days, a dimple on one cheek, a smile that ignited wildfires in my chest, and eyes like placid pools of liquid smoky amber. Those eyes hypnotized me, and always had the effect of rendering me quite speechless. I’m sure she thought my tongue had some sort of defect that prevented me from making any sense when I spoke.

“Look! See! It’s a baby bird! A robin I think.”

I stumbled stupidly after her, following her towards the base of a huge willow tree, where a minuscule object lay fluttering noisily in the newly mowed grass. Then suddenly, a snarl from behind snapped me out of my smitten spell. I turned just in time to see our neighborhood renegade hound, Cheetoh, charging pell-mell towards the tiny bird, murder in his eyes.

Cheetoh was the illegitimate son of a mongrel dog and some kind of pig-cousin. Nothing about him made any sense. His body was too small for his head, one ear was too far up on his skull, and his hair was too short except on his face, where it hung down in a disheveled mop-like arrangement. He and I were bosom buddies. I had ridden him many times, and he obtained most of his vitamins by licking the dried remnants of lunch from my face. I knew he was harmless to me. But, I also knew the bird was history if I didn’t act quickly.

As he raced past, I lunged for his too-long tail, and grabbed hold with all my strength. He dragged me for about ten feet, never wavering from his beeline. I delayed him just long enough for Lindy to run forward and scoop up the fragile creature in her goddess hands. Cheetoh barked and jumped up on her, knocking her down. As she cradled her bundle against her body, I changed my grip on the attacker, throwing my arms around his doggy chest and tackling him to the ground. My ability to speak returned and I cursed my canine friend in my loudest voice.

“Cheetoh! Bad dog. Go home now! Git!”

Rising to my feet I kicked at him, and he glared at me for just an instant, before deciding to go on his way.

“Whoa!” Lindy exclaimed. “That was close! Now what’re we gonna do with it?”
Even after being knocked half breathless by the dog, her voice still sent shivers down my spine. I was pleased when I was able to reply in a somewhat intelligible manner.

“I’m not sure. Maybe we should find a box of some kind and take him to my house. My mom will know what to do.”

So we began searching all the garbage cans in sight for a suitable container for our patient. We knew exactly the kind we were looking for, and we had to scatter garbage over quite a bit of area before we found just the right one. It was a shoebox, with lid intact. Since it had only about a quart or two of ketchup and mustard smeared on it, and since only about two-thirds of its bottom was saturated with some kind of liquid, it was perfect. Inside we carefully arranged several handfuls of grass clippings, a little dirt, and a few sticks, then stowed our baby carefully away.

“We need a few holes so it can breathe,” I announced in my best voice of a learned man.

Lindy smiled at me as if to acknowledge the wisdom of my observation, picked up a stick, and carefully poked a few portholes in the lid.

“Good,” I determined. “That’ll do it. Now let’s go to my house and show this to my mom.”

“But, Kent, I can’t leave. My dad said to stay right here until he’s finished. I’m not even supposed to be on this side of the playground.”

Lindy’s dad was a teacher, and he spent quite a bit of time in the summer helping out with the recreational programs at the park, which is why she was running around freely like me.

“But we have to get him to my mom before he dies,” I surmised. “I don’t think he’s in very good shape.”

Even though she knew better, Lindy finally gave in and agreed to accompany me. We deduced that even the strictest of parents would forgive us for a mission of mercy such as this.

So we began our trek that would take us across the street, down the block, around the corner, and to my home. I took a quick look around the park for my sister or a counselor, but there was no sign of them. I wasn’t going to admit it to Lindy, of course, but I was getting very nervous at the thought of our journey. Mostly, it was the prospect of crossing the road that surrounded the park that had me concerned. It wasn’t a particularly busy road; but I was small, the cars were big, it was a new experience, and the pressure of being brave in front of my heart’s desire was starting to wear on me. I could tell Lindy was a little nervous, too, so it became even more important to keep up a stoic façade. As we approached the outskirts of the park, I outlined our plan for her.

“When we get behind those parked cars, we’ll look both ways to make sure it’s clear. I’ll yell ‘go’ and you run to the other side. After you make it, check both ways for me, yell, and I’ll run over to you.”

Her mouth was hanging open just slightly. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She was partially paralyzed by fear, her large eyes staring at me in a shocky kind of way. But she managed to nod her head a little, and we proceeded towards the edge of the street. It was a wide street, built to accommodate parking on both sides. Cars lined the entire length of the near side, parked in a straight-in fashion. We walked between two of them and stopped when we reached the rear bumpers.

“OK. It’s looking pretty clear,” I said as I turned my head to and fro. “Are you ready?”

Again, Lindy could only nod her head. Had I not been so terrified, I would have appreciated the fact that for once it was her ability to speak, and not mine, that had flown the coop.

“Go!” I yelled.

She bolted for the other side, afraid to look in either direction until she was safely in the yard of the small single-story apartment complex on the other side. She turned and looked at me, her eyes as big as pine cones. She bent over, rested her hands on her knees, and took her first deep breath since the Cheetoh incident.

“Wait a sec,” she commanded. “There’s a car coming, and I need to rest a little.”

Lindy was right. The vague image of a car was beginning to materialize about a quarter mile away. Even though there were two stop signs, a crosswalk, a school zone, and probably a herd of migrating elk between it and me, there was no way I going to risk crossing until it passed. So I stood there, waiting for the car, and for my true love and my second set of eyes to give me the go-ahead signal.

A burst of commotion in our box distracted me from my immediate task. I opened a tiny corner of its lid and peered into the darkness to see what our charge was up to.

Suddenly, “Whooompf!” I was struck from behind by a massive object, which knocked me violently to the ground. It was one of the formerly parked cars, now backing slowly into the street. I skidded several feet, and my precious cargo catapulted from my hands. As tiny bits of asphalt and gravel ground into my palms, knees, and elbows, I saw our baby bird tumble from the box, make a miraculous recovery, and scurry back towards the park. I tried to stand but I was too far under the car. I rolled over onto my side and saw one of the rear wheels rolling towards me, only a matter of inches from my head. A terrified scream burst from my lungs, and I began crying. I knew I was about to die!

The driver, a mother with a car full of kids, had felt a tiny thump and had stopped immediately upon hearing my scream through her open window. I had been invisible to her, much too short to reflect in her mirror. Once she had exited her car and picked me up from beneath it, she began hugging me and blubbering even more uncontrollably than I. My sister, having heard my scream, arrived and began blubbering herself, and, after a cursory examination, carried me home.

I’m sure my mother “had her hide” at some point, but not right away, and not in front of me. There was a quick trip to the doctor who pronounced me “fine and dandy” with the exception of the road rashes and a bump on my noggin. He called me a “lucky little boy,” suggested I leave the birds where I find them from now on, and sent me home to recuperate. All in all, it was a fairly benign ending to a potentially tragic incident.

There was, however, one truly awful consequence to the accident. I didn’t learn about it until Lindy paid a visit to me at my home the following day. She was very happy to see that I was doing so well, but I could sense from her behavior that something was amiss.

“What happened to our bird?” I asked her. “Did you find him? Is he at your house? Is he alright?”

Her head drooped. She mumbled a single word response. “Cho,” she said.

“Huh? What’d you say?”

“Cho,” she mumbled again, a little louder, but with no more clarity. Her hand half covered her mouth, and a tear dribbled down her cheek.

A second time I asked for a repeat; and again, the same response. After several more attempts, she finally turned and burst from the room, now in a full-blown fit of sobbing.

It was then that it struck me, struck me like a bolt of lightning; and I was horrified at my conclusion. I translated her garbled word, and the word was, “Cheetoh.”