Preface - Age Zero
My family is generally ambivalent about numbers: they seem irrelevant for measuring our ages and we don’t depend on them much for leisure; most certainly, we don’t buy tickets expecting the exact six necessary for inducing instant riches.
First-time husband and stepfather at 37, I prefer rolling my own dice–in Yahtzee, backgammon, and in life–over rummy, blackjack, or 5-card stud and having my fate decided by someone else’s random shuffle of the deck and the ensuing indiscriminate deal. Scrabble over Sudoku, any day.
Sue, second-time wife, ten years younger, a technology director whose livelihood depends on only two digits–ones and zeroes–thinks the lottery is for suckers, but still holds out for that winning scratch-off.
Stepson at 7, Jamey, a financial planner, likes numbers okay, I guess, as they support his wife and daughter and their comfy lifestyle—he tells us he likes his job worrying about his clients’ money because he makes enough of it not to have to worry about their own.
Earlier this year I turned 70. Last December Sue turned 60. Today is Jamey’s 40th birthday. Samantha, his wife, went over the same hump five weeks before. Granddaughter, Jordan, turned the Big One-O in May. The six of us certainly aren’t into numerology, but thought the rare event of all of us turning a new decade was kinda cool. It called for his birthday bash at our house–a Labor Day pool party to celebrate us all. For once, numbers were relevant for measuring age–ages that all ended in zeroes!
I was ready. All the funny old age signs and the plastic dentures in the glass by the bathroom sink that Sue and Jamey had decorated for me when I went over the hump at 40 were saved and put in place for the day when Jamey went over the hump at 40. “Ain’t so funny, now, is it?” I waited three decades to ask him.
I was already floating in the pool when they pulled in. Jamey’s dark bright eyes (and the telltale hairline cracks of crows’ feet) were hidden beneath his Ray-Bans; he seemed ready for the plunges—both of them, because he already had his swimsuit on underneath his shorts, and I noticed a few silver hairs reflecting off the sunshine that he must have noticed first.
Jordan, right behind her six-foot-two-tall dad, seemed ready to take the plunge into her second decade and into the water, too, because they cannonballed me from either side, unfloated me, and baptized me into really, really ancient old age, they kidded and snickered. Sue then cannonballed her granddaughter as Sammy documented the naval attacks from the deck. We all laughed. I had one great family.
I was back on my float when our catbird landed on a nearby lilac branch, breaking up my imagined daydream. I say our catbird because I saved his life once and he has come back every spring since to raise his brood. We exchanged vibes, then he flew out of the brush with two other catbirds, letting me know that they were there with us.
I say my imagined daydream because Jamey died when he was nine. He didn't make it to forty; hell, he didn't even make it to ten. But the catbird…did he, his mate and fledgling—come home to celebrate with us, after all?
The True Tale
My wife, Sue, and I adopted a kitten from a local animal shelter who was far too active for the cramped kennel assigned to him and needed much more room to move. We christened him Iggy, for Iggy Pop, who had a hit record called, Real Wild Child (Wild One). The Godfather of Punk was now the godfather to a four-legged, fur-dipped-in-butterscotch, hyperactive, just set free, real wild child (wild one).
We have a fenced-in pen that leads from a landing off the kitchen where our rescued pits can “get some fresh air” whenever they please because of the doggie door in place. Iggy was much too active for our cramped, two-story kennel we call home, it seemed, occasionally scaling the 8-foot-high wall like an Olympic runner would a hurdle. So grateful to be roaming free that he would bring home “thank you presents”. Quite disgusting ones.
One spring morning, I went up to my art room to think some paint around and was sickened to see three gray feathers scattered on the carpet. Gingerly, and with the trepidation of finding the rest of the bird not in one piece, I scoured the nooks and crannies and corners and secret kitty-caches, not expecting a favorable living outcome, yet the bird, or any other parts of the bird, were nowhere to be found. Only the three gray feathers. Odd.
Until I glanced at the ceiling fan. Peeking behind the blades, looking cartoonish with a mixed expression of fright, confusion, and relief on its still attached gray face on its still attached gray head on its still attached gray body, he looked exasperated, his countenance yelling: “HELP, I’m really stuck in a bad deal here!”
After a shocking chuckle, I obliged by covering it in a towel and released the bird back outside, thinking it would surely flop to the grass or fly crazy with several tail feathers plucked out, but my spirits soared with it as it flew up and over the roof just fine. And that was that.
We had a pool constructed in our backyard some years ago and planted lilac bushes around it for late afternoon solar relief (and for after sunset to thwart the prying eyes of the town gossip who lived next door who thought her dog needed a walk through her backyard whenever she saw our pool light dim).
A couple weeks after the “lucky bird” incident, Sue and I began hearing the pitiful mews of a kitten coming from inside the lush foliage. “Great, more unwanted fur babies–spay and neuter!” my wife complained as she went down to ‘rescue another one.’ But these mews were not coming from a cat, but from a catbird. One with some tail feathers missing and one who had built a not-quite-high-enough nest in there.
“I would have thought you’d be a million miles from here,” she said. “Stay safe.”
That summer, the grateful little gray bird, now called 3-Feathers for obvious reasons, came to the lowest electrical wire, the closest tree branch, the nearest section of fence, always seemingly excited to greet us nearly every time we went outside. He peeked in from the porch and danced on the railing as I drank my morning coffee. As strange as it may seem, it appeared that he was bonding with that tall thing with skin who saved his little gray heinie.
And I seemed to be bonding with him. 3-Feathers and I developed our own communications with pidgin calls of “mew, mew, mew,” “here kitty-kitty-kitty,” and tongue-clicks and kisses. (Catbirds are intelligent and are great mimics. Their direct cousins are mockingbirds). He and his gray catbird wife raised their catbird kid who visited quite regularly, too, until they perched on a low wire one blustery day in mid-September, flew a loop over us, and took off to warmer climes. And that was that.
Until the following May. I was shocked, thrilled, surprised, amazed, that 3 and his family came back for their second summer—but relocated their nest to our maple tree, which is equally level with our bedroom windows! Closer and safer! The next fleeting months of sunshine were a repeat of bonding between bird and man. Maybe too bonded in his mind, my wife was thinking, until it began to dawn on her that the bird was responding to her tongue-clicks and kisses, too!
3-Feathers and his gray catbird family became as adopted as his failed assassin, Iggy (who is currently serving a life sentence in our two-story Alleycatraz, thanks to the escape-proof extensions we screwed to the top of the fence!) When Mother Nature started breathing a little colder, they did their “farewell loop” and took off for warmer climes a second time. And that was that.
Last May, they came for the third season in a row! Same maple tree, same nest, same bond, spiritual waves, vibrations, or whatever it is called, between us.
My wife may have thought I was growing delusional as she observed my interaction with 3 the next few months. (Or maybe she became a bit of a believer herself after a while, I’m not sure). By the way, I don’t find a bonding between beast and human all that unusual. We interact together all the time, whether between a gorilla named Koko and a sign-language interpreter; a boy and his dog; or between parrots and the people they own, who are especially entangled emotionally, intelligently, and socially with one another.
Anyway, in late September, the 3-Feather family blew again for Mexico—but without letting us know with their usual farewell loop this time. When it dawned on me they were gone, I was bummed that they didn’t “say goodbye” this year. And that was that.
The leaves on the maple tree did their blazing and falling until the branches were mostly bare and naked, but for the vacant mesh of sticks and twigs two-stories up beside our bedroom window, and the few leafy cling-ons that were stubbornly hanging on to the last vestiges of summer like we were. This seasonal change had become a melancholy reminder of loss for me, and now I was moping, depressed, and disappointed that I even got the old bum’s rush from our migrating avian friends.
We were on the pool deck wearing sweatshirts and stocking caps, my wife skimming drowned maple leaves out of the chilling water; me sitting there cross-legged, just chilling, when a slight wind kicked up. One gray feather. It wafted and shifted in the breeze from the empty nest 40 feet up and 30 feet away to within a yard of me. It was their goodbye! A wonderful surprise!
I cherish that feather as a spiritual affirmation that it was given to me as a gift, as a sign from beyond this life. My wife still thinks I’m deluded, perhaps, but I’ve become more and more convinced that the renamed 4-Feathers is a spirit sent from the Beyond somewhere, somehow, disguised as a little gray bird. Crazy talk from a confirmed atheist!
I have come to the conclusion that we all are in the presence of spirits. I believe that they are real and that they communicate with us in different ways. That they leave physical signs for us to become aware of their presence and “proof” of a here-after. I researched the subject, agnostically, profanely, and found some meaning that I cannot explain away rationally:
One of the most prominent signs of the presence of a spirit is the feather, which is commonly found in a place where spiritual energy is at its peak, (i.e., the maple tree). Furthermore, you can find this feather in your car, in your room, on the pathway, in your office (or wafting down to you while brooding on your pool deck).
Gray feathers are symbols that your guardian angel is watching over and protecting you. The color sits between black and white, which means it represents the balance between two opposing forces, a neutrality of emotion and energy. It is a sign from your angel that you are at the cusp of wisdom and knowledge, that you are on the right path to peace and enlightenment. Gray feathers are interesting because it’s one of the most direct messages that a spirit can give you!
Yeah, right. Blah, blah, blah . . .
Until I contemplated this:
Finding a gray feather is rare; should you see a gray feather on the ground [or one stray drifting directly towards you] it is a direct message from a deceased loved one. It is a sign that they are watching over you and empowering you to scale through the hard times in your life. Most times, when you feel lonely and a gray feather comes to you, it means that you are not alone.
Thirty years ago my wife’s nine-year old son went outside to play in the yard and never came back. We planted the maple tree where he fell in his memory. For three decades we asked for a sign that he is well.
Mew.
Postscript
9/6/84 - 7/6/94: Jamey Scott—soar, Son!13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ45XiMEdU4J
4/24/22: the 4-Feathers family is back for our fifth summer reunion
5/5/23: catcalls and a nice catbird ¡hola! from the lilac bush
6/6/24: a new generation learns to fly
13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsjVcV1NPyA
13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpwvXBF1xA0
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