Wednesday, September 19, 2018

A Little Boy and a Hummingbird

A hummingbird preserved as decoration from the New York Historical Society's recent exhibition "Feathers: Fashion and the Fight for Wildlife." Credit: Adam Tschorn

It is a clear cool September day. It is the kind of day that heralds the iconic Vermont foliage season.  It is bookended by days of late summer heat and humidity and a forecast of Indian summer heat to come.

It is the kind of day that urges fall housecleaning, stacking wood, putting the garden to bed.  It has been said that September is second only to the dawn of a new year in January as a “re-set” month. And that is certainly true for me.  Always a casual housekeeper, I am armed with broom and vacuum cleaner, trash bags and disinfectant cleaners.  I am about to tackle the long-neglected “shed way” that is the only easily accessible entrance to my house, a double-doored 4x4 space that also houses my garden tools, yard toys, a few decorative plants and the detritus of living in the country.  And its two little windows and their sills – one on each side -- are the graveyard of ladybugs, a few furry bumblebees, a curled-up spider and, it turns out, the  carcass of an ill-fated hummingbird.

My breath caught in a moment of sadness at this undeserved fate; caught between doors and unable to escape this tiny gem perished with its tiny, pointed,  thorn-like beak and iridescent green feathers perfectly intact.  Somehow I could not leave it alone there.  Nor could I throw it away.  I envisioned another use for it.  So I placed it in a tiny white Lord & Taylor jewelry box, carefully wrapped in clean white tissue paper which I then moved to the temporary funeral home of my deep, black leather purse. 

Who would give a last bit of love to this tiniest of nature’s marvels?

Most adults who live in the country, familiar with ebb and flow of life and death as they are, would certainly not be impressed -- or even very curious. 

But great-grandson, Carter, six years old and already very familiar with the toys and curiosities of my shed way would probably like this … Maybe.

When I saw him at our family’s country store shortly thereafter, I called him over to me, opened my purse and pulled out the tiny box. His big blue eyes got even bigger and rounder as I carefully unwrapped the tiny mummy with its luminous colors.  His first reaction was sadness at this wee death.  Then he looked carefully at the long beak and layers of feathers and took off across the ancient floor boards of the store to find someone with whom to share his discovery.  He was as excited about this treasure as the original recipient of the piece of jewelry in the Lord & Taylor box must have been.  It was his gem.

After exhausting the supply of customers and employees at the store, he cradled the bird gently in his arms and announced his intention to take it to school to share some more.  Knowing the school, I was sure this would be accepted and, perhaps, serve as the starting point for an examination of the brief and stunning life of a hummingbird.

I was happy that he liked this little not-from-Walmart gift. I was glad that he could be sad but still see the beauty even in death.  Maybe that is an old person’s wish.  

Maybe it is life in miniature.


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Fourteen Stories




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Thursday, June 14, 2018

Fourteen Stories



It was late afternoon on a glorious Monday in the middle of June. The weekend past exploded with celebrations as it is the season for graduations and weddings. Our little community also hosted hundreds that came to celebrate the life of a beloved coach.  In the blink of an eye the little kids that could barely see over the edge of the counter at the Wayside a moment ago are diving pell-mell into deeper pools; college, jobs, travel, internships. Passages, so many passages.

Now I was wending my way to the northern part of the state.  As I drove through the kind of scenery that Vermont cherishes on the kind of day that we wait longingly for throughout the winter months, I was in a pensive mood. I thought of change.  Who do we reach out to as we navigate these passages? Whose hand do we hold? Who will hold ours?

I was about to find some answers.

The reason for my trip was to attend the final exam of a public-speaking English class.  My grandson is one of the 14 young people whose assignment is to give an oral “Tribute Speech” -- to talk about someone who has influenced you, someone you want to honor or thank. My grandson had chosen to speak about his grandfather and spending time with him at our Sandgate homestead. I would have not missed it for the world. I had expected, in my quick-to-tear ways, to need the tissues tucked discretely in my sleeve.

What I had not expected was that while they spoke of their heroes -- the kind of heroes that do not exist in movies or video games or wear capes -- that these 14 would become my heroes.

Gangly cowlick-crowned boys with their shirts untucked mixed in with brawny skateboarders (yes, one brought his skateboard class) and more formally dressed young men. Young women in fancy dresses accessorized with stiletto heels sat beside plain dark frocks, cardigan sweaters and breezy short dresses showing off dancers’ calves.  There was no uniformity here.

One by one, they stepped up to the podium and began to tell their amazing stories. What courage did it take for these teenagers to talk with humor and conviction, with pathos and love about their honorees?

They spoke of renewed Christian faith fostered by a clergyman who remembered what it was like to be young and to keep the Faith.  They spoke of cultural acceptance, mixed-race families and step-families, sibling rivalries, crazy aunts, treasured grandparents and teachers who did not give up on them. They almost universally spoke of the work ethic and commitment that their mentors had exhibited. They revealed a host of memories and sacred moments. 

And one nervous young man spoke eloquently of death.  He made us fall in love with his quirky mentor. Then he paused, tore off his suit coat and shirt to expose an ALS T-shirt. His hero had died young but his influence lived on.

The teacher could easily have assigned a public-speaking assignment on a trip to the zoo or on how weather reports are generated.  The fundamental principles of speaking in public are the same no matter the topic. But she did not.  She had asked a simple question: “Who do you honor or remember?” And she got some very profound answers. Thank you.

Fourteen stories …
Their hands have been held.
They will hold the hand of others.
Heroes all.

“We’re all just walking each other home” -- Ram Dass