A Bird Named Big

For mom, who’s waited long enough. Spring has been cold and late this year, so it makes sense that a pair of robins should decide to make their nest under the eaves, just above our back door, jamming a haphazard wad of sticks and weeds atop the back porch light. The nest is so low that I could almost reach in and grab a baby robin, and so precarious that I half expect to see one or two fall out before they are ready. Which reminds me of another nest, and two other young robins, that fell into my life one long ago spring morning. That year spring had burst out the way it was supposed to, so that by the start of May it was already hot, muggy, and sometimes stormy. I had just about finished my Saturday Cheerios when my five-year-old sister Laurie appeared at the outside kitchen door, breathless with excitement. "Hey you guys,” she shouted, “birds!" Then she was back out the door and dashing across the yard on her own bird-like little legs. I followed her to a spot beneath a row of Chinese Elms at the back of the yard. Two half-feathered young robins sat on the ground, not far from the wreckage of a nest, apparently knocked down during the past night’s thunderstorm. The birds were hunched up, staring with an air of bold innocence, an ugly mottled mix of pink skin and stiff black feathers, beady eyes and bright beaks. I sent my sister to get a something to put them in, and she came back with a shoebox. I picked one bird up, careful about those light little bones and surprised at the lack of weight and by the feel of warm flesh and stiff feathers. I set him down on the soft tissue bed, and got the other one. They were quiet for a few moments, but soon both opened their mouths wide and cheeped loudly, staring at us with an air of exasperation, as though we didn’t understand the obvious. But we did. After a quick consultation with dad – the family expert for all things animal – we got some raw hamburger. After a bit of experimentation and determination, we figured out how to gently push small chunks of slimy cold meat down those tiny throats. A few seconds of careful and deliberate swallowing on behalf of the each bird, and each mouth was again open and each tiny voice demanding more. A couple more bites and each closed his little eyes and hunkered down into the wad of paper. Until a few moments later, when the eyes popped open, and the cycle began again. Once it was clear that they would survive, the question became what to do next. Since the nest was gone, there was no chance of returning them – even if we could have somehow climbed that high into the trees. So they would stay. The question of names followed, but was quickly and simply resolved; the birds were of clearly different sizes, so the larger one would be known as Big, the smaller one, Little. No confusion there (and of course Big Bird of Sesame Street fame was still years in the future). Big and Little ate well and often, and before long their piebald and spiky bodies became rounded and bird-shaped, their gestures and postures smoothed out, and they took on the appearance of real robins. Not quite flying, but thinking about it, and well able to perch, on the edge of the box, on fingers, and on shoulders. And filled with the fearlessness of youth and innocence. One never really knows what a bird is thinking, perhaps, but it seemed clear that these two regarded themselves and us as family. They graduated to a bigger box, which sat in the room I shared with my brother. They fell mercifully silent as soon as the room went dark, but they were awake and demanding food as soon as the morning light filtered in. One fine afternoon we took them outside and set them on the backyard clothesline. They sat quietly, their heads moving as their beady eyes took in the bright landscape, bobbing a bit on the line, wondering, perhaps, whether to risk a test flight. A couple neighbor kids, Ray and his kid brother Mark, wandered over to see what was going on, accompanied by their dog, a big, ancient, arthritic, and friendly collie named Copper. As we stood around talking, Little apparently decided to test his wings, and fluttered to the ground in a gentle spiral, no doubt smelling faintly of raw hamburger. Copper dashed over, moving faster than I’d ever seen, snapped up Little, and swallowed him, all in one smooth motion. No one spoke for a few moments. It was obvious Little would not be reappearing anytime soon, and never again in a presentable form. I grabbed Big. Ray mumbled an apology of sorts, and left with his brother, with Copper contentedly following behind. I carried Big, suddenly bigger than nothing, and seeming so small and vulnerable, into the house. We put the outside adventures on hold. Big became an adept and fearless indoor flyer. We kept him in his box in daylight, and in a small birdcage at night. He didn’t seem to mind that life, but it didn’t seem right. Finally, we decided the time had come to set him free. We took him outside on another fine weekend day, after lunch, put him on the picnic table, and stepped away. He cocked his head and studied the sky, and us. He launched himself into the air and into a nearby tree. Gone, we each thought, and watched him for a while, formulating final goodbyes before turning to step back inside. Big would have none of that. He flew down and settled on my shoulder, chirped happily, and gave me a beady stare from a cocked head. I folded my hand around him, held him lightly, and tossed him carefully into the air. He circled, and came back, the same welcoming chirp. The pattern was set, he ventured further into the air and into the trees, but always came back. And so it went, though each time he seemed to venture further and stay away longer. Eventually we went inside without him. When I stepped out again, maybe two hours later, he seemed gone. The air and trees were filled with the usual occasional chirping of vague birds, and robins sometimes flitted by. I turned to go in, and heard a fluttering, followed by a burst of air and a gentle weight on my shoulder. Sunset was approaching, and it seemed more prudent to bring him in than leave him at the mercy of the night, since he likely had nowhere to go. I took him out again the next morning, and the next. He flew further each day, but always came back a few minutes later. Until the day he didn’t return by dusk. When we went inside that evening we didn’t expect to see him again. Which, we told ourselves and each other, was all right. He was where he should be, and it was time to get rid of that cardboard box anyway. But when I stepped outside the next morning, he swooped down and landed on my shoulder, same as always, except perhaps a bit more demanding about breakfast. I took him inside for a few minutes, then back outdoors. He took off and vanished into the trees, returning time to time, for snacks and, apparently, for conversation. At dusk he was gone, but in the morning he was back. And so went the first few weeks of summer. I’d step outside and scan the trees, wondering if the occasional far-off speck of a bird was Big. And sometimes it was. Sometimes he’d come if I called, sometimes I’d be surprised by the sudden weight on my shoulder. But I knew he was there. Big didn’t limit his visits or attention to his immediate family. Any passing person might be subject to a sudden swoop and demanding chatter, and the neighbors grew accustomed to him. One day, though, a utility crew was working in the field across from our house. As the day waned, Laurie came charging into the house, the same way she had the day she found the birds, only this time with serious concern in her voice. “They’re taking Big!” Mom followed her outside, and found that Big had been hanging around with the workmen all afternoon, cadging bites of lunch and supervising their work. The men were fascinated by this odd bird, and one of them had, indeed, decided that this he would make a nice pet. But the man was courteous when mom explained the situation, and watched, bemusedly, as she took Big into the house. Big spend that night inside, but the matter had to be addressed. He might never become a fully wild bird, but neither was he suited to be a house pet. He needed to be outdoors and away from us, and from crowds of people. The solution seemed obvious. That coming weekend we were going on a camping trip, to Verdon lake, a small recreation area in southeastern Nebraska. A simple reservoir with a wooded campsite, Verdon was rarely visited and not near any town. The perfect place for a liberated bird. So we loaded the bird cage, with Big inside, into back of the Chevy station wagon, between the tent and the cooler. I kept an eye on him and, though he seemed a bit flummoxed by the sense of motion, he took it all in stride. Once at Verdon we set the cage on a picnic table and opened the door. Big stepped out, fluffed his feathers, studied the scene, and took off. He never went far, though. He spent the weekend flitting from nearby tree to nearby tree, coming down, as always, for meals and conversation. When Sunday arrived, he watched the packing with interest. It seemed the time had come for goodbye. Or not. I won’t say that he hopped into the cage when I set it on the table, but he didn’t take off when he saw it – nor did he resist when I put him back inside. A quick family conference, and the consensus was it was not yet time. So we brought him back home, released him into the backyard, and all was as it had been. Including the question of what to do with this bird who didn’t know quite how to be one. A few weeks later we went on our annual family camping vacation to the Johnson Shut-Ins state park, in the wilds of southern Missouri. Rather than leave Big outside our home, subject to the various risks of being kidnapped by utility workers or eaten by an arthritic collie, we decided to once again take him along. The drive went all right, though it soon became obvious that the 15-hour drive, along sometimes winding and hilly highways, was a lot harder on Big than the 2-hour quick trip to Verdon had been. To the extent that a bird can look unhappy, he did, squatting on the bottom of the cage, with his eyes half-open, and with less shine than usual. When we got to the campsite he hurried from the cage and up into a nearby tree. After a few minutes, though, he seemed the same as always, hanging around to cadge a bite or share an observation with whoever was around. On one afternoon, the only one around was mom; the rest of us were off swimming. Big sat on a low branch over the picnic table, watching as mom bustled around, arranging things and getting ready to cook dinner. As she did so, she chatted at Big, sharing various thoughts and observations as she would with anyone sitting nearby, and Big from time to time chirped in with his own comments. As this went on, unknown to mom, one of the park rangers came walking over. He must have paused a good long while, watching and listening, wondering if this woman always talked to herself, or if there was another person tucked away somewhere, perhaps inside the tent or behind the woodpile. Eventually he cleared his throat and stepped forward. Mom fell silent, unsure whether to explain things or to exercise her right to remain silent; she wasn’t sure what the law was with regard to keeping wild birds as pets or bringing them across state lines, and unsure whether the ranger would believe her anyway. Finally, though, she did come clean, explaining to a doubtful audience both how Big came to live among us, and how we had decided to take him to Missouri in a final attempt to set him free whether he wanted it or not. After a few moments, fortunately for mom, Big decided to join in the conversation and hopped down onto the table. The ranger smiled, no doubt convinced he had now seen it all, and let the bird perch on his own finger. He assured mom that not only was he not going to bust her for robin-smuggling, he would make it his responsibility to keep an eye on Big for the rest of the summer. And so our life with Big came to an end, with reluctance on both sides, the human side of the family hating to let this guy go forever, and with Big resolutely refusing to get anywhere near the cage. We packed up the car, the ranger stopped by to see us off, and Big watched from a nearby tree. I like to think he followed the car for a bit, but I don’t really think he did. Summer went on as summers do, though this one seemed a bit empty. It took a while for me to get used to walking around the backyard without the reasonable expectation of a sudden swooping presence. But eventually I did. Still, for the next several springs I watched the return of the robins with special interest, wondering if, Big, the bird who didn’t know better, would manage the miracle of migrating home, and finding, once again, this backyard. As far as I know, he never did. Even now, fifty years on and 400 miles further north, I still watch the spring robins with special interest, wondering if one is a descendant of that little Big fella, who fell into our lives on a long ago morning. Stranger things have happened.