Tag: birds

Chartreuse

The pencil above is Berol Prismacolor PC 989 Chartreuse, the first pencil to retire from the set my father gave me in the early ’90s. I sharpened it for the final time last night, when I realized that the core would shatter if I did so again. It’s small, but not tiny: I could still use it if I wanted to, either with a pencil extender or a light grasp of my hand. But I have a small set of more modern Prismacolors from 2017 or so that includes the same color, so I removed the Chartreuse from that set and put this one in the tin in its stead. The newer one now sits in the old Berol box.

My favorite color is purple, a far cry from chartreuse, and I never thought such a bright lemony green would ever appeal to me, even back in the ’80s when it was everywhere along with the neon pinks, peaches, and purples that dressed a generation of teenagers.

But then Inigo the Nanday came into my life, where he was my constant companion for 21 years until it was his time to pass away last year. That the old pencil is the same shade as his feathers made retiring it that much more poignant, but I take comfort in knowing it will be safe in the tin, braced by a rolled-up tissue to keep it from sliding around and breaking the tip.

A bright green and black bird called a Nanday Conure.

One thing they don’t warn you about regarding your 50s is how many late goodbyes you start having. Things given to you many years ago by people who are now long gone wear out. The cards they sent you turn yellow and the stamps fall off. The classic, timeless items of clothing they gifted you for your birthday or a holiday start coming apart. Any rings they gave you get harder to slip over your knuckles, if they still fit at all. The glue in the bindings of the books they inherited and then passed down to you starts to crack. If you kept their perfume or aftershave, it turns acidic or loses its fragrance entirely. If you were born before cell phones and digital media, the photographs you have of those you lost fade and the tape recordings of their voices stretch and sound strange—if you even still have the audio equipment necessary to play them.

Some folks like to pick on younger generations because of all the pictures and videos they take with their phones, but as long as younger people still live in the moment and don’t create a hazard or rob themselves of the full experience just to get a good angle, I say good for them for capturing it. If they store everything correctly, they’ll always have something crisp and fresh to remember their loved ones by.

But listen, younger folks: Even if you have a ton of photos and videos, cherish the gifts people give you. Hang on to the little keepsakes you have of life milestones, either those you experience yourself or those of your loved ones, and preserve any inadvertent mementos you find in the bottom of a drawer that catapult you unexpectedly into a happy memory. Treasure the items that come to you from a place of affection, especially the small things you manage to take with you when you move from one home to the next. Those are things you can hold in your hand. Those are the things you can hold close to your heart, where the love that brought them to you still resides.

Letter to Inigo

Dear Inigo:

It has been a whole year since we said goodbye. A lot has happened since then, most of it not so great, and it has been hard to get through it all without you by my side. Yes, little one, I know you’re still here, in my heart, in the sky, in the birds who come to visit. I can still feel you sitting on my chest or spreading your wings across my back, shoulder to shoulder in a birdie hug. But I miss your chatter, your dancing, your woodchipping, the way you held out your wings when I gave you a shower, the way you tilted your head when you were curious about something, the way you gobbled up your nanners…and blueberries…and pasta…and apple…and sweet peppers…and more nanners. You were–and remain–the Nanner King!

Little buddy, you taught me so much while you were here: dedication, devotion, unconditional love, and that we should appreciate our loved ones while they are still with us on Earth. At times you taught me patience, too, although I’m still working on that, ha ha.

I don’t know when we’ll be reunited. I mean, you already sent me back once! But when that day comes, I know the last thing I will see on Earth is you flying down to greet me, maybe with your brudduh Jimmy not far behind you, hovering and waiting for me to rise and join you. Until that day comes, I’ll be grateful for every time you visit in a dream, and I will do my best to find the happiness you’d want me to have. I love you now and always.

xoxo,

The Mommy

A Nanday Conure bird sitting on a rope perch. He has a green body and a black head, and his feathers are slightly damp.
Slightly damp Nanner King, in the pose he knew would get him whatever he wanted.

Ice and Song

We’re expecting one inch of snow overnight and they already closed the schools for tomorrow.

I wonder if the federal government will also close.

The D.C. area really has become the epitome of wimpiness.

“But it’s the ICE!”

Well, we’ve always had ice. The difference is that it actually had to be on the ground and too thick for sand to offer traction on it before anything closed. I remember schlepping to a job that was a 10-minute walk from Union Station, basically skating across Stanton Park in my boots, and stopping to marvel at the unfortunate beauty of budding cherry trees encased in ice half an inch thick.

And yet, nature looks toward spring, even now, in mid-January. This morning Pierre the Northern Cardinal flew up into the tree after Balcony Breakfast and sang his first courting song of the year. It moved me to tears for being alive to hear it.

He kept stopping and starting as though learning and practicing, thus confirming for me that he is a young one and maybe even a surviving son of the pair who nested in the holly bushes last spring. I don’t know where they went or what might have happened to them, though I fear that their second clutch failed because of the sprinklers and they might have abandoned the site. They also may have divorced (it happens about 20% of the time) or perhaps perished of natural causes, including predation, as the average Northern Cardinal lifespan is a heartbreakingly short three years.

I love that Pierre has grown–perhaps in part because of his visits to the balcony?–and I’ll cherish hearing him for the next few months as he establishes his territory and seeks a mate, even when he routinely wakes me up before 5:00 a.m. next month. I hope a lovely lady Northern Cardinal finds his song as charming as I do.