A Walker in the Suburbs

For the last few weeks I’ve been hiding, taking the long way to the office, pretending I needed a change of scene — when really I was just avoiding Gloria.

Have I written about her before? She’s the homeless woman who first annoyed me (never asking for change — only for dollars), then won me over one day in the rain. I had given her a few bucks by then, and she was writing the names of her benefactors on a piece of paper that she kept in a waterproof container she wore around her neck.  She was, I suppose, creating a family of donors, people she could count on, a flock of supporters.

For more than a year I’ve been a faithful contributor to the Gloria cause. “You look beautiful today,” she’d say as I slipped a dollar into her hand. “Stay warm,” I’d reply. “Take care of yourself.”

But one morning when I didn’t have a dollar to give, she was angry, menacing. I learned of other colleagues who were harassed when they held on to their money. One even asked me to walk with her past Gloria’s corner.

It all came back to me then, the way I originally felt about Gloria, the persistence in her panhandling, the requests that were almost demands. I’d been giving out of fear and not out of a genuine desire to help. There’s a fine line between charity and extortion, and Gloria had crossed it.

I’m not proud of myself for giving up on Gloria. I know I’m not the first to have done so. But now I walk free.

Sid and Dominique, our rescue parakeets, had been chirping to each other for days, but it wasn’t until yesterday that they met beak to beak. Early reports are positive and confirm our initial impression that Dominique is, in fact, a girl.

I wasn’t there to witness the first date (which quickly led to cohabitation), but it’s worth noting that they ended up in Sid’s cage. Dominique has seemed a little more interested all along.

This is all new to us. Our sweet Hermes, who died in January, 2011, was a coddled only bird. I’m not even sure he knew he was a parakeet, so thoroughly did he join our flock (he talked, he sneezed, he went to sleep each night with a bedtime story, Goodnight, Moon).

Sid and Dominique, on the other hand, are pure bird. They will be each others mates and best friends, we hope. We humans are just along for the ride.

Photo: Claire Capehart

His name is Sid and he has a noble profile. When I saw a picture of him in yesterday’s paper I knew I had to meet him. Luckily, Tom agreed.  We briefly considered and then dismissed memories of the last time we’d done something like this.

It hasn’t really been so bad, I said.

What do you mean? Copper is a jerk.

This is just talk, of course. Tom loves Copper, rambunctious and ill-behaved though he is (Copper that is, not Tom).

So we jumped in the car and drove to the animal shelter, and there was Sid, noble profile and all. We knew right away he would be our little birdie.

What we didn’t know for a few minutes was that two cages away was another parakeet, a canary yellow bird with banded leg and of unknown gender (under “sex” the word “unknown” was crossed out and “male” scrawled above it, though the final paperwork said “female”), and that she would be coming home with us too. Her given name was “Taylor,” but we are trying “Dominique” on for size.

Both budgies were strays, so we figured they are scrappy and familiar with the world. And they (in the two cages they came in) are now perched on our kitchen counter, listening to Saint-Saëns’ Organ Symphony. They are still shy and quiet and getting to know each other through the bars of their  cages. We don’t expect them to be anything like our beloved Hermes, who’s been gone more than a year and a half now, and we don’t pretend to be their all or nothing (hence the pair). But they have already begun to fill our house with twitters and chirps. It’s good to have birds again.

This (obviously low-res!) shot of Sid is what got my attention. Look at that noble chin!

The baby chickadees look just like big chickadees only smaller. They are tiny replicas that flit and flutter in the bamboo that borders our deck.

I spotted one this morning perched on a twig so insubstantial as to bend slightly with his miniscule weight. The little guy made a “chick-a-dee-dee-dee” sound. Only it was higher and thinner than the mature chirp.

How darling are the small critters of creation. They train our eyes on the little things of life.

Photo: 50Birds.com

This little guy and his (her?) brother (sister?) were clinging to the inside of our garage door yesterday. I knew there was a nest in the rafters, had seen the busy mother flying in and out the window, had heard occasional chirps and peeps, but had no idea it was time for the little ones to leave the nest. Why does this surprise me?  By now I know how quickly youngsters grow up.

I tiptoed into the garage with my camera, poised for the perfect shot, and … the camera was out of charge. The mama bird was extremely unhappy, too. She chirped an alarm and bounced toward me to do battle. So I came back inside, plugged in the camera and waited.

A couple hours later,  this baby was still out and his mama was away. I inched closer, talking softly. The birdie opened one eye and looked at me without fear. I’m not much of a birder, but I think he’s a wee robin. A delicate mess of feathers and beak, he’s like a human baby with a head much bigger than the rest of him. Soon he will leave the garage, as he’s already left the nest. His body and tail will lengthen, his plumage will smooth out. He will be able to fly 36 miles an hour and up to 200 miles a day. He will sing and he will mate. He will take his place in the world.

I was privileged to see him in the beginning.

On days I work at home I watch the house slowly empty. First Celia, early, so early, for high school. Then Tom with bike and helmet. He’ll ride to work today. And next Suzanne, off to her job in Arlington.  A parade of goodbyes and then, finally, silence.

I pour myself another cup of tea. I read a few pages from a favorite book. And then I place my fingers on the keyboard, willing the words to come, hoping they will flow smoothly today.

Copper lounges by my side. Partings are hard for him, too. But he doesn’t need to process them.

A walk can be a passage out of time, a way to move from the world of clocks and calendars into a suspension of schedule and duty, so that I attend only to what is under my feet and before my eyes.

Today, reading The Wild Places by Robert Macfarlane, I found a poet’s explanation for why this is so. Macfarlane seeks out wild places, moors and islands and ridges that are remote and dangerous to reach. He plumbs them for their beauty and lessons. In a valley on the Isle of Skye, he finds a sanctuary, “the allure of lost worlds or secret gardens.”

“Time in the Basin moves both too fast and too slowly for you to comprehend, and it has no interest in conforming to any human schedules. The Basin keeps wild time.”

The reason, he reckons, lies in a quotation by a nameless source: “Landscape was here long before we were even dreamed. It watched us arrive.”

Even in the suburbs, the deep creek beds and tall oaks predate our arrival. I seek them out for their separateness and their nonchalance. They put my world in perspective. They keep their own wild time.

This morning’s drive was a return to darkness, and yesterday’s walk was strangely lit. The shadows slanted more steeply and the sun hovered closer to the horizon.

It was surprising for a moment until I remembered we had set our clocks forward. Mornings are inky now and after dinner-walks a distinct possibility. We have taken matters into our own hands. We are living on borrowed time.

The woods awakens, sends green shoots from leaf loafs, muddies ponds with tadpole eggs, raises our hopes — only to dash them in a brisk wind or a sudden chill. At this point, spring is more a whisper than a promise, the slim strong arms of a young girl.

I hold my breath that it will once again unfold.

Photos: Tom Capehart

An early morning walk today revealed an island I’d never noticed before. Hidden, but hidden in plain sight. Hidden only in that from the pond’s shore it wasn’t, at first, clear that the knoll was surrounded by water.

Once I realized what I was looking at I stared more closely at that piece of earth, its small tree and the moss that ringed its banks. How dignified it looked, its solitary state more noticeable in the quiet, gray morning.

An island offers peace and retreat. A stillness that flows from location. More than wanting to be on the island, I wanted to be the island.