A Walker in the Suburbs

This is A Walker’s second guest post. As with the February 1, 2019 entry, it’s by my mother — this year on the occasion of her 94th birthday. Mom was a natural, as these words will show. Happy Birthday, Mom! This one’s for (and by) you. 

She woke to the early morning sun and stretched her arms and legs as usual, happy she could still do this. Maybe this meant she wasn’t really old. Maybe 80 was just some mystical number she had to use to mark the passing of the years. If she could still move her arms and legs as before, maybe she was just the same as she had always been, just a little wiser.

She smiled as she reached back in her memory to other mornings, other stretches. Winter mornings when she was five years old, living in one of the three houses her family had lived in on Woodland Avenue, waking to the sun as she had done today. She remembered stretching her limbs in much the same way as now.

But then she remembered how she finished that stretch with a hard, childish motion before she put her tiny feet on the cold floor and ran to the gas stove that would warm not only her feet but her whole body. Soon Aunt Mayme and Aunt Beedie would know that she was awake and one of them would come to put their arms around her and warm her in a way no gas stove ever could.

A few weeks ago, the recently widowed Alfie got a new cage mate. His name is Bart, and he, like the late Dominique, is a rescue bird.

Strange to learn how many birds our local Humane Society offers, some from owners who can no longer care for them, but others because they are strays. (This more of a summer thing, I guess.)

Bart is friendly, well-loved and used to being held, but he is also an escape artist. Luckily, he ended up not in the jaws of a hawk but on someone’s balcony — and from there to the shelter and, eventually, our home.

He and Alfie spent more than a week in separate cages, getting used to each other’s proximity, then … they moved in together.

They’re both males, so Alfie sings less (there’s only so much he’ll do to impress another guy), but they frolic together, preen each other, share food and sit contentedly in each other’s presence.

I worry when I see them squabble (a pet owner who thinks too much?), but I’ve decided there’s no way to read parakeet relationship signals thoroughly enough to truly worry. Instead, I’m just sitting back and enjoying the show.

Dominique the parakeet, who came to us from the Fairfax County Humane Society shelter seven years ago, died yesterday. We never knew her age, but she could have been 10 or more by the time she passed away.

She was a small but valiant creature, and she proved herself loyal and strong on numerous occasions. Plagued for years by fatty tumors, she never let them slow her down. Even as late as yesterday afternoon she seemed strong enough to chatter and nuzzle with her cage-mate, the ever-so-chirpy Alfie.

In 2016, when her original partner, Sid, was ailing, the canary-yellow Dominique literally propped up the  sick bird with her own body.  And she bravely bore the antics of the young whippersnapper (Alfie) we brought in to take his place. Because Dominique really seemed to mourn Sid when he was gone. I was afraid she would pine away without another parakeet by her side.

The thing about a bird is that its death is preceded or accompanied by a fall. Not unlike humans, if you want to get biblical. But unlike humans, birds are creatures of the air, and to find one lying still on the bottom of the cage is sad indeed.

Rest in peace, Dominique.

(Above: Dominique and Sid in 2012)

Yesterday I ran up to the closest grocery store, which is located in shopping center I sometimes call “the corner.” I like the way it sounds, saying “I’m going up to the corner,” as if I lived in an old-fashioned neighborhood where people yell out their windows and hang their laundry on the line out back.

I don’t live in such a place, of course, and I don’t go to the corner much anymore, either. I’ve switched to a discount grocery chain that saves me money but lands me in anonymous strip malls off busy suburban highways.

At one time, when the children were young, I seemed to run into friends all the time at the local supermarket. But that’s been ebbing away for years, so I’d might as well drive a few more miles and save some cash.

Being back at the corner today reminds me of what I’ve missed, though, which is, in short, familiarity. I’ve been going to that grocery store as long as we’ve lived here. It feels homey, even though the produce is overpriced and the seafood is iffy.

For better or worse, that store — and the “corner” around it — are my town square, the closest thing I have to a meeting spot, where I rub shoulders with the people in my ‘hood.

(Vale School House, which is near another corner where I live.)

A few weeks before Dad died, his friend Jerry bought him a new watch battery. Five years later, the watch is still ticking.

Apart from wondering where Jerry purchased the battery, I have often reflected on Dad’s watch and its longevity, how it has kept going so long after his passing. It’s a vivid reminder of his enthusiasm for life. Even when Dad was dying, he wanted to know what time it was.

A watch is an intimate thing. It’s worn on the pulse, a shortcut to the heart. It becomes a part of its owner in a way few other items do. I’ve come to count on Dad’s watch being close to mine every evening, as if through our timepieces Dad and I are somehow still communicating.

The battery won’t last forever, I know, nor will the watch. But sometimes I like to pretend that they will.

Mom would have been 93 today. In honor of her birthday, I’m letting her write the blog. This is A Walker in the Suburb’s first guest post, and it’s a posthumous one. Read it and know why I wanted to be a writer when I grew up — and why I miss her so. 

I was the third daughter born to parents who seemed desperately to want a son. All three of us girls were supposed to be Edward, named for each of my parent’s oldest brothers. The son arrived three years after me, but wasn’t named Edward after all. It seemed that my dad decided there might never be another boy and he thought tradition should be upheld. So my little brother was named Martin Joseph III.

Dad was right, of course. Our family of four was complete. Tradition had been upheld. Tradition had been upheld, too, when my older sisters were named. The first was named for my mother’s mother, Margaret Donnelly, and the second for my father’s mother, Mary Scott. When I arrived, another girl, there seemed to be quite a dilemma about what to call me. They had run out of grandmothers.

Dad suggested they call me Anne after my mother. But that didn’t suit her. I have wondered why they didn’t use Edwina, the feminine version of Edward. I’m certainly glad they didn’t!

In the end, and in spite of Daddy’s objections, Mother named me Suzanne for a nice lady who lived down the street, Suzanne Burk. I have often wished they had given me her full name, but they didn’t. So I had no middle name until I could choose one when I was confirmed. I chose Rose and used it proudly whenever I could. I guess I thought it made me more complete.

Walking yesterday into the wind, fists stuffed into my sleeves, Emily Dickinson came to mind: “The sky is low, the clouds are mean.” They popped into my head as snowflakes and sleet pellets flew through the air.

The precipitation was the perfect accompaniment to the howling wind and the rumbling jet engines (which is what happens on windy days in my neighborhood).

I felt like I was walking into a wall of winter, into a maelstrom of it. Nothing to do but push through—and remind myself that a warm house was waiting on the other side.

Putting up a suet block makes me feel a little like the teenager with a private-entrance basement and hands-off parents. Yeah, everyone parties at your house … but it isn’t because of your sparkling personality.

So yes, the birds are flocking to my deck, but it seems like cheating how we lured them here. On the other hand, bird-beggars can’t be choosers, so I’ve devoted a few minutes of my morning to observing the drama unfolding outside my window.

I first spotted the downy woodpeckers, who cling to railings and politely wait their turn at the suet block. I love their jaunty red heads and their ability to queue.

The bluebirds aren’t so patient. A flock of them must have moved into the area this morning, and they’re hungry. They’ve been flashing their brilliant tail feathers and just generally entrancing me since I saw them.

Unfortunately, they have rivals at the feeder. A band of bluejays are guarding the block, wielding their considerable bulk in a futile effort to keep their fellow blue birds away.

Though the jays are larger, the bluebirds are more nimble. They can contort their little bodies (showing off their lovely orange breasts) any which way to get at the suet. The bluejays, on the other hand, are hampered by size. Yes, they’re big and loud, but the bluebirds are making out like bandits. I’m pulling for them.

The other day I was on the phone with the pharmacy, talking with a real human being instead of tapping in numbers.

“Do you have birds?” the real human being asked me, not surprisingly, since Alfie and Dominique were chirping up a storm.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Parakeets?” she ventured.

“Right again!” I replied. And from there we were off, discussing the cheerfulness of birds and the pleasures of a home filled with their song.

Apart from 18 months in 2011-2012, we’ve had a parakeet or two in a cage hanging from a hook in the kitchen ceiling for the last 14 years. The birds are not directly over the table, but they are in the center of the house, where they can hear the humans whose flock they have adopted.

I’m midway through Jim Robbins’ book The Wonder of Birds and learning many things I didn’t know. For example, scientists’ study of murmuration  — birds’ ability to fly in unison in great flocks that twist and turn like a cloud dancing — is enhancing what we know of human cognition and metacognition.

It doesn’t surprise me that these intelligent and loving animals would have secrets to share. “I hope you love birds too,” wrote Emily Dickinson. “It is economical. It saves going to heaven.”

(Can’t find a good picture of the parakeets this morning, so this photo of a wild baby bird in our garage will have to do.) 

I’m thinking back to Sunday’s afternoon walk. The day later than the clock said it was, Copper tugging on the leash. I dropped my shoulders, told myself there was nothing to do but enjoy the briskness, the trees at peak color.

We’re not known for autumn splendor in northern Virginia. Spring is our time to shine. But still, there are moments when the sun slants in fetchingly from the west and the leaves catch it and reflect it back.

I tried to capture that by snapping some photos. But as usual, it’s not just the shot I want, it’s the way the air feels and the sound of tiny birds peeping, the creek gurgling and (of course) the drone of a leaf blower. You’re never deep enough in the Folkstone woods that you can’t hear that.

But when the leaves are swirling around and collecting in golden circles at your feet, it doesn’t much matter.