Editor’s note: Bruce Bouchard is former executive director of The Paramount Theatre. John Turchiano, his friend for 52 years, was formerly the editor of Hotel Voice, a weekly newspaper on the New York Hotel Trades Council. They are co-authoring this column to tell short stories on a wide range of topics.
Charley has been gone for three months, and we are settling into acceptance. The pain has diminished some, but the deal I would make to have him back in my arms and looking into those glorious eyes, or licking my face during the morning sit would rise to a number that I would be paying down for years. The memories continue: the chin on bed patiently waiting for one eye to open, “Get up – I gotta go,” or curled up at my feet at the theatre as I stand at the back rail watching The World Cup or The Super Bowl; Good old Charley gladly taking a ton of affection from the audience members.
On the last day of his life, a miracle occurred — a robin began building a nest on the column next to our front door. We could see the activity from a small table on our 25-foot long front porch, or from our big dining room window just 8 feet on an upward angle from the chair to the nest. We watched and we watched.
The robins of the Northeast are known as Newfoundland robins, one of the “early birds” who appear sooner in the spring than other families. They are known for their warm rust orange breasts (males wear warmer orange than females who have browner feathers). We learned that only 40% of nests successfully house babies.
Our robin was huge, approximately 14 inches from the tip of her beak to the end of her tail, and a big belly filled with new eggs. She swooped in and swooped out, over and over, architect and clerk of the works of her new home; the in-process birthing center, made of twigs, grass, straw and mud. The perfectly made vessel, barely larger than the size of a baseball, was completed in a matter of days.
During this time, she began to take us in. She would stop, mid-construction, snap her head to the side and down to look directly at us, and then continue her task. We had to remain very still — any movement or sound from us would cause her to depart and wait on a utility line across the street from our house. Upon her return she would give us a commanding look.
“OK. It’s fine that you might watch my work, but I ask of you stillness and respect. Any sudden moves or loud noises will make me cross with you. Oh, and don’t even think of climbing up here to have a look. That will put me in a foul mood and might possibly cause me to abandon the new home… oh, and I have a message for you: Your Charley is fine, he is happy and he does NOT want you to be sad.”
That was the exact message I was feeling from this very pregnant robin.
In the world of mysticism, or “the other side,” or the stew of many Wiccans, there are those that believe both cardinals and robins know when a home has lost a loved one. These birds gravitate to that energy and are called to create new life. An antidote to pain and sorrow, or merely a fine place, with nice energy in which to make a family?
In another few days, she began to sit at length, for long stretches, beak straight forward and full body covering the nest, warming and bringing the eggs to fruition.
Before we knew it, on one early morning, there they were, multiple little translucent babies, the color of caramel, quivering and stretching their open beaks, as Mom delivers the goods — worms, bugs and berries. But how many were there? It is three, might it be four?! In and out and back around again; the circular activity over and over. If we sat for two hours there might be 20-plus feedings, and one day we could see clearly that there were four little baby robins, living in that crowded apartment, stretching and stretching for the next bits of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
On one occasion with Mom away foraging, I slipped a two-step ladder 20 feet across from the nest. My vision was partially obscured by a porch beam, but I stood on a direct line from the nest — a distant but distinct perspective on this ritual of nature. For days I had been very careful to enter my perch when she was away and depart my spot on one of her flights for more food. But one day she caught me, looked up and drilled me with her eyes, and then — like the shot of a bullet she was at me — boom, a snap of wind, she flew just past my ear. I could feel her as she blasted her warning. “Don’t get cute! I didn’t say you could be there!”
I respected that warning by not climbing my ladder again, content to take direction and watch from one of the porch chairs or the inside the big window.
The next phase was watching the offspring, quickly transforming into adolescents, boisterous to roam, now covered with feathers and each with a shockingly large set of wings. They would stand, stretch those wings and, shortly thereafter, begin to practice beating them, rehearsing for the thrilling first sensations of flight.
But how could four young birds possibly exist in that space? Perhaps the close quarters were designed as such to help motivate their leap into the wild. Standing on the edge of the nest like a kid attempting a first dive from the 3-meter platform, wings beating furiously and then wuuuusch, gone in a flash. Up, up into the sky and off to a wide open new life, like a teenager driving away to college in the family Subaru.
We were only lucky enough to see two of the young birds actually take flight. The second was the runt of the litter, the last to go. He tried and tried, whapping those wings and bending his little legs, dozens of times, perhaps frightened by the big hard world just out in front. “I think I can, I think I can.” And then, he took the plunge — and a plunge it was, an odd-ball first venture— a few feet, hover, a few feet more and hover again, and then a sputtering flutter right on down to the front porch below. He found his legs, strutting here and peeking there, trying to make sense of his new world. He came to rest in front of our screen door; we were looking at him and he was looking at us.
“Hey, I know I am supposed to fly, but I can’t, and I’m scared, can you help me?”
We hadn’t realized that Mom was right near by watching the whole episode from the ground below the porch. She chirped a command, he turned around, shook his feathers and hopped off the porch. Mother and child disappeared into the cover of our large patch of sedum, safe from prey, until, with Mom’s urging, he would, shoulder to shoulder with her, disappear into the sky.
We were blessed by this glorious episode — from death to the miracle of new life; exhilarating, humbling, and inspiring.
A perfect sauce in the kitchen of life.
