In our neighborhood, everyone called my father “The Mayor of Willow Avenue.” He’d earned this nickname because of his penchant for helping everyone out. He mowed the lawns of elderly neighbors without having to be asked. He brought home a soldier who’d become stranded, trying to get home to Oklahoma. Once, he even invited a car full of nuns to sit in our kitchen while he fixed the radiator on their old station wagon.
As a man with four daughters, our house was always filled with the neighborhood boys. He’d take them on trips with us to feed the ducks at Eastern Baptist College. He’d often take them in our boat, the Betty Anne, named after my mom and me, to go fishing. One of my dad’s favorite neighbors was Bobby.
When Bobby got a BB gun for his birthday. My dad asked: “Bobby, what are you going to do with that thing?”
“I’m going to shoot birds,” he told him matter of factly.
“What if after I die, I come back as a bird? Would you shoot me too?” dad asked.
Bobby was horrified at the thought. “Oh no, I’d feed you!”
And that was the start of the “my dad being a bird” joke. My dad always threw breadcrumbs out for the birds, especially in the winter. “I’m making St Francis happy by feeding them,” he used to say. He would whistle and they would arrive for meals.
On December 8, 1976, my dad left for work as he normally did, whistling as he walked to his car. That night, he had a massive heart attack on the job. He worked as a printer for over forty years. He planned to retire in twenty-three days. The heart attack came as a horrible shock. Just the day before, he had been riding his bike, and planning on getting the Christmas decorations out of the attic. The next thing we knew, he was gone forever.
I remember going shopping for the kids’ gifts in a daze that year. I was in the store, with a cart full of toys, when “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” came over the sound system. I bolted from the store, leaving the overflowing cart behind me, and bawled all the way home.
That year, I bought my mom a double-heart twig wreath for her front porch as a Christmas gift. The wreath itself was about six inches deep and it was filled with greens, pinecones, and a silk blue bird perched in the center. She hung it to the left of her front door for everyone to see; my mother’s porch was always filled with company. Neighbors, family members, and friends visited constantly. With all that activity, the wreath seemed an unlikely place for a bird to build its nest—but that’s exactly what happened.
My mom liked to joke that the robin was my father watching over her. Not long after, the bird made its nest in the wreath, she had four babies, just like my parents had four daughters. Eventually, the babies learned to fly, and the bird family left the nest. We all missed them. Mom joked that dad had stayed just long enough to make sure she’d be alright.
The following February, I entered a writing contest. I told the story about the time my dad had left powdered sugar footprints in our house on Christmas Eve, convincing us that he’d found an injured elf in the road and brought him home. The next morning, on Christmas Day, there was a mess on the counter around my sister’s high chair. There were two phone books on the seat, cookie crumbs scattered everywhere, and a tiny cup of half-empty hot chocolate on the tray. We truly believed we’d had an elf in our house, and not one of us had woken up to see it. Blitzen tapped on our kitchen window after he realized the elf was missing. My dad was blessed with a child’s imagination!
My dad’s birthday is April 12th. It was his first birthday in heaven, and I was remembering his last birthday celebration. Every year I bought him a new spring jacket. He’d tried it on and modeled for us, like he was a real male model. Laughter filled the room. But today, tears and sadness filled me.
I walked out to collect the mail. Our mailbox was at the end of our driveway. Halfway there, a robin dive-bombed me and almost pecked my ear. It was that close. I was half-terrified, and half-amused, but I managed to shake it off and continue to the mailbox. This bird either loved me or hated me. It circled me head like it was playing a game. I decided it must love me.
It perched on the mailbox as I looked through the usual bills and grocery sales inside—but there was also an envelope from the writer’s contest. I ripped it open hoping for good news. I’d won! There was check was enclosed, which was nice, but the very best part was the fact that all this happened to take place on my dad’s birthday. The robin cocked his head and made a small little chirp noise. “I know. This is so exciting!” I said to the bird. The robin chirped a song at me and then flew way.
My dad’s sign arrived again when I was having trouble with one of my sons during his teenage years. He was getting in trouble at school. His grades were failing. I was sitting in a rocking chair on my porch, drinking a cup of tea, just crying and praying after a huge argument that morning. I’d tried everything and nothing was working. In fact, I was making things worse.
Suddenly our kitten started to make a fuss, whining and crying under my hanging basket full of purple-and-white petunias. That’s when I noticed a bird watching me from a nearby hedge.
I put the kitten inside the house, returned to my rocking chair, and just sat and observed. The bird flew from the hedge into the basket, and soft chirping noises soon followed. I stopped rocking and remained still. Little heads emerged as the baby birds attempted to climb out of the basket to fly. One by one, they dipped toward the ground, but quickly caught the breeze and flew towards the hedge.
I immediately understood the message my father was sending me. It was time for my son to learn to fly and be responsible for his decisions. My son was smart enough to learn his own lessons; even birds encourage their babies to fly.
A few months later, I got a spiritual reading with medium, Debra Taylor. I asked, “What’s up with the bird?” I didn’t give her any other explanation. To my surprise and delight, Debra smiled and said: “Just know that when you see the single bird, your dad is standing right behind it, sending you love.”
I bought my dad a new birdhouse that very Father’s Day. It was made of cedar and the roof was shingled. The opening was a large oval, big enough to fit twigs and other things. The house was even decorated with a few hanging baskets, which I thought very fitting. Next to it, I placed a huge bird feeder, and filled it up with premium seed—nothing but the best for my dad.
I am so blessed that he has chosen to visit me, and on more than one occasion. You know what they say: “Birds of a feather, flock together.” Fly high, sweet spirit!
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