| 
|
Chapter 2. A Bird in Hand - And Another to be Saved: Chipper
During the 1950's New York City was considered a "safe" place for kids to grow up. The city streets were filled with kids playing stickball, hopscotch and all the other childhood games, usually without any supervision or watch from parents. Of course, while the perception was that crime and child abuse or molestation was not a problem, the reality was different. The truth is that most crimes against children simply went unreported and unpunished.
While girls generally preferred hopscotch or playing "house" or mommy with their dolls, the boys would engage in the sport games of handball, tag, stickball and others. I was one of the "boys."
It was a warm summer day while engaged in an intense game of tag with the boys, that, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a pigeon attempting to escape the path of an oncoming car. He was unable to fly away in time and was struck by the car's headlight and tossed to the side of the street. I immediately ran to the injured bird, picked him up and brought him to the safety of the sidewalk.
I stood there with the fractured bird in my hand while my friends gathered around us. I could feel the pigeon's tiny heart racing in my hand. I wondered what to do with him and figured I would take him home to my grandmother. While trying to make a decision the racing of the bird's heart suddenly slowed and then, ceased. I didn't realize what happened until one of my friends, Paulie, remarked, "The bird is dead."
As if holding a burning hot iron, my hands immediately let go of the dead pigeon and I ran home screaming and crying to my grandmother. I was hysterical in grief and a sense of failure.
Nannie was not one for emotional overtures or long, deep discussions about the "meaning of life." She simply said sympathetically, but matter of factly, "Its God's will." "The bird is in heaven now." "Its not your fault." "There will be another bird for you to save."
"Go on now, dinner will be ready soon."
My wise grandmother's words turned out to be prophetic, as it was not long after the incident with the dying pigeon in my hand, that another bird needed help.
I discovered "Chipper" one winter day huddled against the corner of a building. His broken left wing dangled loosely at his side. It was obvious the pigeon could not fly.
Once again, I scooped the injured bird in my hands and brought him home to Nanny. "What's this?" she questioned when I walked in the apartment. But one look at the bird with the dangling wing gave her the answer. She gave me some money and ordered me to go to the corner grocer and bring home some ice cream pops and a medium size cardboard box.
Nanny prepared a makeshift "splint" for the damaged wing with several popsicle sticks and some tape. She then fixed up a temporary home for the pigeon in the cardboard box, with food, water, an old towel and newspaper. We then placed "Chipper" out on the fire escape where Kitty Kelly could not have access to him for dinner. It was winter then and we generally kept the windows closed.
Chipper flourished with the nurturing care my grandmother bestowed on him and over a period of months, his wing slowly healed. He began to "test" his wings by flying through our apartment whenever we opened the fire escape window. I can still remember my mom's hysterical screams every time Chipper flew through our long hallways. "Jesus Christ," she yelled, "Get him out of here!" "He's like a bat!!"
Nannie and I ignored my mom's complaints and rather, delighted in Chipper's progress. We were also grateful that Kitty Kelly wasn't particularly interested in Chipper. While she curiously watched when he flew through the halls, she seemed to sense that he was temporarily "part of the family" rather than a delectable lunch entree.
By the time spring arrived, Chipper's wing completely healed. He began to turn his attention away from us (and our fun hallway) and more towards the pretty female pigeons who flew around and tempted him in the back yards surrounding our building. One day he simply took off with one of them.
While Chipper flew off to create his own family, he did not totally desert us. He and his mate would come occasionally to our fire escape for a treat or two. He made his home somewhere in the yards and for many years I delighted in seeing him and his mate decorating the blue skies behind my building.
My grandmother on the other hand, simply went on with the daily interests of her days. The Brooklyn Dodgers, politics and her perennial cup of tea. She didn't want or expect thanks and appreciation. Healing others was simply something she did without fuss, fanfare, or expectation.