editor’s note
i
thankful song for fall
recall an autumn day like no other from my childhood. It was one of those cool, misty mornings after overnight showers. At 10, I liked to get up before the rest of my loud and boisterous family to go outside and see the day. Maybe I was weird (as my big sister Julie told me at that age), but I wasn’t one for morning TV. Instead, I liked being outside to see what I could see. We lived on a farm, had a barn, lots of land. Seven a.m. was late for me as a kid — the earlier, the better — and the wooden screen door snapped lightly back in it’s frame as I left the kitchen. This is what I loved: Sunlight curling through the morning haze, placing me in a kind of snowglobe with thick grass and trees. The cool air filled my lungs and nose with a scent I can only describe as green. This day would warm up like fall days do — cool in the morning, warm in the afternoon. Sore throat season, my Mom would say. Better wear your sweater. My sneakers squeaked over the wet grass, soaking my feet beneath as I examined the yard when something on the ground caught my eye. Two tiny baby birds with floppy, waxen necks — alive! I stood staring with my mouth agape. Birds born in the fall? Wonderful! I knew not to touch them, that their mother might be watching, that she would have nothing to do with them if I did. But what could she do anyway? Can mother birds lift their young back into a nest? Surely not. These were orphans from the storm and I was their guardian angel. There was only one thing to do. “You need to come home,” I crooned. “OK ... it’s OK,” I said softly. “I’m here to help you,” I sang as I carefully walked backward to the house, watching them all the way. I ran to the house, blades of wet grass clinging to my ankles, sneakers slipping on the floor as I dashed in. I’d get worms, I’d get water, I’d use an eyedropper — where can I find an eyedropper? I bounded up to the third floor landing and into the room I shared with my little sister. Wendy sat straight up fast when my scuffling woke her, long blond hair every which way. Almost as fast, she flopped back down for more sleep. Good. My shoeboxes held my treasures: rocks, Barbies, pens, buttons and other hastily stuffed-in mementos. I dumped out my rock box, flew down two sets of stairs, through the kitchen and out the screen door with a bang this time. With the edge of my long, soft T-shirt, I gently lifted the panicked birds into my lined box. Their necks were like wet noodles! Holding them in my hand, I could see and feel their beating hearts throbbing in their greasy chests. Wow. It was thrilling, mind-opening stuff for my 10-year-old brain. “It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK ...” I said, wanting them to feel better, to trust me, to settle. I gingerly carried the box up to my room, one breathless step at a time and tiptoed in. Breaking the silence, one of the birds chirped. She sang! Crouching down on the wooden floor, little Wendy joined me. “Oh how pretty!” Wendy cried. And she put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me. “Oh, Susie!” “Mmm hmm,” I answered softly, nodding. Our “Bird Day” would be remembered for a long time. Even now. Rescuing those baby birds gave me a golden feeling I’ll never forget. That was a gift I got that day: to want so much to help those helpless creatures. I love animals and children and I always want to help. And for the gifts I’ve been given — so many and so vast — I am truly thankful.
10 november 2012