Words

I am not a grief person: I don’t like it, I don’t like sharing it, I don’t want people to know. So. That being said, I wanted to talk about a few things that are related to papaw dying. He has died; he has not “passed”: I don’t think he was taking any tests. I have not “lost” him: I know exactly where he is. He is dead, deceased, he is no more. I almost went Monty Python there for a minute, but that wanders into the vagaries that people tell each other to avoid facing the fact that they too will one day cease to be. One final note: please don't say you are sorry, unless you are actually responsible for his death. I know that doesn't leave anyone anything to say, which is fine. What I actually want is a lot of hugs because, to me, there aren't words for this. So. Okay, I am done with that bit.

Found

I've been missing for a few days. I haven't been slacking: my papaw died. We had to drive up to Ohio for the funeral. I got back late Thursday. I'm going to be back soon, but not just yet. Just wanted to let you know.

For the Birds

I didn’t really want to call this the dead baby bird story. Sort of takes the shine off right outta the gate, you know? I mean: no mystery, no suspense in that, right? You know there’s a baby bird and you know that it’s dead. Seems like all the story there is. ‘Course, you also know I am complex, and that there is probably a bit more to this than just a dead baby bird. So we begin.

The morning that we ended up knocking the hovel down, I saw a bird fly into this crevice up near the top of where the door out of the hovel and into the world used to be. Now, soon as I saw that, I knew without question that there had to be a nest up in there. Nary a doubt in my mind; might have been some long-buried country instinct that if you pressed me on I would deny possessing until we was out in the wild and I thought you weren’t looking. What I didn’t know, was that the hovel was coming down that day. I wonder still how things might have been different, if I’d a been knowing that. Still, what is, is, and no heap o’ sorrows can change yesterday.

The plan, and you know we always gots to have a plan, was to take the roof off and then assess options for framing in such hovel bones as was left. When mom and dad arrived, it leapt to my thoughts to say something about the bird, but I told myself to wait a minute, seeing as how we always spent a piece standing about, looking, hemming and hawing, afore we got down to the actual work of the thing.

On this day, for some incomprehensible reason, dad set right out to working. It was most unnatural, and I believe that what happened only reinforced his view that no good can come of leaping right into work; that instead, it should be eased into like a hot bath. And he somehow, of course, managed to strike in exactly the right spot to cause the maximum of delay and chaos. Down came one little board, the nest fell out on top of it, and out flopped three baby birds. We had quite a merry chase trying to catch them, too. One flew (I guess they might rightly more be called fledglings, on account as how they had more feathers than not) out into the yard and managed to fall into one of the two-foot deep holes left behind after I pulled the deck out. Mom had the task of reaching in to catch that one. Dad snatched his right up, easy as you please. Mine somehow managed to crawl under the water heater, where it promptly got stuck. After considerable debate, I took a short piece of old baseboard and gingerly pushed it out the other side, where I was able to corner and catch it.

We knew we needed to do something more, though, especially as momma and papa bird had taken to flying in and out of the hovel, angrily calling at us. I found a plastic box, put the nest and the birds (now still as soft brown stones), in it, and set the whole up on the table outside. Of course, that act was the object of fierce debate, seeing as how everyone in my family has advanced degrees in ornithology. So the box was moved to a chair far in the backyard (so we would not be perceived as a threat), but that was too far away from where the birds’ nest had been. Then it was moved to a chair closer up (so it would be closer to its original location), but that was in the direct sun. Then it was moved on top of the hurricane plywood shelf that hangs from the ceiling of the carport. This was deemed to be an acceptable location as it was both out of the way and close to where the birds had originally been.

I noticed a fourth bird (a hatchling rightly as it was not mostly feathers) when I deposited the one I caught into the box. But I thought little of it, other than “smart little bugger; staying quiet and still while the rest flapped around like maniacs”. After all, there was quite a bit of work to do, with the requisite standing around, yelled miscommunication, accident(s), and trip to Home Depot. As we worked, we checked periodically on the birds, not looking or getting up on the ladder to have a poke at them, just sort of being aware as we would walk underneath. Momma and papa bird had found the babies, and all seemed to be well. Soon enough, the hovel was down, lunch was et, and mom and dad departed, leaving me with the mess to clean up. I worked on cleaning up outside for a bit, realized that the inside of the house was a mess too and that the concrete blocks might pick themselves up if only I gave them a chance, and went inside for a spell to start cleaning in there.

It was late in the afternoon, with golden threads of sunlight trailing down through the trees before I took the trash out to the carport. As I rounded the corner, there were the three fledglings, flapping away on the ground. I swore a bit; ungrateful was what it was. All that effort, and here they were now, trying their damnedest to be hors d’ouevres for the black-and-white tom that sometimes waited around the carport garage door. I tried to catch them again, but they seemed to have grown in cunning in the last few hours. I reflected that they must have been just about ready to come out anyway; birds do spend a few days on the ground before going to a life in the trees, assuming they don’t become cat snacks in the meantime. Then I saw the one that had stayed in the nest, fallen and still, under the lawnmower.

I bent down to see if it was moving; it was, but just barely. I swore again and picked it up. It weighed nothing, but it was cold, cold as the bricks it had lain upon. I cupped it to my body and carried it inside. I had not enough coordination to use the phone book, dial the phone, and hold the bird all at the same time, so I set it on the counter. I got a hold of the Suncoast Seabird Sanctuary and the guy told me that I needed to hold the bird close to my body to warm it and that they were open until 8:30. Iwas sweaty and wearing nasty clothes, but I was ready to head out when I asked exactly where they were. He asked where I was. I told him, and he said that there was a place just up the road from me that would be much closer and to call this number. I called it and talked with a woman. She told me to fill a sock with rice, heat it in the microwave, wrap it in a washcloth, put the bird in another washcloth, put them both in a box, and how to get to her house. I did as she instructed and then hit the road.

The bird started to perk up: eyes brighter, moving a bit, opening its mouth, and I felt good. Then it stopped moving. I’m not sure where it happened, because I had to watch the road a little. But I arrived at the woman’s house and the bird was dead. I hoped that it wasn’t, but I knew, I knew. I am sure too that I killed it: the sock full of rice must have been too hot, and that movement was the bird trying to get away from the heat, the little peeps calls of distress that I didn’t understand. On top of it, the woman didn’t even open the door once I got there. I knocked and rang the doorbell; the birds in her house heard me, letting up such a racket as I don’t know how she could have not heard.

Then I left. Not much use for me to stand around waiting to hand some woman who can’t answer her door a dead bird. I drove home and thought about things on the way. How the bird would have died if I hadn’t tried to do something; how it’d died anyway. When I used to work at the aquarium, there was a lady that had a poster with a story on it in her cubicle. I don’t remember the name of the story, or even if it had a name, but it went something like this: a boy and his grandfather were walking down the beach after a storm. A great many sea stars had washed up on the shore, and the boy stopped and picked up every one he came across and threw it back into the sea. After a while, the grandfather said to him “You can’t save all of them, you know.” The boy looked at his grandfather and said “I know.” Then he picked up another sea star, threw it into the water and said “But I saved that one.” I know I can’t save everything and everyone, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.

Heavy

Yesterday, I spent the day cleaning up the recent construction mess that littered my yard. I filled an entire 4 yard dumpster by myself (that is 4 cubic yards, or for those of you using the country measuring system, an assload of shit). Mostly, it was concrete blocks (or chunks thereof) that I was lifting. Fortunately, I was able to tap into my seething stockpile of anger to power my work; I'm not even really sore today. As I worked, I thought about things. I do that when I am involved in physical labor; while my body is engaged, I let my mind wander. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. Not because my present is sucky (while it isn’t exactly a carnival full of puppies and lollipops, I am fully aware it could be a LOT worse), but because I am trying to plot out the course of my life.
I hate making big decisions, because I am always analyzing everything to death: will I be happier with this, is this really the best deal, what if this is the better choice, and so on, and the fact that I can (and sometimes do) make bad choices simply eats me alive to the point where I just don’t know which way to turn sometimes. I am kind of like that guy’s ass. Not his buttocks, but his donkey. It’s some ancient Greek story or something, about a guy whose name I can’t remember, with an ass, and there’s two piles of hay, and the two piles of hay are the same size and equidistant from the ass, and the ass starves to death because it can’t decide which pile to eat first. I feel like that sometimes, except I know that when it comes down to the wire, I can make a choice with the same alacrity of Indiana Jones diving under a temple door at the last possible second. Sometimes I even manage to get my hat, too.
Anyway, I spent yesterday thinking about a couple of big things. I am at that time in my life where the temple door is closing on some potential choices. Like having a child, for example. Thinking about it yesterday, about having my own sweet baby, just made me smile so stupidly and filled my heart with so much joy it could have burst. There’s nothing else I can think of, not money, not fame, not achievements, not a relationship, that even comes close to making me as happy. So. That’s that. But because I want to be able to provide the best for my child, I think I need to finish my doctoral degree first. That way, I will be at the absolute top of my pay scale, and can eventually move on to a university position. That is one hurdle, although since the adoption process is so long, I am hoping to be able to concurrently run both of those paths. Another hurdle is that fact that I am a homosexual, and therefore the state I live in thinks I am inherently evil and unfit to raise a child, who would only be perverted by my mental disorder (Does that about cover all the bases, Anita Bryant?). So, I would have to find out what kind of options are open to me. Adoption isn’t cheap, either, but money can only do you good when you spend it, so that’s just a matter of accumulation to me (I think it would be tacky to put a baby on your Visa). But yeah, I’m going to do it.
As I thought about adopting, I realized that this means closing the door on ever having a relationship. Now, before you pee-pee it, and try to get all positive and reassuring on my ass, think about it: you are a single gay man. I am hairy, average height, balding, a bit chunky, with a baby. Not exactly the epitome of a sizzling sex-god in gaydom, now is it? I took a step back and realized that the odds of me finding someone whom I am attracted to, and who is attracted to me, shares the same values and wants the same things as I do, are astronomical. Life will be discovered on other planets before I come across someone like that. So, I decided to cope with it just like I do the lottery: I’m not playing. Why should I? It’s a waste of time, money, and energy. Sure, every once in a while, when I get a wild hair, I may give it a whirl. But I’ve only played the lottery like three times in the last 13 years, so I think you can see how my dance card is going to stay fairly clear until the end of time. But I am okay with that (see the whole “there’s nothing I can think of that would make me happier” bit above).
I am so stoked! See, even though I hate to make big decisions, I am totally fine once they are made. That’s because all of the potentialities collapse into one reality, and that is something I am adept at dealing with. Right now, I am looking at PhD programs. I plan to spend this summer finishing up the house, and then soon, I will be going off for my residency (I haven’t found a legitimate program yet that is totally distance learning). I am going to try and start the adoption process concurrently so that I can be Dr. Dad in one fell swoop. I am fully aware that life is what happens while you are making other plans. It’s just that, this time, I don’t intend to let it stop me.