Birds Actually

Birds are not for me. They’re so unpredictable, they poop everywhere, and I find them terrifying. Alfred Hitchcock knew this, and so should you all. I’ve always felt a bit haunted by birds, and it’s not just me. My mom, Linda, has also been plagued by the winged creatures for many years, more recently by a bold-ass woodpecker I discussed in my first book. But that woodpecker wasn’t the only bold fowl that gave me and my mom a hard time. Years earlier, another bird nested in a fall wreath Mom made for our front door.

I live for autumnal decorations. Give me pumpkins and gourds and spooky skeletons to scatter around the house, and I’m happy as a clam. I can tablescape the shit out of the dining room with a quick trip to HomeGoods. My dream is to one day have the wealth and space necessary to sub out all my regular dinnerware and glassware for their seasonal counterparts, things shaped like pumpkins and printed with leaves. But when it comes to outdoor decor, I’m wary, and much like Meryl Streep in Doubt, I have doubts.

Mom used to collect foliage, things like pine cones and leaves, and always found creative ways to use them throughout our house. We would gather pretty leaves and press them into a cute picture, and every year, she would head on over to Joann Fabric for a wreath base to fill with her outdoor finds. But that all stopped when a bird nested in her homemade statement piece.

My brothers had already moved off to college, and I was the only kid living at the family home. I got back from high school one day and did what I always did: watched TRL while snacking. Around 5:30, Mom got home from work and started to make a pasta dinner. Dad was working late, and leaving water boiling, Mom went to the front door to get a package that was delivered, and one of the nesting creatures flew right into our home.

“Dan! Help! A bird is in the house!” Mom screamed at the top of her lungs.

I came running to find my mom, disheveled and fearful, a state I wish I could say made me want to help, but instead it made me laugh instantly (teenagers are rude!). My demeanor quickly changed when the pigeon flew past me and into the spare bedroom that had previously belonged to my older brother.

“Turn off the stove and bring me the pot with the lid,” Mom instructed. All mothers have a switch they can flip; it happens very quickly, and we all know the one. They can be fragile and scared one minute, but as soon as they decide to take care of business, look out. Linda P. flipped the switch, and that bird was screwed.

I handed her the pot and lid, and she stormed into the spare room before closing the door behind her. It was just her and the fowl. From the outside, it sounded like a brawl. There were all sorts of sounds: wood furniture banging against the drywall, wings frantically flapping in the air, jolts and bumps and screams that could’ve been coming from either the bird or Mom. Unclear. What was clear was when Mom opened the door, victorious. She carefully held the lid on the pot and made her way past me in the hallway.

“Call Pizza Hut, Danster. I’m not cookin’ anymore tonight.”

She had had enough. But before she could get to the door to release the wild animal, my dad entered from a long day of work.

“Hi, hon,” he said to my mom, who looked like she’d just gotten into a fight with a lawn mower. “You cooking?”

“There’s a bird in here, Gar.”

“Nice! Chicken?” he asked, naively hoping she was making one of his favorite dishes.

“IT’S A LIVE BIRD, GARY!” she replied.

“Well, are you gonna cook it?”

Dad should’ve just kept quiet and enjoyed the pizza when it arrived because Mom was in no mood to placate him. She made her way to the front door, lifted the lid off the pot, and let the bird fly back out into the wild. With her feathered friend in the rearview, she slammed the door shut behind her and handed my dad her cookware.

“Clean this pot and take the wreath off the door. I’m taking a bath,” she said. “By the way, there’s bird shit on the steps. Can you wipe it up, Gar? I need some me time.”

“Why the hell are you bringing birds in the house?” Dad asked as she made her way upstairs.

“You think I mailed the bird an invite, Gar? It nested in the wreath!”

“You’re mailin’ a million holiday cards this time of year, so who knows what else you give to the postman…” Dad joked under his breath.

“You better fly away from me with that attitude, Gary. Now give your son money for the pizza guy.”

I told Dad the details of what had happened while we waited for the grub, and he was impressed by how his wife had handled it. Men of his generation liked to act tough, to be in charge, but they knew their wives were the ones handling it all. He witnessed his be a superhero by giving birth to three boys, and now he knew she could handle whatever wild animals might fly her way. Nothing stands a chance when it gets in the way of a mom.

I’ve learned the holidays are all about birds. Halloween is filled with winged imagery: crows are everywhere at HomeGoods, Harry Potter has his owl, and the aforementioned Hitchcock movie is a television staple in October. November is all about cooking (and then eating) a bird, before moving into December when carolers sing “Twelve Days of Christmas,” a song that is all about, you guessed it, birds. In fact, days one through four and six through seven are all bird related. Hugh Grant said in Love Actually that love is all around, but I’ve got my own sneaky feeling that you’ll find birds actually are all around.