12/19/24

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m not a big fan of birds.

Which is why I think it came as a big surprise to everyone when Michael and I moved in together, and then got married. Michael came with birds. Parakeets. Four of them. Lucky, Plucky, Ducky, and Happy. When Michael lived alone in his apartment, he would let the birds out of their cages, and they would sit on the arm of the couch, or on his own arm, or, horror of horrors, in his hair. While Michael lived with me, the birds were only allowed out when he cleaned the cage. I left the house.

And while some birds were added over our first few years together, eventually, the birds were gone.

I can trace my dislike and fear of birds back to the exact moment it started. I was seven or eight years old and I found a dead bird. I carried him home to give him a decent burial. My mother immediately smacked him out of my hands, brought me down to the basement to the laundry tubs (because my hands were too filthy with dead bird cooties to wash in the bathroom sink), and proceeded to scrub my hands until they hurt, all while telling me how birds were covered in bugs and parasites and germs and diseases, and now I’d gone and held one. With both hands! With all ten fingers!

Shortly after that, I saw Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds.

And that pretty much took care of it. I am absolutely terrified of birds, most especially the red-winged blackbird. One of my favorite places is the Riverwalk in Waukesha, a lovely path that follows the Fox River, but I haven’t been able to walk there for three years. The last summer I walked there, I was attacked three separate times by a red-winged blackbird, the last time causing me to fall as I ran away and the damn bird just kept tearing into my hair while I lay face down on the pavement.

Yet I’ve always had a special affinity for large birds. If I see sandhill cranes, I have to pull over and watch them for a bit. I love pelicans and penguins. Flamingoes and peacocks. Owls and eagles. But while I enjoy watching them, I would not relish being close to them.

And I am totally freaked out by turkeys and geese.

Today, I was in a particularly busy section of Waukesha. Four-lane traffic (not counting turn lanes). Lots of businesses. Very close to the freeway. I’d been out for a haircut, and was going from there to my piano lesson. The last thing I was thinking about was birds. I was trying to pull out of a strip mall parking lot, entering the busy traffic without the benefit of a stoplight, and so I was looking both ways to make sure I could sneak in. When I turned my head to the left, though, it wasn’t a car I saw.

It was a turkey.

At first, he stood next to my car, tail feathers spread, looking right at me. Behind him were three other turkeys. He was very near to my car, and after wondering what the hell wild turkeys were doing in such a busy area of Waukesha, I began to worry that if I tried to move into the street, I would accidentally hit him. And maybe his three friends too. The turkey, for his part, kept moving forward a few steps, then backing up, then moving forward again. I thought about opening my window and shouting at him, but that might startle him and he would fly at me through the window.

Which immediately made me think of the Thanksgiving episode of the old TV show WKRP In Cincinnati. A classic episode, where the radio station staged an event where they threw live turkeys from a helicopter so they could fly down to the parking lot below, and people could bring turkeys home for dinner. This culminated in the line that anyone who loved this show can recite from memory, from Mr. Carlson, the station owner: “As God is my witness…I thought turkeys could fly.”

So this turkey would not fly at me through my window. But still. It was big. Maybe it would climb. Or peck my car.

He took a couple steps forward. He took a couple steps back. He folded his tail, which was good. He didn’t look so alarming that way. But he was still…a bird.

I opened my window. “Shoo,” I said.

He didn’t.

“Go away,” I said. “Go back. I’ll pull my car out, and then you can cross.”

He looked at me some more. The other three birds started to take an interest in me too.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He flapped. Maybe he couldn’t fly, but those wings were huge. It was like he was saying, “Well, then do something already!”

I sighed and looked in my rearview mirror. No one was behind me. “Hang on a sec,” I said to the turkey. And then I backed up.

With the sidewalk cleared, the turkey gave me one more glance and then walked in front of my car and kept on going. Behind him, a respectful distance, the other three followed.

I watched them go, strolling up Grandview Avenue like sophisticated city birds, or as close to sophisticated as a turkey can look.

I closed my window and then quickly checked myself. No sign of bird cooties. No bugs, parasites, germs, or diseases. But I’d faced a major source of fear without letting myself bolt blindly, in my car, into traffic to get away. I’d been respectful, backed up, and let the birds go first.

And I don’t even like turkeys. Or birds.

Delighted with myself, and wanting to celebrate, I thought about going to a pet store and buying myself a couple parakeets in Michael’s memory.

I thought maybe I would return to the Riverwalk in the spring.

Maybe.

But I was nice to turkeys.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.