The quaint, five-room house sits adjacent to Farm Road 556 and has been Evelyn’s home since the early 1950’s, when she and her husband Guy built it. The only noticeable change to the exterior is the white aluminum siding added in the mid-sixties, when a traveling ‘tin man’ convinced Guy into “never having to paint again”. Several towering trees canopy the two-acre lot, and the robust pomegranate bush Evelyn planted some years ago still produces fruit. The narrow, sloping driveway is gravel, but it seldom washes out. While the world may have changed around this structure over the past fifty-some-odd years, most things remain the same. That is, on the exterior. It’s been three years ago, last September, since Guy passed away.
Inside the home, Evelyn rests comfortably in a yellow floral-patterned armchair, crocheting an afghan for her oldest daughter’s birthday. The rheumatoid arthritis that plagues her seventy-six year old hands make the slip stitches difficult, but as always, she persists. ‘Days of Our Lives’ blares from a vintage television set in the large oak cabinet; Evelyn’s hearing isn’t what it used to be. But, as she relaxes there, slowly weaving the hooks in and out of the multi-colored yarn, her never-yielding attention is drawn to the large picture-window in the room.
Through the facial wrinkles and sagging skin under her eyes, a twinkle is still visible-if you look hard enough. Evelyn’s glasses are not worn on the bridge of her nose, but nearer the tip; probably because they’re an older prescription. Her gray hair is finely coiffed, at least on days following a visit to the beauty shop. And the clothes she wears would be considered retro chic in today’s style magazines. Brightly colored knit blouses and bell-bottomed, polyester slacks are her daily attire, mostly because she sewed them herself many years ago, and they have held up well.
Feeling a bit of a nip in the living room temperature, the elderly lady grimaces as she arises from the chair and opens the valve another quarter-turn on the heater. This January is turning out to be one of the coldest on record and she hopes the propane bill won't be too high. Glancing out the window into the front yard, Evelyn notices that one of her bird feeders hanging from the mimosa tree is dreadfully low on black sunflower seeds. That can easily be remedied, she thinks. Retrieving a large coffee can full of seed from the twenty-five pound bag beside the front door, she wraps a fleece throw blanket around her back and walks out into the frigid afternoon. Once back inside, the white Corning percolator gurgles out a cup of this morning’s coffee. When the microwave sounds its familiar beep, Evelyn removes the cup of bodily warmth and heads back to her chair. This has become the standard cycle of her days.
As the afternoon progresses, Evelyn drifts off into a peaceful nap, with the half-completed afghan draped across her legs. Sleep comes in sporadic waves for her these days, requiring only an hour here and there. With her weary eyes closed, she sees visions of days gone by. Like the numerous photographs of her family hanging on the wall, she recalls Guy, handsomely dressed in his Navy uniform. He served in World War II and her dreamy thoughts take her back to the time they met, were married and then started a family. She lovingly remembers the two daughters they raised together. Both girls moved away many years before to start their own lives, as the small town atmosphere wasn’t attractive to either young woman. Evelyn visualizes the grandkids as they played in the yard and climbed the tall trees. They used to be a welcome sight, but one she seldom sees now, except in her slumber. Bittersweet memories flow, until the antique cuckoo clock above her chair chirps five times and wakes her from the reminiscences.
Call it therapy, call it habit, call it whatever you like, Evelyn’s life has become all about the birds. They fill a purpose for her. And besides, feeding them is only natural this time of year as food has become scarce. Various foodstuffs are hung within sight of her chair. A cylindrical feeder holds expensive thistle seed, mostly for the finches. On her budget, it is sometimes a struggle to afford, but her birds must be fed. Suet, which Evelyn makes from beef tallow, is the blue jays' favorite. Mockingbirds are pretty, as they feed on sunflower seeds, but can be drastic bullies to the sparrows. Buntings, woodpeckers, cardinals, she knows them all. And if by chance a winged creature should fly into view that she doesn't immediately recognize, the ‘Audubon Society Field Guide' is within reach for handy reference. The almost innumerable number of species that dart outside Evelyn’s window fill the void of a joy she has somehow lost over the years.
It’s almost spring now, and the dogwoods along the back fence of the property are trying to bloom. The frosty grip of winter has opened its palm and released its grip on the warmth, in order for plant life to begin flourishing. Evelyn hired a young man from down the road to install two new birdhouses she purchased while in town recently. Once he positions them where they are visible to her from the window, Evelyn gives him the “thumbs up” sign. In the back yard near the dogwoods, the man also raises the telescopic pole which is attached to the twelve-unit purple martin house. Though Evelyn would like to have it in the front yard, she understands the martins need their privacy. She gradually weans the wintering birds off the feeders as the season of spring arrives.
Around the time of Easter, Evelyn eagerly awaits her favorites, the hummingbirds. She even keeps up with their travels on her wall calendar in the kitchen. From years past, their schedules of arrival and departure have been fully documented. As the time draws near, the numerous decorative glass containers are washed and readied and, with the mixing of the nectar, all there is to do is sit and wait.
On April 4th, around noon, Evelyn is dining on tomato soup and crackers in the living room. Bringing a lukewarm spoonful of the red liquid to her lips, something whizzes past the plate-glass window at a tremendous speed. Not really sure of what she sees, Evelyn finishes her meal and brings her dishes to the kitchen sink. The sun illuminates the backyard brightly, between breaks in the scattered cloud cover. Washing the few dishes and adjusting her spectacles, she can barely see the martins traveling in and out of their elevated home through the window over the sink. The bits of straw and debris they gather should make a fine nest to hold their precious eggs that soon will bring forth new life. Evelyn smiles widely and dries her hands.
Before retiring to the sofa for a necessary nap, the gray-haired woman picks up a thank you card off the coffee table and smiles again. It’s a few weeks old by now and although Evelyn knows all the words by heart, she reads them again anyway. “Thank you Mom for the lovely afghan. It is beautiful, just as you are. We miss you and hope to visit this summer. Take care and I love you. XXX OOO Kay” Evelyn tears up a bit as she reads the words, and hopes that Kay makes good on that promise this time.
THUMP…THUMP. Evelyn awakes and finds her glasses. The clock reads a bit past four p.m., as she sits upright on the couch. What she sees through the window thrills her soul. At least a dozen different hummingbirds are flocking around the multiple feeders and vying for an orifice to taste the fruits of Evelyn’s labor.
THUMP. Another male Ruby Throat flies into the window, narrowly missing the female he is aiming to intimidate. For their size, the ‘hummers’ are the most aggressive birds, Evelyn has ever seen. She often says to herself, “If they’d spend as much time eating as they do fighting for a spot on the feeder, they’d be too fat to fly.”
Slipping over to her sewing machine stand, which sits in front of the big window, Evelyn removes the lightweight chair and carefully places it dead-center in the room. It has been months in coming, so she wants to have a front row seat for the grand reappearance.
Most of the newcomers are Ruby Throated, but she does recognize one Blue Throated, with its white-tipped tail feathers. Hovering like little helicopters, they dash and dart, some landing on perches, while others just float above the plastic flowers to drink.
THUMP. A big Black-chinned hummer smacks into the glass. The sound triggers Evelyn’s memory of when a Buff-bellied hummingbird hit the window with a tremendous force last year.
She recalls how she watched it fall on the front porch, and then hurried outside to scoop up its poor lifeless body. With a sad heart, she brought the bird back inside, amazed at how soft-to-the-touch its feathers were. This was the first time she’d ever gotten to touch one of the speedy wonders. She sat in her armchair and laid the tiny body in her lap. The hummer’s long, forked tongue extended from its open beak and Evelyn almost burst into tears. She placed the bird on a doily that adorned her end table, and then took a moment to regain her composure.
As Evelyn sat with her face in her hands, she heard a fluttering sound. Looking up through her tears, she saw the Buff-bellied hummer resting on his hind quarters, flapping his wings. Not knowing exactly what to do, Evelyn just grinned and remained motionless. The hummer had definitely knocked itself silly and almost appeared drunk as it wobbled around the small tabletop, trying to get its bearings back. After about a minute or so of failed attempts, the hummingbird gained flight.
Now it was a race to open all the doors and windows, so the little bird could exit the house. Moving as fast as her legs could carry her, Evelyn went from room to room, doing just that. With all the openings accessible, the only job left was to find the little fellow. She located it in the front bedroom and it gladly flew away from her, in the direction it came from. Entering the living room once more, the Buff-bellied hummer saw the freedom of the open window and sailed through it with lightning speed.
Sitting in that same chair, Evelyn fondly recalls the feeling of relief, when the Buff gained its release last summer. But just as quickly, she recollects the emptiness of seeing it fly away from her grasp. While she wanted to hold the bird once more in her tender, worn hands, Evelyn knew her moment of time with it was over, much like her loving family members who had flown away to distant places. She peers up at the photographs that hang on the wall and sighs.
Turning her attention to the window once more, she sees the last Ruby circling a feeder at the brink of dusk. The twinkle in her eyes becomes brighter and the smile returns to her wrinkled face. Tomorrow Evelyn will be very busy…filling all those feeders again.
Impressum
Texte: ©GlenMarcus 2013
Lektorat: Valerie Byron
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.01.2013
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Widmung:
To my Grandmama Evelyn, who taught me many things, but mostly how to love and be loved.