MERRY Christmas. Welcome to the second part of a fascinating discussion of the life, times and various spectacular deaths of pet birds in our family. Could this be
the ghost of
Charleys past?You can read the first part if you have lots of time and few Christmas presents to play with.
To summarize: while I was growing up, our family had a succession of pet birds. Each one was named "Charley" and each one came to a tragic end, although sometimes with comic overtones.
After the final Charley departed in 1972, our family remained birdless, which was a good thing.
Then this week, I was out on the driveway with a neighbor when I heard a loud chirp. I recognized it as a bird in trouble. (Trust me, I know the sound.)
"That's a parakeet," I sagely told my neighbor, who showed every sign of not really caring. "And he's scared."
The next morning, I heard the cry again, this time, behind my house. Was it the ghost of Christmas Charley Past, come to make me relive the shame and horror of years of parakeet abuse? Check the record, Ghost Bird, I thought, it was my parents that kept hauling birds into our house. Jacob Marley will back me up on this point.
I went out on the deck and saw the bird huddled in a tree, a terrified green creature surrounded by screeching outdoor birds intent on assassinating this alien interloper.
I yelled, "Hey, Pretty Bird!" and he looked at me with ageless eyes, no doubt thinking, "Great. Just my luck."
I called for the bird again, holding my arm out. After weighing the options of being attacked by winged thugs or putting itself in the hands of an alleged serial parakeet abuser, the bird apparently decided I was his best bet and fluttered out of the sky and landed on my shoulder.
I was ecstatic. After so many years, God had sent forth another bird into my household. Coming just a few days before Christmas, I saw this is an act of divine providence, a chance for redemption. Avis redemptus. This was Christmas Charley Present and Future.
Being thoroughly acquainted with the my family's legendary bird history, my daughter immediately announced, "We're not naming him Charley, Dad."
"But honeybunch, it's tradition. It's custom. It's ..."
"Murder," she finished.
And so after getting the bird inside the house, my daughter began to suggest names. I said we should wait just in case someone had lost the bird and wanted it back. Secretly, I feared the bird would succumb to the historic short life span that birds under the care of my bloodline are apt to suffer.
My fears were nearly realized in a dramatic way when the bird suddenly flew off my shoulder and directly into a plate-glass window. He wasn't injured, but I wondered if the crash had been deliberate. For all their quirky personalities and the stress they endured by having to co-habitate with three restless, inventive boys, the Charleys of Christmas Past had never been suicidal.
I realized either a cage or small straight jacket was called for to keep the bird from any further harm, so I hopped down to the mall to lay in some bird supplies. At the shop, I noticed a lot of birds identical to the one who'd adopted us.
With the bird safely caged, we began negotiations over its name. My daughter vetoed all my ideas (Booger, Stinky, Catbait, etc.) and decided on "Sweety." Sweety seems to have a fierce will to live, and without the name Charley hanging around his neck, this bird might have a chance. But if some misfortune should befall it, I know there are other "Sweeties" at the mall, waiting to take over the job.
Charles Memminger, winner of
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
awards in 1994 and 1992, writes "Honolulu Lite"
Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Write to him at the Honolulu Star-Bulletin,
P.O. Box 3080, Honolulu, 96802
or send E-mail to charley@nomayo.com or
71224.113@compuserve.com.
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