Bird on My Shoulder
Carolyn Simpson-Strűble

My Grandmother was a gentle soul who carried herself with the air of an English Lady and wore dresses with canvas Converse basketball shoes.  She leaned heavily on a walking stick that rose at least 10 inches over her head and when she lost her walking stick, she replaced it with a hoe.  She played lively ragtime piano music from memory because her vision failed her almost completely years ago.  The Maple Leaf Rag and the Entertainer were her favorites.  She was always in the room alone when she began playing and her music drew us to her like the Pied Piper.  No matter what important game we were playing or where our adventures had taken us, my cousins and I would instantly stop what we were doing and race to be the first one to sit by her side on the piano bench.  She seemed pleased that we were there, but I also felt like we’d interrupted something. Her eyes were looking far away, to another time. She allowed us to trespass without complaint or annoyance.

Her favorite subjects in school were Geometry & Latin. She enjoyed pointing out the origins of words we used in every day conversation.  She had a dry sense of humor too.  When my aunt was kicked by her pony, my Grandmother looked at her, struggling not to smile, and asked “Did he knock any sense into you?”   I loved listening to her tell stories from her past because she was obviously reliving that place in time and her enthusiasm for that recaptured moment made me feel like she was taking me along for the ride. 

The first story I can remember her sharing with me was about my Father.  “One day I made your Father a sandwich.  I think he was only three years old.  He was sitting on the back step eating it with our dog, Watch, standing next to him, staring, hoping your Father would drop a piece or decide to share.  I was carrying an armload of clothes to hang on the line when I heard him say, “Be still, Watch.  This bread is busy!” Then she’d raise her shoulders, tilt her head to the side and release a high-pitched, soft giggle.  She sighed and smiled to herself, happy with the memory she got lost in every time she retold it.

Each time I helped her in the kitchen she retold another story about my Father.

“As the boys got older, I really had to work to find good hiding places for the cookies.  One time I thought I’d done such a good job that I could leave the kitchen without worrying about them being found.  I don’t remember which room I was in, but I suddenly heard your dad laughing out loud and shouting, “Am I a good finder!  Am I a good finder!”

One of my favorite stories of her youth was when she was 14 years old and living in Portland, Oregon. She was standing at the upstairs window, watching nearby birds singing in the trees. She held out her arm, extended her index finger and waited motionless.  After just a few minutes a small finch fluttered over and perched on her finger.  It stayed for a few minutes and then flew back to join its friends.  As she recounted this story, she was looking out the window with a soft smile.  At first she was looking toward the birds in the trees, but soon she was looking farther, into that day of her youth.  She glowed with the delight of that memory. 

Looking up at her illuminated face filled me with wonder and appreciation. I imagined her there, wide-eyed with awe as she stared at the bird on her finger.  The image of her as a young girl, holding a bird in her hand punctuated the gentle and loving person that she was, so loving that even wild birds would come to her when beckoned.

Even though I grew older, busier, and my visits with her more infrequent, my Grandmother remained a strong influence in my life. The summer before my senior year of high school, I spent hours in the sun working on a perfect tan.  One day while I was lying on my stomach, a cassette tape in my portable stereo reached the end and stopped.  Being nearly asleep I let myself enjoy the silence rather than stretch to turn the cassette over. 

I felt little feet on my shoulder.  I knew instantly what it was.  A bird had landed on me.  It hopped across my back to my other shoulder where I could see it.  A little brownish, yellow finch was examining my face and hair.  It hopped up onto my head, back across my back where it had come from and flew away.  I was exhilarated.  I stayed motionless for a long time, hoping it would return.  I remembered my Grandmother, 14 years old, with a bird perched on her finger as she stood at the window. 

And then like the days of my childhood, I was transported again.  Only this time my Grandmother wasn’t taking me along side her during her storytelling, I was traveling to her.  I imagined standing next to her at her window.  We were smiling at one another, sharing the moment together as girls with a mutual understanding of the gift we’d just been given.

My Grandmother passed away seven years later.  I have several images of her that I can bring forth from my memory when I need her: making bread together in the kitchen, walking along side her as she leaned on her walking stick, watching her play the piano and the sweet sound of her giggle.  The memory I treasure most though is of a young girl with blonde curls, holding a bird in her hand and smiling at me.