Last week, my mom ran into an old neighbor of ours up town. She came home and told me who she saw and we then began reminiscing about the days we lived next door to each other. We laughed until we cried and the following story will explain why.
The majority of my "growing-up" years took place in the same little town we live in currently. My family has lived in this community since 1982. When we first moved here, my parents bought a 100 year old house. It was big and it was lovely. It had a walk-up attic that seemed magical to me. I had my own room for the first time with plenty of space to play. I loved that old house. Well, except that utilities were costly, so in the wintertime, the house was very cold, and in the summertime, the house was very hot. In the winter, I dreaded getting out of my warm bed each morning and having my feet touch that cold, cold floor. I would complain that I could practically see my breath and routinely my mom would tell me, "well get up and start moving and you'll warm up fast enough." That, and "wear layers."
In addition to a great house, we were blessed to be surrounded by awesome neighbors too. To the west of us, was my childhood best friend and her family. We were at each other's homes so often that some referred to us as the "Bopsy Twins." Directly north of us, was a first grade teacher and her husband. Many evenings they and my dad would stand by the rhubarb patch, shooting the breeze. To the northeast, was Dorothy, a retired school teacher. My friend and I would visit her often, and each time, she would invite us in and dig out a treat from her freezer. It was usually an orange push-up or a drumstick. Dorothy loved to travel and from one of her trips, she returned home with a wooden train whistle for me. I still have that whistle and my kids are now playing with it. The neighbors to our east had two teenage girls who I admired. They were both in the marching band color guard; one did rifle and the other flag. Whenever they practiced their routines in the backyard, I would quickly grab the kitchen broom, run outside, and attempt to imitate what they were doing. I thought they were "cool." These were also the neighbors that would watch our house when we were out of town. We would return the favor to them when needed, as well.
During one of the winter months, the neighbors to the east had planned a week long trip and had asked if we not only would keep an eye on their house, but if we could also bird-sit for them. We, of course, agreed, and their parakeet took up residence in our living room for the week.
It was during this same time that our furnace went out. A harsh reality of living in a big, 100 year old house is that things are often in need of repair. So to supplement until we had heat once more, my Dad brought in a kerosene heater. It certainly didn't warm the whole house, but at least it helped a little.
My parents and I enjoyed watching the parakeet. It did provide some entertainment, as none of us were bird experts, and the living room
was the only room that had a heat source at that time. My mom had even commented that the bird must be cold too, because it kept its beak under its wing.
On one of the final days of our neighbor's vacation, I heard a scream from downstairs in the early morning. I jumped out of bed to find my mom, standing on the steps with her hands covering her face. I yelled, "mom, what's wrong?" She pointed in the direction of the bird cage. As I turned to look, I, too, gasped at what I saw. The parakeet was on its back with its little feet in the air. The neighbor's bird lay dead and it happened on our watch. We concluded that it was probably the fumes from the kerosene heater that killed the winged creature. It also became obvious that it wasn't burying its beak because it was cold, but rather to escape the nasty fumes.
My Dad disposed of the bird and my parents discussed what to do next. A few hours later, my mom and I were in a pet store, looking for fowl that resembled the one that took its last breath while in our care. We selected one that looked similar to its replacement. We brought it home, placed it in the cage, and dreaded the ordeal of having to fess up to the neighbors what actually happened to their feathered, family friend.
We watched through the windows as our neighbors arrived home the following day. They unloaded their car, and made a few trips back and forth inside their house. We sat, watched, and waited. Eventually, the Mr. and Mrs. knocked on our door. I hid in our kitchen and peeked around the corner as I listened to my mom explain contritely to them the events that had occurred the day before.
The Mr. and Mrs. looked at each other and then looked at my mom and the room grew silent, but only for a moment. The Mrs. began to laugh and Mr. followed. When they caught their breath, they explained that the bird belonged to one of their daughters (who was now off to college). They didn't even like the parakeet. Because of its advanced age, they were actually looking forward to its passing. They also enlightened us that the bird probably didn't die because of the heater, but because it was so old.
My mom had bought them a new, very young, and very spry nestling. One that she hoped would bring them years of enjoyment. I don't recall if they left our house laughing or cursing, however I know for a fact that we never bird-sat for them again.
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