Post 13: Lightning Bug Summer

Day 12: Drew, The Dream: Lightning Bug Summer.

John, today it seems is going to be a double-feature. You’d like this one. It was a summer of firsts for you. Wasn’t that a great visit? I can still see your face. John?

My hometown, nestled in the southernmost part of the Shenandoah Valley between the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, wasn’t exactly small or large, rural or urban, hick or sophisticated. It was, by all demographic standards, average, back when “average” didn’t carry negative baggage. It was documented to be an ideal place to raise a family, named an “All American City” at least three times during the ’60s and ’70s.

Despite the fact that the first phrase I learned was “We can’t afford that,” it turns out that we lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood that only a few decades before had been my grandfather’s farm. The lots were at least an acre each, the homes were custom-built, and there was a generous piece of leftover farm land that bordered most of the gently rolling road leading to the twenty or so homes housing the families of my childhood.

            As impossible as it might seem to some, it was a time and place where everybody left their doors unlocked, where you could take a skinned arm or a bruised knee to most anyone’s door and get a hug and a bandage, along with an alert call on the party line to your mom, letting her know you were on your way home.

Every family had at least one dog, and there were no leash laws. Dogs showed up where the kids were. And even well into my teen years, if you found yourself missing the car keys, you’d most likely find them where the last driver left them: in the ignition.

            My mother, with her gentle demeanor and way with animals of all kinds, served as neighborhood veterinarian. If it was wounded, broken, or sick, the word in the neighborhood was “Take it to Mrs. Carter. She can fix it.”

All manner of wounded creatures found their way to Mama’s healing hands. She was particularly adept at nursing small wild birds back to health and returning them to their natural habitats.

One spring, when I was about eight, I came across an abandoned nest of baby cardinals. Mama had taught us never to touch these nests, as the mother bird would likely return, but she would abandon her young if humans had handled them. The nest I found, sadly, had only one survivor. I took Mama out to our far backyard to the base of the elm tree where I had found it. Per her standard protocol, we waited patiently for twenty-four hours for the mama bird to return. The sole survivor seemed strong, but wouldn’t last much more than a day without food. Returning the second day, it was clear the little cardinal was in distress. With the mother bird nowhere in sight, Mama carefully lifted him out of the wrecked nest and brought him inside.

We had second-hand birdcage specifically for such rescues. Feeding the little bird, which we named “Woody,” he began to thrive and grow. He seemed to like us humans, and would often fall asleep in our hands or on Mama’s shoulder after his afternoon feeding. We returned Woody nightly to his cage, where he slept in a makeshift nest of freshly shredded newspaper that Mama taught us to change daily.

Woody grew into a strong adult bird with the bright red coloring of a mature male, flying in and out of his cage at will. More doglike than bird, he would come to Mama when she called, lighting on her shoulder or index finger. One such performance caused our milkman, Mr. Wade, to drop an entire cart of glass milk bottles on our back porch in disbelief. It was clear that Woody would soon be able to fend for himself, and Mama prepared us for the hardest part of having this creature in our lives: letting go.

On the appointed day, we accompanied Mama to the dogwood tree in the backyard, Woody firmly attached to her shoulder. She placed Woody in her hand, we said our tearful goodbyes, and Mama freed Woody into the air. Taking flight, Woody circled the pink dogwood tree, and we waited for him to disappear into the surrounding woods. Landing in the dogwood only a few feet above us, Woody fluffed his feathers and gave us a satisfied look that we took to mean goodbye. We headed into the house, sad to lose him, but aware that he belonged in the wild.

Late that afternoon, Mama was putting our dog’s food on the back porch when she heard a familiar sound, followed by Woody, who landed on her shoulder. Mama had warned us this might happen: Woody hadn’t developed his instinct to forage for grubs and bugs. It would take more time for nature to complete his release. Walking inside with Woody on her shoulder, she opened the door to his cage and he flew in, making himself at home. He chirped for his dinner, ate his fill, nested in his shredded newspaper, and fell contentedly asleep.

Mama repeated Woody’s release each morning, with the same results. Woody seemed to enjoy his day trips into nature, but preferred his nightly stay indoors. Through a miracle of nature, our two cats, Thomas and Abby, developed a merciful disinterest in Woody, who was often within their reach, but never in danger.

Woody shared the household not only with our cats, but also with our adopted dog, Missy, a shepherd collie. Her owner’s loving children had gone to college and on to their own lives, and Missy found her way to Mama and then to my sister Kit and me. Missy’s best friend and constant companion was Donald, an Easter duck who proved to be well beyond the care-taking responsibilities of the little girl next door, whose parents welcomed Donald’s migration into our family.