Larry Bird
Home is the place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost
One afternoon a couple of my younger kids came racing into the house to announce that a bird was in the tree in the front yard. Glancing at the window, I pointed out that lots of birds were currently perching in that tree, but they were insistent. “No mom. A real bird!”—whatever that meant? When they couldn’t convince me to take an interest, they dragged Son #1 outside to investigate.
Within minutes I could hear someone rummaging and shuffling boxes around in our basement storage room. A door banged shut, and Son #1, trailed by two or three younger kids, came racing up the stairs with his dad’s crab net—a remnant from my husband’s childhood on the Gulf Coast. Now I was interested.
I followed the kids outside. There was a small crowd of short people chattering and pointing at something near the top of the tree. “You see it, Mom?” Son #1 asked, shushing the children around him. “Quiet. You’ll scare him.” I did see it- -a lovely little blue and white parakeet who wasn’t in the least concerned about the excitement it was generating.
With a bit of strategic maneuvering, Son #1 had no trouble netting the bird and gently lifting it from the tree. “It must have escaped from someone nearby. Parakeets can’t travel very far.” I said. Of course, I knew absolutely nothing about them, but I was the mom, so everybody believed me.
Watching Son #1 handle the tiny creature, I could tell my tall, gangling boy was smitten. The Boston Celtics were at the top of the NBA league at the time, so he named the parakeet Larry . . . Bird. Then he dredged up a well-used birdcage from a neighbor’s garage. Sadly, it had no door, but we cut a piece of cardboard to fit the opening, and Larry Bird had a new home—with the codicil that he’d go back to his owner if we could find him/her.
It took Larry exactly two hours to peck through that cardboard door and fly around the kitchen. He perched on the curtain rod and evaded any more threats from the crab net. Oddly enough, he seemed to like his cage. After he had surveyed the far reaches of his new home, he flew back into his birdhouse, had a drink, a bit to eat, and went promptly to sleep—I think. Hard to tell with birds.
Larry lived with us through that whole summer. During the day he often joined the kids streaming out the sliding glass door to play. He’d alight in the plum tree behind the house, enjoy the sun, visit with friends, then return when evening set in. We took to leaving the door open a smidgen until after dinner to be sure he could get back in. And yep, you guessed it. There was bird poop down the side of the bookcase next to his cage, but there was always someone being potty trained in those days, so the extra mess didn’t seem too onerous.
Once I heard Larry screeching in what was obviously bird profanity. I could see his cage down the hallway. Our cat had apparently lunged at Larry through the door-less cage opening, crammed his way inside, and then was unable to figure how to get out. Larry was sitting atop the cage scolding the stupid critter who thought he’d have bird for dinner. (I have pictures!) It required Daughter #2 and I to combine our limited engineering skills in order to extract her cat from inside the cage.
Winter came. Both Larry and the maniac children were all cooped up in the house. Nobody was happy about it (including me). Son #1 was seldom home—basketball, student government, and honors classes took up most of his time. By Christmas vacation, everyone was ready for a break. Son #1 decided to make up his neglect of the little bird and give Larry a Christmas present to remember.
One of that son’s closest friends also owned a parakeet, so the two boys plotted an assignation. Son #1 tenderly loaded Larry into a brown paper bag and headed for his buddy’s house. They put the two birds together in his buddy’s cage and let them spend some time together. Overnight.
I don’t know anything about how birds build relationships–flap wings at each other? share bird pellets beak to beak? But I do know that when Son #1 brought his parakeet home the next day, Larry Bird sang for 24 hours straight! Must have been a great party.