Such a Pretty, Pretty Bird

Jane Grau

This was a personal sentiment to be expressed repeatedly over the years by a very unique little bird named Mrs. Beasley. She came into my life one sunny morning via a brown paper grocery bag as the proud show and tell offering of one of my Second Graders.

I had been so proud of myself, convinced that this year's annual Spring- Nature Message had once again been a success. It always included advice on allowing Nature's parents to look after their young and not to intrude with human intervention unless it was considered absolutely necessary...a decision that was to be made only after council with a wise adult.

However, on this particular day, I needed to make my own decision as to what to do with the helpless little fledgling staring trustingly up at me from the depths of the grocery bag. Knowing it would not endure an entire day in a classroom with no opportunity for the care it needed, the ideal solution came immediately to mind. With no further ado, I explained the dilemma to the youngster and the class and told them I had just the person to care for it.

With great purpose, I hurried to the office and called my Mother. I asked her if she would be willing to baby-sit for a while, and with no hesitation, surmising it involved a child, she said yes.

After gaining permission from my superior, I packed up the bird and drove the short distance to my Mother's home. Needless to say, she was a tad disappointed to learn the child was in fact a baby bird. Nevertheless, in her usual accommodating style, she took pity on the little creature, and set about preparing a proper place and a meal for it. I gave her an appreciative hug and hurried back to my little charges to assure them the wee bird would be fine, but to PLEASE not repeat the deed and to give heed to my recent lecture.

Now the big problem was that I still lived with my parents, so had to face the music when I returned home. By the time I arrived, the little creature was cozily resting in one of the many cages in our vast collection. My Mom had a reputation as a local assistant of Mother Nature, and we had taken in every creature imaginable over the years. My poor Dad spent a great deal of his life building an assortment of cages, most of which were occupied on a regular basis. God bless him--never was there a more patient man!

We tried to decide the species of the new arrival. It was fully feathered but as yet had no distinctive markings. We came to the temporary conclusion it must be a mocking bird.

Under my Mother's expert care, the new arrival flourished. She was given the opportunity to exercise her wings in the safety of our breezeway between the kitchen and the garage.

Time was passing quickly and the day of my up-coming wedding was fast approaching. By now, the bird was full-grown and the theory about the mocking bird had given way to the reality that she was indeed a starling instead.

It was my Mother's belief that both daughter and starling would take flight from the nest at about the same time, leaving my parents to literally become empty nesters.

Thus, as the September wedding date was drawing nigh, and the bird seemed ready to try the world on it's own, the decision was made to set her free. These decisions were always an emotional dilemma as we always became overly attached to each creature that came into our care. Therefore, it was decided to let her go in the safest environment possible. We lived about twenty miles from a bird banding station and sanctuary not far from Washington's Crossing in PA. My Mother contacted the director and made an appointment to bring the bird for release. The director had informed us that if the bird ate from the feeding station and flew off, she would be fine. However, if she hesitated and refused to go, she would probably not survive.

So with great trepidation, the three of us set out for the sanctuary. Of course when we arrived, there was no sign of the director, so we were on our own. We made our way through the woods back to the feeding station. Nervously, with every emotional string being taut to the breaking point, we opened the cage door. Hesitantly, she hopped out. With hearts pounding, we watched as she made her way around the feeding platform, sample some of the offerings, take a look around then happily hop back into the cage and gaze contentedly at the two of us. We both looked at one another and my Mother began to cry. "Well now what do we do?" she sobbed.

Without taking too much time to make the ultimate decision, we shut the cage door and the three of us drove home. Thus began a fourteen-year relationship like no other. She became "Mrs. Beasley" after the doll in my Mother's favorite TV show, and an unforgettable member of our household and the community.

She was the subject of several newspaper articles and was even immortalized on a commemorative ceramic plate honoring the town's bicentennial celebration.

Her claim to fame began one morning while my Mother was in the kitchen and Mrs. Beasley was happily hunting for bugs in the adjoining breezeway. The kitchen door was open. The radio was playing as usual and my Mother was busy at the sink. All at once she was startled by a voice over the radio music. There was no one else in the house at the time, so she looked outside. To her amazement she was suddenly aware that the voice was indeed emanating from the bird. "Merry Christmas", she clearly announced. "Merry Christmas". Needless to say, my Mother was both astounded and delighted.

From then on, there was no stopping her. Before long she had a vocabulary of over fifty words. Her repeated sentences were always in order and crystal clear. She did, however, have difficulty pronouncing the letter L, so when she referred to herself, instead of Mrs. Beasley, she would say "Beaser", as in the often repeated sentence, "What you see up there, Beaser?" My favorite of all her many talents was when she would imitate a human whistling a tune. It was truly a 'people whistle' to perfection. She was literally the talk of the town and continually entertained many a visitor.

Fortunately, when I married and moved out, Mrs. Beasley moved in. With cold weather approaching, the timing was perfect. She had full use of my former room with a special enclosure for sleeping and dining. Messy? Oh yes! The need to subscribe to the local newspaper continued for the duration of her lifetime.

Every spring she would conduct an exercise in futility--building a nest in her sleeping box. Tearing up bits of paper and grass from "her garden", she would methodically gather the materials, take them in her box and then stamp around until she got them just right. It was obviously an instinctive chore with no signs of emotional damage afterward.

She was a delight. An entertaining, loving companion who brightened many a gloomy day. Her passing was devastating, not just for my Mother, but for everyone who had come to know this little feathered marvel called Mrs. Beasley.

©2003 Jane Grau