A Bird in the Room

Some believe superstition and religion do not belong in the same sentence, that to accept one means the absolute rejection of the other. However, religion and superstition are opposite sides of a coin in the south, often tucked away in back pockets and purses. They’re either passed down from generation to generation or picked up by the wayside of dirt roads, school yards, or dining tables, becoming lifelong possessions once found. This prized possession of superstition and religion becomes an intertwined life-shaping lesson. I’m reminded of how I learned this while sitting inside the limo for my great uncle’s funeral procession.

Today was the long-avoided return to those same dusty Carolina roads and wild vines that hid snakes in the summer. While I watched the rain beat against the passenger window, my grandmother’s voice intruded and reminded me that rain at a funeral was a good omen. The thought of her is enough to bring a brief smile until my thoughts are interrupted by the loud chatter of my children from behind.

“Look, there’s the graveyard!” Kayden exclaims as we round a corner leading to Uncle Rob’s final resting place.

“Don’t point at it, dummy, or your finger will fall off!” Ember responds sharply. Normally, it was my job to chastise the kids when they became too rowdy or mean to one another, but my concentration was on the solemn funeral ahead, so the task fell to my wife. “Don’t call your brother dumb,” she interjected calmly from behind the steering wheel before gazing over to show her dissatisfaction with me. “She must’ve learned that from you.”

Clair was right, of course. Not about the name-calling, but the passing of superstition. Having been ingrained in me from such a young age, I found myself spouting it to them randomly, whether I believed it or not. That, too, was passed along from my grandmother.

I muster a strained, “Be nice to your brother,” and return my gaze to the window.

Funerals have a way of dredging the worst of my memories, so I avoided them for most of my adult life, but there were some funerals that you couldn’t skip.

As we parked and made our way to the burial site, my mind wandered back to my grandmother and the lessons she instilled in me. Everything I learned about superstitions came from her. As her firstborn grandchild, I had a five-year head start on being spoiled. There was something special about the love I received from my grandmother. In her youth, she was an educator whose caring and warmth persisted even after retirement. She always loved small children, and I was a welcomed reminder of her youth, even going as far as volunteering to become my official babysitter whenever needed. I cherished the time we spent together and quickly grew attached. Of all the things I loved about her, hearing her stories was my favorite.

To her, of course, they weren’t just stories. They were her lived experiences.

My grandmother was born on the cusp of change in South Carolina, as the daughter of a sharecropper and a maid. She was raised in a world of superstition and ironically gave birth to a daughter who threw herself into religion and the gospel. Mother was a devout Christian who made sure we attended church every Sunday and had no problem countering what she considered rambling with a quote from the bible. The men, my father and grandfather, were always caught in the crossfire. My father always declared himself a man of science before siding with my mother, while my grandfather would just laugh in amusement. In the end, she would always say, “Well, I guess it’s a coin flip.”

In some ways, my marriage reflected the relationship between the matriarchs of my family. Clair found superstition childish. She was raised in the city of Detroit, away from the confines of the gothic south, and would boldly and proudly do things such as opening an umbrella indoors or splitting a pole while we were out as a family. Sometimes out of habit, and other times just to annoy me. Regardless, she was steadfast in holding onto her religion, acting as the family’s moral and religious compass. While I walked a line between beliefs.

Even as an adult, they stuck with me. Thanks to Grandma, I knew hats weren’t to be worn inside, never to break a mirror, avoid my feet from being swept, and an assortment of other warnings and precautions. She would say, “Trust me, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of superstition. All of ‘em come with consequences, and you don’t want no part of that.”

Only in hindsight did I find the absurdity in her musings, but as a child, every day presented an encounter with superstition, and I soaked up each musing and held onto it as if it were the gospel itself. Yet, for all the lessons and warnings superstitions presented, I picked a favorite, that red cardinals were visits from departed loved ones.

As we neared the burial site and prepared to park, my thoughts were once again interrupted as Clair reached over and clasped my hand for reassurance. “Everyone okay?” She asked. The question was more for me than for the children. A great generational divide was how desensitized they’d become to accepting death. Unlike my youth, they’re being raised at a time when death is as common as catching a cold. At the ages of seven and five, they’d already attended more funerals than I cared to remember. For my children, attending a funeral was as casual as family trips out of town. Much different from when I was eight.

As a child, my own Grandfather’s death was my first encounter with having to grasp its meaning and understand that I would never see him again. It was a time of profound sadness, but my sadness could not compare to that of my mother and grandmother, who cried for months after his passing. It was a type of sadness that I would learn would never fade. Besides crying, there was also a shift in Grandmother’s spirit. Beginning the week of the funeral, unless her presence was insisted upon, she spent her time secluded and locked away in her bedroom. When she was convinced to appear, she’d sit in my grandfather’s favorite recliner. Long, eloquent sentences turned to short, one-word answers until, eventually, she stopped speaking altogether, not even stirring when visited by friends like Martha and Mary.

They called themselves a sewing circle, despite rarely ever completing any fabric between them. Instead, they’d spend their time trading gossip and repeating stories of their traveled lives while filling their bellies with cake and laughter. Often, I would linger to the side, like a hungry puppy waiting for a crumb, while my ears pried and listened, hearing a little of everything, from cheating spouses to healing ointments, before I was finally given a slice of cake and rushed beyond hearing. Women of superstition, they made the perfect companions for Grannie, or at least they used to.

Worried about her state of mind and health, my mother decided grandmother would live with us, but it made no difference. Immediately, she secluded herself in her new bedroom, often just sitting in darkness with the only signs of life being the fluctuating volume of the television. This was our new norm, and she went months without smiling until her birthday.

I wish I could say the large gathering of family and friends was the thing that brought her joy, but it was not. Instead, her happiness was caused by the appearance of a cardinal. A red one.

That was the moment. All the adults grew quiet and watched until it departed. I did not understand its significance, so I asked my grandmother, who smiled and replied, “They say seeing a red bird is a sign a loved one is checking on you from heaven.”

Normally, for every superstition Grandmother spouted, my mother would be there to either counter or completely discredit the idea. However, she was quiet. Mesmerized by the bird’s appearance, along with everyone else.

That was enough for her words to stick with me so effectively that two things happened on that special day: I picked my favorite superstition and resolved to capture a bird for my grandmother. If I could catch a red bird, perhaps my grandmother wouldn’t be sad about my grandfather’s passing.

Despite my determination, I knew I would not be able to catch anything alone. At five, my brother Pop was a shadow who followed my every step. Therefore, I quickly enlisted him as my helper, whether he wanted to or not. He wasn’t always the most reliable assistant. Once we attempted to count the number of squirrels, lizards, and birds we saw in the backyard throughout the day, until I was reminded that Pop couldn’t count past twelve. But this time it would be different.

Summers were filled with opportunities for adventure and self-discovery. As a child, the luxuries of staying inside were for adults only, so days were spent climbing tree limbs and rummaging fields for wild berries while avoiding lizards, snakes, and the occasional stray dog. However, since I had seen one bird there already, I decided the backyard would be the perfect place to accomplish our task.

“How we gonna catch a bird?” Pop asked, already exasperated at the idea. “We can’t fly!”

“Duh! I learned in school that if you throw bread out, birds come to you,” I answered matter-of-factly, the way older brothers have a habit of doing. Quickly and quietly, I maneuvered to and from the kitchen and returned with two slices of bread. “Here, tear these in little pieces.”

“Why I gotta’ tear all the bread?”

“Because I’m going to get our nets from Easter. That’s how we’ll catch one.”

So, with our clumps of bread and nets in hand, we ventured into the backyard to spread the bait and waited, determined that our plan would work. “Now when it lands you gotta be quick.”

In my mind, this was a foolproof plan, but I didn’t account for the heat nor my brother’s tolerance. By the peak of noon, the summer sun was unrelenting, and any patience between the two of us quickly sweated away.

“I thought you said birds like bread!” Brother yelled, especially angry with our lack of results.

“They do!”

“Well, why they ain’t eating?” He challenged me after wiping his sweat with his damp shirt.

After investigating our trap, we found birds weren’t the only creatures interested in our bait. While we waited and hid, the scattered crumbs were overtaken by ants. Naturally, we tried again, only to find the same results. Following our fourth stealth mission into the kitchen, Mother discovered our pilfering and promptly ended any more bread usage, with a reminder of the importance of food and threats to tan our hides should we do so again. Nevertheless, I remained undeterred and committed to cheering up my grandmother.

Not long after her birthday, Grandmother became ill and was deemed bedridden. This only reinforced my passion for capturing a bird for her, continuing for weeks to no avail.

Summer was nearing its end, and on that faithful day, our adventures were interrupted by a midday thunderstorm. As rain poured down, we quickly dashed into the house for shelter, completely focused on staying dry and forgetting to close the door behind us. Normally, our mother would have swiftly chastised us for our carelessness if she had noticed, but anticipating the storm, she and our father were already sitting on the front porch enjoying the weather. Meanwhile, Grandma, as always, was hidden away inside.

Thunder and lightning signaled a call for silence, according to our grandmother, so all electronics were promptly unplugged, and the lights were turned off, resulting in the ultimate boredom for children. Forced to separate corners of the house searching for ways to occupy our boredom, the house was briefly overtaken with silence until it was broken by a soft chirping. Rushing to the kitchen, we saw it, sitting atop the table, frantically observing its new surroundings.

No prompting was needed to lure the bird inside. A space in the adjoining door leading into the kitchen was just enough for the bird to find a haven from the rain. We were both captivated by its presence and beauty, so much so that neither of us could immediately react; however, noticing us, the bird did not hesitate to take flight.

“The door!”

I quickly moved and slammed the door closed and sealed any potential escape route. Annoyed with my brother’s lack of reaction, I shouted for him to spring into action, “Catch it!”

At first, it frantically flew about the kitchen before heading into the living room to search for an exit. Regardless of the bird being inside the house, catching it would still be difficult.

With all doors closed, the bird continued to move throughout the house. “It’s searching for Grandma!” Pop shouted before rushing towards her bedroom, “Grandma! Grandma!”

As if following his voice, the bird flew down the hallway and shot into the room, with me trailing behind my brother.

Bursting into the room, we didn’t notice its stale smell, too excited to concentrate on anything but the bird. Her curtains kept the room dark, usually only illuminated by the low murmuring of a game show playing from the television, but today the room was quiet. “Get the light!” I commanded.

The commotion we caused was enough to grab Mother’s attention from the front porch. She appeared just in time to hear my demands.

“Y’all are loud enough to wake the dead!” She barreled in behind us, “What are y’all doing?” She asked rhetorically, able to answer her own question, seeing the visitor hop along the dresser, moving about bottles of perfumes and lotions. However, where we found amusement and joy in its presence, Mother responded in horror, “Lord, it’s a bird in the house, get it out! Get it out!”

Alarmed, the bird retook flight, encircling the room as our amazement turned to panic. I couldn’t understand why she was upset after all our hard efforts. Father appeared at the doorway and, as only he could, took control of the situation. Before my brother and I could react, our father moved across the room, tore open the curtains, and flung open the double windows. Fresh air and rain burst into the bedroom, and just as quickly as the bird had appeared, it was gone. “Did you see it, Grandma? Did you see it?” Pop asked anxiously.

As he annoyingly jumped onto the bed, I waited patiently to be praised for our efforts. She laid there, tucked underneath the covers, with a slight hint of a smile showing, but a response would never come.

“Oh, dear lord, Ma!?”

My mother never verbalized any type of anger or disappointment towards me, and still, I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of regret from that day forward. A feeling I wouldn’t understand until I became a parent myself. Our relationship became different going forward. Something was broken between us, and it would never be fixed.

After Granny’s funeral service, we returned home for the repass, where my brother regressed into a baby and stuck to our mother’s hip. I was forced to entertain myself, so I distracted myself by being helpful, offering to take jackets and help the elderly to their seats, just like my grandmother would have made me, had she been there. It was the best I could do to nurse my own grief before I eventually escaped outside into the backyard, where many of the elders gathered to speak freely. It was there that I would find Mary and Martha.

On any other day, I would have quickly been rushed away from the adult conversation, but between their reminiscing and sadness, the two women were too preoccupied to be bothered with me, so I listened.

“Beautiful service, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was, it was, ” Mary answered, with a brief pause, and then, “does anybody know what happened?”

“They’re telling everyone natural causes, but if you ask me, that wasn’t nothing but a broken heart.”

“Yeah, I reckon so.” The second woman nodded and agreed.

“God never gave me a husband, but I reckon after a lifetime of marriage, I’d want to be with him too if he left this earth without me.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

I listened, waiting for any tidbits or stories about Grannie, until their conversation drifted towards different random topics. Hearing enough, I made my way towards the house, but just as I opened the door, I heard one of the ladies exclaim, “Oh look, a cardinal!”

“Lord have mercy, if that ain’t a coin flip I don’t know what is.”

I stood there, frozen by complete disbelief.

“This is her way of letting us know she’s alright. No need to sit around here causing a fuss.” The adults were overtaken by roaring laughter that echoed through the yard. Their noise made the visitor jump and flutter about the yard.

Noticing me as I hovered in the doorway, Mary reacted. “Close the door, baby.” She said and quickly ushered me away. “You don’t want a bird to fly in.”

“Yeah, a bird flying in your house is a bad omen.”

My children’s weeping once again distorted my thoughts and waved away my memories, as their tears reminded me that my own mourning could wait. I pushed my lingering sadness aside, took a child in each arm, and lifted my head towards the sky, wondering if I would see a cardinal today.