Birds-Eye Perspective

It's warm out as I stand in front of my Gram's grave. The gravestone has a Mountain Bluebird. She said a woman should choose a spouse with the criteria of the female bluebirds. They are concerned with the area and condition of the nests the males provide, not superficial reasons. The image conjured flashes of stories and pictures from my inner slide projector.

As a child, I stayed with my grandmothers when school wasn't in session while my mother worked. My father died after an inebriated teen T-boned him. I stayed with Granny two days a week and three days with Gram. Granny conveyed tales of my mother, Gram, those of my father.

I sat on Gram's lap in a 70s gold fabric recliner, in a bedroom converted to a playroom, a plastic Care Bear cover decorated the light switch. Photographs of him through the years were shown to me while we were nestled in the chair.

On the anniversary of his death, when I was nine, she handed a picture of him with a birdhouse and blue ribbon to me. A cheek-to-cheek smile accessorized the facial glow he emitted.

"I have the same dimple on my chin."

"You sure do, child."

"How old was he?"

"He was your age."

I smiled. Seeing a picture of my Dad at the same age was a unique gift. More treasured than when mom would get me ice cream and pizza if I did well at school and kept my chores up every quarter.

"How long did it take to make?"

"It took your Daddy several days and attempts."

"Do you have more pictures, Gram?"

"Better. Come along."

I vaulted out of the chair and waited for Gram. She utilized the arm as a crutch. Once on her feet, she led me two steps down the hall and into a bedroom. Inside was a bed, blue buffalo check curtains, shelves of books, and a couple of academic awards; my Dad's room. There was a closet built into the back wall. Inside, several numbered birdhouses. There were fifteen on two shelves and one on the top with the ribbon. He never quit when he was passionate about a topic, sport, or project; long hours and several days to achieve a goal never intimidated him.

When we returned to the chair, Gram asked if I knew the reasons behind my name; I shook my head. She grinned as her words filled the air. My father's favorite bird was a Magnolia Warbler; their color pattern intrigued him likewise to the layers of a person's psyche.

"So, I'm named after birds?"

"Yes, Robin. Do you know the reason the American Robin is your mother's favorite?"

"They're pretty."

"They are pretty, but no. Robins are cheerful and full of song. Like your mother."

I remember smiling then scrunching up my nose as I became curious about the order of my name. "Gram, how did they decide which would be my first name?"

"They debated that for a few months, then decided to go with the month you were born. American Robins begin to lay eggs in April, while Magnolia Warblers begin in May. You were due May 3rd, so we thought it was going to be Magnolia Robin, but you came early on April 28th."

I miss the joyful look on her face and the warmth of her arms during the recollections. Now, each summer, I decorate her grave on the anniversary of her death with Birds of Paradise. In remembrance of my favorite treasured conversation.

While at the grave, I realize my preference is the Blue Jay; mate for life and usually observed with their family. I rub my stomach as I think about Blue Jays. My husband and I planned to paint the nursery pastel green with American Robins, Magnolia Warblers, and Mountain Bluebirds. Now we will add Blue Jays.