Grandfather Tahoma's Rebirth

“Look! Right there!” my grandfather exclaimed, pointing at a predatory bird soaring effortlessly high above. “Tell me what it is.”

“That’s an easy one, GT. It’s a red-tailed hawk.” I always called my grandfather GT, for Grandfather Tahoma. His real name was Tahoma Yazzie.

“Good, Little One,” he beamed, “Nizhoni,” he said, the Navajo word for “beautiful,” and patting me on the back. When I was young, he had lots of pets names for me.

My parents work hard. My dad is with the National Park Service. We moved to Colorado when I was three so he could work as a ranger at Hovenweep National Monument. My mom makes and sells beautiful Navajo jewelry. She tried to teach me, but I didn’t have much patience for jewelry. So, GT mostly raised me.

Grandfather was proud of our Navajo heritage, especially the military past. He told me stories his grandfather told him about being a World War II Navajo Code-talker. GT joined the Air Force right out of high school. He retired, having flown transporter planes before, during, and after the Gulf War. GT passed his love of all flying things on to me.

Before his flight certificate expired, he rented a plane and flew me all around Cortez. I was five. I remember vividly being afraid that we would run into birds and kill them. GT said, “Don’t worry, Little One, the birds will see us and get out of the way.” He looked over at me and smiled. “But you can be my special lookout.” I’ve been watching for birds ever since.

I remember a fishing excursion when I was six. I was in the middle of a cast when I got distracted by a lovely red-winged blackbird. I caught myself on the shoulder with the hook. I probably would have made the water level rise with my tears of pain if he hadn’t calmed me down and got the hook out efficiently. He made me laugh when he said, “You got the biggest catch of the day!”

When I turned eight, GT bought me the latest Audubon Handbook of Western Birds and a quality pair of binoculars of my own. I didn’t put them down the whole day.

Mother called out from the kitchen, “Come have some cake, Melissa.”

With my present glued to my face, I said, “In a minute. I’m watching some finches at the feeder.”

Father said with his stern voice, “Now, Melissa.”

I let the binoculars hang around my neck while we finished the celebration.

Then, GT and I went birding. I remember that as being the day he stopped calling me “Little One” and started calling me “Missy.” “Always remember, Missy, I love you to the moon and back.”

One spring day approaching the end of my sophomore year in high school, I was told that I was getting checked out of school. Father was waiting in the office. One look at his face and I knew it was bad.

I put my hand over my heart and shrieked, “What happened? Why are you here?”

Father said, “It’s your grandfather. He collapsed. We think it was a heart attack. I’m sorry, Melissa.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “He didn’t make it.”

I stood there for a moment, stunned. Then, I gripped the hair on both sides of my head and screamed, “No!” at the top of my lungs, and fainted.

I awoke in the nurse’s office with Father holding a cool rag to my forehead. As he smiled down at me, I saw a younger version of GT. Tears welled up in my eyes and flooded down my face. I asked, “He’s really gone?”

Father nodded once, solemnly. He hugged me tightly while I let the tears release my anguish.

The week after the funeral, on a Friday night, I was awakened by a commotion coming from the old barn we used for storage. I heard some bottles break and some animal noises, but I was too afraid to go see what it was, so I tossed and turned until it was light enough for me to see well. Armed with a broom, I creaked open the side door to the barn. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed feathers on the floor. They were mostly from a barn owl, but I also found a few from a hawk. The owl must have put up quite a fight before succumbing. I was about to leave when I heard something which sounded like a cross between screaming and hissing from the rafters. The terrifying sound continued for about four or five seconds, stopped for just a second and then repeated. It was unnerving, but I was more curious than afraid.

I found an old wooden ladder against the wall and leaned it against the rafter. As I climbed to the top rung, I came eyeball to eyeball with a barn owlet, still donning its fluffy white down feathers. I gasped and almost tumbled over backwards. I got the immediate impression that those eyes were those of my grandfather. It would be just like that ornery rascal to come back as a flying animal. I rushed back to the house and grabbed my laptop to do some research. I went back that night to see if any adult owls would be returning to feed and care for the young one. When it was clear that it was in distress, I knew I needed to help. I needed to keep it warm and fed without risking scratches and bites. The internet recommended heavy gloves and long tweezers.

I told my parents what I found and asked if I could take care of the owlet. They were delighted. I am sure they thought it would help me through my grief, though Mother said I had to care for it in the barn.

I nodded and agreed, “I promise I won’t bring him inside.”

They bought the supplies, along with bugs and small mice from the pet store.

I spent many cold nights trying to be a mother owl. I put some feathers from the barn floor in the nesting area, along with a warm scarf of mine. At night, I would lift it up and feed the owlet bugs and pieces of fresh mouse. It seemed cruel at first, but the mice would have been sold to a snake owner. It’s all part of the circle of life.

I named the owl “GT” just like my grandfather, and over the next weeks, he grew like crazy. I wanted to make sure he learned how to fend for himself. When he was old enough, I started holding the larger mice near him to pick apart on his own. Soon, it was time for him to really hunt.

GT’s first trips out of the nest were awkward at best. After stretching his wings, his first unsuccessful voyage resulted in a plummet to the floor, which luckily, I had lined with old blankets.

I had his first live mouse tied by the tail, and he over-shot it and thunked up against the barn wall. Finally, he caught on and started catching most every mouse I released.

An evening came when I was reclining on an old quilt, hand-sewn by my grandmother, GT’s beloved wife, who passed away before I was born. I was watching closely, when GT soared out of the open hayloft and into the night. My heart told me he was not coming back. I wanted to cry for so many reasons. It was like losing my grandfather again, but I was also proud of what I had accomplished, and I smiled with bittersweet tears beginning to fall. GT also gave me a flight path of my own – I am going to be a veterinarian, specializing in avian species.

I looked up at GT’s shrinking silhouette and whispered, “Happy flying.” I saluted. “I love you to the moon and back.”