Sparky

As I sat in the sun, on the deck of our humble shed this morning, reflecting on my meditation, I watched a young magpie poking around in the wet grass and dirt. His fluffy feathers made me smile. As did his little leg shorts. It looked like he was wearing a pair of feather knickerbockers.

I watched this little magpie find a worm, then another. And swallow them whole. He had quite a feast. The rain bringing the worms to the surface. An easy catch. There was something nice and relaxing watching him. Something reassuring seeing this young bird, survive on his own. Finding his own food. I was sitting still enough for him to come fairly close. He was nice company in the morning sunlight. He reminded me of another bird, I knew once. Long ago. A bird who has a piece of my heart.

His name was Sparky. And he was a Blackbird. I think I was about ten years old at the time he came into our lives. A tiny baby bird. Who had fallen from his nest. Or who had been shoved out by his mother. Who knows. Abandoned. Discarded. Alone. On the hot dirt below. Dad found him. Gently picked him up in his giant kind hands, and cradled him over for us all to see.

I had never before seen a bird so skinny, and without feathers. I was shocked and intrigued by his translucent pink and blue skin. And his absence of any feathers, other than a strip of white fluff on his small head. His bulging stomach. His weird shaped limbs. His yellow beak. He looked alien. Not bird. And he looked dead. Until dad pointed out the tiny movement you had to look really carefully to notice. Of his little heart beating. And once I saw it. It set my heart beating. I wanted to cry.

Dad made a little home for him in an old ice cream container and made a soft nest for him with some cotton wool. He got a tiny pipette. Filled it with water and patiently each day, several times a day, dad would give this tiny creature some water. After a day or two, dad then gave him some milk. And it wasn’t long, before dad was digging up worms in our back yard for his little feathered adopted friend. Sparky. Dad named him Sparky when he knew he would survive. And we watched with sheer delight as Sparky grew.

Together, we would help dad clean Sparky’s bed a couple of times each day. We loved watching dad feed him. Sparky got fatter and bigger. His feathers started to grow. He even got a little pot belly. He became much more bird like, which was a relief to my young eyes. Over time, he would sit on dad’s shoulder to be fed or when we visited him in the bungalow. He would tell dad when he was hungry. They had a special bond.

My dad didn’t like animals to suffer in any way. When there was a huntsman spider in the house and we were all freaking out, dad would calmly catch it and take it outside. Letting it go at the base of a gum tree. Dad wanted Sparky to be outside to grow, but he could not fly and he needed to be safe. So dad adjusted a cage he had made for the dog when he was a puppy. It was a really big cage that sat on the ground. And Sparky would spend the day in it, hopping around on the grass, looking for worms, sunning his beak in the sunshine. Safe from cats and other animals. We would lie down by that cage in our bathers, fresh from a swim, and chat to Sparky. Poke our fingers in between the wire for him to gently peck. To say hello. And at night, dad would put him back into his home in the bungalow. His makeshift nest on top of the fridge we had in there.

And then Sparky began to fly. And he flew inside the bungalow. To our squeals of surprise and delight. Dad would take him out for flight training each day. Until one day he could fly well enough that dad decided it was time to let him go. Dad knew how important it was for Sparky’s wild soul to fly free. For him to go off into the world. Into nature. And be the bird he was always meant to be. So he said goodbye. Watched Sparky fly off into the distance. Turned his back and went inside to make a sandwich, with a tear in his eye. Thinking it would be the last time he would see Sparky. But this bird had other ideas. His bond with my dad was strong, and for many months Sparky, now a full adult, would return each day. To the spot in our back yard, where dad had let him go. He would fly back there, sit on dad’s shoulder. Say hello. Eat a worm or two from dad and then head off into the sky. He returned at about the same time every day for about a year. And then he came less and less. Every couple of days. Once a week. And then one day he just simply stopped coming.

Dad said he was probably starting a family of his own. And I pictured Sparky in a nest. In love. With a mother bird. His wife. And with little baby chicks resting inside their home. Baby chicks with transparent blue and pink skin. Alien looking. Just like he was, when dad first found him and nursed him, fed him and cared for him. Loved him enough to let him go and be a natural wild bird. To live a wild life. Or maybe he died. This was the other explanation dad offered. In his gentle but honest way about nature and the world. We would never know. He told us. We just had to hope. But we all had a feeling Sparky was still around. A deep heavy sadness would otherwise be in our souls. So we imagined him living a full life. A free bird.

And for years whenever a Blackbird showed up in the corner of the back yard, where dad used to have his reunions with Sparky, we wondered. Was it him? Was it Sparky? Or was it his children? Or his grandchildren? I never looked at another Blackbird the same way. And haven’t since. Birds will always hold a special place in my heart. With their big personalities.

I am grateful for the memories of Sparky. And for the visits we get most days in our back yard from the young magpies the kids have named Granola and Oatmeal. Grateful the dog knows not to chase them. I am not sure who it was this morning who was foraging for worms in the warm sunlight. It didn’t look like Granola or Oatmeal. Whoever it was, this little magpie made me giggle as he quacked, making the sound of a duck as he walked through the puddles in the grass. He made me laugh. He made me smile. Like Sparky did. Like Sparky does whenever I sit back and lose myself in the glorious memories he made with my dad, for us to witness their friendship. To enjoy. And learn such important life lessons about loving something and letting it go. Thank you dad.