True Love & 12 Days of Christmas?

True Love and the Twelve Days of Christmas Don’t Mix
©2005 Norma Jean Taylor

It started so romantically. We had pledged our love and settled on a wedding date; our Christmas was supposed to be spent getting to know each others’ families and each other better. But then his supervisor needed someone to go overseas to make sure the newest, latest version of the company project was progressing nicely and guess who got to go? That’s right. So there I was, sitting in a chair by the fire, trying to feel grateful that this was the season we celebrated the birth of our Savior but really feeling sorry that I couldn’t introduce my fiancé to all my friends. Then . . . then, it started. The doorbell rang.

I was so surprised! The delivery person was bringing me the most unusual gift: a partridge! In a pear tree! Take note of that prepositional phrase, because its significance will come clear as the story progresses. Now, who but my true love would think of sending me something so unique as the first part in the old Christmas carol and reminding me how much he loved me? Oh, I was elated, so elated that I threw my arms around the pear tree! It was a Bradford pear. Bradford pears, by the way, have thorns, and partridges in pear trees are not in cages. The partridge took the sudden movement to the tree and the piercing scream–pardon the pun–as I wrenched myself away from the thorns–personally, and off it flew. My, my, an excited partridge does get around. But it was awfully sweet of my true love, and eventually, after several bandages, donning kitchen mitts, and wrapping my face in a heavy scarf, I succeeded in wrestling that pear tree into the opposite corner of the living room from the Christmas tree. In an odd sort of way, the two trees balanced each other–one dead tree, covered with lights and brightly colored ornaments, one live tree in a heavy planter adorned with partridge feathers and droplets of red, red blood. Finally the partridge seemed to settle in its tree, and I and my bandaids limped off to bed, feeling cherished beyond belief.

The next morning, I awoke, and for a moment, I thought I had dreamed the romantic event. Of course, as soon as I opened my eyes and beheld the black, beady eye of the partridge sitting on my pillow and looking down at me in a censorious manner, I realized it was true, and once I had realized that only I and the bird were there to record the fact that I had just won the record for the reclining high jump and high-pitched scream of terror, the feelings of love and tenderness gushed back in. I quickly showered and dressed and dashed to the pet store to buy birdseed; the proprietor looked askance at me when I asked him for a partridge cage, but he suggested a few options. I chose an attractive one and caroled my way home. There, waiting for me, was the delivery man. What had he brought me today? Flowers? Candy? Jewelry? The package was . . . oh, dear.

Two turtledoves. And another partridge. In another pear tree. Another Bradford pear tree. How . . . sweet. Well, I knew he meant well, and who else would work so hard to be romantic? So, smarter this time, I tipped the delivery man and went to get him some bandages while he wrestled the pear tree into the only empty corner of the living room. The place was getting a bit crowded, what with three trees and four birds and one cage, not to mention the things normal people have in living rooms, such as, oh, I don’t know, sofas, chairs, lamps, and things, but my true love meant well. After running out of bandages, I tipped the nice man in brown and sent him on his way and determinedly hummed the carol while I introduced Partridge One to Partridge Two. The only problem with the introduction seemed to be that they bore each other an immediate animosity. Finally, I decided the obvious solution was to put one of them in the guest bath and let the other one adapt to the home environment. Birds do not adapt as do, say, cats. The cat seems to decide that he owns the place and thus has little need to destroy it; partridges, on the other hand, seem to have no pride of ownership. At least my partridges had no sense of caring for their new home.

Do you know why they’re called turtledoves? It’s not because they suffer from laryngitis, and it’s not because they’re shy. AND it’s not because they go to bed early and sleep late. In fact, I don’t think turtledoves think they are supposed to sleep. I don’t know about all turtledoves, but the ones I got had a sort of piercing, whooping sound to their coos, somewhat like this: CoooWHOOOO!!! CooooWHOOOooo!!! It wouldn’t have been so bad if they had stayed in rhythm; TD 1, however, was seriously lacking in meter but made up for it in enthusiasm. Partridge One, the one in the guest bath, objected strongly, which is when I learned that partridges also make sounds, and the more irritated they are, the more vociferous they become. Partridge One also discovered that he–or she; I don’t know how to determine partridge gender nor do I care to know–could add to the fun by flying through the pretty wind chimes hanging in various areas around the guest bath ceiling. So the sounds were somewhat like this: CoooWHOOOO!!! CooooWHOOOooo!!! Jingle, tinkle, SQUAWWWKKKK!, THUDdddddd, Splat, “SHUT UP, YOU BIRDS!” for most of the day and ensuing night.

The third day of Christmas came. The doorbell rang. I knew, yes, I knew that this day would be different. After all, when we had talked, when we had shared our deepest fears, I had confessed the fact that my parents had made me watch Hitchcock movies and while I hated Psycho, The Birds had scared me silly, so he would surely realize that while I was touched–in every sense of the word–by his gifts, four of the creatures just about did it for me. Beyond that door was a gift which would bring happiness.

I have been wrong in my life, but seldom have I been so wrong as when I opened that door and discovered that I was now the owner of yet another partridge in yet another pear tree, two more turtledoves, and three French hens, for a grand total of TEN BIRDS.

French hens are, in themselves, fairly uninteresting birds, I have discovered. They sit. They peck at people who ask them to do much else. Turtledoves coo They coo and they coo and they coo. They make the Energizer Bunny look lazy with their due diligence to their cooing. Partridges, on the other hand, escape from guest bathrooms and swoop. They swoop down on human heads, on French hens, and for all I know, they swoop down on shadows, but they are not relaxing birds. They tend to believe that the skies are their own and . . . well, let’s draw a veil over the rest of the partridges’ nefarious activities, save to say that had the French hens been able to communicate with their embassy, American-French relations would have been set back several centuries.

I went to bed that night, grateful that the saga of the birds was over, for I knew my True Love would realize that I appreciated his uniqueness and was now ready for something mundane. Right about then, a fondue pot would have caused me to burst into song if I hadn’t been afraid of swooping partridges.

The fourth day came. You know what happened, don’t you? All of the above . . . plus calling birds. The calling birds added a sort of grating screech to the general jungle ambience which was reminiscent of, oh–I don’t know–a combination of fingers running down the chalkboard while the dentist is drilling to the depths of your last molars.

Day five arrived. The doorbell rang. I got smart. I grabbed my Bible, got under the bed, and read I Corinthians 13 and Luke 2 until there was no sound outside. Then, I carefully reached out a hand, snagged the phone, spent seventy-five cents on directory assistance, called Animal Control, and asked them to come pick up some special birds to bring happiness to some wonderful retired people who abide in assisted living residences. I even paid for the cages. Now, if I can just figure out what to do with all those pear trees. . .