The Song of the Hummingbird

The Song of the Hummingbird

As I sit here on this porch, I am trying to recall my memories of this abandoned house on the mountain. I wandered through time to see if this house, in which I lived for the first eleven years of my life, had any memories of me. She moans and creaks as I sit here, but otherwise, she is silent.

          I am convinced my old home, which sits in the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern Kentucky, will speak when she takes a notion to. Did she see me, as I caught the hummingbird? Does she recognize my face sixty years later?

          My memories which first come to mind, right at this moment, are thoughts of the house itself, my father, and my most precious one, my Mama. So, I will begin to relate the memories as they come, and in no particular order.

         There! Just below me, though she is not there anymore, I stare upon the black, 1927, Model T Ford, spitting and sputtering on a cold January morning, pleading, 'For God's sake, someone pull my choke!'

         Alongside her, sits a 1953, Pontiac coupe, bedecked in orange, with a white top. The long, chrome hood ornament of Chief Pontiac on the coupe, grits his teeth as he apologizes for inflicting the bump on my forehead, which I still carry after sixty years. Then, he smiles capriciously.

         Behind these two, jutting from the cliffs on the mountain across from the mountain I lived on, stood a handful of my companions . . .

••••••

Once, I wanted a green shirt in the most desperate way a boy can want. I don't know how long Mama saved her pennies to buy a package of green dye, but one day, she presented me with a green shirt. I am crying as I remember her love.

         When I was wearing that shirt, I was Robin Hood, hiding in the high-up foliage of my companions, the ironwood trees. From their safety, I shot imaginary arrows at rogues and thieves who passed below, and sometimes, I hurled insults at used car salesmen if there were't any rogues or thieves available.

••••••

Across the dirt road, lying there waiting to be stepped on, is the footbridge which guides the way to the house on the hill. Underneath it, appearing as if Thor, or some other angry god, had poured a giant bottle of Orange Crush soda pop into her bed, snakes a thin ribbon of the lifeless waters of Turkey Creek.

         She spits, hollers and sometimes curses, as her sulfur-tainted water flows toward her demise in the deep waters of The Big Sandy River.

••••••

         On the yon side of the creek, stands proudly, one of the most ancient migrators to Turkey Creek. It took three of us brothers, with our arms stretched so far we could hear our bones creak, to encircle her girth.

         We nailed short boards along her trunk to climb into her magnificence. Mama put a stop to that, though. She asked Daddy to tear down the boards and forbid any further climbing into the tree.

          But Mama, I thought, I have to climb that sycamore tree, telling me not to climb her, is like telling me not to exist.

          Eventually, I found a secret way into her. I'd stand on the footbridge, jump high and latch onto a limb that was bigger around than I was. Then would begin my adventures into the forbidden . . .

          Later, when this story has finished rolling off my tongue; I am going to go down there and climb up into that sycamore tree of mine to see if I can catch some more of my memories before they flow away in the cold, orange water of Turkey Creek.

••••••

         To the right of my sycamore, and beyond her a little, was my true sanctuary. There is where I would hide to wait for my back to stop bleeding; don't ask me why my back was bleeding, it's my Daddy's secret.

          I called my sanctuary, Sweetness . . . Sometimes, we were together all day, comforting each other. She was a generous friend, supplying me with apples, the sweet perfume of her white apple blossoms in the springtime, and as the wind parted her branches, the wail of her heart as she listened to the tale of my sorrows.

         Sweetness and I loved each other . . . She even shared her birds with me; if I was motionless, an English sparrow, or a lonesome robin would sometimes alight on my shoulder and sing for me. I am certain, if she could have, Sweetness would have hugged me against her chest. I love you, Sweetness.

••••••

Over to the left of Sweetness, and here the path begins a slow crawl up the mountain, stood a beautiful sassafras tree. She was a princess, as certain as it was that my sycamore was the queen of Turkey Creek, she was its princess.

          On an occasion, Mama would ask me to visit Princess, and bring home some of her roots, so small an amount that Princess would not miss them. Mama would clean them, get herself a kettle, and boil the roots in water. She'd add a little brown sugar . . . Then she'd serve each of her children a cup of hot sassafras tea.

         The taste of sassafras was reminiscent of rootbeer, but rootbeer would hang its head and cry if it ever heard of the taste of sassafras. Thank you, Princess.

         Up past Princess, twenty feet or so, the earth leveled out a bit to become our yard. There, Mama's children played, fought and otherwise passed the time.

          Beyond the yard, further up the mountain, but still passing for what us mountain folks called level, was Mama's garden. It was there, in the midst of the blooms of cucumbers, squash and tomatoes, that I became reacquainted with one of my first mortal enemies.

          Most folks will laugh at the idea of a young boy having mortal enemies. But, I can testify that it's not a laughing matter when a big ball of sting-hungry yellowjackets are chasing you, and you are knowing while you are running, that if you are caught, a couple of dozen yellowjackets are going to sink their stinkers into you.

••••••

         One day, I was in the garden helping Mama, and generally minding my own business, when a swarm of those yellowjackets surrounded me.

          I was slapping at them this way and that, and jumping up and down to try to dodge them, when Mama said, "Jamie, honey, leave those beautiful, little yellowjackets alone, they aren't going to hurt you, they are only trying to pollinate your Mama's vegetables."

         Lord have mercy, Mama! I thought. Here I am, stung a dozen times, and you are worried about me slapping a few yellowjackets out of the air.

         I don't think Mama had ever had the pleasure, or the firsthand experience, of being pollinated by a giant ball of yellowjackets as I had.

         Mama and I had a difference of opinion when it came to understanding the true nature of yellowjackets. She thought they were handy to have around . . . I had the knowledge that in this world, there are only two varieties of yellowjackets, those that are going to sting you right at that moment, and those that will sting you, even more viciously, if they have to chase you down before doing it. Yellowjackets are downright vengeful . . .

••••••

It is late in the day; the sun has finished balancing herself on the branch tips of the mountaintop trees, and it will soon be dark. Before that happens, the song of the hummingbird will be heard on this porch again as I recall her beauty.

          I first heard the song of the hummingbird, as I recall, not long after I had done some minor surgery on a young tulip poplar sapling.

         An intermittent, mountain stream runs along the left boundary of our yard. Cross it, climb over a half-fallen-down, number nine wire fence, navigate across a small field, and you will find yourself among a forest of tulip poplar trees. It was there, during the year 1959, that I operated on a young tulip poplar sapling. No, I didn't have a license . . . except that God-given one I always carried in my hip pocket.

         That was the year the U.S. government put that new engraving on the reverse side of a penny; and I had one in my pocket. The Lincoln Memorial, they called that engraving.

         That day, for lack of a pocketknife, I was carrying around one of Mama's paring knives. For some unknown reason, I slit the immature bark of a tulip poplar tree and deposited the penny inside, closed it up and walked away. I wonder how Mr. Lincoln is doing after sixty years have passed?

The Hummingbird

I recall the first time I took more than an occasional notice of hummingbirds. I was sitting here on this porch, just like I am now, in an old, rusted, red and white glider, listening to the different sounding creaks a glider can make as it moves back and forth through its own rust . . .

         My sister, Joan, who was seventeen years old, and nine years older than me, was sitting on the other end of the porch, reading a dog-eared True Story romance magazine, and probably daydreaming about some dumb boy named Waldo Taylor.

         The porch encompasses the entire length of the front of the house and is over eight feet above ground level. From the comfort of the glider, the sky can be viewed with clarity.

         Of a sudden, a loud buzzing began an arc across the sky. Both Joan and I heard it, and we both saw what was making it.

         An approaching buzz as if a million wasps flapped their wings simultaneously, a flash of movement across the sky . . . a hovering blur of color, and then, a hummingbird began to float down out of the sky. She took her time, looking to the right and the left, before she settled down into a landing on one of my Mama's rosebushes. She was a little bitty thing, no bigger than my younger sister's thumb.

          Approaching that rosebush, she alit on a pretty purple rose, the biggest one on the bush, then her head vanished inside the rose as she took her first sip of nectar.

         Oh, how I wanted to hold her in my hand and just stand there looking at her.

         Oh, how I wanted her. I longed to hold her for only a fleeting moment . . . I longed to hold her loveliness in my hand. Oh, how our hearts would thump as we gazed upon the other.

         As Joan and I watched her dip her curved needle into that rose and drink, the makings of an idea began to form itself in my mind. I thought, If I go down to that rosebush; she'll fly away, but the sweet nectar of that purple rose has got its grip upon her. She'll be back . . .

••••••

Before I could restrain myself from suffering an encounter with Mama's wrath, I was running down the eight wooden steps of the homemade stairs leading to the yard. Lickety-split . . .

          She was fast, as my feet hit the ground, she lifted herself out of that rose and skedaddled. I slowed to a crawl, went on over to that rosebush and commenced to lie down in the grass beneath it. I settled in and began to wait . . .

         Directly, and none too soon, because a combination of lying in the grass and perspiration sliding down my forehead were beginning to make me itch; I heard that same buzzing sound I'd heard earlier. I readied myself . . . and there she came.

         Caution peered from her eyes as she hovered over the rosebush, and I was fretful. She looked the situation over carefully, as if she was a battery-operated spy for the CIA. Once her mistrust was satisfied, she sank on down to renew her affair with the object of her affection. She settled in and began sipping on that nectar.

         My heart sounded, to me, like a little red wagon being pulled over a gravel road. Thump, popple, crack . . . Nevertheless, I reached up there and picked that rose. And in the closed palm of my hand, I held two forbidden things, two things Mama had told me never to touch: a beautiful purple rose, and cradled in the petals of the rose, a hummingbird. I wish I could have shown the hummingbird to my Mama, and see her eyes light up.

         I could feel her wiggling around inside my loose grip, trying to get herself right side up. I opened up my palm a little, and right there where my thumb and forefinger met, I made a little hole so she could see out to the light of day.

         Directly, she poked her head out of that hole and looked at me. I touched her head with a fingertip, caressing her. She opened her beak and a little chirp fell upon my ears, followed by several more. Somehow, I sensed her sorrow, opened up my hand and released her. Away she flew. I wonder if she told her grandchildren about me?

Refrain

As I sit here on this glider, the night comes slowly flinging itself from the sky; anxious fireflies send their texts to prospective mates, bats begin to peek their heads from the unsoffited edges of the roof above me, and a loving voice calls to me from inside the house.

         "Jamie, honey, it's getting dark out there; come on in and wash up . . ."

         I stand up from the glider and answer her.

         "Please, Mama, five more minutes?"

         I take one more look at my eight year old self, then I begin to fade away into the darkness, toward my home in the Philippines . . . Goodbye, Mama.

         Behind me, I think I hear the long-stored voice of Ferlin Husky coming from Mama's busted, long-dead Motorola radio. 'This moment of love will tie me to you . . . this moment of love will tie me to you.' The house had spoken . . .

As I turned to leave, a hummingbird alit on my shoulder. I know it's not her. One last glance, and there is Mama, standing at the window, waving; and I find myself back in Quezon City, writing these two words, THE END.