A Babka Update

This is Babka

I recently posted a piece written last winter about my new little bird friend, Babka the American parakeet. It’s been six months since then. And it’s over a year since Fonzie died. Rereading that post made me realize how much has changed. Six months is an enormous stretch of time in the life of a baby, be it a human baby or a bird baby. Grief, though isn’t so fast. But it does abate. Because there have been such big changes, I feel I owe an update. So here’s the poop on Babka.

First of all, Babka is a riot. Between his beautiful coloring and his sunshiny personality, Babka never fails to lift my spirits. That’s pretty different from the sad sack, poor me whining in my last post. The shy little baby bird now shouts “Baby Bird” as he talks to his water bottle, or trips happily over the top of his cage.

Yes. He comes out of his cage. Let me be clear, Babka is still in charge of that activity. Most of the time, though, if I put my finger in front of him, he hops on with both feet. But there are still times when he stands there, with my finger pressing against his chest, and pretends there’s nothing happening. Because nothing is happening.

Stepping up.

Once Babka is on the cage top, he runs all over, tweedling happily and doing a goofy hop dance. I just realized his dance a perfect Pepe LePew boing, boing, boing. He’ll run up to me at full speed and, because I’m used to bloodshed when a bird runs at me, I am startled and pull back. But mostly he’ll just jerks his head back, gives kissie sounds, and dances around in front of me. Every now and then, he’ll investigate my face … Bopping my nose with his beak. And nibbling at my mouth. I keep telling him, “Gentle. Be kind.” I know he hasn’t the vaguest idea what I’m saying. He surely doesn’t care. However, going against all experience I have from parakeets past, Babka rarely bites. And when he does, it’s more of a warning, rather than meaning business.

Because he is not yet dependable in his flying habits, I keep Babka’s flight feathers trimmed. We tried just a few at first, but this barely made a dent in his ability to fly. He weighs nothing, so it doesn’t take much for him to get lift. When he does, he has no idea where he’s going, and manages to smack into walls and windows. I know his head can’t stand much more bonking into things, so the trim is really necessary. Babka can still fly, but very low, and not very far. The threat of TBI is greatly reduced.

Babka waiting to be rescued

Have I mentioned that he hasn’t figured out what the door is for? It’s true. Babka’s cage has a huge door that opens downward. Within that door is a smaller door that can be opened instead. So, two doors. And Babka has no idea what either door is for. Mostly he sees me accessing him and what’s inside the cage through the big door. Often, I will leave the door open so he can come out on his own (per the advice of my friend Sheila. Let him decide, she suggested.) No move in that direction.

But Babka has fallen out that door by accident. I can say this with confidence since I have witnessed it. It’s not kind to laugh, but it’s pretty comical. All churning wings and feet like a cartoon that should be accompanied by a bongo drum. If he has one of these unplanned exits when I’m not looking, it then behooves me to figure out where he is. Unlike his predecessor who would chirp or whistle or otherwise let me know she was on the floor, Babka remains silent. When he could fly better, I’d know to check across the room by the front door where he’d just bonked his head flying into it. Now, I check the floor near the sliding deck doors and find him peeking out at the outside birds. But sometimes he’ll climb to a rung on a nearby stool or chair and just wait to be rescued. I may have to purchase one of those extra long wooden ladders sold at the bird store so he can climb back up from the floor to the cage. And maybe figure out what to do once he’s there.

I was much encouraged, actually thrilled, last week when I saw the little guy making his way from the inside of the cage, out onto the side. He climbed along the side of the cage to the perch that sticks out from the side. “Progress”, I shouted internally! But it was a brief celebration. I’ve never seen him repeat the process. And he still flies, jumps, leaps back onto the cage if I show the slightest inclination to move away from it with him.

Hanging out on the side of the cage.

I think he knows his name. I think he enjoys interacting with me. Babka spends a lot of time investigating exactly how much pressure he can put into a nibble of human flesh. He’s also started to show an increased interest in my hair. The boy likes to pull. His vocabulary hasn’t presented much growth, but he sure knows how to say Baby Bird. I think I hear “hi, bird” and “parakeet” in his chatter on occasion. Babka eats and drinks and poops like a parakeet should. And he produces an impressive number of feathers, displacing the older ones to pile up on the floor of his cage and everywhere around it. When he flies inside the cage, you’d think there’d been an explosion in a pillow factory.

Bath Time

I almost forgot to mention Boba. Not Babka. Boba. Boba is a budgie influencer on Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/boba.thebudgie?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y%3D) My friend Lacey thought Babka might like to see another budgie who talked. Boba is amazing. He is a championship talker. He’s clear and he’s prolific. I exposed Babka to Boba and he was fascinated. Then he became entranced and tried to climb into the phone to get closer to the other bird. By the way, except for the talking, Boba is almost indistinguishable from Babka. Since Babka has no mirrors in his cage, Boba is a beloved companion. I don’t show Babka Boba very often because I think it’s a little sad. Unrequited. But Babka doesn’t think so. I have, on occasion, stood in front of Babka’s cage, trying to take a photo with my phone. Babka hurtles himself at the phone, sliding down the screen, scrabbling to hang on. It might be a problem going forward. Emotionally. And in the effort of trying to get a good picture of Babka.

So that’s my progress report on Babka. He is definitely a full fledged part of the family, even with his trimmed wings. We have our daily routines of uncovering the cage, blowing the seed shells from his dishes, changing the water cups. Occasionally there will be a bath in the water cup. At night we blow the shells off the seeds again, and sing lullabies before covering the cage for the night. Babka sings and chatters all day long. He has a fondness for paper cupcake liners. He’s made lace out of the ones strung up inside his cage. And he loves to toss the ones I twist up into the cage bars. And he may have been trying to mount one on the top of the cage. He’s become a teenager. The cardboard parakeet that came with his swing has been stripped of all parakeet characteristics. But Babka still socializes with it. I’m hoping to get something similar to replace it, but I don’t want to keep buying bird swings to get them.

Life goes on. And right now it’s pretty sweet with my Baby Bird.

Stormy. With a Chance of Trees

Well, that was interesting. 

I had lunch with two friends a few towns away. It was a lovely time together. As it was coming to a close and we walked back to the car, we noticed that the sky was getting dark. By the time we were back at the home of one friend, where my car was parked, the sky had turned almost black. An occasional bolt of lightning streaked the clouds. My friend offered me shelter until it was over, but I said I’d be fine and took off towards home. 

I was about half a mile into the nine mile trip home when the sky opened up. It was an amazing downpour. I could still see, so I kept driving. As I got closer to home, with the crazy rain, I started to see lots of branches in the road. So I had to avoid those, while trying to see ahead of me. 

The closer I got to home, the more downed trees were evident. I was about half a mile onto South Acton Road when I noticed the truck in front of me making a U turn. There was a tree across the road. And a junction box up on a pole went flash and exploded! I got myself off of that road in a hurry and went back to West Acton Road. I made much better progress, and the rain was letting up a little, so I felt better. 

When I turned off Central Street, heading to Martin Street, I saw the lights flashing on the railroad gates. There was a man holding the gate up so some people could drive through. The storm must have shorted out the gates to make them close. I checked both ways and went through. Only to be stopped by another downed tree about a quarter mile away. So I turned around again and went back to Central Street and onto Main Street and the bridge to Maple Street. That was clear.

Whew!
I figured I was home free. 
But was I? My house is on a dead end street. Off of a dead end street. It’s quiet and peaceful. Until trees start falling and then it is isolated.

When I turned off Stow Street onto Robbins, the street that leads to my street, there were branches down everywhere. And a small tree had fallen, but I was able to get past it. Only to find a line of cars and trucks stopped about halfway down the narrow street. 

There was a tree across the road, leaning on the power lines. It was high enough so that it was possible for not too tall vehicles to go under. But there was a long branch hanging down and that was causing the discussion among all the stranded drivers who’d gotten out of their cars to better assess the situation. Someone mentioned getting a saw to get rid of the branch. And someone else thought that might be dangerous because of the tree on the power line. 

At that point, the woman who lived in the house from whence the tilted tree came, was in her driveway apologizing for the mess. One of the men turned to her, hands on hips and said, “So you did all this?” It was a fun moment.

But it was still thundering. The temperature had dropped considerably. And I wasn’t comfy standing there under the trees that were still standing. So I got in my car, did a U turn, drove over the small tree, and onto the cul de sac that runs off the other street. I parked my car and started to walk home (maybe not smart, but I had to pee.) There was water across the road, about 4 inches deep. Just high enough to soak my shoes. 

When I got out to Robbins Street again, I saw that the cars had started to move. The branch was gone. And one of my neighbors was coming towards me. So I asked if he’d drive me to my car so I didn’t have to walk through the water again. He was happy to do so. I was grateful.

And so I got back into my car and drove over the small tree then under the bigger tree leaning on the wires. Two other neighbors were making their way out of the mess on their way to try to retrieve their children from school. No way a school bus was going to get anywhere near our street. I told them about the dangers ahead. They said thanks. And off they went.

As I got to the corner of Robbins and Billings, I saw that there was a tree leaning against the little house on the corner. I saw no hole in the roof. A good thing.

Allan was home the whole time and missed the excitement. I’d called him from the mess around the corner and he offered to meet me on the other side of the tree. I said that would add to the traffic jam. Amusing to think of a traffic jam on that street. So he stayed at home.

On to Billings Street where I saw a few branches on the street and in yards. Once I was inside and attended to my pressing needs, I looked into our yard and saw some leaves where they didn’t used to be and thought one of the bushes had toppled over. Upon closer inspection, I saw that one of the trees from the conservation land had split about halfway down and the top part crashed into some of our greenery. Again, better than it could have been. And it will give Allan a chance to practice with his little chain saw. 

On the plus side of the ledger, I am safe at home. We have no damage. The power is still on, although the power company just sent me a text and a phone call to say that an outage has been reported in my area and they expect to restore power by 12 am September 9. I hope things stay as good as they are!

Oops. Spoke too soon. The power went out and the smoke detectors started yelling “Carbon Monoxide”. Allan disconnected them. The power was back in about 20 minutes. He reconnected the detectors that were now silent.

And that’s when we heard the fire truck outside. How it got through Robbins Street, I don’t know. It stopped at my next door neighbor’s house. I could see it from my bedroom window. Naturally we went outside. A little huddle of neighborhood men next to the truck were trying to figure out what was going on. I walked up to the firefighter in the driveway to ask if everything was okay. He told me, “Almost.”

My neighbor appeared. Agitated and unhappy. She told me a tree from the conservation land had fallen on her house. It made two holes in her roof. A number of years ago, another tree fell on her house and made holes in the roof over every room along the back of the house. They were forced to abandon the house for 5 months until the house was totally repaired. Unimaginable that it happened twice to the same people in the same house. But I just heard from a different friend that someone in her neighborhood was hit again by trees.

No wonder I don’t sleep well.

So that was my adventure today. It all came out fine. At least for us. But it gives me pause to consider what it’s like to have to deal with the misery of a real, huge storm. My heart goes out to all who have to recover from one of those. Or any natural disaster.

We are, indeed, fortunate.

It’s Attitude With a Side of BBQ

There’s a little eating spot in Boston. In the Seaport District. It serves barbecue. Barbecue happens to be the one type of food that really excites my husband. So whenever we travel, or even at home, if bbq is on the menu, we want to try it.

We’d heard about this particular place and were determined to find it. Last year’s effort led to many hours of walking aimlessly, near its supposed location. We asked people on the street, in hotels and eventually ended up calling the place only to hear a recording announcing they were on vacation. Grrrr. But that’s okay. People deserve time off if they work hard.

So this year, since we were staying in Boston for a week, we were determined to find it. As it turned out, we were so busy the entire week we almost forgot about it, but remembered in time to try again on our last evening. Perhaps we put it on hold because of the quirky hours featured on the website.

To be safe, I called in advance to find out if they were, indeed, open. A man answered and when I asked what time they closed, he asked what time I needed to be there. I thought that was strange, but I said we’d like to have dinner there. Again he asked what time I needed to be there. I told him 6 or 6:30 depending on how long it took to find the place. He said he’d be there. Then I asked for a landmark to find the restaurant because we’d been unsuccessful finding it last year. He said “Go outside The Renaissance Hotel and look left.” Okay! That was a pretty solid clue. Though I was kind of unnerved by the way he said it.

But off we went. From where we stayed, to where we were going, there was no good mass transit way to get all the way there. Using the MBTA trip planner, we were directed to take the #4 bus at State Street and Atlantic Avenue. That was easy, because it was pretty much visible from our hotel room. But when we got to the street, there was no sign of a bus stop. Really, no bus stop signs. So we started walking towards South Station where we could take The Silver Line to the Court House stop and walk from there.

It was a little over a mile, well, maybe well over a mile. I sort of lost track, along with some hope, while we walked. It was kind of hot, but not stifling as it had been the day before. My new hip was doing its job and I wasn’t in pain. (Last time we did this, the old hip was in place and complained bitterly. It may have been the day I wore the head of the femur flat.)

We eventually found the place. We walked the whole distance because, well, why not at that point? Walking to and from the Silver Line station would have been further. It was, as we had been told, right across from The Renaissance Hotel. There was a triangle shaped, window service restaurant sticking out of the side of another building. I found it odd that we didn’t smell the tell-tale smoke of a barbecue joint.

We stood in front, trying to read the menu posted to see what we wanted to order. It was tucked inside the place. Up high. Not easy to read. Generally we are brisket people, but we needed to see what was there. From the order window we heard, “It’s not rocket science, people.” Hmmmm. I responded that we were trying to see what was there. He said, “look on the television.” And he smacked the monitor near the window.” (Did you know that was there? I sure didn’t.)

In any case, after perusing, I decided on the brisket sandwich and coleslaw. Allan said, “Make it two.” The man in the window asked if Allan always let me do the thinking and didn’t he have any thoughts of his own?

Hmmmm.

Once we got that done, we started kibitzing with the guy and somehow we were talking about LA in the late ’60s. We traded stories about famous people we knew and all was very pleasant. At some point I decided to order some fried pickles and he put them on the order. Along with our drink order.

Then it was time to pay. Allan used his credit card and a screen came up for tip. Allan filled it in and that’s when things fell apart. The guy was not happy with our choice and started arguing about it. Allan tried to opt for a printed receipt. The guy said, “no receipt for you” and slapped Allan’s hand away. Repeatedly. Hollering that he had comped the pickles. (Did you know that? I sure didn’t.) And there was no sign of that in the total. He said he was doing it as a gift. Ummm. Sure.

What? Seriously?

Anyway, we sat down at one of the nearby outside tables to wait for our food, thinking that it wasn’t out of the question for there to be a loogie hidden somewhere in our order. After about 10 minutes, there was a wave at the window and Allan retrieved a box of fried pickles. They looked like someone sat on them. They were, frankly, not fabulous.

By this time, a crowd of gray haired folks, all wearing the same color blue shirts arrived at the order window. It took them maybe 15 minutes to walk to the tables to sit down. We heard no shouting, so they must have been getting the positive part of the act which prolonged their order time.

After another 10 minutes, during which a couple ordered and were quickly served, we got another wave at the window. I went up to get the sandwiches and sides. I thanked him and he said you’re welcome. I did not add, “for the ration of abuse.”

We ate our sandwiches, which were okay, but not great. I thought the meat was kind of dry, but fatty in the middle. We had an option to get lean or fatty, but that choice kind of slipped by during the good times. The coleslaw was pretty good. The vinegary kind, not mayo. In total, it was okay, but certainly not award winning in any way. Which is really a good thing because, would we ever want to go back again? Not for the last piece of barbecued brisket this side of Blue Ribbon BBQ in Arlington.

I’ve left this establishment’s name off this post. But if anyone really wants to know, you know where to find me.

Grief In The Produce Aisle

A few years ago, I read Michelle Zauner’s beautiful memoir Crying in H Mart. I felt for her as memories of her mother overwhelmed her in a place where she felt so connected to her mom and the conflicted relationship she had with her. Occasionally I had similar feelings about my own mother in random places after she died. Memories are supercharged emotions.

But now I’ve got something else going on. Two weeks ago, after several months of declining health, Fonzie, my almost 27 year old Quaker Parrot left us. I saw it coming. I knew the impact would be immense. And there’s nothing you can do to lessen the inevitable.

When you live with a bird, there is almost always sound emanating from wherever the bird is. It might be chirping, or singing, or screaming, or the sound of toys being thrown around, or a bell being throttled. Unless the bird is asleep, there will be sound. And sometimes, it’s not quiet even then. Contented birds grind their beaks as they fall asleep. And sometimes they mumble while they dream. So, sound.

While the quiet is a huge factor, after living so long with someone, everything around you is bathed in their life. Routine tasks are forever changed. Or gone entirely.

There’s no need now to rush downstairs first thing in the morning to tend to Fonzie. I’m not profoundly depressed. It’s just harder for me to rouse myself enough to get going because there’s no imperative. And once I’m downstairs, there’s that silence that greets me. We always kept the radio on during the hours Fonzie was awake and active. Did she care about the music and voices? I have no idea. I just knew I felt it was something that would keep her company. And now, there’s no radio on during the day unless my husband or I want it. Although neither of us is immune from putting it on out of habit.

Opening the freezer is another landmine. Sitting on a shelf in the door at eye level, is a bag of frozen mixed vegetables. And a small bag of bird pellets. Both of which were the mainstay of Fonzie’s healthy diet. Fonz ate the pellets every day. The vegetables may or may not have been consumed, depending on her mood. Almost always, the green beans were tossed out of the bowl onto the floor. The corn was eaten. Most of the peas and an occasional carrot had a bite taken out. I would have been smart just to buy frozen corn, but the hope that she would eat a variety never died. I’d spend time checking out the various bags of veggies in the supermarket freezer before I chose one, looking for the one with the fewest green beans.

The way I chose peppers was also Fonzie-centric. Most people shop for vegetables based on size or beauty. I looked for specific peppers. Orange ones. Heavy for their size. Females. What? Bell peppers have gender? Yes. Males have three lobes at the bottom. Females have four. Female peppers are rumored to have more seeds inside than the males. And why was I buying these peppers? Not for the sweet orange (it had to be orange) flesh. But for the seedy core. Fonzie loved her pepper seeds on the core. There was no interest in the fruit itself. Because that’s how she was. She had me trained.

Being a basically frugal person, there’s no way I would splurge on an out of season, imported melon for us. But since cantaloupe seeds were a valued treat, I’d indulge in a melon that cost twice as much as it should, with half as much flavor as it might. I’d try to save up seeds from the warm months to get us through the winter. But as Fonzie became more selective in her food choices, I found myself going through a frightening number of cantaloupe seeds. Even subsidizing the melon with squash seeds wasn’t enough to get us through. I had to replenish the supply with deluxe tasteless melons in the dark months.

How could I not? It made her happy. And that is what mattered.

Mention the name of a prized food, and Fonzie was excited and gave me all her attention. Cherry tomatoes right from the garden were prized. Frozen green beans were scorned. But fresh green beans steamed just so, were demolished in no time. Broccoli florets were eaten stem first, and then the flowers. By the time she was done, they looked like they’d been electrocuted. Sugar snap pea pods, served in the beloved pink dish were turned to mulch. Fresh carrots were met with a happy head bob and the special yummy “mmmmm” she gave me after I’d ask, want a carrot, Parrot? The bird loved her fresh veggies.

And fruits. Cherries, halved and pitted were a messy treat. Served on the treat toothpick held in place by a binder clip disappeared. But the beak always had remnants of the flesh and juice. When Fonzie ate a strawberry, it was with precision. She would dig out every little seed on the fruit and crunch it with delight. Same with the little seeds inside of a blueberry. Did you even notice there were seeds inside of a blueberry? The biggest mess of all would happen when I got a pomegranate. A dozen pomegranate arils served inside the beloved pink dish, set inside on the floor of the cage became a bloodbath of juice and seeds worthy of a slasher movie. How she loved those arils!

Last night, for the first time since she died, we had pizza for dinner. That almost did me in. Fonzie knew and loved pizza. If I was desperate for what to have for dinner, I’d ask her what we should have. And she almost always suggested pizza. In a bright, happy voice. And if it wasn’t pizza, she’d say cookies. Or challah. Or cheeeeeeese. Or seeeeeeds. Oh, how my bird loved food.

I always claimed Fonzie as a Feinstein, so profound was her love of eating. Just like my father and just about all of that side of the family. It was a source of joy and bonding I will always treasure.

So here I am. Two weeks out and I feel like I still haven’t cried the way I need to. It’s still locked up inside me. I have done a little weeping almost every day when something overwhelms me. I caught sight of the orange pepper my husband cut up to put in the salad. That had me dripping. When people express sympathy, it makes my eyes well up. Taking the cage apart nearly did me in. But I managed to get through that.

I know it’s going to happen. And I’m pretty sure I know where it will be. So if you’re in the produce department of a Market Basket Supermarket and you run into a curly haired senior citizen balled up in unbridled grief in front of the cantaloupes or orange peppers, you’ll know it’s happened. The cork is out and I’m paying tribute to the greatest parrot ever.

Rest in peace, my sweet girl. You were my heart and soul and a huge part of my life.

A Seder in the Heights

When I was in college, in a fairly large city in Northeastern PA, there were Jewish students, but not really very many. Some were Day Students who lived nearby. Some were Dorm Students who lived on campus. Sometimes Passover came during a school vacation, so we were able to be at home for seders. But a couple of years, as it turned out, we were still on campus for the holiday.

There was a Jewish Community Center right down the street from the campus, and we could take part in a community seder there. But I was invited, through the friend of a friend to join a family in town. They lived up in The Heights, a neighborhood of blue collar family homes a mile or so from my dorm. There were a lot of kids in that family. One, a girl who went to my school, was a year older than me. And she was engaged to a boy who happened to come from my home town. I didn’t really know him before meeting him at her house, but we had people in common from home. 

This family was so different from my family. As mentioned, there were a lot of kids. Maybe four or five. The father was a very traditional Jew who had married a non-Jew who had converted and ran a kosher, very traditional home. The first year I did seder with them, it was a strange experience. Some of their traditions were different from what I did growing up. They followed more rules. And, with so many kids, there was a lot of tumult connected to the meal and how it progressed. But it was fun, and they were very kind to invite me to share the celebration with them. 

The second year I spent seder with them was my junior year. The sister who went to my school was a senior. She and her fiancé were to be married right after graduation. The last time I’d spoken to anyone in the family, the plans were humming along and everyone was excited.

The day of the seder, the oldest son, who was a year or so younger than I, showed up at my dorm to pick me up. I don’t think I was ever very comfortable in his presence because he was kind of volatile. Prone to shouting. And we didn’t really have much in common. But he was pleasant enough to share a 15 minute ride to his house. 

To make conversation I asked, “What’s new?” He kind of chuckled and said, “Don’t ask.” Okay, I thought, there goes that easy conversation. “Okay,” I said. And he replied, “No. Really, ask my mom.” So I let it drop and spent most of the trip looking out the window.

When we got to the house, the father was sitting in his chair in the bright living room. “Hi, Mr. K, thanks for having me. Where’s J?” “Go in the kitchen,” he said. “You’ll find out.” This, on top of B’s evasive reply to me en route had me wondering what on earth was going on. 

In the kitchen, the mom was sitting at the table with her head in her hands, over a bowl of hard boiled eggs. I said, “HI, Mrs. K. Is everything all right?” She replied, “J had a little boy.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I said, “What?” “J had a little boy,” she repeated. “This morning.” And I still didn’t get it. She looked up and said to me, “This morning, J had a baby boy.” 

There was nothing that couldn’t be interpreted from that statement. J, the young woman who was supposed to be getting married two months from this date, in front of a huge Orthodox congregation of family and friends, had given birth to an almost full term baby boy at the local hospital that morning at 8 am, or so. 

No one, not even the bride/mother to be, had a clue that this was about to happen. Or so I’m told. Back in the late ‘60s this was a much bigger deal than it would be today. And thank goodness both mother and baby were doing well and slated to come home in a day or two.

I was stunned by the recognition of exactly all this entailed. And, evidently, I wasn’t the only one.

It was a very quiet seder.

Much More Than Recipes

My Plastic Binder Special Cookbooks

Rosh Hashanah was coming. And, as is custom in our family, I wanted to make an apple cake to serve for dessert. The meal would be small, just my husband and myself, as our kids are not nearby and couldn’t join us for dinner. 

I knew exactly which apple cake I planned to make. It was the one a former roommate’s mother used to make. I’ve had the recipe since before I was married. But the worn at the corner, stained index card labeled Sybie’s Mom’s Jewish Apple Cake was nowhere to be found. Disappointed, I was determined to find another cake that would be a good stand-in.

Which led me to the shelves of cookbooks in my kitchen. There are plenty of professional cookbooks in those stacks, but I was looking for a certain kind of cake. So I needed a certain kind of cookbook. One of the self-published organization cookbooks from temple sisterhoods I’d collected over the past 50 years. 

These cookbooks, with their plastic spines, were fundraisers for the organizations they represented. They were filled with recipes from the members, their mothers and grandmothers. All were probably once written on backs of envelopes, or scraps of paper, or, yes, index cards. Duplicate recipes of the same dish with minor differences in the ingredients were published together. Most likely, they were transcribed while watching Bubbie mix from memory. Adding a little of this and that, and mixing until it looked right. No measurements. Just instinct. In Yiddish it’s called “shiterine”.

I pulled out about a dozen of these books and started flipping through them and found myself tumbling back to my childhood. With every turn of a page with the name of the contributor, I saw the faces of my mother’s friends. I heard them laughing while playing raucous games of mahjong in our living room. On card tables. I pictured them with their heads together and their hands busy, baking cookies and cakes for celebrations held at our temple. I felt my mother’s presence so powerfully, it shook me. 

My mom wasn’t a passionate cook. She had her specialties, but she would never think that cooking up something new would be a fun adventure. She cooked to get the job done. One of her recipes made it into our temple’s cookbook. A Romanian eggplant salad called Putlagella, was one of two dishes she learned to make from my father’s mother. And she did that only because my Pop loved it so much. She contributed the recipe because everyone was working together to reach the goal of raising money for the organization.

A couple of cookbooks in that stack have my own recipes in them. Browsing those books, I found names of people who lived in town when we first got here, but have since moved away. Some I’d totally forgotten. Some have died. But their dishes live on in my cook books. Even the ones that were dismal failures and should never have made it into a cookbook at all. I remember an apple cake recipe that sunk in the middle. Every time. Not my fault.

A few years ago, when we had the house painted, I had to dismantle my book shelves. I saw just how many cookbooks I owned. It was shocking to discover they were shelved two and three rows deep. I went through the collection and culled out an impressive number of books I knew I’d never look at again. They went to new homes at a library book sale. Some went to my daughter who may, or may not ever use them. 

None of the ones with the plastic spines made it out of the house. Those are just too close to my heart to give up. Even if none has the recipe for Sybie’s Mother’s special apple cake.

My Day So Far…

Well, that was an interesting morning/afternoon. I sat in on about an hour of the Rosh Hashanah service this morning via Zoom. Got to hear the shofar choir and shofar service.

Then I loaded the car with things I needed and seatbelted Fonzie’s carrier, with her inside, to go to her well bird appointment in Nashua.

The car didn’t start. 

It did this to me last week. And then started just fine. This morning, no dice. I called in to Allan who was still Zooming the service and said, “there’s something wrong with the car. I can’t start it.” So he came out and got into the car and tried to start it. It clicked a couple of times, but wouldn’t catch. He got out and said, “there’s something wrong with the car.” (Imagine my surprise.)

So I unloaded everything from the 2019 Subaru and loaded it all into my 2003 Saturn Ion, Gilda. I have not driven Gilda, with her stick shift for about 2 years because of my shoulder problems and the effort it takes to shift the gears. I was afraid I’d forgotten how to drive her. But I did not.

That was a nice goose to my self-esteem.

I did, however, forget that I would have to use the hotwire button to start her. Which I did. Clever mechanic, Frank, installed a switch to circumvent the ignition which is flakey in those cars years ago. It worked like a charm.

And we departed for Nashua, out on Rt. 3, Exit 5. I got there 10 minutes early and then had to wait a while. Dr. K was running a little late, but I’d rather she be late than me. 

Fonzie was okay on the trip there. Chirping now and then, but not freaked out. I think because she can’t see (cataracts covering most of both eyes), the carrier and what’s around her are less threatening. 

We had a very nice visit with Dr. K. She pronounced Fonzie in fine fettle and feather, with the most beautiful beak she’s seen on a Quaker.

When we left, I got Fonzie’s carrier strapped into the car, but I couldn’t get the car to start. I put my head down on the steering wheel and apologized to God for scheduling an appointment on Rosh Hashanah. But it was the only day Dr. K was in the office.

I was trying to imagine having to call Triple A for assistance, when I saw the key sitting on the console. I’d forgotten to put it into the ignition. Driving an old car after driving a fob starting car can be confusing.

When I put the key in and turned it, it started just fine. Without using the hotwire button. And all went well from there. I did not stop at Costco, nor did I shop at Sam’s Club. I just gassed up the car and came home. 

Fonzie seemed a little catatonic as I drove, but then I realized it was her nap time. At a little over 26, she naps a lot. She napped, then she ate the seeds I gave her after pre-exam fast.

Oy! I am happy to just zone out now.

How was your day?

Sure I’ll stop putting things off – When I get around to it.

(This is another entry from the deep archives of my published essays)

I’ve been meaning to write about procrastination for years now. But I keep putting it off. There isn’t any rational reason for the delay. It’s just been convenient.

Actually, I almost had a perfect alibi for delaying  a while longer. I couldn’t find my legal pad. And my pen, the really good, creative one, was not in its expected place. And if I had only timed things a little better, the phone would have interrupted me. Or my son, would have hollered from upstairs that he was “all done sleeping for this nap.”

As luck would have it, however, here I am. Facing this dark corner of my life. It goes back as far as I can remember. At two years old, I put off going to the bathroom until my shoes squished. In grade school, I never gave show and tell a thought until I was heading out the door. I’d end up showing nothing and telling the teacher I didn’t get to it. In high school, I honed cramming for exams to a new state of the art.

Then something happened in college. I think I was so afraid of being caught and bounced out on my procrastination that I actually studied throughout the semester. But I never did overcome the quirk of writing papers at the last minute. It was practically typing on the way to class that nearly did me in. But it didn’t change me.

In the real world, if you could call it that, writing at big Ad Agencies in New York, the truly good work came only at the last minute – a gasp away from a deadline. I rationalized that my muse was only inspired under pressure. 

That’s when the dreams began. Classic ones where I had not been to class since the first week and this was the night before the final exam. All my books were in my locker and I could not remember the combination to my lock. That dream catapulted me upright in bed, perspiring, vowing I’ll never do it again. The only thing that calmed me down was my husband’s whisper, “Right to 27. Left past 0 to 18. Right to 4”.

Who needs this stress? I don’t. Only maybe I do. I’ve tried to quit. To give myself lots of time, room to work things through. But it doesn’t seem to work for me. The words just sit there. I need the adrenaline. 

This affliction isn’t mine alone, either. In fact, in writing circles, it’s plague-like in scope. My favorite cartoon features the venerable “Perfesser Fishhawk” from the comic strip “Shoe”, lost behind mountains of periodicals muttering to himself about getting around to reading back issues of Procrastinator’s Monthly. It must have taken a decade to get that gem on paper.

I could defend myself further. Once moved, a true procrastinator picks up a momentum that’s hard to halt. But the mailman is about due and if I don’t get this into the box and off to the newspaper, who knows when it will ever see the light of day.

EFK October 1985

I’ve Got a Little List

(note from Ellen: my world was turned upside down with the unexpected passing of my husband a few months ago. I have not been very good about writing here. Worse than usual actually. But it’s getting easier.
In any case, while going through mountains of things in various places in my house, I’ve run into hard copies of articles written in the past. Either for The Acton Citizen Newspaper, or The Acton Beacon, or in one case, maybe college. Some are, I think, not very well written. Some are pretty good. In either case, because they are fun, I am sharing them until my current writing bug gives me an itch to write something new. Here is the first. Written sometime in the mid to late 1990s, before there were iPhones, while in the trenches of rearing kids and being very busy. It is a true snapshot of a time in my life.)

I’ve Got A Little List

The other day, while looking for my ratty old phone list of Town telephone numbers, I set off an avalanche of papers and pamphlets sliding off the pile sitting on top of my NYNEX phone book, next to the telephone. No one has ever accused me of being a tidy freak, so the fact that I had a pile of paper big enough to cascade onto the floor was no shock.

The awakening came when I realized that virtually all of the effluvia from my counter consisted of phone lists from various groups, clubs, schools, classes and organizations to which my family belongs, subscribes, is indebted to, or enrolled in.

A semi-partial listing of my phone lists includes my son’s last year’s class list (the current one is on the refrigerator), the McCarthy-Towne School directory, the Hadassah directory (actually three if you also count the two old ones), the synagogue directory, three previous phone lists the synagogue used before they published a directory, the Citizen phone list, the aforementioned ratty Town list, my personal address book, all the numbers that fell out of my personal address book, the soccer roster from last fall and the spring before that, the ABRHS directory and all the post-it notes bearing the various phone numbers of a friend of mine who is harder to keep track of than Whitey Bulger.  I’ve got the current executive board of Hadassah list, the old board of Hadassah list, and a Hadassah new members list. There is one from Cub Scouts (old), Boy Scouts (current), and the numbers my daughter has to call for her youth group. And of course there is the list of numbers associated with our HMO, complaints about the HMO, the dentist, the orthodontist and the bird veterinarian in Littleton. 

Granted, some of this pile could be whittled down, though I’m sure I’d be lost if I needed the name and number of someone from a past life, so I take no chances. However, I am a slackard compared to one of our Citizen staff whose phone lists are stored in a loose leaf binder next to the kitchen phone. Her lists go all the way back to Miss Maria’s pre-school in Concord. Her daughter, the child who attended Miss Maria’s, will be looking at colleges this summer. This colleague claims to have the phone lists from every class, club and sports activity her family has had contact with since moving to Acton. Along with the various directories and lists generated  by the institutions they represent, that writer has a constantly updated personal phone list compiled and printed from an ever changing computer data base masterminded by her husband. I don’t think she can stop him.

I update, too, using whatever I can lay my hands on to draw lines through names and arrows to point to new and vital information. I generally use the back of the paper for cryptic notes I can never decipher. I also try to keep my information current to only three years back. Right.

Another Citizen writer proudly announced that she has a rolodex for everything. It’s neat and efficient. My problem with that is that continuity of group is somehow important to me and little cards flopping round a dial defies that need. Besides I’ll bet she has loose lists lying around somewhere in spite of the rolodex. 

Still another writer posts her lists inside the door of the broom closet. The people who lived in our house before us wrote phone numbers on the inside of the cabinet doors. It’s hard to lose numbers that way. We had to renovate the kitchen to get rid of them. 

When I mentioned this phone list thing to a friend of mine she said, “Oh, I have a few, but it’s not a big thing.” Then she started thinking about all she had and was shocked. Her collection was pretty close to mine. With the addition of a couple of private schools and the committees she works on, the region board of Hadassah, her book group and a political organization or two.

After a phone call from another friend, I realize how fortunate I am not to have anyone taking ballet lessons, since there’s list for that as well as one for swimming, skating and dramatics. I could also need the home numbers of the members of the School Committee, the Housing Authority and the Board of Selectmen at my fingertips for work.

So what does all this list stuff signify in our everyday lives? I guess it means we are involved in life around us. It must also means that we are a part of an ever changing community, with relationships and responsibilities that shift under us like the piles of paper on my kitchen counter. And I also suppose it is much better to have all this lists, to be a part of a community than to live solitary lives and be able to rely solely on the big book that comes from NYNEX.

Push the Button Already!!

I’m sitting at my desk. There are two Apple iMac computers in front of me. Right now I am typing on my rather old, and starting to be undependable, 27 inch monitor iMac from early in 2017. It’s served me well, but recently it’s been disconnecting from the network and starting it up takes planning since it’s a good (or bad) 15 minutes from hearing the “bong” when I start it until I can actually get it to function. It works, but it’s too much work to get it to work, if you know what I mean.

My two computers

Next to the 27″ in” iMac is a spiffy new Purple iMac with a 24 inch monitor. They don’t make the 27″ model any more, which makes me sad. I’ve had the new machine for about a week and a half. I went through the process of migrating what’s on the old one onto the new one. It was an easy process made easier with an adaptor that hooked up my external hard drive to the new Mac. I also had a 30 minute session with an Apple associate via telephone to help me make it happen. She was wonderful. And she called me Miss Ellen throughout the session. A southern woman with old fashioned manners. She was great.

By the end of the session, the new Mac was up and ready to go. Except I didn’t see my desktop files from the old machine on the desktop of the new machine. There were a few, but not the dozen or so that I use fairly frequently. I fretted about that for a while and then called Apple Tech Support to find out how to make that transfer happen. The man on the other end of the call was helpful. He said all I had to do was put the files on the external hard drive and then move them to the new computer from the drive. I understood the concept and figured it would be a snap.

Unfortunately, the snap turned out to be the little gizmo on the inside of the external drive that connected it to the cable the would go from the computer (old or new) to the drive. I unplugged everything and picked up the drive and heard something rattling inside. It was that gizmo. And there was nothing I could do to make the drive work with a computer in its current state.

I knew I had to remove the drive from its case. Looking at it, there seemed to be no way to get the case open. My husband, who is a handy guy, but not necessarily about technology, looked at it and determined that the only possible way to get in was to look under the two spongy flat legs on the bottom of the case. He thought maybe there were screws under there. But he didn’t want to risk taking them off.

The front of the case.

The bottom of the case with the spongy legs.

Turning to an established way to learn to do things, I went to YouTube to see how it could be done. There were various videos with various steps to take to get into various cases. But none of them was the one I had. The drive, a LaCie from the same era as my old computer, was not one of the videos. I looked at what was there and hoped that something could help me out. Nope. Nothing looked remotely applicable.

And so I went to the company’s website and waded through the various questions and prompts until I was in touch with a “live” agent. She read my responses to her questions and after about 10 minutes of back and forth, she told me that since my drive was out of warranty, there was nothing she could do to help me. But she did offer me a discount code for a data retrieval company, if I chose to go in that direction. I said, “Wait, all I have to do is get the box open. You won’t tell me how to open the box, which is all that needs to be done? And you won’t do it because my drive is out of warranty?” She said unfortunately, that was true. But she repeated her offer for the discount on data retrieval from this company that just happened to be associated with her company. I wouldn’t bet on me doing business with LaCie again.

I looked on the retrieval company’s website. Data retrieval started at $729, or their abouts. Nope.

The only thing left to do was to appeal to the Internet. I posted on Facebook with a plea to my nerdy and geeky friends. On a Thursday evening, I was in dire need of help. I posted the photos of the box from all angles, so there would be a good point of reference for any potential problem solvers. This was before we had dinner, I think. By the time we were done and I checked online, I saw that one of my friends, here in town, thought her husband could help me out. Hooray!

We drove across town. It was maybe 7:30. At the friend’s house, her husband and son, home from college, were both there ready to work on my problem case. They are both very tech savvy guys. And after 15 or 20 minutes of examining, and turning, and theorizing about the case, the husband said, “maybe there are screws under the legs.” Sure enough when he peeled away those foam legs, there were two screws under each one. Hmmmm. Allan was right.

In no time, the box was open and the drive was accessible.

Genius at work. The box is open and the drive is free.

Now, before any of this took place, I’d ordered a new case recommended by my son, who was the start of tech support for this event. The case was due to be delivered the next day. So I was all set.

But our tech saviors were sure they had other cases in their “back room” of computer stuff and wanted to find a substitute for the one around my drive. A couple of would-be cases were unearthed and with a seemingly endless supply of cables, they tried to get the box to work with the drive. Unfortunately there was a problem of crossing platforms involved and my Mac friendly drive was incompatible with their non-Mac equipment. And so, after a herculean effort, it was determined that I was best off with the case that I ordered. I thanked them for the gracious and very helpful assistance and was told if I had any further problems, to let them know.

The next morning, kind of early, I turned on both computers (one much earlier than the other), and while messing around I saw that the cursor from the mouse on the old Mac was able to cross onto the screen of the new Mac. I, ever hopeful, decided to try to drag the file folders from one Mac to the other. And it worked! I’d solved my problem. But not entirely because I needed a working external drive to make sure I’d transferred all the information to the new machine. But isn’t that cool that it worked?

By late morning, I had the new case. I took the hard drive out of the protective, non-static bag our friends had provided, and easy as can be, it slid into place with a click and was, once again, functioning and useful. But I was unsure of what I needed to do to be sure I’d gotten everything I could possibly want off of the old Mac. Back to my original tech support, I consulted my son who said I should run a backup with the Time Machine app on my old computer and then connect the drive back on the new computer.

I did that. I’m all Time Machine current from the old to the new. And at this point, I can erase everything on the old machine to decommission it and turn it in to Apple for a nice chunk of cash off the price of my new Mac. Only I’m afraid. I’m not totally sure that I have every single thing that I ever might need from this computer. It’s an enormous leap of faith. This is how people end up with the carcasses of lots of out of date computers hanging around their homes. They’re never sure they have everything off and it’s okay to let go.

But I think I’m strong enough to do this. It’s time to push the button already.

Ed. Note: I did it! The world is still spinning on its axis!

A blast from the past

I’m in editing mode. Which means I’m in procrastination mode. This makes it totally ironic that I’m writing to put off this job. I edit every other issue of a long format newsletter for The Quaker Parakeet Society. My issue is upon us. So it’s time for me to motivate our contributors to write. Then I edit what’s submitted and arrange it in an orderly fashion so I can send it to our layout person. Hopefully will be enough to turn sixty or so pages into a beautiful, informative, entertaining pdf version of The Sentinel, The Journal of The Quaker Parakeet Society. Members get three issues a year for their membership. (If you’d like to join QPS and receive The Sentinel, go to https://www.qpsociety.org/)

At this point, most of the articles have come in and my next step, aside from looking at what’s there, is to be sure the issue has some new and current content from me. Since I no longer have a living Quaker in my life, I looked to the past for something new. Sounds crazy, I know. But it also happens to be the 25th anniversary of QPS and an appropriate part of the celebration is to look at our beginnings back in 1999. I have every issue of The Sentinel since the first, up to when we switched to the pdf format, maybe ten years ago. At four issues a year, that’s a lot of issues. And I had to do a lot of hunting in my bookshelves to find the early ones.

During that hunt, I found a loose newspaper clipping. It was an essay written for the local newspaper. Mostly, I used to write interviews and features for this weekly paper. Once in a while I happily wrote something of my own. Below is that essay. To say it’s dated is to be kind. There are references that are now considered inappropriate. Nothing was meant to be mean-spirited or hurtful. It being over 20 years past its publication, I can only say I had no idea how the world would be evolving.

In any case, despite its shortcomings, it tells a true tale of a lovely experience I shared with Fonzie. And I hope you will overlook anything potentially offensive and enjoy reading it for its joyful spirit. I did not write the headline.

This essay was published somewhere around 2004 in the Acton Beacon Newspaper.

Big Bird. Little Bird

I wrote this piece for The Sentinel, Journal of the Quaker Parakeet Society for the Winter issue of 2023. Our articles are supposed to be all Quaker parrots all the time. However, I introduced another bird into the mix here because it gives perspective.

As most of you know, Fonzie was my Quaker girl for almost 27 years. It was a long and glorious relationship that I will treasure as long as I breathe. Fonzie left me nearly a year ago, in April of 2023. For six months I lived in a too quiet house. Fonzie’s cage stood at the back of the family room, where it had been since 1996, not as a shrine, but rather because I could not bear to take it away. Eventually I moved it out onto the deck to try to remove all of the years worth of stuff I was never able to eliminate while Fonzie was in residence. It was fitting that it was so insistent on hanging around. It said a lot about that bird’s impact on my life.’

But, as time moved on, I realized that I needed another bird in my life. As previously stated, the house was way too quiet. I missed the noises and love, and even the mess a bird added to my life. But I knew that I could not bring another Quaker into my life and my heart. My reasons went beyond knowing that I’d never have another Fonzie. There was actual reasoning behind the decision.

I am too old to have another long lived bird. Even a rehomed bird would be problematic. My husband loved Fonzie, and took part in her care. But he was second string, if you know what I mean. Not to denigrate his contributions, but the truth is that he would be lost beyond feeding and talking to a Quaker. He would not recognize many of the signs that are important to Quaker care. A “new to us” Quaker would come with a past that would have to be considered in its care. And while I have confidence that it’s something that would be dealt with, I would not want the responsibility to fall on Allan if I were not able to take charge. 

The same goes for my children. They are grown with families of their own. Frankly, while they knew and loved Fonzie, there was no interest in taking over her housing and care if that should become necessary. I was very worried about my girl in the event of my demise. That’s not an issue any more, but a new Quaker would create the situation all over again.

So what was the answer to my dilemma? I gave this a lot of thought and came up with a pretty good solution. A budgie. 

I grew up with budgies. My kids had budgies. Budgies are fun. Easy to care for and love. They fill the house with their joyous sounds. And their lifespans, that were a problem for me years ago when our last one died, are reasonable at this point in my own life.

Through a happy series of circumstances, I know someone who breeds budgies and had some babies coming along around the same time I felt I was ready to move on. She helped me pick out a standard variety green and yellow baby, the kind I always had, that I met when he was a couple of weeks old. Once he was weaned, I took the plunge and brought the little fella home with me. 

And that’s when I felt the impact of the difference between a big bird and a little bird. Yes. I’d had budgies before, but going back has been a bigger learning curve for me than moving up was when Fonzie came home. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten.

Babka, the American Parakeet who now resides with us, is impossibly tiny and fragile compared to Fonzie. He seems smaller, to me, than parakeets used to be when we had them. I am talking tiiiiiny!

And he was quiet. True. He was only 9 weeks old and ripped from his clutch mate and the busy, noisy, chirpy world of birds where he’d spent his first weeks. Naturally he was quiet. And frightened of everything about his new situation. It took a day or so before I heard him tweedle his sweet little sound.

So the quiet was one big thing I had to adjust to. Along with his complete lack of wanting to have anything to do with me, other than as a provider of food and water. He had been taught to step up during the hand feeding process. But after the first day, he decided that wasn’t something he was willing to do. 

The following days were not the happiest of my life. I was delighted to have a sweet little bird back in my house, but I felt so bad because he didn’t want to interact with me. Be patient, I told myself. And I tried to remember back to Fonzie’s first days with me. She was never afraid of hands or being handled by me. I was the one who gave her food and spoke with her, which she was used to. Babka was not on that same page.

Feeling wounded, I conferred with friends who know all kinds of birds. Lacey, Babka’s grandma, said I should expose him to lots of different areas of the house. He’d come around. I didn’t seem to be having much success at that. 

Sheila Blanchette, our educator and former RAPP chairperson, who deals with bird behavior with her small business Heart of Feathers told me to adjust my expectations. Budgies were not Quakers. I was dealing with a little bird, not a parrot. Let him be the one to choose whether he wanted to come out of the cage. Tempt him out with millet. It will work eventually. 

I think I bristled at that a little because I’d had budgies before. I knew budgies. I knew how to deal with them even though they were little. But I guess I had forgotten. Or Babka was a different kind of budgie.  I had to be patient. Ugh! My least favorite thing to be. But I gave it a shot.

A decision to not force Babka to do anything was made. Or at least I set an intention for that. It didn’t last for very long. But I pulled back on my intrusions into his cage. And that seems to have worked some. Babka no longer flies around inside the cage in a panic when I have to go in there to pull his seed dish out to blow off the seeds.

That’s another thing. Although I got a bag of expensive bird crumbles along with the gourmet seed mix, budgies have no intention of eating pellets. Or this one doesn’t. So we go through the blowing off the seed shell exercise several times a day. And the pellets sit there among the seeds. Since Babka sits on or in his upper seed dish, I can sometimes pull him out of the cage while on the dish. I don’t want him to become entirely cage bound. I am willing to let him be as he wants to be, inside the cage, for the most part. But I do try to make sure he comes out at least two times a day. I figure he will never come out on his own if he is only comfortable inside.

Fonzie loved her cage, but she spent most of her time outside of it. The door was almost always open because Fonzie wasn’t inclined to stray very far. Especially when she was young and her wings were trimmed. Even after I let her wings grow in, Fonzie was not prone to taking off unless it was to see me. Or get food.

Babka’s wings are trimmed. Thank goodness! He can still fly, but not very far. And right now, if he had a full set of flight feathers, he’d never stand still long enough for me to rescue him from anywhere. With limited flight, if he gets to the floor he’ll run to me for assistance and will step up. That makes me feel a bit better about our relationship. Of course this just means he is okay with me if there are bigger threats out there. 

Babka likes his seeds. He likes his millet. He isn’t really good at recognizing people food as food for Babka. This is another frustration for me. If you’ve been reading The Sentinel for a while, you know that sharing food with Fonzie was a big part of our lives together. We’re working on Babka. He now recognizes challah (bread) as something he likes. I tried giving him banana and after tasting it, he spit it right out. But he seems to like lettuce and, maybe, oranges. Budgies in my past have all been eclectic eaters of people food. I have hopes that one day Babka will be flying after me in quest of cheese the way my other birds did. Only time will tell.

While I could go on and on about the differences between Fonzie and Babka, the big bird and the little bird, I think I’ve rambled enough. They are/were different beings with different likes, dislikes, comforts, and fears. Just as I had to make the adjustment between having budgies to having a Quaker, I now have to do the same going in the other direction. 

While I have the noise, the feathers, the poop (but much smaller poop), and the mess of a bird that was missing in my life, I doubt that I will ever have the relationship with another bird, no matter what species, that I had with Fonzie. Anyone who’s shared a loving, longterm relationship knows you can’t, or you shouldn’t compare. It’s like rating children. They all have their good and not so good traits. And no one is exactly like anyone else.

I have great hopes that Babka will eventually settle in and become my bird. It’s going to take a while. But I hope we are on our way. I can sneak a couple of kisses without having my lip punctured. And Babka has reached the point where he keeps singing and chattering when I get close to him in his cage. He is noticeably less nervous when he is out of the cage and is happy to spend time outside of the cage on a perch that’s connected to his cage. He plays with his toys. He sings and chatters all the time. Every day I hear more human words mashed into his cheerful budgie tweedles. Today I heard a little wolf whistle and a few phrases containing the word bird. I hope that he’ll soon be saying his name along with mine. 

Even if we don’t move forward from where we are now, I hope he knows that he is loved and valued for exactly who he is. I’m the grown-up here. I can enjoy him in a different way than I might want him to be. Remember, Mr. Rogers always said, “I like you just the way you are.” You hear that, little bird?