Flying Lessons

It wasn't a dark and stormy night, but something not too dissimilar -- a gray and foggy Friday morning, in downtown Berkeley, in July. Good little worker bee that I am, I had arrived at my cold, un-peopled, seventh-floor office, promptly at 7:30 a.m., hot cup of chai in hand, still not fully awake but nonetheless prepared for a quiet, low-staff-count day, during which I hoped to accomplish a goodly amount of back-burner database programming.

Nestling my rear end into my well worn office chair, I dedicated the first 30 minutes of my day to volleying yesterday evening's accumulated email out of my in-box and into someone else's. Then, switching my brain to geek mode, I double-clicked the Database.From.Hell file in my Stuff.That.Gives.Me.Headaches folder, and waited for the software to launch. Staring blankly at my list of partially defined fields and trying to remember where I had left off three weeks ago, I was startled out of Friday numbness by a messy flutter of gray feathers that careened over the awning above my office's sliding glass door and flopped clumsily onto the terrace just outside.

(Yes, I have an office with a sliding glass door that leads out onto a terrace. It overlooks San Francisco Bay. It is a proper office. It's not a cloth-covered veal pen. And it was hard won. I spent 16 years in cube-land, sucking up to the boss to earn that office. So back off!)

Anyway, back to the bundle of gray feathers on my terrace. It had landed right up against the concrete retaining wall that prevents me from pushing things like moody copy machines and annoying co-workers over the edge. It appeared to be a bird but wasn't moving, so I watched for several moments, breath arrested, for evidence of life. Finally, I saw it bobble and ruffle itself into something that looked very much like an adolescent swallow. He (only a guess) was adorable: a beak that was still a little too big for his face; an amusingly disheveled raiment of semi-mature adult feathers punctuated by stray clumps of baby-bird fluff; and a general demeanor of oblivious naïveté.

And then... Well not much, really. He fluffed is feathers against the morning chill then hunkered against the retaining wall and sat. Occasionally, he glanced from side to side, but mostly he just sat. He was sitting at 8:30 a.m. when I looked up from a convoluted if/then statement to clear my head. He was sitting at 8:52 when I finished the last of my now lukewarm chai and peeled my eyes off the computer monitor long enough to aim as I pitched the empty cup into my garbage can. He was sitting at 9:05 when I got up to use the bathroom. He was sitting at 9:20 when the phone rang and I didn't answer it. And he was sitting at 9:58 when an uncooperative export script got the better of me and I launched my internet browser to take a Neatorama break.

Shortly after 10:00 a.m., the fog pulled back and the sun rose suh that its rays slanted over the roof of our building, onto the bird's back. Within seconds, he had de-fluffed and was issuing random "Cheeps." But still had not moved a millimeter.

"Hmmm..." I wondered, with my brain still slightly stuck in programming mode, "IF (ArrivalType = Crash Land) AND (TimePassed > 120 Minutes) AND (SubsequentBirdMovement = False), THEN (InjuryProbability = High) AND (RescueNeeded = True)."

The bird life in downtown Berkeley is remarkably diverse. Swallows abound, especially near our building where they nest under the concrete ledges. But I've also seen hawks cruising the lofty environs outside my office window, so I feared that the little guy might have been injured in a raptor attack. I temporarily forsook both Neatorama and Database.From.Hell in favor of what promised to be a much more fulfilling enterprise: Operation Swallow Rescue.

Digging through our supply room, I found a smallish box and that I lined with a big, cushy wad of toilet paper from the bathroom. Next, I returned to my office and slowly opened the sliding glass door. My overall plan was to capture Martin (I decided he needed a name), check him for injuries and then, if needed, transport him in the warmth and safety of his TP-lined box to the Lindsay Junior Museum's Wildlife Hospital, where they would nurse him back to health in true Florence Nightingale fashion.

As I stepped out the door, Martin swiveled his head and looked straight at me. "Cheep!" he said, "Cheep, cheep!" Now, I don't speak Swallow, but I'm pretty sure he was asking "When is breakfast?" I took a step closer and he cheeped again, then leaped up and fluttered a short distance toward me, sprawling inelegantly onto the terrace about three feet from where I stood. More cheeping ensued -- not the "Help, I'm being attacked by crazy lady with a box of TP" kind of cheeping, but more the "I've just left my nest and am still a little bit stupid" kind of cheeping.

I approached him slowly, talking in that silly saccharine tone that women use with babies and small dogs. "Hello, little fella. It's okay," I said. "I'm not gonna hurt you." (I'm sure he understood every word and felt enormously reassured.) Once I got close enough, I squatted down, slowly moved my open hand over his back, then gently I encircled his little body in a loose grip. He wriggled a little, but didn't struggle. As I lifted him, his feet caught hold of my thumb and he cheeped again. Bringing him closer to my face, I continued our conversation.

"How's it going?" I asked.

"Cheep," he replied.

"Having a little trouble this morning?"

"Cheep, cheep!"

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Cheep."

I turned him over to check for signs of injury. He didn't appear to be bleeding; his feet and legs looked fine; his tail feathers were a little short, but that probably had to do with his tender age. I gently opened each wing and they too looked well formed and adequately feathered.

"So, what's up?" I asked, turning him back over. "Are you supposed to be out on your own like this? Does your Mom know where you are?"

"Cheep, cheep, cheep!"

I opened my hand to see if he would flee, but he just sat there on my thumb, looking up at me with his wide, dark, trusting eyes. We exchanged pleasantries for a good ten minutes: I inquired after his siblings, asked if he was enjoying the mild July weather, complemented him on his new feathers, probed politely on his Autumn travel plans, and nodded convivially to each of his "Cheep!" responses. Concluding that he was physically sound, I decided I shouldn't detain him further from his business. So I placed him back in the patch of sun and assured him that I'd be "Just inside, if you need anything," then retreated to my office.

Back at my desk, once again wrestling with the recalcitrant export script, I kept an eye on Martin for the next half-hour. I was starting, again, to worry over his continued inactivity, when a sleek, arrow-like silhouette streaked into view, buzzed Martin's head, then alighted atop the retaining wall, just above him. It looked like Martin, only all grown-up. "Ah, this must be Mom," I thought to myself. My verdict was instantly confirmed when the elder swallow discharged a succession of scolding complaints that I'm guessing went something along the lines of, "Where have you been for the past two hours? Didn't I tell you not to cross the street by yourself? Your father and I have been worried sick! We thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere, dead!" Martin, cheeped back in capitulant docility, then, prompted by another of his mother's commands, joined her on top of the retaining wall.

She took off, immediately, swooping and darting in graceful figure-eights against the skyline, then returned to her perch beside Martin and, with the callous bark of a drill sergeant, chirped what I assume was the command: "Do it!" Martin cowered, shuffled his feet, looked side to side, then flung himself into the air with a frantic beating of wings and piloted his way, in clumsy dips and swerves, to the roof of Berkeley City Hall, across the street. His mother followed, whizzing past him, sliding swiftly through the air with one or two spare, staccato wing beats. Again they perched together, again she demonstrated, again he bumbled his way back over to my terrace. I watched, in delighted captivation, as the flying lesson continued for the next several minutes. Slowly but surely, Martin got the hang of it. There was less fluttering and more gliding; less hesitation on take-off; more graceful touch-downs. By the time they flitted away over the roof of my building and out of sight, he was flying very much like a proper swallow.

Later that day, on my way back from lunch, I dropped into the Walgreens on Shattuck Avenue and picked up a Thinking of You card for my Mom. "Thanks," I wrote to her, "for all the hours you spent kneeling in front of me with a smile on your face and your arms extended, as I teetered across the floor toward you, sometimes making it and sometimes plopping unceremoniously onto my diapered little behind. Thanks for holding my bony little frame afloat in the swimming pool and reminding me over and over keep my knees straight while kicking and blow the air out through my nose, while I flailed and splashed water in your face. Thanks for running up and down the street behind my little red bicycle, while I tried to figure out how to stop listing sideways onto the left training wheel and get myself upright. Thanks for holding my hands and walking in front of me while I shuffled and stumbled on my new roller-skates. Thanks for being calm and patient as you sat in the passenger seat of Dad's Chevy Nova, while I navigated us tentatively through the streets of Pleasant Hill, continuously asking 'How's my lane position?' and 'Am I going too fast?' And thanks for not getting exasperated every time I call you with a stupid question about how to be a grown up in this confusing, intimidating, daunting world."

Thanks for all the flying lessons, Mom. I love you.