My special birds By Doris Brown

Several years ago I read a book about a Rabbi who had died in the Holacaust. The rabbi came back as a crow. I do not know why but his coming back as crow always stayed with me.

Seven years ago my husband had a serious bout with depression. We were sitting on our porch and my husband said to me “The birds are not eating from the bird feeders because of me".
I said, “That’s not true, they are just not hungry.”

When he was well again, each morning he would go to the back window and watch the birds eat. Then my husband died. After the burial in our religion we sit Shivah for a week--a week set aside during which we withdraw from the world and face our loss. In traditional communities members of the community come to the home of the mourner whether or not they were personally involved with the mourner. The reason for a week is because the world was made in a week and each person is a world; a world that was never before and never will be again.

During this week while I was on the porch a male and female cardinal appeared at the bird feeder. It was so emotional for me. My first thought was about the Rabbi that came back as a Crow. Since then these cardinals have had babies and I have enjoyed watching them. Birds are free to fly wherever they want to go but these birds choose to come to my bird feeders within my view and allow me to think of you my beloved.

*********************************************************************************************************

To read my article that appeared in yesterday's Sun-Sentinel CLICK HERE.

> Discuss this entry

The Human Statue of Liberty photograph was made in 1918 by arranging the 18,000 Officers and Men at Fort Dodge, Des Moines Iowa into the Statue of Liberty shape.

Imagine how long these men had to stay out in the open until everything was perfect for the picture to be taken!

> Discuss this entry

As I walked toward the theatre entrance, an unkempt darkly tanned man passed me by on a beat-up bike. He was about 5’ 10” with a beefy build who looked to weigh about 180 lbs. The back of the bike had a plastic milk box loaded with bread and bags of seed.

I was at the Delray Playhouse, waiting for a show to begin, soaking up some rays on this warm afternoon, walking around admiring the water of Lake Ida. The bike rider stops and spins back towards me.

“What kind of play are they doing here,” he asks with a smile.

“It’s not exactly a play. It’s a special performance for a ladies charitable organization,” I reply.

“What are you doing with all that bread,” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
He scratched his chest through his filthy tan T-shirt revealing fingernails and hands black with dirt.

“Oh, its stale bread that restaurant’s throw out. I come here everyday to feed the ducks, the birds, the squirrels. I have my six pack of beer under all the bread and stuff. I feed them and drink my beer. I smoke some weed. I get high. I enjoy myself. I’m an alcoholic, but I have fun.” He laughed loudly, getting a kick out of confessing to a complete stranger he was an alcoholic. “Hey, you know what,” he continued, “I even grow my own grass here, but the crew comes around every week or so and mow it down. But they don’t know where all of it is,” he said with a sly grin. “I still have some plants around here they haven’t found.”

“I see an attendant over there,” I said, pointing to a thin man at the other end of the park near the restrooms. “Does he ever stop you from feeding the birds or drinking beer?”

“Nah. We ignore each other. I pick up more trash than he does, only he gets paid for the work I do. Are you going to this show by yourself,” he asks, suddenly shifting the conversation back to me.

“No, my wife is inside, and I’m going to join her now.”

“You’re married, huh?

“Yep, 63 years next month.”

“Go on! 63 years?” he cried. “I’m 47. I don’t expect to live till I’m 63.” He erupted into a heavy smoker’s cough. Through a big grin, he gasped, “63 years, I can’t believe it.”

He was truly enjoying this conversation with a senior citizen. So was I since he hadn’t shown any belligerent tendencies, or asked for a handout.

“Well, I have to be going inside now,” I said. “Nice talking to you.”

“Hey, same here Mister. I’m going to take my bike over by the waterfront and start feeding the animals and get drunk and high,” he laughed raucously. “I love this bike. I haven’t owned a car in ten years, not since I had three DUI arrests. I don’t have a wife or kids to worry about—I just come here every day and have me a good time.”

An excerpt from my book "My New York 1939-1985...and what happened afterward."