Birdwatching
When I was a little girl, I used to close my eyes and count to ten, then I would count back to zero. I imagined that when I opened my eyes the large birthmark on my leg would have disappeared, that through the power of imagination I could erase the mark.
When I opened my eyes, the birthmark was still present, large and perfectly oval, a deep chocolate brown.
Over time, I came to accept my birthmark. The sheer size of it would elicit stares and questions, but as I grew, I realized that it was part of me. It was no different than the dark fringe of my eyelashes, so like my father’s.
My father was a high school English teacher. Because of his hours, he was home in the early mornings and late afternoons. As my mother worked long hours and erratic shifts at the hospital, my dad was there to comfort and protect.
He specialized in stirring up his self-declared specialty: Malt O’ Meal piping hot with honey, milk, and extra butter. I can still see him standing in our small Chicago kitchen stirring hot cereal, buttering toast, and sprinkling sweet cinnamon sugar on top of the golden bread.
As we age and our parents pass into that other world, it is the small moments of care and kindness that we most remember. My dad and I always shared a connection: our silly sense of humor, our sensitive hearts often prone to worry and brief bouts of sadness but mostly filled with childlike wonder.
As teachers, Dad and I shared a love of words. We enjoyed wondering about the curiosity of life and how our favorite authors illustrated humor and tragedy, absurdity and realism.
In his final months, Dad and I would read bits from our favorite Shakespearean plays. We would spend long hours at the kitchen table discussing imagery and irony, musing over the sheer beauty of the words.
When the warmth of early summer called us outside, Dad and I would look for the Crooked Lake turtles as they sidled onto the sea wall to bask in the sun. We would laugh thinking about our own large eyes and small chins, and how very much we resembled the turtles.
Above all, Dad and I enjoyed watching the birds that flew above the lake and nested in the tall grasses and surrounding trees. Kingfishers and Sand Hill Cranes, Mallards and Coots, Cardinals and the occasional Eastern Bluebird. We laughed at the antics of the ducks and the swinging necks of honking geese in spring as they faced off for territory in the clear, rippling lake.
Dad taught me to appreciate nature, to look for constellations on cold winter nights, to appreciate the art of storytelling, and to revel in the grace of laughter. He advised me to look toward the skies with curiosity and to never doubt the power of imagination, even if our dreams don’t always come true.
If we are lucky, we will have men enter our lives who guide us and challenge us like our own fathers. Our journey will take new turns, and we will walk along unexpected paths, gaining new insight with each step. I have been fortunate to have these teachers enter my life.
My father may have shared his love of Big Band music with me, but another man patiently taught me to waltz. My father may have encouraged my love of birdwatching, but my Missouri uncle nurtured my love of land and farm animals by entrusting me with the care of calves and cows.
My father may have been rooted in American soil, but an Irishman taught me to look beyond the tangled brambles that grow along narrow roads to witness the gifts that lie in wait: the call of the cuckoo, the spring rise of bluebells, the crimson flash of a holly berry, the forgotten ridge of a potato bed.
Keem Beach
Even though he never stood behind a classroom desk, my father-in-law was a great teacher. With pride, he showed me the turquoise expanse of water that washes over the sand and rocks of Achill Island’s Keem Beach.
We stood on the strand before it became internationally famous among filmmakers and tourists. I saw it as my father-in-law once did as a young boy: a place of isolation and purity that held hope as blue as the surrounding waters.
The strand was mostly empty on that day long ago when we looked out across the ocean. My father-in-law told me to imagine the promise of America across that open sea.
He pointed to the top of Moyteoge Head, where the ruins of a WWII lookout remained.
We then drove over winding roads through the Croaghaun Mountains, until we stopped at the rocky shores of a lake that lay hidden amid a valley. My husband skipped stones into the still water. Years later, my sons did the same. My father-in-law would wax poetic about an island that he wanted to live on all by himself, the sky his ceiling and the walls surrounded by the clear blue sea.
My husband recalls the first time his dad brought him to the “Booster,” a plain high atop Minaun Heights. Steady wind and dramatic 360-degree views of land and sea stretch across the Wild Atlantic Way. This view shaped my husband’s memories and his understanding of the rugged island that runs through his blood.
I fell in love with that image of my husband as a freckle-faced boy, cheeks chafed pink with fear and exhilaration, bravely looking into the Atlantic wind as it tossed his black hair. I fell in love with the knowledge that the strength and honesty of his father shaped his son’s character.
Far beyond the clouds, our fathers are looking out for us. I can feel them holding us when the ground beneath our feet sways with an unexpected rhythm. Our fathers shared their wisdom and dreamy visions for flight and freedom, and then their longing for family and home.
Their gifts are not measured by wealth or possessions. Solidity of character is their greatest legacy to my husband and me, to their grandchildren, and perhaps to their future great-grandchildren, children whom they will never know.
I am confident that our fathers’ spirits rise with the brave grace of the gull soaring high above the Atlantic. That their honesty rides on the wings of the blue heron hovering over the soft waves of Crooked Lake.
If I close my eyes while birdwatching, I can hear the ocean tide rise. I can hold the sunset warmth of lake waters. I can see our fathers and feel their love rush like sturdy waves.
For a fleeting moment, I imagine that if I count to ten, I will hear their voices calling out to us amid the din of birdsong during an evening in June.
