Alas, the moment of inspiration has passed.
May my roots grow deep, may my limbs grow strong.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Cages, Coffee Pots & The Matters of Life and Death
Cages.
"How many cages have you been through?" I asked my dad this week. "Ohhh," he replied in this voice that I could often hear Jackoo imitating and in the distant recesses of my mind I can still hear my grandfather echoing in that same, familiar tone. "Quite a few."
Just like our coffee pots. Probably too many to count.
There were the ones that he purchased for home and travel, then the ones that he made and to the ones that Dad made the alterations and repairs. Each time thinking "now he's got it! Jackoo can't surely do anything about this!" But no, my dear 'brother from another mother' would surely find a way around whatever it is that Dad changed or twisted or fixed. I'll always remember the cage tucked so neatly into that little nook in our Glen Levit kitchen right behind the door and below the attick's trap door. I loved that bright, 70's orange kitchen. I'm sure Jackoo did, too. I'll always remember the time my parents' had hired someone to do whatever work on something in the house and as Jackoo called out, "Hello, how are you?" the man answered "oh, pretty good, thanks" not realizing it was our parrot. He must have thought it was Dad coming in and asking. I remember sitting there at the kitchen table smiling. Not so long ago, we had someone knock on our front door to which Jackoo clearly said, "Hello!" and I had to laugh out loud when the man on the front porch answered hello right back!
And now, after caring for Jackoo a short few months before what was to be his final move back to Canada with my parents, his rightful ownwers, our living room is uncomfortably quiet and empty. After being a part of our family's life for 38 years, from Kajiji, Zaire's nearby jungle to Europe to several parts of Canada and finally the US, my dear "brother from another mother" has passed away. You see, Jackoo was an African Gray parrot. There are some who say the African Gray is more than simply an excellent mimic, but quite intelligent. Though there were countless words and phrases he would continuously repeat throughout the years, he seemed to interact with our family in such a special way. During his final days, when most of his time was spent sleeping, he nearly always came over to me as I got close to his cage and called to him, "Jackoo, hello Jackoo". I got this strange feeling that he somehow wanted me to comfort him, or be close to another being.
Is there more my husband and I could have done? Should have done? Should we have brought him to the vet sooner? How could we know? Jackoo had been so happy visiting us. Most of our neighbors enjoyed his calls and whistles, words and phrases. So it was quite sad, you see, that his last week was spent silently wasting away until alas, last Wednesday night, he breathed his laborous last.
Oh dear. The choked-up feeling coming on again...
I promised my family I would write about the little funeral we had for him. The next day, Thursday, we waited until my husband came home from work then the four of us, with Jackoo wrapped (in a piece of the African material I had acquired as a child) and tucked neatly in a white box, we went to the very hole behind our yellow garage which the children had begun to dig one or two summers ago. And with near-Herdman-style reverence, said goodbye to Jackoo, making sure to take a few pictures, then placed him in the ground (after asking Z-man to step out of the hole, of course) Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think with a little glee Z-man began to replace the dirt, then A-girl and Daddy finished off. "We need to say a wittle prayer" said my 5 year old son. We gathered in a little circle, Daddy still in his work uniform, and A-girl prayed a beautiful prayer from her heart. She thanked God for the time that Jackoo was with us and for all the fun we had with him and for "teaching us on the matters of life and death."
Goodbye, Jackoo. You are dearly missed. And I suppose that is what death is for those who lose a beloved pet, or a family member, or a dear friend. No turning the clocks back to change what you wish you could. And no matter how much I wish Jackoo was still singing in our living room and asking, "Want some coffee?" each morning, it cannot be. So now, as life goes, we have our memories. So thankful for the smiles, surprises and uncontrollable, gut-wrenching laughter Jackoo brought to me and to so many who met him over the past yes, 38 years.
Want some coffee? I'll drink to you, today, my gray and red-tailed feathered friend.
DOD - Wednesday, November 14, 2012
"How many cages have you been through?" I asked my dad this week. "Ohhh," he replied in this voice that I could often hear Jackoo imitating and in the distant recesses of my mind I can still hear my grandfather echoing in that same, familiar tone. "Quite a few."
Just like our coffee pots. Probably too many to count.
There were the ones that he purchased for home and travel, then the ones that he made and to the ones that Dad made the alterations and repairs. Each time thinking "now he's got it! Jackoo can't surely do anything about this!" But no, my dear 'brother from another mother' would surely find a way around whatever it is that Dad changed or twisted or fixed. I'll always remember the cage tucked so neatly into that little nook in our Glen Levit kitchen right behind the door and below the attick's trap door. I loved that bright, 70's orange kitchen. I'm sure Jackoo did, too. I'll always remember the time my parents' had hired someone to do whatever work on something in the house and as Jackoo called out, "Hello, how are you?" the man answered "oh, pretty good, thanks" not realizing it was our parrot. He must have thought it was Dad coming in and asking. I remember sitting there at the kitchen table smiling. Not so long ago, we had someone knock on our front door to which Jackoo clearly said, "Hello!" and I had to laugh out loud when the man on the front porch answered hello right back!
And now, after caring for Jackoo a short few months before what was to be his final move back to Canada with my parents, his rightful ownwers, our living room is uncomfortably quiet and empty. After being a part of our family's life for 38 years, from Kajiji, Zaire's nearby jungle to Europe to several parts of Canada and finally the US, my dear "brother from another mother" has passed away. You see, Jackoo was an African Gray parrot. There are some who say the African Gray is more than simply an excellent mimic, but quite intelligent. Though there were countless words and phrases he would continuously repeat throughout the years, he seemed to interact with our family in such a special way. During his final days, when most of his time was spent sleeping, he nearly always came over to me as I got close to his cage and called to him, "Jackoo, hello Jackoo". I got this strange feeling that he somehow wanted me to comfort him, or be close to another being.
Is there more my husband and I could have done? Should have done? Should we have brought him to the vet sooner? How could we know? Jackoo had been so happy visiting us. Most of our neighbors enjoyed his calls and whistles, words and phrases. So it was quite sad, you see, that his last week was spent silently wasting away until alas, last Wednesday night, he breathed his laborous last.
Oh dear. The choked-up feeling coming on again...
I promised my family I would write about the little funeral we had for him. The next day, Thursday, we waited until my husband came home from work then the four of us, with Jackoo wrapped (in a piece of the African material I had acquired as a child) and tucked neatly in a white box, we went to the very hole behind our yellow garage which the children had begun to dig one or two summers ago. And with near-Herdman-style reverence, said goodbye to Jackoo, making sure to take a few pictures, then placed him in the ground (after asking Z-man to step out of the hole, of course) Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think with a little glee Z-man began to replace the dirt, then A-girl and Daddy finished off. "We need to say a wittle prayer" said my 5 year old son. We gathered in a little circle, Daddy still in his work uniform, and A-girl prayed a beautiful prayer from her heart. She thanked God for the time that Jackoo was with us and for all the fun we had with him and for "teaching us on the matters of life and death."
Goodbye, Jackoo. You are dearly missed. And I suppose that is what death is for those who lose a beloved pet, or a family member, or a dear friend. No turning the clocks back to change what you wish you could. And no matter how much I wish Jackoo was still singing in our living room and asking, "Want some coffee?" each morning, it cannot be. So now, as life goes, we have our memories. So thankful for the smiles, surprises and uncontrollable, gut-wrenching laughter Jackoo brought to me and to so many who met him over the past yes, 38 years.
Want some coffee? I'll drink to you, today, my gray and red-tailed feathered friend.
DOD - Wednesday, November 14, 2012
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