Its early evening and I am waiting for the swallows to return. I stand outside the shed, a large metal structure with an over hanging eve and a 30 degree pitched roof. It would be perfect for snow if it snowed here. It doesn’t, but the shed looks smart in the harsh Australian bush. A pretty triangular shape catching the afternoon sun.
I look up at the fading summer sky and check my watch. 8:36pm, they’re late.
The swallows first arrived some time mid September. They appeared from the sky swooping down in sharp, swift movements. Bringing a confidence with them I’ll later envy, as they slipped quickly into the shed through the open front roller door. A five meter wide mouth that slides upwards via chains and upper arm strength, leading into an open room with rafters and two large round hanging lights. They lapped the room three times and settled on a beam high above our heads.
So tiny, their little rust coloured necks seemed to shimmer as their miniature hearts vibrated in high speed. Slick peaked tails. Tipping their heads from side to side as they assessed the space, as they assessed us.
Swallows are a fairly common bird that love nesting in existing structures. I’d read a story about a pair that nested inside a large open factory. Instead of removing the birds, the owners hired security and left the door open twenty four hours a day. Just so they could come and go as they pleased. Our shed was full of everything we had, which was not much, but to us it was everything. Leaving the door open for birds to travel freely wasn’t listed on our insurance as an extra, so unless we were planning to sit by the open door ourselves, it would have to remain closed. What I’m saying is, I shooed them out for their own good.
Of course they returned the next day. The day after that too. And then every day there after.
They were not scared of me or my wife, or our dog, or my imitation of a large bird doing a territorial call, which was designed to persuade them that we were the ones nesting here. I think it was the flapping of my pretend wings that made my wife roar with laughter, and convinced the swallows that I was clearly an idiot, but not a threat.
They built their nest outside under the eve, right at the apex point. By then I was as relieved that they had stayed, as I was that they had chosen a spot outside. I really liked them and I didn’t want them to go.
I found the eggshell before I saw the babies. It was white with tiny brown spots all over it. Above me two tiny hungry bald heads were popping up and down inside the nest, necks stretched, beaks constantly open and begging. I kept tabs on their growth on my phone, and deep dived into a google hole of information. Basically they were growing faster than a zucchini in a vegetable patch. They would be ready to fly in three weeks.
It's a long way from the nest to the ground. I can’t imagine a more horrific event than learning to fly. My nine year old self once stood for so long at the end of a diving board, despite the deafening cheers, it became apparent that I would indeed be opting for the longer and more painful conclusion of climbing back down the ladder, disrupting an entire line of glowering school children and disappointed adults who just wanted me to jump. I am what I like to refer to as a risk adverse dreamer. Which simply means I spend a lot of time standing at the edge of precipices wishing I could be more brave. Its not to say I haven’t had incredible adventures, I’ve just needed a little push, a firm shove, or a momentary loss of balance, to experience the same free fall as every kid that jumped off the diving board that day without wondering first if maybe they might die.
If my wife had been at the pool that day she would have also forgone the high dive. Not because she is afraid, she just thinks public pools are disgusting and nothing good can come from having someone else’s pee or used bandaid in your mouth. My wife is one of those people who can jump when she wants to and I find myself often clutching her hand as she grins at me, whilst pulling me into my own dreams.
So its not surprising that I felt such an instant connection to the baby bird that struggled to fly. I don’t know if on the big day as it was standing on its own diving board, it contemplated mortality before it fell, or if it was pushed, or if it simply just gave it a red hot go before pulling up short in technique. I just know as far as flying goes, it wasn’t great. Sitting on the ground, a ball of dusty fluff whilst the other little bird appeared to be doing exactly what it was designed to do. Flying in and out of the shed, out into the expanse of sky and finding its way back to the nest, where it would triumphantly perch, its tiny claws as solid footing. So I named them Frances and Danielle. Or Frannie and Danny for short. Frannie was a tribute to my own middle name and Danny a tribute to my wife’s.
Over the next few days Frannie had many hard hits, walls (which she hit then slid down), rafters (she got stuck in) and a tight spot behind the nest that had her mum flying frantically up and down trying to show her how to manoeuvre out. Like a true avoidant, Frances was still there two days later. I tried not to intervene. I know as a human I could do more harm than good, so we set about a passive solution. We built a safety hammock. Using an old dog bed and two work horses we constructed a little fireman’s catch. I stood by anxiously and waited, the dog bed filled up with bird droppings and feathers but as far as I could tell no casualties. In swallow time, Frannie was almost a teenager.
The impossible world and impossible shame every teenager feels must be a short, sharp time for birds. Mine felt like an eternity. Where was the ease everyone seemed to find in being alive? I was always embarrassed and always overflowing with shame. I often wanted to find a dark hole to crawl into. Cupboard's were my favourite. They were small, dark and had doors that hardly ever locked. The perfect place to hide when I couldn’t breathe. (A concerned mother rang mine to come pick me up from a girls sleep over when she found me curled inside the bottom of her daughters pink dressing gown, which was still hanging in a bedroom cupboard.) My wife in contrast, sung in bands, rode bmx bikes and fought hard for lost causes. She was a teenager on the fringes with incredibly heavy burdens of her own but our way of dealing with it meant back then we probably wouldn’t have been friends.
We often have huntsman spiders that hang out in the shed. They are large, hand sized brown spiders with hairy legs and terrifying pincers. Mostly they are harmless (just once I’ve been charged at with fangs out by un unhinged huntsman that thought a fight was a good idea), mostly we just co-exist in our shared spaces, the huntsman’s keeping the smaller more dangerous spiders down to a reasonable count. But they will eat a small bird, given the chance. Frannie was exceptionally small and perched on the back wall, resting before she found herself in a bit of spider trouble. She had spent quite a long time on a folded tarp on the floor, just hanging out whilst Danny did some showey laps around the roof, before finding the gusto to fly in an upwards motion. Now she was up, she really didn't want to come down. The spiders came from both underneath and above. It wasn’t clear whether they both saw a solo opportunity or if they had banded together to improve their chances but either way, it was bad news for Frannie. Danny had joined Frannie in a show of support and her parents were both freaking out appropriately, flying in circles to convince her to fly away. Fly Frannie, please be brave and fly. When it was clear that Frannie was not yet ready for bravery, I climbed up a ladder with a long stick and poked at the spiders. When she saw my stick coming, Frannie took to the sky! Then crash landed spectacularly onto the floor.
In my early 20’s I found a badge. A small, round, orange badge with a silhouette of a swallow painted on the front. I took the design to a tattoo artist and had two swallows tattooed onto the inside of my upper arm. My wife, who was my girlfriend back then, would trace it with her fingertip. “What does it mean for you?” She would ask. I didn’t know.
She has a swallow tattooed on the back of her neck, a tribute to her dad who has a swallow tattooed on his bicep. Together we had a flock of sorts.
Frances and Danielle’s parents left the nest before them. Frannie got much better at flying and her and Danny were both spending hours flying every day. Leaving at sunrise and returning at sunset, the routine was steadfast. For a while it was all four birds, little back triangles sweeping across the sky as the sun set. Then one day it was just two who returned. At night I would sneak up to the shed with my torch and wish them sweet dreams. Always mooshed together, their fluffy chests dropping baby dander as they huddled.
My wife was calling to me, yelling for me to hurry. I ran outside and followed her hand up into the sky. Above us were hundreds of swallows, a giant flock, moving together in a fluid motion, a dipping and rising. I assumed Frances and Danielle were amongst them, I assumed this was them saying goodbye. It was the end of February, the time when they were most likely to find others and migrate up North. I cried that night, a simultaneous feeling of bereavement and pride. The kids were growing up.
A man, in his 60’s followed me down the street when I was in my 30’s. He pointed to my arm and licked his bottom lip. “So” he said, “what is it then? Do you spit? Or do you SWALLOW?” He thought he was hilarious. I placed my hand over my tattoo protectively. I didn’t know what it meant, but it didn’t mean that.
The night after the swallows had flocked I returned to the shed with my torch. I was planning on saying sweet dreams into the empty night air but instead I found Frannie and Danny sitting on a rafter, like always. They had stayed. Maybe it wasn’t the flock leaving after all, maybe they were just socialising in a really large group. Or maybe they have ‘Swallow Chicken.’ Swallow chicken is the name given to swallows who are too scared to migrate. Instead they wait out the cooler season for the flock to return. Danny was here too though. Oh no, I thought. Please be brave Frannie.
The Welcome swallow was given its name by Sailors out at sea. Often building their mud nests on sea cliffs, they caught their food whilst in motion, flying above the water. To see a welcome swallow flying above you, meant land was not far away. A sailor tattoos a welcome swallow to his chest as a marker that he is never far from home.
It’s early evening and I am waiting for the swallows to return. I look up at the fading summer sky and check my watch. 8:36pm, they’re late.
Then just like that, two little black shapes appear in the sky and swoop down past me. They duck under the eve and disappear up into the rafters.
My wife was not as surprised as me to find out the swallows had stayed. They still have time, as the nights are still short and warm.
She traces her finger tip around my tattoo. “Do you find it funny” she says “that you had Frannie and Danny tattooed?” “Yes” I smile, “actually I do.”
Comments
Post a Comment