A wing and a prayer on Hamilton’s beach strip

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Posted with permission from the Hamilton Spectator
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Hamilton Spectator
By James S Howlett
Apr 14, 2016


In May of 1988 my wife, Carol, answered a knock at our front door, which is not far from where the Hamilton Beach Waterfront Trail is today.

Standing outside were two little girls, about five or six years old, whom she recognized immediately as the daughters of Captain Bob and his wife, Cheryl, who lived a couple of doors over. They were carrying a cardboard box. The lid was closed but there was a distinct scratching coming from the box. With wide sober eyes, they solemnly asked Carol if they could see me about what was inside. Coming to the front door, I brought them into the kitchen, opened the mysterious container and discovered a herring gull inside with a broken wing.

Gulls often hit the hydro wires high over the beach while riding wind currents in the dark. A wretched passing usually awaits them if they survive the fall to the ground. Once there, predators of one kind or another finish them off or they starve. I had fixed these girls' bikes on a couple of occasions and they girls reasoned between them with the logic of the young that I could fix broken birds, too.

I looked at Carol with a helpless "what else can I do" expression, and vowed that I would "fix" the bird as soon as I could. They could just leave it with me. Smiling, they left it behind, departing to the corner store for a Popsicle, both with a look that said, "All is now well in the world."

Now, a broken-winged herring gull is about the most worthless looking thing you can find on the beach strip, and I have used and heard of many ways of "helping" them out. But because of the love that these two girls had invested in this bird already, I knew somehow that I had to be an echo of their hearts in dealing with this particular critter. Innocence in children is so easily lost that Carol and I, naively perhaps, thought we would help them keep theirs as long as we could.

First, it was an eyedropper with a few drops of borrowed whisky from Eric the Artist, three houses down. Then, with the distressed bird oblivious to pain, I proceeded to wash its wound (single compound fracture), set its break (wince and put things where they looked like they should go), stitch the gash (needle and thread), medicate and splint the injury (Polysporin and Popsicle sticks from the two girls, now back from the store), and sling and immobilize the damaged limb (a lot of tape). I then told the girls we should leave the bird alone in the box with God, and see what happened. They left once more, innocence intact.

Next morning they arrived early to see the patient, and when we opened the lid, there was one badly hung over but fully alive seagull. After much wonder and appreciation, we force-fed him some bread and sugary milk with minced worm, then put him in our old claw foot bathtub with a few inches of water where he seemed relatively calm, bobbing around just like old times. A white-coated live rubber duckie. But how long, you might ask, did he stay there convalescing? Five full weeks … and whenever we needed to use the tub, we would carefully pick up the bird, place him in a box, clean the tub, use it ourselves, drain and fill the tub once more, then place the patient back in his (her?) sanctuary. Like you do.

When the big day finally arrived, we gently unbandaged him and set him on the kitchen floor, where we had been letting him roam around a bit each day as he neared his release. He walked, and hopped around a bit, and soon, hopped out the back door, occasionally giving a flap or two in sync with his hops. Half an hour later, he was onto our girls' swing set, but he was still pretty clumsy so we brought him in for the night.

The next day, after about an hour in the yard, the bird finally got it all together and made it up to a branch on our maple tree, then strangely, sat there just looking at us. Captain Bob and Cheryl's two girls had returned and the four of us just looked back at the bird. Then with a hesitant flutter, he jumped off and flew into the park behind us and out over the lake. Somewhat awkward, but fully airborne!

Over the next few summers the girls, and their friends, brought us more "patients", and we always complied with their requests until one summer, thankfully, the girls stopped bringing us broken birds and our house ceased to be a beachside veterinary hospital. But Carol and I never forgot the beauty of those moments when love was invested into what seemed to be utterly worthless and then, gloriously, everything turned out to be better than it ever was before. Isn't that how things should be?



James S. Howlett lives in Hamilton and can be heard occasionally on Hopestreamradio.com


http://www.thespec.com/opinion-story/6495118-a-wing-and-a-prayer-on-hamilton-s-beach-strip/
 
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