The Coffee Table

If wishes were woodpeckers

Before my husband, Kirk, died, we had become what he referred to as “old people bird watchers.” Long ago we would have thought this fate humorous and unlikely, but in the last decade we kept bird books and binoculars close at hand. We set up feeders in multiple places around the yard, with our finest avian eatery on the balcony adjoining our dining room.

We got to know all the regulars pretty well; cardinals, titmice, chickadees and woodpeckers—both Downy and Red Bellied. Occasionally we’d get a flicker, rose-breasted grosbeak or a Painted bunting and laugh at how easily amused we’d become. And oh, that one spring when the orioles spent a week or two at the Old People Diner, we were beside ourselves with excitement, absolutely floored by their brilliant orange plumage. We took pictures that we sent our children, as if they needed to be reminded we were well past our prime.

There was one bird that eluded us—the Pileated woodpecker. We knew he was around because we’d heard his distinct call in the woods behind our house. According to my spouse (my personal Audubon guide) the Red-bellied woodpecker and the Pileated woodpecker shared the same general territory but refused to eat at the same restaurant. However, a month or so before my darling’s passing, I caught glimpses of a Pileated woodpecker attempting to peck at the suet feeders on the balcony and in the front yard—but never more than a few seconds. Kirk always missed it. I would whisper and gesture for him to come—but he always arrived at the window a split second too late.

The morning after Kirk died, the Pileated woodpecker showed up on the balcony. He stayed for at least five minutes, pecking at the suet feeder and keeping an eye on me. He came back later in the day, and again let me watch. I named him Kirky Woodpecker. 

The next morning, I was talking to my late husband over morning coffee (as is still my habit) telling him how I wish he would come back but I realized he couldn’t—so I wouldn’t mind seeing Kirky Woodpecker in his stead.  And lo— two minutes later, there was the Pileated fellow on the balcony. And again, he stayed.

Now, I was raised to think logically, pay attention to science, and not put a lot of stock in what can’t be proven. But when my Pop closed the door to irrational thought, he opened the window to possibility. “Anything is possible.”

“That door can’t talk!” I countered pointing at the entrance to my little girl bedroom. Pop said, in essence, “We don’t know—yet. Keep an open mind.”  He understood things could and would happen that people never dreamed were possible. Sailing around the world without falling off. Electricity. The airplane. A trip to the moon. He would have marveled at the ubiquity of smart phones.

A few days ago, as my daughter was leaving my house, she said, “I love you,” and I shouted out the door, “I love you, too.” Then I thought better of it, ran out the door, hugged the stuffing out of her and said, “I don’t just love you, I count on you, always…” As we stood there in firm embrace on the front deck, a Pileated woodpecker called out. We couldn’t see him but heard him plain as day. 

And we couldn’t help but think… well, you know.