“Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird” – Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats
Dad felt a deep kinship with nature and was very close to his feathered friends and squirrels. He would would head out donned in robe and cap early in the morning, even on the most frigid -50C windchill days, to feed the “little blighters” (a term used by his Dad/my Grandpa Davies- affectionately, of course!).
The outdoor birds in the area relied on him for sustenance, particularly when times were lean during winter, often watching for him nearby, quietly, ready to descend when the seeds were refilled. (Occasionally birds/squirrels would peer inside the living room window rather pointedly if the stash was getting low.) He relied just as much on them, a tether to the wild world within the urban landscape, a constant reminder of nature’s pure and rugged beauty. Always prepared for an encounter, his pockets would often have peanuts for the squirrels and jay, and he’d always affectionately offer a peanut to me whenever he stopped by for a visit, a simple gesture which I would always pass along to our appreciative magpies.
By extension, he also loved owls. The symbolism was naturally attractive – wise, deep, powerful, and (clearly intimated) well-read. A perfect fit with All That is Dad. He collected a few special owl momentos over the years, some of which he kept above his desk. (His study is a veritable feast for the senses, and will have to be examined more closely at some point later.)
As Jason and I associated everyone in the family with an animal (a beautiful tradition started by Jason’s late father; that’s another post in time), we affectionately referred to him as “Grey Owl” over the years, short for the “Great Grey Owl”. The Great Grey is largest owl in the world by length, and one of the most dapper and magnificent (and wisest looking) owls – a perfect fit. I was so excited to find an outside statue of an owl reading in 2019 for Father’s Day- and it looked just like Dad reading!
(When searching for a picture of the reading owl below, I was struck by this photo below on Mom’s iPad. The hummingbird beside reminds me of a Seals and Crofts song Dad was drawn to in his last year of life and went out of his way to share multiple versions with me. Its haunting refrain resonates especially now: “Hummingbird don’t fly away, fly away. Hummingbird don’t fly away, fly away”)
On July 29, 2024, the family been called in to ICU. It was one of those horrific, dreaded calls, during those terrible early morning hours when there are no good calls.
Afterwards, our hearts and lives fractured, we made it home in that surreal dissociated trauma state, and as soon as we stepped out of the van we were greeted by a tiny grey feather. It was perfectly placed, but very distinct, the dark grey juxtaposed against the light concrete driveway. The symbolism was far too much to ignore; Dad had transcended and taken flight.
As we stood in utter shock and tears staring, a light wind lifted it gently and it slowly blew into the garage. It led us in. We we followed it, and then gathered the strength to go inside, entering the house for the first time in a world no longer with him in it. (Feather below; this past week I collected it in a bag, in a prescient moment before an accident in the garage. The bag is similar to the feather he had collected and shared with me years ago.)
Epilogue:
A few days later, while working out Celebration of Life arrangements, we learned of the beautiful urn Dad had chosen to house his remains. It is titled “Take Flight”:
