A woman's fancy turns to birds and flowers

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

I don't know when the birds became important. Knowing their names and their sounds. And the garden. Working it. Growing it.

Once upon a spring, it was all about the boys, chasing them away through most of grade school, first, second, third, fourth, and fifth grade, then suddenly, one day, reversing the game and running after them. Lilacs enclosed my old schoolyard, huge hedges of them that were taller than the tallest sixth-grader. And every May they perfumed the air in our stuffy, overcrowded classroom.

But the lilacs, lush as they were, were like the sun and the sky and the ground beneath us, like our youth and our energy and our strong, sturdy legs. We noticed them. But we didn't revere them. We weren't stopped dead in our tracks by their once-a-year abundance or by their dark, purple color or their sweet, heady fragrance. We - Rosemary, Janet, Diane, and I - inhaled the scent of them and broke off a branch now and then to take home and give to our mothers. But we were far too busy thinking about Leo MacNamara and Stanley Burwell and what we would wear to the next Devine School dance to impress them than to marvel at lilacs.

Same thing with the birds. There must have been dozens of them tweeting away, all the years I was young. Robins. Blue jays. Blackbirds. Cardinals. There were trees behind my house and trees beside my house and woods not far away. And no air conditioning or closed windows to mute their songs. But I don't remember ever waking up when I was 12 and 14 and 16 and thinking, "Wow. I wonder what bird is making that `cherily, cheriup, cheerio, cheeriup' sound." Then rushing to a book to find out. I woke up thinking, I wish I didn't have to wear a uniform. I hate my hair. I wish I looked like Natalie Wood. I wonder if this will be the day that John W. will notice me. Maybe in the cafeteria. Or maybe when I walk by his locker. Or maybe there will be a fire drill and we'll all be outside and he'll look across the parking lot and catch my eye and he'll know in that instant that I'm the one for him. (Again, it was the Natalie Wood thing. Tony seeing Maria for the first time in "West Side Story.")

Big Bird singing "Sunny days" at my window wouldn't have stood a chance back then. I wrote John's name over and over - his name, then Chuck's, then Tom's - (I was fanciful and fickle) in perfect cursive swirls, in so many lined notebooks, freshman year, sophomore year, junior year. Now what I write over and over in notebooks and on scraps of paper and on anything I can find are facts about plants: "Lungwort - perennial, beautiful prefers moist soil." "Sweet pea vine - a robust, herbaceous climber; blooms from July until frost." "Clematis - needs mulch to keep its roots cool. And the names of birds whose songs I am trying to learn. Rose-breasted grosbeak. Mourning dove. Yellow warbler.

Once upon a spring it was all about Friday and Saturday nights. Dates. Dances. Parties. Open houses. And who was going with whom. Now it's all about the garden. When's the best time to weed (after rain) and prune (now) and divide perennials (in the fall). And whether purple heliotrope goes with yellow coreopsis.

My mother had a rock garden. I thought she was crazy. She worked full time. She took care of the house. What was she doing all those spring and summer nights, in the dirt, planting things and pulling weeds? I didn't understand. Why does anyone want to be in the dirt, digging and listening to the birds?

Once upon a spring, it was all about the boys, chasing them away. Then suddenly, one day, it was about running after them. Once upon a spring, it wasn't about gardens and birds at all. And now it is. And who really knows why.