The other day, a delivery man for the cabinet company showed up at our house with a replacement cabinet door and a 70’s style retro t (font and illustration quality) that read “I ‘heart’ birdwatching”. Seemed weird. The guy had white-guy dreads and facial piercings; I doubted he had a pocket Peterson’s with him, small-minded as that is. And the illustration wasn’t what one would expect either, hands clamped on old-tyme binoculars and bugging eyes where the lenses should have been.
I told my contractor, and he blanched. “Uhm, Janet, I think you’d be better off googling it.” So I did. Let’s say two things about what I learned. It doesn’t involve any Peterson’s guide, and judging by his appearance, the delivery man doesn’t get to do much of it.
So, I really hope this title isn’t a euphemism for something foul.
In an effort to escape the Boston-like heat and humidity we’re experiencing in Seattle, I took Ben to a mall with indoor play areas. He likes to climb and jump, and he likes to be around other children, so we made our way from the sweltering parking garage to one area where there is a foam tugboat and padded flooring.
I unbuckled Ben from the stroller, and began taking off his little sandals. (He holds onto Mama’s head to ensure his balance.) Sandals off. I raised my head to look at him, and hold him before he ran to the boat. One hand on his chest, one on his upper back. And that’s when I realized I had caught the hummingbird – it was leaping in his chest, its little pounding wings meeting my hands.
I felt my eyes go soft, and said “Let’s go!”, dropping my hands.
Ben and the hummingbird leapt together into the air, across the cool water, and into the boat.