Laura Erickson’s For the Birds

My house on Peabody Street was originally a one-story bungalow, but during the Depression, a large family living here put in dormers and built three small bedrooms in the attic—we dated the construction by the old newspapers used for much of the insulation up there. There was a fourth, incredibly tiny room at the stair landing, its plywood door only 18 inches wide and barely 5 feet high. We originally used it as a storage space for our Christmas decorations, but before us, some kids apparently used it as a clubhouse. While rooting around in there in the early 80s, we found a crevice between the baseboard and beaverboard wall with a piece of folded up, yellowed notebook paper reading:

Pledge

I hereby promise
not to tell anybody
about our secret club.
If any body should
tell they will get
the supreme penalty.

Three children signed with their initials. Russ and I got a big kick out of this and kept the note on our family bulletin board for years.

Keeping secrets must be a fundamental human impulse—my very first memory involves a big secret. My grandmother died of breast cancer in 1953 when I was not yet two years old, but I’ve had a lifelong vivid memory of a secret between us. I remember climbing up the steep concrete front porch steps by myself even though I was rather small for my age. When my Grandpa opened the door, he and my parents would talk in hushed voices as I ran through the entryway and living room, around a corner, and into the bedroom where my Grandma was lying very still in bed. I’d stand at the bedside trying not to disturb her, but the moment she opened her eyes and saw me, her face would break out into a huge, soul-nurturing smile.

I was forbidden to climb into the bed—everyone was afraid I’d hurt her—but she told me she needed me to climb up and lift her arms to help her hug me. Her radical mastectomies left her arms limp and heavy, but I remember her hands were gentle and loving. She told me we had to keep this a secret or they wouldn’t let me into her room anymore, so I never breathed a word about this to anyone. Even after she died, it never occurred to me to divulge the secret until long after I was an adult.

After she died, my dad and aunts put every photo of her away at my Grandpa’s house—they said the reminders would make him too sad—so I can’t remember seeing any pictures of her when I was growing up. But one day when I was in my early 40s, a letter arrived from Connecticut from a name I didn’t recognize. When I opened it, something fell to the floor—a photograph—and the moment I saw it, I started crying uncontrollably. I instantly recognized my Grandma’s warm, loving smile. The letter was from one of my dad’s cousins who’d kept in touch with my aunts, so she knew that her beloved Aunt Laura had a granddaughter named Laura who’d written a book about birds. When she came across For the Birds in a bookshop, she saw the resemblance, tracked down my address, and sent me my grandma’s photo—still one of my favorite possessions.

When I next saw my aunts, I told them about the letter, recognizing Grandma’s smile, and about our secret. They said this was all impossible—I was just a baby when she died. They were floored when I told them exactly what room in the house she’d been in and how the bed was situated.

That secret between me and my grandma feels sacred to me, which is probably why I never used to feel concerned about secrets in other contexts. Many birds keep secrets or at least are secretive in many of their habits—their lives and the survival of their nests and young depend on it. Most of us keep birthday and holiday present secrets, adults keep some secrets from their children, and families keep secrets from outsiders. Some of these secrets are a matter of privacy, but some are much more insidious. Next time I’ll talk about the kinds of secrets that endanger birds, the environment, and human beings.