I do not like birds. They have beady little eyes and ugly little feet and those toes – ugh. I don’t care about how feathers are colorful, nor about sweet little nests filled with eggs. Truth is I am about halfway afraid of birds. Blame it on Alfred Hitchcock.
While I worked at East Franklin Elementary School, in ancient times before shooters, SROs, [School Resource Officers] or air conditioning, I kept the door that went to the outside, along with all the windows in my classroom, open, trying to catch a breeze. And, as sure as I sit here, a dad-blamed bird flew into the room.
I immediately stepped into the hall and watched through the window in the door as the bird swooped back and forth and my little children ducked in unison with each flyover. My hero, Principal G.R. Pattillo, came with a broom and ushered it out.
Another East Franklin instance resulting in a quick reaction was when a papier-mâché balloon began collapsing and made a bird like noise. After screaming, “It’s a bird,” I hit the deck much to the amazement of my colleagues. It is just a natural reflex I chose not to control.
Occasionally, some diabolical bird manages to gain entrance to our screened-in porch. How that happens is a mystery to me. It must come through the doggy door. In such a case, I bravely open both exits and hope it finds its way out. Or, I wait until my beloved Walter C. Hunter, who, by the way, is not very sympathetic about a bird phobia, manages to usher it out.
And, now, a bird has built a nest in the absolutely worthless newspaper slot in our mailbox. Worthless, seeing as how The Asheville Citizen-Times no longer delivers – but it is obviously perfect for a mama bird.
So, when I pull up to the mailbox and put down the car window from force of habit, even though I know better, there is now a distinct possibility the bird may fly straight into my car. If you hear of an untimely death on Jacobs Branch, you’ll know the bird got ‘er done.