Jo-Ann Mapson

For the Birds

Saint Francis of Assisi is the patron of animals, but here at the Bird Treatment and Learning Center, he's a tiny hawk owl with a pin through his wing. He earned his name because his bald spot makes him resemble a feathered friar. Francis was probably hit by a car, which happens a lot in Alaska. All we know for sure is that he's making progress, he's got spirit, and when it comes to our room service, he's one satisfied customer, up to six thawed out mice a day.

In the short time I've worked at the center as a volunteer, I've been privy to a new world, one that I'd always wondered about. Bald eagles, baby ravens with faces only a mother could love, bratty magpies, featherless chickadees, newborn mallards, Canada geese, a geriatric blue jay, sparrows, and songbirds have all passed through. Some undergo surgery. Nearly all are doctored with antibiotics and homeopathic medicine. To watch a mended raptor be released into the wild is one of life's peak moments, but I haven't seen that yet. Birds that won't fly again, or have injuries too great for them to survive in the wild, generally go to facilities that need education birds. Francis won't be released. He'll earn his keep in demonstrations around the state, and that's not a bad life for an owl that might have died on the highway.

But he won't fly again.

I came to the TLC a year ago, strictly for research purposes, following Lynn Hallquist around and taking notes. This summer, I have a little window of time to volunteer. The novel I'm working on features a character whose love for birds goes beyond mere bird watching. For Beryl Anne, whose life has been one struggle after another, a bird is an emblem of hope. At a moment in her life when she saw no good reason to go on, a flock of wild parrots flew overhead, and just like that, she found her center in the sight of those brightly colored wings. I have trouble imagining such moments unless I know the turf. Finding the right detail to illuminate emotion takes more than simple book research. I've written entire chapters on airplanes, but when it comes to gathering material, entering the environment is likely to provide a surprisingly different authenticity.

I figured I'd spend a few hours a week here, catalogue the sights and sounds, wash bird dishes, and head back into my office with my notes and write the book. But the first day I worked here, Mary Bethe asked me to hold Saint Francis while she gave him his medicine, and I fell--harder than my character-in love with wild birds. It didn't matter that Francis's wing was covered in hot pink vet wrap, or that one of us pried his tiny beak open to feed him medicine, or even that he had mouse breath. Francis maintained his integrity, his separateness through every indignity we performed in his best interest. As I looked down at his pink bald spot, he looked up at me with fierce, golden eyes.

Every morning I head to the computer before I do anything else. Somehow that's when the startling writing arrives, in that one hour of grace before the phone rings. I write about birds and faith and surviving life that sometimes takes your head off like a car on the highway, except for Tuesday. Tuesdays are for the birds.

More later,
Jo-Ann

^Top