S is for Skylark

I have a soft spot in my heart for birds. The birds know this, so they stop by pretty regularly for the old bread and stale Cheerios I often throw out on the grass in the backyard.

I'm not sure my husband is so thrilled about the way I toss food around, but I love watching the robins and sparrows and the occasional blue jays and cardinals as they enjoy their snacks. The birds and I have a deal: I feed them, and they sing for me. That's fair, right? There are few sounds I enjoy more than birdsong, especially early in the morning.

Dana and the Skylark, circa 1994
I believe this picture was taken the day I bought the car.

But this post is about one bird in particular: the skylark. Or, rather, it's not. Because as much as I enjoy birds--and the skylark, although I've never seen one, seems like a nice one--this post is about another favorite skylark: my 1990 Buick Skylark, to be exact.

The Skylark was my first car. I bought it when I was in graduate school in 1994. Up until that point, I'd either walked everywhere or bummed rides from friends, so owning this car meant I finally had some real freedom. I drove everywhere, even to places I could have walked to, and I appointed myself the Official Driver for all Graduate School Students in English. (Okay, I didn't do that. But I did drive everyone to Hardee's once.)

I loved that car. It was a blue, four-door sedan with only the tiniest bit of rust, and I drove it until it just about fell apart. The day I traded it in for my second car, a 1995 Buick Century (yes, I see a pattern here!) was a sad, sad day. I have pictures of that moment as well, but let's concentrate on happy things, shall we?

All these years later, I still think about that car. I guess the memory of any first in life is important--even if it is just a vehicle.


What was your first car? Did it have any special meaning for you?

Chatter and song

Today's 100 words:

The birds must be holding some kind of caucus this morning. Their chatter is loud and insistent, and I love to imagine that they're hosting a public forum or city council meeting and discussing important things: no fly zones, the empty nest law, speeding, flying without a license, the dangers of drunken flying... As a teenager, I can remember being so annoyed by the birds: How dare they interrupt my sleep! Now, though, well out of my teens, I can appreciate them for their beauty and their song. And I can imagine that maybe sometimes they sing just for me.

"The beautiful vagabonds..."*

A good friend of mine said this morning that she prefers not to open her windows because the sound of birdsong drives her "absolutely insane." I love listening to birds sing. The sound reminds me of home, of growing up in a rural area, of air free from smog and peacefulness unbroken by the thumping bass emanating from a teenager's car or the raucous, often drunken laughter coming from the too-close neighbor's summer party. It's funny that my friend mentioned her dislike for birdsong today, as yesterday I wrote my 100 words on how much I've always enjoyed listening to birds:

 

The birds are active this morning, chatting and chirping outside my window as I type, and they remind me of growing up in Michigan, especially the summers, and how I would often wake up early, then stay in my bed reading for hours, listening as the birds called to one another, background music to the story that unfolded in my book and in my mind. My heart is happy to hear these birds today, as I live in a large city now, where nature is so often drowned out by sirens, by airplanes, by traffic, by music blasting from cars.

 

*John Burroughs, US essayist and naturalist