Mourning Doves and Forever Loves

MOURNING DOVES AND FOREVER LOVES ( A LEGACY STORY )

It was the signal. The warning. The absolute communication tool of my world. And yet, it wasn't until I was an adult that I knew how my mother came up with it. It had never failed to bring me home and make me aware of my limits and boundaries at home and in life. It was another way to know I was wanted . It was a whistle.

The sound of a mourning dove recreated by the special way my mother put her hands together and blew into the flexed thumbs slightly apart over her cupped hands. She could make that sound loud enough to reach my hearing two and three blocks from home. "Cooah, coo, coo,coo. That low throaty moan of the dove.

My generation was a different time than today with all of it's fears and monitoring. We could play outside the house until dark, and after about the age of six or seven I could go play up the street if accompanied by my sister three years older than me. Sometimes we could play later yet; chase fire flies (lightening bugs),play flashlight tag, and hide and seek late at night.

Learning that special sound took me all the way through my adolescent years. I had to master the technique, and it was something I taught my children as they grew up and tried to whistle. I would brag about the "special" whistle I used and could teach them. Always telling them the story of my mother's signal to bring us home as was a meaningful experience for me.

Fast forward life to 1998. Mother's health had failed to the point of knowing that her time on earth was coming to an end. Truly, she'd been "dying" for most of my adult years and had many close calls. My years of nursing taught me that there is an innate intelligence in people that lets them know when they are getting close to their passing. Often, the people who are more emotionally bonded to them seem to sense the impending change as well. Perhaps that explains how my sister, and I ended up at mom's at the same time one day. It had become rare for the three of us to be together as our schedules rarely meshed.

On this occasion my sister was doing her usual provocative talking and decided to talk about when she dies. She went into elaborate discourse on wanting a Mexican funeral and celebration. She said in Mexico they go to the cemetery and have a big party on the grave and drink and dance. This occurs on November 2, known as the Day of the Dead. In their belief system, there are three deaths when you die. First, the moment you cease to breath, have visual field and the heart stops. Second, when the body is placed into the grave and returned to "whence it came". Third and last, is when the thought or memory of living people thinks of you for the last time.

On The Day of the Dead, families have a reunion at the cemetery on the grave bringing baskets of food, bottles of tequila, and sometimes a mariachi band. In the homes there are alters to "lure" the souls back for a visit and incense is burned, foods are abundant and sometimes there is even a basin of water and a towel for the soul to freshen up before eating. A pack of cigarettes to relax with after the meal may even be left for the departed but expected soul.

The more my sister elaborated, the more my mother tried to act casual about it. Ignoring my sister's persistent references about her belief in reincarnation was the way mother supported her own belief that reincarnation beliefs were blasphemous. Mother didn't hold for one moment with the idea of contact after death. The life long competition between the two parties, my sister and mother, of trying to "get each others goats", kept mother from showing how truly annoyed she was. I think she was trying to preserve the moment of my sister and I being together, with her, in her bedroom; laying together on the bed ,all talking like we used to, would be something she wouldn't want to end.

The conversation did get to the point of my sister insisting we make the pact. We were to be sure and contact each other with some significant sign after death. It would have to be something that would identify us; be so particular to us that we would know it was from that person. We didn't know what, if any, methods were available. We heard people claim their deceased loved ones found ways; through flowers blooming in the winter, special music playing at special times, certain animals and birds appearing , etc.. Still, Mother didn't really commit. She didn't say anything negative about the plan , thus placating my sister. To her, mother,s silence indicated compliance with the plan.

The test of the pact would come sooner than we realized. Within that month, at the end of an exceptionally good weekend trip, mother returned home and had a major stroke. While plans were being made to bring her home from the hospital to all kinds of special home care, hospital bed, etc., she must have reasoned with God that she just wasn't the kind to do that. She had not remained independent recovering from some real close calls to end up an invalid. He took her home and arrangements were made to "let her go".

I can't begin to explain the level of exhaustion I was in when the end came. I just felt overwhelmed by the amount of energy it took to pick out the casket, make phone calls to relatives and deal with the inevitable family politics which always goes along with the transition of family when someone passes. I only know that I was not in the mood for any thing that wasn't a necessity to be dealt with and I didn't feel like I should have to "put up with anything" either. So when my sister's call came early the morning after the visitation, I was anything but receptive.

I woke to the shrill ring of the phone. So tired was I that it took some time to actually focus and realize this was the morning of mother's funeral. Who would be calling so early knowing I needed rest ? Who else but my sister.

She talked of the visitation last evening and pronounced in an almost giddy way, "well, she did it". "She made contact last night".

I took a deep breath and reminded myself she was in mourning too and we cope in different ways. She had always been so "magical minded and into the things of the supernatural" so I had truly expected her to claim a contact, but not this soon. I was feeling irritated and in my most condescending way I said, "Oh really?"

She continued undeterred. "It was when I left the funeral home to go to my car. I rounded the back of the car to the driver's side and there on an evergreen branch over my hood was a mourning dove. It just sat there staring at me. I couldn't believe it just sat there at that hour of the night. It made that cooing sound. You know the one mother used to use when she wanted us to come home".

My irritable nature just wouldn't let me accept it. Even though I admit to a certain momentary chill at the mention of her whistle and the reference to calling us home.

I mustered some compassion and said as politely as I could, "I am so glad she contacted you. I know it's what you wanted."

The police officer in her was not fooled. "Oh I know you don't believe me but it's true. It didn't even fly off when I opened the door and got in. Just sat there staring at me and cooing. I could have touched it as it was that close. I just wanted you to know so when she makes contact with you you'll tell me right away."

Would I ever get through that day, I wondered. It was emotionally traumatic and now I had to deal with handling her and not discouraging her. "I promise if she contacts me you will be the first to know."

I spent a little more time in the water bed just isolating until I had to get up and face the day. I went over the recent events and mentally organized the itinerary of the next few days. After the funeral we would fly her body to our home state for a second funeral for the family there. It would mean driving down about twelve hours then back. Ugh. I hate fast trips.

I knew my husband would be up and sitting in his recliner at the picture window in the living room. I couldn't wait to whine to him about my sister's call and whine about how it could have waited, and how she would always have to put the supernatural "spin" on things. He had heard me stirring and got me a cup of coffee ready. He put it on the window ledge at the opposite end of the picture window from where he sat and I headed to the wing back chair so we could enjoy our front yard view together.

The front yard was what "sold" me on the house. Huge trees, lots of shade and many birds, squirrels and rabbits to watch. My mother had loved coming there and always sat in the wing back chair and watched the birds and animals feed. She loved our yard as she had given up a big yard when they moved to their retirement housing. She especially loved the large feeding platform attached outside to the picture window ledge. All the sunflower seeds would spill over for the ground feeders and the area would teem with birds and squirrels fussing over the seed.

As I entered the room to be seated I was already muttering out loud about the inconsideration of my sister calling me so early and had barely uttered the words "and you won't believe what she says happened", when I was startled by something on the picture window ledge. There, sitting quietly in the corner of the outside frame was a lone mourning dove. As I entered the room it turned it's head and looked at me slightly ruffling it's feathers (an action usually reserved for winter when they are trying to manage their heat to combat the cold).

"Look", I exclaimed. "Look on the ledge".

My husband turned and looked unaffected. "Yeah, it's a mourning dove".

"I know" I replied sarcastically, "but that's what I was going to tell you about".

With his usual selective hearing he went on as though he hadn't heard me. "They don't usually come up on the window or that feeding platform. They're ground feeders".

"I know" I repeated more irritated than I intended, "I am trying to tell you about why I got this early morning call from your sister in law".

I went on to tell him about her call and how she had been all excited about "her sign" from mother. I groaned and moaned about how this was going to be a pain in the butt as she wouldn't drop it. All the time I was complaining, the mourning dove was watching the yard, occasionally tipping it's head side to side and cocking it in a questioning manner when it turned to look at me. I finally had to acknowledge it was odd that this morning of all mornings after years of feeding the birds, for the first time ever a mourning dove chose to sit on the ledge right where mom used to sit and watch the yard. The dove wasn't eating, just sitting and watching the yard. It was a little intimidating.

I talked with my husband about the significance of the mourning dove in the childhood of my sister and I and how that whistle brought us home and let us know we were to come no matter what we were doing. We were always glad to know mom was home to meet us and that we would be safe. We talked about the "pact" of recent time with mom and we girls, sitting on her bed talking about sending signs. My no nonsense husband smiled knowing how that would have gone over with my conservative mom like a lead balloon. But then he added, "Well, you know this is odd. And it definitely would be something you girls would connect to your mom". The anger at him mocking me caused me to bolt from the room and sulk the whole time I got ready to leave for the funeral.

Following the funeral we had some down time. Family was already departing at various times for our home state and the service that would take place there. I decided I would drive my father down in his car as he was tired and like his usual energizer bunny self, he was pushing the envelope and not sleeping. It was like he was in fast forward mode to get through this.

Dad wasn't ready when I arrived so I went next door to sit with the neighbors on their porch and give them contact information about reaching us when we were gone. As we talked I noticed a lone mourning dove wandering in the parking lot by our cars. I was just about to say something when the neighbor said, "Look at that. There's one of those mourning doves just walking in circles in your dad's parking lot. You don't usually see just one, like that. They travel in pairs all the time".

"That's because they mate for life", his wife contributed.

I began to relay to them the happenings concerning the doves since mother's passing. Knowing they were of the same no nonsense persuasion like my father when it came to religion I wasn't able to gauge how they would react so I presented it in a very matter of factly way. They listened intently then contributed that the American Indians believe that the spirits come back as birds and sometimes animals after death. They didn't really know if they believed it though.

When my dad finally came out to load the car the neighbor called to him and pointed out the dove still wandering around the lot and our cars. My dad rolled his eyes, shook his head and said, "these girls". (You have to realize if my sister did anything they considered wrong, it was never just her it was "the girls".)

With a twelve hour drive ahead, it was inevitable that the discussion would eventually happen regarding the doves. We processed it together and I sensed it was a calm discussion because he wanted to savor the possibility. But, eventually he lapsed into his rendering of many scriptures from the Bible that would make this totally unpalatable to him and explain why it could never happen. Though the emphatic exclusion of any possibility would normally have whetted my appetite to argue the point, I let it drop out of reverence for his mourning and feeling now was a time to bond, not argue.

The day of the funeral was stunning. The kind of day I'd always said I wanted for my own funeral. Perfect blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds which floated like small islands of cotton candy and housed, I am sure, many angels peeking down to watch the proceedings. No humidity, no wind, just calm and beautiful.

At the cemetery we gathered under the tent for the last words before the interment. The pastor had been coaxed on what to say since many of us would be a captive audience to hear at least one more time the words and beliefs of my parents and to have the chance to "get it right" before we died. The task was made easier by the fact the presiding pastor was a family relative who was also of the same strict faith of my parents.

I had elected not to sit under the tent as I had an uncle who did not handle funerals well. My mother's oldest brother had been estranged for most of the years of his twenties and thirties returning to the fold without altering his "habits" which had offended the more religious members. So naturally I wanted him to feel my support. I had walked to the edge of the gathering and put my arms around his waist and laid my head on his chest. With the blinding light of the beautiful day I had to close my light sensitive eyes and just focus on the words of the pastor. The bountiful sunlight beat down and I began to feel overheated. At last it was over and I just went back to the car.

At the family luncheon which followed I began to regroup after large amounts of iced tea. My sister brought up the doves and I decided to just let her present it and offered no input. Later, in the retelling of the event to my husband, he said I should have brought up the one at the burial. Confused, I asked him what he meant and he said, "the one in the evergreen tree by the tent." A little unsure, I said I hadn't seen one as I was with my uncle and had my eyes closed. He said it just sat on a branch and watched the service.

With the pomp and circumstances over, my husband and I made our way back home. My dad took his car and remained with his family in our home state for a few days. We decided to break up the trip by visiting friends on the way back. The couple knew my parents and she had worked in their office for them at one point. Being able to stay the night was a relief and we arrived at bedtime exhausted, so we went directly to bed.

Early the next morning I wandered downstairs in pursuit of the wonderful smells that were wafting up to our guest bedroom. The old Victorian house reflected the warm hospitality I knew would be awaiting me. It was done in beautiful colors with welcoming flowers, wildlife figures and bright morning sunshine flowed through the dining room bay window with it's inviting bench seating. I was caught up in the moment and in a attitude of blessed relief when I suddenly was catapulted into reality by my hostess loud salutation. "Hey, come here, I want you to see the new bird feeder Dave made me. It's really got 'em flocking in. And if you want to see something unusual, I've been watching this mourning dove run back and forth to the feeder, then up towards this window, then back again. And it's just one. Usually there is always a pair but I haven't seen another one."

It was like instant replay, like someone messing with my mind. I had intended to tell her about "mother-the mourning dove-the signs", but now I hesitated. She laughed at the sight in the yard and continued, "look how that dove keeps looking up here in the window like it expects something. Maybe it thinks there's more food coming or I should serve it.".

I inched toward the window and truly the bird was looking toward the big windows and appeared to be waiting for something. For me? Who knew? I just found my self launching into a detailed account of the "bird incidents" since mother's passing. I figured that being my friend would make her totally sympathetic to my mood and needs concerning the whole issue. Her laughter soon dispelled any expectations I had.

"Well it seems to me that your sister got her sign, your dad got his, your husband got his at the burial and now I'm getting mine. This is really cool. " She turned to the window and called out my mother's name. "Enjoy yourself". "David made the new feeding area, so I hope you stick around and enjoy it." She continued to chatter incessantly about the sign, the doves, what she would send as a sign when she died, and how funny it was that she was the first to go and ended up being the one to send the sign.

My husband and I returned home and time passed. Almost a year later I would drive this same crazy friend of mine to her hometown in another state when I went to my new grandson's baptism. My youngest daughter had been pregnant when mother died but never got to tell her. We assured her with all the esp my mother had, but denied, she undoubtedly knew about the baby without being formally told. Now the baby was here and I was going to the baptism in Ohio and would take my good friend who had not been back there in twenty years or more.

Driving eight and a half hours isn't bad unless you travel with a friend who knows every line of every song on the radio and sings it out loud and slightly off key. By the time we reached our hotel at almost nine p.m., I was about to lose it. We had held off eating supper so that we could unpack at the motel, eat in a leisurely fashion then go to bed and be rested in the morning for the ceremony. I also thought we might run into some of the family at the same motel as we had reserved a block of rooms.

Diabetics should never push the envelope by not eating on time because as the blood level drops and the insulin rises you tend to get really crabby. At the point we registered at the hotel I was so crabby I could have taken her eyeballs and stuffed them up her nose if she sang one more verse of one more song. All I wanted to do was get unpacked and eat and go to sleep. The last 100 miles had been rainy, foggy and dismal.

I registered us quickly being sure they accomodated us with the handicap room she would need. We were sharing a room on the ground floor and that accomodated both of us. I had told her to remain in the car until I could unload the first load and get the door open. True to form she was already out of the car when I got back with the key and was leading the way using her cane and dragging items with her. "Hey look up there" she called." There's your mom".

I looked up to the balcony across the courtyard beyond the fenced swimming pool thinking she'd seen my daughter up there and in her tired state had said mom instead of daughter. Seeing no one I asked her where to look. She directed my gaze with a hand gesture and a loud, "There". Looking in the direction of her pointing finger I saw a lone mourning dove sitting on the evergreen branch just outside the swimming pool fence. "There, on the branch. I can't believe it's out this hour of the night and sitting in the cold rain". She started laughing, "Guess she came for the party too".

My humor had failed me and I grumpily yelled at her to get over to the room and get the door open. I had more trips to make back and forth to the car, in the rain. I was tired, hungry, low blood sugar was plunging me toward insulin reaction and she was laughing and enjoying my discomfort. I deposited her in the room and went back for more. The dove remained, not moving. In and out , three trips and with each deposit in the room, she would laugh and ask me if "mom was still there?" I answered in a truly foul way and stomped in and out dramatically.

The fourth trip to the car for the last of the items I looked wairly at the dove. It remained still on the branch and just watched me. I loaded myself with everything so I wouldn't have to make another trip and wouldn't have to pass that dove again. I turned to go back in and suddenly either my low sugar reached a level of surrender or my need to reconnect with my mom overwhelmed me. "Mom, if that's your sign, or you, or however this works, thanks for coming. I really needed it and I am sure in time to come it will mean a lot to the family".

I continued on into the room and left the last of the items. Then, making an excuse I'd forgotten something, I went back out to see if the dove was still there. It was not. Having been acknowledged it had felt free to leave. Or at least that was how I chose to interpret it.

In the intervening years after my mother's death and before my sister's death, my sister spoke of odd appearances of a mourning dove, always alone, in various locations. Even on the window ledge of her eighth story apartment in the downtown city area it would peck on her window. It always conincided with times of need or distress in her life. She always believed firmly it was mother's way of signalling her that she was near and aware.

I guess for me mother provided a more permanant and daily reminder. I visited a "runaway" place in our city that is a tourist boutique sort of place. I have gone there for years when I just needed a break from stress. I eat lunch in one of the special tea rooms or deli places, wander in and out of small boutiques with hand crafted or imported items, and visit the artist outlets and galleries. One in particular is a wild life artist and has a really unique shoppe. I decided to go in there one of those particularly melancholy days. He was busy on the phone so I wandered looking at the prints, the framed pieces and then wandered in to where he sat.

He had a new painting spred before him that was about two thirds finished. It was of a winter sledding scene and I looked forward to the time I'd be able to see it for sale in the pricey shops of the area. I'd always feel it was special as I'd seen in in "creation" form. I could tell he was finishing his call so I wandered over to a cabinet with several unframed prints enclosed in plastic covers. Looking through them I was suddenly arrested by the sight of a painting of a mourning dove on the tip of a lone branch. It was sitting with ruffled feathers looking back just like the morning I had seen "mine" on the ledge of my picture window. I just stood staring and thinking about that day and how it had seemed so odd and special at the time.

The artist approached me and seeing the print in my hand he said, "You know that's got a special story with it." I turned and looked at him directly.

"Yeah, it's not the kind I usually do, I mean it's not like most wildlife pictures or scenes. But about a year ago I was sitting right at that window and painting. This dove landed on a branch and sat there just watching. Then it began tapping. This went on for a few days and the pecking on the window continued and I just had to paint it. People thought I was nuts because it wouldn't be a good seller, and they didn't like the way I painted it with it's feathers all ruffled up. But I felt like I should paint it like it was. As soon as I finished it, it left and never came back."

Speechless doesn't begin to address how I reacted. I did finally relate the stories to him and he really felt "connected" to the string of events. Some would say he just wanted to make a sale, but believe me, he didn't have to sell me. It was an instant connection when I saw it. Today it hangs in my livingroom to remind me of my mom and the mysteries of life and death.

The most recent "visit" was this last week. My dad had been ask to go to Brazil to fill in for a doctor who's Visa wouldn't arrive in time. At the age of 81 my dad still travels the world doing mission trips and teaching chiropractic. This substitution meant, however, that he would not be here to celebrate Father's Day in the traditional sense. I asked him to come by for a meal the Wednesday before and then we went out into the back yard to watch the two greyhounds entertain us.

After the dogs had run rampant for a while they went inside with my husband. Dad and I were alone in the yard. Perfect weather, bright blue sky with fluffy white clouds, not unlike the day mom was buried. I handed him a colorful gift bag with his father's day gifts inside. He grumbled as usual, "didn't need to" , "what's this stuff", and I ignored it as usual. The first thing he pulled out were papers rolled up and tied with a simple lavender ribbon. He unrolled it and began to read the Legacy Story I had written for him called "Birdie, Birdie in the sky; will you marry me?".

His reading of the story went on for some time and it was during this time we heard the sound. The signal. The cooah, coo, coo, coo. Sitting in the highest branch of one of the tallest trees in the yard was a lone mourning dove. She sat there repeating her familiar sounds as he read the story and while he opened his other gifts. He submitted to a picture of himself by the garden in his new father's day hat and shirt that says; "Property of my family-24/7 - 365." It seemed a poignant moment as we noted she had sat through the entire gift giving then suddenly was gone.

Sure, we can read things in to and out of anything. As I have had more encounters, heard more "bird" stories, had "signals" from my sister since her passing, I have come more to the point of believing you call it as you see it. Religious discussions aside, I am sure that if these are points of contact from beyond, they are loving gestures to remind us that it is because we are loved and they want us to know they await our coming. And I for one would never profess to know how God set this world up or the world that waits for us, but I do know it would be done in a loving and thoughtful manner with our welfare and good intent in mind.

When I have had a special moment with a mourning dove, I choose to believe it is because it is a sign of my Mother's forever love.