Parking It with Antsy McClain

Storm Birds
All it takes is one bird to show us the storm may not be all that bad after all.

Yesterday was a particularly dreary Sunday morning here in Pine View Heights. A deep thunder clap woke me from sleep like the cough of God in my ear. Rain was clattering across the window panes in gusts. I pulled on my bathrobe, shoved my feet into a pair of slippers and went to sit in my favorite old ugly yellow chair in my studio. I closed the blinds against the grey onslaught of the winter weather outside. The backyard was littered with debris, both natural (twigs and branches) and man made (trash can lids, milk cartons and pizza boxes) that made it look like the beginnings of a landfill. I would spend my afternoon cleaning it all up once the rain and strong winds passed.

I sat there with my back to the window trying to get excited about life and the day ahead, when I heard a faint but beautiful sound. It sounded like chirping. Could that really be chirping? A bird singing in this weather? You have got to be kidding. What bird in their right mind would be out in the middle of a cold, winter rain storm singing as if they were heralding in the first day of Spring?

I had to open the blinds to find out. Sure enough, on a fence post in our back yard stood a small, brownish grey bird, not much to look at, but standing firmly amid diagonal rains and fierce winds, chirping clearly, succinctly, the happiest song I think I have ever heard. I’m not a bird expert, but it appeared that he truly was enjoying this. His throat moved with the happy warble of his song. He’d occasionally shake his head in a quick flit of his feathers, casting off the rain in a burst of light blue. He’d stop for a brief moment to survey his surroundings, and continue his song.

And then I noticed others. They were flying around, zooming across the grey sky and diving toward the soggy ground like they were oblivious to their surroundings. Or were they?

What makes some people storm weather singers when others just hide under a pile of warm blankets until the rain and thunder passes? I fear that I may be a fair weather singer, singing my heart out when everything’s going my way. Top of my lungs, baby. La la la laaaaa. But I’m the first to grumble when the clouds come.

I want to be more like my little friend out there, singing and bringing joy to people – whether it’s miserable or pleasant – warm or freezing cold. I want to do that for others because I know how this little bird changed my whole outlook with just a few notes of a song. If we can make others feel the same way during their own storms (the storms we all take turns enduring, by the way), maybe that’s our purpose in being here, or at least a part of our purpose.

All I know is I now have more hope in this day than I had before I heard the storm bird sing. I know I have more joy about life, despite the dreary conditions outside. I know I can smile bigger and feel deeper, all because a bird decided he was going to express joy no matter what the day brings. And I know that I have many storms yet to endure before my short life is over, so I need to decide now what my reaction will be when the weather changes.

I am reminded of an inspiring old man who lived across the street from us in Winchester, Kentucky. His name was T.L. Beckham, and he was a storm bird. When we moved in, he was our only neighbor to welcome us. Others were friendly enough. They waved or said hello, but it was Mr. Beckham who took the time to cross the street and get to know our names.

And he came bearing gifts. Every time.

Mr. Beckham was over 80 years old, long retired, a widower, but the busiest man I have ever met. He was up early, on the go all day, and home long after what the work-a-day world calls rush hour. When he visited with us, he never stayed long, maybe 20 minutes or so, saying he had to be off to visit an old friend in a nursing home, or take food to someone in need.

It wasn’t long before we learned of Mr. Beckham’s own storms and what he had been through. His wife had died several years earlier in a long, horrible battle with alzheimers. He had taken on the full responsibility of her care. Never letting her go to a hospital or nursing home, he had kept her there in the familiar surroundings of her own home until her death. He didn’t talk about those days much, but he said there wasn’t a lot of her left when she died. She slowly just slipped away from him. His attempts to bring her into reality, which seemed to work at first, were less effective as the disease took hold. In the end he had to feed her, keep her turned to avoid bedsores, bathe her and change her diapers. It was 24/7.

“It was for better or worse,” he said, “This was that ‘worse’ part, I guess, but I was happy to do it.”

I always took him at his word, but this time I had to ask him to clarify. “Happy?” I asked.

“Well, it was temporary,” he answered. “I knew that. We had a long happy life together. Most of it good. Raised three wonderful children. Nine grandchildren. All of them great blessings to us. I certainly was going to take care of her as long as I was able to. She would have done it for me. This was the deal we made, and I wasn’t about to let her down.”

With the help of his son who lived nearby, he moved her downstairs to the parlor, a room that had once been a gathering place for friends, a place of Bible study and gospel singing. (The Beckhams were devout churchgoers. When we met, one of the first things out of his mouth was to ask us if we belonged to a church – something I soon learned he asked of everyone upon meeting. Once he was assured we did, he seemed content and never brought the subject up again.)

It was his practice to visit all the local grocery stores and markets and gather up food they were throwing away, canned and boxed goods past their expiration dates, day-old pastries, bread or milk that to him seemed fine, a man who came of age during the Great Depression. He would then make his rounds and distribute the loot to folks in need. Or, like in our case, they became gifts to a young family that he had befriended.

We were recipients of Mr. Beckham’s generosity many times. He’d show up at the door with a couple of plastic grocery bags wound tightly around his purple hands. Most of the time he declined our offer to come in and sit a spell, saying he had other stops to make. Occasionally though, he would come in and go through the bag with us, telling us where he got each item. He’d hold up a long-expired, badly dented can of beets and say, “They were gonna throw this out. Can you believe that?” We’d shake our heads, sharing in his disgust, winking at each other as he rifled through the bag.

My wife is an expiration date vigilante unwilling to entertain the idea of using anything beyond it’s “use-by” date, so some of the food Mr. Beckham dropped off to us went straight to the trash can after he left. But it meant a lot that he was thinking about us, a young growing family, struggling to make ends meet on my self-employed artist’s salary.

Mr. Beckham was a man obviously dripping wet from exposure to his own life storms, and yet there he was, singing a contagious song of joy that got others around him to smile and, if even for a moment, play in the rain.

Sometimes when it seems all creation is bearing down on our heads, all it takes is one bird to show us that the storm may not be all that bad after all, that it’s just temporary, and tomorrow the sun is most surely going to shine again.

And when it does, they'll be singing just as joyfully for the privilege.

* * *

Postscript: After writing this, I was curious to know whatever happened to Mr. Beckham, as it has been many years since we lived in Winchester and he was in his early eighties when I knew him. I Googled him and found this obituary, a wonderful tribute to a life well lived:

Beckham
Theron L. "T.L." Beckham, 87, of Winchester, widower of Edith Marie Lyles Beckham, died Wednesday, April 5, 2006, at the Clark Regional Medical Center.

A native of Lancaster, S.C., he was the son of the late Samuel C. and Ada R. Beckham. He was raised in Darlington, S.C., where he was active in scouting for 11 years, attaining the rank of Eagle Scout with the Bronze Palm. He graduated from St. John's High School in 1935 and joined the Belk-Simpson Company in 1938.

He was an Army veteran of World War II and was stationed in Scotland, England, Africa and Italy. He attained the rank of staff sergeant and was awarded the Bronze Star.

Following his discharge in 1945, he returned to work with Belk-Simpson and moved to Winchester in Feb. 1946, becoming manager and part owner of Belk's Winchester store. He retired Jan. 1, 1985, with approximately 47 years of service.

He was involved in various civic organizations and activities, including serving as a past member of the chamber of commerce, Winchester Kiwanis Club, Winchester Lions Club and the Winchester Country Club. He served as chairman of commercial giving during the Clark County Hospital's fund-raising campaign.

He also served on the boards of Clark Regional Medical Center and Central Baptist Hospital, Lexington, and was a member of the school board for the former Winchester public school system. He was a member of Central Baptist Church for 60 years and served as Sunday school superintendent, a deacon, Sunday school teacher and a member of the choir.

Survivors include his twin brother, Leland W. Beckham of Darlington; two sons, Theron L. Jr., Pittsboro, Ind., and Stephen R. Beckham, Mt. Sterling; a daughter, Janice B. Frietag, Versailles; nine grandchildren, Beau S. and Laura Beckham, Louisville, Kyle S. and Ann Marye Beckham, Mt. Sterling, and Joshua P. McKay of Franklin, Ind., Allison B. and Art Kerschbaum, Lexington, Katherine M. McKay, Pittsboro, Ind., and Jessie S. McKay, Indianapolis, Ind., and two great-grandchildren, Hadley Marye Beckham and J. Harris Adams, Mt. Sterling.

Services were conducted Friday, April 7, at the Central Baptist Church by Dr. Art Beasley. Burial was in the Winchester Cemetery. Scobee Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.
Memorials may be made to the Central Baptist Church, 101 W. Lexington Ave., Winchester, KY 40391, or the Alzheimer's Foundation, 3703 Taylorsville Road, Suite 102, Louisville, KY 49220.