Exceptional A true story The Visitors by Mama Baer True Story Contest contest entry

Something darted through the air from behind the front corner of the house and registered in my left peripheral vision. It was mid-morning. Every time I sat at that desk, I vowed to buy a cushy chair one day and ditch the black stool. My head and attention turned to whatever just happened outside the window. The flowing, untrimmed branches on the backside of the weeping white pine softened the glare of the early summer sun as it climbed the sky. Writing in our home office sanctuary calmed me. Natural foliage camouflaged the entire view. I felt protected and safe. That day, though, the pine-bough beauties made it hard to determine the source of the movement I thought I saw. I sensed something again and pinned my eyes to one area of the tree. Seconds later, a tiny body whirred across my line of sight, then flitted behind the bough-laden trunk. “Come back!” I whisper-pleaded. “Let me get a closer look at you,” I begged a bit louder. Thankfully, the window was ajar, so it could hear me. Was it green? I leaned in above a framed photo on the desk. When I spotted the creature again, its entire delicate body air-drew the letter Z, zip-zip-zip, then beamed over and up before I could say “Star Trek.” The next day, I sat once more on the hard seat by the window. I took a break from my work to glance at the branches and smiled as I remembered the mid-morning companion of the day before. I wondered if my feathered friend had graced this spot earlier in the day and I’d missed it. Now, the window was shut tight—hot outside. I replayed snippets of yesterday’s visit. Within seconds, and from behind a swoopy arm of pine needles, it flew. This was not yesterday’s memory but instead happening in real time right through the glass. I wanted to think it was aware of me. The dainty bundle (green all right) darted again but toward me this time and stopped inches away. I could see its slight profile, toothpick beak, and beady eyes staring straight at me. Its wings I imagined with my mind’s eye. Hard to make out anything that flaps 70 times a second. I remembered how Grandma and Grandpa kept a supply of red-dyed sugar water handy to refill their plastic feeder every summer. Once in a blue moon, I was lucky enough to look at the exact right moment to see the blur of a tiny bird taking the quickest sip of the sugary drink before it whizzed off again into the wide world. I marveled at the sight. Fragile, mini beings, always on the go. But today, there it was, hovering. “You are looking right at me,” I conversed. Giddy now as it hung there, I laughed, “Do you have a message for me?” And then, as if in answer, it shot straight backward, turned, and was off again. The draw to this flying creature was magnetic and beckoned me to the office time and again to scan the backside of the pine tree again and again, always leaning in and over the same photo, the one of nine-year-old me with my sunhat and goofy smile sitting next to Dad, my arm draped around his neck. We were frozen in time, resting in the shade under the tree by the trail. I can tell you the exact date it was taken with Dad’s Polaroid: June 4, 1970, the day after our brother was born. While Mom and baby rested, Dad loaded my sister and me into our metallic blue station wagon and took us to his magnetic draw — the mountains. We spotted the hospital far below. Dad’s trailblazing boots, walking stick, and an arsenal of camp songs made me feel safe and in awe--of nature and him. That stick, the one etched with every trail name and number of ascents he completed, was his one earthly possession I asked to inherit. It rests against our office door frame; I rubbed it for luck. On cue, I spotted the little thing flit up, down, and around the tree. I was the sole witness to these now daily ariel wonderments. I thought of the air shows Dad took us to watch. He longed to be a pilot but was rejected from the Air Force thanks to bad eyesight. That did not deter his love nor countless hours spent constructing, flying, and displaying model aircraft. My favorite, the big blue one, hung above Dad’s workbench for years.   As summer drew on, I spent evenings in the shade of the patio and let the day’s cares melt into the wicker loveseat. Our backyard Zelkova was mature enough to block the neighbor’s picture window. It was a nice view; the stunning mountain range backdrop still donned small patches of winter snow. My eyes scanned the telephone pole in the back of the yard, and there, sitting on the top wire, was the tiniest speck of, wait, a bird? “Can someone grab the binoculars?” I Ioud-whispered, keeping my eye on the little speck as if staring down a spider while waiting for someone to hand me the swatter. This time, there were witnesses. Once equipped with field glasses, I flicked off the cover and peered through the lenses until I had the pole in frame. Scanning the magnified view, I located the cable, then slowly traced it to the left. There he was, my little green buddy. I stared and whispered “Hello” under my breath. To my utter joy, its left wing raised in greeting. “He just—waved—at me!” I squealed and passed the glasses around. I briefed my family about the daily window rendezvous. We all agreed. These were not simply random stopovers. And then, as if a giant lightbulb lit above our heads, a singular person jumped into our collective minds: Dad, our walking encyclopedia. Flora, fauna, film, he knew it. Early in his career, he was a communications instructor at the same university where I work. A history buff at heart, Dad also enjoyed delves into fiction. His unpublished Valentine Turtle books are legendary in our family. For decades, the doorbell would ring the evening of every February 14. Much to our glee and then his grandchildren’s, we were treated to surprises left by said turtle. Over the years, we, in turn, gifted him shelves full of turtles of every make, shape, and size. It wasn’t until shortly before he died that Dad matter-of-factly mentioned one day he didn’t even like turtles. We spotted our airborne visitor nearly every evening for the rest of that summer. We gathered on the patio furniture; he perched on the wire. Sometimes, when our conversation turned to flora, fauna, or film, that bird would zoom to our level, hang above the grape vines—listen—then whiz high above and back to his spot. It was uncanny and delightful. Summer ended, as did visits from our feathered friend. I’d hoped for my own little air show goodbye, but one day, he just didn’t come. Nor the next, nor the next. A lump formed in my throat when I realized he was gone for the year. Migration time for Ruby-Throated ones. I only knew this because, without Dad’s brain to pick about such things, Google was my quickest source. Fall settled in. A few Ginkgo leaves still clung to the tree outside my third-story window at work. I was deep into an anniversary project for our unit at the university. It was mid-October, and my assignment was to research the origin of a program that began decades earlier. I read stacks of reports and stopped short when I saw Dad’s name as one of the ground-floor organizers staring up at me from the paper. Incredulous, I phoned Mom, our family recordkeeper extraordinaire. “Mom,” I asked a little too enthusiastically, “was Dad involved with the SHINE program?” “Involved?” she laughed. “Your dad practically started the whole thing!” Helper that she is, Mom told me she would sort through the files, Dad’s old files, keepsakes from his retirement. Within days, Mom called to report she found a gold mine (my words, not hers). I completely understood her hesitation to loan them to me but promised they would be carefully scanned and returned within the week. Next day, I tucked the large folder in my bag and headed to work, eager to share my findings. Hannah, our comms director for the event, could not believe our good fortune. There were memos, reports, and memorabilia, most of them decades old. Wanting to honor Mom’s wishes, Hannah took the thick folder with reverential care to the office scanner. An hour later, the folder was back with the precious contents Dad saved now digitized into the present. I pushed away from my desk and contemplated this full-circle turn of events. Dad would have liked to know he would be honored and extolled as a major contributor to the successful now thirty-year-old SHINE program. I turned and walked to the window. Yellow Ginkgo leaves hitched rides on the autumn breeze and fluttered to piles three stories below. I followed one all the way down when something darted from behind the southeast corner of the building and registered in my right peripheral vision. Startled, my hands grabbed the dark wood on my office windowsill. It couldn’t be! There, inches from the windowpane, hovered a hummingbird, this time grey and black. It stared at me. I froze. I need to grab my phone and record this, I thought. My family would not believe it! My phone was out of reach, and I could not let this new friend out of my sight. I would just bask in this tiny miracle. The lump in my throat brought a surge of awe and renewed wonder, and I quietly mouthed, “Hello to you, Dad.” Seconds later, it caught a tailwind and was gone. After I pinched myself to reality, Google taught me my newest caller was from the Black-chinned species. How fitting, I smiled. A vintage look. I was ecstatic and numb. Too many just-right timings made it impossible not to believe that Dad — author, almanac, aerophile — orchestrated it all, and his messenger of choice was nothing close to reptilian.   Author Notes My dad was a creative. He loved nature, wonder, and surprises. He was quick to make you feel welcome and really listen. He knew everything, at least, in my mind. I have missed him terribly since his passing in 2020. I like to think he continues to find ways to surprise me. The SHINE program I refer to was a Student Housing Initiative at Brigham Young University in the early '80s. It involved freshman students living in the same dorms, taking classes as cohorts, and eating meals with faculty members. When I got my current job in the dean's office, I had no idea that Dad had been part of that program in the early days.

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