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8 Jun 2008 9:04 PM

ON SWALLOW'S WINGS

      The circumstances that had caused Ron Wilson to contemplate his seventy-seven years were the saddest of those years.  Ron's wife, Elizabeth, had passed away a few days after their fifty-second wedding anniversary.  The shock at the loss of his life-long friend, partner and loved companion shook Ron to the depth of his being.  The past two years, since that tragic time, were made a little easier to bear by the love of his daughter and her family, and from the help of his many friends who's understanding - that came from their own advanced years - had continued to be his support and encouragement.  These friendships had developed for both Elizabeth and Ron when they had left the farm, and settled into retirement in the coastal township near where the old couple's daughter, husband and two children lived.
      Ron Wilson had time to reflect on his life now that those around him had slowly, but surely withdrawn the concentrated attention, to run their own lives.  Ron understood, he often felt that the kind mindfulness of his friends was a little too much sometimes anyway, and although he did not want to lose contact with the people that had supported him, he felt better able to cope as the days passed.
      An old-school gentleman, honest, hardworking, sometimes a little intolerant of those that he considered fools, but always ready to offer good, sound advice if asked.  Ron felt that he may have been able to do some things a bit better if he had had his time over again, but he knew that wasn't possible, so he settled his conscience with the fact that he had done his best, no matter how things turned out.
      The Wilson's were of basic country stock.  Suzanne, the daughter and only child, was the pride and joy of her parents.  She was not spoilt; there was no time to indulge a child on the Wilson farm.  The healthy food, the comfortable cottage, an education that took Suzanne on to University to study medicine, and of course, the love from her parents, had made Suzanne feel the she was special, and very lucky in most ways.
      There were medical reasons why the Wilson's had only one child, but this was never discussed. Both Suzanne's parents did not want her feeling any guilt at being the reason that she had no brothers or sisters.  If ever the subject came up, Ron would tell the story of his father and the rabbit.  Ron's mother would sometimes suggest that they would have baked rabbit for dinner.  Ron, as a young boy, loved to go with his father wherever he went. 
      "You can carry the bullet, lad", his father would say.
      "One bullet?"  Ron was always amazed.
      "Well your mother only wants one rabbit" his father would answer.
      And then came the part that would explain Suzanne.
      "If ever you do something in life", his father had said. "Give it your best shot, and make it count".
      "And that is what we did with Suzanne...You can't improve on perfection".
      Ron's thoughts travelled to the days of working for his father on the farm that had become his inheritance and life's work.  The lack of time to pursue much social life, never really bothered him, he admitted to himself.  Ron always felt that fate would look after his destiny as he plugged away, keeping the family fed and housed in more than reasonable comfort. 
His toil paid dividends beyond the ability of most of the struggling community in which they lived.  It was not luck; it was simply hard work, sensible savings, good investment and a keen interest and knowledge in his work.
      The circumstances that had brought he and his wife together had seemed to be the natural course of things to Ron Wilson.  The fact that both he and she had been brought into the world by the same mid-wife, although three years apart, and the schooling days together at the valley class-rooms, the growing friendship, the dances on the odd occasion, and the often unspoken love that had brought them to the union of marriage would not have been otherwise, as far as Ron was concerned.
      Ron not only inherited the farm, he also inherited his father's frugality,
"Fulfill our needs, the wants can take second place".  Elizabeth often told her friends that this phrase was Ron's scripture.  Ron was provident, but he was, in no way, mean.  The Wilson's always had money for a good holiday each year, and it was on one of those holidays that he and Elizabeth had selected their place of retirement.  The very place that Ron now sat as he considered his life.
       An iron-framed, brass and porcelain double bed that Suzanne's husband had helped restore to original condition for his in-laws, adorned the bedroom, and on a table there stood a framed photo of Elizabeth, a photo taken in happy times with that happiness reflected on the face that Ron never failed to speak to as he retired each night. 
"Wait for me Elizabeth", he would say as he turned off the bedside lamp, and Elizabeth would smile back at him and he knew she would.
      Ron would spend most of Sundays with Suzanne and her husband Phillip.  The two grandchildren - their energy a curiosity had never failed to astound the old man. David, the oldest, and his precious granddaughter, Petrina, loved the visits as much as Ron.
Their love for their grandparents had made it very difficult to come to terms with Elizabeth's death, that Nana would not be with Pa when he rang the doorbell on Sundays, or to cook luscious sponge cakes, or to talk to, or just be there to cuddle when the need arose.
      Phillip, who was into 'electronics' as Ron would say when asked, was accepting of the Sunday visits, he liked the old man, felt his loss, and had never given thought to denying these visits.  This was very fortunate for Phillip as he would not have been able to deal with the fury of Suzanne if he had thought otherwise.
      Suzanne had reached her goal to become a Medical Practitioner, although she did put her career on hold to be a mother and wife for a time.  Now the children had grown, and Phillip had taken to working from home in his Electronics Consultancy business, Suzanne had established herself as a local MD.  Her main clientele being the elderly folk like her mother and father that had come to live out the latter part of their lives.
        Elizabeth had seemed so full of spirit at the anniversary celebrations, Suzanne had detected no illness in her mother's last check-up, and in fact, Elizabeth was deceased and at the hospital before Suzanne had gathered her wits about her.  Ron felt within himself that this was a good thing for Suzanne, but it took some time for his daughter to absolve herself of any blame for not detecting the onset of the heart attack even though the hospital doctors had told her that no one could have foreseen the event.
      Tired from the attention of the children, and waiting for Phillip to drive him home, Ron would breath in the love from his family to see him through the next week.  His daily activities would be centered on the evening phone call from Suzanne. 
Six-O'clock sharp the phone would ring, and Ron would be there waiting.  "Were you standing at the phone, Daddy?" Suzanne would tease. 
"No love, I just happen to be passing when you rang".  Suzanne knew how much her father cherished these calls, so she didn't tease him too much.
      The rest of the days he would rise early- a creature of habit - have a good, solid breakfast, and walk the mile and a half to the Newsagent for the daily papers.  The mandatory chats with the many retirees along the way would have him arrive home by late morning, just in time to fix himself a light lunch.  The days never varied, and Ron felt comfortable with the routine, he felt that the change that losing Elizabeth had brought him was about as much change that he could cope with at his time of life.
      As usual, on the balmy spring days, Ron would sit at the dinning room table, the curtains on the double sliding doors open, relaxing in the warmth of the sun, and reading every word in the papers of the day. 
The thump against the glass of the doors caused Ron to utter, "What on earth was that?".
      For the past several days the Welcome Swallows had been swirling, darting and diving, attacking insects in the evening sky.  It was one of these small birds that, in haste to catch her supper, had crashed into the reflective glass of the balcony door.
      "Poor thing", Ron said as he picked the stunned bird from the pot plant where she had fallen after the crash with the door.
"It looks like you have only knocked the wind out of your sails". He told the bird.
      Ron took the bird into the unit, and finding a shoebox he placed the bird inside, covered the box with a tea towel and placed the lot in a darkened section of the living room. 
"You will be all right, little bird", he said soothingly, "Just rest for a bit, and you will be as good as new". 
Well, at least that was what Ron had hoped, but his words were also based on a very sound knowledge of the feathered, and non-feathered stock of his farming days.  His knowledge, and a good examination for more serious injury, gave him the confidence to treat the hurt bird in the most appropriate manner for a quick recovery.
      The old man walked out onto the balcony and studied the glass of the sliding doors.  The reflection of the evening sky gave the appearance that the doors were a continuation of that same expanse.  The reflection of birds flying in this fourth dimension added to the confusion that the injured swallow would have encountered.
      The next day Ron spent considerable time, and more money than would be normal for him, on decorative hanging plants, and some standing pots for the lower section of the glass completed the camouflage.  Ron had also brought something else for the bird.
      "Here you are girl, some nice meal worms".  Ron lifted the tea towel and placed a few worms near the swallow, and later on a second look noticed with satisfaction that the worms had been consumed.

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