Little bird up in a tree
Looked down and sang a song to me.
—”Little Bird,” Dennis Wilson, Stephen Kalinich, Brian Wilson
The house finch nesting in the wreath on our front door is incubating three lovely blue eggs.
My son (Cadillac Man) and I are walking, doing laps in the churchyard on a sunny afternoon, talking about names for baby birds (see what happens when new life generates in your realm; if you’re human, you take nonsensical ownership).
“It’s too obvious, but I almost can’t resist calling them Atticus, Jem, and Scout,” I chuckle. “I mean, they’re FINCHES.”
“Yeah, you’re right—it’s too obvious,” says Cadillac Man.
I think I hear a small sigh.
“Hmm. Well, there’s Harry, Hermione, and Ron . . . ” I offer.
Cadillac Man’s face remains immobile. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses. He says nothing.
I can see that literary names are a no go, which is a shame, with “the rule of three” and all that. Cadillac Man does not think from a repository of words and phrases gleaned over time from books like I do. He thinks in music. He always has.
We walk a little way in silence; we’re keeping a pretty good pace. Then Cadillac Man proceeds to tell me new things he’s learning in his continuous (borderline obsessive) research on his musical passion, the Beach Boys: “Dennis didn’t get credit for how much musical talent he really had . . . .”
—I have an inspiration. Cadillac Man will love this. When he pauses, I say:
“We can name the baby birds after the Wilsons. Since’s there’s three of them.”
He grins. “Well, these little birds are singers.”
Brian is due to hatch next Sunday. Dennis and Carl should follow on Monday and Tuesday.
Even if they’re female, it will be fun, fun, fun . . . .