Photo by Patti Black on Unsplash

I was picking up dead tree branches in the front yard this morning. Not all of them — I’m too lazy for that — but the larger ones, the ones you can see from the road, I picked those up. To get to them I had to crawl under the canopy of trees in our front yard. Nestled on the dirt amongst the branches was four-year old bark that was in the process of returning to the earth, green vining vinca, and a clump of lamb’s ear that flowers pink in the summer. 

There were also pine cones, pine needles, disintegrating leaves, moss, and about a million maple “helicopter seeds.” I know come next spring I’ll spend at least three hours uprooting their tiny volunteer maples. But that isn’t what I’m thinking about today. 

Today, I’m thinking about something else that was tucked into the array of dirty things. 

A small blue feather. 

Brilliant navy blue with a small section of black. Just one glimpse told me it was from a Steller’s Jay. Instantly, I thought back to my childhood and Lys. 

Lys lived two houses down. She was older and widowed. A retired school teacher, it seemed like she was almost always home, or at the very least out in her expansive yard. Her garden was a delight — flowers, vegetables, fruiting trees, and a wall of blackberries. She was generous and shared frequently. I remember summer days spent with buckets by those blackberry bushes, eating every other berry as my mom, sister, and I collected the ripest fruit to turn into jam, pie, and fruit leather. 

As a teacher by trade and in her heart, Lys was constantly teaching me. She saw in my childhood soul a love for animals and nature, and she fostered it. 

She often invited me into her two-bedroom cinderblock home where she kept collections of things she’d found out in the world. A shed snakeskin, interesting rocks and agates, small pieces of beached driftwood, and feathers. Oh the feathers. To my childhood eyes her collection was massive. She remembered where she found each one and what type of bird they had all fallen from. 

When she found feathers she had in her own collection she’d grab them for me, handing them over, telling me the proper names for each bird and pointing to them if they happened to be in the yard.

She’s the one who taught be about the Steller’s Jay — and their proper name. 

I imagine it’s because I watched so many Disney movies, but when I saw those blue birds in our neighborhood, that’s what I called them — blue birds. 

Hearing me say it only once, Lys told me that they weren’t blue birds. Those didn’t actually live in our area — but instead we have Steller’s Jays. She pulled out her Audubon bird book with the red cover and helped me turn to the page where I could read all about Steller’s Jays. 

It wasn’t a harsh correction, but gentle and kind, inspiring me to want to know more about the birds in our area. I sat mesmerized, flipping through the colored pictures of birds, imagining the joy of someday seeing each one in the wild. 

That’s who Lys was — a lover of all things natural and wild. She volunteered at the zoo, which as an elementary school student I thought was the best thing ever. She also volunteered at a nature preserve with a small lake and trails. She took me there at least once. I think my sister might have been with us.

In my eyes, Lys was somewhat of a superhero. But as often happens with childhood superheroes, as I went into Middle School and High school, I became focused on more practical things. I’d still see Lys occasionally, but the years had stolen some of her memory and her aging body seemed to keep her from being in her yard as much. At least that’s what I’d like to think. The reality is, I probably just gave me attention to things I thought were more pressing and important. 

Sad, but true. 

I remember my parents telling me when Lys had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I was out of the house, trying to figure out what it meant to be an adult. Later, her kids moved her into a care facility near them, and then she eventually left this earth. 

I don’t remember how long ago it was she died. Decades at this point. Her house has had two different owners, the current one is putting on an addition. The front garden is gone. The blackberries are, too. But my fond memories of Lys remain.

I’m thankful for the neighbor she was. 

I’m thankful she shared her passion with all things natural and wild with me. 

I’m thankful for all the feathers she gave me, now lost to time, which were always a reminder that she was thinking of me.

She saw me. She loved me. 

And I’m thankful for all that she taught me, not only about being a neighbor, but about the beauty of critters and creation and plants. 

I wish she was still here so I could tell her. I wish I could go over to her house and find her pulling weeds in the front yard. 

I wish I could tell her how often I think about her, all these years later. 

But even though I can’t, I can still live out what she showed me. I can care for the earth, take delight in nature, be amazed by the beauty of birds and feathers. I can feed the hummingbirds, pick blackberries, share what grows in my garden, and give thanks for a woman who knew how to love her neighbors. Even an awkward little girl with glasses and an eye patch who was happier searching for frogs than going shopping. 

I don’t know what type kind of relationship Lys had with God. But I hope I get to see her again. I imagine if she’s in heaven, like I hope she is, she and Wendell Berry are having some incredible conversations. Conversations I hope I get to listen to some day. 

Until then, whenever I see a Steller’s Jay, or one of their forgotten feathers on the ground, I’ll think of Lys and smile.