Birdie's Book - Andrea Burden [1]
The train door opened—crank, swish. I dragged my bag behind me, baBUM baBUM down the steps. The second my feet hit the platform, my face was slammed with little bits of ice, and my hair whipped wildly around in the wind. My braces were actually (truly and actually!) frozen to my lips.
I set the suitcase down on the platform and put Belle on the ground between my feet. I quickly zipped my spring green corduroy jacket to cover my favorite T-shirt and pulled on my gloves. I was not much warmer. I loved the jacket, but at that moment I realized I had not been very practical when I left this morning. I sighed. I guess my mind had been in Califa when I packed.
I picked Belle up again as the train rushed away. Around me the conversations mixed together in a rising mist that matched the overcast skies. I saw no sign of the grandmother I knew only from mailed cards, homemade gifts, my dad’s few and careful descriptions, and my mother’s stories about the “crazy old bat” who raised her.
People hurried toward warm cars with lightly purring engines, and I sat on my suitcase to wait, cradling Belle in one arm. Then I saw an older woman in a cowboy hat with a peacock feather striding through the drab crowd in the parking lot.
It had to be Mo. She was very tall and was smiling a big smile. Her boots must have been leaving size-nine imprints in the snow. As she came closer, I saw that her long green wool coat, as bright as spring leaves, was the exact same color as my own jacket. Around her neck was an orange scarf with black specks.
I had a new name for her immediately: Lilium tigrinum, the Latin name for tiger lily, a constant tropical bloomer. That’s practically the opposite of Mom, who is more like a calla lily (Zantedeschia aethiopica)—straight and stiff and stoically beautiful. Naming people after flowers and plants is one of my games. It’s a great way to pass boring hours at school. Of course, I never use the same name twice, not even for twins. I know a lot of flower names!
“Birdie!” the woman said with certainty.
“Grandmother Mo Lilium tigrinum,” I wanted to say back. But instead, I said, “Uh-huh,” and clutched Belle a tiny bit closer.
Mo’s voice was similar to Mom’s but happier and, surprisingly, younger-sounding. Her hair, which curled out from under the hat, looked like it was mostly gray but maybe had once been red like mine. Her face? Smiling and kind, with lines creased around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Not a trace of makeup. Her clear green eyes studied me matter-of-factly. I matter-of-factly studied her back. This was not the face of a crazy old bat.
“Well, well, Birdie Cramer Bright, I wouldn’t mistake you for anyone else.” She wrapped me in a tight hug that blocked the chill of the blowing wind.
“And you’re wearing the family color,” she added, patting the sleeve of my jacket. “I’d say I’m finally a working grandmother, and it’s about time! Hallelujah for your dad.”
“Okay” was all I managed to say, all of a sudden wondering what I was supposed to call her. Can you tell that I’m not good at first encounters? I like to size up a situation before I start giving anyone a reason to judge me or to not like me or to think that they like me when in fact they don’t know much about me at all. Does that make sense?
We fought the wind as we walked to my grandmother’s yellow car. Mo had to hold on to her hat to keep it from flying away. The car was as huge as a boat and had fins like a fish. I loaded my suitcase in the trunk and then settled inside on the wide front bench seat, my daisy-in-a-hat on my lap.
As Mo drove (I couldn’t stop thinking of her as Mo!), I imagined that the big-finned boat-car was swimming along over the slick roads. Inside, the car smelled