Singing your Song
By Lynn Ruth Miller
Whenever I am tempted to compromise my ideals, the memory of my Aunt Tick's canary strengthens me. The bird's name was Petey and he was a vocal individualist if ever there was one. He loved to sing and his favourite accompaniment was my Aunt Tick's vacuum cleaner. The roar of that motor filled the bird's heart with musical inspiration and he responded with counter melodies that trilled high above the whoosh of sucked up litter and demolished dust bunnies.
The year he demonstrated the unbelievable strength of his dedication to his muse was News Year's Day, 1950. The second half of this century dawned bright and clear in the midwest. Snow frosted the landscape and transformed tree branches into translucent webs of lace. My cousin Ricky was far too young to party and so he awoke early and ran downstairs. "Hi, Petey!" he called.
The bird twittered a brilliant etude while Ricky opened his cage to let him breathe a bit of fresh air. Petey fluttered from couch to chair presenting his song to a new century. He accompanied the percolator, hovered over the toaster for a momentary sauna and rested on Ricky's shoulder to get a few buttered crumbs from Ricky's plate. When both had finished their morning meal, Ricky cleared the table and put the vocalising bird back in his cage.
Alas! My cousin was so anxious to build a snowman for the front yard that he did not latch the canary's cage. No matter. The bird's favourite stage was the monogrammed perch my aunt had bought for him on his last birthday.Petey sang his melodic farewell to Ricky and switched to an original oratorio the moment my aunt staggered downstairs. She had entertained the family at her house the night before and when she looked around her living room, she was horrified. The place looked like the city dump and she had invited everyone to return for a light supper in just a few hours. She had no choice but to give the place a thorough cleaning before she started baking the croissants and preparing her casseroles. She picked up lipstick stained glasses, littered plates, cups and saucers and the streamers that hung from the lamps and chairs while the bird cheered her with a minuet, a romanza and two mazurkas.
Petey launched into an scherzo that would have put Lily Pons to shame and Aunt Tick caroled back a grim but realistic song about taking a slow boat to China. When she had cleared away the debris and put the dishes to soak, she hauled out the vacuum cleaner and attached the extension hose to get the trapped smoke and tinsel out of her drapes. The bird's delight was actually visible. He knew that soon he would have a well deserved orchestral accompaniment for his opera grande and he was right. My aunt turned on the machine and the bird filled the air with a sublime Missa Gloria. Aunt Tick was still humming dirges about easy escapes and didn't notice that Petey emerged from his cage and let the force of his melody sweep him to the top of the cornice. The cleaner roared and the golden canary launched into an aria inspired by the angels. My aunt lifted the vacuum cleaner wand to get into the drapery folds when, to her horror, she saw a flash of yellow disappear down the vacuum cleaner tube.
She switched off the machine and paused. The birds song was clear as a celestial hymn sung from a distant choir loft. My aunt was frantic. "Keep singing, darling!" she called. "Mama will save you!"
She unzipped the bag and now the bird's song was louder. My distraught aunt burrowed deep into the dust bunnies and crumbled tissue until at last, she cleared a pathway for the bird to escape. Petey shot from the bag like a released bullet and landed on the coffee table still singing his melody. Aunt Tick stared at her canary and she gasped. The bird was perched on an ashtray without a single feather left on his body. He was pink and naked as the day he was hatched, his tiny throat still vibrating with song.
When I picture that little bird proclaiming his joie de vivre to the world despite all odds, I wonder if the human race could equal such dedication. Would Pavorotti have continued his aria if he'd lost his pants? Would Carol Van Ness have sung her golden notes if her bra strap broke? Indeed not. But nothing could stop Petey the canary from singing his glorious song. Nothing.
And so when October comes, I remember my aunt's joyous little canary and resolve to sing my own song just as loud and clear no matter what it costs. It is, after all, the most precious thing I can give to the world. It is my gift.