Baby Birds

I’m the baby of the family. 

I used to take exception to that statement.  Heck, what 5, 10, or 15 year old wants to be called a baby.  At 5 and 10 it was not only gray haired aunts and uncles who called me that, my brothers did too. 

By 15, it wasn’t my brothers any longer.  Barry has introduced me as his big little brother for several decades now, and at well over 6 foot and tipping the scales at 275 pounds, it clearly has been the case.  But, like it or not, my later growth aside, I was born dead last.

 

Last born is a tough place to start in the natural world.

Were you aware that Snowy egret hatchlings often use their beaks to stab their younger siblings and then through them out of the nest?  Or Sand Tiger Shark embryos actually eat other sibling embryos while still inside the womb?  And Hyena cubs, heck, they even dig small narrow tunnels to drag each other down and fight in so the mother can’t stop them from killing the smaller, weaker ones off.

Given that “natural” perspective, my childhood was pretty standard, I guess.

 

When I was still crib bound, Jeff and Barry snuck some donuts into the room and stuffed my mouth full.  Only Mom’s timely checking and intervention kept me from choking to death on a donut.  And while they claimed it was all about how much they loved me and wanted me to have a special treat, subsequent events tend to lend what may be a more sinister light to the situation.

Later on in life I finally overcame my extreme phobia of donuts while working at the Livermore Bakery.  Bless those generous souls for their gentle steadfast supportive role in helping me to gain closure. 

 

Also before I could walk my mother found me stiff as a board and unresponsive in my crib.  My parents rushed me off to the hospital which ultimately included a stint in the Oakland Children’s Hospital.  There I languished for some time, fed intravenously until I miraculously recovered.  The doctors never could tell my parents what had caused the problem.  It might be interesting to note that my brothers were nowhere in attendance when I finally recovered.

And while I wouldn’t deign to claim they tried to kill me, again, that time, I would note that forensic science was barely in its infancy back then and fingerprint analysis, epithelial cell analysis, and advanced toxics detection was simply not very good.  Just saying.    

 

Of course, if I got started telling stories of all the times Barry and Jeff pushed me into trying some dangerous stunt first, we would be here all day.  Yep, the old “Let’s get Marty to…” was pretty common place when it came to jumping from bridges, lighting homemade cannons, and sneaking into yards that might be protected by large ferocious fanged animals. 

 

So, for me, it was “Grow Big or Die”. 

Self Defense as it were. 

And while it was never certain that I wouldn’t succumb to the fate of those poor pin-feathered egrets, instinct drove me onward.

Now if I could just figure out how to stop it.

 

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved