Having bird in your radiator is kind of like having spinach in your teeth. It's really unpleasant, looks terrible; and frankly it's embarrassing. Hence I am trying for accuracy here in case any of my readers are, at some time in the future, faced with this same challenge.
I originally acquired the bird on a 3600 mile road trip. John, my partner, and Buddy, our dog, were my traveling partners on the journey. It was Buddy's first road trip ever and it had been at least 15 years since John and I had taken to the biways.
To set a proper scene, one must imagine a high desert highway somewhere in southern Idaho. I remember a drivers ed class I took once and one of the sections dealt with the high risk of accidents on long straight highways due to boredom of the driver. A feeling of safeness envelopes a driver when faced with miles of the visible ribbon of highway stretched far into the horizon. I'm certain the same illusion of safety prompts birds to circle low over the pavement in hopes of finding a worm or a bug crossing the road. Not being an entomologist I cannot speak of bugs crossing highways, but I'm sure since they are ubiquitous they must march here and there from time to time. At least the ones that can't fly probably march. Or hike. Or scurry.
My bird was probably on a swoop downward with its eyes peeled on its prey when I came along at 80 miles per hour and the rest is history. And it's recorded on the radiator of my Jeep Liberty. (Which I much now admit - has a name. Her name is Libby and I have totally anthropomorphized her over the three years I have owned her. She is my daily companion and has much of my personality except she is highly mobile and very quiet. Oh, and she's red.)
I had briefly seen an object speeding towards disaster like a meteorite speeding to its fiery display when entering the earth's atmosphere - but at 80 miles per hour, fine details are lost. John commented that I had hit a bird. "The bird," I retorted, "had hit me." I did not even want to think about the idea of me being the assasin here. I love birds. This summer I am actually cooking for hummingbirds. John says that God lets birds fly because they are willing to eat everything. Which is why my bird was probably sighting a mobile gourmet meal sauntering across the road.
They say sometimes you're the bug and sometimes you're the windshield but in this case it was sometimes you're the bird and sometimes you're the radiator. Libby's radiator. Damn.
I discovered all of this when I was inspecting Libby following a run through the car wash. Libby had been sloshed and doused three other times during our journey. A necessary action to keep up her appearances. She is a proud car and having bugs caked on her headlights and mud from road construction and hail storms splattered in all areas of her sleek and shining body were oppressive to her.
As I slowly walked around the car I was fairy pleased with the results. This was a thorough car washing in my home town. It was automated and had sprays coming from all directions so even the dried mud lurking behind the spare tire in the back had been efficiently washed away.
So it was with a jolt of shock that I noticed a fan shaped something on the radiator. At first I thought it was one of the grasshoppers from the lake areas of Montana. I had gathered quite an array of yellow and green wings during a late afternoon drive there. However, on closer inspection I realized it was the bird and the scene of the highway death flashed through mind. And I could hear John's admonishment that I had hit a bird.
The actual specimen was not pretty. It appeared to be clinging to the radiator with its wings spread and it was facing outward with a petrified look in its eyes. Well, suffice to say it's actually a freeze dried look and it seemed quite permanently stuck.
This is the wrong place for a hood ornament and I am concerned about its condition in the future during our rainy weather. I must remove the bird now. But how. They say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush but I don't think a bird on a radiator is worth two anywhere. Roosevelt said that a chicken in every pot was a good thing - but I don't think anyone in any economic time period would say a bird in every radiator is a good thing. Rather it is a pretty yukky thing actually.
It's embarrassing to think it still there. I had hoped it would jiggle loose over time but I think it's like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth. You can't swallow it and you can't maneuver it off nor can you shake it off. You can reach in your mouth with your index finger and scoop out the hunk of peanut butter. Then you have peanut butter stuck on your finger. We used to have a joke when we were children about peanut butter and fingers and the roof of your mouth. The fun part was talking as if you had peanut butter on the roof of your mouth. However - Idon't think my car can talk and if it could - having a bird in its radiator would probably yield a very nasal twang.
I am now digressing - into space - but what I am actually doing is killing time because I haven't figured out how to get the bird off the radiator. I'm hoping an idea will pop into my head during this lull. I know I can't use a high pressure hose because that would force the remains into the radiator through the screening and that doesn't seem like a good idea. The idea of using a hose and spraying from the inside out away from the engine seems awkward.
I tried hinting that I was a damsel in distress at my favorite service station the last time I filled up with gas. The two men there walked around to the front of the car. They scratched and squinted for a while as only men can do. "Yep, it's a bird all right." one said. And they proceeded to tell me to spray it off from the inside under the hood. I smiled and thanked them and drove off wondering how chivalry had ended while i wasn't looking.
This morning I thought of an answer but at the same time thought I'd document the event.
I just tried my idea and it worked. Quickly and with no mess or fuss. Efficiently even. And it wasn't too heinous of an adventure.
I did, however, lose an important kitchen implement in the process.
We have an olive tasting shop not far down the road from our house. We live in an area that supports tourism and the olive shack has been there for years. Not long ago I stopped in to check it out. I hadn't been there for years. You know how having a tourist attraction near home is a procrastination of a visit waiting to happen. "I'll get around to it," is a familiar phrase for so many things.
I drink martinis these days and I love olives. So the olive shack was bound to be my destination sooner or later. My visit was fruitful or should I say olive-full and I left laden with many varieties. The owner gave me a gift of an olive plucker. It's actually a small plastic version of mechanical fingers. It's a tubular device with a plunger at one end and metal tongs on the other end. When the plunger is engaged the four alien-teeth-shaped tongs spring out of the opposite end in an open position. Once an olive is grabbed, the plunger is released, securing the olive and allowing it to be transferred from the olive jar to the martini glass.
I realized this device was just what I needed for bird removal activities.
I marched directly into the kitchen, removed the jaws-of-rescue from the drawer, went outside in bare feet. Managed to dodge the sharp pine cone debris all over the driveway left from the squirrels' feast. Seems they leave corn cob like pine cone skeletons all over the driveway and the "cobs" have sharp edges.
Libby was where I had parked her last night. The sun had warmed her shiny red exterior and she looked fabulous - glistening in the summer morning. I went right to work. The tool was inserted carefully between the chrome barrier to the radiator. After several unsuccessful attempts I managed to grab one side of the bird and pull it off the radiator screen. The sound was a sort of soft crunch. The tiny wing was dry and brittle. It came away easily. I reached in to grab the rest. So light were the remains. I let them drift away in the breeze in the Forest in front of our home.
I decided to throw away the tool. I didn't want the memory of the bird's fate coming back with each martini olive.
I take the bottle of gin from the freezer and pour some into a chilled marini glass . I reach into the jar of olives with that tool. "To olive or not to olive -that is the question." Is it nobler to remember and honor the bird with each olive or to put it to rest now. Somehow these are not the thoughts I wish for myself at every happy hour.
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