A Room For Rochester

Over the years I brought home a number of things, but the most endearing was a blue parakeet Dad named Rochester. I was living in Dearborn at the time, and the bird was a gift from a friend. My cat had succumbed to cancer, and George thought a pair of parakeets would cheer me. Whatever put that notion into his Greek head was beyond me. Sure, I liked birds, but the outdoor kind. The kind that chirp in the morning, hoot at night, and peck on dead trees, not expensive picture frames.

Anyway, George bought two parakeets. One was blue and the other green. Since green is my favorite color, I admired Fern more than her brother. I didn’t even bother to name him, so you might say we had issues from the beginning. Things didn’t improve when I came home from work one day and found Fern dead, and her brother preening in the cage as if to say, “See what I’ve done.”

From then on, things went from bad to worse. I reached a point where I couldn’t stand his chirping as if he were a benevolent brother instead of the jealous assaulter I knew him to be. He had to go. George didn’t want him, nor did any of our friends. It wouldn’t have taken much to dispose of him, but I balked at the idea of George pinching the little fellow’s neck.

The solution was all too obvious. I put the bird in his cage and drove home. Dad instantly took to the blue thug and named him Rochester, a rather dignified name for a hooligan, but Rochester it was and Rochester it remained.

We put his shack, as Mom referred to his cage, on a fancy wooden stand I had brought home the previous year. The stand had two shelves. After Mom made one trip to K-Mart, Rochester had more food and toys than most children. After a half-dozen trips to town, Rochester got his own room.

Mom didn’t move his shack, but all his paraphernalia went into the spare room. Mom spoiled him as much as Dad. His shoulder was a favorite landing spot for Rochester. When he was offered a cracker, he nibbled until he was bored. Then he perched on Dad’s head or flew to a picture and whittled the wooden frame.

Rochester lived for seven years, passing away a year after Dad. Mom said the silence of the trailer was deafening, but memories of Dad and his feathered friend were everywhere. Slowly, Mom reclaimed Rochester’s room. She was in no hurry to dismantle it or forget the hours of entertainment that ridiculous bird had given her and Dad.