The Pigeon Lady
Before the Turtle Doves
By
Jim Bob Striplin
The character known as the Pigeon Lady was not created by Jim Bob Striplin. This work is an original backstory imagining a portion of her life, written as a tribute to the character and the spirit of the Christmas season. It is not my intention to sell this story, but rather to offer it freely to readers as a small gift to enhance their enjoyment of Christmas.
This story is shared in the spirit of holiday goodwill, with the hope that it brings readers a little extra warmth, wonder, and Christmas cheer.
Edited by Courtney Striplin, Ed.S.
Before the Turtle Doves
December 24th, 1950
A flock of pigeons flew over the small brick home as the rising sun brightened the midwinter clouds. All was peaceful inside--until an angry man’s voice rang out from down the hallway.
“I’m leaving! You can’t have me and him, too.” The tall, slender gentleman stormed from the room and straight out of the house, slamming the front door so hard it rattled the beautiful Christmas tree inside. Just before he got into his old pickup truck, he faced the house and yelled again. “Go ahead, keep loving that fantasy. He’s just a figment of your imagination.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “He’ll never love you like I did, but it doesn’t matter anymore.” The worn-down gentleman looked at the icy ground and swallowed hard to give his wife a chance to tell him to stay. “I’m leaving for good this time,” he paused, “you’ll never see me again.”
She screamed back from the opened bedroom window. “I’ve tried to love you, Jacob, but it’s not possible.”
They both stood silently for a moment as heavy snow began to fall. “I’m sorry.” She held up her hands. “But what about little Holly?”
He shook his head and reached for the door handle. “She… I…” He stood motionless for a few moments, until finally, he slid into the truck and drove away into the thickening snow.
Back inside the house, Holly slid out of bed, covered her ears, and snapped on her favorite record to drown out the shouting. Slowly the chaos was replaced by Sinatra’s wholesome voice. She lowered her young face, sang along softly, and moved over to open the window, a routine that she’d used many times before.
“There you are.” She held out her hand as her warm breath escaped into the cold air like smoke. “Come see me, friends. I’ve got something special for you. Daddy always said that good deeds count for double on Christmas Eve.” The pigeons on her windowsill scurried over for a morsel like they had done countless times in recent months. “So here you go, little beauties. You can have all you want.” A tear rolled down her cheek as she listened for any sign of her father’s voice returning from the front yard. “You’re safe here with me, my feathered friends.”
****
December 24,th 2026 (76 years later)
“Where are we, Dad?” asked the sandy blonde-haired tyke as a heavy mist from the mighty Hudson River hovered around them. “We’ve never visited this place before. Is it even on the New York City map?” The boy watched the yellow cab that brought them park by the curb. Suddenly, the Christmas lights on an old cedar tree near them flickered off then on again. “What do they call this place?”
“No son, we haven’t been here before. We had no reason to be.” The middle-aged gentleman pushed his glasses up on his nose and nodded toward the colorful decorations. “But today we’re here to celebrate someone.”
The little boy made a funny face and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, but I’m still not sure why it’s gotta be this scary place.” He looked all around. “It’s spooky out here, Dad.”
The man zipped his puffer jacket to the brim. “Well,” he pointed, “It’s definitely not the Statue of Liberty or the Brooklyn Bridge. I know you remember those from our family vacation a few years ago.” He looked around at the eerie landscape. “I’ll tell you what they call this particular place later.” The man looked down and smiled at his four children and then put his arm over his wife’s shoulder. “I brought us all out here to celebrate a special person. She’s a lady that I met when I was just a kid. I have a hunch she’s around here somewhere.” He pointed north through a group of towering buildings. “We met there in the heart of the city not too far from here actually.”
The oldest reached out to fix her dad’s scarf. “Wow! She must have been one special lady for you to bring us back again from Chicago, Dad. Was she someone from your family?”
“No, but I became very fond of her in just a short time.”
The oldest son brushed his black hair from his face and pulled on his gloves. “Was it some kind of girlfriend of yours or something?” He poked his dad in the stomach. “Tell us!”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that, son. She was fifty years old when we met. You guys just chill out and let me tell my story. You’ll see.”
The gentleman’s wife grinned and looked her son in the eyes. “Boy, do you think I’d let your dad bring us out here to tell us about an old girlfriend?” She laughed. “Just trust him. This lady made a huge impact on his life. I honestly don’t think we would have met if he wouldn’t have crossed paths with her.”
“Well said, honey. I’m quite sure of it. I was a real piece of work prior to meeting her.”
Before he could finish his thought, the youngest daughter spoke up. “Well, come on, Dad. It’s freezing.” She looked around. “At this…what is this? A church?” She held up her palms. “Let’s hear about this mysterious lady.”
“Yes, it is actually. A beautiful one…and mysterious is right.” He nodded at her and winked. “She was bizarre. In fact, she was homeless.”
Each of his four kids sounded off at once. “Homeless?”
The eldest daughter stepped forward and faced him again. “Dad, what were you doing with a homeless woman in New York City?”
He pushed his sandy blonde hair back then reached out to embrace his wife and four kids as they stared with eyes wide open. “Great question.” He shook his head then tried to regain his composure. “You see... I was twelve when we met.” He chuckled. “Ok, I know that sounds bad, too. Just humor me if you will.” He adjusted his wool scarf and continued. “I only knew her as the woman with the pigeons. She was just a lonely woman everyone else seemed determined not to see. It was a brief encounter but one I’ll never forget.” He patted his youngest boy on the head. “I was in the middle of a crazy situation, one I wasn’t supposed to be in.” He winked. “Believe it or not, I was pretty mischievous back then.”
His youngest spoke up in a sarcastic tone. “You? Mischievous, Dad?”
He belted another great laugh. “Oh, yes, I was! We can all be like that sometimes. Right, son?” The boy hung his head. “Somehow though, the things that happened that night led me to her.” He held up his hand to count. “Well, I say somehow, but it was more like a sequence of events. The night before I had knocked my big brother off the stage at our Christmas play, which caused the piano player to fall backwards and expose herself to the crowd. That really shook everybody up.” He smiled, put his palms on either side of his face and yelled. “Ahhh!” He laughed. “Later on, some people said they saw the old lady’s rear end! It was so bad, dude. Ha, I still can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “But let’s see, what else? Oh yeah! Before I’d even left home, I saw my uncle naked in the shower, which is really why I was on edge at the Christmas play anyway. Boy, that was a traumatic experience! To make things worse, I had to explain the whole ordeal to my family as if it was all my fault. Well.” He paused and crossed his arms. “The whole thing was actually my big brother’s fault…one hundred percent!”
“Easy, Dad.” His daughter laughed. “You mad, bruh?”
“Yeah, a little actually.” He held up his hands to explain. “The moron had held two electric candles behind my ears during my solo to try and mess me up and even acted like he was playing drums on my head, so I knocked the crap out of him for it. That started the chain reaction, but anyway, my family was like a firing squad or something. It was insane how hard they were on me. My big brother really started it, and I’m standing on that, always.” He rolled his eyes. “He was a real punk.”
The oldest son interrupted. “He still is, Dad!’
Everyone laughed. “Yeah, tell me about it, but it was all a lot to deal with. He counted his index and middle fingers. The only thing that was keeping me sane was this little voice recorder that I had gotten as an early Christmas gift, but even that caused me trouble. When we had finally gotten to the airport to go on our annual vacation, I lost track of where I was because of it. That’s when I got on the wrong plane.”
“I really don’t see how you did that, Dad,” said the youngest daughter with a giggle. “The wrong plane?”
“Well, humor me. When I lost sight of everybody, I thought I saw my dad, so I ran after him. Turns out, it was just this dude wearing a trench coat like the one Dad always wore. I believe he got that coat in downtown Chicago at the McCormick Corporation where he worked.” He held up his hand. “Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. I hauled butt to the gate he entered, but I was so goofy that I knocked the poop out of the flight attendant and made her drop all the tickets on the ground. Then there was no way to verify that my family was on the plane.”
“You knocked the crap out of a lady, Dad?” Asked the little tyke.
“Oh yeah. Knocked the… excuse my language… knocked the ‘doo doo’ out of her. She should have slapped me, but instead, she let me on the wrong plane. It actually served me right, so,” he pointed to his ring finger and pinky, “in my defense, it was a heck of a sequence of events that led me to the homeless lady.” He shook his head and smiled. “I will say though. The uncle in the shower thing really messed me up. I’m still dealing with it thirty-four years later.” He put his head in his hand for a moment and continued. “But to make a long story short, I met the lady in Central Park while I was trying to figure out how to find my family. Since I had taken the wrong plane, they were in Miami, and I was in New York. I was desperate to find safety. And to make matters worse, I was running from these two guys that were after me from something I’d done to them the Christmas before.”
The oldest daughter held up her palms and spoke up. “Holy cow, Dad!” She crossed her arms. “Who in the world are you?”
“I know it sounds like a lot, but I’ll tell everyone about that later.” His daughter put her hands down and shot him a look. “I’m serious, sweetie. I’ll tell you on the way home.” He laughed. “But listen, while I was running from those guys, I took a wrong turn and got stuck in Central Park. That’s when I met the homeless lady. She actually helped me get my foot out from between two rocks. I was so scared of her at first that I almost fainted, but when I turned to run from her, it dawned on me. She helped me. She must not be that bad despite the horrendous way she looked.” He held up his hands intensely. “I mean, sure! She was covered with birds and looked like something from a Stephen King movie…and smelled like the bar on Star Wars on top of all that.” He stepped back from his family and faced them. “But in a split second, I asked myself a question.” A tear rolled from his eye. “How did she get to be like this and how could I help her? I mean, in return for helping me.”
His youngest son stepped over to give him a hug. “How’d you help her, Dad?”
“Well, I had some money and a credit card, but that’s another story. Anyhow, I did the most logical thing I could think of to help a homeless person on Christmas Eve. I offered her a cup of hot chocolate, and I just talked to her for a few minutes.”
“Did it work?” asked the little boy.
“Sure. We got the hot chocolate from a vendor on the south side of the park near the Plaza Hotel.” He pointed north. “Then we went to a place she knew so we could get out of the cold.”
“Where did you go, Dad?” said the little guy.
“To a really cool attic in the top of Carnegie Hall.” He motioned upward. “We had to take the fire escape up to a loose window to get in, but it was pretty easy. And I could tell she’d done it a million times. It was her safe place.”
“Wow, the fire escape?”
“Oh yeah, son. It was a tight climb, but we made it with ease.” He patted the boy’s head. “The place was full of stuff. Mostly things they probably used in musicals. Harps, mannequins, you name it. We talked for a long time while there was an orchestra playing Christmas music below. She told me that her life had fallen apart, and that’s why she was homeless. It got a little too deep, but she actually taught me a lot up there.”
The oldest daughter took in a breath of the frigid air. “Like what, Dad?”
“Well, she told me something that happened to her a long time ago and caused her to go into a tailspin. When I heard it, I really disagreed with the way she reacted to it as kindly as I could. It was about a failed relationship she was in. Apparently, she blamed one broken heart on never being able to love again.” He shook his head. “I told her that she should give love another chance. I could tell that her attitude about whatever happened really messed her up. That changed me.” He smiled. “It was what I was feeling about my own family at the same time. It was bizarre, but I could see myself in her. I was so mad at them. Even though I was only twelve, I knew that if I couldn’t change, I may find myself in her shoes. Alone!”
His wife reached out and gave him a big hug. “It’s a lesson that we all benefitted from, honey.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m thankful for what you learned from her. You’ve never given up on our love. Not once.” She squeezed his hand. “I love you.”
“I love you too, boo. I really did learn from her, and I just hope she listened to me. I tried my best to show her kindness by telling her that keeping her heart to herself would be like hiding away a pair of ice skates and not using them for a long time. And when you finally try to put them on, they don’t fit anymore. I think she took offense to it. Looking back, I can see where she should have.” He laughed. “It was kind of an insulting way to put it, comparing her heart to a pair of ice skates, but I hoped she would at least listen even though I was a kid. I promised her that I’d always be her friend, too, and I really wanted to keep that promise.” He held his arms wide and embraced his family again. “Anyway, that’s why I brought you guys out here to this church - to tell you about the lesson I learned from a homeless woman a long time ago.”
“But wait, Dad!” said the oldest son. “Did she tell you why she was homeless? I mean, it’s like you were saying, someone just doesn’t wake up that way.” He crossed his arms. “How’d she get there, and where’d she come from?”
He grinned from ear to ear. “I was hoping you guys would ask. That’s been a question that has eaten at me for many years, and I didn’t know the answer until just a few weeks ago. Check this out.” He rolled the backpack from his shoulder and opened it up. “This is the same backpack that I had with me the night I talked to her in the attic at Carnegie Hall.” He reached inside the tan canvas bag. “I don’t know how she did it. She must have dropped it in here when I turned to play with one of her pigeons up there, but either way, I didn’t find this until recently.” He grabbed a small leather-bound book from inside and held it up into the foggy air. “This is her diary. It says it all in here. After I read it a few months ago. I immediately made plans for us to visit here this Christmas. There are only a few pages legible, but they’re enough to explain who she was and how she ended up homeless in New York. I want to read them to you. It won’t take long.”
“That’s wild, Dad. She dropped you her diary. She must have wanted someone to know the truth about who she was.”
“I know, right? I’m convinced she knew that I was the last person she’d have a chance to talk to. I mean, it’s like this, the lady had a life. She had dreams and people she loved. She just wanted someone to know her story.”
His wife gathered closer, “Go ahead, honey. The kids are ready.”
The gentleman looked up toward the dim winter sky. Here we go, guys. Let’s step over by the Christmas tree. As they moved, he cracked open the old leatherbound book and held it up to the soft light. After a deep breath, he began to read out loud.
****
March 20th 1957
Dear Diary,
Today is my fifteenth birthday. Mother says that she’ll take me to get a new dress for the school dance as soon as I get home. There is a beautiful one here in downtown Buffalo on Mainstreet, next to the Anchor Bar. Each time I walk by the store window, I want to stop, but we never have the money. Mother does her best. The two of us squeak by, but things are always tough. I sure wish she could find a good man. We haven’t seen daddy since I was eight. Maybe someday I can change that for myself. I do have my eyes on someone. He is handsome and talented just like my Frank Sinatra. Oh, my, do I love my Frank! Anyways, I heard a boy playing the guitar just last week back behind the gymnasium on the tailgate of his pickup truck. He's really talented. His name is Tripp. Maybe he’ll see me. I’ve just got to catch his eye somehow. I’m worried because he seems to like the bad girls. My grades are probably too good for him. And this long skirt. It’s got to go. Oh well, Diary. Let me see if true love will find me.
With Love,
Holly
****
October 14th, 1960
Dear Diary,
Eighteen is definitely my best year so far. You see diary, I did it. I finally caught Tripp’s eye. I have secretly loved him for three years now, but until last night, it was only a dream. Wearing a mini skirt and staying out late on weeknights really paid off. Who says that kind of behavior is a bad idea? Ha-ha. He said he wanted me to be his main squeeze. Then he actually asked me to the homecoming dance. I was so excited I nearly forgot how to stand. Mama says I came home with the biggest smile she had seen in years. I’m just glad she doesn’t know how I’ve been acting. I hope he loves me, too. Oh, yeah, there’s something else new. I forgot to mention that I’m acting in the school play. They say I have a talent for making the audience believe the script. Maybe I’ll be able to make a career of it someday. Oh, and another thing! Tripp’s guitar playing is so good now. He plays it beautifully, and he plays other instruments, too. He says he wants to leave Buffalo someday and perform in New York City. I told him I’d go with him. We talked about it when he walked me home from school today. It was cold, but I didn't care. It feels so good to have someone. I’ll never let him go. For once, I feel like I could have true love like my mother never did. Maybe I can build something better, just like me and my Frank Sinatra. Gosh, do I love that man, but this could be better. I can see it now. Holly and Tripp, just married. We can have a family of our own. A home where people don't shout through the walls. Maybe that is what love is supposed to be.
With Love,
Holly
****
September 3rd, 1972
Dear Diary,
I have not written in ages. Year thirty has been one of ups and downs. I suppose I stopped because I was too busy living the life I always wanted. I married Tripp. I have two beautiful little girls, and we have a home. A real home. Sometimes I look around the dinner table, and I can't believe how lucky I am. The girls laugh and talk over one another, and Tripp pretends to be annoyed even though I can see him smiling. This is what I always wanted, so why am I so afraid? Last night, Tripp and I had an argument. It started over something stupid. He came home late from work, and I asked him where he had been. He said he’d stopped for a drink with some of the men from work. I believed him. At least I think I did. But then something inside me changed. I started asking questions. Who was there? How long were you gone? Why didn't you call? Why didn't you tell me? Are you mad at me because you never lived out your musical dream? Mad because you never went to perform in New York? He became frustrated and told me that I was always looking for something to be wrong. I told him he didn't understand. He said, "Then help me understand." I couldn't. Because how do I explain that when the people you love disappear behind a closed door, you start imagining the worst? How do I explain that when you grow up listening to your parents scream at each other, you learn to recognize the sound of a house falling apart? I heard Mama crying through the wall when I was a girl and Daddy just as often. I remember sitting beside the window with the pigeons. They never asked me what was wrong. They just stayed. I think part of me is still that little girl sitting at that window. Only now I have a husband and two daughters, and I am terrified that someday they will leave, too. The worst part is that I know what I am doing. I can see myself pushing Tripp away. I question him when he comes home. I worry when he doesn't answer the telephone. I lie awake at night imagining him finding someone else, and when he tells me that he loves me, sometimes I wonder if he really means it. Then I hate myself for wondering. The girls have started noticing. Yesterday, little Sarah asked me why Daddy and I were mad at each other. I told her we weren't. She looked at me and said, "But you were." I didn't know what to say. I promised myself my children would never grow up the way I did. Yet here I am, teaching them to be afraid of the same things I was afraid of. Tripp came into the bedroom tonight after the girls went to sleep. He sat beside me on the bed and took my hand. He said, "Holly, I love you, but you have to let me love you." I wanted to tell him that I was trying. I wanted to tell him that sometimes loving someone feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and waiting for them to push you. Instead, I pulled my hand away. I don't know why I did that. I wish I had let him hold it. The girls are asleep down the hall. The house is quiet now. Too quiet. I can almost hear the voices from my childhood again. Maybe that's what frightens me most. Not losing my family but becoming the reason I lose them. This is hard, but no matter what, I have my Frank Sinatra, and I always will.
With Love,
Holly
****
April 3, 1978
Dear Diary,
I’m not sure who I am anymore. Things are changing. Seasons are running together. Everything’s a blur. The girls are gone now. The apartment is virtually empty, and everyone seems to think it’s my fault. They said they just couldn’t stay in a home where so many arguments were going on. And apparently, I’m too demanding as well, so they are staying with Tripp’s parents for now back in Buffalo while he and I try to work things out. His mother is another one who causes me grief. She’s well to do, high society up there, and her little boy has never been able to do any wrong. But anyways, we moved to New York city six months ago. I agreed to let Tripp tryout for a local orchestra. His talent for playing the violin will surely get him a part. Over these eighteen years together, he’s learned much than just the guitar. I’ve always admired his musical talent just like Sinatra’s. His audition is at Carnegie Hall next week. I want to do my best to encourage him although we haven’t talked face to face much lately. I know deep down that he resents me for not encouraging him to come to the city years earlier. As for me, I’ve auditioned for an off-Broadway play. An adaptation of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist for the role of Nancy. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, too, and my college schooling in Syracuse was for this, but I just don’t have a serious desire anymore. It’s a lot for me just to talk to folks, and remembering my lines is another story all together. Tripp told me that I needed to do it. Yesterday I went on a long walk around town just to find something to pick me up. I passed Madison Square, the Ed Sullivan Theatre, and Radio City. I love them all, but it was like I was in a daze. Finally, I stopped by the toy store beside Rockefeller Center and happened to meet the owner while he was tending to the cash register. He asked If I was ok. I just shook my head silently. Turns out that we both love birds. Maybe the feathers on my shoulder from the day before sparked the conversation. He keeps a large vat of birdseed behind the store in the alley and says I can grab a handful anytime I’d like to feed the birds in the park. He could tell I was down. The nice old man even took the time to pray for me on the way out the front door. I don’t believe in that stuff, but I did appreciate it. I don’t know what to believe. When I walked up to Central Park everything felt so heavy like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. I recruited the strength to feed my friends though. Oh, how I love the comfort they give me.
With Love,
Holly
****
November 19, 1992
Dear Diary,
He’s been gone for ten years now. I will always remember this day. The anniversary of the worst day of my life. The day that I knocked on the apartment door for the last time. November 19th, 1982. He wouldn’t answer, and the only explanation I could ever get was from his friend, the grounds manager at Carnegie Hall. He told me that Tripp tried and tried to love me, but I drove him away once too many times. He said he didn’t know me anymore. He didn’t even recognize me. There’s no doubt in my mind that his success in music took the love that he once gave me. My heart is sealed, never to be reopened, and my lips have grown silent, only to whisper to my precious pigeons in Central Park. I cling to this red coat and hat issued to me at my one and only attempt to act on Broadway. That was the last time that he and I had talked as a couple. I’m fifty now and you, Diary, are one of my only remaining possessions. My coat, my hat, my pigeons, and table scraps are all that I can boast about now. Oh, how I long for the days before this diary began. As I sit here in isolation, I can’t help but think that today could be my final entry. I just cannot go on. My girls, I will never see again. The love of my life is long gone. I can only wonder what could have been. I left my dwelling place near the Inscope Arch in the park today to make one last walk through town. When I passed the toy store, I stopped for a moment and looked at my reflection in the window. I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Neither did the owner - once my friend - but not any longer. He just stood by his Christmas tree holding two turtle doves as if I was invisible. The pain was deep, but instead of crying, I decided to bow my head and ask for an angel to come help me. If you’re up there, then please hear my final cry. I know I’ve allowed my past to shape me. I know I should have received the love given me with a full heart. I see things I could have done better. Please let me have another chance if you’re listening. If fate decides that this my final entry, all I ask it that someone remember my full name.
With Love,
Holly Paulina Weathers
****
He slowly closed the leatherbound journal and held it down to his side. “Well guys, that’s it.” He wiped his cheek and placed it into his coat pocket. “She was really something.”
“No, Dad. That can’t be all. What happened next?” asked his youngest son.
The gentleman took a deep breath and adjusted the collar of his puffer jacket. “Well,” he said looking up into the night sky. “Let me say this first. Do any of you see the homeless lady differently now? Did that change your mind?”
His wife rubbed his upper back softly. “Honey, that’s the second time you read the journal to me, and I think it shook me more this time than the last.” She faced their four children. “The lady really was unique, wasn’t she? Holly was indeed a real woman like everyone else.”
The oldest daughter spoke up. “Thanks for sharing that with us, Dad. I think we all have different feelings for the unfortunate now. I mean, that could be any of us, you know?” She paused for a moment. “Do you have any other information about her? I pray her story ended at least a little better.”
He embraced her as a big smile grew across his middle-aged face. Then suddenly, he laughed out loud and backed away so he could see his entire group in the dim light. “Yes, I know that all too well.” He looked at his wife. “Like we said earlier, Holly taught me a lot. I know deep in my heart that I wouldn’t be here right now without her story, and yes, anyone could end up like that. He looked up and down the street. “There is more. I’m so glad you asked about the end of her story.” He secured the backpack firmly on his shoulders and pointed toward the magnificent structure in front of them. “I believe the answer can be found right here.”
His middle son scanned the magnificent building up and down. “That’s why we’re at this church isn’t it?” He asked excitedly.
Before the boy’s steamy breath could even escape into the night sky, the man reached into his back pocket and grabbed something. “You’re one smart kid.” He winked at the group. “You all are. This is called St. Paul’s Chapel. It’s old, it’s beautiful, and I feel like it’s going to be a special place for our family from now on.” He pointed toward the side of the ancient building. “Follow me.”
“Is she here?” asked his youngest son.
“Maybe so, son. Come this way.”
At once the six of them moved from the front gate of the magnificent church around back where an old iron gate stopped them. When they all stopped, the enthusiastic father reached into his back pocket and grabbed a neatly folded newspaper. “Honey, could you shine the light of your phone here for me?” He unwrapped it little by little until it was clear and legible for all to see. “This, my beautiful family, is how I knew to bring us here today on Christmas Eve.” Before he could finish, a stream of white lights flashed on above them along the top of the ancient gate. “Well, isn’t that convenient.” He looked up, smiled, and began to read.
On July 16th, 2026, our special friend Holly Paulina Weathers went to be with her lord. She leaves behind two daughters, Elizabeth and Henlee, and her faithful husband, Tripp. Holly was a model for endurance, determination, and pure strength, as she overcame bouts with severe depression and anxiety to reclaim the final thirty years of her precious life. In high school, she was an honor roll student at Buffalo Central where she held a perineal lead role in the school play. Her love for birds and for the music of Frank Sinatra were no secret to her many close friends and relatives, as she made them both lifelong hobbies. At the age of thirty-six, she and her husband Tripp moved to New York City to start a new life and rekindle their love for one another. Although they drifted apart for several years due to her bouts with mental illness, they eventually reconciled after Holly had what she described as an overwhelmingly religious experience. In June of 1993 they were able to purchase a new home in Queens where they welcomed many friends and family throughout their thirty-two years there. Their residence shined extra bright during the Christmas season where she always made a point to remind us that good deeds counted double during that special time of year. She became an advocate for the homeless, contributing to many charitable organizations by means of her lucrative career as a talent coach for some of Broadway’s best-known actresses. During her final months, she helped interior designers plan the refurbishment of her husband’s beloved Carnegie Hall and accomplished her great and final wish for Central Park to become a nature preserve for her lifelong friends, the pigeons.
Holly Paulina Weathers
March 2oth, 1942-July 16th 2026
As the father uttered the obituary’s final words, his entire family moved in to embrace him. “I love you guys.” He kissed his wife and daughters on the head. “Thank you all so much for coming here with me tonight.”
“Dad, we are the one’s that should be thanking you.” His oldest daughter reached out to hug him again as the warm lights above them glowed. “Her story is so perfect, and I just know it had a lot to do with the talk you had with her that night in the Carnegie Hall attic.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I mean, the encouragement you gave her in that meeting. Your words literally changed her outlook on love.”
“Well, I don’t know, sweetie, but I prayed so on many occasions.” He reached into his front jean pocket. “And I did make her a promise that night.” He held up an old yellowing trinket. “I gave her the other half of this turtle dove that night and said, I’d always be here for her, and although I wasn’t in person, I prayed, and when I found her name in the journals, I did my best to keep that promise. So, here we are.”
Suddenly, out of the shadows, a gentleman’s deep voice penetrated the cold air. “You did keep your promise, young man, and you did much more than that. You saved my wife’s life.”
The whole family turned at once. “Excuse me, sir?” exclaimed the stunned father. “Who are you? Did you say your wife?”
The elderly man extended his well-manicured hand. “Yes, indeed. Holly was my wife of sixty-four years.” He stepped back and removed the fedora from his well-kept white hair. “And you, son, are without a doubt an angel.”
“Angel?” He pointed his thumb toward his chest. “I don’t know about that, but I’m sorry. Did you say you’re Mr. Weathers? Holly’s husband?”
“In the flesh.”
“I can’t believe it’s you!”
“Likewise, son.” He laughed. “I can’t believe it’s you either.” He smiled from ear to ear. “There was rarely a day where my wife Holly didn’t mention you. This is amazing.” He looked about the group enthusiastically. “I was on my way down here to visit her, and I just happened to hear you and your family talking about her and reading her obituary.” He shook his head and laughed again. “You know, as hard as that was for me to write at the time, it was so rewarding to do it. She had been through so much. She grew up hard and had a lot to overcome before we got together, but let me be the first to tell you, as tough as it got sometimes, I never gave up on her once. I understood her and what she endured. She was the love of my life. I loved her beyond comprehension.”
“Well, Mr. Weathers, I know it took a strong man to stay with her through it all. I was able to read about her life in a journal she left in my backpack. I know all about her struggles.”
“Oh, yes. I know you do.” He placed his arm gently on his shoulder. “She told me all about how she dropped her diary into your bag when you climbed out the window onto the fire escape the night you met with her at Carnegie Hall.”
“Yes, that’s what I figured.”
Suddenly the youngest son tapped Mr. Weathers on the shoulder. “Why did you let her be homeless, sir?” asked the little blonde-haired boy.
“Well, that’s a tough one, little man. You see, she wouldn’t let me help. Me nor anyone else. The more we tried, the more she ran. We lost track of where she was, and no one saw her for years. It was a horrible, heartbreaking time. It’s hard to describe, but just try to understand this. Sometimes you have to let people go until they heal themselves. They have to want to get help.” He looked at the young man’s dad and winked. “And thanks to your father, she got it. She let go of her past and learned to love herself again. In turn, she was able to give our love a second chance.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m humbled beyond words.” The middle-aged gentleman replied.
“Well, come on in here for a second. I’d like you all to see her final resting place. That is if you don’t mind hanging out with an old musician for a few minutes.”
“Of course we don’t, sir.” Said the youngest daughter.
He placed the glove back on his hand and waved the family forward. “Right this way then.”
As they entered the cemetery gates, the middle-aged gentleman’s wife reached out to grasp him. “Honey,” she said with her soft voice trembling. “This has been such a full circle moment for me. I mean, this whole evening. You taught his wife to love again and when you needed to apply it to your own life, you remembered what you told her. You refused to hide your heart away. You gave marriage a second chance, and look.” She nodded towards her three kids. “They love you like you’re their own dad.” She squeezed his hand. “And I love yours like my own, too.”
“We are definitely a Brady Bunch aren’t we, babe?”
She wiped her cheek. “Very much so, honey.”
A brisk breezed blew in their faces as old Mr. Weathers held up his hand. “Stop right here everybody. This is it.” He took his cell phone from his back pocket, turned on it’s flashlight and began to read. “Holly Paulina Weathers, Loving wife, mother, and friend.”
When he’d finished, the middle-aged gentleman knelt and placed his turtle dove on the headstone, but before he could get up, Mr. Weathers stooped hastily to his side. “Oh my! This is just amazing. I can’t believe you had that.” He looked up toward the heavens and smiled. Then, with great enthusiasm, he reached into the pocket of his own wool coat. “Son, I’ve prayed for this day since last July.” Without further delay he placed the other half of the turtle dove on the grave and turned to face him. “Thank you for saving my Holly. You were truly our angel sent from above.”
At once, the family engulfed their father in hugs and kisses as tears of joy ran down the cheeks of their rosy red cheeks. It was an embrace that they remembered for many hearty Christmas Eves to come. They gathered themselves and said goodbye to Mr. Weathers, who was living proof that true love will always find a way. “Merry Christmas my good friends.” He said Waving vigorously.
They each returned the gesture, then, as they walked from the churchyard and out of sight, their youngest son noticed countless homeless all along the way. A subtle tear formed in the child’s eye as his young mind pondered one question – Do they all have stories too?
A Note from the Author
What’s up, everyone! I’d like to personally thank you for reading my take on who the Pigeon Lady really was. My goal was to add a little more enjoyment to an already spectacular Christmas movie that we all love so much. I hope it entertained you, touched your heart, and most importantly made you think!
As an educator, high school football coach, husband, and dad, I often find my work drawing from each of these life experiences — But the thing I’m most proud of -- They are all stories about the most challenging parts of life -- Just being a human.
I invite you to visit my author homepage, where you can learn more about me and my other writing. They explore a variety of subjects, from the enduring power of faith and the promise of redemption, to the lasting influence of a mentor, the complexities of the human spirit, and the timeless magic of Christmas.
I believe every story offers an opportunity to see the world a little differently, reflect on what matters most, and perhaps discover something new about ourselves.
God Bless You and Merry Christmas,
Jim Bob