Paul S. Gifford

BIRDS

From my memories of a young boy back in England I have enjoyed feeding the birds. I suspect I got that from my mother.

Since being in America I have continued to do so. Even when I lived in a tiny apartment with just a modest balcony, I would toss food to my feathery friends daily.

Six years ago the Gifford family moved into our dream house. Whereas the back garden is not particularly large by any comparison, it has an ethereal quality to it and an enchanting old world charm. The three exposed sides are weaved in a deep green thick ivy, the lawn is choppy, and the cracked concrete slabs seemingly older than there thirty-five years. I have nicknamed it my secret garden. I quickly enhanced its inherent magical appeal by strategic placing of various gnomes, globes, ornaments and, of course, bird feeders. Each morning I would indulge in my early morning cup of coffee, as my dogs dreamed on either side of me and usher in a new day. Those daily fifteen minutes became my treasured time. I contemplated my life, I pondered on story lines, and I allowed my self to connect with the universe – all from the tranquility of my back garden. At first I got a few curious birds come and taste my wares. I would watch them cautiously peck away at the seed as they eyed me and, more significantly my canine companions, warily.

Within a few months the birds numbered a hundred or so. Having a unique grasp of time they would start singing expectantly as I poured that morning cup of steaming coffee. By the time I swung open the back door they were darting around the garden in a joyous frenzy. I would fill the two bird feeders listening to their symphony and then relax in my garden chair to watch the scene unfold. My dogs sensed that they were extended members of the pack and rarely bothered them. The only exception is when a bullying pigeon would arrive on the scene. Chester, my boldest dog, would quickly make him known that he was not welcome.

As the months quickly faded into years I realized that my ivy was full of nests. On one morning of exploration I noted over a dozen – and was convinced that there were many I missed.

I began to buy forty pound bags of bird seed – something which my wife never understood. Many of the birds became so trusting of me that they would practically eat out of my hand. My wife’s sister, after observing them one day, purchased me a particularly fine bird bath which was far more appropriate and tasteful than the old metal dog bowl I had been using.

After my wife left me a fortnight ago I stopped bothering about the birds. The truth is I forgot bothering about many things – even myself.

Well yesterday I fed them again. Or what was left of them. It seems half of them have abandoned me. As I sat there, buried in Zen like thoughts, I began to understand my place in this universe. Each of us has a small supporting role. We each bring something to the global table. I would only be deluding myself if I say that bad things happen for a reason. Sometimes they happen for no reason other than we forget the importance of little things. Sometimes we get too wrapped up in the now to see our life’s in true context.

I am sure that within a week or so all the birds will return and along with them so will my priorities.

It is not the big gestures that make a marriage work; the anniversary celebrations, dining at fancy restaurants, the vacations and so on. It is the hundreds of little things done on a daily basis; exchanging secret smiles, softness of tone, making eye contact – that builds the foundation of a solid marriage. Will arguments and hard times vanish from the horizon? Absolutely not. But with the building blocks firmly in place you can weather them.