Father's Day is for the Birds

Birds of a Feather Watch Together

As adult children, we tend to feel guilty when it comes to not spending time with our parents. They have been there for us without question throughout our lives. The least we can do is give them something back. As it turns out, all they really want as payment on their investment (us), is time. Our time. Spent with them.

No fancy gadgets or the season’s latest sweater/shirt/blouse/coat/shoes or ostentatious meal at a restaurant or a plethora of other things we could gift them. Just our time. It is that simple.

This past Father’s Day, I buckled into my sporty SUV, made a solo trip for the second year in a row and headed into a scenic part of the state, rolling green mountains on either side of the highway as I drove into higher elevations to spend an afternoon with my dad. I brought a light jacket because if you know, you know - you might need one in the mountains at this time of year. Seasonal unpredictability.

Upon my arrival, there was the usual meet-and-greet with hugs and “can I help” you offered five times before I entered the house. My parents are gracious yet often forget their age and limitations. I won’t remind them. 😉

I know the fine dance that will take place before we settle; where to sit, what to do, how to pass the time. This part is simple too. We talk. Converse. Reminiscing about the past that makes us laugh yet sometimes sigh and faded memories we may recollect differently. Catching up on our day-to-day lives since we don’t see one another as often as we would like. Pondering what the future holds for them, for me, for their grandchildren.

Throughout the visit, we change locations within the house three times, living room, kitchen, and finally the porch when the weather seems to hold (I didn’t need my jacket after all). But the majority of the afternoon is spent in the kitchen where we nosh on juicy burgers and rich chicken quesadillas from the local pub; no one is grilling on this given Sunday. We linger at the table, wiping grease from our lips on thin paper napkins, still chatting, when the entertainment arrives. The birds (no, not The Birds, but NEPA birds!).

It’s a colorful array of Pennsylvania backyard birds, flitting and fluttering about a petite feeder, some stay to crunch seeds in their miniscule beaks, some choose to take flight as soon as they make contact, too jittery to stay put. Some come in groups and some come in pairs; the distinguished cardinal makes bold attempts to swoop in but is uncomfortable with us sitting on the other side of the glass while his muted-brown mate sits patiently in the bushes, waiting to see what he can carry inside his bill. All afternoon we are delighted with finches and sparrows and wrens and chickadees of varying colors and sizes. When the majestic blue jay arrives, the masses scatter and make room for his wingspan; he is larger than any other species who stops by to dine except the crow who watches warily from the phone line spanning across the yard.

A Google search quickly reveals charts of Northeast Pennsylvania (NEPA) birds so we can easily identify unfamiliar visitors from pictures. During my sister’s visit on Mother’s Day, my parents started a list of their feathered guests, and now I am happy to append the growing inventory, adding familiar sightings such as the cardinal and blue jay as well as a new entry, the pine siskin, described as a finch dressed like a sparrow, cute with thin brown stripes across his downy white breast showing up in abundance with several of her kin.

For Christmas, my parents received this bird feeder from their first grandson, the second oldest grandchild. It is a small, clear acrylic feeder, flat, not quite two feet long, with a ledge for the birds to hang onto as they nibble at the birdseed. It is equipped with suction cups to attach to the outside of the large bay window, the perfect spot to watch feathered friends soar in to eat, preen a bit on the ledge of the feeder, and take off at the slightest movement or sound. Simple pleasures, the same way the afternoon is playing out. No intrusions, except for one pesky squirrel who tries to noisily claw his way up the siding of the house, making his tiny head visible to peer inside before my dad goes out to spray the surrounding area with a repellant.

The deep windowsill has been cleared of trinkets and knick-knacks so my parents’ friendly black cat who suffers from ‘only-cat-syndrome’ won’t knock anything over as she vies for a birds’ eye view of the birds. Some varieties won’t land while Miss Shadow swishes her tail in eternal patience for the fowl she will never reach, staring them down with her yellow-green eyes, pupils’ mere slits in the sunlight, while other fledglings pay her no mind. It is a great source of entertainment for Shadow as well as for us watching her be amused. Simple. Even Shadow knows.

For days after my departure, my parents kept sending me snapshots of the flocks who repeatedly returned to feed. It is hard not to continuously catalogue the varied species on the other side of the glass or to tear yourself away lest you miss a new visitor coming for dinner, but it was an afternoon well spent, whiling away the hours on this Father’s Day, which honestly, was for the birds.

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