Along with grandkids, the birds were regular visitors at Mamaw’s and Papaw’s and constant competitors for hangouts, hideouts and handouts. Handouts were plentiful. We watched in awe as Papaw carved an apple, the full peel curling from his paring knife, falling in one spectacular, slinky-sized spiral into the tin pie pan on his lap. He sliced the apple for us kids and gave the birds the peeling and core. Our favorite hideout and hangout, which also came with handouts, was Papaw’s grape arbor, especially in late summer when the fruit was throbbing to be picked. We and the birds appreciated that God saved scuppernongs and muscadines for August, one last binge before school and starvation.

The tall, dense arbor with its tangled, leafy vines and golden, shining orbs offered a cinematic retreat from grownups, chores and the heat. Resting was easy as we lay on the ground and watched the sun wink through the dark, twisted canopy like a Lite Brite. Working was easy, too, as we filled buckets and bellies with sweet, juicy fruit. We gorged ourselves while the birds waited for our droppings. I would often hide in the woods behind the arbor with Papaw’s break action 410 shotgun hoping to dispatch a blue jay to the great blue beyond. Mamaw loved the birds, especially the bright red cardinals, but she thought blue jays were the bullies of the bird kingdom. I just wanted to make her proud. Now, as a reformed bird lover, I’m deeply saddened and ashamed of this particular boyhood exploit. So, I daily seek redemption at the local birdwatcher’s supply store.