Caramel Sauce for My Soul

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A flicker of crimson grabs my attention. I cannot help smiling to myself.

They’re back.

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When I was a kid, there were two sources of entertainment at my house: the Lawrence Welk Show and the bird feeder.

Mom was a hardcore bird watcher. Our bird feeder was strategically positioned just outside the back window of our tiny house. Mom would sit with her cup of tea, binoculars nearby, Birds of Minnesota Field Guide within arm’s reach.

She even kept a notepad handy, jotting down the presence of a new or unusual visitor at the feeder, including the date and time. This was serious business.

But the most anticipated prize was catching a glimpse of the elusive cardinal, a brilliantly red beauty Mom had seen only a handful of times on our little central Minnesota farm.

That cardinal was shy and he was remarkably good at making himself scarce.

I marveled at Mom’s knowledge of birds and she gave me quite a feathery education at an early age. As a boy, I would sit next to her while she patiently taught me the nuances of nuthatches (“they are little acrobats”) and chickadees (“they are comedians with a little black cap”).

By the age of seven, I could identify a grosbeak’s song a mile away.

Puberty started playing practical jokes on my body in the 1980s and I became too cool for the bird feeder. Yet when I’d pass the back window with my big hair and cuffed jeans, I’d secretly throw a quick glance at the feeder, just in case that slippery cardinal stopped by.

I left home right after graduating high school, but Mom would still faithfully watch her birds. She would even write me letters telling me about the “Adventures at the Feeder,” including a detailed account of a marvelous cedar waxwing that happened to pass through the bird neighborhood one fall morning.

I looked forward to those letters more than she would ever know.

Less than two years later, my mother died unexpectedly. Her birds were soon gone. The trees became a silent shroud. The feeder was empty. So was my heart.

Years have passed and it seems only natural that a bird feeder occupies my own front yard.

The spirit of my mother is present as I teach my own children — grandchildren she never got to meet — everything I’ve ever learned about crows, blue jays and dark-eyed juncos.

It is caramel sauce for my soul.

Now it is my turn to keep a keen eye on the bird feeder. And every evening, I prepare for my nightly visitors.

A scarlet flash in the woods next to my home interrupts my thoughts.

I pause. I breathe. They’re back.

A male cardinal lands at my bird feeder. He cautiously surveys this way and that. Satisfied all is safe, his lifelong partner, her sand-colored body and bright orange beak, flutters down next to him. They look at each other for a moment before turning to enjoy their evening meal together in peace.

As the setting sun slides below the horizon, I look to the sky and grin, “Do you see them?”

Time has a unique way of healing.