We found the egg beneath the purple martin house beside the pear tree. It was small, barely the size of my pinky, yet it seemed as though gallons of bright yellow yolk oozed from the hole that had been pecked into it. Grandma stooped down to study the egg, then held it up to show me.
“What happened?” I asked.
She looked up and shielded her eyes against the setting sun. The martin house was about three feet square and sat atop a metal pole that stretched nearly twenty feet in the air. Eight nesting holes were carved into the front. Two on the top row bulged with feathers and grass.
“The sparrows have come.”
I arched my neck and, looking at her first, shielded my eyes against the sun just as she had. “I don’t see any sparrows.”
“They’re not there now,” she said, “but they’re about. They’re starting to take over the martin nests.”
“They won’t share?”
Grandma was silent for a moment then shook her head. “Sparrows don’t share,” she said. “They just take. Your grandpa will be home from the gas station soon. He’ll know what to do.”
She left it at that and we continued our walk, past the garden and then toward my grandfather’s tool shed to check on the rosebushes. Grandma was normally talkative for a Mennonite woman, always ready for conversation or, if the situation warranted it and if secrecy was promised, some gossip. But she didn’t say much after finding the sparrows. The invasion of the martin house had rattled her into thought. As we walked I glanced back toward the martin house just in time to see a sparrow light from the pear tree to one of the nests.
*
Da Vinci had his workshop, and Grandpa had his tool shed. It was a dilapidated wooden building in the corner of the backyard that housed all manner of tools and materials from which he could create or repair nearly anything. And as Grandpa, like the maestro, was reluctant to work on one thing at a time, the shed was in a constant and beautiful state of disarray. Hand-drawn sketches and blueprints were scattered about on three wooden worktables, along with half a dozen projects in various stages of completion and every sort of tool imaginable. Creepy-crawlies hid in the dark corners of the shed behind long-forgotten garden tools and construction materials. Those corners were the only parts of my grandparents’ ten acres of land I dared not venture.
I watched as Grandpa cleared one of the tables and pulled a worn notebook from the shelf above him. He stood motionless but for tapping his pencil on the paper and waited for inspiration. Just as I was about to speak, he nodded and muttered “Thank you” to the ceiling.
“Whatcha doing, Grandpa?” I asked.
“I’m taking care of the sparrows.”
I pointed and said, “But they’re out there.”
“Yes.”
He began to draw as I stood at the door waiting for something—anything—to happen. Nothing did. My grandfather wasn’t what one would call a man of action. To him, things were best handled slowly and deliberately. I pulled a stool over to the table to get a better view. Scribbled on the paper was a three-dimensional box from different points of view. An array of numbers and arrows surrounded it in a language I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t help but to think of Wile E. Coyote and his unfulfilled quest for the Road Runner.
“Grandpa,” I said, “we have to get rid of the sparrows now.”
“I thought you liked the sparrows,” he said.
“That was before I knew what they did. Grandma said they were mean. I don’t want them hurting the martins.”
“Me neither,” he said. He took his eyes off the notebook and put them onto me. “But there is a proper way to deal with those who wish harm, and we must take care to do it correctly.”
Typical Mennonite gobbledygook, I thought to myself. Always the spiritual and the holy. A home where the only God was my father’s beer and where my mother’s tearful prayers for help were never answered had proven there wasn’t any God who could bring a measure of optimism to my world-weary heart. I was willing to give Him a chance in my new life, if only because it would be another way to put my old one behind me. But this was too much. I said nothing to display my disagreement. My eyes did it for me.
My grandfather looked at me through his thick glasses. A small whistle of air came through his nose and tickled his long, white beard. “You and I,” he said, “we are here in the shed.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone watching us?”
I looked out the door and toward the house. Grandma was somewhere inside, but I didn’t see her peering out any of the windows.
“No,” I said. “Nobody’s watching.”
“You’re wrong. God is watching.” He tapped me on the head with his pencil and smiled. “And we have to make sure we don’t disappoint Him.”
He turned away from me and back to his notebook, leaving me to wonder why in the world I shouldn’t disappoint God after He’d disappointed me. This was no time for thinking and planning, and it was certainly no time to be drawing pictures. I clenched a fist because there was nothing left to do.
The few minutes that passed seemed an eternity. Then he finally placed his pencil down and announced a satisfied “There.”
“What are we gonna do?” I asked him. “Throw the notebook at the birdhouse?”
Grandpa’s look told me that was not the plan. He stood from the table and began gathering chunks of wood from the back of the shed, then set to work measuring and sawing and hammering. I clenched another fist.
“Frustration,” he called to me, “is a form of anger. And anger is best reserved for someone who is not trying to teach you something.”
I put my fist down and let out a barely audible growl I was (mostly) sure he couldn’t hear. Then I turned and peeked out the door and toward the birdhouse, where the sparrows continued to stand guard over their pilfered property. On the telephone line nearby sat two purple martins wondering what had happened. A vain attempt by one to fly to her nest was turned away with relative ease by the enemy’s stronger numbers.
That was it. I had to do something.
Weapons of any sort were forbidden in my grandparents’ household. That included the obvious, such as guns and knives, and the not so obvious, such as water pistols and bows and arrows. Which meant I had to improvise. Grandpa’s attention had been diverted by his project, so I crept to the back of the shed and rummaged through the piles of debris. I found a discarded bit of an oak limb in the shape of a Y and a length of rubber hose, then shoved the contraband into my jeans and peeked out the door.
The Old Man stood under the martin house dressed as though he was about to participate in a B-movie safari. His brown walking boots looked just thick enough to be useless. A pair of khaki shorts began near his chest and fell nearly to his knees. The space between there and his shoes was bridged by long brown socks. A white collared shirt and safari hat completed the ensemble. He peered at the nest through a tiny pair of binoculars, then looked at me and shook his head.
“I’m gonna go get a drink, Grandpa,” I said.
“I’ll be done here soon.” He walked to the back of the shed and returned with a section of chicken wire. I had no idea what its purpose was, and I wasn’t about to inquire.
“Yessir,” I managed, but I was already out the door.
I made my way across the yard to the Old Man, still eyeing the birdhouse through his binoculars. He turned to me as I approached and said, “Well, Andy, it seems we have a problem.”
“Grandfolks say that the sparrows are bad,” I told him.
“The sparrows are just being themselves,” he said. “It’s their nature, you see. They can’t help it.”
“They’ve kicked the martins out.”
He studied the martin house through his binoculars to make sure. “Looks like it. What should we do?”
“Well Grandpa wants to draw them to death, I guess. And Grandma just seems to want to let him.”
“I suppose those are options. How about you? What do you think?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of wood and length of hose.
He wrinkled his brow then looked at the slingshot through the binoculars. “Sure that’s a good idea?” he asked.
Him, too? I thought. Really?
“Somebody’s gotta do something,” I said. “And I guess I’m the only one man enough around here to do it.”
“That so?” he asked. “You’re the man, huh?”
“Yes,” I said. Then I thought through it, both his question and my answer, just to make sure he wasn’t tricking me into something. “Yes,” I said again.
“I think you should wait and see what your grandpa’s come up with. Just give him a chance. He’s been around awhile, you know. He knows things.”
It was a valid point, and I knew it. So I ignored his suggestion and said, “Why are you dressed so funny?”
The Old Man looked down at his clothes. “I like it. It’s kitsch. That’s German.”
“Does it mean ‘ridiculous’? ’Cause if it does, you nailed it.”
He smiled at me and said, “I really think you should wait, Andy. God’s watching, you know.”
Had this not been so soon after the Old Man had first appeared in my bedroom, I would have probably taken his advice. As the years went on he proved himself to be dependable when it came to knowing the right thing, at least until the end. But at the time I saw him more as an imaginary friend than an angel. And everyone knows you can ignore an imaginary friend whenever you want.
I tied the length of hose around the Y section of the limb and picked up as round a rock I could find from the driveway. Said, “I got this.” Then I drew back on the slingshot.
“Okay then,” the Old Man said, “as you wish.” He raised his binoculars and looked to the sparrows again. In an awkward English accent, he said, “Two degrees to the right, old chap. Pip-pip and cheerio.”
I shook my head. “Quiet,” I said. “I’m aimin’.”
I took a breath and then let go, rocketing the piece of gravel skyward toward the invaders. Halfway there, I knew I had aimed wrong. Three quarters of the way there, I knew the rock would hit the martin house instead. And just as the rock hit, I knew the Old Man was right.
I should have waited.
The ensuing crack echoed in every direction, including through the open window of the kitchen and through the door of the tool shed. Both grandparents came running, right past my jungle-prepared angel. Grandma took one look at the slingshot in my hand and let out a pained gasp. Then she seized my earlobe and pulled. Hard. Violence had never been her way—it was anathema to her faith—but I thought at that moment if a little bit of it got into her discipline, that was just fine with her.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, young man?” she demanded. Her free hand slapped against her leg and searched for something to whip me with, and her lips shook with questions she was too upset to ask. White fear and red rage mixed in her face and gave it a pinkish glow. I realized I was staring into the face of a monster created by my own sin.
Grandpa provided no protection, choosing instead to ask “What have you done?” over and over.
I turned to the Old Man for help, but he offered little. His attention was still focused on the martin house and the sparrows who had retaken their posts around it. “I say, that was a smashing shot,” he said.
I rolled my eyes at him and turned toward my grandparents. “I was trying to kill the sparrows.”
“You were trying to kill the sparrows?” Grandma asked. She continued to smack her leg, and I was afraid she would soon realize she didn’t need anything more than her hand to whip me with. She looked from me to Grandpa and said, “You didn’t tell him the proper way to do such things?”
It was Grandpa’s turn to stammer. “Well…yes, Mama. I was just in the middle of it and—”
“You cannot do this,” she said, cutting him off and turning to me. Her voice was softer now, back to normal. The momentary flash of rage had been replaced by her ever-present calm. “This is not the way, Andy. This hurts you”—she pointed to my heart—“more than them”—she pointed to the sparrows.
Grandma turned back to her husband. “I expect you will teach him now rather than get lost in your notebooks and plans?” she asked.
She turned and tromped toward the house. Neither of us moved until the door had closed.
“Well, Andy,” Grandpa said, still eyeing the door, “I suppose we should have that talk.”
“Yessir.”
“Come,” he said. “I need to show you something.”
We left the Old Man there—“Everything will be jolly good, old chap”—and walked back to the shed. A cage sat on the wooden table by the window. The base was made of the wood Grandpa had gathered, thicker than my index finger and thumb together. Chicken wire had been fastened around the perimeter with nails. Hooks joined the sides to the top, which had also been lined with chicken wire. To the right, about six inches from the base, stood a small platform that extended eight inches or so into the cage. A hinge was fastened beneath. There was a tiny, almost imperceptible space between the platform and another block of wood attached to the base. Nailed to the left side of that block was another with a six-inch hole cut into the center.
“What’s that?” I asked him.
“This is how we get rid of the sparrows,” he said. “Come.”
He lifted the contraption, and together we walked to the picnic table near the martin house, where he set the trap. From his pockets Grandpa produced a handful of birdseed that he poured into a pile near the middle of the platform. Satisfied, he turned to me.
“Let’s have a seat on the porch,” he said.
I turned to the Old Man and shrugged. He mimicked me and added a smile.
Five minutes later a sparrow darted from the martin house to the cage. Its tiny head tilted from one side to the other. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, it hopped onto the platform and toward its dinner.
Halfway there the hinge tilted downward, leaving the sparrow with no choice but to go through the opening and into the cage. When it did the platform raised up, trapping the bird inside.
I looked at Grandpa, who gave a satisfied nod.
“Bloody brilliant,” the Old Man said. Though he was only ten feet away, he’d said it while looking at us through his binoculars.
“Why are you talkin’ so funny?” I asked him.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Grandpa.
The Old Man shrugged and smiled. “Just thought I might try it. No?”
I shook my head.
*
By the time dinner was over all four sparrows had managed to let their appetites get them into trouble, a lesson the Old Man admonished me to remember. Grandpa and I went out to inspect our catch. He placed a blanket over the cage and set it in the back of his truck, then the two of us rode out to the main road through town. The Old Man hitched a ride in the back, dressed now in his more usual garb of jeans and a T-shirt. He spent half the time stooped down talking to the birds through the cage and the other half standing in the bed with his arms outstretched. I thought he was trying to hug the wind.
The only time he seemed conscious I was there was when he thumped his finger on the back window of the truck. I turned, ready to say I was looking at the sparrows if asked, and looked at him. The Old Man pointed to the area of the seat between my grandfather and me. My slingshot sat there, a victim of the shallow pockets of a homemade pair of pants. He motioned for me to pick it up and put it in my own pocket. I shook my head no. He motioned again. I shook my head harder—NO. Then with his hands he mimicked a square and the motion of a lid being raised. The box, I thought. The Old Man wanted me to take it for the box. He gave me the OK sign with his thumb and forefinger, as if he knew Grandpa would forget about the slingshot altogether. Thankfully, he did. The slingshot was the first thing to ever go in my box.
“Where we goin’, Grandpa?” I asked him.
“To a place where birds need to sing.”
He kept driving. Past the town square, past his gas station, and on into the hills. We finally parked at the edge of an old service road that was guarded by an ancient iron gate. The woods beyond were still and silent and dark.
I looked at Grandpa and asked, “Happy Hollow?”
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s not linger.”
We got out of the truck and he reached into the back for the cage. His hand passed through the Old Man’s leg like it was molecules of air.
“Bad spot,” the Old Man said. “Bad woods. There’s darkness here, Andy. A shadow.”
The Old Man and I watched as Grandpa opened the top of the cage and set the birds free.
“The sparrows will have a new home now,” he said. “They won’t pester our martins again. They will be happy, and we will be happy. The world is too dreary a place to be without the song of even a thieving bird, and perhaps their songs will bring life to these woods.”
The Old Man smiled as he watched them fly away. Then he looked at me.
“I want you to remember this day, Andy,” he said. “People fight too much in this world. You don’t always need a slingshot. It’s always better to do what your grandfather did. Defeat your enemies through love.”
“Defeat your enemies through love,” I repeated.
“Yes,” said Grandpa. He looked at me and gave an approving pat on my shoulder. “Yes, indeed. Well done, my boy. Very well done.”