Papageno revisited

I type this hearing thunder in the background, anticipating that I don�t have much time before I must unplug this and the other computer. It was so hot and humid that a thunderstorm is not unexpected; why the newspaper even predicted it! Be that as it may, I did manage to harvest close to half the basil in my garden and made five half-litres (those are pints, sort of) of pesto. My hands now smell of basil, garlic and parmesan, even after repeated washings. My left thumbnail is stained black around the edge, and I do not mind one bit! Tomorrow I�ll try to get the rest of that basil plucked, but I need to go shopping for garlic and pine nuts, integral ingredients in my recipe.

I have taken on another r�le in life in the footsteps of my departed father: the bird feeder. He had a bird feeder outside the kitchen window of his house in Toronto, and he would dutifully fill it every day (often several times) with sunflower seeds or mixed seed, and when it was empty the sparrows would sit around and make noises until he came out and obliged them.

I too have hung a feeder in the backyard on the clothesline where I can watch it from the kitchen window over the sink and enjoy the colours and sounds of our local feathered fauna. They make no bones about letting me know when it has run dry, cheeping quite loudly from the feeder itself or the clothesline, waiting patiently for me to come out on the deck with a scoop of seeds. They always fly off when I appear--it would never do to appear too tame--and come back after I�ve done refilling the chamber with feed. These little passages from parent to child are more marked than ever for me. I wonder what footsteps of mine my own children will follow.

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