She was a resourceful woman and always said she didn’t see any reason not to make use of their bountiful wooded surroundings. Mother Mom had bird feeders set up every foot along the eaves of the house, probably two hundred or more of them, mostly homemade, and she hung out in the shadows with a large green net, catching whatever winged creature landed on whichever seed-filled box. Her hands were webs of scratches and cuts from transferring the terrified creatures into the large metal cages also swinging from the eaves. She tapped her wrist—the sign that Buck should be home in time to help cook dinner—and they blew noiseless kisses at each other. Beyond Mother Mom’s bird terrain was Grandma Pete’s shed, where she sat on an old office chair with her cane in one hand and a picture of her dead husband in his military regalia in the other. “Good morning, Grandma Pete,” Buck yelled. “Good day, Lady Buck,” she grumbled back. Buck joined Grandma Pete on the porch for the last inning of a baseball game on the radio.
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