things. The lump in his throat eased down. “Anyway, Dad taught us everything he knew, which was plenty. He was a bird man from his days as an Eagle Scout.”
Emilie made a sound that bordered on a delicate snort. “A bird man who’s an eagle? Are you teasing me again, Mr. Fielding?”
“Call me Jonas.” He grinned, warming up to the notion of birding with this particular guinea hen. “I never kid around when it comes to identifying our feathered friends. That’s the whole idea of the bird count. A hundred years ago, a bunch of sharp Audubon enthusiasts decided Christmas should be for counting birds instead of shooting ’em.”
“You still
eat
them, I see.” She nodded toward his empty plate and the plucked-clean turkey centerpiece. Her eyebrows had calmed down, but her eyes themselves twinkled ever so slightly. “Are you suggesting I join you for a
Fielding
day?”
Clever girl.
He shifted in Helen’s direction. “What do you think, Mrs. Bomberger? Can we keep her in line, show her the ropes?”
The elderly woman flapped her hand like a baker chasing insects off a shoofly pie. “Not this year, I’m afraid. The way my arthritis is acting up, I’d be stiffer than a board before daybreak. Planning on counting them at my feeders, though.” She pointed toward the kitchen door. “Got fifty pounds of birdseed and two new feeders out back, all set for action.” Her rheumy eyes crinkled around the corners. “Emilie is welcome to use those fancy binoculars you got me for my birthday.”
“Very generous, Mrs. B.”
Heart of gold, this woman.
“So, Doc, I’ll pick you up at … say, four-thirty?”
Emilie winced. “In the morning?”
He pretended to look surprised. “Of course. When else would you find a barred owl hooty-hooting at the moon?” He slapped his hands together, anticipating a brisk wintry day at the Middle Creek Wildlife Management Area with a thermos of hot coffee in one hand and a field guide in the other. “Be sure you dress for cold weather. You Carolina girls do own warm clothes, don’t you?”
“I’m a Pennsylvania woman.” There was a drop of vinegar in her voice. “And yes, I have plenty of warm clothes. Winston-Salem is hardly Myrtle Beach.” Her haughty expression was back, which meant his rejuvenation efforts were already starting to work.
“Four-thirty it is then,” he reminded her with a wink.
“See that you’re not late, Mr. Fielding.”
“Jonas.”
“Whatever.”
His grin widened.
Welcome back, Dr. Getz.
Four
There was an old owl lived in an oak,
The more he heard, the less he spoke;
The less he spoke, the more he heard,
O, if men were all like that wise bird!
P UNCH
“Rise and shine, sweetheart!”
Jonas emptied the remains of a dog food bag into the plastic dish until it overflowed, then tossed the bag in the vicinity of the kitchen trash can.
“Eat up, Trix, and then we’re gone. I intend to surprise a certain bird by arriving early.” Jonas pulled on his black parka and a wool stocking cap, then draped a set of binoculars around his neck. Jamming a couple of shabby bird books and a handheld video camera in one roomy pocket, then a handful of dog biscuits in the other, he stuck a glazed doughnut between his teeth and shoved the rest of the box in his backpack.
With so much work piled on his desk, he had no business taking a day to play in the woods with Dr. Stuck-Up. Still, he’d promised the Lord. And Emilie had agreed to come.
Who knows?
Their outing might prove to be more entertaining than he expected.
Grabbing a thermos of hot, black coffee, he headed for the garage with Trix circling his thighs. Like all retrievers, she knew the drill, knew they were heading for a day in the field, and could scarcely contain her excitement.
“In you go, girl.” He opened the back door on the driver’s side and Trix leaped into the Explorer’s roomy backseat, panting and drooling with abandon. Despite the early hour, Jonas let out a noisy whoop.
Emilie made a sound that bordered on a delicate snort. “A bird man who’s an eagle? Are you teasing me again, Mr. Fielding?”
“Call me Jonas.” He grinned, warming up to the notion of birding with this particular guinea hen. “I never kid around when it comes to identifying our feathered friends. That’s the whole idea of the bird count. A hundred years ago, a bunch of sharp Audubon enthusiasts decided Christmas should be for counting birds instead of shooting ’em.”
“You still
eat
them, I see.” She nodded toward his empty plate and the plucked-clean turkey centerpiece. Her eyebrows had calmed down, but her eyes themselves twinkled ever so slightly. “Are you suggesting I join you for a
Fielding
day?”
Clever girl.
He shifted in Helen’s direction. “What do you think, Mrs. Bomberger? Can we keep her in line, show her the ropes?”
The elderly woman flapped her hand like a baker chasing insects off a shoofly pie. “Not this year, I’m afraid. The way my arthritis is acting up, I’d be stiffer than a board before daybreak. Planning on counting them at my feeders, though.” She pointed toward the kitchen door. “Got fifty pounds of birdseed and two new feeders out back, all set for action.” Her rheumy eyes crinkled around the corners. “Emilie is welcome to use those fancy binoculars you got me for my birthday.”
“Very generous, Mrs. B.”
Heart of gold, this woman.
“So, Doc, I’ll pick you up at … say, four-thirty?”
Emilie winced. “In the morning?”
He pretended to look surprised. “Of course. When else would you find a barred owl hooty-hooting at the moon?” He slapped his hands together, anticipating a brisk wintry day at the Middle Creek Wildlife Management Area with a thermos of hot coffee in one hand and a field guide in the other. “Be sure you dress for cold weather. You Carolina girls do own warm clothes, don’t you?”
“I’m a Pennsylvania woman.” There was a drop of vinegar in her voice. “And yes, I have plenty of warm clothes. Winston-Salem is hardly Myrtle Beach.” Her haughty expression was back, which meant his rejuvenation efforts were already starting to work.
“Four-thirty it is then,” he reminded her with a wink.
“See that you’re not late, Mr. Fielding.”
“Jonas.”
“Whatever.”
His grin widened.
Welcome back, Dr. Getz.
Four
There was an old owl lived in an oak,
The more he heard, the less he spoke;
The less he spoke, the more he heard,
O, if men were all like that wise bird!
P UNCH
“Rise and shine, sweetheart!”
Jonas emptied the remains of a dog food bag into the plastic dish until it overflowed, then tossed the bag in the vicinity of the kitchen trash can.
“Eat up, Trix, and then we’re gone. I intend to surprise a certain bird by arriving early.” Jonas pulled on his black parka and a wool stocking cap, then draped a set of binoculars around his neck. Jamming a couple of shabby bird books and a handheld video camera in one roomy pocket, then a handful of dog biscuits in the other, he stuck a glazed doughnut between his teeth and shoved the rest of the box in his backpack.
With so much work piled on his desk, he had no business taking a day to play in the woods with Dr. Stuck-Up. Still, he’d promised the Lord. And Emilie had agreed to come.
Who knows?
Their outing might prove to be more entertaining than he expected.
Grabbing a thermos of hot, black coffee, he headed for the garage with Trix circling his thighs. Like all retrievers, she knew the drill, knew they were heading for a day in the field, and could scarcely contain her excitement.
“In you go, girl.” He opened the back door on the driver’s side and Trix leaped into the Explorer’s roomy backseat, panting and drooling with abandon. Despite the early hour, Jonas let out a noisy whoop.
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