For the birds

It's something people don't really do any more. Put food out for the birds.

Fred did. So had his mother before him, and her father before her. And at 67, he wasn't about to change now.

He had a bit of a reputation in our village, did Fred. Cantankerous, stubborn, cruel even. Yet, he hung out food for the birds. There was effort in that, money spent and time used. It was kindness.

I said 'hello' as I walked past him. It was a concious decision. A neighbour I had never spoken to, never even knew lived there. He wasn't looking at me as I said it. But when I did, he didn't seem surprised.

'Hiya', came the reply. Through the side of the mouth with no eye contact.

Easy as that. That was the point that I realised that people down South weren't rude. It's just not something they do readily, talk to strangers.

He cleared his throat roughly and carried on hanging his bird feeder.

When I had walked past, and was almost at the end of the road, I realised that I should have thanked him. I had always loved the birdsong, and I never realised that it could be someone's actions triggering those soulful, peaceful sounds. Living two doors down, I reaped the full benefits. I turned around, but Fred had gone.

Just to let you know, this isn't my story. I only feature as a sideline, not really a part of this little community. An outsider, looking in. Staying on the periphery, like a child on the edge of a swimming pool, waiting for the right moment to dive in and strike out.