Feeding the Birds

Bin Laden's death has resulted in a whole range of reactions. Here's Jon Ferguson's, which I find particularly apt. I just want to add that Khalid Sheik Mohammed's subjection 183 times to waterboard torture is said to have produced Bin Laden's messenger's name. Oh, and one more thing: Bin Laden lived in some of the poorest regions of the world for 10 years with a 25 million dollar offer on any information leading to his arrest. Nobody snitched.

Feeding the Birds

In spring, when the weather is nice, I am wont to eat my lunch on a park bench between the Café Beau Rivage and Lac Leman. Most of my colleagues stay at school at midday, but I need to get away to keep a grasp on my sanity. Teaching thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen-year olds today is not what it used to be thirty-seven years ago when I started. Maybe it’s me who has changed the most. Maybe it’s the kids. In any case, I need to take a hike whenever I can.

I always buy a salad, a roll, and some fruit juice. I never touch wine until after work and a heavy meal at noon just makes me want to go to sleep. My take-out place is run by a woman from Sri Lanka whom I probably should have married in an ideal world. She has black hair combed off her face, ivory teeth that seem illuminated, a dancing chest, shiny lips, and a smile that makes ordering her food a daily pleasure. Her marriage brought her to Switzerland, but ended in a quick divorce. I was already in the country when I wed. I’m still here after divorcing. In the four years since I started frequenting “Les Bonnes Choses” I’ve never seen her in a bad mood. All her sandwiches, paninis, foccacias, and salads are always fresh, crisp, and copious.

I take my bag and walk to my bench of predilection. It faces the lake, the Alps, and a large patch of beautiful flowers. Behind me and to my left is the café of one of the finest hotels in the world. Rich people eat there on a terrace in the sun. They have more time than me for lunch. There are two lines of trees wherein sparrows wait for people to give them bits of bread. I wonder if the birds “know who we are” and recognize us when they see us coming.

I don’t start throwing the rest of my roll until I have finished my salad. I don’t like eating with beggars at my feet. But I always save at least half of my roll for the birds. And they always come, dropping to the ground from the heavily leafed trees like planes to an aircraft carrier. Within seconds of my first toss, there are a couple dozen of them. I break what bread I have left and try to satify as many of them as possible.

Yesterday was the day Bin Laden was shot in the head, “just above the left eye” the news said. Evidently a unanimous shout of joy went up across America. From sea to shining sea arms and hands were raised to the sky and voices proclaimed that justice had finally been done.
Yesterday while I was feeding the birds there were two children playing behind me. Suddenly one of them made a sound like the “pop” of a cork gun, the kind you don’t see anymore. All of the birds immediately took flight in unison. I was left alone on my bench to finish the last bite of bread and to think about how nature works.


Contributed by - - Jon Ferguson

Published by - - Arabella Hutter