While reading of troy's memory of her dad hand feeding birds I had an "Uncle Bill Hunt" moment and thought back to gentler times when I was a member of a street gang known far and wee as the "Celts".
One day we stopped stealing hub caps and breaking into parking meters and rode over to Pratt City to watch a man call down wild birds.
The man, a gruff-talking retired steelworker, didn't much like punk kids but after a little begging and cajoling he led us around to his back yard and seated us on his porch. Then with great ceremony he put on a heavy long-sleeved hunting shirt with lots of pockets and walked slowly to the back of his yard by two oak trees and stretched out both arms in the manner of a cross.
We saw a miracle. In a sudden, squirrels came down from the trees and birds came down from the sky. Sparrows and redbirds fed on seed from his shoulders and head and outstretched hands while the squirrels searched his pockets for peanuts.
After a short while the boisterous squirrels ran the birds off and the man moved to a nearby bench and sat down.
Finally, after every pocket had been checked and rechecked for nuts the sqirrels scampered back to the trees and the show was over.
The man became our hero. We badgered him for his secret.
Was it the jacket? Years of training? He wouldn't tell us. All he said was that you had to have a calm and peaceful mind.
And then we left and went back to stealing hub-caps.
