THE FLUTTER INN

I hung the new feeder off a high limb on the birch tree. It was just low enough to fill, and close by so we could watch the many birds I expected to attract. The stiff wire loop on top of the feeder drew taut. My hands steadied it a little, then I tossed in some cracked nuts I was carrying. Before I'd moved 10 feet away a chickadee was perched on it, pecking up the treats. The Flutter Inn was in business.

My model sported twin Vermont license plates from 1960 and 1961 for the roof, maple framework and a thin slab of slate as a rot-proof base. It seemed to attract both birds and men, the latter always striding over to peer at the plates and eye the open, airy construction. Maybe I should try selling these things, I mused. People like them. As do the birds.

The first bird feeder with that name was built by Uncle Darwin as a Mother's Day gift for Hazel, my grandmother. She was known far and wide not only for her wedding cakes but also for her knowledge of the bird species that migrated up the Sleepers River each year. If some neighbor wanted to know what bird they'd been seeing around the yard, Hazel would always know which one. The bird kingdom knew where their bread was buttered and where they could get amazing donuts hung on strings. Every kind of flying creature found his or her way to the little farm by the side of the town highway. The new feeder, made by Darwin, featured a cute house with a long porch extending out, usually covered with crumbs, or corn. It held this position through thirty years. One day when the house had been sold - the sole tenant moving to live with family - I happened to be there visiting. Grammy was very sad to be leaving her home of many years, and I, too, shared in the loss. This farm was my idea of heaven, with it's country rhythms and peaceful landscape. The Sleepers River cut through the middle of the land and my brother and sisters and I had pulled many trout out of it, played on the banks, and swam below the nearby Emerson Falls one of Vermont's finest. Grammy and I were on the porch wistfully gazing around, lost in the moment. She pointed to the bird feeder on the railing. "I want you to have this, Michael. I know you'll feed the birds for me." I was thrilled, because this was one of the icons of my childhood: the first thing you saw when you drove up to the farmhouse was the Flutter Inn. A priceless gift.

I took it home and mounted it on a five-foot post out in the yard where we could see it

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