I loved my grandpa and he loved purple martins.
I shared his love purple martins too. These colony nesting birds make their homes in man-made houses on tall poles, eat on the wing and sing beautiful songs all day. And I could, and have, spent hours just watching them zoom in and out of their homes.
In the year after he passed away, I was explaining to John the necessity of me traveling three and a half hours north to our family’s cabin where the purple martin colony that Gramps spent years attracting, taking care of and recording their activity was.
John looked at me and said, “Alright, but you realize that you are being held hostage by your dead grandfather’s migratory birds, right?”
I laughed and went and took care of the martins.
Last week I was standing thigh-deep in the lake in my underwear holding up the purple…
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