I grew up in a Philadelphia neighborhood of row homes (now fashionably called townhouses) where everyone lived physically smushed right next to each other.   Many of these neighbors influenced my understanding of both animals and people. Down the street lived one such person, an elderly Polish man whose name I never knew. The man lived with what must have been his sons and daughters though I didn’t know them or speak to them.  The old man passed time by feeding and watching pigeons.  He didn’t speak English at all and though I couldn’t understand his words, his voice was kind and his demeanor gentle.  The man’s gray wool pants were too big for him and held up by suspenders.  He was thin. So thin that he had no shape under his food-stained clothing. The man wasn’t very tall and was smaller still as he hunched over a bit when standing.  The hair that he had on his head and the stubble on his face were both bright white.  I was curious about him because he spent a lot of time outside of his house and so did I. When he’d see me watching him, he’d wave for me to come over and would offer candy from a small metal box.  I was a kid who loved to eat so I’d always take the candy.  We’d smile at one another a bit as I ate the candy.  When he smiled, his mouth moved but the rest of his face remained deeply crinkled and never seemed happy.  After I enjoyed the candy, he’d signal for me to stay, then he’d reach down, pick up a small metal pitcher and toss an interesting blend of his homemade food to the pigeons.  Together we would watch the pigeons enjoy what appeared to be bread soaked in milk.  Mostly milk. It was not an appetizing mix to me, but word spread quickly among pigeons that there was a tasty treat to eat. Our street filled with eager pigeons.

On days that my brother was also outside playing, he and I would both get candy and watch the pigeons with the man. Sometimes, though, sparked by childhood silliness, we chased the pigeons just as the man had gathered them about with the food.  The old man made it clear to us that this was completely unacceptable behavior.  He’d flail his arms about and while we didn’t understand the words he spoke, he was clearly scolding us.  In his own way, he was teaching my brother and me to respect these creatures and to enjoy their presence as he respected and enjoyed them.  As I hated to be in trouble, I’d immediately stop chasing the pigeons and fall in line with the man’s expectations to be quiet and watch the birds.  This elderly man was definitely on to something–pigeons come in a wide variety of patterns and have very expressive, watchful eyes.  Even when those eyes are facing forward, they somehow know when kids are creeping up behind them.

Every now and then at a park in cities near home and even when I’ve traveled to cities across the globe, I see kids doing exactly what my brother and I would do.  It’s universal that kids creep up on and then chase down the pigeons until they fly off. When my oldest daughter was about 4, dressed in her fancy heeled shoes, dress, and tights, she chased the pigeons in a park in downtown Baltimore. I let her do it a few times and then thought of the old man from my childhood and his pigeon friends. I stopped my daughter from chasing the animals. The pigeons then returned to bobbing their heads and strutting about in the exact same way that makes them oh so tempting to chase them in the first place. As I watched them, I was convinced they were grateful their peace had been restored. For my part in restoring their peace, those pigeons can thank the old Polish man whose name I will never know for demonstrating kindness to them and to me.