Well, Mr. Finch. You certainly lived up to your billing. You appeared yesterday at our windows, fluttering, and seemingly half drunk with either knowledge of the future or from having sipped too deliriously from the local berry crops. We noticed you first as we were sitting in the front room, Nan eyeing puzzle pieces for Hollywood characters and the perfect fit and I, perusing the local Market Basket circular for deals on veggies and the like. Your wings nay have even touched our front window as you appeared one moment and disappeared the next. You were up, down, and all around. One minute you were in the front of the house, the next in the back of the house. But then again, so was I. Watching you, of course, and then again, maybe you were watching me. Watching, telling, signaling, and what, oh what, were you trying to tell me?

I considered the weather and thought that Evan might be in some kind of trouble. I looked at the skies and listened to the thunder in the distance and thought that we might want to reconsider our plans to visit the Whole Foods Market in Andover, Ma. We did just that but it had more to do with the swirling leaves and branches in the road than the yellow finch at our window. The storm never materialized and within the hour the sun was shining without so much as a hint that it ever existed much less threatened. As Nancy and I drove down to Portsmouth for coffee, we noticed that the air was clear and opportunities were everywhere to take pictures. Beneath a store's awning in the square stood a couple of bicyclists with brightly colored spandex and it would have made such a nice photo. It got even better when a woman next to one of the cyclists reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. That would have been priceless. The colors. The characters. The light. Both Nan and I agreed that we need to do a better job of carrying our camera with us.

But Mr. Finch, not to be denied, may have been trying to tell us that someone died. Yes, it's true. Mr. Gardella's brother, Steve, died yesterday. He was 93 years old. We only learned this late in the day when Nancy and I visited her parents and then it was too late to do anything. Mr. G was not inconsolable in his grief nor was he particularly sad in his portrayal of his brothers legacy. He recalled little but one thing he said was that Steve was a very good athlete in his day. Mr. and Mrs. G. should go to the funeral and Nancy should take them there. It doesn't matter that Nancy is also scheduled to take them down to Massachusetts in three weeks time to go to a family reunion. The only question is, will it be a one day trip or a two day trip. And, what will Nancy and Evan do when they get there. Maybe Mr. Finch knows.