Ferdinand Blumer in his 82nd year was a believer in life’s small pleasures. His admiration for his late wife, Margarite, had been huge. Warm and gregarious, she created comfort with people wherever they went - making up for his lifelong shyness.
One day in an adventurous mood he went out into his back yard. He was intent on attracting a particular bird whose call he had memorized precisely but who remained aloof to his overtures. He waited for a lull in the breeze - nothing to disturb his plaintive song and let it go.
There was a pause and then he heard it. The same call exactly, answering back. She was somewhere in the trees and bushes to the side. He called out again. Again, after a slight latency, the answer resounded. He tried to see where the creature might be but the summer foliage was too dense. Three more times he and hidden bird exchanged greetings.
Ferdinand was terribly excited. He wanted to call someone but was afraid the event might seem ludicrously tame for a telephone call. George! George would understand. George was a retiree of the same age - a good humored man who always had a positive word. And he lived right next door so the news would be appropriately neighborly.
“Ferdinand,” cried George as he opened the door. “I was just coming over to see you.”
“But why?”
“I had the most amazing experience. I was out in the yard and heard what I think was a nightingale. It was beautiful. I answered and it answered back - not once but many times.”
Ferdinand’s mouth fell open. He was so amazed he was almost speechless. Recovering as quickly as possible he managed to gasp, “But that is what I was going to say to you. I went out and called, and the same thing, several times it returned.”
They burst out laughting then; Ferdinand was convulsed. It was the best joke in ten years. “So you and I are nightingales,” he managed between gasps and tears.
And when Ferdinand would lametn, “For whom am I alive?” - asking in his self-effacing way for a friendly boost - George would remind him of his Franciscan gift.