To the Least

     Handfuls of smooth, golden kernels were flung into the air as I held my breath. A cloud of chubby iridescence dropped from the sky - a swirling, cooing mass of rock pigeons landed heavy on the concrete. They crowded my Keds, a frantic sea of grey and bottle-green necks vying for every yellow grain.

     Some of my earliest memories remain at 8th and State Street in Erie. The pigeons were always there, waiting for the hiss of the bus brakes and the sight of my mother. They knew her. They knew the crinkle of the brown paper bag she carried.

     In the city, the air tasted peculiar of exhaust and asphalt, a world away from the lilacs and roses of our garden on Elmwood. Yet, standing there with Mom, the bag heavy between us, the foreign land of downtown was an exciting new world to explore for my 4-year-old eyes.

     Once the bag was shaken empty, Mom would lead me by the hand and walk us down the hill to the east to visit her friend.   The woman and her husband lived in a very large house that was carved into four separate apartments.  I remember the row of four white doorbell buttons, their embossed labels yellowing with age. To a child from a house where one bell meant one family, these four buttons felt like a secret code. Mom would nudge me, and I’d stretch on my tiptoes, pressing my finger firmly into the right one.

     Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sour wood and old dust. The stairs groaned under our weight as we climbed toward the second floor. In the living room, a brown tweed sofa with polished wooden arms sat beneath a window that framed a different view of my new friends.  Dozens of pigeons perched in silent rows along the power lines.  It felt like they were accompanying us on our visit.

     In the kitchen, high atop the refrigerator sat a wire cage, and inside, a tiny green budgie. I sat on the chair, transfixed as it worked through its seed.  Tiny, husked pearls much smaller than the popcorn we gave the street birds were his delight. The budgie would catch a seed, rotate it with a dexterous flick of its tongue, and pressure the shell until it gave way. Satisfied, it flicked its head, sending a spray of hulls dancing through the air to settle like light snow on the linoleum below. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

     On the best days, the woman joined our walk back toward the bus stop. We’d duck into the Red Barn for some chicken, or climb onto the high, spinning stools at the Woolworth lunch counter.  Mom would always reach for the check first, her fingers steady as she counted out the bills.

     I didn't realize then that these trips were missions of mercy. I only saw Mom open her coin purse, but years later, I understood the math she was doing in her head. She would take the allowance my father gave her, the money meant for groceries or new shoes, and quietly siphon off a portion, tucking it away like a secret. During those downtown lunches, I didn’t see the hand-off, just the way her friend’s shoulders seemed to relax, and the way Mom smiled, making sure the help carried no more weight than the stories they traded over their coffee.

     As the years went on, I became more aware of what the differences between the apartment life downtown and our new home on an acre in Millcreek meant.  My mother’s living faith was a humble testament of her loving dedication to the Corporal Works of Mercy.  Whenever we sang “Whatsoever You Do,” by Willard F. Jabusch at Mass, it reminded me of our trips downtown, to feed the birds.  And to feed the bird lady.

Matthew 25:35-40

"For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me."

"Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’"

"And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’"

April 26, 2026