Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, a cardinal perches in the exact same spot on the rail of my back porch. He’s been there for years. It’s almost as if he’s glued down.
Which he kind of is. He’s actually attached not with glue but with a sturdy screw, unmovable—at least so far—by even the strongest wind. Made of cedar, the bird was a gift left for me at the Herald-Citizen office back when it was on Neal Street. Imagine my delight when the lady at the front counter handed me the cardinal. It’s slightly bigger than life-size, bright red with a black mask, a white eye and a gold beak. Folk art at its finest. “I love it!” I told her. “Who’s it from?”
She shrugged. “The man didn’t tell me his name. Or if he did, I don’t remember it. But he left one for Mary Jo Denton, too. He said he was a big fan of both of you.”
This wonderful present deserved a giant thank you. But how do you thank a gift-giver whose name you don’t know? The answer was Facebook. The details are murky now, but I remember that Mary Jo, who even in retirement and poor health was still an investigative reporter extraordinaire, discovered that our birds were made by a man named Jack. (He asked that I not publish his last name in this column.) As it turned out, he was Facebook friends with both Mary Jo and me. So Facebook is how I thanked him.
I enjoy my cardinal immensely. Every time daughter Meg comes to visit from Denver, she enjoys him, too. So much, in fact, that she’s pleaded repeatedly that I give her the bird. “He would look so good in my aspen tree,” she says. “Especially since we don’t have cardinals in Colorado.”
Just as I was working up the nerve to ask Jack if he’d make a bird for Meg, I saw a photo of a cardinal he’d given to another of his friends. The door was open. I messaged my request and he said yes. Once again, he delivered the bird to the Herald-Citizen office.
I talked with him by phone a few days ago to thank him and to learn more about him. Born and raised in Livingston, Jack moved to Indiana soon after high school to work for General Motors, where he was actively involved with the United Auto Workers. He retired in 1995, returned to Overton County and bought the 200-acre farm where he lives in an old log cabin and raises cattle. “I wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else,” he told me.
The first cardinal Jack ever made was for an elderly and bedridden nursing home resident, who stared out her window every day wishing she could see a redbird. “I’m not an artist and I’m not a woodworker,” Jack said, “but I was bound and determined she was going to get her wish.” He cut a cardinal out of plywood, painted it red and hung it from a tree outside his friend’s window while she slept. She lived for only two more weeks and never realized the cardinal wasn’t real. “It was a blessing for me to help bring her comfort in her last days,” Jack says.
Since then, he has made and given away more than 200 cardinals. If he hears of someone who admires his birds or who’s feeling down or, especially, is looking for assurance that a loved one who passed away is still present, Jack sees to it that they get a cardinal. No charge, no questions asked. “I’ll do this as long as I’m able,” he told me. “If a simple little wooden bird can make someone smile, count me in.”
Thank you, Jack. From Meg and me and all the other people you’ve touched with your beautiful cardinals. And, yeah, every time I look at mine I think of our dear Mary Jo.
(May 17, 2025)