Margie was always very tolerant about Amy's birds, cleaning up after them, and even feeding them while Amy was at school.  Margie has always liked birds, but her toleration stops when birds invade her cherry orchard.  Every July a major war is declared between Margie, on one hand, and robins, starlings and magpies on the other.

Eighteen trees produce bushels of cherries in years when late spring frosts don't kill the blossoms.  Margie cans upwards of 200 quarts annually to make a year's supply for the family.  But birds begin working the trees long before the fruit is ripe enough for human consumption.  Without strenuous efforts on her part, all of the cherries are gone before they're ripe enough for picking.

Plastic snakes are placed in the trees to frighten the birds away.  The birds aren't fazed.  Radios blaring awful music are put in the trees and turned to maximum loudness.  The birds don't care, but it drives us humans crazy.  Nets are draped strategically over selected branches.  The birds penetrate or eat through them.

As the cherries get riper, giant flocks zero in on the trees.  Cherries are their very favorite food.  Each day they can't wait to gorge on Margie's crop.  At the first light of day hundreds of starlings and robins, and dozens of magpies rush to the Kerns orchard.  Margie comes bolt upright in bed as the squawking and din of birdcalls reaches a crescendo.  With bathrobe flapping, Margie dashes out the back door to save her precious cherries.  Whooping and hollering and banging pot lids together, she flits among the trees in the early morning light.

Back in the house she goes where she rousts out a young son.  Arming him with noisemakers and a ".22" rifle, she sends him to the orchard where he is to patrol until relieved by a brother the next hour.  This is fun for about 10 minutes.  His instructions are that he can shoot starlings and magpies, but no robins.  The birds all understand this rule.  Neither starlings nor magpies, being wary, will come near the orchard if anyone is anywhere in sight.  Robins, on the other hand, are not shy and can't be induced to stay away.  They swoop in low and silently to the far end of the orchard and gobble cherries as fast as they can.

As the day wears on, daughters are sent to read in the orchard and clap their hands at invaders.  Everyone but the birds tires quickly of the war.  Nighttime is a respite for the humans, but Sundays are a field day for the birds while their antagonists are at church.

During this annual war the living room curtains are left wide open.  During any other season the family feels sorry for the poor birds that accidentally break their necks flying into our picture windows.  But during cherry season an us-against-them syndrome takes precedence over compassion.  The family knows that justice has been served when feathered bandits crash into windows while clutching cherries in their beaks.  Cherry-juice blotches on the windows are not necessarily objectionable.