My dad used to burn trash on the farm on a hill above our barn every November -- after rain made it safe.

One day I asked him why he was burning the fire.  I may have been 3.  He was 58.

He said he was doing it to keep the little birdies warm.

I then asked him over and over and over, "Are you building the fire to keep the little birdies warm, Daddy?"  It was easily twenty times.

To my every inquiry he patiently answered "yes".  Each time he answered, my young mind would be filled with wonder at the magnanimity of such a wonderful deed.

Each November for at least three years I asked him the same question as we went about that same task.    He would kindly repeat his answer.  I would smile a co-conspirator's smile.  So would he.

But after a few years, I observed that the birds seemed to survive the rest of winter without such a benefit.

One November, I asked, "Dad, you really aren't burning this fire to keep the little birdies warm are you?

He answered with a sigh in his voice and a tear in his eye, "No, son, I'm not."

We still burned the fire every year -- but without the question and answer.

After a few more years, having developed a little more appreciation for what a father was, I smilingly asked once again, "Are we burning the fire to keep the little birdies warm?"

My father grinned from ear to ear as he answered, "Yes, we're burning the fire to keep the little birdies warm."

It became a tradition.  A private joke.  A prized event.  For both of us.

When I went away to college, he artfully moved the burning to Christmas break.  I remember it as well as Christmas itself.

I'm now 64.  He has been gone for 25 years. 

I live in a city where burning is illegal much of the year.  But remembering is still legal.

The birds we warmed so joyfully were mostly ...sparrows.