In the months before our voyage from the Sakiai in Lithuania, my brother Jurgis and I waited for the stork with the rest of the village. Father placed a cartwheel on our rooftop, hoping for the stork to land on our home and build its nest. “If the stork rests here it will bring us luck and fortune,” he said, “would that not be good, my boys?”
The air was cold and still but Father worked bare-chest as he hoisted high the wooden cartwheel and tied it into place. “This is a special day, my boys. The stork is the holiest of birds. We must make our roof look the most tempting to land upon in the whole village.”
Father forced the cold air from his nostrils and tied the jute rope to secure the cartwheel. “There, it is good enough for any stork,” he said. When he was finished he stood smiling an
