Spring Creek Bird House Project A
Letter To My Niece
Do
you remember the Spring Creek camping trip bluebird house project Uncle Jimmy
put together for all you kids back in the eighties? Jim gave each of you a kit with the cut out parts,
hardware, and little hammers. The old VHS video he made for us shows all of you
working on them, the only sound the 'tap tap tap' of your little hammers assembling your projects.
Samantha was a toddler back then, and Kelsey still an infant with that fuzzy mohawk baby hair.
We
forgot the brushes and you had to collect wild flowers and assorted weeds and
sticks to paint them, which we all agreed was far more adventurous and fun than
using paint brushes anyway. You and Amanda decorated yours with all those crazy
splotches and spots. Amanda's was blue
with white, and yours was forest green with white. Most the kids took theirs
home, but you and Amanda wanted to leave yours at camp so we hung them up along
the creek.
You
and your cousins went on with your lives, Spring Creek a fond memory, as you
graduated high school and college, some of you got married and had your own
kids, and others pursued jobs and careers.
Every year, as your Uncle Larry and I continued our annual trek to
Spring Creek, without you now, you would ask if there were any birds living in
your house, and the answer was always, sadly, no. Larry speculated that perhaps
the creek banks were too dark and cool, and maybe there wasn't enough bugs to
feed their babies. Eventually, after ten years had passed, you asked him to
bring the houses home, which he did, and as you kids were living in rental
houses and apartments, you suggested he hang them up somewhere on the ranch.
We
mounted them on the fence posts bordering the hay fields along Putnam Road, and
the first spring there they each had a pair of swallows move in and raise their
families. Blue birds never did take up residence, but the swallows haven't
missed a year since. In the meantime, the Audubon Society noticed your houses
along the road, and stopped in to ask if they could hang additional bluebird
houses on our fence, and would we mind if they monitored them for bird counts
and surveys. That was an easy sell, so next thing you know the bird house
neighborhood sprung up a subdivision of fancy new houses, and true to their
word, the Audubon's have maintained and added more, and so did we, and all of a
sudden it became a regular bird city out there.
Those
two little Spring Creek houses started it all, and stood amongst the newcomers
like vintage classics. I couldn't help but feel that if birds had a Historic
Society, those houses would have been listed on their register.
Amanda's
house became the victim of a hoodlum's prank when it was blown up with
firecrackers about five years ago. I remember because the sparks started a slow
creeping fire in the ditch and the fire department had to be called to put it
out. That bird house wasn't the only casualty, either. Most mail boxes along
the way became casualties, along with our big multiplex bird house Uncle Larry
made the year most your parents got one from us for Christmas. That was a sad
day, because back when we made them we
must have had more time on our hands and never did build another one to replace
it.
I noticed this spring your little green and
white house tipped forward on its post, clinging by whatever gravity defying
bit of hardware kept it from falling to the ground. The paint was so faded you
couldn't really tell what color it used to be. What was left of the roof was
warped and peeling back, and the poor thing was a shell of its former glory.
This spring Uncle Larry made a note to himself to remove it and retire it to
the burn pile, but before he got around to it a determined pair of acrobatic
swallows once again took up residence, darting in and out from the sagging hole
below with their beaks full of bugs for their babies. We decided that once
their chicks flew the coop, we would take it down for good.
On
my way home from the ranch today, my mind preoccupied with how I was going to
get the paint off my t-shirt after putting a fresh coat on the outhouse,
something caught my eye out of my peripheral vision. I instantly knew, before I
even looked, that it was out of place, wrong somehow. That little, dilapidated
house was missing! In its place, a brand new pine house with shiny hinges,
sitting upright like a new sentry on its post. Then, like a re-wind flashback,
I recalled seeing the Audubon's this morning out with their note books and clip
boards inspecting, counting, and doing their surveys. They must have taken pity
on the current dwellers and carefully removed the nest and babies while they
replaced that old dwelling, gently nestling the little chicks in their new
home. I can only imagine the concern those birds must have felt when those
folks were moving them, and, perhaps, delighted surprise when they saw how they
had moved up in the world, the proud tenants of arguably the nicest house on
their block. (Editor’s note:
Mystery? It was not Audubon that removed
the old box and put up new box with hinges – we don’t have hinges on our
boxes).
Although
I understand why the Audubon's did it, and even agree that it needed to be
done, I couldn't help but feel sadness at the end of that little house's story.
I knew those bird-loving folks couldn't possibly understand the years of
memories behind that old house, and realized it was still standing out there
because we couldn't bring ourselves to take it down. The truth was, with all
our good intentions, we probably never would have.
So,
Shallan, I wanted you to know that it is, in fact,
gone. Perhaps its departure won't have the same impact on you, or anyone else
for that matter, as it has me. I felt compelled to tell you that every day,
when I drove past it on the road, without even thinking about it I would look
for it, and remember the little girl you used to be sitting at that picnic
table in the middle of that big forest, hunched over in determined
concentration, tap-tap-tapping as you worked that hammer, and seeing the bunch
of wild flowers in your fist dipping in the paint can and sloshing those
blotches into an abstract design with an artists' flair. I wanted you to know
that, forever, I'll remember.
Love
you, Pigweed,
Aunt
Sherry