House Cleaning

When we first bought our place we decided we wanted bluebird houses...and lots of them.  Andy got busy and made 20.  The first spring we put them up all around our 50 acres.  We love birds, but we are not big fans of bird feeders.  Putting up an avian cafeteria in my yard is not my idea of fun.  Watching the neighborhood cat grab an innocent wren off our feeder one winter day put an end to my bird watching from my breakfast table.  And out here, our house is sided with pine.  Add free food to a chance to nibble on wood.. an open invitation to every squirrel in the neighborhood to come and fill their stomachs..and sharpen their teeth.

Yes, 20 houses would be enough we thought.  With the help of a neighbor boy we put them up in a day.  I don't know if we were successful or not that first year.  We were too busy building and digging and working on our new house.  I would see a few bluebirds flitting around but didn't pay much attention to where they were or where they were calling home.

One mistake we made was putting the birdhouses on trees on the edges of our place.  We spaced them correctly so there wouldn't be any neighborhood squabbles among the pairs.  But I guess the birds just weren't interested in flying into the timber's edge to make a home in a wooden box, no matter how comfy we tried to make it.

The next year we put them on posts...near where we thought they might like to live and raise a family.  And found that some of the 20 had not survived the winter.  So we were down to 18 or so.  Up they went on the posts.  We would check and see if we saw any evidence of nesting when we made the rounds.  Some were used and some were left vacant.

Over time more of the houses met their demise....some fell victim to wind storms, others to errant crashes with brush hogs and wandering tractors with no back-up mirror.  So now we have 12.

We have usually cleaned out the houses before nesting season.  Sometimes we get to all of them..and sometimes not.  But today we decided to spruce up each and every one.

As with most of our mutual jobs, Andy and I have our assigned tasks.  I hold the drill, the hammer and the cleaning stick and pass them to him when he needs them.  He uses the drill, the hammer and the cleaning stick and sometimes the posthole  digger and the maul.  You get the idea.  I do the assisting and he does the heavy work.  That has always worked for us.  

We found a variety of things when we cleaned the houses today.  Almost all of the houses had nests in them...some had old eggs from previous seasons buried under the debris....some had wasp nests festooned under the covers....and some were just about to fall apart.  

My skillful husband managed to put them back together...good enough for another year.

After tromping around to each locale we were satisfied that all would be ready for the birds to move in when they took a notion.  

And I for one am more than ready for bluebird season.  I love to see them lined up on my power line, sitting up there in a row, turning their necks to see if they can see a bug or two flitting under them.  Diving down they catch their meal and head off  toward the homes we have made for them.  It makes me smile to see them and know that we have done our part.  

House cleaning....I do it for the birds.

Dude

This is a picture of my dad, Bill Myers, around 1920 or so.  He was born on New Year's Day 1897.  He was a WW I veteran....served a few months in a tank division in South Carolina before he was mustered out.

And he was a dude.  He loved getting dressed up.  I know exactly where this picture was taken...in the side yard of our house in Galva, Illinois where he lived with his mom and dad and little sister Pearl.  There is the grape arbor that was full grown when I was small...and I see a planter there in the background where he grew the most beautiful flowers.  He had a green thumb.  And the garden was his domain.

I wish I had found this picture when I could have razzed him about his stylish outfit.  I know he probably saved his paycheck for many weeks to buy it.  Of course, this was many years before he met my mom....and then married and had three kids to support.

No mustache.  That is the thing I miss in this picture.  I don't know when he decided to grow one, but I always thought he looked like a movie star anyway...very distinguished in his three-piece suits and camel's hair coat.  My dad never left the house without shaving and putting on pants that were pressed, a crisp shirt and tie, and shiny shoes.  Even when he went down to Spuddy's Barber Shop to get his hair cut or run an errand for my mom downtown.  Always dressed to the nines...that was my dad.

When I find a memory like this lurking in the back of my mind, it makes me smile.  I miss him each and every day.   But as the years have gone by, I can see what he gave his children.  We were loved. We were cared for.  We were encouraged.  By this man...who was truly a dude.

Fog

This picture, of course, was not taken today.  The grass is far from green.  The trees are bare.  But, I am surrounded by a grey blanket of fog.  I take my early morning walk and it feels good to stretch my legs.  Rain, cold and other things have intervened and I have missed my daily exercise.  For too long.

I get cranky when I can't, or won't get out in the fresh air.  It is wonderful to walk the road and see what might be happening.  Nothing much up here on the hill.  I can hear the sound of a chainsaw...to the south and to the north.  Someone is busy.  

The birds are hunkered down in the bushes, waiting to fly out and grab a snack of seeds as soon as I pass by.  A few signs that some varmints have been out prowling last night.  And everything dull grey without a breath of wind to blow the cloud away.

I look up and see if I can imagine where the sun might be this time of day.  Nope. Not even a clue.  But it is mid-January.  Lots of grey days ahead I am sure.

I can feel the tension leaving my body as I trudge up and down the hill.  Nothing like some deep breathing to let all that bad stuff go.  In and out.  Swing my arms.  Sing a song.  Today it is I Know Who Holds Tomorrow.  One of my favorites.  

It may be grey outside.  But the sun is shining inside.  And that is all that matters.

And then there were none.....

When we bought our property it had two ponds.  The bigger one seemed just right for stocking.  And we did stock it with catfish and hybrid sunfish and some minnows.  We fed them.  They would come to the sound of our cowbell twice a day.  They grew big and fat and a little sassy.  We caught a few, threw them back in to grow a little bigger.  The first winter all went well.  But then the otters made their way, one frosty winter's night, creeping up from Pine Creek...and leaving the heads of several catfish in a row on the bank...and a pile of fish scale poop in the weeds.  The DOC calls it otter latrines.  

So we restocked.  Surely to goodness the fish would survive and we would have some fun seeing them bite on our hook and pull and tug in that feisty way that small fish have?  They thrived again....growing plump and happy, swimming along the edges and deep in the dim reaches of the pond.  Joy to see them feed on little pieces of grasshopper and worm that we threw in to tempt them.  And then the winter came...again.  And again the otters came...and dined.  

This past spring we restocked another time.  The new fish were not as fat and sassy as the ones we had previously.  Perhaps they knew what might happen to them.  Or maybe the ghosts of their brother and sister sunfish visited them on starry, moonless summer nights and whispered tales of horror..of being gobbled by giant beings who swam and grabbed them up off their nighttime beds.

Today I walked the margin of the pond.  And what did I find?  Otter poop, laced with fish scales.  No catfish heads, but lots of evidence that fish were eaten here...and few were left to tell the tale.

I have decided that I am done with providing the otters from Pine Creek free winter banquets.  The otters are welcome to any fish they can find....until there are none left in my once lovely pond.  A sad tale but true.  Sunfish are no match for a hungry otter on the prowl.