Ok, Mr. Bluebird, I get the hint

A cold, steady rain kept me inside all afternoon but it didn't ruin the appetites of the birds outside. I guess if you're a bird you eat, rain or shine.

I had a nice brown creeper on my suet feeder as well as a downy woodpecker, a flock of finches on my thistle feeder, and nary a squirrel to be found. Apparently squirrels don't like the rain. Sissies.

I saw my first bluebird of the year, a fat thing sitting on my neighbor's fence. I've never seen so big a bluebird. He was beautiful. I think he was scouting the area for nesting possibilities, because I saw him more than once on the fence (either that or he has a fat cousin). I was so excited.

Then I sat down with my Sunday paper, and what do you know? The local bird column was all about the bluebird. And then, a bluebird plays a prominent role in a chapter of the Daniel Wallace novel I'm reading, Ray in Reverse.

Ok, I get the hint. I put the paper down and built a birdhouse.

The wood scraps I built it with, ironically, came from my neighbor's fence. The fence is a very nice shadowbox with each section topped with a convex arch. The fence installers, after cutting each piece of the arch, flung the scraps into the woods behind my neighbor's house, and I, being the descendent of various Depression survivors, packrats, and anti-litterers, gathered the scraps for future, undetermined use.

It's not a bad looking birdhouse, if I say so myself. I took woodshop in junior high and high school but carpentry was not to be in my future. I didn't have a blueprint (no pun intended) but the newspaper article said I didn't need one as long as my entry hole was 1 1/2" in diameter. That was the hard part because I was out of jig saw blades. Yes, I have a jig saw, a hand-me-down, avocado-green relic from Mr. DePaul, who is much handier with tools (and blueprints). I used a cheap keyhole saw, so the hole is a little rough and not quite round. We'll see how picky Mr. Bluebird is.

I noticed my grandfather's initials carved into the handle of the handsaw I used to square up my boards, and as I reached into my toolbox for a hammer I grabbed another castoff from Mr. DePaul. I hope Mr. Bluebird appreciates the three generations of craftsmanship that went into his new home, though I doubt he'll care. He probably has getting the missus in the family way on his mind, which is ok by me. That just means more bluebirds.

I have plenty of scrap wood left. Party on, Mr. B.