Unexpected New Residents
“Mom, birds are building a nest on our lamp,” said one of my children. Sure enough, Barn Swallows pegged our overhead porch light for their home. Not that I mind squatters, not those types, but the location was quite unlucky: a perfect spot for a bird lavatory when walking out the front door.
“Mom, birds are building a nest on our lamp,” said one of my children. Sure enough, Barn Swallows pegged our overhead porch light for their home. Not that I mind squatters, not those types, but the location was quite unlucky: a perfect spot for a bird lavatory when walking out the front door.
And so, my husband got home and immediately, equipped with a ladder and gloved, he was on the quest to evict the unwanted residents.
I was conflicted. Children were sad.
“Imagine,” my husband insisted, “you, on your morning walk, you step outside and plop … right into your coffee.”
True, I thought, I certainly didn’t want the new residents to use my coffee cup as an occasional loo.
What to do, though? The children watched with trepidation as he climbed up the ladder. I couldn’t and stood over the kitchen sink, pretending to wash non-existent dishes. What if there are eggs or hatched babies already there? That’d be a fast job, but hey, maybe birds can do that.
To everyone’s relief, the birds were truly nesting before the arrival of their children. It was a newly constructed residence. I exhaled. I didn’t realize I held my breath.
The next morning, I walked out for my “coffee and thought” walk, and two swallows quickly vacated their beloved light, our porch light, and perched on the gutter.
I don’t speak “Swallow.” I stood at the door, unmoving. Like synchronized swimmers they cocked their heads in my direction. Ah, nothing for it, I thought, I’ll start with English. And so, I spoke. I told them I was honored they wanted to build their house on my light fixture (I mean, I fancied myself as a great storyteller, Hans Christian Andersen, with my own Swallows to tell me stories). I took a step, and the birds took to the air. I stood on the lawn, motioning to my daughter’s window with rose bushes all around it. An excellent option, I thought, and then continued in my monologue … in the middle of the lawn. The whole time, the birds darted to and fro sporadically. There was nothing more to say. The two birds (and I thought it was remarkable) were joined by a third. They flew a circle over my head and flew away. I’d never seen them again, and no attempt was made to share a house with us. Perhaps I speak more “swallow” than I’ll ever know. Or perhaps, I connected with the birds in some ancient way, and we understood each other. I’d like to think that.
