Creative Nonfiction of P. D. Michel

Look! Bluebirds!

Attracting bluebirds has become a mission. I have watched and enticed and waited for close to 6 springs for a pair of these shocking spots of blue to nest within the range of my waning vision, and I have prevailed. A twosome has claimed the latest nesting box I nailed on the back of my mail post at the end of the driveway. This particular nesting box is the least expensive purchased to date and I have spent a small fortune to lure tenets to my Bluebird Houses.

I have paid for costly, pre-made, specialty, gourmet bluebird food that the dog ate and was rewarded with diarrhea for his stolen feast. I have placed mealy worms, which I read was their favorite treat, in beautiful blue ceramic dishes on the deck railing for their dining pleasure and been left with dried up, shriveled, and plastered worms in dishes untouched by bird or dog.

I have tempted them with homemade bluebird food. A hand mixed blend of lard, seed, raisins, and peanuts placed in the refrigerator to chill and later tasted by my mother who said, “What kind of candy is this?”

Now, from where I sit with my morning coffee, I watch their early morning ritual of nest building interrupted with the occasional snack of raisins used as bribes to keep them in residence. This team has overcome their still present competitors for their little abode and I salute them. They have had the sparrows and swallows to contend with for the past several weeks and that is no easy task – according to my husband. He has been attacked enough times to know the sound of swallow wings about his head as he approaches the mailbox each afternoon. He has also become an experienced “ducker” on the lawn tractor as he passes the entrance to any of the many boxes around the yard as the inhabitants emerge in terror. Or is it anger?

Still, my winged neighbors persist in the rearing of their young and the defense of their home. I admire them and depend on them to open my day with their music. I like to imagine they depend on me as well to place their box entrance out of the ever-present wind across our yard. They can count on me to give their home a good cleaning in time for their spring arrival.

Yes, I have been selfish in the placement of the birdhouses. Each one is clearly visible from a downstairs window. Wherever I sit I can see a nesting box that acts as a lure for me as well. Claiming to “watch birds,” I quiet myself and practice patience. I can let go, be still, and wait for them to come into my view on their way back and forth to their young. Like those we love, their visit is all too brief. And if I am lucky, I hear the songs of their young amid the sounds of my own in the spring sun.