Extended weekends are our favorite escapes. Brief interruptions of our routine, a few hours on the road enjoying the passing of time and distance, lend perspective to our cares. Coupled with a night or two in a Bed and Breakfast or a rented Chalet, Phyllis and I find the excursions uniquely relaxing.
We often return from these mini-vacations with mementos of our wanderings, and have an eclectic collection - everything from Lake Erie driftwood to Rochester ashtrays., and a birdhouse to remind us of a November outing spent at a chalet in a southern tier valley location that might have been created by Disney Studios. Perfect in every detail, with just the appropriate amount of gingerbread trim, the chalet was set among hemlock and spruce only yards from a trout stream. Standing on the doorstep, we smelled the secret world, the end and beginning of life in the moisture and decay of dank layers of fallen leaves. We experienced an odd erasure of time and felt not only hours but worlds away from the mundane.
We relaxed the first evening with brandy and chocolate on a shaggy rug while tending crackling kindling, sputtering logs and surprising sparks. Later, under a billowing comforter, our noses exposed to the delicious cold, we tended our love. At peace, we tumbled drowsily into the reaches of the universe, as the wind played at the corners of our retreat. In the hollow time before the dawn, I woke listening to Phyllis breathe in concert with the waning night. We started the morning out in the crisp air exploring what was our valley for the weekend. Following the stream, we watched the clear water slide around polished rocks. The chilling edge of the wind foretold ice crystals soon to form among the grasses along the shore. We watched birds flit nervously ahead, and deer slide into heavy cover. We meandered with the stream and toiled along a split rail fence a distance before discovering a path that twisted through a stand of birch, still as zebras. Collar up and hands pushed deep into pockets, I was ready to abandon the trail and return to the warmth of kitchen and coffee. "Oh, Look," Phyllis broke the quiet. She was pointing at a creaking condominium fixed to a fence post - the granddaddy of all bird houses. Built of graying barn wood and cedar shingles, it stood against the deterioration imposed by time and weather. Large, its center section rose vertically above the fence post and supported shed like units attached. It had sheltered many chirping families. I presumed it had been constructed as an exercise against boredom, one long bitter winter in the past, by an owner of the orchard grass beyond the fence. I imagined a farmer working in a drafty shed beside a wood burning stove, his face flushed by the radiance, his back cold as the dirt floor, cutting shingles from a log using mallet and froe and tossing scrap pieces into the glowing fire.
"I wish it was on our back fence," Phyllis sighed, ending my musings.
"Well," I responded expansively, "I can build you one."
Phyllis smiled and raised her camera.
The photo, fixed by a magnet on our refrigerator, became a reminder of a weekend and a promise. One morning, coffee mug in hand, I stood considering the refrigerator and the latest collection of grandchildren art when Phyllis, silent on bare feet, entered the kitchen and asked, "Are you ever going to build that birdhouse?"
Startled, I lied, "I've been planning on making some for Christmas gifts."
With eyebrows raised, knowing she had me, she asked, "Wonderful, when are you going to get started?"
"Today's as good a time as any," I replied, feeling my couchpotato Saturday slipping away. I remembered seeing a poster or a bumper sticker somewhere that read, BEGIN, THE REST IS EASY, so, ending weeks of procrastination, I began. I started by transferring the particulars captured on film to a sheet of graph paper. I filled the quarter-inch squares with details and measurements needed for construction. This done, a list of materials was simple - only barn wood, shingles, and fasteners was needed. Obtaining barn wood by touring the countryside with claw hammer and crowbar was not a practical alternative, so I headed for the nearest Builder's Supply.
The modern building supply warehouses, with their towering shelving sections, bulk displays, cross merchandising, and innumerable, specials', are really supermarkets designed to entrap the do-it yourselfer. I found a bundle of wood shingles easily enough, but when I asked a young 'associate' where I might find barn wood, I knew by his puzzled expression I was in trouble. After further inquiry, it became obvious that authentic barn wood, if you can find it, is treasured and priced like fine wine. A simulated alternative can be ordered, but quantity requirements put it out of the birdhouse market.
Fortunately, wandering in the lumber department, I found a six inch wide by six feet long rough cut slats of dog ear fencing. They were of southern yellow pine that, outdoors, fades to a weathered gray. And, only $1.67 each!
In my garage workshop, with only a tape measure, crosscut saw, drill and hammer, I went to work. With a cloud of sawdust, and a hearty, "Hi ho slivers," I was away. The philosopher was right, the rest was easy. Stepping back, I brushed the sawdust off my jeans, and admired my work. Before me stood a replica of the birdhouse captured in the photo that chilly November morning.
Now, behind our house sitting atop a fence post between a stand of sunflowers and a clump of Calla lilies, the birdhouse appears to have been there forever. At a window, Phyllis stood remembering a peaceful meadow beyond a fence. "Beautiful," she whispered. Resting my hand on her shoulder, I reminded her, "It's for the birds."