You will come to believe that this is bird week at String Too Short to Tie. Today's story is nothing earth-shattering, but rather one of the little episodes in the life of vanilla. Yes, it is a vanilla sort of life, and I like it that way.
You may picture me napping, pitched back nearly full-tilt in the blue recliner in the sunroom. The reason you would picture me thus is because that is where and how I am reposing as the story begins.
Presently I stir, open my eyes, and still in that state somewhere between Wakefulness and Total Unawareness, I see a movement on the floor and to my left. I sit up, open eyes wider, and observe a bird, and I am now alert enough to clearly identify the creature as a house wren. And how ironic is that? It is in the house! Bird runs under end table and disappears behind divan (sofa, couch, sometime-daybed) along the opposite wall.
Fully awake now, I rise from my chair, walk over and peer behind sofa. Nothing. I get down on the floor (now be aware: I have to really want to be down there, not that that is too hard to accomplish, but I know that I have to get up, and, well, no more need be said), I poke beneath the couch with a fly-swatter. See nothing, nothing stirring.
I go into the sewing room where BBBH is working on yet another project. "Either I am losing my mind, or..."
"No, you are not crazy. There is a bird out there. I saw it, too."
So, we left the door open. One of three things will happen. 1) the bird will find the egress and leave the premises; 2) the bird will eventually die, we'll find it and dispose of the remains; or, 3) the bird will die in a remote corner or inaccessible spot and eventually, dessicated and sere, it will be discovered when the heirs put the house on the market. In the event of number three, there is hardly any cause for concern for odor, for the creature probably comes thirty to the pound, that is, there simply isn't much of him.
Happy birthday to Delbert, my third child, my first son, born 52 years ago today in Greenfield, Indiana!