The familiar-looking white boxes belonged to my father

As I biked along Quaker St. near my hometown recently I looked for the remains of any of my dad’s old birdhouses.

I felt there still had to be a few scattered about the countryside near Norwich. He’d made hundreds in his lifetime.


Several years ago, while enjoying our weekly Saturday afternoon drive together, he asked me unexpectedly to pull over at the side of the road.

I thought he had to go to the bathroom after drinking a large cup of coffee, but after brushing a tree branch aside near a fence post he uncovered an old birdhouse.

He deftly removed a nail, popped open the front of the box and tossed out an old nest.


["It may need a clean out, I thought.": photos by GAH]

“I have to clean them out in the spring or else the birds will go somewhere else,” he said.

I was 2 miles from that same spot when I spotted a similar model.

It may need a clean out, I thought.

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