Bird Camp Diaries: March 2008

The Bird Camp Diaries are nothing more than whimsical monthly musings. I hope you find them entertaining, and sometimes thought provoking.

The Bluebird Nestbox Assassination

Story by Anthony Hauck
PF/QF Public Relations Specialist

Bird Camp Diaries: March 2008 Despite the few inches of fresh snow, there were signs spring was springing during the Easter weekend retreat to The Farm. The spring migration brought with it welcomed signs of life to the North Country. The River was flowing in spots. And Dad had begun his list of spring projects.

By the time I rolled in on Saturday afternoon, he'd already been readying and repairing bluebird nestboxes. I haven't spotted a bluebird on The Farm since my youth, so I'm hoping his work will result in at least one nest this year.

Bluebird nestboxes dotted along the old field road have been a staple at The Farm since Grandpa first put them out decades ago. As happens on farms, there is a never-ending list of projects, and bluebird boxes don't always fly to the top of the list. In particular, the box around the field road's second bend, which is absent top and front panels, has been in noticeable need of a facelift for years. I've never given the box much thought, attributing its dilapidated state to the elements and Father Time. But it seems Dad himself may have been the culprit.

Bird Camp Diaries: March 2008 According to Sean - home from school this Easter weekend - years ago he and Dad were along The River where Dad was sighting in his 30-06. Evidently, Dad had placed a coffee can on top of this particular birdhouse as his target. Now, I will never doubt Dad's marksmanship, either with a shotgun or a rifle. Though I've never seen him hunt with the rifle firsthand, the monster Montana mule deer that found its way onto one of his walls tells me he knows what he's doing. But according to Sean, the shot was a direct hit - on the birdhouse. In the years that have followed, bluebirds have evidently found the house just a bit too "drafty."

Easter Sunday dinner, on a bluebird day no less, was in town at Grandma's. She and Grandpa spent a great deal of their lives on The Farm and were avid birders. Though Grandpa has since passed on, Grandma has maintained her interest in birds, and when we arrived I noticed her pair of binoculars resting on the kitchen table from where she spies her bird feeders. I always enjoy talking "birds" with Grandma, and the conversation took its inevitable turn to Dad's bluebird box restoration project. "Well, I tell you where we always used to see bluebirds," Grandma said, "Down the field road around the bend on the hill." Yes, the same box that allegedly ate Dad's bullet.

Though a young child, he's never been one to tell a lie, so Sean's eyewitness account holds up as far as I'm concerned. Dad would never admit to such an act, but his denials lacked their usual vehemence. His project may have been part labor of love, but on this holy weekend, also penance for his role in the bluebird nestbox assassination.

If you have story ideas, dog photos, pre-1980 hunting photos and requests for future On The Wing consideration, please send correspondence to ahauck@pheasantsforever.org.

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