26 February

Sunday morning

26 February 2017

— Denmark, as it so often does, wearing its gray flannels.

Good Morning All,

There was wind in the night, as there often is this time of year, winter being reluctant to give over to early spring. My worry level was only around 2 out of 10, as opposed to my usual 8 out of 10 when living for three decades under a grass roof. 

I cannot say I much miss that particular anxiety, or the one where I sit bolt upright at 2:00 in the morning, inhaling deeply to make sure the thatch is not on fire and we won’t all be cooked in our beds.

After seeing a man about a horse and turning on the coffee machine, I wandered in my stocking feet into the living room and—as I do most mornings—stood at the glass door to the back patio, to see if any birds had shown up yet.

None had, but the birch-tripod feeder on the patio had blown over, and—worse—my red-and-white cottage feeder had come unglued. The roof was still hanging on a cord from a branch of the apple tree, but the rest of it was lying sideways on the ground. It looked kinda sad. 

Figuring this was  to the blue tits and the sparrows the equivalent of their Internet being down, I went out and fetched it. I could not believe that no nails or screws held the walls to the roof. Just glue. This feeder has to be twenty years old. It hung on a hook in under the thatch on the veranda back in Sengeløse. Birds bumped it and spun it for two decades. Just glue.

Yeah, well, glue schmoo. I took the pieces into my small office where I have my tool box and all the stuff for hanging pictures. Ten minutes, three screws, and four nails later, it was back on the tree, loaded up to the rafters with sunflower seeds, and looking—even if I do say so for myself—pretty much hurricane proof.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron