Humor The Bird House ( Daves Stories)

[dbarnett1]

The Bird House

I always cherished the times my dad and I would work together constructing things when I was a youngster. I doubt I created as much joy for him during these "quality times" because they were few and far between. Possibly this was due to the inability of adults to deal, on a frequent basis with catastrophe and mayhem. One truly spectacular Father/Son episode that readily comes to mind is the "Bird House".
My dad was a fine, hard country gentleman. He had survived the great depression (why he always used this phrase to refer to my youth I suppose I will never know). He also lived through the 1930's as a boy and young man which made him tough. Dad was a master at anything he put his hands and mind to. I specifically remember some times he put his hands to me and made me mind. I knew right away he was the master. For the most part, dad was a serious minded person and had very little time for recreation or just relaxing. The depression and his upbringing instilled a work ethic in him that I have always admired but apparently those genes didn't transfer. He and our Mother raised 11 kids to adulthood (a prospect that others bet against) and this alone never afforded him much leisure time. As rugged and no nonsense as he was though from time to time he did slow life's pace and indenture himself to spending some time with us kids.
Due to the fact that Prozac had not yet been invented and murder was illegal, dad had managed to develop a fair amount of patience. As I grew older from time time he would take leave of his senses and engage in some type of wood working or construction project with me. The "Bird House" is definitely the most memorable because it encapsulates every human emotion and some of those were used more than once.
I remember the day well. It was a Saturday and we were experiencing a early spring drizzle. It had been raining for a few days so everything was wet and rather dreary. With no work to be done dad was quite irritable. He absolutely hated being "boxed up" as he called it. After pacing the floor several times and probably checking to see if his health insurance was paid up, he suggested we go out to the garage and build something.
After possible ideas of 42 ft yachts, a neat lil' soapbox racer utilizing his lawnmower motor, a life size replica of the wright bros. airplane and other equally appealing designs were dismissed with, it was decided that we would build a Purple Martin House.
Now it just so happens that my dads eldest sister married a Martin and I voiced my opinion that I had definitely seen some blue ones (especially after a particularly cold, early spring swim we had), but that I had never seen any purple ones. I remember wondering aloud just how long you would have to stay in freezing water to turn purple and then decided if such a cousin or other relative existed it would be the humanitarian thing to do to build the poor people a house so they could warm up. At this point Dad decided he had better invoke the aid of the almighty ( I suppose for safety due to the fact we were using power tools) because he cast his eyes heavenward and clasp his hands together while mumbling incoherently. I was quite relieved when after his prayer he took the time to explain that Purple Martins were birds that were beneficial in exterminating unwanted insects. For one a bird house was more suited to our time limit and my dexterity level and two a full size house for the Martin family would have never fit through the garage door.
It was well known that Dad was impeccable in his care for his automobiles. After years of having to drive old used vehicles and keep the same vehicles running by his own talented hands dad had finally gotten to the point to where he could afford new ones. Our bird house time coincided with the infant stage of a particularly brand new 1982 Dodge pick up recently purchased and much admired by dad himself. I had been given a verbal list of the tools we would need to complete our project and in my haste and excitement I neglected to notice that the corner of the table saw I was trying to heft was carving a perfectly level line through the left front fender of dads truck. I offered the solution of adding pen stripping to cover the "scratch" (I still find dads assessment of it as being as wide as the Missouri river absurd) and even tried to liven the moment by drawing to his attention that I had not merely made a scratch but rather a perfectly level one which would be most convenient to stripe. After the stripping and my backside regained some sense of normality I was awed that he had not given up on the whole project. Usually upon seeing a grown mans lower lip flutter like a broken window shade and the entire region of the head taking on a crimson color found on fire trucks, I have noticed that the original plan most always becomes scrapped in favor of other activities.

[dbarnett1]

Never one to stay mad, dad soon returned to his pleasant mood he had possessed before the incident. An hour with rubbing compound had reduced the scratch to just barely noticeable and I suppose he found he could live with that. After removing the truck from the garage, work began on the bird house.
To start dad got some paper and began drawing a plan. He drew a rough outline in the shape of a house and then sat back to ponder further details. In an effort to liven the moment I decided to show him the age old joke of little Johnny drawing the house the one where it ends up representing "Daddy" bending over to pick up the soap. I soon learned that fathers possess higher hopes for their children than knowledge of this kind. It seemed for a time that another stripping was about to be delivered but Dad just shook it off and made me promise to ask Jesus to forgive me and never repeat the joke especially to Mom. After starting over with a new piece of paper, dad soon had a "blueprint that both of us liked and work began.
We started by ripping the front, sides and back from a half sheet of plywood. While he layed out the measurements for each of the pieces to be cut from the ripped parts I decided to "help" by cutting the neat little angle pieces that would form a dog house or dormer on the front of our bird house. Dad instructed me to be careful and to be sure and not allow the wood to bind as it could kick back, he then went about his layouts behind me hunkered over a 5 gallon bucket that was serving as a makeshift table. About 1/2 way through my second cut the wood bound up between the blade and the rip fence and the piece I was cutting shot like a rocket back out of the saw. While I was congratulating myself on remembering a safety lesson dad had taught me, to never stand directly behind the blade, I happened to notice he had started hopping about stomping and jerking almost rhythmically. I decided that possibly he had been overcome with a feeling of happiness that we two were finally making progress and he had decided to enter into a lively folk dance. It goes without saying that I was disappointed that when I began clapping and stomping to his rhythm that he stopped and began praying again. Safety being a big issue with dad I decided he figured you can't be too careful. Later I learned that the "dance he performed is also the same posture used by persons who have just had their backside violated by a high speed piece of plywood.
Soon we had all the parts cut out and began to assemble them. dad had chosen some 3d nails to accomplish this and actually allowed me the honor of the task. While I did this he was busy cutting some shingles for the roof from a roll of roll roofing. As I happily pounded away I decided the job would be faster and easier if I were to start all my nails first then fit the pieces together and drive the nails in. I started all the nails in my first piece and before moving on to my next, I layed the first piece on the 5 gallon bucket previously used for a table. Little did I know the bucket had now become a chair that had only been temporarily vacated so dad could retrieve his next piece of shingle. Upon returning to his "seat" the excitement level of our garage escalated to just short of a 2 second warning of a tornado. I thought it was Odd that "My Dad" would be doing the macrena but that was the only dance I knew where you grabbed your backside and strutted around hopping occasionally. I soon learned that my nails had provoked this latest activity. I apologized and tried to make amends but in the end it was decided that I would just work on one side of the garage and he on the other.
The rest of the construction phase passed without incident and once again dad had regained most of his original pleasant mood. As we stood back admiring our creation, he asked me how I would like to paint it. He seemed well pleased when I suggested that dark green trim on a white house would look nice.
In dads young life he had done auto body work and from time to time still dabbled with it. He had in his stock, some Green paint he had used on a truck he had painted a year earlier. The white paint we used was a latex used for the trim on our own house. Dad kept his promise to let me help paint the bird house and after our white dried we set in on the green trim. Before turning over the brush he reminded me several times that the green paint was a lacquer base and did not wash off with soap and water. He also informed me that he had no thinner so caution and safety were a must. We reasoned that after painting was done we could simply throw the brush away and that would be the extent of our paint clean up. As I began painting I wanted to be sure the paint can was set on a safe surface, after all we had already had too much excitement for one day. I knew the bucket was definitely off limits so I placed it on a piece of cardboard and sat it on the table saw. I should mention here that Dads table saw had been hot wired to bypass the switch which had burned out to turn it on you simply plugged it in. We were also in possession of a shop

[dbarnett1]

vac that had the exact same characteristics. When dad and I worked together it was always my duty to wrap up and put tools away. So once again it was my fault that the table saw cord and the shop vac cord had become confused. As I painted away happily dad had decided to start clean up on the saw dust and such. The ill fated cord mix up caused the table saw to come to life and for a fraction of a second I saw pure horror register on my fathers face. The blade of the saw of course caught the cardboard and having free will, it took off like fighter jet launched from an aircraft carrier. The paint can, along for the ride, soon proved not to be aerodynamic. It spun and swirled and slopped out a rooster tail of green paint in a random pattern over a sizable area most of which was occupied by Dad.
Approximately a week later he informed me he was no longer mad at me over the paint episode. By then most of it had worn off and his co-workers had pretty much stopped teasing him over it and at least most of the paint was confined to the garage floor. I was a little hurt that he didn't allow me to help put the bird house up on the pole but he said he just decided to do it while I was at school since he had the time. Later I would wonder why he was even home then but I never fretted over it too much, besides I was too excited, dad had told me when we had another day with nothing to do he would teach me to make a sling shot.

[bass or bass?]

You know Dave, the back pages of many magazines are devoted to this type of creative writing, and many of them are not up to this caliber. You could probably get e regular gig writing a column for one.

[dugger]

What a slingshot!!! you allready had wreak every thing around you had control of around you and to give you a slingshot !! your pops did have a good sense of humor ,thanks for the read Dave.

[greatdane]

Thanks for the smile, well told. Don't you all feel sorry for the kids nowadays that just learn how to touch buttons on a computer or game console. How about bows and arrows, wood burning sets or even the science/chemistry labs we used to play with.
Alan.

[bass or bass?]

Originally Posted by greatdane

Thanks for the smile, well told. Don't you all feel sorry for the kids nowadays that just learn how to touch buttons on a computer or game console. How about bows and arrows, wood burning sets or even the science/chemistry labs we used to play with.
Alan.

Absolutely right. Most don't even want to go outside anymore!