When I found the house I subsequently purchased and now occupy, it was mid-winter. Snow blanketed the trees and surrounding areas, so not much exploring was possible. It was not until late spring that the surprises burst forth: rhododendrons on the shady side, a flowering wall of bridal wreath, a tree near my enclosed porch that produced a wealth of dogwood blossoms.
But the best and least-noticeable surprise, visible from the porch windows, was a hand-crafted birdhouse, hanging from the lowest branch of the dogwood. It was modeled in the form of a log cabin, with painted white lace curtains at each of the windows. Its roof was constructed of interlocking planks, and its chimney boasted contrasting masonry. Foundation planting had been painted on all four sides, and to complete this miniature model of domesticity, it housed a nest.
In fact, one might imagine a “Welcome” mat in front of the peephole, but that was hardly the case that spring. For a few weeks, the scene included the ministrations and surveillance of a chickadee with a distinct sense of entitlement. When a visiting squirrel ventured too close, he was promptly divebombed. Other birds also seemed to get the message that the tree was off-limits. Even my cat deftly skirted the area.
