Bossy and her brother are painting today. So Bossy thought she’d share one of her favorite bedtime stories about the House Wren who went shopping for real estate. On second thought, maybe it would be easier to show you the letter the House Wren wrote to his local real estate agent.
I heard you have some real estate. A little birdie told me. I was wintering in Norfolk, but I need to relocate. I have family scattered across the map, from British Columbia to New Brunswick, from Montreal to southeastern Arizona – with a little northern Texas, Tennessee, and northern Georgia thrown in. So I’m not finicky about where I end up, although I’m partial to the suburbs.
My last summerhouse was a real dive. OK, it wasn’t actually a house — it was a pocket. Of a trench coat. On a clothesline. You should have heard the old lady. I had to kill three other birds for that fooking location — I punctured their eggs and threw their belongings in the street! I hauled sticks, more than four hundred, from morning til night to make it all cozy, and still the wife moaned about the lack of southern exposure. But I promised her a dip in the concrete birdbath and she got all sweet-like and lined the nest cup with green leaves and old tinsel.
And just in time for our five kids. I don’t mind telling you we nearly ended up on Dr. Phil over the care of those knuckleheads. It was two weeks of regurgitated Caterpillars, Aphids, Grasshoppers, Moths, Beetles, Snails. Up to a thousand frigging meals a day! And after two weeks they flew the coop. No thank you, no kiss my ass, no nothing. Leaving us empty nesters.
So then the old lady starts blabbering about needing to go out and find herself. She always was flighty. But that’s OK because now I got my eye on a cute little number from Mexico. She doesn’t speak much English but she loves me. In fact, in her words I’m not just a House Wren, I’m her Chivirín Saltapared.
So this year I’m thinking a summerhouse that doesn’t blow in the wind. Maybe a nice little four-square on a quiet residential street. Nothing too fancy. And you don’t have to worry about getting the place broom-ready -– I’ll drag the old shite out, even if I turn right around and use that same shite for my own nest. I’m just like that.
Thank you, and happy spring.