THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
She was on her annual trek to the Spring Fair to obtain that one essential item. She walked quickly, ignoring the tiny purple flowers dancing in the breeze. It had been a hard winter. While she knew it was wrong, this year she’d have to try to steal it…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.) Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…
I enjoy mornings. Sensations of soft sheets, a down comforter, and a Pendleton wool blanket weigh me down while a Northern Flicker drums on the copper chimney. Bluejays scream. One, two, three, four of them land on the deck outside my bedroom sliding door. They determined I slept enough. I get up and put the kettle on the stove, first things first. Then, I gather the birds’ morning meal: peanuts, suet, and shelled sunflower seeds. The Bluejays, Stelar Jays, Northern Flickers, Juncos, Chickadees, and Pine Siskins greet me. The Varied Thrush blows a loud one-note whistle. The Robins are silent. They remain hunkered down in the surrounding forest. They sing later and into the night.
When I visit the birds, I pretend I live in the English countryside wearing my Barbour waxed coat. Instead, I live in Montana on forested acres with trees that have survived hundreds of years, providing homes for millions of birds.
I brew a pot of English black tea sweetened with milk. Hot cup in hand, I walk out onto the deck to see which birds will stop by. When I approach the feeder to refill it, the Pine Siskins stay on the railing. They know me. Sometimes, we get at least 50 of these birds on the deck. It is a frenzy of feasting. When the Bluejays beg, I immediately provide peanuts. They prefer them in the shell. The Bluejays stash peanuts in their throat and carry one away secured in their beaks. They seek me out by looking into the glass sliding door and sweetly call me. I can never resist.
Spring brings excitement. It is a symphony of bird song during the day. At night, it is the soothing hoots from the Great Horned Owl. I am lucky. While the owl calls out to its mate, I lie next to my mate, grateful for the life I live.
Today is the Whitefish Fair. People from the Northwest bring their arts and crafts to the city park. It is sunny, so it would be a nice walk to the Fair. While browsing the Fair, I find cutting boards made of various kinds of wood. Jewelry tempts me every step I take. People crowd around a particular booth. I check it out. Handmade wooden birdhouses hang all around the booth! Looking around, I spot one decorated with painted old-fashioned daffodils and pink tulips. I buy it. It dawns on me I must walk home with this heavy birdhouse. I didn’t think it through.
Nearby, I see a row of dense bushes moving. I am fearful it is a cat after a bird. I hear a Robin screaming a danger call. I walk quickly over since I can’t run with this birdhouse. As I approach, I see a girl about 6 years old on her tiptoes.
“Hi, what do you see?”
“There’s a bird nest with eggs.”
“Wow! Do you hear that Robin screaming? She is afraid you will hurt her nest.”
The girl steps back. “I love birds. I just want to see the eggs in the nest.”
I put the birdhouse down and lift the girl. I give her three seconds to look. I can’t hold her any longer.
“Oh my gosh. The eggs are the most beautiful color I have ever seen!”
“Turquoise,” I tell her as I remember my first sneak peek at a Robin’s nest at her age.
She asks me about the birdhouse. I explain that it is another way birds nest. Birds bring moss, sticks, feathers, and soft materials inside to build a nest. “It is safer,” I laugh. She smiles at my joke. “My name is Linda. What’s yours?”
“Bessie.”
“My mother’s name was Bess.” We stand there in silence for a moment.
“Where do you live?” I ask, hoping it does not scare her away.
She points. “Across the street.”
I ask her if her family would like this birdhouse. She puts her hands together and nods in excitement. I notice the Robin stopped its danger call. I explain everything to her mother who tells me the beautiful birdhouse would be mounted in the backyard, “more private for the birds.”
Bessie hugs me as I start leaving. She looks down at the ground. “If you hadn’t been there, I might have taken one of the eggs,” she confesses.
“You know, when I was your age, I did just that. I kept that egg for a very long time. I felt terrible after I saw the chicks leave the nest and begin their lives. But I became a bird lover and protector. You will, too.”
The Fair turned out to be well worth the visit. I saved a Robin. I inspired a new bird lover. Plus, I have an invitation to visit a birdhouse when a pair of birds moves in. Now, I know why the common Robin’s egg is the most beautiful. To see one in a nest is like finding a hidden jewel. A jewel that tempts the destruction of life. I wonder how many bird protectors started out by stealing a Robin’s egg.