Why Do I Love Birds?

Today, just as Kelly, Lucy and I were saying goodbye to my parents who had just visited for the weekend, a torrential downpour began. We got Mom and Dad out the door okay after the first crazy wave of sideways rain passed by.

Soon after they left, I looked outside and saw our permanent bird’s nest (which we have rented out to yet another family of birds – we’re not sure what they are – Mom thinks maybe finches?) blowing precariously in the wind. Dad just mentioned to me today that I should look into fixing a bit more securely the wreath out of which 15 young chicks have spread their wings and flown. We did lose one a couple months ago when a tornado-bearing storm blew the wreath down.

Eying the birds’ little home as I tried to put on my shoes by feel alone, I rushed out the door to the rescue. The mother bird was flying toward the nest as best as she could until she saw me and retreated to the neighbor’s front porch. I then held the top of the wreath, which is hanging by a single nail, as the WORST winds and rain I’ve experienced in all my 15 years of being in Nashville pelted me.

I was reminded of how it felt to be one of the stupid counselors who ran out to Panama City’s beach as tropical storm Barry came ashore in 2000 or 2001. Wind sending bullets of water into your legs; having to lean back to compensate for the push of air trying to blow you away. It was unbelievable.

After about two minutes, it started to die down, and I looked into the window. I saw my wife with a half-amazed, half-laughing look on her face. She mouthed, “You’re SOAKED!” The entire back half of my body looked like someone had spray painted it a shade of gray, leaving the front untouched.

I squish-squashed inside and immediately changed as Kelly put my clothes in the dryer.

Why do I love birds so much?