We’ve all made our nests in the wrong trees.
Before we could even tuck that last piece of dental floss or sphagnum moss into our chosen abode, our decision to locate in a particular apartment or home was already causing warning lights to blink.
The first apartment I shared with my husband, I thought, was just perfect for our first year of marriage, until a cockroach bit its way out of our kitchen wall just as my first dinner “party” began.
The third apartment, located in a sketchy area of south Sacramento, was worse. My neighbor, Mr. Sands, stayed home all day with his five children collecting welfare because he “…could make ten more dollars on welfare than he could driving a truck.” The people that lived above us collected Aunt Jemima syrup bottles, which rattled like a sick marimba to a bass beat played 24/7.
Our first house had been owned by the same older couple for 50 years. When we moved in, it became disgustingly apparent that cleanliness had been low on their list of priorities. Under the kitchen cabinets housing glassware, the cook had bubbled spaghetti sauce, definitely not in the simmer mode, in an electric skillet twice a week for fifty years. Stuck to the bottom of the cabinet were layers and layers of dried iterations of tomato paste.
Even birds, usually the sweet doves, make their nests in the worst locations. This spring, the robins have returned to the Rancho in numbers unseen in past years. Everywhere I look among the sycamores and oaks, I see robins.
So you will agree that this mother robin was only thinking of her eggs’ security when she began to collect wood, string, grasses and fluff for a month-long sit in a comfy little nest.
You may also remember the Woody Allen movie in which he is living in a tiny house under a roller coaster.
Although Lady Robin’s nightly reverie is not beset with the din of metallic locomotion, she might as well be living on the midway of the state fair.
She had failed to appreciate until the dark of night had set in that her incubator sits under the security box that beams bandwidth from the video camera at the gate to my computer screen in the library, alerting me of gate visitors.
All night, a cavalcade of rapidly blinking lights-green, red, and yellow–trip the night fantastic.
There she sits, intent on her evolutionary job of warming the eggs to hatching temperature.
I can only imagine what her chicks will experience when their first night of life is not really night at all but rather a psychedelic evening of mind-bending vibration and color.
They shall be little Robinoids.