School's Out

"This is not what I meant by Jamming."

     With the first year of college behind him, my son has returned home for the summer. My wife and I just got used to having the house to ourselves, and now we are transitioning back to living with a teenager again – and all the joy that comes with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear the pitter-patter of little feet around the house again, even if the pitter-patter is from size eleven Nikes on nineteen-year-old feet.

      When both our children moved out last year, there was an adjustment period as I faced the spectre of a big old empty house. Of course, I knew I would miss my boys. Their comings and goings at random hours and impossible-to-figure-out schedules became the norm. I found the best way to deal with young people sharing my house was to try to adhere to my own schedule as closely as possible. When our lives intersected at the dinner table, it was a rare treat, something to be cherished.

      When the boys left, I adjusted life in my tranquil home rather quickly. The amount of daily laundry shrunk from a mountain to a tidy pile, neatly placed inside a clothes hamper instead of thrown in the invisible hamper on the laundry room floor. House cleaning chores took minutes rather than hours. Imagine what it’s like to return home from a hard day's work to find your house in the same condition as you left it that morning. It was shocking at first. No dirty dishes overflowing in the kitchen sink. No frozen food wrappers strewn about the countertops. No face cloths left in the bathroom sink. And, miracle of miracles, there were bath towels in the towel cabinet (good towels too, not the threadbare ones with the frayed edges I usually get stuck with).

      But life is ever changing, and this summer has brought change once again. A few weeks ago I drove to the college campus to load my Jeep with my son's belongings and moved him back home until September. Now he is trying to adjust to the world outside the protective dome of college life. My son has gotten used to three meals a day prepared for him in the kitchen at the dorms. “The menu at the dorm kitchen is awemsome,” he says. “It’s like having a private chef.” Don’t get used to it, kid. There are no private chefs on Gorham Avenue. Maybe this summer my son can use his spare time learning how to cook something besides Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

     Laundry Mountain is reaching towards the ceiling again. I can understand having lots of clothes and bedding to wash when you first return home, but after a few weeks the pile seems to be replenishing itself exponentially. I have a house rule: do not leave clean laundry in the laundry room. It tends to get mixed up with the dirty laundry and “someone” ends up washing it again. Perhaps it’s time for a refresher course in House Rules.

      I also get to share my car with my son on the weekends. I don't mind since I don’t do a lot of driving between 10:00 pm and 2:00 am which seems to be prime time for nocturnal college students. I can't remember what the gas gauge looks like when it's above a quarter of a tank. I haven't seen that sight for awhile.

     I'll be making more lifestyle changes to accommodate my summer visitor. I’ll have to play my music at a lower volume on weekend mornings. Saturdays and Sundays are when college students make up sleep time they lost from staying up all hours Monday through Friday. My grocery bill almost doubled from adding items I don't usually buy – Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Taquitos (huh?) and Annie's All Natural Homegrown Shells and White Cheddar (a must have for all college student diets). On a positive note, the weekly phone calls to transfer money into my son's bank account have stopped. Now he asks in person.

     Welcome home, son. We missed you dearly while you were gone. Your triumphant return home has brought a blinding ray of sunshine into the comfortable routine your mother and I have settled into. At least I’ll have help with the yard work this summer. Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

Bird Flue

     

     A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. A bird in your fireplace is worth $125, at least according to the pest control service I called to help me with my wild animal home invasion.

     Last week my wife and I had a rare day off together. We sat in our living room sipping coffee when a strange noise caught our attention.

     “What’s that noise?” my wife asked.

     “I think the trash barrels blew over,” I said.

     The noise sounded again. 

     “It’s coming from the fireplace,” my wife said.

     “No, it’s just the wind,” I said.

     “It’s coming from the flue,” my wife said.

     I muted the television volume and we both listened for the origin of the perplexing sound. Our two cats joined our silent listening party. They sat with their attention focused on the fireplace like children awaiting Santa’s arrival. 

     There was a definite rustling in the chimney flue, echoing into the fireplace. I turned the lever to open the flue to investigate further. The flapping sound started and stopped. It sounded to me like an injured bird trapped in the chimney. The question was how to get it out of there.

     I turned to the all-knowing internet for guidance. My wife Googled “how to get a bird out of a chimney” and sure enough the answer magically appeared.

     The solution was simple. Turn on  a flashlight and leave it inside the fireplace with the flue open. The bird will eventually head towards the light. I closed the fireplace screen and waited to see it this easy internet tip worked. I envisioned the scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s film The Birds, where a massive storm of winged creatures explode into a home by way of the chimney. 

     Within minutes, we heard a flapping of wings. A bird came down the chimney and landed in my fireplace. Unfortunately, that was the end of the internet tips. I had to figure out what to do next.

I was expecting a broken-winged sparrow to flop into the corner, waiting for me to scoop it up in a shoebox and bring it outside so it could recuperate in the wild. Instead, I got a raving mad medium-sized North American Starling with an attitude problem. 

     The angry bird crashed around the inside of my fireplace looking for a way out. It latched onto the fireplace screen and shook it with its sharp talons. It pecked violently with its razor-like beak. Its piercing black eyes sent a message to me – and it was not a friendly hello. 

     “Just throw a towel on it and carry it outside,” my wife said.

Easier said than done. I cautiously opened the fireplace screen and quickly tossed an old bath towel into the fireplace, completely missing the bird. 

     “What are you doing? Are you afraid of a bird?” my wife asked.

     “No. I’m afraid you’re going to freak out if it gets loose inside the house. Remember the mouse incident of 1998?” I said, trying to deflect the question back to her.

     I tried throwing another towel in the fireplace, but the bird was moving too fast.

     I had a business card on the refrigerator from a local pest control service. This wild bird definitely qualified as a pest. I called the number and the service said they could send someone right over. I thought the price was steep – $125 per bird for removal – but it was worth it to end this siege.

     The exterminator showed up promptly and assessed the situation. He was oddly bird-like in his own way – he had a nest of straw colored hair, a large pointed beak of a nose, and nervous, darting eyes. He wore protective glasses and gloves. He asked if he could use the towel I had thrown in the fireplace to grab the bird. For $125 he could have at least brought a net of his own. He asked me to open the front door and stand clear while he trapped the starling in the towel and ran to the front porch to release the angry bird into the wild. 

     He checked the flue (with my flashlight) and said, “You’ve got another one up there.”

     Upon my recommendation, he used the internet flashlight trick to coax a second bird out of the flue. 

     “I hope there aren't any others up there,” he said.

     “I hope not either. At $125 a bird, I can’t afford any more,” I said. I was going to ask for a discount since he used my towel and my flashlight, but I didn’t want to press the issue.

     My wife was happy with the results. She wanted the birds treated humanely so they weren’t injured in their relocation back to the outside world (although I still think my Duraflame log solution would have been a heck of a lot cheaper).