Sense's Reminiscences

Translated from the Groninger dialect.
The original, entitled "'t Vogelhokje" was published on www.dideldom.com. The story appeared under the name of Jan Prak, Sense's pseudonym.

During the mid 1990s, my daughter gave me a beautiful birdhouse. It was made of weather-beaten barn wood in the shape of an A-frame. The dimensions were just right according to a little piece of paper. Birds would immediately be attracted to it.

Lo and behold, shortly after I hung it on a pole attached to our deck behind the house, a pair of romantically-attached sparrows made an exploratory visit. I guess they liked what they saw.

I live with Geertje (Jan Prak's wife - sdj) in a mid-size Ontario (Canada) city, close to the mighty Niagara Falls. Between Ontario and America lies a huge lake, called Lake Erie. The most southern spot of Canada lies in that lake. It's called Point Pelee and it is famous because all manner of birds from all over Canada somehow find this place each fall. They rest in the woods on the Pelee peninsula and then cross over the water in order to escape from the harsh, cold Canadian winters to the warmer places in southern U.S.A.- and who knows where else. In the spring they return, using the same route, arriving dead-tired at the Point. They then stay for a while to gather strength for the long trek to distant parts of Canada. And, of course, this is the time that thousands of bird lovers - armed with bird books, paper, pen and binoculars - visit Point Pelee, much to the delight of the owners of local motels, hotels and restaurants.

Years ago, I built a nice deck behind our bungalow. From it we could observe the trees, the squirrels and the birds. I often sat there, enjoying a cup of latte , a good book and my pipe. On one such a day, I was again relaxing as I observed the goings on all around me. It was a nice spring day. Oh, how busy God's little creatures were. And, yes, there they were again. The two just-married sparrows, eager to become parents. Or was Ma Sparrow then expecting already? And they had a place to stay. My birdhouse. Free of charge!

My birdhouse, a home for sparrows. One day, a wren ransacked it, but father sparrow taught it a lesson.

One cannot believe how much they dragged into their little dwelling. Day after day they were at it. Sheets and pillow cases I didn't see, but, I believe, they were among the items, too. It was a joy to see it all. I said to Geertje: "Just look at how busy and dedicated those two lovebirds are. What strength, vitality and commitment they display!" Geertje rolled her eyes and went inside.

One day - I sat in my usual spot - something suddenly buzzed by my head. It sounded like a tiny jet. I looked at the birdhouse, and, yes, I saw a wee little bird in the round opening and disappear inside. Immediately, he (she?) re-appeared with all sorts of things in his tiny beak. Soon, all the things that sparrows gather to make a nest - bits of fluff, string, dry grass, small branches, all sorts of paper - were slowly floating onto the deck. The little bird literally ripped the entire contents of the birdhouse apart, throwing everything outside, all at great speed. He worked as one possessed. Once in a while, he would fly away to my locust tree, sitting down with his tail tilted high. I guess he needed to visit the W.C. or have a coffee, or something. But it didn't take long. Soon a dark shadow crossed past me. I heard that familiar buzz again. And, yes, he was at it again: ripping, tearing and throwing stuff, like before.

After consulting with Geertje, she found a book about birds. Soon she found something. She told me that in Canada we have a little bird called a wren. In the Netherlands, she said, it's called a "winterkoninkje" (literal translation: a little winter king). Geertje told me it belongs to the family of Troglodytidae. Neither Geertje nor I knew what that meant (maybe members of that family suffer from stomach pains, or warts, or something!). Such a wren, Geertje went on, is but a small thing. It is a very tiny bird, but capable of flying at breakneck speed. Whenever it sits - which is not often - it tilts its tail.

This is what a wren looks like. This is a distant relative of the one buzzing my head. They are mostly small and inconspicuous. But some are bold and daring, like the one attacking our birdhouse.

I looked at the little thing again. I mused: was this really a wren? You spent the whole winter in Florida, you returned via Point Pelee after flying thousands of kilometers? And now you're here in my backyard, 250 kilometers further into Canada? What are you doing here?

Geertje was still talking. She said: "Well, Jan, this is now what is called a wren. It's in their nature to bother other birds and destroy their nests. It's in their genes, they don't know any difference. But, Jan, look at it this way: their destructive behavior is also the result of man's falling into sin." I thought: "How wide and deep are Geertje's opinions." But I did not reply.

Meanwhile, Pa and Ma Sparrow were in a state of shock observing the devastation wrought to their beloved nest. Deeply grieved - in sackcloth and ashes - they wondered what to do next. I didn't have to think about that. My heart had compassion on them and I determined to help them. I carefully gathered all the bits and pieces of fluff and what have you and carefully shoved all of it back through the hole in the birdhouse. Among the items was a meters-long piece of tape from a recorder! Satisfied that a semblance of order had been restored, I relaxed and picked up my book again.

However, in no time the little beggar buzzed past my ear again. Totally fascinated, I saw him go to work throwing everything out of the nest, just like before. It was as though he couldn't stop if he tried. Once more, I stuffed everything back. I sat down and waited. He came back like a bullet. He entered the nest and, feverishly, started tearing it apart once more. But then something amazing happened. Pa Sparrow flew towards the birdhouse and sat down on the perch just outside the hole. The wren was trapped. I could almost hear Pa Sparrow shout: now I got ya!

Several minutes ticked by. Once in a while I saw the little wren's head appear in the opening. Usually he took off in flash, but not this time. Finally, he appeared and tried to take off. Well, he tried. No sooner did he appear, Pa Sparrow was upon him giving him a good licking. The wren escaped and probably headed for the nearest bird hospital. At any rate, I never did see him again!

Ah, 't was such a nice little wren. So small, yet so fast and single minded. From then on I observed Ma and Pa Sparrow quietly going about their task. They were blessed with two healthy babies. Devotedly, they flew here and there to find little morsels of food for their little darlings. I saw them getting bigger every day. And, one day, with Ma and Pa anxiously watching, I saw them clumsily flutter away.

Our Lord said they would be taken good care of: "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father." (Matthew 10:29)