Most people don't believe me--it's the single most unbelieved thing I say--when I tell them that the five species of woodpeckers I feed all know which room of the house I sleep in, and know my bed is right beneath the window, and if I'm not up yet, they drum and drill on the fascia above the window to wake me so I will bring out their suet. Which I usually do first thing each morning.
"But it's true," I tell the unbelievers. "I can show you."
If I turn over and go back to sleep, the birds will drum and drill on the other side of the bedroom, too. If they know I'm elsewhere in the house but they're not sure where, they jackhammer on the tall metal TV antenna, making the entire house resound. It sounds like the clanking of pipes in old steam-heated buildings, except rapid. It throbs like a headache. Because the antenna, unlike the roof, houses no termites or bugs and even the boldest woodpecker can't drill holes in it, I've asked a friend, "Why do they do that?"
"Because it's fun," she said.
It's also effective. Sometimes the birds are my alarm clock. Often in winter they guilt me out of bed: I'm thinking, "They're hungry, I've got to feed them." Sometimes I'll stay in bed an extra half-hour just to let fat lazy devious birds know who is the boss around here. Sometimes I'll slide open the window and yell, "I am not your slave."
It's a work of yard art that Patrick built and delivered today, the table made of scrap wood abandoned in the garage--now back outdoors where it came from, and under the twin oaks, replacing the old redwood picnic table. I had no idea what the new one would look like and am delighted. Its legs, old 3x3s, are specially and uniquely textured with termite channels (see photo). Patrick and his son installed it on paving slabs that'll settle into the earth after a few rains. It's built so it will be great as a gardening table and for barbecuing, since all I have is a hibachi. Come see it! I'll give you lunch and lemonade. I'll make you espresso, too, if you want. A table is a holy thing.
