My friend and I were booked to do our program about journeys of pioneer women at Scottsbluff Monument on June 14th. We always enjoy doing programs there and have been regulars over many years. It’s interesting to visit with tourists who have questions about the Oregon Trail, and we always come away with new insights.
We wrote, and began performing, these songs and poems a quarter century ago, and immediately set out on our own Oregon Trail adventure. Beginning at Rockport, Missouri, and ending in Portland, Oregon, we followed the trail as closely as possible, presenting our program at various venues. Along with Deb’s two daughters, we tent camped, and ate out of coolers, for two weeks, and made the trip on $600.00, which wouldn’t get us to the state line today. We always invite our audiences to share any family pioneer stories, and have even written some new material based on those tales.
All this is preface to my decision about the barn swallows. We have a lot of them here, and they love to build nests above our deck, which means messes. So, we generally knock down the nests in that spot and otherwise appreciate their appetite for bugs that bite. This year, I battled with them for a week but they were not to be dissuaded.
While rehearsing my part of the Scottsbluff program, I suddenly realized these birds weren’t that different from the pioneers who settled out here. They built houses from what was available just like the birds do, and prevailed against all kinds of trouble. Failures seemed to just make them more determined. And really, were it not for those characteristics, many of us would be living elsewhere today.
I’ve always had a soft spot for barn swallows. As a kid, I climbed the dividers between stalls in the horse barn to peek into their nests. Dad cautioned me not to touch the eggs, or the birds would abandon them, so I counted them carefully and watched from below for little bald heads and gaping mouths to appear. The porch of the house where I raised my kids always had a nest, and I’m convinced the same birds returned to it each year. One of our dogs liked to jump at the birds when they swooped in, and the birds would tease the dog by skimming just above her head while she barked furiously. It was a game they never tired of, and provided us a lot of laughs.
Last week, I began to be ashamed of myself for disrespecting the barn swallows’ need for a home of their own, and kept watch as they patiently rebuilt it for the dozenth time. Now, as I sit on the deck, they perch on a plant hanger and visit with me. I marvel at their pretty feathers and am grateful to live next door to them. Bruce grumbled, but I promised to hose off the porch daily.
It’s all about attitude, isn’t it? I wonder how many of us consider that when complaining about our neighbors.
Meet me here next week, and meanwhile do your best. Somebody might like it.