Sunday, June 06, 2010

in the lee of the light

I’ve been waging a fierce battle all week - and it took Bruce Lee to help me prevail . . .

. . . um, maybe a bit cryptic?

Let me explain.

You see, our front porch has an outside light next to the door. It’s one of those look-like-an-ancient-torch deals, and it seems, it is the perfect place for a robin to build a nest in and lay eggs.

Now, you know I'm not cruel, but having a robin making a nest on my porch light is just not really a good idea . . . for the robin.

I like the bird, I really do. So cute, so red-breasted. But, um, we also have three big maple trees in our yard and our neighborhood is oldish with many a mature tree just crying out for a robin to nest in.

After three days of tearing down the nesting material (like every hour or so except at night when the robin slept) I knew where the saying, “bird-brained” came from. But, as a writer, I had to admire this robin’s focus, determination and drive.

But I knew I couldn’t spend the next week or so knocking down nesting material ten times a day, so I went into a quasi-zen state to puzzle out a solution . . . and after a few minutes, the answer was obvious!

Bruce Lee would know how to handle this.

It just so happens that we have a Bruce Lee calendar, and one of his images was from “Enter The Dragon” . . . three trademark cuts on his face in the room of mirrors. He is looking menacing and not to be trifled with. By the way, what a classic movie - go see it again!

Now I know the robin had never seen the movie (okay, I was assuming here), but that image of Bruce looking all scary should keep the persistent nester at bay.

All I needed to do was cut out the image, tape it up on the light and voila - robin took a hike, never to return.

Bruce Lee had saved me from a lot of future cleaning work.

The only down side, with Bruce Lee taped up on our porch light, is that our house now looks like it is lived in by a mental case . . .

. . . hey, wait . . .

Oh, nevermind, you were already thinking that anyway, weren’t you.

Until next Sunday . . .

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