Once, years ago, I tried to get Don into the one outdoor activity I really enjoy.
Skiing.
I was hoping to cultivate a Johnny Come Lately – Donny Come Lately? – Shaun White.
What I actually cultivated was a 6’2” human snowball with a sprained finger.
It was years before that finger stopped swelling. That also may have been the finger I accidentally sliced open with the knife I had under my pillow. But that injury is really on Don because if he just believed in the things that go bump in the night, he’d refrain from sticking his hand under my pillow.
Skiing – just like every other outdoor activity I initiate – didn’t go well. In fact, I’m pretty sure Don and I started a family for an excuse to never ski again.
But what some people call intransigence I call optimism. I keep trying to find outdoor activities for the Rank clan. Outdoor activities don’t come naturally to me. I rely on others for inspiration. Social media, outdoor journals, even conversations with outdoors-minded individuals all serve as inspiration for my (attempted) adventures.
The latest was the wood duck box.
I don’t even know what a wood duck is, let alone a wood duck box. But I saw a youth contest in the Pennsylvania Outdoor News, which I don’t read. Don does, though.
I probably put an end to that this weekend.
Wood ducks are ducks. That might seem obvious, but red pandas aren’t exactly pandas and killer whales aren’t whales, so you’ll understand my suspicion about the wood ducks.
But they are, in fact, ducks. And it turns out “wood” is an accurate moniker for them because they like water surrounded by trees.
Their population and habitat have taken a hit, so people build wood duck boxes. Installed in wetlands, the wood duck boxes invite wood ducks to nest. The relative security of the wood duck box means more ducklings are likely to hatch. Wood duck boxes are basically prenatal care for birds.
And, I thought, a fun family activity.
Reading through the contest rules, I saw that participants are expected to build their own box. As in, buy the wood, saw it into the necessary pieces, then assemble it.
Like I’m a pilgrim or something.
I don’t even know where to buy wood. Or how to use a saw. And if I thought anything living was occupying a space I built, I’d never sleep again. The stress of expecting the housing I constructed to collapse would be overwhelming.
Fortunately, I found a talented individual online happy to provide me the pieces I needed to assemble a wood duck box. He even sent me bolts to mount my wood duck box – it needs to be off the ground – and cedar chips for bedding.
I figured I could do this. I could assemble a wood duck box. I’ve put together IKEA furniture before. I just handed my dad the pieces and the instructions, then made myself scarce while he cursed.
This is why I got married. Somebody has to inherit that job. My dad isn’t going to live forever.
I just probably should have discussed the wood duck box with Don before I did anything. Or really, discussed it with anyone with a smidge of wood duck box knowledge.
But we optimists don’t really discuss. We do. We’re like Don when he became that snowball – we gather momentum as we go.
Don assembled the wood duck box, which was very easy thanks to the instructions and Pete’s determination to take a nap on them. The kids even got in on the action with enthusiastic shouts of “Why are we doing this?” and “I’m missing a FaceTime call!”
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The following weekend, we hit The Cabin. Don had located a beaver pond he thought would be ideal to hang our wood duck box. We could all hike to the spot, including Pete.
Outdoor time!
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It was not a long or difficult hike to the beaver pond. It wasn’t even that cold. But by the time we were done hanging that wood duck box, the only person who still loved me in our little beaver pond quintet was Pete.
My newfound internet friend had provided us with everything we needed to hang the wood duck box. But when I say “us” and “we” I mean “Don” and “Don.” Hanging a wood duck box is like being president of the United States – it’s a one-man job, and it’s lonely at the top.
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I encouraged the kids to explore while Don worked. But sullen teenagers suffering the emotional upheaval of a pandemic do not think you’re a good mother when you tell them to do something you yourself mock. They think you’re a hypocrite. They crouch on tree stumps, skinny and pale from months indoors. They look like Gollum, hiding behind rocks and threatening Bilbo with their nine teeth.
I would be Bilbo in this scenario, which is fine because I love Martin Freeman. And the only role I’ve ever seen Martin Freeman take into the wild outdoors is Bilbo. And look what happens to Bilbo.
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Later, when we were alone, Don turned to me.
“Look –,” he began. But I interrupted because that’s what optimists do.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. When I had decided on the wood duck box activity, I figured it would happen like everything else outdoors happens – without me.
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My dad once told me I don’t know what I don’t know. That certainly applies to the outdoors. Worse, I might know just enough to be a menace.
Besides, summer is coming, which isn’t as good as Winter Is Coming, but is a positive nonetheless. The kids will be swimming and at the beach. That’s outdoor time I can safely manage.
But. I received an email this week. The Audubon Mid-Atlantic Birdathon. Birding for 24 hours.
I mean, really.
How hard could it be?