In my (abysmally late) post for week 4 of the Paulson internship, I’ll share a phenomenon that has become quite frequent during the Summer months in rural Ohio. This event — not a phenomenon at all, really, but an unfortunate side effect of possessing a wood stove — is generally marked by a subtle scratching that gradually builds to a crescendo. The sound of fluttering wings against thick glass reverberates throughout the household, and our calico cat sits stock still, eyes trained on the wood stove. If I’m home alone, I shy from the task of carefully gathering the bird in a towel and bringing her outside, as it’s quite hard to both open the doors of the stove and successfully catch the small creature. Yet my ineptitude in the art of bird-catching has its setbacks: all day the trapped bird flutters madly against the doors of the stove, unable to clamber back up the chimney, gazing longingly at the blurry living room without any means to enter it. Failure to catch the bird once the doors of the stove have opened, however, could result in a morbid outcome — namely, the death of the bird at the hands (or shall I say….. paws) of a hungry feline. If the bird flies freely from the stove, it often slams madly into windows, trying in vain to reach the green world beyond. In the past, birds have flown into the nooks and crannies of the house, settling down amidst pillows and blankets only to be discovered by a blanket-seeker some hours (or days!) later. I recall one sleepover when I reached into my closet to find a comforter and a small bluejay (truth be told I have no idea *what* sort of bird it was, but for the purposes of this post, I’ll dub her a bluejay) fluttered madly from the mass of blankets. Another time, I stumbled upon a very dead bird in the center of my parents’ room, a pile of feathers all that remained of my cat’s most recent feast. (And people believe if they keep their cats indoors, they won’t be able to destroy feathered creatures outside! ….Evidently, such is not always the case.)

Anyways, I digress. Recently, when I heard the tell-tale scratching the glass of the wood stove, I felt the usual sinking guilt: I, a human, could go languidly about my day while a small creature sat trapped inside a man-made prison. Yet — as any attempts to free the bird by myself could ultimately lead to its demise — I could only continue on with my human affairs, the fluttering of wings a weary background noise. When my mom arrived home, she carefully opened the wood stove while I reached out with a towel to pick up the small bird. I could feel her small body rise and fall with each breath, a gentle warmth cradled inside the towel. It felt strange, and slightly wrong, to hold a winged, undomesticated creature. An overstepping of my role as a human, an infringement upon the natural realm. I stepped onto the porch and slowly opened my palms. The bird hesitated for a mere moment, teetering on the brink of freedom, before flying off into the blue blue sky. Silently, I wished her well. 

This is *completely* unrelated, but attached is a photograph of my cob oven in progress. The foundation has been constructed! Stay tuned for the actual, uh, cob part of the oven.