There’s an aging propane barbecue grill sitting on my mother’s deck. It belonged to my father Russell but since he passed away awhile ago the Charbroil hasn’t seen a sirloin in years. It stands alone as a stoic shrine to my dad; a monument: black, corroding, beloved for what it reminds us of but—and this is perhaps the bone at the center of this posting's drumstick—not altogether lifeless.
Every spring, Carolina wrens find it hospitable enough to build a nest under its domed lid, bringing a sense of vitality to this relic of my family's salad days. Apparently the soot and smell of molding hamburger grease aren’t enough of a deterrent to keep the birds away.
With Carolina wrens, both the female and male work on the nests made of twigs, bark strips, shredded leaves and dried grass. They usually choose a natural hole, cavity or tucked away depression. And an aged grill serves them well enough.
Their typical clutch size is five eggs that the female incubates. The brood hatches in about two weeks, and both the male and female feed the young that fly away in another two weeks. So, the entire process lasts about a month, excluding the time it takes to actually build the nest.
I’m sure my father would be glad to know that his grill is being used.
It’s a fitting memorial.
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