We live in an old farm house that was built in 1791. It was originally a large farm, and at some point was apparently a working quarry, from which granite was shipped to NYC. At some point, after the granite quarry was probably a distant memory, and much of the original land had been sold off, a barn was built on the property, probably as a large chicken coop. It has sat there, deteriorating ever since. During our tenure it served most famously as a clubhouse for my younger son and his friends. There, their activities evolved from the innocent pleasures of childhood to the not so innocent pleasures of the late high school years, of which we chose to remain in not so blissful ignorance. Today it serves as the repository of all the junk that we have been unable to sell at previous Democratic tag sales, a situation we insist will change every year, and never does.
Through all these years, even when occupied by the aforementioned clean living lads, the barn has also been the welcoming summer home of a flock of barn swallows, of whom we are inordinately proud and to whom we are profoundly grateful. The little guys feed on mosquitos. Need I say more? This year they will have their work cut out for them.
Needless to say we look forward to their return each year with as much anticipation as the folks in Capistrano. (Well, maybe not really). Today, the weather was beautiful, and while sitting on our patio, surveying the wreckage wrought by the winter, we spotted a barn swallow. I cannot document this fact further, the little guys move far too fast to be captured by a photographer of my meagre talents. I’m no ornithologist, but I got the impression that this particular swallow was scouting out the territory, or awaiting his bride.
There is something reassuring about these rhythms of nature, and this one in particular is a pleasure to watch. As the season progresses we will see them out in the early evening swooping around, mouths open, catching skeeters or, if he annoys them too much, dive bombing our cat.
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