There is a really cute chick living at my house. 

I’ve been wanting one of those for a long time. I am picky, obviously, by way of being a bachelor up until now. I’m looking for a cute, petite, brunette — a Primitive Baptist girl. 

This one is none of those things — but she is certainly determined to live with me. 

She returns every spring, but she is generally gone by the summer – just like all the girls I’ve ever dated.

She stares at me, but I am not sure it is lovingly all the time. 

Sometimes, she just sits there and gives me that look. 

She is the Carolina Wren that has taken up in my utility room. 

The first two years, she took up residence in an old abandoned, artificial Christmas tree my sister brought back with her when she and her family lived in Colorado. I used it a little while, but retired it when the lights began to have troubles. I just never have gotten around to throwing it out. 

And then, I couldn’t, without irritating Mrs. Fuss and Feathers. 

I first noticed her under the ledge of the carport, sitting on maybe a quarter inch of molding. An evening thunderstorm was raging, and she took refuge there. I figured she would be gone by morning. 

And, she was, but then she came back. 

Then I noticed the rustling, as if someone was plundering in a filing cabinet, coming from the top shelf of the utility room. 

When I investigated, all I could denote was a flutter and a brown blur leaving in a hurry. She flits to my rubber plant and sits there cheeping like Beaker from The Muppets. 

This year, she wanted different accommodations. 

She first started building in one of my houseplants. I didn’t notice her and the plant was set up on the freezer. I watered it which made her not only drenched, but mad. She did not want a bird bath. My bad. 

Next, I noticed grass and sticks and stuffing from Granny Rogers’ chair on my carport strewn on the floor of the utility room. Granny died in 1978, but I just can’t part with sentimental things. I used to sit there on her lap and everything was right with the world. My grandmother, her daughter, used to rock me to sleep there singing “Little boy blue come blow your horn...” Grandma rarely sang, so that’s a precious memory in itself.

Maybe, Mrs. Birdie will sing to her brood.

She was using the stuffing from that chair to line the bottom of her new nest.

The new nest is next to the Tide Pods® and the bottle of Shout® on the lowest shelf. It’s right above the washing machine. 

She doesn’t like me being in there on laundry day. I am invading her personal space apparently. She stares at me with her little beady eyes. 

She won’t move, though. She is nesting and has four eggs in her little house. 

She has, over the last couple of years, been a good mother, mostly. She has raised three or four little ones each year. 

Once she gets them raised it’s always comical when fly away comes for her little ones. She lines them up on the freezer and flutters her wings at them to get them to the edge – then she pushes them off the side. There’s a lesson there. 

Fly or fall. Try or fail. Find your wings. 

Maybe this new living arrangement is good practice for me. 

Time will tell.

• Jason Deal is a staff writer for The Blackshear Times. Reach him at