When I was younger, summers seemed to last forever. Now I can lose five years without hardly noticing. An old baseball picture got me wondering where all that time went.

I've always enjoyed cutting grass, but it took me years to realize why. Somewhere between the first lap and the last, the noise fades away, the distractions disappear, and whatever's been on my mind starts sorting itself out.

After writing about my dad, I could almost hear my mom asking, “What about me?” The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much she would’ve loved being part of Fenceboard Flyers and The Picket Board.

I hadn't heard the phrase in years. Then one bent nail brought my dad back for a moment.

The easy answer is that I'm misplacing them. I'm not completely convinced.

The bee seemed to know exactly what it was doing. I wasn't so sure.

Sometimes a song brings back back a place, a face, or a moment you didn't even realize you'd forgotten.

There’s almost always a bird on the wire. Not random, not just resting—more like a pause between where they were and where they’re going next.

Every year, right around the same time, the yard fills up with grackles. It starts with a few, then suddenly the whole place is covered—moving, working, and gone again before you really notice it.

I didn’t expect building birdhouses would turn me into the guy who stands in the yard watching birds, but here we are. Once you slow down enough to notice them, it’s hard not to respect them.

Yesterday the yard was full of birds. Then it snowed, and almost all of them disappeared. This winter, now that I’m paying attention, I’m starting to notice where they go.

I don’t choose the name ahead of time. I build the house, finish it, and wait for it to reveal itself. Otherwise, it’s just wood and screws.

I just needed a paintbrush. I didn't realize that meant deciding between about twenty different kinds of them.

I was working off the tailgate of my truck when a bird in the oak tree above me made a decision I didn’t see coming.

The birds in the yard always seem to have something to say. I just wish I knew what they were talking about.

I cleaned out a corner of the shop the other day and realized I keep small things I probably shouldn’t — boxes, jars, twist ties — little objects that feel too useful to toss and too useless to use.

While I was working the yard, a little bird kept coming in sharp and sure, no wasted motion. Watching it for a minute set off an idea I didn’t see coming.

Most days the yard feels like neutral ground, but one afternoon a chickadee made it clear I’d stepped a little closer than she liked.

I saw a cat sitting under one of my birdhouses, not hunting, just waiting. Once you notice that kind of patience, you start seeing the whole setup differently — what’s below a house, beside it, and close enough to climb.

I’ve learned it’s a lot easier to start a project when the tools are ready to go. Sometimes a few minutes at the end saves a lot of aggravation the next time.