Once upon a weekend sunny, I was feeling . . . kinda funny . . . As I cruised the stories sketched upon my laptop’s memory core. While I noodled, idly hashing over plots, there came a crashing, As of someone wildly thrashing—thrashing in my stovepipe’s bore. “’Tis some chipmunk brash,” I muttered, “thrashing in my stovepipe’s bore— Only this and nothing more.” And the steely, harsh, resounding echoes of the stovepipe’s pounding Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some chipmunk brash that’s greeting from inside my stovepipe’s bore— some brash chipmunk with his greeting from within my stovepipe core;— This it is and nothing more.”
Unlike Edgar Allan Poe, Gentle Reader, I cannot keep this up indefinitely.
The part about fantastic terrors is true, though.
The space where I hatch my writerly triumphs is not heated by the furnace that serves the rest of the house. So in this otherwise pleasant room, we have a woodstove instead. Its black chimney rises four feet, turns horizontal to shoot through the outer wall, and zooms skyward again, rising another ten feet outdoors to disperse the smoke above the roof.
A frantic scrabble sounded forth from the two-foot horizontal run just inside the wall.
Something alive was inside the stovepipe and, from the sound of things, wanted out.
The stove and its pipe were cold, but I had plans to lay a fire there soon. That might smoke the occupant out—or else, gruesomely, cook it.
How had something gotten in there? Not through the stove: The firebox door was closed and in any case, we don’t have wildlife wandering through the sunroom. The outdoor chimney has a cap on top that ought to keep things out. It had failed in its duty.
I wanted this new tenant evicted. But how to dismantle a stovepipe, I do not begin to know; much less how to put it back together afterwards. I would need to call for professional assistance, at about eighty dollars an hour. As the late Chester A. Riley would have said, “What a revoltin’ development this is!”
I sat and pondered.
There came a great whump!, and from the edges of the loose-fitting firebox door rose a cloud of gray ash.
Time to relapse into verse. I’m sorry, Dear Reader, I can’t help myself.
Down the chimney a sparrow had come with a bound. He was dressed all in feathers, from beak down to toes, And stood amid soot which on all sides arose. He spoke not a word but made straight for the light With a flap and a flutter as he took his flight.
Fancy that—not a chipmunk at all.
A Small Bird
An English sparrow, or house sparrow. Male, to judge by his black bib.
One of the commonest, almost the least of birds. The kind that, in olden days, you could buy two for a farthing at the temple in Jerusalem.
He stood on a bed of fly ash and blinked as the light struck him when I opened the cast-iron door. Then he flew up and bounced off the ceiling.
He bolted for daylight and bounced off a window. He tried again and bounced off another window. His little brain clearly was be-twittered.
I went out through the wide-open door, hoping to set a good example. I came in and did it twice more, to make sure he got the idea. Then I stayed out, went around the corner, and looked in the end window from outside.
Left to his own devices, the winged warrior hopped across the tile floor, closing the distance to the open door, hop by hop, until he stood on its threshold. He hopped out, cautiously, to the low deck outside.
One more hop, testing the alfresco, and off he flew. None the worse for wear, I hope.
Just another day in the life of a literary lion.
The Preachy Part
Close encounters with God’s wild creatures always leave Your New Favorite Writer a bit breathless. I’m glad the little guy slipped his predicament with all feathers accounted for.
But on a deeper level, I stand in awe of the Creative Power that fashioned both a geezer like me and a striving sparrow, and put us together in one space for a few moments’ mutual instruction in the sketchy parameters of life.
Larry F. Sommers, Your New Favorite Writer
Author of Price of Passage—A Tale of Immigration and Liberation.
Price of Passage
Norwegian Farmers and Fugitive Slaves in Pre-Civil War Illinois
(History is not what you thought!)