I don’t normally call woodpeckers stupid. I don’t. But the incessant ringing of my doorbell for more days than I care to admit had me on the verge of either name-calling or digging my Daisy BB gun out of the bin under my bed where I keep my winter sweaters.

I figured out the inconvenient bell wasn’t a mischievous sixth grader when I detected a small hole in the push button. The next time I examined it, the hole had grown along with the ding dong ding dong ding dong which stopped every time I placed my hand on the doorknob. Of course it did. Any movement on my part probably sounded like it was coming through a bullhorn to the bird who could hear the little sounds of insects

To be fair, the few glimpses I caught of it showed that it was a cute little thing – not one of those huge woodpeckers, but a respectable bird. Still. One cannot hear a doorbell ring throughout the day without being set on edge. My eye was beginning to twitch.

I gave the situation plenty of thought. I had plenty of time because I work remotely – unfortunately in the current situation. Although I wasn’t ready to become a falconer, (which, what would they do, anyway, bring me a mouse?) I knew a hawk might go to war for me. But I had no idea how to attract a hawk to dispense of my doorbell nemesis. I was reticent to use my aforementioned BB gun because of my sign neighbor. I call her that due to the always present signs she has in her yard letting the neighborhood know what we should or shouldn’t think. The woman loved a good cause whether the rest of us did or not. And I was pretty sure my use of BBs would lead to her posting another sign and maybe having heart palpitations which I didn’t want to be responsible for. If only the woodpecker had chosen her doorbell!

Wait-a-minute! The idea that popped into my mind could lead to trouble or it could lead to peace and quiet. I chose to believe what I wanted to believe.

That afternoon I took a walk around the neighborhood and nonchalantly (and in my mind surreptitiously) tossed some blueberries toward my neighbor’s latest sign. When I got back home I made a little trail of berries from below my doorbell over as far as I dared to my neighbor’s yard. I thought maybe I spied Woody (as I’d begun to think of him) hopping around them, but I couldn’t be certain. The bird seemed to make a game of evading me.

I picked up stray pinecones here and there and smeared some peanut butter and birdseed on one. If I was a sports announcer, I would’ve called my pitch high and wide; but I got better with each toss. Don’t judge. It isn’t littering when it’s nature.

Maybe it was my imagination or perhaps I was learning to tune them out, but the ringing of the doorbell seemed to be decreasing. And in a month’s time Woody had discovered a new favorite, I bought a new doorbell, and my neighbor? Well let’s just say she’s found a new cause.

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Spring was just on the other side of the threshold: icy rain on this side and sudden sun with warm petrichor on the other. He thought, as he clicked the fob of his Subaru, that his impatience for indifferent weather – weather without event – had reached its peak in the last week. Maybe it wasn’t just the weather. And it was due to his restiveness that he had decided to drive out (way out) into the country on roads that would take him out of the city’s dirty curbs and unshoveled slush.

A couple of hours led him to a small cemetery with not quite twenty gravestones showing varying degrees of weathering. But it was through the quiet site to the hill beyond it that he ventured. He descended a steep embankment and came to a stream recently released from the restrictions of ice and snow as it rushed and gurgled over cold rocks and downed branches.

Released! What a good, good word. He reached down and splashed the cold water with his hand, then yanked it out

quickly. It was freezing cold, yet pure and clear; and he supposed that’s what release from whatever burden or chain one wore, would feel like: bracing, maybe not even appealing at first, but then? Then the purity of freedom would race through his veins and into his very soul.

The afternoon spent itself as he thought over what that meant. He had a vague awareness of shemita, and, of course, a closer understanding of his own burdens and unmet desires and asked Almighty God above for such a release from something he couldn’t even name.

A cold raindrop fell, then another and another. He rubbed his arms and slipped on some gloves from his jacket pocket, then scrambled up the hill to his car. The rain changed from polite drops to the splat of threatening snow, and as he drove back to the bleakness of the city, he pondered the amount of time it took the stream to move from restriction to release.

The afternoon had done something to his tired spirit and somehow  rubbed away a little of clouded vision that had been his uninvited companion for too long. A muted future lost just a bit of its indifference. Burdens? Chains? Unseen restrictions? They would be gone! He didn’t know when or how long it would take, but he could even now feel the excitement of the early spring stream. And life again would see cleansing. Freedom. Release!

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Boy, this was going to be good. He’d thought it over for years. It would be the home of a lifetime! He had begun with the foundation – solid and broad enough to hold whatever he dreamed up. And dream he did. Along the top of the foundation, he engraved a logo he used in his business; a mark of ownership consisting of interlocking half-circles.

Eight steps led up to the portico (portico!), and he made sure the first story had a stone-look design. Three arched windows were placed on either side of the arched entry door. They were perfect for letting in sunlight and sparkles. For years, he’d admired the porte-cocheres off mansions on Summit Avenue. His house must have one, so he added one at the side of the house.

The second story was peppered with windows: Six on each side of the building – twenty-four in all. Next came an outdoor winding staircase. How he’d thought of it, he couldn’t say, but he prided himself on the creativity he’d used in its design.

At one point – as he munched on a grilled cheese and red pepper sandwich – he decided his house (house? In his heart he began thinking of it as a castle! Didn’t they say a man’s home was his castle?) needed a third story. He made certain the exterior matched the second story, and it did with precision.

He had thought it was complete, but as he observed it from a distance, he decided it needed turrets. So what if such things were from another era? He would have them! And he did, placing one at each corner of the structure. They would be perfect for looking at things going on outside. He imagined a window seat or low desk would be just the thing for doing so.

Finally it was complete. His gaze followed every inch of the structure. He recalled the initial foundation and how excited he’d been with engravings along the top of the base. And he loved the arches on the first story! He’d always been partial to them and was glad they could be included. His eyes moved to the very top. No, not the roofline, although its asymmetrical silhouette made him smile. Sometimes it was brilliant to go against expectation, and this was one of those times. But the top – the points of the turrets . . . Well, the depth of his satisfaction could not be described.

He sat in a chair, soaking in the design with admiration. It was everything he’d ever imagined and more. He was tempted to say it was the accomplishment of a lifetime!

And just after the sun had set in a brilliant blaze of oranges, pinks, and gold until the sky faded to dusky blue, the ocean’s waves which kept time with  their soothing sound rose to high tide and washed it all away.

Image: joe-dudeck-5cLevaOKG5U-unsplash-scaled.jpg; Matthew 7:24-27