I had a life. I had interests and passions and purpose. I had responsibilities. I had dreams.

Then a pair of wrens (Harold and Pauline) took up residence in our backyard and my normal life suddenly came to an end. I became a voyeur. A Peeping Tom. Not unlike the neighbor-obsessed Jimmy Stewart character in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window,” I would sit for hours, armed with binoculars, watching these tiny birds – not much bigger than hummingbirds – create a cozy home and then a bustling family … in a clothespin bag.

The pair started flying off into the woods, returning with mouthfuls of squirming insects. They would disappear into the clothespin bag, then reappear moments later, beaks empty and ready for another bug run. The new parents were obviously feeding their hatched brood. Around this time, Harold got bolder and more protective. Usually when he’d see me he’d fly away to safety. But when I mowed the lawn he yelled at me from his perch, puffing up his itty-bitty chest and flapping his Lilliputian wings to show me just how fierce he was.

I didn’t doubt him. I saw him go after a chipmunk he had taken a particular disliking to. The offending rodent was rooting around under a lawn chair, closer to the nest than Harold liked, and like a flash, papa bird dive bombed the unsuspecting critter and speared him with his sharp little beak.

Chipmunks normally move fast, but this one approached light speed after being stabbed in the rear end. It also shrieked in abject terror. Harold returned to his clothesline perch victorious and proudly sang what I assumed was his avian war cry: “I am Harold! I am small, but my heart is big, my spirit is strong, and my beak is sharp! Mess with my family and I’ll spear you in the butt!”

In the meantime, while under Harold’s comforting protection, Pauline continued to hunt bugs and feed her children. At this point we could neither see nor hear the newly-born birds. The only evidence of their existence was the constant flow of Grubhub-style meal deliveries from mom and dad. And then, while drinking coffee one morning on our back deck, Pauline dipped into the clothespin bag with bug in beak and the place exploded with peeps. Baby birds, alive and hungry!

In a few days we hope to see the wrens’ end game, when the baby birds become fledglings, capable of flight. Wrens appear rather cold-blooded in their approach to child rearing. Basically, mom and dad stop feeding their children and leave the nest. Hint to kids: “Time you flew the coop.” But the parents will be waiting patiently in the woods for their winged brood, ready to instruct them in the basics of birdlife.

When the fledglings come boiling out of the nest, tentative but determined, these little birds will be heading out into a big world. We wish them well. And thank them, and their parents, for captivating us for so many joyful hours of bird watching, even if it basically took over our lives. And maybe we’ll see Harold and Pauline again next spring, as wrens often return to successful nests. We hope so. But until then, we’ll have to find something to do with all our extra time.

Steven Price is a Kennebunkport resident. He can be reached at sprice1953@gmail.com.

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