SPRINGTIME CHORE: PUTTING NAILS IN THEIR PLACES

For me, one of the more pleasant sounds of spring is that of a hammer driving a nail. It speaks of something new being constructed or something old being repaired, brought back to near original appearance and usefulness. There is something sturdy and fundamental about the sound.

Some days I go around the premises, hammer in hand, looking for things that have come loose so that I can add my staccato notes to this spring symphony. I find them too.

The tiny nails, almost tacks, designed to hold down the roof of the two-sectioned bird feeder, have had an "uprising." Anthropomorphiszing them, I assume they don't like the vagaries of our Missouri weather and that this "uprising" is their form of protest. With one blow of my trusty hammer I put them in their place. "There now," I silently say, "see how easy it is to repair the ravages of time."

I sit back, a little distance away, to observe my carpentry skill and am pleased when a cardinal alights on the feeder roof and walks all over it, cocking his head in an inspecting manner. Soon he flies away as if satisfied that his feeding station is being kept in good repair.

The flag holder is not snug against its supporting board. I give the nail holding it a few blows, somehow feeling patriotic. I try to think of when the next holiday will arrive so that I can test the sturdiness of my repair blows. Then I realize that a flag can be flown any day. So I lay my hammer aside and go get the flag. It flutters in the breeze without the heretofore loosened holder making it dip up and down. I'm sure the neighbors, accustomed to flying their flags every holiday, wonder which one I'm celebrating. Should they ask, I'd say, "Hammer Day," which might cause some lines of perplexity across their friendly features.

I resume my loosened nail campaign, but where in the world did I put that hammer? After looking on top of the nearby trellis, on the surrounding grass, even on the close car bumper, I realize that I am suffering from another attack of "Whereintheworlditis," such attacks coming more frequently these days and at the most inopportune times. I retreat to the porch swing with pouting lips, but soon realize that, yes, of course, I have another hammer. How fortunate am I to have a back-up hammer on my Hammer Day.

A trip to the basement and a short rummage through Grandpa Mosley's old tool box produces the auxiliary tool. It's almost exactly like my front runner hammer except that over the many years of usage in construction work, the wooden handle, where it fits into the metal hammerhead has shrunk. But the carpenter, in his knowledge of how to apply an antidote to such situations, has driven a nail through that end of the handle, causing the wood to expand so that the hammerhead is again tightly secured. A vagrant thought passes through my mind about what might be done to the heads of some liberal thinkers to make them usable again.

So, I resume my search for loosened nails, or some place where I can drive a new one. I find them. A piece of lattice work can be nailed on the back lower part of the garden seat, hiding some concrete pillars. Two pickets of the north fence have come loose. Back in place they go. I think I hear an echo, but it is only a woodpecker over in the dead tree near the hedgerow.

The ridgepole of a wren house is in constant need of a hammer blow, but the wrens are nestling now so I resist that and compensate by striking the top of a trellis pole, just to hear the sound of the hammer on wood. In so doing, something moves under my foot, almost causing an ankle turn. I look down and there is that misplaced hammer. I pick it up and resume my Hammer Day, double loaded.

Old Stripe, looking fresh and shiny, slithers through the grass ahead of me. I throw one hammer at him. Miss. I throw the other, almost getting his tail, but not quite. "I'll see you again this summer," I warn. He turns around and sticks his tongue out at me.

REJOICE!