Donovan Kelly

Neither snow nor furry beast will keep the dedicated weekender from his appointed rounds. Why? Why give up all creature comforts, including HBO, to go off to the hills of West Virginia every weekend? If you must ask, you will never understand, but let me try again to explain.

Reason #27: To feed the hummingbirds and septic tank.

Once you get hooked on birdfeeding, you are hooked for life. Unlike street drugs, the addiction to birdfeeding turns the user into a junkie dedicated to serving his community, at least his feathered community. Suburban neighbors may protest that birdfeeding junkies allow too many dandelions to grow because we avoid lawn chemicals or too many dead trees to stand because we welcome the nesting holes. My flatland neighbors protest most loudly on the weekends, which is one reason I sneak off early on Saturday mornings to pursue my feathered addictions in the loneliness of the wild woods.

We who are hooked on hummingbirds suffer the most demanding and hardcore of all birdfeeding addictions. Sugar water feeders must be cleaned and refilled weekly before they turn sour. Thus I'm forced often on a Saturday to say, “Oh darn, Honey. I’d love to go shopping with you, but I have to go up to the cabin and feed the hummingbirds.” Shaking my head sadly, deep disappointment in my voice, I pause to share the awful image of dying hummingbirds, their tiny stomachs heaving with the misery of sour sugar water.

“Go,” she says, her voice dripping with warnings about the doghouse I’m building for myself.

If there are no hummingbirds to feed, there is always the septic tank. The mystery of septic tanks, of how they work, and what would happen if they didn’t work, remains my weekend ace in the hole. Usually I need only say, with a worried Saturday morning look, “I think I had better go up to the cabin and check on things.”

My wife is a good person. She understands and often stamps my weekend exit visa with an “OK” as soon as I mention my vague concern about “things.” We both know that if any serious “things” were broken, I’m the last klutz in the world you want involved in the repair job. If it can’t be fixed with duct tape, it can’t be fixed by me. But a happy klutz at the cabin is better than a sour klutz at home.

If the general need to “check on things” doesn’t work, then I’ll say, with another sad headshake, “That toilet was flushing slow. I hope it’s not the septic tank.” Septic tanks rank high among universal female fear factors, right behind snakes, mice and “What was that noise?” When it comes to excuses for sneaking off to the cabin, the septic tank has never failed me. Why do I go to the cabin every weekend? Because the septic tank is there.