On Saturday, I took the birdhouse from its perch on the gate post that leads into my raised beds, so I could repaint it. Garey was going by on the mower as I was loosening the screws that held it in place.
“I’m going to repaint this,” I said.
“There’s nothing to repaint,” he said.
He was right. The birdhouse was in bad shape. One side was crumbling from rot, the nails had mostly worked themselves loose, and it was basically falling apart. If I had sneezed while trying to remove it from its home of seven years, it would have been no more.