RIVER CITY JOURNAL: SMART MEN WHO NEED INFO DO WHATEVER WIVES SUGGEST

A new house is taking shape at home.

No, I'm not building a new house to live in.

Nor am I repeating my highly successful barn-building project in my back yard.

This house is for purple martins.

I am not, of course, the first person to build a martin house. You see them everywhere, high atop a slender pole. A martin house looks like an apartment building for birds, because purple martins like to live with friends and family.

During the summer, the martins swoop around catching insects. I'm all for that. I'd like the martins in my yard to focus on wasps and mosquitoes. As long as I am their landlord and the rent is free, I think I have a right to suggest how they spend at least some of their time.

When I opened the box containing the martin house on Christmas morning, I didn't have a clue.

First, I didn't expect to have a box to open. It has been a tradition in our empty-nest years not to exchange presents. For several years, my wife and I have given each other greeting cards we make ourselves, although this year I bought a card that I really liked. My wife has discovered a computer program that let's you design and print your own cards. She's become quite an expert, and her "handmade" cards look as good as any store-bought cards.

So I was flummoxed when she gave me a medium-sized Christmas package to open.

When the lid of the box was finally off, I saw what looked like a giant Tinkertoy project.

When I say "giant," I mean hundreds of pieces-parts.

"Do you know what it is?" my wife asked.

I had to admit I didn't, but I already had a sense of foreboding.

Look, I have the same lust for tools as any other man. I own a lot of them. Some of them have to be plugged in and everything. Some are capable of doing great bodily harm.

But I'm not very good at using them.

Not at all.

That's because I don't have a lot of patience. And precision requires patience. And most projects require precision.

So when I see hundreds of pieces-parts that have to be assembled just so, using instructions that come in three languages, I start to sweat.

I set the box aside. For a long time.

"You want me to take back the martin house?" my wife asked.

No, I said, I'll get to it. Sometime.

Then my wife asked the question she knew would get my butt in gear.

"Would you like me to ask the nice people at the store to put it together for you? I'd pay for it."

Yeah, right. Any man with blood flowing through his veins isn't going to admit he can't put together a birdhouse, even if it does have hundreds of parts. (Did I mention that most of them are itty-bitty parts, and some have really sharp metal edges?)

So, the other night I cleared off the top of the desk in the office at home and started studying the instructions. The ones in English. Sort of.

I've lived long enough to learn the most important lesson in a man's whole life:

Read the instructions.

And I've also come to appreciate the benefits of actually following the instructions.

Bit by bit, my martin house has started to take shape.

And, by gum, it looks pretty good.

My wife walked by and saw a bunch of round plastic discs on the desk.

"What are those?" she asked.

I explained that you have to block the entrances to the apartments in the martin house.

"Why?"

So other birds won't nest in them. Martins are snooty birds and will occupy the house if only martins live there.

"How do you know when to take out the discs?"

Well, purple martins send scouts to check out the accommodations a few weeks before the whole flock shows up.

"When do the scouts arrive?"

I don't know. Something I read said it could be as early as late January. But maybe that was for Alabama or Mississippi.

"So why don't you put something in your column and ask readers to let you know when the scouts are here and when you should open the martin house up for business."

Wives.

They're so logical.

And so right most of the time.

But please, if you see my wife, don't let on that I said that.

OK?