I don’t know if, deep down, I’d always wanted to run a bed-and-breakfast. I do know that, after spotting several Eastern bluebirds through my window one cold early December day in 2006, I relished my role as winter proprietor of the Pink B&B, a styrofoam-covered bird house on the far edge of my restored half-acre prairie.
My over-wintering guests couldn’t have been more cooperative. They never complained about their standard-sized room, they were up and out early, making themselves scarce for the entire day, and they returned like clockwork in late afternoon when, in an orderly fashion, they’d gracefully re-enter the house and remain without a peep until morning. Their winter routine was set. Me? Well, actually, I didn’t even have to make them breakfast. All I did was enjoy their presence — and I did enjoy them very, very much.