The boughs of a Chilean mesquite tree hang low in our backyard, weighed down with wind-chimes and things that twirl and spin in warm desert winds. From the uppermost branches, hang bird houses of weathered wood, treasures crafted from trash scavenged by artisan, David Bruce. In his hands, scrap lumber and sheet metal, random doorknobs, rusty garden fixtures, old silver forks and spoons are turned over and into art. 

For about a decade, Bruce constructed these brightly colored whimsical abodes that could withstand the Phoenix weather. His shop, “Weathered Wonders,” a welcome splash of Dr. Seuss-decor on an otherwise humdrum street in Phoenix, was displaced in 2009 when the ubiquitous Circle K moved in. Were it not for that utterly depressing fact, my mesquite tree would be home to even more of his “avian art.”  As Bruce says himself, “For some people, these birdhouses are like Lays potato chips. They can’t just have one.“

I am one of those people.

A Tree House ~ Shel Silverstein

 

A tree house, a free house

A secret you and me house,

A high up in the leafy branches

Cozy as can be house.

A street house, a neat house.

Be sure and wipe your feet house

Is not my kind of house at all – 

Let’s go live in a tree house. 

 

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