Gemotions

"Alright, that's it!" My father, George, slammed his woodworking tools down on the workbench. His usual booming laughter was gone. The intricate wooden birdhouses he crafted, his longtime passion, lay scattered across the floor, half-finished. He'd been building them for years, each one a testament to his painstaking skill. This time, he was making a series of birdhouses for the local animal shelter.

His grandson, eight-year-old Sam, usually sat mesmerized, helping wherever he could, by now understanding the different types of wood. Today, however, Sam just stood there, his lower lip trembling. The shelter had called. They had no room for them.

“Hey…” George started, and then stopped. He knelt beside his grandson. "It's all right, buddy. We can fix this." The boy was so devastated. He understood.

George took a deep breath. "How about we build a really, really special birdhouse, just for the birds that don't have a place to live, eh?" The plan began to form in his mind. He would call around. He knew someone.