Back when I was a
teenager, I had an elderly neighbor who was an avid bird watcher.
I remember being amused by her vivid descriptions of the avian
personalities that visited her many feeders. She even gave the
birds names, and made up little back-stories to explain their
behavior. With the pseudo-sophistication typical of an adolescent,
I giggled at her anthropomorphism. I had always loved to watch
birds, but endowing them with separate personalities seemed to
me to be both silly and sentimental.
Early-on, I learned
the generic names and habits of many of the native birds from
my mother, who was an endless source of information about the
plants and wildlife in our area. The birds that visited our home
and garden were of interest to me because of their variety, from
the hawks that soared effortlessly overhead as they rode the thermals,
to the energetic hummingbirds which visited our hollyhocks, hanging
in place with wildly beating wings. I loved the exultant song
of the meadowlarks that perched on the telephone wires, and I
snarled when I was wakened by the rat-a-tat of red-shafted flickers
sharpening their beaks on the gutters of our house. There was
a small sparrow that nested in the black acacia outside my window,
its song three notes descending on a minor scale. That plaintive
cry has haunted me for almost 40 years, although I have not heard
it since I left California.
There were sea birds,
of course: gulls, pelicans, curlews and sandpipers along the coast,
and kingfishers, herons, egrets and grebes in the marshes of San
Francisco Bay.
My brother kept a flock
of homing pigeons for a couple of years. Several times a day they
would fly up from their large pen, wheel out over the canyon below
our house in a great circle, and return to roost noisily, looking
distinctly self-satisfied.
When I moved East,
I found that I could no longer identify every bird I saw. Cardinal,
tufted titmouse, nuthatch, waxwing, all were new to me. I didn't
set up a feeder for many years, being absorbed with feeding my
own young and starting a new career. But eventually my job as
a teacher brought me into contact with many nature-loving people,
and my interest in birds rekindled.
Now that I am an old
lady, I find that I have almost become my childhood neighbor.
I, too, see distinct personalities among the birds that come to
the three feeders on our deck. I'm not quite into their individual
personalities, but I fancy that I can see specific characteristics
of the different families.
The blue jay, for instance,
is a handsome cad. Like many of the matinee idols of silent films,
his voice doesn't fit his gorgeous body: it's exceedingly harsh
and unpleasant. Unfortunately, it fits his personality, because
he's intentionally mean, a true bully. My big feeder has a balanced
perch that causes a door to shut over the feed if a squirrel or
large bird lands on it. The jay manages to fly in and hover over
it, but the door always snaps shut when his feet touch down. He
then sits on a nearby branch to sulk, and chases away any and
all comers — except the woodpecker and nuthatch, and, for
some unknown reason, the little chickadee. I can understand his
respect for the woodpecker and nuthatch because they have bills
like sabers, but the chickadee?
I will have to give
the jays this: the female is just as handsomely clad as the male,
and they are definitely equal-opportunity when it comes to being
raucous and aggressive.
Our deck projects at
second-story level out over a steep gully behind our house. The
area is heavily wooded. The arboreal canopy consists of towering,
ancient oaks, hickories, and tulip poplars. Beneath them grow
maples, sassafras, mulberry and dogwood trees. Dense brush and
vines cover the ground below.
A neighbor who recently
built nearby asked me how we manage to lure so many cardinals
to our feeders, and I had to struggle to find a polite way to
tell him that when he "cleaned up" under the trees and put in
lawn near his house, he destroyed their habitat. Our lot may be
shaggy and unkempt, but cardinals nest in low brush, and we have
plenty of both brush and birds.
Cardinals are stunning:
the female is a soft, golden brown and the male a blazing red.
Both have bright orange beaks and black face masks. They also
have a crest which usually stands up in a handsome point. In early
summer, however, they molt, and where there used to be a stiff
red crest there is now a bare, black head. The orange beak and
black skin make them look like some sort of small vulture, and
I find myself wondering if they feel embarrassed, the way we do
on a bad hair day.
Cardinals make good
parents. When the young fledge, the parents continue to look after
them for awhile. Often I see a young bird every bit as big as
the parent, standing on the deck railing and squalling to be fed.
It's often the male cardinal that takes on the task of grabbing
a seed, chewing a bit, and stuffing in into Junior's throat. That
alone is enough to make me love cardinals. They can be feisty,
but they aren't bullies; they're driven off as often as they drive
off other birds. And there's no finer sight than a four or five
male cardinals on a snowy day, lined up and waiting for their
turns to eat.
The goldfinches are
positively social, sort of the fraternity boys of the avian world.
The small feeder that hangs out over the abyss behind our deck
is often host to four or five at a time, all sharing happily.
Olive drab all winter, in spring the males suddenly turn a brilliant
yellow with handsome black markings. The female remains olive
drab. They come to the feeder in pairs, and the male will often
stand guard on a nearby railing while his mate eats. They are
persnickety eaters, too: if the seed has gotten wet and soggy
or is more than a few days old, they stay away in droves. But
put out some fresh seed, and they're back en masse, with their
cheery, multi-syllabic song.
We have only one kind
of hummingbird on the east coast, the ruby-throat. Like most birds,
it's the male that is colorful. He is so small and swift that
it would be hard to tell he's a he except that when he sips the
sugar water I put out, he throws back his head and there is an
incandescent flash of vibrant red. Hummers seem to know no fear.
Other birds fly away as soon as I open the back door, but the
hummers don't even look up. I suppose that if I were as quick
as they, I wouldn't be afraid of a lumbering, earth bound human,
either.
One of their most endearing
qualities is the small sound they make while they drink. I had
set up my camera on a tripod one day, and stood quite near the
feeder, hoping to take a portrait of the male. Sure enough, he
showed up at the usual time, and dipped his beak into the nectar.
There was a soft "nurk-nurk-nurk" as he gulped his fill. Sounded
just like a three-year-old chugging a glass of milk.
Hummers are of the
If-You-Can-Fly-You're-On-Your-Own school of parenting.
When the young are fledged, the parents become very territorial,
and chase them away from the feeder, sort of: "I brought you up.
Now go and find your own flower."
The tufted titmouse
is another interesting little fellow. He's a quiet gray, with
a bit of yellow on the side, and a handsome crest. He seems to
be the most persistent of the birds, and doesn't allow the bigger
birds to keep him away for very long. Neither does the purple
finch, which is really roseate, not purple. Like their cousins,
the goldfinches, purple finches come in bunches. I've never seen
just one at a time.
The nuthatch is a hustler.
He runs straight up or down (headfirst!) the trunks of the huge
trees, and is quick to seize the best perch as he waits —
or doesn't wait, and dive-bombs his way to the seed. Everyone
else scatters. He's a quick eater, in and out and off on his businesslike
way.
One of my favorite
denizens of the bird feeder isn't a bird at all, although he can
"fly" rather well. When we sit on the deck in the evening, as
soon as darkness falls the flying squirrels come out. Tiny, with
huge eyes and drooping tails, they sit in the nearest tree and
wait their turns quietly. They, too, aren't afraid of humans.
After all, would you be scared if you could jump away and soar
a good 20 feet to the nearest tree? They go quietly about their
feeding despite our conversation and frequent laughter. When startled,
they stretch out their legs and the patagium, a flap of skin connected
between each front back leg, functions like a glider's wing as
they float down off the deck, banking neatly to catch onto a nearby
tree trunk.
We spend a fair amount
of money each month for Niger thistle and black oil sunflower
seeds. The hummer's feeder is high-maintenance: the 4:1 water:sugar
syrup we put into it must be cleaned out and refilled every other
day, or it gets moldy in the humidity and heat of the South. But
any expense or effort we put forth seems small compared to the
pleasure it gives us to live in harmony with the avian world.
Now if I can just figure out what to do about the raccoons that
keep helping themselves from the feeder….
