My son-in-law bought me a bird feeder/camera for my birthday in January. It’s actually pretty snazzy.
After I charged it and set it up, my adventures began. There have been numerous visits by familiar birds, cardinals, the tufted titmouse, chickadees, doves, the woodpecker, and my alltime favorite, the grackle.
But birds are showing up that I have never known to grace my feeders. The eastern phoebe, common starling, the bobolink, grey catbird, cliff swallow, Stellar’s jay, the bushtit, housefinch, and verdin have all come for seed, millet, and grubworms.
The camera takes a ten-second shot, sends an alert to my phone, and awaits the next bird. We joked when I set the camera up that I’d be the first person fired from Russell Co. Schools for birdwatching.
I have refrained from checking on who shows up at the feeder while I am at work, but that is the first app I open when the workday is done. Priorities!
The cardinal is always the first to show up in the morning. Sometimes alone, but often in pairs, they crack the sunflower seeds, feed each other, and captivate my heart every time.
Next come the fat-bottomed girls, the doves. They are the seed scatterers, and I found myself talking to them the other morning, asking why they have to make such a mess with their poor table manners.
Then the iridescent grackles arrive, and I swear I could watch them all day. The grackles appear black at first, but let the newborn sun hit their feathers and that golden eye, and it’s a psychedelic, oil slick of purple, green, gold, and blue. The golden eye! Handsome, I tell you, handsome!
I am uncertain when I became a bird watcher. Gary jokes with me and calls me “Miss Jane,” from The Beverly Hillbillies, but so far, I haven’t seen any California condors. I do, however, wear knee socks and have short hair.
There was a time in my life when I paid no attention to what was flying around me unless it was a mosquito. I think it must have been the long hours of dishwashing at the kitchen sink. Then my husband moved the sink to a new island, created a back door where the window was, allowing access to the back porch, and here I am watching birds all day.
As I sat in the sun to warm my bones the other day, I downloaded another program called Merlin that identifies birds by their calls. I fear I have created a monster. The birds sing, and the program tells you what you are hearing. So far, the wren is the loudest, and when I say loud, I mean LOUD! The tufted titmouse sounds like he’s stuck on a note, the chipping sparrow sounds like a cricket, the pewee cracks me up with its “Hey girl” whistle, and the blue-gray gnatcatcher sounds like old bed springs squeaking. Now, not only will I know what the birds look like, but I am also learning their songs. I’ll be lethal by the time I leave this world.
There is much to be said for slowing down, observing nature, and co-existing with the creatures that choose to reside in the same place we hang our hat. This world is full of beauty, and we are surrounded by sounds that we take for granted.
When things become stressful and harried, there must be a place we can go to in order to reorient ourselves. For if I am honest, the day-to-day living requirements wear me out. I can only take so much news. I can only answer so many demands. I recognize my own weariness, and nature offers me the remedy.
Some days, I simply need a bird. I need to hear its song. I need to focus less on the stressors of life and just sink into an “all is right in the world” moment.
Some days, birdsong saves me.
Some days, birdsong inspires me.
Some days, birdsong heals me.
Some days, I just need a little bird to let me know everything is going to be all right.
Unless, of course, it’s that hollering wren. Then I have to have a conversation about why she’s up so early and squawking at me like I stole one of her babies from the nest she built under the porch roof. Tone it down, girl. Everything is OK.
P.S. I just bought a cuckoo clock.
Debbie Gibson is a guest columnist for The Lebanon News.
