The first day of summer was as sublime as any summer day could be. The temperature and humidity were perfect and there was even the promise of a full moon. This could not have come at a more perfect time for me because, as any teacher will tell you, I was completely spent after a year of school. I had no reserves of energy, patience or inspiration upon which to draw.
The only thought in my mind was “summer.”
Thus, with a mind as barren as the surface of the moon, I sat down to write this column. The blank screen has taken the place of the blank page, but any writer will tell you the terror of sitting there and thinking … nothing.
I had a deadline, but I didn’t have a single thought that could be described as rational, legible or stretchable (I need at least 1,200 words and “Oh crap! I’ve got nothing!” leaves me 1,195 short).
I groped for an idea and came up with a column about my plans for the summer. This was something I could talk about for a while, and it would serve the dual purposes of getting a column done and getting myself organized.
With nothing else to go on, I decided to proceed. The only thing I wanted was a change of venue, so I went outside.
I brought my laptop out to my favorite spot on my deck. Rain was moving in from the west, but the radar suggested only a glancing blow from the southernmost fringe of the storm. With nothing to worry about, I sat down, opened my computer, started the “summer plans” column and felt a raindrop.
No problem. I have a big umbrella for keeping the sun off the table, but a little light rain would be just as easy to deal with.
Umbrella deployed, I resumed typing. I hadn’t even finished a paragraph before my “blank mind” problem was solved.
Perhaps it was dumb luck — or perhaps it was a gift from the photo gods — but as I sat and typed, a female rose-breasted grosbeak appeared. Her presence was like bolt of lighting in my mind and my summer plans idea simply evaporated.
For you to understand the significance of this bird’s appearance, I must first lay down a little history. Eleven years ago, I moved into a house in an area that had not been “bird friendly.” The previous owner hadn’t put out feeders, and it took me quite a while to attract the attention of any of the neighborhood birds. As luck would have it, one species that took notice was the rose-breasted grosbeak.
For the next few years, the grosbeaks were regular fixtures on my deck and I guess I took them for granted.
Then, there was a shift in my feeder community. At some point, the local blackbirds picked up on the existence of my feeders. In particular, it was the blackbirds that arrived in March that seemed to glom onto the idea of food, and then they started hanging around during the summer.
Eventually, hordes blackbirds were eating me out of house and home. In addition to bringing their ravenous offspring to the feeders, they also chased away most of the smaller birds, including the grosbeaks.
The arrival of pigeons served as the deathblow to the whole situation.
One day, I realized that most of the birds in regular attendance were grackles and pigeons. There was nothing to do but take drastic action. I kept the feeders full during the winter, but as soon as the blackbirds arrived, I started cutting back.
My initial move was to suspend all feeding for a week. When I put out food again, the blackbirds were on it in minutes.
I added loud noises to my lack of food and the blackbirds seemed to get the hint. It got so that the blackbirds would flee if I walked into the kitchen, but the woodpeckers, chickadees and other smaller birds were unfazed. Still, if I put out food and left the area, the blackbirds would arrive in very short order. So I suspended my feeding, yet again.
When the weather warmed up, I decided to implement “phase two” of my plan, which, I thought, was ingenious.
I would only put out food when I had the time to sit in my spot and monitor the situation. This, I hoped, would serve three purposes.
First, the blackbirds were kept at bay while the other birds had a chance at the food. Second, I had the opportunity to reacquaint the birds to my presence. Third, I could establish a Pavlovian association, with me and food in the minds of the birds.
I had heard a male singing for weeks, so I knew they were around. This is why the appearance of the female was so exciting. As she sat and ate I couldn’t help but notice how different she was from the other birds.
Where the jays, goldfinches and woodpeckers were “quick” birds, the grosbeak seemed to be slower and more subdued. Instead of snapping her head from one side to another, she turned it much like a person might. She was also completely unconcerned with my presence. I could move with impunity and she just looked at me and selected one morsel after another.
Then, the gods sent me one last gift — a stunning male arrived, and though he was a little more cautious than the female, he still came over to the female and selected a seed for himself. This put both of these gorgeous birds about 10 feet away and gave me a wonderful opportunity to listen to the little noises they made to one another.
The first to leave was the male. The female remained, but eventually moved over to another feeder that was about 20 feet to my right. There she took a perch and started eating again, but was ousted by a blue jay that wanted the feeder for itself.
It was then that I heard the “annoyed grosbeak” noise. Easy to identify, but impossible to describe, it was a noise that I had heard the previous day — another little part of the world explained and stored in memory for future use.
Moments after the female was chased off, the sprinkles turned into a full-blown shower. I dashed inside and went to my office to see if I could find any photos of grosbeaks. The arrival of the birds had been a complete surprise and my camera had been sitting in the kitchen, useless.
To my delight, I rediscovered a set of photos that I took in June 2011. First came a female, then there was a male at a feeder with a male red-winged blackbird, and finally there was a photo of a grackle at the same feeder.
If ever there was a sequence of photos to tell this story, I had apparently taken it five years ago without realizing their future significance.
Bill Danielson has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service, and the Massachusetts State Parks. He has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 19 years and he also works as a high school biology and physics teacher. Visit www.speakingofnature.com for more information, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.