Mom's Diner - For the Birds

I grew up watching birds. My mother loved to feed the birds, and we spent many happy hours watching our feathered guests as they partook of our offerings. Mom spent a fortune filling those hungry bellies, and she had a stack of field guides at the ready to identify our visitors.

She attracted a huge variety of birds. Tufted titmice, with their creamy white bellies, the dashing swoosh of peach beneath their wings, and the perky crest on their heads, bobbing up and down to reflect their mood. Slate colored juncos, which we always called “snow birds,” for their habit of showing up as an advance warning system when a big storm was on the way. (“Lots of snow birds today. Get ready for a blizzard!”) Brown sparrowy things, which all looked alike to me, but Mom could ID every one. (“No, honey, that one’s a female purple finch. See how different it looks from that one, the female house sparrow?”) There were nuthatches of two different varieties, white-breasted and red-breasted. (Mom was particularly fond of the dainty red-breasted ones.) I privately thought of nuthatches as “Dracula birds” because their “widow’s peak” style head-feathers reminded me of Bela Lugosi.

Cardinals were always a highlight: the males in their spectacular brilliant scarlet, the “lady cardinals” in their demure shades of beige and cream. Blue jays, their blue just as beautiful to my eyes, somehow became villains at the feeders. (“Oh! Those blue jays! They take all the seed! They’re such greedy bullies!”) I liked their bold sassiness. Mourning doves would come, usually in pairs, looking silly with their big bodies and their tiny heads.

Often flocks of goldfinches would grace her feeders. Bold yellow “flying dandelions” in the summer months, in the winter they took on a more modest, subtle plumage that was identifiable by the bold stripes of black and white, and the fainter wash of yellow. These darlings were partial to thistle-seed, so Mom provided them with their own special feeder.

Sometimes wrens would stop by; usually the House wren, but every once in a while, a Carolina wren would join its more common cousins. A bold and saucy bird, the wren made it clear that he was the star, and we were the lucky ones that he graced with his presence. Bright eye taking in the world, tail jauntily bobbing up and down, he was an adorable, engaging visitor.

Mom loved the woodpeckers. She could spot them across the street, and would call us to see them. She could tell, even at a distance, if her prospective guest was a Downy or a Hairy woodpecker. These two woodpeckers are so similar-looking that they are only distinguished by their size: the Downy is smaller. Unless they happened to be side-by-side on the suet, I couldn’t tell which was which. Mom could. Once in a while, the rare, exciting Pileated woodpecker would make an appearance; the “Woody Woodpecker” of the family, its large size and fabulous red crest made it a newsworthy visitor.

My favorites were always the chickadees. These bold, rascally, friendly, adorable birds enchanted me from the first time I saw one. Their widely varied cries, variations of “chicka-” with a range of “dee-dee-dee’s,” carried all sorts of news to their feathered compatriots. These brave darlings were the first birds I was ever able to entice to eat from my hand. What a magical experience, that dandelion-fluff-light landing in my outstretched palm, the beady eyes evaluating the treasure I offered - always the best, walnuts, peanuts, pecans - and weighing the danger I might bring with the gift. After a moment’s shopping, the chickadee would make its choice, snag its treat with a lightning-fast strike, and fly off, leaving me feeling both blessed that I was deemed acceptable, and desolate that my friend didn’t stick around.

Of course, other critters would also take advantage of the bounty of Mom’s bird feeders. Squirrels, many and varied, made the feast their own. Their reception from my mother varied. Grey squirrels, bold and bushy-tailed, were tolerated as inevitable, creatures that “also have to eat.” Among the grey squirrels, though, there were a few very special pure-black squirrels. Their origin a mystery, they were beautiful and exotic. They were treated as very special guests, and honored with preferred treats like peanuts and peanut butter-smeared apple slices. Then there were the red squirrels. These tiny beasts were aggressive and territorial, and ready to fight for what they thought was their due. They outsmarted the smartest squirrel-proof feeders, and chased away all the other visitors. And - their most heinous offence - they bullied the treasured black squirrels. Mom was not a fan. We would chase the red interlopers away, over and over, and rescue the black squirrels - and even the gray squirrels - from their intimidating presence, but we all knew it was a losing battle. They’re tough, those red squirrels, and tenacious.

Occasionally, small flocks of turkeys would turn up to feast on the fallen seed beneath the feeders. Big, awkward birds, it seemed impossible that they could ever get airborne, and indeed they mostly stayed on the ground. Once in a great while, some threat would drive them into the air, and they would make their ponderous, gawky way across the road, to land awkwardly in the branches of the big spruces that grew in our neighbor’s yard.

Sometimes the deer would come. Tall enough to reach the feeders, they would knock them about to reach the seed, then feast on what fell to the ground. While Mom liked the deer well enough, Dad loved them. He would go out with apples and buckets of cracked corn to entice them. One particular favorite doe, whom Dad dubbed “Joanie Apple-Please,” eventually became tame enough to eat out of Mom’s hand.

Mom fed the birds all year long. In the early Spring, the courting couples would come to her feeders. The male cardinal, more gorgeous than ever in his breeding plumage, would take his “lady” out to eat at Mom’s Diner. She would flutter her feathers at him, and he would choose choice morsels to feed to her. Purple finches, suddenly living up to their name, boasting brilliant red and purple shades, would dine together. Pairs of titmice would follow suit, though without the advantage of a plumage change.

Later, nesting pairs would take advantage of the smorgasbord, buffing up for the trying times ahead when both parents would be desperately seeking enough food to fill the gaping maws of their always-hungry babies. The frazzled parents seemed grateful for the plentiful easy pickings they could always find at Mom’s feeders. Eventually, when the babies fledged, the parents would bring the kids and teach them how to take advantage of Mom’s generosity. The babies would engage in the “feed me flutter,” mouths wide open, wings beating pitifully, as the parents stuffed them with the food that was right there beneath their feet. Eventually, mama and papa would transition them into realizing that they really could feed themselves, and the “feed me flutter” no longer worked. Reluctantly - and cluelessly - the kids would halfheartedly peck at the seed until they figured it out.

Winters were long and grey where I grew up, and the birds at the feeders provided a welcome diversion. There was always something to see: a never-seen-before exotic visitor, pushed down from the frozen North by a colder-than-usual winter; a “lost” Southerner who really didn’t belong this far North, perhaps blown in by a storm. And, of course, the “old reliables” who we could always count on: Cardinals and blue jays, juncos and tufted titmice, sparrows and finches, shy woodpeckers and bold wrens. And my favorites, the chickadees.