Birder

Grandma knew her birds.  You would not find her out in the field much, preferred to watch from the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand.  “Get the bird book,” she would say if something new perched or flew off.

The Cape Cod on two-acres was the top pick for grandma and grandpa after they lost their house to a fire. My mother was opposed, pointing out the lack of closets, “You can’t live in a yard!” But they saw the fenced pasture on one side, hard woods sloping down to a pond, fruit trees and room for a garden.  A place where the dogs could run.

The yard became their Eden.  Grandma grew robust vegetables in beds on either side of the kitchen door.  Kohlrabi, onions, eggplant. Her peonies—fuchsia, pink and white grew so abundantly, their heads lay on the grass, too heavy for their stems.

Grandma could be seen in pedal pushers and blouses yanking handfuls of weeds, unearthing onions and carrots from the rich soil, her nails outlined in black. She swiped at the hair that escaped the black bobby pins as she knelt over her work. Grandma picked and milled plums, their amber juice dripped through a cheesecloth for jelly.  The apple trees produced pails of apples that she peeled, cored and sliced, her arthritic hands turning out freezer bags of perfect pale green wedges for pies, crisps and sauce. 

Grandma and Grandpa fed the birds, which we did not do at home.  Ours was an orderly yard, that my father mowed with precision. Shrubs from a nursery ringed our rambler, and containers held petunias and geraniums.  Their grass was dotted with violets and clover, more meadow than lawn. Hollowed out milk jugs and suet cages hung from the clothes pole; a pie plate held seeds for the chickadees and an orange slice tacked to a scrap of wood a target for Baltimore orioles. Grandpa built a wood duck house and leaned it against an old oak. Before he had a chance to hang it, a family had already moved in.  Mallards and geese nested along the tall grasses of the pond.

Grandma and grandpa introduced me to the natural world that I thought was uniquely theirs. 

Being outside with Grandma, was a lesson in listening and watching.  “Be still!” ‘Conk-la-re!’ a red-winged blackbird! See its wing? That flash of yellow? Mr. Goldfinch.

When I was about seven, Rachel Carson’s book Silent Spring was published, making a case against using chemicals to control pests and weeds, ushering in the beginning of the environmental movement. Grandma, not an academic, read and reread the book, and became an evangelist against the use of DDT.  She believed with her small but mighty self, that poisons were killing songbirds.  She certainly convinced us grandkids that chemicals were not good for the earth or any living thing.   

The label “environmentalist” gave weight and importance to this way of life.

Grandma had always had a soft footprint in the world.  She and Grandpa saved twine, metal, newspapers, glass jars, repurposing and “making-do” as many of their generation did.  Always careful about how waste was managed, taking care to flatten all tin cans with her small feet. Paper was separated, wet garbage carefully sorted. Scraps given to the dogs.     

Grandma, in her thrifty ways saved “trading stamps.” Popular in the 1960s, merchants would reward customers for their business, doling out stamps instead of points. Grandma meticulously filled “books” with the ‘lick and stick’ stamps to redeem for all sorts of things in the Gold Bond catalogue. And there were box tops and proof of purchase seals, the coupons she collected to send away for things she may not need or want but saved for “good.” I am pretty sure this is how she got hold of the embroidery kit and patterns for all the state birds, that once stitched with colored floss and assembled it would be a quilt for a double bed. Grandma’s crafts produced more practical things—hooked and braided rugs, crocheted afghans and potholders. Cross stitching and embroidery on dishtowels, aprons and pillowcases were not her thing, but I held high hopes for the completion of the bird quilt. I dreamed of sleeping under a beautiful cover of birds. 

I hadn’t claimed to be a “Birder” until recently.

If you looked at the worn copy of Birds of North America and the binoculars on the porch, I have been at it for a while now. Have you noticed how many hawks and falcons hang out on the freeway lights, ready to dive into the ditch for a vole? I may interrupt our conversation to point out the red-winged blackbird perched on the sumac, just above your head. I taught my own children to listen for the cardinal’s “cheer-cheer-cheer-purty-purty-purty.” And now the grandkids can spot all the backyard birds at our feeder.

After years of having our family cabin near the Apostle Islands, I finally checked out the Chequamegon Birding Festival, held each year in late May.  Strategically timed before the trees are leafed out, birders have a good chance to see wide-ranging species of migrating birds. 

I signed up for a few field trips.    

On my first outing, I was prepared with woodland-colored clothes, binoculars, snacks and a water bottle ready to sit in a blind waiting for the birds to come. But I found out it is quite active.  We stood, walked, looked over marsh and meadow, shoreline and forest. Our guide, Ryan immediately called out the species he heard, binoculars up for any movement. Cape May! Between the V in the dead aspen! Vireo at 9:00!

I was slow on the draw, bringing my binoculars to my eyes, just missing the branch, the clue, the flash.  One woman kept the species count on a small pad, using bird shorthand–TrS for trumpeter swan, AR for American Redstart.

I came away with my ears tuned to birdsong, picking out individual voices whereas before it had been a chorus.  I have the Merlin App on my phone, which is a good way to record and identify birds to add to a “life list.” Grandma wouldn’t have enjoyed the trip, tromping around to hunt birds with a group of strangers. She wouldn’t have trusted the handheld device to hold calls and images of the birds that were here, right now.

I won’t be compiling a long list of documented birds, like Grandma, I am more content to simply notice their presence and learn their names.  She passed on her love of birds as a source of wonder.  What would it be like to fly? Wear colorful feathers? Sing a unique melody?  She talked about all that a bird knows: how to make a nest, find food, raise babies, and find their way home again.

I see how Grandma modeled care for the natural world by tending to her patch and the living creatures who shared it.  Whether it was intention or circumstance, she lived a simple life.  Grandma didn’t drive a car, never took a commercial flight, wore used clothing, recycled and repurposed everything. Not an ice cream pail, berry basket or grocery bag were wasted.

I care for two of my grandchildren weekly. This Spring my grandson and I were sitting on the front steps, watching the world go by.  A huge maple overhangs the boulevard in front of their house.in Minneapolis. “Look at the nuthatch on the trunk of that tree,” I said. He responded as a teacher might scold a student for daydreaming.  “Didi are you birdwatching… again?“