Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (public domain photo)
For Andrew, with much loveMay beautiful birds sustain you when life is hard. My six-year-old was a bird lover, a passion he acquired on his own. Maybe I jump-started the process with the purchase of seed for our long-empty feeder. Little did I know that Andy would go from watching birds at the window to developing an insatiable appetite for memorizing types of birds, habitats, and behaviors from books and tapes. Even quick trips to the grocery store then became an adventure; we might see birds along the way. This phase was one of the happiest in my life as a mom.
Andy was an early reader (though he began to speak later than most); birding by the book was a hobby he could pursue independently. As a three-year-old, he had mastered names of dinosaurs. The following year, he was consumed with mammals, often wanting parts of zoology texts read at bedtime. When birds became his focus, we started with references we could borrow -- such as his aunt's twenty-year-old, disintegrating field guide. His aunt had often shared horrors of a birdwatching class she took as a biology major at Ohio State University. Hip-deep in mud, arriving to sites at 4:30 a.m., unable to see elusive birds through binoculars, she considered the course an early-waking nightmare. "But Andy would have loved it," she said, as she discovered his affinity for birds.
It was quite a while before we finally returned that classic field guide to her. Andy had since discovered that there were others on the market too -- all informative and beautifully arranged. Yes, birdwatchers are a subculture; we may be perceived as a bit weird. Birding inspired by book is perhaps an even smaller subgroup. I lost count of how many bird books we own now. I admit to a mildly compulsive nature -- as compulsive as I can be on a budget.
Andy learned to do convincing bird calls. I will never forget the day that he broke into an exuberant "bald eagle call" in the middle of Cleveland Museum of Natural History. (Those exhibit floors echo.) The museum's continuously running video of the hatch of baby eaglets had inspired him. "Not everyone will know you are a bird lover, Andy. Some will just think you don't know how to behave."
Andy threw one of his most memorable tantrums one day after he fell in love with birds. We were leaving Wild Birds Unlimited. (I will take this essay to them, perhaps to post on a bulletin board.) There was a book Andy wanted that just wasn't in my plans for the day. "That book will never be there again," he cried when I refused to buy it. I explained the process of publishing and how, rarely, we are buying the very last one. But I knew -- and still know -- how hard it is to be rational when you love something so much. One of the stories of my own childhood was about my crying jag when a neighborhood girl left with a book she brought over to share for an hour, but I thought was a gift. I was less than two year old. I guess this is what Whitman calls the "fluid and attaching nature . . ."
One day, I asked Andy: "Why is it that you are so interested in birds?"
His response: "Because they are beautiful."
My own knack for memorizing bird names froze in early childhood. I knew just the basics: robin, cardinal, sparrow. "No, no, Mommy -- 'American robin', 'Northern cardinal', 'chipping sparrow'." Andy was outraged, as if I had referred to visiting dignitaries by nickname. In this phase of his childhood, one could simply say "nuthatch" and be treated to a detailed discourse on various types of nuthatch and where they live -- despite the fact that Andy was still having trouble pronouncing "ch" and "sh."
I could and can take no credit for Andy's mastery of this field. More than a few people assumed that a zealous parent had grilled him. No. But I did foster an awareness of the environment in his very early years, which just seemed like the thing to do. Even when he was tiny, we took short walks and car rides. I would read street signs and house numbers aloud, point out colorful objects, spell out license plates. Was I trying to create super-baby? Of course not. I was killing time, communicating . . . and my son seemed passionate about the world around him and receptive to my spirited commentary on the mundane.
For a child with asthma and severe allergies, the early spring and fall can be times of discomfort and suffering. But they are also times of bird migration. There is action at bird feeders. One year we were amazed to see a pair of cowbirds making an appearance. A few weeks later we found a nest built in an unused heating exhuast vent on our garage -- complete with sparrow eggs and a large cowbird egg. In my four decades, I had never heard of, let alone seen, a cowbird. My son told me about its habit of laying eggs in others' nests and probable history of following herds of buffalo.
During one of his hospitalizations (for asthma), I knew that my son had turned the corner when he chose to do a bird count from the seventh floor of Rainbow Babies' and Children's. As I recall, 70 birds in about two days. And during peak birdwatching times Andy had little interest in TV. A picture he drew in kindergarten showed him watching "Arthur" in a small segment to the left of the page. But, to the right and in vivid colors, was his portrayal of the birdwatching window -- complete with lilac bush in full bloom, bird feeder on a pole, and several meticulously drawn birds perching birds.
One morning at home I was awakened by: "The fledgling cardinal is almost an adult! He is as large as an adult! His color is adult!" That same year, several mother-child sparrow pairs would use our feeder to begin separation training. The babies were fed by their mothers, who would intermittently fly away, then return.
"I know what they are doing," Andy said. "The mothers are trying to teach them that they have to learn to feed themselves."
One day at North Chagrin Reservation, Andy announced that he could see a white-crowned sparrow. A volunteer countered that it was a white-throated sparrow. Andy restated his view. She restated her view. Seeing where this was going, I looked up from my book and rerouted the discussion to say how much Andy loves birds and what a pretty site this was. Diplomacy attempt . . . I thought the volunteer might be offended.
Months later, I got an excited phone call from my mom and sister. They had visited the same nature center and heard the following from a volunteer. "A few months ago, a boy of about six who knows all his birds was in here and identified them while his mother was reading a book."
I'm dismayed that schools have so little true nature curriculum. Andy's interest in the past six years has waned. Mine has not, but I don't have the mind that can absorb what he can. For anyone, it can get discouraging to speak a language that few respond to.
Some of my best moments of rest have been at the picture window that was my son's first vantage point on the world of birds. I have seen insects spin, clouds float, birds fly, leaves sway. A randomness and an order prevail in the yard, particularly when everyone else in the neighborhood is at work or school. Yes, it is lonely. But it is also where another community -- colorful, dynamic, underestimated in intelligence, and eager to eat -- congregates. I have sometimes felt my most important task of the day is to put birdseed out.
Andy's pleasure upon seeing birds has been contagious. Whether I am with him or not, I am on the lookout for birds I would have missed in the past. Robins downtown in January during a mild winter, mourning doves in a puddle on a flat roof after rain, a flock of birds singing in a spring snowstorm at John Carroll University, seagulls nibbling unidentified scraps in the Target parking lot. I do sometimes talk to them, always appreciate them.
At one library, a berry-gobbling flock of about forty cedar waxwings finished off a bush in the time it took me to go in and return a book. I may never be able to stop making mistakes like saying "rufous-sided towhee" instead of "rufous-headed towhee" -- but my son did his best to teach me. I will still look for bird nests inside curled letters of restaurant signs.
One day I brought home a deluxe birdseed that promised to attract "the most beautiful songbirds" to the yard. The next morning I was disappointed to find that the first visitors to the feeder were three large crows.
"Andy, what do you think of that?" I asked.
"But Mommy, crows
are songbirds."
Music, in unexpected places.
