Like the local crowd at Foodland, chickadees know each other and understand the etiquette of waiting their turn, especially on Fridays before long weekends.CHELSEA O'BYRNE/THE GLOBE AND MAIL
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I am losing the winter birds at my feeder. As the snow recedes they flock away to feast on decomposing pumpkins and corn cobs in farmers’ fields. The avian population that survived cruel winter storms does not need my food bank any more. I am filling the stations less and less, and soon I will take them down and store them with the shovels and snow shoes.
This winter, as I fed the birds, I also looked after my wee granddaughter, Annalee. Her parents have migrated from the far north, and they are adjusting to life in central Ontario with some transitory time at Grandmother’s house. Babies winter very well. Annalee observes a fire with the mindfulness it deserves. She snuggles deep inside her mother’s coat on walks across the lake, and naps several times a day while the grown-ups work on job applications and jigsaw puzzles. By January, she has learned the knack of sitting up, which widens her world considerably. We place her high chair in front of the window so she can watch the endless hustle and bustle at the bird-feeding stations.
The black-capped chickadees are reliable customers. They arrive early, emerging from the surrounding hemlocks to claim a spot at the feeder with the red-wire cage, the easiest perch for their little feet to grasp. Their conversations are pleasant and social. Like the local crowd at Foodland, they know each other and understand the etiquette of waiting their turn, especially on Fridays before long weekends. When the tourists arrive, they knowingly roll their eyes at each other and retreat to the cedar trees until the crowd leaves.
Grosbeaks and nuthatches and juncos come and go. They obviously have residences elsewhere. Cottages in Muskoka. Golf villas in Florida. They eat with the impatience of food critics, scattering sunflower seeds wastefully on the frozen ground. Then one of them gets a text about a feeder with a trendy new seed mix menu over on the next concession and away they go.
The blue jays are Annalee’s favourites; big, brash and bossy with self-proclaimed fast passes to skip the lineups. They treat the feeder like a World Series spread of nachos and pizza and wings. Grab a bite. Watch a bit of the game. Squawk about the good old days. Get in disagreements with other fans and peck them between the eyes. Grab another bite.
Chickadee-dee-dee, the locals comment, shaking their wee heads at the big blue boors. It is only a matter of time until these loudmouths criticize the customer service and leave without tipping.
Once there are parking spaces at the feeder again, the chickadees return. They rarely fight, but they do know how to self-advocate. When the sunflower seeds get scarce, there is some fluttering of wings and grandstanding. One smart little guy comes and taps on the window. Time for a refill!
Atop the blue spruce, a raven sits and makes dire pronouncements like an aging parliamentarian. He never comes down for seeds. He gets his fill from roadkill and the steaming piles of rubbish at the dump. Still, he likes to oversee procedures at the feeder. He likes to remind the chickadees that he could eat them for breakfast if he so pleased. He will steal the eggs right out of their nests in June. Annalee is not afraid of him. She waves and claps. I think it makes him mad.
Enter the squirrels. With the thickest, most luxurious fur, the black one is the boss. He is always hatching a plan, trying to get to the feeder the easy way. Up the trunk of the tree, along the branch, slide down the rope and … oops. Slips off. Tries again.
The red squirrels come in pairs, yelling and belligerent and keeping their distance from their bigger cousin who has some kind of a grudge against them. They perform ridiculous stunts to get their fair share, leaping, knocking the feeder sideways, latching on to the little landing pad with their tails and gobbling great mouthfuls like drunks sucking on beer bottles.
Guilt, negativity, fear: This is the weight I need to lose
I struggle to support my wife and her eating disorder
Want to hear from your Facebook friends? Then change your relationship status
The grey squirrel times his visits with the exit of the jays. He sits under the feeder, quietly cleaning up the leftovers. This doesn’t take much energy. He is fat and happy, like Buddha, at peace with the world. When 12 giant turkeys stop by, checking for bread crumbs, he doesn’t give up his seat. They gobble gobble at him, trying to determine what kind of threat he might be. Grey ignores their taunts. He has heard this rant before.
Annalee is teething. Aching gums waken her in the middle of the night. She demands a walk through the dark house. We are surprised to see late visitors at our bird theatre. The red fox creeps out of the shadows, sniffing around under the feeder. Mice and voles are tunnelling below, chewing on seeds that have been carelessly missed by the daylight creatures. Fox hops up and dives, nose-first, into the snow and surfaces with a wriggling thing in his mouth. Sneak attack successful, he follows the secret path along the bush line, back to his den.
High up in the maple, the barred owl pays attention and waits. Who cooks for you? He wonders before silently swooping down to find the shrew that the fox forgot.
Annalee falls asleep, her head heavy on my shoulder. She will be leaving soon, migrating west where her parents can find jobs.
Before I turn in for the night, I pull on my boots and refill the food bank for tomorrow’s early birds, anticipating a new round of strategic tactics in the ongoing negotiations for limited resources.
Janet Trull lives in Haliburton, Ont.