Happy Parent's Day

by

Pepper L. Bauer

The handsome little bird pecked at the bricks around our bird feeder, ignoring the admiring spectators, intent on his supping at our AAA rated bird restaurant. With it's pink bill, clear gray chest, and strikingly bold white and black stripped puffy crown, our attractive visitor stuck out from the regulars at the diner like a punk rocker at a DAR meeting. With dogged precision, our little spike-haired guest ferreted out his favorite seeds for consumption, his head bobbing up and down like a plastic dog in the back window of a car.

We knew the hungry tourist was just using our yard for a pit stop on his long journey north, resting and filling up for the arduous trip ahead. For a couple weeks every spring, we have the privilege of entertaining this species as they pass through our area on the way to their breeding grounds in the Far North. Most of them winter in the Deep South around the gulf, but some of these seasoned travelers fly as far as from Cuba to the tundra, so we're glad to provide respite.

I often harbor a fantasy that one year some of these special birds will stay in the area for the summer; but intellectually I realize that it will never happen. Centuries of instinct will lead them to what's best for their families and them, their hardy, low-to-the-ground nests in the rugged atmosphere of scrubby northern habitat.

Don and I know that the proper name for this species is White-Crowned Sparrow, but since they always arrive in time to amuse our moms during dinner on their special day, we've called them "Mother's Day Birds" for years.

Although we nicknamed these sparrows with this unique moniker, all birds deserve recognition on Mother's Day, and Father's Day too for that matter. They are wonderful parents.

I never fail to be impressed by the remarkable care parent birds bestow upon their diminutive charges. I’ve seen them exhibit gentleness, bravery, tenacity, and fierce protectiveness in the short time period it takes to raise their offspring from egg to young adult. At the risk of receiving an accusation of endowing birds with human emotion, I have to admit that on occasion I’ve seemingly observed them mirroring human parenting behaviors.

Outside our kitchen window, we have two tube feeders dangling off a t-pole. House finches are regulars at these feeding stations, and once their broods are fledged, they bring the gangly adolescents with them to do lunch. The juveniles line up on the crossbar, errant feathers sticking up from their head like miniature horns, giving them the distinct appearance of being silly little devils. Daddy hops down to the feeder, grabs a seed, flies back up to the bar to feed his family. The youngsters immediately mob him, frantically vibrating their wings, and cheeping for attention. They always remind me of some children in grocery stores. "I want, Gimmee, Please, Please, Please!"

The beleaguered male House Finch does what he can to make them happy, but he can only hold so much seed in his beak; someone invariably gets short changed, and sibling rivalry sets in. One child smacks another on the head, a melee ensues, and Daddy, uncannily mimicking human behavior, takes off for another part of the yard in apparent frustration. If he had hands, he would probably press them firmly against his ears; assuming, of course, he could do that and fly too.

The loud and lively throng follows the adult finch to the nearby tree where he appears to ignore their frantic pleas. After they quiet down a bit, he brings them back to continue the interrupted meal; sort of like a time out.

It is our good fortune this spring to have a robin’s nest high up in a maple tree right outside our second story bedroom window. While Mrs. Robin patiently sat on her nest, several strong storms threatened her helpless charges. Our front yard has no protection from the wind and the maple tree whipped frantically back and forth as if trying to dislodge its tenant. Nevertheless, the female robin hunkered stoically down, enduring wind, hail and torrential rain, wings protectively spread over her family and their fragile home.

Two baby robins finally hatched, and during the early spring chill, Mrs. Robin protectively hovered over them, warming their nearly naked bodies with her feathery mass. When the young birds were almost large enough to leave the nest, she still climbed precariously on top of her wiggley children to heat them on unusually cold mornings.

As the adolescents outgrew their nest, they became increasingly restless and ventured further away from it, sometimes stumbling out to the end of a thin branch and hanging on for dear life as it bent under their weight. It reminded me of teen-agers testing their boundaries.

The parent robins seemed uncomfortable with these explorations and with a clever act of child psychology lured the wandering youth back to the safety of the nest, solidly located in the center fork of the tree. The adults brought food, but instead of taking it out to the begging child at the end of the branch, they landed on the nest and softly cheeped. The baby would frantically flap it's wings and squawk, but the parent ignored the demands and sat resolutely on the nest, dangling the tempting morsel until the child gave in and came back to the relative safety of the middle of the tree. The parents performed this correction repeatedly whenever the fledglings ventured out further than they thought safe, a perfect example of positive reinforcement.

Unfortunately, we witnessed a sadder example of tenacity and protectiveness in parent birds this spring. A pair of Common Grackles built a nest at the top of one of our tall pines, and as far as we could tell, hatched only one baby. As it grew, it climbed to the top of the tree and announced its existence with loud raspy squawks.

One day last week I saw a young grackle on the ground having a difficult time walking. It would start to move forward, then fall headfirst into the dirt, almost doing a somersault. The parents hovered nearby calling out, never more than a few feet away.

I grabbed a pair of garden gloves and picked up the baby, gently inspecting its limbs. The legs were strong and undamaged; the wings were in good shape, so the problem wasn't obvious to an amateur like me. Meanwhile, the parents hovered above, screaming threats and dive-bombing the top of my head.

Hoping that the chick was just stunned from falling out of the tree, I placed him back in his home pine and crossed my fingers. The parents immediately flew to his side, and I left them alone.

The next day, while walking the dogs, they flushed a young bird out of our wildflowers. It was the unfortunate grackle, and it still couldn't walk. The parents continued at its side, screeching encouragement, but it didn't look promising. I put the dogs in the house and went back out to look for the grackles, but all was quiet. They had disappeared.

Later that day, while again walking the dogs, I came upon the young bird lying on his back in the grass, his parents still calling out to him in the tree above. I hurried back to the house to get my gloves and lock up the dogs. When I got back to the bird, I saw a parent grackle on the ground pushing at the youngster with its beak, as if trying to turn it over. As I approached, it flew into a tree not more than three feet above my head and squawked with a pitiful mewing sound that just about broke my heart.

I reached down to pick up the fallen bird, but I could see that it was almost over. Just a few seconds later he died in my hand.

The parents were still above me calling out, so I didn't want to dispose of the baby without letting them see he was gone. I had visions of them searching for their child, wondering where I had taken him. So, I gently laid it in the grass and walked away. After getting back to the house I turned and looked. Both parents were on the ground by the body; it was heart wrenching.

These are just a few examples of the observations I've made of the accomplished parenting skills of the feathered inhabitants of this planet. There are many other stories I could relate. There are the Killdeers, putting on their broken wing act when Don mowed near their chicks having a drink at our watering hole, trying to draw his attention away from them. I could also write for pages about the antics of the chipping sparrows who always nest in our yews, and follow me up and down the sidewalk chipping angrily when I get close to their nest, their tiny body a mass of parental indignation.

I know some birds aren't shining examples of parenthood, such as the male hummingbird who fathers the children, but doesn't stay around to raise them. Mrs. Hummingbird makes up for his indifference by building the nest, laying the eggs, and feeding and protecting the kids all by herself. She is truly a supermom, and a candidate for mother of the year.

And of course, there is the infamous Brown-Headed Cowbird, who lays her eggs in other bird's nests and lets them raise her children. Recently I read an explanation of her behavior that made perfect sense, and took her out the running for "delinquent" parent of the year. It seems that many years ago, cowbirds followed the buffalo herds, salvaging the seeds from the dung. It was their main source of food. The herds moved constantly and the cowbird didn't have time to sit on a nest and wait for the babies to get old enough to follow the buffalo; they would all starve. As a matter of survival, they left their eggs for others to raise. Now, I don't think of their actions as being so irresponsible.

So, during this time of the year when we honor human moms and dads, lets all give a tip of the hat to avian parents. Good luck, and may their breeding season be successful.