Reflections - The Little Drummer Bird: An Unwanted Carol

Downy Woodpecker

The downy woodpecker isn’t as cute in July as in winter.

In winter, the bird hangs upside down on the suet feeder. Occasionally, it takes turns with chickadees, titmice, and cardinals at the sunflower feeder attached to the sliding glass door. I marvel at the woodpeckers’ feathered patterns—black and white stripes on their heads, white checks and stripes on their black wings. Males even sport a tiny red cap resembling a yarmulke. These cuties add pizzazz to the wintry scene.

In July, however, I would rather they flew to Venezuela instead of onto our log house. Digging their claws into the pine logs, the drilling devils tilt backward, brace themselves with their tails, and drum. This year we have two repeat offenders—one that concentrates on the bedroom wall by the road and one that drums on the logs above the porch facing the woods.

Though the woodpeckers only want to communicate, dig for a snack, or create a nesting place, I don’t want our log house pocked and chipped. Birds are welcome to nest on the butt ends, not inside the logs. 

Spence caulked a thumb-size hole in the wall on the road side. I relished the idea of the woodpecker getting a beak full of caulk and staying away. He didn’t. He moved to the eaves and pecked beyond ladder reach.

Hence, I developed tactics to disrupt the destruction. I pounded my fist against the guest room window.

“You’ll break the window,” Spence said, coming up behind me.

I ignored him and pounded some more.

Tap tap tap.

“He’s drumming back.” Spence snickered. “He thinks you're a girlfriend.”

I opened the window and yelled. “GO AWAY, WOODPECKER.”

“You’re going crazy.” Spence rubbed my shoulders. “I don’t want to visit you in the nuthouse.”

Shrugging away from his hands, I tramped to the door and slammed it twice.

“There are more important things than drumming woodpeckers.”

I growled.

“Okay. I’ll go.” Spence stepped outside.

The downy drummed until the sound of Spence’s footsteps reached halfway down the ramp.

Though my tactics had no effect on the woodpecker, my pounding, yelling, and slamming tortured the cats. 

At the woodpecker’s first tap tap tap, the cats crouched and peered over their shoulders to locate the about-to-explode human. The second tap tap tap flattened the cats’ ears. The third sent them scurrying for hidey-holes.

In deference to the cats’ nerves, I moved my deterring tactics outdoors. I lucked into the first early in July. Toting my laptop to the deck, I spread my yoga mat and followed YouTube star Adriene through her Detox Flow practice. I twisted my arms for eagle pose, squatted, and lifted my right leg over my left—leaving the right big toe on the ground for balance.

A downy flew out of the old white pine stand at the corner of the deck and porch. He perched on the railing and gazed longingly above the porch before glancing at me. 

Grimacing to keep my balance, I stared back.

He blinked and darted into the pines. That woodpecker found other places to drum for three weeks. If only the one damaging the front of the house could be deterred as easily—he required more effort.

Log House

When Spence attended an evening block club meeting in Cleveland, for example, I nestled in the hewn log chair and settled the laptop on my knees.

Ande curled by the footstool.

I clicked play for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, a historical romance about a writer who searches for a story and finds true love.

Three minutes in, tap tap tap.

Ande jerked to his feet and searched my face to see if he should scamper under the sofa.

Pausing the computer, I set it on the coffee table and walked out to the porch. Drumming accompanied me while I rounded the corner to the connecting deck, tramped down the ramp, and stomped on the gravel path. “GO AWAY.”

The woodpecker zoomed to a dying ash tree across the road.

“Don’t come back.” I marched inside and watched the next two minutes of the movie.

Tap tap tap.

Ande dove under the sofa.

I stamped down the ramp.

The downy zipped to a different dying ash.

Gritting my teeth, I returned to the movie for another minute before tap tap tap.

Thirteen times, I thundered out of the house to disturb the drilling demon. With the sky darkening, the woodpecker finally retired for the night, and I watched the rest of the movie without exercise.

Marching and yelling only momentarily solved the problem so I changed my perspective. The camera’s telephoto lens turned me into a metallic cyclops. Faced with that image, all the Wells Wood critters I wanted to photograph ducked for cover. Maybe I could overlook a little of the house wrecker’s destruction in exchange for an awesome photo of the woodpecker a millisecond before he fled.

The next morning, I attached the telephoto lens to my camera and set it on the kitchen table. Washing breakfast dishes, I listened.

Tap tap tap.

I dried my hands, grabbed the camera, and walked to the front of the house. Before I removed the lens cap, the drummer flew to an ash across the road. Walking toward the road, I aimed the lens at him.

He crept behind the tree trunk.

Foiled, I returned to the kitchen and washed the iron skillet. After five more fruitless kitchen-to-front yard walks, I adjusted the focus on the woodpecker’s preferred spot, left the camera on, and the lens cap off—ready for my next trip.

Tap tap tap.

Tiptoeing down the ramp, I raised the camera to my eye and eased around the butt ends. Girasole leaves brushed my face but didn’t offer enough camouflage.

The downy flew.

Inhaling the sweet fragrance of wisteria growing on the deck railing, I trudged to the kitchen and cleaned the stove top before the next of many trips. The morning yielded a clean kitchen, aerobic exercise, and two fuzzy photos of the downy rounding an ash trunk. No awesome photo of the house drummer fleeing.

Not ready to give up hope, I checked the Audubon Society’s advice online—hang sheet plastic, Mylar streamers, or bird netting over the damaged part of the house. I didn’t tell Spence because I didn't want him climbing a thirty-foot ladder to the eaves. Too scary for me.

Short of camping in the front yard and hiding behind a blind like a hunter or tethering a pair of Cooper’s Hawks to the front of the house, I admit defeat. Seasons will change. We’ll get a respite from the destructive drumming. But the warm weather, Sisyphean task of protecting our log house from the drilling downy devils will last our lifetime.

Girasole