Reflections - Winter into Spring Jitters

Tufted Titmouse

The first days of March give me the jitters. Hungry black bears wake from hibernation. I ask Spence, “Isn’t it time to take the bird feeder down?”

He strokes his beard and glances at the tiny, transparent chalet attached to the sliding glass door. “Yeah.” But he slides the bottom away from its plastic roof and pours in more sunflower seeds.

I’m sure the tabby brothers would agree with him. Their ears twitch when birds swoop in. Gilbert chitters. Rills pounces against the glass. Ande throws a right cross. The birds still come.

Tufted titmice cock their heads, select a seed, and flit off. Goldfinches, in their brown winter colors, cling to the perch and hog the seeds until the male cardinal chases them away.

Below the feeder, in the mess of dropped seeds, nuthatches and the female cardinal hop on the faded wooden slats of the deck. Chipmunks join them during the day. The cats line up haunch to haunch to haunch and jerk their heads following the animals. At night, their cat eyes trace the darting of mice.

Ande would encourage Spence to keep feeding the birds for the sake of the female cardinal. Her milk chocolate feathers, bright-orange beak, and fluffy tuft charm him. He lounges, gazes at her, and smiles.

Though the view on both sides of the sliding glass door enchants me too, it’s time.

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

My jitters are reasonable. Dark brings hungry foragers. The night of March 6, 2019 a huge black bear stood on his hind legs, placed his front paws beside the feeder, and licked the empty tray.

A medium-side black bear ambled up the ramp on all fours March 15 of the following year. When tossing containers yielded no food, it lumbered off.

And, this March 6 brought another night visitor, reminding Spence that the feeder should come down. The next morning, he confessed having fallen asleep reading on the sofa. A noise woke him from a sound sleep. The noise was so loud he thought our son Charlie had stomped up the steps and scraped open the gate.

Clustered atop the table by the porch window, the cats stared out. Ears swiveled. Tails swatted.

Though we keep the porch lighted in case Charlie makes a surprise night visit, Spence couldn’t see what crashed and bumped into furniture. Back bears can climb trees. One probably didn’t scramble over the closed gate and drop to all fours. Most likely a fat raccoon foraged for food, alarming the cats.

Bears have waltzed up our ramp, crossed the deck, and rounded the corner to the porch in summer. When guests eat outside, I’m pushy about warning them to pick up every crumb—on account of bears. But I’m more concerned that black bears don’t establish Wells Wood as their source for after hibernation sunflower seed refreshment.

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

Temperatures soared from the thirties to the sixties, dipped to the thirties, then rose to the fifties. Snow melted except for patches in shady spots and plowed mounds. Birds we hadn’t heard all winter sang out. Swallowing a wiggling worm, a robin strutted through the north garden and called, Cheer-up, cheerily. Red-winged black birds soared over treetops and cried, Conk-la-ree. A mourning dove cooed on the telephone line outside the bedroom window sending Ande into a tizzy trying to discover the bird behind the curtain. Song sparrows and house finches joined the cue at the feeder. 

 

House Finch and Goldfinch

I raised my voice too. “Spence. Spring birds are back. The snow’s almost gone. Don’t you think it’s time to take the feeder down?”

He studied his computer screen. “Says here we’re getting a big storm this weekend.”

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

Spence and the weather forecast proved right. During the weekend of March 12 and 13, powdery snow piled over a foot high. The polar vortex blew frigid clouds of fluffy snowflakes across the fields. Birds barreled through the white mist to the feeder. A steady thump, thump, thump of cold bird feet hit the plastic ledge. Spence slipped into his boots, traipsed outside, and poured in seeds again and again.

I didn’t say anything. Snow buried the bird’s natural food. Bears probably holed up. I didn’t want a bear at the bird feeder. If one galumphed across the end of the field or wove through the trunks in the woods filling up with snow, I would welcome that.

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

After the snowstorm, the temperatures catapulted back to the sixties. Spence brought the bottom of the feeder inside and plunked it onto the kitchen table.

To eliminate all traces of sunflower seed aroma from reaching a hungry bear’s nostrils, I swept the empty shells off the deck. Ande watched every stroke of the broom through the screen door. Was he curious, or did he regret that I deprived his charming lady cardinal of her treats?

Birds stopped fluttering past the feeder roof.

The first day of spring, I forgot about bears and concentrated on my morning routine of cuddling each cat. I scooped up Rills, the one who plays keep away, and walked to the sliding glass door. Rills and I came within a bird’s beak of sunflower seeds. “Spence? When did you put the seeds out?”

“A few minutes ago. It’s cold and wet.”

Forty degrees and sprinkles don’t stress birds.

He stirred a spoonful of yogurt into his breakfast concoction. “I didn’t want to put the seeds back in the bag.”

Because the feeder had been down for a week, the first chickadee didn’t find the seeds until midafternoon. Then titmice, song sparrows, goldfinches, the male cardinal, and other chickadees flew in. They didn’t drop enough to attract the deck hoppers. By evening only dust lay at the bottom of the feeder. With a little nudging, Spence brought the bottom inside.

I relaxed until the end of March when Spence said, “It’s supposed to snow this weekend.”

“Serious snow?”

“No. Not much.”

Jogging through pelting rain, I pried the feeder’s suction cups off the sliding glass door and carried the roof inside. I dropped both chalet parts into hot soapy water, scrubbed, and took the clean feeder to the cold cellar.

That weekend snow swirled. Birds swooped past the empty glass door making me doubt my decision. Buffeting wind brought rain. Sunshine peaked through the clouds and melted the snow. More snow fell. The kaleidoscopic weather meant spring. Birds didn’t come back.

April’s here. Bears roam the woods. I can forget winter into spring jitters until next year.

We took the feeder down.

Nature can fill the birds up.

Pansy Face