If you’re reading this, I suppose I’ve reached the end of the line.
If it weren’t for the birds, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Along the way, I’ve learned that walking the sanity tightrope puts one just a misstep away from the abyss…
I gave up watching the news once the results were certified in November, when I began drifting down the path toward my own certifiable state. Canceled the cable subscription, the newspaper subscription, switched from NPR to satellite radio to avoid the newscasts. Began to take an interest in celebrity shenanigans I had avoided my entire adult life…’wonder what Jason and Travis Kelce are up to today?’ Began jonesing for Khloe Kardashian’s Crumbl Cookies.
The birds were my backup system, and my savior, for a time. That and, in hindsight, the reassurance of the ritual that evolved around their care and feeding and the ever-changing accompaniment that their Spring arrival and their harmonious — and sometimes cacophonous — birdsong brought tranquility to my day.
My routine started at first light, when if I were lucky I would awake to the trill of a wren. How is it that the tiniest of birds belt out the sweetest songs? Then I’d throw on some clothes and head out to the shed where the seed (black oil and “Wild Bird Mix”) are kept in critter-proof containers.
And oh yeah, the suet and the hummingbird feeder went inside a bin as well. It didn’t take long for me to learn that leaving them out over night virtually guaranteed I’d awaken to an empty suet feeder or a smashed up hummingbird feeder in the morning, sometimes both. Hey, I know that raccoons gotta eat, but not on my dime.
People told me not to feed birds in the summer, especially not to put out the suet, but maybe those people are stronger than I, and didn’t depend on their constant presence the way I did.
On mornings that I was really, really lucky, I’d spot one or, on a super special morning, a pair of bald eagles atop a tall locust tree to the east, greeting the sun. Exhilarating.
Getting sleepy now, but I have to tell you about the hummingbirds before I go.
The arrival of hummingbirds was the best, even better than spotting the eagles. The anticipation of their arrival. The mad rush to boil up some sugar water and hang up the feeder the first time I’d spot them. The wonder of knowing that these tiny, delicate creatures traveled thousands of miles to my back yard, despite the mindless, relentless destruction of habitat all along the way. Their fierce defense of their territory against any and all come-latelys.
So tired, but I realize that I need to keep them fed, need to keep them safe, need to find someone who’ll carry on for me after I go.
The antidote is in a bottle, in the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. If it’s not too late, would you…
Clarke Linden Westfield lived in Lawrenceville. His alter-ego George Point is a frequent contributor to U.S. 1.
