What's news?

This comes under the heading of "I knew I was a geek when I got excited over the Rufous-necked Wood-rail showing up in New Mexico."


As a confirmed bird-watching nerd, I want to meet the reporter (Susan Montoya Bryan) who pitched this story and the AP editors who recognized it was every bit as, if not more, interesting as a royal baby -- to some of us anyway. Thank you; all of you. I've been disgusted about most of what you've deigned to pass onto us these days, but this almost makes up for the media's current absorption in the royal after-birth (wait...that didn't come out quite right...).

And, by the way, Ms. Montoya gets extra points for mentioning one of my favorite movies, "The Big Year," though the fact that she had to explain the movie is kind of a let down. I mean, when when making pop culture references you never have to explain why you just compared someone to The Dude. It was probably inserted in there by an editor, who was obviously not a birder and had to Google the movie title to find out what it was about.

Really, though, considering the rarity of this occurrence -- a shy, reclusive bird showing up thousands of miles from its usual habitat -- should be major news above what to name one of the hundreds of thousands of babies born on July 22. And who cares what they name the baby, since it will have 15 names anyway, one of which will probably be Fortescue (I don't know this for sure, but it sounds like it should be).

So I pass this along for my fellow birders because the story disappeared very quickly from Yahoo feed to make way for this inane announcement: Royal Couple Begin Parenting.

Stupid Animal Tricks

I've lived in a rural area for almost 30 years and have seen and attempted to dodge a variety of road kill. I'm good at anticipating when some bewildered furry creature is going to stumble in front of my tires on a hairpin curve in the rain. I am diligent about braking for unauthorized deer crossing without a sign. But since arriving in West Virginia, never have I seen a collection of vermin so stubbornly determined to fling themselves under my wheels. Prior to moving here, I'd only been the cause of one roadkill: a chipmunk. That's it; 37 years of driving, one chipmunk (I don't count the deer that actually ran into me). Since moving, though, I have personally removed from the gene pool an opossum, two rabbits, and a raccoon (though I think this was more of a suicide).

As you all know, I'm an avid bird watcher. And one of the more common birds at my feeder has always been cardinals; so I'm pretty familiar with their behavior. They are not the brightest of birds, nor have they been the dumbest. I've never had one fly into window glass -- something that can't be said for the sparrow population.

Then I came here.

I'm trying very hard not to make this a "state-identity" thing; let's just say there is a family of cardinals in my neighborhood who are a few feathers short of a boa.

It started this spring, when a young bird's fancy turns to...well, it should be other young birds. But not the Kirby Cardinals (Kardinals? Too cute? Kute?). From what I observed, they were more enchanted with their reflection in our window than with each other.

Now I know absolutely nothing of avian eyesight, but you'd think they'd notice the object of their affection is of the same sex, leading me to the conclusion that Kirby, WV, is possibly the Fire Island of the Cardinal world.

Still, you would think after a couple times whacking into the window, the stupid birds would...stop...and find some other object of desire. But...no...no...they keep attempting to take off from a branch located right next to the window to fly into the window...over and over again. Early mornings sound like hail hitting the window.

So this morning I was getting ready to leave and I hear the familiar pitter-patter of misguided cardinals hitting the window coming from the living room. So I went to investigate and saw this looking back at me through the window.

 

I would like to stress the "looking at me" part; because he was looking at me...and Zsa Zsa...and Landshark, THE CAT.

Most birds would want to fly the other way. But, not this bird...

He just kept staring at me...the dog...and THE CAT...

...and continuing to fly through the window.

I can't tell you how this all ended since I stood there for about ten minutes waiting for it to occur to him that there was no way he was going to fly through the window to THE CAT and finally had to leave for work.

I envision him still perched on the rhododendron branch, swatting the window every now and then to check to see if it is still solid. I picture Landshark on the other side with the exact same goal.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

There is just no other way to put it. I've lived in this house for three years and I have yet to see a male hummingbird. I live in Shenandoah County's only hummingbird convent.

Around here we only get Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds, so it's quite easy to tell males from females. If they have a red throat, they're males. If not, they're females.

I haven't seen a male hummingbird since The House That Shall No Longer Be Named. They are rather dapper fellows and their female counterparts just don't have the bling they do.

Nor do the females dive bomb each other -- at least not around here. The good sisters simple file in for their evening meal, sup quietly, then murmur their way through vespers.


I suppose I could have missed the males. It's quite obvious that my days of sitting at my computer writing and looking out at my bird feeder are long gone. I hadn't seen a new bird show up at the feeder in over a year. But three years?

Our regulars come and go, but every now and then we get a migrating bird that we've never seen before -- Grosbeaks, Waxwings, Tree Sparrows. When I was at my computer all day, I was there to capture it.

These days I'm around to see the morning inundation of finches and the evening visits of the woodpeckers. The Sisters of Perpetual Humming come and go all day.

We have had one new visitor this year that decided to stay. It all started with a sound. I kept thinking someone had dumped a kitten on us and it had crawled into the bushes.

Hence, the name "Catbird."

To be honest, he's a rather unremarkable fellow, but for one thing.

He looks like he's wearing a toupee*.

*I apologize for the horrible photo. Don't ask me what happened to my telephoto lens -- I'll just burst into tears...

You fly back to school, Little Starling. Fly, fly, fly...

Starlings.

They're considered pests around here. Their flocks can be huge and noisy. Sometimes they chase other, more delicate birds away from the feeder. On a cloudy day they are very ordinary-looking; a black bird with a yellow beak like so many other black birds with yellow beaks. They don't sing prettily.

Let the sun hit their feathers, though, and they show every color of the rainbow for those willing to look.

I can relate to the starling. In fact, I think I come from starling-esque stock. Noisy, scrappy, infinitely durable. We shove each other around and bring on the vapors in those of a more delicate constitution. You can try to scare us away, annoy us away -- some have even tried poison; but we keep on.

And in a certain light we show every color of the rainbow.

A Very Boring Year-end Post

The general opinion of 2009, if one can derive such a thing from perusing the internet, is that it tanked big time. In view of recent events, it is my gut reaction to agree. Working for a non-profit, I know I'm not out of the woods yet, but at least I'm in a clearing.

Before we dump the entire year, though, I got to thinking -- rather, yesterday's miraculous save got me to thinking -- of all the life-affirming moments that have happened throughout this year that not only got me through, but made me just a little less cynical than before.

I was reminded of this yesterday when Dirtman arrived home from work toting our usual order of bird seed from Wildbirds Unlimited with an added gift of a snowman seed block, courtesy of store owners Bruce and Dolores Johnson. We were out of feed and Dirtman called to see if they were planning on grocery shopping where he works and could they toss a bag* in their car for us.

Nothing makes me happier than giving my birds a treat.

So, if this is a sappy, sentimental farewell to 2009, it's because of little gesture like that -- like Gwynne sending us suet cakes just when we ran out and couldn't afford anymore (she also sent us ham to feed people -- but she remembered my birds!).

Oh, I don' mean to downgrade the big things that have blessed us this year. We would not have made it without our families helping us out financially while we scrambled to find jobs that just weren't out there. Dark Garden helped us keep our sanity by providing us with a vacation and our neighbor/landlord who never once made us feel like losers when we were late with the rent.

So, no. I'm not writing off 2009. It was the year that took the edge off my cynicism. Turns out I'm not such a tough old broad after all.

*Believe me, we've tried to get cheaper brands, but the birds just leave it there. Wildbird's seed even looks fresher. Cheap seed looks like half of it has already been hulled.

The Crooner

I've taken to calling him Frankie -- as in Sinatra.

Frankie has everything. He's the most debonair house finch of them all. His red feathers put all the other guys' plumage to shame.

He's got the moves, too. Frankie's smooth on the perch with just a little clownishness to make him endearing.

But, oh, when he sings! He stretches out his neck, opens his beak and out comes a cascade of ringing trills that draws every female house finch within miles to our side yard. They hang off the birdfeeder; they perch in nearby trees; they adore him from the ground.

Sadly, his performance always outlasts his worshipers' stamina and they are off with other, less talented fellows.

He continues to sing long after they've left, in love with his own voice.

I know I'm supposed to be writing, but...

Thanks to Gwynne, our suet feeder is busy again, just in time to see this:

Danny Kaye showing off his new offspring (according to what I've read, Mrs. Kaye -- Danielle? Sylvia Fine? -- probably shows up at the feeder at night.)

Also:


And, just in case Dark Garden was worried about her*:


*That's what you get for making fun of my Empress of the Universe robe.

The survivor

I was worried. I hadn't seen her in so long. Whew!

(Post just for you, Dark Garden!)

Teenage Mutant Cardinal Birdies

This female cardinal only just showed up at the feeder, so I'm guessing she was hatched only this spring. I'm not sure what happened to her right eye, whether it was a near-fatal encounter with a predator or whether she was just born this way.

It doesn't bother her in the least and she thinks she looks like all the other cardinals, even with her little two-feather crest.



I pray she has some sight in that eye so she will avoid any further injury. I know her demise would be survival of the fittest and nature's way of protecting the strength of the gene pool, but I can't help pulling for her.

Editor's Note: Dark Garden will now commence yelling at me and telling me to take these photos down.

The Sisters of the Linguini Feeders

When it comes to hummingbirds, according to all my "vast" research (through Google) there is really only one type that migrates through Virginia -- the ruby-throated hummingbird.

The ruby-throated hummingbird is a bright green to olive green in color. The male has the distinctive bright red throat.

We've had lots of hummingbirds come to the feeders, but not one male. Not. One.

Apparently I am hosting the only hummingbird convent in the country.

Dining out with the Starlings

If you sit here long enough, staring out the window at the bird feeder, thinking of things to write, you see some pretty neat stuff. I will admit my bird watching is a form of meditation; I'm truly "in the moment" and yesterday the moment consisted of this:



I know starlings are considered nuisance birds. Around here they're second only to the grackles in being the bird feeder bullies. Even Bubba the Bluejay gives them a wide berth.

As for teaching their kids to fend for themselves, however, they are second to none. By the end of the day, these fledglings had learned to fly up to the suet feeder and feed themselves -- awkwardly (they kept flying on top of each other and falling off), but efficiently.

Today they discovered that the top of the suet feeder is flat, thereby allowing more of them to perch. What they couldn't figure out was how to access the actual suet from this convenient location. This has resulted in a lot of jostling for position accompanied by a racket of squawking while Mom placidly stuffs her face.


Meanwhile, one of the mourning doves calmly pecks up her usual ground seed, thinking, "This used to be such a nice restaurant. Why can't those trashy Starlings leave their brats at home like civilized birds."

That's right. I know what my birds are thinking.

Mystery bird revealed

The mystery is solved, thanks to Dolores at Wild Birds Unlimited.



He's a Tree Swallow. And he's highly insulted that he was called a kingbird. So much so, he hasn't been back since.



There. Now we can all get some sleep tonight.

Whoooooo are you?

Who, who
Who who?
Could be an Eastern Kingbird. But every picture I see of one looks like a different bird from the one before.

He seems to be in love with the hummingbird finial. He doesn't eat from the feeder, but circles around and then sits next to it and looks around. He's been doing this all morning.

He won't tell me who he is.

I really wanna know.

Golden

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm etc.

I know, I know. I should probably start a birding blog or something so as not to annoy people for whom a bird is just a bird, just like I should have yet another blog for the dogs and another for my food or knitting or sewing stuff. But, then, all that would be left on Linguini would be me and Dark Garden bickering, Heir 2 giving the thumbs up next to things and smiling and pictures of gnomes in danger.

And I doubt anyone would bother to click through to the other myriad of blogs anyway, which means you would miss seeing this.


The hummingbird feeder is just outside my office window and this goes on all day long.

More bird geekery

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him and thought, "A bluebird!"

No. But an Indigo Bunting is just as pretty, huh? The feeder had been emptied by the earlier birds (we're normally cleaned out by noon), so I hope he comes back even though he didn't get food today.

Birds do it

To the dozens of birds currently on my lawn making spectacles of themselves:

Get a room!*

*Posting a photos** would be kind of creepy.

**Taking photos would be kind of creepy.

Busy work

Spring has finally arrived around here, bringing with it the usual spurt of energy. What this means is, I get lots of ideas which I dump onto Dirtman to manifest.

April 15 was the date that Wildbird Unlimited said the hummingbirds would be migrating into this area, so the feeders needed to be put out. We missed seeing them last year, but we had neither the means nor the inclination at the time (yes, it's been a year). So Dirtman came up with this:


The peonies should eventually spread, grow and hide the PVCishness. Think of it as recycled sculpture...

We planted herbs this weekend -- basil, oregano, parsley, mint (julep!) -- but I'd held back on rosemary. I'd read a book (it was fiction, so who knows...) recently that described a rosemary tree. Apparently, given time, it will grow to be a kind of tree or bush. But any kind of tree or bush that we own has to be portable and, frankly, if I wait much longer to plant rosemary, I won't live to see it reach the bush stage. Thank goodness someone had the foresight last year to throw the large flowerpots onto the moving truck (since, at the time, I was of the mindset that gardening was another of those things that I had lost my privilege to do).

We've placed this not far from the seating area I wanted on the side of the house, facing the bird feeder. With all due respect to the patio out back, it's hard to sit out there on summer afternoons with no shade. So now I'll have the patio for mornings and the side yard for the afternoon. All I need now, Dark Garden, is a laptop so I can work out there. (Because Dirtman discovered Hula and it's hard writing anything when cheesey 70s drama shows are blasting on the other side of the desk.)

At the bird feeder and the wisdom of Eight

This is absolutely the best time of year to have a bird feeder.

The goldfinches and house finches are starting to color up. The mourning doves have paired off, if they hadn't been already. The grackles strut around on the ground, puffing up their feathers to show off their virility.

And the starlings -- ah, the starlings. They have no inhibitions. It a starling orgy out there when a flock flies through.


Poor ol' Danny Kaye, though. Every time he attempts to get something to eat, he is chased away by the mockingbird. He finally grabbed a couple of bites today, shielded from his tormentor's view by two dove couples. I can only hope the mockingbird is in it's nest when Danny's mate comes out to eat at night.

I have made up an entire drama in my head about what's going on at the birdfeeder. We'll keep it there lest my sanity come into question*. Again.

*I confessed to Heir 2 the other day that ever since I was a little girl I gave numbers personalities and relationships to each other. While he agreed that One really needed to get over itself, we disagreed about the personality of Eight. He thought Eight was evil, but I assured him that Eight is the wisest number of all. This is probably the point at which I lost him. I think it was when I said, "Eight is the Ben Franklin of all the numbers."

My own kind of blue

Maybe it’s a late-winter slump or maybe it’s coming out of one. Maybe I’m just feeling the teasings of spring; you know how those 70+-degree days make you feel, even if it is followed by a string of days in the 40s?

Whatever it is, lately I go around annoyed by all this doom and gloom everyone has so easily fallen into. As if the season itself weren’t depressing enough, everyone feels this need to gear every conversation about the economy and the how it is going to bring about the end of the world as we know it.

Look, no one has more reason to be pessimistic than we here at Linguini on the Ceiling. Three out of four of us have no steady job -- only sporadic “projects” that keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. The industries wherein lie our expertise have been decimated and there are (at least here in the valley) hundreds of applicants for every low-paying, entry-level position. I could go on and on with the suckiness of the Linguini situation, but that would be doing the very thing that irritates me.

See, there is also this other thing. In a way it’s a good thing because otherwise last year when we lost two houses and the bank seized every penny we had, I would have done the logical thing and had a nervous breakdown. I could have spent those following painful months in a nice, quiet psych ward, drifting in a mist of valium. Oh, I would have emerged six months later to a family divided, bitter and in ruin, but it would not have been my problem because my delicate condition would exempt me from blame.

Believe me, I tried to have a nervous breakdown. But my brain is a survivor. It always, always, always manifests hope.

Hope. Every time. I don’t know how or where it comes from. There I am, on my way to a perfectly justified emotional meltdown – and – oh, look! A bluejay.

And because of the bluejay – or whatever catches my eye at the time – there’s the hope.

And, honestly – at the time it makes me really, really angry because insanity by contrast seems so peaceful, so much easier than duking it out with life.

My point is, when you approach me with your furtive looks of impending disaster, I’ve probably got the bluejay on my mind; I’ve probably got a plan that is seeing me through, even if there is a slim chance of it working. And you, you’ve read something or watched something or talked to someone and now you feel the need to share your feelings of disaster, not only as it applies to your life, but also, as a bonus, how it applies to mine.

Well, knock it off.

If not for me, for your own sake. Knock. It. Off.

Because here’s a secret that no one seems to get: We are the economy.

The economy isn’t “out there.” It’s us and what we do and how we feel. When we felt competitive and materialistic, the bloated economy reflected that. Now everyone is scared and expecting disaster and – guess what?

So, for Godsake, people, just live your life. I am as frugal as my personal economy dictates, but who I am is not my personal economy. I have other things to talk about, like books and writing and dogs and...

Look! A bluejay!