If patience is a virtue, I’m the most virtuous woman in southeast Texas. Once upon a time, or nine months ago, I decided it was time to feed the huddled masses again. It had been several years since I'd ministered to flighty creatures, and I'd missed them. I began my quest for the best freestanding bird feeders money could buy, for my yard with no trees. Perfectionism reared its obnoxious head, and my research rivaled the most industrious grad student writing a doctoral thesis. I read articles on the internet daily, and walked the aisles of countless stores; I needed an apparatus that would attract birds while simultaneously preventing squirrels from taking up residence. The last thing I needed was a rodent mob.
Still not finding what I wanted, I ordered a catalogue for serious birdwatchers, which quickly made it to my mailbox. Time was of the essence. I have no idea why. I wait for years to do something, then when I’m ready to act, it’s a national emergency. I’m sure it drives Flash crazy, but it’s a short drive.
I wanted every product that catalogue offered. In my mind, I pictured the Happiest Bird Place on Earth. An elaborate bird bath with lit fountains would set the mood for mingling. A 12-pronged feeding station with a rotating main pole, with disco lights that shone on my neighbor’s overhanging trees – creating a groovy Saturday Night Feeder ambiance for flocks of young rhythm-blessed birds. Next, I’d install a bird condominium with a veranda, Hardy plank siding, tiny doors, and bars on the windows to keep out the vermin. Unfortunately, when I measured for my Shangri-La, I was a few feet short on land. I could’ve disassembled the pool to accommodate my not-yet-visiting feathered friends, but I would’ve lost my family as well as my mind. Hell hath no fury like enduring a Houston summer with no oasis in the backyard.
So I went to my Plan B; I bought items actually sold in the catalogue, rather than figments of my imagination. I found a middle-class bird feeding station. It was a long pole that sticks in the ground, with seven arms attached on which to hang feeders. I bought a squirrel-proof, super-duper sized feeder with six windows and perches. In addition to black oil sunflower seed, I purchased finch food in bags of netted material. Not that I'd ever had a finch visit or would even know a finch if it walked up and slapped me. But if I ever had met a slapping finch, I'd be writing to you from a traveling circus as I counted my millions.
And I bought yet another hummingbird feeder, rather than looking for the old one in the garage. The bird that hums is one of Flash's two favorites; the other is owls, but I'm not about to hang mice in my backyard.
But my favorite accessory for my Golden Corral for Birds was a plastic water cooler. I pictured all the boy birds gathered around the cooler during work, bragging about their dive-bombing skills. Or the gals trading tips from Good Nestkeeping.
Finally, after too many days, my packages began arriving on my doorstep. I’d soon be known as the Caesar Milan of All Flying Creatures. Well, not all. I love bats, but only from a distance. And I despise those horrible roaches that fly. And mosquitoes. Okay, I’d be known as the Caesar Milan of Ornithology.
Unsuspecting Flash came home one evening to find an array of boxes throughout the living room.
“What’s all this stuff?” he asked.
“For the birds,” I explained.
“What birds?” the silly man continued. “We don’t have any birds.”
“Exactly,” I replied, as I stared down at a collection of skinny black poles. “They are waiting for me; ‘build it, and they will come,’ you know?”
“Oh, okay. That’s cool,” Flash responded, but I heard what he was thinking: How much did this cost to feed those birds that have survived thus far without her assistance? Hmph. If a shiny, new disc for his 10,000-disc collection had come in the mail, he would have been raving about how it was unlike any of the others he owned; disc golf is his passion, but there is no benevolence involved. Those birds needed me. Their distant, desperate cries kept me awake at night.
I assembled the black iron pole and attached all the arms; it was practically perfect in every way. I dragged my 50-pound bag of sunflower seeds into the backyard, and filled the feeder to the brim. I hung thistle for the nonexistent slapping finches. I mixed up food for the hummingbirds, with no red food coloring, to make it healthier for them. And I filled and hung the water cooler.
On that beautiful June day, I watched and waited. Thinking I might be cramping their style, I let go of the pole and walked into the house, where I peered out the glass storm door. After 30 minutes, there were still no birds. I waited for hours, but they weren’t lining up for the best meal in town.
Maybe they sense Flash’s calloused heart, I thought. I’ll bet they’ll show up tomorrow, when he’s at work.
But, alas, no birdies showed up. Day after day I watched and waited. By day 10, I was hoping for any critter to appear – squirrels, opossums, renegade raccoons. Anything that would nibble on those plentiful seeds. I contemplated putting on my feathered scarf and strutting like a chicken in the yard, performing some kind of mating dance for dysfunctional birds. But the neighbors behind us don’t know us yet; it was too soon to shatter their dreams of normal neighbors.
Like seeds stuck in the feeder, so were the days of my life.
“They just don’t know the food is there,” the Resident Bird Expert explained. “You have to give them time.” Time. It had been three weeks already.
“Seriously, Flash. They’ve got to be hungry. I’m not even getting any grackles.” Grackles had once been in abundance. So much so, that I complained about them. “All I ever get are those black birds everywhere,” I’d lamented. “Never anything with different colors.” And so, offended at my discriminatory remarks, they’d left.
Now, I was pining for grackles.
“Pretty sure the birds are getting food somewhere,” Flash replied. “They’ve made it this far…”
My glare stopped his sentence short.
When August rolled around, my feathers were ruffled. “I’m feeling pretty ripped off right now,” I vented. “Hummingbirds were supposed to arrive in August. There are none. They decided to skip my house? Travel restrictions due to covid? They found someone else to love?”
After one too many comments such as, “Oh, we’ve had so many hummingbirds this year” from bragging friends, I emptied the sweet nectar of life onto the ground, and put the feeder away for the rest of the year. That would show those little speed demons what it’s like to be shut out, ignored, and disrespected.
Still, by October, nothing had been to the feeder. Sadly, I took down the finch food. I threw away the water bowl I’d added in the summer, for those wanting a little swim; it had cracked from the heat. I removed the water cooler; there’d been no gatherings or conversations. All that remained on my bird station was the squirrel-proof feeder full of sunflower seeds, and the “squirrel baffle” that hung below it, preventing rodents from climbing the pole.
It felt like I was giving up. But not quite; I couldn’t bear to take down that last source of food. For the following months, my sliver of hope hung on a metal pole. Occasionally I checked the seeds to make sure they were still dry. If only those huddled masses knew a feast was waiting. Finally, to my delight, I had a large blue jay show up one afternoon. But he simply sat on the fence mocking me, never taking one morsel from my yard. I knew I hadn’t seen my last mocking bird.
“I’m just going to leave that seed out there until next spring, I guess,” I told Flash, in my Eeyore tone.
Then, on January 13, I opened up the back door to let the sunshine in through the storm door. There hung the untouched feeder. As I turned away, a flash of yellow sped through my peripheral vision. I figured it was a butterfly taking a shortcut through the Forbidden Yard, on its way to Paradise.
Then, more yellow flashed by. I pressed my nose to the glass and saw creatures landing on my feeder. They looked like birds, although it had been so long I thought perhaps I was hallucinating. I grabbed binoculars and peered through. There were four small birds with yellow bellies, eating my sunflower seeds. I was ecstatic, and somehow knew they were finches.
But there’s no finch food, I thought. Clearly, these were birds that appreciated any free meal.
Immediately, I called and left a voicemail for my bird-freak friends, Rosebud and Captain. Of course, Rosebud called back – it was my Winter Miracle. We discussed the appearance of finches, and she suggested they might be American goldfinches. We hung up, and I ran to the bookshelf and opened up A Guide to Field Identification: Birds of North America, by Chandler S. Robbins, Bertel Bruun, and Herbert S. Zim, a keepsake I inherited from Mom. I found a picture of the birds in my yard.
“I’m looking at a female American goldfinch in my backyard,” I texted Rosebud.
“Hooray for you for having a welcoming environment for them and for identifying them,” she wrote back; only a true bird fan could fully appreciate my joy. She continued, “They are amazing to watch. They are so busy and work so hard, and all of it without arms!” My mind was blown; I’d never thought of that before. How on earth did they care for their babies with no arms? I’ve often needed at least four arms and hands, especially when Cowboy was little.
Two days after The Miracle, four visitors had grown to eight. Later in the day, there were 12 birds on the feeder as well as on the ground. I quickly put out a Tupperware water bowl; the water cooler had mildew, and there was no time for cleaning. The birds were parched, I could tell.
The next day, I had 16. By day five, 29 glorious finches were in my yard, and I was in heaven.
By the end of January, rude Mr. Blue Jay returned occasionally, scaring the finches away for a few minutes at a time. And the biggest robin I’ve ever seen sat on my back fence, posing for a picture. One morning, a couple of weeks ago, I heard loud singing coming from my front yard. I followed the sound to a crooner perched in my neighbor’s tree – a gray bird with a black beak and white and black on the back of his wings. I noticed his sounds kept changing, rather than being consistent. I flipped through the pages of my bird book, and discovered I was watching the Texas State Bird – a mockingbird - who was not in any way mocking me.
I was now an equal opportunity bird haven. I thought it was strange that they hadn’t arrived until winter, then read the migration patterns of finches and other birds. Of course. Like me, they travel great distances to escape the cold. My finches even stuck around on the first day of Storm Uri; finches in the snow was a sight I won’t forget. Of course, they’re smart birds; they got the heck out of Dodge after that first night. My guess is they were sunbathing in Acapulco for a couple of weeks.
But they’re back now. And I’ve got plenty of seed to get them and their friends through the spring. The squirrels are no longer baffled; at least twice a week, I catch one performing acrobatics as he balances his body on a thin metal ring while stretching to partake of the seeds. But I don’t care; he seems to take turns with the birds.
When I watch my birds, I think about how they didn’t show up until I quit worrying about them coming. I left the seeds out, then carried on with my life. I stopped stressing about it, and quit finding fault with my efforts. I lived life while waiting. Had I completely given up, taking the seeds down and throwing them away out of frustration, I would have missed out.
It was a scenario that mimics my life in general. Sometimes, I get tired of waiting for all my dreams to come to fruition and for goals to be met; it feels like I’m moving through molasses. I stress out about my journey. I complain. I expect more of myself than I would of any dear friend, and doubt myself when creativity is hard to come by due to hard circumstances. I’m tempted to throw out the seeds of hope that feed my dreams – to give up – and label myself a failure for all of eternity. I question my gifts and compare my talents. Or I tell myself my goals are unrealistic or ridiculous.
Then, I remember that dreams come true in the midst of life – when we least expect it – through patience and perseverance. As my soul remains filled with Hope through life’s changing seasons, God’s timing, not mine, is at work. And dreams often come true after a lengthy winter of waiting.