2020 is for the Birds

Observations from a very amateur birdwatcher

by

At one point, my father spent more money on black-oil sunflower bird seed than he did on his electricity bill. The quantity of sunflower seeds dispersed and consumed on his three-acre hilltop in downtown St. Francisville hasn’t changed, but fortunately for his bank account, he has since found a less-costly supplier. The birds, and the wide array of other critters who enjoy my dad’s generosity, don’t seem to have noticed a difference in quality. 

Prior to COVID-19 laying Louisiana low in mid-March, I identified as a New Orleans city girl. There was much more people watching to be done from the front porch of my double shotgun than bird watching: A Popeye’s employee trudging home in burnt orange at the end of a long shift; a mother pushing a young child in a stroller while loudly complaining about her landlord on the phone; an older man returning home from leading the choir at an evening church service, brown-bagged bottle from the corner store in hand. Who needs wildlife, with an endless procession of characters just outside of your front door? 

Since then, of course, things have changed. The things that made living in New Orleans magical—the live music, the restaurants, the people—are much harder to come by. Not only that, but an implicit danger hangs low and heavy over it all. So, for the first time in my adult life, retreating to the quiet safety of my rural hometown for what I didn’t yet realize was an indefinite stretch of time made perfect sense. 

St. Francisville, if you didn’t know, has long been regarded as a birdwatcher’s paradise. Since naturalist and painter John James Audubon painted many of his 435 “Birds of America” from Oakley Plantation in the 1820s, avian voyeurs—sorry, birdwatchers—have flocked to the area, binoculars in tow. Businesses in town are more likely to be named for Audubon than not: the liquor store, the grocery. Signs downtown remind visitors and locals alike that this place is a National Bird Sanctuary, and while I’m admittedly unsure of the legitimacy of the title, the truth in it is undeniable. 

Despite growing up in St. Francisville, I didn’t consider myself a birdwatcher until the pandemic coaxed me back. Now when I spot a feather pattern I don’t recognize, I excitedly call to my partner Dominic and leap for my camera. 

There is an established hierarchy among the birds on our hilltop. The cardinals are most plentiful; a steady stream of them patronize  the bird bath and feeder outside our windows. The blue jays are slightly rarer, but still daily patrons. Showdowns between the cardinals and blue jays are common—the slightly larger and more aggressive jays inevitably win every time. Despite their associated symbolism, the ring neck doves rule the roost—no olive branches involved here: they’re big, and often mean. Who needs sports, with such excitement happening live just outside? 

The hummingbirds are my favorite. Tiny and impossibly fast, they move the way I feel after one-too-many cups of coffee. My dad recently discovered he was mistaken about the sugar-to-water ratio hummingbirds prefer, and had unintentionally doubled the sugar. They didn’t seem to mind; I hope they’re doing alright. 

Of course, the birds aren’t the only residents of the hill who enjoy my dad’s substantial bird seed investments. Squirrels frequently enjoy the feeders too, as is evident by their size—I would be willing to bet that if a survey were taken, the squirrels on this hill would be discovered to be considerably larger than average. At night, when the bird chirping ceases, entire families of raccoons pillage what the birds and squirrels have left behind. These masked bandits are considerably clumsier and chubbier than the squirrels; often the bird feeder that hangs from a tree branch will clunk to the ground under their weight. Shining a flashlight in the direction of a feeder after dark inevitably reveals a half dozen or more sets of eyes glowing back at you: “What do you want? We’re eating here.” 

My dad’s two cats, Tippy and Jasper, enjoy the plethora of wildlife too, of course. Occasionally my dad will rescue a chipmunk from the jaws of Jasper, large, orange, and left blind in one eye from what we can only guess was a shooting injury, and the chipmunk will scurry away quite grateful, I assume. When my dad discovers Jasper’s catch too late, he’ll bury the chipmunk in his garden to fertilize his roses—a more dignified entombment than most chipmunks receive. Such is the nature of, well, nature. 

The most notable thing I’ve observed from all this wildlife watching I’ve indulged in? None of these creatures have been remotely affected by the many stresses that plague their human neighbors. Perhaps, I’ve learned, there is something to be said for slowing down, taking a deep breath of fresh air, and watching the birds.