Not a review of McMurtey’s book. Rather this is a discussion of my DNA and life in the yards of Swift. Chronologically, bird feeding begins with my daddy in Hammond, Louisiana. In early dawn, he got up, put on kakhi pants, a shirt to match, and yard shoes, He put bird seed in a coffee can and walked to the back of the yard by the oak tree.Two tin pie pans waited. Bird seed was put in one, a little water from the faucet in another, and he stepped back and waited. A thrush came to the food. Daddy named him Brownie and had a morning conversation. Through the day we would hear the short flute like trill of his song. After those two had checked in with each other, daddy would scatter a handful of grain on the ground for Rupert the squirrel when he arrived. By now, mother had coffee made for him.
At various times the rest of my life, I would visit my birth dad in northwest Arkansas. He had a small roofed patio at the back of the house, a cool sheltered spot to drink coffee, visit softly and watch birds welcome the dawn. This dad depended more on God’s providing foot by putting worms and bugs in the nearby garden. Dad’s contribution was building a wren house to very definite specifications. Wrens are small perky birds with an upright tail. I always could picture the female with a bandana tied under her chin as she organized her dwelling. They don’t mind living near humans. The house is best if 16 square inches with a hole 1 1/8 – 1 1/2 “, just right for her size. A perch outside the hole gives her a space to sit and carry on quite a discussion, yet dart back inside if something needed tending to.
On Rice Boulevard, I came into my own with tall hooked feeders for a variety from goldfinches: here today, gone tomorrow and picky eaters. Bluejays believe if it’s in the feeder it belongs to me. A cardinal family claimed some space and squirrels had to be ground feeders because I put a baffle to hinder their gorging themselves without sharing.
At Swift I seemed only to attact doves. Their “Who cooks for you?” call heralded spring, and they were fun to watch. I just longed for variety. When the wildflowers took off, I managed to dig up one feeder and move it to the front yard outside my dining room window, so I could watch. I left a feeder in the back yard which amazingly became a cafeteria. Robins came through and scratched in the flower beds. Mocking birds and blue jays took turns driving each other off. A cardinal family must have a nest near by because they feed usually one at a time. Color signifies whose turn it is to watch nest and eggs. They remind me every day to “Cheer up!”
Finally to Lonesome Dove. As near as I can tell, only one dove and no other specie lives in the elm at the front of the house. I can sit at the end of of the dining table, a Covid 6 feet difference, and we eye each other through the window. The bird (sex undetermined) will sit an unmeasured time as long as I am still, cocking its head to view me with one eye and maybe memorize my routine. If I stand too quickly or come and open the front door too vigorously, he heads for the elm with a flurry of flapping wings.
Jewish tradition says when the voice of the turtle dove is heard it will signify Israel returning to its land of origin. A Kol Hator. I only know the dove’s song calls forth a new season and makes me one again with the winged birds created according to their kind.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land.
Song of Solomon 2:2
Let Me Tell Ya 