Birds Are Dumb

Birds are dumb.  Squirrels too.  I am convinced that if it were not for those of us who maintain year-around bird feeders we would be living in a world without chirps and tweets.

             
And even with that easy-eating option these dopey diners would still starve to death if we suppliers of seed did not diligently keep these alfresco eateries fully stocked ­ – day in, day out, twenty-four seven.

             
For example Mars and I provide our resident tree rodents with a Squirrel Feeder Table and Chair – the dining surface of which contains an inverted metal screw onto which outrageously priced ears of dried corn (too unsuitable for cattle feed or even ethanol) are screwed.

             
“Could there be a cuter way of feeding squirrels? Great fun watching them gnaw away at an ear of dried corn. Keep your zoom camera handy for some great photos!”

             
Except at least half of the kernels never even make it to the beginning of the squirrel’s perpetually churning digestive system.  Instead these juicy yellow grain bits are found, day after day, scattered across the green metal tree-rat chair and strewn all around the ground at the base of the oak tree, which provides a home for the small, one-patron at a time, diner.

             
And do the other squirrels that are sitting on the ground and looking up enviously at their chow-downing drey-mate deign to partake in this indiscriminately distributed bounty?  NOOOO!

             
And when the chair of honor is unoccupied do they check to see what pre-plucked nuts of corn might be available for the taking before beginning the arduous chore of stripping them off of the ear?    

NOOO!

             
Does anyone except perhaps the once-or-twice a year passing duck, or the strutting murders of crows that take over our yards during their winter migrations even notice this free supply of high fructose food?    

NOOOO! And NOOOO!  (Well occasionally the big black birds actually do indulge themselves.)

             
And it is the same at our sunflower seed feeders where the average sparrow spews way more than he chews.  But here at least low-lying doves creep by at the end of the day to suck up some of the residue.

             
Then each night, no matter what, like a loyal domestic servant, this weary seed supplier dons his winter jacket, scarf, gloves, and hat and trudges through windblown sleet, snow, and bitter cold to ensure that the shelves in all of our cafeterias are fully stocked and ready to go when the first ray of sunshine illuminates that initial customer of the day.

            
 Birds are dumb.   Squirrels too. Or are they?

The Southwestern Reserve Or Why History is Harder to Write than Fictio

 So I am looking for an historical connection between Wethersfield, Connecticut and Santa Fe, New Mexico other than the fact that our son who was born and raised in the former now lives in the latter – and the dream that Mars and I (still living in CT's "most auncient towne") hope also to reside there some day.

             

Such locational interrelationships with our hometown are not unusual.  Wethersfield residents have been involved in the founding of various other places such as the Western Reserve (the northeast portion of Ohio); our “daughter towns” of Glastonbury, Rocky Hill, Newington; nearby Berlin; downstate Stamford and Stratford CT; Hadley Massachusetts; Holland Patent, New York; Wethersfield (now Kewanee), Illinois; and Brownsville, Texas – plus (according to local historian John C. Willard)“ One family went to Utah, accepted the Mormon Church and provided a governor [Heber Manning Wells (1859 – 1938)] for that state.”

             

As an AMATEUR researcher at our local historical society I have come to expect that I can always find some new interesting story from my village’s past by simply Googling the word “Wethersfield” in conjunction with just about any other town or state name.

             

But not either Santa Fe or New Mexico.

             

My many searches did not turn up a “Southwestern Reserve”.  But I did find mention of “The Land of Enchantment” as a place where local, world-renowned 19^th Century botanist Charles Wright (after whom Datura wrightii or Sacred Datura is named) did field work and taught for a while. 

             

And I came across a reference to Lucius Parmenius Deming, a descendent of John Deming (one of our town’s original ten settlers, and one of the nineteen persons to whom King Charles II granted the Charter of Connecticut in 1662) “practicing law in New Haven [CT], and managing a copper mine in New Mexico.”     

Lucius was attorney and general manager for McAllister and Company in Pinos Altos, NM; and for the Allessandro Copper Mining Company in the Sliver City/Burro Mountain area – “a Connecticut concern” according to “A History of New Mexico” by George B. Anderson.  Anderson also mentions that “In May 1883 the Silver City, Deming & Pacific Railroad was completed to the former place, which event marked the height of prosperity of the silver-producing district around it.”

             

Lucius Deming lived in Red Rock, NM – to this date, still not a municipal community.  Wethersfield takes great pride in being the first incorporated town in Connecticut – a hankering for which this law-practicing descendent of one of the actual incorporators apparently did not carry with him to the southwest.

             

He likewise was not involved with the above-mentioned railroad or in the establishment of Deming, New Mexico – the middle part of the railway’s moniker.  That town was founded in 1881 and, per Wikipedia, “named after Mary Ann Deming Crocker, wife of Charles Crocker, one of The Big Four of the railroad industry.”  Mary Ann was the daughter of John Jay Deming, born in Litchfield, Ct. – a different branch of the family from Wethersfield’s founder.

             

My brief experiences as a lay historian have taught that such research is never-ending.  And that there is always the possibility that sitting on the next shelf in the library is more information that can send your investigation off in another direction – but rarely completes it entirely.  Perhaps when Mars and I move to New Mexico, and I can initiate my inquiries from the southwest side of the equation, I will find that clue. 

             

I also sometimes write what are called “personal essays”.   Like histories, these compositions also are real-life events woven together into explanatory and (hopefully) entertaining narratives. As I learned in a personal essay writing class I took several years ago that the trick is in knowing when to stop.

             

So I will – for now anyway.   

 

Just Another Day on the Suburban Advent Calendar

Supine Santa Claus.

all the life sucked out of them,

CPRed each night.

Happiness is....

I like to think that the birds and squirrels that feed in Mars and my yard are happy – but it could well be me projecting the feeling that they give us, back onto them.

             

We do not have a lot of feeders.  And we don’t have a prize-winning array of exotic eaters – sparrows, a few goldfinches, more sparrows, a couple of purple finches, still more sparrows, one or two titmice, sparrows… What we lack in quality, we make up for in quantity.  And what we do have is entertaining enough to keep us playing the game.

             

As for feeders, there are three of them. 

             

(Stock photo - not our birds!)

The thistle feeder is a metal mesh tube with holes small enough to keep the ultra-thin, black seeds from falling out, yet sufficiently large to allow finch-sized feet to successfully perch,and finch-sized beaks to effectively eat. 

             

Our sunflower seed feeder is an honest-to-God “squirrel-proof” dining device, constructed by me using plans and parts from the Wild Birds Unlimited store in nearby Glastonbury.  The apparatus consists of a plastic “Droll Yankee” feeder with food windows and perches, safely nestled inside a green wire cage.  The outer unit has openings large enough for a small bird to hop inside and is located far enough away from the inner tube to allow comfortable perching.  Larger avians, such as crows and Blue Jays are not able to get themselves inside – although it is fun to watch them futilely craning their necks through the apertures in an effort to pilfer some seeds.

             

In order to combat the wily squirrels that likewise yearn for some of the protein-packed kernels it was necessary to attached the inner feeder to the base of the outer cage – lest, as I discovered when I first put up the contraption, the rascally rodents reach in with their paws and pull the bottom slot of the “Droll Yankee” to within reach of their eagerly awaiting open mouths.

             

Our third and least active feeder is the ceramic fish that Mars and I purchased from a potter on Cape Cod back in the day when that area was our go-to vacation spot.  It was hand-thrown on a pottery wheel as a mid-sized vessel open at each end.  Then the bottom was fashioned into a tail-shape with fins on the side and eyes added to the top while the clay was still moist and pliable.  Unlike the other two eating establishments, the diner hangs sideways to the ground.    

The fish-feeder is most definitely not squirrel proof as evidenced by the bushy tail that frequently pokes out from either the mouth or tail of the Piscean stoneware eatery.

             

We also run an intentional squirrel feeder stocked with ears of corn about fifty feet away from our triumvirate of avian cafes.  This outlying food stop in no way deters the squirrels from filching the fallen seeds from or trying to break into this tripartite food court.   

             

I refill all of the dining devices every evening – rain, sleet or snow.  The birds, with help from the squirrels, pretty much empty them the next day.  I can hear what I interpret as chirps of joy from nearby trees on our property on those occasions when I undertake my restocking mission before sunset.

            

 Immediately next to the feeders is a bush on which the birds eagerly queue up.  A few feet away are two others, for those that are one step removed from the on deck circle.   And several yards off is a thorny pricker bush for those just looking to take a break and socialize.. During the growing season the sounds of anxious chirps and the perpetual rustle of the shrubs’ green leaves indicate their presence.  Now, with leaves fallen and branches bare, the throng still comes to hang out and swap tweets.  Even though the predatory neighborhood cats – whom, after all these years, I am certain consider the whole feeding area to be their own personal baited trap – now have an unobstructed view of their prospective prey.

             

Still, in spite of the presence of the rapacious felines, the birds seem quite happy.  Or is it just me?

             

Patricia McConnell, Ph.D., a Certified Applied Animal Behaviorist, argues that yes, animals (including birds) can feel happy – “…how could they not be? Feeling good is a way for the body to tell the brain (as if they were separate, forgive me for this simplistic duality) that it is in an environment that is safe and healthy. The neuro-hormones associated with happiness, like dopamine and oxytocin are shared by all mammals…”

             

Not to get all philosophical however – this does not mean that the birds are experiencing ‘happiness”.

             

Again Dr. McConnell – “the concept of ‘happy’ has two meanings: 1) a temporary mood or short term experience (joy, enthusiasm, pleasure) and 2) a long-term state associated with….. one’s evaluative overview of life …..a long-term state of satisfaction and contentment with life overall.”

             

The first state would be called “happy” – number two is “happiness”

             

The birds in our yard are happy.  The cats on the other hand, for better or worse, clearly have reached that second level of joyfulness.

           

           

Thus it has been, and thus it shall be.

On Wednesday I mulched the autumn leaves that had fallen in our yard into the grass that had lain dormant for most of our rain-free summer but which now – with cooler weather and one or two decent storms – is sprouting healthy, green blades skyward as if the first warmth of spring had just arrived.

             

Mulching is good for the fescue – our organic lawn-care company specifically commands us to do so.   And it is good for me  – it gets my arms, legs and heart working and burns about 400 calories according to one Internet calculator.  It is, however, probably not great for the ozone layer.

             

On Thursday a thick, new layer of leaves covered my formerly good-as-new work area.

             

On Friday another coating, equally dense, buried that stratum and created an ankle-deep collection of crisp, dead vegetation.

             

Our town collects leaves that have been piled on the sidewalk snow-shelves – sucking them up with a long-hosed vacuum truck that reminds me of the Sesame Street Snuffleupagus character.  The first of two collections on our street was scheduled for next week so Mars and I raked our contribution into position over the weekend.  This took several hours of manual labor on both of our parts.

            

 (I’d like to be able to say that after careful mathematical computations I had determined that the rake was better for our carbon footprint than running the Toro “Recycler”, but the truth is that the compostable matter was just too damn thick to mulch.)

            

Leaves are still falling from our trees and blowing into our yard so it is likely that the lawn will need to be re-raked, at least partially, every day until the big sucking truck comes and gets them.   And then we will go thought the whole thing again before the second coming of the Snuff-ster.

             

Thus it has been for years and thus it shall be.

             

The French philosopher Albert Camus’ book  “The Myth of Sisyphus” is based around the Greek story of a man condemned to spend eternity performing the meaningless task of pushing a heavy rock to the top of a hill only to have it roll right back down to the bottom – and having to begin all over again.

             

The legend is meant to be a metaphor for what great thinkers sometimes call the ”Human Condition.”  Camus claims that once Sisyphus acknowledges the futility of his task, and the absurdity of his situation he will reach a state of contented acceptance – concluding, "all is well."   He concludes, "One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

             

Those of us who have made the existential choice to do our own gardening and landscaping do not really need a Greek allegory to explain that to us.