When Hubby and I first moved to our little house, we noticed that there was a great variety of bird life in the neighborhood. We ran to the bookstore and came home with a book that listed every bird species in the Southeast. Soon, we’d spotted everything from an impressive indigo bunting to blue birds, and of course the ever present sparrows. There were a couple of weeks when a flock of red-winged blackbirds hung out and scarfed up the little suet cakes we had hanging from the branches of a tree.
We passed our first summer, then fall and winter, keeping our feeders full and our window shades open, watching the avian goings on in our back yard. Then, in that strange weatherless time when it’s no longer winter, but not yet spring, we started hearing a new bird calling.
“Fweeet! Fweeet!” it whistled from somewhere just out of sight.
We looked and looked, but we couldn’t spy the tweeting bird. Then one morning, I stumbled into the den with my first cup of coffee and raised the blinds. I saw a flash of yellow as a small, brightly colored bird flew off in a panic. I’d never seen a yellow bird in the wild, although my grandmother kept canaries.
Then, from way up in the naked branches of a tree right outside the window, came that haunting, plaintive whistle. I looked up and there he sat in all his yellow glory. Out came the book, and I learned that I had a goldfinch in my tree. Hubby was suitably impressed, and by noon we had socks and tubes full of the tiny black seeds that goldfinches love. The next morning there were at least 50 of the hungry little critters chowing down.
I loved the birds, and I knew that Mama would love them, too. She was always fascinated with nature, and I wanted her to experience the joy that I felt when the goldfinches came to breakfast. I started agitating for her to come over and watch the birds. She said she would, but the season passed, and Mama stayed at home.
The next year, when the first little scout “fweeet”ed in the tree, we scrambled to get the feeders out and filled, and sure enough, the whole flock returned. I called Mama, but she didn’t come. The same thing happened the next year, and the next.
Depression and pain kept Mama from seeing something that I knew she’d get a big charge out of, and over the years, the goldfinches started to take on a magical curative quality in my mind. If only Mama could see the sunny, silly birds clamoring and fussing, she might feel joy again, and rise up to once again be the woman I remembered and needed her to be. But Mama never saw the gold-finches.
Two years ago, after Mama died, I didn’t hear the goldfinch calling. Looking back, I’m sure that he was out there, wondering why we didn’t rush to put out a banquet for his flock, but I had other things on my mind. Later on, I missed the cacophony and beauty of the birds, but it was too late, and they’d moved on. I really didn’t give it much thought.
Last year, all of the socks and tubes swung empty. I felt a strange disconnect with the world outside. Even the flowers bloomed or wilted without me. I stayed indoors for the most part, cocooning with the blinds closed.
This year though, I heard the sweet call of the first goldfinch. It was like waking from a deep sleep. I’ve been shaking the weight of slumber from my shoulders, and my world seems fresh and ready for me to take the reins once more. As soon as I heard my friend entreating me, Hubby and I hopped in the car and went for supplies. I got a new, fancy feeder with four socks and a dome top, and bags of shiny seeds. Within a day or two, the trees were swarming with my favorite birds.
I sit and watch the birds swarm on the sock feeder, dozens at a time, and I know that Mama has finally seen the goldfinches and that she feels joy once again.
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