It’s 7:55 a.m. and I’ve been staring at my computer screen for nearly an hour. Somewhere close by, outside my window, there’s a Carolina wren calling. Twice, I stepped out on the porch to see, but it hushed as soon as I opened the door and I couldn’t find it. Each time, as soon as I sat back down, it called again. I’ve been seeing and hearing them a lot lately, but usually from midday to late afternoon – not at first light. They talk a lot this time of year, but I don’t hear them singing. They only repeat a single, harsh, mono-syllabic, grunt, as if they just learned their first word and want to practice it, or maybe they just want to let each other know they’re still there, and haven’t been eaten by a cat or anything. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! It doesn’t sound particularly friendly, but they are polite. One calls, then another. They rarely talk over each other. I could learn a lesson in manners from them.
Nearly an hour ago, a cardinal filled the thin morning air with a rich, eager call. Peterson calls them northern cardinals and describes their call as What-cheer, what-cheer, what-cheer, what-cheer! But I’m certain these are southern birds. No northern bird would pronounce “cheer” with two syllables like these. It’s more like, What-chee-er, what-chee-er, what-chee-er, what-chee-er!
Yesterday, for the first time in several weeks, I saw a pair of Turtle Doves on my street. Not since November 7th, have I seen two turtle doves anywhere in my neighborhood. That was the day I found the pile of feathers just north of my front porch – right outside my office window. Before that, the pair made daily appearances. They would land on the porch rail, fly over to the fence between my yard and Miss Lucy’s property, then on to Miss Lucy’s tree and finally, to the bird bath. After a drink, they would stop one more time on my porch rail before flying south to spend most of their day down on 19th street either in the vacant lot or on one of the telephone lines that cross Mitchell.
Immediately after the murder, I didn’t see either bird for several days. Then, one morning, I heard the soft, telltale call. Hoo-hroo, hoo-hrooo. I ran to the porch to see a single bird flying to a telephone pole two doors down from me. A single bird. I had never seen a turtle dove alone before. They are always in pairs. I had to fight back the anger I felt toward the cat in order to fully feel sorrow for the dove. Anger is powerful that way, and as a result, I think that we humans sometimes miss out on the depth and richness of sorrow – a beautiful emotion when anger isn’t drowning it out.
It’s strange but even now, several weeks later and after he has found a new partner, I still get that heavy feeling in my chest when I think about him out there alone. And I still get a little angry when I see the black and white cat I pegged for the deed.
I have referred to the lone turtle dove as “he” ever since the murder, but of course I don’t know what sex it is. Male and Female turtle doves look identical. I tried calling it “she” but it just didn’t feel right. I’m sure Freud or Robert Bly could explain why I’m that way. Of course they would probably also have something to say about my thoughts on anger and sorrow.
Yesterday there was a hairy woodpecker across the street in one of the big, old trees on the alley. I wish I could plant big, old trees in my yard to draw the woodpeckers over here. I talked to the folks at the nursery but they don’t sell “big, old trees.” I told them that they should. I think there would be a market for them.
The northern mockingbirds are singing now. I love their varied, melodic songs and having almost never seen them in Chicago, always associated them with the south and home. Given my associations with them, I would love to cast them as southerners too, but I don’t really have a good argument for changing their name – definitely not as solid an argument as for the cardinal. In fact, I could more easily argue the contrary. They certainly don’t exhibit good southern manners – always making fun of the other birds, chasing after the crows, talking out of turn. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not bashing northerners. I’m just drawing a contrast between acceptable southern behavior and the behavior of mockingbirds. That’s all. Some of the best mannered people I know are northerners. Linda O’Callahan, for instance and Gail Permenter. Lovely, northern women with delightful manners…
There are three empty lots across the street from me. All three are owned by Chattanooga Neighborhood Enterprises and all are for sale. Yesterday, men with chainsaws and a chipper cut down nearly every tree, bush, and hedge on all three properties, reduced them to chips and drove away with the remains. The sparrows loved the hedges and the grackles and starlings filled the trees. Mockingbirds and cardinals frequented the bushes. If I were building a house on one of those lots, I would want the habitat. I’m relieved that they at least left the two biggest, oldest trees. The new property owners will be able to plant bushes, but not big, old trees.
The wrens are calling again. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! I wish they would say something else. When they want to, they are capable of singing a beautiful song. I think they might be sad about the missing trees. Or, perhaps they’re mourning murdered neighbors. Or, maybe all they’re saying is “Hey! Hey!Hey! Hey! Hey!”