The Bird Saga Continues

I failed to mention that about a month prior to all of this, there were nests built up in the gutters above the garage. We weren't aware of them until a gust of wind blew 2 of the babies out of their nests and they came tumbling down toward the garage door, which so happened to be open at the time. One went scurrying in and the other one went in the opposite direction. Needless to say, poor old Randy was stuck with making sure that bird was out of the garage before either of us started our cars. What we didn't realize in all the gusting of birds, was that 2 more were in the garage, which we found the next day. One was behind the plantation shutter and the other had met its demise, I'm unhappy to say. Randy made sure the surviving one was put out safely in the bushes so mom and dad could see it and he "took care of the other one." (So help me if anyone ever excavates this yard they are going to be amazed at the bird bones they find.) The next thing you know we found a Mom or Dad bird in our recycling bin...dead of course. I am starting to take this personally.

Back to more recent bird happenings...I went out yesterday morning to do my daily AM perusal of the garden and there were bird feathers all over the place. Moulting has begun it appears. I don't know how else to account for the many feathers scattered everywhere. Will keep you posted on that one, but before I ventured down to the pond, I saw something that appeared to be an armadillo floating on the water. Randy came out and agreed that's how it looked to him too, so we got our trusty binoculars out just to make sure. We still couldn't discern what it was until Randy finally decided to take the trek down to see for himself. "It's a dead goose," he shouts up to me. The next thing I'm wondering is if it's the old gray goose, and then the ending to a childhood song that I hadn't sung in years came to mind..."the old gray goose is dead." It wasn't though...yes, the goose was dead, but it wasn't the old gray one, because about 20 minutes later the word must have gotten out because they had all formed what appeared to be a funeral procession down to the far end of the pond where no one wants to go because EVERYTHING finds a resting place down there. At this point, I have not seen the goose's mate, but I am sure I will as our yard is where they come to mourn. I have determined that is not a bad thing necessarily, because in the realm of goosedom, they seem to be quite respectful of a fellow goose's mourning period. So you see, we provide land for one goose as opposed to MANY geese and there is less goose excrement as a result. (I try to look for the good in every situation.) I will start counting geese again. We should be down to 22 now. My little gardening buddy, Olivia, asked me where all the other geese died in the course of their lives. I didn't want to tell her about goose hunting season, so I just said, "Whenever their time comes, that's where they drop." She seemed satisfied with that so I just left it alone. I really do think it's a parent's job to discuss death and religion with their children.

P.S. There are 22 geese now...an even number. Maybe the one left from last year's catastrophe died of a broken heart and now all is even again. I would hate to think a new family had been touched by sorrow, because we all know...their cardinal rule is that they do not mate again after a mate dies. They've got my attention once again. I will keep you posted. In the meantime, just enjoy the chirping of the birds and pray that they will enjoy long lives and happiness.

Fowl Language

Nope...not so. I went to water the other baskets and the mom and dad were no longer hiding in the elm tree; they were screaming to the kids to lay low. So help me, I should have stopped watering and cleaning the baskets right then, but I just figured they were being territorial since I do not understand fowl language and never have. I went to the next basket, then the next and before you know it, I've got baby birds fluttering all over the place. I could have kicked myself. SURELY I had waited long enough if the doves were already gone.

To make matters worse, I went down to turn off the water, and there's a baby bird struggling. I felt so horrible I went to put on gloves to put it back in the basket and came back and it was too late. I felt really bad then. But, with just a little walk in the back yard a few hours later, I had a chance to redeem myself. I found a little bird that had fallen out of its nest below one of the big trees, so I gave it a little water and determined that if it survived the night, I would take care of it. It did and I did. I had Randy pick it up and put it in a little bird's nest left over from the year before, then I went and dug up some worms and told him he had to chew on the worms and regurgitate them into the baby's mouth to feed it, so it would think it was its dad. Needless to say, he didn't do that, but he did chop the worm into small pieces and feed it with the tip of a straw. That bird was not in the least bit afraid of us. It was missing its tail feathers, but didn't seem the worse for wear. In fact, it was a spunky little thing and seemed very demanding.

I Googled, "What do baby birds eat that fall out of nests?" and got a quick fix that I liked. The writer said that some birds are pushed out of their nests because they are too weak. I looked again at that spunk, and said that couldn't be this case, but then looked at the bird and saw all those feathers missing, so wasn't sure. The article went on to say that I should put holes in a Cool Whip tub, line it with paper towels, then put a little straw or a nest inside it, then place the bird in the tub and place it as high as we could back in the tree it fell from, and that sometimes the mother and father will alternate between nests. That sounded so good to me, but we decided not to do that until the next day, Sunday. In the meantime, I was hunting worms every spare minute, because those little birds eat all the time when they are that small.

We got home from a movie and the little bird was out on the back patio. Mollie got to her before we did and scared the you-know-what out of her...us too. We got her safely back in her nest, put a little fence cover over her after feeding her one last time before bedtime, then came in for the evening. THEN came this horrible storm around midnight...I'm not kidding, I think it was the worst night storm we have ever had up here. (Of course Randy didn't hear it. I guess he was so exhausted from being "Big Bird" that day.) Anyway, he got up the next day and said the baby hadn't made it through the night. It sure didn't die from hunger, but I'll bet it was scared to death from the storm with no mom to comfort it.

After that, I told the Lord that I guessed we were even. I'd tried to take care of that little bird and had even planned on teaching it to come when called. I had no sooner finished my little prayer, when I felt compelled to walk back to where I'd found the bird in the first place, and lo and behold, there was its brother/sister. I looked heavenward and said, "Why me, Lord? Why me?" I turned away and said, "Lord, this one's yours." In His grace and love, He sent my little neighbor, Olivia the animal lover, over to find that bird. I figured she'd feed it a few worms and that would be that, but no...I guess she needed to find out for herself about "survival of the fittest."

I went to bed with a clear conscience and got up the next morning and went to look at my garden, when I heard Olivia running over from next door. "Mrs. McCann, I've got good news!" I was ready for some good news after the bird mortality rate had just gone up by leaps and bounds due to ME, so I said, "I can't wait to hear. WHAT?" I took that baby bird home last night and put it in a cage and it survived the night!" I looked at her incredulously and said, "You did?" I have to admit that I was a little relieved to know she was now responsible for the bird, and not me. "Yes," she replied, "and my mom told me to bring it back this morning." I looked at her through twitching eyes (That happens when I get unduly stressed.) and asked, "Is it there now?" "Uh huh," she replied with joy. I didn't even hesitate. I told her that this bird was on its own. I had tried to help the other one and it had died. I recounted what I'd read about the mom kicking the weak ones out. I reminded her about the survival of the fittest, because every kid in the world has seen the "Lion King" and knows all about the food chain, and then I told her I was leaving this one for God to take care of. She looked at me and said, "Well, I think it's always best to at least try." I figured that is what she had done, but I walked over to the garden and cast a quick glance through the flowers and didn't see any sign of the baby bird. I've stopped looking, because I don't want to see it. I have painted this beautiful picture in my head, that because this bird appeared to be stronger and had its tail feathers in tact, that it has what it takes to survive. That's my story and I'm sticking to it...but...there's more. Stay tuned.

It's official. We are "bird grandparents." Every basket hanging on our porch contains a nest of some kind of bird. We go through this every year, with last year being the absolute most stressful spring of my life. I don't mind them building their nests in our hanging baskets on the porch...in fact we love peering at them through the slats in our plantation shutters, BUT they got a little invasive last year and went and built nests in all of our air vents for our bathroom fans. Needless to say, I was gritting my teeth the first time I turned on our bathroom fan over the shower to take out steam and heard who knows what being ground by the fan blades. I quickly shut it off and then yelled for Randy. It was shortly thereafter that we started hearing movement above our heads, like birds, lots of birds, moving around. I told Randy we'd give them this year, then no more nests in our vents.

So, Randy, and our brother in law, Larry (who always gets the crummy jobs, but smiles through them all) took his long arms and pulled all the straw out of our vents. To keep them from coming back this year, we balled up chicken wire and placed them at each entrance. Sure enough, those little creatures of habit came back and they pecked for weeks trying to get back in to those vents. It can be very unnerving, especially if you saw Alfred Hitchcock's, "The Birds" when you were a child, like I did. (I can't believe some of the stuff our parents took us to see at the drive-in movies back in those days!)

Mourning doves seem to have squatting rights in the first basket near our window. They have an exceptionally long fledgling period in my opinion. They appear to be teenagers before they fly the coup (nest in this case.) It was quite interesting this year, watching how Mom and Dad would probably be hiding behind leaves in the nearby elm tree watching the kids as they tried to wean themselves away from them. It reminded me of Leah when she was 4, wanting to exercise a little independence, telling me she wanted to go outside by herself. I complied and would shut the door telling her not to go near the street and she'd readily reply, "I am't." Then I'd glue myself to the wall, and peek from behind the curtain until she was safely back in the house, asking her to recount her big adventure alone. She was just happy as a little lark.

The baby doves were no different. They'd perch themselves on the very edge of the basket and you could just imagine one of them saying to the other, "Look at me!" Then they'd flutter their wings in pride at their accomplishment. We knew it was getting closer to "TIME" when Mom and Dad stayed away for a whole day and didn't return until dinnertime. They were all gone within two days.

I decided it was time to pinch off dead geranium flowers finally. Randy had already installed a drip mist system so we wouldn't have to disturb them and could ensure our flowers stay watered, plus we read recently that watering them doesn't hurt them, so we'd spray from a distance, a fine mist. I figured if those doves took that long to mature, surely all the other nests would be empty by now. Not so. To be continued...

Not just the "Captain of the Neighborhood Watch"

Maurice Duke Ferrara was born June 15, 1914 in New York. He served on various ships of the United Stats Navy. He was Commander the USS Gar (SS-206), the USS Tambor (SS-198), The USS Finback (SS-30) and Commanded the USS Gearing (DD-710) from July 25, 1951 to February 4, 1953. He then became Commander of the Naval Station & FTC San Diego California. He was awarded the Legion of Merit, a Bronze Star Medal and the Navy Commendation Medal. He retired in 1962. Maurice Ferrara died December 31, 1987 in San Diego, California.

OBITUARY: The San Diego Tribune, January, 1, 1988 - A mass for retired Navy Capt. Maurice Ferrara, 73 of Loma Portal, will be said at 1 p.m. tomorrow in St. Charles Borromeo Roman Catholic Church. Burial will be in Holy Cross Cemetery. Goodbody Mortuary is in charge. He died yesterday in a hospital. Capt. Ferrara was born in New York City, was a resident of the county for 40 years, Graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy and retired from the Navy in 1962. He was a member of the Submarine Veterans of World War II , the retired Officers Association, the Naval Academy Alumni Association, the Naval Academy Athletic Association and sports Association of San Diego County.
He served on the boards of the Kiwanis Club of San Diego, the Kiwanis Foundation and the Metropolitan YMCA.
Survivors include his wife, Judith; four sons, Duke, Tom, Jim and Mike, and a daughter Judy Atkins, all of San Diego; a brother Polly, and two sisters, Pauline Snyder and Anne Maccarrone, all of San Diego; and eight grandchildren. The family suggested donations to the Kiwanis Foundation or the San Diego Hall of Champions.

Maurice "Duke" Ferrara lived across the street from us in San Diego, Pt. Loma specifically, right down from the Naval Training Center. I remember meeting him for the first time as he stood outside walking an old friend to his car. Duke spoke first welcoming us into the neighborhood and then put out his hand and said, "I'm Duke Ferrara, Captain of the neighborhood watch," in a strong confident voice. I was 26 years old and Randy was 30. I wasn't quite sure what the Captain of the Neighborhood Watch did, but I can tell you I didn't fear too much in those days knowing Duke was on watch directly from across the street. He was retired military and I never knew until this day, as I thought about true heroes who have fought to retain our freedom, what he did exactly. The little piece up above does little to identify the expanse of his military career.

I remember vividly when he told us all about his pending trip to the Phillipines to be honored by Fernando Marcos in appreciation of what the American forces had done all those years ago to help them in their time of need. Duke's rendition of the story gave us all chill bumps as he recounted how his sub had gone in and saved the day. He was enamored with all the red carpet treatment and festivities done in their honor, along with a statuary of some kind erected on the beach, proclaiming their names and offices. They were given gifts and pictures to commemorate their time there.

It was shortly thereafter that things turned upside down in the Phillipines under Marcos' rule and the relations with the United States was severed, but Duke Ferrara remained faithful to his small part in the annals of loyalty to God and country and looked past the human frailty of others and remained steadfast in proclaiming there's good in every body. I salute today, Duke Ferrara, Captain of the Neighborhood Watch and am thankful to have known him and called him "FRIEND."