Nature in the time of Pandemic

March 3rd, 2020. Early morning in the life of a growing Pandemic.

Startled by a shower of wood chips, I yelled “What?” and looked up. A flicker couple, resplendent in their red mustaches and mottled feathers made a quick get-away from our towering silver maple. They had been scoping out the tree for weeks. Their distinctive call, a loud, rolling rattle with its piercing tone had disrupted the quiet in our little neighborhood. Flitting among the branches, they made a comforting, wick-a, wick-a murmur that seemed to say, “I’m here, love.”

In the early morning chill of spring, I watched in awe from a lawn chair, my bathrobe wrapped around my pajamas, my head tipping back. With long beaks, they returned and continued their work, chipping out a small 2 inch diameter hole. I moved my chair as the wood chips fell from 15 feet above. To my gardening delight, they accumulated, forming a blond mulch on the dry earth. The birds showed an inspiring work ethic pecking for hours a day, which turned into weeks.

We set up a tall fruit ladder alongside the tree trunk. When the pair took a food break, I stood before the ladder gathering courage to steady my trembling legs. the cold aluminum under my hands held no reassurance. Then my foot connected with the first rung, and I felt alive. I took a breath and lifted my opposite foot to the next level. Each step brought me closer to the hole and at the top I let out my pent up breath. It came out hot as I clasped a dried branch brought along to measure the depth. As I looked at the stick, I saw the ground below and wavered with vertigo. My family stood below, one holding the ladder and my two grown children whispering soft words of encouragement. The pandemic had brought them back to their rural Oregon nest when their jobs ended. I was happy they were here.

“Hold on, Mom.”

“You’re there. Use the stick.”

Afraid of spiders that might be sharing the nest, I grimaced and forced myself to shove the slender stick into the small hole. Down and down it went. By the time it met resistance, it measured seventeen inches. I gave a triumphant smile to the audience below and before climbing down took a fleeting glance at the world from my perch. A wondrous view of spring in southern Oregon. Flowering pear trees, tulips in full bloom and an abundance of weeds. From this height it seemed like our diligent flicker parents had made a safe home for their pending family, and I breathed easier for them as I descended the ladder.

A few days later a swarm of starlings flew by and noticed the cavity. Their relentless badgering escalated from dive bombing the working flicker couple into a brutal battle with screeches and feathers flying. The woodpeckers were forced out and stayed away for several days, possibly nursing battle wounds.

With no hesitation, the starlings moved in, even having the audacity to lay a pastel, blue egg. My daughter found a kitchen grabber and I climbed the ladder with determination to evict the squatters. I pulled out an odd array of pine needles, dried weeds, packing tape and the egg. I screamed as the aggressive starlings flew about my head, clearly intent on sending me crashing to the ground. I held onto the tree, its gnarled bark rough under my sweaty palms.

Back on the ground, we hastily researched starlings and woodpeckers. Flickers, though larger and heavier, will lose to the aggressive starlings and their strong claws. Hence flicker numbers are dwindling. We took action. As musicians, we owned an arsenal of percussion instruments: We used woodblocks plus duck and train whistles to deter the dastardly European aliens. Yet, they grew bolder. We went for heavier artillery. My son’s air soft gun helped, but still the starlings badgered the flicker parents.

A BB gun stemmed the tide. I am a peaceful person, and never allowed guns into my house - up to this point. Weapons of mass destruction were kept in a shed on the back of our property. Protecting the flickers became paramount and several quick lessons by my 21 year old son, gave me a new appreciation for such an arsenal. I became adept at quietly opening the sliding glass door, while creeping forward onto the back deck, gun in hand. A few of my shots connected with the shimmery black tail feathers and convinced the starlings we meant business. But still they persisted.

The day my husband felled one, altered the flock’s flight pattern. Even with a casualty on the ground, they sat, in pure defiance in a nearby walnut tree emitting their piercing, taunting whistles. That day I seemed to become one with the flickers, and Freddy Mercury’s Under Pressure played in my head alongside We Shall Overcome.

Over the next weeks, the flickers didn’t seem to mind our weed whacker, our Brittany Spaniel barking at passersby or our foster lamb, Rusty bleating out his need for formula. The steady peck, peck, peck continued inside the tree until their nest was deep and wide enough for one parent to rest on the eggs.

The eggs! One a day for seven days. We were ecstatic and continued our intermittent surveillance. With each climb, my heart beat just as hard as my first ascent. At age 66, a fall could result in broken bones, yet I crept up, wondering like a small child at Christmas, what I might see inside the hollow limb. Below me my husband held the ladder and encouraged me.

“Don’t look down. One more step should do it.”

My hand shook as I placed my I-phone into the hole. It fit! I held my breath and pressed the white button. Click. Flash!

Two eggs of the palest pink hue showed in my lens as we huddled on the ground oohing and aahing like grandparents hovering over a first grandchild. Within a few days, five more eggs appeared. They turned white. Eleven days passed until the babies hatched. My climbs became faster, but still my knees trembled. I had to be stealth and quick because the parents left for only rare minutes, finding food for their young. Ants make up 45% of their diet.

One day, little naked dinosaurs broke free of their alabaster shells. Bare, pink and ugly, I shivered at the photo. Only a mother could love these mugs. Days later, downy feathers covered their rosy bodies and the racket started. It sounded like berserk cicadas bent on taking over the world. The babes emitted a raucous buzzing whenever a parent returned or my shaking camera appeared above them.

The young flickers became stronger and clung to the inside of the hole until one day, the strongest of the lot, poked his head out.

“Ah! Fresh air. Wow, look at this world,” he must have told the others, hovering underneath.

More heads appeared, as they jockeyed for a peek outside.

“Look! I see…”

Who knows what they thought of my unruly yard or the world, but it was all before them. The earth was theirs.

During the Pandemic, we rarely ventured out of our three bedroom nest and the flickers had become our entertainment. Holed up for so long, we needed to restock our food supply and made a trip to the market. On our return, the back yard had taken on an eerie quiet. No heads bobbing up, no thousand bees buzzing. In the deafening silence, I ventured up the ladder, placed my phone inside the hole and clicked.

No babies. No parents. Only a pile of bird poop. No goodbyes.

In the following hours and days, the Pandemic seemed to close in. I missed these feathery creatures, but realized they left a vast treasure trove of memories. Without seeking it, Nature lived fiercely and peacefully, only five feet from our back door in a giant silver maple tree.

P.S. They have returned and the war has continued.