I’ve been harboring a secret grudge against hummingbirds for a while now.
Since the day my mother hung a discreet single-hole hummingbird feeder on the porch, the hummingbirds have loved her. They duck and swerve in territorial battle for the honor of hovering beautifully in flight, bobbing and sipping at her feeder.
Over time, my mom has saved several from Merciless Nature – warming a nearly frozen bird from her porch, and freeing one caught in a tight cocoon of webs and leaves. After the second salvation, I understood that my mother was a hummingbird whisperer, perhaps even hummingbird goddess. My mother loved her hummingbirds, and they worshipped her.
Last summer, thinking to follow in her footsteps, I found a spot for my own hummingbird feeder. A clever spot, viewable from both my kitchen and bedroom windows. My mom warned me against fancy gimmicky feeders. Unable to find her tried-and-true version, I opted for a 4-port relatively simple feeder that I could strap to the railing of my back steps. I filled it with extra-sweet sugar water and I waited.
And waited…
And waited.
Every day as I worked from my bedroom I stared out at the unused hummingbird feeder. Ants and bees found it, but no hummingbirds.
Be patient, my mom advised. It takes them a while to find a new feeder. Just keep the sugar-water fresh and they will come.
I faithfully rinsed and refilled the feeder once a week for months, adjusting the sugar-to-water ratio hopefully. Still nothing.
So you understand the injustice, San Francisco’s moderate temperatures are a hummingbird haven. We have hummingbirds all year long and six different species of hummingbirds live in the bay area, but I had yet to see a single one.
In contrast, Maryland (and all states east of the Mississippi) gets only one variety, but one of the most spectacular: the Ruby-Throated Hummingbird. As they summer in Maryland, they visit their Queen Mother morning, noon, and night, performing acrobatics to please her. It is a rare summer phone conversation that is not interrupted with a – Oh, oh, he’s back! Look at that!
That’s great, I say. But I’m thinking: Damned hummingbirds.
I didn’t mean it entirely – I’m old enough to know you have to appreciate the beautiful moments that life gives you: the bus showing up on a rainy day just as you reach the bus stop, making it to a gas station after driving 30 miles on empty – but I was a little bitter. Once again, the universe was telling me that I was not capable of following in my mother’s gigantic footsteps. And what more could I possibly do? Mix some meth with the organic sugar from Rainbow?
In the meantime, Mom kept sending one beautiful picture after another of her faithful disciples. That’s right, the hummingbirds visited long enough for her to grab her camera and take pictures – lots and lots of pictures.
Then winter approached and the first blustery storm hit. It was a long one – knocking down branches and leaves and blowing the remaining summer flowers off their stems. In the late afternoon, we got a lull in the storm. People hurried out to move their cars and bring in their trash and recycling bins. I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I saw him…
A very wet hummingbird was perched on my feeder, drinking deeply. His feathers were so dark from the rain I could not distinguish colors or markings. He was not flitting or flying, he was just sitting there, his needle-like beak so deep in the feeder I was afraid he was stuck. I had never seen a hummingbird sitting still. Wings tucked, he was about the size of my thumb, a little rounder, but probably much, much lighter.
He pulled out his beak and sat, dazed. Then he zipped two feet straight up, hovered a nanosecond – and he was gone.
I ran out, refreshed the feeder – which I hadn’t cleaned or filled in a month – and called my mom. I was thrilled, it was the beginning of my new life with hummingbirds.
Except it wasn’t. I kept the feeder fresh and filled all winter long and not a single bird visited again.
Damned hummingbirds.
(to be continued…)
Mom’s disciples:
General Information:
Hummingbird Facts
