Baby birds join our families for a moment, then they grow up
Each of us has a story. This one made our paper. To suggest someone for the Us column, which runs every Monday, email uscolumn@post-gazette.com.
Can birds become members of your family? It sure feels like it when they’re born before your eyes.
A year ago, Jolene Miklas Schneider was leaving her Brentwood home when she heard a “commotion” in a barberry bush by the front door.
“It was such a lucky moment,” she says. “I peeked in at the moment the first baby was taking his first breath. It took my breath away.”
Yes, Jolene is a writer. She’s also a pretty good videographer, pulling out her smartphone to capture video of a tiny song sparrow shaking off a piece of eggshell like a too-big helmet. Its oversized bald head wobbles on a spindly neck before its mouth opens in a silent cry.
Jolene continued to video the nest — where are the parents? — as the firstborn and three siblings grew wispy hair, then feathers, and opened their eyes.
They also grew fat, thanks to mom and dad, who weren’t neglectful after all. One parent sometimes squawked at Jolene from an overhead utility line.
On the morning of Day 13, she checked in on the babies on her way to work. There were just three — it’s not unusual for a baby bird to die or be shoved out of the nest. That evening, when she got home, she found the nest empty. She’s fairly certain they flew away.
“I was really worried for them,” she says. “I spent a lot of time in my yard that night, checking for cats.”
Jolene didn’t find any babies hopping around the yard, but just in case, she bought fox urine and sprinkled it around her front yard.
She and her husband, Billy Schneider, don’t have children, but they were delighted “when a little bird family” moved in.
“For those two weeks, they felt like honorary members of our family,” she says. “I would love for it to happen again.”
It might, Jolene, if you have the right birds. My wife and I have been lucky enough to host several little bird families on a windowsill outside our laundry room.
Mourning doves first made a nest three years ago in a niche created by an awning frame I installed to grow hop vines. It’s somewhat sheltered from rain by the roof overhang, making it the perfect spot for mourning doves, according to the Cornell University Lab of
Ornithology.
One day in late June 2017, I saw a small ring of pine needles and twigs and a pair of what I thought were pigeons eyeing me through the window. If I had been paying close attention, I might have seen this: “The male carries twigs to the female, passing them to her while standing on her back.”
With that kind of “help,” I suspect she would rather do it herself.
This June, I saw a mourning dove sitting on the same nest but never saw an egg. Then she disappeared. Figuring she had found a better spot, I placed a window box on the sill and planted coleus and bright yellow sweet potato vine in it. Not long after, I was pleasantly surprised to see a new nest tucked in the corner of the window box in the shade of the vine’s large leaves.
I wondered if these could be the same mourning doves from past years. Probably, according to www.diamonddove.info, a fascinating website created by Helen White, of Tallahassee, Fla., to share information about diamond doves, which are native to Australia but are kept as pets.
When Helen started getting inquiries about other kinds of doves, she created offshoot pages for them, including mourning doves. She says they are very comfortable nesting close to humans, making nests on porches, decks and even balconies of high-rises. Once they lay the usual two eggs, they don’t spook easily.
I can confirm that. My doves never move, even when I open the window to water the plants. She — or he, since dads gives moms a break occasionally — will shift a little to make sure I’m not up to something. It’s usually the only way I can tell whether the eggs have hatched.
Working from home during the pandemic has given me many more chances to see “our” little bird family. I’ve seen feeding time, and hungry babies poking dad looking for more. I say dad because I recognized the look in his eyes: “When will your mother get home?” he seemed to say.
I even got to see the boys — sorry, they remind me of my sons — leave the nest. They were alone and had taken to wandering around the window box like jungle explorers. I opened the window to water and the larger one took off for the nearest pine tree, whistling like a skeet.
The smaller one turned to look at me but didn’t budge. He reminded me of my younger son, whose curiosity usually outweighs his fear. I closed the window but checked back later.
The nest was empty, just like ours.