Dying for Chocolate

I was getting tired of always making excuses for him.

When we got to the tables I blissfully began to unpack checkered tablecloths and to place rocks on them to keep the breeze from wafting them off. The birders settled around on the benches and opened—yes!— notebooks. Lord, I was glad not to be a part of it.

“Goldy,” said General Farquhar, “what do you think you’re doing?”

I looked up at him in surprise. “Why,” I said, gesturing to the tablecloths, “getting ready for the picnic. What else?”

“You’re a part of the family,” he said firmly. “I want you to come on this expedition with us. No need for anyone to be left out.”

“But I really, really, really want to get ready for the picnic,” I said earnestly. I leaned in toward his ear and smelled Dial soap. In a confidential tone, I added, “I think birds are dumb.”

When he shook his head his translucent cheeks glowed with authority. “This is going to be fun! I want you to enjoy this along with everyone else. No excuses.”

Arch breathed a singsong You’ll be sor-ry, but I did not know whether this was intended for the general or me. Giving up, I cursed the resourcefulness of the Audubon Society when a notebook and pen were provided for me.

“The eagle population is down on the Front Range,” the zoo-lady began after a brief look at her notes. She stared at us. I picked up my pen and wrote, “Eagle pop. down,” then looked up at her expectantly.

She said, “This is because of the drought. There are fewer prairie dogs and voles for the birds of prey to feed on.”

She had lost me. I didn’t want to risk another reprimand from the general, so I scribbled, “What’s a vole?” Must be some kind of bird, I figured. What was that Domenico Modugno song about flying? “Volare.”

I smiled at everybody and got up to pour coffee. Listen, look, lift—these were the rules for hunting birds with the binoculars. It sounded like an explanation of working with hand weights. In any event, within ten minutes the zoo-lady had outlined the list of birds we would probably see that day, beginning with a redheaded woodpecker.

Redheaded woodpecker? What was the big deal about that? In New Jersey you saw them all the time.

But we were off and running, or at least the general was. He knew the site of the woodpecker’s nest and was forging ahead to set up the tripod and the scope. In the absence of actual military operations, the r.h.w. was the enemy.

Adele hobbled along the dirt path behind the gaggle of old-time birders. Weezie, elegant in designer jeans and an Indian leather jacket, chatted vivaciously alongside her. Next was Elizabeth Miller in a black leotard and peasant skirt. Weezie studiously ignored her. Arch walked quickly to keep up with Julian. Behind them were Brian and the zoo-lady. She had kind of a beak nose and a profusion of plumage on the top of her head, so I didn’t know how the birds would be able to distinguish her from one of their own. How about if we just set up the scope and looked at her?

“There it is,” the general whispered as he sighted the woodpecker. “Check it out,” he added in the tone you’d associate with spotting a MIG-29. We took turns peeking through the scope. It was a woodpecker, all right.

When we had all had a look I glanced anxiously around at the group. I said, “Are we done?”

There was a sigh of disgust from Julian. He turned back toward the path. The zoo-lady announced we were headed to a slightly higher elevation to look for the dusky flycatcher.

General Bo shouldered the equipment. We hiked along the trail until we came to the new site. We fanned out, walked for a ways, and listened. Listened intently. For what, I wanted to know.

“Gray-headed junco, first pine straight ahead, two o’clock,” said Julian.

To my dismay, everyone in the party, even Arch, knew what Julian was talking about. They all whipped up their binoculars to view the tree in question. I sidled over to Arch and said, “What’s going on?”

He put his finger to his lips and then passed his binoculars over. I tried to look through them. I tried to focus. I saw a bird. It flew away. Then everyone in the group lowered their binoculars and looked around like they’d just had great sex.

“Wow,” said the zoo-lady. “That was really something.”

We all listened again. Julian whirled and spied through his binocs.

“Blue-green vireo, third ponderosa pine, eleven o’clock.”

“Sounds like an air raid,” I said under my breath. But I pulled up my borrowed binoculars, then had to put them down to count one, two, three ponderosa pines, then put them back up and tried to figure if the tree was a clock, which branch would be right before noon? While I was doing all this, I did catch a glimpse of turquoise flitting away from the tree. Branch eleven was empty.

By the time I took my binoculars down, everybody was giving me patronizing looks.

I said, “Maybe next time.”

The zoo-lady announced that since we had not spotted the flycatcher, we were going to look at the nest of a Brewer’s blackbird that Julian said he had found the previous week. We started down a path leading to Flicker Creek. Cottonwoods profuse with new leaves crowded the crumbling shores on both sides. The sun glided out from behind a cloud and turned the cottonwood leaves to silver. A flick of breeze whispered through the trees. Clouds and wind moving in meant our afternoon shower was not too far off. Thank God.

“Just look through those bushes at the cowbird,” Adele said to me when we came to the creek.

I looked where she indicated, and actually saw a dark bird sitting on the branch of a bush. Another bird, unseen but not far off, was squawking frantically. Yet the cowbird sat calm and quiet.

I whispered to Adele, “What’s going on?” Before she could respond, Julian held up his hand to stop the group, and pointed to the bush where the cowbird perched. The group looked. The loud bird began to circle overhead, and then we looked at that.

The zoo-lady turned to the group, which had huddled around her. “The cowbird,” she said, “has no nest of its own but will lay her eggs in the nests of other birds. That’s what’s upsetting the Brewer’s blackbird.”

Well, I was glad we had gotten that straightened out. We waited and eventually the cowbird took off. Then we started across the creek. The general was so chivalrous it touched my heart. He put all his equipment down and gently lifted Adele as if he were carrying her across the threshold. When he put her down on the other side of the water, he kissed her cheek. Instead of looking happy, Adele lowered her head as if she were embarrassed. She glanced at the Harringtons to see if they had noticed. When she saw that they had, she closed her eyes and turned down the sides of her mouth. She veered and started up the bank with such suddenness that she wobbled on her cane.

I couldn’t wait for lunch.

We strode through a batch of spearmint that I would have liked to pick and take back with me, only by doing so I would have broken at least sixteen state laws about leaving things in the wild.

“We’re getting close to the Brewer’s blackbird nest,” Julian whispered.

He needn’t have whispered, as the bird in question began to throw another fit. She circled us, pretty low it seemed to me, and squawked to wake the dead.

I asked timidly, “Are we in any danger here?”

Julian looked at me crossly. “The blackbird might peck at our heads when we approach the nest. That’s all.”

I said, “Will it hurt?”

Julian scowled. “It shouldn’t.”

I put both of my hands over my head, walked back through the spearmint to Arch, and told him to do the same.

He said, “No, it looks stupid.”

On we stumbled through the meadow toward the nest, with the mother bird shrieking louder and louder, until finally Julian stopped us in a small circle. He opened his mouth to say something, but Arch interrupted him.

“Oh, look! A nest of voles!”

I craned my neck back to see what new flock of flying creatures we were now going to encounter. I felt a slight tickling around my feet, but I was determined to see the birds in question this time.

I said, “I don’t see any voles.”

“Well, Mom,” said Arch, “you’re standing on them.”