One of my favorite pandemic diversions came from a bag of birdseed.
We’ve long had a bird feeder. But pre-pandemic, no one in my household ever seemed to have the time or inclination to fill it. Once in a while we’d buy seed, stash it in the shed and find it, sometimes years later, the bag torn open and most of the seed eaten by critters. But recently, as the weather turned cold and the days got short and often gray, a full ' feeder seemed the perfect antidote to the gloom.
It didn’t take long before the birds started coming around, and the squirrels and rabbits. One recent weekend day, with no one in my household having any pressing obligations (a beautiful side benefit of the pandemic, in my opinion), the four of us — my husband, our two almost-grown children and myself — found ourselves in the kitchen at the same time, jostling for position at the stove, in front of the refrigerator, the cabinets. I moved out of the way in our tiny galley kitchen to wait until the crowd cleared. Absently, I found myself gazing out the window into the backyard.
Soon I was transfixed by the wildlife scene unfolding on the other side of the glass. A couple of mourning doves huddled together on the ground below the bird feeder. Squirrels chased one another up and down a tree. A rabbit hid behind some rocks around the small fish pond in the corner of the yard. A dozen or so birds flitted between the feeder and the bird bath and the little fountain that spilled water into the almost-frozen pond.
That day, the sky was overcast. And against the dismal backdrop, I saw the most beautiful woodpecker I’ve ever laid eyes on: a big bird with regal black and white plumage topped with a bright-red head. I called my family members over to the window. Before long, we were all staring, slack-jawed.
For the next few weeks, we kept the bird feeder full, trying out different types of seed: sunflower, corn-infused, organic, generic. The wildlife show continued. I noticed that everyone in my family would occasionally linger by the window as they passed through the kitchen — even my kids, who normally appear more engrossed in images on Instagram and TikTok than real-world scenery.
Whether or not we realize it, the past 10 months of relative social isolation has dampened our moods and even threatened to plunge us into despair at times. Those birds were giving us a slight reprieve from our daily rut that came from being cooped up during the pandemic. A recent study out of the University of Exeter supports my theory. Researchers found that people who live in neighborhoods with more birds and greenery were less prone to depression, anxiety and stress.
But on the heels of all those birds in our backyard came the pitter-patter of very small feet overhead, which further threatened our sanity — and our outdoor wildlife sanctuary of sorts. The noises seemed to be coming from inside the walls at times, and in the space between roof and ceiling. The squealing and scurrying woke us in the middle of the night.
I called wildlife removal specialists, who explained that the critters had become habituated — a fancy term meaning they’d gotten comfortable in our presence. Too comfortable. As the wildlife removal expert explained the traps they’d set on the roof and the holes they’d patch afterward, I interrupted him.
“Do you think our bird feeder is ‘feeding’ our squirrel problem?” I asked.
“I think you know the answer to that question,” he responded.
Our family has been fortunate throughout the pandemic. We’ve stayed healthy, and no one’s lost their job. I have little to complain about. Still, I resented having to stop filling the bird feeder.
Fast forward about a week later, and the pitter patter of feet overhead had stopped. But so too had the display of cardinals, woodpeckers, chickadees and assorted other birds that had taken up temporary residence in the backyard.
Nevertheless, the other day, out of habit I suppose, I found myself staring out the kitchen window. There were shriveled plants still in pots, twigs the wind had forced to the ground, clusters of brown leaves pressed against the fence. Then out of the dullness, I saw a flash of red. I followed it as it rose high, landing on a branch almost out of sight. The woodpecker had returned.
Elizabeth Heubeck (emheubeck@gmail.com) is a Baltimore-based freelance writer.