 A Helping Hand Over the past few months I've half-jokingly told anyone who would listen that my summer's project will be writing a self-help book. And the topic is nothing less than a humans relationship with reality. To this end, the notes in my coil-bound journal which mark the passing of summer are divided into bird nesting related incidents, daily checklists of birds, details of interesting bird events, and at the back a section devoted to thoughts for a self-help book. In writing about reality there never seems to be a shortage of “material.” You could say that reality is always in your face. Reality as it unfolds pulls the “you,” the subjective you, into the experience and makes the intellectual “you,” from whence the wise words flow, vanish. (Hey, this is already becoming wordy and obscure. And this from a person writing a self-help book?) Perhaps a bird-related example will serve to demonstrate my relationship to 'helping' in general, and self-helping. About a month and a half ago I arrived at Doug and Karen's house, which I was to look after for the summer, and I immediately began watching the closest nest box with great interest. It was easy to watch the nest box from the front deck of the house, and this particular nest box progressed at a rate similar to the other twelve Tree Swallow-bearing nest boxes sprinkled about the area. This would allow me to document the birds nesting in the nearest box without visiting all the other boxes, every day. For awhile everything went well. Each day the nestling Swallows grew noisier. The parent bird made food drop offs from morning till night, and blast-furnace heat nor driving rain stayed the parent from its appointed rounds. I believed the nestlings would soon be capable of leaving the nest, and then something odd happened. In retrospect it should have dawned on me something was amiss as the only bird making food deliveries was the female. Usually both parents are involved. One late morning I realised there had been no activity around the nest box. The nestlings called but the parent bird did not bring food. I was so used to the parent bringing food that at first I doubted my recollection of the morning and decided to sit and watch the comings and goings around the nest box. An hour went by and no parent bird. The young were nearing the fledgling stage so my first thought was that maybe some had flown the nest. This would explain the parent bird's absence as she was away taking care of those that left the box. After about two hours I went to the box and listened. Judging by the sound some of the young were still inside. I opened the box and one nestling tumbled onto the grass. Another, clung to the front of the nest as the flap on the box opened and was able to scramble back into the nest. The young bird that fell to the ground was unharmed. I put it back and noted there were four nestlings. It was very likely this was the complete brood and none had yet flown. Judging by the age of the nestlings it would be at least another week at least before they could take wing. There was no doubt. The parent bird was gone and the nestlings were abandoned. Now what was I going to do? My choices ranged from not getting involved to taking on the care and feeding of the abandoned Tree Swallows. If there were only one or two nestlings I could have placed them into other nest boxes as “foster” birds. I won't go into all the machinations of how I reached my decision but as the sun set and darkness fell the four nestlings still sat unattended in their box. The next morning, as I suspected no sounds came from the nest box in question. I assumed lack of food killed all four nestlings. Despite making the decision to not interfere my mind constantly dwelt on the predicament the Swallows faced - my reaction to the birds predicament - and the final outcome. As a result my eyes would always return to rest on the box where I assumed the dead Swallows lay - and I ran all types of alternate scenarios. About noon, and a hot one, I was over in the direction of the box when to my surprise and mild horror I looked up and saw a Swallow sitting in the opening of the box. It was immediately apparent that it was a nestling and not an adult bird. I marched to the box. As I approached the nestling fell back out of sight into the interior. I carefully opened the flap at the front of the box and the light revealed three dead nestlings and in the back corner was the one live Swallow now scrunched into the back corner trying to evade capture. I knew what I must do. I picked the live nestling up and put it in my hat. Just across the road were three active Tree Swallow boxes with parent birds incessantly feeding their young. I selecting a box that looked a lot like the one the orphan nestling was raised in then I pushed the bird into the hole and departed. I hoped the survivor wasn't too long without food, and that it had the strength to fight for its share in a nest full of rambunctious step brothers and sisters. I checked on the box later in the day and was pleased to see regular food delivery was taking place, and the seemingly uninterrupted jabber of nestlings suggested all was fine inside. There was no way to know what really transpired but having had the chance to help at least one of the abandoned nestlings gave me some solace. Several days later as the dogs and I walked past the box into which I'd deposited the orphaned nestling, one of the dogs nosed a small bird in the grass. It was a Tree Swallow obviously too young to be out of the nest. I deduced that it came from the nearby box and placed it inside. Later that same day, upon hearing no sound from what was the previous day a rowdy nest full of birds, I opened the front flap. The box was empty. Even the nestling I'd put in earlier was gone. There was no way it could have flown. When I found it earlier it must have again felt itself abandoned as the other nestlings, old enough to fly, took wing followed by the parent birds. The bird I saw on the grass was probably the orphan I'd deposited. It had made it through the first transplant but being younger than its siblings was left and now, tired of waiting for parent birds that weren't coming, it had jumped out of the box. My intervention, better late than never it seemed, still had not produced the hoped for result. In the end my helping hadn't helped. We have an expression we like to use when we step back from interfering with a course of natural events – 'letting nature take its course'. Well that's not easily done. Letting nature take its course is like successfully following the instructions in a self-help book. It would be easy to do if there wasn't so much 'self ' in the way. To e-mail Tom CLICK HERE To look at previous column CLICK HERE |
