A Little Knowledge

We've all seen the effects of what too little knowledge can do. Never mind politics -- even in our personal lives, we have all at one time or another been the unwilling or unwitting target of somebody who had less knowledge than they claimed. I remember one incident quite clearly. I was in sixth grade, and my mother had taken me to the Dominican Republic for one of those half-work, half-play vacations. We were wandering around Santo Domingo, completely lost and simply trying to get back to our hotel. Exasperated by her inability to navigate her way through this bustling Caribbean city, my mother finally stopped by a policeman and asked for directions. The policeman obliged, pointing out where to turn and waving us off with a big smile. Big mistake. We later learned that Santo Domingan police were one of the most underpaid workers in the nation, with little, including a basic knowledge of their own city's geography, provided to them by their superiors. I'm not sure where the police officer sent us to, but after another half hour of unwanted exploration, my mother finally called the hotel and had them send someone to pick us up.

It all leveled out in the end. My mother, too, operated on too little knowledge, only learning later from a colleague that policemen in Santo Domingo expect sizeable tips for their services and that the officer was most likely not waving us off but flagging us back down for his tip. What goes around, comes around.

I recently had the opportunity to attend a birding festival in a nearby county. I was greatly looking forward to attending this event, which was being held on a Nature Conservancy site. In addition to workshops on building nestboxes, seminars, and children's activities, there would also be booth from prominent local and state birding societies, such as our county's Audubon Society and our state's Bluebird Society. I was especially looking forward to the booth run by a regional habitat organization. This group supports the stand that, if you plant native trees, shrubs, vines, and other botanical species, you will provide the natural habitat for the birds that live in your area. With Forest's Edge's multiple acres, I was eager to learn what native plants I could use for a natural yet attractive and bird-friendly landscape.

As the lady running the booth chatted to the visitors who'd arrived before me, I looked at the information table and saw a curious wood contraption peppered with holes. It looked like a miniature covered bridge, except with only one opening. The other people had noticed it, too, and asked the woman what it was. To my surprise, she informed us it was a bluebird nest box!

Oblivious to the incredulous expression on my face, she went on to explain how bluebirds thrive in a well=ventilated next box, because the breezes keep moisture from accumulating in the nest. She noted that its long, horizontal design kept predators from reaching in to grab eggs and chicks, and it was shallow, which bluebirds liked.

Although my mind was envisioning having to plug all the ventilation holes every winter (so the box could be used as a winter roost), my eye quickly noted the absence of a front, top, or side panel that opened for easy monitoring and cleaning.

"How do you monitor it?" I asked.

The woman looked at me as if I'd asked something very basic. She snatched up the next box, and informed me that it attached to the top of a 4 X 4 wooden post. When I explained that I'd said monitor, not mount, she put the box back on the table and informed us, "You don't."

"You don't?" I repeated, not believing my ears.

"Oh, no!" said the woman, who then launched into a very verbose speech about how mother birds can detect human scent on their nests, eggs, and babies and that this may cause her to abandon them; that our skin oils on the box would draw predators; and that it was best to leave nature to nature.

Still in a state of incredulity, I asked what she did to prevent house sparrow predation. Her reply? Oh, if you see them hanging around, just shoo them away, but once they've nested there wasn't much you could do.

I left that booth stunned and completely unsuccessful in convincing the woman that her facts were incorrect. Bluebird societies abide by a main tenet: an unmonitored nest box is an open invitation to house sparrows, and it is better not to put up a nest box than to leave one up unmonitored for house sparrows to occupy. Similarly, the majority of birds have no or minimal sense of smell, so mother birds would not abandon nest, egg, or chick if a human interacted with it. Most of the threatened birds, like bluebirds and purple martins, are indeed tolerant of human intervention and would not be as populous as they are now without it. Having monitored nestling bluebirds, I myself had handled young birds and checked them for blowfly infestation and other issues, and those birds were now a quintet of juveniles who loved coming to gorge at my mealworm feeder. As for house sparrows, most bluebird societies approve the use of passive and active means to deter HOSPs, as they are called, since these invasive birds will maim and kill native birds ... something I learned firsthand recently, upon finding a juvenile goldfinch that had lost its life to a territorial juvenile house sparrow who was in no mood to share a bird feeder with it.

The woman's reply to my information was akin to, "You believe what you want to, I'll believe what I want to," and thus ended my interaction with her and her organization. I later learned that she was known throughout the state for her radical views on birds. I can't help but think of all the people she has minsinformed and all the bluebirds she may have endangered because she had only a little knowledge and refused to receive more.

This unfortunately was not the only encounter with folks of limited knowledge, at least as when it comes to birds. Our town recently hosted its annual community fair, complete with demolition derbies, colorful midway rides, cattle/hog/sheep displays, and baking contests. One of the arenas held the entries and winners of the Best Collections Contest. To my dismay, the blue-ribbon winner was a young man who had entered his bird's nest collection, complete with bluebird nest holding five pale-blue eggs.

I felt it my duty as a county coordinator for our state's bluebird society to notify the "superintendents" of this particular contest that they had awarded the top prize to an entry prohibited by federal law. The Migratory Bird Treaty Act makes it illegal to collect, possess, sell, buy, or tamper with native migratory birds, their feathers, their body parts, their nests, their eggs, and their babies. The US Fish and Wildlife Service goes so far as to counsel people to look but not touch or collect, not even bird feathers found on the ground. Exemptions are available through a lengthy application process with the US FWS, but I somehow doubted that this small-town teen boy even knew what he collected was against the law.

I am also certain that, given this additional knowledge, the fair superintendents chose to do nothing, although it was their duty to confiscate the entry and turn it over to FWS to destroy. My worry from all this? Other children and teens, and even adults, will now want to show an interest in nature and will start collecting nests and/or eggs, unwittingly tampering with the breeding cycle of native birds, some of which only nest once per season and only live for two seasons.

A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

Silent Summer

It's eerie how a yard usually filled with bird song can seem so silent, so empty. It's almost as if something is wrong. Of course, something did go wrong, as far as my backyard birds were concerned: my family went on a week's vacation.

That's one week without the bird feeders being refilled. One week without fresh nectar for the hummingbirds and the orioles. One week without fresh grape jelly or bark butter. One week of a bone-dry bird bath, its Water Wiggler spinning mindlessly despite the lack of liquid.

At least the blackbird bunch is gone.

But other birds are also notably absent. Upon checking the little wren's nest box yesterday, I found a flattened nest, heavily decorated with bird droppings: the sign of a successful fledgling. All five baby wrens are out now, somewhere in the woods being taught how to hunt for insects by their mom. While I'm happy that the wrens successfully left the nest, I'm sad that I missed their fledging... by just a few days, if my records are correct.

The orioles also seem to have moved on. This is prime migration time for them, as they head down from the harvested orchards up north to the more fruitful states of the south. It doesn't help that someone -- a blackbird or a jay, perhaps? -- knocked the oriole feeder off its hanger. I'll be fixing that, but it might be too late.

Two of the hummingbird feeders also tumbled off their hooks. Since it is close to fledging time for the hummer girls and their nestlings, I'm hopeful that these jewel-colored birds will at least return once I clean and restock their feeders.

As for my bluebirds, they had already fledged and were just starting to come to the feeder when we left. The feeder is still on its shepherd's crook, empty. I wonder if any of the bluebirds will return once I refill it. I'm hoping to catch them at least once more, if not persuade them to roost over during the cold season.

There was one sign that all had not left yet. When the rained cleared up yesterday afternoon, a quintet of barn swallows appeared on the front yard, whirling and swooping away in their usual acrobatic antics. Barn swallows never fail to put a smile on my face, and I'm taking it as a positive omen that these birds are still around. If these insect eaters are still here, perhaps the wrens and bluebirds are as well. As for my seed and nectar eaters, I guess I'll know soon enough.

Mischief Makers

The little wren nesting in one of my bluebird trail boxes was in a tizzy. Chittering loudly, she fluttered above her nest box, trying her best to scare away an intruder. I quickly stepped out to look. Was it a raccoon? A bull snake? A cat? Something that had somehow learned that, within that box, five baby wrens were curled up against each other, asleep?

My approach instantly frightened away the invader, although not the finches and other songbirds who've grown accustomed to me over the months. No hungry mammal or reptile had the little wren spooked. No, it was something more menacing, at least in my eyes. It was a red-winged blackbird.

Summer is drawing to a close, but the red-winged blackbirds and their cohorts -- the grackles and crows -- seem to be stepping up the mischief making rather than toning things down in preparation for their southbound journey. Over the weeks, I'd watched their numbers increase, rather than decrease. One morning, instead of a dozen or two blackbirds pecking at the insects in our lawn, I counted 133 of them.

For at least that reason, summer's end cannot come fast enough.

There have been three occasions in which I've strolled along my bluebird trail and caught sight of a bird peeking into the entrance. The first two times, I lifted up my binoculars in hopes of sighting a bluebird looking for a nesting place for a third summer brood. Each time, it turned out to be a silly blackbird or grackle, trying to get inside the nest box, regardless of the fact that there was no way it would fit through the entrance. The third time, I didn't bother to look. I knew it was a blackbird.

Blackbirds -- specifically, the female red-winged blackbirds -- continue to get trapped inside our repeating sparrow trap. I stopped baiting it about three weeks ago, and still those nosy blackbirds get trapped inside. I'm starting to think that the grackles are daring the blackbirds to go check out that wire-and-wood contraption, then secretly laughing behind their wings.

Blackbirds -- this time, specifically the male blackbirds -- are responsible for gobbling up the bark butter I've started setting out for the titmice and chickadees. Just this morning, I watched a little chickadee hop its way along our deck rail onto the bark butter feeder, just to discover that most of that tasty bird mixture had been devoured just after dawn by the blackbirds.

Blackbirds -- and grackles, too -- have been emptying my sunflower seed and peanut feeders faster than I can fill them. I discontinued the ground feeder because of them. I'm loathe to take away any of the hanging feeders, not when that might mean not seeing the songbirds and little migratory birds just arriving in this area on their way south.

"Why don't we just trap or shoot them?" J asks, seeing my annoyed expression as yet another blackbird lands on the thistle feeder, scaring away the dozen goldfinches that had gathered there to feast.

"We can't... they're protected birds," I reply, rapping on the kitchen window to scare away the blackbird and noting that this method of shooing them away is becoming less and less effective.

"Who's going to know? I won't tell anyone!" J says.

While it's tempting -- our acreage freed from these pesky menaces -- I know that it's not the correct, or legal approach. I've tried all the recommended ways of dissuading blackbirds, short of taking down my feeders. Just a few more weeks, I tell myself, and then they'll be someone else's problem, someone further south.

In the meantime, I'm off to pick up the oriole feeder that the blackbirds once again knocked off the hanger while attempting to drink the nectar inside.

Rapt-ure

A broad-winged hawk was sitting at the side of the road the other day. About two feet tall, with a rusty brown-and-white speckled belly and a sharply hooked beak, the hawk was enjoying the morning sun, every now and then turning its head to watch the passing motorists.

Every now and then, I'll hear the distinctive call of the broad-winged hawk coming from within the forest behind our home. The ear-piercing "Caaaaall!" often sends the little songbirds that gather at my feeders fleeing for protective cover... in the very woods from which the hawk called.

Smart hawk.

My 16 year old, M, never fails to remind me that each of the colorful birds seen at and around Forest's Edge all descended from the dinosaurs. Watching a black-capped chickadee or a sunny goldfinch, I sometimes forget facts like this, but it is always present in my mind whenever I catch site of a raptor.

Perhaps amongst the most majestic of all birds, the raptors -- also known as birds of prey -- are hunters, sometimes of fish, mammals, and smaller birds, occasionally of carrion (or ex-animals, as Monty Python might phrase it). Not a day goes by here that I do not hear the call of a hawk (in addition to the broad-winged, sharp-shinned hawks and red-tailed hawks call this area home) or see the circling dance of several raptors overhead.

According to the local nature center, bald eagles also frequent this part of the state, but I have yet to see one in the wild... unless you count M's bald-eagle kite, which also tends to send my songbirds skittering.

Daily, however, the sight of two or more raptors idly gliding through the air above our acreage never fails to send me running for the binoculars in the hopes that I might be able to identify these as bald eagles, our national bird, or at least one of the rarer hawks -- the Northern Harrier, for instance. Unfortunately, I need better eyes, or better binoculars, or both, because I can never zoom in close enough to see anything other than outstretched wings silently gliding overhead.

I began studying the angle of those outstretched wings, the color of the rows of feathers, the glide versus the flap, to see if I could better identify our regular raptor bunch. And bunch is indeed the term, as there have been times I've seen more than half a dozen of these over our woods. Still, I wasn't able to pinpoint which bird of prey this was.

J, however, took one look and declared, "Turkey vulture." He smiled smugly and pointed at the square shape of the tailfeathers of the birds up above.

Darn it, but he was right.

Turkey vultures? I had hoped for something more elegant, more awe-inspiring, more...attractive. With its bald head (and that's literally bald, to keep from fouling its feathers at the carcasses it eats) and pink skin, the turkey vulture is not going to win any birdie beauty contests. The stigma of being a vulture -- waiting for death to come to dehydrated desert hikers -- doesn't help it much, nor does the fact that it feeds its young by regurgitating the carrion it eats. Still, I have to admire its design: talons made for walking up to its food rather than clutching it (perfect for approaching road kill); a developed sense of smell that few birds have (the better to sniff out putrefying flesh); and that clean, bald head (no mess to clean up after eating).

Nope, still doesn't do it for me.

Ah, well. It takes all kinds of creatures to make Nature work well, and the turkey vulture has its place in the local circle of life, too. With so many circling overhead during prime fledgling season, I imagine that it's up to the vultures to clean the woods of baby birds that couldn't survive outside the nest as well as weaker mammals who aren't succeeding in summer-heat survival. The poor wild turkey that was killed in our backyard about a month ago (most likely by a coyote) was picked clean within a week, most likely by a turkey vulture or two... which, incidentally, pooh-poohed the fresh house sparrows we left out for them nearby. Too little meat, too many bones, I suppose.

In the meantime, I'll keep count of our bluebird couple's chicks and, if necessary, M has his eagle kite at the ready to keep the turkey vultures from getting any ideas about the chubby little mammals (aka M's littlest brothers) that inhabit this neck of the woods. I'm sure our groundhogs heartily approve.

Seasonal Changes

Numerous birds -- or flocks, in the case of the blackbirds, grackles, and cowbirds -- have chosen to make Forest's Edge their summer home. At last count, four ruby-throated hummingbirds buzz around our feeders, playing high-speed games of chase and king-of-the-mountain. I know the females have nests somewhere in our yard, but being walnut-sized blips there's no way my eyes can pick them out.

Nor have I been able to spot the nests of the two dozen or so American goldfinches that frequent our thistle feeders, or the nests of their house finch counterparts or the quartet of purple finches that stayed in the vicinity instead of heading further north.

The mourning doves make themselves quite at home, and can often been seen comfortably sunning themselves on our deck in the morning and our walkway in the afternoon. Although they still tend to flee upon our approach, at least they don't take off in panic whenever I open a door.

For some of our birds, summer is a thing soon drawing to a close. Our barn swallows and their fledglings -- a good two to three dozen swooping, blue-and-orange birds -- have already started their migration back south, as have most of the birds in the swallow family. Insect eaters exclusively, they need to establish their wintering grounds and therefore need to arrive south early enough to scope out the best bug-filled places. Our oriole trio has also headed south, in search of fruitier lands to tide them over until they return this way in spring.

For other birds, this is their arrival time in our neck of the woods. This part of the state is prime migration territory, where avian species that summered over in cooler, northern climes stop for a day, a week, a month before continuing their flight south. Already we've had several new visitors. Five pairs of chipping sparrows recently joined our backyard bird bunch, with several of them bold enough to join the finches on the thistle feeders while the others steadfastly remain ground feeders, pecking at the seeds dropped below. Chipping sparrows are known to summer throughout our state but, with the exception of the cowbird-invaded couple, we had no others until two weeks ago and now it's almost as if we're swimming in the cute, red-mohawked little cheepers.

Another recent arrival is the tufted titmouse. Unlike the chipping sparrow, the tufted titmouse is a year-round denizen of this part of the state. Why it took so long to arrive here is anyone's guess. Usually seen alone, I was thrilled to see not one but two at our bedroom feeder, eating the peanuts I'd put out specifically for them. I have high hopes that the titmice might investigate the three decorative birdhouses I have out front and choose to roost inside one.

If not, then perhaps the black-capped chickadees that arrived last week will move in; the birdhouses are sized for them, titmice, and wrens. Like the titmouse, the chickadee is supposedly a year-round bird, although it first appeared at my oil sunflower feeder out front last week. There are four of them, and the kids are captivated by the cute, chubby little bird and his "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" call.

Other birds seem to simply be passing through. I've seen two tree swallows -- one yesterday, one the day before --- perching on one of the nesting boxes and, egads, the playground swing beam. Most likely they're following the swallow migration, but a part of me hopes they are also investigating potential nesting sites for next year. Tree swallows are welcome nesters, cavity birds like bluebirds. They will even defend bluebird nests from invaders like house sparrows and starlings. Hopefully more will come this way before continuing their southern migration.

An unfamiliar call coming from high atop one of the mature deciduous trees in the back forest led me to quickly snap a photo of what, to my eyes, appeared to be a yellow blob but, thanks to my camera, was readily identified as a female scarlet tanager. Scarlet tanagers prefer woodlands, and the tops of trees especially, where it hunts for insects and can keep an eye out for predatory birds. Tanagers are among the first birds, along with swallows, orioles, and grosbeaks, to leave in the fall, and this female was no exception to that rule.

Our grosbeaks, however, seem quite happy where they are for now. Known to be one of the last birds to arrive in spring and one of the first to leave, the grosbeaks surprise me, as I expected them to have left already. Every morning and every late afternoon, however, I find them perching on the deck rail, waiting to greet me, before hopping over to the safflower feeder. We have a few new grosbeaks, too: a young couple -- a King Street punk and his gal opposed to our very proper British-like couple. The young male is less plump, more streamlined, and has far fewer splotches of white on his back. His mate has well-defined white eyebrows and is also more sleek than our Mrs. Grosbeak. They also are more nervy -- when hungry, they just fly straight for the feeder, dispersing any birds that might already be there. Mr. and Mrs. Grosbeak surely must not approve. I'm sure the house finches don't.

As for Sean and Bluette, I haven't seen them in days. This in part is due to scheduling; I just don't happen to be around when it's prime feeding time for them and their fledgling quintet. The mealworms I set out for them are always gone, however. Among my To Do items is set out mealworms and then sit nearby, camera in hand, waiting for them to come eat. Last night, as I was serving dinner to my own brood, I noticed a blue blob, then another, on the bluebird hook and feeder. Grabbing the binoculars, I was surprised that it was not Sean and Bluette but another bluebird couple. I'd forgotten that, although some bluebirds do winter in our area, most also head south. This pair had undoubtedly seen the Dinner Bell full of mealworms and paused in their travels. Perhaps they noticed all the nice bluebird boxes on our acreage, and will come back to nest next spring. Sean could use a little male bonding... or rivalry in flying at my camera!

Every day seems to bring new arrivals for the season. Some, like the American goldfinch and the mourning dove, will stay here instead of travel southbound. Some, like the dark-eyed junco, the white-crowned sparrow, and the white-throated sparrow, will not just pause here but will actually stay for the winter, then head back north again. The seasonal changes do mean saying goodbye to some of our colorful summer friends, but I look forward to our new arrivals... and the long-awaited departure of my blackbird bunch (and my apologies to the poor Southern homeowner who'll inherit the 133 grackles, cowbirds, and blackbirds for the winter!).

Barn Dance

When we first moved to Forest's Edge several months ago, one of the things I looked most forward to was the different types of wildlife we'd be able to see. Our former home sat in the midst of a suburban development, surrounded by other houses to the sides and front, and by a highway on-ramp to the back. Wildlife was limited to squirrels, an occasional bunny, and -- every now and then -- a cardinal or blue jay.

The first morning here, I looked out the kitchen window and saw a bird I'd never seen before. Dark blue, with an orange belly, the bird sat on one of the two deck hooks that had come with the house. The bird perched there, happily looking out over its domain, seemingly unaware that humans now inhabited this long-empty house. I had never seen a blue and orange bird before and wondered whether this was the elusive Eastern bluebird that our realtor had excitedly pointed out at another property we had visited. After a while, the bird decided he'd had enough perching and flew away, flapping its wings and circling in large swoops throughout the backyard.

That was my first encounter with a barn swallow.

It took a long time for me to identify the bird. The three bird books I had showed nothing that came close. The bluebird was too light blue, the tree swallow too white of belly. The barn swallow looked right, except that the photo showed a short, stubby bird rather than the large, graceful swooper that I routinely found perched on the deck every morning. I was stumped. Then the goldfinches arrived.

The finches didn't arrive out of some natural instinct to investigate the new humans on the block. They arrived because I'd set out my first bird feeder, on the hook usually not occupied by my blue-and-orange friend. When the first goldfinches arrived, I was amazed at their brilliant yellow color. "Wild canaries," the books said these birds were also called. Rightly so. They were as lemon-yellow as if I'd taken a Crayola and colored them in. I had always loved finches -- they were by far my favorite bird at pet stores -- and, to attract even more goldfinches, I went and bought a finch sock, a white mesh tube that cinches closed on one end... kind of like a teeny weeny laundry bag. It came filled with nyjer seed, a skinny black thistle seed that finches find irresistible. And boy, did they! The next morning, the finch sock was literally covered by pecking goldfinches.

The blue-and-orange bird was not amused. It swooped and flew at the goldfinches, squawking at them in an odd, squeaky voice that sounded like someone rubbing fingers along the side of a wet bathtub. This squeaky call helped me finally pinpoint my feathered friend as a barn swallow.

The exchange repeated and escalated every day for more than a week. The barn swallow would start the day perched on the hook, enjoying the morning sun. Then a few goldfinches would arrive to munch on nyjer seed. The barn swallow would swoop at them, chasing them away. The goldfinches would return en masse, a dozen of them, standing up to the swallow and remaining on the finch sock. The swallow would then return with one or two friends, and they would swoop acrobatically at the finches, occasionally unsettling a finch or two but never making them all leave. Eventually, the swallow consented to sit on his hook while the goldfinches fed below him. After a month or so of this, the swallow disappeared.

I was distressed. Had the goldfinches scared the barn swallow away? I had never heard of goldfinches being antagonistic towards any bird, much less a much larger barn swallow. And I wanted barn swallows in my yard! Historically a good friend to farmers, barn swallows nest in old wooden buildings and structures, often old-style barns, and keep the acreage free from bees and wasps, the barn swallow's favorite food. With two children and myself allergic to insect stings, this was exactly the kind of bird we wanted around. I hopped online to see if there were special barn swallow houses I could put up to keep these playfully swooping birds around.

I quickly learned that barn swallows don't nest in cavities, but rather, nest in mud cups they painstakingly build and attach to old wooden structures like barns. I also learned that the barn swallows' habitat was threatened, not by invasive species as the bluebirds' and purple martins' habitat was threatened by starlings and sparrows, but by man. Man was taking the easy way out. Instead of building those old wooden barns, mankind was building metal-sided pole barns. Instead of frame houses, man's houses were now faced with brick or stone, or vinyl siding. There were thus fewer nesting areas for the barn swallow.

That afternoon, I carefully examined the entire underside of our back deck and gazebo, as well as the inside of the gazebo, searching for mud cups. I found a robin's nest and, to my chagrin, a large paper wasp's nest, but no barn swallow cups. As I searched, a pair of barn swallows landed on the gazebo roof, feasting on the paper wasps that were unfortunate enough to be flying up there at the moment. I was doubly glad: the swallows were back, and they were serving as a natural insecticide. Now, how to keep them here?

Online, I found a gentleman who seems to be one of the country's leading barn swallow experts. He reassured me that the goldfinches most likely did nothing to chase the barn swallows away: barn swallows like to hang out in large groups, and a large group of feeding finches was not going to other them. No, more than likely, we were the ones that chased the barn swallows away. He pointed out that by mowing the back acreage and putting down Weed-n-Feed to improve the lawn, we had decimated the insect population, taking away the swallows' main food source on our property. That they were back, and feeding on wasps, showed that they liked being here. We only had to make them feel welcome. He also informed me that, while nesting season was usually in May in my area, it was never too late to put up nesting cups: little wooden cups that mount on eaves, walls, etc., allowing barn swallows to line them with mud and focus on raising their broods rather than transporting mud, beakful by beakful, to their chosen nesting site.

I purchased four of these nesting cups and, with 6-year-old JTR's assistance, installed them one sunny morning. They had to be high enough off the ground so that nestlings and eggs would not fall prey to predators. I installed three of the cups on the underside of our deck, carefully screwing in their backing as JTR held the stepladder and screws for me. Each had to be at least four feet away from the other, to give nesting parents their privacy. The fourth cup I installed in the gazebo, near the paper wasp nest. With the bare ground beneath the deck as a handy source of nesting mud, I was certain that the barn swallows would move in shortly.

The barn swallows, however, had already nested for the season. My guess is that their chosen nesting spot was in the old abandoned chicken coop across the road from us, a run-down structure that wouldn't safely house a fly. Prime insect hunting ground, however, continued to be our acreage. The barn swallows' antics were a source of amusement to all of our family. Whenever 16-year-old M mowed the lawn, two or three barn swallows would circle him on the riding mower and swoop playfully at him, following him all around the yard. There were times that the swallows swooped so low I was afraid their wings would get caught in the mower blades, but always the swallows glided out of danger with seconds to spare.

In the back yard, more swallows did their aerial dance around the playground, driving Sean the bluebird to distraction as he attempted to chase them away. I could almost hear the barn swallows laughing at him as they continued to swoop and glide. The swallows also liked landing on J's fire ring, which sat out in the back waiting to be installed (something I prohibited until the bluebird babies had fledged). I could only guess that they liked the ashy mud there for their nests, or simply to play in.

Every now and then, when I was at the kitchen sink washing dishes or preparing dinner, I would look up on the gutter and see two or three long, forked tails -- a key characteristing of the barn swallow -- sticking out over the edge. Several times, I hauled out my kitchen stepstool to peek and see what the barn swallows could possibly be doing on the gutter... building a cup nest in there? No sign of anything met my gaze whenever I climbed up to look. The mystery lingered, until one recent morning when I went out to monitor the bluebird trail earlier than usual.

To my delight, the air was full of waxy squeaks - the barn swallows seemed to be out in full force! As I came around the back of the house, I was shocked to find not two or three, but close to two dozen barn swallows perched on the gutter of my house. They seemed to be just sitting there, enjoying the morning sunshine, just like my original barn swallow friend did when we first moved in. Then I saw three or four larger swallows swoop in from the field to the north, approaching the perching birds, whose mouths suddenly gaped open to receive the insects the larger birds were carrying.

I ran for my camera.

For an hour, I watched as the adult barn swallows transported food to the two dozen fledglings on the gutter. It was mesmerizing. The fledglings were fun to watch as they shifted from side to side or scrambled over one another, trying to get in the best position to receive the incoming food. One little fledgling hopped down to the deck rail in an effort to be closer to the adults (he was ignored and finally returned to jostle for position with his siblings). The adults were equally entertaining to watch, as they swooped towards the gaping mouths, every now and then passing right by and flipping over in mid air to return to the bypassed youngsters. One adult seemed to purposely ignore the gaping mouths and head for the fledglings who didn't have their beaks wide open. Some adults landed beside the babies, resting momentarily in their ceaseless hunt for baby food, taking off again after being harassed by the hungry fledglings to their sides.

I could have stayed to watch all day, but my own parental duties called. I'm not sure how long this barn dance continued, but the next day, they moved to a new venue: the pole barn facing that insect-filled field. I'm not sure how much longer I'll have the swallows around, as August -- when the swallows begin to gather to migrate south for the winter -- is just around the corner. Until then, I'll enjoy their squeaky calls and their playful swoops... and cross my fingers that they'll find the nesting cups ready and waiting for them next spring.

A Colorful Conundrum

Having successfully established a bluebird trail with a pair of nesting bluebirds -- or unsuccessfully, considering the fact that Sean and Bluette chose to nest in our playground and ignore the nesting boxes -- I turned my attention to attracting a bird that, if possible, is even more fiercely loved than the bluebird.

At least, that is what the purple martin lovers claim.

Purple martins, like bluebirds, are iconic American birds. Bluebird lovers speak of the bluebird of happiness bringing joy throughout the country. Purple martin lovers point out that the purple martin was there to greet settlers who came over on the Mayflower. Bluebird aficionados note how the species has been decimated by European starlings and English house sparrows taking over their natural nesting sites. Purple martin lovers indicate that purple martins have been even more decimated by starlings and house sparrows. Bluebird trail keepers call themselves landlords. Purple martin colony keepers call themselves landlords.

An image of two little kids, one in a blue T-shirt, one in a purple T-shirt, trying to one-up each other, comes to mind.

Despite the jockeying for position as most beloved American bird, purple martin landlords are correct. Invasive species -- most notably the larger-sized starling -- have taken over the purple martin's habitat. Martins are cavity nesters, and the birds are a family unit, nesting in colonies rather than individually. Because of the lack of habitat, purple martins east of the Mississippi now rely exclusively on man-made nesting areas, with many to the west also relying on housing supplied by humans.

Colony houses are easy to recognize. Always white to reflect the sun, a purple martin house is usually large (to accommodate several families), with separate apartments, each with its own private entrance and porch area for resting and perching. Houses can be plain, box-like structures, or they can be elaborate Victorian-style dwellings. They can be made of plastic, aluminum, or wood. Always, they are erected on poles a minimum of 15 feet off the ground, with a 40-foot, obstruction-free "flyway" in each direction to allow the martins clear access to their home. People who put up purple martin houses perform regularly scheduled maintenance visits, lowering the housing unit every couple of days, to make sure it is clean and clear of unwanted tenants (sparrows, starlings, and even other cavity nesters like chickadees and bluebirds).

No wonder they're called landlords.

I had never seen a purple martin, but seeing how I'd never seen an oriole until I put up an oriole feeder, I was determined to put up a colony house. Purple martins are insect eaters -- they eat only flying insects they catch while in flight themselves. Seeing that there are plenty of flying insects on our acreage -- mosquitoes, flies, bees, wasps, dragonflies, and others I don't have names for -- inviting purple martins to take care of our bugs seemed only natural. And with a pond just to the back of our acreage -- purple martins love skimming through water -- the only obstacle to putting up a purple martin house was my husband, J.

J had been very patient with me as I put up nesting box after nesting box, feeder after feeder. He said nothing about the bags of bird seed that found their way to our home, nor commented when a bird bath was suddenly in our back yard. His only reaction to finding mealworms in the refrigerator was to wrinkle his nose and shake his head. But a purple martin colony? This was no $30 box and pole, no $20 feeder and a box of sugar. This investment would be at least $100 if not more.

Fortunately, I have the world's best husband. One afternoon, we were at Lowe's picking up home-repair components, and we happened to pass by the purple martin items in the gardening section. J looked at me and asked me if that would make me happy. I nodded and, the next thing I knew, a pole and house were in our cart. "Like Edward to Bella, I always want to make you happy," J said, referencing the Twilight saga we were currently reading.

The purple martin house sat on our great room floor for a month, unassembled.

Why? Well, there was the time constraints. We were still mid-move from our old house, and a great deal of time was being devoted to packing and transporting our belongings, as well as towards repairs in our new home. I was inundated with work, with students preparing to test, with vendor purchasing, with administrative details. The kids were going back and forth to camp and dealing with itchy bug bites, poison ivy, and impetigo. And, of course, Sean and Bluette's babies were... well, being cute.

Finally, I knew something had to be done. With tape measure and 12-year-old son in tow, I went out to the back to find the perfect location for the purple martin pole. I wanted it to be visible from the den, from the kitchen, and from the master bath -- not an easy task, seeing that the colony house had to have 40 clear feet in all directions, plus be no further than 100 feet from our house (purple martin colonies apparently only succeed if they are close to human habitats). The house would also have to be in a place that would not mar J's carefully maintained backyard, or at least look really out of place. After careful measuring and remeasuring, I chose a spot in a natural bowl in our yard, close to our gazebo. I marked the spot with an empty Aquafina bottle, and N and I went inside.

The pole never went up. To my chagrin, I learned that it was too late in the season to put up a purple martin house. July was when purple martins were starting their preparations to migrate south for the winter. If I put my purple martin house up now, there was a tiny chance that migrating sub-adult martins might see it and consider it for next year (adults return to the same nesting spot year after year; sub-adults leave to start their own colonies). More than likely, though, I'd have to keep monitoring it all fall and winter long to prevent starlings and sparrows from occupying it or, at the very least, I could erect it but plug the holes to prevent unwanted birds from roosting there. The plugs, however, might dissuade inquisitive sub-adult martins from considering the house as a future colony. As for that future colony, purple martins return to my neck of the woods about March, more than half a year away.

On top of that, my colony house would not be very interesting to other martins unless martins were already there. In other words, I needed a decoy -- a fake plastic purple martin to attach visibly to one of the house porches. Passing martins would see the decoy and supposedly think, "Hey! There's one of our cousins on that nice house. We haven't seen it before! Let's go check it out!" Then, ignoring the fact that their "cousin" would not move one plastic feather to welcome them, they'd move in.

A more successful lure for martins is a recording of their dawn song. The purple martin dawn song is one of nature's wonders. Just before dawn every morning, adult male martins circle several feet above their colonies, singing a musical series of chirps and chitters over and over again -- the dawn song. They repeat this for quite a while (I've heard anywhere from 10 minutes to 30 minutes), and the song can be heard as far away as 30 miles, although heard by martins or by humans and martins, I don't know. The human interpretation of the dawn song is something along the lines of "Hey, isn't this a great place to live? Why don't you check it out and come live here, too?" It's meant to draw migrants and sub-adult martins to the colony, increasing its size. It's recommended that purple martin landlord-wannabes purchase a recording of the dawn song, then set up a speaker system near the colony house, timing the playback to occur every early AM.

Purple martin landlords may have more responsibilities than human ones.

I haven't bought a CD of the purple martin dawn song yet, although I know I can get one from The Backyard Bird Company. To me, rigging a stereo set up like that seemed an incredible amount of work to do, just to attract a half dozen or more birds. I did see among the store's online offerings a little all-in-one stereo box that can be set to play at specific times, however. Several bird calls are pre-recorded in the box, including the dawn song. I'll have to take a closer look, eventually.

As for my purple martin house and pole, I've returned them to Lowe's... sheepishly, since the box for the house was long-ago recycled. I still hope to attract a purple martin colony -- the Aquafina bottle is still out there -- and I know I'll have to erect the pole in the next month or so, before the ground begins to freeze solid, or I'll never be able to get a colony house up by March. Why did I return the house and pole, then? In my research, I discovered that plastic housing is the least successful of all colony housing. Aluminum housing has the best success, followed by wooden housing. Beating both of those, however, is gourd housing. Years ago, Native Americans hollowed out gourds and carved entrance holes, then hung the gourds up for purple martins to nest. Today, gourds have the best success rate as colony housing because each family has its own individual unit, versus sharing an apartment building. As the colony grows, more gourds can be added, versus having to buy a larger house and displace the existing nests. But best of all, purple martins have no problem with the wind causing their gourds to swing, while sparrows and starlings can't stand it and therefore avoid gourd housing. I just wish I'd learned that earlier.

On my "to buy" list: one mounting pole, one gourd rack, one set of gourds, one stereo box loaded with the purple martin dawn song. No doubt about it: when it comes to birding expenses, bluebird landlords have nothing over purple martin landlords.