May We Come Down?

It is the time of year that another species takes over the front of our house. In massive queen palms that dominate our front yard, a squelching assortment of birds give birth to their next set. Since I am no ornithologist, I can’t tell you what they are, other than noisy. As we meander up our walkway to our brightly painted red front door, these momma birds crackle and squawk our arrival. They seem to know when we enter our driveway and before the car doors slam shut, they harken a warning to stay away.
You would think that after 30 years, somehow these flyers would know that we gladly share our front yard and mean no harm. But, no. As their babies hatch they become more frantic with vociferous bird calls that border on hysteria. As a mother, I can tell they are not chirping about the merry month of May. They seem to bolster their protective state with all the bravado their beaks can muster.
These flying madres are known to buzz my husband and sister as they approach our front door. In the spring, it is not uncommon to see my hubby sprint for the relative safety of our home. I often think that our neighbors must think he is either super excited to see what culinary delight I have whipped up for dinner or that he has to get to the bathroom pronto.
A few days ago, as I made my way home after a very long day, I was greeted with what I thought was the normal call of the wild. The black birds seemed all aflutter with their ominous warnings. Now, truth be told, they don’t buzz me. Somehow I have not posed a threat like others in my family. But on this day, they seemed even more agitated than normal. “Okay,” I said to myself, “they must be a bit unsettled by all the spring winds.” Having solved that mystery of nature, I wobbeled up the walkway burdened by a heavy handbag, coffee cup and massive computer bag that one would think carried all the codes the leader of the Free World demanded.
As I approached the front door of my house a Hitchcockian swirl of birds unloaded on me with a fierce swoosh of flapping. “What the hell,” I yelled up. “I’m on your side!” Moving closer to door, juggling my keys, I spied a tiny bird at the very foot of my front door who looked petrified and confused. With immature feathers, he was not quite ready to fly the coup and had probably been blown out of his nest by a frothy gust of wind.
By now the mother birds were apoplectic. I schlumped my bags to a nearby bench and tried to scoot the fledgling away from the front door. Using my keys, I jingle-jangled them to force the little bird away. Bad choice. The mother birds took major offense and squawked even more violently. “Hey,” I yelled up to them, “Don’t give me any more crap! I’m a mom! I’ve got this!”
By now a neighbor was walking by the house and heard me screaming back up to the murder of crows. She spied me shaking my fist, yelling up to the sky in an imaginary conversation with a group of moms. “Uh, Julia…” she timidly inquired, “is everything okay at home today?”
This is where is gets good. “Of course,” I demurred, “I’m just trying to get a baby bird away from the front door.” I could tell with her raised eyebrows she was wondering how I was going to accomplish this by yelling.
As if I could explain myself, I added, “You see the momma birds are up there in the palm tree and they can’t understand that I am not a threat.” Cue the lightbulb. I was yelling and screaming back at another species. We could not understand each other, but chose to express ourselves with squawking.
Ultimately, the little bird managed to bobble towards the beckoning mothers and away from my front door. The cacophony of sounds erupting from both my feathered friends and myself did not accomplish anything. Calmer voices would have prevailed. And, that just like so many things in life, is probably a wiser strategy when you think about it.
From the Heart…