Life is What Happens
By Lisa Zaslow Segelman
For a while, we cohabitated with another family for part of the year. They would fly up from the south, and we were always thrilled to see them. Every year for a while there, the mom was pregnant. They were terrific guests and were very happy with the accommodations outside of our second-floor loft. When I say outside the loft, I mean literally outside — as in the great outdoors. In this case, the accommodations were in a flowering cherry tree.
Our friends weren’t descendants of the Swiss Family Robinson, but a family of robins. Yes, birds. They were a husband-and-wife team who returned yearly to make our home theirs — and give birth to their baby birds. The couple arrived in April, the mom’s belly round and full of fledglings. As the weeks progressed, her hops became more labored as she sat heavier and heavier on each bough. Hubby was there, too, but he spent a lot of time in the back of the house making a mess on what my husband called “the poop deck.” Both attempted to fly through the glass and got bumped around much too often. We worried about them.
Due to the loft’s second-floor location, our family was able to watch this mother build her nest from the windblown and rain-torn remnants of last year’s lodgings. She would fly to an old tree swing nearby and peck at the frayed rope, which was the perfect filler for her nest. At the suggestion of a friend, we put lint from the dryer on the lawn to supply additional building materials.
As is customary among robins, the father helped, too. He did the 7 a.m. worm-feeding while his wife was elsewhere. The babies craned their necks and seemed to be saying, “Over here — give me the worm,” not unlike our own children. It wasn’t long before the mother bird knew that her fledglings were ready to leave the nest and did so a few at a time. They didn’t look ready to me, but then again, they weren’t my kids. On any given morning in late spring, we would wake up and everyone was gone.
When we moved down the shore for good last April, we shared our home once again with a bird family, but because this abode is at the shore and one house from the bay, our new housemates were ducks.
“Dolores” and her colorful Drake husband would relax in the pool next door but feathered their nest in the raised flower bed on our driveway. Once incubation began, she sat on her eggs for a textbook 28 days — only leaving for an hour or so in the morning and afternoon to look for food. Sometimes she looked so hot even though the shrubs hid her from the sun. We took to lightly sprinkling her with water from the hose to help her cool down. If the curious would get too close, Dolores would stick that neck out and have no issues snapping her beak in a nanosecond right at you. And she had the law on her side; it’s illegal to touch or move a nest once the eggs are laid.
This year Dolores came back but with new landscaping on the driveway, the nest wasn’t as hidden. She dug a perfect deep circle in the new mulch and laid two eggs, but within a few days moved them elsewhere. At least, we hope it was Dolores who moved them.
Throughout my family’s involvement with “Robin” and “Dolores”, I began to wonder if the baby birds appreciated the effort their mothers made on their behalf — creating a home, heating it, providing food, and teaching them the way they should fly. I wondered if their mates appreciated them, too. Instead of feathering the nest and feeding their young, these moms could be flying around the countryside, catching some fat worms for themselves.
Now when I hear the singing and quacking in hatching season, I hope it’s these baby birds and ducks singing their moms’ praises.
How often do we human fledglings sing out for our moms, loud and clear for all to hear? Nobel Prize winners and actors at the Academy Awards have a forum and never seem to forget their moms, but your average butcher, baker, candlestick maker or Uber driver has no such public opportunity. But none needed. We can sing Mom’s praises this Sunday with kids and grandkids in tow, or during a phone call, email, or text with the perfect emojis. What mom doesn’t love a little gift? It could be something she wouldn’t buy for herself, most likely because she bought something this year one of her kids or grandkids just had to have.
My mom, Naomi, like yours, deserves my thanks. She lived until 92 years old, and her love and wisdom live on. Mom, you taught me that it’s who you are, not what you are that matters. Hard work leads to good luck. Maximize your talents. Kindness is attractive, and it’s the relationships (of all kinds) in one’s life that matter most. Mom, your devotion to each one in our family, from day one, was remarkable. I love you!
Happy Mother’s Day to all of our Shore Local readers, your moms, grandmoms, and great-grandmoms. And if you have a special family friend, relative or like-a-mom in your life, they deserve our love and thanks too.
Lisa is an advertising copywriter (think ‘Madmen’ without the men), journalist and columnist. Claim to fame: Lou’s waitress for four teenage summers. For column comments, story ideas, or to get on her “quote” list for future columns: redshoeslzs@gmail.com
