bluebirdofhappiness

The Bluebird of Happiness

It was the middle of June - the height of rehab madness, when the baby birds just keep coming and coming. From mid-May till the end of July, days and even weeks fly by in a hazy blur of feeding, and cleaning, and dozens of gaping pink and yellow mouths begging for food; when cutting a grape into 28 tiny pieces becomes a task you could do in your sleep. And so, when the nestling bluebirds arrived, it was no big deal - just two more in a never-ending succession of needy babes.

Their nest had been attacked by house sparrows, and one of the young bluebirds did not survive its injuries. As sometimes happens, no other bluebirds of the same age arrived at the center, so we raised the survivor alone. It was a textbook case, and we did everything right; the little bluebird, a female, grew to healthy young adulthood and was released at the Youngwood center in August. We always provide back-up food for newly released juveniles; some readily accept our offerings, others go their own way. The female bluebird was a "taker" however.

As summer waned, the bluebird became a fixture around the center. Although she came less and less frequently, she rarely failed to show up for the morning and early evening hand-out of mealworms and fruit. I would go into the yard just before dusk with a plate of her favorites and softly call, "Bluebird?" and she would appear out of nowhere, flutter her little cerulean wings and feast on my humble offerings. This evening ritual was a special balm that soothed my stressed rehab psyche and never failed to put a smile on my face.

In mid-September, I was going away for a week of much-needed vacation. As I left on a Saturday, I admonished my dedicated crew to continue the "Bluebird ritual" and keep me apprised of her visits. When I returned the following Sunday, I learned that Bluebird had not been seen since the previous Tuesday. For the next four days, I went out before dark and called as I had done before, but Bluebird did not come.

It was now Indian summer and many of our migrating native songbirds had moved on. Perhaps Bluebird had migrated, as well. On the fifth evening, with little hope, I sat with my bowl of mealworms and whispered my mantra, "Bluebird, Bluebird?" Suddenly, she was there! Her wings trembled as she accepted my gift of her favorite food. As darkness descended, she lifted from the bowl and landed on my shoulder. Bluebird nuzzled my ear for a brief second and then was gone. As the busiest part of the rehab season came to a close, I did not see Bluebird again.

Winter came on strong that year - rehabbing in snow, ice and sub-zero temperatures is daunting to say the least. It's starvation time, and we see many sad things.

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