Write On Magazine's Schott at Sunrise
Helping Nature Take its Course
By Carol Schott Martino
| I met this 12-year-old boy
a while ago. A delightful kid really. He could be summed up as a chunk
of burning energy with a big, bright smile; a shock of light brown curly
hair; a soft heart; an obnoxious, fidgety disposition; witty nature;
joyful curiosity... and totally annoying at times. Actually, Danny is so much like I've been described as a child that it's frightening. But I never really thought about those likeness until the day he told me about feeding lemon-flavored cake to a mama robin. Replace the lemon cake with half a grilled cheese sandwich dipped in raspberry Kool-Ade and--de ja vu. There I am, the summer of 1959, standing beside a lilac bush with the tasty treat, waiting for the blue-green eggs to hatch in a robin's nest. Better than any worm pecked from the earth, I thought for sure. So when Danny told me he was trying to feed lemon cake to a mama robin in a pine tree nearby, I just smiled and asked to hear more of the story. He said one day he was playing in the backyard when a robin flew out from a tree "chirping wildly." He went over to see what all the fuss was about and discovered three wee blue-green eggs in the robin's nest. Worried that the mama bird had to leave her nest unattended to search for food, especially with what he considered a "slew of cats" in the neighborhood, Danny donned the role of mother helper. He sprinkled cake crumbs around the tree and even stuck a big yellow chunk on a fence post nearby. Danny glowed in pride as he led me to the pine tree to show me the picnic feast sprinkled in the grass. Mama robin, with her brick-red breast poised in the afternoon sun, chirped frantically from the fence post. Gently, Danny spread the stiff green needles so I could see the little eggs. He assured me not to worry -- "I didn't touch the nest." I asked curiously, "Is the mama bird eating the lemon cake?" He replied with a deep sigh: "No. She doesn't realize yet that it tastes better than worms." So how do you teach a kid-- whose heart is bursting with the belief that a few cake crumbs could assure the safe birth of three baby birds -- to stay away from the bird nest and let nature take its course. Especially when I've flunked that lesson many times myself. I don't think it's possible to totally understand the dreadful impact of "meddling with nature" until you've hushed a mother's rolling birdsong with "well-meaning." Only then do you feel the heartstrings tug as a poor decision runs over the bank of your conscience. For me, one of the poorest decisions I ever made regarding Mother Nature didn't hit when I was a kid like Danny. It slammed into me when I was 38 years old and trying to dry a load of towels one spring night at my home on Clark Street. They tumbled for hours and hours and wouldn't dry. Checking into the problem, I found the vent blocked with a thick clog of grass stems, rootlets and lint. I thought it was just remnants of the sparrows who nested there that winter. But cleaning out the vent, I found three teensy creatures with quivering yellow beaks and slender necks stretched out for dinner. A hit of downy feathers dotted their bodies. I put the nest in an old shoebox and left it below the dryer vent hoping the mama bird would come back and claim her hungry young. A day went by and no sign of the mama. I didn't sleep much the following night. Determined to ensure the safety of the baby birds, I spent most of the night making sure no nasty cat or dashing blue jay swooped into the nest for a quick dinner. The next day, I brought the shoebox into the house before I left for work, and then put it below the dryer vent when I returned. Still, no sigh of the mama bird. It was only when the slim necks of the little birds went limp that I decided to try to feed them myself. I started them off with an eye dropper of warm milk and watery Cream of Wheat. Then a friend (who's also now my husband, Dan) informed me that when the time came to release the birds to the outside world they'd have a hard time finding Cream of Wheat, and they'd probably starve. He prescribed a more appropriate diet of crushed bugs and worms -- so when the birds flew into the wild they'd at least have a chance for survival with a few skills their mother would have imparted. I lifted every large rock in the neighborhood in search of bugs and worms to crush for dinner. With a life-long fondness for bugs, this was no easy task. The birds perked up some with gaping mouths to receive the luscious mush. Still, they seemed pretty weak. I tried sugar water to give them energy, but it didn't do any good. The tiny birds died before they even had a chance to fly off into their first spring -- all three of them curled up together in that old shoebox. I don't know where the mama sparrow flew off to, but her song was surely silenced that spring. And for a long time, I wondered what I did wrong. Since then, I've learned it's not wise to mess with Mother Nature. When her vulnerability seems to scream out for help at time, I try to pull down the shades, close the blinds. Because I know that most of the time nature's disarray is better off ignored by "well-meaning" humans. Like they say, "Let nature take it course." But how do you explain that to a kid like Danny who believes he can make everything right in the world by sprinkling a few pieces of lemon cake beneath a mama bird's nest in a pine tree while basking in the bright, yellow sunshine of his 12th spring? |
Carol Schott Martino, Assoc. Editor
Writer, Photographer
About the writer. . .
|
Carol
Schott Martino has been writing feature stories and columns
Order Carol's book, Schott at Sunrise |
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