The Chickadees

I have always loved chickadees. In this, of course, I am hardly alone. These birds, with their endearing black caps, diminutive size, and cheery calls, appeal to many people. I love them in all seasons. But in winter, when so many of our spring and summer birds have flitted off for warmer climes, I appreciate the chickadees’ presence even more.

For as many winters as we have lived in this house, I have placed a bird feeder outside the big living room window. It’s hung from an iron shepherd’s hook post (hard for raiding red squirrels to climb) and placed roughly equidistant between two sprawling old lilac bushes, which provide ample landing spots for the chickadees.

Most of the daylight hours, a flock of these birds flits to and fro, from bush to feeder to tangled rugosa hedge and back, over and over. I’ve often watch them peck at the bark of the lilacs, or the nearby maple tree, or the mock orange against the house, where they cache seeds, saving some food for those days I am slow to refill the feeder – or, I suppose, in case there comes a time when the resident humans become an unreliable source of food.

Recently, I learned that chickadees develop additional brain cells during winter, which boost the birds’ memories, so they can recall where they’ve left those seed caches and retrieve them as needed.

The winter I became a mother, I spent countless hours in a chair by the big window, watching the chickadees as I nursed and rocked two tiny babies. I recall learning back then that (unlike winter chickadees) human mothers actually loose brain cells when they are pregnant. In those early weeks of motherhood, the size of my brain hardly seemed to matter; getting to know two new humans, keeping them safe, loving them was all I could think about anyway. Still, watching the little birds flock around the feeder was nearly meditative.

The chickadees we see out the window now are likely generations removed from the birds I watched 14 years ago. They have a hierarchy, I’ve read, although I can’t tell who’s in charge in of our little flock. When I approach to refill the stock of seeds, the birds call – to each other, I presume, but I talk back to them anyway, and stop sometimes to watch the ones perched closest to me.

In other places, I’ve fed chickadees right from my mittened hand. But the wild birds in our yard remain just wary enough to stay out of reach. Perhaps it’s because they know I also tend to a cat who is far too curious about their comings and goings.

Boots (the cat), who came to live with us just before the winter solstice, is fascinated by the birds. We don’t know where he lived before he joined our menagerie, so I don’t know if his former home had a window to look out and birds to watch. He spends hours on the windowsill, tail in some stage of movement, from slightly twitching to frustrated wagging. He meows and paws at the glass, or crouches as if ready to pounce. It all makes me think Boots will have to forever be an indoor cat – or wear a collar made of bells if he’s ever allowed outside.

Although the chickadees are the most loyal to our feeder, sometimes their flock expands to include a couple of red-breasted nuthatches, or a pair of blue jays pops in for a bite. A few weeks ago, a couple dozen Bohemian waxwings alit on the highbush cranberry on the other side of the driveway, all showy black eye streaks and bright, yellow-tipped tails. And just Monday, a small group of common redpolls scavenged the fallen seed below the feeder.

But the chickadees are the regulars, the reliable birds I know I’ll hear calling from somewhere nearby any time of year. And in a year like this one, it’s nice to know there are some things that are steadfastly similar to how they’ve always been.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's January 28, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Window to my world

In our living room there is a large picture window, spanning about a third of the long room. The three-sided window offers a spectacular view of the mountains, sweeping from the Presidentials in the east toward the Franconia and Kinsman ranges in the southeast, and it is this view which most often catches the attention of visitors. For me, though, the window provides a view more dear than the mountains of home.

Through the window, I see the seasons changing, the days turning from sherbet-hued sunrise to alpenglow dusk, my children playing and growing. This is the window to my world.

From the window, I can see the field where my husband and I stood with our friends and family one sunny, late-August day and promised to love, put up with, and celebrate each other the rest of our lives (not in those exact words, but that’s pretty much what marriage vows boil down to).

When my children were babies, I spent countless hours, fuzzy with sleeplessness, rocking and feeding them by the window. From my perch in the giant recliner, I would watch the sun come up as I figured out how to be the mother of newborn twins and, later, another babe. While they dozed, I would gaze out that big window, watching the chickadees flit from bare lilac bushes to bird feeder, busily surviving in late winter, all of us waiting for the brightness and warmth of spring sunshine.

Those babies are nearly 7 now and spend much time by the window and the bench seats below it. They sit at the table there to do their homework, create artwork, watch the snowcats moving up and down the slopes of Cannon Mountain, and look for animals and birds. The chickadees still come to the winter feeder, along with a pair of blue jays and an occasional passing flock of gold finches or cedar waxwings.

In the fall we look out to see bears climbing the apple trees, and peer into the creeping dusk looking for deer. We’ve come to know the deer who frequent our field: the large doe and her not-quite-grown youngster, the young buck with only one spiky horn, a handsome 6-point buck, and an even larger one who appeared only once (that we saw), the day after the long hunting season ended, walking regally through the field, unbothered by the barking dog.

From the window I gaze into the quiet of early morning, before anyone else is awake, looking for the silhouette of mountains to emerge from the darkness, trying to determine what type of day it will be. Red sky in morning? Sailor (or skier, hiker, bicyclist, gardener) take warning. From the window we watch the clouds pushing through Franconia Notch and the moon rise over Lafayette.

I can watch the seasons change through the window, from the intricately bare branches and snow of winter to the pale pink blossoms that fill the apple trees in spring, then the purple burst of summer lupine, the yellows and golds of late summer, fall’s final surge of patchwork color, and back to white again.

From the window I am watching my children grow, from toddlers peddling tricycles to kids building bike jumps out of logs and plywood. From not-quite-2-year-olds shuffling around the driveway on plastic, strap-on skis to daredevils plunging head-first down the snowy hill on sleds. From babies crawling through the grass to builders orchestrating major sandbox excavations.

Our house could be described as “lived in,” with dirt on the floors, toys often scattered through several rooms, and clutter on the tables. The bumped-out spot where the window is may be the most lived-in place of all, the table piled with kids’ homework assignments, my notes, magazines, crayons, laundry to be folded. Not surprisingly, all three wide panes of the window are perpetually smudged with small fingerprints.

The children push their hands against the glass as they look out at the deer and the chickadees, or watch for someone to come down the long driveway – my husband returning home, grandparents stopping in for a visit, friends coming to play. Someday I will watch from the window for them to return from first dates, college semesters, and new lives in other places.

From the outside, the window also provides a glimpse into home. When we return on dark December evenings, we see the twinkling glow of Christmas tree lights. There are often kid creations hanging in the window – cut out paper snowflakes and painted candy canes in winter, flowers and shamrocks as spring approaches, the favorite drawing of the week. When I return home from a solo outing, I see my family through the window, building puzzles, playing games, reading books.

Whichever way I peer through the glass, it is a window to the world my heart holds dear.

Original content by Meghan McCarthyMcPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings from a Full Life. This column also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the December 27, 2013 edition of the Littleton-Record.

First Snow

It was a snow globe kind of morning. We woke to a welcome cover of white across the front yard and big, lazy flakes floating softly to the ground. The season’s first snow.

  

We had a few flurries a couple of weeks ago, which turned the high mountain peaks a dazzling white against a bluebird sky and garnered enough excitement to start the kids begging to ski. But this was the first snow to stick in the yard and cover the grass, and it beckoned us from the warmth of inside to the exhilarating snowy landscape outside.

The kids donned snow pants and boots, mittens, and brightly colored winter hats and dashed into the transformed landscape just beyond the front door for the season’s first shoveling, snow angels, sledding, and snowballs. The dog bolted exuberantly outside to roll in the white, remembering the thrilling chill of snow in fur.

As I followed the kids and their laughter into the yard, I embraced the joy of first snow. The whisper of fat flakes on cheeks and eyelashes as you lay back to sweep snow angels into the cold ground. Footprints crisp against the fluff. Chickadees puffed up against the cold and looking right at home in the snowy branches. The soft thump and accompanying poof of white as a snowball hits its target.

Most of all, the first snow is the promise of wintery fun to come: of snowmen still to be created and fast runs on the sledding hill and (best of all) sweet powder days on skis.

It’s not really winter until it snows. And even if the first snow arrives a month (or more) before the solstice, once the white is on the ground, the warm colors of fall are forgotten, and it is winter in our hearts. The first snow is a joyous and quintessential rite of childhood winters and of the arrival of the best season to all lovers of winter, regardless of age. Welcome, winter. Hello, Jack Frost. Bring on the snow!

Posted by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul