As a tweener, I heard the phrase “the birds and the bees” quite a few times. Being a sheltered farm kid, I couldn’t help but wonder: What are they talking about? Alas, I knew little about reproduction at the time, but when I began my education on the topic, I approached my mother with a simple question. “So where do babies come from? And don’t tell me the stork. That’s ridiculous.”
Seeing my younger sister standing nearby, Mom said we’d discuss it later. The next day we had her version of “the talk.” It was a 10-minute, one-sided conversation short on details. Her response to my questions might be summed up in four words: romance (wait) and procreation (don’t).
A recent bird-watching experience brought back this memory, and I wondered where the phrase “birds and bees” originated. I learned it was in the 20th century, most likely based on natural behavior: birds laying eggs (female ovulation) and bees pollinating (male fertilization). And the famous poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, best known for Rime of the Ancient Mariner, referenced both birds and bees in “Work Without Hope.”
Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair —
The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing —
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
I bring this up because summers up north provide nonstop free entertainment if you like interacting with nature. Fortunately, we have all the usual woodland creatures here at Otter Run. I’ve even bonded with some of them. My pet doe Sedona, who looks very pregnant right now, came out of the woods this morning when I called her name, and my buddy Sneaky Snake is back to keep the crickets and ticks under control.
As we are launching the pontoon today, Jon and I will enjoy the antics of muskrats, beavers and, of course, otters. We’ll cruise alongside super swimmers that summer here: herons, swans, ducks and loons. Ah, geese? Not so much. They make a god-awful racket and cover the lawn with “landmines.” As far as bees go, I did see a honeybee last year, but evidently it couldn’t coexist with the ginormous bumblebees feasting on my hibiscus.
Our human offspring like to tease us that only old people like to watch birds. Guilty on both counts. Luckily, the Northwoods provides a virtual aviary of beautiful flying feathered friends. We watch via the patio door as they empty the feeders on our deck, then rudely peck at the glass to request refills. After years of observing them, I conclude that bird behavior closely mirrors that of humans. Case in point: rose-breasted grosbeaks.
Each spring, soon to be dressed to the nines in their tuxedos, males arrive first to check out the place. They test the footing on the feeder and sample the seeds, aggressively pushing rivals away. When females come, males strut their stuff, but the girls ignore them, concentrating on fueling up for the birthing process.
Once females have eggs in their increasingly rounded tummies, male behavior changes. The previously self-absorbed pretty boys take on the role of husband and father. After the eggs are laid, both sexes take turns incubating them, singing quietly to each other as they exchange places, but only the males sing at full volume from the nest. Sing? Wow. Jon says grosbeaks sound like robins that went to voice school. After the eggs hatch, unlike many birds, male grosbeaks help with feeding and protecting their young.
The fun continues when fledglings come to the feeder. At this stage, youngsters resemble adult females. They perch on the deck rail, shivering, shaking and begging plaintively. Daddies respond by feeding them to stop the crying. As modifying feathers reveal gender, juveniles adopt adult behaviors. Males spar and taunt one another, attaining dominance or slinking off only to return for more mistreatment. The females wait until the fireworks end, then peacefully share space at the feeder.
All of this is training for the mating cycle, which brings us back to where we started. For the first time ever, we had a ringside seat this morning to grosbeak mating ritual. Jon noticed a male and female acting weird. The dude kept blowing up his chest, gyrating his wings, prancing and dancing around. He tried to cozy up, but she repeatedly spurned his advances until suddenly flying off. He followed her to a nearby maple tree where I assume nature took its course. It’s all part of the Creator’s plan, or as Coleridge wrote in lines I include for my favorite columnist Kay Reminger:
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
Birds, bees showcase their summer splendor
