Thanksgiving Traditions

It has been my tradition for the past several years to work on my firewood supply on Thanks- giving morning. I like to go out in the late November coolness and take stock of the wood pile. Depending on what needs doing, I might move some wood around, say from the outdoor rack under the tarp into the shed, or I might split some logs, or cut up some small stuff with the bow saw. Out of respect for the neighbors on a holiday morning, I wouldn’t fire up the chainsaw.

In the past I would run an extension cord from the garage and turn on the radio. A local station used to play Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” ever year, but I didn’t find it this morning. It seems many good things are coming to an end these days. Anyway, my decrepit little woodshed was an old chicken coop that came with the house that I’ve remodeled into a shelter for my hoard. I take satisfaction in stacking wood in the shed, thinking of it as money in the bank, its interest compounding every week as the logs dry.

The bending, lifting and chopping is a workout more satisfying than a visit to the gym. I recently read In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan. In it, he comments on how much exercise by Americans is really so much pointless expenditure of time and energy and if we would spend more time doing things like gardening, we would get more exercise and have something to show for it. Now, as one who loves a good bike ride or the occasional run up Moose Hill, I’m inclined to think there is no such thing as totally pointless exercise, but I understand what he’s saying. I can still remember many years ago when my parents sold one of the houses my father built almost single-handedly to a family with a couple of young, strong weight-lifting sons. He watched in dismay as his carefully-tended lawn went wild. “Why don’t those guys try pushing a lawn mower instead of lifting those weights?”

When I first went out, I was greeted by Hobbes sunning himself on the ramp to the bike shed. This is the cat that killed a couple of young red squirrels in the yard a couple of weeks ago. He’s a friendly and pretty little guy and I find it difficult to stay mad at him, especially now that the squirrels are even more aggressively invading the house. They’ve actually found a way to get into the walls and ceilings. I’m happy to report that “Calvin,” at my request, outfitted Hobbes with a new and larger bell. Maybe now I can enjoy his company more and worry about the local wildlife less.

Much of my firewood is a random assortment of wind-fallen branches from here and there and lumber scraps from my carpentry projects. Recently, friends have been kind enough to let me clean up some big oak and beech branches that came crashing down in their yards during heavy storms. One of my favorite things about this Thanksgiving tradition is using the time to daydream. I like to think about a day when I have a woodlot of my own and can use my saws and axes to do a little timber stand improvement and cut some real firewood. Although I’m closing in on an age that used to qualify one for senior citizenship and my dream account has shriveled along with the rest of the stock market, some dreams die hard. I imagined myself walking through the woods, deciding which trees to cut and which to favor, and stoking the stove in my little tight cabin at the end of the day.

It was a fine, crisp New England November morning. I had about two season’s worth of wood stacked and ready to go, and I could look forward to many evenings of dozing by the woodstove. My arms and back had that comforting ache that is the reward for earnest effort. I went back into a house warmed by a fire in the living room and a turkey roasting in the kitchen. I was looking forward to the annual family feast and was thankful that, even in hard times, life can feel pretty good.

Why the Dove Mourns

I never paid much attention to mourning doves. They’re pretty birds and their gentle cooing is soothing. They go quietly about their business and don’t bother anybody – not even insects, it seems – as they search for seeds. Down South, these swift fliers are favorite targets of shotgunners. Around here, they are protected songbirds. They’re common birds without being over-abundant. Like other birds I see every day, I tend not to pay enough attention.

All this changed a bit week before last when my wife pointed out a dove nesting in the end of a rain gutter on our house. I was working in our driveway, installing some windows for our next-door neighbor and the nest was no more than ten feet above my head. The mother (I presume) sat stoically on the nest, sometimes with her tail sticking out, other times with her head peeking over the edge of the aluminum gutter. Unlike the robins nesting on our garage floodlight last year, she never flushed as I moved about and showed little concern about my presence.

I got my extension ladder to go up and take a peek. Expecting eggs, I was surprised to see two nestlings. When I first saw the babies about a week and a half ago, they looked like two squat, black toads with a heavy stubble.

Saturday morning, I was sitting on the deck, enjoying the on-rush of Spring and seeing how many bird species I could count from my lounge chair (20). When I went to check on the nestlings, they looked like little adult doves – nearly the size of ground doves I’ve seen out West - with bright black eyes. At feeding time, the mother would open her mouth and the babies would reach in for what I imagined was a regurgitated meal of seeds. The parents were spending less time on the nest and the babies were moving about, stretching their wings and looking like they’d tumble out of the gutter at any moment. Both parent sat on the peak of the roof next door, looking down at the nest as if urging their youngsters to fly.

Early Sunday morning, as I went out to the shed to get my bike for my Sunday morning ride, a cat was crouched on the lawn, tail swishing, looking ready to pounce on a male cardinal collecting sunflower seeds under the feeder. I chased the cat (and wondered if that was reason enough to get a Boston terrier). I forgot to check the dove nest before I left, but when I came home a few hours later, I noticed it was empty. I was happy the nestlings had become fledglings, but was disappointed that I hadn’t been around to see their first flights, and I was surprised that such small birds would disappear so quickly from the vicinity.

Later that afternoon, while doing a little yard work, I noticed a scattering of bird feathers on the lawn near the feeder. The feathers were brown, small and didn’t look fully developed. There were small bits of flesh on some of the quills. Right away, in my heart, I was sure my doves had died. I looked around for more remains or – hopefully – a survivor, but discovered no more clues. It pained me to think the little doves had died on their maiden voyage. I thought about cats and thought how thoughtless cat owners allow their pets to roam free to playfully destroy so much wildlife. I thought of the quote: “The boys threw the stones in sport, but the frogs died in earnest.”

Looking around the yard, I saw both adult doves moving about the yard, flying from perch to perch, cooing, and in their quiet dove way, looking agitated. I got my ladder to climb up and make sure both babies were gone. As I did, one of the adults landed and walked across the roof, coming within four feet of me as if to ask, “Where are my babies? Can you help me find them?”

Just then, I heard a commotion as a small hawk, possibly a sharp-shinned or coopers hawk, chased by a blue jay, landed in one of the maples in the backyard. I wondered if that could explain the missing babies and wondered if the hawk could have taken them right from the nest. I'm sure it’s all the same to the doves, but I somehow prefer to think that the babies died as a meal for a magnificent hawk than as playthings for a neighborhood cat.

I felt a strange sadness as I went back to my work. I thought about how hard the doves worked to build a nest, incubate the eggs, feed the nestlings and keep them warm through the cold rains we’ve had. Now, the babies were gone and the parents seemed so upset. Did they see their babies die? What did they feel? Do they feel horror? Do they feel sadness? Do they grieve? I know animals don’t think and feel the way humans do, but I know these birds sensed a loss.

Maybe the mournful cooing of the dove is a song of sadness for all the babies these gentle, defenseless birds have lost throughout time. Will they start over? What else can they do? How much loss can they endure before they give up?

When I came home this evening, I saw two doves sitting side-by-side on a tree branch near where the babies died. At least they still have each other.