We went out to buy a birdfeeder yesterday. (Also, school supplies – no time like the last minute.) I have a brilliant plan – why travel to see birds when you can bring the birds to you? I have a couple of hooks on my front porch, I can hang birdfeeders from them, and then watch them from my reading chair as I read A Supremely Bad Idea. The cat usually sits on the back of my chair, and it’s something we can enjoy together.
My husband points out that it’s September and although we may get birds now, we won’t for much longer. He also points out that what I’m proposing is an awful lot like bird watching … which it isn’t. It’s somewhat similar to birding, but just barely.
Okay, I admit he may have a minor point here – I do have a small fixation on birds, evidenced by odd bits of decorating here and there. Bird plates, bird bowls, bird tchotchkes … I used to have a bird coffee table, but my ex-husband took it in the divorce, just to be spiteful; and to be spiteful, I let him take it and took the 35mm camera instead. That worked out well: I’m sure his current wife appreciates having a unique bird-themed coffee table as much as my husband appreciates having another film camera taking up storage space in the garage.
But back to the birds. How did birdwatching get such a sorry rep? Seriously, Alfred Hitchcock had a total bird fixation. I took a class on it once, in college. Apart from the movie “The Birds,” which I’ve always found more comical than suspenseful, Norman Bates’ hobby was taxidermy – his house was full of stuffed birds. And mother, obviously.
Anyway, we bought a birdfeeder and some suet cakes. (I don’t know how the birds can eat that stuff, but maybe they think that about my food too so who am I to judge?) Then we had lunch at Red Robin – chicken, if you must know. If I see any birds, I’ll be sure to tell you. And of course, I’ll keep reading.