PLZ DON’T READ MY PRIVATE BIRD DIARY

Dear bird diary,
I hope no one reads this because I would be embarrassed by how excited I am at seeing eleven (count them eleven) new birds. Yes, I had a huge swing in my eBird account —from 84 total birds to 95 —and to think just four months ago I had zero. It is absolutely incredible. The story gets picked up by Buzzfeed, Entertainment Weekly does a cover: “Joe sees 95 birds”.  Could that headline writer have been more creative? Sure, but they got to the point, and I feel fortunate to be featured in such a widely distributed publication.

All eleven birds happened on a Saturday morning in June. I was visiting my mother in West Virginia, after she convinced me to do an outdoor comedy gig set up by her aerobics instructor in front of a public swimming pool, in a park where I used to play little league baseball (which is a sentence I could not have predicted).  I asked my mom to find a bird tour and not only did she find one, she found the tour — a private one from a well reputed birder named J. Herron.  I said, “Wow, that’s a perfect name for a birder”, and she said, “Well, spelled with two ‘r’s”.

Previously I’d been to Prickett’s Fort once as a child to see a Revolutionary War battle reenactment, and then once more with the cub scouts to throw a hatchet at a log and fire a rifle at a different log.  When people ask me if growing up in WV was strange, I generally say it was not. My memory is of a nice little college town tucked away in a quiet river valley, with sledding in the winter and frisbee in the summer, and perhaps some occasional arm wrestling at recess against your P.E. teacher, or a week off school for the beginning of squirrel hunting season, and every now and then you’d have to cook up some home made dynamite and place it in the mouth of a coal mine to save your cousin Burley’s life, but for the most part it was a quiet normal childhood.  After the explosion we never did recover Burley or his canary, and that I admit was strange.

J. Herron greeted us with a delightful friendliness, and I greeted him back redundantly by saying, “Herron is a great birder name”.

“Spelled with two ‘r’s,” he corrected.

I was furious.

I’d like to think if my last name was, “White-Bellied Nutthatch”, I wouldn’t say, “Spelled with two ‘t’s”.

The birding expedition was a hit. Within the first thirty minutes Mr. Herron pointed out a Great Crested Fly Catcher (flame emoji), a Louisiana Water Thrush bobbing along the water, (fireworks emoji) a tiny Northern Parula flitting about in a tree (heart eyes emoji) a brown thrasher thrashing along the road (brain explosion), and a red bellied woodpecker pecking at wood (cash bag emoji). And then it happened — he pointed to a green heron which had alighted upon a log. My first ever green heron. What. A. Great. Day. To bird.

Handsome Green Heron: Prickett’s Fort, WV

Mr. Herron made the universal quiet sign, and whispered that green herons can be jumpy so we shouldn’t to get too close. As he educated us, I imagined he was secretly speaking about himself:
“He’s a shy bird. He likes to be left alone.”
“He’ll jump at the slightest sound so it’s important to keep your distance.”

“He’s been searching for a mate but unfortunately there haven’t been any females this year” .

“He’s handsome boy, isn’t he?”

I whisper back, “Yes he is. He certainly is a handsome boy.”

Gazing at him through binoculars (the bird that is) I was indeed delighted and enthralled.

Award winning photo by my mother (a Robbins) of me and a Cardinal (and a Herron).

After an hour of totally staring at birds, we moved to an observation deck, and immediately we were hit with gobs more birds: barn swallows, tree swallows, an eastern kingbird, Baltimore Orioles, Cedar Waxwings, Orchard Orioles, a Kildeer, goldfinches, Wood ducks and you name it (I think I just did).  By the time we saw an Eastern Phoebe I was so overwhelmed with new birds I could barely keep my binoculars on straight.

p.s. I’ve decided male tree swallows look like little helmeted super heroes, flying around saving people from danger.

Male tree swallow, moments after saving a chipmunk’s life.

Note to self: set this bird blog to private so that no one else will read about me and my birds.