By James McGuire
Contributing columnist
July was flexing its summer muscles. Not yet noon, but already pushing 90 in the shade.
The stretch of river that flows past our cottage was a burnished jade and seemed to be dawdling, almost syrupy, as if feeling a bit sluggish in the sweltering midday heat. A few shafts of dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy of sycamore leaves. The air was moist and heady with a sweet perfume I thought carried hints of blooming milkweed.
My morning had been spent making rounds at two grocery stores, one hardware, and a pharmacy. After three hours of traffic, parking lots, and combative cart jockeying, I was back home—hot, sweaty, over-baked, and enervated; in desperate need of an energy recharge.
A restorative snooze seemed the best remedy for combating my numbing lassitude.
I’d just laid my book aside, stretched out to settle more comfortably on the chaise lounge, and barely closed my eyes when an emphatic noise startled me upright.
“Trrrffftt! Trrrffftt! Trrrffftt!”
A fast, sputtery sound, reminiscent of the insistent bubbly hiss of escaping pressurized steam from my moka pot when the morning’s first cup of quasi-espresso is ready to be poured.
“Trrrffftt! Trrrffftt! Trrrffftt!”
Sharp, watery, fizzy—imagine a ratchety red squirrel with a head cold snorting indignantly. Fairly loud and decidedly close.
I raised up, swiveled around, and found myself locking eyes with a nondescript but sprightly bit of chestnut-hued fluff. The little bird’s bright, black eyes gleamed like beads of polished obsidian.
My piqued inquisitor was a Carolina wren! He was sitting on the very tip end of a leafy, low-sweeping branch, maybe eight feet away.
We exchanged stares. Then the feisty wren, unafraid, tilted forward, stuck his tail upright, and gave the limber limb an emphatic bounce.
“Trrrffftt! Trrrffftt! Trrrffftt!”
Mr. Wren said again, demanding at least acknowledgment if not answers. Though maybe more inquisitive than indignant this time around.
If asked to name my half-dozen favorite birds, the Carolina wren would certainly be near the very top of that list. I’ve been enchanted by them all my life.
Growing up, winter and summer, there were always Carolina wrens hanging about the house and yard. Sometimes they nested in one of the birdhouses my father built.
A pair regularly constructed their cup-shaped nest atop one of the brick pillars supporting the front porch’s overhanging roof. They soon learned to tolerate our comings and goings, daylight or dark, provided we didn’t give them more than a quick glance or slam the door.
Other wren couples liked to build their nests on the top of the propane tanks at the rear of the house, or between the electric meter box and a little overhanging roof-like shelf above.
One morning I came out to discover a pair of enterprising Carolina wrens busily finishing a nest on my beloved Schwinn Phantom bicycle. They’d jammed it between the upper bar of the frame’s “tank” portion containing the built-in battery-powered horn, and against the underside post holding the spring-equipped leather saddle seat.
That bike was my pride and joy—a red-and-chrome steed that allowed me to zoom about on my usual rambles at breakneck pedal-and-coast cruising speed.
If it had been a pair of starlings, the procreative-minded squatters would have been immediately displaced. But even back then, I had a soft spot for Carolina wrens and begrudgingly allowed them to remain.
Hoofing it for the next several weeks wouldn’t be all that bothersome—though managing my daily paper route afoot might prove difficult. I’d have to carry my newspapers in a canvas bag slung over my shoulder.
The Sunday edition, however, was a multi-sectioned behemoth! I’d need multiple resupplying loads and hours to accomplish this Herculean task.
Thankfully, Dad realized my dilemma, took pity, and chauffeured me around that morning in his Oldsmobile!
Carolina wrens are small and stocky, with a slightly down-curved bill. They’re colored in shades of rich reddish-brown above and warm buff below and boast conspicuous white eyebrows. Their tail is short and typically held at a distinctively jaunty upward angle.
Diminutive, dapper birds, they bustle with energy, always moving, lively, quick as a mouse; a Carolina wren seldom remains in one spot for long. Even when singing, they twitch and jitter as if about to explode with nerves.
Most folks are familiar with their cheerful song, always sung at full volume. Field guides generally render this as, Tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle! Around our house, being of Southern heritage, the phrase was, Sweet-tater, sweet-tater, sweet-tater!
Carolina wrens feed almost exclusively on insects, including beetles, ants, caterpillars, moths, crickets, bees, and spiders. When they’re not policing the neighborhood and vetting trespassers, they’ll be busy hopping, flitting, and poking about in the leaf litter, actively investigating for any tidbit of food. Sometimes you’ll see them hitching up or down a vertical limb or tree trunk in the manner of a nuthatch or creeper. They prefer thickets and brushy dense tangles and are thus often more heard than seen.
Once my backyard investigator decided I posed no threat, he stayed put, ceased alarm calling, reared back, and let loose with a surprisingly loud rendition of his signature tune:
“Sweet-tater, sweet-tater, sweet-tater…sweet!”
Hope, a poet once mused, is a thing with feathers. I would add peace and rejuvenation, too.
I don’t pretend to understand how such a moment can hold any transformative magic; all I know is a miracle happened. Again and again, the ebullient Carolina wren sang his bubbly song…and just that quick, I felt inexplicably better.
Reach the writer at [email protected]
