Liza Blue

One of the unexpected privileges of this pandemic is nurturing my grandson’s growing interest in birds, currently eclipsing his passion for monster trucks.  Brown can identify a dozen or so birds by sight on our bird feeders and at least six by sound alone.  One of his favorites is the Baltimore Oriole, who much prefers the empty calories of our grape jelly over the more nutritious meal worms we offer them. 

We tell Brown about bird nests and that they are made of grasses, twigs, mud and spit.   He is amused by mud and spit – both seem slightly naughty and messy. I show him that some birds use their beaks to sew together a tiny nest from a leaf.  He knows that birds line their nests with fluff and hair to make them comfy and cozy.  When we finally get our haircut, we save the hair and spread it out beneath the feeders.      

One of his books has a drawing of an oriole nest, a picture that immediately transports me to the summer of 1976.  My mother, an avid birder, wants the oriole in our yard to commemorate the bicentennial by making a patriotic nest.   She hangs out red, white and blue yarn for the orioles to weave into their nests, but they decline the offer.  As we stare at the pendulous nest my mother says, “That nest looks just like a scrotum.”  Then she walks away.

I am 24 years old and I agree with her.  Then I realize that this the only thing she has ever said to me of a sexual nature.