On May 1, 1976, I saw my very first Evening Grosbeak—my
lifer—on a Michigan Audubon field trip to Hartwick Pines State Park. Later that
same month, I saw more at Point Pelee in Ontario, and in the fall, Russ and I
went up to Port Wing, Wisconsin, where I saw even more—they were an everyday
occurrence at virtually every feeder there.
We lived in Madison, Wisconsin, for 4 ½ years, and I saw a
few Evening Grosbeaks just about every winter. When they turned up at a feeder,
everyone would come gawk at the lovely birds. And it was virtually always that
plural—birds. Evening Grosbeaks seldom wandered alone. I knew 1981 would be the
last New Year’s Day we’d be in Madison, so I spent that day at my favorite
spot, Picnic Point—a lovely bit of habitat on Lake Mendota belonging to the
University of Wisconsin. That final New Year’s Day down there, I finally added
Evening Grosbeak to my Picnic Point list.
We moved to Duluth in 1981, and when we moved into our house
on Peabody Street that summer and were lugging in boxes from the moving van,
the first bird I saw was a Bald Eagle overhead, and the first birds I heard as
it passed over were Evening Grosbeaks—they were also the first birds to show up
at our new feeder. I knew I’d love living here.
Our first baby was born that fall, and when I carried him to
the window for the first time, Evening Grosbeaks filled the feeders. Their
friendly chatter filled the house year-round for more than a decade, even when
windows were tightly closed in winter. When I strolled through the neighborhood
with Katie in the stroller, Tommy bundled against me in a baby carrier, and
Joey toddling along beside me, the comfortable sounds of Evening Grosbeaks
filled the air. When I was in excruciating pain following abdominal surgery, their
cheery calls were all the encouragement I needed to get up and walk to the
window—my recovery went quicker thanks to them. Evening Grosbeaks were a
constant and essential part of the fabric of our lives during those joyful
years.
Evening Grosbeak numbers started dwindling in the early 90s,
and by the mid-90s they’d all but disappeared. We’d still see them during
migration and in winter, but in much smaller numbers. By the turn of the
century they’d become as rare in Duluth as they’d once been down in Madison.
Flocks never visited our yard anymore—just one or two individuals every few
years. Then last summer Russ was diagnosed with cancer and had surgery on
August first. He came home from the hospital on the third, still in a lot of
pain, and that night we slept fitfully.
But we awoke in the morning to a sound we hadn’t heard in decades—Evening
Grosbeaks in our yard! The group of 16 included small families, adults still
feeding juveniles. They spent most of the time in our trees, munching on box
elder seeds, but also came to the feeders and birdbath. There weren’t hundreds
as there’d been in the 80s, but this flock gave us a brighter, more hopeful
outlook, carrying us from one of the hardest times of our lives back to the
happiest. They remained in our yard throughout Russ’s recovery, an almost
constant presence throughout the entire 6 weeks until he got a clean bill of
health.
Birds are such critical components of our environment and
such important ecological indicators of environmental health that when a
species declines, we can’t help but focus on scientific research documenting
the decline and the politics of species protection. It’s easy to forget how
deeply these birds touch our lives in uniquely personal ways. I haven’t seen
another Evening Grosbeak in my neighborhood since last August. Their decline is
scary and ominous as far as what it means regarding the state of our planet.
But it’s also a loss of deeply-felt human dimensions. When people say
environmentalists care more about animals than they do about human beings, I
suspect they’ve lost sight of what exactly it means to be a human being.
