David Jasper

Living in Bend for over two decades has led me to the conclusion that spring is a mixed blessing.

The winter we just had was brutal. Gregorian calendars and Farmers Almanacs aside, weather-wise, it lasted from Nov. 1 until approximately 17 minutes ago. It was the kind of prolonged cold snap that triggers veteran Bendites to say things like, “Maybe THIS will send the Californians packing for home!” (I hate to tell you, but they’re too busy skiing and snowboarding all winter to move back to California.)

No matter where you’re originally from, I’m guessing you agree that the recent sunshine and mildly warmer temperatures feel pretty great. Still, along with spring comes a litany of things one could possibly, if so inclined, complain about: Lawns that grow way too fast. Allergy-triggering pollen. People who are actually sick telling you to relax, assuring you it’s just allergies after they’ve sneezed on you.

Speaking of people, the onset of spring suddenly reminds me there are humans in all the neighboring houses. Not because I am peering in their windows, but because they use lawn mowers and weed eaters all. the. time.

I live in a subdivision of about 50 homes crammed onto just a couple of streets. With so many homeowners or renters maintaining their postage stamp-sized lawns whenever their individual schedules allow, you can count on, come the weekend, hours of continual mowing and weed eating. It would truly be amazing if every neighborhood could come up with a schedule so that its residents could plan to mow, weed eat, tune their motorcycles and use power tools during certain windows spaced throughout the week, but that would entail learning your neighbors’ names, and worse having to use spreadsheets.

But much as I like to complain about the uptick in motorized noise during Harley-Davidson season, this year I’m consciously trying focus on the good stuff about spring. Namely, the plants in our yard and the birds, two of which have made our backyard their home.

This past weekend, my wife, Catherine was trimming our sprawling, 12-foot-tall currant “shrub” and after cutting a few branches, noticed a bramble of twigs that turned out to be a new, very well-hidden scrub jay nest, with two scrub jays anxiously watching her from nearby.

Since we noticed them, they’ve been fascinating to watch. According to nestwatch.org — hey, that’s similar to my last sentence! — “Both members of a pair help with nest-building … often hidden amid foliage and vines. Scrub-Jays frequently construct nest platforms, especially at the onset of nesting season, that are never used.”

Fortunately, the birds who’ve moved into our backyard are using their nifty nest. After Catherine exposed it by trimming some of the branches, we were worried the pair may bail. But all this week we’ve been seeing tailfeathers sticking out, the occasional head pop up. We get the feeling they’d rather we not peer at them for long, and so we try to steal glances.

I am not going to lie. It felt like a gift after our beloved pooch Kaloo died two weeks ago. And according to allaboutbirds.org, “Scrub-jay nests are made of a basket of twigs lined with rootlets, fine strands of plant fibers, and livestock hair.” Kaloo wasn’t livestock, but we still had a few wads of his fine black fur drifting around the backyard from brushing him out there.

Neither my wife nor I are ready to take in another pet after nearly 18 years of pet ownership, but we love the idea of having a bird family in our backyard, and that some of Kaloo’s fur may have gone to make their nest a little more comfortable.

Welcome home, you noisy, squawking scrub jays.