Fern Glen Essays
Parus in Spring Time
by Judy Sullivan

It was another unforgiving morning. A bleak landscape and biting wind, so cold that my nostrils stung. So cold that even the hairy hound preferred bed and bone to out of doors. I shuffled to the car, depressed and discouraged. I would have been bowed with care, as well, were I not bundled to immobility with a dozen thick layers of clothing. And then I heard it. Sweet, clear and strong. Two descending notes. Fee-bee.

I'm always amazed at how one tiny moment can change the whole complexion of a day. With those two simple notes, the oppressive weight of winter lifted. Cares fell away. I wish that I could say the same of the 20 lbs. of clothing and avoirdupois. But, no matter. I heard hope. I heard spring.

Last week I wrote of skunks in love. In fact, as I write these words, the unmistakable musk of Mephitis is permeating the office. One has apparently relieved its anal sacs of scent immediately outside my door. A succinct editorial comment, indeed.

This week, longing for spring again inspires my prose. What can I say? Nature is a better indicator of change than the calendar or the meteorologist. The landscape declares winter. The birds and beasts (admittedly it's a little early for bees) herald spring.

Although this well-known fee-bee call of the black-capped chickadee (Parus atricapillus) can be heard as early as January and right through June, we hear it most often at winter's end. We assume that this increase in birdsong must be vaguely associated with simple vernal celebration. Or something.

Most of us are familiar with a few typical calls, rather like pleasantries in a foreign language. "Hello." "Good-bye." "Montezuma's revenge." Such it is with our grasp of chickadee speech. We recognize the "fee-bee" call and the "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" call. Nevertheless, we don't generally regard them as anything more than part of the symphony of spring that is background music to our breakfast coffee. Yet, our cheeky little friends have no fewer than fifteen different types of calls with dozens of variations on themes.

If we stop to think about it, there are few other ways for them to converse with each other (at least of which we're aware). Chickadees have virtually no sense of smell. Their sense of touch is unstudied but, presumably, limited. They can, of course, use body language; however, this is useful only when they're within sight of each other. That leaves vocal communication; and chickadees have a lot to say.

The "fee-bee" call that we hear is almost always sung by males when the intended recipient is at least 30 feet away. As previously mentioned, it's heard throughout much of the year, but more often in spring. It's commonly employed when leading the flock to a new location. However, individual males use the call to advertise territories and repel rivals. Therefore, it's reasonable to assume that when these begin to reestablish turf in spring, we would hear the call more often. Men, take note. You'll be so much cuter if you sing while zealously fending off interlopers to your suburban plot.

Let's look at (because I don't have an sound file for you) the familiar "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" call. Our faulty human ears hear three distinct notes with the last one repeated twice. Sound technology (in this case, both "audio" and "reliable") reveals four separate notes with the last one repeated. So, our feathered friends are actually singing "Chick-k-a-dee-dee-dee-dee."

It's been suggested that this particular call has some of the characteristics of human sentence structure. Naturally, you're thinking that the repetitive quality of the last syllable is comparable to nagging. Or, perhaps you're noticing that a creative utterance of unintelligible syllables reminds you of a specific genre of music. Researchers, a far less whimsical lot, were able to instruct a machine to distinguish between variations of this call that were likely to be uttered by a chickadee, as opposed to those that were not. In short, the machine could tell the difference between "real" chickadee and "gibberish" chickadee languages.

There are hundreds of different forms of the chick-a-dee-dee-dee call. A rapid repetition of "dees" is often used when something is too close for comfort. (See? You were right about that nagging quality.) Another variation can mean "Woo hoo! Scrooge finally replaced the cheap millet with black oil sunflower!" Given by a bird of high rank (a full colonel, perhaps?), a slightly different rendition can let the flock know that danger has passed. The possibilities keep expanding.

In addition, the quality of the "dee" notes communicates flock information. Like children of human immigrants, young chickadees moving to a new flock quickly pick up the local accent. If you're really feeling scientific (or sadistic) tape some chickadee calls from a spot a few miles from home and play them for your backyard bevy. "But, it's the same call!" you object. Just sit back and watch the reaction.

This spring and summer (oh, blissful warmth), maybe you'll hear not only the two calls mentioned here, but also the "dee," "broken dee," "hiss," "variable see," or "tseet," among others. So, cut out Kokie Roberts. Send Pavarotti packing. Lose that Limp Biskit cassette (replace it with the Orange County Supertones). Tune your ears to a new audio frequency - a signal sweet, clear and strong. It could change your day. Heck, it could change your life.

Questions, comments, or other feedback to Judy Sullivan.