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Opinion The Last Word

I Miss Those Crazy Birds

The hummingbird swooped down and hovered above a butterfly bush, undaunted by the strong winds and rain. Almost on cue, a second tiny bird zoomed in to deny the interloper a chance at a sweet meal. The two hummingbirds performed a sort of airborne ballet, twirling and spinning in the wind, while fanning their tail feathers to make themselves look larger and more menacing.

Eventually, the trespasser retreated and the second hummer, a female, jockeyed for position on a narrow branch of that same flowering bush. She periodically rose, helicopter-like, just inches above the branch to deliver a warning — chirping and chittering — that intruders were not welcome.

Safe and dry behind the trellised wall of our carport, I watched the aerial combat take place just few feet away as the remnants of Hurricane Francine crashed and thrashed its way throughout the Mid-South. A few days later, Francine, now a low-pressure system, continued to subside. My better half Vicki and I spent a good portion of a wet Sunday morning watching the little birds swoop and twirl — more aerial combat and mid-air ballet.

“Cheap entertainment,” she said with a smile.

“Cheep or cheap?” I asked.

She laughed at my dumb pun. Two hummingbirds zipped past our kitchen’s picture window.

“Crazy birds,” Vicki proclaimed.

Crazy birds, indeed, and I miss them after they’ve moved on.

Hummingbirds as reincarnated warriors (Photo: Ken Billett)

I’ve always been fascinated by hummingbirds, who seemingly defy gravity and conventional aerodynamics in search of a meal and more fuel for their long journey south to remote tropical rainforests. But I also admire these tiny creatures for their perseverance, their tenacity, and their strength. Years ago, I participated in an expressive writing course for cancer survivors and wrote a fictional short story about an old man coming to terms with his own death. He found strength and peace in the hummingbirds and their return, year after year, to his backyard garden. The old man recounted a mythical belief regarding his tiny visitors — that the ancient Aztec people revered hummingbirds for both their colorful beauty and their powerful flight. They believed brave warriors — killed in battle — were reincarnated as hummingbirds.

Maybe our hummers come back every summer to remind me of those wonderful brave warriors no longer here, who can no longer experience a warm, pleasant June morning, or breathe in the fresh air rolling across the green grasses of Shelby Farms Park, or watch a brilliant orange sunset from the banks of the Mississippi River.

Tiny, fluttering reminders that, as the seasons change, we continue moving forward even when our journey becomes difficult.

Or, perhaps, our hummingbirds — we refer to them as “our hummingbirds” while they’re here — return each year simply driven by instinct. We make our backyard inviting to them, with several red-colored feeders and lots of flowering plants. Our next-door neighbor’s wooded backyard provides the birds with shelter and safety. For those “little daredevils,” our gardens are a convenient rest stop along their migratory path. But maybe there’s more to it than just instinct. Regardless, I’ll miss those crazy birds once they’re gone even as I deeply miss my fellow warriors who’ve fallen in battle with a terrible disease.

For two weeks, constant chirping and chittering greeted me anytime I stepped outside and onto our backyard patio. Hummingbirds zooming overhead, fluttering around the feeders, and dive-bombing one another were also constants. I was involved in a few near misses as hummers chased each other through our carport and back up to the trees. As the number of hummingbirds increased, so too did the number of airborne skirmishes. I loved every moment of it.

Our tiny guests were hungry and relentless in their search for a meal. With the days growing shorter, both the humans and the little birds knew summer was coming to an end. Soon those crazy birds would be gone, leaving behind joyful memories, until next year, when a “scout” arrives, usually in April, to check out the food supply situation in our backyard.

A week or so later, summer had officially ended and most of the hummingbirds were gone. We figured they left in a hurry as more rain and wind, this time from Hurricane Helene, made its way towards the Mid-South. The feeders sat empty, while the flowering bushes were commandeered by the remaining butterflies, along with a few honeybees.

I already missed those crazy birds.

For me, hummingbirds symbolize hope and strength. Their survival is intertwined with my own, as being a “survivor” can be difficult at times. Like the old man in my short story, I’m at peace when the little birds return to our backyard each summer. They’re tiny reminders that, even with tenacity and perseverance, the journey is never easy and we must continue to keep the spirit of those fallen warriors in our hearts. 

Ken Billett is a freelance writer and short-story author. An 11-year cancer survivor, Ken is a nationally recognized advocate for skin cancer prevention and melanoma treatment research. He and his wife Vicki have called Memphis home for nearly 35 years. 

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Zero-Sum Hummers

I adore my hummingbirds, arguably the best in-close flyers in the world, with reaction times so fast they zip in next to angry defensive bees to score a sip of sugar water despite the bees coming at them in a bee fury that would dissuade virtually any other critter, including me.

Two feeders full of sugar water hang not 40 inches from me, just outside my home office window. Who needs Netflix when I can turn to the Hummingbird Channel?

A tiny hummer can dart backwards and hover, waiting a human heartbeat for the bee to either peel off or charge toward it, and if the bee is serious, the bird might wheel and bug out or might zigzag into another port of the feeder to see what the bee will do then.

Of course during that human heartbeat the little hummer’s heart beats some 200 times. They must perceive even the quickest human or bee as operating in slo-mo. No bee has ever caught any hummer at my feeders.

Watching the bird feeders is observing nature as an endless metaphor for our human foibles. Like humans, hummingbirds fall for the zero-sum approach to sharing with others. They seem to be convinced that whatever sips another hummer can take means that much less for them. Classic zero-sum thinking.

There are two feeders with four ports on each. Eight hummingbirds could easily share those. They never do. They expend enormous energy chasing one another in wild aerial acrobatics that make the Blue Angels look staid and clumsy.

I guess their little brains can’t seem to learn what should be obvious. Human beings are at the top of the intelligence pyramid because we learn so much, so quickly, and advance so easily. We wouldn’t fall for the same sort of wasteful error that the hummingbirds do.

Um, yeah.

We barely survived four years of a regime led by the quintessential zero-sum thinker, Donald Trump, who reminds me of a hog guarding a rotting carcass, chasing off other scavengers to keep all that delicious filth for himself. No matter what the comparator, he boasted that he was at the top, smarter about national defense than “his” generals, more intelligent than the U.S. intelligence services, more able to brilliantly analyze the “China flu” problem than world-renowned virologists, and just generally a “very stable genius.”

But we can all fall into similar — if less world-stagey — logic traps. Overcoming our amygdala reaction to seeing someone else doing well is our daily challenge.

My zero-sum white man reaction to immigrants or refugees coming into “my” country might be, “You will not replace us!”

My evidence-based response would be closer to, “Welcome. Like any ecosystem, our diversity is our strength. Work, study, learn, be productive, pay taxes, create a future for your family here. Help us repair and improve our nation’s image around the world. We are glad to make this your new homeland.”

My zero-sum white man reaction to a person of color, possibly an immigrant, being hired by my employer might be, “Stealing our jobs! I gotta figure out how to undermine this one.”

My evidenced-based response would be more like, “Welcome. The most successful work teams are those that can operate well in a complex world economy. Let’s learn from each other and perform at our top potential.”

The hummers are fun to watch chasing each other. It’s like an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, with Elmer Fudd chasing him and Daffy, and the perspective showing a long hallway with many doors and all of them suddenly popping out of random doors with no idea of how they got there. The hummers go streaking past my window, then suddenly sprint downward from above my window, and it’s pure entertainment for me.

But our human zero-sum analysis tendencies have a more malevolent outcome and show us often at our worst. From white nationalists to Vladimir Putin to anyone who feels like someone else’s misfortune is their gain, those stories are ugly.

Can we show that we are even smarter than a bird that weighs about the same as a penny? One wonders.

Tom H. Hastings is coordinator of conflict resolution degree programs at Portland State University, PeaceVoice senior editor, and on occasion an expert court witness for the defense of civil resisters.