Bumble Bee on Echinacea

Look at that stuffed pollen sack on her leg! Click to enlarge.

Dead Computer

I recently experienced a trauma that is all too common in our culture: my computer died. Ever since I acquired my first ‘puter, I’ve struggled with their lack of reliability. In contrast, the ancient tools forged by human hands were simple and reliable. Chip an arrowhead or primitive knife from a flint stone and it would serve its creator a lifetime. Fashion a bow and arrow and it’d be a trustworthy partner for years. I still use some of my grandfather’s hand tools—hammer, pliers, gouge, plane—that he utilized seven decades ago.

A computer, however, can do so many more things than a hammer or saw can manage. It has brought humankind an unimaginable and rich panoply of capabilities. It has become so much at the center of our lives that we cannot conceive of existing without it. Yet its reliability sucks. Computers have so many ways that they can malfunction, and they seem bent on demonstrating to us their whole spectrum of faults. They are so complicated and their workings so far beyond the comprehension of your average citizen, that we non-geeks are helpless when they fail. (Much in the same way when our computer-driven cars quit running.)

I remember watching a computer-savvy friend many years ago, as he attempted to fathom the reason why my primitive ‘puter was being recalcitrant and threatening to obliterate all the precious information I had entrusted to it. I sat there, on the verge of a mental meltdown, as he twiddled away at the infernal machine. While I was both terrified and feeling irate about its feeble dependability, he commented that, considering how complex a computer is, he was rather amazed at how often it succeeds in what it does. For me it was a taste of reality of the computer world—a taste I’m still struggling to swallow.

So, once again, my ‘puter has died. With virtually no warning, it refused to turn on when I pressed the “run” button. That’s an upsetting nonstarter to start with. What can you do when the damned machine won’t even light up? There are no diagnostics you can try; there are no internet searches you can initiate. You’re dead in the water. You’re prey to the local computer repair shop predators—and you pray that you won’t get too badly burned.

In the meantime my routine is disrupted. (And of course, the ‘puter repair guy seems to have all the time in the world to get to my problem.) I cannot open the crucial emails that have been sent me. I cannot surf to my favorite news sites to stay abreast of all the critical developments in the world that utterly depend on my monitoring presence. I cannot post to my blog or write my next penetrating essay on what ails the world. A few years ago I quit subscribing to the local newspaper and have distanced myself from the use of the intrusive phone. The snail mail brings me only junk. I can live without them, but without my “faithful” computer, what’ll I do with myself?

Several days have now passed and I’m managing to survive. It ain’t been easy. But in fact, I’m beginning to find benefit from backing off from my ‘puter dependency. I reminded myself that when I take a vacation I survive without the constant companionship of my computer. (I carry no mobile devices.) If I can make it computerless through a vacation, I can survive a little more time without that confounded machine. The difference, of course, is that on vacation I choose to disconnect. Now it’s being forced on me… by a damnable machine that doesn’t like me!

As I gain some distance from the ‘puter catastrophe, I find that I’m surviving rather well. In fact the (forced) opportunity to step back and assess my ‘puter addiction gives me the chance to survey my daily routine and ponder how much of it makes sense. About two decades ago a lightning bolt hit and destroyed our TV reception. The loss was a bit traumatic at first, but we came to regard the failure as a blessing and let TV viewing expire. That said, I don’t think I’m ready to exist without my computer… although it’s tempting to, like the TV.

Morning Dew on Kale Leaf

Click to enlarge

Whistling Wings

For the first couple of years of living out here in the woods, I thought that the sound a mourning dove makes when it takes to flight was a kind of excited song—sounding like a repeated “fwee-fwee-fwee.” After getting more acquainted with this member of the pigeon family (Columbidae), I realized that the sound was not coming from its beak, but was an airy whistle emanating from its wings, as it beats the air on takeoff.

Over the years I’ve gotten used to this sound. It’s an indication that doves are flying about, without my having to look up to verify their presence. They announce themselves very uniquely. The wing flaps of most songbirds, in contrast, are pretty quiet—you have to be within several yards of them to hear their wings beating. In fact, large predatory birds like owls have nearly silent wings—quiet enough to swoop down on prey without warning them. They are true stealth birds.

A question came to my mind recently: What evolutionary advantage might there be to the dove’s whistling wings? It’s obviously an evolutionary advantage to the owl to have silent wings—any ancient owls who experienced a genetic mutation for wings that made a noise would have immediately died out, while the quiet-winged owls survived. That’s how evolution works.

So why do doves have noisy wings? Well, to begin with, a dove’s diet consists solely of seeds and grain, so the bird doesn’t need to worry about warning a seed that it’s about to pounce on it. OK, no need to stay quiet for that reason, but I couldn’t imagine any advantage to whistling wings—or any reason why doves would evolve them because they were useful. So what’s going on?

It occurred to me that maybe there is no advantage. Could it be that their wings evolved as they have, for some other advantage—and those wings just happen to whistle? In a similar fashion, the peacock’s tail is this magnificent thing that certainly does not give it the most graceful flight skills. But the peacock puts up with the cumbersome tail because the peahen likes the look of it and he damned well better look fancy, if he wants to win her eye. That’s a case of sexual selection trumping flying skills.

A little research into dove characteristics, in an attempt to solve the whistling wing question, gave me two relevant facts. One, the dove’s bill is not hard, like a finch. It can’t bash or crunch the seeds it swallows with that soft bill, so it swallows the hard seeds, sending them down into its crop, where they get ground up by gravel, to reveal the seed’s nutritious interior. Second, when a dove gets into an altercation with another bird, it doesn’t attack with its beak like other birds do (remember that tender bill of theirs), but beats at its foe with its wings.

So maybe that’s my answer: a dove’s wings have evolved to be these tough devices that can be used to go into battle, as well as to fly. And it so happens that tough dove wings whistle. So the evolutionary advantage is not the whistle, it’s the strong wings to fight with. These wings just happen to whistle, which is no disadvantage for the dove, so the whistle endured. Sounds reasonable, although there may be more to the story than that. I’ll just keep on watching and researching and maybe I’ll eventually tease the whole story out.

Mourning Dove

Momma dove and two babies... three days before fledging.

Bird Brain Trauma

I have written before on the different manner in which our local birds gain access to the interior meat of the sunflower seeds they pick from the bird feeder. Species with strong bills (such as finches) pick up a seed, crack it with a mighty crunch of their powerful beaks, and with their tongues flick out the nut pieces, as they spit out the shell. Small songbirds with their delicate conical bills (chickadees, titmice, nut hatches) must hold the seed tight with their feet, or jam it in the crack of a tree's bark, as they repeatedly bang away at it, slowly chiseling away the shell, to reveal the nut inside.

Watching a titmouse eat a few successive seeds recently, I noted that he banged away some 30-50 times on each seed. He might go for a few dozen seeds each day. Those daily blows must mount up! It suddenly hit me that it might just be possible that, over the life of a bird at our feeder, all those countless whacks could cause brain damage! There have been numerous articles and programs recently on brain trauma experienced by professional football players. After several years of head banging and incurring repeated concussions, some of these guys end up literally punch drunk, with permanently damaged gray matter.

 

I read many years ago that woodpeckers evolved a fluid sac surrounding their brains, which cushions the impact when their bill bangs into the trunk of a tree, looking for bugs. This is how they maintain their woodpecker smarts. I doubt the the little songbirds come with that shielding sac.

By kindly providing sunflower seeds, am I dumbing down these poor birds? Have I negatively disrupted Mother Nature's system by blundering in and trying to help? Is this just another example of human interference in the natural world, to the ultimate detriment of its inhabitants? Oh my... what can I do?

Well, if I knew how, I could maybe test the IQ of my sunflower-fed birds against their deep-woods cousins (who I assume must find softer sources of food). Such an experiment could tell me if I'm messing with their little brains. I think that's beyond my capabilities, however. Has anyone yet devised a songbird IQ test? And how could I even convince deep-woods birds to take such a test? OK, so I could play it safe and feed my local birds only shelled seeds. Like a toothless old man, they could mush the nuts up in their soft bills; no head banging required, no bird-brain damage. 

So I'm facing a dilemma here. What am I to do? Purchasing shelled sunflowers seeds is beyond my budget. Maybe I could shell them myself! It might take me 5-6 hours each day, but I could argue that I owe it to the birds. Let me ponder this some more.

Life can so easily get complicated when you take the time to observe what interference you are causing in your immediate world. Maybe I should just watch TV... then I'd not have time to notice such disturbing things.

Orb Weaving Spider

Dressed in its harlequin colors.