Robins Keep Writer Prisoner
In His Own House Each Spring
By Chris Costanzo

There are a lot of experts in Vermont who will readily tell you exactly at what moment spring arrives. They differ among themselves, and in my opinion most of them don’t know what they’re talking about.

I rely on only one criterion. Starting in late March, it has been my habit to place a certain patch of land near my pond under intense surveillance. That’s where the snow melts and the ground becomes visible sooner than elsewhere.

The minute the robins arrive on that patch, I mark the day and hour on my calendar. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the beginning of spring, and I don’t care what others say, including the astronomers and meteorologists with their gabble about the precession of the equinoctial colure.

This year the robins came early, and I noticed immediately that they were very fat, even obese. A highly educated friend of mine disagreed. "They are no fatter than usual," he said. "It’s was just a cold day, so they puff up their feathers to keep warm. You see, Chris, the puffed feathers trap more air, which is a poor conductor of heat, therefore they insulate. . ."

But if my friend had observed the robins as closely as I, he would have noticed that instead of hopping on the earth in their usual endearing way in their search for worms and grubs, they actually waddled under their unusual weight—weight that I attribute to a warmer-than-usual winter that allowed them to feed in greater abundance.

I also note this year that when one of them would pull out a particularly large worm, other robins didn’t try to take it away, which is not usually the case. Just a few weeks ago I saw a fat robin with a very large morsel in its mouth. Less than two feet away another fat robin looked up briefly, then shrugged and went on pecking his own ground in a desultory fashion, more from force of habit than real hunger, I think. 

For a long time nobody knew what American eastern robins did in the winter. The robins themselves weren’t saying. There were some indications that they migrated south, indeed all the way to Florida.

But there was other evidence that robins hang out in the same area all winter, huddled together for warmth in remote roosts, living off of the fat they accumulated in their bodies over the summer, and eating occasional winter insects or remnants of fall berries. 

Eventually the scientific community concluded that, come winter, some robins do indeed migrate great distances, others migrate short distances, and yet others merely stay put. A local agriculturalist friend, thinking that all flatlanders like me are stupid, informed me that the old robins, who are no longer able to tolerate the rigors of winter, are the ones who go to Florida to hang out with other old Vermonters on the shuffleboard decks of Saint Augustine and Tampa. At the same time, the youngest robins stay nearby to get a head start for the spring mating season.

But I know my friend is wrong. More recent studies reveal that the younger robins are those who travel furthest south to fatten up for mating when they return in the spring, while the older ones don’t feel up to the trip so they stick around. So, when I note on my calendar that "the robins have come back," I’m not really being accurate. The ones that I see first are the old codgers who have been here all along. They have emerged from the local forests, and this year were a lot less spavined than usual. I still think they are the best indicator that spring is here.  

New Nests

Soon afterwards, the younger robins come back. Their thoughts turn to love, and their courtships begin. Before you know it, they have paired up and are building nests. They don’t seem too picky about their real estate. I usually have nests all around my house, even on the house itself, on several ledges protected by my overhanging roof.

It complicates my life, because the robins don’t like having me around. As I write this in early June, I find myself a prisoner in my own house. Why? Because there is a robin’s nest in a bush that projects onto my front porch, and another among some grapevines that have grown up around the railing of my deck, and yet another in a bush on the other side of my house, and even one on a ledge on the rear of my house.

And in each one there is at least one egg assiduously tended by mama and papa who clearly wish that I weren’t in Vermont at this particular time.

That means that I’m reduced to slinking around and tiptoeing whenever I try to leave my own home. Even when the robins are not at their nests, they have a few distinct and favorite observation points in the nearby woods. I can see them staring balefully at me, cursing me with varying chirps and squeaks. Sometimes they even flutter around and dive-bomb me if they think I might get too close to their nest.

Off On Their Own

Once the eggs have hatched and enough time has gone by that I judge the chicks are ready to leave their nests, I plant myself at a discreet observing distance with binoculars. My wife brings me an invigorating beverage, and I wait for the great event.

Eventually, the chicks fly off into the great world, but often one of them hangs back, afraid to take the plunge. Its parents will stay at their accustomed places in the woods, whence they loudly urge their chick to find courage and move out.

This can last for hours. As the chirps and squeaks of the parents get more insistent and impatient, I find myself impatiently joining with verbal encouragement of my own until finally the youngster takes off. Later I can often spot the chicks—which are speckled and don’t yet have full orange breasts—hanging out with their parents, who will continue for awhile to give them some nourishing handouts. But this doesn’t last long. Soon the young ones are fully launched.

I find all this stressful and nerve-wracking, but I endure it year after year. After all, everyone says that some stress is good, even for a senior citizen in retirement.