Winged wonders abound regardless of where you are in your flight through life

It happens almost every time I check the view from my house.

Squirting soap into my hands at the kitchen sink, I glance up just as a band-tailed pigeon lands on the stump right off the deck, and looks me dead in the eye.

I yank my bedroom blinds up and spy a raven, who appears distinctly ruffled as he clings to the top of a tall fir buffeted by rain.

I turn away from the dinner table and spot the stunningly triangular profile of a pileated woodpecker as it rhythmically drills a fir nurse log.

Birds are nothing new in my life. I grew up thinking my mother rather oddly fixated on all flying creatures (and four-legged ones: She once administered mouth-to-mouth on a deer after it collided with her car). My mom kept her binoculars handy as we drove interminable miles in search of waterfowl-inhabited sloughs, and she spent a fortune on thistle seed for her finches.

Once, in my 20s, I strolled among preening red- and blue-footed boobies, and trained my zoom lens on dozens of pink flamingos dipping for fresh-water shrimp, in the Galapagos Islands.

So, yes, you could say I've noticed birds almost from the first moment I looked up from my own navel. But, now embarking on the 26th year of my marriage, I am officially a Birder, and why?

Because Charlie says so.

When we took up residence on our little acres, my husband Charlie went through Kubler-Ross' Five Stages of Grief, suffering Denial, Anger, Bargaining, and Depression as he worked toward Acceptance of the inescapable fact that we live in the wildlife's yard, and not vice versa.

The indigenous beast and fowl have, through the last 20 years, taught Charlie his true vocation, which is to keep planting plants and filling feeders while they keep eating. His fences and vile-smelling sprays are merely pitifully inept stop gaps.

The flora and fauna will always prevail.

But there are rewards, which became apparent this spring when Charlie realized that he was accumulating quite a diverse menagerie of bird-feeder dependents. One day we were watching an unidentified bird without any tools to hand, and Charlie reproachfully said, "We're birders now; we need to carry a bird book and binoculars everywhere."

Now he is seeing our feathered friends in a whole new light, and in much closer detail, because I bought him an excellent pair of field glasses for our silver wedding anniversary in May.

I presented these to him when we arrived at the beach house we rented for our quiet, childless celebration. By the time we departed four days later, Charlie had spotted and identified rock pigeons, pelicans, many varieties of sandpiper, and to his delight and astonishment, a bald eagle sitting on the deserted sand.

Since then, if I'm home alone for the day, he gets a full report on everything I've glimpsed from our second-floor deck facing the coastal foothills. I try not to think about my children's almost audible eye-rolling as I describe the latest birdage:

The turkey vultures circled right above my head for 15 minutes; I started to feel a little ripe.

Mourning doves have discovered our neighborhood; they're a tender shade of grey with darker spots on their tails, and their legs and eyeliner are pink to complement the iridescent blushes of pink on their necks.

Plump evening grosbeaks and tiny goldfinches bickered over pegs at the tube feeder all afternoon; the finches ultimately carried the day.

Sex was rampant in the yard as the tom turkeys inflated their samurai armor and flung themselves ineffectually at each other, while the hens squatted, unimpressed, in the chopping block sawdust. This noisy mating ritual was abandoned only when Jasper the terrier bowled into their midst, sending half a dozen of them cumbersomely winging, in full squawk, over the garage.

A spotted towhee sat on the deck railing and mystifyingly flung himself at a downstairs window screen so many times I lost count.

A tiny brown sparrow landed a few feet away and threw its head back in rapturous song. I could actually see its throat working to release the notes.

Some people say bird watching is a hobby people discover when they're old, and in Charlie's case it's true (sorry, Dear). But now that he and I are bona fide birders, I view our new incarnation not so much as a sign that I'm turning into my mother (which would be OK), but as a heretofore unexplored marital frontier we can investigate together.

In our yard.

Pat Amacher can be reached at pat.amacher@lee.net or 758-9542.

BIRD GUIDES

Bird books to check out, all available at the OSU Bookstore:

"Birds of Oregon," by Stan Tekiela (2001). At $13.95, a good, pocket-sized guide to the state.

"Birds of the Willamette Valley Region" (third printing, 2006) by Harry Nehls, et al, provides excellent photographs to help with identification. $14.95.

"The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America" (2003) is technically a carry-along book, and can't be faulted for its comprehensive coverage. Beginners may prefer a book with photos. $19.95.

"The Art of Pishing," by Pete Dunne (2006). Teaches method of calling to birds. At $17.95, it comes with an audio compact disc.

"Birds of Oregon: A General Reference," ed. By David B. Marshall, et al (2003), provides behavioral info to go along with field guides (after you get home); an important book from OSU Press. $45.

And in case you think crows are just another noisy pest, read "In the Company of Crows and Ravens," by John Marzluff, et al, now in paperback ($18); it will change your mind forever.

Also, a good place to look locally for binoculars is Oregon Camera, at Sixth and Adams streets, in Corvallis