Mojo Defined 2000

Were it not for an impregnable willow thicket and a huge mountain, the vista out my big back window would be spectacular. Instead, mostly what’s visible is a verdant thatch that hides all but the tip of a ten-thousand-foot ridge’s highpoint, which further blocks from view the much-higher Sierra crest just west of it. Directly in front of this window, at eye level from where I sit at my table only five feet away, is a crude birdfeeder—every bit as effective as any commercial model—constructed from a scrap of plywood rimmed with slats and mounted on a willow-branch post. This is what I gaze at from my comfy chair in lieu of alpine panorama. Once or twice a day I toss in a few handfuls of birdseed and watch the ensuing show. Wild animals with feathers eye me warily while scarfing up free booty; obviously they don’t think I’m harmless (which pains me…) but are well aware that I can’t catch them. While the hummingbird feeder by my front porch provides truly exciting entertainment, with those miniscule warriors constantly engaging in hilarious aerial combat, I’m more fond of observing the relatively sedate songbirds. It’s somewhat like the difference between watching a thriller or a drama. By getting to know the characters intimately, becoming emotionally involved, it helps me lose myself in their world. And I do know the actors:

In leading roles are two scrub jays, a mated pair, that have lived here since before my arrival five years ago. Unlike the sparrows and quail they cache food, so when I put out seed at sunrise there’s a mad flurry as the flashy jays greedily shovel it into their craws ‘til throats are visibly bulging. Then they hurry off to bury their haul under dead leaves in a hundred secret spots, half of which are later discovered by rufous-sided towhees—jumbo-sized sparrows—who stumble on these windfalls of millet and sorghum while rifling through the thick leaf litter searching for their daily bread.

There are no villains in this movie, but the California quail are something of a nuisance. Seen up close they’re gorgeous birds with intricate patterning and that silly, bobbing topknot. The neighborhood flock, which roosts in a cypress tree outside my kitchen, will usually wander past the feeder once or twice during daylight hours. If one bird flutters up to check for food a general stampede and feeding-frenzy results. I’ve counted a dozen quail on that tray, packed sardine-style, with one desperate bird treading on top of the melee until another falls off and it can muscle in. The seed will completely vanish unless an irate jay swoops down and disperses the riot instantaneously in an explosive WHOOSH of several dozen wings. (Though they’re larger than jays the quail never put up any resistance.)

Only a few species take advantage of the free food. Juncos visit daily. Black-headed grosbeaks show up during migration. An occasional pair of mourning doves. And one notable rarity: for several weeks last April a beautiful brown thrasher came every day. (It’s a sporadic visitor from the east that was a brand-new bird for me.) A nearby spring flowing through this property is a veritable oasis in the surrounding dry scrubland so lots of birds are about—the majority of them insect-eaters plying trees and shrubs to get their living. These I watch from my chair, too; they’re just a bit farther away. Warblers, wrens, woodpeckers, gnatcatchers…the expected locals.

White-crowned sparrows are another main player at my feeder. They’re among the most handsomely marked species in a family that’s typically very bland (the quintessential “l.b.b.s”—little brown birds). Their name is something of a misnomer since the crown isn’t exactly white. Rather, seven broad stripes alternating black and white, from bill to nape, create an arresting pattern. Their breast is the soft-gray color of a Stetson cowboy hat, their back done up in streaked browns. My bird guide aptly describes them as appearing “sleek and clean-cut.” These handsome, benign little creatures also have a distinctive and charming call—“several piped notes followed by husky whistles”—like some catchy ditty used to identify a radio station.

Mythic dramas are played out on that one-square-foot plywood stage, fables enacted. Those little birds are not all that different from ourselves in many ways and mirror that folly-ridden, possibly tragic, always predictable thing called “The Human Condition” in their own fashion: The Sparrow Condition. One day I witnessed a dramatic event that provided me with quite a bit of thought-fodder.  

Sitting at my table by the big window wearing a vacant stare. It was well after noon; all of us active again after our midday siesta. A sparrow landed in the feeder and I glanced up. This one wasn’t “sleek and clean-cut,” but looked…scruffy…like he hadn’t bothered to bathe or preen for awhile, like he didn’t care about his appearance. A stray feather was sticking out here and there and I noticed how the bit of bare skin around his eye appeared wrinkled and weathered. Then it dawned on me: this was an aged bird, a grandfather-sparrow. I flashed on the ancient thrush in The Hobbit. Having observed white-crowns—what us birders call them—since childhood, it was something of a shock to suddenly realize I’d never even considered any notion of songbirds actually getting to be “old.” (From what little I know about sparrow life-history I’d guess a very lucky individual might reach five or six years in the wild.)

Several other white-crowns were foraging on the ground nearby. One flew up and landed on the feeder’s rim, then a couple more followed. These were sleek, clean-cut, all-American sparrows. The road-weary old duffer froze. Glaring at them with open bill (the sparrowish version of bared fangs?) he reared up with chest thrust forward and wings hunched back, a picture of menace. Fury or outrage were being expressed in an unmistakable manner. Those three young bucks—visibly cowed—shrank back, just as obviously overawed. Then this cranky old geezer puffed up and sang the six-note ditty which, to me, has always evoked pastoral serenity. But now I heard it as the victory cry of an alpha male, with the tone-color of a Tarzan yell.

This was one of the most spot on demonstrations I’ve ever seen of a useful third-world concept introduced to me years ago by my friend and mentor, Lorenzo. The word for it isn’t in my dictionary. Mojo is a subtle, ineffable exertion of will, often by a seemingly weaker individual and against odds.

There are three distinct corollaries: One in its home territory has mojo over interlopers. Age has mojo over youth. And a female always has mojo over the male.

  Mojo requires character, connotes underdog or improbable hero, and has nothing to do with bravado nor posing (coming, as it must, from deeper in the well). It’s what that scrappy mustang mare has going when, with ears pinned and a toss of her head, clears some space at the feeder by means of a mere gesture. Mojo is Clint Eastwood, pissed-off, turning toward the camera with that steely squint. Mojo is one jay routing a flock of quail, is what any mother turns out when something comes ‘twixt her and cub. Above all, beautifully, it resolves conflict with spare grace instead of violence.

So, after crowing like a rooster, the old sparrow casually went back to his chow. One more Tarzan yell quelled any further incursions from upstarts; the other three just watched and didn’t even try to sneak pecks. That rumpled old tweetybird, weighing much less than an ounce, had his full measure of a lion’s spirit.

                                                                                                       28 April 2000, 19 Jan 2014   

                                                                                                            ©2014 Tim Forsell