The goldfinches pull a disappearing act

This American Goldfinch is, of course, in its summer plumage. It makes for a prettier picture, although I think goldfinches look rather elegant in the winter, too. Photo by Colin Andrews.

Here it is the end of January and not one American Goldfinch has shown its wintry semi-drabness at our backyard thistle/nyger/niger seed feeders.

(Aside: What is with this naming problem? Let’s choose a moniker for these little black seeds and be done with it.

I have a theory about the problem, and I hope no one is offended by it. Remember back when some politician used the term “niggardly,” which means “stingy”? It’s based on a Scandinavian word, but some people thought it was racist, even though the spelling says otherwise. I think perhaps the same issue has raised its ugly head with “niger” although, again, the spelling is off. So somebody thought, “Hey, let’s use a ‘y’ instead of an “i.” That’ll fix it.” But it didn’t fix it, so “nyger” then became the totally innocuous “thistle.” Sorry. I’m an old English major. These things actually interest me.)

Anyway, back to the Goldfinches. I’ve done some research, and I think it’s all my fault they aren’t coming in. I’m using old seed. American Goldfinches are apparently a bit persnickety about their seed. They refuse it if it’s more than six months old (try finding the “best if used by” labeling).

Best advice from the Web: buy your seed from a store that specializes in wild birds. Avoid the supermarket and hardware store. They sell cheap, but so what? If the birds don’t come, what’s the point? You’re still wasting your money.

I bring all this up by way of saying we finally added American Goldfinch to the Big Year list this past week, along with an Eastern Bluebird spotted in a large park in the area. We found the Goldfinch at a local nature center, happily feasting on what I can only assume to have been fresh ninythistle.

We’re still looking for a lot of the common species, such as the White-breasted Nuthatch, so we need to spend a few Saturdays and Sundays in the field. Would that we could take a year off from work for this noble pursuit, but then we’d starve and have to file for bankruptcy. I want to be like Steve Martin in The Big Year (admit it: you saw it, too), using my mountain villa as headquarters as I venture out into the wild in search of my 700th species, taking time only to dine in the finest restaurants and refuse to accept another few million dollars in earnings.

Official Big Year species count as of 30 January: 72.