Creature of habit

                                          Picky eater.

So what makes a Californian a Californian?

Having been born in the state? A true native? Nah. I’ve met people from foreign countries living here now who are more Californian than my native-born nieces.

Knowing what "tri-tip" is? It helps.

Stuffing tiny dogs into designer bags and carrying them everywhere? This affectation did not originate with Britney Spears and other recent Hollywood starlets eager for a photo op, but Mississippian Spears forsakes her native state for California every time she tucks the little woofers in.

It’s a big state, encompassing many climates and cultural zones, so the California identity is very broad. I’m still working out my own list of qualifications, but here’s how it starts:

1. Being able to attract hummingbirds to your feeders.

Gotta tell you, folks, if you can’t get hummingbirds to hover at your sugar water feeders in this state, there is something seriously wrong with you. They are everywhere, nesting in garages, dogfighting above houses, and sip-sip-sipping at thousands, quite possibly millions, of feeders through most of California.

Back in Nebraska, I couldn’t get a hummingbird to drop a bomb on my back porch. Innumerable sparrows ate of the seed I put out. Blue jays, cardinals, grosbeaks, doves, nuthatches, finches – goldfinches clung to my niger seed feeders by the tens of dozens. Baltimore orioles licked clean the little pots of grape jelly I put out for them. The list of birds that regularly partook at my table topped 50 species, and not a hummingbird among them.

I tried putting out hummingbird feeders, but in the twelve years I lived there, I spotted a grand total of one hummingbird, this little guy hovering above my dog’s water bowl. I was mentally plotting a whole garden filled with red flowers, but within three minutes it zipped away and was gone. End of hummingbird visits.

Other bird lovers around Nebraska attract hummers to their feeders, but we were a little too far west, I think, and out of the birds’ regular habitat.

Here in California, I have chosen to give up seed feeding. I don’t want to attract other vermin to a neighborhood more crowded than my old one by a factor of about 50. When I heard goldfinches chattering during the winter, I couldn’t resist putting out a niger feeder, but they ignored it. My sister Chris, who lures whole tribes of them to her feeders, suggested that they already have regular feeding stations in other yards and simply didn’t need mine. I’m OK with that.

But hummingbirds – a no-brainer in this state. Water to sugar at a ratio of 4:1, fake flower feeding ports on a plastic or glass bottle, and voila! hummingbird heaven. Chris can’t keep her feeders filled; she’s cooking up nectar every day for dozens of the tiny speedsters.

When Ron and I arrived at our new home late last summer, a plastic feeder hanging off the pergola outside the kitchen was already hosting several hummingbirds. They buzzed out of the Meyer lemon tree, whirred above the pool, and loop-de-looped back to the feeder my mother had hung there as a housewarming gift.

For several months, I refilled it regularly, and our little guys grew fat and happy. Then one day I left it alongside the sink for cleaning. The next time I saw it, it was a warped bubble of melted plastic emerging from the dishwasher.

You can break an ankle tripping over all the hummingbird feeders for sale around here. I bought a glass one, anticipating another top-rack ride through the dishwasher. I liked the whimsical design of colored circles in the clear glass, and the brightly colored flower feeding ports in the copper base.

The hummingbirds didn’t. They wouldn’t touch the thing. After several weeks of waiting for them to "adapt," I took it down and hung up a substitute, another glass one of much plainer design, with the standard red plastic base.

The next morning, a large ring of sugar water stained the concrete below the feeder. No matter how I fiddled with it, the leak persisted.

I selected the third feeder with more attention to the feeding ports. Her hummers seemed to like having a perch, Mom said. The original she had hung in our yard had perches, I recalled. I bought a near-duplicate, filled it and presented it to the hummingbirds.

Again, rejection. I played with the nectar recipe, enriching it with more sugar. No takers.

What was I doing wrong? Perches, water-to-sugar ratio, plastic vs. copper vs. glass?

By now, several more months had passed. It takes a while to be certain that hummingbirds are snubbing you. I was grocery shopping with Mom one day when she said, "I think these hummingbird feeders are just like the one I put up for you."

I immediately put one in my shopping cart. I took it home, cooked up my 4:1 ratio, and hung it out. For several days I could hardly bear to look at it, hanging there unappreciated and forlorn.

And then...one bright spot of jewel green paused by a feeding port. One long, scimitar bill dipped into my sugary offering...dipped again, and again.

Now, several days later, the dogfights have resumed above the pool. Several hummingbirds are muscling each other for dominance of my lone feeder. I’m thinking of hanging out another one.

I know exactly what kind I’ll get.