There are certain things that quietly tether us to our past.
The sound of gravel under your shoes at dawn.
The creak of a back porch door.
The soft, hopeful flutter of wings waiting for breakfast or dinner.
For me, bluebirds have always been one of those tethers.
When I think about feeding bluebirds, I don’t just think about mealworms or feeders or placement in the yard. I think about my dad. I think about sitting outside with him after he came home from work, learning to look up instead of down.
He taught me birds the way some fathers teach baseball stats.
Songbirds first—because they were everywhere. We learned their calls before we learned their names. Then ducks and doves, patient and familiar. Water birds, various egrets and herons, the ones that required stillness and binoculars and waiting long enough for them to reveal themselves. He taught me which birds stayed, which ones left, and which ones surprised you by coming back when you thought they were gone for good.
And bluebirds?
Bluebirds were special.
In the beginning, they showed up quietly, like a reward for paying attention. Once they had us hooked, they knew to come to the window and demand worms if the cup was empty.
Feeding them felt less like “putting food out” and more like participating in a tradition. A small ritual. One that said: This place is safe. You are welcome here.
I didn’t realize at the time that I was learning more than bird identification. I was learning patience. Presence. How to notice details most people rush past. How to stand side by side with someone without needing to fill the silence.
Now, years later, when I fill a mealworm feeder and hang it in the yard, I feel that same stillness settle in my chest. The same quiet anticipation. The same sense that something meaningful is about to happen—even if it’s small.
Especially if it’s small.
I watch the bluebirds approach cautiously, then with confidence. I notice their patterns, their preferences, their habits. We have sets that return every year. And I hear my dad’s voice in my head, pointing things out before I even have to ask.
What makes it sweeter is that this is still something we share.
We still talk birds. Still compare sightings. Still get excited over the return of familiar wings each season. Feeding bluebirds has become a thread that stretches across decades—binding childhood mornings to present-day quiet, memory to meaning.
It reminds me that traditions don’t have to be loud or complicated to last.
Sometimes they look like a simple feeder.
Sometimes they sound like birdsong at sunrise.
Sometimes they feel like standing next to someone you love, both of you looking up, knowing exactly why it matters.
And every time the bluebirds come back, so do the memories. 💙
We started with a simple blue cup on a stand, which worked great at my parent's house. In my yard, however, the squirrels do not know the meaning of the word "share." I tried everything - red pepper flakes, greasing the pole, slinkies ... nothing worked. I saw this feeder that claimed it was squirrel-proof, and it actually is! I've used it for ten months now, and it's great. I put mealworms in the bottom basket (either dried or fresh, depending on the season), and raw peanuts in the top portion, for a variety of birds to enjoy (and an occasional chipmunk, too!)
Here's the feeder - I have the blue, but it comes in bronze as well.
And here are the dried mealworms that are a hit every time.
Happy birding and making memories!
