By Laura Fries
June Ginsberg's routine goes something like this. Take about seven pounds of chicken necks and fat, and chop into bite-size pieces. Place the concoction into a pan, and put it into the fridge. Leave it there until dinner time.
At that time, she carries the pan out to her front walkway. As many as 50 pairs of eyes might be watching her. Waiting.
Ginsberg estimates that she feeds this many wild birds a day. For nearly a decade, she has taken care of the birds that Mother Nature stopped paying attention to. She has a specific routine. First, she pours a line of birdseed out on the left side for the pigeons. Then, another on the right for the sea gulls. The middle of the driveway is reserved for the chopped meat, and the motley flock of blue herons, pelicans, cranes and egrets that eat dinner with her every day.
Ginsberg never planned to open an early bird diner, and she can't remember where she got the idea to put chicken necks on the menu. But when she heard of the destructive red tide on television nine years ago, she decided to help the troubled birds. Rising levels of algae were killing off scores of fish, endangering the seabirds that fed off them. Ginsberg and a neighbor were sparked to feed the birds scraps. Her neighbor has since died, and red tide is not currently a concern for seabirds. But Ginsberg continues to feed the animals. "People couldn't care less," she says. "I feel sorry for wildlife animals. We should give them a hand if we can."
June's Nest
With her aquiline nose and skittish manner, June Ginsberg is a lot like the birds she has adopted. She is in her 70s, although she declines to name a specific number. While her plumage is understated—brown hair with light golden roots—she does have flashes of parakeet-bright color, with blue eyeshadow and magenta lipstick. As she speaks, she shuffles around her front walkway in the deliberate fashion of a crane still deciding whether or not to take flight.
She spends her days tidying the nest—not cleaning, she is quick to say—but preparing things. Hosing down the driveway before the mailman comes. Chopping the birds' meat. And feeding four cats, 50 birds and a husband every day. Dr. Ben, as she introduces him, has Parkinson's disease. He gets his Swanson TV dinner after the birds eat. On this day, it's steak, baked potato, carrots and applesauce. June is candid about her husband's illness—he's going downhill, she says. But she doesn't stay outside long enough to delve into the matter, continuously going back into the house to check on him and his dinner.
For the Birds
When Ginsberg is inside her brick home, she doesn't watch the birds. Most of her windows have shades drawn tight against the world. She only watches them when she feeds them — but there are almost always one or two of them around. On the roof, waddles a wet pelican, holding its wings up above it as it walks, like a large man trying to fit into a small suit jacket. Outside her garage, a crane walks with precision, curling its feet as it takes each step, then placing its leg delicately before it, and shifting its weight—as if it were picking up something distasteful, dropping it on the ground, and discreetly stepping on it to cover the embarrassment.
Ginsberg usually only sees the birds at dinner time, and she's not sure where—or if—they eat lunch. To her knowledge, she is the only one feeding them dinner, but she says she would not begrudge a neighbor who took up her hobby. While she can't tell most of the birds apart unless they are injured or unusually colored, she says she believes that the same pack of birds makes her house the pit stop for dinner. After all, she points out, they always arrive on time.
Ginsberg says that she treats all of the birds the same. She denies that any of the birds receive preferential treatment—unless, of course, one is injured. But when a curious snowy egret arrives later, peering over the side of the roof at her, she confesses that the white bird does in fact receive additional treats in the garage.
Amazingly, four felines live without incident in the eye of this flying food frenzy. Ginsberg, however, reports that none of her cats are paying attention. Snowball, Ebony, Fauna, and GG (Gray Girl) are strays she adopted over the years—and reportedly, none covet a dinner from the flocks lurking outside everyday. Ginsberg theorizes that the formerly homeless cats are behaving themselves out of gratitude. She pictures them saying, "We have it too good here. Why change it?"
Caretakers
June and Ben moved into their waterfront home in Gulfport in 1970 from Chicago, while their three children were in their early teens. Her children soon adjusted to the move, and her sons and daughter now live in the area. Every two weeks or so, they accompany her to the store to help her buy the bird seed—so she doesn't have to lift it, she says.
June no longer drives, so Dr. Ben takes her to the store two or three times a week to purchase the chicken meat, which she pays 59 cents a pound for. She needs about fifty pounds a week for the birds—which costs nearly 30 dollars a week. The chicken fat she gets for free from Publix—one of the few places that carry chicken necks, she says.
She takes care of the birds, the cats, and her husband, but who takes care of June? Her answer is: "The birds."
They are almost always there, not-so-silent guardians of the Ginsberg home. When strangers approach, pigeons feeding on leftover seed rush in a flurry from the ground to the roof, pooping and shedding feathers.
But when Ginsberg is among them, they are calm and accepting. She moves among them slowly, her arm casting out birdseed in a calm, practiced arc. She is the quiet core in the cacophony.
She is one of the flock.