The Delightful Horror of Family Birding. Eli J. Knapp
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As soon as I return the kayak to its perch in the garage and the last droplet has evaporated from my paddle, I set to researching how the odd collective nouns came to be. The first thing I realize is that they’re old: from 1486, to be precise. The Dame Juliana Barnes was tossing them about in The Book of St. Albans before Columbus even thought of sailing the ocean blue. Wow.
Less surprising is the fact that many of the terms were associated with the three important H’s of the day: hunting, heraldry, and hawking. Since European culture had a monopoly on these pursuits and flowery written expressions, credit is typically accorded therein. My hunch tells me that Native Americans devised collective nouns far earlier. How could the Blackfoot people not have used their own unique terms when a few hundred thousand bison rumbled by? Something akin to a rumble? A thunder? Maybe more aptly, a buffet? How did millions of salmon linguistically inspire the Chinook? And billions of passenger pigeons the Shawnee people?
But we’re stuck with recorded history. And a bouquet of pheasants probably seemed all the more fragrant when a well-trained hawk was bringing one back for the dinner table. The other colorful collectives got their foothold in mythology and folklore. Owls, for example, were the symbol for the Greek goddess of wisdom, Athena. Due to their learned disposition, a group of them resembled a “parliament.” Crows, on the other hand, evidently held trials to mete out punishments for their fellow corvid transgressors. Those found guilty were executed by the flock. In his book Mind of the Raven, noted ecologist Bernd Heinrich adds credence to the myth with actual observation of such events. “This killing was a severe punishment,” Heinrich writes, describing a raven homicide in his aviary. “It went far beyond the usual behavior aimed at repelling a competitor from a cache or for showing displeasure over a mild infraction. This was censure of the severest kind.” In my wooded corner of the Northeast, some mornings I’m awakened when the corvid cacophony reaches fever pitch. On such mornings, I pull the pillow over my head and thank the Lord I’m not a transgressing crow.
I may not have transgressed as a crow, but I nearly have as a professor. My most recent near-transgression occurred after I dragged a gaggle of students out for an evening of owling. We had spent the day straining our necks trying to make sense of the “confusion” of warblers (another appropriate collective noun). With the course set to end in a week, I wanted to leave the students with an experience they’d never forget. One they’d tell their friends about. And one that ultimately would keep a flame of outdoor appreciation burning forever. Among all the birds, owls do this best. So I’d brought the students out to a nameless swamp to find my most reliable owl, a barred owl that had never failed to regale my student squadrons. He had benevolently revealed himself for five straight years.
Not this year. We had entered the woods edging the swamp silently and were now reclining on the forest floor. The students were quiet, the sky was dark, and the trees were still. It was a perfect night for an owl. But my owl apparently didn’t think so. Silence except for the greedy hum of the mosquito swarms. We sat. Twenty minutes elapsed. Thirty. The woods grew so dark I could hardly make out the forms of my students. And knowing their discouragement, I was glad I couldn’t.
Finally, I got up to leave, and the students followed suit. On a lark (an exaltation!), I tried one last owl imitation, beseeching the avian gods to send down an ambassador.
Miraculously, the gods acquiesced. On silent wings, a barred owl barreled across the sky and landed just above on a broken branch sticking perpendicularly out of a gnarled white pine. He looked down at us, swiveled his head in the mechanical way that owls do, and then rent the silence with the best who-cooks-for-you rendition I’d ever heard. Despite my earlier admonitions for silence, several students audibly gasped. And then, to top it off, a second owl flew in and called. This excited the first owl, which took up where the second let off. Silhouetted, the two owls worked themselves into a dither. In the midst of their performance, I motioned for the students to follow me out of the forest. My owl had delivered yet again. The rest of the night belonged to him and his consort.
Back in the van, the students broke loose with stories of awe and astonishment. I listened attentively, my grin spreading ear to ear. I was relieved. But also joyful. Here was the transformative power of encountering a special creature on its own terms. Even in our cyber world, where experiences are increasingly virtualized, these desensitizing layers of abstraction can peel away with one barred owl. Or two, in our case.
One of my former students, Laura, had caught wind of our evening trip and stashed herself in the van for another visit with the owl. Having had me as a professor before, she’d grown accustomed to my love of the collective noun. Amidst the owl outpouring, Laura called out from the back, “Eli, we were just one short of a parliament!”
“Aren’t two owls enough for a parliament?” I shot back. While I agreed with her, I couldn’t resist a chance to play the role of devil’s advocate. Laura smiled but didn’t respond. She had no answer.
Neither did I. And I still don’t. According to most dictionaries, a group is two or more individuals. Since a “parliament” refers to a group, technically two should suffice. But a parliament, at least the parliament my mind conjures up of bombastic British folk in wigs, definitely needs a roomful. I’m with Laura. As mesmerizing as the owls were, we saw a pair, not a parliament.
Several months later I got a package in the mail with Laura’s return address on it. I opened it up and pulled out a young adult book with a forgettable picture on the front. The pathetic title had me smiling nonetheless. Owl’s Well That Ends Well. Indeed, owl was well. While we may have missed a parliament during our night of owling, I had learned yet again that the only predictable part of nature is its unpredictability.
This attribute—while at times excruciating—is what I relish most. It’s why I’ll keep luring my son along on kayaking trips and marching students into swamps. Because even if I end up one short of a parliament, I may yet be given a charm or bouquet. And if I hear a scold or a murmuration emanating out of the darkest part of the woods, I’ll be extra alert. Because I never know when I’ll witness another murder.
Hooded merganser
Lophodytes cucullatus
3 • NOTHING TO SNEEZE AT
I enter a swamp as a sacred place, a sanctum sanctorum.
—Henry David Thoreau
“But Daaaad, I wanna go birding, too!”
“Ezra, wouldn’t you rather stay home and play with your Legos?”
“No. I wanna go birding!”
I was poised by the door, binoculars and camera in my bag, ready for a brief blitz on a nearby swamp to see hooded mergansers that only show up in my corner of New York in the fall, on migration. This was my only chance to see them. But here was my four-year-old son begging to come along. I looked hard at my skinny, blond-haired boy, who was imploring me like a prosecutor whose life depended on this one case.
“Do you really want to come?”
“Yeah, I wanna be with you,” Ezra replied in the sincere tone known only to small children. Ouch. My guilty conscience grew heavier by the second. If I went alone, I’d have the chance of seeing mergansers. If Ez tagged along, I’d exchange the shy mergansers for father/son time. With Ezra’s larynx on board, we’d be lucky to see a mallard. It is the ultimate dilemma of young parents who love birding and other outdoor pursuits that require patience, stealth, and quiet. Perhaps there was still a way out.
“Why don’t you check with Mom?” I hoped to high heaven Linda had other plans for him, like a bath perhaps. Ezra disappeared into the living room. He returned instantly.
“Mom said I can go.” He clapped his hands. “And I’ve already got my shoes on!”
My heart sank. While I love time with my kids, I also cherish solitude.
“Okay, Ez, but