Читать книгу The Delightful Horror of Family Birding - Eli J. Knapp - Страница 11

Barred owl

Strix varia

2 • ONE SHORT OF A PARLIAMENT

There was an old man who told me when I was a boy that I should look at words like beautiful stones. He said I should lift each one and look at it from all sides before I used it. Then I would respect it.

—Kent Nerburn, Neither Wolf Nor Dog

“That’s the third murder we’ve witnessed today!” I remark to seven-year-old Ezra, sitting in the front seat of the tandem kayak we’re paddling.

“What?” Ezra asks. “What do you mean?” Of all the characteristics of kids, unbridled curiosity may be my favorite. I prey upon it. And now, I was doing exactly that.

“You mean you didn’t see that murder?” Water droplets drip from my paddle and roll down my forearm. “Well, surely you had to hear it? Listen! You can still hear it!” Ezra swivels in his seat and catches my smirk.

“You mean, the crows?” he asks quizzically.

“Yeah. Did you know that a group of crows is called a ‘murder’?”

“No.” Ezra swivels back in his seat and resumes paddling in a rare moment of thoughtful silence. He’s somewhat rankled. Like most seven-year-olds, he’d rather be teaching me than vice-versa. But his curiosity trumps all. I know what’s coming, and Ezra doesn’t let me down.

“Why?”

Despite my anticipation of the question, I have absolutely no idea. Much like a crow, I’m an inveterate scavenger. Only, I prefer to pick from the carcass of oddball natural history trivia. On one such foray, I’d stumbled upon the collective noun. Collective nouns are those that describe groupings of individuals. For people the collective pronouns, like “crew” or “party,” are kind of boring. For birds and animals, they’re anything but. How had I lived much of my life, I’d wondered on my day of discovery, without the nutrients of these nuggets? Like other collectors, I’d quickly amassed a precious horde. In my merriment, I neglected the more laborious work of figuring out why these monikers stuck.

My son had exposed my ignorance. Now I’m the rankled one. Like most proud fathers, I can’t let him know that. So I play the ignoble card and deftly redirect the conversation.

“Isn’t ‘murder’ such a cooler word than ‘flock’?” I remark. “And the word for a group of ravens is even cooler. It’s an ‘unkindness’!”

“Why?” Ezra asks again. I try one last time to dodge.

“But some group names are dumb. Do you see those killdeer on the rocks?” I point with my paddle.

“Yeah.”

“Well, a group of plovers like them is called a ‘congregation.’”

“Why don’t you like that word, Dad?”

“Because it’s too hard to say. Too many syllables.”

“I don’t think it’s hard to say.” Ezra pronounces “congregation” aloud. He has a knack for exposing my double standards and duplicities.

“Yeah, I guess not. I just don’t like it.”

The cawing of the crows is replaced by the gentle sounds of our paddles in the calm water. We both fall silent, our thoughts expanding like the ripples from our bow. While Ezra likely dwells on the underwater whirlpools he creates with his paddle, I dredge the dumpster of other collective nouns I’d stuck in my mental scrapbook.

The ones I liked best were the ones that seemed so apt, so descriptive of their species. Jays, for example, are strident birds. When their dander is up, they can awaken a sleeping forest, or a sleeping man in a forest, in milliseconds. The Steller’s jay, as my brother discovered in the redwoods of California, is the worst offender. So the collective noun—a “scold” of jays—is apropos. The same logic applies for several other species. Anybody who has watched hundreds of starlings suddenly descend upon a lawn in fall and heard the monotone cacophony that results will agree that a “murmuration” of starlings is ideal. As for ravens, an “unkindness” suits their dark and brooding demeanor. More lighthearted is the name for a group of ring-necked pheasants. Although it’s only happened once, I’ll never forget the sea of colors when a family of pheasants exploded from a hedgerow in front of me. It was indeed a “bouquet” of pheasants, a term that must have arisen from an artistically minded naturalist. Or perhaps a love-struck hunter on his way home to his damsel.

Other collective nouns are special for the sheer winsome joy they create. Sure, a flock of goldfinches is fine. But goldfinches, especially when they adorn my coneflowers like Christmas ornaments in late summer, deserve more than that. So yes, I call them a “charm.” The same goes for larks. When meadowlarks alight from a flowery field, they are far more than a flock. They truly are an “exultation” of larks. And when I someday see a group of eagles soaring in the sky, I’m sure I’ll agree that they’re a “convocation” indeed.

I’ve collected other collective nouns too. But these I’d like to purge. They clutter my mind like mental tchotchkes. Like a “congregation” of plovers (which should be a “panic,” mind you), these nouns remain on the shelves of my mind, gathering dust. Some simply need to be reversed. Everybody knows that a “descent” of woodpeckers should actually be an “ascent,” for woodpeckers only go up tree trunks, not down. Descent, while rich and descriptive, should be reserved for the devil down-heads—the nuthatches.

Some need to be jettisoned altogether. Bobolinks live in open fields. They migrate thousands of miles between the Americas, and their otherworldly song is unfettered and free. A “chain” of bobolinks doesn’t fit. Chains and imperialism should be reserved for the house sparrows that have usurped lands from many natives. And while I’m at it, how about a “siege” of herons? Get serious. Most herons are downright stoics, far more content to watch than lay siege. Yes, they suddenly launch forward like lightning when an unsuspecting fish swims by. But this is no siege. Wouldn’t a “seize” of herons suit them better?

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.