As a south-central Iowa farm kid, I was fascinated by the meadowlark’s domed nest tucked into the bluegrass and cupping a half-dozen speckled eggs. Mom delighted in the more obvious Baltimore oriole’s nest dangling from the drooping branches of the big hackberry tree by our driveway.
Dad marveled at the yellow flashes of the “wild canaries” along the lane – even though their abundance meant that I’d done an incomplete job of cutting thistles. Goldfinches need thistle down for nests and eat thistle seeds. When the turkey vultures floated on thermals over the pasture, we’d count the cattle more carefully, hoping that the “buzzards” hadn’t been attracted by a calf that had died from a lightning strike.
Of course, the bobwhite quail erupting from the weedy fencerow, or the cackling cock pheasant bursting from his hide-away in the big slough, also stirred my bird interest for another reason: hunting. I’d occasionally bag a rooster pheasant or a quail for Mom to simmer in mushroom soup to share with my family.
When I took a real ornithology class in college, my field guide was a 1963 edition of Roger Tory Peterson’s classic “A Field Guide to the Birds,” which was first printed in 1934. I still have that well-worn volume – even though we’ve acquired a dozen other more glitzy fields guides.
I also still have a 50-year-old, 2-volume set of 33 1/3 vinyl records, which will tediously play bird songs – if you still have a functioning record player. As much as I’ve listened to those scratchy old records, “birding by ear” still is not my forte.
With all those connections to Iowa’s birds, it occurred to me that I was becoming a bird nerd, seeking advice from expert ornithologists – both professional and amateur. That’s why we spent a recent weekend with more than 100 other birders at the 100th anniversary Iowa Ornithologists’ Union meeting. IOU historian and retired Iowa State University professor James Dinsmore said the organization grew out of a gathering of the Iowa Conservation Association in 1923.
Sure, I’d sat in on some of their past conferences – and maybe even learned a few things when I wrote stories about their field trips and discussions of the status of Iowa birds. But when it finally dawned on me that I’ve been associated with IOU for half of the group’s century of existence, I was embarrassed to realize how the skills and knowledge of my fellow birder-watchers had left me far behind.
Many of today’s serious birders have always been better than I am at, for example, identifying “confusing fall warblers” (as field guides call them.) Or at tuning in on the mysterious songs of unseen choristers filtering down from the treetops. But most birders now also have graduated to “smarter-than-I-am” smart phones, with apps that can recognize birds from their photos, songs, or descriptions. Put your phone on record, tap the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology’s Merlin icon,. and it will spit out a list of who’s singing. And to let the world know what rare bird you’ve seen or heard, where, and when, just enter the details into Cornell’s E-Bird. Citizen science!
Hmmm. Isn’t that cheating to rely on such electronics? Well, maybe some of us have to cheat, because old age, driving a farm tractor, shooting, or even running a lawn mower or chain saw without ear protection have damaged our hearing to make high-pitched calls undetectable. And our eyes? Well, I think my sight is pretty good – until I compare it to the vision of my teenage grandkids!
And is it cheating to hang a sugar-water hummingbird feeder? Or to lure orioles with dishes of grape jelly? Or to tempt woodpeckers and chickadees with sunflower hearts? Or to erect a bluebird house?
I’d rather call it therapy. With grim political news coming over the computer screen, radio, or TV, just seeing or hearing a bird can be relaxing. I much prefer the ZOOOOM of a fly-by hummingbird to an online Zoom meeting.
Bird Nerd
thanks for the excellent bird photos! beautiful Grosbeak!
Larry—Loved your column! I spent much time in my grade school days as a bird nerd. You reminded me of the thrill of finding an oriole’s nest, or the sadness when I found a dead hummingbird to which I gave a proper burial or realizing that dash of blue was a real ( but mostly rare) bluebird.