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 when we get to the pond, you have to promise not to make a sound. We’re going to see some really shy birds.” I knew we wouldn’t see the birds, but I still had to try.
“I promise, Dada.”
We had a great drive to the lake, chatting about all things from Hot Wheels to telephone poles. But upon arrival at the well-wooded lake, I admonished Ezra again about the need for quiet. Solemnly, he nodded.
I scanned the waters and saw a flock of likely mergansers at the far edge. We’d have to approach stealthily through the woods.
“Ready, Ez?”
“I’m ready, Dada.”
“Okay, let’s go. Remember, don’t make a sound.” We entered a thick stand of conifers and slowly picked our way to the other side of the lake, being careful not to step on loud twigs and leaves. Ezra mimicked every footstep I took and never said a word. “We’re almost there,” I whispered. “Great job.” Ezra smiled back and flashed me a thumbs-up.
We crouched low behind a log and slowly lifted our heads. There they were. Right in front of us, two doting male mergansers paddled alongside half a dozen earth-toned females. The afternoon sun’s slanting rays lit up the males’ white head crests like flags of surrender. Wanting to remember the scene, I pulled out my camera and snapped a few shots. Euphoric, I glanced at Ezra to see if he was enjoying it, too.
He wasn’t. His smile was gone. His eyes were pinched shut, his cheeks were red, and he had both hands covering his mouth. Uh-oh.
“Ez, are you okay?” He nodded his head feebly but wouldn’t open his eyes or pull his hands away from his mouth. Confused, I picked him up and crashed back out through the woods, this time oblivious to the sound we made. When we reached the roadside, I set him down.
“AAAAHHHH-CHOO!” Ezra’s head shot forward like a released bowstring. He hacked, sputtered and wheezed. As for me, I started laughing uncontrollably. In between laughter, I turned to Ezra.
“Why did you wait so long to sneeze?!”
“You said not to make a sound!”
“Well done, Ez! Did you see those beautiful mergansers?”
“What mergansers?” he replied matter-of-factly. I doubled over again.
The setting October sun lit up the orange-red trees like flames as we drove home. With his colossal sneeze now behind him, Ezra made up for lost time, filling the air with a string of questions and non sequitur proclamations typical of a four year old. It’s a time I’ll treasure someday when he’s an uncommunicative and self-conscious teenager.
The decision to bird or spend time with Ezra needn’t be an either/or. I’ve learned it’s a both/and. We had time together, made a priceless memory, and I even saw my birds.
Next time maybe Ezra will see them, too.
Northern flicker
Colaptes auratus
4 • A FLICKER OF LIFE
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
“Eli, you have to do something! Oh, I can’t bear to watch this!” I leapt out of my chair in the other room and rushed to the sound of my wife’s voice. Few words could prompt such immediate action. But these words I feared.
As I rounded the corner into the living room, my adrenalized
