I had a blessed childhood for a myriad of reasons. My parents were big animal lovers, and bordering our backyard was a massive wood lot to explore. Many a summer day was spent flipping over rocks looking for salamanders, playing in the streams, and seeing an occasional screech owl. Those woods had a great collection of wildflowers as well, something I didn’t much appreciate at the time but came to love later. There was a vernal pond that was great for finding frogs and toads. My brother Ted and I would often hike back to it to see the countless frog eggs in the spring and later the millions of tadpoles that emerged.
My brothers and I built a tree fort or two back there with some salvaged lumber from one of my Dad’s projects. When we were in high school in the early 80s, the three of us would take a break from our ten-speeds and race our old banana bikes through the twisting trails in the woods at breakneck speeds. It was a very thin trail, so you took your life in your hands every time you’d try to pass your opponent. The competitive nature of three very closely aged siblings meant that it was worth risking your life for the chance to beat your brother. An added hazard was the fact that we also walked our dog back there. “Unexploded ordinance” from the dog was plentiful to say the least, and occasionally a chunk would fly off the tires up your back or, worse yet, into the face of the second place rider—an added incentive to finish in first place.
Our trail riding happened long before anyone thought about wearing a helmet. No one had a “lid” back then. I think the accepted theory at the time was that if your kid had a deadly riding accident, you’d hose the bike off and have another child. On that trail there were countless wipe outs, pile ups, skinned knees and the dreaded “endo” where you flipped end-over-end. This most often happened when your front wheel hit the rear wheel of the rider you were trying to pass. Of course this stopped your bike instantly but left you with enough inertia to out-flip an Olympic gymnast. I ride a mountain bike all the time now—WITH a helmet—and still marvel at the fact that we didn’t kill ourselves back then. We kept our guardian angels on high alert. Let’s hope they got some hazard pay for dealing with us.
Oh yeah… birds. We always had a bird feeder set up at the house to lure in some of the wildlife as well as plenty of field guides to thumb through. I was familiar with the usual backyard birds and enjoyed watching them, but the birding obsession hadn’t yet struck. One day a small flock of streaky, yellow birds that I didn’t recognize came to our feeder and grabbed my interest. I went through the field guide to discover they were Pine Siskins. “Now, that is a classy bird!” I thought. Not long after that in those same woods behind the house I came across a beautiful black, white and red bird singing up a storm. It was spectacular. Once it flew off I raced back home, pulled out the Peterson’s Guide and discoved that it was a male Rose-breasted Grosbeak. Those were my “spark birds” that kindled my growing interest in birds.
Like most birders, when I was first getting into the obsession there were many little brown birds that went unidentified. Some birders call them “LBJs” for “Little Brown Jobs.” They can be frustrating to identify for beginners or when you only get a brief glimpse. Fortunately with time they only become easier to ID. It took me a while to really appreciate the beauty of all the LBJs and now they are some of my favorite birds. The sketch of this Song Sparrow is a great example of a bird that probably goes unappreciated by casual observers. These days many of the LBJs are my favorites. I’m crazy about American Tree Sparrow and White-crowned Sparrows. Now, the Fox Sparrow… that is a fantastic bird. I could go on for a long time here, but you get the idea.
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