On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  The looks of surprise on both the bears’ and the teenagers’ faces always sent us into riotous laughter.

  Sometimes my dad would turn off the motor and lights, and we’d wait hopefully for the bear’s lumbering return. In the soft night, with the windows rolled down and the warm scent of garbage drifting through the car, my siblings and I struggled to sit still in the suspenseful silence. The telling clank of tin cans in the darkness rewarded our patience. A flash of headlights re-exposed the bear browsing for baked beans or the kissing teenagers.

  I never necked at the dump, though not by choice. As a young girl, a date at the dump seemed very romantic. As luck would have it, by the time I became a teenager, the environmental movement was taking shape, and the dump was moved to a new location and locked up at night. My opportunity to kiss amid the crunched cans and corncobs while watching for bears was gone. Dump dates were history.

  Even so, memories of the dump continue to hold a place of honor in our family. Driving Up North in our 1959 station wagon, my parents always slowed at the dump to spot for bears no matter how arduous our 450-mile journey had been.

  “The dump, the dump!!” five hot, sweaty kids shouted. The pitch of our already frenzied excitement heightened, for the dump was the cherished signal that our cabin on the lake and all the summer surprises that awaited us were minutes away.

  Before the dump moved to its more environmentally correct location, my mother hauled an old stone from its premises and presented it to my brother for his birthday. Although this seemed an odd gift at the time, the rest of us are now all secretly envious of his dump rock and wish we had one. Plunked down in the middle of his garden, this ten-pound hunk of pink and gray quartz sparkles regally, especially in springtime when it is encircled by the purple, orange, and white crocuses that my mother planted years ago.

  So Betty the Dump Lady is right. “Love Grows Here” rings true. Hurry, spring! Warm the wings of the iridescent black fly with your soft sunshine so its buzz may signal children’s laughter, fishermen’s stories, and friends’ visits to a lonely lady’s outpost.

  As for my own teenagers necking in the dump’s dreamy darkness? Thankfully, I don’t think Betty would allow it.

  Birdsong

  The owls are hooting. Their lovely song punctuates the evening’s calm just as the sun begins its slow slide past the treetops. We have been hearing them in the small woods bordering our backyard and that of our neighbor’s since the middle of January.

  At first, there was only one owl calling, its lonely, low hoot a soft whisper in the twilight. Within a few weeks, however, a second, higher-pitched hoot joined the first, each calling to the other from not-so-distant trees.

  Sometimes they carry on for hours, hooting into the deepening night in a lovers’ duet. And sometimes they sing just as the early morning light climbs up from the east in a sleepy ascent, as though they’re nature’s designated alarm clock.

  On occasion, they hoot only briefly and then are silent. On those nights, emptiness hangs heavy in the air.

  Although we have spotted them only once or twice, their hoot identifies them as great horned owls, a fact I learned from my faded Birds of North America field guide. Dutifully, I record this ongoing owl concerto next to the great horned owl entry, a habit learned from my grandmother, Clara Borden Oatman, who kept a bird journal spanning over fifty years of her life.

  This journal has long rested on my bookshelf, but until recently I had never read it. Inspired by owl calls and curious as to what she wrote, I opened its brittle pages. The brown, crumbling cover is tied with a slim silk ribbon, yellowed with age to an antique patina. On the flowered cover, she neatly printed in fountain-pen script the journal’s purpose: Bird Notes.

  Beginning in 1911 and carrying on until 1962, my grandmother recorded her birds with the methodology of a well-trained ornithologist. Many of the entries list the bird’s description, location, and song, like this one dated April 22, 1911: “Least fly catcher. Jelkes’ woods. In trees near water darting about eating insects. 4 or 5 inches long. Olive green-gray head and back, grayish yellow under. 2 bars on wings. Song a weak chirp—a little like a sparrow.”

  My grandmother was a good listener, and she often identified birds by their songs. Music staffs with little quarter and eighth notes are sprinkled throughout the journal to more accurately capture the sweet calls that she heard.

  One of my favorite discoveries is this early entry: “Feb. 14, 1910. Heard first robin.” My grandmother’s tradition of celebrating the first robin of spring has continued for over ninety-five years in my family. (This year, my brother heard his first robin in January, and I heard mine on February 25.) Every year of her journal chronicles the date of the robins’ return.

  Significant weather observations were also a part of her documentation, as in this March 7, 1930, entry: “Blizzard—left car in Chicago on trip to see art show. Worst snow storm in winter which was mildest in 40 years.”

  My grandmother enjoyed gardening as well and there are many mentions of her flowers:

  “April, 1931: Forsythia never so nice as this year—completely covered with bloom.”

  Poetry was another love, and snatches of her favorite nature poems are recorded next to bird sightings and garden notes. In 1939, she includes these “excerpts from Robert Frost, a poet of New England” (her contemporary and a rising star at the time):

  It is a blue-butterfly day here in spring,

  And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry

  There is more unmixed color on the wing

  Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.

  The best discovery of all, however, is my grandmother’s spare sentences marking the major events of her life and dropped between her nature observations like birdsong suddenly heard in a forest. This is not the journaling of today that attempts to decode the meaning and nuances of daily existence, but rather a succinct acceptance of life in all its diversity, the joys as well as the sorrows.

  Births, deaths, illnesses, and loving moments suddenly appear among the birds and flowers and poems like shooting stars against an already heavenly night. Some even reflect the history of the times.

  1918: Mama ill. Dying September 24.

  1934: No snow to speak of all winter. Dusty dust storms. Awful.

  1938: Nov. 2—My darling Erle gone. [Erle was her beloved husband.]

  1942: Dadie in services since August 31. [Dadie was her nickname for my father, David, her only child.]

  1944: Feb. 26—Dadie and Eleanor married! 66 degrees—lovely day!

  1945: May—Dadie in Germany near Cologne we think.

  1945: August 14—War over!! We heard the news over the radio at 6:10. Dadie in France.

  1946: July 26—Received word at cabin that Stella passed away. 6:15. [Stella was her sister.]

  1947: Dadie’s Little Darling Nancy Borden born May 25—5:25 a.m.

  1950: March 11—Europe on Q. Elizabeth.

  1961: April 30, Sunday—Eleanor, Nancy and Marnie came over and wore Mama’s dresses and my wedding dress. And!!! We saw a hummingbird in the flowering bushes.

  I was amazed to discover this last entry because I remember it clearly. The sun poured into my grandmother’s elegant dining room as Nancy (thirteen) and I (eleven) begrudgingly modeled these long silk dresses from the late 1800s in preparation for a community event that our mother helped organize.

  On this afternoon, we wanted to be with our friends, but since we were borrowing these dresses from my grandmother (eighty-five) and my great Aunt Mina (ninety), our mother insisted we model the gowns for them. Adolescent moodiness soon evaporated, however, as we two young sisters became aware of the two elderly sisters’ delight at seeing these intricate gowns from their past brought to life again. The hummingbird sighting only added to the magic.

  In 1961, a year before my grandmother died, my mother (our Girl Scout troop leader) invited her to speak to my troop about the joys of keeping a bird journal. We were working
on a conservation merit badge, and at the end of her charming presentation she gave each scout a little brown journal with a bird stamp on the cover and the following inscription on the first page in her neat script: “1911–1961: Interest and happiness in identification of birds and favorite poems make my little bird book a treasure to me, as it can be to you. C.B.O.”

  And so it has been. I started with that journal—“1961, April 10, Blue Bird”—and moved on into my field guide with this latest addition: “March 27: Twilight. Step out on deck to hear owls and spot both of them—one just above us in the oak tree and the other a short distance through the woods. The farther one hoots and shortly thereafter the one overhead takes flight—his wingspan huge—to another tree.”

  How glorious is that?

  Even as I’ve been writing this essay, I have observed at my backyard feeder the scarlet plume of a cardinal, the black and white stripes of a downy woodpecker, gray mourning doves, and the happy darting of chickadees and juncos. In addition, a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers knocking at the top of an old dead tree continues to entertain me as no technology ever could.

  One day, I will go back through my grandmother’s journal and count her life list of birds: cedar waxwings, phoebes, golden-crowned kinglets, Canada warblers, and indigo buntings are just the beginning.

  And tonight, I will listen closely once again for the owl music to begin, not just for the gift of its ethereal beauty, but as a reminder of what all the birds bring back to us in spring: a song of life, a song of hope.

  My grandmother’s last entry, written just three weeks before she died at the age of eighty-six, ended on that note: “1962, March 20—snow drops just up!”

  No doubt the robins were back and singing.

  Child of Nature

  A budding branch was my first item for Show and Tell.

  As my mother and my four-year-old self headed out the door to nursery school, I remembered that it was my turn to bring a favorite toy. Running late and with two other small children in tow, my mother simply snapped off a sprig of emerging green and handed it to me.

  “Take this,” she said. “You can show the other children that spring is on its way.”

  And so I did. With a bit of trepidation amid all the dolls and trucks and cowboy guns, I shyly got up and told about my twig.

  There were green buds on it and that was good because soon the buds would turn into leaves, and leaves meant summer, and summer meant ice cream, and ice cream meant that you could probably go swimming, and believe me, I was off and running like a rambling rose that stopped only when the teacher politely thanked me and asked me to sit down.

  Who knew little green sprouts on a brown branch could hold a class of thirty squirming four-year-olds at attention for so long?

  It was my first awareness (and perhaps my young classmates’ as well) of the beauty of nature. And it has stuck with me ever since.

  Thankfully, both my parents had a deep and abiding love for nature, which they passed on to my four siblings and me. Even as small children, we were taught the names of wildflowers, birds, trees, and the brilliant constellations of the night sky. By a young age, we could recognize a maple leaf from an oak; quickly identify red-winged blackbirds, blue jays, or robins; and easily point out Orion or Cassiopeia in the night sky.

  As scout leaders, my parents also trained us to nurture nature. Our troops often planted trees, picked up litter on our hikes, cleaned our campsites so they were better than when we arrived, and pursued a bevy of merit badges by honing our outdoor skills.

  The best part, of course, was that it was all fun. We loved running around at night looking at stars, playing in the woods, discovering toads, and building campfires to roast marshmallows. But most of all, being outside surrounded by the wild beauty of nature gave us a sense of peace and freedom that we have cherished well into adulthood. It is a pleasure I have passed on to my children, and I know they will do the same for theirs.

  Unfortunately, recent research suggests that all too many children prefer to stay inside to play because, as one child puts it in Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder, “Thats where all the outlets are.” The author, journalist Richard Louv, defines nature-deficit disorder as “the human cost of alienation from nature, among them: diminished use of senses, attention difficulties, and higher rates of physical and emotional illnesses. The disorder can be detected in individuals, families, and communities.”

  He goes on to say that in just one generation, the allure of TV, computers, and video games is so strong that children are hardly outside anymore, and when they are, they don’t know how to entertain themselves. As a result, children today are more likely to be inactive, inattentive, and overweight than ever before.

  In addition, Louv says, there is “a growing body of evidence that indicates that direct exposure to nature is essential for physical and emotional health.” New studies even suggest that exposure to nature may reduce symptoms of attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder and “improve all children’s cognitive abilities and resistance to negative stresses and depression.” The research is focusing not on what is lost by lack of exposure to nature but on what is gained, or “how blessed our children can be—biologically, cognitively, and spiritually—through positive physical connection to nature.”

  And here we always thought we were just fooling around out in the yard.

  All this new research is only confirming what the renowned conservationist Sigurd F. Olson (1899–1982) observed and predicted decades ago. He wrote book after book on the need to preserve and protect not only the vast wildernesses but also the small ones.

  Even before our recent technological advancements, Olson wrote and spoke with elegant passion about the great silences of the wild, the profound beauty of the natural world, and the basic human need to experience spiritual renewal in nature.

  As far back as 1946, he was writing in National Parks Magazine, “I have found that people go to the wilderness for many things, but the most important of these is perspective. They may think they go for the fishing or the scenery or companionship, but in reality it is something far deeper. They go to the wilderness for the good of their souls.”

  Of all the benefits of nature, perhaps it is this balm to the spirit that is overlooked the most in our overscheduled, fast-paced society. Who among us, especially a child, doesn’t need the soothing benefits of nature’s beauty? And what a tragedy it would be for a whole generation of children never to appreciate birdsong, the smell of rain-washed earth, or cumulonimbus clouds forming a mountain in the sky—because they were inside watching TV or playing on the computer.

  So as the days lengthen and brighten, and singing birds return, do a child, or an adult, a favor. Grab a hand and take a walk, breathe in the fresh air, plant a tree, dig a garden, enjoy the silence, watch the clouds, or look up at the stars.

  Who knows what discoveries you’ll make, not only about nature but about yourselves. That’s the best part. And maybe, just maybe, a child’s appreciation of the sounds, sights, and scents of the natural world will bloom and grow.

  After all, there’s a reason Mother Earth is the star of Show and Tell.

  Willie the Wolf and Other Wildlife

  The howl rose loud, long, and lonely. It came from the wetlands to the north, startling me out of a dreamy sleep like a splash of cold water on my face. The sound of a second howl sent shivers up my spine.

  Soon more voices joined in, their plaintive cries rising into the star-filled sky like a symphony in minor key. As a young girl lying snugly in an old metal bed on our cabin porch in northern Wisconsin, I listened to the eerie music serenade the forest and echo across the lake. And then I relaxed. After all, it was only Willie the Wolf.

  My father, a natural born storyteller, named all our favorite Northwoods animals and, in doing so, launched our imaginations into the realm of the wild. Besides Willie the Wolf, there were Charlie Chipmunk, Roger Raccoon, Freddie the Fox, Blackie the Bear
, Marvin Musky, and other appropriately christened critters. Because they had names, we saw the area’s wildlife as our friends—creatures to be respected and admired.

  “Willie the Wolf lives near the swamp,” our father told us. “He likes to hang out at night with his pack of other wolf friends, and that is why he is calling them.”

  It made perfect sense to us.

  We five siblings did not fear the wildlife or see them as things to be chased, hunted, or used for our benefit. Perhaps that is why we never took up fishing. Too personal.

  Consequently, when our family was Up North, we were always on the lookout for wildlife sightings. When we caught sight of a creature, we greeted it with great fanfare. If we were in the car and one of us spotted an animal, we were instructed to shout out its position for the others’ benefit: “Deer on the right!” or “Fox on the left!” And if, in your excitement, you only shouted, “There’s a deer!” an entire station wagon would answer back like a Greek chorus: “Where?! Where?!”

  Despite the lack of specifics, our father would immediately slam on the brakes, flinging all seven of us forward and whipping us back again as our car came to a screeching halt. This, of course, would startle the creature into such a fright that, in a flash, it was gone. You had to look fast if you wanted to see wildlife in our family.

  Occasionally, however, an animal was so shocked by the crazy commotion coming from our station wagon that, for a few blissful moments, it stared back in mesmerized silence before regaining its wits and hightailing it out of there.