In 2018, the Walnut Hills Country Club in East Lansing, Michigan closed its doors for good after 97 years. The club's nearly 200 acres, which sit directly across the street from our home, were quickly targeted for development, but when the new owners announced plans to build 400 single-family units, the township kindly suggested they gtfo.
Plans were undone, folks went to court, and Walnut Hills is again up for sale. With the grounds sitting idle for more than two years, nature has done its thing. Fairways, sand traps, tees, and greens have been swallowed by thistles, cattails, and vines. Tall grass has replaced bent grass. Though a few relics remain...
...the rolling expanse has become a sanctuary for East Lansing's flora and fauna instead of its sporting elite.
The loss for the local golfing community has been a gain for wildlife. Deer, coyotes, foxes, rabbits, and groundhogs have reclaimed the land. Flies of the dragon and butter varieties buzz and flutter. Of course it's not all pretty. Mosquitoes and horseflies abound, and more than one tick has sought to bury its bloodsucking head in my flesh.
And then there are the birds. So many birds.
My birdwatching had grown lethargic since moving to Michigan. I'm not sure what motivated me to get back out there
—perhaps a looming vacation in North Carolina and a chance to birdwatch with my dad and idiot brother, or the urging of my sometimes-popular
wife, who had long touted the splendors of WHCC. Whatever the case, this half-assed birder has woken up. Each morning I hike the length of the property, ticking off each species as I go. I've dug out my bird books, bought new binoculars, installed several birding apps on my phone. And what a bounty Walnut Hills has provided! Dozens of species have found a permanent or at least summer home there, from the tiny ruby-throated hummingbird to the giant sandhill crane. Typically I have to venture across to find them, though they will on occasion wander over to the homestead for a visit.
It was during one of my morning rambles the idea for this blog emerged from wherever in my gray folds my writerly side had sequestered itself. As I was fixing my lenses on a pair of eastern bluebirds, I remembered the first time I ever saw one
—decades ago at my grandparents' home in Akron. I got to thinking of my old granddad and how much he loved birding and hiking and just living life in general. I thought about how much I love and miss him, how he influenced my life, and how grateful I am for the 25 years we shared on Earth. Then I remembered the time during a camping trip at Big Bend National Park when, at the age of 78, he launched into a full sprint down a trail for the chance to glimpse the elusive green kingfisher. We got a great look at the male of the species, his emerald and rust colors bright in the Texas sun as he zipped back and forth over a pond. Is far as I can tell, that sighting was the final entry Grandpa jotted into his bird book, which I inherited and is never far from my reach.
As I remembered his mad dash, it occurred to me a new creative project would be a fitting tribute to Gramp, and so I hereby dedicate this blog to William Wallace "Bill" Bowler, pictured here with his wife of 59 years, my grandmother, Florence.
Though not specifically
about him, memories of his life and legacy will fill its pages, and his spirit will inhabit its html. Birds, family, jazz, sports, cocktails
—the great passions of his life
—will be its fuel. I invite you all to join the fun, but don't get too used to the look of things around here. There's a nifty banner on the way from my old
partner blogger, and I'll strive to spruce the place up enough to give however many loyal
McBoners are left a comfy new home.
nwb
Monarch butterfly courtesy of Alexandra Hidalgo
