Some of the objects we own hold supernatural powers. Often they are
orblike, glowing things, capable changing the winds or summoning malignant spirits from their ancient, subterranean hellscapes. Others contain a more subtle magic. They acquire their uncanny qualities over time, through use, and sometimes by connecting us with the people we love.
Take this battered, faded volume on the left—my grandfather's bird book, the Golden field guide he used and took notes in for years. Ostensibly there's nothing all that special about it. It won't teach you how to make the crows rise up and ravage cities. It's noticeably wanting in runes and diagrams of proper fowl sacrifice, and yet I would argue it is among the most magical things I own. How so? For one, it is forever linked to the less faded but otherwise identical copy on the right—my own bird book, purchased in a Big Bend National Park gift shop in 1993 (very reasonable at $11.95 plus tax).
That purchase was hardly coincidental. Though our family had shelves bursting with bird books of every kind, Grandpa's endorsement of the Golden version made it an easy and natural choice when the time came to pick out a guide of my own. "Finest in the field!" its back cover reassured me, and on the eve of my first real birding trip, I was excited by the potential in its unblemished pages. I couldn't wait to check the boxes in the index for each new species and fill the pages with notes—much like Grandpa did in his tidy cursive. I wasn't there just to observe birds, I was there to observe the way my grandfather observed birds.
A study of his guide tells me his earliest notations read, "Algonquin Prov. Pk - '60." There in the Great White North he recorded a common loon, a chestnut-sided warbler, and a pair of crossbills:
That 1960 timestamp is curious, given the 1983 copyright of his edition (same as mine). Granddad must have transferred notes from another source, but that was him—meticulous, striving for accuracy, applying his scientific mind to everything he did in work or leisure. I shall endeavor to track down all guides and/or notebooks he used prior to purchasing this one, but that's another post for another day.
In some ways, I'm very different from Bill Bowler. I'm not a very meticulous person. My brain, trained in the humanities, is anything but scientific. But I am thankful I followed his lead that week. A glance through my copy tells me I notched 51 species in the deserts of south Texas. I remember few of them now, which makes me doubly grateful I mimicked his style in marking them down:
Turkey vulture
Black vulture
Northern harrier
Red-tailed hawk
Swainson's hawk
Harris' hawk
Zone-tailed hawk
Gray hawk
American kestrel
Montezuma quail
American coot
Black-necked stilt
Killdeer
Rock dove
White-winged dove
Greater roadrunner
Elf owl
Golden-fronted woodpecker
Vermilion flycatcher
Black phoebe
Barn swallow
Cave swallow
Purple martin
Scrub jay
Gray-breasted jay
Common raven
Black-crested titmouse
Verdin
Brown creeper
Cactus wren
Northern mockingbird
Curve-billed thrasher
Blue-gray gnatcatcher
Phainopepla
Colima warbler
Lucy's warbler
Yellow-rumped warbler
Townsend's warbler
Wilson's warbler
House sparrow (lol)
Scott's oriole
Summer tanager
Pyrrhuloxia
Northern cardinal
Rufous-sided towhee
Brown towhee
Lark sparrow
Dark-eyed junco
Rufous-crowned sparrow
Chipping sparrow
White-crowned sparrow
Grandpa's bird book came to me when he passed away in 2001, and this pair of Golden guides have proved reliable companions over the subsequent 19 years. I take comfort in the blue cover, Arthur Singer's beautiful illustrations, its easy-to-use layout, even the size and heft. More than anything, I get a free shot of nostalgia every time I turn to them for help. I'm not a particularly spiritual person. I don't feel eyes of the beloved dead looking down on me from the ether, but his old faded guide is a magic portal into my memories of him, that week, the campground where every evening we toasted another day of successful birding—he with a martini, I with an ice-cold RC Cola. Therein lies the power of these little blue books.
Alas, it has occurred to me recently, as I become a more ardent birder, that a 1983 field guide is missing nearly four decades of knowledge. Hell, the book was ten years out of date the day I bought it. A lot of things can happen in just the space of a year. Bird names
change. New species are
added. Others are
removed. Thus, with every passing day, Golden's permanent, all-caps boast of being "EXPANDED" and "REVISED" rings increasingly hollow. Nothing illustrates this better than the
rufous-sided towhee—now a blanket name that covers distinct species, the eastern towhee, which I saw in West Lafayette, IN, and the spotted towhee, sighted in Big Bend on April 15, 1993. My guide separates the two as distinct races, but not species. No good.
Nostalgia is a powerful drug, and so my first instinct is to turn to a more recent edition, but Golden's not-so-recent 2001 version (now published by St Martin's Press) isn't going to cut it either, and so I'm faced with the reality of needing a newer, more detailed, entirely different guide. Of course there's also the matter of apps, which are updated continuously and are infinitely more compact and versatile than any book could be. Merlin and ebird make it easy to maintain running lists, complete with field notes and photos. Still, I crave the tactile satisfaction that comes with a book, and I can't imagine handing an app down to future generations. As much as I don't relish the idea of shelving the only field guide I ever owned, my search for a replacement has begun. Anyhow it's not like I'm condemning these august volumes to the dustbin. They'll be around whenever I need to commune and compare notes with Grandpa. I know he would approve of my quest to improve as a birder, as well as my commitment to meticulously transfer notes from one guide to another.
All told, Grandpa marked 494 birds in his Golden guide. His final entries were jotted during a return trip to
Big Bend in 1994, when he added green kingfisher,
Mississippi kite, hook-billed kite,
lesser golden-plover, clay-colored robin, and tropical parula to his
life list. Now I find myself wondering what the final note in my own Golden guide will be. To date, it's the common nighthawk I spotted on August 26. I plan to find a replacement in time for spring migration, but the reality is I'll probably make the move much sooner.
So what's it gonna be? Sibley? Peterson?
Recommendations welcome!
nwb
