Excerpts

Introduction I consider myself fortunate to have grown up in a quiet suburban town that still had a few remaining woodlands. When I was only eight years old, those forgotten forest sanctuaries diverted my attention and beckoned me to enter them. Soon, the day came when I discovered their rich birdlife. I have fond memories of those carefree days, but unlike many who at that age shared those quiet woodland experiences, in me they took hold and continued into my adulthood, transforming me into a true naturalist with a keen focus on birding. My father once said that, because of my infatuation with wild birds, he should have given me the middle name Blue Jay instead of simply Jay. My dad had a great sense of humor, but he was also supportive. He encouraged my interests, and I followed through by learning as much as I could about birds. What began as a spark, his guidance fanned into a flame. And from that intense passion and much research, I'm now able to present an array of interesting facts about the biology, migration, and conservation of birds, both common and uncommon. In  Birder on Berry Lane,  I share observations of specific species and, in some cases, about individual birds from my locale during the course of a year. I take you along into my back woodlot to see what we might encounter. I guide you on my walks in the neighborhood and across streams into nearly impenetrable thickets of lush saplings, across sunny meadows, and beneath shaded oak woodlands. I introduce a different approach to the enjoyment of birds. As a young adult, I left home to pursue an education and start a career. I found myself living in the city, far from the suburban woodlands of my childhood. Although I made weekend trips to the hinterlands and took faraway birding excursions to find those birds of a lifetime, I lacked the daily experience of birdlife happening around me, moment to moment. When I finally embarked on a career and purchased a home on Berry Lane, the opportunity to live among birds returned. Berry Lane is pleasant, as is my home. Like many, it has a lawn, a shed, and several gardens. It is situated in a quiet town, once completely rural. The homes here are located on former dairy and fruit farms, and many, such as mine, are adjacent to old woodlands where farming was abandoned years ago. This has allowed suburbia to merge with the wild past. I have a small front yard, only a few feet deep, with a long driveway that runs between two neighbors' front yards on either side. My home is set back behind them. This arrangement provides me with a good view of the entire neighborhood, which I can see clearly from the living room, high up in my raised ranch. My completely private backyard, however, stretches for almost half a mile. It's beautiful and completely wooded except for a small grassy area scattered with wildflowers. Patches of sunlight shine down through the mighty oaks onto this lush "lawn." It is a different world in the backyard, buffered by the house. The suburbia that surrounds our home out in front seems nonexistent. A condo development sits along the north property line at the far end of my land, but you can't see it, even in winter, save for one small light at night. A small stream defines this property line. My daughter, who lives here on Berry Lane with me, along with our two pets, calls the stream Treasure Run. I used to hide coins for her near the two-by-four wooden bridge crossing the stream. Treasure Run is located at the end of a cul-de-sac on Westerly Drive, which forms the western border of my woodlot. Edgewood Drive--another road that ends in a cul-de-sac--makes up the southeastern border. To the northwest--or to my left, as I face the woodlot with the house behind me--lies a meadow that I named after my daughter because she loved going there to be alone. Across from the meadow, you can see about forty acres of woods. Beyond that, across a street, a large expanse of thickets stretches for many acres, bordered by some thick woods totaling about two hundred acres. This is my world--a semirural suburban town expanding, due to development, yet holding onto its rural roots in a few quiet corners. Like most residential areas with trees, our neighborhood has squirrels. In fact, the neighborhood--being adjacent to mature, acorn-producing oak trees--seems overpopulated with them. In any direction, I usually see at least two or three squirrels foraging. Just like many towns where a few vacant lots persist, we have coyotes and fisher. They have a bad reputation and are blamed for missing cats and empty dog food bowls. We have fox, too. They never get blamed for anything: neighbors enjoy seeing them with their beautiful thick glossy coats during the winter. Like most of us, I have a love-hate relationship with the deer. They are ever present, and when they are not devouring my vegetable garden, they frequent the edges of woodlots and sometimes the neighborhood, even at noon. It is the birds, though--an astounding variety of them--that hold my wonder the most. Southern New England, where I live, is similar to most places in the East. I have my share of tufted titmice, black-capped chickadees, and northern cardinals. In the woods out back, barred owls and red-shouldered hawks hunt. During the migration period and, to a lesser extent, the entire year, other magnificent species, rare and common, fill the trees and shrubs. I have several feeders set up around the property. The most  significant is the fly-through feeder in the front yard. Fly-through feeders are simple: each has a base with a three-inch rim, four upward supports, and a roof. I mounted mine on a six-foot pole with a squirrel baffle. I keep it full of black oil sunflower seeds, suet cakes, and whatever else I feel is needed. Attached to the big bay window overlooking the fly-through are a suet cage and a small window feeder, where I offer safflower seeds, sunflower seeds mixed with bits of fruit, and sometimes table scraps.  On the deck at the back of the house, I have a pole-mounted, squirrel-proof feeder. I slid the pole through the hole in the center of a picnic table, as if it were an umbrella, and it has remained sturdy there in full view of anyone sitting at the kitchen table. I also have a hanging tube feeder and a hummingbird feeder on the deck. In the backyard, I keep a pole-mounted hopper feeder and a ground feeder. The feeders bring in many birds, but I do most of my observing away from the windows. It happens while I work in the yard, walk through the neighborhood, or meander through the nearby woodlots. While in these places, I watch the birds living around Berry Lane. I observe as they reveal their secret lives. I'm inspired by the amazing things I see and the pulse of life around me. Through my birder's eye and poetic sense of wonder, I record in my journal the year's miracles that others often overlook. Now that I have a home and am settled in one place, I can experience birdlife as it exists on a daily basis, the way I did in my youth. Living here in New England, where so many birds show up regularly, makes watching them convenient. My woodlot is teeming with life, and with its abundance so close and in constant view, I can see and feel its changes through the seasons. It's easy to take birds for granted, though. Seeing them every day in woods and on lawns means we can also easily overlook them. Instead, we can choose to enjoy an activity that is near-at-hand and available each day. Sharing this appreciation is the reason I've written a newspaper column on birds for many years. I like to engage my readers' enthusiasm and give advice on how to attract birds or where to see certain species. I sometimes get questions about bird behavior, or readers might share their sightings of an unusual species whose presence in a certain location needs explaining. It's fun being part of the birding community, giving lectures and offering excursions. It's especially rewarding when readers thank me for giving them information that led to a memorable sighting or that simply prompted them to notice the wildlife around them. I like to encourage birders of all levels to sharpen their perception.  By paying attention, we soon notice the behavior of different birds and learn their habits, the locales they frequent, what their calls mean, who sings which song, and how all of this is attuned to the available sunlight of each season. A great feeling of peace comes with this experience. I would like readers to find this peacefulness in the pages of Birder on Berry Lane. Although this book is packed full of information on birds, it can also inspire a new awareness of nature in general. Perhaps the reason birding is so pleasurable to so many is that it awakens us to the tranquil beauty of nature and connects us to the land. I hope this rekindled appreciation for nature will motivate readers to protect the earth's last remaining open spaces. So this is not the story of a small New England town, nor is it about me. Rather it is an account of my awareness--seeing, thinking about, and appreciating the living habitat, nature, and most specifically birds going about their business. By tuning into the life around me, I have come to know my place. These are my acres, but my ownership simply gives me the right to be here. It is merely a formality in terms of place, for solely through my observation and understanding have I actually come to own it. My experience of this specific place is what matters. We all live on the land, but through my passion for these New England acres, I feel I now live by that experience. I can't imagine living my life in a place and never getting to know it. I have written about science and wildlife, but the writing I most enjoy clears away my worries and brings me into the meadow, the brook, and the woodlot. I hope that my writing conveys that, despite all we feel is wrong in the world, there is still much that is right, such as the changing of the seasons, the return of the warblers in spring, and the geese flying south in the fall--all happening on time, as they have for eons. I have always been fascinated by birds, and now I will share with you everything I have seen. This is my story about life on the land around my semirural suburban home: a patchwork of woods, a yard, a garden, and a simple way of birding on a small piece of the planet called Berry Lane.  January: Neighbors That Hoot I am outside, on what must be the coldest night of the season thus far. It's totally quiet. Most people are tucked in at this hour. Others don't dare to come out, not even in their cars. I can smell burning wood from a few stoves, and the stars look blurry where the smoke rises from the chimneys. I head for the woods with owls on my mind.  Suddenly, my teenage daughter, Heather, opens the sliding back door and her voice breaks the silence. She wants to know what I'm doing. I tell her I'm calling for owls. In a concerned tone, she says that no one in his right mind ventures out on such a cold night to hoot like an owl, and if the neighbors hear me, they'll have me carted away by doctors in white coats.  She laughs at me in total disbelief and tries to convince me to come back inside immediately. In my defense, I claim that plenty of people enjoy owl prowling and that shouldn't warrant my being taken away by mental health professionals. Yet I realize as soon as I say this that most owl prowls are organized group activities and are not  undertaken alone in one's backyard at midnight. I admit to myself that most neighbors would consider my behavior a bit off. Few people are likely to be out hooting like a barred owl in subzero weather. I am out here alone beneath the clear, steely cold stars on a dangerously cold night. But who cares if people think I'm crazy. My neighbors know by now that I'm a little different. They know not to think twice when they see me staring up into the treetops, and they don't get insulted when during a conversation my eyes shift away from them and toward the bird feeder. They know I have birds on the brain. And it's not like I can help it either. It started when I was too young to realize that noticing birds was to become a permanent way of life for me. This way of life has to do with how my mind works. I don't always have the time to go out specifically looking for, say, shorebirds, but I always notice the birds wherever I may be. While it's true that birds are almost everywhere, I have the simple pleasure of living in this semirural suburban town on my three-acre wooded parcel, from where I experience birdlife through all the seasons over many years. Even though I may not have the time to travel for birds now--I've done plenty of that in my life--I've probably done more birding than most people. This is simply because I'm always birding. I'm birding while I'm in my house and while I'm out in the yard. It may look like I'm gardening or mowing the lawn, but I'm really birding. I'm also birding before I get out of bed by simply listening and knowing what the birds are doing. I'm even birding in my dreams, except for those nights when my slumber is too deep to consciously register the eerie calls of those wild barred owls. For me, birding isn't just a matter of ticking off species one by one as I see them. It's much more than that, and it runs much deeper. I've kept that life list, the list of all the birds I have seen, and that is fine. But I find birding without binoculars or through casual observation can be the most rewarding. Some may travel to the ends of the world just to see a specific bird and then turn around and never see that bird again. Most of the birds I see on Berry Lane I've seen countless times  before, but I don't ever want to overlook their lives. Seeing them each day, throughout the year, is the essence of knowing what it is I see. Nor is it a matter of expensive equipment. No equipment is necessary here on Berry Lane. I don't care much for lengthy conversations about products and prices. And for a birding columnist who writes about birds every week, I really don't know as much about optics such as spotting scopes and binoculars as you might think. The majority of my newspaper column readers don't know much about all that either. They only know that birds are part of their world and that birds bring them great joy. Like music and art, birds are more than just scientific and ecological treasures; they are part of our cultural terrain and surroundings. They are the continuity of our experiences and the subtle source of our moods, memories, and sweet appreciation for different times and places. Birds are the conveyance of nature itself. They are the visible, audible expressions of the pulse of life that teems all around us. They are the essence of the perfect warm, sunny June day when nature is at its fullest. When you are aware of birds to the point of submersion, then you are in tune with not only their activities, antics, and comings and goings but also with the entire rhythm of the planet. My experience in birding here on Berry Lane is really a state of being. It's a state of being that's in peace and in harmony with the cycle of life, which you and I are part of. I look up at the clear, icy heavens in January and know that they are just a reflection of where I am and what I am. We are just a small part of the magnificence--a small but significant piece of it. No, my neighbors don't think I am crazy--in fact, they're beginning to doubt their own experience here in the neighborhood. They're beginning to tune into the birdlife all around them. Just last week, I caught my neighbor Dave stopping dead in his tracks, looking up, and spotting a group of jays flying over his house--something he wouldn't have done before he'd asked me about my fascination with birds. Dave asked me how I'd become so aware of the birds. He told me how much he was truly enjoying watching the birds at my feeder. He fixed up my large platform fly-through feeder, which was lying junked behind my shed, and placed it out in the front yard between our properties where both of us could see it. Dave was an engineer for most of his working life; now he enjoys his retirement by traveling and simply puttering around his house and yard. It's nice to see someone like him, a veteran and a hardworking guy, finally get to enjoy his retirement. It's especially nice to know that for him, watching birds around the yard is part of that enjoyment. He must have wondered about me when I first moved in. More than once he caught me doing seemingly odd things, such as crawling on my hands and knees through shrubs searching for a nest or lying flat on my back on a hot summer evening looking high and far for nighthawks. Now he knows what this is all about and how this odd behavior has added up to my being aware. Word has gotten around, too. Lily, who lives on the other side of my place, now knows of my distraction. I noticed that she's put up a small feeder off her back patio. Maybe the neighbors are beginning to wonder why they don't "see birds." Perhaps they're realizing that they've been missing out on nature. Yet looking for owls has never been easy, and being out late at night in the freezing cold is not for everyone. I realize that not everybody shares my passion for wildlife and nature, but from my point of view, it just seems sad to be sealed in tightly, watching the flickering blue light of the television while nature's miracles pass us by. I'm out here to know the winter night. I'm outdoors to be invigorated. I'm out here because I know that when the January ice locks even the most quickly running water, it's time to listen for more proof of deep winter. I listen carefully because, muffled beneath the winter winds that swish through the pines, distant from the farthest woodlot, these sounds are as true to the season as the snow itself. After the lights go out and the television is shut off, the sounds emanate from the dark and speak of another world. They are the voice of the woods, sometimes eerie, at other times inspiring; when you hear them, they'll take your spirit to another level, to places where we don't usually go. And this mystery is what fascinates me about owls. While most of us are lying in bed, drifting into sleep, owls are on the hunt. Few of us ever venture into their world, so there's still much we don't know about them. At this time of year, in winter, owls become most vocal, so I know the opportunity to experience them is now. I don't want to pass it up, so I endure this cold night. I walk past the blue shed, through the brambles, past the rocks, and farther back into my woodlot. Seven different species of owls inhabit this region. Three are common: the barred, great horned, and eastern screech owls. The others are rare: northern saw-whet, short-eared, long-eared, and barn owls. Most of the hooting that fills the night around here originates from either the barred or the great horned owl. It's easy for me to distinguish the two of them. Barred owls sound as if they are saying Whooo cooks for you? Whooo cooks for you aaallll? with roughly a seventeen-second pause between each series. The great horned owl has a more classic hooo whooooo call. When flushed from their roost, barred owls swoop low and glide upward to the next perch. Their flight is silent, and they appear ethereal, like giant, winged angels. I know this because of an experience I had when I was about ten years old. I noticed a mob of crows scolding something in the woods near my house and decided to investigate. After walking beneath the tall white pines where the crows had been, I discovered a pile of owl pellets. For several weeks, I tried to find the owls that had obviously been using the pine grove for roosting. Then, on a cool May evening while cutting through those very woods, I heard the most startling rasping noise I'd ever heard. I looked up and was amazed to see three owls staring down at me, their large black eyes penetrating and intense: two fledglings and an adult female. Although I've seen barred owls many times since then, that experience has stayed with me and has continued to fuel my neverending interest in the bird. More powerful than the barred owl, the great horned owl is actually strong enough to fly off with a cat gripped in its talons. We have them around town, but I've not seen nor heard one in this neighborhood. My friend Karen, who lives in a nearby town, says that she's seen a few in her area over the past few years. She lives in a more rural setting than I do, adjacent to a few large agricultural fields, which is a more fitting setting for the great horned owl. The lesser-known screech owl's call sounds similar to a horse's whinny, and at times it sends forth a trill. Neither call resembles a hooting owl, but both are easy to recognize with a little experience. Screech owls enjoy sunbathing during the day at the entrances of their tree cavities. They can be enticed, as can the barred owl, into species-specific nesting boxes. Screech owls hunt from low perches; prefer some open ground within woodlots; and may eat a variety of prey, including crayfish. I once put a screech owl box out, but all I attracted were squirrels. Someday I'll try a barred owl box. Some birders may find northern saw-whet owls hiding in stands of evergreens near wetlands, but they're secretive and less abundant than our other owls. I've never seen one anywhere near Berry Lane. A northern saw-whet owl lives near our family cabin in northern Vermont, but I've never actually seen the tiny predator. I hear the owl all the time, though; he moves from the east around to the west and then across the pond, but he never reveals his tiny self. Local birders sometimes find long- and short-eared owls along the coast. I did see a short-eared owl once at the Fanny Stebbins Memorial Wildlife Refuge--or the Meadows, as we called it--far from the coast in my hometown of Longmeadow, Massachusetts, but that was an unusual sighting. I was in the back of my friend's station wagon and, as he was backing up, the rear of the car approached the motionless bird, waiting camouflaged on a pin oak at the edge of a large agricultural field. It just perched there on that tree about two feet from the back bumper and five feet above the car. My friend put the car in drive, and off I went with that bird a permanent memory. Connecticut is the northernmost limit for the barn owl. A few years ago, members of the Allen Bird Club, which oversees the Stebbins Refuge, placed a barn owl nesting box made to specification within a large open field at the refuge. Although the habitat is suitable for these owls, to my knowledge, the owls have yet to take up residence there. It may seem odd that owls become so vocal in the absolute dead of winter instead of in spring, but their nesting season begins in January so that their young will be fledged during the springtime, when plenty of prey will be available. The barred owls at my place are defining their territories and establishing nests. Owls are not alone in becoming vocal during these cold winter days. -------- Sometime in August, the sun rose in silence, and the summer started to fade. The morning chorus of birds simply ran out of breath. Most of us hardly noticed the change, caught up as we were in the heat of summer. Now, in the dark dead of January the sun rises once more to the sound of birds. The silence is broken with only a whisper of call notes that most of us do not hear, locked away indoors as we are. Birds have been vocal for some time though, but who would believe that they'd start on the first day of winter? While I do notice birds becoming vocal by mid-February, many ornithologists say that birds begin to sing immediately following the winter solstice. This isn't a widely accepted idea, and the research is still in its infancy, but a few renowned ornithologists have charted the immediate explosion of birdcalls and birdsong that starts on December 22. The sounds continue to increase for a week or more, they say, and then the music levels off for a few more weeks until early February, when you and I may notice the increase in light. At that time, the mornings are filled with a variety of notes and occasional calls, even some songs that are reminiscent of the breeding season. It all makes perfect sense, though. Birds are extremely sensitive to the light; the changes in light intensity actually determine major aspects of their behavior and life cycles. Light affects their hormones, and the biochemical changes that occur incite the instinctual responses of courtship, mating, and song. But are they likely to respond so dramatically to such an infinitesimal increase in light? I had the pleasure of discussing this possibility with an ornithologist last November, which gave me time to notice the number of birds that were vocalizing throughout the month of December and into the first week of January. On the very first day of winter, I listened to a chickadee singing fee bee be, which is a song associated with the breeding season. The next day, I heard titmice singing, and the nuthatches were more vocal, too. Perhaps it was just coincidence; I don't know. But as the days get longer and the sun stronger, the pulse of life will surely return. In the meantime, while that winter wind wrestles with the trees and the bitter cold stings my face and hands, the thought that spring is approaching on the first day of winter is encouraging. By the end of next month, the midday sun will melt the snow and ice, the sound of running water will fill the air, and the music of the birds won't be too far off--they will be loud, persistent, and unquestioned when true spring begins. The wind has just picked up, which has added an unbearable chill that my winter coat, hat, and gloves cannot keep out. The large oaks that grow throughout my woodlot tower high into the unforgiving wind, and I can hear their branches colliding above me. It's no longer a good night for calling owls because the wind is too strong. I turn back and head quickly for the house. Heather is calling to me from the house again, and my hands and feet are beginning to feel numb. When I get inside, she'll understand what I've been up to. She'll know that I need to feel the rhythm of the seasons. She'll know that I can't stay indoors for too long and that I must step out into the realm of the owl once in a while. Privately, she may question my sanity for choosing such a cold night, but she won't hassle me about it. I make my way up the front steps and take one last look up at the heavens before going in. As I close the door behind me, Heather appears at the top of the stairs with our dog Zoey and our cat Stripe and tells me she's glad I'm back inside. She was getting worried. Excerpted from Birder on Berry Lane: Three Acres, Twelve Months, Thousands of Birds by Robert Tougias All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.