What I've appreciated the most from this course was the breadth of nature writing we've looked at and discussed. So much literature, and especially contemporary work. I liked too how it was mostly excerpts and just a few books, because now we're familiar with a wider range of authors and can pursue more reading on our own depending on our interests, instead of just having become familiar with a handful of books that some of us may already have read.
I really feel like I have a firm grasp now on what writers are the the big names in the genre, and then many others as well. Before, I knew a fair amount, but I didn't yet have the firm sense I feel I do now. The course has been invaluable for that.
The discussion boards, for me, were an excellent outlet to hammer out my opinions on the array of works we examined. Honestly, although it's excessively time-consuming, it's been a much better outlet for me to figure out how I feel on all the different books and excerpts than in-class discussion. I'm not scrambling to try and get my two-cents in because if not I'll lose points in class participation. I have time to develop my ideas, read and respond to my peers' and the professor's thoughts, and finally I can print out the discussion and keep it forever. The course has left me with three two-inch binders full of nature writing discussion. As someone who is very strongly considering the pursuit of a PhD in some part of the field and certainly hoping to produce his own writing for the genre, that's just immensely useful.
As for the nature place, my experience in the tropics was so transformative as to be permanent. Although I really do enjoy nature everywhere, I just don't think I can really love it anywhere besides in that region of the world. I really can't say the nature place exercise has affected me in any way besides confirming that fact.
However, I do appreciate the training and familiarity I've established with the blogging format. I'm planning on beginning my own blog - a literary review blog. There are a lot of fantastic nature writing books that deserve recognition, but remain pretty obscure. For many of my favorite nature writing books, I've never met anyone else that has even heard of them.
I really want to start a blog on some of these fantastic but uncelebrated books. I may even confine the scope to strictly neotropical rainforest books. Because of all the practice I have analyzing nature writing on the computer format thanks to the discussion forums, I feel really ready for this project!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Place Entry 8
A tufted titmouse welcomed me on campus today, his song such a polite greeting. What cordial hosts birds make, although they are hardly ever acknowledged for the fact. We may walk into their woods and marshes and plains whenever we wish and expect nothing less than the most agreeable hospitality.
At the pond, a new species has arrived since my last visit. I at first did not recognize the identity of the four dull gray coats probing the soaked ground for sustenance. Then, I recalled they may be female brown-headed cowbirds. (I confirmed my suspicion when I returned home and consulted my guide.)
This past year has helped me remember the birds of the Northeast, which has been nice, although what I truly crave is to continue expanding my knowledge of the neotropical birds. Their distant calls, no matter how many thousands of miles out of earshot, summon me with an imperative so fierce it's as if with divine force, too strong to be of this world. It's a holy summons, a quest, a peregrination, to learn what I might from those achingly verdant and seductively fecund forests of the equatorial zone.
A robin has approached me. It darts among the large rocks before me, hides, then reemerges to scramble behind the oak. It departs.
Now a chipping sparrow, whose exploits are braver still, comes to within two feet of me as it scavenges the ground and thrusts its bill. I wonder how well it knows those forests where I too have migrated. I would sacrifice to do journey! To see the forests on a yearly basis? What a luxury! To make sure they are healthy, still there, not yet trampled, vibrant, still so full of life.
The pond is lovely. I must force myself to see. Dr. Sterner has told me that this part of campus used to be a dairy, where cows helped feed the students of Chatham.
The oak before me is nice. It's buds just a week before resembled fresh broccoli sprouts. Now they are full leaves the size of my outstretched hand.
I'm reminded how just a few nights before, my friend suggested that next time I am in the forest, I should climb into the tall canopies and see what wildlife I might, since so much of it concentrates there. I will, I said. I absolutely will.
At the pond, a new species has arrived since my last visit. I at first did not recognize the identity of the four dull gray coats probing the soaked ground for sustenance. Then, I recalled they may be female brown-headed cowbirds. (I confirmed my suspicion when I returned home and consulted my guide.)
This past year has helped me remember the birds of the Northeast, which has been nice, although what I truly crave is to continue expanding my knowledge of the neotropical birds. Their distant calls, no matter how many thousands of miles out of earshot, summon me with an imperative so fierce it's as if with divine force, too strong to be of this world. It's a holy summons, a quest, a peregrination, to learn what I might from those achingly verdant and seductively fecund forests of the equatorial zone.
A robin has approached me. It darts among the large rocks before me, hides, then reemerges to scramble behind the oak. It departs.
Now a chipping sparrow, whose exploits are braver still, comes to within two feet of me as it scavenges the ground and thrusts its bill. I wonder how well it knows those forests where I too have migrated. I would sacrifice to do journey! To see the forests on a yearly basis? What a luxury! To make sure they are healthy, still there, not yet trampled, vibrant, still so full of life.
The pond is lovely. I must force myself to see. Dr. Sterner has told me that this part of campus used to be a dairy, where cows helped feed the students of Chatham.
The oak before me is nice. It's buds just a week before resembled fresh broccoli sprouts. Now they are full leaves the size of my outstretched hand.
I'm reminded how just a few nights before, my friend suggested that next time I am in the forest, I should climb into the tall canopies and see what wildlife I might, since so much of it concentrates there. I will, I said. I absolutely will.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Prompt Entry 7
My favorite thing to do as a boy was search for animals in my mother's garden. Before I became interested in birds, I was most intrigued by the reptiles. The tiny brown anoles that scurried around everywhere. The brilliant green anoles that blended perfectly into the foliage. The geckos in the carport that would sometimes sneak in the house. The thin black ring-necked snakes that sometimes came out at night.
My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.
Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.
I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.
Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.
One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.
I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.
My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.
Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.
I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.
Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.
One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.
I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.
Place Entry 7
The return of the absent languages is perhaps of an even greater restorative power than the revival of color. In my mind, at least, it is more pleasurable as well. Even in the depths of suburbia, where I live, the triumphant songs are of some variance.
The robin's serenade, that patriotic hymn, is among the most easily recognized and iconic.
Di doo doo do di doo do do di doo do di doo di di doo do deeeii! An invigorating call to bury our heads in the moist green earth and tear from it the fatness, the plump, writhing serpents of the underground!
Of course, we cannot forget that boldly garbed singer of these temperate forests, who hardly fled the onslaught of winter, withstanding its chill with a vigor to match. He is a holy man of considerable rank. His humble tune can only be heard softly from the tops of tall oaks and their ilk, where even his vibrant crimson robe is sometimes difficult to see.
Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeoot, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Pewt, Pewt, Pewt. His voice belies his abundant good looks.
And the marauder of this avian world! That seductive azure coat, sharply streaked with white and black, who ravages through bough and branch to wreak terrible havoc among his peers. I have not yet seen his handsomeness, but I know the jays are among us again.
Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Woe and ill tidings to those that do not flee my path!
The familiar, lackadaisical murmur of the dove sounds as well, a gentle croon to sooth any of our distress.
Pwooogh, pwooogh, pwooogh. Pweeeiouough, pwooogh, pwooogh. All is well and let's relax.
Always among their own, their fiery bearded beaks belt a surprising, almost digital discourse. Gregarious fellows, they were among the first to welcome me here when I arrived.
Tsee, tsee, tsee, twaunt twaunnnt. Tseet, tsoot. They roam and gossip with ease and good cheer.
And there are others that have not yet returned, still braving the vast convexity of this wide, wide world with but claw and wing.
The robin's serenade, that patriotic hymn, is among the most easily recognized and iconic.
Di doo doo do di doo do do di doo do di doo di di doo do deeeii! An invigorating call to bury our heads in the moist green earth and tear from it the fatness, the plump, writhing serpents of the underground!
Of course, we cannot forget that boldly garbed singer of these temperate forests, who hardly fled the onslaught of winter, withstanding its chill with a vigor to match. He is a holy man of considerable rank. His humble tune can only be heard softly from the tops of tall oaks and their ilk, where even his vibrant crimson robe is sometimes difficult to see.
Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeoot, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Pewt, Pewt, Pewt. His voice belies his abundant good looks.
And the marauder of this avian world! That seductive azure coat, sharply streaked with white and black, who ravages through bough and branch to wreak terrible havoc among his peers. I have not yet seen his handsomeness, but I know the jays are among us again.
Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Woe and ill tidings to those that do not flee my path!
The familiar, lackadaisical murmur of the dove sounds as well, a gentle croon to sooth any of our distress.
Pwooogh, pwooogh, pwooogh. Pweeeiouough, pwooogh, pwooogh. All is well and let's relax.
Always among their own, their fiery bearded beaks belt a surprising, almost digital discourse. Gregarious fellows, they were among the first to welcome me here when I arrived.
Tsee, tsee, tsee, twaunt twaunnnt. Tseet, tsoot. They roam and gossip with ease and good cheer.
And there are others that have not yet returned, still braving the vast convexity of this wide, wide world with but claw and wing.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Prompt Entry 6
This prompt seems like such a give-away for me, I hope I don't botch it up. The epicenter of my world is a biological station in the heart of a huge swathe of virgin lowland rainforest in a very remote area of Costa Rica. It is called La Sirena, and I have visited twice. I think about it every single day, although sometimes I wake up knowing I've returned in my dreams.
After the first visit, I was forever a changed person. I had seen the vibrancy of life, the pulsation of the Earth's richest biodiversity, the daily struggle of the food web, the wetness of the true tropics. So many things I saw. It was as being born, bloody and screaming and intimate and so full of life and future and beauty.
My brain has felt since then encumbered with a great weight of information to be learned and processed. The breath of wildlife and floral species beckons me to return and learn of all their secrets with a call so imperative it cannot be resisted for long. They are willing to divulge their lessons, their beauty, their intimacy to me. It is a ballad I hear always. A daily chorus that asserts a calm and patient dominion over me.
The station is reachable by three trails. One approaches from the beach that runs from the north of the peninsula, which is known as Osa, another from the south. The third trail runs through the beating heart of the forest. Each takes at least a day's worth of hiking to reach the station, and to someone so easily distracted by the superabundance of species as myself, it is difficult to reach the station by nightfall.
La Sirena is minimal. They have running water, yes, and it is an elevated wooden station where visitors can camp. They have a few beds for some guests who reserve them and are willing to pay a premium. And then they have everything else any person with a sense of wonder could possibly need. Corcovado, which is the name of the entire forest, is a climax ecosystem. It is vast, and it supports breeding populations of apex predators.
There are five different species of cats, all abundant. I have heard the jaguar roar close to me, although I did not see him. I have encountered people who moments before glimpsed an ocelot or margay. I was one time identifying some elusive wrens that tumbled through the underbrush, and I followed them off the trail. My girlfriend, who had accompanied me on my second visit, stayed on the trail, and called me back after a few moments. When I returned, she asked if I had seen the cat. I looked desperately for it, but it had melted back into the forest in the handful of seconds it had taken me to return to her. She described it to me, I said it must have been a jaguarundi, all black and compact, a diurnal visitor. After reflecting on it, I now believe the jaguarundi must have climbed up a nearby tree, and all the while I searched for it had watched me calmly, perhaps amused by my enthusiasm.
There are birds in marvelous profusion. Kaleidoscopic parrots and trogons, the former boisterous and the later nearly invisible despite their loud color as they perch motionless in the foliage. One time, I watched one and had hardly noticed the elegant green vine snake draped around a branch just a few feet in front of me. I would not have seen it if I had not stopped to observe the trogon, itself a highly camouflaged creature.
On evening, I followed a stream through a thick gallery forest, enjoying the pleasant crepuscular murmurs all around me. A splash close to my sandaled feet startled me, and my flashlight revealed a crocodile the length of my arm scrambling up the bank. Its olive iris stared suspiciously, contracting until its pupil was a thin reptilian slit. Those sharp, alternating ivory-hued teeth glistened in the light, reminding me of elegantly arranged silverware, just as eager to bite into warm flesh. I wonder if we are cruder than we imagine, or crocodiles more refined.
The trees are of epic height, towering above the forest in a manner so stately as to be reminiscent only of the most distinguished cathedrals. The verdure is so lush, so pulsing, so misty and humid and fecund. There is much to learn.
I will return to Corcovado with only the necessities I can fit in my backpack: some clothes and food and my library. My goal is to spend a season there, a year at least I hope, so I may see it's seasons change and learn deeply about the forest. I know that is where my first book will come from.
After the first visit, I was forever a changed person. I had seen the vibrancy of life, the pulsation of the Earth's richest biodiversity, the daily struggle of the food web, the wetness of the true tropics. So many things I saw. It was as being born, bloody and screaming and intimate and so full of life and future and beauty.
My brain has felt since then encumbered with a great weight of information to be learned and processed. The breath of wildlife and floral species beckons me to return and learn of all their secrets with a call so imperative it cannot be resisted for long. They are willing to divulge their lessons, their beauty, their intimacy to me. It is a ballad I hear always. A daily chorus that asserts a calm and patient dominion over me.
The station is reachable by three trails. One approaches from the beach that runs from the north of the peninsula, which is known as Osa, another from the south. The third trail runs through the beating heart of the forest. Each takes at least a day's worth of hiking to reach the station, and to someone so easily distracted by the superabundance of species as myself, it is difficult to reach the station by nightfall.
La Sirena is minimal. They have running water, yes, and it is an elevated wooden station where visitors can camp. They have a few beds for some guests who reserve them and are willing to pay a premium. And then they have everything else any person with a sense of wonder could possibly need. Corcovado, which is the name of the entire forest, is a climax ecosystem. It is vast, and it supports breeding populations of apex predators.
There are five different species of cats, all abundant. I have heard the jaguar roar close to me, although I did not see him. I have encountered people who moments before glimpsed an ocelot or margay. I was one time identifying some elusive wrens that tumbled through the underbrush, and I followed them off the trail. My girlfriend, who had accompanied me on my second visit, stayed on the trail, and called me back after a few moments. When I returned, she asked if I had seen the cat. I looked desperately for it, but it had melted back into the forest in the handful of seconds it had taken me to return to her. She described it to me, I said it must have been a jaguarundi, all black and compact, a diurnal visitor. After reflecting on it, I now believe the jaguarundi must have climbed up a nearby tree, and all the while I searched for it had watched me calmly, perhaps amused by my enthusiasm.
There are birds in marvelous profusion. Kaleidoscopic parrots and trogons, the former boisterous and the later nearly invisible despite their loud color as they perch motionless in the foliage. One time, I watched one and had hardly noticed the elegant green vine snake draped around a branch just a few feet in front of me. I would not have seen it if I had not stopped to observe the trogon, itself a highly camouflaged creature.
On evening, I followed a stream through a thick gallery forest, enjoying the pleasant crepuscular murmurs all around me. A splash close to my sandaled feet startled me, and my flashlight revealed a crocodile the length of my arm scrambling up the bank. Its olive iris stared suspiciously, contracting until its pupil was a thin reptilian slit. Those sharp, alternating ivory-hued teeth glistened in the light, reminding me of elegantly arranged silverware, just as eager to bite into warm flesh. I wonder if we are cruder than we imagine, or crocodiles more refined.
The trees are of epic height, towering above the forest in a manner so stately as to be reminiscent only of the most distinguished cathedrals. The verdure is so lush, so pulsing, so misty and humid and fecund. There is much to learn.
I will return to Corcovado with only the necessities I can fit in my backpack: some clothes and food and my library. My goal is to spend a season there, a year at least I hope, so I may see it's seasons change and learn deeply about the forest. I know that is where my first book will come from.
Place Entry 6
NOTE: This entry is from two different visits to the pond. Because the season was changing so rapidly and I wanted to document the changes, I visited over Spring Break and again on another occasion this past week.
First Visit:
The day has the crisp colors of sky and earth that tempt me to hazard spring has arrived, although I do so hesitantly. The snow has diminished to tiny islands, its dominion over the land broken. Much of the grass that now emerges is remarkably green. It's incredible to consider the resilience and evolutionary fortitude of something so ubiquitous as the grass all around me. I really can't get over how green it still is.
More than any of the other indicators - the warmer weather, the retreating snow - the grass's green vibrancy triggers in me the mental note that the seasons have changed. I did not detest this winter as much as most, although it was apparently a particularly severe one. I take pleasure in winter because it gives me an excuse to don my sturdy boots, which are simply too warm and bulky to wear at any other time of year. I also love the challenge of keeping myself warm in winter months, which considering I walk everywhere I go becomes slightly more difficult.
But I welcome now the arrival of a new, warmer season. The return of the robin and the emergence of the chipmunk, sighted scurrying around the brick wall adjacent to the bookstore. It's true. There appears to be more energy with the coming of spring. There appears to be more life.
Second Visit:
Because the temperature is comfortably cool at nights now, as opposed to uncomfortably cold, I've come to the pond this evening just as the sun has submerged itself beneath the crisp line of the horizon. The pair of mallards I had observed in the autumn has returned, as gradually all the different birds are returning. One female is missing though, and I hope she was not a casualty of migration, one of the greatest causes of bird death annually (along with feral cats).
Walking to the pond from my apartment, it was pleasant to realize that I've become accustomed to the songs of the birds of the area, and I don't need to see them to know what's around. When I first arrived here I was rusty with the calls, having spent so much time traveling abroad. But tonight, I heard the robins serenading like so many troubadours, along with one cardinal, whom I could not see in the waning light but knew him to be high up in an oak tree on Woodland Rd. There were also the chirps of the house sparrows to filter. I have frequently been hearing the ballads of the white-throated sparrows, although I think there are other sparrows in the area I need to refamiliarize myself with, too. I've not yet heard the raucous screams of the jays, but not doubt their blunt declarations of their presence will soon return to the area.
The light has fully escape, and the pond is mostly dark, bathed only lightly in the artificial light of campus. The moon is at just a quarter tonight, but it's quite high in the sky already and very handsome looking. I spot from the right corner of my periphery a thin shadow dance and dart above the pond. A bat. Then another, and they are both gone. Later in the evening, I will learn that it was probably a Little Brown Bat, the most common species in the area. There are only eleven to contend with in all of Pennsylvania, and a couple are extremely rare or not yet present this time of year.
Certainly, the pond has changed. It reflects the change of season in it's freed water and the verdant grass all around it. But my perception of it has changed, too. I was already familiar with many of the fauna that frequent it, and quickly learned the others. But it's been through learning the flora that I've garnered something of a deeper appreciation for it.
I learned through Professor Sterner this week that the presence of the Japanese Laceleaf Maple is in fact a result of affluence. It was very fashionable for Andrew Mellon to collect exotic, stately trees such as this one on his property, and many of the trees on the Chatham campus, especially around his estate, reflect this (not to say that the standard has really changed). Thinking about it now, the very name, Japanese Laceleaf Maple, seems to pretty clearly convey a sense of affluence and sophistication.
And there are others, too. The Japanese Flowering Crabapple and Honey Locust, individuals closer to Mellon Hall. Their exoticism and value is neatly accentuated by the tiny placards that boast their names. They come with inscriptions of Latin beneath the common name, appropriately in cursive. There is also, of course, the Chatham seal in the corner. They were not visible when the snow rose several feet above the ground, but now they are prim and clearly visible.
The snow has revealed something else, too. Apparently, the pond is actually named in honor of Anne Putnam Mallison, a Chatham alumna who donated generously in her time. I had not been conscious before how much affluence seems to pervade the very core of the pond, but it is certainly here. Even the animals, they are the dainty species that one would expect a sophisticate would want around, gentle and comely but in no way threatening. In this way, I can claim I've come to understand the pond better.
First Visit:
The day has the crisp colors of sky and earth that tempt me to hazard spring has arrived, although I do so hesitantly. The snow has diminished to tiny islands, its dominion over the land broken. Much of the grass that now emerges is remarkably green. It's incredible to consider the resilience and evolutionary fortitude of something so ubiquitous as the grass all around me. I really can't get over how green it still is.
More than any of the other indicators - the warmer weather, the retreating snow - the grass's green vibrancy triggers in me the mental note that the seasons have changed. I did not detest this winter as much as most, although it was apparently a particularly severe one. I take pleasure in winter because it gives me an excuse to don my sturdy boots, which are simply too warm and bulky to wear at any other time of year. I also love the challenge of keeping myself warm in winter months, which considering I walk everywhere I go becomes slightly more difficult.
But I welcome now the arrival of a new, warmer season. The return of the robin and the emergence of the chipmunk, sighted scurrying around the brick wall adjacent to the bookstore. It's true. There appears to be more energy with the coming of spring. There appears to be more life.
Second Visit:
Because the temperature is comfortably cool at nights now, as opposed to uncomfortably cold, I've come to the pond this evening just as the sun has submerged itself beneath the crisp line of the horizon. The pair of mallards I had observed in the autumn has returned, as gradually all the different birds are returning. One female is missing though, and I hope she was not a casualty of migration, one of the greatest causes of bird death annually (along with feral cats).
Walking to the pond from my apartment, it was pleasant to realize that I've become accustomed to the songs of the birds of the area, and I don't need to see them to know what's around. When I first arrived here I was rusty with the calls, having spent so much time traveling abroad. But tonight, I heard the robins serenading like so many troubadours, along with one cardinal, whom I could not see in the waning light but knew him to be high up in an oak tree on Woodland Rd. There were also the chirps of the house sparrows to filter. I have frequently been hearing the ballads of the white-throated sparrows, although I think there are other sparrows in the area I need to refamiliarize myself with, too. I've not yet heard the raucous screams of the jays, but not doubt their blunt declarations of their presence will soon return to the area.
The light has fully escape, and the pond is mostly dark, bathed only lightly in the artificial light of campus. The moon is at just a quarter tonight, but it's quite high in the sky already and very handsome looking. I spot from the right corner of my periphery a thin shadow dance and dart above the pond. A bat. Then another, and they are both gone. Later in the evening, I will learn that it was probably a Little Brown Bat, the most common species in the area. There are only eleven to contend with in all of Pennsylvania, and a couple are extremely rare or not yet present this time of year.
Certainly, the pond has changed. It reflects the change of season in it's freed water and the verdant grass all around it. But my perception of it has changed, too. I was already familiar with many of the fauna that frequent it, and quickly learned the others. But it's been through learning the flora that I've garnered something of a deeper appreciation for it.
I learned through Professor Sterner this week that the presence of the Japanese Laceleaf Maple is in fact a result of affluence. It was very fashionable for Andrew Mellon to collect exotic, stately trees such as this one on his property, and many of the trees on the Chatham campus, especially around his estate, reflect this (not to say that the standard has really changed). Thinking about it now, the very name, Japanese Laceleaf Maple, seems to pretty clearly convey a sense of affluence and sophistication.
And there are others, too. The Japanese Flowering Crabapple and Honey Locust, individuals closer to Mellon Hall. Their exoticism and value is neatly accentuated by the tiny placards that boast their names. They come with inscriptions of Latin beneath the common name, appropriately in cursive. There is also, of course, the Chatham seal in the corner. They were not visible when the snow rose several feet above the ground, but now they are prim and clearly visible.
The snow has revealed something else, too. Apparently, the pond is actually named in honor of Anne Putnam Mallison, a Chatham alumna who donated generously in her time. I had not been conscious before how much affluence seems to pervade the very core of the pond, but it is certainly here. Even the animals, they are the dainty species that one would expect a sophisticate would want around, gentle and comely but in no way threatening. In this way, I can claim I've come to understand the pond better.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Prompt Entry 5
I've lived in Pittsburgh for two-thirds a year now, so it's high time I cultivate some understanding of the environmental ills of my immediate surroundings.
Last semester, I was able to enjoy a couple educational walks (one geological, the other botanical) in Frick Park sponsored by a local organization called the Nine Mile Run Watershed Association. My first inclination was to research their mission and goals and see what environmental issues they take to task.
The Nine Mile Run (NMR), I've learned, is a stream that flows through my very neighborhood of Squirrel Hill as well as several others including Wilkinsburg, Edgewood, and Swissvale. Most of the stream runs underground, but some of it emerges in Frick Park, which is just three blocks from my apartment.
The stream suffers pretty seriously from pollution. The problem goes something like this:
Pittsburgh is of course an urban environment, which means that there are many impermeable surfaces like blacktop, concrete, roofs, and sidewalks around NMR, the same area where I live. These surfaces don't allow water to filter into the soil. During really wet weather (I wonder if all the recent snowfall counts) the city sewer systems become overloaded with water. They dump onto the NMR, of course contaminated with lots of sewage. This is actually called a "fecal fountain." As one can imagine, this makes the NMR both unfit for wildlife as well as human recreation.
I absolutely am concerned about the possibility of a "fecal fountain" in my neighborhood, although I may have some difficulty writing lyrically about the phenomenon. Apparently, the city of Pittsburgh in conjunction with the Army Corps of Engineers has been working since 2002 to restore the ecosystem, filter out the pollution, and improve the sewer system. However, I'm skeptical of anything the Army Corps of Engineers does because of all the terrible things I've heard of their other "restoration projects," particularly the way they screwed up the Everglades. They're arrogant and always seem to make things worse.
For my part, I wonder why instead of defecating in clean water people don't just poo in their gardens or somewhere else outside. Wouldn't that alleviate the issue? I would totally do it if it was socially acceptable, and I've done it plenty of other times anyway (usually don't anymore because I'm three stories up and it's too much of a pain). Hmm, how much drinkable fresh water do we have to crap in before we realize we should be shitting somewhere else?
Last semester, I was able to enjoy a couple educational walks (one geological, the other botanical) in Frick Park sponsored by a local organization called the Nine Mile Run Watershed Association. My first inclination was to research their mission and goals and see what environmental issues they take to task.
The Nine Mile Run (NMR), I've learned, is a stream that flows through my very neighborhood of Squirrel Hill as well as several others including Wilkinsburg, Edgewood, and Swissvale. Most of the stream runs underground, but some of it emerges in Frick Park, which is just three blocks from my apartment.
The stream suffers pretty seriously from pollution. The problem goes something like this:
Pittsburgh is of course an urban environment, which means that there are many impermeable surfaces like blacktop, concrete, roofs, and sidewalks around NMR, the same area where I live. These surfaces don't allow water to filter into the soil. During really wet weather (I wonder if all the recent snowfall counts) the city sewer systems become overloaded with water. They dump onto the NMR, of course contaminated with lots of sewage. This is actually called a "fecal fountain." As one can imagine, this makes the NMR both unfit for wildlife as well as human recreation.
I absolutely am concerned about the possibility of a "fecal fountain" in my neighborhood, although I may have some difficulty writing lyrically about the phenomenon. Apparently, the city of Pittsburgh in conjunction with the Army Corps of Engineers has been working since 2002 to restore the ecosystem, filter out the pollution, and improve the sewer system. However, I'm skeptical of anything the Army Corps of Engineers does because of all the terrible things I've heard of their other "restoration projects," particularly the way they screwed up the Everglades. They're arrogant and always seem to make things worse.
For my part, I wonder why instead of defecating in clean water people don't just poo in their gardens or somewhere else outside. Wouldn't that alleviate the issue? I would totally do it if it was socially acceptable, and I've done it plenty of other times anyway (usually don't anymore because I'm three stories up and it's too much of a pain). Hmm, how much drinkable fresh water do we have to crap in before we realize we should be shitting somewhere else?
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