May 2004 Archives

REPORT FROM CAPE MAY

I can now officially declare the Cape May Spring Weekend a Good Thing. Its hosts, the New Jersey Audubon Society (which is not, I learned this weekend, affiliated with the national Audubon Society), put Kelly and me up at the Grand Hotel right on the beach, stuffed us full of fresh seafood, gave us the chance to hear a wonderful presentation by writer Scott Weidensaul, and let me indulge my birding habit happily for nearly 48 hours straight.

After driving up on a hazy Friday by way of the Lewes-Cape May ferry--a method I recommend highly, especially as opposed to driving the I-95 corridor between D.C. and Philly--Kelly and I came rushing into the banquet just in time to grab some crab cakes (delicious) and check in with the organizers. We were then treated to a wonderful slide show by Weidensaul, whose boyish enthusiasm and wry sense of humor are very much a part of his presentation. (His hilarious imitation of the different species of St. Lucian hummingbirds cannot be duplicated in print, alas.)

I overslept a bit on Saturday morning, sitting bolt upright at 7:25 instead of 6:00; that meant I couldn't meet any of the guides for the tour of Higbee Beach I'd hoped to make. Instead I went on my own to the Meadows, a/k/a the Cape May Migratory Bird Refuge. I knew it to be a great place for birding because I'd been there with my Aunt Linda in July of 2000 and logged several lifers, but I wasn't quite so lucky this time. Still, I saw several birds I'd seen only once before--a pair of Gadwalls and two Green-winged Teals--and was treated to views of Mute Swans, Yellow Warblers, Least Terns, and a very vocal Common Yellowthroat in the dune forest.

From the Meadows, I joined a group led by NJAS expert and author Mark Garland, who took us around the Rea Farm, better known as the Beanery. (Kelly thought it sounded like the name of a coffee shop, but it actually was a commercial lima bean farm at one time.) There I was able to serve the group's interests by spotting a couple of unnoticed birds--some Killdeers, a Great Crested Flycatcher, and a Red-Eyed Vireo that came down low to beat the shit out of a helpless caterpillar. In return, Mark and the group treated me to the sight of an immature Mississippi Kite soaring high overhead--only the second time I'd ever seen the bird--and one of the Lopes sisters caught sight of a female Ruby-throated Hummingbird swooping back and forth in a vigorous (and eventually successful) attempt to drive off a bewildered male Cardinal.

I had a little time between the Meadows trip and my reading at the Grand Hotel at 4:00, so I sped northward to Stone Harbor Point, a spit of sand on the Atlantic coast reputed to draw in great numbers of shore birds. Its reputation is accurate; scores upon scores of Black Skimmers, Least Terns, and Common Terns were nesting in wired-off areas of the sand, while the tidal pools attracted waders of all sorts: Dunlins, Sanderlings, Semipalmated Plovers, and American Oystercatchers were there in force, and I again got good looks at birds I'd seen only once before: dozens of Black-bellied Plovers and Short-billed Dowitchers were in plain sight. I was almost dive-bombed by Forster's Terns and Skimmers several times, but I couldn't linger--it's definitely a spot I'll visit at more length next time.

Kelly, meanwhile, had spent the day happily exploring Cape May's profusion of shops and restaurants, so she wasn't even terribly upset at my absence. When we met that afternoon, we were also treated to the appearance of Aunt Linda and Mother Marge, who'd driven down from Moorestown for the day and had done some good birding of their own. They helped keep my reading going well, asking some helpful questions to move the conversation along.

I think the NJAS sold a few copies of the book, because I was signing pretty constantly during the hour the writers/artists made themselves available. I also got to meet Pete Dunne and Scott Weidensaul at the signing. Pete is a handsome and self-assured guy, and he could probably intimidate the hell out of any less-experienced birder if it weren't for the fact that he's also both generous with his praise and very, very funny. I got him to sign my copy of Small-headed Flycatcher. Seen Yesterday. He Didn't Leave His Name., which had been a present from Linda--synchronicity! At the end of the hour, I finally had a chance to greet Scott (who had been pinned down behind a wall of books to sign since the doors were opened) and his fiancee, and I brazenly asked for signatures in my copies of The Ghost with Trembling Wings and Living on the Wind. I still felt a little fanboyish around Pete and Scott, but in some ways, I suppose I've joined their fraternity; people were carrying our books around like they were all alike. Okay. It's a pretty cool fraternity to be in, I must say.

I also met Judy Lukens, whose husband Karl helped me get both a Least Bittern and a Short-Billed Dowitcher for my life list back in 2000. I signed her book and added a thank-you to Karl on the page where he appeared, sans surname. Least I could do.

That evening it was stuffed shrimp, a dip in the Grand's hot tub, a dive into the frigid indoor pool, and a relaxed evening lying around the hotel room watching the Crufts Dog Show with Kelly. The whippet won best in show, which prompted Kelly to announce "Whippet good!" That's why I love her...

Next morning I got up at 5:50 (I got a wake-up call this time...) and drove north to Belleplain State Forest, about an hour from the Cape, where tour guides B.J. and George helped me to a veritable feast of woodland birds, including the Acadian Flycatcher, Pine Warbler, Yellow-Billed Cuckoo, Scarlet Tanager, White-eyed Vireo, and Eastern Pewee. We spotted several warblers I'd seen only once before (Yellow-Throated and Hooded) and heard another one (Blue-winged). I got a good look at a Black-and-White Warbler, the second I've seen this year after a decade without them. Best of all, George's familiarity with the calls led me to brief glimpses of two lifers: a Worm-eating Warbler and an Ovenbird. The latter could be heard calling all over the forest, but only once did one of them came up to a spot where it could be seen. I don't know that I feel familiar with the bird's appearance yet, but I sure as hell know that "teacher, TEAcher, TEACHER!" call in my bones now.

All in all, a great way to spend a weekend: several great meals eaten, lots of great people met, and 84 species of birds logged. Thanks to Sheila Lego and the NJAS for the invitation to Cape May; I'll be back soon.

7:03 PM

NEXT APPEARANCE (in less than a week):
Cape May Spring Weekend, May 21-23, 2004
I'll be talking about The Verb from 4:00 to 5:00 on Saturday, 5/22, and I'll be at the authors' reception from 5:30 to 6:30 that night. Look for me on field trips the rest of the weekend... and say hi to Kelly if you see her there.

You can get more information by visiting the N.J. Audubon Society's website. Preregistration is recommended for most events and required for others. Move fast--time's running out!

LBJs

*I always say there's nothing like a bout of digestive violence to get you back on the diet. As I was wrapping up dorm duty on Friday night, I was suddenly afflicted with the Dowd-Finch Two-Step or whatever intestinal bug has been making the rounds of the campus over the last week. It knocked me off duty, into bed, and out of class Saturday morning, that's for sure. But I'm eating much smaller portions ever since.

*My NBA predictions worry me a bit. I was 6 of 8 in the first round, losing on both my predictions of fifth-seed-over-fourth-seed upsets, but now I'm really worried. I simply didn't see the Lakers getting their act together, especially not down 2-0 to the Spurs. And the Spurs were the team with the best chance to beat LA. I'm not at all convinced that Sacramento or Minnesota can do it, and if the Pacers and Pistons are having this much trouble with the Heat and the Nets, they haven't got a chance of shutting down the Lakers...

*The Rose-Breasted Grosbeaks appear to have vacated the premises. I haven't seen the ones who visited us since the morning of their first visit, though Kelly did spot the male the next day. Instead, we've got Brown-Headed Cowbirds. Scads of them. And House Sparrows. What kind of a trade is that? At least Travis the Blue Jay is still hanging around, still pecking the sliding glass door daily. He's dependable that way.

*You know what's irritating? When you buy a book, knowing that you can't get to reading it just yet, but still having every intention of reading it as soon as you finish your current book--and then lose it. Somewhere in this house is my newly purchased copy of Elaine Pagels' The Gnostic Gospels, which has been on my to-be-read list for years, and now that I own a copy, I can't find it. Is God trying to tell me something?

*Orange is not blessed with an enormous number of places to eat, so when a new place opens its doors, it's a bit of a nine-day wonder around here. Such is the case with the new combination fast-food joint, KFC/Long John Silver's, which has been a going concern for about a month now. Kentucky Fried Longjohns (as Kelly has dubbed it) is one of PepsiCo's increasingly common attempts to make fast food everything to everyone; you may also see them combining either or both of the above restaurants with Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, or any of the other franchises owned by the company that brought you a leering Bob Dole and a flaming Michael Jackson. Since Orange had a KFC before, all the combination has meant is that the entire KFC menu is no longer available (no potato wedges, for example), the old KFC building is now abandoned, and we can now get heavily fried fish to go with our heavily fried chicken. On the plus side, they have little packets of malt vinegar for the fish & chips, so I'm able to indulge my Anglophilia. A mixed blessing, but in Orange, every little bit of menu choice helps.

*Speaking of Anglophilia: in 1983, I had the good fortune to live close to one of Manchester's public libraries, and to my delight it let patrons check out audio cassettes for ten pence a week. I had only a handful of my own tapes to listen to, so I made good use of the library's materials. In particular, I researched some bands I didn't know well, figuring 10p was plenty cheap for a valuable lesson. There were a number of pleasant discoveries, such as the Byrds' Sweetheart of the Rodeo and The Bonzo Dog Band's The Doughnut in Granny's Greenhouse, but the album that stuck to my memory like epoxy and has never really come loose is a gigantic prog-rock beast from 1973: Genesis' Selling England by the Pound. There are any number of reasons why I should be ashamed of loving this album, but I refuse to feel that way: it's too good. Yes, it's full of unnecessary frills, over-complicated polyrhythms, and non-ironic references to Teiresias and the Queen of May-Be that speak of a colossal acid romp in a room with a book of Spenser's poetry and a Mellotron. I admit that. But there's something pure and beautiful about it at the same time, something that resonates at a level beyond the smart-ass pleasure of a Ramones tune. The harpsichord of "The Cinema Show" floats like a butterfly, while the drums of "I Know What I Like" sting like a bee. I wanted "Firth of Fifth" played at our wedding, but the pianist wasn't up to it. And the endless chord progression of "After the Ordeal" may be what I ask to be played at my funeral.

Well, either that or Frank Zappa and the Mothers' "You're Probably Wondering Why I'm Here."

1:13 AM

NEXT APPEARANCE:
Cape May Spring Weekend, May 21-23, 2004
I'll be talking about The Verb from 4:00 to 5:00 on Saturday, 5/22, and I'll be at the authors' reception from 5:30 to 6:30 that night. I'll be all over the place the rest of the time, taking field trips and bonding with others of my tribe.

You can get more information by visiting the N.J. Audubon Society's website. Preregistration is recommended for most events and required for others. Move fast--time's running out!

There are days when the teaching grind is hard to handle. When the pile of papers yet to be graded seems thicker than the wallet you're sitting on... when the students you've been talking to for weeks about an assignment are still asking whether they have an assignment... when the administrators are asking you to jump through a hoop and then informing you at the last minute that they certainly don't have any hoops, no, you'll have to bring your own... That kind of day can result in a very whiny blog, that's for sure.

Luckily for you, however, today is not that day.

Today's the day when I think about what one of my former students told a colleague at the dinner table: that my speech course was the hardest one he'd had at Woodberry, but the one that had helped him the most during his time here. Or about the senior member of our debate team who didn't win a trip to Nationals--not once in four tries--but who is using his last weeks at WFS to prepare debate cases--two of them--so that he can run practice debates against one of his teammates who is going to Nationals in two weeks. Or about the colleague who actually appreciated my lunchtime insights into A Streetcar Named Desire.

Or best of all, about the former student who turned up at the lunch table today. I taught Jack English during his freshman year, speech during his sophomore year, and English again when he was a junior. (He was also a member of the debate team, helping to train the selfless senior debater I mentioned above.) Jack showed up carrying a paperback of Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game, one of my favorite science fiction novels, and one that he read during our freshman English class. I complimented him on his taste and asked him how life was going at Wake Forest; turns out he's an English major, a situation almost guaranteed to keep him free from the temptations of avarice, but he's gamely reading Barth and Pynchon and having a high old time. Then Jack mentioned that Card, who lives near his school, had paid a visit to campus, and that he'd gotten Card to sign a book for him. Or more accurately, for me.

He handed me the paperback. The title page reads, in cobalt-blue ink:

To Peter Cashwell -- Teachers are the heroes of literature...

Orson Scott Card

I've got the book here, and I'll be thinking about it for the rest of the day. And probably for a good while after that.

Thanks, Jack.

9:52 PM

NEXT APPEARANCE:
Cape May Spring Weekend, May 21-23, 2004
I'll be talking about The Verb from 4:00 to 5:00 on Saturday, 5/22, and I'll be at the authors' reception from 5:30 to 6:30 that night. I'll be all over the place the rest of the time, taking field trips and bonding with others of my tribe.

You can get more information by visiting the N.J. Audubon Society's website for the weekend. Preregistration is recommended for most events and required for others.

I just tore through Mark Obmascik's The Big Year in near-record time. It's a fascinating tale of three very different birders, each obsessed with winning the unofficial contest whose object is to see more species in North America during a calendar year (1998 in this case) than any other birder. (To count, your birds have got to be north of the Mexican border, but you get to use all of the Aleutians, the Florida Keys, the Dry Tortugas, and all of the continental U.S., plus Canada.) Personally, having just gotten my life list over 300 birds, the idea of seeing over 700 in a single year--Sandy Komito's 1987 record was 721 species--is pretty staggering. I mean, if I'm lucky enough to come back from Cape May over 310, I'll consider the trip a rousing success. To see 721 species in 365 days requires a pace of nearly two new birds per day, which is both difficult and expensive to maintain.

To give you an idea, consider my trip to Florida in March. In six days of heavy birding (well, heavy driving punctuated by periods of heavy birding), I logged a total of 66 species. That ten-new-birds-per-day pace would have been a great start to a Big Year, sure, but it was obtained at great expense; even with my father subsidizing more than his share of the trip, I laid out nearly half a month's salary. Moreover, I logged several dozen common birds that I could have gotten anywhere--Turkey Vulture, Blue Jay, Mockingbird--and could never count again. Of true Florida specialties I logged only a handful--the "Great White" Heron, Magnificent Frigatebird, Common Myna, and Eurasian Collared-Dove. Had I been on a Big Year, I'd have been left with 655 more species to go, and the longer you go, the harder it is to spot unlisted birds.

Plotting the curve of new birds is instructive. On Day One in Florida, I logged 18 birds, and of course all of them counted as new; on Day Two, I saw 13 of them again, plus 27 I hadn't seen the day before. But then on Day Three, I crested the top of the curve and headed down: 24 species I'd seen already, plus 14 new ones. Day Four provided 31 familiar faces and two newbies. Day Five was 27 and two, Day Six 22 and three. And this was done by driving from one end of the state to the other, averaging approximately 250 miles per day, with gas prices somewhere near the ionosphere. To do that kind of thing over a year's time requires travel expertise, herculean effort, a big pile of dough, and a spouse whose patience verges on the infinite. The Big Year proves all of the above conclusively and delightfully.

The portraits of each of the three men involved are wonderfully detailed, but though Obmascik (pronounced "oh MASS ick") has a journalistic approach, his style is far from dull. His tells a lovely tale about newly-divorced computer coder Greg Miller, who took his dying father out to search for a long-eared owl in the midst of his Big Year. His description of the two-week encampments on the Aleutian island of Attu is often akin to slapstick (and you'll love the story of Mr. Pants, trust me...). Still, somehow I keep recalling this description of Sandy Komito's frustrations in logging a Smith's longspur:

This trip was a grudge match. During his 1987 Big Year, Komito had looked for longspurs on their great migration through the eastern plains of Colorado. It didn't take much to find McCown's and chestnut-collareds and Laplands. But he never spotted the cagiest longspur of all, the Smith's, a thin-billed bird with pale eye ring, two white outer tail feathers, and an infuriating knack for taking wing just beyond the 10X range of a birder's binoculars.

By the end of that spring migration, he finally admitted that he had missed the bird. He was left with only one choice--find them where they breed. That meant Alaska. So he spent a small fortune on a special trip to Denali National Park in June for a bird he should have seen near a major airport on the Great Plains in February.

On his Alaska trip, he endured rain, sleet, and ice-water swamps, but he did not quite endure the mosquitoes. No mortal could. Early summer in the marshes of Denali: eleven years later, the mere thought still made Komito break out in shivers and scratches. He had to find those bastard Smith's in the Lower 48 before they up and left for their bug-infested sex hovels to the north.

A rousing good tale, told with wit and skill, and the best portrait of intellectual obsession since Stefan Fatsis' Word Freak.

5:16 AM

NEXT APPEARANCE:
Cape May Spring Weekend, May 21-23, 2004
I'll be talking about The Verb from 4:00 to 5:00 on Saturday, 5/22, and I'll be at the authors' reception from 5:30 to 6:30 that night. I'll be all over the place the rest of the time, taking field trips and bonding with others of my tribe.

You can get more information by visiting the N.J. Audubon Society's website for the weekend. Preregistration is recommended for most events and required for others.

Our home has a new presence. His name is Travis. Travis is a blue jay--a pretty young one, I think, as his plumage is remarkably fresh and clean and his behavior is a wee bit naive. He's a gorgeous slate blue on his head and back, fading to a rich cerulean shade on his wings and tail. His black "necklace" is sharp against his white belly, and the black-and-white touches on his tail and wings set off the blueness quite smartly.

Unfortunately, Travis has developed a habit that suggests he's not doing anything else smartly. Several times a day he lands on our back porch, issues a piercing cry of challenge, and hops onto the sill of our sliding glass door. Once perched there, he pecks at his rival with vigor. The sound of this attack is audible even upstairs, and it's downright distracting if you happen to be sitting in the study at the computer, or perhaps watching something on the TV in the den. He'll peck once, twice, sometime thrice, and then he'll pause, catching his breath and further sizing up his enemy. Then he's back on the offensive--once, twice, thrice! Duck, weave, parry, thrust!

He's been at this relentless combat for nigh on two weeks now, and he's not getting anywhere, but he's not discouraged. No, not our Travis. He won't admit defeat, or alter his battle plan, or even acknowledge the nature of his enemy, which is of course his own reflection.

Kelly's the one who named him. As she put it, he's out there saying "You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?!" and displaying his machismo. And admittedly, his crest looks kind of like a Mohawk.

We're kind of enjoying it, actually. It's an attractive show, and it's not really doing any harm to our door. But I'll admit, I do feel a twinge of guilt that we haven't done more to show Travis the error of his ways. Perhaps we should help him find another outlet for his hostility, or at least try to scare him off once and for all so that he can concentrate on the basics of blue jay life: food, sex, family, and all that. I wonder, though, whether he's smart enough to realize that he's made a mistake, and whether he'd be smart enough to change his thinking even if we could convince him that it was a mistake, even when it's staring right back at him with his own face.

In a blue jay, all this is kind of funny, though tinged with sadness.

What are we to make of it in a president?

4:43 PM