What is Your Bird Name?
+ Micro-Seasons Seven through Twelve
Asking Questions and Naming Names
Some of us will have spent the Thanksgiving holiday trying to make sense of a meal that is centered around one of the least loved sources of meat that I can think of. I don’t know anyone, who when dining out at a fabulous restaurant, has said, “I hope they have turkey on the menu.”
I need to read up on the history of this turkey tradition for the common Thanksgiving meal. Why this bird? I might have been provided a certified background story for the Thanksgiving events during my elementary school education, but since that occurred all the way back in the 1970’s when almost all of U.S. history teaching was either blanketed in euphemistic descriptions of goings-on, left out critical details, or ignored entire perspectives altogether, I’m not sure I can rely on whatever portions of it that I can even recall. I may never get those history book images of starving, dirty savages looking so grateful to find potatoes served to them by pious pilgrims out of my head, but I can still ask questions now and then. So today, a frivolous one: why the turkey?
Beyond its limited offering of flavor, which must be compensated for by heaping a sludge of marshmallow-topped root vegetables upon one’s plate and alternating bites between the foul and the sludge, it’s simply a mediocre bird name. “Turkey.” Fine for a country, but a bird? I’m not sure. Besides being better suited to a geographical area, the word “turkey” is also one of those common bird names that’s an insult when applied to a human: You turkey!
Now, as insults go, being called a turkey is not as demeaning as being called an a**hole, but it’s only a few steps above that. In concrete terms, I suppose there’s a hierarchy to the bird name insults. Or should be. Being a turkey allows one more self-respect than being called a chicken, and is obviously less harsh than being labeled a vulture. But if you are—I mean, were—a dodo, we just feel sorry for you. But honestly, you dodos had it coming for not figuring out how to fly. Even turkeys can fly. At 55 mph, I’ve been told.
One of my favorite contemporary board games is Wingspan, gifted to me and my Beloved for Christmas a few years ago by the talented writer, Elizabeth Marshall1 This game is competitive, educational, and beautifully designed. In playing the game, I’ve not only become much more aware of the types of birds and their respective behaviors, but also the format and sweeping style of bird names themselves.
There are the birds named after the person who (presumably) ‘discovered’ them and notified whatever bird society you have to contact in order to get a bird named after you. Examples include: Bewick’s Wren, Wilson’s Warbler, Lincoln’s Sparrow. There are birds with colors in their names: Red-winged Blackbird, Yellow-breasted Chat, or the Green-tailed Towhee. There are also geographically named birds such as the Atlantic Puffin, Eastern Screech-Owl, or the California Condor. Wingspan has beautifully rendered drawings on the bird cards, and can be adapted with expansion packs for various parts of the world. A huge thank you to Elizabeth Hargrave for designing this intricate, entertaining board game that has filled so many of my afternoons with moments of glorious victory as well as heartbreaking defeat. (When in doubt, lay eggs in the last round.)
Several days ago, I was walking between the house and the garage in order to pack way too many items into the car for a mini staycation on the island. Honestly, my SUV was stuffed like a holiday bird, but to be fair to everyone involved, as we were to be gone for the full length of the Thanksgiving weekend, there was no possibility I was going to allow the household to run out of champagne while watching movies and eating bacon all day. Whenever I walked out of the house, I could hear a loud flapping of wings coming from the trail entrance just beyond the kitchen-side of the house.
While checking that the kitchen door was locked, I noticed the huckleberry shrub shaking in fits. I stood watching the leaves shimmy and rest, shimmy and rest, then saw what looked like a smeared blur of orange scatter across the inner limbs. At first, I figured it was some robins swooping in to eat the last of the fruit, but then I looked again. Definitely not robins. Next bet: Black-headed grosbeaks’—some of the best singers out there. But, no. The orange breast was of a slightly different color. Grabbing the binoculars, I detected a black band on these bird’s necks and a black mask over the eyes. What was this bird? I’d never seen one of these birds before, let alone a flurry [swatting? gaggle? flamboyance?]2 of them, careening into the huckleberry shrub and plucking the little black berries like gluttonous little pilgrims.
I tried to identify the bird, but anything my apps came up with seemed unlikely to be visiting or living here on the PNW coast. Hours later, My Beloved was able to assist me by—of all things—picking up a physical bird book and leafing through it. In a matter of mere seconds, he put my app-searching to shame by finding and identifying those birds as a collection [parliament? kettle? trembling?]3 of the beautiful Varied Thrush. In reading up on this astounding bird, we discovered that if it were identified today, it might be named the Ruddy-breasted Leaf Tosser’ which, to be sure, sacrifices a significant amount of distinguishment for a great deal of description.
My beloved and I immediately agreed that ‘Varied thrush’ is a far superior title and should never be replaced. He then decided the dog could use an appropriate bird name, and bestowed upon our loyal and unassuming hound the moniker “Clicketing Tremor-tail” which, technically is composed of at least one non-word, but does accurately describe the sound of the dog’s toenails on the hard flooring followed by the quick little wags of his tail upon laying down in his bed. This successful pronouncement led to bestowment of a bird name upon me, which, I believe had something to do with washing dishes or never sitting down or something like that. I rejected this name, not because it was an insult, but because I feel strongly that one should bird-name themselves if at all possible. (In the dog’s case, it’s not an option, so we’re sticking with “Clicketing tremor-tail” because it really does pull his whole blessed identity together very well.)
As for me, I’ve currently settled on the self-proclaimed moniker, “Pale-breasted Weed Puller.” It describes the majority of my waking hour’s activities—avoiding direct sunlight and working in the yard, which are not that easy to do simultaneously. Alternatives considered include: “Pacific Bubble-drinker” and “Soukenik’s Needle-Sweeper.”
What bird name would you coin for yourself? Leave a comment and let me know!
Last weekend, I visited my old home town, Seattle. In my next post, I’ll tell you all about it. Until then, I offer you…
Micro-Seasons Seven through Twelve
Seven — Bucks roam and rub the woods: October 23rd - 27th
Eight — In V formations, flocks depart: October 28th - November 1st
Nine — First fall winds arrive: November 2nd - 6th
Ten — Red huckleberries drop their leaves: November 7th - 11th
Eleven — Pacific Wrens call from the forest floor: November 12th - 16th
Twelve — Bracken needles fade to fawn: November 17th - 21st
I’m excited to say that Elizabeth Marshall will soon be on Substack! In the meantime, you might enjoy her latest book, The Drinking Curriculum
Discovering the poetic names which denote groups of specific birds has been a highlight of my adult life. Why didn’t I learn about this in school??? I offer you: a ‘swatting’ of flycatchers, a ‘gaggle’ of geese, a ‘flamboyance’ of flamingoes. Brilliant.
…a ‘parliament’ of owls, a ‘kettle’ of hawks, and a ‘trembling’ of finches.
Thank you for reading Stirred, Not Shaken. Your support is invaluable to this publication.