Australian raven
I’m not an obsessive person. Sure, I collected comic books as a kid (because I wanted to read complete stories), and I harbor a secret wish to watch every single Doctor Who episode ever made before I die, but I’m not a collector or an enthusiastic hobbyist. No quilting or collections of stamps and coins for me.
But birds, I’m finding, are a slippery slope.
Before I moved to Australia, I couldn’t identify any local birds in my suburban D.C. neighborhood beyond the ubiquitous robin, cardinal, and blue jay. In Australia though, the birds are so colorful and noisy, how could I ignore them?
I identified the common, brightly colored ones first, like the crimson rosella, galah, and king parrot.
But birds, I’m finding, are a slippery slope.
Before I moved to Australia, I couldn’t identify any local birds in my suburban D.C. neighborhood beyond the ubiquitous robin, cardinal, and blue jay. In Australia though, the birds are so colorful and noisy, how could I ignore them?
I identified the common, brightly colored ones first, like the crimson rosella, galah, and king parrot.
Next I moved on to the birds with big personalities, such as the Australian magpie, sulphur-crested cockatoo, and gang-gang parrot.
Then I felt bad about ignoring the less colorful ones like the common mynah, Australian pigeon, and superb fairy wren, so soon I was on the lookout for them too.
But I wasn’t a birder. Not at all. Birders are driven, obsessive people who go to the ends of the earth to bag their bird. And I am not driven or obsessive. Sure, I started scouring the second-hand store for bird guides and left my dog at home so I could get closer to the birds without alarming them. And I fantasized about having a real camera with a professional zoom . . . but I didn’t have a problem.
My daughter bought me a bird-matching card game for my birthday, and every family trip began to include aviaries and bird sanctuaries. I tried to share my fascination with my family.
“Look,” I said one day, waving my phone triumphantly. “I got a picture of a yellow-tailed black cockatoo today!”
My daughter bought me a bird-matching card game for my birthday, and every family trip began to include aviaries and bird sanctuaries. I tried to share my fascination with my family.
“Look,” I said one day, waving my phone triumphantly. “I got a picture of a yellow-tailed black cockatoo today!”
Yellow-tailed black cockatoo
My daughter gave my hard-won photo an indifferent glance. “I bet they call them that because of the yellow on the tail.”
“And they’re black,” my husband added.
A week later, I spent hours trying to identify a bird I’d tracked from tree to tree at the front entrance of our community. I consulted bird books, websites, and countless online photo galleries.
“I think,” I announced to my family, “that it’s a red wattlebird.”
My daughter squinted at my photo. “It isn’t red.”
“It’s sort of red,” I said. “There, by the beak. That’s a little red.”
My husband took a look. “And it doesn’t have a wattle.”
Spoilsports.
But they were right, so I spent more hours trying to identify that bird. I came up with nothing.
“And they’re black,” my husband added.
A week later, I spent hours trying to identify a bird I’d tracked from tree to tree at the front entrance of our community. I consulted bird books, websites, and countless online photo galleries.
“I think,” I announced to my family, “that it’s a red wattlebird.”
My daughter squinted at my photo. “It isn’t red.”
“It’s sort of red,” I said. “There, by the beak. That’s a little red.”
My husband took a look. “And it doesn’t have a wattle.”
Spoilsports.
But they were right, so I spent more hours trying to identify that bird. I came up with nothing.
Not a red wattlebird
And it’s driving me CRAZY, the not-knowing. I HAVE to know. And I also have to admit that maybe I do have a problem.
I think I’m a birder. An lazy, unaccomplished one maybe, but still a birder.
Next stop, stamp collecting.
I think I’m a birder. An lazy, unaccomplished one maybe, but still a birder.
Next stop, stamp collecting.
RSS Feed
