wildswan’s Recent Comments

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  Land Trusts

  I used to live in Taos New Mexico. There was a wonderful place in a land trust that preserved a wetlands (which is rare in that area). I don't know how many migratory birds and local critters of all kinds benefitted from this piece of land but it was a little jewel on the edge of town, a small preserve of the natural world that not only nurtured those of us who were lucky enough to drive by it every day on our way into town but all the flying, crawling, swimming things that lived there or passed through . . . . .
  land trusts touch a lot of lives.
  

  "Us nature mystics got to stick together." - Edward Abbey

  On Pat Burns writes on the uncertain fate of conservation easements and the millions of acres they prot posted 4 years, 5 months ago 4 Responses

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  Wildlife refuges

  Would like to share this story:

  When I was a child growing up in South Texas my grandmother taught me about birds. We lived out in the country, in the flat, almost treeless coastal plains. Palm trees and salt cedar and a few live oak trees surrounded our old farmhouse. It must have seemed like an oasis for the birds. Especially when the sprinkler was o­n in the yard!

  We were also o­n a major migratory route. My childhood years were marked by the passages of austere northern geese and clouds of raucous bright yellow Mexican parakeets and by the annual whooping crane count at the Aransas Wildlife Refuge which was a special love of my grandmother's.

  The birds accompanied my days. They were never far away. They sang me awake in the cool sweet dawn, they shared the secrets of the tamarack and live oak trees where I sought shelter from the humid heat and the family squabbles, they played with me at the beach - the funny little sandpipers, the greedy gulls, the ponderous pelicans. Part of me would lift up and fly whenever they passed over and my grandmother was always pointing out this or that - look at the cardinal, you o­nly see them in January, or they o­nly eat this kind of seed . . . .

  My grandmother lived until she was 102 years old. She spent a lot of time those last years o­n her patio, hanging out with her beloved birds. I have always felt the birds with me as I traveled through my life, far far from South Texas; my friends, my uplifting and tender companions.

  Not long ago I went to visit my grandson who was almost two and I found we had something in common. His first word had been "bird" and he couldn't wait to show me the birds. Living in an air conditioned place in the city, he didn't get outside too much but he had a big window in his room and guess what he watched out the window? He loved the birds. He was intrigued by them. I found myself saying the things I remembered my grandmother saying, telling him little things about the mockingbirds and the hummingbirds and the blue jays we saw. O­ne day when we were outside I found a mockingbird feather and held it up to him. His eyes got big. He reached out o­ne chubby little finger very tentatively and when his finger touched the feather he shivered intensely all over and pulled his finger back as if he'd been shocked. He looked at me amazed.

  Yeah, Carlos, bird.

  I know he won't forget . . . . his first flying lesson

  Rebecca Swan is the creator of Wildflower Stew
  http://www.wildflowerstew.org
  swan@wildflowerstew.orgOn Arctic Refuge drilling debate misses the big picture posted 4 years, 7 months ago 7 Responses