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Naming the Sparrow
 A rose by any other name, a notable bard once penned, would smell as sweet.
Well, maybe.
But would the song of a white-throated sparrow blend as
hauntingly its notes of deepest melancholy and curious longing? Would
the constellation Orion form as memorable a starry herald of autumn?
Would dandelions gallop as gaily through our yard? More importantly, if
I called our dandelions “roses,” would they no longer frustrate my
lawn-loving husband?
I think not.
Learning the names of the plants, animals, lands and waters
bestows on them a singularity that enhances all encounters. It’s like
calling on old friends when you can walk along a beach and spot the
jasper, agates and quartz. Or to stroll in the woods between the birch,
jack pine and mountain ash rather than simply to walk through the trees.
Or to greet, by name, the white-throated sparrow.
On lazy childhood mornings when summer vacation granted an
extra half-hour in bed, I would lie quietly, eyes closed, to savor the
fading notes of a bird outside my window. Each morning, same wake-up
call - six notes, the first high and inhaled, the remaining five
exhaled on a single pitch, slightly lower, and fading, fading as if the
effort to sustain them grew too great. How sad, how sweet. No matter
where I hear it, that voice transports me to my room, to those mornings
and to that anxious contentment, wanting to stay there forever and yet
needing to hurry outside with the bird to the adventure of a new day.
All of my life, I’ve recognized that diminuendo, but it was
only a year or so ago that someone gifted me with a name: a
white-throated sparrow. At first a sparrow hardly seemed grand enough
for my memories. Maybe I expected the song of a white-throated swan or a white-throated falcon
or something, as we say in publishing lingo, a little “sexier” than a
sparrow. But this song, by any other bird, could not be as sweet. I
wish that I’d been introduced years ago, so that wherever I heard its
call, I could have said, with pleasure, “There’s the white-throated
sparrow!” I did say that recently to my husband as we sat in the yard
of my childhood home and the sparrow from my youth - or its great,
great grandchild - inhaled and exhaled its flute notes. Bob was
impressed, and being able to impress your husband is a worthwhile feat,
as any wife can tell you.
We often offer chances to learn about the Lake Superior
wildlife community. Stories in this issue about four “most wanted”
birds and about growing hostas will help. This year, too, I’m linking
frog and bird calls to names like gray tree frog, eastern king bird and
common tern, in helping with a Great Lakes marsh survey. The new
knowledge gives me more than something with which I might again impress
Bob (though I will jump at the chance to do that). These names are
overdue introductions to my neighbors, the croaks and chirps that
punctuated my growing up. I must say that I am happy - finally - to
make their acquaintance.
Konnie LeMay
Editor
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