The Delightful Horror of Family Birding. Eli J. Knapp

risks, I’ve realized, are greatly influenced by perception. We may not perceive the risk of riding in a car because we do it so much, but it’s still far riskier than walking in the woods. Everything I do with my son carries risk: taking him to the playground, teaching him to ride a bike, jumping on a trampoline. Even bringing him into the world was a risk. If you focus on all the things that can go wrong in these normal, everyday activities, it’s pretty scary. The flipside, however—incapacitating fear—is far scarier. In the context of healthy, long-term development and self-confidence, what’s the best road to take?

      An opportune time to follow up with Emily finally came during ornithology class. We had gone on several field trips and studied lots of different birds. Emily had birded like all the others, and the fear she expressed on the first day had hardly seemed paralyzing. On the way home from a local wetland, Emily was sitting shotgun. “So, Emily,” I asked as nonchalantly as I could, “why are you scared of birds?”

      “I’m not really sure,” she answered, looking out her window.

      “Did you have a bad experience? Was it too many Hitchcock movies?”

      Silence. Emily’s hesitation made me fear (a learned fear, of course) I’d overstepped.

      After a long pause, she said, “I can’t remember, but I’m sure it was irrational. All I know is that it started when I was little.” She again fell silent, then turned to me with a wry smile. “By the way, I’m not scared of birds anymore.”

      I hoped it was true. Emily’s lack of exposure to the animal world, like my brother’s, was no fault of her own. Unfamiliarity had relegated her to the low road. But Emily was no dodo. Within a few weeks of going out in the field, she’d intentionally gotten to know some of the creatures she shares a planet with. Even better, she learned to call most of them by name. To get there, all she’d needed—all any of us need, really—is a decision to take the high road.

      Barred owl

      Strix varia

      2 • ONE SHORT OF A PARLIAMENT

      There was an old man who told me when I was a boy that I should look at words like beautiful stones. He said I should lift each one and look at it from all sides before I used it. Then I would respect it.

      —Kent Nerburn, Neither Wolf Nor Dog

      “That’s the third murder we’ve witnessed today!” I remark to seven-year-old Ezra, sitting in the front seat of the tandem kayak we’re paddling.

      “What?” Ezra asks. “What do you mean?” Of all the characteristics of kids, unbridled curiosity may be my favorite. I prey upon it. And now, I was doing exactly that.

      “You mean you didn’t see that murder?” Water droplets drip from my paddle and roll down my forearm. “Well, surely you had to hear it? Listen! You can still hear it!” Ezra swivels in his seat and catches my smirk.

      “You mean, the crows?” he asks quizzically.

      “Yeah. Did you know that a group of crows is called a ‘murder’?”

      “No.” Ezra swivels back in his seat and resumes paddling in a rare moment of thoughtful silence. He’s somewhat rankled. Like most seven-year-olds, he’d rather be teaching me than vice-versa. But his curiosity trumps all. I know what’s coming, and Ezra doesn’t let me down.

      “Why?”

      Despite my anticipation of the question, I have absolutely no idea. Much like a crow, I’m an inveterate scavenger. Only, I prefer to pick from the carcass of oddball natural history trivia. On one such foray, I’d stumbled upon the collective noun. Collective nouns are those that describe groupings of individuals. For people the collective pronouns, like “crew” or “party,” are kind of boring. For birds and animals, they’re anything but. How had I lived much of my life, I’d wondered on my day of discovery, without the nutrients of these nuggets? Like other collectors, I’d quickly amassed a precious horde. In my merriment, I neglected the more laborious work of figuring out why these monikers stuck.

      My son had exposed my ignorance. Now I’m the rankled one. Like most proud fathers, I can’t let him know that. So I play the ignoble card and deftly redirect the conversation.

      “Isn’t ‘murder’ such a cooler word than ‘flock’?” I remark. “And the word for a group of ravens is even cooler. It’s an ‘unkindness’!”

      “Why?” Ezra asks again. I try one last time to dodge.

      “But some group names are dumb. Do you see those killdeer on the rocks?” I point with my paddle.

      “Yeah.”

      “Well, a group of plovers like them is called a ‘congregation.’”

      “Why don’t you like that word, Dad?”

      “Because it’s too hard to say. Too many syllables.”

      “I don’t think it’s hard to say.” Ezra pronounces “congregation” aloud. He has a knack for exposing my double standards and duplicities.

      “Yeah, I guess not. I just don’t like it.”

      The cawing of the crows is replaced by the gentle sounds of our paddles in the calm water. We both fall silent, our thoughts expanding like the ripples from our bow. While Ezra likely dwells on the underwater whirlpools he creates with his paddle, I dredge the dumpster of other collective nouns I’d stuck in my mental scrapbook.

      The ones I liked best were the ones that seemed so apt, so descriptive of their species. Jays, for example, are strident birds. When their dander is up, they can awaken a sleeping forest, or a sleeping man in a forest, in milliseconds. The Steller’s jay, as my brother discovered in the redwoods of California, is the worst offender. So the collective noun—a “scold” of jays—is apropos. The same logic applies for several other species. Anybody who has watched hundreds of starlings suddenly descend upon a lawn in fall and heard the monotone cacophony that results will agree that a “murmuration” of starlings is ideal. As for ravens, an “unkindness” suits their dark and brooding demeanor. More lighthearted is the name for a group of ring-necked pheasants. Although it’s only happened once, I’ll never forget the sea of colors when a family of pheasants exploded from a hedgerow in front of me. It was indeed a “bouquet” of pheasants, a term that must have arisen from an artistically minded naturalist. Or perhaps a love-struck hunter on his way home to his damsel.

      Other collective nouns are special for the sheer winsome joy they create. Sure, a flock of goldfinches is fine. But goldfinches, especially when they adorn my coneflowers like Christmas ornaments in late summer, deserve more than that. So yes, I call them a “charm.” The same goes for larks. When meadowlarks alight from a flowery field, they are far more than a flock. They truly are an “exultation” of larks. And when I someday see a group of eagles soaring in the sky, I’m sure I’ll agree that they’re a “convocation” indeed.

      I’ve collected other collective nouns too. But these I’d like to purge. They clutter my mind like mental tchotchkes. Like a “congregation” of plovers (which should be a “panic,” mind you), these nouns remain on the shelves of my mind, gathering dust. Some simply need to be reversed. Everybody knows that a “descent” of woodpeckers should actually be an “ascent,” for woodpeckers only go up tree trunks, not down. Descent, while rich and descriptive, should be reserved for the devil down-heads—the nuthatches.

      Some need to be jettisoned altogether. Bobolinks live in open fields. They migrate thousands of miles between the Americas, and their otherworldly song is unfettered and free. A “chain” of bobolinks doesn’t fit. Chains and imperialism should be reserved for the house sparrows that have usurped lands from many natives. And while I’m at it, how about a “siege” of herons? Get serious. Most herons are downright stoics, far more content to watch than lay siege. Yes, they suddenly