What's in a Name?
The atmosphere never appears more transparent than on a bright, dry, winter's day. Saturday was such, and not so cold as has lately been our lot. Aside from fallen twigs, storm damage was not much in evidence. By Sunday night another messy precip mix was straddling the freezing line, but warmer temperatures are in the offing, so the question now is how long will our snow blanket last? An icy crust has developed over the fluffy snow beneath, protecting it from wind driven evaporation, but only shadowed hollows can resist sunny days in the 40s, which may be on the way. January is typically our coldest month, and now it’s over. Of course, conditions at ground level can differ greatly from the officially reported air temperature, and forecasts are notoriously inaccurate, so we’ll wait for the expert’s prediction on the 2nd.Cold or not, the birds keep busy. There was a great deal of avian activity. Spring molts seem to be in progress already. House Sparrows were courting, the male showing a full black bib, not just the winter chin spot. Many were taking the opportunity to bathe; I guess it was warm enough, though they didn't look very comfortable as they fluffed and fidgeted to dry out. A Flicker bathing in the Loch nearby looked as if it had been freshly painted. Most birds have two full-scale molts a year. Some species, particularly migratory ones, completely change their appearance between spring and fall forms. Others, like the Flicker, simply renew their plumage, but the feathers actually do wear down over time, so a newly molted bird can appear much brighter or sharply defined than it will late in the season.
The Flicker (that is, the Northern Flicker, Yellow-shafted race) is one of five woodpeckers commonly seen in the Park. Unlike its relatives, it prefers to eat ants off the ground, but at this time of year, it must resort to more traditional woodpeckering behavior. In the summer, Flickers flock, and are quite numerous, but in the winter the classic woodpeckers predominate. These are the Downy, Hairy, and Red-bellied Woodpeckers, and the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. All are patterned in black and white, with at least one red accent, though only males show red among the Downys and Hairys.
It's the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker I'm interested in at the moment. This has to be one of the most strikingly named birds going. It's a mouthful, and the conjunction of an epithet for cowardice with an alliterative compound of two words with negative connotations invites ridicule. This name, or some preposterous parody, is often used in lampoons of bird watchers and the complex taxonomies they must employ. On this occasion, I was privileged to see an adult male literalizing the name; sucking the sap that ran from a row of holes, (drilled earlier), in a Norway Maple on the edge of the Ramble. The flow was profuse, and likely to summon a side dish of insects to delight his bushy tongue. Yum.
The yellow belly, however, was not in evidence. That's because one rarely sees the underside of this bird. The name, as with most North American birds, goes back to colonial times, and naturalists with a bird in hand, i.e. a dead specimen. They often picked out distinguishing features that are rarely visible to observers in the field. It's the same with the Red-bellied Woodpecker: you'll thrill to it's bright red nape, but search in vain for other ruddy spots.
Accuracy aside, names are a necessity. As such, they are imposed upon us, and we always, to some degree, resent them. The New Age community displays a nostalgia for the Traditional practice of earning one’s true name in the course of life, the birth name being merely provisional, but you may name yourself in vain; none will satisfy.
Names are a requirement of a Fallen Creation. To share the Name of God is our innate desire, and to forget our own. In moments of ecstasy we receive a model of this state, and lose ourselves; to love, to music, drugs, or food...birds, even. Whatever deep involvement it may be, it draws us in, compelling all attention, obliterating time, until we hear again, as it were, a voice that speaks our name, returning us to the World. On the way back, we feel obliged to mark where we have been, leaving behind a trail of names, that winds its way through a maze of namelessness.
That is to say, when first confronted with a scene, like the Park, we find an indiscriminate field of ignorance, which we proceed to parse. Each name applied takes us a step along the trail, and throws what we don’t know into sharper relief. If we could learn the names of everything, would it dispel the mystery of being, or teach us the one Name that would contain them all?
I do not know, but I appreciate all the help I can get, not least from a bird that teaches its own name.
return to: Mr. Wilson's Arboretum
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