
The Eye of the Beholder
We went to the Young Forest presentation last night, our other back-to-the-land neighbors and us. Along with the Forestry people in their green, and some in flac jackets and guns, we sat by a forest lover, a set of horseback riders, some windmill opponents, some turkey hunters, and us. Deer weren’t mentioned. Which is kind of surprising, because the chances are good that everyone (besides us that is) has a deer in their freezer in the form of steaks, chops, ground venison and stew meat.
You might ask what a young forest is. We with our overpowering ambition for a climax growth woods, with our memories of old growth forests, with our Robin Hood and Maid Marion definitions of beautiful woods, don’t see the forest the way say a woodcock does. “Fine to hang out in,” the woodcock might mutter, “but what are you going to eat?” Turns out they like young forest. The forest when it is leaving field status and moving to brush. “Ahh, the woodcock says, “Give me that scratchy beard look, that needs a razor look.” The downed tree, the stubble, all great for woodcock, for songbirds.
Growing up in Forestville, I could just walk out the back door, cross the fields and reach the woods. That was nothing special for Forestville. Most everybody could. No back door neighbors. Fields, vineyards, pastures, woods all make for sedate non gossiping back yard companions. For me at least. So one day I got up at dawn. It was early spring. The leaves of the old willow, the Favorite Tree, were just beginning, providing a green haze in their canopy. Or was wistful thinking coloring the branches? I looked out from the edge of the willow to the ground nearby. It had been a corn field, then a tomato field, and then Dad had stopped renting it out.
Dad had looked at that field, at the barn, at us, and seen something he didn’t let on. A pasture. Horses. Girls on horses. Manure. Chores. He walked home one day, big pony in tow. The story was, according to him, that a client had run out of money and paid him in pony. The story was, according to someone else, that Dad won the pony in a poker game. At any rate, down the street came Jimmy trotting behind Dad. We bought the accidental pony story, never questioned it. We didn’t question the fact that the stall was ready, the barn door was working, and the tomato field was now pasture.
Jimmy wasn’t in residence that early morning I stood by what looked like waste ground to me, untended. But the birds were. Songbirds in and out of the branches. Songbirds lighting and singing. Songbirds warbling on my shoulder. No songbird perched on my finger, though I held it out, Snow White style. But all around, singing.
I thought it was the spring. I thought it was the willow. I thought it was a miracle. But it was the scrubby beginnings of young forest, the perfect habitat for songbirds, for woodcock, for grouse, for turkey, for deer. That day, I was seeing, touching, hearing a miracle of new habitat, new home, new belonging for hundreds of animals. It was a miracle. I just didn’t understand what kind.
The plan for the Canadaway Creek Wildlife Management Area is now to create and maintain 10% in young forest, cutting trees as needed, brushcutting as necessary. Up till last night I thought this work looked pretty darn ugly. But now, I think I can just begin seeing from the songbird’s perspective.