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I‘m an amateur birder. I’m enthralled with the exotic beauty of the bird world; so close everyday and yet without quiet observation, this world goes unnoticed and unobserved. Each bird is a graceful and perfect form from any angle and in every action. Each variety with its specific markings and coloration not only make them identifiable but a study in exquisite design.

I inherited a passion for the bird world from my mother. She was an avid “bird watcher” and as a child we spent many Sunday afternoons out in the country where Mother would search out and identify the various birds along our way. She identified many of them first by their song or their call before we even saw them. These adventures out in the country were foundational to my love and passion for the outdoors and for the joy I find in all nature’s resplendent beauty.

Mother grew up on a farm on the plains of Nebraska in the early 1900’s. Her world was a world without machines or cars and out in the country it was a very quiet place with only the sound of the wind and the song of the birds. Mother not only learned all the names of the plentiful birds of the plains, but also their calls and songs of which she could reproduce very authentically. She whistled, sang and spoke lilting words that closely resembled their sounds. It was intoxicating to listen to her. It was a sweet and unique gift that Mother had and one that I didn’t inherit, although as a child I made many feeble attempts. I am satisfied with the privilege of listening to their beautiful songs, seeing their beautiful forms and movements, learning more and more about the incredible variety of nest shapes, materials and construction methods and each bird’s distinctive egg in shape, pattern and color. The learning curve is endless.

Mother was in her early thirties in the photograph that I have included in this entry. The two sepia photographs of a winter landscapes of the farmhouse where Mother grew up were taken some time in the early 20th century. I don’t have a date and can only surmise from the buggy in the driveway and the height of the trees surrounding the house that perhaps it was sometime in the early twenties. During my childhood the trees were mature and huge. These hedgerows of trees were commonly planted to protect the homes from the brutally cold north winds that swept across the flat plains.

Here you could see the sun rise and the sun set in the wide open country of the Great Plains.