It was 1962. I was eight years old. One slightly moist spring afternoon (it had just rained) I was bored. No friends to play with. The Foit twins next door were unavailable. As I often did in such circumstances I went out back in our suburban Columbus (Whitehall) woodlot to play Tarzan or engage in some similar boyhood fantasy. I liked to climb trees, and back there we had plenty of them.
I was stabbing at the ground with a sharpened stick, probably spearing the remnants of a rotten log, acting out a primal hunter role. I remember I was standing next to the huge red oak in the center of the “woods.” I distinctly remember the moment.
A hooded warbler flitted out and perched within eight feet of me. I stood spellbound by the sudden spectacle, frozen in wonder. This was my introduction to spring migration. I already liked to draw cardinals, easily the most spectacular bird I saw regularly. My mother nurtured this interest in nature and bought a feeder so we had plenty of birds to watch.
After the encounter with the hooded warbler I ran inside to tell her about it. I described it in exotic detail. She remarked that maybe it was an “escaped canary.” That didn’t seem right to me, since I knew what canaries looked like. At my next opportunity at the local branch library I looked it up, showed it to Mom, and learned there were many more warblers to watch for. The rest of that spring, and every spring since, I have been on the lookout.
This morning on our farm in Muskingum County, up the east bank of the deepest ravine, a hooded warbler popped out, and it all came back to me, as it does every year when the hooded warbler returns.
I am delighted that they actually nest here!
Full circle, fifty years…
Bob Evans is a geologist who lives on a farm — or maybe a slice of paradise — in Muskingham County.