The Lost Song of the Whip-Poor-Will

 

 

This essay was published in the June 15, 2018 issue of VTDigger

 On many a summer evening, back in the 1960s and ‘70s, in the heart of Perry County, Pennsylvania, my family and I were serenaded by the whip-poor-will.  Its song is incessant, and haunting, with a mysterious allure that was deepened by my inability, despite many attempts, to ever lay eyes on the reclusive bird. Even when creeping through underbrush within a few feet of the caller’s lair, gloaming’s dim light and the whip-poor-will’s camouflage confounded my efforts every time.  Perry was the only Pennsylvania county so rural that it was, back then, devoid of stop light or parking meter and nature was at hand all around us. Brooding on those nights evokes another, seemingly unrelated, memory:  That of a massive number of bugs reflected in the headlights as we made nocturnal drives between our Shermansdale farm  and our home forty minutes southeast in Camp Hill.  Evidence of this phenomenon was revealed in  the form of  bug carcasses, so abundant and adherent that they needed to be washed from windshield and headlights the next day.  

I no longer witness insect swarms so profuse and dense, and it has been years since I've heard a whip-poor-will.  Is there a link between those two paucities?   In northern Vermont, at the time of this writing, we are at peak bird migration season and I foray into our woods and meadows most mornings and evenings to see what's flittering about. The songbirds are in full throat, the warbler show is on, ducks and geese grace the river, woodpeckers tap out their secret messages, and partridge drum from fallen logs.  But what strikes me, and you may think it incongruous following the previous sentence, is how many birds there aren't!  Quite simply, there are significantly fewer birds about now, compared to when I was a boy half a century back. As much as I try to rationalize this thought as the skewed memories of an old man, like the legendary snow-laden winters of yore, I just can't deny that bird numbers are down.  Way down.   

My suspicions have been verified by others. Books like The Moth Snowstorm (Michael McCarthy), Bringing Nature Home (Douglas Tallamy), and Last Child In The Woods (Richard Louv) all make the same contention, and they cite the data to back it up. Pesticides, climate change, habitat fragmentation, intensive agricultural practices, among other factors, have conspired to remove the world of nature from the lives of humans. 

In the last half century we have mounted a major assault on nature.  Homeowners opt for lawns and gardens that provide comfort without the bother of creepy-crawly, flying things. We eradicated native plants from our surroundings in favor of exotic flora that require little upkeep and about which our insects know nothing – neither how to consume them for nutrients nor how to utilize them to raise young.  Exterminators eradicate every living creature around the home. The result of our offensive has been the depletion of native plants and bugs that once provided the infrastructure upon which our birds and bigger beasts rely to thrive.  

Another factor in human/nature discord - subtle, insidious, and pervasive – is that we have simply lost interest. Academic institutions, where nature’s advocates were once spawned, have largely discarded the pursuit of organismal biology in favor of research focused at the cellular or molecular levels.  Young scholars are more likely to peer at data sets on computer screens than tramp through bogs and meadows. And, speaking of computers, these marvelous devices that could help us delve into the universe more deeply and intimately than was ever possible, have enticed our youth to abandon the real world of the outdoors for darkened rooms and digital slaughter.  Can our children identify in the least with Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher?  They build virtual empires and kill monsters in video games, but have they ever watched the goings-on of an ant hill or a spider construct a web?  Do they ever contemplate building a raft or a tree house?  Have you heard of any child recently who spent a day exploring fields, looking under rocks, wading creeks, and climbing trees beyond the protective eyes of parental supervision?  The parents of a child who returns home some evening with torn pants, skinned knees, a bloody lip, and stories of cow-itch, sunfish, and a snake that eluded capture would be deemed negligent and possibly reported to social services. Those whose kid spends the day indoors shooting virtual beings on their video device are considered caring and responsible. 

So I raise a question that I have pondered lately – what sort of world do we want?  The price of “plastic” yards, bug-less comfort, and risk-free childhoods has been life replete with anxiety, punctuated by school shootings and opioids, and lacking in bird song.  Do me a favor – close your eyes and imagine for me one moment – a sultry, summer night, the sky is brilliant with stars, the scent of lilacs arrives on a light breeze.  Crickets chime and, close by, a repeated, whistling refrain: “whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will” … Oh, but there's a nagging mosquito in your ear.