Home Is...?

I recently posted on social media the assertion that “Home is not a place, it’s a time,” adding “That is why you can’t go home again.” The responses, few that there were, suggested more intangible definitions, such as “a feeling,” and “a memory.” Someone said “….a smell, a taste….” It may be complicated, but I detest the romanticism associated with the idea of home. I am a slow nomad.

In the traditional sense, geographically and temporally, my first home was Portland, Oregon, in the nineteen sixties through the mid-1980s. If this evokes your idea of paradise, then good for you. My reality was that of an only child with two parents who frequently fought verbally, and occasional property damage by my father. I also remember seemingly lifeless coniferous forests under overcast skies, and rain. Home was a place where I lived against my will.

Work eventually took me to Cincinnati, Ohio. I remember storms, one of which flooded my apartment. I recall the self-inflicted trauma of being fired, or asked to resign, by multiple employers because I was never properly socialized. Cincinnati was the home where I confronted my tumultuous childhood, and curbed my drinking.

From Cincinnati, I took a job in rural southern Missouri. The employer downsized eight months after I got there. I decided that my being there, however briefly, was less about the work of fabricating exhibits for museums and nature centers, and more about gently suggesting to my coworkers that they use something in addition to religion to craft the fabric of their lives.

On a whim I moved to Tucson, Arizona. I bottomed out financially, and it took five years, in my forties, to establish quality friendships. Ultimately, a temp assignment turned into something permanent, mere blocks from my apartment; and I got my first book-writing opportunity. The office eventually closed, but by then I had met my partner, Heidi.

Moving to Colorado Springs to be with her felt more like home than prior locations. I got the benefit of instant friends from her workplace at the zoo, and found additional friends through other networks.

Heidi retired from the zoo after 26 years, but she probably should have done so sooner. Keeper work takes a toll on the body. Meanwhile, the rising cost of living in the Springs meant we could not afford a home in a better neighborhood. I agreed to her suggestion that we move to Leavenworth, Kansas, her childhood hometown, where her parents still reside.

Four years on, and I still have no friends that I see regularly, aside from the in-laws. I assume everyone here is a Republican cult member unless proven otherwise. I want my old friends back. Leavenworth demographics skew heavily to the White, geriatric end of the spectrum. The town does have young people, but no collective energy. Leavenworth is prisons, the military (Ft. Leavenworth), and churches. At least we have a house we own free and clear, and a couple of yards.

What is the overall theme here, then? Misery? Trauma? Isolation? Mere dissatisfaction? I abhor sentimentality attached to the idea of home. Nostalgia can screw itself. Portland was not a bad place to be at the time I lived there. Today, the traffic is worse than Los Angeles. Before I left for Tucson, a coworker told me that he lived there in the 1980s and loved it. In the early 2000s, I did not. Timing is everything, and the idea of place cannot divorce itself from that. A place does not stay stagnant, locked in some kind of Neverland. It grows up, and is usually the worse for it. Colorado Springs continues to sprawl because the powerful and wealthy insist that the high prairie I love is worthless until somebody can profit by putting in a subdivision or an industrial park.

I think, for me, home has been a series of gratifying, if not occasionally euphoric, punctuations in an otherwise unsatisfying existence. The places I have the fondest memories of were fleeting destinations, experienced over weeks or weekends, with friends of the highest order. I can sometimes put myself mentally back in those places; or on a beach in the Caribbean that I’ve invented in my mind, listening to calypso or jazz fusion, and drifting off to sleep.

The Geometry of Luck

Birding and wildlife observation in the digital age means that our experiences in nature are defined more than ever by GPS (Global Positioning System) coordinates, maps, and other geography-based intelligence. The wildcard is always time. Your personal success or failure, if you frame it that way, will always come down to the matter of "when."

Immature Golden Eagle

The old philosophical question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound if no one is around to hear it is an apt comparison. Had no one seen the Rufous-necked Wood-rail at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge back in July, 2013, had the bird really been there at all? Were it not for video evidence, and personal experience, professional ornithologists would no doubt still be skeptical.

These days, sightings of rare birds, stray migrants, and aberrant color forms seem to cross social media intersections monthly, if not weekly. Our historical perceptions have suffered from too few data points, it appears, and too few observers in too few places. Today, the likelihood of a birder intersecting something spectacular is greater than ever. Thanks to instant communication, that birder can also greatly increase the likelihood that other birders will have the same exciting encounter, provided they get there in time. However, the odds of the flight path of a Golden Eagle crossing my vehicle's path on my way to look for Mountain Plovers is still infinitesimal.

"Everyone" has been seeing that wayward Varied Thrush. Right here. How could I have missed it? Then again, I hadn't seen Bill and Ashley in about two years....and I got to meet Jeff in person for the first time. Maybe that is why I was supposed to be here, right now, without any birdy distractions. Sometimes, your interpretation of a situation makes all the difference.

Varied Thrush

The frequency with which you are out observing, or even attuned to possibilities of witnessing nature, the greater the chance of memorable encounters. Storm chasers know this better than anyone else, and they also accept defeat more readily than most of us even aspire to. Few of us commit to regular outings. We have jobs, family obligations, and fuel costs to consider, among other variables that directly or indirectly conflict with birding and wildlife watching.

Opportunities still abound. We recruit other members of the carpool to birding. We can bird ourselves during our commute, during lunch. When you least expect it, you may notice birds and other animals in the midst of major, unrelated events. I recall attending a Cincinnati Reds game when the team was still playing in Riverfront Stadium. Admittedly, I am not much of a base ball fan, but I enjoy the atmosphere and people-watching. I happened to glance up at the same time that a sleek bird swooped into the arena, alighting on the foul pole. It was a Peregrine Falcon. At the precise instant I was attempting to draw my seatmate's attention to the bird, Barry Larkin belted a home run. As the ball departed the outfield, fireworks were detonated, launching the falcon on its own departing trajectory.

Even people normally unmoved by birds can have unique and thrilling experiences. A video that went viral in April of 2017 was shared by a businessman who was joined on his Chicago commute by a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker that clung to his window as he drove to work. He dutifully pointed out the major attractions to his feathered friend along the way. Eventually, the bird ends up inside the car, on the man's collar or shoulder. "I think he's a woodpecker" the man utters matter-of-factly as the video concludes. There is little doubt the bird was injured and disoriented, and may or may not have survived, but in a matter of minutes it had left an indelible impression on thousands of humans.

Mountain Plover

Is it mere coincidence that the specifics of latitude and longitude are measured in minutes and seconds? That recognition of time is telling. Where you are is made important to you by when you are. The intersection of Kingbird Highway and Bluebird Lane is where crisscrossing vectors meet improbability on the axis of time. Birding is ultimately the geometry of luck. Take your chances, as many as you can.