Wild Initiation: Wild things through a child鈥檚 eyes renew wonder
We are blessed to enjoy our young granddaughter at home with us often. She plays with her dolls, puzzles, and coloring books, but a more novel diversion around here commands her attention too. She鈥檚 at an age when the diverse wildlife we see incites her to throw down a toy and flatten her nose at the window, her breath frosting the pane and a cute smudge left to remind us of the moment.
Squirrels entertain her the most. It鈥檚 no wonder. Their droll acrobatics let them shinny along skinny branches, descend slippery wires, and scale poles to munch and scatter the sunflower seeds the little one and I put out for birds.
She might be sprawled on the floor above her coloring book, then she鈥檒l rise to check the birdfeeder through the window across the room.
鈥淧appy. There鈥檚 a squirrel,鈥� she squeals. 鈥淗e鈥檚 eating the birds鈥� seeds again. Why doesn鈥檛 he eat the corn he鈥檚 supposed to eat?鈥�
Good question, but I鈥檓 not sure she understands my explanation that these gray squirrels are crafty enough to pirate the birdseed first, because they can. After they鈥檝e strewn and eaten it all, they concede to gnaw the corncob we intended for them. Except for blue jays, winter songbirds rarely pick at the corn, so the squirrels feast there last.
It鈥檚 interesting that she鈥檚 thrilled least by the critters that excite me the most鈥揹eer. We don鈥檛 feed deer, but they sometimes loiter around to ravage our rhododendrons when the snow is deep. Given my granddaughter鈥檚 tender age, and her affinity for storybooks, I think it鈥檚 the squirrels鈥� big eyes, stubby ears, and furry pelts that make a hit with her.
Hard knowledge about these rodents can come later. It鈥檚 the early attraction that counts. It鈥檚 heartwarming to hear her expound on the smaller, rusty-brown red squirrels that often intrude on the gray squirrels鈥� meals.
鈥淭here鈥檚 a baby,鈥� she鈥檒l happily shriek. 鈥淗e wants to eat with his mommy.鈥� She鈥檚 referring to the red squirrel as offspring here, and a gray squirrel as parent. That鈥檚 way off, but I see no reason, now, to deflate her happy perception with a sober report that the smaller squirrel is simply a different species and it will never, as long as it lives, attain the larger bulk of its gray squirrel cousin. Plenty of time for that after native curiosity plants seeds of interest in nature.
Squirrels don鈥檛 know this, but they are helping her learn to count. This morning, seven squirrels cavorted about the backyard, raiding the feeder, tussling over the hanging corncob, and chasing through the hemlocks. The facts about that squirrel-chasing can come much later. Late-winter is courtship time for gray squirrels, and those were males pursuing a female through the treetops. Maybe I鈥檒l let Nana handle that one someday.
鈥淥ne, two, three, four鈥� she stated with confidence, counting those squirrels. Then, she stopped, looked my way and asked, 鈥淲hat comes after four, Pappy?鈥�
Wild turkeys make an impression too, though she can鈥檛 see them as cuddly, like the squirrels. A flock ambles along almost every day, but they only get the dropped corn kernels, which are few because squirrel paws are dexterous instruments.
Her developing skill at seeing things outdoors impresses all of us. If we鈥檙e eating supper by the window, where her chair faces outside, she鈥檒l often cry out, pointing, 鈥淭urkeys, up in the woods.鈥�
At her prompt, we鈥檒l look outside, and the flock might be still distant, just beginning to filter into view through the trees, a sight many adults would never detect. Maybe she鈥檒l sit next to me against a big oak someday and be my eyes on a turkey hunt. It鈥檚 a warm thought to tuck away for a while.
She knows that watching turkeys demands more stealth than squirrels. When they鈥檙e near the bedroom window, which extends to the floor, she knows not to run or make noise. She creeps up from the side, then eases her eyes around the sill, like a seasoned woodsman, and watches them peck at the ground.
Counting the turkeys is well beyond her capacity, but she tries. This morning they streamed by the window, maybe 30, and she counted them fast as she could. It鈥檚 impossible to conceal a chuckle when she jumbles the teens: 鈥渢hirteen, sixteen, nineteen, fourteen鈥�.鈥�
One of the best parts of all this, for me, is that when she sees these animals depicted in a book or cartoon, she has already known them as real and natural creatures. This pleases and humbles me. I hope it lasts, and I鈥檒l do all I can to help it stick.
Ben Moyer is a member of the Pennsylvania Outdoor Writers Association and the Outdoor Writers Association of America.