Рита Браун - Animal Magnetism

“Yes, ma’am.” I noticed a lady in a ratty fur coat urinating against the side of a building. “Look, that lady is peeing standing up.”

The square after nine at night had a certain amount of demimonde traffic, which is putting it nicely.

“Don’t look!” Aunt Mimi cried, too late.

“How can she do that?” I was completely fascinated, wondering if there was a trick I’d missed in learning to relieve myself.

“She is a he.” Mother started to laugh.

“Juts, will you shut up?” Aunt Mimi started to laugh, too.

“If that person hadn’t been going to the bathroom how would you know?”

Mother let out peals of laughter. “The coat, honey, the coat. No real woman would be caught dead in that tatty thing.”

“And the makeup.” Aunt Mimi now warmed to the subject. “Ladies of quality don’t paint their faces, and when men do it, they always overdo. Always overdo the accessories, too.”

“Now, Sis, we use lipstick and a hint of rouge.”

“Lipstick.” She refused to admit to rouge.

“When in trouble, buy new lipstick.” Mother turned to face me in the backseat. “Remember that, kid. Might save you some day.”

“Why would that man dress like a woman?” I wasn’t giving up.

“Envy.” Mother giggled.

A silence from the driver was finally broken. “You know, Juts, you’ve got a point there. Why else?”

“We get to wear silks and furs and pretty colors. What do they get? Blue, brown, gray, black. I’d perish from visual boredom. And let’s not forget hats, gloves, purses, shoes in all different colors. What do they get? One wallet. It’s better to be a woman.”

They started a review of their women friends’ clothing, color palettes, and house décor. I listened for a time but my mind flitted back to owls and other birds.

Some species change coat with the seasons, but no other animals flash about like birds. Who can forget the sight of a male cardinal in the snow? An iridescent indigo bunting darting out in front of you? Apart from the brightly colored birds there are the ones who blend in, like woodcocks. Even a turkey, fantail folded, can take a moment to discern because of the coloring. When the male unfolds his tail, it’s impressive, for they are big birds with incredible eyesight. Even if you’re in camouflage, still as a mouse, move your eyes and a turkey will see the whites and fly off. Anyone who can bag a turkey has my utmost respect.

Bird plumage never goes out of fashion. Mother’s and Aunt Mimi’s laughter about the transvestite’s tatty coat told me I’d better make the right choices about my plumage. Mother didn’t expect me to wear a tiara while driving the tractor, but she pounded into me the importance of dressing for the occasion. I used to do it but it’s gotten too expensive. And one time about twenty years ago, a media escort said to me at a signing, “Do you want to look richer than your readers?”

Actually, I’d like to look a little dressed up, but the ordeals of air travel have made it all but impossible.

Bird displays send signals and so do our clothes. Even in this informal and sloppy age, clothes still make the man, and the woman. Aunt Mimi’s dog always wore his tuxedo. Someday I think I’ll show up at a formal event with a Boston Terrier and I’ll wear a tuxedo, too. You’ll recognize me because I’ll be the one in heels.

Mother gave me her love of horses and nature. In the foreground is an old retiree, in the background is Gunsmoke, a Thoroughbred. Photo by Danielle A. Durkin .

Mother’s Gift of Nature

S o many different kinds of owls lived near us or in the old outbuildings. We had barn owls, screech owls, the Great Horned Owl, and one hard winter we even had a white owl, the most beautiful bird I’d ever seen. I’ve never seen another one in these parts. That was in 1953.

If I was quiet in the winter, I was allowed to stay up and read late. In the summers, Mother allowed me to stay outside late. I’d listen to the owls talk. If they were angry or giving warning, the noise was harsh, hard on human ears. They’d coo and cackle happily, too. The mating calls were pretty, especially those of the Great Horned. I loved to listen to them answer one another.

People who aren’t close to animals explain their behavior in utilitarian terms. I believe most of the higher vertebrates are capable of joy. Sometimes, hearing the owls, I felt they burbled, gurgled, and sang for the joy of being alive. This is especially obvious with songbirds such as cardinals.

When I was in school we were taught that the females are capable of singing, but only the males do it. This isn’t true. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, the male may start a song, but then the female comes in and they sing a duet so finely tuned it sounds like one bird. The song is clear with distant cadence, long notes, short notes in predicable progression. It’s an easy song for a human to whistle.

Their eyesight is so superior to ours, we can’t imagine it, just like we can’t imagine how fast a fox processes information. Birds fly high, diving down to grab a mouse or a fish. Not the seed eaters but the flesh eaters. They fold their wings next to their bodies and dive. The waterbirds go straight into the water. The ground birds open their wings at the last moment and grab their prey feet first.

Owls have soft feathers. They fly silently. No rustle. A blackbird has noisy feathers. You can hear them overhead.

One crisp night in early winter I asked my mother, “How many owls do you know?”

“Ha. More than you. Put your coat on.”

We bundled up. It was way past my bedtime but Mother could be flexible. I had to keep Mickey and Chaps inside. She said they’d spoil it.

We walked outside. The ground was hard with heavy frost. A stone bench was planted under a huge old hickory. We sat down. Soon enough we heard the owls calling to one another. Mother, a keen birder, identified the various notes. Some were “You’re in my territory” calls. Others were a simple “Hi.” A few registered complaints, loud and clear. Due to the cold, there were no insects. The only sounds were owls calling, the occasional bleat of a cow, and the rustling of a nocturnal creature. There weren’t as many deer back then so I heard none. The deer are easy to identify by sound.

I often recall that bright, cold night when Mother eagerly shared her love of nature. She taught me to recognize many birdcalls. I might know fifty, sixty at most. I still have trouble sorting out the different warbler calls, but most birdcalls are very clear once you memorize them. A goldfinch or indigo bunting sounds nothing like a bluejay. There are some variations, though, in, say, a thrush. They express some individuality.

Bluejays can mimic, just like catbirds and mockingbirds. What fun to hear them. The bluejays in particular can be creative. They’ll swoop near a bird feeder and sound like a ferocious predator bird. This scatters the little birds. Then down they pop to eat up everything. One spring day, Mother, on that same bench, whistled various tunes to a mockingbird, who reproduced them exactly.

Why? Does it matter? I am weary of people needing reasons. What mattered was that the mockingbird delighted Mother, myself, and apparently itself.

“Birds tell you the weather,” Mother told me. “You know the birds that leave for winter. If they leave early, it will be an early winter. But all birds can tell you when storms are coming. They hop around and talk a lot way before the storm hits. Eat what they can. Then all of a sudden they’re in their nests and cubbyholes. When it’s quiet like that, won’t be long.”

As the decades have rolled on, I’ve continued to study birds. I’m hardly an expert. For one thing, my study often focuses on hunting. When I hunt my foxhounds, the birds are invaluable to me. If the goldfinches fill the bushes, along with other small birds, I know my fox has not passed by in the last fifteen minutes. If they’re up in the trees and chattering, then they’ve been disturbed. Now, it may not be the fox that disturbed them, but something has, and I’d best be alert.