Audubon Daydreams

My first nature and artistry loves were birds. Horses were a passion of mine, too, as any little girl will tell you, but the aviary world held a particular charm for me. Birds were beautiful, colorful, delicate, and wild, with the added wonder of wings. How I envied them their ability to soar, and their freedom to take flight.

Even when I was a preschooler I paid special attention to the seagulls winging there way above the beach on the California coast, the white pigeons that rudely dropped birdy bombs on me at the Hawaiian zoo, the stately New England turkey called Emma, and the sweet, tiny sparrow that my Mom raised by hand with a straw and a box of Muesli cereal. When my Dad went on a business trip to California that winter, he returned with a pair of beautiful cloth macaws that balanced on a wooden perch held up by a triangle of string, and that had wings that could flap. My sister received the red macaw and I and blue one that I think I named Martha. Birds were just interesting creatures.

A new year had begun at our New England manor. The abundance of cheer that had come with a houseful of cousins, aunts, uncles, and family for the holidays had faded out with the onset of deep winter and a return to the projects of every day life. Mom and Dad were in the thick of trying to keep an old rickety mansion warm, two little girls contained, and unravel the bedlam of our transplanted California things in the midst of stacks of Victorian furniture, all while beginning the work of house restoration in earnest.

Outside it was cold and bleak, everything in shades of white and gray and black even when the sun was shining. It was beautiful, but not conducive to renovation projects such as roofs, shingles, and rickety window shutters. The team they had assembled included a number of carpenters and friends in the new England area, as well as others who soon became part of the family as well. Two uncles, a couple of old friends, and a few others came and went as they set to work with a will despite the snow and the deep winter cold. There were windows and balconies galore, and they crept about on ledges and on ladders as they made progress on replacing windows and shutters and various other outer house repairs. Inside they worked plumbing and heating, flooring and wiring, and all the things that might be done to make the future guest rooms comfortable and address the herculean task of adding a dozen bathrooms for the use of future guests.

As a little girl not yet fully initiated into first grade, a was a little adrift in all the bustle. With all the moving and renovating, we were taking a little break on the school front, and my little sister kept my Mom busy at all times even when she wasn’t directly involved in working on rooms in the house. Whether I was underfoot or not I don’t recall, but happily for me I really didn’t mind being left to myself. My imagination kept me company, and other than my parents and my sister, my inner world tended to trump whatever was going on in the outer one. And in this enormous new house there was more to explore in one place than I had ever imagined.

I wasn’t allowed everywhere on my own, but the Great Hall on the ground floor was the first set of rooms that we entered from the living quarters side of the manor and within my everyday reach. It encompassed half of the entire first floor and some 2,000 square feet of wood floors, enormous, glistening windows, and two large fireplaces. And in that hall was where all extra furniture and boxes had been temporarily stored from both our move and all the old furniture pieces that came with the house, stacked together willy-nilly along the window side of the room.

It was like a furniture jungle to me, with ever so many paths beneath and between to discover. I crept under chairs, behind desks, over tables, and around boxes with 5-year-old excitement, seeking out the best places to hide and to play.

Our new kitties loved it, too, and being yearling rescues they were still pretty shy and prone to ducking into small places for safety. They would find a quiet, warm place to be cozy and unbothered by eager girls and relax for a nice hidden nap. Finding a soft kitty sleeping in the sun was always an added bonus to my trailblazing, and as long as I was calm, they didn’t seem to mind me too much.

When I tired of creeping and climbing, I loved to settle with my art collection in a spot of sunshine near one of the tables, just beside the windows that looked out on the wintry world. Avidly I watched the birds come and go beside the driveway: bright bits of beauty darting and swooping, pecking and calling in the gray outdoors. Bright blue jays and dark crows, crimson cardinals and cheery chickadees, and the seed-seeking antics of goldfinches drifting like sunshine between the stalks of dried grasses that lined the driveway.

I had plenty of colored pencils and crayons at hand, as children tend to have, but also a beautifully illustrated Audubon North American Field Guide for birds. I loved that little book and paged through it nearly cover to cover as I admired the many variations of birds in our North American sector and absorbed the details of each iteration of feather, color, beak, and wingspan. Within those pages I learned that the females were usually the more camouflaged of each species, and came across kinds that lived far from me: hawks, seagulls, owls, red-winged black birds, and the fascinating scarlet tanager.

Pencil in hand and illustrations in mind, I did my very best to commit their beauties to paper. The dark, bright eyes, triangular beaks, that special line that would just suit the beak-to-eye ratio, the slope of head to wings, the angle of the tail between wingtips, or the perfect balance between the feathered body and the wings outstretched. Colors and feathering and tiny curled claws. I paid so much attention to each individual birth that I felt like a true artist, and I can still feel the swoop beneath my fingers. I’m sure they ultimately came out as simply the colorful sketches of a five year old, but to me they were serious labors of beauty. I applied what I learned in those books to our Thanksgiving “Thankful Turkeys,” too, and spent a lot of time imagining how I was sketch and then carve wild ducks and birds when I was older; I was certain they would be something I could sell.

But for the moment, what I loved to do with my little bird drawings was to intricate cut them out and preserve them in a little box, carefully laid by for future perusal. I probably got this idea from watching the movie National Velvet, where a little box of paper horse and jockey drawings was brought out, and stories were told with each one. I drew horses for this same purpose, as they were also drawing obsessions of mine.

Making a little collection of drawings of my own brought me joy, and I was never at a loss for something to do in my jumbled furniture fort. It really was the perfect winter activity for an aspiring nature lover, and I am sure kept me out of trouble elsewhere in the bustling house. When spring came at last, I took to wandering the new property, taking my avid bird-watching out of doors.

Scampering with Skunks

Skunks elicit negative feelings from most humans. There’s no denying it.

Not even the cuteness of their sharp black eyes, the distinctiveness of their markings, or the fluffiness of their tails can save the skunk from what it most often has become: a distressing symbol of unbearable stench. And to be fair, startling a random skunk in your path would often result in just such a predicament.

For myself, I’ve always found them rather charming. I know a wary distance is wise, of course, but their unique colors, cuddly looks, ambling gait, and innate wildness appeals to me. Perhaps this is partially due to my early introduction to the Disney movie Bambi and the shy skunk they called, “Flower,” or to the comical cartoon adventures of “Pepe Le Pew,” but ultimately I attribute my fondness for these little creatures to my firsthand experiences with them as a child.

One New England spring we had the privilege of fostering a litter of North American Striped Skunks. That sounds a little crazy, but it’s true.

Spring in New Hampshire is soft and slow-blooming. The winters are long and cold, and with the turn of the new year most of its citizens look eagerly toward spring. Long before the world begins to green again, one of the earliest hints of the coming warmth is the budding of the pussy willows, a twiggy shrub that grew in abundance at the edges of our woods. They are one of the first sure signs of spring, budding even before the first tiny leaves begin to unfurl. I loved to keep an eye out for them, collect sprays of the little branches to touch the silky buds, gray-green and soft as mouse fur, and dream of the woodland’s awakening. And of course, the dawning season of baby animals.

The woodland skunks must be ever so much more in tune with the change towards warmth, and with the rising of the sap the little creatures trundle from their winter dens in search of long-awaited sustenance and the continuance of their little lives. Naturally, with that awakening comes a burgeoning of skunk romance and the tiny kits that follow. A new year in the cycle of wilderness life

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Skunk courtship lacks permanence, however, and is anything but monogamous. This particular year one skunk maiden found herself alone in the woods, kits on the way, with no ordinary den in sight. Except a house, inhabited by alarming people. Beneath this house, though, was a quiet crawlspace – warm and dry and private. The perfect home for a protective mama skunk and her babies.

It was a good plan for a few weeks. Until the end of May, when the human owners became suspicious of the scrabbling beneath them and poked about beneath their dwelling to find out what was causing all that commotion. Coming face to face with a wriggling heap of black and white fluff, beady eyes and twitching noses, their response was anything but warm and fuzzy. The mama skunk was chased away with alacrity and, out of pity, a humane trap was set for the little tykes left behind.

Their fates could have been worse, but even so, the litter was now essentially orphaned and the finders had no desire to raise their unwelcome guests. But they had a pretty good idea of a family who might: the Barkleys, who had twenty acres outside of Warner. These Barkleys were a little odd, but seemed to feel kindly toward animals, if their little country menagerie and the sheer number of cats lolling about their doorstep were any indication.

And so we became skunk foster parents.

Naturally, my sister and I were as pleased as could be. I was six at the time, and completely enthralled by all things wild, and little Brianna was nearly three and in love with all things furry, domesticated or not. Mom and Dad gave their consent, and the orphaned bunch of skunks was installed in a cage on the porch of one of the half a dozen little cabins that graced the property.

These cabins stood in a tidy row before a wood that held a little spring; we skated between the trees in the winter, and eventually the wood was cleared to dig a proper pond. Over the years these cabins had fallen into disrepair, but since we had moved in a year or two before, my Dad and his workers were getting them back up to snuff, one cabin at a time. A couple had become homes for family and friends, one of the most derelict held storage, and now, one sheltered a cage full of baby skunks.

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There were three of them, bright-eyed and frightened, with the cutest little faces you ever saw. They were small enough to curl up in my Mom’s hand, and they were very skittish at first. My parents set them up with cat food and water, and they were just old enough to learn to nibble the dry food but not old enough for their little glands to spray the musky scent for which their kind was famous; we appreciated this very much, and it allowed us to carefully let them get accustomed to us while being cared for.

In no time at all, these little bits of fur and claw were nosing into our hands and allowing us to start picking them up, which we were dying to be able to do. We collaborated with my Mom to give them names, and we had such fun trying to find just the right fit for their little faces and personalities. There was Chanel No. 5, White-Striped-Violet, and Pepe Le Pew. (No doubt it is obvious which moniker was chosen by me; I was fond of multi-word descriptive names.)

I give my parents a lot of credit for allowing the shenanigans of their daughters and opening their doors to all the lost and lonely creatures in need of love and care over the years, but I have to say I have always been particularly proud of my Mom for welcoming a litter of skunks. Other than maybe the creature-loving daughters that she raised, there aren’t many women in the world who would. But caring for the little things and the lost things was something near and dear to her heart: the four legged, the two-legged, and even the winged.

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They even considered letting us keep our trio for good, but it just wasn’t feasible. Surprisingly, keeping skunks as pets is actually allowed in seventeen states, New Hampshire included, and it is possible to vaccinate the little creatures and remove their scent glands safely. But official legalities aside, there were few veterinarians in the area that would concede to give rabies shots to pet skunks, never mind remove their scent glands as a future precaution against being sprayed when they become startled. So our time with them would be temporary.

The grew plump and happy, and very tame. On sunny days Mom took the cage out to the old tennis court, abandoned long enough that it was now a grassy little field that in June bore tiny wild strawberries and where pale pink wild roses grew tangled along the fences. There we would commune with our little charges, reaching into the cage – nearly as big as I was – and bringing them out to cuddle and admire. They were darling and timid, and quite gentle and quiet despite sharp digging claws and their future scent firing abilities. The warm, spring-green background and the vivid picture of my Mom cupping a fluffy baby skunk in her hands is a memory I still treasure.

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All too soon, our days of visiting our baby skunks came to an end. They grew sleek and confident, no longer shy babies but curiously questing adolescents, scratching incessantly at the corners of their cage, eager to explore the burgeoning summer world. In the wild, young skunks are weaned at about two months old, but will continue to live with their mother until the following year. Our little skunks didn’t have the luxury of learning the ways of naturally raised skunks with their mama, but we hoped their sharp noses and curious ways would help them learn to fend for themselves among the other wildlife.

We lived at the foot of Mink Hill, a diminutive mountain ridge so-named for the minks that once dwelt upon it. They were rare now, though I did spy one once, making its dark and lonely way up the farthest hillock of our property on its way into the woods. At any rate, Mink Hill still had many a wild and un-populated spot, and this was where Mom and Dad decided to set our little skunks free.

We drove up the winding, forested road a good ways, until they found a quiet meadow far from any house or farm. Wildflowers dotted the glen, framed by dark and lovely evergreens and deciduous trees newly adorned with green; it was the perfect place to let them start their new, adult lives, and a beautiful farewell scene to hold in our minds.

Used to the confines of their temporary cage and the laps of their owners, our little skunks were cautious about pursuing freedom. Noses questing and tails trembling, they stepped out into their new world, hesitant paw after hesitant paw, wide-eyed with wonder. Their curiosity soon won out over caution, though, and with a final glance at their foster family they set out across the clearing. They left in single file, white-striped tails out straight behind them, ambling adorably and parting the bright flower patches as they went.

I was excited for them and their wilderness life ahead, but so very sad to see our dear little things go. Throat tight and eyes full, I watched them disappear one by one into the trees. White-Striped-Violet, Chanel No. 5, and Pepe Le Pew would grace our field no more, but the wildlife world had gained three new members that we had a hand in preserving and protecting until they were able to survive on their own. It was sad to say goodbye, but we knew it was the right choice for our little skunk babies.

To this day a skunk trundling by makes me smile, I sniff appreciatively when their musk drifts on the breeze, and I feel a pang of sadness for each one that doesn’t make it across the road. Considered chicken-raiding pests by some and derided for their scented defense mechanism by most, for me each skunk I glimpse scampering off into the trees will always represent something sweet and wild, and a reminder of childhood joy.