The naming of birds is a funny business. Rules of scientific precedence and continual expert debate often produce dry and technical names, which few people would naturally arrive at. In fact, I have a theory that excessively formal names discourage widespread, casual affection for birds. Something like lesser goldfinch or California scrub-jay might be appropriate for identifying an unknown specimen, but utterly lack the sense of warm familiarity one looks for in addressing and acknowledging everyday companions.
My recommended remedy: call the birds what you want to call them. Friends have nicknames; only the victims of taxonomy and bureaucracy need to have their full birth certificate read out. One shortcut to establishing these first-name relationships is to draw on our rich heritage of traditional bird names. Official names are boring. Better ones are out there.
Start in the backyard. That ubiquitous scrub-jay can be rechristened as the “blue squawker,” a zestier name that converts what was formerly a coarse and irritating sound into their trademark quality and a distinct and necessary instrument in the woods’ orchestra. The California towhee doesn’t even make the “towhee” call, which earned the name for its relatives, so I prefer “brown bird,” a suitably straightforward title for this plainest of backyard residents.
Many bird feeders are dominated by finches. House finches are the most widespread, with red-breasted males and streaky brown females a familiar sight. “House finch” is not a bad name, but poets prefer the traditional “linnet.” Our two goldfinches are dryly delineated as the lesser and the American goldfinch. But, who ever established a friendly relationship with someone while addressing them as the “lesser” example? Instead, I vote for “green-backed goldfinch” for the former (convivially shortenable to “greenback”) and “willow goldfinch” for the latter, (it’s nice to know what kind of trees different birds like).
Other songbirds, whose acquaintance I encourage you to make, include winter robins (officially varied thrushes), rain birds (golden-crowned sparrows), chippy (dark-eyed junco), big quank and little quank (white- and red-breasted nuthatches), and elephant birds (ironically, applied to diminutive winter wrens by Adirondack lumbermen, but equally suitable to whatever Lilliputian birds you encounter — perhaps bushtits or ruby-crowned kinglets). I don’t call my friends “lesser,” but a little teasing for their petite stature is perfectly in order.
Photo by Mick Thompson
American bitterns are interesting enough, but plumgudgeons are truly fascinating creatures.Bigger birds are often abundantly endowed with folk names. The herons and egrets, for instance, are rich in alternatives: the mundane snowy egret becomes an angel bird, the mouthful of “black-crowned night-heron” is shortened to the appropriate “night squawk,” and the large bird technically known as a great blue heron has its stature more convivially recognized as big cranky. My favorite names of all belong to the American bittern, known as Jack Grindle (Jack is always a solid name), thunder pump (for its odd gurgling song), or plumgudgeon. Ever since I learned that last one, the pleasure of spotting this bird has been multiplied tenfold by the opportunity to exclaim in delight, “I see a plumgudgeon!”
The wonders continue. Spotted sandpipers (recognized by their bobbing tails) are teeter peeps, snipes (recognized by their long bills) are drillfaces, and least sandpipers (recognized by their tininess) are pennywinkles.
The common loon can never seem common once it has been recognized by its true name of dipsydoodle. Among ducks, the everyday mallard can be familiarly addressed as greentop, the American wigeon as baldy, the northern shoveler as soup-lips and the ruddy duck as paddy-whack, sleepyhead, or various endearing diminutives such as dinky, dicky and dopper.
Your world has always been full of birds, but before you may have been only dimly aware of them. But, now you realize that you are surrounded by the linnets of the poets and by rain birds, singing after autumn showers. You see that the wetlands are full of greenheads and paddy-whacks, angel birds and night squawks. In the past, the cattails concealed various creatures of vague identity, the province of rarity-hunting birders. Now, they hide the shy and elusive plumgudgeon, a meeting with it will brighten anyone’s day. The world has never felt so full of delights.
Jack Gedney’s On the Wing runs every other Monday. He is a co-owner of Wild Birds Unlimited in Novato, leads walks and seminars on nature in Marin, and blogs at Nature In Novato. You can reach him at jack@natureinnovato.com.
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Official bird names are boring; why not call them what you want? - Marin Independent Journal
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