third nest was inland over a shallow lake dotted with cypress.
The heat and humidity in summer are overwhelming; you move through aqueous air and elongated time. It’s a relief to climb fifty feet up where you might, on occasion, catch a breeze.
Initially my field notes were very straightforward. Here is an example:
The likeliest impediment to their reproductive success was a human observer bungling around twice a day, but their welfare was almost incidental anyway. The point was for patriotic human hearts to swell with pride on outdoor weekends, and convincing replicas would have sufficed; the compulsive monitoring was not good husbandry, just an expression of national guilt. I did what I was paid for. Privately I sided with the furred and feathered residents of the area who must have wondered why humans were loosing winged hyenas in their midst.
I began to embellish my notes—partly because nothing was irrelevant, but mostly because I was bored.
I e-mailed my field notes once a week to my liaison in the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service office, a man I knew slightly named Travis who liked to fish on the job and brag about it too, the standard work ethic in Jefferson. Whenever I had visited the office I found him ogling lures on a dial-up connection, and I had no idea he worked with someone else. I was certain he wouldn’t read my notes; they were just an indication that I wasn’t idle, too. On reflection, it couldn’t have been his idea to check nests twice a day, but that did not occur to me at the time.
One evening I received an e-mail from someone named Dana Bowen at the same office.
Dear Nathan
,
I’m enjoying your colorful commentary immensely, but it may not sit well in government documentation. Could you please adapt accordingly?
Kind regards
,
Dana Bowen
I replied immediately.
Dear Dana
,
Thank you for your message. I did not realize that my field notes were to be published
.
Kind regards
,
Nathan Lochmueller
And almost immediately I received a reply.
Not exactly. They become public record subject to public scrutiny. Some of your material must be redacted and it is easier for you to do this than for me. There are a lot of crazy taxpayers out there. Regards, Dana
I wrote straight back.
Good Lord, I’ll be impeached! I can change the wording, but the birds’ diet & demeanor may not sit well in any kind of documentation. Best, Nathan
She replied:
No apology necessary. I know about the birds. I used to have a job like yours. Dana
I wrote:
Until you discovered modern air-conditioning? If not an apology, my thanks for the warning. Nathan
And she replied:
Until I met the wrong kind of tick. Perhaps you would show me the nests? I don’t drive. Dana
Fearing some kind of audit, I picked her up outside the Fish and Wildlife office two mornings later. She was younger than I expected—thirty-three or thirty-four, the traditional age for a Jefferson girl to become a grandmother. She was very pretty, though severe and mandarin: black curls scraped back from a pale face with elegant black brows, a wide mouth, and a soft chin; she was dressed for bugs despite the heat ina long loose shirt and long trousers, with exemplary posture like a yogi’s or a soldier’s, arms folded across her chest.
I had neglected to mention the
Gypsy Moth
in our e-mail exchange. She seemed alarmed when I pulled up and began speaking to her.
“Nathan Lochmueller,” I said through the window.
“You drive a magic bus,” she said.
“Have to get around somehow,” I said. “It’s the
Gypsy Moth
, as you can see.”
“Did you paint it yourself?”
“A friend did it for me.”
“You must like your friend,” she said. “A lot.”
And you don’t make friends easily, I thought.
“Dana Bowen,” she said. “Would you mind putting my telescope and tripod in the back?” They lay on the sidewalk beside her but she didn’t gesture toward them, just stood with her arms folded, calling things by their full names.
The heat and humidity in summer are overwhelming; you move through aqueous air and elongated time. It’s a relief to climb fifty feet up where you might, on occasion, catch a breeze.
Initially my field notes were very straightforward. Here is an example:
The likeliest impediment to their reproductive success was a human observer bungling around twice a day, but their welfare was almost incidental anyway. The point was for patriotic human hearts to swell with pride on outdoor weekends, and convincing replicas would have sufficed; the compulsive monitoring was not good husbandry, just an expression of national guilt. I did what I was paid for. Privately I sided with the furred and feathered residents of the area who must have wondered why humans were loosing winged hyenas in their midst.
I began to embellish my notes—partly because nothing was irrelevant, but mostly because I was bored.
I e-mailed my field notes once a week to my liaison in the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service office, a man I knew slightly named Travis who liked to fish on the job and brag about it too, the standard work ethic in Jefferson. Whenever I had visited the office I found him ogling lures on a dial-up connection, and I had no idea he worked with someone else. I was certain he wouldn’t read my notes; they were just an indication that I wasn’t idle, too. On reflection, it couldn’t have been his idea to check nests twice a day, but that did not occur to me at the time.
One evening I received an e-mail from someone named Dana Bowen at the same office.
Dear Nathan
,
I’m enjoying your colorful commentary immensely, but it may not sit well in government documentation. Could you please adapt accordingly?
Kind regards
,
Dana Bowen
I replied immediately.
Dear Dana
,
Thank you for your message. I did not realize that my field notes were to be published
.
Kind regards
,
Nathan Lochmueller
And almost immediately I received a reply.
Not exactly. They become public record subject to public scrutiny. Some of your material must be redacted and it is easier for you to do this than for me. There are a lot of crazy taxpayers out there. Regards, Dana
I wrote straight back.
Good Lord, I’ll be impeached! I can change the wording, but the birds’ diet & demeanor may not sit well in any kind of documentation. Best, Nathan
She replied:
No apology necessary. I know about the birds. I used to have a job like yours. Dana
I wrote:
Until you discovered modern air-conditioning? If not an apology, my thanks for the warning. Nathan
And she replied:
Until I met the wrong kind of tick. Perhaps you would show me the nests? I don’t drive. Dana
Fearing some kind of audit, I picked her up outside the Fish and Wildlife office two mornings later. She was younger than I expected—thirty-three or thirty-four, the traditional age for a Jefferson girl to become a grandmother. She was very pretty, though severe and mandarin: black curls scraped back from a pale face with elegant black brows, a wide mouth, and a soft chin; she was dressed for bugs despite the heat ina long loose shirt and long trousers, with exemplary posture like a yogi’s or a soldier’s, arms folded across her chest.
I had neglected to mention the
Gypsy Moth
in our e-mail exchange. She seemed alarmed when I pulled up and began speaking to her.
“Nathan Lochmueller,” I said through the window.
“You drive a magic bus,” she said.
“Have to get around somehow,” I said. “It’s the
Gypsy Moth
, as you can see.”
“Did you paint it yourself?”
“A friend did it for me.”
“You must like your friend,” she said. “A lot.”
And you don’t make friends easily, I thought.
“Dana Bowen,” she said. “Would you mind putting my telescope and tripod in the back?” They lay on the sidewalk beside her but she didn’t gesture toward them, just stood with her arms folded, calling things by their full names.
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