This chapter was interesting for a few reasons, one of which was how the very first paragraph directly pointed out how American this family was being. Here it was pointed out that the family is in a log cabin in the woods, had a turkey on the table, had four generations present, and were praying. It is also mentioned later that a triangle was rung to usher people in for dinner, and that the father was wearing a cowboy hat, which is a classic American icon. This aspect of being American is interesting for this chapter because Great Horned Owls are actually the most common breed of owl in North America, and so this American theme is very fitting with them. Owls, also most especially the Great Horned Owl, are typically associated with wisdom. The Great Horned Owl feather was tucked into the cowboy hat, for its American homestead, but also was used by the father to accentuate points, which ties into wisdom. Before this it is also mentioned between Terry Williams and Mimi that because of the full moon they should go out owling later. Looking into that a little bit, there are some studies that wonder if perhaps the full moon makes owls louder, or more “chatty.” In this case, Terry Williams and Mimi would be better able to spot Great Horned Owls if they were being noisier than usual. There was also speculation that some prey of the Great Horned Owl hides more during full moons, while others are more active. In the second case, then, the Great Horned Owl may be more active due to this hunting opportunity which would also allow Terry Williams and Mimi to better spot them. Lastly, I found it interesting that Williams describes the table they eat from as being “huge pine.” Pine trees are actually a type of tree that Great Horned Owls will nest in. In this case, the table Terry Williams eats from was a home taken away from this bird.

The way that I describe my hometown to friends and colleagues who come from the range of highly populated urban cities to barely even having a town rural areas, is that where I am from is a super suburb. I live in a house along a row of houses amidst rows upon rows of houses. We have a quaint downtown with restaurants and boutiques, while the drive to the big city is only 20 minutes and you could say the same to get to any rural area too. Near my house are several parks as well as the town’s sole middle school.

Yet there are aspects to my environment that have changed since I was young and growing up. On my mind are mainly two. The first is the park by me. Behind my house is another row of houses and in front of those houses is a street and across that street is a huge park. This park includes multiple play structures, tennis courts, dog park equipment, a miniature “forest” (really just a large span of field and trees), and a field in which there is a large dip as if a natural pool. When my brother was young this dip was used during the winter as a skating rink where the local fire department would fill it with water and let it freeze over for people to enjoy but those days were long gone by the time I could have enjoyed it. You are also no longer to use it as a dog park, but the stuff is still there. Anyway. Since it is so close to my house we used to be able to see it from the back room windows. Then the little house behind it was torn down, which gave us an even better view to my mom’s delight who loved being able to check up on us from the kitchen if we were there, but shortly after the destruction a newer, bigger house was built. So big, in fact, that our view was obscured completely. My mom was not happy about this change. I wasn’t either. The new house isn’t even beautiful or adding anything to the neighborhood. It is a modern development with a higher class family and a small yippy dog.

The second change to my environment is again related to modern homes being built. When I was growing up our elementary school was a few short blocks away that we could easily walk or scooter over. After completing fourth grade, however, they tore it down. I was forced to abandon my small scale homey school I’d known my entire life and transfer to an elementary school we had to drive to and be submerged with my class as well as a whole other class from another school being torn down. Not only this, but after tearing down my school all that has replaced it has been more ugly, modern looking houses that add nothing to the old beauty of the neighborhood. This school was like home to many, and not only did it provide that small school safety, but it was also home to two playgrounds and a large span of grassy field and trees galore. Now all of that has been run and paved over. All that stands in the space where my childhood lies now are houses, driveways, and loss.

When meeting a famous person one might get what some call “star stricken.” This typically means that they are unable to function normally due to the pure shock of being in the presence of an idol. Some might even get this sensation when encountering a well-known author. However I did not have this experience meeting David Kline.

Reading his novel Great Possessions I did not view David Kline as an arrogant person, just one that is knowledgeable on the lay of the land that he owns. Meeting him, too, he came off as very humble. He seemed reserved in his excitement that we were there to listen to him, but I could tell based on how much he talked. He was eager to answer our questions, and kind enough to welcome us into his home. He also, as he did from his writing, came off as extremely intelligent, at least on the topic of his farm work and community.

What excited me more, however, was the amount of animals present on the farm. Perhaps I was more taken by them because they showed little enthusiasm to our arrival, like a want what you can’t have deal. Pulling into the driveway there was a group of horses grazing at their feed who didn’t even flinch at our presence. Stopping in the driveway we were immediately secured next to a group of quails who ran to safety as soon as we exited our vehicles. The miniature ponies stayed where they were in their pens expressing zero curiosity. The cats did show their curious sides but most of them remained skittish when we tried to pet them. The only animal that revealed itself to be entirely thrilled was Rosy the dog, who was more than willing to get pats and give kisses.

Animals, then, may spark more interest purely due to the fact that they hide their excitement and curiosity, forcing us to reach out to them while authors are the ones reaching out to us through their writing as David Kline had done, and he was the one willing to let us visit his farm.

Portions of Annie Dillard’s writing in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek convinced me that nature is more than just beautiful landscapes unaffected by human invasion and fascinating undomesticated animals; it is also the ugly parts. The parts we don’t want to think, let alone know, about. The aspects of it that are disturbing to the morals of human consciousness. This is done mostly through her chapter, “Fecundity” where she goes into gruesome detail on the mating, birthing, and parent-child murder for survival that takes place in nature. Whether intentional or not, Annie Dillard changed some of my thinking on nature where I once found it to all be pretty and happy, maybe some violence within the animal kingdom but that’s just food-chain stuff. Now it’s been twisted into the not-so-pleasant.

Even in cities where one has to search for the natural elements, Dillard points out where it can be found and how it isn’t a fun thing to know. On page 167 she says of New York, “Apartment houses are hives of swarming roaches. Or again: in one sense you could think of Manhattan’s land as high-rent, high-rise real estate; in another sense you could see it as an enormous breeding ground for rats, acres and acres of rats.” EW. But it doesn’t stop there. The rest of the chapter is an abundant collection of various living things that breed and feed, such as the wasps on page 169 that multiply and feed on a host body. Or another example is the lacewings that eat their own eggs as they’re laying them if they decide they’re hungry. Turn around, nibble on some eggs, lay some more. That’s a sick image. The worst of these is when she describes a lioness licking its cub before absentmindedly eating it alive. That was a really hard image to cope with.

It isn’t just in this chapter, though. My mind started to wonder if nature is as pretty and delicate as I once thought it was on page one. Annie Dillard had a cat, which is great because I adore cats of all varieties. However this cat was not sweet and fragile like my own at home. Her cat came in smelling like blood and urine, even leaving bloody paw prints around. I know that cats are meant to be outside and that they are predators, however I’ve never visualized them as such. Her cat came off to me as dirty, undesirable even. I would not want that cat cuddling me in the middle of the night smelling as it did and leaving such stains as it wandered. Which is confusing for me, personally, because I am a huge advocate for animals. So even her simple description of her cat, not meant to offend anyone, had me thinking that maybe everything isn’t as innocent as I was pretending it was.

Growing up there was a house behind mine with a large black walnut tree whose branches loomed over their yard as well as ours. Squirrels would run along all sides of the tree often knocking off the walnuts in their attempts to get some for themselves, and a younger version of myself would then find them hidden among the grass. I would pluck one from the ground, never from the tree itself, and hold it close to my nose to get a strong sense of its smell. Several years ago this house, along with the tree, was torn down. Going into Brown’s Bog a black walnut tree loomed overhead and I immediately flashed back to this small portion of my childhood. I had almost forgotten they existed at all. When one fell to the ground I was attracted to it instantly, reaching down just to smell one once again. It was the same as it had been at home, and I was flooded with nostalgia from the distant familiarity.

Upon entering the woods the long line of us students boarded the walkway where the calling of birds and cricking of insects was overpowered by the falls of our footsteps hitting the wood. While we walked I noticed that the sound, since it was the most overwhelming of the senses at the moment, was similar to that of a large jug of water being emptied. I find it interesting that a line of heavy-booted and mild tennis-shoed people walking along a wooden boardwalk is similar to the flow of water exiting a tiny funnel. Yet I loved it. Somehow when I let my focus wander elsewhere that was exactly what I was hearing and when I drifted back I could hear the distinction of each person’s footsteps. Chugging along I let myself think otherwise, pretending it was some sort of waterfall background.

Also while walking I made sure to pay attention to my surroundings regarding sight, looking at something other than the person’s back directly in front of me. To my left and right were trees, of course, and an abundance of smaller plants and flowers but what I found most noticeable was the growing of some large ferns in clusters immediately next to the boardwalk. Without shifting my glance downwards, as if only seeing forest with no touch of human existence, it looked like what could have been a scene from a Jurassic Park film. A thought crossed my mind that maybe I wouldn’t have even been surprised if a herd of velociraptors came tearing through those ferns. More realistically, however, any range of animals that are not extinct could be roaming these parts. It was amusing to me personally that dinosaurs was the direction in which my mind wandered.

Trees nostalgic of home, sounds reflexive of water, and ferns that remind me of dinosaur movies all make me believe that Brown’s Bog is a pure example of true natural preservation. The tree that was ripped from the ground at its roots at home stood before me alive and well as a welcoming into the woods. Aside from the boardwalk there appeared to be little human interference, and aside from being told that people cut back on the plants I would have had no idea anyone touched them. The ferns and other assortments of plants appeared so naturally placed, in fact they are for the most part naturally placed, that I viewed it as a scene as if from a movie about life before human interference, let alone humans themselves, existed.

Moseying along through Johnson’s Woods I especially took the time to stop, pause, and glance around me slowly when I came across a sign. Since being taught from a young age that reading the signs is half the experience from the vacations I took as a child on historical sites where the signs were the explanations to what it was, exactly, that you were looking at I felt the need to read them. My favorite by far was not so much explanatory as it was a specific. A strange tree loomed before me, its bark appearing as if it was peeling away from the bottoms up. The sign read, “SHAGBARK HICKORY Carya ovata” with a picture of its leaf beside the words. The name, I felt, was truly fitting. Not something I usually feel when discovering the names of plants. Along with feeling an inner chuckle at the greatness that was this tree’s name but I also took a second to notice that it is of human touch that a sign was placed there, to allure more humans to this place and be amazed at the name, the what I assume to be Latin name, and an intricate drawing of the leaf. And it is of human decision what this tree will be called, since tree’s have no form of communication with people and no way of saying whether or not they call themselves by a different one. However I do not think that naming trees is such a bad thing to do as people. In this same space, however, there was a burnt out cigarette butt lying on the trail. At least it wasn’t in the woods itself, but still, I felt anger seeing that someone would dare smoke within such beauty and then continue with the audacity to toss their garbage to the ground. This, I feel, is a bad act as man to do upon nature. There is wildlife that lives and feeds off this land. It is cruel to force this upon them, if by chance they mistake a white butt end of a cigarette to be a new treat, maybe a foreign white plant that has fallen off a tree, in their eyes. At one moment, well there were many moments where this occurred but one in particular, there was a chipmunk rustling in the leaves beyond. As a huge fan of animals I was delighted to see so many of them. I’m so used to seeing one chipmunk among hundreds of squirrels but in Johnson’s Woods it was all chipmunk and no squirrel. I watched the little thing dart around while whipping out my phone to try and snag a picture before it could dash away just as quickly as it had come. Yet the chipmunk instead perched itself on a log perfectly in my line of sight. It stayed there, still as it could be aside from the rise and fall of its tiny stomach I couldn’t even see from that distance. I got a few pictures of it before knowing I’d had enough. I lifted my hand, in a gesture of waving goodbye. It waited a moment longer as well, taking the time until after I had put my hand down to scurry away. Maybe it had even blinked as its own gesture, but again I was too far to see any of its movements. But it was as if it knew what I was wanting and then what I was doing. Never have I had an experience like that, such a communicative connection, with a wild animal. Then again, this chipmunk may have been one that has had many such experiences with humans.