By Rick Davenport
It’s time for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center.
My childhood in the early 1960s revolved around many trips riding in a Chevy, traveling from our home in Anaconda to my grandparents in Wisdom, or to the family ranch that straddled the Big Hole River near Twin Bridges.
Our Labrador and I shared the jam-packed passenger-side back seat. I sat on the seat cushion, but she occupied the floor in front of me, which meant I had limited foot room. It was okay because I considered the dog better company than my toddler-aged sister, but sometimes I just wanted to stretch my legs.
I spent long hours traveling, watching out the car window. Whether we traveled to Wisdom or Twin Bridges, the road followed the course of the Big Hole River. The landscape was open range land hemmed in by craggy glaciated peaks and a valley that had been spiderwebbed with countless creeks and smaller rivers that drained into the Big Hole. Virtually every mile of road was threaded between miles of wood rail fencing, which, even then, was being replaced by soulless but cheaper barbed wire.
My mother and father discussed topics that mattered little to me. I could barely hear a word unless they turned and spoke directly to me over the back of the front seat.
Sometimes the ordinary would be broken when my mother pointed out the window and exclaimed, "Oh, look. A meadowlark!" She believed that seeing a meadowlark was a gift. Of course, we could not hear the bird sing, so my mother sang the meadowlark song for us. In her sweet soprano, she offered, "Oh gee, my feet are cold," which was how the melody sounded to her. So much joy sprang up that I learned to keep a sharp eye out for meadowlarks so I could point them out to my mother. What son doesn't want to cause his mother to sing?
Meadowlarks are one of my favorite birds. The jaunty bill pointed up in the air, the vivid yellow plumage along the wings, and their stuttering flight gin up a sense of awe in me. The best thing, however, is the melody. "Oh gee, my feet are cold" doesn't mimic a meadowlark, certainly not in the way a resonant "hoot" sounds like an owl, but that is not the point. The song of the meadowlark renews the bonds between me and she who gave me life, and that is the essence of human existence.
Meadowlarks eventually became a recurring theme in our lives. My mother later lived in the Great Falls subdivision, Meadowlark, near the Meadowlark Country Club. My sister attended Meadowlark Elementary School, just a short distance from home.
A treasured inheritance from my mother is a watercolor painting of a meadowlark sitting on a wooden fence post, given to her by an artist friend in appreciation of her happily watching his children after school during the time his wife was being treated for cancer.
The painting now hangs on the wall beside our bed instead of in her family room. I see it in the morning and then again at night every day. There are few things I treasure more. I wish it still hung in her family room, but there is a natural order in life that must be followed. I understand this, so I simply treasure the painting and let it evoke what should always be embraced.
It is joyous to hear the meadowlark sing now. A tear might come because it is a song that connects mothers, sons, and the stages of a lifelong—and beyond—relationship. Before she died, she took a marker and printed my name on the back of the painting and told me with a pointed finger not to be sad when it came to live at my house.
Can you bear with me another minute? Close your eyes and let an unseen and unfelt breeze bring the sight of a meadowlark perched on a fencepost beside the Big Hole River. Listen. I hear the song that tells a life story in a six-word melody. Can you?
This is Rick Davenport for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center, providing natural history education for schools and the public throughout Montana. To find out about upcoming events and programs at the Center, call 406.327.0405, or visit our website at MontanaNaturalist.org.
