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As a child, it was one of my greatest delights to visit my grandparents in the spring when the whip-poor-wills began to call. Grandma and Grandpa lived in a remote valley of the Ozark Mountains where there were trees a plenty, and, seemingly, a whip-poor-will, or two, in each one.
My grandmother insisted that a whip-poor-will's call was not "whip-poor-will," but instead, "chip-butter-white-oak." I would listen really hard trying to hear it exactly as she said it was, but all I could hear was "whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will,..." But, I never let on to her.
I remember my grandpa watching and listening, with an amused look on his face, to one of these listening sessions. Shortly after that he began to call me, just for fun, "Chip Butter." It is a name I am proud to wear for I still love to hear that long, lonesome call on a warm summer's eve. And, sometimes, when I listen really, really hard, it seems I can hear quite clearly, "chip-butter-white-oak, chip-butter-white-oak..."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
We live in an area where white-tailed deer are abundant. We think nothing of it to see herds of thirty or more. Some deer have become quite at home around the place and think nothing of it to see us passing by. One of these is a doe we have affectionately named Split-Ear because of a tear in one of her ears. Each year she has two fawns which grow up almost at our doorstep. I snapped a picture of her today as I passed by on my way to the barns. It is still a little early for her to have fawns.