Where Do Names Come From?

About the name of this substack and our garden

Some things are obvious. Your parents make this very clear when they use your full name… first, middle and last… when they yell your name from the front door. The whole neighborhood knows in that instant that you are in deep shit. You’re not late for dinner. You didn’t get a C on a test. You did something wrong! WRONG and YOU WERE IN TROUBLE! Names are like that.

Some things are less obvious. When we started our pottery studio we called it Cold Springs Studio Pottery, because we live on Cold Springs Road. Obvious right? That seemed like an easy way to define the studio: location! As things would turn out, there is a Cold Springs, NY. It never occurred to me that there could be a potter in that town, too. Ooops.

About a decade ago, we had the most incredible experience. Two ravens decided that the tall spruce that sits right beside our 1840s farmhouse, would be the ideal place for them to raise their brood. The nest was made, eggs were laid, and time passed. Before the chicks hatched (are all baby birds “chicks”?) we got to know the family. Bob and Mike.

We named them this because of their calls to one another. Baaaaahhhb! Baaaaahhhb! and occasionally, there would be an upturn, which I often wondered was actually a question… Baaaaahhaahb? So that raven was forever known as Bob. Mike was the same situation. Miiiike, Miiiiiiiiiike! Unmistakable. Bob and Mike took up residence. They talked a lot.

When their hatchlings started doing their thing, and requesting food all day and I do mean, ALL day, they started being recognized by their calls too. The one that stood out the most was the nestling who, as they reached the age just before fledging, was experiencing a vocal change similar to when boys go through puberty. The raven’s voice would crack. Mid-call. What would start out as a deep-throated croak would suddenly break into a squeak. This happened for a long enough period that our whole family got to hear it at one time or another. All of this took place just outside Leto’s bedroom second floor window. Hard to take a murder-bird seriously when its voice cracks like a high school teenager.

A few years later, we named a few more ravens who frequented our woods and garden. Two-feather is a very large female who invariably seems to lose her two inner flight feathers early in spring. Her call is only heard on the northbound flights overhead. Once she is heading south towards her nest, she always has a mouthful. Sometimes its just a bite of something. Oftentimes we can make out the chunk of squirrel or chipmunk. I wonder if she was the raven who left us half of a mole in our yard a few years ago. Whoever it was, got the good bits.

Our garden’s name, Laughing Ravens, comes from being laughed at by our passing ravens. This happens multiple times every day. The vocalizations change if I am unable to go outside to greet them in the morning. On days when I have to run an early zoom meeting, or if I have to drive into campus, the ravens will gripe and call out for a long while. Sometimes they will even come down below the treetops to swoop through the garden, croaking about my absence. Leto and Nancy have become accustomed to these antics. Leto can talk to the ravens well enough.

It’s the laughing. That’s the part that gave us the name.

They laugh at our antics in the garden. We play music in the garden. Folk, rock, punk, you name it. Loud enough to drown out our neighbor who enjoys mowing his yard 2x a week. The ravens have expressed their preference for certain musicians. They have also shared their disdain for other musicians. For now, we’ll save those bands for the car. Joe Strummer is one of their all-time favorites. Great Big Sea tunes usually result in more than a few ravens circling the yard within a song or two. Spirit of the West songs will frequently see the ravens rush over, especially in the afternoon. Lately I’ve been on a Decemberists kick and their reaction has been measured. I guess the verdict is out. Don’t tell Colin Meloy.

Over the weekend, we got to watch a mature bald eagle try to hold its own against a very determined raven, defending its nesting site. We watched the drama in silence. It was better than a David Attenborough documentary. By the time the eagle gave up and flew off to the lake, other ravens had flown into the field adjacent to our yard. They weren’t going to interrupt the raven defending, but if things got out of hand, they were ready to jump in. Until then, they stayed quiet. When things finished, and the eagle was banished, they let loose like a winning hockey team. The calls were riotous! Winning team! Losing team!

So yeah, we live with ravens who laugh at us. At the end of the day, it keeps me honest. Birds think we’re funny. And they dig our music (most of it anyway).