Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, July 6, 1995 TAG: 9507060009
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: NANCY GLEINER STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Ed and Joan Kinser have already driven miles from their home in Roanoke County. Joan stops the car every half mile so Ed can jump out. He cocks his head slightly and listens.
``Rose-breasted grosbeak," he says. "Bluebird. Black-throated green warbler...'' For three minutes, Kinser calls out bird names to his wife, who dutifully writes them down.
Then it's back into the car and down the road another half mile.
The Kinsers repeat the process for 25 miles, just as countless others do across the country during each region's bird breeding season. It's a time when males sing more than usual (to establish their territory and to woo females), making it easier to spot them.
Kinser and other volunteers conduct the surveys for the U.S. Department of the Interior as a way of approximating the size of bird populations, which indicates the health of their habitats.
For Ed, an expert on bird songs and lover of animals in general, it's another chance to do what he loves. And Joan is not just along for the ride.
It was feathered flocks that brought Ed and Joan Kinser together. Joan, a nurse by profession, already had an aviary where she bred Bourke's parakeets, canaries and zebra finches. Ed was breeding canaries. They were introduced by a minister with whom each of them sold and traded birds.
Ed, a science teacher at Shawsville High School, has expanded their involvement to include outdoor birds at their peaceful - but hardly quiet - country home on Bent Mountain. The yard is a pleasant cacophony of chirps, quacks and bleats.
Ed, who had a pet goat as a child - ``that was my buddy, growing up'' - also has Nigerian dwarf goats. One female is in labor. Ed checks her progress periodically as she wanders nonchalantly around the pen, chewing hay.
As carefully as some people decorate the interiors of their homes, the Kinsers have landscaped their place with the birds in mind. They have planted bushes, evergreens and other trees for cover and for nesting spots, and have left open space for birds such as doves, who like to feed in the open, and bluebirds, who prefer houses on posts in open areas.
Ed and Joan consider the birds' feeding habits, as well. In addition to several feeders hung from trees and the eaves of their house, they've planted berry- and fruit-producing bushes, crabapple trees and thornless blackberries for the birds' nourishment.
The blueberries were originally intended for human consumption, but ``we never have gotten a blueberry off them,'' Ed says, chuckling. The birds got to them first.
``There's a house wren over there,'' Ed says, pointing to a shed. ``There's another one singing in those trees. They sing to establish their territories and to keep females around.
``If you sat out here and watched for a while, you could pinpoint where the males are moving and get the exact parameters of their territories.''
Ed grew up in Tazewell County, surrounded by nature and not much else. ``I always wanted to know the names of things, whatever it was,'' he says, ``birds or salamanders or trees.''
He tells the story of seeing the first groove-billed ani ever recorded in Virginia. (The bird is native to Texas.) ``I put out word of the sighting, and by the next morning, there was a carload of people from Virginia Beach at my door. Of course, the ani was nowhere to be seen.''
He explains about the network of serious bird listers who want to see every species spotted in the state. A week later, when the ani came back, so did the Virginia Beach group. This time, they didn't go away disappointed.
Ed is mostly self-taught, though he did take an ornithology course while working on another degree. If he heard a bird calling, he tracked it down and listened to its song again and again.
He uses words to describe a bird's song. It's a common technique.
``There's a Carolina wren. Hear it?'' he said. `` `A cheater, a cheater, a cheater' it goes. `Peter, peter, peter' is a titmouse. A towhee says `drink your teeeaaa.' ''
As the early morning chill wears off, Ed lets the goats out to graze, their bells clanging like a bell choir gone haywire. He follows them up a small rise. Ursa, his huge, white Great Pyrenees dog, looks on protectively.
Overhead, a kestrel chases a red-tailed hawk out of the kestrel's territory. A bluebird sits on a telephone wire.
``Here comes a phoebe to her nest,'' he says. ``I saw she had eggs, the other day.''
Ed can give a running commentary of the comings and goings of his avian friends, often stopping in midsentence to point out another one on the wing. He marks on a calendar when they leave for the winter and return for the spring.
He says the size of bird populations indicate how healthy a habitat is, for humans as well as for themselves. In the 1960s, the decrease in the national osprey and bald eagle populations was eventually traced to DDT, which was ultimately banned. ``If we had watched the bird population back then, we probably would have banned DDT sooner,'' he said.
How else do birds help their human neighbors?
``Eating insects,'' the Kinsers said in unison when asked about the benefits of having a yard full of feathered friends. Birds consume huge quantities of insects. Flycatchers and purple martins, in particular, are noted for eating literally tons of mosquitos.
Ed walks into the shed where he has penned Lisa, the pregnant goat. She stops chewing occasionally, tenses a little, then picks up more hay to eat. Suddenly, she extends her neck to its full length, eyes bulging, her mouth open wide, revealing her teeth. She lets out a loud cry and, still standing, delivers the first baby into Ed's waiting hands. It's a female.
``They usually deliver lying down,'' he comments.
He checks to make sure the newborn is active and gently wipes her face. Lisa softly nudges the kid and licks it. Barely three minutes later, the baby slowly stands, legs splayed and wobbling. She takes a few tentative steps toward her mother, who begins to clean her.
Ed guides the baby to her mother's teat, then checks Lisa for signs of the expected second birth. ``I think I feel a nose,'' he says.
This time, Lisa lies down and, a few minutes and two loud cries later, delivers a kid brother. After 15 minutes or so, both new babies are walking solidly.
``They'll be jumping and playing this afternoon,'' Ed says.
After making sure each new baby has had its fill of mother's milk, Ed leaves them alone in the shed to spend some time getting to know each other.
His duties in the maternity ward finished, Ed walks back outside and picks up an eggshell. ``I bet it's from that phoebe,'' he says. ``Usually when a bird carries food to a nest, it carries something out - house-cleaning, you know.''
Ed's expertise is well known to his neighbors, who often call when they spot an unusual bird or find an injured one. Some wounded birds have been raised in the aviary, using canaries as foster parents.
``Canaries will feed anything in a nest,'' he said.
Ed uses ornithology to teach his seventh graders about animal behavior, anatomy and other science subjects. He takes them out bird-watching, too.
Students drop in to see him at school and imitate a bird call they've heard, hoping he can name it.
``Some of the kids who have musical training or a good ear can whistle it closely enough that I can take a stab at it," he said.
``The best compliment I've had from a student this year was when one said, `Mr. Kinser, ever since we did that bird unit, I just can't let a bird go by without trying to identify it.'''
Ed resurrected a small, unused greenhouse at Shawsville High School to use in teaching horticulture. With barely any budget, he begged and borrowed the necessary items for his green-thumb projects.
``The kids get excited when the seeds start coming up,'' he said. ``They trade plants like some kids trade baseball cards. `I'll give you two aloes for that geranium.'''
He told of a hyperactive student who ``looks almost mesmerized'' as he patiently transplants flats of vegetables and flowers.
His students stuffed the greenhouse with plants and seedlings they had propagated and took in more than $700 at a recent plant sale. The money will pay for supplies for next year and for more landscaping around the school.
On a chilly morning just after daybreak, Ed takes a group of adults bird-watching. Mostly, he points out what has gone unnoticed by the others, distinguishes and identifies one song from another, and imitates the birds' sounds.
He mimics an alarm call, trying to flush the birds out of some brush so the listening session can include more watching. The thin drizzle and cool temperature keep the birds under cover.
But as he delights in each bird song, pinpointing the direction it comes from and often interpreting what the call means, the real show this day is Ed.
by CNB