Today I read this...
"Kumlien could start the whippoorwills any night by playing his flute," my father said. "Far across the fields we heard them, the old man with his flute, his son playing the violin, and hundreds of whippoorwills calling - that's music to remember. (italics mine)I have music to remember. It's the call of barred owls from the woods behind the house after dark. One will start, "Who, who, who cooks for yooooou?" and another will answer right back with the same question. And then the pitch rises and the pace quickens til it sounds like a couple of crazy dogs barking at each other. Sometimes they leave off the caterwauling part at the end and just call back and forth. That's quite lovely music. I want my students to hear it and love it, too.
It made me sad that I could not have known Kumlien, and walked the woods with him, learning every bird, flower, and insect. I had been born too late, it seemed, even to hear a whippoorwill.
My father looked at me for a moment as though he were really seeing me. "Let's take the day off," he said. There must be a pair of whippoorwills around here somewhere."