Filling in the Blanks – A Discussion of “A Sand County Almanac”

I saw the words to which she pointed and responded, “Oh, that is the tree with heart-shaped leaves. It is often planted in yards but grows wild as an understory tree in woodlands; you know.”

“I do not know. That is why we are here, asking you to do your job,” spoke the disgruntled woman, mother of an accompanying child, who apparently had been assigned a leaf collection.

How could this adult not know, I wondered. The redbud tree was an old acquaintance of mine. As a child, I had gathered its “green beans” to garnish my mud pies and had touched its trunk, shouting “safe,” during hide-and-seek games.

Yet, I must admit the thought “I do not know” flared into my mind repeatedly when, as a young college student, I first read Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac. I read passages such as these: “A rough-legged hawk comes sailing over the meadow ahead.” “A ruffed grouse drums from the flooded woods, …” “He [male woodcock] flies in low from some neighboring thicket, …” I did not know the cited hawk, grouse, and woodcock. Leopold’s mere mention of those creatures had brought forth no clear image in my mind. Frustrated, I trudged to the 508 section of the library, trying to fill in the blanks. I judged Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac harshly, bemoaning its inadequacy. As a writer, Leopold had not done his job; he had not enlightened the reader, or so I thought.

Now some 50 years later, I note modern society’s grave disconnect from the natural world, and I wonder how many present-day readers of Leopold’s words will experience the same degree of frustration that I had. Take for example this passage: “By the time the pasques are in full bloom our goose convention dwindles, and before May our marsh is once again a mere grassy wetness, enlivened only by redwings and rails” (The Geese Return, March, A Sand County Almanac). Likely, many readers will say, “I did not know pasques, redwings nor rails, and I’ve never even seen a marsh.”

To tell the truth, that section about springtime in a marsh is one of my favorites in Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac And Sketches Here And There. “Once touching water, our newly arrived guests [geese] set up a honking and splashing that shakes the last thought of winter out of the brittle cattails. … It is at this moment of each year that I wish I were a muskrat, eye-deep in the marsh.” With his words, Leopold reveals his heartfelt fascination for nature and shakes stale thoughts out a reader’s mind!

The reader of Leopold’s words will eagerly accompany him when he strolls down memory lane: “We were lying flat on our back soaking up the November sun,” writes Leopold telling of his explorations of the Delta of the Colorado by canoe with his brother in 1922, “.… the sky suddenly exhibited a rotating circle of white spots, alternately visible and invisible. A faint bugle note soon told us they were cranes, inspecting their Delta and finding it good. … Now from the far reaches of the years, I see them wheeling still” (The Green Lagoons, Chihuahua and Sonora, Sketches Here and There).

A reader who, like Leopold, has enjoyed a companion animal, will feel the tug of remembered moments: “The October breeze brings my dog many scents other than grouse, each of which may lead to its own peculiar episode. When he points with a certain humorous expression of the ears, I know he has found a bedded rabbit. Once a dead-serious point yielded no bird, but still the dog stood frozen; in a tuft of sedge under his very nose was a fat sleeping coon, … “(Red Lanterns, October, A Sand County Almanac).

Indeed, the reader, lured gladly into reminiscing, will agree with Leopold’s observation: “It is only in the mind that a shining adventure remains forever bright.” Out of Leopold’s mind and into his writing often comes a vivid sharpness of impression, forever bright.

A reader will see himself or herself, undeniably human, in Leopold’s amusing mention of people’s reactions while venturing into nature: “He who steps on May dandelions may be hauled up short by August ragweed pollen.”

However, be forewarned; certain passages will cause us discomfort. Following the discussion of his and his brother’s exploration of a true wilderness, where the cranes had been “inspecting their Delta and finding it good,” Leopold adds, “All this was far away and long ago. I am told the green lagoons now raise cantaloupes. If so, they should not lack flavor. … and so we the pioneers have killed our wilderness” (The Green Lagoons).

The astute reader will recognize the irony suggested by Leopold as he tells of passing through Illinois. He writes, “The sign says, ‘You are entering the Green River Soil Conservation District.’” Then he adds, “The cornfield has fat steers, but probably no quail. The fences stand on narrow ribbons of sod; whoever plowed that close to barbed wires must have been saying, ‘Waste not, want not.’ …The creek banks are raw; chunks of Illinois have sloughed off and moved seaward” (Illinois Bus Ride, Illinois and Iowa, Sketches Here And There).

Yes, the haunting loss summoned by Leopold’s words will make us readers uncomfortable: “No living man will see again the long-grass prairie, where a sea of prairie flowers lapped at the stirrups of the pioneer” (The Remnants, Wilderness, The Upshot). Yet, happy I am to know that Leopold saw in human beings the possibility of an ecological conscience. We can feel a responsibility for the health of the land, “health” being “the capacity of the land for self-renewal.” Then, conservation is our efforts “to understand and preserve this capacity” (Land Health and the A-B Cleavage, The Land Ethic, The Upshot).

Some of Leopold’s teachings seem didactic but many are so subtle that the lesson becomes entertaining. “Pines, like people, are choosy about their associates and do not succeed in suppressing their likes and dislikes. Thus there is an affinity between white pines and dewberries, between red pines and flowering spurge, … When I plant a white pine in a dewberry patch, I can safely predict that within a year he will develop a husky cluster of buds …” (Pines above the Snow, December, A Sand County Almanac). Therein lies a dose of education about the interdependence of species given with a spoonful of fun anthropomorphism.

A Sand County Almanac is both enlightening and muddling. Sometimes in wonderfully descriptive words, Leopold recounts observations made while at his land, “sand farm,” in Wisconsin. One passage suggests that at every daybreak from April to July his “tenants” proclaim their boundaries to each other: “The robin’s insistent caroling awakens the oriole, who now tells the world of orioles that the pendant branch of the elm belongs to him, together with all fiber-bearing milkweed stalks nearby, all loose strings in the garden, and an exclusive right to flash like a burst of fire from one of these to another.” But as that passage continues, Leopold offers just an enumeration: “Grosbeaks, thrashers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, vireos, towhees, cardinals – all are at it” (July, Great Possessions, A Sand County Almanac). What a list! The reader may think, “I’m drawing a blank here. I don’t know all those birds.”

So, yes, there will be passages in Leopold’s writings which will reveal to us our own lack of knowledge. But, let us remember that ignorance is important, essential to learning!

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For years, Patty Gillespie shared her enthusiasm for language and nature and got paid for it at a public school and at a nature center. Now she plays outdoors as often as she can and writes for the sheer joy of it.