Snowy Towhee

Day 61: For three seasons, I have "Screwy Towhees," the two words rhyming. In winter, however, a new species sometimes emerges: the "Snowy Towhee," distinguished by a long O in the pronunciation of the latter word. Webster's Third New International acknowledges another breed with strongest emphasis on the last "-ee," i.e., "tuh-WEE." And wowie! There is also a fourth pronunciation, "TAU-ee," although I understand that subspecies is only found in Greece. The Snowy Towhee is a more active bird than the Screwy Towhee, its feet quite sensitive to temperatures of branch and soil and therefore more anxious to move from one perch to another. It is also more birb-like in characteristics: rounder, fluffier, sillier. It expresses indignity more frequently than the Screwy Towhee, taking affront at almost every white flake which falls past its widened red eye. In number, it is as common as the Screwy Towhee here in the Pacific Northwest, although its population is packed into the shorter time span covering the months of winter. It therefore may appear more numerous when in fact, its census is simply more concentrated. Like its three-season counterpart, it feeds largely on the ground and prefers black-oil sunflower seed, and will reward observers with its scrabbling, scraping antics as it searches for food.

My Mystery Plant

Day 36: You've undoubtedly heard some variant of the phrase, "The cobbler's children have no shoes," which suggests that although a person is in a particular trade, neither they nor those closest to them benefit from it. Perhaps that explains why it has taken me thirty years to identify a plant growing at the edge of my yard, up against the brushy section which forms a boundary with the adjacent undeveloped property. Said shrubby growth regularly gets grazed by the lawnmower, but never fails to produce small leathery foliage which turns a lovely shade of red in the fall, as well as a modest display of round red berries. If I had given it more than a moment's thought, I would have realized it was a Cotoneaster (horizontalis, I believe) without having to search the internet. Here rises to the surface another of the Scottish/British pronunciations instilled in me in childhood. This is not a "cotton Easter" (presumed kin of the Velveteen Rabbit); it is a "cut-OH-nee-as-ter" (although certainly not related to any member of the Compositaceae). Appropriately, there are lichens nearby (a word which I insist rhymes with "kitchen," not the action implied by a thumbs-up symbol).

Winter Residents

Day 130: One of my most reliable winter birds is good old Spotted Towhee, aka Rufous-Sided Towhee (Pipilo maculatus), but exactly how his name is pronounced is a subject of some conjecture. Webster's Third New International Dictionary offers several options. I can't seem to copy the schwa (upside-down e) to a post, so you will have to make do with my phonetic renditions. A schwa has the sound of the o in "collect", i.e., cuh-LECT. Webster first lists TUHW-ee. The next choice puts the emphasis on the final syllable: tuhw-EE. Last of all comes the pronunciation I hear most often (one which sets my nerves on edge as surely as fingernails on a chalkboard): TOE-hee. As I say it, it is more like the first option, but with a slightly stronger first syllable, TOO-wee. But nowhere can I find justification for another pronunciation, TAU-ee.

I don't care how,
Too or toe,
But toss out tau.
It just ain't so.

Eremogone Capillaris, Threadleaf Sandwort

Day 312: Following up on yesterday's post regarding the pronunciation of scientific names, I bring you Err-uh-MOGG-oh-nee?...Err-uh-mugg-OWN?...Err-uh-MO-gohn?...dang those taxonomists, anyway! It was a lot easier to say when it was an Arenaria. The correct pronunciation is Err-uh-MOH-guh-nee cap-il-LAR-is (Eremogone capillaris), and that's a lot of syllables for a tiny little plant to carry around.

"Threadleaf Sandwort" is a helpfully descriptive common name (aka Slender Mountain Sandwort). The leaves of this species resemble the needles of Douglas fir, although they are finer and much softer and form a mat close to the ground. The plants are most commonly found on the sandy volcanic soils of glacial moraines. It is easy to confuse them with some Saxifrages on initial observation, so pay close attention to the field characteristics of both the flower and the foliage. In particular, look for yellow or pink dots on the petals which will only be present if the plant is a Saxifrage.

Syl-LAB-ic Em-PHA-sis

Day 311: Pronunciation of scientific names is widely varied among amateurs and professionals alike, but some leave very little wiggle room if you analyze the sections of the Latin. A prime example is presented in Rorippa curvisiliqua, "Yellowcress" in boring and uninspired English. "Rorippa" can't be fumbled so badly that it's rendered unrecognizable, but "curvisiliqua" might tangle the most adept tongue unless you understand what it means.

At the altitude where I observed it, this member of the Mustard family grows in a dwarfed state. I might have recognized it immediately if it had been full height (up to 40 cm), but at Ghost Lake, plants seldom exceed 10 cm. Upon seeing a "little yellow flower," I bent over for a closer look. That was when I noticed the "curvisiliquas." When dry, the curved seed pods of Yellowcress (visible in the bottom image) split in two lengthwise to release the seeds (technically, they become dehiscent). The curved, ripe pod is referred to as a "silique," a word which implies a specific botanical morphology and explains what action to expect. In its own way, you could say that the Latin term dehisces verbally. When it breaks in two along its length, it gives us the seed words "curvi" and "siliqua," i.e., a curved silique. Thus the pronunciation is obvious: curvi-si-LEE-qua. Wasn't that easy?

Western Anemone, Anemone Occidentalis

Day 285: Today I bring you one of the most mispronounced flowers of Mount Rainier National Park: Western Uh-NEM-uh-nee. It is not a "an enemy" or any other amusing confusion of the consonants. Let's practice: "uh (pause), NEM (emphasized, pause), uh (pause), nee," M in the middle, Ns on the ends, "uhN-eM-uhN-ee." Now try it three times fast from memory, Anemone is not an enemy.

Most people recognize Western Anemone when it is in its gone-to-seed clothes, but a smaller percentage readily identify it when it is in flower. The seed stage looks like a mop-head or as a Trekkie friend termed it, "Tribble-on-a-stick." In fact, an alternate common name for it is "Mouse-on-a-stick," and the feathery nature of its achenes provide yet another from the manner in which the seeds disperse: Windflower. It is also sometimes called Western Pasqueflower, so if your tongue simply cannot handle the twists and turns of "Uh-NEM-uh-nee," you have plenty of other options.

Icmadophila Ericetorum, Spray-Paint Lichen

Day 110: Invariably when the subject of lichens arises, someone will take me to task for my pronunciation of the word. Y'see, I say "litch-en" to rhyme with "itchin'" rather than "like-en," which to me is something done with careless abandon on Facebook. Webster's Third New International Dictionary (my bible) supports my usage, although admittedly it adds "chiefly British" by way of justification. It's not the only word in my vocabulary which has been influenced by proximity to Canada, but it is probably the most deeply entrenched. I've recently started countering the teasing with a riposte: "Quitcherbitchin' and call it 'litchen.'" Of course if you prefer, you could always stammer your way through the Latin names of these fascinating life forms instead. Let's start off with Icmadophila ericetorum, aka "spray-paint lichen" or "candy lichen."