Helen at Grand Manan--September 1991
Click image to view enlarged photo
  
 

An Appreciation of
Helen Manson Andrews
  
by Barbara Butler
 

As nature bustles with new life, we must say goodbye to our dear friend, Helen, who died on Sunday, June 9, 2002. She so enjoyed watching nesting birds and nurturing the young from her bluebird trail. For over 40 years, she nurtured the growth of our bird club. She was a member of Ralph Waterman's original birding class and a charter member of the club. The list of positions she held is a nearly complete list of every office and committee. She was president, vice-president, field trip, conservation, and education chairman. She submitted records monthly and compiled countless months for publication and inclusion in the club records. Both versions of Where to Bird in Dutchess County were produced with substantial help from Helen. She served as the co-editor of Wings over Dutchess and even reproduced it on a duplicating machine she kept at her house. Each annual banquet table has been graced with a favor from Helen's creative artistic skill. Many of us have lovely images of birds Helen painted on slate, shingles and other items.

Her influence went beyond our club through weekly articles on birding for The Taconic Press. She was active in the Federation of New York State Bird Clubs, editing the Region 9 report for four years, and attending many annual meetings as our club's delegate. She enjoyed Breeding Bird Survey runs in the Adirondacks and Pennsylvania for over 20 years. She relished a new kind of birding with the Breeding Bird Atlas. By teaching bird identification classes and patiently answering questions in the field, she also nurtured new birders.

Yet with all her accomplishments, we remember her most as a dear friend and birding companion. No matter the situation, she always found something about it to enjoy. She graciously shared her knowledge of the birds and flowers and butterflies. We will miss her terribly, but we will treasure the birding skills learned at her side.

Wings Over Dutchess, June 2002

Tribute to Helen
  
by Peggy Fasciani
 

I can't quite comprehend that I'm actually writing a memorial for Helen, a dear friend and mentor for the past 18 years. She, and many of the older members of the Club, immediately took me, a complete novice, under their wings and shared their expert birding skills and talents. Helen and I enjoyed many birding trips in company with friends to Maine, Cape May, Texas and Florida. We often recollected the first time she visited my parents and me in Florida. Helen and I were walking on a trail in Brooker Creek Park near Clearwater. Helen said "Wouldn't it be great if I could get my first Limpkin here?" Not two minutes later, as we rounded a bend, there sat this strange looking bird wading in the shallow water. Helen drew in her breath sharply, stopped me cold and as we stood there stock still, I whispered "What is it?" She said, in astonishment, "A Limpkin." When the magical moment ended, we stood in that path, laughing, jumping up and down in gleeful abandonment like two school children. We often reminisced about that and the trip we had to good friend Jean Beck's home in Texas, where Jean led us on a fabulous Texan nature tour.

Helen was special in so many ways. She was so robust and sharp, remembering every detail of the happenings of life. She nurtured her friendships with calls, cards and letters, always remembering friends' birthdays and special occasions. Her uplifting, enthusiastic approach to life made it a pleasure for us to share joyous birding moments with her.

In the past, it was not unusual for her to call to ask my opinion on something she had been inspired to write. Some writings touched me so much that I asked her to send me a copy. Although the following is a little long, I would like to share with you one of the poems, which Helen entitled "Some Thoughts," written February 1994.

I watched the bright sunrise fill the eastern sky, and I thought - God said "Let      there be light." I looked at the snow-clad mountains across our great river, and I thought - I will      lift my eyes unto the hills. I heard the music of the ice breaking along the shore, and I thought - Make a      joyful noise unto the Lord. I looked at the pure white snow that covered the land, and I thought -Wash me      and I will be whiter than snow. I heard the birds singing on a cold frosty morning, and I thought - The voice of      the turtledove is heard in the land. I watched the deer running across the snowy field, and I thought - God made all      the beasts of the earth and saw that it was good. I watched the water flow as the sun warmed the earth, and I thought - Moses      smote the rock and the water gushed forth. I watched the children playing and heard their happy voices, and I thought -      Jesus said "Let the little children come unto me." I saw the sheep huddled around the warmth of the barn, and I thought - The Lord      is my shepherd. I came into my home and looked at my warm bed, and I thought - Jesus was born      in a stable because there was no room in the inn. At the close of the day as I prepared for bed, I thought - The Grace of our Lord is      with us all.

Such is the essence of what Helen was. May the grace of our Lord be with you and keep you, Helen. We'll miss you.

Wings Over Dutchess, June 2002

Flight of the American Woodcock
 
Submitted in loving memory of Helen Andrews,
who first taught Peggy how to find this beautiful bird.
  
by Elaine Andersen
 

A tranquil evening lured Peggy Fasciani and me out to our favorite haunt in search of the woodcock. Habitat loss makes this harder every year, for housing has severely encroached upon the lea.
We waited for the pastel sunset to fade, as a large and mostly white skunk ambled along the path and into the bushes. Dusk thickened, images softened and quiet settled around us like a snowfall. And then it came: the "peent, peent" of a woodcock calling from the meadow. When we moved closer to his cry, to our astonishment, right there, in full view on the edge of a bare patch, was the bird. Weaving, bobbing and surprisingly upright, he tilted his stiletto bill toward us. His apricot chest and dark patterns revealed him to be, indeed, a most handsome fellow.

But not one to rest upon mere appearance, he now set about an unforgettable aerial display. A timeless yearning for a mate, hard-wired into his DNA, lifted him aloft in a dizzying spiral. As his rapid wings beat in the climb, a fluttering kind of music sounded, as if he were the quivering reed in an oboe of air. Embellished with arabesques and chandelles, his twittering flight curled upward to the peak of his climb, when he turned, and with a shudder veered into catapulting plunges, zig-zagging like a lightning strike, until, mere inches from the earth, he flared his wings and set down as daintily as a sprite.

All those convoluted twists, at amazing speeds, and he still kept track of his launching pad, for he landed where he had begun. What magic allows a tiny creature to navigate dark heavens and find home?

A dozen more flights held us captive as he scaled his sky-stage. Breathless and riveted, we watched
him tirelessly embroider his dance with balletic swoops and dives. Then darkness enfolded him. We left, knowing we had witnessed one of nature's miracles.

Baryshnikov would have envied him.

Wings Over Dutchess, June 2002