A Plan For The PORKY

We live in deep, spruce woods. Porcupines are frequently a problem. They have denned under our house and eaten stored furniture; they have pooped foul mountains. As if that isn’t horrific enough, our dog loves a mouth full of quills. He can’t get enough of it, no matter what it costs him. It’s cost  us plenty in extractions and repairs at the veterinarian. A few years ago, we had a tribe of them move in on us. At night, they climbed into the few oak trees too feed on acorns. They chewed off the end branches, then went for the acorns that fell to the ground. We could hear them squealing, yowling and scuffling around. Falling acorns striking the roofs of our vehicles sounded like gunfire! We had a problem we would have to contend with. Shooting them was obviously necessary. We borrowed a friend’s shotgun which stood in the front hall, loaded for a couple of weeks. Neither of us could bring ourselves to pull the trigger. Then one night, we had been at a party and came home late. Shortly after we went to bed, the acorn missiles started coming in. Bam, bam, bam! We got up to see who was firing at us. From the safety of the front door, David turned on the exterior lights -there they were six baby porcupines. David looked at the shotgun and groaned, “What the hell are we going to do now?” “If we shot the parents last year, we wouldn’t be in such a mess now.” At the party, I had a few Martinis and was now in the mood to take action against the wildlife hoards. “Not to worry, dear” said I. “I’ve got a plan.” David peered at me with deep suspicion and nervously asked “What are you going to do?” Keep in mind that we don’t sleep with any clothes on (I know, I know - TMI), so this conversation was being had while naked. “Don’t you worry, Davie. I’m going to take care of them now. You just stand there and wait.” With that, I ran barefoot and naked with hair flying, arms flailing and screaming into the yard. Forgetting about the crushed rock driveway, I was suddenly prancing and yiping my way to the porcupines. I screamed and hollered, but they did not move. All of a sudden, I was standing bare-assed in the midst of a herd of porcupines. “Go away!” I commanded. I figured, as with dogs and horses, never let them see your fear. Still, they did not move. Naked in the midst of porcupines is about as vulnerable as a girl can feel. But, I had to save face. I turned back to the house. I walked calmly, slapping my hands together as if I had neatly dispatched them all. David’s mouth was agape. “You’re crazy! And look! They’re still there! They didn’t move an inch!” I told him not to worry, that I had taken care of them and they would not be back. Low voiced, he muttered something about nuts as we went to bed. The following day, an adult porky was dead at the head of our driveway. Some will tell you a car hit it. I say it ran away from me, had a heart attack and died. They never came back. And not a shot was fired. I’m sure that tales of horror were told around porky campfires about the mad woman with wild hair and flailing breasts. It was so successful that I thought I’d market my services to the community. I could hear the late, great pitchman Billy Mays hollering, “Varmint Control- Twenty-five dollars- Middle aged woman will run naked and screaming in your yard! Results guaranteed!”



(The little one in these photos was seen yesterday across the road from us. It was lying around on the branches of these locust trees and nibbling the leaves)

Bon Voyage, Clarise And The Kids!

Right on time, they were gone today when I returned from Weeding For Dollars. I did take a couple of photographs this morning, before I left. I didn't get up on the ladder to look for the third chick. I just assumed it was in there, but maybe not. These two characters were looking out for their mother, and perhaps their sibling as it may have left earlier in the day. We have our kitchen door back, so David can take the trash out as an anniversary gift. Tomorrow, we will have been married for eight years. It does not seem possible anymore than it seems possible that the nest is finally, really empty. After my son went back to Colorado, it took me three weeks to straighten up the slip cover on the sofa. Each time I went to do it, I could see him sprawled out there and I couldn't erase that image with tidiness. My darling daughter left this summer, too. A few weeks before she moved to  New Jersey, she left a message on the wipe board in the kitchen. It's been almost two months, and the message is still there. I haven't been able to bring myself to remove it, like the slip cover. And yes, I keep their answering machine messages, too. What are any of us besides the impressions that we leave behind? The indentation of a body on a sofa, a hastily scrawled note, a voice mail - or an empty nest, literally. Some people leave huge impressions in the form of art, writing, recorded music, political offices and more. Some, just a dent in the couch which to the mother, means everything. I can hear Clarise chirping from the woods. I can hear the slightly frantic note in her calls. I'm sure her youngsters are out there and that she's saying, "Be careful! Drive safely! Wear a helmet! Floss daily!" I hope I left them with a good impression.

The Little Monsters, Day 12

Doesn't this one look like as if it has ears? They look like mad scientists, complete with singularity of focus and insanity in their eyes! "The worm! The worm, give us the worm!" Clarise has been bringing bundles of invertebrates and berries. There is a caterpillar and a grasshopper in this load, along with other stuff I can't identify. Feeding is really quick, no appetizers nor grace said. She stuffs it into those golden maws, grabs a fecal sac to discard and runs off to do it again. All three of them seem equally vigorous. Tuesday should be the day they begin to evacuate. I'm going to lay the ladder down on it's side on the ground, so that if any of the nincompoops falls to the ground, I'll get to them before some predator, hopefully.

DAY TEN, Wretched Little Hens!

Okay, I don't know if they are hens or roosters or what they are. They are looking like they could actually blow this phone booth on time, though! They have true feathers, now. They also look like they have ears when they are sitting down. Clarise is very vocal these days, especially if anyone is in the yard. She's got nerve! We don't have to be near her nest, just out of the house and she blats incessantly. She's gone from just aggressive to full on hostile!

DAY EIGHT, Give Back Our Gate!

Day eight,
And we can't wait!
To have back
Our gate!

Or kitchen door, as it were. This was yesterday, August 18th, day eight from hatching. As they saying goes, "you don't miss your water 'till your well runs dry." The same can be said for not being able to use the kitchen door. We have taken for granted the coming and going from that access. Cars park on that side of the house. It's the door through which all of our friends come and go. I warn them all repeatedly, "Do NOT come through the kitchen door!" The dogs favor that entrance. The trash barrels are on that side of the house. And the list could go on. I'll be glad when these little monsters get it together and move on! I want my life back, before adoption. I'm guessing poor, haggard Clarise feels the same. She's sitting on the roof of our trash shed. I am surprised that she is taking berries to her youngsters. What I have read is that robins feed their young invertebrates - caterpillars, and worms as most of us know. I have seen her ferrying those delicacies to them. However, at least half of what I've observed her to serve has been these honeysuckle berries. The juniors, quite suddenly, it seemed, sprouted pin feathers from their wings. I can see them moving without getting up on my ladder. They are exercising their wings when they reach for food. Get ready, get set - GO!

Atlantic Puffins

I can't believe it was a year ago that I went to Machias Seal Island off the coast of Maine to see the Puffins. I'm struck by how much better my photography is now. I made this slide show back then and it shows! Even so, they are really cute and I think that comes across in the photographs, though technically not the greatest. Maybe one day, I'll get a do-over. The island is 10 miles off The Bold Coast. The seas can be rough - think about Boniva or 'The Patch,' at least, forgo a greasy breakfast. I left from Cutler, east of Machias. It was a foggy, misty day; rain nearly kept us ashore, but at the last minute, we went. I was with a clutch of my camera club pals. Cutler boasts the highest number of days of fog on the Maine coast coming in at about 33%. On arrival on the island, the group was escorted by conservation workers from Canada and the US. There is a dispute about which nation 'owns' the island. So, they all work there to keep their hand in. An advantage to this is that the standards of attention to the birds and care of the island may be higher than if there was a single landlord. The Common or Atlantic puffin is not endangered. In Greenland, they eat the birds like squab. At 3,000 birds, MSI has the largest colony in the world. Even so, human exposure is highly controlled. You must stay on a wooden plank-way, no going 'off trail.' Viewing is by groups of four people from observation blinds that look like outhouses. There are open slots, not unlike gun sights from all walls of the blind. There isn't room to sit, so for the two hours of viewing allowed, you get pretty chummy with your companions if you weren't already. If you need to leave the blind you are escorted back to a corral where you wait until everyone is done, never to return to the blind. Make sure you pee before you go to the blind or you'll feel like you're going blind before it's over! And don't even think about breaking the rules. The Canadian conservation worker is a great swarthy man with deeply calloused hands that could break your neck like a chicken. He tells you, "Don't even try to get away with anything to see the puffins or get a unique photograph. We've seen it ALL before. If you can't get a decent photograph while you're here, then there's something wrong with you." He's right about that. He also left no confusion that if you violated the rules, you'd wind up before a magistrate in Nova Scotia so fast it would make your head spin. There was nothing funny about this, but the chubby, little Puffins were comical as all get out!

"To Everything Terns, Terns......."

In Small Point Harbor there is a boat mooring field. In that field is a float, on the float is a stack of lobster traps, on the stack of lobster traps on the float in the mooring field is a colony of Common terns. Can you say that ten times fast? I could not get enough of these terns and took scads of photographs. They are quite habituated to people as they are in the middle of the mooring field so I could get very close to them. The parents were bringing in little fish for the youngsters (click on the last photo to enlarge and you'll see that). Noisy, they utter a loud "kkkkeeeeey," as they swoop around. I love their streamlined bodies and sharply contrasted coloration. Plus, they are so gregarious! A bird after my own heart, indeed. I'm glad I don't own the boats that they favor for perching, though. What a mess they make!

Don't Fall In!

I took these photographs, yesterday, August 14th, day five from hatching. I have taken photographs every 24 hours. I've waited to update you though, because not much had changed. They have looked like newborn mice, pink and slightly downy. I've been surprised that the chicks have not progressed faster. I expected that they would have more feathers. It's supposed to take 14 days from hatching for them to leave the nest, so they've got some work to do! All three of them are alive and well. I haven't noticed that any of them are less vigorous than the others. That's good because it means they each have more of a chance. In these shots, you can see that their eye lids have a slight opening now. They have pigment changes in their skin. See the dark tipping on the wings and feet? They are stronger than when they were hatched and more demanding. They hold their heads up for food a little longer each day. That's a lot of work for them, like holding a bowling ball on the end of a noodle. Their necks are quite floppy. Their mom, who I call Clarise, is very busy gathering worms and caterpillars for them. She's on her own; the father finished his work long ago and disappeared. We avoid giving her reason to be aggressive around the nest, but nonetheless, she seems kind of stressed. She's okay, just really busy. As you can see from this open pit of a mouth, it probably feels like an endless job shoving food into that cake hole! Yesterday was my sister's birthday, the one who died. By the time my mother had three of us, she was at least as stressed as Clarise. My father wasn't much help either, after having gotten her into that mess. I know she was overwhelmed by her children. And, she would have two more, like a North American Robin that has a second or third hatching in a summer. I was the first hatching. Every one thereafter exhausted her further. My mother became like an ant that has fallen into a sand pit. There was nothing she could do but keep scrambling to get out, ultimately, to no avail. In the process of that, she stomped on some of her children, too.

TREE SWALLOWS Raising Younguns

      These TREE SWALLOWS reside in a Blue Bird box. Tree swallows are famous for nesting in those boxes. Sometimes, when they first start checking out the boxes as potential homes in the spring, their brilliant blue-black feathers dupe the hopeful into thinking that they see an Eastern Bluebird.They are not a disappointment, though.
     Tree Swallows are aggressively protective of their nests and will dive bomb approaching threats. This includes cats, raccoons, and in this case, me. An Apricot tree provided enough cover to get these photos. I had to hold very still as any movement riled up the birds. The mosquitoes were awful which made that torturous as I had to let them bite me.
     The Barn swallows I posted earlier feed their young partially digested pellets of insects which they regurgitate into their youngster's throats. Tree swallows differ in that they feed the young whole insects. You can see this in the last photo.
     I saw at least two chicks in the box. There were probably more. They usually have 4-6. Males and females both take care of the chicks. Like the Barn swallows, they sometimes nest twice a year. The chicks in these photos are just about to be thrown out of the house. As my father used to say when we left home, "Write when you get work!"

BIRDS Of Maine

This is a video I made a year ago of various photographs of birds. You know the drill, give it a minute to buffer or it will get cranky. At the bottom of the video box is a little button for full screen viewing which you might like better than this itty bitty doll house movie. It's a soothing movie, but in deference to Quentin Tarantino (Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill One and Kill Bill Two), I've given you part two first. Go figure.

You Can't Save Them All

Eleven years ago today, was the last time I talked to my mother. On the phone, her four, simple words cracked the air, “Your sister is dead.” Four decades of anger fueled her proclamation. I had three sisters, but we both knew which one she meant.
     Only sixteen months apart, my sister and I had been like twins when we were younger. Later, we had our differences and I hadn’t spoken with her for a few years. My sister was a drug dealer and occasionally, a prostitute as need arose. She was forty-two when she died. To this day, her cause of death remains undetermined. But most of us who knew her had our suspicions that her life style choices were the reason, if not the cause. Just the same, she was my little sister.
     I have a snap shot of us, the three oldest girls up in an apple tree. Our scrawny legs are dangling from red shorts my mother had sewed. That moment is where I stopped the memories of my sister.
     Stunned and choked up, I asked my mother for details and tried to console her. But she wasn’t having any of that. I asked about Dad. She hung up. I called our only brother and the one sister who I still had contact with. Nobody knew anything. In a matter of hours my mother flew from Georgia to Maine like a witch on a broom. Her grief and rage must have cleaved the very sky. She had my sister cremated, then without word nor ceremony, she left for Georgia. There wasn’t a funeral or memorial service. None of us saw the body and it’s still hard to believe. I never heard from my mother again. I wish I could have helped her. I wish she would have let me. I wish I could have saved my sister.
     My sister liked seals. Once, she gave me photographs she took of a pair from a boat. When I first saw this Harp seal on the beach, I assumed it was dead. When I walked up behind it, it reared up and roared fiercely. Its white fur made me think it was a baby, even though it had a mouth full of dangerous looking teeth. I found out later it was a year old, a juvenile. It scared the hell out of me! I backed off thinking it might come thrashing toward me like I had seen Sea lions do on the Discovery channel. My feet might have been sucked down into the mud; I’d fall backward, vainly fending it off with my huge camera lens, only to be devoured. I would be remembered like Phippsburg’s own Steve Irwin.     
     However, all it did was mew and groan and flap lamely. Occasionally, it roared. Suspecting it was ill, I decided to call Marine Mammal Rescue (MMR, Dept. of Marine Resources), but that meant I had to leave it behind. I hated to leave it; it seemed so pathetic. I wanted to do something for it, give it a blanket or at least, a cigarette, something. In the end, I had to leave it on the mud. The MMR biologists came and took it to a rehabilitation center. You can’t save all of them all of the time, but you can save some of them some of the time. I thought of my sister.