FLYday - Common Tern In Flight Vocalizing

Common Tern, immature in flight vocalizing. Phippsburg, Maine summer, 2012

 

FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly.

Bank Of America And Nature's Imponderables

 

Bald eagle, adult perched on snow. European Starlings, Great Black-backed and Herring gull in flight, Maine, February 2009

Bald eagle impassively perched on snow while European starlings fly by. There is a Great Black-backed gull in flight. If you look under its left wing, a starling can be seen flying right under it! I wish I possessed such great manuevering skills.

     I enjoy studying the behaviors of living things. The whys of behaviors fascinate me. The study of living things is what got me into writing, photography and birding. Why do small birds attack big birds that could kill them? Where do butterflies spend their winters? How do they get there? Why do humans dream what they do? Do birds dream? 

     The questions and subjects seem endless. Photography gives me the chance to study things more closely than I might be able to in the wild, on the fly. Writing allows me to investigate and think about the questions. I am quickly sucked into the life of others’ and their relatedness. The imponderables are usually magic for me, but not always.

     For over a decade, I have served as court appointed conservator to my grandmother’s financial affairs. Prior to my involvement, her progressive blindness, dementia and paranoia had spun her life into a hot mess. Too impaired to operate her microwave, she stuffed it with mail and used it as a file cabinet. Bills went unpaid or were paid sometimes three times over. She had accounts in fourteen different banks. One of the first things I did was to consolidate them into one account in the bank she had been with the longest, Bank of America. It would prove to be a big mistake.

     Every month, I must deposit a bundle of assorted checks to my grandmother’s account. Monthly, she receives about a dozen checks from her health insurance company as refunds in varying amounts. I also receive rent checks from the tenant who lives in her house. 

     Bank of America , though the tellers do recognize me, insists that I present to them photo identification, my social security number and deposit slips, though I am putting money in, never withdrawing money. On occasion over the years I have forgotten to take a deposit slip. When this happens, I have to go home, fifteen miles away, and then return to try again. They make no exceptions. 

    The tenant who rents my grandmother's house writes the rent checks to me. Bank of America won't take these checks from me because I don't have an account with them, nor does the tenant. There is more than enough money at all times in my grandmother’s account to cover it should it bounce. Nonetheless, they will not take the checks.

   I am forced to take the rent checks to my bank, The Bank Across The Street. They give me twelve hundred dollars in cash, which I take back to Bank of America and deposit. Cash they will accept. Then, I deposit the insurance checks.

     To complicate things, the tenant got very behind on the rent. I threatened him with eviction, where upon, he coughed up a check for six thousand dollars (yes, he was very behind). When I took that check to The Bank Across The Street, they had no problem cashing it, but they did ask if I'd take a bank check. They wanted to avoid draining the cash drawers. I said “Certainly.”

     While the teller cut the check, I groused about their competitor. She looked up from her desk. "Wait, did I hear you right? All you’re trying to do over there is put money in? Deposit it?" I said yes. "Here at The Bank Across the Street, we don't care who you are if you're trying to put money in," she giggled. I laughed and took my check. Though they cash my checks without question, I still have to make two trips to two banks and stand in line each month just to get my grandmother's business done.

   And, though I was bearing a bank check, Bank of America still gave me a hard time when I tried to deposit it because the check was made out to me, rather than to my grandmother. Though I had a deposit slip, I still had to provide identification and my social security number. I glanced up at the security cameras. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I felt like they thought I was which made me feel like I looked guilty.

   Months went by. I dutifully took a deposit slip with me each month. Knowing they would demand it, I had my driver's license ready, no fishing in my handbag keeping the officious tellers waiting. That's the worst part of it, the looks they give me. They are cold as stone, not a smile in the lot. Oddly there isn't a bit of noise. It's silent. No phones ring, no doors close, even customers don't speak in the curious, infectious cold. Each teller window has a jar with wrapped, hard candy, presumably for customers. I have never seen anyone reach for one, nor would I dare.

     Eventually, the tenant again fell behind on the rent. I again threatened eviction. This time, he produced a seven thousand dollar check. I also had nine insurance checks. At The Bank Across The Street I didn't wait for the teller to ask if a bank check was okay; I suggested it. "Certainly, who would you like this made out to," she asked. Remembering that the last time, Bank of America had hassled me about the check written to me, I gave her my grandmother's name. “Edith P. Bailey, B-A-I-L-E-Y, I told her. Behind me, two customers chatted about daffodils breaking ground and other signs of early spring. A woman laughed from an office. Smiling, I said thanks and took my check.

     At Bank of America, I stood in line in the tomb of a bank. While waiting, I had a creeping feeling that I had forgotten a deposit slip. I'd have to hope for the best. At the teller's window, I put the stack of checks onto the counter. The insurance checks were on the top and the bank check on the bottom, neatly piled. Pointing to my grandmother's name on the first insurance check, I said "I'd like to deposit these into her account, please." Looking at the check without touching it, as if it were a dog pile, the teller asked "Is this you?" I said, no. "It's my grandmother's account. I just want to deposit these checks for her. I'm her conservator. You have all the documents on file."

     I'm of the school of thought that more bees are lured with honey than vinegar. I'm very nice to service people. After all, they are people just like me who are trying to make a buck to pay their bills. They don't make the rules. To get things done, I can be as sugary as necessary. I smiled sweetly at the teller. The young man, who stood ram rod straight wearing a shirt so starched his mother must have done it, said, "I need photo ID please." With the tip of his finger, he slid a piece of paper to me, "And your social security number." I thought “thank God, he hasn't insisted on a deposit slip, how nice." He stared at the computer screen, his hands moving silently across the keyboard. He stopped. "There is no record of an account here." His eyes looked dead.

     At first I thought he was speaking to someone else. I looked over my shoulder; no one was behind me. Then, it dawned on me. "Oh! No, I'm sorry, you looked up my information, but it's my grandmother's account, not mine,” I smiled. He looked at me with reptilian loathing. "Yes. I realize that. Are you on this account?" Somehow, it wasn't a question, it was an accusation. "No, I'm not. I'm the conservator. You have the information in the computer." I couldn't help it, but I think I winced. "You need a deposit slip," he stated flatly. I wanted to say "No, you need a deposit slip, I don't!" Instead, I sighed deeply and left.

     Out of sheer despair, I looked around in my car on the off chance that I had stashed some deposit slips for just such an emergency and voila! I found two! I nearly trotted back into the bank. After waiting in line again, I handed the stack of checks and the deposit slips to the young man. "You only need one," he said, sliding one back at me without looking. I took it, jamming it into my handbag. One by one, he processed the nine insurance checks. When he got to the bank check at tthe bottom of the stack, he stopped moving. "This check is made out to someone else's account."  Like a dunderhead I said "What?"

     "This check is made out to Edith P. Daily.” In one, smooth motion, he slid the check across the counter and spun it around toward me without seeming to actually touch it. Blinking, I took it. "Oh my God! I just had this written at The Bank Across The Street! The teller must have misheard me or just mistyped it." My voice trailed off. I could feel the hives rise on my neck. For an instant, I thought he was going to press the hot button for the police.

   I prayed that The Bank Across The Street would own the mistake and rewrite the check. I had cashed the tenant's check and had no proof of anything, only a bad bank check. Seven thousand dollars could be going up in he said she said smoke!

     Thankfully, there weren't any problems. After a few minutes of trying to figure out how to reverse a bank check, and then rewrite it, I was given a new check. Back to Bank of America I went.

     When I got there, there weren’t any customers. “Great, I won’t have to wait in line,” I thought.  Seeing the young man, I went eagerly to his window. Brandishing my new check, I said "Look! It’s straightened out!" I declared cheerfully "We can try this again!" Just as I started to hand it to him, he said "I'm with another customer." I looked around, terribly embarrassed; I flushed. I regard line jumping as the ultimate in rudeness. "Oh, sorry, sorry," I said scurrying behind the velevet rope. Suddenly, I realized there wasn't another soul in there besides him and another teller. Nor was he on the phone. After what felt like eternity, the other teller, whom I knew to be a manager, said icily, "I'll take the next customer."

     I handed her the stack of checks. The young man shuffled papers, never looked up, nor spoke. No one came in to the bank. The manager teller said “I’ll need a deposit slip.” I’ll admit that right at that moment, some of my sugar had begun to burn.

     “I just gave a deposit slip to that young man minutes ago. He has one right on his desk.”

     She repeated dryly “I’ll need a deposit slip.”

     Pointing to the young man’s work area, I said “I just gave him one! He hasn’t even had time to put it in his drawer yet!” I thought I might actually blow my stack. “He has one!” I snarled.

    The starched young man who was playing with his invisible customer, so could not wait on me, stopped what he wasn’t doing and said to me “You have another deposit slip.”

     I wanted to jump over the counter, slap him in the head and kill him. Granted, I did have another slip, which I had jammed into my handbag, but that was not the point. Clearly, Bank of America sent all of its employees to the Rush Limbaugh School of Customer Service! I was nearly driven to the point of madness by this outrageousness! I wondered if I had something in my handbag that I could use as a weapon. I was not turning over the deposit slip. Chapstick? Could I stab him to death with a chapstick? Could I suffocate him with wads of used Kleenex? Yes, I’d jam them down his throat and watch his face turn blue while he struggled. That seemed fair.

     I imagined the police storming through the doors. I imagined the two tellers on the floor, the manager slumped, dazed, the young man, dead. His face would be purple and he’d have tissue bulging from his mouth. His starched shirt would be a mangled, hot mess. I imagined being handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a cruiser. I imagined being in jail. It felt peaceful. I’d have a lot of time to spend on the imponderables of the behaviors of living things.

     In the end, I collected my composure and handed over the deposit slip. I had spent hours on this project, just trying to deposit my grandmother’s money into her account. I had stood in line repeatedly, made five trips between banks and been polite until it nearly killed me. I was tired.

     That night, my sleep was fitful. I dreamed dreams of birds and prisons. Checks with indecipherable names blew through the air like leaves. Great flocks of nameless black birds flew through the skies bearing deposit slips in their bills. They screamed and cried “Why, why, why?” 

This post was selected as Editor's Pick on the cover of Open Salon (http://open.salon.com/cover)

It is the fourteenth of my works to be chosen. 

Power Of The Porky - Porcupine Encounters

This is the business part of a porcupine, the quills. In the top collage, the porkies in the trees are babies. The one in the middle is an adult.

Tough foot pads and claws help porcupines to climb trees.

Baby porcupine feet, teeth and 'product.'

Porcupines can be very destructive to trees. When they girdle the bark as in the lower photograph, it kills the tree. They are voracious eaters. The food they eat is low in nutritional value, so they must consume vast quantities. That results in lots of 'end product,' as seen above.

When there were six feet of snow on the ground last winter, the porcupines sat on top and ate the bark of these Spruce trees. These trees will die soon.

The sharp, hard quills are mixed in with stiff, guard hairs. The quills contrast with the hairs so that predators can see the porcupine in the dark when they are the most active.

"OUCH!"

     A couple of months ago, our dog got a face full of porcupine quills. It was the fourth time he has done it. They say that dogs don't learn from the misery of that experience and will do it again and again. Apparently so. Our dog doesn't attack them, as some dogs do. He does not have strong prey drive. He just sniffs them, but that's all it takes.
     The common name "porcupine" comes from the French porc d'epine, meaning "thorny hog" referring to the more than 30,000 quills which serve as their main defense. They are docile creatures reported to make good pets (don't try this at home, kids). Porcupines do not attack dogs; dogs attack porcupines. Porkies have muscular, rolly-polly bodies like small pigs and smell kind of like old sawdust. Their quills are simply specialized hairs which raise up when the animal is tense, much like the hair on your arm raises when you are scared.  An alarmed porky will rattle its quills to warn a predator. The quills also emit a strong hormonal smell when the animal is threatened. 
     Neither do porcupines shoot quills, as is the folk lore. They raise the quills up to make themselves look bigger to the enemy. A threatened porky will thrash its quill laden tail back and forth impaling its assailant. The quills come loose easily, much like hair. The outer tip has a reverse barb which hooks readily into whatever it contacts. The sharp quills cause tremendous pain, prompting the dog to paw at itself and roll its face in the dirt in efforts to remove the quills, only driving them deeper.
    We live in old spruce forest, favored habitat for porcupines. We have met the porkies face to face in the dens they make in the piles of windfalls. They have denned under our house and I've seen as many as seven at one time! We are over run with them! This time, our dog encountered the porky at home under one of our decks. He yowled, then raced to the door, desperate to come in with what looked like a dead animal in his mouth. "Oh no you don't, Buster!" I yelled and slammed the door in his face. At the same instant, I realized his muzzle was bristling with quills.
     We have a wonderful dog, but he does have his issues. Besides lapses in judgement, he also hates to be restrained. Though he only weighs thirty-eight pounds, it nearly requires a straight jacket  to trim his nails. We have to take him to the vet for that. He gets so wrought up he trembles and pees himself. Not unlike myself, he requires sedation for almost everything.  Nor will he take pills of any kind. No matter what it's hidden in, he will spit the pill. He won't take biscuits from the UPS driver, either.  He makes the driver put the biscuit on the ground only taking it after the guy leaves, so that it never appears that he can be bought. He's no dumby, though he is very difficult when it comes to medical needs.
     So, of course the latest quill debacle happened on a Friday night at six-thirty, when all good vets are at home working on their second martinis. Emergency veterinary services were more than an hour away. Quills need to be removed immediately. Some suggest that if you take a dog into a wooded area where you expect porcupines, take pliers with you so you can do the job right away. The longer the quills stay in flesh the harder it is to extract them. They also begin to migrate into the body and can kill an animal.
     The dog was shrieking in pain and clawing at his own face. It was not a time for timidity. There was nothing to do but get  the pliers, swig a mouthful of whiskey and pull. First, we offered the dog a couple of shots of whiskey, but he said no, he only wanted a bullet to bite down on. So we swilled his share and commenced. We pulled three quills before we had to get help. Brute strength was needed and the two of us weren't enough. I raced to our neighbor, Ed's house.He was standing at his barbecue grill tongs in hand, but did not hesitate. He tossed down the tongs, shut off the gas and ran with me to our house.
     We put the dog in the bathroom so he wouldn't escape and because blood was coming from somewhere. It was tight quarters for three adults and a dog. The bathroom turned into a steam bath, sweat was pouring from all of us. The dog started blowing hair everywhere, which dogs do under extreme stress. He immediately slipped his collar and leaped into the bathtub to get away. We bound him in a blanket and started over. After the dog had seen the pliers, we couldn't get near his face. The strength of a terrified animal is astonishing! We had to blindfold him. He curled back his lips, snarled and bared his great, canine teeth in self defense. That may have been because he had quills in his mouth or simply horrendous pain. Either way, it was dangerous. A terrified dog in pain will bite no matter how loyal a beast he may otherwise be. Hell! I would have bitten someone myself under the circumstances! We were all fearful that we would be bitten or otherwise maimed. It's easy to injure a dog in a melee like that. Their shoulders can be dislocated or bones broken while you're wrestling them.
     I got a golf club to put between the dog's jaws and teeth so he had something to bite besides ourselves. The plastic covering of the club was shredded immediately, but the metal held. Somewhere in there the dog bit down on his own tongue. Blood gushed all over the place as he screeched. The four of us floundered in a battlefield of blood, sweat and hair . Just when it seemed it could not get worse, the dog pooped himself.
    We suffered two and half hours in the  bathroom hotbox, flailing in dog poop, blood, sweat and fear. In the end, we pulled eighteen quills. With nothing left in any of us, we had to give it up and hope for the best. If the dog got through the night, I'd take him to a vet the next day. Exhausted, we all went outside. The dog was double leashed, though he didn't have the strength to go anywhere nor tangle with wildlife. He could barely stand up! We sucked deep draughts of fresh, night air and  babbled light hearted chit chat, while reconnecting on a friendly level with the dog.
    When this whole affair had started, my husband had just gotten out of the shower and was in his pajamas. There he stood in his P.J.s staggering as badly as the dog and about to collapse. I realized it was hours past when he had needed dinner. Ed made soft talk to the dog. "There, Perry. You'll feel better pretty quick. Have a little drink of water will ya? Here ya go, fella," he said, nudging the dog to the bowl of water. We were all plastered with blood, dog hair, and "other." Though we were out of the bathroom, I could still smell intense poo."Ed, I can't thank you enough," I said. "I'll owe you forever for this." "No, no you don't. Don't you worry about it," he said. "These are the things friends do for each other." I watched the dog teetering sideways. Awash in after crisis let down and love, I thought I might cry. My husband muttered, "Ya, Eddie, thanks. Oh God! I've got to sit down." As he sunk to the steps, I saw that he had a big smear of dog poop across the lens of his glasses.
     Ed went home. The dog went to bed. My husband took another shower. I made dinner. While cooking, I pondered the nature and depth of friendships. Ed was a friend indeed and heroic, as was my husband. If I were to be stranded on a desert island, they are the two people I would want to be with me. I want people in my life who love me enough to do whatever it takes to help me. No matter what it costs, I'm worth it to them. Our dog will one day probably engage with a porcupine again. We love him anyway and we love him enough to rise above our own fears to help him through his serial stupidities. That's the kind of person I want to love me.
     The question remains: why do dogs persist in contacts with porcupines? It's unlikely they forget the pain and terror, because dogs have good memories. It must simply be that there is something so enticing and attractive that it's worth it in the end. As a photographer, I understand. To get close enough to a porcupine to smell it and feel its chubby body, to photograph its teeth, quills and feet was risky. But I couldn't help myself. I did it anyway. Now, we'll see who loves me enough to hog tie me and pull the quills from my snarling face!

FLYday - American Kestrel

An American Kestrel diving from its perch for prey. The kestrel is our smallest hawk. Phippsburg, Maine 2011

An homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly.

Note:  For those of you who may have been wondering where I am, I've been working on a project and Weeding For Dollars as 'tis the season. In the mean time, our dog took a face full of porcupine quills which has really fouled up my time lines. Thus, a FLYday that is on Sunday. I do know it's Sunday and have not totally lost my mind, yet. I'll be back, never fear!

"KIWI!!!!" Or Maybe a Woodcock

American Woodcock April 7, 2011 Phippsburg, Maine

This wasn't a rush, because it was  lone woodcock. One is a woodcock, two or more are still woodcock, like deer are still deer.  A group of woodcock is called a "rush," "fall", "flight", "plump," or "cord." Don't let anyone cheat you; a cord of woodcock measures 4 by 4 by eight feet.

Look closely at the back end of this bird. Naughty, naughty, naughty!

      My sainted husband is not a birder, but he does know what makes his little wifey happy - BIRDS!  Though he isn't good at identifying birds, he has developed a pretty good eye for the weird, odd, curious and standouts. That is why he is married to me, after all. He recently called me at home from his cell phone yelling "KIWI! There's a kiwi on Popham Road, come quick!" I didn't ask questions because that would slow me down. I jumped into the car and sped in pursuit. On the way, I pondered, "Kiwi?" What the hell was he talking about?

     The American Woodcock and the kiwi don't even reside on the same continents, so I was pretty sure that he was looking at a woodcock. But, an exciting thing about birding is, as the saying goes, "You just never know!" Distributions of species of birds changes as the environment changes (I'm trying not to say "global warming"), birds get blown around by weather events, and people obtain and release foreign species. So, most anything could be possible and is at least worth consideration. Birding allows every one of us to morph from the tweedy Professor Henry Jones, Jr. into Indiana Jones. That is, if you're willing to drop everything and take off in the pursuit of the living artifacts.

This is me hot on the hunt for the Phippsburg kiwi

      Of course, when I got there, the kiwi was gone. But, I could hear two of them in the woods. Body snatched by the spirit of Indiana Jones, I raced silently through the forest. My heart pounding, with breath quick, I could almost feel the coveted golden idol in my hands! My ancient Temple Of Trees was filled with booby traps entangling my feet. I stepped  unwittingly into a snare and was lurched by my ankles high into the canopy. But! From my boot tops, I grabbed my Bowie knife and cut the line, swinging from the end to the ground. Now, camouflaged in leaves and mud, I continued. "I must retrieve the golden idol before my arch rival, French ornithologist, Michuad Fahaydue!" Twice, I flushed them but was left with a ghostly whirring of wings through the branches. Light failing me, I would have to return to my University in Indiana, to search another day.
   Of course, I went back the very next day. Sure enough, it was an American woodcock. I do understand why my husband thought "kiwi."  The birds are not dissimilar in appearance to the untrained eye, the eye of one whose birding knowledge does not go beyond a can of shoe polish and his wife's undying gratitude for the effort. The kiwi and the woodcock have vaguely similar morphology, but that's where all similarities end.

Kiwis lay the largest eggs relative to body size of all living bird species on earth.

    Kiwis, are from New Zealand and not even remotely related to woodcocks. The kiwi is flightless, while the woodcock is not and the kiwi is endangered. American woodcock, sometimes called "Timberdoodles,"  are not endangered. However, their numbers have been steadily decreasing by about one percent a year since the 1960s. When young forest was plentiful, woodcock were abundant. But many brushy areas have grown into mature forest, where woodcock do not live. And human development has destroyed much of the birds' former habitat. In true action movie form, The National Fish And Wildlife Foundation has a "Woodcock Task Force" which targets woodcock populations for conservation. "Save the woodcock!" Do you suppose they wear camo. to their meetings?
     Like the snipes they are related to, the woodcock are a popular game bird. They present a particular challenge to hunters because they are so hard to see on the ground. They are elusive targets; when startled into flight, they bely their portly shape, quickly zigzagging through the trees. Some species, especially those endemic to islands,  have been hunted to near extinction. Artists value the woodcocks' pin feathers used for fine painting work. The woodcock are a group of seven or eight very similar living species. But, there are only two woodcock that are widespread, most of them found in the Northern Hemisphere. Indiana Jones would groove on the notion that eight species of woodcock are known only from their fossil records.
     As the name implies, woodcock are woodland birds that live near wetlands, streams and rivers. Oddly, they are actually a sandpiper, and a wading bird! They are unusual in this group (sandpipers, dunlins, curlews, etc.) of birds as the only members that live, nest and breed in the woods. They are one of the few shorebirds widely hunted for sport.
     Like all wading birds, they have a very long middle toe. For wading birds, the middle toe acts like a snow shoe, distributing the bird's weight over a greater area so they don't sink into the mud. They have eyes set wide apart on their heads which gives them 360 degree vision. With their long, slender bill they poke around in the dirt for worms. Unlike most birds, the top of their bill is flexible at the tip. The guess is that they actually feel the worms underground with their tongue and bill tip. But, no one really knows what's going on under the earth. A woodcock rocks its body back and forth without moving its head as it slowly walks around, stepping heavily with its front foot. This action may make worms move around in the soil, making them easier to detect. The woodcock in these photographs was doing just that while maintaining a sideways eye on me.
     I waited a long time, hoping that the bird would do something a little more interesting than humping along the ground, walking like an Egyptian in search of supper. Suddenly, it hunched up, extended its neck, then ruffled its feathers. Camera trained and ready, I squealed, "Oh yeah!, It's gonna do something and I'm ready!" It arched its back slightly then shot out a load of poo, as you can see in the second photo. Oh, well, action is action in the wildlife world. Be careful what you ask for. Woodcock are mostly nocturnal wandering around in the wooded dark looking for food. In the day time, they rest like the one you see here.
     Though they are a common bird, they are often hard to find because of their cryptic plumage. They blend into their surroundings of usually fallen leaves. You may actually nearly step on one in the woods or, as is the case, on the grass and never know they are there. Had I not been on a quest for this particular bird, I would have  missed it entirely.

     Woodcocks in North America are migratory. In Maine, they start appearing in mid March.

A spring freshet, Phippsburg, Maine April 2011

This is the very sort of habitat woodcocks love!

     My earliest sighting was February 12th here in Phippsburg a couple of years ago, but that's early. They become conspicuous when they begin to mate. In the spring, they often begin mating on lingering patches of snow. Where the woodcock displays is called a "singing ground." In the elaborate display called "roding," the males begin to call on the ground, "peent! peent! peent!" It's a high, nasal sound with a slight buzz that you might have heard and mistaken for spring frogs or insects. One of my gardening customers has a solar powered gizmo for warding rodents from his stone walls. It emits an electronic peenting buzz every fifteen seconds which sounds exactly like a woodcock. I've been foiled more than once skulking around his property looking for the hiding bird.

     Once peenting, the bird  flies upward in an ever widening spiral for two to three hundred feet! As he rises, his wings begin to twitter. Once descending, he chirps and starts a zigzagging, diving pattern to the ground. Nearing the ground he silently lands near a female if there is one. On the ground, he starts peenting again. The displays are usually at dawn and dusk and can go on all summer, long after mating is finished, but they're most common in spring. 

     Having completed this doctoral disertation, I must be be off in search of an emu reported to be near, or was that the fog horn on Seguin I heard? Now, if only I can find my bullwhip..........

For some of the information, thanks to:

wikipedia.com

allaboutbirds. org

whatbird.com

Elphick, J. in The Golden Age Of Lithography: 1850-1890, BIRDS - The Art Of Ornithology 2008, Scriptum: London (2004), pp 241

Tudge, C., 2008. In The Bird - A Natural History Of Who Birds Are, Where They Came From And How They Live, Tudge, C. PLOVERS AND LAPWINGS, SANDPIPERS, SNIPES, CURLEWS, DOWITCHERS, PHALAROPES, AVOCETS AND STILTS, JACANAS, PAINTED SNIPES OYSTERCATCHERS, THE CRAB PLOVER, STONE CULEWS, PRATINCOLES AND COUSERS, SEED SNIPES, THE PLAINS WANDERER, SHEATHBILLS, GULLS, TERNS, SKUAS AND JAEGERS, SKIMMERS AND AUKS: ORDER CHARADRIIFORMES, Crown Publishers: New York (2008), pp 136-37

Sibley, D.A., The Sibley Guide To Birds, 2000, Knopf: New York (2001), pp 192

Keppie, D. M., and R. M. Whiting, Jr. 1994. American Woodcock (Scolopax minor). In The Birds of North America, No. 100 (A. Poole, and F. Gill, eds.). The Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia, PA, and The American Ornithologists' Union, Washington, D.C.

Reincarnation And The Science Of Connection Or Just Another Harp Seal

Harp or "Saddle" seal, male April 9, 2011 Phippsburg, Mainen Soaking up the sun on the Kennebec River, Phippsburg, Maine

Harp seal basking in the spring sun, April 9, 2011 Phippsburg, Maine

     I went to the supermarket a few days ago. That's always a big deal because I wait until there is literally nothing left in the house to eat. I only go shopping about once a month to really restock my pantry. It's amazing how far I can stretch it, too. I can come up with very tasty dishes from a few cans of whatever, a lone onion sprouting a green tendril and a dehydrated sausage in the back of the freezer. The cue for when I must go shopping is when I get to the dead birds in my freezer, and I don't mean chicken.
   I have a collection of dead birds that have hit my windows or otherwise met their demise carefully wrapped and stored in a freezer, known as "the mausoleum,"  in my basement. I've lost count, but there must be a dozen. Though it is against the law to possess them, when I find these birds, I just don't have the heart to throw them onto the compost or into the bushes. Most of them are as perfect as the moment before they died when flight was still their friend. It feels unfair that they died suddenly, sometimes inexplicably at thier most beautiful. They are so lovely, even the plain-Janes of the bird world. It seems disrespectful to the dead to just fling them. So, I wrap them in a paper towel shroud and double bag them. Into the mausoleum they go. God bless whomever invented the zipper lock bag, commonly known as "Zip Locks," for they maintain a tight seal for years. So I've discovered.
     Once I have rummaged in the freezer depths and pillaged the food contents, when I get to those birds, I know I must get to the supermarket. The process fills me with dread. When I get to the birds, a bubble of anxiety the size of the Hindenburg balloons inside my chest. For one thing, each time I'm reminded that I'm committing a crime by keeping my entombed feathered friends. Akin to knowing that one has cheated on one's income tax (something I would never do), one lives with the fear of getting caught. The other thing is that I know it will take me hours to go shopping and cost me a sheik's ransom before I'm done. I am a package reader and examiner of ethnic foods, much like I examine the feathers, eyes and feet of dead birds. It takes me ages to get through the market. If you go with me and are in a hurry, forget it. But, I can tell you what's in Hoisin sauce and how many calories there are in a tablespoon.
     After one of my mega shop expeditions, I employ measures to correct the physical effects of the attendant panic attack. To calm the chest pain, palpitations and hyperventilations I reward myself. Some might resort to a handful of Xanax in cases like this, but I take photographs. This time, I took the longer, scenic route home in the hopes of finding photographic subjects and was handsomely remunerated by nature, the greatest recompenser.
     With a full load of perishables and frozen foods, I was whizzing homeward when I saw what looked at first glance like a human body on the shore. The day before, tragically a local man had fallen out of his boat and was missing, so this wasn't a ridiculous notion. A massive search by the Coast Guard, Marine Patrol and hundreds of  neighbors was still underway. "Oh, God, it's Dick," I thought. I pulled the car over.
     Dick was a clammer who spent his life on the banks of the Kennebec River. A well known character about town, he was a man of opinions and yarns. Better than most, he knew the shores, the mud flats, marshes and waters where the river meets the Atlantic. But something went terribly wrong. His boat was found running in circles and nearly out of gas without him. It's been days now, and he hasn't been found. No declarations have been made, but in our hearts we all know he's not coming back. His body will probably never be found.  Dick's story will be told without a real ending. As much as it would have been awful to be the one who found him, it would have been okay to give closure to the family he left behind. They will probably always live without explanation which we humans rarely suffer well.

Harp seals live where it's colored purple.

     Harp seals live in the  Arctic circle on the Labrador front. They are pagofilic, or "ice loving." They spend most of their lives on pack ice where they give birth to their young. Prior to 1994, they were virtually unknown on the coast of Maine. Since 1990, their range has been inching southward. Harp seals summer in the Arctic and winter in Newfoundland, but increasingly are seen as far south as North Carolina. It's not rare to see them between December and April in Maine. They are usually seen on shore ledges in coves and harbors. This year, from Maine to North Carolina, a hundred sightings have been reported, three times the number of previous years. In Maine, there have been forty reported, which is double that of last year.
     The Harp seal in these photographs is an adult (I'm guessing male) called a "white-coat" at this phase of its life. Adults are not seen as often as juveniles. From birth to about 14 months, they are called "beaters," for the erratic way that they swim. They do not develop the distinctive, lyre harp pattern on the back until after they are a year old. The first Harp seal I ever saw was on April 6, 2009, a "beater," here in Phippsburg.
     Why these seals are showing up here more frequently is not known. There is speculation that diminishing habitat - melting pack ice, may be a factor. They might be looking for more places to ice out to whelp pups. Reduced populations of the fish they eat may be another reason. Harp seals are common in their normal range, so less ice for them to occupy results in too many of them for the habitat. There have been fluctuations in pack ice before, but never as dramatically as seen in the past two decades. These factors are only speculative to date, as none of these possible causes have been proved. Scientists continue to gather data toward answering this question. But, for now, what goes on in the minds and hearts of a these animals can only be guessed.     
      I for one, have another idea. In our need for closures and explanations of events without real answers, it serves as well as any. I think Harp seals on the coast of Maine may be reincarnations. My sister, who adored seals, died the first week in April thirteen years ago. Her's also remains an unexplained death. I associate seals not only with her, but in particular, the Harp seal with her death. And again, there is another Harp seal, a great strapping bull, just like Dick who was a strapping, rugged man who loved the sea.

This post is in memory of my sister, Piper Lee Riley, and  Richard, "Dickey" Lemont.

Thanks for some of the information to:

Wikipedia.com

Maine College Of The Atlantic

University Of New England

Marine Mammal Rescue, Maine Department Of Marine Resources

Increase In Extralimital Records Of Harp Seals In Maine, Stevick, P.J. and Fernald, T.W., Northeastern Naturalist 5(1): 75-82

Wordless Wednesday

Inglorious End

"Look! It's It A Bird! It's A Plane! It's.......SUPERMOTH!" Hummingbird Sphinx Moth

Hummingbird or Clearwing Sphinx Moth

Last night, at a big party in Phippsburg, a lovely man asked me when I was going to post again, as I had not in five days.  He went on at some length about my past posts and how much he enjoyed them. He was animated in his descriptions of some of his favorites, all of which I found very flattering. As he told about the Bald eagle tearing the guts out of a rotting seal carcass and my tales of various wildlife image captures, I felt like a blushing school girl. Little did he know, that I already had this post in the works. And, by odd coincidence, I took these photographs the day before in his gardens!
     This is a Hummingbird Clearwing Moth, also called a Hummingbird Sphinx Moth. It's feeding on the nectar of a Monarda or Bee Balm. Using it's long proboscis to probe deep inside the flower, it feeds while hovering in flight. The side to side flight maneuver is called 'swing hovering,' a talent evolved only three times and only in nectar eaters: bats, birds and insects. Elephants do not do this, nor do any people I know, though I'd love to meet someone who does. It's an example of classic convergent evolution, when unrelated species have developed the same biological traits.
     This moth's wing span is about two inches, pretty big as insects in Maine go. Sphinx moths are the fastest flying insects on earth and having been clocked at 33 MPH! I don't know who figured that out, nor how. Were they raced around a closed track, wearing little saddles? Was some fat guy smoking a cigar standing by with a stop watch and a racing form?  "And they're OFF!" shouts the announcer as the gate snaps open. "It's Bizzy Bee on the inside, Hairy Hummer in the rear, Sticky Stan pulling into the lead!" I can smell the horse manure and dust...........snap out of it! These moths have never been confused with horses, to my knowledge. But, they are commonly mistaken for hummingbirds, thus the common names. Each year, someone tries to tell me that they are hummingbirds, which I consistently can demonstrate through photographs to not be true; many races are decided by a photo finish.

The moth's proboscis extends as much as two inches to get to the nectar.

There are 1,200 different kinds of these moths in the world. Maine only boasts two or three. The larval stage of one of Maine's species of Sphinx moths is the dreaded Tomato Horn Worm. The Tomato Horn worm can eat its way be a huge, 3-4 inches long as it devastates tomato plants. 

Brood Parasitism - "Idi, Is That You?"

I'm not a classically 'wifely' sort of person. I'm not a doter nor coddler of children nor men, though there are some I love intensely. As an example: I don't make lunches. On occasion, I do, but those are out of the ordinary events. Lunch is not to be expected from me as a regularly occurring domestic happening. When David goes to work for the day, I do not send him off with a lunch box filled with tenderly constructed, crustless sandwiches, warm cookies and a cold drink followed by a lipstick smack to his cheek. If asked to produce lunch, I turn into the Queen Of Hearts and am apt to shriek "Off with their heads!" When you are at my house, If you want lunch, you are on your own. Oh, and by the way, you could make me a sandwich while you're at it.
However, a few days ago, I broke out of my usual mold and took lunch to my husband where he was working. I was rewarded for my unusual wifely attentions with this Chipping sparrow feeding a new fledgling. The 'Chippie' was frantically rushing back and forth to the chick with beakfuls of insects. The chick chirped wildly when the parent arrived, rushing to her with it's great gaping maw, demanding food. The Chippie seemed to be trying to lead the chick further and further into the woods.
     This baby bird could not quite fly or just wasn't bothering to try. It sat like a moribund lump between feedings, looking as if it might faint from hunger. Several times, the 'mother' (I can't swear that the Chipping sparrow was female) seemed to be trying to escape from the chick, which repeatedly ran after her when she was done shoving insects into its cake hole. The chick's appetite was to say the least, voracious.
     I didn't see or hear any other chicks around. There wasn't time between feedings of this chow hound to have tended to others had there been any in a nest somewhere or elsewhere on the ground. Then, I noticed that the chick was at least twice the size of the parent bird and lacked any marking consistent with the parent. Then, it dawned on me: I was witnessing brood parasitism! Suddenly, what seemed before to be a wretched, defenseless chick became an odious mass of flesh, Jabba The Hutt of birds! The chick is not the offspring of the Chipping sparrow, but rather that of a Brown-headed cowbird! The poor little sparrow was being run ragged by her adoptive child. I could imagine what it would be like to have adopted an infant, a helpless baby that one would learn to love and adore only to have it turn out to be Idi Amin Dada! He was someone's baby boy once before he grew up to be a military dictator who slaughtered nearly half a million people. Even Jabba The Hutt must have had a mother.

Chipping sparrows like grassy, woodland margins. They are about five inches from beak tip to tail. They are very common. They are sometimes called "Hairbirds," because they like using hair to line their nests. Some say they have seen them pulling the fur from sleeping dogs for this purpose. After you brush your own hair, if you clean the brush outdoors and leave your hair, it may very well wind up in a Chipping sparrow nest. Little Idi Amin will find it very comfy. Chipping sparrows are semi-migratory. From the far north, they move to slightly warmer places for the winter, but they don't go far. They like Florida and the Carolinas. In spring and fall during migration, their call can be heard at night as they fly overhead in the dark.

The Idi Amin Dada of birds, the Brown-headed cowbird

Thanks to Wikipedia, eNature.com, allaboutbirds.com and whatbird.com for some of the information.

External links for more information:

http://enature.com/fieldguides/detail.asp?allSpecies=y&searchText=chipping%20sparrow&curGroupID=1&lgfromWhere=&curPageNum=1

http://identify.whatbird.com/obj/237/_/Chipping_Sparrow.aspx

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chipping_Sparrow

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idi_Amin

Shadblow And Alewives

 
     Amelanchier canadensis
The Service Berries are in bloom. The diaphanous shrubs almost look like puffs of smoke across the marshes and meadows. Indigenous to North America, the small trees are not only lovely, but important to wildlife for the fruit they bear. I just planted one for a gardening customer at the bottom of their serene meadow. It’s in a perfect setting where the soil is consistently moist and the flowers will be back lit by the evening’s setting sun. It has plenty of space to send out suckers and make a clump which it prefers to do. Maybe I’ll talk to them about putting in some ferns around it’s legs. It’s also fiddlehead season, so it seems like an appropriate combination; they like the same conditions. The tight fisted crosiers of Ostrich ferns are a traditional Maine spring food. Like the flowers of the Service Berries, they are only around briefly before they unfurl and aren’t edible any longer. It has been a record breaking warm spring making us tend to forget that often at this time of year, there is still frost in the ground in the deep woods and in Aroostook County - “The Crown” of Maine. ‘Service Berries’ were given the name because their bloom coincides with when the ground has thawed and can reliably be dug to inter those who died when it was still frozen. When the Service Berries bloom, winter is over. They are also called Shadbush and Shadblow because they bloom when the shad or Alewives run. ‘Blow’ is an old fashioned word meaning full bloom. The Alewives have just started to run. When I was young, my father took me up the coast from here to Damariscotta Mills to see them. Alewives are a type of herring that lives out at sea, but travels up freshwater rivers to breed and spawn. Damariscotta Mills is narrow so thousands of the fish can be seen clearly from the shore. The Osprey, gulls and eagles go crazy feeding. At night, the raccoons come around for the dead ones that line the shore. For many of us, like eating fiddleheads, it’s a spring ritual to go there to see the fish and birds. I remember kneeling down and putting my hands in the water to feel them when I was a kid. The water was so thick with them you could literally grab them with nothing more than your hand. So many people go there now that there is a parking lot and traffic jams. When I was a kid, though, my father and I had to climb down the banking through the bushes risking poison ivy and a slip and fall on wet rocks. We could hear the water and feel the cool mist from the little falls above the pools of fish before we came through the bushes. It was thrilling!  Alewives are caught en masse by netting. Today they are used mostly as bait fish for lobster trapping. When eaten, they are usually smoked, though I’m told they have a very mild flavor. Traditionally, a little vinegar is served with them which is true of fiddleheads, too. I can only imagine, back in the days of our settlers in the late 1600s and early 1700s, how thankful folks must have been after surviving winter to have fresh fiddleheads, bountiful fishes and to be able to bury their dead. They must have wept when the Shadbush bloomed.


                                                                    

Technorati Tags: Robin Robinson photography, Maine, fiddleheads, Ostrich ferns ,alewives, shad, shadblow, Service berry

The Outdoor Shower Season - Day Light Savings, Red-Winged Blackbird & More

This Canada goose has a mate and they have been coming to the shore right in front of the house every day. I think they may be scouting out a nesting site. They make a tremendous honking racket. When I've been on the phone I've been asked if there were geese in the yard as the caller could hear them.  I'm assuming they are a mated pair as I've heard her call him "Honey" and he calls her "Babe."
...............................................................................................................
It's official! This morning, I lurched awake and immediately, looked at the clock. It said it was quarter to eight; I had grossly overslept! Nonetheless, I felt, as my father would have said, shot out of a canon. What was going on here? What was going on was that for my brain and body, it was actually quarter to seven. David, in his state of glee over Day Light Savings, had leaped from bed before daylight and made busy changing all of the clocks. He has drained the anti-freeze from his outdoor shower and had his first of the season outdoor eye opener. It's thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit and the wind is blowing thirty-five miles per hour. He is prancing around, whooping and hollering that I should try it, "It's exillarating!" He shouts. "No thank you," is my polite subdued response. There are primroses and crocuses blooming in my gardens, but they don't look enthusiastic to me. They are healthy enough, but they don't look like they really mean it. They don't look like they want to be out of bed this early either. It is official, though. Spring is here even if we get a foot of snow, which we could. The lists of projects are being compiled, the lawnmowers are being tuned, blades sharpened and the migratory birds are arriving. There will be no peace in the Robinson house until November.

                                                                  Northern Cardinal in all of his glory. He has a girl friend here, too. Even pigeons are pretty if seen in the right light.

This Cedar Waxwing was one of twenty feasting on rose hips on the Popham Road yesterday. I looked, there were no Bohemian Waxwings in the bunch. A reader told me that I had erred in my previous post about the Black Guillemot. I had said that they turn white in the summer, which is not true; they turn black. The good news is that meant the one I photographed had molted to its summer plumage about 75%, a sure sign of spring.
 
This is a Red-winged blackbird. Its epaulets are concealed. It does have bright red under the scapulars, the median coverts. They show the red in flight and when they are flexing the pipes for girls and to impress other guys. They are very migratory, so it's a sure sign of warm days to come.