Do The Funky Cowbird! "I Got Soul, And I'm Super Bad!"

     I am reposting this because the Dancing Cowbird showed up yesterday for the first time since I originally posted about them in 2010. I'm reposting to honor his dance and his shrill call. His girlfriend is here, too. The Cowbird's impressive display is well worth the re-read and view of these pictures.
     Yesterday was an important day for us for a different reason, too: It was the twelve anniversary of the day my husband and I met. Yes, we recognize that occassion, like high school kids that count the days in their relationships. "Davie and I have been going steady for four thousand three hundred and eighty days!" David gave to me a stunning, silver necklace. It's huge and gaudy and wonderful. Dancing and singing, he presented it to me like a hopped up Cowbird trying to impress his mate. I was Weeding For Dollars and quite filthy looking not unlike the humble female Cowbird. However, I donned the bodacious bobble immediately. I told him,

"You are the stars in my sky,

You are my ultimate high,

In your smiling face so sweet,

You are my life complete"

A new resident at our house this year has been a pair of Brown-headed Cowbirds. We've never had them before this year. This male perches on the backs of our patio chairs and does an elaborate dance to his own reflection in the windows. He looks like he's groovin' the the 80's disco tunes of James Brown - "I've got soul and I'm super bad!!!!" But, it's just classic Cowbird courtship behavior.

    Cowbirds are kleptoparasites. That is, they steal from other birds for their own gain. Eagles are kleptoparasites, too. They steal food, such as fish, from other birds. Cowbirds steal nests.     
     In fact, they don't even make nests of their own at all! They lay eggs in the nests of other birds. Then, the host bird raises the Cowbird chicks after they hatch, often at their own loss. Cowbird chicks are often bigger than the host bird's own chicks and shove them out of the nest or simply demand more food than the host bird chicks, which starve.
     Because Cowbirds don't have to take care of their young, they lay a lot of eggs in a season, sometimes as many as thirty. That requires a lot of mating, thus the action on our patio chairs. This guy is also noisy about it. I always know where he is in the yard because of his high pitched, nearly electronic sounding call. Cowbirds are north American natives hailing from the grasslands. However, their numbers have increased dramatically as we've cut down trees and made more open land. They like feeding on the ground, so if you have spilled seed or livestock, you're likely to have Cowbirds. I have neither, so I'm not sure why we've got them now. Because they have threatened some endangered species of birds with their nest hogging, some regard them as nuisance birds. I can't help but admire this guy's antics and wonderful iridescent feathers, even if I know better. Give me a muscled guy on a mechanical bull ride in a bar and I'm a goner.

These patio chairs have seen more action than a hotel mattress.

For more info on Cowbirds and to hear their calls and songs, click on these links:
Brown Headed Cowbird
allaboutbirds.org/guide/Brown-headed_Cowbird/id

Thanks to Wikipedia for some of the information, as well.

Eaglet Update - Butchie And His Other Brother Butchie

I took these shots yesterday, July 12th at the Winnegance aerie. Butchie and his other brother Butchie, are much bigger since my last update. They are big enough that it's getting very cramped in the nest. Some wing stretching is going on, but not much. It was also eighty degrees and humid, so that may have accounted for some of their obtunded behaviors. They were panting from the heat and yawning. They are major poop machines, as you can see from the sides of the nest and the branches. There are great swarms of flies up there. I'm hoping to see them start trying to fly.

Drunken Cedar- Wicked Waxwings

Cedar Waxwing enjoying a Choke Cherry. Nice hair-do!

This one looks like a burglar in a mask sneaking up on the berries.

Cedar Waxwings get their name from the red tips of their wings which someone thought looked like red sealing wax.

 

"You're going to get that stuff stuck in your braces and your jaw will glue shut!"

I think Cedar Waxwings are one of the most dramatic birds that we have. That says a lot considering that they are a nearly drab, sable brown color and they have bad hair. I guess it is the mask that does it for me. I have always gravitated to men who have the aura of bad about them, my current husband not withstanding. He's a super nice guy; everybody says so. Sometimes, I find his virtuousness and people's constantly telling me what a kind, nice man he is to be tedious. They are absolutely correct in their assessments, but it's like living with the Dali Llama. I'm just not up to the challenge and find it burdensome. I'm not that nice. If my husband were a bird, he would be a Black-capped chickadee and I would be a Sharp-shinned hawk.
     David says that when birds eat berries, they get drunk from fermentation of the berries and that's what makes them crash into windows. His excusing the birds and blaming their behavior on the demon Choke Cherry is an example of his more benevolent mindset than my own. I say "Blame the birds!" They could stick to eating spiders or snakes and staying home instead of driving into my windows. There should be laws, honestly. I'm going to make it a point to call my congressman about this.
     Another thing I think I'll call my representative about is legislating the erratic appearance and disappearances of certain birds. I'm not talking about pollution or global warming, either. I'm talking about the unexplained no-shows. This year, there are hardly any Ruby-throated hummingbirds here. Usually, we have eight to ten of them zipping around and I have to practically beat them back with a stick. They threaten to lodge in my hair and I can't keep up with filling the feeders. The feeders are the same ones hung in the same places, too. This year, however, I've only seen two hummingbirds at once and not every day. It's a mystery. David says the hummingbirds are cute and he misses them. See the difference in our thinking? It's amazing that we are married. The Cedar Waxwings, however are all over the place. Everyday, I see and hear them. They have a distinct, electronic buzz of a sound unmistakable in the trees even when they aren't visible. Most summers, I rarely see Cedar Waxwings and associate them with spring and fall migrations. The Bad Boys in masks have commitment issues this far south, heading generally north for picking up chicks. Their prevalence here this summer is as unexplained as the absence of the hummingbirds. I think there should be a law against this irregularity. At least, there should be some expectation of regular appearances -like if you miss too many dental appointments, you get dropped from the patient panel. If my husband were an orthodontist, he would be the only broke one on the planet. He would give everybody a break, no matter what their flimsy excuse for not showing up.

Not In My Backyard - Wood Duck & Canada Goslings

A few weeks ago, I had noticed these Canada geese swimming in a private pond. The youngsters were at the sable-brown powder puff stage. I did take photos, but nothing I was really satisfied with as I couldn't get close enough.  Each time I drove by the pond, I gazed longingly toward the geese wishing I could get closer. I coveted that pond and the birds it hosted. The rushes on the pond edge are almost six feet tall now, a foot taller than I am; shooting through the rushes was a definite challenge. Between the pond and I was also a broad expanse of lawn. There was no way of sneaking up on anyone. Remembering what they taught me at Quanitco, I did think I could lie down on my belly and slither like a snake, camera aloft. However, whenever I went by, I was never in my bathrobe, so I never had on the right outfit for that maneuver. Plus, the home owner would probably have had a problem with that. I often saw fresh laundry on the line there, cars moved around and the grass unfailingly mowed, sure signs of occupancy. Then one day, the home owner himself was out by the pond edge throwing cracked corn to the geese! I leaped from my car and scampered across his lawn to introduce myself and tell him how much I enjoyed his pond and all the wildlife it supported. I admired his brilliantly green lawn. "You must really work at that lawn. It's so lush and green! My husband really loves good grass," I said, ingratiating myself. Men always like to hear that they've got a great lawn; he was  in fact, very pleased. He sheepishly admitted that he shouldn't feed the geese and ducks, but couldn't help himself. He told me he had dug the pond when he built his house in 1970. Clearly, he was a man who appreciated do-it-yourself initiative. He invited me to come sit by the pond any time I wanted to and for as long as I wished. He even invited me to use some of his lawn furniture. "Sure! Take a load off! Sit right there under that pine in the shade if you want to. Me and the misses don't mind one bit. Nice someone likes it."
      Walking back to my car, I noticed that the emerald green lawn was actually the work of the geese as much as the home owner. It was a mine field of fertilizing bird bombs the size of Cuban cigars! In spite of trying to avoid them, I stepped into a few which stuck like two part epoxy to my shoe. Knowing that my new found pond pal would have been watching me return to my car, I had to ignore the poo goo so it didn't look like I disapproved. Having used my good 'man material' by blowing smoke about his lovely lawn would have been completely waisted had I let out a squealing "Eeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuu!" while doing a grand Pas Du Chat. I decided that having Canada geese in my yard wouldn't be so great. Like deer and grandchildren, they are better appreciated in someone else's yard. 

There are five of these young geese. Their adult feathers are developed enough that you can definitely tell they are Canada geese. These geese are quite habituated to humans and were not shy about being near me. The parents did hiss at me a few times which was a little nerve wracking. A Canada goose standing on the ground is about at eye level to me.

Amongst the Mallards in the pond was this divine Wood Duck in all of his colorful glory. He was definitely wild and would have spooked to flight very quickly if I hadn't been stealthy.

 

I could not get enough of photographing them, either. Maybe I will have to take up my new friend's offer of the lawn chair.

The Cutest Thing Of All Time - Bambi's Got Nothin' On Me!

It was so hot today that this deer was panting!

It was eighty-two today and so humid you could have steamed cabbage on the hood of my car. While I was Weeding For Dollars, the sweat was just pouring from me, running into my eyes, down my back and other places that no one wants to know anything at all about. Well, except probably my husband who is on the payroll for that kind of interest. Everything was making me itch, grass, dirt, bugs, my hair, my clothes, everything! We have a type of mosquito here that folks call 'Marsh Mosquitoes.' I don't know what species they actually are, but I can tell you they bite with a vengeance. Even though they are smaller than other kinds of 'squitoes,' they pack a mean, painful wallop when they bite. This is accentuated by heat and the salt in sweat. It's also Horse fly season. For those of you from 'away,' those are biting flies. I don't know if they are called Horse flies because they annoy horses, or if it's because they are so huge. You know, big as a horse. Probably somebody from away said they were "as big as a house," which would make sense. That got changed over time to "big as a horse," because in Maine we add 'Rs' to most words that don't have them and remove the Rs from words that should have them. You get the idear. They are impossible to repel and difficult to kill. You have to actually let one start to bite you so that it's distracted, then slap the hell out of it from behind so it doesn't see your hand coming. If you are lucky and hit it, what is the hand of doom for the Horse fly also leaves a smart slap on your ownself. You can see why some people go nuts in these situations and run, screaming into the woods never to be heard from again. I've been driven near to that more than a few times myself. Today though, instead of insanity, I decided to go to Popham Beach after my dues had been paid at the end of my trusty garden trowel. My intention was to take photographs of the Common terns and maybe some Osprey. Scanning the skies, I didn't see enough action to bother getting out of my car though and there wasn't any place left to park, either. So, I headed home, despondent and still itching. Before the state park entrance, there is a huge salt marsh on both sides of the road. At a great distance across the marsh, I could see a brown lump. At first, I thought it was a Red fox. When I pulled the car over, I could see that it was a White-tailed deer fawn. It was about an eight of a mile away which meant I couldn't get very good photographs. So, there was nothing to do but head out across the marsh. In all my life of travelling the road through that marsh, I have only ever seen someone out there once. That was duck hunters in February. At least, I had rubber shoes on for gardening. This may have been part of my heat intolerance since my poor dogs were just a boilin' in there, thus the reference earlier to steamed cabbage. But, that did save me from getting soaked. I had to go a long way out there and slowly so as not to spook the little darling deer. Every few yards, I would step into a mud hole and rile up the stench of heated, rotting vegetation. At some point, the fawn laid down in the grass. It was so camouflaged that it was nearly impossible to see it and a couple of times, I lost it completely. Eventually, I was stopped by the channel. I stood there for nearly an hour waiting for Bambi to stand up, hoping and praying that she would. All the while, I had to be still. This made me a prime, juicy target for the voracious mosquitoes and Horse flies. The Green Heads, another biting monster of a fly, also joined the party. Since I was nearly up to my ass in grass, I was also very worried about ticks. And, do you think I was smart enough to be wearing a hat for this outing in Phippsburg's answer to the Sahara Desert? Oh, no. Of course not. I could only have been more suitably attired for this gig had I been wearing my bathrobe. I nearly gave up when finally the fawn stood up and looked right at me. I couldn't have been more thrilled! Now, I must go call a plastic surgeon for some skin grafting for my third degree sunburn and find a pair of tweezers. Don't ask for what. 

Just in case you thought I was joshin' ya, do you see a deer in here? I used to love Highlights magazine when I was a kid. This is the kind of 'quiz' they used to have. Believe me, there is a deer in there.

"Mom! He's Shoving Me!" Bald Eagle Babies

This is a quick update on the status of the eagle's nest I've been watching here in The Burg. These are the youngsters. I thought there was only one before, but obviously, there are at least two. They are not very active. I waited for three hours for these shots. The parent sat as you see it on that branch next to the nest and never moved other than to preen a little, scratch and yawn. I was there in the morning hoping that feeding would be going on, but nothing happened. As the hours ground by, the eaglets jockied for positions in the nest. They vocalized a whiny, thin noise that sounded like two kids whining to their mom, "He's touching me! He's poking me! Mom, make him stop!" The other would say in its defense, "No fair! He spit on me first!" And on it would go until mother finally would take off so as not to have to listen to it anymore. We would think she was soaring off to catch a lively salmon, big silvery bass or a rabbit, but actually, she'd just be going for time out from the brats.

Uncommonly Common - Common Yellowthroat

Today, while I was supposed be folding laundry and paying bills to make use of a rainy indoor day, I was stalking birds. If you don't think it was wet, look at these photos. You'll see the water dripping from the Spruce needles. I was concentrating on a fledgling Chipping sparrow whose parent was feeding it. I was not moving, in spite of the rain because I wanted the adult Chippie to come along so I could photograph the feeding (I was successful and will post that later). In the mean time, this Common Yellowthroat warbler almost landed in my lap. That will give you an idea of how still I had been and for how long. Black flies like this same kind of weather,too. I had to let them bite me. They especially like going for the area around the eyes. So, now I look like a boxer on the wrong end of a hard right-left combo punch. Maybe I could borrow a mask from one of these little guys. Common Yellowthroats are just that: common. However, they are not so often seen because they are secretive and favor thick brushy areas. They are insect eaters and prolific breeders. The females are yellowish all over and don't have the black head nor this snazzy mask. I've seen male Yellowthroats before, but never this close. It was only about fifteen feet from my face! This New World wood warbler is migratory wintering in Central and South America. Seems like there should be more to say about a little bird that's this flashy but that's really all there is to it. Now, I must conduct a thorough tick check as I think I feel something crawling on me inside my clothes. David is not home, so he is neither the source of the sensation nor the solution.

Thanks to David Allen Sibley, The Sibley Guide To Birds, Wikipedia and allaboutbirds.com for some of the information.

What's For Dinner? - Flounder Fluke!

Osprey with Flounder, May 2009 Totman Cove

The osprey are busy fishing in Totman Cove when the tide is low. Unlike most of the Maine coastal inlets which are rock and mud, our cove bottom is sand. From our house, I can see seven sandy beaches. Try that ten times fast: She surely sees seven sandy shores. We have millions of Sand Dollars here. One of the beaches is suitably called "Sand Dollar Beach." We also have lots of flounder. This makes for great fishing for the osprey and for eagles. They can see the fish moving against the sand. The Eagles fish and they also steal from the osprey. Many of the osprey are immature and not the most adept at catching then holding onto their catch. Sometimes they catch fish that are simply too big to handle and then they drop them. Two mornings ago, an osprey caught this 16" Flounder and then did just that: dropped in the rocks in front of our house. Immediately behind it was a mature Bald eagle. The eagle dove for the purloined fish but was intimidated by the proximity of the pier pilings. It's escape would have been hampered. Then, two Herring gulls that reside on our pier made a run for the Flounder. The fish just flapped helplessly much too far from the water to get back. Still in my morning bathrobe, I scurried down the steps and across the rocks with my camera. The fish had taken a 100' fall, and was bleeding from its mouth, but other than that had nary a scratch. So, this swift scavenger snatched it up and scampered back to the kitchen! David quickly filleted it. I dusted it with a combination of corn starch and cornmeal then into the skillet it went for a quick seer. Uuhhhhhmm, a drizzle of lemon and a salad and lunch was served! Food always tastes better when it's unexpected and fresh, a fluke, as it were.

Flounder are members of the Flatfish family which includes lots of species common to the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and European waters. You may have heard of Dover Sole which comes from England. The flounder family is made up of many species of fish. In the United States, East Coast varieties include gray sole or 'Witch Flounder,' winter flounder (also called blackback), American plaice (also called dab or sand dab), yellowtail flounder (also called dab or rusty flounder), summer flounder (also called fluke), and southern flounder. Other members of the Flatfish family include common sole, lemon or English sole, black sole, white sole, halibut, turbot, and brill. Though it's been very warm here lately, I'm not sure if my prize would be a summer flounder or not. I don't know 'witch' flounder it was, but it was delicious.
You can see that the flounder is flat. They lie on the bottom nestling down in the sand or mud so that they can ambush their prey. The top of them is dark gray so they are hard to see from above, unless they are contrasted against sand. Their undersides are pure white. I neglected to photograph that side because I was pre-occupied thinking about recipes and getting dressed. When flounder hatch, they have one eye on each side of the head. As they mature and start lying flat on the bottom, one eye migrates across so that both eyes are on the top. Creepy, huh? They have a tiny mouth with sharp teeth for biting the little fish they like. They can be caught here by rod and reel. You've got to have a sinker so that your live bait is tugged gently along the bottom, hopefully across the path of a flounder. Or, you can wait for one to fall from the sky into your lap. My advice to you is if you catch one, don't kiss it and don't overcook it. It has a very delicate flavor. The Ospreys and I give it a solid ten.

Thanks to Wikipedia for some of this information. Click here for More About Flounder.

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)

"The Sky Is Falling!"

My grandmother has lived in a nursing home for six years. Ever since she moved, I have been responsible for her house. We mow the lawn, prune the hedges, remove the snow, clean the gutters and everything else that it needs. The house is located half an hour away from us, so sometimes this is a major headache, especially if the weather has been terrible. My husband is diligent about checking on the place, even when that means going there when the roads are bad. Friday night we had yet another inch and a half of rain in a matter of hours. So, he thought he'd better go check on the other house. I got a phone call from him right away, "You'd better come. We've got problems. Bring the shop vac. and every towel in the house." My heart sank. I loaded up the car and headed out. It took me forty minutes to get there this time through driving, blinding rain. There had been a leak in the upstairs bathroom which had taken out the entire living room ceiling beneath it. All the sodden plaster had fallen to the floor. The 150 year old birch floors we had painstakingly refinished a year ago were already buckling. My heart sank deeper. Toilet water was dripping and running from the ceiling and there was an inch of water across the floor. Mouse turds from decades ago floated merrily in the stream. It was a back breaking, disheartening evening of shoveling up mushy plaster and swabbing the curling floorboards. Even though it was pouring rain, we opened the windows because it was damper inside the house than out. I could almost smell the mold growing on the walls. Every book, the furniture (much of it dripping), the TV, everything had to be removed. Thoughts of Katrina went through my head. When we were as finished as we could be, I asked David, "Hey, since it's date night, how do you feel about Chinese take-out?" We really know how to have a great time. It keeps our marriage young.
Just before the phone rang, I had seen this young, Bald eagle land in a tree outside our living room. It was being harassed by Seagulls. I wasn't technically still in my bathrobe, but this was nonetheless, about as easy as it can get for a birding photographer. In case you think it's too easy for me, keep in mind that unbeknown to me, elsewhere, the sky was falling.

Barn Swallows Versus Michael Jackson

     The Barn Swallow is the national emblem of Estonia. Their currency bears an image of a swallow. The Estonians were ahead of the curve on that, in my opinion. I wish our money had that kind of image, rather than those rusty old presidents whose hair makes them all look like madmen. When I’m commissioned to redo our currency, I’ll put these hungry mouths of Barn Swallow chicks in an egg-like oval in the middle of each bill. Swallows would also be good representatives on our currency as the most widespread swallow in the world, much like our influence, good or bad. For that matter, Michael Jackson should be on our money. Toss up: Barn Swallows or Michael Jackson. If a pool of school children was chosen from around the world, then asked to identify a Barn Swallow or Michael Jackson, which do you suppose they’d be most likely to recognize?
    Perhaps I could consolidate the two: a Barn Swallow in flight, harnessed and trailing Michael Jackson through the sky. Throw in a little Shakespeare, “True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings,” and you’ve got yourself a world class devolving dollar bill.
     All Barn Swallows migrate, some far as Argentina and South Africa. Swallow tattoos are a tradition amongst sailors symbolizing long journeys and safe returns. A sailor gets his first tattoo after traveling 5,000 nautical miles. These Barn Swallows occupy a friend’s barn here in Phippsburg. There are ten nests, each one with 4-5 chicks. They usually lay twice in a summer, so that’s about 100 baby swallows from that barn each year. The success rate of the broods is about 75%. That’s a lot of swallows! Sitting in the barn, watching them zoom in and out feeding their chicks practically requires an umbrella. The barn owner has every square inch draped with plastic and paper, a sort of canvas for the splatter, like a Jackson Pollock painting without the talent.
   Their mud pellet nests are repaired and reused for 10-15 years, but have been documented to have been used for 48 years! That’s a dilemma for a barn owner. The nests could be destroyed, forcing the swallows to rebuild. After all, what did Barn swallows do before barns? They nested in more precarious places, such as overhangs on cliffs. In the Northeast, they nest under Osprey nests. It’s a reciprocal arrangement where the birds of prey drive away other predatory birds while the swallows gobble up the flies accumulating in the rotten fish scraps in the Osprey nest. Barn swallows have thrived in our company and our safe structures for their nests. We also tolerate these flying guano machines for their fine dining on flying insects. Swallows have always been one of my favorite birds. Their zooming flight is like my mind - an elegant, dark thing tearing through a dim barn, resulting in a lot of crap.

Destroyers And Rabbits

Lathyrus japonicus-Beach Peas


The Vietnam War and the Sexual Revolution flavored the background for my teenage development. I entered the sixties as an innocent five year old and came out a jaded fifteen year old. By the time the decade closed, I had done drugs and had sex. So, as 1970 dawned, I was sure that war was wrong and that everybody should have sex whenever they wanted. Now, forty years later, I’m not so sure. Theoretically, the more years a person lives the wiser they should be, but for me, the opposite is true. With every breath taken I’m less certain because the older I’ve become, the more times my core values have been tested. When I walked in on my son, then later, my daughter having sex the test was huge! Each of them was older than I was the first time I had sex, but still - I was appalled. How dare they! Not my children! They may disagree, but I think I was cool about it. There weren’t any dramatic scenes and they were each suitably mortified. I was ultimately, more taken aback by my own gut reaction than about what they were doing. First, I was sure that my generation had invented sex. Certainly, this was true because my parents never had sex. Ugh! Oh shudder and wince; what a revolting thought! And my dear sweet little children would never have sex because now we know: I would kill them! So what was my horror about? Wasn’t it perfectly natural and to be expected? It was very okay for me when I was a teenager, why wasn’t it okay for them? Many nights I wrestled with that crocodile; hypocrisy floundered in a swamp of dreams. I concluded that natural as it is, teenage sex is not sanctionable (easy enough since I’d already had my teenage sex!). When children have sex, they are not prepared to be responsible for the consequences of their actions. I know I wasn’t, even though I thought I was. After all, I knew everything there was to know. The life altering fallout of disease and unwanted pregnancy seemed even manageable to my naïve mind.
Now that I wrapped that up with a nice bow for my psyche, that brings me to war. I wish that was as clear. Ideally, I would like to say that I’m opposed to war. I’m opposed to the death penalty so it should be clear, right? But, what if somebody intends to do harm to those precious children having sex like rabbits in your living room? Do you stand back or do you fight back? My response to hurting the ones I love would be damned primal; I’d hurt the other guy if it came right down to it. I’d mangle the beast that messed with my kids. I know this because I’m the mother of the rabbits. That’s taught me that I’m capable of things my intellectual mind thinks repugnant or just impossible. I’d like to think of myself as more evolved than the aghast mother who stood slack jawed while her daughter and the pimple faced boyfriend scrambled for clothes. But, I’m not. I’d like to think that I’m sophisticated enough to rise above my fear for my own losses to not wage war. But, I know I’m not. After all, I did have sex in my parent’s house while wearing a training bra. The drives are basic.
Fort Popham, built of granite in the 1840s, sits where the Kennebec River meets the Atlantic Ocean. At the end of the school year, teachers take students there for a last dose of history, a romp on the beach and at the old fort. These kids were throwing sea weed, screaming and daring each other to go into the cold water when this destroyer appeared. It’s a Bath Iron Works Littoral Combat Ship, the U.S. Navy’s first Trimaran war ship. Designed for speed and maneuverability, at 419 feet long, it was awe-inspiring. I wish that we could design a better way to settle our differences on the globe and defend our rabbits. I wish that teachers could tell kids about old forts and destroyers as truly things of our human past. I hope I never am a shocked, bewildered mother screaming “Not my child!” if one is lost to war.


The Spring Azure butterfly is a little guy, only about the size of a nickle. This one was enjoying the Beach Peas at Popham, but usually they prefer woodlands.









Rock Doves (feral pigeons) have nested in the observation slits in the granite fort.

If you zoom in on this, one of the girls on the left has her hand raised in a peace sign. Figures.