tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11198449976647745872024-03-14T00:50:37.998-04:00THE BACK STORY -My Controlled ChaosAFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.comBlogger385125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-12485119997045654162012-12-26T16:20:00.001-05:002012-12-26T16:20:21.295-05:00FLYday - Common Tern In Flight Vocalizing <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/BIRDS-BEAUTIFUL-MAINE-BIRDS/BABY-BIRDS/i-9R2cncN/0/XL/20120729-_MG_3847-XL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/BIRDS-BEAUTIFUL-MAINE-BIRDS/BABY-BIRDS/i-9R2cncN/0/XL/20120729-_MG_3847-XL.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Common Tern, immature in flight vocalizing. Phippsburg, Maine summer, 2012</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </em></div>
AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com75tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-81199467516404419972012-07-13T10:00:00.000-04:002012-07-13T10:00:59.205-04:00FLYday- Canada Geese<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">FLYday - Canada Geese</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="483" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fba10zyTEHc/UAAkLMGjmLI/AAAAAAAAhXs/X6iU8rfJBj8/_MG_6278A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><strong>FLYday - A <em>Foursome</em> of Canada Geese. These geese flew so low that I could hear their feathers whistling. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">"Force-'em" is what they do to geese (and ducks) to make foie gras. Foie gras is made from hypertrophied goose liver. Domestic geese are force-fed by gavage. Their necks are hyper-extended upward. Then, a funnel is shoved down their throats and hideous amounts of food pushed into their bellies. The quantity of food is far more than would be consumed by geese in the wild or in captivity. The diet of corn boiled in oil causes subsequent fattening of the liver and a buttery taste favored by gastronomes. In about fourteen days, the liver grows so large that the goose often can not walk. They are never allowed to fly.</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </em></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-59536661835106455912012-06-09T16:12:00.000-04:002012-06-09T16:13:05.290-04:00Eagles Don't Always Come Home - Birds's Nests<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="548" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B1kind2Zb70/T84-KlScgFI/AAAAAAAAhW0/_rJNPZ_ZIEs/_MG_6571.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<strong>Bald eagle</strong> <em>on the nest, Phippsburg, Maine spring 2010</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<em>Eagles make enormous nests spanning 4-5 feet across. They are messy, clumsy looking nests. They do hold these giant birds and the chicks, along with whatever food they bring home. </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br />
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R20iCFX6M1g/T84-UdPLanI/AAAAAAAAhW8/88-XgST2s18/_MG_2881A.jpg" width="574" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br />
This next nest is a <strong>Tree swallow</strong> nest. It's sitting on a bed of Thyme in my garden. In the top third of the nest in the center is an egg. This nest came from a Bluebird box on our property which is occupied by Tree Swallows. That's why the nest is square in shape. This nest had been recently abandoned, though not long before. There is feces still on the bottom right corner. This is an elegant, inviting nest. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="565" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--jjVDb_kZoY/T849AOPI81I/AAAAAAAAhWA/E32kRMj2RYQ/_MG_7943.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
Like eagles, <strong><em>Ospreys </em></strong>build huge nest, too. Also like eagles, they usually return to the same nest year after year. This one is on top of a utility pole. The photo was taken in February. See the snow? Osprey build nests in high places like this and are often seen atop cell phone towers. The Osprey nests are frequently disruptive to whatever the intended purpose was of their commandeered superstructure. Under certain circumstances, power and cell phone companies have permission to remove nests.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="490" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P7fCWvVtmK8/T84-qLDHa4I/AAAAAAAAhXM/rbBUfTWHBbM/_MG_6911.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
I have a book about nest identification. It's a Petersen Field Guide titled "Eastern Bird's Nest" by Hal H. Harrison. I find bird's nests harder to identify than the birds themselves, which can be <em>very</em> difficult. Nests vary in appearance depending on available materials. A robin may use hay rather than sticks if that is what available. In that case, the nest would look blond and very different from one constructed of twigs. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7RZNc164NFg/T849vNqpobI/AAAAAAAAhWQ/PuS41RTmV5k/_MG_9035.jpg" width="582" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
I'm guessing that this is the nest of a type of thrush, but I can't say for sure. It's about 4 inches across and had a mud cup consistent with thrush nest building. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
''<img height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-622gX4mW2Mc/T8zSXY1221I/AAAAAAAAhWY/Z9mILjG-C4c/_MG_9189.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
This nest is tiny by comparison to the others. It's about 3 inches across. It probably is the nest of a vireo or warbler. Moss was used on the lower half. Then, Pine needles and grass were wound around together to form the interior. It looks dry and cozy.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R9DnYQ9TV1g/T8zR7Qr4rSI/AAAAAAAAhWc/C7z-Z4vQp6w/_MG_9212.jpg" width="426" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
This nest is that of a <strong><em>North American robin</em></strong>. They use mud to make a cup and then weave other material around in the mud. The nests are about 5-6 inches across. Robins aren't too fussy about where they nest and often construct nests on and around houses. This one was attached to the side of a house in a climbing Hydrangea vine. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_7yDYUT0da0/T8492r4BCrI/AAAAAAAAhWg/AYx9wc6nFqo/_MG_9349.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
This nest is probably that of a <strong>flycatcher</strong>, perhaps Olive sided. Thought it looks quite whimsical, it's solidly constructed. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VJCMwRFtoZA/T8494ehi6LI/AAAAAAAAhWo/J7BiT7dpQ2Q/_MG_9372.jpg" width="426" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<strong><em>Baltimore orioles</em></strong> build nests about 40 feet up in deciduous trees and construct this pouch style nest. I love the pieces of tarpaulins that have been woven into it. On the bottom right are some white lumps of stuffing. They have been pulled from a pillow, mattress or sleeping bag. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 16pt;">A</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB"> few years ago, I
used to go almost daily to a Bald eagle nest to see what the birds were up to.
I followed the progress of the two chicks born there through to the day they
took their first flight. The next year, I went eagerly to the nest again. I hoped
to catch another season of wonder in nest building, courting, mating and
growing Bald eagle chicks. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was early in
the Maine spring. Bald eagles start courting and working on their nests in
March here. The nest is on the shores of the Kennebec River where it empties
into the Atlantic Ocean. Unrelenting wind blows hard, raw and cold. My fingers
froze. Several times, I pulled them back into the sleeves of my jacket, like
retreating turtles. I cupped one hand in the other alternately blowing warm
breath into the hand cave. I put in my time in my deep desire to see the
eagles. But, no eagles. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Days went by. I wondered,
"Geez, where are they?” The Bald eagle pair had nested there for several
years, so it was not a new place to them. I had seen them in the air a few
times, so I knew they were around. But, they were not nesting. There had not
been any construction or other disruptions by man in the area. What could it
be? Why had they forsaken me? Me? What about me? Of course, whether they nested
there or not had nothing to do with me, but somehow it felt personal. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like a little kid,
I wished really hard for them to bring in a stick or even just light on the rim
of the nest to investigate. I wished like a child wishing for a certain
Christmas present though she knows that Santa Claus doesn't really exist. When
I heard them keening from high in the sky or across the river, I pleaded hard.
"Please, please, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please,</i>" as
if they could hear me or understand.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, no eagles. I
had time to look around, to ponder what had changed that made this familiar
nest no longer appealing to them. A few years before, they had a different nest
a couple of hundred feet away. A wind storm snapped off branches from the huge,
White pine that held it. That year, they moved to this newer site. Like a
bridge inspector I peered at the superstructure, looking for cracks, signs of
crumbling, or changes in integrity. Then, I saw it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Slithering up the
side of the tree, sixty feet into the air above me, meandered a green video
cable. It crawled from the woods before climbing up the opposite side of the
tree from where I had been watching. The anaconda wire was the feed for a nest
cam. The BioDiversity Research Institute had positioned a camera in the nest to
monitor the Bald eagle population. In the process, they had captured and banded
one of the adults. Should that bird be found dead, they could know about its
life history.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was outraged like someone had stolen my lunch money! Though heartbroken and
angry, I tried to be logical. Wasn't it a good thing to monitor the eagles?
Most people can't go sit and freeze their fingers to see a nest and then,
hopefully, one day the ensuing young. Most people sit in their offices,
stealing moments to look at video cams across the planet. They are voyeurs to
the lives of puppies, heinous baby sitters, cheating partners, and eagles.
Video cams and photography are ways in which the average person gets to see
things they otherwise would not. And in that, they become invested in their welfare.
Monitoring of eagle populations is how we came to realize that we were killing
them off in the first place!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To protect our
resources, it's better to know more about them, even when sometimes there are
counterproductive outcomes. There’s risks and always good and bad to
everything. And, truthfully, there could have been other reasons the eagles did
not come back to that nest having nothing to do with the plastic cable and
camera. There are normal, natural reasons that eagles do not nest every year; it’s
not always pathological. Perhaps they were just bored and wanted a new place
with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, like everyone else.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This past spring,
a friend of thirty-five years called. She said she wanted to talk to me about
something. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"What's
up?" I asked. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"I
don't want to talk about it on the phone," she said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> "Oh,
come on! Just tell me!" I said, but no, she wouldn't. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, we made a date to meet. That gave me a
week to think about what she could possibly have on her mind. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
first thought was that something was wrong with her husband, or kids, or
grandkids. "Oh God, I hope nobody's sick." I agonized. I asked my
husband what he thought. "Do you think maybe there's something wrong with Mike?"
My husband had no idea, either. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
nothing to get my teeth into for a possible reason, I began to wonder if I had
done something to tick her off. We hadn't talked much for months, actually.
Come to think of it. So how could it be anything? It must be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something.</i> Like walking with a rock in
my shoe, I went over and over every conversation between us for the past six
months. I analyzed and worked over all of it, but remained mystified. Nothing.
I couldn't come up with anything. Though I was at a complete loss, for the week
before we were to meet, my guts were in a knot. She was my oldest, dearest
friend. Nothing like this had ever gone on between us before. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I got to her house we hugged as we always did. Her dogs barked and jumped on
me, scratching my leg through my pants as they always did. She screamed at them
to get off, as she always did. She poured us each an oversized glass of red
wine, as she always did. Then we, sat down in the living room, and she let me
have it. Which she never did. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
told me I was an arrogant, social elitist snob. She said that I had totally
changed and did not even look the same anymore. She said that since I had lost
weight and become a celebrity, I thought I was too good for everybody else. She
dredged up some year old, now friendship ancient history events, which had made
her angry - things I could barely recall, never mind defend, things she had harboured
for a year. She beat me over the head with the details, clear and fresh in her
mind. She punched me with the word 'arrogant,' slapped me with 'snob,' screamed
'know it all,' until my ears were ringing. It was a first rate mugging. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like
most people who are assaulted, I forgot that I ever took martial arts classes.
Every kick boxing move I practiced in the gym had forsaken me. I was in
disbelief at what was happening. I stared blankly at her, then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">laughed</i> and blurted just the worst
possible, wrong thing. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"You're
such an idiot, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moron! </i>You can't be
serious! What the hell...." I trailed off. She <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to be joking. My glass of wine suddenly seemed all wrong in my
hand. I set it down on the side table, carefully, before I dropped the whole
thing or snapped the stem in half. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"And
that's another thing!" My old pal's smoking rant had only just begun, as
it turned out. And I had just thrown gasoline on it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
it was 'over,' I was crying and feeling sick to my stomach. The room was quiet.
Even the dogs had stopped their incessant barking, always the background to our
conversations. I was still wearing my jacket, but I was cold. My fancy scarf
and earrings I had chosen specifically for her to see now seemed ridiculous. My
stomach churned and growled. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"So,"
said my pal. "Ya ready to go out to dinner now?" </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"No,
no," was my weak response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"Are you kidding? After <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When she stood up I think I flinched.
She said "I gotta let the dogs out. I'll be right back."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
came back into the room with the bottle of wine. Still standing, she topped off
her own glass. Wine dribbled down the neck of the bottle onto the carpet. She
made no move to blot it up. Normally, an overly fastidious person, she would
have jumped on it with a sprayer of Resolve.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
thought, "Okay, I’m going to rise above this tantrum, this tirade, this
whatever-the-hell." It had obviously bothered her, too. I said we might as
well go to dinner, which we did. It was stiff. It was awkward. I watched every
word that came out of my mouth. I edited and checked every joke. The
spontaneous, apparently arrogant, elitist snob, know it all was having a time
out. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It's
been months since that happened. I've thought about it every day. Reliving that
verbal vomit session on her couch is replayed in my head nearly every night as
I'm drifting off to sleep. She is my oldest friend. Friends should be able to
tell each other what they feel like, right? Friends should clear the air,
right? Friends should be honest, right? Friends should forgive each other, stay
loyal, and get over it, right? But, I can't. I've lost some golden thread of
trust. I've been told I'm a monster, a self serving, hideous beast that has
stomped on my friend. And not just once. No! Apparently many times! I've been
told I'm oblivious, self absorbed and uncaring!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I've been told I'm not lovable. And I can't get over it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There's
a crevasse between us now. I see it every time we speak. My off the cuff, slap
stick, jokester self dangles over the darkness waiting to die in every
conversation. I can't be me anymore. In a friendship, if you can't be who you
are, what is there? A friendship is where trust, loyalty and forgiveness are
everything. In every other social relationship, we are at known risk. We know we
would be fired for certain things, thrown out of an office for certain things,
or even arrested. But a friendship is a relationship we choose because of
safety in the bond.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
don't know what to do with this. I don't know where it will end up. I take each
day with her, one at a time. Maybe I'll forget. Maybe I’ll forgive. One thing I
do know is that sometimes eagles do not come back to the nest. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
To watch a live Osprey nest came, visit this site: <a href="http://explore.org/#!/live-cams/player/live-osprey-cam">http://explore.org/#!/live-cams/player/live-osprey-cam</a></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-75942884787005317012012-05-31T19:22:00.000-04:002012-06-05T10:43:49.038-04:00Silence Of The Woods - Royal Ferns<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br />
<br />
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eLAig18H2gw/T8AtTDeLjVI/AAAAAAAAhS0/Wza0VvFzU3w/_MG_8451A.jpg" width="467" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0rWdehZiB6E/T84V4_jnjuI/AAAAAAAAhV0/Zi7duceCulg/s1600/_MG_8485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="406" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0rWdehZiB6E/T84V4_jnjuI/AAAAAAAAhV0/Zi7duceCulg/s640/_MG_8485.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O7as-W4iIGQ/T8YoPeHeGiI/AAAAAAAAhS4/bXQccJPpx3I/_MG_8482.jpg" width="426" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br />
A colony of <br />
Royal ferns, Osmunda regalis on a streamside in the woods, Phippsburg, Maine<br />
<br />
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EgeYPhwcpJo/T8YobUMmDZI/AAAAAAAAhTQ/eCmvxCJUw8o/_MG_8491.jpg" width="430" /><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wF47kRL8_n8/T8YofBQ4zJI/AAAAAAAAhTY/VuleQoXKFP0/_MG_8504A.jpg" width="439" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Still Cover</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm deep in green</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">where the blue newts move</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">between wet leaves,</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">smooth, so cool.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Only sounds of dripping, </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">circles form on dark pools, </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">fronds, ferns unfurling, </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">moss absorbing, </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">then the waterthrush's</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">fluted chortling</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">amidst the trees</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">leaves me settled serene</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">and deep, </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">deep within the green,</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">still cover. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">............................................................................</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<em><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"> S</span></b></em>ince I was a little
kid, I've loved these wet, secret places in the woods. Some people would find
the enveloping stillness unnerving, but I have always been drawn by it. The
quiet stirs a notion of promise and magic. When I breathe in the rich, pungent
smell of decaying wood, I can conjure a fairy's life. The near absence of sound
makes me listen harder for what might be there, rustling under the leaves,
moving along the banks of the stream, or tip toeing through the mud. Did I see
a deer pause, ears twitching through the leaves, then gone in a flash? Is there
a giant, Spotted salamander snorkeling in the gloame? I could wish a golem in
the gloom. The quiet seems filled with possibilities.<br />
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My sister and I got lost in such a place when we were young. We followed
a path, or so it seemed, until suddenly, there wasn't a path anymore. We looked
around us and didn't know where to go. Everything looked the same: trees, bottomless
pools of black water, mushrooms and tall ferns. Barely any light filtered
through the trees. Looking upward, there were only cracks of sky. And it was
silent.</div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The greenery seemed to suck up all
sound. We listened hoping to hear familiar, distant sounds - our dog barking, a
lawnmower, a truck on a road, anything. But there was nothing. Even the sound
of our own panicky breathing died around us. <br />
My father used to tell us that
moss grew on the north sides of trees. If you looked for the moss, you’d know
which way to go. North? What did north mean to an eight year old? There <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>moss on the trees; there was moss
everywhere, matting every rock and fallen log in velvet green. No moss was going to tell us
where to go. The moss did not speak. I thought about my plastic, Cracker Jack
compass at home.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once, from a place like that, I captured a dozen Red-spotted newts. I put them in an aquarium with pads
of moss I had peeled from rocks. I put in some stones and made a little pool in
a bottle cap. I put in some tiny, emerald colored ferns and rotted sticks. I
put in a Shelf mushroom making an ample roof, a sort of salamander pavilion. It
seemed like a perfect home for the newts. I imagined a whole life for them in
their microhabitat, or glass prison. It was a veritable village of newts, which
I called salamanders. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Newts and salamanders are
basically the same thing. What they each came to be called has more to do with
history and language than science. Newts are a subgroup of salamanders. All
newts are salamanders, but not all salamanders are newts. A salamander is
called a “newt” if it belongs to specific genera (I won’t bore you with the
list). Generally, newts spend more of their lives in the water than salamanders;
they have more distinctive differences between genders, and they have more
complicated aquatic courtships. Now, wasn’t that a visual!<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are 550 species of
salamander in the world. The North American continent has more species of
salamanders, including newts, than any other continent on earth. Maine has
eight species. For those of you who say “I don’t like lizards,” salamanders are
not lizards. On their front feet, they only have four toes; lizards have five. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though there are no “blue newts” as in my
poem, there is a Blue-spotted salamander in Maine. Most salamanders are
lungless. They breathe through their skin which requires that their skin stay
moist. For this reason, they are usually nocturnal and live under leaves and
places where it’s damp. Many of them are vernal pool and wetland dwellers,
places such as the photos above.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a while, I forgot about my
salamanders. My father found my aquarium prison dried up and abandoned, for
which he beat the shit out of me. That was fifty years ago and I still carry
the guilt. The bulging eyes, tender toes and wide smiles of a newt give me
pangs of pain. But, that dark little episode of my history is part of what lead
me to become an amateur naturalist and nature photographer. The dark, damp places
in the woods always makes me think of the brilliant, orange salamanders I
tortured. I have a lot to make up for. Maybe they are what I listen for in the
penetrating silence - signs of life.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my sister and I couldn’t
find our way out of the woods, she started to cry. I was scared. I didn’t want
her to know how scared I was too, terrified, in fact. So, I told her to shut
up and quit crying. I knew that we had to figure it out on our own, that no one
was going to help us. I knew that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>had
to figure it out, because I was the oldest. I listened hard for some sign, some
sound that would guide us, but there was nothing. I smelled the air. Nothing.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister was sitting on a pad of moss,
sniffling. She had a trickle of blood oozing from a knee where she had fallen.
A Blackfly had left a rude, purple welt in the corner of her eye and more were
gathering. “Come on. Get up and get walking,” I ordered. It probably wasn’t
long, though it seemed like eternity, when one of our family dogs showed up. Though
we felt far, far away, we probably weren’t very far from home. It took some
scrambling to keep up, but we followed the dog home. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Decades later, I would hear on
the news that a four year old boy was lost in the Maine woods to the north (August,
1975, Kurt Newton, Coburn Gorge, Maine). The biggest manhunt in the history of
the State ensued to search for him. I was one of the searchers. I had to go. I
couldn’t get my sister out of my head, her bloody knee, her bug bites, her
futile crying. It was brutal, hot, hard hunting. Hundreds of searchers were all fly-bitten and
bramble scratched. In the dense, damp woods searchers found bottle caps,
cigarette butts and a wallet, all dropped by searchers who had gone before. And
I saw a few salamanders, significant to only me. But, no little boy, and to this
day, his disappearance has remained a mystery. I think every one of us wanted
to be the one to find him and believed he would be found. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will remain forever haunted by
that search, by the not finding. I’ve since had children of my own, whom I’ve
raised safely to adulthood. I know that if I was that little boy’s mother, for
the rest of my life, I would listen very closely when in the silent woods. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Pcv_xpsKn0/T8f3OHR34II/AAAAAAAAhT4/m7OgglUs-iY/s1600/IMG_2059-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Pcv_xpsKn0/T8f3OHR34II/AAAAAAAAhT4/m7OgglUs-iY/s320/IMG_2059-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mKjpPZhIRMU/T8f3-BQLNAI/AAAAAAAAhUE/TllKORUxcfk/s1600/IMG_2100-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mKjpPZhIRMU/T8f3-BQLNAI/AAAAAAAAhUE/TllKORUxcfk/s320/IMG_2100-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Red-striped salamander, Phippsburg, Maine</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x5dqKtYkw2c/T8f5LPCobuI/AAAAAAAAhUQ/sbggQF4TfJg/s1600/_MG_9220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x5dqKtYkw2c/T8f5LPCobuI/AAAAAAAAhUQ/sbggQF4TfJg/s320/_MG_9220.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
Spotted Red newt</div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
For more information on salamanders and newts, visit these sites. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<a href="http://www.maineherp.org/index.php?display=native_species&show=all">http://www.maineherp.org/index.php?display=native_species&show=all</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<a href="http://www.naturehaven.com/Frog/salamander.html">http://www.naturehaven.com/Frog/salamander.html</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<a href="http://www.caudata.org/cc/faq/FAQgen.shtml">http://www.caudata.org/cc/faq/FAQgen.shtml</a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><img alt="OS Readers' Picks" height="100" hspace="5px" id="cid_2195105" src="http://open.salon.com/files/os_rp_avatar_with_text1338754785.jpg" width="100" /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am please to announce and honored that this post recieved the </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/os_readers_picks/2012/06/03/os_readers_picks_third_awards#">OPEN SALON READER'S PICK AWARD</a> ! For more, click on that link or the one below. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/os_readers_picks/2012/06/03/os_readers_picks_third_awards">http://open.salon.com/blog/os_readers_picks/2012/06/03/os_readers_picks_third_awards</a>#</div>
</div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-19660562999924540932012-05-29T12:32:00.000-04:002012-05-29T12:32:12.769-04:00Heady Day In Heaven - 777 Photos<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q1RCs-zJryc/T8ThKsAUFdI/AAAAAAAAhRM/f50hTnYwdbY/_MG_8926.jpg" width="450" /><br />
<br />
Lady's Slipper orchids, the largest colony I have ever seen. May, coastal Maine 2012<br />
'<img height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UKOy13zL97c/T8ThNHGHeOI/AAAAAAAAhRU/LEJeEd5rU6Y/_MG_8951A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mbSyqlPGn1Y/T8Th-XgxcHI/AAAAAAAAhRk/IY5N3cghvTY/_MG_8756.jpg" width="435" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is an iris without a name, but none the less for glory, in my coastal Maine garden. Years ago, I received it as a cull from a customer's garden. The name had long been lost to her, and has remained so for me. If any of you know what kind it is, would you please let me know? <img height="283" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I2qMtcA1TTc/T8TkWe5UTDI/AAAAAAAAhR4/IZar9PuwbnE/_MG_8868.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em> A Flower Crab spider waits on a Tree peony petal to ambush its prey. These spiders are smaller than my tiniest fingernail. I took this with a 60mm macro lens. </em></div><img height="478" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uQw9ehNX-ko/T8TlsHrdqjI/AAAAAAAAhSA/oNd3bqAz5sg/_MG_4099.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>This is a male Bobolink in flight. It's the first one I've ever photographed, though I've seen them before. I stood for over an hour in an open field to get this shot. I wasn't wearing a hat and it was HOT out there! </em></div><img height="363" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gnpeWWi2TS4/T8TmhYP6-NI/AAAAAAAAhSQ/gtmjrxBdtdM/_MG_9097.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">This vintage Chevy with boys in ball caps went by on the country lane where I was standing in the field photographing birds. </div><img height="484" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G8XhgdxDRDs/T8TnvoxNaWI/AAAAAAAAhSc/k8KXONnBeAc/_MG_3714.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>There were several pairs of Eastern Bluebirds cruising the field for insects. A farm nearby had Bluebird houses on posts which were all occupied by these fabulous birds.</em><br />
<em> </em><br />
<img height="586" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZChwDH8qL9U/T8T4SmOO6FI/AAAAAAAAhSo/uL9Z_m6Rbow/_MG_9010.jpg" width="640" /></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <strong><span style="font-size: x-large;"><em>O</em></span></strong>n Memorial Day, I went for a ride to see Lady's Slipper orchids in what had been reported to me to be a huge colony. I didn't have to go far from home, only twenty or so miles. They werent' kidding about the enormity of the colony, either. The elderly couple who owned the land said that they had counted 346 blossoms on their single acre. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I drove through numerous meadows, what we in Maine call "hay fields." Twice a summer, they will be mowed for hay. Before they are mowed the first time, Bobolinks make their nests there. Lots of other birds cruise the fields for food, too. I saw Savannah sparrows, Meadowlarks, Tree swallows, Barn swallows, Brown Headed cowbirds, Red-winged blackbirds, Mourning doves, Blue jays, Eastern Bluebirds, Starlings, Crows, and a Broad-winged hawk, all in one field. They zoomed and zipped from grass tops to utility lines, snatching bugs and seeds and arguing with each other. Shimmering, hot air rose from the grass and buttercups. I stood in the field in the blazing sun for about an hour, long enough that the birds forgot that I was there. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> A dog was let out from a nearby farm. In typical farm dog fashion, it barked incessantly while trotting along the farm's fence line. The chortling and cheeping of birds nearly drowned it out. A vintage, orange Chevy pick up went by, the cab crowded with ball cap stereotyped farm boys. On the breeze the aroma of manure was carried from a barn. I got one good, solid whiff of hot dogs on a grill somewhere. Mixed with the bird songs, girls laughed in the distance.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Up the road from where I stood is a put in for small boats. When I drove by, headed home, people were putting canoes and kayaks in the water. A woman in cut off shorts, her recently exposed to daylight thighs already sun burned, craned her neck to kiss a man in Teva sandals. Two kids struggled a red canoe from a car roof while swallows swooped across the stream surface. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> At the end of the day, I had taken 777 photographs. I had started in my garden amongst the flowers, up close looking for insects, travelled through woods, fields and streams for more flowers and birds. I was richly rewarded. I saw birds I've not had the pleasure to photograph before and flowers familiar to me but more numerous than I'd ever imagined possible. It was a heady day in heaven. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-62303124690444548952012-05-25T16:38:00.000-04:002012-05-25T16:38:34.842-04:00FLYDAY - Bald eagle, Osprey, Herring gulls, Double-crested Cormorants- Fishing & Fighting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p7Dq131YvxU/T7_ogx4T8tI/AAAAAAAAhOQ/HP9N8OjKZmA/_MG_3222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="501" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p7Dq131YvxU/T7_ogx4T8tI/AAAAAAAAhOQ/HP9N8OjKZmA/_MG_3222.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Osprey, also known as a Fish Hawk with a freshly caught Alewife, which is a type of herring. Phippsburg Maine.</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> These photos were all taken within five minutes of one another. I was sitting at the mouth of the Kennebec River where it empties into the Atlantic Ocean at Popham Beach. </div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="341" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O_mtcAqvAs0/T7_oItGwyEI/AAAAAAAAhNQ/L8am9MyWk9s/_MG_2946.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Bald eagle, adult chasing an Osprey with a fish, off from Popham Beach, Phippsburg Maine</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="412" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WT_Q9JR1-yg/T7_oL4aP5CI/AAAAAAAAhNY/JeNV3ROQnis/_MG_3174.jpg" width="640" /></div><div align="center" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">I felt sorry for the poor fish. That's a long way to fall!</div><div align="center" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="507" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aRAwUjCHLak/T7_oRKhxRaI/AAAAAAAAhNo/9GK4Lqr2W4A/_MG_3175A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">A Double-crested cormorant was flying by. They were also there to catch fish, but they don't steal from others for their dinner. </div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="345" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DWA5SiZcCH4/T7_oWNaawMI/AAAAAAAAhNw/2qoqN_bJpGI/_MG_3176.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="500" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_CZK1HyvzXE/T7_oXiA7MBI/AAAAAAAAhN4/Uu4piL_vN0E/_MG_3181.jpg" width="640" /></div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="376" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-COPwWdJ6y4w/T7_oZg_MfoI/AAAAAAAAhOI/_VTFqLD9Kns/_MG_3183.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Herring gulls and Harbor seals, Phippsburg Maine. The gulls had chased an Osprey with a herring, also known as Alewife, until the beleaguered raptor dropped the fish. Then, the gulls fought each other for the purloined catch. One of them was able, miraculously, to snatch it from the drink and take off with it. The Harbor seals watched. They were busy catching their own fish and wondering if someone might drop some fries into the water to go with it. No Grey Poupon served here, only tartar sauce!</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>FLYday</em> is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">(It seems fighting, feeding and filching are high on their lists, too!)</div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-45914360482185175442012-05-22T02:00:00.000-04:002012-05-21T10:10:15.516-04:00Do The Funky Cowbird! "I Got Soul, And I'm Super Bad!"<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZUTSrCHJJqA/TAUhu03hdeI/AAAAAAAAcFw/n6q-icr0Oqs/s1600/_MG_6164.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="366" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZUTSrCHJJqA/TAUhu03hdeI/AAAAAAAAcFw/n6q-icr0Oqs/s640/_MG_6164.JPG" width="640" /></a> </div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZUTSrCHJJqA/TAUhvaUl1LI/AAAAAAAAcF4/7GiZBi8e4ho/s1600/_MG_6151.JPG" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="343" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZUTSrCHJJqA/TAUhvaUl1LI/AAAAAAAAcF4/7GiZBi8e4ho/s400/_MG_6151.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><em>I</em></span> 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. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong> 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,
</strong></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>"You are the stars in my sky,
</strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>You are my ultimate high,
</strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>In your smiling face so sweet,
</strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>You are my life complete"
</strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>A </strong></span>new resident at our house this year has been a pair of <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Brown-headed Cowbirds</strong></span>. 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. </div>
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. <br />
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.<br />
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. <br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZUTSrCHJJqA/TAUhvjnUw0I/AAAAAAAAcGA/EMOfbBxcL3E/s1600/2010-05-30.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZUTSrCHJJqA/TAUhvjnUw0I/AAAAAAAAcGA/EMOfbBxcL3E/s640/2010-05-30.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
These patio chairs have seen more action than a hotel mattress. </div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/otF5XwyVy2M" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe><br />
For more info on Cowbirds and to hear their calls and songs, click on these links:<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cowbird">Brown Headed Cowbird</a><br />
<a href="http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Brown-headed_Cowbird/id">allaboutbirds.org/guide/Brown-headed_Cowbird/id</a><br />
<br />
Thanks to Wikipedia for some of the information, as well. <br />
<script type="text/javascript">
var gaJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://ssl." : "http://www.");document.write(unescape("%3Cscript src='" + gaJsHost + "google-analytics.com/ga.js' type='text/javascript'%3E%3C/script%3E"));
</script><br />
<script type="text/javascript">
try {var pageTracker = _gat._getTracker("UA-9245638-1");pageTracker._trackPageview();} catch(err) {}
</script><br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border: 0px currentColor; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-69104131425653129622012-05-13T17:31:00.000-04:002012-05-13T17:33:15.882-04:00SCENIC SUNDAY - Pond Island Lighthouse, Phippsburg Maine<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="609" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKcZrQe0MOI/T7AfR-XdAdI/AAAAAAAAhM0/IvKVjhLjrNQ/LostFile_JPG_152590139A_1.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<br />
Pond Island Lighthouse, Popham Beach, Phippsburg, Maine<br />
spring horseback riding</div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-29450873188503476052012-05-11T01:10:00.000-04:002012-05-11T01:10:00.363-04:00FLYday - Magnolia Warbler, Phippsburg, Maine<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="612" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H0DcuoJ0fXQ/T6kZTRYcDUI/AAAAAAAAhMc/7pD6TYbhm6I/_MG_1576Aresize.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Magnolia Warbler in flight, Phippsburg, Maine May 2012</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, <i>fly! </i><br />
<br />
<em>To see more of my photographs of birds in flight, click on this link:</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/BIRDS/BIRDS-IN-FLIGHT/14827970_JBkfCq">http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/BIRDS/BIRDS-IN-FLIGHT/14827970_JBkfCq</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br />
</i></div>
</div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com5Maine coast41.244772343082076 -69.60937515.784659843082075 -110.0390625 66.704884843082084 -29.1796875tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-16570727833351507812012-05-05T10:24:00.000-04:002012-05-05T10:24:05.053-04:00FLYday - Bald Eagle and Herring Gull Fight<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="445" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TMcOf7XcPMg/T6UzgMQS4YI/AAAAAAAAhMQ/XiUOtMpKl_c/_MG_1080A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Adult Bald eagle being harassed by Herring Gull, Phippsburg, Maine, May 2012</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, <i>fly. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I took this shot on the end of our pier, 120 feet out into the ocean. I was wearing my bathrobe. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;">On my photography web site, you will find almost 8,000 images of Maine taken by me. </div><div style="text-align: center;">http://robinrobinsonmaine.com </div></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-48020184749236225602012-04-27T01:13:00.000-04:002012-04-27T11:30:49.096-04:00FLYDAY- Osprey Talons<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<img height="292" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EX946I0t1Kc/T5XwLKjBPWI/AAAAAAAAhMI/5SYGuJqCkbY/_MG_0661A.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
Osprey, also known as a Fish Hawk, with talons extended. Brookville, Maine</div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-37173789450863870092012-04-14T21:29:00.000-04:002012-04-14T21:29:21.127-04:00Scenic Sunday - Fort Popham on The Kennebec River, Phippsburg, Maine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJ2LtLq6OxU/T4oijp14NUI/AAAAAAAAhL4/5qhjFwEzq7M/_MG_5963Ab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJ2LtLq6OxU/T4oijp14NUI/AAAAAAAAhL4/5qhjFwEzq7M/_MG_5963Ab.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJ2LtLq6OxU/T4oijp14NUI/AAAAAAAAhL4/5qhjFwEzq7M/_MG_5963Ab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div style="text-align: left;" unselectable="on"> </div></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> Fort Popham on the Kennebec River, Phippsburg, Maine in autumn. I took this aerial view in 2010. Hunnewell Beach is in the foreground. The view is looking north up the Kennebec River. Atkins Bay is to the left or west of the fort. Cox's Head is in the background to the left or west of the fort. Gilbert's Head is just north and to the right or east of the fort. </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-58190520341431716052012-04-13T10:29:00.000-04:002012-04-13T10:29:12.198-04:00FLYday - Crow With Nest Material<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="330" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MLpx4Zcbvvg/T4g2_6xZwaI/AAAAAAAAhKs/DmIWTZXeUkg/_MG_7958A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">American Crow, <em>Corvis brachyrhynchos</em> in flight with nesting material. Everybody is mating and building nests now!</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">April, Phippsburg, Maine</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly.</em> </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-53819765124955478482012-03-30T11:57:00.000-04:002012-03-30T11:57:00.615-04:00FLYday - Great Blue Heron Food Battle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-SLMmsHX/0/XL/20090914-MG0581A-XL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="518" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-SLMmsHX/0/XL/20090914-MG0581A-XL.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><script type="text/javascript">
document.onmousedown=disable; //IE
message="Sorry no right click on this page!";
function disable(e)
{
if (e == null)
{ //IE disable
e = window.event;
if (e.button==2)
{
alert(message);
return false;
}
}
document.onclick=ffdisable; //FF
}
function ffdisable(e)
{
if (e.button==2)
{ //firefox disable
e.preventDefault();
e.stopPropagation();
alert(message);
return false;
}
}
</script> <script type="text/javascript">
var gaJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://ssl." : "http://www.");
document.write(unescape("%3Cscript src='" + gaJsHost + "google-analytics.com/ga.js' type='text/javascript'%3E%3C/script%3E"));
</script> <script type="text/javascript">
try {
var pageTracker = _gat._getTracker("UA-9245638-1");
pageTracker._trackPageview();
} catch(err) {}
</script><em>Great Blue Herons, </em>Ardea herodias engaged in food battle. The heron on the left is biting the legs of the fleeing heron on the right! </div><div style="text-align: center;">Phippsburg, Maine</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">For more wading birds, see this link: <a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/photos/swfpopup.mg?AlbumID=13998997&AlbumKey=FQwq63">http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/photos/swfpopup.mg?AlbumID=13998997&AlbumKey=FQwq63</a></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-79780072767073451262012-03-30T07:59:00.032-04:002012-03-30T10:13:39.903-04:00FLYday - Great Blue Heron<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-44frjmb7d40/T2-yeEUU47I/AAAAAAAAhI4/ZhkUhACCIVY/_MG_0007AA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="506" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-44frjmb7d40/T2-yeEUU47I/AAAAAAAAhI4/ZhkUhACCIVY/_MG_0007AA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Great Blue Heron<em>, Ardea </em>herodias in flight, Phippsburg Maine</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">To see more photos of birds in flight in Maine, click <a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/photos/swfpopup.mg?AlbumID=14827970&AlbumKey=JBkfCq">HERE. </a></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">To see more photos of wading birds in Maine, click <a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/photos/swfpopup.mg?AlbumID=13998997&AlbumKey=FQwq63">HERE.</a></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-67163141958093261062012-03-28T13:00:00.001-04:002012-03-29T09:39:05.620-04:00Hot And Cold, Spring Snow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-GNp7WQ2/0/XL/20120328-MG9487A-XL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="458" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-GNp7WQ2/0/XL/20120328-MG9487A-XL.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Andromeda japonica in spring snow.</em> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">March 28, 2012</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong><em><span style="font-size: x-large;"> A</span></em></strong>fter a week of record breaking, summer like temperatures, it was a surprise to wake up to snow cover this morning. My first thought was "<em>Flowers! Flowers in snow!" </em>I leaped out of bed and ran out to my gardens, still wearing my bathrobe. Quickly, my feet froze in my open toed, house slippers. My robe trailed in the snow and mud. I hopped around like a cat in water, trying to keep my feet from sinking into the snow as I pranced from one lovely vignette to another. I was enraptured in the glory of those tender blooms in crowns of snow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> My husband hollered from the safety of a window, "What the hell are you doing out there?" Inarguably, I looked like a lunatic escaped from an asylum. Ignoring him, I kept photographing until the wind whipped up. My robe was blown in the air flinging mud with it and frigid air around my legs. My feet were soaked. I picked a trail of windblown hair from my mouth. When all of the snow blew off the flowers, I called it quits. Then, I heard water running. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Having grown up in houses with ancient, unstable plumbing, the sound of running water provokes P.T.S.D. symptoms for me. My first thought is always a strong "Oh No! What's wrong now?" Hurrying toward the sound, I was relieved to see that the source was just my husband, stark naked in his outdoor shower. Yes, we <em>did</em> have snow; yes, the wind was howling; and yes, I still had the camera in my hands. And I did photograph him in all of his glory, though his crown was suds, not snow. You may insert the smiley face here, or whatever other image you conjured. But, the details will remain between us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-hpbnqW3/0/X2/20120328-MG9533-X2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-hpbnqW3/0/X2/20120328-MG9533-X2.jpg" width="484" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Siberian squill with snow on its crown</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-F9KDtzr/0/X2/20120328-MG9621-X2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-F9KDtzr/0/X2/20120328-MG9621-X2.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Pink Andromeda japonica in snow</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-tKfdF8k/0/X2/20120328-MG9630-X2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-tKfdF8k/0/X2/20120328-MG9630-X2.jpg" width="304" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>pulmonaria, or Lung wort bud in snow</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-JwPhd3R/0/XL/20120328-MG9462-XL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="402" src="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/Other/THE-DAILY-IMAGE/i-JwPhd3R/0/XL/20120328-MG9462-XL.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>A blue variety of pulmonaria in the snow. Pulmonaria is also called Lung wort. In days of yore, it was used medicinally to cure respiratory ailments, like pneumonia. My grandmother would have said of David in his shower, and me in my robe in the out of doors, "</em>You'll catch your death out there!" <em>She need not worry. Once I'm done I'll just brew up some Lung wort tea. </em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If you would like to see more images of spring time in Maine, click <a href="http://www.robinrobinsonmaine.com/photos/swfpopup.mg?AlbumID=15627604&AlbumKey=Z8MRcW">here.</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This post is an Editor's Pick on Open Salon <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/kerry_lauerman/2008/07/24/welcome_to_our_public_beta">(click here for more on OS)</a> It is the sixteenth of my works to be so chosen. Thank you, OS!</div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-68611225603270331912012-03-24T09:04:00.000-04:002012-03-24T09:04:33.467-04:00FLYday - Ruby Thoated Hummingbird<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="433" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-82fQLOYP6qk/T23F4xKoGxI/AAAAAAAAhIQ/NllJeNFTPnY/_MG_0244-AEdit.jpg" width="640" /></div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>Ruby-throated hummingbird, female at impatiens. Phippsburg, Maine 2011</em></div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Flyday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-70972010914009216772012-03-16T01:20:00.001-04:002012-03-17T15:56:02.933-04:00FLYday - Bald eagle<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZ8fXwfnJi8/T19JnOhXolI/AAAAAAAAhH0/uzK_gUuG9wk/_MG_5096-2.jpg" width="506" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>Bald eagle, adult, Phippsburg Maine</em></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">FYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. <br />
<br />
This post was chosen for the cover of Open Salon as Editor's Pick. It was the fifteenth of my works to be chosen. For the first time, I had two Editor's Picks on the cover at the same time, this one and my previous post which also had eagles. For more please see <a href="http://open.salon.com/cover">http://open.salon.com/cover</a> </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-30303373710853360402012-03-13T13:19:00.002-04:002012-03-15T09:36:25.867-04:00Bank Of America And Nature's Imponderables<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <img height="441" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aon_Fmmqtqs/T1943gtep0I/AAAAAAAAhH8/ohtFff2_DsM/_MG_4954Acrop.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>Bald eagle, adult perched on snow. European Starlings, Great Black-backed and Herring gull in flight, Maine, February 2009</em></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="346" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gcEAE99hdrs/T1944mZ2xHI/AAAAAAAAhIE/TxKj7lN1D_o/_MG_4959.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>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. </em></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em></em> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>I</em></strong></span> 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? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in, n</i>ever 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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very </i>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.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i>? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deposit </i>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i>," 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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they </i>thought I was which made me feel like I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">looked </i>guilty. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i> 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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> need a deposit slip, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> don't!" Instead, I sighed deeply and left. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a dunderhead I said "What?" </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got there, there weren’t any customers. “Great, I won’t have to wait in line,” I thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I just gave a deposit slip to that young man minutes ago. He has one right on his desk.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She repeated dryly “I’ll need a deposit slip.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pointing to the young man’s work area, I said “I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just</i> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has </i>one!” I snarled. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><em>This post was selected as Editor's Pick on the cover of Open Salon (</em><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><a href="http://open.salon.com/cover">http://open.salon.com/cover</a>)</span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">It is the fourteenth of my works to be chosen. </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com72tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-18624765852326133962012-03-11T10:36:00.000-04:002012-03-11T10:36:49.374-04:00SCENIC SUNDAY - Pond Island Lighthouse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OKBJoXvv_Ik/T1y3xy7TBbI/AAAAAAAAhHs/cbZDLgblju4/s1600/_MG_7280A-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OKBJoXvv_Ik/T1y3xy7TBbI/AAAAAAAAhHs/cbZDLgblju4/s640/_MG_7280A-2.jpg" width="464" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Pond Island Lighthouse from Popham Beach, Phippsburg Maine. March, 2012</div><script type="text/javascript">
document.onmousedown=disable; //IE
message="Sorry no right click on this page!";
function disable(e)
{
if (e == null)
{ //IE disable
e = window.event;
if (e.button==2)
{
alert(message);
return false;
}
}
document.onclick=ffdisable; //FF
}
function ffdisable(e)
{
if (e.button==2)
{ //firefox disable
e.preventDefault();
e.stopPropagation();
alert(message);
return false;
}
}
</script> <script type="text/javascript">
var gaJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://ssl." : "http://www.");
document.write(unescape("%3Cscript src='" + gaJsHost + "google-analytics.com/ga.js' type='text/javascript'%3E%3C/script%3E"));
</script> <script type="text/javascript">
try {
var pageTracker = _gat._getTracker("UA-9245638-1");
pageTracker._trackPageview();
} catch(err) {}
</script>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-23696860948604127372012-03-09T11:38:00.000-05:002012-03-09T11:38:34.456-05:00FLYday- Red-tailed Hawk<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="346" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Z3np_CRMWI/T1ovuGjbVhI/AAAAAAAAhHY/PqDK5PBwpmk/_MG_9306A-Edit.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>Red-tailed hawk, Buteo jamaicenis in flight, Phippsburg Maine</em></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>FLYday </em>is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-91851252149942803922012-03-03T18:46:00.004-05:002012-03-03T18:50:59.979-05:00My Grand Compulsion - Common, Red-breasted and Hooded Mergansers<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="411" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y82vzu76ve0/T0kTQ9LhK7I/AAAAAAAAhEo/bSuK1yZTAkc/_MG_7834.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Common merganser drakes on the Kennebec River, Bath Maine February 2012</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="318" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7oNz8XPzhrI/T0kSobrat7I/AAAAAAAAhEg/Ww0GcYXWDpU/_MG_7859.jpg" width="640" /></div><div align="center" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Common mergansers, Kennebec River, Bath Maine, February 2012</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="285" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I9DTKJcIYj0/T0kJX-QBpfI/AAAAAAAAhEA/bylDIqznwoQ/_MG_7820A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Common merganser hens or juveniles on the Kennebec River, Bath Maine 2012</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="355" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5xMKokdAsdo/T0kJQwZfQJI/AAAAAAAAhEw/URVDJImSRUE/_MG_7813A.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Common Merganser close up, Kennebec River Bath Maine</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MB5i5NHwM0c/T0o42MrsxhI/AAAAAAAAhFE/aSX885PB2lg/_MG_8715.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>Common merganser, hen, Maine</em><br />
Common mergansers are recognizable by their white chin strap</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kr14OfceAz4/T0kJeDa2WOI/AAAAAAAAhEQ/YHuhXVAsB_k/_MG_8188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kr14OfceAz4/T0kJeDa2WOI/AAAAAAAAhEQ/YHuhXVAsB_k/_MG_8188.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Hooded merganser trio, left to right, two drakes and hen, Bath, Maine February 2012<br />
<img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N_yK3IBxdb8/T0kNdhUQbrI/AAAAAAAAhEY/KFvqFSfS48E/_MG_8103A.jpg" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Hooded merganser drake eating a crab, Bath, Maine February 2012<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pEeVGNARvcw/T0zs4s49oTI/AAAAAAAAhFM/5Pp4HCiKjFc/_MG_7089A.jpg" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LDDQwQhPEqg/T1Kq6zyBfLI/AAAAAAAAhGM/1Olb0nn8xiU/_MG_7109.jpg" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Red-breasted merganer drake, Phippsburg Maine </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>I’</em></strong></span>m going to be fifty seven in a month. Rumor has it that at this stage of life, people begin to slow down, but not me. On the contrary, I’ve decided on a new career path. I’m hoping to get a slot on the new cable show “My Strange Addiction.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The show is reality trash TV at its best and perfectly suited to me. It’s not for the faint of heart, I can tell you that. I just watched one featuring a woman addicted to her own breasts. She has triple G breasts on a size four frame, yet persists in having upgrades to her breast implants. She has fourteen pounds on each side, but they aren’t enough for her. Her surgeon told her it was killing her and that he wouldn’t put more in, so she’s off to Brazil to get what she wants. There was another one with a woman who drinks nail polish. She favors the kind with sparkles in it and says that the color does influence the flavor. It’s that willingness to endure pain, the persistence and the attention to detail which make me an excellent candidate for the show. “How can people do these things to themselves,” I shudder. I wonder if I can get a film crew to document <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>strange addiction. </span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"></span><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spend stupid amounts of time looking for birds and beasts and other photo opportunities. Every day, I take shots of one thing or another for practice. There is nothing worse than seeing something then being too slow with the camera settings to get the shot. I’ve been there, though it’s just not that complicated. All a photographer has to learn to do is capture light with the camera.</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t matter whether the photographer shoots landscapes, weddings, birds, or cans of beans to sell; there is only one thing the photographer has to learn to do: capture how the light falls on the subject. To capture that light, there are only three things the photographer needs to decide: how big the hole or shutter needs to be, how fast it has to close and how sensitive the storage medium needs to be (film speed or ISO). Yet, as simple as that sounds, it takes years of practice to master capturing light. And, it takes millions of shots. I often find it frustrating that for the time I put in, I don’t get the photographs I’d like to, either the subjects I desire or the quality. But, I persist. </span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the name of being ready when Big Foot shows up, a Martian lands in Phippsburg or a Snowy owl finally flies through my living room, I have taken millions of photographs. Well, not quite millions - I have six external hard drives attached to my computer which house roughly 100,000 images a piece. This does pose problems. It costs money to buy the storage and takes time to manage the organization.</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of my best efforts to organize my photographs, I often can’t find something when I want it. Like Bob Cratchit, I hunch at my computer desk for hours sifting through folders of images. I wear a ragged robe and fingerless gloves. I too, have a cruel employer. When I can’t find what I’m looking for, I berate myself for not having a consistent system for organizing my images. Then, I crab at myself for clicking the shutter so often in the first place. I can’t help it and I’m disgusted with myself. Just about the time I decide to quit, I’m pulled back in.</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, the whiff of a nice bottle of fingernail polish, the jiggling joy of silicone came to me in the form of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mergansers! </i>Mergansers are common in Maine. In fact, we have three types. However, to photograph all three in a single day without even trying for them is unusual. </span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: David;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt;">Maine has three species of mergansers, Common, Red-breasted and Hooded. “Sawbills” are large, fish eating ducks with serrated edges on their long, thin bills for grabbing fish. They all have shaggy crests. Common mergansers (<em><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif";">Mergus merganser) </span></em>and Red-breasted mergansers</span><span style="font-size: 18pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt;"> (<em><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif";">Mergus serrator) </span></em>look similar, though the Hooded does not. Hooded mergansers are not in the genus Mergus, but are closely related. All three dive completely under water for food. Though they are all seaducks, only the Red-breasted is commonly found on the ocean. The other two hang out in riverine habitats. We have flocks of Red-breasted mergansers here on Totman Cove most of the winter, though never the other two Sawbill varieties. I travelled fifteen miles up the Kennebec River to Bath while doing mundane errands for the full complement.</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Europe, the Common merganser is called a Goosander. Across continents, there are minor differences amongst Common mergansers leading to variables in appearance. Because the birds look very similar, here they are sometimes called ‘American’ mergansers, rather than ‘Common.’ Hooded mergansers are predictably called ‘Hoodies,’ because of their white hood, not because they rob convenience stores.</span></div><div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Arabic","serif"; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mergansers breed in the northern reaches of the planet. Of the three, Red-breasted ‘mergs’ breed the furthest north and winter the furthest south. The Red-breasted is the only one of the three that nests on the ground. The other two nest in tree cavities. None of the mergansers are endangered, though this could change if they start drinking fingernail polish. </span></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-33601972748364532732012-03-03T09:45:00.000-05:002012-03-03T09:45:13.371-05:00FLYday- Red-breasted Merganser in flight<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="398" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QpOon6jBJx0/T0zt45ZPoPI/AAAAAAAAhFU/5oT6G-djjGc/_MG_7078.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>RED-BREASTED MERGANSER DRAKE IN FLIGHT, PHIPPSBURG, MAINE FEBRUARY 2012</em></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">FLY-day is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly. </div></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-76698532721581945482012-02-21T14:36:00.003-05:002012-02-28T10:37:00.965-05:00Mocker Muddle - Northern Shrike or Northern Mockingbird?<div style="text-align: center;"> <img height="395" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9p90tQC3EIQ/T0KgOCxwILI/AAAAAAAAhDA/e7bpJ47XlEk/_MG_8558.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Northern Mockingbird, Mimus polyglottos Brunswick, Maine February 2012</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">''<img height="1000" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JUPKtk2xr80/T0KgO3ZBVJI/AAAAAAAAhDI/_qwu24I6pbw/_MG_8614.jpg" width="630" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Lest there be doubt about where I saw this bird!</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QYGvXd4CI_g/T0KgPowx6NI/AAAAAAAAhDQ/zIhm1kDaBys/_MG_8622.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">The Mocker flew to a nearby tree. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JJ9GaAi3oLc/T0Pc5WQmk2I/AAAAAAAAhDo/eL93J_u9Us8/_MG_9949.jpg" width="584" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> Northern Shrike, Lanius excubitor, Phippsburg Maine March 2011. See how similar the two birds are? Note the hook on the shrike's bill.</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><img height="541" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jWwW9VJt5XA/T0O9lr2l3_I/AAAAAAAAhDg/3H5CV07lUL8/_MG_6953.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>Our dog, Perry, safely back in the car. Perry is a Shiba inu.</em> </div><br />
<br />
<div align="center" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em> M</em></strong></span>y darling husband gave to me a Happy Day Surprise recently of a stunning pair of earrings. Each earring is a large, mother of pearl Bald Eagle in flight! They are magnificent! When I wore them for the first time yesterday , I felt like an Indian princess and an intrepid wildlife photographer all rolled into one. I held my chin a little higher (always good for a middle aged woman) and walked with a jaunty stride and my shoulders back. I felt <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">goooood!</i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did keep checking them though, repeatedly touching my fingers to my ears. At nearly three inches long, they are quite ostentatious. I wasn't self conscious; I was worried I'd lose one!</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a universal law of inverse proportions that you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will </i>lose one earring of a pair you love the most. You won't necessarily lose a member of the most expensive pair, but one that has the most meaning for you.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When David and I once</span> went to Italy, I brought home a pair of earrings. They weren't expensive, but they were a memento from that trip. We had been so happy on that trip that those earrings made me feel a little rush of those same times. When I put them on, I could feel that certain Italian sun that shines on temple stone and nearly smell the wild rosemary in the air.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often wear earrings when I go out regardless of what else I'm wearing, because they make me feel good. It's not uncommon for me to wear outrageous earrings while still in my bathrobe, especially if they are new ones. I know a woman who wears astounding, ruby-red lipstick everywhere she goes. Her garish swipe of cherry pucker-up flies in the face of her jeans, her husband's chamois shirt and her muck boots. I frequently see her mowing her back acres on her John Deere with grass clippings plastered all over her, but she looks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fine!</i> Some would say she looks ridiculous with that ghoulish gash across her face, but I for one completely understand.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I once went on a photo trip north of here to shoot elk and deer. It was winter and the snow was deep which proved to be perfect. The cloven hoofed wonders looked pristine in the snow and the reflected light was gorgeous. I wore an oversized sweater with a suede vest lined with shearling pile. My cashmere, fingerless, "photographer's” gloves matched perfectly. I topped off my sumptuous outfit with my Italian earrings. I got lots of great photographs of elk and deer and promptly lost one of the earrings in the hopelessly deep snow. That was years ago, but it still haunts me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every woman knows that you are saddled forever with the one earring that wasn’t lost. They can't be discarded for crimes they didn't commit, each with a blameless soul. I have an entire container devoted to single earrings that have lost their lovers. My lone, Italian earring resides there in my earring orphanage. When I see it, I can feel myself looking for its mate, as if I lost it yesterday and might actually find it. Like old photographs of long lost family, they haunt me and sometimes mock me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Monday morning quarterbacking solution to this is to always wear earrings with keepers on the backs. Having learned, I now usually do this, but it's not always an answer. Sometimes I forget, I’m hurrying, or simply wearing a pair that isn't constructed correctly for this. Such is the case with the fabulous Bald eagle earrings. I wasn’t going into the bush yesterday, only taking the dog to the vet. But, donning my dynamic, Bald eagle earrings, I felt born aloft! Knowing what can happen without warning to one you love, I compulsively fingered them making sure they were still there. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our dog despises the vet. Regardless of what I do to try to fake him out, he always knows that's where we are going. He loves to ride in the car, but I have to get him in hours in advance of departure. If he senses that we are going to the vet, he will not get into the car. He is ten years old and has learned my every nuance. He has also learned that he can get away with blowing me off when I give him a verbal command. I have to be really careful not to telegraph my intent because once I have done so, there is no amount of yelling, cajoling or bribery that will get him to come or get into the car. He cannot be bought nor caught. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, I left the car door open in the yard and ignored him. He got in of his own accord and off we went. But, on pulling into the parking lot at the vet's, he was a wreck. He knew. He shivered, shook, trembled and drooled as if standing before an execution squad. I talked sweetness which didn't work, then had to yank him out of the car. Along with him came the winter's accumulation of trash and assorted articles, which I had to pick up. Flustered and irritated, I tossed a crumpled, paper bag, an empty soda can, and a glove back into the car. "Where's the other glove?" I wondered. Reflexively, I touched my earring. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I stood up, the leash with the collar attached hung lax in my hand without the dog. A jolting, black panic filled me. From across the lot, the freed dog looked at me, his face distorted with terror. Then, he headed directly for the road, a busy, local version of the Los Angeles freeway. I called him once, which he barely noticed. I resisted the urge to run after him. Instead, I went to the car and opened the door. "Hey, Perry!" I called as calmly as I could, choking on my own fear, "We're going home, buddy! Come on and get in the car - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">home</i>!" I tried to sound cheerful. I stepped back from the open car door and thankfully, in he jumped. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I had time to think or feel that sick feeling that comes with catastrophe, a bird flew into the shrubs beside the car. "Oh, my god! It's a shrike!" I grabbed my camera from the front seat, aimed and fired off a round of shots. I could hardly believe my eyes! From the confines of the car, the dog watched me advance closer and closer to the bird. I could not believe what I was seeing! I could hardly wait to post this find on the birding internet!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To get the dog into the vet’s office and exam room, I had to carry him. At just over forty pounds, he’s not a big dog. However, he weighs more than a third of my total body weight and was not a cooperative subject. The next time, I would definitely harness him! He flailed and splayed his legs out, which of course, caught on the frame of the door jamming us both in the doorway. I almost dropped him! A receptionist watched us blankly from behind the safety of her desk without inclination to help us. Setting him down on the floor, I straightened up, picked a tuft of fur from my lips and checked my earrings. I had them both.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though exhausting, it was a great day! I still had the dog, both earrings and I had a great bird! Once home, the dog went directly to bed. I posted my bird to the internet. I was promptly corrected that I had not seen a shrike, but rather, a Northern Mockingbird. A Northern shrike would have been an excellent sighting. A Northern Mockingbird is a good bird for late winter in mid-coast Maine, but not a great bird. I don’t see them often in Phippsburg at any time of year.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first glance, I had actually thought it was a Mocker. But then, I was so flustered by having lost the dog that I didn’t think it through before posting to the internet. Embarrassed by this birding faux pas, I imagined the birding elite out there mocking my Mocker. Credibility is central amongst birders. To grossly misidentify a bird in a fit of uncontrolled exuberance was really crapping on my street “cred.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Admittedly, the two songbirds look quite similar. They are both ten inches long, brownish gray, have long tails, and black wings with white bars. Their head shapes are slightly different and shrikes have a hook at the end of the bill. But, the bird’s position could make those points difficult to distinguish. Northern Mockingbirds have a dark stripe through the eye while shrikes have a full mask. However, a first winter shrike’s mask is not as pronounced making it easy to confuse with a Mocker. Both have white eye rings and are fast fliers that like high perches. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> birder would never have confused the two. However, a really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i> birder would be wearing terrific earrings and have a camera ready. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://pineriverreview.blogspot.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qpMEML1iqbI/Tzp5HZM2WZI/AAAAAAAACfY/Uyf35ogEtkI/s200/IMG_1314ps.jpg" width="200" /></a></span><br />
</div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119844997664774587.post-59845662812178198222012-02-16T16:09:00.020-05:002012-02-24T15:07:42.130-05:00Northern Pintail - Northern Pinhead<div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZRZaHSMpe8/TzwjyJJIfWI/AAAAAAAAhCA/sOSdYi7OAoA/s1600/_MG_7628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZRZaHSMpe8/TzwjyJJIfWI/AAAAAAAAhCA/sOSdYi7OAoA/s640/_MG_7628.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
Northern Pintail drake with American Black ducks, as seen across the marsh on Hermit Island, Phippsburg Maine, February 2012<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g0AKEXN4lGo/TzwkO5asYtI/AAAAAAAAhCI/vxPIAJJRrc0/s1600/_MG_7610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g0AKEXN4lGo/TzwkO5asYtI/AAAAAAAAhCI/vxPIAJJRrc0/s640/_MG_7610.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Marsh grass frozen under tide water, Hermit Island, February 2012<br />
Do you see any car keys here?<br />
<img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-70-Rb4cHe7k/TzwgY1afiDI/AAAAAAAAhA4/DNey4Ane2co/_MG_7541.jpg" /><br />
Northern Pintail drake with American Black Duck drake, Phippsburg, Maine February 2012<br />
<img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XlcvvfR4hUw/TzwgbRM1L8I/AAAAAAAAhBA/bW-XuoVBbT8/_MG_7552.jpg" /><br />
Northern Pintails have narrow, long wings and slender necks.<br />
<img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j670Qq0qKb8/Tz1NfKJTktI/AAAAAAAAhCQ/7wysJMmPCaA/_MG_0543-2.jpg" /><br />
Northern Pintails upending at the Edwin B. Forsythe Wildlife Preserve in New Jersey, 2010. Notice their pointed tails.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"> <img height="513" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-berxlwh2rOQ/Tzvs3sclT8I/AAAAAAAAg_o/Q969RzwHjxs/_MG_7235.jpg" width="640" /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><em>This may be the only owl I find all winter. It is folk art that I found on a fence post at Popham while searching for a Snowy owl.</em><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"> A</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">t home, I have a title; I am known as The Queen of Find. This is because my people think I have magical powers to find anything anytime. This includes objects I don’t own nor had any reason to even lay my eyes upon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no real secret to this; It’s just a system. Sometimes it’s as simple as asking where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>the person who used an item when they last had it. That’s a no-brainer which any reasonable person should employ before asking someone else, namely me, “Have you seen my……..you fill in the blank.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time, I don’t think about it because, I can literally ‘see’ the object in my mind. In fact, thinking about it usually messes with my powers. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> was born with some degree of what is called a “photographic memory.” As a youngster, I learned to use this talent to keep my father from beating us kids. When he couldn’t find something he had usually misplaced himself, I quickly pre-empted his wrath by finding what he sought, thus saving one of us a thrashing. Back then, being the Queen of Find had strictly practical applications. As I got older though, I came to like feeling special. I'll admit that by now, I have probably fostered dependency in some of my loved ones for the sake of my own thrill. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was also born with really great eye sight. In fact, until the past couple of years, I had 20/10 vision. Any object that most people need to be ten feet from to see clearly, I can see from twenty feet away. This gave me a hefty advantage for birding, too. My husband is amazed at the birds I see that he does not, until I point them out. Traveling together on any given stretch of road, I'll see six raptors in the trees where he sees none.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many times I've heard "You've got such a great eye!" A splendid birder friend once told me that I had "birding mojo." He didn't know it, but he couldn't have given me a finer compliment. I felt magnificent! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">'m at the age now where many of these talents are failing me and it scares the snot out of me. I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> going gently into the good night of aging. Like a lot of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>women, I have struggled with knowing that I'm no longer the hottest babe in the room. Maybe I could deal with that more gracefully if everything wasn't disintegrating at once. I want to keep a couple of my talents that have set me apart. Does aging have to be a slow slide into incapacities?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I do understand that cosmic balance and fairness dictate that compromises be made. So, I easily gave up on the idea that I would become an Olympic figure skater. My modeling career tanked when I stopped growing at five feet tall. And, I surrendered my dream of becoming a nuclear physicist when I flunked high school algebra. Those were my compromises, God. So where's the fairness?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everybody said when my eye sight started going to hell that it would deteriorate to a point, then stop, but apparently that's not true. Though my house is littered, confetti-like, with colorful reading glasses, none of them seem strong enough. I can't see far away quite as clearly as I used to, either. And now, my birding magic is losing its twinkle, too.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I've seen quite a few rare birds in my birding career. I've had a good eye for picking them out and I've put the time and effort into it, too. Just this past week, I've seen and photographed a rare, Red-headed woodpecker and a Northern Pintail duck. The duck isn't rare, but it IS rare to see one in Maine in February. Nonetheless, the prize I long for is a Snowy owl. I've gone hunting nearly every day for weeks, so my failure to get one isn't for lack of trying. It must be, that like my thickening waist and ankles, my wrinkling face and dulling vision, the blush is off my mojo. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After one of my recent fruitless Snowy expeditions to Popham Beach, I stopped at Hermit Island on my way home. A sulking brat, I was feeling very sorry for myself and quite desperate. My eyes keenly scanned the salt marsh and clam flats. That's how I spotted the Northern Pintail drake amongst the American Black ducks, all dabbling along the mud line. Well, at least that was something!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had barely stopped the car before I was shooting pictures out of the open window. I needed to be closer, so I pulled over. So as not to alarm them, I left the door open and slipped around the back of the car. Creeping across the muddy flat, I hunkered down to keep a low profile. I imagined myself like a sleek, Arctic fox slinking across the marsh. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Northern Pintails are a fairly large duck. Long and slender with narrow wings, they are fast and graceful fliers, sometimes called the “Greyhound of The Air.” The drakes sport a long, pointed tail which gives them the nickname “sprig.” When in breeding plumage, the tail accounts for a quarter of the full length of the bird! They aren't rare, though their populations have been in slow decline. Hybridization with invasive Mallards in the western and midwestern United States may be one reason. Predation by foxes, Bobcats and other large carnivores, disease, habitat loss and hunting are all contributing causes to their decline.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sprigs are dabbling ducks that eat mostly plants and insects from the bottom. Upending in shallow water, their long necks enable them to reach further down than other ducks. Usually eating in the evening or at night, they rest during the day. They breed in the northern areas of the planet. Highly migratory, they winter south of their breeding range to the equator.</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The thermometer in the car said it was seventeen degrees. A biting wind cut across the flats from the west. As I stalked the ducks and waded through the icy tide water, I was mindful of where I stepped. In that cold, I couldn’t afford to stumble into a hole. Amber marsh grass, flattened and trapped in ice, lay in elegant whorls at my feet. Suddenly, the ducks flushed and the whirring wings raised them skyward and away. I was freezing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> When I got back to the car, I could not find my keys anywhere. I am compulsive about not leaving my keys in the car because I am paranoid about locking them in. I always put my keys into my right, front pants pocket. I check and double check them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me to lose car keys was unheard of! I couldn’t freaking believe it! I traced and retraced my steps through the frozen marsh at least a dozen times. After about the sixth pass, my feet went from throbbing to numb. I passed over and over the same beer bottle, rubber lobster claw band and wad of balloon ribbon, but could not find the keys. I grabbed fistfuls of my own hair and screeched at the sky, "Where they hell are they!" I screamed at no one. From far across the cove, a loon cried back.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I searched the car, knowing they weren't there. The tide was creeping in as I walked the marsh again. I thought about frost bite. I didn't have a cell phone; coverage here is spotty at best. I was miles from a phone or occupied home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had left the car door open and window down to sneak up on the now, long gone ducks. I had thousands of dollars of camera equipment in the car, more than I could carry and more than I could abandon. Panic was setting in and panic is not my style. The Queen of Find was going to die empty handed and without ceremony on a clam flat. When I started to cry the tears froze on my face.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I was triaging which pieces of equipment to carry with me for the long trek ahead, a pick-up truck came barreling along. The driver named John, had a cell phone which mercifully had enough bars that I was able to call my husband to come with spare keys. I was exhausted and embarrassed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> T</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">he next day, I went back and looked again, to no avail. Why would I look for keys lost in mud on a tidal flat, you ask? Because to have lost them was so unlike me, and to not be able to find them, less like me still. The Queen of Find had been summarily dethroned in the cold mud. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On the second day, David rustled up a metal detector that he had procured from the town dump. He put fresh batteries into it, then said "Let's go try for the car keys." It was stupid really because the tide had cycled in and out several times. Ice chunks had scoured the grass clean of even my footprints. For over an hour we wandered in circles on the mudflats like lunatics looking at our shoes. We found the same beer bottle, rubber lobster claw band and the wad of balloon ribbon, but not the keys. After an hour, David said he could totally appreciate my frustration. "If they were out here, we would have found them by now." He did find a quarter with the salvaged metal detector.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then, he found the keys on the floor of the car under the driver's seat. Just shoot me now, God.</span></span></div>AFTERMATHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15041592685191226321noreply@blogger.com44