FLYDAY - Bald eagle, Osprey, Herring gulls, Double-crested Cormorants- Fishing & Fighting

Osprey, also known as a Fish Hawk with a freshly caught Alewife, which is a type of herring. Phippsburg Maine.

 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.

Bald eagle, adult chasing an Osprey with a fish, off from Popham Beach, Phippsburg Maine

I felt sorry for the poor fish. That's a long way to fall!



A Double-crested cormorant was flying by. They were also there to catch fish, but they don't steal from others for their dinner.

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!

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

(It seems fighting, feeding and filching are high on their lists, too!)

FLYday - Bald Eagle and Herring Gull Fight

Adult Bald eagle being harassed by Herring Gull, Phippsburg, Maine, May 2012

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

I took this shot on the end of our pier, 120 feet out into the ocean. I was wearing my bathrobe. 

On my photography web site, you will find almost 8,000 images of Maine taken by me. 

http://robinrobinsonmaine.com 

FLYday - Bald eagle

Bald eagle, adult, Phippsburg Maine

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

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 http://open.salon.com/cover

Bank Of America And Nature's Imponderables

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the fourteenth of my works to be chosen. 

FLYday - Juvenile Bald Eagle

Juvenile, Bald eagle, Phippsburg, Maine

(I took this photograph while wearing my bathrobe!)

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

FLYday - Bald Eagle

Bald eagle, adult Phippsburg, Maine

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

So Many Birds, So Little Time - Bald Eagles Like The Beach

Young Bald eagles, Atkin's Bay, Phippsburg, Maine April 18, 2011

The eagle on the left is older than the one on the right. Bald eagles like the beach!

"Hey! Give me back my iPod!" Bald eagles like listening to music.

"Watch me nail this landing!"

Bald eagles, two youngsters, probably 3rd and 4th year and an adult, Phippsburg, Maine April 19, 2011

Remember that you can click on any of these pictures to see them larger. In the photo to the top right of the bottom collage, there are two eagles mixing it up so closely that they look like one.

     This is the time of year when I start gardening for other people, or "Weeding For Dollars." From now until July fourth, it's exhilarating! The brown months have folded seamlessly into the newness of the green months. The whole planet is coming on full force with blooming flowers, fresh air and signing birds. Over the winter I had become somewhat starved for birds. Our part of the earth, muffled in snow, didn't hold much for bird song. I'm a listener, too. I was so wanting for the sounds of birds that a few times, I imagined I heard birds when cracking, frozen branches and keening wind were the sources. Now, the trees and sky are alive! From every quarter, someone is singing, even me! I've been thinking when my back finally gives out, perhaps I 'll start a career in opera. I'm sure my children will be pleased that I have goals.

     I love the work, but like all things, sometimes it can be a real drag. There are the days when it's hot, buggy, or wet. This first part of the season, it's cold which will only give way to Black flies, mosquitoes, ticks and Brown Tail moth rashes. Have I mentioned Poison Ivy? But, for all of that, I am out of doors in gorgeous places. The gardens are beautiful, this I know because otherwise I'd have some explaining to do to myself. And I usually don't start talking to myself until the middle of August.

     I do get resentful though when I feel like I'm being taken away from photography. I often remind myself that toiling in other people's yards like a Bend-Over-Betty lawn ornament does give me opportunities to see amazing things. I almost always get a few photographs out of it, too. So many birds does make it hard to concentrate on weeds, though. I have to stop looking up for every tweet, chip and chur to pull, hack and tease. And rake. Then rake some more and rake again. And haul. There's so much to be done and so many distractions, yet so little time.

     I may be  jumping the gun by saying this, but I am finding the gardening work easier this year. Having  spent the winter working out and controlling my consumption, I've lost thirty seven pounds. At just five feet tall, so that's a load o' lard, over twenty four percent of myself, to be exact. So, I'm moving with comparative facility and energy this year. I was recently asked if I had some medical emergency that prompted the weight loss. "Yes," I said. "Oh dear! Are you alright? What was it?" the inquirer pried. "When bending over to tie my shoes meant holding my breath and suffering the spins, that was the medical emergency," I explained. They thought I was joking, but I wasn't. I've even given up red wine, which anyone who knows me would never have predicted possible. So, when I nonetheless had a full blown hallucination this morning, I was taken by complete surprise.

     I've slimmed down enough that I no longer dread looking in the mirror. I don't even avoid it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's true. It's been a decade since I've been able to stomach my own stomach. But today, I caught my reflection and saw that I have the beginnings of an abdominal six pack! Well, maybe only a four pack, and possibly merely better definition of a couple of rolls, but something different from what has ever jiggled hello to me from the mirror before. I have a  beach body! And I don't mean one of those human potato people that unabashedly parades themselves on the Volga River, either. I have always admired their guts, or perhaps I should say courage. Those portly women looking like half cooked dumplings in bikinis seemed to like themselves well enough nor have cared what anyone else thought. Their junk in the trunk wasn't enviable, but I have held their bravery in high regard.

   Now, I feel like a super hero with abs of steel and I'm shedding my bathrobe! I'm going to celebrate my newly remodelled temple with a belly piercing! About 1970, when I was fifteen, my mother wore a navel jewel. That was before body piercings unless one had come from the Congo or some other exotic place, but my mother came from Topsham, Maine. She was a mill worker with five children to feed, but she managed to have belly jewels!

     She wore several colored jewels which she interchanged to titillate my father. Revelling in her own outrageousness, she revealed  the jewels to us children when she swapped out the colors. "Look! I've found an emerald green jewel!" She would squeal with delight, lifting her shirt up for us to see. I was at once, horrified and captivated by her belly flesh which looked to me like cottage cheese. "How does she keep them in there?" I wondered to myself. "Glue? Suction?" I never dared ask. On what little TV programming there was then, men and women were not even shown in the same beds! Yet, my mother pranced around our tiny, gundgy kitchen flaunting a navel jewel. She staunchly believed she was doing us a favor by being a living example of not giving a damn what anyone thought of her body. Her parenting skills were way ahead of the curve in that regard. So, to honor her, and myself, I'm going for the gold: belly piercing it is. My deflated middle doesn't look like cottage cheese, though. It's more like a slumped Brie. Vive la France! I don't want a timid stud nor jewel for my navel novelty, either. I've commissioned my husband to find something unique from the dump. I'm thinking a chrome hub cap might do just the trick. The glinting disk should be visible from space. Be looking for me on the beach this summer with my new, shimmering field mark.   

...................................................................................

     Bald eagles do like the beach. They are usually found near water and in large numbers when there is enough food, like ducks and scavenged fish. The numbers of eagles in Phippsburg has increased tremendously in the past decade. I see 3-5 of them every day without trying and know of two active nests close by. I frequently see them when I'm gardening, though how I do this bent over to the ground is an as yet, undiscovered talent.  I have yet to see a Bald eagle sporting a navel jewel or belly piercing, but will report promptly if I do. The top series of photographs of the eagles on the beach was a lucky find after a long day of spring garden clean up. The two eagles are about a year apart. The eagle with the whiter head is the older one. Bald eagles are sexually dimorphic; males and females have the same plumage and only vary slightly in size. The second set of images was captured the day afterward, also while I was gardening. The two young eagles in the bottom collage are the same two that were on the beach. They could be siblings, but not nest mates. The mature Bald eagle flying with them is probably one of their parents.

     Golden eagles are seen in Maine on rare occasions. Though they are often confused with Bald eagles in various stages of plumage, they are not even closely related. Plentiful in the western Rockies, Golden eagles are birds of mountainous areas that hunt mammals and other birds. Though Golden eagles have a different body shape than Bald eagles, both birds as juveniles have longer tails, broader wings and stouter bills than the adults. A young Bald eagle may look to the inexperienced eye like an adult Golden eagle.

     Bald eagles have brown feathers speckled with white usually until they are five years old. They are sexually mature when they have white heads. They may develop fully balded heads as early as three years, but that's very rare. A significant field mark is leg covering. Golden eagles' legs are completely feather covered, while a young Bald eagles' legs are bare, like little boys wearing nickers before big boy pants. Golden eagles are most easily confused with Bald eagles as first year juveniles when they have a white rump. In flight, as juveniles, they also show white under their wings. Bald eagles also have white under their wings as juveniles through their second year. This is the plumage phase when less experienced birders are apt to erroneously report having seen a Golden eagle. I've done it myself. Zut alors! In birding as in medicine, we say "If you hear hoof beats, think horse, not zebra." In Maine, if you see a funky looking eagle, it could be a Golden, but it's more likely to be a Bald eagle that hasn't come into its star spangled, balded glory. It's simply not mature enough to flaunt its navel jewel.

Thanks for some of the information to:

Wikipedia.com

Sibley, D.A., The Sibley Guide To The Birds (2001), Knopf: New York (2000), pp. 126-127

Birds, Beasts & Bon Bons - Bald Eagle, Buffleheads & Harbor Seal

Juvenile Bald eagle, one of last summer's "Butchie Boys"

Buffleheads panicking across water

Harbor Seal on the rocks

     Yesterday, the sun was shatteringly brilliant on the water of Totman Cove. The wind was tearing through the trees and across the water. It was breathtakingly cold at about zero degrees Fahrenheit with the wind chill factor. In spite of this, the birds were busy. A flock of more than fifty Buffleheads were joined by a few Common goldeneyes, dozens of White-winged scoters, loons, mergansers and American Black ducks. An undulating phalanx of eighty mallards flew south above the cove.
     In the middle of the melee of birds, a juvenile Bald eagle got everyone's attention, including mine. It was one of The Butchie Boys of last summer trying out his hunting skills. The Buffleheads and goldeneyes scurried on the water, rose and settled repeatedly. Though there were dozens of them, they dove simultaneously disappearing in a rush. Herring gulls in kettles of hundreds wheeled and rolled through the skies. The Black ducks huddled together, flapping and quaking like fools.
     The Butchie Boy loped across the sky, skirting the tree line. The birds were nervous and when he dove for them, they panicked lifting off the water in a flurry of wings and salt spray. The young eagle must be hungry by now. It's late in the winter and months into slim  prey pickings. Ice has narrowed his hunting grounds forcing him to open water. Though there are hundreds of waterfowl, he's an unseasoned hunter. Even an experienced eagle gets less than twenty percent of the birds he intends to dine on.  If he hadn't been so self absorbed, he could have asked me for a handout. I would have thrown him a hot dog from the freezer, or perhaps one of the dehydrated, lost HotPockets hidden in the back.
     Though the wind was bitter, I stepped out the door to photograph some of the action. Naturally, I was wearing my bathrobe. This is where a  writer given to overwriting would say that the folds of the robe licked up around her legs, further exposing her. She'd say "frigid air bit into her tender flesh."  But, I have way too much self control for that.
     A great fear, a terror even, that writers have is "writer's block." We all worry that there won't be anything new to write about. We obsess that the muse has left us to tickle the creative fancy of some one other than ourselves. We fear we'll be orphaned by our own brains. This crosses my mind sometimes, too. But, the rational part of my brain, the stern governess that supervises the fickle filly of my creativity, says "Be quite. Be patient. Something will come along." If I wheedle and whine, the governess admonishes, "Don't be a hog!" The governess knows I'm a little piggy, too.
     Once, decades ago, someone gave to me as a joke a two pound box of cheap, assorted chocolates. The box was adorned with red writing and a cheesy, gold sash printed diagonally across the cover. It was the size of a suitcase. My friends taunted me, "You're not really going to eat that crap, are you?" "Gross!" I hadn't intended to eat them, but once they started giving me grief, I defended the box of chocolates as vigorously as I defend my decrepit bathrobe today. "Yes! Yes I am going to eat them, every one of them!" I declared.
      As a matter of principle, I refused to share any of my chocolate booty with my critical, jeering friends. I carried it around everywhere I went for over a week, guarding it so they couldn't purloin the sweets. I took it to bed with me. When I bathed, I took the box into the bathroom. Secretly, I punched a hole into the bottom of every one of the bon bons to see what was inside. I nibbled the corners off before eating any to make sure that I didn't get a mouthful of the DREADED JELLY. If the DREADED JELLY was detected, I put the bon bon back in the box. A few, weak sneak attacks were launched by my friends who over powered me, wresting the box from my grip. I fought them, regaining control of the box, though they did manage to get a few, which they threw into the trees, laughing wildly as they did. After weeks of this, I finally was too weakened to continue to defend the bon bon box. In a final attack, like a pride of lions that have finally worn down a tender antelope, they tore the box from me and threw it into a nearby river. I grieved. But, I took solace in knowing that most of what was left inside was only DREADED JELLIES, not anything of real value to me. I had secretly already eaten every oozing, carmel, chocolate, nutmeat filled delicacy. Writer's block is like a box of cheap chocolates; the writer always worries that the next idea will be a DREADED JELLY and that someone else will get all the good ones.
     Bathrobe Birding gives me nearly endless things to write about and photograph. Additionally, there are the blooms, bees, beasts and their kin. As I was photographing the eagle and ducks, this Harbor seal slopped itself up onto the rocks. Out of water they are as graceless as writers without the words. We frequently have seals in the cove, but they never leave the safety of the sea for the rocks. I don't know what possessed it. Its appearance, to over work a metaphor, was an unexpected, surprise bon bon in the box. It's reassuring that if the Bathrobe Birding fails, I can move on to Bathrobe Beasting - a whole new box of chocolates.

Bye-Bye! Butchies! Bald Eaglets Depart

"Gosh, it looks like a long way down there. Are you guys sure this flying thing will work?"

He had a hard time maneuvering his big wings around.

"Moooooooooooom! Come get me! I want to go home!"

I did my final Butchie Check today. Hasn't this been like following a soap opera? "Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives," I can hear Macdonald Carey doing the intro. to Days Of Our Lives just like he did the first time, in 1965. My maternal grandmother, "Nanny," never missed an episode. When I was barely ten, she unfailingly stopped her days work to watch. It didn't matter what hadn't been done that should have been, laundry, lunches or watering her flowers. She stopped to watch Days Of Our Lives. We didn't watch T.V. as children, but we did when we spent summers with Nanny and Grampy. My father had an ahead of his time notion that T.V. would result in the destruction of the human race. He maintained that one day, beings of the future, unknown to us today would find televisions in our ruins and remark that is what must have killed us off. But, my grandmother didn't care about his Beatnik notions. Every day at lunch time, she pulled out a   metal T.V. tray for each of us, set our lunch upon them and commanded us to be quiet so that she could watch her show without interruption.     
     All winter long, she had saved the comics from the newspapers for me. My favorite was The Wizard Of Id. It still runs in the dwindling daily rags of today. She also saved McCall's paper dolls which I didn't like so much. I pretended that I did since she had cut them out all winter and saved them for me. Sometimes, while The Days Of Our Lives was droning on, I read The Wizard Of Id collection. I could not tell you one thing about the plots or characters of the episodes of Days Of Our Lives. I do remember though, that one day at least thirty years later, I stumbled on the show on T.V. and was gobsmacked (as the British say) that one of the main characters was still there. To my mind she must have been an actress of at least a hundred years of age. Alice something was her name. I can hear MacDonald Carey's introduction in my mind like it was yesterday.
    At the time, The Days Of Our Lives was ahead of the television programming curve in presenting family situations that were outrageous for T.V. It was very daring in its portrayal of real life American families. Most people like soap operas because they air problems that are so far reaching from most people's realities that they can let go of their own horrible lives, if only for an hour. Sometimes, it's easier to fall down the hole of some else's drama than it is to embrace your own. So, I'm all choked up and messed up and sad about the Butchies leaving home today.
     When I got there, one of them was gone from the nest and nowhere to be found. I searched in the trees all around and even on the ground thinking perhaps the worst had happened. Once when a baby robin fell out of the nest, I brought it into the house. I put it in a cardboard box and tried to keep it alive. It lasted long enough to recognize me as the food source (worms delivered with tweezers). Every time I came into the kitchen it started its "FEED ME, FEED ME!" cheeping racket. Then one morning, it was dead. I would never do this, but can you imagine a baby eagle in a box on your kitchen counter demanding to be fed? YIKES!
     I did find one of the Butchies sitting on a tree limb only 30 feet off the ground. He looked so forlorn and scared it was heartbreaking. Of course, who knows what it was feeling, but I had to wax anthropomorphous. After all, their progress over the past month or so has been my soap opera. I had a relationship with them and talked to them every time I visited. The remaining Butchie sat on the limb, hopped around to adjacent limbs and flapped its huge wings a few times. It looked to the ground repeatedly as is to ask "Hey! Is this flying thing you've all been talking about for real? It looks really scary to me!" One of the parents appeared on scene a few times. It swooped low in an arc and disappeared several times, barely a shadow, as if a ghost checking up on the living. There was no great whooshing of wings as I had heard other times, nor calling to its youngster. Madame Butchie was doing her version of peaking from behind the curtain of a kitchen window as junior masters the tricycle alone in the driveway. Butchie would look longingly in her direction and flap. He seemed all confused by the tree branches and too much wing to move around amongst the sticks. He issued a few, weak, thready "pee,oo-pee,oos"  Eventually, I left him. I struggled with the walk away. I said goodbye. "Have a great life, Little Butchie. I'll see you down the river."

Ms. Manors - Bald Eagle Washing Up

Each time the Bald eagle was done chewing from her carcass cache on the coast, she would have a few drinks of salt water to wash it all down. I'm surprised that the bird was drinking salt water.

  Madame Butchie continues to visit. I have not seen her working the jerky-like remains of the seal carcass, but she has been soaring around and loitering in the trees. The carcass has been roasting in the sun for a week now. Even the flies have died down. Maybe she is oppossed to processed foods; the seal does look like an over-grown Slim Jim now. Of note is that the Common terns, Herring gulls and Osprey have been giving Madame a very hard time, though they aren't interested in the carrion (ya, even the gulls won't touch it!). The raucuous "peeeeent, peeeeent," of the osprey and the shouting and carrying on of the terns and gulls alerts me that they are coming in my direction in hot pursuit of herself. I've tried to get photos of this event, but they have not been very satasfying. I get a lot of bird butt shots - hers and theirs.  The birds are nervey enough to actually make contact with the big eagle in mid air, bitch slapping her into ungainly mid air manuevering. So, the question remains - what is she doing here? The Totman Cove Take-Out menu appears to have become tired and The Welome Wagon ladies have turned on her like a pack of hyenas. Maybe she's here simply to escape the the Butchie Brats back at the hacienda. They've got to leave any day and then, she'll have the place to herself. Ahhhh, a nice long soak in the tub with candles, a glass of wine and a Norah Jones CD.

The Magnificent Acre - Butchie Update & Common Yellowthroat

These Common Yellowthroats were on The Magnificent Acre July 24, 2010. The male and female were together in the alder scrub. There is a strip of shrubs on the west side of the vast salt marsh. It seems to be almost a giant net 'catching' birds when they cross the marsh. The strip of alders, honeysuckle and choke cherries is backed by the road. After crossing the marsh, the birds land in the small trees before crossing the road. I can sit in my car listening to the radio and just wait for them. But, why do that when I can sneak around trying to find them while suffering mosquitoes and walking amongst the Poison Ivy? That's how I roll!

    I visited "The Magnificent Acre" yesterday to check up on The Butchie Boys. When I arrived at the nest, my hear sank. "Oh no! They've flown away and I missed the send off!" I lamented aloud to no one,  my words trailing off into the woods. I wondered how I could have been so dense as to miss a huge cue that they were taking off. Since their parents had been spending so much time enjoying the Totman Cove Take-Out, they were not taking fresh meat to the boys. That meant that the boys would be hungry, thus provoked to try to fly.
     But, then, I saw them. They were sitting up in the tree away from the nest. They looked like big, chocolate lumps hidden in the White pine boughs. It was difficult to photograph them, or even get a clear view due to the pine needles.They had each moved far enough out onto the limbs that if a good wind comes up, they'll plummet to the ground onto their fat cans. The two of them are bigger now than their Mom, Madame Butchie. Eaglets surpass their parents' size just before they fledge. They've been sitting around not moving while getting fatter and fatter gorging on fish and chips delivered.
     When I watch T.V. shows on obesity in children, I'm appalled by the co-dependencies of the parents. After all, an obese child is being supplied with lousy, pork-butt producing food by its parents. They don't get there on their own, at least not to start with most of the time (there are some disorders where children are obese unrelated to consumption). Watching these eagles balloon over the past month has made me realize that this may be more of a natural phenomenon than I have realized. We are humans. One thing that separates us from the animal kingdom is that we ascribe values to end results, like socially unacceptable,fat children.
     Eagles fatten up because when they leave the nest, they don't have hunting skills, yet. The fat has to carry them until they get good at catching food or spotting, say a dead seal carcass. So, maybe there is some valuable outcome for rotund children leaving home barely able to walk. Hopefully, the Butchie Boys will be chubby enough to one day fly down the Kennebec River for dinner at the Totman Cove Take-Out. I'll be open and learning to be less judgemental.

  This is The Butchie Boys' junk food diet remains. Think of it like fast food wrappers lying around a sofa. Under the nest were these uneaten parts of a Herring gull. The gull would have been caught and brought to the boys by the parents. The bone was the leg (I think). Birds have hollow bones to lighten them for flying. There were other bits of bone around and loads of feathers.

THE END.

(No, I mean it, literally the end of the Herring Gull)

What'll It Be - Carrion Or Mink? Bald Eagle & Mink

"Wow! I love Totman Cove Take-Out! It's better than Red's Eats in Wiscasset!"

This is as close to a critter cam as you could get, I'm sure of it. I took these shots less than an hour ago. I was sitting in my underwear at my computer reading e mail. Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed over swinging around from my left shoulder. "EAGLE!" I screamed to my husband and out the door I ran. The Butchie Boys mom was back! As you can see, the seal carcass is still there, boding well for my planned skull recovery. It's wedged tightly into the rocks. Madame Butchie has to use the full force of her wings and neck muscles to pull morsels from it. She yarns out  hunks then nibbles away quite daintily at the tidbits on the rocks. Before I crept across the deck and down the stairs for closer shots, my loving and attentive husband whispered from the door, "Would you like your bathrobe?" I whispered back, "Ya, and another camera battery, please." He had already brought coffee and breakfast to me in bed. What a guy. Other women's husbands hate it when I tell stuff like this because they look like marital slouches by comparison. And, unless they are obliging their own queens in these ways, they are. Tighten up your acts, boys!
     While I was watching Madame Butchie gnarling away, an American Mink showed up. I had recently been thinking about them as it was this time last year that I had last seen them. The eagle heard the mink first, then saw it. Twice, the mink scampered by, not fifty feet from her. I could tell she could hear it as she stopped yanking yuk and turned to it. She hesitated, glared at the mink, then fondly eyed the carcass. She looked at the mink again. But, in the end, the bird in the hand, or carcass in the claw as it were, won out over the possibility of fresh meat. We like to think of the majestic eagle as a hunter first and carrion scavenger second, but in this case, that was not true.
    Now, gentlemen, I suggest you all turn to your own bird in the hand, that dear old carcass you have at home, and go buy her flowers.

These eagle photographs were taken with a Canon 50D, Canon Zoom lens EF 100-400mm IS, L series at about 40 feet distance. Nice back yard I've got! 

 

American Mink scampering across the rocks and seaweed

Each time I've watched this eagle eating here at the Totman Cove Take-Out, she waddles away to the grass where she can dip her beak into the water and tidy up. I can anticipate when she'll take off based on this sequence of behaviors.

A Face Only A Mother Could Love - Turkey Vulture & Bald Eagles

The Bald eagles have been very busy with the seal pup carcass. They have been soaring about and sitting vigil in the trees. There have been two adults, definitely a male and a female based on side by side size comparisons. I think the one sitting on the pier is the male as it looks more slender and slightly smaller than the one ravaging the carrion. There is also a juvenile. I'm guessing second to third year. The juvie looks as if it is double banded. It is probably the offspring of the pair who I'm sure are the parents of The Butchie Boys. That would make Junior here a sibling to The Butchies, though not a nest mate. There have also been ravens and crows and of course, gulls interested in the pup remains.
     I have had a reader wish for me a Moon tide to take it away and another suggestion that I dump lime on the carcass. I'll put up with the wafting of rotten meat, thank you. Although, last night while I was sitting on my deck having a glass of wine and chatting with my husband, the stench was pretty intense. I had to keep shooing flies from the rim of my glass. I guess I should have been drinking faster to keep them away. Nonetheless, I would not alter the carcass. It's a naturally occurring event in a natural place. I'm fascinated by the birds and beasts that are drawn to it, not to mention the millions of insects and organisms that I can't even see! Plus, I'm hoping that eventually, I'll be able to get the seal skull. Cool!

The majestic and pretty animals aren't the only ones that cotton to the carrion. This lone Turkey vulture tilted around a few times before landing on our roof deck. David and I were married on the very spot where it stood. I consider myself very lucky to wake up each morning to David's smiling face. Can you imagine waking up to this face every day?

"Honey, have you thought about a nose job?"

 

Did you know that the Greek tragedy, Prometheus Bound took place on our pier? Prometheus intercepted Zeus' plans to wipe out the human race right here in Phippsburg, Maine.

    Turkey vultures are wide spread around the world. In Maine, they are migratory. Some of them go as far as South America. Their enormous, six foot wing span casts an ominous shadow when they pass. 'Buzzards,' as they are sometimes called, find their food mostly by sight. They can actually see the gasses that arise from decomp. (They always say that in crime shows, one cop to another at crime scenes, "Lue! Smell the holy decomp.!"). Birds have the sensory devices to detect smell, but for most it's not highly developed. Odors dissipate quickly in tree tops and the sky where birds usually hang out, so they don't have much use for smell. Vultures are an exception with a highly developed sense of smell. They have a nasal septum which is hollow so you can see through to the other side.  I've seen kids with ear lobe expanders that look like that. To me, they both beg the question "Why?"

Thanks to Wikipedia for information on Turkey Vultures.
For more information on avian sense of smell, click here.

Butchies' Mom - Bald Eagle Details & Feeding

 "Somebody please schedule a mani-pedi!"

Last evening, this Bald eagle swooped in landing on the rocks just in front of our house. It was a great beast of a bird. I'm guessing she is the mother of The Butchie Boys. I was in my bathrobe, blissfully drinking a glass of wine as supper was cooking. The sweet scents of cooking Sock-eye salmon glazed with vinaigrette and mushrooms wafted around my house. I use apple cider vinegar and Dijon for this, of course with EVOE as the emulsifier. I like apple cider vinegar for dark meat fish as it's sweeter but not overpowering as balsamic can be. Oh, but I have digressed.
     It was not the aroma of broiling Sock-eye that brought in the eagle; it was a putrefying seal pup carcass. When the eagle yanked it out of the rocks, the flies rose enmasse and so did the stench. It was the kind of rank odor that permeates everything as only particulate oils can do. In a word - YUCKY! Birds do not have olfactory receptors, so it isn't actually the smell that has attracted them (a juvenile just swooped in as I'm writing this), it's sight. The carcass is jammed tightly into the rocks, so wasn't visible until Mom yanked it out last night. I can only guess that it is masses of flies that they can see, which indicates a goodly chunk of something decomposing. I myself follow flies when I want to find a dead animal.
     The usual photographs that one sees of eagles are in flight. I've taken more than my fair share of those shots, too. But, I thought I'd give you something a little different - details and repulsive behavior. Aren't those talons out of this world? Somebody needs a manicure! My daughter once had an iguana that was around three and a half feet long. It also had some helacious nails. My daughter painted them hot pink. The iguana did not seem to mind, in fact, it started some courtship behaviors with itself while looking in a mirror shortly afterward.
     After Mom worked on the carcass for about an hour, she went to the water and tidied up. She dipped her beak into salt water and drank a few slurps. Then she wiped her beak a couple of times across the grass and sharpened her beak on the rocks before taking off.
     I'm sure you're thinking "Wow! What luck to live in a place where that's the dinner theater entertainment!" True enough. But bear in mind, that pile of funky carrion is close enough that it might as well be in my living room and sitting poolside is out for a couple of days.

Scraping her beak to clean it off and sharpen it on the rocks like a giant honing stone