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

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

Don't Fall In!

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

BEAVER CLEAVER

“YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT…….”
“But, you get what you need,” so went the Rolling Stones' song. It’s so simple, so true, yet so bogus. It has been my observation for half a century (now there’s a dismal thought!) that often, living creatures do not get what they need. The results can be catastrophically damaging. Take this beaver -it’s obviously dead. It was just beginning to cross the road when a car hit it. I have wanted to take beaver photos for a long time. When my scout called about a dead one on Route 209, I didn’t hesitate. Ideally, I’d prefer live beaver shots, but as a wildlife photographer and writer, I take what I need; I don’t always get what I want. In its death, I can still appreciate the fur, the hand-like feet and geometric scaling of the tail. I’ve never actually seen a beaver in the wild. All the beavers in my life have been dead and many of them in far worse shape than this one.
My father had a dog sled team when I was growing up. He never won any races, nor was he able to successfully breed his Siberian huskies. We had dozens of puppies, but by breed standards, none of them was adequate to sell. My father complained bitterly that he could not get a good dog out of the bunch. We did have a fancy Canary that sang prolifically. My father had traded it for a dog, somewhat appeasing my mother. Though they were “no good,” the dogs were nonetheless, expensive to feed. At the time, there were sixteen dogs and four of us children. Feeding us was business enough for my mother without the dogs. In his travels, my father was continually finagling food for his dogs. A couple of summers, he negotiated with a local summer camp for the dining hall slops. Three times a day, a truck showed up loaded with trash barrels full of macaroni, scrambled eggs, half-eaten hot dogs and other food based garbage. After the campers finished their meals, they slid the tray contents into the cans; it was clean food. The can contents were dumped on the ground for the dogs. After the dogs finished, my sisters and I rounded up the flatware that had been accidentally discarded with the food. It was the only thing the dogs did not eat. We proudly presented it to our mother, who washed and put it away in the kitchen drawer. We quickly collected a couple of sets, too. One winter, my father met a trapper in a bar. The trapper complained that the town wouldn’t let him discard his beaver carcasses at the dump any longer. He had accumulated a mountain of skinned beavers in his yard. They were frozen solid, but spring was coming. He’d have to rent a backhoe to dig a big hole into which he would bury them. “No way I can make any kind a money on them pelts if I got to eat that kind a cost, god damned town,” he groused. He wasn’t getting what he needed at all, other than another guy to complain with. But, my father thought he might be going to get what he needed: dog food. Some arrangement was made for the pile of free, frozen meat, though my father forgot to mention that to us. One Sunday morning, while my parents slept off hangovers, a dump truck arrived. Watching from my bedroom window, I saw a man climb into the back of the truck. With a pitchfork, he began stabbing and flinging out what I was sure were babies - human babies! Little, naked pink bodies were flying through the air and hitting the ground with thuds. Screaming, I ran to my parents’ room and pounded their door, “AAAAaaaaaagh! Get up! Get up! A man’s throwing babies into the yard!” It took eternity for my father to stumble out of the room, smelling like sweat and booze. He looked out of the window and vomited. I think our days of dogs concluded soon after that. I do remember that my sisters and I collected the teeth left behind, the only part the dogs did not eat. My father drilled holes in them and made us each beaver teeth necklaces. My parents were not the June and Ward Cleaver I wanted. But, they may have at least been what I needed; they didn’t just kill me.

They're Here! They're Here!

There is a show on 'cable' called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant." It's 'real' TV, documentary style about women who have given birth, but did not know they were pregnant until the moment of delivery. That sounds ridiculous to most of us who have given birth. I would not have believed that a producer could come up with enough women to have a whole series based on this concept, either. But, I was wrong. Shows what I know about human nature and show biz, because there doesn't seem to be an end to the numbers of women that this has happened to. They are not all uneducated dunces and many of them were on legitimate birth control, honestly! Some of them had previous children, as well. Numerous of them rejected their newborns at first, as they hadn't had a second to contemplate being mothers. I won't walk you through all the scenarios, but I'm sure that at least one of you will secretly get cable some time soon just to find out how this could happen. I may appear in an episode myself, as I gave birth this very day and didn't know I was pregnant, either (well, maybe two of you will get cable, now)! I had posted recently that a robin had nested in a planter mounted on our house and had laid three eggs. I promised that I would watch for the hatching and report. Today was the big day. The first two hatched this morning and the last one later in the day. In the following photos, the first two are seen with the third egg still intact. In the other shots, you can see that one of them still has wet feathers. Only hours old, they already vocalize, though weakly. They raise their heads, mouths open for food, even though their eyes are still sealed shut. They are the homeliest things I've ever seen in my life! And I already love them. I've been caught off guard by my feelings for these little darlings, even though I didn't really know I was pregnant. I hope they all make it. I'll let you know as they progress. And I promise: I'm past rejecting them because they are ugly and I was unprepared. I'm hoping for a post delivery baby shower. If anyone wants to crochet a crib throw, make sure it's under 2" by 2".

Multiple Personality Disorder

Believe it or not, this is the same butterfly with its wings closed and opened. It is the American Lady butterfly, though this one is male. It spent most of the past two days flitting around on this blooming oregano in my garden. The topside and underside are totally distinct, as if this butterfly couldn't decide who it wanted to be when it grew up. I understand this entirely. For twenty two years, as a nurse I squashed myself into white uniforms, then pantie hose and business suits. On my days off, like Superman in a phone booth, I tore away my suits revealing my true self. Wings closed, wings opened to ripped jeans, T shirts and muck boots. I too, frantically shed the professional garb as if it were life and death. It was, indeed. The live kernel of my creative, primary brain would have perished completely had it not been able to bust out. Come to think of it, this sounds more like The Incredible Hulk than a switch-er-oo butterfly or a more noble superhero. But then, I could be all of them; I no longer have to choose between my multiple personalities. I can just breathe - wings in, wings out.





To find out more about The American Lady, or Hunter's Butterfly, see the May 6, 2009 posting in the archive of this blog.

"THAT'S FRITILARIOUS!"

Everywhere I turn lately, these Fritilary butterflies are flitting around. I don't recall seeing so many. In spite of the clouds and rain, could this be The Year Of The Fritilary? They are a bit of a challenge to photograph; I had to take lots of rapid fire shots as the butterflies close their wings nearly the second they land. Because they are skittish, I chose a spot in the garden where I had seen them feeding, then planted myself and waited for them to come. I also used a 400mm lens, so I didn't have to be too close to them, or them to me. Of course, the mosquitoes were also abundant but I had to let them bite me. If I slapped and swatted, that would have spooked the Fritilarys. To stand still while being bitten by insects requires a certain kind of Zen concentration. My mind wanders down the trail of West Nile Virus and Encephalitis, wondering if I'll know the symptoms in time. Afterall, a disciplined photographer can't go gettting all fritilarious, now can she?

What's In YOUR Head?

This stone planter sits in the ivy beside our kitchen door. We call it unceremoniously, 'the Head.' I had a plant in it that was struggling and I couldn't figure out why. Now I know it's because this robin was stomping it down while making a nest. She has three, perfect eggs. I'll be listening for chick action. You know I"ll be taking photos of them, too. It seems almost a shame that these beautiful eggs will be cracked asunder and thrown out of the nest to accommodate bald, greedy chicks. Our kitchen door has become off limits for a while. Every time we go through the door she flaps and flutters away, even at night. So, to keep her on the nest as much as possible, we'll have to go the long way around. Some say it's good luck to have a bird nesting by your doorway. Some of you will say that since she's a robin (Turdus migratorius) nesting in my head, and I'm Robin Robinson, that once again, I'm just full of myself.