They Were Foreigners

Okay! This just in. (Please refer back to a couple of older posts for some background reading: Jan. 15 & 16 to be precise.) But you don't need that for this.

The Natural History Museum at the Smithsonian has been studying the feathers of the geese that downed the US AIRWAYS plane in the Hudson earlier this year...and you know what they found out? That those geese- those Canada Geese - were not NYC residents. They were passing through the area looking for a place to forage. 

They can tell that from the FEATHERS. And from Birdie DNA. Apparently, the population of NYC resident Canada Geese is much higher than the numbers of migratory Canada Geese by 4 to 1. (Everyone wants to live in NYC.) (Even geese.)

And too bad the cliche fits: come to NY get some rather rude treatment (altho that's totally a myth). (Really.) But I wonder if word got back to Canada and fresh flocks of wanderlust Canada Geese decided to stay home. So what if the dollar is nice and low right now, they want to keep their feathers.

And the real "stuff" that revealed resident vs migratory evidence was hydrogen isotopes. 

Isotopes! Now what are isotopes exactly? I'll bet you're wondering. I'm wondering. I'm gonna look it up. Hang on. (New browser window currently opening.)

Oh boy. Just read the Wikipedia entry -- I can't make sense of it. I'll try somewhere else...I do now know that the word is from the Greek meaning "Equal Place." Hang on.

Okay try this from answers.com: "One of two or more atoms having the same atomic number but different mass numbers."

Well, that certainly explains it. 

Uh...okay! ...why don't we go to the video?...See the link up on the left column.

My Guard Bee

I usually don't get an extra hour to hang out, but I did the other day. 

Around 4 pm I took the stack of magazines that have come my way as castoffs from various relatives -- mostly food magazines --  sat down on the lounge chair in my backyard patio and began turning pages. Usually quickly, sometimes stopping, ripping out a good-looking recipe here and there.

Now I've sat in that lounge chair maybe three times in the year that I have it. 

Bees like this backyard. Flowers pop out in a couple of months and the population of bees creates a soundtrack like a steadily passing train. But now, in April, I saw a solitary bee buzzing around. 

I saw him. Then kept reading. 

I saw him chase off a wasp until the wasp left the confines of the fence. Then the bee came back. That's when I noticed he was pacing...in the air. From one end of the patio to the other. Then back again. Buzzing left. Buzzing right. Repeatedly. Staying. 

Once in a while he'd stop mid-flight and just flap his wings standing still in the air. A couple of times he buzzed near me like he wanted to see if he recognized me. Then he'd start doing his -- literally -- bee-line flight from one end to other. In a nice straight line.

?????

I don't know. Who knows what's in the mind of bees.

Next day I come out thru the patio to get to the car. There he is again. Doing the same thing. Back and forth. Chasing away flying bugs that happen to pass through. Even a high flying bird got his attention and he flew up high above the patio to "chase" that one away. Then back to the flight-pacing.

Next day, he's back again. In fact, he's out there right now. Flying from one end to the other. When I come home and open the gate, there he is flying. I say hi and he flies by.

I had to looked this up. 

Lo and behold, there is such a thing as Bee Patrol.

Here's what Colorado State University Etymology department had to say on the web (for more see link under "links" list).

(BTW, Bumble bees are from the bombus species -- great word, no??)

Male bumble bees go on "patrol flights" to scent-mark their territory. They might scent-mark twigs, leaves, tree trunks. They might do this for a few hours and then continue flying their flight routes, occasionally "pausing on the wing."

That's just what he did! I didn't see him doing the scent-marking -- but who knows what that looks like. AND who knows, too, what that scent is? I'd love to smell it. Might be a wonderful perfume. Or just that bee's individual scent like us people have. (we people?) (we, the people?)

Their flight height also tells the science guys something. They think it distinguishes what type of bumble bee they are. My patrol bee flies at about 4 feet from the ground...kinda around my chin level or a bit higher (i'm 5' 1.5").

Another thing: some species scent-mark the edges of leaves, some the whole thing, or every leaf! Some do it real slow, some really fast. And the stuff they secret for the scent-marking is called pheromone. Ah, another new thing. I'l look it up: (hang on...)

Okay. Got it. It's a chemical or hormone that elicits a response in another member of the species...there are alarm pheromones, food trail pheromones, and sex pheromones.

Okay, there's more...supposedly we have them, too. Just for the sexy stuff. One study apparently showed that a woman's body naturally adjusts her menstrual cycle when exposed to the smell of a male underarm. The smell of sweat is where the pheromone is and it's been called an aphrodisiac.  

This bee is really up to something.

So there you have it.

Why do I suddenly have a Guard Bee? 

Probably because birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it. 

Well, it is spring. 

Just looked out the window. He's there. And he's awfully cute.

Bird Heaven

I decided the bird should die in the wall.

Yes, me. I made that decision. He may already be dead since I haven't heard him thrashing about for at least a couple of hours. And the chimney men were here vacuuming the chimney and making their own racket and he didn't even stir.

You see, I thought the bird had gotten into the chimney. That's how it sounded. It sounded like a winged being with little peeps crashing around the flue right near its opening at the fireplace. It started yesterday morning, Easter Sunday, right before my aunt, uncle, mom, sister, cousin and her husband were coming over for Easter lunch.

I looked online. To get a bird out of your fireplace chimney you're supposed to put seed in the fireplace and a flashlight. Open the flue while still having your glass doors, or grating closed. Once the bird comes down use a pillow case to capture. Wear long sleeves and gloves. Then let him free outdoors.

I was going to ask my cousin Angela's husband, Mark, if he had any experience with this, or for his opinion at least. But Mark just got back from the Masters Tournament in Augusta and the last of tournament was on the TV and we all got involved with that. And the bird was quiet all through lunch. And I completely forgot to ask.

After they left, the bird starting thrashing about again. I was going to try the flashlight-pillowcase routine, but the bird sounded like he was a big one. And I figured maybe a chimney guy could not only get the bird out but fix the top of the chimney so no more birds get in.

I just called one this morning. 

He asked me on the phone:

"Is it in your chimney or in the wall?"

"The wall? Why would it be in the wall? It's in the chimney -- I can hear him right near the flue opening."

When he got here, as he's talking to me about the situation, his sidekick starts bringing in drop cloths and chimney sweeping equipment. He tells him: "We're looking for a bird, didn't I tell you that?" But the sidekick keeps bringing in the cleaning equipment.

The chimney guy kneels down in front of the fireplace and listens. Then knocks on the metal vent around it...no noise.

He opens the flue and closes the glass doors quickly.

Nothing.

Then he shines a flashlight up the flue.

"I don't see him. He's in your wall."

"What?"

"Come here I'll show you."

We go outside and the sidekick starts cleaning the chimney.

"He's cleaning the chimney?"

"Yeah, you need to have your chimney cleaned."

So, he explained, the bird gets in through the top of the chimney but there's an opening at the side of the central flue. An open area behind the outside wall of the chimney. This is where, he tells me, birds get in.

"I've seen situations where there are 30, 40 birds in there behind the wall. Now we can pull off your aluminum siding and get in there. I can't say I can match this paint, and I don't know how much of this siding we'd have to take off. We're talking about 2-3 hundred dollars."

Already he told me the tab for cleaning the chimney and fixing the cap on the chimney so birds don't get in anymore = $149.

"Or. Leave him in there. Bird carcasses are small. They don't smell when they die. All that's left is a tiny skeleton and some feathers."

The sun broke out through the clouds at this point. Beaming on me, sending heat right to my forehead which was in turmoil. Bird in wall. Bird in wall. Bird in wall. Take apart house to get bird in wall. I thought of the roadkill squirrel I drove by yesterday. Right in the middle of the road, on its back, its white underbelly bright, shiny red blood around its mouth. I drove on, but didn't drive over him.

"I don't know," I say.

"Well, we can take this apart. If I started from the top -- this is a high chimney -- we'd have to maybe take out the partitions that are in there every few feet. But I can find him if you want. I've done it. I can find him and may even get him out alive. People in Brentwood and Franklin, they've got money to spend, they tell me 'Get him out!' Me, I live beneath my means."

I start thinking about my means. Not living beneath. Living probably "at"  my means. He sees my apprehension.

"Ma'am, most people just leave the bird in there."

I nodded, saying the words but not really behind them: "Hmmm-mmm. Okay."

As they got out the long ladder to get to the top so they can fix the cap, I felt a small panic brewing in my belly. I called Duane. He's at work. I'm hoping he's not too busy. I needed to know if this was the right decision. I needed reassurance or at least a "there, there." 

He was steady, calm, accepted the decision as normal. He didn't say: "And you're leaving the bird in there to die?!?!" Thank god for that. He said (among other things) to ask how often you're supposed to the clean the chimney. Maintenance questions. Maintenance thoughts. Not questions of soul-searching. I felt better. My nerves sat down. I told myself it's one of those crossings between the natural world and the human constructs that get in the middle of it.  

But under Duane's calm matter-of-fact demeanor, he knew exactly what my conflict was...."Write about it for your blog."

As the chimney man leaves he notices my Guinness poster on the wall. A bright toucan with a glass of Guinness on its beak.

"You like Guinness?"

"Not exactly. I love toucans. I'm a bird lover."

He nods his head. He knows there's no happy answer.

"Yep. What you got in your wall is a starling. It'll die of dehydration probably. You know, starlings are considered pests. They get into everything. Like kudzu."

The starling in the wall hasn't thrashed since. Maybe it will later. Or tonight. Or maybe it's already dead. Trapped in the human world of wall. Its own personal twilight zone.

My house is creating a fossil. Something a paleontologist might find in a thousand years. After the chimney came down. And its wall. But the feather embedded in aluminum won't tell this story. 

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

Okay, it's an official craze. Now that the dolphins discovered how to blow bubbles (and did you hear about the whale?) blowing bubbles has become a worldwide phenomenon.

First invented by a Mr. L. Welk (accordion player) it soon thereafter trickled down into a children's game and now the most intelligent of animals (plenty of room for argument there) has taken up the sport.

The dolphin version is more like a ring than a bubble, but similar rules apply: chase after it, eventually break it up (pop it), and laugh a lot.

I'm not kidding. There's video to prove it.

Exhibit A: Mister Welk's invention in practice.

Exhibit B: Its ultimate evolution. Underwater. 

(See videos under links.)

Bebop (and Bluey)

Sooner or later I had to tell you about Bebop and Bluey. 

The two very noisy extraordinary parakeets I once lived with (not in their cage, they were in my cage...errr, apartment).

Bebop (the yellow one) arrived in my life through a fateful encounter. She flew into the window of the office where I worked. It wasn't an open window. It was a NYC office building. I think the 6th floor. Actually the ASCAP building across from Lincoln Center, but I didn't work for ASCAP. I worked for CTW (another acronym, this one for Children's Television Workshop). Which was a great job (I know I digress) but my greatest memory was when we'd go out the building's side door to have lunch at the Ginger Man. Almost always ordering their signature Caesar salad -- a mound of romaine lettuce on a dinner plate -- and a glass of white wine. Yes, those were the wine lunch days. Hey, it was TV.

So Bebop (not named yet) flew into the plate glass window, knocked herself out, and landed on the outside concrete sill.

I forget in whose office, but we all ran in to see the little fainted (dead?) bird on the sill. Someone opened the window and picked her up. 

She came to, frozen with fright. 

We found her a cardboard box to hang out in, gave her some water, and I think, lettuce, and there she stayed until Friday rolled around. Now what? Someone had to take her home.

Me, I never had pets on my own. I grew up with a series of dogs (Bob being the knock-out best-- his ear-in-his-mouth hijinks are bound to end up in story here someday). But my little one room apartment on the fifth floor of a Third Avenue tenement had not been blessed with pets (except for the occasional unwanted mouse or water bug).

And I'm a flying fan. My Dad used to take us to the airport just to watch planes take off and land. I took my first pilot's lesson at the controls of a 2-seat Cesna and was (literally) in heaven. I'd been known to ogle house sparrows in Central Park. A red cardinal out the back window, through my security gates, in the winter white snow, could keep my attention for hours.

I said: "I'll take her home."

I took a taxi with the cardboard box and the bird inside. Then left her alone in the apartment to go buy a cage, food, and a book: How To Care for Parakeets.

The first few days were edgy. I got her in the cage, but she sat on one of the bars and didn't move. Didn't eat. Didn't drink from the little water cup. Was she sick? Still stunned from her head smashing into the window? I realized later (when I got to know her personality) that she was just scared. She warmed up to her new environment and was soon eating, drinking, and yes, chirping. 

I called her Bebop since my musical psyche was steeped in Charlie Parker and my literary psyche was steeped in Jack Kerouac. (Salt Peanuts!! Salt Peanuts!!) 

She took to the name rather well. Her chirping became stereophonic, LOUD, and filled that little 8 x 10 of an apartment with surround sound. She was only silent when she was voraciously eating, or when I put a cloth over the cage. That made it night time -- even if it wasn't -- and that apparently meant time to sleep.

The other time she was kinda quiet was when I opened the cage door and encouraged her to fly around the room. She didn't always want to, but when she did she quickly made it to the far wall and smashed into it. She'd land on the floor, probably stunned, and just stand there. Until she took off again smashing into the other wall. Stun, fly, land, repeat.

There used to be a Woolworth's a couple of blocks away. They had several cages filled with parakeets (plus those red-eared turtles sold with plastic dishes with standing plastic palm trees). I used to visit the parakeet department and watch them all twitter. One day I decided Bebop might like a friend. She had taken to pecking at herself in her little mirror. Did she think it was another bird?

So I got a blue one, and called him Bluey.

I brought him home and put him in the cage. He seemed happy enough. Flitting around. Eating the food, drinking the water, glancing over at Bebop, hopefully recognizing his own species. 

But Bebop went into her close-down routine. She perched on a bar and didn't move, eat or drink for days. 

Eventually, and very sloooooowly, she came around. Bebop and Bluey got pretty friendly. They sang their hearts out all day long. When I opened the cage to let them fly, Bluey was an expert flyer. He circled the room and landed on the highest places: shelves, cabinets, open closet doors. Bebop continued to smash into a wall and end up on the floor, her perching feet looking silly flat on the wood.

And then? Well, years later the two sweethearts (yeah, they became sweethearts) went the way of all pets we outlive. And love still. Close encounters with that other world, which is really our own world (if we'd own up to it), remind us of that part of ourselves that once was out there, too. Flying in the wild until we hit that hard closed window called civilized life.  

Feathered Beast

I love this theory: birds are descendants of dinosaurs.

Isn't that the coolest thing you ever heard?

And they have proof, too. Dinosaur fossil remains with feathers. It's like a missing link in the bird world. The transvestite of animals.

But the conundrum that always gets caught in my brain is this: if the dinosaurs vanished from the planet due to some planetary catastrophe, then how could the birds descend from them?

Wooo...brain teaser!

Well, paleontologists do answer that question. I once asked Mark Norell of the American Museum of Natural History in New York that very question. And the answer was: obviously not all of them became extinct. Norell's fossil discoveries keep mounting the evidence for dinosaur-as-bird theories.

I'm all for it. Anything to give birds more june nest cest quoi is okay in my book. Adds to their mystique as we watch them float on airwaves. Now who else can do that?

These photos of flying birds are by photog/artist Rosalie Winard. She calls them Avian Primitives. And they do evoke that early planetary atmosphere of wildlife free from human meddling. (Okay, we're not just meddlers, but we do meddle.)

The other photo is the missing link Archaeopteryx. It's the fossil thing with feathers. Ahhh....feathers. Don't you wish you had some? I do. A kind of soft coat of arms. Something to flutter. Something to fly on. 

Ever see birds clean their feathers? They slide their beak down the feather shaft from close to their bodies to the tip of the feather. Especially after a splash in a puddle. Or a dirt bath. 

Ingenious: dirt baths. An oxymoron with a whole lot of sense.

The Magic Box

Did you ever stand in an elevator with a dog on a leash? 

Dogs who live in apartment buildings are used to riding in elevators. They don't try to get out. They don't look around at the space they're in. They don't make eye contact with the humans present. They usually face the door. Their heads bowed, their eyes raised to the edge where the door cracks open. Waiting for that moment when they can leave this little room. For when the powers that be (probably humans) will open the door and they can resume normal life. They can go out walking in the world.

"They think it's a magic box," says Lyna, who walks dogs in NYC. "If I pick up two dogs in the same building on different floors, they don't always know which floor is theirs. The hallways look alike. And even the smells are so multi-layered one floor smells like the next. So as soon as the elevator door opens, out they go. They assume they're home."

They just think about leaving. They're not even doing their sniffing-everything-in-sight routine. Not the floor full of soles-on-street smells or the new humans standing around.

"Tootsie puts her nose near the opening and feels the bit of air coming through," says Gerry & Richard, who live with Tootsie, the dog. That's Tootsie in the picture up there.

Well, Tootsie is that kind of dog that goes the extra mile in dogdom. What she does, not every dog does. But she will just hang her head waiting like it's some kind of penance or prayer.

All the elevator dogs wait for release. Maybe they've figured if you stand still and be good you'll be freed from this tiny spot.

Do they know the room moves? How do they "rationalize" that sinking feeling. Or that rising feeling. That unnatural play with gravity. What do they think is going on? Do they behave so docile and penitent because they know they're engaged with some inexplicable supernatural force? That they must cower from. Pretend they're not there. Work at escaping notice. So that this unleashed power will leave them be?

When the elevator lands and solid gravity regains its normal personality, the door opens.

The dogs can breathe free. Go back to the business of being a dog. Head high, nose engaged, curiosity spilling all over the place.

Octopus on Ice

You wanna know how to win a hockey game? Throw an octopus onto the ice. Or a catfish. Or a leopard shark. They have to be dead, too. And in some cases, already cooked. 

Not that I'm advocating winning hockey games this way. I'm just telling you what some people actually do.

And there's all kinds of rules about how you do it. It started in Detroit with the Redwings. Allegedly, Pete and Jerry Cusimano, who owned the Detroit's Eastern Market, threw the first octopus on the ice in 1952. Cusimano sounds like an Italian name (I know, I have one, too), and octopi figure in Italian cuisine. Greek cuisine, too. So maybe that inaugural octopus came right out of their refrigerator at the store.

There is some logic to it. The Redwings were in the playoffs, and they had to win 8 games to win the Stanley Cup. An octopus has 8 legs. So, 8...8...you see where I'm going?

The other animals are hockey fan copycats (no, not real cats). The catfish is thrown on the ice in an attempt to make the Nashville Predators lucky. And the leopard shark might show up at a San Jose Shark's game.

I know. It's sports. People go crazy for their teams. Superstitions are what really win games anyway...right? I've been known to throw a cupcake at the TV screen when the NY Jets are playing. (That's another story.)

But placed within the history of animal sacrifice, does the octopi of the Detroit Redwings really measure up? Is winning a hockey game equal to the prayer for plentiful crops, or a ban on tornadoes, or the end of a drought? Depends on your priorities.

What we haven't seen a lot of -- unless it goes under a different name and guise that only animals know about -- is people sacrificed for animal needs like for protection or grace from the gods. I don't mean animal attacks for yummy human food or self-defense, I mean a ritual with no intention of wanting something to eat. Like the octopi on the ice hockey rink.

Octopi (they say) have individual personalities. One might be reclusive, another friendly, another destructive. They live by themselves in crevices or under rocks, which they call home for a few weeks until they choose another crevice or rock. At night they roam around finding seafood to eat. They might walk on the seafloor with their super-sensitive legs, or dart through the water at 25 mph. And they're smart, too. Check the video under links on this page for an octopus getting through a tiny hole. 

They only live about 3-5 years. And they die soon after they mate. The male first. Then once the eggs are off and out into the sea, the female. So they lead a very focused existence. Hide from Predators. Get food. Mate. Die. No time for --what the octopi might consider silly -- games. No three-clamshell-monty. Or sea pebble badminton. 

We humans probably don't have to worry about reciprocal sacrifice. I guess that's lucky. For us.

A Brace of American Birds

Joel Achenbach of the Washington Post said in his January 16th "Auchenblog" that today's menu at the Inaugural Luncheon was a "brace of American birds." Notably pheasant and duck. 

You know, I never ate pheasant, but duck, yes, and duck is quite tasty (I know: poor Rosanna). 

Should the birds feel honored to be served at such a momentous occasion?

Well, let's look at this another way. When (and if) a Duck ever gets elected to the presidency here's what's likely to be on the menu (not a brace of American people):

a melange of seeds, shoots, and grass

aquatic vegetation three ways.

acorns with grain garnish

insect crudo

aquatic invertebrates misto

If this happened to be a female presidential duck and she was pregnant then she'd eat twice as much as any senator in the room. Including the First Man Duck.

As for pheasants. Somehow it's hard to picture a pheasant as president. 

BASH

That's what they call it. Bird Aircraft Strike Hazard. Or Bird Strike (without picket signs).  It's when an airborne animal hits an airborne man-made thing. Birds-Planes.

But what do they do to avoid this unwelcome meeting? Wikipedia says it so nicely: "The are three approaches to reduce the effect of bird strikes. The vehicle can be designed to be more bird resistant, the birds can be moved out of the way of the vehicle, or the vehicle can be moved out of the way of the birds." Now why didn't I think of that!

1. Engines will shut down if hit with a 4 pound bird.

2. Cockpit windows are strong enough to withstand a 4 pound bird.

3. BUT multiple birds (read: flock) can disable the engines (read: US Airways Flight 1549 yesterday)

Now to getting the birds out of the way of the vehicle: pull up trees and marshland, grasslands of attractive bird habitats near airports, install dogs to patrol airport borders for migrant bird intrusions (just keep the dogs away from the planes), use big sounds and explosions to scare them away (scarecrows don't work, you can thank the Wizard for that).

How about getting that vehicle out of the way? Well, they discourage taking off when a flock of birds are hanging around. And it sounds like they're extra careful during migratory season in planning flight routes. That's when EVERYONE needs the skies at the same time. Who would've thunk that the sky-- the GREAT BIG MOST-OF-THE-TIME BLUE sky would run out of room? I'll bet when you were a kid and asked, "Daddy, why is the sky blue?" (Has any kid ever really asked that question?) You would have been floored if he said: "You know, one day, that sky will be so crowded you won't even know what color it is." (Was that the answer?) (If you want to know why the sky is blue see link over to the left there under: Links)

Same goes for the big black sky in outer space. We've got so many radio waves and satellite paths and blabbing people and clicking fax machines and movies and football games flying around the magnetic field of air waves that even the radio telescopes on the lookout for attacking asteroids can't see a thing because of all our fooling-around static. I mean what's more important: Telephone gossip or finding new planets? (Hmmm...that's a toss-up.)

I wonder how many outer space animals we're intruding upon with all that blather?

Anyway, as for the plane-bird combination, it seems like the airplane business is on top of it as they can be. (Especially the pilot of US Airways Flight 1549) I hope they feel the same way at the next waterfowl town meeting.

where birds and airplanes meet

Right on the edge of humanity and zoo-manity a plane and a flock of birds tangoed and the only casualty (casualties) was/were the birds. The pilot got the plane to land on the Hudson River and all the passengers got out safely and were picked up by NYC/NJ ferries. 

The birds are in the engine somewhere, roasted not for dinner. This was LaGuardia Airport near the East River, Flushing Bay, and not far from Long Island Sound. Right near JFK Airport is the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. I once did a boat trip to see the feathered creatures who live there. New York City Audubon Society sponsored the trip. You pass a lot of industrial stuff along the way but eventually get to see Great Blue Herons and Great White Herons and Cormorants and Night Herons and Osprey and Oystercatchers and more more more.

You can't help but wonder, while cruising past their quaint grassy marshlands, what in the world they're thinking about us in the boat, about the rest of the huge heavyweight water traffic and about those giant birds of metal soaring above with a call that resembles a thunderstorm.

Like the Jets and the Sharks....two opposing teams on either side of the street looking at each other wondering who's going to start the rumble first.

But no one wants to start a rumble.

The airport tries to stay clear of birds. And the birds try to stay clear of airport.

More on this next time. Just what kind of staying clear is going on?