The Washington Post recently ran a story about the recent spate of concussions among NFL players and how the league is reacting to them. In essence, any head shots will be punished by major fines and suspensions, even for first offenses.
Ex-Redskins linebacker and head-hunter Lavar Arrington wrote a blog on his worst concussions, both giving and getting. Arrington is the fellow who dumped Cowboys quarterback Troy Aickman on his head in the course of a vicious sack, giving him the last of a long series of knocks to the head and ending his career as a player.
Concussions are scary things—no cartoon birdies flying around your head chirping classical music, just a closing wall of dark, that at least in my case, I was able to talk my way out of and stay in this reality.
My brother, who played football in high school, was whacked more than once, but never hard enough to pass out. A friend, who was dumped on by a defensive player, remembers waking up on the sidelines with the coach saying “What’s your name, what day is it?” He says he practiced his answers beforehand so as to be able to get back into the game, but instead of “what day is it?” he was asked: “how many fingers am I holding up?” and answered “Saturday”, winning him a trip to the ER.
The most frightening concussions have got to be ones your kids get. When my son, Alec, was in eighth grade, he came home one afternoon with his glasses bent, the front wheel of his bicycle flat, and his bike helmet cracked. “I hit a rock,” was his explanation, “and got flipped over the front” (turns out he was riding down a flight of stairs and told me the rock story so as to not get into trouble). I bundled him into my truck and took him to the eye doctor to get his glasses fixed. On the way home, he complained of a headache and nausea. Alarm bells went off in the back of my skull and we skipped the last turn for home, going directly to the hospital. We walked into the Emergency Room and within a minute, he was on a gurney, headed for the MRI.
What seemed like years later (I think I aged at least that much), the doctor came in to see me. “Alec has a concussion” he said, “it’s not serious and a good thing he was wearing a helmet. Here’s the MRI scan”, he said, showing me a series of photos. I remember thinking how strange it was to be looking at my kid’s brain. “Nothing out of the ordinary” said the doctor, “All we can see here are girls and video games. Give him something for his headache, keep him quiet, and home from school for a day. He should be fine.”
I am happy for the parents of NFL players that the league is finally at least trying to keep their kids from harm. Except for any and all opponents of the Dallas Cowboys who still should be allowed to clobber them bums.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Smiles in the Stone
Last Sunday at Pat’s urging, I signed up for a gargoyle tour at the National Cathedral. I knew going in that this would not be as spectacular as the informal one I got from a maintenance worker a couple of years ago, but I was looking forward to seeing things I missed the last time around.
I found a parking spot, paid my $10, admired the play of the light through the stained glass windows on the stones, and took an elevator to the 7th floor. A docent presented a short slide show and lecture on what we would see, along with a few stories and general history. It seems that gargoyles and grotesques go way back—the Temple of Karnak has them as does Fenway Park. I learned the difference between a gablet and a pinnacle and the definition of a termination molding. Then we all rode back down to the ground and began the tour.
Of course, the docent pointed out the grotesque of Darth Vader, a carving visible as a dot way up on the North Tower (“the dark side of the Cathedral”). We saw, also way up and only discernible through binoculars, one of two medieval-style gargoyles. It seems that back in the dark ages, carvers lacked the technology to cut a hole through stone so the gargoyles of that period were done with a trough on the top…huh, who knew? He also pointed out the pair of folded hands and explained that, although most people think that they are clasped in prayer, a closer examination shows they are, in fact, gripping a golf club. What else is there to do on a pleasant Sunday?
One paired pair of gargoyles is popular with the spotters—a wealthy grandmother commissioned a pair of sculptures in honor of her two grandsons. One is shown holding a schoolbook, gazing upwards, halo firmly planted. The other, right next to it, is shown raiding the cookie jar, broken halo askew. Grandma never said which was which…wise lady.
I spent most of the tour shooting the small carvings on the termination moldings—the end bits of the gablets. Not gargoyles (all gargoyles are grotesques, but not all grotesques are gargoyles) since they lacked the spout (same root as the word “gargle”), the termination moldings are smaller and for the most part, more whimsical.
Cats and dogs peeked out the limestone. There were dragons aplenty, stylized birds, even a winged mouse.
A hippy, complete with protest sign, stash bag, and horn (??) slung over his shoulder, peered into an upper floor window. (“You have to remember,” said the docent, “that this was the sixties.”)
We soon noticed that many of the gablet terminations were in pairs—an octopus and a lobster, ostensibly ingredients in that particular stone cutter’s favorite seafood salads, shared one gablet.
Another set was left uncarved, a tribute to the one stone-cutter who died in an accident.
The best, however, is a pair depicting Master Stone-carver Vincent Palumbo and the Episcopal Bishop at the time. It seems Mr. Palumbo had an eye for the ladies (as do all Italians) and would often have his lunch on the side of the Cathedral facing the girls’ school. His admiration of the young ladies often included a wolf whistle (remember, these were the sixties, an all together more innocent time). The Bishop, whose carving shows a well-worn shoe, a tribute to his ceaseless fund raising, often admonished the Master Carver over his behavior. Mr. Palumbo assured His Eminence that his motives were purely platonic and continued his sylvan lunches. The Bishop is depicted holding his hands to his head, mouth agape in shock, reacting to Palumbo’s behavior and presumably praying for the Master Carver to stay out of Hell.
Gothic cathedrals are built to last and over a long period of time-Notre Dame was begun in the eleven hundreds, Chartes even earlier. The cathedral of Ulm in Germany was not complete for nearly 600 years. National Cathedral only took 100 years to build (1907-2007), but I expect it will be around for a thousand years. Future visitors will marvel at the archetecture and smile at the gargoyles. I hope someone still gets the jokes.
I found a parking spot, paid my $10, admired the play of the light through the stained glass windows on the stones, and took an elevator to the 7th floor. A docent presented a short slide show and lecture on what we would see, along with a few stories and general history. It seems that gargoyles and grotesques go way back—the Temple of Karnak has them as does Fenway Park. I learned the difference between a gablet and a pinnacle and the definition of a termination molding. Then we all rode back down to the ground and began the tour.
Of course, the docent pointed out the grotesque of Darth Vader, a carving visible as a dot way up on the North Tower (“the dark side of the Cathedral”). We saw, also way up and only discernible through binoculars, one of two medieval-style gargoyles. It seems that back in the dark ages, carvers lacked the technology to cut a hole through stone so the gargoyles of that period were done with a trough on the top…huh, who knew? He also pointed out the pair of folded hands and explained that, although most people think that they are clasped in prayer, a closer examination shows they are, in fact, gripping a golf club. What else is there to do on a pleasant Sunday?
One paired pair of gargoyles is popular with the spotters—a wealthy grandmother commissioned a pair of sculptures in honor of her two grandsons. One is shown holding a schoolbook, gazing upwards, halo firmly planted. The other, right next to it, is shown raiding the cookie jar, broken halo askew. Grandma never said which was which…wise lady.
I spent most of the tour shooting the small carvings on the termination moldings—the end bits of the gablets. Not gargoyles (all gargoyles are grotesques, but not all grotesques are gargoyles) since they lacked the spout (same root as the word “gargle”), the termination moldings are smaller and for the most part, more whimsical.
Cats and dogs peeked out the limestone. There were dragons aplenty, stylized birds, even a winged mouse.
A hippy, complete with protest sign, stash bag, and horn (??) slung over his shoulder, peered into an upper floor window. (“You have to remember,” said the docent, “that this was the sixties.”)
We soon noticed that many of the gablet terminations were in pairs—an octopus and a lobster, ostensibly ingredients in that particular stone cutter’s favorite seafood salads, shared one gablet.
Another set was left uncarved, a tribute to the one stone-cutter who died in an accident.
The best, however, is a pair depicting Master Stone-carver Vincent Palumbo and the Episcopal Bishop at the time. It seems Mr. Palumbo had an eye for the ladies (as do all Italians) and would often have his lunch on the side of the Cathedral facing the girls’ school. His admiration of the young ladies often included a wolf whistle (remember, these were the sixties, an all together more innocent time). The Bishop, whose carving shows a well-worn shoe, a tribute to his ceaseless fund raising, often admonished the Master Carver over his behavior. Mr. Palumbo assured His Eminence that his motives were purely platonic and continued his sylvan lunches. The Bishop is depicted holding his hands to his head, mouth agape in shock, reacting to Palumbo’s behavior and presumably praying for the Master Carver to stay out of Hell.
Gothic cathedrals are built to last and over a long period of time-Notre Dame was begun in the eleven hundreds, Chartes even earlier. The cathedral of Ulm in Germany was not complete for nearly 600 years. National Cathedral only took 100 years to build (1907-2007), but I expect it will be around for a thousand years. Future visitors will marvel at the archetecture and smile at the gargoyles. I hope someone still gets the jokes.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Gifts from the Sea Shore (with apologies to Anne Morrow Lindburg)
Whenever I go to the summer beach, I count it a successful trip if I get to see dolphins, pelicans, and osprey. Winter beaches have their own set of gifts. Pat and I went a few weeks ago to decompress and relax. We strolled the boardwalk at Bethany, took a dip or two in the cold Atlantic, ate seafood to excess, and hit our favorite bookstores. During one excellent lunch on the upper deck of a boardwalk restaurant, we watched an osprey fishing in the ocean. Hovering and diving, it grabbed a fish, and headed for the nest holding the fish head first in the talons, reminding me of a World War II torpedo bomber on patrol.
Dolphins we saw every morning, pods ambling their way south. I even glimpsed the fin of a small shark or ray in the swash of a breaking wave. No pelicans, though, no trifecta. The vague disappointment was kind of like being a kid at Christmas…presents a plenty including some you really wanted, but no Red Rider BB gun with the adjustable sights and patented lever-action loading. Just as often, though, you got something so unexpected that it made all the other stuff, actual or not, seem trivial. My unexpected present this summer was five different species of crab (OK; four, since one is technically more closely related to spiders and scorpions).
First up, while walking the beach and dodging waves in the late afternoon, I discovered (quite literally) an old childhood acquaintance, the mole crab. Bethany has been busy with beach replenishment in recent years so mole crabs haven’t been as abundant as at Assateague Island or other wild beaches. Mole crabs belie the old saying, “crabs walk sideways and lobsters walk straight”. In this case, they walk straight backwards. Mole crabs dig themselves into the upper beach almost to the limit of wave washed wet sand and sit just below the surface waiting for the next wave. As the wave washes over, they thrust out their feathery antennae and use them like tiny nets to filter out bits of debris and plankton. They draw their antennae through the mouthparts and pick out the tasty bits. The one I grabbed was a fat female, the size of my thumb (males are much smaller), scuttling on the wet sand in the backwash of a wave. I took her picture and watched her dig in and vanish as if by magic before the next wave.
As the shadows lengthened and the air began to cool from the blistering heat of the day, we repaired to the boardwalk for our evening constitutional. No visit to Bethany is complete without a lap of the boardwalk, all 5/8 of a mile of it. Near the north end, a flicker of movement caught my eye. There, in the shadow of a piling was a hole about the size of an old-fashioned half-dollar. Next to it, standing guard, was a ghost crab, again, the first I has seen on Bethany in some time. Ghost crabs are sand-colored with eyes on stalks like tiny periscopes, and run wicked fast. A mature female (big females take the beach farthest from the waves—location, location, location), she was nervously pacing back and forth by her burrow (which may be up to 3 feet deep), waiting for the gloom to deepen enough for her to set out for the beach and begin her night’s foraging—hunting mole crabs, beach fleas, and general scavenging. Now that I knew what to look for, I saw the entrances to several other burrows, some with tell-tale sand fans at the entrances indicating recent excavation. Keeping to the shadows, this one dashed a zigzag course through the compass grass, over the artificial dune, and quickly vanished from sight.
Next morning’s stroll along the beach revealed another temporary gift, a horseshoe crab. Dubbed “Delaware’s dinosaur”, it actually predates those mighty beasts by over 100 million years—truly a creature from another world. Every spring, horseshoe crabs come ashore to spawn just as they have since the mid-Permian, a third of a billion years ago. Back then, there was almost no life on land—just a few struggling primitive plants, so laying your eggs at the edge of the water was the safest thing you could do. Nobody told the horseshoe crab that things have changed in the interim—animals have evolved to live on land, including, several species of shorebirds who time their spring migrations to coincide with the spawning cycle.
Everything about this animal screams different—their blood is copper, not iron based. Horseshoe crabs’ ancient lineage predates that of crustaceans; technically, they are more closely related to trilobites and scorpions than to true crabs. Although their Latin name, Polyphemus refers to the Cyclops in the Iliad, horseshoe crabs actually have ten identifiable eyes, plus light sensitive sections on the upper and lower shell and on the tail. No problem with chewing gum and walking here—the crabs’ mouths are between their front legs, so in order to chew food, they must be walking. They swim upside down, righting themselves with the long dangerous-looking tail spine called a telson. Once on the bottom, the hydrodynamic curves of the upper shell keep them pressed to the sand—a good thing if you live anywhere near the surf zone. This one was a big female, 30 years old at least, cast up by the waves and hunkered down to wait the turn of the tide. I tossed her back into the sea with a whispered bon chance.
The beach was getting hotter and we were in desperate need of lunch. We retreated back to the house where, groggy from food and the heat, we began reading our new books in the chill of the AC. I can’t sit still for more than a few minutes so I took a walk to the local boat ramp to see what was going on. The tide in the back bay was at slack low, exposing the mud banks lining the channel. Salt marsh hay waved in the sultry breeze and laughing gulls and terns wheeled overhead. Salt marsh dragonlets, a small dragonfly and one of the few insects that can breed in salt water, hawked mosquitoes over the mud. Movement on the bank caught my eye, fiddler crabs feeding on tasty bits embedded in the mud. Females were using both small claws to shovel in the gooey mud, looking like small boys at a county fair pie-eating contest.
The slightly larger males were using their single small claw to feed, occasionally looking around and waving their huge “fiddle” claw to attract females. The motion the males use to attract females is familiar; the universal “come on over” wave. Males also use their large claw to wrestle with other males over a comely she-crab. Some males are “right clawed” others “left clawed”. I wonder what the ratio is and how they fare in combat. When I took fencing, I hated to go up against a lefty. Southpaws (or, to be more accurate, southclaws) have the advantage in an otherwise fair match—they are used to fighting the far more numerous righties and right-handed fencers are unaccustomed to fighting a mirror image of themselves. I doubt it’s so simple for fiddlers--my best guess is that the genetics will see-saw with whoever is in the ascendancy, giving the advantage to the other side in a few generations.
The tide was starting to come in, blue crabs and the occasional rockfish swam past looking for stragglers. The fiddlers were going down their burrows and pulling a plug of mud in behind them to wait out the rising water and its predators coming in from the deep. Nap time for me and the fiddlers (another gift of the beach).
Dolphins we saw every morning, pods ambling their way south. I even glimpsed the fin of a small shark or ray in the swash of a breaking wave. No pelicans, though, no trifecta. The vague disappointment was kind of like being a kid at Christmas…presents a plenty including some you really wanted, but no Red Rider BB gun with the adjustable sights and patented lever-action loading. Just as often, though, you got something so unexpected that it made all the other stuff, actual or not, seem trivial. My unexpected present this summer was five different species of crab (OK; four, since one is technically more closely related to spiders and scorpions).
First up, while walking the beach and dodging waves in the late afternoon, I discovered (quite literally) an old childhood acquaintance, the mole crab. Bethany has been busy with beach replenishment in recent years so mole crabs haven’t been as abundant as at Assateague Island or other wild beaches. Mole crabs belie the old saying, “crabs walk sideways and lobsters walk straight”. In this case, they walk straight backwards. Mole crabs dig themselves into the upper beach almost to the limit of wave washed wet sand and sit just below the surface waiting for the next wave. As the wave washes over, they thrust out their feathery antennae and use them like tiny nets to filter out bits of debris and plankton. They draw their antennae through the mouthparts and pick out the tasty bits. The one I grabbed was a fat female, the size of my thumb (males are much smaller), scuttling on the wet sand in the backwash of a wave. I took her picture and watched her dig in and vanish as if by magic before the next wave.
As the shadows lengthened and the air began to cool from the blistering heat of the day, we repaired to the boardwalk for our evening constitutional. No visit to Bethany is complete without a lap of the boardwalk, all 5/8 of a mile of it. Near the north end, a flicker of movement caught my eye. There, in the shadow of a piling was a hole about the size of an old-fashioned half-dollar. Next to it, standing guard, was a ghost crab, again, the first I has seen on Bethany in some time. Ghost crabs are sand-colored with eyes on stalks like tiny periscopes, and run wicked fast. A mature female (big females take the beach farthest from the waves—location, location, location), she was nervously pacing back and forth by her burrow (which may be up to 3 feet deep), waiting for the gloom to deepen enough for her to set out for the beach and begin her night’s foraging—hunting mole crabs, beach fleas, and general scavenging. Now that I knew what to look for, I saw the entrances to several other burrows, some with tell-tale sand fans at the entrances indicating recent excavation. Keeping to the shadows, this one dashed a zigzag course through the compass grass, over the artificial dune, and quickly vanished from sight.
Next morning’s stroll along the beach revealed another temporary gift, a horseshoe crab. Dubbed “Delaware’s dinosaur”, it actually predates those mighty beasts by over 100 million years—truly a creature from another world. Every spring, horseshoe crabs come ashore to spawn just as they have since the mid-Permian, a third of a billion years ago. Back then, there was almost no life on land—just a few struggling primitive plants, so laying your eggs at the edge of the water was the safest thing you could do. Nobody told the horseshoe crab that things have changed in the interim—animals have evolved to live on land, including, several species of shorebirds who time their spring migrations to coincide with the spawning cycle.
Everything about this animal screams different—their blood is copper, not iron based. Horseshoe crabs’ ancient lineage predates that of crustaceans; technically, they are more closely related to trilobites and scorpions than to true crabs. Although their Latin name, Polyphemus refers to the Cyclops in the Iliad, horseshoe crabs actually have ten identifiable eyes, plus light sensitive sections on the upper and lower shell and on the tail. No problem with chewing gum and walking here—the crabs’ mouths are between their front legs, so in order to chew food, they must be walking. They swim upside down, righting themselves with the long dangerous-looking tail spine called a telson. Once on the bottom, the hydrodynamic curves of the upper shell keep them pressed to the sand—a good thing if you live anywhere near the surf zone. This one was a big female, 30 years old at least, cast up by the waves and hunkered down to wait the turn of the tide. I tossed her back into the sea with a whispered bon chance.
The beach was getting hotter and we were in desperate need of lunch. We retreated back to the house where, groggy from food and the heat, we began reading our new books in the chill of the AC. I can’t sit still for more than a few minutes so I took a walk to the local boat ramp to see what was going on. The tide in the back bay was at slack low, exposing the mud banks lining the channel. Salt marsh hay waved in the sultry breeze and laughing gulls and terns wheeled overhead. Salt marsh dragonlets, a small dragonfly and one of the few insects that can breed in salt water, hawked mosquitoes over the mud. Movement on the bank caught my eye, fiddler crabs feeding on tasty bits embedded in the mud. Females were using both small claws to shovel in the gooey mud, looking like small boys at a county fair pie-eating contest.
The slightly larger males were using their single small claw to feed, occasionally looking around and waving their huge “fiddle” claw to attract females. The motion the males use to attract females is familiar; the universal “come on over” wave. Males also use their large claw to wrestle with other males over a comely she-crab. Some males are “right clawed” others “left clawed”. I wonder what the ratio is and how they fare in combat. When I took fencing, I hated to go up against a lefty. Southpaws (or, to be more accurate, southclaws) have the advantage in an otherwise fair match—they are used to fighting the far more numerous righties and right-handed fencers are unaccustomed to fighting a mirror image of themselves. I doubt it’s so simple for fiddlers--my best guess is that the genetics will see-saw with whoever is in the ascendancy, giving the advantage to the other side in a few generations.
The tide was starting to come in, blue crabs and the occasional rockfish swam past looking for stragglers. The fiddlers were going down their burrows and pulling a plug of mud in behind them to wait out the rising water and its predators coming in from the deep. Nap time for me and the fiddlers (another gift of the beach).
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Just Another Day at the Office
Hi ho, hi ho. It was supposed to be a early tour for a group of high school kids from Louisiana. In my most recent incarnation as a tour guide giving the Ghost and Graveyard Tour in Oldtown Alexandria, I was scheduled to meet the bus at 6:45. As is often the case, the bus was late, caught in rush-hour traffic in D.C. We finally started a half-hour behind schedule. I gave a somewhat abbreviated tour, skipping a couple of stories, and finished up at Christ Church cemetery. We strolled back to the starting point at Market Square. At that point, the fun began.
According to a three-paragraph story buried in the middle of the Metro section of the Washington Post, two alleged gentlemen allegedly robbed an Arlington motel and allegedly escaped in an allegedly stolen car. Leading police in an alleged high speed chase (in Arlington? at the tail-end of rush hour? Hell, they just should have walked—would have made better time), the alleged suspects (this term was actually used by Fox “if it bleeds, it leads” News; film at eleven) made their way into Alexandria where they allegedly crashed their alleged vehicle into an allegedly parked car at Alexandria Town Hall (allegedly). One worthy hid in Alexandria Town Hall where he was found by alleged dogs and arrested (by police, not the dogs, although that does bring up an interesting mental image—“you have the right to remain silent; anything you say may be used against you and will result in a nasty bite”). The other guy stayed in the car and was arrested almost as an afterthought. The alleged suspects were held for bail without questioning (a direct quote--thanks again, Fox).
Meanwhile, I was leading my charges down King Street when sirens began to wail and multiply into a veritable symphony of hoots and honks. First one police car, then another, and another careened down the road, weaving around traffic, and blocking side streets. I began to think it was some sort of motorcade—maybe Obama was coming to Alexandria to make a speech or get a beer. I was about to make a comment (Tour Guide hint: when the primary visual object changes, change the spiel), when I noticed the cops swarming around Market Square, carrying shotguns and unholstered pistols. The tour bus was idling in front of Town Hall. A cop, red-faced from the oppressive heat, and holding a Glock 9mm, told me to get everyone inside. I told him the bus was just a half block away and he said he would get it through the barricade so the kids could board. He headed down the street, waving and shouting. The bus began to move, everyone boarded, and the bus rolled out of Alexandria in a haze of diesel smoke. As they loaded onto the bus, most of the kids remembered to say “thank-you.”
According to a three-paragraph story buried in the middle of the Metro section of the Washington Post, two alleged gentlemen allegedly robbed an Arlington motel and allegedly escaped in an allegedly stolen car. Leading police in an alleged high speed chase (in Arlington? at the tail-end of rush hour? Hell, they just should have walked—would have made better time), the alleged suspects (this term was actually used by Fox “if it bleeds, it leads” News; film at eleven) made their way into Alexandria where they allegedly crashed their alleged vehicle into an allegedly parked car at Alexandria Town Hall (allegedly). One worthy hid in Alexandria Town Hall where he was found by alleged dogs and arrested (by police, not the dogs, although that does bring up an interesting mental image—“you have the right to remain silent; anything you say may be used against you and will result in a nasty bite”). The other guy stayed in the car and was arrested almost as an afterthought. The alleged suspects were held for bail without questioning (a direct quote--thanks again, Fox).
Meanwhile, I was leading my charges down King Street when sirens began to wail and multiply into a veritable symphony of hoots and honks. First one police car, then another, and another careened down the road, weaving around traffic, and blocking side streets. I began to think it was some sort of motorcade—maybe Obama was coming to Alexandria to make a speech or get a beer. I was about to make a comment (Tour Guide hint: when the primary visual object changes, change the spiel), when I noticed the cops swarming around Market Square, carrying shotguns and unholstered pistols. The tour bus was idling in front of Town Hall. A cop, red-faced from the oppressive heat, and holding a Glock 9mm, told me to get everyone inside. I told him the bus was just a half block away and he said he would get it through the barricade so the kids could board. He headed down the street, waving and shouting. The bus began to move, everyone boarded, and the bus rolled out of Alexandria in a haze of diesel smoke. As they loaded onto the bus, most of the kids remembered to say “thank-you.”
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Passages
Last Friday, at midnight, my son Alec officially turned 21. In a rite of passage as old as parenting and alcohol, I took him to a bar for his first legal drink**. I found a place nearby that was open after midnight and within walking distance. As we came in the door, my auditory system was assaulted to the edge of sensory overload shut-down by what at first sounded like an ogre having a seizure. Not to worry, it was karaoke night at the redneck bar. Alec assured me that the real song, sung by the real band, sounded the same. Kids these days.
We found a table mercifully far away from the speakers but with the decibel level still approaching that of an aircraft carrier’s flight deck during a combat mission…in a thunderstorm…during a volcanic eruption…and an asteroid strike. I ordered a pitcher from the barmaid, and mentioned it was for the birthday boy. Alec passed over his driver’s license and she confirmed that he was indeed, 21 years old by a full 5 minutes. “Happy birthday” she said and went to fill our order. She was back shortly with a pitcher of Bud and a glass. “On the house”, she said, placing the glass in front of Alec. “It’s a Four Knights—Jimmy, Jack, Johnny, and Jose,” That would be Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker and Jose Cuervo to the uninitiated. Alec took a sip, made a face, and passed it over to me. I tasted it; not bad, although Four Horsemen would have been a better name-just what you need to get through the appocylypse. I passed it back to Alec who slammed it down, chasing it with a beer. Kid’s been getting some practice I thought. As Alec and Craig, his newly arrived friend from back in high school, began looking over the karaoke selections, my reverie was broken by a pseudo-good ole boy in a black Stetson doing a voice-over to “Okie from Muscogee”. Jeeze, I thought, I haven’t heard that song since before my son was born. Funny how things change but pretty much stay the same—If you change the words in the line: “White lightning’s still the biggest thrill of all” to “Home-made meth” you still pretty much retain the essence of the song…well, maybe not. Time for another pitcher.
Alec and Craig were called up to the stage by the karaoke master for their selection. “But first, it’s Alec’s 21st birthday.” The DJ said, “Everyone join me in wishing him a good one.” The bar burst into song, following the age old rule of if you can’t sing it well, sing it loud.
Alec chose a song, “Just a Gigolo” by David Lee Roth, formerly of the head-banger band Van Halen. He didn’t really know the words and read his way though it to the end, not too bad; He got hung up on the scat singing la-la-la part but the bar gave him a rousing ovation anyway. He and Craig joined in a duet of the Beatles’ “Revolution”; again, same result. Don’t quit your day job.
I poured the rest of the pitcher, and asked for the check. Alec raised his glass to me and said “Happy birthday, Pop.”
**Note to Parents: In no way should this be construed as a “first drink”—this is just a first legal drink, eliminating the 3 a.m. phone call: “Mr./Mrs. insert name here , this is Officer insert name here, of the insert name here police department. We have you son/daughter, insert name here on a drinking under age charge and would like you to come down to the station house as soon as possible.”
We found a table mercifully far away from the speakers but with the decibel level still approaching that of an aircraft carrier’s flight deck during a combat mission…in a thunderstorm…during a volcanic eruption…and an asteroid strike. I ordered a pitcher from the barmaid, and mentioned it was for the birthday boy. Alec passed over his driver’s license and she confirmed that he was indeed, 21 years old by a full 5 minutes. “Happy birthday” she said and went to fill our order. She was back shortly with a pitcher of Bud and a glass. “On the house”, she said, placing the glass in front of Alec. “It’s a Four Knights—Jimmy, Jack, Johnny, and Jose,” That would be Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker and Jose Cuervo to the uninitiated. Alec took a sip, made a face, and passed it over to me. I tasted it; not bad, although Four Horsemen would have been a better name-just what you need to get through the appocylypse. I passed it back to Alec who slammed it down, chasing it with a beer. Kid’s been getting some practice I thought. As Alec and Craig, his newly arrived friend from back in high school, began looking over the karaoke selections, my reverie was broken by a pseudo-good ole boy in a black Stetson doing a voice-over to “Okie from Muscogee”. Jeeze, I thought, I haven’t heard that song since before my son was born. Funny how things change but pretty much stay the same—If you change the words in the line: “White lightning’s still the biggest thrill of all” to “Home-made meth” you still pretty much retain the essence of the song…well, maybe not. Time for another pitcher.
Alec and Craig were called up to the stage by the karaoke master for their selection. “But first, it’s Alec’s 21st birthday.” The DJ said, “Everyone join me in wishing him a good one.” The bar burst into song, following the age old rule of if you can’t sing it well, sing it loud.
Alec chose a song, “Just a Gigolo” by David Lee Roth, formerly of the head-banger band Van Halen. He didn’t really know the words and read his way though it to the end, not too bad; He got hung up on the scat singing la-la-la part but the bar gave him a rousing ovation anyway. He and Craig joined in a duet of the Beatles’ “Revolution”; again, same result. Don’t quit your day job.
I poured the rest of the pitcher, and asked for the check. Alec raised his glass to me and said “Happy birthday, Pop.”
**Note to Parents: In no way should this be construed as a “first drink”—this is just a first legal drink, eliminating the 3 a.m. phone call: “Mr./Mrs. insert name here , this is Officer insert name here, of the insert name here police department. We have you son/daughter, insert name here on a drinking under age charge and would like you to come down to the station house as soon as possible.”
Saturday, February 27, 2010
One of the Boys
I suppose most of us, in our own minds, think we lead pretty unexciting lives. Barak Obama, in his secret life, wishes he were an NBA star—hell, even James Bond probably fantasizes life as a NASCAR driver. I’m no different, except no one I know has ever been called in to an FBI interrogation.
It was in the carefree spring of 1973. You remember; peace, love, equal rights for vegetables. A newly minted college graduate, I was in grad school, part-time at night, and working construction to make ends meet. Not only was I the only college graduate on the laborer crew, I was the only one without a prison record. Lunch conversations were embarrassing—one fellow had done five years for grand-theft auto, another had shot a man five times in a bar fight. Me? I got a ticket once for passing a school bus. I tried to fit in; smoked Camels, the pack rolled up in the sleeve of my t-shirt, shot craps behind the foreman’s trailer on Fridays after work. I even used the “f word” as an all-purpose modifier in my speech. Nothing seemed to work; I would always be the college kid, the misfit, the nerd.
One Tuesday evening after class, my friend Freddy talked me into attending the circus. No, not the Ringling Brothers variety, a small, one ring, European, family circus was touring colleges around the East Coast. They were performing one night only on campus and admission was free. I said OK and we went. Acrobats, aerialists, a trained bear, great fun. I noticed that all the performers with the possible exception of the bear, all seemed related—family circus indeed.
I was giving Freddy a ride back to his place when my car was nearly blown off the road by a passing fire engine headed someplace in a big hurry. “Cool!” Freddy said, “Let’s see where they’re going.” Sure, I thought, why not. I followed the truck to the parking lot of the campus armory, where it joined other pieces of equipment already there. The firemen, all volunteers, and all woefully undertrained, leapt from the engine, and began running around, tripping over hoses running into each other, and acting like act II, the comedy part, of the circus we had just left. The only thing missing from the whole fiasco was the fire. No flames, no smoke, not brave firemen rescuing fainting maidens from upper story windows. “Huh,” Freddy shrugged, “I thought it would be better than this. Let’s go.”
Next day, I was digging a hole when the foreman emerged from his trailer. “Al,” he shouted, “call your mother.” My stomach turned, nobody ever got a message from the foreman to call home unless it was something dire. Did my dad have a heart attack? Brother in a car wreck? Heart pounding, I made the call from a pay phone. “The FBI called” my mom said, “I didn’t tell them anything.” My mom was a war bride, having grown up in Nazi occupied Europe. When the authorities came calling, you didn’t say anything. She gave me the number and I made the call.
“Agent Van Dorn speaking.” Came the reply. I identified myself and asked what was the problem. “The armory at the University was firebombed last night and someone saw your car leaving the scene. We would like to talk with you.” “Okay…” I said, “I can take off from work and meet you at your office.” “No no,” Agent Van Dorn replied, “I don’t want to make you miss too much time. Let’s meet off Route 29; there’s a parking lot by the Giant.” This was beginning to sound like a bad cop show. I had visions of large, heavily armed men in flack jackets with instructions to take no prisoners surrounding my car. “It’s ok,” I said, “I can come to your office to discuss this. No problem.” I got the directions from a disappointed sounding Agent Van Dorn and told the foreman I was going to an FBI interrogation.
A half-hour later, I was walking into the FBI field office in Silver Spring. I was dirty, my jeans and work boots encrusted in mud, and leaving muddy footprints on the polished tile floor. I was escorted to an interrogation room and left to wait. I began to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. One wall was covered by a large mirror, doubtless two-way, and a photo of the J. Edgar Hoover Marksmanship Trophy, presented to Agent Van Dorn, adorned the other wall. Two large men came in. Agent Van Dorn, almost certainly, along with another agent. Both men were in dark suits, dark ties, and pocket handkerchiefs. Standard FBI garb. Agent Van Dorn read me my Miranda rights and repeated what he had told me over the phone. He asked what I had been doing at the scene of the crime. I told him all about the circus and the fire engine. I ended by saying “It was like when you’re a kid, and a fire engine goes by—you just want to see where it’s going.” Agent Van Dorn smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “you don’t have to be a kid to enjoy a good fire.” A phrase that would resonate in my head for probably the rest of my life. He thanked me for my time, took the names of corroborating witnesses, and told me if anything further came up, he would contact me. I was free to go.
When I arrived at the job site the next day, Jack, the biggest baddest dude on the laborer crew came up to me and said “I hear you were questioned by the FBI.” Apparently the foreman had passed the word. “Yeah,” I said, “No big deal.” I noticed the other guys on the crew began to talk to me more, joking and offering smokes. It dawned on me…I finally fit in; I had street cred.
It was in the carefree spring of 1973. You remember; peace, love, equal rights for vegetables. A newly minted college graduate, I was in grad school, part-time at night, and working construction to make ends meet. Not only was I the only college graduate on the laborer crew, I was the only one without a prison record. Lunch conversations were embarrassing—one fellow had done five years for grand-theft auto, another had shot a man five times in a bar fight. Me? I got a ticket once for passing a school bus. I tried to fit in; smoked Camels, the pack rolled up in the sleeve of my t-shirt, shot craps behind the foreman’s trailer on Fridays after work. I even used the “f word” as an all-purpose modifier in my speech. Nothing seemed to work; I would always be the college kid, the misfit, the nerd.
One Tuesday evening after class, my friend Freddy talked me into attending the circus. No, not the Ringling Brothers variety, a small, one ring, European, family circus was touring colleges around the East Coast. They were performing one night only on campus and admission was free. I said OK and we went. Acrobats, aerialists, a trained bear, great fun. I noticed that all the performers with the possible exception of the bear, all seemed related—family circus indeed.
I was giving Freddy a ride back to his place when my car was nearly blown off the road by a passing fire engine headed someplace in a big hurry. “Cool!” Freddy said, “Let’s see where they’re going.” Sure, I thought, why not. I followed the truck to the parking lot of the campus armory, where it joined other pieces of equipment already there. The firemen, all volunteers, and all woefully undertrained, leapt from the engine, and began running around, tripping over hoses running into each other, and acting like act II, the comedy part, of the circus we had just left. The only thing missing from the whole fiasco was the fire. No flames, no smoke, not brave firemen rescuing fainting maidens from upper story windows. “Huh,” Freddy shrugged, “I thought it would be better than this. Let’s go.”
Next day, I was digging a hole when the foreman emerged from his trailer. “Al,” he shouted, “call your mother.” My stomach turned, nobody ever got a message from the foreman to call home unless it was something dire. Did my dad have a heart attack? Brother in a car wreck? Heart pounding, I made the call from a pay phone. “The FBI called” my mom said, “I didn’t tell them anything.” My mom was a war bride, having grown up in Nazi occupied Europe. When the authorities came calling, you didn’t say anything. She gave me the number and I made the call.
“Agent Van Dorn speaking.” Came the reply. I identified myself and asked what was the problem. “The armory at the University was firebombed last night and someone saw your car leaving the scene. We would like to talk with you.” “Okay…” I said, “I can take off from work and meet you at your office.” “No no,” Agent Van Dorn replied, “I don’t want to make you miss too much time. Let’s meet off Route 29; there’s a parking lot by the Giant.” This was beginning to sound like a bad cop show. I had visions of large, heavily armed men in flack jackets with instructions to take no prisoners surrounding my car. “It’s ok,” I said, “I can come to your office to discuss this. No problem.” I got the directions from a disappointed sounding Agent Van Dorn and told the foreman I was going to an FBI interrogation.
A half-hour later, I was walking into the FBI field office in Silver Spring. I was dirty, my jeans and work boots encrusted in mud, and leaving muddy footprints on the polished tile floor. I was escorted to an interrogation room and left to wait. I began to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. One wall was covered by a large mirror, doubtless two-way, and a photo of the J. Edgar Hoover Marksmanship Trophy, presented to Agent Van Dorn, adorned the other wall. Two large men came in. Agent Van Dorn, almost certainly, along with another agent. Both men were in dark suits, dark ties, and pocket handkerchiefs. Standard FBI garb. Agent Van Dorn read me my Miranda rights and repeated what he had told me over the phone. He asked what I had been doing at the scene of the crime. I told him all about the circus and the fire engine. I ended by saying “It was like when you’re a kid, and a fire engine goes by—you just want to see where it’s going.” Agent Van Dorn smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “you don’t have to be a kid to enjoy a good fire.” A phrase that would resonate in my head for probably the rest of my life. He thanked me for my time, took the names of corroborating witnesses, and told me if anything further came up, he would contact me. I was free to go.
When I arrived at the job site the next day, Jack, the biggest baddest dude on the laborer crew came up to me and said “I hear you were questioned by the FBI.” Apparently the foreman had passed the word. “Yeah,” I said, “No big deal.” I noticed the other guys on the crew began to talk to me more, joking and offering smokes. It dawned on me…I finally fit in; I had street cred.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Departed
The thing about ghost stories is that, although each has a central core, something that always stays the same, details differ with whoever is telling it. And ghost stories should be told. They are part of a human tradition as old as language itself. When such a story is locked in print, something is lost—the printed version becomes the baseline, the unimpeachable source against which all facts are measured.
Take the case of Alexandria’s Female Stranger. The truth, as far as anyone can reasonably determine, is that in September 1816, a ship, bound from the West Indies, docked at the Alexandria wharves. A young couple disembarked, the woman very ill, probably with typhoid or yellow fever. They took a room at Gadsby’s Tavern. A physician was called as well as a pair of nurses. The husband requested the doctor and nurses, as well as the inn-keeper’s wife, swear an oath never to reveal the couple’s name. Tragically, the young woman, declining all the while, died in her husband’s arms in October. She was (some say, secretly) buried in St. Paul’s Cemetery under a headstone with the name “Female Stranger”. The young man disappeared and the doctor and nurses kept their vows, never revealing the names. End of the facts as written—the mystery now becomes legend.
Depending on who is telling or writing the story, things take off from there. Speculation on the couple’s identity ranges from the daughter of Aaron Burr, to the disgraceful outcome of a love triangle ending in a fatal duel and furtive flight. Some stories have the young man dying in prison while others have him moving up the Potomac and becoming a recluse, overcome by grief, and living in a lonely ramshackle cabin by the river’ edge. He journeyed regularly down river to Alexandria to visit his beloved’s grave. Since nothing was known about him, locals took to calling him “John of the Cabin” or simply “Cabin John”. The name lingers today in a small community on the Maryland side of the river.
Another version of the story, told in Gadsby’s Tavern, concerns a beautiful young woman, who, dressed in the style of the early 19th century, frequented formal dances held in the ballroom on the second floor. The ballroom was down the hall from the room taken by the unknown couple years earlier. She never spoke or danced with any would-be suitors, and always slipped away before the festivities ended. One evening during the Civil War, a smitten young Union officer followed her as she left the ball, hoping to strike up a conversation with this mysterious beauty. Upon entering the room down the hall, he found it empty, with a lamp lit in the corner. He notified the manager of an unattended flame and the two went back to the room. When they got there, the room was dark and the candle wick in the lamp was unblackened—it had never been lit. As the puzzled young officer was leaving the room, he touched the glass globe of the unlit lamp. And burned his fingers.
As a student of the paranormal once said: If you believe, no explanation is necessary; if you don’t, no explanation is possible.
Take the case of Alexandria’s Female Stranger. The truth, as far as anyone can reasonably determine, is that in September 1816, a ship, bound from the West Indies, docked at the Alexandria wharves. A young couple disembarked, the woman very ill, probably with typhoid or yellow fever. They took a room at Gadsby’s Tavern. A physician was called as well as a pair of nurses. The husband requested the doctor and nurses, as well as the inn-keeper’s wife, swear an oath never to reveal the couple’s name. Tragically, the young woman, declining all the while, died in her husband’s arms in October. She was (some say, secretly) buried in St. Paul’s Cemetery under a headstone with the name “Female Stranger”. The young man disappeared and the doctor and nurses kept their vows, never revealing the names. End of the facts as written—the mystery now becomes legend.
Depending on who is telling or writing the story, things take off from there. Speculation on the couple’s identity ranges from the daughter of Aaron Burr, to the disgraceful outcome of a love triangle ending in a fatal duel and furtive flight. Some stories have the young man dying in prison while others have him moving up the Potomac and becoming a recluse, overcome by grief, and living in a lonely ramshackle cabin by the river’ edge. He journeyed regularly down river to Alexandria to visit his beloved’s grave. Since nothing was known about him, locals took to calling him “John of the Cabin” or simply “Cabin John”. The name lingers today in a small community on the Maryland side of the river.
Another version of the story, told in Gadsby’s Tavern, concerns a beautiful young woman, who, dressed in the style of the early 19th century, frequented formal dances held in the ballroom on the second floor. The ballroom was down the hall from the room taken by the unknown couple years earlier. She never spoke or danced with any would-be suitors, and always slipped away before the festivities ended. One evening during the Civil War, a smitten young Union officer followed her as she left the ball, hoping to strike up a conversation with this mysterious beauty. Upon entering the room down the hall, he found it empty, with a lamp lit in the corner. He notified the manager of an unattended flame and the two went back to the room. When they got there, the room was dark and the candle wick in the lamp was unblackened—it had never been lit. As the puzzled young officer was leaving the room, he touched the glass globe of the unlit lamp. And burned his fingers.
As a student of the paranormal once said: If you believe, no explanation is necessary; if you don’t, no explanation is possible.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Interglacial
It’s official, we’re number one—the D.C. area has broken the record for snowfall set in the winter of 1899. Hooray. We topped the charts at 55.6 inches of the stuff. This may seem trivial to someone from oh, say, Buffalo where they probably get this much in August, but then we don’t have the experience or the equipment to deal with a snowpocalypse of these proportions. Drinks on the house. Little kids, when they are old and creaky, will tell their grandchildren “I remember back during the winter of aught 10. You couldn’t see above the snow and we had to walk to school in the blizzard. Up hill. Both ways. And the snow was flying, the wind was blowing, the wolves were howling and the volcano was erupting to boot.” Sure grandma. Maybe some future president has noted the ungodly amounts of snow in his or her journal just like Washington and Jefferson did back in the terrible winter of 1722.
Here in Northern Virginia, we get ready for a big snow by emptying the stores. Bread, milk, and toilet paper are the first to go. My daughter and I thought we would be clever and went to the supermarket two days before the onslaught of the first big storm back in early February. Ha! Shelves were already empty and we waited to check out for an hour and a half. The line actually did move, people were friendly, and we spent the time playing word games involving the contents of our cart.
Come the snow, and I was getting cabin fever at inch two. I took walks with the dog, spent time on line, worked on projects as the snow began piling deeper throughout the weekend. When it was over and the familiar sound of shovels on pavement began to ring through the neighborhood, I went out and cleared the sidewalk and driveway. Not too bad a job, thank god for ibuprofen. When the next set hit, it was more of the same, except this time it took longer and longer to make any headway. It wasn’t so much shoveling as it was trenching—I felt like a World War I doughboy. My neighborhood now looks like trench warfare has broken out.
Cars in their driveways sit in snow revetments, waiting on the barrage.
Uncleared cars are humps in the snow covered landscape, looking for all the world like igloos with sideview mirrors. Snow plows leave several feet of snow in their wake, which needs to be moved before it turns to ice.
I dig down to the lower layers of where I think the sidewalk went and flashes of blue spark and glimmer. This is the color of glacier ice. It is also an early symptom of snow blindness where enough UV hits your retinas to cause sunburn. The worst part is when the retinas peel just like the skin on your arms at the beach. I’m told it feels like sand in your eyes. Antarctic explorers don’t wear sunglasses to look cool.
My bird feeders, filled just before the blizzard, are doing a land office business. The smaller birds have been supplanted by the big boys—starlings, blue jays, and the occasional woodpecker, all feeding on sunflower seed and suet. The little guys have to make do.
Snow is patient—this is how ice ages start. Pile it up high enough and it will last through the summer, to form a base for the next winter’s offerings. Keep it up long enough and the bottom layers compress to ice. Or you could just run a car over it a few times. Some of this stuff will still be here in June, remembering the glory days of the Pleistocene, which in geological terms, was only a few hours ago. Keep in mind—even with all the fuss about global warming, we are in what geologist call an “interglacial period”—the ice will be back. I think my driveway will be the tipping point causing the next advance of ice.
Here in Northern Virginia, we get ready for a big snow by emptying the stores. Bread, milk, and toilet paper are the first to go. My daughter and I thought we would be clever and went to the supermarket two days before the onslaught of the first big storm back in early February. Ha! Shelves were already empty and we waited to check out for an hour and a half. The line actually did move, people were friendly, and we spent the time playing word games involving the contents of our cart.
Come the snow, and I was getting cabin fever at inch two. I took walks with the dog, spent time on line, worked on projects as the snow began piling deeper throughout the weekend. When it was over and the familiar sound of shovels on pavement began to ring through the neighborhood, I went out and cleared the sidewalk and driveway. Not too bad a job, thank god for ibuprofen. When the next set hit, it was more of the same, except this time it took longer and longer to make any headway. It wasn’t so much shoveling as it was trenching—I felt like a World War I doughboy. My neighborhood now looks like trench warfare has broken out.
Cars in their driveways sit in snow revetments, waiting on the barrage.
Uncleared cars are humps in the snow covered landscape, looking for all the world like igloos with sideview mirrors. Snow plows leave several feet of snow in their wake, which needs to be moved before it turns to ice.
I dig down to the lower layers of where I think the sidewalk went and flashes of blue spark and glimmer. This is the color of glacier ice. It is also an early symptom of snow blindness where enough UV hits your retinas to cause sunburn. The worst part is when the retinas peel just like the skin on your arms at the beach. I’m told it feels like sand in your eyes. Antarctic explorers don’t wear sunglasses to look cool.
My bird feeders, filled just before the blizzard, are doing a land office business. The smaller birds have been supplanted by the big boys—starlings, blue jays, and the occasional woodpecker, all feeding on sunflower seed and suet. The little guys have to make do.
Snow is patient—this is how ice ages start. Pile it up high enough and it will last through the summer, to form a base for the next winter’s offerings. Keep it up long enough and the bottom layers compress to ice. Or you could just run a car over it a few times. Some of this stuff will still be here in June, remembering the glory days of the Pleistocene, which in geological terms, was only a few hours ago. Keep in mind—even with all the fuss about global warming, we are in what geologist call an “interglacial period”—the ice will be back. I think my driveway will be the tipping point causing the next advance of ice.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Payback
Sometime during the night a deer died in the marsh. By morning, only the rib cage remained above the surface in the shallows. A flock of crows were sitting in attendance and picking scraps from the bones, somber black feathers appropriate to the wake.
If you had to pick an all-purpose bird, it would be a crow. Feeding on anything more or less biodegradable, the American crow lives anywhere from the edges of the high Arctic to the edge of the South American rainforest. Social birds, crows form huge winter roosts which act much the same as singles’ bars where unattached birds pair up, usually for life. The young from the previous year stay around the nest, helping the parents raise the new brood, and acting as babysitters and gaining experience. Crows flap their wings fairly slowly, seemingly rowing their way across the sky. Highly maneuverable, crows will stay just out of harm’s way when harassing large hawks, seemingly just for the sport. The hawk eventually tires of being bullied and flies off to another, quieter perch. At least until a crow finds it.
Crows meet their match, however, in the ring-billed gull. Medium-size, for gulls, ring-bills are true masters of their medium. They can soar like vultures on their narrow wings and dive on fish and other prey like hawks, loosing airspeed by flipping over in midair, spilling wind from their wings. Gulls are consummate scavengers and thieves, living their wits and going by the motto: “You find it; I’ll help you eat it.”
Woes betide any crow that has picked a tasty morsel from the aforementioned deer carcass and attempts to fly off in hopes of a snack. Gulls are on it in a screaming, milling mob. In a few seconds, the mob reduces to one or two gulls, shadowing the crow’s every move. What follows can best be described as a mixture of aerial ballet and back-alley mugging.
The crow swoops low to the water, eliminating attack from below. The gull puts on a burst of speed, bringing it to within reach of the crow’s tail feathers which get yanked.
The crow veers left and right, with the gull mirroring every move in hot pursuit. The crow climbs to escape but the gull is better at it and follows at a closing angle. The exhausted crow finally drops the morsel the gull casually snags it out the air and leaves the scene followed in turn by a new set of pursuers.
The gull climbs steeply, does a wing-over to allow most of the flock to pass it, and drops the tidbit. The morsel, by this time just a toy, is passed in midair from gull to gull, until somebody finally eats it. You can almost hear the gull say to the poor crow, “That’s how you do it, Jack.”
The flock settles to the surface until another hapless crow launches into the air with a bit of venison in its beak. You get the feeling the gulls chase crows to distraction because they can and are having a grand old time doing it.
If you had to pick an all-purpose bird, it would be a crow. Feeding on anything more or less biodegradable, the American crow lives anywhere from the edges of the high Arctic to the edge of the South American rainforest. Social birds, crows form huge winter roosts which act much the same as singles’ bars where unattached birds pair up, usually for life. The young from the previous year stay around the nest, helping the parents raise the new brood, and acting as babysitters and gaining experience. Crows flap their wings fairly slowly, seemingly rowing their way across the sky. Highly maneuverable, crows will stay just out of harm’s way when harassing large hawks, seemingly just for the sport. The hawk eventually tires of being bullied and flies off to another, quieter perch. At least until a crow finds it.
Crows meet their match, however, in the ring-billed gull. Medium-size, for gulls, ring-bills are true masters of their medium. They can soar like vultures on their narrow wings and dive on fish and other prey like hawks, loosing airspeed by flipping over in midair, spilling wind from their wings. Gulls are consummate scavengers and thieves, living their wits and going by the motto: “You find it; I’ll help you eat it.”
Woes betide any crow that has picked a tasty morsel from the aforementioned deer carcass and attempts to fly off in hopes of a snack. Gulls are on it in a screaming, milling mob. In a few seconds, the mob reduces to one or two gulls, shadowing the crow’s every move. What follows can best be described as a mixture of aerial ballet and back-alley mugging.
The crow swoops low to the water, eliminating attack from below. The gull puts on a burst of speed, bringing it to within reach of the crow’s tail feathers which get yanked.
The crow veers left and right, with the gull mirroring every move in hot pursuit. The crow climbs to escape but the gull is better at it and follows at a closing angle. The exhausted crow finally drops the morsel the gull casually snags it out the air and leaves the scene followed in turn by a new set of pursuers.
The gull climbs steeply, does a wing-over to allow most of the flock to pass it, and drops the tidbit. The morsel, by this time just a toy, is passed in midair from gull to gull, until somebody finally eats it. You can almost hear the gull say to the poor crow, “That’s how you do it, Jack.”
The flock settles to the surface until another hapless crow launches into the air with a bit of venison in its beak. You get the feeling the gulls chase crows to distraction because they can and are having a grand old time doing it.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Winter Hawks
Winter has settled in with snow and a week’s worth of below freezing temperatures. The marsh is pretty well locked in ice. The ducks have deserted, moving to the nearby Potomac where the current keeps the water flowing. A flock of ring-billed gulls crowd the only patch of open water, a few crows and a single family of geese hovering on the ice at the edges. A lone snipe circles the marsh, looking for unfrozen mud to forage for small invertebrates
Sparrows work the fast land, gleaning seeds and bits of whatever they can find. Song and white-throated sparrows scratch at the dead leaf cover like tiny barnyard fowl while swamp sparrows, true winter residents, flit through the brown and brittle cattail stalks. A downy woodpecker works its way up a cattail, looking for telltale holes made by larval insects now chilled and sleeping in the heart of the dead brown cane.
Hawks are out today, cold weather seems to their liking. One of the resident red-shouldered pair perches on a dead limb, surveying the frozen marsh, watching for any flicker of movement that might betray a mouse or vole. Motionless as a museum specimen, it follows my movement in its direction, flying off before I get within decent camera range.
Farther in the woods, I flush an adult female red-tail hawk from the ground. She lumbers into the low branches, the furry bundle of a former squirrel clenched in a talon. She perches and finishes her lunch, feathers gleaming and copper tail tucked. Red-tails are the utility infielders of the hawk clan—big enough to take anything from mice to rabbits, and fast and agile enough to get by. They are at home everywhere from the Arctic to Tierra del Fuego. One of the things I like about red-tails is that when you are close enough to really look at them, they always look back, yellow eyes bright as gold doubloons. Prey animals don’t seem to notice you—when they know they have been seen, they glance about in all directions doubtlessly calculating escape trajectories and factoring in all the variables. Predators like red-tails tend to look you in the eye in recognition of a fellow apex predator—top of the food chain, Ma. Then they go about their business, which in this case was polishing off lunch.
The red-tail female’s crop bulges and she casually flies off, leaving the skin of her prey draped over the branch. If she were truly hungry, she would leave nothing. Her round crop and the leftovers tell me she is “fed up” and looking for a quiet place for digestion and contemplation.
Near the parking lot, yet another hawk perches on a low oak branch close to the trunk. This one is an immature Cooper’s hawk as evidenced by the red irises (adults have yellow eyes). Coopers hawks used to be fairly rare this far south but have discovered bird feeders and will hang about all winter, picking off the unwary, the slow, or the just plain unlucky. Populations have blossomed to where every neighborhood has a Coop or two in residence.
The wind gusts through the trees, branches rattle, no human sounds are in evidence. I could be walking through a forest on the edge of the tundra thousands of years ago where glaciers loom in the distance and the ancient rhythms pulse.
Sparrows work the fast land, gleaning seeds and bits of whatever they can find. Song and white-throated sparrows scratch at the dead leaf cover like tiny barnyard fowl while swamp sparrows, true winter residents, flit through the brown and brittle cattail stalks. A downy woodpecker works its way up a cattail, looking for telltale holes made by larval insects now chilled and sleeping in the heart of the dead brown cane.
Hawks are out today, cold weather seems to their liking. One of the resident red-shouldered pair perches on a dead limb, surveying the frozen marsh, watching for any flicker of movement that might betray a mouse or vole. Motionless as a museum specimen, it follows my movement in its direction, flying off before I get within decent camera range.
Farther in the woods, I flush an adult female red-tail hawk from the ground. She lumbers into the low branches, the furry bundle of a former squirrel clenched in a talon. She perches and finishes her lunch, feathers gleaming and copper tail tucked. Red-tails are the utility infielders of the hawk clan—big enough to take anything from mice to rabbits, and fast and agile enough to get by. They are at home everywhere from the Arctic to Tierra del Fuego. One of the things I like about red-tails is that when you are close enough to really look at them, they always look back, yellow eyes bright as gold doubloons. Prey animals don’t seem to notice you—when they know they have been seen, they glance about in all directions doubtlessly calculating escape trajectories and factoring in all the variables. Predators like red-tails tend to look you in the eye in recognition of a fellow apex predator—top of the food chain, Ma. Then they go about their business, which in this case was polishing off lunch.
The red-tail female’s crop bulges and she casually flies off, leaving the skin of her prey draped over the branch. If she were truly hungry, she would leave nothing. Her round crop and the leftovers tell me she is “fed up” and looking for a quiet place for digestion and contemplation.
Near the parking lot, yet another hawk perches on a low oak branch close to the trunk. This one is an immature Cooper’s hawk as evidenced by the red irises (adults have yellow eyes). Coopers hawks used to be fairly rare this far south but have discovered bird feeders and will hang about all winter, picking off the unwary, the slow, or the just plain unlucky. Populations have blossomed to where every neighborhood has a Coop or two in residence.
The wind gusts through the trees, branches rattle, no human sounds are in evidence. I could be walking through a forest on the edge of the tundra thousands of years ago where glaciers loom in the distance and the ancient rhythms pulse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)