A Lot of Stuff About Me and Cranes in Florida

A family of four cranes were just beginning to break up old family ties so that the parents could start a new brood. There was much hopping and flapping and "WaahaaAA AAA aaaa" evident and then the four of them would continue their progress westward down the street. We now have a lone female who visits for lunch when no one else is on property. I feel a little sorry for her, but not as sorry as I used to feel for the lone teenage boy crane who used to follow me about the yard as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

I still can't get the squirrels to trust me enough for me to feed them--but there are plenty who regularly shake down passing couples for treats as they walk by them at the lake. Absolutely enchanting. Small fuzzy, photographable creatures whom I neither need to groom, take to the vet, and/or in any way clean up after.
Love the way that the birds can reach so far being themselves to make sure that everything is in order.

A close-up of the sand crane's face. In it I see determined, clear eye below his scarlet, burpletted crown all the way down through his 6 foot wing span, and two leathery legs each ending in 3 knobby toes. This imperious face becomes very intimidating when the animal decides to fly at you--letting you know that he is in charge. The only answer for such a display is to hop up and down while "AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"-ing and flapping your arms. Especially if you are recognized as one of those whose presence signals the appearance of food, the bird quickly backs off. When we first arrived here in Florida, Brent was counseled by someone at work against feeding the cranes. His wife had gotten in the habit. All went well until she and her husband went on a short vacation and had the grandmother in to babysit. The poor woman was vociferously greeted one morning when she tried to exit the house. The cranes were used to food from the occupant of the house and they followed her ("chased" was the word originally used) and attacked. The cranes were even so bold as to peck at the screened porch door--the grandmother was overwhelmed, helpless against such a sudden and unfamiliar "attack."

Brent warned me and I complied for the first year or two that we were here. After seeing the cranes peacefully waundering about the neighborhood for that time, I decided that I could put some seed out at the end of the driveway. I did have a challenge to my authority once--about 6 months after a pair had made our house one of the regular stops on their daily rounds. That day, the seed was in an area between me and one of the cars parked in the drive way. I walked toward the car--intending to get in and drive away. I suppose that it might have been right before these two birds had mated and begun to hatch their egg/s that season, but--whatever the reason--as I approached the car, the larger of the two birds cried an alarm and hopped into the air, spreading and beating his wings to afford him the largest possible aspect. Nonplussed, I jumped up and screamed an answering bellow, flapping my arms as the bird was doing. He immediately stopped. He settled back down and watched me as I passed by him--just a foot or so away from him as I walked. He took a few steps backward and then, as soon as I was in my car, returned again to eating.

I also had a hard time with another crane. I was planting some flowers in my front yard, across the driveway from where three birds were eating. By this time we were all accustomed to each others' presence and my activities elicited no response from the birds as I began to dig holes and plant my flowers. These were tiny vinca--not much bigger than the palm of my hand. As I worked, the smallest of the three cautiously approached me. The baby (I'm assuming.) watched as I dug and puttered with the flowers. Then, coming to stand just opposite me, it reached down and pulled up the flower that I'd just planted--tossing it into the air and then digging into the newly re-created hole (I suspect following the example of the parents who also poke about in the grass, digging for grubs and worms.). I was not amused. I went and got the plant and returned it to the hole, tamping it down firmly with my hands. The crane approached me again and, again, plucked the flower from its place and tossing it out of the way.

At this point, I had had enough. I walked toward the bird, shooing it away from my plants and towards it parents--still calmly eating on the other side of the driveway. It tried to walk around me, but having had many years of herding children into the car on Sunday mornings, I easily intercepted it and it backed slowly away from me. Thinking that I had made my point, I turned back to finish planting. Not more than a moment later, the crane was back and trying to pull out that same vinca. At this point, I enacted the screaming-hopping-flapping I had learned earlier. The chick got the message and retreated back towards its parents.

It did not come near me again, but the next day I found that one of the flowers I had planted in a different part of the front had been yard snatched from its hole--and the original hole greatly enlarged. I found the poor thing, wildering beside a bush about a yard away from its original place and replanted it. No harm--no foul.

It is weird that if all the photographs that I have taken during our five years in this Florida home, in the last year, about half have been of the cranes that visit--as they come, go, court, follow, and lead each other within the confines of our acre of yard. The other half are of Florida flowers, plants, insects, animals and reptiles. Meg and La are far away doing their own things in their own families. Nathan is grown about as much as he's going to grow and, since I know his habits and routines, not really all that enthralling a subject to follow about with my camera.

It had to happen, though. I have finally have begun to find things other than my children to fill my "nest". Though I talk to Megan (hearing Jon in the background "KA! KA!") and Lauren (hearing her lovebird Mango screeching for attention in the background) at least three or four times a week, those few minutes are far from enough to keep my day full. So, I fill a bit of it with photographing the place where I live and the plants that I grow and the creatures that I am able to watch. Not so much an empty nest--just one filled with other eggs.

This is one of my favorite pictures of Lauren and Adam when they were just engaged. It was in February, in Utah, in the backyard of the home that Adam shared with some other young men (and a cat named Skeet). The light was weird enough that none of the shots came out that day. Now, however, with the magic of Photoshop, I have been able to compensate for my ignorance as a photographer and the unsteady light of the late afternoon . . . voila! In 2010, I finally have a good image of them back in 2006.

This is a picture of Roo in her "baggy" position. It reminds me of the illustrations in Peter Rabbit when he is looking for a way out of Mr. McGregor's garden.

The Business End

Yesterday something wonderful happened. I was driving along with Nathan and as we pulled into a parking lot, I noticed that an anhinga was waddling into the middle of traffic. Now, anhinga are not known for their flying prowess since they swim underwater to catch the fish they eat—then they have to stand on the edge of the canal or lake or whatever and face the sun with their wings outspread to dry off their feathers. This bird, however, was completely dry and was stumbling unsteadily into the street—a busy street with four lanes of traffic.
Now, there are many birds in Florida that prefer to walk rather than fly. We have several sandhill cranes that regularly visit our property to share the bird seed that I put out to attract cardinals, jays, and doves to come close enough so that I can photograph them. These stately cranes (they average 4 to 4½ feet tall and have feathers patterned across their broad backs that give them the appearance of wearing grey tuxedo tails) often block traffic in our neighborhood as they slowly proceed down the middle of the streets—with the deliberate, stately attitude of royalty surveying their domain. If they had hands, they would be doing the “Queen Elizabeth parade wave” as they progressed down the middle of the roadway. Herons are another bird that often waunder up and down the edges of the canals running through our neighborhood, looking for small frogs and lizards. Most entertaining of all are the groups of ibis that flock about our lawns in crazy-quilt patterns, probing for who-knows-what-tidbits-live-just-under-the-surface-of-the-grass by bobbing their heads up and down, poking the ends of their beaks into the ground—looking exactly like small, rounded sewing machines. I don’t recall seeing many ibis fly either.
But, back the anhinga, who by now was half-way across the busy street, waddling in a crooked path across the turning lane. I, of course, was now just half a pace behind the bird. My intention was to get it going fast enough that it would take off flying—a reassuring sign that it was healthy enough to take care of itself. The oncoming lanes of traffic slowed as they saw us quick-stepping across the last two lanes of the street. I finally decided to catch the bird and take him to the nearby wildlife refuge (where Nate and I had often volunteered) so that they could see if something could be done to help.
At this point, I was suddenly, and acutely, aware that this bird had an extra-ordinarily large wing span—one that seemed to be at least equal to my five-foot-two-inch height when its wings were fully extended. I also noted that the long, graceful neck ended in a very sharp, four inch beak. I noticed both of these details as I bent down and scooped the bird up into my arms. One wing escaped my grasp at the same moment that the bird turned the business-end of its beak toward me—wide open—and attempted to impale my face. (I find it odd, in retrospect, that I remember that at that moment I noticed that the throat was a pale, pearl pink with a sliver of long, pointed, pale yellow tongue attached at the back—fascinating.)
This is far from the first animal that I’ve seen, limping along where it wouldn’t normally want to be, and collected to bring home to nurture back to health. And when I have done so, I have always had the confidence that I am much bigger than the animal—and much stronger (at least at that moment). I have noticed, though, that without exception, this self-confidence does not prevent the animal from expressing its dissatisfaction at being brought into so close a proximity with a human being. This anhinga was no different.
I dodged the beak and tucked the errant wing under my arm, taking loose hold of its head, just behind the narrow scull and pale blue, lid-less eyes. (Actually, anhinga do have lids, but they only have a clear covering that protects their eyes while they are underwater—so all the while I was hold it, I got the feeling that the bird was staring me down.) Walking as quickly as I could—this time looking out for traffic—got back to the car, banged on the door with my knee, and startled Nathan who was playing his Nintendo DX and hadn’t even noticed that I had stopped the car and gotten out. He immediately opened the door and let me in and went around to the driver’s side. He is just as amazed by wild animals as I am, and stroked its wing softly. The bird responded by turning its head toward him, opening its beak wide, and trying to stab him. Weak as the bird was, it still had definite feelings about those who invaded its personal space.
We got the refuge, walked with the bird to the infirmary, and handed it over to the vet—apparently a new hire who hadn’t handled an anhinga before. She took it from me awkwardly and headed back to the “sick room” area. I filled out the paperwork and we left.
It wasn’t much of an adventure compared to scrambling up and over the boulders and down into the crevices of the Utah mountains (which we’d just done with Brent’s brother the week before) or as physically challenging as scaling the walls at one of the nation’s premier indoor climbing facilities (which we’d also just done the week before with my daughter and her husband)—but it was an exceptional experience. It was something that I’ll probably never repeat exactly again in my life. I will remember it for a long time.
Yesterday was a good day.

One of the latest crane couples to meet me in the driveway each morning for breakfast. His feathers are still wet from a morning downpour. It will always be amazing to me that I can walk out of my front door and have birds like this one follow me around. Over the weekend, I was at a meeting where we were asked to introduce ourselves. One couple told us their names and then added that their favorite place to vacation was where they lived: Florida. I very much agree.

We also have a lone teenager who comes around in the afternoons now. He looks so lonely I will sometimes just walk around the front gardens while he eats, so he'll have some company. There is also a lone ibis--still dark feathers from his baby days--who meanders about the neighborhood all by himself. It's too bad that they can't keep each other company until they find a group to fit into.