My Matchday - 257 The Den

Millwall 2v3 Hearts

Neil Harris Testimonial

Saturday 31st July 2010

£9 each way! No! that isn’t the amount I’ve staked on Newcastle to finish in the top three this season,(I’m not that daft!) it’s the special offer I received from East Coast Trains way back in May to travel anywhere on the east line at this bargain price.
I took advantage of this cheap deal with another journey down to that London and a visit to The New Den, home to the club with the country’s most notorious supporters, who everyone it seems doesn’t like, but apparently they don’t care.

Millwall originated from a group of workers from J.T Morton’s Jam Factory on the Isle of Dogs, who formed Millwall Rovers in 1885. The Aberdeen based firm had opened their first English processing plant back in 1870. The majority of the workforce were Dockers from the East Coast of Scotland, so the club adopted the traditional Scotland colours of dark blue and white as the team kit.
The club became Millwall Athletic playing at several grounds during the club’s first 25 years, beginning on Glengall Road, then a year later played on a field behind the Lord Nelson pub up until 1890 when they moved further along East Ferry Road opposite Millwall Docks. The ground became one of the best in London as the club turned professional and founder members of the Southern League.
In 1901 they were forced into another move to an old potato field in North Greenwich where they played for the next nine years until they made the unpopular decision to move off the island and south of the river to Bermondsey.

The Den on Cold Blow Lane was the home of The Lions for 83 years. The ground was surrounded by railway lines, back lanes, hidden amongst a residential area and shielded by the New Cross hospital.
The ground was well named as it was the Lions Den and home to the Millwall Roar. Unfortunately (or maybe not) I never visited the old Den, as it wasn’t the most pleasant of matchday experiences for visiting spectators and players alike, which was poetically summed up by Gary Lineker:
“I remember running on to the pitch at The Den when I was a youngster with Leicester in the 5th round of the FA Cup. The place resembled a huge trap, and the venom that hit us from the Millwall fans was unbelievable. I remember thinking to myself, maybe it would be a good idea not to score at this place!"

There were initial plans to completely rebuilt the Den into an all seated stadium, but this was abandoned in favour of a new spacious site only a quarter of a mile away.
Build on Senegal fields in Bermondsey, South London at a cost of £16 million, The New Den was the first all seated stadium to be built after the Taylor Report and the first new football stadium constructed in London for a professional club since 1937.
The ground opened on 4th August 1993, Sporting Lisbon providing the opposition in front of 17,887 spectators.
The stadium is made up of four separate stands equal in size with open corners, apart from the north-east corner where there’s a large video screen. The stands reflect each other with two tiers of blue seats with the Cold Blow End behind the goal differs slightly with THE DEN picked out in yellow seats.
The capacity stands at 20,146, the record gate came against Arsenal for a 3rd Round FA Cup tie in January 1994, just short of a full house at 20,093. In football terms the word “legend” is brandished about far too often. For example if an average player scores the winner in a big local derby he’s then lavished with legendary status, even if the player hadn’t produce sweet Fanny Adams in the rest of his one hundred plus games.
There’s no doubting the credentials of Millwall striker Neil Harris as a Lions legend.
Born in Orsett in Essex in 1977, he began his career at Maldon Town before signing for Millwall from Cambridge City for £30,000 in March 1998. In his first spell with the club in just over 200 appearances he scored a total of 98 goals. He also finished as the country’s top scorer, winning the Golden Boot, scoring 28 times in Millwall’s 2000-01 Division 2 Championship winning season.
After a loan spell at Cardiff City he signed for Nottingham Forest in December 2004, leaving the Lions as their all time League scorer with 93 goals, a record he shared with Teddy Sheringham.
His time at the City Ground was an unproductive one, scoring only once in 33 League games which resulted him being farmed out to Gillingham on loan during the 2005-06 season.
After being released by Forest in January 2007, Harris re-signed with Millwall on an 18 month contract, on his signing he stated, "There is something special about this club, it brings out the best in me as a player and a person. It feels like home, it always has done. I can't wait to get started."
In his second appearance he made club history by scoring in a 4-0 win over Rotherham to become the clubs outright record league scorer, then in January 2009 he became all time goal scoring record with his 112th club goal during the 3-2 away win against Crewe Alexandra.
Neil again played a valuable part in last seasons promotion campaign notching another 18 goals. His current goal tally stands at 135 in 400 appearances going into the new Championship season.
But it’s not just on the football field which makes Neil such a legend. He was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 2001, but after receiving surgery and intensive radiotherapy treatment he was given the all clear the following year and returned to football.
As a consequence he set up a cancer charity - The Neil Harris Everyman Appeal in conjunction with the club and the Institute of Cancer Research to help raise money for medical studies and to raise awareness into a disease which has risen by 70% in the last 20 years and continues to increase.

Heart of Midlothian provided the opposition for Neil’s big day, which was my third Anglo-Scottish clash in the five games I’ve attended so far this season.
The last time I saw Millwall in action was near the end of last season in their away win at Colchester, when I boldly predicted that they’d be a Championship club when I came to The Den this season.
The SPL side clinched victory thanks to two perfect free kicks from Craig Thomson. Eggert Jonsson gave the visitors the lead from the spot on 15 minutes after a Robinson trip on Wallace, but the shine was taking off their performance as Hearts Algerian defender Ismael Bouzil was stretchered from the field with a suspected fractured skull.
Millwall hit back with two powerful headers from Liam Trotter each side of half time until Thomson stepped up from 25 yards, his first effort curled over the wall, then he hit the winner with a blistering shot.
An entertaining afternoon was capped off with when Neil Harris was substituted with minutes remaining to allow the crowd to show their appreciation to the Lions record scorer.

If your not a fan of the club then when is the best time to visit Millwall? Is there actually a good time to visit The Den? Other football fans I’ve spoken to say NO there isn’t, but surely this game presented the ideal occasion to tick this ground off.
I arrived at Kings Cross early after catching the 0600 from Newcastle. I wanted to spend a bit quality time in the capital as my last few trips have been fleeting visits.
My morning was spent browsing in record stores (Where’s Rough Trade gone?…Eddy) and visiting various Wetherspoons pubs, my particular favourite being ‘The Moon Under Water’ in Leicester Square.
Working behind the bar in one of those pubs was probably the gayest man I’ve ever clapped eyes on in my life. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m homophobic or anything, it’s just this guy took minceness to the extreme, he made Louie Spence look like Chuck Norris!
I headed down to London Bridge at around 1pm calling at the GBG listed ‘Barrow Boy and Banker’ before taking the short train journey to South Bermondsey.
I bought a ticket for the game in advance for the East Stand, thinking this would be the quietest part of the ground, well it was up until 5 minutes before kick off, when I was surrounded by windee-up-merchants who prefer to get close to the away supporters to give them some stick, although the best they could come up with was Ing-err-lind and constantly repeating that “Ey-yor” chant.
Afterwards I met up with my old mucker Decka T for a couple of pints in Kings Cross. This time he didn’t lead me astray like when I came down for the Brentford game, as I chose the pub in advance, meeting in the Lincoln Lounge on York Way which is a short walk from the station.
Overall I had a great day in London and I can safely say I enjoyed visiting The Den. ‘The bread knife’ has giving me great encouragement in my football ground pursuits but she’s always said that with their notorious reputation, would draw the line at Millwall. Over the last few weeks I’ve been waiting for her to ask which match I was going to, but for the first time ever she didn‘t, so I headed off on Saturday morning with her knowledge being I was going to London, meeting Decka and would be home for half ten. So when did my beautiful wife find out about my little misdemeanour? Sunday 1st August at 1247pm when this article (which you have just read) appeared on the internet.

Matchday stats

MFC 2(Trotter 44,55)HoMFC (Johnsson 15pen Thomson 71,88)

att.8,376

admission £12

programme £5

Ground no.257 The Den - Matchday Web album (26 pictures)

Playing with the Canon G-11

Well, I was having such fun exploring the macro capabilities of my new camera, the Canon G-11, it was hard to get off the porch. I've lost track of which of these photos are whose. Probably most are Phoebe's.
A Gerbera daisy. Woweee.

More gladiola naughty bits.

A fabulous painted rose from a birthday bouquet from our friends at Lakeside. Those guys do it up right.

A 20x zoom got me up close to a very cool stained glass window on The Owl House. Dunno why it's called that, other than the owls all over it. Bet Susan would like to install a window like this! I like that he looks so cranked off.
Macro and wide angle both. Here's a whole house.

And here's my little family, everyone in focus. Heck, the whole scene's in focus!

I've asked Phoebe when she becomes a supermodel, just to send the money home. And not to take it seriously; just do the shoots and send the money home and save some for your education.

Gawrsh, Bill's on the iPhone. Whaddya know.

More Bacon Bits, these by Phoebe:

overlong toedynails, I know, I know. I'm going to clip them this week. It's just our favorite thing to do. Can't you tell?

And a pebbly rough jellybean nose. If you're seduced by these photos, click for a product description of the Canon G-11.

If you decide to buy the camera, I'd be much obliged if you use this link to do it. It gets you to B & H Photo's page, where you'll find the lowest price and best service for your purchase.

A psychedelic paisley fishy in a sushi restaurant (not, fortunately, slated for the platter.) Hot news flash: now identified as a mandarin goby (really a dragonet) Synchiropus splendidus, by Myamuhnative and Tai haku. Thanks, folks! It's native to the Indo-Pacific Ocean.

Like many gorgeous ocean reef fish, the mandarin dragonet is heavily collected, heavily traded, and has lousy survivorship in captivity. It takes a specialized diet of copepods and often starves to death in captivity. Sigh. One more reason I could never keep a saltwater tank--too many sadnesses in the getting. Good luck, little dragonet. Looks like you're at the end of your biological road, in a sushi restaurant somewhere in Ohio.

And a couple of happy little monkeys.

Every once in awhile you meet a dog you could just scoop up and take home, no questions asked. Nugget is such a dog. A ChiWeenie (chihuahua x dachshund), saved from a pound when he could fit in your palm. A rare dog, cuddler supreme, with a terrific sense of humor and a coat like satin. He smelled like sunshine, like someone else I know.

Having grown up with a beloved but dour little dachshund, I think Nugget's sense of humor and joie d'vivre comes entirely from the chihuahua side. I highly recommend the combination!


He is thoroughly doted on by our wonderful friends Beth and Kevin. As he should be. One of the luckiest little dogs I've ever met. From the pound to the lap of love. It was so great to hang with them, such lovely people. They understand about dogs, and why we need them around. They also completely understood why The Bacon had to accompany us for our week at Lakeside. Thanks to Wendy for finding us a place that would waive the "no pets" rule.

It was a good thing Chet Baker was waiting for me back at our cottage. Kevin and Beth would have had a prime suspect in Nugget's sudden disappearance otherwise.

In other news, Ohio Wildlife Center just called with news on Dee Dee the big brown bat. Remember HER?!? Well, she's still in rehab, having refused to fly or flown only weakly until just a couple of weeks ago. But now she's flying well and will be transferred to a flight cage tonight. Then she's got three weeks of conditioning before she can be released.

They've got her rations cut to 10 mealworms/day but she's still 23 grams--way heavy for a big brown bat. Pregnant? Only time will tell! I really hope she's not pregnant, because if she delivers, she'll have to be kept until the baby starts flying. Arrrgh. But she and Darryl were very close, and she was housed with another male bat at OWC until May, and she probably mated last fall too, so all I can say is stay tuned!

I can't tell you how happy this makes me, to think that out of all the bat troubles, Dee Dee might once again flitter across the Marietta skies. Keep your fingers crossed for her.

This is me, getting my dogfix. I need a dogfix about every ten minutes. Pass the ChiWeenie! Hold the mustard!

The New Camera Yahoo's

The first photo I took with my new camera.

We spent last week at Lakeside, Ohio, giving talks for their summer Chautauqua. This thoughtful man brought something nice along with him, as Father Time decreed that I would trudge a little farther into my fifth decade on July 24.

That somethin'-somethin' was a new camera for me. You see, when we visited Yellowstone National Park back in June, I left the park a little souvenir: My Canon Digital Rebel XTi, the faithful workhorse that has been delighting you all for the last four years. We were watching a peregrine and her chicks on a distant cliff, and there were bighorns nursing their lambies, and an Audubon's warbler close by, and I got excited and started pulling out optics and scopes and digiscoping stuff and in the kerfuffle I left my poor Rebel with its wonderful wide-angle lens on a low stone wall. And though we realized it right away and raced back 20 minutes later, that was enough leeway for somebody to steal it. What...a...fleepin'....bummer. Yeah, I reported it immediately at a nearby ranger station, and I reported it to Xanterra, the concessionaire at Yellowstone, but nobody ever turned it in. They took it home instead. Sure hope they liked my larkspur photos, the rat finks. I mean, what kind of creep could download photos of my kids and a bunch of wildflowers and bison and not want to return the camera to its mom? I just can't think about that.

Luckily I still had my newer Canon Digital Rebel XSi with the 70-300 mm. image-stabilized telephoto lens, so we finished out the trip shooting like mad as usual. But oh, I missed having two cameras, one for landscape and one for wildlife. I felt naked without having a camera on each shoulder.

Fortuitously, at that very spot, a semi-pro photographer had excitedly shown us his Canon Powershot G-11, the Cadillac of point-and-shoot cameras. He told us that every National Geographic photographer carries one; every pro working the Olympics has one. They use it for crowd shots, grab shots, everything. It has 10 mpxl with RAW capability; is crazy fast and sharp, and it's a delightful little chunk of metal in your hands. It was clear this guy with his big howitzer lenses was nuts about his little point-and-shoot.

So that's what Bill gave me for my birthday last week, a Canon G-11. And I started hitting that shutter button and every time I put it down Phoebe grabbed it, so we'll take you on the test drive together.

Wide angle. Everything's in focus. Chetty's watching for passing doggehs he can snorf at.

I missed my garden so much I brought it with me. Oh, look. Gladiolus bits.

Oh, and look. Grains of zinnia pollen.

See, I've never had macro capability, much less a camera that figures out when I need macro capability and automatically switches to it. I had the lens practically touching the flower for these shots.

The whole bouquet. Nothing dresses up a sunporch like homegrown glads. There's Chetty's leash, too. Whenever anyone said "walk," he'd dance out and grab it off the table and put it on the offender's knee. Oh, I love a talking dog.

The Canon G-11 has crazy MonkeyCam capability. You can swivel the big, bright LED screen so it faces BACKERDS, and you can point the camera right at yourselfs and see what you're shooting and get fabulous, hugely flattering pictures like this.

Oh, look. Phoebe's contact lens. She took dozens of dreamy self-portraits, as a newly minted teenager will. She turned the LED viewfinder around, stuck the camera in her eye and took a photo. I think she has 16 eyelash mites.


Mether. Take a picture of me, Chet Baker. Here, I will pose for it. And then let's go for another walk. I like walking on the lead here at Lakeside. It makes me feel important, and many nice older people stop and ask if I am one of those Boston Bulls. I like being called a Boston Bull.

I see you are still playing with your new toy. I will give you one more pose. But I hope that you know we could take much more interesting photos outside, if we went for a walk. A WALK. I am sending you a mental picture of us taking a WALK.

I think that if I concentrate hard enough, you will take me for a WALK. Hmm hmm hmm hmm. Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk. Picture of me and you going for a walk. Hm hm.

All right, Chetty. We'll take you and the Canon G-11 for a WALK. Until Thursday, arribaderchy. And happy birthday to me! Thanks, babe. Bitchin' birfday present.

Astute readers (and that means all of you) will notice that there are hotlinks to these products right in the text. Hit a blue link, and it will take you to B&H Photo's product description page for that camera or lens. Decide that you want to buy it right then and there, or come back later and buy it by clicking on my link, and I get a little bitty kickback from B&H. It won't cost you a cent more; in fact, I've done all the research for you and found the fabulous cameras and lenses and the lowest price and best service around. It'll just help buy Baby some shoes.

My Matchday - 256 Raydale Park

Gretna 2008 0v0 Whitby Town
(Whitby won 3-1 on penalties)
Mick Skinner Trophy
Saturday 24th July 2010

Gretna is a town on the Anglo-Scottish border in the district of Dumfries and Galloway. The nearby village of Gretna Green is historically linked to weddings, where loving couples would elope for a “quickie wedding” to take advantage of the more liberal marriage laws in Scotland.
The reason for my trip to this particular corner of Scotland wasn’t to hear wedding bells chime or chew on wedding cake. Gretna was part of my birthday day out on the lash with the lads, which of course must include football as well as beer, so a much delayed visit to Raydale Park formed part of our trip way out west.


Gretna 2008 FC was formed by The Gretna Supporters' Society on 2nd July 2008. The Trust Board originally appointed Anton Hodge as chairman, however from August 2009 the club became managed and fully owned by the members of the board. Craig Williamson became the Society’s chairman with Hodge continuing as Trust Secretary.
The new club were unable to play at Raydale Park, but were allowed to use the Everholm Stadium in nearby Annan, playing their first game against Workington on 12th July 2008.
The club soon gained acceptance into the East of Scotland First Division, winning their first competitive match with a 3-0 away win at Kelso United on 9th August and finished the season in fourth position.

The original Gretna FC were founded in 1946 playing Non-League football south of the border until elected to the Scottish Football League in 2002.
The club benefactor, the late millionaire Brooks Mileson played a prominent part in the club’s meteoric rise as they made Scottish football history by winning three successive promotions to make the SPL in 2007, as well as an appearance in the 2006 Scottish Cup Final.
Raydale Park failed to meet the correct ground criteria for the Scottish Premier League, which meant ‘home’ games had to be played 74 miles away at Motherwell’s Fir Park, their nearest top flight neighbours.
Following Mileson's illness and his withdrawal of financial support, the club were unable to financially support itself which resulted in the club going into administration before finally being declared bankrupt by the summer of 2008.
The last work on Raydale took place in 2006 and promises of further development failed the materialise. The SFL felt the ground wasn’t big enough to host matches against clubs with a large travelling support following their relegation from the SPL.
The ground issue as well as the mounting financial problems resulted in the club’s demotion to Division 3, before finally being forced to resign from the Scottish Football League altogether when failing to find a new financial guarantor.
Gretna FC officially resigned from the SFL on the 3rd June 2008.

The new owners of Raydale Park, Sawtry (IoM) Ltd allowed Gretna 2008 to move back to their spiritual home along the A75 in May 2009. The owners having purchased the land for £300,000 have not revealed their long term plans, so at the moment the ground’s future is still unknown.
After being in the hands of the administrators for almost a year the reopened Raydale Park has seen a few changes. The nearside remains the same, with the changing rooms, old club shop, main turnstile and refreshment bar and main stand. The Eward Stand having around 100 seats predominantly black with red seats at the front including a separate section for press and media.
Behind one goal is The Corrie Stand which has a capacity of approximately 1,000, decked out in green with silver frame and thin supporting pillars.
Apart from a bit of partial cover, the roof on the terrace on the far side has been removed and the Long Stand behind the nearside goal is now gone, now just a lawn area with Gretna FC painted on the back wall.
There’s a plague on the wall declaring ‘Gretna FC extends a warm Scottish welcome to all its visitors’ which the staff at the ground concur with as I found Raydale a friendly ground to visit, with a first-rate social club in the car park.

The match against Whitby Town was for the Mick Skinner Trophy, an annual pre-season event between both clubs going back to Gretna FC’s Northern Premier League days which has been revitalised this season.
If I’m honest the match was a poor affair. Whitby dominated the game possession wise, but had little threat in front of goal. At times Gretna struggled to get out of their own half, their first decent effort on goal didn’t arrive until the 71st minute followed by a first shot on target moments later.
Gretna finished the game strongly but in the end the trophy was decided by a penalty shoot out. Both teams were successful with their opening spot kicks then Whitby’s keeper saved the second before two efforts were knocked past the post, which gave the Yorkshiremen the cup 3-1 on pens.

Whistle Stops is a joint promotion between the Tyne Valley Line Rail Users Group and CAMRA. Using the Northern Rail Newcastle to Carlisle route, you purchase a Hadrian’s Wall Country Line Day Ranger so you can hop on and off the train as many times as you like, allowing you to sample the various pubs along the Tyne Valley line - an ideal scenario for an all day bender!
We, as in myself, Zippy, Jimmy Jimmy and Mr. Pack-a-mac left Newcastle on the 1124. In total we visited 12 pubs in Newcastle, Carlisle, Hexham and Wylam as well as having a few drinks in the Gretna Supporters Club.
My personal favourite and a pub I would highly recommend is The Boathouse in Wylam which is the 2009 CAMRA North East Regional Pub of the Year, which has a huge selection of ales to choose from, a really fantastic pub!
Apart from spending this Birthday Eve getting legless, rushing to catch trains and watching a bit fitba, another highlight was meeting Edward Tudor-Pole from post-punk outfit Tenpole Tudor outside Carlisle station.
Ed was sporting a large unusual hat which made him easy to spot. We had a chat and posed for a few pictures (photos on Friendface)which was truly Wunderbar, although I did have one regret, I realised that I had forgotten to ask him - Who Killed Bambi?
Overall we had a really enjoyable day and we’re already discussing another Tyne Valley rail trip and looking into other Whistle Stop tours. So a special thanks to the lads for making my birthday day on the lash a good’un and a day that'll live long in the memory.

Bevvy Almanac

Matchday stats
G2008 0 WTFC 0

att.139

Admission £4

programme:none

Ground no.256 Raydale Park - Matchday Web album(24 pictures)

Orphaned Birds: To Love or Not to Love?

I got a thoughtfully posed question from a reader named Kathleen on June 22. I started to write my typical three-paragraph reply, then decided to save it for this post. It was that good a question, and it's something that's always in my mind as I work with these birds.



Kathleen wrote: The rehab centre I'm at has a policy of being as hands-off as possible with the animals to prevent socialization to humans, and we do our best to find same-species nestmates or role models, or barring those, at least a mirror to keep babies company. Julie, I've been reading your blog for a long time, and it seems like you take the opposite approach, being very hands-on with the young ones. Do you find that the babies you raise still go right back to being wild once they're on their own? Are they any different from young birds raised the way they are at the centre I'm at?



My answer:

Thanks so much for asking the question, Kathleen, and for asking it so thoughtfully.

I just got back from cuddling two lost wild turkey poults to sleep--they were inconsolable until I held them against my chest. They were cold and distressed, having been without their mother since before dawn, and I sensed that they needed not solitude but warmth, darkness, and a cuddle. So I held them to my chest and their strident peeps turned to purrs. Their eyes closed and they drifted off into a deep sleep, their dear little heads drooping. Two lice crawled up my neck and into my hairline and I dug them out and squished them but kept holding the poults close to my heart. It was like the silence after turning off a smoke alarm, so thick and lovely. Even so, I had spent the entire morning trudging the woods looking for their mother, and at that moment I was waiting for a call back from a breeder so I could place these birds with an heirloom bronze mother turkey. While I waited, I rigged up a heat lamp in the corner of their tank. They need to grow up as turkeys, not as imprinted people-turkeys. I know that much about turkeys. You don't fool around with waterfowl, raptors, or gallinaceous birds, or you're likely to end up with an 18-pound gobbler trying to mate with your knee.

Songbirds are different. I've been raising orphaned songbirds since 1982, and have had quite an array of foundlings successfully find their way back to the wild despite having had loving care from humans to start their lives (or restart them, after losing contact with their natural parents). Birds I have raised have paired with wild birds, raised their own young, and returned to visit in successive years. Cardinal, catbird, cedar waxwing, rose-breasted grosbeak, mourning dove, wood thrush, phoebe...the list goes on. Having been a small-scale rehabber, I have rarely had the good fortune to be able to group young of the same species or place them with conspecifics who will raise them as some larger rehab centers do. So I indulge myself, giving them the same kind of unfettered love I give my children or my domestic pets. I name them and I murmur to them. And when the time comes to release them, I kiss them on their heads and sever our ties very gently, over a period of weeks or even months. Three ruby-throated hummingbirds I raised stayed around the yard for a month and a half after release, coming back for feedings for three days, and after that simply visiting with me. They all migrated on schedule, and all three returned the following spring, resplendent in full ruby gorgets. They still knew their names, but there was no denying that they were full-fledged members of the hummingbird tribe, having flown across the Gulf of Mexico twice and found their way back to my doorstep. I'd call that a successful release.



Having done this for 28 years, I don't believe that refraining from becoming emotionally involved with the birds one raises; refraining from naming them or stroking them or murmuring endearments to them keeps them from identifying you as their mama. I think it's OK, and even desirable, to openly let an orphaned bird or animal know it is loved. I think the clinical approach is just a thin, semantic mask for a bond that must be present in order for a human to devote herself to the care of an orphaned bird. We're in hazy territory, I know, but I strongly believe that even a hummingbird needs to know someone cares for it and loves it. I believe they do better when they are loved. I don't think it hurts to sneak a nuzzle now and then, nor do I believe it shows disrespect for their wildness, as I've been admonished. Do you carry it around like a lapdog? Of course not. You feed it and show it you care, and leave it to its own devices in between.



I maintain that it is difficult if not impossible to keep from bonding with a bird you're feeding on the half-hour all day long. I don't know how it works for you, but that bond is what keeps me going, what allows me to turn my life completely upside down in service to a half-ounce bird, feeding it dawn to dusk, shopping at the grocery store in the middle of the night so I can be home to feed it. Why deny it exists? There's no need to get anthropomorphic about it, but why be coldly clinical about it? I suspect that such hands-off policies are aimed squarely at a rehabilitation organization's viewing public, so that these wild animals are not treated as or perceived as pets. I understand that and fully support it. They aren't pets. They're wild creatures slated for release and independence in their natural habitat. When one has a visiting public for which to model behavior, it's best that wildlife rehabilitation be presented that way.



But it's not how I work, and I'd submit that there are many ways to skin this cat. We're all working toward a successful release, but with songbirds, I believe we have the luxury of being a bit more relaxed about the imprinting issue than we do with raptors, waterfowl or galliniformes. Working alone or with the help of my daughter, I have been able to indulge my maternal instincts, shower my charges with love, and still keep in mind that they are ultimately wild and will return to the wild. Do my foundlings leave more slowly? Doubtless. And I believe that every minute, hour and day that a bird has to develop its flight muscles, foraging and survival skills and devote to simply figuring out how to live wild gives it an advantage over one that is simply abandoned when the rehabilitator thinks it's time. Release is a very dicey thing. Knowing when a bird is truly able to be self-sufficient is a skill that takes awhile to acquire. I'd doubt very much that most rehabilitators have the luxury of following an orphaned mourning dove along its path to independence for 60 days, as I did with Libby.



She found her own kind; she billed and cooed and preened with a same-age juvenile dove; she stopped landing on our heads; she became wild and wary and finally, while we were away on vacation, she left, perhaps for good. Or perhaps not. I look for her every day, and should I be blessed enough to lay eyes on her again, I'll know her, just as I knew the hummingbirds, the waxwing, the cardinal, the phoebe, the grosbeak and the wood thrush. It is a magical thing to be a bird's mother, to love it fully and to let it go, and to see it return of its own free will until it doesn't need to any more.



So, Kathleen, I can't say how it goes for the birds raised at your center, never having witnessed their release. I can't say how they differ from the birds I've raised. While they may not go "right back" to the wild, I can say that most of mine make it, having had the luxury of letting their instincts kick in slowly on their own, with full backup from their earthbound mama. I encourage them to linger, keeping food around at all times, but their wildness inevitably takes over, as they learn to take cues from the wild birds all around them. I go from Mom to just another human unit to be avoided, until that magic day weeks, months or years after release when I am approached by a free-living wild bird who comes up for a moment, just to say hello. For the months of effort and concern I've expended on its behalf, there could be no sweeter benediction.

Temporary Turkey Mom

In my previous post, I introduced two wild turkey poults that had gotten separated from their mother and siblings. What to do with them? I couldn't leave them out for the hawks and raccoons.

The turkey poults ignored chick starter, both dry and soaked, no matter how I pecked at it with my finger and offered it up to them. So I scrounged a dish of mealworms from my ancient beetle bin and Nelly bar the door--the chicks fell to and the worms were gone in seconds. Wow! and whew. Feeding them is always the thing. I hoped they would pick up the chick starter mash with the worms, but they carefully shook the food off the worms before downing the live treats. They weren't dumb. They considered the commercial chick starter simply a kind of odiferous mud to be carefully shaken off their delicious mealworms. They pecked at but refused sowbugs and cucumber beetles, which were likely too armored and distateful, respectively, to bother with. Mealworms it would be.

Once they were fed I figured they might stop peeping. But they were cold in the air-conditioned house and they wanted their mama and the peeping continued, louder and more plaintive even than before. It was driving me to distraction. On an impulse I knelt down and gathered them up and held them under my neck, against my heart. This is something almost all women seem to do with young things. Women just know what to do with baby creatures; they scoop them up and snuggle them up under their chins, against the heart. And the poults' eyes closed and the peeping turned to a purr and their dear little heads drooped and they fell fast asleep.

So I called to the kids. "Get a good movie, sit down on the couch. You have a job to do." And I gave Phoebe one turkey and Liam the other and while the babies slept in their warm hands, I settled in to think about what I was going to do.

Truly, the only time they were quiet was when they were being cuddled. They obviously enjoyed it. When the kids would open their hands, the poults wouldn't jump out; they'd cuddle down closer. They felt safe next to a beating heart, no matter whose.

What a sweet family I am blessed with.

I fished out a 20 gallon long tank with a screened cover, found my reptile heat lamp and some aspen shavings and set them up in the living room. Young turkeys need to be warm--90 degrees or better--and they calmed down when they felt the soothing heat of the lamp. They calmed down a little. But they were still darned loud, trying to keep in touch with their mama, wherever she'd gone. Peep, PEEP PEEP? Peep, PEEP PEEP?

Repeat ad nauseum, until you want to leap out of your skin. I have an overactive maternal instinct, and I have to say it drove me NUTS to be unable to soothe them. It took me right back to Phoebe's colicky days, and Liam's ear infection years.


That's it, little turkeys. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.


Even though they dozed beneath the lamp, the only thing that truly soothed them was being cuddled, so the kids were happily busy and quietly hoping they could name them and keep them.

I made it clear that these turkeys were only on loan. No turkeys, thank you very much. I'd read enough to know that raising wild turkeys is a full-time job if they imprint on you as their mama. And I have a couple of those (full-time jobs).

Not only that, but if the turkeys get to thinking they're people, next spring you have a hen flopping down in front of you, tail raised in invitation, or (worse) an 18-pound gobbler trying to mate with your head.


A quiet moment, preening emerging wing feathers. Turkeys this young can fly a little! It's amazing.


I hit the Web, finding the Southeast Ohio Poultry Breeder's Association. And there I found a contact phone number for their annual poultry shows, and the kind woman I reached there found me a breeder of heirloom bronze turkeys--not the big, super-dumb white butterballs that are about the only commercial turkey raised, but turkeys that look and act more like turkeys ought to. Of course, they're rare as hen's teeth, but some people still raise them. And he lived not far from my house! So I called his cell phone and left a message for him and listened to the poults' peeping for four more hours until I wanted to pull my hair out (they'd woken up and eaten a few more times and but they were still sad and lonely for their mom). Finally I called him again and got him. And he said he'd take them.

Hallelujah hallelujah. I was limp with relief. They wouldn't grow up wild, but they'd be safe, and they'd have a turkey mama who looked right, sounded right and felt right and did all the right things, and they'd have foster brothers and sisters. He said he'd try to release them when they were old enough to fend for themselves. "Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't," he said, obviously having been in this predicament before. But maybe they'd have a chance to reconnect with wild turkeys. It beat being coon food, which is where they were headed when I picked them up. And that was the best I could do for them. When I fed them one last time and dropped them off on his doorstep at 8 pm, heaving a huge sigh of relief and reveling in the quiet, I reflected that it was a day well and oddly spent. As are many of my days. Caring this much about birds gets you into some weird fixes. But you learn, you live, you learn, with the wild things leading you all the way.