Mirabel the Bat

Thanks to Phoebe Thompson, videographer, for her camera work and for loving bats, too.

It has been a blessed winter. After all the stuff I went through two years ago with Darryl and Dee Dee, and getting my rabies vaccinations so I could help bats, I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever get any more to rehabilitate. I shouldn't have worried. Marietta is a batty little city.

And this is a tough winter for bats, because the mild weather finds them out and active when there are very few moths and flying insects for them to eat.

So it was that this little bat found herself clinging to a brick pillar in a shopping center breezeway in the middle of Marietta. Which wouldn't have been bad, since people said they'd seen other bats clinging to the pillars before, but this bat was only a foot off the ground, and she hadn't moved in over a week. I got a Facebook message from our friend Kimy, a former employee of Bird Watcher's Digest, who now works at a business in the shopping center. She was worried about the bat.

I guessed from her location that the bat had gotten grounded, perhaps too weak to fly, and had crawled to the nearest vertical pillar to hang herself up. If she'd burned her fat reserves on a mild night fruitlessly looking for food, her prospects for living through the winter in such a cold place were pretty bad. She was in torpor, but without fuel.

Mirabel, safe at home in her tank.

So I worked her into my schedule that afternoon, and went to pick her up. I took mealworms and water and my gloves and a critter carrier. 

It was amazing to see the awareness spread through the businesses in the shopping center that a bat rescue was in progress. Five women came out on the sidewalk to watch. And there wasn't a "ewww" or an "eek" coming from any of them. They were solicitous and concerned, and I thought to myself, well, the times they are a-changin' for bats. Maybe all the news about white nose syndrome, which is killing bats by the millions, makes people a little more sympathetic toward the little animals than they  might otherwise be. But maybe I was just seeing the best in these women, and it's always there, whether we see it or not. Maybe seeing someone who was so thrilled to come pick up a bat in peril had something to do with it. Say what you will about wildlife rehab (some argue that because it makes no difference on a population level it's pointless) seeing it in action has a powerful effect on people, and that can only be good.

I stopped to wonder, too, about The Natural View, a tabloid nature supplement that my mother-in-law, Elsa Thompson; Marilyn Ortt, our hometown natural history hero; and designer Claire Mullen of Bird Watcher's Digest put together once a year. Marilyn always asks me to write and paint something for the cover story, and two years ago, my piece was about Darryl and Dee Dee, the bat story. And several of those women remembered that. I'm a little bemused that the majority of people in my town know my work only from that once-a-year newspaper article. That's OK. Over time, Marilyn and I have made it our plan to feature creatures who suffer from bad press. Bats. Snakes. Coming up, chimney swifts. Creatures who desperately need our help but are helpless to ask for it, who often see the worst in us.

This day, I saw the best. And I got to take a bat home and nurse her back to good weight and good health. A privilege and an honor. Thanks, Kimy.

That's what you want to see. Processed mealworms.  

 Mimi Hart, chanteuse extraordinaire, this one's for you, kid. And for Bobby.

Happy Birthday, Bill Thompson III!

He has the most marvelous eyes, crowned by strong dark brows. Perhaps not many people notice them, hidden as they are behind glasses, but I do. They speak of determination. Sometimes I think of Bill as pure determination, barely contained in flesh and bone. I look at the odds he’s faced and the things he’s accomplished and it’s clear to me that the first metaphor I came up with when I met him-- a human locomotive—is still the most accurate. You stand back and wave as he rumbles by. Or if you’re going along for the ride, you hang on real tight.

Seamus Waxwing, falling asleep in Daddy's warm hand

That such an imposing man should love birds, the most airily delicate of creatures, is part of his appeal. It’s the love of birds we share, and a mutual tendency to put that love into words, that threw me onto his train, a rather unlikely stowaway in his fast-paced life.

And then there was music. Birds may have started it, but music sealed the deal between us. He grew up immersed in it, just one in a series of great legacies from Bill and Elsa. 

That's enough on that one. Don't even look at it.

  Music's coming out of him in waves now, unleashed by a perfect cyclone of creative collaborators (Thank you, Rain Crows!!), new recording technology and years of pent-up desire.

Guitarzan, laying down one of approximately 71,000 guitar tracks for The Rain Crows' "Looks Like Rain" for David Traugh's discerning ear.

He's worked very hard and incredibly fast to realize this passion, and as you read this we just got eight big boxes full of our new CD to show for it. Sixteen songs, all original, in an album from a band that played its first barely-rehearsed gig in September 2010. We recorded rough tracks in a Lakeside hotel barely a year ago, and worked to refine them before going into the studio in December 2011. Determination. A product to show for it.  Far and away the best birthday present a guy could give himself!

cover photo by Michael Northrup; design by Joe Parisi 

All that, and a wonderful dad to Phoebe and Liam. It seems they got the best parts of him-creativity and music and art and humor and a dash of athleticism, too.  In an ideal world, we'd all be at Pirates' Spring Training in Bradenton, FL right now, but there's lots of fun and work to do here. We'll look forward to a besbol summer.

I am humbled and grateful to still be riding Bill Thompson’s train, to be here to keep shoveling coal into the firebox. I’m not sure what his next destination will be, but you can bet I’ll be hanging on for the ride.

photo by Mitch Casey

Photo by David Tipling

Thank goodness for beer. It mellows him out. A bit.

Happy birthday, Bill. Best guy I know.

Return of A Doe Named Ellen

Here's part of a post from March 1, 2009. Nearly three years later, I have something to add...Read on!

As an artist and naturalist, I am always looking for something in each animal that I observe, something I can use to distinguish it from its kind. It's in getting to know an individual that I learn the things that interest me most. So when a fawn came in for corn this winter and I got a chance to photograph her, I noticed something different about her.Photo by Phoebe Linnea Thompson

One ear was askew, but it was more than that. Something about her just didn't add up.
Have you ever noticed how Ellen Barkin is beautiful, even though her face has two distinct halves? Cover half of her face with your finger, and then cover the other.

Two different people. I think it makes her interesting, moreso than would perfect symmetry. It's as if one side is at peace, and the other a bit disgruntled. Gives her range other actresses would envy, depending on the camera angle, of course. Wait! That's my mad side.


Zoom in, and you can see this fawn's left eye is lower than her right. And her left ear is canted sideways, and apparently stays that way. I'm thinking this might have been an injury in utero, or perhaps a birth defect. She's not perfectly symmetrical, but she seems to be coping all right.


No ruminant looks quite right when she's chewing, but...Needless to say, I call her Ellen.

Flash forward to the morning of February 6, 2012. I'm talking to Bill and Chet leaps off the bed growling as a deer flashes by the window. She stops and turns to look back. I know that face. That's Ellen!  I scramble upstairs to grab my camera, praying she'll stay. How can it be that I've missed her for three years?

She walks hesitantly along the edge of our yard (that's Garrett's broken snag in the foreground!) and it's clear she's not in good condition. She's got frozen drool on her whiskers and some kind of lesion or growth on her right cheek. Her coat is rough and she's not fat.

For a four-year-old doe, she's quite small, as well.

She has a little buck with her, perhaps her son?

This may sound crazy, but to me he looks just like her. Minus the asymmetry, of course. He looks like her and acts just like her.

My heart goes out to this odd little animal, who has survived an injury or serious birth defect and four seasons of hunting in a heavily-hunted area. That's saying something. That's saying a lot.

Clearly, there's nothing wrong with Ellen's mind if she can pull that off.

She throws me one last quizzical look, walks in a small, undecided circle, and bounds away.

Fare thee well, sweet Ellen. Nobody's going to shoot you for your big rack of antlers, for your beauty or majesty, at least.

I put on my coat and walk to the garage to get a scoop of cracked corn to scatter under the pines.