Steer clear of "The Gods Are Bored" if you are sick and tired of the long litany of laments. Today's is the biggest, most mind-boggling of all. It shakes me to the very core of my being.
Every year I rent a buzzard costume from a theatrical outfit in Ohio. Every year the price of shipping goes up. Granted, it's a big, bulky box. But it weighs about 20 pounds, including the box. How can that possibly cost $130 to ship regular rate via UPS?
And so, it was with deep regret that I suggested to the steering committee of the East Coast Vulture Festival that we forgo "Buzzy" this year. Even after I was willing to spend fifty bucks of my wages on the costume, it would be barely a drop in the old bucket.
The costume costs $225. For one day's rent.
Now, those of you with deep pockets -- don't reach out and feed my Buzzard Worship habit! It's a matter of conscience here. I could pay the whole thing from the ill-gotten gains I'll receive from the sale of the farm. I just think it's too much. And the festival is held every year. What costs $225 this year will cost $250 the next.
Gotta draw the line, even in Buzzard Worship.
The news gets worse.
This has been a very mild winter here in the Mid-Atlantic states. It was cold in December, but since Christmas we've been almost spring-like.
This has affected the roosting behavior of the buzzards. They are no longer flocking to Wenonah. They're bunking elsewhere.
Excuse me while I rend my garments!
Heir and I went to Wenonah in December, and the flock was there. Maybe a little smaller than previous years, but definitely a presence. With this warm spell, they've drifted away. Literally.
I've always been concerned that the winter roost in Wenonah would not be a permanent thing. Vultures do like to roam about a bit. They're probably looking for new adventures. After all, they're bored deities under the precise definition offered up here at this handy web site. But ... oh ... oh ... my precious Golden Purifiers! My sweet scavengers! The birds I love and live for! Gone, dispersed, blown away ... perhaps forever.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I hear a bottle of gin calling my name. Go ahead, publishing house -- shove my poor old novel into the storm drain! But the loss of the Winter Flock? TRAGEDY.
Showing posts with label buzzard worship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label buzzard worship. Show all posts
Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the Church of the Bountiful Buzzards! I'm Pastor Annie, priestess of the putrid since 1975! Wing it! The sky's the limit!
With wind speeds in excess of 40 miles per hour today, the time seemed right for a little worship of the Holy Sacred Thunderbird, Golden Purifier, a.k.a. buzzard. So I took my little Dodge, and my daughter The Heir, and we went to Wenonah to praise and worship. (Well, I praised and worshiped. Heir just went along for the ride.)
Wenonah is the winter residence for a huge flock of turkey and black vultures. They scour the countryside during the daylight hours and then return to Wenonah's mature pines to roost. There are easily 200 birds in this cohort. Maybe more.
It's funny how you don't see a buzzard for miles around, but the minute you pull up in Wenonah, they are chock-a-block everywhere. Today they were positively playing in the wind. Figure it out. If the wind is gusting at 40, and a bird is flying with the wind, how fast is that bird going? Those buzzards looked like they were having fun. All hail!
When Heir and I left, most of the flock had settled into the pines, where they pack themselves in tightly. (I haven't figured out yet how I can persuade Mr. J to move to Wenonah, but I want to do it.) I said a prayer to them, to make me healthy, wealthy, beautiful, and carefree. And like anyone else who prays, I expect them to deliver.
Now, secure in the vigilant care of the Holy Sacred Thunderbird, I'm going downstairs to read a front page New York Times story about faulty hip replacements, courtesy of the company that supplied the one inside me. But I have no fear. I'll carry on until I'm carrion ... and then, home to the vultures I go.
With wind speeds in excess of 40 miles per hour today, the time seemed right for a little worship of the Holy Sacred Thunderbird, Golden Purifier, a.k.a. buzzard. So I took my little Dodge, and my daughter The Heir, and we went to Wenonah to praise and worship. (Well, I praised and worshiped. Heir just went along for the ride.)
Wenonah is the winter residence for a huge flock of turkey and black vultures. They scour the countryside during the daylight hours and then return to Wenonah's mature pines to roost. There are easily 200 birds in this cohort. Maybe more.
It's funny how you don't see a buzzard for miles around, but the minute you pull up in Wenonah, they are chock-a-block everywhere. Today they were positively playing in the wind. Figure it out. If the wind is gusting at 40, and a bird is flying with the wind, how fast is that bird going? Those buzzards looked like they were having fun. All hail!
When Heir and I left, most of the flock had settled into the pines, where they pack themselves in tightly. (I haven't figured out yet how I can persuade Mr. J to move to Wenonah, but I want to do it.) I said a prayer to them, to make me healthy, wealthy, beautiful, and carefree. And like anyone else who prays, I expect them to deliver.
Now, secure in the vigilant care of the Holy Sacred Thunderbird, I'm going downstairs to read a front page New York Times story about faulty hip replacements, courtesy of the company that supplied the one inside me. But I have no fear. I'll carry on until I'm carrion ... and then, home to the vultures I go.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Thanksgiving edition, 2011! This century is now more than a decade old, and I have been less than impressed. But now I'm totally down with the 21st. Read on to find out how a "Dazed and Confused"-era teen finally went techno with success!
I have two daughters, The Heir and The Spare (pictured). I have a very close friend, the Monkey Man (pictured). All were invited to my table on Thanksgiving. Blessed be, they all accepted -- and Monkey Man brought his sister and another friend!
Alas, there was a snag. Mr. J, being a sportswriter, is often called upon to write at the holidays. He had a deadline. So I had to drive to Baltimore to pick up his mom. And back to Snobville for the feast.
It's a 200-mile round trip, all on a Thanksgiving morning.
Well, you have your Travel Wednesdays, and you have your Back Fridays, and in between people manage to have dinner with family and friends. I figured the traffic would not be bad on I-95 on Thanksgiving Day itself.
BAMP!!!!! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! Deduct 50 points from Anne's score!
As I was traveling south on I-95, I noticed the traffic volume moving north. When Mom-in-law and I began our return journey from Baltimore to Snobville, the traffic on I-95 was unbelievable. You could not have squeezed a Handi-Wipe between my car and the one in front of me. You could have tried, though. At the rate the traffic was moving, you'd have been clear to make about 25 attempts.
I'm a veteran traveler of I-95, and I know how to circumnavigate it. Will I share this information with you? Hmmmmm. Email me.
I got off I-95 and took an alternate route. Here's where the plot thickens.
It was after 11:00 in the morning. I had told my guests that dinner would be ready at 4:30. The reason I had made this audacious boast was that I had full confidence in my sous chef, The Spare. You should see some of the fabulous meals she whips up! Caught in traffic? No problem! Spare at the helm, all systems go!
At a red light, I phoned up Spare. Conversation went something like this:
Anne: Hey, have you made the stuffing?
Spare: No, but I'm getting around to it.
Anne: Have you peeled the potatoes?
Spare: I was just getting ready to do that.
Anne: Listen. It's going to take longer than anticipated for me to get home. I need for you to put the turkey in the oven. The directions for preparing it are on the sheet I left on the kitchen counter.
(Very long pause.)
Anne: Spare? Are you there?
Spare: I can't handle a turkey carcass. It will make me puke.
Anne: What are you talking about? You cook stuff all the time!
Spare: Yeah, but ... look, I'm not reaching into a turkey and pulling out the ... parts. Like, I can't do that.
(Anne thinks of a contingency plan.)
Anne: Put your sister on the phone.
(Heir comes to the phone. Mind you, she can boil water for tea and toast a PopTart. End of her cooking ability.)
Anne: Heir, will you help Spare put the turkey in the oven? The directions are on the kitchen counter.
Heir: Ummmmmm. Uhhhhhhh. (No enthusiasm) I guess .......
Anne: DO YOU CREATURES WANT TO EAT TODAY? IF SO, PUT THE TURKEY IN THE OVEN! I'M IN FREAKIN ABERDEEN, AND THE MONKEY MAN IS COMING TO DINNER!
(Green light. Phone off.)
Long story short, Mom-in-law and I crawled to a stop in front of my house at about half past never. The turkey was not in the oven. It had not been removed from the fridge. To her dubious credit, The Spare had made the stuffing and peeled the potatoes.
Time for a desperate contingency plan!
My oven is a modern, computerized gadget that has had its share of glitches, let me tell you. The oven has a "convection" option that I have never quite figured out. When you use it, time and space become altered as if it's an episode of Doctor Who gone awry. When you cook with convection heat, you dial down the temperature and dial back the time. It must save energy, doing that. But it's damned tricky.
I had no choice.
Slapped that bird in the oven. Convection heat, 300 degrees, 2 hours. Can you believe it, readers? That gobbler was ready for the table by 4:30! Sixteen pounds! Welcome to the 21st century, bored deities!
Monkey Man arrived, bearing home-made cranberry bread and a pumpkin pie. His sister arrived with the classic Green Bean Casserole, which was really and truly invented by a citizen of Snobville who worked in the test kitchen at Campbell's.
We all had a lovely dinner. Even the famed Monkey was happy, because I had a whole bunch of bananas set aside for him. We drank a toast and all said what they were thankful for. (Monkey Man's sister said she was grateful "that my weird brother always manages to find lovely friends.")
My mom-in-law was particularly impressed that the turkey was ready in the nick of time. During Thanksgivings past, she had been renowned for hounding me about when I was going to put the bird over the fire.
I saved the best for last. After dinner, the Monkey Man presented me with a gift. It was like 25 Yuletides came in one single second! Here's a picture of him, modeling my gift earlier in the day, at the annual Snobville-Snob Heights football game ...
EXHIBIT A: WHAT A HAT!
I am blown away by this fabulous headgear. It bothers me slightly that the thing was probably made in some poor Third World country, but man-oh-man. Never has product met consumer with more satisfaction!
We at "The Gods Are Bored" hope you had a happy Thanksgiving. We hope you took a pass on Walmart on Black Friday. If not, don't ask us to feel sorry for you if you were trampled, shot, or pepper-sprayed. (Seriously. Look it up. People got pepper-sprayed at Walmart.)
This Thanksgiving was really special. We all missed Great-Grandma (who is still hovering), but we delighted in new friends and family. I have to work on Spare's gag reflex, but that can wait for another day.
I hope your holiday was special too. If not, let me know. I could set a place for you next year ... and save a few bananas back for your monkey puppet. It's how I roll.
Dispensing with the formal greeting today. Moving right on to worship of the Sacred Thunderbird.
First, a little navel-gazing.
I have worshiped vultures since I was a teenager. For many years (and even now) this religious devotion has run parallel to whatever other deities I praise and worship. However, having achieved the wisdom of a half century, I now choose to center my most important devotions around Vulture.
This puts me more within the Native American worldview than the European. There are numerous songs and dances, stories and Rituals, surrounding the Peace Eagle (aka Vulture) among Native American groups all across America. Especially in the Pacific Northwest, where the California condor was once widespread and majestic (wingspan of 10 feet -- think about it).
EXHIBIT A: GOD
In 1984 I went to the San Diego Wildlife Park, where a captive breeding program had begun for California condors. I wrote an article about the efforts for the Detroit Free Press. Since I had a press pass, the biologists let me go see the "Condorminium." It was a huge, netted area where they kept the condors they were trying to breed.
Needless to say, even a glimpse of these deities from afar, in a flight cage, had immense meaning for me. (We couldn't go close, because the biologists didn't want the condors to become used to people.) Mr. Johnson could hardly live with me for weeks thereafter. Rapture? Forget about Rapture! Give me a Raptor!
At its lowest point of population, the California condor dipped to just 27 individuals. They were rounded up and kept in San Diego. Some creatures might not like being in a flight cage, but the condors are pretty happy with their dependable supply of carcasses. They have been making whoopie for 25 years.
We can be cautiously optimistic about this deity. The Sacred Thunderbird of California now is represented by approximately 400 individuals, some of them in the wild. They have been released in the Grand Canyon, where there are no power lines or hunters. Efforts are underway, partly funded by the Yurok Indians, to release condors in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, where carcasses are abundant and there are traditions of condor Ritual worship.
Angels and faeries are purported to be able to fly. Vultures can do it visibly and gracefully. No skeptical atheist can scoff at the flight of Vulture. It is magnificent.
None of us will live to see a California condor pair soar over our heads in the rugged wilds of America. But it's a comfort to me to know that the species is making a comeback.
Honestly, think about it. If you looked up and saw a bird with a ten-foot wingspan glide silently past, wouldn't you feel that you were in the presence of something greater than yourself?
I can ony speak for myself, but ... As for me and my house, we will worship Vulture.
Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. First clause of the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights of the United States Constitution.
Hail Vulture, the visible Higher Power!
First, a little navel-gazing.
I have worshiped vultures since I was a teenager. For many years (and even now) this religious devotion has run parallel to whatever other deities I praise and worship. However, having achieved the wisdom of a half century, I now choose to center my most important devotions around Vulture.
This puts me more within the Native American worldview than the European. There are numerous songs and dances, stories and Rituals, surrounding the Peace Eagle (aka Vulture) among Native American groups all across America. Especially in the Pacific Northwest, where the California condor was once widespread and majestic (wingspan of 10 feet -- think about it).
EXHIBIT A: GOD
Needless to say, even a glimpse of these deities from afar, in a flight cage, had immense meaning for me. (We couldn't go close, because the biologists didn't want the condors to become used to people.) Mr. Johnson could hardly live with me for weeks thereafter. Rapture? Forget about Rapture! Give me a Raptor!
At its lowest point of population, the California condor dipped to just 27 individuals. They were rounded up and kept in San Diego. Some creatures might not like being in a flight cage, but the condors are pretty happy with their dependable supply of carcasses. They have been making whoopie for 25 years.
We can be cautiously optimistic about this deity. The Sacred Thunderbird of California now is represented by approximately 400 individuals, some of them in the wild. They have been released in the Grand Canyon, where there are no power lines or hunters. Efforts are underway, partly funded by the Yurok Indians, to release condors in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, where carcasses are abundant and there are traditions of condor Ritual worship.
Angels and faeries are purported to be able to fly. Vultures can do it visibly and gracefully. No skeptical atheist can scoff at the flight of Vulture. It is magnificent.
None of us will live to see a California condor pair soar over our heads in the rugged wilds of America. But it's a comfort to me to know that the species is making a comeback.
Honestly, think about it. If you looked up and saw a bird with a ten-foot wingspan glide silently past, wouldn't you feel that you were in the presence of something greater than yourself?
I can ony speak for myself, but ... As for me and my house, we will worship Vulture.
Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. First clause of the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights of the United States Constitution.
Hail Vulture, the visible Higher Power!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We're coming down off a buzzard high today. Another East Coast Vulture Festival has come and gone. Alas.
This year's fest was only an afternoon affair for kids and parents. There were buzzard crafts and walks to a buzzard roost. My friend Wanda came down, and let me tell you, she's an ace photographer. Here's one from the buzzard lookout:
If I didn't love Polish Mountain so much, I'd change my desktop image to that one right there! If you're reading this, and you're Goth to the core, I don't think Wanda will mind if you steal it.
When I dress up in the big buzzard costume, I get my picture taken about 100 times with little kids, with teenagers, even with grownups. And I never get to see the pictures. As "Buzzy," I don't talk, so I can't ask for photos to be emailed to me. Therefore it's extra special to me that Wanda snapped this candid portrait of me, Buzzy, with my devoted fans.
Some kids are more devoted than others.
Human nature being what it is, some little kids are frightened by a big, tall buzzard with shiny wings that flutter in the wind. Others are curious, and still others just want to wrap their arms around you and hug you. Yesterday there was one teeny little tot, just barely toddling, who wanted to "feed" me. She kept bringing over leaves and stones and holding them up to my "beak." It was so cute I wanted to die with that being my last memory. Another little "Cindy Lou Who," hardly more than two, asked me, "Is this a costume?" And when I nodded yes, she soberly whispered, "I won't tell anyone."
On the other hand, the 4th grade Girl Scouts wanted to know why the vulture was wearing skinny jeans. I guess I got lazy. I didn't want to wear the tights.
Some kids played "blind buzzard's bluff" with me, and others just tentatively touched the feathers. The adults who run the festival greeted me as a long-lost "Buzzy" friend. Some of them literally never see me out of the costume, since I park two blocks away and walk up the street wearing it.
From my point of view the weather was perfect for this year's festival. It wasn't cold, but it was breezy, and that helped to get oxygen into the costume. I still couldn't breathe and see at the same time, but at least I could breathe when I wanted to. That isn't always the case in this challenging mascot gear.
When the festival ended at 5:00, I started back toward my car and took the vulture head off midway. I walked by a tree with about 30 vultures sitting in it and more honing in. Looking to disprove the heretic that says these birds smell bad, I stood straight under the tree to take a whiff. The ground had white droppings on it, but there was no odor at all. None. Nada. Zip.
I looked up and saw a buzzard looking down at me. Not for the first time, I felt like I must have been a vulture in a former life ... and that being human is a step down. Anyway, I caught the buzzard's eye and said, "Swap." As in, swap lives with me.
At that moment the tree exploded, and every vulture in it took off. I guess I spooked them -- or maybe the thought of swapping lives with a human was so unappealing that they couldn't get away fast enough. I prefer to think it was the latter.
I put the Buzzy costume in the car, wiping a tear, and drove up to say goodbye to the other members of Church of the Holy Thunderbird. Literally, some of them had never seen me outside the costume before. As we were all standing there congratulating ourselves on another successful Vulture Day, the most enormous kettle of vultures any of us had ever seen filled the sky from horizon to horizon. They were dancing on the breeze -- more buzzards than any of us could count. It seemed to me that they were just having a good time up there, riding a roller coaster of wind gusts. We all stood transfixed at the glorious sight. Then the buzzards dispersed, and in a moment the sky was nearly empty again.
Life is both nature and nurture. I think of the kids growing up in Wenonah, having a fun day based on the quiet birds that winter in their town. I think of the pickup basketball game on the school playground, being watched by two dozen vultures perched on the water tower, and the boys not paying any mind to the vultures at all. And then I think of the kids in Staunton, Virginia, who are fearing and hating buzzards, trying to scare them off with dogs and paint guns, complaining about the vomit and the odor, and the possibility that their kittens will be whisked off for dinner. Which children will grow up with the view that all of Nature has beauty? Which kids will grow up less fearful of everything?
I have come to love New Jersey. Don't tell Mr. J or my kids, but as soon as both daughters are out of the house, I'm going to contact a realtor in Wenonah. I think Mr. J would like it there, and it's only just a little farther from Philly than Snobville. Fifteen miles as opposed to five. But what a difference those ten miles make!
Saturday, March 5, 2011 is Vulture Day in Wenonah, New Jersey.
EXHIBIT A: VULTURES KETTLING OVER WENONAH, NEW JERSEY
Let no one shower disrespect on New Jersey. We know better than anyone (except the people in West Virginia and Kentucky) how very stinky the world can be.
This is why we pay homage to vultures.
If you can't smell road kill while eating breakfast, thank a vulture.
If you're not tripping over possum slime on your sidewalk, thank a vulture.
If you love ancient Egypt, thank a vulture.
If you've seen that big, rocky thing in Georgia, thank a vulture.
If you'd rather soar than flap, thank a vulture.
If bald is beautiful, thank a vulture.
If the sky entertains you, thank a vulture.
If the world is clean, thank a vulture.
If humans aren't the best of everything ... thank a vulture.
EXHIBIT A: VULTURES KETTLING OVER WENONAH, NEW JERSEY
Let no one shower disrespect on New Jersey. We know better than anyone (except the people in West Virginia and Kentucky) how very stinky the world can be.
This is why we pay homage to vultures.
If you can't smell road kill while eating breakfast, thank a vulture.
If you're not tripping over possum slime on your sidewalk, thank a vulture.
If you love ancient Egypt, thank a vulture.
If you've seen that big, rocky thing in Georgia, thank a vulture.
If you'd rather soar than flap, thank a vulture.
If bald is beautiful, thank a vulture.
If the sky entertains you, thank a vulture.
If the world is clean, thank a vulture.
If humans aren't the best of everything ... thank a vulture.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" When the vulture costume arrives at the front door, I know it's a sign that spring is in the air!
And yes, my friends and readers (all three of you), the ever-helpful Akron Costume and Supply has delivered again! On Saturday afternoon I step out, adorned in my feathery finery, to help the fine young minds in Wenonah, New Jersey learn that vultures are a good thing, a wonderful thing, a sight to be gazed upon with awe and joy!
I would so keep this costume if I had the dough. But I'll bet it costs an arm and a leg ... it's a rental.
Which makes me wonder who else uses it during the year. And why.
And yes, my friends and readers (all three of you), the ever-helpful Akron Costume and Supply has delivered again! On Saturday afternoon I step out, adorned in my feathery finery, to help the fine young minds in Wenonah, New Jersey learn that vultures are a good thing, a wonderful thing, a sight to be gazed upon with awe and joy!
I would so keep this costume if I had the dough. But I'll bet it costs an arm and a leg ... it's a rental.
Which makes me wonder who else uses it during the year. And why.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," celebrating the fabulous Egyptian deities and their respect for Vulture since 2005! All hail the sacred Thunderbird, the Peace Eagle, the Golden Purifier, bird without end, Amen!
We are entering Buzzard Week, the annual peak of Vulture Worship in New Jersey. The East Coast Vulture Festival is Saturday, March 5, in lovely Wenonah, New Jersey. Look alive if you come, because 200 vultures can't be fooled.
Awhile back I wrote a post about Staunton, Virginia, which has a similar influx of winter buzzards. The people of Staunton are not happy about their town being a Holy Land for the Golden Purifier.
Some time last week, I guess a citizen of that ill-informed hamlet read my post. In true troll fashion (which I don't mind at all, unless it's aimed at someone else in my comments section), this sorry apostate wrote the following:
"Until you have lived with a flock of 30+ Buzzards roosting in YOUR yard and vomiting in YOUR yard, you really can't know how disgusting these vile creatures are and you can't say just what you would consider doing to get rid of them. If you would like to have that first hand experience you can camp out in our backyard under the pine trees and get up close and personal with mother nature's garbage disposals. Just make sure you are wearing a hazmat suit because you will need it!"
Oh, my my my. Bound to share Prometheus's hill, I would say. Anon, you won't be burnt at the stake by this civilized Pagan, but you are WRONG WRONG WRONG on every front.
1. I do not have the good fortune of living with a buzzard roost in my back yard. However, I make frequent trips to Wenonah, where the residents don't mind seeing me in their yards under their trees.
2. I have never seen or smelt buzzard vomit in Wenonah. Buzzards don't barf unless they are stressed. That's food they need to survive! Maybe if you quit shooting paintballs at them, they'd keep their supper in their crops.
3. On said trips to Wenonah, I have smelled a distinctly musty odor, but nothing that would be offensive. Vultures are also very quiet. All you hear is a rustle of wings. Their poop doesn't smell. My car has been bombed with it. I don't even wash it off. I just let the rain take care of it.
4. The concentration of vultures in winter roosts is a seasonal phenomenon. In the spring they take off and go their merry way, out into the (vanishing) wilderness and the (overflowing) landfills.
So, Anonymous (oh I love trolls!), I put it to your heretic self this way: Vultures for a few months, not vomiting if you leave them alone, or these horrific, noisy, poop-strewing, shouldn't-even-be-here Canadian geese? It's been nonstop honking here today, and sadly, they ain't flying north.
We are entering Buzzard Week, the annual peak of Vulture Worship in New Jersey. The East Coast Vulture Festival is Saturday, March 5, in lovely Wenonah, New Jersey. Look alive if you come, because 200 vultures can't be fooled.
Awhile back I wrote a post about Staunton, Virginia, which has a similar influx of winter buzzards. The people of Staunton are not happy about their town being a Holy Land for the Golden Purifier.
Some time last week, I guess a citizen of that ill-informed hamlet read my post. In true troll fashion (which I don't mind at all, unless it's aimed at someone else in my comments section), this sorry apostate wrote the following:
"Until you have lived with a flock of 30+ Buzzards roosting in YOUR yard and vomiting in YOUR yard, you really can't know how disgusting these vile creatures are and you can't say just what you would consider doing to get rid of them. If you would like to have that first hand experience you can camp out in our backyard under the pine trees and get up close and personal with mother nature's garbage disposals. Just make sure you are wearing a hazmat suit because you will need it!"
Oh, my my my. Bound to share Prometheus's hill, I would say. Anon, you won't be burnt at the stake by this civilized Pagan, but you are WRONG WRONG WRONG on every front.
1. I do not have the good fortune of living with a buzzard roost in my back yard. However, I make frequent trips to Wenonah, where the residents don't mind seeing me in their yards under their trees.
2. I have never seen or smelt buzzard vomit in Wenonah. Buzzards don't barf unless they are stressed. That's food they need to survive! Maybe if you quit shooting paintballs at them, they'd keep their supper in their crops.
3. On said trips to Wenonah, I have smelled a distinctly musty odor, but nothing that would be offensive. Vultures are also very quiet. All you hear is a rustle of wings. Their poop doesn't smell. My car has been bombed with it. I don't even wash it off. I just let the rain take care of it.
4. The concentration of vultures in winter roosts is a seasonal phenomenon. In the spring they take off and go their merry way, out into the (vanishing) wilderness and the (overflowing) landfills.
So, Anonymous (oh I love trolls!), I put it to your heretic self this way: Vultures for a few months, not vomiting if you leave them alone, or these horrific, noisy, poop-strewing, shouldn't-even-be-here Canadian geese? It's been nonstop honking here today, and sadly, they ain't flying north.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm not Jimmy Page or anything, but it's been a long time, been a long time, been a long lonely lonely lonely time. What I mean is, it feels like a long time since I last wrote. No matter how I resolve to work less, my job sucks me in at 7:00 in the morning and rarely spits me out before 5:00, at which time I come home to fix dinner. On the weekends there are chores. And yes, Spare does help me with the chores and the cooking ... but it's a big job.
When the bored gods began to speak to me, I didn't know anyone else who followed the Pagan path. The only place I knew about where Pagan events were held was Four Quarters Farm, and it's out near my place on Polish Mountain. A long hike.
Then I started reading newspaper articles about an Episcopal priest over west of Philly who had lost his sinecure for putting Celtic-themed liturgies on his web site. The newspapers mentioned that he had started a Druid Grove that met at Ridley Creek State Park near Media, PA.
On Beltane in 2006 I blithely set off for Ridley Creek State Park with no more than the newspaper hint and a mapquest for directions to the park. Turns out Ridley Creek Park -- in addition to being beautiful and home to a state champion Black Oak -- is very, very large. Nevertheless, I eventually found the Druids at a picnic site.
Thus began a pleasant and spiritually fulfilling four years of Rituals in Ridley Creek Park, and a few close friendships with like-minded people. But our group was small, and fully half of it came from faraway Allentown. From a high of about 15 people, we soon dwindled to six, then four, then three, and last Samhain two. Imbolc has come and gone with no contact.
This is not alarming to the bored deities that we honored during our Rituals. The group has not disbanded in apostasy or schism. All members are still involved in other groups, mostly closer to where they live.
One of the first people to leave our group was its founder, and I recently heard from him. He has founded another group, Celtic Christians who meet in each other's homes, also in that area out west of Philly. I've heard a little bit about Celtic Christianity, but it's not for the bored God Mannanan MacLir, and it's not for me.
So it is with sadness that I sit here on a sunny afternoon, recalling Imbolcs past at Ridley Creek State Park.
My sadness is deepest when I think about the people in that Druid Grove, because it really and truly is difficult for me to fit in most places, including in Druidic groups. I'm apt to give a nod to some other bored deity rather than the prescribed ones. Not that anyone in my particular Druid Grove ever cared, but to a Druidic purist, saying howdy to Manitou might not be kosher. Also, I've never been accused of being a deep thinker (as anyone who reads here knows). All of my worship is through immediate sensory experience. Ergo, almost all of my knowledge of the bored Celtic deities comes from poetry, art, story, and vision, not from the vast literature of modern Druidism.
I know of a Druid Grove here in New Jersey. Once Spare and I went to one of their Rituals, and it was there that I got to meet Isaac Bonewits and hear him talk. But the evening Ritual held by that group disturbed me deeply. I sure didn't like the way they went about their praise and worship. (I've written on this before. Isaac didn't like it either, I later learned.)
The New Jersey Grove has a Facebook page. It's larger and has a dynamic leader. There are all sorts of Pagans at those Rituals, even people who worship the bored deities of Greece and Rome. Still it's not a fit for me.
Today I walk alone.
There's a beautiful mature oak grove that I can literally see from my window as I write this. But I'm not in the least tempted to try to start a seed group. You would understand completely if you had attended (with me) the New Jersey Pagan Pride day last fall, about three miles from my house.
All too often, Pagan Pride events bring out Satanists who are truly just worshiping their notion of Satan as an opponent to Yahweh. This group was well represented at the New Jersey Pagan Pride Day. It is the position of "The Gods Are Bored" that Satan is not bored. Satan is busy. And people who worship Satan as the anti-Yahweh are not even Pagans.
This is the opinion of "The Gods Are Bored" and need not reflect your own.
Having spent the happiest hours of my youth alone in the deep woods, I will return to that practice of immersing myself in some dark hollow, or some sunny meadow, or some ancient grove so remote that the loggers didn't figure it was worth the trouble. I know of these places, back home where I came up.
In the spring, if I'm able, I'll probably drive up to Allentown.
From whence do I draw comfort today, though? Ah, Ah! I'm not at a total loss.
My friends, this Druid bids you adieu to go to Wenonah, New Jersey, in order to watch a large flock of vultures descend to their nightly roost. If I'm going to do Rituals by myself, they certainly won't look or sound quite like anything sanctioned by any praise and worship team devoted to any particular pantheon.
When the bored gods began to speak to me, I didn't know anyone else who followed the Pagan path. The only place I knew about where Pagan events were held was Four Quarters Farm, and it's out near my place on Polish Mountain. A long hike.
Then I started reading newspaper articles about an Episcopal priest over west of Philly who had lost his sinecure for putting Celtic-themed liturgies on his web site. The newspapers mentioned that he had started a Druid Grove that met at Ridley Creek State Park near Media, PA.
On Beltane in 2006 I blithely set off for Ridley Creek State Park with no more than the newspaper hint and a mapquest for directions to the park. Turns out Ridley Creek Park -- in addition to being beautiful and home to a state champion Black Oak -- is very, very large. Nevertheless, I eventually found the Druids at a picnic site.
Thus began a pleasant and spiritually fulfilling four years of Rituals in Ridley Creek Park, and a few close friendships with like-minded people. But our group was small, and fully half of it came from faraway Allentown. From a high of about 15 people, we soon dwindled to six, then four, then three, and last Samhain two. Imbolc has come and gone with no contact.
This is not alarming to the bored deities that we honored during our Rituals. The group has not disbanded in apostasy or schism. All members are still involved in other groups, mostly closer to where they live.
One of the first people to leave our group was its founder, and I recently heard from him. He has founded another group, Celtic Christians who meet in each other's homes, also in that area out west of Philly. I've heard a little bit about Celtic Christianity, but it's not for the bored God Mannanan MacLir, and it's not for me.
So it is with sadness that I sit here on a sunny afternoon, recalling Imbolcs past at Ridley Creek State Park.
My sadness is deepest when I think about the people in that Druid Grove, because it really and truly is difficult for me to fit in most places, including in Druidic groups. I'm apt to give a nod to some other bored deity rather than the prescribed ones. Not that anyone in my particular Druid Grove ever cared, but to a Druidic purist, saying howdy to Manitou might not be kosher. Also, I've never been accused of being a deep thinker (as anyone who reads here knows). All of my worship is through immediate sensory experience. Ergo, almost all of my knowledge of the bored Celtic deities comes from poetry, art, story, and vision, not from the vast literature of modern Druidism.
I know of a Druid Grove here in New Jersey. Once Spare and I went to one of their Rituals, and it was there that I got to meet Isaac Bonewits and hear him talk. But the evening Ritual held by that group disturbed me deeply. I sure didn't like the way they went about their praise and worship. (I've written on this before. Isaac didn't like it either, I later learned.)
The New Jersey Grove has a Facebook page. It's larger and has a dynamic leader. There are all sorts of Pagans at those Rituals, even people who worship the bored deities of Greece and Rome. Still it's not a fit for me.
Today I walk alone.
There's a beautiful mature oak grove that I can literally see from my window as I write this. But I'm not in the least tempted to try to start a seed group. You would understand completely if you had attended (with me) the New Jersey Pagan Pride day last fall, about three miles from my house.
All too often, Pagan Pride events bring out Satanists who are truly just worshiping their notion of Satan as an opponent to Yahweh. This group was well represented at the New Jersey Pagan Pride Day. It is the position of "The Gods Are Bored" that Satan is not bored. Satan is busy. And people who worship Satan as the anti-Yahweh are not even Pagans.
This is the opinion of "The Gods Are Bored" and need not reflect your own.
Having spent the happiest hours of my youth alone in the deep woods, I will return to that practice of immersing myself in some dark hollow, or some sunny meadow, or some ancient grove so remote that the loggers didn't figure it was worth the trouble. I know of these places, back home where I came up.
In the spring, if I'm able, I'll probably drive up to Allentown.
From whence do I draw comfort today, though? Ah, Ah! I'm not at a total loss.
My friends, this Druid bids you adieu to go to Wenonah, New Jersey, in order to watch a large flock of vultures descend to their nightly roost. If I'm going to do Rituals by myself, they certainly won't look or sound quite like anything sanctioned by any praise and worship team devoted to any particular pantheon.
East Coast Vulture Festival Children's Fair is Returning to Wenonah in 2011
For the 6th consecutive year the East Coast Vulture Festival will salute the Turkey and Black Vultures that soar the winter skies of Wenonah, perch on out rooftops and sit serenely atop our water tower. On Saturday March 5th 2011 the free Vulture Children's Fair will transform the quaint and historic Wenonah Community Center (the historic train station) into a celebration of vulture culture. This free and family-oriented event will include educational displays, games, crafts, and maybe a few surprises. Naturalists will be on hand to tell us about these remarkable birds and guide us to a close up view of the vultures in the roosting areas. We will have more to tell you about the Fair as we get closer to the date, so look for additional announcements and an updating of our website in the near future.
One thing will be different this year. After careful discussion, we have decided, at least for this year, to take a hiatus from the ticketed Evening Roost event. So this year the festival organizers will be putting our efforts and inspirations into the afternoon Vulture Children's Fair. This wonderful event does so much of what we founded the festival to do and we look forward to a great day in celebration of the vultures and the lessons they can teach us. We'll see you at the Fair on Saturday, March 5, 2011.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We all have favorite haunts on New Year's Eve. This little spot is mine. Another round on the house!
This afternoon at 3:00, my daughter The Heir and I set out for Wenonah, NJ to do some buzzard-watching. Over 200 vultures descend on Wenonah every evening at sundown, there to roost in just a few trees. It's an amazing sight, and this was the first day of weather temperate enough to enjoy it.
The Heir went along with me on this trek because she enjoys my company. And that's a lovely thing for a mom of a 21-year-old. We had a serious heart-to-heart chat during what turned out to be a lengthy excursion.
You see, we arrived at the buzzard roost before sundown, and I forgot to turn off the lights on my car. This proved to be an issue for the vehicle; namely, its battery.
Heir and I watched the vultures pull into their roost for about 30 minutes. Then I tried to start the car. It wouldn't start. So I called Roadside Assistance for a hot shot, and Heir and I spent another 60 minutes at the vulture roost.
Thanks to a dead battery, Heir and I had ample opportunity to worship at the Shrine of the Sacred Thunderbird. Throw in a gorgeous sunset, and a good time was had by all.
This is what we added to our store of knowledge about the Sacred Thunderbird:
The sunset brought about a flurry of activity, as each bird sought the perfect nighttime roost. Two whole trees looked like they were exploding as the vultures vied for the best branches. Then, it started to get dark, and ... boom! You wouldn't have known there was a single bird in the tree. Perfect silence, perfect stillness. Awesome.
This is what Heir and I added to our store of knowledge about people, after it got too dark to buzzard-watch anymore:
If you love someone, it really hurts to watch them do self-destructive things. You have to decide whether you'll stand by and watch, whether you'll try to bend fate, or whether it's better to detach and just let everything take its course. Heir and I did not come to an easy answer on this. And I have to say this sad fact shakes my faith in the Sacred Thunderbirds. Aren't they supposed to dole out easy answers to every tough question?
Oh, no no no! Am I questioning the power of the Sacred Thunderbird on New Year's Eve? Where's my flail?
I. Am. Not. Worthy!
If you didn't read yesterday's post, your opinion is sought and appreciated. And now I must prostrate myself before the Sacred Thunderbird and beg forgiveness for my inflated expectations of enlightenment in the shadow of Their mighty wings.
This afternoon at 3:00, my daughter The Heir and I set out for Wenonah, NJ to do some buzzard-watching. Over 200 vultures descend on Wenonah every evening at sundown, there to roost in just a few trees. It's an amazing sight, and this was the first day of weather temperate enough to enjoy it.
The Heir went along with me on this trek because she enjoys my company. And that's a lovely thing for a mom of a 21-year-old. We had a serious heart-to-heart chat during what turned out to be a lengthy excursion.
You see, we arrived at the buzzard roost before sundown, and I forgot to turn off the lights on my car. This proved to be an issue for the vehicle; namely, its battery.
Heir and I watched the vultures pull into their roost for about 30 minutes. Then I tried to start the car. It wouldn't start. So I called Roadside Assistance for a hot shot, and Heir and I spent another 60 minutes at the vulture roost.
Thanks to a dead battery, Heir and I had ample opportunity to worship at the Shrine of the Sacred Thunderbird. Throw in a gorgeous sunset, and a good time was had by all.
This is what we added to our store of knowledge about the Sacred Thunderbird:
The sunset brought about a flurry of activity, as each bird sought the perfect nighttime roost. Two whole trees looked like they were exploding as the vultures vied for the best branches. Then, it started to get dark, and ... boom! You wouldn't have known there was a single bird in the tree. Perfect silence, perfect stillness. Awesome.
This is what Heir and I added to our store of knowledge about people, after it got too dark to buzzard-watch anymore:
If you love someone, it really hurts to watch them do self-destructive things. You have to decide whether you'll stand by and watch, whether you'll try to bend fate, or whether it's better to detach and just let everything take its course. Heir and I did not come to an easy answer on this. And I have to say this sad fact shakes my faith in the Sacred Thunderbirds. Aren't they supposed to dole out easy answers to every tough question?
Oh, no no no! Am I questioning the power of the Sacred Thunderbird on New Year's Eve? Where's my flail?
I. Am. Not. Worthy!
If you didn't read yesterday's post, your opinion is sought and appreciated. And now I must prostrate myself before the Sacred Thunderbird and beg forgiveness for my inflated expectations of enlightenment in the shadow of Their mighty wings.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sadly drawing toward the end of a long weekend! Don't pay attention to what the governor of New Jersey tells you. School teachers work hard. At least I haven't found a way to pace myself yet.
But today I come to you with a very serious message. Please be seated and pay attention.
I just heard from Kevin Spahr, the producer/director of "Glen Rock Fae," a documentary about the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Kevin didn't write to me about the festival or the film, however. He wrote to me because he saw that I like buzzards, and he had an up-close-and-personal conversation with one this summer in New Hope, PA.
As Kevin tells it, a young buzzard was strolling the streets of New Hope, cadging goodies from tourists. It was not intimidated by the crowds (which intimidate me) nor by the dogs. In fact, it tried to jump up on his lap.
Of course, having a vulture jump onto my lap is the stuff dreams are made of. Well ... let me re-phrase that. Having a tame vulture jump on my lap while I'm hale and hearty is the stuff dreams are made of. If I'm slowly expiring and a buzzard is overly eager to nibble, I might not be so pleased.
Pay attention, now. If a vulture ever acts this way around you (cadging treats, tugging at your shoelaces for attention, fearless of people and domestic animals), call 911 and track that bird. Don't let it out of your sight until Animal Control shows up to take possession.
Vultures are a protected species and should not be domesticated. However, every now and then some well-meaning human finds a baby buzzard and brings it indoors and tames it. Vultures are very intelligent. They learn fast who is feeding them. Unlike parrots, they are virtually noiseless. They can't vocalize at all hardly. Eventually, though, their toilet habits make them undesirable as pets. It's at that point -- when they're mostly grown and completely clueless about how to live as a buzzard -- that their foster parents drop them on the side of the road and tell them to find a possum.
The people at wildlife rescue do not kill these domesticated birds. They use them as teaching tools. I saw one domesticated turkey vulture on Hawk Mountain last September who was thoroughly enjoying being the object of attention while still living a quality life in a wildlife rehab center.
What happens to a tame buzzard who isn't taken in by wildlife rescue? It can get attacked by dogs or hit by a car. In rural areas it will starve. All this is needless suffering, because healthy turkey vultures, tame or not, are not euthanized at wildlife rehab centers. They are either nursed back to health and returned to the wild (if they know they're buzzards), used as teaching tools (if they think they're human), or allowed use of a flight cage (food and roost for life) if they can no longer fly and aren't tame.
If you can get close enough to a buzzard that you could pet its head, and it's not hissing at you and vomiting on your feet, call Animal Control. That's not the way buzzards behave. They are very shy and want nothing to do with humans who are alive.
The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
But today I come to you with a very serious message. Please be seated and pay attention.
I just heard from Kevin Spahr, the producer/director of "Glen Rock Fae," a documentary about the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Kevin didn't write to me about the festival or the film, however. He wrote to me because he saw that I like buzzards, and he had an up-close-and-personal conversation with one this summer in New Hope, PA.
As Kevin tells it, a young buzzard was strolling the streets of New Hope, cadging goodies from tourists. It was not intimidated by the crowds (which intimidate me) nor by the dogs. In fact, it tried to jump up on his lap.
Of course, having a vulture jump onto my lap is the stuff dreams are made of. Well ... let me re-phrase that. Having a tame vulture jump on my lap while I'm hale and hearty is the stuff dreams are made of. If I'm slowly expiring and a buzzard is overly eager to nibble, I might not be so pleased.
Pay attention, now. If a vulture ever acts this way around you (cadging treats, tugging at your shoelaces for attention, fearless of people and domestic animals), call 911 and track that bird. Don't let it out of your sight until Animal Control shows up to take possession.
Vultures are a protected species and should not be domesticated. However, every now and then some well-meaning human finds a baby buzzard and brings it indoors and tames it. Vultures are very intelligent. They learn fast who is feeding them. Unlike parrots, they are virtually noiseless. They can't vocalize at all hardly. Eventually, though, their toilet habits make them undesirable as pets. It's at that point -- when they're mostly grown and completely clueless about how to live as a buzzard -- that their foster parents drop them on the side of the road and tell them to find a possum.
The people at wildlife rescue do not kill these domesticated birds. They use them as teaching tools. I saw one domesticated turkey vulture on Hawk Mountain last September who was thoroughly enjoying being the object of attention while still living a quality life in a wildlife rehab center.
What happens to a tame buzzard who isn't taken in by wildlife rescue? It can get attacked by dogs or hit by a car. In rural areas it will starve. All this is needless suffering, because healthy turkey vultures, tame or not, are not euthanized at wildlife rehab centers. They are either nursed back to health and returned to the wild (if they know they're buzzards), used as teaching tools (if they think they're human), or allowed use of a flight cage (food and roost for life) if they can no longer fly and aren't tame.
If you can get close enough to a buzzard that you could pet its head, and it's not hissing at you and vomiting on your feet, call Animal Control. That's not the way buzzards behave. They are very shy and want nothing to do with humans who are alive.
The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
In honor of International Vulture Awareness Day, a poem by Robinson Jeffers.
Vulture
I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing, I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, “My dear bird, we are wasting time here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.” But how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes–
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an enskyment; what a life after death.
 |
| Photo by Birdchick |
Vulture
I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing, I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, “My dear bird, we are wasting time here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.” But how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes–
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an enskyment; what a life after death.
Every Vulture Fest is memorable and wonderful, but this one topped all the rest. It started with a nice 55-degree afternoon, very amenable to wearing a big vulture head and a poncho of "feathers." It then proceeded to another fantastic flyover. And it was a sunny evening. A huge flock of buzzards landed in a deciduous tree right at the roadside so they could catch the final rays of the sun in their wings. I parked right under the tree. They decorated my car as only great big birds can. I must get The Heir to take a photo before it rains. Only the rain will wash away the baptism of the Sacred Thunderbirds.
My daughters The Heir and The Spare both accompanied me to Vulture Fest. We got to the venue early and got a parking space near the door. We sat there for awhile, listening to music and talking over all things vulture. Then I looked out my window and saw a smudge ceremony taking place.
The featured performance at this year's Vulture Fest was a Native American drum circle group called One Heart. The group members were being smudged by the Elder prior to the beginning of the evening.
You would never believe it from reading this web log, but I am a very cheeky person. I go plowing in whether invited or not. I didn't even know that Native Americans used sage sticks, that's how poorly informed I am. So if the smudging is meant only for them, or only for men, or tied closely to their culture, I should have kept my place.
But I didn't.
I asked them to smudge me too. The Elder bathed me in sage smoke and then, when finished, tapped me once on the shoulder. To say that I was deeply moved -- and so happy to tie this sacred piece to Vulture Fest -- is an understatement.
I was also glad that they all laughed when they saw me put on the Buzzy costume. I didn't want them to think I was disrespectful. I told them that I'm the resident Vulture Shaman for the festival, which is what I am ... only the Vulture Fest folks just think I'm a crazy wicked talented mascot.
When it was their turn to perform at the Fest, One Heart proved to be very dramatic and very, very interesting. Unlike the Celts, who each have their own drums and play in concert, the Native Americans in One Heart all sit around one drum and play it simultaneously. This unites their heartbeats in harmony. Their two female dancers basically swayed around the drum holding bird wings. The ceremony was something I would definitely like to see out under the sunshine or the stars.
Though the hour was growing late, the Elder gave a talk. Not a talk, a sermon. He talked about how Native Americans celebrate Mother Earth, and the turning of the seasons, and how everything is animated with a soul. He said that vultures are special because they move in the air. And the air is alive. It has a spirit of its own.
Whoa. I had seriously never thought of that before, but now that I've heard it, I can feel the energy of the air all around me! It's like being blind all your life and suddenly seeing something that's been there all the time!
So much of what that Native American Elder said in his talk was similar to Druidic thought and practice. Reverence for the land. Appreciation for Spirit. He called it God, but hey. We at "The Gods Are Bored" are okay with whatever you want to call it. Maybe the Great It doesn't even have a name to begin with!
When the program ended and the drummers were packing up their things, I came over and thanked them for their music and words. I told them I'm a Druid, and many of the philosophies seem to overlap, beginning with the smudge stick.
One of the men looked at me and said, "Well, we really don't know how many boats came and went over that water, do we?"
Whoa again. We don't know. A smattering of Vikings, and Columbus. Possibly the Egyptians. But does history record everything? How many boats came across that water? Who was in them? How long did they stay? What about from West to East? The wind favors America-to-Europe. Could we owe some of our most ancient Western philosophies to visitors from North America? I don't see why the hell not. The Mandan Indians had blond hair and blue eyes.
At any rate, it was an honor to share a smudge ceremony with Native American drummers who respect Vulture. I hear that this group does Work down in Salem County. Something to look forward to this summer.
And something to inform my Work with Mountain Tribe at the Fairy Festival.
Blessed, blessed buzzards.
Photo by the peerless Birdchick.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Damn night school and full speed ahead: Buzzard Day is Saturday!
This year's Holy Week buzzard posts have been slightly weirder than in years past. (Yeah, slightly weirder than Anne's usual heavily weird. I know.)
Today I've been thinking about what happens when buzzards get sick and die.
Have you ever owned a cage bird? I can tell you that birds stubbornly refuse to act sick ... until the moment they croak. I'm assuming, based on logic, that vultures are particularly fussy about this. My guess is that they hold themselves up stoically until the last gasp. No fun being consumed by a flock of your nearest and dearest if you can feel them doing it.
Some people are like this too. They will ignore the first symptoms of illness (or worse, they're uninsured). Only when things get critical do they seek medical attention. By and large, though, people are quick to ask for help when they're sick. My cat Alpha's vet says that animals bear up much better under pain than people. As a species, we're also more likely to be sympathetic to other people who are ailing. That's one positive about being human.
There are days, though, when I wish I could adopt the Vulture Model. I'd like to stand looking dandy even as I'm falling apart inside. It's a bummer, having to be such a human wimp. Oh yes, I try the Vulture Model when I can, but ... as my vet tells me ... humans aren't programmed to conceal.
Doesn't mean we should't try.
I'm not advocating pretending you're doing great, skipping those mammograms and other unpleasant tests just because you're adopting the Vulture Model. However, no one really wants to hear other people whine. So I'm trying to stiffen my spine, hold up my ugly bald head, and stop feeding my pain to other people.
Going strong until you drop is the Vulture Model. We humans can't do it, but we can admire it. All hail the Sacred Thunderbird!
This year's Holy Week buzzard posts have been slightly weirder than in years past. (Yeah, slightly weirder than Anne's usual heavily weird. I know.)
Today I've been thinking about what happens when buzzards get sick and die.
Have you ever owned a cage bird? I can tell you that birds stubbornly refuse to act sick ... until the moment they croak. I'm assuming, based on logic, that vultures are particularly fussy about this. My guess is that they hold themselves up stoically until the last gasp. No fun being consumed by a flock of your nearest and dearest if you can feel them doing it.
Some people are like this too. They will ignore the first symptoms of illness (or worse, they're uninsured). Only when things get critical do they seek medical attention. By and large, though, people are quick to ask for help when they're sick. My cat Alpha's vet says that animals bear up much better under pain than people. As a species, we're also more likely to be sympathetic to other people who are ailing. That's one positive about being human.
There are days, though, when I wish I could adopt the Vulture Model. I'd like to stand looking dandy even as I'm falling apart inside. It's a bummer, having to be such a human wimp. Oh yes, I try the Vulture Model when I can, but ... as my vet tells me ... humans aren't programmed to conceal.
Doesn't mean we should't try.
I'm not advocating pretending you're doing great, skipping those mammograms and other unpleasant tests just because you're adopting the Vulture Model. However, no one really wants to hear other people whine. So I'm trying to stiffen my spine, hold up my ugly bald head, and stop feeding my pain to other people.
Going strong until you drop is the Vulture Model. We humans can't do it, but we can admire it. All hail the Sacred Thunderbird!
Book of Anne 3:2
1. Once in a past year, the village of Wenonah suffered a dreadful ice storm. 2. The damage was extensive to homes, trees, and wildlife. 3. A kindly woman looked out her back window that morning, and lo, she did behold a most distressing sight. 4. On the lawn in her small back yard sat a turkey vulture. It seemed to be injured. Nearby, on her fence, another turkey vulture sat watching the injured bird. 5. The kindly lady went out into her yard, and verily the injured vulture did not fly. The other vulture did fly, but only to a nearby tree. When the lady went back inside, the vulture that could fly returned to the fence. 6. Thinking quickly, and being of a supremely holy temperament, the lady brought a space heater from her living room, and too, she brought an extension cord. 7. The holy lady did set up in her back yard the space heater and left it where the injured vulture could approach. As the lady watched from the window, and the other vulture from the fence, the injured vulture approached the space heater and did stand near to it. 8. The lady saw what she had done and thought it good. 9. After a period of 30 minutes had passed, the injured vulture spread its wings and flew to the fence. Lo and behold, its wings were not injured but frozen. They needed only to thaw in order for it to fly again. 10. The whole time the frozen vulture was thawing, its mate sat patiently on the fence, watching. When the frozen vulture was able to fly, the pair flew off together. 11. Therefore I say to thee, he who pair bonds is holy like unto the vulture, for he will raise fine chicks and live in a secure tree and eat the thickest intestines. 12. He will dwell all his days with a companion who will not desert him in time of need, nay, but stay closely at his side through danger, toil, and snare. 13. But he who cleaves not to the pair bond will be last to the feast. He will find only bones and ants where once lay fine, thick intestines. He will curse and gnash his beak, saying, "Wherefore is my mate, and my chicks, and my nest? For all is gone, and I have only bones and ants for my sustenance."
The word of Anne for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
1. Once in a past year, the village of Wenonah suffered a dreadful ice storm. 2. The damage was extensive to homes, trees, and wildlife. 3. A kindly woman looked out her back window that morning, and lo, she did behold a most distressing sight. 4. On the lawn in her small back yard sat a turkey vulture. It seemed to be injured. Nearby, on her fence, another turkey vulture sat watching the injured bird. 5. The kindly lady went out into her yard, and verily the injured vulture did not fly. The other vulture did fly, but only to a nearby tree. When the lady went back inside, the vulture that could fly returned to the fence. 6. Thinking quickly, and being of a supremely holy temperament, the lady brought a space heater from her living room, and too, she brought an extension cord. 7. The holy lady did set up in her back yard the space heater and left it where the injured vulture could approach. As the lady watched from the window, and the other vulture from the fence, the injured vulture approached the space heater and did stand near to it. 8. The lady saw what she had done and thought it good. 9. After a period of 30 minutes had passed, the injured vulture spread its wings and flew to the fence. Lo and behold, its wings were not injured but frozen. They needed only to thaw in order for it to fly again. 10. The whole time the frozen vulture was thawing, its mate sat patiently on the fence, watching. When the frozen vulture was able to fly, the pair flew off together. 11. Therefore I say to thee, he who pair bonds is holy like unto the vulture, for he will raise fine chicks and live in a secure tree and eat the thickest intestines. 12. He will dwell all his days with a companion who will not desert him in time of need, nay, but stay closely at his side through danger, toil, and snare. 13. But he who cleaves not to the pair bond will be last to the feast. He will find only bones and ants where once lay fine, thick intestines. He will curse and gnash his beak, saying, "Wherefore is my mate, and my chicks, and my nest? For all is gone, and I have only bones and ants for my sustenance."
The word of Anne for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
My profile picture on this site was taken at the very first East Coast Vulture Festival. It was one of the most rapturous evenings of my entire life. Imagine being buzzard besotten for a lifetime, and discovering that a charming little town just 10 miles away has been honored by massive numbers of vultures, wintering in the trees! And the town parents (note gender neutrality), instead of shooting said vultures, celebrates them with an annual festival!
Seriously, if this festival was in Cleveland, I would go to it. Don't believe me? I've been to the Hinckley Buzzard Day. Wenonah, New Jersey is ever so much more convenient.
EXHIBIT A: VULTURES KETTLING IN WENONAH, NJ, 2009
Buzzard Week has crept up on me this year. I've never been busier! But that's no excuse for neglecting religious observance.
Here's how our Holy Buzzard Festival proceeds:
In the afternoon we have a vulture-themed party for children, free of charge. There's nothing more uplifting than winning young minds and hearts for worship of the Sacred Thunderbird, Peace Eagle of the Sky. I will be at the children's program in full vulture regalia. (Last year it was 70 degrees. I almost passed out. It's called suffering for your faith.)
This year the evening Ritual includes the usual uplifting sermon on the important role vultures play in our ecosystem. Then we will have some musical numbers from a local vulture-friendly folk singer. Then a display of wildlife (including a Sacred Turkey Vulture Thunderbird Peace Eagle). After that we will have a drum ceremony from Native Americans. That's right, I'm not making this up. A real Native American drum performance to honor the Sacred Thunderbird etc. etc. etc! I am quite sure the congregation will be uplifted ... ummmm ... well, we want to be uplifted, anyway. We love buzzards! Nothing more uplifting than a vulture, don't you think?
As time permits this week, I will post pictures of previous ceremonies and helpful tips for your personal Vulture Worship. If you are wondering whether or not vultures qualify as bored gods ... absolutely, yes! See the light! Those things on the shoulder of Route 40 aren't ugly buzzards, they're Sacred Peace Eagles, cleansing the earth and keeping it pure for all living things!
Remember, vultures don't mess with living things. Not even little kittens. Vultures are peace on the wing. Watch them fly and ask yourself how great it is to be stuck on the ground.
All hail the Sacred Thunderbird! Long may the Peace Eagle reign!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," live from my desktop! Bring on the pictures, the bells and whistles, the vlogs and YouTube links! I'm back online!
Here and now, I would be remiss if I did not thank my dear friend, Sufficiently Twisted, for his computer expertise. He saved this ship. What could I possibly do for him in return? I let him use my Facebook account to drive his battle power on Castle Age. One good turn deserves another!
Please, though ... If you're my Facebook friend, don't think for one minute it was me slaying the dreaded Hydra. I've had Hydras as pets, and they're great. You save a lot of money on fuel bills, and they really don't eat that much. I feed them Rice Krispy Treats.
Seriously, if you could keep a magickal pet, what would it be? I think I'd like something I could fly around on. Maybe a Super Vulture. That sounds swell. Nice bald buzzard with a 15-foot wingspan. I would be chippin!
Speaking of vultures, it's time to mark your calendars for the busy "Gods Are Bored" spring season! First, coming up very shortly on March 6 is the annual East Coast Vulture Festival, our yearly gathering of buzzard devotees. Won't you join us? This year's program is a Native American drum group. Seriously, I could use a spotter at this event, because I may swoon. Native Americans praising their sacred Peace Eagle! Be still my beating heart. And yes, I will be "suiting up" as the vulture mascot again. I'm humbled at the prospect.
From Vulture Fest it's only a short burst of incredibly debilitating teaching until the Spoutwood Fairie Festival! Oh my, I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to this event! My daughter The Spare and I already have our room booked at the nearest hotel (we don't do the camping thing). Won't we all be ready for spring by May Day? Now go and look at your calendar. Beltaine is on Saturday this year! So, come one, come all, to Glen Rock, PA. Meet and greet me there! I'm hard to miss. I'm the leader of the Mountain Tribe. And this year ... we WILL rock you!
Frankly, I'm finding this year to be one of the most trying of my entire life. The prospect of my annual festivals and revels keeps me hopeful that all will be well, and that all that is well will be wonderful.
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Please pardon our appearance during remodeling!
I am working on my new netbook. Her name is Little Scratch. She is very quirky. She has eaten my copy three times.
This afternoon I did a little buzzarding down in Wenonah. I forgot to take Little Scratch along. When I learn how to use her, I will be able to film the Wenonah buzzards on her. But that will take time. Lil Scratch is quirky.
My desktop got a virus that mined my addresses and sent problems to some of my addressees. If you got an email from me regarding Facebook, delete that puppy.
One of the people who got the email had her computer crash on her. So she sent me a nasty email, as if I deliberately sneezed on her and gave her the grippe. Would I purposefully seek to destroy other people's computers, trashing mine in the process? Bamp! No.
It's baffling to me that people sit around thinking of ways to harm other people's computers, but some people are like that. We basically stink as a species. You don't see a rogue buzzard ripping the roost branches out from other buzzards' feet. I guess they fight over carcasses, but that's logical. Not much logic to people. Not much at all.
It has taken me 30 minutes to type this short post, so I will close by thanking the Goddess Luna for her exquisite delicate thin curve. And by reminding you, my dear reader, that when the going gets tough ... go watch the buzzards.
I am working on my new netbook. Her name is Little Scratch. She is very quirky. She has eaten my copy three times.
This afternoon I did a little buzzarding down in Wenonah. I forgot to take Little Scratch along. When I learn how to use her, I will be able to film the Wenonah buzzards on her. But that will take time. Lil Scratch is quirky.
My desktop got a virus that mined my addresses and sent problems to some of my addressees. If you got an email from me regarding Facebook, delete that puppy.
One of the people who got the email had her computer crash on her. So she sent me a nasty email, as if I deliberately sneezed on her and gave her the grippe. Would I purposefully seek to destroy other people's computers, trashing mine in the process? Bamp! No.
It's baffling to me that people sit around thinking of ways to harm other people's computers, but some people are like that. We basically stink as a species. You don't see a rogue buzzard ripping the roost branches out from other buzzards' feet. I guess they fight over carcasses, but that's logical. Not much logic to people. Not much at all.
It has taken me 30 minutes to type this short post, so I will close by thanking the Goddess Luna for her exquisite delicate thin curve. And by reminding you, my dear reader, that when the going gets tough ... go watch the buzzards.
