THE THING between me and bald eagles started in the early seventies in London, Ontario, and involved my brother and a parakeet named Budgie. What brought us together with the parrot was what drove us apart in the past, and that was my brother’s allergies to everything.
When I was young, I was crazy about animals. Not having a pet of my own, it was great to spend summer vacations with relatives who did. On my mother’s side of the family, that meant hanging out with my cousin Julie – who lived on a farm and had horses, dogs, cats, and kittens. When we were together, we’d spend every waking minute outside. One of our favorite activities was pretending we were characters from The Big Valley television series. I was Nick, the hot-tempered middle son who always wore black. Julie was Heath, the hot-tempered younger son who was illegitimate. We’d spend hours riding her horses, chasing bad guys away from “Hill Ranch.” When we weren’t pretending to be cowboys, we were just little girls, chasing and cuddling baby barn kittens. I was thrilled when I got to “adopt” one, which meant me naming and then leaving it at my cousin’s house, because my poor brother was allergic to animals.
We learned this when I was seven and briefly “owned” a stray, slightly feral cat. I was a regular pet-beggar and thus thrilled with our acquisition of Poodadra. She was a beautiful, long-furred, green-eyed creature who loved to be admired from a distance. She spent a lot of time getting out of the house and up into trees, from which she had to be rescued. She didn’t like car rides, being brushed or held, which, I guess, didn’t make her much of a “pet,” but I didn’t know any better, or really care, because when she did allow me to hold and pet her it was HEAVEN! Unfortunately, my brother was hypersensitive to Poodadra so we had to give her away.
So, being able to “adopt” Punkernoodle from my cousin, Julie, was not really the same as having a pet, but it was the closest I was going to get. At home, I would pretend my stuffed kitty was her and that she lived in my bedroom. Once, I wrote a poem in her honor.
Punkernoodle
I have a cat named Punkernoodle.
Her favorite dish is apple strudel.
She eats it all,
While in the hall.
My cat named Punkernoodle.
To compensate for my longing for the actual Punkernoodle, I’d make the rounds in my neighborhood, visiting dogs and cats that lived close to me. I’d play with them when opportunity arose, but it wasn’t the same as having a pet of my own.
I guess my brother agreed because one Mother’s Day we decided to get our mother a parakeet as a surprise. Apparently, he was not allergic to birds. My mother probably thought it was sweet when we asked to go shopping with her. In fact, I’m sure she was very touched because my brother and I didn’t really play together and usually avoided any opportunity to do so. I imagine she thought her two little angels were going to pick out something special – together – for the upcoming Mother’s Day.
At the store, we executed our plan. We quickly ditched our mother, found the pet department, and bought a budgie bird. The store attendant placed the parakeet in a box with handles so we could bring her home. It looked like a Happy Meal container from McDonalds. I can’t remember if we bought food. I know we didn’t purchase a cage. Somehow we smuggled our package into the car and got it back to the house. We put it under my brother’s bed and peeked excitedly at the bird for the rest of the day.
Being extremely clever and subtle children, my mother suspected something was up. We agreed to give her our “present” early, which resulted in a second trip to the store so my mother could buy a cage, food, toys, etc. As far as we were concerned, this was the BEST Mother’s Day ever. We were now proud owners of a PET – that we could hold!
Goldfish had never been good substitutes for Poodadra and Punkernoodle, but the bird was. We employed our vast creativity and named the bird Budgie. Like any respectable children, we fought over who “got” to feed the bird and who “had” to change the papers, but we never argued over letting Budgie out of the cage so she could be free.
Once liberated, she would fly briefly around the room and then perch on the curtains. We’d try vainly to get her to land on our fingers, spending hours standing in the middle of the room with our arm and index finger extended. Budgie would fly from room to room but never on to our hot little hands. Apparently, the concept of being held was foreign to her, domestication not being a part of Aves evolution.
We had a few Budgies over time, but with apologies to my bird owner friends, it never seemed right. As kids, we were sure our parakeet loved being a part of our family. However, the type of cuddly bond we were looking for was not reciprocated by any parrot we ever owned. If given the choice, every one of them would have voted for out of the cage and into the sky, their flight producing the lift of freedom necessary to counter the gravity of our need to possess them.
Owning birds showed me the value of liberty and established in me a life-long, deep-seated love of all birds. Not as a collector of “life-lists” or “pets,” but as a lover of their feathery magic – lustrous plumage, melodious communication, aerial locomotion.
I was a slightly older child, in school and living in the United States, when I learned the Bald Eagle was a symbol of American freedom. I don’t remember the first time I saw a Bald Eagle. I’d like to think it was on a family fishing vacation to the French River, south of Sudbury in Ontario, during one of the interminably long fishing excursions I enjoyed (endured?) as a kid. However, this is unlikely because the Bald Eagle was an endangered species then. Having endured loss of nesting habitat due to farming and direct human predation, it was almost finished off by the pesticide DDT and pollution by chemical PCBs. Of course, legislative protection and conservation have allowed the species to bounce back.
As an adult, I’ve seen Bald Eagles in natural settings all over the United States and Canada. Clustered in large numbers, I’ve seen them twice.
Once was in Seward, Alaska after a fishing trip, on the pier as the commercial fish catches were being cleaned. There they were, lined up on various pilings like seagulls anywhere else, waiting for their turn at the fish guts. You get a real feeling for their size when they are only a short dock segment away from you. And since adult female birds in Alaska can have a wingspan of 8 ft (according to a Wikipedia source) you have to respect their space.
The second time was when I spotted six eagles flying together above our beach in Harvey, Michigan. This was a personal best sighting for me in the UP – especially since one of the birds was a Golden Eagle.
At that moment, and every single time I see an eagle, I have a slightly mystical experience. It’s a feeling of soul-stretching that transcends time and space and links me to the eagle and to everything else.
There is no insecurity in the eagle’s existence as an apex predator. Their majesty is reflected in a perfect alignment of existence, purpose, and execution. To be touched by an eagle’s gaze is to be anointed by the universe.
How do we humans measure up to their example? Have we achieved perfect self-possession and centering? At our core, we are the predator of predators. Lacking inherent physiological ability, we’ve used our large brains to create weapons, traps, and trickery to subdue every creature on earth. We should be regal beyond measure, surpassing any creature who has ever lived. Do we possess the same solidity of character as eagles?
Or, is to be human to be insecure, at the mercy of our limbic system, questioning everything as if there are no innate absolutes exemplified in nature? The eagle mates for life, raises their young, kills or pirates food for subsistence, protects their family, engages in a limited social structure. The organic certainties of their existence are not sullied by an infinite complexity of choices, which are the beauty and the bain of human existence. Eagles are here to propagate their species and to live out the natural course of their lives – not for power, greed, acquisition, fame, wealth, or even happiness. It is enough for them to exist.
When I see an eagle, or a combination of eagles, I take it as a sign. If I’m feeling well, it is an affirmation. If I’m feeling out of alignment, it is a reminder of the mutuality and connectivity of all life. That I am free to be free.
When I saw the six eagles, circling together in the sky above our beach, I was thinking of my family, brooding over one child or another. I spotted the first one and then watched as it was joined by 3 others and then again by two more. As if the child I was considering, like the first eagle, was alone and then not, joined by siblings and then by parents.
Some would say you can assign meaning to anything and I’m fine with that. We give value to experience based on the history of our lives. Eagle sightings remind me to be a better person, to execute the basics, and to not sweat the small stuff. They remind me to live in my nobility, that the higher purpose of life is right before us.