A Bird in the Hand Goes Back to the Bush

Hello fellow Appalachia enthusiasts!

     The sun is out, the days are long, and spring is in the air! This is my favorite time of year for several reasons. The days are longer, and that little bit of extra sunlight makes me feel like a new person. Secondly, everything will soon be green again, and there are lots of flowers in my near future. My third reason for loving spring is also my favorite, which is BABY ANIMALS! I've been seeing baby squirrels scampering around campus, and I figured today would be a great day to share with you some of my baby animal rescue stories!

     If you've spent any amount of time in the rural regions of Appalachia (Nicholas County, WV, for me), then I know you know someone who is involved in the logging business. My Uncle Don was a timber cutter for most of his life, and my dad has been grading lumber for the last two decades. How does this tie into baby animals? Well, where there's woods, there's animals, and lots of them! (Grammatical transgressions were intentional there.) Pretty much 99.9999% of my rescues were obtained this way. Today, I'm going to fondly reminisce on the days of chasing around some rambunctious raccoons, a darling deer, and a buoyant baby bird!

     Let me just start with saying raccoons are my favorite animals to ever exist. If someone came up to me today with 20 raccoons that needed somewhere to stay, I would take every last one of them and probably lose the deposit on this apartment, but it would be worth it. I bought an antique raccoon piggy bank at an antique store last weekend, and it's the best thing I've ever bought.

But alas, this isn't a blog about piggy banks, and I seem to be completely off topic. Back to the baby animals! 

     I've had 6 raccoons in total, all products of the logging industry, but I'm going to tell you about the most recent litter. Raccoons like to build their nests in trees, where they keep a litter of 2-5 kits. When a tree has been cut and starts to fall, the mother jumps out (sadly, she usually gets killed in the fall), but the babies are usually still in the nest, unharmed but orphaned. This is where I come in.

     The three raccoons I'm going to tell you about were about 6 weeks old when they came into my life. I named them Ruby, Nona, and Winslow. Some kitten bottles and kitten formula worked quite well for them, however, I only had 2 hands, and 3 very hungry raccoons. I don't know if you've ever met a raccoon, but their disposition is a little less than courteous when they're hungry, and I spent most of feeding time breaking up a fight, because no one wanted to wait their turn. Thankfully, they were soon ready to try out some solid food, but that was a whole new ballgame. I decided to give them one of those big cans of glazed fruit, which they loved, but my raccoons were also glazed before the meal was finished. That meant bath-time. Have you ever bathed 3 crabby raccoons that were still fighting over a chunk of pineapple? It's not an easy process. 

Winslow. My Uncle Don is in the background.

     I took my raccoons everywhere with me. They like a small, dark place to sleep, and a bowling ball bag serves this purpose quite well. I kept their kitten bottles in the pockets on the side. I can't even describe the looks that people would give me when my bowling ball bag started chirping and occasionally snarling. (Siblings fight, you know?) They were quite cuddly...just not to each other when food was involved. 

     Soon after the arrival of my raucous raccoon trio, came Arthur, the deer. He was found on the road next to his dead mother, who had been hit by a log truck. Regular cow's milk in a regular bottle worked well for him. Before I knew it, anywhere I walked, I had a perfectly straight line behind me consisting of 3 raccoons and a fawn.

Family Portrait

  As the raccoons got bigger, they started wondering further and further away, and they eventually just returned to the wild. It was sad, but also wonderful, because that was the goal. The deer stuck around for a few years, where he roamed the neighborhood and got fat on snack cakes. He was very playful, kind of like a baby goat....if a baby goat had antlers and weighed 100+ pounds. He was very sweet and loving, and this would ultimately be his downfall. You can literally put an orange hunting vest on a deer, but that doesn't mean much to some people in Cabela's country. Some people just can't help but to eat their neighbor's pet. Let's not go in that direction. Let's just remember the sweetness and playfulness of Arthur the deer.

     

     I believe I also promised you a story about a baby bird. Every year, the pine trees in my parents' yard are overflowing with birds and their babies. A fledgling leaving the nest isn't really a huge deal, their mother will feed them, and they'll eventually figure out their wings. However, this was not an option for the little robin who ended up in my yard. At the time, we had a Boston Terrier, a killer of all things that encroached on her territory. I tried to return this bird to the tree. I nailed a butter-bowl to a tree, and I left the bird there nearly all day. No luck. So I brought it in, and made it a nest in the butter-bowl and spent the next two weeks of my life chopping up nightcrawlers into bite-size pieces. Its name was Milo, and rescuing a baby bird is quite an undertaking. The sun would start to rise, and Milo would start to chirp. I had to get out of bed, and start chopping up the nightcrawlers. Baby birds are hungry constantly, so I was chopping up worms and feeding it every hour until sundown.

     About a week after I took this bird in, it had actual feathers, not those bony pinfeathers. I, a flightless mammal, needed to teach Milo, a winged bird, how to fly. This was a problem, but the solution was quite simple. A mother bird pushes them out of the nest to make them fly, I just had to recreate that. I would take Milo to my grandma's house (away from cats and dogs), and taught my bird to fly. It started with sitting on the ground with her perched on my finger, and just quickly yanking my finger downward, instinctively making the bird flap its wings. I kept doing this, holding it up a little higher each time. Eventually, I could give it a little toss (from a sitting position), and it would take off. During the following week, I had a bird, flying around my room, following me from side-to-side. 

     This was early summer, and one day I decided to go to a friend's graduation. Whenever I left the house, I would put Milo in a hanging cage on the porch, so that it would be a little more familiar with the outdoors when it came time to return to the wild. While I was gone, my mother called to tell me there was a big robin feeding my little robin through the cage, and it was just freaking out. I returned home, locked up the dog, and opened Milo's cage. It initially flew onto the roof where the big robin was squawking, and they both flew back to the pine trees. Once again, I was very sad, but still happy that I had saved a bird and watched it fly back to the wild. It was a great day. 

    *If you find an injured or orphaned animal, I strongly encourage you to call a wildlife crisis center or your local DNR. Wild animals belong in the wild and should stay there if possible. Wild animals do not make good pets. The animals I rescued required constant attention, and I would not recommend it to someone that doesn't have the time or patience.  

Do you have any Appalachian wildlife stories? Have you ever found a rattlesnake in your sleeping bag or a possum on your porch? I'd love to hear about it at mountainbloodwv@gmail.com

March's Featured Appalachian!

     If time permits, I would like to do a monthly appreciation post for some folks who have lived/worked/shaped Appalachia. I figured a great place to start would be with my paternal grandfather, with whom I am very close, Gilbert Eugene Thomas, or as we've always called him Papaw Gene.

     Gene Thomas was born in 1941 in Craigsville, West Virginia. His parents were Brady and Edna Thomas, and he was the fifth of seven children. They lived on a farm, and everyone had their chores to attend to before and after school, such as feeding the animals and working in the corn field. School was the type of one room schoolhouse, lunch in a tin bucket, walking a mile in your bare feet sort of setup. 

     Gene attended school up to the 11th grade before joining his father and older brothers in the coal mines. He married Alice Griffith in 1965, and they moved to Columbus, Ohio soon after, where he drove a freight truck. While in Columbus, their first son (my father), Dave was born. When Dave was 1, they moved back to Craigsville, WV. They had two more children, and eventually they ended up in the house that I would grow up in. 

Gene and Alice

   Gene and Alice were married for 30 years. After their divorce, they both remarried, but they remain good friends. Gene continued working in the mines for over 35 years. From what I understand, he was never involved in any sort of major accident, but he tells me he still has nightmares about the mines caving in. He was never drafted for the war due to a heart complication he got from having measles as a child. 

Left to right: Gene and his 3 children, Shelly, John, and Dave.

     Now that I've given you some background, let's get to the fun stuff. For awhile after his divorce, my Papaw Gene lived in a camper in my backyard, where I eagerly waited for him to return from the night shift early in the morning to take me for walks. We walked up the road to where his friend lived. He was a beagle breeder of sorts, and his name was Shotgun. Hounds and Shotgun, I kid you not. He used to babysit us after school, (at this point we lived a few houses apart in the same neighborhood), and I broke my arm riding a bike down the hill behind his house. 

     

Gene and granddaughter Bethany (me!) in 1996??? 

    I'd also like to mention how my grandpa is essentially immortal. Like I said, he survived 30+ years in the coal mines (under canary-style safety regulations). He also was pretty banged up when a tire he was filling exploded, and he was hit head on by a drunk driver in a cloth-top Jeep. He came away from all that relatively unscathed. Granted, he has the usual health issues you'd expect a 72-year-old to have, but to call him a tough old bird would be an understatement. 

Gene and granddaughter Bethany (me!)  in 2014.

      I call him about 3 times a week, and he always takes me out to lunch when I'm in town for a visit. He's pretty rascally, and he always slips me some "lipstick money" before I go back to school. He hates snakes, loves Brussels sprouts, and he has a tall tale for almost any topic you can think of. He's grandpa to all the kids in the neighborhood, but he has 8 biological grandchildren, and 1 great-grandchild. 

Gene and great-granddaughter Bristol.

      In summary, my grandpa is one of my all time favorite people, and I'll bid you farewell with one of his favorite phrases: "Don't take no wooden nickels!" 

Do you have a story about your favorite Appalachian? Do you have pictures or stories you'd like to share? Feel free to get in touch at mountainbloodwv@gmail.com.

The Maple Syrup Festival and The Leper Grave.

     Greetings! Welcome to my first post! This weekend is the 31st West Virginia Maple Syrup Festival in the remote town of Pickens, WV. I didn't get to go to it this year, but I went last year with my parents and brother. The drive there was pretty interesting, because it's a 12 mile dirt road through the middle of nowhere. We were all packed into my mom's Ford Escape, and we had to pull off the road multiple times to let dirtbikes, fourwheelers, and various other types of ATVs pass. It was a mild, muddy day in mid-March, and the tingle of spring was in everyone's blood...these ATV riders, especially. The long scenic drive on the narrow mountain road was probably my favorite part of the journey. I love long rides.

     So, we pull into the festival and the parking lot was just a muddy hole in the ground from all the ATV activity. The town of Pickens is situated on the side of a hill, I wish I had thought to take pictures. It was about like any other themed festival you see in West Virginia. You had your chainsaw carving going on, kettle corn stands, bouncy houses, local vendors, quilt shows, and what have you.

     My mother usually buys us little souvenirs on our family outings. My brother and I both got suckers made from local maple syrup. It was a little sweet for my liking, but such is the nature of any syrup. I also bought an all natural hand lotion from one of the craft vendors. The sticker on the bottle reads: "Exclusive Pastime Creations From West Virginia, Mountain Arts, Crafts, and Products from The Hills." (I am not affiliated with these people, I just bought some lotion.) It smells exactly like "Love Spell" from Victoria's Secret, and the only ingredients are shea butter, cocoa butter, vitamin E, aloe, honey, and yarrow. The Google machine tells me yarrow is a flowering plant native to temperate regions. All in all, this festival was a nice way to spend an afternoon. I think it's worth mentioning that my dad ate an unopened KitKat he found on the ground.

      Since we're on the topic of Pickens, I'm going to share their local legend with you. The sad tale of the local leper. I'd heard about him growing up, because my dad knew people from the town who grew up hearing his story. ALLEGEDLY, he was ostracized by the entire community and was thrown the occasional chicken, and his house was with him and everything in it was torched upon his death. That part is pure legend, I can't say if there is any factual basis to that, but I did look up the Picken's Leper so I could share a more official story with you.

     According to wvencyclopedia.org, this man was named George Rashid. He came to America from Syria in 1902, He was a railroad worker in Maine when he first started noticing the symptoms, and he tried to hide his condition with long sleeves and gloves. He and his wife eventually ended up in Elkins, WV, working for his brother. In time, Rashid tried to return home, believing that swimming across the River of Jordan would heal him. He was apprehended and sent to the remote town of Pickens. This article doesn't comment on whether he lived as an outcast, but a doctor named James L. Cunningham cared for him. He discovered Rashid also had a heart condition mitral stenosis, and that is believed to be the cause of his death, not the leprosy.

     I'm not sure if his grave serves as a tourist attraction, but there is a sign in town that points toward the "leper grave." If anyone has any information about George Rashid they'd like to share, feel free to email me via the address on the homepage. I welcome feedback. Thanks for reading!