Peter Pan, and growing up

            Long before I was a writer, I was a reader. I have my mother to thank for that. When my sister and I were in grade school, our mother brought home stacks of library books for us to read.

            One of those books my mother brought me stands out in my mind as the first one I read. I don't know if it really was the first. Memory plays strange tricks on a person.

            The true first may have been a Little Golden Book. Or a Nancy Drew mystery. Or Marshmallow, Clare Turlay Newberry's delightful story about a housecat who befriends a rabbit. But I don't remember actually reading that story. What I do recall is gazing at Newberry's gauzy illustrations of cat and bunny over and over again.

            Others, like Charlotte's Web and A Wrinkle in Time, came later.           

            Stretching back through time, this is the earliest one I can recall reading. Not just looking at pictures and piecing together words or phrases, but really reading and absorbing the story in my mind.

            How old was I? In my emotional memory, first or second grade feels right, but given the sophistication and violence of the story, that's probably too young. Fourth grade feels too late, yet is probably the correct time frame.

            My mother handed the book to me. "You know how much you love Peter Pan? Well, this is the book. It's not just a children's book. It's such a good story that grown-ups enjoy reading it, too. I still love it even now."

By Photographer-Rothschild, Los Angeles (eBay item front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

            Mom's reference to the Peter Pan I knew was not the Disney cartoon, but the Broadway musical. It was broadcast for years on NBC TV, and we had the record at home. My parents indulged me by playing the record on our hi-fi, though I'm sure not as often as I would've liked. Somewhere between the ages of 3 and 5, I had every song memorized.

            I'd forgotten about this until, during a visit with my family in Indiana a few years ago, my mother mentioned it to me. "You used to sing those songs for your grandparents," she said.

            Feeling strangely embarrassed, I joked, "Oh, those poor people!"

            "No, no, they loved it! Your grandmother was amazed at how you could sing every single song. You knew all the words, and you could even sing them in the same voices as the singers. You sounded just like them."

By Jerome Robbins/Winter Garden (eBay item front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

            So the exuberant voice of Mary Martin was my backdrop for the book on which the musical was based.

            As I opened the dusty, cloth-bound cardboard cover and turned to the first page, I wasn't sure what to expect. Somehow, I knew it would be different. I understood that hearing a story sung on a stage had to be vastly different from reading it in words on a page.

            I couldn't have articulated it then, but as I came to realize later on, musicals take only the most obvious elements of a story and transform them into another art form using acting, sets, costumes, choreography and, of course, music and lyrics.

            Musicals tend to bypass the subtle nuances of literature because they're not needed on a stage. There, a different world is created for the audience using tangible props. In a book, the author must somehow create that world in the mind of the reader using only words.

            I remember being transfixed by the much bigger and richer fantasy world J.M. Barrie had created in the book, compared to what I knew of the musical. There were mermaids here! I didn't remember them being in the musical.

            And, of course, central to the story was the stubbornly defiant Peter Pan. Something about the child refusing to grow up has resonated within me throughout adulthood, as I struggled to be professional in a world where I didn't agree with all the rules. Or as I searched for a soulmate in a world where the mysteries of relationships always seemed beyond my understanding.

            As a child, I didn't know much about what happened beyond my safe, little world. I felt secure in the belief that there was an invisible shield of protection surrounding all children. This was reinforced by many of the cartoons, comic books and movies of the time. The children always came out OK in the end.

            But the dangers threatening these children seemed much more real, more malevolent, than the predictable, melodramatic antics of the stage version. Even though I knew how the story went in the musical, I still worried about what was going to happen to the children. I wasn't entirely sure they would come out OK in the end. All through the book, I sensed this vague, nagging fear of betrayal. Betrayal by the author, who promised a happy ending, but delivered something else.

            Finally, I got to the last page. Instead of closing the book, I kept reading that page over and over again, certain I'd missed something. I vividly recall a feeling I wasn't accustomed to: gloom. Surely this wasn't the end. It couldn't be!

            This story didn't have a happy ending. Not the kind I was accustomed to, anyway. And certainly not the kind I wanted. No triumphant curtain call, that's for sure.

            It wasn't exactly the betrayal I was expecting. No disaster befell any of the children. Wendy, John and Michael made it home, safe and sound.

            Barrie's betrayal was more insidious than that. Rather than assuming the relentlessly cheerful tone I had come to expect from children's literature, the story was bittersweet. The characters experienced pain which was not resolved in a satisfying way.

            And in the end – the ending being not a specific cut-off point, but rather a road disappearing into an endless horizon – Peter Pan stayed a boy, free from all the burdens of adulthood, while the other children kept growing up and, as the book implied but never stated outright, facing their mortality.

            I remember thinking there was something inherently unfair about this. Why couldn't everyone remain a child, free and forever untroubled?

            I also remember thinking that if this is what it meant to be an adult, then maybe I didn't want to grow up, either.

            When I spotted Peter Pan on a bookstore shelf a few years ago, I thought maybe it was time to read the story again, as an adult. And as I read, I was surprised to discover many of my childhood memories of Peter Pan confirmed.

            The fantasy world of the Neverland was still magical and rich, yet menacing. And I was still struck by the idea that a literary work could be adapted and done equally well, though differently, as a musical.

            The main difference between then and now is that I realized what a self-centered, narcissistic, shallow person Peter Pan was. And maybe that's to be expected. I'm an adult now. My ability to empathize with others has grown far beyond what it was then.

            When I was a child, Peter Pan was worthy of admiration. Now, I find myself offended by his selfishness.

            I'm struck now by how human the story is, focusing on very real flaws in both the children and adults. The interesting thing is that as a child, I don't think I perceived the faults in the children (or, at least, I didn't see them as faults). But, of course, I immediately recognized the flaws in the adults.

            I was quick to hold the adults responsible and blame them for their mistakes and failures, but unable to do the same with the children.

            I suspect that's because I was one of those children who are "gay and innocent and heartless." I didn't understand that line then ... especially that last word. Heartless. I do now.

            Now, I see Peter Pan not only as a testament to the joys of childhood, but a warning not to stay mired there. If we seek only the immediate gratification we sought as children, then we will never grow as people.

            Peter Pan may have been happy to avoid the responsibilities of adulthood. But he missed so much of the joy that comes with aging. Our culture does not teach that. But the truth is, if we work at it and learn as we go, growing older means finding peace within ... and with other people.

            If we refuse to allow that kind of inner contemplation and reflection, then how can we ever find our place in the world?

            I used to be a kind of Peter Pan, myself. I resisted growing up. As a result, I often felt I didn't fit in. Now that I'm not putting up such a fight, I find so much more satisfaction in living and learning with people.

            I haven't completely put away the fantasy world. I am, after all, a writer. But I have finally grown up.

            And it feels good.

            As I've discovered, responsibility doesn't have the negative connotations I once thought it did. The responsibility we have as adults is very much the same as that of children: simply to live.

            The difference is that we have learned to live not only for ourselves, but also with others. We've discovered that there is pain, but also great joy, in sharing our lives – our selves – with other people.

            That's not a burden. It's a blessing.

Too easy

Continuing on with last month's musical theme, I've been practicing my C clarinet, and getting better. Many thanks to Forbes and Yola Christie and Windward Flutes, who made my B-flat clarinet look as pretty as it plays! Pit Band is not as challenging for me now as it was at my first rehearsal, but I'm still working to get my embouchure back in shape, and also coaxing my fingers to keep up with my brain ... or is it the other way around?

I assembled both clarinets and put them side-by-side. Given that they're only a half-step apart, I'm surprised by the size difference:

That's the C clarinet on our left, the B-flat on our right. Both are brands I'd never heard of before. The C is an Amati-Kraslice ACL 351 Series II, manufactured by a Czech company. It plays sharp, which is a first for me. The Buffet my parents bought me for my birthday, back in high school, tended to play flat. (Sharp is better, because at least you can lengthen the instrument by pulling out the barrel and bell, thus lowering your pitch. If you're playing flat, then there's nowhere to go except to tighten your embouchure and try to lip the pitch up.)

The B-flat clarinet is an Artley 72S, manufactured by Selmer. It has a surprisingly warm, resonant sound, not what I would have expected from a beginner's instrument. I'm hoping it will play better in tune than the Amati. The Amati was in pristine condition, while the Artley had some cosmetic damage to its black finish, which Forbes and Yola fixed. Both play beautifully; any sound problems are due to the player, not the instrument! Many thanks to Robbie Smith, whose late Uncle Robert played these clarinets. It was through Robbie that I acquired them, and it has been a joy to return to playing music again.

Last month, while Rick and I were visiting my parents in Evansville, Indiana, we walked to H&H Music and picked up a couple of boxes of clarinet reeds, two Rubank "Advanced Method" books and, after much hemming and hawing, sheet music for the last solo I played as a university student: Paul Hindemith's Sonata for Clarinet and Piano. I have been slogging through it, slowly ... very slowly. I still marvel that I mastered its first two movements all those years ago:

I also searched for the sheet music for my first solo, back in eighth grade at Clark Junior High School: "Polovstian Dance" from Prince Igor by Alexander Borodin. No, not the hard one. This melody was reworked for the song "Stranger in Paradise" from the 1953 musical, Kismet:

During my eighth-grade year, we were in our second year in Vincennes, Indiana. My father had been a junior high/high school band director for most of his professional life, but decided to take a different career path: university-level teacher education and counseling. This meant big changes for our entire family. "Home" was in flux for three years. First we moved to Terre Haute so that Dad could attend Indiana State University. Then we moved back to Columbus for a year, then back to Terre Haute for another year.

After that last year in Terre Haute, we moved to Vincennes, where Dad taught at Vincennes University. But he still had more of his own schoolwork to do. He'd completed his master's degree and was now writing his dissertation so that he could earn his doctorate. This meant lots of weekend trips to Terre Haute.

On one of those trips, Dad took me to the music store in Terre Haute, to pick out my clarinet solo for solo/ensemble competition. (This might have been the time he, Mom and Janet surprised me by taking me to a Carpenters' concert at Indiana State University. The timing would fit: Oct. 28, 1972.) Dad thumbed through the sheet music, paused, flipped through pages, frowned and kept going, paused, flipped pages again, frowned, and so on. Finally he stopped, didn't frown, and seemed satisfied that he'd found the perfect piece for me.

"What do you think? Do you like it?"

I nodded. What else could I say? I saw that I could play it, and that was all that mattered to me. I didn't say so, but I felt happy that Dad had picked out this piece of music especially for me.

The following Monday, I took the sheet music to my eighth-grade band director, Don Barnes. Mr. Barnes hadn't yet taken on the iconic status he would assume in high school. (At that point it was Walt Anslinger, head band director at Vincennes Lincoln High School, who still loomed so large.)

I proudly presented Mr. Barnes with my sheet music, expecting him to be pleased that I already had my solo/ensemble piece chosen and ready to go. Instead, he asked, "Where did this come from?"

"My dad picked it out," I replied.

"Well ... why would you want to play this? It's too easy for you!" he exclaimed, then added, "It's my job to choose your solo/ensemble music."

Oh. This was my first encounter with the clash of egos that can erupt in the performing arts.

If I hadn't been a shy, nervous little eighth-grader, I might have said, "Tough. Get over it. He's my dad!"

I didn't, of course. But I didn't appreciate him putting me in the middle. Or casting a shadow over a good experience with my father. Or taking a lovely piece of music and turning it into something I questioned the rightness of, from that moment on.

I don't question it now. Dad's experience as a band director told him I needed a confidence-builder, and he was right. Anything more challenging would have improved me in practice ... but performance was a whole nother story. As I was to discover later on, stage fright robbed me of my technical proficiency, and sometimes of my ability to play altogether. Not exactly a growth experience for a young musician.

I'm going to find that sheet music, even if I have to order it online. It's not "too easy" for me now.

Music and notes

Back in 1983, when I put away my clarinet for good, it felt like a "been there, done that" moment. Time to move on.

My parents were both music majors at Indiana University in Bloomington, renowned for its music program. So naturally our parents expected that my sister, Janet, and I would play music, too. Janet is the far more accomplished musician in our family, a wonderful singer and flutist (though, I think as was the case with me, her flute-playing days are long behind her).

My experiences as a clarinetist are all over the map, due mainly to chronic stage fright, which prevented me from playing well as a soloist. But I also had a knack for ignoring technique and practicing as little as possible ... neither of which served me well, especially once I entered university in 1977.

Despite that, the saving grace of my high school years was band. My family moved a lot when I was a kid, and that inability to attach to a community and call it home has affected me throughout my life. Not all of it is bad. When it comes time to leave, as sometimes becomes necessary due to life's twists and turns, I think it's easier for me than it is for someone with deep roots in a certain place. For me, home is wherever I am.

In my younger years, though, I had not come to that level of acceptance. I didn't have many friends, and I was never one of the cool kids. So band became my refuge, the place where I could focus my energies toward a common goal and work together with a group, even if we were individuals going our separate ways as soon as rehearsal was over.

My junior high and high school years were spent in Vincennes, a small farming community in Indiana. I was not born and raised in Vincennes, and a term I have learned in Nova Scotia – "come-from-away" – was not used there ... but it might as well have been. If you were not from there, it didn't take long to learn that you were never really going to fit in. But again, there was where band helped. Being in that group helped me to fit in, in the only way I knew how.

There's a memorable line from M*A*S*H: "I can play the notes, but I cannot make the music." My small-town band had no business sounding as good as we did, but we had the gift of some amazing directors who moved heaven and earth to help us understand not only how to play the notes, but how to make music. Walter Anslinger, Don Barnes and Larry Stunkel each had his unique teaching style which helped us to learn and absorb what it meant to make music. (Here I will focus on the concert band side of things. Someday later I will talk about the marching band side of it, which led to drum corps, which led to my teaching color guard. That's a column for another day.)

I'm fortunate to have a recording of my high school wind ensemble playing "Lincolnshire Posy" by Percy Grainger. It was my freshman year, and Don Barnes had me play E-flat clarinet, rather than the B-flat I'd played up to that time. (On B-flat I would not have made the wind ensemble cut that year, and so I would have played in the much larger, but not as prestigious, concert band instead.) Mr. Barnes played us many recordings of the Eastman Wind Ensemble who, despite having only one player per part, sounded "like a pipe organ" due to their near-perfect intonation and balance. That was when I learned the importance of listening and playing in tune, and also the excitement of being part of a group where the sum was greater than its parts. I can listen to that recording of "Lincolnshire Posy" even now and wonder, "We played that well?" Yes, we did.

1979 UE wind emsemble concert; I'm in the foreground, with Dr. James Chandler in the background.

After high school, I attended the University of Evansville in southern Indiana. Things got off to a slow start my freshman year. There wasn't the energy and motivation among my fellow students I'd felt in high school. That surprised me. I thought going to university would mean taking it to the next level. With all that talent, surely things will be even better, right? It did happen, eventually, but not that first year. No one seemed inspired to do more than show up, go through the motions and earn a credit. Nothing more.

But by my senior year, things had changed, and the air was charged with expectation. We had an influx of younger students who were not willing to accept mediocrity. And our directors responded accordingly, taking us to heights I certainly never imagined ... but was thrilled to experience. That year I got to play not only in wind ensemble (directed by Dr. James Chandler), but also orchestra (directed by Dr. David Wright) and, something I'd always dreamed of, baritone saxophone in the second jazz ensemble (directed by Dr. Edwin Lacy). I'm happy to have recordings of everything we did that year, so occasionally I play those CDs and relive the fun, excitement and sheer joy of being part of a group where, once again, the sum was greater than its parts.

All three groups played exceedingly well that year, but the culmination of it all, for me, was the Concerto Concert on May 5, 1981. The Concerto Concert was an annual event, in which students auditioned to play a concerto solo with the orchestra. Normally there was only one soloist, but the judges that year could not decide between a field of exceptionally talented musicians. They were able to narrow it down to four soloists: Becky Schmitz on clarinet, playing Debussy's Première Rhapsodie; Danny Duncan on trumpet, playing Bloch's Proclamation; Laurie Hape singing
"Quel guardo, il cavaliere" from Donizetti's opera, Don Pasquale; and Debbie Henshaw on piano, playing Franck's Symphonic Variations.

The opening and closing pieces were hardly bookends: Brahms' Academic Festival Overture and Rimsky-Korsakov's Cappriccio Espagnol. Because our first-chair clarinetist, Becky, was first up with her concerto solo, she didn't play on the Brahms piece. So I, as second chair, moved up to first chair, and I got to have fun with some solos in that piece. Playing solos with a group has never bothered me. It was the terror of being the sole focus of attention, with just me and the accompanist, that got me down. So this was a challenge I enjoyed. It was easy for all of us to get caught up in the heraldic nature of the piece, and the audience enjoyed this start to a great concert.

Then Becky played, and she was superb. A perfectionist, I think Becky was not happy with her performance, but I was impressed by her fluent technique, resonant tone quality and ability to convey Debussy's fluttering, bird-like magic in this piece.

All of the other soloists performed magnificently. You could almost feel the "Can they top this?" anticipation with each round of applause.

Coming as it did at the tail-end of a very long concert, Cappriccio Espagnol could have been an afterthought, but no one was having that. It's a real roller coaster for the clarinets, transitioning back and forth between B-flat and A clarinets. Poor Becky, who had just been through the wringer with her concerto solo, had an equally daunting series of solos in this piece. But she nailed them, as did all the soloists showcased in this piece. I think we in the orchestra knew Cappriccio Espagnol was going to be something special as we were rehearsing it, and it was. As the last notes rang in the air, the audience rose to its feet ... and it wasn't a gratuitous standing ovation. The thunderous applause was genuine.

The next day, with the energy of that performance still coursing through me, I played at a workshop recital. Workshop recitals were held every Wednesday at noon, and were required for anyone taking music. You didn't necessarily have to do a senior recital (though I did ... big mistake), but you had to do one workshop recital every quarter. During my time at UE, I did not have my pick of accompanists. I was not one of the better soloists, and overworked pianists quickly filled their quota of soloists they were required to accompany. So I typically had disinterested accompanists, some of whom were less steady on their feet, musically, than I was.

But this year I got lucky. Matt Boatmon, a superbly talented organ major, had just transferred to UE from the Eastman School of Music. He was desperate for soloists to accompany, and my clarinet teacher, Dr. David Wright, snapped him up. And then I discovered the difference between having a disinterested accompanist and someone who cared and was motivated to work with Dr. Wright and me to make our performance the best it could be. Matt's energy was infectious, and he made me a better player. Not only that, but his skill and musicianship gave me a rock-solid foundation, so that meant I could focus on my job and not worry about his. It was a true collaboration, one that I realized I had not experienced before as a soloist.

Matt and I were scheduled last in a long lineup. It was nearing the end of the school year, so soloists were scrambling to get their time in. As I waited my turn I paced, as I always did, unable to make small talk with anyone. I couldn't relax, but I also didn't have that sinking feeling I usually had before a solo performance. I felt our preparation was enough to carry me through. And it did.

We played two movements from Hindemith's Sonate. Now, if you know Paul Hindemith's music, then you know it's far from traditional. There's lots of syncopation and quirky rhythms. It's really more of a clarinet/piano duet, with the piano "accompaniment" actually being harder than the solo clarinet part, which is why it's so important to have someone capable of taking it on. Matt was more than up to the challenge.

I would be lying if I claimed I played perfectly that day. But that's not the point. Yes, I made mistakes. But I didn't allow them to defeat me and drag down the rest of the piece. Listening to it now, I can still point out every little mistake, every minor "Oh, darn, I had that fixed and I still messed it up" moment. But I didn't fall apart, the way I had so often before. I kept going. And the stuff that was good, was pretty good ... so much better than any of my previous performances. So when I listen to that CD now, my inner perfectionist still laments those mistakes, but I don't languish in them. I hear the good stuff, too. And I feel the exhilaration of overcoming that old nemesis, stage fright. It was a good way to end my last year of university, and my clarinet experience.

A few years later, feeling no real attraction to playing, I sold my Buffet clarinet. Since then, I'd felt no desire to play until this past summer, when Pat Melanson told me that Robbie Smith had some clarinets that Robbie's late Uncle Robert had played, and would I be interested? He hooked me up with Robbie, and I took a look at two of the clarinets. When I opened the first case, I thought, "Uh-oh." The clarinet and case lining were littered with what looked like sawdust. So I quickly snapped that case shut and opened the second one. An Amati from the Czech Republic, it looked to be in pristine condition.

So I put it together and started playing. Not well, mind you. At least for me, playing music isn't like riding a bike. It had been 33 years since I last played a clarinet, and the sounds I was making weren't pretty. Lots of squeaking and squawking, wheezing, fumbling around for the correct fingerings. My embouchure was as flabby as the rest of me, and my breath support was not very supportive. But at least I could make a sound, which can be improved upon.

This clarinet felt smaller than I remembered, but I thought it was my imagination. Nope. When I looked at the manufacturer's pamphlet, I saw that this was not a B-flat clarinet, but a C! I'd never heard of a C clarinet before. The dilemma is that most concert music is written for B-flat clarinet. And the whole reason Pat Melanson got me hooked up with Robbie was because Pat plays oboe in Shelburne's pit band, and he wanted me to join the band. No problem. Our multi-talented director, Bill Smith, transposed the B-flat clarinet parts to C. And we're off to the races!

So (and I apologize to anyone who has made it this far), very long story short, now I'm playing clarinet again. I don't know if I will be able to get back to the level of playing I had before, but I know I'm getting better. So hopefully that progress will continue.

Oh, and by the way: That first clarinet I thought was toast? Turns out Robert had left a reed on the mouthpiece, and the reed had disintegrated. But when I cleaned up the clarinet and played it, it actually played pretty well. All it needed was some cosmetic repair work, which I left in the capable hands of Forbes and Yola Christie at Windward Flutes. Plus, it's a B-flat clarinet, so Bill won't have to transpose for me all the time. Two clarinets; hmmm, the possibilities are endless!

One more thing: Yes, there are lots of "come-from-aways" in Shelburne. And we've all found ways to fit in.

A week of highs and lows

I named this blog after my twin obsessions: Bald eagles and humpback whales. But really, any species of raptor or whale qualifies, as do most animals.

I have always wanted to view a juvenile bald eagle up close, and in a week's time I got my wish ... only to see my elation turn to sorrow in the space of only a few short days.

On Wednesday, Aug. 24, 2016, I saw a sub-adult bald eagle perched on the Toisa Pegasus, a large dive support ship berthed at the Shelburne Marine Terminal (http://www.portshelburne.com/).



Then, on Thursday, Sept. 1, 2016, I walked out onto the wharf and found the sub-adult trying to steal a fish from a juvenile bald eagle:



Happily, the juvie made a successful getaway with its fish.



After a tiring day at work on Sunday, Aug. 4, I was happy to walk over to the wharf, camera in hand, and spend a couple of hours with this delightful juvie, who hopped from one hydro pole to another, perched a while on each, flew down to the shoreline, looking for the mackerel that are running now, and then flew back up to one of the hydro poles lining the wharf.

Even then, I was concerned. The statistics for raptor electrocution deaths on hydro lines are ugly. Far too many are killed that way, even when the weather is good. However, we had post-tropical storm Hermine headed our way. Because of the ongoing drought here, with many people's wells running dry, folks were praying we would get a direct hit from the storm, in the hope that it would deliver badly needed rain. As it turned out, the storm mostly missed us when it came through overnight Monday to Tuesday morning, but we did get some wind and rain. Wind and rain plus electricity are a lethal combination.



On Labour Day Monday, I walked out to the wharf at 5 p.m. to check on the juvie. She was still there, perched on a hydro pole. Just as she had on Sunday, she flew over to another hydro pole and perched there. That was where I left her at 5:30 p.m., and it was the last time I saw her alive. At dinner that evening with friends, I worried out loud about the juvie surviving the night, but I thought I was being overly nervous.



The world was shrouded in mist when I returned to the marine terminal the next morning at 9:30 a.m. to check on the juvie. As I approached the wharf, my heart fell. Through the heavy fog, I could see a large shape on the hydro pole where I'd last seen her, but there wasn't that clearly defined profile of an eagle sitting upright. As I got closer, my worst fears were confirmed. She was lying on the cross arm at the top of the pole, no movement, wings open and drooping. From down below I could see spider's silk zigzagging all around her, glistening with water droplets. I called our mayor to let her know the situation. Later that day, wharf employees shut off the power so that they could perform the sad task of retrieving the young eagle's body.

A friend who is a retired linesman and saw my photos and videos of where the juvenile eagle was perched, and later died, posted the following comment:

In wet weather, the pole and cross arm become ground potential, and with the high voltage line in close proximity, arc!
You're dead: 14,400 volts
And power (electron flow) can jump a few feet (Cm's)
Always stand back from power lines 30+ feet (10M)

Someone told me, "That's nature." Not exactly. That's nature clashing with human activity and development. When that clash occurs, more often than not wildlife comes out on the losing side.

UPDATE (Nov. 8, 2016): I am happy to report that I just received wonderful news from Julie Ferguson with the Town of Shelburne: The hydro pole on which this juvenile bald eagle was electrocuted now has triangular perch discouragers installed by Nova Scotia Power to prevent this from happening again. Progress!