Once, there was a bird called a Heath Hen. It lived all along the coast of New England, from Virginia all the way to Maine. More abundant than wild turkeys, these grouse-like birds fed Americans native and colonist alike; some believe that it was actually heath hen that graced the table of the first Thanksgiving.
Yet countries grow, and so does the demand for food. Like the passenger pigeon, the bounty of heath hens seemed inexhaustible…until it wasn’t. By 1870, the heath hen was gone from the mainland, occupying only a tiny oasis on the island of Martha’s Vineyard; by 1900, there were only 70 in the world.
But humans had begun to notice the animals vanishing around us—to realize that there steps we could take to make it stop. Protections were put in place, and the birds began a recovery. In 1915, at least two thousand heath hens called the island home.
During the following nesting season, however, after years of misguided suppression measures, a wildfire ravaged the preserve, devastating the ground-nesting birds. Now lacking shelter, birds that survived the fire were easily picked off by predators. Efforts were made to rebuild yet again, but there just weren’t enough birds left. The final heath hen died in 1932, after having been alone for 4 years.
One of the stories that always sticks in my mind about heath hens comes from the people who went out searching for survivors after the fire. They spoke about finding female birds, burnt or suffocated by smoke, still sitting on their nests—their last act, to shield their young.
Those charred hens had no way of knowing that the eggs they guarded were some of the last the world would ever see—no conception of the ideas of rarity or foresight that might cause a human to go to lengths to protect such a nest. For them, it was enough to be a mother, whose child would always be as precious to her as if it had been the only one in the world, worthy of protecting with her life.
An epitaph of Jane Seymour, third queen of Henry VIII, who died in childbed, went, “Here lies a phoenix/by whose death/another phoenix life gave breath”. My above art was painted in acrylic medium blended with ink and the ashes of burnt feathers, and is titled ‘There Were No Phoenixes on Martha’s Vineyard’.
One of the greatest photographers ever. “Dutch photographer Ed van der Elsken was part of the scene in Paris at the time, and in 1956, he published a ground-breaking photobook called Love on the Left Bank. His gritty, sexy, black-and-white photos of bohemian life in Paris captured a reckless, carefree, decadent and hedonistic love for life.”
if you’re not obsessed with anything weird and niche please try harder. stop going outside for a while. consider getting weirder about the things you already like
Searching futilely for something I half-remember, but interested in the very-old computer games aimed at girls I’m stumbling across on the way, things I never knew existed.
Like Jenny of the Prairie, an early survival game for a girl abandoned by a wagon train in the west.
