Creepy Cooper's, Sinister Sharpie

Last month we had two predatory birds visit our yard in Leavenworth, Kansas, USA. While they were thrilling to observe, they gave me a bit of the shivers. Cooper's Hawk, and Sharp-shinned Hawk, are both accipiters, well-known for ambushing songbirds at feeders, much to the consternation of birders. These raptors don't give up easily, either, as I learned from the two I witnessed.

Profile of a regal killer.

My first look at the Cooper's Hawk.

On December 8, at about 12:15 PM, I got up abruptly from my chair in the living room, having remembered a household chore I needed to do. Glancing up, I saw, through the open blinds over our backdoor windows, the largest bird I had ever seen in our backyard. It was an adult Cooper's Hawk (COHA if you are a fan of banding codes), perched atop the shepherd's hook from which our feeders are suspended. Since I was startled myself, I fully expected it to fly off immediately, but went to get my camera anyway.

Oh, no, it's leaving?

The bird did indeed launch itself a short time later, but merely glided to the back section of our fence, where it came to rest once again. I was delighted to get more opportunities for photos from between the slats of the blind, through the entirely too-dirty windows.

Still here!

Three minutes later, the hawk flew to another section of the fence, closer still. A minute later, it returned to its previous spot on the rear section of fence. From there it moved to the fencepost that abuts our detached garage, and beneath a non-functional light fixture. We need to have that looked at, but I digress. The bird was staring intently at the brush pile I erected to offer cover to songbirds for situations just like this one.

At twelve-thirty, the Cooper's Hawk flew onto the brush pile itself, perching low, on one of the more exposed limbs. A minute later it was back atop the back section of fence. A moment later it was on the side fence again. What it did next was unexpected.

Prowling on the ground.

The hawk flew down to the ground into our backyard. It proceded to skulk around our forty gallon, prefabricated pond, and crawl through the dense, weedy thicket that is our vague attempt at a pollinator garden.

At this point, I became unsure whether I was watching a hawk, a Greater Roadrunner, or even a weasel. The alert, thorough searching of this predator was truly remarkable.

Searching in the weeds.

At twelve thirty-eight, the hawk returned to the brush pile. This time, it dove right in, scouring every inch of the labyrinth for potential prey. Creepy. Literally. Another minute or two later, the hawk flew away for good, headed in the direction of the federal penitentiary, an embarrassing block-and-a-half to the north, beyond the back section of our fence.

Exploring the brushpile.

The whole encounter seemed to last much longer than the twenty or so minutes between the time stamps on my first and last photo. I would have expected the hawk to conceal itself in the brush pile, and simply wait for the House Sparrows, House Finches, Dark-eyed Juncos, and maybe other birds, to return to the feeder, unaware of the potential danger. Not so. This was active hunting, and it took me completely by surprise.

On December 15, just before one o'clock PM, I stepped out the backdoor to top off the feeder. A bird about the size of a dove, maybe slightly larger, rocketed out of the brush pile, nearly giving me a heart attack. Miraculously, I could tell immediately that it was another accipiter, but definitely not the Cooper's Hawk from the previous week.

I was able to follow the flight of this smaller raptor and, amazingly, it came to alight atop a neighbor's fence about thirty yards away or so. I went back inside the house to retrieve my camera.

Even more surprisingly, the hawk was still there when I returned. I was too excited, and too vertically-challenged, to get a sharp (no pun intended) photo of what I suspected was a Sharp-shinned Hawk (SSHA banding code), over three layers of fences, at distance, but I tried anyway.

Sharp-shinned Hawk.

Separating Cooper's Hawks from Sharp-shinned Hawks is a challenging exercise even for seasoned birders. You caannot use size as a reliable difference because there is overlap between a small male Cooper's Hawk and a large female Sharpie. Both species are clad in nearly identical colors, though the back of the neck is colored the same as the top of the head and back of the bird in Sharp-shinned Hawk. The back of the neck is vaguely paler in Cooper's Hawk, giving it a black-capped appearance.

In my limited experience, I have noted that sharpies, when perched, look like they have no neck at all, the head tapering immediately into the rest of the body. Their beaks are very short and comparatively delicate compared to a Cooper's Hawk.

Profile of the Sharpie.

More experienced birders note that the eyes of a Sharp-shinned Hawk are larger in proportion to the head, such that they appear to be "bulging." The tip of the tail in a sharpie is straight-edged, whereas it is rounded in a Cooper's Hawk. This last trait can be unreliable, though, or at least difficult to properly perceive.

I wish I had not flushed the sharpie, and been able to observe whether it behaved similarly to the Cooper's Hawk. Maybe I can train my brain to recall these encounters before I abruptly and absent-mindedly throw open the back door again. It could be months, if not a year or more, before we get another visit, though. I suspect the hunting territory of these hawks encompasses a pretty large area.

You are invited to share your own stories of accipiter encounters in the comments here. I moderate input at least once per week. I will try and not be envious if you have seen a Northern Goshawk on your property.

What's in a (Bird) Name?

It has been one month since the American Ornithological Society released a statement of its intent to change the English common names of bird species named for people, starting with those birds found in the United States and Canada, then moving to Latin America. Reactions to this initiative have been predictably mixed, often polarized. It is demoralizing to me personally to see friends and respected colleagues opposed to it, an absence of nuanced perspectives, and lack of creativity in solutions.

Say goodbye to Bullock's Oriole

Here are some basics so we can all be on the same page. Common, English names of species that include the moniker of a historical figure are termed “eponymous” names. This practice of naming species after people dates to at least the 1800s, and has been revealed to be wildly inconsistent, if not random, in its application. A little excavation work by author Kenn Kaufman shows that some “honorees” in eponymous bird names had little if anything to do with ornithology, let alone advance the science.

More troubling still, eponymous names have come to be associated with racism, misogyny, other forms of bigotry, and colonialism. Rather than painstakingly evaluate the baggage of each eponymous bird name, the AOS has decided to do away with all of them. This has led to accusations of “wokeism” and political correctness by some birders, and many people who have no interest at all in our feathered friends. No one seems to be asking what is to be gained by retaining such names, aside from convenience and tradition.

Do we really want a tradition of exclusion? Birding is already viewed by many as an elitist recreational pursuit, with globetrotting retirees chasing rarities for their life lists. Birding will benefit greatly from expanded human diversity within its ranks. It follows that birds themselves will benefit from increased attention to their plight.

Some with less visceral reactions have questioned whether this effort at name-changing will draw valuable financial and human resources away from bird conservation and research. My intuition tells me that expenditures will be relatively minor, and the people doing the work will not be the same people already engaged in protection of species. This is an endeavor that complements conservation, if not enhances it by making the discipline of ornithology more attractive to Indigenous scientists, and others who have viewed the science as exclusionary.

There are those who do not believe that mere name changes go far enough towards the goal of decolonizing science, politics, economics, and improving other aspects of life. This may have merit if we do not address how we can take down barriers to birding such as the affordability of optics and other equipment, increase accommodations for disabled and neurodivergent birders, prioritize the safety and respect of women and children in the birding community, and take economic initiatives beyond bird-friendly coffee.

Should you question whether I have nothing to lose in siding with those endorsing a move away from eponymous names, allow me to mention that I am a direct descendent of the “OC” (Original Colonists). My forefathers were literally on the Mayflower. In no way do I feel threatened by extending rights, freedom, and prosperity to people who identify other than White, cis, male, straight, neurotypical, able-bodied, and otherwise advantaged.

Ironically, the one downside of eliminating eponymous names, as I see it, is that we cannot name birds after any people of color, who truly have furthered ornithology and birding. (J. Drew) Lanham’s Sparrow has a nice ring to it.

Not How I Expect to Get Life Birds

Better birding through climate change? Is that where we are at now? A few weeks ago, when it became clear that hurricane Idalia had flung Caribbean Flamingos (aka American Flamingos) far from their regular haunts, I generated one of those Facebook “marked himself safe from” memes for the wayward birds. It was a joke at the time, because it still seemed unlikely that one would show up anywhere near us here in Kansas, USA. I was wrong. My experience yesterday causes me to reflect today on what my expectations and responsibilities should be when it comes to the welfare of other species.

My partner, Heidi, is an avid birder, and keeps a close eye on rare bird alerts, and what is being seen in general within reasonable proximity to our home in Leavenworth, Kansas. Earlier in the week she learned of a Caribbean Flamingo being observed at Chase State Fishing Lake near Cottonwood Falls, in the Flint Hills of Chase County, Kansas. This information came in Thursday. Since Heidi works at an elementary school, we would not be able to travel the two-and-a-half hours until Saturday. The bird had been spotted closer to us on Wednesday, at Smithville Lake in Missouri, so we expected it to keep traveling.

Stiff and persistent winds from the south over the next two days may have deterred the flamingo from flying, and sure enough we received confirmation it was still at Chase State Fishing Lake on Saturday morning. Near record high temperatures may have helped to make it feel somewhat at home, too. It had been observed feeding in the shallows, treating what we would imagine as an otherworldly experience with a surprisingly casual attitude.

The irony of “chasing” the bird in Chase County did not escape us. Once we arrived, I found myself asking the few other birders which of them had come the farthest, themselves or the flamingo. At least one individual had driven seven hours from Illinois. Others were from Manhattan, Kansas, Wichita, or from Missouri.

More to the point, there is the question of our respective carbon footprints in reaching the bird. Are we not contributing to the very problem that spawns megastorms, or at least increases their frequency? Where do we draw the line on what is an acceptable distance for such a (fools?) errand? It is surely a matter of individual choice, but what informs our decisions?

An article in USA Today gave some interesting historical background into the residency and distribution of the Caribbean Flamingo, and it turns out that records of “stray” birds date back decades earlier. Ornithologists believe that all the birds being sighted now, far from Florida, originated from the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico. This speaks to the remarkable durability of these seemingly delicate animals.

One can view these events in one of two ways. They can be symptomatic of cataclysmic changes to global climate, or emblematic of the ability of organisms to adapt to those changes. Thanks to improving technologies, and an increasing public awareness and appreciation of birds and other animals, we are rapidly gaining insights into shifting behavioral patterns in response to climate change and habitat fragmentation. That is a good thing.

What I find myself asking today is whether I can be content to stay out of the fray, to be satisfied viewing the images of others on social media. Can I simply live vicariously through observations on iNaturalist? Those people certainly have better photography skills and equipment. As it stands, I will likely resist airline travel, knowing what I know now.

What are your thoughts on all of this? There are no right or wrong answers, and I am not asserting personal “holier-than-thou” principles. I enjoy meeting others who are passionate about the natural world and advocate for its protection. Rare instances like this can generate renewed hope, broaden one’s circle of friends, and otherwise be exceptionally positive experiences. Heidi welcomed the opportunity to share views through her spotting scope with others, especially children, yesterday. Let us rejoice in another’s wild encounters, learn from them, and look forward to crossing trails with each other.

Book Review: The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair With Nature

I cannot help but see the irony in writing a review of a book written by a self-described “odd bird” in a blog entitled Sense of Misplaced. Perfect. What author J. Drew Lanham manages to convey brilliantly is that biophilia is a desirable affliction that transcends all colors of human diversity. The Home Place is a clarifying window into what it means to be an outsider among the privileged Caucasians who dominate the fields of biology, ecology, and wildlife conservation. Even casual birding presents challenges, but Lanham offers hope for a more integrated future.

Dr. Lanham and I are close in age, so it was intriguing to see what similarities of experience we shared given graphic differences in our home places. He is a Black man. I am not. He has siblings, and now children of his own. I do not. His upbringing was rural, mine urban. I am certain, however, that we both colored the same mimeographed songbird outlines in our respective elementary schools, even though there are no Northern Cardinals, Blue Jays, or Rose-breasted Grosbeaks in western Oregon. No “markingbirds,” either. Ok, end of anything “me,” here, though a literary memoir would fail miserably if it did not spark memories in the reader’s mind, and evoke empathy and agreement.

The ecosystems of place, time, family, faith, academia, economy, and wild nature are all woven together seamlessly in The Home Place. Each one influences all the others, none standing alone. Through it all, Lanham expresses an ethical philosophy and physical and emotional vulnerability that is obviously authentic. He would never call himself brave, let alone heroic, but in many ways he is exactly that. Lanham carries a reverence for life that applies to every aspect, from familial relationships to hunting, birding, and conservation research.

The book is organized along the trajectory of Lanham’s personal and professional life, beginning as a member of a familial “flock,” and progressing through “fledgling” to full-blown “flight.” Today, Dr. Lanham is positively soaring, having recently received a MacArthur Foundation fellowship, recipient one of the prestigious “genius grants” the foundation awards to exceptional individuals. Indeed, Lanham is one of those rare birds able to effortlessly navigate both the creative and scientific realms, bringing a unique perspective to both academic and public spheres.

No one would fault the author for having an angry tone given past and present injustices to their demographic. Instead, Lanham manages to tread that fine line between justified hostility and denial that historical and personal transgressions hindered their life at all. He is properly assertive, mournful for the lives of his ancestors, and insistent that things be made right.

We can all be better allies for reading The Home Place, a John Burroughs Medal Finalist as a "Nature Book of Uncommon Merit." It is an invitation to explore ourselves as well as the world around us, and to advocate for both biodiversity and human inclusivity.

In case you could not already surmise, I am highly recommending The Home Place for your personal library. It is like adding the work of an esteemed artist to your office wall. Whenever I am feeling a loss, be it mourning the loss of a favorite wild place, or simply at a loss for words, or way to communicate powerfully, I can pick up this book and be inspired all over again. The Home Place was published by Milkweed Editions, a non-profit entity located in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 2016. The book is 217 pages.

Book Review: A Season on the Wind

Kenn Kaufman does something ingenious in A Season on the Wind: Inside the World of Spring Migration (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2019). He compares and contrasts the way migratory birds harness the wind to propel them northward versus the bumbling attempts of our own species to capture the wind to meet our energy needs. He and his wife, Kimberly Kaufman, live in a unique location where these powerful phenomena clash head on, quite literally. To his credit, Kaufman exercises remarkable restraint in addressing the downside of renewable wind energy, while exhorting the miracle that is spring migration at Magee Marsh in northwest Ohio, U.S.A.

The book is a brilliant and colorful chronology of the history of tracking bird migration in the Americas, and northwest Ohio specifically. While many birders recoil at the notion that anything good can come from hunting, the author reminds us that the first major strides in bird conservation came about as a result of preservation of wetlands by waterfowl hunters. The organization of hunters into a cohesive unit of persuasion and legislation is something birders should take note of and emulate to achieve more widespread measures to preserve and protect our avian fauna.

From the almost primitive practice of bird banding, to next generation radar, citizen science initiatives, and birding festivals like the Biggest Week in American Birding right there at Magee Marsh, we are constantly improving our collective and individual understanding of spring migration. Kaufman deftly walks the line between what is often seemingly dispassionate formal scientific research and the nearly anthropomorphic appreciation of birds by non-scientists. The book, like the author himself, delivers fact, humor, emotion, and honesty in its appraisal of our constantly-changing, nearly schizophrenic relationship to the natural world, with birds at the center.

It would be easy to write effusively about the spectacle of bird migration as if it exists in a vacuum, a historical constant, a changeless exercise that goes on relentlessly regardless of our own existence. Most writers would simply paint a rosy picture that serves to recruit new birders and birdwatchers, and entertain readers without ever hinting at the negative impacts our species can have on migrant fauna.

Likewise, it would be easy to write a downer of a narrative that focuses solely on the perils birds face during their aerial journey north. There is certainly enough material for one to take a full manuscript in either direction. Balancing the joys with the sorrows, anger, and frustration is no easy task, but that is clearly what Kaufman set out to do, and he executes it flawlessly. When you think you cannot recover from the devastation of the previous chapter, the next one renews your enthusiasm and optimism.

One of the most significant points illustrated in A Season on the Wind is the growth of birding as a social activity. Thanks to advances in communication, formerly isolated naturalists and leisure birders can connect with each other to any degree they wish. Some still prefer “alone time” communing with the nature, but that no longer has to be the default setting. The speed of learning about birds has increased by several orders of magnitude, and the diversity of the birding community has the potential to explode as well.

Kaufman, his wife, and their contemporaries in the ornithological community are as relentless in their pursuit of justice for birds and birders as the birds are committed to their instinctive drive to move seasonally. The birds must navigate both the constant starlit sky above and the radically shifting landscape below. Climate change is a force we are attempting to mitigate for ourselves and other species, yet it is also the driving force behind wind turbine technologies that are cutting birds out of the sky.

This conundrum forces us to confront problems of scale. Bird migration is not a stream of birds like a river in the sky. The birds are widely dispersed and the grand scale of migration guarantees that migrants will confront lethal obstacles wherever they exist. The scale of wind farms, in both height and breadth, is the problem. Bird-safe technologies exist, but offer little profit for utility companies, so they remain neglected. By now we should have reciprocal power grids, mostly localized, where individual households and businesses can feed a centralized source with surplus energy in sunny, breezy times and draw from it on cooler, calmer days.

I am already anxious for a sequel to A Season on the Wind, as the emerging discipline of aeroecology recognizes the complex web of organisms that exists overhead, and seeks to unravel those aerial interactions. Meanwhile, you will find this current book a thoughtful, stimulating, and optimistic read.

Book Review: Vulture

© ForeEdgeBooks.com

Even if you do not already admire the Turkey Vulture as a master of sustained and effortless flight, and its willingness to consume the deceased animal life that would fester and overwhelm us were it not for these efficient scavengers, you will find Vulture: the private life of an unloved bird University Press of New England, 2017), by author Katie Fallon, to be well worth your indulgence.

Experience informs the advocate, and Fallon does a superb job at weaving her personal life experiences into the narrative of this story. The natural arcs would be the life history of her subjects, from egg to adult; or the migratory journey of a vulture. Indeed, Fallon employs these natural rhythms as elements of continuity; but it turns out not all Turkey Vultures do migrate, a fascinating aspect of the diverse biology of the species.

Familiarity cannot breed contempt in the case of vultures because people, including avian scientists, are simply not familiar with these birds. Much of the content in Vulture represents new information, acquired within the last decade or so, resulting from tagging studies. Vultures cool themselves by urinating and defecating on their feet, which quickly corrodes the metal ankle-bands used by scientists on other birds, hence the need to apply the wing tag strategy instead.

An unexpected and welcome element to the book is the frequent addition of information that applies to other vulture species. The Turkey Vulture is the main character, but our avian hero is also employed here as a messenger for other vulture species all over the planet. Fallon shares her own globe-trekking adventures as they relate to other vultures, like the Egyptian Vulture in India, where the birds have vanished from a sacred Hindu temple they once visited like clockwork. Old World and New World vultures are not as closely related as one might imagine, but they suffer, unfortunately, from the same conflicts with humans.

It is easy for advocates of any orphaned or maligned species to be overly zealous in their efforts to educate; or be too sternly admonishing in addressing those people who lack an understanding and respect for other life forms. Fallon should be commended for reining in her emotions while still managing to be assertive in her opinions and policy recommendations when it comes to vulture "management" here in the U.S. She backs up her statements at every step, and also informs the reader when there is a need for more study to conclude whether a given assertion can be proven.

Fallon should not be compared to any other writer. She confesses to her admiration for Edward Abbey and other predecessors, but her writing stands on its own merits, with a unique and welcome new voice. This book enjoys the personal qualities of a memoir, but those insights and life events are used like spices in a favorite recipe: Not as a dependent "crutch" or overwhelming element, but instead adding just a touch of flavor and eloquence to the literary dish.

This book is about vultures in the human world, but nowhere in the story does the human aspect overly intrude. The great birds are front-and-center, consistently painted in a positive and empathetic light. It is to Fallon's credit that she is able to coax the reader into the same love affair with vultures that she herself enjoys, without romanticizing her subject to the point of putting off her audience. As a male reader, I find this a tricky path that Fallon negotiates with precision and consistency. Her research is far-reaching and impeccable.

Vulture ends with an afterword that leads readers to the next step: their own advocacy for vultures and related birds of prey. It may seem naive to believe that one book could generate enough momentum to result in a surge of sustained interest in promoting vulture conservation the world over, but I have high hopes. Fallon seamlessly integrates the plight of vultures into the landscape of wildlife conservation in general. What we do for vultures we do for the health of entire ecosystems....but don't take my word for it, read Vulture for yourself.

Turkey Vulture over western Massachusetts

Bluebird Trifecta

Sunday, February 17, my wife and myself and Debbie Barnes of the Aiken Audubon Society set out to find a flock of Bohemian Waxwings that had been seen the day before at the U.S. Army Turkey Creek Recreation Area south of Colorado Springs. We did not find them. The outing was, however, far from a total loss. What we lacked in waxwings we more than made up for in bluebirds.

Our first stop was at the intersection of Barrett Road and Highway 115, where the Bohemian Waxwings had been seen most recently. No sign of them despite a fair crop of juniper berries in the area. Upon exiting back onto 115, we did spot a pair of birds on a telephone wire. They were quickly identified as male Western Bluebirds, Sialia mexicana. One of the two birds obligingly glided to the ground, then popped back up to sit on a fence post about thirty feet from our vehicle, affording the view shown above.

We backtracked to the Turkey Creek Recreation Area, pulling into a playground area with a collection of buildings and the stables where horses for the mounted color guard reside. A Lewis’ Woodpecker is known to hang out there, too, and was sighted earlier in the day, but was a no-show when we were there. No waxwings, either, just more Western Bluebirds, a Common Raven or two, and a flock of Dark-eyed Juncos.

While taking in the austere scenery, Debbie connected with another birder friend, Jeannie Mitchell, via cell phone. Jeannie was kind enough to share that news that a group of birders who were in Turkey Creek that morning had seen a huge flock of Mountain Bluebirds, Sialia currocoides. I admit I was skeptical, but we followed the appropriate road and….

Sure enough, here were probably at least 200 Mountain Bluebirds, distributed on each side of the road. A handful of American Robins, Turdus migratorius, were in their ranks, but the sight of all that turquoise blue was jaw-dropping. One dead tree in particular was essentially festooned with living, feathered ornaments.

By now, around 4 PM in the afternoon, the wind had gotten gusty, the sun lower, and the temperature was dropping. Reluctant to leave, we took it slow and found still more Mountain Bluebirds in a vast open field studded with old yucca and mullein stalks, plus the obligatory barbed wire fences and metal fence posts. Various Mountain Bluebirds took turns alighting on all available perches in really great light.

We also saw what we initially thought was another Western Bluebird. Looking at her pictures once she got home, Debbie realized it was actually a male Eastern Bluebird, Sialia sialis. Note that the Eastern Bluebird lacks the blue throat of the Western Bluebird. The belly of the Eastern Bluebird is also bright white, in contrast to the dirty appearance of the Western Bluebird’s underparts.

Bluebird trifecta! Looking at the distribution maps for bluebirds in the various field guides, one would not guess that the Eastern Bluebird ranges this far west, but here is proof to the contrary. There are always strays, of course, but as habitat, climate, and other factors change, birds adapt and their geographic ranges change accordingly, even from week to week. The convergence of all three species here is now a regular occurrence, especially at this time of year.

Debbie mentioned that bluebirds are feeding on juniper berries when flying insects, grasshopper nymphs, and other prey is not readily available. Cold fronts may push the birds into protected valleys and other warmer situations, but they quickly return when the temperatures warm up again. Sounds like me.

Weird Bird News

How convenient for my blogs that this week in “News of the Weird,” by columnist Chuck Shepherd, there should be a story about ”bugs” and a story about birds. The headline “Slut Birds” was enough to start me laughing before I read another word:

”A team of researchers led by a University of Connecticut professor, writing recently in the ornithology journal The Auk, declared the local saltmarsh sparrow to be America’s most promiscuous bird, in that 95 percent of the females hook up with more than one male during a mating season. The likelihood that any two chicks in a nest had the same father was only 23 percent, and in one-third of the nests, all chicks had different fathers. The researchers hypothesized that the frequent flooding of Connecticut’s marshes destroys so many nests that non-choosy females have gained an evolutionary advantage. (A wren in Australia and a parrot in Madagascar are said to be comparably promiscuous.)

Hm-m-m, I wonder what excuses the slut wren and parrot were using, since "flooded nests” is already taken.

Actually, I don’t know if thatstory is as weird as the one I saw tonight on 60 Minutes that included a story on Arlan Galbraith, former president of Pigeon King, International. Galbraith touted the future of pigeon farming, claiming that pigeons would replace chickens in our collective poultry diet. He was persuasive enough to get plenty of investors and farmers on board in Canada and the United States, before “fear mongers” brought PKI to bankruptcy in June, 2008. Those “fear mongers” were people like David J. Thornton of CrimeBustersNow who saw through the charade and revealed PKI for the Ponzi scheme it truly was.

It never ceases to amaze me how gullible people can be or, on the other hand, how incredibly convincing con artists can be. Maybe folks should have gotten a clue from the PKI headquarters being in Waterloo (Ontario), or that Galbraith was targeting the Amish in particular. Well, until my credit union is exposed as a con game, that is where all my “investments” will be.