Wednesday, May 21, 2014


This dirt lane lives down Redart.

At the end of the dirt lane lives a dock and an overturned boat.

And on this particular day right next to the boat stood a rather befuddled-looking buzzard.

I say he looked befuddled because usually these creatures are loitering in larger groups, bickering over something sizable and dead, focused on eating and boxing out any competition (which also eerily sounds like our 2011 family Thanksgiving at the Golden Corral buffet, but I digress).

Not so on this particular day, at least not from my vantage point. He appeared to be solo, quietly enjoying the peace and solitude.  Perhaps he was just taking a break from all his buzzard-ing.

Also, here's a news flash.  This may not technically be a buzzard, but I am too tired and lack the time to research this buzzard vulture thing.  One of my four  three two readers can chime in on the technically correct term if they see fit.


The word buzzard has always made me sort of smile, for reasons I can't really articulate and don't have the time to analyze--although I could if pressed.  There is, however, a story in particular I now think of whenever I hear the word.

About eight years ago, I was on vacation with a man ten years my senior.  We stopped at a place called Sting-Ray's over near Cape Charles on the Eastern Shore to purchase some gas and wine. He took care of the gas while I perused the wine options. He met me at the counter as the younger female cashier asked to see my ID. Naturally I was thrilled to provide proof that I was not just 21, but, in fact, over 40.

She took my driver's license, studied it, glanced at me, glanced back at the license, handed it back to me and without a word began ringing up the purchase, satisfied.  

My companion, ever the wiseacre, asked, "Don't you want to see my ID?"

Without even looking up from her task of bagging the wine, without a change whatsoever in her countenance, the cashier said, "Nobody needs to see your ID, you old buzzard."

I howled with laughter.

This concludes my story of why cashiers buzzards make me laugh.

The End.

Click here to see what Sting-Ray's is all about, although they fail to highlight the very astute employees in charge of putting old buzzards in their place the cash registers.


Karen Deborah said...

your hilarious and you got a great picture of that buzzard. No corrections from this peanut gallery.

Deltaville Jamie said...

It's either a buzzard or a black vulture, I lean towards buzzard aka a turkey vulture since it looks like there's some red on his head. Weird fact, when they do reenactments at Gettysburg the vultures start circling and congregating- like they know there's going to be dead things afterwards (but there isn't since it's just acting). I'm Marlin Perkins and that completes this episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.

Kay L. Davies said...

Well, you know for sure that you're alive when the buzzard/vulture/turkey vulture ignores you.
Very interesting, what Jamie said about the vultures circling the actors at Gettysburg. Has the fact of the feast (from their point of view) become part of their DNA? Or do they verbally pass the story down from generation to generation?
Inquiring minds, etc.

Meg McCormick said...

Oooh, I think that cashier missed an opportunity to flirt with an old buzzard. :-)

growing wild on waverly lane said...

Which old buzzard was that?

God thought of everything. Except for rock music. He never thought of that.