Life Lessons from Dead Birds

by Pat McShea

The title of this post, “Life Lessons from Dead Birds,” is a phrase I use to summarize my long career as an educator at Carnegie Museum of Natural History. For more than 38 years I managed what is now called the Learning Collection, an enormous assemblage of artifacts, rocks, minerals, fossils, and preserved plants and animals, all dedicated to regional educational use through loans to teachers and other educators. The bird-focus of the summary phrase reflects both the numerous avian materials in the Learning Collection and my preference to use some of those items whenever I had the opportunity to work with students. 

There was reasoning behind my bird bias. For natural history topics as narrowly focused as physical feeding adaptations, and as wide ranging as energy flow through ecosystems, bird examples provided students, elementary, middle, or high school level, with the chance to make their own topically relevant observations using common bird species around their school grounds, neighborhoods, and homes. My earliest presentations, however, taught me how important it was to address questions from the audience about the unique instructional materials. 

The students’ questions never seemed like accusations. Whether the setting was a classroom, an auditorium, or a park pavilion, when I stood before them bearing the preserved remains of a once living bird, they simply wanted to know about my connection to the creature’s death. My denials varied with the specimen in-hand. For the spread wing of a hawk, or the skull of an owl, touchable objects that require occasional replacement because of wear from repeated examinations, I’d explain the specimen’s provenance as salvaged material from road-killed or window-killed wildlife.  

“Birds and other wildlife have accidents, and sometimes already dead animals are donated to the museum. Permits and regulations are involved, and as a museum educator, my role in the process is to store the bodies in a freezer until they can be prepared for educational purposes.” 

When presentations involved life-like, full body taxidermy mounts, I was able to cite far longer periods of personal separation. These birds are encased in portable display boxes with clear acrylic sides, and when I held them up, I drew the students’ attention to the creature’s pose.  

“This bird appears ready to feed or to fly, and it’s been holding that position since long before I began working at the museum. I don’t know how it died, but I can share some information about how it has been preserved.” A gory summary followed, compressing into a few sentences, hours of meticulous work with scalpels, wire, pins, and a bird skin with every feather still attached to its outer surface. “The feathers are real, and the beak, along with some skull bones and leg bones, are still in place. All the body parts that would decay were removed long ago – the eyes, the brain, every internal organ, the muscle tissues. The eyes were replaced with glass replicas, of the proper size, shape, and color, and the skin, with feathers in place, was fitted over a custom-made form shaped just like the bird’s body.” 

On some occasions, exploration of a presentation’s main topic was even further delayed because student inquiries shifted from the circumstances behind the authentic wildlife materials to their very purpose. “Why use animal remains at all?” I recall a student once asking.  

My attempts to answer such questions came to include a quote from the late Dr. John E. Rawlins, former Curator of the museum’s Section of Invertebrate Zoology, about the critically important reasons for scientific collections to be created, maintained, and expanded. “Specimens are similar to books in libraries, because they are volumes of information that may be re-examined and reaffirmed,” Dr. Rawlins wrote, “But specimens are much more informative than books, because the content of a book is acquired in full by a single type of observation, reading. By contrast, the information content of a specimen is acquired by diverse methods of observation, many of which have not been applied to most specimens, and some of which have not yet been devised or even dreamed of.” 

In advocating for the use of similar materials as educational tools, I expressed my hope that their current encounter with selected bird specimens might spark interest in, and even build empathy for, the populations of various wild bird species. As an example of this process, I cited personal experience. Before working at the museum, I was a Volunteer Naturalist at Beechwood Farms Nature Reserve, the headquarters for the Audubon Society of Western Pennsylvania. My first encounter with a bird study skin (the rigid, cotton-stuffed, and eyeless form traditional in scientific collections) occurred during a training session there, when a Pied-billed Grebe specimen was the focus of a presentation. As the study skin was carefully passed among the dozen participants, we were encouraged to examine the bird’s lobed toes, a physical feature that provided hints about the creature’s aquatic lifestyle. 

On sections of the lower Allegheny, I had observed single Pied-billed Grebes at least a dozen times during winter months, floating placidly just off sections of wooded riverbank, and making regular, 30-second dives beneath the surface. When the study skin reached me, I dutifully examined its toes, but I also used an index finger to gently part the dense pale breast feathers to reveal a layer of much denser gray down beneath them. In that moment, the specimen provided information, different than a photograph or written account, about how the birds I observed on the icy Allegheny stayed warm. This tactile specimen-centered encounter convinced me that preserved bird remains can enhance observations of the species’ more numerous living kin. During the years I managed the Learning Collection this was among the most important concepts I promoted. 

Pat McShea is an Educator at Carnegie Museum of Natural History.

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