Understanding My Place: A Letter and Neil Gaiman

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 26

The other day my husband brought home a glossy, four-color, eight-paged publication he’d found on the sidewalk in our neighborhood. He intended to toss it into a recycling bin, but when he realized what it was, he knew he had to share it with me first.

I pawed through it—picture after captioned picture of one senior couple’s 2012 activities: celebrating milestones with grandchildren and former exchange students; vacationing with friends and family in Italy, Monaco, and China; learning to surf in Hawaii; hosting Union Rags and the Wyeths at the Kentucky Derby; acting as professional photographers for a wedding, building custom furniture, and so on. And so on…

Was it a self-published booklet to commemorate these events?

NO! It was their Christmas Letter to friends and extended family!

It’s exactly why people have come to hate such correspondence. It was so over-the-top it could have been a parody of the genre. But it wasn’t. It was a chirpy report of all the stellar 2012 moments one family experienced. And they sent it to someone in MY neighborhood, which can only mean (or I HOPE it means) that the recipients lead similar lives and didn’t take said Christmas Letter as the disturbing show of pretentiousness I did. Once again, I felt quite removed from my neighbors.

I had just been reading about Cabal, a dog rescued from a roadside by author Neil Gaiman. I learned that Cabal suffered from the same condition my pooch did (degenerative myelopathy), that British-born Gaiman now lives in the Midwest, that his relationship with Cabal was of the unexpected and nonpareil variety… Heck! I have more in common with Neil Gaiman than I do with these Christmas Letter–sending neighbors.

Hmmm. Maybe I can work Gaiman into my own Christmas Letter this year. Maybe I, too, can incite envy and head-shaking during the holidays.


This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

[Photo of Cabal and Neil Gaiman by Kimberly Butler and titled Unconditional Love.]

Acorn Follies

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 25

 

Acorn season has begun here in the Bluegrass. Soon enough, the nuts will have fallen in such abundance to the streets and sidewalks that crushing them will be unavoidable.* Pavement will turn school-bus yellow from their innards.

Park anywhere near an oak tree and you risk damaging your vehicle. Acorns fall so frequently at such a speed that you’d swear someone is high in the oaks taking aim. Take a walk at night in my neighborhood and you risk breaking an ankle on the little buggers.

Just last week on a bicycle ride to the library—as I was gliding downhill and coming around to thinking that the long, hot trek wasn’t so bad—THWACK! Something hit the front of my prescription sunglasses, violently, and bounced away. Worried, I stopped to check the damage. I imagined having to return to Chicago for repairs or replacements, but I got off lucky. No cracks, yet the single acorn had scratched my lenses.

A serious aversion to acorns started to germinate in me at that moment. Thugs! That’s how I was beginning to see the little devils.

After taking a deep breath, though, I countered this irritation by considering the natural beauty of acorns (their color variations, their contrast in texture) and their inspiration for artists. I thought about the potential of acorns to grow into majestic oaks and how squirrels, birds, and some human populations rely on them as a food source. The little devils weren’t so bad after all. With so much to offer, how can I not appreciate and embrace such a gift from Nature?

* Assuming this year’s crop will replicate last year’s, though with the extreme weather conditions of 2012, this may not be the case.
 
[Squirrel photo by Marko Kivelä; felted acorns from lil fish studios. Check out acorn recipes on hunter angler gardener cook.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Seeing Blue, Part 2

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 24
Ha! I didn’t expect this to be a two-parter, but I saw something on television yesterday that I had to share with you.


The True-Blue Devotion around here is so extreme that it extends into the afterlife. Yes, pictured here is the UK fan casket. Need I say more?

Thankfully, the Blue Madness will cease tonight, one way or the other. I leave it to the hound next door (sporting, naturally, a UK Blue bandanna) to howl the rallying cry: Go, Cats, Go!

“Green” Parking

 Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 23

I haven’t moved or travelled that much, but I’ve seen how people live in a fair number of places. And NOWHERE but here have I seen people drive over yards as if they’re personal parking lots.

Need to unload your groceries? Park your car next to the back door.

Moving out or in? Pull the truck right up to the front stoop.

Repairing something in the building? Keep the van as close to a door, any door, as possible.

Forget something at home? Just park across the front walk and run in.

Don’t worry that you’re tearing up the grass or leaving deep, muddy grooves across the lawn. Don’t worry that the folks with impaired vision or mobility will likely trip across those grooves after you’re gone. Don’t worry that your vehicle “rearranged” some of the yard accessories.

Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rant. I only meant to say … umm … this behavior is most unusual. How did it start? Why do people do it? Is this the only place in the world where it’s done regularly?

I think of that old Joni Mitchell line: “They paved Paradise, and put up a parking lot.” Here, they’ve skipped the paving step and gone directly to parking.

How special.

Follow Your Dreams?

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 22

Lots of self-help “gurus” tell us to Dream Big to get what we want out of Life. “Follow your dreams and the money will follow,” they advise.

There are plenty of people who have done just that. We know this because they’ve taken the extra step of flaunting their stories across the media to remind us of their success.

But I suspect there are plenty more folks who took off after their dreams while the money fell far behind. Maybe didn’t even bother following. So I’ve little faith in the advice of the self-help experts.

Until today. My husband woke this morning and said he’d just had the strangest dream.

This is nothing new. My husband often relays the vivid alternative life he leads while asleep. So I presumed I was about to hear a variation on a theme.

But no. This time, instead of dreaming the fantastical or improbable, what unfolded was more anchored in reality. My husband had established a successful new business. It was a cafe where you could buy a gun and an artful cupcake, too. The business’s name was “Protect and Serve.”

If you live north of the Mason-Dixon Line, you’re probably shaking your head right now. But I have to tell you that sugary-sweet food is as popular in the Bluegrass as firearms. Guns and cupcakes could be a perfect combination here. That zany dream might just be my husband’s ticket to a new career and financial security.

Cue the orchestra: “To dream the impossible dream…”

How sweet it is.

[Cupcake pic from Travel Gal; Tiffany & Co. Smith & Wesson from Rock Island Auction Company.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Would You Like That Fried, Lightly Fried, or Deep-Fried?

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 21


Today is the Gobble Grease Toss in the Horse Capital of the World. When I first learned of this annual recycling event, I thought it was a joke. Just as I had once thought that the barbed comments made about Kentuckians loving fried foods were gross overgeneralizations. Turns out I was wrong in both instances.

If restaurant menus are any indication, fried is the preferred cooking method—from the tomatoes on a BLT to every last bit of seafood. So it should not have come as a surprise to me that frying the turkey on Thanksgiving is as common here as watching football. Hence the Gobble Grease Toss.

As I’ve written before, the recycling opportunities this city offers its residents are commendable. It couldn’t get much easier, which is why I don’t understand why more people don’t recycle. A faulty mindset, I suppose.

Anyway, today the city encourages folks to dispose of their leftover cooking oils and grease in an ecofriendly fashion. If I had any grease, I’d be there.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 20

On my way home yesterday from an outing, I passed an area in my neighborhood where I usually see lots of folks walking their dogs. This time, I saw a man walking a miniature horse.

I realize I live in the Horse Capital of the World, but this was not what I expected to see on a city sidewalk.

It brought to mind an old memory. Years ago, our pooch met a minihorse and her new foal who had been brought in from the country to spice up our neighborhood Blessing for the Animals. Nearby stood a couple of full-sized horses carrying police officers. The pooch was certain in her assessment of the large equines, but she regarded the minis as if they’d just stepped off a spaceship. The pooch was ready to go home before the ceremony even started.

That’s the latest from my ’hood. What’s new in yours?

[Pic from a now defunct monastery of the Poor Clare Nuns.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Taming Nature: Idiots 5, Flora and Fauna 0

I stepped outside last night, as I often do, around 8. This is Magic Time: The temperature cools, a choreography of color and light make a spectacle of the sky, and a Surround Sound of birds orchestrate the moment.

But not last night. Last night, birds could be heard though not in Surround Sound. Same goes for this morning.

It’s not that the birds aren’t singing. They’re simply not here. Or there, for that matter.

I started to write about this yesterday as events unfolded, except I was too angry. Today I’m still angry, but also mournful.


Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 19
Lawns could have been the subject of my very first Stranger In A Strange Land installment, yet I held off thinking I was being too judgmental. Now I know better. If the “Angry Birds” game replaced the pigs with landlords and Lexingtonians*, I’d probably play.

As a gardener in the Windy City who long battled tall buildings and their consequent shade, who had to settle for blossoms of white rather than the riotous color potential of sun-drenched spaces, I had really looked forward to being in a new hardiness zone where birds and butterflies would be plentiful.

However, upon arrival to the Horse Capital of the World, I was disappointed by the ratio of sun to flowers. The city seemed to me nothing but yard upon yard of monotonous yard punctuated by boxwood. Folks here prefer grass to all other flora. Any semblance of a garden is generally the very ordered and formal kind. In a region blessed with ample amounts of rain and sun, grass is the predominant plant.

Arguably, carpets of grass provide jobs: This city has an untold number of lawn-care services (my favorite name is Miss Mow It All). On the other hand, carpets of grass also provide environmental nightmares: Up to 5 percent of America’s air pollution each year stems from lawn mowers that use 800 million gallons of gas.** (I’ve considered getting a couple of sheep and starting my own lawn-care business.) Factor in the chemicals that are harmful to animals and children and the ridiculous amount of water needed to maintain those lush green lawns and it starts adding up to disaster.

Perfect lawns can’t sustain the kinds of complex ecosystems that trees and bushes and flowers sustain. They give no shade, no cover from weather, no protection from predators, little food, and they don’t play a role in pollination or supporting the migratory paths of birds and butterflies.

When pioneers first crossed the mountains into the region now known as Kentucky, they called it “God’s country.” It was fertile and rich in woodlands; it was heavenly. So why divest it of everything but grass?

“A lawn is nature under totalitarian rule.”
—Michael Pollan

Frankly, I believe it has something to do with maintenance. If all you have is a straight shot of grass, it’s easy to take care of—a few back-and-forths on the old lawn mower and you’re done. Bushes require pruning and shaping, flowers require cutting and separating, trees have to be monitored for dead branches and disease.

In fact, I’ve noticed a trend here this summer. The folks who have bushes in need of trimming have simply cut the bushes down to the ground or removed them altogether. This is exactly what happened yesterday.

I kept hearing power tools all day, but couldn’t figure out why until I stepped out our back door. The owner of the apartment building next to us was having all the bushes and trees cut down from the back of his/her property. This is where I’d been watching and listening to scores of birds from our backyard (as I’ve written previously, our landlord already stripped this property of its only tree and the bushes in the back). The devastation made me sick. And disgusted. (Now we can clearly see the hideous apartment building behind us.) Then it got worse.

Two bushes at the end of our front walk had become so overgrown that you could no longer walk between them or use the sidewalk; you had to go around them. With one set of manual clippers, I could have fixed the situation. But NO! The landlord ordered the yard guys to REMOVE the bushes. What’s more, our “neighbor” on the other side cut down all but one of his property’s stand of mature trees we had enjoyed seeing from our apartment.

I realize this may not seem so bad to you. Three properties, several trees, a bunch of bushes—not a big deal in the grander scheme of things. Yet there’s an IMMEDIATE difference in birdsong, which means there will be a difference in bird population here . There’s no more cover for the baby birds I’ve been watching—from finches to crows—as they received life lessons from their mothers. There’s no perch for flying passersby. There are no flowering plants for bees and butterflies—no honeysuckle or trumpet vines or lilacs or holly. All gone.

I doubt any of this crossed the minds of the property owners. I doubt it even matters to them. So this goes beyond a mere difference in aesthetics, which is easy enough to acclimate to. It’s a difference in mindset and sense of stewardship. It’s an uncomfortable difference that changes how I feel about these people and this place, that separates me further from any notion of fitting in. I just have to decide what’s next.

* Thankfully, the few people I’ve befriended since moving here share my gardening aesthetics and concerns.
** Stats are from the EPA.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Finding Acceptance in a New Neighborhood

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 18

“Ow!”

I was in the yard, just about focused for a great photograph of a bird, when something pinched my arm.

“What?” I could almost hear it say—“it” being the tiniest and roundest of hard-shelled bugs digging into my skin.

Actually, I was grateful the bug had alerted me to his intentions. That hasn’t been the case with most of the other bites scattered across my body. The bugs of the Bluegrass love me and I sorely (literally) resent their Welcome Committees.

Granted, one may safely assume that my move from an urban area to a smaller city would mean a proportionate increase in mosquitoes. However, I didn’t anticipate the range of their biting brethren lying in wait for me. And each new bite revives the itch and ooze of every older bite.

Yes, yes, yes. I’m applying Cortizone cream, refraining from scratching, wearing clothes that don’t aggravate the situation. All the same, I have angry welts of varying sizes all over me and I’m not happy about it.

My dear husband, on the other hand, has been bitten only once, but it caused such a frightening reaction on him that I guess the bug community decided to leave him alone thereafter. His elbow swelled and hardened and reddened and hurt for months. That said, I should probably be thankful I have just a hundred small bites and no signs of swollen limbs. But this is slim consolation.

I suppose that by sacrificing my skin to insects I’m truly living in harmony with them. However, if you know of a histamine-less way to be a good neighbor, please let me know. SOON.

[Art by Balthasar van der Ast.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

A Redemptive Tale from the Bluegrass

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 17

We don’t watch the local news on television. We tried when we first moved to the Horse Capital of the World, but there was one story after another of animal cruelty: the dog pitched from the window of a car speeding along a highway, the organized dogfights, the yard dog strangled by his chain, and the dogs dragged for … fun? … from the back of a truck. I couldn’t bear it. And I seriously wondered what rabbit hole we’d fallen down.

To be fair, animal cruelty happens everywhere there are people. I’m sure the Windy City had its share of these subhumans. They just didn’t make the evening news.

So imagine my delight when I read an upbeat tale about a pit bull in Frankfort, the state capital of the Bluegrass. You might have seen it already—it was on the Animal Rescue Site several days ago. Here’s the story from Kenneth Masters and his photo of China:

Second chances and a mission
Driving home from work I used to pass by a house and see a white pit bull in the backyard. One week I realized that no one was living in the house any longer, but the dog was still in the yard. Not really thinking ahead, I stopped and approached the fence and called out. Here she came, wagging her tail, from what looked like a tool shed. She seemed friendly enough, so I invited her to ride along with me and she hopped up into my truck and away we went. As I thought about what I would tell my wife and cats, I looked over at my new friend just in time to see a wet puppy come sliding out onto my seat! By the time I got home we had two puppies and no plan! Panicked, I settled everyone down in the bathtub and rushed back to the empty house just in case. Sure enough, in the shed there were two more puppies. By the time my wife got home there were 6 pit bulls in the bathtub and cats waiting for an explanation! These days China can be found napping on the couch, cats curled up beside her, and my wife? Well, she now co-ordinates the free spay/neuter program for pits and pit-mixes at our Franklin County Humane Society, Frankfort, Kentucky USA.

Thank goodness for people like Mr. and Mrs. Masters.

[Painting by Robin Andreae.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

The Weed of the Manicured Lawns

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 16

uite by accident, we live in a quaint, upscale neighborhood here in Horseyland: curvy streets, old shade trees, tiny stone homes built in the 1930s, and two churches at the top of the hill.

We strolled through this temple of civility the other night and came upon four young children sitting in the street with what looked to be fireworks paraphernalia. I wasn’t sure because the sun was long gone and there were no streetlights on this particular block. All I could make out were what kids in my day called “snakes”—small black pellets which, when lit, magically grew into snakelike creatures, jolting to life and oozing and slithering along until the heat died, leaving a trail of black ash on the pavement. If that, indeed, was what these children had been lighting, they’d been through dozens of them already. Mounds of snake debris stretched across the circle the children had formed in the street.

Across from the pyrotechnists were a few adults talking with one another on the sidewalk, and beyond them in an open yard was a gleeful Golden Retriever—off-lead and playing nicely by him/herself in some imaginary world.

Just as we passed all this evening bliss, we smelled “it.” We looked at each other, grinned.

Weed. Unmistakably weed.

It’s not that we’re uppity about smoking the stuff. It’s just that even in our old Windy City gangbanger ’hood, people weren’t usually so brazen. Sure, the fragrance might waft out of someone’s living room window or from a hidden spot on the beach, but rarely from an upper-middle-class, nearly middle-aged clutch on the sidewalk.

Hmm. Our assumptions have been challenged. Shame on us for having any in the first place.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Parking First, Safety Second

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 15
The street parking still confounds me here.

In the Land of Lincoln, cars are parked on the side of the street nose to tail. Here in the Bluegrass, in addition to the nose-to-tail style, you also see nose-to-nose and tail-to-tail.

In some neighborhoods of the Windy City, a space on the street for a car is hard to come by; it can take upwards of 30 minutes to find one.* If you see a space on the opposite side of the street, you’re wise to engineer a U-Turn (if it’s legal) and grab it while you can.

Here in Horseyland, though, you merely have to drive across incoming traffic and pull into the space.

When exiting your space in the Windy City, you pull into traffic that is headed in the same direction as your car. Easy. But pulling out in the Bluegrass demands more thought and skill: You’re facing oncoming traffic—sometimes two lanes of it—and have to dodge cars in order to reach the opposite lanes, or you have to make a U-Turn in order to join the oncoming traffic. Either way, you need a car with great acceleration and few blind spots. If you have any respect for other drivers, you’ll stay off your phone during this maneuver.

I keep parking nose-to-tail style. And each time I turn onto a street where the parked cars are all facing me, I still suffer a mini panic attack—believing I’ve made the mistake of driving the wrong direction on a one-way street. In this one instance, I think it safer to maintain my Windy City ways; assimilation could prove harmful.

* Note: This may sound daft, but…Calvin Trillin wrote a wonderful little novel about parking. Tepper Isn’t Going Out centers on a New York City resident who relishes every parking space he’s able to find and makes the most of it while the meter ticks away the minutes of his life.

[Meter pic from Wired magazine.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. To read other articles in the series, select Stranger in a Strange Land from Lull’s Topic List on the right.

Pardon Me: May I Give You A Weather Update?

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 14
s tornadoes ripped through the country last week, each new wave of storm cells sounded the alarms here in the Horse Capital of the World. But not in the way the Windy City warned its citizenry of pending terror and danger.

In the Windy City, you couldn’t not hear the alarms. They sounded like a fire engine siren—only much louder and much more annoying.

Here in Horseyland, though, the acoustics have to be just right for you to understand what you’re hearing—that is, IF you even heard it. The warning system here is more like the ice-cream truck we had in our old neighborhood, only here it’s more polite. It’s a chime that plays several measures of music. Then someone tells us a storm is near (someone who sounds suspiciously like a political candidate trying to get votes through a bullhorn in a parade). Only not that loud or adamant. Just nice.

It’s all niceness and civility here. Which is probably not the best tactic to use when attempting to protect people from imminent disaster, but in almost all other cases, it’s mighty refreshing.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische; illustration depicts Aeolus, Greek god of wind.]

Whatever the Weather, It’s Still Spring

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 13
A friend told me it snowed the other day in the Windy City. Yet, just days before, temperatures had climbed toward 80°F.

That’s the frustration about Spring in the upper Midwest. Flowers peep out in the heat, then lose their chance to blossom when snow returns. The palette that washes across the Horse Capital of the World is long delayed in the North.

My father had a favorite ditty that made sense in the Land of Lincoln, but not in the Bluegrass State:

Spring has sprung,
the grass has riz.
I wonder where
the flowers iz.

Thanks to my father, I’m experiencing the season of renewal in a new way—in glorious color. Unlike the North, the rise of the early perennials and the blooms of the flowering trees last longer here. Now Spring in the South will always conjure memories of the man who gave me life and the spirit with which to enjoy it.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 12

“Whaddaya think of the Cubs?”

That’s a typical opener for small talk in the Windy City. Translation: “Do you think the Cubs will make it to the World Series this year?”

Here in the Horse Capital of the World, polite conversation opens with “Have you been to Keeneland yet?” I hear it at the pharmacy, the grocery store, the salon, the p.o. As the Cubs and Wrigley Field are in Chicago, Keeneland and its horses are icons in Lexington. It’s a coveted social scene for which young and old dress to the nines and attract attention with exquisite headwear. The 75-year-old track is located within the city and is also the site of several tony equine sales each year.

If you’re a regular Lull reader, you know I’m not a fan of racing horses. During the few races I’ve watched or attended, horses have been injured in falls. However, I still plan to go to Keeneland. I hear they serve a pretty decent breakfast buffet there, after which I can watch horses get groomed and walked.

Just food and (equine) poetry. To me, it sounds like a perfect day at the races.

The Rules of Renewals: Reading Books the Library’s Way

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 11
My library branch is conveniently located for many people, but not for me. This is why I opted last week to renew all the books I had (which can be done by phone or online) so I didn’t have to brave the trip through a torrential rain. I intended to return the books I’d finished on the next dry day so someone else could read them. But my plan backfired.

One of my books—the one with only 600 more pages to read—was on hold for someone. I could NOT renew it.

“You can put it on hold,” suggested the librarian.

“You mean, I can let the other person get, say, 452 pages into it and then take it away from him/her so I can pick up where I left off weeks earlier?”

“Yes,” the librarian confirmed. “Sorry about that.”

Hmmm. I didn’t know what to make of this. Everything else about the library has been a monumental improvement over what I was used to. The building is fairly new with murals climbing the children’s section walls and natural light pouring in through the windows. Signage is easy to follow and I can always find something from my long wish list of books. The day I signed up to become a member, life-size foal sculptures of fiberglass stood everywhere, painted or appliquéd by local schoolchildren in honor of the World Equestrian Games. I applied for a card online at a kiosk and received it on the spot. Checking out works the same way: self-serve and bar-code efficient. Plus helpful librarians are never far away—with a smile.

Back in my Land of Lincoln library branch, smiles were hard to come by. So were librarians. There was one at the checkout, of course, and if you waited in the line long enough you could usually talk to a reference librarian. But other than that, the only other employees were an outsourced security guard and a part-time book-shelver who was typically three days behind with the inventory. The building was ’60s old, architecturally insignificant, and wholly uninviting. Sometimes the branch closed because the air-conditioning wasn’t working; other times it closed to save money on electricity. To get books from my wish list, I usually had to request them through the interlibrary loan system. It could take weeks before they arrived at my branch, even if the books were only coming from a few neighborhoods away. But one great thing about that branch was that I could walk to it.

Well, this new glitch is a small price to pay for an efficient, well-stocked library. Once I acclimate to the rules of renewals, my membership should be smooth sailing.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

[Pic of Lalique brooch used on cover of A. S. Bayatt’s The Children’s Book; pic of foal covered in Beatrix Potter characters.]

Don’t Fence Me In

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 10
One obvious difference between my old neighborhood and my new one is fences. Nearly every square inch of public and private property in my old ’hood was bordered by wrought iron. Even the parks and green spaces. It could feel claustrophobic and exclusionary.

Not so in the Horse Capital. Oh sure, in the back yards you’ll find fences with children or dogs inside. But not in the front. And not in the parks. Paper and mail carriers can deliver their goods for blocks and blocks without once having to open a gate.

Outside the city, two kinds of fences frame the landscape: plank and stone.

The traditional horse farm fence is wooden planking painted white; the contemporary version is darkly stained, making its upkeep less expensive. As simple as the fencing looks, it’s costly. According to one source, the white runs about $18,000 per mile and the dark runs $6,000. And there are hundreds upon hundreds of miles of the stuff here.

Alongside the quintessential planking that borders roadways, you’ll often see stone walls—no mortar, just carefully placed rock, one after the other, one atop another. Beautiful to behold. And complicated to repair. One careless driver can take down a whole section and if the property owner can’t afford to fix it, it becomes another bit of history lost.

In a book I recently read, Buffalo for the Broken Heart, the author describes refencing his cattle acreage for buffalo. Unlike cattle, buffalo really do (and should) roam, so they need much larger pastures than cattle with much sturdier fencing. And though both cattle and buffalo fences may be made of the same basic materials, the construction and costs are quite different (for instance, the poles have to sink deep into the ground, requiring large machinery to do the digging). The first pasture of only 40 acres cost the author $5,000 in materials alone back in the early ’90s; labor was another story. And as soon as the first pasture was done, fencing for the hundreds of other acres had to be started. Not to keep anything out (as was the intent in the Windy City), but to keep the mammoth buffalo in. For once they step onto someone else’s property to graze, the welcome they receive is usually delivered by a rifle.

As they say on the range, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

I’m not sure what they say in my new neighborhood, but the lack of fencing here shows a refreshing openness and friendliness. At least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

[Photos top to bottom from Blog N Kentucky, the Kentucky Land Sales Newsletter, and Jason Lindsey.]

Helping Women Rebuild Their Lives After War

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 9
Google reminds me that today is the 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day. To celebrate, I can take part in a “bridge event.”

Sounds like a good thing to do on a Tuesday, so I check the Google map for an event in the Bluegrass State. Back in the Windy City, bridges were easy to come by, what with a river zigzagging throughout the town. But Kentuckians will need to travel to Ohio or Tennessee to actively participate in a scheduled event.

Perhaps a smaller event is better suited for the population here—say, on a covered bridge? (I know, I know. Covered bridges are an endangered species. We could have our event NEAR them but not ON them.)

If you, too, are bridge-challenged, you can join the activities online and donate to the cause.

[Photo of Switzer Covered Bridge taken by Dave Elbon.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

Nice Weather If You’re A Duck

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 8
It’s pouring here. Again. Which means we have to be on the lookout for flash-flood warnings.

This is the norm here: See rain, grab ark. The water has nowhere to drain since the town is built on limestone. So water pools quickly.

But as I approached my local grocery store, these two birds were loitering on the sidewalk. They made the entire day worthwhile.

What gave you joy today?

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 7

A Link Between Kissing and Hunting

I’ve always fancied the look of mistletoe—its small pearlescent berries, its delicate rounded leaves. But I never thought much about where it grew, only that I could usually locate it at a local florist come Christmastime. I guess I presumed it to be a cousin of the holly bush.

But I was so wrong.

Am I the only one who didn’t know that mistletoe is a parasite? Grows high in the branches of majestic trees? Is hunted here in the South? Yes, hunted.

Folks actually seek out trees where the mistletoe has rooted and shoot at the evergreen to bring it down. Shooting mistletoe and taking it to market can be a lucrative pastime; it can also be a frustrating endeavor.

I noticed that the discovery of a new type of mistletoe in Mozambique made the news this week. And when looking for a photo I could post on Lull, I learned a bit of mistletoe history (it’s the floral emblem of Oklahoma and was used on gravesites when other flowers weren’t affordable or available).

Well, ain’t that somethin’? Now when you sneak a kiss under the mistletoe ball, you’ll know the lore and travails behind the Christmas tradition.

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.