Hippity Hop Hop

Wishing you a colorful day of high spirits and sunny skies.

[Artist unknown.]

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

It’s here again—that day when everyone lays claim to Irishness: the green, the Guinness, the general revelry.

We celebrated by attending a parade yesterday. It was a sharp contrast to the South Side Chicago parade we watched years ago, where no one had to pretend to be Irish—they were Irish! This Bluegrass version lacked the drama of the green-dyed river that frames the annual downtown City of Chicago parade (the year we elbowed our way into this event the temperature was nearly too cold to enjoy the pageantry; in fact, some of the participants dropped out).

Nevertheless, yesterday’s parade had much to offer: rescue groups of Great Danes and Greyhounds, a hula-hoop troupe and a band of Renaissance Fair performers, marching bands and motorcycle clubs (one member traveled with a dog on the back, another with a wheelchair), and the requisite bagpipers and step dancers PLUS (I can’t emphasize this enough!) it was a sunny 70 degrees outside! After the parade, a vacant lot downtown took on a state-fair atmosphere. Long lines formed to purchase a funnel cake or an ale, dancers and musicians performed for free at a bandstand, and the animals from the parade—dogs, horses, llamas (it was a treat to watch the woolly ones trot down Main Street)—mingled among the crowd. All-in-all, it was a grand way to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.

Wherever you go and whatever you do,
May the luck of the Irish be there with you. 

“Sláinte!”

Love Is in the Air

May the Valentine Fairy be good to you today.

[Art from Graphics Fairy.]

Sharing the Stage with Groundhog Day…

Today is World Wetlands Day, a single day reserved to rouse awareness for the importance of wetlands—not just for the plants and creatures who reside in them, but also for the critters just passing through (like these Whooping Cranes migrating through Kentucky and searching for a resting spot).

You can spread the word about wetlands by sending a favorite someone an e-card.

“[T]he meeting of land and water…keeps alive the sense of continuing creation and the relentless drive of life. Each time I enter it, I gain some new awareness of its beauty and its deeper meanings, sensing that intricate fabric of life by which one creature is linked with another, and each with its surroundings.”
—Rachel Carson

[Photo of Purple Gallinule in the Wakodahatchee Wetlands by Jake Paredes; photo of migrating Whooping Cranes from U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.]

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.]

Huzzah for Guns?

The first headline I read this morning announced a new target-practice app for four-year-olds from the NRA. Then my husband shared a Stephen Colbert video, “Double Barrel Blam-O-Rama,” with me (which I can’t embed here for some reason—you’ll have to follow the link above).

Colbert notes that the first-ever national Gun Appreciation Day is coming up this Saturday, sharing the week with another holiday, Martin Luther King Day. The originator of Gun Appreciation Day believes MLK would have been pro-gun (the same way Jesus would have been pro-nail, quips Colbert).

Tsk. My dream of a nation instilled with kindness and compassion is quickly being dashed by a fear that there’s not even hope for sanity and common sense.

Today is MLK’s birthday. I’ll leave you with a bit of his wisdom:

“A nation or a civilization that continues to produce softminded men purchases its own spiritual death on an installment plan.”
—from A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King Jr., edited by James M. Washington

[Creator of flower gun unknown.]

The Best Part of Christmas?

“For it is in giving that we receive.”
―Attributed to St. Francis of Assisi

Pre-Christmas Surprises

I woke up a few mornings ago to snow and this animated holiday card sent by a friend:

You can see what I saw by clicking on the phrase holiday card.

It’s a sweet way to begin the day—especially if you’re fond of animals or you pine for London. Happy viewing!

[Art by Jacquie Lawson.]

Riding High on Christmas Spirit

Need a little help with your holiday spirit? Here are links to FREE Christmas e-books, courtesy of Project Gutenberg and mediabistro:

1. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
2. The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry
3. The Children’s Book of Christmas Stories
4. The Night Before Christmas and Other Popular Stories For Children
5. The Story of the Other Wise Man by Henry Van Dyke
6. Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum
7. Christmas Stories And Legends
8. The Christmas Angel by Abbie Farwell Brown
9. The Chimes by Charles Dickens
10. A Kidnapped Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum
11. The Abbot’s Ghost, or Maurice Treherne’s Temptation: A Christmas Story by Louisa May Alcott
12. The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain by Charles Dickens
13. A Budget of Christmas Tales by Charles Dickens and Others
14. The First Christmas Tree by Henry Van Dyke
15. Betty’s Bright Idea; Deacon Pitkin’s Farm; and the First Christmas of New England by Harriet Beecher Stowe
16. In the Yule-Log Glow, Book I
17. A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady
18. Christmas Comes but Once A Year by John Leighton
19. Peace on Earth, Good-will to Dogs by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott
20. The Romance of a Christmas Card by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
21. Christmas Tales and Christmas Verse by Eugene Field
22. The Birds’ Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin
23. A Christmas Mystery by William John Locke
24. A Little Book of Christmas by John Kendrick Bangs
25. On Christmas Day in the Morning by Grace S. Richmond

The Countdown Is On!

We’re only 12 days away from C’mas—after which we’ll begin the traditional Twelve Days of Christmas.

Confused?

For another take on the Twelve Days, check out Linda Carson’s 7MSN Ranch. She’s dressing her critters for the holidays one by one, just as she’s done in the past. For example, pictured here is George. Click on his name and you can see his conversation with his photographer/blogger/rancher (Ms. Carson).

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

The Early Bird Gets the…

In late June, a large box arrived in the mail with a warning: Do NOT open ’til July 4th!

The box was from my mother, who made a big deal of most holidays—gifts not only for Christmas, but also for pre-Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Halloween. This was a first for Independence Day, though.

But I was wrong. My mother’s brainstorm was to separate the birthdays of her daughter (Christmas Eve) and son-in-law (Boxing Day) from the holiday crush. As a child, I longed to have a summer birthday largely because I wanted to hold an outdoor scavenger hunt. However, Mother held fast to the official birth date. Until now.

Now she saw the benefits of shifting the celebration: She didn’t have to shop during the holiday frenzy, she could find colorful items that weren’t red or green, and we wouldn’t be getting yet another sweater. Now she could give her daughter what was asked for long ago. After all, there was precedence and a track record: A family friend had for decades celebrated his December 24th birthday on June 24th without incident. Plus, this shift felt tinglingly subversive.

Mother promised the early celebration wouldn’t affect our ages. We wouldn’t be getting older earlier or advance in age twice in one year. Nope, that numbers game occurred only on our real birthdays.

All good. Until now.

Not that what I’m about to say isn’t good; it just strikes me as curious. We’re celebrating Christmas tomorrow.

That’s right. We knocked off the 2 in December 25th and are just going for the 5th this year.

Actually, there’s a good reason for this craziness: Each member of my family lives several states away from one another and we rarely see each other. This week, my sister is visiting my mother and hatched a plan to meet with us halfway between the Land of Lincoln and the Bluegrass. And since it’s so close to Christmas, why not celebrate while we’re together?

Why not, indeed?

So tomorrow I’m headed for Story. You know—near Gnaw Bone and not far from Bean Blossom? Indiana, that is.

Ho Ho Ho…

[I’m hoping for a turtle on wheels like the one on the postcard.]

“Well, the frost is on the pumpkin and the hay is in the barn…”

It’s the final day of November and time for me to admit that Autumn is waning. The “Season of Giving” has been poking at me since July and now that Thanksgiving is over, I guess I’m ready to embrace it.

Adieu, Autumn.

[Pumpkins Experiencing Life by Lana Gits.]

Houston, We Have A Pumpkin Problem

If you’ve been reading Lull for any length of time, you probably know that cooking scares me. I keep doing it, and my sister—whose culinary gifts far exceed my limited kitchen imagination—keeps encouraging me.

So I created a simple menu for the holiday and started by baking a pumpkin pie. After using the name-brand canned pumpkin, I noticed that the can was rusty. Just on the outside. However, the expiration date is fine.

Why would the can be rusty? I don’t know. But if you don’t see any new posts on Lull after today, you’ll know why.

Of course, death by pie isn’t a bad way to go…

[Photo: I don’t know who is pictured or who took the picture. For some reason, my whole “Google experience” has dramatically changed today and limited my research capabilities. Oh, Google, why have ye forsaken me?]

With Gratitude for My Readers…

Holiday Macabre

Wishing You a Most Cheerful Halloween

Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet…

Are you stumped over how to dress your animal companion this Halloween? Why not try the partnership approach shown in these photos?

[Photos from Halloween Horse.]

What the…?

Oh, right. Easter has arrived. What did the Big Bunny leave for you?

Wicked Warnings and Rabbit Reminiscences

“Don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”
—from The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

As a child, I think I more readily took to heart the advice I read in my books than the advice my elders offered me. I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Mr. McGregor’s garden, but I failed to listen to the adults who told me to “leave the baby bunny alone.”

How could I? The poor thing was orphaned in a tragic mowing accident, losing not only her mother but her siblings as well. I named her Rosie; I’ve no idea why. I cried for her loss and burst with happiness that she was to become part of our family. I placed her in a box and fashioned a little nest for her. I promised to protect her and nourish her and be her best pal. I pledged my undying devotion to her and, in the end, I killed her.

I didn’t mean to. If anyone had told me that I could fatally traumatize her simply by holding her too much, I didn’t hear it. More likely I was told to “let the bunny be”; the consequences weren’t specified.

I killed my one and only bunny—about the size of a mouse—with misplaced love. It was my first hard lesson in the ways of nature and the differences between the wild and the domesticated. I’m embarrassed to admit that subsequent lessons followed.

I eventually learned my place in the animals’ world. Rosie comes to mind often, but especially at Eastertime when bunnies are front and center. Though I grieve Rosie’s passing, I’m grateful for what she taught me.

[Pictured is Beatrix Potter with her leashed bunny. Drawing by Hans Hoffmann.]

For additional bunny-related posts on Lull, see “How to Make Everybunny Happy,” “Here Comes Peter Cottontail…” and “I.Q. Reexamined”; for previous Easter-related posts, see “It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again” and “The Marble Truth of Easter.”

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Honoring the Irish Dog Whisperer

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, a day that beckons green accents from my wardrobe and turns the Chicago River emerald. I learned on my father’s deathbed that his grandmother (my great-grandmother) was Irish, but I’ve been lax in exploring my Irish heritage.

So it was something of a discovery yesterday to learn that before our St. Paddy became a saint—before, even, he took the name “Patrick”—he was known for the gentle and authoritative way he had with dogs. He was able to quiet an entire ship full of Irish Wolfhounds (pictured, though I don’t know the artist—you can read about it on The BARK).

I’ve always liked Wolfhounds—envisioned them every time someone (erroneously, I thought) called my pooch a “BIG dog.” See the pic? Those are big dogs.

So forget the snakes today. Focus on the dogs!

I’m going to like being Irish…