Spoiler Alert: The Dog Doesn’t Die

I had put off reading Oogy: The Dog Only A Family Could Love because, after one look at the cover, my imagination filled in the horrors that undoubtedly lurked in the story. I didn’t think I could bear the tale.

However, in my efforts to steel myself to push through the disturbing sections of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, I gave Oogy a try. And I finished it! All of it—no skipping.

Do I recommend it? Hmm. It’s a first-time book for Oogy’s guardian, Larry Levin, and there were many times when I wished the dog’s story had been in the hands of a more consummate wordsmith. On the other hand, I sympathize with Levin’s desire to share Oogy’s giant personality with a broad audience and I admire him for undertaking the task himself.

Upon reaching the final page, I didn’t feel that sweet sorrow that washes over readers who yearn to continue clinging voyeuristically to a book’s characters. I was struck, though, with a fervent desire to meet Oogy—to stroke his singleton ear and gaze into his lopsided eyes and sample the extraordinary affection he bestowed on his family over the years. This is Larry Levin’s achievement with his debut memoir: getting readers to appreciate Oogy as Levin experienced him.

So should you read Oogy? Only if you want to meet a unique Dogo Argentino who oozes heart. The book is easy to read; the pooch will be hard to forget.

What Will You Do with Your Life?

“[T]he very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.”
—From Animal Dreams, by Barbara Kingsolver

[Art by Camomile Hixon.]

Memories of a Date with the Printed Word

Today is Saturday.

Those are powerful words to me that spark a rush of sensory recall and always, always bring to mind my father and borrowed books.

Decades ago, in the land where I spent my childhood, there were no Borders or Amazon.coms. The local Carnegie Library, with its roaming Bookmobile, was the go-to place for bibliophiles. Thanks to my mother, who had told me stories and read books to me daily since my infancy, I could already be counted a bibliophile at a tender age. Once I could read on my own, I craved a larger world to explore.

That’s when my father stepped into the picture. We had a standing date on Saturdays. While my friends watched cartoons in their pajamas, I dressed for a downtown outing. My father forfeited the time he spent daily with his business buddies and instead took me to one of his favorite diners for breakfast, after which we drove to the library.

The Carnegie Library stood majestically atop a slight hill, its stained-glass windows adding religious undertones to its architectural grandeur. I felt privileged to be permitted inside.

Children’s books were shelved in the basement, where there were three rooms of books and one exceptional librarian (likely charmed by my father) who broke all the rules. She allowed me to borrow twice the maximum number of books every week. It was our secret. She didn’t have much to worry about, though. I treated books well, read quickly, and returned all the books the following Saturday because I could hardly wait to get new ones. The more books I borrowed, the more I loved books.

After I’d chosen a stack of biographies and animal tales, I’d tag along with my father to work, where I could learn from him the finer points of repairing typewriters or I could start reading my treasures. To my father’s (feigned) dismay, I usually chose the latter.

Our Saturday dates subsided as I got older—relegated to a mere memory.

Then I moved to the Bluegrass to be near my father during his final battle with cancer. It was a Saturday in October last year when I took him out for breakfast, then drove to a local library branch so I could apply for a library card. My father remained in the car, where he was most comfortable.

It didn’t take long for me to return to him—a stack of books about horses in hand. He stared at it for a bit, deep in thought.

“Hmm,” he finally stirred. “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

Yes, it is, Dad. Today is Saturday. Our day.

[Sculpture by Melissa A. Brown.]

Gambling for a Job

ay back when, in the 1980s, I met numerous people (most of them actors) who lied in order to clinch a job. They “embellished” their computer expertise (that is, they said they knew how to operate one when they didn’t), and it worked for all of them. They acquired their computer skills successfully while on the jobs, and their organizations benefited from their employment.

This was concurrently appalling and revelatory news to me. It never occurred to me that you could pretend to be the employee the employer wanted in the interview and then become that ideal employee once in the job. It’s not in my nature to pass myself off as someone I’m not.

The job market is much tougher now and those ’80s shenanigans are harder to pull off. I wonder how many job-seekers are willing to lie if it gets them through a door. I wonder how many succeed.

I did something similar once, though I put no one except myself at risk.

I was auditioning for a small-town production of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown and was slated to read for one of the girl parts. But I didn’t want to be a girl. I wanted to be the DOG. The director was auditioning only men for the role of Snoopy, so I knew I was not only up against worthy talent, but up against a prejudiced vision as well.

I thought long and hard about how much I wanted the role and how competitive I would have to be to win it. Was I up to the task?

I hatched a plan so antithetical to my personality that I still marvel at it: I schemed to throw my audition. I would purposely botch my reading for a girl part and finagle an audition for Snoopy, during which I had to be so sensational that no one could imagine anyone else in the role.

The first part of my plan—botching the audition—was the worst. Being a failure and seeing it reflected in the faces of an audience would be humiliating. It would knock me out of the running for all the human characters in the musical and, if the second part of my plan didn’t work, would knock me out of the show completely. What’s more, my plan was a little lean on detail. I had no idea how to wheedle that second audition. Fortunately, the director ended up relieving me of this concern.

The night of the callbacks (callbacks are the repeat auditions for a select number of actors who make the first cut—much like second and third interviews in a job hunt), after the director had seen all he intended to, he asked if anyone wanted to read for a part they hadn’t yet been asked to read for. My hand shot up.

I performed my song-and-dance routine. I gave it my all and had a great time doing it. By the time I finished, it didn’t matter anymore whether I’d changed the director’s mind or didn’t get cast. What mattered was that I had done everything in my power to attain a goal. I had lived through humiliation and stepped outside my comfort zone. I felt changed … enhanced, somehow … new.

Though searching for employment in today’s economy is soul-breaking work, I would never advise you to compromise your integrity for a paycheck. But stretching boundaries and going for a long-shot dream job? Absolutely. The preparation you’ll undergo to make others believe in you can make you believe in yourself. And that’s worth more than any job.

That’s what I thought, anyway, after auditioning for the musical. I was okay with not getting a part. But when the cast was announced, it seemed the director had reconsidered his gender-biased notion of Snoopy.

I became a long-eared pooch for an entire summer. My high-risk gamble for a job with no pay paid off.

[See more designs by Alejandro Paul.]

No-Boundaries Traveling

“Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are.”
—Mason Cooley

[Art by John Lavery.]

Of Nighttime Spectacles and Superheroes

e were disappointed to miss the Perseids meteor shower the other night—too much moon and ambient light. But we were treated to a wondrous show of flight much closer to Earth.

Bats. As we stepped outside to see a visiting neighbor home, dozens of what looked to be Little Brown Bats streamed above us—across our lawn toward the thick of trees up the street. We followed the oncoming stream to see where they were coming from.

We easily discovered their roost, which I’d prefer to keep mum about. I’ve already told you what folks do to plants around here. Who knows what they’d do to bats.

Bats are my superheroes in my personal war against biting bugs (Little Brown Bats can eat 600 mosquitoes in an hour), plus they’re serious pollinators of flowers. I don’t know much about the flying mammals, but I have fond memories of a few.

When I was a youngster, the very words poison ivy would pock my flesh. One summer I suffered a particularly severe bout of the stuff, my fingers so blistered they wouldn’t close. My mother kept vigilant over my attempts to ameliorate my condition and hardly let me travel beyond her eagle glare.

However, in a rare lapse of her monitoring, I slipped outside one evening. As I stood near our pool, watching reflections in the ripples of water I’d not been permitted to enjoy all summer, something darted through the air. Then another something, and another after that. Then one flew so close I could see ribbons of color swirling through the membrane of its wings.

My father explained that these were bats, visiting us for a sip from the pool and dining on the insects that gathered near it. I was fascinated and held out my hand to … what? I don’t remember. Maybe I was hoping a bat would perch on my arm like a canary. Instead, a bat flew directly at my hand, slicing through one of the enormous poison ivy blisters. Ah, what relief! I could finally close two of my fingers. I watched the bat as s/he continued snacking on bugs and thanked him/her for the special favor s/he’d granted me.

When I returned to the house, my mother scolded me for breaking the blister. I told her I didn’t do it—the bat did. At first she didn’t believe me. Then, on the outside chance I was telling the truth, she lectured me about palling around with dirty, dangerous animals. But she couldn’t break the spell the bat had cast over me. The bond was set.

Last night my husband and I discussed our evening plans. We could drive across town to hear a free bluegrass concert. Or we could stay home, our carbon footprint uncompromised, and watch the bats begin their nightly patrol.

We chose the latter, naturally, and enjoyed every minute of the winged performance.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]

Coming Out of a Fog

This morning as I turned away from washing dishes and headed toward the stove for a cup of espresso, it hit me. Stopped me in my tracks.

I’d missed a dear friend’s birthday. By a long shot. Not that I hadn’t been thinking about her; I just hadn’t connected the dates to her annual celebration. And since we share a birth day (but not month), it should be easy to remember.

Worse, she’s not the only one. I missed someone else’s birthday back in June.

I’ve never been great with remembering birthdays—one of the multitude of things I’m trying to improve upon. But these particular cases of forgetfulness may be attributed to my cumulative losses and stress over the past year. Waves of calendar-challenged days sweep over me periodically.

Still, I should have remembered. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about these friends. I just don’t associate them with specific dates.

I’m a noodlehead and I’m sorry.

So Happy (extremely belated) Birthday, you two. Stay young.

“The idea is to die young as late as possible.”
—Ashley Montagu

[Cake by JollyBe Bakery.]

A Wagon-Wheel Tour of the Bluegrass

Howdy! Sorry this has been Lull Lite lately, but I’ve had out-of-town company. On Friday, we nearly made it to Paris; the next day we headed for Versailles—which is pronounced “Vuhr • saylz” for those of you who don’t speak Bluegrass.

Lexington resembles a wagon wheel: The center of town is the hub and the major thoroughfares extending away from it are spokes. With no linear grid system here, the pathfinding can be easily bungled. My friend and I (and sometimes her 70 pound puppy) have been exploring a spoke a day and some of its best-known features—the bourbon distillery, the dog park, the country restaurant, the nearby railroad town, and the thoroughbred farms.

The highlight of the long weekend (besides being with a cherished friend) was going on a trail ride at the Kentucky Horse Park. It was my first attempt in more than 30 years to mount a horse again. It turned out to be both humiliating and rewarding. But that tale will have to be told in another post…

[Pic of Kentucky Horse Park by Mottasu.]

Here’s A Job EVERYONE’s Eligible For

I saw this on Craigslist, I think. Does our government count it as a “job created”?

I'm looking for an experienced writer interested in writing poems, articles and essays. This is a part time position and will be a 6 month contract. Respond to this post to learn more about this opportunity

**NOTE** No experienced writers welcomed

[Artist unknown—by me. Do you know?]

Low Blow to Books in London Riots

Did you see the latest on the London Riots?

On this evening’s network news, video clips were shown of a shopping area in which EVERY SINGLE store was vandalized and looted. Except one.

Yes, it pains me to tell you that the book store was left untouched.

My Pollyanna side would like to think the rioters were showing their reverence for the printed word. But more likely they were showing their utter lack of respect and desire for books.

Pollyanna sighs.

[In contrast, note the photograph above of a library in London just after the Blitz of WWII.]

Start Your Week “In the Pink”

This is Belle. She’s 5 days old.


That’s it. That’s all I know about her. Except this: When I try to imagine her perspective, to really sense life through her young eyes and nose and ears, all is new and hopeful again. The weight of the evening news—its sorrows from Somalia and Syria, its hubris from Congress and joblessness from across the U.S.—falls away and I see, instead, a world beckoning to be explored.

Try it yourself.

Oh, I know. The weightlessness doesn’t last. But still … for one moment or two, everything is possible. The week doesn’t start much better than that, does it?

[Pic by Brittney Williford of Whisker Snaps Photo.]

A Thursday Pause

Are you itching for the week to end? Are you ready for a break from heavy thinking?

Lighten your load today by visiting artist Matte Stephens’ blog. You’ll find works like the one below called Lillian Playing with an Abstract Thought.

Tales from the Almost Humane Society

Somewhere during the past week, I came across mention of the Almost Home Humane Society. However, upon first glance I read it as the “Almost Humane Society.”


It comes to mind again because after spotting the hummingbird on Sunday, things went downhill immediately thereafter. My enthusiasm for reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks plunged when I discovered it’s filled with more than injustice, which I was steeled for. What I wasn’t expecting was the heartache imprisoned on page 84 and the evil given free rein on page 111.

I closed the book, practiced deep breathing. But it wasn’t enough. I needed a dose of Happy, so I took a spin through a few dog blogs. Among the atrocities I happened upon was the report of the Michigan university med student who moonlighted as an Italian Greyhound serial killer. (Yeah. Did your face just scrunch into its “Seriously?” look? Mine too. Even as I write this.) No Happy available.

On Monday it was time to return my library books. I could have, perhaps should have, dropped them into the drive-through collection slot. But having little discipline where books are concerned, I walked them into the building—where I couldn’t help glancing at the New Arrivals. I promptly removed one from the shelf. Then it didn’t take long to turn this one selection into a stack of selections. Now I’m on a reading schedule again.

I’m putting off slipping back into Immortal Life, I know. But I prefer to think of it as “building stamina for tough reads.” I prefer to think of it as coming to terms with living in an Almost Humane Society.

[Artist unknown.]

Life’s Sticky Choices

Perseverance often comes down to this: Choosing between extremely bad circumstances and tolerably bad circumstances.

Take the bobcats pictured here, for instance. The one stationed high atop the saguaro cactus in Arizona was escaping the wrath of a mountain lion. The one straddling two cacti in New Mexico found the prickly perch preferable to the pack of wild dogs that had been chasing him. (Neither one probably anticipated or appreciated having to stay up there while humans stood below snapping photographs.) They did what they had to and worked with whatever limited resources were available.

The older we get, the more of these choices we have to make—about our health, our finances, our jobs, our homes. The economic trials of the last few years have forced many more people into similarly uncomfortable decisions.

But keep your chin up and remember: It’s always relative, never absolute.

“Bad is never good until worse happens.”
—Danish Proverb

[Arizona pics by Curt Fonger, courtesy of a Lull reader (thank you!); New Mexico pic by Paco Espinoza.]

I Thought I Saw A …

Quote maven Terri Guillemets says her “favorite weather is bird-chirping weather.” I’m with her there.

We’ve been a little lean on bird-chirping lately. Largely because the temperatures and humidity have been too high, but also because there’s no cover for winged guests near our building.

Thankfully, temperatures have dipped this morning to something below 80 degrees and a handful of sparrows have returned to our feeder for nourishment. As I was searching for art to post on Lull just now, an unusual movement darted into my peripheral vision. I turned toward the window and caught a blurred look at a hummingbird hovering above our window-box flowers.

Unfortunately, my glasses were in another room so I couldn’t decipher colors or species to share with you. But still … a hummingbird!

My day has started with a tiny burst of joy. I can’t ask for more.

I hope your version of joy calls on you soon.

[Art by studiobeerhorst.]

A Blogger Who’s A Breed Apart

Before renting Hachi: A Dog’s Tale, I knew what I was in for. At least, I thought I did.

But instead of getting drawn in by the unwavering loyalty of a pooch, I couldn’t get past the irresponsible characters (based on real people from 1920s Japan). I went to the Web to see if anyone else had the same reaction.

I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I ended up on a dog blog unfamiliar to me. It appears to be an anti-Pit Bull proselytizer. In one post, it compares the lack of press given to a tortured, mixed-breed dog named Star while Patrick the Pit Bull tugged at a nation’s heartstrings. The blogger’s theory is that Pit Bulls get an undue amount of positive publicity thanks to Pit Bull advocates who can’t see past the pedestals on which they keep these ferocious beasts.

It was a wacky rant that I thought needed an injection of rational perspective. I started writing a comment. Certainly the mixed-breed Star had suffered unconscionable acts, but the blogger seemed to be making the story of abuse into a contest of breed-based oneupmanship. I started to explain that responsible Pit Bull advocates anticipate a day when they’ll no longer have to sway public opinion about the Bully breeds, a day when “Breedism” will fade away.

The more I wrote, the more I realized that to really make my case, I needed to know more about this blogger and his/her readers. I noticed that the other comments were written by bloggers who were listed both on the Blogroll and as Followers of this anti-Pit Bull blog.

Turns out, one person is behind it ALL—different names, same individual. The blogger is his/her own followers, readers, and favorites. Whew! That’s a lot of personalities all wrapped up into one! I wrote Lull under a pseudonym when I first started, but had to drop it because I couldn’t keep track of who I was. (I know: I’m not spy material.)

Probably needless to say, I didn’t bother finishing my comments. I doubted the sanity of my captive audience and thought it unfair to rile “them.”

[Pics from Bad Rap and The Sula Foundation.]

In Which Bulldog Gus Gets an Idea, Experiments, and Implements

Rail-Ridin’ Pooch Debuts Today

Just a heads-up—especially for Lull readers owned by terroriers—about the newest U.S. stamp. It’s a tribute to Owney, the railway mascot of the 1880s postal service.

The stamp has been in the works for years, along with an e-book and an interactive game for children. Owney travelled the globe—spending time on ships as well as trains—so he’s chockfull of geography and history lessons for youngsters. You can visit his display at Smithsonian’s National Postal Museum. If you have an Owney lookalike at home, enter the contest to get your pooch’s pic into the Smithsonian!

Warning: The stamp doesn’t compare to the original photos of Owney.

Scouting for Good Reads

You may have noticed the recent flurry of activity on my book lists. Attribute it to: 1) My intermittent panic that I’m failing to make a dent in my reading wish list—never mind the ongoing short-listed award books cranked out month after month, and 2) My last trip to the library—when I meant only to pick up a book my husband had on-hold, but also came away with a handful of titles I noticed in passing. I’m like the freelancer who takes every job because there’s no guarantee another will come along. I scooped up the books before someone else did or before the library decommissioned them (the more likely scenario).

Which is to say that I’ve been reading on a schedule. But now that I’ve finished the library books, I can return to my own inventory and read at leisure.

Last night, I started a book that held little appeal for me during its prepublishing blitz: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Even after it started winning accolades and awards, it didn’t make it onto my Top 10 list. (Confession: I tend to avoid books and films about injustice. They upset me too much. I know … I’m a wuss.)

Then last year I read a short memoir* by Rebecca Skloot in an anthology of dog tales. I admired her sensibilities and her writing style and was eager to read more of her work, so I took to Googling. It didn’t take long to make the connection as to why I thought I knew her name: Her debut book, Immortal Life, was the one I’d been avoiding. Immortal Life rocketed to my Top 10 list—I couldn’t not read it now.

This is how my reading wish list has evolved of late. Rather than getting recommendations from others or following the bestseller and awards lists, I sample short stories in anthologies and journals. If an author impresses me, I’ll scout out more of his/her writing.

This method is not foolproof. Some authors write better in short form than in long form; some are better at fiction than nonfiction. The theme of the anthology also influences my choices. (The essays of two of my favorite writers in one anthology were duds. Had I not already been familiar with them, I might not have discovered their better works based on that particular anthology.) However, in the long run, the method is a scavenger hunt of my own making that has no downside. All discoveries are serendipitous. There’s no shame or guilt in disliking the book recommended by a friend or reviewer.

As for Immortal Life, I simply had to wait for it to become available at my local library. Soon after I added it to my wish list, though, it arrived at my door; a friend had mailed it to me. How’s that for serendipity? It felt like Christmas. And now a little surge of that feeling will hit me each time I pick up that book.

To good friends and good reads, my abiding gratitude.

* The short memoir was about Skloot’s dog, Bonny, who was viciously attacked by a pack of wild dogs in New York City. If you’re on Facebook (which I’m not), you should be able to read the entire drama there, taken from Skloot’s blog. (If you find it, can you copy it into a file and send it to me?) If the Facebook series is anything like the short piece I read, it will provoke your ideas and convictions on legislation, dog training, and the value of any life. Note for dogsters: You may also enjoy reading Skloot’s article on memorializing her other dog, Sereno.

[Pics are HeLa cells, all originating from Henrietta Lacks.]

Boost Your Ego Today: Analyze Your Writing

I finally got around to visiting the I Write Like Web site—the analysis program that tells you which celebrated author your writing most resembles.

I tested two different Lull posts, a few grafs from a eulogy, and a story I started last year. The results? The eulogy came up as Cory Doctorow, the Lull posts as Anne Rice and H. P. Lovecraft, and the story as David Foster Wallace.

Huh?

I thought, perhaps, there was a set loop of writers the program used for every sample, so I tried to trick it. I entered my “Anne Rice” write-alike again, but got the same answer.

To be clear, I read a couple of Anne Rice’s novels about 20 years ago; I’ve never read any Lovecraft or Doctorow, though I’d heard of them, and I’ve read more about David Foster Wallace than I’ve read his work. So how could I imitate their style without studying it? I was a little perplexed as to how the I Write Like algorithm worked.

I Googled for info and discovered that Margaret Atwood had tried her hand at the analysis, too, only to find that she writes like Stephen King! Who knew? Certainly not Atwood fans, I’d bet.

I found another algorithm online—one that purports to be blatantly truthful and accurate—and tried it with the same samples, but the results were no ego boost. Twice I was told I write like a “daily mail journalist” and the other two samples were tagged as being written by “someone about to go on a killing spree.”

Well, forget about the ego boost. But give both Web sites a spin just for kicks. The results might make you smile.

Seeing Past My World

I’ve kept my life small lately so to be free of want and envy and comparisons and heartache.

Yet sometimes I drink in the world-at-large—the face of famine, the debris of bombings, the oil-spill carnage, the conflicts of power, the current trends in popular everything. It adds context to my too-small life, gives me perspective.

This morning I randomly opened a Paula Fox book and this jumped out from its pages:

“You can hold back from the suffering of the world, you have free permission to do so, and it is in accordance with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could have avoided.”
—Franz Kafka

It’s a call to action, isn’t it? I’ve been hearing it for a while now—a whisper from a distance—but Kafka pushes it close and turns up the volume.

It’s time to change my life. Again. I’m just not yet sure how.

[Art by Caspar David Friedrich.]

What Do Alexander Calder and Lull Have in Common?

ME!

I am a longtime fan of Calder’s work, and we share a milestone today: It’s Calder’s 113th birthday and Lull’s 500th post.

[Note for puppetry aficionados: Please check out Calder’s circus performance on YouTube.]

I created a little Lull word jumble for you to play today. It has 39—a random number, really; or you can think of it as Jack Benny’s favorite number (more randomness, I know)—surnames of people who have been quoted on Lull this year.

TO PLAY: Click-and-drag the jumble to your desktop and print it out (or open the JPG first to enlarge the puzzle). Then circle or color the names you see. The words may be read left-to-right, right-to-left, up, down, up diagonally, and down diagonally. If you need any hints, you can select “quotes” from Lull’s topic list (at the right of the screen), which will bring up all the quotes and the people who said or wrote them. To check your work, come back to this post for the link (below) to the answer key.

Click “answer key” to see or download it.

Oh! And don’t forget to grab some pie to celebrate.

Resentment: The Poison You Take While Waiting for the Other Person to Die

In the (so far) delightful Walking Ollie, novelist Stephen Foster admits: “I thrive on having something to resent.”

I don’t. That’s not to say that I easily let go of resentments, but I believe it’s futile and harmful to foster them. Whenever a resentment resists my attempt to fling it away, I reread this poem by humorist Robert Crane. You may find it instructional as well.

a pocket full of resentments
from Cranelegs Pond the Blook
i used to collect resentments like loose change in my front, right, pants pocket.
i’d never tell a soul either, especially the object of my discontent.
nope, i’d just accumulate them—little secret silent scars.
it’s what i did, very well!
yeah, in my front, right pocket.
and what a great place to store them.
i could wash my pants a thousand times, and they’d still be right there for me to pluck out and commiserate with whenever i was feeling taken for granted or put upon.

that is, until i met keaton.

i inadvertently did a wise thing.
i told her about this little fetish.
and then she advertently did a wiser thing.
i don’t know how or when, but she cut tiny holes in all my pockets.
you know, small enough for resentments to fall through, but not pocket change or my prized chapstick.
i can’t even find the holes, but i know they’re there somewhere, because now when i reach in to grab one or two resentments, they’re gone, leaving me empty handed in the bad energy department.
it’s refreshing really.
almost minty.

my only regret, i wish i had said something about this habit sooner rather than later.
hmm ... regrets.
now maybe that’s something i could collect?
i’d have a basement full in no time flat, that’s for sure.

Wishing you a resentment-free Thursday …

[Art by Anne Taintor.]

Stuck in an UN-Mindful State

For the past week I have fretted more than usual about my future, the future of those in war- and weather-torn countries, and all the other question marks that can overwhelm our lives from time to time. Living “mindfully” had become an alien ideology instead of a daily practice.

Then, last night, I read the first poem in Mary Oliver’s Thirst, and these lines scooted and squeezed me back into a better perspective of my place in the world:

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.

“Stand still. Be astonished.” Not a bad mantra, is it?

Dear Bibliobibuli Anonymous: I Fell Off the Wagon Again

Yes, I bought a stack of books on Friday. BUT I intend to read them and pass them on. They will not become permanent fixtures in my too-tiny home.

What’s more, the purchase was for a good cause—the International Book Project. The IBP promotes literacy by sending books to schools in developing nations and leads a pen-pal program to build cultural awareness between U.S. schoolchildren and their counterparts abroad.

Going to the IBP sale was a spontaneous thing to do on an otherwise lazy afternoon and my husband and I got to see a section of town we’d never been in. We came away with 11 books for under $10—staying budget-conscious while simultaneously donating to a fine charity. All good.

Count Down (Up?) to 500: Lull Hits Another Milestone

ull started two years ago with a whisper into the void—and has spluttered and splurched forward until this week, when I’ll be writing the 500th post.

Five hundred is not a hugely impressive number—it’s not infinite like pi and doesn’t come close to our national debt. But it’s substantial enough that I believe something special should occur alongside the 500th entry of Lull.

Maybe we should all eat pie. Mmmmm…

[Here are my top 10 favorite pies: pecan, lemon, coconut cream, chocolate, strawberry-rhubarb, rhubarb cream, blueberry, peach, pumpkin, custard.]

A Golden Reunion with My Inner Child

Once upon a time, when I was but a wee girl, I lived in a town that *gasp* had no book shop. But thanks to publishing mastermind George Duplaix and the Western Printing and Lithographing Company, our neighborhood grocer sold a single line of children’s books. With top-notch illustrations by award-winning artists and an affordable price tag, these Little Golden Books became the first I could call my own.

Some of the Golden Books were traditional folk-/fairytales; others introduced new characters—like Tootle (the train) and the Poky Little Puppy—that would become legendary for future generations of children.

It was the latter, of course, for whom I had great affection (more for the illustration, I think, than the plot and moral). So when I learned that my local library was kicking off its exhibit of original Little Golden Books artwork with a special appearance by none other than the Poky Little Puppy, I had to go.

I don’t seek out celebrities, don’t recognize them half the time when I do see them on the street, and would never think to ask for their autographs. But something about my attachment to that slow, spotted puppy suddenly turned me into a celebrity hound. I would take my vintage copy of The Poky Little Puppy to the library and have the pooch sign it.

Naturally, I couldn’t find my vintage copy of The Poky Little Puppy—only my vintage copy of Little Cottontail. After recovering from that first disappointment, upon arriving at the event, I could clearly see I was the OLDEST person there. (I had wrongly assumed this would be a trip down Memory Lane for most of the attendees.) Plus a librarian announced that all the artwork was original EXCEPT for The Poky Little Puppy: It was TOO OLD, hence they were exhibiting digital reproductions of it. As if that didn’t deflate my enthusiasm, the Poky Little Puppy was nowhere in sight.

The crowd was small, yet I realized that the Little Golden Books—in spite of the tremendous number of books that are now published for and accessible to children—remained popular. As a librarian read the story of the wayward canine to the crowd, a young boy sat at her feet and mouthed every word. Sometimes the librarian stopped the tale and threw a question out to the audience. Every kid was eager to be the first to answer. Her final question was, “Would you like to meet the Poky Little Puppy?” And to the buzz of the crowd, the honored guest entered the room.

I was smitten. (How much had my favorite Little Golden Book influenced my future penchant for spotted dogs?) The Poky Little Puppy posed for a pic with each child (and one OLD person!), played a round of “Hokey Pokey” with everyone, and generated smiles all around.

I may not have the autograph I wanted, but I came away with a delightful memory—one that I hope to cherish for many years to come.

Poor Service—Served with a Smile

Periodically I encounter glitches while trying to publish posts on Lull. Usually this means I curse at Google, curse at myself, and sometimes step away from it all hoping time will heal whatever is broken.
Recently, Google stepped up its game by displaying this window (pictured above) when calamity starts to prevail. Look at it closely. Note that it merely states the obvious: Something’s wrong, they don’t know what or why, and that’s ALL they know.

But you know what? That’s okay. I’m grateful they bothered recognizing the problem at all. I don’t feel so alone in my misery, and the message curtails my stream of expletives. PLUS—and this is critical—that little broken-down robot makes me smile. His/her “cute” factor offsets all the frustration and anger I experience when errors occur.

Thank you, Google.

Weather Watch

“Don’t knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn’t start a conversation if it didn’t change once in a while.”
—Kin Hubbard

Frankly, I don’t mind the silence. But I know half the world is pleading for a shift right now—from brutally hot to less hot, from deadly dry to watered. May you get what you need wherever you are.

[Art courtesy of Jules Bastien-Lepage.]

The Curse of the Proofreader

Contrary to what you might think about proofreaders and editors, we don’t LOOK for mistakes when we’re not working. Mistakes seem to gravitate toward us.

A moment ago the word priviege spoiled my morning reading of a deftly written essay. A week ago there was a typo in my fortune cookie. (Does that render the prophecy null and void?) Ten pages into Stanley Fish’s How to Write A Sentence is a word that should have been singular but made its way into print as a plural. A job application asked if I was persuing a degree.

Oh, I could spend days listing the typos I’ve read this year alone—on menus, signs, press releases, news reports, television graphics, ads—but I’d prefer to forget them. I cringe when I see them, though there are a few of my ilk who delight in the mistakes of others—enjoy playing a game of “Gotcha!” with all printed materials. I’m more forgiving and feel bad for both the writer and the proofreader/editor when typos pop out. Do you understand how disruptive typos are to me? How they mar my pleasure and interest when reading?

There’s one exception. The other day, I was at my computer when an ad cried out for my attention. Typically, I ignore online ads, but this one made me laugh (after I recovered from my initial shock). In big, bold, uppercase letters it read:

INTROUDING the Must-Grab Flavors
of Mock-Tail Season
New _______ Mocktails

In addition to the butchered first word of the teaser, the company couldn’t decide* how to spell mocktail for their new product. (New products generally mean newly coined words and require corporate editors to create new rules for their style guides. Marketing campaigns that bypass the editor are often strewn with inconsistencies like mock-tail and mocktail.) Or maybe the joke’s on me and I’m just not fluent in Mock English (or mock English, or mock-English, or Mock-English).

When I’m working, I stalk typos. When I’m not, they stalk me. This is the curse of my profession. Oh woh iz mee.

* Arguably, perhaps the editor chose to hyphenate the word when used as an adjective and close it when used as a noun. However, that’s an odd choice in this era of dehyphenation.

[Photo from I Can Has Cheezburger; proofreader’s marks by Eve Corbel.]

Up with People?

Today is World Population Day, and this is the year Earth’s humans will number 7 billion.

To get a sense of how rapidly this increase is occurring, visit the 7 Billion Actions site and watch the counter at the top of the screen. It doesn’t change by single numerals; it changes in twos and threes and fours.

Now start imagining each number as an infant in your living room…

[Art by Juliette Aristides.]

When It Comes to Shameless Marketing Schemes, Even God Needs Them

The two churches up the hill from us have been promoting their Vacation Bible Schools (or “VBS” as one denomination refers to it) on banners.

“Pandamania! God Is Wild About You!”

That’s the headline on one, though the attention-getting factor on both banners is an illustration of a panda bear—one in cool shades, the other midst bamboo.

Influencing people to change or do something—switch brands, save the environment, patronize museums, pay higher taxes—requires marketing on some level. And the language of influence must appeal to the target audience.

Even animal shelters rely on experts like Seth Godin to help them “move product.” Godin once suggested that shelter dogs would be adopted more readily if they were labeled “Golden Retriever [the über family companion] Mix” or a “____________ Blend” (fill in the blank with whatever the breed du jour is). No matter that the pooch has a chocolate-hued Staffordshire Bull Terrier face. Well, probably especially if the pooch has a chocolate-hued Staffordshire Bull Terrier face. (I’ll address this kind of truth-bending in a future post.)

When I saw the banners, my first thought was the heavily advertised film Kung Fu Panda. What? God uses cinema tie-ins to entice youngsters into the fold? I guess it’s no different than a shelter full of Golden Retriever Mixes. Ideas for silly headlines started popping into my head: Panda-ing to Children, for instance.

However, on the banner touting “God Is Wild About You!” Psalm 139 was cited as the source of the “excerpt.” I don’t know what Bible edition this is from, but it’s a far cry from the old King James I had as a child. The quotation made me wonder about the choice of visuals on the banners—maybe it wasn’t a movie tie-in after all. Why was a panda used? Because children these days are naturally drawn to the look and cuddliness of wild pandas? Because children are concerned about conservation of the wild—which the panda represents?

I conducted a quick Web search on my phone for some answers. First I checked to see how many films involved pandas (thinking this was a trend I was clueless about), but horror of horrors! Google gave me panda movies, all right, but the first page of results was all porn. I didn’t look further. And I’m not going to.

Perhaps you can enlighten me about why porn flicks are panda movies and why pandas fascinate children and which Bible translation includes “God is wild about you.” Until then, I’m content to stay under this rock that’s apparently shielded me from recent culture shifts.

[Top pic from Animals Gallery; bottom pic by Bernard de Wetter for World Wildlife Fund.]

Flash Mob: Words Await Organizer

“One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.
An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.
The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.
The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.”
—from “Permanently,” by Kenneth Koch

[Photo by Max. I saw one of these lovely cats in my ’hood yesterday—in red.]

Smile: It’s Friday!

[Pic of happy Bob from Daisy and Bob’s Blog.]

Development Without Destruction

“There is nothing in which the birds differ more from man than the way in which they can build and yet leave a landscape as it was before.”

—Robert Lynd

A worthwhile thought for architects and developers. Too bad the property owners in my ’hood aren’t birds!