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.”

BOOKreMARKS: Anthologies, Part 2

 Well, well, well.

Had no intention of revisiting yesterday’s rant, but a recent discovery requires a correction and a mea culpa from me. Apparently, when I searched for clues regarding the authorship of a story in the anthology I mentioned (but didn’t name, thank goodness), I searched at the wrong end of the book.

Last night, before I started reading a new section of the dog anthology, I skimmed the table of contents and right there in front of me was the clue I’d earlier missed. Each work of fiction was clearly labeled “A Story.”

Duh.

Now the editors of said dog anthology have returned to their elevated position on my admiration meter. I’m sorry I doubted them—I hate it when my heroes fall.

But my rant still holds. Other anthologies have erred (honest) on this subject and stirred my ire.

Whew! Glad that’s off my chest. Thanks for listening.

[The anthology cover pictured is not one I’ve read, so I have no idea where it stands on the subject of mixing fact with fiction.]

Oh. One more thing. The title of the Norman Rockwell magazine-cover art used in yesterday’s post is hardly legible. The work is called “Fact and Fiction,” hence its inclusion.

BOOKreMARKS: Anthologies Tap Pet Peeves I Didn’t Know I Had

I’ve read a fair number of anthologies this past year. Some have been great reading, others just so-so. Yet regardless of the quality of writing, I’ve learned that a single editorial omission can really tick me off.

The other night, while reading an anthology of dog stories, I stumbled on the very first page of one selection. The writer of the story, a woman, opened her contribution with a reference to her “wife.” Assuming that this was a true narrative as the others before it had been, I made the short leap of faith that the author was a lesbian. But soon, little clues were dropped to indicate that the narrator was a man.

I stopped reading and looked again at the short bio included in the back of the anthology. (Bios, I’ve learned, are a critical element of anthologies for me. They give insights about the writers and context for the story; they help me decide whether I want to read more of a writer’s work. I give a thumbs-down to anthologies that are bio-less. Also, I find it frustrating when anthologies that contain a mix of contemporary authors and those from previous centuries omit birth/death dates in the bios.) It gave me nothing.

Next, I put the book aside and searched the Internet for an explanation. Had the wrong author been cited with the story? Had a simple editorial mistake sent me on this hunt?

No, as it turned out. The story was, indeed, written by the woman whose name was published beneath the title in my anthology. The story had also been published previously in a journal or two, but (and it’s a BIG BUT) the story was FICTION! That is to say—because I think our society is often confused about the differences between FICTION and NONFICTION (Isn’t that right, James Frey, Mike Daisey, Jayson Blair?)—this story was NOT TRUE. It was a fabrication. The incident described in the story did not really happen; the people of the story were characters conjured in the author’s imagination.

The good news: I could finally stop puzzling over the story and just read it for its entertainment value.

The bad news: The editors of the anthology fell a notch or two on my admiration meter. Certainly this wasn’t the first anthology I’d read that mixed fact with fiction. I simply expected more of these particular editors.

For the record, I don’t oppose combining fact and fiction. I just want a heads-up about it. I want it clearly labeled—especially in a thematic anthology that may be read for reasons other than entertainment. Maybe it’s a book of surgeons’ life-and-death experiences, or mountain-climbers’ biggest challenges, or, as in the case of the anthology that got me kvetching in the first place, a book about the human-canine relationship. Readers should know whether they’re reading fact or fiction before they: 1) Try to replicate a situation described in the story; 2) Use information from the story to resolve a real-life problem; 3) Retell part of the story at a cocktail party; 4) Assume connections between the story and its author; and 5) Use parts of the story for educational purposes.

Oh dear. How I’ve gone on about this. I’ll stop now.

There is a silver lining in all this, though: I regard my reading as further instruction toward editorial mastery. I hope to one day curate my own animal-related anthology and when I do, I’ll have a long list of Dos and Don’ts to follow. I’m grateful to the editors who have pioneered the way before me.

“Hippity, Hoppity, Easter’s on Its Way…”

There’s something about eggs.

I don’t know what attracts me to them: their smoothness? their asymmetry? their promise of new life? Something about them seems like Hope to me.

In kidhood, I had a large tin egg illustrated with Peter Cottontail scenes which, with enough rotations of the handcrank, would play a tinny version of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.” I no longer have the musical oddity, but it comes to mind each Easter.

Last weekend, I happened upon some eggs of a different kind. They’re part of The Fabergé Big Egg Hunt and charity auction in London—grand in scale, unique in design, a few even falling into the “exquisite” category. Each of the 200 eggs was created by an artist, architect, jeweler, or designer to benefit Action for Children and Elephant Family. These eggs, of course, led me to people and places and loveliness that I hadn’t known existed.

Take a gander yourself and see where the eggs take you. (If you’re anywhere in or near London, you must go see them. I’ll be jealous, but that’s okay.)

[Pics from top to bottom: “Caeruleus & The Good Egg” by Rhea Thierstein, and “Pandora” (dinosaur hatchling) by Martin Aveling.]

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!

Seeing Purple

Wandering home from the grocery store yesterday, I traveled down one of my favorite streets. It’s only a block long and curves up and down and left and right. The post at one end is always dressed in a nod to whatever holiday approaches, as are the homes and yards of many residents. This week, colorful eggs hang from trees and bushes; pastel wreaths hang on doors.

I stopped for a moment to sit in the grass and pet a black-and-white cat named Fearless. His fearful, half-tailed Calico sister did and did not want the same treatment. She circled round us, keeping her distance and staring at me all the while, then scented me by licking her brother’s face and mouth. Guess I wasn’t as intriguing as she first thought for she looked at me once more and then took off across the street. After a bit more Fearless petting, I took off, too.

Further down Louisiana, I found another treat: Irises of deep purple and lavender were beginning to unfold. The day before, they were just tight buds.

I love watching how time and weather alter the landscape moment by moment—alter the fragrance in the air, alter the palette of plant life.

“I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.”
—from The Color Purple, by Alice Walker

What’s unfolding in your neighborhood?

Seeing Blue: Cats ’n’ Cardinals

It’s March Madness once again.

In 2010, I honored the occasion with a basketball-related grammar post. In 2011, books and madness were the topics of discussion.

This year, with the University of Kentucky Wildcats playing their archrivals, the University of Louisville Cardinals, I feel obliged to watch a little basketball today. I may be the only Lexingtonian who hasn’t donned blue apparel, eaten blue food, or planted blue flowers this past week to show how True Blue I am—to prove I not only See Blue but Bleed Blue. Oh, yeah. Blue is THE color here in the Bluegrass and people take it VERY seriously. “Go Big Blue!”

On the other hand, with streets silent and stores empty, I’m tempted to run out and stir up a little of my own brand of madness.

[Art by Don Engler.]

The Future of Energy Seems Stuck in the Past

I received another newsletter from Senator Rand Paul, who believes the Obama administration and the EPA are in an “ongoing war on American energy manufacturers and the American consumer.” Paul is fighting to build more coal power plants (with no additional restrictions) and to continue mountaintop removal in the name of coal mining.

Thomas A. Edison is probably shaking his ghostly head in amazement and disappointment. For when he made the remarks below, he no doubt assumed our society would be progressive and innovative enough to have handled our energy resource problems by now:

“We are like tenant farmers chopping down the fence around our house for fuel when we should be using Nature’s inexhaustible sources of energy—sun, wind and tide. ... I’d put my money on the sun and solar energy. What a source of power! I hope we don’t have to wait until oil and coal run out before we tackle that.”

[Photo of coal’s impact on the forested hills of Kentucky by Jake McClendon. Read about Appalachian mountaintop removal at Earthjustice.]

“Everything’s Merrier with a Terrier”

If you know a terrier, you probably also know they’re a breed apart. They’re known for their tenacity, high energy, and willfulness. My Godpuppy is a terrier, as is my only “nephew” (or, as my sister sometimes calls him, a real “terror-ier”).

So I had to laugh this week while reading Jane Smiley’s A Year at the Races. Smiley engaged an animal communicator to ask her two dogs—a Great Dane and a Jack Russell Terrier—why they let rip a furious stream of barking and alarming craziness every time any other dogs were walked past their farm.

The Dane gave a detailed reply explaining his reasoning.

The Terrier, on the other hand, said, “I don’t know, it just happens.”

Yup. What Terriers lack in forethought and introspection they more than make up for in high-octane action.

[Pic by Debby Burchett of the newly named Tyler, a Schnauzer-Terrier mix recently adopted by artist Moira McLaughlin. Read their harrowing-turned-happy-ending tale on Dog Art Today.]

Winnie Wisdom

“What day is it?”

“It’s today!” squeaked Piglet.

“My favorite day…” said Pooh.

I couldn’t verify this passage, but couldn’t pass it up either. Enjoy today.

BOOKreMARKS: The Veterinarian’s Life Examined

The downtown library here houses a bookstore in its basement where it sells donated and decommissioned books and periodicals. All proceeds support the library.

Earlier this year, I was killing time there and parked myself in front of the small section devoted to animals (with the exception of horses, for in the Bluegrass, horses are a category unto themselves). The more I browsed, the more I wanted those books.

Abandoning all self-control, I broke my rule about buying new books, though I rationalized it by noting the purchase was actually a donation to a good cause and the content would help me with the animal welfare projects I was working on. Plus, I limited myself to only the books priced under $3. Even so, I came home with a stack of reading for which I had no space.

An Unspoken Art: Profiles of Veterinary Life by Lee Gutkind was one of those books. Gutkind is the founding editor of Creative Nonfiction magazine and has penned a number of similar books profiling members of the medical community. I’m not sure who the intended audience is, but An Unspoken Art seems appropriate for teenagers who are considering a veterinary career, for clients who want a sense of the veterinarian life and perspective, and, of course, for anyone working or living with a veterinarian.

An Unspoken Art is an easy, straightforward read giving its audience a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes practices of large-animal veterinarians and their assistants, as well as a look at the more typical cat-dog practices. Readers meet…

The vet who had to perform surgery on a pregnant mare at night, in a field, under pouring rain, with only truck headlights to guide her hand.
The vet whose affluent clients fly him to wherever they are in the world to administer whatever their pets need.
The veterinarian who treats penguins at a zoo for bumblefoot, a condition only captive penguins suffer from due to the materials used in their exhibit construction.

Though you’re aware of the writer as he describes the people and animals he’s profiling, Gutkind doesn’t insert himself into the book until the final chapter. And this is where it all went wrong for me.

Gutkind writes about his beloved dog and the heartbreaking decisions he had to make for the German Shepherd. It’s not clear when this episode of Gutkind’s life occurred, but probably well before his book’s publication date of 1997. The author made some bad choices—both for the Shepherd and for himself. Yet this was more a matter of timing than anything else. Had the Shepherd been alive post-1996, when The Dog Who Loved Too Much (another book I took home from the library basement) was published, Gutkind could have read this revelatory explanation of dog behavior and the nuances of aggressive tendencies. Had Gutkind visited the author of The Dog Who Loved Too Much, animal behaviorist Dr. Nicholas Dodman, he might have been able to keep his Shepherd by changing the dog’s diet, exercise regimen, and training.

I guess this hits on another weakness of the book you have to keep in mind while reading it: Vet care has significantly progressed since the book was published, and animal behavior research has expanded. Naturally, this makes some of the decisions and remarks cited in An Unspoken Art seem uninformed when, in fact, they’re just dated.

I don’t regret reading the book. It fed me historical tidbits I didn’t know and anecdotes that may prove useful in the future. But it’s not the only book I’d choose to read to understand a vet’s life in 2012. Plenty of memoirs have been published since 1997 that better reflect current trends and research in veterinary medicine.

Gutkind experienced a transformation while researching An Unspoken Art, which he believed was going to be just one more of his books about medicine. Instead, he discovered that veterinarians (unlike humans’ doctors) serve both their patients and their clients in manifold ways: “Veterinarians practice medicine and treat sick animals, but more than that and in a variety of crucial ways, veterinarians help people live more well-rounded, three-dimensional lives with animals as a primary balancing or anchoring factor.”

This is the crucial message of An Unspoken Art, a message that makes it worthwhile reading for anyone who may need to rely on the knowledge and experience of a veterinarian.

[Top illustration by C. Coles Phillips; other illustrations by Hugh Lofting for his Doctor Dolittle series.]

Tired of Politicians?

If you’re as weary of “elected” officials as I am, you may be pleased to hear that a new breed of politician is running for office in Virginia. He’s a Maine Coon named Hank, and he’s after a Senate seat.

Hank wouldn’t be the first companion animal to get elected, though. Since the late ’90s, voters in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky, have put not one, but THREE different canines into the mayoral position.

So who’s to say a two-legged is better than a four-legged?

“Where there’s Hank, there’s Hope.” (This isn’t his slogan, but it could be.)

Just Breathe

I started the day by reading a book I’ve really enjoyed so far, until I got to this passage:

“Now, don’t fall in love with it. When the foal is born, don’t pet it or even name it. You’re going to sell it as a yearling. Don’t get attached. Think of this mare as your factory.”
—Eddie Gregson

Think of this mare as your factory? Well, you can imagine where my mind started to travel after those words: foal factories, puppy mills, Apple in China, capitalism, greed, ethical boundaries, sociopaths… I stopped reading, started ranting (on paper), then decided to spare you my thoughts.

Step down from the soapbox, I commanded my crazed self, and breathe. It’s the first day of Spring. Is this any way to start the season?

No, it isn’t. (Inhale.) Besides, company is coming. (Exhale.)

Whew! I feel better already. My oldest friend (she’s not old, the friendship is) is due here tomorrow and I can hardly wait.

“My friends are my estate.”
—Emily Dickinson

Musical Mid-March Morning

From every direction, avian melodies, calls, and trills—in harmony, never dissonance—usher the sun as it rises. The air is heavenly birdsong this morning.

Is there a more cheerful way to start the week?

[Photographer unknown.]

Connecting in an iSociety

Last week I had the good fortune of visiting an elementary school where one class spurred their third- and fourth-grade brethren to raise money for the local humane society. “Just $1” was all they asked from everyone.

They ended up taking in $1,000.

I joined a humane society employee in thanking the children and introducing them to two of the dogs awaiting adoption. Every child was allowed to approach and pet the setter-like pups we had.

The children were sweet and well-behaved; many wanted to regale us with stories—mostly tragic—of their families’ dogs. One youngster, though, really stood out to me.

She was part of the Special Education class and her teacher held her during her introduction. The sprite’s dark hair spiked out in fine braids and red bows, matching her striking red-and-white ensemble and nicely framing her inverted teardrop-shaped face. Her large, round eyes popped when she came within an arm’s length of the pooch. I thought at first that the situation was too much for her. As her teacher repeatedly (and somewhat exasperatedly) encouraged her to say something, an altogether different kind of communication was starting to occur: As the pooch stretched her tiny head toward the girl, the girl’s round eyes had changed from surprise and anxiety to…what? Some kind of understanding? The two youngsters, canine and human, seemed to be having a soundless conversation together. I told the teacher the girl was already saying something though we couldn’t hear her. Thankfully, the teacher relaxed and allowed the child a few more moments with the dog.

After all the children had met the dogs, and as the presentation of the $1,000 donation was about to begin, I scanned the audience of children and noticed the little “red-and-white” girl in the back row, just staring into space. What was she thinking or seeing? I watched her long enough for her to notice me and lock eyes. I smiled and waved; she beamed and waved back.

I wanted to scoop her up and take her home with me. I wanted her to become best friends with the little pooch at the end of my leash, having a lifetime of endless, wordless conversations together. I wanted, at least, to always remember the calm and wonder that came over her when she and the pooch looked into each other’s gaze.

I thought about this encounter when I first saw Marshall Soulful Jones perform his poem “Touchscreen” (watch the video below—I promise you it’s worth your time).

I think Jones would agree that in our iSociety, the invisible thread between a little girl and a pup trumps every kind of technological connection we idolize.

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…

Their Brilliant Careers

Though I lost touch with many of my college friends, I did check in now and again on their professional accomplishments. One became a Broadway director, another a Broadway actor; one acquired acting fame in Hollywood, another took home an Oscar for directing. I swelled with pride for all of them—I felt joy, never envy, for their success.

A couple of months ago, I read this:

“My friends are professionally accomplished, and have big important jobs. Using classic Under-Achiever logic, I feel I don’t need to do more with my life, because they are doing so much. It’s kind of like I’m achieving by association. (Keep up the good work, guys! I like feeling important.)”
—Jane Clancy, author of The Literary Horse

I knew just what she was talking about—I nodded. I felt the same way—I laughed!

And then something weird happened.

An e-mail about the publishing industry popped into my inbox, as one does nearly every day, to inform me about who signed with which agent, whose book is headed for the silver screen, and what I should be doing on social media to market myself. I usually scan these e-mails and read only the bits I feel connected to.

On this particular scan, a name gobsmacked me—a name from my college (g)olden days, a name I’d followed for years when the fellow was doing well in Hollywood but then I lost track of him. Now I knew why he’d disappeared: He’d left the bright lights for a professorship, and while he was instructing wannabe actors on howtobe actors, he started writing children’s plays and musicals, which segued into writing YA fantasy fiction, which landed him an agent and a three-book deal for a cool million (and then $ome).

Really?

This time, it was only a little like I was achieving by association. My joy for my friend was fleeting; in its place rose a pang of envy, foreign to me and ugly.

What happened to my usual pride? Why was this different?

Did I yearn for that kind of recognition? Pine for the money? What?

It took a few days to figure out, but I came to the conclusion that I have a problem with people who excel at more than one thing. Well, TWO things are okay, I suppose. But this guy was good on stage, on screen, as an academic, as a playwright, and now as a novelist.

It just felt unfair. It made me feel like I was a kid in the schoolyard again, wondering when someone would pick me to be on the dodgeball team.

Actually, it wasn’t like that at all. I really have nothing to compare it to. My pride had been sucker-punched. I can do a lot of things, too; I just don’t excel at many of them. After whimpering a bit, I got over it. And now I’m happy for my friend. Really.

As Jane says, “Keep up the good work, guys! I like feeling important.”

“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.

Somewhere There’s A War…

And sometimes there’s art.

Those Wilco lyrics seemed the perfect introduction to a virtual art exhibition called “ARMS into ART.”

I don’t know about you, but I can hardly bear to watch the news anymore for all the reports about wars and warlike activities. So I was thrilled to find that this Mozambique artists’ collective, Núcleo de Arte, uses weapons in a more intelligent and creative fashion than the militia—by turning grenades, AK-47s, and land mines into sculpture.

Oh, if only artists ruled the world…





[Art, from top to bottom, by Mathe, Hilário, and Fiel.]

Soul Check

“If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things in nature have a message you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.”
—Eleanora Duse

What Time Is It?

It’s Daylight Saving Time, an occasion when even the Rooster needs more coffee. Yet, how can we complain when we’ve already had Leap Day’s extra 24 hours?

[Art from Shaun the Sheep.]

A WordGazing Holiday

Today is National Proofreading Day, which seems an appropriate time to post this ad I noticed in the New Yorker:


Look closely at the first line of reverse type. Some would roll their eyes or mutter a “Geeze.”

Me? It just makes me sad.

Doling Out Dolphin Love

This rescue story is all over the Internet, but I’m posting it here anyway. It’s a feel-good random act of interspecies kindness that’s a model for us all. Note how two men immediately rush to the aid of the dolphins, then others follow suit. I want to hug those two guys for their leadership and for acting so quickly.



You can get more details at Treehugger.com. (If you go there, stay to watch the video of the whale and dolphins playing “Slide.”)

Read This, Rand Paul!

I just received an e-mail from Senator Rand Paul thanking me for voicing my opinion about horse slaughter. And now my productive Tuesday morning plan is derailed because I’m seething.

Clearly, Paul does not want to cease the horse-slaughter trade because 1) People should be able to do whatever they want with their property, and 2) If we don’t slaughter ’em, we’ll have to take care of ’em.

I’ve got news for Paul and his ilk on this Super Tuesday, news that I thought the conservatives would have learned in Sunday school: The meek shall inherit the Earth.

And the Time is Now…

“When righteousness withers away and evil rules the land, we come into being, age after age, and take visible shape, and move, a man among men, for the protection of good, thrusting back evil and setting virtue on her seat again.”
—from the Bhagavad Gita and the closing lines of Philip Glass’s opera, Satyagraha

[See video or read an account of Glass reciting this to Occupy protesters outside Lincoln Center.]

Mother-Struck

Daffodils are in full bloom now and crocuses have flaunted their palette of colors—purple, lavender, white, yellow, gold. This weekend I spotted my first hyacinth and yesterday, while on a walk through the neighborhood, I turned a corner to see a tree bursting in cotton-candy blossoms.

This morning? Everything’s blanketed in snow.

It’s allowed, I suppose. It’s still Winter, after all. As poet and novelist Alice Walker wrote:

“Mother. Once again doing it just any old way you like. Mother is my favorite name for Nature, God, All-ness.”
—from “Crimes Against Dog” in Dog Is My Co-Pilot

BOOKreMARKS: Your First and Only Warning

When I started to resize my personal library—that is, depopulate it—and commit to borrowing rather than buying any more books, I started keeping track of what I’d read. Hence the lists on the right of Lull.

My lists are only lists, though; they’re not recommendations. I want to be clear on that. The books listed may not even have struck my fancy; they’re simply the ones I finished reading.

However, many of the books on my lists have touched me in some way or riled my thoughts on certain subjects, which I’d like to share with you from time to time. No reviews, no synopses, no critical analyses. You can get those from oodles of other blogs and lit sites. I’m not trying to make Lull a go-to blog for bibliophiles. I just want to tell you how a particular book has affected me, or what impressions it has left on me. I’ll try to avoid giving much away and leave you to decide whether you want to read it.

If you don’t wish to read my reactions to books in the future, you can skip reading any Lull posts whose titles begin with the word “BOOKreMARKS.”

This, then, is the extent of my effort to follow the current protocol of the tech age: offering you fair warning and a choice of opting out when the occasion arises.

Whew! I’m glad we’re done with that! Moving forward…

[Art by Charles Burton Barber.]

Bellow on the Current Presidential Wannabes?

“A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.”
—Saul Bellow

Seeking the Truth About Reprehensible Human Decisions

After attending the Humane Lobby Day, I decided to add The Sociopath Next Door to my reading list—sooner rather than later.


Yes, this is due partially to the horror stories I heard from animal activists. But mostly it’s due to the other (worse) tales that were a mixed bag of evil and thoughtfulness (literally, in one case: Several small dogs were abandoned alongside a road in a large, half-full bag of dog food. Two were on the brink of death when rescued, one had already died.)

Where do these people fall on the mental disorders scale? Where does a legislator fall who doesn’t want to risk losing hunters’ votes so he makes it legal for hunters (and not the rest of us) to carry firearms (as protection) into state parks and wildlife conservation areas? Where do agribusinesspeople—who shift and twist the English language into an unrecognizable lexicon that conceals the truth of what they do—fit into the mental disorders range?

So many questions like these keep bubbling in my brain that I have to get some answered or I won’t be able to think straight. I hope this book delivers.

[Art by Jacob Hoefnagel.]

Does Google Really KNOW Who I Am?

Yesterday marked the dawn of a Big New Google era.

There’s a great deal of controversy over this, which I probably should care more about. However, all I’m hoping is that my new “single Google identity” resolves my recent inability to comment on other Google blogs. If not, then I hope one of those hundreds of Google ads that fill the periphery of my e-mail inbox will point me to a treatment for my Google Identity Crisis.

Hearing Our World

My husband and I took a short walk this past weekend to the end of our street and back. We fought a blustery, chill wind and a sundry of aches and pains. What’s more, we had to be alert for the minefield of tree pods and sidewalk cracks that can so easily send a distracted person to the ground.

Even so, I tried to stay aware of the natural world around us. I pointed out a new bird I’d been seeing in the neighborhood—a tiny, colorful creature who belts out a big tune unlike any other. We heard another bird new to us and spotted it in a tree. It was larger than a robin, but we were too far away to discern any details.

We were almost home when I heard a call that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Listen,” I told my husband. “What is that?”

“Geese?”

We looked skyward for the flock to fly over. None did.

The call went out again. If it was a goose, it was saying something I’d never heard before, and it sounded like it was coming from behind a semi-empty house that’s undergoing renovation. Naturally, my urge to see the critters trumped any worries I might/should have had about trespassing. I cautiously stepped toward the backyard, not wanting to scare off the big birds.

I blinked. Hard. There were no geese, though there were birds, yet the sounds we’d heard didn’t jibe with what was in front of me: chickens.

Yup. Chickens were running around between the yards and the bushes. If my husband hadn’t seen them too, you can be sure I wouldn’t be telling you about my freefall from reality.

What were they saying? Were they lost? Or were they acclimating to their new home? There was evidence that the owners of the house had been moving some items in already. I knocked on a few neighbors’ doors but couldn’t rouse anyone.

A fellow who just moved into our building told me that his previous home in Downtown Lexington was next door to a backyard full of chickens, so the new cluckers in our neighborhood may not be the anomaly I thought. Time will tell how my other neighbors view the new residents.

[Art by Gustav Klimt.]

A Gift of Time

It’s Leap Day. Make the most of it.

[Pic by Davies up North.]

Counting My Blessings

When I stepped into the shower today, I started imagining how differently my day would unfold were I headed to the Oscars tonight. My anxiety over my appearance, my self-consciousness over my demeanor, my fear of the Fashion Police, my worry that I’d lodge my foot in my mouth (after catching my heel in my hem).

No, thank you.

My grooming today was nothing more than making sure I didn’t smell and was fully clothed. I’m grateful that my attendance at the Oscars remains firmly in my imagination and I’m free from worry tonight.

What are you grateful for today?

[Photo of Piguet evening dress by Richard Avedon.]

See Your World

Walking home one late afternoon last fall, my husband spied the creature pictured above on the sidewalk. The praying mantis would have been easy to miss, for s/he blended well with the surrounding detritus. My husband scooped her up in a nearby cup.

By the time they reached our living room, the mantis had consumed the beads of Coca-Cola that had clung to the cup’s interior. The mantis seemed cramped in the cup, so I encouraged a move to the backyard with our guest.

My husband sat on the ground and invited the mantis out of the cup. While my husband morphed into the mantis’s playlot—allowing her/him to explore his arms, his shoulders—I ran back into the apartment for some nourishment for the insect.

I sliced open a pawpaw and took it to our guest. Before I could deposit the fruit on a leaf, though, the mantis grabbed the knife I held. Forcibly pulled the knife toward him/her.

My heart stopped. I was sure the blade had injured him/her.

But s/he was fine.

Though the mantis didn’t eat much, s/he certainly savored it for a long while, licking every last little bit off her/his legs.

We continued watching our guest, likely to our guest’s annoyance. It was a delightful way to spend an evening—better than any other way we might have chosen to fritter away our time.

As the sun gave way to a night sky, we chose a tree the creature could seek sanctuary in and bid our praying mantis goodnight.

“The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.”
—Henry Miller

Pop Over to POPVOX Today

Yesterday I discovered this is National Justice for Animals Week, sponsored by the Animal Legal Defense Fund. Fortunately, I did my part without even realizing it.

On Thursday, I attended (by invitation) Humane Lobby Day in Frankfort, Kentucky, the capital of the Bluegrass State. Most states have a Humane Lobby Day, which is a brainchild of the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). It’s the annual designated day when animal welfare advocates from across a state gather to persuade legislators to craft laws that protect animals from neglect, cruelty, and abuse and to support those laws with tougher sentencing and better law-enforcement training. At least, I thought that was our mission.

Instead, I found a disheartening small number of attendees (though the event organizer announced it was the largest turnout for the event in the 10 years it’s been held), speakers who couldn’t hold the audience’s attention, and too many under-informed, first-time advocates (like me) sent to speak one-on-one with legislators (the three people I was assured would do all the talking in my meeting with a Congressperson didn’t show!).

The clear (yet unintended) message of the day: As you were, legislators. Go ahead and keep doing whatever agribiz lobbyists and “sportsmen” want you to do. Most Kentuckians don’t care about animal welfare, and the few who do may easily be ignored.

What the legislators didn’t know was that the event was by invitation only. Or, more specifically, you had to RSVP to attend. This is understandable for the folks who agreed to meet with legislators at appointed times. But as far as networking with like-minded people (another goal for the day) and rallying in front of the press and Capitol visitors, the event should have been widely publicized—should have pulled in as many supporters as possible to show Frankfort and the media that animal advocates are a force to be listened to.

“I am in favor of animal rights as well as human rights. That is the way of a whole human being.”
—Abraham Lincoln

The refrain I heard again and again on Thursday regarding humane animal treatment was “It’s just common sense.” It’s just common sense that after animals have been abused, they shouldn’t be returned to the abuser. It’s just common sense that farm animals should be able to turn around in their pens. It’s just common sense that sick cows that can’t even stand up for slaughter should not become the beef served to schoolchildren in the U.S. It’s just common sense that a double-decker truck built for pigs shouldn’t be used to transport horses. It’s just common sense that animals need food, water, exercise, shelter, medical care, and attention.

Newsflash, folks: It isn’t. It’s not at all about common sense, which is apparently in short supply in the Bluegrass and Washington, D.C. Animal advocates aren’t fighting unused common sense. They’re fighting GREED and a LACK OF COMPASSION—the driving forces behind the Iraq War, the housing debacle, and the new Sandhill Crane hunting season in Kentucky. Animal advocates are up against the Dark Side of Capitalism and the free rein given to sociopaths. The battle is fierce. It requires wit and wisdom and patience and perseverance—and every single compassionate human we can persuade to join us.

Today is the last day of National Justice for Animals Week, but it’s not too late for you to take part. With a click of your mouse at POPVOX, you can voice your support of animal welfare legislation being considered by Congress. Yes, you’ll have to register, but it’s short and easy. Plus you can see how legislators across the country voted on other issues important to you. Or go to Change.org and sign a petition.

Please speak up for the voiceless. If not today, soon.

Better Late than Never

My new reading habits are beginning to bear fruit (that is, they’re driving my cheerier disposition). Especially my latest read: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Though I’m only halfway through it, I recommend it.

I know, I know. This is old news to most of you; I’m late to the party. The movie is already in production with Kate Winslet. But when the book was first published, my workaholic tendencies prohibited me from reading for pleasure. I missed out when everyone was talking about it and recommending it to me. On the other hand, I confess I didn’t make time for it either. The era it is set in—post-WWII—didn’t appeal to me. Has never appealed to me.

Thank heavens I finally forced my nose into the book. It’s full of sweetness and smiles.

First, the story is conveyed in letter format, a structure I’ve always been fond of. Second, though the war details are grim, they’re tuned to the daily routine of civilians (as opposed to the mechanics and strategies of military personnel), which I found intriguing, and (third) the details are buffered by the engaging, quirky characters who share their lives. Fourth, the whole plot is a tribute to readers and reading. What’s not to like?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is pure charm and a welcome reprieve from my animal welfare reading. It could easily be your welcome reprieve from whatever burdens you.

[Art by Henry O’Hara Clive.]