Of all the gifts given in “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” five involve nothing but poultry, another poultry in a pear tree, five others gifts of people, and one gift of five golden rings—not counting the multiples of these gifts along the trek from Christmas Day to the Feast of the Epiphany. Numerous web sites offer interpretations ranging from the interesting to the silly, usually promoting some version of this song as a secret Catholic code to promote that faith during 16th-17th century English persecution—and all with no evidence. Even if true, though, it’s an odd set of symbols.
Here’s a rough consensus:
Partridge in a pear tree—Jesus protecting the faithful, as a mother bird feigning injury to lure away predators. The pear tree harks back to the garden of Eden. That’s what the web sites claim, anyway.
Two turtle doves—the Old and New Testament. Also known as the mourning dove in the Western hemisphere. Interesting.
Three French hens—faith, hope, and love. Especially interesting, since I learned these in childhood as faith, hope and charity. Values change, it seems.
Four calling birds—the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Just repeating what I read.
Five golden rings--the first five books of the Old Testament (the Torah/the Pentateuch—the Books of Moses). Yes, I realize this repeats in part the turtle dove point.
Six geese a-laying—the six days of creation. Yes, I know creation had seven days, including a day of rest. If you haven’t yet thought these interpretations are quite contrived, perhaps you’re now beginning to see my point. On the other hand, this introduces the idea of reproduction—or at least breakfast.
Seven swans a-swimming—the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, as described by Paul. I can at least see why we might compare these to swans. Why they have to be swimming, I can’t imagine.
Eight maids a-milking—the Beatitudes (Blessed are the…etc…). Here’s the interesting shift---we move from poultry to people. Why? Further, back to the geese, these women are producing. But what? No mention of what they’re milking—cows? goats? sheep? anything? Are they then wet nurses? They wouldn’t be “maids” then (ruling out immaculate conceptions, of course).
Nine ladies dancing—the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit. Again, quite contrived—we’re really jumping around here. But note the clear delineation—these are ladies, not maids. Does this mean they’re upper class (but still given as gifts, possessions)? Or married? If so, potential production again…
Ten lords a-leaping—the Ten Commandments. Ever go to two churches of different faiths? As a former church musician, I have, and guess what—THE Ten Commandments change depending on where you are, in wording, order, and substance. Moses most be going nuts. Apparently God changes his mind a lot. No wonder we got away from engraving those things in stone. And why “lords a-leaping"? Got me there.
Eleven pipers piping—the eleven faithful Apostles, not counting Judas Iscariot. I told you this was contrived.
Twelve drummers drumming—depends on what you read. Twelve tribes of Israel? Twelve Apostles (here they are again)? Some say the Twelve points of the Apostles’ Creed (those guys are ubiquitous!).
One web site reports no “accurate evidence” supports this—relying, I guess, on “inaccurate evidence” instead. Another site admits no evidence supports the idea that the song is a secret message of faith, but goes on to note “no substantive evidence disproves it either.” By that “logic,” as no substantive evidence disproves the idea that Martians planted the song as a secret manifesto to their eventual conquest of Earth, we shouldn’t rule out the possibility. Seems to me a secret song about Christianity probably wouldn’t start it with “On the first day of Christmas.” But that’s just me.
So what do we have here?
It’s a hell of gift giving binge—184 poultry, 140 people, 40 gold rings, and 12 fruit trees. If all of those are gifts in the sense of “keepers,” then we have a problem. How will we support them? Eleven and two-thirds people have to share one pear tree. Each person can have 1.314 birds—wait a minute. Isn’t that pi? Is this then some secret mathematical puzzle? Hmmm. Those people need clothing and housing in addition to food, but those gold rings amount to only 0.2857 rings per person, so I predict economic disaster.
Strangely ironic, isn’t it? All those lavish gifts to celebrate the birth of the king in a stable, whose “kingdom is not of this world.” Of course, at the Epiphany, the Wise Men—usually counted as three, although Christian scripture only notes three gifts—brought the precious gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. The gold probably came in handy, and perhaps the frankincense and myrrh helped the stable smell better, but as myrrh should be kept away from children, they were really taking a chance. Herod’s influence?
Doesn’t add up. Let’s see what we do have.
The golden rings are clearly a turning point. Until then, we just have poultry milling about. The rings, however, usher in a flurry of activity. “Calling birds” may be ambiguous, but make no mistake about geese a-laying! Those geese are straining to produce those eggs. Those a-swimming swans are doing laps. Those a-milking maids are filling pail after pail, those lords and ladies a-kicking up their heels something fierce, and those pipers and drummers a-making a racket clearly audible from Scotland.
I propose this is simply a marriage, if a lavish one. After a bit of poultry, we award every finger of the hand a wedding ring—overkill, to be sure. But from that moment proceeds a flurry of activity, including dairy products, dancers, and musicians. Many people have argued that this marriage is Jesus with the faithful, but if so, the choice of symbols is just weird. Come on. It’s a children’s song. After all, the Brits also celebrated Twelfth Night by baking a cake with a hidden bean and a pea to determine the “King of the Bean” and his queen. Anyone want to take a whack at the religious message there?
But for those who need a religious allegory, here’s my suggestion—consider the Parable of the Ten Virgins in Matthew 25:1-13. Five wise virgins are ready for the arrival of the bridegroom—the manifestation of Jesus as God incarnate at the Epiphany? Fits in nicely with the five golden (wedding?) rings, and five of the gifts represent classes and genders of people. Excluding the partridge in the pear tree, presumably Jesus the bridegroom, that leaves five gifts of poultry—the five foolish virgins. As long as we’re contriving, let’s not forget that this is the darkest time of the year, a festival of light, and the parable is, after all, about saving oil for the lamps. The Maccabees might have something to say about that too.
I once heard a college student expound at length how Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” was that group’s reaching out and reaffirmation of their Christian faith. Had this student attempted a tad of research, he might have discovered lead singer Robert Plant’s explanation that it "was some cynical aside about a woman getting everything she wanted all the time without giving back any thought or consideration. The first line begins with that cynical sweep of the hand...and it softened up after that. I think it was the Moroccan dope!"
The silly goose.
Writer
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Boys, Men, Nature, and a Dog
Walking around Stony Pond early in the morning, surprising game is not unusual. This can be trying with a husky mix. In the past, I’ve usually just let my dogs run in the woods, since their chances of actually catching what they chase were slim anyway. I can’t do that with Shanti, as she’s strong, fast as a bullet, keen nose, avid hunter, and her chances of catching her prey have proven, I’m afraid, excellent. So, I keep her on a 26’ retractable leash and a “no-pull” harness. She can still run around, and when she takes off abruptly after a pheasant, the “no-pull” harness keeps her from taking my arm with her--or at least lessens the shock.
Saturday morning, we were walking early to avoid the rush of weekenders, and we came across a pair of geese with a gosling. Geese commonly breed here, but seeing them on the foot path is a bit unusual. Shanti, of course, flew after them, pulling my arm out and me after it, until I could lean back and use my weight against her enthusiastic force. The geese, unfortunately, chose to continue waddling quickly down the path (a gosling can’t yet fly, so one parent leads while the other watches the rear), so our little adventure continued quite a while before the panicked parents finally dogged into the woods toward the pond (even goslings are excellent swimmers). Crisis averted, this time.
Not all creatures would fare so well. The next morning, as Shanti and I rounded the curve out of the forest to the meadow by the pond, where near the camp ground two boys were walking slowly along the shore, exploring nature. “Oh! Look!” said one, pointing to some creature on the ground. The other one calmly picked up a rock, dashed it to the ground, and picked up his dead prize by the tail—a rodent of some kind. They walked on.
A little further, we came across another group, standing closely together. “Guys, check it out,” said the man of the group, a strong, calm, man pointing at the ground. The boys looked. “No—leave it alone,” he said. One of the boys spoke softly. “He killed it?” asked the man. We walked on, while I thought about the challenge of one man handling a dozen boys on a camping trip.
The next day, a weekday, brought another group, a regular one here—Camp Georgetown. Inmates from this low security facility help keep the grass cut, remove fallen trees from the trails, and pick up trash around the campground. The weather isn’t always conducive to these activities, so on some days, they mill about the van parked on the beach, just enjoying nature—a reward for guys with good behavior, I’m guessing. They certainly aren’t considered any risk, as the guard, while armed, is relaxed, barely attentive, and clearly doesn’t expect any trouble.
This morning they certainly weren’t in a hurry. The van was ahead of me when I turned down the dirt road to the trails. They stopped a few times while an inmate got out to pick up trash. I was in no hurry. When Shanti and I had hiked around the pond, the van was parked right dead in the campground road. This was unusual, as several other options are available. The guys were standing around, spread out around the van, a few of them sitting inside, the guard standing with his back to the group in front of the van, talking to the forest ranger in his pickup truck on this daily rounds.
One of the guys was standing off by the edge of the forest, looking into the brush. Later, I pieced together that he was looking after the turtle he had rescued. Turtles here sometimes cross the roads—probably the reason the van was stopped where it was. “Is that a wolf?” one of them asked me, sitting on the back ledge of the van. A lot of people ask me that, and yes, Shanti does look like an Arctic wolf. I pulled the leash in—lots of people are afraid of “big” dogs (although at 48 lbs., I consider her a medium size dog). This guy, though, was clearly interested, and since Shanti loves all people, we moved in closer. Man and dog loved each other, and the guys and I chatted while Shanti soaked up the attention—in a cloud of white fur (shedding season big time). “You live around here?” “Does she run loose on the trails?” Stuff like that.
“Give her some bread,” said one of the guys in the van. “Just a little,” I cautioned, “she probably won’t eat it.” They pulled off a tennis ball size piece of hot dog roll. She didn’t eat it, but man and dog loved playing with it for a bit. “Want some water?” he asked—and offered her a palmful of water from a cooler on the back of the van. “Get her a cup, Ghost” said one of the guys. Man reached behind and produced a grey cup, filled it with water, and set it on the ground. To my surprise, Shanti drank it all. “That’s YOUR cup, Ghost!” the guys warned, good naturedly. Ghost held the cup while Shanti licked out every corner. She placed her front paws on the back of the van and poked her nose inside. “Shanti,” I called quietly. “No, girl—you don’t want to go in there,” warned Ghost. “That’s too much like a kennel.”
I hated to leave—Ghost was clearly enjoying this, and Shanti certainly didn’t mind. Things to do.
I’m reminded of a guy I met once, an accident victim. After years of sobriety, he had several beers at a Fourth of July party and hit a telephone pole on the way home. He was in the hospital for weeks, and had no memory of the event—just going by what friends told him later. He still had memory lapses. He lost his wife, his construction business, his house, everything.
A calm, gentle, nice guy. We asked him what he missed most. He thought for a few moments.
“My dog,” he said. “I just miss my dog.”
Writer
Saturday morning, we were walking early to avoid the rush of weekenders, and we came across a pair of geese with a gosling. Geese commonly breed here, but seeing them on the foot path is a bit unusual. Shanti, of course, flew after them, pulling my arm out and me after it, until I could lean back and use my weight against her enthusiastic force. The geese, unfortunately, chose to continue waddling quickly down the path (a gosling can’t yet fly, so one parent leads while the other watches the rear), so our little adventure continued quite a while before the panicked parents finally dogged into the woods toward the pond (even goslings are excellent swimmers). Crisis averted, this time.
Not all creatures would fare so well. The next morning, as Shanti and I rounded the curve out of the forest to the meadow by the pond, where near the camp ground two boys were walking slowly along the shore, exploring nature. “Oh! Look!” said one, pointing to some creature on the ground. The other one calmly picked up a rock, dashed it to the ground, and picked up his dead prize by the tail—a rodent of some kind. They walked on.
A little further, we came across another group, standing closely together. “Guys, check it out,” said the man of the group, a strong, calm, man pointing at the ground. The boys looked. “No—leave it alone,” he said. One of the boys spoke softly. “He killed it?” asked the man. We walked on, while I thought about the challenge of one man handling a dozen boys on a camping trip.
The next day, a weekday, brought another group, a regular one here—Camp Georgetown. Inmates from this low security facility help keep the grass cut, remove fallen trees from the trails, and pick up trash around the campground. The weather isn’t always conducive to these activities, so on some days, they mill about the van parked on the beach, just enjoying nature—a reward for guys with good behavior, I’m guessing. They certainly aren’t considered any risk, as the guard, while armed, is relaxed, barely attentive, and clearly doesn’t expect any trouble.
This morning they certainly weren’t in a hurry. The van was ahead of me when I turned down the dirt road to the trails. They stopped a few times while an inmate got out to pick up trash. I was in no hurry. When Shanti and I had hiked around the pond, the van was parked right dead in the campground road. This was unusual, as several other options are available. The guys were standing around, spread out around the van, a few of them sitting inside, the guard standing with his back to the group in front of the van, talking to the forest ranger in his pickup truck on this daily rounds.
One of the guys was standing off by the edge of the forest, looking into the brush. Later, I pieced together that he was looking after the turtle he had rescued. Turtles here sometimes cross the roads—probably the reason the van was stopped where it was. “Is that a wolf?” one of them asked me, sitting on the back ledge of the van. A lot of people ask me that, and yes, Shanti does look like an Arctic wolf. I pulled the leash in—lots of people are afraid of “big” dogs (although at 48 lbs., I consider her a medium size dog). This guy, though, was clearly interested, and since Shanti loves all people, we moved in closer. Man and dog loved each other, and the guys and I chatted while Shanti soaked up the attention—in a cloud of white fur (shedding season big time). “You live around here?” “Does she run loose on the trails?” Stuff like that.
“Give her some bread,” said one of the guys in the van. “Just a little,” I cautioned, “she probably won’t eat it.” They pulled off a tennis ball size piece of hot dog roll. She didn’t eat it, but man and dog loved playing with it for a bit. “Want some water?” he asked—and offered her a palmful of water from a cooler on the back of the van. “Get her a cup, Ghost” said one of the guys. Man reached behind and produced a grey cup, filled it with water, and set it on the ground. To my surprise, Shanti drank it all. “That’s YOUR cup, Ghost!” the guys warned, good naturedly. Ghost held the cup while Shanti licked out every corner. She placed her front paws on the back of the van and poked her nose inside. “Shanti,” I called quietly. “No, girl—you don’t want to go in there,” warned Ghost. “That’s too much like a kennel.”
I hated to leave—Ghost was clearly enjoying this, and Shanti certainly didn’t mind. Things to do.
I’m reminded of a guy I met once, an accident victim. After years of sobriety, he had several beers at a Fourth of July party and hit a telephone pole on the way home. He was in the hospital for weeks, and had no memory of the event—just going by what friends told him later. He still had memory lapses. He lost his wife, his construction business, his house, everything.
A calm, gentle, nice guy. We asked him what he missed most. He thought for a few moments.
“My dog,” he said. “I just miss my dog.”
Writer
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Dad's Driving
Among the most tedious scenarios imaginable is going to dinner with a married couple as a single person. They argue about a wide range of the most trivial points, often without even realizing they do it. This is all the worse when that couple is my dad and stepmom.
Roughly once a year, they stop by to take me to dinner, and having then discharged their parently duties, move along on their travels through retirement. While I checked the menu, my stepmom insisted, “No, you were speeding,” with the hint of a smirk. Dad looked unhappy, noting “They just lie in wait for out of state license plates,” looking to me for support. “Actually, Dad—I’m a bit afraid to ride with you.”
He looked at me, 1/3 miffed and 2/3 genuinely curious. “Why?” he asked.
Dad has always sped. He used to build mini-racers with his best friends—long friends right through when both of their wives passed away in retirement. He raced the back roads of rural western New York, leaving air beneath the car as he crested hills, disdaining yellow speed warnings as he rounded curves, counting on his self-assessed superior driving skills. This perception continues, as he tailgates cars at high speed, drives without heed even in dangerous weather, and regrets only that he’s forced to share the road with drivers so inferior to himself—the ones for whom traffic laws are written.
One, in a snowstorm that should have prevented travel, Dad insisted on driving me to my music lesson (as I finished shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway, and much to the astonishment of my music teacher). “We can make it,” he insisted. We did. Another time, he hit a kid on a bicycle. Things like this aren’t discussed in my family, so I know only what little I could gather—that the parents sued, that a settlement was reached, and to my dad, clearly the problem was the kid pulling out on his bicycle. Yet another time, while Dad was giving me a ride to school, I warned him that a certain curve, almost a U-turn, was certainly a 20 m.p.h. zone as posted. “Really?’ Dad asked, as he pulled around it at twice the speed. Thrown to the other side of the road, all he offered was, “I guess so. That IS a sharp curve.” I was just glad no cars were coming down the hill in the other direction.
I’m not unappreciative. I got to every music lesson. I got to every rehearsal. I got to every Scout meeting, every swim lesson, every campout. That 20 m.p.h. curve was on the way to a professional meeting—my dad got up at four to drive an hour to my home, pick me up, and drive me an hour to a 7 a.m. meeting when my car was in the shop. He then drove me home at the end of the day and took me to pick up my car. And let's not forget those four hour trips to and from college.
Once, my teenage fight with my mom boiled over into all out war—horrible things were said, mom resorted to throwing things, and I left. I had no prospects and nowhere to go, of course, so when I calmed down a bit, I had to call. Dad picked up the phone, and calmly, quietly asked, “Are you ready to come home?” I was. “Where are you?” he said simply. He picked me up. No lecture, no scowl—just a ride home. End of the matter.
Ironically, my daredevil dad taught me to drive (when my mom gave up in frustration over our battles). These lessons became habits I practice to this day. Always signal, even at 3 a.m. when no one’s around to see. Always check all around the car when merging. Not to mention change the oil, change the oil, change the oil—and rotate the tires. I drove my last car 199,974 miles before it threw a rod. Safety, safety, safety.
I’m no saint. When I broke my collarbone in karate, for example, my sister listened to the account, then observed, “You were showing off, weren’t you?” Don’t you hate it when someone knows you that well?
I AM a careful driver—cautious, looking ahead, defensive, keeping my ego in check as other drivers act recklessly. Except in the morning when I’m in a hurry and running late. And that I often drive when I’m tired. And distracted. Kinda mitigates all that safety, doesn’t it?
To lower my insurance, I took a six hour driving course. Now that I’ve taken a few, I recommend them (although this depends greatly on the instructor)—I learned far more than I’d have thought. My dad approved, noting that my stepmom takes one every year through AARP. No mention of Dad needing or taking one.
A key difference between Dad and me is that I drive to get places. It just needs doing. Dad drives because he loves to drive. He doesn’t need a reason. The morning of my mother’s funeral, he had to run errands. I went with him. We needed salt for the water softener. We needed tomatoes—roma tomatoes, since they’re best in salads, and we had a lot of people coming to the house. We had to stop for a lottery ticket—hey, you never know. The essentials. Dad needed to drive.
Long retired, Dad drives. He drives to Florida for half the year from central New York, relishing the trip I would dread. He travels all over the U.S. and Canada, just as he did on vacations before retirement—he and my mom drove to Alaska twice. I got a postcard this week from Arizona—as far west as I have ever been—Dad’s on his way to visit California. Doesn’t know for sure when he’ll be back.
One day, age will betray me. I worry about this. I live far out in the country, and I cherish my home. We don’t have busses or taxies, and I can’t simply walk to the grocery store or the pharmacy. When I can no longer drive, I don’t know what I will do.
When not traveling, my dad and stepmom live much closer to civilization. My dad is in excellent health, but one day, when he can no longer drive, I don’t know what he’ll do.
Writer
Roughly once a year, they stop by to take me to dinner, and having then discharged their parently duties, move along on their travels through retirement. While I checked the menu, my stepmom insisted, “No, you were speeding,” with the hint of a smirk. Dad looked unhappy, noting “They just lie in wait for out of state license plates,” looking to me for support. “Actually, Dad—I’m a bit afraid to ride with you.”
He looked at me, 1/3 miffed and 2/3 genuinely curious. “Why?” he asked.
Dad has always sped. He used to build mini-racers with his best friends—long friends right through when both of their wives passed away in retirement. He raced the back roads of rural western New York, leaving air beneath the car as he crested hills, disdaining yellow speed warnings as he rounded curves, counting on his self-assessed superior driving skills. This perception continues, as he tailgates cars at high speed, drives without heed even in dangerous weather, and regrets only that he’s forced to share the road with drivers so inferior to himself—the ones for whom traffic laws are written.
One, in a snowstorm that should have prevented travel, Dad insisted on driving me to my music lesson (as I finished shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway, and much to the astonishment of my music teacher). “We can make it,” he insisted. We did. Another time, he hit a kid on a bicycle. Things like this aren’t discussed in my family, so I know only what little I could gather—that the parents sued, that a settlement was reached, and to my dad, clearly the problem was the kid pulling out on his bicycle. Yet another time, while Dad was giving me a ride to school, I warned him that a certain curve, almost a U-turn, was certainly a 20 m.p.h. zone as posted. “Really?’ Dad asked, as he pulled around it at twice the speed. Thrown to the other side of the road, all he offered was, “I guess so. That IS a sharp curve.” I was just glad no cars were coming down the hill in the other direction.
I’m not unappreciative. I got to every music lesson. I got to every rehearsal. I got to every Scout meeting, every swim lesson, every campout. That 20 m.p.h. curve was on the way to a professional meeting—my dad got up at four to drive an hour to my home, pick me up, and drive me an hour to a 7 a.m. meeting when my car was in the shop. He then drove me home at the end of the day and took me to pick up my car. And let's not forget those four hour trips to and from college.
Once, my teenage fight with my mom boiled over into all out war—horrible things were said, mom resorted to throwing things, and I left. I had no prospects and nowhere to go, of course, so when I calmed down a bit, I had to call. Dad picked up the phone, and calmly, quietly asked, “Are you ready to come home?” I was. “Where are you?” he said simply. He picked me up. No lecture, no scowl—just a ride home. End of the matter.
Ironically, my daredevil dad taught me to drive (when my mom gave up in frustration over our battles). These lessons became habits I practice to this day. Always signal, even at 3 a.m. when no one’s around to see. Always check all around the car when merging. Not to mention change the oil, change the oil, change the oil—and rotate the tires. I drove my last car 199,974 miles before it threw a rod. Safety, safety, safety.
I’m no saint. When I broke my collarbone in karate, for example, my sister listened to the account, then observed, “You were showing off, weren’t you?” Don’t you hate it when someone knows you that well?
I AM a careful driver—cautious, looking ahead, defensive, keeping my ego in check as other drivers act recklessly. Except in the morning when I’m in a hurry and running late. And that I often drive when I’m tired. And distracted. Kinda mitigates all that safety, doesn’t it?
To lower my insurance, I took a six hour driving course. Now that I’ve taken a few, I recommend them (although this depends greatly on the instructor)—I learned far more than I’d have thought. My dad approved, noting that my stepmom takes one every year through AARP. No mention of Dad needing or taking one.
A key difference between Dad and me is that I drive to get places. It just needs doing. Dad drives because he loves to drive. He doesn’t need a reason. The morning of my mother’s funeral, he had to run errands. I went with him. We needed salt for the water softener. We needed tomatoes—roma tomatoes, since they’re best in salads, and we had a lot of people coming to the house. We had to stop for a lottery ticket—hey, you never know. The essentials. Dad needed to drive.
Long retired, Dad drives. He drives to Florida for half the year from central New York, relishing the trip I would dread. He travels all over the U.S. and Canada, just as he did on vacations before retirement—he and my mom drove to Alaska twice. I got a postcard this week from Arizona—as far west as I have ever been—Dad’s on his way to visit California. Doesn’t know for sure when he’ll be back.
One day, age will betray me. I worry about this. I live far out in the country, and I cherish my home. We don’t have busses or taxies, and I can’t simply walk to the grocery store or the pharmacy. When I can no longer drive, I don’t know what I will do.
When not traveling, my dad and stepmom live much closer to civilization. My dad is in excellent health, but one day, when he can no longer drive, I don’t know what he’ll do.
Writer
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Fountain
What I remember most is the fountain. A column of sparkling particles rose in the bright sunlight and gracefully spread in a shower of glittering splendor before delicately falling back to earth.
It was a beautiful day--clear, warm, calm, a good day for lazy pursuits. I was on my way to visit my grandfather in Western New York, enjoying the scenic ride along Rt. 20. Suddenly, as a reflex, I started to shout an obscenity as my hand pounded the horn and my foot stomped on the brake--the idiot in front of me was stopping abruptly. But almost as soon as I had reacted, I froze--a car from the oncoming lane had swerved into the path of the car in front of me, causing the abrupt stop. Everything changed in that instant. I could no longer hear my voice, still shouting my obscenity, now in mid-word. I couldn't hear the horn blaring, I couldn't hear the tires screaming, and I didn't hear the two cars hit as I watched them crumple in slow motion. My car was skidding to an eventual stop, but I knew I'd never be able to stop in time. I watched the glass fountain slowly rise, catching the sunlight, spreading its misty brilliance, and float back to the ground. The cars continued their dance, slowly bounced apart, and I skidded through the space they created.
I thought my car would never finally stop; it seemed to skid for hundreds of feet for a few minutes, even though I hadn't been traveling fast. My instant impulse after finally reaching the roadside was to jump out and run to help the accident victims. But “jump and run” had a new definition. People performing in underwater ballets move faster. All my strength went into every stride, but every stride seemed to take minutes.
Still, I was the first on the scene, and time returned to its normal pace. The car that had swerved held a college age woman, unconscious, her lip hanging from the half still attached, half her face coated with blood. "I'm drowning" she repeated, barely audible. The other car held a family of four, Mom, Dad, and two children, probably two and four years old. None of them had been wearing seat belts; Mom and Dad were trapped under the dash, and the children had been thrown from the car.
Other people started to arrive on the scene, and Mom woke, "My babies! Where are my babies?" Two of the new arrivals surrounded the children lying motionless on the ground. "People are looking after them," I fudged, not knowing if the children were even alive. "Try to remain calm while the ambulance comes, OK?," I lamely attempted. She agreed, calmed down for just a few moments, and started screaming again. I repeated my attempts to keep her calm, and we continued this cycle for several minutes until the paramedics finally arrived. I walked over to the grass to wait my turn to talk to the Sheriff, sat down, and finally fell apart, shaking violently for several minutes.
Everyone did survive the collision, I finally visited my grandfather, and except for occasional calls from the two parties' lawyers looking for court evidence, I had largely forgotten the incident after a time--except for the fountain--until a few summers ago.
Early one Sunday morning, a rabbit darted into the road just a few feet in front of my car. Again reacting, I slammed on the brakes, instantly spinning the car. Used to years of winter driving, I turned into the spin, but the car was already traveling sideways off the road. Although I wasn't driving fast, I knew I'd never be able to stop before I hit the tree in front of me; I never saw the tree my car hit sideways, just inches behind the driver's seat.
No slow motion this time--everything happened too quickly to follow. Just a second or too passed before an onlooker called 911 and kept me from trying to leave my car, pointing out that my arm was torn open, something I hadn't realized. The paramedics seemed to arrive in under a minute, and insisted, foolishly, I thought at the time, on cutting me out of my car. I calmly answered questions and even joked a little, until finally, in the ambulance, I went into shock. Worried medics hurriedly started IV drips and draped every blanket available over my still shivering body as I turned pale white. Radio conversations with the emergency room staff heralded our imminent arrival. But, several X-rays and a little surgery later, I was on my way home.
It took weeks to fully absorb what had happened. I thought the insurance company too hastily wrote off my car as totaled. I described the event to friends almost as a fender bender. I wondered why I had nightmares, something I hadn't experienced for years. It was three or four weeks before I realized that with a few inches difference, the tree that crushed my back seat would have crushed my skull. I guess that explains why I could barely move--or breathe--for a few months. My sister had taken pictures of my former car the day of the accident and mailed me a set. I finally opened the envelope.
Denial is easy, and human capacity for indulging it is staggering. The clear facts steadily stare, but they're so often invisible. Fountains are like that. They appear solid and still, despite their actual constant motion and nebulous, liquid state. Like fountains, focused will can propel us for a fair distance, but inevitably that originally climbing column will reach its zenith and dissipate in a shower of disintegrated droplets. Obviously life will end for all of us, but we manage to act in daily life as if we will never lose power. But control is an illusion. The fountain is beautiful, but the water supply can be shut off at any moment.
Writer
It was a beautiful day--clear, warm, calm, a good day for lazy pursuits. I was on my way to visit my grandfather in Western New York, enjoying the scenic ride along Rt. 20. Suddenly, as a reflex, I started to shout an obscenity as my hand pounded the horn and my foot stomped on the brake--the idiot in front of me was stopping abruptly. But almost as soon as I had reacted, I froze--a car from the oncoming lane had swerved into the path of the car in front of me, causing the abrupt stop. Everything changed in that instant. I could no longer hear my voice, still shouting my obscenity, now in mid-word. I couldn't hear the horn blaring, I couldn't hear the tires screaming, and I didn't hear the two cars hit as I watched them crumple in slow motion. My car was skidding to an eventual stop, but I knew I'd never be able to stop in time. I watched the glass fountain slowly rise, catching the sunlight, spreading its misty brilliance, and float back to the ground. The cars continued their dance, slowly bounced apart, and I skidded through the space they created.
I thought my car would never finally stop; it seemed to skid for hundreds of feet for a few minutes, even though I hadn't been traveling fast. My instant impulse after finally reaching the roadside was to jump out and run to help the accident victims. But “jump and run” had a new definition. People performing in underwater ballets move faster. All my strength went into every stride, but every stride seemed to take minutes.
Still, I was the first on the scene, and time returned to its normal pace. The car that had swerved held a college age woman, unconscious, her lip hanging from the half still attached, half her face coated with blood. "I'm drowning" she repeated, barely audible. The other car held a family of four, Mom, Dad, and two children, probably two and four years old. None of them had been wearing seat belts; Mom and Dad were trapped under the dash, and the children had been thrown from the car.
Other people started to arrive on the scene, and Mom woke, "My babies! Where are my babies?" Two of the new arrivals surrounded the children lying motionless on the ground. "People are looking after them," I fudged, not knowing if the children were even alive. "Try to remain calm while the ambulance comes, OK?," I lamely attempted. She agreed, calmed down for just a few moments, and started screaming again. I repeated my attempts to keep her calm, and we continued this cycle for several minutes until the paramedics finally arrived. I walked over to the grass to wait my turn to talk to the Sheriff, sat down, and finally fell apart, shaking violently for several minutes.
Everyone did survive the collision, I finally visited my grandfather, and except for occasional calls from the two parties' lawyers looking for court evidence, I had largely forgotten the incident after a time--except for the fountain--until a few summers ago.
Early one Sunday morning, a rabbit darted into the road just a few feet in front of my car. Again reacting, I slammed on the brakes, instantly spinning the car. Used to years of winter driving, I turned into the spin, but the car was already traveling sideways off the road. Although I wasn't driving fast, I knew I'd never be able to stop before I hit the tree in front of me; I never saw the tree my car hit sideways, just inches behind the driver's seat.
No slow motion this time--everything happened too quickly to follow. Just a second or too passed before an onlooker called 911 and kept me from trying to leave my car, pointing out that my arm was torn open, something I hadn't realized. The paramedics seemed to arrive in under a minute, and insisted, foolishly, I thought at the time, on cutting me out of my car. I calmly answered questions and even joked a little, until finally, in the ambulance, I went into shock. Worried medics hurriedly started IV drips and draped every blanket available over my still shivering body as I turned pale white. Radio conversations with the emergency room staff heralded our imminent arrival. But, several X-rays and a little surgery later, I was on my way home.
It took weeks to fully absorb what had happened. I thought the insurance company too hastily wrote off my car as totaled. I described the event to friends almost as a fender bender. I wondered why I had nightmares, something I hadn't experienced for years. It was three or four weeks before I realized that with a few inches difference, the tree that crushed my back seat would have crushed my skull. I guess that explains why I could barely move--or breathe--for a few months. My sister had taken pictures of my former car the day of the accident and mailed me a set. I finally opened the envelope.
Denial is easy, and human capacity for indulging it is staggering. The clear facts steadily stare, but they're so often invisible. Fountains are like that. They appear solid and still, despite their actual constant motion and nebulous, liquid state. Like fountains, focused will can propel us for a fair distance, but inevitably that originally climbing column will reach its zenith and dissipate in a shower of disintegrated droplets. Obviously life will end for all of us, but we manage to act in daily life as if we will never lose power. But control is an illusion. The fountain is beautiful, but the water supply can be shut off at any moment.
Writer
Monday, May 28, 2007
Memorial Moment
Twice a year, in November and May, the U.S. officially celebrates its men and women in uniform. Veterans Day can slide by quickly with a speech and a raised flag, given its midweek status in late fall, but Memorial Day, a three day weekend and the unofficial start to summer, is more likely to inspire a parade—along with a party, a barbeque, and a fair amount of beer.
As a kid, I biked all over our suburb’s streets, and consequently, some vigilant porch sitters and I noticed each other, spoke to each other, and began to look forward to our visits. What I remember most is talking about World War II. I can’t say I learned a lot about the war itself, but I clearly saw that something about this was a really big deal. I listened respectfully and intently, tried to understand the period novels I read, and when the subject came up in social studies, I paid attention.
Growing up in the sixties, I was to learn a lot more about armed conflict. As one speaker put it, “List four people you know between the ages of 18 and 24. Now cross off the first name on your list. That’s what war in Vietnam meant.” Ironically, President Johnson made Memorial Day an official U.S. Holiday, in 1966.
Today, the cry is constant—support the troops. God, I hate that word. Sounds better when “troops” are killed rather than “people”? But why the animosity often associated with the cry? Where are the groups crying, “Oppose the troops!”? Oh yeah—no such groups. Who doesn’t support the troops? And frankly, maybe that support shouldn’t be so blind. The massacre at My Lai? Prisoner abuse at Abu Grahab? The “retaliatory” murder of an innocent Iraqi citizen? One of my acquaintances, a Navy veteran, insists that we must support all of the troops no matter what.
I can’t agree. Such myopic reasoning allows troops to become little more than political pawns—any opposition brings the cry “Support the Troops!” Take Rumsfeld’s insistence—against the advice of the Pentagon—to run the Iraq war on the cheap. Friends, families and neighbors chip in to help buy the body armor the government neglected to supply. Soldiers raid junk yards to protect their vehicles from road side bombs. Where’s the support for the troops there? And when the Bush administration’s policies have clearly failed, the President grasps for a magical solution—more troops, with no clear plan, but clearly ready to sacrifice more lives on the chance he can still save face. So Congress finally tries to use the only real weapon it has to stop this nonsense—cut funding. Time for the cry—“Support the Troops!”
I’m quite ready to honor the troops, to remember those who gave so much to their country. But I’m not happy about it, especially now. I’m not naïve—as former President Carter noted when awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, war is sometimes a necessary evil. At the same time, however, “it is always an evil,” and not a course of action a country should so rashly follow.
So today we honor fallen troops. I am grateful to them, but I’d rather we were honoring them as the parents, spouses, doctors, lawyers, scientists, teachers, businessmen, mayors, and citizens they should have been.
Writer
As a kid, I biked all over our suburb’s streets, and consequently, some vigilant porch sitters and I noticed each other, spoke to each other, and began to look forward to our visits. What I remember most is talking about World War II. I can’t say I learned a lot about the war itself, but I clearly saw that something about this was a really big deal. I listened respectfully and intently, tried to understand the period novels I read, and when the subject came up in social studies, I paid attention.
Growing up in the sixties, I was to learn a lot more about armed conflict. As one speaker put it, “List four people you know between the ages of 18 and 24. Now cross off the first name on your list. That’s what war in Vietnam meant.” Ironically, President Johnson made Memorial Day an official U.S. Holiday, in 1966.
Today, the cry is constant—support the troops. God, I hate that word. Sounds better when “troops” are killed rather than “people”? But why the animosity often associated with the cry? Where are the groups crying, “Oppose the troops!”? Oh yeah—no such groups. Who doesn’t support the troops? And frankly, maybe that support shouldn’t be so blind. The massacre at My Lai? Prisoner abuse at Abu Grahab? The “retaliatory” murder of an innocent Iraqi citizen? One of my acquaintances, a Navy veteran, insists that we must support all of the troops no matter what.
I can’t agree. Such myopic reasoning allows troops to become little more than political pawns—any opposition brings the cry “Support the Troops!” Take Rumsfeld’s insistence—against the advice of the Pentagon—to run the Iraq war on the cheap. Friends, families and neighbors chip in to help buy the body armor the government neglected to supply. Soldiers raid junk yards to protect their vehicles from road side bombs. Where’s the support for the troops there? And when the Bush administration’s policies have clearly failed, the President grasps for a magical solution—more troops, with no clear plan, but clearly ready to sacrifice more lives on the chance he can still save face. So Congress finally tries to use the only real weapon it has to stop this nonsense—cut funding. Time for the cry—“Support the Troops!”
I’m quite ready to honor the troops, to remember those who gave so much to their country. But I’m not happy about it, especially now. I’m not naïve—as former President Carter noted when awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, war is sometimes a necessary evil. At the same time, however, “it is always an evil,” and not a course of action a country should so rashly follow.
So today we honor fallen troops. I am grateful to them, but I’d rather we were honoring them as the parents, spouses, doctors, lawyers, scientists, teachers, businessmen, mayors, and citizens they should have been.
Writer
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Hawks and Handsaws
An acquaintance of mine thinks maybe people have just seen too many episodes of “Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman,” but the phenomenon certainly predates that show’s 1993 release—Native Americans and others alike romanticize that culture, benefiting no one.
Let me be clear—I have great respect for Native American tradition. I’ve dated Native American women. I have close Native American friends. I even have an Indian name—it means “When the Warm Winds of the South have Returned,” and once, one of a group of Native friends raised the question of my totem animal—they all immediately agreed on the red-tail hawk. Let me also clarify that I certainly don’t dispute that Native Americans have historically faced significant injustice. All the more reason not to make a mockery of that history with distorted stereotypes. Note that I am not addressing the matter of using Indian names or mascots for sports teams—that’s another issue entirely. No, I’m addressing our joint cultural insistence on blindly replacing truth with fantasy.
Let’s start with the most prevalent view—Native Americans have a special, close connection to nature, even to the point of almost magical powers. What bullshit. One afternoon I sat chatting at length with a few friends and a few strangers in the Oneida cultural center about exactly this “connection.” At one point, we heard a bird call: “Whoo….whoo whoo….whoooooooo.” The director of the center, an Oneida Indian with a Ph.D., noted, “Oh, an owl!” I looked at him incredulously, and pointed out that no, that was a mourning dove—a VERY common bird [An owl’s call, unlikely in mid-afternoon, would sound “Hoot-hoot, Hoot Whoooooooooo]. My other Oneida friends at the same gathering, including a Turtle Clan elder, are about as citified as possible, even though they live in the country. They know virtually nothing about animals, plants, climate, the land—things even the children of any farmer, even a poor farmer, would know. They gave me a red-tailed hawk feather as a gift, warning me not to tell anyone. Certainly illegal animal parts show up sometimes on Native lands, eagle feathers for example, but red-tailed hawks are common here—I once picked up a feather in my driveway.
Then there’s the illusion that any Native American craft is art. Want cash? Build dream catchers. Want to sell paintings? Paint eagles and wolves—easy as Elvis on black velvet, or dogs playing poker. The only difference is which cliché we buy. Why? Certainly we have excellent Native American artists, but as one Native artist friend said after deciding to go to art school, “I thought I knew everything. I found out I knew nothing.” Today, her art is MUCH more interesting, varied provocative, and less predictable than it was. Likewise, certainly my students study Native American writers—N. Scott Momaday, for example, but not because he’s native, but because his command of metaphor and imagery is exceptional. We’d study him even is he were only another dead white guy.
Here’s the problem—such a naïve, widespread and economically viable misperception of reality can only lead to someone realizing this means political power.
It starts with the land claims. The Oneidas, for example, argue that two hundred years ago, their ancestors reached a land agreement with the State of New York, but since that agreement was never ratified by the U. S. Congress, the transfer was illegal. Why they want to argue their ancestors were foolish, I can’t imagine, especially since they’ve stamped themselves as “The Oneida Nation” and love to insist on “government to government relations” with the cities, counties, and states—by which they mean they refuse to pay taxes, to collect taxes on sales to non-natives, or to follow any of those annoying little laws—like weights and measures, or health inspections. And people love it, lured by the chance to same a dime, fairness or health be damned, oblivious to the reality that services cost money, and if the funds don’t come from one source, they must come from another. Native Americans enjoy, without taxes, the benefits of roads, legal systems, and military protection. Why? Hardly the role of “government to government relations.” That’s because the “nation” is legally a “ward of the state”—as in children protected by their superiors. Who would embrace that? People ready to abuse it for power and wealth.
Enter the casinos. Under the guise of “economic development,” ignoring that (1) gambling just moves money around instead of creating production and that (2) casinos suck business away from the (tax-paying) establishments that formerly provided those services, politicians and native business men play the native fantasy to the hilt to line their pockets. Anyone who disagrees is labeled a “racist.” Convenient—and ignores the reality that the Wisconsin Oneidas and Thames Oneidas oppose the New York “Oneida Nation.” New York Oneidas also oppose Corporate Oneida, and for that opposition, have their houses condemned and their voices shunned. The Oneida Cultural Center, for example, features none of Diane Shenandoah’s beautiful art, and neither will you find any trace of Grammy Award winner Joanne Shenandoah—so much for promoting Native American culture.
Hamlet tells us “I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.” But the wind is from the north, not a trace of the south winds, and industry has replaced the hawk.
Writer
Let me be clear—I have great respect for Native American tradition. I’ve dated Native American women. I have close Native American friends. I even have an Indian name—it means “When the Warm Winds of the South have Returned,” and once, one of a group of Native friends raised the question of my totem animal—they all immediately agreed on the red-tail hawk. Let me also clarify that I certainly don’t dispute that Native Americans have historically faced significant injustice. All the more reason not to make a mockery of that history with distorted stereotypes. Note that I am not addressing the matter of using Indian names or mascots for sports teams—that’s another issue entirely. No, I’m addressing our joint cultural insistence on blindly replacing truth with fantasy.
Let’s start with the most prevalent view—Native Americans have a special, close connection to nature, even to the point of almost magical powers. What bullshit. One afternoon I sat chatting at length with a few friends and a few strangers in the Oneida cultural center about exactly this “connection.” At one point, we heard a bird call: “Whoo….whoo whoo….whoooooooo.” The director of the center, an Oneida Indian with a Ph.D., noted, “Oh, an owl!” I looked at him incredulously, and pointed out that no, that was a mourning dove—a VERY common bird [An owl’s call, unlikely in mid-afternoon, would sound “Hoot-hoot, Hoot Whoooooooooo]. My other Oneida friends at the same gathering, including a Turtle Clan elder, are about as citified as possible, even though they live in the country. They know virtually nothing about animals, plants, climate, the land—things even the children of any farmer, even a poor farmer, would know. They gave me a red-tailed hawk feather as a gift, warning me not to tell anyone. Certainly illegal animal parts show up sometimes on Native lands, eagle feathers for example, but red-tailed hawks are common here—I once picked up a feather in my driveway.
Then there’s the illusion that any Native American craft is art. Want cash? Build dream catchers. Want to sell paintings? Paint eagles and wolves—easy as Elvis on black velvet, or dogs playing poker. The only difference is which cliché we buy. Why? Certainly we have excellent Native American artists, but as one Native artist friend said after deciding to go to art school, “I thought I knew everything. I found out I knew nothing.” Today, her art is MUCH more interesting, varied provocative, and less predictable than it was. Likewise, certainly my students study Native American writers—N. Scott Momaday, for example, but not because he’s native, but because his command of metaphor and imagery is exceptional. We’d study him even is he were only another dead white guy.
Here’s the problem—such a naïve, widespread and economically viable misperception of reality can only lead to someone realizing this means political power.
It starts with the land claims. The Oneidas, for example, argue that two hundred years ago, their ancestors reached a land agreement with the State of New York, but since that agreement was never ratified by the U. S. Congress, the transfer was illegal. Why they want to argue their ancestors were foolish, I can’t imagine, especially since they’ve stamped themselves as “The Oneida Nation” and love to insist on “government to government relations” with the cities, counties, and states—by which they mean they refuse to pay taxes, to collect taxes on sales to non-natives, or to follow any of those annoying little laws—like weights and measures, or health inspections. And people love it, lured by the chance to same a dime, fairness or health be damned, oblivious to the reality that services cost money, and if the funds don’t come from one source, they must come from another. Native Americans enjoy, without taxes, the benefits of roads, legal systems, and military protection. Why? Hardly the role of “government to government relations.” That’s because the “nation” is legally a “ward of the state”—as in children protected by their superiors. Who would embrace that? People ready to abuse it for power and wealth.
Enter the casinos. Under the guise of “economic development,” ignoring that (1) gambling just moves money around instead of creating production and that (2) casinos suck business away from the (tax-paying) establishments that formerly provided those services, politicians and native business men play the native fantasy to the hilt to line their pockets. Anyone who disagrees is labeled a “racist.” Convenient—and ignores the reality that the Wisconsin Oneidas and Thames Oneidas oppose the New York “Oneida Nation.” New York Oneidas also oppose Corporate Oneida, and for that opposition, have their houses condemned and their voices shunned. The Oneida Cultural Center, for example, features none of Diane Shenandoah’s beautiful art, and neither will you find any trace of Grammy Award winner Joanne Shenandoah—so much for promoting Native American culture.
Hamlet tells us “I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.” But the wind is from the north, not a trace of the south winds, and industry has replaced the hawk.
Writer
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Rabbits and Seals
I like rabbits. I really do. My sister had a white rabbit as a pet for years. People a few miles down the road keep rabbits to comb for Angora—something I’ve considered myself. When a careless driver hit but didn’t kill a wild rabbit, I stopped and even took it to the vet (it had to be euthanized—severed spinal cord).
My rabbit adventures, though, really started when a former irresponsible neighbor, after keeping rabbits for a bit, changed his mind and set them loose. [Where do people get these ideas about animals? Most animals in the wild never live to see age two—let alone abandoned pets. That puppy you let loose to enjoy its freedom? The one with the cute kerchief around its neck? It’s now dead.] Now that the rabbits were no longer his responsibility, at least one of them became mine—chewing its way through the skirting of my home, ruining my winterizing efforts. Eventually, the rabbit disappeared (probably dead), and when the weather warmed, I ripped out all the damaged skirting and replaced it with aluminum flashing, burying it a foot deep (to keep out mice, rats and voles as well). Whether by cause and effect or by chance, however, wild rabbits took up residence across the grounds, to stay.
To a point, I didn’t really mind. Hey, if they eat the grass—terrific! Once in a while one would get hit in the road—sad, and I’d have to do something with the carcass. My old shepherd mix caught one—I have no idea how, since she was almost 16, tired and very ill. Perhaps she fell on it. Dunno. I let her have it—bunny was half gone as it was, and I was going nuts trying to get my poor old dog to eat protein anyway.
Rabbits were evident from time to time. One year I planted 50 black cherry seedlings around the borders of the property (black cherry is native here, and the wood is valuable). By spring, every one was gone. Rabbits were the main suspects, of course, but without any hard evidence, no court would ever convict them.
I didn’t notice them much. My husky mix puppy caught one while on her lead, but since she’s essentially lightening with fur, no big surprise. We walk around the property sometimes, she on her 26’ retractable leash, and yes, she often explodes into a run after game, ripping my arm from its socket, but here in the country, that could be almost anything; she loves to chase birds, and we have lots of them.
She especially loved “helping” to plant my fruit trees. She didn’t understand what all this was about, but she quickly learned that first, playing with those strange sticks was verboten, and second, whatever we were doing, it involved a lot of walking and digging. Gotta love that! With gusto, she “helped” dig holes for the trees, and when I walked back to my shed to get each tree, she carefully guarded each hole (I don’t know what we’re doing, or why, but this is OUR hole, so just back off!). Four varieties of apple, two kinds of pear, a few cherry trees—a week of hard work and a summer of watering yielded my own orchard. Despite a few problems—beetles, for example—the orchard was healthy and progressing well.
Then, over the winter, the rabbits reduced it to dead twigs. Hundreds of dollars worth destroyed.
My electrician, a friend, over to replace a leaky meter, noted during conversation that his fruit trees had suffered a similar fate. An acquaintance of his at the Ag/Tech college suggested protecting the trees with black PVC tubing cut at an angle. Seemed worth trying. As soon as the school year closed, I bought an assortment of apple, pear, peach and plum trees. I mentioned my circumstances to the clerk. “Rabbits,” she said, shaking her head.
I headed for the hardware store for PVC tubing. I explained what I wanted, and long since accustomed to my quirky ways, the staff listened patiently. For what I wanted, they explained, I could use waterline. Comes in inch and a quarter. Fine. They’ll sell it by the foot—just need to cut it first. OK.
I sat in the car. And waited. And waited. I drank my coffee. I was glad I had bought the paper. I read it. Finally, the yard guy arrives with a large roll of tubing. “We had trouble cutting it,” he explains. I can see that—one end is squashed flat for a few inches.
“How am I going to cut it, then?” I asked.
“Oh, no problem—we just didn’t have a good saw. You’ll be fine.” Unconvinced, I stuffed the roll in my car and headed home. I backed down the driveway and leaned back, relaxing for a moment. A rabbit peaked out of the evergreen trees, then hopped about with impunity.
A friend suggested I cut the tubing in a spiral to wrap around the tree. I soon learned I’d be lucky to cut it at all, let alone get it around the trees. I soon settled for just cutting a slit, but just as soon realized (1) that would be difficult with a circular saw and (2) I was already lucky to still have my hand as the saw kicked back. So, I just cut the stuff in half, and took 3-4 halves and taped them around the trunk. That was going to take quite a bit a tape for several trees. Back to the store. The rabbits could easily reach past the first branches, so I also grabbed some 4’ chicken wire to circle the trees—along with black plastic sheeting to control the grass inside the fenced circle. And so, after a lot of trial and error, after a day’s labor, I had planted—a tree.
I managed a few more before dark, each in its own little concentration camp, acutely aware that for all the effort I was investing in cottontail prevention, the critters had ipso facto the entire year (or two or three) to breach security.
For reasons I can’t quite explain, I’m reminded of the end of the first chapter of Joyce’s “Ulysses”:
"A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. a sleek brown head, a seal’s far out on the water, round.
Usurper."
Writer
My rabbit adventures, though, really started when a former irresponsible neighbor, after keeping rabbits for a bit, changed his mind and set them loose. [Where do people get these ideas about animals? Most animals in the wild never live to see age two—let alone abandoned pets. That puppy you let loose to enjoy its freedom? The one with the cute kerchief around its neck? It’s now dead.] Now that the rabbits were no longer his responsibility, at least one of them became mine—chewing its way through the skirting of my home, ruining my winterizing efforts. Eventually, the rabbit disappeared (probably dead), and when the weather warmed, I ripped out all the damaged skirting and replaced it with aluminum flashing, burying it a foot deep (to keep out mice, rats and voles as well). Whether by cause and effect or by chance, however, wild rabbits took up residence across the grounds, to stay.
To a point, I didn’t really mind. Hey, if they eat the grass—terrific! Once in a while one would get hit in the road—sad, and I’d have to do something with the carcass. My old shepherd mix caught one—I have no idea how, since she was almost 16, tired and very ill. Perhaps she fell on it. Dunno. I let her have it—bunny was half gone as it was, and I was going nuts trying to get my poor old dog to eat protein anyway.
Rabbits were evident from time to time. One year I planted 50 black cherry seedlings around the borders of the property (black cherry is native here, and the wood is valuable). By spring, every one was gone. Rabbits were the main suspects, of course, but without any hard evidence, no court would ever convict them.
I didn’t notice them much. My husky mix puppy caught one while on her lead, but since she’s essentially lightening with fur, no big surprise. We walk around the property sometimes, she on her 26’ retractable leash, and yes, she often explodes into a run after game, ripping my arm from its socket, but here in the country, that could be almost anything; she loves to chase birds, and we have lots of them.
She especially loved “helping” to plant my fruit trees. She didn’t understand what all this was about, but she quickly learned that first, playing with those strange sticks was verboten, and second, whatever we were doing, it involved a lot of walking and digging. Gotta love that! With gusto, she “helped” dig holes for the trees, and when I walked back to my shed to get each tree, she carefully guarded each hole (I don’t know what we’re doing, or why, but this is OUR hole, so just back off!). Four varieties of apple, two kinds of pear, a few cherry trees—a week of hard work and a summer of watering yielded my own orchard. Despite a few problems—beetles, for example—the orchard was healthy and progressing well.
Then, over the winter, the rabbits reduced it to dead twigs. Hundreds of dollars worth destroyed.
My electrician, a friend, over to replace a leaky meter, noted during conversation that his fruit trees had suffered a similar fate. An acquaintance of his at the Ag/Tech college suggested protecting the trees with black PVC tubing cut at an angle. Seemed worth trying. As soon as the school year closed, I bought an assortment of apple, pear, peach and plum trees. I mentioned my circumstances to the clerk. “Rabbits,” she said, shaking her head.
I headed for the hardware store for PVC tubing. I explained what I wanted, and long since accustomed to my quirky ways, the staff listened patiently. For what I wanted, they explained, I could use waterline. Comes in inch and a quarter. Fine. They’ll sell it by the foot—just need to cut it first. OK.
I sat in the car. And waited. And waited. I drank my coffee. I was glad I had bought the paper. I read it. Finally, the yard guy arrives with a large roll of tubing. “We had trouble cutting it,” he explains. I can see that—one end is squashed flat for a few inches.
“How am I going to cut it, then?” I asked.
“Oh, no problem—we just didn’t have a good saw. You’ll be fine.” Unconvinced, I stuffed the roll in my car and headed home. I backed down the driveway and leaned back, relaxing for a moment. A rabbit peaked out of the evergreen trees, then hopped about with impunity.
A friend suggested I cut the tubing in a spiral to wrap around the tree. I soon learned I’d be lucky to cut it at all, let alone get it around the trees. I soon settled for just cutting a slit, but just as soon realized (1) that would be difficult with a circular saw and (2) I was already lucky to still have my hand as the saw kicked back. So, I just cut the stuff in half, and took 3-4 halves and taped them around the trunk. That was going to take quite a bit a tape for several trees. Back to the store. The rabbits could easily reach past the first branches, so I also grabbed some 4’ chicken wire to circle the trees—along with black plastic sheeting to control the grass inside the fenced circle. And so, after a lot of trial and error, after a day’s labor, I had planted—a tree.
I managed a few more before dark, each in its own little concentration camp, acutely aware that for all the effort I was investing in cottontail prevention, the critters had ipso facto the entire year (or two or three) to breach security.
For reasons I can’t quite explain, I’m reminded of the end of the first chapter of Joyce’s “Ulysses”:
"A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. a sleek brown head, a seal’s far out on the water, round.
Usurper."
Writer
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