Pears, People and Poultry

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 speaker expound at length how Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” was that group’s reaching out and reaffirmation of their Christian faith. Had this speaker 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.

Finally, Skiing!

Well, I finally got to ski again.

Friday night, as I was walking my dog, my first thought was “Hmmm….looks like almost enough to ski on,” followed by, “Great…and tomorrow’s the first day of deer season.”

Nonetheless, after considering the snowfall around my home Saturday morning, I decided to go for it. I loaded up the skis, poles and boots, called my dog, and off we went to the wildlife preserve (to avoid hunters--unsuccessfully, as it turned out).

Not great skiing by any means—3-6 inches, but wet, heavy, just clumping up. Still, I was hungry enough for skiing that I didn’t care, so on I trudged.

Yes, trudged. Although I run in the off-season, getting back to skiing always abruptly reminds me that skiing using a different set of muscles. At least I got to give them a bit of a work-out. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, I’m sure.

Something wanted badly that isn’t going well, but worth still pursuing. Has a familiar ring.

The Game

Twenty some years ago, when I was finally able to move to the country, I was fascinated by all the sights I loved so much, especially sighting wildlife: “Oh look! A deer!” “Look! Wild turkeys!” “A fox!” “Raccoons!” and so forth. I’m still glad for the change, but long since this has moved to “Would you get your damn ass out of the road?! I’ve got to get to work!!” A few days ago, I had to stop for four coyote pups considering negotiating the road, the “leader” poised with one paw raised (OK, I admit—this was wicked awesome cute).

Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.

Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s rain ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.

But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.

I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.

For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.

Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.

Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.

Fifteen Tons (and a garden rake)

Each day, as I look through my windshield up the 150+ feet to the road, I feel a sense of pride. The driveway itself might not appear so inspirational, as it’s only a smooth layer of crushed stone. It IS, however, a smooth layer of crushed stone—15 tons worth, all raked out by yours truly with a garden rake.

A contractor constructed the original driveway (and the utility pole, the septic tank, and such), laying crushed limestone by driving slowly while gradually dumping the cargo, but in a few years, the stone sank into the clay soil, particularly when heavy fuel trucks hazarded the drive. So, years later, a new neighbor, also a contractor, offered to drive his small dump truck to the quarry for a load of crusher—and the problem was solved with a new layer of stone.

Sort of. Over the years, erosion chipped away until the ruts were so bad that negotiating the drive required noting high ground for the tires. My neighbor had moved, so I turned to the phone book late one afternoon.

I explained my problem, and started asking questions. “Hang on,” interrupted the woman on the other end of the phone. “I’ll get the guy you need to talk to.” OK.

When “the guy” (who turned out to be the owner of the business) came to the phone, I started again. After asking me questions about area and depth, he gave me a very reasonable price on five tons of crusher—but wasn’t sure if he could do it that day. “That’s fine,” I explained, understanding this was late in the day, and the job certainly wasn’t urgent. “No, no—I just need to find if we have a free truck” (they were out at construction sites). “Let me call you back in five minutes.” Gotta love a guy who gets business—here’s a customer, checkbook in hand, ready to deal. Get the man some stone.

He didn’t call back—he showed up 20 minutes later (impressive, since his business is 15 minutes away). We talked, I explained where I wanted the stone, he said he’d try, did an awesome spread—and noted that he’d given me a few extra tons. I could see that. Roughly, he grabbed a truck with two tons of crusher, added the five tons, and dumped what he had. From our chat, he was clearly building a new business, and I was certainly a satisfied customer.

I spent a few weeks raking out the stone with a rake—not an easy task, working on it a few hours a day (and nursing my sore muscles). But, as the sea of stone gradually settled, I realized I would need another load to finish the job.

I called the same business. This time, I got a very pleasant, witty young woman who, in the course of our conversation, revealed that she had recently been hired—the business was growing. I placed my request for another five tons of crusher, and by chance, it was again late in the afternoon. As before, my point that I didn’t need delivery that day was rebuffed, they’d find someone, and 20 minutes later, a very large dump truck arrived, driven by a polite but clearly not happy man. He surveyed the job. “I don’t like to spread uphill,” he noted, and given the size of his truck, I could see his point—we’d definitely be testing that thing’s center of gravity. “That’s fine,” I explained. “Just spread downhill and back up over it.” He agreed.

When he had done this, a significant load of crusher still lay in the dump truck’s bed. “Just leave the rest up here in a pile,” I asked, gesturing toward a depression near the road. “I expect to rake it out anyway.” He hesitated, then got into his truck, gingerly backed to the indicated spot (carefully avoiding the mailbox) and dumped the entire contents—clearly far more than the five tons I’d ordered (I estimate at least eight tons). “I gave you a little extra,” he said. “Thanks,” I answered, paid the man, and let him get home.

I’m reminded of graduate school in Cambridge. My housemates and I were struggling with difficult studies and difficult finances in an expensive corner of the world. We split up duties as best we could for mutual benefit, mine including visiting Boston’s Quincy Market at Faneuil Hall one a week for produce and seafood. This was a two day affair, Friday and Saturday, but I always went on Saturdays, around four o’clock, an hour before the end of the market. I’d walk around, buying nothing, just seeing what was available. Before long, though, merchants would realize they had unsold fish and fruit that wasn’t going to keep another week, and suddenly bananas were $1 a bunch, fresh seafood ridiculously inexpensive. Nor did I need to push my way through to the bargain table, since other merchants immediately took up the tune. I returned each week with two grocery bags full of food, $10 worth, all I could carry back home via the subway.

“Tons of work” certainly took on new meaning. Even wearing heavy work gloves, I had blisters all over both hands. I tried to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to move some of that stone pile, but I found that so unproductive that I settled for just gradually raking it down the drive. I’d work for a while and check the time—oh, just five minutes. Sigh. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places. But every day a little more, and then every day a little adjustment, and eventually—done.

Now it’s a work of art. And now, as usual, I have a ton of work to do, and I can’t imagine how I’ll accomplish it. But I have a rake.

Houses and Horses

Every house in my neighborhood has changed hands at least once since I moved here—one of only a few homes at the time.

Some moved to opportunities elsewhere. One lady bought a new, overpriced house and sold it two months later because she didn’t find it social enough (we live WAY out in the country). A few other people never talked to anyone, so who knows. Another, apparently, lost his house to the government when he tried to supplement his income with cocaine he brought up from Florida. But most people lost their homes to the bank (or in anticipation of same).

Why? Lots of reasons—the economy, changing business in the area, for example—but the main reason, frankly, is people over-reaching their means. This pattern exists throughout the community—and it continues.

“My electric bill is $545!” complains my next-door neighbor, saddled with past due amounts, unable to pay it, just as the last neighbor started—one of those homes that sat vacant for a year or two. I can certainly understand financial hardship, but what I can’t understand is this: she bought a horse.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing, except that she only has a few acres, hardly enough, and the horse has only a small tree for shade or shelter. No barn. Ninety degree weather? Lightning storm? The horse is outside, exposed.

WHY does she have a horse? It’s what you do in the country. Half of my neighbors, even those living in trailers, have horses (with equally small yards). None of them ride, other than once in a great while, and then only around the fenced pasture. None of them have horse trailers either, so they certainly aren’t going to take them for an outing on the nearby state lands or horse trails. My next-door neighbor has daughters, tweens, so maybe she figured this would be good for them? If so, the plan isn’t working—feeling a bit like Alice Walker in “Am I Blue?”, I offer our equine friend an apple or carrot periodically. As their horse trotted over to get his carrot, I asked the girls, “Would you like to give it to him? I’ll show you how” (you want to feed a horse with a flat palm, so you aren’t unintentionally bit). “Um…you do it…” the girls answered, nervously.

Horses are expensive. They’re expensive to feed. The veterinary care is expensive (Against the odds, I’m hoping these horses get that care). Why have one, just to have? People do the same with dogs—chain it to a doghouse and forget about it. Why? And why for such expensive, unused livestock, especially when money is so obviously tight?

The phenomenon doesn’t stop at horses and houses. You’d think such struggling families would drive jalopies, right? No. Virtually every home features a late model pickup. Some of these are the size of houseboats. Certainly I can see times when I could use a truck, but not for what it would cost. When I bought my 2007 manual transmission Toyota, (my old Toyota threw a rod at 199, 974 miles), the dealer offered financing up to 96 months. I thought he was joking at first. Finance a car for eight years? That’s no loan—that’s a mini-mortgage, and the car will shortly be worth less than the value of the loan. Bruce Williams, in his long-running radio show, often claimed, “If you’re buying a car you have to finance more than three years, you’re buying a car you can ill afford.” He’s right. Yes, the new cars are more expensive—that doesn’t make them suddenly affordable.

In addition to looking only at the monthly payment instead of the true financial impact, people clearly aren’t taking mileage seriously. I literally get twice the mileage as my truckin’ neighbors. That trip that costs me $3.24 (and nine tenths) costs a pickup driver $6.49 (and eight tenths). And the truck certainly isn’t to pull the non-existent horse trailer. Maybe they plan to get one. Why that needs a late model truck, though, I can’t imagine.

I am, of course, the community oddball, if one settled here long enough to be seen as benign. You’d have to drive quite a ways to find another small Toyota (you'll see lots of trucks). People only gradually appreciated my insanity for planting a few thousand trees on my 3½ acres, now that my land looks like a park, that the trees significantly curtail the area of grass I have to cut, that those evergreens slow wind and snow, that blistering summer heat is mitigated. Those trees also shield from critical eyes my modest home—the one I could afford, pay for and hang on to for twenty years. (Imagine—NO mortgage payment! None!) Those trees also shield from critical eyes the large sheds I built on opposite sides of my home that cut my annual fuel oil by 800 gallons and my electric bill by half (not to mention that now I can work outside even in February).

The horse is getting his barn—going up as I write this. I tipped off my neighbor that people were talking about turning her into animal cruelty (for no shelter). “Oh no,” she replied, “I’ve already ordered the wood. It’ll be up soon.” Maybe. I doubt it, but that’s not important anymore—her ex-husband is out there sweating his ass off while the horse in question watches with curiosity as his new home arises.

Honestly, I think people just believe in financial magic. Every week customers at the local store dump $20-50 into lottery tickets while the rest of us wait in line behind them. If they took that same money and put it in an index fund over, say, 30 thirty years, assuming just historical average market returns—it would, in the end, be like winning four times their money each week (I just ran the math). Instead, the odds dictate they’ll lose at least half of their “investment,” funding a variety of state initiatives at the same time they complain about high taxes.

Waiting for their horse to come in, I suppose.

Woodsmen?

Remember these hunters?

Once a year, for one month, men with red plaid coats and red caps, hunting licenses pinned to their backs, took their rifles into the woods to hunt deer. When I first moved into country (in 1987), the first day of deer season announced itself at sunrise with a rifle shot every few minutes. I remember this vividly because my shepherd mix was afraid of lightening, fireworks and firearms, so she’d try to hide in the bed with me. One the way to work (leaving my poor dog inside), car after car lined the country roads, their owners woodsmen doing their best to bag a buck. Some succeeded quickly, many others would talk for the next few weeks over coffee at the corner store: “Get your deer yet?”

Those guys are gone.

First, forget the once a month thing. Deer season alone lasts months--bow season, muzzleloader season, antlerless season--this November sport now lasts all fall. And hunting starts far before that and lasts long after. Something is always in season--small game, turkey, grouse, you name it. Guys with guns patrol the trails month after month.

That’s right--the trails. No woodsmen here. They want it easy. No parked cars at the sides of the roads by the woods either. Instead, pickup drivers sit by the fields with binoculars, waiting practically until all they have to do is step outside and fire.

I haven’t seen a red jacket for at least a few years. Safety seems out of fashion, at least visually so. Instead, everyone wears camouflage--pants and jackets. Everyone. And hunters don’t walk--they sit in blinds. They don’t even climb trees--they nail steps to the tree and build a platform.

And the old official start of deer season? It announces itself with large “Welcome Hunters!” banners at the corner store, announcing special quantity deals from the various beer sponsors--opportunities well used, starting first thing in the morning.

An Open Letter to the Hawks

Dear Red-Tailed Hawks:

For quite some time, I have enjoyed watching you circle above the land, floating on the thermals, presumably looking for prey. I’ve even seen you sitting on the utility wires, and a few times standing by the side of the road. Given your strong numbers, your clear proximity, and your superior vision (eight times greater than human eyesight!), I can’t help but wonder a few things about your behavior.

My land is increasingly overrun with voles. The unsightly valleys they dig, yards and yards and yards of them, exacerbated by erosion, just get worse every year. They’ve even killed trees, and my neighbors tell similar stories, including that the problem just gets worse every year. We also all complain about rabbits, and again, they are worse every year. Last year, they destroyed my entire orchard, save one apricot tree. This year, we are all growing large gardens, even those of us who decided in past years that we just didn’t have the time, largely because the high price of gasoline has pushed the price of produce so high. We’d hate to lose this to rabbits.

The encyclopedias report that your primary diet is rodents and small game like rabbits, so we were wondering—what’s the problem? Why don’t you swoop down and help yourselves? Granted, some prey, like birds and chipmunks, keep the cover of the trees, but I can’t walk across the lawn to the garden without seeing voles, and as I strive to keep the grass cut—why don’t YOU see them? Rabbits too—they get hit in the road everyday. Is your vision overrated? Or do you just not care?

I admit my species can’t do much better. Just as we can’t seem to control the voles and rabbits, the hawks in Washington circle above the country seemingly just as aloof as you to our persistent and growing problems. A quarter of the country’s people have no health insurance, and as costs rise, that percentage does too, so people wait until they must go to the emergency room, a much higher cost to the nation than preventative care. Funding and management for natural disasters remains inadequate, and past victims are still coldly left to fend for themselves. Social Security will need some adjustments, and even though it now shows a surplus the government uses to fund its debt in other areas, and even though preventing a crisis still a few decades away is readily achievable now, the will to do so seems absent. Pollution keeps getting worse, but the government continues to study it, deny it, whitewash it, excuse it. And education is so bad that we even graduate college students who can’t write correct sentences—and yet we keep cutting funding for education.

Our hawks ARE good at attacking things when they want—but only attacking. Going after Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan was one thing, but invading Iraq seems so ill-advised that even the administration’s party big-wigs advised against it; brushing off such seasoned advice, the administration arrogantly attacked anyway, confident of quick victory and ushering in a peace that would spread throughout the region, even to Palestine. Instead, we now see endless civil war in Iraq, thousands of deaths, and a drain of billions of dollars—all likely to continue for several years.

These hawks even blindly attack their own allies in their own partisan operations, to their own detriment. After hiring a well-respected Secretary of State, a seasoned general of the FIRST Iraq war, the administration side-lined him, replacing him with a Sovietologist—who has managed to sour own relations with Russia to the point where their President has threatened to re-aim missiles at Western targets. Although elder party leaders have stressed the importance of talking to regional players like Syria and Iran, the administration refuses to negotiate unless absolutely forced to do so. And when one good public servant accurately questioned the administration’s distortion of “factual” evidence, administration officials rabidly turned to punish him by destroying his wife’s CIA cover—an act of treason. They followed up by lying to the grand jury, in strict violation of the U.S. law they’re sworn to protect.

When anyone questions the hawks, those critics are ridiculed as advocating “cut and run” policies—even seeing their patriotism attacked. This is an old game, of course, as even early presidents like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were attacked as cowards when they opted to build trade with other nations instead of attacking them. Ironic that we refer to a strongly constructed woodworking joint as a “dovetail.” Building is so much harder, and takes so much more long-term courage than attacking things. No wonder that Jefferson famously observed that given the choice between government and the press, he’d prefer the press—and no wonder that the administration so hates and mistrusts the press. After all, I’ve frequently noted small birds chasing hawks away.

Perhaps, then, you hawks are simply judicious, knowing when to pursue, when to back away. Perhaps you simply choose your targets carefully, seeking balance, not vendetta. And, I suppose, you could fairly ask that since I have a dog who has already proven her competence against both vole and rabbit, why don’t I simply let her loose to address the invasion? The answer is that she wouldn’t be so focused, but would hunt indiscriminately, wandering far off our home turf.

Come to think of it, maybe we don’t have hawks in Washington after all. Maybe we have dogs.

Stones

A few years back, I stopped by the network of forest trails behind Colgate University for a walk with Sasha, my shepherd mix. The parking circle surrounds a cemetery, some of the graves more than a century old. A smaller, new section sits just outside the circle, and when I parked, I noticed a young woman, late 20s or early 30s, standing before one such grave.

I didn’t want to intrude on her reverie, and since I’m a news junkie away, I opened the newspaper—but I couldn’t help watch her over the top edge. A few small stones lay along the top of the tombstone. She carefully touched each one, turning it slowly, arranging them just so. She stood and looked for the longest time, before she finally lifted her hand to her lips, kissed them slowly, and gently pressed the transferred kiss to the face of the stone. She held it there for a moment, then rose, turned, and walked away.

I was intrigued, so when she was safely out of sight, I let my dog out to run, walked over to the stone, and read the centered lettering on the polished face of the black granite marker:

IAN PORTER HALE
JUNE 7, 1998
FEBRUARY 4, 2000
A HUG THAT WON’T QUIT

Tears filled my eyes. Twenty months. Twenty months! To lose a child after just twenty months! What a horrible fate for any mother (as I assumed the woman to be). In the years that followed, whenever I passed that grave site, I always checked to be sure the stones on top were in their proper place (they always were). I didn’t know why, but I knew that somehow, they were very important.

I haven’t been by in quite some time (my current dog is much more feisty, and I didn’t want her to disturb the stones—although I could see from a distance a few additions), but I stopped to take a look today. Now nine stones line the top of the marker—one for each year of Ian’s age had he lived, his latest birthday just a week and a half ago. A small sculpture, roughly the size of a hand, depicts a moose in a boat fishing with his younger moose—something Ian would have done with his dad, presumably. To the right of the marker stands a log sculpture about two feet high of an animal—a boy’s dog, judging from the one cocked ear. To the left of the marker, a wreath of thin twigs is tied with a light blue ribbon. And in front of the stone—nine plants featuring small, red flowers.

A bit of research quickly turned up Colgate’s alumni newsletter, a wealth of information. Ian’s grandfather wrote a grateful letter thanking the community for their support through such a difficult time, noting that Ian’s death was sudden and unexpected. I learned that Mom graduated in ’89 (confirming my guess about her age), that both parents worked in Colgate’s administration, and that they met at the wedding of another alum. A community development non-profit organization newsletter reports about improvements to the town’s Village Green, noting, “A new pavilion, in memory of Ian Porter Hale, has provided a focus for events and a performance venue for visiting artists.”

Rest well, Ian Porter Hale. You are deeply loved and dearly missed.

TV Sports

I’ve never really understood the allure of watching sports on television.

I do have some fond memories of watching the ABC Wide World of Sports each week with my dad--mostly I wanted to see the poor ski jumper wipe out again, “the agony of defeat” indeed. We also watched stock car racing quite a bit--but as neither of these pastimes survived my passage into adulthood, I suspect I was mostly interested just because these were Dad’s passions.

I’ve also enjoyed watching TV sports at times, primarily the Winter Olympics--downhill skiing and ice skating especially. Summer Olympics not so much, except for gymnastics. Tennis can be interesting, watching from above, noting the chess like strategy of the shots, striving to move an opponent to a difficult position. At the same time, it’s never been something I made a point to watch. From time to time I’ve followed baseball, but each time I’ve quickly fallen away.

TV just doesn’t capture the real skill of the players. Once, visiting a friend in Chicago, I went to a Cubs game. We sat just over the dugout and watched a relief pitcher casually warming up. Nice, slow, relaxed toss--and the ball goes flying like a rocket in a straight line several dozen feet, neatly into the catcher’s glove. Amazing. Those outfield catches and double plays? A ball shooting like lightning hundreds of feet in perfectly straight lines in must a second. These are professional athletes. You don’t get that perspective on TV.

So I’m just not the stereotypical sports fan, sitting in a Lazy Boy with chips and beer, proclaiming “We’re #1!” I’d rather get out and be active myself.

Football just seems to be wait, wait, wait, line up, run into each other for a second, fall down. Basketball means endlessly running up and down a court. Hockey seems to be furiously skating around, hitting each other with sticks whenever possible. Boxing just seems brutal.

I can at least understand why others might want to watch these, but other TV sports mystify me completely. Golf, for example--walking, teeing, looking up the course, addressing the ball, a swing, then watching sky sky sky sky sky, bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce. Repeat. Or fishing. It’s a guy or two in a boat casting line into the water. What’s to see for half an hour?

At the same time, I’ve watched engaging movies about all of these sports--even on the small screen. What’s the difference? Of course, movies can spend more time setting up effective filming angles, and of course, feature a carefully crafted, scripted story. Regular sports fans, engrossed in a team’s fortunes, probably see more of a story.

Or perhaps I’m just a loner who prefers quiet time to think. I’d rather hike in the mountains than walk around a golf course, explore the waterways in a kayak than rest in a canoe with rod and reel.

Or maybe I just like a good story.

A Fruitful, if Fanciful Origin of Poetry

Once upon a time, Edgar Allan Poe pondered, weak and weary from staying up late past a midnight dreary, thinking how quaint and curious that many a volume was now forgotten lore. While he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at his noggin’s door. “’Tis an apple!” Poe then muttered, “Falling on my head before. Only this—but damn it’s sore!”

He was right—the apple had left a gash, and Poe’s head was bleeding. However, this was just the nogginly nudge he needed to move past writing more forgotten lore to his new way of writing. It would become known for it’s inventor, the poe-m, and the art of crafting it for the source of it’s inspiration, the poet-tree. And just as Poe’s head was now red, just as an apple is red, so would the new art form become fruitful and be read.

And fruit would remain a theme as the art grew more complex. Blake wrote a pear of poems, “The Lamb” and “The Tyger.” He was also concerned about the health of the trees, recording in “A Poison Tree” his efforts to “[water] it in fears, night and morning with my tears…and it grew both day and night, till it bore an apple bright.”

Other poets were concerned with the trees, noting the weather. Percy Bysshe Cherry, I think it was, wrote an “Ode to the West Wind”: “Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!” [Given that his wife was occupied writing about monsters and society, we can appreciate his concern.] Williams Carlos Williams was also concerned, noting in “Spring and All” “small trees with dead, brown leaves,“ relieved by “the profound change” when “rooted, they grip down and begin to awaken.”

Williams was really more concerned with possession, preservation and consumption of fruit, though, as he shows in “This is Just to Say”:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Not everyone protects fruit so carefully. I once had to post this on my department’s break room fridge (titled “This is Just Dismay”):

I have discarded
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were evidently
saving
for eternity

Forgive me
they were decomposing
so soft
and so old

But even less high-brow forms of poetry, such as song lyrics, are concerned with enjoying tree fruits, like this excerpt from The Eagles:

Avocado
Why don’t you come to our senses?

and in a later verse:

Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table

Nor is the orange the only tropical fruit featured in poetry. After all, when we really like something, it has “appeal.” Consider Gary Soto’s “Oranges,” where he notes that the first time he walked with a girl, he had two oranges in his jacket. And Frank O’Hara appreciates the inspiration he gets from oranges, even just their color, in “Why I Am Not a Painter”:

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

Not all poets write about fruit trees, of course, but they still retain their attachment to trees, as Frost shows us in “Birches”:

I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Voice (Or, Writing like a Musician)

Mindful of the persistent student perception that their grades simply depend on who reads their work, I tried an experiment. I took one of my pieces and, acting as if a student wrote it, asked a colleague what she thought of it (sharing student work is not an uncommon practice—we frequently share pieces for help with difficult grading calls). My experiment failed inside of a minute—she turned to me and said with firm conviction, “YOU wrote this.” I admitted the ploy, and asked how she knew so quickly. “I was halfway through the first sentence,” she replied, “when I thought ‘I KNOW this voice!’”

I should have known. A former girlfriend, Jean, once read me a passage she wanted to share. “Nice!” I noted. “Do you know who it is?” she asked (Jean was fanatically competitive and given to provocation). “No,” I answered, “but it sounds like Joyce.” “It is Joyce,” she confessed.

In college, I used to look for my fellow music major and best friend Gordon, a trombonist, simply by walking around the practice rooms—I knew his sound from the other trombonists. One day in the snack bar, scarfing down my cheeseburger and fries over lively conversation, I suddenly stopped, exclaiming, “That’s Phil Woods!” recognizing the alto saxophone work I admired on Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” playing on the radio, a song new to me that day. Much more recently, a writing colleague and friend called me to excitedly say “Turn on the radio!” I did. He was listening to a classical piece and wanted to purchase the recording. “Do you know what it is?” he asked. “No,” I responded, “but it’s Beethoven.” Then the violin took over. “Oh!” I explained, “It must be the Beethoven Violin Concerto,” a judgment the announcer later confirmed.

In a few seconds, I can tell the difference between Baroque and Classical, Stravinsky and Ravel, even which orchestra and conductor are performing—and so can any other musician. [I’m reminded of a cartoon depicting a smug looking music listener and his agitated wife, saying, “Why can’t you just say ‘Scarlatti,’ instead of ‘Scarlatti, of course!’”] We also talk about “an ear for language,” and why not? I’m in the midst of reviewing a new text for my Intro to Poetry class, and the emphasis there on slight variations in sound, meter, rhythm and their permutations will be enough to send the average undergraduate into utter despair over ever passing the course. [I’ll work on fixing that problem.]

My fellow writing professors understand this about language, but they also notice a difference between us. Looking over my shoulder while I composed a piece on my laptop during a contentious faculty meeting, one colleague noted admiringly, “You’re just so fluent at this stuff.” Another colleague on a previous occasion remarked, “I can see the poetry in your writing.” A bit confused (since I’m primarily an essayist), I shared that with Tim, another colleague and friend, who nodded and said, “You don’t write poems, but you do write poetry.” My department chair, after visiting my class (on my request), had a single comment afterward: “You should be editing MY writing.”

None of this is to my credit—it’s just who I am. My colleagues are excellent writers, but different writers. And I can see the difference they mention too—my friend and colleague Joe and I see writing much the same way, but we also couldn’t be more different. Joe always wanted to be an English professor, and his frame of reference is continually focused on that perspective. Joe is also a musician, but he sees the world in terms of his English background. I NEVER intended to teach writing (not that I’m sorry), pursuing instead a career in music—which led to music business, which led to writing for those businesses, which led to free lancing, which led to offers to teach, which led to teaching at better colleges—and while Joe and I see writing in similar ways, my approach to the world is that of a musician, and it colors my writing.

How, then, does one write as a musician? Well, when I recorded my albums, I designed first the overall idea, the structure—then added other elements quite freely (jazz background kicking in here). In many ways, I could have played anything over the underlying structure, as long as it reflected and either reinforced or developed the overall idea. This is how I write too. The piece needs an overall flow, but it also needs percussive elements arranged in a pattern that both keeps the piece moving forward and adds interest and vitality. This isn’t easy to explain. Jazz musicians call this approach “feel.” We just know it when we hear it. Many music writers have noted sentiments like “Many people note that music is expressive, but when asked to explain what it expresses, fall silent.”

Aaron Copland may have summarized this best in his essay “How We Listen”:

“My own belief is that all music has an expressive power, some more and some less, but that all music must has a certain meaning behind the notes and that that meaning behind the notes constitute, after all, what the piece is saying, what the piece is about. This whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking, “’Is there a meaning to music?’ My answer to that would be, ‘Yes.’ And ‘Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?’ My answer to that would be, ‘No.’ Therein lies the difficulty.”

After all, what does a Bach fugue mean? Or a John Coltrane improvisation? Sure, songs have lyrics, but change the underlying music, and your favorite songs could easily become silly. Imagine ZZ Top in their standard style performing the theme from “Titanic.” Um…could change it a bit. [Could be fun, though: “Word goin’ round….ship goin’ down….by an iceberg round North seas…”]

Improvising over a song structure is not a matter of just going nuts, but rather mining the original piece for essential elements and reconstructing those pieces in multiple, original, creative ways. Classical composers do the same thing—look what Beethoven does in his Fifth Symphony with just a few notes. How does a musician learn to play like this on demand, live? Practice. Lots and lots and lots and lots of it. For me, writing is the same. All that reading? All that studying? All those drafts? These become tools and material ready to use to develop a motive on the page.

How does this translate to writing? First, I choose a direction. Sometimes, as in an argument, I can state that purpose explicitly, others, it’s just a feeling, as in a piece of music, and only implicit. From that starting point, I choose the major “events” that will happen along the way, looking for a good flow of ideas toward a meaningful climax and satisfactory denouement—whether I can explain it literally or not. And I remember that no musician grows without taking chances, exploring new territory, going out on a limb…(substitute your favorite cliché here—see the point?).

For a good musical example of how I see writing, download Pat Metheny’s “Last Train Home” [or buy this excellent album—“Still Life (Talking)”]. It starts quietly. The drummer is pushing a very quick regular “train” background consistently through what comes off as a slow, easy song. Listen and you’ll see what I mean about this song and writing.

Then it builds in the middle, adding (what else?!)—voices.

Chess

My Dad taught me to play chess. He had joined a local chess group and brought the hobby home. I was enticed—such an interesting and complex game far outshone any of the Parker Brothers game boxes on the top shelf of the closet (even Monopoly, Clue, and—my favorite, Risk). He taught me fun tricks like Fool’s Mate (winning in just four moves), but also more important concepts, like playing for position, controlling the center of the board, not trapping my own pieces, and so forth.

I lost all the games, but I loved chess, and pestered Dad to play as often as possible. I started reading about chess—various opening strategies, gambits, defenses and such. I played the game with friends. I joined the school chess club (not a strong organization, unfortunately). Dad drifted away from his chess group. I started winning games. We didn’t play as often—then hardly ever.

My many bike rides around our neighborhood streets introduced me to a lot of regular porch sitters, including one man, late twenties or early thirties I’d guess (although I’m relying on childhood memory and perspective here), an avid chess player. I don’t know why he was at leisure to sit at home daily (I was too young to think to wonder or ask), but our conversations led to him inviting me in for a game.

He had a small, special enclosed back porch set up especially for chess, including a small table in the center of the room, two chairs, a few plants—and a chess clock. I had never seen one, the concept of timing moves new to me. Still, I was enticed, and I visited quite frequently, looking for a game. He always won, of course, but he was also an excellent teacher. I was most stunned and impressed by a practice begun at the end of our first game—he reset the pieces and reviewed the game from memory, move by move, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of my approaches. Aside from my amazement what I saw as an almost magical talent, I started to see chess as strategy, not an ongoing battle of moves, and games as thought patterns, not mere diversions.

I played chess with a few college friends here and there, but I found that not a lot of people play this game, so I didn’t get to play often. I run across people who respond to my interest in silly ways: "Oh, teach me--I bet I could beat you," for example, usually out of pure ego. I smile and look for ways to change the subject.

Twenty years ago, when I moved to my current home in the country, I met a bass player at a symphony gig who lived just a few miles from me—John Teeple (featured in the award winning documentary “Brothers Keeper,” a film I got to watch as it was made). John was much older than I, but we became close friends with many shared interests, from trees to gardens to home building to music to writing (he was working on a comprehensive time line of global history)--including regular chess games. I was the stronger player, but the time spent was well worth the while—not to mention the free ranging conversation.

These days my infrequent chess-playing is relegated to taking on my computer. In the early days of chess programs, I could sometimes beat the computer—although it would never admit it, opting to crash instead—but now playing is just an exercise in flagging mistakes. This is worthwhile for development, of course, but it’s just not the same as facing a person, analyzing the opposing tactics, choosing a strategy—and connecting in a meaningful, thoughtful way with a real, caring person.

Weasel Piss

We called it weasel piss--I’m not sure why. In those days, we didn’t pay much attention to our metaphors, so I don’t think we had much of a reason. We just did.

Nonetheless, Old Milwaukee and Milwaukee’s Best were awarded the title of “weasel piss,” cheap beer college students consume not for its questionable quality, but because its price allows it to be consumed in quantity. [When I was a store manager in a college town, we sold it on sale for as little as $6.99 a case, and sold 50-100 cases a week.]

My housemates and I, of course, felt we were above this. That’s largely because one of our housemates had an uncle or cousin or something who worked at a Miller plant, so we could purchase through him cases of beer we saw as better at a discount. I had a stash of 4-6 cases of Löwenbräu dark piled up in the corner of my closet. [The same housemate had a teacher who farmed potatoes on the side. We purchased grocery bags full of red potatoes (which we also believed were better) for 80¢ a bag. Life was good.]

I thought those days were behind me. Guess not. Although my days of drinking weasel piss are far behind me, I still see my share of Old Milwaukee--on my lawn. I live out in the country, a good six miles from the nearest college (which even then is in a small town), yet there they are--can after can, day after day.

Perhaps this is because drinking drivers and riders need to get rid of the evidence. OK--that’s at least prudent behavior. And probably not limited to students--I find a fair number of Bud Lite cans on my lawn too. But I also find soda cans, juice boxes, ice tea bottles, cigarette cartons, potato chip bags--no damning evidence here. True, we get a lot of wind up in the hills, and trash blows around sometimes--plastic grocery bags full of household trash, milk jugs and such--but clearly much of the debris comes from cars.

I was driving behind a pickup truck when the driver stopped at an intersection and unceremoniously dumped an empty donut box, coffee cup and cigarette carton out the driver’s window. His back window featured a bumper sticker announcing “Osama bin Laden can kiss my American ass.” Apparently, so can everyone else. And why not? If you want to identify yourself as an asshole, might as well get people in there close to the action.

This behavior isn’t limited to drivers. Campers at Stony Pond, where I daily walk my dog, leave behind beer cans and broken bottles along with their still smoldering fires. Fishermen cut loose their lines and just leave them on the ground. One morning a gosling trying to flee my dog and I along with its parents and siblings got tangled in such a line just at the water’s edge. I spent half an hour working to free the struggling chick from the line, which cut deeply into its leg, while juggling an excited dog and upset, honking geese. The story ended happily, but it easily could have ended in an unnecessarily slaughtered goose.

“A weasel is wild. Who knows what he thinks?” begins Annie Dillard’s essay “Living Like Weasels.” “He does not let go.” She describes one naturalist’s encounter with a weasel “dangling from his palm,” “socketed…deeply as a rattlesnake.” In another instance, “a man shot an eagle out of the sky…and found the dry skull of a weasel fixed by the jaws to his throat.” Tenacious little buggers.

wea·sel (wē'zəl) noun 1. a carnivorous, burrowing mammal of the genus Mustela. 2. a sneaky or treacherous person. 3. one who behaves in a stealthy, furtive way. verb 1. to use deliberately vague language. 2. to be evasive.

Seems about right.

Family Values

Listen to almost any political speech--it'll come up soon--"family values." This became an incessant mantra in the late 20th century, and it’s so far a mainstay of the 21st--all candidates, all parties, every issue, every election. "I'm fighting for families," runs the claim, implying that some evil government somewhere is plotting against the American family. But just what are these "family values”?

The term is vague; no one ever lists "The Family Values." Context isn't helpful either. People throw around this term primarily to mean "those people who think just the way I do," but groups with opposing views also use the term. When not used to justify self-righteous piety, "family values" allows ad hominem attacks on straw man positions. Gay couples, single moms, political parties, education policies, tax cut proposals--all are guilty at one time or another of opposing "family values." The term is also disingenuous; 20% of Americans are single--are they unrepresented? Or are they part of the evil plot to destroy "family values”?

Actually, this context does indicate some meaning for the term. "Family values" seems to mean "it's just that simple." Of course, nothing is ever "just that simple”; social, economic, cultural, historical and several other issues are certainly never "just that simple," so a vague term like "family values" is quite useful for ignoring that reality. Don't worry--everything's fine. Now that's certainly a "family value." But everything isn't fine. There's war and poverty and human rights abuses and starvation and unemployment and difficult ethics questions to answer. But not in the land of "family values."

"Family values," then, means essentially the life of a twelve year old. Parents are all-knowing, life is fun, problems are simple and easily solved, just like on TV where beautiful people interact with each other to address problems always solved in 30 minutes. Everything at twelve has one, easy answer. Teenage confusion and the struggle toward maturity are unimaginable yet. It's good to be twelve. "Family values" is a way to pretend to be twelve again. "Family values" as a return to age twelve fantasy means an escape from responsibility. Don’t worry about anything that happens. Someone else is to blame. Go back to sleep now. You're excused from thinking today--you've got a note from your mom.

How to Train a Husky

My shepherd mix died about five years ago just short of age 16—my constant companion, hiking buddy, best friend. Girl friends were jealous of this dog. I knew I’d get another dog, but I was in no hurry. Hiking alone wasn’t much fun, but I wanted to wait for just the right one.

My vet knew this, and when another client had a litter of husky mixes (husky and lab), she hooked us up. I thought for a few weeks. I went to see the only pup left—the smallest of the lot, a ball of short but thick white fur. “What do you know about huskies?” I asked the vet tech. “The only thing about huskies,” she replied, “When they see a squirrel or something, they just take after it.” Understatement of the century. “About how big will she get?” I asked the vet. “Oh, probably around 48 lbs.” Nice call—today she’s 48.2 lbs.

This was a small dog for me, and I wasn’t sure—but the owners eventually talked me into it. I named her Shanti, which means “peace,” and comes from a Hindu sutra:

Lead us from the unreal to the real
From darkness into light
From death to immortality
Shanti shanti

Banshee would have been a more accurate choice. She’s a V12 engine in a Chevette—incredibly fast, and far stronger than the shepherd mix twice her size. Well, I’ve always been a good trainer, I thought. No problem.

I set up a puppy area in the kitchen, a safe place for her when I was at work, by blocking the hallway with a 4’ high piece of plywood. She took one look and effortlessly sailed over the counter through the open area into the living room. OK. I puppy-proofed as much as possible, and left her the run of the place, ignoring her yips as I left for work. When I came home, she was lying outside—she had managed to break an outside door. I fixed it as much as possible, placing a 4x8 sheet of plywood in front. When I returned, she was inside—and the place looked like a cyclone had hit it. The day after that, she was outside again—went through a window. When the weekend hit, I decided to try short trips to calm her separation anxiety—15 or 20 minute trips to the store. On one, she toppled a wooden bookcase and reduced it to toothpicks. I’m not exaggerating. On another—she went through another window.

OK. Outdoor dog, at least when I’m not home. Since she was such a good jumper—and digger—I knew my fence would never hold her. I built a lean-to/doghouse, bought some hay, plenty of waterproof toys, and got her a 20’ lead of vinyl covered aerial cable--just long enough to give her some room and some shade without getting tangled around the trees. That is, until she tore the lower branches off the trees. I also learned to regularly inspect the cables—she broke a few and went on a neighborhood spree for hours.

Now comes the husky game—ask any husky owner. You get just so close—and at the last moment the dog dodges. Huskies can do this for hours, and they’re very good at it. You literally can never catch them. And they love it. Kind of a challenge for training.

“OK,” I figured. “I’ll lure her with food.” Not so fast. Huskies don’t overeat, the vet tells me, and food isn’t much of a motivator for them. Even when it sort of is…back to that “ever so close” game before that husky dodge. She knows this means the end of the romp. The only hope is to get someone else to call and grab her (huskies are very friendly)—until she figured that one out too.

Once you’ve got the dog by the collar—new problem. Immediately she’s on her hind legs, paws around your arm. I remembered my dad describing this behavior in sled dogs after his trip to Alaska. OK, fine—on your hind legs then. Not so fast. She’d just flip over on her back.

I was always the person people turned to for training advice. I’d never even owned a leash before. My last dog had been calmly heeling beside me at six months. But I was out of my league. I needed help. I asked the vet to recommend a trainer.

Training involved mostly me learning how people train a dog with leash and choke collar, and Shanti wanting to run over and play with the other dogs. I did manage to accomplish a few things—pulling up on the leash to get her to sit, for example—but to a husky, once you’ve done something like “sit,” it’s done, and now it’s time to get on with life, not just sit there. I learned to snap the leash to get her to stop pulling—OK, to lessen the problem of her pulling--but mostly I managed to teach her only that I wanted her to do these things, to recognize them…not necessarily do them.

I expressed my frustration to the trainer, pointing out the virtues of my last dog’s training, that we had been a team. “Look,” he said. “You had an exceptional dog. Now you have a normal dog.” “She listens to you,” pointed out the vet. “She’s half husky,” added her colleague. “She’s that much closer to wild. You’re doing fine.”

At six months, she was due for spaying. This meant she would have to stay inside afterwards for a few days until the incision healed; lying outside was out of the question. I was also supposed to keep her quiet. “How am I going to do that?” I asked the vet. “Well…relatively quiet.” OK. I bought a large metal dog crate and set it up in the kitchen. I picked her up from the vet as late as I could—she was yelping and yelping in the kennel when I got there, and had been all day. She was calm when I was home, but she definitely didn’t like the crate idea when I left for work in the morning.

When I came home, she was outside the crate. She had banged and banged against the door until the latch lifted enough to let her out. Then she trashed the place again. The next morning, I secured the latch. She was outside the crate when I got home—she had banged and banged against the collapsible crate until one wall caved. And she trashed the place. I secured every joint of the crate with wire. She ripped the bars from the welding and bent them back to make a hole and escape. Yes, I’m serious. I decided to risk the chance of infection outdoors.

Then I noticed something—she stood and waited at the open front door. She always does, until I say “OK.” This I could work with. Mainly I wanted to be sure I could control her as a full grown dog, so I invented a game. “Play!” I shout, and she goes nuts, jumping and slashing at my gloves (she plays very, very rough). Then “Enough,” and she sits, watching and waiting for the next “Play!” “Enough.” “Play!” “Enough.” She’s very good about it.

Hiking is another matter. I’d love if she could just run and run, but she’s so fast that she’s gone in a flash. Usually, I just count on a dog to stay nearby to train it for hiking. Trouble is, together with her speed, she has an excellent nose. When I tried to trick her by walking off the trail (to get her to stick closer next time), I just found she could follow my trail at a dead run—including right angle turns. What do you do when her position is “I AM right with you. You’re five miles that way—I can smell you.”? Add to this that she loves people and especially other dogs and will follow them for miles until she finally decides she’s done and comes back (and in the meantime I’ve no idea where she is). I turned to the Internet and the book store. What do professional husky owners do? I soon found my answer, absolutely consistent from source to source: never let a husky loose.

Getting her to leave game alone also proved impossible. Once she sees it, she’s completely and immediately focused on nothing else, and takes off as if fired from a gun—even on her leash. I use the heavy duty 26’ retractable leashes rated for large dogs. She breaks one every few months. Miraculously, she comes right back when I call her. Most puppies will look crestfallen when scolded, but she always just looked at me, sometimes yipping some version of “What? Come on—what’s the problem? That was the third squirrel, damn it. We HAD it man, we HAD it! What’s wrong with you?” I settled for minimizing pulling—but I still have to continually repeat this, and I get a nasty jolt to wrist, shoulder, elbow, ankle, knee, and so forth regularly. Sometimes I have her walk behind me, but since she walks RIGHT behind me, no clearance at all, I usually give up (heeling doesn’t work well on narrow trails).

In the car, she’s always in the way when I get in, but jumps to the back the moment I start the engine. She now comes when I call her for our morning run, instead of standing, stretching her back legs, stretching her front legs—and lying down again. And not in a circle anymore, then only to do the husky dodge. In a straight line. Right to me. I swear (one friend and lifelong husky owner can’t quite believe it). When cars go by while we’re walking down a stretch of road to the trails, she automatically heels, watching me for the “OK.” Truly. And today she comfortably roams the yard on a 60’ lead (which still needs regular inspection for impending breaks)--without terrorizing the trees.

The most unique training was the cross-country skiing. I always had to wait for my shepherd mix to catch up, but Shanti feels only “About time you moved your ass. Best you can do?” Good, but how to keep her on a leash while my hands are occupied with ski poles? I finally hit upon wrapping a short, metal chain leash around my waist, outside my coat, threaded through the handle of the retractable leash. This also allows the leash handle to travel around me when Shanti runs back and forth, instead of wrapping the cord around me. (I used to use my belt, but she kept breaking them and ripping open my coat when she abruptly took off after game.) This works reasonably well—until we come across another dog.

The other problem is pulling—sounds like fun, but it’s often dangerous, depending on the terrain (I ski in the forest) and the conditions (like when hikers or snowshoers have packed the ski trail into a flat field of ice instead of walking in a separate, parallel trail). If another dog is ahead, she knows it, and suddenly we take off. If you see snowplow marks on a flat ski trail and wonder how that happened—that’s me. So the most important command for skiing is “Back!” You do NOT want to go skiing down a curving, forested hill with a husky pulling you faster in random directions while you’re fighting for control—or trying to slow down. Again, she follows IMMEDIATELY behind, but I’ll take it.

So how DO you train a husky? Lots of time, lots of patience, a healthy supply of Icy Hot, Mineral Ice or Tiger Balm, and plenty of ibuprofen.

Apathy is a Learned Response

When I was a child, I noticed much more courtesy than people display today. Consider, for example, driving. School buses used to pull over when a few cars trailed behind. With only some exception, not today. “Hey, I’m doing my job. You’ll all just have to wait” is the apparent message. Or, consider farm tractors. My recollection of rural life includes farmers always driving to the side when a car approached. Not now. Some happily oblivious daydreamer plugs along at 10 mph, blocking traffic completely for a few miles on the way to the fields. Construction crews have also changed, replacing concern for the normal flow of commuter traffic with concern only for the construction job--travelers beware. Often several lanes are blocked for weeks although no one actually does any work there.

The change in driving habits is reflected elsewhere. Store clerks look up from their paperwork--or personal phone call--with annoyance aimed at the inconsiderate patron trying to give the business money. Newspaper deliveries often land in the mud, since apparently anywhere on the customer’s ground is close enough. Workers are even annoyed at customers for the workers’ mistakes--one sub shop, informed I had asked for Russian dressing, not mayonnaise, simply added a layer of Russian to the already thick coating of mayonnaise.

Where does this disregard for others originate? It’s taught, albeit unintentionally. “Why doesn’t my teenager respect authority, even mine?” you wonder, while speeding along at 75 mph in defiance of the law. “The government takes too much of my money as it is,” you lament as you fudge the numbers on your tax return to yield a more favorable, if dishonest, outcome. Even promises to the closest people in our lives seem to mean little, since half of U.S. marriages end in divorce. Television, society, the Internet or whatever scapegoat du jour isn’t the problem. No need to leave the comfort of your home.

So when commentators today note that political apathy appears to continually grow, I’m not at all surprised. I remember my parents and teachers speaking of leaders with respect. even though they often disagreed with those leaders. Today’s parents and teachers much more often mention leaders in glaringly disparaging tones. They are quick to attack, but they’re uninterested in the specifics of all those boring political topics like war, poverty, inadequate health care, unemployment and social justice. Sure, they’ll try and cover themselves with proclamations that the candidates for public office are all the same, that the ballot offers a poor selection, but those complaints never seem to spur participation in selection of those candidates. Judging is so much easier.

Today’s citizens aren’t discourteous or apathetic; they’re doing exactly what their elders taught them to do. What society needs instead is for those younger citizens to rebel--to reject their upbringing and do the right thing by taking an active, thoughtful, responsible role in the world. Maybe they can teach their elders a thing or two.

Cats and Birds

I was sitting on my futon (I work on the floor), typing away, while my older cat, Kira, eight years old, lay comfortably purring across my lap, when suddenly she leapt up so fast I didn’t even see the move, body stretched out, hanging from her front claws imbedded in the screen, her tail four feet higher than where she had been resting a moment ago. A bird had alighted for a second outside the window.

We think of cats as chasing mice, but cats will sometimes calmly ignore mice—not so birds. Cats immediately go ballistic over birds. My one year old cat, Tawny, gets up in the morning to sit in the kitchen window to visually track the robins, sparrows, goldfinches and red-winded blackbirds from tree to post to grass to tree., ignoring his breakfast to do so—the same breakfast these cats usually start lobbying for by 6 a.m.

Dogs, at least the ones I’ve had, find birds fascinating, but not to such an insane degree. Sasha, a shepherd mix, liked to run toward groups of ducks or geese just to force them to fly—then she’d sit down to watch. Shanti, my husky mix, loves to chase birds (and she’s fast enough to do it), gets excited when she accidentally flushes a pheasant or a quail, and will successfully hunt fowl if allowed to do so (she isn’t), but none of that comes close to the insanity that prevails when a cat sees a bird.

Twice, a while back, a bird managed to fly inside my home. Both times, the cats immediately went nuts. Cats, thus motivated, can travel at the speed of light, jumping instantaneously the length and height of a room. As quickly as those sparrows flew from one room to another, the cats flew just as fast, oblivious to my protestations. In both cases, I was able to catch the birds with a blanket in an hour or so, releasing them safely, but both cases were also quite an ordeal.

One spring, a pair of sparrows nested on my porch, directly across my front door, settling on the broad side of a 2 x 4 just under the slanting roof. The parents flew in and out from time to time, reacting to my coming and going, and then made regular trips, perching on the ledge while four large beaks suddenly appeared, opened 180 degrees, ready for the treat, disappearing again just as quickly as the adults flew out for more food.

Eventually, four rolly-poly chicks ventured out of the nest, onto the ledge, spread over between twelve and eighteen inches. That is, until the May weather abruptly turned cold, when the four chicks were huddled together, in a straight line, as closely as possible, less than half a foot across, looking like comic actors in a silent movie. Then, abruptly, one day they had all flown the nest, leaving the porch in peace.

And my orange tiger, Neko, spent virtually every moment of that six week nesting experience perched perfectly still on the counter, staring intently at the nest through the front door’s narrow window.

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.”

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."

Igg, Ogg, and the Creation of Taxes

“Igg? I’m tired of all this huntin’ and gatherin’.”

Igg looked at Ogg. “Me too,” he sighed.

“So what say,” Ogg continued, “We raise all these plants and animals ourselves? No more rushin’ around!”

“Now that’s a plan!” agreed Igg. And so agriculture began.

Wisely, Igg and Ogg weren’t quick to quit hunting and gathering, since at first they were largely unsuccessful. They realized eventually that timing played a crucial role.

“Igg? How are we gonna know when exactly to plant?” asked Ogg.

“Hmmm...I know a guy who can read the stars to calculate the seasons...” suggested Igg.

The ancient astronomer got the job, under the title of Priest.

Igg and Ogg prospered, encouraging others to follow their example. All the Priest’s friends got jobs, creating organized religion.

One day, Igg and Ogg toured their plantation along the riverbank and noticed a disturbing trend--less and less water reached their crops. Taking a walk upstream, they soon saw why: many new converts to agriculture were diverting the river’s water to irrigate their crops. When questioned, these new farmers invariably replied, “We have to make a living too!”

On the way back downstream, Igg and Ogg talked to several other farmers who also complained about the dwindling water supply. Consequently, Igg and Ogg organized a meeting of all the riverside crop growers. After considerable debate, the farming community realized that water rights must be controlled by a central authority, thus creating law, government, and bureaucracy. Civilization was born.

The new village thrived at first, but some of the farmers failed to honor the water rights agreements. Igg and Ogg called another meeting, and soon enforcement of the law fell to the newly created police force. Further, to ensure the fairness of police enforcement, a new judicial system and penal code arose. The village rejoiced.

Unfortunately, so did the nomads in the mountains above the village. “Look!” they advised each other, “These people work all year and create all this food in one place, ready for the taking! Mount your horses!” And so they did, in a devastating raid. War had entered the world.

The village did not rejoice. “All our hard work! Our families will starve! We must protect ourselves!” Another village meeting instituted an army.

But Igg and Ogg had an additional concern. “The village has priests and governors and legislators and police and justices and lawyers and soldiers and commanders,” explained Igg, “But the village needs these people to commit so much time to their professions that they can no longer realistically take the time to raise their own food.” After a long silence, Ogg suggested,” Suppose each farmer raises a little more than needed for mere self-sufficiency? Then, the surplus could go to the professionals necessary for the security of the village.” Long debate followed, but necessity instituted the plan. Taxes had entered the world. And to help keep tax records, mathematics and writing soon followed.

Life was wonderful thereafter. People invented leisure time and explored human existence by creating and practicing various arts and sciences. People also continued to learn to work together, specializing in various trades, providing new products and professional services. Education strove to ensure and expand village life, thought, and culture. But, unfortunately, greed was not limited to the mountain nomads.

“It’s YOUR money!” proclaimed Ugg in his bid for village government. “Every year since this village started, more and more of your hard earned money goes toward supporting Big Government!”

Igg listened, confused. “But those taxes pay for the services necessary to run this village,” he countered.

“Wasteful spending! Tax and spend! Tax and spend!” continued Ugg.

“Shouldn’t we then trim the waste, if that’s so, rather than cut revenue?” asked Igg.

“You see,” explained the Priest, “Cutting taxes will actually increase government revenue.”

“So, if instead of tithing,” retorted Igg, “People only gave five percent, church revenue would increase?” The Priest kept quiet.

“Cutting taxes stimulates the economy!” shouted Ugg. “It creates jobs!”

“Given certain circumstances, I suppose that’s theoretically possible,” mused Igg, “But such a blanket proposition makes several unsupported assumptions. For example, won’t trimming spending also cost jobs? And doesn’t government spending ALSO enter the economy?”

Ogg had doubts too. “Cutting taxes means cutting services,” he explained, “Services we instituted with good reason. Important, necessary services.”

Ugg didn’t seem to hear. “This slow economy means we MUST cut taxes NOW! The more cuts, the more the stimulus! And private industry in this great village of ours can best provide services to our wonderful people!”

Igg turned to Ogg. “Does he mean that cutting all taxes would best benefit the village?”

Ogg considered. “Well...if not by taxes, the village would need to exploit natural resources, or consistently plunder other villages, or institute slaves to produce excess revenue.”

“And privatizing government services,” added Igg, “Would mean that police, justice, armed forces and so forth would only be for hire. Further, the large landowners would benefit most from lower taxes, at least in the short run, because only those families could afford education. Our village’s professional talents would atrophy.”

Ugg’s enthusiasm had now attracted quite an audience, drawn by promises of invading the mountains to conquer the nomads, cutting the forests to increase village resources, and asking all citizens to sacrifice for the good of the village in order to make tax cuts possible and to eliminate government interference in their affairs. Nationalism was born.

Igg and Ogg looked at each other once more, then turned and walked toward the forest, while it would still be possible to hunt and gather.

Scrrunch

Scrunch. Scrrunch. Scarrrunth.

“Just great,” I thought, awakened by the sound of tractor-trailer tires on gravel. “Here I’ve hiked into the mountains to escape into nature, and I STILL can’t get away from the noise of traffic.” Then I realized I was at least 5-6 miles from the nearest highway. I had driven five hours to the High Peaks, then down the long road to the Adirondack Log, then hiked an hour up to a lean-to by Marcy Dam, the first leg of a two week backpacking trip with my shepherd mix, Sasha.

Scrunch. Scrrunth. I sat up.

Sasha was sitting as erect as could be, her back pressed against me, stiff as possible while every part of her body trembled slightly, her attention focused intently ahead.

Scrrunch. Scarrunthh!

The night was cloudy, no light at all. Still, through the complete dark of the forest, the sky was lighter above the trees where the land sloped down toward the dam. Against that backdrop, bit by bit, I watched a large, dark shape slowly pull itself up one of the trees suspending my food. [Backpackers bag their food and tie it suspended between two trees, at least 15 feet from the ground and from either tree, to protect it from persistent woodland creatures, like raccoons and—bears.]

Scrunch. With every pull of the bear, my dog’s alert, staring head abruptly inched up another angle. Scrunth—another inch. Scrunth—another head adjustment. Scrunch. Scarrunthh!

The bear had reached the line suspending the food. A moment passed while the bear realized it couldn’t reach the bag, and let out a low grumble.

Scrunch. Scrrunth.

The bear headed down, my dog’s attention fixed, her head abruptly adjusting to each change in the bear’s position.

Scrunch. Scrunthh.

Lower and lower—bear and dog’s head.

Scrunch. Scrunthh.

Having reached the bottom of the tree, the bear placed its back feet on the ground. My dog responded. So softly I could barely hear her, throat just two feet from my ears, Sasha let out a long, low “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruff.” There. I barked. Now YOU do something.

I did. Looking around for a few pots to bang together to startle bear, I reminded myself that startled bears take off in whatever direction they’re pointed, so be careful before startling. But how was I going to manage that in the dark, when I could see little more than a large, ominous shape?
I needn’t have worried, since knowing it wasn’t going to get our food, the bear simply walked away, down the path toward Marcy Dam. Once the adrenaline finally settled, I settled down to sleep—my dog still sharply on the watch.

The next morning, I packed our gear (including Sasha’s doggie backpack—hey, why should I carry HER food for two weeks?), and we set off on the first full day of our trip, climbing Mt. Marcy. To do so, we first had to head down past Marcy Dam. The previous day, while filling water bottles at the spring there, I noticed three college age hikers in the dam-side lean-to, their food hung in bags from the edge of the lean-to. After making small talk, I suggested they might want to hang the food suspended between two trees, according to custom, and explained why. “Nah,” they confidently responded. “The bear isn’t going to come up to us here in the lean-to, with the fire going.” This morning, apparently they were wrong—bits of paper, plastic, food wrappers and similar debris littered the ground surrounding the lean-to for a few hundred feet in every direction. The hikers had vacated the premises.

The forest rangers report that bears learn very quickly—a single experience is enough. Around Eighth Lake State Park, bears cruise campers’ cars, looking inside for coolers, peeling open promising prospects like opening a can. of Spam.

A former housemate and I at the time looked into hiking in Montana, and consequently requested information about hiking in bear country. The brochure did, indeed, share grizzly facts. “Do not run from a grizzly—you have no chance of outrunning a grizzly.” “Do not try to climb a tree to escape a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent climbers.” “Do not try to swim from a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent swimmers.” Sobering, no? Reminds me of a Gary Larson cartoon showing two bears polishing off the bones of a few hikers. “I love it when they play dead,” reads the caption. “No running or nothing!”

Bears go out of their way to avoid humans. One nature show claimed that hikers probably frequently came close to bears but never saw them. To prove the point, a camera watched a trail while indeed, bears crossed the hikers’ path, unnoticed. After hundreds and hundreds of hours hiking in the mountains, I’ve only once seen a bear cross my path—and then only briefly as it vanished before my eyes, like ball players walking into the corn in “Field of Dreams.” [Luckily I saw the bear before Sasha did, and quickly called her safely to my side.]

Hikers in grizzly country are asked to store food in bear proof canisters. The issue is that just one careless hiker teaches bears that backpack equals dinner—not a happy situation for hikers (or, ultimately, the bears). The same nature show featured footage of a grizzly bating around such a container, knowing it held food, unable to reach it. My housemate and I didn’t go hiking in Montana after all. He met the woman who would become his wife. They went. I went on this backpacking trip with Sasha.

Hikers in the high peaks joke that the raccoons and the bears are in cahoots—the bears through the raccoons up into the air at the food, and the raccoons untie the bag and throw it to the ground. Some days, it’s a tempting explanation.

On the other side of Marcy, at the base of Mt. Colden, lies a relatively large flat piece of ground, an attractive and popular place for backpackers to camp. The trees are scored with claw marks, as the bears have learned to claw through the ropes suspending the food bags.