Dear You,
Even on a beautiful beach on Cape Cod, breakfast for the gulls is, at best, a beastly business.
The withdrawing waves leave a tide pool, in which silvery fish swim in circles, waiting for the next high tide to move them back to safer, deeper waters. This cycle has not escaped the notice of the gulls, however, and I watch as one hovers and swoops and lifts out a fish to deposit him on the sands, where he proceeds to hack the creature until finally it expires.
The gull is merciless. Great, bloody holes appear in the side of the fish, and with each slash the bird yanks out another hunk of sushi. He looks around for other gulls, meanwhile, knowing his prize could be snatched away if he isn’t ready to defend it. Now and then, another – stronger, perhaps older, certainly quicker – does just that. Screaming, the birds chase each other until the matter is settled.
No bird seems to finish the feast alone. At a point, the one is satisfied and leaves the carcass for the lesser birds to squabble over and finally finish. A bit of head and tail, some bones . . . little is left to represent that shining fish who a few minutes earlier was circling the shallows with his fellows.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Book Crossings
Dear You,
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Say Uncle
Dear You,
I chose my uncles very well. Uncle Doral was at least interesting, even if beer and baseball were his main passions and he died quite a long time ago now.
But I'm thinking of my mother's youngest brother, Kenneth; and my father's youngest brother, Vaughn, mostly.
Kenneth was a Marine in my earliest memory. He visited with a chess set, and I recall sitting on that old porch way out in the country in southern Ohio, where my father had rented a farmhouse. We sat on the steps and he patiently taught me the pieces and how they move and a bit about the strategy . . . then he beat me game after game after game. Even when I was grown up and living far away, we managed to have a game during our occasional visits, and twice we had an extended game by exchanging moves by postcards. He still won most of them. These days, every time I bring up my computer chess program, I think what it would be like to have just one more game with Ken. I miss him.
And I miss Vaughn, too. He was only nine years older than I, and I can still see him when he visited us -- in another farmhouse, this time closer to Columbus -- wearing his Coast Guard uniform. He brought firecrackers, which in our house were Forbidden Fruit indeed! Vaughn would get a Maxwell House coffee can, lead us three boys out to the yard, light a cherry bomb and toss it under the upended can and sit on it as it exploded, leaping into the air as if surprised. When I got older he taught me to play blackjack, relieving me of my allowance money but then treating me to a pizza. And as the years wore on, he was a correspondent as we explored the family genealogy.
On my family tree, it is probably Vaughn who hangs nearest the heartwood of the trunk.
I chose my uncles very well. Uncle Doral was at least interesting, even if beer and baseball were his main passions and he died quite a long time ago now.
But I'm thinking of my mother's youngest brother, Kenneth; and my father's youngest brother, Vaughn, mostly.
Kenneth was a Marine in my earliest memory. He visited with a chess set, and I recall sitting on that old porch way out in the country in southern Ohio, where my father had rented a farmhouse. We sat on the steps and he patiently taught me the pieces and how they move and a bit about the strategy . . . then he beat me game after game after game. Even when I was grown up and living far away, we managed to have a game during our occasional visits, and twice we had an extended game by exchanging moves by postcards. He still won most of them. These days, every time I bring up my computer chess program, I think what it would be like to have just one more game with Ken. I miss him.
And I miss Vaughn, too. He was only nine years older than I, and I can still see him when he visited us -- in another farmhouse, this time closer to Columbus -- wearing his Coast Guard uniform. He brought firecrackers, which in our house were Forbidden Fruit indeed! Vaughn would get a Maxwell House coffee can, lead us three boys out to the yard, light a cherry bomb and toss it under the upended can and sit on it as it exploded, leaping into the air as if surprised. When I got older he taught me to play blackjack, relieving me of my allowance money but then treating me to a pizza. And as the years wore on, he was a correspondent as we explored the family genealogy.
On my family tree, it is probably Vaughn who hangs nearest the heartwood of the trunk.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Cells
Dear You,
It seems that some people just can't stop talking. I notice, however, that real communication is scarce. This morning I was in line at the grocery store. Ahead of me, fumbling with her purse while Liz waited patiently behind her cash register, a woman was talking on her cell phone. Something to do with legal forms, I gathered -- all such conversations these days are public information, even when I try NOT to listen.
It was an express line. I had only four items -- the woman ahead had hers already bagged, so I couldn't tell if she was there under false pretenses, but I noticed the woman behind was putting a 13th item onto the belt . . . and she, too, was talking on her cell phone.
I looked at Liz, who looked at me and shrugged. The woman continued fumbling, and I thought that whatever she was trying to do would go faster if she could have used both hands. She didn't seem to know (a) that Liz was waiting, and (b) so was I. At last she pulled out a card, swiped it -- while still jabbering away -- and scribbled on the little plastic screen. Still deep in the conversation, she took the bag of groceries and headed to the exit.
"It gives new meaning to 'Shut Up and Drive,' don't you think?" I asked Liz. The woman behind me didn't hear the comment; she was still busy with her conversation. But I had to wonder how much anyone can be in touch with her surroundings if her mind is engaged with the virtual, not real, people in her life.
It seems that some people just can't stop talking. I notice, however, that real communication is scarce. This morning I was in line at the grocery store. Ahead of me, fumbling with her purse while Liz waited patiently behind her cash register, a woman was talking on her cell phone. Something to do with legal forms, I gathered -- all such conversations these days are public information, even when I try NOT to listen.
It was an express line. I had only four items -- the woman ahead had hers already bagged, so I couldn't tell if she was there under false pretenses, but I noticed the woman behind was putting a 13th item onto the belt . . . and she, too, was talking on her cell phone.
I looked at Liz, who looked at me and shrugged. The woman continued fumbling, and I thought that whatever she was trying to do would go faster if she could have used both hands. She didn't seem to know (a) that Liz was waiting, and (b) so was I. At last she pulled out a card, swiped it -- while still jabbering away -- and scribbled on the little plastic screen. Still deep in the conversation, she took the bag of groceries and headed to the exit.
"It gives new meaning to 'Shut Up and Drive,' don't you think?" I asked Liz. The woman behind me didn't hear the comment; she was still busy with her conversation. But I had to wonder how much anyone can be in touch with her surroundings if her mind is engaged with the virtual, not real, people in her life.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Morning Muses
Dear You,
A benefit from rising before dawn here in Florida is that most mornings I can sit with my coffee and watch sunrises. Plural, because Down Here most days are clear . . . or nearly so. The lanai is in semidarkness when I settle into the wicker rocker that faces east, the early chirping all that breaks the quiet.
I think of Emerson's poem, The Days, wherein his conceit is a parade of women bearing trays. For this particular day, the woman, departing in the evening, looks back at the poet in scorn for selecting so poorly from her offerings.
In my youth I listened to a sermon on The Present -- how the present moment is, in fact, a "present" or gift. And how often since have I heard that the past, like any dream that dissolves on awakening, is just a memory; that the future, like any wish that may or may not come true, is just as unreal. The only thing one has is the moment. "Living in the moment" -- haven't we heard it frequently?
I have these thoughts more often as I grow older. Is that "wisdom"? I don't know. I do not, however, believe I am any closer to the ideal that Emerson posited. What I know is that very soon, my morning will begin Up North, where a sunrise is not guaranteed, nor the present so obviously a tray of delectables. I'll have to work harder to ensure that my days depart with a smile more often than a sneer.
A benefit from rising before dawn here in Florida is that most mornings I can sit with my coffee and watch sunrises. Plural, because Down Here most days are clear . . . or nearly so. The lanai is in semidarkness when I settle into the wicker rocker that faces east, the early chirping all that breaks the quiet.
I think of Emerson's poem, The Days, wherein his conceit is a parade of women bearing trays. For this particular day, the woman, departing in the evening, looks back at the poet in scorn for selecting so poorly from her offerings.
In my youth I listened to a sermon on The Present -- how the present moment is, in fact, a "present" or gift. And how often since have I heard that the past, like any dream that dissolves on awakening, is just a memory; that the future, like any wish that may or may not come true, is just as unreal. The only thing one has is the moment. "Living in the moment" -- haven't we heard it frequently?
I have these thoughts more often as I grow older. Is that "wisdom"? I don't know. I do not, however, believe I am any closer to the ideal that Emerson posited. What I know is that very soon, my morning will begin Up North, where a sunrise is not guaranteed, nor the present so obviously a tray of delectables. I'll have to work harder to ensure that my days depart with a smile more often than a sneer.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monopoly
Dear You,
It's mid-April, so that means the IRS quietly removed from my savings account the money I owed in taxes for 2007. That same day, with just as little fuss, the bank took money I owed on the house "up North": principal, interest, and escrow on the mortgage. The process, called ACH I think, is used by a variety of creditors throughout the month to pay my bills. Even the church gets its share.
I think of "money" these days in the same way I think of the multi-colored scrip I use when playing Monopoly with grandchildren. Oh, it stings when I land on Brandon's or Joshua's property and have to shell out $1800 in rent . . . but only for a moment. I know that all I have to do is pass GO and I'll have more.
And at my age, it's just as easy to get the money replaced in my bank account. The trip around the board of Life involves waking up each morning until the day the calendar page flips to a new month. When I check my accounts on the computer, I've passed GO -- all that money the ACH process removed the previous month is back, and a little more. So it's not a "zero sum game" -- not quite, anyway!
The other day I stooped to retrieve someone's lost quarter. It felt good in my hand, and it was enough to insert into the nearby newspaper box to buy that day's copy of the St. Petersburg Times. Even as I heard the coin clunk in its little box I knew it had no intrinsic worth -- how many years has it been since a U. S. quarter-dollar held even a smidgen of silver?
Yes, it's all just a game.
It's mid-April, so that means the IRS quietly removed from my savings account the money I owed in taxes for 2007. That same day, with just as little fuss, the bank took money I owed on the house "up North": principal, interest, and escrow on the mortgage. The process, called ACH I think, is used by a variety of creditors throughout the month to pay my bills. Even the church gets its share.
I think of "money" these days in the same way I think of the multi-colored scrip I use when playing Monopoly with grandchildren. Oh, it stings when I land on Brandon's or Joshua's property and have to shell out $1800 in rent . . . but only for a moment. I know that all I have to do is pass GO and I'll have more.
And at my age, it's just as easy to get the money replaced in my bank account. The trip around the board of Life involves waking up each morning until the day the calendar page flips to a new month. When I check my accounts on the computer, I've passed GO -- all that money the ACH process removed the previous month is back, and a little more. So it's not a "zero sum game" -- not quite, anyway!
The other day I stooped to retrieve someone's lost quarter. It felt good in my hand, and it was enough to insert into the nearby newspaper box to buy that day's copy of the St. Petersburg Times. Even as I heard the coin clunk in its little box I knew it had no intrinsic worth -- how many years has it been since a U. S. quarter-dollar held even a smidgen of silver?
Yes, it's all just a game.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Porches
Dear You,
The rain this early afternoon came while I was sitting on my porch reading a novel my guest left behind. The lanai, as it is known here, has a metal covering, and the sound drew me away from the scene of the crime in my story and, within a moment, transported me up the Atlantic coast 1,403 miles to another porch and another time.
I spent only a short time each Summer on the porch in Manomet, MA. Those days, like the house itself, no longer exist -- the house, unlike my memories of it, have been bulldozed and carted to a landfill.
Memories, I think, are a sort of landfill, too. More easily mined, sometimes, for the treasures we bury there. In the case today, I closed my eyes and back I went, lying on one of the spare beds, a book nearby, listening to the rain strike the rubber roof and watching the reflection of myself in the windows that had been swung open and hooked to the rafters.
I was transported, and with a great sense of longing had to pull myself back here to March 22 in Florida. Back to the scene of the crime.
The rain this early afternoon came while I was sitting on my porch reading a novel my guest left behind. The lanai, as it is known here, has a metal covering, and the sound drew me away from the scene of the crime in my story and, within a moment, transported me up the Atlantic coast 1,403 miles to another porch and another time.
I spent only a short time each Summer on the porch in Manomet, MA. Those days, like the house itself, no longer exist -- the house, unlike my memories of it, have been bulldozed and carted to a landfill.
Memories, I think, are a sort of landfill, too. More easily mined, sometimes, for the treasures we bury there. In the case today, I closed my eyes and back I went, lying on one of the spare beds, a book nearby, listening to the rain strike the rubber roof and watching the reflection of myself in the windows that had been swung open and hooked to the rafters.
I was transported, and with a great sense of longing had to pull myself back here to March 22 in Florida. Back to the scene of the crime.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Mene, Tekel
Dear You,
The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?
And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?
In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."
It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."
Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.
The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?
And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?
In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."
It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."
Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Hisssss
Dear You,
I'm sheltering again this season in Florida and have not written a single blog in a couple of months. I clung to old habits in this interim, writing blog ideas on little scraps of paper -- as a consequence I have a stack of odds and ends in my top drawer. Perhaps they will become blogs; probably not.
Today I am enjoying a little bit of quiet -- the Visitors are off to the beach, not to return until supper-time. So I took my laptop to the lanai (that's a screened porch for everyone in Elsewhere) and worked a little more on my taxes. I was distracted soon thereafter by the Backyard Resident. The neighbors say he's a Black Racer (I think; my degree in herpetology has not come through), about 2-3 feet long (I think; he's always sort of curvy, so any thought of getting out a yardstick is probably useless), and -- I mean this -- very beautiful. No wonder Eve was tempted.
He lives somewhere in our house. Well. His shelter is under a sort of folded metal thing at the base of the lanai, so actual entry into the house is quite unlikely. (This is what I've promised to other residents and visitors; I cross my fingers about it.) During the day he is out and about, and he's pretty quick about retreating before any approaches. Just like the ones in the zoo, he's there to be seen, not petted.
I like him very much. Twice so far he has left his transparent, shedded skin for me to find -- I keep them on a hook in the garage to show to the grandchildren. Oooooo, hissssss!
I'm sheltering again this season in Florida and have not written a single blog in a couple of months. I clung to old habits in this interim, writing blog ideas on little scraps of paper -- as a consequence I have a stack of odds and ends in my top drawer. Perhaps they will become blogs; probably not.
Today I am enjoying a little bit of quiet -- the Visitors are off to the beach, not to return until supper-time. So I took my laptop to the lanai (that's a screened porch for everyone in Elsewhere) and worked a little more on my taxes. I was distracted soon thereafter by the Backyard Resident. The neighbors say he's a Black Racer (I think; my degree in herpetology has not come through), about 2-3 feet long (I think; he's always sort of curvy, so any thought of getting out a yardstick is probably useless), and -- I mean this -- very beautiful. No wonder Eve was tempted.
He lives somewhere in our house. Well. His shelter is under a sort of folded metal thing at the base of the lanai, so actual entry into the house is quite unlikely. (This is what I've promised to other residents and visitors; I cross my fingers about it.) During the day he is out and about, and he's pretty quick about retreating before any approaches. Just like the ones in the zoo, he's there to be seen, not petted.
I like him very much. Twice so far he has left his transparent, shedded skin for me to find -- I keep them on a hook in the garage to show to the grandchildren. Oooooo, hissssss!
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