Saturday, June 25, 2005
Dinosaur
We're off to Dinosaur National Monument for a few day's family vacation. We are going with nephew, Julian (and his family), the kid who first led us all into researching dinosaurs. Now Rees and Kadin are big dinosaur fans. We have a great collection of dinosaur magazines some dear friends in Oxford got for Rees at a boot sale. There are over 100 different issues and both boys can't get enough of them. They are pitched in just the right way. We read at least one a day. Now I know, among many other interesting facts, that the Stegaseras (not to be confused with the Stegasaurus) looks like a Pachycephalasaurus and so on. We are hoping to find some gastroliths in Utah.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Say “no” to grackles
I got a coupon in the mail from a local store, “Wild Bird Center,” for Safflower Seed, called “the grackle problem solver.” In a previous post, I wasn’t even sure we had grackles around here and I didn’t know they were a problem. In fact, I was looking forward to meeting one as they seemed to generate strong opinions. The ad says, “Squirrels don’t like it either. Say ‘no’ to grackles and squirrels.” So hey, if the Wild Bird Center is anti-grackle, something must really be going on. What is up with these birds that they are so despised? Why are they spreading? Why is the common grackle uncommon? Clearly I am going to have to look into this.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Kittenrearing
I have been surprised by how much the info on kittens I am reading is like the childrearing literature I have read. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, but it is so interesting. The answer to the question, "Where is it going to sleep?" for example, has all of the extreme views and fear-mongering found in the childrearing literature:
Your bedroom is not the proper place, although it will never refuse to sleep with you. Just remember that you will not be able to take away from your adult cat what you have allowed it to do when it was a kitten. …Its proper place is in its basket, in the room you have chosen. On the first night, above all do not give in to the temptation of going and fetching it, even if it is crying. Stay calm, this learning period generally lasts 3 or 4 days.
That is from a book about kittens given free from the pet food company. It is similar, I think, to the free babycare books given out at the hospital to new parents from baby food companies.
On discipline, it (predictably) recommends: "The kitten needs to understand as soon as possible the limits that it must not go beyond before its weapons (claws and teeth) are fully developed." (And did you know that stressed cats can bite their nails? "If your kitten is chewing the claws, it may be in a state of anxiety which could turn into depression." Biting nails must be very deeply ingrained in our animal minds.) There is little in it, however, about how to do this in a firm yet gentle and loving way (similar ommision in childrearing literature).
There is one big difference between the kitten- and childcare literature, however, and that is in acknowledging that each and every cat or kitten is different and has its own distinct personality. Somehow I missed that in the kid literature. Only a few cherished books had it. Certainly in cat books there is lots of info on the personalities of the different breeds (obvious reasons why this is not done for humans) but also the recognition that each cat’s own genetic makeup and life experiences will play out in different personalities and that differences can be as great within the breeds as between them. (Dog breeds in general being more diverse and distinct than cat breeds.) It is just accepted that some cats will be shy or reticent and some cats will be more outgoing or social, some quieter and some more vocal, etc. We don’t seem to have a similar acceptance or respect for differences with children.
I got this book called The Kitten Whisperer by Claire Bessant, the same woman who wrote What Cats Want. It's kind of a cats-eye view of the world, how they evolved in the wild and how they evolved to be pets. I never bought The Baby Whisperer and have only heard horror stories about it. But somehow the idea of getting advice from someone who has an expert knowledge seems okay with cats. I do want to know what cats want, them being a different species and all. (Somehow I can’t imagine a book called What Babies Want. That would be nice to see, though!) It seems good to understand their behavior from an evolutionary perspective and to see how and why these little carnivores have adapted as pets. (One of my favorite childrearing books, called Our Babies, Ourselves, was written from such an evolutionary perspective, but that is not the norm for childrearing literature.) I liked the section in The Kitten Whisperer about how cats train us. I thought it true also for childrearing, just that a childrearing book would never be so permissive of the child and acknowledge that an adult being manipulated is okay! We allow it and smile at it in other species, but not our own:
How Do Cats Train Us?
Your kitten is a very bright little character. It is on a steep learning curve and is making new discoveries every day. It learns by watching, by trial and error, and by the reactions you give it to things that it does. It learns which of its actions result in something it likes and which don't. In particular, it learns how to make you do what it wants (just like any child worth its salt!). It is up to you to decide when you are to be manipulated, when you want to be manipulated because it is actually what you want as well, and when you definitely do not want to give in!
The above paragraph, or something like it, with maybe a different spin on the manipulation part, could easily be found in a childrearing book, but the one below wouldn’t, I don’t think:
Cats are amazing teachers—most of us know we are the slaves of a cat rather than the owners.…Cats can do this because their affection rewards us—they do not have to offer food, just a meow or a purr of praise and we are putty in their hands. They seldom revert to aggression but rather give us a slow drip, drip, drip of reward for our attention—that's the way to do it!
It is nice to see the fun part, even if it is pure manipulation, acknowledged!
As far as differences go, Rex and Pearl certainly have distinct personalities. Pearl is perfect, or as I am tempted to say these days, purrfect. She is confident and calm and outgoing and playful. She rationally accepts new things and change and is not pushy or demanding. And then there is Rex. Rex is a little wackier. He is more energetic, more influenced by change and what is going on around him and he is a little needier and wants more attention. It’s funny because even though in my eyes Pearl is perfect, Rex is more endearing. Pearl being the more self contained one, I interact with her less. It is definitely good that they have each other. And I have to say that I feel ever so much more confident and competent raising them and setting limits now than I did (or do) with the children. It seems such a breeze in comparison and not only because they sleep 16 hours a day.
They actually seem to acknowledge and appreciate me, which rarely seems to be the case with the other dependants around here. (I’ll have to teach the kids about that drip, drip, drip of praise and affection!) I sat down yesterday to trim the kitten’s claws and they calmly let me do it and even purred. My kids have never let me trim their nails without a protest (or wash their face or hair—I wonder, did I raise feral children?). I have to give a lot of credit to the breeder who did an excellent, loving job of socializing them, but she told me no cat was going to love getting their nails trimmed, you just had to do it and let them know you were it charge. If that was something they disliked, I am amazed. Today I am going to try giving them a bath. Wondering how that will compare to bathing the kids. Oh yeah, and then there were the websites I just read about training your cat to use the toilet. I think I might try that next.
Your bedroom is not the proper place, although it will never refuse to sleep with you. Just remember that you will not be able to take away from your adult cat what you have allowed it to do when it was a kitten. …Its proper place is in its basket, in the room you have chosen. On the first night, above all do not give in to the temptation of going and fetching it, even if it is crying. Stay calm, this learning period generally lasts 3 or 4 days.
That is from a book about kittens given free from the pet food company. It is similar, I think, to the free babycare books given out at the hospital to new parents from baby food companies.
On discipline, it (predictably) recommends: "The kitten needs to understand as soon as possible the limits that it must not go beyond before its weapons (claws and teeth) are fully developed." (And did you know that stressed cats can bite their nails? "If your kitten is chewing the claws, it may be in a state of anxiety which could turn into depression." Biting nails must be very deeply ingrained in our animal minds.) There is little in it, however, about how to do this in a firm yet gentle and loving way (similar ommision in childrearing literature).
There is one big difference between the kitten- and childcare literature, however, and that is in acknowledging that each and every cat or kitten is different and has its own distinct personality. Somehow I missed that in the kid literature. Only a few cherished books had it. Certainly in cat books there is lots of info on the personalities of the different breeds (obvious reasons why this is not done for humans) but also the recognition that each cat’s own genetic makeup and life experiences will play out in different personalities and that differences can be as great within the breeds as between them. (Dog breeds in general being more diverse and distinct than cat breeds.) It is just accepted that some cats will be shy or reticent and some cats will be more outgoing or social, some quieter and some more vocal, etc. We don’t seem to have a similar acceptance or respect for differences with children.
I got this book called The Kitten Whisperer by Claire Bessant, the same woman who wrote What Cats Want. It's kind of a cats-eye view of the world, how they evolved in the wild and how they evolved to be pets. I never bought The Baby Whisperer and have only heard horror stories about it. But somehow the idea of getting advice from someone who has an expert knowledge seems okay with cats. I do want to know what cats want, them being a different species and all. (Somehow I can’t imagine a book called What Babies Want. That would be nice to see, though!) It seems good to understand their behavior from an evolutionary perspective and to see how and why these little carnivores have adapted as pets. (One of my favorite childrearing books, called Our Babies, Ourselves, was written from such an evolutionary perspective, but that is not the norm for childrearing literature.) I liked the section in The Kitten Whisperer about how cats train us. I thought it true also for childrearing, just that a childrearing book would never be so permissive of the child and acknowledge that an adult being manipulated is okay! We allow it and smile at it in other species, but not our own:
How Do Cats Train Us?
Your kitten is a very bright little character. It is on a steep learning curve and is making new discoveries every day. It learns by watching, by trial and error, and by the reactions you give it to things that it does. It learns which of its actions result in something it likes and which don't. In particular, it learns how to make you do what it wants (just like any child worth its salt!). It is up to you to decide when you are to be manipulated, when you want to be manipulated because it is actually what you want as well, and when you definitely do not want to give in!
The above paragraph, or something like it, with maybe a different spin on the manipulation part, could easily be found in a childrearing book, but the one below wouldn’t, I don’t think:
Cats are amazing teachers—most of us know we are the slaves of a cat rather than the owners.…Cats can do this because their affection rewards us—they do not have to offer food, just a meow or a purr of praise and we are putty in their hands. They seldom revert to aggression but rather give us a slow drip, drip, drip of reward for our attention—that's the way to do it!
It is nice to see the fun part, even if it is pure manipulation, acknowledged!
As far as differences go, Rex and Pearl certainly have distinct personalities. Pearl is perfect, or as I am tempted to say these days, purrfect. She is confident and calm and outgoing and playful. She rationally accepts new things and change and is not pushy or demanding. And then there is Rex. Rex is a little wackier. He is more energetic, more influenced by change and what is going on around him and he is a little needier and wants more attention. It’s funny because even though in my eyes Pearl is perfect, Rex is more endearing. Pearl being the more self contained one, I interact with her less. It is definitely good that they have each other. And I have to say that I feel ever so much more confident and competent raising them and setting limits now than I did (or do) with the children. It seems such a breeze in comparison and not only because they sleep 16 hours a day.
They actually seem to acknowledge and appreciate me, which rarely seems to be the case with the other dependants around here. (I’ll have to teach the kids about that drip, drip, drip of praise and affection!) I sat down yesterday to trim the kitten’s claws and they calmly let me do it and even purred. My kids have never let me trim their nails without a protest (or wash their face or hair—I wonder, did I raise feral children?). I have to give a lot of credit to the breeder who did an excellent, loving job of socializing them, but she told me no cat was going to love getting their nails trimmed, you just had to do it and let them know you were it charge. If that was something they disliked, I am amazed. Today I am going to try giving them a bath. Wondering how that will compare to bathing the kids. Oh yeah, and then there were the websites I just read about training your cat to use the toilet. I think I might try that next.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Transitions
This is not going to be easy. It’s the first day of summer break. It has been raining all day. It is 6pm and I am fed up to here with the constant interruptions. The kids finally went outside a few minutes ago and I sat down to read a bit. Found a nice poem by Lucille Clifton. I remember reading her explanation for why she writes short poems: “I have six children and I can only hold about twenty lines in my head until the end of the day.” A good thought for me to ponder at this difficult time. Hmmm. Just noticed that the thumping I hear outside is Kadin working the lawn with a huge pickaxe. Here is Clifton’s poem while I go stop him from chopping his foot off:
blessing the boats
by Lucille Clifton
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back | may you
open your eyes to the water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
Okay, I'm back. Happy summer! (Dinner’s burning, Rees is snacking.) Might not be able to write much more any time soon.
blessing the boats
by Lucille Clifton
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back | may you
open your eyes to the water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
Okay, I'm back. Happy summer! (Dinner’s burning, Rees is snacking.) Might not be able to write much more any time soon.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Pedigree
Okay, so I’ve sent in the forms to register the kittens. They are purebred Devon Rex kittens, a sort of very, very short haired cat that tends to be less allergenic. Luckily, this lack of allergy part seems to be true and I can pet them with abandon. On the forms I need to register their purebred names. It’s all part of the purebred world where kitten births are registered in birth certificates. My first instinct was to register some sort of lighthearted, funny, spoof names, but then I had second thoughts. It doesn’t matter so much for Rex because Rex is of “pet” quality, so he will be neutered and will not sire any kittens. His name will not live on. But Pearl, Pearl is special. She is, according to the breeder, of “show” quality. And she is a pretty amazing little cat. The breeder asked how I would feel about having a litter of kittens with her as the mother. Well, that sounded like it might be fun, so we agreed to try to breed her at some point in the future. If we do, her name will be on the pedigree of her offspring and their offspring and so on.
The first name on the pedigree is the name of the cattery, in this case, Castilleja. I chose the name Pearl for the girl and Rees chose the name Rex for the boy. So their registered names would be Castilleja and something Pearl or something Rex. They are “brown mackerel tabbies” and when I looked into the origin of tabbies, it turns out it was a kind of silk with a watered stripy look that was made in the Attabiyah district of Baghdad. Attabiyah became atabbi and then tabby and the cats with patterns similar to the silk were called tabby cats.
After some debate about names, we settled on Catilleja’s Attabiyah Pearl for Pearl (suitably exotic for a family tree) and Castilleja’s Tabbysaurus Rex for Rex (suitably silly for him and our family). And, tiny as they are, they really do live up to their names.
And that’s not all. The breeder now wants me to show Pearl at a cat show in September in Denver, this year's site of "Devon Heaven." Hmmm, I seem to be slowly getting drawn into this purebred world. Maybe I will get those cat motif checks after all. Stay tuned.
The first name on the pedigree is the name of the cattery, in this case, Castilleja. I chose the name Pearl for the girl and Rees chose the name Rex for the boy. So their registered names would be Castilleja and something Pearl or something Rex. They are “brown mackerel tabbies” and when I looked into the origin of tabbies, it turns out it was a kind of silk with a watered stripy look that was made in the Attabiyah district of Baghdad. Attabiyah became atabbi and then tabby and the cats with patterns similar to the silk were called tabby cats.
After some debate about names, we settled on Catilleja’s Attabiyah Pearl for Pearl (suitably exotic for a family tree) and Castilleja’s Tabbysaurus Rex for Rex (suitably silly for him and our family). And, tiny as they are, they really do live up to their names.
And that’s not all. The breeder now wants me to show Pearl at a cat show in September in Denver, this year's site of "Devon Heaven." Hmmm, I seem to be slowly getting drawn into this purebred world. Maybe I will get those cat motif checks after all. Stay tuned.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Travelogue: NY, NY
Whew! Am waiting to board my Jet Blue flight after my 36-hour junket to NYC. It's been a whirlwind weekend and was pretty much everything I had hoped it would be: galleries on Saturday and celebrating Clare's 40th birthday then Chinatown today and the reading of a play.
Just getting into NY via subway early Saturday morning was an adventure, one I was very glad to do on my own. It has been nearly 8 years since I have traveled by myself and it was nice to have minimal baggage and only myself to look after. All my senses were immediately heightened as I navigated the Air Train to the subway and tried to decipher that peculiar subway-speak of the train conductors and the body language of fellow passengers. The first train, for some garbled reason, stopped, so I got off and crossed a platform to another waiting train. And then there was not knowing where I was or where I was going or where I should transfer until the subway stops became more familiar (Lexington, 5th Ave, Rockefeller Center). The trains seemed to get nicer, the ads in them more upscale, and the people more diverse as I got closer to the heart of Manhattan. I made some lucky guesses and a quick exit from at least one train that turned into an express, and in the end found Jen's parent’s apartment without a hitch. It was gorgeous, like walking into a movie set. Special surprise was that Bart and Kate and Cuillin and Clare were all there to meet me along with Jen and Tanya (whom I had been dying to meet).
Of course they had bagels waiting. After breakfast and a latté excursion, I took the best shower of my life in the amazing old shower. Water sprayed out in a deluge on this parched Coloradoan, not only from the top, but also, when I wanted it to, in from the sides. Wow.
That was followed by another subway adventure, this time with two strollers, down to the galleries of Chelsea. The first show we saw, by a friend of Jen's sister, was an intricate sculptural collage of all kinds of found objects arranged around a grid of string that covered the gallery from ceiling to floor. (Hard to describe, guess you had to be there.) It was fascinating and tactile, but fragile. Kate had to keep a close eye on Cuillin in between getting messages on her cell phone from potential buyers of their RI house.
Next stop was Nina's exhibit. First, a genealogy of the grocery store: a family tree of the De Cecco Pasta woman, Mr. Clean, Betty Crocker, Aunt Jemima, etc. A humorous regrouping of familiar brand-name personalities. Then behind, in a hallway, a sampling of found video tape that had been restored. And in the back room, videos of Nina interviewing her parents about their background and unique accents and language history. The best part was video of Nina and her parents working with a speech coach to learn each other's accents. Then you saw her doing the interviews again in her parent's respective accents and their attempts to answer back in her accent.
The kidos fell asleep at this point (or woke up, it's all a blur, Tanya being an easy, contented baby), so we surveyed the adults present to determine desires for lunch. We met all desires at a small Italian place and had a peaceful, relatively inexpensive lunch. Peaceful as far as kids went, that is, but Clare showcased her mediation and debate skills with an intense, in-depth discussion with Bart and Kate of children and religion. After lunch we saw Laura Wulf's exhibit of etched photograms in rich colors and pleasing shapes.
Clare wanted to see more photograms (images made on photographic paper without camera, film, or negatives) so we hit one more exhibit before returning to Nina's again for closer inspection. Clare and I got unusually fascinated by one particular video clip, which made us late to Clare's apartment. She had specifically told people to be there right at 4pm. Oops! We grabbed some food and a taxi and hightailed it across town.
Clare’s exquisite, wonderful, small apartment was filled with fantastic food and people and a harpsichord. Most amazing was the best chocolate I have ever had. There was a crème brulée truffle that needed to be eaten right away. The freshest most fantastic cream taste possible. Then there was a sesame truffle with sesame seeds toasted to their peak of flavor. Fresh and clean and delicious. A small taste of the black tea truffle transported me to China, and the pistachio truffle was creamy and divine. I heard rumors of a balsamic vinegar truffle and a Thai curry truffle, and though I didn't get to sample them, I am sure they were equally amazing.
EVERYONE was at Clare's apartment, many people I hadn't seen in years and some I met for the first time, they included (but were not limited to): Jane, Michael, and Mario, Maggie, MJ, Ashley and Fred, Bill and Diane, Liz and Alex, as well as Bart, Kate, and Cuillin, Jen and Tanya. I'm sure I have forgotten some! Great, great to see old friends.
We returned to Jen's parent's apartment and, though exhausted, stayed up a bit, talked, and watched part of Sling Blade.
This morning we slept 'til 8, made another latté run, cleaned up, packed up, loaded the cars, and Jen and Tanya headed back to Boston while the rest of us headed downtown to pick up Clare and visit Pearl River. It was a quick jaunt to SoHo (thanks to Kate's excellent city driving skills) where we found parking in the nick of time and enjoyed nearly an hour in Pearl River, an Asian imports department store.
I grabbed a sandwich for the train and Clare and I headed back uptown to see a reading of a play by Jane Wulf, Laura's sister, whom I had met the night before. Jane's haiku for Clare's birthday:
From mud pies to now
I'm sorry I broke your leg
You're great, I love you
(Not sure I got it totally right, especially the last line, but you get the idea.)
The play, about couples and careers and parenthood, was insightful and thought provoking. Laura Wulf and Tessa (another old friend from Brown) were also at the play and we all went out after for an iced tea (it proved to be a very hot day), a quick update of lives, and a discussion of the play.
Then it was time for me to head back out to the airport. Trip was, in the end, uneventful, but once again I was never sure when I would need to quickly hop off a train and change to another. At one point, the conductor was shouting, "Listen up, and listen up good, this E train is becoming the F train. If any of you want to go to Jamaica center or the airport, you need to…clattering… transfer… tunnel noises…shuttle…static…union...buzz. If you don't understand, now is the time to ask questions." Hmmm. Something about "union?" I get out my map. Yes, there is a station coming up called Union Turnpike, I gather I should get off this train there and find out what next. My experience is that even when you think you've got it made, there is always a new wrinkle and always a possible new plan that might arise, a detour, a better way to go, a better train to ride. Never a dull moment to be sure, and this was just as true for the drive down to Clare’s this morning when there was a change of plans a minute. Got off the train at Union Turnpike and sure enough, got on an E train shuttle to Sutphin Blvd., my desired destination and the Air Train.
I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, have a nice dinner, and am happy to find one Oasis Day Spa, with locations at 108 East St. (Union Square), 1 Park Ave, the Affinia Dumont Hotel on East 34th St., and, miraculously, JFK Airport, Jet Blue terminal. How lovely! And yes, after a hot sweaty day of walking around New York, I can have a pedicure before I board my flight. This is the best.
Just getting into NY via subway early Saturday morning was an adventure, one I was very glad to do on my own. It has been nearly 8 years since I have traveled by myself and it was nice to have minimal baggage and only myself to look after. All my senses were immediately heightened as I navigated the Air Train to the subway and tried to decipher that peculiar subway-speak of the train conductors and the body language of fellow passengers. The first train, for some garbled reason, stopped, so I got off and crossed a platform to another waiting train. And then there was not knowing where I was or where I was going or where I should transfer until the subway stops became more familiar (Lexington, 5th Ave, Rockefeller Center). The trains seemed to get nicer, the ads in them more upscale, and the people more diverse as I got closer to the heart of Manhattan. I made some lucky guesses and a quick exit from at least one train that turned into an express, and in the end found Jen's parent’s apartment without a hitch. It was gorgeous, like walking into a movie set. Special surprise was that Bart and Kate and Cuillin and Clare were all there to meet me along with Jen and Tanya (whom I had been dying to meet).
Of course they had bagels waiting. After breakfast and a latté excursion, I took the best shower of my life in the amazing old shower. Water sprayed out in a deluge on this parched Coloradoan, not only from the top, but also, when I wanted it to, in from the sides. Wow.
That was followed by another subway adventure, this time with two strollers, down to the galleries of Chelsea. The first show we saw, by a friend of Jen's sister, was an intricate sculptural collage of all kinds of found objects arranged around a grid of string that covered the gallery from ceiling to floor. (Hard to describe, guess you had to be there.) It was fascinating and tactile, but fragile. Kate had to keep a close eye on Cuillin in between getting messages on her cell phone from potential buyers of their RI house.
Next stop was Nina's exhibit. First, a genealogy of the grocery store: a family tree of the De Cecco Pasta woman, Mr. Clean, Betty Crocker, Aunt Jemima, etc. A humorous regrouping of familiar brand-name personalities. Then behind, in a hallway, a sampling of found video tape that had been restored. And in the back room, videos of Nina interviewing her parents about their background and unique accents and language history. The best part was video of Nina and her parents working with a speech coach to learn each other's accents. Then you saw her doing the interviews again in her parent's respective accents and their attempts to answer back in her accent.
The kidos fell asleep at this point (or woke up, it's all a blur, Tanya being an easy, contented baby), so we surveyed the adults present to determine desires for lunch. We met all desires at a small Italian place and had a peaceful, relatively inexpensive lunch. Peaceful as far as kids went, that is, but Clare showcased her mediation and debate skills with an intense, in-depth discussion with Bart and Kate of children and religion. After lunch we saw Laura Wulf's exhibit of etched photograms in rich colors and pleasing shapes.
Clare wanted to see more photograms (images made on photographic paper without camera, film, or negatives) so we hit one more exhibit before returning to Nina's again for closer inspection. Clare and I got unusually fascinated by one particular video clip, which made us late to Clare's apartment. She had specifically told people to be there right at 4pm. Oops! We grabbed some food and a taxi and hightailed it across town.
Clare’s exquisite, wonderful, small apartment was filled with fantastic food and people and a harpsichord. Most amazing was the best chocolate I have ever had. There was a crème brulée truffle that needed to be eaten right away. The freshest most fantastic cream taste possible. Then there was a sesame truffle with sesame seeds toasted to their peak of flavor. Fresh and clean and delicious. A small taste of the black tea truffle transported me to China, and the pistachio truffle was creamy and divine. I heard rumors of a balsamic vinegar truffle and a Thai curry truffle, and though I didn't get to sample them, I am sure they were equally amazing.
EVERYONE was at Clare's apartment, many people I hadn't seen in years and some I met for the first time, they included (but were not limited to): Jane, Michael, and Mario, Maggie, MJ, Ashley and Fred, Bill and Diane, Liz and Alex, as well as Bart, Kate, and Cuillin, Jen and Tanya. I'm sure I have forgotten some! Great, great to see old friends.
We returned to Jen's parent's apartment and, though exhausted, stayed up a bit, talked, and watched part of Sling Blade.
This morning we slept 'til 8, made another latté run, cleaned up, packed up, loaded the cars, and Jen and Tanya headed back to Boston while the rest of us headed downtown to pick up Clare and visit Pearl River. It was a quick jaunt to SoHo (thanks to Kate's excellent city driving skills) where we found parking in the nick of time and enjoyed nearly an hour in Pearl River, an Asian imports department store.
I grabbed a sandwich for the train and Clare and I headed back uptown to see a reading of a play by Jane Wulf, Laura's sister, whom I had met the night before. Jane's haiku for Clare's birthday:
From mud pies to now
I'm sorry I broke your leg
You're great, I love you
(Not sure I got it totally right, especially the last line, but you get the idea.)
The play, about couples and careers and parenthood, was insightful and thought provoking. Laura Wulf and Tessa (another old friend from Brown) were also at the play and we all went out after for an iced tea (it proved to be a very hot day), a quick update of lives, and a discussion of the play.
Then it was time for me to head back out to the airport. Trip was, in the end, uneventful, but once again I was never sure when I would need to quickly hop off a train and change to another. At one point, the conductor was shouting, "Listen up, and listen up good, this E train is becoming the F train. If any of you want to go to Jamaica center or the airport, you need to…clattering… transfer… tunnel noises…shuttle…static…union...buzz. If you don't understand, now is the time to ask questions." Hmmm. Something about "union?" I get out my map. Yes, there is a station coming up called Union Turnpike, I gather I should get off this train there and find out what next. My experience is that even when you think you've got it made, there is always a new wrinkle and always a possible new plan that might arise, a detour, a better way to go, a better train to ride. Never a dull moment to be sure, and this was just as true for the drive down to Clare’s this morning when there was a change of plans a minute. Got off the train at Union Turnpike and sure enough, got on an E train shuttle to Sutphin Blvd., my desired destination and the Air Train.
I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, have a nice dinner, and am happy to find one Oasis Day Spa, with locations at 108 East St. (Union Square), 1 Park Ave, the Affinia Dumont Hotel on East 34th St., and, miraculously, JFK Airport, Jet Blue terminal. How lovely! And yes, after a hot sweaty day of walking around New York, I can have a pedicure before I board my flight. This is the best.
Friday, June 03, 2005
The promised post: Rex and Pearl
So the kittens. The kittens are amazing. Just the cutest little vicious things you can imagine. The have big eyes, big ears, are small, stripy and furry. They melt your heart. And yet they are real carnivores. Under that soft fur are sharp claws and teeth, their keen eyes alert to any sudden movement, ready to pounce. It is amazing to watch them play with each other. Well, actually, not that amazing as I also have two boys and it’s all the same. It’s like the boys and the cats are in parallel. Rees and Kadin will be wrestling (“take that!” “ah!” “arrh” “ugggh”) and Rex and Pearl will be play fighting (bite, hiss, scratch), then they will all stop and Rees will look at the kittens and say, “You are so cute!” and they will all take a cuddle break. How is it that these little violent carnivores have so seduced us? How can something so cuddly be so brutal? How can sweet young boys be so aggressive? I often wonder if Rees and Kadin are actually enjoying themselves when they play like this. I’ll ask them, “Are you having fun?” And they’ll inevitably reply, “Yes!” all glowing with the effort of battle. I just can’t imagine. And it’s hard to watch these sweet cuddly kittens really going at it, though I know they are learning important hunting behaviors. And of course, I will forgive them anything if they purr when I pet them.
The kittens are Rex (boy) and Pearl (girl). They seem like very healthy and well-adjusted kittens. They are playful and active but also cuddly and loving, smart, and eager to please. These creatures that have evolved to be charming are really quite amazing. Their wiles work extremely well. I don’t know how we got on without them. Though tonight at dinner Kadin said thoughtfully, “I really liked that crawfish.” Sigh.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Memorial Day weekend goes retrograde
I don't know if mercury is in retrograde or something, but we have not been having much luck with electronic appliances of late: it’s one malfunction/breakdown after another. The robot vacuum got in a fight with the bathmat after I inadvertently forgot to shut the bathroom door. I thought it was supposed to turn itself off, but it fought on valiantly (I wasn't home to help) until it started smoking and burned itself out. Then there is the camera. My camera has been flakey for a while, suddenly and randomly deleting pictures without notice. Card often gets damaged and becomes unreadable. But we have Greg's camera from work too. I was using Greg's camera to take pictures of the kittens (we got kittens!) and I was excitedly running up the stairs with it to get a shot when I tripped and dropped his camera and completely broke it. Ughh. Then, Greg was drinking water by the computer when Rees spilled it into the keyboard. We are still waiting for the keyboard to dry out. Maybe tomorrow? In the meanwhile, Greg has brought home an extra keyboard from work. So after a few days hiatus, I can type again.
Despite the technical difficulties, we had a fun weekend. We got the kittens on Saturday and they are, predictably, extremely cute. I am finally a cat owner (see R#x quest and Flickers, finches, purrs, and hugs for more on this), but perhaps not a normal one. There are pending forays back into the purebred world. More on that later. The kittens add an interesting new dynamic to life around the house. For example, Rees woke up in a really bad mood the other day, but in no time the kittens had melted his heart, and Kadin gets to try out being a “big” brother for a change. I love the way the kittens are so good at using the litter box and feeding themselves. It seems mostly what they need is the occasional cuddle.
On Monday we did the Bolder Boulder, a 10k race/walk. It is a big deal here with about 50,000 people participating. It is very well organized and upbeat and was lots of fun with people in costumes, a great variety of bands, and cheering crowds all along the route. Rees wanted to run and Felicity and I were planning to jog/walk, Greg and Kadin would watch from the sidelines on the bicycle (no wheels or strollers allowed in the race and nobody wanted to carry Kadin). Rees went on ahead and Fe and I jogged most of the downhills. About an hour and a half later we all met up again at the designated spot in the stadium. Greg and Kadin had seen Felicity and me twice, we had seen them once, but no one had seen Rees. I even searched for pictures on the web registered with his racing bib number. Nothing. It seems he was invisible for 90 minutes, completely free and anonymous. I asked Rees how it felt to be alone amongst all those people, “was it scary or fun?” “Fun!” he replied.
Of course, we have no pictures of our own from this event.
Despite the technical difficulties, we had a fun weekend. We got the kittens on Saturday and they are, predictably, extremely cute. I am finally a cat owner (see R#x quest and Flickers, finches, purrs, and hugs for more on this), but perhaps not a normal one. There are pending forays back into the purebred world. More on that later. The kittens add an interesting new dynamic to life around the house. For example, Rees woke up in a really bad mood the other day, but in no time the kittens had melted his heart, and Kadin gets to try out being a “big” brother for a change. I love the way the kittens are so good at using the litter box and feeding themselves. It seems mostly what they need is the occasional cuddle.
On Monday we did the Bolder Boulder, a 10k race/walk. It is a big deal here with about 50,000 people participating. It is very well organized and upbeat and was lots of fun with people in costumes, a great variety of bands, and cheering crowds all along the route. Rees wanted to run and Felicity and I were planning to jog/walk, Greg and Kadin would watch from the sidelines on the bicycle (no wheels or strollers allowed in the race and nobody wanted to carry Kadin). Rees went on ahead and Fe and I jogged most of the downhills. About an hour and a half later we all met up again at the designated spot in the stadium. Greg and Kadin had seen Felicity and me twice, we had seen them once, but no one had seen Rees. I even searched for pictures on the web registered with his racing bib number. Nothing. It seems he was invisible for 90 minutes, completely free and anonymous. I asked Rees how it felt to be alone amongst all those people, “was it scary or fun?” “Fun!” he replied.
Of course, we have no pictures of our own from this event.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
New theory: tire swing
Acupuncturist did some “cupping” on my back. Did not offer any new theories, seemed to keep them to herself, but I came up with a new theory of my own on Saturday.
Saturday, for reasons that will go unexplained here, I got a bonus massage from the husband of my friend who is starting a massage therapy business. While mulling over the various theories with him, he said he favored the more mechanical explanations. He asked what had changed, what had I been doing differently. Was I gardening more? Carrying something more? It was then I remembered that the Sunday before I woke up with a sore shoulder, I had worked to mount a very heavy tire swing over my head. That was certainly different. So as my shoulder is slowly healing, I have a new theory,
Theory number six: I spent an exceptional amount of time holding a 15-20lb weight over my head with my left arm while trying to ratchet it in with my right. Then I had a restless, stressful night where I slept with the window open as the weather suddenly cooled. And wal-lah, I wake up with a stiff shoulder. Probably pulled it a bit in the warm-up to yoga and then the pain/spasm cycle started. Still not back to normal, but well on its way to healing. Didn’t bother me in the Bolder Boulder and feels a bit better every day. I can be positive and open and accepting again. Hooray!
Saturday, for reasons that will go unexplained here, I got a bonus massage from the husband of my friend who is starting a massage therapy business. While mulling over the various theories with him, he said he favored the more mechanical explanations. He asked what had changed, what had I been doing differently. Was I gardening more? Carrying something more? It was then I remembered that the Sunday before I woke up with a sore shoulder, I had worked to mount a very heavy tire swing over my head. That was certainly different. So as my shoulder is slowly healing, I have a new theory,
Theory number six: I spent an exceptional amount of time holding a 15-20lb weight over my head with my left arm while trying to ratchet it in with my right. Then I had a restless, stressful night where I slept with the window open as the weather suddenly cooled. And wal-lah, I wake up with a stiff shoulder. Probably pulled it a bit in the warm-up to yoga and then the pain/spasm cycle started. Still not back to normal, but well on its way to healing. Didn’t bother me in the Bolder Boulder and feels a bit better every day. I can be positive and open and accepting again. Hooray!
Friday, May 27, 2005
One problem, many explanations
I am constantly amazed by how many different ways there are to understand the same thing. Case in point: my shoulder this week.
On Monday morning I woke up with a stiffness across my left shoulder blade. It had been a restless night and I must have slept on it funny. I felt I couldn't pull my shoulder blade back into my back. I had planned to go to yoga that morning, and thought that would help loosen it up over the day.
I cycled to yoga and before the class, in a pre-class what-do-I-do kind of moment, I clasped my hands behind my back and stretched the stiff spot. There was a crunch and a pop and I thought, "That has either cured me or injured me."
I was careful not to overextend that muscle, the one that holds in my shoulder blade, for the rest of class. Even when the teacher was talking about how that very muscle helps to open the chest and what that means for us and our mental state. Our culture, she said, hunched over computers etc., tends to have very closed upper chests. That space between the shoulders and the collarbones is "the dry spot" on many, lacking in awareness. The teacher pointed out how opening this area can also change your mental outlook: make you feel more optimistic, open up your life and your ability to accept and love. As evidence she mentioned how hunched over people are depressed (or look depressed) and open people are (or are seen as) more optimistic and accepting. Richard Freeman, the head of the studio and the most famous yogi in Boulder, had once said that he thought the reason people remained closed in their chest was that they were afraid of ecstasy.
Okay, so that is theory number one: Opening the chest helps you be open to love and acceptance and enlightenment. As it seems to be that muscle, the muscle that helps me open my chest by pulling my shoulder blade, that I have injured, I guess this won't be my week for love and enlightenment.
Yoga did not cure the problem. Shoulder in fact hurt more afterwards and the bike ride home was difficult. When I get home, I take some homeopathic arnica and rub some arnica gel into the muscle.
The next day, my writing group meets at my house. A member of the group is a new-age oriented massage therapist and a life coach. I tell her I hurt my shoulder and she takes a look. She asks what I have been thinking about and what stresses I am holding in that part of my body. She does a quick massage. It feels better. I ask her if I should try to move it a certain way or avoid moving a certain way. “Change your thoughts,” she says. I ponder that. She asks when I am seeing my acupuncturist again. The answer is Sunday. "She can probably help," she says.
Theory number two: body is reacting to stresses, need to decrease stresses and the body will heal. Acupuncture may help.
The next day, after another sleepless night, shoulder is much worse. What thoughts am I thinking? How can I be open again? Every time I try to relax, there is a shooting pain through my shoulder and a spasm. Luckily I find I get relief if I hang upside down. Am worried it is not getting better. I wonder what to do besides taking anti-inflammatory painkillers and trying to relax.
I call the doctor, though I know they will likely help little and charge me a high co-pay to refer me to a physical therapist where I will have to pay another large co-pay. The nurse will call me back.
While dropping Rees at school in the morning I see his classmate's mother who is a physical therapist. I ask her what she thinks is up and what I should do. She says it sounds like the muscle is hurt and overly tense and that I should take a high dose of ibuprofen (specifically, 600mg, 4 x day) and get a sports massage to try to calm the spasming muscle down. She says the masseuse at her clinic is good and charges $1 a minute. That is cheaper than my co-pay.
Theory number three: muscle, for whatever reason, is tense and spasming. The pain is causing more tension and, in a vicious cycle, the tension is causing more pain. Need to convince muscle to calm down with anti-inflammatories and massage.
Doctor's office calls back. Their response is that they can do little, but I can take painkillers and anti-inflammatories and wait a week or two for the muscle to heal. I ask if massage might help. "Well, it might help as it will increase the blood flow to that area. It certainly won't hurt."
Theory number four: You've pulled a muscle. Nothing to be done, no do's or don'ts for movement, just painkillers and time. Massage might speed healing.
I make an appointment for the next day with sports massage therapist.
Next day shoulder feels a bit better. Was it the high doses of ibuprofen? The effort to relax and have positive thoughts? Time? Being upside down?
Massage therapist works the muscles. She doesn’t find a tear or much inflammation, but says it is in spasm. She thinks I have simply slept on my arm wrong. The change in the weather and having the window open can cause the muscles to do strange things she says. She tells me to drink lots of water for the next day or so to help rid my body of the lactic acid that she has released.
Theory number five: I slept with the window open as the weather changed which caused my muscles to tense and spasm. Massage will help relax the muscles and release the lactic acid and speed healing.
Next day (today) I feel sore but in a different way. I feel I am on the way to healing. Certainly it is easier to have positive thoughts if I am not in chronic pain.
Still, I wonder, what is the mind-body connection? What is it that yogis and healers know that doctors don't? What is it that physical therapists know that doctors and mind-body therapists don't? Each has its own detailed theory about cause and effect. And it is notable to me that the most scientific of these schools of thought is also the one that seems to have the least to offer. It sometimes seems that the more we know the less we know.
I await my acupuncture appointment on Sunday for the new theory there. Probably low spleen energy or something. Very interesting....this magnificent and mysterious body.
On Monday morning I woke up with a stiffness across my left shoulder blade. It had been a restless night and I must have slept on it funny. I felt I couldn't pull my shoulder blade back into my back. I had planned to go to yoga that morning, and thought that would help loosen it up over the day.
I cycled to yoga and before the class, in a pre-class what-do-I-do kind of moment, I clasped my hands behind my back and stretched the stiff spot. There was a crunch and a pop and I thought, "That has either cured me or injured me."
I was careful not to overextend that muscle, the one that holds in my shoulder blade, for the rest of class. Even when the teacher was talking about how that very muscle helps to open the chest and what that means for us and our mental state. Our culture, she said, hunched over computers etc., tends to have very closed upper chests. That space between the shoulders and the collarbones is "the dry spot" on many, lacking in awareness. The teacher pointed out how opening this area can also change your mental outlook: make you feel more optimistic, open up your life and your ability to accept and love. As evidence she mentioned how hunched over people are depressed (or look depressed) and open people are (or are seen as) more optimistic and accepting. Richard Freeman, the head of the studio and the most famous yogi in Boulder, had once said that he thought the reason people remained closed in their chest was that they were afraid of ecstasy.
Okay, so that is theory number one: Opening the chest helps you be open to love and acceptance and enlightenment. As it seems to be that muscle, the muscle that helps me open my chest by pulling my shoulder blade, that I have injured, I guess this won't be my week for love and enlightenment.
Yoga did not cure the problem. Shoulder in fact hurt more afterwards and the bike ride home was difficult. When I get home, I take some homeopathic arnica and rub some arnica gel into the muscle.
The next day, my writing group meets at my house. A member of the group is a new-age oriented massage therapist and a life coach. I tell her I hurt my shoulder and she takes a look. She asks what I have been thinking about and what stresses I am holding in that part of my body. She does a quick massage. It feels better. I ask her if I should try to move it a certain way or avoid moving a certain way. “Change your thoughts,” she says. I ponder that. She asks when I am seeing my acupuncturist again. The answer is Sunday. "She can probably help," she says.
Theory number two: body is reacting to stresses, need to decrease stresses and the body will heal. Acupuncture may help.
The next day, after another sleepless night, shoulder is much worse. What thoughts am I thinking? How can I be open again? Every time I try to relax, there is a shooting pain through my shoulder and a spasm. Luckily I find I get relief if I hang upside down. Am worried it is not getting better. I wonder what to do besides taking anti-inflammatory painkillers and trying to relax.
I call the doctor, though I know they will likely help little and charge me a high co-pay to refer me to a physical therapist where I will have to pay another large co-pay. The nurse will call me back.
While dropping Rees at school in the morning I see his classmate's mother who is a physical therapist. I ask her what she thinks is up and what I should do. She says it sounds like the muscle is hurt and overly tense and that I should take a high dose of ibuprofen (specifically, 600mg, 4 x day) and get a sports massage to try to calm the spasming muscle down. She says the masseuse at her clinic is good and charges $1 a minute. That is cheaper than my co-pay.
Theory number three: muscle, for whatever reason, is tense and spasming. The pain is causing more tension and, in a vicious cycle, the tension is causing more pain. Need to convince muscle to calm down with anti-inflammatories and massage.
Doctor's office calls back. Their response is that they can do little, but I can take painkillers and anti-inflammatories and wait a week or two for the muscle to heal. I ask if massage might help. "Well, it might help as it will increase the blood flow to that area. It certainly won't hurt."
Theory number four: You've pulled a muscle. Nothing to be done, no do's or don'ts for movement, just painkillers and time. Massage might speed healing.
I make an appointment for the next day with sports massage therapist.
Next day shoulder feels a bit better. Was it the high doses of ibuprofen? The effort to relax and have positive thoughts? Time? Being upside down?
Massage therapist works the muscles. She doesn’t find a tear or much inflammation, but says it is in spasm. She thinks I have simply slept on my arm wrong. The change in the weather and having the window open can cause the muscles to do strange things she says. She tells me to drink lots of water for the next day or so to help rid my body of the lactic acid that she has released.
Theory number five: I slept with the window open as the weather changed which caused my muscles to tense and spasm. Massage will help relax the muscles and release the lactic acid and speed healing.
Next day (today) I feel sore but in a different way. I feel I am on the way to healing. Certainly it is easier to have positive thoughts if I am not in chronic pain.
Still, I wonder, what is the mind-body connection? What is it that yogis and healers know that doctors don't? What is it that physical therapists know that doctors and mind-body therapists don't? Each has its own detailed theory about cause and effect. And it is notable to me that the most scientific of these schools of thought is also the one that seems to have the least to offer. It sometimes seems that the more we know the less we know.
I await my acupuncture appointment on Sunday for the new theory there. Probably low spleen energy or something. Very interesting....this magnificent and mysterious body.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The sad incident of the crawfish
Haven't written for a while for two reasons. First, Greg was out of town and I no longer had time to write in the evenings. Second, and perhaps most important, the kids have been obsessed by the computer game Civilization so are constantly on the computer. Even Kadin, who can't read, is interested in this very complicated game that simulates how civilizations evolve. He is illiterate, but amazingly, he can play it for hours and in the process he has invented the alphabet many times over. What is going on in that fascinating little brain of his?
Reason number one is all better now, Greg is back (yea!), but reason number two continues on as strong as ever. I will have to take more advantage of typing on my palm. So that was a bit of an update, the sad tale of the crawfish follows.
Last Saturday, while Greg was still away, the kids and I were invited to a “crawfish boil” put on by a friend from Kadin's preschool (who is originally from Louisiana). None of us eat shellfish: Rees being a self-delcared vegan (well, he does have milk on his cereal and will eat eggs if they are in something else, like banana bread), me because I do not like the taste, and Kadin because he is allergic to shrimp. In short, this did not seem like the most appropriate party we could attend. Still, I figured it would be a nice distraction, there would be lots of kids around, there would be other things to eat, and we would have fun in spite of the boiled crawfish.
The boys have always been interested in crabs and lobsters and such (speaking of which, I am not sure what exactly a crawfish is, and don’t know if it is the same as a crayfish or crawdads. I would imagine there are lots of different kinds of small edible crustaceans.) so I was a little worried what they would think. Boiling and eating such things would never occur to them and might be a bit traumatic for them. Nina, one of the people hosting the party, assured me that we didn't have to eat the crawfish and that some children had taken them home as pets the year before. I was hoping to avoid both possibilities: pets or meat.
The party was nice, outside in the back of a house bordering open space and the foothills. There were lots of friendly adults and lots of happy children. In a large basket there were thousands of crawfish, awesome red, mini-lobsters. They were alive and and looked extremely healthy and robust. Mike, the host, told me they were flown in from Baton Rouge that morning. I was impressed. I have never seen such a large of quantity of such healthy looking shellfish.
There was a kiddie pool and a water table set up where the children commenced playing with the doomed crawfish. I hadn't yet broken the news to the boys about their fate, but it looked like a while still before the meal began. Eventually I asked them if they knew what would happen to the crawfish. Then, when they looked at me with their innocent, wondering eyes I told them they would be boiled and eaten, "but we don't have to eat them." Their faces sink, but they have accepted it, I can see, brave and resigned.
Kadin eats a hot dog and I sample some of the excellent salads and then I feel it is time for us to make our move. Kadin's preschool teacher is coming to babysit while I have been invited out to the theater. Rees shows me "claw," his favorite crawfish. "Mama, he's the one with the biggest claws," he tells me. He has apparently become quite fond of him. They are buddies. I say my goodbyes and tell the boys it's time to go and Rees then pops the (inevitable) question, "Can we take him home?" Where to keep him, how to take care of him? I don't know. I tell him I will first go and ask Nina about the care and feeding of a crawfish as it would be sad to take him home if we can't provide for him. She assures me that the crawfish last year lived for months in a tub of muddy water out back. They like muddy water, she says, and then Mike tells me they eat dead grass. They live in the bayous of Louisiana, after all, not the most pristine environment. Well, it sounds simple enough, so who am I to say no. They look like ancient, indestructable, hearty creatures. Kadin wants one now too, so he picks one out as well and the boys carry them home in plastic cups. By the time we get home they have been christened "Claw" and "C-fish."
I then have about 15 minutes to house the crawfish and change for the theater before the babysitter arrives. We have a plastic garbage can filled with rain water, so I throw in a couple of chunks of old sod from the lawn (mud and dead grass in one), put on a skirt, stockings, and some make up, and head out. Rees and Kadin are thrilled with their new friends and play with the crawfish all evening and into the next day.
By the next night, Claw is not looking so good. Not so active. Hmmm. Maybe they sleep at night? I have disturbing dreams all night that Claw is slowly perishing a terrible death. It's a school morning, so the crawfish are forgotten and the boys head out to school. I see Nina at the preschool and tell her of my concern. She thinks maybe they need a place to be able to come out of the water. Oh no! I rush home and fish them out of the bottom of the can. Claw is not moving at all. Perhaps he has drowned, and now C-fish is seeming listless too. I put them on a rock in some shallow running water and watch and wait. No improvement. I call Nina again to see if she has any surplus crawfish at her house still. No luck. By lunchtime I am certain they are both dead.
Kadin is the first to come home and notice they are not moving. I tell him the sad news. He cries and cries. We talk about it and conclude that it was our first time and we didn't know how to properly take care of them. We break the news to Rees on his way home from school. He too is devastated. He can't believe it. I take him to see for himself. He sees it is true. More tears, more anguish.
I ask him what he would like to do with them. Would he like to bury them and have a ceremony? Would he like me to bury them? Should we throw them away? Leave them out for the raccoons? He says I should bury them, so I do.
I temper the news with the good news that we will get our kittens in two weeks (next weekend!). Still a long way off for the boys, but cats are something that was made to be a pet. Something furry and responsive that lives in a house. This is my plan to move away from bugs and lizards and crawfish. Not that it will work, but I feel I must try.
A couple of days after the demise of the crawfish, we are driving home at dinnertime past "Jazzy's Crab Shack." Standing out front is a person dressed in a red crustacean costume enticing hungry commuters in. The boys are engrossed in some petty argument in the back of the car and I am relieved that they will miss the waving crab person. But the light turns red and there is nothing to do but stop and wait. "Look Rees, look!" Kadin shouts, "a crawfish!" "I love that costume,” says Rees, "I want one." I did not enlighten them about the restaurant behind.
They truly did identify with those ancient crustaceans. It was very sweet while it lasted and very sad when it ended. Where did we go wrong?
Next week: the true and heart-warming story of tabby kittens Rex and Pearl! Stay tuned.
Postscript: a week after the crawfish were buried, I went to check their grave. As I suspected, they had been dug up and eaten. Somehow, for me, this is the appropriate end for them. I am glad they have gone back into the food chain. It seems nobler somehow.
Reason number one is all better now, Greg is back (yea!), but reason number two continues on as strong as ever. I will have to take more advantage of typing on my palm. So that was a bit of an update, the sad tale of the crawfish follows.
Last Saturday, while Greg was still away, the kids and I were invited to a “crawfish boil” put on by a friend from Kadin's preschool (who is originally from Louisiana). None of us eat shellfish: Rees being a self-delcared vegan (well, he does have milk on his cereal and will eat eggs if they are in something else, like banana bread), me because I do not like the taste, and Kadin because he is allergic to shrimp. In short, this did not seem like the most appropriate party we could attend. Still, I figured it would be a nice distraction, there would be lots of kids around, there would be other things to eat, and we would have fun in spite of the boiled crawfish.
The boys have always been interested in crabs and lobsters and such (speaking of which, I am not sure what exactly a crawfish is, and don’t know if it is the same as a crayfish or crawdads. I would imagine there are lots of different kinds of small edible crustaceans.) so I was a little worried what they would think. Boiling and eating such things would never occur to them and might be a bit traumatic for them. Nina, one of the people hosting the party, assured me that we didn't have to eat the crawfish and that some children had taken them home as pets the year before. I was hoping to avoid both possibilities: pets or meat.
The party was nice, outside in the back of a house bordering open space and the foothills. There were lots of friendly adults and lots of happy children. In a large basket there were thousands of crawfish, awesome red, mini-lobsters. They were alive and and looked extremely healthy and robust. Mike, the host, told me they were flown in from Baton Rouge that morning. I was impressed. I have never seen such a large of quantity of such healthy looking shellfish.
There was a kiddie pool and a water table set up where the children commenced playing with the doomed crawfish. I hadn't yet broken the news to the boys about their fate, but it looked like a while still before the meal began. Eventually I asked them if they knew what would happen to the crawfish. Then, when they looked at me with their innocent, wondering eyes I told them they would be boiled and eaten, "but we don't have to eat them." Their faces sink, but they have accepted it, I can see, brave and resigned.
Kadin eats a hot dog and I sample some of the excellent salads and then I feel it is time for us to make our move. Kadin's preschool teacher is coming to babysit while I have been invited out to the theater. Rees shows me "claw," his favorite crawfish. "Mama, he's the one with the biggest claws," he tells me. He has apparently become quite fond of him. They are buddies. I say my goodbyes and tell the boys it's time to go and Rees then pops the (inevitable) question, "Can we take him home?" Where to keep him, how to take care of him? I don't know. I tell him I will first go and ask Nina about the care and feeding of a crawfish as it would be sad to take him home if we can't provide for him. She assures me that the crawfish last year lived for months in a tub of muddy water out back. They like muddy water, she says, and then Mike tells me they eat dead grass. They live in the bayous of Louisiana, after all, not the most pristine environment. Well, it sounds simple enough, so who am I to say no. They look like ancient, indestructable, hearty creatures. Kadin wants one now too, so he picks one out as well and the boys carry them home in plastic cups. By the time we get home they have been christened "Claw" and "C-fish."
I then have about 15 minutes to house the crawfish and change for the theater before the babysitter arrives. We have a plastic garbage can filled with rain water, so I throw in a couple of chunks of old sod from the lawn (mud and dead grass in one), put on a skirt, stockings, and some make up, and head out. Rees and Kadin are thrilled with their new friends and play with the crawfish all evening and into the next day.
By the next night, Claw is not looking so good. Not so active. Hmmm. Maybe they sleep at night? I have disturbing dreams all night that Claw is slowly perishing a terrible death. It's a school morning, so the crawfish are forgotten and the boys head out to school. I see Nina at the preschool and tell her of my concern. She thinks maybe they need a place to be able to come out of the water. Oh no! I rush home and fish them out of the bottom of the can. Claw is not moving at all. Perhaps he has drowned, and now C-fish is seeming listless too. I put them on a rock in some shallow running water and watch and wait. No improvement. I call Nina again to see if she has any surplus crawfish at her house still. No luck. By lunchtime I am certain they are both dead.
Kadin is the first to come home and notice they are not moving. I tell him the sad news. He cries and cries. We talk about it and conclude that it was our first time and we didn't know how to properly take care of them. We break the news to Rees on his way home from school. He too is devastated. He can't believe it. I take him to see for himself. He sees it is true. More tears, more anguish.
I ask him what he would like to do with them. Would he like to bury them and have a ceremony? Would he like me to bury them? Should we throw them away? Leave them out for the raccoons? He says I should bury them, so I do.
I temper the news with the good news that we will get our kittens in two weeks (next weekend!). Still a long way off for the boys, but cats are something that was made to be a pet. Something furry and responsive that lives in a house. This is my plan to move away from bugs and lizards and crawfish. Not that it will work, but I feel I must try.
A couple of days after the demise of the crawfish, we are driving home at dinnertime past "Jazzy's Crab Shack." Standing out front is a person dressed in a red crustacean costume enticing hungry commuters in. The boys are engrossed in some petty argument in the back of the car and I am relieved that they will miss the waving crab person. But the light turns red and there is nothing to do but stop and wait. "Look Rees, look!" Kadin shouts, "a crawfish!" "I love that costume,” says Rees, "I want one." I did not enlighten them about the restaurant behind.
They truly did identify with those ancient crustaceans. It was very sweet while it lasted and very sad when it ended. Where did we go wrong?
Next week: the true and heart-warming story of tabby kittens Rex and Pearl! Stay tuned.
Postscript: a week after the crawfish were buried, I went to check their grave. As I suspected, they had been dug up and eaten. Somehow, for me, this is the appropriate end for them. I am glad they have gone back into the food chain. It seems nobler somehow.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
PROJECT: Pebbles
Use: to clean hard-to-clean bottles and line a soap dish.
To clean a narrow-necked bottle, pour some marbles, ball bearings, or small pebbles into the bottle and swish them around with soap and water. The marbles/pebbles will do the scrubbing that your hand can't. I first thought of this when I saw an ad for little stainless steel ball bearings that were designed specifically for this purpose. Why buy something specifically for one purpose only if you can use something you already have around and use somewhere else?
For example, I made a soap dish out of a small shallow tray that I filled with loose, rounded pebbles. It works great as a soap dish and looks nice. When I have a bottle to clean out or when it is time to clean out the soap dish, I just swish the pebbles around in the bottom of the bottle with some hot water. Everything comes out squeaky clean, and I've killed two birds with one stone (so to speak).
To clean a narrow-necked bottle, pour some marbles, ball bearings, or small pebbles into the bottle and swish them around with soap and water. The marbles/pebbles will do the scrubbing that your hand can't. I first thought of this when I saw an ad for little stainless steel ball bearings that were designed specifically for this purpose. Why buy something specifically for one purpose only if you can use something you already have around and use somewhere else?
For example, I made a soap dish out of a small shallow tray that I filled with loose, rounded pebbles. It works great as a soap dish and looks nice. When I have a bottle to clean out or when it is time to clean out the soap dish, I just swish the pebbles around in the bottom of the bottle with some hot water. Everything comes out squeaky clean, and I've killed two birds with one stone (so to speak).
Friday, May 13, 2005
What we had for dinner last night: Calzones
I have discovered that Rees is more likely to eat something if he can't see it. Hence the success of samosas. He won't eat potato curry, but he will if it is in a samosa. And he is not fond of my homemade pizza, but he loves calzones. Greg is away, and as I mentioned, cooking for the boys alone is less than rewarding, but Rees requested calzones last night and it worked out great.
Calzone/pizza tips include keeping the dough very moist. Yes, this makes it sticky and difficult to knead and shape, but instead of adding flour to keep it from sticking, I just rub my hands and the surface I am working on with olive oil. Not totally perfect, but certainly helps a lot and makes it maganageable and delicious.
My favorite pizza/calzone dough is regular pizza dough with a bit of rye flour in it. In England we could get some special pre-mixed kind of flour for bread that had sprouted rye in it (or rye in some form) that was especially fantastic for dough. Rye adds a nice flavor but don't overdo it, a little goes a long way. I also add a quarter cup or so of all kinds of other things to a usual pizza dough recipie (decrease flour by same amount) to boost nutrition and flavor: soy flour, ground flax seeds, wheat germ, corn meal, etc. This nutritious super-dough is a hit around here.
It took me about 10 minutes early in the afternoon to mix up the dough before I left to get Rees at school. (Made a fun snack after school.) Then it took another 10 or 15 minutes in the evening while the oven was preheating to shape and fill them. Half-an-hour of baking later, with maybe a salad or other side dish added, wah-lah, we have dinner!
Fill calzones with whatever you'd like or have around, from simple tomato sauce and cheese to artichoke hearts, olives, spinach, and feta. Good as leftovers too and easy to take with you for a snack or picnic.
Come to think of it, the he'll-eat-it-if-he-can't-see-it doesn't work so well with burritos or quesadillas, but perhaps that will change.
Calzone/pizza tips include keeping the dough very moist. Yes, this makes it sticky and difficult to knead and shape, but instead of adding flour to keep it from sticking, I just rub my hands and the surface I am working on with olive oil. Not totally perfect, but certainly helps a lot and makes it maganageable and delicious.
My favorite pizza/calzone dough is regular pizza dough with a bit of rye flour in it. In England we could get some special pre-mixed kind of flour for bread that had sprouted rye in it (or rye in some form) that was especially fantastic for dough. Rye adds a nice flavor but don't overdo it, a little goes a long way. I also add a quarter cup or so of all kinds of other things to a usual pizza dough recipie (decrease flour by same amount) to boost nutrition and flavor: soy flour, ground flax seeds, wheat germ, corn meal, etc. This nutritious super-dough is a hit around here.
It took me about 10 minutes early in the afternoon to mix up the dough before I left to get Rees at school. (Made a fun snack after school.) Then it took another 10 or 15 minutes in the evening while the oven was preheating to shape and fill them. Half-an-hour of baking later, with maybe a salad or other side dish added, wah-lah, we have dinner!
Fill calzones with whatever you'd like or have around, from simple tomato sauce and cheese to artichoke hearts, olives, spinach, and feta. Good as leftovers too and easy to take with you for a snack or picnic.
Come to think of it, the he'll-eat-it-if-he-can't-see-it doesn't work so well with burritos or quesadillas, but perhaps that will change.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Low expectations rewarded
I had zero expectations for Mother's Day. In fact, I was kind of dreading it. Last year Greg was in Italy and I was driving with the two boys from Colorado to Ohio. When I found myself having lunch at a Burger King play area somewhere in middle of Illinois, I realized this was not my idea of the perfect Mother's Day brunch. Luckily there was another mom there with her two young kids. They were driving from Iowa to Michigan. We laughed at our circumstances and exchanged tips for traveling with kids in the car. Maybe not the ideal situation for the day, but a good time was had by all.
This year, Greg was in Italy again. I had images of everyone else getting cards and flowers and being taken out to eat at festive places. That would not happen here, I knew, unless I arranged it and supervised it. I figured we'd just have a normal, mellow Sunday, me and the boys. The usual squabbles, the usual accidents, the usual messes made, maybe do some gardening, jump on the trampoline a bit, pick up a few groceries or get a video if we needed to get out. I'd be nice to myself, but mostly just ignore the holiday. I agreed with a humorous piece I'd recently read that started, "Mother's Day, yeah right, as if a mother could ever really get a break for a whole day…" It’s a tease, one of those holidays that builds up expectations that can never be met, like Valentine’s Day, more annoying than fun in the end, a capitalist exploitation of love. I did have to laugh, though, at the commentator on Weekend Edition who said (to those with mothers who usually cook for them), "If you expect to be fed on Mother's Day, you WILL be disappointed." But of course I would feed the boys, as I always do. It is truly unrewarding to cook for them, but I would do it.
So I was surprised when on Sunday morning I heard the kids wake up and I heard Kadin immediately whisper to Rees, "Rees, it's Mother's Day!" Wow, how did he remember that? The boys came into my room and gave me big hugs and told me how much they loved me. That was just the sweetest, made all the sweeter because I knew they didn't have anyone coaching them in what to say and do.
Then at breakfast Kadin gave me a small green package. On the card he had laboriously written: Happy Mother's Day, I Love You, Kadin. Inside was a candleholder he had made at preschool (but he wouldn't let me light the candle).
Rees gave me a decorated envelope and inside was a book of poetry that he had written at school. [I had seen the envelopes when they came home on Friday, and let me just tell you that if you had a girl, your envelope was decorated with colorful tissue paper flowers and such, but I have a boy so mine was decorated with an interesting drawing that looked like some sort of devil creature, but a smiling devil creature. There is some truth to that snips and snails thing! Boy poetry follows.]
Still, I loved it. It was so refreshingly genuine and innocent for them, not corrupted by commercialism or expectations (only slight prompting by their teachers at school---thank you teachers!). We had a really nice day in the end and didn't even make it to the grocery store (phew!). The big outing turned out to be a long walk where we collected bugs then ran a mile on the highschool track. Boys are truly fascinating. Here are a couple of Rees' poems:
I am
by Rees
I am a loyal friend.
I am a good runner.
I am a human.
I am happy.
I am a Star Wars fan.
I am a boy.
I am a reader.
I am a thorny devil expert.
I am Rees.
I am a spy.
I am me!
Let's think
What should we do? asked the Juboo.
Let's write, said the knight.
No, we should walk, said the clock.
We'll sing a tune, demanded the goon.
We'll do all, said the ball.
With what? said the hut.
Ugg, groaned the bug.
We will not! screamed the pot.
I agree with ball, said the wall.
This year, Greg was in Italy again. I had images of everyone else getting cards and flowers and being taken out to eat at festive places. That would not happen here, I knew, unless I arranged it and supervised it. I figured we'd just have a normal, mellow Sunday, me and the boys. The usual squabbles, the usual accidents, the usual messes made, maybe do some gardening, jump on the trampoline a bit, pick up a few groceries or get a video if we needed to get out. I'd be nice to myself, but mostly just ignore the holiday. I agreed with a humorous piece I'd recently read that started, "Mother's Day, yeah right, as if a mother could ever really get a break for a whole day…" It’s a tease, one of those holidays that builds up expectations that can never be met, like Valentine’s Day, more annoying than fun in the end, a capitalist exploitation of love. I did have to laugh, though, at the commentator on Weekend Edition who said (to those with mothers who usually cook for them), "If you expect to be fed on Mother's Day, you WILL be disappointed." But of course I would feed the boys, as I always do. It is truly unrewarding to cook for them, but I would do it.
So I was surprised when on Sunday morning I heard the kids wake up and I heard Kadin immediately whisper to Rees, "Rees, it's Mother's Day!" Wow, how did he remember that? The boys came into my room and gave me big hugs and told me how much they loved me. That was just the sweetest, made all the sweeter because I knew they didn't have anyone coaching them in what to say and do.
Then at breakfast Kadin gave me a small green package. On the card he had laboriously written: Happy Mother's Day, I Love You, Kadin. Inside was a candleholder he had made at preschool (but he wouldn't let me light the candle).
Rees gave me a decorated envelope and inside was a book of poetry that he had written at school. [I had seen the envelopes when they came home on Friday, and let me just tell you that if you had a girl, your envelope was decorated with colorful tissue paper flowers and such, but I have a boy so mine was decorated with an interesting drawing that looked like some sort of devil creature, but a smiling devil creature. There is some truth to that snips and snails thing! Boy poetry follows.]
Still, I loved it. It was so refreshingly genuine and innocent for them, not corrupted by commercialism or expectations (only slight prompting by their teachers at school---thank you teachers!). We had a really nice day in the end and didn't even make it to the grocery store (phew!). The big outing turned out to be a long walk where we collected bugs then ran a mile on the highschool track. Boys are truly fascinating. Here are a couple of Rees' poems:
I am
by Rees
I am a loyal friend.
I am a good runner.
I am a human.
I am happy.
I am a Star Wars fan.
I am a boy.
I am a reader.
I am a thorny devil expert.
I am Rees.
I am a spy.
I am me!
Let's think
What should we do? asked the Juboo.
Let's write, said the knight.
No, we should walk, said the clock.
We'll sing a tune, demanded the goon.
We'll do all, said the ball.
With what? said the hut.
Ugg, groaned the bug.
We will not! screamed the pot.
I agree with ball, said the wall.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Birdsong á la Gary Larson
Came across cartoonist Gary Larson’s book There’s a Hair in My Dirt! A Worm’s Story today in the boy’s room and it made me think again about what it would be like if I spoke bird. Here’s Larson’s take on birdsong as narrated by Father Worm (and need I say Father Worm does not have a very charitable view of birds?):
Harriet [human character] then heard a magical sound from the canopy of trees above. “Oh!” she cried skyward. “Listen to the songs of those happy, happy birds!”
“Yew, taw-kin tu mee? Taw-kin tu mee?”
“Git owda heer, buh-dee…git owda heer, buh-dee.”
“Yew en whut ar-mee…yew en whut ar-mee.”
Well, if those birds were happy, may the garden gods cut me in half with a rusty shovel! Birds sing to communicate, and what they were communicating was mostly an array of insults, warnings, and come-ons to members of their own species. (In fact, all baby birds are taught by their parents not to even smile, or their beaks will crack.)
That really clarifies what is going on in our backyard right now. It is a jungle out there I tell you. Thanks to Kate and Bart for introducing us to this funny, irreverant book about the science behind nature. Let’s just say that in this book (unlike others we own), the mama bee is not singing her baby bee to sleep. The foreword is by Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson and it’s worth a read.
Harriet [human character] then heard a magical sound from the canopy of trees above. “Oh!” she cried skyward. “Listen to the songs of those happy, happy birds!”
“Yew, taw-kin tu mee? Taw-kin tu mee?”
“Git owda heer, buh-dee…git owda heer, buh-dee.”
“Yew en whut ar-mee…yew en whut ar-mee.”
Well, if those birds were happy, may the garden gods cut me in half with a rusty shovel! Birds sing to communicate, and what they were communicating was mostly an array of insults, warnings, and come-ons to members of their own species. (In fact, all baby birds are taught by their parents not to even smile, or their beaks will crack.)
That really clarifies what is going on in our backyard right now. It is a jungle out there I tell you. Thanks to Kate and Bart for introducing us to this funny, irreverant book about the science behind nature. Let’s just say that in this book (unlike others we own), the mama bee is not singing her baby bee to sleep. The foreword is by Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson and it’s worth a read.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Birds
I wanted to do a post about birds, and since I was going to have the oil changed in the car, I took The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America along with me. Then I left it in the car, so had to go and ask for it back while I was sitting and waiting. "What are you reading?" the man asked. "Uh, The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America," I reply lamely, thinking it is not much of a conversation starter. Not like the latest novel.
Car was done sooner than I thought, but when I went to pay the cashier, she said, "Are you a birder?" "No," I said, "I am just interested in all the black birds around right now.” She proceeded to tell me about her recent trip to Texas and how cool the grackles were. How they made really interesting sounds and made loud noises with their wing feathers and different noises with their tails feathers. She said she got really into watching them and told me where to see grackles in a park outside of San Antonio in a town called Castroville (can't remember exact name).
In addition to finding out that a field guide to birds can in fact be a conversation starter, here is what I have learned from my morning's study of birds that are shiny, iridescent, and black but not necessarily blackbirds.
First, I have to report the sad news that the flickers (read the whole saga starting with this link) have been usurped. Haven't seen them for a couple of weeks. Instead, starlings occupy their house. Starlings are the super common black-colored birds with the yellow beaks. Starlings must be very tough. They were introduced from Europe in the late 1800s and now have spread everywhere in North America and are very common wherever people live. (I remember learning in graduate school that the European Starling was introduced by a group of Victorians who wanted to import to America every bird mentioned in Shakespeare. If the introduction of the starling was intentional, it was a big mistake.) Anyway, starlings, like many of the species introduced from Europe, seem to be an invasive weed species, very aggresive, that thrives on disturbance.
I personally found the flickers to be formidable birds, large (12.5in), with long, powerful beaks. I would certainly back down if one pointed its beak at me. I saw what it could do to our siding. But apparently the starlings, though smaller, are even more formidable. They seem to have been aggressive enough to intimidate the flicker. I read in Sibley's that starlings also have powerful beaks but use them in a very different way from the flicker. "Starlings have a straight tapered bill, which they force into soil or vegetation and open with powerful muscles, creating a hole and exposing prey." Sounds like a pretty effective weapon to me.
According to my field guide, the starling is "distinguished from all other birds by shape and habits." I, for one, confuse them easily with blackbirds, except that they have a yellow bill. Now that I have studied the field guide, I also see that starlings have a short, square tail and pointed wings. The blackbirds that we also have in large numbers around here have black bills and longer, rounder tails and wings. Blackbirds are also apparently less aggressive, evidenced by who is occupying the bird house.
Also looking like blackbirds are grackles. I learned that the great-tailed grackle is "common and increasing" while the common grackle is "uncommon." Go figure. (By comparison, the flicker, the blackbird, and the starling are all "common and widespread.") The great-tailed grackle is also a pretty large bird, 15-18in long, (the blackbird and starling 8-9in). And the cashier at the car place was right, grackles live mostly south of here.
Now for their calls. I became fascinated with the description of their calls in the bird book. I find bird calls very difficult to describe. To me, the blackbird call is a sort of harsh call that sounds like a combination of breaking glass and a high-pitched squeaky wheel. But the bird book says of the blackbird, “Song a short, high, crackling t-kzzzz or t-zherrr with buzzy end. Flight call a hard dry ket." That would be four z's in t-kzzzz and three r's in t-zherrr.
In contrast, the starling's song is described as, "relatively quiet and disjointed: a mushy, gurgling, hissing chatter with high sliding whistles; often includes imitations of other birds' calls. Common call a harsh chatter. Flight call a muffled dry wrrsh." That would be two r’s, this time, in wrrsh.
But the grackles have the most interesting description of all. No relativism here. It is pure human bias. The great-tailed grackle’s song is "a series of loud unpleasant noises: mechanical rattles, sliding tinny whistles, harsh rustling sounds, and sharp hard notes. Flight call a low hard chuk or kuk." Not a flattering sentence or phrase to be found in that description. The common grackle doesn't fair much better and has an "unmusical harsh kh-sheee or khr-rezzh. Calls include short, harsh, toneless, wheezy notes. Flight call a low dry kek deeper than blackbirds." I don't speak bird (and I certainly wouldn't be able to spell it), but if I did, I'm not sure it would be fair to characterize a particular accent as unpleasant, mechanical, tinny, toneless, or unmusical. It is probably quite attractive and pleasant to grackles everywhere.
It is true, though, that birds sound different in different areas. In England they all sounded so sonorous and beautiful to me. In New England they were slightly less beautiful sounding, but still pleasant. The farther west you go, the harsher sounding the birds seem to become. Maybe this has to do with climate. It seems the sounds of the birds go with the harsh, leathery, thorny, and weedy-looking vegetation where water is scarce. It is not rounded and lush like the vegetation in England or New England where the birdcalls are also rounded and lush.
Anyway, from the description in Sibley's, I was thinking that the grackle was not a very pleasant bird. Certainly not the kind of bird you would want as a neighbor. I was glad that the cashier told me otherwise. Sibley's also did not mention the way they apparently communicate with their feathers. Now I am curious to see and hear one of these large, rumored-to-be-tuneless birds.
So there you have it. Don't bother to get the latest recording of any of these birds, but now you might be able to tell them apart and figure out whose harsh call is whose. In short, the news from here this spring is: flickers out, starlings in, blackbirds all around, and grackle yet to come.
Update 5/14: Starlings now have babies. Mom and dad are flying back and forth often and we can hear the babies' needy chorus at each arrival and departure.
Car was done sooner than I thought, but when I went to pay the cashier, she said, "Are you a birder?" "No," I said, "I am just interested in all the black birds around right now.” She proceeded to tell me about her recent trip to Texas and how cool the grackles were. How they made really interesting sounds and made loud noises with their wing feathers and different noises with their tails feathers. She said she got really into watching them and told me where to see grackles in a park outside of San Antonio in a town called Castroville (can't remember exact name).
In addition to finding out that a field guide to birds can in fact be a conversation starter, here is what I have learned from my morning's study of birds that are shiny, iridescent, and black but not necessarily blackbirds.
First, I have to report the sad news that the flickers (read the whole saga starting with this link) have been usurped. Haven't seen them for a couple of weeks. Instead, starlings occupy their house. Starlings are the super common black-colored birds with the yellow beaks. Starlings must be very tough. They were introduced from Europe in the late 1800s and now have spread everywhere in North America and are very common wherever people live. (I remember learning in graduate school that the European Starling was introduced by a group of Victorians who wanted to import to America every bird mentioned in Shakespeare. If the introduction of the starling was intentional, it was a big mistake.) Anyway, starlings, like many of the species introduced from Europe, seem to be an invasive weed species, very aggresive, that thrives on disturbance.
I personally found the flickers to be formidable birds, large (12.5in), with long, powerful beaks. I would certainly back down if one pointed its beak at me. I saw what it could do to our siding. But apparently the starlings, though smaller, are even more formidable. They seem to have been aggressive enough to intimidate the flicker. I read in Sibley's that starlings also have powerful beaks but use them in a very different way from the flicker. "Starlings have a straight tapered bill, which they force into soil or vegetation and open with powerful muscles, creating a hole and exposing prey." Sounds like a pretty effective weapon to me.
According to my field guide, the starling is "distinguished from all other birds by shape and habits." I, for one, confuse them easily with blackbirds, except that they have a yellow bill. Now that I have studied the field guide, I also see that starlings have a short, square tail and pointed wings. The blackbirds that we also have in large numbers around here have black bills and longer, rounder tails and wings. Blackbirds are also apparently less aggressive, evidenced by who is occupying the bird house.
Also looking like blackbirds are grackles. I learned that the great-tailed grackle is "common and increasing" while the common grackle is "uncommon." Go figure. (By comparison, the flicker, the blackbird, and the starling are all "common and widespread.") The great-tailed grackle is also a pretty large bird, 15-18in long, (the blackbird and starling 8-9in). And the cashier at the car place was right, grackles live mostly south of here.
Now for their calls. I became fascinated with the description of their calls in the bird book. I find bird calls very difficult to describe. To me, the blackbird call is a sort of harsh call that sounds like a combination of breaking glass and a high-pitched squeaky wheel. But the bird book says of the blackbird, “Song a short, high, crackling t-kzzzz or t-zherrr with buzzy end. Flight call a hard dry ket." That would be four z's in t-kzzzz and three r's in t-zherrr.
In contrast, the starling's song is described as, "relatively quiet and disjointed: a mushy, gurgling, hissing chatter with high sliding whistles; often includes imitations of other birds' calls. Common call a harsh chatter. Flight call a muffled dry wrrsh." That would be two r’s, this time, in wrrsh.
But the grackles have the most interesting description of all. No relativism here. It is pure human bias. The great-tailed grackle’s song is "a series of loud unpleasant noises: mechanical rattles, sliding tinny whistles, harsh rustling sounds, and sharp hard notes. Flight call a low hard chuk or kuk." Not a flattering sentence or phrase to be found in that description. The common grackle doesn't fair much better and has an "unmusical harsh kh-sheee or khr-rezzh. Calls include short, harsh, toneless, wheezy notes. Flight call a low dry kek deeper than blackbirds." I don't speak bird (and I certainly wouldn't be able to spell it), but if I did, I'm not sure it would be fair to characterize a particular accent as unpleasant, mechanical, tinny, toneless, or unmusical. It is probably quite attractive and pleasant to grackles everywhere.
It is true, though, that birds sound different in different areas. In England they all sounded so sonorous and beautiful to me. In New England they were slightly less beautiful sounding, but still pleasant. The farther west you go, the harsher sounding the birds seem to become. Maybe this has to do with climate. It seems the sounds of the birds go with the harsh, leathery, thorny, and weedy-looking vegetation where water is scarce. It is not rounded and lush like the vegetation in England or New England where the birdcalls are also rounded and lush.
Anyway, from the description in Sibley's, I was thinking that the grackle was not a very pleasant bird. Certainly not the kind of bird you would want as a neighbor. I was glad that the cashier told me otherwise. Sibley's also did not mention the way they apparently communicate with their feathers. Now I am curious to see and hear one of these large, rumored-to-be-tuneless birds.
So there you have it. Don't bother to get the latest recording of any of these birds, but now you might be able to tell them apart and figure out whose harsh call is whose. In short, the news from here this spring is: flickers out, starlings in, blackbirds all around, and grackle yet to come.
Update 5/14: Starlings now have babies. Mom and dad are flying back and forth often and we can hear the babies' needy chorus at each arrival and departure.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
All back to normal now
Beautiful sunny morning with the sound of running water everywhere as the snow disappears. Grass is green, flowers are blooming once again. Ahhh, sweet relief. Sunny, warm morning followed by a cloudy afternoon with a chance for rain. That is more like it.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Colorado weather
Before we moved here, I was concerned about the weather in Colorado. I wondered if it would suffer that most horrible of continental weather patterns where everything is too extreme. I was told that it is actually fine. There are 300 sunny days a year in Boulder. I was told, “If you don’t like the weather, wait 5 minutes.” And up until now, I have found this to be pretty accurate. Variety seems to be the rule here. Extremes, yes, but also variety, so that any one extreme just doesn’t seem that bad because you know it will go away soon. Just as one weather pattern starts to get you down, relief comes. And the vast majority of the time (300 days a year), the weather is great.
And that is why it is so strange that now, at the beginning of May, it has been SNOWING for 5 DAYS. Yes, right in the middle of spring, 5 days of snow. It’s unreal. It is not so odd that we have snow in May, just extremely unusual that we have the same weather for 5 days in a row. In winter, if it snows for more than 48 hours people start to get antsy and wonder what it is up. But now we have been waiting 5 days and things are not changing.
Spring was here. All the flowers and the pollinators were blooming and busy and now that has come to a screeching cold halt. And not just for a little blip, but going on a week now. Actually, I am starting to get used to it, and not waiting for the inevitable change anymore. I’m remembering that sort of resignation to bad weather that I used to manage just fine.
And that is why it is so strange that now, at the beginning of May, it has been SNOWING for 5 DAYS. Yes, right in the middle of spring, 5 days of snow. It’s unreal. It is not so odd that we have snow in May, just extremely unusual that we have the same weather for 5 days in a row. In winter, if it snows for more than 48 hours people start to get antsy and wonder what it is up. But now we have been waiting 5 days and things are not changing.
Spring was here. All the flowers and the pollinators were blooming and busy and now that has come to a screeching cold halt. And not just for a little blip, but going on a week now. Actually, I am starting to get used to it, and not waiting for the inevitable change anymore. I’m remembering that sort of resignation to bad weather that I used to manage just fine.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
PROJECT: Wallet info
Every now and then, I like to take the contents of my wallet and photocopy it. I put the copy in a safe place. Then I have a record not only of what is in my wallet (if it ever gets lost or stolen) but also of how the contents of my wallet change over time. It is surprisingly fun to look back at these old photocopies of IDs and membership cards, debit and credit cards. Though mundane in some ways, they tell a story of where I was and what I was doing, and even what I looked like. A slice of time preserved. Try it, you might like it.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Mama the leader
It’s been a long week and Kadin, in particular, has been going through a difficult, inert phase. The days are mind numbingly predictable and go something like this:
“Kadin, it’s time to get up!”
“I don’t want to get up!”
“Kadin, it’s time to get dressed.”
“I don’t want to get dressed!”
“Time to have breakfast.”
“Noooooo, I don’t want to have breakfast!”
“It’s time to go to school.”
“I don’t want to go to school! I hate school!”
“It’s time to go home.”
“I don’t want to go home! I want to stay here!”
“It time to have lunch.”
“I don’t want any lunch, I’m not hungry!”
“It’s time to get Rees.”
“I don’t want to get Rees! Not now!”
“It’s time for dinner.”
“I don’t want to have dinner. I’m not having any!”
“It’s time to brush your teeth.”
“I don’t want to go to bed!”
“It’s time to put on your pajamas.”
“I don’t want to go to bed!”
“It’s time to pick a story.”
“I said, I DON’T want to go to bed!”
All this is interspersed with odd requests like, “I want to open the door backwards,” or “no, I go first” or, if he goes first, “no, you go first” etc. etc. And if he doesn’t get his way, there is a big dramatic show, and if he does get his way, the requests become even more complicated and bizarre. Nothing is done without resistance, nothing is straightforward or easy.
Tonight, we get home late from an event at his school, an event he had been looking forward to for weeks, but then when we get there, he pipes up, “I don’t want to go.” That’s typical so of course we stay and have a nice time. Aunt Felicity is there too and comes home with us after to sit by the fire (it snowed about 10 inches last night so we were in the mood to be warm and cozy). It’s late, but I’m in the kitchen getting some dinner for Rees (who was too distracted to eat at the event), some desert for Kadin (who wants chocolate and vanilla ice cream in particular proportions), and some popcorn and drinks for Greg and Felicity.
Kadin is sitting at the kitchen table watching all this and says, “Mama, you’re the leader, Mamas are the leaders.”
“You got that right, kid,” I say, then add, “So Kadin, if Mama is the leader, who are the followers?”
He thinks for a minute, then shouts, “Nobody!”
Oh well, he’s got that right too.
“Kadin, it’s time to get up!”
“I don’t want to get up!”
“Kadin, it’s time to get dressed.”
“I don’t want to get dressed!”
“Time to have breakfast.”
“Noooooo, I don’t want to have breakfast!”
“It’s time to go to school.”
“I don’t want to go to school! I hate school!”
“It’s time to go home.”
“I don’t want to go home! I want to stay here!”
“It time to have lunch.”
“I don’t want any lunch, I’m not hungry!”
“It’s time to get Rees.”
“I don’t want to get Rees! Not now!”
“It’s time for dinner.”
“I don’t want to have dinner. I’m not having any!”
“It’s time to brush your teeth.”
“I don’t want to go to bed!”
“It’s time to put on your pajamas.”
“I don’t want to go to bed!”
“It’s time to pick a story.”
“I said, I DON’T want to go to bed!”
All this is interspersed with odd requests like, “I want to open the door backwards,” or “no, I go first” or, if he goes first, “no, you go first” etc. etc. And if he doesn’t get his way, there is a big dramatic show, and if he does get his way, the requests become even more complicated and bizarre. Nothing is done without resistance, nothing is straightforward or easy.
Tonight, we get home late from an event at his school, an event he had been looking forward to for weeks, but then when we get there, he pipes up, “I don’t want to go.” That’s typical so of course we stay and have a nice time. Aunt Felicity is there too and comes home with us after to sit by the fire (it snowed about 10 inches last night so we were in the mood to be warm and cozy). It’s late, but I’m in the kitchen getting some dinner for Rees (who was too distracted to eat at the event), some desert for Kadin (who wants chocolate and vanilla ice cream in particular proportions), and some popcorn and drinks for Greg and Felicity.
Kadin is sitting at the kitchen table watching all this and says, “Mama, you’re the leader, Mamas are the leaders.”
“You got that right, kid,” I say, then add, “So Kadin, if Mama is the leader, who are the followers?”
He thinks for a minute, then shouts, “Nobody!”
Oh well, he’s got that right too.
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