Skullduggery

Good Morning America No Scam

2012-02-02T07:09:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I posted a complaint about a phone interview marketing ploy ostensibly conducted by Good Morning America. Shortly later I learned that though the name "Good Morning America" was associated with the call, the actual name of the organization may have been only similar--"Good Morning in America," or "Today, America." My apologies for acting too quickly. Dangerous practice. If it turns out that GMA is was the actual caller, then up goes the post again.

Steven Tyler's National Anthem Was Fine

2012-01-24T09:26:00.000-06:00

I thought Tyler was great. What he did far surpassed what he didn't do. He sang the National Anthem his way, reached the high notes his way, wasn't derogatory in any mannerism or tone. He was Steven Tyler singing the National Anthem. He made one error--said "as" instead of "the" in one spot. Tiny, tiny mistake. God Bless Him.

Groundhogs Can Climb

2012-01-17T18:14:00.000-06:00

Until about five years ago, I believed groundhogs were truly ground animals. They tunneled (or burrowed) under houses, creating great animosity in some of my neighbors, who called the animal shelter gentleman and had the nuisances caught in a live trap and transported to another property. Sometimes the animal control gent couldn't catch them. One afternoon I watched a mother and two pups climb a mulberry tree to the east of my house. They did so easily. They stayed up there for quite awhile and then came down easily. I think they ate berries, though I didn't see that. Now I live where I have no groundhogs, just teasing squirrels and quarreling, singing, and busy, busy birds, and a snake and few toads in warm weather. It's a nice neighborhood but not quite as mixed.

Photo of a Ghost?

2012-01-11T16:59:00.002-06:00

I took this photo a few years ago, and asked a friend to explain what showed up. He said the ghostly image was simply the camera's flash against moisture in the air. The original photo was rotated 50 degrees to the left, so the creature (?) was horizontal. Either way, it looks like something other than light on moisture to me.

Grateful for Steve Job's "Oh Wow!"

2012-01-03T13:24:00.001-06:00

I admired Steve Jobs, and am very grateful for his last words. I hope the report of them is accurate:"Oh Wow! Oh Wow. Oh Wow." That's what I want the passing to be for each of us. His words are both comforting and exciting.

Birds Dying Again; Again a New Year

2012-01-02T23:42:00.001-06:00

Today's paper had a small sidebar note that 200 blackbirds had died from the shock of a New Year's celebration noise--firecrackers, I believe. That strikes me as sad in two ways:that they died from fear, and that such deaths aren't uncommon. Admittedly, I preferred thinking mass deaths resulted from a grand cause. I keep trying to ascribe a grand cause to most things.

A Fiction Writer in the Natural World

2011-12-15T08:41:00.001-06:00

Today’s paper reports that thousands of birds crashed to the ground in Utah. The reason given is that they mistook snow-covered parking lots and fields for water. The incident sounds very similar to the mass bird deaths in Arkansas and Louisiana almost a year ago. Those deaths were attributed to loud noises that frightened and disoriented the birds. But masses of fish died during the same period. Maybe these are natural events that we know about only because news reporting is so quick and widespread now. The explanations, though, don’t seem adequate to the questions. I wonder what noises? What would affect fish and fowl in the same way within a short time period? Why would birds mistake snow for water? Do these incidents happen frequently? Are they so common to our natural world that cases show up in folklore? I don’t recall stories about mass deaths of creatures, except rats leaving a sink ship, and lemmings going over a cliff.

In the same newspaper is a brief article about two self-professed witches being arrested in Romania (for very human crimes like blackmail) and another about the truly tragic and bizarre death of a woman whose dress became caught in an elevator door.

With just a cursory read of one page, not the headline articles, I have the strong feeling of the world as a crazy, frightening—even if sometimes wonderful and magical—place. Events of moment are occurring constantly. It’s difficult then to think of ironing or buying groceries or counting calories. When I jump at sounds or peek around doors or expect something like a skateboard to come flying up the sidewalk, I feel very realistic, just part of the natural world, and on the lookout.

Cats and Frogs (and other prey); To the Rescue

2011-06-28T10:09:00.001-05:00

This is a message to my creature-loving friend, Chanda, describing why I had to break off our phone conversation and run for my cats Pearly and Twitch:
THEY had a little mouse between them, maybe 1 ½ inches long. I got it before and between my feet and edged it to a big plant by a tree trunk, keeping the two cats behind me and to the side. The cats split up and kept trying to approach the mouse. When they were both a few yards away, I got a bucket that was by the hay bales and turned the bucket upside down by the plant/tree trunk. The mouse would be safe under there if it got there. Who knows? Meanwhile, Baird finally heard the phone or got the messages and came busting out the kitchen door. He got Twitch and I cornered Pearly. He put a screaming Twitch in the house, came around the front to get Pearly, who hissed and growled as she was put in the house. Zeno, the old cat, is still outside but seems oblivious to any creature's presence in the backyard. The huge frog must also be safe for now, since all attention is elsewhere. I feel we just fought at least a skirmish and won. I don't really want mice in my house or yard, I just can't let something be killed right in front of me. The frogs I do want. I've been protecting them since I bought this house. I used to carry them to the neighbors and put them by the underpinning of the neighbors' porch. Now, I just get them close to our few piles of cuttings or in the thick vines. They move the vines though, and the cats sit watching, pounce.

Trump for President (Reader Response)

2011-04-28T15:14:00.000-05:00

Here is another reader's response to my post about Trump. My apologies to anyone who tries to respond and the comment function won't work:

I tried to post a brief statement but couldn't do it. Here it is:

Q: Why should you always vote for the richest candidate?

A: If he/she is already rich they'll not have to think about stealing to get rich and may just do what they were elected to do.

At least Donald Trump has the guts to pose questions about the things very many Americans are really concerned about. The legitimacy of Obama's Presidency is questionable. There should be NO questions! Even waiting two years to provide his birth certificate poses yet another question.

We need a rich Christian American with guts as our President and a like Congress to support him and us. We are likely to get the first but the second just ain't going to happen!that could not be posted

Trump and Palin (Reader's Response)

2011-04-28T12:00:00.000-05:00

A reader tried to post a response to my last blog but couldn't, a problem that has occurred often. So, I'm posting her response here:
"Trump is dangerous because he is so outrageous that he makes Sarah Palin seem palatable. Even now he is challenging Obama's entrance into an Ivy League school. Responding to insanity just breeds more insanity."

Trump's Sideshow

2011-04-28T10:02:00.000-05:00

I'm an Obama supporter, but I can understand Trump's desire to run for president. It's the next frontier for him. He is at least smart and a savvy businessman and games player. A great benefit from his candidacy might be to draw attention from Sarah Palin. I'd like to watch them compete with each other.

Loving Attention: Lolly and Lucky

2011-04-17T09:10:00.003-05:00

In the past year, we lost two beloved pets, Speeds, an indomitable spitz-type alpha female of small size and huge heart, and Lucky, a border collie of quiet, intense observation, fluid action, and incapacitating fear of thunderstorms, even when they were fifty miles or more away. We have another female dog, Lollygag, a hovawort (we believe). We acquired Lolly when the other two were already old. The day we met her, in the pound, she let us carry her in the crook of an elbow, on her back, her belly already evidence of a good appetite. She was an easy-going creature, with very soft, long, curly hair.

We had also three cats. So there are stories, maybe a entire book, about the interaction of the six characters, two species, in a fairly small house.

Now, though, I’m thinking of one particular habitual kindness of Lucky to Lolly. It deepened my understanding and appreciation of fondness between animals. Lolly often came home from walks with small twigs, briars, leaves, and especially burrs, entangled in her coat. She didn’t want us to brush her or try to remove the burrs. She would huff and move away, sometimes go to bed early. Lucky could groom her, though. He would lie on his belly by her and with his teeth gently comb out burr by burr. Lolly would lie perfectly still for this, turn over when it was time, and Lucky would continue until the burrs were gone. He left them on the floor, in a little row here and there or a pile. He didn’t attempt the briars or leaves. We had to devise ways of getting Lolly's cooperation in their removal.

Maybe this kind of grooming is common in the canine family, and I just happened to have two dogs who were friendly enough and smart enough to work out the problem together. Since I had never seen that behavior among dogs, I assumed it was because Lolly adored Lucky—which she most definitely, boisterously did—and he knew it, and loved her back.

A Protest Stroll! God Bless Them

2011-03-06T10:21:00.003-06:00

In today's news (KCStar): The new Chinese protest march is a stroll by a couple holding hands. It's being cracked down on.

I love the human spirit.

The Hummingbird Spy Plane

2011-03-04T10:08:00.000-06:00

According to an Associated Press article in today's Kansas City Star, a tiny spy plane has been designed that manuevers like a hummingbird. It has a six-and-a-half inch wing span, and can fly in all directions. Its spying can serve in many ways, one of the best ones being to locate people trapped in collapsed buildings and transmit the best path for rescue. Similar devices are being modeled on other Mother Nature creatures
--the maple leaf seed, for example, which spins down by the hundreds in its season. How small a spy will we be able to design? Lady bugs? Ants? Raindrops? I wonder if some of the world around us is spying for somebody else.

The idea of smallness brings to mind a Medieval question: how many angels can dance on the head of pin?The answer would depend on how large the pin is, how small angels can become, if angels can dance, and a thousand other things.

The Question Posed by the New Cosmic Census: Why haven't aliens visited us?

2011-02-25T14:57:00.002-06:00

In an earlier post about the deep-sea census and the discovery of new life forms, I wondered about the number of life forms possible in all the space around us--even the immediate space. I was thinking of nutrinos zipping through us, and miniature black holes, and the inner universe in Dickinson's mind, through which she fell and passed by planets. I understand that inner universe better than the outer. And since everything outer has an inner, then the universes keep opening and opening.

Now a new article has fired my imagination, Seth Borensteins's "Cosmic census finds crowd of planets in our galaxy." http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/41686017/ns/technology_and_science-space/#Citing credible sources, he reports the vast number of planets in our galaxy alone where "life could exist"--500 million--and ends with scientist William Borucki 's comments about the research: "the new calculations lead to worlds of questions aout life elsewhere in the cosmos. 'The next question is why haven't they visited us?'"

Well, surely they have.

In a short story some years ago, a character of mine (daring thing) posited her view that this planet was a penal colony, for the angels that had rebelled against the creator and were cast out of heaven. That’s far from a new thought, of course. Old, old, old. But when the question is posed about our not having had visitors, one of my first thoughts is that visitors are not allowed here. This is the Alcatraz of the universe, or worse. No visitors except guards. That doesn’t explain why there are innocents here, such as children in the hands of a monster mother or a loose pedophile (may they all be imprisoned), but it explains the unbelievable, inhumane practices on this planet. Something most vile works through this world.

Another thought is that we’ve been visited by many others, who have enlightened us, guided us, done their best. Some of them may still be around. Some of these thoughts are fueled or supported by publications such as Chariots of the Gods and the many documentaries about the unexplained mysteries on our planet—how the pyramids were built, who was mining gold 150 million years ago, why the symbols in Peru that can be seen only from the sky, how came the huge stone sculptures on Easter Island. But many questions had risen when I was very young, just from Bible stories, and later from my study of the Bible, which I still love and still study. Why, I wondered, did God hide in a cloud to lead and help in battle? Why did he need to hide? Planes hide. Why did he say “If you will . . .” and, after listing the criteria, say “I will be your God?” He either is God or isn’t. Why did the ground tremble and a sound like a rushing wind accompany the coming of God? Why was touching the soil dangerous? Why did he wrestle with Moses? Was he merely a man? Close to being one? These questions are common now. When I was a kid they were possibly blasphemous. I once dared to ask my mother what if Jesus were an alien, and she responded: “What difference would that make?”

Astonishing. I’m certain it makes a difference. She has her own conjectures.

This leads me to no conclusion. I suspect aliens or traces of them are among us, just as Neanderthals are. (I wouldn't mind that heritage.) I suspect there is a Comforter here that helps us tolerate a world filled with such struggle, helps us develop understanding, forgiveness, helps us regulate control within humane boundaries or attenpt to do so. We try to understand our natures and the natures of other species, and, of course, God. Some wonderful writers tease him out: The Hidden Face of God, The Language of God, Who Wrote the Bible, Bible Sources Revealed, the History of Satan. He’s elusive. Aliens may be easier to understand. But with imagination, hope, and, of course, faith—however hard it is to come by and hold—he’s probably the best conjecture possible. As long as he’s a good guy.

Apology for Video Link

2011-02-17T21:23:00.000-06:00

I just realized that a video I linked a post to some time ago was questionable. The contributor's name suggested an audience and intent that I don't support. To anyone who viewed it, my apologies. I've deleted that post.

Eddie Osborne on Fashion

2011-02-07T17:46:00.001-06:00

"Fashion shouldn't be painful."

Loughner, a Victim

2011-01-23T10:34:00.001-06:00

The first photo I saw of Jared Lee Loughner, the shooter in the Tucson tragedy, was of an attractive young man, high-school or early college age. Shortly after that, a different photo appeared: his hair had been shaven, his eyes glistened, and he had an odd smile--odd because he had just been arrested for murdering six people and injuring at least seven more. He looked at best somewhat gleeful; at worst, crazed (I'm tempted to say demonic). Later a group of three photos showed an even younger Loughner--in one shot he was playing a saxophone. These were the "before" shots. He looked like someone's son or brother or nephew or neighbor. But the image of a smiling murderer is the one that has dominated. Of course, a strange image is certain to attract more readers and viewers. And, of course, definitely, he is still someone's son--his parents have suffered a great, great loss, too. I wonder what has been the common response to that "after" image? I doubt it has encouraged sympathy for the young man who succumbed to mental illness. http://www.columbiatribune.com/news/2011/jan/23/mental-health

Pride and Dialect

2010-08-23T10:16:00.005-05:00

This links to a nice article on encouraging students to be proud of their dialect, and to maintain it. I regret having tried for years to lose the language markers of my upbringing. Some were kind of knocked out of me by a teacher's red pencil or someone's pointed vocal correction. After a while I began delighting in the natural vernacular and wishing I could regain what I lost. Even if I stayed with my Southeast Missouri family for a month, I couldn't absorb it again. Mine was gained when I was very small and surrounded by an extended family, all who were story tellers and singers. There were phrases and cadences and nuances that passed out of use. My sister retains much of it because she's lived in the area most of her life. But she has also acquired a teaching certification and an M.S. in counseling. Some of her dialect was lost to or in higher education. My brother's is strong. He's the quietest of us all but listening to him is a pleasure. When I talk to my mother, I keep pen and paper in hand. She's a master of language, armed with the old dialect and a sharp wit. I can't write it all down. I remember how much I hated the rule not to split infinitives (incorrect: to not split infinitives). I prefer "I want to not do it" over "I want not to do it." The latter is not what I mean.
Click here for New York Times article.

Fall Starts When I Buy School Supplies

2010-08-11T07:01:00.000-05:00

This morning, when I went outside to check the day my pets were insisting on beginning, I realized fall has arrived. The air is a little crisp. A few leaves have already gone to wild colors. Students are back in town. We're buzzing again. I now must and want to shop for new pencils, pens, papers, a notebook or two, and a few other little pleasures--maybe lined index cards and a stick eraser. Nice stuff.

Plagiarism Continued

2010-08-10T07:35:00.000-05:00

In an article on plagiarism in today's New York Times, Stanley Fish recounts an incident in which he discovered his writing reproduced in another's publication without his knowledge or permission. He goes on to discuss plagiarism as more a professional issue than a moral or philosophical one. I'm neither disagreeing or agreeing with him. What interested me in this article was the relative position of those involved. Stanley Fish owned the property. He was and is a well-established, major career writer. He had the power. What he didn't experience was the underling's position, the beginner who sees his work usurped before he's gained any recognition at all. I recall a case in which a student was asked to present a paper on a certain writer. The paper received a C. The student later found that very paper published under the professor's name, as notes on a contemporary author.

Some Things I'd Rather Not Know

2010-07-29T13:43:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've been watching, off and on, Billy the Exterminator. I like the guy. He's cheerful, cautious enough to teach me how to be careful around wasps, snakes, possums, raccoons, mountain lions, and skunks, among other creatures. He's very, very colorful to watch, although he wears black and white, part of the white being a skull on his black shirt. The background music is lively and catching--Cajun, I think (love Cajun: Mamou Two Step, Pense a Moi, Jolie Blon, Valse a Abe).

The last show was about the Cicada Killer Wasp. I know quite a bit about the natural way of preserving foodstuffs for larvae, and understand that Motherhood in the insect world can be a horrifying practice. Billy gives the facts quickly, keeps the repulsive within bounds, and goes about making people feel, and be, safer in their own marked territory. It's a much better show than I thought it would be.

Railroad Spike, Southeast Missouri Sentiment and Practicality

2010-07-25T09:05:00.000-05:00

This is a hoorah@ for Stephanie L. Molina, of Poplar Bluff, Missouri, who fought off an intruder with a railroad spike. I have a spike from the railroad line that used to run (and now just lies) by Bloomfield, Missouri, a small town of 1800 people (at best). I've kept it just for sentimental reasons, but now, now, thanks to Stephanie L. Molina, I'll add a couple of other reasons: protection and pride. Good for her! I'm glad she's okay. According to the article about the event (which this should link to), the blood trail from her apartment led the police to the intruder. It was his blood. Whew.

Neanderthals, Here, There, and Yonder

2010-05-08T23:20:00.000-05:00

According to Professor Svante Paabo, quoted in a BBC Daily News article by Paul Rincon, Neanderthals "are not totally extinct, in some of us they live on--a little bit." I'm sure many of us have been long convinced of this, whether or not scientists agreed, and are now ecstatic at the new possibilities for individual DNA analysis and genealogical research. The Neanderthal characters in commericals are popular, and now probably having a little Neanderthal in your family tree will be most desirable. (I wouldn't mind.) Maybe that will be the new elite group. Or ... heaven forbid . . . the "other." (Can't make the link to the article.)

Believing in angels or just other species

2010-04-30T12:05:00.000-05:00

Last November, one of the Kansas City Star's sidebar items was "Deep-Sea Discovery," which noted results of the current census of marine life: "17,650 species living below 656 feet." Since I'm not a scientist and not hampered or blessed with expert information, I extrapolate from such figures. How many species haven't been identified? how far below 656 feet did they investigate? If that many visible species live in that environment, how many are not visible? If every bit of space around us (or on us) is populated with something living, how could the universe be empty? Among the species awaiting us, or mingling with us, might be creatures we can't see. That's no more difficult to imagine than are nutrinos (trillions of which pass through us all the time), dark matter, black holes, and a universe still expanding, light from the creation still reaching us.

Tom Wolfe's Bow to No. 3 and No. 2, Margaret Mitchell and Harriet Beecher Stowe

2010-04-25T07:56:00.000-05:00

Tom Wolfe's "Faking West, Going East" in this morning's New York Times is a fresh look at Mark Twain's savvy and one-upmanship. By way of introduction, Wolfe acknowleges Margaret Mitchell and Harriet Beecher Stowe, without diminishing them. That's well done, too.

YEA! HEALTH CARE REFORM PASSES

2010-03-21T21:46:00.000-05:00

Good news, a long time coming!!

Yes to Health Care Now

2010-03-19T11:36:00.000-05:00

The title links to a nice article by Joe Annese, retired Catholic Priest, supporting passage of the health bill now. The best sentence: "We cannot perfect something that does not exist. Passing the bill is a giant step forward — it is a beginning."

Census, a Personal Touch

2010-03-16T11:28:00.000-05:00

When I received the letter notifying the resident that the official census form would be arriving in a week, I felt as if a nice package was on the way, and put the letter in the center of my desk as a reninder. Yesterday, on schedule, the official form arrived. Last night, my husband and I sat down and responded to the so few, simple questions, mostly with a check mark. The act seemed worthy of more time, or of a brief ritual. That's because I recall finally finding my grandmother's name in the census. In the first record,the census-taker had written "Maurice" for the child in the household. Her name was actually Marie (Pearl Marie Kinder). I found her in a later census, same household, appropriate age, with the correct name. Since she had no birth certificate,no death certificate,and her crude tombstone had been washed away in the hills around Bell City, Missouri, the census records were like finding personal notes. Hello.

Author Thomas Cobb

2010-03-08T12:42:00.001-06:00

Someone sent me a link to an article about the authors and books pertinent to last night's Academy Awards. The link is above (click on the title). Yea!

Missing from the Academy Awards: Thomas Cobb, Author of Crazy Heart

2010-03-08T08:12:00.000-06:00

For the first time in my life, I watched the Academy Awards from beginning to end. I expected to hear the name Thomas Cobb. He was the author of Crazy Heart, the book. If he was mentioned, it was so in passing that I missed it, though I didn't leave the room. Maybe he ddn't want his name mentioned there. I sort of doubt that. THOMAS COBB, THOMAS COBB. CONGRATULATIONS!!

Why was Tillikum the Whale Still "Working" Near Humans?

2010-02-25T07:28:00.000-06:00

According to the first reports about the attack on Dawn Brancheau, trainer, by a killer whale, Brancheau fell into the water, the whale rose to the surface, grabbed her and took her under water, drowning her. A witness describing the event not long after it happened gave a different scenario: the whale (Tillikum), was obviously agitated before the attack, and it was definitely an attack; the whale thrashed her back and forth before taking her under. Then other details emerge: Brancheau was feeding the animals, threw a bucket of water (perhaps with fish in it) on a whale. Tillikum had been involved in the deaths of two other humans. In one of those cases, two killer whales had participated with him.

A most important question this horrible event raises is why was Tillikum still performing before the public, especially anywhere near a trainer or any human being? His actions are probably absolutely natural to his kind in that situation:Killer whales hunt and kill seals in the same manner as this attack; sometimes males join together in hunting packs. He's a predator and has been acting like one. Brancheau's death seems totally avoidable and therefore even more tragic.

HUMAN MATTERS: It takes commitment to put Mean People in their place - Living - ReviewJournal.com

2010-02-22T23:19:00.000-06:00

HUMAN MATTERS: It takes commitment to put Mean People in their place - Living - ReviewJournal.com

Steven Kalas defines mean people straight on and gives good advice about dis-arming their power. They too often catch us by surprise. Nice article.

The Compensation of Writing Fiction

2010-02-22T11:00:00.000-06:00

Like Kristine, who states her opinion about the Amazon/Macmillan feud in “Bullies,” I have no quarrel with a publisher or a book seller making a profit. If they’re not in the business, my business is curtailed. Actually, being paid for a book is itself a great reward, even if the remuneration is small. Not all writers are driven to write whether or not they’re paid, but I suspect most are, at least at the beginning of their careers. When I was in graduate school, one of the most talented women writers decided not to continue writing. She had already published a couple stories, in good journals, and her decision seemed crazy. She said that being on the publishing end appeared more lucrative, and a better business choice. That made monetary sense, effort sense, and no sense. I was bartering with myself then: one good publication meant nothing--it could be an accident; three publications meant I was somewhat competitive, perhaps a decent writer; a collection of fiction meant I was definitely a writer, but a minor one (maybe even the designation of “minor” was presumptuous); three collections and I was a short story writer; five collections, a minor writer of note; a novel, a promising writer; three novels a novelist.

I’m short of all the upper levels, and not quite content where I am. Two collections and one novel published, numerous single stories, some poems; and a few good unpublished novels on my shelves. The unpublished books I consider my best work and believe that writing them was a compensation in itself, but certainly not the best compensation. All my criteria require outside judges applying standards shared by a literary community, and publication of the work in printed form. Now, having sold a book through the efforts of a wonderful agent, to an excellent publisher, "commerical" is edging its way into my standards. I have to learn more about what it means in practice and if I want--and am talented enough--to rise to the bar.

Bullies (by Kristine Lowe-Martin)

2010-02-04T12:45:00.000-06:00

I have been thinking a lot about this Amazon/Macmillan feud. As an editor/designer for a small, basically non-profit press, I am pleased just to see our books listed at Amazon. Barnes and Noble and other large bookstores make publishers and their authors jump through so many hoops, even for a book signing. And I can understand why—like all of us, they want to pay their bills, buy some things, take a vacation. Everyone has his own idea about how much profit is reasonable—usually something just a bit more than he currently has.

We are faced with a changing economic landscape and I don’t think either Amazon or Macmillan is a bully for trying to hold on to its piece of the pie. Macmillan’s costs for development, marketing and miscellanea will not change drastically when our society switches to electronic media, as it surely will. Yet most consumers assume that the profit for electronic media is 100% because there is no paper or printing—just magic—or the internet, which is, of course, free. I work in a library and frequently watch people check out 50 CDs and (presumably) proceed to transfer them to their computer then and there. I’ve had co-workers defend this because the recording industry makes all the money and the artists want you to hear them. Electronic sharing is supposed to free artists from popular constraints. Really, it’s just about FREE.

Teachers often justify copying books because their school budgets don’t include new books. They are supposed to use books already owned. Copy paper is not as monitored. And we all know that teachers are overworked and underpaid. As a parent volunteer, I was once asked to copy all of a teacher’s materials for her student teacher. Much of it was copies of someone else’s copies of copies. Is it okay if the book is out of print? I am totally overwhelmed by the need to make the right choice. Is it okay to have books printed in China because the lower pollution standards and costs make it more profitable, especially when I have to compete with e-books and copy machines—and the local printer keeps messing up my orders at a higher cost? E-books shouldn’t pollute as much. But if all the printers lose their jobs, who’ll be able to buy even those? And I like books, and color, and paper almost as much as I like magic.

Sometimes I just want to buy something because I like it and it’s priced right. But then I’m American, and we all know how selfish and bullyish we are. It’s not just Amazon and Macmillan.

Witches, Warts, and Toads

2010-02-02T14:52:00.000-06:00

The first witch I met was identified for me later by my mother. He was an old guy, dressed in a shabby black-cloth coat. I was almost six years old at that time and had a plague of warts on my hands, which my mother said had come from my playing with toads. She may have said “frogs,” not “toads.” I know there’s a distinction, but I like the sound of toad and think of them as very dry and knotty. The gentleman noticed the warts and told my mother he could remove them. He passed a white cloth over my hands. He said the warts would be gone in a week. They were, though it was, my mother said, a long week, maybe ten days. Some warts disappear in a short time, with no treatment at all, so maybe the old codger (or worse) wanted to hold my hands for a minute. But maybe he was a witch. Or something even better.

Witch DNA

2010-01-24T14:30:00.000-06:00

Although I never believed witches were too common in my area (any area I happened to be in), I encountered them so often that I now assume they are next door—or could be—and might be in my own family line. I intend to check that out soon. I wonder if DNA analysis has identified a witch marking? Since we only get fifty percent of each parent’s DNA, the fifty percent that might make and mark a witch could be missing. The heritage line would be there, but not the traits. Since the further back we trace lineage the more connected we are, we might all have witches in our background. Unless, that is, witches evolved into being somewhere along the line—a snatch of DNA here, a snatch there. More later about the witches I've met.

Prayer Power

2010-01-21T22:52:00.001-06:00

I just read on news.bbc.co.uk an article titled “US Airways Philadelphia alert sparked by Jewish prayer.” The man praying was using “tefillin,” small boxes that are part of the ritual. He meant no harm and caused none, and apparently no one overreacted. Although I wouldn’t make light of terrorism or of the need for appropriate vigilance, it’s somehow reassuring that a prayer could—at least momentarily and symbolically—have the power of a possible bomb.

Bad Luck Spider

2010-01-07T08:14:00.000-06:00

I owed a spider a few meals this summer. He or she had spun a remarkable web between glass and screen of a kitchen window. The web had multiple arches and high spans. It was so finely spun it shimmered in the sunlight. The window was a modern kind, with a pane that drops down for easy cleaning on either side. But dropping it down demolished—heavily twisted—the spider’s web. Having done that, I wiped away every trace, with a muttered apology—I had guests on the way. The next week, another lovely web appeared, twin to the first. I left it alone. I noticed that no food had wandered into the trap, and thought, for the first time in my life, that a spider could be wrong about where to spin his web, and could die from the mistake.

Starve. (In my kitchen? Never.) Although I did think twice about it, I destroyed that web, too, again in favor of guests’ good opinion of my shiny windows.

The third web was a frail, limp job, with a kind of half loop wrapping it off at about three-quarters of the window’s width. And still no food had landed.

I researched spider webs and discovered that the silky material is not of unlimited supply. The quality and quantity of silk depends on the condition of the spider. By destroying two webs, I had lessened his chances of building an adequate one. He, of course, had chosen the window or had at least landed there without my help.. He hid, by the way, behind a five-inch metal strip—capturing him and moving him to a better site wasn’t possible.

One morning I saw part of a wheat colored, nearly transparent corpse, and consulted via email an entomologist friend, Tom Sappington (writes wonderful travelogues). He advised me that if the spider had chanced to meet a lady spider in his brief life, he could count himself lucky and his life well spent. Not to worry.

The spider hadn’t met anything in my window.

Then, another morning, there he was, poised at the edge of his last bridge, ready to pounce. He hadn’t died. He had shed. I was relieved, but now the problem had resurfaced. He was ready to starve a while longer. It was then October, a cold spell. The pet shop in our small town sold crickets, but crickets truly are good luck, and those particular crickets looked big enough to take down a spider. I found a kind of lady bug and managed, with folded paper and a thin net, to lower the bug into the web.

Belatedly, I read about lady bugs. They kill spiders. Either the spider killed the bug or the bug escaped. So: I stunned a fly one day, caught moths on two days, reasoning that their season had ended anyhow. Presumably, the spider did his part while I wasn’t looking—there were little traces of the insects having been taken away.

The temperature has been in single digits and will soon be in minus digits. I don’t know how to warm a spider. A friend asked me if I had read Charlotte’s Web. Of course. But some spiders, my research says, can live three years—given good conditions.

Two Movies on an Icy Day: Avatar and Sherlock Holmes

2010-01-04T19:07:00.000-06:00

I loved Avatar. It’s a movie I could see again (have done so twice) and will continue to think about as if I had visited the setting, maybe lived there—or might some day. On Pandora, a benevolent force pervades, the inhabitants see themselves and others as equals and see beyond the outer shell, to the nature. They can look on a twisted body and see the spirit, not the flesh. The voices of ancestors remain, memories drifts like petals. People suffer, but good triumphs. And the good is recognizable, not a blurred maybe. Movies like that put everyday reality on hold and lend validity to personal beliefs and hopes, at least for a while. Surely this world is absolutely as beautiful as Pandora, or could be. Now, there are weaknesses in the movie, but to look too closely would sort of unseam the illusion. On Pandora, compassion is a trait revered and fostered. So be it. Please.

I saw Sherlock Holmes the same day. It was visually pleasing. But the best part was Jude Law, his face and his grace. He seemed more Holmes than he did Watson. I missed the gentle doctor. I missed the sense of mystery, too.

From the Bootheel With Pride

2009-04-10T15:52:00.000-05:00

My family has always referred to our home town area as the Bootheel, meaning the southeastern leg of Missouri. The term included our county, Stoddard, and all those south of it. I don’t remember any quarrel about the name--its use was prevalent everywhere, in speech, papers, publications. Admittedly, metaphorically Stoddard was at the very top of the heel, embracing the heel section of the insole and up a bit, stopping short of the ankle.

I was surprised when people described the Bootheel as flatland, with long stretches of cottonfields. That was true of the counties south of us, but the landscape surrounding our town, Bloomfield, was more diverse: swampy in patches, with cypress trees standing in shallow water, their trunks extending up to the sky and reflecting down into the soil, their roots like the arms of giants; hilly, too, the higher ground verdant in summer, covered with trees, wildflowers, berry bushes, and teeming with wood life. At night, driving along backroads, we dipped down into fog and came up into high moonlight. It wasn’t actually like Brigadoon, but it was magical.

After some years away from Missouri, I returned to learn that “the Bootheel” had become a disputed term. At a folklore society gathering, I was advised that only residents of six counties could claim to be from the Bootheel. My particular home town area was actually Crowley’s Ridge. The people correcting me seemed incensed, as if I were deliberately trespassing. It wasn’t like learning that I had an entirely different lineage than the other members of my family, or like losing a homeland to a hurricane (God bless those who can’t return home for any reason), but it was at least disturbing. I clung to the term because it was part of my past. How can you stop being from a place? It takes a mind shift to alter the facts of your history as you knew it and remember it.

Then, just a few years ago, 2005, I was a guest speaker in Cape Girardeau. In the next morning’s Southeast Missourian, the Speak Out column referred to a Bootheel author who had recently given a reading in the city. Obviously, he meant me: “As it turns out, she is from Bloomfield, Mo. Bootheel?” The one-word question suggested I was a pretender. I wrote a letter to the editor; so did my brother. Since then, though I vigorously believe that I am from the Bootheel, I give my birthplace as Southeast Missouri, Crowley’s Ridge, the northern edge of the Bootheel.

Crowley’s Ridge truly is a special place, distinct from all the surrounding area. Robert Forrester, historian and writer, wrote a book about it, titled Highland in the Swamps. Exactly! More about that later.

The Changing Vernacular: Working on Food

2009-01-06T10:09:00.000-06:00

When I first discovered what seemed to be a spelling error in my mother’s correspondence, I felt a slight dismay and a little superiority. I was much younger then, in college, and thought I had finally gained more knowledge than she had about our common language. She was an avid reader, and though she had been unable to attend high school—the family needed the money she could earn—she had never stopped learning. She loved language (still does) and was and is a masterful punster. But to the point, I discovered in her letters the words “to-morrow” and “for-ever.” The hyphen, I believed, was an eccentricity of my mother’s, charming and incorrect. Later, when researching for my dissertation, I stumbled across an educator’s protest about the joining of “for” and “ever,” which forever lost a distinction. (I can’t recall the educator’s name, but will add it here when I do.) My mother had been correct, just past the time for that particular form.

Now, I’m very accustomed to the constant evolution of language, and accept new meanings and variations of spelling fairly quickly, though I may retain a distinction for a long time: “Lite” rather than "light" to describe less substance, especially pertaining to caloric value of food; “alright” rather than "all right" to mean “okay” in written dialog; "guys" to mean both men and women in informal settings.

But “work” has come to have a meaning that I resist a little. At some restaurants—even very nice ones—the server often says “are you still working on it?” I don’t want to be a language snob—we have too many of those as it is— but I think “work” in this sense is uncomplimentary to the customer and to the establishment. The only time I “work” on food is when I’m preparing it or when I’m forcing myself to eat some abhorrent food rather than offend a friend. I can understand the convenience of the phrase, which combines “are you finished” and “may I take this plate,” but I would rather hear either of those or a pleasant substitute.

Obama Wins! Happy New Year to us all!

2008-11-05T07:30:00.000-06:00

Obama wins! Congratulations to us all, and Happy New Year!

A Wise Move by Palin:Withdrawing

2008-09-27T07:53:00.000-05:00

If Sarah Palin is as unqualified for the vice-presidency as she appears—and has enough self-awareness and honesty to know it—she could make a courageous move for the country, for her party, and for women, by withdrawing from the race now, on her own volition.

Obama

2008-09-13T15:30:00.000-05:00

Obama seems to be an honest man, not given to dramatic charges or to false ones. He seems to be trusting Americans to see past theatrics and through empty rhetoric. He has campaigned with dignity and has apparently lived his life with dignity. He seems a man of rational thought, moderate habits, kindness and great courtesy—a beautiful American, in the best sense of beauty.

Angels in Secret

2008-09-12T11:37:00.000-05:00

Angels are very popular in our culture, as attested by a wealth of books about them (just see Sylvia Browne’s work), by movies (most recently Hancock), television series, and by myriad representations of angels in serious art and in the minutiae of our lives: figurines, jewelry, decals, name tags, key chains, clip art, and so on. Angel information abounds on the internet. When I needed to know the names of Satan’s angels (for my current novel), I found those names and others in one swift surfing, so many names, actually, that I had to narrow the list with closer research—I didn’t want any outright fabrication, only information that is part of our common mythology.

As a child, I believed angels were all around us, and suspected some of them were very weak, like Clarence in A Wonderful Life, or maybe very small. I may have confused them with fairies for a while, which isn’t a bad conflation. After I learned that Blake had seen (surely it wasn’t just a vision) a tree filled with angels, the smaller sized angels seemly more and more likely—it would be difficult to have a tree filled with large persons. If they could be small, weak, flawed, even fragile, I could understand why they might not always be successful. They might be worn down by too great a task, or too long a recalcitrant charge. I stayed hopeful about their presence and their nature.

As an adult, I’ve wondered why angels aren’t central to conversations among my friends, and aren’t central in the church sermons, lessons, and testimonials I’ve heard. I’ve asked friends about it, and have learned that though they might believe in angels (not all of them so believe) they find that belief very personal, not quite safe in some circles. Belief in angels places one outside an intellectual circle, into the fringe element. Belief in angels is akin to belief in faith healing, speaking in tongues, séances, Tarot cards, palm reading, magic, witchcraft. So it may be that to keep angels somewhat pure, unsullied by association with other beliefs, maybe closer to God, some people don’t talk about them. They protect them. They guard the angels. I recently asked my mother if she still believed in angels. She said yes, certainly. I asked if she had seen any. She said yes, but she hadn't known it at the time.

Fond of Giants (1)

2008-07-03T15:50:00.000-05:00

I’ve heard that in the 40s, in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, a giant used to stop by a tobacco factory, lean with his elbows on the second story window sill, and talk with the young women working there. He was a pleasant fellow and couldn’t, because of his size and a few attendant problems, serve in the war. One thinks of giants as paramount actors in great wars, but I’m glad he was spared and hope he lived a long, merry, peaceful life.

Tolkien Dream Bit

2008-07-03T15:48:00.000-05:00

“It is true that Dream is not unconnected with Faërie. In dreams strange powers of the mind may be unlocked” (Tolkien, Tree and Leaf, 14.)

Working in Dreams

2008-05-10T15:08:00.000-05:00

Nicolas Culpeper, ancient herbalist, on dreams:
So that is one of the surest rules to know a man's own complexion, by his dreams, I mean a man void of distractions, or deep studies: for then the imagination will follow its old bent; for if a man be bent upon a business, his apprehension will work as much when he is asleep, and find out as many truths by study, as when the man is awake; and perhaps more too, because then it is not hindered by ocular objects. (Culpeper's Complete Herbal 1653; Chatham, Kent: Wordsworth Editions 1995, 301).

The Night Shift: Flexible Hours Sleep Cycle (No. 4)

2008-03-04T18:10:00.000-06:00

Not long ago, I heard a psychiatrist discussing the body’s need for the complete sleep cycle. If a person habitually has broken or inadequate sleep, then all the being suffers—body and mind. Health deteriorates, nerves are raw, and even decision making is adversely affected. Just a few days ago, an article cited lack of sleep as a cause for weight gain—not enough rest, take fuel. This sounds very commonsensical and could make one believe that those bouts of insomnia are the culprit behind major mistakes, body shape, love and the pursuit of happiness.

And yet – What if there’s another sleep cycle? More than two or five? What if there are sleep cycles that foster genius, for math, for literature, for stargazing, for communion with peace, for love of fellow man? What if the stumbler in the wee hours of the morning discovered the secret of the universe? New research indicates that prodding a particular part of the brain can cause an out-of-body sensation; what if broken sleep prods a part of the brain to function in another remarkable way?

Of course, we must sleep. And we must dream. And probably, we must dream while we sleep. It is a great gift and a great pleasure that we can usually do both without effort.

The Night Shift: Flexible Hours Sleep Cycle (No.3)

2008-03-04T18:06:00.000-06:00

The unconscious mind is more than practice for some endeavors. Isaac Asimov believed that a concrete step in research discovery was the “Eureka Phenomenon,” though it is rarely if ever acknowledged in the careful logging of research procedure. It’s the leap the mind makes when it is no longer consciously working on a problem, but engaged in a movie, or a book, or perhaps in sleep, and suddenly—Eureka! the solution. This is not news to creative writers—at least many of them—who rely on the unconscious mind to provide material and direction. Some writers (this one, too) present the mind a problem as they settle down to sleep, as they might present a project to a ghost writer. It doesn’t always work, of course, but more often than not.

The Night Shift: Flexible Hours Sleep Cycle (No. 2)

2008-02-02T14:32:00.000-06:00

A female colleague of mine and I share a similar dream. We plan to move but discover a hidden section of the house, which entices us to stay where we are. The new section is sometimes filled with lovely furniture and so grand, so spacious that we needn’t use the rest of the building (if it’s a building) at all. Sometimes, though, the newly discovered space appears to be not quite so perfect. It’s dusty, or there’s too much furniture. Still, it can be used for brief escapes or special events. If this is practice, it’s of patience, waiting for surprise happiness to occur in the present situation rather than searching for it. Surely my colleague and I aren’t the only persons to have this dream, but I haven’t read about it in any reader-friendly books on common dreams and their interpretation.

The Night Shift: Flexible Hours Sleep Cycle (No.1)

2008-01-11T08:15:00.000-06:00

Dreams function for us, although we may not agree how they do so. A modern theory is that we practice in dreams, for situations we encounter in our waking hours. That could be reassuring, if one has fears of, say, being buried alive, and discovers in dreams a way out. Now, if that way out is flying, the practice might be an exercise in faith, but that, too, can certainly be beneficial.

In my family, we discuss dreams as we would a book, a movie, or another real experience. We each have a unique method of escape. My mother floats above any attacker or danger; my father in law also floated; my daughter flies away—often in an airplane. I can breathe underwater, and thus swim to safety. Once I had to dive into a square opening in a floor, down a chute, into an ocean where I swam a forever distance and surfaced, able to breathe as normally above water as I had underwater. (In my waking life I can barely tread water.) For other escapes I must crawl through openings not big enough for a cat or under buildings almost flush to the ground. I’m claustrophobic and thus glad to know that I survive these terrors. Maybe the practice will eventually cure my claustrophobia or take the edge off it. Meanwhile, of course, I don’t get as much rest as modern theory says I should, given all the practicing.

Ghosts of Plagiarism Past

2007-12-05T20:23:00.000-06:00

This time of year, when the approaching holidays are accompanied by approaching final exams, grades, and sudden despair on the part of students (and occasionally teachers), one does well to take a lighter stance about student dishonesty. I’m saying this although it was my custom (preference) to fail a student who not only cheated but lied about it. In every case, though, unless my memory is playing tricks to my advantage, the student always explained that the cheating had nothing to do with me or with the class or the other students. It was totally impersonal.

Some of the incidents I recall almost fondly now, admiring the audacity or innocence of the students. For a how-to essay assignment, a young sophomore composition student submitted a succinct, detailed guide to preparing for safe woodland hiking. It was quite perfect—dry, yes, and terse, but clear. It was much like a brochure typed into essay format. While the class went on to other assignments, I did a little research here and there, and found the very brochure that had been transformed into his essay. When we were discussing this calmly, he asked if he could write another how-to essay. We were then near the end of the semester and that was a double load, since his final documented essay was due. We struck a deal. He would write an honest paper, submit it before the end of the class, and accept a grade one step lower than the paper earned. When I held the replacement in hand, I fairly quaked with disbelief and then anger—he had cheated again. The topic was a medical procedure, esoteric knowledge gracefully expressed. He was asking to be found out. After a short talk with him, during which he showed no familiarity with the contents of the paper, he admitted it was his girlfriend’s paper. I’m not sure he had a girlfriend or that she wrote the paper, only that he didn’t. He told me not to take it personally. I asked why would you plagiarize again? His answer: he didn’t believe I would check twice.

Another time, a lovely young freshman girl who had submitted meandering drafts for all papers and was near to slipping from C status in spite of both our efforts appeared with a documented essay on Freud’s dream theory, well and correctly cited, though in an old format. Attached were the requisite rough drafts and research cards. These were actually to have been submitted in steps, so I could verify research as the students explored their topic. She had made a major leap from scant draft to full-body paper. She, too, could not discuss the topic. She left knowing she would be repeating the course. And did so. The next semester, I was in my graduate teaching assistant cubicle—approximately 15 of us shared a large room with moveable partitions allowing a little privacy. We could hear one another. I heard a familiar young voice insisting that the paper was hers. She had not cheated. The teacher began to query her about the contents—Freud’s dream theory. I stood, peeked around the partition, and there she was: Miss If At First You Don’t Succeed.

There were others, all interesting, though not for lengthy detail.

Two instances have really touched me, and changed my attitude about cheating and cheaters and about being a hardliner on plagiarism. Both occurred in creative writing classes. In a packet of semester work by a young girl in beginning Creative Writing, I found a sonnet. The first line caught me up, the second held me, and so on. It was beautiful. And it was by William Shakespeare, though his name didn’t appear on it. I called her in, and such indignation I had never seen. She insisted that it was original, absolutely! Finally, she confessed and attacked with the same information: Her boyfriend had written the poem to her. He had given his permission for her to use it as she would. So it wasn’t plagiarism. No way, as they say. It was his original work. She divulged that she hadn’t yet met him, theirs was an on-line relationship, but he would vouch that the work was his. He confirmed her story. He blew his own image, salvaged a bit of her pride. I felt sorry for all three of us.

The hardest lesson for everyone involved also occurred in a beginning creative writing class. One of the most articulate and pleasant students delayed submitting work. Students usually sign up for two or three submissions during the semester, spaced so that groups of three are discussed each week. This young man missed his first submission, but for his second turned in a lengthy, polished piece. The first two paragraphs were a bit stumbly, but after that the story sped along. And it became increasingly familiar. Hemingway. “The Boxer.” I was astonished—and insulted. Did he think I wouldn’t recognize a Hemingway story? Students began calling me at home, voicing the same indignant reaction. How dare he? To cheat was insult enough, compounded by the intimation that his classmates wouldn’t recognize Hemingway. When the next class met, the students had that restrained energy that precedes a confrontation. I waited in the hall. I was going to deal with the problem neatly, clean shot, all that. I’d send him home. We certainly wouldn’t discuss the work. When he came, I took him aside. Others filed on in.

He was fair skinned, and as I talked his cheeks flushed a painful red. He explained that he had intended to copy Hemingway’s style. I had, after all, taught them that imitation had once been a dominant method of teaching writing, and a writer could learn much from really attending to another’s style, schemes, tropes. He had planned to imitate “The Boxer.” But it was so difficult and his peers were so talented. He couldn’t compete, couldn’t finish. So he copied the story. He thought that if we recognized it, imitation would be his excuse, a good one. He meant no insult to anyone. He wanted to remain in the class, to apologize in person, to redeem himself. His exact words: “to redeem myself.” So we entered the room, sat down in the circle—always the format of the workshop. I said he would like to speak to them, and then he did so. He was direct, looked a few of them in the face. He wasn’t flippant or casual. His statement was heartfelt, trembly, made through quivering lips. His hands shook. When he finished, we began the class. That should have been the only truly awkward time, but it wasn’t.

For the next few weeks, when he spoke, which was seldom, the other students would not respond to his remarks. He didn’t ask questions, but his comments were excellent—he had a sharp analytical mind and a gracious way of giving a story its best reading—and usually the others would have picked up on his analysis. They ignored him, even when I tried to loop him in. I had allowed an ugly situation to form and couldn’t end it. Then, he submitted a story, not too good at all, and I worried the entire class would sit stone silent. Instead, when his story came to the table, they addressed it as they should have—the good points, what it was attempting to do, what it had done, what might improve it. His cheeks were still red. Maybe we all had red cheeks.

It was a tough semester. I think we all learned what not to do again.

Missing Witchcraft Books

2007-11-21T12:54:00.001-06:00

Two librarians, in separate states, recently told me that books on witchcraft disappear from the shelves. In one case, the books were put in the reference area, where librarians could keep a sober eye on them. They still disappeared. I like to think no one sneaked them out, but that they blinked away. I wonder if this is happening nationwide, and if something spectacular is about to occur.