Susan Larson's Blog - Posts Tagged "nature"
“I Wish you were Somebody Else”
These words may be the worst and most murderous message one can deliver to another human being. In “Sam (a pastoral)” my novel about horses and humans, those words are never said. But the protagonist, Ruthie gets a the unspoken message from her Dad: he would have liked a better kid than the one he got.
When I was young, many folks thought that being harsh and judgmental with your children was something you did for their own good. Belittling them, telling them what disappointments they were to you, toughened them up for the inevitable hard knocks awaiting them in the real world. Cuddling them produced adults who were soft, gay, dependent on food stamps, whatever. Today, at least among liberal thinkers, what was once a popular child-rearing method is called ‘abuse.’
In “Sam” there is a quiet, bucolic chapter called ‘At the Horse Show.’ In this chapter Ruthie, having bought and befriended the homely, cranky horse Sam, she leaves him snoozing in the barn and goes to see a local horse show. She is happy that she’s no longer feeling left out and jealous– she has a horse now too, and he is wonderful in so many ways.
She forgets all those wonderful ways the moment she sees the pretty, graceful, shiny ponies the other kids have: their braided manes, silky tails and sleek clipped coats. The ponies she used to dream about; just better in every way than hers.
She goes home and tries to pretty Sam up. She trims the mops of hair off his fetlocks. She cuts off his beard and whiskers. She braids his mane and hacks off half the hair on his tail, trying desperately to turn him into some other horse; but the task proves impossible. By the end of this fruitless makeover session, which Sam enjoys immensely, she reaches a wise conclusion: Sam is OK just the way he is.
Later in the book, there is a deeper echo of this story, as Ruthie and Bea Pilcher sit in Bea’s kitchen talking about the breakup of Ruthie’s family, and the terrible burning rage that has devoured her life ever since. Bea reaches over and pats Ruthie’s hair and tells her she wished she had a kid like her.
This is the beginning of Ruthie’s return to herself. Somebody has said to her, you may be in a bad place, but you, you are OK just as you are.
When I was young, many folks thought that being harsh and judgmental with your children was something you did for their own good. Belittling them, telling them what disappointments they were to you, toughened them up for the inevitable hard knocks awaiting them in the real world. Cuddling them produced adults who were soft, gay, dependent on food stamps, whatever. Today, at least among liberal thinkers, what was once a popular child-rearing method is called ‘abuse.’
In “Sam” there is a quiet, bucolic chapter called ‘At the Horse Show.’ In this chapter Ruthie, having bought and befriended the homely, cranky horse Sam, she leaves him snoozing in the barn and goes to see a local horse show. She is happy that she’s no longer feeling left out and jealous– she has a horse now too, and he is wonderful in so many ways.
She forgets all those wonderful ways the moment she sees the pretty, graceful, shiny ponies the other kids have: their braided manes, silky tails and sleek clipped coats. The ponies she used to dream about; just better in every way than hers.
She goes home and tries to pretty Sam up. She trims the mops of hair off his fetlocks. She cuts off his beard and whiskers. She braids his mane and hacks off half the hair on his tail, trying desperately to turn him into some other horse; but the task proves impossible. By the end of this fruitless makeover session, which Sam enjoys immensely, she reaches a wise conclusion: Sam is OK just the way he is.
Later in the book, there is a deeper echo of this story, as Ruthie and Bea Pilcher sit in Bea’s kitchen talking about the breakup of Ruthie’s family, and the terrible burning rage that has devoured her life ever since. Bea reaches over and pats Ruthie’s hair and tells her she wished she had a kid like her.
This is the beginning of Ruthie’s return to herself. Somebody has said to her, you may be in a bad place, but you, you are OK just as you are.
The World of "Sam (a pastoral)"
Four little country Hollows. They seemed like an endless universe for a couple of runaway kids– and their tireless, rampageous doublewide trash horse– to range around in. What is so memorable bout those hollows?
Farms. Woods. Freedom. Ancient trails that led somewhere or nowhere. Neighbors who liked to see us when we paid calls on horseback. Some creepy secrets. Everything we needed to find our hero selves.
There is something magic about your view of the world from a horse’s back. Your head floats a little higher off the ground and you feel a bit lordly. You can look all around you too, because you aren’t the only one watching the road.
Deer and other critters gaze mildly at that big centaur coming their way, and they don’t skedaddle unless you talk. The world of nature enfolds you, and you start to be an animal for a blessed while.
You dare to turn onto those strange and alluring trails that you stumble across, even if the sun is sinking. One of you, if not both of you, always knows the way home, even in the dark.
Going back to my neighborhood as an adult, I see how tiny it really was. Of course it has changed a lot. Much of the land is now posted. Old houses are torn down and modern ones are built. Kids ride Quads or snowmobiles now, and the wild critters run when they hear them. But some of my neighbors have stayed on. We talk about the old days, the old places, the mighty deeds, the mighty steeds now all of them gone to their long homes.
I have travelled the world. I still remember my little magic corner of it, and how it was when I claimed it as mine. I’m really glad I wrote it all down in “Sam.”
Farms. Woods. Freedom. Ancient trails that led somewhere or nowhere. Neighbors who liked to see us when we paid calls on horseback. Some creepy secrets. Everything we needed to find our hero selves.
There is something magic about your view of the world from a horse’s back. Your head floats a little higher off the ground and you feel a bit lordly. You can look all around you too, because you aren’t the only one watching the road.
Deer and other critters gaze mildly at that big centaur coming their way, and they don’t skedaddle unless you talk. The world of nature enfolds you, and you start to be an animal for a blessed while.
You dare to turn onto those strange and alluring trails that you stumble across, even if the sun is sinking. One of you, if not both of you, always knows the way home, even in the dark.
Going back to my neighborhood as an adult, I see how tiny it really was. Of course it has changed a lot. Much of the land is now posted. Old houses are torn down and modern ones are built. Kids ride Quads or snowmobiles now, and the wild critters run when they hear them. But some of my neighbors have stayed on. We talk about the old days, the old places, the mighty deeds, the mighty steeds now all of them gone to their long homes.
I have travelled the world. I still remember my little magic corner of it, and how it was when I claimed it as mine. I’m really glad I wrote it all down in “Sam.”
The Alligators are Singing
The Alligators are Singing
Alligators were in the news again this morning. The article in the paper said that some guy in Louisiana bought a plot of land next to an alligator-infested swamp, and the reptiles ate his beagle and spooked his wife. He has tabled plans to start a cattle operation on his acreage because of fears that hundreds of gators would flock to his land and eat steak morning noon and night.
I feel bad for the guy, besieged by large reptiles, bereft of his dog and deserted by his wife; but I must confess– I love alligators. Was there ever such a successful, fearsome and interesting critter?
Think about it. They were top predators when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and they still rule the swamp today. They will eat any creature they can get their mouths around, starting with fish and ending with deer. They are such masters of their environment that they alter and shape it to their liking. They sing. They dance. They guard their eggs and young with tenderness and ferocity. They even use tools. All this sophisticated behavior, using nothing but its tiny little reptile brain!
You think I am making this stuff up? Let me tell you about alligators. Let me help you to respect them, and to think of them as more than something to make pricey cowboy boots from.
Alligators are engineers. They make ponds. Called ‘gator holes, these dug-out pools serve as reservoirs during dry spells. They provide good environment for lots of plant and animal life, some of which the gator will eat.
Alligators dig tunnels beneath the banks of their ponds: cozy gator-caves into which they retreat if the weather is too cold, or just to meditate on life and wait for an unwary raccoon or turtle to happen by. I saw a gator munch up a turtle once. It sounded like cracking peanut brittle and it gave me the shivers.
Alligators sing. They don’t have any vocal chords, but they sing anyway, in the contra-bass register; producing tones so low that the water jumps and fizzes around them. They like the key of B flat. They stick their heads straight up out of the water and dance to their singing. They sing, like humans, for a number of urgent reasons, all of which must be paid attention to.
I first heard a gator song while kayaking the Turner River in the Everglades. It was performed by a large bull named One-Eyed Willie. We had paddled (quietly, respectfully) past him and Mrs. One-Eyed, as they basked in the morning sun. When we came back at noon, the missus was still basking, but Willie had disappeared.
As I was musing on his whereabouts, I heard his song– felt it really, right through the bottom of the boat. The sound seemed to come from up close, from far away, from the mouth of hell. Every hair on my body stood up as the song rattled my bones and set my heart pounding. Our tour guide suggested that we leave the area with all due speed…
Was Willie threatening us? Serenading his wife? Just practicing? I don’t know, and it would not have mattered. I was overcome by the sheer blind primal terror of it.
I vowed never to go kayaking with alligators again. But two years later I was back, and this time we saw gators dancing, almost before we launched the boats. Two bulls, bellowing and vibrating the water. Yes, we launched the boats– we paddled tactfully past, giving them both a wide berth.
Lady gators guard their eggs, then carry the babies to the water after they hatch. They encourage the babies to ride on the maternal back; which is the safest place for them to be. Don’t nobody mess with lady gators with babies on board; they will threaten or attack at this stage. We gave the moms a wide berth also. This is not so easy on a narrow, drought-shrunken little river, but we were strongly motivated to do so and we did.
Do alligators really use tools? Documented. Gators adorn their noses with twigs and branches, and, slipping just under the surface of the water, they wait for some unwary bird to perch on those twigs as its last act on earth.
They can also run pretty fast on land, in short sprints anyway. They get up on their tippy-toes and book it at about 11 mph. A gentleman in Loxahachie State Park told me this interesting fact. He was standing on the edge of a boat slip educating me and tossing marshmallows to a huge gator a few yards offshore. The reptile was loving on those sweets, swimming closer and closer to my knowledgeable friend… I left them to it.
Gator scales are rows of solar panels, absorbing the heat from the sun efficiently so the reptile’s metabolism can function. If the gator gets too hot, it opens its jaws for some evaporating action, revealing its shell-pink tongue and gums. Very pretty.
When a gator bites a large creature, it holds on tight and does the death-roll, spinning around and round until the chunk it had glommed onto twists off. They do just like you do when you wrestle a drumstick off the Thanksgiving turkey.
Alligators seldom bite humans. There are only few recorded cases of alligator attacks on people. If they do bite it is almost always a mistake, and I am sure they are sorry afterwards. Cocker spaniels bite humans much more frequently than alligators do, but cocker spaniels do not perform the death roll.
So, how about those alligators? Do you love them now? Whatever your feelings, you have to agree that they are awesome animals. Watch, marvel, enjoy, do not feed or annoy, and you’ll be fine with them.
Alligators were in the news again this morning. The article in the paper said that some guy in Louisiana bought a plot of land next to an alligator-infested swamp, and the reptiles ate his beagle and spooked his wife. He has tabled plans to start a cattle operation on his acreage because of fears that hundreds of gators would flock to his land and eat steak morning noon and night.
I feel bad for the guy, besieged by large reptiles, bereft of his dog and deserted by his wife; but I must confess– I love alligators. Was there ever such a successful, fearsome and interesting critter?
Think about it. They were top predators when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and they still rule the swamp today. They will eat any creature they can get their mouths around, starting with fish and ending with deer. They are such masters of their environment that they alter and shape it to their liking. They sing. They dance. They guard their eggs and young with tenderness and ferocity. They even use tools. All this sophisticated behavior, using nothing but its tiny little reptile brain!
You think I am making this stuff up? Let me tell you about alligators. Let me help you to respect them, and to think of them as more than something to make pricey cowboy boots from.
Alligators are engineers. They make ponds. Called ‘gator holes, these dug-out pools serve as reservoirs during dry spells. They provide good environment for lots of plant and animal life, some of which the gator will eat.
Alligators dig tunnels beneath the banks of their ponds: cozy gator-caves into which they retreat if the weather is too cold, or just to meditate on life and wait for an unwary raccoon or turtle to happen by. I saw a gator munch up a turtle once. It sounded like cracking peanut brittle and it gave me the shivers.
Alligators sing. They don’t have any vocal chords, but they sing anyway, in the contra-bass register; producing tones so low that the water jumps and fizzes around them. They like the key of B flat. They stick their heads straight up out of the water and dance to their singing. They sing, like humans, for a number of urgent reasons, all of which must be paid attention to.
I first heard a gator song while kayaking the Turner River in the Everglades. It was performed by a large bull named One-Eyed Willie. We had paddled (quietly, respectfully) past him and Mrs. One-Eyed, as they basked in the morning sun. When we came back at noon, the missus was still basking, but Willie had disappeared.
As I was musing on his whereabouts, I heard his song– felt it really, right through the bottom of the boat. The sound seemed to come from up close, from far away, from the mouth of hell. Every hair on my body stood up as the song rattled my bones and set my heart pounding. Our tour guide suggested that we leave the area with all due speed…
Was Willie threatening us? Serenading his wife? Just practicing? I don’t know, and it would not have mattered. I was overcome by the sheer blind primal terror of it.
I vowed never to go kayaking with alligators again. But two years later I was back, and this time we saw gators dancing, almost before we launched the boats. Two bulls, bellowing and vibrating the water. Yes, we launched the boats– we paddled tactfully past, giving them both a wide berth.
Lady gators guard their eggs, then carry the babies to the water after they hatch. They encourage the babies to ride on the maternal back; which is the safest place for them to be. Don’t nobody mess with lady gators with babies on board; they will threaten or attack at this stage. We gave the moms a wide berth also. This is not so easy on a narrow, drought-shrunken little river, but we were strongly motivated to do so and we did.
Do alligators really use tools? Documented. Gators adorn their noses with twigs and branches, and, slipping just under the surface of the water, they wait for some unwary bird to perch on those twigs as its last act on earth.
They can also run pretty fast on land, in short sprints anyway. They get up on their tippy-toes and book it at about 11 mph. A gentleman in Loxahachie State Park told me this interesting fact. He was standing on the edge of a boat slip educating me and tossing marshmallows to a huge gator a few yards offshore. The reptile was loving on those sweets, swimming closer and closer to my knowledgeable friend… I left them to it.
Gator scales are rows of solar panels, absorbing the heat from the sun efficiently so the reptile’s metabolism can function. If the gator gets too hot, it opens its jaws for some evaporating action, revealing its shell-pink tongue and gums. Very pretty.
When a gator bites a large creature, it holds on tight and does the death-roll, spinning around and round until the chunk it had glommed onto twists off. They do just like you do when you wrestle a drumstick off the Thanksgiving turkey.
Alligators seldom bite humans. There are only few recorded cases of alligator attacks on people. If they do bite it is almost always a mistake, and I am sure they are sorry afterwards. Cocker spaniels bite humans much more frequently than alligators do, but cocker spaniels do not perform the death roll.
So, how about those alligators? Do you love them now? Whatever your feelings, you have to agree that they are awesome animals. Watch, marvel, enjoy, do not feed or annoy, and you’ll be fine with them.
A Culture of Dependency
A Culture of Dependency
Don’t get me wrong. I like birds. They sing very nicely and they are gifted natural athletes. There were a lot of them living in the woods near my house. I wanted to view them closer up, so I bought a feeder and stuck it on a pole outside my window.
Winter came, and with it the snow. Little songbirds flocked to my feeder, chowing down on seeds and suet, fluttering and chirping and acting cute. It was as if they were putting on a show just for me.
But then as the winter deepened and dragged on, I noticed something. These birds were just hanging around doing nothing! Nothing but eating, that is. Literally SNAPPING up bags and bags of the organic, gluten-free non-GMO seeds, that I bought for a hefty price at Wild Birds Unlimited! Even I don’t eat that well!
Only yesterday, I saw three or four mourning doves sitting–practically lying down– on the feeder tray, for HOURS, stoking up on my birdseed! They were so lazy they barely moved. They had taken up permanent residence and were hogging all the food!
I saw a small gang of juncos loitering in my foundation plantings, waiting to feed their habits if the doves ever moved off. But then a crew of starlings came in and cleaned out two suet feeders– dropping gobs of suet on the ground and not cleaning up after themselves– before they flew off, gibbering in their incomprehensible language. No doubt they were going to loot the feeders of other hardworking citizens.
I realized then that I had perpetuated a culture of dependency; these birds thought they were ENTITLED to food! They had infiltrated my patio, expecting more and more free stuff.. They had stopped fending for themselves, because my good intentions had turned them into lazy, and I hate to say it, shiftless, parasites. What next, would they try to come into the house? Sleep in my bed? Eat my food? It’s a slippery slope.
It was time for me to exercise some benign neglect, before these birds took over my life; so I took the feeder down. I am proud to say it worked. All the birds left my yard, without a single word of thanks for everything I had done for them. They left a lot of bird poop too.
What’s the lesson in all this? In this world there are seeders and there are feeders. Give a bird some sunflower seeds and you feed him for a day. Teach a bird to plant sunflower seeds and he can feed himself for life. I’m sure that’s what they are doing in the woods now. I can’t really tell; it’s awfully quiet out there.
Don’t get me wrong. I like birds. They sing very nicely and they are gifted natural athletes. There were a lot of them living in the woods near my house. I wanted to view them closer up, so I bought a feeder and stuck it on a pole outside my window.
Winter came, and with it the snow. Little songbirds flocked to my feeder, chowing down on seeds and suet, fluttering and chirping and acting cute. It was as if they were putting on a show just for me.
But then as the winter deepened and dragged on, I noticed something. These birds were just hanging around doing nothing! Nothing but eating, that is. Literally SNAPPING up bags and bags of the organic, gluten-free non-GMO seeds, that I bought for a hefty price at Wild Birds Unlimited! Even I don’t eat that well!
Only yesterday, I saw three or four mourning doves sitting–practically lying down– on the feeder tray, for HOURS, stoking up on my birdseed! They were so lazy they barely moved. They had taken up permanent residence and were hogging all the food!
I saw a small gang of juncos loitering in my foundation plantings, waiting to feed their habits if the doves ever moved off. But then a crew of starlings came in and cleaned out two suet feeders– dropping gobs of suet on the ground and not cleaning up after themselves– before they flew off, gibbering in their incomprehensible language. No doubt they were going to loot the feeders of other hardworking citizens.
I realized then that I had perpetuated a culture of dependency; these birds thought they were ENTITLED to food! They had infiltrated my patio, expecting more and more free stuff.. They had stopped fending for themselves, because my good intentions had turned them into lazy, and I hate to say it, shiftless, parasites. What next, would they try to come into the house? Sleep in my bed? Eat my food? It’s a slippery slope.
It was time for me to exercise some benign neglect, before these birds took over my life; so I took the feeder down. I am proud to say it worked. All the birds left my yard, without a single word of thanks for everything I had done for them. They left a lot of bird poop too.
What’s the lesson in all this? In this world there are seeders and there are feeders. Give a bird some sunflower seeds and you feed him for a day. Teach a bird to plant sunflower seeds and he can feed himself for life. I’m sure that’s what they are doing in the woods now. I can’t really tell; it’s awfully quiet out there.
