I left Sioux Falls four years ago not so much with my tail between my legs, but with my teeth bared and snapping at everyone. A friend and a boyfriend had made social life difficult for me, and the editor I'd been working under at the newspaper left for a better position. Life felt stagnant and black, like the water in the Big Sioux when it hadn't rained all summer. Chicago sounded like a good idea while I was taking a break from life, in Seattle, so Chicago became home. In the four years I lived in the Big Windy, I never got over my love for South Dakota and Sioux Falls, or the real friends I had made there; birthdays, weddings and a simple magnetism drew me back time and again.
Since I've been home in Nebraska, that longing and pull has gotten stronger, so last week I up and road tripped across the plains and made it back in town in time for two birthdays. Although the airwaves are about as lonesome as the country music that chokes them, NPR never fails to entertain and educate me; on Saturday, while passing the Wall Drug signs and deteriorating carcasses of animal after animal after animal, I listened to this amazing American Public Media story on the evolution of forgiveness. This is a story of revenge and forgiveness, a story that tells us how revenge and human emotion has evolved over the centuries, a story that tells us that we humans are "more instinctively equipped for forgiveness than we've perhaps given ourselves credit for."
I could write about how the components of this story-- an interview with the father of an Oklahoma City bombing victim, a scientific breakdown of revenge, a bit of thoughtful music-- made me feel, but I think listening to it yourself will be more meaningful for your own story.
I never sought revenge on my friend and my ex, because I wanted nothing to do with either of them any more, but instead of confronting the issue, it festered deep enough to force me away from a city and a landscape I loved.
I just got back to Nebraska from Sioux Falls, and even though I don't see either of those people any more, listening to this segment set me up for an afternoon of reflection on what was truly important to me as I went about my days in eastern South Dakota. I don't know how we ever muster up the courage to forgive and move on ( Michael McCullough, author of the book and papers this segment is based on) says that he'd like a new discourse on forgiveness to happen; a discourse that removes the softhearted wimpy connotations of forgiving to take place. Forgiveness is a strong, difficult, powerful thing to do, he says. We should respect it as such.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Seagull: Prompt Post No. 7
The small white "boats" bob in the distance, like scoops of vanilla ice cream atop a dark, bluish float. I can't see the small black eyes of the gull, nor the vivid, sharp hooks of their beaks. Their cute little webbed toes are hidden beneath the surface of the water, but I know they're either tucked up into warm feathers, or paddling languidly. The seagulls pay no attention to me, but I am watching them. The tables have been turned. "The circle, as Joseph Bruchac writes, "is the way to see." In these warm feathered bodies, bobbing and drifing in the current, I see the natural world. I see a reflection and an interconnectedness. I see me.
I have always been fascinated with the seagull. As a little girl, liked the birds because I could throw my icky bread crusts overboard, and the loud birds would swoop in a for a meal, entertaining me and breaking the monotony of a day on the lake. I learned as a child that gulls are not picky; watching them scavenge on the shorelines for bits of fish skin, human refuse or even the living insects and water bugs showed me that these birds know how to make do with what they have.
Walk along the edge of any dump, landfill or polluted place, and there's the gull, loudly proclaiming himself king of all the things in the world that no one else wants. I've often wondered what, if anything, I can learn from these birds.
Once, while reading a book in a park in downtown Chicago, I'd set down the lemon bar I was eating, only to watch it slide away out of the corner of my eye, pages later. A craft gull had snuck in close behind me, nabbed the cellophane wrapper, and was slowly backing away from me with one eye trained on my face. It was the first time I'd even been so close to a bird like this, and I held my breath, not wanting to freak him out. I don't think he cared at all.. he scooted about two feet away, and looked up, then took his time pecking at my lemon bar. By that time, I realized I could no more offend him than he'd offended me, so I pulled out my cellphone and snapped a picture of him, in case no one believed me. Thankfully, my friends in Chicago "get" this kind of thing; one saw it as a message.
"You know, Mars, maybe the seagull is your totem animal."
Totem animal, huh? I'd heard of this concept, but hadn't felt like I'd even had an encounter with any animal to experience the coolness of this.
A totem animal, is, according to the Manataka American Indian Council, a spirit guide that may "teach us their powers and give as lessons of life (and these things don't necessarily have to be animals)."
Well, from that day on, I kept noticing gulls, all the time. Sure, they're all over Navy Pier in downtown Chicago, and I lived next to the lake on the North side, but even when I wasn't near water or trash or spilled food.. I'd see a gull.
There would be a magnet in a bookstore, a lighthouse with a bird atop it.
And one day, at home in Nebraska, I was feeding ducks at a small lake in the town where my mom works, and these gulls flew above me, and hovered there, caught on the wind current. Most of the flock moved on, but there was one gull in particular that kept riding the wind; he'd go higher, and move forward, then drop down and be pushed backward again, until he was above me yet again. It felt like this went on for hours, but it was probably no more than 60 seconds. There was this old dead tree behind him, and the way the sun was coming through the tree, dappled and reflected, broken into small squares of glittering, opalescent light, then landing on the bird's feathers, made me feel like there was more than woman and bird and wind involved in the moment. It made me feel like I was connected to something larger than the bird, or the sun or even that moment. It made me feel like all moments were the same and my entire life was as shot through with amber and gold and warmth as any life had ever been.
So what did the seagull mean? That a carefree, scavenging, wild attitude was always going to be part of my makeup? I guess I knew that already, but it was fun to see a similarity between me and the animal.
Since that time Raccoon has added himself to my cache of totem animals. Before I left Chicago for good, I'd been praying for a sign, and the night I first talked to my boss about possibly putting in my two weeks, a raccoon walked out of a dark street in front of me, and walked about 1/4 of a block home with me. Raccoon can often help people let go of things that no longer serve them.
I feel stronger ties and loyalty to Seagull, but it was really amazing to feel like I'd gotten the sign I was hoping for.
I know I am not alone in my kinship with animals in this manner; many indigenous peoples believe that there is power and connection and meaning in special animal encounters. For example, ancient cultures, such as the Mapuche, know that Puma and Jaguar are animals of power. Condor and Snake represent life and death and the great mystery surrounding us, and it is not uncommon for spiritual practice to invoke the names and strengths of these animals as needed. Even author Peter Coyote, who pays homage to his namesake in "Muddy Prints on the Mohair," calls upon the trickster spirit of the furred animal in both humor and contemplation.
"Coyote is the miss in your engine He steals your concentration in the Zendo… He is total effort. Any good afternoon nap. Best dancer in the house . The dealer and the sucker in a sidewalk Monte game. An acquaintance who hunts your power. The hooker whose boyfriend comes out of the closet while your pants are down. He's also the boyfriend…"
Seagull, too, is all of these things and more. He is the bird who flies with others but is not afraid to go alone. Seagull is like Gluskabe, or Ikitomi, depending on the tradition of story. He makes his home in any place, mates with anyone, finds what he needs to survive and knows how to go on. He is hated, cursed, studied, poisoned, diseased, make into cartoons and stuffed animals is stuffed and studied in museums and labs. Seagull is loud and annoying and always has something to say, like it or not or understand it. Seagull is also comfort.
I can't watch the birds bob on the water or pick through trash to this day without thinking of that day in Chicago or the moment in Nebraska at the lake. No matter where I am, what or who I encounter, I find a strength in these memories because I find a strength in seagull. I know I'm crass and loud and irritating and even animal in my actions at times. I don't so as far as theft of others' food, from behind their half-turned backs, but I know how to get what I need in order to function and survive. I am okay with going though the cheap-o bins at good will or the curbside junk left on the edge of my street corner. I am drawn to those who live likewise, the curious, the messy, the adaptable. We might be a stone's throw away from the edges of humanity and being pesky, pesty animals, but we are true to our animal nature. And for providing the example and reminding me to by myself, at all costs, I remain indebted to the seagull and the other guides who walk this planet.
I have always been fascinated with the seagull. As a little girl, liked the birds because I could throw my icky bread crusts overboard, and the loud birds would swoop in a for a meal, entertaining me and breaking the monotony of a day on the lake. I learned as a child that gulls are not picky; watching them scavenge on the shorelines for bits of fish skin, human refuse or even the living insects and water bugs showed me that these birds know how to make do with what they have.
Walk along the edge of any dump, landfill or polluted place, and there's the gull, loudly proclaiming himself king of all the things in the world that no one else wants. I've often wondered what, if anything, I can learn from these birds.
Once, while reading a book in a park in downtown Chicago, I'd set down the lemon bar I was eating, only to watch it slide away out of the corner of my eye, pages later. A craft gull had snuck in close behind me, nabbed the cellophane wrapper, and was slowly backing away from me with one eye trained on my face. It was the first time I'd even been so close to a bird like this, and I held my breath, not wanting to freak him out. I don't think he cared at all.. he scooted about two feet away, and looked up, then took his time pecking at my lemon bar. By that time, I realized I could no more offend him than he'd offended me, so I pulled out my cellphone and snapped a picture of him, in case no one believed me. Thankfully, my friends in Chicago "get" this kind of thing; one saw it as a message.
"You know, Mars, maybe the seagull is your totem animal."
Totem animal, huh? I'd heard of this concept, but hadn't felt like I'd even had an encounter with any animal to experience the coolness of this.
A totem animal, is, according to the Manataka American Indian Council, a spirit guide that may "teach us their powers and give as lessons of life (and these things don't necessarily have to be animals)."
Well, from that day on, I kept noticing gulls, all the time. Sure, they're all over Navy Pier in downtown Chicago, and I lived next to the lake on the North side, but even when I wasn't near water or trash or spilled food.. I'd see a gull.
There would be a magnet in a bookstore, a lighthouse with a bird atop it.
And one day, at home in Nebraska, I was feeding ducks at a small lake in the town where my mom works, and these gulls flew above me, and hovered there, caught on the wind current. Most of the flock moved on, but there was one gull in particular that kept riding the wind; he'd go higher, and move forward, then drop down and be pushed backward again, until he was above me yet again. It felt like this went on for hours, but it was probably no more than 60 seconds. There was this old dead tree behind him, and the way the sun was coming through the tree, dappled and reflected, broken into small squares of glittering, opalescent light, then landing on the bird's feathers, made me feel like there was more than woman and bird and wind involved in the moment. It made me feel like I was connected to something larger than the bird, or the sun or even that moment. It made me feel like all moments were the same and my entire life was as shot through with amber and gold and warmth as any life had ever been.
So what did the seagull mean? That a carefree, scavenging, wild attitude was always going to be part of my makeup? I guess I knew that already, but it was fun to see a similarity between me and the animal.
Since that time Raccoon has added himself to my cache of totem animals. Before I left Chicago for good, I'd been praying for a sign, and the night I first talked to my boss about possibly putting in my two weeks, a raccoon walked out of a dark street in front of me, and walked about 1/4 of a block home with me. Raccoon can often help people let go of things that no longer serve them.
I feel stronger ties and loyalty to Seagull, but it was really amazing to feel like I'd gotten the sign I was hoping for.
I know I am not alone in my kinship with animals in this manner; many indigenous peoples believe that there is power and connection and meaning in special animal encounters. For example, ancient cultures, such as the Mapuche, know that Puma and Jaguar are animals of power. Condor and Snake represent life and death and the great mystery surrounding us, and it is not uncommon for spiritual practice to invoke the names and strengths of these animals as needed. Even author Peter Coyote, who pays homage to his namesake in "Muddy Prints on the Mohair," calls upon the trickster spirit of the furred animal in both humor and contemplation.
"Coyote is the miss in your engine He steals your concentration in the Zendo… He is total effort. Any good afternoon nap. Best dancer in the house . The dealer and the sucker in a sidewalk Monte game. An acquaintance who hunts your power. The hooker whose boyfriend comes out of the closet while your pants are down. He's also the boyfriend…"
Seagull, too, is all of these things and more. He is the bird who flies with others but is not afraid to go alone. Seagull is like Gluskabe, or Ikitomi, depending on the tradition of story. He makes his home in any place, mates with anyone, finds what he needs to survive and knows how to go on. He is hated, cursed, studied, poisoned, diseased, make into cartoons and stuffed animals is stuffed and studied in museums and labs. Seagull is loud and annoying and always has something to say, like it or not or understand it. Seagull is also comfort.
I can't watch the birds bob on the water or pick through trash to this day without thinking of that day in Chicago or the moment in Nebraska at the lake. No matter where I am, what or who I encounter, I find a strength in these memories because I find a strength in seagull. I know I'm crass and loud and irritating and even animal in my actions at times. I don't so as far as theft of others' food, from behind their half-turned backs, but I know how to get what I need in order to function and survive. I am okay with going though the cheap-o bins at good will or the curbside junk left on the edge of my street corner. I am drawn to those who live likewise, the curious, the messy, the adaptable. We might be a stone's throw away from the edges of humanity and being pesky, pesty animals, but we are true to our animal nature. And for providing the example and reminding me to by myself, at all costs, I remain indebted to the seagull and the other guides who walk this planet.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Hardiness: Place Post No. 7
The lake has shed it skin for another winter. Sunlight shines on the ridged surface this afternoon, and I think that the gulls bobbing on the water look like small, white boats or dutch shoes floating in the distance. In just a matter of weeks it feels like winter has come and gone, and yet there's still a feeling of harsh cold in the air. I wonder if the wildlife below notices something similar? I know that fish like rough water, still, beautiful days above the surface do nothing for for the fisherman or woman.
I still see only dead plants, and a few birds, but no abundance of animals (or people). We've made it through the winter, but where is everyone?
The trees are beginning to send out small knobs of brown buds, and I can't wait to see the green life that sprouts from them. Their barren branches are now familiar, but they're not as inviting as the fullness of color is. Is the algae and other underwater greenery undergoing a similar process? Do these things live and die and move in cycles like the same things above water? I know the water grows its own furry covering sometimes in the late summer, but that's just what I can see. The filamentous algae covers the wooden legs of the dock with a mustardy yellow throughout the summer but is absent now; but what's it like underwater? Is the curly-leaf pondweed flourishing (I scout it out online and learn that it is, but will die back in the summer)? We don't have to worry about the invasive Eurasian watermilfoil in Walgren, but I know it exists in rivers throughout the south-central region of Nebraska.
I don't think we have Zebra mussels here, like Yankton county, South Dakota, so that's one less lifeform to worry about. But for all of those that should be here that didn't make it or don't, how many of the bad guys do? How many survive our winters (the zebra mussel comes from the Caspian so it should love the cold)?
I don't think about the wildlife that I know as invasive--he plants I see, the animals.. pheasants are not native to our country either--in much the same way I don't think about how hard it is for other life forms to make it through the winter. But as spring creeps around the corner and curiosity blossoms, how much will I begin to think about the existence of these things, and mine, relative to them?
I still see only dead plants, and a few birds, but no abundance of animals (or people). We've made it through the winter, but where is everyone?
The trees are beginning to send out small knobs of brown buds, and I can't wait to see the green life that sprouts from them. Their barren branches are now familiar, but they're not as inviting as the fullness of color is. Is the algae and other underwater greenery undergoing a similar process? Do these things live and die and move in cycles like the same things above water? I know the water grows its own furry covering sometimes in the late summer, but that's just what I can see. The filamentous algae covers the wooden legs of the dock with a mustardy yellow throughout the summer but is absent now; but what's it like underwater? Is the curly-leaf pondweed flourishing (I scout it out online and learn that it is, but will die back in the summer)? We don't have to worry about the invasive Eurasian watermilfoil in Walgren, but I know it exists in rivers throughout the south-central region of Nebraska.
I don't think we have Zebra mussels here, like Yankton county, South Dakota, so that's one less lifeform to worry about. But for all of those that should be here that didn't make it or don't, how many of the bad guys do? How many survive our winters (the zebra mussel comes from the Caspian so it should love the cold)?
I don't think about the wildlife that I know as invasive--he plants I see, the animals.. pheasants are not native to our country either--in much the same way I don't think about how hard it is for other life forms to make it through the winter. But as spring creeps around the corner and curiosity blossoms, how much will I begin to think about the existence of these things, and mine, relative to them?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A word on "Salebarn" (the following prompt post)
I went to a bull sale with my dad a few weeks ago and have been wanting to write about it since then. I've also been thinking about the "Old Indian Tales" books and characters, and the characters around my county, and The Salebarn is the result of all these things coming together. Yes, this story is fiction, but it's based on a lot of real stuff. The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation is just up the road and over the state line from Rushville, NE where I worked during high school. I worked at the newspaper, not the salebarn, but I was in 4-H, with the auctioneer's son, who never showed me around the salebarn at night.
I've only posted the first part of the story here, hoping to capture and evoke the feelings of confusion, fear and familiarity I found when entering the sale barn and falling backward into my old memories of 4-H and cattle sales and time spent at the salebarn with my dad as a little, little girl. I'll post more, but I didn't want it to be a waay long post.
I've only posted the first part of the story here, hoping to capture and evoke the feelings of confusion, fear and familiarity I found when entering the sale barn and falling backward into my old memories of 4-H and cattle sales and time spent at the salebarn with my dad as a little, little girl. I'll post more, but I didn't want it to be a waay long post.
Thaw: Place Post No. 6
Friday. March 19
Finally, I can sit outside without freezing. It'll be cold again in a bit, when the storm moves through, but for now, we're having some nice weather. The ground is damp underneath the grass and the leaves, but it is so nice to sit under the cottonwoods that for once, I don't mind the soggy coldness of winter.
The ice on Walgren is rotting today, beginning its spring thaw. A little more will go out everyday, but if we get cold weather again on Monday, that will slow it once again (It's Tuesday as I type this, and we got more snow today), but not allow it to freeze over. That's pretty much it for the winter on the lake. As the ice continues to melt for the next three weeks (or longer, depending on the weather) the hazy patches will separate, looking like oil on water.
In my light hoodie, I'm getting hot, it's almost 65 today and nothing but a mild breeze. I can hear the Canadian Geese overhead, so I know summer is coming, but today's temps aren't going to stay, not yet. That hasn't stopped dad, who's getting the boat ready and putting away the ice gear. He hopes to be on Minatare (another lake , about an hour from home) by next week. I think that's pushing it, but that's what makes him happy.
I rise from the damp spot on the ground, uncrossing my legs and shaking them. Heading down to the bridge sounds like a good idea, so I scramble down the gentle hillside and hook a hand over the wooden slat of the bridge. The little creek/crick in front of me has been running for at least two weeks; we've had more snow this winter than I have seen since my childhood memories of snow tunnels behind the house. Those snowdrifts were up to the gutters, and I suppose that was more than 20 years ago.. a lifetime, at least.
Seeing the water run clear in quick in front of me makes me smile. When I leave work in the evenings, I curse this same water, because it has pooled in the ditches along the highway that joins home and town. For fifteen miles I have to squint as I drive south; the sun, as it sets across the dried, yellow grasses, burns brightly in this melted snow runoff, and blinds me.
But here, today, looking at the results of warming temps and the coming of spring, I'm not blinded by the sun, only a little dizzy. The small ripples of water absorb some of the bright beams, which filter through the pale cabbage-colored water, but the other bit of sunshine that hits the water gets caught on the crest and moves along with it, a soft ripple of molten gold.
I want to see a fish, a minnow, maybe a turtle, but there's no activity like this yet. Maybe in a week. I lean over, squeeze and empty juice bottle in the water, suck in a great gulp of it, and return it to the Rav. It's too late in the day to go over to my old elementary school and use a microscope, but I'm tempted to pull a Dillard and see what I can see.
I have been awed and amazed all year by the readings I have had in my MFA courses. Some I've read before, others I've not, but in this light, the light of context and contemplation, I'm seeing things I've never seen before. This week we're reading about the urban landscape, how we find and create nature in the city. This nature doesn't necessarily even have to be of-the-earth type stuff, but seems to be adaptable to whatever is always around us. It is all our perspective, as Dillard wrote, it's all about how we take the time to look and see.
After leaving my bottle in the Rav, I walk over to the edge of the lake, where it's too reedy and marshy to still be frozen, and squat down, sniffing, looking to see what I can see. The edge of the ice that is close and observable for detail, is smushy looking, like wet cotton, and there are sticks and dried leaves and fine sediments stuck in it, a little further out. The mud here smells dank, like the holes left behind in week-long mud when you pull up a rock and air rushes in, trying to seal it over. It's smelly, the breakdown and decay of all the dead things that got stuck, but it's spring mud, and this thought moves me.
Cabin fever hasn't hit me as hard this year as it has in the past. I thought winter on the Plains was bad, here where everything is so wide open, so susceptible to snowing one in and blowing things closed, but it sure beats winter in the city. I feel like beyond the comfort of the winter--the bounty of snow, which means fuller lakes and rivers and better harvests, the ability to drive from place to place and not walk, and the warmth of my home (the heat is not my responsibility!)--I've come to find a general comfort in my placement at the moment. I'm certain I'm not here forever; in fact I'd like to leave next month, but instead of feeling quite so vicious about "home" I'm beginning to feel a bit of warmth.
Something splashes out beyond the silent reeds, something that has broken a spot in the ice and jumped up. It's got to be a fish, or maybe an otter? A beaver? A muskrat? A cheese rat? Who knows what it is. I eye the general area but see nothing, then walk to my car. It's inevitable: the next time I come back there will be less ice and more water; more mud too. More animals. In a month, kids will be out on the dock fishing, and the sheen of bruised, rotten ice will be gone. In a month the semester will be almost over, and it's just as inevitable that I'll be thinking strongly about what's next for me. It's human nature, nature that things come and go, change and progress. Even in it's solid, stagnant flatness, the ice too, is moving slowly. Yes, this is the thaw.
Finally, I can sit outside without freezing. It'll be cold again in a bit, when the storm moves through, but for now, we're having some nice weather. The ground is damp underneath the grass and the leaves, but it is so nice to sit under the cottonwoods that for once, I don't mind the soggy coldness of winter.
The ice on Walgren is rotting today, beginning its spring thaw. A little more will go out everyday, but if we get cold weather again on Monday, that will slow it once again (It's Tuesday as I type this, and we got more snow today), but not allow it to freeze over. That's pretty much it for the winter on the lake. As the ice continues to melt for the next three weeks (or longer, depending on the weather) the hazy patches will separate, looking like oil on water.
In my light hoodie, I'm getting hot, it's almost 65 today and nothing but a mild breeze. I can hear the Canadian Geese overhead, so I know summer is coming, but today's temps aren't going to stay, not yet. That hasn't stopped dad, who's getting the boat ready and putting away the ice gear. He hopes to be on Minatare (another lake , about an hour from home) by next week. I think that's pushing it, but that's what makes him happy.
I rise from the damp spot on the ground, uncrossing my legs and shaking them. Heading down to the bridge sounds like a good idea, so I scramble down the gentle hillside and hook a hand over the wooden slat of the bridge. The little creek/crick in front of me has been running for at least two weeks; we've had more snow this winter than I have seen since my childhood memories of snow tunnels behind the house. Those snowdrifts were up to the gutters, and I suppose that was more than 20 years ago.. a lifetime, at least.
Seeing the water run clear in quick in front of me makes me smile. When I leave work in the evenings, I curse this same water, because it has pooled in the ditches along the highway that joins home and town. For fifteen miles I have to squint as I drive south; the sun, as it sets across the dried, yellow grasses, burns brightly in this melted snow runoff, and blinds me.
But here, today, looking at the results of warming temps and the coming of spring, I'm not blinded by the sun, only a little dizzy. The small ripples of water absorb some of the bright beams, which filter through the pale cabbage-colored water, but the other bit of sunshine that hits the water gets caught on the crest and moves along with it, a soft ripple of molten gold.
I want to see a fish, a minnow, maybe a turtle, but there's no activity like this yet. Maybe in a week. I lean over, squeeze and empty juice bottle in the water, suck in a great gulp of it, and return it to the Rav. It's too late in the day to go over to my old elementary school and use a microscope, but I'm tempted to pull a Dillard and see what I can see.
I have been awed and amazed all year by the readings I have had in my MFA courses. Some I've read before, others I've not, but in this light, the light of context and contemplation, I'm seeing things I've never seen before. This week we're reading about the urban landscape, how we find and create nature in the city. This nature doesn't necessarily even have to be of-the-earth type stuff, but seems to be adaptable to whatever is always around us. It is all our perspective, as Dillard wrote, it's all about how we take the time to look and see.
After leaving my bottle in the Rav, I walk over to the edge of the lake, where it's too reedy and marshy to still be frozen, and squat down, sniffing, looking to see what I can see. The edge of the ice that is close and observable for detail, is smushy looking, like wet cotton, and there are sticks and dried leaves and fine sediments stuck in it, a little further out. The mud here smells dank, like the holes left behind in week-long mud when you pull up a rock and air rushes in, trying to seal it over. It's smelly, the breakdown and decay of all the dead things that got stuck, but it's spring mud, and this thought moves me.
Cabin fever hasn't hit me as hard this year as it has in the past. I thought winter on the Plains was bad, here where everything is so wide open, so susceptible to snowing one in and blowing things closed, but it sure beats winter in the city. I feel like beyond the comfort of the winter--the bounty of snow, which means fuller lakes and rivers and better harvests, the ability to drive from place to place and not walk, and the warmth of my home (the heat is not my responsibility!)--I've come to find a general comfort in my placement at the moment. I'm certain I'm not here forever; in fact I'd like to leave next month, but instead of feeling quite so vicious about "home" I'm beginning to feel a bit of warmth.
Something splashes out beyond the silent reeds, something that has broken a spot in the ice and jumped up. It's got to be a fish, or maybe an otter? A beaver? A muskrat? A cheese rat? Who knows what it is. I eye the general area but see nothing, then walk to my car. It's inevitable: the next time I come back there will be less ice and more water; more mud too. More animals. In a month, kids will be out on the dock fishing, and the sheen of bruised, rotten ice will be gone. In a month the semester will be almost over, and it's just as inevitable that I'll be thinking strongly about what's next for me. It's human nature, nature that things come and go, change and progress. Even in it's solid, stagnant flatness, the ice too, is moving slowly. Yes, this is the thaw.
The Salebarn (part I): Prompt Post No. 6
wind blew across the parking lot as Tomi stepped from her car, crunching shit-stained snow with her black heels. Her small car, its shiny green body sure to get lost in between the staggered rows of tail-gated vehicles, was nosed in forward-- no need to parallel park, here, she thought, shaking her head slowly. Life in Boston had been a shock to her system, coming from the sweeping grasses of her Plains prairie, but grandfather, he had prepared her for that one.
"In the cities, there are so many cars people park in long rows down the street. It is different in many ways, and if you park funny, your difference will show."
Tomi had always hated it when her differences showed off the reservation, but on it, she was proud of her distinctions.
"There goes Tomi 'Too-Good'," joked the boys she had no time for, when they were feeling particularly mean and nasty, but Tomi would smile and nod her head into her books, trying hard to feign indifference. She knew she would get off the rez, leave behind the sadness and misery that had so long been suffered by her people. Grandfather told her he saw that in her future, and since he knew everything, she had always believed him. His comments about her differences being beautiful were something she had never believed growing up on the edge of the reservation, but in the city, well, people had loved them.
And now, she could remember his words like it was yesterday...had six years really passed already? Was her beloved Grandfather really dying? What had he said, crackling and wheezing from her cell phone?
"No more moons for grandfather?"
Tomi knew he'd said it in an attempt at humor, poking fun at his old ways, the things lost to her people that he'd held dear, those things she's once dreaded. Things like the dances, the way the drums spoke deep in her heart and her stomach, the way the rocks sang at the lodges and whispered the secrets of her people. She’d hated being known in school for those things, the Indian girl who was bused in to town on government funds, but now, her heritage was something almost magical.
Remembering her high school days Tomi slammed her door shut, and walking purposefully, moved toward the screened-in entrance.
it had been years since she'd driven past this lot, and now, back from college, the memories of her timeworking at the salebarn haunted her. The white paint was chipped and ugly along the north side of the building, and the scattered straw, manure and yelllowed snow puddles washed the ground leading to the chutes with an equal squalor. The men and women who worked here said that life on the Rez was putrid and ugly, but did they ever take a second look at their surroundings? The kids she'd guarded in basketball or ran against in track, the ones who'd been so hard on her for the way she'd ridden her horses in 4-H, did they ever think twice about the way they treated their own animals? Had she, when she slapped rumps and prodded ankles?
As Tomi reached the screen door-- still hanging at an uncomfortable angle after McClintock lost out on a heifer bid--she craned her head around to the east of the building, so that she could just see beyond the first pens and around the chute. The pens, once red and black, “in honor of the Herefords and Black Angus that come through,” Ellis had told her, were now rust colored and bronzed, or a flaky, dirty gray.
To the south of the pens, the loading chute was exactly as she’d remembered it: weathered wood, gone gray and warped in the harsh winters, covered with shit spatters of all colors, like brown,honey,gold,yellow,tan,chocolate,raisin polka dots. This was where the animals met their new enclosures: slatted semi-trailers, horse trailers or maybe just porta-pens in the back of a truck.
Tomi was hoping for a familiar face or two, but she couldn't see anything but cinnamon hide and loopy, bubble-gum udders. The cows were still in progress-- it would be a while until the bull sale started, so steadied by the determination in her mind, Tomi pushed open the screen door and was pulled forward.
The grounds had been kept up over the years, obviously, because the parking lot was full of trailers and pickup trucks and semis—hers was the only car—and that meant that today’s was going to be a big sale, but she had wasted enough time outside already. She knew how she felt about the commerce of animals. Boston had changed that, too. What she wanted to know…would Ellis be working here today?
The first time she stepped foot in the salebarn it had been dark out, but the sky was full of stars and the Moon was shining.
The 4-H sale had ended, and Tomi's steer had brought top dollar. Ellis Drum, who's dad Gene owned Drum's auction and officiated at the 4-H sale proceedings, spoke to her back in the pens when she'd returned her steer to his holdings.
"You know, Tomi.." he'd said, slow and calculated, with the mind of a man who is used to sizing up female animals for their heft, durability and reproductive capabilities "I could take you inside the salebarn sometime, show you around.. get you a drink."
Tomi's hand had stopped brushing whorl in the middle of her steer’s hindquarters. She knew Ellis in the way everyone knew him-- good looking, funny, Gene Drum's son. Golden. They'd talked at the 4-H dances each year, shared a few, shared more than that many beers, but they'd never been friends. Not really. Why did he want to do this for her now?
"Oh, really? What for?"
Tomi knew that there would be a cost of some sort involved in this; the Drum family hadn't wrangled the largest salebarn and auction reputation in the tri-county area with nothing but their good looks and silver tongues.
"I dunno, just thought you might like to see the place we kill the animals."
Tomi snorted, whipping around and bending upright to face Ellis.
“Cut the shit, Ellis. You know as well as I do that I’ve seen death before, and I’m not scared of it. You’ll talk to me here, ask me to see your salebarn while no one’s around, but you really want something. What.”
No nonsense, matter-of-fact. Tomi still talked that way, always had; it was this sensibility that had interested Mr. Brookings when he encouraged her to go into law.
Ellis’ dark eyes had almost glowed that night, like the firebugs she’d chased up from the grasses as a child, and when he answered her, she knew he meant it.
“Business, is all. You’re a good looking girl, gonna be a woman before school starts again.. I know you want offa that wasteland up north. Come down and work for us rest tha’ summer. Help out during the year.Put up some money for college. Dad’s on the Golden Clovers scholarship board… maybe he could work something even better.”
Tomi had pulled at the steer’s halter when Ellis offered her the job, a little harsher than necessary, and the young animal had bawled. And bawled and bawled, she though, shaking the old sounds from her head, then realizing that the lulling she heard was taking place now, in the present.
Without stopping by the small cafeteria to see if Cookie still worked here, Tomi had made it from the front door to the orchestra-pit style auctioneer pen, and there, teeming and gnashing and bawling, was an old Holstein and two little calves. The cow’s black splotches were haphazardly inked into her white hid, and if Tomi squinted, they looked mildly circular. The caked-on mud and shit that had spread across her back was dried and chunky, covering up her natural color. She was a mess, and her swollen udders, looking like pulled-taffy that had been stretched waaay too far, had cracked from a winter spent being milked hard.
It was not a scene Tomi had hoped for, when she’d parked her car, or at least not the first thing she saw upon entering. Why couldn't it be the little Brayden twins, in their matching Wranglers, chasing each other over the seats and playing "bangbang" with pistol fingers? Of course it wouldn't be them.. they had to be grown up now.. junior high school at least. Or Sally, the other Native who swept out the pens and sometimes snuck inside to watch the sale? Something nice, something warm and comforting.
Right. Comforting, at the saleabarn, where lives are bought and sold and deals are made among the human animals.
That fall, after the fair was over and Tomi skipped out on the carnival and dances to go drinking, Ellis had taken her inside the salebarn. No livestock, no humans, just the two of them, and that smell. That wet, earthy smell that comes from and is a range animal. It had been her first time inside the salebarn, and even though all they did was sit up in the crow’s nest and drink bourbon, Tomi thought it felt familiar. Like maybe she belonged. She made up her mind that night to work at Drum Auction and Packing, because she knew that working in the white man’s town, trading his commodities and understanding them, was crucial to her success when she left her own broken land.
“Iminabid iminabid, iminabid, five, five five, no, six, no, seven, no, ten, do I have ten? Up ten, up ten, up ten on the dollar, to the man in the white hat, the white hat, the Stetson, yessir, number 45, is that you Bob? You are number 45, if I am not mistaken?”
Tomi was jerked again from the past into the present, hearing Gene’s undulating voice drop down and run up octaves as he raised the bidding price on the cow in the pen. It surprised her how easily the language of the auction came back to her. The “man in the white hat white hat white hat,” Gene knew him, he was a regular at the auctions, and it wasn’t uncommon for Gene to sneak in greetings and observances in the middle of a sale, then carry on with the bidding without even taking a breath. The cow and her calves, looking to be about two weeks old, sold for just over $800 dollars.
Eight hundred dollars for her life, and the lives of her children. Surely worth more? But how would Tomi know? Hadn't her own life, her hopes for something better, been commodified in a similar way, in this very place, just a few years ago?
Tomi sniffled at the cold air and watched the next items lope inside: two small, red heifers. The thing about watching an auction that always bothered Tomi was not that the animals would be killed and eaten—dinner—but that they had served as entertainment first. Mick was still working here, brandishing the prod that kept the animals in line, and as he shocked one of the heifers from behind, she jumped forward, slipped on the wet, shitty dirt, and skidded across the pen floor. The men around Tomi, intent on the sale in progress, didn’t seem to notice the animal’s fear, or frantic energy. iOr perhaps they did, and they just didn’t care? She was never quite sure which it was, but either way, it didn’t matter. What was clear was that the animal had suffered, then rushed into this pen, thinking only of something different, yet not knowing quite what.
"In the cities, there are so many cars people park in long rows down the street. It is different in many ways, and if you park funny, your difference will show."
Tomi had always hated it when her differences showed off the reservation, but on it, she was proud of her distinctions.
"There goes Tomi 'Too-Good'," joked the boys she had no time for, when they were feeling particularly mean and nasty, but Tomi would smile and nod her head into her books, trying hard to feign indifference. She knew she would get off the rez, leave behind the sadness and misery that had so long been suffered by her people. Grandfather told her he saw that in her future, and since he knew everything, she had always believed him. His comments about her differences being beautiful were something she had never believed growing up on the edge of the reservation, but in the city, well, people had loved them.
And now, she could remember his words like it was yesterday...had six years really passed already? Was her beloved Grandfather really dying? What had he said, crackling and wheezing from her cell phone?
"No more moons for grandfather?"
Tomi knew he'd said it in an attempt at humor, poking fun at his old ways, the things lost to her people that he'd held dear, those things she's once dreaded. Things like the dances, the way the drums spoke deep in her heart and her stomach, the way the rocks sang at the lodges and whispered the secrets of her people. She’d hated being known in school for those things, the Indian girl who was bused in to town on government funds, but now, her heritage was something almost magical.
Remembering her high school days Tomi slammed her door shut, and walking purposefully, moved toward the screened-in entrance.
it had been years since she'd driven past this lot, and now, back from college, the memories of her timeworking at the salebarn haunted her. The white paint was chipped and ugly along the north side of the building, and the scattered straw, manure and yelllowed snow puddles washed the ground leading to the chutes with an equal squalor. The men and women who worked here said that life on the Rez was putrid and ugly, but did they ever take a second look at their surroundings? The kids she'd guarded in basketball or ran against in track, the ones who'd been so hard on her for the way she'd ridden her horses in 4-H, did they ever think twice about the way they treated their own animals? Had she, when she slapped rumps and prodded ankles?
As Tomi reached the screen door-- still hanging at an uncomfortable angle after McClintock lost out on a heifer bid--she craned her head around to the east of the building, so that she could just see beyond the first pens and around the chute. The pens, once red and black, “in honor of the Herefords and Black Angus that come through,” Ellis had told her, were now rust colored and bronzed, or a flaky, dirty gray.
To the south of the pens, the loading chute was exactly as she’d remembered it: weathered wood, gone gray and warped in the harsh winters, covered with shit spatters of all colors, like brown,honey,gold,yellow,tan,chocolate,raisin polka dots. This was where the animals met their new enclosures: slatted semi-trailers, horse trailers or maybe just porta-pens in the back of a truck.
Tomi was hoping for a familiar face or two, but she couldn't see anything but cinnamon hide and loopy, bubble-gum udders. The cows were still in progress-- it would be a while until the bull sale started, so steadied by the determination in her mind, Tomi pushed open the screen door and was pulled forward.
The grounds had been kept up over the years, obviously, because the parking lot was full of trailers and pickup trucks and semis—hers was the only car—and that meant that today’s was going to be a big sale, but she had wasted enough time outside already. She knew how she felt about the commerce of animals. Boston had changed that, too. What she wanted to know…would Ellis be working here today?
The first time she stepped foot in the salebarn it had been dark out, but the sky was full of stars and the Moon was shining.
The 4-H sale had ended, and Tomi's steer had brought top dollar. Ellis Drum, who's dad Gene owned Drum's auction and officiated at the 4-H sale proceedings, spoke to her back in the pens when she'd returned her steer to his holdings.
"You know, Tomi.." he'd said, slow and calculated, with the mind of a man who is used to sizing up female animals for their heft, durability and reproductive capabilities "I could take you inside the salebarn sometime, show you around.. get you a drink."
Tomi's hand had stopped brushing whorl in the middle of her steer’s hindquarters. She knew Ellis in the way everyone knew him-- good looking, funny, Gene Drum's son. Golden. They'd talked at the 4-H dances each year, shared a few, shared more than that many beers, but they'd never been friends. Not really. Why did he want to do this for her now?
"Oh, really? What for?"
Tomi knew that there would be a cost of some sort involved in this; the Drum family hadn't wrangled the largest salebarn and auction reputation in the tri-county area with nothing but their good looks and silver tongues.
"I dunno, just thought you might like to see the place we kill the animals."
Tomi snorted, whipping around and bending upright to face Ellis.
“Cut the shit, Ellis. You know as well as I do that I’ve seen death before, and I’m not scared of it. You’ll talk to me here, ask me to see your salebarn while no one’s around, but you really want something. What.”
No nonsense, matter-of-fact. Tomi still talked that way, always had; it was this sensibility that had interested Mr. Brookings when he encouraged her to go into law.
Ellis’ dark eyes had almost glowed that night, like the firebugs she’d chased up from the grasses as a child, and when he answered her, she knew he meant it.
“Business, is all. You’re a good looking girl, gonna be a woman before school starts again.. I know you want offa that wasteland up north. Come down and work for us rest tha’ summer. Help out during the year.Put up some money for college. Dad’s on the Golden Clovers scholarship board… maybe he could work something even better.”
Tomi had pulled at the steer’s halter when Ellis offered her the job, a little harsher than necessary, and the young animal had bawled. And bawled and bawled, she though, shaking the old sounds from her head, then realizing that the lulling she heard was taking place now, in the present.
Without stopping by the small cafeteria to see if Cookie still worked here, Tomi had made it from the front door to the orchestra-pit style auctioneer pen, and there, teeming and gnashing and bawling, was an old Holstein and two little calves. The cow’s black splotches were haphazardly inked into her white hid, and if Tomi squinted, they looked mildly circular. The caked-on mud and shit that had spread across her back was dried and chunky, covering up her natural color. She was a mess, and her swollen udders, looking like pulled-taffy that had been stretched waaay too far, had cracked from a winter spent being milked hard.
It was not a scene Tomi had hoped for, when she’d parked her car, or at least not the first thing she saw upon entering. Why couldn't it be the little Brayden twins, in their matching Wranglers, chasing each other over the seats and playing "bangbang" with pistol fingers? Of course it wouldn't be them.. they had to be grown up now.. junior high school at least. Or Sally, the other Native who swept out the pens and sometimes snuck inside to watch the sale? Something nice, something warm and comforting.
Right. Comforting, at the saleabarn, where lives are bought and sold and deals are made among the human animals.
That fall, after the fair was over and Tomi skipped out on the carnival and dances to go drinking, Ellis had taken her inside the salebarn. No livestock, no humans, just the two of them, and that smell. That wet, earthy smell that comes from and is a range animal. It had been her first time inside the salebarn, and even though all they did was sit up in the crow’s nest and drink bourbon, Tomi thought it felt familiar. Like maybe she belonged. She made up her mind that night to work at Drum Auction and Packing, because she knew that working in the white man’s town, trading his commodities and understanding them, was crucial to her success when she left her own broken land.
“Iminabid iminabid, iminabid, five, five five, no, six, no, seven, no, ten, do I have ten? Up ten, up ten, up ten on the dollar, to the man in the white hat, the white hat, the Stetson, yessir, number 45, is that you Bob? You are number 45, if I am not mistaken?”
Tomi was jerked again from the past into the present, hearing Gene’s undulating voice drop down and run up octaves as he raised the bidding price on the cow in the pen. It surprised her how easily the language of the auction came back to her. The “man in the white hat white hat white hat,” Gene knew him, he was a regular at the auctions, and it wasn’t uncommon for Gene to sneak in greetings and observances in the middle of a sale, then carry on with the bidding without even taking a breath. The cow and her calves, looking to be about two weeks old, sold for just over $800 dollars.
Eight hundred dollars for her life, and the lives of her children. Surely worth more? But how would Tomi know? Hadn't her own life, her hopes for something better, been commodified in a similar way, in this very place, just a few years ago?
Tomi sniffled at the cold air and watched the next items lope inside: two small, red heifers. The thing about watching an auction that always bothered Tomi was not that the animals would be killed and eaten—dinner—but that they had served as entertainment first. Mick was still working here, brandishing the prod that kept the animals in line, and as he shocked one of the heifers from behind, she jumped forward, slipped on the wet, shitty dirt, and skidded across the pen floor. The men around Tomi, intent on the sale in progress, didn’t seem to notice the animal’s fear, or frantic energy. iOr perhaps they did, and they just didn’t care? She was never quite sure which it was, but either way, it didn’t matter. What was clear was that the animal had suffered, then rushed into this pen, thinking only of something different, yet not knowing quite what.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Random sketches and thoughts: Place Post No. 5
I'm clearly not a visual artist, not without the aid of a camera, anyway, but I've been sketching some of the random encounters I have at the lake. Here, the dock at Walgren Lake, snowlocked but soon to be freed by the melting waters that run in from the hills and snowfall. We went fishing just a week ago, and now, even though the ice is softened by 3-4 inches of snow, the shoreline is warming, the edge ice is thawing and a good foot of water lies between the shore and the thinnest of ice holding the dock captive. It's pretty impossible to tell, with my inaccurate depth perception and ability to draw angles and distances, but the dock doesn't stick straight out of the water like that. It slopes back, is made of wood (but covered with snow).And a hawk, as seen from the ground. Ok, that's a terrible picture, but when he's kind of coasting above, it's hard to see the exact curve of his wings or his coloring. I'm g
guessing it was a Red-tailed Hawk, since they are so common here(I see at least 5 of these guys a day), but I'm not sure. The birds in my field guide look so similar.. Regardless, hawks always make me smile. When I was little, dad used to call them 'Henry" or 'Henrietta," and until I was old enough to know better, I always thought it was up to him to name the hawk, and that it was always the same ol' Henry hanging out around the tractor or feedlot or wherever we happened to be. Our school's mascot is a hawk, so he's got some pretty big pull around here!
guessing it was a Red-tailed Hawk, since they are so common here(I see at least 5 of these guys a day), but I'm not sure. The birds in my field guide look so similar.. Regardless, hawks always make me smile. When I was little, dad used to call them 'Henry" or 'Henrietta," and until I was old enough to know better, I always thought it was up to him to name the hawk, and that it was always the same ol' Henry hanging out around the tractor or feedlot or wherever we happened to be. Our school's mascot is a hawk, so he's got some pretty big pull around here! This UNL study, done in the 50s, shows that there were 14 types of hawk in the NE Panhandle; I can't find stats on those same birds today, but I'm sure that even though this land is sparsely populated, numbers have decreased, if only slightly.
And a wax worm, the mealy, translucent bait we use for ice fishing. These worms are the larvae of the Pyralidae, or wax moth. In nature, they live in bee hives, eat the cocoons and wax, thus earning their name. In my house, they live in the fridge (in a round, plastic case) and get lost behind the cottage cheese or other small round containers. These worms are pretty slow moving, but I came across this thread from the Ohio Game Fishing community and couldn't help but post it:
It has always been a concern that the wax worms would get left out and die from heat, so we always made sure we had them in the cooler. This is fine, however sometimes it's a pain to have to get them out and put them back, especially with kids. So, this weekend we were fishing the shoreline and I just carried them over and set them in the shade, of course the sun moved and soon they were baking in the heat. I LIKE IT! As it turns out, I discovered when in the sun, wax worms go nuts when in the heat. They were crawling all over themselves and looked like redworms in the way they were moving around and getting into a corner of the container. Also, they "grew" fatter the longer they were in the sun.
I will tell you, a warm - fat - squirmin wax worm WILL catch a ton of bluegill!
When we were done, I put them back in the cooler and the next time they were fine. The kids just loved it and I could not fish because the 3 kids were just one after another with catches, best fishing I never got to do.
So, anyone else have this happen with wax worms? Have I been living a wax worm lie all my life??"
I will tell you, a warm - fat - squirmin wax worm WILL catch a ton of bluegill!
When we were done, I put them back in the cooler and the next time they were fine. The kids just loved it and I could not fish because the 3 kids were just one after another with catches, best fishing I never got to do.
So, anyone else have this happen with wax worms? Have I been living a wax worm lie all my life??"
A "wax worm lie".. ah, I love it!
***
The frost has gone out of the ground now, and with it has gone the stability of the land. When there's a blizzard blowing and zero visibility, getting to the lake is dangerous because I can't see what's in front of me, but it's not impossible. When the frost goes out, however, travel across the country roads is almost unthinkable.
We had to pull the wheels of my Rav yesterday and powerwash the gumbo off of them, because the Rav had developed a bad shake. All of the mud caked on the chassis and the tires had pulled the whole system out of balance.
I think of the people who settled this land, those who tried to move through the muck with wooden wheels and tired oxen or horses. Overland trips took forever back then, and adding this mess to them most certainly made life difficult.
I like the mud, the way it is a mixture of earth and water, the way it feels to squish it between my toes, even its variety of colors: shaley stuff so black it's almost purple; chocolate syrup smooth with a cinnamony swirly; cookie bar brown, with the warm, golden crust of a brownie. But It is a frustrating substance, akin to the quicksand that Edward Abbey encounters in his wilderness in the desert. Mud makes it easy for me to understand why settlers and farmers and ranchers come to think synonymously of "enemy" and "land." The natural world is a challenge; even in the promise of good weather.
Spring is definitely coming; the ice still coats the lake but is too dangerous to walk on, the mud is a crisscross of tracks and ruts leading the way to human productivity. We are leaving behind the winter, and in the mud we are recording our passage.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Deer in the road
Deer in the snow
at least 200! Exclaims dad
and The Weasel is off, running, animal
instincts taking over for domestic stupor.
Last week, coming home from the library,
I paused at the entrance to the yard
just beyond the driveway.
Mottled and bare, or not yet shedding,
the animals crossed before me.
one
by
one
by
eighteen
ninteteen
twenty-one
twenty-seven?
Maybe
I counted them all or missed plenty.
Big brown eyes and full, sonar-ears
a doe paused beside me
sheltered in my car.
White rump and tail flicked in triumph
(I had stopped after all)
she bounded across the yard and into frozen stubble.
Fear, not hers
but mine in that moment:
would the herd keep running, plow into me?
They've done it before
and dented my conscience.
at least 200! Exclaims dad
and The Weasel is off, running, animal
instincts taking over for domestic stupor.
Last week, coming home from the library,
I paused at the entrance to the yard
just beyond the driveway.
Mottled and bare, or not yet shedding,
the animals crossed before me.
one
by
one
by
eighteen
ninteteen
twenty-one
twenty-seven?
Maybe
I counted them all or missed plenty.
Big brown eyes and full, sonar-ears
a doe paused beside me
sheltered in my car.
White rump and tail flicked in triumph
(I had stopped after all)
she bounded across the yard and into frozen stubble.
Fear, not hers
but mine in that moment:
would the herd keep running, plow into me?
They've done it before
and dented my conscience.
Little House on the Prairie Dog town: Prompt Post No. 5
Shrieks and squeaks and mounds of dirt surround me. Prairie dog town in the pasture, and small brown animals scurry underneath and beyond me. These small furry rodents dig up the sod, the roots, the prairie, and because they are a “nuisance” to the farmers and ranchers who want the land for their crops or their animals, the dogs are deemed unnecessary.
But what really makes an animal “necessary,” or –un? What can I do as an advocate if I'm not even sure where I stand?
Ever since the 70s, when the prairie dog was placed on the endangered species list, these mama ls have made large "comebacks," according to the University of Nebraska- Lincoln.
But for someone living in an area that has never seen a decline in these animals, it's hard to know the difference between a comeback and a threatened animal.
"The fact that prairie dogs live in colonies indicates they are highly social animals. The largest social unit is the colony or town. Towns are often divided into "wards" by topographical barriers such as roads, ridges or trees, and are generally five to 10 acres in size. Although prairie dogs in one ward may be able to see and hear animals of an adjacent ward, movement among wards is unusual. Wards are divided into several smaller prairie dog social units, called 'coteries'."- from the NE Game and Parks Commission.
I pause alongside the Kearns' fence-- they don't like people on their property or in their business, and even though they are relatives somewhere back in history, I'm not about to get shot at or razzled for watching prairie dogs on their property. The small animals run back and forth, scamper atop the mounded entrances to their burrows, and chatter, squeal and roughhouse with each other. I like thinking about the burrows and tunnels they have built underground-- I am reminded of walking along the interconnected streets in foreign cities. I think of Cartagena and Barcelona, cobbled streets shielded from the sky by balconies, arches and the vines and flowers that reach for the sky from them. Even in our differences-- people and prairie dogs, the Spaniards and the Anglos and U.S. Europeans-- as social being we are similar. I see these things, but I can't find a place in the argument for one side or the other.
On the one hand, I realize that prairie dogs make up the ecosystem where I come from. Owls, weasels, rabbits, other small mammals all use the burrows once the prairie dogs have left them. But on the other hand, I know how dangerous it is for livestock who are pastured in these fields.
I drive home, sliding across the muddy road, thinking about the small animals and their communities; my community. Our girls basketball team made it to state again for the third time in a row, and they blew up on the court, for the third time in a row. They are young, but have experience... I know that they get to the big city (Lincoln is huge to most people around here) and freak out, snapping under the pressure. The media, the full gyms, the competition.. I think they feel threatened by the outside forces. That's what life is like around here. The outside world is distant, we only know what is before us until we get away to see more of it. And anywhere you go, people are leery of the unknown, the unfamiliar. A small town, simple (I don't mean dumb, just.. simple) people; a challenging region: we are sheltered, to what I would say is our detriment. But I think we are also sometimes unaware of even that which surrounds us.
I think about the Crow Butte uranium mine to the west of us (about 1.25 hours from where I live). Even though this is something local, and therefore not "threatening" and unfamiliar, I wonder how many of my friends who work there really know, I mean KNOW of the hazards of their environment. My friend Ray went to work there for his family, a better life, more money, but is he aware of the ways his work come later come back to haunt him? I'm not sure, but I doubt it. I never learned about any of that while I went to school here. I know that I don't want uranium leeching into the steams and rivers around here, but even I am not that concerned about it that I feel like picketing or writing my govenor. Those who work there have made that choice, and it's not up to me to stop them. Same thing with the prarie dogs- they aren't bothering me, so I feel more strongly about letting them live. Is this apathy, ignorance, or just my personal sense of how it is?
But what really makes an animal “necessary,” or –un? What can I do as an advocate if I'm not even sure where I stand?
Ever since the 70s, when the prairie dog was placed on the endangered species list, these mama ls have made large "comebacks," according to the University of Nebraska- Lincoln.
But for someone living in an area that has never seen a decline in these animals, it's hard to know the difference between a comeback and a threatened animal.
"The fact that prairie dogs live in colonies indicates they are highly social animals. The largest social unit is the colony or town. Towns are often divided into "wards" by topographical barriers such as roads, ridges or trees, and are generally five to 10 acres in size. Although prairie dogs in one ward may be able to see and hear animals of an adjacent ward, movement among wards is unusual. Wards are divided into several smaller prairie dog social units, called 'coteries'."- from the NE Game and Parks Commission.
I pause alongside the Kearns' fence-- they don't like people on their property or in their business, and even though they are relatives somewhere back in history, I'm not about to get shot at or razzled for watching prairie dogs on their property. The small animals run back and forth, scamper atop the mounded entrances to their burrows, and chatter, squeal and roughhouse with each other. I like thinking about the burrows and tunnels they have built underground-- I am reminded of walking along the interconnected streets in foreign cities. I think of Cartagena and Barcelona, cobbled streets shielded from the sky by balconies, arches and the vines and flowers that reach for the sky from them. Even in our differences-- people and prairie dogs, the Spaniards and the Anglos and U.S. Europeans-- as social being we are similar. I see these things, but I can't find a place in the argument for one side or the other.
On the one hand, I realize that prairie dogs make up the ecosystem where I come from. Owls, weasels, rabbits, other small mammals all use the burrows once the prairie dogs have left them. But on the other hand, I know how dangerous it is for livestock who are pastured in these fields.
I drive home, sliding across the muddy road, thinking about the small animals and their communities; my community. Our girls basketball team made it to state again for the third time in a row, and they blew up on the court, for the third time in a row. They are young, but have experience... I know that they get to the big city (Lincoln is huge to most people around here) and freak out, snapping under the pressure. The media, the full gyms, the competition.. I think they feel threatened by the outside forces. That's what life is like around here. The outside world is distant, we only know what is before us until we get away to see more of it. And anywhere you go, people are leery of the unknown, the unfamiliar. A small town, simple (I don't mean dumb, just.. simple) people; a challenging region: we are sheltered, to what I would say is our detriment. But I think we are also sometimes unaware of even that which surrounds us.
I think about the Crow Butte uranium mine to the west of us (about 1.25 hours from where I live). Even though this is something local, and therefore not "threatening" and unfamiliar, I wonder how many of my friends who work there really know, I mean KNOW of the hazards of their environment. My friend Ray went to work there for his family, a better life, more money, but is he aware of the ways his work come later come back to haunt him? I'm not sure, but I doubt it. I never learned about any of that while I went to school here. I know that I don't want uranium leeching into the steams and rivers around here, but even I am not that concerned about it that I feel like picketing or writing my govenor. Those who work there have made that choice, and it's not up to me to stop them. Same thing with the prarie dogs- they aren't bothering me, so I feel more strongly about letting them live. Is this apathy, ignorance, or just my personal sense of how it is?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Screw the animals, save the humans?
"You don't want to think about it... you don't want to feel guilty either."
So writes Joy Williams in her essay "Save the Whales, Screw the Shrimp." I've been thinking about this essay, and Williams' message for a few days now. Last week saw the rising fame of Tillikum, a 12,000 male Orca, who has probably surpassed Shamu with his fifteen minutes of fame for killing his trainer.
I don't like zoos and aquariums (seeing a polar bear lap at his puddle of melted ice while on display in Egypt is what ruined captive animals for me- I used to LOVE the zoo in my childhood), and since then, I've never enjoyed animals in captivity the way I once did, but I was at a SeaWorld show in Texas in May (my then boyfriend had free tickets as part of his "welcome-home-from-Iraq, we hope you're not too fucked up!" package, so we went. I watched the whales, marveled at their grace and awe, and fed the walrus. It was cool to see these animals that I don't have contact with, but in the end, I wanted them to be wild.
When I heard about Tillikum, and his history, I was incredibly sad, knowing that most people were probably angry at the whale... and then I read some of the posts on the NYTimes board regarding the story: "There are no winners in this situation, only a life (more than one to date) of a trainer lost, the animal itself as a victim, and the wild world in which these creatures interact is scorned. It is time past for us to no longer treat these animals as cartoons."
And this mixed response: "It was a risk of working with wild animals. The trainers knew that. Euthananizing and blaming the whale is ridiculous as is shutting down sea parks/zoos that play a crucial role in preserving wildlife and educating people about them."
Like this person, I feel that the trainer knew her risks, but what responsibilities did the park have in ensuring her safety? What role did they have in keeping a whale in the first place? Supply and demand.. nature and wild animals have become just one more commodification, which Williams so expertly points out in her essay. We humans want, want want, we want to be entertained and awed ( I could have said no to the SeaWorld adventure, but I did go), and we don't want to feel guilty for our part in any of it. But am I not just as guilty of the trainer's demise as that of the other humans Tillikum has killed? My dollars didn't exactly pay for the ticket, but they did. I mean, my tax dollars go to the Army, which provided the ticket.. and I bought stuff while there and supported the park, which I guess, has "a crucial role in preserving wildlife and educating people..."
As for a closer look at the intersection of human and animal, last week also saw the killing of yet another mountain lion, some fifteen minutes from my town. The local rancher saw the large cat under his horse trailer, called the game warden and the cops, and the next time she moved, she was dead. I tried to debate this with my dad on the drive home from town the other day-- whether or not it was ok for us to kill the cats when we are the ones in their territory--and he said "Marcella, you wouldn't want it around here attacking you when you get home in the night, or eating Sherman (the dog). I grew up in harsh times. If a calf was sick, you killed it. If a mountain lion attacked, you killed it. Now, people get in trouble for that kind of stuff becuase they're being abusive to animals. Well, animals like that have no need to be around."
On the one hand, he was right. I don't want to get attacked by a huge cat in the middle of the night. And I didn' t ask to be born here, to be put upon this land. But I am here, so now I have to make as much of an effort to get along with what's here as I can, right? In a world that is increasingly human (I think I read a similar phrase in one of my writings for school last week?), how do I, we you, do that and save both animal and man?
So writes Joy Williams in her essay "Save the Whales, Screw the Shrimp." I've been thinking about this essay, and Williams' message for a few days now. Last week saw the rising fame of Tillikum, a 12,000 male Orca, who has probably surpassed Shamu with his fifteen minutes of fame for killing his trainer.
I don't like zoos and aquariums (seeing a polar bear lap at his puddle of melted ice while on display in Egypt is what ruined captive animals for me- I used to LOVE the zoo in my childhood), and since then, I've never enjoyed animals in captivity the way I once did, but I was at a SeaWorld show in Texas in May (my then boyfriend had free tickets as part of his "welcome-home-from-Iraq, we hope you're not too fucked up!" package, so we went. I watched the whales, marveled at their grace and awe, and fed the walrus. It was cool to see these animals that I don't have contact with, but in the end, I wanted them to be wild.
When I heard about Tillikum, and his history, I was incredibly sad, knowing that most people were probably angry at the whale... and then I read some of the posts on the NYTimes board regarding the story: "There are no winners in this situation, only a life (more than one to date) of a trainer lost, the animal itself as a victim, and the wild world in which these creatures interact is scorned. It is time past for us to no longer treat these animals as cartoons."
And this mixed response: "It was a risk of working with wild animals. The trainers knew that. Euthananizing and blaming the whale is ridiculous as is shutting down sea parks/zoos that play a crucial role in preserving wildlife and educating people about them."
Like this person, I feel that the trainer knew her risks, but what responsibilities did the park have in ensuring her safety? What role did they have in keeping a whale in the first place? Supply and demand.. nature and wild animals have become just one more commodification, which Williams so expertly points out in her essay. We humans want, want want, we want to be entertained and awed ( I could have said no to the SeaWorld adventure, but I did go), and we don't want to feel guilty for our part in any of it. But am I not just as guilty of the trainer's demise as that of the other humans Tillikum has killed? My dollars didn't exactly pay for the ticket, but they did. I mean, my tax dollars go to the Army, which provided the ticket.. and I bought stuff while there and supported the park, which I guess, has "a crucial role in preserving wildlife and educating people..."
As for a closer look at the intersection of human and animal, last week also saw the killing of yet another mountain lion, some fifteen minutes from my town. The local rancher saw the large cat under his horse trailer, called the game warden and the cops, and the next time she moved, she was dead. I tried to debate this with my dad on the drive home from town the other day-- whether or not it was ok for us to kill the cats when we are the ones in their territory--and he said "Marcella, you wouldn't want it around here attacking you when you get home in the night, or eating Sherman (the dog). I grew up in harsh times. If a calf was sick, you killed it. If a mountain lion attacked, you killed it. Now, people get in trouble for that kind of stuff becuase they're being abusive to animals. Well, animals like that have no need to be around."
On the one hand, he was right. I don't want to get attacked by a huge cat in the middle of the night. And I didn' t ask to be born here, to be put upon this land. But I am here, so now I have to make as much of an effort to get along with what's here as I can, right? In a world that is increasingly human (I think I read a similar phrase in one of my writings for school last week?), how do I, we you, do that and save both animal and man?
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