Jan Dunlap's Blog, page 5

When a shoebox just won’t do

On a recent road trip, I spotted a van that belonged to a casket company.

(Not that spotting it was any great achievement – it was in front of us on a two-lane road in northern Iowa for about twenty minutes thanks to road construction and a “Do Not Pass” zone.)

“Oh, look,” I said. “The company motto is ‘Because you care.’ That’s sweet.”

“They should change it to ‘As if you care,’” my husband commented. “You’re dead, so why do you care what your coffin looks like?”

“Good point,” I conceded, thinking Okay, we’re driving through Iowa discussing casket slogans. Totally normal for us. “Although I guess it depends on who’s buying the coffin – the to-be-deceased or another family member.”

“Or how about ‘It does not make any difference’?” he suggested. “Same deal. You’re dead, your coffin style isn’t going to make any difference to you, and it’s not going to change anything for anyone else, either. You’re dead. Get over it.”

“I know!” said my nephew in the back seat. “‘Boxes for Dead People.’”

Oh great, I thought. My sister-in-law will never let my nephew visit us again. Not only are we irreverent, but we make jokes about caskets.

“’When a shoebox just won’t do,” offered my daughter, also in the back seat.

I burst out laughing.

“You know – people bury turtles and small pets in shoeboxes,” she explained.

“I know,” I managed to get out. I decided to change the subject before it could get any worse.

“Oh, look,” I said. “We’re almost to Nebraska. And there’s a sign for the French Voyeurs Park.”

“Voyeurs?” my husband asked.

“No! No! I meant Voyagers,” I tried to correct my misreading. “Voyagers!”

“Oh ho!” my husband rolled on in a bad French accent. “The French Voyeurs welcome you to Nebraska!”

“Good morning, Nebraska! Ooh-la-la!” my nephew added.

“Don’t make eye contact,” my daughter warned us.

“Or go in any strip malls,” I said.

More laughter.

At least no one was asking “Are we there yet?”

Happy World Elephant Day!

Today is World Elephant Day, and I’d like to tell you about elephants.

I like elephants. I thought everyone liked elephants. We read all the Babar books to our kids when they were little.

Over and over and over again.

Actually, for a while, I was sick and tired of elephants.

But not anymore.

Now, I think they’re fascinating. Besides being gentle giants, they are smart (they have the biggest brains of all land animals!), they’re emotionally sensitive, and they’re equipped with their own shower hose.

I wish I had a shower hose.

But elephants are in trouble. Poaching and habitat destruction are decimating the populations, which in turn is causing the loss of other species, because as it turns out, elephants aren’t just cute huge animals, they’re a keystone species. That means they basically create and maintain the ecosystems in which they live. Healthy elephants means healthy environment. No elephants means no more Babar.[image error]

So be nice to elephants today. Hug a pachyderm! Take an elephant out for a drink. Write your elephant friends a thank-you note. Remember, elephants never forget – they never need to send belated birthday cards, like SOME people I know – so the least you can do is join me in saying “Hooray for Elephants!” today.

(This was not a paid advertisement, nor did anyone ask me to write this. I just like elephants. And for real suggestions to help elephants survive, check out the list right here at World Elephant Day’s website. Those folks will probably hate me for this blog, actually…I mean, really, the comment about the shower hose… )

Free Kindle of Falcon Finale through August 11

Once again, my publisher is offering a FREE Kindle at amazon.com of one of my Birder Murders. This time, it’s Falcon Finale, in which Bob and friends head to Arizona to solve a cold murder case, but they start their adventure at Jeffers Petroglyphs in southwest Minnesota. A week ago, I visited the Petroglyphs for a second time, and it was just as impressive on the second visit as it was on the first five years ago: fabulous prairie, endless horizons, quiet, peace, history and mystery. The native people believed it was the center of the universe!

You can start reading the first chapter right here, or go directly to here to download your free copy of this fourth book in the Birder Murder Mystery series.

 

Chapter 1

Asking a birder to name a favorite bird is like asking a parent to name a favorite child. It can’t be done…unless you’ve only got one kid. Then it’s probably easy, although I have met a few students during my tenure as a high school counselor who may have pushed the envelope on that one.

(Appalled parent: “Are you telling me that my baby deliberately released all the lab mice in the school just for the fun of it?” Me: “Yes, I’m telling you that.” Appalled parent: “I’m going to ground that kid forever!” Me: “Can you wait till he rounds up all the mice?”)

According to the people I know who do have more than one child, however, it’s impossible to choose one over another, and I think it’s largely the same thing with birders. We’ve got a world full of avian species, each one special in its own way. Sure, you might prefer ducks to geese, or sparrows to finches, but coming up with one favorite?

Not gonna happen.

Honestly, I’ve been birding since I was five years old, and I can’t think of a single bird I don’t like.

Except for pheasants.

I hate pheasants.

They scare the bejeezus out of me.

You can be walking through a gorgeous stretch of open fields, enjoying the heady smell of the earth and listening to the songs of a choir of grassland birds, and a pheasant will explode out of the grass right in front of you. It’s like a feathered grenade blowing up. All you can see are feet, bills, and big wings, and all you hear is this frantic rush of flapping. Intellectually, I know it’s afraid of me, and it’s making a flight for its life, but I still have this recurring vision that the bird is going to launch itself right at me and tear my head off.

With its little feet.

Pathetic, I know.

Anyway, it’s kind of funny in a way that I hate pheasants so much, because if I had to name my favorite bird, I’d fudge a little and say it’s any bird of the prairie.

Except a pheasant, of course.

And that’s why my fiancée Luce and I were out so very early on a sunny August morning in southwestern Minnesota looking for birds of the grasslands.

In particular, I wanted to find a Gyrfalcon. According to the species occurrence maps that the Minnesota Ornithologists’ Union has on its website, no one had ever seen a Gyrfalcon summering in the state, though they did show up sporadically later in the fall. The reason I thought I might find one more than a month early was the unseasonal weather pattern we’d experienced for the last week: high winds and unusually cool temperatures. Not only that, but over the weekend, I’d gotten an email from a birder I know in northwestern Iowa who thought he spotted a Gyrfalcon flying over his farm fields. My hope was that the bird, if indeed present, might wander across the state line, giving me a Minnesota record for a summer sighting.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d driven half-way across the state hoping that a bird might ignore its accepted species range and show up somewhere it wasn’t expected. Two years ago, there was practically a traffic jam of birders all the way from the Twin Cities and Duluth to Little Spirit Lake in Jackson County, every one of them praying that a Brown Pelican that had been sighted on the Iowa side of the border would just fly a teeny bit north so everyone could get it on their Minnesota state lists.

If I’d been thinking ahead, I probably could have set up a concession stand at the lake shore where everyone was waiting and made a bundle on snacks and drinks. As it was, I wasn’t there long enough to launch an entrepreneurial career, since within ten minutes of my arrival on the shore, the pelican obligingly flew a pass over the border, making it a first state record of that particular species in Minnesota.

Score another one for Bob White.

My hope for a quick score this morning was rapidly fading, however.

Luce and I had already spent three hours scouring the land and sky around Red Rock Prairie, a piece of land owned by the Nature Conservancy. After seeing a Swainson’s Hawk, a Grasshopper Sparrow, an American Kestrel, an Upland Sandpiper, and a couple of Horned Larks, we’d decided to swing west and take a look around the Jeffers Petroglyphs site, which is not only a huge tract of native and restored prairie, but also a state historic site.

Make that a prehistoric site.

Prehistoric because its big attraction is an exposed ridge of Sioux quartzite that’s marked with more than two thousand ancient rock carvings dating back at least as far as five thousand years. Historians think that some of the carvings might be records of vision quests that early Native Americans experienced at the site; I know that even today, many of the Native Americans who live in and around the state believe it’s a sacred place of worship and continue to hold religious ceremonies there. What’s really cool is the way the park management balances public and private usage of the site – visitors are reminded to be respectful at all times, and when the site is needed for ceremonies, it’s closed to the general public. It’s one of those rare examples where multiple cultural and natural needs peacefully co-exist.

Thankfully.

I mean, really, you take one look at that ocean of prairie all around you, and you can’t help but be awed by the natural magnificence of the place. No wonder the original inhabitants of the area deemed it holy. Throw in a multitude of grassland birds, and, for a birder like me, it’s more than sacred – it’s a piece of heaven itself on earth.

Maybe that was why I didn’t mind the drive this morning. Seeing the Gyrfalcon would be absolutely great, but worst case, I got a gorgeous morning of birding with Luce. As long as I didn’t stumble over any nasty pheasants lying in wait to attack me, I was happy.

What I didn’t count on, though, was being ambushed by a hawk.

Especially one by the name of Lily.

Lily White-Thunderhawk, to be exact.

My sister, who also now happened to be the wife of my best friend Alan, who, according to my nearly hysterical sister, now happened to be missing.

“I need you to get out here, Bobby,” Lily demanded. “Now!”

I looked up at the hot August sun and wondered if I was hallucinating.

Mere moments ago, my only concern was spotting a Gyrfalcon that had been misled by Mother Nature into straying far from its seasonal home. My head had been filled with the mundane details of reporting a state record: getting a photo if possible, calling up a few other birders to come out and confirm the sighting, posting it on the mou-net listserve to alert the rest of the state community to the bird’s presence.

My sister telling me that her new husband had disappeared hadn’t quite figured in any of that at all.

Hello. My name is Bob White, and I suffer from delusions.

Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t be the best way to introduce myself at the back-to-school faculty meetings I’d be attending at Savage High School in a few weeks. Even if they are delusional, high school counselors are supposed to keep that to themselves.

Lily’s urgent voice in my ear was not a product of my imagination, however. Even though she was calling from Arizona, I could hear the growing panic in her voice as clearly as if she were standing next to me. Although, if she’d been standing next to me, she would probably have been kicking me in the shins at the same time just to drive home her point. Lily’s really endearing that way.

“He was supposed to meet me back at the hotel for dinner when he finished his workshop for the day,” she was saying, a definite teary edge to her voice. “But he didn’t show up. He didn’t show up all night! This was supposed to be part honeymoon for us, and now he’s missing! What am I going to do now?”

“Go to Disneyland?”

“Bobby!”

“Okay, okay. Bad joke,” I apologized. “Let’s take this from the top. You and Alan fly out to Flagstaff so Alan can teach workshops for the Native American Young Leaders Conference at Northern Arizona University. You’re there five days, and now he’s disappeared.”

“I know that! I’m the one who just told you that!”

Obviously, Lily was not responding well to my counselor-trained calming technique. She was practically screeching over the phone connection.

“I need you to get out here!” she repeated, then lowered her voice a decibel or two. “I’m afraid something’s wrong. Alan’s been…odd. I need you to help me, Bobby.”

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Hold on to your butts, but what about the box?

Sometimes, when I walk our dog Gracie, I pick up trash along the sidewalk. Today, I picked up what I thought was a yellow tea bag, only to discover it was a flattened yellow cigarette box. This is what it had printed on one side:

The cigarette butt is one of the most littered objects in the world. We ask that you help change that. Please hold onto your butts until you can dispose of them properly.

I looked around the sidewalk and grass.

No butts.

Clearly, the smoker had heeded the cigarette manufacturer’s directive to hold onto the butts and dispose of them properly. Chalk one up for ecological responsibility! Kudos to the manufacturer for working to stop litter!

Now if we can just get them to say something about the box the butts came in, we might really be getting somewhere, don’t you think?

(Really, I do NOT make this stuff up.)

Chatting live with Chad and Dolly Joy! Or not…

I am very suspicious.

When I connect online with our cable company for help with our internet service, I get a ‘live chat’ box on the computer with a technician. But I’m starting to question whether a ‘live chat’ is really a ‘live chat.’

I think it’s a ‘live chat with an automated answering machine.’

I have two reasons for thinking this: Chad and Dolly Joy.

The first time I needed help with my new internet service, I got connected to ‘Chad’ for help. He typed in a slew of questions to better serve me and my needs (that, at least, was what ‘Chad’ wrote in the live chat box). I answered all the questions, refused all his subsequent upselling, and finally got my internet service order placed.

Or so I thought.

The next day, I got an email saying I hadn’t completed my order.

I asked for online help and ‘Chad’ showed up again in the live chat box.

He started asking all the same questions again. I typed in: Wait a minute! We did all this yesterday. I just want to know if my order in on file.

‘Chad’ typed in: That was another Chad. There are several of us at the company with that name. I have questions to ask so I may better serve you and your needs.

He started in on the questions and upselling again. I yelled at him with all capital letters:  I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF MY ORDER IS ON FILE! YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES BEFORE I CALL YOUR COMPETITOR!

Suddenly, ‘Chad’ was gone, and I was connected to another technician in a new ‘live chat’ box who informed me that yes, they had my order, and I should disregard the email.

A week later, I had trouble with my internet connection. I asked for online help. ‘Chad’ did not appear in the ‘live chat’ box.

Dolly Joy did.

Dolly Joy? Really?

Forgive me, but for a second I wondered if I’d mistakenly been connected with a different kind of online service.

But then Dolly Joy began typing in the same questions I’d gotten from the two ‘Chads’. I was clearly in the right ‘live chat’ box after all.

Oh, joy.

Or I guess I should say, Dolly Joy.

Of puppetry, Shakespeare, and Dr. Seuss

I’m thrilled to have award-winning author Christina Hamlett with me today. Her newest book, Media Magnetism covers all aspects of today’s media relations and provides “been there/done that” tips, resources and guidelines on how to become the media’s newest darling. But that’s only part of her story!

Jan: Christina, you have your writing fingers in so many pies, it boggles my mind. You’ve written 30 books, 152 plays, five optioned feature films, hundreds of articles and interviews, including travel writing, plus you manage several blogs, do one-on-one media consulting, ghostwriting, online class instruction for scriptwriting for stage, screen and TV, and script consulting. Whew! Have you considered taking up professional juggling and working for a circus?

Christina: The problem with juggling is that audiences are only impressed if the multiple objects you’re trying to keep in the air are hatchets, flaming torches or angry badgers – any of which I’d be angst-riddled to have fall into my hair.

Interesting you should mention the circus, though. When I was in first grade, my life-size doll Katherine and I rigorously practiced our acrobatics act with grand plans to join a circus. The act involved my grabbing Katherine’s arms as she stood in front of me and flipping her over my head so that she’d land directly behind me. Alas, our rehearsals came to an abrupt end the day her limbs came out of their sockets and sent her airborne body to the top of my canopy bed. Still holding her pink plastic arms aloft, I must have looked like airport ground crew helping a plane taxi to its gate.

Jan: Actually, I think that would be very cool – waving a plane into a gate, I mean. Ripping out the arms of a doll – not so much. I know you began your writing career as a child, though, writing and producing puppet plays. Who was your favorite puppet character and what did s/he look like?

Christina: She was a Pelham® marionette that was a witch and was the first puppet in my collection that had a moving mouth. Not surprisingly, I always gave her the most lines of dialogue because (1) it gave me practice working the extra strings and (2) villains typically have more interesting things to say.

Jan: I love writing dialogue for villains. My kids say it’s my passive-aggressive nature coming out. But I’ve got to ask you about ghostwriting. Is it scary?

Christina: Are you asking whether I talk to dead people? It’s amusing how many people think that that’s what ghostwriters do. Perhaps they’re confusing the term with “spirit writing?” My clients are very much alive but go through a selective screening process before I ever make the decision to work with them. At least a third of them, for instance, want to pen their memoirs or write trashy tell-alls in order to exact revenge on the bosses, spouses, offspring, neighbors, etc. that they believe have wronged them. Many of them also have unrealistic expectations about today’s publishing industry, like “How long after my book becomes a bestseller can I quit my day job and get interviewed on Letterman?”, have an unfocused or imitative concept, haven’t identified what their marketing plan will be, or ask if I can write their 111,000 word tome in two weeks for $65.

Jan: No way.

Christine: Yes, really, I don’t make these things up.

Jan: I do. I make all kinds of things up. By the way, I read that you’re working on “Hamlet Hears A Who” and “Meet the MacBeths.” Is it serious stuff and all in iambic pentameter?

Christina: Serious? Au contraire! It’s all about comedy. My playwriting colleague – Jamie Dare – and I have thus far written three Seussified scripts for Contemporary Drama Service, the latest being Romeo and Juliet’s Restaurant Wars, which will be available this fall. And no, there’s no iambic pentameter whatsoever. All of the lines rhyme, however, and incorporate sight gags and silly elements of pop culture. Our biggest challenge is introducing additional female characters to The Bard’s original cast lists. Rosencrantz and Gildenstern, for example, became Rose and Gilda. (Note: If you go to https://www.contemporarydrama.com and type Hamlett in the search box, you can read samples.)

Jan: I have to ask you, since I also teach writing, do you ever really want to say to a student, even though I know you never would – “Have you considered looking for work in an industry that doesn’t ever require you to write another word, let alone a complete sentence?”

Christina: What I focus on are a student’s strengths and his/her enthusiasm. Truth be told, I’d much rather have someone who asks a lot of questions and is genuinely eager to learn how to become a better writer than someone who thinks s/he already knows everything and just wants to argue their point of view. In any teacher/student relationship, the emphasis should always be on the product itself and not the person who wrote it; i.e., “The number of contrivances you’ve introduced make the ending seem implausible.” vs. “You are an idiot. Stop writing. Stop writing now.”

Jan: Christina, thanks so much for taking time away from your crazy-busy schedule to join me for this interview. I’m learning a lot from your blogs and Media Magnetism, so I want other writers to know where to find you to benefit from your experience and expertise. Visit Christina at www.authorhamlett.com, or facebook.com/pages/Christina-Hamlett/155417084517326, and you can read my review of her new book here.

Until next interview…

 

 

Join me at the Minnesota River Arts Fair!

This weekend, July 20-21, you can enjoy a one-of-a-kind arts fair at The Landing in Shakopee, Minnesota – the Minnesota River Arts Fair!

Costumed villagers, an 1880s town square, fine arts booths, music, kids’ activities, live painting, book readings, food and drink concessions, and no admission fees! I’ll be one of the 12 Minnesota authors there, reading and selling and signing Birder Murder Mysteries and chatting with readers. (I heard there may even be canoe rides on Sunday!) The hours are 10 am to 5 pm both days, and I’m reading on Saturday at 11:30, Sunday at 1:30. Hope you can make it and stop in for a visit.

Now, THIS is summer!!

FREE Kindle download today through Sunday!

Chapter One

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You know what I love about birding weekend trips? The camaraderie. You get a bunch of birders together who all have the same objective for a short thirty-odd hours: see as many birds as possible in a specific area. Sometimes you know a few of the other people who’ve signed up; sometimes you get to meet all new folks. Kind of like a group blind date: you never know who you’re going to end up with. Maybe you’ll get Cameron Diaz. Maybe you’ll get stuck with the class clown. But, unlike a blind date, when you go on a birding weekend, you can always count on one thing: everyone there will want to talk about birds. Birds they’ve seen. Birds they hope to see. Birds they thought they saw, but couldn’t confirm.

Okay, so maybe it’s not the most diverse range of topics in the world.

For a birder, though, it’s a slice of birding heaven.

So you go on the weekend, follow the trip leader around, do a lot of driving, walking, and talking, and see birds. Usually, the leader has already scouted out the area, which gives you a head start on finding the birds that the group is targeting. Even on the weekends that don’t produce all the birds you hope for, though, you still get to trade leads for hot new birding spots or try out other birders’ new scopes or cameras. As far as I’m concerned, birding weekends are always a win-win situation.

Except, maybe, for those rare weekends when the leader turns out to be a dud.

Or dead.

Yeah, you might say that definitely puts a damper on a birding weekend.

 

Going on the birding weekend trip to Fillmore County was one of those last-minute decisions I occasionally make when I’m desperate to get away. And believe me, I was desperate. I figured if I had to listen one more time to my sister Lily gush about how wonderful her fiancé (a.k.a. the man formerly known as my best friend) Alan was, I was either going to stuff a sock in her mouth or recount for her the lurid details about the droves of girls Alan used to ‘entertain’ in our college dorm room.

Not that he actually did any of that, but Lily wouldn’t know.

However, since I also figured that would probably get me a vicious shin-kicking from my tiny, but older, and very mean (sometimes), sister, I decided the smartest alternative was just to get out of town – and out of Lily’s kicking range – for a few days.

Fillmore County, here I come.

Fortunately for me, there was still room for one more person on the trip. With Luce, my girlfriend, booked to cook for an executive conference over the weekend, I was going to be flying solo anyway. I called up the BW – that’s Birding Weekend – leader, took the slot, threw a change of clothes into my duffel bag, grabbed my binos and tripod, and put the rubber on the road.

By eight in the evening, I was in Fillmore County, signing my name at the front desk of the Inn & Suites in Spring Valley, where the weekend group was staying. According to the hotel clerk, I was the last one to check in. The BW leader had left a packet of information for me at the desk, and I scanned the materials while the clerk ran my credit card through the hotel register. Ten people were signed up for the weekend, and I was happy to see that one of them was my long-time birding buddy Tom Hightower. So at least it wasn’t going to be a total blind date weekend. Worst case, if there was a class clown on the trip, I could always escape by grabbing Tom and taking off for birding on our own.

The clerk handed me a room key and I turned around, almost knocking over the woman who had come up behind me. I caught her shoulders to steady her and glanced down at her face.

And froze.

Only one person in the world had that particular shade of emerald in her eyes.

“Hello, Bob,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

 (The story continues… on your free Kindle download by clicking on the book cover!)

A lesson in respect from a lady on a plane

Last year, I was preparing to debark the plane at our destination when an elderly lady already standing in the aisle turned around to speak to the young man in full army fatigues behind her.

“Thank you for your service,” she told him.

The young man blushed a little, nodded, and replied. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

The brief exchange warmed my heart and reminded me to give thanks more often (and in person, when possible) to the men and women of our country who serve on our behalf.

God bless you all, and God bless America.

 

Velociraptors and zombies

Every so often, a movie comes along that changes the way you see the world. Movies like…oh…Ordinary People, or Rain Man, or Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

(Be excellent to each other!)

For me, though, that life-changing movie was Jurassic Park.

Ever since I first watched that film, my world has been changed:  I have never been able to see turkeys in the same way again.

Thanks to Jurassic Park, I see a reptilian brute on my table at Thanksgiving. Whenever I see a turkey during my morning walk through our neighborhood, its jerky movements cue the theme music for Jurassic Park in my head.  I automatically look for escape routes in case a pack of turkeys decide to ambush me for brunch.

Pathetic, I know. I’m putty in the hands of Hollywood.

I can’t bear to think of how the movie World War Z might change my world.

I might keep thinking that Brad Pitt is going to come running down the street.

A girl can only take so much, you know?