Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 53
October 4, 2009
The Slowest Driver is Back
Years ago, in the very early 1990s, I was the slowest driver in Vermont. I was that guy that people hate even more than the 9-year-old kid sitting next to them on the regional jet who has a half-dozen ketchup packets, a toothpick, and absolutely no concern for the welfare of anyone's clothes. (Okay, this really happened to me and he was a perfectly nice child once he understood that I had many speeches to go before I slept and no dry cleaner on the route. Sure, I may have told him that his tray table was capable of cutting him in half when we landed if he didn't fold it up into the seat before him and put his toothpicks and ketchup packets away -- which would have dwarfed any mess he could have made with the condiments -- but that's only because I am a responsible parent.)
Back in the early 1990s I drove about as fast as a golf cart because I had nine points on my license. It just seemed wise to always motor along about five miles below the posted speed limit.
Lately I have become the state's slowest driver once again. This time, however, it isn't because I have points on my license. Nope. This time it's because I bought a hybrid vehicle this past summer.
The main reason I bought the car was because I wanted to minimize my carbon footprint. Make no mistake, I am far from a model citizen when it comes to the environment: I produce so much paper that I have probably deforested whole hillsides in Maine and I really do spend freakishly large amounts of time on airplanes. Moreover, the hybrid is a Mercury Mariner -- not a capsule-like Prius. I am no environmental saint. But it seemed to me that one thing I could do was drive a car that did not guzzle gas.
The Mariner's engine isn't nearly as powerful as my old car's, but even if it were, my sense is that I would be driving the hybrid like I was 15 again and my driver's ed teacher was sitting beside me. Why? Because I have become obsessed with how many miles I am getting per gallon. I have become fascinated by what seems to stretch the mileage and what doesn't. And one thing is clear: Going 60 and 65 miles per hour really does burn through a lot more gas than going 45 or 50.
Of course, it also takes longer to get places. It takes an extra 10 minutes to get from Lincoln to Burlington this way, and not merely because I am driving like I'm pulling a truck full of road salt over black ice. It takes longer because I am less likely to view yellow traffic lights as the signal to go faster and race through the intersection. These days, I seem to wind up stopped at all three traffic lights in Hinesburg and the vast majority in South Burlington. (I find it interesting that when I moved to Vermont, there were zero traffic lights in Hinesburg.)
It even takes longer to coast down the hill from Lincoln into Bristol, a mere five mile trek. I stare at the block on my dashboard that shows how much the battery is assisting the engine, hypnotized, virtually coasting. When I see the cars starting to line up in parade file behind me, I pull over.
I am not completely sure this new obsession is healthy. When I was driving pathetically slowly almost two decades ago, it was because I was in danger of losing my license. I had to drive like a dead person. This time, I fear, I am annoying by choice. In addition, I understand that a hybrid is not an environmentally perfect vehicle, either. It still pollutes and I worry about the toxicity of the battery when the car is ready to go to hybrid heaven.
Still, if you are behind me, you have my apologies. Feel free to pass. I'll slow down even more.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 4, 2009.)
Back in the early 1990s I drove about as fast as a golf cart because I had nine points on my license. It just seemed wise to always motor along about five miles below the posted speed limit.
Lately I have become the state's slowest driver once again. This time, however, it isn't because I have points on my license. Nope. This time it's because I bought a hybrid vehicle this past summer.
The main reason I bought the car was because I wanted to minimize my carbon footprint. Make no mistake, I am far from a model citizen when it comes to the environment: I produce so much paper that I have probably deforested whole hillsides in Maine and I really do spend freakishly large amounts of time on airplanes. Moreover, the hybrid is a Mercury Mariner -- not a capsule-like Prius. I am no environmental saint. But it seemed to me that one thing I could do was drive a car that did not guzzle gas.
The Mariner's engine isn't nearly as powerful as my old car's, but even if it were, my sense is that I would be driving the hybrid like I was 15 again and my driver's ed teacher was sitting beside me. Why? Because I have become obsessed with how many miles I am getting per gallon. I have become fascinated by what seems to stretch the mileage and what doesn't. And one thing is clear: Going 60 and 65 miles per hour really does burn through a lot more gas than going 45 or 50.
Of course, it also takes longer to get places. It takes an extra 10 minutes to get from Lincoln to Burlington this way, and not merely because I am driving like I'm pulling a truck full of road salt over black ice. It takes longer because I am less likely to view yellow traffic lights as the signal to go faster and race through the intersection. These days, I seem to wind up stopped at all three traffic lights in Hinesburg and the vast majority in South Burlington. (I find it interesting that when I moved to Vermont, there were zero traffic lights in Hinesburg.)
It even takes longer to coast down the hill from Lincoln into Bristol, a mere five mile trek. I stare at the block on my dashboard that shows how much the battery is assisting the engine, hypnotized, virtually coasting. When I see the cars starting to line up in parade file behind me, I pull over.
I am not completely sure this new obsession is healthy. When I was driving pathetically slowly almost two decades ago, it was because I was in danger of losing my license. I had to drive like a dead person. This time, I fear, I am annoying by choice. In addition, I understand that a hybrid is not an environmentally perfect vehicle, either. It still pollutes and I worry about the toxicity of the battery when the car is ready to go to hybrid heaven.
Still, if you are behind me, you have my apologies. Feel free to pass. I'll slow down even more.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 4, 2009.)
The Slowest Driver is Back
Years ago, in the very early 1990s, I was the slowest driver in Vermont. I was that guy that people hate even more than the 9-year-old kid sitting next to them on the regional jet who has a half-dozen ketchup packets, a toothpick, and absolutely no concern for the welfare of anyone's clothes. (Okay, this really happened to me and he was a perfectly nice child once he understood that I had many speeches to go before I slept and no dry cleaner on the route. Sure, I may have told him that his tray table was capable of cutting him in half when we landed if he didn't fold it up into the seat before him and put his toothpicks and ketchup packets away -- which would have dwarfed any mess he could have made with the condiments -- but that's only because I am a responsible parent.)
Back in the early 1990s I drove about as fast as a golf cart because I had nine points on my license. It just seemed wise to always motor along about five miles below the posted speed limit.
Lately I have become the state's slowest driver once again. This time, however, it isn't because I have points on my license. Nope. This time it's because I bought a hybrid vehicle this past summer.
The main reason I bought the car was because I wanted to minimize my carbon footprint. Make no mistake, I am far from a model citizen when it comes to the environment: I produce so much paper that I have probably deforested whole hillsides in Maine and I really do spend freakishly large amounts of time on airplanes. Moreover, the hybrid is a Mercury Mariner -- not a capsule-like Prius. I am no environmental saint. But it seemed to me that one thing I could do was drive a car that did not guzzle gas.
The Mariner's engine isn't nearly as powerful as my old car's, but even if it were, my sense is that I would be driving the hybrid like I was 15 again and my driver's ed teacher was sitting beside me. Why? Because I have become obsessed with how many miles I am getting per gallon. I have become fascinated by what seems to stretch the mileage and what doesn't. And one thing is clear: Going 60 and 65 miles per hour really does burn through a lot more gas than going 45 or 50.
Of course, it also takes longer to get places. It takes an extra 10 minutes to get from Lincoln to Burlington this way, and not merely because I am driving like I'm pulling a truck full of road salt over black ice. It takes longer because I am less likely to view yellow traffic lights as the signal to go faster and race through the intersection. These days, I seem to wind up stopped at all three traffic lights in Hinesburg and the vast majority in South Burlington. (I find it interesting that when I moved to Vermont, there were zero traffic lights in Hinesburg.)
It even takes longer to coast down the hill from Lincoln into Bristol, a mere five mile trek. I stare at the block on my dashboard that shows how much the battery is assisting the engine, hypnotized, virtually coasting. When I see the cars starting to line up in parade file behind me, I pull over.
I am not completely sure this new obsession is healthy. When I was driving pathetically slowly almost two decades ago, it was because I was in danger of losing my license. I had to drive like a dead person. This time, I fear, I am annoying by choice. In addition, I understand that a hybrid is not an environmentally perfect vehicle, either. It still pollutes and I worry about the toxicity of the battery when the car is ready to go to hybrid heaven.
Still, if you are behind me, you have my apologies. Feel free to pass. I'll slow down even more.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 4, 2009.)
Back in the early 1990s I drove about as fast as a golf cart because I had nine points on my license. It just seemed wise to always motor along about five miles below the posted speed limit.
Lately I have become the state's slowest driver once again. This time, however, it isn't because I have points on my license. Nope. This time it's because I bought a hybrid vehicle this past summer.
The main reason I bought the car was because I wanted to minimize my carbon footprint. Make no mistake, I am far from a model citizen when it comes to the environment: I produce so much paper that I have probably deforested whole hillsides in Maine and I really do spend freakishly large amounts of time on airplanes. Moreover, the hybrid is a Mercury Mariner -- not a capsule-like Prius. I am no environmental saint. But it seemed to me that one thing I could do was drive a car that did not guzzle gas.
The Mariner's engine isn't nearly as powerful as my old car's, but even if it were, my sense is that I would be driving the hybrid like I was 15 again and my driver's ed teacher was sitting beside me. Why? Because I have become obsessed with how many miles I am getting per gallon. I have become fascinated by what seems to stretch the mileage and what doesn't. And one thing is clear: Going 60 and 65 miles per hour really does burn through a lot more gas than going 45 or 50.
Of course, it also takes longer to get places. It takes an extra 10 minutes to get from Lincoln to Burlington this way, and not merely because I am driving like I'm pulling a truck full of road salt over black ice. It takes longer because I am less likely to view yellow traffic lights as the signal to go faster and race through the intersection. These days, I seem to wind up stopped at all three traffic lights in Hinesburg and the vast majority in South Burlington. (I find it interesting that when I moved to Vermont, there were zero traffic lights in Hinesburg.)
It even takes longer to coast down the hill from Lincoln into Bristol, a mere five mile trek. I stare at the block on my dashboard that shows how much the battery is assisting the engine, hypnotized, virtually coasting. When I see the cars starting to line up in parade file behind me, I pull over.
I am not completely sure this new obsession is healthy. When I was driving pathetically slowly almost two decades ago, it was because I was in danger of losing my license. I had to drive like a dead person. This time, I fear, I am annoying by choice. In addition, I understand that a hybrid is not an environmentally perfect vehicle, either. It still pollutes and I worry about the toxicity of the battery when the car is ready to go to hybrid heaven.
Still, if you are behind me, you have my apologies. Feel free to pass. I'll slow down even more.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 4, 2009.)
September 27, 2009
Big Props to Brazilian Book Worms
The other day I watched easily 400 teenagers screaming like Beatles fans in 1964. Was it pop icon Katy Perry who had them whipped into a frenzy? How about Zac Efron, one the stars of the "High School Musical" phenomenon? Nope and nope. It was Thalita Reboucas, a Brazilian writer of novels for Brazilian teens and tweens. One of the only teen girls in the crowd who wasn't screaming for the author was silent only because she was sniffing back tears and trying (and failing) not to cry. She was part of a school group that had traveled a long way to meet Reboucas and was afraid that she was going to have to board the bus home without having her picture taken with the writer.
Meanwhile, perhaps 300 yards away sat Meg Cabot, American novelist behind "The Princess Diaries" series of books, patiently smiling, signing books, and handing our plastic tiaras to a line of readers that stretched far into the distance.
This was among my very favorite memories of visiting Rio de Janeiro for the "Bienal do Livro," the book fair the city hosts every other year for Brazilian readers. Make no mistake, the Ipanema and Copacabana beaches weren't shabby either, and I have delightful memories of the sand and the ocean, too. Dedicated readers will recall that my wife was photographing the world's biggest ball of twine in Cawker City, Kan., while I was in Rio. In hindsight, I'm surprised that ball of twine wasn't in Rio, since most Rio bathing suits aren't much wider than twine: There are throngs of thongs on the beach. That ball of twine could have been unraveled and used to make a lot of bathing suits.
But the book fair will remain my most impressive memory. It's absolutely massive and is housed in a convention complex that dwarfs most convention centers in the United States. The fair is among the largest tourist attractions in Rio, with only Carnival and soccer topping it. Every Brazilian publisher is present, and I wouldn't be surprised if there are almost as many book publishers in Brazil as there are in America.
And speaking as a parent, as a reader, and (yes) as a self-interested writer, what thrilled me more than anything were both the great numbers of teens who were at the fair and their incredible passion for books. Sometimes I think we are writing the obituary for the novel a little prematurely. And it is the young adult, the demographic first to embrace video, YouTube, Xbox and Wii, that gives me this hope.
For example, right here in the United States, the four best-selling books of 2008, according to USA Today, were read largely by teens and tweens. Sure they were all about vampires and written by Stephenie Meyer (What was I thinking titling my 2008 novel, "Skeletons at the Feast" when I could just as easily have called it, "Vampires at the Feast?"). But that's still a lot of fiction being devoured by a lot of teenagers.
I honestly don't know what books will look like in another generation. My sense is that novels will come in all shapes and sizes: On cell phones and Kindles and eReaders. On scrolls. In these timeless devices made of pulp and ink and glue we've taken for granted for centuries. My sense is there will be room for novels in all of these forms.
In the meantime, I am going to look back fondly on Rio for many reasons. But the big one is going to be that image of all those teens going mad for the books that matter to them and viewing a writer as a rock star. Make no mistake: The kids are all right.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 27, 2009.)
Meanwhile, perhaps 300 yards away sat Meg Cabot, American novelist behind "The Princess Diaries" series of books, patiently smiling, signing books, and handing our plastic tiaras to a line of readers that stretched far into the distance.
This was among my very favorite memories of visiting Rio de Janeiro for the "Bienal do Livro," the book fair the city hosts every other year for Brazilian readers. Make no mistake, the Ipanema and Copacabana beaches weren't shabby either, and I have delightful memories of the sand and the ocean, too. Dedicated readers will recall that my wife was photographing the world's biggest ball of twine in Cawker City, Kan., while I was in Rio. In hindsight, I'm surprised that ball of twine wasn't in Rio, since most Rio bathing suits aren't much wider than twine: There are throngs of thongs on the beach. That ball of twine could have been unraveled and used to make a lot of bathing suits.
But the book fair will remain my most impressive memory. It's absolutely massive and is housed in a convention complex that dwarfs most convention centers in the United States. The fair is among the largest tourist attractions in Rio, with only Carnival and soccer topping it. Every Brazilian publisher is present, and I wouldn't be surprised if there are almost as many book publishers in Brazil as there are in America.
And speaking as a parent, as a reader, and (yes) as a self-interested writer, what thrilled me more than anything were both the great numbers of teens who were at the fair and their incredible passion for books. Sometimes I think we are writing the obituary for the novel a little prematurely. And it is the young adult, the demographic first to embrace video, YouTube, Xbox and Wii, that gives me this hope.
For example, right here in the United States, the four best-selling books of 2008, according to USA Today, were read largely by teens and tweens. Sure they were all about vampires and written by Stephenie Meyer (What was I thinking titling my 2008 novel, "Skeletons at the Feast" when I could just as easily have called it, "Vampires at the Feast?"). But that's still a lot of fiction being devoured by a lot of teenagers.
I honestly don't know what books will look like in another generation. My sense is that novels will come in all shapes and sizes: On cell phones and Kindles and eReaders. On scrolls. In these timeless devices made of pulp and ink and glue we've taken for granted for centuries. My sense is there will be room for novels in all of these forms.
In the meantime, I am going to look back fondly on Rio for many reasons. But the big one is going to be that image of all those teens going mad for the books that matter to them and viewing a writer as a rock star. Make no mistake: The kids are all right.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 27, 2009.)
September 20, 2009
The Alchemy of Autumn
It was 11 years ago now that Middlebury College's John Elder published "Reading the Mountains of Home," and I don't believe an autumn has passed since when I haven't spent an evening or two becoming reacquainted with a chapter or two from it. The book is a seemingly alchemic mash-up of memoir, natural history and appreciation of the magic and precision of Robert Frost. But "Reading the Mountains of Home" is a pretty magical experience in its own right, and the book is the perfect companion for a Vermonter in September.
The premise is simple: Elder walked around the woods and mountains that surround Bristol, Vermont, an Addison County village that boasts (among other attributes), a mannered green, a gazebo and a mighty fine creemee stand in the summer, using Robert Frost's 1946 poem, "Directive" as a guide. But Elder is such a thoughtful companion and his knowledge so vast that every chapter is filled with surprises about a topography we as Vermonters take for granted.
And the autumn is the perfect season either to reread the book or discover it for the first time. Why? Well, as Wendell Berry put it, "If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are." And if Manhattan is all about skyscrapers and Florida is about wetlands (OK, wetlands and palmetto bugs the size of small cars), then Vermont is about foliage. It is about trees -- and, as Elder teaches, it is about multiple deforestations and the unexpected resiliency of the northern forest. To wit: We have such kaleidoscopically lush foliage in the Green Mountains this time of the year because years ago we cleared the state of trees first for sheep and then for logging: "Durable kernels from the deciduous trees bided their time for years in a buried seed pool, ready to burst upward from the ground exposed and torn by logging. The autumnal vividness that saturates (Vermont) is thus the offspring of two eradicated forests."
Moreover, the fall is the most wistful of seasons. We all understand on some level that those leaves are the neon of a Lady Gaga wig because they're dying. The tree itself is helping to kill them off, producing a Berlin Wall of cells at the base of the leaf where twig and stem meet, thus starving the leaf of fluids. Meanwhile, the leaf ceases production of chlorophyll, the potion behind photosynthesis and the source of all that green in the woods. The result? We finally get to see all the colors in leaves other than green.
The truth is, in September and October the entire world seems to be either dying or growing dormant. There are few images in my yard more depressing than the dead tomato plants in their cages in the autumn. And "Reading the Mountains of Home" manages both to capture that sense of melancholy and celebrate the importance of grieving as a human need and a human right. Elder's father died just before he embarked upon the book and -- along with Frost -- he uses the Vermont landscape to try to make sense of loss. Just as the fields around Bristol provide a transition between civilization and wilderness, so do the remnants of past communities in the nearby woods provide a liminal passage between mourning and healing.
Soon we will have our first small blazes in either a fireplace or a wood stove; some of us, I imagine, already have. That, too, is a rite of fall. I always look forward to those first late Sunday afternoons when I collapse on the floor in the den of my house with a book and a cat and a fire in my family's wood stove. And, invariably, once again this season one of those books will be Elder's exploration of this state we all call our home.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 20, 2009.)
The premise is simple: Elder walked around the woods and mountains that surround Bristol, Vermont, an Addison County village that boasts (among other attributes), a mannered green, a gazebo and a mighty fine creemee stand in the summer, using Robert Frost's 1946 poem, "Directive" as a guide. But Elder is such a thoughtful companion and his knowledge so vast that every chapter is filled with surprises about a topography we as Vermonters take for granted.
And the autumn is the perfect season either to reread the book or discover it for the first time. Why? Well, as Wendell Berry put it, "If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are." And if Manhattan is all about skyscrapers and Florida is about wetlands (OK, wetlands and palmetto bugs the size of small cars), then Vermont is about foliage. It is about trees -- and, as Elder teaches, it is about multiple deforestations and the unexpected resiliency of the northern forest. To wit: We have such kaleidoscopically lush foliage in the Green Mountains this time of the year because years ago we cleared the state of trees first for sheep and then for logging: "Durable kernels from the deciduous trees bided their time for years in a buried seed pool, ready to burst upward from the ground exposed and torn by logging. The autumnal vividness that saturates (Vermont) is thus the offspring of two eradicated forests."
Moreover, the fall is the most wistful of seasons. We all understand on some level that those leaves are the neon of a Lady Gaga wig because they're dying. The tree itself is helping to kill them off, producing a Berlin Wall of cells at the base of the leaf where twig and stem meet, thus starving the leaf of fluids. Meanwhile, the leaf ceases production of chlorophyll, the potion behind photosynthesis and the source of all that green in the woods. The result? We finally get to see all the colors in leaves other than green.
The truth is, in September and October the entire world seems to be either dying or growing dormant. There are few images in my yard more depressing than the dead tomato plants in their cages in the autumn. And "Reading the Mountains of Home" manages both to capture that sense of melancholy and celebrate the importance of grieving as a human need and a human right. Elder's father died just before he embarked upon the book and -- along with Frost -- he uses the Vermont landscape to try to make sense of loss. Just as the fields around Bristol provide a transition between civilization and wilderness, so do the remnants of past communities in the nearby woods provide a liminal passage between mourning and healing.
Soon we will have our first small blazes in either a fireplace or a wood stove; some of us, I imagine, already have. That, too, is a rite of fall. I always look forward to those first late Sunday afternoons when I collapse on the floor in the den of my house with a book and a cat and a fire in my family's wood stove. And, invariably, once again this season one of those books will be Elder's exploration of this state we all call our home.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 20, 2009.)
September 13, 2009
What Rio needs? A big ball of twine.
Here is a big difference between my wife and me. Later this month I will be speaking in Rio de Janeiro and I asked her if she wanted to join me. She said she would love to, but she had to pass because she's a photographer and she was more excited about chronicling Kansas. So, while I am in a hotel on the beach in Rio, she will be taking pictures of the world's biggest ball of twine in Cawker City.
In all fairness, she will also be photographing Truckhenge in Topeka and silos and barns in magical sounding places like Plainville and Pratt. It's not only the biggest ball of twine that has her pretty darn excited about visiting the Sunflower State.
Moreover, I like Kansas a lot, too, and I did consider joining her on her trip when she invited me. But, in truth, I didn't consider the idea very long. I've never been to Brazil and any country that has a bikini wax named after it clearly has its priorities in order.
Brazil is, of course, a lot harder to get to than Kansas. An American needs a visa to enter the country, not merely a passport. To get to Kansas, you merely need to evade the talking trees that throw apples, cross the fields of magical poppies and slay the Wicked Witch of the West.
In any case, I went to the Brazilian consulate in New York City to get my visa. A Brazilian visa costs $130, and the consulate does not take credit cards, business checks, personal checks or cash. I had all of the above when I arrived at the consulate.
What they do take is a money order from a U.S. post office made out to the Brazilian consulate. (And you thought your post office would be obsolete someday soon.) This meant that I got to stand in long lines twice when I was in Manhattan, although the line at the consulate was actually pretty fun. Everyone in line at the post office was either overburdened with packages or so busy texting that they were a little ornery, and many of the folks often had no idea when the line had progressed; meanwhile, everyone in line at the consulate wanted to talk about soccer. OK, not everyone. The women ahead of me were American and they wanted to talk about body hair. They were worried they had too much (Obviously, they hadn't seen me with my shirt off). But they were still looking forward to a vacation and they were in much better spirits than everyone had been at the post office.
I don't expect I will be worrying all that much about my own body hair when I'm in Rio because I'm a complete lost cause in that department: I don't have enough hair where I'm supposed to and I have way too much in places like my ears. Besides, when I'm in Rio, I will be discussing my novels and I will always have a shirt on.
On the other hand, my novels are published in Portuguese in Brazil. And so I have to presume that most of my readers speak Portuguese. I don't. That teeny tiny detail makes me a little nervous. I have been to Portugal, but I was 10 years old and I spent most of the visit dangling toilet paper out the hotel window with my older brother and seeing if we could get it to waft into the hotel window below us. I didn't learn a word of the language and I may regret that when I am speaking in English in Rio de Janeiro.
Still, I'm game. I'm excited. Everyone tells me that Rio is an absolutely beautiful metropolis, and would be the Cawker City of South America if it could ever get its act together and build a really big ball of twine. I'll keep you posted -- and, yes, I'll keep my shirt on. The last thing I want is for my back to cause an international incident.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 13, 2009.)
In all fairness, she will also be photographing Truckhenge in Topeka and silos and barns in magical sounding places like Plainville and Pratt. It's not only the biggest ball of twine that has her pretty darn excited about visiting the Sunflower State.
Moreover, I like Kansas a lot, too, and I did consider joining her on her trip when she invited me. But, in truth, I didn't consider the idea very long. I've never been to Brazil and any country that has a bikini wax named after it clearly has its priorities in order.
Brazil is, of course, a lot harder to get to than Kansas. An American needs a visa to enter the country, not merely a passport. To get to Kansas, you merely need to evade the talking trees that throw apples, cross the fields of magical poppies and slay the Wicked Witch of the West.
In any case, I went to the Brazilian consulate in New York City to get my visa. A Brazilian visa costs $130, and the consulate does not take credit cards, business checks, personal checks or cash. I had all of the above when I arrived at the consulate.
What they do take is a money order from a U.S. post office made out to the Brazilian consulate. (And you thought your post office would be obsolete someday soon.) This meant that I got to stand in long lines twice when I was in Manhattan, although the line at the consulate was actually pretty fun. Everyone in line at the post office was either overburdened with packages or so busy texting that they were a little ornery, and many of the folks often had no idea when the line had progressed; meanwhile, everyone in line at the consulate wanted to talk about soccer. OK, not everyone. The women ahead of me were American and they wanted to talk about body hair. They were worried they had too much (Obviously, they hadn't seen me with my shirt off). But they were still looking forward to a vacation and they were in much better spirits than everyone had been at the post office.
I don't expect I will be worrying all that much about my own body hair when I'm in Rio because I'm a complete lost cause in that department: I don't have enough hair where I'm supposed to and I have way too much in places like my ears. Besides, when I'm in Rio, I will be discussing my novels and I will always have a shirt on.
On the other hand, my novels are published in Portuguese in Brazil. And so I have to presume that most of my readers speak Portuguese. I don't. That teeny tiny detail makes me a little nervous. I have been to Portugal, but I was 10 years old and I spent most of the visit dangling toilet paper out the hotel window with my older brother and seeing if we could get it to waft into the hotel window below us. I didn't learn a word of the language and I may regret that when I am speaking in English in Rio de Janeiro.
Still, I'm game. I'm excited. Everyone tells me that Rio is an absolutely beautiful metropolis, and would be the Cawker City of South America if it could ever get its act together and build a really big ball of twine. I'll keep you posted -- and, yes, I'll keep my shirt on. The last thing I want is for my back to cause an international incident.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 13, 2009.)
September 6, 2009
All's fair in Fair food
Now here's a sentence I never heard myself saying: "Tell me about your Famous Pork Boners."
I was in the midst of my annual orgy of bad eating at the Champlain Valley Fair in Essex Junction, Vermont last week, deciding whether to get another helping of Fat Daddy's mighty tasty onion rings, when I saw they were serving something called a Famous Pork Boner. And so I asked. I had to: My sister-in-law has lived in Paris for 30 years, and one thing I have learned from her is that in France, at least, there is no part of an animal you don't eat. In this case, a Famous Pork Boner isn't quite as bad as it sounds.
"It's a two-ounce piece of pork shank, deep fried, and covered with our homemade barbecue sauce," explained Tom Critchlow of Fat Daddy's. (My wife in particular breathed a sigh of relief, because she had noticed there was a sign for something called a Boner Platter.)
Part of the Famous Pork Boner's appeal, I imagine, is that it's fried. Fried food always beats out unfried food at the Champlain Valley Fair. Actually, this is true at all county fairs (Very dedicated readers might recall that earlier this summer I enjoyed fried Oreos at the Addison County Fair and Field Days). It's only a matter of time before someone figures out how to coat chocolate pudding in batter and fry it. Next year, I fully expect the sugar house to be offering deep fried maple cotton candy.
How universal is this fried-beats-unfried rule? I asked Julie Gumienny at Mr. Sausage which was the most popular: the Italian sausage, the Polish kielbasa or the German bratwurst. To be honest, I thought this was a foreign policy question and I was hoping to trigger an international incident. "Oh, the Italian sausage, by far," she answered. Why? "It's the one that's fried."
She also told me that it isn't uncommon for people to order "two Italians and a large fries" to go with their Bloomin' Onion -- and then a Diet Coke. It's the Diet Coke that always cracks her up.
I am not judging people who consume two Italians, large fries and a Bloomin' Onion. I'm no slouch when it comes to binge eating at the fair.
I do, however, have the common sense to steer clear of certain rides after chowing down a Mini Cooper-sized portion of fried onion rings. Not everyone does, and the result isn't pretty. Just ask Hairy (yes, with an "I" rather than two "R"s), the chef behind Hairy's Famous Philly Cheesesteak at the Mojo Cafe and Grill.
The Mojo sits at a corner of the fairgrounds near such stomach-turning classic rides as the Freak Out, the Tango and the Himalaya. There Hairy whips up his renowned shaved steak, provolone cheese, peppers and onions on a soft hoagie roll and serves it to fair patrons about to climb aboard the aforementioned rides. What happens next? "I have friends who run the rides coming over and asking me for buckets of water," Hairy said, rolling his eyes as he envisions the cleanup. Hairy also sells corn dogs and here, he said, is a county fair truism: "Corn dogs and rides don't always mix."
Somehow, we all lose complete culinary common sense at the fair. Betty Grout at Tootsie's told me that she had someone order a slab of fried dough with chocolate sauce and then come back asking for pizza sauce to be drizzled on top of the chocolate. Michele Anderson of Dan's Fried Dough said one customer wanted mustard on top of her cinnamon and sugar wedge. "I said to her, it's not a pretzel," Michele recalls.
But time is running out to find your favorite meat on a stick at the fair. Time is running out to find what foods are now being fried. There is today and tomorrow. So, head to the Champlain Valley Fair. And, if you're as mature as I am, be sure to ask strangers where you can get a Famous Pork Boner.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 6, 2009.)
I was in the midst of my annual orgy of bad eating at the Champlain Valley Fair in Essex Junction, Vermont last week, deciding whether to get another helping of Fat Daddy's mighty tasty onion rings, when I saw they were serving something called a Famous Pork Boner. And so I asked. I had to: My sister-in-law has lived in Paris for 30 years, and one thing I have learned from her is that in France, at least, there is no part of an animal you don't eat. In this case, a Famous Pork Boner isn't quite as bad as it sounds.
"It's a two-ounce piece of pork shank, deep fried, and covered with our homemade barbecue sauce," explained Tom Critchlow of Fat Daddy's. (My wife in particular breathed a sigh of relief, because she had noticed there was a sign for something called a Boner Platter.)
Part of the Famous Pork Boner's appeal, I imagine, is that it's fried. Fried food always beats out unfried food at the Champlain Valley Fair. Actually, this is true at all county fairs (Very dedicated readers might recall that earlier this summer I enjoyed fried Oreos at the Addison County Fair and Field Days). It's only a matter of time before someone figures out how to coat chocolate pudding in batter and fry it. Next year, I fully expect the sugar house to be offering deep fried maple cotton candy.
How universal is this fried-beats-unfried rule? I asked Julie Gumienny at Mr. Sausage which was the most popular: the Italian sausage, the Polish kielbasa or the German bratwurst. To be honest, I thought this was a foreign policy question and I was hoping to trigger an international incident. "Oh, the Italian sausage, by far," she answered. Why? "It's the one that's fried."
She also told me that it isn't uncommon for people to order "two Italians and a large fries" to go with their Bloomin' Onion -- and then a Diet Coke. It's the Diet Coke that always cracks her up.
I am not judging people who consume two Italians, large fries and a Bloomin' Onion. I'm no slouch when it comes to binge eating at the fair.
I do, however, have the common sense to steer clear of certain rides after chowing down a Mini Cooper-sized portion of fried onion rings. Not everyone does, and the result isn't pretty. Just ask Hairy (yes, with an "I" rather than two "R"s), the chef behind Hairy's Famous Philly Cheesesteak at the Mojo Cafe and Grill.
The Mojo sits at a corner of the fairgrounds near such stomach-turning classic rides as the Freak Out, the Tango and the Himalaya. There Hairy whips up his renowned shaved steak, provolone cheese, peppers and onions on a soft hoagie roll and serves it to fair patrons about to climb aboard the aforementioned rides. What happens next? "I have friends who run the rides coming over and asking me for buckets of water," Hairy said, rolling his eyes as he envisions the cleanup. Hairy also sells corn dogs and here, he said, is a county fair truism: "Corn dogs and rides don't always mix."
Somehow, we all lose complete culinary common sense at the fair. Betty Grout at Tootsie's told me that she had someone order a slab of fried dough with chocolate sauce and then come back asking for pizza sauce to be drizzled on top of the chocolate. Michele Anderson of Dan's Fried Dough said one customer wanted mustard on top of her cinnamon and sugar wedge. "I said to her, it's not a pretzel," Michele recalls.
But time is running out to find your favorite meat on a stick at the fair. Time is running out to find what foods are now being fried. There is today and tomorrow. So, head to the Champlain Valley Fair. And, if you're as mature as I am, be sure to ask strangers where you can get a Famous Pork Boner.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 6, 2009.)
All's fair in Fair food
Now here's a sentence I never heard myself saying: "Tell me about your Famous Pork Boners."
I was in the midst of my annual orgy of bad eating at the Champlain Valley Fair in Essex Junction, Vermont last week, deciding whether to get another helping of Fat Daddy's mighty tasty onion rings, when I saw they were serving something called a Famous Pork Boner. And so I asked. I had to: My sister-in-law has lived in Paris for 30 years, and one thing I have learned from her is that in France, at least, there is no part of an animal you don't eat. In this case, a Famous Pork Boner isn't quite as bad as it sounds.
"It's a two-ounce piece of pork shank, deep fried, and covered with our homemade barbecue sauce," explained Tom Critchlow of Fat Daddy's. (My wife in particular breathed a sigh of relief, because she had noticed there was a sign for something called a Boner Platter.)
Part of the Famous Pork Boner's appeal, I imagine, is that it's fried. Fried food always beats out unfried food at the Champlain Valley Fair. Actually, this is true at all county fairs (Very dedicated readers might recall that earlier this summer I enjoyed fried Oreos at the Addison County Fair and Field Days). It's only a matter of time before someone figures out how to coat chocolate pudding in batter and fry it. Next year, I fully expect the sugar house to be offering deep fried maple cotton candy.
How universal is this fried-beats-unfried rule? I asked Julie Gumienny at Mr. Sausage which was the most popular: the Italian sausage, the Polish kielbasa or the German bratwurst. To be honest, I thought this was a foreign policy question and I was hoping to trigger an international incident. "Oh, the Italian sausage, by far," she answered. Why? "It's the one that's fried."
She also told me that it isn't uncommon for people to order "two Italians and a large fries" to go with their Bloomin' Onion -- and then a Diet Coke. It's the Diet Coke that always cracks her up.
I am not judging people who consume two Italians, large fries and a Bloomin' Onion. I'm no slouch when it comes to binge eating at the fair.
I do, however, have the common sense to steer clear of certain rides after chowing down a Mini Cooper-sized portion of fried onion rings. Not everyone does, and the result isn't pretty. Just ask Hairy (yes, with an "I" rather than two "R"s), the chef behind Hairy's Famous Philly Cheesesteak at the Mojo Cafe and Grill.
The Mojo sits at a corner of the fairgrounds near such stomach-turning classic rides as the Freak Out, the Tango and the Himalaya. There Hairy whips up his renowned shaved steak, provolone cheese, peppers and onions on a soft hoagie roll and serves it to fair patrons about to climb aboard the aforementioned rides. What happens next? "I have friends who run the rides coming over and asking me for buckets of water," Hairy said, rolling his eyes as he envisions the cleanup. Hairy also sells corn dogs and here, he said, is a county fair truism: "Corn dogs and rides don't always mix."
Somehow, we all lose complete culinary common sense at the fair. Betty Grout at Tootsie's told me that she had someone order a slab of fried dough with chocolate sauce and then come back asking for pizza sauce to be drizzled on top of the chocolate. Michele Anderson of Dan's Fried Dough said one customer wanted mustard on top of her cinnamon and sugar wedge. "I said to her, it's not a pretzel," Michele recalls.
But time is running out to find your favorite meat on a stick at the fair. Time is running out to find what foods are now being fried. There is today and tomorrow. So, head to the Champlain Valley Fair. And, if you're as mature as I am, be sure to ask strangers where you can get a Famous Pork Boner.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 6, 2009.)
I was in the midst of my annual orgy of bad eating at the Champlain Valley Fair in Essex Junction, Vermont last week, deciding whether to get another helping of Fat Daddy's mighty tasty onion rings, when I saw they were serving something called a Famous Pork Boner. And so I asked. I had to: My sister-in-law has lived in Paris for 30 years, and one thing I have learned from her is that in France, at least, there is no part of an animal you don't eat. In this case, a Famous Pork Boner isn't quite as bad as it sounds.
"It's a two-ounce piece of pork shank, deep fried, and covered with our homemade barbecue sauce," explained Tom Critchlow of Fat Daddy's. (My wife in particular breathed a sigh of relief, because she had noticed there was a sign for something called a Boner Platter.)
Part of the Famous Pork Boner's appeal, I imagine, is that it's fried. Fried food always beats out unfried food at the Champlain Valley Fair. Actually, this is true at all county fairs (Very dedicated readers might recall that earlier this summer I enjoyed fried Oreos at the Addison County Fair and Field Days). It's only a matter of time before someone figures out how to coat chocolate pudding in batter and fry it. Next year, I fully expect the sugar house to be offering deep fried maple cotton candy.
How universal is this fried-beats-unfried rule? I asked Julie Gumienny at Mr. Sausage which was the most popular: the Italian sausage, the Polish kielbasa or the German bratwurst. To be honest, I thought this was a foreign policy question and I was hoping to trigger an international incident. "Oh, the Italian sausage, by far," she answered. Why? "It's the one that's fried."
She also told me that it isn't uncommon for people to order "two Italians and a large fries" to go with their Bloomin' Onion -- and then a Diet Coke. It's the Diet Coke that always cracks her up.
I am not judging people who consume two Italians, large fries and a Bloomin' Onion. I'm no slouch when it comes to binge eating at the fair.
I do, however, have the common sense to steer clear of certain rides after chowing down a Mini Cooper-sized portion of fried onion rings. Not everyone does, and the result isn't pretty. Just ask Hairy (yes, with an "I" rather than two "R"s), the chef behind Hairy's Famous Philly Cheesesteak at the Mojo Cafe and Grill.
The Mojo sits at a corner of the fairgrounds near such stomach-turning classic rides as the Freak Out, the Tango and the Himalaya. There Hairy whips up his renowned shaved steak, provolone cheese, peppers and onions on a soft hoagie roll and serves it to fair patrons about to climb aboard the aforementioned rides. What happens next? "I have friends who run the rides coming over and asking me for buckets of water," Hairy said, rolling his eyes as he envisions the cleanup. Hairy also sells corn dogs and here, he said, is a county fair truism: "Corn dogs and rides don't always mix."
Somehow, we all lose complete culinary common sense at the fair. Betty Grout at Tootsie's told me that she had someone order a slab of fried dough with chocolate sauce and then come back asking for pizza sauce to be drizzled on top of the chocolate. Michele Anderson of Dan's Fried Dough said one customer wanted mustard on top of her cinnamon and sugar wedge. "I said to her, it's not a pretzel," Michele recalls.
But time is running out to find your favorite meat on a stick at the fair. Time is running out to find what foods are now being fried. There is today and tomorrow. So, head to the Champlain Valley Fair. And, if you're as mature as I am, be sure to ask strangers where you can get a Famous Pork Boner.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on September 6, 2009.)
August 30, 2009
A Season of Farewells
The heat wave has broken here in Vermont and the leaves have started to change. Autumn is coming, that annual reminder of the eventual quiescence of our own souls.
But this summer has felt sadder than most, a reality made clear again last week with the death of Sen. Ted Kennedy. Among the others we said goodbye to this summer were Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Frank McCourt, Walter Cronkite and Michael Jackson. I knew none but have fond memories of all. I'll always be grateful to McMahon for his hearty laugh on the "Tonight Show;" his guffaw made me feel secure when I was a boy and my parents and older brother were out for the evening and I was home alone in the house. Likewise, I am indebted to Fawcett because I did my homework in front of the show that helped make her famous, "Charlie's Angels." Years later, I savored the poignancy and precision of McCourt's memoirs.
Once, in the autumn before McCourt's "Angela's Ashes" was published, I was visiting an editor at Cosmopolitan. Another editor popped her head into the office where we were meeting and asked my editor, "Do you have 'Angela's Ashes?'" My editor shook her head no.
"You and Angela must have been very close," I murmured solemnly.
"It's a book," she explained curtly.
And Jackson played a part in my understanding of how democracy works. When I was in elementary school, my teacher had the class vote on which song we preferred: Don McLean's "American Pie" or the Jackson 5's "Never Can Say Goodbye." Don never had a chance.
But since Memorial Day, my little village, Lincoln, has lost some notable citizens, too, and although there were no reality TV shows about their deaths or glossy magazine stories examining their legacies, their impact on our community was profound. This summer we said goodbye to Susan Heck Oliveau and Morton "Lucky" Diamond.
Susan, a mother and grandmother, had worked at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, Calif., charting the Earth's rotation for NASA, before retiring to Lincoln. Here she served as a board member and volunteer at the Lincoln Library, where children and adults savored the way she channeled her old career into her new life, sharing her knowledge of the heavens with her "Starry Skies" presentations.
"She could always be relied upon to offer her strength whenever it was needed," recalls Linda Norton, the Lincoln librarian for over 30 years. "Her relationship to the community was like that of a rock in the foundation of a house -- perhaps not readily seen, but a solid presence that will surely be missed."
Susan died of cancer May 25.
Lucky Diamond had been the town constable, was a dedicated American Red Cross volunteer, and along with his wife, Louise, was co-director of the Addison County Community Emergency Response Team. People in Addison County knew they could count on Lucky, whether it was to help with the search for a missing college student in Middlebury or to help a village like Lincoln cope with the loss of many of its paved roads and two of its critical bridges after the New Haven River flood in 1998. Among his most satisfying accomplishments? He helped design and convert a bread delivery truck into a Red Cross Mobile Kitchen. But when a good friend such as Dave Harrison remembers Lucky, he recalls the care with which the woodworker would craft a dulcimer or turn wooden bowls as gifts for a grieving family.
"He knew the true spirit of the word commitment," recalls Tim Stetson, Senior Director of Administration and Emergency Services for the Red Cross of Northern Vermont. "He was among our most active volunteers."
Lucky died of an aortic aneurysm June 26, just days after celebrating his 50th wedding anniversary.
Now, neither Susan nor Lucky ever made it onto the cover of a news weekly when they were alive. Neither of them was asked to spend an hour with Larry King. But the world was a better place for their having walked upon it.
Thank you, Susan. Thank you, Lucky. You are indeed missed.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on August 30, 2009.)
But this summer has felt sadder than most, a reality made clear again last week with the death of Sen. Ted Kennedy. Among the others we said goodbye to this summer were Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Frank McCourt, Walter Cronkite and Michael Jackson. I knew none but have fond memories of all. I'll always be grateful to McMahon for his hearty laugh on the "Tonight Show;" his guffaw made me feel secure when I was a boy and my parents and older brother were out for the evening and I was home alone in the house. Likewise, I am indebted to Fawcett because I did my homework in front of the show that helped make her famous, "Charlie's Angels." Years later, I savored the poignancy and precision of McCourt's memoirs.
Once, in the autumn before McCourt's "Angela's Ashes" was published, I was visiting an editor at Cosmopolitan. Another editor popped her head into the office where we were meeting and asked my editor, "Do you have 'Angela's Ashes?'" My editor shook her head no.
"You and Angela must have been very close," I murmured solemnly.
"It's a book," she explained curtly.
And Jackson played a part in my understanding of how democracy works. When I was in elementary school, my teacher had the class vote on which song we preferred: Don McLean's "American Pie" or the Jackson 5's "Never Can Say Goodbye." Don never had a chance.
But since Memorial Day, my little village, Lincoln, has lost some notable citizens, too, and although there were no reality TV shows about their deaths or glossy magazine stories examining their legacies, their impact on our community was profound. This summer we said goodbye to Susan Heck Oliveau and Morton "Lucky" Diamond.
Susan, a mother and grandmother, had worked at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, Calif., charting the Earth's rotation for NASA, before retiring to Lincoln. Here she served as a board member and volunteer at the Lincoln Library, where children and adults savored the way she channeled her old career into her new life, sharing her knowledge of the heavens with her "Starry Skies" presentations.
"She could always be relied upon to offer her strength whenever it was needed," recalls Linda Norton, the Lincoln librarian for over 30 years. "Her relationship to the community was like that of a rock in the foundation of a house -- perhaps not readily seen, but a solid presence that will surely be missed."
Susan died of cancer May 25.
Lucky Diamond had been the town constable, was a dedicated American Red Cross volunteer, and along with his wife, Louise, was co-director of the Addison County Community Emergency Response Team. People in Addison County knew they could count on Lucky, whether it was to help with the search for a missing college student in Middlebury or to help a village like Lincoln cope with the loss of many of its paved roads and two of its critical bridges after the New Haven River flood in 1998. Among his most satisfying accomplishments? He helped design and convert a bread delivery truck into a Red Cross Mobile Kitchen. But when a good friend such as Dave Harrison remembers Lucky, he recalls the care with which the woodworker would craft a dulcimer or turn wooden bowls as gifts for a grieving family.
"He knew the true spirit of the word commitment," recalls Tim Stetson, Senior Director of Administration and Emergency Services for the Red Cross of Northern Vermont. "He was among our most active volunteers."
Lucky died of an aortic aneurysm June 26, just days after celebrating his 50th wedding anniversary.
Now, neither Susan nor Lucky ever made it onto the cover of a news weekly when they were alive. Neither of them was asked to spend an hour with Larry King. But the world was a better place for their having walked upon it.
Thank you, Susan. Thank you, Lucky. You are indeed missed.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on August 30, 2009.)
August 23, 2009
Nothing Says Love Like a Dead Bat
Nothing says love better than a dead bat first thing in the morning.
The other day my cat Horton brought me one for breakfast. In all fairness, I am not sure whether the cat expected me to eat it or whether she was merely showing off. Either way, this was a first. This summer, Horton has caught and killed mice, shrews, crickets, butterflies, birds (far too many), and a flower from the hydrangea tree in our front yard that was wafting aimlessly along the lawn in the breeze. But until the other day, she hadn't caught a bat.
In the interest of journalistic full disclosure, I should tell you that she caught this bat in our living room. I'm not sure I want to know what a bat was doing in our living room, but I like to believe it was a loner for two reasons. First, I have enough pets already. Second, an epidemic called white-nose syndrome has decimated the bat population in the Northeast. It's hard enough surviving as a bat right now. The last thing they need is to have to share a house or cave with one of my killer cats.
In any case, it was about 5 a.m. and my wife was feeding Horton and her three feline siblings in the kitchen. All of a sudden, my wife said, Horton flew like a cruise missile from the kitchen into the living room and leapt into the air. When she landed back on the carpet, she had a bat in her mouth, still squeaking and flapping its little bat wings. Then she paraded proudly past my wife and the awestruck gaze of the three other cats and into the library where I had just started work for the day. When she reached my chair, she dropped the bat, now dead, at my feet.
Did I tell you it was my birthday?
In my opinion, this was no shabby accomplishment. Horton is a 5-year-old white and tan duster: She's all fur. And so even though a bat doesn't weigh a lot, neither does Horton. Plus, bats can fly.
The creature was actually pretty cute. The only other time I have had the chance to look at a dead bat up close and personal was easily a decade ago, when I found a dead one plastered to the inside of my wood stove door. It was September and I have a feeling that the dead bat had been pasted to that door a long, long time. For all I know it wasn't really a bat; maybe it was a piece of decomposing bologna with wings. I tried to use a spatula to peel it off the wrought iron, but suddenly my stomach was feeling a lot like it does when your airplane falls a few thousand feet in a thunderhead and I decided that the best way to honor this bat was to start a fire and cremate it.
The animal that Horton brought me for breakfast, however, was very definitely not decomposing bologna with wings. It had a pair of semi-sweet mini morsels for eyes and fur the color of coffee with milk. It had those iconic bat wings and generous triangles for ears. Remember "Stellaluna," Janell Cannon's delightful picture book about a baby bat who is raised by birds? This bat looked a lot like Stellaluna, with the minor detail that it was dead.
Now, my cats really don't need my approval. If they did, they would be less likely to shoot hairballs with firehose-like power from atop the kitchen counters or start rousing games of turd hockey the moment a guest arrives in the house. So, Horton didn't hang around by my feet like a dog after depositing the dead bat. She went back to her own breakfast and left me to mine.
My sense is she was proud of herself. And I was proud of her, too. I didn't eat the bat because I'm a vegetarian and because the Federal Reserve couldn't print enough money to get me to put a dead bat in my mouth. But it was a delightful start to my birthday.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on August 23, 2009.)
The other day my cat Horton brought me one for breakfast. In all fairness, I am not sure whether the cat expected me to eat it or whether she was merely showing off. Either way, this was a first. This summer, Horton has caught and killed mice, shrews, crickets, butterflies, birds (far too many), and a flower from the hydrangea tree in our front yard that was wafting aimlessly along the lawn in the breeze. But until the other day, she hadn't caught a bat.
In the interest of journalistic full disclosure, I should tell you that she caught this bat in our living room. I'm not sure I want to know what a bat was doing in our living room, but I like to believe it was a loner for two reasons. First, I have enough pets already. Second, an epidemic called white-nose syndrome has decimated the bat population in the Northeast. It's hard enough surviving as a bat right now. The last thing they need is to have to share a house or cave with one of my killer cats.
In any case, it was about 5 a.m. and my wife was feeding Horton and her three feline siblings in the kitchen. All of a sudden, my wife said, Horton flew like a cruise missile from the kitchen into the living room and leapt into the air. When she landed back on the carpet, she had a bat in her mouth, still squeaking and flapping its little bat wings. Then she paraded proudly past my wife and the awestruck gaze of the three other cats and into the library where I had just started work for the day. When she reached my chair, she dropped the bat, now dead, at my feet.
Did I tell you it was my birthday?
In my opinion, this was no shabby accomplishment. Horton is a 5-year-old white and tan duster: She's all fur. And so even though a bat doesn't weigh a lot, neither does Horton. Plus, bats can fly.
The creature was actually pretty cute. The only other time I have had the chance to look at a dead bat up close and personal was easily a decade ago, when I found a dead one plastered to the inside of my wood stove door. It was September and I have a feeling that the dead bat had been pasted to that door a long, long time. For all I know it wasn't really a bat; maybe it was a piece of decomposing bologna with wings. I tried to use a spatula to peel it off the wrought iron, but suddenly my stomach was feeling a lot like it does when your airplane falls a few thousand feet in a thunderhead and I decided that the best way to honor this bat was to start a fire and cremate it.
The animal that Horton brought me for breakfast, however, was very definitely not decomposing bologna with wings. It had a pair of semi-sweet mini morsels for eyes and fur the color of coffee with milk. It had those iconic bat wings and generous triangles for ears. Remember "Stellaluna," Janell Cannon's delightful picture book about a baby bat who is raised by birds? This bat looked a lot like Stellaluna, with the minor detail that it was dead.
Now, my cats really don't need my approval. If they did, they would be less likely to shoot hairballs with firehose-like power from atop the kitchen counters or start rousing games of turd hockey the moment a guest arrives in the house. So, Horton didn't hang around by my feet like a dog after depositing the dead bat. She went back to her own breakfast and left me to mine.
My sense is she was proud of herself. And I was proud of her, too. I didn't eat the bat because I'm a vegetarian and because the Federal Reserve couldn't print enough money to get me to put a dead bat in my mouth. But it was a delightful start to my birthday.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on August 23, 2009.)
August 17, 2009
400 Years Later and We're Still Being Discovered
I love it when tourists visit Vermont, even though we don't have the world's largest muskie (Wisconsin), hot dog man (Illinois) or badger (also Wisconsin). We do have the world's tallest filing cabinet in Burlington and a spider web farm in Williamstown. But people are more likely to come here for our panoramas and vistas. Whether it's the view from the top of Snake Mountain or the sight of the mist rising from Peacham Pond on a crisp August morning, our state is renowned for its landscapes.
The other day I was savoring one of those views. I was sitting on a boulder at Vermont's Charlotte beach late in the afternoon, alternately reading a page or two of a novel and trying (and failing) to skip the slender black stones that comprise the shore there across the surface of Lake Champlain. Yup, some beaches have sand. Charlotte has rocks. My sense is it keeps the community humble. In any case, I had been there about 40 minutes when a couple roughly my age arrived with two folding lawn chairs and sat down a dozen yards away to wait for the sunset. After a couple of minutes, the woman called over to me, "Those mountains across the water: Are they in Vermont or Canada?"
For a second I thought she was kidding and considered answering they were the Rocky Mountains and we were in Colorado. But I had a sinking feeling this was an earnest question and said, "Not from around here, eh?"
"Nope. We're from California. We're visiting friends."
And so I put on my Vermont Ambassador hat rather than my snarky, condescending, how-did-these-people-get-drivers-licenses hat and answered, "Actually, those mountains are in New York."
She nodded wisely and said, "Oh, they're the Adirondacks. We saw them from the plane."
"Good chance," I said. Then: "This is Lake Champlain."
"Yes, of course. You just had a big party for it. We heard all about it."
Now, I am freakishly interested in geography. One of my many talents which has served me not at all is the ability to name all 50 states and every nation in pre-World War II Europe. I am well aware that this knowledge is worth less than knowing how to personalize the ring tones on a cell phone. Consequently, I don't expect visitors to Vermont to know the height of our highest mountain or to pronounce Charlotte or Calais the way we do. But the idea that a pair of grownups could sit on the eastern side of Lake Champlain and wonder whether the mountains on the western side were in Canada or Vermont really drove home the point that most of our nation is seriously map-challenged. In 2006, a Roper poll conducted on behalf of the National Geographic Society indicated that only 1 in 3 Americans between the age of 18 and 24 could spot Iraq on a map. Clearly we wouldn't do a whole lot better pinpointing Vermont.
And don't forget that this other couple and I were watching the sun set. That means, the last time I checked, we were facing west. Trust me on this one: If we are ever sitting on the Charlotte beach and watching the sun fall behind Mount Philo, we have much bigger problems than the reality that most Americans have no idea what states are in the next time zone. So, had this pair forgotten that Vermont is south of Canada? Apparently, since they had to know that the sun always sets in the west.
Still, they seemed happy enough. It was only after I was leaving that I realized I should have recommended they drive into Burlington the next day to see the world's tallest filing cabinet. I could have told them to follow U. S. 7 north into Burlington and then follow the setting sun west down Flynn Avenue.
On the other hand, this pair might have wound up in New Hampshire.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on August 16, 2009.)
The other day I was savoring one of those views. I was sitting on a boulder at Vermont's Charlotte beach late in the afternoon, alternately reading a page or two of a novel and trying (and failing) to skip the slender black stones that comprise the shore there across the surface of Lake Champlain. Yup, some beaches have sand. Charlotte has rocks. My sense is it keeps the community humble. In any case, I had been there about 40 minutes when a couple roughly my age arrived with two folding lawn chairs and sat down a dozen yards away to wait for the sunset. After a couple of minutes, the woman called over to me, "Those mountains across the water: Are they in Vermont or Canada?"
For a second I thought she was kidding and considered answering they were the Rocky Mountains and we were in Colorado. But I had a sinking feeling this was an earnest question and said, "Not from around here, eh?"
"Nope. We're from California. We're visiting friends."
And so I put on my Vermont Ambassador hat rather than my snarky, condescending, how-did-these-people-get-drivers-licenses hat and answered, "Actually, those mountains are in New York."
She nodded wisely and said, "Oh, they're the Adirondacks. We saw them from the plane."
"Good chance," I said. Then: "This is Lake Champlain."
"Yes, of course. You just had a big party for it. We heard all about it."
Now, I am freakishly interested in geography. One of my many talents which has served me not at all is the ability to name all 50 states and every nation in pre-World War II Europe. I am well aware that this knowledge is worth less than knowing how to personalize the ring tones on a cell phone. Consequently, I don't expect visitors to Vermont to know the height of our highest mountain or to pronounce Charlotte or Calais the way we do. But the idea that a pair of grownups could sit on the eastern side of Lake Champlain and wonder whether the mountains on the western side were in Canada or Vermont really drove home the point that most of our nation is seriously map-challenged. In 2006, a Roper poll conducted on behalf of the National Geographic Society indicated that only 1 in 3 Americans between the age of 18 and 24 could spot Iraq on a map. Clearly we wouldn't do a whole lot better pinpointing Vermont.
And don't forget that this other couple and I were watching the sun set. That means, the last time I checked, we were facing west. Trust me on this one: If we are ever sitting on the Charlotte beach and watching the sun fall behind Mount Philo, we have much bigger problems than the reality that most Americans have no idea what states are in the next time zone. So, had this pair forgotten that Vermont is south of Canada? Apparently, since they had to know that the sun always sets in the west.
Still, they seemed happy enough. It was only after I was leaving that I realized I should have recommended they drive into Burlington the next day to see the world's tallest filing cabinet. I could have told them to follow U. S. 7 north into Burlington and then follow the setting sun west down Flynn Avenue.
On the other hand, this pair might have wound up in New Hampshire.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on August 16, 2009.)
