Gordon Grice's Blog, page 17
December 5, 2015
Whistler's Wave
Nature images by James MacNeill Whistler.
Blue and Silvar: Blue Wave, Biarritz
Above and below: Peacock images from a room Whistler designed.
Violet and Silver: A Deep Sea
Blue and Silvar: Blue Wave, Biarritz
Above and below: Peacock images from a room Whistler designed.
Peacocks sweep the fairies' rooms;
They use their folded tails for brooms;
But fairy dust is brighter far
Than any mortal colours are;
And all about their tails it clings
In strange designs of rounds and rings;
And that is why they strut about
And proudly spread their feathers out.
--Rose Fyleman
Violet and Silver: A Deep Sea
November 28, 2015
Black Bears
As we drove home from Penny and Bob's house the other evening, a black bear ran up to the paved country road. It meant to cross, but our car spooked it. Tracy put on the brakes in plenty of time. We pulled up beside the bear where it stood in the ditch. It looked at us as if we'd behaved badly.
"They look so stupid when they run," Tracy observed. She lacked the space to do an impression; that came later, at home.
"Like they're made wrong," Parker added.
Meanwhile, the bear loped off into a corn field.
Shown here are other, possibly brighter bears, photographed by Dee Puett.
"They look so stupid when they run," Tracy observed. She lacked the space to do an impression; that came later, at home.
"Like they're made wrong," Parker added.
Meanwhile, the bear loped off into a corn field.
Shown here are other, possibly brighter bears, photographed by Dee Puett.
November 21, 2015
Crow Uses Bait to Catch Fish
Yet more evidence of the intelligence of crows. The guy who recorded this says he saw ten more examples of the behavior.
November 14, 2015
Starfish
Starfish (Sea Stars)Class: Asteroidea
There are more than 1500 species of starfish, which are also called sea stars. They come in a variety of colors, from bright orange to blue to pale pink to brown. Many of them have the typical echinoderm pattern, with five radially symmetrical sections, each sprouting one arm, or ray. Some species, though, have more than twenty arms. Some species, like the crown-of-thorns starfish, have bristles and bumps on their arms. The bristles can produce a dangerous venom, so it pays to be careful around any bristly types you find at the shore.
Most starfish eat clams and other bivalves. To manage this, the starfish forces the clam’s shell open with its strong arms. As soon as there’s even a narrow opening—say, one millimeter wide—the starfish turns its stomach inside out and thrusts it through the crack. The stomach then uses acid to begin digesting the clam. It soon weakens and the starfish is able to open the shell fully. It pulls its stomach back into itself and swallows the clam. Starfish may also eat various other small animals, such as snails, corals, worms, and sponges. Some species eat carrion and even feces. --from Cabinet of Curiosities
Photography by Dee Puett
November 7, 2015
Cabinet of Curiosities in Boys' Life
In the November, 2015 issue:
October 30, 2015
Massive Great White Shark Caught Near Tunisia
Rare catch of massive great white shark off Tunisia draws criticism | GrindTV.com: A great white shark weighing 4,400 pounds was caught Wednesday morning off Sousse, Tunisia, and sold by the fisherman for . . . about $1,500. The store that bought the shark “had to use a crane to hold it in suspension [as it was] cut to pieces under the curious gaze of customers."
Edit: See Max's comment below about the photos of a huge tiger shark also recently in the news. Their origin is uncertain.
October 26, 2015
Hear Me, O Listeners
Lately I’ve been privileged to speak on two radio shows about my new book, Cabinet of Curiosities. I thought I’d share those talks here.
First there was Central Time, a show on Wisconsin Public Radio. You can listen to my segment here.
Then there was Science Friday. The interview itself is here. Along with it are photos of some of the collectibles lying around our house. The photos are at the bottom of that page, but as you scroll down, you'll see other cool pix contributed by listeners. Parker shot the photos of our stuff, since he knows that cameras and I have a long-standing antipathy. The SciFri folks have also posted an excerpt from the book for your reading pleasure.
October 24, 2015
A Scary Story for Halloween
Here’s a creepy story I offer for Halloween. I set out, some time ago, to update some translations of Chinese folktales. The translation were made in Victorian times, so they felt out of date. I also suspected they’d failed to capture the fun that must have existed in the Chinese originals. Anyway, I decided to put a few of them into modern English. This little tale of transformations, however, morphed into something else altogether. I didn’t know enough about Chinese culture to supply the details I needed to flesh it out, so I transplanted the tale closer to home. The resulting disaster can’t be blamed on China.
*
A Bowl of Beer(after a Chinese folktale, 3rd century CE)
At the cemetery there were holy words and last chances—to grasp the dead man’s hand, which was cold as steel and stiff as starch; to kiss his brow, though only his widow did; to look upon the cheeks, hollow as if sucked in with surprise. The coffin was closed; handfuls of dirt were dropped; daughters pinched irises and lilies from the arrangements to wear in remembrance.
At home that night the mood was easy, some tears, some stories meant to be funny, fragrant tea and the television on and women massaging their feet where the funeral shoes had pinched them. The sons sat in the porch and loosened their ties and drank the kind of beer their father had liked, though none of them liked it. The porch swing creaked beneath the weight of the eldest son, who once had been small enough to dangle his feet in it. The night sighed like a man in his sleep. The children drifted off, to their own homes or to their old rooms in the dead man’s house.
In the morning the widow rose and found her husband in his favorite chair, the recliner with creases full of lint. “Bring me my breakfast, Hon,” he said, and seemed himself except for a note of irritation. She cooked, and the scent of bacon made him drool. She’d never seen him eat so fast. The eggs coagulated on his chin.
“I tell you it’s your father,” she said into the phone. Soon all the children returned, in cars that clinked with the heat even after they’d been turned off.
A daughter said “Dad” and touched him on the arm. It was warm and oily.
The eldest son cleared his throat and said “See here, Dad,” and then could think of nothing else to say.
“Work to be done,” said the father, with a guttural catch in his voice. He sent the sons to mow and rake and overhaul the car. The women he dispatched to cook, for breakfast had hardly helped. He lapped his iced tea with his tongue. After he’d eaten beef and gravy and cold cuts and little sausages from a can, he stretched himself and rose from his chair and looked unsteady. The elder daughter reached a hand to steady him; a fear had seized her that he’d die again, that all the odd stuttering belches he made were symptoms of something worse to come. He’d vomited just before he died, great gouts of blood spilling from his mouth; the daughter couldn’t forget that look on his face, the shamed look of a man caught in some thoughtless vulgarity and eager not to be noticed. And then, of course, the collapse, and the frantic call, and the blue lights swirling absurdly in the sunshine, and so on. It had taken her two hours on her knees to sponge his blood from the carpet, and still some dark continent peeked from beneath the throw rug.
But that was days ago, and now he labored up the steps steadily enough. After a few minutes she looked in on him. He lay curled on his bed, his hands held against his chin like a baby’s, every third or fourth breath mounting to a snore.
His widow took the couch that night.
In the morning he was gone. Nothing remained to show he’d been there; even the clothes were gone. They found his grave still mounded up, undisturbed, though if they looked long enough they’d notice little crevices and cracks and wonder if. But there was no point in that. They went on with their lives.
He returned in early fall, complaining about the leaves on the lawn. This time, between his plates of bacon and sausage, he asked for beer. The widow noticed how unkempt he looked: hair sticking up, one eye filmy and distant, his shirt buttoned off-kilter. “What does he want?” the younger daughter said to the elder in the kitchen, and the elder shushed her.
The sons held a meeting on the lawn and came to no conclusion. The eldest finally sat near his father and put his hand on the arm of the recliner and said “Dad, what are your plans?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the father said, and so defeated him. All day the father sat sipping beer in his recliner, watching game shows and soap operas with the volume turned low. Once the elder daughter peeked in from the kitchen and saw him licking the last sip from his can of beer.
It went on for several years, the father absent for months, then showing up one morning to stay the day. If they locked the door, he scratched and shouted until they let him in. Each time he was more distant and disheveled; each time he seemed hungrier; each time he asked for more beer. The widow spoke of moving out. She always slept on the couch now. “Sometimes he shows up at night,” she said, and wouldn’t say any more.
The eldest son grew frank. “Dad, there’s some things we’d like to know.”
“My house,” his father said. “If you don’t like it, leave.”
In spring he showed up sopping with rain and smelling like the gutter. He didn’t ask for food, but took it from their plates. He poured the beer into a punch bowl and lapped it on all fours.
“Dad, you’ve got to take a bath,” the eldest son said. His father only watched him with a filmy eye.
“It’s a matter of hygiene,” the elder daughter said.
“More beer,” the old man said in a growl.
“No more beer,” the son said, and kicked the punch bowl over. The old man lunged at him and bit his hand. They saw the blood. The son pounded on his head. He let go and returned to the beer, licking it from the floor. They all crowded in then, and the eldest son kicked the old man in the ribs. He growled. All of them were at him, months of fear and anger welling up, their hands grasping him to throw him out, but his filthy clothes came away, fragile as cobweb. Their hands felt oily. Fur showed through the torn clothes. The father growled and snapped at them, but now that they knew him for an imposter, they kicked and seized. He wriggled to escape. His claws clattered on the floor; he stood revealed as a great brown dog, its hide naked here and there. The elder daughter shrank from the touch of that pustuled skin. The dog scrambled out the screen door.
They never saw him again, except the eldest son. He had business one night in a nearby city. A wrong turn took him through a neighborhood he didn’t like. He saw a bar in front of which two stringy men stood, looking at nothing. As he passed by his eye caught something in the alley, a shadow. He was at a stoplight now. The shadow slunk forth into sunshine—a sick dog, its head hanging low from bony shoulders, its tongue lolling over black lips.
*
A Bowl of Beer(after a Chinese folktale, 3rd century CE)
At the cemetery there were holy words and last chances—to grasp the dead man’s hand, which was cold as steel and stiff as starch; to kiss his brow, though only his widow did; to look upon the cheeks, hollow as if sucked in with surprise. The coffin was closed; handfuls of dirt were dropped; daughters pinched irises and lilies from the arrangements to wear in remembrance.
At home that night the mood was easy, some tears, some stories meant to be funny, fragrant tea and the television on and women massaging their feet where the funeral shoes had pinched them. The sons sat in the porch and loosened their ties and drank the kind of beer their father had liked, though none of them liked it. The porch swing creaked beneath the weight of the eldest son, who once had been small enough to dangle his feet in it. The night sighed like a man in his sleep. The children drifted off, to their own homes or to their old rooms in the dead man’s house.
In the morning the widow rose and found her husband in his favorite chair, the recliner with creases full of lint. “Bring me my breakfast, Hon,” he said, and seemed himself except for a note of irritation. She cooked, and the scent of bacon made him drool. She’d never seen him eat so fast. The eggs coagulated on his chin.
“I tell you it’s your father,” she said into the phone. Soon all the children returned, in cars that clinked with the heat even after they’d been turned off.
A daughter said “Dad” and touched him on the arm. It was warm and oily.
The eldest son cleared his throat and said “See here, Dad,” and then could think of nothing else to say.
“Work to be done,” said the father, with a guttural catch in his voice. He sent the sons to mow and rake and overhaul the car. The women he dispatched to cook, for breakfast had hardly helped. He lapped his iced tea with his tongue. After he’d eaten beef and gravy and cold cuts and little sausages from a can, he stretched himself and rose from his chair and looked unsteady. The elder daughter reached a hand to steady him; a fear had seized her that he’d die again, that all the odd stuttering belches he made were symptoms of something worse to come. He’d vomited just before he died, great gouts of blood spilling from his mouth; the daughter couldn’t forget that look on his face, the shamed look of a man caught in some thoughtless vulgarity and eager not to be noticed. And then, of course, the collapse, and the frantic call, and the blue lights swirling absurdly in the sunshine, and so on. It had taken her two hours on her knees to sponge his blood from the carpet, and still some dark continent peeked from beneath the throw rug.
But that was days ago, and now he labored up the steps steadily enough. After a few minutes she looked in on him. He lay curled on his bed, his hands held against his chin like a baby’s, every third or fourth breath mounting to a snore.
His widow took the couch that night.
In the morning he was gone. Nothing remained to show he’d been there; even the clothes were gone. They found his grave still mounded up, undisturbed, though if they looked long enough they’d notice little crevices and cracks and wonder if. But there was no point in that. They went on with their lives.
He returned in early fall, complaining about the leaves on the lawn. This time, between his plates of bacon and sausage, he asked for beer. The widow noticed how unkempt he looked: hair sticking up, one eye filmy and distant, his shirt buttoned off-kilter. “What does he want?” the younger daughter said to the elder in the kitchen, and the elder shushed her.
The sons held a meeting on the lawn and came to no conclusion. The eldest finally sat near his father and put his hand on the arm of the recliner and said “Dad, what are your plans?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the father said, and so defeated him. All day the father sat sipping beer in his recliner, watching game shows and soap operas with the volume turned low. Once the elder daughter peeked in from the kitchen and saw him licking the last sip from his can of beer.
It went on for several years, the father absent for months, then showing up one morning to stay the day. If they locked the door, he scratched and shouted until they let him in. Each time he was more distant and disheveled; each time he seemed hungrier; each time he asked for more beer. The widow spoke of moving out. She always slept on the couch now. “Sometimes he shows up at night,” she said, and wouldn’t say any more.
The eldest son grew frank. “Dad, there’s some things we’d like to know.”
“My house,” his father said. “If you don’t like it, leave.”
In spring he showed up sopping with rain and smelling like the gutter. He didn’t ask for food, but took it from their plates. He poured the beer into a punch bowl and lapped it on all fours.
“Dad, you’ve got to take a bath,” the eldest son said. His father only watched him with a filmy eye.
“It’s a matter of hygiene,” the elder daughter said.
“More beer,” the old man said in a growl.
“No more beer,” the son said, and kicked the punch bowl over. The old man lunged at him and bit his hand. They saw the blood. The son pounded on his head. He let go and returned to the beer, licking it from the floor. They all crowded in then, and the eldest son kicked the old man in the ribs. He growled. All of them were at him, months of fear and anger welling up, their hands grasping him to throw him out, but his filthy clothes came away, fragile as cobweb. Their hands felt oily. Fur showed through the torn clothes. The father growled and snapped at them, but now that they knew him for an imposter, they kicked and seized. He wriggled to escape. His claws clattered on the floor; he stood revealed as a great brown dog, its hide naked here and there. The elder daughter shrank from the touch of that pustuled skin. The dog scrambled out the screen door.
They never saw him again, except the eldest son. He had business one night in a nearby city. A wrong turn took him through a neighborhood he didn’t like. He saw a bar in front of which two stringy men stood, looking at nothing. As he passed by his eye caught something in the alley, a shadow. He was at a stoplight now. The shadow slunk forth into sunshine—a sick dog, its head hanging low from bony shoulders, its tongue lolling over black lips.
October 17, 2015
A Predator from the Deep
Jenny/Creative CommonsHere's a new one on me: a polychaete called the Bobbit worm, after the lady in the news a few years back who resolved her marital difficulties with scissors. The worm uses its shearing mouth parts merely to seize and kill prey. My correspondent Max, who shared the video below, compares this critter to the ones in the movie Tremors.
Bobbit Worm - Dinner time from liquidguru on Vimeo.
Apparently the Bobbit worm has on a couple of occasions showed up uninvited in aquariums. The news account linked below claims that the Bobbit, like a number of other worms in the class Polychaeta, has bristles loaded with a neurotoxic venom capable of harming humans.
Barry the giant sea worm discovered by aquarium staff after mysterious attacks on coral reef | Daily Mail Online: "We laid traps but they got ripped apart in the night. That worm must have obliterated the traps. The bait was full of hooks which he must have just digested.'"
October 10, 2015
A Stiller Ground Mentioned in Best American Essays
I’m a little late with this news because I never heard about it at the time, but my essay “A Stiller Ground,” published in This Land, was listed in the Notable Essays of the Year in Best American Essays 2014.
I’ve linked it before, but in case you haven't seen it and want to, here’s "A Stiller Ground" free on This Land’s website.
