Christmas Mergansers

Steve snapped these hooded mergansers on a nearby pond – a real treat, given we see them so rarely. The adult males at right are in breeding plumage, and are already displaying courtship behaviors – bobbing their heads, stretching their necks, and generally thrashing about. Most mergansers feed on fish, but these little guys feed primarily on aquatic insects and crustaceans (crayfish and such), although they’ll eat small fish too. They’re uncommon breeders in California, and will probably go to Oregon and coastal Washington to nest and lay their eggs.

What I Love About You

This holiday season, I want to take a moment to tell my friends how much I appreciate their love and support. Each of you continues to surprise and amaze me, and as individuals you’ve brought much joy to my life. These are the qualities I love most about you:

Shannon: Your resilience, courage and determination. Your love of kids and dogs.

Kathy: Your work ethic, tenacity and intelligence; your willingness to share Kings’ tickets!

Liz: Your love of the environment and the work you’re doing; you make the world a better place.

Toni: Your sense of humor and remarkable style; your crazy Italian stories. Ti amo, Toni!

Kim: Your commitment to friends, family, and tradition; your desire to understand.

Chris: Your willingness to stretch yourself, and to show us how it’s done.

Laurie: Your candor and your confidence – you’re an inspiration because you’re real.

Lori: Your grace, your gentleness, your generosity of spirit.

Margaret: Your faith. Your love of reading. Your commitment to politics.

Lynn: Your life, so different from my own, has struck a wondrous chord. I long to know you better, and to learn more about Esther and Jonah.

Tony: Your eagerness to expand your knowledge; your outspokenness and smarts.

Andy: Your exuberant spirit and captivating smile; the stories you’ve yet to tell!

Gwen: Your tender side, your humanity, your potential. You’ve got a lot to give.

Firyal: Your illumination of a world unknown; I hunger to learn more.

Rich: Your willingness to be just who you are, in dress and attitude. You have the capacity to change men’s minds.

Alex: Your hard work (all that you’re doing!), your writing talent, your ear for dialogue.

Sandra: Your outlook – so smart and accepting; your knack for story telling. (I love that doggie, Taco.)

Greg: Your ability to paint a landscape using color and description.

Mary: Your warmth, curiosity and sincerity. You tell it like it is.

Courtney: Your spunk, quirkiness and originality. Your love of chocolate.

Bryan: Your programming skills extraordinaire; your calming effect on others.

Glenda: Your devotion to family. The memories we share – they number in the thousands.

Linda: Where to start? You, more than any other, live your life as a best example, showing me every day what it is to be a good person. A woman whose attitude outshines the stars, and whose belief is complete and unfailing.

I love you, my friends. Merry Christmas all.

Morning Egret Pic...Sweet!

Steve's not crazy about this Great Egret photo -- shot this morning around 9:00 -- but I think it's interesting. It's taking flight from a nearby pond, following a breakfast of salamanders.

While Standing in That Long Line at Borders...

Steve and I just returned from Borders Books, which was packed with shoppers. I don't understand these reports that keep telling us Americans don't read anymore. There were four clerks working the counter, and 43 people standing in line. I was number 44. (To paraphrase the man behind me, "Holy crap, people.") And guess what they were buying. Books! (And DVDs of the Planet Earth series, which is maybe the next best thing.) I too purchased a book, and a mini pack of Chapsticks. Because we're reading and moisturizing, all at the same time.

Oh Shenandoah, I Cry To Hear You

After three days of wind and rain, the sun nudged through the clouds this morning, prompting my first walk since Sunday. It was 46 degrees when I left at 9:15 a.m., my hair in a ponytail and my hands in gloves, my iPod playing White Christmas – something new to listen to! Earlier in the week, I’d added a holiday playlist, incorporating a few of my favorites: White Christmas by Bing Crosby; What Child Is This and O Holy Night by the Judds; Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Tony Bennett, and three tunes by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I’d thrown in Oh Shenandoah for good measure, and today, as I walked a creek bank swollen with rain, that song came on.

That quick, my eyes welled and my throat grew thick, and I had to stop at the footbridge to collect myself.

Maybe it was the lyrics. Or maybe it was the swell of the choir, the men’s voices mingling with the women’s, the notion there was a time and place when someone could gaze across a river, knowing all their lives they’d love it like a friend.

Likely it’s the season. The time of year when we all go a little sentimental; when we tell those close to us how much they mean to us, and how grateful we are they don’t laugh out loud when they find us crying in a creek bed.

Partridge in Ryan’s Pear Tree

Steve took this picture of our neighbor’s pear tree yesterday. Here it is, the middle of December, and just look at the leaves still clinging to the branches; it’ll be a week or two yet before they’ve all dropped, but in the meantime we’re enjoying the late fall colors, as are the robins. They’re down from the hills, huddled and puffed up against the cold, escaping the snow in higher elevations.

What's a Coffee Lover To Do? (Quit Drinking It, For One)

In Indonesia, as habitat shrinks, elephants leave the forest and in their exodus trample illegal coffee fields inside the national park Bukit Barisan Selatanit. The park is protected, but some of the land has been burned and cleared to grow Robusta coffee beans, which are commonly used in Europe and North America to make instant coffee. And when elephants crush the crops, farmers kill them. (At this park, only four creatures of a herd of 60 now remain.)

Nick Watt, of ABC News, reported on Dec. 11 that Nestle, which makes Nescafe, buys coffee from the region -- "forty percent of it from local traders." The company says, through its spokesperson, that it has no way of knowing where the beans they buy come from, and that they “might come” from illegal sources. The spokesperson also said (rather unfortunately, in my view) “law enforcement is not our task,” adding that it is “working with local farmers to increase output from legal, existing plantations.”

Adam Tomasek, of the World Wildlife Fund, said coffee producers in Europe and America really don’t know for certain where the coffee they’re buying comes from, and that is the root of the problem. According to Tomasek, a consumer can have “absolutely no confidence in what they are purchasing."

It sometimes seems the world is going to hell in a coffeemaker, but the good news is the World Wildlife Fund is trying to stop the killing -- a difficult challenge, given that wild elephants and humans really don't get along.

I'll Have What She's Having

There was a piece in the Washington Post recently by Blaine Harden comparing Japanese bloggers to American bloggers, and delineating their differences. Americans tend to blog for what the reporter termed “abrasive self-promotion,” while Japanese bloggers “rarely trumpet their expertise.”

One Japanese blogger – a woman named Junko Kenetsuna – writes five times a week (in Japanese) about nothing but her noon meal, calling her blog “I had my lunch.” What I love about Junko’s story is that of the 300 or so people who occasionally read her blog (most of them friends), she gets almost no online comments or feedback from any of them, although she had hoped she might.

I laughed out loud when I read that, finding some comfort in the knowledge I wasn’t alone.

Being something of an abrasive self-promoter myself, I’ve been wondering how to get more people to read and then comment on my 60-second essays. Certainly a piece in the Washington Post helps, as does a video like this one, featuring the gentle and soft-spoken Kenetsuna.

Root Baskets from Reclaimed Wood

I saw the photo at right on the Viva Terra website, and was intrigued by the notion that root baskets are carved from reclaimed wood. Curious about how that worked, a little research told me that some of these reclaimed baskets come from the root of the Chinese fir tree – it seems that once the tree is harvested, farmers dig up the root and sell it to artisans, who then carve it into baskets, bowls, serving trays and vases, and who in turn sell their wares to people like me.

Which got me wondering about reclaimed wood in general. A little more “digging” (ha, that’s funny!), and I learned that wood reclaimed from existing structures, orchards, old warehouses, buildings, bridges, or even from city trees that have succumbed to disease or storm damage, saves our landfills from wood products that can (and should) be recycled, and contributes to the salvation of old-growth forests.

Now, when Steve and I contemplate installing a hardwood floor, we’ll definitely investigate the pros and cons of using reclaimed wood – an idea that had not occurred until seeing that pretty root basket.

Et Tu, Haiku?

Rolf Nelson wrote this haiku as a poetry assignment. (See at right.) He sells it printed on shirts and hoodies. You can buy them at threadless.com. In response I say:

Rolf is out of shirts
A small will squeeze Steve's innards
Extra-large will do

Get Ye to the Yukon

Our good friend John Cornely, executive director of the Trumpeter Swan Society, is looking forward to seeing us (that’s you, me, and all our friends) at the society’s 21^st conference during the week of April 17 – 19, 2008, in the Yukon. Presentations will focus on swans in western Canada and Alaska, and there will be an all-day field trip to view swans south of Whitehorse on Friday, April 18. The conference will be held at the High Country Inn; rooms are $99/night (Canadian). Save the dates – and your allowance. You’ll also want to spend some time viewing flocks of migrating trumpeters and tundras.

Great Egret Shows Its Form in Folsom

In the Western Hemisphere, the decimation of populations of this species and other wading birds during the early twentieth century by overhunting helped spark the formation of conservation and environmental organizations, as well as of laws protecting these birds. Indeed, the Great Egret is the organizational symbol for one of the oldest such groups in the United States, the National Audubon Society. Photo by Steve Thompson. Text by Birds of North America/Online.

Acorns Gone Wild

There’s something perversely satisfying about stepping on an acorn and hearing it crack beneath my feet. This year was especially entertaining as it was a “mast” year for the tophat-wearing nuts. (According to Pat Rubin, a writer for The Sacramento Bee, that’s what experts call a year when acorns are beyond plentiful.) Rubin explains why it’s been such a prolific season:

“…the wet spring of 2006 was the beginning of this year’s bumper acorn crop, says Ken Menzer, arborist for the city of Folsom. During March 2006, it rained 21 of 31 days. ‘It’s a two-year process. We need to have a really wet year, particularly a wet spring, then a dry spring,’ Menzer says.

2007 was a much drier spring, and all of the flower catkins the trees produced because of the previous wet spring had a chance to be pollinated. Says Menzer: ‘If it had rained as much as it did the year before, a lot of the pollen would have been washed off, and we’d have very few acorns this year.’”

Thanksgiving Turkey in 20 Minutes or Less!

My husband Steve and I have come a long way since our first Thanksgiving together. We were 20 at the time, living in a cabin in Trinidad, California, 250 miles from home. I’d never cooked a turkey before and there wasn’t much chance of impressing Steve with my culinary expertise, but I optimistically lugged a 12-pound bird home from Safeway, then whipped up a batch of stuffing the night before. On Thanksgiving morning, when it came time to actually dress the bird, I realized the thing had two holes – one on top and one at the bottom – and I had no clue which end served as the receptacle for sautéed onions and bread crumbs. I called my mother to ask.

“Mom! I’m ready to stuff the turkey. Which hole does the dressing go in?”

Snort. Laugh. Little sip of eggnog. “Oh, Rennnneee!”

Mom clued me in, and I stuffed the bird, then popped him into the oven.

Steve and I walked up to Patrick’s Point State Park while our bird incinerated, which we guessed might take an hour or two, since, regardless of setting, our gas oven cooked everything at 500 degrees. Sure enough, the little guy was done maybe 90 minutes later – crunchy on the outside, crunchy on the inside, just the way Steve liked it.

It was a crazy, happy time, and we were so grateful to be together. I’m still grateful – for Steve, our children, our parents, and our family and friends. I love you all so much, and as you spend time with your own friends and family this week, know that I’m wishing you all the best for a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Indian Creek Chronicles

Just finished Pete Fromm’s INDIAN CREEK CHRONICLES, a story about the seven months Pete spent alone in a tent in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness guarding salmon eggs. There is much to love in this book, and several times I laughed out loud, as I thoroughly related to Pete’s fascination in his younger days with the mountain-man mystique. In describing himself as a nineteen year old about to embark on his winter-long endeavor, he says:

“At the last instant I remembered to buy a percolator and a few pots and pans, things I’d never owned or used. And finally I added a hundred pounds of potatoes, saying I’d dig a food cache to keep them from freezing. I didn’t really have any idea how to make such a thing, but the word “cache” was always creeping up in the mountain man books. It had a certain sound to it.”

I remember years ago reading a paperback based on the movie “Jeremiah Johnson,” and thinking warm biscuits slathered in bear grease must be the best thing going. I even fantasized about homesteading in Alaska, going so far as to buy a laundry basket and a spatula and other items I’d need for my new life in the wilds. I too was 19, and had never held an ax or caught a fish or picked a berry from a vine. But life in Alaska sounded divine.

The thing about Pete’s book is that it makes me realize how completely insane my plan was, and how much I missed by never having tried.

Buy this book, and when you’re done with it, stash it alongside Ron Carlson’s. Then sally forth and write your story!

Red-tailed Hawk Violates Refuge Regs

Steve just returned from a week in Klamath Falls, Oregon, the location for this season’s USFWS directorate meeting, held at the Running Y Ranch. He shot this photo of a red-tailed hawk at the Lower Klamath National Wildlife Refuge, in California. Historically, Lower Klamath Lake straddled Oregon and California, but now the majority of its marshes exist only in California. This hawk is potentially in violation of refuge regulations -- we think he's hunting voles!

Ron Carlson Writes a Story, Part 2

When I wrote my October 31 blog, “Ron Carlson Writes a Story,” I didn't know I’d want to follow up a few days later, but having finished his book two nights ago (a slim volume comprised of 112 pages), and having dog-eared 11 of those pages and scribbled copious notes in the margins, there’s a passage I’d like to share where he discusses how uncomfortable it is to reach the point in your story where you don’t know where you’re going. Here’s what he says:

“But I am nervous. I’m thinking I’d like to get some coffee. I’m thinking I’d like the phone to ring and have it be any of ten people who would call and say meet me for coffee. A little coffee here after typing for an hour or so, why not? Stretch the legs, that’s it, and then while I’m in the kitchen, peek outside at the other world, see what’s happening, breathe the larger air, witness the passing traffic, every car full of writers who have already given up.”

Writers who have already given up.

I read that line twice, and then once more, knowing that was me, in 1998, a writer who’d given up.

I remember the night exactly – the feel of damp air on my skin as I walked home from a neighbor’s house, the streetlight glowing pink in the evening fog. I remember too the envy and anguish I felt over my neighbor’s excitement, and how difficult it was to share his joy. He’d just finished a novel, and believed, like we all do in those very early days, that the world was waiting with open arms to receive his special gift.

I’d been a writer, too, for a while, but put it aside to financially help our family. It was the right thing to do at the time, but nevertheless, I made a promise to myself that night that if I ever got another chance to write full time, I would never ever give up; that I’d keep at it forever, if that’s what it took, to write a novel a publisher would buy.

The other day, I was visiting my husband’s 96-year-old grandmother in her assisted-living facility when she leaned over and asked, “When you gonna sell that book?”

“Probably when I’m 96,” I said, “and living in assisted-care.” She laughed, and I did too.

And though I don’t know when I’ll get published, I do know I’m a writer who will not give up, so when Ron Carlson looks out his window at all those passing cars, I will not be in even one of them, but at home, nervous and thinking about coffee, and getting the work done.

Idioms as Birdsongs

The Sacramento Bee ran a piece in today’s paper by reporter Gina Kim on the origin of idioms, which, according to David Simpson, an English professor at UC Davis, is a “very loose term that can mean anything from the colloquial to a metaphor.”

Here’s a snippet from the article:

“‘It’s a way people establish subcultures with each other,’ (Simpson) says. ‘My kids, like totally whatever, are inserting themselves in a certain segment of the youth culture.’ So idioms and slang – such as the term ‘cool,’ which came from the jazz subculture – are born and spread within these groups.' It’s like birds and the slight variations in their songs. ‘I think language is the same,’ Simpson says, ‘just another kind of birdsong.’”

(The idiom “eats like a bird,” is inaccurate, by the way, as most birds eat 25-50 percent of their body weight every day.)

Idioms and slang are not only part of our subculture, but age-related as well. While working for a web-development company in Atlanta, I was reminded just how young my colleagues were when I mentioned I was attending a winding over the weekend. A bright-eyed woman of perhaps 22 turned to me and said, “What’s a wing ding?” Surprised she didn’t know, I asked an older coworker (she was maybe 25) if she knew what it was. “Sure,” she said without hesitation. “It’s a font.”

Ahem. Well, yes, but I was talking about a party…for geezers, apparently.

Ron Carlson Writes a Story

Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, host of Writers on Writing, welcomed writer Ron Carlson to her podcast this morning. Ron is the director of the MFA/Fiction Program at the University of California, Irvine, and was one of our workshop leaders at the Squaw Valley Writers’ Workshops this summer. Barbara and Ron discussed his new book, RON CARLSON WRITES A STORY.

During the interview, Ron said stories are created in the dark, and that we as writers must tolerate their ambiguity and trust our instincts when putting words to paper. He also said it’s important that writers stay with the writing, even when it feels substandard – a challenge he too finds daunting. He illustrated this point by stating when he gets stuck, he sometimes gets up from his chair and leaves the room, then wanders into another room – invariably the kitchen – to pour a cup of coffee and pray a sentence will emerge. Better to sit tight and work it out, he maintains -- dance with the desk what brung ya.

Tomales Bay Writers' Workshops

I returned last night from the Tomales Bay Writers’ Workshops, held at the Marconi Center in Marshall, California. The workshops entailed five days of intensive work with writers of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Howard Norman, author of THE BIRD ARTIST, led our group of twelve. He’s not only an accomplished writer, but a great reader too, and he’s got a terrific sense of humor.

The days were full and the work strenuous, but tasty meals offset the rigors. And the setting was surreal – pebbled paths and Monterey pines, lace-lichen flowing from their branches.

Tomales Bay is a nature-lover’s Neverland. I spotted a buck and four does, one jackrabbit, two red-shouldered hawks, five California quail, five turkeys, a handful of downy woodpeckers and scrub jays, and several dozen hummingbirds, which I took for resident Annas. One evening a strange bird called from outside my window, and moments later a great horned owl replied. The next morning Howard said he’d heard it too, that the unfamiliar bird was a saw-whet owl. One afternoon, while hiking a trail beneath a dense canopy of bay laurels, some sixth sense kicked in, prompting me to halt and immediately turn around. The habitat had the feel of mountain lion country, and though a cat never appeared, I would not have been surprised to see one – or find my head lodged inside its mouth!

I'm home now, eager to tackle the work. Howard and my workshop-mates have inspired me to keep writing and keep striving, and above all, keep the faith.

Bird Artists and Book Towns

Off to the Tomales Bay Workshops tomorrow, where I (and 11 other workshop-mates) will receive tutelage from Howard Norman, author of THE BIRD ARTIST, a novel featuring an artist who murders the village lighthouse keeper in 1911’s Newfoundland. Michiko Kakutani, of The New York Times, calls the book “Bewitching…glows like a night light in the reader’s mind.” Mr. Norman asked that we bring along a favorite work (written in first person), and I have chosen Paul Collins’ SIXPENCE HOUSE, which Publishers Weekly calls “Witty and droll.” The book jacket states: “Paul Collins and his family abandoned the hills of San Francisco to move to the Welsh countryside – to move, in fact, to the village of Hay-on-Wye, the ‘town of books’ that boasts fifteen hundred inhabitants and forty bookstores. Inviting readers into a sanctuary for book lovers, SIXPENCE HOUSE is a heartfelt and often hilarious meditation on what books mean to us.”

Here is a taste:

I have never noticed the view from the Flatiron Building before. Manhattan, if you tilt your head just right, is a strangely compelling piece of sculpture.

“It’s a good thing,” my editor says, “that your book isn’t being published just now.”

“Oh?”

“Because” – he leans forward – “Harry Potter used up all our paper.”

“You’re joking.”

“Seriously.”

“No.”

He looks at me, a little crestfallen. “I’m telling you the truth. There’s two major paper producers for New York publishers, and with a five-million print run of an eight-hundred-page book, well…everybody else has to wait in line.”

I’ll report back next week on the Tomales experience – rumor has it the food is as good as the teaching.

Cattail Fluff is Flying

Northern California is at its best during the month of October. Leaves cartwheel down the street in the clean autumn breeze, and the air smells of earth and eucalyptus. Summer, at last, is closing. Cottonwoods and birch trees lose their leaves; the sweet gums quickly follow. And then a cattail bends and spreads its arms, welcoming the change of seasons.

Red on Yellow, Kill a Fellow

Red on yellow, kill a fellow; red on black, okay Jack. This is a primitive but effective method of determining whether the snake slithering across your path is a coral snake (potentially dangerous) or a Louisiana milk snake (harmless to humans). The coral snake has bright red, black and yellow bands encircling its body, whereas the milk snake has red bands bordered by black bands; hence, the significance of the rhyme. (If a red band touches a yellow band, the snake is likely venomous, but if a red band touches a black band, it’s probably not.)

When we lived on a wildlife refuge in South Texas, we encountered coral snakes regularly (coral snakes don't live in California), and were careful to watch out for them. It’s been 12 years since then, and at least that long since I’ve thought about coral snakes. But the other day, while walking the trails near my home, I encountered a yellow- and black-banded snake, which got my blood going. The snake was thin and small – maybe 14 inches long – and was heading across the trail toward a small pond adjacent to a soccer field. It paused as I approached, so I got a good look at it. As it turned out, I was inspecting a California kingsnake, which, according to californiaherps.com, is usually found in or around water – marshes, ponds, and even brushy suburban areas. It’s harmless to humans, and eats small mammals, frogs, birds, chicks, and even rattlesnakes.

And then yesterday I happened upon a common gartersnake. It too had paused in the middle of the trail, and I thought for a moment it was dead. I had planned to gently nudge it with a stick to see for sure, but before I got the chance it swung in the opposite direction and quickly scurried toward me, prompting heart palpitations and a screech (from me, not the snake).

When I got home, I looked it up, and learned that when handled, gartersnakes often release a “foul-smelling fluid” from the vent near the end of the tail, and that they have a reputation for striking at their handlers. They aren’t dangerous, but their saliva contains toxins which can cause redness and swelling at the site of the bite. This was surprising, as I’d always believed gartersnakes were creatures a kid could catch and play with. Not so. They’re feisty, and not interested in a kid’s interest or affection. Or, apparently, a nosy walker’s.

Be a Hero of Zero

• Over 8 million tons of trees are consumed each year in the production of paper catalogs. (Source: catalogchoice.org)
• Forest protection is one of the keys to controlling climate change. Every year, The Conservation Fund plants more trees with the support of Go Zero participants, restoring habitat, enhancing public recreation areas and offsetting carbon emissions. Become a Hero of Zero today.

Jurors Read. Writers Market. Ten How-To Tips.

Those statistics we’ve been seeing of late – the ones telling us people aren’t buying or reading books – are entirely bogus. I know, because I spent eight bum-numbing hours at the courthouse yesterday waiting for my name NOT to be called by the county clerk, and plenty of people were reading books – the majority, in fact. More even than were text-messaging, talking on cell phones, or fiddling with Blackberries.

I am an experienced waiter-arounder, having gone through this ordeal just fifteen months prior, where in the state of California it is legal to torture law-abiding citizens once a year via the system known as Selecting a Jury for People Who’ve Committed Dumb-Ass Crimes. As a writer I came prepared, notepad in hand, intending to conduct a survey – you know, prove those reading statistics wrong. Here are a few of the books then, that potential jurors are reading, accompanied by quick reviews (courtesy mostly of Amazon.com) and marketing tips, in the event you’re a writer with a book to sell. (According to statistics we can actually believe, there are 16 million of us.)

DARKEST FEAR by Harlan Coban. (“Mystery featuring sports agent Myron Bolitar; seventh in series.”) Marketing lesson 1: C’mon, people! Who wants to read about love and cholera? It’s books about sports agents that sell!

INTO THE DARKNESS by Harry Turtledove. (An “epic fantasy.”) I assumed that the woman reading this book would possess long flowing hair, a black cape, and little silver swords, which she’d tucked into clunky pirate boots. The actual reader, however, sported short gray hair and navy-blue knee socks, which she’d stuffed into Birkenstocks. Marketing lesson 2: Aging hippies still enjoy a rocking hallucination – writers take note.

COAST GUARDSMAN’S MANUAL by George Kreitemeyer. (No review on Amazon, except for one customer who had evidently given his manual away and now regretted the decision. “Darn,” he said. “I wish I had of keep it.”) Marketing lesson 3: Mangled English is surprisingly endearing. Find friend will for you bungle.

THE SUNSET WARRIOR by Eric Van Lustbader. (“Vivid sword and sorcery adventure.”) This reader, a man in his fifties wearing a floppy multicolored hat, snapped at a potential juror after the man answered his ringing cell phone and proceeded to chitchat. We were sitting in the “Quiet Room,” and phone conversations were a violation of the rules, which the reader pointed out by jutting his chin toward the No Cell Phones sign and remarking, “Can’t you read English?” Marketing lesson 4: Print some of your books in German, so less attentive readers can whip them out and claim, “Nein, Ich spreche Deutsch. Achshole.”

RHYMES WITH WITCHES by Lauren Myracle. (“Darkly humorous young adult novel.”) Marketing lesson 5: Don’t be afraid to curse in your YA novel – even seventh-graders swear. And according to Good Morning America, they’re having sex too, and a fair amount of it. Marketing lesson 5a: Sex sells.

THE KING OF TORTS by John Grisham. (“Legal thriller with a fierce moral stance.”) Marketing lesson 6: John Grisham’s been the king way too long – time to dethrone him. Go ahead, fool. Give it your best shot.

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS by James Patterson. (“Adult’s nightmare.”) The man reading this book hadn’t shaved in six days and refused to make eye contact, which made me a little nervous. Marketing lesson 7: Write books that appeal to scary people at your own risk (courtesy of the Surgeon General).

FEDERAL TAXATION (No reviews available on Amazon.com.) Marketing lesson 8: Taxes are a dirty trick, and they give people headaches too. Anyway, it’s sex to seventh graders that sells.

LEONARDO’S SWANS by Karen Essex. (Review per The Washington Post, seen on Amazon.com: “This is a historical novel with way too much history.”) Marketing lesson 9: Accuracy is boring. Mix it up with entertainment and reality TV.

THE HOLY BIBLE by Kings and Fishermen et al. (Not reviewed by Amazon because, c’mon, who’s got the guts?) Marketing lesson 10: Make friends with priests and preachers and stuff. Word of mouth is everything.

Dogs Love a Dip Too

Steve and I attended the 5th annual Bark 'n' Splash Bash at the Folsom Aquatic Center over the weekend. We went for the first time last year, and had so much fun that we decided to check it out again on Saturday. Dogs of all shapes and sizes – from one very large and excited German shepherd to a stubby nothing-bothers-me Bassett – gathered at the activity pool (complete with sloping ledge and slide, where kids normally play) for three hours of frenetic barking, Frisbee fetching, and frolicking fun. It was a hoot. (As an aside, I should mention I was a little concerned about the potential health hazard of letting dogs swim in a community pool, until I learned the event is slated at the end of the swim season; afterward, the activity pool is drained, sanitized and inspected.)

As former owners of two golden retrievers, we’ve been contemplating for some time now which breed we’d like to try next. Being a duck hunter, Steve’s still set on another retriever, or possibly a yellow lab, but I’m less certain. If we owned 100 acres, say, in the middle of Montana, my personal tribe would consist of a golden retriever, yellow lab, border collie, blue heeler, Welsh corgi (ala Edward, in Anne Tyler’s ACCIDENTAL TOURIST), and possibly, a Newfoundland. But in the real world, we own a house situated on a lot in the middle of the suburbs, and one dog is all we can reasonably accommodate.

In contemplating which breed we’d like to try next, it was good fun to watch the dogs’ personalities emerge. One border collie was nearly beside himself, trying to herd a bunch of uncooperative retrievers and labs, who were far more interested in fetching tennis balls than adhering to a bossy dog’s commands. And one retriever in particular – a hefty fellow named Jake, pictured above – would have nothing to do with a ball at all, preferring to fetch the rock his owner repeatedly plunked to the bottom of the pool. First he’d eyeball it, then determine its exact location by feeling around with his front paws, then dip down to get it.

Enlightening too, was the knowledge we gleaned in terms of which breeds we’d never acquire, but I won’t share that here. (Suffice it to say, irresponsible owner, badly behaved dog.) The most contented dogs – and by extension, the best behaved – were those with owners who appeared to have spent time with them, and who were members of the family.

How to possibly decide?

Minimize Mailbox Clutter

Want to reduce mailbox clutter? So do I. Which is why catalogchoice.org is good for both of us. It lets us opt out of receiving catalogs we’ve no interest in (at no charge), reducing the production and discarding of some 19 billion paper catalogs per year. Joining is easy. I signed up today, and the process took maybe 10 minutes, including listing catalogs I don’t want to receive. (It apparently helps if you have your customer number, listed just above your name and address on the catalog itself, but it’s not mandatory.) As catalogs continue to pile up in my mailbox, I’ll continue to add them to the list.

It's been a great day for backyard birding -- cool and slightly drizzly, with no breeze at all. Regular species visiting include goldfinches (at the thistle feeder), black-chinned hummingbirds (on the fuschia), and black phoebes and common bushtits (generally kicking around). Migrants include yellow-rumped warblers, downy woodpeckers, and northern flickers, which Steve says are probably coming down from the foothills as we don't often see them in our oak-less yard. Now and again a Cooper's hawk visits -- lunches on the goldfinches, I confess -- but we haven't seen him for a while. We love fall!

Death by Plastic

Plastic! It’s everywhere, and although I knew it was bad (we all know it takes a bazillion years for the stuff to break down at the landfill), I didn’t realize how pervasive it was until I reviewed my morning routine: I wash my hair with shampoo stored in a giant plastic bottle, dry it with a plastic hairdryer, then style it with a brush that’s got a plastic handle. Downstairs, I make coffee in a plastic coffee maker and eat non-fat yogurt from a plastic carton while watching Good Morning America on a flat-screen TV framed in nice black plastic. By the time I’ve vacuumed the living room with my plastic vacuum cleaner, I no longer have the heart to continue my tally. I try not to think about the plastic permeating my life, but then I trek upstairs to my office, and guess what? There sits my plastic computer, keyboard, mouse, telephone, printer, shredder, fan, stapler, and about 50 CD jewel cases. Not that plastic is all bad – my husband and I can’t see without our plastic-framed eyeglasses. But still, can’t we do better?

I think we can, and I want to try.

The first step is eliminating bottled water. According to FastCompany.com, Americans “pitch into landfills 38 billion water bottles a year.” And here’s a crazy quote: “If the water we use at home cost what even cheap bottled water costs, our monthly water bills would run $9,000.” Scary.

I’m done with plastic bags too, as they’re just as bad. Happily, canvas bags (available at most local grocers) cost a pittance, and I’ve bought four so far, stashing them in the back seat of my car so I’ll actually remember to use them. So far, it’s working.

The next challenge is thinking before I buy. If it’s plastic, do I need it? And if so, how will I deal with the consequences? If you know, give me a holler. I promise to give it a try.

The Sound of Silence

If there is a God of Silence, he resides in a craggy homestead at Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge in northwest Nevada. There are no lawn mowers at Sheldon, no leaf blowers or Ninja bikes to assault the inner ear. There’s a road, but in early September, no cars are on it. There is only blessed quiet, save the clapping of a grasshopper and a lone bird’s song.

I sit beneath the shade of a juniper at the base of Yellow Peak, where I’ve hiked with Steve. The path is rugged and deeply rutted, owing to a rainstorm some six days prior. The air smells of sage and is as dry as paper, the sky a cerulean blue. A body can see forever. And at night, when the moon rises, an owl hoots from a fence post. There is the rustle of a sleeping bag and a low, contented sigh. And then there is nothing for six full hours, when the day begins anew.

Best Bee's Feet

The Christmas present from my husband arrived today. I know what it is, too, having circled in red ink the precise item in Pottery Barn’s fall catalog. I encouraged Steve to hurry and order it before it sold out. (It was marked down from $149 to $129, and would go fast, fast, fast!) Steve gave me The Look – the one that said, “I can’t believe I married a nerd. Why didn’t somebody warn me?” The Look has accompanied every nest, feather, and acorn I’ve carted home since my earliest forays outdoors. Not too long ago I found a snakeskin, another time a bee – the jumbo variety known as “bumble.” It was a perfect specimen and appeared to have died mid-flight, landing on the sidewalk on all fours. I picked it up, cradling it in the palm of one hand, and later perched it atop my computer. I taped its little bee feet to my hard drive, where it remained until its legs dried up and its wings fell off, and its body disintegrated.

But I digress.

The present is a shadowbox, a “unique collection of faux quail eggs,” painted and detailed to look like the real thing. There are twenty-five eggs in all, and the frame is suitable for hanging on the living-room wall, adjacent to the piano. I want desperately to have a peek, but I promise to refrain. Meanwhile, there’s an aging alder in the neighborhood with a splendid array of cones, each about the size of a peanut. I’m gonna get me some.