DATELINE: BETHLEHEM 2000 YEARS AGO
City officials responded to a disturbance today on the outskirts of town at the stable of a popular inn. It seems that a local homeowner’s association became incensed at the non-traditional lighting used by the stable’s occupants. A well placed source in the association was quoted as saying, “It doesn’t matter if they were temporary tenants or not, they should know and obey the conditions. That huge bright star above the barn was garish, not to mention an unapproved light, and the strange glow in the windows was disturbing to the surrounding residents. We have strict lighting regulations in this community and we can’t afford to allow nonconformist attitudes to prevail. It will lower our property values.”
More on this story as it unfolds.
DATELINE; GERMANY, 506 YEARS AGO
A local homeowner’s association today accused a prominent theologian of violations of their covenant by decorating for an unapproved holiday. An anonymous tipster observed Martin Luther dragging a fir tree into his home and setting it up by his front window.
Hans Schmidt, the association manager, said, “There may have been more than one violation in Mr. Luther’s actions. Not only did he decorate his home inappropriately, but he put candles on the tree and displayed it in his window in defiance of the Uniformity of Windows restrictions. Mr. Luther came into the community and wanted to step outside the rules. That’s a detriment to everyone.”
DATELINE: 20TH CENTURY
The government of Communist China has banned all Christmas decorations from public areas and private homes. A government spokesperson announced the ban saying, “If people want to live in community as comrades they need to conform to the rules. Non-conformity is a detriment to everyone.”
DATELINE: 2006 USA
A family faced numerous fines today from their homeowner’s association for displaying Christmas decorations on the windowsills of their front windows. The seasonal display violated the restrictions in the associations rule book regarding consistency in the appearance of the neighborhood’s windows.
A spokesperson from the association declined to comment on the case due to impending litigation, but stated that the uniform appearance of the windows and window dressings in the community was important to enhance the property values and foster feelings of community and safety.
Ah, you can’t beat the warm and fuzzy feeling of conformity. It’s far better than that pursuit of happiness and freedom of expression nonsense.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Reason For The Season
Thanksgiving is over, we’re still working on those leftovers, and the holidays have kicked into high gear. Of course, one might say they started before Halloween, and good old Santa slipped into the mall in early November, but now they’re here with a vengeance as shoppers line up at 3:00 AM to get bargains, and holiday commercials bombard us with their versions of the “Reason for the Season”.
I don’t want to sound like a female version of Andy Rooney, but I hate the commercials that try to make us believe that what ever it is they’re promoting is the answer to everyone’s happiness during this special time of year.
One commercial that makes my hackles rise every time I see it is the Illinois State Lottery Holiday Instant Ticket promotion. Mixed among the beautiful traditional seasonal images is the message that the holidays are all about giving and receiving lottery tickets. They actually say, “This is what it’s all about.” Then they tell us to, “Give the gift you hope they return.” Ick!
That annoys me on several levels.
They’re subliminally telling us that the sole reason for Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, take your pick, is about getting gifts by giving gifts. And coincidently, while we’re showing our love of family and friends by hoping they give us stuff, we can immerse ourselves in the spiritual experience of gambling with lottery tickets.
The “Box” store commercials try to convince us that the holidays are all about spending our money with them. Drop a load of cash at their store and our celebrations will be perfect.
There’s a band called “The Yoopers” from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and the manic commercials from all the big “Box” stores reminds me of a song on one of their Christmas CDs. They sing, “We celebrate the Savior’s birth by spending all our dough.” Can everyone say, “Amen”?
Then there are the car commercials. Yeah, everyone I know gets cars for Christmas.
One has a choir singing “Hark How the Bells” using only the word Duh. I guess the point of that is that their vehicle is the obvious Christmas gifting choice.
Another luxury automotive brand suggests that you hurry down to your nearest dealer so that you can have the car decked out with bows in time for the holidays. That, of course, is the key to happiness this season.
Am I the only one that finds that a little pretentious?
I think I’ll try to find other reasons besides lottery tickets, cars, and loads of box store stuff as my answer to happiness his holiday season. I’ll start by pondering the real “Reason of the Season”. How about you?
I don’t want to sound like a female version of Andy Rooney, but I hate the commercials that try to make us believe that what ever it is they’re promoting is the answer to everyone’s happiness during this special time of year.
One commercial that makes my hackles rise every time I see it is the Illinois State Lottery Holiday Instant Ticket promotion. Mixed among the beautiful traditional seasonal images is the message that the holidays are all about giving and receiving lottery tickets. They actually say, “This is what it’s all about.” Then they tell us to, “Give the gift you hope they return.” Ick!
That annoys me on several levels.
They’re subliminally telling us that the sole reason for Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, take your pick, is about getting gifts by giving gifts. And coincidently, while we’re showing our love of family and friends by hoping they give us stuff, we can immerse ourselves in the spiritual experience of gambling with lottery tickets.
The “Box” store commercials try to convince us that the holidays are all about spending our money with them. Drop a load of cash at their store and our celebrations will be perfect.
There’s a band called “The Yoopers” from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and the manic commercials from all the big “Box” stores reminds me of a song on one of their Christmas CDs. They sing, “We celebrate the Savior’s birth by spending all our dough.” Can everyone say, “Amen”?
Then there are the car commercials. Yeah, everyone I know gets cars for Christmas.
One has a choir singing “Hark How the Bells” using only the word Duh. I guess the point of that is that their vehicle is the obvious Christmas gifting choice.
Another luxury automotive brand suggests that you hurry down to your nearest dealer so that you can have the car decked out with bows in time for the holidays. That, of course, is the key to happiness this season.
Am I the only one that finds that a little pretentious?
I think I’ll try to find other reasons besides lottery tickets, cars, and loads of box store stuff as my answer to happiness his holiday season. I’ll start by pondering the real “Reason of the Season”. How about you?
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
'Twas The day After Halloween
TWAS THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN
Twas the day after Halloween, when all through the town, not a pilgrim was stirring, none could be found.
The stockings were hung in the stores with care, in hopes that the public, their money would share.
Christmas decorations in greens and reds, caused visions of dancing dollars in corporate heads.
No Thanksgiving figures with cute pilgrim caps, but Carols blared at the shoppers, from Bach to Rap.
Cherry pickers labored at 6o degrees, to place giant snowflakes to swing in the breeze.
To the service window, I went to complain, as they looked at me with clear disdain.
The glow of the wreath upon the wall, made the manager’s nose look like a red ball.
I opened my mouth the scene to protest, “Where’s the pumpkins, turkeys, fall leaves, and the rest?”
“The cornucopias with gourds all aglow, and Native Americans with arrow and bow?”
“The grateful hands, folded in prayer, reminding us to thank Him for all of His care.”
“The cornstalks, and hay bales and tables a-groan, I think this is crazy, am I alone?”
The manager patted me upon my head, then lifted his arms, his fingers all spread.
“All this,” he cried, “gets folks in the mood, to spend their money on more than food.”
“As profits go, Thanksgiving’s a bust, unless it’s combined with commercialized lust.”
“The “Season of Peace” needs a jump start, to persuade the shoppers with their money to part.”
“Our fourth quarter profits depend on this scene, without drawn-out holidays, our year would look lean.”
He then winked his eye, and twisted his head. His maniacal laugh filled me with dread.
The carols grew louder, the Santas all danced, the reindeer and snowmen swirled as they pranced.
The red and green packages bounced in fake snow, the evergreens sparkled, their lights a bright glow.
And laying his finger aside of his cheek, out of the cubicle the manager streaked.
Through the store, he ran, this way and that, and I heard him exclaim as he put on his hat, “Happy Spending to all, so our profit’s not flat!”
Twas the day after Halloween, when all through the town, not a pilgrim was stirring, none could be found.
The stockings were hung in the stores with care, in hopes that the public, their money would share.
Christmas decorations in greens and reds, caused visions of dancing dollars in corporate heads.
No Thanksgiving figures with cute pilgrim caps, but Carols blared at the shoppers, from Bach to Rap.
Cherry pickers labored at 6o degrees, to place giant snowflakes to swing in the breeze.
To the service window, I went to complain, as they looked at me with clear disdain.
The glow of the wreath upon the wall, made the manager’s nose look like a red ball.
I opened my mouth the scene to protest, “Where’s the pumpkins, turkeys, fall leaves, and the rest?”
“The cornucopias with gourds all aglow, and Native Americans with arrow and bow?”
“The grateful hands, folded in prayer, reminding us to thank Him for all of His care.”
“The cornstalks, and hay bales and tables a-groan, I think this is crazy, am I alone?”
The manager patted me upon my head, then lifted his arms, his fingers all spread.
“All this,” he cried, “gets folks in the mood, to spend their money on more than food.”
“As profits go, Thanksgiving’s a bust, unless it’s combined with commercialized lust.”
“The “Season of Peace” needs a jump start, to persuade the shoppers with their money to part.”
“Our fourth quarter profits depend on this scene, without drawn-out holidays, our year would look lean.”
He then winked his eye, and twisted his head. His maniacal laugh filled me with dread.
The carols grew louder, the Santas all danced, the reindeer and snowmen swirled as they pranced.
The red and green packages bounced in fake snow, the evergreens sparkled, their lights a bright glow.
And laying his finger aside of his cheek, out of the cubicle the manager streaked.
Through the store, he ran, this way and that, and I heard him exclaim as he put on his hat, “Happy Spending to all, so our profit’s not flat!”
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Biking and Life
We just returned from “Up North”. The fall scenery, a kaleidoscope of colors, was awe-inspiring. The lakes in their many moods, the glorious sunrises and romantic sunsets, the eye popping shades of foliage from the magnificent trees to brush, wildflowers, and vines, the rock formations, and raging waterfalls; all combined together to imprint their beauty into our memories.
My husband and I enjoy biking, so took our bikes with us to take advantage of the fantastic bike trail system they have between the small towns where we stay.
We can leave our cabin on Big St. Germaine Lake by bike, and ride to the towns of St. Germaine, Sayner, or Boulder Junction. We can go to Crystal Lake for a picnic, Cathedral Point on Trout Lake, or many other stops on lovely lakes along the way.
If we want to load our bikes onto the car and drive, every town in that part of the Northwoods has a bike trail. The intent is to connect all the communities in the area by trail eventually, and they are well on their way.
Refreshingly different from our part of the world, is that “Up North” the municipalities, businesses, and homeowners support the trails and encourage them to pass through their area. There never seems to be brouhaha about trails going through citizen’s yards, or businesses not wanting the trail in front of their establishment.
Areas vie for the chance to have the trail in their towns. They have fundraisers to help with the trail expense, and they get government grants. A winery in Three Lakes sells a wine that if you purchase it, a certain amount of each purchase goes to build the local section of the trail. We road that trail this year and it was well worth it.
No one ever tried to keep the Bearskin Trail in Minocqua as a railroad track.
Alternatively, the businesses use the trails to their advantage, selling the outdoor enthusiasts food, drink, ice cream, and supplies along the way. They rent out equipment, sell gas, and tempt the trail users to visit the shops in their towns. It’s a win, win situation for them, and Central Illinois could learn a lot from their attitude.
The trail between our cabin and Sayner is very hilly. I strain to pedal up the hill, and then fly down the other side, wind hitting my face and whistling through my helmet. Sometimes I get enough momentum that my speed gets me half way up through the next rise.
I repeat the scenario, strain, and difficulty, and then joyous release as the biking gets much easier.
After riding fifteen miles one gorgeous afternoon, I started to think the whole biking experience was analogous to the ups and downs of life. We hit those mountains in life, we huff and puff, straining to get over the hump. Then when the situation peaks, and we fly, life is easy and going great. Suddenly another prominence looms ahead. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we have enough momentum to carry us up the hill, other times we struggle, but the important thing to remember is, eventually we all make it to the top and experience the joyous descent.
Enjoy this beautiful season, and here’s wishing you more coasting and less tough pedaling in the days to come.
My husband and I enjoy biking, so took our bikes with us to take advantage of the fantastic bike trail system they have between the small towns where we stay.
We can leave our cabin on Big St. Germaine Lake by bike, and ride to the towns of St. Germaine, Sayner, or Boulder Junction. We can go to Crystal Lake for a picnic, Cathedral Point on Trout Lake, or many other stops on lovely lakes along the way.
If we want to load our bikes onto the car and drive, every town in that part of the Northwoods has a bike trail. The intent is to connect all the communities in the area by trail eventually, and they are well on their way.
Refreshingly different from our part of the world, is that “Up North” the municipalities, businesses, and homeowners support the trails and encourage them to pass through their area. There never seems to be brouhaha about trails going through citizen’s yards, or businesses not wanting the trail in front of their establishment.
Areas vie for the chance to have the trail in their towns. They have fundraisers to help with the trail expense, and they get government grants. A winery in Three Lakes sells a wine that if you purchase it, a certain amount of each purchase goes to build the local section of the trail. We road that trail this year and it was well worth it.
No one ever tried to keep the Bearskin Trail in Minocqua as a railroad track.
Alternatively, the businesses use the trails to their advantage, selling the outdoor enthusiasts food, drink, ice cream, and supplies along the way. They rent out equipment, sell gas, and tempt the trail users to visit the shops in their towns. It’s a win, win situation for them, and Central Illinois could learn a lot from their attitude.
The trail between our cabin and Sayner is very hilly. I strain to pedal up the hill, and then fly down the other side, wind hitting my face and whistling through my helmet. Sometimes I get enough momentum that my speed gets me half way up through the next rise.
I repeat the scenario, strain, and difficulty, and then joyous release as the biking gets much easier.
After riding fifteen miles one gorgeous afternoon, I started to think the whole biking experience was analogous to the ups and downs of life. We hit those mountains in life, we huff and puff, straining to get over the hump. Then when the situation peaks, and we fly, life is easy and going great. Suddenly another prominence looms ahead. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we have enough momentum to carry us up the hill, other times we struggle, but the important thing to remember is, eventually we all make it to the top and experience the joyous descent.
Enjoy this beautiful season, and here’s wishing you more coasting and less tough pedaling in the days to come.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
In Memoriam of Labor Day
Ah, Labor Day, the last hurrah of the summer season. As a child, I remember thinking of it as the last weekend of freedom, so I would throw myself into playing non-stop until Monday night. We usually camped, so I would come home sore and sun burnt, but happy.
Now, my husband is the choir director at our church, and we usually have the “start of the season” choir party at our house over Labor Day weekend. Getting the yard and everything ready, I still get sore and sun burnt, just not by playing.
My husband and I heard a news story on the radio about the Labor Day parade in downtown Peoria. He commented that soon the holiday would be a moot point, unless they celebrate it overseas. It made me wonder about the original reasons for Labor Day.
125 years ago, the Central Labor Union in New York City celebrated a workingman’s holiday. The next year, in 1884, they selected the first Monday in September as the holiday, and urged organizations in other cities to follow their example. By 1895, many industrial centers in our nation celebrated the Labor Day holiday.
In June of 1894, Congress passed an act making the first Monday in September a legal holiday dedicated as a “tribute to the American Worker”. The first proposal of the holiday suggested that celebration include street parades to exhibit to the public “the strength and spirit de corps of the trade and labor organizations”, followed by a festival for the recreation and amusement of the workers and their families.
“Ay”, as Hamlet said, “There lies the rub”.
It seems somewhat ironic to celebrate the American Worker, when they seem to be an endangered species as “outsourcing” becomes the word of the day for most corporations.
In full disclosure I must admit, I’m not neutral on this subject, my husband’s job was outsourced to India. Unfortunately, that’s no longer unusual.
A friend, who works as a temp at a major corporation, told us that her employer was bought out by a Chinese company. The help desks in many companies are no longer the next floor up, but are on the other side of the world. Order from a catalogue and most likely the person on the other end of the phone is not in this country. Same with tech support, and the person who tells you his name is Brad, but you suspect it’s a little more exotic than that.
Companies, lured by the siren call of more profits, abandon their American workers to build factories in every foreign country that promises an abundance of workers willing to work for slave wages. Ironically enough, the “Big Box” stores sell these cheap and sometimes dangerously defective foreign products back to the American Worker at low prices, thus completing the vicious circle.
The unions that started Labor Day have lost a lot of their clout as companies threaten to move to another country whenever negotiations don’t go their way, leaving their employees to get new jobs that are more secure. Sadly, these jobs include phrases like, “Do you want fries with that?”, and “Welcome to (insert the Big Box store of your choosing)”.
And so it goes. My fear is that someday the true reason for Labor Day will someday go the way of the Dodo bird, along with the American Worker.
Now, my husband is the choir director at our church, and we usually have the “start of the season” choir party at our house over Labor Day weekend. Getting the yard and everything ready, I still get sore and sun burnt, just not by playing.
My husband and I heard a news story on the radio about the Labor Day parade in downtown Peoria. He commented that soon the holiday would be a moot point, unless they celebrate it overseas. It made me wonder about the original reasons for Labor Day.
125 years ago, the Central Labor Union in New York City celebrated a workingman’s holiday. The next year, in 1884, they selected the first Monday in September as the holiday, and urged organizations in other cities to follow their example. By 1895, many industrial centers in our nation celebrated the Labor Day holiday.
In June of 1894, Congress passed an act making the first Monday in September a legal holiday dedicated as a “tribute to the American Worker”. The first proposal of the holiday suggested that celebration include street parades to exhibit to the public “the strength and spirit de corps of the trade and labor organizations”, followed by a festival for the recreation and amusement of the workers and their families.
“Ay”, as Hamlet said, “There lies the rub”.
It seems somewhat ironic to celebrate the American Worker, when they seem to be an endangered species as “outsourcing” becomes the word of the day for most corporations.
In full disclosure I must admit, I’m not neutral on this subject, my husband’s job was outsourced to India. Unfortunately, that’s no longer unusual.
A friend, who works as a temp at a major corporation, told us that her employer was bought out by a Chinese company. The help desks in many companies are no longer the next floor up, but are on the other side of the world. Order from a catalogue and most likely the person on the other end of the phone is not in this country. Same with tech support, and the person who tells you his name is Brad, but you suspect it’s a little more exotic than that.
Companies, lured by the siren call of more profits, abandon their American workers to build factories in every foreign country that promises an abundance of workers willing to work for slave wages. Ironically enough, the “Big Box” stores sell these cheap and sometimes dangerously defective foreign products back to the American Worker at low prices, thus completing the vicious circle.
The unions that started Labor Day have lost a lot of their clout as companies threaten to move to another country whenever negotiations don’t go their way, leaving their employees to get new jobs that are more secure. Sadly, these jobs include phrases like, “Do you want fries with that?”, and “Welcome to (insert the Big Box store of your choosing)”.
And so it goes. My fear is that someday the true reason for Labor Day will someday go the way of the Dodo bird, along with the American Worker.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Natural Sanity
If life is pressing in on you, and you feel the need for a mini-vacation, then a walk or ride down the Rock Island Trail is the ticket. Either direction, from Alta, towards Dunlap, or towards Peoria, where the trail abruptly stops at Pioneer Parkway in North Peoria where the new section will soon continue, is wild and beautiful.
Sunlight filters around gently fluttering leaves to make dappled kinetic art on the pathway. Wildflowers abound, serving as magnets to myriads of butterflies. These floating flowers of every imaginable color glide quietly by, infusing a sense of peace.
Birds are everywhere, filling the air with exuberant song. Indigo Buntings flash by, their tiny iridescent blue bodies reflecting the mottled sunlight like sparks of flame in the shrubbery. The ubiquitous Robins conduct their daily lives with their usual good cheer as they regularly cross your path. Woodpeckers, cardinals, ducks, swallows, wrens, and catbirds, are just a few of the birds commonly seen along the trail. During migration times, the greenway explodes with warblers and other migrants of every ilk, stopping by for a respite on their long journeys.
The scenery is diverse along the trail, encompassing everything from forests and ravines, to farm fields and meadows of wildflowers. There are streams, and babbling brooks with schools of tiny fish darting among the rocks. There are bridges to cross, and even a cool and dark tunnel to explore.
Development, however, marches on, and encroaches on the wildness of the trail. Subdivisions are popping up like mushrooms along the corridor, greedily pushing against the greenway both sides, squishing it into a tiny ribbon of nature.
Fortunately, they can’t erase it, and so the trail remains a slash of sanity through the artificial living space that is suburbia.
I know insidious sprawl will continue unchecked. My husband and I moved to the country to enjoy nature, and the peace and quiet of rural living. Picturesque farm fields, wildlife, and old barns were the backdrops to the gorgeous sunsets we could view from our front windows. Now, a subdivision, earth berms, and a maintenance shed for a golf course block the sunsets. The wildlife we enjoyed when we first moved here has mostly disappeared. The glow from a plethora of yard and house lights, vapor lights, security lights, and landscaping lights has wiped out any enjoyment of the night sky.
Since the old cliché, “You can’t stop progress” is unfortunately true; I guess the best you can hope for is to continue to find nature as God intended it, enjoy it, and protect it as best you can, as long as possible. It’s the best therapy in the world.
Sunlight filters around gently fluttering leaves to make dappled kinetic art on the pathway. Wildflowers abound, serving as magnets to myriads of butterflies. These floating flowers of every imaginable color glide quietly by, infusing a sense of peace.
Birds are everywhere, filling the air with exuberant song. Indigo Buntings flash by, their tiny iridescent blue bodies reflecting the mottled sunlight like sparks of flame in the shrubbery. The ubiquitous Robins conduct their daily lives with their usual good cheer as they regularly cross your path. Woodpeckers, cardinals, ducks, swallows, wrens, and catbirds, are just a few of the birds commonly seen along the trail. During migration times, the greenway explodes with warblers and other migrants of every ilk, stopping by for a respite on their long journeys.
The scenery is diverse along the trail, encompassing everything from forests and ravines, to farm fields and meadows of wildflowers. There are streams, and babbling brooks with schools of tiny fish darting among the rocks. There are bridges to cross, and even a cool and dark tunnel to explore.
Development, however, marches on, and encroaches on the wildness of the trail. Subdivisions are popping up like mushrooms along the corridor, greedily pushing against the greenway both sides, squishing it into a tiny ribbon of nature.
Fortunately, they can’t erase it, and so the trail remains a slash of sanity through the artificial living space that is suburbia.
I know insidious sprawl will continue unchecked. My husband and I moved to the country to enjoy nature, and the peace and quiet of rural living. Picturesque farm fields, wildlife, and old barns were the backdrops to the gorgeous sunsets we could view from our front windows. Now, a subdivision, earth berms, and a maintenance shed for a golf course block the sunsets. The wildlife we enjoyed when we first moved here has mostly disappeared. The glow from a plethora of yard and house lights, vapor lights, security lights, and landscaping lights has wiped out any enjoyment of the night sky.
Since the old cliché, “You can’t stop progress” is unfortunately true; I guess the best you can hope for is to continue to find nature as God intended it, enjoy it, and protect it as best you can, as long as possible. It’s the best therapy in the world.
Friday, July 16, 2010
You Decide
Most birds are amazing parents.
There are exceptions of course, such as the cowbird that sneaks in and lays her eggs in other birds nest so that they can raise them. In her defense this was a survival technique developed when cowbirds followed the buffalo herds and couldn’t sit on a nest long enough to raise their babies without them starving to death. So, technically, she is exhibiting good parenting behavior by assuring her chicks survival.
The male hummingbird is an absentee dad, but mom more than makes up for his boorish behavior.
But, like I said, most birds are dedicated caregivers, working day and night against great odds, until their little family can make it on their own. A couple years ago, one such dedicated parent made the local paper by defending his nest in downtown Peoria.
It seems that a pair of red-wings raised a family in a tree on Hamilton by the Caterpillar Inc. headquarters building. As the chicks fledged, dad became very protective, warning humans away from his family with loud calls and aggressive territorial protection behavior. For the people who ignored his warnings, he reinforced his position with a whack or two on their head.
Signs were erected warning people about the situation, and for the most part, downtown walkers were taking it in stride. After all, it’s a temporary situation.
However, one man felt the need to say to the reporter, “If I had my gun, I’d shoot it.”
How special.
Of course, he couldn’t legally shoot the bird on so many levels. It’s illegal to discharge a firearm in the city limits, carry a concealed weapon, or shoot a Migratory Bird protected by the US Migratory Bird Act, and I’m grateful for that.
Many folks think that the government shouldn’t interfere in our lives by enacting environmental, endangered species, or gun regulations. They think that people, or corporations, can be trusted to do the right thing. When I hear that, I wonder if a living, functioning, human could possibly be that naïve, and if they’ve lived under a rock all their lives.
Does anyone really think that a corporation, given a chance, would hesitate to drain a wetland, and fill it in, to build a plant or another ubiquitous strip mall? Would industry hold up their plans to make more profits for fear of causing the extinction of some critter on the endangered species list? Would people allowed to carry concealed weapons use them only for self defense?
“If I had my gun, I’d shoot it.”
You decide.
There are exceptions of course, such as the cowbird that sneaks in and lays her eggs in other birds nest so that they can raise them. In her defense this was a survival technique developed when cowbirds followed the buffalo herds and couldn’t sit on a nest long enough to raise their babies without them starving to death. So, technically, she is exhibiting good parenting behavior by assuring her chicks survival.
The male hummingbird is an absentee dad, but mom more than makes up for his boorish behavior.
But, like I said, most birds are dedicated caregivers, working day and night against great odds, until their little family can make it on their own. A couple years ago, one such dedicated parent made the local paper by defending his nest in downtown Peoria.
It seems that a pair of red-wings raised a family in a tree on Hamilton by the Caterpillar Inc. headquarters building. As the chicks fledged, dad became very protective, warning humans away from his family with loud calls and aggressive territorial protection behavior. For the people who ignored his warnings, he reinforced his position with a whack or two on their head.
Signs were erected warning people about the situation, and for the most part, downtown walkers were taking it in stride. After all, it’s a temporary situation.
However, one man felt the need to say to the reporter, “If I had my gun, I’d shoot it.”
How special.
Of course, he couldn’t legally shoot the bird on so many levels. It’s illegal to discharge a firearm in the city limits, carry a concealed weapon, or shoot a Migratory Bird protected by the US Migratory Bird Act, and I’m grateful for that.
Many folks think that the government shouldn’t interfere in our lives by enacting environmental, endangered species, or gun regulations. They think that people, or corporations, can be trusted to do the right thing. When I hear that, I wonder if a living, functioning, human could possibly be that naïve, and if they’ve lived under a rock all their lives.
Does anyone really think that a corporation, given a chance, would hesitate to drain a wetland, and fill it in, to build a plant or another ubiquitous strip mall? Would industry hold up their plans to make more profits for fear of causing the extinction of some critter on the endangered species list? Would people allowed to carry concealed weapons use them only for self defense?
“If I had my gun, I’d shoot it.”
You decide.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Waste Not, Want Not
Recently, my cousin received an award from a charitable organization, and I attended the banquet. The event was beautifully done, and the food was surprisingly good.
During the salad course, I noticed several people at my table letting their lovely bowls of greens sit untouched. The person next to me said, “There are funny things in there I don’t recognize, I’m not eating it.” Another said, “I don’t like purple stuff in my salad.” Others didn’t care for the dressing choices.
So, the people bussing the table collected piles of untouched produce and dumped it in the garbage pans.
The main course presentation was lovely, with mounds of wild and brown rice, and spinach-stuffed chicken arranged on china, with paprika sprinkled around the rim.
Again, my fellow diners let most of the food go untouched. Only two people at my table ate the delightful rice, which was well seasoned and perfectly cooked. I heard, “I don’t do rice,” “There are specks in it,” and “Yuck.”
Apparently, my table wasn’t the only one with a bunch of picky eaters. As the employees collected the plates, I was appalled to see the mounds of rice piled on the carts ready to fill the trash bins.
All I could think about was the news reports of food shortages around the world, and mass starvation. In some villages, children live on a cup of rice a day. There were over three hundred people at that banquet, most of whom didn’t eat their rice. The food in that garbage pile could have fed a third world community for a week.
I don’t know the solution to that kind of revolting waste. Maybe there could be a way for people who won’t eat certain things not to get them on their plate. Or, maybe banquets could serve family style, and if you don’t want something, you wouldn’t have to take it.
If people can afford to be so picky, then maybe it’s proof that as Americans we are used to excesses, and it’s no wonder many people around the world hate us.
In the United States, we not only produce an abundance of food, we waste an enormous amount of it. Americans toss out at least $75 billion in food each year, according to an extensive study.
At home, the average American family throws away 14 percent of their food.
I know I feel guilty about that every day. My husband and I throw away more things than we should, such as bags of lettuce that go to waste before we eat them. I’m also often sucked into buying things on sale we don’t need, and letting them go to waste.
I don’t know the answer, except to try to be more cognizant of our wasteful nature. As the old proverb says, ‘Waste not, want not.”
During the salad course, I noticed several people at my table letting their lovely bowls of greens sit untouched. The person next to me said, “There are funny things in there I don’t recognize, I’m not eating it.” Another said, “I don’t like purple stuff in my salad.” Others didn’t care for the dressing choices.
So, the people bussing the table collected piles of untouched produce and dumped it in the garbage pans.
The main course presentation was lovely, with mounds of wild and brown rice, and spinach-stuffed chicken arranged on china, with paprika sprinkled around the rim.
Again, my fellow diners let most of the food go untouched. Only two people at my table ate the delightful rice, which was well seasoned and perfectly cooked. I heard, “I don’t do rice,” “There are specks in it,” and “Yuck.”
Apparently, my table wasn’t the only one with a bunch of picky eaters. As the employees collected the plates, I was appalled to see the mounds of rice piled on the carts ready to fill the trash bins.
All I could think about was the news reports of food shortages around the world, and mass starvation. In some villages, children live on a cup of rice a day. There were over three hundred people at that banquet, most of whom didn’t eat their rice. The food in that garbage pile could have fed a third world community for a week.
I don’t know the solution to that kind of revolting waste. Maybe there could be a way for people who won’t eat certain things not to get them on their plate. Or, maybe banquets could serve family style, and if you don’t want something, you wouldn’t have to take it.
If people can afford to be so picky, then maybe it’s proof that as Americans we are used to excesses, and it’s no wonder many people around the world hate us.
In the United States, we not only produce an abundance of food, we waste an enormous amount of it. Americans toss out at least $75 billion in food each year, according to an extensive study.
At home, the average American family throws away 14 percent of their food.
I know I feel guilty about that every day. My husband and I throw away more things than we should, such as bags of lettuce that go to waste before we eat them. I’m also often sucked into buying things on sale we don’t need, and letting them go to waste.
I don’t know the answer, except to try to be more cognizant of our wasteful nature. As the old proverb says, ‘Waste not, want not.”
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Happy Poison Ivy
Have you noticed the vigorous and healthy crop of poison ivy that seems to be everywhere again this year? It’s beautiful, with glossy dark green leaves and huge clumps of berries. The ivy is looking better than most of the purchased nursery annuals and perennials that I diligently care for.
It’s all over my yard; flower beds, garden, wrapped around trees, even poking its scary little three leaved clusters into my patio.
The noxious vine has lined every walking path I’ve been on this spring and summer. I’ve seen it climb a tree and spread out so densely that it looks like a tree itself.
The walking path at Alpha Park in Bartonville has it everywhere back by the woods, if you look off the beaten trail. So does the Rock Island Trail, Forest Park, the bicycle path in East Peoria, and down by the Riverfront in Peoria. Your best defense is to be familiar with it, teach your children to recognize it, and keep away from it.
I’m lucky that I’m not very allergic to it. I get a bump or two on occasion, never a big deal. But, I still made a point to learn to identify it, and avoid it just in case.
If you think you’ve never seen poison ivy this severe before, you’re right. It’s a direct byproduct of climate change.
According to USA Today, another reason to worry about global warming: more and itchier poison ivy. The noxious vine grows faster and bigger as carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere rise. Also, with the warmer air, and the longer growing season, it has a longer time to grow.
A CO2-driven vine also produces more of its rash-causing chemical, urushiol, according to experiments conducted in a forest at Duke University where scientists increased carbon-dioxide levels to those expected in 2050. In addition, poison ivy growth surged some 150 percent in the carbon dioxide-rich forest plots.
Researchers suspect that woody vines, [including poison ivy] are going to multiply rapidly with increased atmospheric levels of CO2.
They don’t have to convince me, but recent studies in temperate and tropical forests already report dramatic increases in these plants.
That’s not news around my house.
Not only are the poison ivy vines a health concern for humans, but the increased growth of woody vines could dramatically alter future forests; for instance, by choking new tree growth. Woody vines can grow over the tops of large trees and shade out juvenile trees.
So, if you think that poison ivy is more prevalent now than when you were a kid, you’re right. If you haven’t noticed, for your own sake, you’d better learn to recognize it.
It’s all over my yard; flower beds, garden, wrapped around trees, even poking its scary little three leaved clusters into my patio.
The noxious vine has lined every walking path I’ve been on this spring and summer. I’ve seen it climb a tree and spread out so densely that it looks like a tree itself.
The walking path at Alpha Park in Bartonville has it everywhere back by the woods, if you look off the beaten trail. So does the Rock Island Trail, Forest Park, the bicycle path in East Peoria, and down by the Riverfront in Peoria. Your best defense is to be familiar with it, teach your children to recognize it, and keep away from it.
I’m lucky that I’m not very allergic to it. I get a bump or two on occasion, never a big deal. But, I still made a point to learn to identify it, and avoid it just in case.
If you think you’ve never seen poison ivy this severe before, you’re right. It’s a direct byproduct of climate change.
According to USA Today, another reason to worry about global warming: more and itchier poison ivy. The noxious vine grows faster and bigger as carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere rise. Also, with the warmer air, and the longer growing season, it has a longer time to grow.
A CO2-driven vine also produces more of its rash-causing chemical, urushiol, according to experiments conducted in a forest at Duke University where scientists increased carbon-dioxide levels to those expected in 2050. In addition, poison ivy growth surged some 150 percent in the carbon dioxide-rich forest plots.
Researchers suspect that woody vines, [including poison ivy] are going to multiply rapidly with increased atmospheric levels of CO2.
They don’t have to convince me, but recent studies in temperate and tropical forests already report dramatic increases in these plants.
That’s not news around my house.
Not only are the poison ivy vines a health concern for humans, but the increased growth of woody vines could dramatically alter future forests; for instance, by choking new tree growth. Woody vines can grow over the tops of large trees and shade out juvenile trees.
So, if you think that poison ivy is more prevalent now than when you were a kid, you’re right. If you haven’t noticed, for your own sake, you’d better learn to recognize it.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Let's have Another Cup of Coffee
Ah, that first cup of coffee in the morning is just what my middle aged body needs to get the ‘ol brain and appendages moving. Some folks would say that I’m addicted to caffeine. I plead guilty. I inhaled; then I drank it and poured another.
As a child I said I’d never “do coffee”, but relentless pushers in college beat down my resistance and got me hooked. I continue to feed my habit as a mature adult.
An enabling factor in my addiction is my church. Yes, I’m a Lutheran, and coffee greases the machinery that runs the church. The pots are perking at every function, and on Sunday mornings, there are so many cups and travel mugs attached to hands, they look like part of people’s anatomy.
After learning some disquieting facts about the living conditions of the farmers that produce coffee, and the effect huge commercial plantations have on wildlife, particularly neotropical migrants, our church, like many others is planning to switch to Fair Trade Coffee. As a people with a mandate not to purposely cause harm, to other people or the planet, we need to make the switch.
What is Fair Trade and Shade Grown Coffee?
Even though Americans are the largest consumer of coffee in the world, few realize that coffee agriculture workers often toil in virtual "sweatshops in the fields." Many small farmers receive prices for their coffee that are less than the costs of production, forcing them into a cycle of poverty and debt.
If the coffee we drink has the certification “Fair Trade”, it assures us that the purchase happened under fair conditions. To become certified, an importer must meet stringent international criteria; paying a minimum price per pound of $1.26, providing credit to farmers, and providing help transitioning to organic farming. For coffee farmers this means community development, health, education, and environmental stewardship.
Also, in the name of the almighty dollar, many corporate coffee farms converted to tree-free, bird barren monocultures in recent years to increase production.
The coffee plant evolved in Africa under the rainforest canopy and grows best in the shade. A traditional shade grown coffee farm can provide habitat not only to birds, but many varied forms of wildlife. As many farms turn into monotonous rows of intensely managed shrubs, they become wastelands that are devastating to wildlife.
Neotropical migrants, otherwise known as our familiar summer songbirds, depend on the rainforest to survive. They breed in the habitat and backyards of North America and then migrate south for the winter.
Some birds affected by the deforestation for coffee plantations that you may recognize are: Sharp-shinned and Broad winged Hawks, American Kestrels, Nighthawks, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, various vireos, swallows, warblers, tanagers, Indigo Buntings, Western Kingbirds, and Baltimore Orioles.
If a coffee has a “Shade Grown” designation it’s certified better for the environment.
Many outlets in Central Illinois sell both Fair Trade and Shade Grown coffee, and though it’s more expensive in some cases, you can find it at reasonable prices at many retailers, including, if you must, Sam’s Clubs. My personal opinion is that it tastes better.
So, I still plan on enjoying my coffee, but I’ll try to be a good steward of the planet and its people while sipping. It’ll go down smoother.
As a child I said I’d never “do coffee”, but relentless pushers in college beat down my resistance and got me hooked. I continue to feed my habit as a mature adult.
An enabling factor in my addiction is my church. Yes, I’m a Lutheran, and coffee greases the machinery that runs the church. The pots are perking at every function, and on Sunday mornings, there are so many cups and travel mugs attached to hands, they look like part of people’s anatomy.
After learning some disquieting facts about the living conditions of the farmers that produce coffee, and the effect huge commercial plantations have on wildlife, particularly neotropical migrants, our church, like many others is planning to switch to Fair Trade Coffee. As a people with a mandate not to purposely cause harm, to other people or the planet, we need to make the switch.
What is Fair Trade and Shade Grown Coffee?
Even though Americans are the largest consumer of coffee in the world, few realize that coffee agriculture workers often toil in virtual "sweatshops in the fields." Many small farmers receive prices for their coffee that are less than the costs of production, forcing them into a cycle of poverty and debt.
If the coffee we drink has the certification “Fair Trade”, it assures us that the purchase happened under fair conditions. To become certified, an importer must meet stringent international criteria; paying a minimum price per pound of $1.26, providing credit to farmers, and providing help transitioning to organic farming. For coffee farmers this means community development, health, education, and environmental stewardship.
Also, in the name of the almighty dollar, many corporate coffee farms converted to tree-free, bird barren monocultures in recent years to increase production.
The coffee plant evolved in Africa under the rainforest canopy and grows best in the shade. A traditional shade grown coffee farm can provide habitat not only to birds, but many varied forms of wildlife. As many farms turn into monotonous rows of intensely managed shrubs, they become wastelands that are devastating to wildlife.
Neotropical migrants, otherwise known as our familiar summer songbirds, depend on the rainforest to survive. They breed in the habitat and backyards of North America and then migrate south for the winter.
Some birds affected by the deforestation for coffee plantations that you may recognize are: Sharp-shinned and Broad winged Hawks, American Kestrels, Nighthawks, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, various vireos, swallows, warblers, tanagers, Indigo Buntings, Western Kingbirds, and Baltimore Orioles.
If a coffee has a “Shade Grown” designation it’s certified better for the environment.
Many outlets in Central Illinois sell both Fair Trade and Shade Grown coffee, and though it’s more expensive in some cases, you can find it at reasonable prices at many retailers, including, if you must, Sam’s Clubs. My personal opinion is that it tastes better.
So, I still plan on enjoying my coffee, but I’ll try to be a good steward of the planet and its people while sipping. It’ll go down smoother.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Happy Father's Day
Sonora Dodd, of Washington, thought of the first "Father's Day" while listening to a Mother's Day sermon in 1909.
She wanted a special day to honor her father, William Smart, a Civil War veteran. Her mother died while giving birth to their sixth child, and left him to raise the newborn and five other children by himself on a rural farm in eastern Washington State.
Sonora appreciated the selflessness her father had shown in raising his children as a single parent.
Mr. Smart’s birthday was in June, so Sonora chose to hold the first Father's Day celebration in Spokane, Washington on the 19th of June, 1910.
President Calvin Coolidge, in 1924, supported the idea of a national Father's Day. Then in 1966, President Lyndon Johnson signed a presidential proclamation declaring the 3rd Sunday of June as Father's Day.
Once, an educator friend of mine told me of a young male student strutting around the school and bragging that he was about to become a father, and there was “nothing to it”. He planned no involvement with the child, ‘cause he had already done the “important” part.
But, had he?
Is contributing your DNA to the procreation process the most significant part of being a father? Fatherhood, as a vocation, goes far deeper and is more complicated than just being involved in the conception.
Fathers come in many in many different packages: biological, adoptive, stepfathers, grandpas. Many non-traditional extended families have father figures that are uncles, brothers, Godfathers, or friends. Let’s face it, with fertility clinics; women don’t even need a partner to conceive any more.
So, what makes a man a real father? I know I have precious memories of my own dad that are special and help color my picture of what makes a father “real”. I’ll share just a few.
A Father Is Someone Who:
• Carries you into the house and puts you to bed when you fall asleep in the car.
• Gets dressed and goes searching for an all night grocery store at 1:00 AM because you’re throwing up and want some 7UP.
• Notices that you’re upset because everyone but you caught a fish on a camping trip. He sends you back to the camper to get him a cold drink while he watches your pole, then calls for you to hurry back because a fish bit your hook as soon as you left. It’s a small one (and sort of looks like one of the blue gills that were on his stringer) but you’re still happy.
• Firmly believes that no boy alive is good enough to date you, but is nice to your boyfriends anyway.
• Takes your training wheels off your bike because you want to ride like the big kids, then has to run beside you all afternoon until you get the hang of it.
• Drives you from the family campsite all the way to church for confirmation classes every Saturday because he doesn’t want you to miss class.
I hope my ramblings have sparked some memories of your own dad. If you’re lucky enough to have a “real” father and he’s still around, be sure to give him a big hug, and tell him why he’s special.
Happy Father’s Day!
Sonora Dodd, of Washington, thought of the first "Father's Day" while listening to a Mother's Day sermon in 1909.
She wanted a special day to honor her father, William Smart, a Civil War veteran. Her mother died while giving birth to their sixth child, and left him to raise the newborn and five other children by himself on a rural farm in eastern Washington State.
Sonora appreciated the selflessness her father had shown in raising his children as a single parent.
Mr. Smart’s birthday was in June, so Sonora chose to hold the first Father's Day celebration in Spokane, Washington on the 19th of June, 1910.
President Calvin Coolidge, in 1924, supported the idea of a national Father's Day. Then in 1966, President Lyndon Johnson signed a presidential proclamation declaring the 3rd Sunday of June as Father's Day.
Once, an educator friend of mine told me of a young male student strutting around the school and bragging that he was about to become a father, and there was “nothing to it”. He planned no involvement with the child, ‘cause he had already done the “important” part.
But, had he?
Is contributing your DNA to the procreation process the most significant part of being a father? Fatherhood, as a vocation, goes far deeper and is more complicated than just being involved in the conception.
Fathers come in many in many different packages: biological, adoptive, stepfathers, grandpas. Many non-traditional extended families have father figures that are uncles, brothers, Godfathers, or friends. Let’s face it, with fertility clinics; women don’t even need a partner to conceive any more.
So, what makes a man a real father? I know I have precious memories of my own dad that are special and help color my picture of what makes a father “real”. I’ll share just a few.
A Father Is Someone Who:
• Carries you into the house and puts you to bed when you fall asleep in the car.
• Gets dressed and goes searching for an all night grocery store at 1:00 AM because you’re throwing up and want some 7UP.
• Notices that you’re upset because everyone but you caught a fish on a camping trip. He sends you back to the camper to get him a cold drink while he watches your pole, then calls for you to hurry back because a fish bit your hook as soon as you left. It’s a small one (and sort of looks like one of the blue gills that were on his stringer) but you’re still happy.
• Firmly believes that no boy alive is good enough to date you, but is nice to your boyfriends anyway.
• Takes your training wheels off your bike because you want to ride like the big kids, then has to run beside you all afternoon until you get the hang of it.
• Drives you from the family campsite all the way to church for confirmation classes every Saturday because he doesn’t want you to miss class.
I hope my ramblings have sparked some memories of your own dad. If you’re lucky enough to have a “real” father and he’s still around, be sure to give him a big hug, and tell him why he’s special.
Happy Father’s Day!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
HUMMINGBIRD WARS
My husband and I have six bird feeders, three birdbaths, and seven hummingbird feeders on our property, but at this time of year the hummingbird feeders are the hot spots in our yard.
The feisty little flying jewels are everywhere. They buzz past our heads in raucous pursuit of one another, just missing us by inches as we’re outside enjoying our yard. They squeak as they suck down the sweet mixture in the feeders, fattening back up after their long trip north.
But, mostly they fight. They guard their food sources jealously, and face off all interlopers with all the spirit and bravery of a much larger creature. They fight with each other, bees, wasps, and other birds. Those tiny bodies seem to have no room for fear.
I once saw a hummingbird chasing an American Kestrel falcon across our backyard, all-abuzz with self-righteous indignation.
We often look at them and think that they could build up those all-important fat reserves faster if they didn’t spend so much time brawling. It seems like they expend more energy flying around like miniature demolition derby drivers than they’re getting from the syrup. There are plenty of feeders to go around and enough nectar for everyone, if they’d only learn to share. Every feeder could hold a couple hummers at a time, and they all could drink their fill.
That’s not how the petite pugilists see it. Instead of living in harmony, each bird feels the need to claim all the resources, and to burn up precious energy guarding them.
We laugh and shake our heads at how silly these little creatures are, but seriously, are humans any different?
The planet is big enough for everyone to live on in harmony, practice their religions and lifestyles, and share its vast assets. Instead, some hoard resources, guarding them jealously. Others brawl every chance they get, burning up more capital than they receive.
We squeak and squawk at each other, threaten and posture. We’re paranoid, territorial, and aggressive.
As the top of the food chain, and as an enlightened species, one would hope that maybe we had evolved beyond that kind of “law of the jungle” nonsense, and were a little more civilized than a hummingbird. Unfortunately, I’m not so sure.
My husband and I have six bird feeders, three birdbaths, and seven hummingbird feeders on our property, but at this time of year the hummingbird feeders are the hot spots in our yard.
The feisty little flying jewels are everywhere. They buzz past our heads in raucous pursuit of one another, just missing us by inches as we’re outside enjoying our yard. They squeak as they suck down the sweet mixture in the feeders, fattening back up after their long trip north.
But, mostly they fight. They guard their food sources jealously, and face off all interlopers with all the spirit and bravery of a much larger creature. They fight with each other, bees, wasps, and other birds. Those tiny bodies seem to have no room for fear.
I once saw a hummingbird chasing an American Kestrel falcon across our backyard, all-abuzz with self-righteous indignation.
We often look at them and think that they could build up those all-important fat reserves faster if they didn’t spend so much time brawling. It seems like they expend more energy flying around like miniature demolition derby drivers than they’re getting from the syrup. There are plenty of feeders to go around and enough nectar for everyone, if they’d only learn to share. Every feeder could hold a couple hummers at a time, and they all could drink their fill.
That’s not how the petite pugilists see it. Instead of living in harmony, each bird feels the need to claim all the resources, and to burn up precious energy guarding them.
We laugh and shake our heads at how silly these little creatures are, but seriously, are humans any different?
The planet is big enough for everyone to live on in harmony, practice their religions and lifestyles, and share its vast assets. Instead, some hoard resources, guarding them jealously. Others brawl every chance they get, burning up more capital than they receive.
We squeak and squawk at each other, threaten and posture. We’re paranoid, territorial, and aggressive.
As the top of the food chain, and as an enlightened species, one would hope that maybe we had evolved beyond that kind of “law of the jungle” nonsense, and were a little more civilized than a hummingbird. Unfortunately, I’m not so sure.
Monday, May 31, 2010
In Memoriam
A red flash in the dark canopy of the forest caught Teri's attention, causing her to freeze in place. Slowly, she raised her binoculars to eye level and focused on the spot of color. Just as she suspected, a red-bellied woodpecker.
Her pulse pounded a marching cadence in her ears as Teri lowered the binoculars and painstakingly crept forward, petrified that any careless movement would spook the shy tree dweller. This was not a "life" bird for her; she had seen red-bellied woodpeckers before, but had never been fortunate enough to find a nest cavity to observe. She wiped the sweat from her brow. Maybe this would be her lucky day.
Spotting a mossy stump, Teri cautiously sank down, her focal point still on the bird. Carefully manipulating the straps, she slipped off her backpack and let it slide silently to the ground. Reaching inside, she fingered her ever-present birding journal, and carefully pulled it out, along with a pen and her camera. If the birding gods were truly smiling down on her she'd get a picture of the occupants of the nest.
Teri thought about the Red-bellied as she quietly wrote in her journal and watched him search for insects along a thick dead branch. It was a male. Handsome red feathers covered his head from the base of his sharp, chisel-like bill, to the nape of his neck.
The name Red-bellied is something of a misnomer for this sturdy bird, as his belly isn't really red. It has a faint pink wash that is viewed only in optimal conditions. Most people have never seen the bird's pink stomach feathers, so they often confuse him with a Red Headed Woodpecker because the Red-bellied's bright red head is so prominent.
Teri grimaced and shifted position as the hard working bird hopped to the next tree to continue his foraging. "Gettin' old", she thought, "stiffer than a board".
Stretching, Teri scanned the surrounding area for a dead tree with a fresh pile of wood chips littering the base, a sure sign of woodpecker activity. Red-bellies excavate cavities in dead trees 10 to 12 inches deep and 5 1/2 inches across to use as nests. She knew that they carved out these holes anywhere from 5 to 40 feet above the ground.
Teri smiled ruefully. With her luck, if she finds the nest, it'll be closer to forty feet high. That would shoot her chances of a picture all to hell; her tree climbing days were way behind her.
Suddenly, Teri spotted a heap of shavings at the bottom of an ancient deceased oak. Scrutinizing the trunk, she discovered a hole about seven feet high, and detected a gray head peering out. Her excitement mounted. Seven-foot wasn't too high, and there was a huge fallen tree laying next to the oak that she could stand on to look in the cavity.
A victorious grin spread across Teri's dirt stained face. Finally, the break she'd been hoping for.
Teri crawled forward and hunkered down behind an old cottonwood to observe the activity at the woodpecker nest. It was rare to find an unguarded Red-belly nest, as both parents incubate the eggs and tend the young. She didn't want to disturb the adults, so her only chance to see the inner sanctum of the woodpecker's home was to wait for both birds to be absent. This might never happen, but it was important enough to her that she was willing to sacrifice some time; so she got comfortable and kept her eyes riveted on the tree.
As Teri waited, her mind wandered, meandering over bird habitats and the beautiful, but endangered, woodland that she was enjoying on this Memorial Day weekend. It was an easy decision for her to take advantage of the holiday and do some birding in this region while she still could. Teri wrinkled up her forehead as she gazed at the beauty surrounding her. Unfortunately, the threat of development loomed over this magical place.
Perspiration tickled between Teri's breasts. She scratched aimlessly and continued to contemplate.
Homeowners had such an anal penchant for removing all the dead trees and branches from their property, and new subdivisions and recreational areas destroyed innumerable wooded areas. Thus, the natural environment for many species was rapidly declining. Even this once common Red-bellied is endangered in some areas due to loss of habitat.
"Woodpeckers have been on earth for 25 million years," Teri thought morosely, "And their survival in many places is being jeopardized by human self-centeredness." She thought about the awesome Ivory Billed Woodpecker already extinct in the south due entirely to the over cutting of the trees they desperately needed for food. It was just too depressing.
Teri shifted and stared up through the lacey screen of silhouetted leaves at a raptor floating effortlessly above in the unbelievably cobalt sky. A Blue Jay scolded her from a nearby tree limb. She sighed. It was so peaceful in this forest cathedral. She felt more serenity in here than in any church building. In this place, she felt closer to God.
All of a sudden, Teri stiffened as the male woodpecker returned to the nest-hole with a blurred flash of wings. He landed near the cavity and made soft "chirring" noises as he clung to the trunk, his stiff little tail helping him keep his balance. The female popped out to join him, stretching her wings and preening.
"This may be my chance," Teri whispered to herself as she hung the camera around her neck and tensed for action. "If they leave, I'm ready."
Abruptly, both Red-bellies launched themselves off the tree and with their distinctive undulating flight shot into the forest, wings reflecting the patchy sunlight.
Teri raced to the enormous petrified log, grasped the crumbling bark in her hands, and pulled herself up its soft green side. Squatting at the top, she carefully stood up and balancing on her tiptoes peered into the woodpeckers dark nest cavity. Eight shiny little eyes stared back at her.
Teri raised the camera to the opening in the tree and shot several photos. Taking one last look at the precious chicks, she slid off her perch and scurried back to her hiding place behind the cottonwood.
Panting, Teri looked around and saw no sign of the adult woodpeckers, so was reasonably certain she hadn't disturbed them. She leaned back against the rough bark of the aged tree and closed her eyes, tears leaving trails in the grime on her face. What an extraordinary experience!
After catching her breath, Teri brushed the debris off her clothes and put her gear back in the backpack. Slinging the pack over her shoulder, she reluctantly started hiking out of the forest. This area was one of her favorite birding spots, never failing to provide wonderful memories and an occasional "life" bird. She was really going to miss it.
At the edge of the woods, Teri stopped and rested against a regal oak, gazing out over the sun-washed, overgrown field that butted up against the forest. She wanted to soak up just a little more of nature's healing balm before heading back to the responsibilities and craziness of life.
A Kestrel Falcon hovered above some hapless prey in the tall grass, wings vibrating.
The loud caws of crows cut through the sleepy silence of a warm afternoon.
Killdeers, with nests hidden along the edge of the meadow, sped through the blue sky, white feathers shimmering as their distinctive calls mixed with the melodious song of the meadowlarks. This was heaven.
This precious haven had been part of a huge family farm, passed down through generations, natural and wild due to a decade of benign neglect. By this time next year, rows of cloned houses, and tiny, identical yards, mailboxes and yard lights would tame the land. To Teri, that was hell.
The rumor on the grapevine was that a country club, with a golf course, would accompany the sub-division. The whole concept reminded Teri of a motel toilet: nature "sanitized for your protection". Every time she thought of it, she wanted to cry.
The developers planned to name their new project "Wolf Stream". "How ironic," Teri thought. "Chase off all the critters, then name something after them. Nothing ever changes." It reminded her of an old joke she once heard about cutting down all the trees and naming streets after them. Not very funny.
With a great deal of effort, Teri tore herself away from the pastoral scene and trudged towards her car. Pushing through the grassy pasture, the vigorous plants clung to her legs as if trying to keep her with them just a moment longer.
"Memorial weekend is the perfect time to come out here and pay my respects", Teri mused. "I should pay my respects next year on Memorial Day too, after the houses are built." The suburbs always reminded her of cemeteries: graveyards for the wilderness. The yards are the graves and the houses the monuments.
Teri reached her car and glanced back at the forest one last time. A pair of Turkey Vultures circled high over the adjoining field, drifting lazily on the afternoon thermals. The poignancy of the scene was almost too much to bear.
As Teri drove away, tears blurring her vision, she couldn't help thinking that vultures were very appropriate.
Her pulse pounded a marching cadence in her ears as Teri lowered the binoculars and painstakingly crept forward, petrified that any careless movement would spook the shy tree dweller. This was not a "life" bird for her; she had seen red-bellied woodpeckers before, but had never been fortunate enough to find a nest cavity to observe. She wiped the sweat from her brow. Maybe this would be her lucky day.
Spotting a mossy stump, Teri cautiously sank down, her focal point still on the bird. Carefully manipulating the straps, she slipped off her backpack and let it slide silently to the ground. Reaching inside, she fingered her ever-present birding journal, and carefully pulled it out, along with a pen and her camera. If the birding gods were truly smiling down on her she'd get a picture of the occupants of the nest.
Teri thought about the Red-bellied as she quietly wrote in her journal and watched him search for insects along a thick dead branch. It was a male. Handsome red feathers covered his head from the base of his sharp, chisel-like bill, to the nape of his neck.
The name Red-bellied is something of a misnomer for this sturdy bird, as his belly isn't really red. It has a faint pink wash that is viewed only in optimal conditions. Most people have never seen the bird's pink stomach feathers, so they often confuse him with a Red Headed Woodpecker because the Red-bellied's bright red head is so prominent.
Teri grimaced and shifted position as the hard working bird hopped to the next tree to continue his foraging. "Gettin' old", she thought, "stiffer than a board".
Stretching, Teri scanned the surrounding area for a dead tree with a fresh pile of wood chips littering the base, a sure sign of woodpecker activity. Red-bellies excavate cavities in dead trees 10 to 12 inches deep and 5 1/2 inches across to use as nests. She knew that they carved out these holes anywhere from 5 to 40 feet above the ground.
Teri smiled ruefully. With her luck, if she finds the nest, it'll be closer to forty feet high. That would shoot her chances of a picture all to hell; her tree climbing days were way behind her.
Suddenly, Teri spotted a heap of shavings at the bottom of an ancient deceased oak. Scrutinizing the trunk, she discovered a hole about seven feet high, and detected a gray head peering out. Her excitement mounted. Seven-foot wasn't too high, and there was a huge fallen tree laying next to the oak that she could stand on to look in the cavity.
A victorious grin spread across Teri's dirt stained face. Finally, the break she'd been hoping for.
Teri crawled forward and hunkered down behind an old cottonwood to observe the activity at the woodpecker nest. It was rare to find an unguarded Red-belly nest, as both parents incubate the eggs and tend the young. She didn't want to disturb the adults, so her only chance to see the inner sanctum of the woodpecker's home was to wait for both birds to be absent. This might never happen, but it was important enough to her that she was willing to sacrifice some time; so she got comfortable and kept her eyes riveted on the tree.
As Teri waited, her mind wandered, meandering over bird habitats and the beautiful, but endangered, woodland that she was enjoying on this Memorial Day weekend. It was an easy decision for her to take advantage of the holiday and do some birding in this region while she still could. Teri wrinkled up her forehead as she gazed at the beauty surrounding her. Unfortunately, the threat of development loomed over this magical place.
Perspiration tickled between Teri's breasts. She scratched aimlessly and continued to contemplate.
Homeowners had such an anal penchant for removing all the dead trees and branches from their property, and new subdivisions and recreational areas destroyed innumerable wooded areas. Thus, the natural environment for many species was rapidly declining. Even this once common Red-bellied is endangered in some areas due to loss of habitat.
"Woodpeckers have been on earth for 25 million years," Teri thought morosely, "And their survival in many places is being jeopardized by human self-centeredness." She thought about the awesome Ivory Billed Woodpecker already extinct in the south due entirely to the over cutting of the trees they desperately needed for food. It was just too depressing.
Teri shifted and stared up through the lacey screen of silhouetted leaves at a raptor floating effortlessly above in the unbelievably cobalt sky. A Blue Jay scolded her from a nearby tree limb. She sighed. It was so peaceful in this forest cathedral. She felt more serenity in here than in any church building. In this place, she felt closer to God.
All of a sudden, Teri stiffened as the male woodpecker returned to the nest-hole with a blurred flash of wings. He landed near the cavity and made soft "chirring" noises as he clung to the trunk, his stiff little tail helping him keep his balance. The female popped out to join him, stretching her wings and preening.
"This may be my chance," Teri whispered to herself as she hung the camera around her neck and tensed for action. "If they leave, I'm ready."
Abruptly, both Red-bellies launched themselves off the tree and with their distinctive undulating flight shot into the forest, wings reflecting the patchy sunlight.
Teri raced to the enormous petrified log, grasped the crumbling bark in her hands, and pulled herself up its soft green side. Squatting at the top, she carefully stood up and balancing on her tiptoes peered into the woodpeckers dark nest cavity. Eight shiny little eyes stared back at her.
Teri raised the camera to the opening in the tree and shot several photos. Taking one last look at the precious chicks, she slid off her perch and scurried back to her hiding place behind the cottonwood.
Panting, Teri looked around and saw no sign of the adult woodpeckers, so was reasonably certain she hadn't disturbed them. She leaned back against the rough bark of the aged tree and closed her eyes, tears leaving trails in the grime on her face. What an extraordinary experience!
After catching her breath, Teri brushed the debris off her clothes and put her gear back in the backpack. Slinging the pack over her shoulder, she reluctantly started hiking out of the forest. This area was one of her favorite birding spots, never failing to provide wonderful memories and an occasional "life" bird. She was really going to miss it.
At the edge of the woods, Teri stopped and rested against a regal oak, gazing out over the sun-washed, overgrown field that butted up against the forest. She wanted to soak up just a little more of nature's healing balm before heading back to the responsibilities and craziness of life.
A Kestrel Falcon hovered above some hapless prey in the tall grass, wings vibrating.
The loud caws of crows cut through the sleepy silence of a warm afternoon.
Killdeers, with nests hidden along the edge of the meadow, sped through the blue sky, white feathers shimmering as their distinctive calls mixed with the melodious song of the meadowlarks. This was heaven.
This precious haven had been part of a huge family farm, passed down through generations, natural and wild due to a decade of benign neglect. By this time next year, rows of cloned houses, and tiny, identical yards, mailboxes and yard lights would tame the land. To Teri, that was hell.
The rumor on the grapevine was that a country club, with a golf course, would accompany the sub-division. The whole concept reminded Teri of a motel toilet: nature "sanitized for your protection". Every time she thought of it, she wanted to cry.
The developers planned to name their new project "Wolf Stream". "How ironic," Teri thought. "Chase off all the critters, then name something after them. Nothing ever changes." It reminded her of an old joke she once heard about cutting down all the trees and naming streets after them. Not very funny.
With a great deal of effort, Teri tore herself away from the pastoral scene and trudged towards her car. Pushing through the grassy pasture, the vigorous plants clung to her legs as if trying to keep her with them just a moment longer.
"Memorial weekend is the perfect time to come out here and pay my respects", Teri mused. "I should pay my respects next year on Memorial Day too, after the houses are built." The suburbs always reminded her of cemeteries: graveyards for the wilderness. The yards are the graves and the houses the monuments.
Teri reached her car and glanced back at the forest one last time. A pair of Turkey Vultures circled high over the adjoining field, drifting lazily on the afternoon thermals. The poignancy of the scene was almost too much to bear.
As Teri drove away, tears blurring her vision, she couldn't help thinking that vultures were very appropriate.
Friday, May 28, 2010
RACHEL CARSON
Yesterday, the birthday of one of America’s pioneering environmental activists, and greatest nature writers, slipped by most of us with little or no fanfare. She was the “canary in the coalmine”, sounding the alarm about the damage chemical pesticides were doing, not only to the environment, but to ourselves.
Rachel Carson, author of “Silent Spring”, was born May 27th, 1907, in the Allegheny Valley town of Springdale, Pa. She graduated Magna Cum Laude in 1929 with a degree in zoology from Pennsylvania College for Women. She would later win her masters degree in zoology from John Hopkins. She worked for the government at the Bureau of Fisheries, and later would become the chief editor of publications for the Fish and Wildlife Service, all the while writing articles and stories for various publications.
Success allowed Ms. Carson to retire from government service in 1952 to pursue her writing full time.
In 1958, she received a letter from Olga Huckins of Duxbury, Massachusetts, expressing concern over the spraying of pesticides over a private bird sanctuary in Cape Cod. Alarmed, she decided to investigate. As she battled breast cancer, it took her four years to research and write “Silent Spring”, which explained in eloquent writing how life forms are inter-related, and how poisons used to kill insects seep through the food chain to contaminate higher animals, including us.
Of course, industry, the agriculture department, and the more cautious in the media, all staid defenders of the status quo, rallied to viciously attack the dying Rachel Carson. Time magazine called the book, “an emotional outburst” and called her an “hysterical woman”; particularly ironic since now they’ve named her one of the Worlds 100 Most Influential People of the 20th Century.
Worried that she was an alarmist, Reader’s Digest canceled a contract to condense “Silent Spring”, and Chemical World News called it “science fiction”. One member of the Federal Pest Control Board derided Ms. Carson by saying,”I thought she was a spinster. What’s she so worried about genetics for?”
Despite the predicable reaction of corporate America, who always worries about environmental visionaries and their effect on profits, “Silent Spring” became a runaway best seller, with international reverberations. Rachel Carson testified before Congress in 1963, calling for new policies to protect human health and the environment.
When she succumbed to cancer in 1964, scientists were just discovering how DDT damaged the eggshells of nesting birds, and finding the toxin in human milk. Jimmy Carter posthumously awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1980.
There is still a lot of work to do, but brave people like Rachel Carson, and others, have helped us to avoid, (so far) the potential spring that she so powerfully described.
“It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of scores of bird voices there was now no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh."
Yesterday, the birthday of one of America’s pioneering environmental activists, and greatest nature writers, slipped by most of us with little or no fanfare. She was the “canary in the coalmine”, sounding the alarm about the damage chemical pesticides were doing, not only to the environment, but to ourselves.
Rachel Carson, author of “Silent Spring”, was born May 27th, 1907, in the Allegheny Valley town of Springdale, Pa. She graduated Magna Cum Laude in 1929 with a degree in zoology from Pennsylvania College for Women. She would later win her masters degree in zoology from John Hopkins. She worked for the government at the Bureau of Fisheries, and later would become the chief editor of publications for the Fish and Wildlife Service, all the while writing articles and stories for various publications.
Success allowed Ms. Carson to retire from government service in 1952 to pursue her writing full time.
In 1958, she received a letter from Olga Huckins of Duxbury, Massachusetts, expressing concern over the spraying of pesticides over a private bird sanctuary in Cape Cod. Alarmed, she decided to investigate. As she battled breast cancer, it took her four years to research and write “Silent Spring”, which explained in eloquent writing how life forms are inter-related, and how poisons used to kill insects seep through the food chain to contaminate higher animals, including us.
Of course, industry, the agriculture department, and the more cautious in the media, all staid defenders of the status quo, rallied to viciously attack the dying Rachel Carson. Time magazine called the book, “an emotional outburst” and called her an “hysterical woman”; particularly ironic since now they’ve named her one of the Worlds 100 Most Influential People of the 20th Century.
Worried that she was an alarmist, Reader’s Digest canceled a contract to condense “Silent Spring”, and Chemical World News called it “science fiction”. One member of the Federal Pest Control Board derided Ms. Carson by saying,”I thought she was a spinster. What’s she so worried about genetics for?”
Despite the predicable reaction of corporate America, who always worries about environmental visionaries and their effect on profits, “Silent Spring” became a runaway best seller, with international reverberations. Rachel Carson testified before Congress in 1963, calling for new policies to protect human health and the environment.
When she succumbed to cancer in 1964, scientists were just discovering how DDT damaged the eggshells of nesting birds, and finding the toxin in human milk. Jimmy Carter posthumously awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1980.
There is still a lot of work to do, but brave people like Rachel Carson, and others, have helped us to avoid, (so far) the potential spring that she so powerfully described.
“It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of scores of bird voices there was now no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh."
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Rock Island Trail, Woo Hoo!
I know the process, especially the ending, was messy and unsatisfying to some, but I’m excited and ready for the Rock Island Trail expansion. I’ve biked to the current end, stared down the debris strewn Kellar Branch, and wondered, "When?" It seemed such a waste.
The six-mile long, Kellar Branch, will hook up the Rock Island Trail with Peoria’s Riverfront, and eventually East Peoria, and Morton, making part of a network that stretches more than fifty miles.
So, trail users could conceivably get on the trail anywhere from Morton to Toulon, and walk, bike or cross-country ski to any place in between. It will link nine Central Illinois communities. How cool.
I admit I have a bias on this issue. I had a “Build the Trail Now” sign in my yard and owned a bumper sticker. I bike, hike, and bird the trail and love it. The habitat along the route is beautiful and diverse, a real balm for the soul.
For too long commercial desires took precedent over the quality of life issues of the populace.
It’s not just tree hugging, ex-hippies that use the trail, I’ve shared it with seniors in visors walking as groups, bicycling moms getting some exercise, and working persons on their lunch hours in their business casual and tennis shoes. Whole families use the trail together, with kids on little bikes or in trailers behind their parents. People walk their dogs, jog, and hunt for flowers and birds. Folks walk intently, pedometers clicking while trying to lose a couple pounds. There are casual bikers and serious cyclists in training, heads down and resolute.
It’s been a long time coming. Now is the time to rinse the bad taste of the ignoble ending out of our collective mouths and move forward. Make whatever few deals are left, and dive into the “sweat on the brow” hands on part of the project. All I have to say is, let’s get going and "Build the Trail Now"!
I know the process, especially the ending, was messy and unsatisfying to some, but I’m excited and ready for the Rock Island Trail expansion. I’ve biked to the current end, stared down the debris strewn Kellar Branch, and wondered, "When?" It seemed such a waste.
The six-mile long, Kellar Branch, will hook up the Rock Island Trail with Peoria’s Riverfront, and eventually East Peoria, and Morton, making part of a network that stretches more than fifty miles.
So, trail users could conceivably get on the trail anywhere from Morton to Toulon, and walk, bike or cross-country ski to any place in between. It will link nine Central Illinois communities. How cool.
I admit I have a bias on this issue. I had a “Build the Trail Now” sign in my yard and owned a bumper sticker. I bike, hike, and bird the trail and love it. The habitat along the route is beautiful and diverse, a real balm for the soul.
For too long commercial desires took precedent over the quality of life issues of the populace.
It’s not just tree hugging, ex-hippies that use the trail, I’ve shared it with seniors in visors walking as groups, bicycling moms getting some exercise, and working persons on their lunch hours in their business casual and tennis shoes. Whole families use the trail together, with kids on little bikes or in trailers behind their parents. People walk their dogs, jog, and hunt for flowers and birds. Folks walk intently, pedometers clicking while trying to lose a couple pounds. There are casual bikers and serious cyclists in training, heads down and resolute.
It’s been a long time coming. Now is the time to rinse the bad taste of the ignoble ending out of our collective mouths and move forward. Make whatever few deals are left, and dive into the “sweat on the brow” hands on part of the project. All I have to say is, let’s get going and "Build the Trail Now"!
Monday, May 10, 2010
JUST A COUPLE QUICK THOUGHTS
It seems like Sarah and her conservative cohorts are mysteriously silent about off shore drilling (or any drilling in sensitive areas) since the oil rig explosion, and major environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.
After years of hearing from her and her ilk, that drilling was perfectly safe for delicate ecosystems, (can we say ANWR), and endangered species or wildlife areas had nothing to fear from the oil industry, we’re now hearing dead silence.
Where is the “raping and pillaging of the environment” poster girl now? I don’t hear her screeching “Drill baby drill”. Maybe she could scream “Spill baby spill”, better yet, “Kill baby kill”, because that is a perfect mantra for the situation in the Gulf.
The Deepwater Horizon explosion and oil spill is killing millions of creatures, both land and sea. Its devastating flora and fauna along the coast of several states, endangering wetlands, and coastal national treasures. And if the plight of the environment or of non-human creatures does not touch your heart, then maybe the economical impact can get around that hole in your soul and cause some emotion.
According to Felicia C. Coleman, Director of the Coastal & Marine Laboratory at Florida State University, "many of these communities rely entirely on the high ecological productivity of the northeastern Gulf of Mexico, whether they are involved in commercial or recreational fishing (valued in the billions of dollars in this part of the country) or tourism (yet more billions). In some areas, it's not a question of recovery. It will mean the loss of a way of life.''
The personal impact this disaster will have on humans is mind numbing. If money is your passion, and you don’t care about other people, or the environment, this catastrophe should still cause you to think about what we’re doing to the earth. Ill conceived actions, and mis-managed energy priorities affect everyone, even conservatives, whether they accept it or not.
It seems like Sarah and her conservative cohorts are mysteriously silent about off shore drilling (or any drilling in sensitive areas) since the oil rig explosion, and major environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.
After years of hearing from her and her ilk, that drilling was perfectly safe for delicate ecosystems, (can we say ANWR), and endangered species or wildlife areas had nothing to fear from the oil industry, we’re now hearing dead silence.
Where is the “raping and pillaging of the environment” poster girl now? I don’t hear her screeching “Drill baby drill”. Maybe she could scream “Spill baby spill”, better yet, “Kill baby kill”, because that is a perfect mantra for the situation in the Gulf.
The Deepwater Horizon explosion and oil spill is killing millions of creatures, both land and sea. Its devastating flora and fauna along the coast of several states, endangering wetlands, and coastal national treasures. And if the plight of the environment or of non-human creatures does not touch your heart, then maybe the economical impact can get around that hole in your soul and cause some emotion.
According to Felicia C. Coleman, Director of the Coastal & Marine Laboratory at Florida State University, "many of these communities rely entirely on the high ecological productivity of the northeastern Gulf of Mexico, whether they are involved in commercial or recreational fishing (valued in the billions of dollars in this part of the country) or tourism (yet more billions). In some areas, it's not a question of recovery. It will mean the loss of a way of life.''
The personal impact this disaster will have on humans is mind numbing. If money is your passion, and you don’t care about other people, or the environment, this catastrophe should still cause you to think about what we’re doing to the earth. Ill conceived actions, and mis-managed energy priorities affect everyone, even conservatives, whether they accept it or not.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Healthcare Reform
I’m not emotionally attached to my health care insurer, and I’ll take bets it couldn’t care less about me. I’m just a potential drain to its corporate profits.
That’s why I find the passionate reaction many are having to the passing of health care reform, and their weepy attachment to the status quo, very peculiar. Especially when I’ve known many people with the “keep my fingers crossed that I don’t get sick until I’m 62” health care plan.
The United State’s abysmal infant mortality rate, which ranks us 33rd in the world, behind such nations as Canada, the United Kingdom, and even Cuba, and our life expectancy ranking of 43rd in the world, shouldn’t cause the warm fuzzys. The only area of health care in which we can claim a leadership role is most money spent.
Whacky tea baggers have declared that health care reform will take away our freedom to choose. How would that be different from now? Our health care provider tells us what doctors we have to have, what hospitals, and even what pharmacy. We’ve never been able to chose. If you had a pre-existing condition, changing providers was not an option.
I’ve heard that reform will get between the patient and their doctor, causing health care rationing, and interfering with treatment. Once again, how is that different from now? Last time I saw a doctor he informed me that his partners were meeting with representatives from my insurer to get their marching orders on what tests they could and could not order. And let’s face it, if the health care insurer doesn’t pay for it, most of us aren’t going to get it. Who can whip $4,000 out of their back pockets to pay for a test?
Insurance companies get between patients, and their treatments all the time. Think of the fundraisers people have to pay for life saving transplants, or their exorbitant medical bills. People shouldn’t have to sell cupcakes to live. Insurance companies don’t care about saving our lives.
The attempt to prey on American’s emotions by invoking the image of the so called “death panels” is pathetic. If they think doctors don’t do “end of life” counseling already, then they have never had an elderly or terminal relative. We were grateful for the counseling we received every step of the way with our family.
And lastly, Canada’s socialized medicine is an urban myth. They have national group insurance. Our relatives in Canada love their health system. One of them had a serious illness during a visit to the States last year, and hotfooted it back to Canada for treatment.
I’m an American, and I’m glad they passed health care reform.
I’m not emotionally attached to my health care insurer, and I’ll take bets it couldn’t care less about me. I’m just a potential drain to its corporate profits.
That’s why I find the passionate reaction many are having to the passing of health care reform, and their weepy attachment to the status quo, very peculiar. Especially when I’ve known many people with the “keep my fingers crossed that I don’t get sick until I’m 62” health care plan.
The United State’s abysmal infant mortality rate, which ranks us 33rd in the world, behind such nations as Canada, the United Kingdom, and even Cuba, and our life expectancy ranking of 43rd in the world, shouldn’t cause the warm fuzzys. The only area of health care in which we can claim a leadership role is most money spent.
Whacky tea baggers have declared that health care reform will take away our freedom to choose. How would that be different from now? Our health care provider tells us what doctors we have to have, what hospitals, and even what pharmacy. We’ve never been able to chose. If you had a pre-existing condition, changing providers was not an option.
I’ve heard that reform will get between the patient and their doctor, causing health care rationing, and interfering with treatment. Once again, how is that different from now? Last time I saw a doctor he informed me that his partners were meeting with representatives from my insurer to get their marching orders on what tests they could and could not order. And let’s face it, if the health care insurer doesn’t pay for it, most of us aren’t going to get it. Who can whip $4,000 out of their back pockets to pay for a test?
Insurance companies get between patients, and their treatments all the time. Think of the fundraisers people have to pay for life saving transplants, or their exorbitant medical bills. People shouldn’t have to sell cupcakes to live. Insurance companies don’t care about saving our lives.
The attempt to prey on American’s emotions by invoking the image of the so called “death panels” is pathetic. If they think doctors don’t do “end of life” counseling already, then they have never had an elderly or terminal relative. We were grateful for the counseling we received every step of the way with our family.
And lastly, Canada’s socialized medicine is an urban myth. They have national group insurance. Our relatives in Canada love their health system. One of them had a serious illness during a visit to the States last year, and hotfooted it back to Canada for treatment.
I’m an American, and I’m glad they passed health care reform.
Friday, April 30, 2010
To Mow or Not to Mow
To Mow or Not to Mow
Spring has sprung with a vengeance, and a lawn mower soundtrack has punctuated many of my excursions outside this past month. Grass cutting season is here again, and the competition has begun to see who can have the greenest, neatest, most weed free patch of organic wasteland in the neighborhood.
According to the National Wildlife Federation, Americans use 30 to 60 percent of the potable municipal water, and about 67 million pounds of synthetic pesticides annually for lawn care. My question is, to what purpose?
I have never understood the passion for neat, obsessively trimmed, unnaturally green squares of barren lawn. I’ve always wanted to live on land that was a nurturing place for wildlife, not a hazardous waste site where eating a poisoned insect could kill a bird, or grazing on herbicide drenched plants could snuff out an animal’s life.
We are on this earth as stewards of the planet, not invaders perpetuating an occupation. The point is to live in harmony with nature, not beat the planet into submission. It’s not a war.
My husband and I try to garden for flora and fauna. A 150 by 25 foot section of our yard has gone natural with native wildflowers (some might consider them weeds), trees and shrubs. We wouldn’t let a lawn chemical company anywhere near our lawn, and also try to plant vegetation that benefits wildlife in some way, either by food or shelter. The National Wildlife Federation has certified our yard as a Backyard Wildlife Habitat site.
To become a Backyard Wildlife Habitat we had to document with pictures and site maps that our property provided food, water, nesting areas, and cover for wildlife. We also had to promise to garden in an environmentally friendly way by mulching, reducing lawn areas, restoring native plants, and having a chemical free lawn. Brush piles dot our acre as cover for the critters that live here.
Sometimes, with all the wildlife our yard attracts, our back yard resembles a scene from Wild Kingdom. We’d have it no other way. I am so glad to live in a neighborhood with no anal “Association” issuing orders on how to maintain our own property.
So, this spring, when the frenzy of the neighborhood lawn competition threatens to overcome you, remember this quote by Rachel Carson, author of “Silent Spring” and one of the twentieth century’s greatest naturalists.
“The "control of nature" is a phrase conceived in arrogance, born of the Neanderthal age of biology and the convenience of man.”
Spring has sprung with a vengeance, and a lawn mower soundtrack has punctuated many of my excursions outside this past month. Grass cutting season is here again, and the competition has begun to see who can have the greenest, neatest, most weed free patch of organic wasteland in the neighborhood.
According to the National Wildlife Federation, Americans use 30 to 60 percent of the potable municipal water, and about 67 million pounds of synthetic pesticides annually for lawn care. My question is, to what purpose?
I have never understood the passion for neat, obsessively trimmed, unnaturally green squares of barren lawn. I’ve always wanted to live on land that was a nurturing place for wildlife, not a hazardous waste site where eating a poisoned insect could kill a bird, or grazing on herbicide drenched plants could snuff out an animal’s life.
We are on this earth as stewards of the planet, not invaders perpetuating an occupation. The point is to live in harmony with nature, not beat the planet into submission. It’s not a war.
My husband and I try to garden for flora and fauna. A 150 by 25 foot section of our yard has gone natural with native wildflowers (some might consider them weeds), trees and shrubs. We wouldn’t let a lawn chemical company anywhere near our lawn, and also try to plant vegetation that benefits wildlife in some way, either by food or shelter. The National Wildlife Federation has certified our yard as a Backyard Wildlife Habitat site.
To become a Backyard Wildlife Habitat we had to document with pictures and site maps that our property provided food, water, nesting areas, and cover for wildlife. We also had to promise to garden in an environmentally friendly way by mulching, reducing lawn areas, restoring native plants, and having a chemical free lawn. Brush piles dot our acre as cover for the critters that live here.
Sometimes, with all the wildlife our yard attracts, our back yard resembles a scene from Wild Kingdom. We’d have it no other way. I am so glad to live in a neighborhood with no anal “Association” issuing orders on how to maintain our own property.
So, this spring, when the frenzy of the neighborhood lawn competition threatens to overcome you, remember this quote by Rachel Carson, author of “Silent Spring” and one of the twentieth century’s greatest naturalists.
“The "control of nature" is a phrase conceived in arrogance, born of the Neanderthal age of biology and the convenience of man.”
THE CASE OF THE OVERZEALOUS LAWN WARRIORS
It was a bright and hot summer day. Bright enough to cause everyone to walk around looking like Secret Service rejects in their Maui Jim’s, and hot enough to fry the proverbial egg on the sidewalk, assuming you like dirt, and bug parts in your breakfast.
I was in my office with the door locked, slumped in my expensive custom made executive ergonomic chair, my Sportsman Guide Assuie crushable hat pulled down over my eyes, keeping out distractions, while I tried to sneak in forty winks. I’d been up all night absorbed in a Harry Potter novel, my hiney was drag’in, and I didn’t want my secretary, or Administrative Assistant as he insisted on being called, Bob, to find out I’d been sucked in by a kid’s novel.
That boy wizard sucked me in alright. I was as hooked as a trout on a fly rod, but that was another story.
I should have felt guilty about sleeping at work, but it was my office and I was the boss; Indigo Bunting, Environmental Detective. The only big shot I had to answer to was me, and I was too tired to yell at myself.
An annoying sound, as persistent as a fly at a picnic, buzzed around the room and landed in my head, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my siesta. My eyes shot open, and my fuzzy brain analyzed the distraction, then my nose confirmed it. The drone of a lawn care company dousing my neighbor’s lawn with poison was interrupting my meditation session.
My fellow citizens were neck deep into the “Trophy Lawn” competition. They lived for their green, neat, weed free patches of organic wasteland. My clover and wild violet inhabited yard gave them nightmares.
As an Environmental Detective, my question was, to what purpose?
I never let a chemical company anywhere near my yard, despite their happy trucks with pictures of animals on the sides. According to the EPA, 95% of the pesticides used on residential lawns are possible or probable carcinogens. Bob had orders to read the salespeople the precautions off an herbicide or pesticide label if they called. That’s enough to make my blood run cold, and I’m not easily frightened; I’m a professional.
It was impossible to snooze with that nonsense going on next door, so I straightened up, pulled up my hat, and yelled to Bob that I was taking the afternoon off. I was going to try to find a quiet place to resume my nap.
As I grabbed my bicycle lock key and headed for the door, I thought I might stop by the bookstore and buy a copy of Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” to send my neighbor. She’d give them plenty of chow for thought. Not fast food with empty calories, but healthy meaty fare for their consideration; something to make the ol’ brain pan chew a bit.
I stepped outside; the summer sauna, cranked up as high as it could go, enveloped me in steamy air and made me wish I had gills.
Birds were everywhere, belting out the Halleluiah Chorus in ten part harmony. As I got on my bike, a quote from Ms. Carson’s book predicting the empty and silent place the world would be with lawn poisons run amok came to mind, and made me shudder like a Weight Watcher in a Krispy Kreme.
It was a bright and hot summer day. Bright enough to cause everyone to walk around looking like Secret Service rejects in their Maui Jim’s, and hot enough to fry the proverbial egg on the sidewalk, assuming you like dirt, and bug parts in your breakfast.
I was in my office with the door locked, slumped in my expensive custom made executive ergonomic chair, my Sportsman Guide Assuie crushable hat pulled down over my eyes, keeping out distractions, while I tried to sneak in forty winks. I’d been up all night absorbed in a Harry Potter novel, my hiney was drag’in, and I didn’t want my secretary, or Administrative Assistant as he insisted on being called, Bob, to find out I’d been sucked in by a kid’s novel.
That boy wizard sucked me in alright. I was as hooked as a trout on a fly rod, but that was another story.
I should have felt guilty about sleeping at work, but it was my office and I was the boss; Indigo Bunting, Environmental Detective. The only big shot I had to answer to was me, and I was too tired to yell at myself.
An annoying sound, as persistent as a fly at a picnic, buzzed around the room and landed in my head, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my siesta. My eyes shot open, and my fuzzy brain analyzed the distraction, then my nose confirmed it. The drone of a lawn care company dousing my neighbor’s lawn with poison was interrupting my meditation session.
My fellow citizens were neck deep into the “Trophy Lawn” competition. They lived for their green, neat, weed free patches of organic wasteland. My clover and wild violet inhabited yard gave them nightmares.
As an Environmental Detective, my question was, to what purpose?
I never let a chemical company anywhere near my yard, despite their happy trucks with pictures of animals on the sides. According to the EPA, 95% of the pesticides used on residential lawns are possible or probable carcinogens. Bob had orders to read the salespeople the precautions off an herbicide or pesticide label if they called. That’s enough to make my blood run cold, and I’m not easily frightened; I’m a professional.
It was impossible to snooze with that nonsense going on next door, so I straightened up, pulled up my hat, and yelled to Bob that I was taking the afternoon off. I was going to try to find a quiet place to resume my nap.
As I grabbed my bicycle lock key and headed for the door, I thought I might stop by the bookstore and buy a copy of Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” to send my neighbor. She’d give them plenty of chow for thought. Not fast food with empty calories, but healthy meaty fare for their consideration; something to make the ol’ brain pan chew a bit.
I stepped outside; the summer sauna, cranked up as high as it could go, enveloped me in steamy air and made me wish I had gills.
Birds were everywhere, belting out the Halleluiah Chorus in ten part harmony. As I got on my bike, a quote from Ms. Carson’s book predicting the empty and silent place the world would be with lawn poisons run amok came to mind, and made me shudder like a Weight Watcher in a Krispy Kreme.
Earth Day
I admit I’m old enough to remember the first “Earth Day” in 1970. Actually, a short story I wrote for an “Earth Day” writing contest sponsored by ISU around 1973 was the first time I received compensation for my writing. My story, titled “Unbalanced”, won first place in the fiction category, and I received a whopping $5.00.
In 1969, US Senator Gaylord Nelson, a Democrat from Wisconsin, came up with the idea of “Earth day”. He was concerned that across the country, evidence of environmental degradation was overwhelming, and everyone noticed except the political establishment. The environmental issue was not on the nation's political agenda. People were concerned, but the politicians weren’t.
He thought that if he could tap into the concerns of the public, and direct the student anti-war energy into the environmental cause, he could generate demonstrations across the country that would force the issue onto the national political scene.
At a conference in 1969, Senator Nelson announced that in the spring of 1970 there would be a national grassroots demonstration on behalf of the environment. The result of his announcement was more than he could have imagined. Inquiries poured into his office from all across the country. When the first “Earth Day” was over, 20 million demonstrators and thousands of schools and local communities had participated.
Thirty nine years later, we’re not only still celebrating “Earth day”, but its message is as relevant as ever. We continue to consume or destroy our air, water, soil, forests, minerals, rivers, lakes, oceans, scenic beauty, wildlife habitats and bio-diversity. If you want a perfect example just look at the Gulf Coast right now. It's an environmental disaster that will haunt us for a long time; the ramifications are catastrophic. This is not a sustainable situation in the long term. We can stick our heads in the sand for a while, but eventually our bottoms are going to notice a problem. When it’s all gone, we’ll have nothing left except a wasteland.
If you want to have less of a negative impact on the earth, there are some simple things you can do right now without much effort. It won't put the oil back under the ocean floor, but it's a small step in the right direction. You can recycle your papers, reuse your water bottles, buy compact fluorescent light bulbs, compost, grow your own veggies or buy locally, etc. Also, if you’re interested there are many environmentally friendly sites to peruse such as Sierra club, and the National Wildlife Federation. They contain wonderful ideas to help the planet.
Let’s remember the words of Chief Seattle, Chief of the Suquamish people,
This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
I admit I’m old enough to remember the first “Earth Day” in 1970. Actually, a short story I wrote for an “Earth Day” writing contest sponsored by ISU around 1973 was the first time I received compensation for my writing. My story, titled “Unbalanced”, won first place in the fiction category, and I received a whopping $5.00.
In 1969, US Senator Gaylord Nelson, a Democrat from Wisconsin, came up with the idea of “Earth day”. He was concerned that across the country, evidence of environmental degradation was overwhelming, and everyone noticed except the political establishment. The environmental issue was not on the nation's political agenda. People were concerned, but the politicians weren’t.
He thought that if he could tap into the concerns of the public, and direct the student anti-war energy into the environmental cause, he could generate demonstrations across the country that would force the issue onto the national political scene.
At a conference in 1969, Senator Nelson announced that in the spring of 1970 there would be a national grassroots demonstration on behalf of the environment. The result of his announcement was more than he could have imagined. Inquiries poured into his office from all across the country. When the first “Earth Day” was over, 20 million demonstrators and thousands of schools and local communities had participated.
Thirty nine years later, we’re not only still celebrating “Earth day”, but its message is as relevant as ever. We continue to consume or destroy our air, water, soil, forests, minerals, rivers, lakes, oceans, scenic beauty, wildlife habitats and bio-diversity. If you want a perfect example just look at the Gulf Coast right now. It's an environmental disaster that will haunt us for a long time; the ramifications are catastrophic. This is not a sustainable situation in the long term. We can stick our heads in the sand for a while, but eventually our bottoms are going to notice a problem. When it’s all gone, we’ll have nothing left except a wasteland.
If you want to have less of a negative impact on the earth, there are some simple things you can do right now without much effort. It won't put the oil back under the ocean floor, but it's a small step in the right direction. You can recycle your papers, reuse your water bottles, buy compact fluorescent light bulbs, compost, grow your own veggies or buy locally, etc. Also, if you’re interested there are many environmentally friendly sites to peruse such as Sierra club, and the National Wildlife Federation. They contain wonderful ideas to help the planet.
Let’s remember the words of Chief Seattle, Chief of the Suquamish people,
This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
Monday, April 26, 2010
My Heart is on the Left
I am a liberal.
Yes, I’m one of those Godless, heathen liberals of whom everyone is so afraid. Only I’m not.
Oh, I’m a liberal all right, just not Godless, and since the definition of a heathen is, “one who does not believe in God or the Bible, unenlightened, or one who is neither Christian, Jew, nor Mohammedan”, I’m not a heathen either.
For far too many years, it’s been great sport by non-liberals to blame everything wrong in the U.S.A., no, the world, on us. And, now, the cacophony of sound is rising to a screeching crescendo.
About the only thing not blamed on liberals are natural disasters. Oh wait, I do remember hearing a couple “deep thinkers” blame heathen liberal policies for God smiting the Gulf Coast with hurricane Katrina, and since then, a few others. Sounded a lot like Muslim clerics saying that indecently dressed ladies caused earthquakes.
This carbon dates me, but I loved Arte Johnson’s “Wolfgang” character on the old “Laugh In” show. The smoking Nazi officer that used to pop out from behind various hiding places and comment on the show’s preceding sketch with his catch phrase, “Verrry interesting,….but schtoopid”.
That’s how I feel when politicians fling the “liberal” word at each other, as if they’re administering the “Coup de Grace” in a bullfight.
“You’re a liberal”
“No you’re one, and so’s your mother.”
“You’re a closet liberal.”
And so it goes.
Am I missing the whole point? Why is that an insult? Without liberals, there’d be no Social Security, or Medicare. The Peace Corps wouldn’t exist, and women would still not have the right to vote, which was a pretty radical position for those times.
Roget’s Thesaurus lists the synonyms for liberal as, “generous, abundant, lavish, broadminded, tolerant, enlightened, and charitable”, among others. Tree hugger, bleeding heart; OK, I’ll happily wear those labels.
I don’t flash secret hand signals to others of my ilk, or sneaky winks as I slink into my liberal clubhouse. I wear the label proudly, as did John F. Kennedy, as he defined the term in a 1960 speech.
“But if by a "Liberal" they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people -- their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights, and their civil liberties -- someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our policies abroad, if that is what they mean by a "Liberal," then I'm proud to say I'm a "Liberal."
So am I. I wear my heart proudly on the left.
Yes, I’m one of those Godless, heathen liberals of whom everyone is so afraid. Only I’m not.
Oh, I’m a liberal all right, just not Godless, and since the definition of a heathen is, “one who does not believe in God or the Bible, unenlightened, or one who is neither Christian, Jew, nor Mohammedan”, I’m not a heathen either.
For far too many years, it’s been great sport by non-liberals to blame everything wrong in the U.S.A., no, the world, on us. And, now, the cacophony of sound is rising to a screeching crescendo.
About the only thing not blamed on liberals are natural disasters. Oh wait, I do remember hearing a couple “deep thinkers” blame heathen liberal policies for God smiting the Gulf Coast with hurricane Katrina, and since then, a few others. Sounded a lot like Muslim clerics saying that indecently dressed ladies caused earthquakes.
This carbon dates me, but I loved Arte Johnson’s “Wolfgang” character on the old “Laugh In” show. The smoking Nazi officer that used to pop out from behind various hiding places and comment on the show’s preceding sketch with his catch phrase, “Verrry interesting,….but schtoopid”.
That’s how I feel when politicians fling the “liberal” word at each other, as if they’re administering the “Coup de Grace” in a bullfight.
“You’re a liberal”
“No you’re one, and so’s your mother.”
“You’re a closet liberal.”
And so it goes.
Am I missing the whole point? Why is that an insult? Without liberals, there’d be no Social Security, or Medicare. The Peace Corps wouldn’t exist, and women would still not have the right to vote, which was a pretty radical position for those times.
Roget’s Thesaurus lists the synonyms for liberal as, “generous, abundant, lavish, broadminded, tolerant, enlightened, and charitable”, among others. Tree hugger, bleeding heart; OK, I’ll happily wear those labels.
I don’t flash secret hand signals to others of my ilk, or sneaky winks as I slink into my liberal clubhouse. I wear the label proudly, as did John F. Kennedy, as he defined the term in a 1960 speech.
“But if by a "Liberal" they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people -- their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights, and their civil liberties -- someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our policies abroad, if that is what they mean by a "Liberal," then I'm proud to say I'm a "Liberal."
So am I. I wear my heart proudly on the left.
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