We humans have always had a need to mark the passing of seasons. Modern people keep a precise calendar, as we tick off the days, months, years. We take special note of days like Christmas, New Year’s, and the solstices. We celebrate them and attach much significance to them—even though many of them are arbitrary milestones. (Why does the new year fall on January 1? Or the week begin with Sunday?)
For most of my life I have observed these popular milestones, and had my activities governed by them. The four seasonal days—the solstices and equinoxes—are not arbitrary; they are precise astronomical events. They signal summer’s longest and winter’s shortest days, as well as the in-between times when day and night are exactly equal in length. When I lived in an urban environment, in mainstream culture, these were the notable benchmarks of the year.
For the close-to-the-land, rural life we now lead, however, I have discovered four other seasonal days that hold more meaning for us: the Celtic cross-quarter days. They fall halfway between the solstices and equinoxes. Why do they have more meaning for us? Although the summer and winter solstices have definite astronomical significance, their passage can barely be discerned. Since the root meaning of solstice is “sun stand still,” the solstices are a pretty sluggish time of the year. Despite knowing that it’s an eventful day, the weather pretty much stagnates in the days before and after a solstice. Just the opposite happens at the equinoxes: the day’s length is changing so fast that one can’t keep up with the pace. They’re gone, before one can get tuned into the change.
The cross-quarter days meant much more to our European ancestors, because they marked turning points of the seasons, signaling the advent of a new period that could be felt right then. The life of an agrarian dweller turns a corner at the cross-quarter days, shifting into a new phase. The ancients threw major celebrations at these times, to show gratitude for being alive and to entreat the gods to smile upon them. These four days did not fall on a precise day. Since seasons vary from year to year, the cross-quarter days fell within a week-long window.
The Celtic New Year began with Samhain (inexplicably pronounced, in true British Isles tradition, as SOW-win); on or around November 1. Thus it falls halfway between fall equinox and winter solstice. It begins the dark quarter of the year—the onset of winter. Nature is preparing to shut down. Many plants and insects die to next spring’s generation, or go dormant. Death is at hand. Halloween is our modern marker of Samhain.
Three months later Imbolc arrives, at the beginning of February. This is the time when winter is losing its grip on the land. It’s the earliest hint of spring. Buds swell, underground seeds stir, cows lactate. (Imbolc means “in milk.”) The European ancients divined the near future (Is winter really over?) by consulting hedgehogs. In Pennsylvania, German immigrants found that ground hogs worked.
Near the beginning of May, Beltane is celebrated. Life is thoroughly blossoming. Plants are beginning vigorous growth. But our ancestors, leery of cold days still hovering in the woods, felt the need to encourage the fecund summer to fully arrive by dancing around a maypole—a phallic symbol of an erotic and sensual time of the year.
The last cross-quarter day of the Celtic year is Lughnasad—at the beginning of August. It’s harvest time—time to reap the benefits of Nature’s gifts. Named after Lugh, the solar god, Lughnasad was a time to celebrate the horn of plenty, but also to note the closing of summer and turning the corner into fall. With the harvest in, they knew colder days were coming—the Wheel of the Year turns ‘round once again.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Values, Valuables, Goods, Services
These four terms have overlapping definitions. Thus they are sometimes used in a confusing manner. They also get a spin put on them that implies money is the determinant factor in defining them. Capitalism tends to put a price on everything. Everything becomes a commodity—to be bought or sold for a profit. When used in a more fundamental (i.e., from the dictionary) sense, however, there can be interesting distinctions between these words, I think. First, let me be clear on how I’m using them.
Value is a word I’m using more as a verb—in the sense of having esteem or regard for something. What we value is a personal choice and can say something about our priorities and morals. Moreover, one can value both material and immaterial things. If I value truth, for example, I’ll tend to act differently than if I value owning a lavish house.
Something that is considered valuable often has a high price put on it by society. Most of us will pay good money for an item that the general public values, if we really want it. American culture urges me to acquire as many valuables—in the way of material things—as I can. On the other hand, an item can also be personally deemed valuable, even if it’s commonly considered inexpensive. (We all possess what we consider to be valuables that would bring little or nothing on eBay.)
By goods, I mean the merchandise or property that we exchange for money. Goods and valuables can be quite interchangeable, from this perspective.
Finally, I’m using services as meaning nonmaterial goods. Services may be thought of as one’s labor or time that one person provides to another. Sometimes it’s a gift, sometimes it’s for a price. Many people work “for the man,” providing services in exchange for money that can then be used to acquire goods or other kinds of services.
To be reckoned valuable in a public sense, therefore, something must have a certain market appeal. Supply and demand determines the cost of something; and raises that cost if it’s perceived as scarce. We’re taught to get the highest price for what we’re selling and the lowest for what we buy. It’s the way we acquire more goods; it’s how we grow the economy.
What I find intriguing is that many of the things in life that I consider to be the most valuable are actually free—or once were, and maybe ought still to be. What price can we put on love? Religious freedom? Clean air? Pure water? Often, however, they all come at a price… a high price. For example, bottled water (not as pure as we’re led to believe) costs hundreds of times more than tap water.
What kind of a society might we be, if the following goods and services were freely available (were a citizen’s right, even): clean air and water, a college education, a fair wage, good health care, safety, an unpolluted environment? Is it inevitable that they either cost a lot or are simply unavailable to most of us?
Value is a word I’m using more as a verb—in the sense of having esteem or regard for something. What we value is a personal choice and can say something about our priorities and morals. Moreover, one can value both material and immaterial things. If I value truth, for example, I’ll tend to act differently than if I value owning a lavish house.
Something that is considered valuable often has a high price put on it by society. Most of us will pay good money for an item that the general public values, if we really want it. American culture urges me to acquire as many valuables—in the way of material things—as I can. On the other hand, an item can also be personally deemed valuable, even if it’s commonly considered inexpensive. (We all possess what we consider to be valuables that would bring little or nothing on eBay.)
By goods, I mean the merchandise or property that we exchange for money. Goods and valuables can be quite interchangeable, from this perspective.
Finally, I’m using services as meaning nonmaterial goods. Services may be thought of as one’s labor or time that one person provides to another. Sometimes it’s a gift, sometimes it’s for a price. Many people work “for the man,” providing services in exchange for money that can then be used to acquire goods or other kinds of services.
To be reckoned valuable in a public sense, therefore, something must have a certain market appeal. Supply and demand determines the cost of something; and raises that cost if it’s perceived as scarce. We’re taught to get the highest price for what we’re selling and the lowest for what we buy. It’s the way we acquire more goods; it’s how we grow the economy.
What I find intriguing is that many of the things in life that I consider to be the most valuable are actually free—or once were, and maybe ought still to be. What price can we put on love? Religious freedom? Clean air? Pure water? Often, however, they all come at a price… a high price. For example, bottled water (not as pure as we’re led to believe) costs hundreds of times more than tap water.
What kind of a society might we be, if the following goods and services were freely available (were a citizen’s right, even): clean air and water, a college education, a fair wage, good health care, safety, an unpolluted environment? Is it inevitable that they either cost a lot or are simply unavailable to most of us?
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Bird Ventriloquists
I love listening to birds. They sing constantly around here and I’m up pretty early in the morning, catching their concerts. I love to hear their songs—taking joy in listening to old friends’ familiar calls and puzzling over songs that I can’t yet identify. Bird songs—when you put attention to them—are amazingly varied and complex.
Most of the singing occurs in the morning, by males declaring their territory. Before they dive into the day’s work, they wake up with boisterous song. The louder, longer, and more complex his song, the better his chance at attracting females, as well as deterring his rivals.
Birds can tell how far away their challenger is by the timbre of the received call. As sound propagates through the woods, its acoustic properties are altered. For example, high frequencies are muffled more than low frequencies; so the farther away the caller, the softer the call. A bird can listen to what he hears and judge the range of his adversary. If it comes from what he thinks is a safe distance, it’s no problem. If it sounds close, however, he’d best consider flying toward the sound and facing the guy down.
Now here comes the fascinating part: Some birds are able to alter the timbre of their song in a way that makes it sound to a rival that he’s closer than he really is. It’s a way of fooling the adversary into defending a boundary that’s appears nearer than it really is (or backing off). The crafty singer can then lie back and goof off, having effectively expanded his territory—by voice alone.
I look upon these birds as ventriloquists. I have no idea if we have such gifted avian tricksters around here—it’s a subtlety that my ear is as yet too uneducated to catch. But I do believe that our resident birds sometimes “throw their voice,” in the way that a human ventriloquist does—making it sound to the listener as if it’s coming from a different place; maybe not farther or closer, but a separate location.
What I sometimes can distinguish is a voice-throwing sound, when a bird calls in the woods—particularly with a two- or three-part song. When I hear the first part, I can roughly guess where he is—in what direction and how far away. But then the second part of the call sometimes throws me off: it can sound as if it’s coming from a different part of the woods—even though I know it’s the call of the same bird. It is discombobulating to hear the source of the call seemingly and repeatedly jump from one area of the woods to another. He may sound first like he’s down by the creek, but then he’s up on the hill, then he’s back down by the creek, then...
Most of the singing occurs in the morning, by males declaring their territory. Before they dive into the day’s work, they wake up with boisterous song. The louder, longer, and more complex his song, the better his chance at attracting females, as well as deterring his rivals.
Birds can tell how far away their challenger is by the timbre of the received call. As sound propagates through the woods, its acoustic properties are altered. For example, high frequencies are muffled more than low frequencies; so the farther away the caller, the softer the call. A bird can listen to what he hears and judge the range of his adversary. If it comes from what he thinks is a safe distance, it’s no problem. If it sounds close, however, he’d best consider flying toward the sound and facing the guy down.
Now here comes the fascinating part: Some birds are able to alter the timbre of their song in a way that makes it sound to a rival that he’s closer than he really is. It’s a way of fooling the adversary into defending a boundary that’s appears nearer than it really is (or backing off). The crafty singer can then lie back and goof off, having effectively expanded his territory—by voice alone.
I look upon these birds as ventriloquists. I have no idea if we have such gifted avian tricksters around here—it’s a subtlety that my ear is as yet too uneducated to catch. But I do believe that our resident birds sometimes “throw their voice,” in the way that a human ventriloquist does—making it sound to the listener as if it’s coming from a different place; maybe not farther or closer, but a separate location.
What I sometimes can distinguish is a voice-throwing sound, when a bird calls in the woods—particularly with a two- or three-part song. When I hear the first part, I can roughly guess where he is—in what direction and how far away. But then the second part of the call sometimes throws me off: it can sound as if it’s coming from a different part of the woods—even though I know it’s the call of the same bird. It is discombobulating to hear the source of the call seemingly and repeatedly jump from one area of the woods to another. He may sound first like he’s down by the creek, but then he’s up on the hill, then he’s back down by the creek, then...
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Dangerous Hominid
In their recent book The Last Human, the authors describe Homo sapiens as a “dangerous hominid.” We are the last surviving human species. All others went extinct—some of them directly driven out by us or our hominid ancestors.
Some 6-8 million years ago there were several species of primates—all dwelt in trees and moved around mostly on four legs on those brief occasions when they came to ground. Then when the dense tropical forests dried and disappeared, some primates descended from the trees and adapted to walking on two legs. Nature tried several parallel experiments—fostering several alternate species of hominid. Some failed, some were driven to extinction. Our ancestors won the contest.
In time our brains grew and we developed sophisticated tool-making skills. These adaptations pulled us away from other animals—including our primate cousins, like the great apes. We became the only species for which symbolism was the dominant way of relating to our world. We deconstruct and then recreate the world in our head, using a mass of mental symbols. It is that mental world in which we live—not necessarily the real one.
This capability is powerful—it’s how we were able to develop those sophisticated tools, create language, and spread knowledge via that language and written symbols in books. The use of language involves the manipulation of mental symbols, giving them an infinite variety of meanings. Language is a complete metaphor for symbolic thought. It’s also allowed us to project forward and backward in time, and to transmit our mind to the outer limits of the universe. What other species has any concept of what’s happening on the other side of the planet, let alone Mars? Our symbolism has allowed us humans to become dominant; a formidable creature. We’ve enveloped the globe and turned its resources to our use.
Although the use of symbols is not exclusive to humans, we dwarf all other species in its use. While we live mostly in our heads (manipulating those symbols), other creatures interact with the world simply as nature presents itself to them. While they do not have our superior cognitive abilities, their world can be more real. Ours can become dangerously aberrant, when our inner symbols become distorted.
We are continuing to find out just what we can do with our big brain and our still-emerging symbolic gifts. Human history is scattered with multiple examples of our dangerous activities in the world—both to other species and to ourselves. What does the possibility of ongoing evolutionary development of our symbolic capabilities say for our future? It may give us hope that we are still evolving and may do so in a more peaceful direction.
Some 6-8 million years ago there were several species of primates—all dwelt in trees and moved around mostly on four legs on those brief occasions when they came to ground. Then when the dense tropical forests dried and disappeared, some primates descended from the trees and adapted to walking on two legs. Nature tried several parallel experiments—fostering several alternate species of hominid. Some failed, some were driven to extinction. Our ancestors won the contest.
In time our brains grew and we developed sophisticated tool-making skills. These adaptations pulled us away from other animals—including our primate cousins, like the great apes. We became the only species for which symbolism was the dominant way of relating to our world. We deconstruct and then recreate the world in our head, using a mass of mental symbols. It is that mental world in which we live—not necessarily the real one.
This capability is powerful—it’s how we were able to develop those sophisticated tools, create language, and spread knowledge via that language and written symbols in books. The use of language involves the manipulation of mental symbols, giving them an infinite variety of meanings. Language is a complete metaphor for symbolic thought. It’s also allowed us to project forward and backward in time, and to transmit our mind to the outer limits of the universe. What other species has any concept of what’s happening on the other side of the planet, let alone Mars? Our symbolism has allowed us humans to become dominant; a formidable creature. We’ve enveloped the globe and turned its resources to our use.
Although the use of symbols is not exclusive to humans, we dwarf all other species in its use. While we live mostly in our heads (manipulating those symbols), other creatures interact with the world simply as nature presents itself to them. While they do not have our superior cognitive abilities, their world can be more real. Ours can become dangerously aberrant, when our inner symbols become distorted.
We are continuing to find out just what we can do with our big brain and our still-emerging symbolic gifts. Human history is scattered with multiple examples of our dangerous activities in the world—both to other species and to ourselves. What does the possibility of ongoing evolutionary development of our symbolic capabilities say for our future? It may give us hope that we are still evolving and may do so in a more peaceful direction.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Wood Thrush Encounters
Listening to bird calls is an endlessly enjoyable game for me. Trying to identify some of the birds I hear has been a big challenge—which the purchase of a CD containing the calls of all American birds has only marginally helped. (Maybe the choices are just too many?)
Some birds call with melodious songs, while others seem to squawk with a nerve-jangling noise. I love ‘em all! The star of our bird singers is the wood thrush—the winner of the most-beautiful song category, hands down.
It took me awhile to identify the wood thrush from its call, as it is a very shy creature. It prefers dense woods and is a mottled brown-and-cream color, that effectively fades it into the background. We are fortunate to have several of these birds in our surrounding woods. They are the first singer in the early morning and the last to sign off at night. It is helpful that he often sings alone, because his song is quiet and exquisitely beautiful. One wants to listen fully when he calls.
The wood thrush song is extremely varied and complex, consisting of three parts, or movements. Part one begins very quietly—a soft, low “po po po,” that can be heard only if he’s very close. In fact, it’s more like a warm up and not a real call. Part two is a gurgling, flute-like movement, of 3-4 notes. Part three is a very high-pitched single note, sung in a rich, tremolo manner. The note is held for a moment and then allowed to fade.
The interesting part of his song is the second movement. It’s like a Bach invention—the same 3-4 notes are played each time in a different order and tempo, creating multiple variations on a theme. But part three also varies beautifully. It’s pretty much the same note each time, but is given fascinatingly varied buzzes, trills, and overtones.
The wood thrush assembles his complete song in endless variations. Sometimes one movement will be eliminated; sometimes it gets repeated twice, alone. I’ll find myself riveted by his performance, hoping he doesn’t stop, trying to guess what variation he’ll do next. What an incredible skill!
Of the many hundreds of times I’ve encountered the wood thrush song, I’ve seen the bird only twice. Once my spouse and I were hiking through the woods when two thrushes flew down to the ground in a clearing and played with each other for a couple of minutes. We stood as statues, stunned. The other “face-to-foot” encounter was completely bizarre. Walking slowly to my hermitage at dusk one night, I stepped on a wood thrush. Yes! Stepped on one! That’s about as likely as getting hit on the head with a meteorite. I thought I had crushed it, but it slowly and weakly hobbled off into the underbrush. I doubt that he had the wind to sing that evening.
Some birds call with melodious songs, while others seem to squawk with a nerve-jangling noise. I love ‘em all! The star of our bird singers is the wood thrush—the winner of the most-beautiful song category, hands down.
It took me awhile to identify the wood thrush from its call, as it is a very shy creature. It prefers dense woods and is a mottled brown-and-cream color, that effectively fades it into the background. We are fortunate to have several of these birds in our surrounding woods. They are the first singer in the early morning and the last to sign off at night. It is helpful that he often sings alone, because his song is quiet and exquisitely beautiful. One wants to listen fully when he calls.
The wood thrush song is extremely varied and complex, consisting of three parts, or movements. Part one begins very quietly—a soft, low “po po po,” that can be heard only if he’s very close. In fact, it’s more like a warm up and not a real call. Part two is a gurgling, flute-like movement, of 3-4 notes. Part three is a very high-pitched single note, sung in a rich, tremolo manner. The note is held for a moment and then allowed to fade.
The interesting part of his song is the second movement. It’s like a Bach invention—the same 3-4 notes are played each time in a different order and tempo, creating multiple variations on a theme. But part three also varies beautifully. It’s pretty much the same note each time, but is given fascinatingly varied buzzes, trills, and overtones.
The wood thrush assembles his complete song in endless variations. Sometimes one movement will be eliminated; sometimes it gets repeated twice, alone. I’ll find myself riveted by his performance, hoping he doesn’t stop, trying to guess what variation he’ll do next. What an incredible skill!
Of the many hundreds of times I’ve encountered the wood thrush song, I’ve seen the bird only twice. Once my spouse and I were hiking through the woods when two thrushes flew down to the ground in a clearing and played with each other for a couple of minutes. We stood as statues, stunned. The other “face-to-foot” encounter was completely bizarre. Walking slowly to my hermitage at dusk one night, I stepped on a wood thrush. Yes! Stepped on one! That’s about as likely as getting hit on the head with a meteorite. I thought I had crushed it, but it slowly and weakly hobbled off into the underbrush. I doubt that he had the wind to sing that evening.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Firefly Unrequited Love
Sitting in the tub, laid back, eyes closed, relaxing. Suddenly a firefly flashes in my face. I open my eyes to see one hovering not six inches from my nose. It’s dusk, but not yet dark, so I can see this guy, even when he doesn’t flash. He flies around behind my head, and I spot another lightning bug squatting on my towel. The hovering bug flashes a few more times, then closes in on the towel bug, after it tentatively flashes at the same frequency as the hoverer. He lands a few inches away, wiggles around a few times, flashes a couple more times, but doesn’t close the gap.
Then he takes to the air again, circles around, flashing a few more times. The towel bug finally responds, again hesitantly. The flyer lands a couple more times, but never closely approaches the towel bug. Airborne, he circles a few more times, then finally disappears into the closing night. The towel bug never moves. (Later, as I climb out of the tub, I have to carefully flick it off, before I can dry myself.)
The firefly mating game, as I understand it: The males fly around, sending out their subspecies’ flash code. They are on the lookout for a female, sitting on a bush, who might respond to their language. When he sees the awaited answer, he closes in and mates, if he can. But sometimes a devious female will flash a code alien to her subspecies, trying to lure in a foreign male, hoping to make dinner out of him. Like the praying mantis, the mating game may be the endgame for the male.
My fanciful interpretation of what I witnessed this night: The hoverer is, of course, the male. He was checking out a potential liaison with the towel female, but eventually declined to copulate and flew off. Why? I can conceive of a few options. First, she rejected him—the usual prerogative of the female. She didn’t get turned on by either his hovering antics or his flashing skill. Deeming him less than a desirable guy to father her eggs, she flashed only weakly, telling him to bug off.
Second, maybe he rejected her. His energetic hovering tricks and flashing were being wasted on a tired, uninspired lady. He tried to dance with her, but she just didn’t light his fire.
Third, maybe she was a killer trying to lure him—flashing deceitfully, hoping she could draw him in for the meal. “Come a little closer, buster, and you’re dead meat.” He was enticed by the prospect of sex, but luckily cautious. He sensed it wasn’t quite right. Something about her flash seemed suspicious. It had a bit of a foreign accent to it. Not yet horny enough to tempt fate, he opted for safer skies.
Will I ever know what really happened? Guess I’ll have to take a few more evening baths and keep my eyes open.
Then he takes to the air again, circles around, flashing a few more times. The towel bug finally responds, again hesitantly. The flyer lands a couple more times, but never closely approaches the towel bug. Airborne, he circles a few more times, then finally disappears into the closing night. The towel bug never moves. (Later, as I climb out of the tub, I have to carefully flick it off, before I can dry myself.)
The firefly mating game, as I understand it: The males fly around, sending out their subspecies’ flash code. They are on the lookout for a female, sitting on a bush, who might respond to their language. When he sees the awaited answer, he closes in and mates, if he can. But sometimes a devious female will flash a code alien to her subspecies, trying to lure in a foreign male, hoping to make dinner out of him. Like the praying mantis, the mating game may be the endgame for the male.
My fanciful interpretation of what I witnessed this night: The hoverer is, of course, the male. He was checking out a potential liaison with the towel female, but eventually declined to copulate and flew off. Why? I can conceive of a few options. First, she rejected him—the usual prerogative of the female. She didn’t get turned on by either his hovering antics or his flashing skill. Deeming him less than a desirable guy to father her eggs, she flashed only weakly, telling him to bug off.
Second, maybe he rejected her. His energetic hovering tricks and flashing were being wasted on a tired, uninspired lady. He tried to dance with her, but she just didn’t light his fire.
Third, maybe she was a killer trying to lure him—flashing deceitfully, hoping she could draw him in for the meal. “Come a little closer, buster, and you’re dead meat.” He was enticed by the prospect of sex, but luckily cautious. He sensed it wasn’t quite right. Something about her flash seemed suspicious. It had a bit of a foreign accent to it. Not yet horny enough to tempt fate, he opted for safer skies.
Will I ever know what really happened? Guess I’ll have to take a few more evening baths and keep my eyes open.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Moon Shoots Through Trees
Soaking in the outdoor tub,
Steam rising lazily skyward.
I'm transfixed by the waning, fat moon
Shooting toward me through the trees.
I watch the lopsided white globe
Crawling slowly heavenward.
It peers at me through the branches.
Patterns of twigs and trunks are
Silhouetted upon its face,
Ever changing as it climbs.
Like canals once seen on Mars.
The universe smiles upon me tonight.
Just for my delight, the moon shoots its beams
Through twisted black branches,
Straight into my waiting gaze.
Steam rising lazily skyward.
I'm transfixed by the waning, fat moon
Shooting toward me through the trees.
I watch the lopsided white globe
Crawling slowly heavenward.
It peers at me through the branches.
Patterns of twigs and trunks are
Silhouetted upon its face,
Ever changing as it climbs.
Like canals once seen on Mars.
The universe smiles upon me tonight.
Just for my delight, the moon shoots its beams
Through twisted black branches,
Straight into my waiting gaze.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Red Truck Blues
(Owed to Arlo & Alice's Restaurant
and the state vehicle inspector)
That time of the year, yes indeed, was near,
To get my old red truck inspected.
I said, "No sweat", 'cause on her I'd bet,
But then she got soundly rejected.
The guy was real sticky (far too picky)
So my old truck he really dissected.
He directed my view to a thin brake shoe
That his old feeler gauge had detected.
With a look quite haughty, as if I was naughty
In a tone bureaucratically inflected,
He said, "Fix those brakes with whatever it takes",
He'd check again, once I'd had them corrected.
There was no point in fussing or reverting to cussing
By a state law he was fully directed.
To order me down to a shop in my town
To fix something I'd barely neglected.
I wanted to stand and oppose his demand;
"You know, my safety’s just not affected.
For I drive on back roads, with only light loads
I’d never push brakes slightly defected."
But no chance had I in budging that guy
So I drove home rather dejected.
Got my shop manual out, while cursing the lout
Wondering what parts store should be selected.
I hate brake shoe jobs, with Jesus springs in gobs,
This is work I have never elected.
‘Cause a spring always sprang; "Oops, oh dang"
And in the air another "Jesus!", I've injected.
The work gave me a fit, as I swore and I spit
But a brake job I finally erected.
With no fancy gear, I did it right here!
I did it simple, not at all high-techted.
I drove my truck back, showed him it now had no lack
"Check my brakes", they were no longer infected.
He said not a word, still pulled the drum, the turd
Then passed me, but again he collected.
and the state vehicle inspector)
That time of the year, yes indeed, was near,
To get my old red truck inspected.
I said, "No sweat", 'cause on her I'd bet,
But then she got soundly rejected.
The guy was real sticky (far too picky)
So my old truck he really dissected.
He directed my view to a thin brake shoe
That his old feeler gauge had detected.
With a look quite haughty, as if I was naughty
In a tone bureaucratically inflected,
He said, "Fix those brakes with whatever it takes",
He'd check again, once I'd had them corrected.
There was no point in fussing or reverting to cussing
By a state law he was fully directed.
To order me down to a shop in my town
To fix something I'd barely neglected.
I wanted to stand and oppose his demand;
"You know, my safety’s just not affected.
For I drive on back roads, with only light loads
I’d never push brakes slightly defected."
But no chance had I in budging that guy
So I drove home rather dejected.
Got my shop manual out, while cursing the lout
Wondering what parts store should be selected.
I hate brake shoe jobs, with Jesus springs in gobs,
This is work I have never elected.
‘Cause a spring always sprang; "Oops, oh dang"
And in the air another "Jesus!", I've injected.
The work gave me a fit, as I swore and I spit
But a brake job I finally erected.
With no fancy gear, I did it right here!
I did it simple, not at all high-techted.
I drove my truck back, showed him it now had no lack
"Check my brakes", they were no longer infected.
He said not a word, still pulled the drum, the turd
Then passed me, but again he collected.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Dance of the Fireflies
Late June, early July is about the height of the firefly season around here. They first appear early in June—a few tentative, isolated points of light in the darkness. The season’s first flash can be startling. I may be initially misled into thinking it’s a bright star suddenly winking on, or an airplane blinking its way across the blackened sky. Then I joyously recognize that it’s the return of the “lightning bug,” the adult form of the glowworm, called by its scientific name as Lampyridae. (Isn’t that a lovely name?)
Speaking of the scientific perspective, fireflies are a beetle, with only one pair of wings—like the house fly. (Most insect pilots sport four wings.) They use bioluminescence to flash their lights—a chemical process whose efficiency humans can’t begin to approach with our advanced technology. A female lays her fertilized eggs on the ground, they hatch within a few weeks, and overwinter as larvae. The larvae may also flash from the ground—a sort of weak, slow-motion copy of what the fliers do; a wormy glow. They pupate in the spring, emerge as adults in June and then go seeking sex.
And that is what the flashing scene is mostly about: sex. (Well, it’s really about successful procreation, but we humans accentuate the erotic aspect of the procedure.) When they first appear, it’s as if they are sluggishly warming up for the coming hot flashes. The earliest fireflies light up at lazy intervals and stay lit for a good while (one to two seconds!). A neat thing happens if I have had my eyes adjust to the darkness and the bug is within a few feet of the ground: I can see a circle of light that they cast below them—like a miniature police helicopter looking for fleeing criminals. These mini-copters are silent, however, and have only sex on their minds.
As July arrives the firefly dance becomes much more lively. They crowd the air, flash much more often, and more rapidly. The activity is captivating. I can become deeply absorbed by the dance. If I look intently enough, I can follow individual flies blinking on and off, as they amble through the air. Sometimes their flashes almost synchronize, making it appear as if one bug has sped across the yard in a split second, following some erratic path.
I wonder about what amazing eyes they must have—that can withstand such brilliant flashes and not blind them. I imagine myself shrunk to a mustard-seed size, clinging tightly to the back of a firefly, getting the thrill ride of my life. Suddenly it bioluminesces, blinding me for a minute. What protective mechanisms has Nature provided its eyes? Does it blink at just the right time? Is its lit-up tail so far behind? The firefly can’t afford to become temporarily blinded and crash into a tree branch. He’s got an important mission. His chick might be waiting on a blade of grass down there, about to flash him in response. Despite being temporarily and imaginarily blinded, I picture myself hopping off. I don’t wish to be wedged in the middle of their embrace.
Speaking of the scientific perspective, fireflies are a beetle, with only one pair of wings—like the house fly. (Most insect pilots sport four wings.) They use bioluminescence to flash their lights—a chemical process whose efficiency humans can’t begin to approach with our advanced technology. A female lays her fertilized eggs on the ground, they hatch within a few weeks, and overwinter as larvae. The larvae may also flash from the ground—a sort of weak, slow-motion copy of what the fliers do; a wormy glow. They pupate in the spring, emerge as adults in June and then go seeking sex.
And that is what the flashing scene is mostly about: sex. (Well, it’s really about successful procreation, but we humans accentuate the erotic aspect of the procedure.) When they first appear, it’s as if they are sluggishly warming up for the coming hot flashes. The earliest fireflies light up at lazy intervals and stay lit for a good while (one to two seconds!). A neat thing happens if I have had my eyes adjust to the darkness and the bug is within a few feet of the ground: I can see a circle of light that they cast below them—like a miniature police helicopter looking for fleeing criminals. These mini-copters are silent, however, and have only sex on their minds.
As July arrives the firefly dance becomes much more lively. They crowd the air, flash much more often, and more rapidly. The activity is captivating. I can become deeply absorbed by the dance. If I look intently enough, I can follow individual flies blinking on and off, as they amble through the air. Sometimes their flashes almost synchronize, making it appear as if one bug has sped across the yard in a split second, following some erratic path.
I wonder about what amazing eyes they must have—that can withstand such brilliant flashes and not blind them. I imagine myself shrunk to a mustard-seed size, clinging tightly to the back of a firefly, getting the thrill ride of my life. Suddenly it bioluminesces, blinding me for a minute. What protective mechanisms has Nature provided its eyes? Does it blink at just the right time? Is its lit-up tail so far behind? The firefly can’t afford to become temporarily blinded and crash into a tree branch. He’s got an important mission. His chick might be waiting on a blade of grass down there, about to flash him in response. Despite being temporarily and imaginarily blinded, I picture myself hopping off. I don’t wish to be wedged in the middle of their embrace.
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