When Is The Last Time?

When do you know that it's the last time that you'll do something? I think that it was after the death of my father that I first thought of this question. Being somewhat outrageous, but I don't think perverted, I had a rather undaughterly thought: My mother, most probably, would not have realized that the last time they'd made love would be the final time. One doesn't usually know this I suppose.

This is not a post about sexuality however. In fact, I'm not sure if this will turn out to be about habitual behavior or about books. This brings me to the stacks of books that have been growing on my desk top over the past 4 years and almost 3 months.


On December 10, 2001, I began a habit, a discipline of sorts, that I continued with until July 31, 2003. (Hmmm this seems to parallel the time when I was disciplined in my eating as well).
Sometimes I fell behind in this habitual behavior, but until August of 2003, I alway caught up.
The habit was to write a brief summary of the books that I had read. I began doing this as a way to remember what I all too easily forgot, not just what the books were about, but also titles and authors. My July 31st entry was about two books by Richard Russo, The Risk Pool and Mohawk, and Before Women Had Wings by Connie May Fowler.

After this last entry, I made no decision to stop writing my little summaries. I faithfully put each book as I completed it on my desk with the purpose of doing a writing up on it.
As the number of books accumulated, I thought it no different than any of the previous times
when I'd gotten behind in my write ups. I don't even remember when (or if) I realized that I'd stopped doing the write ups entirely. Certainly one would think that by the time that I had to begin my second stack I'd have gotten an inkling that I was no longer writing these summaries. Yet I faithfully continued to add to the stacks. When I began stack number three, I was still blind to my own behavior (or lack there of).

How could this be? How could I not know? Certainly I no longer remember what some (many?) of these books are about. Ah yes, now a memory fragment makes itself known. At some point I decided I'd just make a list of the books and their authors. And still I haven't gotten around to even this simple task. It's rather astounding when I think about it. And also not so surprising when I remember that I had on my to do list for many years the reading of my 1984 Camry book. (I finally crossed that off my list after I'd given the car to my daughter.)

The theme that's emerged has been procrastination - surprisingly.

As to the stack of books, I may emulate Cory who write reviews on her blog. I've been meaning to write about Richard Ford's The Lay of the Land since finishing it about a week ago.

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On another subject, yesterday I took down the last of our two hammocks. There may be a relationship here to the discussion above. My favorite place in the entire world is the string hammock that has hung since Spring in my back yard. I am basically a lazy creature. Laying on it with book in hand is one of my favorite activities. And even though my time on the hammock has been limited by the press of other activities, one can easily understand how the stacks of books can accumulate when the choice is between reading them or spending some quality hammock time.

Stump

I wish I'd taken a picture of the Oak tree when it's branches were full and birds rested on it's limbs. For now, all that I have is a picture of it's stump. Shortly after driving or walking through the entrance of my little community, I would see the tree standing proudly, to my right when I was leaving, to my left on my return. I always noticed it. On Monday, I saw chunks of wood in the street in front of it. I saw that it's branches had been butchered. Pruning, I thought, sloppily done. Tusday, as I left to meet my son for lunch in The City, I saw workers around the tree and a truck with the words "Tree Surgeons" painted on it's side. It was clear to me that they were chopping down my tree. I write "my tree" though it was a quarter mile from my property. It was my tree and the tree of all who loved it - or didn't. When I returned about five hours later, the tree was gone and the workers were readying themselves to leave. I paused in sad memory. A worker caught my eye and I raised my hand in friendly acknowledgment. He'd done his job and, as Matt pointed out to me, the tree had probably become a danger to passers by.

I imagine that the wood from the tree will be used. Perhaps it will be processed for ground cover. It will be going through the timeless recycling of material things, in this case aided my Man. The components of that which was my tree will continue on in other forms or energies or even perhaps as consciousness, this last a concept that I intend to explore in future posts. For now I have a sense of loss which I know that I'll release with time. For now I want to honor the tree, value what it was, and be glad that I can hold it in my memory.

Shooting Deer (or not)

This was the view from one of my bedroom windows this afternoon. Shortly before I snapped this picture, mom and her fawn were napping. One or two other deer rested in the shade nearby. I love living where wild deer freely roam. I volunteer with Wildlife Fawn Rescue and I donate money to 11 animal welfare groups, 12 if you count the Sierra Club. I care deeply about animals.

So how should I react to a proposal to shoot deer in Point Reyes National Seashore?

The deer in question are two non-native species that were introduced by a rancher 60 years ago for hunting purposes. This "sport" became illegal at some point, but non-native deer were "culled" by hired hunters until 1994. Once Man's guns exited the picture, these non-native deer expanded their population to an extent that has threatened the existence of the native animals. One of the "exotics", the white or fallow deer, has doubled its population to about 900 animals in the past 4 years. Added to about 250 Asian axis deer, another exotic group, these animals are straining the resources of the park. The native black-tailed deer and tule elk compete for the same food against a rapidly increasing number of the (apparently more prolific) exotics. Additionally, the large number of the non-native species is damaging the meadows and waterways on which all the species depend. Everyone involved seems to recognize this as a problem. The controversy arises with the solution. A panel of experts studying the problem for four years recommended a plan combining sharpshooting and contraception. Some neighbors of the park along with animal rights advocates are strongly protesting the sharpshooting part of the plan. In Defense of Animals, a group to which I financially contribute, is one such advocacy group. The Marin Humane Society is another. I contribute to the Humane Society of Sonoma County.

So how should I react to a proposal to shoot the deer?

One of my first reactions was to wonder what Marjorie Davis thinks about this. She is the founder and director of Wildlife Fawn Rescue and a woman whom I greatly admire. I plan to ask her about this. I wanted to explore my own thoughts, though. One of the first that came to mind was that this planned killing of the non-native deer could be seen as a form of animal ethnic cleansing. The idea repelled me as I thought of human parallels. Yet I found that I was not comfortable with a hands off approach to the problem. After all, it was humans that brought these animals to the ecosystem that they are now destroying. It's 60 years too late to expect nature alone to resolve the problem. On the other hand, the ancestors of these "exotics" have made their home on this land for many many many generations. Perhaps Man should let the future unfold as it will, Man being one of many causes in the evolution of the process.

Ultimately, at least so far, I find myself coming down on the other side. I want the native species to thrive. I personally dislike even the idea of hunting, but I accept the idea of people eating meat. In fact, I'm currently an omnivore. I think a lot about the process which bring meat to me. I'm greatly disturbed about the cruelty of the slaughterhouse and of the factory farms. I think that hunting animals as food is probably more humane. So it makes sense to me for sharpshooters to kill the non-native deer as l0ng as the bodies of these animals are used as food.

The experts say that using contraception alone will not solve the problem of the non-native deer. I'm inclined to go along with them. Contraception might be the "nicer" approach, the one that humans would find easiest to handle. (I don't know how the deer themselves would be effected by having their reproductive ability taken away from them.) Contraception might also be a luxury in the increasingly difficult situation of a deer population that doubles every four years.

Of course what I'm writing about is NIMBY (not in my back yard) - nor anywhere around my house. Leave my Bambi(s) alone!!!

Pete Wilson 1945-2007

Today I learned that Pete Wilson, my favorite talk radio host, had a fatal heart attack on Friday night while undergoing hip replacement surgery. I've been feeling vaguely despondent all day.
This has surprised me. After all, though I've listened to him often, I didn't really know him.

I met him only once, at a public event. He, along with 4 or 5 other KGO hosts, were on stage at the Marin Civic Center. They were answering audience questions and getting into hostile verbal exchanges between themselves. The audience was mostly hostile to Pete, who is not the former California governor though he shares the name, and another talk show host. My experience of Pete was as he portrayed himself, politically moderate and open to consideration of diverse ideas. To some in multi-mega "liberal" Marin county, where "liberal" too often means unavailable to consider alternative ideas, Pete's viewpoints were anathema. The loudmouths in the crowd joyfully shouted him down. It was really quite brutal. He was visibly distressed by the mob mentality, though he didn't back down. I think that aside from the personal nature of the rudeness, he was upset at the mindless arrogance of the mob in full armament against reason. It was an event to which he said he'd never subject himself again. At the end, as people were filtering out, I approached him on stage in a way that now seems stupid. "Yay Pete Wilson," I yelled. He turned to me and we exchanged a few words. In retrospect, I wish I had shared with him my view of the mob in a more adult way, but I think he got the message.

I don't remember whether or not I heard any of Pete's last broadcast on Wednesday. I read that he had some concerns about his upcoming operation and listened to a bit of his opening monologue that was posted on the web. Listening to his concerns about the operation was chilling. He mentioned that friends at the gym he went to told him of a man who had a fatal stroke 2 days after such an operation. Pete was analyzing his anxiety and making fun of it. He pointed out that 300,000 such operations take place yearly in the U.S. and few have any complications.

Pete was probably in the hands of the best and brightest. His operation was done at Stanford Medical Center. For much of the day I've wondered about my sense of loss. I've felt disoriented, confused. I didn't really know him and yet I did. He was a part of my life. I would postpone doing certain routine tasks, such as washing dishes or folding laundry, so that I'd be able to listen to him in the background. In a way, I knew him, though he didn't know me. And, in a way, he knew me in the sense that he knew he had many listeners and tried to make himself understood by them. He knew that people could be "thundering idiots," but he appealed to their intelligence. He was intelligent, knowledgeable, clear, interesting, and funny. Here is another story about him.

I've lost a person who has had a presence in my life.

A Comment About Comments

Thanks everyone for your comments to my last post. It's interesting to me that so many of you wrote about beggars as scam artists. It never occurred to me that the old lady was playing the all-to-common tourist scam. It should have; I'm friggin 61 and should be wiser as to the ways of the world. Also, as we got on the bus to return from the Sagrada Familia, two little girls attempted to pick my hubby's pocket. One diverted attention by trying to get on the bus with a popsicle (not allowed) while the other tried to do the quick (but not quick enough) five fingered pull. The point I was making in my previous post was about my own mental/emotional process, that a couple of statues could elicit so much empathy on my part, while a real person old lady elicited none. When I wrote the previous post, I felt deep down that the beggar lady was as she presented herself. Perhaps I was really seeing her as a fraud and not realizing it.

The Beggar Lady

When I went to Madrid last year, I left the tour group to go to the Reina Sofia Museum. The focus of this museum is contemporary art. While I was interested in such art in general, my specific objective was to see Picasso's Guernica. I don't remember whether it was before or after seeing Guernica that I had the most intense response to a piece of art that I've ever experienced.

I remember walking into a room and seeing two motionless figures, a naked male and female. The female conveyed the impression of unimaginable terror and unmitigated despair. The man stood taking the abuse, powerless to do anything but silently stand there. I had the impression that they were surrounded by their tormentors and that they would be savagely punished if they showed any emotion. They were at the mercy of a merciless mob, vulnerable in their nakedness and ashamed because of it. The mob mocked them. As an onlooker, I was a member of the mob. I was culpable in their anguish. The intense guilt that I felt because of this forced me to look away. I reminded myself that the figures were lifeless museum pieces and turned to contemplate them again. I had the sense that the man and woman had known that the jeering mob would have eternal life through an endless series of voyeurs such as myself. I turned away again, then returned to studying the two figures. This happened a number of times.

A couple of weeks later, I was in Barcelona. Along with hordes of other tourists, I found my way to Gaudi's Sagrada Familia. As my line approached the entrance, I saw an old beggar woman dressed in black. Her hair and neck were concealed, but her face was visible. She brought her hand to her mouth in imitation of eating and spoke in a language that I didn’t understand. But I did understand her plea and I ignored it. When I passed her, our eyes met and I sensed her disapproval. I felt judged as a selfish rich person who heartlessly denied the old woman the few pennies that it would take to buy herself some food. Her look of disapproval angered me and strengthened my resolve to give her no money. My attitude puzzled me. It was as if the old woman didn’t seem real to me. I wondered if she was a prop, a Disneyland type addition to the experience of visiting the unfinished cathedral. Or was she a participant in a research project devised by a sociology student. Let's see how people respond to a beggar when they come as visitors to a cathedral. These musings seem foolish, yet even now I’m not convinced that this was a real woman in real distress.

A little side note here: My daughter was due to arrive in Barcelona about a week after I left. I gave her some money to give to the beggar lady at the Sagrada Familia. As it turned out, the woman wasn't there. Was she really a prop or a part of a social experiment after all? Did she die of hunger? Was she beaten by the person sending her out in the streets to beg? I don’t know.