Readers' Comments

in newspapers are, I find, generally not readable. Even when the essay writer is a scholar/scientist, seemingly ordinary people feel free to argue against facts. Only because I know the writer did I read some of the comment in response to David Haskell's "The Seasons Aren't What They Used to Be" published in the New York Times.

Not all of them, mind you, because a few readers troll so freely and so illogically that I grow itchy to beat a fast exit. For example, "Expatico" wrote this:

Haskell asks, "Why do we not act?" Because, Mr. Haskell, we like our cars, our central heating, our big-box stores, refrigeration, electricity, airplane travel, modern medicine, television and iPhones much more than the prospect of returning to subsistence farming. Because the promise of "green energy," which I've been hearing about for four decades, remains but a figment of the Left's religious imagination. Because "sustainable agriculture" would only produce a fraction of what "fossil-fuel enhanced" agriculture can generate, thanks to fertilizers, pesticides and labor-saving machinery, so hundreds of millions of people, if not billions, would starve to death. Because human beings, whether in India or China, are hard-wired to acquire more, not less, and will happily mouth environmental platitudes while buying yet another big-screen television. Because, Mr. Haskell, nobody wants to go back to pre-Industrial civilization. 

Do you?

I confess that I am a bit cheeky or snarky myself, but honestly -- I can't help wondering why some folks even read the papers. Is it simply to express anger? Or make a smart retort? Or get their names/pseudonyms in print?

I suppose Expatico would question even the expertise of this 16-year-old and her Australian Shepherd, whom she has trained:

Something to Read

James Rebanks' memoir The Shepherd's Life: Modern Dispatches From an Ancient Landscape. Why? Because I know two younger women who have farmed/ranched sheep, the writing shows he graduated from Oxford, the land and what people do with it move me, and . . . because this

and many more beautiful videos.

A New-ish Pleasure

Because a friend is laid up, I have discovered the pleasures of walking her dog Gracie. I have walked her several times recently and today offered to walk her every day, an offer I hope might be accepted. 

I like walking behind Gracie, feeling the lead loosen every few feet or so, watching her sniff and sniff (sometimes open-mouthed) along a stone or branch or tiny stem and leave her own territorial mark, admiring the way she throws her nose and face into a pile of leaves to root around for something living that she never (thankfully) produces or rummages upwards. 

Her pleasure is mine. 

I borrowed her today while her human's human ran an errand, and I got the better of the bargain.

Gracie wants to be an archaeologist when she grows up, a desire she proved in front of the site of Rebel's Rest, which burned several years ago. She should consider an apprenticeship under the direction of the University archaeologist, who, with students and community volunteers, has been digging up the grounds where the structure once stood. Whether digging for gold or mole, I cannot say, as Gracie produced neither valuable nor vermin.

What's Not to Love?

I

from above the narthex of All Saints' Chapel.

II

through the winding stairs' window on my way down

III

in Gracie's joy

Gracie

J has a new foster, but I think that Gracie may become her very own dog.

I hope so because she's sweet and photogenic.

See what I mean?

Pure Joy

This dog has it.

I want it.

Unconditional Love

He's just waiting for his master, an elderly man with portable oxygen to whom I said on entering the Pig together, "Your dog just loves you!"

"He loves to travel."

"Nah," I said. "He loves you!"

Yet another reason to love the Pig.

Poetry Man

I was bent over a bench shooting lichen when I heard a harmonica. Not a bluesy-get-down-and-dirty blow, but a happy rolicking set of runs.

I couldn't resist. I moved further down the path toward the music, which had morphed into whistling. By the time I reached the fish pond (which had angered me earlier because of the rocks and beer cans stranded on the ice), a strumming banjo accompanied the whistling. 

I imagined whom I might see, and I wasn't disappointed. "Hi!" 

"Hello, ma'am. Beautiful afternoon, isn't it?"

I agreed. "Your dog is so focused. Perfectly calm and obedient."

"He's a good dog," the young man answered. He nodded toward the good dog, and the little pom-poms on his knitted cap bobbed.

"You've sure found the perfect spot," I said and snapped his picture.

"Oh yes, ma'am. You have a great weekend!" 

"I shall," I said, and wandered on, nodding to the whistling and strumming in the background.

It has already started with a bit of Sewanee magic, I thought.

Lucky Dog

Max has two homes: a log cabin in Kentucky with his mother and a cozy 19th-century home in Sewanee with his grandmother and his mother.

In Sewanee, Max loves people and things: his grandmother, on whose bed and with whom he spends much of the day and in her room and on his own bed all night; his mother, whose entrance causes his tail to wag and eyebrows to rise; visitors, including me; raccoon watching in the evening and at night (when they climb to the deck to steal bird food, Max smells them just outside the bedroom door); the heat of a log fire or oil-filled heater; a sprint through through Abbo's Alley across the street, sometimes safe and leashed and sometimes neither safe nor leashed; driving on errands with his mother; eating dog bones; and sleeping abed on his back, some part of his body touching his grandmother's.

Today, while I read aloud a fascinating New York Times article about the study of unknown diseases at NIH and while my friend listened and we both sipped tea and ate delicious homemade biscotti, Max slept.

He's one lucky dog.