Monthly Archives: September 2015

Sep19

Review of a Book I Actually Like: Waking Up Dead

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[amazon template=image&asin=1493750461]Today I am sharing a review of a book written by my friend Margo Bond Collins. I wrote this review in January 2014. The name of the book is Waking Up Dead.

 

This book is not the sort I usually read.

I’m not typically attracted to books involving raped, murdered, and mutilated women. But this book was given to me by the author to read during the long cold winter, so I gave it a try. I’m glad I did.

I think it’s cool that Callie, the main character, is a ghost who doesn’t yet know how to be a ghost (much less why she is one). I was disappointed that Callie didn’t meet any other spirits (or even a human) who could explain at least a bit to her of the how’s and why’s of ghosthood. Can Callie possibly be the only ghost in the Abramsville, Alabama? I hope that in future Callie Taylor adventures our hero will meet folks (dead or alive) who can offer some explanations and tips.

I appreciate that the author doesn’t go into gratuitous gory detail when describing the two murders that happen in this novel. Yes, a woman is raped and murdered and another is murdered and mutilated, but the reader isn’t forced to witness every disturbing detail. Collins reports what the reader needs to know to follow the plot, then allows each individual to imagine the nasty details or not, according to her or his preference.

I chuckled when Callie goes to the Wal-Mart to find a human who can see and hear her. It’s a perfect detail, proving that the author knows just how small Southern towns work.

I thought Collins also reflected race relations in the 21st century South in a true light. Blacks and whites do have relationships (friendships, work connections, romantic encounters) with one another, but such relationships are often fraught with a particular kind of tension. Hurray to Collins for having her characters involved in interracial relationships that are real and complicated.

The cadence of her characters’ conversations also impressed me as the real rhythm of Southern dialogue. I’m not sure someone who hasn’t lived in the South for many years could get the spoken sound of the region so right.

Collins also did a great job with the “who done it?” aspect of the story.  As I mentioned, I don’t usually read murder mysteries, but when I do, I either seem to figure out the answer to the mystery immediately, or find the plot so convoluted that I don’t understand the detective’s eventual tidy little explanation of events. Waking Up Dead kept me guessing, kept me reading, but made sense when explanatory details came to light.

My favorite part of this book is that it has not one, not two, but three kick-ass, strong, brave female characters. That one of these characters is a maw-maw (grandma to folks not from the South) who can’t drive and has poor eyesight is an added bonus. There just aren’t enough old lady heroes in the world of fiction, so I’m grateful that Collins has given us a new one.

All in all, I enjoyed this book and look forward to hearing more from Callie Taylor and Margo Bond Collins.

Sep18

Where There’s Smoke…

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The camping season may be coming to an end, but my first weekend back in the big campground was a busy one. On Friday night, I only had three regular campsites rented (and six of twenty-eight rented on Saturday night), but I had four group campsites (with 14, 16, 17, and 31 people on them) occupied.

The golf cart had a leaky tire, which by Thursday evening was too flat to roll, so on Friday afternoon after I worked my four hour shift in the parking lot, I walked all over the big campground to check-in everyone. It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that in this bigger campground, it’s a farther walk from my van to the nearest restroom than it was to walk from one side to the other of the smaller campground where I lived and worked. So by dark on Friday night, I was tired.

When I got into bed a bit after dark on Friday, the folks who’d reserved group site C had not arrived. I hoped maybe they wouldn’t show because I had plenty of work without them. However, when I got to that side of the campground on Saturday morning, site C was definitely occupied by an extended Latino family.

The man who’d made the reservation was still asleep, I was told by his wife, whom I’d happened upon in the parking area. I got the information for the permit from her and told her about the fire ban that was still very much in effect in the National Forest. When I told her no campfires were allowed, she seemed disappointed, but agreeable.

I walked over to another campsite to ask a question of the camper. The woman there asked, We’re allowed to have campfires?

When I said no, she pointed to the campsite I’d just left. From where we stood, we could see smoke streaming from that site. I said I’d investigate. I thought maybe we were seeing smoke from breakfast cooking on a portable gas appliance, but the woman who’d pointed out the smoke said the campfire had been going all night.

I walked back to the campsite with the alleged fire. I found the woman with whom I’d spoken only moments before, the woman I’d told explicitly no campfires. I told her I saw a lot of smoking coming from her campsite and asked if they’d had a campfire. By this point I was on the campsite and could see smoke drifting from the fire ring. Busted!

The woman admitted they’d burned a few acorns (I think she meant pine cones), but said they hadn’t brought any wood to burn. I told her I’d get a bucket of water to put out the remnants of the fire.

Thankfully, one of the other camp hosts was in the campground, driving the company truck to pick up trash. No way did I want to carry a five gallon bucket of water (that’s over 40 pounds, folks, awkwardly carried with one hand holding a flimsy handle) all the way from the water tank to campsite C. I filled the bucket, and the other host lifted it into the back of the pickup. He drove us over to site C and even offered to carry the water to the fire ring. I walked over with him.

When we walked right up to the fire ring, I saw it did not contain the remains of a few acorns (or pine cones). In the ring was a rather large charred piece of wood. No wonder there was so much smoke. (And we all know, where there’s smoke, well, if there’s no longer fire, you can bet there was fire earlier.)

As my co-worker dumped the water on the hot remains of the fire, several older women wrapped in blankets and sitting at a picnic table nearby began shouting No! No! No! in Spanish. I told them having the fire was illegal, but my co-worker started talking over me, telling them about the fire ban I was perfectly capable of explaining. (Thanks for the sexism, dude! I guess that’s what I get for not being able to carry my own 40+ pound bucket of water.)

Of course, the campers claimed they didn’t know about the fire ban, although

#1 There are “No Campfires” signs throughout the forest, including at the front of the campground they were staying in.

#2 The state has been suffering a drought for four years.

#3 Coverage of nearby wildfires is all over the news.

I can’t say I really believe they didn’t know they shouldn’t build a fire.

When I went back later in the morning to get the man who’d made the reservation to sign the permit, I said to his wife, No more campfires, right?

She said, Oh,no!

I decided if I found evidence of another campfire during their stay, I was turning the situation over to the Forest Service.

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I took this photo of my campground’s fire ban sign.

I found no evidence of fire on that campsite during the rest of that family’s stay. I guess they got the message.

To read more stories of campers and fire restrictions, go here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/11/15/what-do-people-do/, here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/11/13/but-were-cold/, and here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/07/27/fire-restrictions/.

Sep17

Candy

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Mr. Carolina, The Okie, Lil C, and I had made it from Santa Nella, California to Kansas on a wing and a prayer. We had no money, but kind strangers fed us and put gas in the van’s tank. We got on the Kansas Turnpike–a toll road–with no money to pay the toll upon exit. Mr. Carolina told us not to worry.

We pulled into one of the Turnpike’s rest stop/gas station/convenience store/fast food joint service areas where drivers don’t have to exit and pay a toll in order to get their needs met. I immediately started poking around in trash cans, and soon found a gallon Ziplock bag about one-third full of a homemade snack consisting of candy corn, dried cranberries, peanuts, and white chocolate. I brought it back to the boys, and we all started munching on it. It was delicious, but quickly moved into the realm of too rich, too sweet, TOO MUCH! We tossed it into the van.

It was at the next service area that we got our break.

The four of us were lounging on the edge of the sidewalk when a car pulled up with the passenger window rolled down. The driver leaned over and handed Lil C a bill through the open window. After we thanked the driver profusely, he drove off, and we looked at the bill. It was a 20! We had enough money to get an always needed quart of oil for the van and to pay to exit the Turnpike legally.

We made it to Kansas City, Missouri, where Lil C’s mom greeted us with kindness and homemade cookies, and his little sister greeted me in the hallway after my shower with, “Hi! I love Justin Bieber!”

The next day several of Lil C’s friends came over to sample his special Cali weed. The group consisted of several men in their early 20s and one young woman of about the same age. I tried to be friendly to the young woman by telling her I liked her sparkly boots. Before I could add that I’d seen some just like them at Target, she informed me she’d paid $200 for them. My foot just missed sliding into my mouth.

The whole group circled up in Lil C’s mom’s living room, and Lil C packed the bowl of the bong. The fact that he gave me the green hit (the first hit of a freshly packed bowl–a sign of respect among polite pot smokers), was not lost on me. I was glad I’d decided to partake with them. (Sometimes people looked at me real weird when I was the only one in the room not smoking weed.)

When the bowl was smoked (which didn’t take long, considering our large number), I was most amused to find I was not the highest person in the room. Usually, I am the most stoned person in any given room of stoned people, but this time I wasn’t. One guy kept talking about how high he was, saying how good the weed was, all the things I usually say when I’m the highest person in the room.

I began to feel overwhelmed in the crowd, so I went out to the van….where I found the dumpstered bag of homemade candy. I dug in and it was so delicious. I was so pleased with the candy and realized I should share.

That’s when I had the moral dilemma. I knew I should share. The boys and I shared everything the Universe provided us with. Sharing the candy was the right thing to do!

But…should I tell folks that I’d rescued the candy from the trash? I was afraid if I said up front I’d gotten the candy out of the trash, these new folks wouldn’t try it. (And it was so tasty, if they did try it, they were sure to like it.) If I didn’t tell them the candy had been found in the trash, was that a lie of omission? Was it wrong to keep my mouth shut?

I sat in the van for a time with such thoughts tumbling through my head before I decided to take the candy inside and share it (dammit!).

When I went back into the house, several people were still sitting around the living room. I put the bag of candy near some of Lil C’s friends and said it was really good and anyone could have some. Folks started digging in, soon saying how delicious it was. One guy looked at me and asked what all was in there. I started stammering as soon as I tried to answer.

Well, I wasn’t really sure. I hadn’t made it. The Universe had given it to me.

I suspected I was sounding really weird (The Universe had given it to me?), so I just blurted out, I don’t know…I got it out of the trash.

The young woman immediately placed the piece of candy she’d been holding in her hand down on the bag and told the guy next to her that he could have it. She was absolutely done with the dirty, stinky traveling kids’ trash candy.

The guys bucked up and kept eating it. We could tell they were trying to impress us.

The little party broke up soon after that, and all the newcomers slipped away.I told Lil C I was sorry if I had offended his friends. I explained I had only wanted to share. He wasn’t upset with me. Mr. Carolina hugged me and said he was so glad I’d shared the candy and admitted it had come from the trash. I Love You, Blaize, he said.

That was good enough for me.

Sep16

Camel Rock

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The Camel Rock is a rock formation located in Pojoaque, New Mexico on U.S. Routes 84/285. Tesuque is a little under twenty miles north of Santa Fe, and the Camel Rock formation is across from the Camel Rock Casino, which is owned by Tesuque Pueblo.

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I’d passed by Camel Rock many times during trips between Taos, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque, but I never actually visited until I was driving a visitor to the airport in Albuquerque. We stopped for the briefest of visits. There’s not much to do out there besides look at the rock formation. There’s a small parking area with a couple shaded picnic tables and a couple trash barrels. There are no restrooms. (If you are in need of a restroom, go across the highway to the gas station or the casino.)

There is a path from the parking area to the formation. You can get pretty close to the Camel Rock to take photos, but since the rock formation is surrounded by a chain link fence, there’s no climbing on the camel.

The chain link fence is visible in the bottom third of this photo.

The chain link fence is visible in the bottom third of this photo.

The short detour off the highway was worth it to me to get some photos and so I could say that I’d actually been there, but the Camel Rock is clearly visible from the highway. Anyone driving or riding by in a passenger vehicle should be able to get a good look at it.

Sep15

Broken Box

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A pickup truck pulled into the parking lot entrance. I approached the driver’s side. The driver rolled down his window. I told him there was a $5 parking fee. He responded, Is your box not working?

He was talking fast, and I was sure I had misunderstood what he said to me. I said something like Pardon me? or maybe What was that? or perhaps Excuse me?

He said it again, a bit more slowly. Is your box not working?

At that point I was just standing there looking at him blankly. Finally I said, I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question.

Are people not putting money in the box (he pointed over my shoulder) to pay for parking? Is that why they had to get someone out here to collect money? Because your box isn’t working?

I looked over to where he was pointing and realized the “box” he was talking about was the iron ranger, the long metal tube where folks deposit their self-pay envelopes (with $5 in them) when there is no attendant on duty.

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This is the iron ranger.  The opening where the self-pay envelopes go is at the top. On the white strip below the opening are the words “Pay Here. (I took this photo.)

(The iron ranger looks absolutely nothing like any box I’ve ever seen.)

I explained to him that the iron ranger has been working fine, but attendants (like me!) collect payment during busy times.

(Actually, I’m not sure the iron ranger does work fine. I think it’s way easy for people to overlook the fee when there’s not a human person standing in front of them asking for payment.)

In any case, after he drove away, I realized I had missed an opportunity. The first time he said Is your box not working? I should have gasped How dare you! and slapped him across the face.

When I got called into the boss’ office, this would have been my story:

That man said something lewd to me, and I reacted without thinking. I know I shouldn’t have slapped him, but he was talking about my vagina! He asked me if I’m not having sex because my vagina is broken! The nerve of him!

My co-worker and I had a good laugh about the whole situation, but it’s probably for the best that I’m slow on the update and didn’t make the connections box=vagina, is your box not working=why aren’t you having sex? until after the man drove away. Slapping visitors is probably not a good way to get myself rehired next summer.

Sep14

Mouse in the House

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It was Sunday. When I arrived at the parking lot at 11AM, I discovered my co-worker wasn’t there and hadn’t been there all morning. Since he hadn’t been there to clean the parking lot restrooms, I had to do it. Having to clean those restrooms does not make me happy. Being surprised by having to clean those restroom makes me really unhappy, grumpy even.

I was bustling around, just trying to be efficient and get everything done as quickly as possible. While I was cleaning the restroom on the left, a man entered the restroom on the right. He stayed in the restroom a normal amount of time, then exited. A boy, probably his son, went in after him, also stayed a normal amount of time, then came out.

I was out of the restroom I had been cleaning and was sweeping the sidewalk when the man spoke to me. He had an accent, maybe French. He asked me if I knew there was a mouse in the restroom he and the boy had used.

I expressed my displeasure mildly. I did not scream or curse. I was thinking Why? Why? Why? I should not have been required to deal with a mouse. That mouse should have been my co-worker’s Sunday morning problem, not mine.

I heard the boy say, She’s scared.

How does he know I’m afraid of mice? I wondered at the moment. Am I acting afraid?

(Now I wonder why he was speaking English.)

Then I realized he meant the mouse was afraid.

Before I went into the restroom, I heard the boy say something something feeding. I didn’t know what in the world he was talking about until I walked into the restroom and saw in the front corner not just a mouse, but a mamma mouse nursing three babies.

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I took this photo of the mouse family. Notice the mouse shit all over the place.

I don’t like mice (or rats or gerbils or hamsters), but what was once nearly a phobia is now an aversion. I don’t think those rodents are cute or sweet or precious. I think they are vile and disease-ridden. They shit everywhere and make people sick. I worry that one is going to run up the leg of my pants in a moment of panic. (The critter’s panic would quickly become my panic if it ran up the leg of my pants.)

So when I saw the nursing mouse, my thoughts were more Ewwwww than Awwwww. The babies were not tiny and transparent as I once read baby mice described. They were big, probably one-third the size of their mother. Their eyes were still closed. and they seemed to just hang limply from their mother’s side.

The boy was right; the mamma mouse did look scared. Her eyes were huge. She looked resigned to bad things happening, as if these big children suckling from her were not only getting milk from her body, but also stripping away all of her hope. I could almost feel sorry for her, almost admit she was kind of cute, in a sad sort of way, but then I saw the mouse shit all over the floor and the shredded toilet paper they’d probably slept in the night before. I knew I was the one who was going to have to clean it up. I wondered if I’d get workers comp if I caught plague  or hantavirus from the little mousy family.

As I swooped in to pick up the shredded toilet paper, a tourist lady came over with her cameraphone to photograph the mouse family. She couldn’t stop exclaiming over how cute they were.

Oh sure, they’re cute, I said, until they give you the plague.

That thought seemed to sober up the tourist lady pretty fast.

I decided I should get my camera out of the van and take a photo of the mice too. I knew I’d write about them, so why not post a photo as well?

My van was nearby, so I wasn’t gone long. As I was returning to the building housing the restrooms, an new guy was walking up.

Don’t go in the one on the right, I screeched at the young man. There’s a mouse in there!

(I don’t know why I didn’t let him go in there and run them off.)

He said he’d heard about the mice. He wanted to take a photo too.

(Is any animal exotic if it lives in the National Forest?)

He said, Oh, they’re so cute.

Oh, sure, I said, until they defecate all over the place.

I sounded as bitter as I felt. I should get hazard pay for dealing with rodents.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to remove the mice from the corner. I had a broom and a large, blue dustpan. Should I use the broom to sweep them into the dustpan? Should I try to push the edge of the dustpan under them and scoop them up? While I didn’t like them, I didn’t want to hurt them. I’m not keen on hurting living creatures, although I will defend myself. Removing mice from a building hardly seemed like self-defense.

Because the door to the restroom was propped open, there was a large gap near the floor between the door and the wall  When I moved toward the mice with the dustpan extended, the mamma mouse fled through the gap, babies still attached to her nipples. It looked unnatural and grotesque. I guess I’ve never seen a mother run with suckling infants hanging on to her with their mouths.

I was relieved to see them go.

(I know the title of this post is misleading because the post is actually about four mice in a restroom. I opted for poetic license, since “Mouse in the House” sounds better than “Mice in a Restroom.”)

Sep13

More Restroom Confusion

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I don’t really like to use the restrooms in the parking lot.

Although my co-worker does a good job cleaning them every morning, by the time I go in there, a lot of strangers’ butts have been on the seats, and there’s usually liquid (don’t think about it) and toilet paper on the floor. Besides, there’s hardly a moment when other people aren’t waiting to get in.

I try to remember to use the restroom immediately before I leave my campground for my shift in the parking lot. The restrooms in my campground see a lot less use than the ones in the parking lot, so the ones in the campground stay a lot cleaner. If I remember to go before I go, I can use a parking lot restroom just once during my shift.

I try to make my restroom visit before my co-worker leaves for the day. I like to know he’s up front handling things while I’m away.

The other afternoon, I made the short journey to the parking lot restrooms half an hour before my co-worker’s scheduled departure. When I walked up, three women were standing outside the two restrooms, just sort of milling about.

When did people quit standing in line? Is it something about being in nature that does away with people’s sense of order? (The trees aren’t standing in line, so why should I? Chipmunks don’t wait their turn, so why should I?) Is the refusal to line up some sort of rebellion against all thing elementary school? I don’t know, but this milling about instead of lining up sure annoys me. How am I supposed to know who goes in next if everyone is just standing around unorganized?

So I said to the three women standing there Are you in line? Are you in line? Are you in line?

The answers were Yes. No. Yes.

(I guess the No was waiting for the first Yes.)

A woman came out of the restroom on the right, and the first Yes went in. Less than a minute later, a man came out of the restroom on the left. The second Yes just stood there. I thought maybe she didn’t want to crowd the guy, but the door to the restroom closed completely and the guy disappeared from our view. Still the woman just stood there.

Finally I piped up with something along the lines of Aren’t you waiting? or Go ahead!

The woman started stammering…Oh, I thought…Isn’t that…? Then she looked up and saw that the signs on the wall show both restrooms are unisex

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The signs on the wall show both restrooms are unisex. (This photo was taken by me.)

and said, Oh, I see…as she finally started moving towards the door on the left.

She thought, because she’d seen a woman go into the door on the right and a man come out of the door on the left, there was a men’s restroom and a women’s restroom.

As she was heading toward the restroom, I understood what she had been thinking. I said, I’d have just gone into the men’s room.

She turned and looked at me with disbelief in her eyes. Really? It’s the 21st century and a woman using the men’s restroom is scandalous?

 

Sep12

If You’re Refusing to Pay

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Sometimes people who want to park in the parking lot also want to have philosophical discussions about whether or not they should have to pay to park on National Forest land.

One Wednesday morning, there were cars already parked in the lot when I arrived. I kept an eye on folks coming off the trail and asked them if they’d put their parking fee in the iron ranger. I asked one guy if he’d paid the fee, and he said he only had a $20 bill. I told him I could make change.

As I was writing the day pass he didn’t need since he was about to leave, he started talking about some lawsuit and court decision related to charging fees to park on public land. From what I understood, someone sued some governmental agency for charging folks a fee to park on public land. A judge decided it’s unlawful to charge people simply to park. In order to charge a day use fee, there has to be something more substantial than a portable toilet and a picnic table available for use; a day use area has to include some sort of improvement if a fee is to be charged.

I tried to justify the improvements this parking lot/day use area offers. Instead of one picnic table, we offer five picnic tables, and we don’t just have a port-a-potty, we have two gen-u-ine pit toilets in a (fancy?) little building. Also, we don’t offer only parking in the dirt; we have asphalt parking too.

Of course, the guy didn’t want to hear anything I had to say. He’d already made up his mind that he didn’t want to pay, and nothing coming out of my mouth short of no charge was going to make him happy. It didn’t even matter to him that the ruling he was talking about obviously didn’t apply to the (much improved) day use area/parking lot he was standing in.

Another time a guy wanted to have a debate while stopped in the parking lot’s entrance lane. I tried to answer his questions, although I honestly don’t know why none of a variety of federal and state passes apply to our parking lot. I don’t know why we don’t give military/disabled/disabled veteran discounts. I don’t know why folks have to pay to park even though it’s federal land which we as taxpayers own.

All I know is that my job is to stand there and collect $5 for each car parked within our gates.

So the guy driving the truck was asking me a bunch of questions I didn’t know the answers to, which was well and good for him, as he was sitting in his vehicle, out of the sun. I was standing in the sun, getting hotter and less patient.

Finally I said, If you’re refusing to pay…planning to follow up with…there’s not really anything I can do about it.

That’s the truth too. I can speak firmly and authoritatively, but I have no way to make people do anything. I don’t write tickets. (Thank goodness!) I don’t carry a gun. (Double thank goodness!) I have no access to a phone, so I can’t call anyone with authority to kick people out. If a visitor refuses to pay to park, I can’t grab him/her by the ankles, flip him/her upside down, and shake the money out of his/her pockets. All I can do if someone refuses to pay is shrug and walk away.

But all I had to say was, If you’re refusing to pay…and the guy changed his tune.

Oh! Oh no! He sounded surprised. I’m not refusing to pay, he said as if he were wondering how I’d possibly ever gotten that idea. He pulled out his money real fast. He wasn’t refusing to pay. Not him. He was paying!

I figure my hourly wage is too low to compel me to get into philosophical discussions with visitors. I’ll have to get paid $15 an hour before I feel obligated to engage in philosophical discussions.

Sep11

Elephant Sex: Review of Modac

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[amazon template=image&asin=0060929510]In April 2015, I read a book called Modoc: The True Story of the Greatest Elephant That Ever Lived by Ralph Helfer. If you are interested in Elephant Sex, go ahead and read my review, which follows.

The subtitle of this book is “The True Story of the Greatest Elephant That Ever Lived,” but it reads more like a piece of adventure fiction. The author says the story is true, and I don’t doubt that most of it is. However, the author doesn’t offer any sources (no bibliography, no end notes), doesn’t even say he spoke extensively to Bram and/or Gertie Gunter. Helfer does mention in his author’s note that he used “research and documented proof, which may-or may not-be true.” He also mentions “‘hearsay’-that which people tell you is factual,” but he never says what people he talked to. Finally, he writes the sentence that makes me wonder… “Then a little (poetic) political license is taken.” What does that mean? I take it to mean the author embellished the story, but when and where?

The part of this book that bothered me most was all the direct quotes. How can a true story include so much dialogue? Did people really remember exactly what they said 30, 40, 50 years before? I doubt it. Why use direct quotes if you can’t be sure you’re quoting directly? Usually when authors make up dialogue, they note that they’ve done so, saying it was written to the best of their (or their subjects’) recollection. Nothing like that here, just direct quotes on page after page.

I guess a reader of nonfiction never really knows what parts of a true story are true and what parts are embellishment.

The book is well written and kept me interested, kept me reading. It is an adventure story, and what an adventure Modac and Bram (her trainer-companion-best friend) have. They survive a shipwreck in the Indian Ocean. They live in an Elephantarium somewhere in India. They meet the Royal White Elephant, which no one was allowed to see without permission from the maharajah. They work in the Indian teak forests. They are forced to go to war. They are a huge success in a circus in the United States. So much happens to the elephant and her boy!

Someone asked if this book is suitable for kids. While there are a few mentions of human sexuality (two older teenagers are described as engaging in “romantic intimacy” and there is a reference to a heterosexual couple playfully wrestling and the young woman being surprised by the man’s “hardness”), there’s an entire elephant sex scene. The male elephant’s “erect penis was bursting for attention…Some six feet in length, perhaps weighing twenty-five pounds, and prehensile…” (Prehensile?! Prehensile?!) After the cow elephant was introduced, “[she] spread her hind legs to support the bull’s weight…The penis had searched and found the vulva. Insertion was imminent…As the delicate tips of their trunks met, the orgasm erupted.” Don’t give this book to your 10 year-old unless you want to discuss all that at the breakfast table!

 

Honestly, I’d be more worried about kids being subjected to the violence in this book. There is quite a bit of violence here, much of which I did not want to read. The shipwreck scene and its aftermath are scary. A man is executed (death by elephant) for killing his wife. Bandits try to steal an elephant and kill her human friend, and she (the elephant) gets vengeance. A woman escapes rape only through death. Elephants and their people are forced to go to war when rebels take over their village. War leads to injury and death. Modoc is mistreated by strangers throughout this book, sometimes in extremely violent ways.

If I were responsible for children, I wouldn’t let anyone under the age of 15 read this book unless I knew s/he possessed a high level of maturity. Even so, I would read the book first and have frequent (possibly chapter by chapter) discussions of what the characters were experiencing. This book offers a lot of possibilities for nightmares, so I’d offer a lot of possibilities for talking through all those scary parts.

Sep10

Go to the Poor People

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If you’re in trouble, or hurt or need–go to the poor people. They’re the only ones that’ll help–the only ones.”

–John Steinbeck

I agree with Mr. Steinbeck on this one. When I was on the road with nothing–no food, no money, no gas–it was often the people who seemed poor who helped me. I was always touched when people who seemed to have very little shared what they did have with me.

One day I got an object lesson in the generosity of the poor and the stinginess of the rich.

I was in Bakersfield, California (population approximately 350,000) with Mr. Carolina, Lil C, and the Okie. I was flying a sign that read “Traveling, Broke & Hungry” at the main Wal-Mart exit. We were trying to get money for some dinner and enough gas to at least get out of town.

I’d been standing there with my sign for a while when I saw a Hummer approaching the exit. No one in a Hummer had ever given me so much as a dime before, so I resigned myself to getting nothing from this driver. But a miracle happened! The Hummer stopped next to me, and the passenger side window slid down. I could see the woman in the driver’s seat rummaging in her purse. She pulled out a bill and leaned across the seat to hand it to me out of the passenger window. I reached for the bill, and there was a moment when both my benefactor and I had our hands on it.

We realized at the same moment that the bill was a twenty. I let out a little noise of joy, and the woman let out a little noise of consternation. Just as I was saying, Oh! Thank you!, the woman pulled the bill out of my hand. Apparently the woman driving the vehicle that cost at least $30,000 new could not afford to give away $20. She ended up giving me $5, and I was grateful for it, although not as grateful as I would have been for that $20 bill I’d briefly had my fingers on.

Some time later, a young guy road up behind me on a bicycle. He asked me about my sign. I told him my friends and I were trying to get out of Bakersfield, trying to get out of California, heading to Oklahoma so one the the friends could get home in time for his mother’s birthday, all of which was true. I told him the four of us were hoping to get some money to buy some dinner and gasoline.

The young man reached into his pocket and pulled out two or three crumpled $1 bills and handed them to me. I thanked him, knowing this was probably quite a generous contribution from someone getting around on a bicycle. I watched him ride off, then turn the bike around and ride back to me.

You know what, he said, you should just take all the money I have in my pockets.

He pulled out a few more crumpled $1 bills. In all, I think he gave me $7.

After I thanked him again, he told me he was giving me the money in Jesus’ name. He told me he felt very fortunate to have a job and his bicycle, things he’d gotten through Jesus, and he felt like Jesus would want him to give me all the money in his pockets.

I felt like I had just witnessed a Biblical parable. The rich lady driving the Hummer had a $20 bill, but decided after I had my hand on it that she needed it more than I did. The poor boy riding a bicycle, however, saw my need as greater than his, so he emptied his pockets and gave the contents to me.

I don’t think Mr. Steinbeck would have been surprised.