Wax On! Wax Off! The Fluidity of Grief Jennifer Hotes

Sketch by my amazing daughter, Bryn

There’s a pillar candle in the center of my kitchen island. When unlit, it sits there, ignored. Once the wick is lit, the wax warms and a cinnamon scent flavors the air. Grief is like that. It’s always there, holding space, whether I pay attention to it or not. Then, on occasion, something lights the frigging wick, and loss permeates everything.

It’s been a little over eight months since the death of my beloved father, Gary Riley. The other day I poured over a photo album and it didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt good to reminisce; a healing milestone. Yea, me!

Then, this morning happened.

To the sounds of an upbeat, 80s playlist, I cleared away the last of the Halloween décor. Energized, I dotted the front room with some favorites from the Christmas bins. When I say I was cheerful, I was singing loud enough to make my lab, Cooper, wary. The Mountain’s Gonna Sing, by Steep Canyon Rangers played over the speaker. I crooned in tune those first lines and then, broke down in tears. I slumped on the couch next to the traumatized dog and cried it out. The next song began and I wiped my eyes, stood, and put the lid back on the Christmas tub.

Dad and Mom got me Audrey Rose and Luminol for my birthday

My birthday’s coming up, the first I’ll experience without Dad. Every year he was the first to text me, ‘Happy Birthday, my girl!’ And inevitably, he’d tell me the story of my birth; how fast I came into the world; who brother Garth stayed with during the big event; and then, always, he’d tell me how much he loved me. I still have last year’s thread on Messenger and plan to start my day with coffee and a few minutes with Dad’s last words.

No doubt this is the key reason the Christmas decorating triggered my grief, but truth is, there’s nothing predictable about grief. We don’t heal on a schedule. In fact, I understand I’ll miss my dad often for the rest of my days because he was the kind of person that left one helluva void. It’s the ultimate compliment. My incredible mother-in-law, Betty Hotes, occupies that hallowed shelf as well.

So, dear ones, as the holidays approach, let’s make room for grief. Let’s be proactive and give ourselves permission to be a mess and unpredictable and high and low and high again. Let’s forgive ourselves for our tears and, maybe even more so, for the times we catch ourselves having fun and feel guilt for not missing our loved ones more. We know that’s ridiculous, right? Right?!?

I’ll be in touch over the next weeks, checking in to make sure you are okay. I’ve got funny stories to share here as well. Might as well laugh through the tears! Until then, sending you and yours love and well-being. <3 Jennifer

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By Jennifer Hotes  ·  Launched 8 months ago

Life, love, loss, pain, victory, and all it is to be a soul in a meat suit

Research is more fun than writing.

Like Dust I Rise

Pushed over the edge by the hit and run death of a little boy in their Back of the Yards neighborhood, Nona Williams’ father, who works in a slaughterhouse, is determined to move his family out of Chicago. He brings home posters encouraging the homesteading of the Great Plains. At the same time, recent pictures of Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly across the Atlantic, have sparked a dream of becoming a pilot in the mind of ten-year-old Nona. She mistakes plains for planes, and is excited to move where she thinks she might one day learn to fly. Like Dust I Rise, follows the Williams’ family to Dalhart, Texas, where they find temporary success wheat farming until the rains stop. Surviving the worst natural disaster in this nation’s history, becomes a daily struggle with tragic results as both Nona and her father cling tenaciously to their individual dreams, one of home ownership and the other to fly.

 * 

Research is more fun than writing. For Hurt Go Happy, I played with chimpanzees and orangutans. Dolphin Sky and How to Speak Dolphin, the obvious. Ditto with The Outside of a Horse. Lost in the River of Grass, included many hikes into the Everglades, but it was my 2014 trip to Texas to research Like Dust I Rise that was uniquely amusing.

I love to ride and write on trains. Since this novel begins in the old Chicago stockyards, I booked a train from Davis, CA, to Chicago to get a feel for the area, then continued on to Lamar, CO—as close as I could get to Dalhart, TX, the epicenter of the Dust Bowl and my novel.

To stay in a hotel near Union Station in Chicago was out of my financial league, so I reserved a single room in a hostel not far from Lincoln Park. Even as I disembarked from the cab, I felt every year of my advanced age. A rather intimidating set of concrete stairs lead to the entrance. Young people were coming and going. As I stood there, preparing to drag my wheelie up step by step, a young Frenchman said, ‘Let me get that for you,’ and ran up the steps with my bag, then held the door for me until I caught up.

My room had bunk beds, a small window out onto a garden, and a large black and white rendering of Che Guevara on one wall. Since I’d booked a single, I took the bottom bunk.

The hostel was in a residential neighborhood. Rather than search for a restaurant, I opted to eat in the dining room. I was so clearly out of my element that the hordes of young people took it upon themselves to help me navigate the protocols of hostel dining. This short little old lady stood in line for spaghetti, found, and hopped up on a tall barstool-like chair to dine at high-top table in the company of an amiable young man from Poland. It was from him that I discovered my arrival coincided with the next day’s Chicago marathon, which was expected to host 45,000 runners and 100,000 spectators. Best laid plans. I did my dishes and went to bed.

I awoke the next morning to shouts, cheering, and applause. Since my train to Lamar didn’t leave until the late afternoon, I got dressed and walked down to watch the runners. I never did get near the Back of the Yards neighborhood, or all that remains of the Chicago stockyards—the gate.

All that’s left of the stockyards.

The taxi ride back to Union Station was convoluted, consisting of back streets to avoid all the closures. The train ride was uneventful, though I continued to stress about whether I would really have a rental car when I got to Lamar, the nearest town on the Southwest Chief route to Dalhart, TX, a 150-mile drive south of Lamar. Earlier research for rental car agencies drew a blank, until a Hertz agent suggested I try Lamar’s Ace Hardware store.    

In spite of not being aware that my Chicago visit coincided with a marathon, I rarely leave much to chance when I travel. A full year before I embarked on this trip, I took that agent’s advice and reserved a rental car from the Ace Hardware store. Every couple of months, I called them to make sure they still had a reservation for me. Many times, the person answering had no clue what I was talking about, which is why I was still nervous that a hardware store was the go-to place for a rental car, and why I continued to check until one of the clerks finally told me to stop worrying, they had three cars for rent and rarely rented any of them.

I arrived in Lamar early on a brisk, freezing cold October morning. The prairie winds, which I’d written so much about in the first drafts of this novel, were showing me their stuff. I wheeled my suitcase four or five blocks to the hardware store, bent into a wind strong enough to twice rip the handle out of my stiff, icy fingers, and topple my bag. Arriving at the hardware store, my concerns bubbled up again since the few cars in the parking lot looked harshly driven and not the least bit rentable. A knot formed in my stomach. If this didn’t work, I had no way to get to Dalhart, short of thumbing, and the entire trip would be wasted.

My goal in Dalhart was to soak in the atmosphere of the place considered the epicenter of the 1930s dust bowl, find an old school house, a working windmill, a dugout, the train station, and locate where exactly my fictional family lived. I’d made contact with the director of the XIT museum and planned to start there. 

Inside the hardware store was modern, toasty warm, well-stocked, and crowded with men in overalls and John Deere caps. My elderly, invisible self remained unnoticed among the hubbub. When I did get someone’s attention and said I was there to pick up a rental car, the kid said, “Huh?”

 My heart pounded.”I was told you rent cars.”

 He picked up the mic and paged Bob or Joe, I don’t remember. “Yes, ma’am,” Bob or Joe said. “Got your car all ready for you.”

 I found myself humming The Yellow Rose of Texas as I filled out the short, mimeographed form and showed my license. Joe/Bob walked me outside and across the lot to the cars I’d thought looked so worn out they belonged to customers or employees. Clearly, they got a deal, because there were three old maroon sedans in a row. Mine had a flat tire.

 “We’ll have that fixed in pronto,” Joe/Bob said.

True to his word, as I waited under the overhang, wind whipping leaves around my ankles, he was back minutes later. “You’ll be needing some gas.” He handed me the keys.

I never did determine the make of the car, but it was ancient enough to lack a center console and the passenger side had a long stab wound that exposed the stuffing. The odometer reflected 158,000 miles of experience under its hood. And he was right, it needed gas. The needle was on empty. I filled up on the outskirts of Lamar and headed south.

Ninety-six miles south of Lamar, on US 385, I pass through Boise City, OK, as familiar to me as Dalhart was after reading and re-reading The Worse Hard Time by Timothy Egan. I’m now 49 miles from my destination, but I’m already feeling a sense of déjà vu, though I’d never been here before.  

The iron sculpture was made possible by Bob and Norma Gene Young in 1990. It was a dream of Bob and Norma Gene Young to build a true scale dinosaur like the one that was excavated in Cimarron County by Dr. Stovall. This dream came true with the sales of Norma Gene’s book “Footsteps.”

Joe Barrington from Throckmorton, Texas built the 65 foot long, 35 foot high and 18,000-pound Apatosaurus. The dinosaur was named “Cimmy” by a Boise City Elementary student. This exact scale model of the Apatosaurus sits adjacent to the Cimarron Heritage Center.

***

I admit to a guffaw when I spotted this life-size dinosaur looming over the flat as a pancake landscape. The sign outside the little house read Cimarron Heritage Center, but since I was on a mission into the heart of this country’s greatest natural disaster of all time, and didn’t need to pee, I didn’t stop.

I’m not sure what I expected of Dalhart. Sand dunes, maybe. I admit to being disappointed, and this will not endear me to the residents of Dalhart, but the face it presents to the world is unattractive at best. It sits at the crossroads of two major highways and two railroad lines. My motel was backed up to one of the railroads and fronted on one of the highways. Semis rolled through night and day, as did trains. I found only two restaurants open—ever, one for BBQ and the other a diner for breakfast. It took me two days to find a grocery store where I stocked up on frozen dinners to cook in the microwave in my motel room.

On arrival, I went straight to the XIT Museum. Naturally, I’d made contact with the director earlier and was expected. The focus of the museum was to celebrate and preserve artifacts from the largest cattle ranch that ever existed—the XIT. There is speculation that it got its name because it covered 10 counties in Texas, thus the Roman numeral X stood for 10 in Texas. It’s a terrific little museum, but had little or no historical information on the Dust Bowl. (My visit was in 2014. They plan to open a Dust Bowl exhibit this year, 2021.)

I had another disappointment in store. Once again, I was looking for an old one-room schoolhouse, a working windmill, a dugout, and the train station. Sadly, according to the director, the train station was gone, there wasn’t an old schoolhouse left standing, he’d never seen a dugout, and didn’t know of a single working windmill. All, however, was not lost. They did have journals and diaries of people who lived through that era. During my four days there, I read dozens of these treasures, and drove around the county until I found a place southeast of town where my characters would in live.

Four days later, I departed Dalhart for the drive back to Lamar. I stopped in Boise City at the Bluebonnet Café for breakfast. I parked in front of the restaurant and an old man held the door for me. “That there’s a beaut,” he said of my car. I thanked him. My Nebraska born and raised father used to use the word ‘beaut’ mostly for the fish I caught in our lake in Florida. (Recently, one of the networks interviewed people in that very café. The question was, were any of them planning to get vaccinated? Unsurprisingly, the unanimous answer was no. During the newscast, I scanned the customers’ faces for that friendly old man.)

What the hell, I thought when I passed the Brontosaurus. The Open sign was out and I didn’t have anything to do until my train left the next morning. The house was a 1950s model, a style I recognized from my own upbringing. Inside the front door, was a little gift shop where I found a number of books written by locals about the dust bowl years. Judy Wilson, the woman behind the counter, asked where I was from, then told me she had a sister living 33 miles from my home in CA. What in the world brought be to all the way to Oklahoma? Mostly, I recall her enigmatic smile when I told her how disappointed I was not to have found any of the things I’d come all this way in search of. “Maybe I can help.” Judy crooked a finger for me to follow.

We passed through a 1950s living room, a 1950s kitchen, down a hall that once led to bedrooms, I suppose. It was lined with historical photographs. She unlocked a rear door and we stepped into a warehouse-sized building that I hadn’t noticed from the highway. It was divided into kitchen tableaus starting with 1890 and jumping in ten-year increments. Mannequins were dressed in period costumes and each kitchen was decorated appropriately for the decade. I was especially interested in the 1930 tableau.

“If you’re not in a hurry—” the enigmatic smile again. “I could show you around outside.” She opened the door to the backyard and stood aside.

I burst out laughing. The most obvious yard ornament was a working windmill. To my right was a complete train station with an old baggage cart on the platform. There was the station master’s office and coal storage. Next to it, a barn full of old prairie schooners, buckboards, and a Conestoga, which is what Nona’s father moved to Texas in. Beyond that was a fully furnished one-room schoolhouse.

I was just thinking the only thing missing. . . when Judy pointed me toward a mound of dirt in the middle of the yard. A dugout! It contained a bed, a washstand, and a wood stove. That was the moment my camera battery died, but I’d learned a lesson. Never look a gift dinosaur in the mouth.

Back in Lamar, and now a believer in small town museums, I located the Big Timbers Museum where I found a number of period pictures, which the curator was kind enough to email to me. She also told be about Granada, a Japanese internment camp located a short distance east of Lamar. The American citizens interned there successfully farmed it and their efforts were memorialized with display panels.

It was a warm day and I wandered the trail wearing my go-to footwear—flip flops, which resulted in my final and most lasting memory of my trip. I nearly stepped on a spider virtually the same color as the gravel path. It was about the size of my thumbnail but had an unforgiving chip on one or more of its shoulders. I stepped off the path to walk around it, but it charged me. I took a step back, and it charged again. I laughed and leaned down to look it eye to eye. It scuttled toward my bare toes. I jumped aside. Which ever way I moved, it followed until I was dancing from side to side, laughing at my own antics, and grateful to go unobserved. To honor the moxie of that spider, I added a scene with a tarantula to my story.

Bats Inside Your Home? Guest Blog by Herman Samano

Bats Inside Your Home? Here’s What You Need To Know

May 13, 2021

Hermann Samano

Bats are one of the world’s most unique creatures and can be found on virtually every continent around the globe. These flying mammals mostly eat insects, which means that they’re a beneficial part of the ecosystem. Unfortunately, some bats may make their way into your home, which can lead to myriad problems. If you end up with bats in your house, what can you do to get rid of them in a safe, humane way? This guide covers important information about bats, how to handle one if it does get indoors, and some steps you can take to be proactive and keep them outside, so they won’t attempt to enter your home.

 Bat Basics

It’s important to learn more about bats so that you understand them. Here are some basic bat facts to give you a more in-depth understanding of these mysterious creatures.

What they do: Bats are the only mammal that can fly. They’re found all over the world—there are approximately 1,300 different bat species spanning the globe. Due to their voracious appetites for insects, they do a wonderful job of keeping pests under control, which is particularly beneficial to farmers and backyard grillers.

Common types of bats: In the United States, the most common types of bats you may encounter include the lesser long-nosed bat, the hoary bat, pallid bat, or the little brown bat. There are many others, but these tend to be the most common species that could potentially make your house their home.

Why we should protect them: Bats may seem frightening, but bat conservation is actually important for our planet. Not only can just one bat eat an average of 3,000 insects every night, but they’re also important pollinators. When bats feed on fruit or flowers, they contribute to a healthy pollination process. Bat poop, called guano, is great for the garden, and its waste contains seeds of various plants, which get spread over long distances, contributing to healthy, widespread plant growth.

Why bats could end up in your home: If a bat needs to nest, they may decide that your home is a good place to do so. Most bats end up in the attic, where they’ll reproduce and live as if your attic were a cave. Many bat species can squeeze through cracks and crevices, so if they see an opening, there’s a good chance that they will take it and use the space to live and rear their young. Sudden drops in temperature may also encourage bats to find a warm place like your attic until the cold subsides.

Risks involved: While most bats are harmless, they can still carry rabies, a dangerous disease that affects both animals and humans. You can contract rabies from a bat if you are bitten, but on average, just five percent of bats tested are positive for the rabies virus. These flying mammals can also spread histoplasmosis, a fungus that is typically found near the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. Fungus spores from soil contaminated by bat droppings can spread to humans, although most symptoms are mild and serious issues like fever are quite rare. 

Handling a Bat Indoors

If you find a bat inside your house, there’s no need to panic. Here are some things you can do to handle a bat indoors safely.

Gear to use: Always handle bats with care, and make sure you wear thick, heavy-duty gloves when handling them to avoid getting bitten. Leather work gloves are a good choice. You’ll also need a large jar, sturdy cardboard box, coffee can, or another container to trap the bat in, and a piece of cardboard that’s larger than the opening to contain the bat until you’re ready to release it.

Handling bats humanely: If you’re able to capture the bat in the container, take it outside and gently remove the cardboard so the bat can escape. Never release a bat on the ground, since they cannot just take off and fly as birds can. Instead, tilt the container at an angle near a tree or other object where the bat can climb vertically until it reaches a safe location. Don’t leave a trapped bat for long, or it could suffocate or starve. Make sure you’re ready to release the bat as soon as you capture it.

Contact the experts: It’s not recommended that the average homeowner attempt to handle a bat in the house. Thankfully, there are experts who can assist you in removing bats safely from your home. Start by contacting a local animal rescue or rehab center, or your local Humane Society. If they can’t assist you, your local wildlife or game and fish department should be able to help. Some pest control companies also know how to remove bats—but always confirm that they’re qualified and experienced to do so in a safe and humane way. 

Keeping Bats Safe Outside

The best way to avoid dealing with bats in your house is to provide them with a safe haven outdoors. Here are some tips to help you create a safe environment for bats.

Build a bat house. You can build a DIY bat house or bat box, or you may purchase one that’s pre-made to provide bats with a safe shelter. Build your bat house with sturdy pieces of wood. You can download designs online and use a saw, screws, and nails to construct the bat house.

Place the bat house at least 10-12 feet off the ground, facing south to southeast. The best location will be where the bat box gets early morning sunlight and continues to get full sun throughout the day. The ideal temperature for bats is between 85 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Keep the bat house away from trees where birds of prey may try to eat them. A tall pole is a good alternative—but never attach it to an active utility pole—or if you want, you can attach the box directly to the side of your house. Make sure that the bat box is at least one-quarter of a mile within a water source and maintain it by painting it with a quality, exterior latex paint. Never attempt to move your bat house if there are currently bats inside. Often, parents will raise baby bats in the bat box to keep them safe until they’re old enough to venture out on their own.

Monitor pets outside. Pets, especially cats, are predators of bats. A curious pet may swat at a bat or attempt to kill it, so it’s important to keep your animals away from the bat house. You don’t have to keep your pets inside all of the time, but make sure you watch them and monitor them closely whenever they’re let out to ensure that they don’t try to get into the bat house or attempt to harm a bat that may be flying by.

Don’t use pesticides. Chemicals in pesticides can cause serious harm to bats. If the pesticides get into the animals’ food source, they can have toxic, deadly consequences. Instead of keeping pests away using synthetic pesticides, look for organic, all-natural alternatives to keep bats and birds safe. You can make your homemade organic pesticides using a variety of ingredients like neem oil, a simple Himalayan salt spray, or mineral oil.

Prevent bats from entering your home. If you want to keep bats away, seal all gaps and cracks around the perimeter of your home, particularly near the attic. Look for any areas where light comes in. If you see sunlight coming in through these areas, it means that bats and other pests can easily come inside. 

Fill gaps and holes with caulk or stainless steel mesh screens. Check the fireplace vents and chimneys to ensure that they’re closed off with a well-fitting, protective cap. Look for any loose trim or fascia on your house, and make sure that it’s securely attached to the frame. If you have a tile roof, install netting over it so bats don’t attempt to gain entry through the gaps between the tiles. Not only will these measures keep bats out of your home, but they’ll also prevent other pests from entering, too.

Although bats are often misunderstood by humans, more people are beginning to understand their importance when it comes to preserving and promoting a healthy environment. If you keep bats out of your home and make their environment safe, these important mammals will continue to thrive. Never attempt to handle a bat if you’re not sure how to do so safely. Instead, contact professional animal rescue organizations in your area, and they will be happy to help you remove and relocate the bat or bats safely. When we learn to coexist with animals, it helps to ensure a better world for future generations to come.  

Guest post by Sallie Reynolds

Sallie and Zorro

Touching an Alien Mind

Sallie Reynolds

            I stood in a meadow, swinging meat on a string.

            Whop! Zorro, a young Red-tailed Hawk, slammed down from a tree and whacked me, hard, with his wing. It looked like an attack. It was not. It was a new form of communication. He was saying, as clear as words, “You left me out all night, in the dark. Alone. Scared. HUNGRY!” This was the signal from a wild creature's mind that I'd wanted all my life.

            My first close sight of a hawk - I was eleven - was a bird tethered in my science teacher's backyard. She sat, unmoving - huge, regal, eyes covered with a hood - an enfolded power. She was the most wonderful creature I'd ever seen. Soon after, watching hawks soaring, I felt the lift and the wind as though I myself were flying, I was the hawk. This sensation of connection has lasted all my life.

            The same teacher, however, told me (it was the 1950s) that humans and wild things are far too different to really connect, so the best I could do was study them in books. I accepted that and eventually became a wildlife rehabilitator and falconer. Working with hawks recuperating from injury, I used the falconer's technique of hunger control to get them to cooperate for a time, tested them in the field, released them. Meanwhile, though, a growing body of research began to suggest that birds, especially the crow family and other social species, possess a far more flexible intelligence than was once suspected. Still the idea that these birds could communicate and cooperate the way highly trained dogs or captive apes do, was widely denied. My child's dream of mutual understanding seemed impossible. 

            Then Zorro came into my life. He was recovering from West Nile Virus, a killer disease in birds. An avian specialist treated him and sent him to me, aged four months, for hunt training and to monitor his recovery. The usual hunger-control training includes dropping the hawks’ weight, sometimes rapidly, to force them to overcome their natural caution and fly to the falconer. This method can be extreme, and I couldn’t use it with Zorro without compromising his recovery. So where was my tool?

            To start, Zorro and I needed a language. We both understood meat, so twice a day I went into his enclosure, gave a soft whistle, and offered him a piece of raw quail on my glove. He was not hungry, but wild creatures will almost always pay attention to food. This way might take a bit longer to get the bird’s trust, but we had time.

To calm Zorro’s fears, I darkened the room, leaving just enough light so he could see the treat. He'd eaten well, so he eyed me warily and didn't move. I left the meat; next morning, it was gone. The second day, we repeated this. The fifth day, in full light, he edged along his perch, and stepped onto my hand - a mere four inches, but what an emotional hurdle! Golden eyes flicking to mine, he bent his head and ate.

            In two days, still well-fed, he was flying to my fist in his enclosure. We moved outdoors where, on a long leash called a creance, he made the acquaintance of the lure. I secured meat to a cord and got his attention by pulling it through the grass. He chased it, caught it, ate it. Soon he was flying 100 feet, searching the grass, grabbing with those sharp talons, coming to the glove at my whistle. Whenever I left the house, he'd hear me from the aviary and cry: “Let's go go go!” Before long I was releasing live mice, which he caught with elegant efficiency.  

            Now the second big test: No leash. Would Zorro follow me as I flushed prey? The falconer's rule is “it takes a hungry hawk to play the human game.” But I hoped he trusted me enough to work with me, fat and sassy as he was. In a nearby meadow, I unclipped the leash. He flew to a tree. I swung the lure. He came down, bolted his tidbit, returned to his tree. I kicked over a stump, a lizard zipped out. Zorro attacked, missed, returned to his tree. It was a variation on our old game. Launching almost before I called out, he dived on scurrying voles. For two hours, we played. Then I whistled. And, glory be! he flew to my glove.  

            On the next hunt, Zorro made a spectacular catch - a rabbit. He chased it into an old tire, dragged it out - it was more than twice his weight - and crouched over it, glaring: “Mine!” Taking quick shearing bites, he ate practically to bursting before he let me approach. He clutched the leftovers in one powerful foot and we brought it back home.

            From December to March, Zorro and I hunted our meadow. He could have left at any time, but the routine, the steady meals – the fun – brought him back, alighting like a breath on the glove. He easily learned my hand signals in addition to the whistle.

            By now, most falconers rehabbing a youngster would have released him in an area hopping with juicy critters, monitor for a week or so, and wish him godspeed. Such birds have about a 40% chance of surviving to breeding age – normal for wild first-year raptors. But my covenant with Zorro was not only to help him sharpen his skills but to be sure his disease didn't recur. West Nile Virus recovery can quickly unravel, and the veterinarian wanted me to monitor him throughout his first molt. We were looking at two more months of captivity.

            Zorro, however, said no. He got so antsy in the aviary, he was going to hurt himself. I took another risk – hoping he'd continue our relationship, I set him free. 

            Zorro's meadow has a lovely knoll where a breeze always blows, threaded with rabbit paths, riddled with gopher holes, echoing to the rattle of woodpeckers in the oaks and the throb of frogs in the pond. It looks peaceful, but it's a battleground. He'd learned caution, but alone at night, would he elude the hungry Great Horned Owl? In the heat of the chase, would he fly into the road? Would the wind tempt him away?

            It was the next day that he came down and whacked me, starting a new chapter in our saga. Every day I whistled at the gate and swung the lure. Soon he was grabbing tidbits from the ground or catching them in midair. But he no longer ate in front of me. He never touched me again. Our patterns were changing. 

            Then one day he wasn't there. I returned again and again, whistling, swinging his lure. No Zorro. I was afraid he'd been killed.

            Five long days later, my neighbor who owns the meadow phoned: “Your boy is here. In a tree, yelling.” Sure enough, at the meadow gate - Zorro. He stayed around for a month. If he wasn't hungry, he'd perch on a pole and watch me toss treats. He'd follow the arc and waggle his tail – a comedy routine? Clearly food was no longer our main language. These were new, somewhat mysterious communications.

            He disappeared often, but always came back. Hawks have an unmatched aerial view and the keenest eyes in the vertebrate world. Zorro found me when he wanted to. But he no longer needed me to survive.

            His flight skills were breathtaking. Living in a cage left him a bit wobbly at first, but here he was, doing wing-loops and dives, catching tidbits in midair. He was well-muscled, sleek in his handsome adult feathers. People in our community stopped me on the road to ask about him. This was good; what people are interested in, they're less likely to harm. But he never let them get close.

            Next he began to initiate some of our contacts. He recognized my car and once he flew right toward it. Those blazing eyes pierced the windshield and locked, like golden arrows, onto mine. A friend came for a week, and by the end of her visit, Zorro would land right over us. She, my neighbor, and my husband were the only other people to see his aerobatics. Zorro has his druthers!   

            Then a female appeared in his meadow. I say “female.” Sexing wild hawks is tricky. She was larger, as lady Red-tails normally are. Whenever I showed up, she'd cry and sail away. But she was back again next time. What effect would she have on my relationship with Zorro? And I on theirs?

            In winter, hawk romance season, there were some strange goings-on. Once when I went to the gate with hors d'oeuvres, a Red-tail broke cover and flew, crying, down the meadow. It was the lady. A nearer cry, and there was Zorro, in a little evergreen. Then, keeping close, as if for confidence, he flew to a pole and went into serious duet mode. “Keeer-keeer,” he cried. From her perch in a dead tree, “Keeer-keeer,” the lady replied. Was this a prom-night duet? A game of chief-of-the-mountain? They kept up their call-and-response until dark.

            The meadow became an arena. When Zorro seemed nervous, I'd spy the female, sometimes with a strange male close by. Zorro, now two years old, was ready for mate and babies and I hoped the lady would accept him. But hawk love is fraught with hormones, conflicts, enigmas. She could easily choose the other male and drive him away. Zorro stopped coming to me. In late February, when local Red-tails begin seriously thinking about eggs and chicks, he vanished.

            In March, to my joy, he reappeared. He'd sit in a tree and watch me. In May, he began coming to the gate to snatch a meal, zoom away. He was probably feeding mate and babies, but I wasn't sure until one day in late June, a young Red-tail flew over, carrying the tidbit I'd just tossed Zorro. In the woods, another youngster was calling. I saw not only Zorro, but the female, and heard high-pitched begging cries from the woods. Two youngsters! They seemed to be a normal wild family.

            Then on July 19, Zorro did a remarkable thing. He appeared at my house, flew to the top of a pine near his old aviary, and called. In all the months since his release, he'd never come back, though it was only a half mile from his meadow – maybe he remembered being in jail, who knows? But now, here he was, calling urgently. I tossed meat in the driveway. He snatched it and winged away. Seconds later the young hawks set up a clamor. That afternoon, Zorro came again, same tree, same calls. Another hefty hunk of meat, taken away, met with cries from the youngsters. What was going on?

            I believe that Zorro's mate died – these devoted parents don't abandon their babies – leaving him with dependents who needed a substantial amount of food and some serious life lessons. He'd known me, trusted me, for two years. He asked for help, and I gave it. For nearly three weeks, he flew to the same tree, morning and afternoon, and accepted food.

            Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. Young hawks normally disperse in the late summer, early fall. They were gone. Zorro stopped coming to the house.

            Today Zorro still lives in the area, and has a new lady. In February I saw them mating in the top of a tree. He'll occasionally appear at my whistle, but only to perch at a distance. We seem to be saying, “You're there, I'm here. All's well.” In May, he vanished once more. In mid-June, he was back, accepting an occasional meal. And in July, he began coming to the house, surely feeding young once more. But he wasn't frantic the way he'd been the year before.

            We have a new pattern now: he plummets out of the sky, frequently with a battalion of crows on his tail. If I'm not waiting, he might call. I stopped whistling, since that draws his tormentors, but Zorro remembers my hand signals, so I can point to a certain tree and in a moment, he'll drop down and land on the top, like a Christmas-tree angel. Sometimes, he’ll sleep in the oak over our roof. Perhaps he feels safe there from the crows. Or on cool nights, warm from the chimney.

            Our vocabulary grows. If I call “Zorro,” a speck might appear in the sky and, in a fiery swoop, he'll perch. Occasionally, he'll hunt gophers in the orchard. He often watches us work in the yard. Though he goes off for a few days, he returns. Every meeting leads to an exchange.

            For me, this is an astonishing experience. Communication with a wild being. It is more solid than my sentimental child's dream, more satisfying than my years of study. What it is for Zorro I can't say. I probably won't even know the end of his story. One day - I hope years from now - he will simply be gone.

            Until then the door between us is open. Sometimes his eyes slip into mine, and then we share that miracle people tell us is impossible: the meeting of alien minds.                       

Sallie Reynolds is a writer and editor, a wildlife rehabilitator and educator for more than 20 years. In 2015 she qualified as a falconer in order to work in the field with recuperating hawks. She met Zorro in the autumn of 2016. He is still a frequent visitor at her house.

The Chimpanzee Chronicles

I met Debra Rosenman in 2007 at a symposium on chimpanzees featuring my hero, Jane Goodall. At that time, Debra had an idea for a book about the lives of chimpanzees—a compilation of insights by authorities in the fields of research, testing, rescuing, and providing sanctuaries for chimpanzees. That year, Hurt Go Happy had been just been released in paperback. My 18 years of research and writing, followed by rejection after rejection, only to finally see it published was over. I have to admit, I felt sorry for Debra. I had a sense of what she was up against, but there was something about her that made me think she could do it. And she did.

The Chimpanzee Chronicles is a beautiful tribute to the chimpanzees who have survived all we’ve done to them in the name of science, entertainment, and ill-conceived pet ownership, and to the people who have dedicated their lives to doing all they can for our closest relatives in the animal world.

Just yesterday Debra wrote to tell me TCC had won first prize, a gold medal in the category of best anthology in the 2020 Independent Publishers Book Awards! “Taking first prize makes the thirteen years of my life that I devoted to the chimpanzees with this book so worth it! First place was a tie, so I share the honor with Thomas Voight's book, Stand in the Light: Native Voices Illuminated by Edward S. Curtis which is also a beautifully crafted book."

 https://www.debrarosenman.com/meet-the-chimpss

One's Gender is between One's Ears

Before my sister was born

Until a couple years ago, I knew zero about transgenderism. I have lots of gay friends, but didn't know anyone who was trans. Or I didn't think I did.

Before I wrote Finch, I had no dog in the fight. I'm straight, cisgender, old, widowed, childless, white, and a lapsed Episcopalian. I grew up in Central Florida during the civil rights era, but was too young and self-centered to really notice what was happening. We certainly weren't in the thick of it. My saving grace has turned out to be that I detest injustice. 

I swore that, given the opportunity to speak up for an oppressed group, I would. When an acquaintance came out as trans and had reassignment surgery at age 70, I had my chance. I peppered her with questions, and read everything she suggested starting with Becoming Nicole.

Freeing Finch was a book I'd written a decade ago about an abandoned dog and a young girl whose mother died leaving her to be raised by her recently remarried step-father. The abandonment theme of that book reminded me of many of the stories I was reading about families turning their backs on their gender-questioning children. It didn't seem like too much of a leap to add gender dysphoria to that character's issues, especially considering the recent spate of LGBTQ-bashing by this administration.

Now that Finch is available, I'm seeing how deeply ingrained and common this government-sanctioned bashing is. Just today's news: 

 What You Need To Know About The Bills Threatening Transgender Youth

The tragedy is, there is strong scientific evidence that transgenderism is caused by a miss-timed secretion of male hormones during one of the two releases in utero. In other words, it has a medical cause.

For the first 5 or 6 weeks in the womb, the fetus is developing as a girl. (That's why males have vestigial nipples.) The first wave at about three months triggers the development of boy genital, and the second wave during the 3rd trimester, leads to the development of "who we are" by triggering the development of a boy brain or a male gender identity. 

 At my book launch in Mendocino, a teacher approached me after the reading and told me about a second grader at her school. The child, born male, identifies as a girl. His parents refuse to let him dress as a girl and send him to school in 'boy-clothes.' Those of us old enough to remember the song from South Pacific, You've Got to be Carefully Taught, about racism, bigotry, and the hatred and fear of "others", know prejudices aren't born in us, they are taught. This child's little girl friends have been taught acceptance and they bring him 'girl clothes' to wear during the day, then he changes back into his boy-clothes before going home.   

Our gender identity is between our ears; our sex is between our legs. Transgenderism should be handled as just another challenge in life that’s no more or less significant than all the others. Psychological issues arise too often from the big deal we make of our differences.  Dr. Kate Rohr 

I grew up a Tomboy, and was once asked by another kid, if I was a boy or a girl? Fair question. As I recall, I'd just beaten him up. "I'm a girl," I said, "but I'm going to be a boy when I grow up."

Most of us, if asked, knew what sex we were from the time we could talk. I knew I was a girl, but I wanted to be a boy. Boys had freedom from dresses and dolls, perms, and keeping clean. 

“Historically, the terms "sex" and "gender" have been used interchangeably, but their uses are becoming increasingly distinct, and it is important to understand the differences between the two. This article will look at the meaning of "sex" and the differences between the sexes. It will also look at the meaning of "gender," and the concepts of gender roles, gender identity, and gender expression. In general terms, "sex" refers to the biological differences between males and females, such as the genitalia and genetic differences. "Gender" is more difficult to define, but it can refer to the role of a male or female in society, known as a gender role, or an individual's concept of themselves, or gender identity. Sometimes, a person's genetically assigned sex does not line up with their gender identity. These individuals might refer to themselves as transgender, non-binary, or gender-nonconforming.”

             From MedicalNewsToday

After my sister was born

Comment from a friend: “Our four year old grand daughter was asked over Christmas what she wanted to be when she grew up. She proudly announced, “A hamburger!” I told her to be the best hamburger she could be.”

Good news:  Ban on treatments for transgender kids fails in South Dakota 

Bad news: "Conservative lawmakers in nearly a dozen other states, including South Carolina, Florida, Missouri, Colorado, Illinois, Kentucky and New Hampshire, are pushing similar proposals. The measure had gained the most traction in South Dakota, where the House recently passed it."

Survival Sister by Bethany Brewer

It's an honor to post this poem by a different kind of veteran.

Survival Sister

If you transported me back in time,

when we shared a damp sleeping bag,
your tiny popsicle toes scratching into the backs of
my warm bent knees
with stars for a roof and no walls of support

when those tiny toes kicked my sterilized top bunk
from your bottom bleached fort at the homeless
shelter while mom flirted for escape,
inevitably finding us a leather
stepfather across the clanging room of
metal cafeteria food

when you made yourself my backpack
as we cowered in the corner, my
concave chest failing to expand into the
puffed out superhero stance I sought to
protect you from the bloodshed

If you had told me then,
with your little voice that had yet to
learn it’s ‘r‘ sounds.

If you had taken my scarred young face
in your tiny speckled hands, two sets of
matching Bambi eyes that continued to
watch our mother dying from this
disease. Eyes that stared deep into a future of
burnt hope, determination rising from the ashes
of the cigarette burns in our 25-cent tights that
never took us to ballet class.

If you had told me then that I would be kneeling
before you, painting rainbows on your glorious
pregnant belly as your first born miracle danced
glittery pirouettes around our 40-year bond.

If you had told me then, my Survival Sister.
Then I would tell you…
it’s all going to be ok.

Labels: child abuse, pregnancy, sisterhood, survival

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Elephant in the Room

Ever since I saw the grinning photo of the CEO of Jimmy John's Gourmet Sandwiches, sitting on the knee of the elephant he killed, I've been sickened. The money he's raking in from selling sandwiches, is financing his trophy hunting trips.

https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/jimmy-john-liautaud-hunting-photos/

In October 2018, Liautaud was included in the Forbes list of the world's wealthiest people. At this time, Forbes estimated Liautaud's documented wealth at $1.7 billion. Wikipedia

What makes me sicker is how helpless we are to do anything. Boycotts are a great idea, but how much would that cut into his billionaire status? He's beyond our reach.

Then a friend sent this video to me: Music for Elephants

And another sent me the story of her dog with a deformed leg and how she contacted Derrick Campana, and suggested I look at some videos of the work he's doing: Elephant prosthetic

There isn't anything I can do about a man like Liautaud. Boycotting a place I've never eaten in (and never will) isn't the way to get my heartache to stop. Sharing the good work people are doing to save animals, is a better use of my time and energy. Let the Liautauds, the Trump boys, and their ilk, come to their own end.

A Little Something to Turn Your Stomach

If you still eat chicken, and you aren't buying cage-free or free-range chickens, here's how they are shipped to slaughter. I passed one of these trucks yesterday on Hwy 101 north of Santa Rosa. The cages were so short, the chickens were lying on their sides. It was the most sickening disregard for a live being I've ever seen. And if this doesn't do it for you, think of the terror of traveling at 55 mph in open air. There was no ID on the truck, so no way to know which farm they came from or where they were going.

Jul 24, 2018 - At the slaughterhouse, after being held in the trucks for 1 to 12 hours, chickens raised for meat are torn from the cages and hung upside down.

For more information, visit the following links:

https://www.upc-online.org/transport/

https://www.motherjones.com/food/2015/09/peak-inside-industrial-chicken-slaughterhouse/

Night of the Cane Frogs by Maureen Eppstein

My friend, Maureen Eppstein, is a New Zealander with an accent I could listen to all day. She's a naturalist and poet, with an eye for astonishingly beautiful details.

Night of the Cane Toads

The Colonizer by Charlotte Gullick

Charlotte Gullick

A mutual friend sent this story to me a few days ago. Those of us who know and love Char were terribly upset and worried about her. If you don't know her, she took over Suzanne Byerley's creative writing classes when Suz moved to Ohio. She is a past Executive Director of the Mendocino Coast Writers' Conference, where her focus was creating a safe place for diverse voices. I was in a writing group with her. Those of you who have read Lost in the River Grass may recognize her influence.

I'm going to tell you right up front that she's doing better. Much better. This then becomes, not just her brush with a scary health issue, but our society's brush with another scary disease--the metastasizing of bigotry.

 The Colonizer

Life with Spiders

discoverlife.org

I've done this. Showered with spiders. I'm not afraid of them, though admittedly, I will capture and release BIG ones. A friend sent this
Orion Magazine article and it reminded me that here in the Pacific Northwest, we are always finding spiders in our bathtubs. Another friend provides them with a toilet paper ladder, and the friend who sent this, leaves a towel draped over the side of the tub.

Showering with Spiders

The itsy-bitsy spider

Climbed up the water spout
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out
Out came the sun
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy-bitsy spider
Climbed up the spout again

In spite of this message of determination, spiders drown easily,
so pre-shower preparations include checking and removing spiders that aren't ceiling high.

As frequent readers of this blog know, I'm originally from Florida. We have serious spiders down there. My favorite is the Golden Orb spider. I probably like them best because I made friends with one once. I found andhand-raised a baby Spotted-breasted Oriole. They are fruit-eaters, but for protein I always had a supply of mealworms for him. A golden orb spider had her web outside our back door. She would hide into a corner whenever the door opened. One morning I let the dog out and flipped a mealworm into her web. She stayed hidden, but when I did the same thing the next morning, she ran down her web, sank her fangs into it and began wrapping it in silk. On the third morning, she sat in the center of her web waiting for me and took the mealworm from my fingers. 

birdquest2004.com

I want to believe

sacurrent.com

I know I haven't done a blog post in months. First my computer hit the skids after 14 years (I was still using XP), then a month of 'last minute' prep for the writers' conference and the conference itself. I also have a much-needed new website in the works. Excuses, excuses. Maybe I just ran out of steam for a while. Then yesterday a friend sent me this video. I, who have loved and been an advocate for animals all my life, would give anything to have this ability. I even took an animal communication class once, and failed. I want to believe it's possible. This video has come pretty close to convincing me. Either way, it's heartwarming.

Abused Leopard Growled At Everyone Who Passed By.

Empowering Girls by Maxine Rose Schur

After strolling through the unrelenting pink princess aisles for girls at Toys R Us, seeing toy after toy with images of skinny, impossibly pretty royalty and the overwhelming emphasis on “prettiness,” I’ve come up with a new toy mirror for girls.

 Princess Lily’s Enchanted Mirror™ is a plastic hand mirror, large but light to hold. When a young girl lifts the mirror, the technology is activated: soft music plays, clouds swirl and in a moment the child sees, as if arriving from faraway, a 3-dimensional fairy godmother type figure coming closer.  This is Princess Lily. The music stops and Princess Lily’s face now fills nearly the whole mirror surface. She speaks to the girl from the world of the mirror. She tells the child, a fun bit of poetry, sings a short song, provides an affirmation or empowering suggestion. What Princess Lily says is unpredictable: sometimes playful, sometimes funny, sometimes serious, but always supportive.

After she speaks her words to the child, she vanishes within clouds so the mirror becomes once again simply a mirror in which the child sees herself, but perhaps in a different, more positive way because of the reassuring words just imparted to her. 

I posted the idea on a site called

JazWings

and if I can get 100 people to vote for it--- which means they like the idea-no money involved, then the parent toy company,

JazWares

will consider it. I’m asking everyone concerned about empowering girls from an early age to please vote and to provide feedback for improvement.

This is very important but it’s easy. Here’s how:

Access the site through Facebook or through https://jazwings.com/

NOTE from Ginny: Try this link first. I may take you directly to the VOTE page.

https://jazwings.com/ideas/princess-lilys-enchanted-mirror

Otherwise Go to 

Community

Sign up (register)

 (takes no more than a minute) and no, you won’t be spammed.

Click on 

Discover and scroll down to Princess Lily's Enchanted Mirror.

Give it one to five stars then press the 

Vote

 button.

If you do it right, you'll get a message "

Thanks for voting."  

If it's confusing or difficult, I'm happy to call you and walk you through it. It should take just a minute or two at the most! My email is maxineschur@yahoo.com.

There is no money or any kind of obligation with it, it's just a vote.

Thank you in advance for your support and feedback. I very much appreciate it.

Maxine Rose Schur (www.maxineroseschur.com)

To understand why

I’ve created this toy idea, read on:

Since the 1995 publication of the landmark book

Reviving Ophelia

* there has been greater awareness of the importance of a strong self-image for young girls to counter the “beauty-perfect” images that pervade the media through television, movies, video games, toys and advertising.

The book and subsequent research have brought to light the insidious impact the popular media and societal pressure have on the self-image of young girls who learn at a very early age that being pretty and attractive to boys is a measure of self-worth and social success.

The research revealed that even the self-esteem of strong, confident girls diminishes dramatically from the age of seven as they become more exposed to mass culture.

Because children are learning new behaviors and “wiring their brain,” affirmations can be particularly effective with them. Research shows that positive self-belief developed in childhood stays throughout life. When children hear words of praise and encouragement, they learn to praise, and respect themselves. Once affirmations are learned, they work by coming to mind when that belief is challenged.

Also, the more an affirmation is repeated,the stronger it becomes.

Also of importance, affirmations are believed to be the most powerful when said or heard while looking into a mirror. Young girls introduced to this concept may feel more comfortable and self-assured looking at themselves in the mirror as they mature.

Because the mirror is programmed with hundreds of words of encouragement and because they take a varied form: rhymes, riddles, charming, unexpected thoughts, serious affirmations and questions, the toy does not present as didactic, nor can it quickly become predictable as are the current crop of toy mirrors. Rather Princess Lily’s Enchanted Mirror continues with each use to be unpredictable—surprising, fresh and above all, more fun.

Princess Lily’s Enchanted Mirror is accompanied by a small storybook that tells the story of Princess Lily and her three empowering sisters, the enchanted land in which they live and how the mirror came to be “enchanted.”

It also includes a guide for parents in giving positive affirmations and modeling and encouraging the self-awareness of feelings.

Princess Lily’s Enchanted Mirror reflects to the child not merely her external appearance, but her inner strength and beauty.

The mirror anticipates the child’s age-appropriate anxieties, concerns and doubts and gently and creatively suggests behaviors and thoughts to challenge them. In this way,

Princess Lily’s Enchanted Mirror functions as both a toy and a psychological tool.

Good News for Dolphins and Orcas

France bans captive breeding

"Living in captivity and being forced to perform shows for the public has been proven to take a terrible toll on the physical and psychological health of marine mammals. When confined in a space that severely lacks stimulation, dolphins and orcas grow frustrated and become aggressive – something that never happens in their natural habitat. The only documented instances of orcas attacking humans have happened in captivity. Additionally, dolphins often start to display zoochotic behaviors similar to symptoms of prison neurosis when left in a tank that prohibits them from exercising their intellect and social skills. Extremely stressed animals are known to engage in acts of self-mutilation, like throwing themselves against the walls of their tanks. Those and other symptoms even lead to feeding captive marine animals pharmaceuticals – SeaWorld has admitted to medicating their orcas with psychoactive drugssimilar to valium."

OneGreenPlant

This is the French version of How to Speak Dolphin. I'm thrilled that the French have taken steps to end the terrible lives we have submitted these intelligent mammals to.

Lolita, over 45 years in captivity at the Miami Seaquarium

Lolita's prison for 45 years and France is not alone

India give dolphins "non-human persons" status

"Just hold still, and we'll pry the jaws off."

Safe Capture of Pythons Bless Carl Hiaasen and the Miami Herald

Maybe this is the reason Florida Wildlife officials felt the need for safety instructions.  

Love Dolphins and Eating Tuna?

There are a few big surprises in this list. I thought buying albacore made eating tuna fish safer for dolphins. And I thought buying tuna at Trader Joe's made it safer yet. Wrong. Trader Joe's and Costco are in the red zone along with Target and Walmart. We can make a difference. Shop wisely.

To view the individual rankings and why they are ranked that way, click on the Greenpeace shopping guide, then on the individual cans.

Greenpeace

2017 Tuna Shopping Guide

• Decode the Can
• How We Ranked
• Take Action
• Español

• Share This Guide:

2017 Tuna Shopping Guide

How does your can stack up?

We’ve ranked 20 well-known canned tuna brands that can be found in grocery stores nationwide based on how sustainable, ethical, and fair their tuna products are for our oceans—and for the workers that help get the products to store shelves.

If you’re going to buy tuna, make sure to choose a responsibly-caught option.

How the Brands Ranked

#1 Wild Planet

#1 American Tuna

#3 Whole Foods

#4 Ocean Naturals

#5 Hy-Vee

#6 Wegmans

#7 Giant Eagle

#8 Albertsons

#9 ALDI

#10 Ahold Delhaize

#11 Kroger

#12 Target

#13 Costco

#14 SUPERVALU

#15 Chicken of the Sea

#16 Trader Joe's

#17 Bumble Bee

#18 Walmart

#19 H‑E‑B

Chicken of the Sea

is owned by the world’s largest tuna company—Thai Union. Thanks to your support, Thai Union is exploring ways to ensure its products are responsibly caught. It’s up to us to ensure that

Chicken of the Sea

commits to protect the oceans and human rights.

Tell Chicken of the Sea to clean up its act!

Add Your Name

How can anyone drink this---?

Kopi Luwak Indulgence Pack 

Price: $349

What they want you to believe

"Kopi Luwak Gold Label beans are sourced from the Bengkulu plantations in Southwestern Sumatra, Indonesia, where freely roaming wild palm civets can choose the best and the ripest coffee berries through a process of natural selection. Digestive mechanisms enhance the flavor of the ingested whole coffee beans, resulting in an orange winey flavour with a hint of roasted truffles."

Do you really believe they have workers walking around collecting Civet "dropping?" Or is this the more likely truth?

Civet Sh*t Coffee

Wikipedia

Kopi Luwak is also known as caphe cut chon (fox-dung coffee) in Vietnam and kape alamid in the Philippines. It is coffee that is prepared using coffee cherries that have been eaten and partially digested by the Asian palm civet, then harvested from its fecal matter.^[6][7] The civets digest the flesh of the coffee cherries but pass the beans inside, leaving their stomach enzymes to go to work on the beans, which adds to the coffee's prized aroma and flavor.^[6] 0.5 kg (1 lb) can cost up to $600 in some parts of the world and about $100 a cup in others.^[8]

A 2012 investigation by The Guardian newspaper found Indonesian civets held separately in cramped cages. The animals were force-fed a debilitating diet of coffee cherries in conditions described by the Traffic charity as "awful" and "horrific".^[9] There is a campaign under way to encourage "ethical civet coffee".^[10] Evidence suggests that the SARS virus crossed over to humans from Asian palm civets ("civet cats") which raised concerns over the safety of civet coffee.^[11][12] 

Wikipedia

 

Death in Slow Motion

Trump gives pen to Dow's CEO

Do you see a link between the mindset of men who permit the use chemical warfare on their own citizens? Or is it just me?
 
On the same day Syria's president unleashed nerve gas on his own citizens, Donald Trump signed an "executive" order stripping away a number of environmental protections including the use of the Dow Chemical pesticide, chlorpyrifos, then handed the pen he signed with to Andrew Liveris, CEO of Dow Chemical.

Chlorpyrifos is an endocrine disrupter, meaning it can cause "adverse developmental, reproductive, neurological, and immune effects," according to the National Institutes of Health. In other words, it's harmful to the brains of children.

Mother Jones

 

UPDATE (3-29-2017): EPA director Scott Pruitt signed an order denying the agency's own proposal to ban chlorpyrifos, according to a Wednesday afternoon press release. "We need to provide regulatory certainty to the thousands of American farms that rely on chlorpyrifos, while still protecting human health and the environment,” Pruitt said in a written statement. “By reversing the previous Administration’s steps to ban one of the most widely used pesticides in the world, we are returning to using sound science in decision-making – rather than predetermined results.”

By Friday, President Donald Trump's Environmental Protection Agency will have to make a momentous decision: whether to protect kids from a widely used pesticide that's known to harm their brains—or protect the interests of the chemical's maker, Dow AgroSciences.

The pesticide in question, chlorpyrifos, is a nasty piece of work. It's an organophosphate, a class of bug killers that work by "interrupting the electrochemical processes that nerves use to communicate with muscles and other nerves," as the Pesticide Encyclopedia puts it. 

 Read the rest of the article

Dow's Rap Sheet 

About as Appalling as it gets

From the Jan. 16, 2017 New Yorker

My father was Danish. Rorby is a Danish name. This makes me none to proud of that fact. Not only do I think this is appalling on so many levels, I also don't think it's something children should be exposed to. I remember too clearly the day my first dog died. My Yankee parents moved to Florida and didn't know about heartworms. I was five when Butch and I raced up our porch stairs and he fell over dead. I was 9 or 10 when Mom took me to see the circus. We stopped to watch the elephants parade through downtown Orlando. Right in front of us, one of them collapsed and died. We never went to that circus, or any other. 

I write realistic animal stories, but I sure as hell wouldn't want a child of mine exposed to this inhumane practice. I'd like to continue laboring under the belief zoos teach us to respect and value animals, and are a refuge for the endangered. This practice, even if necessary on a financial level, teaches children to view animals as something less than we humans are. Teaching disrespect for nature only adds to our egocentric view of the world and is at the root of habitat destruction and the loss of animal (and plant) species. 

SHAME ON THE DANES.

Killing Animals at the Zoo

By Ian Parker

At Danish zoos, surplus animals are euthanized—and dissected before the public

"One afternoon last January, two years after staff members at the Copenhagen Zoo surprised many people by shooting a healthy young giraffe, dissecting it in public, and then feeding its remains to lions, another Danish zoo was preparing for a public dissection." 

"The Copenhagen Zoo has considered, and rejected, the idea of breeding animals that could be supplied to visitors as meat."

I guess we can consider this a moral high mark. GR