"Ecology of a Cracker Childhood": Response 4

Where Edward Abbey uses nature as a frame to explore and reflect on philosophy and personal opinion in “Desert Solitaire,” Janisse Ray seems to use family and personal history to more deeply explore nature in “Ecology of a Cracker Childhood.” The focus of her book is really the retelling of her childhood, but she weaves, rather nicely, enough description of her surroundings that nature and the environment become such a major factor they almost take over the narrative. That is not to say that she doesn’t include some personal opinion of her own. She is undoubtedly in favor of restructuring the forestry profession, evidenced in the chapter “The Kindest Cut.”

There is much more going on here than just nature and family though. I am particularly fond of the working class (you might even it call it poor or lower class) theme that resonates throughout the book. Her upbringing was one of poverty and hardship and she’s not afraid to tell us about it. Interestingly, my dad’s family owned a junkyard when he grew up in the 50’s and 60’s in a little town just southwest of Erie, Pa. Incidentally, he ended up becoming mayor of the same town (Platea). He was even responsible for bringing cable TV to the houses in the area. Ok, I’m getting off topic, but I couldn’t help but think, while reading Ray’s book, that I don’t know nearly enough about my dad’s childhood. I don’t have any junkyard stories to tell. Maybe, someday I’ll tell you how my dad’s leg caught fire and his brother, my Uncle John, put it out with his hands. But that might best be served in my memoir.

The truth is, though, I’ve often considered writing a memoir, but I am admittedly afraid of going to the darker places (places I think you need to go to if you want your story to be compelling enough to attract readers) and exposing that side of my family. Ray tackles this issue with what seems like little reservation. She’s not afraid to talk about her family’s history of mental illness or their propensity toward violence (which was primarily her grandfather). When she recounted the time she was beaten for allowing a neighbor kid to kill a snapping turtle, I was reminded of a memory I had almost forgotten. I don’t know if I was much older than ten when I walked with two other friends to Little Niagara, a small creek with a miniature waterfall just a couple miles from home. Luckily, I didn’t fall in or anything. But I was too dumb, or maybe just too young to make up a better story. When they asked, I told them where I was. My parents were judicious though; I could either take a spanking or miss the town carnival we were headed to that night. Cotton candy is just too alluring. The moral of the story is, nature sometimes leads to sore asses. Again, I’m getting off track…

I also admire the research that Janisse Ray puts into her book. She includes figures detailing the population of the area she grew up in, Longleaf acreage, and interviews with forestry professionals. She cites newspapers and other books on nature and she devotes an entire chapter to the heritage of the southern Celtic people, or Crackers. It’s one thing to simply write down a lot of personal anecdotes and call it memoir. It’s another to put in the hard work necessary to produce a quality piece of literature. This, I think, she has done. Probably, however, the one thing I liked most about this book – every couple essays (or sections…chapters maybe) include some story that reminded me of my own past. It’s always interesting to realize just how similar we are to people who don’t come from anywhere near where you do. The trees might be different, but the stories are often the same.

Beginning: Place 2

It’s late afternoon at the game preserve. There are several groups of people here this time, mostly families with children throwing bread to the ducks. The wildlife is excited; the honking and quacking drowns out the sound of traffic in the distance. The sky is a cotton candy blue and this time I’ve brought you with me.

I’m sitting on a wooden bench chained to what looks like an oak tree (I’ll try to verify that with my field guide when I’m finished) and I’m watching you throw a piece of bread to the ducks. Your mom and I forgot to bring any with us so when the couple next to you offered a slice, you tried to eat it. Luckily, mom was paying attention. She’s showing you how to tear off a piece and toss it to the hungry birds. The first shot you take leaves your hand early like an errantly gripped curve ball and the small wad of bread lands on top of your head, bounces to the sidewalk. I laugh out loud and people look at me like I’m some kind of creepy thirty year old guy on a bench in a park, out of place…which I suppose I am.

There are a few large black ants making their way up the bench. I take the quasi- Oates approach, but instead of squashing them I flick them far enough away that they can’t crawl up my pant legs. While I’m flicking away, the mallards, there might be fifty or so, start honking like a city traffic jam and about a dozen take off from the bank that slopes upward toward the forest, and dive swiftly into the pond. It’s a concert of a thing, there’s communication going on and I wonder if anyone else is listening. I stop writing to take a look around and I realize there is. Just up the grassy hillside at the edge of the treeline is a bobbing white object, a tail. In a few short moments I can see at least two brown bodies, enough to prompt further investigation. I hop off the bench, leave the ants to their tiny blitzkrieg and begin to climb the hill. About half way to the trees I can make out four deer. One is a buck, looks to be a four point as far as I can tell. The rest are doe. I try to take a few pictures with my cell phone but the distance is too great and it’s difficult to see them. Next time I’ll bring a camera. I slowly reach the treeline and I can tell they know I am here. The buck looks at me wearily, sizing me up, trying to decide if I am a threat. They move cautiously as I do. I am trying not to scare them. They are trying not to be killed.

I want to bring you with me, show you the deer, but you’re off exploring other parts of the preserve so I watch them with as much awe as I can muster, pretending that I am like you, a child again, pretending that they are new, that I haven’t driven into one on a foggy night near a farm in Venango County crushing it’s pelvis and the passenger side fender of my friend’s Honda Prelude. I am pretending that I felt more remorse for the animal than the car. I am pretending that they are innocent and that I did not derive any pleasure from pulling the trigger of my 30-30 Winchester rifle, firing a bullet through its forehead to stop the wailing – its legs already crippled. I am pretending that I didn’t feel like a man when I began sawing its stomach free with an 8 inch blade and that I didn't feel strong when I dragged it several miles through the woods leaving a trail of burgundy and fur behind. I am pretending that there is more to the relationship I have created with them, that there is something deep within the events that have shaped it. I am pretending to understand Joyce Carol Oates and Henry David Thoreau. I am pretending that understanding this matters, and I am beginning to believe that it does.

"Desert Solitaire": Response 3

My wife grew up in Price, Utah, near the center of the state. When I began reading Edward Abbey’s book I asked her what she knew of Arches National Park and if she’d ever been there. She hadn’t visited, but not for lack of want. Her family moved several times and the opportunity simply never presented itself. She did mention, however, that Lake Powell was nearby and that to her knowledge during spring break a great mass of college students would take to the lake for several days of stress-ridding debauchery – meaning they do all the things they normally do in dormitories and frat houses, but they do it on water and rocks instead. “Let’s all have fun together” is the theme. And Edward Abbey might just be rolling over in his grave.

Abbey’s voice is well defined. His opinions on the sacredness of nature are strict and he defends them with hard and fast descriptions and an almost breathtaking imagery. He identifies, with a definitive accuracy, the plant and animal life in the areas he lives and patrols. He is a man of conviction and it shows in this prose.

Abbey, while exploring the idea of Industrial Tourism, challenges the typical notion of progress. Woven into a rich description of scenery and natural life is a sarcasm pointed at the institutions responsible for the development of what he terms “Arches Natural Money-mint.” He even goes so far as to call the engineers responsible for surveying the land for the pavement of an access road, madmen. At no point does he leave his readers without a thick dose of cynicism. “Progress has come at last to the Arches, after a million years of neglect. Industrial Tourism has arrived.” Good one, Mr. Abbey, good one.

Even the human population isn’t exempt from Abbey’s abrasive opinions. “I’d rather kill a man than a snake,” he says when faced with a rattler staring at his feet one morning. And as he heads off down the Colorado River on a rubber-rafting excursion, he is more than happy to “not see another of the tool-making breed for a long time.” Despite humorous quips like these, he makes a good argument for leaving the parks unchanged (or not unnaturally developed) so that people can enjoy them on a purely fundamentalist scale. “Park your car, (insert long list of vehicular machinery) get on your horse, mule, bicycle or feet, and come on in. Enjoy yourselves,” he says. “This here park is for people.” Personally, I respect his ideals, but I don’t know that I can agree with him completely.

Having said that, I do not intend to attack Abbey. On the contrary, I admire his writing style and his sense of conviction. He is a man of principle and a writer of the highest magnitude. However, I also do not intend to defend his position either. The deep sense of closeness that he discovered during his time in Utah (in one moment he calls it “the old magic destroyed”) is not so different than experiences I’ve had in the forests of Pennsylvania. At the same time, however, I was, years ago, one of those wild college kids doing shots of Jagermeister upside down on a pontoon boat. But nature changes more than rocks and trees. Indeed, it changes you and me. And now, while you won’t find me shooting cigarette butts into the lake or tossing beer cans out the window of my “upholstered mechanized wheelchair”, I will, one day, drive my car down the smoothly paved road so my daughter can experience that feeling of closeness with nature, that magic, and so my wife can finally enjoy a century’s old wonder of her home.

"A Weed by Any Other Name": Response 2

I enjoy spending time outdoors. Like I’ve said before I grew up that way. Evan as a young kid, I spent a lot of time hiking the woods behind a family friends’ farmhouse in Cranesville, Pa, southwest of Erie. A creek lies about a half mile or so from the house and my friend Bob and I would walk it for hours. Even today my wife and I have an attic full of camping equipment that we use occasionally, though less often than we’d like. Both of us work full time, take classes and we have a two year old daughter (she keeps us busier than the other two things combined). Still, just a few weeks ago we pulled out the tent, sleeping bags, lantern, camper pie irons and a trunk full of outdoor gear and headed up to Pymatuning for a long weekend. My wife and I agree that it’s important for us to expose our daughter to the outdoors. It’s good for the soul.

Now having said all this, I have never known, and really still don’t know a thing about weeds. Well, I do know this: poison ivy is incredibly itchy. In fact, as I write this I am rubbing away at a rash on the bottom of my right arm. Apparently we have a patch of it somewhere in our lawn and I’ve yet to identify exactly where, despite having a pretty good idea what it looks like. My wife had a severe case of it a couple years ago, right after she had the baby. It was so bad that she had to stop breast feeding. The point is that our lawn exists really just to be cut. The whole thing is primarily just a chore for us. We’ve tried planting flowers but neither of us are green thumbs (or forefingers, pinkies, toes…). In fact, knowing that there’s poison ivy out there just deters us even more from doing anything creative in our yard. And reading Nancy Gift’s book, while very interesting (I’ll get into what I like about it in a second) is almost a manifesto of my enemies. I know she’s not a poison ivy advocate; she even used an herbicide to rid her own yard of it. But personally, I think anything that forces me to work outside when I’d rather be enjoying it is not my friend. If I apply the definition of weeds mentioned in her book (“a plant out of place”) to my lawn, then the whole thing is just one big weed. And I have to admit, I’m probably a lot like many of the students she describes – weeds, to me, are boring.

That said, I rather enjoyed “A Weed by Any Other Name.” First of all, she writes in an accessible manner; that is to say she doesn’t over-burden her readers with a book full of scientific terms. She includes the scientific names of plants for the curious, but she never over-does it. She also writes with a conversational tone that is enjoyable to read. It’s as though she’s writing a book for her family and friends and not for an audience of botanists. More than anything, it’s a subject that I’ve never actually gotten in to and she presents it in a manner that is relatable. She includes a good amount of personal and family-oriented anecdotes, as though she’s writing purposefully from the part of her that is mother, daughter (and daughter-in-law), wife and neighbor. It’s the kind of book that makes you want to call her Nancy instead of Dr. or Ms. Gift.

Another thing I enjoyed about the book is the linear narrative. In fact, it simply follows the seasons, the number one attribute mentioned in our handout “Characteristics of the Literary Nature Journal/Memoir.” And there are a couple of quotes that I found particularly interesting: the idea that weeds are “a pioneer species” or “canaries of our mines.” I also found myself agreeing with her stance on dandy lions. I happen to rather like them, always have. They’re like miniature sunflowers. I could never quite figure out why people want to get rid of them so bad. I guess, according to Gift, their going to seed so fast makes them a nuisance to most avid lawn-keepers. Why not cut them after that, I say.

In a final note, I found one particular phrase quite interesting: she defends hawkweed, and even grows it tall in her own yard. She declares, “Hawkweed won’t take over the world,” which inspired me to begin a new poem, one that envisions, of course, hawkweed taking over the world. I’m not sure exactly where it will go, but I have the feeling that hawkweed would be smart to ally itself with poison ivy and maybe even dandy lions– some kind of axis of evil, you know, in a green/eco-friendly sort of way.

The Preserve: Place 1

It’s dusk. Everything looks sad. The trees, mostly maples and oaks I think, are frowning, weighted down by the clouds’ tears; or just rain, which I suppose is sad enough without me calling it names. The sky is dirty, gray and smoky like the walls of our house just a few weeks ago before painting. They were white, or maybe egg shell, but a decade of forced heat blowing through our duct work – that giant pipe smoking fat man lounging in our basement – dusted those walls a layer of soot that we didn’t really see the extent of until we white washed the ceilings. Sometimes you don’t notice how ugly something is until something truly beautiful comes along, or vice versa. Take, for instance, the black duck standing about ten feet from me at this very moment. He’s hollering at the couple throwing bread to the good looking ducks, apparently the more popular ducks, on the other side of the pond. This is what’s happening right now, shortly before the earth covers up, rolls over to sleep.

Suppose I’d better tell you where I am. Sesqui Drive (I like that, sounds Native American; I’ll look it up) is about a mile down Library Road in South Park, a wooded community in the South Hills of Pittsburgh. There’s a small wildlife preserve just off the side of the road. It’s only a few miles south of our house, which incidentally has freshly painted walls, olive green they are now, not unlike the walls of this game preserve, the forest surrounding me. I will let you know what plants and animals are here on a future visit. I bought a field guide and promptly left it at home.

Your mom and I brought you here a couple times. Once, we saw deer just up the tree line, no doubt scouting for food or maybe just looking for a quiet spot to reflect on the day.

The preserve itself is really just a small pond surrounded by a bed of rocks that slope upward to a metal railing and a sidewalk. At the far end of the pond, opposite the parking lot is a wooden bridge. I am standing on it now. It is my favorite attraction, if you could call it that, in the area. I like it even more than the peacock, which I will tell you about later. The bridge is only ten yards long or so and made of wood. It almost looks like it grew from the earth, slowly making its way, year after year, from one bank to the next. And now it’s mature enough for us to walk across its back. There is something special about wooden bridges; maybe it’s the idea of nature and man working together for aesthetics and utility. Maybe it’s because my great grandfather made a hobby out of photographing wooden covered bridges. Maybe they remind me of building a clubhouse with my dad. I’m not sure, but it’s nice and I think I’ll come back, even though today is sad. It’s getting dark; the garbage is overflowing with too many empty bread bags, Starbucks cups and Wendy’s wrappers. Even the two sunflowers are hanging their heads and the clouds are beginning to cry again.

But, as I walk toward my truck, I hear the sound of mallards in the sky coming near. In just a few short seconds they fly directly overhead in the familiar V shape. The ducks on the pond seem to say hello as the formation swiftly passes, and for a moment I forget how sad it feels. Instead I think of how beautiful it will be when the sun crawls back over the horizon. Next time I’ll come a little earlier in the day. And I’ll be sure to bring you with me.

The Woods, or Something Like It: Response 1

Apparently, if we subscribe to the Pattiann Rogers definition of nature, then nothing is off limits in a blog entry that details my current feelings about the natural world and, as an extension, the environment. Penthouse magazine? Calculus? NBA basketball? An ice pick through the chest? Ok, maybe Penthouse magazine, but seriously, Ms. Rogers? I have no doubt she spent considerable time and effort contemplating just how many random things could be packed in the four or five odd pages it took to essentially make the point that nature is everything…or everything is nature. Hmm, I guess I’m still not quite sure which is the point. Regardless, I’m pretty sure that our class has settled on the idea that the natural world, the environment, or just plain nature has to do with the outdoors, the forest, the trees, plants, animals, camping, fishing, and so on and so on…pretty much the woods, or something like it.

Ms. Rogers theory aside (I’m sure, by the way, she is a terrific poet and I’m merely poking fun at her essay because it’s a rant and rants invite that sort of thing), there are really two major topics that I would like to explore during this class. One is (and I realize I’m risking the sentimentality taboo here) my daughter and her relationship with nature. Nothing, as far as I can tell, is more natural than introducing a new life to the world, though rearing that life might come rather unnatural to many, myself included. Still, I’ve found that I don’t write nearly enough about her (she’s two years old by the way, and absolutely the most adorable creature in the world…I’ll post pics, you’ll agree…it’s ok, it doesn’t mean you don’t love your own children, it’s just a fact) and the idea of writing about her interaction with the environment could lead to some interesting findings.

The other thing, which poses a bit of a challenge, is encorporating the writing that I do as part of the class into my thesis, which happens to revolve around labor, the working class and growing up with the old blue collar. I’m not quite sure how that’s going to play itself out. I hope, as I often do with most of my writing, that I’ll figure it out as I go.

Personally, I grew up in a rural community. My family built a hunting cabin in the Allegheny National Forrest. I went hunting for the first time at twelve with my dad and uncles. My mom is a huge fisherperson, she loves it, which I think is really cool. How many moms out there enjoy handling slippery fish? In high school my friends and I would drop a couple canoes into the Allegheny River up near Warren, row and float for several days, stopping to camp on the banks or on small islands, down stream to the marina at Oil City. I’ve spent a lot of time outdoors and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I hope my daughter can experience moments like those. But that’s to come. Right now it’s late and I have a Penthouse to read…for the articles, naturally.