Jun 1, 2012
A few weeks ago I went with my sister Luli and her friend Margaret to the North Carolina Zoo in Ashboro. It was the best day I have ever spent at a zoo. Certainly the weather helped: blue sky, a steady breeze, high 70’s. But it was the zoo itself that impressed me.
The North Carolina Zoo has the advantage of space and a temperate climate – almost 1400 acres in the rural Piedmont, an hour and fifteen minutes from Chapel Hill. It was built in the mid-70’s as the first natural habitat zoo in the U.S. designed by Dwight Holland, a painter and designer who directed the zoo for many years. In the 80’s it was expanded using a master plan by Jon Coe, a landscape architect who specializes in zoos.
The zoo has two sections, North America and Africa, about a mile and a half apart as the snake slithers. We began with the cypress swamp in North America, and the contrast with other zoos was immediately apparent. The first exhibit we passed was various carnivorous plants – sundew, pitcher plants, Venus fly traps. The signs had lots of information, but not so much as to be daunting, and the ranger there answered all our questions. I loved learning a bit about the animals’ environments as well as the animals.
COLORADOCARNIVEROUSPLANTSOCIETY.COM
About 1100 animals of more than 200 species live in habitats designed to mimic their natural environment and give them as much space as possible. All the habitats are behind glass; the larger ones with ample seating – benches and risers – to let us wait for the animals to appear. Walking from one exhibit to the next we were usually in the shade, and many paths were landscaped to feel like woodland trail. The most impressive habitats were the western prairie, with elk and bison, the chimpanzee habitat, and the 37-acre African savannah, with elephants, rhinos, ostriches, antelope and gazelles.
From a visitor’s point of view, the disadvantage of large habitats is that you may not see some of the animals up close and personal, or indeed not see some of the animals at all. We arrived at the prairie and climbed up to the top step of concrete risers. A vast expanse of waving grass and wildflowers was all we could see until Luli, our best spotter, saw what might be an elk’s head in the distance above the grass. A twitching ear confirmed it. A little later we realized that what looked like some sticks next to her were velvet-covered antlers. We waited, enjoying the fresh air and wild flowers.
Human families came by, the children clambered up the steps, looked around, and moved on. Then the female elk stood up from the clump of grass and ambled toward us along the perimeter of the prairie, walking the length of the glass and disappearing into the brush at the far end. The male followed her. He was molting and his shaggy winter coat was in tatters. Finally, a calf came along – we had had no idea it was there. We probably sat fifteen minutes watching for elk, and then we moved on, past an extensive poster display about the loss of the great prairies, and modern day attempts to use the land for agriculture while preserving what native grasslands remain. We stopped at another viewing point, and under a distant clump of trees saw a dark mound that was the back of a sleeping bison.
FOTOSEARCH.COM IMAGE k1110339
We had come on a Monday, to avoid crowds of children – I thought field trips were usually on Fridays. But the first thing we saw when we arrived were about seventy-five children from the Liberty Preschool, and we saw many school groups throughout the day, as well as parents and grandparents with preschool children and babies. Despite, or perhaps because of the long walks between exhibits, and waiting sometimes in vain for a glimpse of the animals, the children and hence the parents were calmer and better behaved than I have ever seen at a zoo.
Certainly the children acted like children – growling at the cougars, yelling “Wake up!” at the alligators – but they were far happier and less whiny than I usually see at zoos. They had lots of room to run, and weren’t tugging at their parents to move from one animal to the next. Spotting the animals soon became a game for them, far more interesting than watching a couple of bears or lions pace in a small cage.
We came to the endangered red wolves. Their habitat was shady – brown ground covered with dry leaves, a shelter in the distance, a pond up by the glass. We couldn’t see any wolves. A father asked his family – “How many frogs can you find?” Together we found eight huge bullfrogs in the murky pond. Then a little boy spotted two ears behind a log, and patiently instructed me – “over there, see, just past the big tree”- how to find the wolf. Soon someone found a small red wolf over by the fence and we watched him for awhile.
The Sonoran desert, in a huge glass enclosure, was as hot as it sounds. But it was fun looking for the critters – birds, lizards, snakes – and the designer had thoughtfully provided grates in the path that blew cool air up at us.
We had arrived at the zoo at 9:30. We were desperate for coffee and ready for lunch by the time we finished the North American section. We bought bad pre-sweetened cappucino and sat in the shade at the Junction Plaza, where they have the special attractions – animatronic dinosaurs, the dino theater, a carousel – and a tram to take you between the two sections. There was a restaurant, but Luli had prepared a picnic lunch – roasted vegetables, bread and cheese, grapes and strawberries. When we were through, we took the tram to “Africa.”
We walked away from the tram, rounded a curve and suddenly saw three giraffes eating from tree tops and two zebras grazing the grass. One family was more absorbed by the turtles swimming in the pond. At the chimpanzee exhibit we watched from a distance as a toddler chimp climbed repeatedly onto a nursing mother’s head. Each time she gently lifted him off and set him on the ground. Eventually another grown chimp, a male I think, came out of the woods and enticed the toddler away with a game of stick throwing.
TREEHUGGER.COM CREDIT: SHINY THINGS/FLICKR
At the lemur island, there were a couple of red-ruffed lemurs and six ring-tailed lemurs. According to various internet sources, ring-tails hang out on the ground while red-ruffed are arboreal. Lemurs have not been informed of this. The two red-ruffed lemurs had the good sense to race around on the ground, but all the ring-tails were up in a most astonishingly spindly tree, mere twigs. They leapt and climbed from limb to limb.
RED RUFFED LEMUR: DURRELL WILDLIFE CONSERVATION TRUST RINGTAILED LEMUR. PUBLI-DOMAIN-IMAGE.COM
I was pretty tired by the time we got to the savannah. We sat on benches on the large overlook. We saw one huge elephant far in the distance, and a couple of white rhinos, a kudu, a water buck and a Thomson’s gazelle a little closer. Canada geese were everywhere, voluntary residents.
When we all agreed we were through zoo-ing, Margaret looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to five, and the zoo closed at five! We had happily stayed almost eight hours, way longer than I usually stay anywhere, but now we had visions of spending the night in the African savannah. We went down to the service road and flagged down a truck. The kind driver radio-ed a ranger in a golf cart, who came to pick us up and take us back to the tram to North America, where we had parked. We saw many families walking, but he gave us a ride because we are old. White hair is such an advantage!
There are all sorts of policy and ethical questions in regard to zoos, of course. click How do we justify penning up animals for our edification, even with the most enlightened approach to zoo design? Why is the state of North Carolina supporting a zoo that very few of its citizens can get to or afford to visit? I can just imagine the legislature that passed that appropriation – I wonder who was the legislator from Ashboro!
I know (sort of) the counter-arguments: breeding programs, preserving endangered species, fostering respect for wildlife; jobs, tourism, economic development. Jon Coe, who has generously shared information since I found him on the internet, says, “Regarding the morality of zoos, we may fault the original animal collectors, but I see today’s zoo animals as “refugees from the human war of conquest over nature.” Most zoo animals (at least mammals) were born in zoos and couldn’t survive release back into the ‘wild’ even if any suitable areas could be found which aren’t already at full carrying capacity. I believe when zoos can deliver the kind of experience you and your friends had and the quality of animal welfare NCZ provides it’s animals, then they are justified. But there certainly are zoos and especially some private collections I cannot justify.”
JON COE, ZOO DESIGNER, WITH BONOBO. used by permission
I’ve told you about my favorite parts of the zoo. Some of the habitats struck me as small, and I don’t know about caging gators and other reptiles that aren’t endangered. I can’t sort it all out, and I don’t believe I have to have a carefully-reasoned moral stand on every subject. Sometimes I just seek my pleasures in the world as it is. If you like visiting zoos, the North Carolina Zoo is worth the trip.
ENTRANCE TO THE NORTH CAROLINA ZOO
Note: In research for this post, I became totally absorbed in Jon Coe’s website, where you learn a lot about zoos, and also can see his poetry and sketches from the field (ie wild areas few of us will ever visit).click
May 4, 2012
I am not always a nice person. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” was one of my mother’s favorite sayings, but sometimes…
Joe and Amanda and I went out to dinner Friday night to celebrate the end of the FCAT’s, Florida’s terrifying standardized tests. We had a wonderful time at Harry’s downtown. Joe had a weird martini, I had a normal martini, and Amanda had a Shirley Temple. She was in high spirits, and decked herself with Mardi Gras beads, which she shared with the large plaster alligator next to her.
After dinner we headed to Mochi, where the frozen yoghurt is self-serve and the toppings range from blueberries through chocolate chips to Cap’n Crunch. Amanda boogied down the street ahead of us, but waited for us at the corner before crossing.
On the corner by Mochi we encountered a fair number of people who call themselves Warriors for Christ. A young man with a crewcut was standing on a milk crate. I believe he had a megaphone. Proselytizing Christians irritate me anyway, and anyone who calls himself a Warrior is down ten points with me before he opens his mouth.
I THINK I WOULD QUALIFY AS A GENERAL HEATHEN
He did open his mouth, and addressing me, asked, “Do you care about Jesus?” I should have just said no, of course, and continued on my way. Instead I replied, “I don’t give a shit about Jesus,” (I may have used the f-word instead; I’m not sure.) “You’re going to go to hell,” he told me, as I walked on with Amanda. “And you’re going to take that little girl with you. You have a responsibility to that child.” Amanda made some gesture which I caught out of the corner of my eye; I believe she was flipping a bird.
iMAGE FROM PHOTOBUCKET BY LIBERAL NC
Amanda does believe in God and Jesus, and cares about them both when she thinks of it. I asked her whether that boy’s Jesus was the one she knows, and she said no. We agreed that the only Jesus worth knowing is all about love, not hate and aggression. After we left Mochi, we crossed the street to avoid the asshole, and encountered another young Warrior who asked if we would like a leaflet. I politely told her no thank you, and we went on.
Now the last thing I need is a callow youth telling me I have a responsibility to Amanda. As I fume about it now, I make lists of all the responsible things I do that are focused on her, and wonder whether he’s ever been responsible for more than a goldfish.
Although I am not a believer, I usually try to respect the beliefs of others. I do find it annoying that strangers feel entitled to interrogate me, but I know that many Christians feel that it is part of their duty to spread the Gospel, as it is the only path to their Heaven. They’re supposed to be fishers of men (and women and children too, I suppose).
SOURCE: CLIPART.OCHRISTIAN.COM
So I put up with them when they call to me on the street, and even when they knock on my door. Part of me is sorry I was rude, and gave a rude example to Amanda. But a bigger part of me gets a giggle whenever I think of it. Joe was happy that we had dinner AND a show. I think perhaps I should drink martinis more often.
Apr 20, 2012
This post is dedicated to Sandra Lambert, my inspiration and friend, who has been awarded a well-deserved residency at Yaddo.
Every writer dreams of a writers’ retreat, a place where she* can go for a month or so to be free from the demands of family and friends and the chores of daily life, a place where she can spend all day as she chooses. In her dreams she chooses to write.
There are many writers’ retreats now, in various idyllic settings in the United States and abroad, but perhaps the most venerable and prestigious are The MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire and Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, New York. Established at the beginning of the last century, these two have hosted the luminaries of American literature and other creative arts, both those who have entered the canon and those who are unknown or long-forgotten, as most writers are.
COLONY HALL AT MACDOWELL
YADDO
The problem with Yaddo and McDowell and all the other retreat centers is that they are highly selective. They pride themselves on providing space and time to writers of the highest quality; most successful applicants have already been published in prestigious literary journals. Where can the poor scribbler, toiling daily with her pen, unheralded, unsung, perhaps unstrung, find support for her efforts?
We are proud to announce that, thanks to the generosity of the Clarence T. Yucko Foundation, there is now a place for the mediocre writer to dally with her muse. The Foundation has endowed the Yucko Artists’ Colony and Retreat in Heavenly Haven, Florida. Every summer in August thirty fortunate writers will be afforded the opportunity to dedicate themselves solely to their art in a four-week, all-expenses-paid residency. They will enjoy solitude during the day, and fellowship with other writers at night. We predict that from this caldron of creativity great quantities of verbosity will rise like steam.
Applying to Yucko
In line with egalitarian principles, Yucko’s philosophy is that the average person of no particular talent should be recognized and rewarded. Recall Senator Hruska’s famous words defending the nomination of Harold Carswell to the Supreme Court. “…[T]here are a lot of mediocre judges and people and lawyers. They are entitled to a little representation, aren’t they, and a little chance?” We believe the same principle should apply to writers.
The primary criterion for the Yucko Residency is prolixity. Along with the application form, the application calls for a writing sample of no fewer than 50,000 words. Of course the admissions committee will not read these, but the word limit will be strictly enforced, and any submission below the minimum will be discarded. (Applicants may, however, provide a stamped, self-addressed envelope for the return of their materials if they desire.)
And because our intent is to reward those writers hitherto unknown, publication by any non-subsidy publisher or literary journal shall disqualify candidates. A history of self-publication or blogging, however, is no bar to admission.
The Facility
Yucko is housed at the former Sleep Eze-y Motel on the outskirts of Heavenly Haven, near the interstate. This charming lodge has thirty-five fully-furnished guest rooms equipped with coffee-maker, microwave, and small refrigerator, with bathrooms en suite. Each room contains a single bed, a dresser, a desk, and a chair. The rooms are air-conditioned with window units, so that each resident may control the environment. Mosquito netting is provided, though residents should bring their own insect repellent. We recommend repellent with DEET of 25% or higher.
YUCKO WRITERS’ RETREAT
To avoid distraction, television and telephones have been removed from the rooms, but the spacious lobby, which also serves as the breakfast room, contains a television. Cell phone reception is spotty in Heavenly Haven and not to be relied on. Residents may use the telephone at the front desk. Should residents need internet access, Wifi is available at the McDonald’s four exits down the interstate.
Daily life at Yucko
A continental breakfast is served in the lobby between 8 and 10 each morning, with juice, pastries and cereal. A box lunch will be provided each day so that residents may eat in their rooms, undisturbed. A typical lunch box contains a can of Vienna sausages, a package of soda crackers, and a juice box. Dinner will be purchased from Domino’s Pizza, McDonald’s or our local Asian restaurant, Chinee Takee Outee. Residents will vote each morning for that evening’s restaurant, and may make their dining selections from the take-out menus available in the breakfast room.
Recreational opportunities
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” The old saying applies to Jills, too! Fortunately, Heavenly Haven offers countless diversions for the writer who needs a break from her labors. We have resurfaced the Sleep Eze-y swimming pool, which will be open until 9PM each evening. In addition, shopping at the Dollar General, bowling at Tamiami Alleys, and communing with nature at the municipal park along the Caloosahatchee River are all available within easy walking distance.
RIVERSIDE PARK IN HEAVENLY HAVEN, FLORIDA
A short drive down the interstate brings the more venturesome residents to Lake Okeechobee, a tropical paradise which was the setting for the hurricane in Zora Neale Hurston’s novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God. Fishing and boating are available, as are hiking and biking on the Lake Okeechobee Scenic Trail, more commonly known as the LOST trail.
THE LOST TRAIL
PLEASE apply
Are you an as-yet unpublished writer? Do you struggle for time and energy to nurture your gift? Apply now to the Clarence T. Yucko Foundation. Your dream retreat awaits you this summer.
*Although the Foundation will not discriminate on the basis of gender, the admissions criterion regarding publication will undoubtedly favor women writers. Therefore we refer to our applicants and residents as “she.” click
Apr 5, 2012
Babysitters are hard to find, but on Wednesday night Joe and I finally have a real date, all by ourselves, while my friend Nancy takes care of Amanda. We have dinner at a little Italian café in Macintosh, and sit long over our wine. On the way home I say, “Shit. I forgot.” I forgot to pick up Amanda’s bike at school; she rides the bus to Girls’ Place after school so I bring her bike home each day. Joe takes me home, switches to my car, with the bike rack, and drives off.
After he leaves: Shit. I forgot the eggs. (Let’s save space and minimize vulgarity. click From now on it’s S.I.F.) I boil ten dozen eggs every Wednesday night for the Thursday HOME Van run. click Okay. I’ll buy the eggs tomorrow on my way to school, where I shelve books in the library, and boil them before going to HOME Van Central to make cheese sandwiches.
In the morning I look for my car key; Joe took it off the key ring to get the bike. I grab the car key and the key ring and head to the store, buy the eggs, and go on to the school.
At the school I stash my purse under the seat, grab my keys and lock the car, and go inside to do the shelving. But they’ve already started setting up next week’s Book Fair, so most of the shelves are inaccessible; all I can do are the biographies. Great. I finish the job and head to the car, glad that the time pressure is eased. I have to be at HOME Van Central by 10, and it takes about an hour to boil, chill, and pack up the eggs.
At the car I discover what you probably already knew. S.I.F., and locked the car key in the car. There it is on the console, laughing at me.
S.I.F. my phone. I could use the phone in the school office, but my Triple A card is in my wallet, in my purse, locked in the car. I’ll have to go home and use Joe’s.
It’s only about 3/4 of a mile to the house, so I have a nice walk in the cool early morning, thinking I’ll start the eggs cooking, call Triple A, then ride my bike back to the school and wait by my car for rescue.
S.I.F. The eggs are in the car. I’ll do the eggs in the afternoon, after I’m finished with sandwiches, and drive back to HOME Van Central by 3, when Bill and Mike pack the supper bags. Then I’ll have an hour and a half to kill downtown before the van run. I can go to the library and get San Francisco guidebooks; Amanda and I are going to California for spring break to visit my son and two nephews.
DOWNTOWN LIBRARY
S.I.F. to charge my phone; it’s down to one bar. Joe wakes up and tells me there is a spare set of keys on the sideboard – I thought I had returned them to my neighbor Kate. (I borrowed them back from her the last time I locked myself out of the house.) I don’t think my current car key is on that ring, but it’s worth a shot. Joe offers to drive me to the school, but I’m all set to go, and I figure the bike ride will unfrazzle my nerves.
At the school I try the key – no good. I call Triple A. Though I tell the dispatcher my phone may die at any minute, she is required to take me through all the questions.
I load my bike and Amanda’s bike onto the car, and sit on a rock to wait. It’s less than half an hour, and I get a good start on writing this post.
S.I.F. hasn’t really ruined my day. True, I lost my leisurely afternoon, and I will probably get a letter from Triple A threatening to raise my rates if I make another service call. But I had a nice time at the library looking for guidebooks, and got a new novel by Bharati Mukerjee. Joe met me downtown for Mochi, the addictive self-serve frozen yoghurt. I had half an hour drinking an iced coffee and reading my new book at Maude’s (across the street from, and way better than, Starbucks.) And I found a topic for my blog. click
MAUDE’S
Mar 23, 2012
Ann Patchett, author of Bel Canto and many other books, has written a short book, The Getaway Car*, directed to all the people who say, “Everyone has one novel in them,” or “I would write a novel if I only had the time.” Two of her pearls of wisdom have helped me return to my fourth novel, long simmering and long ignored, and I am grateful.
Pearl #1: Everyone begins writing a novel with enthusiasm. By the middle, the whole enterprise seems stupid, boring, and worthless. Nevertheless, you have to keep going to the end to see where you emerge. When Patchett wrote her first novel, the Patron Saint of Liars, she was on a seven-month writer’s residency in Provincetown. She says that had she not soldiered on, she would have emerged from the residency with a dozen beginnings and no book.
In the last five years (with a couple of years hiatus while dealing with Amanda) I have written a hundred pages about a mother and daughter, changed from first person to third and back again, omitted one main character and brought her back to life, and started notes for a different novel. Much of the time I have felt that both my book and I are stupid, boring, etc. But I’ve experienced the middle-of-the-book desert with each of my previous novels, and I know that Patchett is right. You’re on a long hike, you’re lost or maybe just sick of it, but the only way out is to keep walking.
Pearl #2: Just do it. “When people tell me they’re desperate to write a book, … I tell them to give this great dream that is burning them down like a house on fire one lousy hour a day for one measly month, and when they’ve done that – one month, every single day – to call me back and we’ll talk. They almost never call back. Do you want to do this thing? Sit down and do it. Are you not writing? Keep sitting there. …Is there some shortcut? Not one I’ve found.”
For years friends have asked, “How’s the writing?” and for years I have lied.. I tell them not how it is, but how I want it to be. I get up at 4:30 and put on my robe and slippers in the dark, leaving my husband sleeping. Take the dog to pee, feed the dog and cat. Push the button on the coffee maker. And then, in the quiet house, sitting under the lamp with my red notebook, I write, haltingly at first, tugging gently at the latch until the door opens, the thoughts emerge, and the story unfolds before me. Characters wake up and take their next steps, the clouds I created yesterday bring today’s storm. For a couple of hours I write down whatever comes to me until I close the notebook and put down the pen, satisfied to know that when I read it tomorrow, I will find, if not gold, at least silver in the dross. And the rest of the day I feel strong and free, knowing I have done the main thing. I have written: I am a writer.
But what really happens? I take the dog to pee and there in the driveway is the newspaper. I will just read until the coffee is ready. I will just finish the first section. The comics. Dear Abby. Or maybe I valiantly ignore the newspaper. I sit in the chair with my notebook and pen and can barely keep my eyes open. I turn off the light, lie back, and sleep for half an hour. When I wake up again the sky is lightening and all the rest of my life calls me – chores and shopping, phone calls, projects, appointments.
I have struggled with this for many years, had some “I have written” days, some falling asleep days, and many days where I avoided the whole attempt. Before I retired I would set the timer for an hour, and usually manage only half an hour before the terrible lassitude set in, and as it spread through me I thought, “Who cares? Why bother?” Even so, after two years I had the third draft of a novel. I was thrilled. From nothing I had created a world.
What ended this struggle? Amanda and the blog. At 62 I became the mother of a 7-year-old child, and realized that after she grows up I might not have much time left. For my writing it was now or never, and I found the discipline to write in my newly-complicated life by starting this blog. My promise to post every Friday has given me a self-imposed deadline that I have too much pride to ignore. I work for an hour or so before Amanda gets up, and another couple of hours after I get her off to school.
Ideas for the blog come from everywhere and nowhere, and I jot them down. I pursue one wherever it goes, writing in my notebook without concern for style or order. I edit and add and rearrange until I have a semi-final post ready to put into the blog, and then the fun begins: looking for pictures. A couple of hours for compressing and cropping, adding captions, formatting, another thorough edit, and I schedule the post. The yellow pen indicating a draft on the Typepad.com list of posts changes to a little blue clock, meaning the post is scheduled.
I try to work ahead, and feel great satisfaction to have two or three blue clocks on the list in case life interferes with work. The deadline is relentless, and very good for me. I have never worked so hard or consistently in my writing. This has given me the confidence to return to my novel, and it has come back to life. I wrote twenty-four pages in two weeks, which could yield as many as a dozen pages in a later draft.
Apart from discipline and writing practice, there’s another advantage to blogging: at last someone is reading what I write. I’ve been submitting stories to literary journals, and looking for agents and publishers for my novels, for over twenty years. It’s a grim record – over a hundred query letters to agents, thirty to publishers, 172 submissions to journals, and never a publication. Once I had a well-respected agent for my second novel, but she was unable to place it with the major publishing houses, and we agreed I might do better to go to the independent publishers on my own.
I used to be elated when I had a nibble from an agent, or a rejection from a journal asking to see more of my work, but no more. Now when the rejections come in I feel a twinge and log the date, and then return to what matters: writing.
WAITING FOR AN AGENT TO NIBBLE
I still have occasional fantasies of fame and fortune, but what I really want is readers. The number of hits on my blog is steadily growing, and every week I hear from people who tell me how they enjoy it. When I submit stories to journals now, I can cite a writing history, even if it’s only a blog. And it may be just coincidence, but in December I FINALLY HAD A STORY ACCEPTED! (I will let you know when it’s published.)
But now I have a problem. Every Friday one blue clock turns into a green check mark, and I need to start another post. Each one takes about four writing days, which doesn’t leave a lot of time for working on the novel. So I am cutting back. From now on The Feminist Grandma will appear biweekly. I hope you’ll stick with me, and if you’ve formed a weekly habit, remember to look for me on alternate Fridays. And I hope you’ll send an encouraging, novel-nurturing thought out into the universe for me.
*The Getaway Car by Ann Patchett is only available for e-readers. click
Mar 15, 2012
For Julie’s birthday the Muumuus* went swimming with the manatees. We met at 7am at Julie’s house on a cold, beautiful, clear-blue-sky morning. Julie drove and we talked or were silent, watching the quiet Florida scenery on the flat, straight road to Crystal River.
The town is a couple of miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico, by King’s Bay; Crystal River runs from the bay out to the Gulf. Manatees winter there to take advantage of the constant 70- degree temperature of the many springs in the river, and at least a dozen companies run manatee tours.
We signed in with our company and wandered through the souvenirs. Manatees with winsome smiles in ceramic, pewter, and lurid plush Manatees on T shirts, refrigerator magnets, pencils, key rings. Notecards with photos of manatees. I bought a book about manatees, and iridescent manatee stickers for Amanda. The trouble with manatee-shaped souvenirs is that manatees are kind of shapeless – like huge baked potatoes.
DOES THIS WETSUIT MAKE ME LOOK FAT?
We struggled into our wetsuits in changing rooms with no embarassing mirrors, but we asked someone to take a picture. We watched a fifteen minute video about manatees and how to swim with them. Although their numbers have increased remarkably since no-wake rules were implemented in the rivers, Florida manatees are still an endangered species, and it is quite a privilege to be able to interact with them. You’re not allowed to approach or pursue them, but if they come to you, you may touch them with one open hand, avoiding their genital area and their nipples, which are under the flippers. You can’t feed them, ride them, poke them, stand on them. You don’t dive, but lie on the surface and watch. You don’t walk around on the bottom, which stirs up silt and makes viewing difficult.
We boarded a small pontoon boat with a bench along each side of the enclosed cabin. There was a chemical bucket for a toilet, with a strong smell of pee, and a curtain hanging from a ring for a dressing room. Our companions were twin sisters – one a U.S. park ranger, the other a retired military psychiatrist.
And then there was our boat captain, an old hippie with grey hair in a pony tail. He and his wetsuit were equally full of himself. “I’m Captain Jack. They call me Swamp Man; they call me Gator Man. I wrestle alligators.” As he took us back to the dock, he said, “If you want to know more about me, you can visit my website.” But he knew and shared a lot of information about the manatees.
It was President’s Day holiday, the busiest weekend of the year. At the springs there were hordes of tour boats and kayaks surrounded by floating snorkelers, some in wetsuits, some not. The boat captains watched their groups carefully. The park rangers are out on the water too, and if they see anyone violating the rules, the fines are steep, for the violator and possibly for the captain. Captain Jack watched out for everyone in his vicinity, and instructed them in friendly fashion if they were breaking any rules.
He dropped anchor a little distance from the other boats and we swam away. Underneath me was a huge sleeping manatee; I circled above her for a bit, happy. Then Captain Jack signaled to all of us to swim down toward the refuge, marked with a rope and buoys. Just inside the rope were forty or fifty manatees, sleeping. Just outside the rope were a hundred snorkelers, waiting.
Every once in a while two or three manatees would swim out of the refuge past the people, and we could reach out and pat them. I had been intructed that if they came up and bumped me, or even nuzzled or hugged me, I shouldn’t panic, but just enjoy it. One swam underneath me a couple of inches from my belly. One bumped as she swam past. I saw one baby nuzzling her mother, with another next to them lying on its back, flippers waving. Three big ones slept beneath me, big ovoid lumps, with scarred skin.
After maybe forty minutes I was cold to the core, and ready to go back to the boat. Iris was ready too. As we climbed the ladder she said, “They’re kind of stupid,” but maybe we’re the stupid ones. Manatees don’t struggle to get the kids off to school, write memos, rush to meetings, read distressing newspapers, worry about fats and carbs and war-mongers. They lie sleeping on the bottom, drift to the surface every ten minutes or so to take a breath, then slowly sink to the bottom again, still asleep. When they wake up, they float around eating plants.
Back on the boat, half shielded by the curtain, I struggled out of my wetsuit, put on dry clothes and sat in the sun. Iris pulled out her food supplies: crackers and hummus and fresh blackberries. The other women returned, with Captain Jack, and everyone stripped and dried and dressed. We were tired out but happy, chatting and snacking, half-listening to Captain Jack’s bragging. As we left the spring we began singing ‘When I’m 64.’ I reproached us for annoying the manatees, but Captain Jack said that actually they love singing, and when girls giggle they draw near.
We found a crowded restaurant for lunch. I sat in the sun, with hot tea. We talked of everything, and reveled in our friendship. I fell asleep on the drive home. We stopped for frozen yoghurt, but I was still cold inside, and didn’t even want to taste it.
It was a lovely day, a perfect birthday celebration. I liked watching the manatees. But I’m not sure about the whole idea. I don’t recall the manatees saying, “Please join us in the water for a morning of frolic.” I was distinctly aware that we had not been invited.
We destroy their habitat, slash them with boat propellors, and then intrude into the bit of territory they can still call their own. The tour operators justify the intrusion by saying that the direct contact with the beasts sensitizes people to their plight, and will help efforts to protect them. I don’t know. I’d say half the people who swim with manatees are already sensitive to their plight. The other half think they are big toys and chase and poke them when no one is looking. Iris had gone once before, and said the children on the tour all went in the water while their parents sat dry on the boat and urged them to do all the things the tour guide had forbidden.
My attitude towards animals is inconsistent. My mind says all species are equally valuable, each a unique and irreplaceable result of millions of years of evolution. My heart values humans more than other animals, probably because I am one.
On a 1 to 10 scale I probably rate a 7 as a pet mom. I take my pets to the vet and feed them good food. But I don’t give them as much attention as I should, especially our dog Trisket. When our 14-year-old cat suddenly stopped eating and blood tests revealed nothing, I declined further diagnostic tests and had her euthanized, with a moderate amount of anguish. It was partly the unwillingness to put her through all kinds of misery which she was incapable of understanding, but it was also the money and bother. I say I love my pets, but there is no comparison to the attention I lavish on Amanda, and I would certainly address a human health crisis more aggressively.
Amanda and I went to see The Big Miracle. It is a lovely, feel-good movie about the time Big Oil, Greenpeace, the Reagan Aministration, the Russians, and an Inuit village all worked together to save three whales trapped under Alaskan ice. It was suspenseful to the very end, even though you knew there wouldn’t have been a movie if they’d failed. But really – all that effort to save three whales, while we destroy the ocean?
As a species we are making the earth uninhabitable for ourselves and everybody else. We are obliged to stop (which we won’t) and rectify (which we can’t). Maybe we should stop tromping around in the bit of space they have left.
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