Tales from Watership Down by Richard Adams
Grade: A-
Tales from Watership Down contains an interesting mix of stories from the everyday lives of Adams’s fictional rabbits, many of whom we met in Watership Down, and tales of their folk hero, El-ahrairah (“The Prince With a Thousand Enemies”). Most of the stories are not terribly exciting. That said, the writing style is pleasant and the characters likable, and I enjoyed most of the book. It made me want to read Watership Down again.
I see a lot of bugs outside, so I take their pictures. Most of them don’t seem to mind, though honestly, the bumblebees do sometimes take exception to my being outside, even when I’m not in any way harassing them. When they’re in that kind of mood, they circle around my head a few times to let me know that I should relocate to another part of the yard. Given this attitude, it amazes me that they let me take the pictures from yesterday’s post. I can only assume that secretly they’ve always wanted to be in pictures.
One thing I have found about back-yard bug photography is the bigger the bug, the better. The large bug is easy to spot and the camera’s auto-focus picks it out almost immediately, which allows you to back off quickly. That’s why those huge bumblebees make good subjects. But they’re not the only big bugs to be found in the yard. Here are a few more.
My daily trip outside to view the violets is not just about the flowers. It’s about the whole experience: sun on my face, birds chirping, walking barefoot in the grass, etc. One of my favorite things to do while I’m out there is to watch the bumblebees feeding on the violets. The bees are so large that they knock the flowers over. It’s just the funniest thing.
Here, let me show you.
Here's a bumblebee on approach. Bzzzzzz.
Look at how the violet stem is bent.
Bee Butt!
This bumblebee seems not to care that he has pulled the flower all the way over and that he's lying on a leaf. He reminds me of my cat, Mojo, when he's totally engrossed by a toy.
Bumblebee Close-Up
Bumblebee taking off or landing, not sure which, but it's a cool picture.
BTW, in case you were wondering . . . yes, I took these shots close up, which required not just determination, but also a great deal of stupidity.
Today is April 19th, and that means it’s my fifth blogiversary!
I think that Blue-Footed Musings has changed over the years. I wasn’t sure what the point was when I first started writing five years ago. Now the blog is primarily a repository for my photos of flowers and my letters to the children. I can think of no greater purpose, really, and so it will continue this way as long as I need it. And then maybe it will fit another purpose. Who knows?
There may be some small changes coming down the pike in the near future, though. I’m thinking about using a photo hosting site. While I do resize all of my photos before posting them, after five years even small photos will start to pile up. My husband has complained that backing up the data is getting to be a chore. Sorry!
A photo hosting site would also allow me to do a Photo of the Day, something I’ve been thinking about. When you carry a camera around as often as I do, you start to notice how some pictures just beautifully capture the essence of a particular day. I know other people who have done such projects and the consensus seems to be that the end product is worth all the work.
Also, as I’ve mentioned before, a five-year blogiversary seems like a fine time to print a copy of the blog in book form. There are quite a few websites that offer this service. I’m not familiar with any of them, so I’d be happy to get recommendations if you have any. While printing a copy has no immediate affect on the blog, there’s always the chance that seeing my words made into a book might inspire me in some way. I am always open to inspiration!
So anyway, Happy Blogiversary to me, and thanks to you for reading!
Today is April 18th, and had all gone according to plan I would have seen John Mayer performing in Providence tonight. I had tickets, and I was looking forward to the show. But just days after I bought the tickets, he announced the cancellation of the tour. His granuloma had returned.
My personal disappointment is great, but his must be so much greater. How horrible to be a singer-songwriter and not be able to do such a large part of what defines you. So I am listening to his albums tonight and wishing him well.
Pain throws your heart to the ground.
Love turns the whole thing around.
No, it won’t all go the way it should,
But I know the heart of life is good.from “The Heart of Life”
Dear Livia,
I wrote this post 10/18/2012 in a journal and forgot to transfer it to the blog. Until now.
When I was pregnant with you, people asked me if I had bought all sorts of cute baby clothes for you. I replied that I intended to dress you in Marshall’s old things. Why shouldn’t a girl wear blues and greens and browns with dinosaurs and trucks and motorcycles?
But Marshall was a summer baby, and you were a winter baby. His clothes just didn’t fit you seasonally. I still try from time to time to use his clothes: a onesie here, a pair of pants there. Occasionally it works, and when you wear those things, both your father and I say, “We can still tell that she’s a girl.”
Well, you father did not see the outfit that I put on you this morning. Thinking nostalgically of the one-piece garments that were the mainstay of Marshall’s wardrobe, I couldn’t wait to put you in the one I had pulled out of the storage box. It was the only one that seemed likely to fit you. I didn’t let the masculine design (blue and brown stripes, plus a dinosaur) deter me.
You cried so much this morning, it was almost as if you objected to wearing such a thing. Even when I was holding you, you screamed. I made you your bottle and that finally calmed you down. Around and around you toddled. The more I watched you the more I was convinced you looked like a boy. I realized then that I didn’t want you to look like a boy.
The outfit was a little short in the sleeves. I thought to myself, “Perhaps I should change her so she’ll be more comfortable.” But I couldn’t quite make myself do it. Then I had a brilliant thought: “Perhaps she’s had a diaper disaster!” And wouldn’t you know it, your diaper was full and a wardrobe change was in order (well, actually just barely justifiable, but that was good enough for me).
Now you are wearing a feminine, flowered onesie with matching pants. You look like a girl again. And though I remember those one-piece outfits of Marshall’s as being easy, my God, they had a lot of snaps! Just three on your onesie. Much better, all around.
Love,
Mom
P.S. Though I have admitted here to deliberately dressing you in feminine clothing, you should know that I won’t allow you to wear anything that says “Princess” on it, and I only allow you to wear pink so often because it works well with your skin tone.
I never knew, until I moved into this house with its overgrown lawn, that there were different types of violets. I had encountered the common blues and whites before in countless places. I thought that they accounted for all of violetdom. But here in this weedy, neglected lawn I found other, strange violets. Some tiny, some pale, even some hairy! I looked them up online to see what they were called, and I was surprised and pleased to discover that there are in fact many species of violets, most of which I have yet to see.
But I was also dismayed, because there are so many types, some very similar, that I will probably never be sure that I have identified mine properly. Indeed, I came across some very learned discussions (all well over my head) about whether some types were truly separate species, and how hybridization could make identification even more difficult, etc. It was so complicated that I just had to tune most of it out and take my best guess.
So let me introduce you to one of my strange violets and tell you what type I think it is. The picture below is of a flower I call a “hairy violet.” I believe it is more commonly known as a “northern downy violet.”
Northern Downy Violet
As far as I can tell, there are two major differences between the northern downy violet and the common blue violet. The first is that it’s hairy. Very hairy.
That's some hairy stem!
Hairy leaves, too!
The other notable thing about this variety of violet is the shape of its leaves. They’re not heart-shaped, but rather oval, sometimes coming to a point at the end. The first time I saw one of these flowers, its pointy leaves nearly convinced me that it wasn’t a real violet!
Now for one more picture. I’m not sure if this also a northern downy violet, but it sure is cute and hairy.
Check out this beard!
My parents came to visit today. It was great to see them. They brought toys and candy, which pleased the children, and they brought clothes for the children, which pleased me. And now I am enjoying what’s left of my day off by sitting outside in my screened-in gazebo. I have before me a meal, a cold beer, and my laptop. I have candles burning in cute frog-shaped candle holders. I can smell the Japanese andromeda. I can see violets to my left and bluets to my right. The sun is setting. The peepers are peeping.
Today is a good day.
I love the flowers of spring. Violets are among my favorites. And when I first saw the springtime sea of violets surrounding our new house, I wanted to bring their beauty inside, but I had no vases small enough. I looked in store after store but could not find any. It was sad.
Then one day I was strolling through IKEA and I spotted a four-pack of little vases. They were plain but perfectly sized for violets, so I bought them, and I’m glad I did. Now I have four vases to hold bouquets of violets, and every year I fill them all up over and over again until the violets are done blooming for the year. I only wish I had more of them, because then I could put violets in every room!
So here it is, my Favorite Thing for this week: the violet vase from IKEA.
Perfect Vase for Violets
I feel bad about abandoning any book before I finish reading it, but sometimes it’s necessary. Here are two books that I abandoned recently.
Quest for the Faradawn by Richard Ford
Grade: not graded
A note on the author of this book: the author is neither the American novelist Richard Ford who wrote The Sportswriter nor the British travel writer Richard Ford who wrote A Handbook for Travellers in Spain, but rather the British fantasy author who is also a folk singer-songwriter (known as “Rick” when he’s wearing his musician pants).
I borrowed Quest for the Faradawn from the library when I was in my late teens or early twenties. Because I had this crazy need to own a copy of every book I had ever read, I bought a copy of it later. Recently, as part of the ongoing GLP, I decided to reread the book and see if it really deserved a space on my bookshelf.
Quest of the Faradawn is the story of a baby who is left in the woods by his parents. He is found and raised by animals. The animals believe he is the child spoken of in an ancient prophecy. When he gets older circumstances will send him on a world-saving quest for the three Faradawn, which are described on the book jacket as “the essences of life itself.”
I stopped reading somewhere around page 75. It was not that the book was horrible but that I felt like I was being bludgeoned over the head with the author’s message. The message was that people are cruel to animals, destructive, and even downright evil.
I agree that some people are cruel to animals. That’s wrong and they should stop. But people gotta eat. Once upon a time, there were no supermarkets, and the hungry people of the world would go out into the woods and hunt. Some still do. Maybe it’s not nice or pretty or ideal, but it’s Nature. We’re not the only animals who hunt. One of the main characters in this book is an owl, and owls are not, last I heard, vegetarians.
I am against badger-baiting, fox hunting, and any kind of animal torture or cruelty, but I am not against people hunting to feed themselves, so it’s hard to get riled up during the hunting scenes as, I imagine, I’m supposed to.
The animals feared autumn; not because of its natural sadness or because it heralded the beginning of winter but because it was the season in which, after a period of delicious peace during the summer, the [Men] amply compensated for the rest with a time of killing and slaughter which was the most terrible of the year. . . . As [the boy] watched with mounting horror and shame the activities of members of his own race as they spread terror and pain throughout the wood, his confusion gave way to seething anger. With every crack of a shot which echoed through the wood his whole body ached as he imagined the pain that was being inflicted, and [the badger] was always having to restrain him from rushing out of the bush to attack the [Men.]
Unless you can feel outraged on behalf of the animal characters in this novel, it’s hard to appreciate the story, and that’s why I have decided not to read any more of it. I know from the Amazon reviews that some people enjoy the book. I am going to throw it back into the wild and hope there’s a hungry reader out there hunting for a story just like this one.
A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cossé
Grade: F
In A Novel Bookstore, a rich woman who loves reading meets up with a guy who has experience running a bookstore, and together they decide to open up a new bookstore that sells only good novels (i.e., books they think are worth reading). They are not going to worry about profitability, and they won’t carry anything popular unless it is also good. They pick eight authors to choose the books for them. The authors names are to be kept secret. When some of those authors’ lives are threatened, their connection with the bookstore seems to be the most likely reason.
But why?
Alas, I don’t know. I didn’t finish reading, because I wasn’t enjoying the book. The problems I encountered were many and varied, from confusion caused by the author’s sometimes circuitous writing, to a feeling of being completely out of the loop because I hadn’t read most of the novels/writers mentioned, to the nagging impression of hearing the cogs of the author’s brain working out the details of the premise, to not liking some of the characters or their supposed romance, etc.
But the thing that made me finally stop reading was the lists. Lists, lists, lists. Not that I hate lists. I like them. But I do not like them in the middle of a novel. Here is an example.
The list was one hundred and seventeen pages long. Two hundred and ninety-six titles had been mentioned eight times, three hundred and fifty-nine seven times, four hundred six times, four hundred and fifty-one five times, three hundred and seventy-eight four times, four hundred and fifty-two three times, four hundred and sixty-nine twice, and five hundred and four just once.
And then,
There were some astonishing omissions. Only one Victor Hugo, only one Heinrich Boll. Nothing by Jules Valles or Joseph Delteil, or Evelyn Waugh, or Anna Maria Ortese. Two books by John Berger, but not Pig Earth—and Pig Earth is a marvel…
And it just kept going. This whole section of book was basically a set of lists, one after another. Yawn.
And the irony, the beautiful irony, is that the main character had no patience for things like that. If a book didn’t please him immediately, he’d just dump it. If I had followed his rule, I would have tossed the book within 20 pages.
The only thing that kept me going in A Novel Bookstore was my wish to keep going. Eventually that wore out. That’s why I gave the book an F grade. It could not hold my interest, and as sorry as I am to say it, that means it failed.
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