The Annals of Country Life

Ah, Youth!

July 24th, 2016 16 Comments

Bobcat 018 (Small)

I’ve been writing almost exclusively about books and politics and Second Amendment issues lately and much of that is due to the aftereffects of the horse wreck, my not being able to do some of the things I used to do outside.

One of the things I used to do that I do not miss in the slightest is weed whacking the critical areas around the property that must be cleared in case of fire. Fire is an ever-present danger in these mountains, and clearing one’s property is required by both law and common sense. Behind our house the hill rises steeply and weed whacking is limited by natural obstacles: a property boundary fence here, boulders there, a sudden rise in incline in this area, more boulders in that area, a natural cut, trees… You get the picture. The men I hired to do what I used to do followed pretty much the same boundaries I would have followed: above that area the weeds are dangerously thick this year; below it, everything is cut down to the dirt.

So I was standing with my back to the window, talking to my bride, when she suddenly yelped and pointed out at the hill. For a moment, what I thought I saw was one of our ridiculously overly-domesticated and overly-pampered indoor-only cats trotting across the cleared area. Then I realized it was a bobcat kitten. (Not the bobcat in the photo above; that one is a fully grown bobcat, with attitude, and in a bad mood.)

Not a kitten exactly, as much as barely an adolescent, a very young bobcat hovering in that awkward stage between childhood and adulthood. He had probably only within the last week been kicked out of the house for talking back to his mother and he was now boldly exploring his world with no thought to either danger or his next meal. There are ground squirrels galore in the boulders back there—I have been shooting them with monotonous regularly, but every time you kill one, twenty more come to the funeral—but no bobcat ever caught a ground squirrel by trotting blithely along in the open.

We watched him trot up at an angle to the base of one of the groups of boulders where he threw himself down on his back in a dusty spot and wriggled as hard and as thoroughly as he could. I know what he was doing was taking a dust bath to discourage fleas, but something about the way he did it, the youthful energy, the joie de vivre, the quality of making even a necessary toilette something of a game, made my wife and me both laugh. And when he got up, he didn’t just “get up;” he bounced up, shook himself vigorously, and vanished into the long weeds above.

That youthful exuberance reminded me of a boy I knew half a century ago, a boy whose boundless energy and sheer joy of living in his own healthy body used to make both his parents alternately laugh and tear out their hair. Unlike Mama Bobcat, they were patient and forbearing enough not to throw me out on my own.

I wish that young bobcat well.

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A Neighborly Visit

May 28th, 2016 15 Comments

 

IMG_2168

In the country, neighbors sometimes just drop by unannounced and make themselves comfortable on the front porch. To put this gentleman (or lady) in perspective for you, the antique French bread rack is five feet wide, precisely sixty inches, making this by far the largest gopher snake I have ever seen, larger by about a foot than the one that, ah, shall we say, surprised me one day in the barn as I was unloading hay bales. I chanced to look up and a very large gopher snake was resting comfortably on a very narrow beam directly over my head, watching me work. Among other things, I told that particular snake I thought it ill-mannered of him to laze about watching me do the heavy lifting and not even volunteering to help.

This is a Pacific gopher snake, and according to my copy of The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Reptiles and Amphibians, they can grow as large as 100-inches in length, over eight feet. Five feet is plenty big enough for me. I mean, there’s no point in showing off.

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Nature, Red in Tooth and Claw

February 24th, 2016 14 Comments

bobcat and Bear 023 (Small)

 

Little Bear, our Australian shepherd (shown much younger), alerted us to a coyote on the hill behind the house. He didn’t bark, but he had been sitting by the sliding glass door, as the dogs often do, gazing out at the steady parade of birds and chipmunks, when suddenly his whole energy changed, and his casual gazing turned into an intense, focused stare. I went to investigate.

He had good reason to stare. It was an almost totally naked coyote, by which I mean not that his winter coat had fallen out, but that he had little or no fur at all on his body, and his tail was a thin and naked embarrassment of an appendage. It was—or certainly appeared to be—hands down the worst case of mange I’ve ever seen on any animal.

Coyote with mange

 

We tend to think of disease as unnatural, as an aberration away from the norm, but because we see it in ourselves and our fellow man, as well as in our dogs or cats or horses, we accept the occasional aberration as unfortunate but not unnatural, something to be treated and cured. Because we do not usually see it in wild animals we tend to think it doesn’t occur, or at least only very rarely, but I suspect it happens far more often than we realize.

Think of the rabies outbreaks that from time to time sweep through various parts of the country. When I was very young, rabies was still common among dogs, especially in the South, and I can remember my father and mother once cautioning me about the deadliness of the disease, and what to look out for. Today it is a thing of the past among household pets, but when we first moved up to these mountains, the local game warden told me that a rabies outbreak had decimated the gray fox population and in fact it was almost twenty years before I saw one.

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Also here in California, I was once attacked by a skunk I assume was rabid. I don’t mean that he sprayed me (though I have had that happen too—memorably) but that he kept charging me and trying to bite me until I finally just outran the little bastard.

skunk

 

I have seen fluctuations in the local rabbit population, ranging from their being so numerous that they were a pain in the ass and I practically had to kick them out of my way every time I went out of the house, down to non-existent. Last year I didn’t see one at all, and I have yet to see one this year; even the jackrabbit numbers seem to be greatly reduced.

Blue tongue (hemorrhagic disease) and Chronic Wasting Disease have had their impact on the whitetail herds in parts of Missouri where I like to hunt with my old friend Hal, and deer are also susceptible to tuberculosis and any number of parasites. Birds can carry—and die from—West Nile Virus. Wild pigs can have brucellosis, swine fever, and pseudorabies, which has nothing to do with actual rabies, despite the name. Domestic sheep are subject to more diseases than you can shake a stick at and I’m sure wild sheep have a lengthy list of species-specific illnesses, but the one I am familiar with is pneumonia, which strikes wild herds fairly frequently. I was once asked to help rid a ranch in Texas of its herd of red sheep (mouflon), a task that turned out to be more difficult than you could imagine. Wild sheep are far more cunning and wary than even whitetail deer, and at the end of three days of three men hunting from dark to dark in a relatively small high-fenced pasture, the grand total was two sheep, both of which I shot. One was a lucky snap-shot at a running sheep, and the other was a poor thing I found bedded down under a juniper, too sick to be able to get on its feet. As far as I know the rest of that herd is still on that ranch.

I’m sure the list of wild animal disease goes on to things I’ve never even heard of. I’m just going off of personal experience.

But in addition to diseases, animals are also subject to the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to: think of the countless times we’ve all seen wild animals going about their business on three legs.

For those of you who live in greener parts of the world, foxtail is the name we give to a ubiquitous grass here in the West that, when it dries, has a sharp, barbed point, rather like a miniature porcupine quill, and if it gets caught in an animal’s fur, it works its way in until it punctures the flesh and then continues working its way in until, in the case of domestic animals, it has to be surgically removed. It’s why after running the dogs we check them over carefully and thoroughly. I once asked our local game warden what happened to coyotes when they got foxtail in them and the answer was that they either lived in discomfort or died slowly.

And sometimes animals hurt themselves because of their own clumsiness.

The first time it ever occurred to me that an animal might be clumsy was when I was about seven or eight. I was exploring in the woods and pastures near our home when I came across the body of a red fox hanging impaled on the broken vertical branch of a sapling that had gone up through his lower jaw and into his skull. I was so stunned by the sight of the fox that it was several minutes before I chanced to look up and realized what had happened: there was a bird’s nest on one of the lower branches of a tree, and I knew in flash that the fox had jumped for the nest and the eggs or fledglings, missed, and fallen on the vertical branch.

Sometimes, like an old Laurel and Hardy movie, there is a certain humorousness to wildlife mishaps.

Hunting in Colorado, I once watched a young buck strolling along on the top of an embankment above a logging road. He stumbled and went ass-over-teakettle down the slope, jumped up, and then (I know we’re not supposed to anthropomorphize) looked around in embarrassment before trotting off down the road with great intent—a busy deer with places to go and important things to do.

Deer 011 (Small)

 

I also once watched a bobcat, surely one of the most graceful and athletic of all of God’s creatures, slowly and carefully stalk some unseen rodent on the side of a hill. When he finally pounced, he not only missed the rodent, but he missed his footing and did probably three full somersaults before he got his feet under him.

Bobcat 023 (Small)

 

And on a memorable occasion, quail hunting with General Chuck Yeager and Colonel Bud Anderson, the three of us were eating our lunch overlooking a valley and we watched two coyotes trying to catch a jackrabbit. The coyote is one of the most efficient and effective predators in the world, and when they work in pairs, or as a pack, they are unparalleled. I voiced the opinion that it wouldn’t take long before they got him.

General Yeager shook his head. “He’ll outsmart them.”

He did. In fact, it was such a comical mismatch that after a few minutes I actually began to feel sorry for the two coyotes. When they finally gave up, they sat down facing each other, yards of tongue hanging out of each of them and disgusted looks on their faces. I would have given much to be close enough to hear what they said to each other.

 Wile E. Coyote

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Bald Eagle

February 1st, 2016 17 Comments

Bald eagle

(Image courtesy of Wikipedia)

 

I have seen two bald eagles (or, more likely, one bald eagle twice) in the last three days.

The first time, the poor thing was being harassed by two ravens who followed him, like jackals trailing a lion, for a remarkably long distance. The second time, he was by himself, flying quite low, but flying like an eagle on a mission, an eagle with things to do, places to go, and other eagles to meet. And both times it made my heart leap.

I’m an unabashed patriot. I love America and believe strongly it is the greatest country the world has ever known. It gives me a thrill every time I see our flag flying; I get emotional when I hear the national anthem; I feel a burst of pride whenever I see young men or women in uniform, especially young soldiers in their dress uniforms on state occasions; I even feel proud when I see a photograph of the Capitol Building, though I’d like to wade in there with a bullwhip and a branding iron. But bald eagles especially get to me. In part, this is because they are incomparably, dramatically beautiful birds; in part it is because they are our nation’s symbol; in part it’s because they are relatively uncommon in this part of the world (in twenty-five years I’ve only seen one here on two other occasions, though I’ve been to those places in Alaska where you can see hundreds on a daily basis); and in part it’s because the first one I ever saw was with my father, so I associate them with him.

I was home from college, and I had only recently reached the stage Mark Twain (apocryphally) made famous by discussing how much his old man had grown up in seven years. My father was by then director of Gunston Hall, the museum once home to George Mason, author of the Virginia Declaration Rights, and on pleasant evenings that summer after the tourists had left, my father and I would take our drinks and walk around the magnificent gardens, the towering allées of boxwood and lilac, the acres of roses and jasmine and nicotiana, the air heavy with scent and the heat of a Virginia tidewater summer. At the end of the gardens, where the land dropped down steeply to the woods and the distant Potomac, there were two gazebos, and we sitting in one of those one evening when a bald eagle sailed by, skimming over the tops of the trees, below us, so that we looked down on his back and the incredible, brilliant white of his head and tail.

It’s a rare thing ever to be in a situation or place where you can look down on the back of a raptor, and to be able to look down on the back of a bald eagle, our national symbol, while talking to my father just as I was beginning to appreciate what an extraordinary, completely unique man he was and how lucky I was to have him in my life, made it one of those moments that will warm me on my deathbed.

And later, before his untimely and much too early death, my father was able to use that sighting and the fact that there was a nesting pair in the woods at the end of Mason’s neck, to get the federal government and the state of Virginia to join forces and protect much of that land from development. If we hadn’t been sitting there that evening and hadn’t seen that eagle, he might not have been able to do it, and Mason’s neck would now look like all the rest of northern Virginia, a sprawling mishmash of subdivisions and shopping malls, all the unimaginative cookie-cutter development that passes for progress in America these days.

But we were, and he did.

 

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Why Tumbleweed?

January 5th, 2016 14 Comments

Tumbleweed

Photo courtesy of Bing.

 

Not far from my home are a series of windfarms; there are also several houses in our valley that have their own little windmills. Needless to say, you don’t have windmills, let alone windfarms, in places where there is no expectation of a fairly consistent level of wind, all of which is a way of making the point that we are used to wind here. In fact, if you look at a wind map of the United States, where the darker the red the higher the average wind level, our little community is a tiny pinprick of the darkest red the map employs.

So we’re used to wind in this neck of the woods. But we just had three days of the sort of high, unrelenting wind that made me understand for the first time why suicide rates in southern France are purported to rise dramatically when the Mistral blows. It’s one thing to have high, gusty winds; or steady winds that blow all day long and only subside with the sunset; or even the sudden concentrated gusts we call dust devils that are a kind of miniature, localized tornado. (A builder friend of ours was taking his lunch break, seated in the sun with his coat off on a stack of three-quarter inch four-by-eight sheets of plywood when he realized he was about to be hit by a dust devil. He dove for cover and spent much of the afternoon recovering sheets of plywood from a pasture fifty yards away. I just happened to stumble across his coat while I was out quail hunting a few days later about half a mile from the building site.)

But it is another thing entirely to have sustained, unrelenting, forty to fifty mile per hour winds that blow undiminished, day and night, dry and cold, out of the Mojave Desert, piling up every tumbleweed in entire southwestern United States on my property.

The wind has finally subsided down to a strong cold wind out of the desert, but at least down enough that for the first time in three days I have been able to go out and assess the damage. Nothing permanent or too severe, thank God, but it’ll give you an idea of what I’m talking about when I say I had to use the tractor this morning for over two hours just to clear a one hundred yard path along my driveway to our front gate. I haven’t gotten rid of the damned stuff—that’ll take weeks—but at least we can drive out to get some groceries.

I have a list of things I intend to discuss with God when I see Him. I want to know what the hell He had in mind when He created ticks. I want to know what distracted Him so much that He did such a second-rate job of designing a man’s knee and a horse’s digestive tract. And now I want to know if He was sober when He came up with tumbleweed.

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Eye Candy

December 17th, 2015 22 Comments

Deer 011 (Small)

 

When Daniel Boone goes by at night,

The phantom deer arise

And all lost, wild America

Is burning in their eyes.

Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benet

Deer 015 (Small)

Another buck (with a consort) taken only about a mile, as the Condor soars, from where I saw the first one. Note how steeply the land falls away in the background; these mountains are not to be taken lightly.

 

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And yet another, this one only about a quarter mile from the one immediately above.

 

Elk and doe

And finally, a great photo, taken by a dear friend, of a massive bull and a diminutive and very young doe or, more likely, an honest-to-God fawn, keeping each other company.

 

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The Windhover on Advent Sunday

December 1st, 2015 12 Comments

 

The Windhover

To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-

dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

 

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

 

 

It is not an easy poem, even taken within the context of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ frequently difficult standards, but if you can force yourself to follow the first rule of reading poetry—which is to forget about meaning or understanding and simply read for the music of the thing, trusting that meaning and understanding will come later, on their own—it is one of the most evocative and magical of all poems. And it came rushing back to me (at least the first two lines did, which is all I can usually remember) this past Sunday as I drove home from church.

This past Sunday was the first Sunday in Advent, the first Sunday of the season when Christians around the world celebrate the coming nativity of Christ and express their longing for His return. Personally, I think He has overdone His vacation time and He’s long overdue; given the current state of world affairs He knows all too well that we could use a little help here sooner rather than later, but I expect He knows His business better than I and I shall try to bide my time in patience.

But as I approached the turn-off from the hardtop to the dirt road that leads to my house, I saw a dirty and much the worse for wear SUV parked by the field. Two men and a little girl were talking. One of the men was holding a falcon on his wrist. My heart in hiding stirred for a bird and I stopped my truck.

What little I know about falconry comes from reading Steve Bodio’s blog (http://stephenbodio.blogspot.com/ ) and books, and from Helen Macdonald’s (apparently she spells her name that way, with a small “d”) H Is for Hawk, which is to say I know only that it is an arcane and demanding enterprise that takes far more time, skill, knowledge, ability, and patience than I have or will ever have, but so what? I can’t draw a circle either, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a Rembrandt.

One of the men was my neighbor, a young horse trainer, the other was the falconer, and the little girl was his granddaughter. The bird on his gauntleted wrist was an Australian hobby; at least, I believe that was what he said. The wind was blowing hard and I was distracted by the bird—who can look at a man when there is a falcon so close by?—but it looked very much like the examples I have researched, small and fierce and so beautiful, even with its hood on. There is something about birds of prey that I find immensely compelling, and I longed to stroke the proud little breast, but I suspect that, just like service dogs, everyone in the wide world has the same reaction, so I refrained from touching or even asking if I could. Instead, we spoke briefly about the increasing population growth of our valley that makes his falconry increasingly difficult (falcons need a lot of fence-free space) and helped put an end to my quail hunting.  We talked about where to find valley quail and mountain quail and chukar, and then he opened the back of his SUV, and I literally gasped with delight.

The back of his vehicle held a welter of equipment on one side, but on the other side was a low, two-bird stand made of PVC pipe with the bars covered in some kind of carpeting fabric, and on one of the bars was peregrine-gyrfalcon cross, for so he identified it. Unlike the little hobby, with its appeal and charm, this bird radiated the kind of power and authority that would have made any attempt to touch it as tacky and presumptuous as touching the Pope, or clapping Queen Elizabeth on her back. This was a bird that commanded respect. For one thing, it was almost as big as a red-tailed hawk, and even with its hood on it had a regal air, a quality of majesty graciously condescending to slum it for a while.

I was too late to watch him fly either bird (he was on his way home), but even that little glimpse stirred me in ways I find difficult to express. I love living in a place where I can see wild things, and I am fortunate enough to see birds of prey regularly: eagles, both golden and bald; a wide variety of hawks; harriers; osprey; a variety of falcons, including the ubiquitous and delightful kestrel; great horned owls; barn owls; even once a spotted owl and once a burrowing owl; I get to see them all from time to time, and some of them regularly, but rarely close-up. To be within touching distance of something as charismatic as that peregrine-gyrfalcon was extraordinary. Even on a stand in the back of an SUV I could see the brute beauty and valor, sense the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! O my chevalier!

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Rainy Day Elk

November 7th, 2015 16 Comments

Sometimes—not often—everything comes together just perfectly. (When it does, I attribute it to clean living and good single-malt whisky.)

We had two fine days of cold, grey, and rainy weather. I had to run some errands on one of those days and at the last minute, almost as if the universe had whispered in my ear, I grabbed my camera. Then, on the way home, I took a detour through some hills at the end of the valley and in the fog and rain I found what the universe had been trying to tell me.

Elk 002 (2) (Small)

Elk 068 (2) (Small)

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Meteorological Update

October 16th, 2015 10 Comments

Bedazzled two

 

Be careful what you wish for.

Have you ever seen Bedazzled? It’s a marvelous, wacky, 1967 movie starring and written by the brilliant British comedy team of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. (There is also a 2000 remake, starring Brendan Frazer, with Elizabeth Hurley as the devil in a red bikini, a sight that is alone worth the price of admission, though the remake is not as charming as the original.) The premise of the movie is that a little nebbish (Dudley Moore), who is in love with an unattainable girl, sells his soul to the devil (Peter Cook) for seven wishes (corresponding to the seven deadly sins), which he uses in an attempt to win the girl.

Of course the devil grants each wish, but never exactly as it was intended, with the entirely predictable result that Dudley Moore never gets the girl, while the devil always does. It’s a masterpiece of the Peter Cook and Dudley Moore team, a team that produced many classic and lunatic comic gems (a routine about a one-legged man auditioning for the role of Tarzan; another that has survived as a recording about a man opening a restaurant in the middle of nowhere—“Parking isn’t a problem.”— called The Frog and Peach, where the only dishes offered are frog à la pêche, or pêche à la frog), as well as appearing together in another delicious movie, The Wrong Box.

Bedazzled

 

But the point is to be careful what you wish for. All of California has been praying for rain, and God—who evidently has a very wry, very British, and rather distorted sense of humor Himself—responded last night.

Darleen and I were at a dog training class last night, a class that got cut short after urgent calls started coming in on various cell-phones. Thunderstorms were producing flooding all over southern California, including in our little corner of the golden state. This morning, we saw some of the results on the news.

Interstate 5, the primary north-south artery in California was completely shut down by mud-and-rock slides, with hundreds of people needing to be rescued. The alternate artery over the mountains, Highway 58, the road the Joad family took on their search for a paradise that did not exist in The Grapes of Wrath, has also been closed by mud-and-rock slides, with scores of people needing to be rescued. The California Highway Patrol, interviewed on a local television station this morning, recommended no one drive anywhere, but that people who simply must get to Los Angeles or points south, take the 46 over to the coastal route, 101, and take that road south. I happen to know these routes quite well, and that little detour turns a two-and-a-half hour drive into about a six or seven hour drive, not allowing for traffic which, if everyone is doing the same thing, will become like a nightmare right out of Bedazzled, minus the charm and the humor, but with the dubious addition of frayed tempers.

The storms actually began night before last, with a display of pyrotechnics that made any fireworks created by the hand of man look pretty lame: bolts of lightening hammering the ground all around us with such violence it shook the house. Darleen and I were scurrying around, closing windows, when suddenly the whole world went black. Not just our house, but not a light to be seen anywhere, not even any ambient light bouncing off the clouds from distant towns, a blackness as complete and absolute as our Paleolithic ancestors must have known. We began groping our way to the stored flashlights when, just as suddenly, the lights came back on again, revealing each of us with our arms held cautiously out in front of us like Neanderthals in a cave playing “pin the tail on the donkey” or “blind man’s bluff.”

This went on most of the night, power on, power off, brilliant flashes of God-made light splitting open stygian darkness, and thunder like the final trump; if there is no time interval between the flash and the sound, and the house trembles, you know the strike was close.

At one point, before the serious rain began, I stepped outside to see if I could smell smoke, fire being very much on our minds. It was one of the most dramatic nights I have ever had the pleasure of living through. I was tempted to do a little King Lear:

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow,

          You cataracts and hurricanoes…

But it occurred to me that reciting Lear outside in the middle of an epic thunder storm might not be the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I could see the headline in Variety: Former Actor Killed by His Own Performance. It seemed a poor way to make my final exit, so I opted instead for sitting by a window and watching the show from the safety of home and hearth.

Good show, God! Good show.

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Rainy Night Redux

October 12th, 2015 19 Comments

Nevada 2

 

I know this is going to sound really dorky (What kind of a senile old fool is Jameson anyway?) but it only recently hit me how completely and universally pervasive the internet is. I know I am lucky enough to have readers all over America and Canada, as well as in the UK, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, France, Italy, India, South Africa, Namibia, and possibly other countries whose readers don’t identify their location. I wish they would; I find it fascinating to know the states and countries where people live. I used to have a young lady in Kuwait who would respond to blog posts that caught her attention, but she wrote me that, for unexplained reasons, she would have to give up internet use. I hope it wasn’t for any ominous reasons and that she is doing well. So I realized the internet reaches its tentacles out to billions—literally billions—of people around the world, but…

But I recently received a response, to the Rainy Night posting, from Malaysia and for some reason that has stuck with me and made me think about the ramifications of the internet in ways I hadn’t before.

When I was a very young child, back when television sets were still items only possessed by people of a certain economic level, the Parker family not included, the moment someone spoke I could tell what part of the country that person came from. As a southern child, I could even tell what portion of a particular southern state someone came from, the tidewater accent being different from a Piedmont Plateau accent or an Appalachian accent, with Gullah (sometimes called Geechee) being completely incomprehensible.

Those days have obviously vanished and regional accents have gone the way of the one-horse shay and the four-up hitch. In America today practically everyone sounds like a game show host.

But if an old man in a dry season in California can write something that resonates, however lightly, with someone in Malaysia, where the average annual rainfall is greater than the average total for fifteen years in my high-desert part of California, think of the implications of that.

If radical Islam, notably ISIS, can use the internet and social media to recruit young men and women to their evil cause, surely the rest of us can use the same tools to emphasize our shared humanity on this tired old planet. I’m not so naïve as to believe in some kind of Kumbaya world where we all become happy vegans and hold hands and speak Esperanto and run 5-K races for charity and never criticize anyone for anything. In fact, such a 1984 collective world reminds me of North Korea, where I would go mad and start biting myself. For one thing, I love the differences that make the world such a fascinating place. I lament the passing of regional accents in America, I hate holding hands with anyone other than my bride, and if you try to take my steak away I’ll stab you with my fork.

But how wonderful that such a simple pleasure as a sweet-smelling world freshly washed by rain should evoke such a universal response.

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