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Word of the Week: Susurrus

8/4/2014

5 Comments

 
susurrus

\su̇-ˈsər-əs\

Picture
It is August, the pinnacle of summer, and this week’s word is full of summer associations. A friend ran across it in a novel she was reading and was delighted to find a word she did not know—an especially rare pleasure for highly-literate types. “Encountering a new word,” she told me, “is like finding a gem, or a perfectly ripe fruit.”

It’s also to my ear an exceptionally beautiful word, both in its sound and its sense. A susurrus is “a whispering murmur.” It is the sound of a breeze passing through a forest; of hushed conversations at the other end of a reading room; of lizards scuttling through dry leaves on a hot afternoon. It’s a drowsy, peaceful word.

English lifted this one wholesale from the Latin word for “humming or murmuring.” It seems to derive from a Sanskrit root svárati (meaning sounds or resounds) that has engendered a flock of cognates across many languages:  there’s Greek syrinx (Σύριγξ) "reed flute," Old Church Slavonic svirati "to whistle," Lithuanian surmo "pipe, shawm," German schwirren "to buzz," and the Old English swearm, or "swarm."

As a kid I spent many of my school vacations with my grandparents in the mountains of western North Carolina, where they went each year to escape the infernal summers of Chapel Hill.  The cottage they rented was made of chestnut boards marked with the twisting runnels left by burrowing insects in the trees. There was a big front room filled with rough-hewn oak furniture and perhaps a deer’s head mounted above the fireplace. There was a shabby and somewhat unreliable kitchen, a couple of bedrooms for grownups, and a big attic where whatever grandchildren were in residence slept on beds with metal springs and faded coverlets made of tufted mauve chenille. Fifty miles from Asheville, and at least 10 miles from the nearest town with a coffee shop and a supermarket, there was not much to do, which was very much the point. We kids swam in the river. We stitched ill-fitting doll dresses and cut our fingers whittling homemade propeller toys. We went on walks with our grandmother, who brandished her walking stick at snakes and (to our lasting mortification) swiped fresh sweet corn from other people’s fields.

Next to the porch grew a giant yew bush, eight feet across. A child squirming through the outer branches could rest hidden inside, in a resinous dappled cave almost big enough to stand up in. I spent endless afternoons here, equipped with a couple of peaches and the battered house copy of The Adventures of Robin Hood (a great 1930s edition that I have not seen since: the covers were frayed and some of the pages loose but it had full-color illustrations and a wonderful pseudo-Old-English style). It was very quiet. There was the whisper of a scythe as the farmer next door brought in the buckwheat. The mail truck rolled by on the distant road. A tinny fizz as my grandfather tried to catch the afternoon news on his portable radio.

The leaves moved against the sky. A few black ants came to investigate my peach pits.

I know I came out eventually. I know there was supper and cousins and card games and fireflies. But I don’t remember that part right now. I remember the rustle of piney needles under my bare legs. The faint ripple of talk drifting out the kitchen window.  The wide drift of an afternoon with nothing to do but watch the trees. A perfectly ripe piece of fruit.

Susurrus.


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Word of the Week: Marooned

7/25/2014

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marooned

\mə-ˈründ\
I’ve been visiting my mother for the last couple of days. These more-or-less monthly visits have a pleasantly predictable groove. There is much schmoozing and exchanging of updates on family and friends. There is arm-waving about the State of Things Political, Artistic and Academic. She reads interesting bits of the paper out loud in the morning before I have had my coffee and I try not to get annoyed. I frowse about in my pajamas until noon and leave papers all over the table and she tries not to get annoyed. She asks me to fix various electronic devices that aren’t working right. The wine is good, and the conversation excellent.

It’s also, I’ve found, a place where I can get a fair bit of work done. There’s a comfortable spot at the kitchen table; there is Wifi and coffee. So yesterday, after a pleasant morning discussing Tom Stoppard and reprogramming the irrigation system, I happily settled in.

Only to discover that the Internet had disappeared.

A quick investigation revealed that there was signal, but the cable modem was not sending out IP addresses. There was no connection between the house wifi and the rest of the world. Past experience suggested that this was likely a brief interruption caused by a fault at the cable company and it would self-resolve shortly. 


But for the moment I was marooned. 
No big deal—I am resourceful! I cobbled together an outline based on stored information and handwritten notes. I wrote emails and stacked them neatly in the outgoing message tray. My paragraphs were dotted with <check ref> notations, awaiting the life-giving flood of digital information.

After a couple hours of this happy Swiss Family Robinson existence, though, I needed to check an etymology. A quick rummage through the bookshelves revealed that while my mother owns useful reference works like Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period and the Cambridge World History of Human Disease (which, I might add, falls open to bookmarks at the entries for cholera and tertiary syphilis—fun stuff, Mom!), she does not, apparently, own the Oxford English Dictionary.  

Picture
Walter Paget [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
“I seemed banished from Human society…I was alone, circumscribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and condemned to what I called silent life.”

Reader, I despaired.

Then my lovely husband (should I start calling him Friday?) reminded me that I could use my iPhone—elderly and temperamental as it is—as a portable base station. Suddenly, I had a raft, an oar, and a makeshift sail.

Clinging to this frail bark, I was able to access my online references. I restocked my supply of properly spelled names and attributions. Emails bobbed out on the flood like so many corked bottles. The smoke of a passing ocean liner drifted across the horizon: Facebook! And there at last was the UCSD VPN and my faithful OED.

It was clear what this week’s word must be.

I knew that beyond the familiar usage meaning “to strand,” there were also communities of “Maroons” in the inaccessible back country of the West Indies: fugitive slaves who lived high up in the mountains for generations, fighting the plantation owners and ultimately a powerful force in the independence movements of the 19th century. At a guess I would have said that these folks were so named because they were in a sense marooned, living isolated from the rest of society. But it turns out the opposite is true. Here’s the earliest usage of the term in English, from the 1666 History of the Carribby-Islands: 

[Slaves] will run away and get into the Mountains and Forests, where they live like so many Beasts; then they are call'd Marons, that is to say Savages.

(I would venture that the plantations were probably just as savage as the mountains, if not more so. No doubt you had to be mighty tough to survive long in either.)

The word comes from the French marron, which means “feral” or “fugitive.” It seems also to be related to the Spanish cimarrón (fugitive) and cimarra (wild place). Both of these derive in turn from the classical Latin cȳma (young shoots of a plant). So we are talking someplace overgrown, wild, and inhospitable: a good spot to hide out for a while.

The idea of being marooned appears a bit later. It first refers to people being deliberately stranded in a desolate place as a form of punishment (or just to get them out of your hair). The OED mentions an account of Magellan marooning a mutinous priest on the coast of Patagonia. Over time the meaning expanded to include people who were cast away through misadventure, like good old Robinson Crusoe—though the word never appears in that book as this sense doesn’t show up in the language until several years after it was published.

“Maroon” seems also to have taken an odd journey through the American South, where apparently a “maroon party” refers to an extended camping or hunting trip in the country. Whether it’s co-optation or poor taste (remember
cakewalk?), this is a usage I have never heard: anyone out there who is familiar with the phrase please let me know! 
And then there’s the color. This also comes from the French marron, but this marron means “chestnut” and seems to be an entirely different word with an entirely different lineage. It has been knocking around the Romance languages a long time but it’s not clear where it came from before that (the Medieval Greek word for “cherry” [μάραον]?  Some speculative proto-Romance word meaning “rock”? No one is sure.) 
Picture
By Achromatic (Own work), via Wikimedia Commons
Fortunately, my period of isolation fell far short of Crusoe’s 28 years. And while my iPhone raft was an admirable stopgap, I am happy to report that a little additional fiddling with connectors ultimately restored the full flood of Mom’s internet. So I sailed back home to San Diego and she is exploring the deeper cultural meaning of Weird Al Yankovic videos.
Of course this essay would not be complete without a mention of perhaps the most culturally significant usage of the word:
Picture
Update January 2015: Copyright goons exist! Imagine, if you will, Bugs Bunny, carrot in hand, cracking: "What a maroon!"
I admit I include it with some trepidation: if the Warner Brothers copyright goons come after me I may end up stuck on a desert island somewhere. 

Perhaps I can borrow Mom’s book about the Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing.  
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Word of the Week: Bereft

7/14/2014

3 Comments

 
bereft

\bi-ˈreft\
PictureSpecialized Sequoia Elite (2007).
I went out to lunch with a friend last week and left the restaurant to discover that my trusty bicycle—which I’ve had for seven years and more than 15,000 miles—was gone.

Vanished.

Disappeared from a city-installed bike rack on a busy corner in the middle of the work day.

I think I stood with my mouth hanging open for nearly a minute. My lovely friend offered hugs and the loan of her spare bike. A passerby stopped to ask if we needed help. A kind man working in the bank whose windows overlook the rack said that no, he hadn’t seen anything and unfortunately their outdoor security cameras cover the ATM, not the bike rack. (Some priorities, these!) So I filed a police report, talked with our insurance agent, and made my way to my afternoon appointments on the bus.

For a day or two after I was more than a little stunned. I kept mentally revisiting the rack, each time surprised anew by the bike-shaped mass of air filling the space where she ought to have been. I could almost see the dotted lines outlining her absent shape.

Sure, I was pissed off. Distressed at the time and expense of replacement. Sad that people steal, whether from greed or necessity.

But more that that I felt bereft.

Bereft is a very old word. It’s from the Old English beréafian: the prefix “be-” plus réafian, which means to rob, to raid, to carry off, to break a hole in, to pluck. Before that the Old Saxons called it birôƀôn, the Old High Germans biroubôn, the Goths biraubôn, and before that the early Germans said *birauƀôjan.

The word been around as long as loss. After the Vikings or the Ostragoths or the Huns swept through, the survivors huddled beneath their smoking rooftrees, staring at the air filling the space where their goods, or their cattle, or their children had once been. Bereft.

Viewed in that light, this is honestly pretty trivial. It’s just a bicycle. We will not starve in the winter because of a plundered granary or grieve a kidnapped child. This is a middle-class annoyance.

But still—I feel forlorn. Far more, I think, than if I had lost a car (though I hasten to add that I am NOT in any hurry to test this hypothesis).

One friend suggested that putting in maintenance hours on a bike or car makes it dearer to us, but I don’t think that’s the case here. I spent some time getting her set up the way I wanted, but I was never one to lovingly polish the frame or tinker with the gears. I fixed the flats, kept the drive train clean and lubed, and got where I wanted to go.

Others have said I’ve lost a friend, even a part of the family. That’s not right either. She wasn’t a member of the family. She never had a name, though I always thought of her as “she.” She didn’t have a personality. And she wasn’t a friend, though I suppose she was a companion of sorts.

She was a tool, an expression of my will, an extension of my body that moved me through the world. She was part of me.

So now I have an odd version of phantom limb, forgetting she's gone until I am brought up short by the stump where she used to be. There’s an empty spot in the garage. My calendar shows two meetings 3 miles apart and I suddenly realize that no, I can’t just ride between them. I run errands on the battered old hybrid I handed down to Arwulf when she started middle school. It steers like a tank, and there's something seriously amiss with the rear wheel. I hitch along, grumbling and remembering how it used to feel to hit this hill, that curve, the long straightaway down to our corner.

When the time comes (and the insurance comes through) I will go out and find another ride. But I feel the need to memorialize my companion—plucked up, tossed into some raider’s longboat and shipped off to Craigslist or dismantled for parts.

She was a good bike.

I’ll miss her.


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Word of the Week: Incunabula

7/1/2014

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incunabula


\ˌin-kyə-ˈna-byə-lə \
Still on the road this week—Arwulf and I have been visiting college campuses and assorted family members along the East Coast.  
PictureThe big marble box (Photo: Public Domain)
Yesterday we stopped in at Yale, where I showed her several of my former haunts. Most of these were dismissed with a tolerant nod or an eye-roll—until we visited the Beinecke rare book library. This truly remarkable building is essentially a box within a box. The exterior walls are made of thin marble panels that block UV rays but allow some light to filter through. And inside this translucent marble shell is the Holy of Holies: a 6-story glass cube filled with ancient books that seems to float suspended in the space. (In fact, in true sacrosanctal fashion, the glass cube is rigged so that if a fire starts in the stacks the entire space is flooded with halon gas, which will suppress the fire without risking water damage to the books. People in the stacks are advised to get out ASAP if this happens because this system does not care if you live or die. What matters is saving the books.) 

Picture
The Holy of Holies. (Photo credit: Everett Howe)
This is a place filled to the rafters (if it had rafters) with cool stuff. There are Shakespeare Folios, Gutenberg Bibles, Audubon’s Birds of America (the marvelously-named Double Elephant Folio), and countless maps and illuminated manuscripts. And they let grubby undergraduates handle them! (Well, they do encourage you to wash your hands first.)

In fact Beinecke was a major factor in my own decision to go to Yale way back when. (Other key factors: Yale was far away from my home in Los Angeles, and I got in.) Arwulf, who wants to major in history and is deeply interested in medieval studies (and who, like her mother before her, wants to get the hell out of suburban Southern California) beheld these riches, and a gleam appeared in her eye.

The gleam intensified when our guide told us that the Beinecke library is home to a significant percentage of the world’s incunabula. (Though it turns out Harvard has more, ahem.)

I had been vaguely aware that this word had to do with old and rare books. But it actually derives from the Latin word for swaddling clothes--literally, the straps that hold a baby in a cradle (in- plus cūnae, or cradle). So by extension, incunabula refers to the earliest beginnings or first traces of something. Eventually people started using it specifically to refer to the earliest beginnings of print culture; more precisely, to books printed before 1500 and the broad adoption of movable type in Europe. 
Picture
Here's an example from 1499: Copulata super tres libros Aristotelis De anima iuxta doctrinam Thomae de Aquino. It may not be quite as dirty as it sounds. (Image from Wikimedia Commons)
Swaddling has been around a lot longer. It is widely used to calm newborns, and some people recommend keeping it up well into a baby’s first year. Nowadays most people use a blanket of some kind, but classically people used strips of cloth (“swaddling bands”), sometimes for several months, on the theory that restraining a child in this way will help her limbs grow straight and without deformity. (It doesn’t.)

We swaddled Arwulf when she was a tiny infant because it seemed to help her sleep. We called it the Baby Burrito and it was adorable. But soon enough, she grew too active to put up with this treatment and kicked her way out of her wrappings. The waffle-weave blanket we used is still tucked in a drawer, but incredibly, she is about to start her senior year of high school.

There are times I fear she will never be able to live on her own. How on earth could she? She rarely gets out of bed under her own steam; she has been known to skip several meals in a row because she can’t be arsed to get off the computer and look in the fridge; she loses her cell phone in the heaps of laundry piled on the floor of her room. And yet we see the traces of her adult self emerging from the adolescent cocoon: the intellectual fire, the bravery, the focus, the story-teller’s flair.

She gleams as she gazes at the incunabulae: this is her kingdom. She is getting ready to kick through her shell and leave her wrappings behind. Strips of linen heaped on the bedroom floor. 

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Word of the Week: Ungulate

6/9/2014

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ungulate

\ˈəŋ-gyə-lət\
A few days ago I asked a table of friends and family what my next Word of the Week should be. Grimbert piped up: “How about ungulate?” he said.

Ungulate? This was pretty much out of the blue. Why? I asked him.

“Don’t know,” he replied. “It’s just a cool word.”

I am an indulgent parent, so I agreed. Ungulate.

But I have to say my first association with this word was tinged with desperation. When I was a child my family would visit the San Diego zoo on our summer vacation. And every single trip, we would find ourselves marooned mid-afternoon in the farthest, hottest part of the park, trudging past enclosure after enclosure of antelope. I was not impressed then with the majesty of the ungulate. I wanted to sit down. I wanted some shade. If at all possible, I wanted some ice cream. And none of these were forthcoming—only more antelope. Every year we would plan our route to avoid this purgatory: perhaps we could visit the antelope first, on our way to the elephants? Or take a detour by the tigers? Or just hang out all day in the cool darkness of the reptile house?

To no avail. Three o’clock would roll around and there we would be, grumpily contemplating the lesser eland, with miles of baking pathway between us and the nearest lemonade stand. Honestly, if you had asked me then what “ungulates” were, I would have said they are sore-footed, sun-struck misery.

But my beloved son had made a request, so I girded my loins and set forth into the furnace of inquiry! An ungulate is a hairy, hooved land mammal like an antelope, a sheep, or a yak. The term comes from the Latin ungula (hoof), which comes from unguis (nail or claw). These animals run about on their tippy toes, with the weight-bearing toe or toes protected by a hoof—a modified nail that works sort of like a dancer’s toe-shoe, supporting that tiny little bone.

All well and good. But apparently the zoological world has been struggling for some time with what exactly it means to be an ungulate in a taxonomical sense. It seems that when people began making up family trees they started by focusing on how things look. So when they saw creatures with hooves and creatures with “sort of” hooves (like elephants and hyraxes with their big flat nails) they naturally assumed that all of them came from a common ancestor. As a result the category of ungulates got very very large so it could contain all these hooved and sort-of-hooved creatures in one big happy family (well, Order, actually).

Then genetic mapping knocked everything into a cocked hat. Not only did the “sort of” hooved animals come from a completely different branch of the tree from the actually-hooved animals, even the story of the actually-hooved animals proved to be way more complicated than anyone thought. When you look deep into the DNA, it turns out that “even-toed” ungulates like giraffes and hippos are actually more closely related to dolphins than they are to “odd-toed” ungulates like horses and rhinos.  

This is all very peculiar, but that is how science works. I am grateful to the good folks at the Ultimate Ungulate page, which has a great deal more detailed information, plus some really fine pictures of yaks.

The upshot, according to these dedicated zoologists, is that “ungulate” should be considered a descriptive term but not a scientifically definitive one. In other words, an ungulate is a hairy land mammal with hooves. But don’t get all technical about it.
Picture
Image courtesy of www.ultimateungulate.com © Copyright Brent Huffman, 2000
While the Ultimate Ungulate page is unsurpassed when it comes to detail, once again the prize for evocative usage goes to the OED. One of the earlier documented usages of the word comes from Van der Hoorven’s Zoology in 1858:
“Feet tridactylous, with all the toes insistent, ungulate.” 
That is a phrase so gorgeous that even miserable eight-year-old me might have glimmered for an instant on the death march past the dik-diks. I believe it refers to a rhinoceros, which is certainly three-toed, ungulate, and fairly insistent. 
Of course when it comes to insistent tridactylous feet, even a rhinoceros cannot compete with “The Irish Washerwoman” which, if you clicked through on the link at left, is now stuck in your head and will remain so for at least the next 6 hours. (Sorry about that.)  
I am an adult now and I take my own children to the San Diego Zoo. But we have learned from my childhood travails. When we weary of the okapi and the gazelle, we summon the SkyBuckets and are whisked from the antelope mesa back to the lush oasis of the flamingo pond and the slushee vendor. Cooling drinks in hand, we watch the streams of tourists flowing through the gates like migrating wildebeest, yakking away.

Grimbert's right. It's a pretty cool word.
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Election Day

6/5/2014

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PictureBy Cary Bass (Own work), via Wikimedia Commons
For many years we have hosted a polling place in our garage. And for about as many years Everett and (more recently) I have also been serving as Precinct Inspector for good old 110270-Garage-Howe-Residence.

Maybe I watched too much Schoolhouse Rock at an impressionable age, but I find the whole thing almost unbearably touching.

Take the Election Supply Box.

Here we are in a major democracy, the largest economy in the world, a SUPERPOWER. We are going to exercise our most sacred civic responsibility, evoking Lincoln and Jefferson and marble halls and lofty ideals about human equality and the right of self-determination. There are ballots and procedures and safeguards designed to make sure people can vote freely and securely and have their vote count. And that is WAY cool.

But along with the ballots and pens and Official Seals I also get a stapler and a roll of masking tape and a little packet of thumbtacks. Because you also need these things to make democracy work.

A week before Election Day I will be sitting in the midst of the unpacked supply boxes, taking inventory and filling out paperwork, and suddenly I will find myself clutching a packet of thumbtacks and fighting back tears. Because the Big Important Things like how we run our community and the future of our nation depend not only on ballots, but also on tiny mundane things. Like making sure the poll workers have some thumbtacks to post the street index so a campaign volunteer can get out the vote.

And that just about kills me Every Single Time.

So Monday night we prepped the garage as we have so many times before. I pulled out the bikes and assorted impedimenta (I forgot we even HAD a wading pool!). Everett hung up a set of old tablecloths (red white & blue, of course) to conceal the shelves of tools and paper towels and weed killer. I swept up the dust and grit that had accumulated since the last election, dragged in a table, a few chairs, and a lamp, and set up the booths.

We had our thumbtacks.

We were ready for democracy.


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Word of the Week: Mondegreen

5/28/2014

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mondegreen

\ˈmän-də-ˌgrēn\
When I was a kid, my professor parents occasionally hosted potlucks for philosophy department colleagues, staff and graduate students. This being Southern California in the 1970s, a department party involved many hairy bell-bottomed youths lounging around discussing Kierkegaard and smoking cigarettes (and other combustible substances). Someone would invariably contribute a big pot of lentil soup or a cheese-leaden casserole out of the Moosewood Cookbook (I had meant to type “cheese-laden,” but I will let it stand as is). There would be a lumpy and difficult salad involving raw carrots and too many alfalfa sprouts. One of my dad’s colleagues, a great scholar of medieval religious thought, would bring chocolate chip cookies and perhaps a pie. There would be olives and jugs of Gallo wine and by 10 PM all the food would be gone and people would end up in the kitchen scrounging for crackers and sardines and the unshelled peanuts my parents liked to snack on after dinner.

My pre-teen self would wander from room to room, eavesdropping on conversations, looking for attention, and taking in the general dissipation.


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Bike Commuting Tips: Finding Your Route

5/22/2014

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As you may know, because of last week’s wildfires and extreme heat, Bike to Work Day 2014 has been postponed until May 30.

This reprieve is great news for all you procrastinators! Not only will you (with luck) enjoy seasonable temperatures and smoke-free air when Bike to Work Day rolls around, you also get two extra weeks to plan your route and psych yourself up for the big day.

So for all you new riders and shilly-shalliers, here are a few tips on how to choose the right route for an enjoyable commute: 


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Word of the Week: Drought

5/19/2014

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Another seasonally appropriate word this week:
drought
\ˈdrau̇t\

Traveling in the Pacific Northwest a couple of months ago, we were shocked at how profligate people were with water. There was nary a low-flow showerhead in sight. Leaks went unattended for weeks. The city of Portland drained a 93 million gallon reservoir because some kid peed in it! More than once!

We were gobsmacked--these people were acting as if water just falls magically from the sky!

We don’t think that way. We empty our water bottles onto the potted plants. We keep buckets in the tub to collect the running water while the shower heats up. When Grimbert was small, he walked outside one day and discovered that it was raining. He looked up into the sky, puzzled, and said: “Bath?” He didn’t know what it was. We live in a place where a child can learn to walk and talk before ever getting rained on. 

Drought is a word we know well. 

It comes from the Old English drūgað (meaning drought, dryness, or desert) and drūgian, to dry up. Related to the Old English drȳge, or dry. 
Picture
By Famartin (Own work), via Wikimedia Commons
Looking over the OED's usage notes, I was struck that they included a couplet from Tennyson’s 1832 poem “Fatima.” Which is far from dry. In fact it is one of the most fabulous bodice-clutching heavy-breathing poems you are likely to find in any Great Works anthology. 

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Wildfire Diary

5/15/2014

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So Tuesday afternoon I was sitting in a coffee shop, writing and minding my own business, when I got an email from Arwulf: 
“considering del norte is on fire and they evacuated the school and it's like 95 degrees outside and really windy can i have a ride home?”
I’d been under the Cone of Silence* for a few hours so this was startling on a number of levels. I turned my browser back on and found my social media accounts buzzing, and local news feeds awhirl with footage of helicopters and great plumes of smoke and FLAMES. 

The FLAMES in particular got my attention, once I realized that they were very close to my house. Considerably closer, in fact, than I was. Close enough that we had probably better get the hell out.


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