The Draining Lake by Arnaldur Indriðason: A review

The Draining Lake by Arnaldur Indriðason
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I'm glad I stuck with this series of Icelandic mysteries by Arnaldur Indriðason, even though I found the first two entries rather disappointing. This third in the series began to live up to my hopes for it with a dynamic plot and some interesting characters that made me want to know more about them. It also featured a look back at the Cold War of the late 1950s and the constant spying that seems to have been a part of daily life in Eastern European countries of that time.

Once again we meet that morose fellow, the thoroughly uncharismatic Inspector Erlendur of the Reykjavik Police. He's as messed up as ever as he continues to be haunted by the presumed death of his younger brother when they were children. The brother disappeared in a blizzard and was never found. This touchstone event of Erlendur's life has given him an obsession with long-cold missing person cases. In The Draining Lake he has another one.

It begins with a hydrologist checking on a lake. A recent earthquake has opened cracks in the earth's surface and is causing the lake to slowly drain. As the hydrologist checks the current level of the lake, she discovers some human bones. In fact, it is an intact skeleton that had been formerly hidden by the lake's waters. She calls the police, and, even though Erlendur is supposed to be on leave, his boss, knowing of his interest in such cases, contacts him and he is assigned to investigate.

He and his team check out the skeleton which turns out to be tied to an old Soviet radio receiver that had apparently been used to try to spy on an American military base in Iceland. Also, the skeleton had been in the water for decades and is that of a man with a very large hole in its skull. It seems likely that this was a case of murder.

Erlendur's team starts by investigating unsolved missing persons cases from the '50s and slowly Erlendur's attention turns to the possible Soviet or Eastern European connection and the Cold War cloak-and-dagger activities of the period.

The story also unfolds on a second track as Indriðason introduces us to a group of Icelandic students who went to Leipzig, East Germany, to study in the 1950s. They were active socialists and they received funding to attend the university in Leipzig. A central figure of this group was Tomas, a naive and idealistic young man who found himself in above his depth in the police state that was East Germany then. He fell in love with a young Hungarian woman as her country was exploding in resistance against Soviet domination. She was active in resistance in Leipzig and Tomas, completely unknowingly, betrays her to one of the cloak-and-dagger types. She is arrested and never heard from again.

Tomas is expelled and returned to Iceland but he spends the rest of his life trying to find out what happened to the woman he loved and lost.

I found the way that this narrative unfolded intriguing. The two threads, the modern investigation and the backstory of the Icelandic students in Leipzig, intertwined almost seamlessly, a skillful bit of writing.

Also, we get it all in the context of Erlendur's personal life as he continues to struggle with loneliness and his dysfunctional relationships with his two adult children. He still explodes in irrational anger at those children from time to time - after all, he was the adult in the relationship and he was the one who abandoned them - but there are some glimmers of self-awareness, as well. Maybe the relationships are not a lost cause.

There is one bright point in Erlendur's life. He has tentatively - very tentatively - begun a romantic relationship with a woman he met in the last book. Maybe she'll finally be able to break his dour, melancholy shell and let a smile break through. Perhaps we'll find out in the next book in the series, which I now definitely plan to read.





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Unofficial milkweed field trial

Over the past year, there has been a good bit of publicity and discussion in gardening circles about the efficacy of planting tropical milkweed (Asclepias curassavica) in our butterfly gardens as an aid to Monarch and other milkweed butterflies. There has been research that has indicated that this non-native plant might actually be harming these butterflies and urging gardeners to plant native milkweed instead. 

For the past several years, the only milkweed that I had found available in local nurseries was the tropical kind, and so I had planted it in my garden where it has thrived. It lives through the winter here, although it generally dies back to the roots, and I usually cut it back several times during the year. Cutting it back supposedly reduces the toxins which may cause problems for butterflies, and, if it isn't cut back, it gets quite spindly and gangly and not very attractive. But the butterflies seemed to like it. Maybe because there wasn't an alternative for them.

So, I decided to give them an alternative.

After reviewing my options, I decided to order some seeds from Botanical Interests during this past winter. I planted the seeds of butterflyweed (Asclepias tuberosa) and swamp milkweed (Asclepias incarnata) and started the plants under my grow-lights. 

Most of the seeds germinated and the plants thrived, so by late spring, I had two trays of native milkweed to plant in my garden. I put the plants outside for hardening off and planned how I would monitor both these plants and the tropical milkweed, which was already up and blooming, to try to determine if the butterflies actually showed a preference.

It didn't take long to get the first data from my unofficial milkweed field trial. By the time I went to put my native plants into my garden beds, I found that, in spite of the fact that the plants were still small and had no blooms, several of them already had tiny Monarch caterpillars on them! Meanwhile, all the tropical plants were bushy and healthy and blooming and notably caterpillar-free. The Monarchs had spoken loudly and clearly: They preferred the native plants.

And that has continued to be case. Here is a look at some of my plants today.

This is some of my native milkweed. It all looks like this today. Nothing but stems because the leaves have been devoured by several caterpillars. Actually, it has already started coming back because a few days ago it had no leaves at all. If only the butterflies will leave it alone for a while, it will eventually grow back all the way. Maybe it will even get a chance to bloom.

And here is some of the tropical milkweed, healthy and blooming. These last few days, I have noted a few Monarch butterflies visiting these plants. Once again, until the native plants grow back, they have little alternative if they have eggs to lay. 

There are some Monarch eggs scattered about on this plant. I expect to see caterpillars soon.

 

My thoroughly unscientific, anecdotal conclusion is this: Monarch butterflies will lay their eggs on native milkweed plants whenever they have that choice. If they have no choice, they'll settle for the non-native plants.

My advice to gardeners based on my findings is to locate native plants or get the seeds and start your own and plant them in your garden. Your butterflies will thank you. 

Poetry Sunday: Forgetfulness

I love the poetry of Billy Collins, with its down-to-earth wisdom and humor. It speaks to me and always seems to meet me wherever I happen to be in life at the time that I read it.

That's certainly true of this poem which addresses a problem that many of us, especially those of a certain age, have. Billy understands.

Forgetfulness

by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue

or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river

whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those

who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted   

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Anniversary: Who Knows Where the Time Goes?

("This week in birds" will return next Saturday.)

I'm taking a day off from blogging to celebrate my - our - 40th wedding anniversary. 

Even as I type those words they hardly seem possible. Surely June 27, 1975 was only yesterday. All those intervening years have slipped by much too fast and they have changed me in more ways than I can count. Marriage can do that to a person. 

I think that's what Justice Kennedy was getting at yesterday in his summing up of the Supreme Court's majority opinion on the same-sex marriage case. He wrote: "No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were." Truer words were never written.

On this 40th anniversary, I thank my husband for making me "something greater" than I once was. Now, if only he could find a way to slow down the passage of time for me...

The Martian by Andy Weir: A review

The Martian by Andy Weir
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Astronaut Mark Watney is in deep doo-doo. He is alone on Mars, left behind in a storm by his fellow crew-mates, who thought he was dead.

It all happened six days into the Ares 3 mission to Mars. The six team members had landed and set up their base on the planet and were beginning operations when an unexpectedly strong wind and dust storm hit the base and threatened to disable the craft that was their one means of escaping Mars. Their commander ordered an emergency evacuation, but, as they stumbled toward the craft, Watley was hit by an antenna that had been dislodged by the wind. It punctured his life-saving spacesuit, wounding him and knocking his unconscious body a good distance away from the rest of the crew. They immediately began searching for him, but it was hopeless. Visibility was near zero and the wind and flying debris were fierce and unrelenting.

The commander ordered her crew on board the escape vehicle while she continued the search, but soon Mark's smart suit reported his vital signs as "blood pressure - 0; pulse - 0." She had to accept that he was dead and that she would have to leave him behind. They managed to take off and leave the planet only moments before catastrophe.

But Mark wasn't dead. That NASA and JPL-designed life-saving suit had done its job, as had his own body. The coagulating blood from his wound helped to plug the hole. An alarm from the suit finally wakes him - to a world where he is the only inhabitant. An inhabitant whom his home planet believes is dead and who has no means of communicating to them the fact that he isn't.

This book is an absolute joyride from beginning to end. We meet Mark through his personal log entries and learn that he is a botanist and a mechanical engineer. As it turns out, that is a valuable combination for devising his strategy for survival and planning how he will rendezvous with the next Mars mission that will be landing a few years in the future.

But the voice that we hear through those logs is not a dry scientific monologue. Mark Watney is a cheeky, irreverent, almost unbelievably resilient, and very funny guy. His entries are a hoot to read - especially the ones where he takes inventory of what he has left and what the other team members have left behind and realizes that the sole entertainment left to him are bad '70s television and disco music. Plus an e-reader with Agatha Christie mysteries.

He finds that he has all he needs to sustain life, at least for a while, and he has a whole full tool box to assist him in maintaining and modifying equipment. Most importantly, he has duct tape.

Also, I have duct tape, like you buy at a hardware store. Turns out even NASA can't improve on duct tape.

Yes, of course duct tape works in a near-vacuum. Duct tape works anywhere. Duct tape is magic and should be worshiped.

Soon the first-person narrative of Watney shifts to third person when we get to see NASA's point of view. One of their sharp nerds begins noticing unusual details in satellite images from the Mars site. Someone is deliberating rearranging things. That can only mean one thing - Mark Watney is alive.

Things begin to look a little brighter when the ever-resourceful Watney finds a way to communicate. NASA/JPL basically drop everything else to try to find a way to bring him home. Soon that mission becomes a global cause, as other countries offer their assistance.

Meanwhile, Mark's Ares 3 teammates still think he's dead because NASA refuses to tell them he's alive for fear it would distract from their own efforts to get back to Earth.

Weir has written a rousing great tale that is a fun read from beginning to end. He doesn't stint on science and math. His character, Mark, explains all of his actions using the appropriate scientific terminology but he does it in a playful and witty way that never drags.

All of the characters in the book exhibit that sarcastic and rather dark sense of humor that I guess we've sort of come to expect from the NASA characters that we've met in movies over the years. In fact, I saw that someone had called this book the love child of Apollo 13 and Castaway. Not a bad analogy, actually.

The point is, though, that you don't really have to be a big sci-fi fan to enjoy this book. It's just a very well-written and exciting tale. But if you lived through the Apollo missions as I did, or even if you just enjoyed Apollo 13, the movie, you'll find a lot that seems familiar here.

At one point, as Mark tries to steel himself for his next big action on his lonely planet, his log entry reads:

I need to ask myself, 'What would an Apollo astronaut do?' He'd drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

Mark Watney is pretty cool, too.

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The Supremes speak

So, this just happened.

Justices Back Federal Health Care Subsidy - New York Times headline

The Supreme Court has spoken. Does that mean that the opponents of the Affordable Care Act will finally accept reality and beat their swords into plowshares? Not likely. Just read the statements of the Republican candidates for the presidency in response to the decision. They've spent years enflaming their base with hatred for this law. To give up now would be to disappoint that base that the candidates need for a primary win. So, no doubt the fiery, intemperate rhetoric will continue. 

But, for now, the health care of millions of Americans is safe. And that is a good thing.

Backyard Nature Wednesday: Phoenicopterus ruber plasticus

A pair of Phoenicopterus ruber plasticus birds feed among the vines next to my backyard goldfish pond. The Pepto-Bismol colored birds are favorite objects of backyard decoration kitsch among many gardeners, including myself. Every time I sit by my pond, contemplating my garden, and see the flamingos looking back at me with their beady black eyes, they make me smile.

The Phoenicopterus ruber plasticus is a late addition to the planet's fauna. It emerged full-grown from the mind of sculptor Don Featherstone in 1957. He was a recent art-school graduate at the time and, in a tough job market, he took a job with Union Products, a maker of plastic lawn ornaments. It was for them that he created the pink plastic flamingo and as soon as they hit the stores, they started flying off the shelves. The rest, as they say, is history. It has since, as The New York Times wrote recently in their obituary for Mr. Featherstone, "been flaunted in front yards by the millions; feted in films, on television and in song; and held up as an object of impassioned pride and equally impassioned prejudice."

The popularity of the birds must have been a pleasant surprise to Mr. Featherstone and his employers. They had created a cultural phenomenon, and, even in the twenty-first century, it seems in no danger of going on the endangered species list.  And how many people get to say that they have accomplished such a feat in their lives? Mr. Featherstone died last Monday, but his birds live on.

R.I.P. Don Featherstone and thanks for giving us the bird!

 

Original sin, current suffering

Slavery was the original sin of my country. Or maybe it was hypocrisy. After all, a country that, with a straight face, claims to be founded upon the principle that all men are created equal while simultaneously keeping in enslavement a good percentage of the men who live in that country is a country that practices mendacity and dissimulation even in its founding documents. Two hundred and thirty-nine years have, unfortunately, not been sufficient to wipe away the stain of that original sin, the original lie, and we still suffer the consequences of it today.

The acceptance of slavery at the founding of the country has cast a long, long shadow across attitudes toward those who were enslaved and their descendants. It continues to affect our society and our politics in pernicious ways. It has repercussions on how we deal with social inequities and why we have been more reluctant than any other modern Western country to implement policies that would serve to enhance the equality and the quality of life of its citizens. 

I was thinking about this last week as a result of the latest racist atrocity to claim our attention when I came across a posting on Paul Krugman's blog that referenced a paper published by the Brookings Institute that explored why the approach of the United States to assisting its impoverished citizens has been so different from - and so lacking in comparison to - European countries. The title of the paper is "Why Doesn't the United States Have a European-Style Welfare State?" 

The authors conclude that the reasons mostly have to do with our attitudes toward race, which have their basis in that original sin. One quote from their paper summarizes their conclusion:

Racial discord plays a critical role in determining beliefs about the poor. Since racial minorities are highly overrepresented among the poorest Americans, any income-based redistribution measures will redistribute disproportionately to these minorities. Opponents of redistribution in the United States have regularly used race-based rhetoric to resist left-wing policies. Across countries, racial fragmentation is a powerful predictor of redistribution. Within the United States, race is the single most important predictor of support for welfare. America’s troubled race relations are clearly a major reason for the absence of an American welfare state. 

Of course, it doesn't help when one of the major political parties in the country uses this race-based rhetoric to win elections and extend its power. It gives aid and comfort to those who feel the need to keep others powerless and disenfranchised in order to inflate their own feelings of self-worth. It is a malevolent ideology, one that you would hope would have no place in 2015-16 politics. You would hope in vain. 

And so we seem doomed to continue to live under the shadow of this original sin and suffer its consequences - for example, the refusal of some states to implement Medicaid expansion under the Affordable Care Act because it would help too many of the "wrong people." 

And, in some cases, we even seem doomed to live under its odious symbols.

Unless the South Carolina government acts quickly - which seems unlikely - this symbol which inspired the terrorist who murdered nine of its citizens in a Charleston church last week will still be flying at its capitol when one of those victims, a state legislator, lies in state there later this week.

The state flag of Mississippi. I grew up under this flag and never thought about the fact that the Confederate battle flag was a part of it. In fact, I never thought about that flag, period. The United States flag was my flag. Still is. But this symbol is a slap in the face of much of the population of Mississippi. Kudos to the Speaker of the House (a Republican) in Mississippi for recognizing this and calling for this symbol to be removed from the flag. It won't happen tomorrow, but it is a start.  

Several of the formerly slave-holding states allow these images to be put on their license plates. The Supreme Court just ruled that Texas(!) can refuse to allow that flag on their license plates. The governor of Virginia (a Democrat) has now ordered the phasing out of the symbol on that state's license plates.

Will other states take the hint? Time will tell.

The Children Act by Ian McEwan: A review

The Children Act by Ian McEwan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Children Act is a part of the regulations governing the judicial process in family law in the courts of England. Its overarching principle is that judicial decisions should always be in the best interests of the child.

This is the principle which guides the thinking and the acts of Fiona Maye, a High Court judge in London, who presides over family court cases. She is fifty-nine years old and has devoted her life to the law. She has held her position for a long time and is well-respected by her colleagues as being fiercely intelligent and deeply immersed in the nuances of her chosen field of the law, as well as thoroughly dedicated to that well-known overarching principle.

Though a champion on behalf of children's welfare, Fiona has no children of her own. In their busy professional lives, she and her long-time husband, Jack, never had time for them. Jack is an academic, a professor and writer. They have many nieces and nephews to whom they are devoted and who they frequently entertain at their London flat, but they've never had the experience of being responsible for a child's daily care.

As a family court judge, Fiona must be sensitive to cultural mores and religious beliefs in deciding the cases before her. These considerations complicate the actions required of a judge to ensure the child's welfare. And it is such considerations that will cause Fiona anguish in the case which is at the center of The Children Act.

But this isn't a straightforward story about that case. That might qualify as a legal thriller, but this story is much more than that.

As Fiona faces a mind-bending load of cases and is completely absorbed in her work, Jack announces that he is no longer fulfilled in their marriage. He complains that they haven't had sex in seven weeks and a day and that he wants to try to find sexual ecstasy elsewhere. He has a candidate in mind for this adventure, a 28-year-old statistician. He assures Fiona that he hasn't started an affair with the woman...yet. He wants everything to be transparent, out in the open. Fiona is not amenable.

Jack packs a bag and leaves. Fiona is left alone to face perhaps her most difficult case.

A seventeen-year-old boy has contracted leukemia and is in serious condition. His doctors believe they can save him with well-established medical treatment. The problem is that the treatment involves transfusions of blood and the child and his parents are Jehovah's Witnesses. They believe that such transfusions are evil, literally the work of Satan. They have refused the treatment. The hospital has sued to be allowed to go ahead with the prescribed therapy in spite of the family's objections in order to save the child's life.

The controversy, of course, creates a media storm, but Fiona must put all of that and her personal sorrows aside and concentrate upon this complicated case with all of its cultural and religious implications and, referring to the pertinent laws, she must make a decision that will be in the child's best interest. Her decision will likely mean either life or death for a sick boy.

This is a beautifully written, enthralling story about the law and about fascinating, fully-realized characters for whom the reader learns to care. It is ultimately a sad but uplifting story about human possibilities and resilience. In the end, Fiona's life or death decision, which is completely sound and based in law, could be said to lead to both. Perhaps that is the final irony of the tale.

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Poetry Sunday: Those Winter Sundays

Remembering my father, dead now these seventeen years, on this Father's Day.

I grew up in a farm house that had only fireplaces and the kitchen stove for heat in the winter. And those winters could get very cold indeed.

My father always rose early on those cold days and started fires in the fireplaces and the stove to warm the house, and by the time I got up, the house was toasty, proof against the outside chill.

I never thought to thank him for that service or for any of the others that he performed routinely. I took it all for granted, as selfish children do. It was only much later in life that I began to understand some of the sacrifices he had made for me.

Here's a poem by Robert Hayden that commemorates just such a father.   

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden, 1913 - 1980

Sundays too my father got up early 
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 
then with cracked hands that ached 
from labor in the weekday weather made 
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he’d call, 
and slowly I would rise and dress, 
fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

Speaking indifferently to him, 
who had driven out the cold 
and polished my good shoes as well. 
What did I know, what did I know 
of love’s austere and lonely offices? 

                     *~*~*

If you are lucky enough to still have your father with you, remember to thank him this Father's Day and every day for all that he has done for you.

This week in birds - #162

A roundup of the week's news of birds and the environment:

Bad hair day?

Heron and bittern chicks are not the most lovely of creatures, but they are ugly-cute. In their early weeks, they appear gangly and awkward, at first covered by fuzzy down and then transitioning to feathers. This young American Bittern is part-way through his transition and still sporting the fuzzy down on his head.

*~*~*~*

This has been National Pollinator Week and I have been very negligent in not mentioning and celebrating it here on the blog. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has some useful suggestions about how you can help pollinators. The Xerces Society, an organization specifically dedicated to the protection of invertebrates, has even more information. Perhaps the most important thing you can do to help pollinators is to pledge never to use neonicotinoid pesticides in your garden - or indeed pesticides of any kind.  

To partially make up for my negligence, here is a picture of one of my favorite pollinators, a native bee called the large carpenter bee.

Large carpenter bees are pretty common in my yard and they are most welcome.

*~*~*~*

Not specifically news of birds or the environment but a very interesting science story from the world of anthropology this week.

Have you every heard of Kennewick Man? This is a skeleton that was discovered near Kennewick, Washington in 1996. It caused quite a stir at the time. At first, it was thought to be a murder victim, but it soon became apparent that these bones were very, very old. In fact tests showed them to be 8,500 years old. But oddly, there was some question about their origin because the shape of the skull did not appear to be consistent with what was known of the later Native Americans of the area. Some scientists postulated that the skeleton might be European. Meanwhile, Native Americans claimed the skeleton as an ancestor and sought to bury it in accordance with their customs. The tug of war over the skeleton played itself out through the courts and it was left to DNA to determine the truth about its origins. Well, finally this week, we got a definitive answer from geneticists at the University of Copenhagen who stated unequivocally that the bones were most closely related to contemporary Native Americans. The lead author of the study stated that, in fact, the evidence was "bone solid!"

Will that put an end to the controversy? Probably not.

*~*~*~*

The oldest known Bald Eagle in the nation is dead. The dead bird, who was banded and so his age was known, was found this week on a road in Rochester, New York. It was found near the remains of a dead rabbit. Apparently the bird was hit by a car, possibly while feeding on the rabbit. Such car crashes are a major cause of known eagle deaths. 

*~*~*~*

A plant known as the beach rose was introduced to the continent from East Asia in the 1800s and has become naturalized in many areas. It thrives among sand and gravel and sea spray. It is a tough survivor that grows along New York City's shorelines.

*~*~*~*

Many sparrows are difficult to identify, but this is certainly compounded where they occur together and sometimes hybridize. A study finds that Saltmarsh Sparrows and Nelson's Sparrows that occur together along the coastal marshes of New England may actually be impossible to distinguish in the field. 

*~*~*~*

"Bug Eric" explains why there are no "bad bugs." Except maybe mosquitoes. Or ticks. Or fleas. Or...

*~*~*~*

Male birds that do not hold and defend breeding territories can actually promote diversity in that they occasionally mate, as vagrants, with the female birds within territories. 

*~*~*~*

The beautiful Bella Moth is helping to control an invasive plant in Florida, the Crotalaria retusa or rattleweed. 

*~*~*~*

Just in time for Father's Day comes news that male Nightingales are able to tell females what kind of father they would be by the song they sing. Those with a more orderly song that repeats song sequences in a regular pattern make better fathers. They feed their chicks more often. Why is that? Well, I guess that's the subject for the next study.

*~*~*~*

"Laura's Birding Blog" reports on her long-term work (since 1987) in doing a Mourning Dove survey.

*~*~*~*

A new simplified method that can be coordinated across eight agencies offers potential for providing more accurate population estimates of vulnerable shorebirds, including the American Oystercatcher.

*~*~*~*

We've heard and read many sad stories in recent years about the effects of the deadly chytrid fungus on frogs and toads. It has wiped out some species and decimated others. But there may yet be hope. It seems that the way to help our amphibian friends is to save and strengthen the habitats in which they exist. If they have a healthy habitat, they seem more able to survive the fungus. 

*~*~*~*

The Northern Bobwhite population has been in serious decline for years, but it is now getting a boost in some areas from the species responsible for its decline. Humans are reintroducing the birds to some appropriate and prepared habitats and it seems to be going well. Perhaps there is hope for a brighter future for this wonderful little bird, so well-remembered from my childhood.

Way to go, Frankie!

Since his installation as pope, the man known as Francis has been something of a breath of fresh air in a staid and stodgy old institution. Not only that, he has also been an inspiration to non-Catholics and even to non-religious people with his welcoming and non-judgmental attitude. 

Now, with the encyclical entitled "Laudato Si," translated as "Praise Be to You," which was released yesterday, Pope Francis has staunchly aligned himself and the Catholic Church with the overwhelming majority (97%) of climate scientists who firmly place the blame for our rapidly warming climate on human activity and human release of greenhouse gases. He further pointed out that the impoverished people of the world bear a disproportionate burden from the effects of such pollution, whether they live in a rich country or a poor country. Thus, his encyclical can be seen as just one more step in his attempt to refocus his church on the problem of poverty and working to better the lives of the impoverished and downtrodden.

Several commentaries that I have read concerning the encyclical point out that the sections of the document that lay out the facts of ecological problems, including global warming, air and water pollution, the wanton destruction of forests, the wasteful use of resources to name just a few, note that the pope has taken his stand squarely with the mainstream scientific thinking in these areas. That is perhaps not surprising since he was trained as a scientist himself, but how refreshing it is to have a religious leader unequivocally acknowledging the accuracy of science, rather than referring to the Bible as a science book, as so many fundamentalists in this country do. 

While his delineation of the problems we face is careful to stick to scientifically established facts, the encyclical also reveals the strong emotions of the man regarding what he - and I - see as desecration of the earth. He writes, in part, "The earth, our home, is beginning to look more and more like an immense pile of filth. In many parts of the planet, the elderly lament that once beautiful landscapes are now covered with rubbish." 

The question is, will his emotional response to humanity's treating our only home in the universe as a garbage dump have an impact on people, maybe even the politicians who have been bought by the oil companies? Will it finally move them to action? The hard lesson that scientists have learned in recent years is that laying out the facts won't do it. Perhaps an emotional appeal from the pope will. One can hope.

*~*~*~*

My Catholic daughter sent me a translation of the prayer that was included as part of the encyclical. I think it is something that most of us who love Mother Earth, regardless of our religious beliefs, can subscribe to.

A Prayer for Our Earth All-powerful God, you are present in the whole universe and in the smallest of your creatures. You embrace with your tenderness all that exists. Pour out upon us the power of your love that we may protect life and beauty. Fill us with peace that we may live as brothers and sisters, harming no one. O God of the poor, help us to rescue the abandoned and forgotten of this earth, so precious in your eyes. Bring healing to our lives, that we may protect the world and not prey on it, that we may sow beauty, not pollution or destruction. Touch the hearts of those who look only for gain at the expense of the poor and the earth. Teach us to discover the worth of each thing, to be filled with awe and contemplation, to recognize that we are profoundly united with every creature as we journey towards your infinite light. We thank you for being with us each day. Encourage us, we pray, in our struggle for justice, love and peace.

     

Voices by Arnaldur Indriðason: A review

Voices by Arnaldur Indriðason
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I've read two earlier books in Indriðason's Inspector Erlendur of Reykjavik series and found them intriguing, if uneven. I was interested to continue with the series and see how it develops, but this third book in the series to be translated into English did not show much development at all. Indeed, the recurring characters all seem to have reached a point of stasis.

Inspector Erlendur mopes and dwells upon the dark side of life. He is haunted by the death of his eight-year-old brother in a blizzard when he (Erlendur) was ten. He blames himself and cannot forgive himself and it makes him angry and unable to relate to other people. Including his two grown children.

We again meet his daughter, Eva Lind, who survived the trauma she suffered in the last book when she lost her baby and almost died herself. She is miserable and trying to stay straight and clean of drugs, but it seems to be a losing battle. She is very angry with her father but still seems drawn to him.

Erlendur's two colleagues with whom he works closely seem to have fairly normal lives and try to reach out to Erlendur and offer him some solace, realizing how very alone he is, but he rejects their efforts. Of course.

In this book, Erlendur meets a woman who stirs his interest and he invites her for a meal, but the man is hopeless! He is so socially inept that he cannot even begin to carry on a normal conversation. I see no future in this relationship.

So, no, not a lot of development of characters here.

The story is that a hotel doorman/handyman/Santa has been found murdered in his basement room at the hotel. He was stabbed multiple times and found on his bed with his Santa pants down around his ankles and a condom hanging from his penis. A lover's tryst gone wrong, perhaps?

The investigation reveals that this sad victim had once been a child prodigy, a boy soprano with the voice of an angel. He had even made a couple of records which are now highly prized by collectors of such items. Then his voice changed, his career was over, and he slipped into anonymity.

Inexplicably, Erlendur decides to move into the hotel for the duration of the investigation - maybe because he can't face going home to his lonely apartment. Not that the cold, spare room he is given at the hotel seems any great improvement.

Most of the action of the novel takes place at the hotel as Erlendur and his colleagues investigate hotel staff and guests. This soon gives the novel a decidedly claustrophobic feel - not in a good way at all.  

Once again, we meet a collection of Reykjavik's underclass of prostitutes and drug addicts, a world with which Erlendur's daughter is very familiar, but in the end the solution to the mystery is found there at that claustrophobic hotel.

Indriðason's writing shows promise and his characters seem to have plenty of room to grow. I keep hoping that the next book of his that I read will live up to the promise and perhaps begin to show that growth which I expect. It didn't happen with this entry. Still, I don't think I'm quite ready to give up on the series yet.

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Backyard Nature Wednesday: Swamp hibiscus

Swamp hibiscus, Hibiscus coccineus, is a native plant that occurs naturally throughout much of the South in swamps, marshes, and ditches. It often grows along southern rivers and streams, towering above other plants there. Established plants can grow up to 7 feet tall and occasionally even taller. It is a shrubby herbaceous perennial that dies back in winter and re-sprouts, putting up multiple stems, in the spring.

The flowers from this shrub can be 6-8 inches across. They have five petals and each blossom only lasts a day, but the shrub continues to produce new flowers throughout the summer and fall.

Because of the resemblance of the flower to the five-pointed star that is the symbol of Texas, in this state the plant generally goes by the name of Texas Star, but it has several others. Swamp hibiscus is the name by which it is most familiarly known throughout most of its range. It is also called scarlet rose mallow or scarlet hibiscus.

These last two names refer, of course, to the red variety of the plant, which is the most common, but there is also a white variety, Hibiscus coccineus 'Alba.'   

Hibiscus coccineus 'Alba'

I have both the red and the white varieties in my garden, but only the white, shown above, is blooming so far. My red plants got pruned back by some helpers that I had in my garden a few weeks ago, so it is going to be a while before they produce blooms. 

When the red ones do bloom, this is what they look like. This is a bloom from last year.

The leaves of the swamp hibiscus are divided like the fingers on a hand into 3-7 narrow, pointed, serrated lobes. The leaves, in fact, bear a close resemblance to another popular shrub, Cannabis sativa, the source of marijuana. This can sometimes cause people with some familiarity with cannabis but none with the hibiscus plant to do a double take, but once the plant starts putting out its enormous blooms, it can no longer be mistaken for anything else.

The Horse You Came In On by Martha Grimes: A review

The Horse You Came in On by Martha Grimes
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

"Prose seems to be falling off just a bit," said Jury..."Definitely fallen off," said Jury, yawning.

Yes, even Superintendent Richard Jury seems to acknowledge it in this Martha Grimes cozy mystery. The prose has definitely fallen off. Fallen off a cliff, in fact.

When I commit to reading a book, I stick with it to the very end. Even when I find myself skimming rapidly over sections of it because the writing is so bad. That certainly happened with this book. Frankly, it was one of those times when I seriously considered breaking my rule and quitting the book halfway or three-quarters of the way through, but I did persevere and managed to make it through to the bitter end. I deserve a medal for that.

What was Grimes thinking? What was she hoping to accomplish with this convoluted story? It has so many plots and counterplots that it is impossible to keep them all straight. Indeed, they are all so uninteresting that there is no incentive for trying to keep them all straight. I write this as one who has pretty much enjoyed the Inspector/Superintendent Richard Justice series up until now - some books more than others certainly - but it pains me to say that this one is a real stinker.

The book starts in England, with Justice growing increasingly restive in his position and considering a move out of London, possibly to one of the provinces. He's considering where there are job openings, where he might like to work, and who he might like to work with. Macalvie, maybe?

But then the story moves off on a tangent.

The nephew of a titled lady has been killed in Philadelphia and Justice is persuaded to cross the ocean and liaise with the Philadelphia police to investigate. Since he is currently on leave, he is able to accomplish this, but he also decides to take Sgt. Wiggins along with him "on holiday" because, after all, who is Justice without Wiggins?

And who is Justice without Melrose Plant?

Fortuitously, Melrose receives a call from an American friend, living in Baltimore, teaching at Johns Hopkins. A student of hers has recently been murdered on January 19, Edgar Allen Poe's birthday, near Poe's grave. The student had recently "found" a previously unknown manuscript in a trunk that was allegedly written by Poe. For some reason, this professor needs Melrose Plant's support, so, of course, he decides to hop on the plane with Justice and Wiggins and travel to America.

Most of the action takes place in Baltimore and it involves a lot of talk about spurious documents, Poe, plagiarism, genealogy and the transmission of peerage titles down through the generations, and whether or not Baltimore will get a new football franchise since the Colts have absconded. (This book was published in 1993.) Camden Yards, the beautiful and at that time new, baseball park also comes in for a fair amount of discussion and a visit by Justice.

Most agonizingly, much of our heroes' time in Baltimore is spent reading aloud from the "Poe manuscript" and more from the plagiarized writings of Melrose's friend. It is all truly awful.

Do you get the feeling that this is all just a hopeless mish-mash, a word soup with very little spice or flavoring? Well, that about sums it up, I think. Very disappointing.

I have the next two Richard Justice mysteries still in my reading queue on my Kindle and I guess I will read them - because that's what I do. But I'm going to give myself a break from Grimes for a while and hope that she had returned to her earlier, crisper writing with the next one.



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Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day - June 2015

The color of my June garden is orange. After two months of almost daily rains here in Southeast Texas, June dawned bright and dry and it has stayed that way for the first two weeks of the month. Only today and for the next several days do we have the promise of rain once again. And about time, too! Things had gotten quite dry here. They will tend to do that with the sun shining down daily and heating things up to the mid-90s Fahrenheit for a couple of weeks.   

Joining our parade of orange are the daylilies, of course.

Including the old "ditch lilies" that I brought home from my mother's garden long ago.

The firecracker fern is heating up and putting out sparkles, getting ready for the Fourth of July.

Justicia 'Orange Flame' is beginning to burn as well. 

The patio table planter holds red-orange wax begonias.

And in the wildflower garden, blanketflowers are blooming.

The cosmos adds its orange blooms to the mix.

By the fence, these old cannas have been in bloom for a while. Soon they'll be sending up new blooms and starting the cycle over again. 

This crocosmia scape is nearing the end of its bloom.

The milkweed is blooming. This is tropical milkweed. Earlier this year, I planted native milkweed of the swamp and the tuberosa varieties. Neither has bloomed yet but that hasn't stopped them from attracting Monarchs. The butterflies have found them and laid eggs on their leaves. 

These marigolds reseeded themselves from last year and are happily blooming their little hearts out.

Even the insects are orange! Here is a ladybug on my passion vine.

There have been a number of orange Monarchs through the garden recently.

Of course, there are the orange Gulf Fritillaries.

And the Gulf Fritillaries-to-be, also orange, are munching their way to butterfly-hood on the passion vines.

 

What color is your garden this month? Whatever the color, I hope it is one that pleases you on this June Bloom Day. 

You can explore the colors of other gardens through links at May Dreams Gardens, our host for this monthly garden party.

Happy Bloom Day!