A Brief Introduction
Yes, I’ve become one of those people. I now have a newsletter.
The name of this newsletter is borrowed from a collection of Auberon Waugh’s essays in the London Evening Standard. The essays in Waugh’s Country Topics were written “to show urban society what it looks like from [his] distant rural perspective - and thus, perhaps, to illuminate a neglected corner of social history.” As Waugh says,
Few of the excitements of politics or world affairs reach the countryside, but their reverberations are sometimes felt… the country does not exist in isolation; however unwillingly, it is part of the huge panorama of modern life.
It is Waugh’s contention that the main problem of country life is boredom. In my experience, this is not the case. One can be just as bored in a sprawling metropolis as one can be in the boondocks. To quote the late Barry White, it “ain't what you got, babe, it's how you use it.” For those who can only sustain the will to live when they are surrounded by ceaseless “attractions,” the country will destroy them. For those of us who can find the same amount of pleasure in a raindrop as city dwellers do in a three-day food festival, the country will never cease to disappoint.
The world has, much to my regret, changed a fair amount since Country Topics appeared in 1974. Cities have grown larger, rural communities have shrunk, and this “digital age” has forced us to acknowledge the world out there. Unless one is intent on dying alone in an abandoned bus like the Into the Wild guy, there is no escape. Besides, unless one is the protagonist of a Hermann Hesse novel, such extravagant journeys of “self-discovery” usually end in the realization that things aren’t so bad after all. So, if it’s a choice between dying a grizzly death in the middle of nowhere or coming to grips with the fact I’m in the middle of somewhere, I choose the latter.
With this in mind, I’ve decided to start a newsletter offering a view from the country, featuring books, birds, weather, and other oddities. This may all end in shame and misery, but maybe, like Waugh’s Country Topics, it will cast a light on a neglected perspective. We only hear about the country when a tornado touches down or someone gives opioids a whirl. It is time for that to change.
The War on Squirrels: Is Victory in Sight?
Of all the animals that visit my garden, only the squirrels cause me trouble. Birds, rabbits, raccoons, and voles usually behave themselves, and what little trouble they cause seems more like a reminder from God about the nature of good and evil than an act of wanton vandalism. To quote the Book of Amos, “the manifold transgressions and mighty sins” of the squirrel are a constant source of misery. They dig up the peas, chew down the corn, hollow out the pumpkins, chase away the birds, shit in the birdbath, eat too much birdseed, and fight each other for no intelligible reason. As they grow more accustom to humans, they become more brazen.
The other morning, I was having a chat with a female duck. Let’s call her Sheila. Sheila was busy feasting on the empty sunflower seed shells the other animals leave behind. Sheila is our cleaning service. I was crouched beside her whispering encouraging slogans and trying to interest her in some dry corn, when I heard the sound of a squirrel bearing down on me. For reasons I cannot explain, I turned ‘round and hissed at the squirrel, as though I were divinely guided to do so. The squirrel ran away so fast. Perhaps my hiss sounded like that of snake. (Are squirrels even afraid of snakes?) I noticed that Sheila and the two sparrows perched above me on a branch were not the slightest bit agitated by my hissing.
Later in the day, I encountered another squirrel. This one was harassing a Mourning Dove for reasons that remain occult. From a fair distance, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet away, I hissed at the squirrel. The first hiss stopped him cold, the second hiss made him retreat about ten feet, and the third hiss sent him flying beyond my field of vision. The Mourning Dove, who is a member of a remarkably cowardly species, did not mind the hissing a bit, seizing the opportunity to snack on some crumbs.
Hissing, for whatever reason, frightens squirrels and no one else. The problem, of course, is that one cannot sit around all day hissing at squirrels. Thanks to Charlotte Mandell (@avecsesdoigts), a solution may be at hand. For the last couple days, she has been locked in a violent struggle with squirrels trying to enter her gazebo via the holes in the screen.
When I saw that she had plugged the hole with an umbrella, I mentioned my hissing method and its drawbacks, to which Charlotte offered a novel solution:
I’ve asked Charlotte to keep me updated. If this works, I might just have to dig out my old iPod Touch and the corresponding speaker system.
(Also, keep an eye out this fall for Criminal Child - Selected Essays by Jean Genet, which features Charlotte’s translation of Genet's essay "The Studio of Alberto Giacometti.")
Russians in the Bronx
While we chase down squirrels, journalists chase down Russians. It seems that in our respective enterprises we have made some unexpected discoveries.
An (obviously) doctored video of Nancy Pelosi purporting to show her drunk has made the rounds on the internet, in no small part because the President of the United States felt the need to retweet it.
The Daily Beast sent a reporter to hunt down the Russian responsible and found something a little different:
The debate has now shifted from how quickly the “Drunk Pelosi” video will bring down the Republic to the ethics of doxing a forklift operator from the Bronx who made a video some do not like.
Sam Stein, also of the Daily Beast, had this to say:
“It’s that this story shows disinformation isn’t the purview of Russia alone.” Imagine thinking this is some great discovery! If I were of this view, I’d never leave my bed. And people say those of us in the country live in bubbles!
The most ridiculous thing about Russian interference is the claim they invented lying, that prior to the 2016 election no one told anything remotely approaching a fib. Even if someone, in their darkest moments, harboured the desire to lie, they simply did not know how. Then, suddenly, a group of Russian scientists discovered how to make intentionally false statements, and, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, they led us down the path of unrighteousness.
I may eat my words when Russian paratroopers overrun my vegetable garden and install a puppet government run by squirrels, but the only real damage Russian interference has done is to the reputation of journalism. Most of that damage is, of course, self-inflicted.
A Curious Find
A sure sign of summer is the return of the yard sale. With old people downsizing to the condo or the grave, churches in need of money, and young couples in need of space, the yard sale is a simple way of discarding with what one no longer has any use for.
This past Saturday, I went to a sale in an old stone building. I was greeted at the steps by an elderly woman, who could not have been more than four feet tall. She led me in by the arm to the front room where books were piled on a card table, with a few more lurking behind on the mantle of a shuttered fireplace. I swept up 14 books, including one called The World Conquerors - The Real War Criminals by Louis Marschalko. I’d never seen the book before but the title amused me. When books are 25 cents, it’s easy to buy a book solely on the basis that it looks a bit funny.
When I got home, I noticed that the back cover had an advertisement for The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, with “confirmation from a Jew” that the book was authentic. A quick skim through The World Conquerors confirmed my suspicion that the so-called “real war criminals” are the Jews.
There is nothing redeeming or particularly interesting in this anti-Semitic screed, though I am curious about how this book ended up on a table full of relatively “normal” books. The woman I met did not strike me as anti-Semitic. Though I suppose babbling about a Jewish plot to take over the world is not the sort of thing that sells books and empty jerry cans on a sunny Saturday morning.
As you can see from the pictures, the book has enjoyed better days, with the spine held together with Scotch Tape. Whether this is the result of heavy usage or disgust, I cannot say.
The Kyds R Awl Wright
A study claims almost 80 percent of South African children ages 9 to 10 “cannot read and understand sentences in any language.” It’s easy to wag one’s finger at these far-flung lands, but I suspect we’d find similar results if we did a proper survey of “developed” countries as well. Out here in the country, our modest library focuses its efforts on dispensing geometric shapes from its 3-D printer. The space devoted to books shrinks a little more each year, like it’s tied to the rate of continental drift and then some.
I’ve long argued that reading and writing should be optional in school. They are skills that most people simply have no use for. If our efforts were focused on those who showed an interest in reading and writing, we’d all be better for it.
Rude Haikus
To round out this inaugural newsletter, let’s talk about bawdy haikus. Before I began The Penguin Book of Haiku this past weekend, I was under the misapprehension that haikus could not be rude, that to insert profanity or any sexual references would be an abuse of the form. Judging by the reviews on GoodReads, I am not the only one taken aback, with many people condemning this collection for being “pornographic.” Let’s look at a couple:
If one is expecting profound little nuggets about the way the dew rests on the grass, one might be a bit surprised by all the jacking off. But anyone who considers these haikus to be “pornographic” has never seen any pornography, at least none produced in the last hundred years. Just plop the word “porn” into your search engine of choice and you’ll find things that would make the Marquis De Sade blush. At least that’s what I read in the papers.
My favourite haiku of the bunch is not the least bit pornographic and it is on that note that I shall conclude this week’s newsletter: