SmokeSound

Dorling Kindersley, via Getty Images One in three Americans does not believe in evolution!  That is what the Pew Research Center reports. The article should have said that one in three Americans is invincibly ignorant.  Ignorant!  It is like saying you do not believe that the sun is hot, or that water is wet.  It is like saying, right out loud in front of people who can hear you, that earthquakes do not exist, or that it is not cold in Antarctica or hot in the Sahara. Of course the denial of evolution rests on religious grounds. Actually, it does not rest on religious grounds:  it rests on the back of the great turtle that holds up the earth so that it does not sink into the sea.  It is Turtle Talk.  The earth is flat. The next time you hear someone say that the earth was created by an Old Man about 6,000 years ago, remind yourself that the earth is about 800 million times older than that, and that the Big Bang which, so far as we can understand it, is three times older th

I think I shall call it a creekbed.  That is a bit like calling The Santa Cruz River through town a river, but now and then water runs in both of them, usually at about the same time. When we have our monsoon seasons-- that  is a bit like calling Noah's flood earth-large, and his ark an actual boat--water does course down through our back yard.  And it does so at a pretty good rate, too!  Our creekbed is the deepest part of the sheet of water that comes down off the hill and through our fence, headed down to the Santa Cruz.  In fact, every once in a dubiously wonderful while, it pours down, flooding great parts of the desert floor, and the arroyos become rather fearsome beasts. But mostly, our creekbed is a dry and needle-gagged reminder that there is water on the earth, here and there, now and then, and that hope endures. I have a garden-wagon load of needles and mesquite pods, and someday soon, when Jao is here and the javelinas are not here--they are not to be mingle

It is four AM.  I have been up for two hours; first, because I listen politely to the Call of Nature, and second, because I have a bottle of pills that are supposed to discourage coughing.  Almost every winter I get some so-far harmless, dread disease that makes me cough until the doctor says, "Take this:  it is an antibiotic, or a placebo, or something you could buy really cheaply if you weren't so gullible." Then it occurred to me that I had a ham bone in the freezer, left over from Christmas Eve, so I chopped and wilted a red onion and put it in a pot with the ham bone, in anticipation of adding the pot of beans, already soaking in their own pot, sometime tomorrow. The best part of these darkened adventures is that the house is really quiet.  It is not silent, but it is quiet.  Perhaps even better is that I have a goofy, long-handled wooden spoon of sorts, with a bowl like a small lemon, that is wonderful for tasting things.  The wood bowl does not burn the lips

Signs That Something is Terribly Wrong: We keep electing people to governmental positions who despise government, and want to drown it in a bathtub.  To despise government is to despise our identity as a nation, and as a people.  It is beyond even a cowboy attitude.  It is to hate living where you can see smoke from your neighbor's chimney, because you do not want a neighbor.  OK, educate your own kids, take out your own appendix and, in the evenings, after milking the goats, find a cure for cancer!  If your neighbor, who is bigger, stronger, meaner, and smarter than you are, decides to use you for target practice, move to Alberta!   We are still fighting the Civil War.  The Civil War wasn't about grits and cracklings.  It was about slavery and racism.  When the Civil War ended, racism had to find a new face.  It became racial suppression, racial scorn, and economic advantage.  It became poll taxes, and separate bathrooms, and White-Only restaurants and privileges.  W

Do you know how to say, "blåskjell"?  OK.  Can you say, "mussel"? Mari and I have spent the evening remembering our trip up the coast of Norway, and back south, again, when we stopped in Tromsø, both there and return, and stayed overnight, in order to have mussels at a restaurant on the waterfront.  Oh, god, what lovely evenings!  Not alone for the mussels, but for the people whom we had never met before who said, "Hei!", and who toasted us with raised glasses and direct gazes, because we loved beer and blåskjell almost as much as they did, and because they lived above the Arctic Circle, especially in wintertime, and who felt sad for people who did not know what it was like to live precariously, and who knew when the light came at midnight that it was a celebration. We live now in a desert, far from those northern lights, but tonight, with a kilo of mussels cooked in a cataplana, not because it was required but because we had one--Thank you, Portu

They play two games at a time on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. One is played out on the field, wearing gloves, and everything.  The other is played by the Bucket Brigade, over by the dugout. The TOTs play year-around.  When it gets really hot in the summer, they start earlier, and when it gets brutally cold, as it is now, Jim, the Scorekeeper, and other leather-bottomed guys, line up on buckets next to Jim out in the sun, and play the Other Game. "Did you call that a fielders' choice on the ball I hit to the second baseman when he fell down and threw the ball to the left fielder?" "How can you say I struck out when the ball was so far outside that the catcher missed it?  I don't care what the ump said!" "How can you call that an error on me?  I never touched the ball!  It went between my legs, for Pete's sake!" "How many outs are there, Jim?  Four, again?" The game on the field is often interesting and exciting.  A

His name is Jao Nathaniel Jao Montri Hubbard And he comes to our house A time or two a week So his Dad can go to work He cannot walk, Jao cannot So he runs as if pursued By a notion that the earth is large And that something is newer Than he knows, not yet What he does not know Is that it is he who is new And shall be newer still If he does not overrun it He looks at himself As we see him: something shiny Scrubbed and glad for life When he laughs at belching fish And foxes in the snow It is all new, a hummingbird A cow, a bath, a belly button Come on, Jao, we say Let's get the morning paper And he runs because He has not learned to walk Not yet

That's what happen when you start every pot of soup with one diced onion. There is no point in making a fractional soup:  half an onion, three-quarters of a carrot, maybe one parsnipette. . . . Winter demands soup.  Summer can get by on a salad or a sandwich, but winter, even in Tucson, requires a pot of soup. The whole problem is that there are only two of us.  The other part of the problem is that the refrigerator is not amenable to a large pot of soup.  Life was simpler in Minnesota.  In winter--that is to say, in months that are not spelled "July" or "August"--I just put the soup pot out on the north deck.  The lid snapped into place as if it were frozen there, the pot scrunched itself up around the contents, and the whole pot welded itself to the snow-covered deck.  When I wanted soup, all I had to do was find the crow bar, and bring the pot in for thawing. There is a 9,000 foot mountain defining the north edge of Tucson, but the truth is that freezi

Long ago and far away--perhaps in Middle Earth, perhaps in California, perhaps both--it was my turn to wrestle all week with what to say on Sunday morning.  The text was the story of Jacob wrestling all night with God, or an angel--perhaps both--at the River Jabbok. Jacob was a scoundrel almost on a par with his two-time father-in-law.  They took turns cheating each other.  Jacob and the angel, or Jacob and God, or maybe just Jacob wrestling with Jacob, fought all night.  And I was supposed to tell the story to a little congregation of Lutherans meeting in a Gold Rush days' Presbyterian Church building.  We rented it.  The Presbyterians had taken their gold dust and built a fine new church in a better part of town. The question I wrestled with was not so much the story of Jacob wrestling God to a standstill, but of my own wrestling match. I was a newly-minted pastor.  I knew almost nothing, except what I had been taught.  And what I had been taught was filled with Turtle T

This is not me, although it might have been, once upon a time. Friends and relatives:  this is where Mari and I lived for ten years recently.  And, for the same reason, that is why I almost thanking God for being back in Tucson, again.  (My hesitation is not about Tucson, but about God.)  But it is brutal here, too.  (You know what happens when global warming kicks in:  it gets colder here and there!)  And it is down to 55 degrees, or so, here in the Land of . . .  in the Land of Jesus-it-is-Cold! I have found a sweater, made in Norway, which I bought in Evanston, Illinois, while I was attending the University of Chicago; probably about in 1967 or 1968, after having spent a year in Germany, which also made a trip to Norway possible.  If you add a huge rock to the photo, above, as a kind of symbol of what Norway is, you will know what it is like to live in Minnesota when summer ends and Siberia swoops south. Dan and Ellie live in Minneapolis, now, and they are probably thinkin

An L. Kate Deal illustration Maybe because it is the holiday season, I noticed that someone was arguing for "the Christian attitude" toward animals. Maybe because I taught in a church college for such a long time, I thought of all those arguments about whether or not there is "a Christian perspective" on what a college should be, or whether the president of the college, or the faculty, or the students, or the mathematics curriculum should be "Christian". I cannot recall whether it was Reinhold Niebuhr or his brother, Richard, who said that whatever particular case one tried to make about something being "Christian", the strongest argument one could make was that there would be some Christians who agreed.  And, or course, that probably even more would disagree. There isn't "a Christian point of view".  There are a hundred or a thousand Christian points of view.  I suspect that in Tulsa, or Amarillo, or Lynchburg there will

"What is your inner animal?" That is what the article in Dagbladet (a Norwegian newspaper) asked.  As I was a little curious about that myself, I took the test, and the answer came back:   "Yey! Du ble en kul, søt og snill ulv!" I am a cool, sweet, well-behaved wolf!   I was pleased.  I fully expected it to discover that I was an old turkey, or maybe just an old dog.  That's what Clark Mallam used to say when we met:  "Conrad, you old dawg, you!" And that , I remind you, was a long time ago.  Per calls me, "Gamle Ørn":  old eagle.  The eagle part is an honorific, to be ignored.  The emphasis, almost everywhere, is on the "old" part:  old turkey, old dawg, old eagle.  But I know better, now.  I am an endangered specie. The danger has quite a lot to do with the old part. Were the truth to be told--And why should it be?--I am a domesticated wolf; otherwise known as a dog.  Clark was right.   I hate these moments of self

The Milky Way--the galaxy we are a part of--takes about 225 million years to make a single rotation.  The last time our solar system was in about the "same place", there were dinosaurs on earth.  In a similar way, we rotate about our sun.  We call that a year.  So earth has rotated about the sun 225 million times since the age of dinosaurs. I can't handle that. This is what I can handle:  since the year 0--about the time Jesus was born and Hector was a pup--earth has rotated about the sun almost 2014 times.  Almost.  I can recall, as a school child, calculating that if I lived to be "three score and ten" (three twenties and a ten), it would be the year 2001.  It hardly seemed possible.  The year 2000 seemed as far away as the south pole!  It was like . . . like the age of the dinosaurs.  Something incredibly distant.  And now we are about to begin the year 2014!  (I am a very old turkey!) Sometimes, when the night is long and I do not sleep, I imagine th

I have decided to tell people that the scar on my cheek is a shrapnel wound from World War I.  I really wanted to say that it is the result of a dueling wound, but nobody seems inclined to think that I attended a German University before World War I, or that I have ever been interested in defending my honor, particularly with a sword. The scar is, as I mentioned before, where the dermatologist excavated my cheek to rid me of a basal cell carcinoma.  That is not "basil" cell, although I wish it were.  Today I had about thirty stitches removed, along with about forty hairs from my beard, which I had not been allowed to shave while the incision healed: collateral damage. Ed asked what the bandage was all about.  I told him.  Ed has a serious case of cancer.  "Basal cell," he said.  "That is the good kind of cancer." I had not imagined that I would ever hear those words.