Two weeks ago I wrote about critters…deer, a woodchuck, others who invaded my yard when I lived in Iowa. So I was delighted when Joe Queenan’s piece appeared in the WSJ: The Ultimate Insult: Ghosted by Deer…ghosted meaning, the deer simply vanished! Queenan writes that for most home owners deer are a nuisance. “You would wake up in the morning and find your flower bed had been destroyed–that deer had eaten your recently planted garden, and thus gardeners began to purchase only cultivars that deer hate. Queenan thought that possibly coyotes were rampaging in the neighborhood. He, his neighbors began to miss the deer, especially the fawns and their spindly legs.
But then being a writer with a great imagination, Queenan came to believe that the disappearance of the deer had nothing to do with predators. Instead, he decided the deer were GHOSTING US. Why? Because they didn’t gradually disappear over time. NO. “They literally vanished overnight.” And Queenan is not relating their disappearance to the wide use of Liquid Fence. He writes: the deer have simply packed their bags and high-tailed it out of here, making the landscape seem immediately less bucolic.
Are the deer saying as they loped away: “You don’t want us here? Fine. We’ll ghost you. See how you like them apples.”
But then Queenan makes a more serious point: “I do not view being ghosted by deer as any great tragedy, but I am starting to worry that other creatures great and small may be ghosting us as well. Cardinals don’t seem to come around anymore.” (NOTE: I just had a beautiful singer in my apple tree.) “Humming birds have been giving the house a wide birth. Skunks and possums have joined their invisible confederates.” (I agree, I rarely see them, only occasionaly come upon their scat.) Queenan concludes: “Which leaves us stuck mostly with dyspeptic crows and rabid raccoons. Ugh.”
So over to you, Dear Reader…have you witnessed animal ghosting in your NECK OF THE WOODS?
DYLAN THOMAS
You don’t have to be an English teacher or even a poetry reader to be wonderfully surprised when you come upon a poem, song lyrics or any work of art that you had forgotten about. For me, and just today, it was the poetry of Dylan Thomas. He was referred to as a tortured poet in an article, of all things, about a now famous singer: Taylor Swift Isn’t a Tortured Poet.
I had not thought of Thomas for years and immediately did a search. Wow, the gems I found. First: Do Not Go Gentle…then Fern Hill….Have you ever wanted to be prince or princess of the APPLE TOWNS?
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(Some speculate that his father introduced Dylan to poetry and thus this is a recording of Dylan’s feelings about his father.)
I also love FERN HILL, and am sharing it here.
Please give it a look….you who are writers: this is a poem about MEMORY, about LOVE FOR ONE’S LIFE. A MASTERPIECE.
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace; Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
6 Responses
The world we live in is increasingly unfriendly to critters.
Hi Carol, you make an important point. So how do you deal with critters in the yards of your two homes?
Or maybe you don’t have any critters. We really don’t have any in Chicago. In Iowa, as I wrote, the deer were everywhere and
we never did anything to harm them. They were just a nuisance. They looked in my window while I was writing! True story.
Birds have their own place, but a nest of critters under your porch means destruction. We tried to keep them at a distance.
In Chicago, John feeds the birds every day. Birds are easy.
I enjoy sharing my yard with the critters and absolutely swoon when I spot the deer on the hill, the family of turkeys trotting to the pond, or the blue heron standing on one leg motionless, waiting for the perfect moment to nab breakfast.
So happy that you love your critters. After a time, I made peace with mine. They learned to avoid
my hostas and there were plenty of other goodies to munch on….like the woods behind us.
Deer aren’t ghosting anyone living in the countryside areas of my county. Also I saw a deer the other day in the woods along a highway we travel frequently. Perhaps the deer feel the people in the Southern Tier of New York are – more welcoming? Or perhaps fewer bears than some other places (although we do have bears here). Dylan Thomas is almost unknown to me, but I have read Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. I think it speaks to all of us, Fern Hill, I have to admit it will take some work to understand it.
Yes, I think deer can communicate as to where they are safe? Of the writer needs a POST article when the deer return, LOL. As for fern hill, think of it as lyrics to a song. He isn’t creating complete sentences, but poetry, images of his life…things he wants to remember. If I took a list of images, I might start with apple trees, green grass, lilacs and pools of water under my tree…just images of my life that I link together. If you tried it, you would be creating poetry. Hugs, Beth