House, July 23, 2021

This morning while walking the dogs along Arroyo Aduana we came upon this assortment of materials resembling a house. My first thought was that someone had found a perfectly useful but abandoned door and decided it wanted a home of its own. Surrounding the door are all the necessities and amenities of a shelter – a portal, a plastic bench to sit on in the shade, an adobe brick hornilla for cooking, a roof covered in plastic to withstand more or less the rain, and a beautiful view of the mountains. The house itself, constructed of plywood or cardboard, is puzzling, barely big enough for a cot and, yikes, no windows. There are those among us who would nitpick about the lack of running water, electricity, and bathroom. For me, it is the absence of windows. On our summer nights, when the temperature drops only a bit, that box will be an oven. 

The piles of red dirt around the house are an indication of the primary utility of Arroyo Aduana for many in the community. Along most of its banks are aggregate pits where individuals and public works employees come to mine sand, gravel, and rock for construction projects. To my knowledge there are no regulations regarding the extraction of these materials or if there are they are not enforced. From the perspective of the arroyo’s hydrology and the lifeforms it supports, the relentless excavation, removal, and redistribution of aggregate is something of a disaster but of little concern to most people in these parts.

It may be this is a worker’s shack for taking lunch breaks or a shelter for a velador – a night watchman. The latter is really a wild guess. It is hard to imagine there are aggregate poachers who abscond with sand or gravel under cover of darkness. We will be in Alamos for many months, and we go to this stretch of Aduana Arroyo often enough that at some point maybe we will encounter a person at the shack and ascertain its purpose and something about its tenant.

I resist assigning a station to this dwelling or to whomever built it. I will never call this the house of a poor person without a great deal of knowledge about who constructed it and why. That information can be very hard to come by much less decode. In my opinion, interlopers from vastly different classes and cultures who come to Mexico, especially to its rural areas and small towns, have a predisposition to assume a dwelling like this bespeaks poverty. That reflex is rude and insulting and reveals more about the interloper than the builder and occupant.

The day before we came upon this house on our arroyo walk, a friend had come to our place with a chainsaw to cut down a large mesquite tree that had fallen over. He cut the trunk and larger limbs into useful lengths, and David made a pile of the branches for another friend to haul to the city dump. Of course we salvaged the trunk and larger limbs for leña – firewood – which we use in our chimineas to inefficiently provide warmth on our portal and in our house in winter or for the frivolous purpose of firepits to sit around with ourselves and friends. But we already have enough leña on hand. David had the obvious and generous idea to give most of the firewood to our neighbors Chapo and Yobarda. Their daily life revolves around leña. Yobarda does all the cooking over a fire, including her handmade nixtamal corn tortillas. 

They came with wheelbarrows to cart off the firewood. It was an animated scene of laughter between neighbors who share a bond beyond language. In the midst of this I noticed Yobarda’s attention was on the big pile of branches. That biomass, which for me was detritus to haul off, was a gold mine of twigs she could use for kindling. I see Yobarda from time to time searching along the Aduana Arroyo that runs behind our houses – a few miles downstream on the same arroyo where the mysterious box house stands – looking for limbs and branches to disassemble for kindling. When folks around here aren’t extracting aggregate from the arroyos, they are dumping garbage and other stuff in them, like bald tires, deconstructed building materials known as escombro, and yard and landscaping waste of the sort Yobarda recycles to start her cook fires. 

David helped her and Chapo drag the branches back to their compound. A few days later, when I was passing by, I noticed the limbs had been deconstructed and artfully arranged into a sculpture of sticks and twigs. 

The mysterious structure on the arroyo and the neighborly transfer of leña are testaments not just to a necessity but to an enduring disposition to recycle and repair, which runs deep in Mexican culture even as as it transitions into a first-world country. I am a poor re-user of materials. In my comfortable life I have never been incentivized to repurpose goods or objects, and, out of sheer laziness and lack of curiosity, I never acquired the skills to build or repair anything. In a way I am helpless, and this is an embarrassment to me. It is a form of poverty, my scarcity of imagination, and one of many reasons I am reluctant to judge the ostensible poverty of others. 

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1:07 PM, May 25, 2021

George Floyd’s Cloud, 1:07 PM, May 25, 2021, Pike Township, Minnesota
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Madam Secretary Bluebird

Eastern Bluebird, Sialia sialis, photo by David F. Smith

“The ideas of economists and philosophers, both when they are right and when they are wrong, are more powerful than is commonly understood. Indeed the world is ruled by little else.”

John Maynard Keynes

In 2014 Nick Lemann contacted me about a profile he was writing about Janet Yellen for the New Yorker. He had a brilliant idea. In his essay, he wanted to assign bird names to Janet Yellen and other prominent economists, including her Nobel laureate husband, George Akerlof. 

Two birds are used to describe the monetary policies of economists, especially central bankers who have great power over the lives of ordinary people. Hawks tend favor high interest rates in order to keep inflation low. Doves favor monetary policies like low interest rates and quantitative easing that tend to grow the economy and stimulate job growth. 

Oddly, the hawk-dove generalization persists, even though, as numerous observers have argued, the labeling is oversimplified to the point of being meaningless. One proof being that an individual economist can shift from hawk to dove depending on circumstances. Yellen is mostly a dove, but she has and could be again a hawk. Better that each economist have his or her own bird name, based on background, economic philosophy, individual inherent traits, public persona (bombastic, arrogant, measured, modest), what they like to do in their spare time, and morphology (short, tall, thin, plump).

I never specifically discussed with Nick what prompted his idea. As is often the case when colleagues, even ones who’ve not spoken to each other in decades, toss around an idea, I just “got it.” I was immediately on board with his idea. 

Nick knew I knew something about giving people bird names. I am the Brown Pelican, and around the Texas Monthly office, where Nick and I overlapped in the 1980s, my coworkers referred to me, amusedly, as such. I am part of a clan of birders who received bird names 50 years ago from the esteemed Texas birdwatcher and mentor of young birders Edgar B. Kincaid, Jr. After he died in 1985, his mentees carried on the tradition. 

I spent a several hours over a couple of days reading about Yellen and her fellow economists and coming up with bird names for them. Jizz is the term birders use to identify a species by its general appearance and behavior – by the vibe the bird gives off. Jizz birding is a skill acquired with experience. The same concept applies to assigning bird names to humans. I compiled and sent to Nick a chart documenting the bird names for his list of economists and my jizz reasoning behind each. My selections were spot on – not that anyone but I would care.

I named Yellen the Bluebird. Specifically, the Eastern Bluebird, Sialia sialis. She strikes me as a quintessential East Coaster, born in Brooklyn, educated at Brown University and Yale. Yes, she was on the faculty at the University of California, Berkeley for years, where she is now Professor Emerita. So? I still identify as a Texan, even though I left Texas almost 40 years ago. 

Bluebirds, among American birds, enjoy broad popularity. So does Yellen. In these deeply entrenched and contentious times, she was approved by the Senate as Secretary of the Treasury by a wide bipartisan margin (84-15), an even wider margin than when she was approved as Chair of the Federal Reserve in 2014 (59-34). 

Yellen’s behavior, as manifested in her monetary policy, reminds me of a Bluebird. She is calm, steady, thoughtful, companionable. I love the fact that she lunched in the employees’ cafeteria when she was Chair of the Fed. 

Bluebirds, though often described as sweet, are fiercely protective of their territories. I believe in her unruffled way Yellen fiercely defends her economic principles. 

Her lovely, lilting, calming voice is reminiscent of the Eastern Bluebird’s song. 

She frequently wears blue. 

Bottom line: Janet Yellen looks like an Eastern Bluebird.


On July 11, 2014, I received a brief email from Nick that read, “Remnick killed all the bird names. Sorry.” 

I was not really surprised. As much as I loved Nick’s idea – and still think all these years later the concept could have had traction – I knew it would be a hard sell to a boss who “didn’t get it.”  

I gained a bit of knowledge about economic policy and the economists who hold sway over our lives. I follow news of the economy and economic policy with greater attention and from time to time I read enlightening books about those subjects (e.g., Robert Kuttner’s 2018 book Can Democracy Survive Global Capitalism). And, in the end, I was amply rewarded. In the print edition of Nick’s article, the spot illustrations – one of the wonderful hallmarks of the New Yorker for many of us – were of Bluebirds. 

Nick’s profile, “The Hand on the Lever,” appeared in the July 21, 2014, issue of the New Yorker. With Janet Yellen the first woman – not to mention bluebird – to hold the position of U.S. Secretary of the Treasury, his piece is a must-read. 

Addendum: “Your Economics-Birds Quiz”

Recently, I was reading a fascinating article in The Atlantic about the constitutional case for gun control, in which the authors mentioned the work of the late Yale law professor Robert Cover. One of his overarching legal principals is the importance of narrative in the context of law. (They write in the article, “According to Cover, narrative is what gives law moral authority, what imbues it with the power not to compel mere obedience, but to embody the legitimate choices of those it governs.”) In a far less weighty realm of thought, Robert Cover is renowned for an op-ed piece he wrote in the New York Timeson April 5, 1979, called “Your Law-Baseball Quiz” in which he challenged readers, in a multiple-choice test, to pair the correct Major League baseball player with one of four U.S. Supreme Court Justice, based on the way the player played ball and the Justice adjudicated law. 

To honor a legal scholar who died too young, and to perpetuate Nick’s great idea, if only for my amusement and perhaps that of a few fellow birders, here is your “Economics-Birds Quiz.” Depending on reader demand, I may or may not provide the correct answers in a subsequent post. 

1. John Maynard Keynes (1883-1946)

(a) Dunnock

(b) Jack Snipe

(c) Merlin

(d) European Shag

2. Milton Friedman (1912-2006)

(a) Hoary Redpoll

(b) Turkey Vulture

(c) Brewer’s Sparrow

(d) Kingbird

3. Alan Greenspan (1926-)

(a) Pied-billed Grebe

(b) Gray Catbird

(c) Swainson’s Thrush

(d) Sooty Shearwater

4. Paul Volcker (1927-)

(a) American Coot

(b) Dunlin

(c) Yellow-billed Cuckoo

(d) Great Blue Heron

5. Joseph Stiglitz (1943-)

(a) Magnificent Frigatebird 

(b) Yelllow-rumped Warbler

(c) Bobolink

(d) Royal Tern

6. Ben Bernanke (1953-)

(a) Willet 

(b) White-breasted Nuthatch

(c) Pomarine Jaeger

(d) Chimney Swift

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Another Bottle

I have carried this fragment by Austin poet David Moorman around for forty years. From Texas to Minnesota to Tennessee to Nebraska to Arizona back to Minnesota where it now hangs on my refrigerator. The poem and I have weathered together. And I am still bringing another bottle up the stairs.

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The Place Memory of Small Things

The nights afterwards in this place were not bad like the first one, because I then had my bearings. All my senses had touched the objects about me. But it was lying in that smothering dark and not knowing what was near me – what I might touch if I reached out a hand – that made the first night so horrible.

Emily Carr, from her memoir Klee Wyck (1941)

Life is not some high pursuit of truth and beauty. It is remembering where you put something. I call this the place memory of small things. This memory functions only in coordination with proprioception – the sensory system in muscles, joints, and tendons that tells your body where it is in space and in relation to other objects. It’s not enough to remember where you left something. Your body has to then figure out how to move through space to find it. Proprioception helps you find things. It also keeps you from falling off cliffs.

I love the word. It sounds like a dance I am doing when I am looking for the turmeric I thought I left in the spice drawer only to twirl and find it on the kitchen counter.

Once your body has put something down or found its way to some destination and your brain remembers this information, your body, as a general rule and until systems start failing, will find the object or get you where you want to be, again and again and again. Decades can go by, and place memory for small things will help you find something you left in a box in the basement.

And all the searching occurs in the background, quietly, hundreds, if not thousands, of times a day. This graceful and barely acknowledged fluidity of moving through space looking for small things all day frees up the mind so that it seems as if all our cognitive energy is focused on the search for truth and beauty. Or perhaps on some other human pursuit such as happiness, kinship, kindness, righteousness, gratification, jealousy, malice, revenge, or mischief.

I don’t much like the dark. It is a serious impediment when wayfinding or searching for objects. Canadian artist and writer Emily Carr captured my aversion. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, she was an intrepid explorer of the First Nations lands of British Columbia catching rides on fishing boats and other watercraft, a female traveling solo except for a canine companion, usually a small Griffon. Her description of the utter darkness of her first night in the Nisga’a village of Laxgalt’ap (known also as Greenville) is testament to my dread of losing my bearings.

About ten years ago I spent a few weeks interviewing physiatrists and physical and occupational therapists for a project I was working on for Mayo Clinic. This is when I began my wonderment for the place memory of small things. People who work in the field of physical medicine and rehabilitation (PM&R) spend their careers helping people find things and to move their bodies through space after strokes, brain injuries, broken bones, joint replacements, a sports injury, as a consequence of aging, or because of Parkinson’s or other movement disorders.

People choose a career path for a lot of different reasons, some fall into a job and others have a passion. I could be wrong but it seems to me that PM&R providers fall on the passion end of the spectrum.

One thing for sure, they are always talking fervently about ADLs, among themselves or to their patients. Activities of Daily Living. Yes, that is what we do, performing ADLs over and over. Brushing teeth. Opening a cabinet. Putting on socks. Finding where we put binoculars and picking them up. Lifting a cast iron skillet. Weeding the garden. Finding the keys to put in the ignition. Finding the car where we parked it. Hugging people we love. Climbing a ladder. Bending down. Not falling down. (Try to make a list of the ADLs you perform in one day. Ha!)

It is unfortunate, I think, that ADLs is a dull acronym for our dance through life to get somewhere or to find something we need or want or someone we love.

I am writing this before I can’t find it.

Barring a swifter demise (heart attack, fatal car accident, stage 4 cancer), it is likely the dance will start to lose precision or momentum or both. There are of course those anomalous persons whose search abilities – memory coupled with proprioception – never wane until their curtain goes down. Consider the years of repetitive searches, calling on the brain to set the body in motion. It does begin to sound exhausting. When I was a Hospice volunteer, my privilege was often to sit with a person at end of life while his or her caregiver could run errands and take a break. Most often that person was sleeping. I have no medical ground to back up my conjecture, but I came to the conclusion that the elders in my charge were simply tired of looking for things. If nothing else, it is valuable advice to self. There comes a time to lie down and stop searching.

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