February 10, 2019

The snow is blowing sideways on Boom Island in the Heartland. It looks like Marge Gunderson is going to announce her candidacy for president. No, no—it’s Senator Amy Klobuchar. There she is stepping out of the stratus clouds, coming barely into focus, dusted in snow. Yes, Klobuchar is going to run for president. She could not have picked a better place or better weather. On the Mississippi River in a blizzard! What a beautiful day, as we say in Minnesota.

Posted in The Amy Diaries | 1 Comment

Tláloc at work, Tláloc in repose

Thunderhead over Lerma Marsh, March 6, 2018.

If I were inclined to believe in a deity, it would be Tláloc, the Aztec god in charge of making it rain. To call him the Rain God, however, is to oversimplify the manifestations and metaphors of his godly responsibilities and of water itself. Tláloc has many names. In Náhuatl Tláloc means el néctar de la tierra. By virtue of his rainmaking role, Tláloc was, and perhaps in some quarters still is, venerated as dador de vida—giver of life. By virtue of the destructive potential of water or the lack thereof, Tláloc can bring on tempests, floods, hail, blizzards, hurricanes, and drought. He can give and take away.

Just to be clear, I am not a theist or a polytheist, but I am romanced by the imagery and poetry swirling around Tláloc, and I hold in high regard the power of water.

Last spring, Tláloc was at work, drumming thunder and throwing lightning bolts across the dark skies over the Lerma Marshes in the Valley of Toluca about 50 miles southwest of Mexico City. We were with several long-time birding friends on a standard birders’ pilgrimage—looking for a bird threatened with extinction in the last remnants of a largely destroyed landscape. It is a pastime fraught with despair.

Looking for the black-polled yellowthroat at Lerma Marsh while thunderstorm approaches.

The black-polled yellowthroat is a small, secretive warbler now confined to five wetlands in central western Mexico. The Lerma River, the second longest in Mexico, originates at about 9,800 feet on the Mexican Plateau and flows 470 miles to Lake Chapala, Mexico’s largest lake, near Guadalajara. Its once vast marshes have been cleared for agriculture and drained for crop irrigation and urban water. In a recent article about the yellowthroat’s current distribution, population, and prognosis, the authors estimate the remaining habitat where it is found is 23,462 acres. By comparison, the metropolitan area of nearby Mexico City is 366,952 acres. The authors call for urgent action if the little bird is to survive—for instance, protecting and restoring some portion of what remains of the marshes, stopping illegal burning and harvesting of aquatic plants—none of which in my humble and pessimistic opinion is likely to happen.

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A black-polled yellowthroat seen briefly in its thicket of reeds in Lerma Marsh. Photo by David F. Smith.

It is a beautiful sprite of a bird with a jet-black mask and lemon-yellow breast, and we had no trouble seeing a few. We tricked them by playing a recording of the male’s song. Thinking their territory was being invaded, they popped into view here and there in the marsh to defend their turf. The God of Technology—probably not a term that translates easily into Náhuatl—is in the birder’s pocket. I cannot speak for my companions, but seeing the yellowthroat so easily and so well produced a certain euphoria in me that dampened if only briefly the true state of its peril.

On the horizon, a fire burns in the marsh.

Eight months later, we were in Mexico City. We joined five friends, all birders and lovers of nature, two of whom had been with us at the Lerma Marshes. This was a trip about museums, markets, eating, walking, watching people, talking to merchants and waiters and taxi drivers, and marveling that the largest metropolis in the Western Hemisphere—with 21.2 million inhabitants—can function with such friendliness, politeness, good humor, sophistication, and the veneer of efficiency. We make no claims that this urban swirl is sustainable and we are not stupid. There is great socioeconomic disparity in Mexico City, as in all countries and vast metropolises. Unequal Scenes is a project that documents inequity around the world using drones, https://unequalscenes.com/mexico-city-df.

On our last day in Mexico City, on the recommendation of Jeffrey Banister, a social scientist at the University of Arizona, we visited the Cárcamo de Dolores, a municipal pumping station in Chapultepec Park that has transported water from the Lerma River to Mexico City since the 1950s. Here we encountered Tláloc lying on his back, arms and legs outstretched, eyes to the sky, two ears of corn in his right hand. I wondered, is Tláloc just taking a nap or is Tláloc dead? Is this his bed or his sepulcher?

Tláloc in repose at Cárcamo de Dolores in front of the temple structure housing the waterworks. The orange barricades and empty reflecting pool–the watery bed Diego Rivera designed for Tláloc–were the only disconcerting notes in an otherwise beautiful place.

In the 1940s, Mexico City’s exploding population was creating an urban water crisis (even though the capital built on a spongy marsh experiences regular flooding). Officials embarked on an engineering project to construct 40 miles of aqueducts and 26 tunnels to bring a regular supply of water from the Lerma River to the city.

Mexico holds dear the profession of civil engineering. There are six engineers honored in the Rotunda of Illustrious People in the city’s Dolores Cemetery. Perhaps this veneration relates to the importance of large infrastructure projects in Mexico’s rapid transition from a third- to first-world country; perhaps it is because Mexico has long cherished the pyramids, temples, cities, and ceremonial centers built by its pre-Colombian civilizations. In this spirit, Ricardo Rivas—the architect of the Lerma pumping station, which resembles a Greco-Roman temple—set out to commemorate the engineering feat of his colleague Eduardo Molina, the civil engineer and Director of Water for the Federal District who designed the water transport system, as well as the 39 workers who died during the nine years it took to complete.

Rivera’s mural of the project engineers.

Rivas commissioned the famous artist and muralist Diego Rivera to create works of art in and around the pumping station to celebrate water. At the entrance, Rivera created the giant recumbent figure of Tláloc in a reflecting pool. Undergoing repairs to fix damage from the September 2017 earthquake, the pool was unfortunately empty on the day we visited, leaving Tláloc forlornly high and dry. Inside the pumping station on the walls of the gigantic tunnel that sluiced water into the city, Rivera painted vibrant murals that portray in gorgeous, fantastical images the role of water in the origin and evolutionary development of life, including the origin of Homo sapiens. Rivera based much of the imagery on the scientific theories of the Soviet scientist Alexander I. Oparin, a proponent of the primordial soup theory of evolution of life from carbon-based molecules. That Tláloc and Oparin inhabit the same art stage is proof of Rivera’s extraordinary gift for uniting myth and science as if the two were not at odds.

Tláloc’s foot.

Corn in Tláloc’s right hand.

The incoming tunnel once submerged in water coming from the Rio Lerma.

Two-thirds of Rivera’s murals would be submerged for 40 years. In 1990, the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes embarked on a decade-long project to restore the murals before they were totally erased by the rushing water and to open the pumping station as the public museum it so richly deserved to be. Underground tunnels were constructed to reroute the Rio Lerma water from the pumping station. Visitors can now stand and peer into the cavernous maw covered with Rivera’s amazing murals. In 2010, additional renovations began that included remedying what was lost in the renovation of the murals—the reverberations of water. Mexican artist Ariel Guzik designed a remarkable computerized mathematical system to replace the sound of water called the Cámara Lambdoma. Four outdoor sensors detect wind speed, seismic vibrations, angle of sun, and ambient temperature to activate a series of computer signals that in turn trigger organ pipes playing ever-changing murmurations.

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The organ pipes of the Cámara Lambdoma.

Details of Rivera’s murals on walls of the waterworks.

Water as giver of life.

The origins and evolution of life.

The Cárcamo, with the ethereal music of the Cámara Lambdoma, is a jewel, one of the most beautiful and haunting spaces I’ve ever visited. Fifty miles to the southwest, black-polled yellowthroats, jewels of the Lerma Marshes, flitted in the cattails of their ever-shrinking waterscape. Here we were standing in an exquisite place that celebrates nature while at the same time destroying it. And I am left with a question. Can art take the place of nature?

Here’s the sound of water on an irrigation canal on the Rio Mayo, December 28, 2018. 
Jeffrey Banister has written about the capture of water in “Deluges of Grandeur: Water, Territory, and Power on Northwest Mexico’s Rio May, 1880-1910,” Southwest Center and School of Geography and Development, University of Arizona. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Mexico

July 7, 2016

I took this photo of fourteen exuberant young people in eye-popping attire on July 7, 2016, two days after the end of Ramadan, at the entrance to Sepilok Rainforest Discovery Center near the town of Sandakan, which is in Sabah, one of two Malaysian states in Borneo, the third-largest island in the world. That is a lot of information for readers in the Western world, but it is important, in many ways, for me to establish the date and place. Malaysia is a multi-faith country with about 60 percent of its 32 million constituents practicing Islam. It is the first Muslim country I have visited.

We had come to Borneo to watch birds, many of them as exotic and eye-popping as this flock of kids, as well as primates and other mammals, and to be in forests with lizards, snakes, insects, orchids, fungi, the largest flower in the world, and some of the tallest trees on the planet. Borneo is a mega-diverse island, contains 20 percent of the world’s animal species. I will never forget the first Orang Utan I saw. We came back home dizzy with indelible experiences of the natural world and the rich and complex human culture.

A photo is a frozen moment in time, simple as that. But a photo also has context. Its moment stands in a continuum of present, past, future.

The photo’s present: While we were in Malaysia, details were emerging that then Prime Minister Najib Razak was busily looting and laundering money from a public investment fund he himself established to promote economic development. The sum was estimated to be $3.5 billion, millions of dollars of which he parked in the United States.

The photo’s most recent past: What is now called Malaysia became its own country in 1963 after centuries of domination by Portugal, the Dutch, and the British Empire. Global trade defines human history and human behavior. Malaysia is a federal constitutional monarchy with a government system based on Westminster parliamentary protocol. Malaysia has a robust economy—one of the best in Asia since its independence—and it strongly subsidizes free public education and free access to healthcare.

The photo’s recent future: Donald Trump was elected president in November 2016, four months after I took the picture. A week after his inauguration in January 2017, Trump announced his travel ban on seven predominantly Muslim counties. Malaysia was not among them. In September 2017, as the U.S. Justice Department was investigating Najib Razak, Trump welcomed the Prime Minister to the White House and thanked him for “all the investments you have made in the United States.” In May 2018, caught up in his scandal, Razak was roundly defeated in the general election by a 92-year-old former political leader Mahathir Mohamad. In September 2018, a year after Razak was Trump’s guest at the White House, he was arrested on corruption charges and is awaiting trial.

I keep the photo of the Malaysian kids on my desk. All their youthful beauty, energy, and goofiness make me smile. Yes, a moment in time. But the longer the photo sits on my desk, the more I dwell on what has happened in my country and on the global stage since that moment. I see my photo as a metaphor of the multiple intertwined universes we live in. There is my universe where my fellow travelers and I merely want to be good citizens with rewarding work, educational opportunities, access to decent health care, occasions to have fun and be silly, the comfort of kinship, family, and friends. Then there is another universe where power corrupts and where this corrupted power can take down democracies, rob public coffers, build walls, start wars, divide races, ignite genocide, turn up the heat on climate change, bring on global economic disruption. In short, blow my universe to hell and back.

When I saw the kids hanging out, waiting to get their tickets to enter the rainforest, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I wanted to capture their radiance. I had just arrived in Borneo and did not know the customs for taking photos of people in a predominately Muslim culture. I took a chance, walked tentatively over, and asked if I could take a picture—English is the second language in Malaysia. It was as if they were just waiting for me to ask. They immediately choreographed themselves, striking poses, making hip hand gestures, laughing and smiling the whole time. Well, it was actually a short time, less than a minute. They went their way, and I went mine with my husband, off with our friends to watch more birds.

I will never see these kids again. I will never know where life takes them—or rather, where they take life. To a person, they are beautiful and lithe. The scourge of snacks and fast foods, so rampant in my country, has not taken hold among the people we encountered in Borneo. Their clothes and accessories are all over the global map—traditional Asia Islamic fashion, Westernized sunglasses, a shoulder bag, wristwatches, a fanny pack, headgear ranging from a hijab to a pork pie hat. The guy kneeling in the center has a flower tucked in his right ear. I have so many questions I wish I could have asked them. Maybe there is a future despot among them. But I am going to imagine, if only for my own peace of mind, that they will make their way in the universe of good citizenship, rewarding work, abundant learning, good health, fun and silliness, kinship, family, and friends.

 

 

Posted in Borneo

Cluck, Cluck

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My first flock in Mesa, Arizona. When we sold our house in 2008 and moved to Minnesota, the sales contract stipulated that the hens would convey with the house. The purchaser, a young woman, was happy to have my hens.

I purchased my first batch of chicks on January 20, 2000, from Murray McMurray Hatchery, a wonderful purveyor of heritage poultry breeds based in Iowa. This for me was a promising way to launch the new millennium. The chicks arrived via U.S. Postal Service in a little cheeping box on February 21. I still thrill to get the phone call from a postal worker saying my chicks are ready for pick up.

We were living in Mesa, Arizona, a city founded by Mormons whose culture of practicality and self-sufficiency is reflected in city ordinances allowing homeowners to raise poultry and small livestock. We had a few neighbors who kept pigs, goats, and sheep. Backyard chickens are becoming more common across urban America. For example, since 2012 the Silicon Tour de Coop has sponsored a free, self-guided bike tour of chicken coops (and beehives and hoop houses) for a day in September around the Bay Area of San Francisco. The Food Policy Council of San Antonio sponsored its first chicken coop tour this spring. I am all for trends that inspire people to keep poultry and raise the food they eat. I’ve just always been grateful to have settled among Mormons who were more than a century ahead of this curve.

The purpose of this new endeavor was to have a handy source of eggs, but I quickly realized that hens, beyond producing daily orbs of protein, give their caretakers so much more in the realms of entertainment and unadulterated joy. Nothing calms me so thoroughly as looking out my kitchen window and watching hens grazing in the yard. And no object is so perfectly formed and so comforting to hold as an egg.

Chickens also teach their owners about the folly of attaching too much affection to what are essentially feathered dinosaurs, although I haven’t entirely learned that lesson. Chickens provide blunt instruction in dealing with mortality. We, by which I mean my husband, David, have euthanized chickens with fatal disease or birth defects, but more often we have lost chickens to predators—foxes, coyotes, hawks, or rogue dogs.

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Standard Bronze Turkey, a member of one of two flocks of heritage turkeys we raised on our farm in Embarrass

With the exception of a period in 2008, when we left Arizona and moved to our 80-acre farm in Minnesota, I have never been without a flock of chickens. Since moving to our place in the country, we have raised other poultry besides egg-layers. We often raise meat chickens (their lesson: never give names to creatures you are going to butcher). For two years, we raised heritage-breed turkeys. Yes, with the intent of eating them. They were a fabulously entertaining addition to our yard of free-range fowl. Great ambassadors, they would rush up our driveway gobbling and flapping their wings when we returned home or when friends dropped in to visit (some were a little panicked by the turkeys’ raucous greeting). Turkeys like music and mine would gather by a window if music was on the radio or I was practicing my accordion. One day they seemed particularly animated when they heard “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Turkeys are very hard not to get attached to and hence hard to dispatch.

One summer we had four runner ducks, which we acquired from Murray McMurray after seeing some the previous summer in the Poultry Barn at the Minnesota State Fair. We got them not just for their large, delicious eggs but because they are sleek, beautiful, and hilarious. On hindsight, it was a selfish indulgence on our part, because runner ducks are not acclimated to the sub-zero temperatures of northern Minnesota and they did not survive the winter. I have always felt guilty about the unintentional death sentence we inflicted on them and I sometimes imagine living somewhere like Oklahoma where having runner ducks would again be possible.

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Our much-beloved runner ducks

I make no apologies for the fact that I give names to my egg-laying hens. I named my first birds in Mesa for women in my sphere I admired. Almost twenty years on, I’ve forgotten what some of those names were, but I well remember Bertha and Lucille, who I named after the Aunt and Mother of my mentor in Texas Edgar B. Kincaid, Jr. When we moved to Minnesota, my friend and neighbor Chuck Neil gave me a gift certificate for five chicks to start up my new flock. I named these girls after famous women chefs and cookbook writers—Julia Child, Marcella Hazan, Diana Kennedy, Alice Waters, and Lisa Yockelson. Julia, as I will elaborate, went on to brief stardom on Minnesota Public Radio.

As an experiment, I decided not to name the hens in my current flock, acquired as chicks in 2015. I have found having nameless hens takes some of the fun and intimacy out of the experience. So I will likely start naming the chicks I purchased this summer to replenish my flock. One already has a name—bestowed by a six-year-old who was visiting our farm with his parents and siblings. Kids, as a rule, love chickens. We were in the poultry room looking at the chicks, one of which is not afraid to be picked up. So my little friend was holding her, and I said, “Let’s give her a name. What do you suggest?” “Brave,” he replied, without blinking an eye. So now I have the first named hen in my newest flock.

I don’t have the interest or patience to train my chickens (I have an amazing friend who does), but I do attempt to get my hens to habituate to me, so they come when I call and so they don’t mind being picked up. This training, such as it is, helps me manage my girls, for instance when I want to herd them into the coop when we are leaving the farm for the evening and won’t be back until after dark when predators are on the prowl. They come running when I call “Girlies, girlies, girlies!” in a loud falsetto voice while proffering a plastic scoop of hen scratch to reward their obedience. So I can say most of my hens tolerate me, but in every one of my flocks, there are one or two who simply stand out, who have an uncanny ability to relate to Homo sapiens, who possess an effervescent je ne sais quoi of hen-ness. Three of my feathered dinosaurs have been particularly dear to my heart. Lucille, Dixie, and Julia.

Lucille was a Rhode Island Red in my first flock. This American breed, developed in the late 19th century, is much beloved among poultry owners. The hens are a rich, silky mahogany color and are prolific egg layers. Individuals often have great personalities. Chickens, for good reason, tend to be skittish and on guard for any sign of predatory behavior. Lucille was confident, curious, and confiding. She would jump in my lap when I was sitting outdoors and nestle down contentedly. If David or I were stooping to pull a weed or pick up something on the ground, she would often jump on board and sidle up to a shoulder as we stood up. She occasionally flew up and perched on David’s head. In Mesa, with its almost year-round balmy temperatures, we kept our back door open. It was not unusual for a hen to wander into the house occasionally. This habit bothered us not at all. David grew up in a cotton-farming family in the Mississippi Delta and had lived in rural Liberia when he was in the Peace Corps and I had traveled a lot in rural Mexico—all cultures where chickens are part of community and home life.

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Lucille of the Pillow Eggs

One day I found an egg in our bed. Our bedroom was in the far corner of the house, so whoever laid the egg had walked in the back door, through the den and kitchen, and down a long hallway to lay this egg. We soon discovered it was Lucille. Finding a hen in our bed—as if that were the most normal of events—was one of the pinnacles of my life with chickens and made Lucille all the more endearing. We called her daily offerings Pillow Eggs. We indulged her habit for quite some time, and then for some vague reason decided to start closing the door to the backyard. Lucille was to the manner—and to our modest manor—born. One sad day she was killed along with several other hens by a rogue dog that jumped our back brick fence.

Dixie was a Black Austrolorps, a stunning hen with the glossy iridescent black plumage and ruby-red comb that are the hallmarks of this regal Australian breed. She did not get a name until her mishap, which was the result of my mismanagement. My Mesa flock never roosted at night in the beautiful coop David had built for them. Our large backyard was a semi-tropical expanse of fruit trees and clumping bamboo and our hens preferred this semi-wilderness to the coop. They roosted at night in our orange, lemon, and grapefruit trees and laid eggs in the shady root masses of these trees and other plants in the yard. I did not take a regular census of my dozen hens (a task that is easier when hens roost in a coop), and it was several days, perhaps a week, before I found one of my Austrolorps pinned by the leg between the slats of our compost bin in a far corner of the backyard. How she survived that length of time without water I will never know, but she was alive.

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Dixie, when she had two legs and before she had a name, is one of the black Austrolorps in this picture. Lucille is feeding from my hand.

Her right leg was mangled. I felt terrible. I took her to our veterinary clinic, where as the owners of two dogs we were regular customers. One of the vets, Dr. Richard Funk, specialized in parrots and other pet birds, so he examined my Austrolorps and determined the leg could not be saved. Not a big surprise. The options were euthanize her or amputate. He assured me she would be fine on one leg. Driven by guilt and fascination with the possibility of having a one-legged chicken, I opted for amputation after consulting David about the cost and quickly getting his support. She went through surgery with flying colors and became quite the wonder-hen of the vet clinic. Dr. Funk kept a photo of her on a bulletin board in one of the exam rooms. I brought her home and named her Dixie.

As Dr. Funk predicted, mobility was not a problem—Dixie hopped around great on her pogo-stick leg—but her aberrant behavior immediately presented another dilemma. One unpleasant but evolutionarily hard-wired trait of chickens is that they do not tolerate freaks in their flock. My two-legged hens began to persecute her mercilessly, and it became immediately clear they were intent on killing her. So we segregated Dixie from her would-be assassins. We fixed up a private run for her—with a gate—in an ample space on one side of our house and for maximum security we put up fencing across the yard to contain the other hens. The DMZ was our patio space surrounding the swimming pool. Peace returned to the kingdom. When we were on the patio—which was often—we would let her out of her run to hang out with us. We spent many happy times with Dixie.

Then it all ended abruptly. David and I went on a trip—when and where I no longer recall—and one of his lab techs and her boyfriend stayed at our place to watch our dogs and chickens. David and my friends make regular fun of me because whenever we leave home I give our house and pet sitters explicit mandates about their responsibilities. I think I am being conscientious; they think I am being an obsessive worrywart. In this instance, I apparently was not worrywartish enough. I must have failed to sufficiently emphasize that Dixie had to be kept away from the other hens. It seems a gate was left opened. When we returned, Dixie was dead, a henocide. The house sitters were simultaneously remorseful and clueless. I was not vengeful but I was sad. I do not regret the decision at the time to amputate her mangled leg nor the cost to have it done. I doubt I would make the same decision now. The bigger cost, which I care not to pay again, was the emotional energy I spent on a one-legged chicken.

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Julia Child

Julia, one of five chef-named hens gifted to me as chicks by my friend Chuck in 2009, was a Black Star, a breed that can be sexed at hatching by its color. This is a very useful trait to assure a poultry owner that she is getting hens and not an unwanted rooster. (Roosters, besides the fact they don’t lay eggs, are often ornery and frequently banned by ordinances in towns and cities.) Sexing chicks, a service that hatcheries like Murray McMurray offer, is not a perfect science, and the accidental rooster can turn up in a purchase of chicks sexed as females. David dispatched one accidental and vicious rooster. Another, named after my cousin Becky until we realized she was a rooster, went to live with friends who lived in the country. Her name became Beckett. I have a strong suspicion that Brave, in my current chick flock, is an accidental rooster, a fact that should be borne out in a few more weeks. Fortunately, the friend who takes care of my hens in the winter when we are in Mexico wants a rooster in her rural flock.

Black Star hens are good layers and quite beautiful—bronzy black with golden feathers on the breast and hackles—and Julia possessed all the joie de vivre of her namesake. She genuinely liked being picked up and carried around in the crook of my arm. One summer in the lead-up to the fall member pledge drive for Minnesota Public Radio, a young friend of ours who is an MPR sound engineer tasked with recording testimonials, asked if David and I would be willing participants. I agreed with the stipulation that my chickens had to be part of my gig. Our friend was game.

My hens in fact listened to Morning Edition quite regularly as it wafted out the kitchen window to the nearby bed of ferns where they often gathered. So it was only fitting that they should make a “pitch” for MPR. Our friend, an excellent audio editor, taped several minutes of my spiel, a chorus of cackling for background, and a segment when I was holding Julia and talking to her and she was clucking back to me. The segment, condensed to less than 30 seconds, was hilarious. It closed with my saying, “Julia, you love MPR don’t you?” “Cluck, cluck,” she replied affirmatively.

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My retablo memorializing Julia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in West Saari Road

Is it asking too much?

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Fido says, “Sit, Lady.”

Is it asking too much of culpable females to not pee on the seats of public toilets?

You know who you are, and I have remained silent too long. I recently decided I’d had enough. My husband and I had driven from our rural home in northern Minnesota to the Twin Cities for a rare urban date. We had tickets for Mahler’s 4th Symphony at Orchestra Hall and we went to Barrio, a great tequila and small plates bistro, beforehand. I was in a euphoric mood—a night on the town! I went to the women’s room. My guard was down. I sat on a pee-splashed seat.

I gave way to an outburst. When I exited my stall, three young women were walking in. I said, “Someone peed on the toilet seat!” The young women looked at me with horror. I could interpret their expression in one of two ways. Either they shared my disgust or they themselves are among the guilty. I will never know of course. I washed my hands and stormed out of the bathroom back to my husband, a scrumptious little plate of pork-belly tacos, and a well executed margarita. Bravo to the bartender and the cooks in the kitchen. I regained my composure.

I try to make a habit of inspecting toilet seats in public places before using them but sometimes I am distracted or I mistakenly think to myself, “This is an upscale place. Surely the clientele knows better.” Not.

As long as I can remember, I have randomly encountered pee-splattered toilet seats all across America and in all manner of public restrooms. I can say from much experience this is not a socioeconomic issue. This I believe is an irrational germ-phobia issue. Perhaps the most disheartening place I’ve had to deal with the problem was in the employees-only bathroom of a world-renowned healthcare institution where my highly educated female coworkers, who of all people should have understood germ theory and disease transmission, regularly peed on the toilet seats.

I have long thought about getting little stickers printed up that say PLEASE DON’T PEE ON THE TOILET SEAT to post in toilet stalls. I have wondered countless times if the woman before me must pee on the toilet seat why can’t she wipe up her mess before exiting the stall? Why should she foist the proof of her germ phobia on the next user? It is hard for me to fathom such rudeness. I fume more because the perpetrator is never outed for her imbecility and bad manners.

Why are so many women so fearful of sitting on a toilet seat in a publicly shared bathroom? Have they ever heard of any illness or epidemic contracted and spread via buttock skin? Do the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention ever issue warnings about butt-borne disease? If you think about it, female buttocks are frequently bathed, rarely disrobed, and well protected from airborne germs. I venture to say our buttocks are cleaner than our hands. People who sneeze and cough in public and do not cover their mouths—or, equally gross, cover their mouths with their hands and then touch everything and everyone around them—constitute a well-known public-health problem. Speaking of the hazards of germ-laden hands, a 2015 article in The Cut (“Everything We Know about Human Bathroom Behavior,” by Clint Rainey https://www.thecut.com/2015/05/science-of-us-guide-to-bathroom-behavior.html) brings up the prevalence of people who use their cell phones while going to the bathroom. Yikes! Rainey quotes a 2011 BBC News article about a British study that examined 400 cell phones and hands and found that 16 percent of phones and 16 percent of hands were contaminated with Escherichia coli, bacteria found in the human gut. It should be noted that most strains of E. coli are harmless (https://www.cdc.gov/ecoli/general/index.html) and E. coli is often used in studies simply as a marker for the presence of fecal matter. Nevertheless, this is the take-away: In public restrooms—indeed, in the world at large—it is our hands, not our butts, that spread around germs. Toilet-seat-splashers should really be more concerned about whom they shake hands with and what surfaces and objects they touch.

My indignation is nothing new. Swirling endlessly in the whirlpools of Internet search engines are numerous essays like mine—and not a lot of current objective data on the subject. Although my observations are anecdotal, I see no signs the problem is abating, which indicates to me that my fellow indignant essayists and I are not changing any behaviors. We are merely venting. I take it as a positive sign that public restroom pee splashing, while disgusting, is really inconsequential in the realm of public health research. There are vastly more important topics to be focusing research on—like flu pandemics and the overprescribing of antibiotics. I don’t need scientists to spend their precious time and resources trying to determine the percentage of women in the population who pee on public toilet seats. For me, one woman is too many.

Addendum:

Although out-of-date and with a small sample size, a research article that is still often cited in essays about the behavior of females in public restrooms is a 1991 study entitled “Crouching over the toilet seat: prevalence among British gynaecological outpatients and its effect on micturation” (K. H. Moore, et al., BJOG June 1991). The researchers asked 528 women who had come to a general gynecological clinic to complete an anonymous questionnaire about their public restroom habits. The results showed that 85 percent usually crouched over the toilet when using a public restroom, 12 percent applied paper to the seat, and 2 percent sat directly on public toilet seats. Journalists writing for popular audiences about this subject hone in on the lopsided numbers of crouchers (85%!) versus sitters (2%!). What I found more interesting about the study was the clinical significance of the findings. The researchers found that crouching over a toilet seat reduces average urine flow rate by 21 percent and increases residual urine volume by 149 percent. Again I emphasize the small sample size, but based on these findings crouching to pee is incredibly inefficient and incomplete. Women who crouch would do their bladders a favor by sitting down to pee.

Posted in West Saari Road | 2 Comments

Diablo

Diablo and Rosario, April 26, 2010.

Diablo has died.

The last day I saw him he was a skeleton in a black shroud. Dressed for his impending death. He was as usual shadowing Rosario. While Rosario stopped for a moment at our door to talk with us, I fed Diablo some stale tortillas. He listlessly ate a few bites until he saw Rosario walk on. He followed his virtually blind master, the ever-constant self-taught seeing-eye dog. I had a premonition I would not see Diablo again. He died a few days later.

Diablo was about ten years old. That he lived as long as he did is testimony to what a living organism can endure. As is Rosario, an ancient, at times obstinate, virtually penniless, solitary, sightless man who lives in a hovel. Diablo was the loyal companion of a destitute man. Not castrated, vaccinated, or medicated, he was a carrier of vermin and multiple canine diseases and he got into fights with other male dogs. He was forever gentle with us. I indulge myself by thinking he had a liking for me, because I petted him and cooed to him. I loved Diablo, and many times I imagined taking him away from Rosario for my own, a self-centered, dim-witted idea.

Diablo divulged a harsh truth about me: I have more sympathy for dogs than I do for certain of their masters.

 

Posted in Mexico

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

In the town where we live in Sonora, many women still hang out their laundry to dry. They drape the washing over barbed-wire fences or hang it from clotheslines on rooftops. Every day is a changing cavalcade of britches, blouses, underthings, socks, towels, sheets, toddlers’ clothes. This gives me joyous cause to remember on a regular basis one of the most beautiful poems in the English language, Richard Wilbur’s Love Calls Us to the Things of This World.

Wilbur died last year at the age of 96. https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/15/obituaries/richard-wilbur-poet-laureate-and-pulitzer-winner-dies-at-96.html

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
                     Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.
    Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;
    Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.

                                             The soul shrinks

From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
And cries,
“Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,

Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”
    Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,
    “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
                      keeping their difficult balance.”

 

Posted in Mexico