I walk. I like to walk. I walk to clear my mind. I walk for exercise. I walk to think through problems. I walk to socialize. I walk to commune with nature. I walk to find money. I walk to pick up cans. I walk in the morning. I walk in the evening. I walk to escape. I walk therefore I am.
One day last summer, I was south of town walking towards home when I saw a white ball bobbling an inch off the ground around 20 feet in front of my path. It looked like a ping pong ball suspended in the air. As I got closer, I could see it was a spider, about the size of my fingernail, carrying her sac of unborn across the road.
The sheer beauty of the spider’s deed enthralled me. Had I not been out walking, I would have missed this spectacular feat. Had I been in a car, well.
Last week when I stumbled upon Geoff Nicholson’s new book The Lost Art of Walking, I smiled. Really, choosing to read a book about walking is no stretch, but I worried. Would it be entertaining?
Oddly enough, he begins his treatise on walking with the story of a fall. His fall in the California hills outside his home while photographing the surrounding scenery. One misstep and Nicholson saw the ground fast approaching. Was it a rock? Perhaps a root that tripped him. We will never know, but the fall left him with a broken arm that slowed his typing ability.
As readers, we benefit from his fall. The book is entertaining on so many levels. The subtitle, The History, Science, Philosophy, and Literature of Pedestrianism, hints to a comprehensive exploration of man’s unique gait.
In the first chapter alone the discussion turns from Nicholson’s personal fall to man’s first erect step as Homo sapiens. Then the brief dialogue evolves into baby’s first steps in the womb when you thought he was kicking. Next the conversation flows into the origins for all the different forms of the word walk. Did you know our English language has over 30 examples of the word such as hoof, pace, step, tread, plod, slog, lumber, hike, etc?
One might think this book unstructured, but they would be wrong. This is a well organized, fun romp into our basic need to get from point A to B. Be sure to amble through this read.
Twenty-one miles off the coast of South Carolina swims an independent island called Nollop. It is named for its most famous inhabitant, Nevin Nollop, who developed the popular pangram “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” (Pangram is a sentence assembled by using all the letters of the alphabet.) In the midst of the island’s square, stands a monument with each letter represented by its own tile in the illustrious sentence.
In this small nation, devotion to the word is a tradition. The governing bodies encourage citizens to pursue language, but technological is forgotten. Nollopians do not watch television or chatter on phones or type on computers. They have a daily newspaper, an enormous library and keep in close communication with their neighbors through letters.
On the morning of July 17, little Alice Butterworth was crossing the town square when she came upon shattered bits of tile. Looking up she notice one of the tiles from the cenotaph missing and realized she was staring at the remains of the letter “Z” from the word “lazy”. Dutiful Alice rushed the pieces to the office of High Island Council and a meeting was called.
The emergency meeting generated many a spectator and within seconds opinions were filling the air. So much so, Most Senior Gordon Willingham called for a closed session.
The Nollopians mulled around the outside windows while councilmen debated the little tile’s fate. Tempers flared and some stormed off only to be called back. Finally, after three hours, Willingham stepped out on the courthouse steps to convey the decision. “From this day forward the letter “Z” will no longer be employed. Those in violation of the new Anti-Z law will suffer dire consequences. First offense is a public reprimand. Second offense is a choice between corporal punishment by flogging or public humiliation through a day in the headstocks. Third offense calls for banishment from the island forever.”
We have been under this rule for less than a month and the newspaper has ceased to print and the library has closed. There have been 27 first offenses, 3 second offenses and young Master Creevy has been shipped to the States. We cringe knowing the “Q” fell off the monument this morning.
Ella Minnow Pea by Memphis playwright, Mark Dunn, is told completely through letters. Readers better mind their “p’s” and “q’s” as letters begin to drop like flies.
Baby doesn’t speak. Instead she looks at you with haunting black eyes and the question on her lips expresses, “Will you love me and treat me special?”
Baby is a 15-year-old poodle that spent her first nine years of life as a breeder in a puppy mill at an undisclosed location in California. Her known story begins with a woman, book refers to her as “Drive-by Angel,” driving the country roads and spotting a “Puppies for Sale” sign. When Drive-by Angel pulled into the idyllic setting she remembered being excited by the type of puppies she might find.
She could feel something awry after the home owner refused her entrance into the house, but insisted she bring the puppies out to a pen in the yard. These were no puppies, but Drive-by Angel played along. Her heart ached as the dogs vied for her attention, but all she saw was matted-down filthy, malnourished animals.
The gig was up and the woman said matter-of-factly, “They’re too old to produce. I’m going to put them down. You can have any of them for two hundred dollars.” Drive-by Angel decided the little white poodle with 94 tattooed inside her ear—an indication of birth and expiration date—deserved a new home.
During her first days in the new home, Drive-by Angel gave her the name Baby. She explains, “When I brought her home, everything was a first for her. Grass. Toys. Furniture. My kids said, ‘She doesn’t know about anything, just like a baby.’”
Within two days of being in the new home, Baby jumped off the sofa and shattered her left leg. Osteoporosis is a common problem with breeder dogs because the puppies require most of the calcium produced by the breeder, and being in a puppy mill most dogs are deprived of sunlight, exercise and proper nutrition. Her bones were too brittle to repair and her leg was amputated. The vet also informed the family that Baby’s vocal chords were severed and this is why she didn’t make a noise when hurt.
Readers will encounter Baby’s story within the first chapter of Dr. Jana Kohl’s A Rare Breed of Love. The rest of the book is Baby’s encounter with the rich and famous in order to change our archaic animal laws. Seeing her portrait with the likes of President Barack Obama, Judge Judy, Elizabeth Dole, Paul Harvey, Todd Oldham, Amy Sedaris, etc., one will recognize her as the perfect “spokesdog.”
Visit with Baby here.
My name is Katniss and I live in District 12. There used to be 13 districts in all; unfortunately, the number proved to be very unlucky for those District 13 inhabitants. Our District, lovingly referred to as The Seam, supplies coal for the other 11 Districts and the Capitol.
Our inhabitants long ago stopped cleaning the dust from their wrinkles and creases allowing one to spot a miner from miles away. I think this thought as I look down on my sleeping sister, Prim. Her skin, pink and smooth like the primrose she is named after, will one day blacken. Just how long she can go before working in the mines is uncertain. It is my hope she will find a job in town, but one thing is certain, she is hungry as our mother as our neighbors as the whole walking lot of District 12.
See, we haven’t won a Hunger Game in years. It has been so long that our last winner, a broken down old sot, doesn’t even remember winning. Winners get extra food from the Peacemakers. Loads of flour and salt for cooking, eggs and ham for meals, and abundant fruit will practically make us fat. Otherwise, these things are only available through the black market. One can live off the Capitol’s rations, but remain hungry or die of starvation as a result.
I’ve been hunting in the forest to help out our small family’s need for food. It is real easy for me to slip under the razor-wire fence at a gathering of bushes without being detected. Actually, I think the Peacemakers know I do this but look the other way. They are my best customers.
My hunting buddy is Gale. We used to compete for game, but find it easier to work together for better prices at the market. He is also a great help with large game and fending off the flesh eaters. The bad thing, he calls me catnip.
Today is the day of Reaping. During the Reaping a male and female are chosen to represent their District in a fight to the death. Gale feels pretty sure he will be picked today. The odds are in his favor. He carries 18 points for his age then all the points from his siblings leaving them with one a piece; plus, he has added points for food during the year. I could easily be chosen for the female slot since I carry all but one of Prim’s points.
It is with utter horror I hear the announcer yell, “Prim!”
Readers will go without sleep to finish this dystopian tale titled Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins.
Check out VaSilly's review for a different take! :D
It's that time of year!
The time when you pour a glass of lemonade or sweet tea and take your official summer spot on the porch. Lean back in that chase lounge surrounded by geraniums and ferns, and begin the summer long journey into Southern culture.
Yes, it's hot!
Yes, it does get uncomfortable, but it is well worth the effort as you discover our unique "Southern" point of view.
You may choose to read any style of Southern book such as Appalachian tales, Civil War sagas, Gothic myths, Grit lit, and heart-wrenching biographies. Click here for ideas. Just as long as you read three (fiction or nonfiction) between May 15th and August 15th.
I plan weekly drawings and contests like last year, but I might steer away from the $50 pecans. Money's tight!
To get started, sign on Mister Linky with a url specific address back to your 3 books post and join me on the porch!
Thank yew!
