Girl raises thousands for Gulf wildlife

I found this to be an inspiring story -- one person with a good heart can make a difference, no matter Her age:

"Olivia Bouler doesn’t have time for anything else these days except to draw and paint. But that’s OK for the artistic fifth-grader, because everything she does is for the birds.

The Islip, N.Y., girl, who turns 11 on Friday, has raised an estimated $80,000 by sending her sketches and paintings of birds to people who donate to organizations helping with relief efforts in the Gulf of Mexico spill disaster."

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/37620887/ns/us_news-giving/

Eucalyptus in space and time ...

"The ordinarily musty interior smelled of pine and eucalyptus."

-- Julian, Gore Vidal, p. 47.

Eucalyptus: A genus of evergreen timber trees mostly native to Western Australia.

Eucalyptus, interestingly enough, is a Greek word for a tree that no Greek -- nor any other European, unless he were shipwrecked on his way to China -- ever saw before the 18th century.

You see, I may not be the world's expert on Australia but far as I know, Europe knew nothing of the land down under until about that time.

So unless that "mostly" means that some kind of eucalyptus is native to somewhere beyond the land of koala bears and wallabees ...

... or unless "eucalyptus" -- like corn in America -- is an old word that was in use for something else before it became attached to "a genus of evergreen timber trees mostly native to Western Australia..."

... yes, unless that is the case, then celebrated author Mr. Vidal goofed, in hanging eucalyptus boughs in the courtroom of a 4th-Century Roman building.

If so,it is a reminder to the rest of us, just how hard it is to write credible historical fiction. You must know when even the most ordinary objects were invented,such as a pocket watch; what foods they could not have eaten, such as tomato soup in the Middle Ages; and a thousand other sundry details, that, if neglected, will leave annoying know-it-alls such as myself clucking our tongues.

In spite of that, I am enjoying his book on that Roman emperor, Julian, who tried and failed to turn the ship of his state back on a course to the old paganism and away from its devotion to Christianity.

He said his name was ...

He said his name was Fred Raspberry.

I am used to kids that age trying to flash gang signs or cheesy grins when I take their pictures and write down their names as part of my school PR job.

But never has anyone made up a fake name.

I must surely have flinched. But I kept my composure. I said, in a calm, even tone: "That's your name?"

"Yep," he said.

I checked discretely with his teacher a few minutes later.

"The IIIrd," she said. "His name is Fred Raspberry III."

Wow.

I felt a little guilty for doubting. But I can't be the first person to ever have been caught off guard by his exceedingly unique name.

Hey, if you have a name like that, don't be sensitive about it. Enjoy it. Embrace it. In a world of John Smiths and Jen Jones' -- you, my friend, are Fred Raspberry III. Obviously, Fred 1 and 2 understood that concept.

Oak babies

Although I did not have the good sense to take any pictures today, I can happily report that the five native oaks our school children recently planted in a local park are flourishing.

That is in addition to the four pines we planted last year.

I wish these little baby trees all the best. Someday, birds will nest in their branches and squirrels will hoard their nuts and pinecones.

It is a little thing, in the scheme of things -- eight little trees when greedy idiots are obliterating forests many times that size even as I type these words. But a little thing is better than nothing.

Evening in the yard

I sat upon the front sidewalk last evening and attacked the mat of weeds that had spread over our flowers since last I was there. We have the usual vegetative villains here that everyone has -- dandelions and crabgrass -- as well as some that may not be as familiar to you, such as a horrible creeping calamity called wiregrass.

A few minutes into my work, I was joined by a small, warty neighbor. A toad emerged from somewhere and sat upon the sidewalk observing me. I addressed him every now and then; he did not reply. Seemed content just to sit there upon his small haunches and watch. I gave him a slight sprinkle with the hose, which he appeared to enjoy.

By now,it was getting dark and the weeds no longer were strangling the flowers but lay in a defeated, wilted heap upon the grass. I got up, satisfied.

My amphibious companion bounced away into the lavender bed and I headed inside.

My kind of evening!

The pen is back ...

I celebrated the completion of a huge work project -- the labors of nearly a month -- by eating lunch out. Chez Taco Bell.

Sometimes when I pull up to the drive-thru of such a place, I think of a column I once read by some delightful old curmudgeon. Never, says the man, does he ever go through the drive through. He stops his car, he goes inside, he talks to people, not a speaker-box and he eats his meal around other people, not in his car.

So today, I did likewise.

My order was about $6. Just for kicks, I calculated the percentage that I paid in taxes. Nearly ten percent. That would be, in Biblical reckoning, a tithing. Tithing belongs to God, not the guv'mint. The implications were disturbing.

How many times a day do we calmly hand over nickels and dimes, nickels and dimes, more nickels and more dimes, to the government,without any thought at all?

"I'm sorry, my son picked up your order by accident," said a Woman approaching the table where I was waiting for my food. "He just put napkins on the tray, he didn't unwrap anything."

I assured Her that I wasn't the least bit bothered. Then I pondered for a while on the society in which I live, where every stranger has now become a disgusting bag of germs in our eyes, where they actually wrap plastic forks in a coating of plastic in a restaurant such as I was in, lest the filthy fingers of strangers brush across them or their breath blow out a blast of baleful bacteria.

It wasn't so long ago that people ate out of communal bowls, shared the same Communion cup at church, even slept double in beds with strangers at roadside inns. Then again, people died young back then.

It is Schumann's 200th birthday today. Great composer. I listened to the melody of his composition for string orchestra and wondered about the precise moment when it entered his head. Was he munching schnitzel in some inn, on a rainy, cold night? Walking the street in spring? Or just sitting quietly in his study contemplating life?

Taco Bell is not celebrating Schumann's birthday. Their PA system is playing Stereo Mc's "Connected."

"If you make sure you're connected
The writing's on the wall
But if your mind's neglected, stumble you might fall
Stumble you might fall, stumble you might fall."

Perhaps Stereo Mc will be remembered in 200 years. Perhaps not.