From Here: Observing the Natural World

~ ~ ~ ~  Crow  ~ ~ ~ ~

The crow landed with a thud in the tall maple and cawed.

“Peanuts!” I said, holding out the plastic container I was carrying. Crow cawed again — but this time, a slightly different sound. Lower, longer. I wondered if he was calling a mate, or a friend. Or was he addressing me? Did he know me as “The Peanut Lady”?

Crows are regular visitors to our yard. They enjoy the peanuts I originally put out for the squirrels — in hopes of keeping them away from the bird feeders — and the blue jays. I was glad when they showed up. I like the way crows strut around the yard. They are handsome birds, and they have an attitude.

Often, at dusk, I see dozens of them flying far overhead. There is a murder of crows that roosts somewhere in Augusta — I think on the other side of the Kennebec River. It’s an amazing, soul-satisfying sight.

Another crow arrived as I filled the bird feeders and threw out some peanuts. The two watched me from the tree but did not come near. 

I went into the house, washed my hands, and then joined my husband, who was waiting in the car in the driveway. As I opened the car door, a crow flew overhead, low enough that I could see it had a peanut clenched in its beak.

Mission accomplished. For Crow, and for the Peanut Lady.

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "The Final Problem," Arturo Pérez-Reverte

A romantic villa near Corfu. A storm rages in the Ionian Sea, isolating the island. Nine guests. Four hotel staff. Three murders. The resolution is anything but elementary.

It’s 1960, and Ormond Basil’s star has faded — though it’s not yet extinguished. When the Italian producer Pietro Melarba invites him aboard his yacht, ostensibly to discuss a new project, Basil sees reason for hope. Under the stage name Hopalong Basil, the actor worked with the biggest names of the day — Errol Flynn, “Larry” Olivier, Joan Crawford. But he’s best known for the 15 films he made based on Sherlock Holmes stories and novels. 

Basil, along with Melarba and his Lebanese girlfriend, an opera diva, stops at the tiny island of Urakos to dine at the Hotel Auslander when the storm strands them there. It’s a beautiful location, so not exactly a hardship.

Until British guest Edith Mander is found dead — hanging from the rafters of the beach cabana.

The police can’t possibly make their way out from mainland Greece. Dr. Kerabin, a Turk, examines the body and pronounces the death a suicide. But the hotel staff and the remaining guests (a German couple; two Greeks; an Auschwitz survivor and Mander’s British traveling companion) are uneasy. They look to the man they identify with one of the world’s greatest (albeit fictional) detectives.

Basil, always debonair and dignified, demurs — until “Paco” Foxa, a Spanish mystery novelist, eagerly volunteers to play Watson. The game is soon afoot. Has the duo met its Moriarty? There are two more deaths, and devilish clues left behind.

The name Ormond Basil is no accident — Basil Rathbone was an iconic real-life portrayer of Holmes. It’s one of many delightful winks Pérez-Reverte offers to readers steeped in the canon.

The Final Problem is a delightful tribute to both the Holmesian oeuvre and the golden age mystery novel. It nods to Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None as well as the classic locked-room tradition. Chapters are introduced with quotes from the Holmes tales: “I am accustomed to have mystery at one end of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing.” (The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.) Foxa is a student of the great detective, and he and Ormond Basil fluidly trade quotes and observations from the stories.

The tone is literary on all levels; Basil tells the tale, his narrative peppered with fond reminiscences of mid-century celebrities. He continually insists he is not Holmes, but he clearly relishes his role in the investigation and takes the job seriously.

The Final Problem is a grand mystery with an intriguing, extremely satisfying conclusion --- as elegantly constructed an anything Holmes himself might have admired.

Essay: Les mots dangereux

My husband, Paul, was perturbed. A radio show host had pronounced “les liaisons dangereuses” as “les liaisons dangeroos.” Paul grew up speaking French. He winced.

I said, “I think that’s how I learned to say it on Duolingo.” I have completed 1,301 consecutive days of lessons on the foreign language learning app. I have learned to use dangereuses in relation to certain rues (streets) of dubious reputation, as well as dangereux for the voleurs (robbers) that inexplicably pop up regularly in lessons. “I like to say dangeroos," I said. "It slides off the tongue.” Unlike words like oeil (eye) which just stick there.

“No,” Paul said. He glared at me. “How do you say forget in French?”

“Oublier,” I said promptly. Wait? What? That was quick. What had just happened?

Was I thinking in French?

I didn’t have a chance to ponder that thought because Paul was pointing out that the “ou” in oublier is different from the “eu” sound in dangereuse — les liaisons dangereuses, not dangeroos. I conceded the point and repeated dangereuses until I got it right.

I mangle words in English and knew that French pronunciation would be difficult for me. I warned Paul of this when I started my learning project because he, like so many Frencophones, is a stickler for perfect French enunciation. It wasn’t going to happen.

But I am good at vocabulary. I can now read the little story lessons on Duolingo without translating them word for word. Sometimes, while playing online Scrabble, I wish I could do it in French because there are so many words that use J (8 points!). Sometimes French words or phrases come unbidden to me. I saw a new café named “Lately’s” and I thought … dernièrement!

And I was able to produce, on a dime, the French word for “to forget.” And la cerise (the cherry) on top is that I pronounced it right too.

C’est une bonne journée, mes amis!

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "It's Not Her," Mary Kubica

Mary Kubica has done it this time. She’s filled an entire book with unlikable characters.

I didn’t think I could finish—never mind enjoy—such a novel. However, I decided to heed the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

Why couldn’t I read a book with an abysmal setting? Plus, I don’t remember the characters eating much more than cereal. Oh, wait—they drank some beer. I love an exciting location and evocative food descriptions, but there was none of that here.

So what did I get out of this book?

A great story.

And I learned that nasty characters can sustain my interest.

Courtney Gray tells the story in alternating chapters with her niece, Reese. Courtney, a preschool teacher, is kind, intrepid, and fiercely protective of her family. But even she has made an unfortunate mistake in the past—one that undoubtedly plays into her family’s tragic predicament.

Courtney, her husband Elliott, and daughter Cass have joined Courtney’s brother’s family at a rundown resort camp on a northern Wisconsin lake. Nolan Crane, an unemployed software engineer, doesn’t have much to say—perhaps because his wife Emily is such a control freak. Their daughter Reese, seventeen, seems to simmer with anger.

Then there’s fourteen-year-old Wyatt Crane, a baseball star and the apple of his mother’s eye. Unfortunately, he’s also a gambler, thief, and blackmailer. Mae Crane, only ten, is Cass’s best friend. You might assume the younger girls are innocents—but you’d be wrong.

After a sleepover with Cass, Mae heads back to her family’s cabin. Minutes later she returns to the Grays’, covered in blood and unable to explain what has happened.

Elliott is out fishing, but Courtney rushes to the Cranes’ cabin and finds Nolan and Emily brutally murdered. Wyatt eventually appears, claiming he slept through the attack after his mother gave him a Benadryl the night before. Reese, however, is nowhere to be found.

Courtney’s narrative follows the investigation as Detective Evans arrives at the scene. But Courtney is determined to find Reese herself. Meanwhile, Reese’s chapters recount her relationship with Daniel Clarke, a young camp employee whose influence on her grows increasingly dark. Reese is also grieving the loss of her once-close friendship with Skylar back home—a rupture she herself set in motion.

Reese suggests Elliott may have behaved inappropriately toward her. Courtney begins to question her husband’s fishing alibi. Emily had wanted to speak to Elliott about something—but what? Elliott claims he can’t remember.

Hovering over everything is the disappearance of a young girl several years earlier. Could Reese’s disappearance be connected? Or did Reese kill her parents and run?

Tensions mount as Courtney throws caution aside to find her niece—and the killer. I found myself marveling at the characters’ perspicacity as the pages turned.

Sometimes, it really is all about the story.