Cars

My Dad’s Studebaker. That was the first car I remember. We’d moved to the New Jersey suburbs from Staten Island so Mom had to learn to drive. She did pretty well, too. (We had to go on the lessons when they couldn’t find someone to watch us.) The Studebaker was green and not very big. We were a family of five then.

When my youngest brother showed up we got a Chevy station wagon. Two-tone blue and white. It seems to me it was only a little while before our next door neighbors got a much fancier station wagon with a removable third seat in the back instead of the plain space we had. I was old enough by then to understand our wagon had been eclipsed.

About the same time we moved to a bigger house, because we needed another bedroom (because I was a girl and the other three kids were boys) and a second bathroom, if at all possible, Dad came home with a tan Chevy Impala. Sleek. And then, amazingly, he bought a Kharmen Ghia! Mom and Dad needed two cars by then, because even though Dad car-pooled to the city, Mom had a hard time on Dad’s day to drive because there was a lot going on by then. We were a busy family, although not nearly as busy as families of six tend to be now. Jeez Louise!

The gods were smiling on my next-oldest brother and I, because we each had a senior year in high school when we got to drive the Ghia to school. This gave me many cool points that I’d been sorely lacking because I was a ballet dancer and no one at Ramsey High cared about that. Peter was okay even without the Ghia, but it didn’t hurt. There were other family cars after that, but they weren’t important to me because I was in college and then on my own.

It was six years before I had to have a car. I moved from New York City to Albuquerque, you see, and of course, a car was a necessary part of life.

So, my family was addicted to oil, from the get-go I guess. Well, no guessing about it-we were. I’m sorry, pelicans and turtles and everyone else, but that’s how it was. I live on the Florida panhandle. In this town pretty much everyone has a car. When you see adults walking or riding bikes, it’s a sure shot they’ve lost their license for driving drunk. Not a damn thing to do with saving the environment. It’s a mess, isn’t it?

"Sore must be the storm"

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

Emily Dickinson


The corners of my mouth have turned down, there’s a slow burn in my throat, my shoulders have crept up and I wish I had a giant foot to stamp. All this has been going on since yesterday morning when I saw a photo of a pelican, sitting still, soaked in oil.

I felt better for some time in the late afternoon, when, returning from getting-the-mail-walking-my-dog, I found a Fed Ex box on my front porch. I’m glad I’m still thrilled by the sight of a package sent by someone I like. I hope I feel this way about presents as long as I last. Turns out I got fine gifts. He sent me a paper collage of wonderland, I think, beautifully framed and ready to hang. Taped to it was a Templar Cross, just the right size, on a silver chain. There was a magnifying glass in a black leather case, too, because thousands of bits of paper, most of them tiny, are in the picture.

I had a happy hour or so, then, as I do way too often, I checked my home page on the Net. One of the news feeds about the Gulf of Mexico, and its death, began with another picture. In it a pelican was trying to fly with ragged, heavy wings. The poor bird looked terrified. There was a link for more pictures by the photographer, Charlie Riedel.

How dare they? Or we? Do I have to hate myself, too, for a part in this monstrous insult? I can tell you with certainty, that never in my life have I wanted to move safely stashed oil from one place to another, more useful, place. I had a thin understanding that people were doing this thing, but I suppose I trusted that they knew what they were about. Horrible as the Alaskan spill was, a drunk captained that tanker. Exxon had a huge Human Resources lapse with that one.

So. My paper collage, its exquisite goodness, the cross, and the glass helped to soften the hard lumps in my throat and chest, but frustrated anger is brutal and its been holding on to me tightly. I don’t feel up to dealing with these physical symptoms of rage today. I have things to do, but I can't get going. Yoga would help, and I’m sure yoga practice won’t hurt the planet. Well, I do it with a DVD and that takes electricity, energy, all that. What doesn't?

I’ll stay home today. At least I won’t drive.

Barataria Bay

Barataria Bay

It’s a surprise that hearing from a particular man has had such an effect on me. Nothing like this has happened during these quiet years and I don’t think I ever wondered if it would. Oh, I must have. I haven’t been dead after all. How like me to pretend, even here, that I haven’t minded about being alone. I’ve ridden awesome, foaming, reckless waves of minding. Soon enough, I’ve found my feet again. There’s been no time to flail. Until now.


There are black pelicans in the Louisiana wetlands. They don’t like to be handled, so their rescuers tie their beaks closed as they try to clean them. But I wish these wild birds could attack with their long, efficient beaks, so perfectly evolved to do what they want to do. The oil has taken, will continue to take, their birdhood. They hobble and die on the beaches of Barataria Bay . There is no stopping it now. No, I don’t think so. Don’t even want to listen to the men and women at the microphones. Today I have heavy arms and sluggish legs. Tomorrow will be worse.