Alrighty then! 2010 saw me write 95 blogs, among which were a half dozen short stories. Next year fewer blogs, more stories.
I also read the 60 books listed below. That is quite a few more than I usually read in a year which tells me that I got out less than usual. Not to worry. I don't mind. I am The Last of the Great Indoorsmen after all.
2010 Book List
1. True North - Jim Harrison A stroll through one man’s complicated life and family. The book encompasses every aspect of the human condition.
2. So Brave, Young, and Handsome - Leif Enger A terrific turn-of-the-century western. I can’t think of a decent summary so I will just add, read this book!
3. Missing Joseph - Elizabeth George Sex, Murder and mayhem in a remote British village. What more could you ask for?
4. Hell - Robert Olen Butler A story told from Hell. Simplistic plot, but often funny. Butler’s prose is always engaging.
5. Spooner - Pete Dexter. Well told tale of an unusual person’s journey through life. Interesting throughout.
6. How I Became a Famous Novelist - Steve Hely A simultaneously funny and serious book. A very good read.
7. The Beast God Forgot To Invent - Jim Harrison Three more excellent novellas. It’s a privilege to read Jim Harrison.
8. Quietly In Their Sleep - Donna Leon Inspector Brunetti and company take on Opus Dei and other troublesome Catholic problems.
9. 1491 Charles C. Mann - Riveting account of what the “New World” was like before Columbus. It was far different than what we were taught.
10. Had a Good Time - Robert Olen Butler Most excellent short stories gleaned from messages on turn of the century (20th) postcards.
11. South of Broad - Pat Conroy Loved this book. But then, I love all of Conroy’s books. They speak to me.
12. Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks (author of “Birdsong”, a book I liked immensely) writing as Ian Fleming. Loved Fleming’s James Bond books, but then, I was very young when I read them. Not so crazy about Faulk’s Bond, but then, I am now very old.
13. Bridge of Sighs - Richard Russo Like being a voyeur, watching other people’s lives. Brilliant.
14. Out Stealing Horses - Per Petterson Much ballyhooed, prize winning novel from Norway. Pretty prose, but otherwise, I suppose, over my head.
15. 200 pages of El Amor En Los Tiempo Del Colera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez (In Spanish.) I’m putting this down to read something in simpler Spanish. I spend too much time in the dictionary looking up Spanish words I will seldom, if ever, use.
16. What the Dog Saw - Malcolm Gladwell Articles by Malcolm culled from the pages of The New Yorker, every one a little gem.
17. And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks - Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs The two most famous Beat Generation writers collaborate to tell a fictionalized version of an actual murder that took place among their group. This was an early effort by the two and wasn’t great, but it demonstrated their promise as writers.
18. The Fire Gospel - Michel Faber A kind of “what if?” story about finding a fifth gospel that portrays Jesus as far more human. The book never really grabbed me.
19. Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord - Louis De Bernieres Fabulous magical realism. Louie is a great writer, great story teller.
20. Bananas – How the United Fruit Company Shaped The World - Peter Chapman
Everything we suspected about UFC and more. Big Biz in the tropics. Good read.
21. The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ - Phillip Pullman How the Big Story could have become the Big Story without celestial intervention. An interesting read.
22. As God Commands - Niccolo Ammaniti I like everything about this book except the title. Unlovable characters doing unlovable things. Not a hero in the bunch, but all are compelling to follow.
23. Shattered - Dick Francis Old Dick always delivers the goods. Another satisfying mystery.
24. Ultimatum - Matthew Glass A terrific political thriller. A fast, fun, informative
read.
25. The Path To Better Golf - Peter Croker Yup, this is it. No doubt. I’ll never shoot over par again. Hahahahaha.
26. UFO’s - Leslie Kean To deny that they are here is ridiculous is the thrust of this book. Overwhelming evidence exists. We don’t know what they are or where they are from but they are certainly here.
27. The Blasphemer - Nigel Farndale A good read for no special reason other than it is a good read.
28. Last Night In Twisted River - John Irving A smooth read. Irving’s characters are always interesting.
29. Think of a Number - John Verdon Excellent mystery/thriller. Keeps you guessing and going.
30. That Old Cape Magic - Richard Russo Family complications resolved and not so much. A story of personalities.
31. The Anodyne Necklace - Martha Grimes A satisfying murder mystery.
32. Ritual - Mo Hayder Horror/thriller that I found a good read up to, but not including the end. Unsatisfactory conclusion.
33. This Body of Death - Elizabeth George Her latest and a very good mystery. Complex plot and characters.
34. The Black Cat - Martha Grimes An excellent mystery, lighter in tone than most.
35. The Best a Man Can Get - John O’Farrell Fearlessly funny book. Fearless because its humor rings so true.
36. About Face - Donna Leon Moves along not doing much of anything – one thinks – and then flies to the ending for a wrap-up. Nicely done, although the reader is left with a few assumptions he has to make on his own.
37. The Old Contemptibles - Martha Grimes Complex mystery with satisfying conclusion. Aside: You have to love a writer whose books are often named after British Pubs!
38. I Am The Only Running Footman - Martha Grimes Average, which is to say, for Martha, good.
39. Matterhorn - Karl Marlantes Terrific War novel set in Viet Nam. Gruesome, horrific…but fun to read.
40. Trial Run - Dick Francis Vintage. Which is to say, terrific.
41. Blink - Malcolm Gladwell Old Malc makes tricky concepts easy to understand. Here he takes on “thin slicing,” “the power of thinking without thinking.” Great read.
42. Huck - Janet Elder Nice little heart warming story about a lost puppy. Should have been shorter by about half.
43. Freedom - Jonathan Franzen Beautifully written, close up look at a group of flawed, but interesting people as they journey through life.
44. Baked - Mark Haskell Smith Big FUN read. Off the wall. Entertaining. Fast.
45. The Tipping Point - Malcomb Gladwell Why and how things seem to happen out-of-the-blue. Gladwell researches and relates in an easy to read fashion.
46. The Blue Last - Martha Grimes A nice read. The best I’ve read from Martha so far.
47. American Vampire Snyder – Albuquerque – King Graphic Novel. Star of a comic book series. Big Fun. Very well done.
48. The Girl Who Played With Fire - Stieg Larsson Best thriller, best heroine, most entertaining book in years. My highest recommendation.
49. Diving Rod - Michael Knight A nice little novel about an affair with a bad ending. Interesting characters.
50. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo - Steig Larsson The start of the trilogy. (see #48)
Slower paced than “…Played With Fire” but densely plotted and patiently executed.
51. Ancestor - Scott Sigler Horror story Transplantation goes awry. Can’t wait for the movie.
52. The California Roll - John Vorhaus Fast paced, entertaining tale of grifters doing their thing. A Big Fun read.
53. The Grave Maurice - Martha Grimes This book picks up where The Blue Last left off. More good stuff from Martha.
54. Dust - Martha Grimes Trying to get caught up with Martha’s mysteries. She wrote a bunch, all good. Got another one going as I speak.
55. Zengolf - Dr. Joseph Parent. Yup, it’s all about your head…life and golf. Best golf instruction book ever. I will read this through again and again.
56. The Old Silent - Martha Grimes Martha Martha Martha. What can I say? She’s terrific!
57. Vida - Patricia Engel Tight little first novel with a Latina American heroine.
58. B is For Beer - Tom Robbins Robbins is always a treat. Everything you ever wanted to know about beer…and fairies.
59. How Right You Are, Jeeves - P.G. Wodehouse My favorite book of the year comes at the end of the year! I uncovered a stash of Wodehouse’s in a dusty back room of our local used book store. Christmas arrives early for me!
60. The Downhill Lie - Carl Hiaasen Good stuff, funny stuff as Carl returns to the links in his fifties after having given up the game in his twenties.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
It's About Time
IT’S ABOUT TIME
By Doc Walton
It had been a long journey from his birth in Ulm to where he now sat behind a large desk in front of an almost floor to ceiling blackboard at a prestigious university. He had become, mysteriously and miraculously to him, famous along the way and although that fame was not entirely uncomfortable, it did intrude upon the time he spent working and thinking, two activities he considered one and the same. The university had not asked him to teach, but rather to study, to research, to create and hadn’t he himself said, “The monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind”? But, alas, he loved to communicate, loved the interaction with other bright minds and so in the end he had volunteered this time in the classroom.
He now looked about his new, sought after, and finally achieved surroundings, that promised the security he had so long desired and noted the half circle alignment of chairs around his desk. He had asked they be positioned that way to encourage a more intimate dialog with his students. The straight rows facing a lectern that was more common to academia had always seemed somewhat impractical and a touch militaristic to him. Could the students on the flanks really appreciate the nuances of physical gestures that accompany a good lecture? He thought not. And look how many chairs there were! His was not an easy subject. Were the students who would soon occupy those chairs be in attendance to learn and absorb his knowledge, or would they be there merely as testament to his recent fame. He would soon find out.
Yes it had been a long journey, and he was wont to wander down memory’s twisted path, but now was not the moment for nostalgic reflection. A bell had rung somewhere distant, and its echo resonated in the hall outside his classroom door. The students would be here in a matter of minutes. How, he wondered, would he begin this first day as a teacher of such a difficult discipline? How could he make the complex simple? Not to worry, he thought. After all, wasn’t he the one who had said, “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination.” He was sure he would think of something.
When the rush of noise and energy that is a classroom filling had subsided, the university’s newest and most prestigious acquisition rose from his desk, smiled at his charges and picked up his long wooden pointer. He was a rumple of a fellow with a shaggy mustache and a head burdened with wooly, unkempt gray hair. He had bright eyes that observers often described as “twinkling.” You could see the humor behind those eyes, and those who knew him were aware that he was not above a comedic quip. He once said, “The Devil has put a penalty on all the things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health, or we suffer in soul, or we get fat!”
The room full of students both eager and curious bent forward in their chairs, breathless in anticipation of the great man’s first words.
As he rose from his desk and shuffled to the blackboard, he remembered again the distance he had traveled from Ulm to this place he could now truthfully call home, Princeton. He placed his pointer on the equation that had made him famous, E=mc2, and gave the class his broadest smile.
“It’s about time” he said. “It’s about time.”
By Doc Walton
It had been a long journey from his birth in Ulm to where he now sat behind a large desk in front of an almost floor to ceiling blackboard at a prestigious university. He had become, mysteriously and miraculously to him, famous along the way and although that fame was not entirely uncomfortable, it did intrude upon the time he spent working and thinking, two activities he considered one and the same. The university had not asked him to teach, but rather to study, to research, to create and hadn’t he himself said, “The monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind”? But, alas, he loved to communicate, loved the interaction with other bright minds and so in the end he had volunteered this time in the classroom.
He now looked about his new, sought after, and finally achieved surroundings, that promised the security he had so long desired and noted the half circle alignment of chairs around his desk. He had asked they be positioned that way to encourage a more intimate dialog with his students. The straight rows facing a lectern that was more common to academia had always seemed somewhat impractical and a touch militaristic to him. Could the students on the flanks really appreciate the nuances of physical gestures that accompany a good lecture? He thought not. And look how many chairs there were! His was not an easy subject. Were the students who would soon occupy those chairs be in attendance to learn and absorb his knowledge, or would they be there merely as testament to his recent fame. He would soon find out.
Yes it had been a long journey, and he was wont to wander down memory’s twisted path, but now was not the moment for nostalgic reflection. A bell had rung somewhere distant, and its echo resonated in the hall outside his classroom door. The students would be here in a matter of minutes. How, he wondered, would he begin this first day as a teacher of such a difficult discipline? How could he make the complex simple? Not to worry, he thought. After all, wasn’t he the one who had said, “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination.” He was sure he would think of something.
When the rush of noise and energy that is a classroom filling had subsided, the university’s newest and most prestigious acquisition rose from his desk, smiled at his charges and picked up his long wooden pointer. He was a rumple of a fellow with a shaggy mustache and a head burdened with wooly, unkempt gray hair. He had bright eyes that observers often described as “twinkling.” You could see the humor behind those eyes, and those who knew him were aware that he was not above a comedic quip. He once said, “The Devil has put a penalty on all the things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health, or we suffer in soul, or we get fat!”
The room full of students both eager and curious bent forward in their chairs, breathless in anticipation of the great man’s first words.
As he rose from his desk and shuffled to the blackboard, he remembered again the distance he had traveled from Ulm to this place he could now truthfully call home, Princeton. He placed his pointer on the equation that had made him famous, E=mc2, and gave the class his broadest smile.
“It’s about time” he said. “It’s about time.”
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Scrabble Anyone
After reading a list of new words entering the American lexicon since 2009, I couldn't stop myself from writing this little story.
Scrabble Anyone?
There I was crowd mining at the post premiere party of the latest mockumentary from a mockumentarist buddy of mine when he saw me eyeing a hockey mom, e-smoker, puffing on her e-cigarette and decided I needed a hetero hug which he eventized forthwith.
The mom who was not really a part of the LGBT crowd that normally frequented this sort of thing, but had recently been divorced and was now niche dating was more comfortable with homedulgence and weisure. I could tell she was O generation and as she returned my glance I could feel her mind casting. I broke free from my Buddie's hip hop hug, which he was clinging to a bit too long for my taste, and sidled on over to the octomom.
After some small talk about bet dieting, carborexia, e-book readers and car czars, we got down to grittier subjects like scroogeonomics, slackonomics and TARP. She said she tried to keep up on what was going down even though she was on a staycation recovering from a bout of H1N1. I told her I had recently been Madoffed, but was still liquid and I was familiar with kabbalese.
With that she whipped out her Palm Pre and p-book, and made a note having to do with her ZIRP. We were both getting premobolan at that point, so we run-walked to her place. No slumdog this lady, her pad was nicely appointed and while we gabbed about flotsametrics and womenomics and cyberwarfare, our passions rose until it was time to set up the SLR and film what turned out to be a great yogasm.
The next morning I offered to cook bacon and eggs but she said she was a VB6.
(Go to the blog before this to read a real story.)
Scrabble Anyone?
There I was crowd mining at the post premiere party of the latest mockumentary from a mockumentarist buddy of mine when he saw me eyeing a hockey mom, e-smoker, puffing on her e-cigarette and decided I needed a hetero hug which he eventized forthwith.
The mom who was not really a part of the LGBT crowd that normally frequented this sort of thing, but had recently been divorced and was now niche dating was more comfortable with homedulgence and weisure. I could tell she was O generation and as she returned my glance I could feel her mind casting. I broke free from my Buddie's hip hop hug, which he was clinging to a bit too long for my taste, and sidled on over to the octomom.
After some small talk about bet dieting, carborexia, e-book readers and car czars, we got down to grittier subjects like scroogeonomics, slackonomics and TARP. She said she tried to keep up on what was going down even though she was on a staycation recovering from a bout of H1N1. I told her I had recently been Madoffed, but was still liquid and I was familiar with kabbalese.
With that she whipped out her Palm Pre and p-book, and made a note having to do with her ZIRP. We were both getting premobolan at that point, so we run-walked to her place. No slumdog this lady, her pad was nicely appointed and while we gabbed about flotsametrics and womenomics and cyberwarfare, our passions rose until it was time to set up the SLR and film what turned out to be a great yogasm.
The next morning I offered to cook bacon and eggs but she said she was a VB6.
(Go to the blog before this to read a real story.)
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Order Diptera
THE ORDER DIPTERA
By Doc Walton
It can be argued that Science is the pursuit of understanding Nature and that Nature, for many, is merely another way of saying God. We cannot, therefore, discount the scientific explanation offered by Dr. Derek Williams, having to do with the shifting wind currents of global climate change and the redistribution of insect populations on those currents. This may, in fact, be the case, even if to the retrospective observer the theory seems a bit wishful. Nor, however, can we rule out the Supernatural explanation that it was Martin Blackleg’s spirit summoning that created the flies in their grotesque numbers. If Nature, or God if you will, has an antithesis it is the Supernatural. Until Science can produce plausible answers for those occurrences outside the natural order of the universe, the supernatural will remain a possibility. And, in this case, tossing aside outrageous coincidence, more likely, a probability.
***
It was early autumn in Arboles, Colorado, the small mid-range mountain town to which Carrie Ann Seibel had hastily moved. It was a time when most of Arboles’ citizenry reveled in the last days of warmth and sunshine before the cold and snow of winter drove them sadly indoors or gladly to the ski slopes. For Carrie, though, this time of year meant only one thing: it was fly season.
Carrie hated bugs and if you asked her she’d tell you the little bastards hated her right back. She seemed to be perpetually scratching or picking at skin eruptions from bites and this latest one, the one on the side of her neck, was the size of a marble and oozed a liquid, sticky and yellow. Even though the wound was hidden behind her dark, Indian hair, Carrie's fingers sought out and touched the small bandage that covered it every couple of minutes. The bite was sensitive to her touch, but the searing pain each probe produced was a reminder that bugs were the enemy and should be killed whenever possible.
"Do they seem worse than ever or is it just me?" she said as she swatted a large green headed buzzer against the window glass of the country store where she worked. "I'll bet I've killed twenty of them already and I've only been out here on the porch for five minutes or so."
The man she was talking to nodded and said, "Some years are worse than others." He had just climbed down from his big wheeled pick-up, parked on the store’s dirt-packed lot, and was boot clunking up the porch stairs. He paused in front of the screen door Carrie held open for him and continued his thought, "They'll be gone soon as we get the first good frost."
"Not soon enough for me," said Carrie, snapping another fly onto the window with her free hand and enjoying for a second the gooey looking, red splotch that surrounded the smashed and deformed insect’s remains. She let out a small “yuck” and flicked the dead fly off the window with the tip of her swatter, before following the man into the store.
Following a purchased pack of Marlboro reds and five minutes of weather discussion, Carrie was back on the porch patrolling, weapon in hand. She was counting now, each time she laid waste to a fly that had the temerity to land, "Twenty-four, twenty-five." Customers were few this time of year, the non tourist, non skier time of year, but there was no shortage of flies and Carrie's kills were mounting rapidly. “Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.”
***
Far to the south, the residents of Volusia County, New Mexico, were experiencing a fly problem of their own. Snipe, a close relative of Deer flies, were suddenly in abundance for what was thought to be the first time ever. No one could recall their being present in such numbers and no one had an explanation for why.
Snipe and Stable Flies, both vicious biting species were causing Flagler’s cattle raising community a good deal more concern than was usual. Both fly types, like all species common to the order Diptera, are blood feeders. The Snipe has scissor like jaw parts that tear its victim’s skin and, after the rendering, spits anticoagulant saliva into the wound. It then laps up the flowing blood, bat-like, at blinding speed. The Stable fly uses its proboscis, its pointed beak, to puncture skin, human or animal, so it can suck blood through it in vampire fashion. The bites of both flies are more than just itchy and annoying; they are intensely painful.
Concern for their cattle, which were suffering from hundreds of bites and in many cases growing sickly, was the first reason that Volusia County’s ranching community considered sending for the University of New Mexico’s resident entomologist, Dr. Derek Williams. When the body of a 2000 pound prize bull was discovered so bloated from bites that it was beyond recognition, and, further, when it was impossible to tell if the bites were the cause of the death or subsequent to it, the town’s consideration found its tipping point and the call to Dr. Williams was made.
***
“These are not indigenous flies,” Williams said, holding up a jar containing a number of Snipes he had collected. “These flies are usually found in the Southeast, not the Southwest. As to why and what they are doing here,” he said, absentmindedly scratching his thinning hair, “I’ll tell you truthfully... I haven’t got a clue.”
A group of ranchers had gathered at a local church that served as a county meeting place to hear what Williams had to say. They shuffled their feet and mumbled their displeasure. “A lot of good that does us” and, “Hell, I could’ve told you that myself” were typical of the comments made. One wry old rancher pointed out to Dr. Williams that they were all slapping at flies as they talked.
“Look,” Williams went on, ignoring the sarcasm, “I’m going to take these and some other specimens from around here back to the university for analysis and see if there is anything a microscope can tell us. I’m also going to call a few people I know in Florida where these flies probably came from. See if they know something I don’t. Meanwhile, I’ve got nothing for you. All I can say is stock up on Deet and pray for an early winter. I’ll get back to you.”
***
Whether or not prayers were a factor is difficult to say. Certainly some were offered. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that a short two days after Williams departed, so did the flies. No one could truthfully say why.
***
In Arboles, Colorado, Carrie Ann Seibel now stalked her porch with a vengeance. Her prey gathered thicker than ever and her swatter was seldom still. Although she dressed in jeans and long sleeved cowgirl shirts, she had acquired a half dozen more bites. Each new wound gave fuel to her rage and the insect body count mounting on the porch rose to reflect it. Carrie was growing more and more obsessed.
***
Although the flies had returned to a normal level in Volusia County, New Mexico, one man continued to pray. His prayers, however, were not the bent kneed pleas to a Christian God for expiation and mercy; his prayers had a darker calling and were thrown into the night on liquored breath. His prayers were not pleas, but rather curses to summon retribution and exact revenge. They were hatred, bitter and evil, verbalized to make his prayers reality.
***
Martin Blackleg was an Indian and whether you called him that or a Native American didn’t matter to him because, frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He was a Southern Ute, one of the richest tribes in America. With fiscal holdings in the millions derived from land, mining, and casinos, astute money managers saw to it that all tribal members shared in the largesse. Although Blackleg was only 35, he had recently been granted a yearly endowment of forty grand from the tribe for having ruined a knee in a mining accident. This money, which he received in monthly allotments, meant to Blackleg that he didn’t HAVE to give a shit and allowed him to pursue activities about which he did give a toad’s turd, a short list that consisted of tequila, mescaline and peyote, usually taken in combination and always in quantity. These drugs, which he consumed daily, induced in Blackleg a state he liked to call mystical as he was sure that while in it, he could summon forth spirits of the dead to do his bidding. The catch was, as tribal elders told him, that his prayers had to be offered with a true and honest heart. No problem there Blackleg thought. His heart held only one honest truth and that was he honest to fucking God hated his wife. The bitch had left him and disappeared into the night six months ago. He had prayed for revenge every day since then, prayers to the spirits of buffalo, eagle and bear, but they all proved fruitless. His wife remained gone...and unpunished.
Then one night when clouds obscured the moon and made his world as dark as his heart, an almost tangible bitterness emerged from Blackleg’s drug and alcohol stupor and he quite suddenly remembered his wife’s hatred of bugs. He cursed his prayers that night not to his tribe’s traditional totems, but to the tiny spirits, smallest of all, the petty annoyances that scurry underfoot and buzz about the ear. He prayed to the spirits of insects. When the flies in their fierce density had then appeared in Volusia County, Blackleg was certain his prayers had been answered. And yet still he prayed. With fevered intensity he prayed anew to send them on their way. He prayed the flies to find his wife.
***
There is a man-made lake that runs north and south through canyons that connect Northern New Mexico to Southern Colorado. All but the northern most mile of this thirty six mile narrow body of water called Navajo Lake, lies in New Mexico. The shores of that mile, the Colorado mile, run from the water’s edge up to acres of rock, scrub pine and sagebrush. Among that scruffy southwestern landscape, lies the small hay farming and ranch community of Arboles, pronounced Ar-bo-leez by its inhabitants. It is there where you will find The Arboles Store, upon whose long front porch stalked the bug killing machine named Carrie Ann Seibel. As the flies in their millions made their way steadily north through the canyon in short bursts of flight, alighting on the shores of the lake for only momentary pauses, Carrie Anne Seibel continued her kill count.
***
There are more known species of flies than there are vertebrates. Scientists have categorized over a hundred thousand and as many as a million are suspected. All the biting species, black flies, midges, deer flies, snipe, stable, yellow flies and more, are blood feeders. They can find you by seeing your movement or scenting your perspiration. They can even find you by sensing the carbon dioxide on your exhaled breath. They are relentless in pursuit of their food and they will attack any warm blooded creature. Swarms are rare, but not unheard of. The massive gathering of the Diptera that was moving steadily north above Lake Navajo, however, could not accurately be explained as natural or in keeping with the known habits of the Order. It seemed moved on a greater force; a force as yet unknown to Science and it had what appeared to the objective observer, direction and purpose. It was moving, quite simply, with intent.
***
As Carrie Ann Seibel slapped her swatter down on a tightly bunched cluster of flies, she was vaguely aware of distant noise emanating from somewhere to the south. She paused in her grim pursuit of insect death for just a moment to glance in that direction. Although the morning was lighted elsewhere with bright sunshine, a thick, dark cloud was visible on that southern horizon, moving slowly, but inexorably in her direction. Around her, the flies were growing thicker as well, and Carrie Ann renewed her lethal efforts. She was killing too fast to count now, thinking this would surely be a record day. Fly bodies crunched in clumps littered the porch floor, but Carrie Ann was too busy to stop and sweep them away. Her swatter whizzed and snapped with deadly efficiency.
***
Who can say how many flies it would take to fill a sky and darken a day, but whatever the number, they descended on the Arboles Store with the noise of a thousand chain saws at full rev. This noise, this hideous, terrifying noise, would be the last that Carrie Ann Seibel would ever hear and she would hear it but for a second. Flies in swarm dense as dirt filled her ears, clogging her aural passages. They crowded and crawled into her nostrils and when she gasped for air, they filled her mouth by the thousands, vomiting and shitting as all flies do when they alight. They crawled down her throat and choked off her air. It took but another moment, a finger snap, an eye blink, for Carrie Ann Seibel to crash to the floor and disappear under the gathered mass of the Order Diptera. Death, however, sweet now longed for death, was much slower in coming. Long minutes passed as countless microscopic bits of flesh were torn from her body in the flies’ pursuit of the blood that flowed within.
Though screams were impossible for Carrie Ann Seibel, prayers were not. She knew the origin of her death as she lay there being ravaged and consumed on the porch of the Arboles Store. It could be nothing else but hate manifested and directed. She knew of only one person who could hate with such murderous intensity, and so it was that Carrie Ann Seibel’s silent prayers were not for life or salvation, but were instead, for revenge. She prayed to the creatures of the Order Diptera to fly from whence they came. She prayed with a will that ignored pain and defied death for longer than human reason would allow. She prayed to send the flies back to Martin Blackleg.
***
That only two human deaths were recorded during the fly infestation of that year can be attributed to luck or, as Science would have it, unhappy coincidence, but surely a closer examination of the events would have been called for had it been known the victims were related. It wasn’t until much later that Carrie Ann’s name change from Blackleg to Seibel was revealed and the connection made. By then, no one really cared. Swarm flyovers had been reported during the incident by dozens of people across the landscape from Volusia County, New Mexico to Arboles, Colorado, the roughly 150 mile round trip the flies had taken. Why none of those people were attacked constituted the principal flaw in the scientific explanation. It was, so to speak, the fly in their ointment. That Supernatural forces were at work in the deaths of Blackleg and Seibel is a theory that continues to be ignored by Science despite the evidence that such is the case being heavily in that theory’s favor. Science, that is, the community of those who are supposed to be the most open-minded of all, are often not.
Copyright Doc Walton December, 2010
By Doc Walton
It can be argued that Science is the pursuit of understanding Nature and that Nature, for many, is merely another way of saying God. We cannot, therefore, discount the scientific explanation offered by Dr. Derek Williams, having to do with the shifting wind currents of global climate change and the redistribution of insect populations on those currents. This may, in fact, be the case, even if to the retrospective observer the theory seems a bit wishful. Nor, however, can we rule out the Supernatural explanation that it was Martin Blackleg’s spirit summoning that created the flies in their grotesque numbers. If Nature, or God if you will, has an antithesis it is the Supernatural. Until Science can produce plausible answers for those occurrences outside the natural order of the universe, the supernatural will remain a possibility. And, in this case, tossing aside outrageous coincidence, more likely, a probability.
***
It was early autumn in Arboles, Colorado, the small mid-range mountain town to which Carrie Ann Seibel had hastily moved. It was a time when most of Arboles’ citizenry reveled in the last days of warmth and sunshine before the cold and snow of winter drove them sadly indoors or gladly to the ski slopes. For Carrie, though, this time of year meant only one thing: it was fly season.
Carrie hated bugs and if you asked her she’d tell you the little bastards hated her right back. She seemed to be perpetually scratching or picking at skin eruptions from bites and this latest one, the one on the side of her neck, was the size of a marble and oozed a liquid, sticky and yellow. Even though the wound was hidden behind her dark, Indian hair, Carrie's fingers sought out and touched the small bandage that covered it every couple of minutes. The bite was sensitive to her touch, but the searing pain each probe produced was a reminder that bugs were the enemy and should be killed whenever possible.
"Do they seem worse than ever or is it just me?" she said as she swatted a large green headed buzzer against the window glass of the country store where she worked. "I'll bet I've killed twenty of them already and I've only been out here on the porch for five minutes or so."
The man she was talking to nodded and said, "Some years are worse than others." He had just climbed down from his big wheeled pick-up, parked on the store’s dirt-packed lot, and was boot clunking up the porch stairs. He paused in front of the screen door Carrie held open for him and continued his thought, "They'll be gone soon as we get the first good frost."
"Not soon enough for me," said Carrie, snapping another fly onto the window with her free hand and enjoying for a second the gooey looking, red splotch that surrounded the smashed and deformed insect’s remains. She let out a small “yuck” and flicked the dead fly off the window with the tip of her swatter, before following the man into the store.
Following a purchased pack of Marlboro reds and five minutes of weather discussion, Carrie was back on the porch patrolling, weapon in hand. She was counting now, each time she laid waste to a fly that had the temerity to land, "Twenty-four, twenty-five." Customers were few this time of year, the non tourist, non skier time of year, but there was no shortage of flies and Carrie's kills were mounting rapidly. “Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.”
***
Far to the south, the residents of Volusia County, New Mexico, were experiencing a fly problem of their own. Snipe, a close relative of Deer flies, were suddenly in abundance for what was thought to be the first time ever. No one could recall their being present in such numbers and no one had an explanation for why.
Snipe and Stable Flies, both vicious biting species were causing Flagler’s cattle raising community a good deal more concern than was usual. Both fly types, like all species common to the order Diptera, are blood feeders. The Snipe has scissor like jaw parts that tear its victim’s skin and, after the rendering, spits anticoagulant saliva into the wound. It then laps up the flowing blood, bat-like, at blinding speed. The Stable fly uses its proboscis, its pointed beak, to puncture skin, human or animal, so it can suck blood through it in vampire fashion. The bites of both flies are more than just itchy and annoying; they are intensely painful.
Concern for their cattle, which were suffering from hundreds of bites and in many cases growing sickly, was the first reason that Volusia County’s ranching community considered sending for the University of New Mexico’s resident entomologist, Dr. Derek Williams. When the body of a 2000 pound prize bull was discovered so bloated from bites that it was beyond recognition, and, further, when it was impossible to tell if the bites were the cause of the death or subsequent to it, the town’s consideration found its tipping point and the call to Dr. Williams was made.
***
“These are not indigenous flies,” Williams said, holding up a jar containing a number of Snipes he had collected. “These flies are usually found in the Southeast, not the Southwest. As to why and what they are doing here,” he said, absentmindedly scratching his thinning hair, “I’ll tell you truthfully... I haven’t got a clue.”
A group of ranchers had gathered at a local church that served as a county meeting place to hear what Williams had to say. They shuffled their feet and mumbled their displeasure. “A lot of good that does us” and, “Hell, I could’ve told you that myself” were typical of the comments made. One wry old rancher pointed out to Dr. Williams that they were all slapping at flies as they talked.
“Look,” Williams went on, ignoring the sarcasm, “I’m going to take these and some other specimens from around here back to the university for analysis and see if there is anything a microscope can tell us. I’m also going to call a few people I know in Florida where these flies probably came from. See if they know something I don’t. Meanwhile, I’ve got nothing for you. All I can say is stock up on Deet and pray for an early winter. I’ll get back to you.”
***
Whether or not prayers were a factor is difficult to say. Certainly some were offered. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that a short two days after Williams departed, so did the flies. No one could truthfully say why.
***
In Arboles, Colorado, Carrie Ann Seibel now stalked her porch with a vengeance. Her prey gathered thicker than ever and her swatter was seldom still. Although she dressed in jeans and long sleeved cowgirl shirts, she had acquired a half dozen more bites. Each new wound gave fuel to her rage and the insect body count mounting on the porch rose to reflect it. Carrie was growing more and more obsessed.
***
Although the flies had returned to a normal level in Volusia County, New Mexico, one man continued to pray. His prayers, however, were not the bent kneed pleas to a Christian God for expiation and mercy; his prayers had a darker calling and were thrown into the night on liquored breath. His prayers were not pleas, but rather curses to summon retribution and exact revenge. They were hatred, bitter and evil, verbalized to make his prayers reality.
***
Martin Blackleg was an Indian and whether you called him that or a Native American didn’t matter to him because, frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He was a Southern Ute, one of the richest tribes in America. With fiscal holdings in the millions derived from land, mining, and casinos, astute money managers saw to it that all tribal members shared in the largesse. Although Blackleg was only 35, he had recently been granted a yearly endowment of forty grand from the tribe for having ruined a knee in a mining accident. This money, which he received in monthly allotments, meant to Blackleg that he didn’t HAVE to give a shit and allowed him to pursue activities about which he did give a toad’s turd, a short list that consisted of tequila, mescaline and peyote, usually taken in combination and always in quantity. These drugs, which he consumed daily, induced in Blackleg a state he liked to call mystical as he was sure that while in it, he could summon forth spirits of the dead to do his bidding. The catch was, as tribal elders told him, that his prayers had to be offered with a true and honest heart. No problem there Blackleg thought. His heart held only one honest truth and that was he honest to fucking God hated his wife. The bitch had left him and disappeared into the night six months ago. He had prayed for revenge every day since then, prayers to the spirits of buffalo, eagle and bear, but they all proved fruitless. His wife remained gone...and unpunished.
Then one night when clouds obscured the moon and made his world as dark as his heart, an almost tangible bitterness emerged from Blackleg’s drug and alcohol stupor and he quite suddenly remembered his wife’s hatred of bugs. He cursed his prayers that night not to his tribe’s traditional totems, but to the tiny spirits, smallest of all, the petty annoyances that scurry underfoot and buzz about the ear. He prayed to the spirits of insects. When the flies in their fierce density had then appeared in Volusia County, Blackleg was certain his prayers had been answered. And yet still he prayed. With fevered intensity he prayed anew to send them on their way. He prayed the flies to find his wife.
***
There is a man-made lake that runs north and south through canyons that connect Northern New Mexico to Southern Colorado. All but the northern most mile of this thirty six mile narrow body of water called Navajo Lake, lies in New Mexico. The shores of that mile, the Colorado mile, run from the water’s edge up to acres of rock, scrub pine and sagebrush. Among that scruffy southwestern landscape, lies the small hay farming and ranch community of Arboles, pronounced Ar-bo-leez by its inhabitants. It is there where you will find The Arboles Store, upon whose long front porch stalked the bug killing machine named Carrie Ann Seibel. As the flies in their millions made their way steadily north through the canyon in short bursts of flight, alighting on the shores of the lake for only momentary pauses, Carrie Anne Seibel continued her kill count.
***
There are more known species of flies than there are vertebrates. Scientists have categorized over a hundred thousand and as many as a million are suspected. All the biting species, black flies, midges, deer flies, snipe, stable, yellow flies and more, are blood feeders. They can find you by seeing your movement or scenting your perspiration. They can even find you by sensing the carbon dioxide on your exhaled breath. They are relentless in pursuit of their food and they will attack any warm blooded creature. Swarms are rare, but not unheard of. The massive gathering of the Diptera that was moving steadily north above Lake Navajo, however, could not accurately be explained as natural or in keeping with the known habits of the Order. It seemed moved on a greater force; a force as yet unknown to Science and it had what appeared to the objective observer, direction and purpose. It was moving, quite simply, with intent.
***
As Carrie Ann Seibel slapped her swatter down on a tightly bunched cluster of flies, she was vaguely aware of distant noise emanating from somewhere to the south. She paused in her grim pursuit of insect death for just a moment to glance in that direction. Although the morning was lighted elsewhere with bright sunshine, a thick, dark cloud was visible on that southern horizon, moving slowly, but inexorably in her direction. Around her, the flies were growing thicker as well, and Carrie Ann renewed her lethal efforts. She was killing too fast to count now, thinking this would surely be a record day. Fly bodies crunched in clumps littered the porch floor, but Carrie Ann was too busy to stop and sweep them away. Her swatter whizzed and snapped with deadly efficiency.
***
Who can say how many flies it would take to fill a sky and darken a day, but whatever the number, they descended on the Arboles Store with the noise of a thousand chain saws at full rev. This noise, this hideous, terrifying noise, would be the last that Carrie Ann Seibel would ever hear and she would hear it but for a second. Flies in swarm dense as dirt filled her ears, clogging her aural passages. They crowded and crawled into her nostrils and when she gasped for air, they filled her mouth by the thousands, vomiting and shitting as all flies do when they alight. They crawled down her throat and choked off her air. It took but another moment, a finger snap, an eye blink, for Carrie Ann Seibel to crash to the floor and disappear under the gathered mass of the Order Diptera. Death, however, sweet now longed for death, was much slower in coming. Long minutes passed as countless microscopic bits of flesh were torn from her body in the flies’ pursuit of the blood that flowed within.
Though screams were impossible for Carrie Ann Seibel, prayers were not. She knew the origin of her death as she lay there being ravaged and consumed on the porch of the Arboles Store. It could be nothing else but hate manifested and directed. She knew of only one person who could hate with such murderous intensity, and so it was that Carrie Ann Seibel’s silent prayers were not for life or salvation, but were instead, for revenge. She prayed to the creatures of the Order Diptera to fly from whence they came. She prayed with a will that ignored pain and defied death for longer than human reason would allow. She prayed to send the flies back to Martin Blackleg.
***
That only two human deaths were recorded during the fly infestation of that year can be attributed to luck or, as Science would have it, unhappy coincidence, but surely a closer examination of the events would have been called for had it been known the victims were related. It wasn’t until much later that Carrie Ann’s name change from Blackleg to Seibel was revealed and the connection made. By then, no one really cared. Swarm flyovers had been reported during the incident by dozens of people across the landscape from Volusia County, New Mexico to Arboles, Colorado, the roughly 150 mile round trip the flies had taken. Why none of those people were attacked constituted the principal flaw in the scientific explanation. It was, so to speak, the fly in their ointment. That Supernatural forces were at work in the deaths of Blackleg and Seibel is a theory that continues to be ignored by Science despite the evidence that such is the case being heavily in that theory’s favor. Science, that is, the community of those who are supposed to be the most open-minded of all, are often not.
Copyright Doc Walton December, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
