From the time I learned to read, animals were my favorite subject. I devoured their stories–fiction and non–with a hunger that couldn’t be quenched. Discovering the library at my elementary school was like opening the door to Aladdin’s cave. I chewed through stacks of books per week: Aesop’s fables; classics like The Yearling, Rascal, and Old Yeller; the dog novels of Albert Payson Terhune; the wilderness tales of Ernest Thompson Seton.
Over 50 years later, that love of animal stories is undiminished. They remain my favorite topic, my boon companions. And so, this: a list of ten beloved animals books, in no particular order.
There are others books, of course–Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web, Doctor Rat, The Poky Little Puppy, Gorillas in the Mist–but I’d be here all day listing them. What are yours?
I’m going dark for the next week; off for a bit of renewal time with a friend from high school, a chance to girl-talk, woman-talk, and get my head focused again so I can throw myself back into the writing when I return – with, I hope, renewed vigor.
Before I go, I’d like to honor Memorial Day and all those who have given their lives in service of this country. In particular, I’d like to honor the memory of my cousin, Durward Limbacher, who died in Vietnam at the tender age of 21, serving as a medic. I did not know him – there was 10 years between us, and he lived far away – but I met him once and remember him to this day. He was that sort of person.
Here’s the latest from Books & Boos Press on the release of Three on a Match, the second book in the Terror Project series. I’m proud to be part of this endeavor–Thanks, Guys!–and to share the spotlight with Kristi Petersen Schoonover and g. Elmer Munson.
Patrick Rea–director of Nailbiter and Arbor Demon–calls it “…a frightening menagerie of horror that offers a shocking blend of well-crafted tales to keep you up at night.”
Of my story, “Thicker Than Water,” Mr. Rea writes: “Crandall has a knack for description … [her story] is a literary mash-up of 18th century vernacular and conversational rhythms with a modern, present tense narrative and some WOW Factor special effects. In Crandall’s skilled hands, it all works.”
Thank you, Patrick!
Well, my intent was to blog regularly and we all know how that ended. Seems every time I “plan” to do it, those plans are flung awry by circumstance. In this case, I don’t mind.
For some time now, I’ve been trying to arrange a visit by my friend Roger Henneous to see the elephants at the Oregon Zoo. This isn’t just someone with an interest in elephants going to the zoo, this is the man who was senior keeper to those elephant returning after twenty years. Pretty damned momentous, particularly given that Roger once declared that there were too many bad memories associated with the place for him to ever consider going back.
Bit of clarification – Roger was senior keeper from roughly 1968 to 1998, give or take. Lots happened then, both good and bad. Several sweet calves were born. Roger went head-to-head with administration more than once, and busted his hump to give the elephants the best care he and his team could provide. (Details will be provided in my book THE MAN WHO LOVED ELEPHANTS.) The worse part was that during his last five years at the zoo, he lost several elephants to foot disease, his father to emphysema, and his mother to cancer.
To say the man was beat is to put it mildly. And so he withdrew.
Then an annoying little flea of a writer named Melissa Crandall (c’est moi!) got in touch with him about writing his memoirs. Initially, Rog thought she was “a quarter-bubble off” (if you know anything about working with levels, you’ll get the reference), but he agreed to talk with me and soon we were conversing 3 hours a week and I was scribbling madly. During the course of all this talk, Roger made it clear that he was NEVER, EVER, EVER going back to the zoo.
Okay, sez moi. No worries.
Except that one day, in passing, he said how nice it “might” be to see the old place and all the changes. “If you really mean that, Roger, ” I replied, “I’ll move Heaven and Earth to make it happen.” Roger agreed.
This was no a smooth journey, by any means, and toward the end I began to doubt whether it would happen or not. But Roger trusted me–thank you for that, my friend–and with the help of his wife RoseMerrie, daughters Michelle and Melissa, elephant curator Bob Lee, and veterinarian Mitch Finnegan, we made it happen.
Thanks to those listed above, and to the old friends who came out to welcome Roger back after all these years: Jim Rorman, Margot Monti, Rick Hanes, Diana Bratton, and Ivan Ratcliff. Thanks as well to the elephant staff to made our day so much fun: Gilbert Gomez, Shawn Finnell, and Pam Starkey.
And here’s the proof it really happened:
Roger meets Shine again for the first time in 20 years.
Roger and the old gang:
A certain hill looms large in my memories, although it wasn’t particularly large itself.
The yard behind the house in Clifton Park, NY where I grew up (we had yards back then, rather than manicured lawns) was wide enough to contain a swing-set and a clothesline before it sloped down toward our elderly neighbor’s garden plot at about a 45-degree angle. It wasn’t a large area, but to child-me, it was the world.
In summer, clad in shorts and a sleeveless top, my mother would lounge on an ugly gray blanket and work on her tan, one eye on me and one on the mystery novel she was reading, ears tuned to the ballgame playing on the portable radio. (Go, Yankees!) My bedroom window looked out onto that hill and when my father mowed it, sheering the grass in long rows, the heavenly fragrance graced my dreams. My friends and I flung ourselves down on the crest of that hill and, arms tucked tight, rolled to the bottom, then sat up and laughed as the world whirligig’d around us.
In fall, we did the same, the only difference being the vast pile of leaves raked into a heap at the bottom to catch us, because what’s the point of fallen eaves if you don’t jump into them? As the days grew shorter, we did our best to stretch the hours lingering on the hill as late as possible, darting in and out of shadows, dancing in the light from the big bulb above the back door.
In winter–ah, winter!–the heavy snows packed and froze, then melted a bit and refroze, growing a crust thick enough to support my weight. In what I once thought was a bid to do me in, my mom waxed the bottom of my aluminum saucer with Pledge furniture polish and I careened down the hill, my heart in my throat, hanging on for dear life, laughing breathlessly, spinning in circlescirclescircles as I shot past the dead stalks in the neighbor’s garden and halfway up the distant embankment which, if breasted, would have landed me in the middle of Route 146. I never made it that far, the angle of the second hill being enough to turn me back the way I’d come, but it always seemed a close thing.
Spring was the hill’s quiet time, a sedate emergence from winter as brown grass slowly put out bright green shoots to match the budding iris in my dad’s flowerbeds. Games of pretend made us cowboys and Indians, and gave us horses our parents wouldn’t let us have in reality. As the evenings grew warmer, we sat on the brow of the hill, we kids, and counted the stars, pointing out the Big Dipper, the only constellation we knew at the time.
The hill is gone now, flattened in the wake of the property being sold and the house demolished. There’s a Stewart’s store where my home once stood, gas pumps where poppies grew. A few trees remain–old friends still–but nothing remains of the hill except for a ghostly outline only I can see, and the distant laughter of children.
“Sometimes we just want to lie. I meet a woman I’ll never see again at a swimming pool. ‘How many children do you have?’ she asks, never imaging the number zero. ‘Oh, four,’ I say. ‘Two still at home, one married, and one in his junior year at Northwestern.’ I smile with pleasure.” — Natalie Goldberg, Old Friend from Far Away
We all lie, despite our best intentions to be (mostly) truthful. We’re often ashamed when it occurs–especially if we get caught–but we keep right on doing it. Big lies and small ones. Lies to soften a blow. Lies to save to our own asses. Lies to embellish, and lies to tear down. Lies to hide from ourselves, and lies we hope will become truth given enough time.
You name the situation, we’ve got a lie for it.
But not all lies are bad. My best–the one with which I had the most fun–was perpetrated at the 38th World Science Fiction Convention (Worldcon), also known as Noreascon II, held in Boston in 1980. It was my first-ever convention–talk about a trial by fire!–and I attended with my then-best friend, Eileen Accurso. We were 22 years old and our time together was coming to an end, much as we tried to deny it. She was inexorably closing in on marriage and motherhood, while I was headed to Southampton College to pursue a dream. With bold determination to ignore the approaching fork in our shared road, we were bent on celebrating life among others of our own kind.
Within moments of arrival–having secured floor space in a room with people Eileen had met at another con–we donned our costumes and hit the convention hard. Costumes? you ask. Oh, yes. But rather than co-opt another’s universe, we portrayed characters from our own shared world: Kyl (pronounced ‘kyle’), the mercurial and tempestuous captain of the Silver Panther (that was Eileen), and me as her second officer, the stalwart and steady Laryne. In black pants, boots, home-sewn silver tunics, and, yes, blasters at the ready, we joined in the fun and games, racing through the lobby, engaging in battles with other groups, and teaming up with a bunch of teenage boys whose names I desperately wish I could recall (Captain Steve?), who were some of the best role-players I ever met. Because, see, for the days of the con, no one retained their day-to-day identity. Eileen was Kyl. I became Laryne. Captain Steve wasn’t some high-school kid from Massachusetts battling acne and college-quality grades, he was sure-as-shit Captain of his ship and don’t you forget it! And his crew! Never out of character and, frankly, it’s difficult to resist a group of good-looking young men who come to attention and salute, fist-to-chest, whenever they see you.
I’ve attended many conventions since then, but none will ever surpass the joy (fear, frustration, anger, magic) of that first time. The land was full of heroes. Not only could I walk among them, I could meet them face-to-face, and engage in conversation. Alan Dean Foster. Barclay Shaw. Isaac Asimov. Harlan Ellison. Terry Pratchett. Spider Robinson. Damon Knight. Frederick Pohl. Lester del Rey. Robert Silverberg. The Wombat, Jan Howard Finder. Catherine and L. Sprague de Camp (who one day, at a much-later convention, would share a breakfast table with me and some friends from Buffalo).
Honestly? I miss those days.
Writers lie. We create and pretend. We change the rules of the universe. We play God, a little bit. That time at WorldCon/Noreascon gave me freedom beyond the page to be what/who I wanted to be. It allowed me a brief window into another world, one I’d yearned for without actually knowing it existed. One in which geeky, four-eyed, bookish little me was accepted just as she was.
And she was fine.
Somehow, I thought he would live forever.
Ridiculous, of course, but it’s the sort of notion that arises. Maybe it’s more of a hope or prayer, a mantra against the inevitable.
Like many others, I thought of him as mine, although I had little claim on him. I wasn’t there when he arrived on April 14, 1962, the only child of Belle and Thonglaw, 225 pounds of astonishing baby Asian elephant, the first of his kind born in captivity in over 40 years. I didn’t see his childhood among the growing herd, watched over by diligent Al Tucker and his crew. I never got to enjoy his teenage years and see him come into his own, pitting his intelligence–and rising hormones–against my friend Roger Henneous, who took over the elephant barn when Tucker retired.
I came on the scene in 1996. Packy was 34 years old and fully mature, a father seven times over, although only one of his children–Sung-Surin, better known as Shine–has survived him.
He was astonishing; jaw-droppingly wonderful, amazing, incomprehensible. Immense. Grand. Majestic. An earth-bound leviathan better than twelve feet tall and weighing more than 14,000 pounds in his prime. You’d look at him, and your brain couldn’t seem to grasp the fact of him.
Stories abound. I know some of them and wish I knew more: how he challenged Roger during a performance in front of hundreds of spectators; how he gave Dr. Bets Rasmussen her first clues to the estrus cycle in elephants by touching the tip of his trunk to a damp patch of soil and then lifting it to the roof of his mouth; how he bit eight inches off Hugo’s trunk; how much he and Al Tucker loved each other.
Now his stories are over. The world is a greater place for his having been here, but smaller now with his passing.
But I have this hope:
Close your eyes. Imagine a vast plain of grass stretching to the horizon and beyond. As far as you can see, there are elephants–grazing, playing, napping. On a knoll stands a lone female, her wise face turned toward the East and the rising sun. Her ears fan open as she catches the sound of familiar footsteps. Walking out of the dawn comes Packy, her son, her beloved. She hurries to meet him, squealing, rumbling, crooning with delight. Their trunks coil around each other and they are, at long last, reunited. Forever.
Some time ago, inspired by the nonfiction book “The Grief Club” by Melodie Beattie, I began to research my female ancestors. Beattie recommends going back a couple of generations, enough to give you a sense of where you come from. I knew back to my great-grandparents on both sides, so figured I’d delve two or three generations beyond them.
I became fascinated by the beauty of their names, these sadly faceless women whose blood runs in my veins. Hextilda, Rohese, and Albreda. Gwaladus, Eschyna, and Angharad. And the usual run of Margarets, Marys, Elizabeths, and Katherines.
Common family history holds that my mother’s line comes from Britain, my dad’s from Germany, but in my walk backward through time I discovered France, Italy, Norway, Finland, Turkey, and Armenia, among others. Truth is, if you go back far enough, you find that we’re all damn-near to being related. There were only just so many families to marry into way back when. (And much fascinating reading about “Mitochondrial Eve” and the idea of seven mothers from whom we all originate, should you care to dive into that particular pool.)
I found Maud De Greystoke (does this mean I’m related to Tarzan?), of French descent but born in Palestine. The three warring factions amid Scottish rule–Comyn, Bruce, and Baliol–all make an appearance. There are O’Tooles, O’Briens, and even some Bacons. (How many degrees from Kevin am I?) And I laughed long and loud to find myself descended from Alfhild Gandolfsdatter, daughter of Gandolf Alfgeirsson. (Yes, I’m aware that Tolkien spelled it differently. Cut me some slack, willya? I’m having fun.)
What struck me hardest on this journey were the blank spaces where names disappeared into obscurity. Who were they, these women who tended hearth and home, birthed children and often buried them, or died giving them life? How many of them kept things running at home while their husbands and sons and fathers went off to this or that war? How many–like my Grandmother Geneva–raised their family alone after their husband died or abandoned them? How many bore the children of marauders and rapists? Why are they not recorded or remembered? Is it because they were considered unimportant, mere property like a dog or horse or sofa?
They’re important to me. Those women had faces, and spirits. They laughed and cried, swore and fought, loved and lost. Some did whatever it took to survive. Others surrendered and died where they stood. Some were obedient to the dictates of their age. Others were a constant trial to their families and likely suffered for it. We don’t know, but we should.
Remember your grandmothers. You are here because of them. Celebrate that they were here. Lift a glass to your Genevas and Virginias, your Minnies and Lucretias. Honor especially those who will remain nameless for all time. Don’t let them disappear entirely. Salute the vanished, for they are us.
“Children see magic because they look for it.” – Christopher Moore, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Friend
When do we, as adults, lose our sense of magic in the world? When do we cease believing that the second star to the right will take us to Neverland? What makes us surrender the power to see magic in a rainbow, the arc of a fish as it rises from the water, the simple beauty of morning sunlight on a spiderweb, or the first snowflake?
Are we afraid of ridicule? Has being “grown up”–in truth, not a role I’ve ever aspired to in the usual sense–come to mean that we should look at the stars and remain unmoved? Are we so fearful of being viewed as someone different, eccentric, quirky? (Never mind that far too many of us walk around every day with an electronic bug in our ear, talking to thin air. That’s not strange at all … now that it’s commonplace.)
Writers can’t afford to relinquish the hold magic has in our lives. It’s where the words come from: PFM, Pure Fucking Magic. It gives us the what ifs and how comes, the why and wherefores and what abouts. Magic helps us to dream.