As Mr. Janakay has occasionaly observed (admittedly somewhat to his peril), I do not possess a naturally sunny disposition. Unlike my more fortunate friends, I do not, alas, look for the silver lining purportedly possessed by even the stormiest cloud; think that it’s darkest just before the dawn; or consider a half-empty glass to be half-full. These days we live in are so very dark and dreadful, however, that I have decided to turn over a new leaf. Away with the doom and gloom! Up with the smiles and sunshine! For strictly pragmatic reasons, I have resolved to go from frowny to smiley face. Without some (perhaps irrational) optimism I see no way to survive the upcoming weeks, when I and my fellow Americans (of the U.S. variety) are clearly in for a very rough ride indeed. As part of my new program of sunshine & smiles, I’ve decided to compile a “Happiness List” of all the positive things that will keep me going in these stressful times. So — here goes!
The certain knowledge that 2020 will be over in fifty-six days and approximately four hours (depending on when I manage to finish this post). To borrow words once uttered by her British majesty during her own dark year, 2020 has been one annus horribilis and can’t end soon enough!
Will it surprise you, dear reader, to learn that I also “officially” voted earlier this week for one other thing to end as well? (Janakay doesn’t mean to be a tease, but no more details — some forums (fora?) need to stay neutral.) With respect to the current political situation, what can one say, except:
Having many, many wonderful new books, many more than I could read in a lifetime, but, hey — since when has practicality been a factor in my book acquisition? I began this awful year traumatized with the need to do a massive cull of my bookshelves, which I managed after some hysterics and the moderate assistance of medically prescribed tranquilizers. After dismembering my little library, I dumped the surviving volumes onto a moving truck that carried them away to their temporary new home, an unused bedroom where they’re currently sharing space with some lamp shades and a table or two. I retained, unpacked, only the very minimum number of books necessary for survival — perhaps 200 volumes or so — and resolutely refused to unpack the others, as they’d be moving again in a few months. My heroic restraint created empty space in the bookcases for the first time in my adult life! Well, we know that old saw about nature abhorring a vacuum, don’t we? I’m actually too embarrassed to disclose all of my new acquisitions, which are, frankly, quite enormous (I handle my stress by acquiring books). In mitigation, I plead extenuating circumstances: I began collecting my new stash months ago (last April to be exact); the NYRB Classics had several great book sales this year and many of you write really great blogs with excellent reading recommendations that I couldn’t resist (I’m like Oscar Wilde in one way at least, being able to resist anything but temptation). Below is an incomplete but fairly representative sample of my new books:
My third happiness is — gasp! new book shelves! Lots and lots of lovely, empty new shelves, just waiting to be filled when I finally complete my move.
Haven’t we all known the agony of triple stacking our beloved treasures, or even (horrors) boxing them away in one of those plastic slidey things that fit under the bed? Could it be that finally I will have enough space to alphabetize my fiction by authors’ last name and group my art books by artists? Reader, is it possible to have a greater happiness than this?
FOURTH (AND FINAL) HAPPINESS
Although I am definitely not an athletic type (turning the pages in my book, or clicking my kindle is quite enough exercise, thank you very much) I do find it absolutely necessary to touch nature at some level for at least some portion of time. In this respect, I’ve been lucky indeed; both my old home and my new have lots of green space.
Well, that’s it for my Happiness List. What’s on yours, dear reader? What’s keeping you afloat, so to speak, during these dark times?
If you’re a visitor to my blog, you may have noticed that my postings have been a little, ahem, erratic in the last month or so. What I have posted has perhaps been more visual and nature oriented than literary or bookish, which isn’t to say that my interests have shifted. As much as I love my nature viewing and museum visiting (I’ve at least two very nice regional museums to share with you, so watch out!) my life remains centered on books and the printed word, as it has been since I learned to read around the usual age of six or so. While I’ve been nature viewing, I’ve also been reading as much as ever (perhaps even more so) but — I hide nothing from you, dear reader — Janakay is just a teensy-weensy bit lazy! And it’s so much easier to read the wonderful books than to organize my thoughts and string them together in coherent sentences! Although I’m actually on track as far as the reading goes to meet my two challenges (Roofbeam Reader’s TBR, and Books and Chocolate’s Back to the Classics), I’m woefully behind in writing and posting the reviews of all that I’ve read. Monday is “Miscellany Day,” however, so I’m doing a hodgepodge of related topics; because the relationship is a rather loose one, feel free to skip around!
My first Miscellany is — Anna Maria, a barrier island off Florida’s Gulf Coast, and its nearby areas (I’m just back from a visit and sorting through photos).
While I was visiting Anna Maria, I did lots and lots of reading, which brings me to my second Miscellany: books that I started, stopped or finished during my time there:
And since I’m doing books, make sure your visit to Anna Maria includes a side excursion to nearby St. Petersburg (the drive is lovely) and the wonderful:
Are you surprised to learn that I’ve added to my TBR pile?
My third and final miscellany: Jane Austen’s Sanditon, the novel left unfinished at her death. Has anyone read this? Or, unlike myself, realized the importance in Austen’s fiction of seaside resorts and beach villages? Today’s Guardian has a wonderful article discussing Austen’s use of seaside resorts — a key scene in Persuasion occurs in Lime Regis; Lydia Bennet elopes from Brighton and Austen herself may have enjoyed a seaside romance. The article suggests that in Sanditon, Austen may have written the first seaside novel; at any rate, she certainly anticipated “what the seaside has come to represent in later modern fiction,” such as Chopin’s TheAwakening, Woolf’s To the Lighthouse or Banville’s The Sea.
The exciting news? Sanditon is being adapted for an eight part series on ITV, which will air this autumn! Thoughts anyone, about Anna Maria Island, Sanditon or any of my other reads?
Are any of you denizens of the internet residents of Florida? Has anyone visited Florida or, if you’re a wanderer of the blogosphere from somewhere other than the U.S., have you even heard of Florida or have any idea of what it’s like? To many, Florida is a sun-drenched version of the American dream, where summer is perpetual, the beach a block away and fresh orange juice as close as the tree in your back yard. The Florida lifestyle, in fact, can be so pleasant that it’s easy to forget, or overlook, the complexities of America’s third most populous state (that’s right! Only California and Texas have more people and New York — New York! — has less. In American presidential politics, this makes Florida one big electoral prize).
Florida is literally the land of tomorrow and of yesterday; a place where you can watch a rocket launch at Cape Canaveral one day and on the next visit St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States (founded by the Spanish in 1565, long before those English pilgrims showed up at Plymouth Rock). Florida is a land of paradox and contradictions, with disparate elements often existing in close juxtaposition to each other: a manicured golf course lies next to a mangrove swamp; Disney Land and tourist theme parks co-exist with Miami’s International Art Fair (the place to go for serious collectors of contemporary art); an alligator suns itself on a suburban driveway; egrets and herons fish alongside their human counterparts. Florida wraps this package of self-contradictions in endless miles of beautiful beaches. With the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other, Florida has more seacoast than any other continental state; its gorgeous white sand beaches and tropical waters have tempted generations of American college students south for spring break (note to anyone planning a mid-March Florida trip: take care in booking your hotel, unless you think setting off fire alarms at 3 am is the height of humor. Mr. Janakay does not and was very grumpy indeed after one of his spring Florida jaunts).
Because Florida has so many pleasurable ways to pass the time (not least, dear reader, it offers numerous opportunities to lounge on one’s porch or patio with something white and chilly in hand), it’s very, very easy to overlook its fantastic natural attractions. If you’ve wandered by my blog before, you know that I adore swamps, marshes, wildlife reserves, boardwalks, and parks; I’m basically a huge fan of any place where humanity has left even a sliver of room for non-human creatures. (Nature along the Delaware Coast; Nature on the Move). Although so many of Florida’s natural wonders have been lost to commercial development and population growth, there’s room for hope because so much still remains. Of these surviving remnants of “natural” Florida my very favorite is Corkscrew Swamp, a 13,000 acre sanctuary (about 5300 hectares) located in the western Everglades and operated by the National Audubon Society.
You may find Corkscrew and its wonders about thirty miles inland and slightly north of Naples; find Naples in the map’s lower green quadrant, put your finger on the “a” and go up a bit and you’ll have a rough idea of Corkscrew’s location.
Condominiums and beach playgrounds dominate much of the coast in this area; logging and agriculture have taken their toll. Despite visiting this part of Florida many times, I still find it hard to believe that this:
is only about 30 miles (approximately 48 kilometers) from this:
Visiting Corkscrew and viewing its wonders is easy. The sanctuary is open every day of the year; admission fees are minimal (fourteen American dollars; admission good for two consecutive days if you save your receipt) and the two miles of boardwalk provide easy access to Corkscrew’s different habitats (if you’re not up for two miles, there’s a shorter loop you can do). Because Florida is hot, and birds and wildlife can be scarce when people are present, I always try to arrive as early in the morning as possible (the boardwalk opens at 7 am).
One wonderful thing about wetlands are the sounds, which are frequently as interesting and unusual as the sights. Even though its sound recording isn’t great, this short video of Corkscrew’s prairie does give some idea of the cacophony of frogs, none of which were visible (the snuffling sound is the frogs; there’s also a bird in the background):
Once in the deep swamp I had one of those wonderful, unpredictable experiences that sometimes occur — a wildlife sighting! This was my first view of a group of Corkscrew’s river otters:
This is a brief video of the otters’ appearance. Because it was made towards the end of the wrestling match, several of the troupe had already moved along the boardwalk. You can hear some swamp sounds and (alas) the click of someone else’s very high tech camera:
Although the otters were hard (well, impossible) to top, Corkscrew has more wonders:
You may have noticed, dear reader, that I have a tendency to preach, which I do attempt (not always very successfully) to keep under control. Chalk it up to all that earnest, didactic Victorian literature I sometimes read (BTW I’m currently engrossed in Middlemarch, George Eliot’s wonderful doorstopper of a novel!). So — skip this paragraph if you like, you’ve received your warning — but it’s impossible for me when discussing Corkscrew not to stress how incredibly difficult it’s been (and continues to be, actually) to preserve its wonders. Have you ever heard of plume hunters or noticed the feathers in all those gorgeous women’s hats, so fashionable in the early part of the 20th century? Well, those feathers had to come from somewhere and the rookeries of south Florida were easy pickings. Plume hunters could make a fortune in one successful hunt and their activities almost wiped out Florida’s heron and egret population. The trade was finally outlawed in the 1920s but even then official enforcement was lax. Audubon hired its own wardens to protect Corkscrew’s nesting sites and launched a public relations campaign against wearing the plumes. It was difficult and violent struggle — two of Audubon’s wardens were murdered in the line of duty — but their efforts were successful and the egret/heron population was saved.
Because you’re observing a living biome, every trip to Corkscrew is different. For example, if you’re lucky enough to visit during October to February, you have a very good chance of seeing:
And then, if you’re incredibly lucky (not ordinary luck, but the kind where you’d win the powerball lottery), you might see — a Florida panther!
I can’t resist using this great video, lifted directly from YouTube. There’s a naughty expression at the end, so if you’re sensitive to such things you may want to turn off the sound. I’ve left it in, as it so exactly expresses how I would have felt!
Audubon calls Florida panthers an “umbrella species,” i.e., if they survive, so do lots of other things that use the same habitat. Once they were found over the entire southeastern U.S.; now there are about 100–150 left in a few spots in southern Florida. Cause for despair or reason to hope? Because the numbers have grown since 1995, when the population was down to only 20-30, you decide.
Are you, dear reader, a worshiper of the weekend? On Monday mornings do those two precious days glimmer like a mirage on the far horizon; a heavenly vision that gets you through those nasty mid-week blues? I must admit that I’m more tolerant of weekdays and less reverent about weekends since I’ve left the 9 to 5 routine but — they do remain special. Weekends are little breaks from the mundanity of everyday routine, with even the most ordinary non-special-occasion weekend offering its own little serendipities. The greatest, of course, is the weekend read. An entire afternoon, with no chores or commitments, and nothing, absolutely nothing, between you and the book of your choice. A treat of this caliber is rare, even on weekends, but there are lesser delights to savor. On weekends, the morning’s hasty bagel breakfast can expand to include a friendly interchange with the bagel chomper at the next table, or the harried trip to the grocery store can become leisurely enough to notice (finally) that nice patch of flowers along your route. Or — hang on to your hat, Magellan! — you might feel relaxed and adventurous enough to explore a different route to a familiar destination; or even to try a different activity — a new store, an unfamiliar park or museum or that obscure cafe you’ve being hearing about. Even the domestic routine mellows out — weekends are for trying new recipes, or looking at forgotten photos, or giving the cat an extra tummy tickle along with his/her’s Little Friskies Gravy Lovers’ Treat (a huge favorite in my household). In short, weekends are for doing all those little things that are actually very big things.
Although weekends are pretty super any time of the year, summer weekends are really unbeatable. One huge factor contributing to their charm — farmers’ markets! Do any of you live near farmers’ markets and, if so, do you enjoy them as much as I do? In my area, they’ve gone from being rather rare to being ubiquitous. Although you may find, depending on location, a pop-up market on Friday, or even Thursday, Saturday morning markets tend to be the most popular. Many of the markets also include much more than the usual fruits and veggies (although I tend to stick to the produce). The Saturday morning farmer’s market is one of summer’s delights, combining exercise (well, sort of — you do have to walk past the stands), entertainment (if nothing else, there’s always people watching, or a clever dog chasing a frisbee) and really great food:
When you’ve had enough of the farmers’ market, or if you decide to skip it that week, not to worry! Summer weekends have still more delightful possibilities for the dedicated hedonist! Although my ideal physical exercise is ordinarily confined to turning a page, in the summer I actually like to walk. One of my very favorite places for a summer’s stroll (quite accessible from where I live, but, unfortunately, not terribly close) is Little Bennett, a gorgeous multi-use state park containing numerous paths and trails, natural wonders in the form of native plants and critters and some interesting historical sites. Although Little Bennett is under increasing pressure from a growing population (it’s only a couple of miles from a recently developed “town center” that added approximately 20,000 people to this part of the state), it remains an incredible oasis of natural beauty. Because Little Bennett is a large place (3700 acres or about 1497 hectares), quiet and solitude can be found there even on crowded weekends. It has a variety of trails, suited to almost every energy level:
A third summer delight for those less outdoorsy moments is taking a bit more time to savor the cultural offerings that come with the season. This year I hit the jackpot, as there’s a wonderful June-August exhibition at the National Gallery on:
(in the first exhibition photo, you can see that this digital display is located to the right of the entrance; as you can tell from the sound — you may want to use mute — its animated animals are quite popular with the kids).
Since summer is my time for exploring, I usually visit the Gallery’s east wing, devoted to modern art, more often than I do at other times of the year. The east wing has recently reopened after a five-years renovation. Its totally gorgeous galleries are expansive, roomy and filled with light.
Although this post is growing dangerously long, in the spirit of Miscellaneous Monday I’m throwing in some miscellaneous video, also from the National Gallery (as you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m learning how to use video on my website!) One of my favorite parts of the museum is its “people mover,” part of an underground concourse that connects the older West Building to the Gallery’s newer East Wing. The lights you see in the video are part of the Multiverse light sculpture created by the American artist Leo Villarreal:
Immediately preceeding the people-mover/light sculpture is the National Gallery’s “waterfall,” which is visible from the underground cafeteria and bookstore and provides a source of natural light to these spaces:
Finally, if all this activity is just too energy consuming, nothing is better on a summer weekend than just plain taking it easy in a favorite spot:
I am consumed with shame (well, figuratively if not literally) when I realize how little I’ve posted lately. I can’t say I have any reason for my sloth, except that I’ve been enjoying the incredible luxury of unscheduled time; in other words, I’ve been slothful because I’m slothful! I’ve read a few books (but not written any reviews — too analytical, for my present mood); done a little museum hopping (not nearly as exciting to normal people as pub crawling); and made a half-hearted attempt to clean up a closet or two. The closet cleaning has been quite distracting, as I’ve uncovered a number of lost or forgotten treasures — a great old paperweight (I warn you, I adore paperweights, so you probably have a Monday Miscellany on this subject headed your way); a wonderful glass fish that’s only got a slightly broken tail — it’s got to be good for something; and a lifetime supply of yellow sticky notes! Have any of you wanderers on the internet discovered similar wonders in your closets or cupboards?
In addition to these rather domestic activities there’s always something interesting going on in the natural world. Even casual birders such as myself have certain little rituals they observe, particularly in the spring when there are actually some birds to look at for those of us living in the (mostly) urban portion of the northern hemisphere. One of these, which I posted about last month, is a trip to Magee Marsh, a wonderful natural area and major stopping off point for song birds migrating through the central United States. Another, which comes a little later in May, is a short trip north to the shores of Delaware Bay, where every spring the horseshoe crabs come ashore to lay their eggs. In one of those marvels of the natural world, the egg laying coincides with the arrival of hundreds of thousands of shorebirds trekking from South America to their far northern breeding grounds. Unfortunately for the birds, horseshoe crabs are extremely useful in medical research and commonly used as bait, and are being heavily over-harvested, leaving the famished birds with nothing to eat. This misuse by humans threatens to break yet another strand in nature’s great web of life.
First, for a little geographic orientation:
Have any of you ever seen a horseshoe crab? They’re actually not crabs. Popularly referred to as “living fossils,” they belong to a far more primitive species closer akin to scorpions or anthropoids. And — they’re big! I believe there are only four species left on the planet; three are in the Indo-Pacific area and one is found in the coastal waters of North America.
Although Red Knots tend to be popular favorites, they’re only one among many bird species that feast on the crab eggs. On a good day, you can also see Ruddy Turnstones, Dowitchers, Dunlins, Semipalmated and Least Sandpipers, and Yellowlegs. One of the best viewing areas that I’ve found is:
In addition to all these attractions, the Nature Center even has art work:
In addition to the Horseshoe Crab-shorebird spectacle, a trip to Delaware in the spring offers other delights. You pass through several scenic little towns (but beware! many of them have speed traps!) with odd little bits of local history:
Delaware is surprisingly rural in spots, to be so close to so many east coast cities; in the spring many of the farm fields are gorgeous:
Delaware, like many other states, also has links to a darker past ….
I’m afraid my blog has been distressingly free of any new content for — my heavens! — can it be a week now? Say it ain’t so, Joe! Well, it does happen, especially when we get just a teeny bit preoccupied, which does make all those good intentions fly right out the window! The distraction last week was SPRING! And not just toasty weather, nice new green leaves and flowers, but SPRING Migration! This may not mean much to all you normal people out there, but for birders (even for halfway, fairly frivolous birder types such as myself) spring migration is a very big deal indeed, especially if you live in a northern location where for the rest of the year the birding can be rather dull.
Migration’s most fundamental attraction is simply visual — birds are beautiful to look at, especially during the spring when they’re wearing nice new feathers and bright colors. The reason is obvious; they’ll soon be staring in their own version of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” as they’re migrating to summer mating and nesting areas. There’s also the simple fact that there are birds to look at, after a long winter during which there are few to be seen. During migration you not only see more birds, but you also have the chance to see bird species that are passing through your area as they travel to their summer home somewhere else. Spotting a species that you don’t normally see, or that you see only rarely, is like winning a lottery prize, albeit a non-material one.
There’s a more serious note, at least for me, however, that underlies the visual beauty and the enjoyment of being out of doors and that’s an almost mystical sense of how various creatures and processes make up the great web of life. Did you know that a North American warbler, for example a Blackpoll, weighs less than a ballpoint pen and is only about 5 inches (15 cm) long? Yet in the fall that tiny thing (and keep in mind that a Blackpoll is one of the larger warbler species) flies over 1800 miles non-stop, crossing parts of the the Atlantic Ocean to reach its wintering grounds. The journey is so tough that the bird’s body starts to literally consume itself, feeding off muscle and even organs that the bird doesn’t need as it flies, such as its digestive system (remember the warbler’s not eating after it launches itself over open water). Warblers and other song birds can only sustain their flights for so long; for them it’s literally reach ground before their bodies consume themselves or die. And, of course, many of them do. A storm; unusual weather patterns; a strong wind from the wrong direction; a housing development where a feeding stop used to be; gulls or migrating raptors looking for a snack and … well … you get the idea. The individual bird perishes, but the species goes on, at least until we finish paving the world over with concrete. When I see a migrating warbler I sometimes think of the moment when that warbler reaches the Atlantic, or the Gulf of Mexico or Lake Erie and, without knowing the outcome, strikes out into the unknown, simply hoping to reach a good spot on the other side of those vast and terrifying depths. If that isn’t a metaphor for human existence, I don’t know what is.
I spent my week of non-blogging (and rather limited reading, I must admit) at Magee Marsh, a nature refuge on the southern shore of Lake Erie, one of the five Great Lakes along the northern United States (four of the Great Lakes form part of the border between the U.S. and Canada).
Although it’s not on a flyway, Magee Marsh is a critical stopping point for migrants that come to Lake Erie and need food and rest before they’re strong enough to attempt a crossing. Essentially the Marsh, which is one of Lake Erie’s last bits of undeveloped wetland, is a giant bird hotel that provides shelter, food and water for the birds, and a boardwalk trail for the birders. Both groups appear happy with the arrangement.
Here are some of the things I saw at Magee Marsh last week:
Over 300 different bird species pass through Magee Marsh each year. Although warblers are certainly the main attraction, many other wonderful things also rely on the Marsh to survive during spring migration:
For a wildlife refuge, Magee Marsh is easily accessible from several midwestern cities, including Cleveland, Toledo and Detroit. It’s easy to stay in one of several small towns withing driving distance. I usually pick Port Clinton, a small town that’s primarily centered on sport fishing (it styles itself “the Walleye capital of the World” and who’s to say it isn’t?). Port Clinton has a sprinkling of older houses and an impressive array of yachts; it also doesn’t really come alive until late May, after spring migration is over and birds and birders have left.
After a bit of thought, I’ve decided to make Monday on the blog “Miscellany Day,” i.e., a time to feature whatever interests me at the moment, whether it’s a painting, photo, movie, travel experience, short story or even — a BOOK! Since it’s spring, and, around here, that means cherry blossoms, I thought that I’d make the subject of my first “Monday Miscellany” my recent excursion to the Tidal Basin to see the cherry trees. The blossoms don’t last very long — making them a perfect symbol of spring and of human existence — so if you want to see them you can’t delay. This is the first time in many years that I’ve gone to the trouble — and believe me, it does involve a little planning, as cherry blossoms mean crowds, as well as spring — but worth it, don’t you think?
Although I seldom read poetry any more, cherry trees and spring always bring me back to one of my very favorite poems, from A. E. Houseman’s Shropshire Lad:
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
And, speaking of nature’s beauty, I’ll end with my last image from the Tidal Basin, which perfectly expresses my own view:
If you, dear reader, are even remotely like myself, you are always searching for something, whether it’s the meaning of life or the location of the laundry detergent! These days, perhaps because of the weather (will winter never just leave and go back to the arctic where it belongs?), I’m particularly restless, with a number of moderately intense searches going on. For instance:
I am …..desperately searching for spring!
…. contentedly searching for completion!
…. optmistically searching for a topic for my research project!
…. relunctantly seeking domestic order!
…. stoically searching for closure!
…. delusionally searching for physical fitness!
…. happily seeking harmonious sounds!
And you, dear reader — what are YOU searching for, in these days before the official arrival of spring?
The blog has been a little, ahem, “bare” of new content this past week, primarily because I’ve gotten away for a few days pursuing one of my secondary hobbies — looking at nature, particularly birds. Although I’m very much a couch potato type, there are times when I just have to get outdoors and breathe air that’s been neither recyled, reheated or artificially cooled. Aside from providing sheer relaxation, the natural world serves a number of functions for me; first and foremost, I’m very much a part of the 19th century school that views nature as a manifestation or expression of the sublime and that sees spirituality in nature’s workings. On a different level, the inter-relationships of the natural world — the ways in which the web of life binds plants, animals, birds, and insects into a functioning ecological system — can be incredibly interesting from a purely cerebral point of view. The more I learn about one little piece of nature (say, a new bird species or some strange plant) the more I become interested in the parts that connect to it. Moreover, there’s the added attraction of learning, if only a little bit (there’s usually not time for learning much beyond the birds) about the history and culture of whatever place I happen to go for my nature/bird viewing. And, last but certainly not least — nature activities can just be plain fun! Anyway, my “nature place” this time around was Jamaica, an island of bays, coves and mountains:
Unless you share my hobby you’re probably unaware that Jamaica has over 300 different species of birds, including 28 endemics, i.e., birds that naturally occur nowhere else in the world besides Jamaica! If you’re a birder, you go to Jamaica primarily for the endemics, such as this one:
And — you take this book, which you’ve hopefully studied before hand (I hadn’t!):
Remember my comment about finding the sublime in nature?
Now — for the “reading” part of my post. Because I’m talking Jamaica, I have to mention one of my very favorite writers, the immensely talented Marlon James. Has anyone read his Booker prize winner from a few years ago, A Brief History of Seven Killings? I think it’s one of the most powerful novels written by anyone in at least the last decade. A native of Kingston, James has set many of his novels on the island.
I can’t wait (but I’ll have to!) to read one of James’ earlier works, set in the British ruled Jamaica of the 19th century, when most of the island’s inhabitants were enslaved:
For the historically minded, there’s a fabulous nonfiction account of the history and culture of Jamaica and the other islands of the Carribbean basin. To my shame, I”ve never read my copy (which I’ve had for years) but — it’s on my TBR list for next year!
As for my other reading, when I wasn’t watching birds:
Finally (because I really, really, really have to get back to Great Expectations), remember what I said at the outset, about the fun aspect of nature activities?