Lies, Damned Lies, and Memories

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When I was about four years old, a squirrel found its way into our house. My dad and his brother pursued it while my mom and I cowered in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn. Eventually one of the men killed it with a hammer. I don’t remember seeing the corpse, but I have a vague memory of bloody kitchen towels.

Awful, isn’t it. But don’t be too alarmed. Chances are this massacre never happened. My parents have no memory of the incident, and killing a small animal with a blunt object seems like something that would stick. I might have made the whole thing up. Continue reading

Brothers in Obsolescence

exploding violin

Most summer nights at the Banff Centre for the Arts, classical music wafts out of a concert hall, attended by a small but dedicated audience of regulars. The musicians are young. The audience is old. On a July night I wander over to a recital of the Brandenburg Concertos, played in period style, with string bows overtightened until wood bends convex over horsehair.

It’s been a professionally deflating day, and I can use the relaxation of ensemble music. Globe and Mail editor John Stackhouse has visited the centre and given a rather bleak take on modern journalism. The days of being a full-time professional writer, with a pension, may have been a brief historical anomaly, he says: A blip in the post-war era. Advertising revenues have collapsed for good, freelance writing rates are plummeting, and journalism is leaning more on charitable foundations and advertorial. We budding writers will have to find our own way. But what that way might look like is rather mysterious.

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A Tiny Dolphin and a Big Problem

The following is an essay I wrote while reporting from the Sea of Cortez last fall. To learn more, read my piece in this month’s Harper’s Magazine: “Emptying the World’s Aquarium.”

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Over the past few days I have found myself thinking a lot about the tragic poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” In it, the narrator kills an albatross and brings on the wrath of the ocean – bad weather, ghost ships, and whirlpools. It’s a transfixing tale of willful destruction followed by forgiveness and redemption. One particular quote keeps popping to mind.

He prayeth well, who loveth well / Both man and bird and beast

He prayeth best, who loveth best / All things both great and small

Here in the Upper Gulf of California, fishermen, governments, and environmentalists have been struggling with a different kind of albatross – not one that soars high on the wind but rather lurks unseen in the murky water. But when the fishermen pull it into their nets, it’s an omen just as bad as that legendary bird. Continue reading

Leaving the party: a grateful goodbye

7914623918_090abbdf53_cNeither one of us is good at good-byes.

Tom, who abhors leaving a party, prefers to remain until every other guest has departed, the host has passed out or gone to bed, and he’s holding forth to the household pets and/or appliances. That way, he knows he won’t miss out on any of the fun.

Erika would rather slip out quietly while a party is in full swing, the guests are laughing uproariously and everyone is in that blissed-out “What a great party!” stage. That way, she knows she won’t commit some embarrassing faux pas that will be noticed by all the partygoers, then retold for decades as an epic tale of social disaster. Continue reading

Singing Our Hearts Out

That's me in the red jacket.
That’s me in the red jacket.

Recently I was rehearsing a glorious 16th-century motet with a group of 20 or so people. Haec dies quam fecit Dominus, the song begins. This is the day that the Lord has made; let us be glad and rejoice in it. It’s an Easter text and a lovely thought, whether or not you think the Lord actually made this day or whether the day made itself, thank you very much, from the rotation of the Earth. This is a day; let’s enjoy it.

The piece is by William Byrd, an English composer of Shakespeare’s time—yes, he’s wearing a ruff in his portrait—who wrote a lot of sacred music like this. The idea that different people could sing different things at the same time was fairly new in the Renaissance, and composers like Byrd went to town with it. Continue reading

New Person of LWON: Helen Fields

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Knitted dragons George and Clive in Svalbard.

Readers! Please welcome science writer Helen Fields, the newest person of LWON (or LaWON if you prefer). You may remember that she wrote a lovely guest post last year to help us rookies figure out how to visit a natural history museum. The exceedingly talented Helen has written about frogs and crayfish and whales and meteorites, but she really likes to write about poop.

There’s a lot to love about Helen – her Fluevogs, her knitted dragons, her penmanship, her angelic voice. I could go on and on and on. But I won’t because I want you to have your own reasons for loving her. You can read her first post on Monday.

Image courtesy of Helen Fields.

My frenemy; or, Chanel the corpse flower

Amorphophallus_titanum_-_Botanischer_Garten_der_Universität_Basel_07Oh, Chanel, you were such a tease. Maybe I should have figured that out from your fancy name, or from your Facebook page. When I look back, it’s not that you posted anything actually untrue, but you did get me all excited about your debut, your flowering, your signature scent. You were constantly updating the hours you were available; there was even a webcam to show what you were up to every five minutes. Looking back, it any wonder how worked up I was about finally having the chance to meet you?

But then: the Facebook page. I should have known from just that. How many plants have a social media presence? Continue reading

Conversation with Dan Vergano: the Science Ghetto

shutterstock_11125360Ann:  In the last year or more or so, science writers have had Twitterfights with a culture/media writer, a nonfiction writer, and a script writer.   After the latest fight another science writer, the wise and civilized Dan Vergano of USA Today, Twitter-messaged me that he wished these fights would stop because they reinforced the walls around the science ghetto.  “GUEST POST!” I said.  “I’d rather make it a conversation,” he said.  So, Dan:  I never heard of the science ghetto.  Does that mean I’m so far inside it I didn’t know it had an outside?

Dan:   Ann is making a funny with her question. Her book, The Jasons: The Secret History of Science’s Postwar Elite is exactly the kind of look at the real-world intersection of science and militarism that I think matters more than one more story about a snub-nosed dinosaur.

Ann:  Oh well then. In that case, I completely see the force and rationale in your argument.  No — vanity aside for one second — really, I still don’t know what the science ghetto is.  And what’s the problem with stories about snub-nosed dinosaurs?

Dan:  The idea, and it comes from the redoubtable Tom Hayden, is that science reporting has largely become a secret garden walled off, and walling itself off, from the rest of the world.  Instead of reporting on the scientific aspects of news stories — whether Iran really will have the bomb, whether Quantitative Easing will spark inflation, whether Peak Oil is a real concern — we write pretty entertainments about mummies, exploding stars and the sex life of ducks. All that stuff is great, but it is a news diet of ice cream and cookies without any sirloin. And it has contributed to the trade being regarded as a low-prestige, low-value part of news. Continue reading