Swimming with Dolphins
(This is the first in a four-part entry about swimming with dolphins).
There are a few things, not many, but a few that you must do in your life. Swimming with dolphins is one of them. I don’t care how you have to do it - beg, borrow, steal, if all else fails save, but find the money to swim with dolphins. It’s better than dancing with wolves. It is absolutely magic.
My experience with dolphins came several years after I stopped teaching full time. I was invited by a small private college in South Florida to teach a class. I searched the internet for “swimming with dolphins,” picked out the nearest one, packed my bags and never looked back. A few weeks later, I drove out of Ft. Lauderdale south for a weekend in Key Largo with visions of Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall and dolphins in my head.
I didn’t plan it, but fortunately it was the middle of the winter and therefore off season for the Keys. I arrived at Dolphins Plus and there was only myself and a couple waiting in line for the scheduled dolphin swim. I couldn’t have been happier.
Because there were only three of us, the couple was assigned to swim with two dolphins and I was assigned to swim with a mother dolphin named Dinghy and her son Julian. During the season, I would have had to share the mother/son team with several other people. As it was, I got them all to myself. I wouldn’t take anything for that hour I spent with the two of them and the young trainer, Peggy.
As we were walking out to the dolphin area, we encountered a seal, Sugar. There is nothing that can prepare you for just how lovely a seal is in person. The skin is silky and rubbery at the same time and the eyes are just so lovely and full of fun you can’t believe it. I’m sure there must be depressed seals in the world, but I’ve never seen one. This girl was happy as she could be and was even doing the traditional flipper-clapping as we left her to go to the dolphin enclosure.
Then, I let myself down into the water and was introduced to the female dolphin, Dinghy, and her son Julian. I don’t know if they were excited, but my heart was fluttering. The trainer, Peggy, introduced me to each one and gave me some basic instructions on dolphin/human interaction. One of the important rules was not to reach out towards the dolphins. It was, she said, just a matter of good manners. Since the dolphins when they are at the top of the water receiving instructions have mostly their heads out of the water, you are, if you reach out your hand, reaching out to put your hand virtually in their faces.
Just as you would not think of suddenly reaching out and touching a person’s face you had just been introduced to, you should not reach out and try to touch a dolphin. I was careful not to do this. It seemed a matter of common dignity, and I wanted so to be careful to treat the dolphins with the respect I felt for them.
The “not reaching out” part was not difficult to remember. I am a cat person and anyone who knows and loves cats realizes that you don’t reach out and touch a new cat, or one to whom you have just been introduced. You might do that with a dog, but with a cat, you wait until the cat presents itself. If you reach out for a cat, it will disappear, but if you are patient and receptive, it will come to you, in its time, not yours.
This is one of the reasons I have always thought cats were great therapy animals, even if a particular cat is not especially outgoing. Impulse control is an important lesson. It’s good training for children, especially juvenile offenders with whom I worked. We should all learn to be quiet, observant and patient with other creatures. None of us should grab, emotionally or physically.
(This is part of a four part blog post about the dolphin swim at Dolphins Plus in Key Largo, Florida 1-866-860-7946.) www.wilkesferry.com
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Excerpt is from the forthcoming "Love Stories for Wilkes Ferry: The Star-Shaped Scar."
The story is about my grandmother whose job was to arrange her grandfather's Confederate uniform on an empty chair at the dinner table every meal.
"The Vacant Chair" is a song from the Civil War.
THE VACANT CHAIR
We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer;
When a year ago we gathered
Joy was in his mild blue eye,
But a golden chord is severed
And our hopes in ruin lie.
Chorus
We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer.
At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell,
At remembrance of the story
How our noble Willie fell;
How he strove to bear our banner
Through the thickest of the fight,
And uphold our country's honor
In the strength of manhood's night.
Chorus
True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Ever more will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only
Sweeping o'er our heartstrings now.
Sleep today, Oh early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed,
Dirges from the pine and cypress,
Mingle with the tears we shed.
GREAT GRANDADDY'S CONFEDERATE UNIFORM
My great, great grandfather, Jubel Jake McPherson, died in the Civil War. His brother Jesse brought his Confederate uniform home.
I don’t remember where I was when my grandmother told me the story about her grandfather’s Confederate uniform. That’s odd. Usually, when I remember a story from years ago, I have a photograph in my mind to go with it, a photograph of where I was when the story was first told to me.
But, I think DeeLee must have told me the story about the uniform more than once and this might have worked to drown out the memory of my surroundings on the original telling. My memory, the photograph connected to this story, therefore, is of the room where the story took place - the rough-hewn planks that made up the walls of the diningroom in the tiny rural cabin, the cracks where the daubing had worn away and streams of sunlight telescoped through to highlight the dust motes, the table that had been used to chop vegetables and meat, that may have had a body washed on it after death and then boiling water poured over it, a table that was used for every function in life even preparation for death. I remember the six chairs around the table, all of them mismatched.
This was the room where my grandmother, DeeLee, my great grandmother and my great, great grandmother laid out three meals a day (when they had food) for years. And it was the room where my great, great uncle, Jesse sat, mostly silent after the Civil War, with the women, and with the vacant chair.
It was DeeLee’s job, from the time she was old enough to walk, to set that table and to lay out my great grandfather, Jake McPherson’s, Confederate uniform.
The uniform was kept folded in the right-most compartment of the credenza that sat against the wall in the eatin’ room. After my grandmother set the table, she would carefully take out the folded uniform and put it in the seat of Great Granddaddy Jake’s chair. She would first put his hat on the table, unfold the jacket and drape it around the back of the chair. She would then button the jacket, careful not to put too much strain on the fragile thread that attached the buttons. When one of the buttons came off, DeeLee’s grandmother would replace it, but she hated replacing the original thread and kept the old thread, what was left of it, in a small round box beside her bed where she also had a locket of Great Grandadddy Jake’s hair tied with a ribbon.
DeeLee would next unfold the tattered pants and put them on the seat of the chair with the legs stretching out and down to the floor just like Great Grandaddy Jake was sitting there. Then, she would hang the hat on the right shoulder of the chair. Great Grandaddy Jake was, like me, left handed.
Every meal my grandmother ate in that house, the house of my grandmother’s grandmother, was eaten with Great Grandaddy Jake’s uniform on that empty chair, just like he was still there. And right before each meal, when they had all come together at the table DeeLee’s great uncle, Jesse, would give thanks for those men who fought and died for the “cause,” including his brother Jake, and swear to meet them in heaven.
DeeLee said that there were times when her grandmother would reach across to the uniform and take the sleeve of Great Grandaddy McPherson’s jacket and hold it, as if she were holding his hand. She didn’t say anything, just sat holding her dead husband’s empty sleeve, unwilling even after all those years to let him go.
The story is about my grandmother whose job was to arrange her grandfather's Confederate uniform on an empty chair at the dinner table every meal.
"The Vacant Chair" is a song from the Civil War.
THE VACANT CHAIR
We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer;
When a year ago we gathered
Joy was in his mild blue eye,
But a golden chord is severed
And our hopes in ruin lie.
Chorus
We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer.
At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell,
At remembrance of the story
How our noble Willie fell;
How he strove to bear our banner
Through the thickest of the fight,
And uphold our country's honor
In the strength of manhood's night.
Chorus
True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Ever more will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only
Sweeping o'er our heartstrings now.
Sleep today, Oh early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed,
Dirges from the pine and cypress,
Mingle with the tears we shed.
GREAT GRANDADDY'S CONFEDERATE UNIFORM
My great, great grandfather, Jubel Jake McPherson, died in the Civil War. His brother Jesse brought his Confederate uniform home.
I don’t remember where I was when my grandmother told me the story about her grandfather’s Confederate uniform. That’s odd. Usually, when I remember a story from years ago, I have a photograph in my mind to go with it, a photograph of where I was when the story was first told to me.
But, I think DeeLee must have told me the story about the uniform more than once and this might have worked to drown out the memory of my surroundings on the original telling. My memory, the photograph connected to this story, therefore, is of the room where the story took place - the rough-hewn planks that made up the walls of the diningroom in the tiny rural cabin, the cracks where the daubing had worn away and streams of sunlight telescoped through to highlight the dust motes, the table that had been used to chop vegetables and meat, that may have had a body washed on it after death and then boiling water poured over it, a table that was used for every function in life even preparation for death. I remember the six chairs around the table, all of them mismatched.
This was the room where my grandmother, DeeLee, my great grandmother and my great, great grandmother laid out three meals a day (when they had food) for years. And it was the room where my great, great uncle, Jesse sat, mostly silent after the Civil War, with the women, and with the vacant chair.
It was DeeLee’s job, from the time she was old enough to walk, to set that table and to lay out my great grandfather, Jake McPherson’s, Confederate uniform.
The uniform was kept folded in the right-most compartment of the credenza that sat against the wall in the eatin’ room. After my grandmother set the table, she would carefully take out the folded uniform and put it in the seat of Great Granddaddy Jake’s chair. She would first put his hat on the table, unfold the jacket and drape it around the back of the chair. She would then button the jacket, careful not to put too much strain on the fragile thread that attached the buttons. When one of the buttons came off, DeeLee’s grandmother would replace it, but she hated replacing the original thread and kept the old thread, what was left of it, in a small round box beside her bed where she also had a locket of Great Grandadddy Jake’s hair tied with a ribbon.
DeeLee would next unfold the tattered pants and put them on the seat of the chair with the legs stretching out and down to the floor just like Great Grandaddy Jake was sitting there. Then, she would hang the hat on the right shoulder of the chair. Great Grandaddy Jake was, like me, left handed.
Every meal my grandmother ate in that house, the house of my grandmother’s grandmother, was eaten with Great Grandaddy Jake’s uniform on that empty chair, just like he was still there. And right before each meal, when they had all come together at the table DeeLee’s great uncle, Jesse, would give thanks for those men who fought and died for the “cause,” including his brother Jake, and swear to meet them in heaven.
DeeLee said that there were times when her grandmother would reach across to the uniform and take the sleeve of Great Grandaddy McPherson’s jacket and hold it, as if she were holding his hand. She didn’t say anything, just sat holding her dead husband’s empty sleeve, unwilling even after all those years to let him go.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
This is an excerpt from a story in the upcoming Love Stories for Wilkes Ferry: The Star-Shaped Scar. The person talking is Jesse McPherson, my great, great uncle who brought the Confederate uniform of my great, great grandfather (Jubel Jake McPherson)home from the war.
They thought it was going be one grand adventure. And I went along, like a damn fool, just like all the rest of them. Oh, I stood on the street and watched them, like I wasn’t just like them. I watched them whoop and holler and show off their costumes for each other. But, I was not that much different from ‘em. I had a little thrill in my heart too, then. That was before, when I ‘as still able to thrill over anything.
It’s always thrilling before. It ain’t so thrilling afterward though, but a lot of ‘em wouldn’t even find that out. They would die in the glory of the first charge, if they didn’t die of shitting themselves to death or throwing up their guts beforehand. That was the way I didn’t want to die, at first. I thought to myself, God, if I have to die, let me die fighting, doing something brave, not wallowing in my own shit and moaning for my mamma.
I’d seen them like that, and I didn’t want to be them, before they’d ever been close to a battle.
But all that was to come later. At the beginning, it was all fluster and partying. Oh, they partied and drank and the women just hung off ‘em like they was already heroes. Everybody was heroes then. That was before they found out what it took to be a hero and then, after that, they weren’t so damn ready to be heroes.
Oh, they knew everything, including Jake. They knew everything about war and soldiering and Yankees. The war was going to be over in a month. They was crawling all over each other to join up ‘fraid they was going to miss the damn thing, like it was a big circus they was afraid was gonna leave town before they got tickets. What fools they were, we were.
And then when we came back, there weren’t nothing. Just nothing to come back to. We was beat, that was one thing. Ain’t the same coming home when you’re coming home whupped. I don’t know what it’d be like coming home a winner, but coming home a loser, it wasn’t worth it.
From then on, wasn’t nothing that could really please me. I didn’t never get one feeling like that first thrill I felt standing in the court house yard watching ‘em hoot and holler and look for costumes. Even though I knew it was damn tom foolery, I still got a little thrill, something I ain’t had since.
They thought it was going be one grand adventure. And I went along, like a damn fool, just like all the rest of them. Oh, I stood on the street and watched them, like I wasn’t just like them. I watched them whoop and holler and show off their costumes for each other. But, I was not that much different from ‘em. I had a little thrill in my heart too, then. That was before, when I ‘as still able to thrill over anything.
It’s always thrilling before. It ain’t so thrilling afterward though, but a lot of ‘em wouldn’t even find that out. They would die in the glory of the first charge, if they didn’t die of shitting themselves to death or throwing up their guts beforehand. That was the way I didn’t want to die, at first. I thought to myself, God, if I have to die, let me die fighting, doing something brave, not wallowing in my own shit and moaning for my mamma.
I’d seen them like that, and I didn’t want to be them, before they’d ever been close to a battle.
But all that was to come later. At the beginning, it was all fluster and partying. Oh, they partied and drank and the women just hung off ‘em like they was already heroes. Everybody was heroes then. That was before they found out what it took to be a hero and then, after that, they weren’t so damn ready to be heroes.
Oh, they knew everything, including Jake. They knew everything about war and soldiering and Yankees. The war was going to be over in a month. They was crawling all over each other to join up ‘fraid they was going to miss the damn thing, like it was a big circus they was afraid was gonna leave town before they got tickets. What fools they were, we were.
And then when we came back, there weren’t nothing. Just nothing to come back to. We was beat, that was one thing. Ain’t the same coming home when you’re coming home whupped. I don’t know what it’d be like coming home a winner, but coming home a loser, it wasn’t worth it.
From then on, wasn’t nothing that could really please me. I didn’t never get one feeling like that first thrill I felt standing in the court house yard watching ‘em hoot and holler and look for costumes. Even though I knew it was damn tom foolery, I still got a little thrill, something I ain’t had since.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
In Spite of Everything, We Write
I wish I could tell you I write every day. I wish I could tell you I go into my study every morning at 8 AM and don't come out until 5 PM. But, it's not true. I don't. I write when I can get myself to write and every day is a struggle.
What I need is a man with a whip. I need a devil-man to pop a leather-thonged whip over my sorry sleeping and laying-in-bed-coffee-drinking self and to say: "Get thee to a study and write." And, after I drag myself downstairs I need him to lock me in the room for eight hours.
The French writer, Collette, had her much older and accomplished husband Willy (pronounced Villy), her man with a whip. He quite literally locked the young and inexperienced Collette in her room every day to write. She wrote novel after novel. He published them under his name. When she perfected her craft, she left him.
But, few of us will have a Willy. Few of us will have Virginia Woolf's "room of one's own," much less what I consider essential for writing, a whole house of one's own.
So, we struggle to create every day, every hour in less than conducive conditions.
Women write and wash clothes, write and plan meals, write and shop, write and clean, and clean, and clean. We care take, placate, appease, mediate and manage. We silence our own demons of self doubt if only for a few hours. But we still write - and for this we should be proud of ourselves.
What I need is a man with a whip. I need a devil-man to pop a leather-thonged whip over my sorry sleeping and laying-in-bed-coffee-drinking self and to say: "Get thee to a study and write." And, after I drag myself downstairs I need him to lock me in the room for eight hours.
The French writer, Collette, had her much older and accomplished husband Willy (pronounced Villy), her man with a whip. He quite literally locked the young and inexperienced Collette in her room every day to write. She wrote novel after novel. He published them under his name. When she perfected her craft, she left him.
But, few of us will have a Willy. Few of us will have Virginia Woolf's "room of one's own," much less what I consider essential for writing, a whole house of one's own.
So, we struggle to create every day, every hour in less than conducive conditions.
Women write and wash clothes, write and plan meals, write and shop, write and clean, and clean, and clean. We care take, placate, appease, mediate and manage. We silence our own demons of self doubt if only for a few hours. But we still write - and for this we should be proud of ourselves.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
The Writer's Compost Heap
Heather Sellers in her book "Page by Page" talks about the reservoir of ideas, impressions, information, bits of dialogue and other fragments the writer carries around in his or her head, as a "compost heap." She makes the point that even when writers are not working, they are are adding to the "compost heap." I have no idea how the information and impressions from this book are going to be important later on, or if I will indeed ever draw upon them and use them in my own writing, but I sure loved the book. It's one of those books you read even when you are supposed to be doing other things, the kind of book you can't wait to get back to, the kind of book you stay up late to finish.
The book is "The Age of Shiva by Manil Suri.
The book is "The Age of Shiva by Manil Suri.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Book Description and Author Short Biographical Paragraph
In these stories about a small Southern cotton mill town, its history and the histories of the people who live there, Christina Jacqueline Johns conjures into being a little world of interconnected lives, intergenerational stories and complicated family relationships. William Faulkner once wrote that in the South the past is not dead, it isn’t even the past. In Love Stories for Wilkes Ferry you will find the kind of storytelling about the past that used to be done on front porches while people smelled honeysuckle and watched lightening bugs. It’s the kind of storytelling that if your Mama knew you were doing it, she would want to kill you.
Dr. Johns holds a Ph.D. in Criminology from the Faculty of Law of the University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Scotland. Her plays have been produced at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. She has also worked as a freelance journalist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the Southline, and the Times Educational Supplement of Scotland. Dr. Johns taught criminology at the University of Edinburgh, George Washington University, and the University of Alaska. Her three books about criminology ( Power, Ideology and the War on Drugs: Nothing Succeeds Like Failure; State Crime, the Media, and the Invasion of Panama; and The Origins of Violence in Mexican Society) were published by Praeger. Her stories and commentaries have been broadcast on the Tallahassee affiliate of National Public Radio. She lives with her husband and five cats in coastal Georgia and is a storyteller, writer and performer.
Dr. Johns holds a Ph.D. in Criminology from the Faculty of Law of the University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Scotland. Her plays have been produced at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. She has also worked as a freelance journalist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the Southline, and the Times Educational Supplement of Scotland. Dr. Johns taught criminology at the University of Edinburgh, George Washington University, and the University of Alaska. Her three books about criminology ( Power, Ideology and the War on Drugs: Nothing Succeeds Like Failure; State Crime, the Media, and the Invasion of Panama; and The Origins of Violence in Mexican Society) were published by Praeger. Her stories and commentaries have been broadcast on the Tallahassee affiliate of National Public Radio. She lives with her husband and five cats in coastal Georgia and is a storyteller, writer and performer.
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