Book Review: Shoulder Season by Christina Clancy

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[I’ve read many good books in the past few months. I’m reviewing some of them in a series of blog posts. So, if you’re looking for a summer read, maybe you’ll find a book to enjoy in one of my book review posts.]

Why did I read this book?

Three reasons. One, Christina Clancy’s novel Shoulder Season is set in East Troy and Lake Geneva, an area of Wisconsin where I spent time during my growing-up years. Two, the novel’s main character takes a job as a Playboy Bunny at the Playboy Club in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin; I wondered “What would that be like?”* And three, I attended a writer’s residency at Write On, Door County in April, and Christina Clancy was my roommate for part of my stay. She is a kind, funny, and interesting person, who generously gave me a copy of her novel Shoulder Season before she left.

What is this book about?

Shoulder Season is a coming-of-age story that takes place around 1980. Nineteen-year-old Sherri Taylor is an orphan. Her mother, after a lengthy illness, has recently died, and her father has been dead for several years. After caring for her terminally ill mother, Sherri wants to leave East Troy, her hometown. She craves fun and adventure and an escape from grief. She also needs to earn a living. Sherri’s best friend convinces her to interview for a job as a Playboy Bunny. Sherri, much to her surprise, gets the job and fun and adventure. But being a Playboy Bunny is difficult and at times demoralizing work. Left without family and alienated from her best friend, loneliness, confusion, and insecurity cloud her judgment, and she makes choices that lead to heartache.

What makes this book memorable?

Shoulder Season grabbed me from the first page and didn’t let go. Clancy’s story-telling skills compelled me to repeatedly wonder: What’s going to happen next? And how is it all going to shake out in the end? I was never disappointed.

Clancy’s main characters are well-developed with shades of nuance. Like real people they have strengths, weaknesses, insights, and blind spots. And she has taken care to develop secondary characters that are engaging also. We care about her characters, even if we don’t always like them all the time. If her novel were a movie, I’d say it has great casting from the leading roles to the supporting and minor roles.

Clancy’s power of description and setting bring East Troy, the Lake Geneva Playboy Club, and other locations in her novel to life. I grew up near East Troy and Lake Geneva and often visited those areas. I saw Journey play in East Troy in the early 1980s. Clancy nails the feel of those places during the early 80s. She smoothly weaves setting and story together, each element adding to the power of Sherri Taylor’s journey into adulthood.

Shoulder Season is a moving coming of age story for adults. Without ever becoming sappy or sentimental, Clancy’s beautiful prose takes readers on an emotional ride with Sherri Taylor as she struggles to follow her dreams, while at the same time taking readers back to their youth when they too were filled with dreams and so much was possible.

[* As a teenager, I’d heard about Hugh Heffner and his magazine, his playmates of the month, and his Playboy Clubs. The Playboy magazine came to our house every month. My parents hid it, but my siblings and I sometimes “read” it. Well, actually, I often did read the short stories because they were very good, better than the syrupy romantic stories that appeared in the women’s magazines my mother bought; although, as a teenager with starry-eyed romantic notions, I read those too. I came of age in the late-1970s, and I also remember hearing about Gloria Steinem and her undercover assignment as a Playboy Bunny.]

Book Review: The Wolf’s Trail: An Ojibwe Story, Told by Wolves by Thomas Peacock

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[I’ve read many good books in the past few months. I’m reviewing some of them in a series of blog posts. So, if you’re looking for a summer read, maybe you’ll find a book to enjoy in one of my book review posts.]

Why did I read this book?

Three reasons. First, Thomas Peacock’s novel, The Wolf’s Trail is the 2023 One Book Northland community read, so it’s displayed in local bookstores. I like visiting bookstores, so the novel and I were bound to meet up. Second, I love the book’s cover, created by James O’Connell, an artist from Madison, Wisconsin. O’Connell’s cover art reflects the soul of Peacock’s novel. Third, the story is narrated by a wolf, which intrigued me.

What is this book about?

The Wolf’s Trail is a series of connected stories within a larger story. Zhi-shay, the Uncle wolf, is an old, wise wolf who “talks story” with the pups about creation, love, family, survival, and the Anishinaabe people. The stories are told to help the young wolves learn about the history of their world, the relationships between all living creatures, the nature around them, and the cycle of life and death. It’s the story of the importance of passing on wisdom, of passing on the wolf’s story; and through the wolf’s stories, the passing on of the Anishinaabe’s story.

What makes this book memorable?

Zhi-shay is a quintessential story teller. He is kind, wise, generous, humorous, reflective, and honest. His lessons are sometimes joyful and sometimes sorrowful, but they are all worthy of reflection. Each time I had to set the book aside, I longed for the time when I could pick it up again and sit with the wolf pups and listen to Zhi-shay, the Uncle wolf.

Peacock’s book is a beautifully written Native American literary narrative that does what powerful fiction should do: It builds bridges of understanding between people, and it expands a person’s view of the world. Without preaching to the reader, the book is a meditation, a guide for a better way to be in the world as we pass through our days on earth.

[Other Native American literature that I’ve read in the last couple of years and loved:

  1. Dance Boots by Linda LeGarde Grover. This is a linked collection of amazing short stories.
  2. There There by Tommy Orange. This poignant novel explores the life of Native Americans living in urban settings.
  3. Calling for a Blanket Dance by Oscar Hokeah. You can read my review of Hokeah’s book by clicking on the title. And you can read more about Oscar Hokeah by clicking here.]

Book Review: Rin Tin Tin: The Life and the Legend by Susan Orlean

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[I’ve read many good books in the past few months. I’m going to review some of them in a series of blog posts. So, if you’re looking for a summer read, maybe you’ll find a book to enjoy in one of my book review posts.]

Why did I read this book?

I bought Rin Tin Tin: The Life and the Legend in 2011 after listening to an interview of Susan Orlean on Minnesota Public Radio. (Click on the blue font to hear her talk about the book. She gives a good interview.)

I’d never seen a Rin Tin Tin movie or TV show, but I’d heard of the famous Rin Tin Tin because he was often referenced in popular culture. Rin Tin Tin’s story appealed to me for two reasons. One, I like reading about the movie industry, especially the history of its beginnings. And two, I grew up with a German Shepherd named Fritz, who was intelligent and kind, and at times heroic. Our Fritz could’ve been the Rin Tin Tin of the silver screen.

Sad to say it took twelve years before I lifted the book off my to-be-read pile of books. Sad because Susan Orlean’s book is a fascinating combination of three stories.

What is this book about?

It’s the story of a man and his love for an extraordinary dog. Orlean’s book follows the life of Lee Duncan who rescues Rin Tin Tin, a German Shepherd puppy, from a bombed out kennel in France during WWI. In a way Rin Tin Tin rescues Duncan, too, because Duncan, who had a tough childhood, is a wounded soul. Duncan brings Rinty, as the dog was sometimes called, home to America. With Duncan’s care and training, Rin Tin Tin becomes a Hollywood superstar during the silent film era. After Rin Tin Tin dies, Duncan continues to work with other German Shepherds who acted in movies and the television show The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin.

It’s the story of canine and human actors; animal trainers; and Hollywood executives and producers; many of whom become famous and rich (and sometimes bankrupt then rich again then broke again) during the early days of Hollywood and television. Orlean delves into the behind-the-scenes pitches, ideas, deals, and strategies that created and promoted the Rin Tin Tin movies, TV shows, and actors.

It’s the story of Orlean’s fascination, research, and commitment to the story of Rin Tin Tin. She is old enough to remember watching the TV show The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin with her older siblings and loving Rin Tin Tin. But she was only four years old during the last season of the show and remembers nothing about the show itself. She writes about the fascination she and her siblings had with a small Rin Tin Tin toy her grandfather kept on his desk, out of their reach. She remembers the day when, while researching another story, she came across the name Rin Tin Tin, which brought back a flood of memories and emotions about the famous German Shepherd from her childhood. In her book Orlean writes about why she wrote this book, how she did the research, and how the book changed her.

What makes this book memorable?

Orlean is an outstanding journalist, which shows in her dedication to research and her passion for accuracy. Hollywood moguls, however, are in the business of creating legends, and they often spin legendary stories, which light up our imaginations but may have little or no truth to them. Orlean worked to track down the veracity of the many stories that had been handed down about the people and animals in her book. When she can’t find facts to either corroborate or refute a story, she lets readers know. As a reader, I appreciate Orlean’s extra effort to get at the truth, rather than repeating information that may not be true.

It took Orlean ten years to research and write Rin Tin Tin. She was granted access to the vast collection of documents saved by Lee Duncan and other people featured in the story. She interviewed as many people as she could who were connected to the story of Duncan and Rinty. Some of her research included traveling to the places she wrote about, like movie and TV locations where Rin Tin Tin films were shot, and Paris where Rin Tin Tin is supposedly buried in an elegant, verdant pet cemetery.

When Orlean writes about people in her books, she does so in a fair and balanced way, making them neither heroes nor villains. This is something about Orlean’s writing I came to appreciate when I read The Library Book (2018). [I read this nonfiction book a couple of years ago. It would make another excellent summer read.]

I grew up with a German Shepherd. Fritz was born in 1958, and I was born in 1959. After reading Orlean’s book about Rin Tin Tin, I asked my mother why she and my father decided to get a German Shepherd. I wondered because my mother was born in 1940, so too young to have seen the Rin Tin Tin movies. And when The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin ran on TV, she was a teenager, so too old to care about a kid’s show. Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered, “Because they were very smart dogs.” That made sense because Rin Tin Tin’s TV escapades made German Shepherds very popular in the 1950s. So my mother, who didn’t watch Rin Tin Tin as an actor, would’ve heard about the breed’s intelligence and loyalty. And while some German Shepherds have aggressive natures, many like Fritz, are loving and kind.

Orlean’s artful weaving of the stories of Duncan and Rinty, the early days of Hollywood, and her journey to uncover the mystique of Rin Tin Tin makes for an engaging narrative.

[Link to the silent film Clash of the Wolves starring Rin Tin Tin. Link to full-length movie The Return of Rin Tin Tin (1947) with Robert Blake. Episodes of The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin can be found on YouTube, also.]

Riding the Range on a Snapper Comet

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This was only part of our yard. We had land on the other side of the white house, the other side of the curved driveway, and behind the barn and white garage. The hill on which the Snapper became my bucking bronco was just to the left of the barn.

My husband and I live on a small hill. Because of this, we’ve always figured our yard had to be cut with a push mower, but recently we needed to hire a lawn service. Three guys showed up. One maneuvered the weed whacker. One swung a leaf blower. And one drove the riding lawn mower — a zero-turn, wide-cut machine that hugged the hills like a sure-footed mountain goat. I watched with glee, nearly jumping up and down, almost clapping my hands together, wanting to ask if I could take the mower for a spin. I thought, “If we buy one of those zero-turn, wide-cut, mountain-goat mowers, I can cut the grass too.” I used to ride my father’s mower like it was a newly-tamed mustang, and I was a free-wheeling cowgirl.

I was eight years old when I started mowing the 2.2 acres that was our yard, a ponderosa compared to the narrow city lot we moved from when I was five. My dad pIopped me on his 1960s Snapper Comet and taught me how to start, shift, and stop it.

I wasn’t to cut the large rocks that grew behind the barn and garage because they ground lawn mower blades like cowpokes chomping chewing tobacco. I got careless once, and Dad needed to replace the blade. I got careless a second time, and I bent something more serious on the lawn mower. But dad was an excellent mechanic, so he ordered parts and fixed the Snapper.

My father, who could be impatient in many things, was surprisingly calm about my attempt to mow rocks. But after he had to fix the lawn mower a second time, I scoured the back field for rocks, like a ranch hand on the lookout for a stray calf. We lived in southeastern Wisconsin, and thousands of years ago some geological force seeded the earth with large rocks, and every spring several of them would manage to bloom. When the rocks grew too tall, my father would dig them out, place them in a small trailer, and haul them to an overgrown field with a miniature tractor not much bigger than the Snapper.

When I cut the hill by the barn I pretended I was riding a bucking bronco in a rodeo. Because I was so light, I would stand and lean toward the hill to keep the mower’s four wheels on the ground, defying its urge to throw me. I conquered that hill — the only thrill in our otherwise flat yard.

Today, placing an eight-year-old child on a riding lawn mower to cut the grass by herself might be considered child endangerment, but I loved riding the red-and-white Comet, turning in tighter and tighter squares until the whole yard was clipped. No one seemed to think it was unusual — not my mother, not the neighbors, and not me. Besides our Snapper Comet, manufactured in the late sixties, was a pony compared to the muscular draft-horse riding lawn mowers of today.

When my father and mother moved to Tucson in 1977, they didn’t take the Snapper Comet with them. No need to cut the desert sands. My parents divorced in 1983, but my father remained in Tucson. After I married and had children, my father returned to Wisconsin for a couple of weeks every summer. He visited me, other relatives, and friends.

Years later on one of my father’s visits to Wisconsin, he found the same model as our 1960s Snapper Comet at a garage sale and bought it. I didn’t ask him why he bought a riding lawn mower to take home to Tucson, where he lived at an airpark without a blade of grass. But he did have a big garage, so he had plenty of space to store it.

But I looked at the Comet and remembered my bronco riding on the hill by the barn — a hill that seems so small now. I wondered if my father looked at that Comet and thought about teaching his daughters to mow the lawn. I wondered if he thought about the 2.2 acres and the farmhouse where his children mostly grew up, a time when we were all together, before several moves and a divorce separated all the things he held dear.

So now, my husband and I have a riding lawn mower savings account. Next spring we’re buying a zero-turn, wide-cut machine that hugs the hills like a mountain goat. I’m going to learn how to operate it. I’m going to cut the hills — at least once. There will be some who say I should stay off the draft horse. But my father, if he were still alive, wouldn’t be one of them. He’d tell me to hop on up. He’d teach me how to start, shift, and stop it. He’d help me shout, “Yippie-i-oh, Yippie-i-ay! Rawhide!”

It’s National Moth Week

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So I’m reposting my blog about the American Dagger moth which originally posted September 24, 2021. In addition to being an important part of the food chain, moths are important pollinators too. To read more about why they should be respected and protected read: Bees Get the Glory, But Moths Are Also Key Pollinators, Study Says

To read about my discovery of an American Dagger Caterpillar in my front yard, click below.

And may the moths have a great week!

American Dagger Caterpillar, Cute—Not Cuddly

Mayflies: A repost from August 2021

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I’m reposting this blog about Mayflies because it continues to be read. Last summer and this summer it has received occasional views from people in North America, Europe, and Asia. Perhaps it’s just bots finding the article, but I like to think that an actual person has searched “mayflies” and found my blog. I enjoy writing about backyard nature, and I’m often inspired by the animals, insects, and plants I find in my yard or as I walk down my city streets. It’s my hope that if people understand the importance of the critters and plant life in their yards, they will skip the pesticides and chemicals used to make the “perfect lawn.”

Mayflies

The Dog’s Water Dish Goes Missing

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The dog’s water dish has gone missing. My husband has looked everywhere for it, and he announces he can’t find it anywhere.

I’m reading, trying to finish a book before we need to pick up his father and take him out to eat.

Not being able to find the stainless-steel water dish with a nonskid rubber bottom has flummoxed my spouse. He says, “This is bizarre.”

Not to me: In my world things have always occasionally gone missing, but most of the time the objects have returned. I’ve learned to take a deep breath, stop looking for the missing item, and trust it will reappear when it’s ready.

Over twenty years ago, I lost my purse. I searched the house and the car but couldn’t find it. I decided I must have forgotten it at work. I drove back to work and searched for my purse. I asked if anyone had turned it in. No luck. I returned home and cancelled my credit cards, which was the easy part. Going to the DMV to replace my driver’s license would have been a joyless, time-consuming task. I needed to cook supper, so I went into my bedroom to change out of my dress clothes. I shut the door behind me and there, hanging on the hook on the back of the door, was my purse. At that moment I remembered having hung it on the hook, a place I’d never before put my purse.

For years I played where-in-the-Sam-Hill-are-my-car-keys with myself. I’d come into the house with groceries or kids or both. The keys in my hand would get stuffed in a pocket or laid on a random surface somewhere in the house. A few hours later or the next day, the hunt for the keys would begin. After one particularly stressful search, I made a hard-and-fast rule for myself: I must either hang the keys on the hook in the hallway or put them in my purse. It’s been years since I’ve done a frantic search for my car keys.

My husband continues his search. I try to ignore the lost-water-dish ruckus. The book I’m reading is very good. Besides, I believe the dish will turn up, but only if he stops looking for it.

He wonders if someone stole it. I doubt someone would come onto our deck and take a dog’s water dish. Then for a moment, I think maybe a fox took it, which is even more preposterous, but more amusing to contemplate. I keep reading (the book is very good). He keeps searching and grumbling.

I try to ignore him because I know the dish will show up somewhere. Years of experience has taught me this. And when I find a lost object, I remember having put it there — but only after I’ve found it. However, this time I’m certain I’m not to blame for the missing item. And to my husband’s credit, he doesn’t ask me if I’ve done something with it. (Which would be a valid question, and I know it.)

The book is so good, and I’m reaching the end, a very interesting and poignant climax. But I realize I’m not going to enjoy the ending without interruption, so I get up and join the search party.

I look in the same places he has looked: the counter, the floor, the dishwasher. Then I go out on the deck and look at the dog’s tray. No water dish. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I walk about ten feet to the edge of the deck. Next to two plants waiting to be put into the ground is the dog’s water dish. Only then do I remember.

I pick up the dish and go back into the house. “I found it,” I say. “It was by the plants at the edge of the deck.”

“How did it get there?”

Not wanting to waste water, I used the old water in the dish to give the plants a drink. I don’t know why I set it next to the plants (which I’ve never done before) instead of refilling it and returning it to the tray. I must have been distracted, probably by one of the dogs in the yard.

“I have no idea,” I say. I’ve seen my fair share of spy thrillers and decide the explanation is on a need-to-know basis. Does he really need to know my forgetfulness caused him a few minutes of puzzlement? Not at all.

He doesn’t say anything more, and I imagine he believes Cabela somehow pushed it over there because lately she’s been banging her dishes about a bit with her clumsy feet.

Later, I wonder if my husband really suspects me of having moved the bowl, but to his credit, he doesn’t mention it. (It would be a valid suspicion, and I know it.)

[In case you’re wondering, I was reading This Is Going to Hurt by Adam Kay. The book is nonfiction. Kay tells stories from his years as a doctor, before he quit to pursue a career as a comedian and a writer for TV and movies. Doctors from all over the world have written to tell him that his experiences as a doctor mirror their experiences as doctors. If you’re a doctor, you’ll probably like the book because you’ll appreciate that someone gets you and understands what the job is like. If you’re not a doctor, you should read the book because you’ll gain insight into a profession that we might all assume we understand because we go to doctors, but we really don’t.]

It’s Cabela’s 15th Birthday Today!

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Cabela, the morning of her 15th birthday

We don’t have any celebrations planned.

Each day that Cabela is still with us and healthy enough to enjoy her food, a walk, and a gallop around the yard is a celebration. However, today she is having a spa day, but she knows “spa day” is just a fancy term for a bath and a haircut. She has always liked her beauty appointments, but last month the groomer told me Cabela balked a bit about being brushed out and clipped, especially around her legs and feet. This didn’t surprise me because Cabela moves slowly these days, with an off-kilter hitch in her giddy-up.

I’m sure Cabela has arthritis. When she is willing to take it, I give her a mild pain medication to help with her aches and pains. Most days she eats the pill like she is The Mrs. Astor nibbling a tasty hors d’oeuvre. Other days she turns her nose up like she is Tom Sawyer forced to swallow cod liver oil. Because she doesn’t need the medicine to survive, I let her decide if she wants to take it or not.

I’m proud of Cabela and her 15th birthday, so over the past several months, I’ve repeatedly said to family and friends, “You know, Cabela is going to be 15 years old on June 24.” This morning I sent texts along with a birthday photo of Cabela to family and friends announcing her milestone birthday. Throughout the day, text messages have come through for her. When my husband and I picked Cabela and her sister, Ziva, up from the groomer this afternoon, I read the texts to her.

According to a chart put out by the American Kennel Club, Cabela is 93 years old. A couple of days ago, my 6-year-old grandson kept asking questions about measuring a dog’s life in human years. I tried to answer each question, but the more I tried to explain it, the more questions he asked, including, “How old are people in dog years?” (He asks a lot of interesting questions.)

I told him there wasn’t a chart for that. But this morning I was still thinking about his question. Using the AKC chart, I came up with a way to answer it. Cabela is a large-breed dog, so I chose that category. I moved down the column of a dog’s age in human years until I reached 61 years. The number below that is 66 years. I’m 64 years old. Next, I moved horizontally to the left on the chart, and I found that in dog years I’m between 9 and 10 years old. That makes sense to me because a large-breed, 9-year-old dog is entering its senior citizen years just like I am.

It still amazes me that Cabela came into our home as an 11-week-old puppy, and she is now older than me. It amazes my grandson too. He wanted to know how Cabela could be considered older than his 64-year-old nana. “Most animals,” I said, “age faster than humans.” Of course, he asked what that meant. I reworded my answer: “They grow old faster than humans.” He was quiet, but I don’t think it was because I had managed to explain the mysterious dynamic of aging in dogs and humans. Most likely he was trying to incorporate the new information with his current understanding of aging.

I printed the “How Old Is My Dog in Human Years?” chart for my grandson, so when he comes back on Monday, he can see a visual of the dog-to-human-years concept. I’m sure he’ll have more questions, and he likes to ask them when we’re in the car.

I have to admit this year Cabela’s birthday makes me sad. At 15 (or 93 in human years) she is doing okay. But if she makes it to her 16th birthday, she will be 99 years old. She will age 6 human years in one dog year. Standard poodles have a life expectancy of 11 to 13 years.

When I took Cabela for a walk around the block this morning, I let her go as slow as she wanted. I let her smell each interesting spot as long as she wanted. Ziva and I waited as if we had nowhere else to go, nowhere else we would rather be, and no one else we would rather be with.

Cabela’s day-spa afternoon was a success. The groomer said Cabela did well today, no signs of discomfort. And she looks marvelous, all soft and fluffy. She also smells frou-frou, like she sampled the wares at a perfume counter.

Cabela is taking a well-deserved nap now. As a dear friend of mine once said, “It’s not easy being eye-candy.”

Happy birthday to Cabela, who is still beautiful inside and out!

Cabela agrees, “It’s not easy being eye-candy.”
Cabela out for her second birthday walk
Ziva and Cabela, June 24, 2023

What I’m Reading This Week: The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl by Timothy Egan

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What is this nonfiction book about?

The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan is about the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. It tells the story of an ecological disaster of epic proportions caused by greed triumphing over reasonable behavior.

Before white people arrived on the American High Plains (the setting of Egan’s book) the tall grasses and buffalo had thrived for centuries upon centuries in a symbiotic-type relationship that allowed them to survive bitter cold, searing heat, and cycles of rain and drought. Then white people drove Native Americans off the plains and killed buffalo by the millions to ensure Native Americans wouldn’t have a food source.

Next came ranchers who raised cattle on the grasslands where the buffalo once roamed. But cattle, unlike buffalo, struggled to survive the extreme heat, cold, and drought. And when the prices of beef dropped or weather killed their cattle, many ranchers went bankrupt.

Then came farmers who believed they could grow wheat on the High Plains. At first there was enough rain and the price of wheat was high, so farmers borrowed more money and tore up more grassland, chasing higher and higher profits. But like a pyramid scheme, their dreams of wealth tumbled when wheat prices dropped precipitously and drought wrapped its hands around the neck of the High Plains and refused to let go. Wheat died in the fields, and farmers couldn’t pay their bank loans.

Ranchers and agricultural specialists warned against the unchecked removal of the grasslands because they understood the temperamental moods of the High Plains. The prairie is a place of wind, and so the winds, drought, and bare fields whirled like a dog chasing its tail, wearing itself out, completely spent. In a couple of decades, American farmers destroyed an ecosystem that had thrived for thousands of years.

Most of Egan’s book describes the horrific dust storms that raged over the plains, lifting millions of tons of topsoil and depositing it hundreds of miles away. He interviewed people who lived through the fierce, stinging storms. He retells their harrowing stories of survival, despite displaced dirt that filled their nostrils, mouths, and eyes, buried their possessions, killed their loved ones, and destroyed their livelihoods and communities.

Why is this book important?

People have changed the earth’s temperature, and they can’t just say, “It’s cyclical. It’s a phase.” Human behavior is accelerating the warming of the earth. During the Dust Bowl, many people blamed the ecological collapse of the High Plains on the drought. They refused to believe their stripping of the grasslands was the real issue. But other people knew better because droughts had come and gone many times and the grasses held the soil in place, just how nature designed it to work.

Yesterday the air quality where I live registered 182 on the AQ Index. That’s in the red zone, labeled unhealthy. And a thirty-acre wildfire started burning in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. It’s the first wildfire in the beginning of what appears to be a season of drought in Minnesota. We had lots of snow this winter, but the spring rains haven’t come. And there will be more fires. But the smoke that tanked our air quality yesterday came from one of the Canadian fires.

A smoky haze filled the sky, and the acrid smell stung my nostrils. I kept the windows and doors closed, but I could still smell the smoke in my house. I canceled plans to take my grandkids to a big outdoor park in a neighboring town. Physical activity is not advised when the AQ Index is in the red zone. We went to the library instead, but I could smell smoke inside the library too.

I thought about families who lived during the Dust Bowl. The babies and children and the young and old who died of dust pneumonia. How people and animals caught in a dust blizzard sometimes suffocated on dirt. How everyday women and men tried to defeat mounds of dust, shoveling it out of their homes, barns, driveways, and roads. How they covered every crack in their houses with tape or paper and hung damp sheets and blankets over windows and doorways to stop the dust. But each night while they slept, dust seeped into the house and cloaked them in grime.

Yesterday when I looked at the skies hemmed in with brown smoke, I felt claustrophobic, and my sinuses hurt. I wondered how people coped day after day, month after month, year after year with tons and tons of dirt. Of course, not all of them did. Some left, some died, and some lost their minds. I don’t think I could have handled the Dust Bowl.

Today the AQ Index dropped out of the red zone, through the orange and yellow zones, and by the afternoon entered the good green zone. But what will happen as the earth continues to heat up? There will be more wildfires. Will the air be filled with brown smoke every day?

If anyone has any doubt about how quickly greedy, ignorant humans can destroy a habitat, read The Worst Hard Time. It’s a well-written, well-researched book. And although it’s sad to read about the disaster of the Southern Great Plains and its tragic impact on the people who lived there, it’s an important story.

I have about one hundred pages of the book left to read, so I don’t know how it ends yet. It’s 1935, five years into the story, and drought still strangles the High Plains. Black Sunday, the worst storm of the Dust Bowl, has just occurred. And finally, the politicians in Washington, D.C. have decided they need to act. I don’t know how people worked to solve the Dust Bowl disaster, but I’m optimistic there was a workable solution. I hope to finish Egan’s book tonight.

I’m not so optimistic about today’s politicians in Washington, D.C., and their willingness to handle climate change.