If you’ve given yours, live up to it. Times are tough and going to get tougher. What do you give up? Hopefully not your house, but if you must, then you are obliged to find good homes for animals you can’t feed.
People think I’m rich. I’m not on food stamps, but I’m in a profession that depends on the goodwill of the public. Chicken one day and feathers the next. One day people may no longer wish to read what I write. I’ll be old news, washed up. As this is a country that worships the new and the young, I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened. The last thing I represent is the new.
What’s kept me in oats is my love of animals. It infuses everything I write, whether it’s the mysteries or my stand-alone books. I finally figured out that millions of Americans truly love animals. Maybe they don’t understand horses but they are willing to consider a prey animal’s view of life. They may not be able to take on a horse but they’ll send twenty dollars to the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund or swing by the SPCA and drop off a bag of cat food or dog kibble. I finally came to realize how many of my countrymen and women loved animals. A lot of them read me, so I can rescue larger animals than they can. The reason I work—and, yes, I do love writing, but the real reason I work—is for animals. People respond to that.
Since you love animals (or you wouldn’t be reading this sentence), make a vow with me: no more Sea Kings. No more Ferdinands. Let’s do what we can. I know you honor your contract with animals. Now you and I must honor those that have been broken. One by one, we can save animals. If we join forces, think how much more we can do.
Parrots are smart, feisty birds, and some of them are real chatterboxes. I was never on good terms with my paternal grandmother but her parrot, Franklin, was a great pal. One summer, I taught him to say unchristian words … a parting gift for Grandmother Carrie when we moved away to Florida. Photo courtesy of John Garcia.
New Horizons
When I was ten, Mother and Dad took me on a trip to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It was very different from the world I knew.
The Atlantic Ocean was fascinating. One morning at sunrise, we walked along the flat beaches with semi coarse sand. Catapulting out of the water were sleek dolphins. Transfixed, all we could do was stare at their beauty and their obvious enjoyment of life. The dolphins put on quite a show, and then as they passed, a devil ray floated silently in their wake, like a great black ghost breaking above the surface of a calm sea. Its fins turned upward and inward, the great fish glided along while the water rolled over it like an ascending cascade. The first rays of light caught the water and tiny rainbows streamed off those black fins.
Did Peter the Great, who dreamed up the stupendous fountains at Peterhof in Russia, ever see a devil ray? Is that where Rastrelli, whom he hired to design them, got his ideas? Probably not, but if he had, he would have been as overcome as we were.
Schools of little fish came close to the shore, thousands of silver coins darting and dashing under clear water as the sun turned everything from blood to red to scarlet, then pink and finally gold, so much gold.
My parents fell in love with this small, quiet city of thirty thousand people that was laced with canals. And the following year, 1955, they announced that we were moving there.
While I appreciated the beauty of the subtropics, all I wanted was hounds, horses, and farming. Dad inquired about foxhunting clubs. None. I couldn’t believe it. I’d learned by the age of five that pitching a hissy wasn’t going to get me anywhere. It produced the opposite effect. I tried to get used to the idea, and hoped for the best.
The Browns ran a grocery and meat market in West York, and by 1955 our family had been in business since before the Revolutionary War. I don’t know the location of the original store, but the West York location was excellent. Dad sold his share to his two brothers. The town went into shock. No one really believed we would leave. Aunt Mimi was one step ahead of a running fit.
Dad’s parents, Carrie and Reuben Brown, practically had a grand mal seizure although they were more emotionally reserved than Mother’s family and therefore rarely capable of producing much excitement.
Grandma and Grandpa Brown were stunningly good-looking people. She was flat-out beautiful even after four children (one died young) and subsequent weight gain. She was never fat but she was broad. He looked as he did in his wedding pictures, but by the time I knew him his hair had turned steel gray. With age he stooped. They were town people but understood the country because Reuben bought cattle and horses for himself. He could judge the meat-to-bone ratio and had a good idea of fat content, too. He passed this on to Dad, and Dad took me out with him when he went to buy cattle. I learned a little. I learned far more about horses, but I liked the cattle and hoped that once we were in Florida, Dad would be buying Brahmans so I could learn about them.
In the days before our departure, we visited Dad’s family just about every day. This was no picnic for me.
The thing about the Browns was that they didn’t like me. I wasn’t their blood, plus I was illegitimate to boot. Julia Brown’s mother, Big Mimi, was my natural mother’s mother. So Sadie Huff’s sister was Big Mimi’s. Sadie’s daughter, eighteen, became pregnant without benefit of marriage. The result, me. Carrie Brown couldn’t believe her adored son would adopt me.
How many times did I hear that I could not ever belong to the United Daughters of the Confederacy, the Daughters of the American Revolution, or the Colonial Dames? My yet-to-be-produced oldest son could never be a member of the Society of Cincinnatus. I hated it. I especially loathed Carrie Brown. She only spoke to me to give me an order. “Dinner is ready, come to the table.” She never asked me what I liked. And as I have told you earlier, I was raised to speak only when spoken to. But she allowed me to read National Geographic, so when I was sentenced to the purgatory of her house (a pretty one) I sat by the great bay window and read this excellent magazine from cover to cover. Still do.
Reuben, hardly a barrel of fun, was kinder. He smiled when he saw me. He offered me his hand, as a gentleman does to a lady in our part of the world. He always wore a three-piece suit, his thick gold chain draped across his vest, a gold watch tucked into his vest pocket. Whenever he came back from the store, he kissed Carrie, for theirs was a good marriage. He’d remove his coat, she’d hang it, brush it, then return to her chores. He’d roll up his shirtsleeves but wouldn’t remove his vest or his tie. If the day had been wearing he might sip a bit of scotch or bourbon. I never saw the bottle, for the liquid was in a crystal decanter. In the summer, Carrie brought him some untea (we call unsweetened tea “untea”), and in the winter, a cup of coffee. He’d go to his chair, pull the chain on the beautiful Tiffany lamp, and read the paper. I read the magazine. We remained in silence together but compatible.
The funny thing was that the house was not quiet, because Mamaw (Carrie) owned a big green parrot who felt compelled to comment on all and sundry. If Mother wore a red blouse he’d yell “Red.” If Aunt Mimi’s dog trotted into the kitchen on a visit, he’d call the dog’s name, to Butch’s great annoyance. The bird missed nothing.
Carrie’s large kitchen was flooded with sunlight. For years they had a wood-burning stove, but by the time I came into the world, Reuben had bought her a fancy porcelain model. She rose at four o’clock and baked bread, every single morning. The aroma of that house on Diamond Street lifted you up the minute you crossed the threshold. Famed for her cooking skills and her baking, Carrie was also sought after for advice. She, like Mother, was a power in her church, and like Mother, her gardening skills were impressive. Her kitchen was her kingdom! Spotless, there was a place for everything and everything in its place. What that woman could do with ingredients, everything fresh, nothing packaged, would make today’s high-priced chefs blush.
She’d hum away as she prepared her next triumph while Franklin called out “Hello,” “Don’t forget the salt,” and a variety of things that made you laugh.
Before I was born, Carrie had a female parrot named Polly, a wedding prese
nt from her husband. Polly lived well into her forties. When she went to the Great Parrot in the Sky, Reuben gave Carrie another parrot. Franklin was named for Ben Franklin because he cost one hundred dollars (a fortune then). Reuben was not a man to throw away his money. He wasn’t cheap, but he was watchful. He dearly loved his wife, and when Polly passed, Carrie had what we used to call a sinking spell. He found the most beautiful parrot he could, and sure enough, my grandmother bounced right back.
One time, from all the way at the other end of the house, I heard “Roses, roses, roses,” followed by “Japanese beetles.” I put down the National Geographic and walked outside on that mild June day to check the rosebushes under Franklin’s big window. Sure enough: Japanese beetles on the cadmium yellow roses.
Franklin showed me that birds are smart. Some types may be smarter than others, but if you’ve ever visited with parrots, mynahs, or macaws or watched any of the blackbird family, they solve problems, observe intently, and gossip indiscriminately.
Filled with excitement, I strolled into the garden. Mighty rose blossoms in every shade massed along the picket fence shouted “Summer!” Who taught Franklin to say “Japanese beetles”? Maybe he overheard it, because he caught on fast. Mamaw would not abide swearing. She didn’t even tolerate “darn,” although you could say “fudge.” Well, she could say it. I couldn’t. But no swearing in front of Franklin because he’d remember and repeat it later.
A plan hatched in my mind. Mom and Dad planned to leave town shortly. School was out. They’d already sold our wonderful place looking over the valley. Everything was packed except for a few clothes and kitchen items. The moving van would pull up in ten days. No one could organize like Julia Buckingham Brown.
I still miss Mother tremendously, and Dad, too. What would I give to have Mother run my daily life and to have Dad in the kennel with me? Every woman needs a husband and a wife. Don’t think I’ll get too far with that, but since we have dispensed with the serving class, thanks to outrageous income taxes, payroll taxes, capital gains taxes, and minimum wages, etc., every person is on overload trying to do it all themselves.
The next time I was at my grandparents’ house before we moved, I ran to Franklin, who looked at me and said “Treats.” I gave him a bit of cuttlebone, which he daintily grasped with one claw while keeping a firm hold on one of his many perches with the other. He liked to swing around from perch to perch, which made me laugh.
Mamaw paid no attention to me. I whispered, “Shit.”
From that day forth, until we left for Florida, each time I visited my father’s parents I made certain to whisper (or say out loud if no one was around) “Shit.”
Meanwhile Mother found a home for my beloved collie, Ginger, who I trained after Chaps passed away. She was a tricolor with that eagerness to please that the herding dogs have. Charlie and Cappy went to Uncle Jim, Dad’s uncle, as he enjoyed hunting a brace. Mother said it would be wrong to take Ginger to Florida because of her heavy coat. I protested, but orders were orders. I was expected to acclimate, but Ginger was not.
In retrospect, she was right, for houses didn’t have air-conditioning then. Thick hair is a burden for a dog in the semi-tropics even with air-conditioning. Apart from the heat they get fungi and other conditions. Ginger went to a farm where she had a great life, herding cattle. I missed her the minute I handed over her leash.
Tuffy went to Aunt Gertrude, a rotund woman but beautiful. She’d been married to Mom’s brother, Bucky, movie-star handsome and bursting with devilment. He died in his thirties. Gertrude never found another man as handsome or full of fun as Bucky. Again, Mother said Tuffy would suffer in the heat. Yes, I could have a cat and a dog, but they had to be born in Florida. She also informed me that it would take us a year to acclimate. She was right about that, too.
We visited PopPop’s grave, leaving flowers. I left dog biscuits. Just seemed like the thing to do. I vowed to my departed port-in-a-storm that the day would come when I would hunt my own pack. I promised I would do him proud. I’m still trying.
The van came. We climbed into the Chrysler (a terrific car back then) with enough clothes to get us to Florida. No tears, but I was wretched. Well, if life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. I was determined to make the best of it.
In our new hometown, there were countless new wonders to appreciate. Flocks of wild parrots flying in an azure sky look like large pieces of confetti twirling about. Parrot feathers, built for speed unlike owl feathers built for silence, allow these chatterboxes and outright screechers to dip, dive, soar, and turn one-eighties. Because of their feather construction, when they swoop low you can hear the rustle. If the flock is large it’s really something to hear that sound.
Dad took me to farms in Davie, the pastures filled with a broad, flat-bladed grass that would have been weeded out in the Mid-Atlantic. There I saw my first herd of Brahman cattle, a large white breed with a distinctive hump. They are not famous for their good personalities. Dad kept me from wiggling under the barbed wire fence to pet them. Since the 1950s I’m pretty sure responsible breeders have improved temperament, just as they have improved temperament in Angus. Unfortunately they’ve shortened the legs in Angus in an effort to increase the muscle-to-bone ratio, and this author thinks it’s a dreadful disservice to the animal.
No herds of my favorite, horned Herefords, or even polled Herefords. Florida was all Brahmans.
But I liked the parrots, the hibiscus, the ixona, the restorative salt breezes. The coconut palms, the queen palms, and the royal palms lent a stately air to the flatlands. I’m not a flatlander, but if it’s dressed up a little I can withstand the monotony.
Although I did find things to like, no foxhunting was a dagger to the heart. Did anyone have hounds? Dad found some gentleman who hunted beagles, and of course there are always coonhounds in the South. But I was not yet eleven, and grown men with tobacco in their cheeks don’t really want someone else’s kid tagging along, especially a girl.
We drove through the center of the state, the citrus groves unrolling for miles. That I liked, for I wanted to farm. But Mom and Dad had turned fifty and had no intention of farming. Their dream was to live in the suburbs. Children are hostages to their parents. I lived in that pink house until I turned seventeen and graduated from high school. Off I went, never to return, except for Mother’s birthdays, March 6.
• • •
A few weeks after we had settled into our new home, flamingo pink, Gertrude sent us a photo of Tuffy. Tuffy was already as fat as Gertrude.
The other surprising thing was that Dad received a letter in his mother’s elegant handwriting that contained shocking, shocking news. Franklin had said “Shit.” Apparently quite often.
Tuxedo and Sneaky Pie were great friends, napping together and sharing a food bowl. When Tuxedo first wandered onto my farm, he was three months old, rail thin, and covered in mites. Now he’s old, fat, and happy, and he and his owner, my friend Betsy Sinsel who adopted him, truly love each other. Photo by Betsy Sinsel.
Learning to Adapt
Living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, in the mid-1950s, I was surrounded by an exotic natural world that was completely different from the Piedmont I loved so much. Florida was a surreal place where it might be pouring rain on one side of the street with brilliant sunshine on the other. The subtropics challenge those of us raised in the higher latitudes. I had much to learn from this exotic new environment.
In South Florida, night-blooming jasmine infused the air, brushed my skin, promised magic. The smells and sounds are sui generis, unique to this patch of subtropics. Much of what you see delights.
Other things can kill you. Dig down, hit a pocket of mango gas, that’s the last breath you’ll take. Fool around on the jetties jutting out into the ocean without paying attention to where the schools of little fish are, and a shark might consider you lunch, or a barracuda might be tempted to see how sweet human meat is. Smaller creatures come armed. Mosquitoes bite like the devil, as do sand flies,
and then there are palmetto bugs and cockroaches large enough to pay rent.
On the bright side, I can remember a flock of flamingos escaping the infield of Gulfstream Park racetrack, filling the sky with a brilliant pink cloud. They returned shortly after this soaring moment because life was good at Gulfstream once upon a time.
Across the Florida East Coast railroad tracks reposed a relatively large swamp. Fort Lauderdale was still small then. As I mentioned earlier, a city of thirty thousand people was a kind of paradise. It wasn’t my paradise but it was seductive. I often miss it, especially when the poinciana trees bloom in March. All over Fort Lauderdale the eye is caught by huge orange canopies filled with birds singing away.
The swamp lacked such attractions, but it did have alligators. Now the whole thing has been drained. The alligators have all been shot (a sin) and houses sit on landfill. They’ll eventually tilt and crack, if they haven’t already.
Alligators scared me but I had to watch them. They’d lie on the banks sunning themselves, lazy creatures. Something would attract them and they’d slither into the swamp. When they opened their mouths it was impressive. Many a dog has made the mistake of getting too close to those open mouths only to discover how quickly an alligator can move. I never tested it.
Garfish, at a quick glance, can resemble sleek, small alligators. They’re actually a kind of needlefish with sharp, nasty teeth, and they can be aggressive. They’ll swim in close to the shore. I kept my distance from those as well.
Starting in the seventh grade, I endured two years of schooling at the Naval Air Station. The famous Lost Squadron took off from Naval Air long before I attended school there. By ninth grade, Sunrise Junior High was completed. I could walk to school, whereas Naval Air was over ten miles away. There was no air-conditioning. I didn’t have air-conditioning until I was in my forties. But you don’t miss what you don’t know, so it felt completely natural to sit in those two-tiered wooden barracks sweating as our teachers droned on. A few were good, but most of them had tired of teaching young people long ago. And none of them ever displayed the slightest interest in our natural environment.
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