Wednesday
LOST IN TRANSLATION
December 9, 2009, Vol. 1, No. 5
TABLE OF CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)
THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Alonzo forgives and forgets ... or at least he forgets ... and returns to Dr. Whipple's cabin. She wants to make up for what she did to him the last time, so she shoots him with a tranquilizer dart, cracks open some double-A batteries, reaches for some Krazy Glue, and gets to work on his reward.
LOST IN TRANSLATION
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
For ten years, Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko, the only Walden Puddler with a Russian accent, labored in obscurity, translating one of the greatest novels ever written from English into the world's most difficult language. Finally, her work is complete! We join Mme. Borisenko; her best friend, Ms. Priscilla Whipple; and Mme. Borisenko's 43 cats on the day she unveils her masterpiece.
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
Reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas ... for many Walden Puddlers. We chat with an exception. PLUS: A whole new way to use Tic-Tacs.
THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Field Notes: November 29, 2009. Thank goodness, Alonzo came back today. I believe he has forgiven me for smacking him in the nose with an old tennis shoe.
I wanted to reward him for that, so this time I plugged him with a tranquilizer dart, instead of like last time ... when I stabbed myself in the ass with it for my own selfish reasons.
As soon as Alonzo went down and stayed motionless, I went out and gave him a bear hug ... and lots of European air kisses ... and then I took his measurements and everything, like on the Science Channel.
Then I gave him his reward: a radio collar. I don't do this for every bear, because it gets expensive.
The radio was your basic AM-FM transistor model. You can still find those at flea markets. The best flea market is at Rev. Bisonnette's Church of the Definitely Saved. If you're a sinner ... and that would be me ... you're not allowed to touch anything. You point to what you want, and one of the saved shows it to you.
I know about the scientific-type radio collars, where you track a bear's movements by radar, or sonar, or something. We learned about those at Central Montana Normal, where I did my thesis, but I was distracted that semester because of an unhappy breakup I was having with a guy I don't clearly remember now.
When I first put a radio collar on a bear, I tune it to Classic Medium Rock ... not too hard, not too soft, but just right ... like in the Goldilocks story. In my opinion, bands like the Police and Creedence Clearwater are just about middle-of-the-road enough for a bear ... if you don't know what he likes yet.
I lock the dials in place with Krazy Glue, so the receiver won't migrate, and this way the poor bear won't get the shock of his life waking up some Sunday morning, and instead of Bruce Springsteen, his radio is playing church services at him.
Eventually, though, you will always get natural channel drift. When I hear that, I tranquilize the bear again, and I retune his radio. I also have to trank my bears when their double-A batteries run low.
Just between us, I think some of my bears deliberately mess with the tuning on their radios. A colleague has said that maybe they do this because I tranquilize them too much, and they are starting to enjoy the tranquilizer darts more than they should. I just don't know.
If a bear is clearly not enjoying Creedence Clearwater or Sting, I have to make a big decision: Do I tune his radio collar more toward heavy metal? Or do I tune it more toward Emmylou Harris and Jackson Browne? These are the moments of decision you dread as a field biologist.
Whenever I've made a mistake that way, it has always been in the direction of soft rock. I have seen Jackson Browne lyrics drive bears nearly to madness, punching trees and each other ... in response to what I personally regard as his hauntingly beautiful songs. I guess there is no accounting for taste.
What I do in these cases is ... I tranquilize the bear again ... and I tune his radio collar to heavy metal all the way: Iron Butterfly, Black Sabbath, Thin Lizzy. I turn up the volume real loud, too. I am always amazed by how quickly the bears calm down when I do that.
From Day One, however, Alonzo seemed like a gentle soul. My instincts told me to tune his radio collar to Linda Ronstadt and the Eagles right off the bat. He seems very satisfied with my choice of listening. He is still in the yard as I write, and as I look out the window at him, I could swear he is air jamming.
Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.
LOST IN TRANSLATION
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1,192 words, in the grand tradition
of lengthy Russian literature
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
September 14, 1825,
and then again on
December 14, 2006
Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko was feeding her 43 cats. Her thoughts strayed briefly to what came next -- cleaning their 17 litter trays -- but she blocked it from her mind. She loved her 43 cats.
She also loved being a descendant of Russian nobility. Her distant forebear, Count Pavel Sergeyovich Kvaslubitelsky, had replanted the family tree in Walden Puddle in 1826. Although Mme. Borisenko only spoke English, she made a point of speaking it with a pronounced Russian accent. "I just like the sound of it," she would say ... with a pronounced Russian accent.
Count Pavel, her ancestor, had fled Russia. A political reformer, he had made enemies both in the court of Tsar Alexander I -- most importantly the Tsar -- and among his fellow reformers, who went on to attempt a democratic revolution on December 14, 1825. Sadly for many Russians, especially serfs, the uprising, known as the Decembrist Revolt, came to nothing. Had the Decembrists succeeded, say scholars, there might never have been a Bolshevik Revolution in 1917.
Count Pavel missed the whole thing.
This was because of a copy-editing error in a pamphlet printed by a group of radical Decembrists. Being radicals, they had little interest in proofreading. After studying the leaflet, Count Pavel understood, wrongly, that the uprising was definitely on for September 14.
The rest of the Decembists ironed out the misunderstanding, but Count Pavel never got word of it. On September 14, he personally staged the Septembrist Revolt of 1825, storming the Tsar's Winter Palace all by himself. He was easily subdued by the two sentries on duty.
The Tsar was furious with Count Pavel, not so much for his one-man revolution, but because it deeply depressed the Tsar to think that any member of the Russian nobility could be that stupid.
Count Pavel had two choices before him: Siberia to the east, or Paris and New York to the west. He brooded about the difficult decision for days. Finally, he flipped a ruble.
In August 1826, Count Pavel arrived in America. He decided to settle in Walden Puddle. "I have a gut feeling," he said to himself in Russian, "that I'll fit right in here."
Now, 180 year later, having tended to her 43 cats, Count Pavel's distant descendant, Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko, was having tea with her best friend, Ms. Priscilla Whipple.
Mme. Borisenko poured the tea from a samovar, and into glasses rather than teacups. This is how Russians have traditionally taken their tea. Many call it the best way in the world to drink tea. If your glass is too hot to pick up with your bare hands, you simply put it down for a while, and you don't burn your tongue.
"I am a poor emigre, Prissy, cast like driftwood upon your democratic shores," she told Ms. Whipple. "I am a storm-tossed political refugee."
"Give the Russian accent a rest, Millie," said Ms. Whipple. "You've been here since Andrew Jackson. Save it for the Elks Club Dance."
"Sorry," said Mme. Borisenko, now with a New England twang in her voice, "you forget with age."
"You close to finished?" asked Ms. Whipple.
"Ninety-nine percent there," said Mme. Borisenko.
They were referring to Mme. Borisenko's project of a lifetime, about which she said little. All she allowed was: "I'm working on a definitive translation of a Russian masterpiece." She had been working on it for ten years.
"When will it be done?" asked Ms. Whipple.
"I can finish it for you right now, Prissy. I have one paragraph left. Drink your tea."
While Mme. Borisenko worked, Ms. Whipple checked her text messages. One, from her daughter, the biologist Dr. Ursula Whipple, was a long e-mail about bears. Ms. Whipple bristled. She hated reading long messages on a one-inch screen.
"Y du U not lrn txt mssg?" she wrote back to her daughter. "U R a PhD. Uz ur brn."
"I don't have time to learn text messaging," wrote Dr. Ursula Whipple. "It's too hard."
"Mk th time! Dmmt!" wrote Ms. Whipple. "WTH is yr prob?"
Ms. Whipple loved text messaging. In her view, it was a great invention. She felt she had been born 60 years too early.
"Clueless child," she muttered. "I love her. But what a PITB."
Just then, Mme. Borisenko swiveled her antique Russian writer's chair away from her antique Russian writer's desk.
"My translation is complete!" she exulted.
"Oh, Millie, I am so tickled for you!" said Ms. Whipple. She gave her friend a bear hug.
"This is what it was," said Mme. Borisenko. She handed Ms. Whipple a thick book. She then gave her a 25-page manuscript. "This is my translation."
The translation began: "Hi, P., G&L now jst pvt prop of Nap. But WYA [watch your ass], if U du not agree w/me, I cut U no slack. U 2B OMSL [on my shit list]. U/me shld tlk."
"Oh, my God," said Ms. Whipple, her voice cracking with emotion. "This is brilliant! I had no idea. You were so secretive...."
"Ten years of my life."
"But well spent, my dear!"
"I'd like to think it's a translation for our times."
"For all times," said Ms. Whipple. "Plus it saves time."
"I hope I did it without sacrificing the essence of the story."
"Not one bit, Millie!" said Ms. Whipple. "If anything, the story is richer, and much more reader-friendly!"
The story was War and Peace. Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko had translated War and Peace into text messaging.
"I am honored to stand in your presence," said Ms. Priscilla Whipple.
"Thank you, Prissy."
"Why did you choose War and Peace? Other than it's so unreasonably long?"
"You know my family history. You know about Count Pavel."
"I do."
"The actual Decembrists, the ones who got the date right ... unlike my ancestor, who had already made Paris by then ... if it wasn't for them, War and Peace might never have happened."
"Oh?" said Ms. Whipple. She had majored in literature during her year at Fordham, but she had never heard of this.
"Forward-thinking people in Russia, Tolstoy included, were deeply pained by the whole thing. Tsar Nicholas, the new guy, came down hard on the Decembrists. Some ended up in Siberia; five ended up in a hangman's noose. All five of those nooses broke. Spontaneously. Think about that. Russian tradition says, 'If your noose breaks, you go free.' Tsar Nicholas says, 'Hang the bastards anyway.' So they got hung twice."
"Wow," said Ms. Whipple.
"Tolstoy started drafting a novel about democratic idealists in Russia. He didn't have a name for it. It was just a little draft. It was catharsis."
"Uh-huh."
"That little draft of a novel became War and Peace."
"Oh, my."
"I figured, it's the least I could do, after my own ancestor screwed up so badly. It's fitting I should finish today. December 14 is the anniversary of the Decembrist Revolt."
"That's so sweet, Millie."
"I had to do it. U knw, 2 mk amnds."
"You'll be on the talk shows, Millie. There'll be book-signing tours."
"That's what troubles me, Prissy."
"You don't want to be famous?"
"Hell, no. That's all I ever wanted. To be famous."
"So what is it?"
"I'm going to have to sign books for people."
"Well, just sign them in text messaging. WTP? [What's the problem?]"
"It could TMR [taint my reputation]."
"Why is that?"
"I can't figure out how to abbreviate my initials."
Editor's Note: All bracketed phrases in "Lost in Translation" are editorial insertions. They do not appear in the original manuscript submitted to us by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative.
THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Over chai at the Agreeable Doughnut, Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko asked us to extend warm holiday greetings to the readers of Walden Puddle. She also asked us, pointedly, "Where, please to tell to me, are the blinchiki on this menu? To which manner of place did you brought me?"
Mme. Borisenko extends personal greetings to that reader of Walden Puddle who has given both her cats ... brothers from the same litter ... the last name Karamazov.
"Please tell to her that she possesses the very good potential to be not just a cat lady," said Mme. Borisenko, "but a Russian cat lady, who are the most advanced cat ladies in all the world. When Russians go crazy, we hold nothing back."
Mme. Borisenko is planning a Christmas party for January 7. In Russia, Christmas is observed on January 7 by the Russian Orthodox Church, which still uses the Old Style calendar. Here in America, Christmas is observed on January 7 primarily by Mme. Borisenko.
On Thursday, January 7, Mme. Borisenko invites all Walden Puddlers to her Christmas Open House. "I promise many delicious Russian dishes," she said, "based on secret recipes my ancestor Count Pavel stole from the royal kitchens ... while he was still in favor at the Imperial Court."
Mme. Borisenko asks that all guests share generously from their plates with her 43 cats.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We know that some of you have been passing the link to Walden Puddle on to friends. Thank you. We could use the help. Our Circulation Department consists of 15 middle-aged men and women who know nothing about publishing. They come to our offices every day and simply sit in chairs.
They were led to believe, by bad placement of our ad for "Circulation Help" in the Walden Puddle Tattler, that they were enrolling in a free clinical trial for the treatment of varicose veins.
Every day, we give each one a Tic-Tac for placebo.
Other editors have reminded us that coming to the office and sitting in chairs is what many circulation departments do anyway. Whatever the case, without a competent circulation staff, we rely on you to spread the word about our twice-monthly reportage from the North Woods. If you enjoy visiting Walden Puddle, please pass the link on to a friend who might enjoy it, too.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Our next post will go up the day after Christmas -- or on Boxing Day, if you're Canadian or British -- so here's wishing all you Walden-Puddlers-in-Spirit ... HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
NEXT POST: December 26, 2009
FEATURING: "A Walden Puddle Christmas Carol." It's Christmas Eve at the Village Idiot. Dave the Bartender calls last round very early, at 6:00 p.m. He wants to go home. The few sad souls still left in the Village Idiot nurse their drinks. They don't want to go home. Just then, three well-dressed gentlemen wearing bowler hats and carrying umbrellas stride into the bar. They speak with British accents, and they wish to speak with Dave. What the Dickens?!
THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Ursula Whipple goes Christmas shopping for the bears who live, love, and overturn trash cans on her property. It isn't as easy as it sounds.
BONUS ITEM: Excerpts from the powerful Christmas Sermon of the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette. "Sinners are allowed to read it," Rev. Bisonnette told us. "And they can fold it up and take it to hell with 'em for all I care."
All printed matter in Walden Puddle copyright © 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.
Thursday
THE RISE AND FALL ... AND RISE AND FALL ... OF THE REV. ALVIN BISONNETTE
November 26, 2009, Vol. 1, No. 4
TABLE OF CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)
THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
A new bear named Alonzo shows up outside Dr. Whipple's cabin, looking for lunch. Alonzo has no idea what he's gotten himself into.
THE RISE AND FALL
OF THE REV. ALVIN BISSONNETTE
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Spanning 15 years and crossing state lines at least four times: The epic journey ... through life itself ... of Walden Puddle's fire-and-brimstone preacher man. Down and out at only 24, he lifts himself up from being nothing ... to being slightly more than nothing. And he's not done yet.
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
Reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette puts some murky rumors to rest ... and we chew the low-fat with Ms. Priscilla Whipple ... mother of Dr. Ursula Whipple ... who speaks candidly about the pain of a lifelong, unrequited crush.
THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Field Notes: November 12, 2009. I saw a young male out back today, foraging for pizza crusts. He is new around here. I named him Alonzo on a whim. I name all my bears on a whim. It saves time.
Alonzo is about ten months old, probably just separated from his mother. Like most mammals with any sense, bears chase away their young, rather than inventing flimsy excuses for not renting out their rooms to graduate students. This often comes back to haunt people ... in the form of 40-year-old offspring bouncing of a divorce and knowing they can still get free room and board back where it all began.
To welcome new bears like Alonzo, I shoot them with a tranquilizer dart. Once they go down and don't move for a while, I give them a big hug and some European air kisses.
I measure their dimensions and body fat, and all those things you see on the Science Channel, which I watch avidly to stay up-to-date. Unlike my colleagues on the Science Channel, I do not pull blood samples. I hate the sight of blood, plus my grant money ran out five years ago. There is no point sending bear blood to the laboratory if my check is going to bounce.
Because bears weigh upwards of 600 pounds, you need a whole lot of tranquilizer to mellow them. That one itty-bitty little yellow Valium you take before you go into a sales meeting will not make a dent with a bear. For Alonzo, I poured 10 cc of bear tranquilizer into a dart. I loaded the dart into my air rifle, and then I started thinking.
"Ursula," I said to myself. "Alonzo is young. You'll have many other chances to welcome him." I myself was feeling down. I had received another rejection letter for a grant application that morning. Alonzo seemed happy enough out back, foraging for pizza crusts. So I squirted half the bear tranquilizer back in the bottle, left about 5 cc in the syringe ... and I stabbed myself in the ass with it.
A minute later, I was stacked up over O'Hare. Alonzo was edging closer to my trash cans, now looking for Whopper fragments and onion rings. He overturned a couple of trash cans, and the noise he was making really bummed my high.
I got so pissed off at him that I went out and smacked him in the nose with a tennis shoe. Alonzo looked at me very startled-like, and he walked back into the woods.
I am sure we can rebuild our relationship. Alonzo is young. And I am only 29 or so ... give or take. But I feel badly. It was unprofessional of me to welcome Alonzo to his new home by smacking him in the nose with a tennis shoe.
Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she had lived in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the NorthWoods," she has written dozens of articles and poems about bears. She shares her fields notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.
THE RISE AND FALL ... AND
RISE AND FALL ... OF
THE REV. ALVIN BISONNETTE
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1079 words
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Alvin Bisonnette's rise from the ashes began on July 28, 1981, his twenty-fourth birthday. That afternoon, he had been fired from his job as a copy editor at a photo magazine.
Now, Alvin was having difficulty breathing. He felt as if his nose was pressed against a coffin. Liquid rose and receded in his nostrils like wavelets on a beach. It smelled grainy. Perhaps it was beer, he thought, and he was right. An object was stuck in his nose. Perhaps it was his thumb, he thought. He was wrong.
Alvin looked up and saw a priest. "Last rites," he mumbled. "Good."
The priest was a bartender wearing a black turtleneck. "Sir," he told Alvin, "I have to cut you off." Alvin realized where he was.
"Go ahead. Cut me off," said Alvin. "Everybody else has. I can't even hold down a job as a copy editor ... at a photo magazine. We only print captions. And I can't even edit those. I'm worthless."
"You're not worthless, sir," said the bartender, thinking of the fifty dollars Alvin had put in his till.
"Up yours, Father," said Alvin.
Moments later, he was lying on the pavement outside a bar called the Greenman in New York City, having been tossed there, like laundry, by the bartender and three unsympathetic patrons. Alvin shook his head to clear it. As he did, the object he'd mistaken for his thumb fell out of his nose.
It was a matchbook cover advertising the Cleveland Institute of Luck Reversal, a correspondence school offering courses in 137 different fields, including dog grooming, concert cello, and pastoral theology.
The streetlight under which Alvin had landed wasn't working. At that moment, thanks to a rat scurrying under the roadbed and concluding its life by patching a faulty circuit, the streetlight came on. Alvin was bathed in light.
Just then, a car passed, its radio tuned loudly to a classical music station, WQXR-FM, which was playing Handel's "Hallelujah" chorus.
"Hallelujah!" echoed Alvin. "I have seen the light!" That would be the streetlight. "I have heard the singing of angels!" That would be WQXR-FM. "I shall serve the Lord!"
Six weeks later, Alvin was an ordained minister, according to the certificate mailed to him by the Cleveland Institute of Luck Reversal. Six weeks after that, he was pastor of the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved.
His congregation had no building. They used a tent. Or rather, they pretended to. Their budget didn't allow for a canvas covering, so they purchased only tent poles. The little flock worshiped al fresco, often exposed to rain, cold, snow, sleet, or all four.
One Sunday, Rev. Bisonnette spoke joyously. "Say Hallelujah!" he proclaimed. "A tent is ours!" He had ordered one.
The tent had once belonged to the Luftwaffe. Rev. Bisonnette had acquired it through complicated channels. The Luftwaffe's insignia, the Iron Cross, appeared on the tent in many places. "That Old Iron Cross," Rev. Bisonnette would say fondly. "You know? It just works for us. That steady Old Iron Cross."
Now, protected from the elements, his congregation came down with bronchitis less often. They were able to work longer hours, and to tithe more. They bought a building, then another. By 1996, they owned the biggest church in Walden Puddle.
"We have prospered by the will of the Lord," Rev. Bisonnette preached one Sunday. "But I say unto you, brothers and sisters, we have become lazy workers in His" -- he pointed in the general direction of the constellation Ursa Minor -- "in His vineyard. Let us don the armor of righteousness and do battle with the Devil."
The devil they chose to battle first was the Jersey Devil, who lived, according to legend, in the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey. A demonic being, the Jersey Devil was, the spawn of Beelzebub himself.
Rev. Bisonnette's plan was to exorcise the Jersey Devil from those piney woods, making them safer for canoeists and fishermen. Since New Jersey has the highest per capita income in the nation, it seemed to Rev. Bisonnette like a good place to make a good impression.
At dawn on December 9, 2006, the congregation piled into four chartered buses. Owing to bad road directions, they arrived in the New Jersey Pine Barrens at three in the morning. It gets very dark in the Pine Barrens at that hour, and the lead driver became disoriented.
The caravan wandered biblically through the Pine Barrens, going in circles, along dirt tracks and county backroads, for the next three hours. "The Jersey Devil really had it in for us that night," Rev. Bisonnette would say later. Eventually, the buses shot straight through the Barrens, coming out the other end.
As they did, bright lights appeared on the eastern horizon. "Say Hallelujah!" proclaimed Rev. Bisonnette. "Civilization! Christian fellowship! Taco Bell!"
They drove into Atlantic City at dawn.
"Free Macaroni Salad Buffet!" announced Rev. Bisonnette to his hungry flock, reading a display sign on one casino. "The Lord has provided. Let us go thither and partake of the feast."
They entered the casino singing.
The next day, four chartered buses returned to Walden Puddle, but the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette was not on any of them. He came back to Walden Puddle nine days later, having hitchhiked from Atlantic City barefoot and wearing a trench coat. Underneath the trench coat, he was naked, having pawned his clerical collar, outer garments, undergarments, shoes and socks for five dollars, which he used to purchase one final chip.
To cover his shame, he had stolen the trench coat from the casino cloak room.
"This one is magic, baby," he said, kissing the chip, then rubbing it against his groin for good luck. "C'mon, baby. Come to Papa. C'mon sweet money. Come on home to Papa. Papa needs a new pair of shoes." He paused. "And underwear. And pants. And socks. And everything."
He bet on red.
"Cometh thou now to Papa, baby. Cometh thou now to Papa. C'mon red. C'mon red...."
The roulette ball settled on black.
"Lord," said Rev. Bisonnette. "I need a winner. Gimme a winner, Lord. I'm hurtin' here, baby. Lord? Are you there? Can you hear me? You are in charge, Lord! Why are you doing this to me, baby?"
He searched the pockets of his trench coat. They were empty. He searched his own pockets.
At the moment, he had no pockets.
"I needeth a winner, Lord! C'mon, baby. Help me out here!"
He heard only silence.
"I haveth no money. Help me out, Lord!"
He heard only silence again.
"You now what? You just don't like me," said Rev. Alvin Bisonnete. And he started hitchhiking north.
THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
The Rev. Alvin Bisonnete will lead his monthly bus excursion to Atlantic City on Thursday, December 3. Tickets are $20. The bus will leave from the Church of the Definitely Saved at 5:30 a.m. and return late on Saturday, in time for Evening Worship.
"As always, we shall kneel and pray on the Boardwalk," Rev. Bisonnette told us over coffee at the Agreeable Doughnut. "We shall pray for the damnation of the casino owners, the dealers, the girls who serve drinks in togas, and all others connected with the degraded business of gambling."
Regulars on Rev. Bisonnette's bus excursions report that he disappears as soon as the bus arrives in Atlantic City, and is only seen again 36 hours later, when the bus is ready to return to Walden Puddle.
"That?" said Rev. Bisonnette. "I don't brag about it, but I go off on my own to do missionary work. On Baltic and Mediterranean. Rough neighborhoods. Gathering in the sheaves for the Lord."
We asked why, reportedly, he often returns to the bus clad only in an overcoat or, on one occasion, wrapped in the sports section of the Atlantic City Press.
"I give everything to the poor," he said. "Everything."
Our conversation turned to sports. "Every year," Rev. Bisonnette told us, "we have a little football pool in the Men's Club at Definitely Saved. We only play for matchsticks, of course. But if I were betting man, I would lay the points with the Vikings this Sunday. If I were a betting man."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A surprise birthday party will be held on December 7 for Ms. Priscilla Whipple, mother of Dr. Ursula Whipple, the locally famous bear biologist.
Ms. Whipple the Elder was born on December 7, 1941, a day of big surprises for everyone.
We know surprise parties are not supposed to be announced in advance. Our fact-checking department has verified that.
However, Ms. Whipple does not own a computer, and she has refused to read a newspaper or other periodical since Wednesday, November 7, 1956, the day after Adlai Stevenson was trounced by President Dwight D. Eisenhower in the second presidential election pitting those two likable men.
"I was a high school freshman," Ms. Whipple told us. "Most of the girls had Elvis posters. The gaunt, depressive types had James Dean. But I had a crush on Adlai. The Eisenhower slogan was 'I Like Ike.' Hell, I didn't like Ike. I hated him. I keep an Adlai scrapbook to this day. That man still gets me hot."
We talked about her locally famous daughter.
"I named Ursula after ursus, which is Latin for bear," she said. "I figured, what the hell, I was still bearing her two weeks past term, and I didn't want her to forget it."
We assumed that labor had to be induced.
"I believe it was induced," said Ms. Whipple. "We were up at Woodstock. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I went into labor during that famous two-hour set by Jimi Hendrix. We were right next to a huge overdrive amp. I think the vibrations and the feedback from the amp did it."
What a joy it must have been.
"Joy, my ass. Giving birth bummed my whole Jimi Hendrix experience. That little brat weighed twelve pounds. Twelve pounds. You try it. Anyhow, that's why ursus, and Ursula, and so on."
We were impressed that Latin had once been taught at Walden Puddle High School.
"Hell, no," said Ms. Whipple. "We could barely speak English. I spent a year at Fordham ... before Vatican II. It's a Jesuit school. We had our freshman orientation in Latin."
What a delightful lady. Please join us in back of Dr. Ursula Whipple's cabin at noon on December 7. Try not to make noise, and be careful not to trample the wild Cannabis that grows there spontaneously, and about which Dr. Whipple can do nothing.
As always, there will be bears in the area. Park as close to the cabin as you can.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Saturday, November 14, in the 106th renewal of their bitter rivalry, the Migratory Elk of Copious Falls High School defeated the Walden Puddle Purple Finches 79-0.
"I saw our boys do some good things out there," Coach Bill Router told us in an exclusive postgame interview outside a Port-0-San. "We did cross the 50-yard line four times...."
We didn't recall seeing that.
" ... coming onto the field. Going off the field at halftime. Coming back on to start the second half. Then leaving the field at the end of the game. That's four times. In my book."
Would he consider that a moral victory?
"Absolutely," he said. "I even saw some of the boys lingering after the game, crossing the 50-yard line at will. That had to build morale, getting to know what it feels like. I think it should carry over to next season."
An attempt by persons unknown to smuggle Mrs. Agnes Stuart's wild-mushroom cobbler into the Copious Falls Victory Banquet was thwarted by Copious Falls police.
So was an attempt to urinate in the coveted Old Galvanized Bucket, which the winning school takes home to keep in its trophy case until the following November.
The Old Galvanized Bucket has never left the Copious Falls trophy case. The series record now stands at 106-0 ... until next year.
NEXT POST: December 9, 2009
FEATURING: "Lost in Translation," in which a dazzling feat of literary brilliance ... the translation of the Greatest Novel Ever Written into the world's most difficult language ... is accomplished by Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko, an eighth-generation Walden Puddler. "A work of genius!" says her friend Ms. Priscilla Whipple. "Not just for our time, but for the ages!"
THE BEAR FACTS: Young Alonzo takes his chances and returns to Dr. Ursula Whipple's cabin. She feels badly about smacking him in the nose with a tennis shoe last time, so she outfits him with his own radio collar. Her idea of a radio collar.
BONUS ITEM: At the Agreeable Doughnut, we sip chai with Mme. Ludmilla Borisenko, whose distant ancestor, Count Pavel, fled Russia for Walden Puddle in 1825, after a serious misunderstanding with Tsar Alexander I. Although she speaks only English, Mme. Borisenko speaks it with a Russian accent. She asked us pointedly, "I see no blinchiki on this menu. To which manner of place did you brought me?"
All printed matter in Walden Puddle copyright © 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All photos reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.
Wednesday
DIVORCE, WALDEN PUDDLE STYLE
November 9, 2009, Vol. 1., No. 3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)
THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Does a drunken bear habitually sleep it off on your lawn? Expert advice on how conduct an intervention.
DIVORCE, WALDEN PUDDLE STYLE
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Tommy was from Walden Puddle. Megan was from Copious Falls. Romeo and Juliet stood a better chance.
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
Reportage from the practice field
The Walden Puddle Purple Finches prepare to meet the hated Migratory Elk of Copious Falls ... and our sports reporter cracks under the strain.
THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Field notes: September 26, 2009. Louie got mean-drunk on fermented berries and took a swing at Darryl. Fortunately, he did not connect. It was the nastiest sucker-punch I've ever seen, and I've seen some bad ones on Ladies Drink Free Night at the Village Idiot. What made it so bad was that Darryl was asleep.
Fortunately, Louie's eye-hand was way off by then, and so was his sense of balance, so he landed flat on his ass. Darryl woke up and just walked away. I have enormous respect for Darryl. As a trained field biologist, I am not supposed to root, but hell, I am really glad that Louie made a damn fool out of himself.
Bears love berries. But when berries fall to the ground and ferment, they produce alcohol. This causes problems. Although bears are very large animals, they have what we scientists call a Girly Threshold of Inebriation. A mere handful of berries can souse them.
If you should see a bear, over and over again, lurching around your yard trying to open invisible garbage cans, that bear has a problem. He or she needs help. And so do you. Because that bear is in your yard.
Approach the bear in a sturdy pickup or SUV with the windows rolled up. Use a bullhorn so the bear can hear you. Have several people with you. This is not for safety reasons, because the bear can still kick all your sorry asses. It is just the way these so-called interventions are done.
In the case of a human intervention, five to ten people barge in on the person whose behavior they wish to improve ... sort of like a surprise party in hell ... and they alternately hug, kiss, bully, browbeat, and brainwash that person for hours or sometimes days, sleeping in shifts and leaving only to get coffee and snacks, until that person, just to get some sleep himself, caves and agrees to all their morally righteous demands.
Here's a tip: If you are ever the object of an intervention yourself, and your so-called friends are really pissing you off, just ask them to leave your house. If they refuse to leave, they are legally trespassing, and you can call the cops on them. I've had to do this myself, and it works very well. You lose friends that way, but you can make new friends on the Internet.
Here's a script I use when intervening with a bear. I have added exclamation points, but you don't have to shout. The exclamation points are just to remind you that bullhorns are loud. Drive up to the bear slowly. Do not cut the engine. Keep it running. Then, through the bullhorn:
Hello, Mr. or Mrs. Bear! We are your friends! We love you and care about you! It hurts us to see you screw up your life this way! We will stay with you until we make a breakthrough! We are prepared to stay with you for days! We love you! We cannot bear to see a bear as fine as you throw it all away! This may be rough on all of us emotionally! Bear with us!...
Keep talking like that through the bullhorn, assuring the bear that you love it, while also righteously attacking it for ruining its own life, and the bear will find you unbearable. It will then return to the woods.
After that, the bear will not come back to your property. You will never know if you convinced the bear to lay off the Long Island Iced Tea, but you will now be able to gather your laundry safely.
Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she has written dozens of articles and poems about bears. She shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.
DIVORCE, WALDEN PUDDLE STYLE
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
892 words
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
NOVEMBER 12, 1982
Over the centuries, little love has been lost between Walden Puddle and its neighbor, Copious Falls.
Separated by five miles of blacktop — and a black hole of enmity — the towns are bitter rivals, competing fiercely in athletics, dental hygiene, tractor pulls, pie-eating and wet T-shirt contests, and everything else that comprises the rich tapestry of life in northern New England.
The towns just flat-out hate each other.
An apocryphal tale has it that when Walden Puddle mustered a regiment of volunteers for the Union Army in 1861, the townsfolk of Copious Falls declared their allegiance to the Confederacy.
In Copious Falls, they tell the same story, but with the politics reversed.
Against this bitter backdrop, on November 12, 1982, Tommy McGoogan, quarterback of the Walden Puddle Purple Finches, ran into Megan Miller, a cheerleader for the Migratory Elk of Copious Falls High.
He ran into her while fleeing for the sidelines, pursued by a large and angry Copious Falls linebacker. As he scampered out of bounds, and out of harm’s way, he collided with Megan, who left the field on a stretcher.
He ran into her again three years later, when both were students at the state university, majoring in history. Their eyes met briefly in the college library, but briefly is all it took. They were in love.
Three days after they graduated, Tommy and Megan married. They moved far south, to Rhode Island, and began their graduate studies in history at Brown.
Though both had fellowships, and both worked twenty hours a week, their budget was always under stress. Yet they never quarreled over money or their lack of it. They were too much in love for petty distractions.
They quickly proved to be the stars of their department, and after obtaining their master’s degrees, they moved on to Harvard, where their doctoral dissertations were deemed, by the faculty adviser they jointly shared, “the most brilliant original work I have seen in the past forty years ... from anybody.”
They then moved to New Haven and Yale, whose history department had outbid Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, and Columbia in a recruiting war for their signatures on a teaching contract. At Yale, their students adored them. Their colleagues, sheathing their claws for once, admired and respected them. Their department chairman felt blessed to have them.
Their lives were charmed, and they were grateful.
Poignantly, they had never gone home for the holidays. Both were orphans, and they avoided the subject of family. Tommy had been raised at the Walden Puddle Orphanatorium, while Megan’s formative years had been spent at the Copious Falls Asylum for Children Found in Baskets.
“I grew up in an orphanage,” Tommy had told Megan on their first date. He left it at that. Why elaborate, he thought, on a sad theme.
“So did I,” she said, thinking the same.
Each of them felt pain at that moment, not for themselves, but for the other. Their eyes grew dewy, and they shared their first kiss.
They never spoke of home again.
As they strolled the Yale campus hand-in-hand, on their way to classes, seminars, and meetings, students and faculty melted with affection just looking at them. They radiated an aura of boundless love.
Theirs was a marriage made in heaven.
At home one night, grading papers, Megan dropped a page on the floor and bumped her head as she retrieved it. She touched her forehead. A welt was forming.
“I’ll get some ice, honey,” said Tommy. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an ice bag, applying it tenderly to her brow. Just then, he saw something he had never noticed before. There was a very thin scar over Megan’s left eye.
“How did you get that, sweetheart?” he asked.
“What?”
“That little scar.”
“Oh. That. Some idiot football player ran into me when I was a cheerleader.”
“That’s weird. I ran over a cheerleader myself once, when I was playing. I would have felt awful about it, but she came from this snotty, stuck-up town that everybody hated.”
“Same here. We hated that other school. And that whole other town.”
“They even had a moronic nickname for their mascot,” said Tommy.
“Same here,” said Megan. “What did that other town call their mascot?”
“The Migratory Elk.”
Megan looked up and stared at their beautiful Tiffany lamp. They were now world-renowned historians. But they didn’t know each other’s history at all.
“And was your mascot, by any chance, the Purple Finch?” she asked.
“Was that you I pancaked?” said Tommy.
“The evidence seems compelling.”
“Are you angry? I didn’t see you.”
“Don’t be silly. It happens all the time at football games.”
They lapsed into an uneasy silence. This wasn’t about a freak sideline collision at all, and both of them knew it.
“You’re from Walden Puddle,” she finally said.
“I am. And you’re from Copious Falls.”
“I am.”
Their divorce was finalized three months later, but they continued speaking on the phone almost nightly. They were still very much in love.
“I wish you were from anywhere,” she told him. “I wish you came from the Third Circle of Hell. Anywhere but Walden Puddle.”
“I wish the same for you,” he told her. “I wish you’d crawled out from under a rock. Anywhere but Copious Falls.”
She sighed. “These talks on the phone. They hurt more than they help.”
“I know. It’s untenable.”
“We have to stop talking.”
“I know.”
“We have to make a clean break and move on.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Tommy.”
“I love you, Megan.”
“But you’re from Walden Puddle.”
“And you’re from Copious Falls.”
“Do you think we’ll ever meet again? Even once before we die?”
“I don’t know,” he said, choking back tears. “Maybe we’ll run into each other somewhere.”
THE TALK OF ................ WALDEN PUDDLE
The Walden Puddle Orphanatorium will hold a fund-raising dinner dance on the night of Saturday, November 21.
The Mnemonics, "an adequate cover band" according to their own press kit, will take requests. Original music will be provided by the Walden Puddle's own Latter-Day Andrews Sisters, whose specialty is gentle folk-rock.
“People think you can’t possibly dance to gentle folk-rock,” said Lucia Rowan, music director at the Orphanatorium. “They may be right. But we ask everybody to try.”
At Walden Puddle, we rarely editorialize, but there are times when silence is the greater folly.
There is a lovely proverb known to many cultures: “Where there is room in the heart, there is room in the home.”
Adopt an orphan.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
REMINDER ... AS IF ONE WERE NEEDED: This Saturday, November 14, at 1:00 p.m., after a bye wek, the Walden Puddle Purple Finches will play the the Migratory Elk of Copious Falls High in the 106th renewal of their bitter rivalry.
The first game between the schools, played in 1904, was won 84-0 by Copious Falls. In 1921, a reporter from the Copious Falls Socio-Economist dubbed the rivalry the “Uncivil War.” That colorfully descriptive name is used to this day.
Each year, the winning school takes home the Old Galvanized Bucket, and gets to keep it in their trophy case until the following November. The origins of the Old Galvanized Bucket reach far back into local lore ... far enough so that no one can remember what they are. Legends and tales abound. We have our favorite one here at Walden Puddle, and someday we might publish it. Cleaned up.
The Old Galvanized Bucket has never left the Copious Falls trophy case. Copious Falls now leads the series 105-0.
All 246 seats at Walden Puddle’s venerable Muckle Field have been sold out since Arbor Day. Standing room tickets will be available on the day of the game. For parents wishing to bring children, a special detachment of state police will be on hand to prevent violence, and hopefully not participate in it, as happened in 1968.
Please do not perch in tree limbs to watch the game, as many do. “If you fall out of a tree, chances are you will break something,” said Dr. Morris Halberstam, chief orthopedic surgeon at the Walden Puddle Holistic Infirmary. “You can look it up. I saw it on WebMD myself.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We assigned Billy Paterson, our volunteer sports reporter, to cover a week of football practice as the Purple Finches got ready for this year's Uncivil War. We have been unable to locate Billy for three days, but we found his notebook lying on a table in the Village Idiot.
Here are the fragments we salvaged from Billy’s week of hard work, which may, in retrospect, be what pushed him over the edge.
MONDAY 11-2
Couldn’t get there. Brake linings.
TUESDAY 11-3
Couldn't get there. Brake linings.
WEDNESDAY 11-4
Mrs. Agnes Stuart stopped by before practice with some of her wild-mushroom cobbler. Coach Router asked her to leave.
Alvis Baylor, the fleet-footed option quarterback, threw up violently while calling signals.
“Nerves, son?” Coach Router asked him.
“No, Coach, I ate some of Mrs. Stuart’s cobbler.”
“Don’t you ever do that again, young man.”
THURSDAY 11-5
Couldn't get there. Brake linings.
FRIDAY 11-6
Couldn't get there. Brake linings.
SATURDAY 11-7
Couldn't get there. Brake linings.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The rest of Billy’s notes were too wet to decipher. We’ll see you at Muckle Field on Saturday the 14th.
Wear purple!
Go, Finches!
NEXT POST: November 26, 2009
FEATURING: "The Rise and Fall of the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette," an uplifting tale in a downbeat way, arriving just in time for the generally downbeat holiday season. The saga begins on July 28, 1981, facedown in a bar in New York City. It then spans the continent, reaching as far west as the New Jersey Pine Barrens, and as far north as Walden Puddle, where to this day ... deep in the heart of the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette ... the struggle between Good and Evil continues. (Lay the points on Evil.)
THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Ursula Whipple loves bears. "But not all of them realize that," she says. "That's why I plug 'em in the ass with a tranquilizer dart." Exciting reportage from the field.
BONUS ITEM: In "The Talk of Walden Puddle," a few people finally talked to us. We present highlights from our conversations with the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette and Ms. Priscilla Whipple, the delightfully spunky mother of Dr. Ursula Whipple.
All printed matter in Walden Puddle © copyright 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.
Sunday
THE POSSUM REFERENDUM
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles, Vol. 1, No. 2)
886 words
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
JULY 8, 1999
Since Colonial times, being a possum in Walden Puddle has involved a high degree of risk. When speaking of possums, Walden Puddlers have often used these expressions.
“I whomped it with a broom handle.”
"They're tastier fried.”
"Martha! My shotgun!”
Children in Walden Puddle have had different opinions. Many have nurtured orphaned baby possums, secretly raising them as pets in barns and treehouses.
The children have known something most of their elders didn’t: Baby possums, given half a chance, can grow up as friendly as house cats. Possums are some of nature’s gentlest creatures, getting into fewer fights than Buddhist monks. Instinctively, the children understood that. Nothing so pretty and sweet as a possum could ever wish them harm.
Sadly, Walden Puddle’s children have never formed an influential voting bloc. This happens to children everywhere, often to the detriment of society at large.
In the 1990s, however, things started looking up for the possums of Walden Puddle. Writers, lawyers, disenchanted bankers, and other members of the urban elite began moving north from places like Boston, New York City, and New Haven, in search of rustic beauty and absurdly cheap real estate. A few settled in Walden Puddle.
The new arrivals were often heard to use these expressions.
“Where do they keep their Starbucks?”
“If we don’t like it here, we’ll flip the house.”
“Is that man playing a harmonica?”
The urban expatriates brought with them attitudes that were ... well ... different. Among those different attitudes was a fiercely protective affection for wild animals, possums included.
On April 24, 1999, the Walden Puddle Chapter of Friends of the New England Possum was formed. At the first meeting, Astrid Nilson, M.D., formerly of Brooklyn, now a staff physician at the Walden Puddle Holistic Health Infirmary, made this remark.
“Let’s enlighten these unfortunate people.”
She was elected president of the Walden Puddle Chapter of Friends of the New England Possum — WPCFNEP for short — that night.
The first opportunity for WPCFNEP to enlighten anyone came two nights later, at a Walden Puddle town meeting.
Dr. Nilson motioned for a special referendum that would, if passed, add this article to the Walden Puddle Civil Code:
It is illegal to shoot, harm, run over with malice aforethought, or in any other way impede the Natural Right of possums in Walden Puddle to pursue a lifestyle appropriate to their ancient species, and fulfilling to them, as individuals, in all regards. Violators will be subject to a fine of $5,000 and a minimum jail sentence of six months.
As Dr. Nilson read the proposition aloud, whispers and murmurs spread through the room, growing in volume, sounding finally like a swarm of bees.
It was difficult to make out who shouted what.
“Possum lover!”
“One of ‘em bit me in the ass!”
That was a lie.
“New York radical!”
“Kumbaya to you, lady!”
“The little bastard came back! Bit me in the ass a second time!”
That, too, was a lie.
The chair restored order.
Dr. Nilson was seething. She was a feisty woman who had broken her foot two months before, kicking a heavy examination table. In fact, she had wanted to kick the patient sitting on it. “My beta blockers?” the man had told her. “Oh, I take them now and then. When I remember.”
As he uttered the word remember, Dr. Nilson remembered one of the most valuable things she had learned in medical school. A professor she admired greatly, a true mentor, once told her: “Never kick a patient.”
So she aimed for the table and broke her foot.
The fracture had stubbornly refused to knit, but on the afternoon of the town meeting, Dr. Nilson’s orthopedist had good news. “Astrid,” he said, holding up the X-rays for her to see, “I think we can finally liberate your metatarsals.”
He removed the cast from her right foot.
“But treat it kindly,” he warned her. “This thing is not a hundred percent yet. Don’t go marching in demonstrations.”
Now, Dr. Nilson remained standing as abuse was flung at her from all sides. Every muscle in her body tensed with anger, but she addressed the crowd in measured tones.
“Possums are peaceful,” she said. “They never attack. They’d sooner play dead. They fight only if cornered, as a last resort. They can be tamed. They can be loving pets. They deserve our stewardship, not our contempt. And most certainly not our cruelty.”
“Stuff it in your catheter, doc,” a man bellowed.
That did it.
“If I ever see you in the infirmary,” said Dr. Nilson, warning not just him but anyone like him, “I will personally transfer you to emergency oral surgery.”
Her anger overflowed, demanding an outlet. She stamped her right foot on the linoleum floor.
C-r-r-r-a-a-a-a-c-c-c-k-k-k-k-k-k.
She didn’t let on how much it hurt. She kept talking. After twenty minutes of inspired rhetoric, she had won the hearts and minds of well over half the people in the room.
On July 8, 1999, a special referendum was held in Walden Puddle. Dr. Nilson wore a cast on her foot as she arrived at R.W Emerson Middle School to vote. When she entered the building, her foot activated a metal detector.
But ever since the evening of July 8, 1999, after all the votes were counted, the possums of Walden Puddle have been sleeping more soundly.
During the day, of course.
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
The Walden Puddle Chapter of Friends of the New England Possum — WPCFNEP for short —will sponsor a Vegan Cook-Off in the basement of the Lending Library on November 7. Bite-size samples will be offered free. The recipe for the winning dish will be published in the Lifestyle Section of the Walden Puddle Tattler.
Mrs. Agnes Stuart's wild-mushroom cobbler with homemade elderberry preserves has once again been ruled ineligible by the County Health Department.
“I’ll be there anyway,” Mrs. Stuart promised. “I'll set up a table across the street. And I'll have enough cobbler for all.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved will hold a flea market on Sunday, November 8. Both sinners and the sanctified are invited to browse, with sinners politely asked not to touch anything.
“If you aren't saved yet,” said the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette, pastor, “please point to what you want, and one of the saved will show it to you.”
The saved may also purchase a water-repellent yellow windbreaker for $9.95. “We ordered too many. We're selling them at cost.”
Printed on the back of each windbreaker are the words:
LAST JUDGMENT
EVENT STAFF
Get there early. We plan to buy a bunch ourselves. What a terrific idea for a Christmas gift.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On October 16, the students, faculty, and parents of Walden Puddle High School voted, for the tenth straight year, not to drop football. The vote was again held at the request of the state high school athletic association.
Physicians from the Walden Puddle Holistic Health Infirmary conducted a vivid demonstration involving a football helmet, a two-by-four, and a clear plastic bag filled with raspberry Jell-O.
Their disturbing testimony notwithstanding, the proposal to drop football was defeated by a vote of 251-56.
The Walden Puddle Purple Finches will play their last game of the 2009 season at Muckle Field on Saturday, November 14, against their archrivals, the Migratory Elk of Copious Falls High.
“I am pleased by this rebuke to gratuitous pacifism,” said Bill Router, now in his twentieth year as head coach of the Purple Finches. “I believe we can still win a game this season. If it snows.”
He added, “A blizzard would be best."
The Purple Finches' season record now stands at 0-7. Their current losing streak of 126 games began in 1995. This September, USA Today proclaimed the Purple Finches "The Worst High Shool Football Team in America."
"That newspaper story? It shows you can spin-doctor just about anything in the world if you want to," Coach Router commented.
THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Field journal: October 21, 2009. Bonnie got stung by a bee today. Bears hate that, just like we do. Bonnie started rolling around in the mud, which is what bears do to soothe insect bites, or because they are bored. Big Jack mistook all that rolling around by Bonnie as an amorous signal, and he attempted to mate with her. He was sternly rebuffed.
This carries an important lesson for humans in Walden Puddle, especially for you men. If you are crawling home on all fours from the Village Idiot, crazy-drunk and crazy-horny the way a lot of you boys get on a Saturday night, and you see a female bear rolling around in the mud, do not assume anything. Bears often do this because of an insect bite.
Do not attempt to mate with the animal. You will be sternly rebuffed, just like Big Jack was when he came on to Bonnie. You should have seen Big Jack run like hell. I almost felt sorry for him, but clearly he was way out of line. He had it coming.
Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as "the Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she has written dozens of articles and poems about bears. She shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.
NEXT POST: November 9, 2009
FEATURING: “Divorce, Walden Puddle Style,” co-starring star-crossed lovers who grew up on either side of the tracks ... in the two bitterest rival towns that have ever existed ... anywhere ... at any time in human history ... Walden Puddle and Copious Falls.
THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Ursula Whipple explains what happens when bears eat fermented berries. "Bears can get shit-faced just like the rest of us," she says. "If this happens repeatedly to a bear on your property, that bear needs help." Dr. Whipple will teach you how to stage an effective and compassionate intervention.
SPORTS SPECIAL: gritty reportage from the practice field, as the Walden Puddle Purple Finches get ready for their showdown with the Copious Falls Migratory Elk.
CORRECTION: The hated Copious Falls Migratory Elk.
All printed matter in Walden Puddle © copyright 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photos and artwork reproduced with permission.
886 words
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
JULY 8, 1999
Since Colonial times, being a possum in Walden Puddle has involved a high degree of risk. When speaking of possums, Walden Puddlers have often used these expressions.
“I whomped it with a broom handle.”
"They're tastier fried.”
"Martha! My shotgun!”
Children in Walden Puddle have had different opinions. Many have nurtured orphaned baby possums, secretly raising them as pets in barns and treehouses.
The children have known something most of their elders didn’t: Baby possums, given half a chance, can grow up as friendly as house cats. Possums are some of nature’s gentlest creatures, getting into fewer fights than Buddhist monks. Instinctively, the children understood that. Nothing so pretty and sweet as a possum could ever wish them harm.
Sadly, Walden Puddle’s children have never formed an influential voting bloc. This happens to children everywhere, often to the detriment of society at large.
In the 1990s, however, things started looking up for the possums of Walden Puddle. Writers, lawyers, disenchanted bankers, and other members of the urban elite began moving north from places like Boston, New York City, and New Haven, in search of rustic beauty and absurdly cheap real estate. A few settled in Walden Puddle.
The new arrivals were often heard to use these expressions.
“Where do they keep their Starbucks?”
“If we don’t like it here, we’ll flip the house.”
“Is that man playing a harmonica?”
The urban expatriates brought with them attitudes that were ... well ... different. Among those different attitudes was a fiercely protective affection for wild animals, possums included.
On April 24, 1999, the Walden Puddle Chapter of Friends of the New England Possum was formed. At the first meeting, Astrid Nilson, M.D., formerly of Brooklyn, now a staff physician at the Walden Puddle Holistic Health Infirmary, made this remark.
“Let’s enlighten these unfortunate people.”
She was elected president of the Walden Puddle Chapter of Friends of the New England Possum — WPCFNEP for short — that night.
The first opportunity for WPCFNEP to enlighten anyone came two nights later, at a Walden Puddle town meeting.
Dr. Nilson motioned for a special referendum that would, if passed, add this article to the Walden Puddle Civil Code:
It is illegal to shoot, harm, run over with malice aforethought, or in any other way impede the Natural Right of possums in Walden Puddle to pursue a lifestyle appropriate to their ancient species, and fulfilling to them, as individuals, in all regards. Violators will be subject to a fine of $5,000 and a minimum jail sentence of six months.
As Dr. Nilson read the proposition aloud, whispers and murmurs spread through the room, growing in volume, sounding finally like a swarm of bees.
It was difficult to make out who shouted what.
“Possum lover!”
“One of ‘em bit me in the ass!”
That was a lie.
“New York radical!”
“Kumbaya to you, lady!”
“The little bastard came back! Bit me in the ass a second time!”
That, too, was a lie.
The chair restored order.
Dr. Nilson was seething. She was a feisty woman who had broken her foot two months before, kicking a heavy examination table. In fact, she had wanted to kick the patient sitting on it. “My beta blockers?” the man had told her. “Oh, I take them now and then. When I remember.”
As he uttered the word remember, Dr. Nilson remembered one of the most valuable things she had learned in medical school. A professor she admired greatly, a true mentor, once told her: “Never kick a patient.”
So she aimed for the table and broke her foot.
The fracture had stubbornly refused to knit, but on the afternoon of the town meeting, Dr. Nilson’s orthopedist had good news. “Astrid,” he said, holding up the X-rays for her to see, “I think we can finally liberate your metatarsals.”
He removed the cast from her right foot.
“But treat it kindly,” he warned her. “This thing is not a hundred percent yet. Don’t go marching in demonstrations.”
Now, Dr. Nilson remained standing as abuse was flung at her from all sides. Every muscle in her body tensed with anger, but she addressed the crowd in measured tones.
“Possums are peaceful,” she said. “They never attack. They’d sooner play dead. They fight only if cornered, as a last resort. They can be tamed. They can be loving pets. They deserve our stewardship, not our contempt. And most certainly not our cruelty.”
“Stuff it in your catheter, doc,” a man bellowed.
That did it.
“If I ever see you in the infirmary,” said Dr. Nilson, warning not just him but anyone like him, “I will personally transfer you to emergency oral surgery.”
Her anger overflowed, demanding an outlet. She stamped her right foot on the linoleum floor.
C-r-r-r-a-a-a-a-c-c-c-k-k-k-k-k-k.
She didn’t let on how much it hurt. She kept talking. After twenty minutes of inspired rhetoric, she had won the hearts and minds of well over half the people in the room.
On July 8, 1999, a special referendum was held in Walden Puddle. Dr. Nilson wore a cast on her foot as she arrived at R.W Emerson Middle School to vote. When she entered the building, her foot activated a metal detector.
But ever since the evening of July 8, 1999, after all the votes were counted, the possums of Walden Puddle have been sleeping more soundly.
During the day, of course.
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
The Walden Puddle Chapter of Friends of the New England Possum — WPCFNEP for short —will sponsor a Vegan Cook-Off in the basement of the Lending Library on November 7. Bite-size samples will be offered free. The recipe for the winning dish will be published in the Lifestyle Section of the Walden Puddle Tattler.
Mrs. Agnes Stuart's wild-mushroom cobbler with homemade elderberry preserves has once again been ruled ineligible by the County Health Department.
“I’ll be there anyway,” Mrs. Stuart promised. “I'll set up a table across the street. And I'll have enough cobbler for all.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved will hold a flea market on Sunday, November 8. Both sinners and the sanctified are invited to browse, with sinners politely asked not to touch anything.
“If you aren't saved yet,” said the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette, pastor, “please point to what you want, and one of the saved will show it to you.”
The saved may also purchase a water-repellent yellow windbreaker for $9.95. “We ordered too many. We're selling them at cost.”
Printed on the back of each windbreaker are the words:
LAST JUDGMENT
EVENT STAFF
Get there early. We plan to buy a bunch ourselves. What a terrific idea for a Christmas gift.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On October 16, the students, faculty, and parents of Walden Puddle High School voted, for the tenth straight year, not to drop football. The vote was again held at the request of the state high school athletic association.
Physicians from the Walden Puddle Holistic Health Infirmary conducted a vivid demonstration involving a football helmet, a two-by-four, and a clear plastic bag filled with raspberry Jell-O.
Their disturbing testimony notwithstanding, the proposal to drop football was defeated by a vote of 251-56.
The Walden Puddle Purple Finches will play their last game of the 2009 season at Muckle Field on Saturday, November 14, against their archrivals, the Migratory Elk of Copious Falls High.
“I am pleased by this rebuke to gratuitous pacifism,” said Bill Router, now in his twentieth year as head coach of the Purple Finches. “I believe we can still win a game this season. If it snows.”
He added, “A blizzard would be best."
The Purple Finches' season record now stands at 0-7. Their current losing streak of 126 games began in 1995. This September, USA Today proclaimed the Purple Finches "The Worst High Shool Football Team in America."
"That newspaper story? It shows you can spin-doctor just about anything in the world if you want to," Coach Router commented.
THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Field journal: October 21, 2009. Bonnie got stung by a bee today. Bears hate that, just like we do. Bonnie started rolling around in the mud, which is what bears do to soothe insect bites, or because they are bored. Big Jack mistook all that rolling around by Bonnie as an amorous signal, and he attempted to mate with her. He was sternly rebuffed.
This carries an important lesson for humans in Walden Puddle, especially for you men. If you are crawling home on all fours from the Village Idiot, crazy-drunk and crazy-horny the way a lot of you boys get on a Saturday night, and you see a female bear rolling around in the mud, do not assume anything. Bears often do this because of an insect bite.
Do not attempt to mate with the animal. You will be sternly rebuffed, just like Big Jack was when he came on to Bonnie. You should have seen Big Jack run like hell. I almost felt sorry for him, but clearly he was way out of line. He had it coming.
Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as "the Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she has written dozens of articles and poems about bears. She shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.
NEXT POST: November 9, 2009
FEATURING: “Divorce, Walden Puddle Style,” co-starring star-crossed lovers who grew up on either side of the tracks ... in the two bitterest rival towns that have ever existed ... anywhere ... at any time in human history ... Walden Puddle and Copious Falls.
THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Ursula Whipple explains what happens when bears eat fermented berries. "Bears can get shit-faced just like the rest of us," she says. "If this happens repeatedly to a bear on your property, that bear needs help." Dr. Whipple will teach you how to stage an effective and compassionate intervention.
SPORTS SPECIAL: gritty reportage from the practice field, as the Walden Puddle Purple Finches get ready for their showdown with the Copious Falls Migratory Elk.
CORRECTION: The hated Copious Falls Migratory Elk.
All printed matter in Walden Puddle © copyright 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photos and artwork reproduced with permission.
Thursday
THE SEVENTH SEAL
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles., Vol. 1, No. 1)
861 words
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
JANUARY 17, 1994
Conor Murphy sat in his living room in Walden Puddle. Conor was playing chess with Death. He had done so for fifteen years.
Death is what Conor called Miguel.
Conor and Miguel, whose last name was Contreras, had become friends in high school, warming the bench of the Walden Puddle Purple Finches for four seasons while their teammates played baseball on the field.
After high school, carrying butterfly nets, the two had worked together in the quality control department of the Walden Puddle Cheese Consortium. They were guided by a motto they'd invented while removing a catcher's mitt from a vat of cheddar.
The motto was: "What people don't know can't hurt them."
The catcher's mitt was Conor's, and he had rarely used it. Now, disillusioned, he threw it away. Miguel watched with empathy as his friend's dreams of glory sank into the brine.
The mitt would have stayed there, eventually ending up as small, stringy imperfections in sandwiches and party snacks from Bennington to Nashua to Boston, but a supervisor saw Conor do it, and she made the boys fish the foreign object out.
Their creativity stifled, Conor and Miguel started playing chess on the job, each preferring chess to work. They continued playing, through the mail, after Miguel moved to California. Now they communicated their moves to each other by the Internet.
In fifteen years, Conor had never won a game.
When Miguel e-mailed his moves to Conor, he would type on the subject line: Checkmate Inevitable. He would sign off: “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
This game was different.
Distracted by food poisoning, Miguel had blundered badly, leaving his queen undefended. Conor never would have noticed, but a chess-playing friend happened to be visiting as he executed Miguel’s disastrous move.
“She’s naked,” said Conor’s friend.
“Where is she?” said Conor, looking around.
“Utterly naked.”
“Good. But where? Where is she? Where is she?”
“The other guy’s queen,” said Conor’s friend, pointing to the chess board.
Miguel’s position was now perilous. Conor’s friend explained to Conor why this was so, and how checkmate could be attained in five moves or less.
He explained it many times.
“I don’t want any help,” said Conor. “This is a game for gentlemen.”
Six months later, Conor had Miguel on the verge of checkmate.
“In your face, Death,” he muttered, as he prepared to e-mail Miguel the fatal blow: Knight to queen’s bishop seven. At the end of the e-mail, in capital letters, he typed a word he had never used before: CHECKMATE.
Just as Conor was about to click-and-send his triumphal message to Miguel — after fifteen years of what he rightly perceived to be humiliation — the news came on the radio.
There had been a magnitude 6.7 earthquake in the Los Angeles area during the early morning hours, causing a number of deaths, hundreds of injuries, and significant damage to many homes and businesses. The quake's epicenter was thought to be in Northridge, ten miles from Miguel's home. Conor lunged for the telephone. He dialed. Death answered.
“Hey, man, are you guys okay?” Conor asked his old friend.
“Yeah. We’re okay. Lot of broken glass. No one's going barefoot here. But we’re okay.”
“Thank God for that,” said Conor. Miguel was moved by the urgency and concern in his friend's voice. “Because now,” continued Conor, “I am about to kick your ass.”
“What?”
“Your king is dead. Long live my king.”
“What?”
“Knight to queen’s bishop seven. You’re toast, pal. Want a rematch?”
“Conor. We’ve got enough trouble here at the moment, and for the record, my computer got fried.”
“What?”
“Power surge. During the quake. Hard drive. Gone.”
“You don’t use a surge board?”
“No. In retrospect, perhaps I should have.”
“You can’t get e-mail?”
“We can't get running water.”
“Then look at your chess board. Just move my damn knight to queen’s bishop seven and take it like a man.”
“Conor. What do you think happens to tiny little chess pieces during a magnitude 6.7 earthquake?”
“Ahhh.”
“At some point, maybe we’ll reconstruct the game, when I get a new computer. Right now, I have to think about reconstructing parts of my house.”
“When will you get a new computer?”
“In the future.”
“Not enough! I demand satisfaction now!”
“Sometimes, Conor, to paraphrase Mick Jagger, we can’t get no satisfaction.”
“You’re faking this! There was no earthquake!”
“Why, then, do I see the bright blue sky when I look at my ceiling?”
“You lie! Sore loser!”
“Calm yourself, Conor. Do you want to know how violent it was?”
“Sure. Make something up.”
“This is true, Conor. In the fridge, we had seven containers of yogurt. Each of those containers had, across the top of it, a freshness seal.”
“So?”
“The earthquake was so powerful it ripped open the freshness seals on six of those seven containers of yogurt. That’s how strong it was.”
“It ripped open six seals?”
“Six seals.”
“That’s only six,” said Conor. “The seventh seal is intact! Play chess, dammit!”
Miguel sighed. He had known Conor a long time. “Let me check,” he said.
Conor waited. Miguel looked in the refrigerator.
“I was wrong, Conor. It ripped open the seventh seal, too.”
“The seventh seal?”
“The seventh seal.”
They were silent.
“So I can’t say checkmate to you?”
“Conor,” said Miguel. “We’ve got some pretty heavy stuff to deal with on this end. Can we call this game a draw?”
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
On October 18 at 7:00 p.m., the Walden Puddle Chess Club will hold a Beginners-Only Blindfold Chess Tournament.
"If you're an average-t0-poor player, blindfold chess is fun," said Clive Rensworth, the club secretary. "You'd probably make the same dumb moves if you could see the board. We'll also have a piñata."
No radios or other sophisticated musical devices are allowed on Chess Club premises.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The 12th annual pre-Columbus Day softball game between the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative (WPWU) and stagehands from the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts was called after one inning — for the twelfth consecutive year — because of the mercy rule. The score at that point was 41-0.
Whitman Bowman, manager and founder of the WPWU Softball Initiative, has told us, "It's getting to the point where I hate those brutes."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The pre-Halloween luncheon at Walden Puddle First Unitarian has been moved to the church's old fallout shelter. It will be held on Sunday, October 25, right after the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker, pastor, has, in her words, "facilitated a sensitive and inclusive worship meeting."
The presentation topic at this year's luncheon will be: "What Can We Learn From Wicca?"
"You don't have to attend church to enjoy the food," the Rev. Dr. Walker emphasizes. "Just come whenever."
Because many have asked: Mrs. Agnes Stuart has again offered to treat the congregation to her wild-mushroom cobbler with homemade elderberry preserves.
You didn't hear it from us.
NEXT POST: October 26, 2009
FEATURING: "The Possum Referendum," including a spirited town meeting, angry words, threats of mayhem, and a broken bone ... yet absolutely no violence. How can that be? It can.
INTRODUCING: "The Bears of Walden Puddle," to be offered regularly as a public service, since bears outnumber humans around here. It will be written by freelance animal behaviorist Dr. Ursula Whipple, author of many unpublished scholarly articles and poems about bears, and referred to by herself and her mother as "the Jane Goodall of the North Woods."
BONUS ITEM: How to make a good impression at the Last Judgment.
All printed matter in Walden Puddle © copyright 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photos and artwork reproduced with permission.
861 words
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
JANUARY 17, 1994
Conor Murphy sat in his living room in Walden Puddle. Conor was playing chess with Death. He had done so for fifteen years.
Death is what Conor called Miguel.
Conor and Miguel, whose last name was Contreras, had become friends in high school, warming the bench of the Walden Puddle Purple Finches for four seasons while their teammates played baseball on the field.
After high school, carrying butterfly nets, the two had worked together in the quality control department of the Walden Puddle Cheese Consortium. They were guided by a motto they'd invented while removing a catcher's mitt from a vat of cheddar.
The motto was: "What people don't know can't hurt them."
The catcher's mitt was Conor's, and he had rarely used it. Now, disillusioned, he threw it away. Miguel watched with empathy as his friend's dreams of glory sank into the brine.
The mitt would have stayed there, eventually ending up as small, stringy imperfections in sandwiches and party snacks from Bennington to Nashua to Boston, but a supervisor saw Conor do it, and she made the boys fish the foreign object out.
Their creativity stifled, Conor and Miguel started playing chess on the job, each preferring chess to work. They continued playing, through the mail, after Miguel moved to California. Now they communicated their moves to each other by the Internet.
In fifteen years, Conor had never won a game.
When Miguel e-mailed his moves to Conor, he would type on the subject line: Checkmate Inevitable. He would sign off: “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
This game was different.
Distracted by food poisoning, Miguel had blundered badly, leaving his queen undefended. Conor never would have noticed, but a chess-playing friend happened to be visiting as he executed Miguel’s disastrous move.
“She’s naked,” said Conor’s friend.
“Where is she?” said Conor, looking around.
“Utterly naked.”
“Good. But where? Where is she? Where is she?”
“The other guy’s queen,” said Conor’s friend, pointing to the chess board.
Miguel’s position was now perilous. Conor’s friend explained to Conor why this was so, and how checkmate could be attained in five moves or less.
He explained it many times.
“I don’t want any help,” said Conor. “This is a game for gentlemen.”
Six months later, Conor had Miguel on the verge of checkmate.
“In your face, Death,” he muttered, as he prepared to e-mail Miguel the fatal blow: Knight to queen’s bishop seven. At the end of the e-mail, in capital letters, he typed a word he had never used before: CHECKMATE.
Just as Conor was about to click-and-send his triumphal message to Miguel — after fifteen years of what he rightly perceived to be humiliation — the news came on the radio.
There had been a magnitude 6.7 earthquake in the Los Angeles area during the early morning hours, causing a number of deaths, hundreds of injuries, and significant damage to many homes and businesses. The quake's epicenter was thought to be in Northridge, ten miles from Miguel's home. Conor lunged for the telephone. He dialed. Death answered.
“Hey, man, are you guys okay?” Conor asked his old friend.
“Yeah. We’re okay. Lot of broken glass. No one's going barefoot here. But we’re okay.”
“Thank God for that,” said Conor. Miguel was moved by the urgency and concern in his friend's voice. “Because now,” continued Conor, “I am about to kick your ass.”
“What?”
“Your king is dead. Long live my king.”
“What?”
“Knight to queen’s bishop seven. You’re toast, pal. Want a rematch?”
“Conor. We’ve got enough trouble here at the moment, and for the record, my computer got fried.”
“What?”
“Power surge. During the quake. Hard drive. Gone.”
“You don’t use a surge board?”
“No. In retrospect, perhaps I should have.”
“You can’t get e-mail?”
“We can't get running water.”
“Then look at your chess board. Just move my damn knight to queen’s bishop seven and take it like a man.”
“Conor. What do you think happens to tiny little chess pieces during a magnitude 6.7 earthquake?”
“Ahhh.”
“At some point, maybe we’ll reconstruct the game, when I get a new computer. Right now, I have to think about reconstructing parts of my house.”
“When will you get a new computer?”
“In the future.”
“Not enough! I demand satisfaction now!”
“Sometimes, Conor, to paraphrase Mick Jagger, we can’t get no satisfaction.”
“You’re faking this! There was no earthquake!”
“Why, then, do I see the bright blue sky when I look at my ceiling?”
“You lie! Sore loser!”
“Calm yourself, Conor. Do you want to know how violent it was?”
“Sure. Make something up.”
“This is true, Conor. In the fridge, we had seven containers of yogurt. Each of those containers had, across the top of it, a freshness seal.”
“So?”
“The earthquake was so powerful it ripped open the freshness seals on six of those seven containers of yogurt. That’s how strong it was.”
“It ripped open six seals?”
“Six seals.”
“That’s only six,” said Conor. “The seventh seal is intact! Play chess, dammit!”
Miguel sighed. He had known Conor a long time. “Let me check,” he said.
Conor waited. Miguel looked in the refrigerator.
“I was wrong, Conor. It ripped open the seventh seal, too.”
“The seventh seal?”
“The seventh seal.”
They were silent.
“So I can’t say checkmate to you?”
“Conor,” said Miguel. “We’ve got some pretty heavy stuff to deal with on this end. Can we call this game a draw?”
THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
On October 18 at 7:00 p.m., the Walden Puddle Chess Club will hold a Beginners-Only Blindfold Chess Tournament.
"If you're an average-t0-poor player, blindfold chess is fun," said Clive Rensworth, the club secretary. "You'd probably make the same dumb moves if you could see the board. We'll also have a piñata."
No radios or other sophisticated musical devices are allowed on Chess Club premises.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The 12th annual pre-Columbus Day softball game between the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative (WPWU) and stagehands from the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts was called after one inning — for the twelfth consecutive year — because of the mercy rule. The score at that point was 41-0.
Whitman Bowman, manager and founder of the WPWU Softball Initiative, has told us, "It's getting to the point where I hate those brutes."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The pre-Halloween luncheon at Walden Puddle First Unitarian has been moved to the church's old fallout shelter. It will be held on Sunday, October 25, right after the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker, pastor, has, in her words, "facilitated a sensitive and inclusive worship meeting."
The presentation topic at this year's luncheon will be: "What Can We Learn From Wicca?"
"You don't have to attend church to enjoy the food," the Rev. Dr. Walker emphasizes. "Just come whenever."
Because many have asked: Mrs. Agnes Stuart has again offered to treat the congregation to her wild-mushroom cobbler with homemade elderberry preserves.
You didn't hear it from us.
NEXT POST: October 26, 2009
FEATURING: "The Possum Referendum," including a spirited town meeting, angry words, threats of mayhem, and a broken bone ... yet absolutely no violence. How can that be? It can.
INTRODUCING: "The Bears of Walden Puddle," to be offered regularly as a public service, since bears outnumber humans around here. It will be written by freelance animal behaviorist Dr. Ursula Whipple, author of many unpublished scholarly articles and poems about bears, and referred to by herself and her mother as "the Jane Goodall of the North Woods."
BONUS ITEM: How to make a good impression at the Last Judgment.
All printed matter in Walden Puddle © copyright 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photos and artwork reproduced with permission.
Monday
OPENING SOON
October 5, 2009
Greetings to all.
Welcome to Walden Puddle.
The name -- as you've figured out -- plays on the title of a book we all skimmed in high school. However, Walden Puddle is also a very real imaginary town, a bit like Lake Wobegon, but with a lower standard of living.
I'll be posting short fiction twice a month: 800 to 1,200 words long, and leaning toward humor, sometimes gentle, sometimes dark. Anything longer than 1,200 words will either be (1) broken in half and serialized in two parts, or (2) quietly retired. I realize you folks have other things to do with your lives.
The stories will be drawn from The Walden Puddle Chronicles. Through them, we'll all get to know the people of Walden Puddle, and learn about the life and history of the town.
I say we because at this point, I don't know anything more about them than you do.
In "The Talk of Walden Puddle," a regular column, I'll also keep you abreast of local news, announcements, and unsubstantiated rumors. I hope you'll visit.
My first post will be up on Saturday, October 10.
Stop by. I'll try to make it worth your while.
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