USA: Shall I compare thee to an Etruscan shrew?

My library and other small things

If you are reading this, I can assume you can read and find some reward in doing so. Let’s face it: you’re reading this, and by choice, most likely.

You’re still reading, in fact.

There is something innately pleasurable about reading—briefly looking at little squiggles carefully arranged against a contrasting backdrop, while your brain subconsciously translates them into thoughts. Even more fascinating, they are not even your own thoughts. Someone else planted them there; amassing the little squiggles intentionally in a particular order to cause you to think their thoughts. Reading is a remarkable activity, when you think of it. It’s no wonder so many people choose to do it as an ongoing hobby.

When I was a child, I loved to spend time in the library, any library. I would finish my schoolwork early so I could go to the school library. Then, after school, I rode my bike to the public library. Books, full of these little squiggles that translate into thoughts, are magical. I could never get enough of books.

But now I am faced with a dilemma. As part of our preparations to leave the typical American Dream behind and hit the open road to live as nomads, we are paring down our belongings to only the most essential things. I am nearly finished packing three small stacking bins with heirlooms, mementos, and photo albums to be stored indefinitely at the homes of some of our family members. Beyond that, we will own only what we can carry with us in our expedition vehicle—an eight by sixteen-foot habitation box on the back of a medium-duty truck.

What about my books?

Most will have to be stored on my Kindle. Some books, however, don’t work well in an electronic format. A bird or wildflower identification guide, for example, really needs to be in color. I still need to have a library. Duh.

My husband, who designed the habitation box and is basically building it from scratch, has generously set aside space in the layout for books. But my library will be small, friends.

Small.

Like Rhode Island compared to Montana.

Like an Etruscan shrew compared to an African elephant.

Like Mill Ends Park compared to Yellowstone.

I could go on.

And I must go on, actually, but before I do: did you know The Vatican, the world’s smallest country, is a little smaller than the average-sized 18-hole golf course? Pictured another way, it is the same size as 29 Walmart Supercenters, all clustered together. I learned this while researching very small things for this post. Like I said before, reading is really quite remarkable. Twenty-nine Walmarts! A whole country! I know that now because I learned to decipher the code of some little squiggly lines strategically placed against a contrasting background.

Back to my library. I will have one shelf, 46 inches long by eight inches deep and just over eight inches tall, plus another smaller shelf for a few tall books. A cord will stretch across the shelves when we are in transit, so the books aren’t strewn about the rig. Every other bit of space is claimed for other purposes. That’s it. And honestly, if I could manage to not use all of that shelf space for books, my kitchen would thank me. The last time I moved my entire household—before the Great Purge began—my books filled a dozen or more large boxes.

I am grateful for my designated library space—don’t get me wrong—and if I use it all for books (which I really shouldn’t), it will be more space than I had expected. But between now and the time we hit the road, I must decide what to stock on my two shelves. I have already mentioned the need for a bird book and a wildflower guide. Other essential reference books include books on geology and botany, so we can identify and study up on the things we see. Maybe a guide to edible plants. I also hate to be without the old hymnal I acquired from somewhere decades ago. I like to have a paper copy of the Bible, one in English and one in Spanish. Some poetry would be nice—but should I limit myself to only a few poets—and if so, which ones—or risk the limited selections chosen for an anthology?

So, my question is this: If you had to narrow down your current collection of books—physical paper books—to only what would fit on these shelves, what would make the cut? What would get preserved in only digital form? Which of your books would you insist on keeping? What recommendations do you have for me? Many people have no books. I know that. I am grateful that I get to keep some. But which ones? Please, I need some advice here, friends. Thanks.

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Topeka is a good place to dig wild potatoes: Notes on old vs. new names in Africa and beyond

While we were in Africa last month, we had the opportunity to visit one of the seven natural wonders of the world. Perhaps you’ve heard of it: Mosi-oa-Tunya. Not ringing a bell? I’ll spell it the way it sounds: MOH-see-oh-ah-TUNE-ya. Still nothing? Oh, you must know it by its more recent name, which was bestowed upon it in 1855 by Scottish explorer David Livingstone.

But it already had a name—a good one, at that—and didn’t need a new one. Mosi-oa-Tunya means “the smoke that thunders,” which is entirely appropriate for a waterfall so large that it kicks up its own large cloud. A Montana girl like me, upon seeing the cloud rising from the perfectly flat horizon for the first time, could easily mistake it for the smoke of a wildfire. Moving closer, though, the thunderous sound of the pounding water is deafening. The Zambezi River is just flowing along on a flat plain, not in any desperate hurry to dump its contents into the Indian Ocean when suddenly, the earth seems to drop off a cliff—more than a vertical football field in height and nearly a mile long. Mosi-oa-Tunya, the smoke that thunders, fits.

But David Livingstone, upon seeing it for the first time, felt the need to rename it. By what authority? *crickets* In awe of its grandeur and majesty, he called it Victoria Falls in honor of the queen of the British Empire, whose tentacles would wrap around southern Africa some thirty years later. Livingstone was an OG influencer. When he posted his selfie, with the caption “Check out Victoria Falls, yo! #offthebeatenpath #letsgo #adventureguy #heartofafrica” to his Instagram (probably @scot_hiker4god, or something like that), it was thus added to the maps of the known world.

What is it about explorers naming things that already have names? And the new names, unfortunately, bear no resemblance in style or purpose to the old names. Mosi-oa-Tunya, “The Smoke that Thunders” became Queen Victoria’s waterfall. Likewise, Chomolungma, “Goddess Mother of the World,” became Mister Everest’s Mountain. Denali, “High One,” became simply President McKinley’s Mountain. Where is the power in that?

The old names had beauty and grace. They served a purpose—chosen intentionally to give a poetic description or show a relationship between the heavens and the earth. The new names, on the other hand, hit like a flag planted on the moon or a mountaintop, a sign that something has been claimed, conquered, owned. The indigenous names point to the touch of the Divine and a shared human experience. The new names begin and end with the name of one person, a self-proclaimed identity, an undeserved feather in a cap.

Sometimes, a traditional name is kept and still used, but its meaning becomes so lost that a new name would have been more appropriate. Dakota, for example, is a Sioux word meaning “friend or ally.” Oh, the irony of two states by that name—both of whom are embroiled in conflicts with their indigenous tribes. Topeka, a word preserved from the Kansa language, means “a good place to dig wild potatoes.” Hmm. I really don’t think that’s what Topeka wants to be known for these days.

But I digress.

Go to Zambia and see the falls yourself. If you are there in person, it is locally known as Mosi-oa-Tunya. That’s the name of the national park (at least on the Zambia side). That’s the name of the Radisson resort hotel nearby. That’s even the name of the local beverages.

But the people who don’t go (or at least read a humble little account like this) will not know The Smoke that Thunders. They will not feel a taste the glory and power conveyed simply by hearing the name. They will just hear about Victoria Falls, some waterfall somewhere—is that in Canada, somewhere near Vancouver?

Many Americans, who tend to think whatever they have is the best there is, will likely assume Mosi-oa-Tunya couldn’t compare to the impressive Multnomah Falls or Niagara. Others in the world, people with a better sense of history and geography but still lacking the personal experience of going there or hearing from someone who has, will likely just think of it as one more place claimed and exploited by the British Crown—without permission, of course, from the people already on the ground. After all, that is how colonialism or expansionism, or (*cough* United States *cough*) “Manifest Destiny” works.

But I am here to tell you—go. Feel the power of the original name for yourself.

When we walked the Knife Edge Bridge on the Zambia side of the falls—in early June when the water level was high—the spray of water was not a fine mist. It was a crashing deluge, like the heaviest shower you have ever experienced, plus some. By the time we crossed the bridge the second time (the trail loops back on itself), we looked like we had just emerged from a swimming pool—or a baptismal—fully clothed.

I couldn’t help but stretch out my hands, palms up, and lift my face to the sky in worship. There was a blessing in that water, and I didn’t want to hurry past and miss out, but we were part of a group and had miles to go before we would sleep again. Feeling the cool water of Mosi-oa-Tunya wash over me—even for a few minutes—was one of the greatest highlights of my life to date.

I want to learn the old names for places all over the world now, and then go visit them. And I want to go back to Mosi-oa-Tunya again, but this time without a time schedule to keep. I want to stand in awe, and acknowledge our common Creator, and receive the blessing in the water.

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The Making of a Novel, Part One

I’m writing a book. You might have heard.

It is a book I have wanted to write ever since that one afternoon in my grandmother’s assisted-living center apartment in 1999. That was the day I found the shoebox in her closet, tucked in a back corner, dusty and neglected. I pulled it down and gently opened the lid. It was a cardboard treasure chest: old handwritten letters on fragile rice paper, documents painstakingly typed with the blunt force of a manual typewriter, yellowed Western Union telegrams with strips of block text glued down, and black and white photos with scalloped edges.

The historian in me perked up. I drew in a quick breath and felt my pulse increase. There was so much to explore.

But then, shuffling carefully through the papers with one hand while I held the box in the other, I saw the glint of something decidedly not made of paper. It was a ring—something out of a time capsule, ornate and complicated and sparkling with scores of diamonds—or what looked like diamonds, at least. This is not the actual ring, just a stock image, but you get the idea:

I set down the box and carried the ring over to my grandmother, seated in her recliner with her feet up. Having never seen it before, I knelt down and held it toward her. I asked what it was—and whether the diamonds were real.

“Oh.” Her face twisted, then she sighed deeply. “That old thing? That’s the ring my first husband give me.”

The ring’s luster faded like the midday sun covered by a passing cloud.  

“You can have it if you like it, hon,” she added, then looked away.

I didn’t like it. Not anymore. Grandma had always flatly refused to tell me anything about her first marriage, but my dad had hinted at some things. I didn’t want the ring. It represented only pain. That much I knew. It suddenly felt like a hot potato in my hands and I quickly rose and carried it back to its box—its cardboard coffin.

My grandmother called me back over to her recliner and I knelt next to it. She held out her left hand, fingering the simple, diminutive ring she had worn as long as I could remember. It was so small and plain, a thin gold band with a single tiny diamond, the antithesis of the one I had held a moment before.

“Hon, now this here ring,” she twisted it back and forth with a softness in her eyes, “I want you to have this ring. This here’s the ring that John give me. John was a good man.”

(To be continued)

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