These Mexican Bird of Paradise speak for themselves.
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Vacationing in New York City–Part Two
We tried to pick a non-rainy day to go to the Bronx Zoo. Yet, when we arrived, storm clouds swirled; it did not look good. Luckily, the threat never materialized. I had forgotten just how large it is. This June, the vegetation reminded me of a tropical jungle except the species of plants differ.
This zoo is huge and old with elegant, classical style buildings.
These photos were taken in the Madagascar building.
Water flows everywhere, making for a very natural feeling environment for many of the animals.
The okapi can really blend in with its forested environment. This is one of my grandson’s favorites.
The gorilla area is so large I was never able to discern its perimeters. This seemed good to me; they have lots of room.
If you do not want to spend much of your time walking from exhibit to exhibit, some of which are not close to each other or are very large in terms of acres, a shuttle circles the zoo regularly and you can get off and on at various stops.
Another option is to ride the Monorail which goes all around the huge Asia exhibit. The only downside is, due to the area in which the animals have to roam, you may not see many up close. Can you find the tiger?
This is an Asian rhino and we were told she especially likes hanging out in the water.
Red pandas are not related to pandas at all. Although they are a unique species, they are most closely related to raccoons and weasels.
Many people criticize zoos and would rather have animals roaming free. Sadly, some animals are already extinct in the wild. A number of animals at the zoo fit this category. In some cases the zoo has a breeding program and are working on reintroduction programs which will reintroduce extinct species back into their original wild habitats.
No matter how you plan to get to the zoo, you are going to have to walk some distance unless you hire a car or taxi. You can take the subway and walk about 1/2 mile or so, or you can take the bus but will have to walk to the correct bus stop to catch the express bus which stops near the zoo entrance. We took the bus which allowed us to get a sort of “tour” of Uptown, Harlem, and the Bronx. It was comfortable and not very crowded. I took the following photo at 124th street.
A small community garden.
Practice
“Whatever we practice, we get really great at. If we practice flexibility, humility, courage, we get strong at those things. If we practice rigidness, ego, cowardice, we get strong at those things.” Rev. Elizabeth Nguyen
My Hair–a Student Poem
Recently, my students read a poem where the eggs in a carton expressed terror at being removed by human hands and a Pablo Neruda poem about his socks–hand made, blue wool with a golden thread running through them. Their assignment was to also write a 20 line poem about something ordinary which they love or appreciate. One student wrote about my hair.
A Birthday Tale
Several weeks ago, the tail of my favorite horse, Miracle, disappeared. When she died from colic after giving birth several years ago, one young lady at the vets took hairs from her tail, made a braid, and gave it to me. Since then, it had hung in the hallway next to Dad’s spurs and a photo of the family farm above Dad’s parade saddle. Suddenly, it disappeared. Where could it have gone? No one had recently been to the house except Martina, my Italian exchange student, and me. My daughter and grandson had stopped by, but no one else. Nothing else had disappeared. It was a mystery like the time I found a handful of dry dog food under the saddle. I never solved that one and had given up on solving this one. I had even considered looking for something else to hang in its place.
On my birthday yesterday, the principal walked to my room with a bouquet of flowers and a package. The bouquet was from my grandson. I opened the package. Much to my astonishment, there was Miracle’s tail, the top of the braid carefully and colorfully wrapped, a thin copper wire winding through it, and and then wrapped around the bottom. My daughter had managed to take it without my seeing her do so, took it home, and had wrapped it so it would not come apart. When I originally told her about it, she and my grandson commented how strange it was and made note of the dog food incident as if some mystery lurked in that particular place in my house.
My grandson had picked out each individual flower. He obviously knows my favorite color is orange.
Then to top off the day my son also sent flowers. It dropped 50 degrees from yesterday afternoon to late last night, the wind shrieks, clouds loom dark and ominous. It is a good day for bright flowers.
Student Poems–continued
Student Poems–continued
This is the last of the pet poems written by the sophomores.
Simon
My name is Simon
my family loves me
i was so homeless until they found me
they love me they care they make sure i’m fed
they even let me sleep in their bed.
i love Chick-fa-la its plain to see
so wherever you see it; you will see me.
i’m so grateful for the family i see
i love Chloe and she loves me
forever best friends we will be.
Author: Chloe Aduddell
When the freshmen heard I was publishing sophomore poems, they wanted to write poems even if not assigned. Here is one of theirs.
I dig
you dig
he dig
she dig
we dig
they dig
This poem is not very good,
but it is deep.
Author: Cason Christian
An “Italian” Evening–One
Two weeks and one day ago, Martina arrived from Milano, Italy, to live with me until the end of the school year. We have discovered astonishing similarities: we both sing and play the piano, we love vegetables and fish, we read books. Tonight my grandson and daughter are coming over for Italian food. We went grocery shopping today, bought pancetta for pasta alla carbonara. Because my grandson is vegetarian, we purchased Morning Star “bacon” and will make a separate vegetarian version for him.
As we planned this repast, I learned that in Italy everyone eats several courses unless in a very big hurry. Course one includes various little goodies like cheeses, nuts, salami, often thought of in the US as antipasto, but it can include many other things. Each person obtains a drink of his or her choice and snacks on the goodies and converses. There are separate courses that follow: pasta, meat or fish, salad, and finally dessert. Italians eat dinner late, e.g. 9-9:30, which reminded me of Argentina where people also eat late. I like to eat late unlike many people in the US. However, we won’t eat that late tonight, more like perhaps 7:30 or whenever we get everything done.
Right now as we await the arrival of my family, Martina and I are sipping tea while she works on a dystopian short story she has to write for English class–she is a senior here–and I write this blog post. The snow from last evening has mostly melted and the sun is setting. Martina loves Panhandle of Texas sunsets and sunrises. I will take photos of the food and post them tomorrow.
Thoughts on New Year’s Day
16 degrees, windchill 2, flurries.
Keep warm, reflect, remember, don’t relive,
forgive, move on.
Work hard to become the change you want to see worldwide:
-Empathy
-Kindness
-Love
-Patience
-Understanding
The Sim Card
At exactly 8:28 this evening, after returning from dinner and Christmas light viewing with my daughter and grandson, I threw my purse and antique, red, flip top phone on my bed, and let Athena, my dog, out. Shortly thereafter, I inadvertently knocked the phone on the floor between the foot of the bed and my grandmother’s (the one I never knew because she died long before I was born) cedar chest. Rather than moving the chest, I retrieved a long handled duster and gave it a swipe, thinking the phone would fly out intact. Unfortunately such is not the case. First, the back of the phone removed itself from the rest and flew out. I tried once again and the rest of the phone flew out. I picked it up and the notice read, “Insert Sim Card”. I looked at the phone. Sure enough, no Sim Card. Subsequently, I moved the cedar chest, pulled out the bed, retrieved a larger duster and totally cleaned under the bed. I even went to the garage, got the flash light, and looked under the bed everywhere. Still no Sim Card. Finally, in disgust, I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of zinfandel, The Seven Deadly Zins to be specific, and continued to read “There Will Be No Miracles Here” by Casey Gerald. How apropos, except I have never suffered like he has (or if I have, I have conveniently forgotten), I am not black, nor male, nor gay, nor poor (he probably is no longer either), and, comparatively speaking, I am very old.
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