
Lucy, the resident naturalist, drew what she saw on her walk in the forest.
And some family photos, with a very tired




No living species is native to North America. Hedgehogs have changed little over the last 15 million years. Like many of the first mammals they have adapted to a nocturnal, insectivorous way of life. The name 'hedgehog' came into use around the year 1450, derived from the Middle English 'heyghoge', from 'heyg', 'hegge' = hedge, because it frequents hedgerows, and 'hoge', 'hogge' = hog, from its piglike snout. Other folk names include 'urchin', 'hedgepig' and 'furze-pig' .
One of my favorite French nursery rhymes is about a hedgehog (listen here) :Qui est-ce qui pique, pique, pique
Qui est-ce qui pique quand on le prend ?
C'est mon hérisson mesdames, c'est mon hérisson !
Qu'est-ce qui trotte, trotte, trotte
Dans les allées du jardin ?
C'est mon hérisson mesdames, c'est mon hérisson !
Qui est-ce qui croque, croque, croque
Les insectes et les vers blancs ?
C'est mon hérisson mesdames, c'est mon hérisson !
Qui est-ce qui lape à petits bruits
Le lait que je mets pour lui ?
C'est mon hérisson mesdames, c'est mon hérisson !
Qui est-ce qui s'roule, se met en boule
Sous les feuilles du groseillier ?
C'est mon hérisson mesdames, c'est mon hérisson !
Qui est-ce qui se cache ou bien s'endort
Quand il fait bien froid dehors ?
C'est mon hérisson mesdames, c'est mon hérisson !
We got back from Vermont yesterday. We were there for the wedding of our friends, Brian and Thom. They got married on a field in the town near Sugarbush Mountain. We, however, arrived just after the marriage, in time for the reception afterward, because we were stuck in traffic with a baby who howls and sobs and gives “how can you do this to me” eyes when we are in the car. Fun. But the leaves were beautiful, as Laurent kept reminding me. Emile, along with his sister, has inherited my hatred of cars. At least neither of them does what I did, which was to vomit on every car trip. As I lived in Minneapolis, and my father up near Moorhead, and my mother's family in Iowa, we drove a lot. We always brought along plastic bags. It was a constant of my childhood—I get spanked when I go to a restaurant, and I throw up when I get into a car. It's amazing I love going to restaurants. Still hate the car.
What Lucy's Maman Did When She Was Little
During the ride, Lucy kept asking me to tell her funny things I did when I was little. She wants one or two of these little anecdotes per day, and I need to start stockpiling them. Finally, a way to connect on a human level, instead of the constant guerilla versus dictator that runs rampant through our interactions.
So, here's one. My mother, back when she was still in her alcoholic haze, used to send my sister and I away for a month at a time during the summer, because she “couldn't stand the sight of us.” I remember one summer, I think I must have been eight years old, when we went off to our grandmother's place in Woodward, Iowa. As usual, we packed for ourselves, and I chose my favorite outfits, and only my favorite outfits: two identical bib overall shorts, with little bear buttons, and one yellow nighty top with bloomers, which my mother had made for me. For a whole month of playing with equally parentally equipped cousins, and eating cinnamon toast and Nestle Quick for every meal, I wore these three outfits, with no distinction between night and day. Lucy, was that funny?
I always liked staying at my chain smoking, solitaire playing, march music listening, popcorn eating grandmother's house, but it wasn't for her sake. She was a mean old viper, who told my cousin Courtney that she would end up like her mother, too poor to have a place to shit in. Which Courtney might have, but I hope not. I hope her children are washed more frequently than we were. I liked going to my grandmother's because of the freedom, and the cousins, and running wild over the whole town, from playground to cemetery, day and night, to the neighbors' bomb shelter that we were sure was a troll's house. We had the upstairs to ourselves, at least until I set fire to it by accident. I was only playing with a lighter and some polyester quilting squares, totally innocent, really. (Should we tell the adults downstairs that the house is about to explode? No, we should not, we should all just run outside and watch.) I loved the games of Star Wars, and fairies, and climbing in the old cherry tree (from which we always heard the croaked warning, “If you kids fall out of that tree and break a leg, don't you come running to me...”) Though I wasn't cared for, at least no one ever made me feel unwelcome, contrary to my experience in my own home.
If I pour your cup, that is friendship
If I add your milk, that is manners
If I stop there, claiming ignorance of taste,
that is tea
But if I measure the sugar
to satisfy your expectant tongue
then that is love,
sitting untouched
and growing cold.