Saving Bambi, and an Heirloom Tomato or Two

Our eating habits, it seems, along with just about everything else we do, are destroying the planet. Biodiversity is disappearing in our food supply, according to the New York Times Idea of the Day for July 24. Tamas Dezso of the Times Week in Review quotes Emily Badger in Miller-McCune magazine: “…today, 99 percent of turkeys eaten in America come from a single breed, the Broad-Breasted White… More than 80 percent of dairy cows are Holsteins and 75 percent of pigs come from just three breeds.”

It’s also true of fruits and vegetables. The Times summarizes: “while there used to be 15,000 varieties of apple, there now are 1,500.”

And it’s all because of consumer demand. “Biodiversity is disappearing precisely because people no longer consume it,” Badger writes, “and if we would just eat endangered crops and livestock now, restoring their role in the food supply, we could save them from extinction.”

So we need to consume in order to protect.

At the same time, I’ve been thinking that it might be a good idea to thin our voracious deer population. It’s a herd of seven, plus three little guys that still have spots. They don’t eat weeds, or at least not enough of them. They do eat everything else, particularly the plants and trees that I’ve actually paid money for and planted. (I admit, I do like venison.) But now, it seems that eating them might just encourage them. Bambi saved by the New York Times and Emily Badger. Imagine: a deer saved by a badger. Sounds like The Wind in the Willows.

But seriously, let’s frequent those farmers’ markets and roadside stands, where they might just have some fruits and vegetables that haven’t been especially bred for uniformity and to withstand travel — they might just taste a little better and a little different.

For information on Farm to City farmers’ markets in the Philadelphia area, go to http://www.farmtocity.org.

Thundering for the Kids — The Flash Version

I’ve never liked motorcycles much — the noise, the exhaust fumes — raw aggression. On the highway I hear them, roaring up behind me, often two abreast, weaving in and out of traffic, going fast and loud. Or gunning their engines at stop signs. Threatening, all in black, hidden behind big, intimidating helmets or goggles. Anonymous power. Darth Vader on wheels.

Yet, on a crisp bright Sunday morning in autumn I am on Delaware Avenue in Philadelphia with thousands of bikers. Even on a beautiful sunny day, they’re big, tough, and scary. They have to be to manage the Harleys.

This is the 28th annual ABATE Run for the Kids, “America’s Largest Toy Run.” At 12:00 sharp, they will start their engines and roar out to Children’s Hospital of Pennsylvania. Each of the bikers has a toy, or more, to deliver to sick kids.

ABATE stands for Alliance of Bikers Aimed Toward Education, a national organization that lobbies for bikers’ rights and provides education and safety instruction. The ABATE run was started in 1980 to counteract their “bad guy” image. Just to look at them, there are a lot of “bad guys” on Columbus Avenue this Sunday morning, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want to find perched on the next bar stool.

Near the front is a lean man with a craggy face. On the left chest of his blue denim jacket are the words “Combat Vet” and an American flag. He’s a member of ABATE and has done the ride for many years. “For the kids,” he says, as do all the other guys I talk to. “But I can’t do it no more.” He says the noise of the ride is too much for him. Then he pauses, becomes thoughtful. “These kids,” he says, and even in the din of the motorcycles, there’s a pool of quiet around him. “These kids. Some of them won’t be here tomorrow.” He pauses again. “There was a 10-month old baby I saw once, with tubes coming out all over…” His voice trails off and he looks into the distance. “I just can’t do it no more.”

He won’t go into CHOP with the rest of the bikers. He’ll go ahead of the ride to help organize the parking, underground, where the noise — the noise that he says is too much for him — must be deafening.

So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be perched on a bar stool next to one of these guys. But I’ll still be careful of them on the highway. For their sake, as well as mine.

All Things in Moderation

“Don’t Blame Google for Ignorance” is the title of a post from the New York Times “Idea of the Day.”

“Some say rapid Internet search is killing general knowledge, the retention of key facts, from capital cities to historic dates — long the marker of an educated mind.” Yet another way in which the Internet is dumbing us down.

The blog quotes a journalism professor, Brian Cathcart of Kingston University in London, who disagrees. Knowledge, he says, and what kinds of knowledge we need to have, are essentially moving targets, “a society’s pool of shared knowledge is ever-changing.”

And the targets have moved throughout history. Cathcart points out that when printing with movable type was invented in the 15^th century, there were predictions of doom, of the death of knowledge. In fact, to the contrary, the printing press increased the reach of knowledge and facilitated an expansion of knowledge greater than any invention since the development of standardized writing.

And speaking of writing, almost exactly 1,000 years before Gutenberg, Socrates weighed in against that then fairly new invention (he never wrote anything down himself, we have Plato to thank for transcribing his arguments). The reason? It would lead to wrong belief and misguided opinion. Writing, as opposed to oral discourse, would enable people to find ideas and opinions and think about them all on their own without guidance from a wise mentor — like, maybe, Socrates.

So, just to summarize here: In around 400 BCE, some of us worried about unchaperoned access to written knowledge and opinion. In 1460 or so AD, some of us worried about universal, unchaperoned access to printed knowledge and opinion. And now, in 2009, some of us worry about an “unmoderated” Internet, the etherized spread of knowledge and opinion.

It’s a 2,000-year trend. How on earth will ordinary people be able to tell the Internet weeds from the good stuff? Should we worry?

Images: Johannes Gutenberg, Encyclopedia Britannica Online, Jacques Louis David, "The Death of Socrates," Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Conversation in the Weeds

It may be that if you weed too much, you get a bit goofy. Different weeds take on different personalities and you treat them accordingly. What follows is a conversation with one of my least favorites: Five-leafed Akebia.

Weeder: Good morning, Akebia shoot, I see you’re back.

FLA: Yup.

Weeder: I pulled you out just two weeks ago — maybe a week and a half.

FLA: (sullen) Yeah, that hurt. But I got over it.

Weeder: So why do you keep growing? Why do you keep strangling other plants? Why won’t you cooperate?

FLA: (flatly) It’s what I do. It’s my destiny

Weeder: But you’re so relentless.

FLA: It’s my purpose, to grow and reproduce. (livening) It’s your purpose, too, by the way: grow and reproduce.

Weeder: Well, yes, but I do other things as well.

FLA: (increasingly more engaged) Yeah, other stupid things. Like worrying about why you’re here. Stupid waste of time. You’re here because you’re here, that’s all. And worrying about purpose. Just grow and reproduce, like me. And multi-tasking. If you just stuck to one thing, you’d be a lot more productive, like me.

Weeder: Well, I was more restrained about the reproduction business: two children, max.

FLA: That’s fine for you, you’re taking over the earth anyway, with all your stupid buildings and your stupid chemicals and your stupid fancy plants. God, I hate those rhododendrons and how you baby them! Let them stand up for themselves and fight like real men, I say. We weeds have to keep growing just to keep up.

Weeder: OK, OK, granted, we aren’t very good stewards of the earth…

FLA: I’ll say. And we got here first.

Weeder: But why do you have to do your growing on my property? Can’t you fulfill your destiny somewhere else?

FLA: I like you.

Weeder: LIKE ME! How can you like me? I do my best to eradicate you. Not that I’m very successful at it.

FLA: Actually, I even love you. Because you don’t use chemicals. Remember when your neighbors drowned the place with Roundup?

Weeder: Yeah, the whole neighborhood reeked for a week, made me choke.

FLA: (angry and morose) And then they came back and did it again. Wiped out my whole family, they did. Uncle Charlie, Aunt Mildred, all my brothers and sisters, all the little nieces and nephews. It was devastating. Planticide! An herbal holocaust!

Weeder: Well, although I hated it at the time, it worked.

FLA: (outraged) It certainly did, all too well. We’ve had to redouble our efforts on your side of the fence.

Weeder: Well, thank you very much.

FLA: And another thing. If you’d just stop worrying about those fancy plants and put up an arbor for me to grow on, we’d get along a lot better. I could be beautiful. I could hide that awful mess that your stupid mechanic son makes in the back yard — all those tires and trucks. It looks like Appalachia back there…

Weeder: Yes I know. I try…

FLA: (primping) I would be beautiful. I have round rich green leaves in neat clusters of five. I have pretty little flowers…

Weeder: I’ve never seen your flowers.

FLA: (outraged again) See that! You haven’t been looking. All you do is yank and snip, yank and snip. You don’t even pay attention to what you’re doing! Stop and smell the roses — oops, I mean honeysuckle — Weeder. My flowers are subtle.

Weeder: I’ll think about it — that arbor thing. But only if you promise not to go anywhere else in the garden.

FLA: No promises.

Weeder: Well, then…

FLA: OW!!

Conscience

It happened around lunchtime. We heard the whipping of the blades. First the news copter, then the Medevac. Thirteen-year-old boy on a bike. “A tan- or gold-colored wagon, possibly a Volvo,” we heard later. Hit & Run.

For two weeks the story was in the papers and on the evening news with pleas for information. The police searched, following false leads. The boy lay in the hospital. Possible brain damage. Two weeks.

Finally, an anonymous tip led to the car — a Volvo with a hole in the windshield — parked in the garage of a 75-year-old woman.

She says she thought she’d hit a deer. At noon, at a busy intersection. She says she didn’t see anything about it on the television news or in the papers. She’s now out on bail. The boy is “recovering at home.”

There will be outrage based on the woman’s age, calls for testing older drivers, for revoking licenses. And probably, there should be. But someone who could run down a thirteen-year-old boy on a bike and then hide for two weeks amid a public clamor for information? I don’t want her likes on the road, regardless of age.

The Futility of Weeding

“The stateliest building man can raise is the ivy's food at last.” – Charles Dickens, novelist (1812-1870)

In other words, it’s the goal and destiny of plants to take over the earth.

Advice on Weeding

When I first started weeding, I hardly knew what was a weed and what was not. I could identify roses and daffodils, tulips, day lilies, lily of the valley, and a few more, but not a whole lot more.

As I watched the landscape over the spring and summer, things popped up, proliferated, and came back the next year. I was cautious. I knew that 100 years ago, the land was farmed and managed by a great aunt who really knew her stuff when it came to wildflowers and other plants. So, like hunting for a long lost Declaration of Independence hidden in the back of a drawer, I searched the landscape for extraordinary plants.

It turns out, there were none. What grew there was an ordinary collection of suburban Philadelphia flora, some good — a few very shy trillium — some not so good — pokeweed, which some consider a weed and others grow intentionally as an ornamental — and some downright horrible — a collection of invasive Asian immigrants (see my previous blog, "Thugs in the Garden").

Since I spend so much time weeding, I thought I’d offer some random advice.

Know Your Weeds
There are many books and web sites that identify weeds. I’ve found “Invasive Plants of the Eastern United States” particularly helpful for the real thugs. Of course, it helps to know the name of what you’re looking for so that you can find a photo of the plant to compare with what you have. But most books and websites have photos that you can browse through. The advice of experienced gardeners, who are almost universally generous, is invaluable.

Pay Attention
It’s easy to get carried away. You’re busily pulling some vine or other, the mind wanders, and all of a sudden, you’re elbow deep in poison ivy or you’ve yanked something that you paid a fortune for a few years ago at the garden store and forgot about.

Go Out Early in the Morning
Before the heat of the day and preferably after a rain. Weeds are easier to pull from moist soil than from dry, baked ground. Follow the sun, or rather the shade, in summer.

Be Prepared
There will be bugs — mosquitoes and midges. I put on a Bert’s Bees anti-insect concoction, which seems to help. I also wear long pants, socks, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt (usually with the sleeves rolled up) when I’m doing heavy weeding in the field and woodland beyond the lawn. I know, it’s hot. But it’s protection against insects and prickles. I only wear gloves when I’m dealing with thorns, poison ivy, or mile-a-minute vine. I can't feel the plants and roots with gloves on.

Water, Water, Water
I mean drink it yourself. No need to say more.

On Compulsivity
Yes, you can just weed-wack weeds. But they will come back. Some are masochists and love being weed-wacked. I pull as much as I can, to get the roots. Pull slowly and carefully, otherwise, the stem may break and the root will still be there, ready to continue growing when your back is turned. Get them early, the more mature they are, the harder it is to get all the roots. In plants with rhizomes, it's impossible.

Prioritize
I will never get rid of all the weeds in my landscape and neither will you. They're hardy and determined, which is why they've persisted for so long. But there are some, the thugs that crowd out everything else,and the strangle vines, that have my attention. I will certainly never eradicate fiveleafed akebia or Japanese honeysuckle. But each year I have a goal to push them back further, starting from the edges, and, of course, rescuing rhododendrons, laurel, and any other legitimate plant from their clutching tendrils.

After Work
I always take a thorough shower, even if it’s cool and I haven’t gotten sweaty or muddy. I also examine my body as thoroughly as I can. We have a substantial resident deer population that brings with it deer ticks, carriers of Lyme Disease. I’ve had it twice and it’s not fun. Vigilance — and I mean vigilance, dear ticks are distinguishable from a speck of dirt only with a magnifying glass — helps.

Above All, Enjoy
Yes, it’s work, but satisfying work, good for the body, good for the soul. A great stress reliever and workout. Don't kill yourself. Stop while you still have time to sit back and enjoy. And so it won't hurt as much the next morning.

Thugs in the Garden — A Few Least Favorite Weeds

Many people garden. I just weed. Sure, I install a few pretty plants from time to time and some actually survive. Others don’t. And it’s no wonder because more often than not, I promptly forget their names. A child whose parent doesn’t even remember his or her name will have a hard time thriving.

I also water — sometimes. But I mostly weed.

Starting about 15 years ago, when we moved house, and as a neophyte gardener, I let a lot of the vegetation around our house go. I knew about poison ivy and a few other things, but if a plant had some attribute that I thought was attractive — a nice berry, a pretty flower — I left it alone. And then I learned. They all must have been out there cheering. “Hoo, Boy! An ignoramus! What luck!” And they proceeded to party. Well, not party exactly. Some leapt into the trees; some tunneled underground. Others just had sex. With great frequency. Summer after summer.

What follows is a sampling of what I now know about a few of my least favorite weeds.

Fiveleaf Akebia
A 19th-century import from Asia that has become an invasive. With no natural enemies, it grows vociferously — 20 to 40 feet in a season, crowding out other plants and twining around shrubs and trees, strangling them. A vine that can grow for long distances underground, it wreaks havoc in many thickets and woodlands the Northeastern United States. I’ve seen it grown intentionally on an arbor as an ornamental. Beware if it escapes!

Japanese Knot Weed
Another Asian immigrant that has taken over, it grows in colonies with rhizomes that can run as far as 23 feet horizontally and 9 feet deep. Virtually impossible to get rid of without large doses of toxic chemicals. I keep pulling (really breaking off the stems from the rhizomes) in hopes that they might give up. They don’t. They just redouble their efforts, growing more stems from the broken root. It's used to make resveratrol but there's no chance of my turning it into a cash crop.

Mile-A-Minute Weed
Literally. It grows overnight. It's a very nasty customer with barbs all over its leaves as well as its stems, enabling it to attach itself to anything in reach. Unlike true vines, that have twining tendrils, Mile-A-Minute just smothers. It killed a Butterfly Bush when I wasn’t paying attention. It has beautiful dark blue berries. Don’t let them drop. They can survive in the soil for up to 7 years.

Goutweed, also Bishop’s Weed and Snow on the Mountain
At first I thought this was Queen Anne’s Lace because the flower, a lacy white, looks similar — at least it did to me. Turns out it’s a thug, crowding out everything around it and inhibiting natural diversity. It spreads underground by rhizomes. Fortunately, our resident groundhog likes it, but not enough. It’s taken me many hours over many summers to get it to a point where the groundhog, with a little help from me, can keep it somewhat in check.

Dockweed
Another thug that crowds out other plants. It likes moist areas but grows just fine at the top of my hill as well as at the bottom. Dock comes in several kinds, including curly and flat-leaved. It may have some qualities that make it good for cattle and I've heard that in Britain it's used as an antidote to insect bites. I don’t have any cattle and there’s no sign that the deer like it. They prefer plants for which I've laid out good money.

Pokeweed
A native, mostly poisonous to mammals unless cooked just right. Berries are not poisonous to birds. Grows up to 10 feet high and has clusters of dark blue berries that were used by Native Americans to make dye. Sometimes grown as an ornamental — they are quite striking. If you consider it a weed, pull it early. Once it gets tall and its tap root is established, it will break off when pulled.

Mystery Weed

This, I'm told is a weed, although I've learned to be cautious of other people's prejudices. Sometimes what someone else considers a weed, I'm willing to tolerate because I find it pretty or useful. (See definitions of weeds.) Of course, I've run into trouble that way. One or two is enough. The proliferation typical of weeds is too many. Anyone know what it is?

Go to the National Park Service website on aliens for more information on these and many other weeds,

A Definition of Weeds

So what exactly is a weed? Is it a plant that has weed in its name: goutweed, dockweed, chickweed? Not entirely. There are plenty of weeds that have seemingly innocuous names. Multiflora rose sounds pretty — many flowers. And it’s a rose isn’t it? Roses aren’t weeds. Well, they are when they take over everything in the landscape. Multiflora is considered an invasive.

Most plants have had some use at some point in history. And many so-called weeds have beneficial effects. Some repel insects and can be placed to protect other plants subject to those insects. Some are edible. Dandelions can be used in salads or made into tea. And some are poisonous — deadly nightshade, hemlock (beneficial only to those with suicidal or murderous intent).

Some common plants, such as English ivy, are considered weeds or even invasives, although ivy is carefully cultivated in the suburbs of Philadelphia. I keep it in check but I haven’t torn it out. It’s very useful: evergreen, covers bare spots, no fuss, it just does what it does without any attention from me. And I hope that it distracts my neighbors from the mess that is the rest of my landscape. (My neighbors’ yards, unlike mine, are all elegantly pruned, trimmed, and regularly nourished, but that’s another story.)

The standard tongue in cheek definitions of weeds are:

• A plant the use of which has yet to be discovered.
• A plant obsessed with sex (they do seem to grow much more vigorously than many plants purchased at some expense from the plant store).

But my favorite definition of a weed is a plant that’s growing where you don’t want it. In that case, it could be poison ivy or a broad-leafed grass in the middle of the lawn. Or it could be an antique tea rose.

On Gallimaufries

So what is a gallimaufry?

According to the Oxford English Dictionary (the one you need a magnifying glass to read), a gallimaufry is “a dish made of hashing up odds and ends of food; a hodgepodge, a ragout.” The word comes from old French, galimafrée and it appears frequently in the 17th century, diminishing into the 19th. Shakespeare used it in The Merry Wives of Windsor, itself, surely a gallimaufry of characters.

I’ve checked the cookbook collection for a recipe. I was sure that it would appear in the kind of book that starts what they call a “receipt” with something like “Dress a boar,” or in The Chef’s Companion, a culinary dictionary by Elizabeth Riely. No luck. Not even in an 1892 cook book. So we’re on our own, having to substitute one of the numerous recipes for hash.

In dictionaries, the word is called rare, obscure, archaic, presumably used only by desperate thesaurus searchers and pedants.

But wait! Check the blogosphere. There are quite a few gallimaufries out there. For instance, one of the more entertaining and wide-ranging is at incompetech.com. There’s also “Gallimaufry of Whits”, mostly about science. (A whit is the smallest thing imaginable.) David Ewalt has one at Forbes.com and a woman in Shimla in India is describing the town and showing off her photographs at olio-gallimaufry.blogspot.com.

All random thoughts, intellectual hashes. So maybe there is a niche after all for my kind of blog.

Don’t Talk About Writing

I’m told by an authority on such matters that it’s not appropriate to talk in the blogosphere about writing, or about the difficulties of writing. Is it a matter of etiquette? Like not talking in public about your latest operation, or complaining loudly about an affliction that everyone shares? Don’t whine. Just suck it up and get on with it.

I don’t understand why this should be a rule. I thought the internet was wide open. Freedom! No constraints. We can rant however we like. If we find like-minded surfers, so much the better. If not, oh, well.

Writing about writing is a time-honored form. Many writers have done it. If done well, it can be entertaining. It certainly sparks a flash of recognition, even commiseration and advice from other writers, as my blog on writer’s block did.

I was going to follow it up with a piece on cutting, about how difficult it is to pull out all those precious little children that you’ve taken such trouble to plant on the page.

But now… I’m not so sure.

Writer’s Block

Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh! (to quote Peanuts). What to write about?

Where are all those wonderful ideas, those elegant phrases that run around in my head? Where are they when I need them? Gone, vanished, they’ve abandoned me to the blank page and a blank mind to match.

There’s lots of advice on what to do: go for a walk, do a chore, think about something else, take up another topic.

In fact, it was just this morning, when I was house-cleaning that all those ideas and phrases were so palpable. “I can do this,” I thought, ”I will be powerful and cogent, fluid and witty — just as soon as I finish vacuuming.” Big mistake.

Creativity on demand is an oxymoron. No wonder so many writers — from Coleridge to Hemingway, from Xanadu to Spain (padding a bit here) — have taken to drink and drugs.

The dictionary (when at a loss, resort to the dictionary) defines inspiration as: a) “a divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation; b) the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions; c) the act of influencing or suggesting opinions.”

Well I’m in no condition to “communicate sacred revelation.” It would be awfully nice if someone else would communicate some revelation — any revelation, sacred or otherwise — to me. I certainly can’t move an intellect or influence opinions. In my current state, I hardly have an opinion. Do I even have an intellect? And the clock ticks relentlessly toward the deadline.

Just keep writing down the words, the advice says. Just keep writing. Something will happen. (A small miracle, perhaps?) Do the advice givers believe in divine intervention? I’m waiting… Where’s the sacred revelation?

A second dictionary definition of inspiration says: “the act of drawing in; specifically: the drawing of air into the lungs.”

That’s it! It was the vacuum cleaner! All those brilliant ideas, those phrases, the pure poetry that was in my head this morning? Right in front of my nose, under my very feet, they were being inhaled — inspired, one by one — by the vacuum. That deathless prose, those brilliant ideas, the exquisite turns of phrase, all went into the maw of a Mighty Mite suction machine. Along with the dust, the spiders, the crumbs, and the cat hair.

I should have been weeding instead.

Music in the Weeds

Usually, what happens to me while I’m weeding is that a tune sets up in my head, something random, something that I’ve heard recently: Emmy Lou Harris’ “Wrecking Ball,” a Bach partita, the song about cocaine with the interesting harmonies that my young cousin’s bluegrass band did.

Harmonies, of course, are hard for one person to sing, unless that person happens to be a certain kind of Buddhist monk. But I can hear them in my head. It’s called audiation — hearing music in your head when there isn’t any sound. A friend of mine, a composer, said that he was a lousy conductor because he heard the music, not as it was being played by the orchestra, but as it was in his mind. He was glorying in the perfection of his imagined performance while the orchestra was fumbling, uncoordinated, completely missing his intent. Too bad he couldn’t just beam what was in his head into the concert hall.

For me, the ability to audiate (if that’s the verb) is a definite advantage. It is, in fact, a gift for the world at large. No want wants to hear me sing, not even me. Even the shower, that acoustical marvel for the amateur voice, does nothing for the increasingly wobbly aging voice. Whistling is an alternative, and I can do that reasonably well, but why compete with the birds out in my weed patch when they do it so much better?

Writing about music is just as hard as reproducing it. I don’t know how the critics do it. Except they don’t, really. Like wine tasters, they talk about the mellow tones of the woodwinds and the full-bodied (or not) string section. They consider interpretation and whether the musicians got it to the reviewer’s taste. Opera reviewers have it easier. They can talk about costumes, sets, and characterization. But they can’t really make us hear the music. And if it’s a work that we haven’t heard, we haven’t a clue. "Bartók's references to Hungarian folk music give the work an undercurrent of, at one and the same time, exotica and humanity which enrich the listener’s experience, while speaking poignantly of his love for his native land… blah, blah, blah.” Well, that tells us something intellectually, but it doesn’t really let us in on what the music sounds like. And isn’t that what we really want to know? If we’re lucky enough to be able to bring up some Bartók out of our mental playlist, it may help. If not, we’re out of luck.

Here’s a test. See if you recognize this piece that I downloaded from my cerebral iPod the other day:

Brrrrrrm; Baa deee dum duh duh; Ba da brrrrrr didlyumpum dee dum. It repeats, going a bit higher: Ba da brrrrrr didlyumpum dee dum. Got it? Clearly, it’s not “Happy Birthday” or “Yankee Doodle.” It’s unmistakable in the full rendition — magisterial, mysterious, with lush orchestration (there’s the music critic language). I’ll give you a hint. It starts with a drum roll, and after a while a piano comes in.

Still haven’t got it? Don’t feel badly. It’s impossible. It’s been scientifically proven to be impossible. No one can figure out what piece of music another person is thinking of just from a crude verbal interpretation on the page or even vocalized. (It’s almost as difficult, if you know the tune, not to give some tonal inflection to those nonsense syllables. Try just saying “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you” without giving away the melody.)

So that’s why we have special musical notation. And Youtube. And the answer to the quiz: the opening of Brahms' piano concerto #1 in D minor, Opus 15. Here, it's performed by Bernard Haitink conducting the Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam with Artur Rubinstein, pianist. As the critics would say, the orchestra is rich and passionate, the soloist typically lyrical and, well, Rubinstein.

But it's better to listen.

The Venery Game

Let’s first get this straight. Venery has two meanings. One has to do with Venus and thus sex and by the extension of a few letters, a sexual disease. Sorry, that’s not the one I’m going to talk about.

The other meaning comes from Latin and Old French, to hunt, and also refers to the beasts that are hunted, their individual names and their names in groups.

The proper naming of groups of animals is an ancient art. Although it wasn’t solidified until the great blossoming of the English language in the 15^th century, Merlin probably taught it to King Arthur (along with the more dramatic parts of Arthur’s education that we know about — or think we know about thanks to T.H. White). It was important, sitting at the Round Table after the hunt, for a knight to know the proper names of the beasts that he had met during the day. And important to respect the beasts sufficiently to give them their appropriate names.

So, lions (although unlikely to be found in the English countryside) come in prides. Crows come in murders. Foxes are grouped in skulks, geese form gaggles, and fish are well schooled.

A book by James Lipton on the naming of groups of animals, first published in the late ’60s, was titled An Exaltation of Larks, and invited readers to play the game of making up names for a host of groups (there we go again — many things can be grouped in hosts), from aardvarks to yuppies. We might, for instance, say a coolness of yuppies, an incision of surgeons, a mess of adolescents, a didact of deans, and so on. It becomes addictive once you start. There’s an old saw about two Oxford dons walking down a street and passing several ladies of the night. One calls them a platter of tarts, the other, an English literature specialist, pronounces them a volume of Trollopes. And so it goes.

Lately, I’ve been concerned with weeds. Relentless, ubiquitous, and thriving: gout weed, knot weed, dock weed, and five-leafed akebia. I hear that this cool and rainy spring and summer of 2009 have been good for plants. They’ve been especially good for weeds — encouraging them, egging them on in their nasty scheme to take over the world — or at least my piece of it. I pull them and they come back. Some are masochists. “Oh, do it again,” they shriek and grow faster, bigger, higher. Some, like poison ivy, are sneaky. They hide and run underground only to pop up somewhere else, having grown four feet of vine under cover. It took me three years of summer weekends to get rid of the poison ivy in our front bed. And still, each summer a few stems pop up and thumb their noses at me.

Determined — that’s what they are. A determination of weeds.

Introduction

I do a lot of weeding. It doesn’t require much concentration unless you’re skirting poison ivy. My mind wanders. What’s on my mind? Lots of stuff. I could call it “Beyond the Marketing List.”

I guess I’m eccentric — geeky, even. You won’t find much pop culture here. I read, listen to NPR, watch virtually no television, and have a 60-hour-a-week job.

From gardening to geopolitics, the mundane to the arcane, I’ll talk about whatever seems interesting on a given day.

Oh, and a gallimaufry? It’s a kind of stew — a mixture of a lot of stuff.

Here are some possible ingredients:

• Getting Shorter: From Fielding to Twitter
• I-95 and the Garden State Parkway: Columbus Boulevard — perfectly suited to more traffic?
• The Great Cape May Cat Debacle of 2007: One man’s vendetta
• Education on the Assembly Line: A rant
• On Venery: A Game
• Immigrants from Asia: A guide to relentless vines
• Three Revolutions: From Socrates to Gutenberg and beyond
• What’s for Dinner? Encounters with the deer family
• A short course in weed ID

Tune in.