Book Report: At the Hour Between Dog and Wolf

13. Tara Ison, At the Hour Between Dog and Wolf (2023) (9/8/26)

Tara Ison was a mentor in my MFA program at Antioch University. We didn't work together, but I attended her workshop, her reading. So when this book was published, I bought it. And finally I've read it.

I found it interesting, especially for the unusual perspective it gives, on unoccupied France during WWII. A France that was being fed stories from Vichy—collaborators, if you will, with the Germans.

The story is of 12-year-old Danielle, a Jewish girl in Paris, whose father is killed after the Germans roll in. Her mother decides the safest haven for her is in a village near Limoges, with a Catholic couple who once worked for Danielle's grandparents. There, she becomes Marie-Jeanne—Jeanne d'Arc becoming her own namesake savior.

I could say what there's too much of: Catholic liturgy, Marie-Jeanne's thoughts. Yeah, mostly those two.

But that doesn't get at what irritates me about the book. 

Partly the writing: so many run-on sentences. Too much in-the-head.

But that's not it either.

The fact that the protagonist was 12? By the end she's 15, but a sheltered 15. In any case, she sounds much more worldly than she could have been.

I honestly can't say just what the irritant was, but I do know that it's something I'll be looking for in my own book about a different WWII situation.

I love Tara Ison, her smile, her hats. I kind of love this book, even though it just rankles me. I won't forget it. I guess that's a testament of sorts. 

Dirty Dancing

I like to take daily long walks—five miles or more—and one thing that keeps me going is podcasts. I've got a few favorites: Ezra Klein, Strangers on a Bench, Poetry Unbound, Melody or Witchcraft, Desert Island Discs, the Poetry Space, On Being. And lately, I've really been enjoying What Went Wrong: conversations about some of our most iconic, or most popular, or most unlikely movies, and the back stories about how they almost didn't get made, or might have been made very differently.

The other day I scrolled to a movie that I dearly love, Dirty Dancing. I don't remember when I first saw Dirty Dancing, but I do know that when Netflix went out of business and they let people just keep the last two discs they'd ordered, I put a lot of thought into what those two discs should be. 

Well, okay, "a lot of thought": I thought, well, I love Wings of Desire, so there's one. And . . . hmmm . . . I also love Dirty Dancing. Done.

And no regrets. I do enjoy watching both those movies every so often, different though they are. But also not so different: they're both about passion and meaning, what it is to be human. And sure, there are certainly other movies I'd also enjoy watching again and again. But I only got to keep two. Those others, whatever they are, are probably streaming somewhere, right?

Anyway. I very much enjoyed hearing the down-and-dirty on Dirty Dancing in What Went Wrong—the casting issues, the scant $5 million budget, the scramble for music rights (within that budget!), the search for a director, the search for a production studio, and it went on. They also mentioned a series of Netflix documentaries, The Movies That Made Us, the first installment of which is . . . yes, Dirty Dancing! So I watched that this evening. Each treatment gave me a different perspective, both on the movie itself and on the moviemaking industry. I'm beginning to think every movie I see is worth all that money. It's not an easy business.

I'll end with the movie's finale. 

And here's some of the "dirty dancing" itself:

Patrick Swayze especially was a joy to watch. He died too young. But I'm glad he lives on in Dirty Dancing.

Two poems, by two Jims: Harrison and Moore

I ran across these two poems today, both speaking of time and what matters, and I love them and want to keep them around. The first one in particular. My new goal in life is to keep wagging my feet above the abyss.

Bridge

by Jim Harrison (1937–2016)

Most of my life was spent
building a bridge out over the sea
though the sea was too wide.
I’m proud of the bridge
hanging in the pure sea air. Machado
came for a visit and we sat on the
end of the bridge, which was his idea. 

Now that I’m old the work goes slowly.
Ever nearer death, I like it out here
high above the sea bundled
up for the arctic storms of late fall,
the resounding crash and moan of the sea,
the hundred-foot depth of the green troughs.
Sometimes the sea roars and howls like
the animal it is, a continent wide and alive.
What beauty in this the darkest music
over which you can hear the lightest music of human
behavior, the tender connection between men and galaxies. 

So I sit on the edge, wagging my feet above
the abyss. Tonight the moon will be in my lap.
This is my job, to study the universe
from my bridge. I have the sky, the sea, the faint
green streak of Canadian forest on the far shore. 

This is the photo of a young Jim Harrison that accompanied the FB post. It's kind of perfect.

I had not heard of the next poet before today, but I've looked into him a bit and like what I see. In 1975, he was at La Guardia airport when a bomb exploded, killing twelve. He later wrote, "I realized, in the aftermath of the bomb, how arbitrary fate can be. Spending the night in La Guardia in the midst of that chaos, destruction, grief, and hysteria changed the nature of my work. Since then, I have felt that life is much more about the interruption of plot than about plot. What choice did my poetry have, but to reshape itself around these interruptions? I try to see as clearly—even calmly—as I can how things are. Sadness is at the heart of this clarity, but, strangely, consolation as well . . . we are all in it together." The following poem may well inspire me to seek out more of Jim Moore and his work.

The Need Is So Great

by Jim Moore (b. 1943)

Sometimes I just sit like this at the window and watch
the darkness come. If I’m smart, I’ll put on Bach.

I’m thinking now of how far it always seems there is to go.
Maybe it is too easy that I speak so often

of late last light on a December day,
of that stubborn grass that somehow still remains green

behind the broken chain link fence on the corner.
But the need is so great for the way light looks

as it takes its leave of us. We say
what we can to each other of these things,

we who are such thieves, stealing first
one breath and then the next. Bach, keep going

just this slowly, show me the way to believe
that what matters in this world has already happened

and will go on happening forever.
The way light falls on the last

of the stricken leaves of the copper beech
at the end of the block is something to behold.

And, okay, a third, final poem, named by David when I asked what his favorite is—because it fits the overall theme here: of having a mind and a heart and beholding the wonder of it all:

Messenger

by Mary Oliver (1935–2019)

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

The Weight of Time

Not long ago, Pádraig Ó Tuama posted in an email (Poetry Unbound?) a musing about time, and in it he included a poem he'd written, "The Weight of Time." One of the stanzas irked me, and continues to irk me:

1993 was a terrible year for me, an old guy said.
I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t born, came a reply.
The speaker got annoyed,
but the young guy said,
you’ve had your time —
my generation’s being destroyed.

First, the line "you've had your time." Um, no. Anyone who is alive has whatever time there is. We all only get this one span of time. Of precious life. You've had your time? What will that young guy feel when he gets to be seventy, eighty?

Certainly, too, you could look back to a similar "young guy" in the 1960s—who could easily have been the older speaker—and he also might well have said, "My generation's being destroyed." In this country, it has been true for many, throughout our history. The current generations might consider themselves lucky that they don't have a Civil War, a World War, a Vietnam, to get conscripted into, if they had perspective. There are many ways of surviving the odds.

Then there are the young people who complain about older folks who are remaining in their houses, now paid off, rather than moving somewhere smaller and letting young families take them over. But when I look at options around here, we'd have to pay more than we could get for our house, and for something smaller. Why should we do that? Haven't we paid our dues, earned some peace? Shouldn't we all get to be where want to be—assuming we've made it there—until it's no longer viable? Is it us "boomers'" fault that humans keep procreating, keep filling the planet? (And I say that as someone who did not.)

Of course of course, we're all egocentric, invested in our own stories, our own pains and joys, and we think we are the most important. And maybe that's also what I'm objecting to: that selfishness. Aren't we all in this together? Apparently not.

Though part of me thinks it's the media that are creating all the bellyache. That people aren't really as generationally divided, as dyspeptic, as selfish, as the "pundits" make up stories about. Because they've got to sell their papers. Which doesn't mean people don't believe the stories they're told. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sad. I wish critical thinking was actually taught in the schools.

Anyway, I'm keeping my house. I will do my best to stay healthy as long as I can, another ten, maybe twenty, but most likely not thirty years. Soon enough, the newest generation of young adults, whatever it calls itself, will have a crack at all I own. Most of it, they'll toss out. The house, though. I do hope some young family, someday, falls in love with it and makes it their own. Just not yet.

I know I'm being a crank here, but honestly. "You've had your time"? That's such bullshit.

Alebrijes y Nahuales

We spent the afternoon poking around the nearby city of Salinas, seeking out 20-foot-tall wooden sculptures of magical creatures. It was a traveling exhibition by Mexican artists, which is leaving at the end of the week, so we figured it was today or never. 

Here are the seven we spent some time with (the eighth, an "alien," was in a very crowded soccer venue, it being Sunday, so we just waved at it as we drove out of the full parking lot). I wrote captions on my Facebook post, so visit there if you'd like more information, and more photos, as well as artist bios. 

Armadillo

Rabbit

Lionbull

Catbird

Coyote

Dog (and guide to the underworld)

Cat Nahual

A Trip to Brazil

In 2001, David and I went to southern Africa—a trip of a lifetime: Zimbabwe, for a total solar eclipse; Botswana, for a couple of safaris, including the magical Okavango Delta; and finally some rock-climbing fun in Namibia. In Botswana, we met a couple of Brazilians, Dora and Ricardo, and they said, if you like this, you will love Brazil's Pantanal. After we arrived home, an envelope appeared in our mailbox with a handmade brochure featuring the Pantanal. Dream food.

And so all these years, I've kept that name tucked away in a fold of my brain. Until just this month, when we finally made our way to the world's largest tropical wetland. We flew into Cuiabá, shown on the map, then drove, via Pousada Araras, to Porto Jofre. From there we flew south to a lodge not shown on the map, then drove to another, and finally ended up at Caiman. 

A few facts: the Pantanal comprises some 81,000 square miles, stretching across southwestern Brazil and into Paraguay and Bolivia; up to 80 percent of the land is submerged during the wet season, November–March. It has exceptional wildlife diversity: plant species, ~3,500; birds, 656; fish, 325; mammals, 159; reptiles 98; amphibians, 53. And it has some 10 million Yacaré caimans, the highest concentration of reptilians globally. (I especially loved seeing the caimans hauled out on land sporting fresh bonnets of water hyacinth.)

As I try to do, I posted daily on Facebook with some photos and descriptions of what we were seeing. It accounts for maybe a quarter of what we were actually experiencing, but it's something. 

So here we go—another day-by-day summary that helps me, at least, remember an astonishing trip.

Leaving home, and a couple of days in São Paulo
Heading out
A walk through Guarulhos
A day in the Parque Ecológico do Tietê

The first half of the tour was in Mato Grosso do Norte: Araras Lodge and Porto Jofre, on the Cuiabá River
Arrival in the Pantanal
A boardwalk walk, day 2
First safari drive (of many), still day 2
Another boardwalk walk, then a drive to Porto Jofre, day 3
River trip, part 1, day 4
Day 5: I took the morning off from wildlife spotting, and nosed around the hotel property, saw plenty
And then I rejoined the group
Day 6: on the river
a couple of videos of a swimming jaguar
Day 7: another morning off, and then another boat ride
Day 8: a final boat ride, then off to Mato Grosso do Sul

In the south we stayed in three lodges: Aguapé, São Francisco, and Caiman
Day 9: The giant anteater was the real prize today
Day 10: And we move on to our next destination, São Francisco
Day 11: Driving around Fazenda São Francisco
Day 12: Last day in these beautiful flatlands, then a drive to our final stay: Caiman Lodge
Day 13
Day 14: Our last full-day safari drive
Day 15: Transitioning from the Pantanal to reality
Day 16: A morning in the Parque dos das Nacões Indíginas, in Campo Grande

Robert Hass, poet

Today is my husband's and my 45th anniversary. (Yikes! How did that happen?) And for a Wordle-related reason, I needed to find a snatch of a poem. I thought I might base it on the traditional gift for 45, which turns out to be sapphire. And I found this lovely poem, with the "sapphire of the raccoon's eyes." I do love Robert Hass.

Iowa City: Early April

This morning a cat—bright orange—pawing at the one patch of new grass in the sand-and tanbark-colored leaves.

And last night the sapphire of the raccoon's eyes in the beam of the flashlight.
He was climbing a tree beside the house, trying to get onto the porch, I think, for a wad of oatmeal
Simmered in cider from the bottom of the pan we'd left out for the birds.

And earlier a burnished, somewhat dazed woodchuck, his coat gleaming with spring
Loping toward his burrow in the roots of a tree among the drying winter's litter
Of old leaves on the floor of the woods, when I went out to get the New York Times.

And male cardinals whistling back and forth—sireeep, sreeep, sreeep—
Sets of three sweet full notes, weaving into and out of each other like the triplet rhymes in medieval poetry,
And the higher, purer notes of the tufted titmice among them,
High in the trees where they were catching what they could of the early sun.

And a doe and two yearlings, picking their way along the worrying path they'd made through the gully, their coats the color of the forest floor,
Stopped just at the roots of the great chestnut where the woodchuck's burrow was,
Froze, and the doe looked back over her shoulder at me for a long moment, and leapt forward,
Her young following, and bounded with that almost mincing precision in the landing of each hoof
Up the gully, over it, and out of sight. So that I remembered
Dreaming last night that a deer walked into the house while I was writing at the kitchen table,
Came in the glass door from the garden, looked at me with a stilled defiant terror, like a thing with no choices,
And, neck bobbing in that fragile-seeming, almost mechanical mix of arrest and liquid motion, came to the table
And snatched a slice of apple, and stood, and then quietened, and to my surprise did not leave again.

And those little captains, the chickadees, swift to the feeder and swift away.

And the squirrels with their smoke-plume tails trailing digging in the leaves to bury or find buried—
I'm told they don't remember where they put things, that it's an activity of incessant discovery—
Nuts, tree-fall proteins, whatever they forage from around the house of our leavings,

And the flameheaded woodpecker at the suet with his black-and-white ladderback elegant fierceness—
They take sunflower seeds and stash them in the rough ridges of the tree's bark

Where the beaks of the smoke-and-steel blue nuthatches can't quite get at them—
Though the nuthatches sometimes seem to get them as they con the trees methodically for spiders' eggs or some other overwintering insect's intricately packaged lump of futurity
Got from its body before the cold came on.

And the little bat in the kitchen lightwell—
When I climbed on a chair to remove the sheet of wimpled plastic and let it loose,
It flew straight into my face and I toppled to the floor, chair under me,

And it flared down the hall and did what seemed a frantic reconnoiter of the windowed, high-walled living room.
And lit on a brass firelog where it looked like a brown and ash grey teenaged suede glove with Mephistophelean dreams,
And then, spurt of black sperm, up, out the window, and into the twilight woods.

All this life going on about my life, or living a life about all this life going on,
Being a creature, whatever my drama of the moment, at the edge of the raccoon's world—
He froze in my flashlight beam and looked down, no affect, just looked,
The ringtail curled and flared to make him look bigger and not to be messed with—
I was thinking he couldn't know how charming his comic-book robber's mask was to me,
That his experience of his being and mine of his and his of mine were things entirely apart,
Though there were between us, probably, energies of shrewd and respectful tact, based on curiosity and fear—
I knew about his talons whatever he knew about me—
And as for my experience of myself, it comes and goes, I'm not sure it's any one thing, as my experience of these creatures is not,
And I know I am often too far from it or too near, glad to be rid of it which is why it was such a happiness,
The bright orange of the cat, and the first pool of green grass-leaves in early April, and the birdsong—that orange and that green not colors you'd set next to one another in the human scheme.

And the crows' calls, even before you open your eyes, at sunup.