Author: Eliza Letteney

I chose Ravens because I’ve always been fascinated by their symbolism. Ravens are traditionally understood to represent prophesy or a bad omen. Likewise, Ravens are seen as having a special connection between the physical and spiritual world, likely because, according to their symbolism, they exist in a liminal space between death and life. This fits well into the subject matter of Williams’s chapter. Williams begins the chapter on the topic of her mother’s cancer but later ventures to describe her father’s birthday, her grandparent’s courtship and the changes to Saltair after the Great Depression. I expected the chapter to be entirely about Williams’s mother’s cancer and eventual death and was surprised by these divergences. At first message appears to be: time passes, things change: people die, people are born, and the world drastically changes shape. Upon further inspection, I’d like to argue that while those themes are present, the chapter is speaking about fleeting good moments that become memories and the act of holding onto those memories when things change for the worse (ie Mother’s cancer and the corruption of Saltair). The grandparents hold onto ideas of Saltair the way it was when they courted: glamorous. The Mother and Father hold onto memories of past birthdays. Despite all of this, the raven does symbolize a bad omen, suggesting the general corruption of all things good within this family. The raven’s prophetic symbolism suggests that this corruption, like the Mother’s cancer is inescapable.

 

After visiting David Kline’s farm, I was struck by his fierce defense of insects. As memory serves, he defended insects, bemoaning their near extinction almost as many times as he did the greater dairy farming business. Although this could just be indicative his train of thought on the particular day that we visited, I would argue that David Kline’s interest in insects shows through in Great Possessions. Among other insect-centered chapters, Kline wrote a chapter named “The World of Insects”, a collection of short descriptive narratives highlighting various insects he has witnessed on his farm and throughout his community. He writes fondly about these strange, small creatures. My entire life I’ve only ever heard farmers and gardeners complain about insects bothering animals and eating crops, with exception to the bees and earthworms that so obviously improve crop growth. Some farmers defend spiders as a countermeasure against mosquitos. Still, the little creatures like the praying mantis of katydid don’t usually get the attention they deserve.

In my mind’s eye, I sit atop a hill, in the backyard of my grandparent’s farmhouse. “Backyard” probably isn’t the correct term. It’s a long rectangle of mowed grass where their dogs run, stretching from the back patio to the goat pens. My brother’s dogs run around me and the goats jaunt together through their enclosure. If I walked forward a few acres, through tall grass and damp marsh, I would hit Crotched Mountain. I can see it from here. In the damp morning light, fog gathers toward the mountain’s base. The moisture makes everything, the trees, the grass, the moss on ancient rocks, turn a startling emerald green. I walk down the powdery farm road, which twists and turns through a small portion of the land. I look in any direction and I see old stone walls, assembled by hard working farmers, fencing off their own animals in the days before you could just buy galvanized steel wire mesh. I wonder if the coyotes knew how lucky they were. If I walked long enough in any direction I would probably find one. At night, we can see their eyes. They can’t be far. If I were my brother I would bring a gun, but I have no desire to kill today. I just want to see the furry creature that would eat my baby goat in a heartbeat. I can relate. I go from petting my dear Matilda to chowing down on some kebab. I walk through the woods, eyes peeled for movement. I know I won’t find anything. The newts and water bugs are enough for me. 

When I was younger, Spring was my favorite season. I paid no mind to the rain or the allergies–I happen to love the rain and I have no allergies to speak of. What mattered most was the transformation of our yard from barren icy wasteland to fairy paradise. I watched as clover, dandelions, and wildflowers popped from the soil. Everyday, I would evaluate my lands. My mother raved about the blooming lilacs and cherry tree. I kept my eyes to the ground, following the ants to the peony bud in the corner of the yard. I watched astounded as they ate the bud’s sugary coating. I rooted for these plants that died and came back each year.

I was walking on the path next to Stevenson, between Armington and the Douglass parking lot. My friend and I were on our way to her car. I had her cat (Brad) in a carrier, the thick strap resting painfully on my shoulder. I was in a bit of a hurry because of Brad, but I couldn’t help but notice the bright green caterpillar making its way across the damp grey concrete. I paused for a moment to take it in, especially surprised by its vibrant color, before I kept hurrying to the parking lot. I hoped with all my heart that no one would step on it, but knew I wasn’t qualified enough to safely relocate it. After all, the concrete was a part of its habitat, now. Though, unfortunately, this little guy doesn’t fit in nearly as well on concrete as he would on a jungle floor. After a little research, I found out that this was the Io Caterpillar, which later becomes the Io Moth, or Automeris io. As it turns out, if I picked it up to move it, I would have felt the equivalent of a bee sting. With the slightest touch, the Io Caterpillar releases venom from its stinging spines. I’m glad I let it continue its journey without intruding, for both of our sakes.