Saturday, December 09, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Farming Articles- why are they not readable?
Looking through the November issue of the Kentucky Farm Bureau News, a small magazine KFB sends out periodically throughout the year, I read an article concerning the negotiations going on in the World Trade Organization. For the last five years, the members have struggled to negotiate a new agreement in the Doha Development Round. This article titled, Agriculture fuels the conflict in WTO negotiations, written by Annie Effland, Mary Anne Normile and John Waino, discusses the disagreements between the WTO members on the issues of the necessary levels of cuts in agricultural tariffs and domestic support.
What struck me about this article (as well as many other farm related material I have read) is that the prose is written as if the intended audience had a BA in agriculture while the writing is so convoluted, it is hard to understand the meaning. Take this passage for instance:
Countries often impose policies that interfere with open markets in agriculture. WTO members have organized agricultural negotiations to address three categories of policy that can distort trade: market access, which includes import barriers like tariffs and traiff-rate quotas (TYRQs); domestic support, which includes producer subsidies through income and price support programs; and export subsidies.
After reading the paragraph twice, I decide that I understand that WTO members are going to negotiate on three areas: market access (import barriers); domestic support; and export subsidies (not sure what that means). The article goes on to say:
By distorting production or consumption decisions, each of these types of policies can impose economic costs both on the countries that employ them and on their trading partners.
At this point, this article is losing me. Who uses language like "distorting production or consumption decisions". I plow on. I come to this part:
Removing or reducing such distortions through multilateral trade negotiations results in widespread economic benefits. In countries with low protection, producers of products for which world prices rise will benefit from higher prices and increased exports.
Now, I am really lost. How, exactly, are countries with low protection going to benefit from removing or reducing such "distortions"?
Although I read, and for the most part, understood the meaning of the article, I would bet that most farmers bypassed the piece after the first couple of paragraphs. I am not suggesting that farmers are stupid; in fact, farming requires a detailed grasp of a whole range of farm issues: crop and pasture rotation; animal husbandry; grain and hay production and storage; knowledge of drainage, erosion, and soil conservation; the proper handling and storage of dangerous chemicals; the list goes on and on. Farming also takes a great deal of patience, common sense and training. Just as you would not put a novice in an expensive eighteen-wheeler without proper training, neither would you place a newbie on a thirty-thousand-dollar tractor and turn him loose, or give him fifty-thousand-dollars worth of cattle to raise.
Yet, intelligence aside, most farmers do not, as part of their daily routine, read material written by someone with a BA in agriculture composted as if to someone with a BA in agriculture. While this magazine article certainly reached the farmer, the message it was intended to deliver did not do so in a manner designed to be heard or understood by the farmer. If any company or organization sets itself up to be the voice of the farming community, on a state or national level, on critical issues which will impact the farmer's future, it should not only keep the people it represents in the loop of what, exactly, it is doing in their name and on their behalf, but should do so in easy-to-read, understandable language.
What struck me about this article (as well as many other farm related material I have read) is that the prose is written as if the intended audience had a BA in agriculture while the writing is so convoluted, it is hard to understand the meaning. Take this passage for instance:
Countries often impose policies that interfere with open markets in agriculture. WTO members have organized agricultural negotiations to address three categories of policy that can distort trade: market access, which includes import barriers like tariffs and traiff-rate quotas (TYRQs); domestic support, which includes producer subsidies through income and price support programs; and export subsidies.
After reading the paragraph twice, I decide that I understand that WTO members are going to negotiate on three areas: market access (import barriers); domestic support; and export subsidies (not sure what that means). The article goes on to say:
By distorting production or consumption decisions, each of these types of policies can impose economic costs both on the countries that employ them and on their trading partners.
At this point, this article is losing me. Who uses language like "distorting production or consumption decisions". I plow on. I come to this part:
Removing or reducing such distortions through multilateral trade negotiations results in widespread economic benefits. In countries with low protection, producers of products for which world prices rise will benefit from higher prices and increased exports.
Now, I am really lost. How, exactly, are countries with low protection going to benefit from removing or reducing such "distortions"?
Although I read, and for the most part, understood the meaning of the article, I would bet that most farmers bypassed the piece after the first couple of paragraphs. I am not suggesting that farmers are stupid; in fact, farming requires a detailed grasp of a whole range of farm issues: crop and pasture rotation; animal husbandry; grain and hay production and storage; knowledge of drainage, erosion, and soil conservation; the proper handling and storage of dangerous chemicals; the list goes on and on. Farming also takes a great deal of patience, common sense and training. Just as you would not put a novice in an expensive eighteen-wheeler without proper training, neither would you place a newbie on a thirty-thousand-dollar tractor and turn him loose, or give him fifty-thousand-dollars worth of cattle to raise.
Yet, intelligence aside, most farmers do not, as part of their daily routine, read material written by someone with a BA in agriculture composted as if to someone with a BA in agriculture. While this magazine article certainly reached the farmer, the message it was intended to deliver did not do so in a manner designed to be heard or understood by the farmer. If any company or organization sets itself up to be the voice of the farming community, on a state or national level, on critical issues which will impact the farmer's future, it should not only keep the people it represents in the loop of what, exactly, it is doing in their name and on their behalf, but should do so in easy-to-read, understandable language.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Googles Partner Program- a golden opportunity for authors
While the Googles Book Search program has raised some objections from publishers and authors for various reasons, this program promises to be a compelling opportunity for authors.
A simplified version of the way the programs works is this:
Once a book has been scanned and placed into digital format by Googles, a portion of the book containing the word the searcher request is summoned upon doing a Google Book Search. The amount of the book reveled is determined based upon authorization by the owner of the copyright and by whether the book is in the public domain. Links to bookstores and libraries are provided in case browsers wishes to obtain a copy of the book.
The most fascinating aspect of this program is the online access portion, currently being developed, of the Googles Book Partner Program. Not only will this program help visitors find and preview books, but the publisher or owner of the copyright will be given the choice of including the entire contents of the book for sale in immediate online access format. Online access will be available to users only through their browser, and only when they have signed in with their personal account. Users will not be able to save a copy to their computer or copy pages; however, they will be able to purchase and read the whole book online.
Now, this in itself is not a novel concept. Except when you are an author and a company is willing to take your book, transpose it into digital format, publish it online, market it, give you profits based on sales and not charge you a dime, you just have to say wow!!!
As an author/self-publisher, I was more than happy to include my book.
When I went to my better half, who is a total computer moron, and described the access online program to him, my question was, "how much should I charge for online access of my book?"
"How much are they making you pay them to put your book in?" he wanted to know.
Patiently, I explained, again, that inclusion of the book into the program was free. He sort-of squinted at me. "Free. You mean they're not charging you anything."
From my trials of trying to get a book into print, even he understood that nobody in the writing/publishing world gives a writer anything for free.
"Yep. Totally free."
"Huh." He was dumbfounded. "And who can read it again?"
I shrugged. "Anyone in the world who has access to a computer and wishes to purchase the book."
"Anybody in the world?"
I nodded.
"Well then, I'd just charge a couple of bucks."
"What, five or six?"
"No. Two. If anyone in the whole world can buy it, than just charge two."
I went away thinking, "oh, ye simple man."
Yet, after reflection, I knew he was right. Being a writer is more than having a book on the bestseller's list or on the shelves of Barnes & Noble. It is being able to reach people through your writing. A book, once read, cannot be unread; it becomes a part of an individuals collective thoughts and memories. I would like to think that a person in India could go to a library and sit down to read a copy of my book. I like the idea that I have the power to set the price so reasonable that libraries all over the world can include my book as part of their collection. We in America have become so numb to exorbitant prices we hardly flinch anymore. Yet in other parts of the world a couple of bucks for a book is a great deal of money. Libraries with limited resources, when faced with the American publisher's prices, may not be able to include many of the books they would desire to carry.
For a writer, the chance to have your book accessible across the globe is a golden opportunity. I would think that every author would urge his or her copyright holder to include his or her book in the online access program at a reasonable price. An opportunity to take advanage of a program such as this one provided by Googles may never rise again.
Another factor my commonsensical better half pointed out to me: if you sell a couple of book to a couple of people for a couple of bucks in every town in every city in every country in the world, that's still a whole lot of money.
A simplified version of the way the programs works is this:
Once a book has been scanned and placed into digital format by Googles, a portion of the book containing the word the searcher request is summoned upon doing a Google Book Search. The amount of the book reveled is determined based upon authorization by the owner of the copyright and by whether the book is in the public domain. Links to bookstores and libraries are provided in case browsers wishes to obtain a copy of the book.
The most fascinating aspect of this program is the online access portion, currently being developed, of the Googles Book Partner Program. Not only will this program help visitors find and preview books, but the publisher or owner of the copyright will be given the choice of including the entire contents of the book for sale in immediate online access format. Online access will be available to users only through their browser, and only when they have signed in with their personal account. Users will not be able to save a copy to their computer or copy pages; however, they will be able to purchase and read the whole book online.
Now, this in itself is not a novel concept. Except when you are an author and a company is willing to take your book, transpose it into digital format, publish it online, market it, give you profits based on sales and not charge you a dime, you just have to say wow!!!
As an author/self-publisher, I was more than happy to include my book.
When I went to my better half, who is a total computer moron, and described the access online program to him, my question was, "how much should I charge for online access of my book?"
"How much are they making you pay them to put your book in?" he wanted to know.
Patiently, I explained, again, that inclusion of the book into the program was free. He sort-of squinted at me. "Free. You mean they're not charging you anything."
From my trials of trying to get a book into print, even he understood that nobody in the writing/publishing world gives a writer anything for free.
"Yep. Totally free."
"Huh." He was dumbfounded. "And who can read it again?"
I shrugged. "Anyone in the world who has access to a computer and wishes to purchase the book."
"Anybody in the world?"
I nodded.
"Well then, I'd just charge a couple of bucks."
"What, five or six?"
"No. Two. If anyone in the whole world can buy it, than just charge two."
I went away thinking, "oh, ye simple man."
Yet, after reflection, I knew he was right. Being a writer is more than having a book on the bestseller's list or on the shelves of Barnes & Noble. It is being able to reach people through your writing. A book, once read, cannot be unread; it becomes a part of an individuals collective thoughts and memories. I would like to think that a person in India could go to a library and sit down to read a copy of my book. I like the idea that I have the power to set the price so reasonable that libraries all over the world can include my book as part of their collection. We in America have become so numb to exorbitant prices we hardly flinch anymore. Yet in other parts of the world a couple of bucks for a book is a great deal of money. Libraries with limited resources, when faced with the American publisher's prices, may not be able to include many of the books they would desire to carry.
For a writer, the chance to have your book accessible across the globe is a golden opportunity. I would think that every author would urge his or her copyright holder to include his or her book in the online access program at a reasonable price. An opportunity to take advanage of a program such as this one provided by Googles may never rise again.
Another factor my commonsensical better half pointed out to me: if you sell a couple of book to a couple of people for a couple of bucks in every town in every city in every country in the world, that's still a whole lot of money.
Monday, November 27, 2006
The Legend of the Foxport Dragon- short story by Janet S Fields
Folks in Foxport say smoke from the Foxport Dragon can be seen early in the morning and late at night. It sort of looks like mist or fog to the unknowing eye, but there is more of it than normal and instead of rising the way fog would, it was dense, thick, hanging in the air in an eerie sort of way. My grandpa said the Foxport Dragon was around in his time; came from Europe a long time ago, got stuck here and never left. I can see why a dragon would hang around here instead of leaving. We have lots of green trees, fresh clean air and I don't know what dragons eat, but we have plenty of grass, deer, rabbits and squirrels, so it should find enough to eat. My grandpa said he saw the dragon once, saw it up so close it breathed dragon breath right on his leg. Burnt a hole in his bib overalls too, and when he got home that night, he got a licking for it. His mom and dad, he said, never believed in the Foxport Dragon; said he was fibbing, but grandpa, he believed, believed it mightily.
I saw the dragon once, over on old man Doyle's farm. Billie Gene, Wendell, Allen and I were up there hunting. We really weren't old enough to hunt, not legal like, but Allen had an old musket that belonged to his grandpa and maybe his great-grandpa before that. It was rusted up some, but Allen handled it like he knew how to work it. Wendell had a Daisy B. B. gun he got for Christmas. He knew how to use that thing all right. He terrorized the cats, squirrels, and rabbits for miles around. He never hit any; Wendell hated to hurt anything and he was a bullseye shot, but he had a new gun and had to shoot at something with it.
We liked old man Doyle's farm. He was what my grandpa called a trader: buying and selling guns, knives, equipment, even furniture, dishwashers and refrigerators if someone made him a good deal. My grandma called him a packrat and fussed that someone from the county should make him clean up all that trash. Whenever something went bad, he just hauled it off to the holler, and he did have an impressive pile of stuff back there behind his shop and farm. We spent many a satisfying day picking through that junk pile.
The thing you have to understand about old man Doyle's woods was that they were deep with towering trees going back for miles and miles, and thick in spots, the underbrush so dense with briers, brake and small trees, a person could hardly push his way through it. This made great hidey-holes for rabbits, squirrels and deer; the very critters we were looking for. Small creeks crossed and crisscrossed, running down off the mountains behind the Doyle shop and farm. My dad said there were caves up in those hills, said he and his friends had explored some as a boy.
With dawn just cracking over the horizon and fog still thick in the air, we met up at the Pleasant Valley Church. The fall morning air was cold and crisp with just a hint of frost on the ground. Allen got there first with his beagle hound, Squirt, with me just behind him, and we huddled on the church steps as we waited. Billie Gene was an early riser, but he tended to be sidetracked easily and never really got in a hurry. Wendell was hard to get out of bed on a cold morning, and we were just discussing whether we should go throw rocks at his window when they came down the road together. Billie Gene was dressed for Alaska with a thick coat, gloves, hat, and most likely he had on long johns and two sets of clothes. Wendell wore a thin army jacket, no gloves and his ears were red with cold. He jumped around, hands shoved in his pockets, complaining about the cold.
We ignored him, as usual, and set off for old man Doyle's farm. It was a good hike. We had to cross three fields, climb over or scoot under a number of barbwire fences, slosh across a creek and pass through the Staggs's cow field, but we made it by midmorning. Now it is impossible to go to old man Doyle's farm without visiting his junk pile to see what new, exciting stuff had been added. You never knew what useful objects might be discovered. We scouted around, checking out the new additions: a rusted deep freeze, an ancient refrigerator with the door hanging on the hinges, a pile of broken, tangled Christmas tree lights, nothing useful
Disappointed, we set our sights on hunting and headed deeper into the woods. Here the path led by the section we had dubbed "the graveyard". Dead bush hogs with flat tires lie side-by-side old tractors and spent manure spreaders. Off to one side was an old corn picker, its long neck bowed under the growth of years of vines and briers. Allen let out a whoop and swung into the seat of his favorite tractor, a Super C young enough that the gears hadn't frozen into place yet. Allen was a big kid, and if he wanted those gears to move, they were going to move. As if on cue, Wendell, Billie Gene and I moved out, picking our equipment randomly, and soon the hum of voice motors and the grind of changing gears filled the air.
"Whatya doing?" Wendell called over to Allen.
"Mowing hay," Allen yelled back. "You picking corn?"
"Yep," Wendell, high up in the corn picker, called back. Hauling out his pocketknife, he dug around in the dirt packed around the gearshift, trying to loosen the lever. Mice had built a nest up there in the cab and one of the babies crawled out and climbed up Wendell's pant leg. Wendell let out a squawk, trashed around, threw his knife, fell out of the corn picker, landed on his back with a thump forcing the air out of his lungs with a whoosh, and lay there stunned. We all came at a dead run and gathered around. Billie Gene grabbed Wendell's shoulder and gave him a shake. From the way Wendell was staring, Billie Gene must have thought Wendell had passed on, because he began blubbering, telling Wendell not to die now, he was too young. Squirt, the beagle, licked at Wendell's face and Allen, thinking to revive Wendell, dug out his matches, lit one and waved the smoke under Wendell's nose.
Wendell came alive, jumped to his feet shaking his leg, dancing around in little circles as he howled and tore at his pants. Billie Gene was staring at Wendell with big, round eyes and mouth agape as if he had just seen the dead rise. Becoming excited by all this activity, Squirt started barking and jumping around Wendell in his own circles. Allen, clueless as to what was going on, just stood there with a dumb expression on his face. Wendell finally got his pants off and shook them around a bit, still yelling. The tiny mouse poked his head up over the waistband, looked around, decided he didn't like what he saw and headed back down into the pant leg.
For some reason, the whole incident struck Allen as funny and he doubled over, laughing in a high, hiccuping way that made Wendell glare at him. Soon Billie Gene started snickering and before long we were all rolling around heehawing so hard our sides hurt. Even after we got order restored and headed deeper into the woods on what was now a serious hunting expedition, Allen would get struck with a case of the giggles, we would all look at each other, and next thing you know we were all off on a laughing spree.
We stopped for lunch soon after that. Allen's mom had packed him a huge lunch, and Wendell had brought none, although his mom had probably packed him one. Billie Gene had crackers and bologna. We shared all around and headed out again, our thoughts now seriously trained on hunting. Since Allen and Wendell had the guns, they led the way, weapons loaded and held in the firing position. Eyes sharp for any movement, ears straining to hear the slightest sounds, we crept forward, feet soundless on the trail as we searched for signs. Squirt ranged ahead, flushing out the game, and soon we hear his eager, high-pitched yelp.
We all glanced around at each other wisely. We could tell by the timber of Squirts tone what game he had caught.
"Rabbit," whispered Wendell, and we all nodded in agreement.
"Come on" urged Allen, and the hunt was on.
The pursuit led us on a mighty chase through the woods, across a creek, out onto the Applegate's field, back into the woods, through a jungle of briers, back across the creek, and then deep into the trees. Squirt lost whatever he was chasing, found it or something else, and was off again. At times we got close enough to hear his bark clearly, but mostly we heard him from far off. Sometimes we had to stop to catch our breaths, regroup and listen hard to determine if we were going in the right direction. In this situation, we all cocked our heads to listen, but it was Billie Gene we all relied on. Wendell and Allen could both spot a deer two miles off, but neither could hear worth a darn.
"I think he's off that way," Billie Gene would say, and since he prefixed all his sentences with "I think", or "maybe" and most generally turned out to be correct, we all tore off in the direction he pointed.
The fall days were short and afternoon was fast approaching by the time we caught up with Squirt. It was darker, too, here in the gloom of the trees. Billie Gene looked around anxiously.
"Do you think maybe we should head for home?" he asked.
Wendell and Allen, the lust of the hunt upon them, ignored him.
"What's he got there?" Wendell wanted to know. Squirt was dancing around with excitement, pawing at the earth in front of an opening in the rock.
"Don't know." Allen shook his head.
"He doesn't have it treed," This came from Billie Gene.
"Looks like a cave."
"That's a sure-enough cave, all right." They looked around at each other.
"Do we go in?" asked Allen.
"Maybe we shouldn't," said Billie Gene.
"We need to find out what he's got," said Wendell.
"It could be dangerous," disagreed Billie Gene.
"It doesn't look very big," observed Allen, the largest.
"Pretty small," agreed Wendell.
"Best let Billie Gene go in. He's the littlest." They looked at Billie Gene.
"It'll be dark in there," said Billie Gene.
"It doesn't go back very far," Allen observed, peering into the opening.
"Nope, not far at all," Wendell concurred.
"It may be unsafe. Maybe we should leave it alone. Go home. That could be the best thing to do." Billie Gene looked around at the darkening woods, shaking his head.
"What do you think he's got in there?" Wendell pondered.
Allen shrugged. "Rabbit, most likely. It could be a fox."
Wendell poked a sick into the opening. "Think it's a bear?" he questioned with interest.
"It's getting dark, guys, maybe we should leave," Billie Gene urged.
"A bear, now. That would be neat."
"Even a fox would be cool."
They were both kneeling now, peering into the cave entrance. It wasn't a large opening, but there were shadows at the back, almost out of eye range, that suggested that the cave might widen out at that point.
"Whatever Squirt chased in here, it's either small or way back there. I don't see anything," Wendell observed.
"I can't see it either," Allen agreed.
"Billie Gene should check," said Wendell.
"It should be inspected," agreed Allen.
They both came to their feet, dusting their knees.
"OK. Here's how we do it," instructed Wendell. "You crawl to the back, light one of Allen's matches and see what's back there. If there's a dangerous critter back there, than get out of there quick. All right?"
Billie Gene shook his head. "I don't know. It sounds dangerous. Maybe we should just leave. I don't want to tell you what to do, but maybe we should just go home."
Wendell chewed his nail, glancing around. "It is getting dark," he observed.
Billie Gene nodded encouragingly. "It's getting dark quick. Maybe we should leave."
Wendell chewed his nail some more. He glanced at Allen who shrugged. Wendell turned back to the cave opening.
"Well, we need to check it." He turned to Allen. "Give me a couple of matches, and I'll check it real quick; then we'll go."
Allen had the matches ready, and within seconds, Wendell ducked under the ledge and squirmed toward the back of the cave.
"Do you see anything," Allen called anxiously. Squirt whined, sniffed and danced restlessly. We all waited what seemed a long time for Wendell to wiggle back out.
"It's a cave, all right," he told us excitedly. "It gets big way back there. I ran out of matches, so I had to come back, but it's a big cave."
"Did you see a critter?" Asked Billie Gene nervously.
Wendell shook his head with disappointment.
"Maybe it's a bear cave," Allen suggested with interest.
"Or maybe the home of the Foxport Dragon," I chimed in.
They all looked at me as if I were crazy.
"There is no such thing as a Foxport Dragon," Allen informed me.
"Yes, there is. My grandpa says one lives up in these woods; that you can see its dragon breathe hanging in the air."
"Have you ever seen one?" Allen shot back.
"No, but my grandpa did. It breathed on his pantlegs and put a big hole in them."
That quieted them for a second or two. My grandpa was a feared man, trusted too. If he said he saw a dragon, than nobody was going to call him a liar.
"Something bad lives in this cave." I pointed at Squirt. "Whatever it is, Squirt doesn't like it."
"That's true," Allen agreed.
"Things that live in caves come home to them at night," Billie Gene said quietly.
Wendell's eyes went big and round. "Oh shoot. Let's get out of here."
With Squirt leading the way, we headed back up the ravine toward old man Doyle's farm; that being the shortest route home. Although it was only about 6:00, dark was coming fast; the short daylight hours almost gone. In the murk, I could make out the slight figure of Billie Gene ahead of me on the path with the shadows of Allen and Wendell ahead, but all else was vague. Up ahead there was a commotion, and we all stopped to listen.
"Something's going on up at old man Doyle's farm," Allen commented.
"Shh," said Billie Gene. "Let's listen."
"Something's coming," said Wendell.
"Something big," agreed Billie Gene.
Whatever was up ahead was causing a ruckus. There was shouting going on and snapping branches.
"Do you think it's people on horses?" Allen asked.
"Maybe," agreed Wendell.
"Must be a lot of them," said Billie Gene.
We waited, listening.
"That's not horses. Too big," said Allen.
Whatever it was, it was not only big, snapping branches and flattening small trees as it moved toward us down the hill, but it was coming fast.
"What is it?" Billie Gene whispered.
"I don't know, but it's coming our way," Wendell whispered back, his eyes huge in the half-light. We were now huddled together on the path.
"I see lights" Billie Gene said. We were no longer whispering, the noise was getting too loud.
There were lights too. Two bright balls of red burning in the black as the thing thundered down the hill toward our little group.
"It's the dragon," Allen hollered. "Run".
We scattered, scrambling down the hill. Billie Gene was ahead of me in the dark; I could hear the trashing and breaking twigs of his passage. He was little, but he was fast, and before long, he was gone. Behind me, I could hear Allen and Wendell yelling and father back, the rumble and crash of whatever was coming down the hill.
It changed directions, maybe due to a tree, but somehow it had caught up with me and was beside me now. I looked over and then stopped dead, mouth agape. It was the dragon: two red eyes burning in the dark, the long arch of neck clearly outlined against the tall trees, flames shooting from its head rolling out into the sky and down over its shoulders and back; black smoke billowing out behind. If I close my eyes today, I can see that dragon as clearly as I saw it that night.
I could still hear Wendell and Allen hollering, and it took me a second or two to realize that they were still ahead of the thing. How they avoided getting killed, I'll never know. I think Wendell tripped on a root and rolled off sideways down the hill while Allen landed in a ditch and the thing went over him. It rumbled pass me and then down below all heck broke loose. It sounded as if half the mountainside was going with it, crashing and thudding and ripping and tearing. This was followed by an eerie, screeching noise, high-pitched and stricken. Then came a thud loud enough to shake the earth beneath my feet.
When all was quiet again and the shock wore off somewhat, I dragged myself to the top of the hill to the farm equipment graveyard and huddled there for what seemed like hours waiting for Allen, Billie Gene and Wendell. Finally Allen and Wendell pulled themselves out of the holler, but we never saw Billie Gene again that night. We were all dirty, covered with cuts and brier scratches, and bruised from head to toe.
We all saw the dragon that night, and we swore an oath that we would all tell the same story.
Over the years, I've heard a lot of stories about that night at old man Doyle's farm. One tale is that a drunk was up there messing around with the old corn picker and somehow knocked it out of gear and caught it on fire. Others say they saw some kids up there earlier in the day and they may have had something to do with the corn picker going amuck and rolling down the hill into the holler that night; that maybe they lit a spark that smoldered all day until it became a flame, burning away the brush holding the corn picker in place. No one seems to be able to get the story straight on how it all happened.
Me, I just know we kids were out hunting in old man Doyle's woods that night and saw a dragon. And I'm holding to that story.
I saw the dragon once, over on old man Doyle's farm. Billie Gene, Wendell, Allen and I were up there hunting. We really weren't old enough to hunt, not legal like, but Allen had an old musket that belonged to his grandpa and maybe his great-grandpa before that. It was rusted up some, but Allen handled it like he knew how to work it. Wendell had a Daisy B. B. gun he got for Christmas. He knew how to use that thing all right. He terrorized the cats, squirrels, and rabbits for miles around. He never hit any; Wendell hated to hurt anything and he was a bullseye shot, but he had a new gun and had to shoot at something with it.
We liked old man Doyle's farm. He was what my grandpa called a trader: buying and selling guns, knives, equipment, even furniture, dishwashers and refrigerators if someone made him a good deal. My grandma called him a packrat and fussed that someone from the county should make him clean up all that trash. Whenever something went bad, he just hauled it off to the holler, and he did have an impressive pile of stuff back there behind his shop and farm. We spent many a satisfying day picking through that junk pile.
The thing you have to understand about old man Doyle's woods was that they were deep with towering trees going back for miles and miles, and thick in spots, the underbrush so dense with briers, brake and small trees, a person could hardly push his way through it. This made great hidey-holes for rabbits, squirrels and deer; the very critters we were looking for. Small creeks crossed and crisscrossed, running down off the mountains behind the Doyle shop and farm. My dad said there were caves up in those hills, said he and his friends had explored some as a boy.
With dawn just cracking over the horizon and fog still thick in the air, we met up at the Pleasant Valley Church. The fall morning air was cold and crisp with just a hint of frost on the ground. Allen got there first with his beagle hound, Squirt, with me just behind him, and we huddled on the church steps as we waited. Billie Gene was an early riser, but he tended to be sidetracked easily and never really got in a hurry. Wendell was hard to get out of bed on a cold morning, and we were just discussing whether we should go throw rocks at his window when they came down the road together. Billie Gene was dressed for Alaska with a thick coat, gloves, hat, and most likely he had on long johns and two sets of clothes. Wendell wore a thin army jacket, no gloves and his ears were red with cold. He jumped around, hands shoved in his pockets, complaining about the cold.
We ignored him, as usual, and set off for old man Doyle's farm. It was a good hike. We had to cross three fields, climb over or scoot under a number of barbwire fences, slosh across a creek and pass through the Staggs's cow field, but we made it by midmorning. Now it is impossible to go to old man Doyle's farm without visiting his junk pile to see what new, exciting stuff had been added. You never knew what useful objects might be discovered. We scouted around, checking out the new additions: a rusted deep freeze, an ancient refrigerator with the door hanging on the hinges, a pile of broken, tangled Christmas tree lights, nothing useful
Disappointed, we set our sights on hunting and headed deeper into the woods. Here the path led by the section we had dubbed "the graveyard". Dead bush hogs with flat tires lie side-by-side old tractors and spent manure spreaders. Off to one side was an old corn picker, its long neck bowed under the growth of years of vines and briers. Allen let out a whoop and swung into the seat of his favorite tractor, a Super C young enough that the gears hadn't frozen into place yet. Allen was a big kid, and if he wanted those gears to move, they were going to move. As if on cue, Wendell, Billie Gene and I moved out, picking our equipment randomly, and soon the hum of voice motors and the grind of changing gears filled the air.
"Whatya doing?" Wendell called over to Allen.
"Mowing hay," Allen yelled back. "You picking corn?"
"Yep," Wendell, high up in the corn picker, called back. Hauling out his pocketknife, he dug around in the dirt packed around the gearshift, trying to loosen the lever. Mice had built a nest up there in the cab and one of the babies crawled out and climbed up Wendell's pant leg. Wendell let out a squawk, trashed around, threw his knife, fell out of the corn picker, landed on his back with a thump forcing the air out of his lungs with a whoosh, and lay there stunned. We all came at a dead run and gathered around. Billie Gene grabbed Wendell's shoulder and gave him a shake. From the way Wendell was staring, Billie Gene must have thought Wendell had passed on, because he began blubbering, telling Wendell not to die now, he was too young. Squirt, the beagle, licked at Wendell's face and Allen, thinking to revive Wendell, dug out his matches, lit one and waved the smoke under Wendell's nose.
Wendell came alive, jumped to his feet shaking his leg, dancing around in little circles as he howled and tore at his pants. Billie Gene was staring at Wendell with big, round eyes and mouth agape as if he had just seen the dead rise. Becoming excited by all this activity, Squirt started barking and jumping around Wendell in his own circles. Allen, clueless as to what was going on, just stood there with a dumb expression on his face. Wendell finally got his pants off and shook them around a bit, still yelling. The tiny mouse poked his head up over the waistband, looked around, decided he didn't like what he saw and headed back down into the pant leg.
For some reason, the whole incident struck Allen as funny and he doubled over, laughing in a high, hiccuping way that made Wendell glare at him. Soon Billie Gene started snickering and before long we were all rolling around heehawing so hard our sides hurt. Even after we got order restored and headed deeper into the woods on what was now a serious hunting expedition, Allen would get struck with a case of the giggles, we would all look at each other, and next thing you know we were all off on a laughing spree.
We stopped for lunch soon after that. Allen's mom had packed him a huge lunch, and Wendell had brought none, although his mom had probably packed him one. Billie Gene had crackers and bologna. We shared all around and headed out again, our thoughts now seriously trained on hunting. Since Allen and Wendell had the guns, they led the way, weapons loaded and held in the firing position. Eyes sharp for any movement, ears straining to hear the slightest sounds, we crept forward, feet soundless on the trail as we searched for signs. Squirt ranged ahead, flushing out the game, and soon we hear his eager, high-pitched yelp.
We all glanced around at each other wisely. We could tell by the timber of Squirts tone what game he had caught.
"Rabbit," whispered Wendell, and we all nodded in agreement.
"Come on" urged Allen, and the hunt was on.
The pursuit led us on a mighty chase through the woods, across a creek, out onto the Applegate's field, back into the woods, through a jungle of briers, back across the creek, and then deep into the trees. Squirt lost whatever he was chasing, found it or something else, and was off again. At times we got close enough to hear his bark clearly, but mostly we heard him from far off. Sometimes we had to stop to catch our breaths, regroup and listen hard to determine if we were going in the right direction. In this situation, we all cocked our heads to listen, but it was Billie Gene we all relied on. Wendell and Allen could both spot a deer two miles off, but neither could hear worth a darn.
"I think he's off that way," Billie Gene would say, and since he prefixed all his sentences with "I think", or "maybe" and most generally turned out to be correct, we all tore off in the direction he pointed.
The fall days were short and afternoon was fast approaching by the time we caught up with Squirt. It was darker, too, here in the gloom of the trees. Billie Gene looked around anxiously.
"Do you think maybe we should head for home?" he asked.
Wendell and Allen, the lust of the hunt upon them, ignored him.
"What's he got there?" Wendell wanted to know. Squirt was dancing around with excitement, pawing at the earth in front of an opening in the rock.
"Don't know." Allen shook his head.
"He doesn't have it treed," This came from Billie Gene.
"Looks like a cave."
"That's a sure-enough cave, all right." They looked around at each other.
"Do we go in?" asked Allen.
"Maybe we shouldn't," said Billie Gene.
"We need to find out what he's got," said Wendell.
"It could be dangerous," disagreed Billie Gene.
"It doesn't look very big," observed Allen, the largest.
"Pretty small," agreed Wendell.
"Best let Billie Gene go in. He's the littlest." They looked at Billie Gene.
"It'll be dark in there," said Billie Gene.
"It doesn't go back very far," Allen observed, peering into the opening.
"Nope, not far at all," Wendell concurred.
"It may be unsafe. Maybe we should leave it alone. Go home. That could be the best thing to do." Billie Gene looked around at the darkening woods, shaking his head.
"What do you think he's got in there?" Wendell pondered.
Allen shrugged. "Rabbit, most likely. It could be a fox."
Wendell poked a sick into the opening. "Think it's a bear?" he questioned with interest.
"It's getting dark, guys, maybe we should leave," Billie Gene urged.
"A bear, now. That would be neat."
"Even a fox would be cool."
They were both kneeling now, peering into the cave entrance. It wasn't a large opening, but there were shadows at the back, almost out of eye range, that suggested that the cave might widen out at that point.
"Whatever Squirt chased in here, it's either small or way back there. I don't see anything," Wendell observed.
"I can't see it either," Allen agreed.
"Billie Gene should check," said Wendell.
"It should be inspected," agreed Allen.
They both came to their feet, dusting their knees.
"OK. Here's how we do it," instructed Wendell. "You crawl to the back, light one of Allen's matches and see what's back there. If there's a dangerous critter back there, than get out of there quick. All right?"
Billie Gene shook his head. "I don't know. It sounds dangerous. Maybe we should just leave. I don't want to tell you what to do, but maybe we should just go home."
Wendell chewed his nail, glancing around. "It is getting dark," he observed.
Billie Gene nodded encouragingly. "It's getting dark quick. Maybe we should leave."
Wendell chewed his nail some more. He glanced at Allen who shrugged. Wendell turned back to the cave opening.
"Well, we need to check it." He turned to Allen. "Give me a couple of matches, and I'll check it real quick; then we'll go."
Allen had the matches ready, and within seconds, Wendell ducked under the ledge and squirmed toward the back of the cave.
"Do you see anything," Allen called anxiously. Squirt whined, sniffed and danced restlessly. We all waited what seemed a long time for Wendell to wiggle back out.
"It's a cave, all right," he told us excitedly. "It gets big way back there. I ran out of matches, so I had to come back, but it's a big cave."
"Did you see a critter?" Asked Billie Gene nervously.
Wendell shook his head with disappointment.
"Maybe it's a bear cave," Allen suggested with interest.
"Or maybe the home of the Foxport Dragon," I chimed in.
They all looked at me as if I were crazy.
"There is no such thing as a Foxport Dragon," Allen informed me.
"Yes, there is. My grandpa says one lives up in these woods; that you can see its dragon breathe hanging in the air."
"Have you ever seen one?" Allen shot back.
"No, but my grandpa did. It breathed on his pantlegs and put a big hole in them."
That quieted them for a second or two. My grandpa was a feared man, trusted too. If he said he saw a dragon, than nobody was going to call him a liar.
"Something bad lives in this cave." I pointed at Squirt. "Whatever it is, Squirt doesn't like it."
"That's true," Allen agreed.
"Things that live in caves come home to them at night," Billie Gene said quietly.
Wendell's eyes went big and round. "Oh shoot. Let's get out of here."
With Squirt leading the way, we headed back up the ravine toward old man Doyle's farm; that being the shortest route home. Although it was only about 6:00, dark was coming fast; the short daylight hours almost gone. In the murk, I could make out the slight figure of Billie Gene ahead of me on the path with the shadows of Allen and Wendell ahead, but all else was vague. Up ahead there was a commotion, and we all stopped to listen.
"Something's going on up at old man Doyle's farm," Allen commented.
"Shh," said Billie Gene. "Let's listen."
"Something's coming," said Wendell.
"Something big," agreed Billie Gene.
Whatever was up ahead was causing a ruckus. There was shouting going on and snapping branches.
"Do you think it's people on horses?" Allen asked.
"Maybe," agreed Wendell.
"Must be a lot of them," said Billie Gene.
We waited, listening.
"That's not horses. Too big," said Allen.
Whatever it was, it was not only big, snapping branches and flattening small trees as it moved toward us down the hill, but it was coming fast.
"What is it?" Billie Gene whispered.
"I don't know, but it's coming our way," Wendell whispered back, his eyes huge in the half-light. We were now huddled together on the path.
"I see lights" Billie Gene said. We were no longer whispering, the noise was getting too loud.
There were lights too. Two bright balls of red burning in the black as the thing thundered down the hill toward our little group.
"It's the dragon," Allen hollered. "Run".
We scattered, scrambling down the hill. Billie Gene was ahead of me in the dark; I could hear the trashing and breaking twigs of his passage. He was little, but he was fast, and before long, he was gone. Behind me, I could hear Allen and Wendell yelling and father back, the rumble and crash of whatever was coming down the hill.
It changed directions, maybe due to a tree, but somehow it had caught up with me and was beside me now. I looked over and then stopped dead, mouth agape. It was the dragon: two red eyes burning in the dark, the long arch of neck clearly outlined against the tall trees, flames shooting from its head rolling out into the sky and down over its shoulders and back; black smoke billowing out behind. If I close my eyes today, I can see that dragon as clearly as I saw it that night.
I could still hear Wendell and Allen hollering, and it took me a second or two to realize that they were still ahead of the thing. How they avoided getting killed, I'll never know. I think Wendell tripped on a root and rolled off sideways down the hill while Allen landed in a ditch and the thing went over him. It rumbled pass me and then down below all heck broke loose. It sounded as if half the mountainside was going with it, crashing and thudding and ripping and tearing. This was followed by an eerie, screeching noise, high-pitched and stricken. Then came a thud loud enough to shake the earth beneath my feet.
When all was quiet again and the shock wore off somewhat, I dragged myself to the top of the hill to the farm equipment graveyard and huddled there for what seemed like hours waiting for Allen, Billie Gene and Wendell. Finally Allen and Wendell pulled themselves out of the holler, but we never saw Billie Gene again that night. We were all dirty, covered with cuts and brier scratches, and bruised from head to toe.
We all saw the dragon that night, and we swore an oath that we would all tell the same story.
Over the years, I've heard a lot of stories about that night at old man Doyle's farm. One tale is that a drunk was up there messing around with the old corn picker and somehow knocked it out of gear and caught it on fire. Others say they saw some kids up there earlier in the day and they may have had something to do with the corn picker going amuck and rolling down the hill into the holler that night; that maybe they lit a spark that smoldered all day until it became a flame, burning away the brush holding the corn picker in place. No one seems to be able to get the story straight on how it all happened.
Me, I just know we kids were out hunting in old man Doyle's woods that night and saw a dragon. And I'm holding to that story.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Publishing- accepting returns
Whether to accept returns is a huge decision each publisher must make. This single choice can and will affect the direction of a business by influencing sales and thus net profits. A run of returns can be the difference between bankruptcy and taking the family vacationing in Hawaii.
For those of you unfamiliar with the publishing process, let me explain. Publishing companies solicit manuscripts from the author, process them into book format and handle sales and marketing. Wholesale companies and distributors purchase books from the publishing companies and distribute these books out into libraries, bookstores, etc. This is a rather simplistic explanation for a complicated process, but you get the idea.
Publishing companies are given the choice whether to accept returns from the wholesalers, distributors and bookstores. Returns are the unsold books purchased by the wholesaler, distributed out to the bookstores and which did not sale. This means that if the wholesaler or distributor orders xxx amount of books and the publisher has xxx amount of books printed up and shipped to the wholesaler who distributes them out to the stores, but only x amount actually sales, than the remaining xx amount is going to, you guessed it, come back to the publisher.
If the returned books total is relatively small, the publishing company can absorb the loss of the cost of the print run, but a large number of returns on one book, or a smaller number of returns on several books, can quickly put a company in the red. This would be a controllable situation if books were printed up in small amounts based on sales. However, traditionally book printing has relied on use of the offset printer, a method that involves an expensive, time-consuming set-up, but a low cost-per-book print run. Using this approach, the publisher prints the maximum possible, saturates the market and waits with fingers crossed for the onslaught of returns.
In today's world of rising cost, where a company is judged by its stock merit and stocks seem to rise and fall with the blow of the wind, even the big boys shudder at the thoughts of large returns, decreased profits and irate stockholders. This leads to a new business model, the "play it safe, go with the tried and true, don't rock the boat, and definitely don't gamble on anything new, radical, or different." In a field based on creativity and diversity, this is a sure approach to shrivel and die.
For small or self-publishers, the decision of accepting returns is a ludicrous choice. As a method of doing business, it just doesn't make good common sense, yet stores and wholesalers often refuse to carry a book from a publisher who will not accept returns. This places the publisher in the position of accepting returns and potentially increasing sales and hoping the returns don't bankrupt the company, or refusing returns and be blacklisted. It is a dilemma.
The logical solution to this problem is to refuse or limit returns (if enough publishers employ this practice, it will become standard); utilize the offset printing method for large, guaranteed orders; and for all other situations choose the print-on-demand demand printing system (I recommend Lightening Source www.lightningsource.com/index.htm) where books are printed per order. This is a cost-effective method ensuring control of the flow of orders, distribution and returns. Only by controlling and reducing returns will a company be able to grow and be competitive in a global market.
For those of you unfamiliar with the publishing process, let me explain. Publishing companies solicit manuscripts from the author, process them into book format and handle sales and marketing. Wholesale companies and distributors purchase books from the publishing companies and distribute these books out into libraries, bookstores, etc. This is a rather simplistic explanation for a complicated process, but you get the idea.
Publishing companies are given the choice whether to accept returns from the wholesalers, distributors and bookstores. Returns are the unsold books purchased by the wholesaler, distributed out to the bookstores and which did not sale. This means that if the wholesaler or distributor orders xxx amount of books and the publisher has xxx amount of books printed up and shipped to the wholesaler who distributes them out to the stores, but only x amount actually sales, than the remaining xx amount is going to, you guessed it, come back to the publisher.
If the returned books total is relatively small, the publishing company can absorb the loss of the cost of the print run, but a large number of returns on one book, or a smaller number of returns on several books, can quickly put a company in the red. This would be a controllable situation if books were printed up in small amounts based on sales. However, traditionally book printing has relied on use of the offset printer, a method that involves an expensive, time-consuming set-up, but a low cost-per-book print run. Using this approach, the publisher prints the maximum possible, saturates the market and waits with fingers crossed for the onslaught of returns.
In today's world of rising cost, where a company is judged by its stock merit and stocks seem to rise and fall with the blow of the wind, even the big boys shudder at the thoughts of large returns, decreased profits and irate stockholders. This leads to a new business model, the "play it safe, go with the tried and true, don't rock the boat, and definitely don't gamble on anything new, radical, or different." In a field based on creativity and diversity, this is a sure approach to shrivel and die.
For small or self-publishers, the decision of accepting returns is a ludicrous choice. As a method of doing business, it just doesn't make good common sense, yet stores and wholesalers often refuse to carry a book from a publisher who will not accept returns. This places the publisher in the position of accepting returns and potentially increasing sales and hoping the returns don't bankrupt the company, or refusing returns and be blacklisted. It is a dilemma.
The logical solution to this problem is to refuse or limit returns (if enough publishers employ this practice, it will become standard); utilize the offset printing method for large, guaranteed orders; and for all other situations choose the print-on-demand demand printing system (I recommend Lightening Source www.lightningsource.com/index.htm) where books are printed per order. This is a cost-effective method ensuring control of the flow of orders, distribution and returns. Only by controlling and reducing returns will a company be able to grow and be competitive in a global market.
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