Categories
Books Memoir People

Feathered Canyons – a memoir

A memoir is a safari back through time.  Whether you write it or not, some part of your life deserves a memoir. Which years, which events were most meaningful for you?

It was easy for me to answer that question. I’d always wanted to write about my life-changing adventures in the 1960s in California. But when would I find the time?

I spent years getting my Ph.D., then went to Cambridge University in UK, where I met and married David. We then went to Africa, spending four years studying lions in the Serengeti ecosystem. More years followed doing scientific papers, research seminars and lecture tours, then back to Tanzania to do education projects. After two more decades living in a colorful, wild, fascinating rural village, we finally came to roost here in Arizona.

That’s a long road to a memoir. Once we had settled, I retrieved boxes of letters from my sister’s barn in California, gathered more letters and memories from friends, found notes and sketches I’d made back in the 60s. During the next 20 years I put all that together and got David to create the illustrations. Finally it’s written, published, available!

Now you can read about my life journey through the 1960s. That was the time that formed me and pointed me along the path towards all the other fun stuff. I’ve written my memoir with the aim that it will resonate with you, inspire you, cause you to remember your own life, maybe do your own memoir. If you’re young, get out of your comfort zone and try something different! That is what I want, so start now, read Feathered Canyons, think about life’s lessons –  mine are summarized in a section at the end of the book.

Start writing about – or living – that special, memorable part of your life!

Author hiking down into a forested river canyon
Walking into the Feather River canyon
Categories
Safari

Where there is no Dentist

So gappy to meet you!
So gappy to meet you!

Crack! As I bite down on some tough meat, I feel an expensive crunch and something hard rattles against my teeth. Damn, there goes that front crown! It’s the eve of a new safari and I must go to the airport to meet a new group. I only get this one chance to make a good first impression. “Hi, I’m Zavid your zure-leazer. Welcome to Zanzania!” – Wanna come with this gap-toothed lisping troll into darkest Africa? No, I need a quick fix. The crown is intact and hollow. It fits over a peg anchored in the tooth’s root. I just need some dental cement, but I won’t find it in Arusha on a Sunday night, and tomorrow I have to brief the group after breakfast, then we hit the road to adventure. So, what have I got that’s sticky and indestructible and kind to the mouth? Chewing gum! Well, it won’t set hard, but its stickiness is legendary, and I have plenty. I start chewing and pack the crown with gum and push it into place. It sits well and feels good. This can work – as long as I don’t bite hard on it.

And it does work. For almost a week, I confidently grin and eat, and begin to take my flexible tooth for granted. Mistake. Nibbling some meat off a bone, I feel the loose crown roll to the back of my throat, then it’s GONE. I could bolt out of the dining-tent into the Serengeti night and throw up – but why waste such a good dinner? There’s another alternative, but it’s not pleasant. It involves some waiting,  a can of water, a stick, a flat rock, and a hole in the ground.

Gynanisa moth on my hand
The emperor moth at my lamp (Gynanisa sp.)

24 hours later, preparing to “go through the motions” for the third time, I step out of my tent into the moonlight. By my outside lamp, a giant emperor moth flutters. So does my heart, as I sense a large presence.

Buffalo. He stands on my path, ruminating. Two more chomp at grass ten yards from the tent. To hell with buffalos – I have a mission. I stay close to the tent, and they don’t care. This time, I hit pay-dirt, a little white tooth amid the brown. I boil and disinfect it, then chew up some gum and presto! I have my smile again. Maybe next week, I’ll get some dental cement.

Buffalo at night on path to my tent
Buffalo on path to my tent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The phrase “sh*t-eating grin” has a totally new meaning for me now.