Back Yard Research Articles

Pilgrim to Nowhere—The Mysterious Journey of Robert Rodes

Robert Rodes settled on the metaphor of the pilgrim for his story of the law. For him, pilgrim law is “the jurisprudential manifestation of liberation theology.” To begin my discussion of Rodes and the ongoing story of the law, I begin with a tale of my own pilgrimage to find justice in one place in the world I thought most needed it—when, as Dorothy could have told us from the outset, if it was not in my own back yard, I had never really lost it to begin with. In the mysteries of a Christian life that Rodes emphasizes is rooted in our unknowing, Milovan Djilas figures as central to Rodes's analysis; Djilas himself gave me crucial, but slightly cryptic, wisdom for my journey. Thus I feel haunted by some of the same characters and stories Rodes deems crucial in his pilgrim experience.

Dietary Methionine Requirement for Growth of Juvenile Humpback Grouper (Cromileptes altivelis)

An experiment to find out amino acid methionine requirement for growth of juvenile humpback grouper has been conducted in 18 polycarbonate 100 L tanks. Each tank was equipped with flow-through water system. Twelve juveniles of humpback grouper (5.6 ± 0.7 g each) were randomly selected and stocked in each tank. Juveniles humpback grouper for the experiment were purchased from back yard hatchery in Gondol. Fish fed test diets twice everyday at satiation level for 49 days. Test diets were prepared as dry pellet with casein and fish meal as the intact protein sources, supplemented with the mixture of crystalline L-amino acids to correspond to the amino acid pattern found in the whole body protein of the juvenile humpback grouper, except methionine. Basal diet (diet-1) containing 0.86% methionine was supplied from casein and fish meal. Graded level (0.3%) of L-methionine was added to the basal diet to get the final methionine level in each test diet of 0.86%, 1.16%, 1.46%, 1.76%, 2.06%, and 2.36 %. The experiment was designed according to completely random design (CRD) with 6 treatments (methionine levels) and three replicates for each treatment. Result of the experiment showed that dietary methionine content influenced final weight, weight gain, specific growth rate, feed efficiency, protein retention, and body protein content of juvenile humpback grouper. Optimum dietary methionine for juvenile humpback grouper was calculated using broken line regression analysis. Optimum dietary methionine requirement for growth of juvenile humpback grouper was 1.18% (2.41% of dietary protein) and 1.16% (2.37% of dietary protein) based on weight gain data and feed efficiency, respectively.

A Gathering of Gamelans and A (Balinese) Tempest (review)

A Gathering of Gamelans and a (Balinese) Tempest. Presented by ShadowLight Productions, Cowell Theater, San Francisco. 13–23 October 2005.

The House on Moscow Street

It’s the ragged source of memory,a tarpaper-shingled bungalowwhose floors tilt toward the porch,whose back yard ends abruptlyin a weedy ravine. Nothing special:a chain of three bedroomsand a long side porch turned parlorwhere my great-grandfather, Pomp, smokedevery evening over the news,a long sunny kitchenwhere Annie, his wife,measured cornmeal,dreaming through the windowacross the ravine and up to Shelby Hillwhere she had borne their spirited,high-yellow brood. In the middle bedroom’s hard,...

The sprinkler problem – a mathematician waters the lawn

You never know from where your next mathematical problem will come. I was surprised to find it, literally, in my own back yard. Recently, I was trying to determine the optimal way to water the lawn. I say ‘optimal’ because there are a couple of constraints that I try to minimise. First, I try to minimise the area of the wasted water. Water is wasted if it lands on the concrete that borders the lawn or if it lands on a region of the grass that has already been watered. Second, I try to minimise the number of times that I have to move the sprinkler. More often than not, I forget to move it anyway. So, it might as well be as a minimum.

Comparing the characteristics of front and back domestic gardens in Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

In Australia, suburban front gardens have been said to be for show, while back gardens have been thought to be used more productively. This pattern may have changed as a result of a change in the ways that western suburbanites use and value their gardens. In 107 gardens in 10 suburbs of Hobart, Tasmania, Australia, data on the floristic composition, structural characteristics and some use attributes were collected from front and back yards. The floristic data were used to classify the yards into types, many of which preferentially occurred in either front or back. Back yards preferentially containing food plant taxa, and had a larger proportion of lawn, dogs and chicken coops, while front yards preferentially contained showy and screening plant taxa, and had relatively high small shrub cover. However, in a large proportion of properties, the garden type in the front yard was the same as the type in the back yard. In another large proportion of properties the front yard was gardened more intensively than the back, indicating a desire to impress, but the back yard was not used for productive purposes. These gardens preferentially occurred in the older suburbs, while gardens that were showier in the back than the front were negatively correlated with the unemployment rate. In a relatively small proportion of properties showy gardens were located in the front yard, while productive gardens were located in the back yard. The prevalence of these gardens had no relationships with suburb characteristics. The wide variety of garden types, and of their combinations in back and front yards, both within and between suburbs, indicate a complexity not reducible to simple aphorisms.

House of Dance and Feathers

An article about a group of K-State architecture students led by professors Patrick Rhodes and Larry Bowne who traveled to New Orleans to construct a house for Ronald Lewis and Mardi Gras Indian who maintained a private museum in his back yard known as the House of Dance and Feathers.

Should Gastric Cancer Surgery be Performed in Community Hospitals?

Once the most common solid tumor malignancy in the United States, stomach cancer now ranks about 14th in incidence, with approximately 22,000 cases of adenocarcinoma of the stomach diagnosed annually. Gastrectomy for cancer is thus an infrequent operation, and indeed, the number of surgical residents completing 5-year training programs with an adequate number of gastrectomies is steadily shrinking. As time passes and experience with gastric surgery continues to diminish, questions concerning who and where gastric cancer surgery should be performed become increasingly relevant. For patients in major metropolitan areas, locating a high-volume hospital or surgeon is usually not an issue, but for a large portion of the country this may represent a major burden. Moreover, adding this additional volume of patients to an already overburdened system of a busy hospital may not be practical. A significant number of Americans continue to receive their care in low-volume hospitals. The majority of Americans receive their medical care locally and would much prefer a solution that would improve the medical care in their own back yard without altering their support system.

The Bandh

The Bandh Lynn Aarti Chandhok (bio) The Jhelum River snaked past our back yard, Beyond the corn, the rows of ripe tomatoes— Where mornings we filled baskets, or our skirts, Ran home and begged the cook to make us soup— Past brimming orchards of sweet apples, thick Groves of gnarled plum trees dangling black-skinned fruit. The Bandh protected us from springtime floods But blocked our view—built up so high the land Seemed like a shallow basin, till the day We tucked ourselves between the barbed-wire lines And clambered up the dusty zigzag path, Up to the Bandh's high crest. For the first time, I saw what stretched out on the other side: A scattering of huts and smoldering fires, Smoke rising without the scent of prayer or food, The river ambling, quiet, almost looming, Its current strong enough to wash away The women who unwound themselves from yards Of saffron sarees, pounding out the silt, Then stretching crimson rivulets of silk To dry, billowing on the shore—or else The green-eyed children who would point and laugh, Their quick, white smiles grabbing the evening light— Even the goats and cows that claimed the path And, edging us aside, clanged home at dusk. That summer I learned bandh meant closed. I turned The grammar over in my head. From here, The view was clear. The setting sun laid pinks Across the river and the vale. Immense Chinar trees draped their boughs in silhouette. Then we were silhouette against dim light, Our shadows thin as shadows cast beneath A gauze of silk or smoke—and no less true. The Closed, I thought, and turned back from the view. Lynn Aarti Chandhok Lynn Chandhok has worked as a writer and teacher since she graduated from Swarthmore College in 1985. Her poems have appeared in Tin House, Sewanee Theological Review, the Journal and the Dark Horse and are forthcoming in the Antioch Review. Phul Chunaan, a chapbook, is forthcoming from Aralia Press. Lynn lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and two daughters. Copyright © 2005 The Curators of the University of Missouri

Serological evidence of Trichinellosis in local pigs of Nepal

In Nepal, animal husbandry is a major source of income. Pig husbandry is practiced in rural, peri-urban, and urban communities. Free ranging “back yard” pigs and the practice of feeding offal is a very common management practice which potentially allows for the transmission of trichinellosis; however, this zoonosis has never been reported from this region. A total of 425 serum samples were collected from local pigs. These were initially screened by ELISA after which positive samples were examined by Western blot. This procedure identified two samples which had clear specific bands for Trichinella; however, muscle samples tested by HCL-pepsin digestion were found to be negative. If these highly specific serological analyses are confirmed, this would be the first report of trichinellosis in Nepal and a prevention program should be initiated to limit the access of pigs to open garbage dumps which exist both in towns and on farms.

Chronic Hip Pain in a Boy with Mental Retardation and Cerebral Palsy

Stein, Martin T. M.D.1; Gottsegen, David M.D.2; Blasco, Peter A. M.D.3; Wolraich, Mark M.D.4; Hennessy, Michael M.D.5 Author Information

Gypsy Quiet

FICTION G · s i uiet Lucy Flood After living in my mother-in-law's mildewed basement for three years, my legs were heavy. Dulles's love had strangled me. Day after day I waited for a tornado to hurl me off the couch and out the door. I imagined that the foundation of my marriage was like city soil, paved over so that nothing would ever grow. Although my mother-in-law had begged me to go tothehealer, who she claimedwas the onlypersoninthe whole valley that could cure myinfertility, I'd refused. Dulles and I didn't know the precise scientific reason why we couldn't have kids, but it didn't surprise me that we weren't fertile. By marrying him when I was still in love with a man who had earned a B.S. in Botany, I had brought on my suffering. The sound of a male cricket singing for a female finally caused me to get up out of the dark. In the daylight, my eyes drank in the mountains that snuck up in all directions around Dirt Creek. When I spotted the cricket making music in the overgrown grass by rubbing one leg against its wing, lightness spread through mybelly, making me think Td one day find the strength to walk away. As I gazed at the forest, which formed an impenetrable jungle over the mountaintops, I wondered what had become of my grandparents who lived one hundred and sixty-three miles west. Before I ran off with Dulles, all my memories were of living with my grandparents, but when I told them I planned to pursue Dulles instead of a college degree they had refused to attend my wedding. Later, when I begged Dulles to take mehome to care formy grandmother, whosebellyhadbecome large with cancer, he hit me across the mouth. That night as he dabbed a grape popsicle across my lips, tears fell from his dark eyes. After my lip went down, I found I had nearly lost my voice. I never again called my grandparents or anyone else outside the valley. When my eyes came to rest on my mother-in-law's garden, I rememberedhow my grandfather looked whenhe dug abunch of carrots from our back yard. He said that God had given us our bones for a purpose, and that one day my big, proud bones would take me where I needed to go. Hearing my grandfather's words reverberate around me, I knew Ihad tohonorhimby going to receive Persia's healing. I could have driven up the gravel road to the healer's, but instead I walked. I wanted time to prepare myself for whatever gifts she could offer me. As I made my way past the peeling catalpa trees, I listened to the birds. In their 45 music, I heard the earth's percussion. A bird made a quick, high-pitched call, causing the mortar to fall away frombetween my cells, making space for God to inhabit me. Persia's cabin sat so close to the ledge that I thought the slightestwind might pick it off and send it tumbling like a leaf down into the road that coiled through the valley. The previous summer, I had enjoyed looking up at her house from mine. While I watched the sun alight on the roses that arched over her roof, I wondered whether the flowers anchored the entire structure to the ground. In Persia's yard, I stopped at the lavender plant, leaned over, and picked off a grey, spiky top, rolling it in my fingers, breathing it in, imagining that the tiny particles floated into my lungs and through my blood stream, transforming the lavender into me. Persia met me at the door. The lyrics to the Indigo Girls' song "Prince of Darkness" came from inside. Although she was fifty, her hair trailed behind her in a streaming mass of silver white ringlets. Seeing her hair reminded me that only He could create something that at midday shone just like the full moon. "Hey, Marion. I knew you'd be coming. I had a premonition," she said. "Do you see things?" I said. "My ancestors come to...

Rockets in Russia's back yard

Rockets in Russia's back yard

Ghost Riders (review)

shunned by a society terrified of scars and imperfection, this collection offers not simply science in your back yard, but treasure. —Steve Rhodes VCI, m ^*Mz~ Sharyn McCrumb. Ghost Riders. New York: E P Dutton, 2003. 336 pages. Hardcover. $24.95. Rank Stranger as sungby Ollie Gilbert, Mountain View, Arkansas, on February 9, 1970. Cat. #941 (MFH #559). 07 Jan. 04. www.smsu.edu/folksong/ maxhunter/0941. J wandered again to my home in th' mountain Where youths early dawn, I was happy an'free I lookedfor myfriends but never couldfind them Ifound they were all rank strangers to me Everybody I met, seemed to be a rank stranger No Mother or Dad, not afriend could I see They knew not my name, I knew not theirfaces Ifound they were all rank strangers to me 75 Sharyn McCrumb's latest ballad novel, Ghost Riders, is a rousing ghost story. It has all the elements readers have come to expect from McCrumb's novels—involved and intertwined plots that keep the reader's attention on several levels, memorable characters, and humor in unexpected spots. Ghost Riders was originally titled Rank Stranger, but New York editors didn't know or understand that ballad, so they changed it. However, after hearing McCrumb and Jack Hinshelwood singing and talking about the song, I can't think of it as anything else. It's an exact match to the story—the two young lovers fighting side by side, alienated by the side they had chosen in the Civil War. So, we have Ghost Riders, which I suppose is familiar to a wider audience, but definitely changes the way the novel is perceived. Even without the ballad, the opening quotation by Galway Kinnell sets the tone of the entire book: "Is there a mechanism of death that so mutilates existence no one gets over it not even the dead?" The reader knows the supernatural is at work. But there is more here than just a ghost story— this is an historical drama based on the lives of real people in the Civil War. The fictional characters are pieced together, as McCrumb says, in a "quilt of words" with the real characters. Stitched together are Civil War re-enactors; those ofus who know re-enactors will instantly recognize the knowledgeable "sunshine soldiers/sunshine patriots," some of whom change sides with the change of a uniform. Portraying themwithhumor but without condescension, McCrumb seems to know them quite well. The past parallels the present in McCrumb's familiar style: two or more story lines running concurrently. In the present we find Rattler, a part-Cherokee recluse who knows nature and has the Sight. While passing time with a group of re-enactors, a visitor to the camp stirs interest and conversation. When asked why he didn't speak to the stranger, Rattler replies, " 'Cause I don't hold with talking to dead people." We learn a bit more about Nora Bonesteel, an old favorite from previous novels, and why she never attends funerals or burials and only tends one grave. She and Rattler are both necessary to put the past to rest, and they do so with grace and style. Spencer Arrowood shows up too, so previous readers are right at home, but the novel may be read independently also. In the past, the major historical characters are Zebulon Baird Vance, Malinda "Sam" Blalock, and her husband, L. McKesson "Keith" Blalock. Vance is a born politician—part rounder and rascal, but always concerned with his people first. He served as the governor of North Carolina for the Confederacy, yet never forgot his mountain 76 roots. In his picture (yes, she gives us pictures of Zeb and "Sam") Vance is a ruggedly handsome man with deep-set eyes and a clean strongjaw. It is easily seen why he inspired such loyalty from men and women alike. I'd vote for him in a minute! Malinda (Sam) is one of the women who "Tied back their hair, men's clothing put on" and rode with their husbands while the cruel war was raging. InMalinda, McCrumb has found a fitting example ofthese women who generally aren't acknowledged inhistory. Malinda stares directly...

World Heritage as NIMBY? The Case of the Dutch part of the Wadden Sea

Acquiring the world heritage label, a reward for establishing and preserving an outstanding environment, is often assumed to be an honour for the local population and a useful leverage for the tourist and environmental organisations. However, the case of the Wadden Sea, a trilateral nomination by Denmark, Germany and The Netherlands, makes clear that this is not always true, and public consultation in The Netherlands has revealed that these local stakeholders do not support such a nomination. It seems they epitomise a 'Not in my back yard' (NIMBY) approach to World Heritage listing. This discussion paper examines the factors that complicate the nomination process. Contrary to common expectation, why do critical stakeholders, like the tourism industry, local inhabitants and environmental organisations become opponents? What are the interests at stake that subvert the balance of benefits and costs of the world heritage status to the extent that nomination is suspended? Is this phenomenon an exception, or an indication that obtaining the accolade is increasingly assessed from a rational rather than an emotional viewpoint, and that 30 years after the convention which created it the world heritage stamp has lost its uniqueness?

Beyond NIMBYism: towards an integrated framework for understanding public perceptions of wind energy

AbstractIt is widely recognised that public acceptability often poses a barrier towards renewable energy development. This article reviews existing research on public perceptions of wind energy, where opposition is typically characterized by the NIMBY (not in my back yard) concept. The objectives of the article are to provide a critical assessment of past research and an integrated, multidimensional framework to guide future work. Six distinct strands of research are identified, summarized and critiqued: public support for switching from conventional energy sources to wind energy; aspects of turbines associated with negative perceptions; the impact of physical proximity to turbines; acceptance over time of wind farms; NIMBYism as an explanation for negative perceptions; and, finally, the impact of local involvement on perceptions. Research across these strands is characterized by opinion poll studies of general beliefs and case studies of perceptions of specific developments. In both cases, research is fragmented and has failed to adequately explain, rather than merely describe, perceptual processes. The article argues for more theoretically informed empirical research, grounded in social science concepts and methods. A multidimensional framework is proposed that goes beyond the NIMBY label and integrates previous findings with social and environmental psychological theory. Copyright © 2004 John Wiley & Sons, Ltd.

Yellowstone Wolves in the Wild

The Yellowstone wolves are possibly the most highly profiled and observed wild wolf population in the world and are “arguably the greatest wildlife experiment of the 20th century.” James Halfpenny, a renowned wildlife ecologist and educator for over 40 years, knows his subject. Not only has he taught outdoor education and environmental programs to many others, but he has lived in the Yellowstone ecosystem for years, observing wolves in his own back yard. Yellowstone Wolves in the Wild tells the story of these famous reintroduced wolves through the eyes of both seasoned wolf biologists and lucky park visitors in the right place at the right time. Perhaps you read The Wolves of Yellowstone1.Michael K. Phillips M.K. Smith D.W. The Wolves of Yellowstone. Voyageur Press, Stillwater, MN1996Google Scholar and are familiar with the controversial reintroduction of the wolf to the same ecosystem from which they were exterminated only a few decades before. Halfpenny has a lot to add; he begins where Smith1.Michael K. Phillips M.K. Smith D.W. The Wolves of Yellowstone. Voyageur Press, Stillwater, MN1996Google Scholar left off, telling the story of the fascinating wolf and the successful proliferation of a native species once lost. Highlights from the book include the following: •“Knowing the Yellowstone Wolves” (the wolf population grew from 14 in 1995 to more than 200 in 2002);•“The Territorial Imperative” (the author describes how wolves mark and establish turf, tells the story of one wolf trapped after taking a 175-mile journey to Ogden, UT, and relates stories of wolf packs in their attempt at often deadly conflict resolution within their species and with competing carnivores);•“Hunting and Predation” (describes how most wolves target the weakest, naive, young, and old compared to human hunters who will not take the old or infirm);•“Reproduction and Growth” (discusses denning behavior and mate theft in the wolf community);•“Behavior Within the Pack” (discusses typical alpha roles and play among wolves);•“Ecology” (discusses observed “kleptoparasitism by grizzly bears,” in which bears may use their larger size to steal a wolf-killed carcass); and•“Watching Wolves” (the author has it down to a science; exactly where and when to see the wild Yellowstone wolf with alarming accuracy). The appendix includes a list of just about every reputable wolf-focused organization and educational source in existence (including Web site addresses) for those who want to learn more. If the stories can’t hold your interest, the photography is sure to please. All photographs in the book were taken in the wild—no posed or captive shots. Graphics, maps, timelines, and photographs make the book an easy, quick, educational, and interesting read.

Naming the Monster

Naming the Monster Phoebe Kate Foster (bio) As part of her conversion to Judaism, Amanda is koshering her kitchen, and has taken the day off to get it done. She works for a public relations firm in Greenwich Village whose clients include a set of adult Siamese twins who are stand-up comics, a rock group with 666 tattooed on their foreheads, and an MD who claims aliens abducted him and telepathically imparted to him an AIDS cure that Johns Hopkins obstinately refuses to test. Amanda didn't volunteer why she needed the time off. Her boss wouldn't have believed her, though he believes the client who says he's found proof an ancient race of people with magical powers lives inside Mount Shasta. It seems easier to Amanda to let him fill in today's blank with PMS, personal issues, a herpes outbreak, whatever. On her stove, vats of boiling water bubble and sputter, in which she systematically immerses all her pots and pans and silverware, according to her rabbi's detailed instructions for the ritual purification of kitchen utensils. "One piece at a time," he had told her, "and no quick dipping and thinking the job is correctly done. Allow them to remain a few moments in the boiling water. This is a serious step you are taking. It's important to do it right. Keeping a kosher home is the heart of an observant Jew's life." "De-paganizing the Pyrex, dear?" her longtime live-in asks as he leaves for his job on Wall Street, his body piercings and mildly counterculture notions carefully camouflaged by Abercrombie & Fitch pinstripes. He frowns at the kitchen, which resembles Old Faithful on a good day. "If scalding cookware really makes it holy, why don't you just put everything in the fucking dishwasher on high-temp wash and say some prayers during the cycle?" is his parting shot as he slams out of the apartment. Amanda ignores him, not wanting to break the sweet spell as she presides like an ancient priestess over the comforting clouds of steam that cloak a mystery she longs to penetrate. [End Page 147] Uptown, in his condo overlooking Central Park, Amanda's father begins mixing martinis mid-morning and scowls at the crawl of stock market quotes on the cable news. He lives in perpetual dread of a dinner invitation from his daughter. She's going to serve exsanguinated beef from the weird butchers with the long black coats and earlocks, he thinks, gazing gloomily into the unblinking red eye of a pimento-stuffed olive in the bottom of his glass. How can you have a bloody rare steak if your religion has a rule that you have to salt and soak it to drain out all the juices before you cook it? He anticipates this second marriage, midlife accident of a child will loudly espouse unpopular causes, wear a babushka, sprout chin hairs she'll righteously refuse to remove, balk at attending Christmas dinner at Aunt Alicia's in Chevy Chase, announce at the next family gathering that she's moving to Israel to go one-on-one with the P.L.O., find new and embarrassing ways to be even stranger than she currently is, with a ring in her nose and a stud in her tongue and hair dyed a startling shade of magenta and the stated intention of whelping her future babies like puppies in the back yard of her Greenwich Village garden apartment instead of in the hospital. Amanda's mother has cultivated a more philosophical attitude. "Look!" she cries, waving her arms like Glinda the Good Witch, as if magic has made all things possible. "Look at all the beautiful china our daughter has as a result of her new faith!" Upon learning that Orthodox Jews use separate sets of dishes for certain foods, her mother had immediately perked up and gone out to shop for them - any occasion requiring a major purchase must be a holy one, she thinks. This is nowhere near as awful as when Amanda dressed like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark and insisted on telling everyone that her parents were fallen-away...

Why People Say Two Thousand

My mother and husband died nineteen days apart, and the next time I put on shoes it was four months later. The cable was disconnected, yellowing newspapers were logjammed on the porch and Brisket and Chervil had hunkered down with Sonya next door in the name of reliable food. Using her spare key, Sonya had also kept me fed, coaxed me to bathe, laundered my appalling bedsheets, handed me sleeping pills and assured my father, when he called, that I would be up and about again eventually. She was right. One day in early September, for no reason I could name, I got up from bed with the cloudy intention of doing something. I put on a fresh shirt and a pair of jeans, intrigued by how baggy they were now, and stepped into the back yard. In the late-afternoon light, I went through bills. On Gary's credit-card and cell-phone statements, I wrote, "Deceased" and paid the late penalties. There were no bombshells in these pages, no suspicious calls to distant area codes, no string of charges to a lingerie shop. Mostly just calls home, to me at school, to his office at the hospital, to his sister, his parents. The MasterCard showed the annual fee for our Cheese of the Month Club membership, a wedding gift we'd kept renewing every year. Discovering the white cardboard boxes at the front door delighted us out of all proportion, as if we forgot every month—we did forget—that we had engineered this little surprise for ourselves. I hoped Sonya had taken the boxes that had come over the summer. I went to the garden and pulled out the desiccated tomato and basil plants that I'd planted after Mom, before Gary. Brisket, announcing herself with a croaking meow, emerged from the bushes that divided our yard from Sonya's. She closed her eyes and permitted me to scratch her fat orange head, then wandered off to rub her cheek on the pile of uprooted plants. It was a social call only; she and Chervil were Sonya's cats now. I was caught up on bills. I had no pets to care for. All at once I wanted only to be with my father. I wanted to hear about his sad summer and for us to be sad together. Beyond a few short calls, I'd been so useless to him since Mom had died. I packed, left a note with Sonya and drove the six hours to Illinois. [End Page 117] Dad hugged me before I was completely out of the car. It was after midnight, and I hadn't called ahead, but the house was lit like a party the guests had snuck out on. In the kitchen, a radio blared staticky jazz music. A pot of coffee hissed on its hot circle. The sound of sizzling onions from a TV cooking show floated in from the next room. Even Dad's clothes ran counter to habit: dark blue sweatpants cinched tight around his waist, accenting his paunchy stomach. The hood of his sweatshirt, of the same dark blue, was bunched up behind his head. He turned down the radio. We sat with our coffees and smiled shyly at each other. The sizzling onions from the TV filled the space between us, almost like talk. I resisted the urge to reach over and flatten his hood. After a few minutes he said, "You were right. People do say two thousand." All during 1999, we'd debated how years would be pronounced in the new millennium. It was my view that everyone had been intoning "the year two thousand" for so long that they would keep saying it. Two thousand one. Two thousand two. Dad banked on twenty-oh-one, twenty-oh-two, because twenty follows nineteen, always has, always will. Gary ignored us on the grounds that the year two thousand was the last year of the second millennium, and he wasn...

Balancing Landscape Preferences and Water Conservation in a Desert Community

We surveyed homeowners with residential landscapes in Las Cruces, N.M., to determine design features participants valued in their landscapes, their attitudes toward the landscape use of desert plants and opinions on factors that would encourage respondents to reduce landscape water use. We also determined whether the willingness to use desert plants in their landscapes related to the length of residency in the southwestern United States. At least 98% of respondents landscaped to enhance the appearance of their home and increase their property value. About half (50.6%) of the participants strongly agreed or agreed that the main reason to landscape was to display their landscape preferences. Many participants indicated they would use desert plants to landscape their front yard (80.3%) and back yard (56.3%), but relatively lower percentages of participants actually had desert landscapes in their front yard and back yard. Regardless of their property value, respondents were more likely to use desert plants in their backyard the shorter their stay in the desert. Data revealed that participants rank water shortages as the factor that would most likely cause them to reduce the amount of water they applied to their landscapes. We conclude that homeowners report willingness to use desert plants but desert-type landscapes are not a widespread feature of managed residential landscapes. Furthermore, water shortages and the length of time respondents spent in a desert environment would most likely influence water use in their landscapes.