Can We Save the Tiger?

By Martin Jenkins

Illustrated by Vicky White

Candlewick Press, 2011

Category: Picture book nonfiction

Today I’m sharing some thoughts on the structure used by author Martin Jenkins in his picture book, CAN WE SAVE THE TIGER? (For a more detailed introduction to this plan, read yesterday’s post.)

The story Jenkins shares in CAN WE SAVE THE TIGER is a broad one: we humans are changing the planet and the animals that live here are paying the price. The menagerie of species considered endangered by human activities is overwhelming, so Jenkins separates them into five loose groups. Using a single high-impact example from each group, he then shares the extinction story in small doses, one endangered animal at a time. The resulting structure—a collage of sorts—brings readers to an unforgettable conclusion: losing species is unbearable and we must act.

Let’s look at this collage structure more closely, shall we? Here’s how I see it …

Snapshot 1: Animals that are running out of room. In other words, big animals, like the titular tiger. Jenkins’ voice throughout the book is lovely, and here, early on, we see how his choice to speak directly to the reader is effective:

“… if you were a poor farmer trying to make a living with a couple of cows and a few goats, you might not be too happy if you found there was a hungry tiger living nearby. And if you knew that someone might pay you more for a tiger skin and some bones than you could earn in three whole months of working in the fields, then you might find it very tempting to set a trap or two, even if you knew it was against the law.”

Of course the reader wants to save tigers. But the reader can also understand a poor farmer’s motives. With this carefully chosen first snapshot, the reader is hooked.

Snapshot 2: Animals that are endangered as a result of human-introduced predators. Here Jenkins shows us a tiny snail, a satisfying juxtaposition to the tiger and, I think, a subtle nod to the idea that endangered species run the gamut from BIG to SMALL (and, of course, everything in between; see the UGLY addition below). In his image of the partula snail, we see how the movement of species by humans can have unforeseen and unintended consequences for other species.

Snapshot 3: Animals that are impacted not by movement but by other human actions. Here we add to the idea of running the gamut: even UGLY animals, like vultures, are vulnerable. By now the reader is wondering if there are animals that aren’t endangered.

Snapshot 4: Animals that were nearly extinct but came back. The reader is ready for this bit of good news. Bison were forced to the edge of the extinction abyss by human actions, but we managed to pull them back from that edge in time. This snapshot is a much needed and well-timed picture of hope.

Snapshot 5: Animals that were nearly extinct, that we are trying to help, but which are still in trouble. Here Jenkins makes it clear there is still much to worry about. If we are lucky, as with the bison, we can reverse the damage of our bad habits. But sometimes we will act too late. It’s still not clear if we will be able to save the kakapo.

Each of these snapshots is actually a distinct story, a small narrative starring the animal in question and its plight. Arranged side-by-side, however, and with Vicky White’s art, the snapshots give readers a deeper and broader view of animal extinction on planet Earth. They build a perfect collage.

The effectiveness of the collage structure, of course, is tied to the logic of its presentation. The order in which the individual images are presented to the reader must make sense, even if the reader only experiences that logic subconsciously. Jenkins shows us something big, moves on to something small, then adds something ugly, something hopeful, and something sobering. Another order of these images could, perhaps, build an effective collage. The point, however, is that there are certain orders that would not work at all … and Jenkins knew enough not to use them.

For example, starting with the kakapo, a squat and relatively unknown critter, is technically possible … but such an opening would have been much less compelling than the tiger opening. And Jenkins would have lost the lovely juxtaposition that so nicely relayed the breadth of the extinction problem. (That is, the big-small-and-everything-in-between gamut I mentioned earlier.) Starting with the tiger, an animal all readers will recognize and most will admire, gave the author a much stronger opening …  and plenty of room to transition into a second image.

Here’s something else that struck me about the collage structure: the importance of the order in which the snapshots were presented is very important, but it is not something I recognized on first reading the book. In fact, I didn’t give it a thought! On some subconscious level, the order worked for me, so, I sank into the book and enjoyed the read. The writer is the only one who needs to think the snapshot order logic through. If he does his job well, the structure will be invisible. Readers will read. Choose the wrong order, however, and readers are likely to stumble. I think Jenkins nailed it.

That’s a lot to digest in one post, so I’m going to stop here. Tomorrow I’ll share my final thoughts on this book and the collage structure. In the meanwhile, feel free to share your own thoughts in the comments; I’d love to hear them.

Can We Save the Tiger?

By Martin Jenkins

Illustrated by Vicky White

Candlewick Press, 2011

Category: Picture book nonfiction

As I mentioned in a recent post, I’ve committed myself to a self-directed study of structure in children’s nonfiction. So, for several weeks now I’ve been re-reading some of my favorite titles and exploring their structures more deeply. What structure did the author choose to shape his or her story? In what ways does this structure work well for the piece? Are there ways that it doesn’t? And so on. Here are my not-so-short thoughts on structure in the brilliant picture book CAN WE SAVE THE TIGER?

First of all, after seeing that cover, how could one not pick up this book? Between the breathtaking drawing of a tiger and the irresistible challenge of saving it, I can’t imagine walking away. Can we save the tiger? Good gosh, I hope so. I truly, truly hope so. And before I dive into the structure, I have to dedicate at least one more word to the art. That word: magnificent. I’d read this book even if it had no text. I’d pore over Vicky White’s animal studies and I would weep for their suffering. I truly would. If you haven’t seen these drawings for yourself, you are missing out on something both beautiful and moving.

Of course, I’m a word girl, and so you won’t be surprised to hear that I think White’s art is, in fact, better for having been paired with the words of Martin Jenkins. Exploring the human-driven extinction of some of the world’s most beloved animals in a book for the elementary ages is not an easy task, but Jenkins is up to it. He tells the hard truth, but balances it with hope and invitation: we humans have made life on Earth hard for some animals, we can do better, you can help.

And guess what? Having studied the book more closely this week, I think it’s safe to say that Jenkins’ structural choices play a big role in how successfully these messages reach his readers.

Are you up for a romp through this special book? Great. Go on and give it a read. Tomorrow I’ll post my thoughts on its structure, and you can, if you wish, add your take on the matter. Be forewarned: my ruminations on the structure are longer than the book itself!. That’s why I’ve decided to break the post up. I hope you’ll stay tuned anyway …

Can We Save the Tiger?

By Martin Jenkins

Illustrated by Vicky White

Candlewick Press, 2011

Category: Picture book nonfiction

As I mentioned in a recent post, I’ve committed myself to a self-directed study of structure in children’s nonfiction. So, for several weeks now I’ve been re-reading some of my favorite titles and exploring their structures more deeply. What structure did the author choose to shape his or her story? In what ways does this structure work well for the piece? Are there ways that it doesn’t? And so on. Here are my not-so-short thoughts on structure in the brilliant picture book CAN WE SAVE THE TIGER?

First of all, after seeing that cover, how could one not pick up this book? Between the breathtaking drawing of a tiger and the irresistible challenge of saving it, I can’t imagine walking away. Can we save the tiger? Good gosh, I hope so. I truly, truly hope so. And before I dive into the structure, I have to dedicate at least one more word to the art. That word: magnificent. I’d read this book even if it had no text. I’d pore over Vicky White’s animal studies and I would weep for their suffering. I truly would. If you haven’t seen these drawings for yourself, you are missing out on something both beautiful and moving.

Of course, I’m a word girl, and so you won’t be surprised to hear that I think White’s art is, in fact, better for having been paired with the words of Martin Jenkins. Exploring the human-driven extinction of some of the world’s most beloved animals in a book for the elementary ages is not an easy task, but Jenkins is up to it. He tells the hard truth, but balances it with hope and invitation: we humans have made life on Earth hard for some animals, we can do better, you can help.

And guess what? Having studied the book more closely this week, I think it’s safe to say that Jenkins’ structural choices play a big role in how successfully these messages reach his readers.

Are you up for a romp through this special book? Great. Go on and give it a read. Tomorrow I’ll post my thoughts on its structure, and you can, if you wish, add your take on the matter. Be forewarned: my ruminations on the structure are longer than the book itself!. That’s why I’ve decided to break the post up. I hope you’ll stay tuned anyway …

© Loree Griffin Burns

My daughter found this monster caterpillar in our yard, halfway between the grape vines and an apple tree. It was moving faster than you’d think a caterpillar could move in grass, but I managed to catch up for a photo. The markings (“green, orange, pink or cinnamon with pale white to yellow spots enveloping abdominal spiracles” and “generous peppering of minute black dots”) and the proximity of grape vines make us fairly confident it’s a Pandorus sphinx moth caterpillar. And since this particular cat had a button on its rear (instead of a “tin and coiled horn”) we’re pretty sure its in its final caterpillar stage. (This explains its quick jaunt through the lawn: it was most likely searching for a safe place to pupate.)

The Princeton Field Guide CATERPILLARS OF EASTERN NORTH AMERICA, from which quotes above were taken, suggested we throw a sheet on the ground beneath the grape vines, because then “the presence of hornworms will be revealed by an accumulation of elongate, deeply furrowed, fecal pellets.”

Honestly, who needs a TV?

Happy Wednesday!

© Loree Griffin Burns

My daughter found this monster caterpillar in our yard, halfway between the grape vines and an apple tree. It was moving faster than you’d think a caterpillar could move in grass, but I managed to catch up for a photo. The markings (“cinnamon with pale white to yellow spots enveloping abdominal spiracles” and “generous peppering of minute black dots”) and the proximity of grape vines make us fairly confident it’s a Pandorus sphinx moth caterpillar. And since this particular cat had a button on its rear (instead of a “tin and coiled horn”) we’re pretty sure its in its final caterpillar stage. This explains its quick jaunt through the lawn: it was most likely searching for a safe place to pupate.

The Princeton Field Guide CATERPILLARS OF EASTERN NORTH AMERICA, from which quotes above were taken, suggested we throw a sheet on the ground beneath the grape vines, because then “the presence of hornworms will be revealed by an accumulation of elongate, deeply furrowed, fecal pellets.”

Honestly, who needs a TV?

Happy Wednesday!

It is not a stretch to say that I’ve spent most of my waking moments since 1975, the year I learned to read, lost inside written stories of one kind or another. If I know anything about storytelling, it was soaked up from these stories, good ones and bad ones, over the past four decades. This knowing has worked its way into my brain, and I draw on it when I write stories of my own. I’m sure of this. But talking about this mysterious knowledge? Articulating why I make certain choices in certain books. (Why a second person narrative in Citizen Scientists? Why that book-ended structure of The Hive Detectives?) Well, I find it hard.

As a writer who spent her career training days studying yeast cells in a laboratory instead of reading the classics and writing stories, I’m always a bit sheepish about talking shop. What do I know about writing? Only this: there is a beautiful logic to storytelling, and it is possible to feel this logic on an instinctual and mostly subconscious level. Which is a really fine way of saying: uh, not much.

But—and here’s the point of this post–I’ve decided to start talking about them anyway. I’d like to understand my own choices better, actually, and doing so is going to involve studying the logic that guided the choices. Deeply.

(Hey … maybe I’m maturing as a writer? One can hope.)

Anyway, since my years of writing children’s nonfiction has helped me realize that the key moment in my writing process is the discovery of the structure a story should take, I’m going to start my study there.  In this all-important moment—I swear there is an audible click!—all the ideas and facts and interview notes and people and places I’ve been researching settle themselves into a clear pattern. A structure. And this structure dictates how I’ll write the story.  I’m going to spend some time in the coming months thinking harder about this moment, about structure I’ve used in my books, and about the structures that work so well in the books of children’s nonfiction I admire.

You, dear reader, can join me if you’d like.  Stay tuned …

It is not a stretch to say that I’ve spent most of my waking moments since 1975, the year I learned to read, lost inside written stories of one kind or another. If I know anything about storytelling, it was soaked up from these stories, good ones and bad ones, over the past four decades. This knowing has worked its way into my brain, and I draw on it when I write stories of my own. I’m sure of this. But talking about this mysterious knowledge? Articulating why I make certain choices in certain books. (Why a second person narrative in Citizen Scientists? Why that book-ended structure of The Hive Detectives?) Well, I find it hard.

As a writer who spent her career training days studying yeast cells in a laboratory instead of reading the classics and writing stories, I’m always a bit sheepish about talking shop. What do I know about writing? Only this: there is a beautiful logic to storytelling, and it is possible to feel this logic on an instinctual and mostly subconscious level. Which is a really fine way of saying: uh, not much.

But—and here’s the point of this post–I’ve decided to start talking about them anyway. I’d like to understand my own choices better, actually, and doing so is going to involve studying the logic that guided the choices. Deeply.

(Hey … maybe I’m maturing as a writer? One can hope.)

Anyway, since my years of writing children’s nonfiction has helped me realize that the key moment in my writing process is the discovery of the structure a story should take, I’m going to start my study there.  In this all-important moment—I swear there is an audible click!—all the ideas and facts and interview notes and people and places I’ve been researching settle themselves into a clear pattern. A structure. And this structure dictates how I’ll write the story.  I’m going to spend some time in the coming months thinking harder about this moment, about structure I’ve used in my books, and about the structures that work so well in the books of children’s nonfiction I admire.

You, dear reader, can join me if you’d like.  Stay tuned …

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: keeping honeybees is much harder than writing about them. In the year since I became a beekeeper, I’ve struggled to keep my very small apiary buzzing. I currently have two hives, but one of them is in trouble. It won’t live through the winter. (Lost its queen, began to dwindle, and is now infested with wax moths. Ugh.)

I’ve decided, though, to keep at it. I love what the hives are teaching me (patience, for one, but also the most amazing things about insect communities and the way they respond to the natural world around them). Also? I found a great message on my answering machine this week. It was from a neighbor, and it went something like this:

Hi, Loree! It’s Craig. I’m calling to tell you a funny story. I was at Ed’s house [note: Ed is another neighbor] over the weekend, and we were relaxing in his yard, and he said, ‘Craig, look at that apple tree. Would you believe that thing has not produced an apple in all the years I’ve lived here? Not one in a decade. And then, this year, BOOM! … apples. Isn’t it the strangest thing? I can’t explain it.’ To which I said, ‘I can: The Burnses keep honey bees now.’

I am proud of my bees. Theirs is not an easy lot, what with having hatched at the exact wrong time to be a honey bee on planet Earth, and, at the same time, being saddled with a fairly inept newbee keeper. Somehow, though, they’ve spent their tumultuous year at my place doing their thing: pollinating plants. I love them for that. I really do.

If you have the interest, I highly recommend you find a mentor beekeeper. Check out their hives. Learn the ropes. When you’re ready, start an apiary of your own. If those ideas feel overwhelming right now, listen to the TED Talk above by Marla Spivak, a honey bee researcher from Minnesota. She gives a great overview of the honey bee crisis, but ends her talk with some hopeful ideas and some really easy things that you can do to help the bees. And, in turn, beef up your neighborhood apple trees.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: keeping honeybees is much harder than writing about them. In the year since I became a beekeeper, I’ve struggled to keep my very small apiary buzzing. I currently have two hives, but one of them is in trouble. It won’t live through the winter. (Lost its queen, began to dwindle, and is now infested with wax moths. Ugh.)

I’ve decided, though, to keep at it. I love what the hives are teaching me (patience, for one, but also the most amazing things about insect communities and the way they respond to the natural world around them). Also? I found a great message on my answering machine this week. It was from a neighbor, and it went something like this:

Hi, Loree! It’s Craig. I’m calling to tell you a funny story. I was at Ed’s house [note: Ed is another neighbor] over the weekend, and we were relaxing in his yard, and he said, ‘Craig, look at that apple tree. Would you believe that thing has not produced an apple in all the years I’ve lived here? Not one in a decade. And then, this year, BOOM! … apples. Isn’t it the strangest thing? I can’t explain it.’ To which I said, ‘I can: The Burnses keep honey bees now.’

I am proud of my bees. Theirs is not an easy lot, what with having hatched at the exact wrong time to be a honey bee on planet Earth, and, at the same time, being saddled with a fairly inept newbee keeper. Somehow, though, they’ve spent their tumultuous year at my place doing their thing: pollinating plants. I love them for that. I really do.

If you have the interest, I highly recommend you find a mentor beekeeper. Check out their hives. Learn the ropes. When you’re ready, start an apiary of your own. If those ideas feel overwhelming right now, listen to the TED Talk above by Marla Spivak, a honey bee researcher from Minnesota. She gives a great overview of the honey bee crisis, but ends her talk with some hopeful ideas and some really easy things that you can do to help the bees. And, in turn, beef up your neighborhood apple trees.

That right there is the cover of my newest book. It won’t be out until March 1, 2014, but the nice folks at Millbrook Press said I could share the cover early, and I couldn’t resist. If you’d like to read a bit more about the book, check out this blog post. (You’ll notice I did NOT win the title battle. C’est la vie.)

The photos in this book are by the one-and-only Ellen Harasimowicz, and they are divine!

That right there is the cover of my newest book. It won’t be out until March 1, 2014, but the nice folks at Millbrook Press said I could share the cover early, and I couldn’t resist. If you’d like to read a bit more about the book, check out this blog post. (You’ll notice I did NOT win the title battle. C’est la vie.)

The photos in this book are by the one-and-only Ellen Harasimowicz, and they are divine!

“Science tells us how the world really is. And how things really work. The one thing you don’t have time and space for in science, though, is to express how that feels to you.”  ~ Carl Safina

And so Carl and a team of scientists, artists, and conservationists took a trip through parts of Alaska, to see for themselves what humankind’s plastic trash problem looks like. To consider how it makes them feel. They created this video, which will surely leave you thinking harder about plastic fly swatters in the shape of football helmets and bears that raise families on remote beaches and the surprising ways that art and science can work together. Totally worth twenty minutes of your day…

I appreciate and admire the conservation message in this film. (As the author of Tracking Trash, how could I not?) But I was equally enthralled by the way it celebrates that place where science and art meet and reach out to the world. I sincerely hope the creativity born of the journey will make its way to where I live sometime soon. For now, I’ll ponder its messages from afar.

“Science tells us how the world really is. And how things really work. The one thing you don’t have time and space for in science, though, is to express how that feels to you.”  ~ Carl Safina

And so Carl and a team of scientists, artists, and conservationists took a trip through parts of Alaska, to see for themselves what humankind’s plastic trash problem looks like. To consider how it makes them feel. They created this video, which will surely leave you thinking harder about plastic fly swatters in the shape of football helmets and bears that raise families on remote beaches and the surprising ways that art and science can work together. Totally worth twenty minutes of your day…

I appreciate and admire the conservation message in this film. (As the author of Tracking Trash, how could I not?) But I was equally enthralled by the way it celebrates that place where science and art meet and reach out to the world. I sincerely hope the creativity born of the journey will make its way to where I live sometime soon. For now, I’ll ponder its messages from afar.

Edited to add: I’m not sure why the YouTube link won’t embed properly, but here’s a link to the YouTube site where you can watch the video.

© Loree Griffin Burns

Sometime during the 200-year history of this property, someone planted an herb garden. It’s a small, formal-looking space, with a geometric path centered around a stone bird bath. I love it, but have a tendency to let it go a bit wild. Instead of keeping the plants trimmed and bushy, I let them flower with abandon, go leggy, and take-over the little stone path. Why? Because the insects around here love those features. Honestly, at this time of summer, its more Insectarium than Herb Garden. And when I need a few minutes to center myself, I take my camera out there and watch the frenzy. That’s how I came to know the great black wasp. Brilliant blue iridescent wings (more butterfly, in color, than wasp) and the thin, wasp-y waist that gives me the chills. As if its looks weren’t interesting enough, great black wasps are apparently known for using tools and kleptoparasitism. What’s not to love?

I hope your Wednesday was sorta wild, too!

© Loree Griffin Burns

Sometime during the 200-year history of this property, someone planted an herb garden. It’s a small, formal-looking space, with a geometric path centered around a stone bird bath. I love it, but have a tendency to let it go a bit wild. Instead of keeping the plants trimmed and bushy, I let them flower with abandon, go leggy, and take-over the little stone path. Why? Because the insects around here love those features. Honestly, at this time of summer, its more Insectarium than Herb Garden. And when I need a few minutes to center myself, I take my camera out there and watch the frenzy. That’s how I came to know the great black wasp. Brilliant blue iridescent wings (more butterfly, in color, than wasp) and the thin, wasp-y waist that gives me the chills. As if its looks weren’t interesting enough, great black wasps are apparently known for using tools and kleptoparasitism. What’s not to love?

I hope your Wednesday was sorta wild, too!

© Loree Griffin Burns

You may think the mourning dove is a sweet bird, gently-colored and cooing owl-like tragedies day and night. But this summer, I’ve learned the truth: mourning doves are berry marauders of incredible wiliness. This fellow managed to get into our blueberry patch even after we’d constructed a net monstrosity to keep him (and his very large extended family) out. We eventually had to stake the net all the way to the ground, securing it with ground staples every six inches or so.  We can barely get in ourselves, for crying out loud! And yet this guy finds a way in most mornings. He calmly devours every nearly-ripe berry he can get his beak on, and then waits not-so-patiently for me to let him out. On Sunday, I made him wait until I got a good picture. Maybe that’ll teach him?

I hope there was a little wild in your Wednesday …

© Loree Griffin Burns

You may think the mourning dove is a sweet bird, gently-colored and cooing owl-like tragedies day and night. But this summer, I’ve learned the truth: mourning doves are berry marauders of incredible wiliness. This fellow managed to get into our blueberry patch even after we’d constructed a net monstrosity to keep him (and his very large extended family) out. We eventually had to stake the net all the way to the ground, securing it with ground staples every six inches or so.  We can barely get in ourselves, for crying out loud! And yet this guy finds a way in most mornings. He calmly devours every nearly-ripe berry he can get his beak on, and then waits not-so-patiently for me to let him out. On Sunday, I made him wait until I got a good picture. Maybe that’ll teach him?

I hope there was a little wild in your Wednesday …

© Loree Griffin Burns

That there is a photo I recently took in my garden. The baskets are filled with turnips, under them sit the weeds I haven’t managed to clear yet and behind them the paste tomatoes desperately in need of staking. This garden is the number one reason I have not blogged much since May.

The number two reason? I’ve been working on finishing up this book.

The number three reason? I’ve been working on a new Scientists in the Field book.

I’d tell you more, but I’m working on a website update (it’ll coincide with the publication of these two books next year) and getting ready for our family vacation, too!

But sometime soon, when all these summer 2013 activities have been enjoyed to their fullest, I plan to share the details here. Until then, I hope you are having yourself a fabulously wild summer!

© Loree Griffin Burns

That there is a photo I recently took in my garden. The baskets are filled with turnips, under them sit the weeds I haven’t managed to clear yet and behind them the paste tomatoes desperately in need of staking. This garden is the number one reason I have not blogged much since May.

The number two reason? I’ve been working on finishing up this book.

The number three reason? I’ve been working on a new Scientists in the Field book.

I’d tell you more, but I’m working on a website update (it’ll coincide with the publication of these two books next year) and getting ready for our family vacation, too!

But sometime soon, when all these summer 2013 activities have been enjoyed to their fullest, I plan to share the details here. Until then, I hope you are having yourself a fabulously wild summer!

© Loree Griffin Burns

It’s raining eggshells in central Massachusetts. These lovelies were collected over the past two days in various parts of our yard. There’s so much to see when you slow down and look …

© Loree Griffin Burns

It’s raining eggshells in central Massachusetts. These lovelies were collected over the past two days in various parts of our yard. There’s so much to see when you slow down and look …

© Loree Griffin Burns

This butterfly spent an hour fluttering around my garden last week. It’s certainly a duskywing, but to tell exactly which kind (Juvenal’s? Horace’s?) I’d need to get a closer look at parts of the wing I didn’t study when I had the chance. Drats.

ZOMBIE MAKERS: TRUE STORIES OF NATURE’S UNDEAD

By Rebecca L. Johnson

Millbrook Press, 2013

Category: Nonfiction (Grades 5-8)

“Scientists know this for sure: dead people do not come back to life and start walking around, looking for trouble.

But are there … things … that can take over the bodies and brains of innocent creatures? Turn them into senseless slaves? Force them to create new zombies so the zombie makers can spread?

Absolutely.

And they’re closer than you think.”

Is there anything I could add to these introductory sentences from ZOMBIE MAKERS that would make you want to pick up this book more?  I don’t think so. I read it alone in my office, in the wee hours, turning page after page and getting seriously creeped out (Do you know what a guinea worms is?), and yet unable to stop turning the pages. This book is disgusting and irresistible at the same time. Kids are going to eat it up.

And then they are going to want to know about this citizen science project involving zombie-making flies and honey bees. It’s called, appropriately enough, Zombee Watch. Check it out after you’ve read the book. And watch out for those … things.

For more great kids nonfiction, check out the Nonfiction Monday round-up at Instantly Interruptible. And don’t miss Laura Purdie Salas’ giveaway of one of my favorite nonfiction titles of the year. (Which title? Click over and see!)

TRACKING TRASH readers …

Do you remember what a ghost net is? Here’s the definition from the book’s glossary: lost or discarded fishing nets that continue to drift at sea, threatening marine animals and coral reefs.

Do you also remember Tim Veenstra? He’s the Alaskan pilot who helped launch a debris tagging program so that he could keep an eye on the biggest ghost nets found in the ocean. Tim and his colleagues asked seafarers to carry GPS-equipped tags on board their vessels and to attach these tags to any large debris they came across but were unable to remove from the ocean. Tim would then track movement of the debris and, if necessary, dispatch a ship to pull it out of the sea.

Tim recently sent me the story of one GhostNet tag. 15FXZ (cute name, no?) was attached to a large piece of debris in the Pacific Ocean on April 2, 2008 and has been sending its location to Tim’s computer twice each day ever since. On March 22, 2013, however, 15FXZ abruptly stopped sending location updates. Tim’s not sure what happened to the tag, but it appears its journey is over. “The buoy (and debris if still attached) has been through numerous storms, sun soaked days and adventures we can only imagine,” Tim says. He sent the photo above showing the ocean path over which those five years of adventures took place.

If 15FXZ is heard from again, Tim will let us know. In the meantime, I can’t help but imagine those adventures …

© Loree Griffin Burns

I spotted this opossum about six weeks ago (3/21/13) in my backyard, where he spent several days living under our back porch and exploring the place. He snacked on birdseed every afternoon and I saw him check out the beehive once. While Mr. Burns was busy concocting plans for Operation Move Opossum (said plans involved staking out the under-porch den until the opossum left and then boarding up all the entrances), the target left of his own accord.

Doesn’t he look … angry?