Rants from the Hill

by Michael P. Branch

  In response to the immoderate public enthusiasm for this study, comedienne Sara Pascoe wrote a brilliant reply, in which she flatly points out that being a humorist is a job, and that some people succeed at it because they work hard. Comedy, she observes, is a craft, a practice, a skill, and, often, a grind. (Here, I am reminded of Twain, who complained in a letter that “for seven weeks I have not had my natural rest but have been a night-and-day sick-nurse to my wife…and yet must turn in now and write a damned humorous article.”) Well, this “craft and grind” explanation of humor offered a disappointingly unheroic gloss, what with its total absence of insanity and genius. After all, who wants to be told that something that makes them laugh actually took a long time to create and was terribly hard work? If people prefer to see industrious, workmanlike humorists as insane geniuses, I don’t see a decent reason to mess that up. Always better to be funny than right.

  One of Pascoe’s observations, however, caught my attention. Commenting that the creativity of the humorist “allows a much more childlike approach to life,” she goes on to say that if the researchers had administered their test to 523 children instead of to 523 professional comedians (where did they find so many?), the kids would “all be hugely ‘psychotic’ in their thinking.” As a parent, I found this assertion that children are universally insane more interesting and more accurate than the claim that humor is fatally correlated with adult psychopathology.

  I had a chance to test this proposition on New Year’s Day, when Hannah and Caroline decided that everyone in our family should look to the future by producing a bucket list. I had long intended to draft a bucket list, but had been kept from it by the obvious impediment that thinking about what you want to do before you die means thinking about dying, which is even less entertaining than a Hollywood fart joke. Eryn claims that I have “mortality issues,” which is accurate only if preferring life to death constitutes an “issue.” I am from the Woody Allen school on this one: “I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work,” wrote Allen, “I want to achieve immortality through not dying.” Still, it wasn’t easy to say no to the girls, and so we all agreed to work on our personal bucket lists.

  Hannah and Caroline had so much fun with their project that by the end of New Year’s Day, they had already posted their two lists—with a combined total of more than one hundred fifty entries—on the outside of their bedroom door. In this same time, I had constructed a bucket list that consisted, literally, of a single entry: “Make a bucket list.” In fairness, I am not a very expeditious list-maker, even when the topic is more pleasant than “Stuff I want to get done before I die.” After all, it took me two decades to complete my “List of Things That Actually Work,” which to this day includes only WD-40, bourbon, and Moby-Dick. Still, the girls had good cause to complain that I did not seem to be working very hard on my list. Their lists were not only completed (and decorated!) but publicly posted, like Martin Luther’s theses on the church door, while I had only my one, pathetic little entry. It didn’t help that my list, such as it was, was scribbled in shop pencil on the back of an old liquor store receipt.

  Needing to divert the focus from my own failure, I decided to take a close look at the girls’ bucket lists. After all, how could they have produced anything decent in such a short time? As I read through their lists, though, I was impressed not only by the range and creativity of what Hannah and Caroline had come up with, but also by their uninhibited spontaneity and originality. The lists did look as if they had been made by insane people—but by imaginative, caring, insane people who recognize no limits to what is possible.

  I examined Hannah’s list first. It contained a lot of adventures I wish I had thought to put on my own list, including “hang glide,” “make an album of my own cool music,” “play basketball in the snow,” and “be an extra in a movie.” But along with these proposed escapades were some items whose beauty was in their everyday nature: “fill a jar with buttons,” “babysit for somebody other than my sister,” “go a week without making my bed,” “finish a book in a day.” There was also a good bit more philanthropy than my own unwritten list would have contained. Hannah wanted to “feed homeless people,” “read stories at a senior home,” and “help poor children,” all of which made my own life’s goals—which, if I could ever articulate them, would include “drink better rye,” “cuss out my boss,” and “heckle more at baseball games”—seem selfish and ill-conceived. Hannah’s list showed a desire to travel, and, while she included visits to Canada, London, and New Orleans, she also listed “ride my bike in California,” which was not very exotic, given our close proximity to the Golden State.

  I also noticed that Hannah’s list contained items that were easy as pie right along with those that were pie in the sky. For example, “participate in a pie-eating contest” appeared just a few entries away from “become a famous inventor.” “Build a big snowman” was right next to “meet the president.” And the desert figured prominently in Hannah’s list. “Own a rattlesnake,” “hike up the canyon to watch the moon rise,” and “sing a concert for the coyotes” were among the things she hopes to accomplish. Hannah’s bucket list also expressed an urge to delight others. She wanted to “count how many people I can make smile” and “get a whole room of people laughing.”

  Little Caroline’s list was, if anything, even more interesting. Like her big sister’s bucket list, Caroline’s oscillated wildly from the mundane to the fantastic. “Get a white cat” was number 42 on her list; number 43 was “be an astronaut.” “Dye rocks” was immediately next to “climb the Eiffel Tower with ropes,” and “have a pet hamster” was adjacent to “ride a shark” (there was a lot of animal riding on her list: shark, seal, jaguar, kangaroo, and giraffe). “Work at a pool” was immediately preceded by “touch the moon.” “Eat cake with my hands” was not far from “carve a giant totem pole.” Also like Hannah, little sister had constructed a list that revealed an earnest philanthropic sentiment. While Caroline aspired to “own a hundred-year-old mansion,” she also wanted to “own an orphanage and give kids ice cream every day.” And, in addition to planning to “give flowers to a stranger,” she expressed the generous but disturbing ambition to “have a big sleepover with random people off the street.”

  Given Caroline’s personality, I should have guessed that she wants to “climb a volcano,” “make a world record,” and “form a band called the ‘Fire Breathing Unicorns.’ ” But she also has some simple dreams: to “use a walkie-talkie,” “have a tug-o-war over a mud pit,” and “dance in the rain.” Also like her sister, many of Caroline’s life goals arise from her home desert. She wants to “pan for gold,” “find the end of a desert rainbow,” and, for some reason, “eat a kangaroo rat.” She also plans to “mountain bike across Spain, Thailand, and Massachusetts.” My favorite entry on her list was “dream about visiting a beautiful island.” When I asked Caroline why she thought it would be so wonderful to visit an island, she corrected me, emphatically: “No, Dad, dream about visiting an island!”

  No grown-up I know would make a to-do list including something they ought to dream about doing. Hell, we wouldn’t even add to our bucket list that we want to touch the moon—though of course we do—because we’d shoot the rocket of that fantasy down before it could lift off our cognitive launchpad. (If Neil Armstrong had a bucket list when he was five years old, I hope it included “touch the moon.”) I am unsure we’d even admit to ourselves that we’d like to carve a totem pole or dance in the rain or eat cake with our hands. Maybe that is why I couldn’t make a decent bucket list: because as a grown-up I’ve fallen into the dark habit of editing life’s possibilities before they can be written, perhaps even before they can be thought. This represents not only a terrible failure of imagination but an active repression of it. I had only one thing on my bucket list—to make a bucket list—and I still could not get it done. Reflecting on fame, legendary southpaw rock guitarist Jimi Hendrix once observed, “Once you are dead, you are
made for life.” Well, he ought to know. But for those of us who have not kicked the bucket yet, success remains less certain. Should I try for world peace right away, or start with hang gliding and work my way up? If every moment is unutterably precious, which it so clearly is, where then should we begin the race to fulfill our dreams while there is still time left to try?

  Within a few days of creating their wonderful bucket lists, the girls did something else that most grown-ups would find challenging: they set out to actually do as many of the listed activities as possible, placing a check mark next to each as it was completed. Hannah was able to “read a book in one day” and “make a parody of a song,” while Caroline managed to “dye rocks” and, thanks to the remoteness of Ranting Hill, “snort at an antelope.” A freak desert downpour made it possible for both kids to “dance in the rain.”

  Hoping to get into the spirit of their attempt to accomplish the things on their bucket lists, I scanned the lists for something more immediately achievable than “touch the moon.” When I did, I saw an item on Caroline’s list that I had not noticed before: “paint me and Hannah on a wall.”

  “What do you mean by this one?” I asked Caroline, pointing to number 37 on her list.

  “You know, me and Hannah stand against a wall, like we’re shadows, and then we paint the shapes of our shadows on the wall,” she explained, with obvious concern that I might be too dim-witted to grasp the concept.

  “OK, I get it now. You and sister grab some play chalk and come with me,” I instructed, heading out the door. The girls soon followed me out to the toolshed, where I had found the better part of a gallon of cherry-apple red paint and a pair of old brushes. “Now, y’all stand against the shed in any position you want.”

  “Really? This is going to be epic!” exlaimed Caroline. Hannah announced, excitedly, that she intended to put this painting thing on her bucket list too so she could check it off later. The girls took their positions against the shed, remaining frozen, while I patiently chalked their “shadows” against the tan wall of the outbuilding. Hannah posed with her arms up, in the biceps flex of a bodybuilder; little Caroline struck the pose of a superhero about to take flight. I popped the paint can open with my pocketknife, handed each of our girls a brush, and suggested that they get to work on their bucket list.

  Eryn and I sat nearby on a pair of bucked juniper logs and watched Hannah Virginia and Caroline Emerson at play. It took them a good while, but they never tired of the project, which they laughed their way through. Although Caroline accidentally painted Beauregard, the dog, a little, things went pretty smoothly. When the final strokes were complete, we all stood back to admire what had been wrought. The girls’ bright-red silhouettes jumped off the drab wall of the shed, and two cherry-apple shadows of joy were added to our high desert fauna. In that moment, as we gathered to congratulate the girls on their painting, I finally realized exactly where to begin work on my own bucket list: anywhere.

  That evening we had a fine supper together. Afterward, we all ate cake with our hands.

  CREDITS

  The “Rants from the Hill” essay series that eventually led to this book was published in High Country News, where the Rants ran online every month from July 2010 through April 2016.

  In addition, the following Rants were published in the print edition of High Country News:

  “Balloons on the Moon.” High Country News 44.13 (August 6, 2012): 22.

  “In Defense of Bibliopedestrianism.” High Country News 45.21 (December 9, 2013): 26.

  “Hunting for Scorpions.” High Country News 46.22 (December 22, 2014): endpaper.

  A number of Rants were reprinted in other venues, as follows:

  “After Ten Thousand Years.” Libertas 3 (April 2009): 6–7.

  “All I Need for a Walk Is a Good Book.” [Revised version of “In Defense of Bibliopedestrianism.”] Reader’s Digest 183.1100 (June 2014): 100–103.

  “Customer Cranky” and “Lucy the Desert Cat” appeared as part of “Excerpts from Rants from the Hill.” The Nevada Review 4.3 (Fall 2012): 83–96.

  “Guests in the House of Fire” appeared as part of “Excerpts from Rants from the Hill.” The Nevada Review 5.1 (Spring 2013): 24–28.

  “Scaling Piedmonts.” [Contains passages from “After Ten Thousand Years.”] Hobart Park (2009): 111–19.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WRITERS ARE VERY MUCH IN NEED of friends, and I have been fortunate to have so many in my life and in my corner. Here I offer my sincere thanks, along with equally sincere apologies to anyone I may have neglected to include.

  Among fellow writers of environmental creative nonfiction, my thanks go to Rick Bass, Paul Bogard, John Calderazzo, SueEllen Campbell, Laird Christensen, Casey Clabough, Jennifer Cognard-Black, Chris Cokinos, John Elder, Andy Furman, Dimitri Keriotis, Ian Marshall, Kate Miles, Kathy Moore, John Murray, Nick Neely, Sean O’Grady, Tim Palmer, Bob Pyle, David Quammen, Eve Quesnel, Janisse Ray, Suzanne Roberts, Chris Robertson, Leslie Ryan, Terre Ryan, Gary Snyder, John Tallmadge, David Taylor, and Rick Van Noy. Very special thanks to David Gessner, John Lane, and John Price, whose support has been decisive.

  Thanks also for the encouragement I’ve received from other friends in the environmental literature and humor studies communities, including Tom Bailey, Patrick Barron, Jim Bishop, Kate Chandler, Ben Click, Tammy Cloutier, Nancy Cook, Jerry Dollar, Ann Fisher-Wirth, Tom Hillard, Heather Houser, Richard Hunt, Dave Johnson, Rochelle Johnson, Mark Long, Tom Lynch, Kyhl Lyndgaard, Annie Merrill, Clint Mohs, David Morris, Dan Philippon, Justin Race, Steve Railton, Heidi Scott, Robert Sickels, Dave Stentiford, Jim Warren, Alan Weltzein, and Tracy Wuster.

  Closer to home, I’d like to offer thanks to fellow Great Basin writers Bill Fox, Shaun Griffin, Ann Ronald, Rebecca Solnit, Steve Trimble, Claire Watkins, and Terry Tempest Williams, with a nod to the desert writers who led the way: Mary Austin, Ed Abbey, Ellen Meloy, and Chuck Bowden. Thanks to my colleagues in the MFA program at the University of Nevada, Reno: Steve Gehrke, Sarah Hulse, Ann Keniston, Gailmarie Pahmeier, and, especially, Chris Coake. And thanks to my students in the courses on American humor writing, place-based creative nonfiction, and western American literary nonfiction that I taught during 2014, 2015, and 2016.

  Among Reno friends, I’ve received valuable support from Pete Barbieri, Mike Colpo, Fil Corbitt, Donnie Curtis, Dondo Darue, David Fenimore, Daniel Fergus, Mark Gandolfo, Betty Glass, Torben Hansen, Aaron and Diana Hiibel, Kent Irwin, Rich Kentz, Jo Landis, Tony Marek, Ashley Marshall, Katie O’Connor, Eric Rasmussen, Erin Read, Meri Shadley, and Jacque Sundstrand. Timely, professional editorial assistance from Laura Ofstad was crucial in bringing this book into port. And special thanks to my closest friends, Colin and Monica Robertson and Cheryll and Steve Glotfelty. The most significant support I have received outside my family came from Cheryll, whose encouragement has been essential to my growth as a writer.

  I’ve been fortunate to benefit from productive collaborations with many talented and industrious editors. Following are a few of these folks, along with the magazine or press at which they worked at the time I received their help. Chip Blake, Jennifer Sahn, Hannah Fries, Kristen Hewitt, and Taylor Brorby (Orion); David Gessner, Ben George, and Anna Lena Phillips (Ecotone); Kate Miles (Hawk & Handsaw); Chris Cokinos (Isotope); Nick Neely (Watershed); Rowland Russell (Whole Terrain); Nancy Levinson (Places Journal); Jamie Iredell (New South); Mike Colpo (Patagonia’s The Cleanest Line); Tara Zades (Reader’s Digest); Justin Raymond (Shavings); Jeanie French (Red Rock Review); Bruce Anderson (Sunset); Caleb Cage and Joe McCoy (The Nevada Review); Fil Corbitt (Van Sounds); Jason Leppig (Island Press Field Notes); Brad Rassler (Sustainable Play); Barry Tharaud (Nineteenth-Century Prose); Greg Garrard (Oxford University Press); Jonathan Cobb (Island Press); and Boyd Zenner (University of Virginia Press). Thanks also to Jessica Ziegler, of Vestor Logic, who constructed my website; it can be found at http://michaelbranchwriter.com/​.

  My sincere thanks go to the many generous
and hardworking folks at High Country News, where the “Rants from the Hill” essay series that led to this book ran online each month from July 2010 through April 2016. My friend and former student Nick Neely suggested me to High Country News while he was working with the magazine as an intern, which put the series in motion. The support and assistance of editors Stephanie Paige Ogburn, Jodi Peterson, Paul Larmer, Tay Wiles, Michelle Nijhuis, Diane Sylvain, Cally Carswell, Emily Guerin, and Kate Schimel made it possible for a diverse and enthusiastic readership to spend a few minutes each month with my unusual way of seeing the world. This book would not have been possible without the support of the amazing community of editors, writers, scientists, readers, and activists that has formed around the vitally important work accomplished by High Country News.

  I’d also like to express my appreciation for the many teachers and readers who have shared these essays. Pieces included in this book have been taught in creative writing or environmental literature courses in at least twenty-five states and have received more than a hundred thousand page views online. Of course a kitten video posted to YouTube receives more hits than this in an hour, so I’m certainly not bragging, but it’s gratifying to know that so many readers have enjoyed sharing glimpses of our dry slice of life in the high desert.