It's a Vast Anti Woman Conspiracy

I'm reading Spin Sisters, by Myrna Blyth (published in 2004). While the book is a teensy bit dated (it's not that old but it's about politics and the media, so it was dated three months after it was written), it's been interesting.

Especially the bits about Hilary. Myrna reminds readers that nobody much liked Hilary before Bill cheated on her. Before he bestowed the mantle-of-perpetual-perfect victim and object of pity upon his wife, Hilary had the lowest poll numbers of any First Lady in polling history. During interviews in 1996 she tried to keep quiet during joint interviews, looking adoringly at her husband, and murmuring approvingly. She was not an asset to his husband political career then, and she recognized that she needed to start keeping quiet.

One Pew Poll in '96 found that most of us thought she was 'strong, dishonest, intelligent, smart- and a word that rhymes with rich.' I'd concur with that. A common complaint of voters was that they hadn't voted for Hilary, but she acted like she'd been anointed.

Her poll numbers went up when her husband got caught committing adultery and lying about it under oath. Myrna and I both find it very telling that she claimed that what made her 'dumbfounded, heartbroken, and outraged' wasn't that he was a cheating pig, but that he'd lied about it. If my husband cheated on me with a 20 year old young chickie from the office, the fact that he lied about it would be the least of his worries. Can you just see that conversation unfolding?

She: "Honey, did you cheat and commit adultery with that flirtatious and bodatious babe?"
He: No, honey, I did not.
She: Honey, really, have your broken your marriage vows and betrayed me and our family by violating the seventh commandment?
He: Baby, no way. I did not break the seventh commandment with that woman.
She: Swear in court?
He: I do so solemnly swear, under oath and everything.

Later all fire breaks loose when Chippie Baby breaks down under oath, confesses, and produces physical evidence to boot.
And so at home, all fire breaks loose when:
She: How could you do this to me? How could you do this to our family? How could you betray us this way?
He: Um, sorry baby. I didn't mean to cheat. I just got carried away with an inappropriate moment. It don't mean nothin'. I won't cheat again.
She: CHEAT? Who cares about that seventh commandment and fornicating stuff? I don't care about you cheating. I am just dumbfounded, heartbroken, and outraged that you would LIE to me about it. It doesn't break my heart a bit if you cheat, nor does it outrage me. Just always tell me the truth about it.

Does that ring true for you? Me, neither. And does this seem like ancient history to you? Well, I don't think so, for reasons that will follow.


So her protests and heartbroken outrage just strike me as self-serving, hollow, and deeply insincere. Nonetheless, the media joined in the national pity party, and Hilary's ratings (and positive media coverage) skyrocketed, probably propelling her into that Senatorial seat.

But first, she appeared on the Today Show where she uttered these famous lines:

But I do believe that this is a battle.
I mean, look at the very people who are involved in this. They have popped up in other settings.
This is—the great story here for anybody willing to find it and write about it and explain it is this vast right-wing conspiracy that has been conspiring against my husband since the day he announced for president.

You an also watch the video if you like. Less well-known is this part of the exchange:

LAUER: Let me take you and your husband out of this for a second. Bill and Hillary Clinton aren’t involved in this story. If an American president had an adulterous liaison in the White House and lied to cover it up, should the American people ask for his resignation?
CLINTON: Well, they should certainly be concerned about it.
LAUER: Should they ask for his resignation?
CLINTON: Well, I think that—if all that were proven true, I think that would be a very serious offense. That is not going to be proven true. I think we’re going to find some other things. And I think that when all of this is put into context, and we really look at the people involved here, look at their motivations and look at their backgrounds, look at their past behavior, some folks are going to have a lot to answer for.

Of course, those charges were proven true, unlike Mrs. Clinton's charges, but I am not aware that she has ever stood behind her words that if that the President had lied, that would be a very serious offense.

In response to a question about how Chelsea was handling this (a question I do not think appropriate in the context), Mrs. Clinton said:

... you know, since she was 6- years-old, I have know, both because—I think my husband’s personality and his kind of gregariousness and his—as well as his political ideas really do engender very deep hostility.
So I was telling Chelsea when she was a child that this is going to happen, and it’s very unfortunate. I honestly wish if people had political differences, if you don’t like his stand on something, fight it out on that. Don’t try to destroy somebody personally.
So I have told her that this is the kind of things that would happen, and she has seen many, many examples of it in her very short life. So it’s not a pleasant experience, but it’s given her sort of the grounding to be able to see what this is and get through it.

Do you really believe that she honestly, sincerely believed it was her 'husband’s personality and his kind of gregariousness' that were the problem? Me, neither. And don't you find that little dash:

and his—as well as his political ideas

very freudian?

It's hard for me to believe it, but that strategy really worked for her. While she always said she wasn't some Tammy Wynnette standing by her man, that is exactly what she played in the media, and it was wildly successful for her.

As Myrna Blyth puts it, ""Liberals have always needed victims to enact their policies. In essence, liberals tend to see the world victim first because it helps them define themselves (and other liberals) as such obviously caring people. It is also a simplistic way to contrast themselves with others, especially those uncaring hard-hearted conservatives. Just as important, liberals need victims and encourage groups, especially women and minorities, to feel victimized because ti gives them their power base. The Clintons were at their political best creating victims, sympathizing with victims, and ultimately becoming victims themselves."

I'm not sure she can carry off the victim role long enough to make it to the White House, but it's something to watch out for.

You wont' have to watch long. Here she goes again:

In an interview with ABC News' Cynthia McFadden to air on this evening's "Nightline," Sen. Hillary Clinton, D-N.Y., says it's tougher for her to run as a woman than it is for her male opponent.

Asked why she thinks so many women may be feeling sorry for her, Clinton said, "I think a lot of women project their own feelings and their lives onto me, and they see how hard this is. It's hard. It's hard being a woman out there. It is obviously challenging with some of the things that are said that are not even personal to me so much as they are about women.

"And I think women just sort of shake their head," Clinton continued. "My friends do. They say, 'Oh, my gosh, this is so hard.' Well, it's supposed to be hard. I'm running for the hardest job in the world. No one has ever done this. No woman has ever won a presidential primary before I won New Hampshire. This is hard. And I don't expect any sympathy, I don't expect any kind of, you know, allowances or special privileges, because I knew what I was getting myself into.

"Every so often I just wish that it were a little more of an even playing field," she said, "but, you know, I play on whatever field is out there."

You know, only Democrats are able to vote in most of these primaries (possibly all of them, I don't know which states have open Primaries). And the last I checked, more women than men were Democrats. But she doesn't think it's a level playing field.

It's always somebody else's fault, poor dear. And I just don't think that kind of whining deserves a seat in the Oval Office.

Perpetual Adolescence

Remember what you learned about Henry Ford in school? If your schooling was like my schooling, then you learned that Ford was brilliant because he invented the assembly line.

If your schooling was slightly better than mine, you learned that he didn't invent it, but he harnessed it and really mastered its use, and his brilliance was in the fact that he had the vision to see how the assembly line could revolutionize mass production..

If your schooling was really excellent, then you already know that both of these views completely missed the point of Henry Ford's remarkable innovations. Henry's brilliance was in his vision for seeing how mass production would revolutionize mass consumption.

He believed in lowering the cost of the merchandise and raising the wage of the worker to the point that the workers could afford to buy the merchandise. In doing this, he transformed the automobile from a luxury item into a necessity, and that paved the way for the mass consumption culture we have today.

The car was only the first consumer item to crossover. As other business owners watched the success of Henry's ideas, they too began lowering production costs, selling in volume, and marketing to the masses. That marketing to the masses was the key to some rather unpleasant changes in our society as businesses sought to create new markets for their utterly unnecessary and frivolous stuff (which we buy, too. This isn't a holier than thou sort of post).

Which brings us to 1962, when Paul Goodman published his book Compulsory Mis-Education. He wrote of the isolation of youth within the high schools (compulsory attendance in high school was still relatively new), where they were compelled to stay, day after day, excluded from interesting adult life and pressured to perform and conform primarily to keep them out of the adult job market and off the streets.

This forced isolation from the real world *created* a youth subculture which had formerly not existed, and which can be, like institutionalized school itself, viciously self-perpetuating. About that sub-culture Goodman wrote:

"...since the intellectual life of callow boys and girls in isolation from the
grown-up economy and culture is thin gruel, youth interests are vastly puffed up
into fads, disk-jockeys, politically organized gangs and wars, coterie
literature, drugs and liquor, all frantically energized by youthful animal
spirits, and cleverly managed by adult promoters. The teen-age market
is more than $10 billions a year.... It is largely frivolous and arbitrary, yet
it is desperately conservative [in this sense, adverse to anybody who does not
conform to it~DHM] and exerts a tremendous pressure of blackmail against
nonconformers or those ignorant of the latest, who will be unpopular. It makes
it hard to talk sense to them, or for them to talk sense, whether adolescent or
adult. And of course there is no chance for intelligent dissent from the
official philosophy and standard of life. Naturally, too, especially in the
middle class, the regressed adults play at and sponsor every teen-age idiocy."



We tried to opt out of this mass-consumption, regressed adults at play culture years ago (well, except in the realm of books). Thus, we are not mall sort of people. We go the mall about every three to five years. When we do go, it is not to go shopping. It's a field trip. We are taking the children to the zoo, basically, but in this zoo the exhibits are out walking through the mall.

The last field trip to the mall was a couple of years ago, with our sixth daughter. She was 9, and it was her first trip to the mall in her young memory. She is my bling-bling, girlie-girl, glitz and glamour wannabe child, as well as our budding socialite, so naturally, she was delighted with everything we saw and we could not stay long enough for her. We sat on a bench for about a quarter of an hour to people watch, and since I had just read the above passage in Goodman's book, that passage was fresh on my mind.

School was out for the Christmas holidays, so we saw the adolescents in full courtship display on their natural hereditary mating grounds. And we saw adult after regressed adult playing at teen-aged idiocy. Parents of small children walked by sporting lips pierced with three and four rings (what are they thinking? do you know what a small child can do to one ring in your *ear*, let alone five in your *lips*?) I watched haggard women who must be my age with bags under their eyes that I could use as carry-on luggage for an airplane trip wearing the same fashions and make-up as the dewy eyed teens standing nearby. At least, I think they were dewy eyed. Maybe their makeup was melting. And I looked at all the stuff they were wearing, and the stuff in the stores they were buying, and I wondered deep philosophical wonderings, such as, "Who spends twenty bucks for underwear just because it has a picture of a famous rodent on it?" "Does anybody really NEED prongs of metal poking through their nostrils?" "Who decided that coloring on your body- permanently and with needles- was an attractive thing for adult people to do?"

Honestly, very few of the people we saw looked like they were having any joy out of their day.

And sure, the mass consumption makes for jobs, employment, and a thriving economy. I know that. But so much of it is so utterly devoid of anything like real beauty, function, or meaning. And I'm not sure that's the only way we can employ and support ourselves.

The conversations I could overhear reflected the same absence of meaning, and Goodman refers to this, too:

"....the small talk drives out real talk. It is incredibly snobbish and exclusive of sincerity and originality. Embattled against the adult world that must inexorably triumph, adolescent society jealously protects itself against meaning."

Think about the conversations you typically have. Are they meaningful or devoid of anything significant and worthwhile?

We isolate the young people within the high school, the youth group, the youth clubs, and we develop and market products specifically for and to them, creating an unnatural world where they think they need that stuff. The kids who grow up in that environment are stunted in many areas, and they develop their own responses to the artificiality of their constricted circle- and they are the Peter Pans of today.
Which brings us to 2007.

Kay Hymowitz writes an article about these child-men in the City Journal. Be warned, there is some language and some frank discussion of some unsavory things, but it's our culture- it's the world around us. She's writing about our kids and their mission field. Here's a few eye opening stats:

"Not so long ago, the average mid-twentysomething had achieved most of adulthood’s milestones—high school degree, financial independence, marriage, and children. These days, he lingers—happily—in a new hybrid state of semi-hormonal adolescence and responsible self-reliance. Decades in unfolding, this limbo may not seem like news to many, but in fact it is to the early twenty-first century what adolescence was to the early twentieth: a momentous sociological development of profound economic and cultural import. Some call this new period “emerging adulthood,” others “extended adolescence”; David Brooks recently took a stab with the “Odyssey Years,” a “decade of wandering.”

"Consider: in 1970, 69 percent of 25-year-old and 85 percent of 30-year-old white men were married; in 2000, only 33 percent and 58 percent were, respectively. And the percentage of young guys tying the knot is declining as you read this. Census Bureau data show that the median age of marriage among men rose from 26.8 in 2000 to 27.5 in 2006—a dramatic demographic shift for such a short time period."

"We can argue endlessly about whether “masculinity” is natural or constructed—whether men are innately promiscuous, restless, and slobby, or socialized to be that way—but there’s no denying the lesson of today’s media marketplace: give young men a choice between serious drama on the one hand, and Victoria’s Secret models, battling cyborgs, exploding toilets, and the NFL on the other, and it’s the models, cyborgs, toilets, and football by a mile. For whatever reason, adolescence appears to be the young man’s default state, proving what anthropologists have discovered in cultures everywhere: it is marriage and children that turn boys into men. Now that the SYM can put off family into the hazily distant future, he can—and will—try to stay a child-man. Yesterday’s paterfamilias or Levittown dad may have sought to escape the duties of manhood through fantasies of adventures at sea, pinups, or sublimated war on the football field, but there was considerable social pressure for him to be a mensch. Not only is no one asking that today’s twenty- or thirtysomething become a responsible husband and father—that is, grow up—but a freewheeling marketplace gives him everything that he needs to settle down in pig’s heaven indefinitely."

"Sixty years ago," points out British writer Nick Hornby in About a Boy, "all the things Will relied on to get him through the day simply didn’t exist. There was no daytime TV, there were no videos, there were no glossy magazines. . . . Now, though, it was easy [to do nothing]. There was almost too much to do."

Kay Hymowitz concludes her article by suggesting that "Young men especially need a culture that can help them define worthy aspirations. Adults don’t emerge. They’re made."

Christianity is, or should be, that culture that makes men and women of boys and girls. When we allow too much world in the church that doesn't happen. We just end up following the same path as the world as we both progress toward the bottom on the down escalator- only since we maintain our steady distance from the world by standing about ten steps above them on that down escalator, we deceive ourselves into thinking everything is okay. After all, we're still different from the world.
But the gap between Christians and the world should be widening, and there is something wrong with us if we're more comfortable with being just a little bit different, but not so different that we're downright weird.

This perpetual adolescence is a joke on all of us, but it's not very funny.
We don't have to live like this. We don't need this year's haircut or shoes or gadget or color just because it's this year's. IT's not the end of the world if we're not getting the beauty treatment de jour, not watching the movies, reading the books, and playing the games that are 'in' this month.

And before we feel kind of smug about the fact that we're forty and not pierced, tattooed, or surgically altered, if our current tastes in music, food, clothing, and leisure activities are not very different from what they were twenty years ago, we might try escaping from the youth culture where we've been trapped- it's not better just because we think it's 'old.' Our measuring stick for 'old' is out of whack, too, ladies and gents. If our tastes basically exclude anything not produced in the last hundred years, we need to look a little further back.

Refusing to grow up is not refreshing. Regressed adults playing at teenaged idiocies are not cute.

February is a Loathesome Month

THE SHORTEST MONTH

Will Winter never be over?

Will the dark days never go?

Must the buttercup and clover

Be always hid under the snow?

Ah, lend me your little ear, love!
Hark! 'tis a beautiful thing;
The weariest month of the year, love,
Is shortest and nearest to spring.

-- Adeline Whitney.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
We had several inches of snow last night, again, along with much wind, which means the trees are coated in white sugar icing yet again.

The feverish FYG is still sleeping my bed, and as the wind blew this morning, it looked like the trees were having a snowball fight as the clumps of snow blew off their branches and hurtled to the forest floor. I suggested as much to the FYG, who only groaned and closed her eyes, muttering, "I am so sick of snow."

I can't really blame her. Even this news brought on more of a shiver than an ironic smirk:

Snow cover over North America and much of Siberia, Mongolia and China is greater than at any time since 1966.

The U.S. National Climatic Data Center (NCDC) reported that many American cities and towns suffered record cold temperatures in January and early February. According to the NCDC, the average temperature in January "was -0.3 F cooler than the 1901-2000 (20th century) average."

China is surviving its most brutal winter in a century. Temperatures in the normally balmy south were so low for so long that some middle-sized cities went days and even weeks without electricity because once power lines had toppled it was too cold or too icy to repair them.

There have been so many snow and ice storms in Ontario and Quebec in the past two months that the real estate market has felt the pinch as home buyers have stayed home rather than venturing out looking for new houses.

In just the first two weeks of February, Toronto received 70 cm of snow, smashing the record of 66.6 cm for the entire month set back in the pre-SUV, pre-Kyoto, pre-carbon footprint days of 1950.

And remember the Arctic Sea ice? The ice we were told so hysterically last fall had melted to its "lowest levels on record? Never mind that those records only date back as far as 1972 and that there is anthropological and geological evidence of much greater melts in the past.

The ice is back.

Gilles Langis, a senior forecaster with the Canadian Ice Service in Ottawa, says the Arctic winter has been so severe the ice has not only recovered, it is actually 10 to 20 cm thicker in many places than at this time last year.

Read the rest. It's not really debunking global warming, which is something I'd like to see a lot more of right now. Just contributing some.... perspective.

Meanwhile, the heating pads, hot water bottles, and heavy blankets are all in use at our house.
Except....
~~*~~*~~*~~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Feeling (tentatively) better
Headmistress
I feel human,
Oh, so human,
I feel human, almost new, man, alright!
And I pity
Those people still under that flu blight.

I feel barmy,
Oh, so barmy
It's just smarmy how barmy I feel!
And so human
That I hardly can believe I'm healed.

See the upright woman in that mirror there:
Who can that living person be?
Such a pale face,
She needs to get dressed,
Such a weak smile,
But I finally feel something like me!

I feel able
to walk without falling on the table,
Feel like folding laundry and eating food I can chew.
For I'm better
than I've been in two weeks!

GIRLS
Have you met my good friend Headmistress,
The craziest gal on the blog?
You'll know her the minute you see her,
She's the one with the hair like a sheep dog.

She thinks she's all better.
She thinks she's now well.
She isn't healed,
Her brain has congealed.

It must be the mysteries
Or could be the movies,
She should read histories
Or maybe it's fleas.

Keep away from her,
She could still be contagious
This is not the
Headmistress we know!

Modest and pure,
Polite and refined,
Well-bred and mature
And out of her mind!

Headmistress
I feel human,
Oh, so human
That I think I will get out of bed.
A committee
Should be organized to clean up this house after two weeks of flu, colds and what seems like TB!

GIRLS
La la la la . . .

Headmistress
I feel dizzy,
I feel sunny,
I feel fizzy and funny and fine,
And so human,
This flu bug can finally resign, and we can finally get up and get unpacked and catch up on laundry and sweep the floors and dust and clean the house!

GIRLS
La la la la . . .

Headmistress
Or maybe we'll just settle for eating some nice chicken and going back to bed.

Dried White Fungus Soup

A while ago, while at the Asian Grocery store, DHM bought some dried white fungus because I thought it would be interesting to try and cook it. I never got around to finding out *how* to cook it, and so today (being bored of being sick) I thought I might try it. In some of my rambles through various websites with recipes, I came across one that said that white fungus soup was good for sore throats and coughs. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that hot broths are good for sore throats. We didn't have everything for all the recipes, so here (as best I remember) is what I made:


Ingredients:
10 oz. container of dried white fungus
6 cups chicken broth
2 cups water
3 tsp soy sauce
1 1/2 TBSP rice vinegar
1 TBSP Cooking sherry
3 cups cooked chicken pieces
salt to taste

Directions:
Soak the fungus in warm water for about 20 minutes, and then cut off the hard yellow base. Combine the chicken broth, water, and soy sauce in a saucepan on the stove and bring to a boil. After it comes to a boil, add the rice vinegar, cooking sherry, and salt. Simmer for a few minutes, and then add the fungus. I cut the fungus up into smaller pieces when I added it. Add the chicken, and let simmer for half an hour. If you wanted, you could do uncooked chicken and let it cook for a couple hours. That way, I think the fungus would be more gelatinous. The way I did it, it was still pretty chewy. I don't know for certain, though, that just seemed to be what the recipes said. Originally, I had only used 4 cups chicken broth, but there seemed to be an awful lot of fungus compared to the liquid and I had two cups left over in the can of chicken broth, so it got dumped in at the end.
It definitely soothed an aching throat and I think it tasted pretty good.

Here's the Deal

The wedding was lovely.

Before the wedding, on our way to Denver, we sat on the runway for 90 minute for de-icing. 90 minutes trapped in a metal tube with full capacity of strangers is rough on those of us who have issues with such things as air travel and being in close capacity with strangers.

A small girl, about four, loudly began crying, "Are we going to sit here forever?! We're gonna be here until it gets dark and they aren't going to fly us anywhere at all!" I am sure that's how we all felt.

We should have seen the signs.

We arrived late Tuesday, spent no little time waiting at the airport while the HM wrangled with the rental car place because they wanted to stick him with an economy car when he had specifically chosen THIS rental car place because they guaranteed him a 12 passenger van.
Finally spent some pleasant hours visiting with friends, then checked into our hotel.

On Wednesday morning our friends called to say that one of their youngsters had had a stomach bug in the night, and if we did not want to come over and expose ourselves they would understand. Welll, I didn't. A stomach virus shared among 9 people at any time is No Picnic. Shared among 9 people who are staying a hotel, two of whom have to be bridesmaids on Saturday is insanity. I REALLY did not want to go. I thought we could forego their company for one single day and spend the time doing other things- like visiting my foster brother's family, or going to the Asian dollar store with cool Bento boxes, or going to some touristy something or other, or just anything, really, other than dabbling around in stomach virus bugs.

But my progeny REALLY wanted to go see their friends, so against my better judgment we went back to visit our friends on Wednesday. All day. You know what happened.

Wednesday night I got hit with a nasty stomach virus. Naturally.

The Stomach Virus from Hades made its presence known to me (and others in my hotel room) at least every hour on the hour for the next twelve hours, less frequently but still regularly thereafter. Sometimes, just for variety, it was every half hour. Other times, every 90 minutes. At no time, well, never mind. This is gruesome enough.
I stayed (alone) in the hotel room all day Thursday and Friday. My husband dropped off chicken noodle soup, crackers, and juice (we had a microwave and refrigerator). We sent the bridesmaids and their sisters over to the host family to stay to keep them well through the wedding. Pip helped complete the CD of their music for the wedding, and she'll want to share how that went later.

Saturday we all went to the wedding, me wobbly legged and weak, and my husband starting to feel not so hot. But he had to come because he was the only one registered to drive our van.

The wedding was lovely.

Let us not lose sight of that. The wedding was lovely. The bridesmaids were beautiful, of course, and the wedding, it was lovely.

Hubby spent the entire reception in the van.

Saturday night my husband (and driver) and the Cherub got the stomach virus. The Cherub, you may recall, is twenty, but functions like a 2 year old. I spread towels on the floor and all around her and gave my husband the ice bucket. Since I was less wobbly than he, we worked out our teamwork thus- he lay next to her groaning. I lay in the other bed, likewise. When she started to be ill, he would stick the ice bucket under her, and I would get up and ready a fresh glass of water and cold wet wash cloth for her. He helped steady her over the ice bucket, tucked her back in beneath her towels. I cleaned out the ice bucket, wiped her face, gave her a drink and wobbled back to bed, groaning, until the next episode.

Rinse, and I do mean rinse, and repeat. Every hour. Until morning.

Marriage, it's a beautiful thing.

Sunday, we left the HM and the Cherub together in the hotel room with chicken soup, crackers, apple sauce, and rice cereal (the Cherub cannot eat crackers) while the rest of us hitched a ride (metaphorically speaking) to church and to our friends' home.

Sunday night I had a revisit of the stomach bug, which seemed to be under the impression that I was its natural habitat.

Monday we got some visiting in, but I mostly slept, still feeling weak and wobbly. The Cherub was not sick any more, but she had a terribly runny nose and no appetite. We should have seen this as an ominous sign.

Tuesday we went back to the Denver airport to fly home.

The Cherub's I.D. card expired, which I had not noticed, and since she is legally an adult (even though she only looks about 11 years old) that made her a 'selectee,' and so they wheeled her off (she was in a wheel chair) when I had my back turned to put my things through the security check, deposited her in her wheelchair in a small glassed in enclosure and walked off and left her, with a guard at the front to keep her mother out.

Fortunately, the other kids saw what was happening, and I ran and caught up (in my stocking feet), explaining that she couldn't understand a word they said and they could not take her anywhere without me. They never did understand what I was so upset about- they kept explaining, slowly and carefully, why they had to search her, and I didn't care about that- I only wanted them not to take her off again and put her in a little glass room all by herself without a family member there, which they had just done. They kept saying that of course, I could go with her, of course they wouldn't take her off without me, but since they already had, I was not reassured. Happily, she was quiet and cooperative as a lamb through it all, I think because she was still weak and tired from the nasty stomach bug.

The more I think of it, the angrier I get. I told EVERYBODY from the first person who looked at her I.D. card to the last security guard doing a search that DEVELOPMENTALLY she was just two, but I honestly now think that not a single person actually understood what that meant. I knowthey would never have wheeled off a toddler without her mother and put her in the glass room and walked away. The Cherub is unpredictable. What would have happened if she'd stood up and tried to walk away? She may or may not have understood orders to sit down and stay where she was, and these incompetent dolts could not seem to understand the vital point in my telling them her developmental age. They kept saying, "It doesn't matter, she's legally an adult and her I.D. is expired." Which I totally understood. My point was not, "She's developmentally delayed, so you can't search her." My point was always, "She's developmentally delayed, but you can search her, BUT SHE CANNOT UNDERSTAND YOU, YOU BLOOMING IDIOTS SO YOU'VE ALREADY BLOWN IT BY WALKING OFF WITH HER WITHOUT HER MOTHER AND I AM NOT LETTING YOU DO IT AGAIN."
While they were idiots, they were polite to me. It may have helped that I never actually told them they were blooming idiots.

Funnily enough, through all of that, I forgot about a giant sized pepto bismol bottle in my carry on (and I do mean a giant sized bottle- the maximum size I could get, because, do you hear me, I was not going to fly on an airplane without ingesting continuous nearly toxic amounts of Pepto Bismol first), which they let through without a word. They let the Boy take his bottle of water through with just a warning. My husband, who went through later as he'd been checking the rental car in during our ordeal, was flagged because of a tiny, tiny travel size bottle of mouthwash he'd forgotten he'd put in his bag earlier in the week (I gave it to him, along with several flavored tins of sardines and other fish, a favorite treat of his, for Valentine's) . He apologized and they rudely told him, "We are not interested in apologies. We are interested in compliance."
I do not think you work for security at Denver's airport because of your strong logic or people skills, you know?

On landing in Chicago, Equuschick and I, who are neither of us good travelers, felt sick and faint, and it wasn't until an hour after landing (while sitting near an open door to Chicago's balmy 13 degree weather) that I was sure I wasn't going to pass out.

We sat there to wait while those who were not about to pass out went to get the luggage.

Guess what?

On the return flight Jenny's suitcase was destroyed- looks like it fell off the truck and was run over and then dragged - crushed, ripped, torn, expensive Mary Kay lotion and other teen age girl ointments inside smashed, actually 'burst' is more like it, and smearing the suitcase contents.
The suitcase is a legacy from a deceased relative, complete with initials, and its sentimental value is immeasurable.

The airline was very nice, and she got a brand new suit-case (super nice one), a fifty dollar voucher for future flights, and a check for fifty-nine dollars for the contents. She's comforting herself with the thought that she can use the check towards a serger, which she has been wanting badly.

The airline also lost the bridesmaid dresses and my husband's suit, although at least they lost them on the return flight and not on the way there.
Of course, on the way there, they were carry-on so that couldn't happen. (they've since fed-exed them to us, smelling of cigarette smoke)

I am not interested in flying again anytime soon.

On Wednesday, my husband started with this sore throat, aching, coughing thing that only got worse. Remember the Cherub's runny nose? We should have realized that the week of flying, dealing with Denver's high altitude, and the stomach bug had basically rendered our immune systems unconscious, quivering on the floor and whimpering in surrender to any Nasty Bug that came calling.

On Thursday I started coming down with it. On Friday, Jenny came down with it. Hubs went to the doctor where they told him the stomach bug was only a stomach virus, but this was the real deal flu and he could not go back to work until Monday. The three of us took to separate beds- me taking the guest room because I ached too much to listen to snoring. Equuschick accused us of whining, but since she also brought me a lovely cup of chicken noodle soup doctored up with garlic and other goodies, I don't mind.
I was whining.
The HM is feeling better (he's been taking Tami-flu), and he went to work out of town last night, so naturally, last night somebody needed the nebulizer but the parts weren't all there, and the FYG had a temp of 102.7 under the arm- that's without adjusting it upwards the two degrees or so you're supposed to add for armpit temps. To touch her was to scorch your skin.

Basically, we have collapsed into whatever bed is nearest, suffering with head aches; joints that feel like somebody hit them with a baseball bat; throats which feel like we gargled with cut glass; skin which feels alternately sunburned from the inside out so that the touch of a sheet is too hot, or cold that seeps into the bone so the shivers, shakes, and chattering teeth add to the whole 'this is torture chamber and you are on the rack' ambiance; coughing so hard that abdominal muscles ache enough to make you groan aloud; and general aches and pains so intense that rolling over in bed feels like torture, and... it's miserable.
You start to feel better, get up and do a few light tasks like, oh, walk to the other end of the room, OR change clothes, OR make a cup of soup (because the Lord knows you're not going to try anything like silly like doing two of these things in the same hour), and whammo, dizzy, light headed, faint, clammy, and weak, back to bed you go, wheezing, groaning, and wishing to die a quick and easy death, say, by being flayed with a dull vegetable peeler, which would be more comfortable than this.

There are silver bits in the dark plague clouds that are encircling the house.

This morning the Boy got up, my sweet 9 year old son, alone unscathed by this raging flu bug (so far), and he made jello- two different kinds. Then he cleared off a two tiered tea-cart and covered it with napkins, placemats, a stack of spoons and bowls, boxes of tea, juice, and a pitcher of water and wheeled it around the house asking each of his 'patients' what we would have to eat. He also served fruit, bits of sliced ham (leftover in the fridge already sliced for him), and ginger-ale.

He unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, and started it. He even cleaned the sticky jello off the counter (when I pointed it out).

When the Equuschick got up to make herself some chicken noodle soup and he saw that she was shivering, he said, "Hey, you're shivering! If you need a blanket, just ask me. I don't just deliver food, you know!"

And, having completely slain our collective immune systems, we are working on slaughtering any remaining brain cells by spending our few waking moments watching movies or reading twaddle.

I hope to be back to blogging by March, but having slain all my brain cells, don't look for anything more stimulating than monosyllabic drivel.

The HG mayhaps on too much of an angry rabbit-trail.

* Arrived at History of WWII this a.m. to discover that we were watching an hour's worth of the HBO film Conspiracy rather than having a lecture. Although this film (about the Wannsee Conference) was one I've wanted to see for quite a while, I would have preferred it not be this morning. I could easily have skipped class to work on a couple large and looming projects and done the film later. *sigh*

It was a riveting film, telling a horrible story in a clear and cold fashion. All the action was in the dialogue, as the actors immersed themselves in a real situation that was heinous in its aims and charged with the creativity of men who plot destruction.



At the end of the hour, two of my classmates discussed how "freakin' boring" the film was, how it wasn't at all like the HBO fare they were accustomed to and the type they thought they'd get in today's video.

What *have* we done to ourselves? If we had watched a film showing a battle, these guys would have been totally gung-ho about it all. And yet they can't recognize that the theories, morals, and ideas behind battles are just as important, if not more so, than what happens on the battlefield.

~~~
(and yes, we are home now. the wedding was beautiful. having some of the family get the flu was not, but I will leave that to later posts)

It had all been deceptively easy.

And The Equuschick was disturbed, as she discovered that in twenty minutes flat she'd packed her little suitcase for the week-long trip to Denver, and put together a carry-on bag. The suitcase and the carry-on bag were set neatly by the door, in front of the garment bag containing the dress for the wedding.

But she went on her merry way, only to realize over an hour later that not a single, solitary set of pajamas had found its way into either suitcase or carry-on bag.

Oops.

Thankfully however, the addition did not require so much as a complete repacking session, as an extra squish and a tighter zip.

She has her toothbrush. She checked.

Have a good week!

Off to Denver

Little or no internet access. Have a great rest of February!!

It's been a while.

And there have been many adventures since my last posting, as you've seen in the DHM's posts.

Right now things are rather intense rather than being adventuresome. I revised and expanded the paper on Nahuatl I wrote a couple semesters ago so that it is (hopefully) fit for a campus competition. My professor has been excellent at helping me work through certain parts of the paper... but, this being my first time doing serious revisions on a paper longer than ten pages (it went from being 14 to 16 pp long) so long after writing the first draft, I'm a bit nervous about mangling it. Still, it's been a good experience and I'm glad I plowed through with it.

I have two other papers to finish today, one on Locke's 1669 Constitution for Carolina (interesting stuff, that) and one on similarities between Spanish colonial settlements in what is now America's Southwest.

Later we'll be out of town for a friend's wedding - a wedding where there will be many other out of town friends in attendance, so that should be wonderful. Geographical distances between friends are one of the nastier things in life, say I (and not very originally).

After returning, it's only a few weeks 'til I leave for Europe. I have a slightly clearer idea of where I'll be going and what I'll be doing, but am still murky on so many little, important details (money, train passes, etc.).

The upshot of all this exciting (hm -and we seem to have moved to adventuresome anyway in this post) travel planning is that I am feeling even more seriously crunched for time when it comes to school projects. The non-formal-academics things keep overshadowing little things like exams and paper-writing. ;-)

Sunday Hymn Post

The Sabbath Hymn Book: For the Service of Song in the House of the Lord, By Edwards Amasa Park, Austin Phelps, Lowell Mason:
"John 14
0 THOU art the Way- to thee alone
From sin and death we flee
And he who would the Father seek
Must seek him Lord by thee.

Thou art the Truth- thy word alone
True wisdom can impart.
Thou only canst instruct the mind
And purify the heart.

Thou art the Life- the rending tomb
Proclaims thy conquring arm.
And those who put their trust in thee
Nor death nor hell shall harm.

Thou art the Way, the Truth, the Life,
Grant us to know that Way.
That Truth to keep that Life to win
Which leads to endless day"

Commonplace Book Quote

The desire of knowledge, like the thirst of riches, increases ever with the acquisition of it.

Laurence Sterne

Happy News

The hotel management has very kindly agreed to remove all the charges for long distance phone calls and valet parking, so the E-chicks are not out any more than the one night at a hotel they initially planned to supply the lost UBO.
The hotel staff were very, very nice about it all. In addition to the fact that they were just plain nice people to deal with, this particular hotel has a form that is ALWAYS supposed to be filled out when somebody pays by credit card, especially when the owner of the card is not the person staying at the hotel, as the HG made quite clear. That form includes a checklist of charges the card-holder will and will not accept- including things like valet parking and long distance phone calls. The night staff did not have the HG fill out the form (an oversight that really would not matter 9 times out of 10, but this was the tenth time).

Soooo, that's saved the HG 150, which means 150 dollars the HG can spend on gifts for her mother when the HG goes to Europe this spring, yes?

Quote for the Common Place Book

In the affluent society, no sharp distinction can be made between luxuries and necessaries.

J.K. Galbraith

Answers to Swords and Men Who Own Them

Excalibur- King Arthur
Waske- Iring
Naegling, Hrunting- Beowulf
Sanglamore- Braggadochio
Arondight- Lancelot
Balisard- Ruggiero
Curtana- Edward the Confessor
Greysteel- Koll the Thrall
Tizona- El Cid
Mimung- Wittich
Angervadil- Fritihiof
Ascalon- St. Goerge
Morglay- Sir Bevis
Joyeuse- Charlemagne
Zuflagar- Ali
Cortana- Ogier the Dane
Baptism, Florence- Strong-o'-the-Arm
Nothung- Siegfried

From Schott's Almanac, 2008.

Frugal Hacks

My latest frugal hack is up over at Frugal Hacks. Take a peek and tell me, what do you see?

Fog

The gate in between our house and Granny-Tea's. Looks slightly creepy in all that fog, doesn't it?

Tornado News

ABC has photos of the tornado damage at Union University

Baptist Press has a story and photos.

More here.

Nutrition and Immunity, 1918

In Berlin, April, 1913, at the Sixth International Conference on Physio-Therapy, it was named in the following words:

"Natural immunity to disease is very closely allied to nutrition. As soon as a slight disturbance of nutrition occurs the child loses this natural immunity.

"An infection of the mouth with thrush is not possible in a normal-born and breast-fed child. The bottle-fed child is at a great disadvantage as compared with the breast-fed child.

"One-sided nutrition with carbohydrates (starches, sugars, table syrups, candies, white breadstuffs, denatured breakfast foods, refined cereals) injures the immunity of children.

"Tuberculous children nourished with such carbohydrate foods succumb more easily than when nourished on natural foods.

"The water content of the body is inversely proportionate to the natural immunity. Water-logged tissues lose their immunity. Refined foods increase unnecessarily the amount of water in the tissues, and promote a rapid rise in the body weight.

"Children fed on a carbohydrate diet become water-logged, fat, and show slight resisting power against infection.

[...]
To understand the meaning of the phrase "our daily bread" we must first discover how the food manufacturer operates; what he does to accomplish his purpose; why he does it, and how to put an end to his trickery without the necessity of invoking legislation. Legislation will not bring about reform. Politicians, food industries and newspapers will not permit it.

We must first learn that the greatest temptation to juggle with food products is inspired by the people themselves.

The subject of insufficient wage or industrial injustice is not going to creep into this discussion, but in passing it must be said that in scanty incomes is frequently born the false standard of judgment which attributes an artificial value to "bulk," overlooking substance and quality.

Competition, when based on quality of product and honesty of workmanship, is the very life of trade decency, but in foolish and desperate competition which inspires fraud, false standards are imposed in all their evil influence upon society.

When the size and price satisfy the individual few questions are asked. Most people are prone to accept even the shape of the package or its colour as evidence that its contents are all they ought to be. No questions are asked as to whether they will support life or slowly, insidiously, stealthily burrow under the foundation of the living temple to destroy it.

To gain a trade advantage over a competitor the food manufacturer makes his strongest appeal to the eye. Thus begins the work of puffing, bulking, filling, extending. Then follows the trick of conferring upon the bulk product that shadow of honesty which masks it against discovery.

At this point deception is braced with added flavour, manufactured in the laboratory. The "innocent" and "harmless" mass is kept from disintegrating by the use of legalised preservatives. Food is embalmed!

In addition to the filler evil the artificial colour evil, the flavour evil and the preservative evil there is a fifth and still more insidious evil responsible for tenfold, yes a hundredfold, more miseries than all the other evils combined.

From This Famishing World, by Alfred McCann, published in 1918

Swords and the Men Who Owned Them

Can you name the owners of the following swords?

Excalibur
Waske
Naegling, Hrunting
Sanglamore
Arondight
Balisard
Curtana
Greysteel
Tizona
Mimung
Angervadil
Ascalon
Morglay
Joyeuse
Zuflagar
Cortana
Baptism, Florence
Nothung

I Wanna Be Like Her When I Grow Up

Here's a follow-up to the E-chicks and their recent adventures:

The Equuschick came home from work last night and we had a conversation about it while I did some minor rearranging of the furniture in the guestroom to soothe my ruffled feelings. My side of the conversation went something like, "Righteous indignation and lots of it, and how dare she, and somebody needs to beat the stuffing out her, how could she, and nobody better mess with my babies like that, sputter, sputter, spit."

Her side of the conversation can roughly be summed up this way:

"I know you're really angry on our behalf because you're our mother, and mothers feel that way about their children being taken advantage of. But I am not really upset at all, and it's not because I'm being nice. We didn't do anything wrong; she did. The E-chicks can come up with the money between the three of us, and we helped somebody who might have needed it, and we didn't do anything to be ashamed of. We did the right thing. Yes, she's been a thief. I'd rather be the one who didn't do something wrong, and I am, so I am okay with this."

She's right. And I am left once more shaking my head and asking in wonder, "Who raised these young women?"

She concluded with:

"And mother, that book-case is never going to fit where you're trying to squeeze it, and you might want to think about the fact that if you defy the laws of physics and shove it in that spot anyway, you are never, ever going to get it out again in one piece."

She was right about that, too.

The Sequel- Which Doesn't Particularly Concern The Equuschick

Let us first dispense with the truly bad news, namely that Susan left The Equuschick on Tuesday. Please preserve a moment of silence.





Thank-you.

Regarding the UBO, for those of you who haven't seen the DHM's updates, it would appear that before UBO left the hotel the E-chicks put her up in,she racked up some rather large fees in long-distance calls and valet parking.

Financially this is irksome, but when The Equuschick considers it on a moral and responsible plane she is not that perturbed because (and do forgive her if this sounds harsh) it isn't the E-chick's problem.

Neither Susan, The Equuschick, or the Headgirl are at all responsible for the UBO's choices. They are only responsible for their own.


Were they to be faced with such a situation again, would they do some things differently?

Absolutely. The E-chicks knew that even before they knew about the valet parking. It was a learning curve, no doubt about it.

But in the end, did the E-chicks make the best and most morally responsible and compassionate choice they were able to think of at the time and in the situation they were in?

Yes, they did. Could they have been a little wiser, a bit more cautious? Yes of course, and no doubt they even should have been, but considering they made whatever decisions they made with a remarkable lack of experience, sleep, and, in The Equuschick's case, food, they did the best they knew how to do at the time and at very short notice.

The impulses they chose to follow were the better impulses of the human nature, and whatever impulses the UBO chose to follow after that are irrelevant to The Equuschick's conscience.

The Equuschick, having actually met the UBO in question, would not necessarily call it a practiced pan-handling scheme. She believes, rather, that the UBO was what The E-Chicks knew her to be in the beginning. A manipulative, rather selfish and dishonest being, but that they knew from Square One. The question was not so much "What is she," but rather "What ought we to do about it?"

And once having asked the question, they did their best to discern what was the right thing to do, and to act upon the conclusions drawn.



What the UBO chose to do with what The E-chicks gave her is totally outside their control.

All they're responsible for is what the three of them did, and they did what they believed to be right.

What happened after that is out of the E-chick's hands and, The Equuschick apologizes, totally non guilt-tripping or stressful for her.


Lesson learned, conscience clear. As the song says, "Lalala, life goes one."

The Science of Eating

One of the things that I have noticed in looking at old food ads, especially in old cookbooks published to advertise brand-name products for gelatin, corn syrup, corn starch, and so forth, is how much they stress 'purity.' IN an ad for corn syrup posted here yesterday, we read the claim that it is 'purer than honey.' There had been legitimate issues over the contamination of the food supply, sick animals used for bologna, toxic chemicals used to brighten the colors in candy and dried fruits, tuberculosis in the milk supply, products adulterated with sawdust and fillers that put more money in the manufacturer's pockets, but added nothing to the product and may have been injurious to the consumer's health (hmm. This sounds ominously familiar, doesn't it?).

In 1919 Alfred Watterson McCann wrote a book he titled The Science of Eating: How to Insure Stamina, Endurance, Vigor, Strength and Health in INfancy, Youth, and Age, where he condemns manufacturers for greedily disregarding concerns about health and nutrition, and addresses, among other things, the need for clean, unadulterated foods and the need for some understanding of what 'pure' food really is. He says:

As late as April 1918 the United States Public Health Service called attention to one of the many preventable ravages of food folly. There may be plenty of milk or eggs or meat, said the government, but if you prefer to live mainly on cereals, starchy foods, and sweets, pellagra will result. This warning will not be heeded because the people cannot understand it. They do not know what the government means by cereals, for the reason that 90 per cent of the cereals now prepared for human consumption in no manner resemble physiologically the cereals provided by Mother Nature. The government's phrase 'starchy foods and sweets' has no meaning for the plain people who do not know that pure starch or pure sugar are not found in nature Pure starch and pure sugar are laboratory refinements from which the impurities essential to life have been removed.

Read The Science of Eating: How to Insure Stamina, Endurance, Vigor, Strength and ...By Alfred Watterson McCann

"Our Washington authorities," he complains, "although they have occasionally spoken in plain terms, do not now refer to the menace of refined cereals, of improved starches, of denatured sweets and fats, of patent wheat flour, of de-germinated corn flour, of polished rice, of demineralised corn starch and potato starch, of robbed rye flour, of pearled barley, of refined sugar, or of any of the other manipulated foods sold in beautifully decorated packages that attack the vitality" of every man, woman, and child who partake of them.

In an article published in the Journal of the A. M. A. McCann's discussions of food problems in our country's food supplies were characterized as 'wild,' and his ideas on therapy as 'hopeless.' I don't know much about his ideas on therapeutics, but so far his ideas on food have been vindicated.

Where there are but 150,000 cases of pellagra there are millions of cases of malnutrition which, though they do not reach the pellagra stage, are nevertheless symptoms of the great national folly which commercial science encourages and defends.

"The increased price of food is responsible," says Dr. Baker, "for the 216,000 children of New York City now suffering from undernourishment."

"It is most important," says the United States Public Health Service, "that at least three glasses (one and one-half pints) and preferably more milk be taken daily." The irony of these comments is solemn.

The importance of eggs, fresh vegetables and fresh fruits is emphasised as in the past has been emphasised the importance of whole grain foods, whole wheat bread, whole corn bread, natural brown rice. But what are the facts?

High prices do not keep these "offsetting" foods out of the hands of the poor. They are not offered to the poor at any price. Yet the government itself tells us that among the poor the symptoms of malnutrition are mostly prevalent.

On page 484, No. 14, Volume 33 of the Public Health Reports issued by the United States Public Health Service, are found these words:

"The unbalanced diet composed mainly of biscuits, corn bread, grits, hominy, rice, gravy and syrup with only a few vegetables develops disease."

Why such foods develop disease, and why all other similar foods, of which these are but typical, develop disease, will be explained here in the government's own phrases, although they are phrases rarely acted upon by the individual and never by the food manufacturer.

Yet as we saw in the government recommended diet for children as published in 1929, there was a shocking shortage of fresh fruits or vegetables of any sort, and an over-reliance on breads.

And yet, as I worked on this post I ate chicken enchiladas made with white flour tortillas, drank a cup of coffee (it was organic, does that help?) sweetened with flavored creamer from the grocery store.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

The sob-sister whose only survival mechanism appeared to be guilt-tripping others had one more survival mechanism.

Theft.

The helpless and friendless UBO whom the E-chicks squired about town and finally put up at a (very, very nice) hotel at their own expense thanked the HG by racking up 150 dollars in long distance phone calls and valet parking. We're a little bemused by the valet parking, seeing as how she'd broken up with her only friend in town and everybody else she knew allegedly was without transportation.

My sympathy for the UBO had already evaporated somewhat when the HG related to me that at the bus station, while they worked the phone books and did all the work trying to find somewhere for the girl to sleep, the girl sat around damply, either using their cell phones to call her mother and ex-boyfriend, or practicing being pathetic. At one point she noticed the row of vending machines in the station and began sighing, "I am so thirsty. I don't know when I last had something to drink. I am really thirsty. BOY, am I thirsty...."

The HG and friend Susan looked around helpfully and pointed out the solution they would use for their own thirst- a drinking fountain. The UBO subsided, and she did not get up and go to the drinking fountain to get a drink. In retrospect, at that point the E-chicks should probably have wished the UBO well, and gotten up and left her at the bus station, however heartless that may have felt.

For some reason this reminds me somewhat of an incident a newish grocery store my husband helped open. Early on the meat manager pointed out a particular customer to him- the man always shopped in a bulky overcoat, and he was known as a thief to meat managers all around the area. He would stuff his coat with meat stolen from one store, and occasionally offer it to a meat manager at another store, more often, they suspected, selling it to people on the street or in his apartment complex. So the man was watched, was caught on his way out of the store with hundreds of dollars in meat, and they latched onto him and called the police on the spot.

At which point two sob-sisters who were checking began to plead for clemency. "Oh, please don't arrest him," they cried. "Show mercy. Maybe he has a family to support. We'll pay for the meat and you can let him go." My husband said they just would not stop crying and pleading, and seemed genuinely distressed about this 'poor man,' (and he didn't think it was because they were actually family members or friends who were part of his crime). They were simply bleeding hearts.

What they seemed to be blissfully unconcerned about was the fact that the store-owner and everybody else who worked there, for an honest living, also have families to support, and they do not do that by robbing others. The margin of profit in a grocery store is razor thin and can be tipped off balance far too easily- and a thief like this guy is one of those things.

Bleeding hearts often pride themselves on their compassion and liberality, thanking God that they are not as others, in particular those judgmental Pharisees who suggest that the poor have certain obligations and personal responsibilities. The irony of judging others for being judgmental never does seem to strike them.

The Fog (completely unedited)

Yesterday the fog was *really* thick, so I went out to take some pictures of it. I'm not sure why this particular picture is so very blue, but it adds an interesting touch.

A Tale of Three E-Chicks- Chapter 5

To Sum Up: In the first four chapters, you discovered The Equuschick, the HG, & Friend Susan all in a Big City rescuing stranded and Unidentified Blondes, and attempting to find their way home before a Predicted Snowstorm hit. The Equuschick and Susan, being skeptics of the first order, did not believe in this storm because they had not seen snow and they refused to believe in something they themselves had not seen.


But the universe has a sense of humour. The E-chicks barely arrived home before the worst of the Impending Storm That Did Exist After All Hit, and The Equuschick and Susan were justly punished for their lack of faith by the Powers that Be. "Blessed, indeed, are those that believe, having not seen. "

But home, safely, they arrived.

Normal people at that point would have gone to bed, but the E-Chicks were still running on adrenaline and felt the need for a little wild partying. They resolved to watch Stardust,because it was clear at that point that no one was going to be able to get to work tomorrow anyway, because the storm existed after all.

The Equuschick, now that everything was settled, came peacefully to terms with her new reality.

She was relieved to hear (and so was Susan, who was staying in her room) that her morning buddy would not be calling tomorrow at 6:30 am.

It did not occur to either Susan or The Equuschick that a general memo needed to be sent out to all of her friends not to call at 6:30 am in the morning.

So Stardust was watched and appreciated, and The Equuschick and Susan got to bed about 3 am.


They were shocked out of their silent slumber at 6:30 am, when the violent ringing of The Equuschick's cell phone commenced.

This was nothing however, to the cheerful, chipper, tones of the morning song sung in The Equuschick's ears (loudly) when she answered her phone. "Good MORNING, good MOOOOOOOOORNING, its great to stay up late! Good morning, GOOD MORNING, TO YOOOOOOOUUUUUU!"

The Equuschick and Susan did not kill the culprit responsible.

(Susan points out that this would have been difficult, since they were only on the phone.)

So now you know the story.


Actually, you only know a very abridged and brief (believe it or not) version of the story, as to tell the whole tale would require a Work of Three Volumes.


*Finis

Weird Stuff in the Mail

We got the most bizarre snail mail scam I've seen in a long time the other day. We spent a a good fifteen minutes finding new flaws to mock and we've not thrown it out yet, because we saved it for some friends who can appreciate our brand of sarcasm and this monstrosity as its target.

Fortunately, plenty of others have written it up so I don't have to.

People like this could never be as financially successful as they are if American's who claim to be believers didn't see God as a great big vending machine in the sky.

Want more? Put down your drink and get a bucket:

"Dear Someone Connected with This Address,"

No, I'm not kidding.

People just like you are writing to this 57-year-old church, telling us of all types of blessings since this church started praying with them. They are receiving divine help in the form of answered prayer. Some are seeing loved ones saved, and many of them are receiving spiritual, physical and financial blessings of all types - better jobs, raises in salaries, being able to buy and sell homes, buying new cars, and so on. Actually, these dear people are receiving so many blessings that it is impossible to mention them all in a letter. And, as you will read in the enclosed brochure a Sister Garcia used the same type of Bible faith prayer rug that we are sending to you, with this letter, and was blessed with almost $50,000! Now, we must talk to you about something we see, in the Holy Spirit, concerning you and your family's needs.

GOD's HOLY BLESSING POWER IS IN THE ENCLOSED ANOINTED PRAYER RUG WE ARE LOANING YOU TO USE!!!

WE MUST GIVE YOU THIS OPPORTUNITY FIRST . . . THEN IT MUST GO TO THE HOME OF ANOTHER DEAR FRIEND WHO NEEDS A BLESSING . . . You, or someone connected with this address, and another dear family are about to be blessed through this unusual Bible Faith, Curch, Prayer Rug, which we are placing in your care for these next 24 important hours. Because of any needs you are facing, we want you to use this Church Prayer Rug first, then we must pass it on to another dear friend of ours who also needs a blessing. As we pray for you and everyone connected with this address, WE FEEL THAT SOMETHING VERY WONDERFUL IS TRYING TO COME TO YOU.

Most of my 'dear' friends call me something other than 'someone connected with this address,' but read on, there's more and it only gets worse, in that horrified can't stop looking at the train wreck sort of way:

When you use this Faith Church Prayer Rug, go into a room where you can be alone (just God and you). Turn off the television and radio and try to be by yourself when you kneel on this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug, or spread it over your knees.We want this Church Ministry, Prayer Rug to be touching both of your knees as you pray for the needs you are facing right now It is going to be like you are kneeling before God All Mighty at the alter inside a great church of blessings.

.

Not exactly the simile I would have used myself.

These next 24 important hours are crucial to you. Timing is important to God. After you kneel on this Church Prayer Rug, or place it over your knees, place it in a Bible, on Philippians 4:19. (If you don't have a Bible, it's okay - just slide it under your side of the bed, for tonight, if you can. If you can't do this, it is okay. Leave It There No Longer Than Tonight Only! God sees. Then, in the morning it is a must that you get this unusual blessing Church Prayer Rug out of this house and back to us, here at the church's chapel prayer room, in faith. We must also have this letter back, with whatever you need prayer for, printed on page two.

There are two possible reasons for this- 'because we want to have as much information to black mail you with as soon as possible," and/or 'because we are building a confirmed sucker mailing list and we want YOUR name in it NOW!!

You must get this Bible Prayer Rug back to us so we can rush it onto another family that's in need of a blessing. Do this without fail. Please, do not break this flow of power between us

.

'Flow of power between us?' That's icky.

Notice the face of Jesus on this Church Prayer Rug. When you first look, you will notice that His eyes are closed. If you relax and continue looking straight into His eyes, you will see His eyes slowly opening, and He will begin looking back at you. Jesus sees your needs (Philippians 4:19). Use this unusual, important Church Prayer Rug for tonight only.

Let us ask you: Would you like to have God's blessings upon your home, your family and your finances? Say, "Yes, Lord Jesus, I do need Your financial blessings upon me and my family's finances!" Deuteronomy 28.6. Just put a mark by your needs below, telling us that you want prayer. Also, check any other needs you are facing. Pray about sowing a seed gift to the Lord's work. Give God your best seed and believe Him for His best blessing (St Luke 6:38). Now, go and use this Church, Faith, Prayer Rug. The Lord is watching and waiting. You are about to enter the Holy Spirit of God right here in your home, through this faith exercise. Then, it is a must that you return it for another to use.

I've got a better idea, having more respect for the Holy Spirit of God than the author of this letter obviously does, why doesn't said author go now and Repent, and use that 'Church, Faith, Prayer Rug' as tinder for burning down the mansion to Moloch he's probably living in, and then donate all his ill-gotten gains to the elderly, the sick, the infirm?


Here's the checklist you can fill out and include in the postage paid envelope you'll be returning to St. Matthews (57 Year old church!!!)

Pray for my family and me for

( ) My Soul
( ) A Closer Walk With Jesus
( ) My Health
( ) A Family Member's Health
( ) Confusion In My Home
( ) My Children
( ) To Stop A Bad Habit
( ) A Better Job
( ) A Home To Call My Own
( ) A New Car
( ) A Money Blessing
( ) I Want To Be Saved
( ) Pray for God to bless me with this amount of money: $________
( ) Please, especially pray for this person:
( ) Enclosed is my seed gift to God's work of $________

[name of church] MUST HAVE THIS PRAYER RUG BACK. PLEASE DO NOT MISPLACE IT. IT MUST GO TO ANOTHER HOME AFTER YOU USE IT.

And don't forget:

PLEASE PRINT YOUR NAME.

The prayer 'rug' is a cheesy portrait of Jesus in purple and orange, printed on thin paper, complete with printed fringe around the edges. You can see a picture of it at the link above.

Look into Jesus's Eyes you will see they are closed. But as you continue to look you will see His eyes opening and looking back into your eyes. Then go and be alone and kneel on this Rug of Faith or touch it to both knees. Then please check your needs on our letter to you. Please return this Prayer Rug. Do not keep it.

"This Prayer Rug is Soaked with the Power of Prayer for you. Use it immediately, then please return it with your Prayer Needs Checked on our letter to you." It must be mailed to a second home that needs a blessing after you use it. Prayer works. Expect God's blessing.

This appalling letter is written by Gene Ewing, the man behind reviving Oral Roberts flagging 'ministry' (may God forgive them both), by teaching him how to appeal for donations as 'seed gifts.' He's written the letter campaigns for a number of televangelists.

During a second meeting with Roberts, Ewing laid out his seed-faith philosophy.

'Gene laid out one of the most sophisticated fund-raising campaigns I had ever seen. He said, 'Oral, I want you to write your supporters and tell them you are going in the prayer tower, and you are going to read their prayer requests and pray over them.' He stayed there three days. I forget how many hundred thousands of letters we had, but it was huge.'

Robinson said that on Ewing's advice, Roberts responded to the letters with a letter outlining seed faith.

'You give and you get from God. It was a kind of prosperity gospel,' Robinson said.

No. It IS a prosperity gospel, and as such it is a false gospel. That Robinson, by the way, is not Pat. It's one "Rev. Wayne A. Robinson, then the vice president of public affairs for the Oral Roberts Evangelistic Association" and a lot of other things besides. Other televangelists, seeing that there's gold in them thar hills, hired Ewing to write for them:

Ewing's flair for effective, dramatic direct-mail appeals won him jobs writing for evangelists including Tilton, Rex Humbard and Rev. Ike. In many cases, the letters are identical but contain different signatures.

The Trinity Foundation, which obtained copies of the identical letters, has dubbed Ewing 'God's Ghostwriter.'

'We had nine different televangelists essentially sending out the same letter,' Anthony said. 'He (Ewing) makes most of his money by selling these packages to televangelists.'

In the seventies Ewing and a pal created 'The Church by Mail:'

In its application for tax-exempt status, Church by Mail stated that 'it conducts regular worship services, usually without the congregation physically present.'

This is disgusting, but make no mistake, what makes it possible is the materialism as faith of far too many people who claim to be believers of one sort or another. Whatever they may call it, it's not really Christianity.

In 1992, the IRS commissioner issued a final ruling denying tax-exempt status for Church by Mail Inc.

The ruling had no impact on Ewing's Church and Bible Study in the Home by Mail, which brought in an average $26,000 per day by 1993, according to a memo obtained by the Tulsa World. The memo from McElrath to Joyce trumpets the success of the organization's 1.1 million mailings each month.

'J.C., this growth program is working like a dream. . . . We are going to be able to get a much better selection of good growth addresses than we have ever been able to in the past thanks to a new program that we now have,' states the memo, dated Oct. 19, 1993.

'Using this new method of selection we are actually picking those geographic areas that we know respond the best to our growth letters. The size of each special area is about two to four city blocks. And thank God there are 10's of thousands of them across the nation.'

Joyce said the the memo 'is very much directed to the goals of the church in saving souls.'

God really does not care whether or not we prosper financially, and the God who said it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of God does not have servants who write letters like this 'Church, Faith, Prayer Rug!!!' travesty.

Science News

Scientists create human embryos with DNA from two women and one male:

The Newcastle team have effectively given the embryos a mitochondria transplant.

They experimented on 10 severely abnormal embryos left over from traditional fertility treatment.

Within hours of their creation, the nucleus, containing DNA from the mother and father, was removed from the embryo, and implanted into a donor egg whose DNA had been largely removed.

The only genetic information remaining from the donor egg was the tiny bit that controls production of mitochondria - around 16,000 of the 3billion component parts that make up the human genome.

The embryos then began to develop normally, but were destroyed with six days.

Who We Vote For, and Why

I'm still undecided about whom I'm going to vote for, but I do know that I will be voting my conscience, which some people consider 'throwing away' your vote. Not so. And while Sora supports a candidate I do not, I totally agree with her about the flaws I see used to decide which candidate gets our vote:

If everyone says Ron Paul can't win, and then doesn't vote for him because he can't win, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. If the media keeps saying Ron Paul can't win, and people keep believing them and voting for the candidates who are approved by the talking heads on the television set, then the media has taken over our representative republic. But IF people vote their conscience, then, YES, RON PAUL CAN STILL WIN THE NOMINATION.

She has a spot on literary reference from a source which has a fun literary reference to life, the universe, and everything (42!), and then concludes:

If you disagree with Ron Paul's strict constitutionalism or his economic theories or don't like his character or his voting record or his plans for the country, or just really like Mitt Romney's hair, by all means vote for someone else. But if you LIKE HIM BEST OF THE CANDIDATES WHO ARE RUNNING, and vote for someone else because they are more "electable", then you have just played into the hands of the media. The real vote that "doesn't count" is a compromise vote for the "less evil" lizard.

Make your vote count by voting for the candidate you really want.

Cookbooks, Good Servants, Bad Mistresses

To many women, even women of intelligence, there is a sense of security if a cook book is owned. With all due respect to makers of recipes, the housekeeper who depends for her catering on the cookbook cannot obtain, by closest following, the best results in nutrition or palatableness.

As an illustration, there is a book issued by the American Public Health Association, entitled Practical Sanitary and Economic Cooking, published by that Association at Rochester N.Y.. The title page tells us that the book is adapted to people of moderate and small means. This book is the Lomb prize essay for 1888, and was written by Mary Hinman Abel of Ann Arbor Mich. In this book beef and calves hearts are spoken of as being cheap and nutritious articles of food not appreciated by the American people. Explicit directions are given for cooking these articles of food by Mrs Abel. She says, "Soak the heart overnight- beef heart to boil all day, calves heart to boil two hours." Seven other standard books were consulted. One stated in italics, "Do not soak. Boil two hours." Another said nothing of preparation and said, "Boil six hours hard." Two agree on four hours cooking, one says hard boiling, and the other simmering. To take another illustration of the difficulty that besets the housekeeper who knows nothing of the chemistry of food or the principles of cooking, Crullers are not hygienic but they are enjoyed by "many people. A recipe for crullers was given to the writer by an old housekeeper-, One quart and one half pint of flour three teaspoonfuls of baking powder, one tablespoonful of butter, melted, two small eggs, one cup of milk, one of sugar, one even tea spoonful of salt, one half nutmeg. Cook in three pounds of lard."

With a view to saving gray matter and time, it was decided to consult all the cookbooks in the kitchen library and dispense with another written recipe if possible. The first cook book consulted said, "Four tablespoonfuls of sugar, five of melted butter, three eggs, one teaspoonful of cinnamon." No proportion for flour was given, yet the whole success of frying crullers depends on the consistence of the dough, and the temperature of the lard. Another: "One and one half cup of sugar, to a teaspoonful of butter, three teaspoonfuls of baking powder one and one half nutmeg," no proportion of flour.

The differences were as great in all the others consulted. One book indexed crullers as doughnuts, which, as we all ought to know, are an entirely different kind of cake. The resemblance is only in the method of cooking. These illustrations are given to prove that the writers are not infallible because they are not scientific. As a rule, they do not understand the chemistry of food, nor the principles of cooking, well enough to make them rank with the scientist. The books are good servants but bad mistresses. The housekeeper must fit herself to separate the chaff from the wheat when reading them, and if she is wise, she will cull the best into a book of her own after experiment and investigation.

Lyman Abbott, House and Home, from the section on housekeeping by Mrs. Betts

A Fun 5 minute Break from Paper Writing

62

At The Library

If you were at my local library this afternoon, you might have witnessed an odd customer. No doubt, the e-chicks cubes could skewer her in the manner which she deserves, but I can't compete with their youthful brains and rapier wit, so I shall merely report:

She walked in with bleach stains on her otherwise classic charcoal grey skirt.

First she went to the central computer where you sign up for using the internet, and gingerly typed in her password- using a pencil, Monk-like.

She was apparently assigned to computer #3, which wasn't available yet as the previous patron was still using his time. At any rate, she sat where she could watch computer 3 and its user, and as she watched she made odd faces and occasionally shuddered. She may have gagged once.

At 4:10 she said something desperate to two of the e-checks, who had come over to her table. Accustomed now to rescuing oddballs from their predicaments, the two e-chicks made a decisive suggestion. The strange woman nodded, stood up and walked firmly over to the library desk, where she leaned confidentially in to the librarian and whispered something urgent to her.

The librarian nodded, and handed her a canister of disposable hand sanitizing cloths. The odd woman started to pull one out, and then the kindly librarian told her to take the entire canister and use it as much as she wanted.

At 4:13 the odd lady took her canister of wipes surreptitiously hiding it beneath her cloak as though she was doing something shameful, over to computer 3, now vacated.

She pulled out a fistful of wipes and began, again, Monk-like, wiping down the computer, the keyboard, the desk, the mouse, and the mouse again and yet again, her hands, the edges of the chair, the keyboard again (and perhaps again, just in case something was missed).

After five minutes and half a dozen wipes, the odd lady took a fresh wipe, vigorously cleaned her hands, handed the wipes (carefully wrapped in yet another clean wipe) to a nearby librarian, and began typing.

She typed this post. And the reason for her strange Monk-like behavior and her odd facial contortions as she watched the previous user of computer 3 is because that young man (who had also been ahead of her at the computer station to sign up for a computer) continued to pick his nose, deeply, the entire time he was at the computer, and every time he went excavating he then put those same fingers and hands directly all over the keyboard, the mouse, the computer, the desk, and it seems every flat surface within reach. Who knows what other surface he contaminated?

The bleach stains? I hadn't intended to go anywhere today, and I forgot what I was wearing when the Headmaster requested that I accompany him into town (in nasty fog) to get something notarized at the library.

See what I made!

(The gold band is just pinned on in these pictures but I have since added Velcro and it lays much better.)

History Through Cookbooks

According to this website:

Annual corn sweetener consumption increased to 79 pounds in 2003, up 400 percent from 1970. This steep rise in corn sweetener consumption is largely due to high-fructose corn syrup, a low-cost substitute for sugar in beverages.

When you combine sugar and corn sweeteners, in 2003 Americans consumed around 142 pounds of the stuff each.

As long ago as 1888, the author of this frugal cookbook warned:

We indulge ourselves and our children too much in what tastes good, while all the time we know we have not money enough to buy necessaries. For instance, the consumption of sugar in America was in 1887, 56 lbs. per head, in Germany hardly more than one third that amount. This means a larger consumption of sweetmeats than we can afford and at the same time be well fed otherwise

What happened between 1887 and 2003?

World War II created a sugar shortage and corn syrup manufacturers promoted it as a healthy and frugal (not to mention home-grown) substitute.

A few very successful advertising campaigns, like this one from a 1903 Lippincott's Magazine ad ("A popular journal of general literature, science and politics"), where corn syrup is said to be superior to honey in purity and nutritive value, and also contains all the nutrituments of the corn grain itself (which is said as well to be the most nutritional of cereal grains):

Lippincott's Monthly Magazine

"Better than Honey for Less Money!
A bee will leave the sweetest blossoms for Karo Corn Syrup. Though lower in cost, Karo Corn Syrup is equal to honey in flavor and superior to it in purity and nutritive value.
CORN SYRUP Is a pure clear wholesome syrup made of the praln of the corn and retaining the full nutriment of this most nutritious of all cereals. The best 8yrnp for every purpose where a syrup is used.

Sold In lOc 25c and 50c friction top tins. If you cannot Get Karo Corn Syrup at your grocer's please send us a postal giving his name and address.
Karo in the Kitchen, a new book of original receipts written for Karo Corn Syrup sent free upon request CORN PRODUCTS CO New York and Chicago" Lippincott's Monthly Magazine

A search for "Corn Syrup" at google books brings up a surprising number of legal documents, court records and such. This 1921 edition of the Journal of Home Economics sheds some light upon why:

Glucose is an entirely innocuous substance of equal food value with any other sugar and when sold under its proper name and for the low price that it should command is an honest and valuable foodstuff. However a prejudice against glucose as such exists in the public mind for the reasons probably of its supposedly artificial origin from starch and its lack of sweetness when substituted for cane sugar. The Com Products Company consequently desires very much to obviate the use of the word glucose on the label of their various table syrups. The fancy name Karo was adopted for one of these syrups purposely to abide by the federal law which does not require a statement of ingredients if a package food is offered under a distinctive proprietary name. But many of the states do so require an accounting. Thus in Kansas, Karo has to be described as such a per cent glucose and such a per cent cane syrup; in Wisconsin, it is necessary merely to state that the product is glucose with cane flavor; in Virginia the percentage has to be given, while in most states, the description corn and cane syrup mixture is sufficient. This case has been fought out in the supreme courts of at least two states with a favorable decision for the Com Products Company, in that the words corn syrup may be used instead of the word glucose on the label. But where is the consumer involved in this case? His prejudice against the word glucose, his knowledge of the possible cheapness of any glucose product, and his intelligent criticism of the high price of a glucose syrup explain the determined campaign of the manufacturers for the name 'corn syrup.' The costs of long continued litigation and of the advertising campaign to popularize the mysterious natural corn syrup assuredly do not lessen the price of the commodity itself. State food laws uniform with each other and with the federal law would obviate the whole struggle, since one decision would settle the matter for the whole.

The Journal of Home Economics By American Home Economics Association

In addition to the pictured portion of this 1909 advertisement (used in a 1909 textbook to illustrate good advertising techniques), it's suggested that you spread it on bread and use it in place of Molasses (if Mother just tries it once, it's 'good-bye to the MOlasses jug!'):

International Library of Technology: A Series of Textbooks for Persons ..By International Textbook Company

More Battle Photography

A fort, a battle post, and a young sniper.

The cardboard box just behind the little guy in red and holding two cardboard bricks was once a freezer carton. It's been a house, a store, a chimney upon which to hang Christmas stockings, a secret hide-out, and part of the fort pictured above. It's been filled with pillows and used as a nest for reading.
The cardboard bricks I picked up for a few dollars at a thrift shop around 8 years ago. They've been a huge hit as well, and have been used in all kinds of ways their manufacturers probably never intended. Neither, I think did the manufacturer of my favorite laundry basket foresee it's use as an ammo dump, or the plastic storage tote people think of it as an outpost for a soldier/sniper/lookout scout.

More for My Children

A friend of Granny Tea's grew up in Mexico where she washed the family laundry in a stream using rocks. She grew up, came to America, made the American Dream, getting a good job in the Space Industry, making good money, bought an amazing house in a wealthy neighborhood and good schools. She didn't want her her kids to suffer like she had.
They never wore used clothes. They never lacked for a single thing. They had no chores, not even making their own beds. They were, consequently, lazy, unappreciative, and took the good life for granted. She came to work in tears sometimes because they were so rude. She would acknowledge that somewhere, somehow, she'd given them too much and it hadn't been good for them, but she couldn't bear to give them less, either.

I want 'more' for my kids, too, sometimes. And sometimes, that 'more' is selfish. I want things to be different for them so that I don't feel bad about them feeling bad. Mostly, as my Progeny will attest, I squelch that impulse, and they 'suffer' anyway. In a good way. Like this:

These Things I Wish For You
-- By Lee Pitts


We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse.

For my grandchildren, I'd like better. I'd really like for them to know about hand me down clothes and homemade ice cream and leftover meat loaf sandwiches. I really would.

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated, and that you learn honesty by being cheated. I hope you learn to make your own bed and mow the lawn and wash the car. And I really hope nobody gives you a brand new car when you are sixteen. It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born and your old dog put to sleep.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in. I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother. And it's all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he's scared, I hope you let him. When you want to see a movie and your little brother wants to tag along, I hope you'll let him.

I hope you have to walk uphill to school with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely. On rainy days, when you have to catch a ride, I hope you don't ask your driver to drop you two blocks away so you won't be seen riding with someone as uncool as your Mom.

If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one. I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books. When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush on a girl, and when you talk back to your mother that you learn what ivory soap tastes like.

May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on a stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole. I don't care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don't like it. And if a friend offers you dope or a joint, I hope you realize he is not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your Grandpa and go fishing with your Uncle. May you feel sorrow at a funeral and joy during the holidays. I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through your neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you at Christmas time when you give her a plaster mold of your hand.

These things I wish for you - tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, it's the only way to appreciate life.

Isn't it sad that so many times, in trying to 'save' our children we curse them?

Word for the day

I get a 'word a day' sent to my inbox through an online page a day calendar. I forget exactly what this particular one is called, but I've been somewhat disappointed at the words used- most of them are easily familiar to anybody even moderately well read. Occasionally, however, there's a new one, and this was just to amusing not to share. The word is:

tatterdemalion
adj: 1a: ragged or disreputable in appearance b: being in a decayed state or condition : dilapidated *2: beggarly, disreputable
*It seemed impossible that a team of such tatterdemalion misfits could bring home the championship trophy, but somehow they pulled it off.

I liked it so much I did a word search for its use in books published before 1923, using google books. Here's some of what I found:

A poem from the '20s:

The Contemplative Quarry ; And, The Man with a Hammer By Anna Wickham

A dictionary of 'Lowland Scots:'

Tatterdemalion: a ragged, miserable object. A colloquial word introduced into England by the Scotch and supposed by English philologists to be from the Icelandic tetur, a torn garment. The roots, however, are derivable from the Gaelic, that of tatter is from dud, a rag from whence the provincial English dud meaning a scarecrow. Malion comes from meall and meallan, a lump, a heap of confused objects, from whence the primary meaning of tatterdemalion would seem to be "a heap of rags" applied contemptuously to the wearer of them. Mr James M'Kie of Kilmarnock quotes in his Bibliography of Burns, "The Jolly Beggars or Tatterdemalions," a cantata by Robert Bums, Edinburgh, Oliver & Boyd. 1808"

A Dictionary of Lowland Scotch: With an Introductory Chapter On the Poetry ...By Charles Mackay

Classic American author Washington Irving:

The Alhimbra is in a rapid state of similar transition; whenever a tower falls to decay, it is siezed upon by some tatterdemalion family who become joint tenants with the bats and owls of its gilded halls and hang their rags, those standards of poverty, out of its windows and loop holes.

The works of Washington Irving, By Washington Irving

From this 1855 textbook it is used in an essay about how bad luck is usually your own fault:

When I see a tatterdemalion creeping out of a grocery late in the afternoon with his hands stuck into his pockets, the rim of his hat turned up, and the crown knocked in, I know he has had bad luck, for the worst of all luck is to be a tippler, a knave, or a sluggard.

HENRY BEECHER North American Second Class Reader: The Fifth Book of Tower's Series for Common Schools, By David Bates Tower, Cornelius Walker


Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame:

As found in The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction, By Charles William Eliot

And this, an edition of The LIbrary Journal, 'official organ of the American Library Association,' published in 1896:


Library Journal, By American Library Association, Library Association


At the restaurant, a tatterdemalion interrupted his altercation with the cashier to point at the Equuschick and loudly announced to the world at large that the Equuschick would like very much to pay for the meal he had just eaten.

A Tale of Three E-Chicks- Chapter 4

Review: This follows Chapters 1-3, in which The Equuschick, Friend Susan, and the HG pick up Susan from the airport and drop a stranded Unidentified Blonde Object off at a bus station and then a hotel (after getting lost), and then get gas for the car and Starbucks for them (after getting lost), and get back on the highway (after getting lost) to try to find food and see if they'd be able to make it back home or get snowed in. (Or get lost.)


So E-cubed took the interstate and watched the exit signs for promising sources of food, and the Impending Storm still threatened to arrive.

The Equuschick and Susan laughed at the universe in their superiority, because it wasn't going to. What snow? Had they seen snow? Of course not. And the mere fact that other reliable and mature adults had seen snow further north was not enough to convince them, oh no.

They arrived at a Diner and, hearing that their chances of getting snowed in at a hotel in the morning were greater than their chances of getting stuck at the home, they resolved to eat as quickly as possible and then make a desperate charge on the home stretch.

(The HG, as stated, was the only E-chick that actually believed in the Impending Storm of Doom, but as Senior E-Chick, and Designated Driver, she controlled the fate of Susan and The Equuschick.)

They sat down for supper, and the HG and Susan split a bowl of cheese fries with bacon, in honor of Susan's seventh birthday, and the last time she went to this Diner, at which time she ate bacon, and enjoyed it very much.

The Equuschick found the largest plate on the menu, and pointed to it with a trembling hand, as her head spun and her knees shook. She consumed everything on it, with the exception of two small pieces of sausage, and one slice of bacon which she shared with Susan in return for some fries.

At length The Equuschick went to pay, where she discovered that this Diner did not take checks.

Back to the table she went, for Plan B. Thankfully Susan had a card on her.

The party of three E-chicks, well-dressed and Mary-Kayed, went back to the counter.

On the way, The Equuschick overheard a long-haired, cigarette-smoking male ask the waitress if they took IOUs. When the answer was no, said male pointed to The Equuschick and said"That girl right there will pay for me."

The Equuschick could only grin weakly, because she could not believe what was happening, and was torn between a desire to kick him and the desire to laugh hysterically.

She resolved to ignore him and laugh hysterically, but only after they left the building.

And so then, it was decided. They hit the road. They were going to head for home and beat The Impending Storm that Didn't Exist.

Tune in later today for the Final Installment of this exciting series!

A Tale of Three E-Chicks- Chapter 3

Following Chapters 1 and 2, in which The Equuschick, HG, and Friend Susan had found themselves in an unfamiliar city on the eve of an impending snowstorm, providing transportation and a hotel room to an Unknown Blonde, and having done the above, resolved asap to find Starbucks, gas, and food, while still in relatively unknown territory.


The Headgirl, still in her capacity as Senior E-chick, took an exit where she "knew there was a gas station somewhere."

The gas station proved elusive, even after going all three directions at a three-way intersection.

The Equuschick (who has no sense of direction), called a friend who lived in the area at the HG's request, and did her sad best to translate the directions.

The Headgirl later regretted this decision, but did not kill The Equuschick, for which she earned her third award.

The lack of Starbucks was keenly felt, there was no Middle Class Civilization. They were in a wasteland.

But the darkness turned out to be before the dawn, because suddenly E-cubed found another gas station. It was not the station they were looking for, yet still, it was a gas station, and furthermore, there was a Starbucks across the street.

While the HG put food into the car, The Equuschick and Susan looked across the street to look for restaraunts. They found none, excepting the Rudy's Jewelers, which they in their near-sightedness, mistook for a bar. The sort of bar they would not frequent, even if they were the sort of people who frequently frequented bars.

But whatever. Starbucks was FOUND. The E-chicks walked through the doors, and resisted the urge to kiss the ground.

Now the Headgirl and Susan, who were not obsessive-compulsive creatures of habit, didn't know what to order just yet, but The Equuschick did.

She wanted a Green Tea, just like always, she wanted it badly and she wanted it NOW, so up to the counter she walked, card at the ready.

Her cell phone rang. She answered. "HI," said Family Friend, "did you guys make it back safe?" The Equuschick retreated from the counter, and collapsed in hysterical laughter. "Thank-you for calling, " she said "We're safe, but not home yet. "Why aren't you home?", was the concerned response.

The Equuschick tried to explain that she could not explain altogether, but delivered a brief synopsis of UB0's tale, to the accompanied laughter of HG and Susan, and all the while yearning to return to the counter for her Green Tea.

And the end of the synopsis, there was silence. Then, there was "Call me later."

*click*

At length, The Equuschick got her Green Tea, while Susan was in the restroom attempting to turn the water faucet on with the soap dispenser.

In the end, all three E-chicks were Starbucksed, and morale improved immediately.

This proved short-lived, however, when they tried to rediscover the highway. They retraced their steps precisely, but arrived a different location.

No, they cannot explain this. It just happened and you'll have to take their word for it.

The Equuschick offered a suggestion, but it was not taken. The Equuschick was offended.

Somehow E-cubed found their way back to the gas station and resolved to ask for directions, while The Equuschick was in the restroom.

The Equuschick became trapped in the restroom, and narrowly escaped a most humiliating rescue.

It turned out, in the end, that had E-cubed simply followed The Equuschick's suggestion, they would have arrived at the high-way almost immediately. The Equuschick was vindicated, but was too well-bred to show it.


At this point they called home, and discovered that the roads were still decent for the time being, and they could theoretically still make it home that night. (This was, so The Equuschick and Susan thought in their superior knowledge, because there was no storm. It simply wasn't going to appear.)

The Equuschick found her point of view in a constant state of flux and almost had a nervous breakdown. The E-chicks resolved to put off a decision until after food was found.

And so, the merry party of E-chicks hit the road again, in the search for Real Food.


The saga continues...

The Aaronsohn Saga, Review

The Aaronsohn Saga by Shmuel Katz (2007)
ISBN 9652294160
Gefen Publishing House (2007), Hardcover, 370 pages

I got this book through Librarything as a review copy. Pip and Jenny are reading about the 20th century for school this year, and I thought this biography of a little known but apparently remarkable figure involved in World War I might be something we could use for school.

It's a good book, and a great story, but we won't be using it for school. One reason is because we just can't squeeze another book in unless it's absolutely, stunningly, overwhelmingly remarkable. Really good and quite interesting isn't enough, and I am not sure this one qualifies as 'REALLY good.' The second reason, and also the reason it fails the 'REALLY good' test for me, is because it presupposes more knowledge than I (and probably the girls) have of all the issues and reasons behind things like, the Zionist movement, the push to make a homeland for the Jewish people long before World War I even began, the attempts to establish Israel in the Middle East as a British Protectorate, the antisemitism that ran through British society and the British military like a dirty, yellow streak of ring-around-the-collar, and the people and personalities involved in the British campaign in the Middle East . If you're as ill informed as I, you might do well to read some sort of 'WWI in the Middle East for Dummies' guidebook first, and then try this book.

So we've established that this is a book for a type of reader who is less of an ignoramus than I am on these matters. I realized I was in over my head on about page 11, where Katz refers in passing to the 'noted American George Post,' and all I could remember was that he probably was the Post behind Post cereals. Then there was the 'noted botanist-geologist-African explorer" I do not recognize and I'm not naming in order to preserve a shred of dignity, and 'Friedrich Koernicke himself' (who?), along with 'noted botanist Bornmuller.' I get the idea. I am lacking in any knowledge on the issues I am trying to read about. Neither was I quite clear on Baron Rothchild's support of the Jewish settlers in Palestine, and too many other things to mention.

It was probably only a petty sense of getting even that made me count the use of three 'howevers' within five sentences and think smugly, "Somebody needed a better editor." After all, Katz did not originally write this biography in English, so I am being a bit catty. Put it down to my frustration at not being able to understand and follow uncomfortably large chunks of what was and is obviously an incredible and interesting story of two fascinating and remarkable people.

Aaronsohn and his sister Sarah, the main subjects of this book, are, however, too majestic for me to continue being petty. I continued to struggle through material I didn't understand, war strategy I couldn't follow (I can't follow a football game, either, and for the same reason), and people and events I could, at best, just barely recognize by name as somebody I'd heard of in some remote historical connection, and I kept it up not just because I got this free copy on condition that I review it. They were interesting people in a tragic story, and I wanted to know what they did, why they did it, and what happened to them, even if I did have to read painstakingly through details I couldn't understand, references to events and personalities outside my frame of reference, and in a sometimes choppy, hard to follow translation.

Spoilers follow.

The Aaronsohns were Palestinian Jews, part of a farming family. Aaron himself was largely self-educated after 11, although he did have something like an apprentice-ship, and he later traveled to Europe to study with others. His sisters, who helped him with his work and were themselves quite knowledgeable and capable, were as near as I can discover, entirely home educated. He taught them how to care for his herbarium, what sort of records to keep, and how to observe scientifically. He was a botanist, an agricultural scientist, a man who knew much about geology, geography, and a man with an immense heart (and also an immense sense of pride and apparently a large enough temper to match the rest. We can't all be perfect). In 1909 he was offered the prestigious position of professor at the University of California at Berkeley to replace another world renowned person of whom I was woefully and shamefully ignorant- Professor Hilgard. He refused, because he wanted to pursue his dream of an experimental agricultural station in Palestine where work could be done on developing the dry-land farming methods that would make his homeland a thriving agricultural center.

Ahead of his time, he insisted (much to the dissatisfaction of many of his fellow Jews) on hiring Arab workers as well as Jews, pointing out that the allegedly 'unscientific' methods of Arab farmers were often the result of centuries of trial and area working under precisely the sort of difficult and somewhat unique conditions under which they themselves labored. Aaronsohn was not terribly diplomatic about just what he thought of the sort of shortsighted bigotry which would cripple the work of the experimental station, and both this attitude and this episode would come back to haunt him in the sort of frustrating stuff of tragedy that makes me ache with impotent pain when reading, say, Hamlet.

Moving on through our story at a much more rapid pace than Shmuel Katz was able to (because he, after all, was an informed, educated, and experienced author who knew his topic and was writing a book and I have neither information, education, or experience in his topic, and am only writing a stubby and ignorant book review), WWI happened, Turkey, which then controlled Palestine, came in on Germany's side. Aaron Aarohnson had already had some concerns about just how interested Turkey was in protecting her minorities, and the genocidal attempts by the liberal and progressive Young Turks government to exterminate the Armenian people convinced him that the only safety for Jewish Palestinians was to have their own nation. He determined to do what he could to support the British side, as he felt that a British Protectorate was the best option for an Israeli homeland (this, too, was a tragedy, as Britain failed, morally and tactically).

His sister Sarah had been living in Constantinople, but took a train home to be with her family at about this time- From her train window she was a horrified witness of the slaughter of Armenians by the Turkish military. She, too, feared that the fate of the Armenians was a precursor of what the Turkish government intended to do for the Jews.

Through a troublesome series of fits and starts, trail and error, and mismanaged communications by the British, Aaron finally managed to establish contact with the British government. He, Sarah, and several of their friends and co-workers at the agricultural station established a spy network designed to funnel useful information to the British Government. Aaron had to stay in Cairo and Sarah effectively headed the work of NILI, the spy agency, at the station. NILI, incidentally, was 'unique in its overt sympathy for the Armenian victims' of the Turkish government according to Yair Auron in The Banality of Indifference: Zionism & the Armenian Genocide. Largely, he says, it was ignored even by the Jewish community in Turkey, and their main concern was merely that this should not happen to them. NILI members actually spoke out, offered support where they could, and risked their own aims to criticize the British government for not doing enough to stop it.

The British, frustratingly, did not often put the information gathered by NILI to the best use, but it was Aaronsohn and Nili's information that made Allenby's successful surprise attack of Beersheba possible. Not only did Allenby have constant information about where the Turks were and what they were doing, he was able to avoid transporting water by rail, using Aaronsohn's vast knowledge of the terrain to supply the army with water from underground.

The end of NILI was the result of a tragic concatenation of an errant carrier pigeon, a stubborn deserter from the Turkish Army, an unhappily timed fever, community jealousies and betrayals, and a rare poor decision on Sarah's part. Knowing that her spy ring's secrecy had been breached, one of their members captured and tortured, she turned down an immediately available offer of help to escape, with sixty or so others of her choosing, by boat. She said she'd think about and the boat should return for her later.

This decision is agonizingly incomprehensible, as she well knew from her own experience that the boat was often delayed for weeks by bad weather and the need travel only when the moon wasn't full. The boat sailed without her, and within a few days the Turks had surrounded the area, rounded up NILI, and subjected many members of the community, including Sarah and her innocent aged father, to torture. After several days Sarah chose to end her own life rather than submit to further torture.

Aaron would not find out about this for weeks, and while he grieved bitterly, he continued his work towards an Israeli homeland, laboring without tire at the end of the war, meeting with others, serving on councils, until he, too, died in a tragic plane crash at sea, still in his thirties. Much of his work was forgotten, some of his contributions actually misrepresented, and one of NILI's martyrs had his name smeared for years by false accusations of murder by those who had betrayed him. In the last few years several attempts have been made to set the record straight and give Aaron, Sarah, and their NILI friends and co-workers the recognition and admiration they deserve. This book was an admirable attempt to educate others about this noble brother and sister and their devotion to their people, and indeed, humanity.


More here.
Also here.
And here.

A Tale of Three E-Chicks- Chapter 2

Review: In Chapter One we found the HG & The Equuschick picking up dear friend Susan at the airport, and picking up a UBO (short for Unidentitified Blonde Object) who was stranded and needed a ride to the bus station. All buses were grounded due to Theoretical Snow-Storm and the E-chicks decided to deposit UBO in a hotel for safe-keeping, in spite of the fact they have never ever frequented this part of town before.

This hotel, yes, is three blocks away? The E-chicks spent fifteen minutes traversing one-way streets every which way (but not on purpose),but they were fortunate enough to discover some absolutely beautiful architecture. They circled one particular circle several times, and Susan snapped some lovely photos of some moon-lit monuments. That they saw several times, from a couple different angles.

In the confusion,UBO stayed on the HG's phone and did not appear to be much interested in offering helpful suggestions. Now she may not have been directionally capable, but then neither is The Equuschick. It was simply a question of effort.

But in the end, E-cubed found their hotel. They were bemused.

In a timespan of one hour, they found themselves in a seedy and threatening bus station and then they found ourselves in front of a very swanky hotel on the Historic Register, complete with a valet in a red suit and hat.

Finding themselves utterly out of their depth, they failed to tip him. They're still suffering from the guilt and shame.

It was decided that HG should accompany UBO into the hotel while Susan and The Equuschick kept the vehicle occupied, in case of towing.

It was at this juncture that they observed a pan-handler (male, and therefore they wouldn't have been very willing at the best of times) going up and down the street with a cup and a backpack. They cringed and retreated, feeling themselves unable to cope with another Victim of Society.

So The Equuschick and Susan waited, for The HG to come out of the hotel without UBO, yet with her very own cell phone, which UBO had still been on when they arrived.

At length, out she came, with cell phone, but without UBO. The three E-chicks found themselves finally in the car and by themselves, and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

They began analyzing how well they handled this particular situation, and what could have been done differently. The jury is still out, and a poll is planned later on to ask for your opinion on the collective competence of E-cubed.

And then the search was on for the high-way, a search much harried by the Supposed Arrival of Hypothetical Impending Storm.

Still, The Equuschick and Susan denied the existence of such a storm altogether, because it would have started all ready.

The high-way was miraculously discovered with little inconvenience, in spite of the fact that not a one of the three E-chicks had ever found themselves in this part of town before. They feel that this was nothing less than Divine Intervention.

A list was then made of the three most immediately necessary items for E-cube's collective psychologically health and well-being.

They were, in this order- Starbucks, food, and gas.

A phone call was made to the parents, no doubt still wondering how their two well-brought up daughters found themselves, with well-brought up Susan, rescuing nicotine addicts in seedy bus stations.

They then discovered that the night was still clear, and perhaps E-cubed could make it home after all.

The Equuschick was peeved, because have just finally reorganized her point of view to accept that she was not working on Friday, and was staying in a hotel that evening, she didn't want her mind thrown into disarray again. (Yes, she is an obsessive-compulsive creature of habit.)

But a decision was postponed until after the discovery of food, drink, and gas. And the search was on for Middle Class Civilization.

Because that, my dears, is where the E-chicks belonged.

Tune in next time!

A Tale of Three E-Chicks in Five Chapters

The DHM having shared the gist of the events of the proceeding day and how they related to The Equuschick & Co., The Equuschick & Co thought that you might like to hear the story from the horse's mouth, as it were. (No pun intended.)

So they shall share with you their story, following a brief Cast of Characters and an uninteresting prologue.

*Cast of Characters-

*UBO- Short for Unidentified Blonde Object. A rather tragic girl, the sort who was never taught self-sufficiency.
*E-Chicks/E-Chick- Any one of either The Equuschick, The HG, or the friend of The Equuschick's and HG's, now dubbed Susan in honor of Terry Pratchett's Thief of Time.
*E-cubed: The three of them, collectively.

An impending snowstorm was predicted (but not yet believed in by certain of the E-cubed) and there was some question of Susan's plane being on time, which in the end was not the question they should have been asking, but rather- Would The Equuschick and HG be in time to pick her up?


They weren't, they were late. But they arrived in the end, and so the story begins.


Chapter One

They arrived at the airport and found Susan, instantly recognizable by her beautiful smile and her well-dressed sense of what is chic, even when it is casual. There were the usual ecstatic embraces and cries of "Oh my, you actually EXIST!" (The Equuschick and Susan both had long cherished doubts of the actual existence of the other party.)

Then there was an awkward moment, as Susan shuffled briefly and said "Um, I'm sorry, someone is borrowing my phone and I can't leave yet." She turned to a girl on a bench, a girl with bleached blonde hair, flip-flops, and some revealing clothing that revealed a not too bright sense of what is appropriate for both weather and modesty.

(E-cubed discovered later that immediately after asking to borrow the cell phone, she had also asked Susan for some cigarettes and a lighter, because gee, that's the type of girl Susan looks like.)


She was still on the phone, and appeared to be in some kind of distress. An overheard conversation seemed to indicate a self-inflicted lack of transportation. This was evidently due to a mishap with a boyfriend, E-cubed suspected a very poorly timed break-up.

However, there comes a time when a decent sense of perspective demands not that we look at how a person arrived in a situation, but rather, the situation that a person is in now.

This appeared to be her situation- No funds, no phone, no cigarettes, no shoes, no transportation. Also, it appeared that she was suffering from a severe lack of common sense, moral fiber, and sheer gumption.

At first The Equuschick and HG assumed that Susan, being the sweet girl she is, had struck up a conversation on the plane and established some sort of relationship. They later discovered that in fact, Susan had been off the plane for ten minutes when UBO approached her and asked "Can I borrow your phone?" and poor Susan was startled into acquiescence.

But anyway. Enough of how they to got to where they were, this was where they were.

UBO saw them standing there, looking awkwardly at each-other, because E-cubed would have liked to miss the storm that no one had actually seen a snowflake of, but was still predicted anyway. Susan had told her "I will need to leave soon, with my phone."

As of that moment, E-cube's main concern was to recover the phone and depart asap. It soon became clear, however, that UBO was utterly and completely stranded, and also clearly helpless on her own. She looked pitifully at the HG and began to drop certain hints about a bus station, that was "Very, very close."

At this point, Susan (who still hadn't had a chance to tell us that she doesn't know UBO from ADAM OR EVE) turned to The Equuschick and began to mime "No, no, no." But poor HG was looking the other way, in addition to which the HG is easily prone to a good guilt-trip, which appeared to be UBO's only survival mechanism.

So they're not really sure how this happened, in fact this part is not clear to any one of the E-cubed, but suddenly HG and UBO were asking for directions to the station.

It did not occur to Susan or The Equuschick, at this point, that a third adult might be necessary for navigational purposes. (The first mistake was to assume that UBO was a functioning adult.)

But suddenly it happened. They all went out to the car together, UBO in her flip-flops, and they all got in the car and suddenly somebody, no one remembers who, had the brilliant idea that perhaps (since she was now IN the car) names should be exchanged.


Now, please don't immediately assume the worst of E-cubed. They would like reassure their Concerned Readers that never, ever, would they have done something like this if they were dealing with a guy. Also, had it been any one of them on their own, the answer would again have been an Unequivocal No. But there were three of them, and they were not dealing with a guy. But rather a girl, who clearly simply needed to be given orders.

They arrived at the Bus Station, after taking a wrong turn into the parking lot. And then, well, there they were. The three of them, all well-dressed and well-bred and Mary Kayed, found themselves in the seediest bus station they'd ever frequented.

But again, they're not entirely stupid. They stayed in packs, and The Equuschick found herself pleased to be wearing her 4 inch Gothic Black Boots. These are Scary Boots, that can if necessary double as weapons. Let it be known, however, that The Equuschick was not entirely satisfied, and wanted her Zeus Dog very badly.


At this point, time had begun to get away from E-cubed at a shocking rate and the E-chicks began to contemplate getting a hotel for themselves and staying the night in town. Since The Equuschick had not planned on this and had no toothbrush or Zeus Dog, she found this adjustment of her mental reality to be a very stressful bit of gymnastics, but dealt as best she could.

Meanwhile, all buses had been cancelled due to the Impending Snow Storm, that neither The Equuschick or Susan actually believed in yet because they still hadn't seen a blessed snow-flake.

At this juncture, mild brain-storming ensued. What to do with UBO? Where would they put her? They all stared awkwardly at each-other, trying not to make her feel like like an Object in Need of Disposal. (Because she wasn't an Object, but was in some definite need of disposal.)

UBO, all helpfullness, was on the HG's cell phone now, having long and hard to follow conversations with her mother and ex-boyfriend.

The Equuschick, HG, and Susan begin to make phone calls on the remaining phones.

Red Cross, Churches, shelters, friends, and parents were all contacted. (They'll just let you imagine the part where The Equuschick explained the predicament of his two oldest daughters to her father.)

As Senior E-Chick, the HG was awarded the privilege of having to explain this situation to the Red Cross, which was not particularly helpful. They were less believing than the parents, and they kept asking "And how do you know her?"

Well, um. They didn't. This did not go over well.

So the search for a Plan A, B,C, D or even X, continued.

They needed numbers to call, and therefore, in a daring move, The Equuschick stole a couple phone books from the Security Desk.

The Equuchick, being not a very sweet but a very socially shy and insecure person, never would have done this in other circumstances. But at this point it had become a pet plan of her own that they should all get themselves arrested. This would solve the questions of transportation and lodging, all at no immediate cost to anyone.

So the phone books were duly removed from the Security Desk, but no one came to arrest the desperate E-chicks.

So while The Equuschick and Susan browsed the contraband phone books, the Senior E-Chick (who truly deserves an Award) was given back her cell phone, but only so she can talk to UBO's desperate mother.

They then learned that UBO's final destination was a drive of 2/12 hours i n good weather, and impossible in light of the Impending Snow Storm. (That The Equuschick and Susan scoffed at.)

The HG was then asked to drive UBO to her final destination , for which Mother of UBO would wire the grand sum of $30.00. HG had the immense moral gumption to say "No, that is impossible." For which she won another award.

But, wait! A hotel in which to put UBO for safe-keeping was located, only three blocks from the station. From there, she could meet the bus in the morning.

E-cubed approached an attendant and asked for directions, and after giving them, the attendant asked if they were going to walk or if he should call a taxi.

Alas, The Equuschick and Susan suffer from severe cases of Native Pride, and felt a profound urge to stand up and say "WE have a car! WE have common sense, moral fiber, and gumption! WE did not dump our boyfriend at a crucial moment! WE do not mooch other people's phones!" But they didn't say that, because in their heart of hearts they knew it was only a question of there, but for the grace of God. They simply said, we have a car. So we'll drive, thanks.


It was also at that crucial juncture that plans were confirmed for the E-chicks also to stay in a hotel, but they resolved to find a different one than the one they put the UBO up in.

And then the task began of trying to get the UBO out, after explaining the finalized plan. UBO was still on the HG's phone, talking to Goodness Knows Who, and sometimes crying incoherently. This was rather pathetic and they did try to make sense of the situation, but could not. They tried to be sympathetic.

However, they were out in the cold, and moreover, had just recently discovered that they were standing under the Smoking Area sign. Having been asked for a lighter a few times, they prudently relocated.

And at last UBO came out, and they once again piled into the car, and what followed can only be called An Impromptu Tour of A Historic Down-town District.

So stay tuned for Chapter 2!

January Book list

This month I finished sixteen books. Note the 'finished,' because I did not actually READ sixteen books in the month of January, I just finished sixteen. Some of them were school, so that means I had been reading them for a couple months. I would have *really* liked to have "Operation Garbo," by Jean Pujol and somebody else, on this list, but it is lost. (I don't think I lost it, but nevermind.) I haven't been able to find it, and I've been looking for a Very Long Time. (a couple weeks, at least.) I know, you're probably laughing at the thought of finding a lost book in THIS house, but it does happen occasionally. Unfortunately, it doesn't happen as often as losing a book does...

1. Appleby's Other Story, by Michael Innis-- The HeadGirl got this book for Christmas, and so I had to read it. (of course) Michael Innis is a very good writer, and part of the solution to this mystery I found quite fascinating.

2. The Iron Lance,
3. The Black Rood
4. The Mystic Rose, all by Stephen R. Lawhead-- I got this book for Christmas. Mother found it at a thrift shop, and I was very lucky in that it was the first in a trilogy. His books are more for older readers, I think, because of their violence and they sometimes have unnecessary stuff in them besides very detailed descriptions of some hand to hand combat. (ick) There was a good quote from one of the heroes in the last one, though: "Nobility's worth is not proved by the brilliance of its glory, ubt by the light it lends to others in the dark night of need.

5. Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo-- Ummm... I should have finished this book a while ago, but I only got through it at the beginning of the month. It's an interesting and good story at the core, I think, but he goes on and on and on about pointless things that have no bearing on the story. Notable examples are the chapters on the sewage system of Paris, and the chapters on a Convent.

6. The Eagle of the Ninth
7. The Silver Branch, by Rosemary Sutcliff-- These are the first two books in a trilogy called "The Three Legions." They were some of my favorite books a few years back, but I hadn't read them in a long time. I was rather surprised at quality of her writing: I didn't remember it being as good as it is! I guess I must have been to young to appreciate the detail. :) I was going to finish the last one this month, but I got caught up reading library books.

8. Zara's Tales: Perilous Escapades in Equitorial Africa, by Peter Beard-- The Headgirl checked this out from the library for me, because the library is doing a reading program with books about places around the world. This had some *amazing* photographs, and really neat stories. The photographs were best, though.

9. A Kangaroo in the Kitchen, and Other Adventures of an American Family Down Under, by Ethel Sloan-- Awful book. The Headgirl checked it out for the same reason as the Africa book, but it was TERRIBLE. All through the book she accuses the Australian housewives of being narrow minded, self centered, not open to new opportunities, not liking things that are different, while at the same time she is complaining because she hates Australia, she didn't want to move there in the first place, and she can't wait to get back to America. Very hypocritical. Her writing style was very amusing, but that was the ONLY redeeming quality.

10. Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen-- I wanted to reread this book before the new movie aired on TV. Maybe I shouldn't have as it would have saved myself a lot of pain. :) This is one of my favorite of her books, though.

11. Bring Me A Unicorn, by Anne Morrow Lindberg-- A collection of her letters and diary entries that Jenny and I were assigned to read for school. I really loved reading it, she wrote really well and seemed to have a pretty good understanding of life.

12. Napoleon of Nottinghill, by G.K. Chesterton-- Also school. I love G.K. Chesterton's stuff, but this one was slightly depressing... this is a spoiler, but- at the end, after a very large battle, there are only two people in the story alive. What about all those hundreds of men who died rather violently in the battle? That's sad.

13. How the Other Half Lives, by Jacob A. Ris-- School. This was about the bad conditions in tenement houses, and had lots of photographs, which I liked.

14. The Book of Hours, by Rainer Maria Rilke-- I read this WAY too fast, so I'm sure I didn't understand half of what he said, but I liked what I read. I would like to learn German to be able to read the original, as I'm sure it sounds much better that way.

15. The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald-- School. Depressing. I think it was supposed to be about time and about the morals of the 1920s.

16. Two Against Scotland Yard, by David Frome-- This was, in my opinion, a Rather Boring Mystery. We have two of his in one book, and I don't think I shall read the other one, because I'm quite sure that I could spend that time reading a much more interesting book, even if it's not an improving one.

ALiteracy

This article from The Onion is funny in that side-splitting way that makes you laugh and laugh and laugh until all of a sudden you stop and get a stunned look on your face as you realize that it's too close to comfort to be funny after all.

Another article about women reading more than men.

Did McCain Conside Switching to D?

About the only talk radio show I really enjoy listening to is Michael Medved's, and I mainly listen to that on Thursday while taking the girls to music lessons and back home again. He's not perfect, but he's more pleasant and reasonable than most of the others I've heard.

But he's a big McCain supporter, and as near as I can figure out this is based on two issues- McCain, he thinks has a better chance of winning and it matters more to him that a Republican in name take the White House than it does to me. And McCain, he says, is a loyal Republican, which doesn't much matter to me at all, since I am, alone of my immediate family, not a Republican (last I heard, my folks were Independents, but we don't much talk politics).

I don't like McCain, largely because of McCain-Feingold, not so much because of that specific act and its results but because of the clear disdain or mere lack of understanding (it does not much matter which, except good faith ignorance is probably more dangerous) it showed towards that little document called The Constitution of this land and the Bill of Rights. So it doesn't matter to me whether he has an R, a D, or an XYZ after his name. If he joined the Libertarian party today and promised to vote exactly how I wish on every last issue, I still would not vote for him because I do not trust him, and it would take more than the time between now and the next election for him to convince me he understood and respected the Constitutional limits on government while he crossed with McCain-Feingold.

But for those who think the party letter he happens to put after his name is important, maybe you should think twice about trusting him, too.

Potato Soup

It's more than just a bowl of potato soup- it's a philosophy:

Potato soup gets served at my house, as it probably will be for lunch today, as a result of something I did days earlier. On Sunday we hosted an open house here for a bunch of people and had a baked potato bar. There were twenty eaters, but I filled the rack of my oven with potatoes, so I ended up with extras. These treasures got tucked into a bowl and put in the fridge to serve at my pleasure later.
That is when the fun begins! Just what is my pleasure for these potatoes? I could shred them for potato pancakes or to go into a frittata. I could use some for potato bread or rolls. I could slice them for a German or French potato salad. I could make them into home fries for breakfast. I could slice them and cover them with heavy cream for a sort of quickie version of au gratin potatoes. The ideas are countless. I feel happy to think of the possibilities lying before me.

The danger, of course, is that I will not recognize them for the treasures they are and will allow them to languish, unappreciated and unused, until they grow mold and die. That is a sadness of waste we have all experienced. No, I must keep them in mind as I cook my way through the week.

Go see what she did with them. Mmmmmm.

Ray Bradbury

In my mispent youth, I was a great fan of sci-fi and fantasy. I read every Andre Norton in our library. I read some Heinlein and more Ray Bradbury. I read Anne McCaffrey even before the Dragon singer books. Of course, in my misspent and very Philistine youth, I never paid any attention to author's names, so it's only be accident that I later discovered that McCaffrey wrote the book I surreptitiously finished in my Spanish class (The Ship Who Sang), or that the Robot books I liked as a junior high student were by the same author as the Black Widower Club mysteries I liked as an adult (Isaac Asimov).

I have tried to reread a few of them, but I usually don't get very far. Heinlein is good, but just not my taste. Norton is for children who don't mind recyclings of the same story and characters. But Bradbury I have basically rediscovered, although that's not accurate since I only read him in my youth, I had not yet discovered him.

He is a bit like a poor man's Flannery O'Conner, who everybody assures me is a "Christian" author, and I have do doubts on her devout and serious Catholicism, but I just can't get past the 'Fall' part of her stories into seeing anything about redemption.


The Velt is in The Illustrated Man, and it is mostly very disturbing. The last time I read the whole thing was probably thirty years ago, and I remembered bits and pieces, but that's all. The children in the story are scary- they have wall paper or something that sort of is alive. It's a scene on the AFrican Velt, and they, like children everywhere, temporarily and selfishly wish that the African Lions would gobble up the adults in their lives- and so they do. End of story. But it's not the end of any story if you can't stop thinking about it, and that's how I feel about many of Bradbury's stories. .

Like Flannery O'Conner, he surely believes in evil, and I think he believes in good, too, and sin, and God, although I'm not sure how compatible his view of God is with mine. But I think he believes in redemption.

There's a very interesting story of a group of astronauts traveling the universe, trying to get to new worlds ahead of the competition so they can beat out their rivals in commercial interests. They arrive on a world where they
learn another visitor was just there the day before, and he healed the sick andloved the poor, and changed everybody's lives. They've been atheists, but one of them decides he's going to stay, because he's tired of living without faith.
He talks about giving up his old life and seeking something new. The Captain first believes that it was only one of his competitors, fooling the natives, and he gets angry and makes threats and mocks the whole idea- in the end, he too is convinced, but angry that they missed him by a day, and he leaves, insisting that he's going to keep looking until he finds him- but it's all angry and bitter, and he wants him for all the wrong reasons. The other man still insists that he's going to stay, because even though they missed him physically by a day, he can still find the things he wants and needs right there, and he can learn from the people who saw him, and after the violent
captain leaves, the natives inform him that actually, the visitor is still there, and anybody who really wanted to find him would have know that.
The story ends as they all go to meet him.

There's also the very interesting story of the space explorers who have crashed on Venus and are trying to get to the sanctuary of the Sun-Domes. Venus is a planet where it rains continuously, there's no escape from it. Bradbury's description makes me think it's a representation of evil, or sin. It beats on their heads, rots their clothes, makes them miserable and is just so despairingly inescapable. All their own efforts to escape it or ameliorate its effects are doomed to failure (and they know this). So they just keep searching for the Sun-Dome, the only way to escape the constant, incessant, rain- the only way to get warm, and dry, and comfortable, the only source of anything like true sunlight. They find one, but it's been destroyed, and they keep searching, but now they have lost hope, thinking that all the domes will be ruined, or that they are going the wrong direction.

The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. It came by the pound and the ton, it hacked at the jungle and cut the trees like scissors and shaved the grass and tunneled the soil and molted the bushes. It shrank men's hands into the hands of wrinkled apes; it rained a solid glassy rain, and it never stopped.

Except for one, all of them lose their minds during the search, giving in to the relentless rain and just sitting in it with their heads up, breathing it in, knowing they will die. That one just keeps searching, although he's also afraid that it will have been destroyed, or that he's going the wrong way- but he finally comes to the next one. The contrast between his state before the Dome and entering is so vivid- I think it's one of Bradbury's best bits of writing, and in the two or three years since I last reread it, I cannot stop thinking of it as a redemption story.

There were so many dark and disturbing tales, that I couldn't recommend the Illustrated Man without warning somebody that it might be their cup of tea. It's strong stuff. But I think it's worth tasting.

Dandelion Wine is another of his that may be a bit less dark for some of our readers. Something Wicked This Way Comes is darker, but it's another one, like the Illustrated Man, that I keep thinking about, years after I've read it. Fahrenheit 451, of course, we've talked about before and recommend with as much force as we can.

I think Something Wicked and Illustrated Man are more mature examples of his writing. My copy of Golden Apples of the Sun is the 1953 collection of his short stories.

Books Read in January

Small Beginnings, located online here.

Will the Real Heretics Please Stand Up, by David Bercot

Golden Apples of the Sun, Ray Bradbury

Mr. Moto is So Sorry, John Marquand

Jack, Knave, and Fool, by Bruce Alexander

Footsteps in the Dark, by Georgette Heyer

Psalms

The Aaronsohn Saga, by Shmuel Katz (I'll be writing a review of this later. I received it as part of an 'early reviewer' freebie at Library Thing)

Two Against Scotland Yard, by David Frome. Books by the same author were published under the name of Leslie Ford. I have read and enjoyed Invitation to Murder by Leslie Ford so I am glad to discover these as well. They are not Michael Innes or Dorothy Sayers, but they might do for those of us who like Agatha Christie. This book was two mystery stories in one, but I cannot recall the other title right now. Leslie Ford and David Frome were actually pseudonymns for Zenith Jones Brown.

The Gay Poet: The Story of Eugene Field, by Jeannette Nolan (written at a time when readers and author understood the title to mean that Field was cheerful). This was a read aloud to the youngest two children. We had many others, of course, but this Messner biography is one we've taken far too long to get through.