tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73889112145269175172024-02-18T21:48:45.827-05:00Sort Quench, & DumpRegarding things Apicultural, Random, Hagiographical,Random, and additionally being about Memories Found and Memory Loss, and Chickens, and also occasional useless Travel InformationChristine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.comBlogger660125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-39677436601648485342021-02-21T15:00:00.000-05:002021-02-21T15:01:22.486-05:00Introducing Frida von Zweig <i>Domestication of the dog has not nullified this instinct to lead or be led. This becomes a problem whenever an individual dog does not receive proper guidance, through training, and fancies herself to be the leader, or alpha. There should be no question in a dog’s mind about who the alpha figure is in her life- you are.</i>
The Monks of New Skete
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PI8ZzgFX6-Lz4hECmKrEEZDDsFe6HUqIqZW_tijUYyNOd6wTjjjtKgHapaNgkAUS3ob_kQFopJjv1_TtwRlG8S0MK6En-glcsvSoa_nkEtYgbZQDd5VjqKOGWPaHlbqUe9bd1NNW2oM/s2048/IMG_3103.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1902" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PI8ZzgFX6-Lz4hECmKrEEZDDsFe6HUqIqZW_tijUYyNOd6wTjjjtKgHapaNgkAUS3ob_kQFopJjv1_TtwRlG8S0MK6En-glcsvSoa_nkEtYgbZQDd5VjqKOGWPaHlbqUe9bd1NNW2oM/s200/IMG_3103.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
In the middle of a pandemic we have acquired a new resident in our house. I should better say that Frida von Zweig, a goldador (her mother’s a Golden, her father’s a Labrador), has moved into our home and allows us to remain. <div><br /></div><div> Have you ever been asked by your grown children what you would like for Christmas? And replied, <i>Nothing, we already have too much stuff.</i> And then, quasi-jokingly, said, <i>A dog. We miss our dogs so much.</i> That is the short version of how Frida came to us. The long version goes into hours of research and inquiries within a 2000 mile radius, and organizing, mostly by our son-in-law. <div><br /></div><div> We are an older couple of settled habits, and Frida is a puppy. In normal circumstances, of which there are none, our schedule would have remained intact, and our habits would continue, and Frida would adjust. That has not been the case. It turns out that the blood of Genghis Khan and Juana la Loca flows through the veins of Frida. The pleasant schedule we have developed over many years of cohabitation, has been transgressed and rewritten, according to her wishes and needs.
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8R0Ecuspb3XMNAHp0qW_kWKzvOafBaTvYwxCTn0yAYqIQ_R8t14EGsuE_1DAAQYTSaApgJj-pcpKXI00Lz2aRegbpjwzq0ipCM_lB6piTu6aEabwtjUKSJ7p5W5DJiIjZQosY7jXVugA/s4032/IMG_3156.jpeg" style="clear: right; display: block; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>
Around 4:30 am CSB, who thankfully is an early riser, takes Frida outside into the cold and the snow, so that she can perform her morning eliminations. Then he escorts her back to her crate so she can rest some more, with her pet mink. CSB leaves for work around 6:15. I am still sleeping. According to my preferred schedule, I wake up around seven and stay in bed with a pot of tea and write five hundred words. Not always the finest words, but still words. This is no longer possible. I still wake around 7, but I must then propel myself to the kitchen where Frida resides and rules. Depending on the weather, I pull on a pair of boots, a sweater over my pajamas, put on my down jacket, get a hat, and gloves or mittens. Then I open the crate with soothing words and pray that Frida will head directly out the back door and urinate. We were initially opposed to the idea that she would urinate on the back porch, but no longer. Now that we have so much snow, deeper snow than my boots can accommodate, and it is so cold, we have relented and allow Frida to perform the morning’s first official urination onto the snow that covers the back porch. After peeing, Frida comes back inside and expects breakfast. I feed her kibble enhanced with eggs and chicken bone broth. She eats and drinks quickly, while I would prefer to slowly sip hot tea and contemplate those five hundred unwritten words, and then make myself two four-minute soft boiled eggs, with soldiers. That’s when things get tricky. Frida loves my boots, and I need my boots to keep my feet warm and dry. I also cannot walk if Frida has attached herself to the little leather strap thing at the back of my L.L. Bean hunting boots. If I ask Frida nicely to let go of my boots, and even offer her a squeaky toy instead, she ignores me. If I remonstrate with her, and firmly take hold of her martingale collar, as advised by the dog trainer we have hired at huge expense, she continues biting at my boots and also nips at my socks and my pants. I have two ankles covered in small puppy-tooth scratches I could show you. Then, as instructed by the trainer, I try to put her back into the crate until she calms down. This only works if we are in the kitchen standing more or less next to the crate. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipax48DQhyw6-MqDU0wprfSjH2y0J2zN6e-XjDEHpnfr5bAggPg9ArPBL8sYPGZnqiTz-EtGUwRDE03f4PPLe7Oty2f4dii9YsbbtuBpH_U76hWRuo8ENHKlmHSH0tKE08PA_qqkcQV7I/s4032/IMG_3156.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipax48DQhyw6-MqDU0wprfSjH2y0J2zN6e-XjDEHpnfr5bAggPg9ArPBL8sYPGZnqiTz-EtGUwRDE03f4PPLe7Oty2f4dii9YsbbtuBpH_U76hWRuo8ENHKlmHSH0tKE08PA_qqkcQV7I/s320/IMG_3156.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Frida discovers snow</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />When we are outside and she nips at my boots, I can be as stern as I like, without interrupting Frida’s nipping in the slightest. According to various texts I have read, this behavior mimics how puppies would act in the wild, with their littermates, in establishing the power structure in the den. Frida is acting thus to assert her dominance over me. She is Alpha, and I am any other Greek letter you like. She is not wrong is assuming her Alpha-ness. In a world of equality among all living things, dogs and humans alike, Frida would most definitely be alpha to my omega. I am simply not the Alpha type, and Frida clearly senses this. However, we do not live in a fair or equal world, and as a human I have a few advantages. At least for now, I am bigger and stronger than she is. I control the food supply. I deliver the treats. I turn on the heat. And, as we did for the Pacha Mama in Santiago Atitlan, we make ritual offerings of squeaky toys, rubber bones, frisbees, and from Chewy.com, IQ treat dispenser balls to make her smarter. I have since rethought the IQ toys, because Frida is already smart enough for a dog.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_iN6ICD-S5TgD2LKPKYTIXPz4JGD19xkkwHkWE4vuzRqv8a8Ao0SVb3lt1ngL__Vvh9jatHYksb59CZvcW4URL-ZCM_qfx4sBHK_5suileh3K8vW9cVKXwrgADPZhhzH65cY1CNNgEWY/s2048/IMG_3307.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_iN6ICD-S5TgD2LKPKYTIXPz4JGD19xkkwHkWE4vuzRqv8a8Ao0SVb3lt1ngL__Vvh9jatHYksb59CZvcW4URL-ZCM_qfx4sBHK_5suileh3K8vW9cVKXwrgADPZhhzH65cY1CNNgEWY/w240-h320/IMG_3307.jpeg" title="Exploring the hollow Catalpa tree" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Exploring the hollow Catalpa tree</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div> As for the schedule, normally after my breakfast I will go to my desk and write letters to the editor, and answer emails from Nigerian princes asking for money, but no longer. After Frida has had sufficient time to digest her breakfast, which is hardly any time at all for a puppy, we head outside again. With any luck, I am wearing daytime clothes by now. I get my boots back on, often in a corner so that Frida cannot see me and lunge for the boots before we’ve accomplished any eliminations, then my down parka, hat, and gloves. I take hold of Frida’s leash and we head outside. Since the snow is so deep in the back yard, we can only go to the side yard where CSB shoveled paths to the Little Red House, the compost bin, and the bird feeder. I can stay on the paths, mostly, and Frida can jump in and out of snow drifts or run on the paths and crash into my legs. I throw sticks for her to retrieve and praise her to the moon when she does this. She takes her characteristic back squat and makes small piddles wherever and whenever she can. As Prufrock’s life is measured in coffee spoons, so Frida’s days can be measured out in pale yellow patches on snow. I have learned that this is her way of marking her territory, and by now, most of our property is under her hegemony. Then she has to choose the right spot for defecation. Frida will not defecate just anywhere, and certainly not where I might suggest. </div><div><br /></div><div> Another issue is the leash. According to the trainer I am never ever to let her off the leash when we are outside. But what should I do when I am standing in the shoveled path, and Frida leaps through the deep snow toward the field, the woods and beyond? I drop the leash and let her run free. When I do this I think I am just being thoughtful, and allowing her to enjoy the freedom her young limbs are capable of. She thinks that I am subject to her desires, and incapable of reining her in. In other words, that she is Alpha. Having dashed off, with the leash trailing behind her, she finds a likely spot, circles it two or three times, sniffing out whatever scents there might be, then she turns away from any onlookers, arches her back, and neatly extrudes a longish tootsie roll onto the lovely white snow, while I surreptitiously watch to make sure she does the deed, and also praying that she doesn’t shit directly onto the pink leash that follows her. Later I will strap on my snowshoes and go around the yard picking up her poop with compostable baggies. According to the monks of New Skete, it is not advisable for the puppy to see me picking up her poop, or cleaning up her accidents inside, because then she will think my only purpose is to clean up after her. When I first read that I thought that maybe the monks, who in general are very strict about not anthropomorphizing one’s pets, in this case were endowing the puppies with more capacity for inductive reasoning than is likely. Now I am coming round to the monks’ view of things. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyw8ztnC2Ft7iSrqyMcDr5tKmn7A4p71ROVdwbNMcDYjsO0ZrWHWQ-OvNWDnIoHsl9peYalXaVIY0JMqvlbpebEX3d5zlkzvl7T1beF64hIUtGrLg3gIpQoZl-YjqX01C6A_Y749f3Lk/s2048/IMG_3433.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyw8ztnC2Ft7iSrqyMcDr5tKmn7A4p71ROVdwbNMcDYjsO0ZrWHWQ-OvNWDnIoHsl9peYalXaVIY0JMqvlbpebEX3d5zlkzvl7T1beF64hIUtGrLg3gIpQoZl-YjqX01C6A_Y749f3Lk/s320/IMG_3433.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> After performing her toilette and chasing after leaves and twigs to her hearts’ delight, Frida is ready to head back inside and get warm. As am I. She charges across the snow, roars along the path, and dashes up the back stairs as if shot from a cannon, and careens directly into my boots. She takes hold of them with all the strength that razor sharp puppy teeth are capable of. Firmly, dominantly, I tell her to Drop it! Still attached to my boot she shakes her head fiercely, destabilizing me and reinforcing her grip on the leather. I have to physically detach her mouth from my boot, which explains all the scratches and cuts on my hands and wrists. Then, per the trainer’s directions, I must put her in the crate. Until she is repentant. That’s a joke; he didn’t use the word repentant. I, however, quickly repent of crating her up, so that in about fifteen minutes, long enough to maybe advance a load of laundry, I take her out of the crate and we go back outside, and repeat the drill. </div><div><br /></div><div> Don’t think that I have an attachment to those L.L.Bean boots that makes them all the more tempting for Frida. Quite the contrary. I have another pair of boots that are warmer, and taller, thus allowing me to walk in higher snow. But they have a fur fringe on top and most disastrously, they have laces. Frida’s compulsion to nip, bite, cudgel, and own both the laces and the fur fringe is far beyond my ability to attempt training. Instead, I make do with what I hope are less enticing boots. </div><div><br /></div><div> After lunch things get complicated by my hazard orange fleece gloves. Perhaps by midday the boots are boring her, so now whenever I am garbing up to head outside, Frida lunges for my gloves. It is too cold to be outside without gloves, and to let her grab a bright orange glove and run off with it, is to lose face completely, and acknowledge that I am not now nor will ever be Alpha material. </div><div><br /></div><div> I am looking into the local options for Puppy Daycare. Yes, it exists.
</div></div>Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-65823972731601830772020-01-29T13:14:00.002-05:002020-01-30T18:18:50.342-05:00It's OLMSTED, damn it. If you thought, as I did, that a couple of years back we (my sister and I) had finished sorting and purging the files from my Mother’s capacious and apparently infinite file cabinets back at the Orchard, you would be wrong, as I was. Several of the files in question had merely decamped to my sister’s house in Maine, “to be sorted later”. That later was last weekend. While winter behaved somewhat wintrily outside, we sat by our living room fire and went through files upon files containing my mother’s correspondence, every last letter saved, every copy of her letters saved as well. <br />
<br />
It was after many hours of skimming and consigning to the flames those pounds of paper, heavy weight typing paper as well as feathery onionskin airmail paper, that we were rewarded with a file labeled “Olmsted.” <br />
<br />
We all know that in life there are many things we cannot change. If you’ve ever had children or been in a relationship, even with a colony of bees, sooner or later you accept that you cannot change others. If you live in the world, you know that no amount of wishing and letter writing, no amount of gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts can alter the outcome of recent elections.<br />
My mother knew this as well as anyone. But there were things she could change, there were solecisms she could repair, and there were misspellings she could correct. Again and again. <br />
<br />
My mother’s Olmsted file contained copies of at least twenty letters she had written over the years in her effort to assure the name of America’s greatest landscape architect its correct orthography. The file also included the original of the document containing the incorrect spelling, and the tragically few acknowledgments or thanks she received for her efforts. <br />
Here are selections from the collected misspellings of Frederick Law Olmsted. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2pKI8M5xuUf9e2KZiyYbBL5nFcbauSnxYi0WamKyQPgunKf_YH3DAtu3w20TqOhF2bGCvSpyXzG0q6Oq47tXhQ2nvz9LsE-uk_qkANRhuFtQTzgg5f1P78Jc4PC_YUs3U4xRH9G7Iz54/s1600/200px-Frederick_Law_Olmsted.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2pKI8M5xuUf9e2KZiyYbBL5nFcbauSnxYi0WamKyQPgunKf_YH3DAtu3w20TqOhF2bGCvSpyXzG0q6Oq47tXhQ2nvz9LsE-uk_qkANRhuFtQTzgg5f1P78Jc4PC_YUs3U4xRH9G7Iz54/s320/200px-Frederick_Law_Olmsted.jpg" width="193" height="320" data-original-width="200" data-original-height="331" /></a> <i>FLO, by John Singer Sargent. From Wiki</i><br />
<br />
1. An undated flyer from The Turpin Bannister Chapter of the Society of Architectural Historians, announcing their fall tours. A highlight of one was to be “lectures by two of the editors of the Olmstead Papers (sic) on Dowling and Olmstead (sic) as fathers of the American tradition in landscape architecture.”<br />
<br />
2. 1980. An invitation from Senator Oliver Ames to a reception at his home “Langwater” in North Easton, Ma. In a paragraph describing historic Easton, we read of “the landscaping of Frederick Law Olmstead (sic).”<br />
<br />
3. October 1981. A mailing from the Membership Director of The Trustees of Reservations, in which she referred to “a fall Olmstead (sic) tour”, and then announcing her intention to “research the Olmstead (sic) society.”<br />
<br />
4. February 1983. <i>The Hingham Journal</i>. The first question in their “Hingham Quiz” was: “Who designed the period garden at the Old Ordinary?”. The answer given was Frederick Law Olmstead (sic).<br />
<br />
5. March 1983. Newsletter from the Boston Society of Architects, a notice for an exhibit at MIT’s Graduate Center of Design about Central Park, designed by Frederick Law Olmstead” (sic). His name is also misspelled in the listing for lectures. <br />
<br />
6. 1984. On page 502 of Samuel Elliot Morrison’s <i>The Oxford History of the American People</i>, the name is rendered as Olmstead (sic).<br />
<br />
7. 1987. A flyer from the Metropolitan Museum of Art advertising their inshore cruise, “New England Collections.” It describes the carriage paths in Acadia National Park on MDI as “designed by Frederick Law Olmstead” (sic)<br />
<br />
8. 1988. An engraved invitation from the Trustees of Reservations to the annual dinner of the 1891 Society, to be held at Castle Hill, in Ipswich. ….the gardens designed by the Olmstead Brothers (sic).<br />
<br />
9. 1989. <i>The Most Beautiful House in the World</i>, by Witold Rybczynski. On page 109 Olmsted is correctly spelled once, but then in the next paragraph, it is given the usual misspelling. <br />
<br />
10. January 1990. Flyer from The Old South Meeting House, Boston, advertising a lecture series. On January 18th the lecture was “Frederick Law Olmstead (sic) and the Emerald Necklace”.<br />
<br />
11. March 1990. In the Society of Architectural Historians Journal, a list of winners of the Alice David Hitchcock Book Award. The award in 1974 was given to Laura Wood Roper for <i>FLO, A Biography of Frederick Law Olmstead </i>(sic).<br />
<br />
12. May 1993. Article in <i>The Boston Globe</i> about the town of Easton, Ma. <br />
<br />
13. February 1994. Biltmore Estate Catalogue. The pictures are elegant but the spelling is, again, wrong. Describing the “Olmstead (sic) Garden”, we read ..”Frederick Law Olmstead (sic), the noted designer of New York’s Central Park…”<br />
<br />
14. October 1997. A brochure for the Newport Art Association about Central Park misspelled Olmsted’s name. Monique kindly suggested this might be a typographical error, as “he is too well known and recognized not to have his name correctly spelled.”<br />
<i>For this she received a grateful letter from the director of the Newport Art Museum.</i><br />
<br />
15. October 1997. <i>The Hingham Journal</i>. In an otherwise fine article about the Trustees of the Reservations’ properties, the name of the “greatest American landscape architect” was, again, misspelled. <br />
<br />
16. January 1998. <i>The Patriot Ledger</i> of Quincy, Ma. Monique noted “You are not the first to make this mistake, but I was unhappy to see it in the Patriot Ledger which I admire and read daily.”<br />
<br />
17. Winter 1998. The New England Hosta Society “Hosta News”. A member’s hosta garden in Chestnut Hill was described as having been designed by Frederick Law Olmstead (sic).<br />
<i>In the Spring Hosta Newsletter, thanks were given to an “alert member” for pointing out the egregious error. </i><br />
<br />
18. May 1998. Shockingly, in the Style section of <i>The New York Times</i>, in a paragraph nestled amid Bill Cunningham’s iconic photos of ladies in pastel suits and flowery hats, was this unfortunate reference: “The annual Frederick Law Olmstead (sic) Awards Luncheon…”<br />
<br />
19. March 1999. In <i>The New York Times</i>, an article about Vanderbilt’s library at Biltmore, North Carolina. Monique clearly was more than usually disturbed by this. She wrote: “Please, please, please……not in the New York Times……..Banish the “a”, it belongs in homestead, not in Olmsted.”<br />
<i>I am happy to report that Monique received a handwritten thank you from the writer, Peter Applebome, for spotting the error. </i><br />
<br />
20. July 1999.<i> The Boston Globe</i>. In an article about “Eastholm”, the summer home of Richard and Annie Hoe in Seal Harbor, Maine, the beautiful but now overgrown gardens were said to have been designed by Frederick Law Olmstead (sic). Within two days of the article’s publication my mother sent off a correction.<br />
<br />
Why did she stop? Is it possible that after the turn of the century the print media consistently spelled Olmsted correctly?<br />
Or did my mother decide that she had done all that was possible to remedy human error in this instance? What happened to her sense of righteous indignation? <br />
<br />
When I see my mother now, in the twenty-first century, and she asks me who I am and cheerfully points out the window at the skirts (sic) that are coming inside, then sighs and says, “I saw them, they had everything there. It worked out, it worked out nicely,” I miss the mother who valiantly strove to give Olmsted the correct spelling of his name in the last century. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-24457730784977166912019-10-22T08:24:00.000-04:002019-10-22T08:24:13.908-04:00The Best Tempest. Ever. First my friend Marianna told me that she had been asked to play the part of Prospero in a production on the Tempest on the island of Cuttyhunk.<br />
Cuttyhunk? I said.<br />
Yes, do you know it? She said.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKhytnBVCZv5QOJecjDqXDBwlUwWLoSp2fYkOIOXmNLL5sbWFcyyy5i2OVx_-2dsz_aWIfsIyl3LdYEmgnqpBhd97EGLdbBxBfCg6F-y6xj-AfOkd52Jgw_sDezT9sIZ4Ul1JvRQec_xs/s1600/IMG_0457+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKhytnBVCZv5QOJecjDqXDBwlUwWLoSp2fYkOIOXmNLL5sbWFcyyy5i2OVx_-2dsz_aWIfsIyl3LdYEmgnqpBhd97EGLdbBxBfCg6F-y6xj-AfOkd52Jgw_sDezT9sIZ4Ul1JvRQec_xs/s200/IMG_0457+.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><i>Dolphins off Cuttyhunk.</i><br />
Of all the beautiful, rocky, sandy, tick-infected, and tiny islands in the world, Cuttyhunk is the one I know the best. This is entirely due to the fishing gene. I do not have the fishing gene. But the fishing gene treads a very wide path through my family tree: I have one uncle, one brother, one cousin, one niece (daughter of brother) and one nephew (son of another brother who does not have the gene) who are all afflicted with the fishing gene. And people with the fishing gene flock to Cuttyhunk like pilgrims to Lourdes.* The rest of us follow because, even without the fishing gene, Cuttyhunk is lovely, remote, quiet, and weird in several very good ways. It is an isle full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.<br />
<br />
So, yes, I know Cuttyhunk.<br />
And if my friend is going to be Prospero, I will come to see her. <br />
She tells me the name of the fellow who will produce this island Tempest. I have no idea who he is, but of course my cousin and his wife who spend summers on Cuttyhunk and know its history down to the sassafras yields in 1699 know him, and fill me in on certain particulars.<br />
<br />
Months pass.<br />
A year passes. <br />
I ask Marianna when she will be Prospero, and she says the date is not yet fixed. I give her the dates of several upcoming weddings of nieces and nephews (none of the fishing gene genre) so that, assuming she has any say in the matter, The Tempest will not be performed on those dates. <br />
Then there is a date. She had no say, and neither did I, so it was pure lucky chance that the performance occurred on a day when no relative of mine was getting hitched. <br />
<br />
One of the Cuttyhunk particulars about which my cousins alerted me was the Triple E threat. <br />
My cousins kindly sent a link to a site where one can buy clothes already permeated with<br />
Permethrin, a chemical insecticide that behaves like natural extracts from the chrysanthemum flower. If only I knew more about the natural behavior of chrysanthemums. My cousin Heidi, my traveling companion and fellow-braver of arachnid threats, and I proceeded to order several articles of clothing thus permeated. I tried not to think too much about the possible ill effects of wearing so much permethrin next to my body. If it repels ticks and mosquitoes, who in the grand scheme of things are similar to me in many ways, then what will it do to me?<br />
<br />
The day before my departure for Cuttyhunk, Heidi called to tell me that our ride to the island, aboard the water taxi ‘Seahorse’, was cancelled, due to the Gale Force Winds expected. Of course there were Gale Force Winds and Small Craft Warnings, because we were going to see The Tempest. Get it? The Tempest. Still, no Seahorse. <br />
After several amusing conversations about this uncanny convergence of weather and theater, we decided to take the ferry that departed New Bedford at 6pm. The ferry is larger than the Seahorse, and can manage high seas. Or medium high seas.<br />
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Driving to New Bedford I stopped in New Haven for lunch with a friend, and while we were walking from lunch to the Women’s Fountain at Yale, we heard a ruckus. On the corner of York and Elm was a man shouting about Jesus and sinners into a very amplified microphone. I read his sign and learned that it was SIN AWARENESS DAY. I wanted to believe that this particular day, this day when I happened to be in New Haven en route to Cuttyhunk, was the one and only particular SIN AWARENESS DAY. The way March 25th is Mustard Awareness Day and July 26th is Kiss a Wallaby Day. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXLdjButWg8Zpzfzr61-W914ZRVFJylon15dh8CZxHA6Prd96ykkHC-CpncgefBe9bhyV-9qRy6Urup1-aKU8DXohCafT09ycERNU8PhPHGLJ_X43djeWRceZzyCZ-iKH3kBf6I09voo/s1600/IMG_0031+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXLdjButWg8Zpzfzr61-W914ZRVFJylon15dh8CZxHA6Prd96ykkHC-CpncgefBe9bhyV-9qRy6Urup1-aKU8DXohCafT09ycERNU8PhPHGLJ_X43djeWRceZzyCZ-iKH3kBf6I09voo/s320/IMG_0031+2.jpeg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
Naturally I am aware of my sins every day, and most evenings.<br />
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Then I met Heidi in New Bedford and we took the ferry to Cuttyhunk. <br />
As previously mentioned, Cuttyhunk is famous for its fishing. It is not famous as the inspiration for Shakespeare’s Tempest. Exactly one 19th writer posited that Shakespeare had read the journals of a sailor who had traveled to Cuttyhunk with Bartholomew Gosnold in 1602. The crew came ashore, collected several bales of wild sassafras, a valuable commodity in London, as it was considered to be a cure for syphilis. Which it was not. Twenty two days later, they all sailed back to England, so that real American history could begin properly in 1620.** The sailor wrote up his journals of sailing to this tiny island full of sassafras, ticks and quahogs, and it is within the realm of possibility that Shakespeare read the journals and was thereby inspired to write The Tempest. <br />
It’s not much to go on, but it makes an excellent raison d’être for producing the play on a tiny island with exactly 12 year-round residents.<br />
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I am chagrinned to report that the trip from New Bedford to Cuttyhunk was remarkably smooth. We had lovely views of Penikese at sunset.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwPGcvf4-w7mhjPmozCLgZpuJCXiT-gHUnxjQDsL2H_t5lHoslUAOLRSkAovvZt8ESMQ0OHmwFBQwkrAPyXGmthE4KcwoL24c70u99EC-WFW1HFHeKr87DecUOrd_MbLmFo-ywJ3ccvo/s1600/IMG_0035+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwPGcvf4-w7mhjPmozCLgZpuJCXiT-gHUnxjQDsL2H_t5lHoslUAOLRSkAovvZt8ESMQ0OHmwFBQwkrAPyXGmthE4KcwoL24c70u99EC-WFW1HFHeKr87DecUOrd_MbLmFo-ywJ3ccvo/s320/IMG_0035+2.jpeg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
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The next day presented a sunny countenance, but windy. Very windy. Wind does not bother ticks, but it can send vessels off course and onto the shoals. During the dress rehearsal Prospero shouted her lines over and across the northerly winds.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Yo98619MPpDgkAWgr0h1S8LcWLCQJ_DWk6Ulldlgj9P5KA3OXRe0iK5fYSg_e3nnNq0l-nuiwGi0AkdQMb4x0JFVPj3pYV60OxnqJTdnAiTesWTHpTkUvqCP9MU1v6g5ChxS65mFfwQ/s1600/IMG_0045.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Yo98619MPpDgkAWgr0h1S8LcWLCQJ_DWk6Ulldlgj9P5KA3OXRe0iK5fYSg_e3nnNq0l-nuiwGi0AkdQMb4x0JFVPj3pYV60OxnqJTdnAiTesWTHpTkUvqCP9MU1v6g5ChxS65mFfwQ/s320/IMG_0045.jpeg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
Then it was showtime, and the wind died down. From all over the island, from all over the fifty acres that are sparsely inhabited, people and golf carts converged on the slope overlooking Westend Pond and the Outer Bunker. Actually, almost everyone came from either the <a href="https://www.avaloncuttyhunk.com/">Avalon</a>, or PetesplaceRentals.***<br />
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About thirty of us, many wearing multiple layers of clothing sprayed with the above-mentioned permethrin, sat upon blankets and rugs likewise sprayed with permethrin, spread over the rough grass that is home to multitudes of vectors of Triple E, Lyme disease, of ehrlichiosis, of a “torment to lay upon the damned”, of “all the infections that the sun sucks up from bogs, fens, flats, all wound with adders, who with cloven tongues do hiss [] into madness.”<br />
Accompanied by beautiful live music played on a massive bass and two other instruments I can’t recall (and this is why a printed program would have been helpful), the play began.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDYN-eSQwy09BijFa1ipFrmBtfwjk5zKsKAb6gLxdVXAfqwfInqH4Qcpgp_3iwNMXpeJDby17JX0Gx2Lz80Vc5LZiwDVI6K-oM7-Z79eITDRB6lXcQ9oZAhiKcWZy3Sl0wk60orpg2Gs/s1600/IMG_0063.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDYN-eSQwy09BijFa1ipFrmBtfwjk5zKsKAb6gLxdVXAfqwfInqH4Qcpgp_3iwNMXpeJDby17JX0Gx2Lz80Vc5LZiwDVI6K-oM7-Z79eITDRB6lXcQ9oZAhiKcWZy3Sl0wk60orpg2Gs/s320/IMG_0063.jpeg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
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Prospero “put the wild waters in this roar… and the sea mounting to the welkin’s cheek” and then he allayed them. The sailors “plunged in the foaming brine, and quite the vessel.” Noisemakers were insolent. Dogs were blasphemous. Miranda (played by the excellent Rebecca Blumhagen, and also directed) espied Ferdinand (Zachary Chastain, worthy of her affections), the first young man she has ever seen, and falls instantly and madly in love. “How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in it!” Meanwhile, Trinculo, a jester and Stefano, a drunken butler, appear and reappear, popping out of old WW2 bunkers, and amusing us all. As those two, and others, Karis Danish and Nicole Rosenberg were brilliant, riffing with modern inflections, jumping and stumbling in the sea grass, taunting the indefatigable Caliban, poor Hag-Seed, played by Greg Brostrom. <br />
There were revels. There was true love. There were long separated brothers reconciled.<br />
The revels ended, and Prospero abjured his rough magic. Marianna/Prospero declaimed to us, and to the setting sun, that she would “break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll break my book.” It was wonderful, and I didn’t want it to end. Marianna, a mother and grandmother, brought to the role the depth of a true nurturer, with understanding of the great bliss and the great terror, that are the hallmarks of motherhood.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGzV2GwyB9zwVuVm8Q7JG-7BcYL5wnZCf7T9Ituv1A61U2wqHsqQWyJGVOlgxcwibPf-b4yJWwNY8Ae7m-5AxP1ISQbrHkjeBkhBkosLZt8-ZlORAkAaW9hWcik9WlqNafz3zVq58YSY/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGzV2GwyB9zwVuVm8Q7JG-7BcYL5wnZCf7T9Ituv1A61U2wqHsqQWyJGVOlgxcwibPf-b4yJWwNY8Ae7m-5AxP1ISQbrHkjeBkhBkosLZt8-ZlORAkAaW9hWcik9WlqNafz3zVq58YSY/s320/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="320" height="314" data-original-width="947" data-original-height="928" /></a><br />
It is true that <i>The Tempest</i> has been performed on every continent but one, and Prospero’s indelible farewells, orations, and lamentations have been articulated, shouted, whispered, uttered, shouted maybe even lip synced by such eminences as John Gielgud, Derek Jacobi, Max von Sydow, Frank Langella, Vanessa Redgrave, and Helen Mirren. <br />
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Well, friends, add to their number the remarkable Marianna Houston. <br />
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In lieu of the above-lamented non-program, here is the cast as best I can:<br />
Producer: Ben Shattuck + Karis Danis<br />
Director: Rebecca Blumhagen<br />
Choreography: Hannah Cruz<br />
Musicians: René Cruz, Jesse Ciamentaro & someone else? <br />
Ariel: Hannah Cruz<br />
Miranda: Rebecca Blumhagen<br />
Ferdinand: Zachary Chastain<br />
Trinculo/Antonio: Karis Danish<br />
King Alonso/Caliban: Greg Brostrom<br />
Sebastian/Stefano: Nicole Rodenberg<br />
Gonzalo: Jesse Liebman<br />
Prospero: Marianna Houston<br />
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*For example: I have another nephew (one among many) who does not have the fishing gene. His girlfriend his Serbian; also partly Bolivian. The girlfriend’s Serbian father, a charming engineer, comes to Cuttyhunk once every year – from Belgrade – in order to fish. He stays at The Fishing Club. When I am visiting with cousins on Cuttyhunk, we sometimes gather at The Fishing Club for a very hearty breakfast. I do not use the Lourdes simile lightly. <br />
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** I write as one raised within spitting distance of Plymouth Rock, so I know this for a fact.<br />
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*** The Pete (97 and still fishing) of petesplacerentals.com is the original bearer of the familial fishing gene. Actually, no, it was probably his father, my grandfather. My grandfather, Hans Lehner, was born near Augsburg, Germany where it is unlikely he did any ocean fishing. Later, as a businessman in Boston, he fished often with his two sons. For reasons that only a person afflicted with the fish gene can possibly understand, many of the fish they caught were stuffed and mounted on wooden escutcheons and then hung all around the dining room, just below the egg and dart molding. As a child, no matter where one was seated in the ancestral dining room, there was an excellent view of dead and stuffed fish. The swordfish, naturally, was especially appetizing. For dining room décor it can only be topped, in my personal memory palace, by the life-size horizontal death-portrait of a second cousin Paul Brancart, hero of the Belgian resistance, that hung above the side board in the dining room of a great-uncle’s house in La Louvière, Wallonia, Belgium. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-74855570647784653462019-05-01T11:05:00.000-04:002019-05-04T16:32:39.800-04:00Everything about the Holy ThornOf all the things I expected from a sojourn in the Umbrian countryside (olive trees, wild boars, pasta, Roman noses, Etruscan vases, vin de table), the very last was the semiannual appearance of the Holy Thorn in Montone.<br />
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As we all know, a couple of weeks ago, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2019/04/19/world/europe/ap-eu-france-notre-dame-fire-the-latest.html?searchResultPosition=2">Notre Dame in Paris was burning</a>. Watchers around the world were horrified. But a mere twenty-four hours later, things were not looking so bleak. The Crown of Thorns and the beehives on the roof were unhurt by the fire. We received several emails from bee-loving friends with the news of the still-flying bees. But I had to learn of the Crown of Thorn’s escape on my own. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIQNgl0KzUf1_tCdADgkewFwzTDAj41g_q3WYUOlEqk6L9XPBp6K5OJj9trwfwD5aoKF5PHpQ_aMB-gLYhpG489xFl-OVraD0pjC-w4mDfsvy6X4bXWbPM4TQIPR6hnNEJxOsnja7UAo/s1600/Couronne_d%2527epines_-_Crown_of_Thorns_Notre_Dame_Paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIQNgl0KzUf1_tCdADgkewFwzTDAj41g_q3WYUOlEqk6L9XPBp6K5OJj9trwfwD5aoKF5PHpQ_aMB-gLYhpG489xFl-OVraD0pjC-w4mDfsvy6X4bXWbPM4TQIPR6hnNEJxOsnja7UAo/s320/Couronne_d%2527epines_-_Crown_of_Thorns_Notre_Dame_Paris.jpg" width="296" height="320" data-original-width="440" data-original-height="476" /></a><br />
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Then we were visiting friends at their exquisitely restored tobacco-drying barn, <a href="https://www.bacciana.com/home">Bacciana</a>. Montone is a walled town in Umbria, with some lovely restaurants, no decent postcards, and the ex-church of San Francesco featuring frescoes in terrible condition. But of the frescoes that are still extant, there are a cephalophore* and a very young and nubile Saint Sebastian. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Kk7uyeQODf0gmaWvugEv6TU2Xlqt-3OWLV0K81gQGtWP8mj1ueMYL2JxVkhpJmp76PmueyfrAksDxOAueongcv_g2tZrQJcQ_Obs4jZdo3l6_g4TNf18B8s0lLO8NKlGfbMpP535Fw4/s1600/IMG_4715.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Kk7uyeQODf0gmaWvugEv6TU2Xlqt-3OWLV0K81gQGtWP8mj1ueMYL2JxVkhpJmp76PmueyfrAksDxOAueongcv_g2tZrQJcQ_Obs4jZdo3l6_g4TNf18B8s0lLO8NKlGfbMpP535Fw4/s200/IMG_4715.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDWL8m6Qv1bzBRPNKTMMFzdn5-qFgY_wavsxSEz_1v8iz-caavMdBwJFNjIt9e2-vfvr6RLUu1dVXX9FvYuFY_VVNiXCXkPbp5uOqx8LwLnNqgW6tzez1uVKCq2N1yn3Ku60mMW_zEKE/s1600/IMG_4718.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDWL8m6Qv1bzBRPNKTMMFzdn5-qFgY_wavsxSEz_1v8iz-caavMdBwJFNjIt9e2-vfvr6RLUu1dVXX9FvYuFY_VVNiXCXkPbp5uOqx8LwLnNqgW6tzez1uVKCq2N1yn3Ku60mMW_zEKE/s200/IMG_4718.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>While roaming around town reading menus, we learned that on every Easter Monday Montone celebrates the Gift of the Holy Thorn (Donazione della Santa Spina) with a day of pageantry, costumes, archery, puppetry, and handsome men in bicolored tights. Religiosity and shapely calves. What could be better? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIgsB-vJnjULngGQd8Cg_Kvt1VWZOaKOFiAG9yaZ9FSB5fupDBF3OmvamSWU5NCIJq2H-l9tZKMsq4Upd7EbzU_QjCTFHyYpzhFaSqyrpt9IRbrJk3kW37E0b-laYV3SDsU2E918obIU/s1600/IMG_4887.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIgsB-vJnjULngGQd8Cg_Kvt1VWZOaKOFiAG9yaZ9FSB5fupDBF3OmvamSWU5NCIJq2H-l9tZKMsq4Upd7EbzU_QjCTFHyYpzhFaSqyrpt9IRbrJk3kW37E0b-laYV3SDsU2E918obIU/s200/IMG_4887.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiWByiJYrIeQMvqbwUsuLi3SYKfu5_FnbKaHy-88iqBmMmf6MCvtb7KPpVTkaTru8ffl-vnEd3rUKViorLgC2GXDw7UNW7SkgGsREJtmZUVjlcyfY9zXRZ2dLtA9tYbb0u7SD_BNefZg/s1600/IMG_4689.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiWByiJYrIeQMvqbwUsuLi3SYKfu5_FnbKaHy-88iqBmMmf6MCvtb7KPpVTkaTru8ffl-vnEd3rUKViorLgC2GXDw7UNW7SkgGsREJtmZUVjlcyfY9zXRZ2dLtA9tYbb0u7SD_BNefZg/s200/IMG_4689.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKaFaFg_gkc-7YVdz7q4YGvn_utsok14PmKyIy34DzhrHt1zvChdaHcd3hSjj_9bXz4gGwRU-sjLpmW3pN2O6vLB494g_TFOL7RO-y-Nforfc25FxWJzWMjNAdSORBSNbP0zb9zF8c40/s1600/IMG_4581.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKaFaFg_gkc-7YVdz7q4YGvn_utsok14PmKyIy34DzhrHt1zvChdaHcd3hSjj_9bXz4gGwRU-sjLpmW3pN2O6vLB494g_TFOL7RO-y-Nforfc25FxWJzWMjNAdSORBSNbP0zb9zF8c40/s200/IMG_4581.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAklHki7yaW9FC0UX_zrtQA0BvObhC77AH297QDw1xlOIc2f2tFuJPZpVLICMBd39Cg0Jzu6aG6Ud5KwiQCYBwwid5SypYuz141b61Gz5fgKeb9R_ongQnxzsHkfBIdrA-_43-XE4LbA8/s1600/IMG_4621.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAklHki7yaW9FC0UX_zrtQA0BvObhC77AH297QDw1xlOIc2f2tFuJPZpVLICMBd39Cg0Jzu6aG6Ud5KwiQCYBwwid5SypYuz141b61Gz5fgKeb9R_ongQnxzsHkfBIdrA-_43-XE4LbA8/s200/IMG_4621.jpeg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
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In the 15th century, the Venetians, grateful for his help in defeating the Turkish invaders, gave Montone’s local squire, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Braccio_da_Montone">Braccio Fortebraccio</a>** a single thorn from the crown of thorns: the Santa Spina. The Venetians had acquired the Crown a couple of centuries earlier, as collateral for a loan made to the warmongering Baldwin II of Constantinople. Baldwin never redeemed the Crown, but Louis IX of France did. Apparently the Venetians held back a few thorns.<br />
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If you care to research the history of the Crown of Thorns, and the various extracted thorns, you must be prepared for conjecture, legend, wishful thinking, and contradictions. Also just plain heresy. <br />
Eagerly, I texted my sister that we would be seeing the Holy Thorn in Montone, and wasn’t this a fantastic coincidence, or just plain serendipity, that we would be in Montone for this celebration? She texted back that according to her research (Wiki) there was no Holy Thorn in Montone. I sent her a picture of the reliquary that was featured in the flyers all around town. She sent me a link to the Wiki page enumerating all the cities in Europe claiming one or more thorns. Montone was not among them. Cities in Belgium, France, the Czech Republic, Spain, Germany, Britain, Ukraine and five cities in Italy all lay claim to a portion, or a branch, or a thorn, or a fragment, of the Crown of Thorns. Even a chapel in Pittsburgh, USA, claims a thorn. But not Montone. <br />
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This is obviously yet another example of the fact that you can’t believe something just because you read it on the internet. I was in Montone and I saw the Holy Thorn. Well, I didn’t actually see the Holy Thorn because it was inside its special box. It wasn’t even in the beautiful reliquary shown on all the flyers, because at last year’s celebration, there was a touchy moment when the Montonian carrying the reliquary almost fell off his horse. But I did see the special box that was used in lieu of the reliquary. And I know what I saw. <br />
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*Cephalo-phore: a saint who has been decapitated and then carries around his/her head. If you don’t know this already, you haven’t been paying attention.<br />
**His Wiki page also does not mention Montone’s Holy Thorn: a dereliction that makes me suspect a possible conspiracy by the other Thorn-Hoarding cities. <br />
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Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-83293530792953104912019-02-18T13:41:00.001-05:002019-02-18T13:59:05.323-05:00SUNDAY ROUTINE (with apologies to the New York Times)*How Christine L, blogger, beekeeper, egg collector, terrible typist, and ranter, spends her Sundays<br />
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<i>THE NEW YORK TIMES</i>. “I am a very hardworking person,” Christine told us. “So on Sundays I like to wake up at 8, a full hour earlier than 9, which is when I wake up on Saturdays. Then I roll over and reread the book I was reading last night when I fell asleep with my nose between pages 84 and 85. (Or whatever. Feel free to insert your lucky numbers here.) Lately it’s been Walker Percy’s <i>Love in the Ruins</i>, a book that warrants multiple re-readings because it is so weird and prescient. CSB, meanwhile, has milked the chickens, burned yesterday’s manuscripts, and taken my mother to church. I know it is time to get out of bed when he comes back from the early service and tells me what comments my mother made during the sermon. Examples are: “There many of them have beards [points to the ceiling] and they all have toes,” and “Phew. Now I can find what I lost.” Attendance at the early service ranges from three to seven; CSB reports to me exactly who was present, and how many times my mother counted. In French. My mother, not CSB.”<br />
BREAKFAST LIKE A QUEEN “Then it’s time to caffeinate.” Christine is a tea drinker. We asked her why. “Because I am not a coffee drinker, and those two are the only options.” Unsurprisingly, Christine takes nutrition seriously. “If there is any dessert left over in the frig I will definitely eat that for my first breakfast course. Fruit tarts are best, but in a pinch I will have chocolate mousse or baked Alaska. Second breakfast is always two poached eggs over Gallo Pinto with a dollop of yogurt. Some things never change, nor should they.” In addition to her other attributes, Christine is thoughtful and discreet. “Because yours is a so-called Family Newspaper, I will skip over the next hour of my Sunday Routine. Let your imaginations run wild.” <br />
WHAT TO WEAR WHETHER YOU ARE SEEING THE POPE OR NOT… “Since all week long I dress for success with bespoke corduroys pants, flannel shirts, vintage cashmere sweaters with almost no moth holes, and socks featuring bees or chickens, on Sundays I like to turn off my inner fashion-meter. Just this past Sunday I garbed myself in silk pajamas dotted with congealed egg yolk, and a djellaba from Cairo my grandfather wore in 1951. To keep warm I draped myself with a fur stole, but don’t worry, whatever it was has been dead longer than you have been alive.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlMyVNHPL0K32vXJhZuqN7HKEhgKpcj6kVAvJR0FdPZsJlnS26a7c3EbInJhS5ILA0SpeY6aDJzbelJd8Cui23WQjolHFE4eVAJsostEwCFMkKY1zoW2aP3CUHbEMY1dS0FQ0xp6NGa8/s1600/IMG_3040.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlMyVNHPL0K32vXJhZuqN7HKEhgKpcj6kVAvJR0FdPZsJlnS26a7c3EbInJhS5ILA0SpeY6aDJzbelJd8Cui23WQjolHFE4eVAJsostEwCFMkKY1zoW2aP3CUHbEMY1dS0FQ0xp6NGa8/s320/IMG_3040.jpeg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndyQDDR7Ot0wZ00hBe2HfoKuMKzgchScF5O9IkyjtK6f0rkSPHngU-NGsukU4pYKhf7qJqLMJMtElS7xzhDT0EB2vqPr2mJMEp2PSFMggBiEgcF8BFXL31Vlbp6hcIxOGOw3rSONvKH4/s1600/IMG_3043.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndyQDDR7Ot0wZ00hBe2HfoKuMKzgchScF5O9IkyjtK6f0rkSPHngU-NGsukU4pYKhf7qJqLMJMtElS7xzhDT0EB2vqPr2mJMEp2PSFMggBiEgcF8BFXL31Vlbp6hcIxOGOw3rSONvKH4/s320/IMG_3043.jpeg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a> I always wear a hat on Sundays. Sometimes choosing the right one can take a very long time.” We saw a small complement of the hats in question, and can sympathize with challenge to choose just one.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIUeg1odk4W7AFUtOmU1iDdieVaDBv8XbNuX_J6lwOYqVfaP0B0DcVlzse46WsZBv-8_Wh16DsxD3dhwOGUoqrvQyAJuHuTH0iJXOiozi44Kdhvz3QOFF_M3uP3Ek_s5xZem79wGUb8I/s1600/IMG_3052.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIUeg1odk4W7AFUtOmU1iDdieVaDBv8XbNuX_J6lwOYqVfaP0B0DcVlzse46WsZBv-8_Wh16DsxD3dhwOGUoqrvQyAJuHuTH0iJXOiozi44Kdhvz3QOFF_M3uP3Ek_s5xZem79wGUb8I/s320/IMG_3052.jpeg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUz6VZND_DI8RNtu3C9Q9SZVeHHL6kWxx21VeWGkGkz1ph-8NYdJgXBSEN4bX4beIP9mvbe8dRCPNHtKzP9CK1MdNPyphTNgJTmARG6nUoc_MlI1KQVPnZAvfiJhRqCcdbZ5D73JNm40/s1600/IMG_3044.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUz6VZND_DI8RNtu3C9Q9SZVeHHL6kWxx21VeWGkGkz1ph-8NYdJgXBSEN4bX4beIP9mvbe8dRCPNHtKzP9CK1MdNPyphTNgJTmARG6nUoc_MlI1KQVPnZAvfiJhRqCcdbZ5D73JNm40/s320/IMG_3044.jpeg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdy1n0rtNof2ZnuHhhNzUlV0aoCVYcgZVKSSaZw2s9Lea5AtG_Nb3Nj76ZZkA0QclyLBP_NSdfLWO84eqwgvB898NaC7pDYT84k1c_zOWrbFR5MQn8mRMG4AdgirvcawE_QIvbOujjyg/s1600/IMG_3048.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdy1n0rtNof2ZnuHhhNzUlV0aoCVYcgZVKSSaZw2s9Lea5AtG_Nb3Nj76ZZkA0QclyLBP_NSdfLWO84eqwgvB898NaC7pDYT84k1c_zOWrbFR5MQn8mRMG4AdgirvcawE_QIvbOujjyg/s320/IMG_3048.jpeg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
KEEPING FITTER “Friends tell me that exercise is very popular these days, so on Sundays I often exercise. Unless I participated in exercise during the previous week, in which case I will rest. My favorite exercise is ping-pong. I used to be the Costa Rican junior ping pong champion so it tends to be difficult to find players who are willing to compete against me, because I will beat the pants off them and then gloat. Just thinking about the difficulty of finding a suitable opponent tires me out.” <br />
MORE FOOD “On Sundays CSB and I like to throw caution to the winds and radically alter our lunch menu. Just last week I had almond butter instead of peanut butter. That was fun, but one shouldn’t indulge too often.”<br />
KULCHUR “I can’t help noticing that most of the subjects of this feature feel compelled to tell you about their Sunday’s cultural activities. I don’t know where to start. I like art projects that also reduce clutter. My latest masterpiece involves burning old postcards and gluing them onto my grandmother’s watercolors. Since I have thousands of old postcards (still) and hundreds of my grandmother’s paintings (numbers may be inexact), this is a very useful and cultural thing to do.” <br />
AND MORE FOOD “My fondest childhood memories are of Sunday dinners at my grandfather’s house. Under the dining room table my grandfather had a button, cleverly concealed beneath the Persian carpet, which he would depress with his foot to summon the cook. A favorite activity for those of us who were not required to discuss fluctuations in the cotton market was to slide under the table and press the button. Frequently. Relentlessly. Very soon after her untimely death, my grandfather’s cook, Mrs. Herlihy, was nominated for sainthood, on account of her saintly refusal to kill us. Her beatification sped through the Vatican red tape. Countless friends and colleagues of my grandfather eagerly wrote to the Holy See to testify on behalf of Mrs. Herlihy’s sanctity, as well as to confess their dismay that she never once dismembered even one of us. That tells you everything you need to know about our Sunday Dinner Routine.”<br />
AND FINALLY “Come Sunday evening I need to mentally prepare myself for the week ahead. This often involves scuba diving. Bedtime cannot come soon enough.”<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSn84UiomjLSaz4WFXia04uLoY6TVeHFezxUHYe6bz3Z2RO3TbqMNrfWOPe7hZ9FPVjiA-8foy0t-nWdJkzfWKd0XYFPXZQMINFkJOkVkqL6iljbuJlRDZFmbjwkeKGhw-itMKEvSG05U/s1600/Scan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSn84UiomjLSaz4WFXia04uLoY6TVeHFezxUHYe6bz3Z2RO3TbqMNrfWOPe7hZ9FPVjiA-8foy0t-nWdJkzfWKd0XYFPXZQMINFkJOkVkqL6iljbuJlRDZFmbjwkeKGhw-itMKEvSG05U/s320/Scan.jpeg" width="222" height="320" data-original-width="263" data-original-height="379" /></a><br />
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*If you are not a regular reader of the Times’ “Sunday Routine” feature, you will probably not find this funny. You will most likely find it puerile and pointless. <br />
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Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-40463100032114160112019-02-13T15:41:00.001-05:002019-02-13T15:41:31.991-05:00A Recycling RantIf you are going to recycle and want to feel good –or just unshitty - about recycling and the possibility of mitigating the imminent environmental collapse of the planet – then do not, as in do not EVER, actually deliver your recycling to your local recycling center or DPW. <br />
Because if you do at least two things will happen. <br />
1. You will despair of the planet. <br />
2. You will think very unpleasant thoughts about your fellow citizens. <br />
The irony being that these fellow citizens, about whom you will think deprecating thoughts, are the very ones who are availing themselves of the recycling bins. But they are doing it so very very badly.<br />
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There are two ways to recycle in our town. The first, and for many simplest, is to leave your recycling out on the curb on the appointed pick up days. One blue bin for paper, and another blue bin (in fact the bin may be any color you like, even mauve) for recyclable plastic and glass and metal. Note the adjective RECYLABLE. Recyclable means NO Styrofoam, no broken lights bulbs, no light bulbs at all, no plastic bags (These can be recycled at specific bins outside the local Foodtown), no electronics, no heavy metals, no paint cans. <br />
The second way to recycle in our town to load up your recycling into your car and personally bring it down to the DPW, where they have 4 dumpsters for paper, and 3 smaller dumpsters for plastics. <br />
That seems fairly simple, does it not? <br />
<br />
You could point out that all our local efforts to recycle are but a pea shooter directed at the ginormous monster that is Climate Change wrought by human activities and the increase in greenhouse gases, a ginormous monster that will likely devour our planet before our valiant local recycling efforts make any difference at all to the End of Life as We Know It. <br />
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I will not point that out because, well because most days a tiny peashooter is all I have at hand. Plus, recycling makes me feel marginally better about being a citizen of such a ponderously wasteful and selfish country. <br />
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Which brings me to this specific rant. Here at Let it Bee farm, we bring our recycling to the DPW once every week or two. Also my mother’s recycling, a concept she no longer comprehends. CSB, who feels very strongly about these matters, does not like leaving our recycling at the curb because papers often blow away and get strewn across the road and become dreaded litter. That is why we load up the back of his pickup with our blue bins and go to the DPW, where we put all our paper and cardboard into the large Paper Dumpsters, and we put our plastic and glass and cans into the Mixed Metals Dumpsters. (I have to admit that keeping to this plan becomes especially challenging when we are dealing with plastic water bottles that were pissed into and then thrown out of some tiny-bladdered slob’s car onto the verge along Broadway, where I periodically collect litter. For more about this, see SQD: Rant about Littering.)<br />
The signage makes it quite clear which is which. The signage also states very clearly that NO plastic bags are to be thrown in with the plastic and glass etc.<br />
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Here lies the problem. By personally delivering our recycling to the dumpsters at the DPW, I have the opportunity to see what my fellow citizens – obviously well-intentioned citizens who want to recycle and Save the Planet – put into the dumpsters.<br />
Just this week, in the dumpsters designated for paper and cardboard, I saw: aluminum takeout containers, paint cans, heavy plastic detergent containers, a stainless-steel water dispenser, and a fluffy white bathrobe.<br />
It was the bathrobe that put me over the edge. You can blame the bathrobe for this rant. I received a quite similar fluffy white bathrobe as a Christmas gift, and while I did not actually need a bathrobe (fluffy or otherwise,) I have grown fond of it. On account of it being so fluffy. Bathrobes, fluffy or not, never belong in the Paper and Cardboard Dumpster. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7Eva42wGdh0vhEdAVGbp0zmaYvAn_4u8QsHBvvTl1CmQ6FKhQoDLCA2Nfr8gu_j-zgH5CIP2wYlxpZMVSmLyPRgVl7XMnUi-g_6JFdqqkuliBpN4O0Qvi9iP0yoHkE4NccEQGglo7PA/s1600/IMG_2952.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7Eva42wGdh0vhEdAVGbp0zmaYvAn_4u8QsHBvvTl1CmQ6FKhQoDLCA2Nfr8gu_j-zgH5CIP2wYlxpZMVSmLyPRgVl7XMnUi-g_6JFdqqkuliBpN4O0Qvi9iP0yoHkE4NccEQGglo7PA/s320/IMG_2952.jpeg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBH4-fQpil_46jYLf_znYMzLyzAU-oNWxR2H-aM9nSJufmUQZjC2lKLJwZE7mg1C3n5YC3DsOAWxqhcFN-E7oZTE06n2MhVjWy5X_afPhx1UwnnMRGiFjanAOZmxwXEyyY2A52-cFC7U/s1600/IMG_2955.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBH4-fQpil_46jYLf_znYMzLyzAU-oNWxR2H-aM9nSJufmUQZjC2lKLJwZE7mg1C3n5YC3DsOAWxqhcFN-E7oZTE06n2MhVjWy5X_afPhx1UwnnMRGiFjanAOZmxwXEyyY2A52-cFC7U/s320/IMG_2955.jpeg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
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I have not even addressed the very compelling question of those plastic windows in envelopes from organizations seeking to part you from your money, or annoy you in other ways. <br />
Nor have I once mentioned what happens to recycling machinery when the wrong materials are fed into the maw. <br />
Also unmentioned is the serious likelihood that because of the co-mingling of contaminated materials, the whole lot will be rejected by the recyclers and added to an already enormous landfill. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-11639051111630588142019-02-08T18:05:00.003-05:002019-02-08T18:05:57.132-05:00Dante and Unanswered questions<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpGb_hFJhsUXSDsRqzMlncp0jVosGR85Xc956MRL_qUT_LmZBuRvQS-FTcGobkB4zcM5GTs1kAeWAuilzFNsKRmaAgC8gJnAz_D7MaKyTSBCq8rteZL8hrswbEJQwWUMaE3IG6plGB6I/s1600/download-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpGb_hFJhsUXSDsRqzMlncp0jVosGR85Xc956MRL_qUT_LmZBuRvQS-FTcGobkB4zcM5GTs1kAeWAuilzFNsKRmaAgC8gJnAz_D7MaKyTSBCq8rteZL8hrswbEJQwWUMaE3IG6plGB6I/s320/download-1.jpg" width="320" height="227" data-original-width="267" data-original-height="189" /></a><br />
Sometimes a small and apparently unimportant question, such as, <i>Why did my mother acquire so many postcards of William Blake’s Lucia carrying Dante in His Sleep? </i>will trigger a slew of other questions. There is a domino effect to questions, as with so much else. <br />
Postcard stashes are one thing. I can forgive myself for not knowing the reason for them. I can even speculate. The watercolor, one of Blake’s illustrations for the <i>Divine Comedy</i>, is owned by the Fogg Museum at Harvard. I guess that this particular surfeit has something to do with the HILR (Harvard Institute for Learning in Retirement) class on Dante’s <i>Paradiso</i> that my father took in 2010. After his strokes, my father forgot discreet decades of his life (Please explain how Cuba came to be Communist, he once said), but his judgment and critical powers were remarkably intact. So, he kept on taking classes at HILR, and, as always, was a diligent and engaging student. That did not stop him from calling on the evening before his class and asking me to read Dante’s Paradiso and come up with 10 or 12 pithy observations and insightful questions. I got off easily. When Dad was studying the Economics of Global Climate Change, he called my sister and asked her to read the assigned text, 836 pages of small print, and give him a detailed synopsis. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFz_M-29xD3I_PAb7JoqvmkSvvRob5q4VooJmJf0PglfyBeF70VuKmoJDHQfuPFF5IAXuhSatLokTMUcKBfZBlxxVIpA1ORPPiRws9evi7LnDt-SaRyArp4QXSXc0bIgUj_jTNFL2223g/s1600/Dad%2527s+Dante+cert.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFz_M-29xD3I_PAb7JoqvmkSvvRob5q4VooJmJf0PglfyBeF70VuKmoJDHQfuPFF5IAXuhSatLokTMUcKBfZBlxxVIpA1ORPPiRws9evi7LnDt-SaRyArp4QXSXc0bIgUj_jTNFL2223g/s320/Dad%2527s+Dante+cert.jpeg" width="320" height="247" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1237" /></a><br />
Now what do I do with these 20 postcards? Would you like one? <br />
That was just the beginning. In the latest pile we found multiple postcards from Ireland. We had no idea she had even been to Ireland. She had 37 – thirty-seven! – postcards of a detail of the Tara Brooch, from the National Museum of Ireland. Not even the whole brooch, just a detail. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqmVEpsQe4KEEoR8h2_ifrdS3hNcNPPn2slbK0cPDm7-_NwMYBk_JfQ2ZPTC1P0zESOMcZlVvrY5ewlYgNUu5wfSw8S7J-EU_gvRliABagcwSQZgxOMhEPJxtQdMyfG6jrr4bKdTSnYU/s1600/download-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqmVEpsQe4KEEoR8h2_ifrdS3hNcNPPn2slbK0cPDm7-_NwMYBk_JfQ2ZPTC1P0zESOMcZlVvrY5ewlYgNUu5wfSw8S7J-EU_gvRliABagcwSQZgxOMhEPJxtQdMyfG6jrr4bKdTSnYU/s320/download-2.jpg" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="225" data-original-height="225" /></a><br />
As for the Tara Brooch, it raises more than a few questions, and not just about my mother's stash. Although it is called the Tara Brooch, the piece was found near Bettystown in County Meath, at least 25 kilometers from Tara. It was discovered by either a peasant woman, or her two sons, or one of her sons. The brooch didn’t even start the fashion in Celtic Revival jewelry. That was already in full swing in 1850 when the brooch appeared. And apropos of nothing, my mother was never interested in things Celtic; her tastes ran to the French, the Egyptian, the Ethiopian, and the Vietnamese. <br />
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No, that felucca has sailed. I will never ever know why the Dante cards, why the Tara Brooch, why the eight postcards of <i>Mrs Elizabeth Freake and Baby Mary</i>, by an unknown American of the 17th century.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPv4UgS2VPL5w83lwEfjaIsCOztnHJE_-vvlP2bjSVOjS0_GHKWUv9CjzCS61xryKkuT7c2YTi5ft6vD0oiliThKwo-qAl4pdub_F6bWPwo_3v9yqzlJVOL2rhDTy6nFBD4wN2DprInGc/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPv4UgS2VPL5w83lwEfjaIsCOztnHJE_-vvlP2bjSVOjS0_GHKWUv9CjzCS61xryKkuT7c2YTi5ft6vD0oiliThKwo-qAl4pdub_F6bWPwo_3v9yqzlJVOL2rhDTy6nFBD4wN2DprInGc/s320/download.jpg" width="269" height="320" data-original-width="206" data-original-height="245" /></a> So many unknowns. <br />
How can I not be annoyed with the idiotic former self who neglected to ask: What are the full names of the seven suitors who wooed and wanted to wed you, my mother, before you met my father? Why, when you kept so many other things, did you destroy the letters from Mr. Jago? Why did you stop going to Mass for many years, and then start up again? Who was your favorite child? Was there ever a time when you knew more than a few dozen words in Arabic? Did my father ever work for the CIA? <br />
Don’t be too harsh, I tell myself. At least five years before we had the tiniest inkling, my mother was already afflicted with Alzheimer’s. She was just covering it up fairly well. As was my father, on her behalf and his own. They were in denial. Not for nothing was my mother who grew up in Egypt known as Queen of Da Nile. Her mantra was, “If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.” Mine might well have been, “Spit it out. Think later.”<br />
Those fucking questions. <br />
There are so many things I will never know, now that a typical conversation with my mother conversation proceeds thus: <br />
Mom: There’s that nice little thing there in the back….(<i>She is lying on her bed with the duvet pulled up to her chin, and facing the Christmas tree on her screened porch.)</i><br />
Christine: Do you mean the tree?<br />
M: Yes, the tree.<br />
C: It’s very nice. <br />
M: Everybody thought it was mortar.<br />
C: Mortar or water?<br />
M: Mortar. <br />
C: Oh.<br />
M: Well they wanted to be mean and everybody always…I couldn’t believe it, it was so bad.<br />
C: I’m sorry.<br />
M: Sigh. <br />
C: Everything is fine now. <br />
M: But I have some things. I have some red papers which are white and they’re going to go in here (<i>she lifts the duvet slightly and leans slightly inward</i>) and they’re going to go in here and they …….<br />
C: OK! Mom! Everything is lovely. <br />
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One of the more disheartening things I have noticed, whenever I set out to transcribe a conversation with my mother, is how limited my own vocabulary becomes. I use more words, and more complex words, with a three-year-old. My mother can still speak three languages, and can make no sense in any of them. It is like trying to cook a meal with three ingredients, and one is water and one is half a carrot. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-42542873269681990742019-01-31T09:50:00.002-05:002019-01-31T09:50:51.148-05:00Most recent favorite sentences<br />
Sometimes life is too much with us, and politics are too late and too soon, and your fingers are too cold to type. But sometimes reading a wonderful sentence can cheer you up for a whole day. Sentences are a gift, and for these two I am grateful to Gideon Lewis-Kraus. <br />
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They can be found in a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/17/magazine/ancient-dna-paleogenomics.htmlhttp://">Times Magazine</a> article about archeologists finding bones on a island of Vanuatu, and how their discovery and interpretation caused a ruckus in the anthropological world. That was all interesting, but the best parts, for me, were these two sentences:<br />
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<i>“A meaningful national identity </i>[of Vanuatu] <i>has been constructed from a common appreciation of ceremonial pig-tusk bracelets and the taking of kava, a very mild narcotic root that looks like primordial pea soup and tastes like a fine astringent dirt.” <br />
</i><br />
<i>“Kava is a cloudy green tonic, served in little miso bowls meant to resemble coconut shells. The custom is to collect your shell, retire to the corner of a nearby shadow, take the entirety at one draft and then spit the particulate remnants; by nightfall, when even the city is blanketed in thick dark, the only regular sounds are the screech of the fruit bats and the hock of spit.”</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeiZuNpd2MpY0l0TsK4z-tQpRgO3ZJalt2__UK3tYCpW1wmLTqC2_cHr9ptwQHCSP61FaQERI1ij1brV8sJsctNLjkx0jR_3vkZXK5Hm7wO2n-uG4ATJyRpmX4dJrzZoGUq30OGC9rVA/s1600/Starr_070515-7054_Piper_methysticum.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeiZuNpd2MpY0l0TsK4z-tQpRgO3ZJalt2__UK3tYCpW1wmLTqC2_cHr9ptwQHCSP61FaQERI1ij1brV8sJsctNLjkx0jR_3vkZXK5Hm7wO2n-uG4ATJyRpmX4dJrzZoGUq30OGC9rVA/s320/Starr_070515-7054_Piper_methysticum.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="440" data-original-height="330" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZvAMeilE3mOUwzbok490N_EIZoDlpoNalPsTTTXmtyk7S3vm2Dj1HTSFFM-rwAmH9rsTQiCe4yUEZj5JwSrCbRCRD73D30bL1H8-0gu0H1l1YpjBzAgE3kOLuSyZwhfoC6lWEUpS3JU/s1600/kava-kava-drink-1296x728.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZvAMeilE3mOUwzbok490N_EIZoDlpoNalPsTTTXmtyk7S3vm2Dj1HTSFFM-rwAmH9rsTQiCe4yUEZj5JwSrCbRCRD73D30bL1H8-0gu0H1l1YpjBzAgE3kOLuSyZwhfoC6lWEUpS3JU/s320/kava-kava-drink-1296x728.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1155" data-original-height="648" /></a><br />
<i>Pictures from Wikipedia.</i> Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-16503196833241352832019-01-29T17:32:00.000-05:002019-01-29T17:32:01.710-05:00The In-law TrifectaI didn’t know what a <i>trifecta</i> was until I met CSB, and he took me to the harness racing at the <a href="http://windsorfair.com/">Windsor Fair</a> in Maine. While we enjoyed fried dough and fried ice cream and fried cotton candy, he explained about <i>exactas</i> and <i>trifectas</i>, and how we could place bets on a horse to <i>win, place, or show</i>. It was all entirely new and wonderful, especially as it involved broadening my vocabulary. I chose horses based on how appealing I found their names. What else could I base it upon? Given the option, I would bet on Abstract Expression instead of Foiled Again, and I would lose. Or I would wager my $2 on Slippery Toad, and he would come in last, or maybe not at all. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k5ybBGZrtP4YumCDOncAtj1l3inA_6c8Ku1ekzMguF8130t7z3cSL3HroZbi7r0d3j0m5UDy2I6RwjSWRh7BKIdJnZRDmk7qNs_9FwGpyJI0P5Vz3aMpN5cQGq8iDJbQdHULS8t2gjc/s1600/download-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k5ybBGZrtP4YumCDOncAtj1l3inA_6c8Ku1ekzMguF8130t7z3cSL3HroZbi7r0d3j0m5UDy2I6RwjSWRh7BKIdJnZRDmk7qNs_9FwGpyJI0P5Vz3aMpN5cQGq8iDJbQdHULS8t2gjc/s320/download-3.jpg" width="320" height="280" data-original-width="240" data-original-height="210" /></a><br />
<br />
So naturally, I knew what CSB was referring to when he pointed out that this past weekend he had survived a trifecta of my siblings: one sister; one sister-in-law, married to #1 brother; one brother (#3) and wife, and their daughter and fiancé. Not to mention a nephew, son of only sister. <br />
He loves them all, but you have to admit, that’s a lot.<br />
<br />
If we add in last night, it would be a <i>tetrafecta</i>, a word which thus far does not exist. But it is easy on the tongue, and certainly has more cachet than <i>bifecta</i>, which sounds like a very unfortunate sexual event, and also does not exist. <br />
<br />
In gratitude for CSB’s gracious in-law trifecta, I have promised that this weekend I will do something Super Bowl-ish with him. I assume it will involve fried food, and placing my bet on the Surrealists of Cincinnattus. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-14168909976666131052018-12-31T17:24:00.000-05:002019-01-04T09:02:20.909-05:00The Moths and the Murmuration‘Tis (or ‘twas) the season to deplore the overuse of ‘tis, and summarize the highlights of the past year. In one of these two all-important tasks, I have fallen short. <br />
So, having failed to produce a pithy Christmas card regaling friends and family with our adventures and misadventures of 2018, I thought I could at least bake something.<br />
<br />
Not that most of you lucky souls will taste what I baked. It is the <i>concept</i> of baking that I imagined as an antidote to the lack of Christmas letter. <br />
<br />
There I was in the kitchen, our lovely kitchen with its three big windows facing west, overlooking the field, the river, and the geologically thoughtful and imposing Palisades. In a certain cabinet I found two bars of fancy chocolate. How long had they been there? Had they been invaded and nibbled by pantry moths? Do pantry moths even like chocolate? They had not. But the question was valid, because on the way to discovering the chocolate, I came across a package of almonds that had been very much invaded and inhabited by moths. It was quite revolting, all the masticated almond crumbs globbed together with the spider-webby stuff the pantry moths leave behind. I took the whole thing outside and gave it the chickens, who love grubs and bugs and squirming larvae. <br />
I started wondering about pantry moths. Evolutionarily, biologically, what exactly is their purpose? <br />
I have no answer to that question.<br />
<br />
Initially when I started researching pantry moths, I assumed my moths were the Mediterranean variety, whose ancestors, like mine, were immigrants to North America. (Also known as invasive species.) <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrWLi7mfbJwO8eUL0c6GqCnJjqi0Em3vc8jUMz9ccU4UbawrO5FryuhvbigiacW4uXnEpY33weeFdbFAeHmTHwDzC35tGvY_fonaEmG3cOCbbm9PVUUJz-a9lUNgQ6I-xopKkeDV8C5k/s1600/download-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrWLi7mfbJwO8eUL0c6GqCnJjqi0Em3vc8jUMz9ccU4UbawrO5FryuhvbigiacW4uXnEpY33weeFdbFAeHmTHwDzC35tGvY_fonaEmG3cOCbbm9PVUUJz-a9lUNgQ6I-xopKkeDV8C5k/s320/download-1.jpg" width="320" height="268" data-original-width="245" data-original-height="205" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0INaM084Jq6N5kzbT02FeSmpBAFQrHkIdOVNvU6Tupb69ePX-6WBoTF0Lper9HYuSItJcAQx6_LSrQMO_jJHnXRq91j-PlJ1IuqrSy3SSQpbE3FjRINpGmQv0D8DnXGqYOp0GA3mzxSw/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0INaM084Jq6N5kzbT02FeSmpBAFQrHkIdOVNvU6Tupb69ePX-6WBoTF0Lper9HYuSItJcAQx6_LSrQMO_jJHnXRq91j-PlJ1IuqrSy3SSQpbE3FjRINpGmQv0D8DnXGqYOp0GA3mzxSw/s320/download.jpg" width="274" height="320" data-original-width="208" data-original-height="243" /></a><br />
That was wrong. My pantry moths, and most pantry moths, are Indianmeal moths. Indianmeal moths are not from India. They should not be confused with almond moths or raison moths, even when they munch on almonds and raisins with gusto. They also don’t mind eating cardboard or plastic if that is the best route to grains or nuts. <br />
One of the things I was most delighted to learn about these moths, my moths and your moths, was that the females “<i>oviposit on the second night after emergence. This is because they require a few hours for the sperm to move from the bursa copulatrix to the vestibulum, where fertilization occurs”. </i><br />
How often do you get to use the word <i>oviposit</i>? Not enough, in my opinion. The same goes for <i>copulatrix</i>. <br />
[Yes, I know we are dispensing with such gender specific, that is to say, feminized, words such as actress, waitress and aviatrix, but I hope we can keep c<i>opulatrix</i>. Just because. ]<br />
And when they do <i>oviposit</i>, the female moths <i>oviposit</i> between 116 and 678 eggs, in a food source, such as my almonds or whole wheat flour. Between exactly 116 and 678 eggs. I checked three sources, both online and in a real book, and they all gave those exact same numbers for the minimum and maximum number of eggs. <br />
<br />
Why so much about pantry moths? <br />
Because it seems especially important, at this time of year (birthday of Jesus, shutdown of the US government, wildfires, floods, holidays that conspire to break your heart, long nights, and then, arbitrarily, a new year with a new number) to recognize the depredations of age, usage, indifference, betrayal, neglect, breakage. Hungry moths.<br />
<br />
There I was, checking out the moth carnage in the baking supply cabinet, when the light in the kitchen changed. Nothing alarming, just a shadow passing.<br />
It was not a shadow at all.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9eZpSgOZZxM3kWgnMPFi4fe6pauFgf1DsrbSL6LUL6Mb0Onw1sQZsNPskVcDIn6dXAocibQLWXOI9nTTZgSbO2e-6R1W6AD7GdLhkyDjxnbPGMLT9tkO_EwgNefcYfcJWqBf-bisgpg/s1600/download-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9eZpSgOZZxM3kWgnMPFi4fe6pauFgf1DsrbSL6LUL6Mb0Onw1sQZsNPskVcDIn6dXAocibQLWXOI9nTTZgSbO2e-6R1W6AD7GdLhkyDjxnbPGMLT9tkO_EwgNefcYfcJWqBf-bisgpg/s320/download-3.jpg" width="320" height="179" data-original-width="300" data-original-height="168" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jtoQvNhsAs1NB58YBkt9MzfWei0dyX68VcktWFy-Q2JdK5xfeQWp_inPj1ZKlU8nCDCElg0ozYgJcj5bIKyEUBfPzkOoIrq8BlNbwWznBGs3jbAgyrUBS_UEVQpjUDc3SRxjozGNLE0/s1600/download-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jtoQvNhsAs1NB58YBkt9MzfWei0dyX68VcktWFy-Q2JdK5xfeQWp_inPj1ZKlU8nCDCElg0ozYgJcj5bIKyEUBfPzkOoIrq8BlNbwWznBGs3jbAgyrUBS_UEVQpjUDc3SRxjozGNLE0/s320/download-2.jpg" width="320" height="241" data-original-width="259" data-original-height="195" /></a> (Not my pictures.)<br />
Outside, right in front of me standing at the window, thousands of starlings flew together from the branches of the birch tree up and over the field. They swooped together, they rose together, they dipped and swooped upward again. This, I later learned, is called “scale-free correlation”. Together they filled the sky, not completely, not as a dark blob, but as a giant pixelated moving wave. Together they curled and landed on the field, and together they alit and returned to the sky. I don’t know how long this Murmuration of Starlings lasted. They swirled and pulsated; their shape ballooned and then narrowed as if a belt were cinching a waist. They grew large and small. I didn’t have my camera, and any way, I couldn’t have captured this sky-filling avian ballet. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJrI77N3OYE">Watch this on You Tube for an idea.</a> For as long as they flew, ascended, curled back and dropped to the field, lifted in perfect synchronicity from the field and flew in wider circles, I watched. I felt hopeful. <br />
Finally, they swooped northward and then flew in a wide parabola and headed southwest towards the river. I waited, in case they would circle back. But that was it, they went elsewhere. <br />
<br />
Who are these starlings, and why do they do what they do? <br />
For starters, starlings, like my ancestors and most of yours, were immigrants to these shores. Though my grandfather, a German cotton broker, did not arrive here with a Shakespearean agenda. Starlings did. <br />
On a snowy day in 1860, Eugene Schieffelin, a German immigrant, released 60 European starlings in Central Park. It was his wish to introduce into North America all the birds mentioned by the plays of Shakespeare. (Clearly, the concept of invasive species was not yet au courant.) Ironically, Schieffelin succeeded with starlings, who get one puny mention in all of Shakespeare, whereas the more frequently mentioned skylarks and nightingales never adapted to North America. <br />
When Schieffelin died in 1906, his obituary in the <i>New York Times</i> listed his memberships in the NY Genealogical and Biological Society, the NY Zoological Society, the American Acclimatization Society, the Union Club, the Society of Colonial Wars, the St Nicholas Club and the St Nicholas Society (Seriously. Both.) There was no mention of the starlings.<br />
<br />
These days starlings are considered a nuisance, pests, and hazards. And of course, an invasive species. <br />
According to the Coordinator for the USDA Airports Wildlife Hazards Program, starlings are “lean and mean. In the industry they're often called feathered bullets.”<br />
<br />
Along with the enlargement of my vocabulary with <i>oviposit</i> and <i>copulatrix</i>, I was delighted to discover that our government supports an Airports Wildlife Hazards Program. <br />
And so with this, I end the year, and wish you all a Happy, Healthy and Sane 2019. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-76578037002963837522018-11-02T10:32:00.000-04:002018-11-03T11:20:31.891-04:00In living color. There is so much that is unfair and wretched in the world, that I hesitate to describe the unfairness I encountered late last night, reading <i>The New Yorker</i>. But I will.<br />
<br />
It was an <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/10/29/the-myth-of-whiteness-in-classical-sculpture">article by Margaret Talbot</a> about the discomfiting and often disregarded fact that the ancient Greek statues and Greek buildings were not pristine white. They were painted. Painted colors. Those lustrous white marble torsos, those pure Ionic capitals, those Classic pediments, gleaming white under the Mediterranean sun. They do not represent what the Greeks created, what the ancient Greeks saw each day. “<i>The idea that the ancients disdained bright colors “is the most common misconception about Western aesthetics in the history of Western art.</i>””<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWOW8Vp_-niVEnqnXhZGLfZySMgKmVJvpkZo6apk7ycU63r4qz6Pu_3huX6cP8zWHaZuRdmFo8yTj_jNrJpcLwaW5XSR3cE9OZKIHHkBVnyCal-hls9g-so7kGJ1igaXfHPf5f7mMhfk/s1600/181029_r33088.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWOW8Vp_-niVEnqnXhZGLfZySMgKmVJvpkZo6apk7ycU63r4qz6Pu_3huX6cP8zWHaZuRdmFo8yTj_jNrJpcLwaW5XSR3cE9OZKIHHkBVnyCal-hls9g-so7kGJ1igaXfHPf5f7mMhfk/s320/181029_r33088.jpg" width="320" height="262" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1311" /></a><br />
It was not a misconception held by my mother. Years ago, as long as I can recall, she knew that the ancient Greeks and Romans painted their statues and facades. Not only did she know it, she insisted on it. She drilled into us that they were painted, that they were <i>anything but</i> pristine white marble. They were in fact polychromatic, lively, bright, even gaudy. If we, her children, learned anything from our mother (and we certainly learned much) we learned about the polychromatic Greek statuary. Also fenestration. <br />
The unfairness lies in the timing of this wonderful article. My mother will not read this article. She will not enjoy the satisfaction of having known of ancient poly-chromaticism all along. She will not make multiple photocopies of the article to send to all her children and selected other relatives and friends, even though we have explained to her multiple times about the merits of simply emailing a link to a given article, and thereby saving paper, postage, etc. <br />
When I read this article about the painted Greek statues, all I wanted to do was talk to my mother, to revel with her in this affirmation of what she had been telling us all along. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzIyFITwGTKGAEikNXrESTyZDao3HKdgovaKHgnGIcFAYLCzCu_sbe4A6-u5s9uMdFh47RIno8S4WW_NU8Bz6stTGeOc4mmh9a0W-Os2_3qsf_8mUAeob_hqtdECZHoTEtpHEeJwhFQ8/s1600/181029_r33120.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzIyFITwGTKGAEikNXrESTyZDao3HKdgovaKHgnGIcFAYLCzCu_sbe4A6-u5s9uMdFh47RIno8S4WW_NU8Bz6stTGeOc4mmh9a0W-Os2_3qsf_8mUAeob_hqtdECZHoTEtpHEeJwhFQ8/s320/181029_r33120.jpg" width="115" height="320" data-original-width="577" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-qmacm-ziYIQp9xjWbqblbL7euUO2wXmX5HmaUS5sArqUlL00vEq_hyphenhyphenDMNVzBtm3yTdhH5zh3zFtmAxDIVYJvaeHdle33xNDlmC-Wkv2bb00JPdYFx35AtdtEtD_8l4eZk4N7O3t8qI/s1600/181029_r33122.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-qmacm-ziYIQp9xjWbqblbL7euUO2wXmX5HmaUS5sArqUlL00vEq_hyphenhyphenDMNVzBtm3yTdhH5zh3zFtmAxDIVYJvaeHdle33xNDlmC-Wkv2bb00JPdYFx35AtdtEtD_8l4eZk4N7O3t8qI/s320/181029_r33122.jpg" width="299" height="320" data-original-width="1493" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
But I will not talk to my mother about this article. She is still here, but she is gone. The mother who was so bossy and confident and correct about colors, is gone. The mother who believed that all her grandchildren needed to know that the large front window at the Orchard was a Palladian window, and what that meant, is gone. The mother who encouraged me to paint, just below the kitchen molding, a wide band of a certain intense blue, <i>Izniak tile blue</i>, she is gone. Benjamin Moore, not having the benefit of my mother’s color knowledge, called it “Big Mountain Blue”. However named, the blue is still there, and it looks marvelous. She was so right about that blue. <br />
<br />
<br />
As an architectural historian, and also a color consultant, my mother made it her business to know what colors were ‘appropriate’ and ‘historically correct’ for your house, your living room, even your bathrooms. In New England, where the slavish devotion to white clapboard approaches cult status, there were brave souls who strove for something more, something with color, and they paid my mother. They paid her real consulting fees to tell them what historically appropriate colors they should paint their houses.<br />
I enjoyed this fact, because of course my mother told me what to do, for free. Gratis. Without a fee, my mother told me what color to paint my house, what color I should dye my hair (I balked, and prevailed), and what color clothing would suit my sallow Belgian complexion. About paint colors, she was invariably right. That is, she chose wonderful colors that <br />
I would never have had the courage, or imagination, to choose. She steered me away from pastels, and I have never looked back.<br />
<br />
The current article in the New Yorker, which I recommend, makes an additional point about the painting of Greek statues that even my mother could not have predicted*. Slithering in, on ancient polychromatic cat feet, are political implications. “<i>Some white supremacists have been drawn to classical studies out of a desire to affirm what they imagine to be an unblemished lineage of white Western culture extending back to the Greeks. When they are told that their understanding of classical history is flawed, they often get testy.</i>”**<br />
<br />
My mother still knows her colors, some of them, most of the time. She remains very fond of blue. <br />
<br />
<br />
*Though I may be not properly crediting her. Another thing my mother always insisted on, in the matter of representational art, was that Jesus was not ‘white’. My mother grew up in Cairo. She loved the Middle East. She was well aware that a young man from Galilee was not likely to be the paleface so revered in Western iconography.<br />
<br />
**Understatement.<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-28151463180720432422018-10-31T16:01:00.000-04:002018-10-31T16:01:20.348-04:00My Rant about Black Walnuts and their Drupes<br />
<br />
<br />
Have I ranted about the black walnut* missile attacks before? Most likely. Most likely I do so on a biannual basis. Specifically, during mast years. <br />
It’s been a great year for black walnuts, <i>Juglans nigra</i>, and for squirrels.** It has been a tragic year for my driveway, my back porch, and for CSB’s windshield. <br />
<br />
Yes, I know that the black walnut tree is native, and native plants are good. I also know that the wood of black walnut trees is beautiful and valuable. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaPUMCD2LgPOoaxiJDANbcUOHQ1bd0AEJbSDW2tRyqK8dgxyf1-69LHybEYQZYPpY117OdRlVzRRWnverTYn5LYhpGWC2cU9mUtRoL6ro4E5Ok1UC-EwwX0_orHPnzG5OpRXajc805ZQ/s1600/black-walnut-tree-Jean-Pol-GRANDMONT-635x427.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaPUMCD2LgPOoaxiJDANbcUOHQ1bd0AEJbSDW2tRyqK8dgxyf1-69LHybEYQZYPpY117OdRlVzRRWnverTYn5LYhpGWC2cU9mUtRoL6ro4E5Ok1UC-EwwX0_orHPnzG5OpRXajc805ZQ/s320/black-walnut-tree-Jean-Pol-GRANDMONT-635x427.jpg" width="320" height="215" data-original-width="635" data-original-height="427" /></a><br />
My gripe is with the fruits of the tree: the drupes. ***<br />
<br />
We have tried, really tried, to find uses for black walnuts, to justify their existence, and in particular justify their voluminous existence in front of my house. You should never, ever, on any planet, on any continent, plant a black walnut tree near your house or driveway. Because, as Richard Powers says in <i>The Overstory</i>, they are “Trees that bomb the ground so only their young can grow.” What he doesn’t say is that their bombs can stain the wood on your back porch, puncture of your car, cause concussions, and sound like fireworks when they hit the driveway.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuD2E5hycKD3vrTIuRIUXSlhI9f_Wad0HjkOEab8dR2HDWcFw01tCuCtrGWsW_JKY7dSZatCi5a-C7qlGZGMmDsnl6OwhQUeod0hAa21gxr5Q_ZpwyoMw4bAg24UfYglOm1P0vddqlTgo/s1600/IMG_1463.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuD2E5hycKD3vrTIuRIUXSlhI9f_Wad0HjkOEab8dR2HDWcFw01tCuCtrGWsW_JKY7dSZatCi5a-C7qlGZGMmDsnl6OwhQUeod0hAa21gxr5Q_ZpwyoMw4bAg24UfYglOm1P0vddqlTgo/s320/IMG_1463.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72hiFBrB92eNMGekxKIlnj6seN5_Ds9m7gJA70Wzkg1YefNOkSZK5lBxNj6rBSKpXbtkkPLYyN4m3V6cT7bcGCRaR4aG5Iyy_Ia2WDAraUMxRV0XHCUsgQlGJ_3Nu7EsrWX7rhP2Ov8k/s1600/IMG_1465.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72hiFBrB92eNMGekxKIlnj6seN5_Ds9m7gJA70Wzkg1YefNOkSZK5lBxNj6rBSKpXbtkkPLYyN4m3V6cT7bcGCRaR4aG5Iyy_Ia2WDAraUMxRV0XHCUsgQlGJ_3Nu7EsrWX7rhP2Ov8k/s320/IMG_1465.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
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The problem with the black walnut drupes is exacerbated during wet and windy weather, the autumnal storms which we are experiencing in unprecedented profusion. With the rain the black walnuts become saturated and heavier, and with the wind the branches flail about and broadcast the black walnuts. Here at Let it Bee farm they bombard the back porch where they splatter on impact and stain not only the wooden planks but the white clapboard to a height of over 8 feet. They pour down on any patch of dirt aspiring to grow anything but <i>Juglans nigra</i>. They fall on the driveway by the thousands; and they attack any car foolish enough to be parked within the dripline. These foolish cars end up with pockmarked roofs and hoods, and recently, a shattered windshield. When cars drive over the black walnuts on the driveway – because we can’t spend every minute of every day shoveling them up with an industrial strength snow shovel – the bursting of the drupes sounds like machine gun fire. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGsnbrNv6UFoMOdvpP2hBPVRoKz3ykC2bWEPpKCVDl7d_B_qYKxSneq5hRDZlMs2pHKTRX1DM82etHnGY80KuMptLjTxdMxNPnV4Ula_so_3hkUjQ-rvWT30yx2HBLxWOZJD8_BFquUI/s1600/IMG_1470.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGsnbrNv6UFoMOdvpP2hBPVRoKz3ykC2bWEPpKCVDl7d_B_qYKxSneq5hRDZlMs2pHKTRX1DM82etHnGY80KuMptLjTxdMxNPnV4Ula_so_3hkUjQ-rvWT30yx2HBLxWOZJD8_BFquUI/s320/IMG_1470.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
Why do we put up with this tree, in the bosom of our abode? Exactly how idiotic are we? Would not a normal, well-adjusted, rational person chop the tree down, stack up the wood, and plant a benign azalea there instead? I often ask myself: what would a normal, well-adjusted person do in this circumstance [<i>take your pick: recalcitrant chickens, political crises, randy squirrels on the roof, dementia</i>]? <br />
I often bemoan the phenomenon in electoral politics whereby huge swaths of the voting public appear to vote against their own best interests. <br />
Yet here we are, living under the tyranny of the <i>Juglans nigra</i>, every year, and especially every other or mast year, complaining bitterly about the mess and the noise and threat of concussion. We <i>could</i> chop the tree down. CSB’s chain saw is not big enough, but there are plenty for excellent arborists who would happily come and take down this old tree, in stages, at some cost. We could even defray the cost of having the tree taken down by selling the wood: according to the all-knowing Internet, a single tree can be worth $20,000.<br />
<br />
But we don’t chop it down, and we will not. Because it is a tree that belongs to this continent that has already spent (possibly) one hundred years growing in that spot. I have not spent one hundred years doing anything consistently. <br />
<br />
As for justifying the black walnut’s existence in our particular spot, I read recently in Peter Wohlleben’s wonderful <i>The Hidden Life of Trees</i>, that the same compound (<i>Juglone</i> - a natural herbicide) that prevents other plants from growing in its vicinity, is considered so unpleasant by mosquitoes that “Garden lovers are often advised to put a bench under a canopy of walnuts….where they will have the least chance of being bitten by mosquitoes.” He makes no mention of the danger of sitting on that bench in the autumn, when the drupes are hailing down. I have to admit that we are rarely afflicted by mosquitoes when dining on the back porch all summer long. <br />
<br />
<br />
*I will make a point of referring to the black walnuts that populate my yard as <b>black</b> walnuts, to distinguish them from the walnuts you buy in the grocery store and put in brownies, or not, depending on your familial preferences, which are European walnuts, <i>Juglans regia</i>, also of the <i>Juglandaceae</i> family, but so much easier to open. <br />
<br />
**Factoid: Black walnuts make up 10% of the diet of an eastern squirrel. That is true in many places, except my yard, where they make up at least 50%. <br />
<br />
<br />
***Drupes are “ fleshy fruits with thin skin and a central stone containing the seed”<br />
This word is so delightful, and so much fun to say aloud, that it almost reconciles me to the Assault of the Drupes. But no, it doesn’t really. Other excellent words related to drupes are: drupaceous, drupelets**** and indehiscent.<br />
<br />
*****My favorite of the drupe set of words.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<i><i></i></i>Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-61500728656917308672018-05-21T11:16:00.003-04:002018-05-21T11:16:40.612-04:00Springtime on the Front Porch, tucked inside the Boxwood April 24<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WqRTKLcy8gXOEQbvb0Qqkmyi-J8lr61UsyZw8WvT0ouMVYyJP2MKJkV7Nhn7E9FKBkGzd_MyIlkqranGmzbvbeYQbfo-Sdz6d8Z9MBV-nG8GiR2yP0DNXM6lHw9tA13_mhrXQPw7UlY/s1600/IMG_9065.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WqRTKLcy8gXOEQbvb0Qqkmyi-J8lr61UsyZw8WvT0ouMVYyJP2MKJkV7Nhn7E9FKBkGzd_MyIlkqranGmzbvbeYQbfo-Sdz6d8Z9MBV-nG8GiR2yP0DNXM6lHw9tA13_mhrXQPw7UlY/s320/IMG_9065.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb9TNGDE1j7f0gUXX-7eKE0hVHNQ59IdEj0Zvc09IZsad1IdLtOohzPnaADCuRAWTFTcW86LiXesObisGjzeRhLxwZG1CZR2Qy5vGu6LUXBsdF_qgYYFWlhdqzNWiCdOtxr9CBAgxY5rg/s1600/IMG_9065.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb9TNGDE1j7f0gUXX-7eKE0hVHNQ59IdEj0Zvc09IZsad1IdLtOohzPnaADCuRAWTFTcW86LiXesObisGjzeRhLxwZG1CZR2Qy5vGu6LUXBsdF_qgYYFWlhdqzNWiCdOtxr9CBAgxY5rg/s320/IMG_9065.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 7<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcUxeOKDhGflIYwsG7daHLTMoWdblLoLGMK88mFvdC18XCNyij6xZxkT_eI7B6FaFDh8j6JY4DAvhZqIZcvvaRMIKkGtheS-pHiRLuxkJriUGw9GE-OTlKIr_SyAdfVPNHRAyjgEzsCI/s1600/IMG_9285.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcUxeOKDhGflIYwsG7daHLTMoWdblLoLGMK88mFvdC18XCNyij6xZxkT_eI7B6FaFDh8j6JY4DAvhZqIZcvvaRMIKkGtheS-pHiRLuxkJriUGw9GE-OTlKIr_SyAdfVPNHRAyjgEzsCI/s320/IMG_9285.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 10<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_efQ0PE50JZpeQPZT5HKMTkYOe8hvirZN4ZBeB1GUIjlNvRQidE4D36nY4fINdaLSm8do-0a2v9iHhy7UGief2aKwjWTc1l_8wkzXzgxH1xqAQnldIhqxETch7kX3iZweyTUuqGDpHgo/s1600/IMG_9310.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_efQ0PE50JZpeQPZT5HKMTkYOe8hvirZN4ZBeB1GUIjlNvRQidE4D36nY4fINdaLSm8do-0a2v9iHhy7UGief2aKwjWTc1l_8wkzXzgxH1xqAQnldIhqxETch7kX3iZweyTUuqGDpHgo/s320/IMG_9310.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmKoBX7Pom4abdsc3OVotRHCiZwQWhVa_i5_pCY87coNDjeMa5wH3B-0DeLvikTJfjUOJOEerrdtpdErcWoKnp3MBS_Ffgx0ZVJ9xdhtYPUy36x1OOgBbJR6UUdU3MFhLv_-XCKjjq4k/s1600/IMG_9314.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmKoBX7Pom4abdsc3OVotRHCiZwQWhVa_i5_pCY87coNDjeMa5wH3B-0DeLvikTJfjUOJOEerrdtpdErcWoKnp3MBS_Ffgx0ZVJ9xdhtYPUy36x1OOgBbJR6UUdU3MFhLv_-XCKjjq4k/s320/IMG_9314.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 13<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLUQCFJB0M0R3M_xi1_FIk8hMELiJRlFJsXueUUf_9GjlM-cvpTHa6DMHtWNJHFpLP4mgjJt8HK66JiJr6ZSNB4KAlIDMHMFeZOC48eJbUM18-NSQR7WeUYt7ZyI5KRnf0TYCeP-bitw/s1600/IMG_9350.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLUQCFJB0M0R3M_xi1_FIk8hMELiJRlFJsXueUUf_9GjlM-cvpTHa6DMHtWNJHFpLP4mgjJt8HK66JiJr6ZSNB4KAlIDMHMFeZOC48eJbUM18-NSQR7WeUYt7ZyI5KRnf0TYCeP-bitw/s320/IMG_9350.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a>May 14<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvhCd6qZuD9hW7r1kIlaoduoYny3kPDLmUIbj7FY_JI2bRzsc9BeV378sJg56KHWWoomlWG-x8DLxvANk3Rxqq2PIFPXzCANj-P8azMLMl1JMznOLAao9rhLUl8djPeg7OeOkFFhzT6kw/s1600/IMG_9356.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvhCd6qZuD9hW7r1kIlaoduoYny3kPDLmUIbj7FY_JI2bRzsc9BeV378sJg56KHWWoomlWG-x8DLxvANk3Rxqq2PIFPXzCANj-P8azMLMl1JMznOLAao9rhLUl8djPeg7OeOkFFhzT6kw/s320/IMG_9356.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSZb4_x66CdLMyfiv19k0G4o754DOADYPOdhwl7oflo4-AmoIO97mF_WAg4NMknXWhKF65GTXc4w4HmSGDZ3v9q8CMzuiA97iP0zJ_HmayM1pE8QzVa7hNa-xwp2nPrfnwnRD-RXJ4IY/s1600/IMG_9359.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSZb4_x66CdLMyfiv19k0G4o754DOADYPOdhwl7oflo4-AmoIO97mF_WAg4NMknXWhKF65GTXc4w4HmSGDZ3v9q8CMzuiA97iP0zJ_HmayM1pE8QzVa7hNa-xwp2nPrfnwnRD-RXJ4IY/s320/IMG_9359.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 15<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbPVpQVhbqlKYO4Sj2ESZOxnFFty572YHFt9IpY4Dn9mLkPmN8m-F3BVX5lFXOpKGKq6Peucd8zRqKn10vSY71MxvvQrRnzT0axAUqFNBxt0DpB2avkXshrwWwv-n7wNn8g-27_RzeTQ/s1600/IMG_9364.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbPVpQVhbqlKYO4Sj2ESZOxnFFty572YHFt9IpY4Dn9mLkPmN8m-F3BVX5lFXOpKGKq6Peucd8zRqKn10vSY71MxvvQrRnzT0axAUqFNBxt0DpB2avkXshrwWwv-n7wNn8g-27_RzeTQ/s320/IMG_9364.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU6ofGww6cqfpD9hgi-PvzSXg91W-DhlEr4uyFLP8Np9_ZwGYcu2yNDnzm2J8y-ITgBN1AJLI4qdBcwBFcXcg4SPn4w6OASa0J7kyTu2ZKUbsDd0E3s3Hx4iFiLqxyUB1-fNYXf_wdAyM/s1600/IMG_9367.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU6ofGww6cqfpD9hgi-PvzSXg91W-DhlEr4uyFLP8Np9_ZwGYcu2yNDnzm2J8y-ITgBN1AJLI4qdBcwBFcXcg4SPn4w6OASa0J7kyTu2ZKUbsDd0E3s3Hx4iFiLqxyUB1-fNYXf_wdAyM/s320/IMG_9367.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 16<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNO0LO0DW2tBT9dgk4WLDQMkfjkwPIN-yy9GQkSqDnItddRfvR2YuMNE4WiuNG1_-7NWo9oijWUd_sFK8M2el_VgVlhpUjqJXKmo3yYzeMKX-g6fdN-HdgOZM3b0sqWkfgbqrKRE3GEQ/s1600/IMG_9375.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNO0LO0DW2tBT9dgk4WLDQMkfjkwPIN-yy9GQkSqDnItddRfvR2YuMNE4WiuNG1_-7NWo9oijWUd_sFK8M2el_VgVlhpUjqJXKmo3yYzeMKX-g6fdN-HdgOZM3b0sqWkfgbqrKRE3GEQ/s320/IMG_9375.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 17<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT5r95OfoWdeBsc6z3PmvzbaGT7zbo2Nbh21NLYXSQR7A1ey6OJWIQy3zEnjHPqDkzCB-ae0Bgr92_BNM-B4-ZZ6Wate1vv-g5NrPpw1hLBUQZUHT44w75Cllwp2TS0rpAP_d0CTaFPnk/s1600/IMG_9392.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT5r95OfoWdeBsc6z3PmvzbaGT7zbo2Nbh21NLYXSQR7A1ey6OJWIQy3zEnjHPqDkzCB-ae0Bgr92_BNM-B4-ZZ6Wate1vv-g5NrPpw1hLBUQZUHT44w75Cllwp2TS0rpAP_d0CTaFPnk/s320/IMG_9392.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>May 18<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6i7kXxRgC670sfIHfbhMnVgfoMD9pAVz54uwm_qQs6PwtXAR3By6gyctChiXSzhoBuIWpVsrk5rKyHLFC4hQgRlxIkgMR_KYn4CsLPXc-S-roW9xTy3qLb2FWe7KS8kinwwyTmCSDg8/s1600/IMG_9401.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6i7kXxRgC670sfIHfbhMnVgfoMD9pAVz54uwm_qQs6PwtXAR3By6gyctChiXSzhoBuIWpVsrk5rKyHLFC4hQgRlxIkgMR_KYn4CsLPXc-S-roW9xTy3qLb2FWe7KS8kinwwyTmCSDg8/s320/IMG_9401.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBjv8CIlDvAeqKsM2UARFgsmMbesjla1dfqPmcT8o1TCUi-Js4yyp6kQykycVO52NsNYdHfQsEefh0hi6TAB0xr0qRzh-6aVEvP9HFtOyKSO5AO0l9B7r7fO67JzabZY8mEdxULfXjek/s1600/IMG_9402.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBjv8CIlDvAeqKsM2UARFgsmMbesjla1dfqPmcT8o1TCUi-Js4yyp6kQykycVO52NsNYdHfQsEefh0hi6TAB0xr0qRzh-6aVEvP9HFtOyKSO5AO0l9B7r7fO67JzabZY8mEdxULfXjek/s320/IMG_9402.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a>May 20 The fledglings have flown. Here lies the empty nest.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8DOn_8fho3KuqY1f28nj43R2hBXx8T5U-kuE5ZqXy8LCy-YM95Y4eUNQnU_TB0VSmPI0gvbMb5mi8mIAWpTCFdEVtKSmrhuDUS9Qaq8pb5r4i5vihHzn1blLUPeb41qwuOujcX62Csw/s1600/IMG_9427.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8DOn_8fho3KuqY1f28nj43R2hBXx8T5U-kuE5ZqXy8LCy-YM95Y4eUNQnU_TB0VSmPI0gvbMb5mi8mIAWpTCFdEVtKSmrhuDUS9Qaq8pb5r4i5vihHzn1blLUPeb41qwuOujcX62Csw/s320/IMG_9427.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a>Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-6135895388614615072018-05-14T17:54:00.002-04:002018-05-14T17:54:32.389-04:00Choose a TitleDuring recent meetings about <a href="http://leighfibers.com/">Leigh Fibers</a>, textile waste processing company in Spartanburg, SC, I learned quite a lot about the challenges of the recycling industry. Nothing is easy when you are dealing with junk.<br />
<br />
You do realize that the cheaper virgin materials are, the less like likely industries are to recycle or buy recycled products? For example, when oil is cheap, the interest in recycling used polypropylene drops through the trapdoor. <br />
<br />
That is just one of the many depressing facts I learned in our 17th floor conference room. <br />
<br />
But, honoring the delightful signage on the factory floor that a decade ago gave me <b>Sort Quench, and Dump<i></i></b>, I gathered a few other random phrases from the arcane world of recycling and manufacturing, always looking for interesting titles. Titles for what? That remains to be seen. <br />
These are what I came with. I welcome your comments, and favorites. <br />
<br />
SCRAP CONNECTIONS<br />
<br />
PULPING CRIMPING STAPLE CUTTING <br />
<br />
A NON-TRIVIAL PROBLEM<br />
<br />
ZERO TO LANDFILL<br />
<br />
LENGTH BEFORE DEGASSING<br />
<br />
TRANSVERSE FISSURES<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-58039042266295136772018-04-25T11:57:00.002-04:002018-04-25T11:57:09.139-04:00Why Kentucky? Why the Falklands?Like certain sexually transmitted diseases, the archive that is the pile of still-unsorted papers from the Orchard has proved to be the Gift that keeps on Giving. <br />
<br />
Yes, we moved Mom out of the Orchard 3 years ago, and we sold the house 2 years ago. But, in her valiant effort to empty the house in time for the sale, my sister took hundreds of pounds of unsorted files and papers back to Maine with her, to sort at leisure. A very funny concept of leisure, it is true.<br />
<br />
Over the years some of us have enjoyed the wide variety of weird solicitations that come in over the transom for my mother. And for the past 3 years my sister and I have been fielding, ambushing, and then jettisoning said weird solicitations. <br />
<br />
We were pretty inured to supplications from <i>Little Sisters of this and that</i>, the <i>Needy Orphans of Cairo</i>, as well as the <i>Fund to Save the Gothic Revival Outhouses of Western Massachusetts</i>, or the <i>Steering Committee for 2035 - Celebrating 400 Years as Bucket-Town</i>, even the <i>Society for the Reinstatement of New Belgium in the New World</i>. We thought nothing could surprise us.<br />
Wrong, again. <br />
My sister just shared with me this personalized solicitation that my mother received in 1982. And then saved for the next 30+ years. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdHD2rUuDXqTo9Uqlj94aO-v7aFH5OTHkJIxJR8tS660driMHzgwS0vgNpJ_b8MBk3eXN-E5yhhd9bqu44qUFvzQRgSz4a_fRrNib4wpCDIE9EnoIxFkD9yxAXECeuyXHaiJic5WS2tM/s1600/Scan+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdHD2rUuDXqTo9Uqlj94aO-v7aFH5OTHkJIxJR8tS660driMHzgwS0vgNpJ_b8MBk3eXN-E5yhhd9bqu44qUFvzQRgSz4a_fRrNib4wpCDIE9EnoIxFkD9yxAXECeuyXHaiJic5WS2tM/s320/Scan+1.jpeg" width="244" height="320" data-original-width="637" data-original-height="835" /></a><br />
Why Kentucky and the Falklands? Yes, I know about conflict between Argentina and the British. I just don't know what Kentucky has to do with it, or why. Thus, I have wasted several hours researching the two regions and am no closer to an answer. But I do now know a few things about Kentucky and the Falklands.<br />
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While the population of the Falklands hovers around the 3,000 mark, Kentucky has 4.4 million inhabitants: in both cases most of the residents trace their ancestors to the British Isles. <br />
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Kentucky has more miles of navigable rivers than any other state in the US. It has also the two largest man-made lakes east of the Mississippi, and the longest cave system in the US. The Falklands are 0% water, but – predictably – are entirely surrounded the Atlantic Ocean. <br />
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Kentucky has horse racing, bourbon, tobacco, coal, and <i>Kentucky Fried Chicken</i>. The Falklands have sheep. Kentucky produces 95% of the world’s bourbon. The Falklands have <a href="http://www.falklands.net/PictureGalleryPenguins.shtml">five varieties of penguins</a> (King, Gentoo, Rockhopper, Macaroni and Magellanic) and some very large albatross colonies. <br />
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The entirety of the Falkland Island print media consists of <i>The Teaberry Express</i> and <i><a href="http://www.penguin-news.com/">The Penguin News</a></i>. Kentucky has colorfully-named conflicts: The Beaver Wars of the 1670’s, and the Black Patch Tobacco Wars of the twentieth century.<br />
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The Kentucky state seal features two men facing each other in what we can only hope is friendship; one is wearing buckskins, the other is wearing formal tails.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOxxP8CWH-zzASwq9_M8s3GiKRip7sNkk2qUKZJNEAdazDITcg841d0X0Qh1C1f_C-iNNcwpRmwspFlBgjlVlq_MMmabPfo12ouGBWthC3mTb8PtSVVV9P93c9SXyt_zRVVyScCrXzaaE/s1600/download.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOxxP8CWH-zzASwq9_M8s3GiKRip7sNkk2qUKZJNEAdazDITcg841d0X0Qh1C1f_C-iNNcwpRmwspFlBgjlVlq_MMmabPfo12ouGBWthC3mTb8PtSVVV9P93c9SXyt_zRVVyScCrXzaaE/s320/download.png" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="225" data-original-height="225" /></a> The Falkland Islands seem to have two coats of arms: one depicts a sheep, while the other pictures a somewhat misshapen seal.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguah-UviRh4Odzx19MzziEwnt0ZZ5JK6l8BRdNmnwmQd7vVP4IgrZ4GfHkQna8BFf6ZDEr-J-lehPrke8U0dUjGQoarkKEoEm_KzH7MpGxo7afv-L69WmtU-Mp36Oc1Ua7zS9rsZbyC_s/s1600/Scan+4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguah-UviRh4Odzx19MzziEwnt0ZZ5JK6l8BRdNmnwmQd7vVP4IgrZ4GfHkQna8BFf6ZDEr-J-lehPrke8U0dUjGQoarkKEoEm_KzH7MpGxo7afv-L69WmtU-Mp36Oc1Ua7zS9rsZbyC_s/s320/Scan+4.jpeg" width="215" height="320" data-original-width="429" data-original-height="639" /></a><br />
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It is unclear whether my mother sent money to the Kentucky Committee for the Falkland Islands. Who was this person, this Kentuckian, so obsessed with the valiant Falklanders? And why should anyone else care? His solicitation strikes me as equivalent to me hitting up everyone I am connected to on Linked In and everyone they are connected to, for the <i>Fund to Pay Groundskeepers for the Holy Wells of Dubious Historicity in Brittany and Wales</i>. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-88255849940719306182018-04-18T09:26:00.000-04:002018-04-18T09:26:06.876-04:00The Pleasure of Random ReadingI’ve written about it <a href="http://sortquenchdump.blogspot.com/2017/03/one-of-best-things-about-visiting.html">before</a>, a year ago more or less, but it is no less true now than then, that one of the most pleasurable aspects of a week spent in <a href="http://aquiares.com/">Aquiares</a> is reading at random. <br />
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It would not be an overstatement to say that reading is an enormous, and an enormously important, part of my life. <br />
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Much of my reading is project oriented. For instance, I have lately been reading Hungarian novels because I have created a character in my novel who is Hungarian. I have never been to Hungary, not do I know much about Hungary (current politics are rather unfortunate, so I read), but I believe that through novels I will gain an understanding of what it is to be Hungarian. Hence: Szabo, Esterhazy, Banffy and several whose names I cannot spell.<br />
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Likewise, with a reading group led by the remarkable and remarkably Proustian Anka Muhlstein, I am making my way through Proust’s <i>In Search of Lost Time</i> (about 60 pages to go), which led me to Chateaubriand, my latest crush. Also to <i>Proust and the Squid,</i> which isn’t really about Proust but about reading itself. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNxVB15-JDOmaxROfDiZ56GBwcrVRFFxiYsBJclcGiurb7J31RXLp9AjBC8A1G5CpX7h6lrKNiUp8NFmpeysWEhIUjklpeq2UR8QxU-qUXBkp39bM3Gf0dtJcg-0mMzTQm5jAm_XeG-8/s1600/IMG_8983.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNxVB15-JDOmaxROfDiZ56GBwcrVRFFxiYsBJclcGiurb7J31RXLp9AjBC8A1G5CpX7h6lrKNiUp8NFmpeysWEhIUjklpeq2UR8QxU-qUXBkp39bM3Gf0dtJcg-0mMzTQm5jAm_XeG-8/s200/IMG_8983.jpg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
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I particularly like guide books and reference books. Anything about reptiles and snakes in Costa Rica is appreciated. <br />
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The existence of this blog notwithstanding, I rarely read on a screen, especially small screens. I always have a small paperback in my handbag, because you never know when you will be stuck in a traffic jam or an airport or the checkout line at Costco. (Unlike Foodtown, where the magazine stand allows me to catch up on the peccadillos of celebrities I have never heard of.) <br />
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I feel about reading books the way others might feel about running, or eating chocolate: a non-reading life is not worth living.<br />
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So when I arrive at Aquiares, after making sure the volcano is still smoking, the first place I go is the bookshelf. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCCcml2P-4qC3XxARE7tENE2SBKX2C4o0ByjjxHAwGgMVxqeuxitV3ThDIGEGG2S6zyRYxsR5GuHALjvwylKxgC7gEk5FFla2Cn973TvD_qZl_OVMOSTk-Y3WDdlEE9Gkjt1dBPzGmLY/s1600/IMG_8145.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCCcml2P-4qC3XxARE7tENE2SBKX2C4o0ByjjxHAwGgMVxqeuxitV3ThDIGEGG2S6zyRYxsR5GuHALjvwylKxgC7gEk5FFla2Cn973TvD_qZl_OVMOSTk-Y3WDdlEE9Gkjt1dBPzGmLY/s320/IMG_8145.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKACEoSfH4EatcJBAicCiHtSMUj_OMnjxnsiLFj5ADzg8wcGX9ziSmN_Qvo_a2kLhPd2nvRrHU_DxTRjF_REBzQBdgRTQbQIOc5dZd-nNM68pTI_c0WT49kAvmhZZW4NKBwXrLZ4Bpv8/s1600/IMG_8112.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKACEoSfH4EatcJBAicCiHtSMUj_OMnjxnsiLFj5ADzg8wcGX9ziSmN_Qvo_a2kLhPd2nvRrHU_DxTRjF_REBzQBdgRTQbQIOc5dZd-nNM68pTI_c0WT49kAvmhZZW4NKBwXrLZ4Bpv8/s320/IMG_8112.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a> <i>Volcan Turrialba, seen from the Esperanza patio, and closer up, from the road to Irazu.</i><br />
This past visit I discovered a novel by the poet James Schuyler, <i>Alfred and Guinevere</i>, about siblings who spend the summer with their grandmother and Uncle Saul, and are largely left to their own devices. It is simply brilliant.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBXVNIk1XLkIg9Q00FxL1xZLP4m27ooWqdXjYnCDQdkq0ltun5QoC8uD1netpk9P83mCYIXN3JcotzCXKIHITlS-nuG6zrbzlxDaO2EULuvR4ZAMFiPD2aH0xBaG-ZCL5h7Ygw4DfvEs/s1600/IMG_8458.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBXVNIk1XLkIg9Q00FxL1xZLP4m27ooWqdXjYnCDQdkq0ltun5QoC8uD1netpk9P83mCYIXN3JcotzCXKIHITlS-nuG6zrbzlxDaO2EULuvR4ZAMFiPD2aH0xBaG-ZCL5h7Ygw4DfvEs/s200/IMG_8458.jpg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNybdO7uDoYDa89xp506BH4cy5fw6XCtnCL_Hm6p7yyO_ZiL0ZUpt22RCFobw2lPG5XSLfjYDBf14ShMUje-LDNnFrfuBy18pBm-QBgIH0pJx5U92e9tCQKyOpR8xeMXEvvwPcOP1_M0/s1600/IMG_8457.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNybdO7uDoYDa89xp506BH4cy5fw6XCtnCL_Hm6p7yyO_ZiL0ZUpt22RCFobw2lPG5XSLfjYDBf14ShMUje-LDNnFrfuBy18pBm-QBgIH0pJx5U92e9tCQKyOpR8xeMXEvvwPcOP1_M0/s200/IMG_8457.jpg" width="200" height="150" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a> Then I picked up John Buchan’s <i>Greenmantle</i> and got about 50 pages into it before I realized it wasn’t necessary to continue; a little stiff-upper-lip, self-congratulatory, Brittania-rules-the-waves, can go a very long way. It felt perfectly acceptable to abandon Richard Hannay to his heroism, and turn to Barbara Pym’s <i>Quartet in Autumn</i>. This story of four single people, two men and two woman, who work together in an office that will soon become redundant, and their circumscribed lives, is rendered with exquisite and often painful tenderness and exactitude. My reading was enhanced by the pithy and witty marginalia of another sister-in-law, Fritz. After that I thought I would give mysteries a try, and there was Sue Grafton’s <i>G is for Gullible</i>. No, I just checked on-line, it is <i>G is for Gumshoe</i>. Either way, I couldn’t finish it. Her detective’s earnest heartiness became a little cloying, so I guiltlessly abandoned her and discovered Dawn Powell’s memoir, <i>My Home is Far Away</i>. This was not for the faint of heart. Anyone embarking on step-motherhood could find in those pages the absolute worst you could be. Lastly, I plucked Nabokov’s <i>Transparent Things</i>, which I had most likely read decades ago during my Nabokov-obsessive period, but even so, just in the first 10 pages I had to consult the dictionary four times and was rendered befuddled (I still am) by “unintentional pun” on page 14.* What could be better?<br />
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I wasn’t the only one reading at random. My sister-in-law, Sandra, was seen quietly laughing over <i>Alfred and Guinevere</i>, and then devoured several Barbara Pym’s. Even CSB,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW75BdeVu10jzqt4kMAOBjj-34bZS8pFO5j6WecJwBEgm9VhyoxaImRVdtToK2kKJkNT-pZR11WX832LWZCArjmZN9y2xVnDYyI1_pQSIM1pX95hZyA54Aw_KNR5wCb3XKt2sGO7lX1Os/s1600/IMG_8154.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW75BdeVu10jzqt4kMAOBjj-34bZS8pFO5j6WecJwBEgm9VhyoxaImRVdtToK2kKJkNT-pZR11WX832LWZCArjmZN9y2xVnDYyI1_pQSIM1pX95hZyA54Aw_KNR5wCb3XKt2sGO7lX1Os/s200/IMG_8154.jpg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a> having dutifully read our book club selection, found some Faulkner that beckoned him. Only my brother Carl resisted the temptations of the bookshelf, and kept plugging along at Hawking’s <i>Brief History of Time</i>. I encouraged this, because I hoped to have him explain it to me. It is not exactly brief. Carl highly recommends the illustrated version.<br />
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We left Aquiares sadly, but one consolation was realizing that there remain several books, unchosen by me, that look intriguing. Until next year. <br />
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*3 Photos<br />
Oses<br />
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Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-56704012553777701052018-04-13T16:40:00.000-04:002018-04-13T19:56:00.927-04:00The Passion in a Village on the Side of a VolcanoThe last time we were in <a href="http://aquiares.com ">Aquiares</a>, a coffee farm on the slopes of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turrialba_Volcano">Volcan Turrialba</a> in Costa Rica, for Semana Santa (holy week), was almost forty years ago. <br />
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That first Semana Santa, my daughter was just learning to walk, and she practiced her steps on the dirt roads from our house, called Esperanza, to the Aquiares village church, where small girls in home-made saint costumes, were carried aloft on wooden platforms by their older brothers and fathers. Now all my daughter’s children walk and run, and I limp. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJFvY-iFFmYmDCH_-ZuW6U2R1ajucZS5mG8m062haWqMSJ75g3iChj7bHoTMjJB_dLBQAsnIboCutapsL-BqrCH5IZtCGo7DxkwGJb2plzMJKA7rTPzXqPP9zZh6v3ijLoynJxfe1-DE/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJFvY-iFFmYmDCH_-ZuW6U2R1ajucZS5mG8m062haWqMSJ75g3iChj7bHoTMjJB_dLBQAsnIboCutapsL-BqrCH5IZtCGo7DxkwGJb2plzMJKA7rTPzXqPP9zZh6v3ijLoynJxfe1-DE/s320/download.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="275" data-original-height="183" /></a><br />
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More recently the Aquiareños decided to mount the whole Passion story over the course of the three days leading up to Easter. <br />
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I have certainly heard of Passion plays all my life. I did after all go to a lamentable Catholic school where the only subject taught was religion, and even that badly. And in my hagiographic period I sought out and admired many saintly relics of dubious veracity and taste. But I had never seen a Passion play. What exactly did I expect? <br />
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Thursday evening we walked down to the playground where we found the table set for the Last Supper, on the basketball court. This proved to be a convenient choice, as there was existing lighting. An extravagantly bewigged and bearded Jesus entered from stage left, followed by his twelve apostles, with their names written in large letters on sashes across their chests. This being the 21st century, even in a small Costa Rica village, several of the apostles were played by young women. Then bread was eaten and wine was drunk, and words were said, words that that had been said thousands upon thousands of times before. Then Judas – a much coveted role – snuck out to meet with the Roman soldiers and tell them how he would identify Jesus with a kiss. For this, he got his 30 pieces of silver. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF7YT7irnCS_gpPhUVEwwrC9yCDIw4xDj6wZrseB7QBmb2_jpHg9S5lgjbiDxKk6HCt0goznL5u9pMnBV-UArEWEhIyvVqFqca-DRH9oLMesTElvpXG_pad1zYiz6KPCUfRGkgJXrGPU/s1600/IMG_8193.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF7YT7irnCS_gpPhUVEwwrC9yCDIw4xDj6wZrseB7QBmb2_jpHg9S5lgjbiDxKk6HCt0goznL5u9pMnBV-UArEWEhIyvVqFqca-DRH9oLMesTElvpXG_pad1zYiz6KPCUfRGkgJXrGPU/s320/IMG_8193.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
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Judas returned to the basketball court, kissed Jesus and set the betrayal in motion. The Roman soldiers rushed the stage and took him away. I am sorry we have no more pictures, but it was quite dark by then and I had only a cellphone camera. <br />
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Good Friday was the big event. It was drizzling. We had Gallo Pinto, huevos, mangoes and papaya for breakfast, and headed up the Cuesta Dura hill. A large portion of the village was there, but not everyone. (Even Aquiares has a few Evangelicals, and presumably they would not be caught dead at a Catholic Passion Play.) People raised umbrellas or went back to their houses to get umbrellas. Mothers adjusted their children’s costumes. It was hard to tell when the action began. Then it did. Soldiers marched back and forth, very seriously, very much in step with the drummers drumming. <br />
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A word about the Roman soldiers: there were dozens of them, in age ranging from six to forty-six. They all wore tunics, capes, fitted pants, and soldierly boots. They all carried shields emblazoned with SPQR or a crab. They all wore silver helmets topped with broom bristles in a variety of colors. (Here, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGyAlpq2c_4OUrCDOqNX0rD-G4jn9rmhumE9N2WlA_dfhbqOF_qaWv5rlsxFPbniQxCryDFV5l5lWZ068nBcRV4vKu6WAjtUIjWl5kXWT27gaknMcY-28aVYY6iv8rZn2NL33FrNvmzE/s1600/IMG_8030.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGyAlpq2c_4OUrCDOqNX0rD-G4jn9rmhumE9N2WlA_dfhbqOF_qaWv5rlsxFPbniQxCryDFV5l5lWZ068nBcRV4vKu6WAjtUIjWl5kXWT27gaknMcY-28aVYY6iv8rZn2NL33FrNvmzE/s320/IMG_8030.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a>as previously seen in the Aquiares ‘super’.) Many soldiers had leather wristlets, and many others carried swords. Others drummed. <br />
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The soldiers brought Jesus out, his face almost completely obscured by his extravagant wig. His brown tunic was now marked with red paint. They flogged him with sponges attached to sticks. He made all the noises of pain, and a few children started to wail. If any young parents were questioning whether this spectacle was likely to traumatize their children, they did not make themselves known. The procession commenced, as it did nineteen hundred and eight-five years ago, with Roman soldiers marching, locals watching, commenting, greeting each other, and Jesus carrying the wooden cross. Along the way, various women stopped the procession and spoke to Jesus, often at length. It did not go unnoticed, by me, that all the long monologues were performed by young women. Halfway down the hill, Simon of Cyrene was enjoined by the Roman soldiers to help Jesus with the cross. And so we processed through the village of Aquiares, past houses of old friends, past sleeping dogs and lost shoes, past a <i>pulperia</i> and the ‘Super’ Mercado, past the <i>tailler</i> and the <i>beneficio</i>, to the churchyard. There, behind a scrum of Roman soldiers spreading wide their cloaks, Jesus was laid upon the cross that had been fashioned by the local carpenter earlier that week, with a platform for standing and straps to hold up his arms, in lieu of nails. More soldiers pulled the cross upright with ropes, and the well-known words were spoken, and a vinegar-soaked sponge was offered, and thus ended the day’s events. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqRGjhFRX2Lj8q-xV0TB8pQIaAKe5mTX2c00tIGelbXofbAfdVNyT2DMMVQ4TI5HjZLgHr-fei_0H_ckx4JhX-UNK9I-NGxnM_hOefpxBrmeCOTgyte9ltTu-pyYxzQwfSVKufxUJvI0/s1600/IMG_8234.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqRGjhFRX2Lj8q-xV0TB8pQIaAKe5mTX2c00tIGelbXofbAfdVNyT2DMMVQ4TI5HjZLgHr-fei_0H_ckx4JhX-UNK9I-NGxnM_hOefpxBrmeCOTgyte9ltTu-pyYxzQwfSVKufxUJvI0/s320/IMG_8234.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz0HSz8GObysvMWgIdkCe36KO1VJkd_cJcN4XzzfjIyT-GUCGWmFswhKAtCGmtzaXcETQ3aexNLRVyWgO5hKYT354g8SXmOwgjDFDZF0vvssbjwjCb0mKgerTqcsGnzjVm3d_HjJbpQ3w/s1600/IMG_8249.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz0HSz8GObysvMWgIdkCe36KO1VJkd_cJcN4XzzfjIyT-GUCGWmFswhKAtCGmtzaXcETQ3aexNLRVyWgO5hKYT354g8SXmOwgjDFDZF0vvssbjwjCb0mKgerTqcsGnzjVm3d_HjJbpQ3w/s320/IMG_8249.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCpgUC-ru9n1dfPt7AN-tbKGAO_WUriO_kStHuwrfTduU8aaNOOKS5zBLGYLt6wGvl2-9HsJzjlFsoKT6vL3hbjbI_v0Ij1-55GSZVnP7oCZa55m4yUIjos9AGst3YF5dmxa31OwyVZE/s1600/IMG_8256.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCpgUC-ru9n1dfPt7AN-tbKGAO_WUriO_kStHuwrfTduU8aaNOOKS5zBLGYLt6wGvl2-9HsJzjlFsoKT6vL3hbjbI_v0Ij1-55GSZVnP7oCZa55m4yUIjos9AGst3YF5dmxa31OwyVZE/s320/IMG_8256.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBKX7f5AcIfz9249KOnhKtORPwuSfTCKSS-lV02k2eDuXlh-dTKo6k0-tQizeImmNBhPl4NbskBmEd6p1N8I0iKfop2gvvboxsMPNepitL5WRCrtAYOIy-5HiMyKMUmt8dsXP4yl8-NI/s1600/IMG_8271.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBKX7f5AcIfz9249KOnhKtORPwuSfTCKSS-lV02k2eDuXlh-dTKo6k0-tQizeImmNBhPl4NbskBmEd6p1N8I0iKfop2gvvboxsMPNepitL5WRCrtAYOIy-5HiMyKMUmt8dsXP4yl8-NI/s320/IMG_8271.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUbCp4DfuVs2du18etAQp6gIuaj4fcy3WBmxJxXa361hWpX_pAUGItmzUiFaFo-Fpnxwdk3HPNZ1NJ__feVdhjMeBetB8Y_48GH8zvh8TW-cZ79BVNCyB0u9C3gxdBhSbsDht-uHUlUtY/s1600/IMG_8314.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUbCp4DfuVs2du18etAQp6gIuaj4fcy3WBmxJxXa361hWpX_pAUGItmzUiFaFo-Fpnxwdk3HPNZ1NJ__feVdhjMeBetB8Y_48GH8zvh8TW-cZ79BVNCyB0u9C3gxdBhSbsDht-uHUlUtY/s320/IMG_8314.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD83PoijIZxPsIlp62YBozi_ScwCDDuyIF9BHALygqhBY5ZOQeOPE7_MBcPqiRbJy7EQDl0blM_GUq3LVuQuKj-vjYxagTRWTDD_y1p0NKIJRxq2fSbv_w-MIEmtna0mZx0ImRtsG_f2s/s1600/IMG_8366.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD83PoijIZxPsIlp62YBozi_ScwCDDuyIF9BHALygqhBY5ZOQeOPE7_MBcPqiRbJy7EQDl0blM_GUq3LVuQuKj-vjYxagTRWTDD_y1p0NKIJRxq2fSbv_w-MIEmtna0mZx0ImRtsG_f2s/s320/IMG_8366.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNcTn1FUNsqi0V1ahNU9aV8VxS9LLntZnsy2y9Zc2kHNH-pmqy4w06My2_-NLeHVhixWmzT-5l9IplamAkiYqg8jjdR73cqq50NF9a_kaQOhxT6m2Z39UUuJ_YBRw-4OKu-jzQJ_MImw/s1600/IMG_8369.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNcTn1FUNsqi0V1ahNU9aV8VxS9LLntZnsy2y9Zc2kHNH-pmqy4w06My2_-NLeHVhixWmzT-5l9IplamAkiYqg8jjdR73cqq50NF9a_kaQOhxT6m2Z39UUuJ_YBRw-4OKu-jzQJ_MImw/s320/IMG_8369.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnH2yvFFRaZe44zMZhRDL8cnw-jyE-BRXbkFf2ntS3TZFjG_PLPBGdAc9PhVHj6FDl80tVW3yMhJI3ZFTK-yHp-1g06vzLHWle_DiYkiYfa_24c0bwP2Fk8Qz80ANvCHk0h5GyiNGTnE8/s1600/IMG_8444.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnH2yvFFRaZe44zMZhRDL8cnw-jyE-BRXbkFf2ntS3TZFjG_PLPBGdAc9PhVHj6FDl80tVW3yMhJI3ZFTK-yHp-1g06vzLHWle_DiYkiYfa_24c0bwP2Fk8Qz80ANvCHk0h5GyiNGTnE8/s320/IMG_8444.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
<br />
What was our place in all this? The idle spectators? The gringos? The local populace? The interlopers? The Philistines? <br />
Obviously, it is not every day that Jesus is crucified. It is also just an ordinary drizzling day in the village of Aquiares, and neighbors are chatting, and mothers are making sure their kids have snacks, and chickens are squawking on patios, and everyone, including the priest, is taking pictures on cellphones.<br />
<br />
<br />
That evening, the evening of good Friday, after the crucifixion CSB had trouble breathing. He couldn’t catch his breath. It was troubling enough that, after ascertaining that the local doctora was away from the farm, we headed for the nearest emergency room.<br />
There, in the waiting room at the <a href="http://www.ccss.sa.cr/hospitales?v=13">William Taylor Allen Hospital</a> there was a flat screen television mounted in a corner, showing Ben-Hur. With the sound off. At first I didn’t know it was Ben-Hur, or what it was. I guessed <i>Spartacus</i> (Roman soldiers, ancient times, hunky actor) but I was wrong: that was another movie, with another actor. Even in a Turrialba waiting room, it is possible to Google “Charlton Heston, movie with Roman Soldiers” and quickly discover <i>Ben-Hur</i>. <br />
Like the Roman soldiers in Aquiares, the soldiers in the movie wore tunics, fitted pants and capes. Their shields bore the letters SPQR or the image of a crab. They wore silver helmets, and maybe the costume department at Universal had not refashioned brooms to create their bristly comb, but the effect was the same as in Aquiares. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtCK4TBdgJnks-uTpskooaEeoDBfTErS2FXVHBHGJNtmF-D0Mrrs4gLkvjlhA-cRZRVVT5XHYGrJdro0abMNgwo_DSvSchMvShL17-z7J0beyxyjzAJTq1NIgVuarXOx4abrYemZON_Y/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtCK4TBdgJnks-uTpskooaEeoDBfTErS2FXVHBHGJNtmF-D0Mrrs4gLkvjlhA-cRZRVVT5XHYGrJdro0abMNgwo_DSvSchMvShL17-z7J0beyxyjzAJTq1NIgVuarXOx4abrYemZON_Y/s320/images.jpg" width="320" height="114" data-original-width="376" data-original-height="134" /></a><br />
The health care was excellent and unbelievably cheap. It took a long time to get all the necessary tests read, but even so, we did not see the end of Ben-Hur. <br />
I hear the movie ends well. CSB also is feeling much better. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-71041188546338453672018-03-05T11:59:00.002-05:002018-03-15T10:07:14.516-04:00A little self-puffery, from a robot no lessTruly, I appreciate all my SQD readers, small and select group that you are. But the following may well be the highest critical praise my writing has received…in quite a while.(And from a dirtbag, no less. We take what we can.) Someone at Roomba sent this to my rather remarkable niece, Eliza:<br />
<br />
Y<i>our aunt is truly very talented and we look forward to seeing more of her work in the future. Perhaps she should write a book with poetry or even short stories? We think more people should see this and witness her amazing writing skills.</i><br />
<br />
I am not sure where Alenda at Roomba got the idea that I have poetic talent. Maybe she was thinking of poetic license?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Response By Email (Alenda J.) (03/04/2018 12:54 PM EST)<br />
Hi Eliza!<br />
<br />
Thank you for sending us with this glorious piece which was written by your aunt Eliza!<br />
It was an absolute pleasure reading this and we think that she has a real talent in poetry.<br />
<br />
Being a Roomba owner myself, I've also had many ways I wanted to describe my Seth to my interested neighbors and friends but I was never able to find words that can be used to describe the beauty of Roomba. Your aunt was able to write how I felt about Seth with just a few keystrokes and for that, we thank her.<br />
<br />
There were a few parts that were especially very interesting such as "When Roomba first arrived, I decided to name it. In our never-ending effort to be politically correct - why should house cleaners always be female?" This is precisely why I decided to name Roomba with a masculinity just for the sake of equality!<br />
<br />
We also loved reading this; "I already have a vacuum cleaner, an Electrolux that is generally considered to be a first-class vacuum. But my vacuum requires a human being to push it around the house. Roomba requires only that he is recharged. And his dirt bag emptied." <br />
Eliza, this is exactly how we want our customers to feel about our robots. We want them to feel at ease and relaxed while Roomba does all the work needed to keep a home very comfortable. <br />
<br />
Your aunt is truly very talented and we look forward to seeing more of her work in the future. Perhaps she should write a book with poetry or even short stories? We think more people should see this and witness her amazing writing skills.<br />
<br />
Again we do thank you for the opportunity to read this lovely piece and we wish you and your aunt all the best!<br />
<br />
Additionally, we would like to know if you own a Roomba or if your aunt's Roomba is registered with us. Please let us know by responding to this email or calling us at 1 (877) 855-8593. We are available Monday through Friday from 9am to 9pm, and then Saturday & Sundayfrom 9am to 6pm (EST).<br />
<br />
Warmest Wishes,<br />
Alenda J.<br />
iRobot Customer Support <br />
</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-69837165712067927782018-03-03T14:45:00.000-05:002018-03-03T14:45:11.590-05:00Dodging Bites and BranchesThis came from the Hastings police 3 days ago: <br />
<b><i>Hastings-on-Hudson Police Department: currently tracking a wild coyote that maybe rabid and attacked two people and their dogs this evening. Please Stay out of all wooded areas in particular Hillside Woods.<br />
HASTINGS-ON-HUDSON POLICE DEPARTMENT</i></b><br />
<br />
The next day this came:<br />
<b><i>The Hastings-on-Hudson Police Department is currently tracking a wild coyote that maybe rabid and attacked two people and their dogs this evening. One incident occurred on Kent Ave. The second occured in Hillside Woods. The injured parties were taken to the hospital.</i></b><br />
<br />
And for a change in what to worry about:<br />
<b>NOR'EASTER UPDATE: NUMEROUS FALLEN TREES AND DEBRIS PLEASE STAY OFF THE ROADS. CALL 1-800-752-6633 TO REPORT POWER OUTAGES. HIGH WINDS FORECAST TO CONTINUE<i></i></b><br />
<br />
But we haven't forgotten the coyotes:<br />
<b><i>Message from the Mayor: Coyote attacks in Village<br />
Last night, between 6:30 and 8:00PM, three people were attacked and bitten by a coyote and a small dog was killed. Two of these attacks occurred on Kent and on Overlook, and one in Clarewood Village. All attacks occurred on the street. The three victims have been treated at hospital and released. The animal also charged a number of other residents (and, in several cases, their pet dogs) though did not inflict any injury. The coyote has not been located and destroyed. It was last seen running toward Hillside Woods.</i></b><br />
<b><br />
<i>Hastings-on-Hudson Police Department: Coyote Information & Safety Tips<br />
HASTINGS-ON-HUDSON POLICE DEPARTMENT<br />
On February 28, 2018 at approximately 3:50 PM the Village of Hastings on Hudson Police Department received a call from a resident who reported being involved in an auto accident with a coyote on Broadway near Burnside Drive. Patrols were detailed along with the Greenburgh Animal Warden. It was determined the coyote suffered fatal wounds. The animal was transported by the Greenburgh Animal Patrol to the Westchester County Health Department for testing.</i><br />
</b><br />
<a href="http://https://www.lohud.com/story/news/local/westchester/greenburgh/2018/03/01/hastings-coyote-kills-dog/384133002/">https://www.lohud.com/story/news/local/westchester/greenburgh/2018/03/01/hastings-coyote-kills-dog/384133002/<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpmCxfFTTSY1vPkIxjPHCXPXqaZmustSfQY5DAvDcEqqIEOW90phkY8vNjqE6MEGTBzNKMyx-9Leuyp9ht8De-XEcKQJLKyyxLdtkpglidPBUCFjIBhi_UXY1AcfwjGIKsllGLq9777g/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpmCxfFTTSY1vPkIxjPHCXPXqaZmustSfQY5DAvDcEqqIEOW90phkY8vNjqE6MEGTBzNKMyx-9Leuyp9ht8De-XEcKQJLKyyxLdtkpglidPBUCFjIBhi_UXY1AcfwjGIKsllGLq9777g/s320/download.jpg" width="320" height="208" data-original-width="279" data-original-height="181" /></a></a><br />
<br />
<br />
How many coyotes were there? Are they all dead now? At least one is still at large, licking its chops in anticipation of munching a lapdog. <br />
<br />
Tristram was bitten by a rabid dog on his honeymoon, at a Temple outside Hanoi. He got a series of rabies shots, in Vietnam and back in the US, and hasn't thought about it since. (Unlike his mother.)<br />
<br />
One small dog was killed, and at least 4 people have been attacked. I am pretty sure the dead deer I saw on the Aqueduct on Tuesday was killed by a coyote. I didn't think about it at at the time, which doesn't say much for my powers of deduction. <br />
<br />
One coyote was captured and killed on Dunwoodie Golf Course. It was a scratch golfer. <br />
<br />
Yesterday afternoon my mother's caregiver, Ava, called me from the Red House. I don't want to say she was hysterical. She was in a tizzy. Ava is somewhat zoophobic. Insects freak her out. When we set mousetraps in Mom's house, one of us has to go check on it early in the morning, before Ava can even see it. So it follows logically that Ava would be rendered quasi-hysterical by the coyote alert in our village. <br />
<br />
The local police had knocked on the Red House door and told Ava and Mom to stay inside, because the coyote had been spotted in our backyard. I reassured Ava that coyotes cannot open doors, so that as long as they stayed inside, all would be well. I read in the paper this morning that a few minutes after that call, a car killed a coyote across the street on Broadway and Burnside, saving the sharpshooters from Albany the trouble. I never saw the police, or the coyote. Not this time.<br />
<br />
I thought the coyotes were going to be the scariest thing to contend with today. And the most troublesome thing to contend with would be the leak in the bathroom ceiling. The ceiling leaks whenever there is heavy rain, and today there was heavy rain, and so much else. Then the sink upstairs started leaking, or just oozing water onto the floor. And since the stand is encased in porcelain, I cannot turn off the water valves, which I am capable of doing when such things are accessible. At the same time, the toilet in the powder room next to the kitchen started leaking, but CSB was able to shut of the water valve.<br />
Coyotes were looking like a minor blip in the day. The chickens were safely locked inside. And as I told Ava, coyotes cannot turn door knobs. <br />
<br />
The wind keeps blowing. In the kitchen the wind generates a high pitched squeal that has something to do with the weather vane atop the cupola. Upstairs the wind sounds like whistling, particularly like the whistling of someone with a missing front tooth. <br />
<br />
I had an appointment this morning with the water company meter reader. For many months they have been sending my mother (me) estimated bills because no one was reading the meter. The Suez service guy arrived. Ava wouldn't let him wait in the house, so he sat in his truck and I walked over to meet him. He drove down the driveway and I walked through the trees to the far northeast corner, where the property abuts our neighbor's property and Broadway. I noticed that the new owners of the Forge Cottage had installed a large wooden compost pile on our property, on our side of the fence. That seemed odd. I was thinking about how to address this issue, in a neighborly way. I haven't even met these new neighbors, and I didn't want the first thing I said to them to be: <i>Please put your compost onto your side of the fence. And welcome to the neighborhood.</i> Meanwhile, the water meter was right where CSB said it was. Then the young man headed back to his truck to get his tools, and I was still in the wooded area checking out the snow drops when there was ominous cracking, and then more ominous cracking and then an enormous limb came down, snapping off more limbs on its way down. I started running away from the falling tree, when I heard more and louder cracking, and an even bigger tree came down. I kept running to get out of the trees. The meter guy quickly departed, leaned out the window of his van and said they would call to make another appointment. <br />
<br />
In the grand Darwinian tradition of idiots going for walks in swampy woods during a wind storm, I was almost flattened by a tree. <br />
<br />
Afterward,I stopped in to see Mom and Ava (still all agog about the coyote). I did not mention the near miss by the descending tree.Going home I kep far away from any trees. <br />
<br />
Just a few minutes ago I was having yogurt and berries in the dining room (the kitchen table can't go back until tomorrow) when I heard another loud crack and watched as the biggest of the birch trees went crashing down. Away from the house. That is two trees I've dodged today. I am feeling superstitious. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fQdmPkUFeP8h2SxZLjm2r3hVqLUIyL4vRbBdyPV6USijC3E6kYgmlCJuiye014xRmiqtg3tCctuKVc2kQ6L-1Fewy8zE3LwB9nZgkMn4YZ_V-KUwWm3xUoH8VIXBAPFUUioZLBySRIE/s1600/IMG_7817.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fQdmPkUFeP8h2SxZLjm2r3hVqLUIyL4vRbBdyPV6USijC3E6kYgmlCJuiye014xRmiqtg3tCctuKVc2kQ6L-1Fewy8zE3LwB9nZgkMn4YZ_V-KUwWm3xUoH8VIXBAPFUUioZLBySRIE/s320/IMG_7817.JPG" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUE6zBL6MWVuuXsaVDpNlyouaq80UvJRX9j5cbCwp96Y-L0QBvwSv31YWUhV7zxYBAynOtIV8VB3j625kITgXQCs0Os4Z3YUa57lhKIaNcN5KD6rszK5QO71aJfnuN0oylN9_qdkTh1w/s1600/IMG_1595.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUE6zBL6MWVuuXsaVDpNlyouaq80UvJRX9j5cbCwp96Y-L0QBvwSv31YWUhV7zxYBAynOtIV8VB3j625kITgXQCs0Os4Z3YUa57lhKIaNcN5KD6rszK5QO71aJfnuN0oylN9_qdkTh1w/s320/IMG_1595.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3aARXUXz8BzRFHzW5SWd5JJJs7eKbjNbexqw0uwCyb8Yj5RdM7XJiimtRWshxRMo1HB2B7UwnVZtDtkr5zn_-t2Yr9glP4_X7faxmgdLxz_SUKvrUZxDyjp_CFNgjmlITo-xrw33rD8/s1600/IMG_5781.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3aARXUXz8BzRFHzW5SWd5JJJs7eKbjNbexqw0uwCyb8Yj5RdM7XJiimtRWshxRMo1HB2B7UwnVZtDtkr5zn_-t2Yr9glP4_X7faxmgdLxz_SUKvrUZxDyjp_CFNgjmlITo-xrw33rD8/s320/IMG_5781.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1k3Md-M6tq8xmOoGMPCiJI4J22pnQ4jidpJ1mXYrafiUsdL0h39e1PMPt60NF_bL8Kb96l0kRKQxAKjA5u_1SrEzWpQbn9IhM-aR_Loyr-9gYT7cvj_1yJv0tHme9qGaxfdUi9CLxuQ/s1600/IMG_9106.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1k3Md-M6tq8xmOoGMPCiJI4J22pnQ4jidpJ1mXYrafiUsdL0h39e1PMPt60NF_bL8Kb96l0kRKQxAKjA5u_1SrEzWpQbn9IhM-aR_Loyr-9gYT7cvj_1yJv0tHme9qGaxfdUi9CLxuQ/s320/IMG_9106.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
<br />
The birch is iconic to this house and this property. Something inside my head cracked with it. <br />
<br />
PS: This was written yesterday, but I I couldn't post it as we had no internet. We still don't. I am getting creative. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-85746026041964394272018-02-27T15:33:00.000-05:002018-02-27T15:33:02.436-05:00All stamps, all the timeIt doesn’t happen often that CSB suggests a blog topic. How about never? However he has frequently pointed out subjects that he thinks do not warrant attention on SQD. Anything hagiographic. I would like to point out that many months if not years have passed since I have alluded to any saints, martyrs, or medieval mystics on these (imaginary, cyber) pages. <br />
<br />
But CSB just suggested that I write about the stamps. The very many stamps. Back at the Orchard, my sister and I always knew that my mother had a large stash of stamps in her desk drawers. We had no idea of just how large. <br />
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Let’s have some context: Stamp collecting used to be a very respectable pastime. Lots of people collected stamps, traded stamps, and pasted stamps into albums. People acquired stamps from shops, from post offices, and from letters, back when the sending and receiving of letters was considered normal. Bon Papa, who traveled everywhere and loved geography, collected stamps from the countries he lived in, specifically Egypt and Indochina. As a child, whenever I visited my father’s office on Essex Street in Boston, I was allowed to roam free in the sample room and snip foreign stamps from the hundreds of samples of cotton linters and combers that were sent in brown paper from all over the world. In my memory, the sample room is the size of a coffee <i>beneficio</i>, and dimly lit; there are rows upon rows of wooden shelves and the samples are stacked on the shelves from floor to ceiling. I am guessing that my spatial memory is affected by my relative puniness at the time. I would bring my treasures home, soak them in water, and then, using special tweezers, put them in my stamp album. I was a strange and geeky child, but this was not the strangest thing I did. My collection skewed heavily toward cotton-growing countries: Turkey, Pakistan, Ethiopia India, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Brazil, and Mexico. <br />
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No one knows if my mother collected stamps herself, back when. Now we will never know. But we have figured out that sometime in the 1970’s, or maybe earlier, she started buying US commemorative stamps. Lots of them. Whenever a new stamp was issued, she bought a sheet, or three, or ten if she found it appealing. My mother was an excellent correspondent. She famously sent out 350 Christmas cards every year, and wrote letters constantly. Even so, she could not use up her supply of stamps, and over the years, the stamps piled up. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVxKJ2rqfjjdngXofBNhwgLraYaX1n82EwrFKHTRvtmcrtGYf1wmKFGFVJSZ8OHGIlHcDSmAOD6riwKn03xKOM1wBlJgruQ0Wp6AzfiB6Za66fk0QRHJ3ewsqiuaX2BGeJZ6KVrDOEEs/s1600/IMG_7721.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVxKJ2rqfjjdngXofBNhwgLraYaX1n82EwrFKHTRvtmcrtGYf1wmKFGFVJSZ8OHGIlHcDSmAOD6riwKn03xKOM1wBlJgruQ0Wp6AzfiB6Za66fk0QRHJ3ewsqiuaX2BGeJZ6KVrDOEEs/s320/IMG_7721.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit99qcb-9W1mcs7mv5hKXrUXoaQCxUC-lgI_R0uatyQsJk0aAHMKgQQII6IrInMRcsrcjHqtBxrc2dt-vCOtUwA_jedg14A69ZzFeFivAYAsQfjaiDYwZ3O64rgjiNXAJozQWK3RR3PM4/s1600/IMG_7767.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit99qcb-9W1mcs7mv5hKXrUXoaQCxUC-lgI_R0uatyQsJk0aAHMKgQQII6IrInMRcsrcjHqtBxrc2dt-vCOtUwA_jedg14A69ZzFeFivAYAsQfjaiDYwZ3O64rgjiNXAJozQWK3RR3PM4/s320/IMG_7767.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLXy_25UBM_bLgWg3tb-669FI2zkqISOm8tFTvqeyjo3RCI-MChIAShOW_pmNv4EKfhd_EUQranlMRtSVWP3mWPyhnm0LhWvSFEKhgikNHs8dQ3PXpYfPNm71g-o9WB-C690oLFl3xhI/s1600/IMG_7779.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLXy_25UBM_bLgWg3tb-669FI2zkqISOm8tFTvqeyjo3RCI-MChIAShOW_pmNv4EKfhd_EUQranlMRtSVWP3mWPyhnm0LhWvSFEKhgikNHs8dQ3PXpYfPNm71g-o9WB-C690oLFl3xhI/s320/IMG_7779.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvvaRjKA1C0-ga4WiB9_TH-dBDHlSbcmeB4KTKnKwwT9yMV93wPRd5B2A3a_5ohihyHm-Vl6uhM4zhc_ksOvOonc-tV0W06hs92UnxQXhyphenhyphenLyEtTbPRiCG0jNF4eP8I4pEscBaU_YL_a0/s1600/IMG_7728.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvvaRjKA1C0-ga4WiB9_TH-dBDHlSbcmeB4KTKnKwwT9yMV93wPRd5B2A3a_5ohihyHm-Vl6uhM4zhc_ksOvOonc-tV0W06hs92UnxQXhyphenhyphenLyEtTbPRiCG0jNF4eP8I4pEscBaU_YL_a0/s320/IMG_7728.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
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I don’t know what CSB found more bizarre: my mother’s remarkable hoard of stamps, or the fact that I spent Saturday morning calculating the face value of all her stamps. (It wasn’t that hard. Most sheets have 20 stamps and even I can multiply single and double- digit numbers by 20. I also have a calculator app on my phone.) The total was $1001.68. That is not an insignificant amount. <br />
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The truth is that I enjoyed sorting through the stamps, witnessing what the postal service has deemed worthy of commemoration over the years. There were of course stamps honoring presidents, athletes, artists, cowboys, and scientists. Every Olympics got its own set of stamps. Flowers, flora and fauna, cuddly mammals, and American history get lots of attention. One of my favorite honorees was Dr. George Papanicolaou: he invented the eponymous Pap smear. Alas, the stamp does not show my show my least favorite medical device: the icy cold speculum. (The vaginal speculum we all know and love was invented Dr. Marion Sims, the so-called founder of modern gynecology, about whom the less said the better. He may have statues, but he does not appear on any stamps.)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0R5_7wcDDtyjWmZLdiH4fMoRL4jDDN_A3aYQMiaxp2he3iK40r9KHole67HYElPDoZgr_5VXFLrWEEmqatT7WbwEsOHajdpZAIpE1jO_QSYzCWevVrkw2o6aIIKNhb666HphmA7xtxDk/s1600/IMG_7777.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0R5_7wcDDtyjWmZLdiH4fMoRL4jDDN_A3aYQMiaxp2he3iK40r9KHole67HYElPDoZgr_5VXFLrWEEmqatT7WbwEsOHajdpZAIpE1jO_QSYzCWevVrkw2o6aIIKNhb666HphmA7xtxDk/s320/IMG_7777.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
Some old-time commemoratives, like these for “World Peace Through Law” (10¢, 1974) and “Energy and Conservation”(13¢, 1975), seem archaic,and innocently hopeful in our present political climate. Would a Trump-led Postal Service dare to extol "World Peace Through Law"? Must we prepare ourselves for a stamp suggesting "World Peace through Nuclear Armaments"? Or praising "Clean Coal"?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7DLcT3lxHQV6-vWaNBS0Cvn5FqfovE5s9y4xhckFCPmFQwRptnGqVJyceenf_3svVSrkUsdXcc3Aybaf-F5-_-3vb99et6yk9Wry4Ca6-VOmR_F5VxQL7b8nbKwN7AUo7TOaqopIavc/s1600/IMG_7769.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7DLcT3lxHQV6-vWaNBS0Cvn5FqfovE5s9y4xhckFCPmFQwRptnGqVJyceenf_3svVSrkUsdXcc3Aybaf-F5-_-3vb99et6yk9Wry4Ca6-VOmR_F5VxQL7b8nbKwN7AUo7TOaqopIavc/s320/IMG_7769.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rU2Q4hbtTO8tTLJeaFra3LextovTfmcpQnudhRWaQgv0Wt87dwJSx6lkffZw83T7BYzDNkPal0nrJqL_ur2fOvaYHcocpEqO3wocPhLNK7DsEd-CieAZ9NiFdytLNUciQkrKLSBtIss/s1600/IMG_7765.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rU2Q4hbtTO8tTLJeaFra3LextovTfmcpQnudhRWaQgv0Wt87dwJSx6lkffZw83T7BYzDNkPal0nrJqL_ur2fOvaYHcocpEqO3wocPhLNK7DsEd-CieAZ9NiFdytLNUciQkrKLSBtIss/s320/IMG_7765.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
Some are just self-serving, honoring either the Postal Service itself, or extolling stamp collecting. Is a stamp featuring Stamp Collecting considered a meta -stamp?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfJS6fVapN3L4ZVX9kE86RBPCLGgqED2sJZHSoHGjQRiPKTuODL3NFXrSovCXRrv7osEbQ-FiA6J-5QT89MLa48oGeIArseNFND6P2-Zy8jW0QaM1a0REB0gHZ6ZR7g9eJ4toxEtwbHc/s1600/IMG_7772.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfJS6fVapN3L4ZVX9kE86RBPCLGgqED2sJZHSoHGjQRiPKTuODL3NFXrSovCXRrv7osEbQ-FiA6J-5QT89MLa48oGeIArseNFND6P2-Zy8jW0QaM1a0REB0gHZ6ZR7g9eJ4toxEtwbHc/s320/IMG_7772.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
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So what do we do with them? More than half of the stamps, in denominations ranging from 6¢ to 39¢, require licking. Do we even know how to lick a stamp anymore? Who can conjure up that redolent taste of postage glue, sort of sweet and sort of toxic? <br />
<br />
In the usual way of research, I looked on line to find out if there is a resale market for stamps. There is, after a fashion. There are a few sites that will buy unused stamps, at a deep discount: %50 of face value for complete sheets under 49¢, %40 for partial sheets. All of my mother’s stamps have a face value of less than 49¢, and remarkably few of the sheets are “complete and undamaged”. In other words, my face value calculation is somewhat meaningless. <br />
The only way to get our ‘money’s worth’ from these stamps, is to actually use them for postage. <br />
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Let me know if you want me to send you a postcard. (My mother also has hundreds of postcards.)<br />
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Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-79190619070951464542018-02-13T14:29:00.000-05:002018-02-13T14:29:37.392-05:00The Olympic torch, reimaginedIt was a fairly ordinary Sunday morning. CSB took Mom to church while the household's resident heathen lolled by the fire and did the crossword. He brought Mom back here with him, and she happily ensconced herself in the red velvet overstuffed wing chair by the fireplace. She went through the motions of reading a newspaper. Regarding a photograph on the front page of the opening ceremonies for the Olympics, she questioned, "Why are they all wearing the same hats?"<br />
She asked several times what the date was and then checked what I said with the date printed on the newspaper. <br />
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Then she tipped over the ottoman where she had been resting her feet and began counting the bees on the fabric. It is a lovely pink Scalamandré silk with gold bees patterned across it, quite Napoleonic. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9C_fYYeDD1Vll0AI4qFWF1-ioR6FRcN8KVG3GRnX6vQGt-m9luBx_VIr7O_qGHBjlXkYFvE1tbArVoYc4R-ydrihS5t7w2Uvt6IX5vv9dJKvsOcwTKkt6zP3Byh2QPkqHDsrl36gNRFE/s1600/IMG_7710.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9C_fYYeDD1Vll0AI4qFWF1-ioR6FRcN8KVG3GRnX6vQGt-m9luBx_VIr7O_qGHBjlXkYFvE1tbArVoYc4R-ydrihS5t7w2Uvt6IX5vv9dJKvsOcwTKkt6zP3Byh2QPkqHDsrl36gNRFE/s320/IMG_7710.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
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Mom said, "But it's been nice, I've been in here, I've been in there, I've been on the other side."<br />
I said, "The other side of what?"<br />
Mom said, "Of what I was involved before."<br />
<br />
Then it was time to pick up my brother and his wife at the train station. It was pouring rain and I didn't want them to get soaked. I banked the fire and put the screen in front, and said, "Mom, I'm going to pick up Carl and Sandra. Carl, your son, and his wife, Sandra. That is: Carl, your son, and his wife, Sandra." <br />
She said, "Well we just had them a matter of a week and maybe a bit more and what happened to them. Nothing happened to them. They just all hung around. He just appeared and he was really nice." (I think this means she thinks fondly of Carl, whoever he is.)<br />
"Okay," I said, "Just don't touch the fire. I'll be right back. Chucker is just in the kitchen."<br />
<br />
I drove the .6 miles down the train station, picked up my brother and sister-in-law, and returned. We emerged from the car and my brother note the pleasant scent of a wood burning fire. Did I notice that the scent was stronger than it should have been? I wish I could say I did. <br />
CSB met us at the door, looking somewhat startled. A minute after I had left for the station, he had come into the living room to check on Mom, and through the large front window he saw my mother standing on the front porch waving a blazing Olympic torch. In fact, it was the fireplace broom, and the straw was flaming. My guess is that she thought she could put it out that way. But I can only guess, and I certainly cannot ask her. She was sitting comfortably in the red wing chair when we walked in, unfazed. <br />
<br />
So, one scorched broom, and the house still stands. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxidoSKrZaf1gZ1wDjc67gc_MAjTSttQI_5KMkgDWyWFlHH-mrVlyejQD2fr1oHwOMY7svLdBrsMoJuxgdONYny4OQJwqqMFFv3zr0YQEQ3grX_S6e_94iLElrMVRHnFZqgxYLVsr4aBA/s1600/IMG_7704.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxidoSKrZaf1gZ1wDjc67gc_MAjTSttQI_5KMkgDWyWFlHH-mrVlyejQD2fr1oHwOMY7svLdBrsMoJuxgdONYny4OQJwqqMFFv3zr0YQEQ3grX_S6e_94iLElrMVRHnFZqgxYLVsr4aBA/s320/IMG_7704.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
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A day like many others. A day like no other. I have to admit, I am annoyed that CSB did not take a photo of my mother with the torching broom before he actually put out the fire. Also grateful. <br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-57325433665433209802018-02-02T17:27:00.000-05:002019-03-09T19:29:03.831-05:00My Love Affair with Roomba<br />
I don't how to say this any other way: I think I have fallen in love with Roomba. CSB tells me I am simply infatuated and that the glamour will fade and soon Roomba will spend lonely days in a closet gathering the same dust he now so diligently gathers.<br />
I disagree. I remind CSB that I have fallen in love before, and I remain so. Why should my enchantment with Roomba ever fade?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9o_bP6PAdy6mLmttPApXtuF1IkzvNLjnM4wunFKC7DVC-t1vrX5KgNVM7Th8MpArZjAy-KkrVv2Pe4b3TZeYBMz8VwiXoCKuTEejpmAYZOWXf5ASGoK2svBVvmxmCHLxOqVDwQWeVLg/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9o_bP6PAdy6mLmttPApXtuF1IkzvNLjnM4wunFKC7DVC-t1vrX5KgNVM7Th8MpArZjAy-KkrVv2Pe4b3TZeYBMz8VwiXoCKuTEejpmAYZOWXf5ASGoK2svBVvmxmCHLxOqVDwQWeVLg/s320/download.jpg" width="320" height="208" data-original-width="279" data-original-height="181" /></a><br />
Roomba, as the world knows, is a robotic vacuum. But Roomba is so much more. Roomba scoots around the house brushing the floor and sucking up dirt. Roomba has cliff sensors, floor tracking sensors, debris extractors, a Dirt Detect Indicator, a side brush, and a dust bin. <br />
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When Roomba first arrived, I decided to name it. In our never-ending effort to be politically correct - why should house cleaners always be female? - we named him Aloysius. Now I wonder if there may have been a deeper reason for giving Roomba a masculine identity. Maybe, deep down, I realized I was going to become attached to Roomba, very attached, and very fond. And I am someone who is very fond of men, or a few good men. <br />
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It was all so serendipitous! To think that had I not gone down a certain aisle in Costco, an aisle that I normally do not go down and I only did on that day because I was looking for ink cartridges for my printer (they were out of the right kind), I would never have found Roomba. There it was on the bottom shelf of aisle three, beckoning, and I put one in my shopping cart. A classic case of impulse buying. <br />
<br />
I already have a vacuum cleaner, an Electrolux that is generally considered to be a first-class vacuum. But my vacuum requires a human being to push it around the house. Roomba requires only that he is recharged. And his dirt bag emptied. <br />
<br />
Aloysius scoots along the floor, wood floors and carpets equally smoothly, and gathers into his belly the detritus of our lives: dust motes, feathers, lint, pine needles, dog hair even though the dog has been dead for months, pencil shavings, more pine needles, wood chips, Cheerios, and so much more that is unidentifiable, but generally grey and fluffy. <br />
Aloysius has never yet returned to his dock without a load of grey and fluffy stuff. I have to ask: does my house have an infinite supply, an ever-renewing supply, of dust, dirt, lint, pine needles and chicken bedding? Or will there come a time when Aloysius travels the length and breadth of the floors and gathers nary a mote? <br />
<br />
Daisy and Bruno, and then only Bruno, used to keep me company in the house. With the dogs, there was always another breathing presence, a companion and a witness to my indolence and obsessiveness. When Bruno died last year, I was bereft. And left alone. It is unclear whether we will get another dog or dogs. Actually, all that is required is for CSB to succumb to my persuasive entreaties. But now I have Aloysius. He wanders around the house, as Bruno did. He can get under beds and sofas, as only Bruno could. Bruno left a trail of dirt and dog hair behind him, while Aloysius sucks up dirt and hair. <br />
<br />
I know that I can program Roomba to vacuum while I am out, but aside from the fact that I have never been adept at programming devices (viz. DVR, VCR, crockpot), it would feel like abandonment to leave Roomba suctioning away while I was elsewhere. When I am here I can silently cheer him on, and of course, I can get him out of predicaments. I can untangle the shoelaces that are wound around his debris extractors, and I can extract him from a too-tight place, or I can remove the fire screen that has fallen atop him and is now being carried on Aloysius' back, like a fallen branch atop a turtle. <br />
<br />
Like the dogs, Roomba does not judge me or make demands. And nothing in my life collects so much detritus. <br />
<br />
<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-63926850333960382422017-12-31T13:03:00.000-05:002017-12-31T13:03:01.593-05:00Gloves in the Afternoon<br />
I realize it is the last day of the year, an appropriate time for enumerating the many horrors of the past year: the insults to cordial discourse, the natural disasters, the national embarrassment, and the undoing of so much.<br />
<br />
Let the lamentations go elsewhere. Here, I am just going to tell a story of Gloves in the Afternoon. <br />
It was a rainy, dreary afternoon with #1 grandchild, and we happened upon the gloves.<br />
<br />
We are all well-acquainted with the trope for more refined times: <i>back when women wore gloves. Mostly white gloves.</i> <br />
I have mixed feelings about gloves. I tend to get cold fingers, and so I do like gloves for keeping my fingers warm. However, the most elegant gloves don’t keep your fingers all that warm. Fuzzy mittens are much better for insulating the digits. <br />
<br />
But it was the stash of gloves that entertained us all afternoon. Both my grandmothers wore gloves, also my Aunt Madeleine, gloves for all occasions. They kept their gloves, neatly folded, in tissue paper, in special boxes designed for glove storage. As they died, sequentially, my mother kept their gloves, still neatly laid out in tissue paper, in special boxes. When my mother finally moved out of the Orchard a couple of years ago, we found dozens and dozens of pairs of beautiful gloves: soft leather, silk, satin, lace, softer leather, embroidered, and painted. We had no idea what to do with them. Aside from being very old and delicate and not designed for gardening, they are also quite small. How is it that our grandmothers and great aunt had small delicate hands, and I have arthritic indelicate hands? How did they keep their hands so small and delicate, while mine have grown lumpy and askew? That is something I don’t think about very often, but most likely too often. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcgpDLDgj2nM598_ajrfTw31nqjpaoGeMdvKwlb5Oa3gc5dHQylwtazkRv3YSYJ8KhNWySvj0DGt-sT3C7j9QmsfFv4luGp84vxg7DSqv3aqxnSJvGV4T6irYFU7lF6mXUCBApp6aU6A/s1600/IMG_6785.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcgpDLDgj2nM598_ajrfTw31nqjpaoGeMdvKwlb5Oa3gc5dHQylwtazkRv3YSYJ8KhNWySvj0DGt-sT3C7j9QmsfFv4luGp84vxg7DSqv3aqxnSJvGV4T6irYFU7lF6mXUCBApp6aU6A/s320/IMG_6785.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5CV5aGXliLAR7XmAu-S2ssNMlpcsn5N3toigfXGdemkcD9HtQG99L-9rBS8oY4vTB7JYkbykGHoHbgqoUCkQdhpXac7WgVf1H2NXAtdnvXvf_94Rtnnm8D0jD8PIdqKcwoGQxeJ0UF58/s1600/IMG_6790.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5CV5aGXliLAR7XmAu-S2ssNMlpcsn5N3toigfXGdemkcD9HtQG99L-9rBS8oY4vTB7JYkbykGHoHbgqoUCkQdhpXac7WgVf1H2NXAtdnvXvf_94Rtnnm8D0jD8PIdqKcwoGQxeJ0UF58/s320/IMG_6790.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSSSXcV-4s6ktpePqRmvG26gnonaOBOnylDYv2qEfnmp_nOk_BNRCxmozYQX2P8SjDYkDl__tEhD7kAZ5AfBPm-GFr4K96hFYlnbQWAlBZTiarZrcbUrk6rASZ2iWeDQhh-QkOtD1BS8/s1600/IMG_6796.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSSSXcV-4s6ktpePqRmvG26gnonaOBOnylDYv2qEfnmp_nOk_BNRCxmozYQX2P8SjDYkDl__tEhD7kAZ5AfBPm-GFr4K96hFYlnbQWAlBZTiarZrcbUrk6rASZ2iWeDQhh-QkOtD1BS8/s320/IMG_6796.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqe7ccACHjYi6qOHh7IK5K9JmDLCjwi-LfsG-leUh0t6gdFwoqITejhQL216GBkyS9neWR9GlDvWM_SNyII49tbLq2QxVigDWwszjfn_x6ICbdyuByFcKgeoiWPOAWDHBQ57Bo9iD5z30/s1600/IMG_6787.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqe7ccACHjYi6qOHh7IK5K9JmDLCjwi-LfsG-leUh0t6gdFwoqITejhQL216GBkyS9neWR9GlDvWM_SNyII49tbLq2QxVigDWwszjfn_x6ICbdyuByFcKgeoiWPOAWDHBQ57Bo9iD5z30/s320/IMG_6787.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
Leda had no qualms, no hesitations, no mixed feelings about these gloves. She loved them without reserve. Each pair of gloves she put on – and yes, she has long slender fingers; she is also 11 years old – was transformative. She gestured with her hands like a dancer. She tilted her neck and rested her head upon a hand clad in ivory kidskin. She held her hands outward as if to be kissed or simply admired. Each pair of gloves called for a different situation or festivity. Pale beige leather ones would be perfect for driving along the Corniche in southern France. For waving farewells from the deck of your ocean liner as you steam out of port: white ones with embroidered flowers. The long black gloves would be just right for a champagne toast on a mountain top. The ivory crochet gloves were clearly meant for royal garden parties. So when Leda tried on the black gloves with lace cuff, and waved them around suggesting curlicues in the air, and announced, “I can wear these to my great-grandmother’s funeral,” I could only admire her sense of decorum. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92vChw3p5DGApAP_uT_afsaltV-iSA87nYVUFbZsUGmYErwqmF-pjlJoAG-WwyK0ob2PAlxMRpaI460DhfW_-Tv23lyJ5uhauSezsUUp7bko4e7jdepo3Wc64cEsk0omYX2X-5eGt4L8/s1600/IMG_6741.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92vChw3p5DGApAP_uT_afsaltV-iSA87nYVUFbZsUGmYErwqmF-pjlJoAG-WwyK0ob2PAlxMRpaI460DhfW_-Tv23lyJ5uhauSezsUUp7bko4e7jdepo3Wc64cEsk0omYX2X-5eGt4L8/s320/IMG_6741.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOafHUb9eel1dspNsGesRC5Rml-ZE7ujCbhiJZ2th1WcLXhjI3YiSMNOm5bFNGMQ96Ag7gfOe3VpQjXhNA-8cRNekPJ8ckg8pEeQFaxwMJRveQaYTzzq1RxZAgP7mD4XQQgmCMAo-ezU/s1600/IMG_6748.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOafHUb9eel1dspNsGesRC5Rml-ZE7ujCbhiJZ2th1WcLXhjI3YiSMNOm5bFNGMQ96Ag7gfOe3VpQjXhNA-8cRNekPJ8ckg8pEeQFaxwMJRveQaYTzzq1RxZAgP7mD4XQQgmCMAo-ezU/s320/IMG_6748.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
At a young age, she understands that certain clothes can only be worn at certain times, and also that wearing the right clothes can give the wearer consolation, a mantle against grief. Is it possible that Leda knows of, or has intuited, my mother’s lifelong insistence on wearing all black, including undergarments and jewelry, to all funerals? Even in New England where such things are considered over-dramatic and more suitable for tropical, immoderate countries? Was it possible that Leda was present when I had to dissuade my mother from wearing a black mantilla to my ex-husband’s funeral, in a Unitarian church, a profoundly New England venue?<br />
<br />
<i>My mother was heading for the door when I saw the black lace atop her head. “Mom! You cannot wear a black mantilla. We’re going to a Unitarian church for Christ’s sake.”<br />
“I don’t see why that should affect what I wear. Jackie Kennedy wore one.”<br />
“She was the widow, Mom. You’re not the widow. You’re not the First Lady. There are so many good reasons not to wear a black mantilla I don’t know where to start.”<br />
“I think it would look very nice. It’s Belgian lace.”<br />
I begged. “Then just for me, please. Do not wear the black mantilla, please. It’s not appropriate. It is actually super-inappropriate. He was your ex-son-in-law. I can promise you that his own mother will not wear a black mantilla. She will not even wear all black. She’s a WASP. If anyone wears a black mantilla, it should be me.”<br />
“Would you like to borrow it?” she said.</i><br />
<br />
For Leda to wear black silk gloves, with a lace cuff, to her great-grandmother’s funeral (still in the unknown future) would be entirely appropriate. It would be an act of love. <br />
<br />
Happy New Year. May you always have the right gloves for the occasion, in 2018 and beyond. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tIuf7C_j9AVFYoOgpngSLpYRgkzEJMqOH5-QqJDAWw7QjiADsZ90YVxiE3X92JIuOHacY40ZKyhhlG8S_4-Aq5hLXy0scq4mXzKTa6dNRfIXpBw_ALiqov9qFOFM1vwk8SZH6CmGHRg/s1600/IMG_7143.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tIuf7C_j9AVFYoOgpngSLpYRgkzEJMqOH5-QqJDAWw7QjiADsZ90YVxiE3X92JIuOHacY40ZKyhhlG8S_4-Aq5hLXy0scq4mXzKTa6dNRfIXpBw_ALiqov9qFOFM1vwk8SZH6CmGHRg/s320/IMG_7143.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
This is not a glove. <br />
<br />
<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-91972845836958486492017-11-28T11:12:00.001-05:002017-11-28T11:12:31.423-05:00Saved by BooksThere are few things in life I enjoy more than fondling books, dusting books, taking books off the shelf, and then re-shelving them in alphabetical order. This needs to be done every few years, on account of new acquisitions, de-accessioning, and the inevitable march of disorder that attacks the bookshelves while I sleep. I welcome the occasion.<br />
<br />
Things have been difficult of late. How many times in an afternoon can you explain to your mother what the word T-O-N-S-U-R-E means? She was sitting in her favorite chair, that was previously your father’s favorite chair, by the fireplace, reading a large picture book about The Ghent Altarpiece. <br />
Several years ago my sister and I went to Belgium with our parents, in January. Aside from the fact that the weather is wretched and it gets dark at 2 in the afternoon, everything you want to see in Belgium is closed in January. We took a train to Ghent in order the see the Ghent Altarpiece, in January, because I had long harbored a desire to see for myself, in real time and space, the weird expressions of the singing angels. And of course, St Ursula. I always want to see St Ursula. St Bavo’s cathedral was closed that day in Ghent in January. The chapel with the altarpiece would remain closed for the month. You can only console yourself with <i>moules frites</i> so many times. Thus, I have a large book with many details of the altarpiece. Until my mother’s revelations by the fireside, I was unaware of the frequent references to tonsures. Or maybe it was one reference to one tonsure, encountered again and again.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54znZibejuY9WoEFyASeL-n-6t0jPKqo83JFyCsRi8wl5kaVHYlK7e7QPut6CWRGPSgOS_IppyKEvBRIMsjvx1TitJkiIvujOVbhHsEI-tj7_AGgRLMSgUKU4Ws7essAvSL7CdOiqobs/s1600/IMG_6811+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54znZibejuY9WoEFyASeL-n-6t0jPKqo83JFyCsRi8wl5kaVHYlK7e7QPut6CWRGPSgOS_IppyKEvBRIMsjvx1TitJkiIvujOVbhHsEI-tj7_AGgRLMSgUKU4Ws7essAvSL7CdOiqobs/s320/IMG_6811+2.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxdSA9XI6qSSbTVNcQgsxFTjyNN3EHxqOb7N65wxNyFwlyLYTx55qVHsd_PjBVmOqs9xztG2nF4yAs5lDQ3O8qRIXvKzWcxifHLinx5GoYHRXHpxFpfZyo0EZ4alClWc2So5_gDgdepw/s1600/IMG_6812.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxdSA9XI6qSSbTVNcQgsxFTjyNN3EHxqOb7N65wxNyFwlyLYTx55qVHsd_PjBVmOqs9xztG2nF4yAs5lDQ3O8qRIXvKzWcxifHLinx5GoYHRXHpxFpfZyo0EZ4alClWc2So5_gDgdepw/s320/IMG_6812.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
So, in lieu of more drastic measures, I decided it was time to reorganize and re-alphabetize my books. Not all my books, just what I think of as the indispensable ones; only fiction and what was formerly called ‘belles lettres’ and might now be called ‘creative nonfiction’ gets alphabetized. Other books are organized by topic, and that is not a simple thing. Should a biography of Gertrude Bell be placed with books of travel and exploration (in the downstairs guest room), or in the biography section (in the second floor hall)? Likewise, where would a Life of Saint Teresa of Avila belong: in the aforementioned biography section, or in the hagiography department? <br />
As for the hagiography, for quite a while, a few years past, as CSB will bemoan with bewilderment, hagiography was my chief subject of research. My collection of the lives of female saints, with special attention to mystics of the middle ages, is, I am sure, the largest in Hastings if not the whole county. Yet even that designation presents its categorical difficulties: should the life of Lydwin of Schiedam be placed with the mystics or the sainted anorexics? Likewise, there is significant crossover between the stigmatics and the mystics. <br />
I could go on. But CSB will be pleased that I do not. <br />
As soon as I started, with the A’s, I was hurtled back in time, with Walter Abish, who actually wrote a blurb for my first novel, <i>Expecting</i>, back when I very likely had no idea of the importance and trafficking of blurbs in the world of bookselling. New Directions published the book. They also published Walter Abish’s books, and so, without any more ado, I found his blurb on the back of my novel. I recommend his <i>Alphabetical Africa.</i><br />
One of the ways I console myself for the inevitable is knowing that when the time comes, I will be able to figure out what writers I have loved, craved, read and admired profligately; all I will have to do is look at my bookshelves. Calculate the linear shelf inches. <br />
You would be correct to assume that I love the writing of Paul Auster; the evidence is right there, between Austen and Azuela. <br />
Thomas Bernhardt gets maximum linear inches in the B’s. I was introduced to Bernhardt by Bine Köhler, from whom I learned so much about European writers, looking at art, listening to music and how to live. I also learned about egg hats in a Berlin pensione. I had been reading his books for decades before I finally went to Vienna with Bine last winter, and saw firsthand the country so reviled by its greatest writer. I, of course, loved Vienna and could easily have spent the rest of my life lurking at the Café Grindl.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZK19Nu7I8DYAuHxHSADp504u3-mgQ9uXlM3f73J2uuiSIkZa3PJIAtjs3mlFCNcWLwDL9mfwoCwzmKbGjGRPVxFSHpt20rooPI7mbOaS_Wh05fi9AwOoscViu7o4Ef14ugrjproVWIc/s1600/IMG_6807.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZK19Nu7I8DYAuHxHSADp504u3-mgQ9uXlM3f73J2uuiSIkZa3PJIAtjs3mlFCNcWLwDL9mfwoCwzmKbGjGRPVxFSHpt20rooPI7mbOaS_Wh05fi9AwOoscViu7o4Ef14ugrjproVWIc/s320/IMG_6807.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
Almost as much space is devoted to Ludwig Bemelmans: such is the democracy of my bookshelves. Who does not adore Madeleine who lives in an old house in Paris? But her books are upstairs in the children’s bookcase. Down here we have his so-called adult books, <i>Hotel Splendide, Dirty Eddie</i> and <i>How to Travel Incognito</i>.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFX8UyUDdnVyWFHeJWaeK58TZn8ubZbWww6eAeOjsDujIDagbDOF5r3-HPHKjz1pXRuEKYrnlg58AWLQpKuFtncoHZLbAFMuMrpLthMbqNsaSLf9P_OqiDNDZxv-eSQ6V9XrPf9_eNILE/s1600/IMG_6814.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFX8UyUDdnVyWFHeJWaeK58TZn8ubZbWww6eAeOjsDujIDagbDOF5r3-HPHKjz1pXRuEKYrnlg58AWLQpKuFtncoHZLbAFMuMrpLthMbqNsaSLf9P_OqiDNDZxv-eSQ6V9XrPf9_eNILE/s320/IMG_6814.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
There are more books here by Louis Bromfield than is reasonable, and some will be purged. But I will keep The Rains Came, a torrid page-turner set during a monsoon in Ranchipur, India. Along with James Hilton’s Lost Horizon it was a favorite book of my late father-in-law. We knew they were his favorite books because he spoke of them often; they were in fact the only books he ever mentioned. I always assumed they were connected to his war experience in India, but is that true? Were Americans even in India during the war?<br />
<br />
Before departing the B’s, there is William Burroughs’ <i>Naked Lunch</i>, the book I read when I was 19 at the behest of Jeff, my boyfriend, later husband. He gave it to me in order to combat my bourgeois tendencies. I was shocked, as presumably was intended, and confused. After Jeff died more than five years ago, I reread <i>Naked Lunch</i> and finally, at last, appreciated its brilliance. But was it too late?<br />
<br />
Every letter has its triggers and madeleines. There are so many more to come. Let’s just say that the other day, while I was blissfully shelving my books, a certain brainy friend was visiting and I asked him and CSB to name women writers whose surnames begin with W.* Our brainy friend (he knows who he is) dredged up (barely) Edith Wharton. CSB, bless his heart, mentioned “that writer whose house we visited.” Bingo: yes, we visited Eudora Welty’s house in Jackson Mississippi on <i>Nothing in Common goes South Road Trip #1</i>. There was a sign on the door requesting that no guns be carried inside. Upstairs, and all over the house, visitors could still see Welty’s piles of books, not only on her shelves, but upon beds and chairs. I could have moved in. Without my gun.<br />
<br />
<br />
*In my collection alone: Walbert, Walker, Weber, White, Williams, Winterson, Wesley, Weldon, Wolf, Woolf, Wroe. It may be - thus far - the only letter of the alphabet for which I have more novels by women than men. Actually, no. I think O is another one. I will check, count, and measure. <br />
<br />
Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7388911214526917517.post-21466213468510006372017-11-08T16:57:00.000-05:002017-11-08T16:57:01.332-05:00A little bit about IronyLast year on this day we were in Vietnam. The day before, while visiting the beautiful ancient capital of Huế, I gleefully (though somewhat to CSB’s chagrin, because he finds masks creepy & thinks I tend to overdo things) posed next to ancient statues wearing my Happy Hilary mask, so confident was I of the following day’s victory and all those newfound opportunities to refer to Madam President. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjApgc5-7rMqOgshKvd-Q28Sx12IuonKtzrw1ekSo-V7QA-KXEPupouTB8o-31YCFFdi4HAtITnULtB4qkRsizb6byydTbrFgfj2ii413teOZQKc_KkZh2Gbx3bHE7hnqM1WojdXSK1E/s1600/IMG_1439.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjApgc5-7rMqOgshKvd-Q28Sx12IuonKtzrw1ekSo-V7QA-KXEPupouTB8o-31YCFFdi4HAtITnULtB4qkRsizb6byydTbrFgfj2ii413teOZQKc_KkZh2Gbx3bHE7hnqM1WojdXSK1E/s320/IMG_1439.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a><br />
While in Saigon, otherwise now known as Ho Chi Minh City but more or less universally still called Saigon, I had located the house* where my Belgian grandparents, my mother, and uncle had lived from 1939 until 1941, when they were evacuated, along with most European women and children, as the Japanese army was invading. And quickly. Because she was a Belgian woman, my Bonne Maman had never voted because women were not granted suffrage in Belgium until 1948, and from 1929 onwards she lived in Egypt, Indochina, California during the war, then Egypt again. She finally came to the US in 1956 because that was where all her grandchildren were. (Such is the narcissism of grandchildren; someone else might have said she came because her children were here, married to Americans.) My grandparents never became citizens, preferring to remain “Resident Aliens,” and thus ensure they could enter the Belgian section of Heaven – Bonne Maman told me this, seriously, somewhat.<br />
While visiting Vietnam, I thought a lot about my beloved grandmother, who never voted; I had weeks earlier cast my absentee ballot for Hillary, and eagerly anticipated the election results.<br />
We all know how very wrong that went.<br />
Which is a long way to introduce the question of irony.<br />
Was it ironic, my posing in a Hilary mask next to a statue of a bodyguard of Emperor Khải Định, whose first wife left him in order to become a nun?<br />
<br />
I am pondering irony these days.<br />
My mother received in the mail a “Certificate of Recognition” from the Alzheimer’s Association. She handed it to me because, sometimes, when she remembers, though <i>remember</i> is no longer the correct word, she gives me her mail to ‘deal with’. How ironic is that? The certificate recognizes her “extraordinary commitment to the fight against Alzheimer’s disease.” If so, it is a fight she has lost. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszQ_RfGNuPLCdJ0gxj_Mzb-5S7ln9l9UrbyLA1-aEe02lR5vmpZAEjPHHM2cxNysIrEL_-A0wJqrG7W-Iumq4U3K0ZUV6eZtYrgRRJo8rgPzgznG9Wg9v3rPYkSFoBLqSnYxEMwseWUA/s1600/Mom+AD+certificate.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszQ_RfGNuPLCdJ0gxj_Mzb-5S7ln9l9UrbyLA1-aEe02lR5vmpZAEjPHHM2cxNysIrEL_-A0wJqrG7W-Iumq4U3K0ZUV6eZtYrgRRJo8rgPzgznG9Wg9v3rPYkSFoBLqSnYxEMwseWUA/s320/Mom+AD+certificate.jpeg" width="320" height="244" data-original-width="828" data-original-height="631" /></a>Presumably, she received this ridiculous ‘certificate’ because, back when she was still writing checks, she sent some money to the AA and they would like her to send some more. To this end she receives countless solicitations at her new address in Hastings, even though I have never given any organization her new address. It is a miracle of the modern phenomenon of annoying requests for money.<br />
Irony is generally defined as a situation that is not what it seems, that differs from what was expected. Irony is often used for comic effect, but at times is tragic. (See the Greeks. See me sporting my Hilary mask.) The word comes from the Greek, <i>eirōneia </i> for ‘simulated ignorance.’<br />
Another chapter of the Azheimer’s Association sent my mother Christmassy address labels, presumably to affix to the Christmas cards she is no longer capable of writing or sending. They also have her address slightly wrong. What part of that is ironic?<br />
Does it differ from the irony of the multiple books stacked on her nightstand about how to prevent memory loss or how to improve your memory?<br />
Or how does it differ from the irony of me buying a book at Costco this morning called <i>The End of Alzheimer’s</i>, even though I have read lots of actual science books about Alzheimer’s and have spoken with doctors and visited labs and attended seminars? And I know damn well that there is currently no cure for Alzheimer’s and I even know that most of the things we are told can stave off the advance of Alzheimer’s, like practicing yoga, speaking multiple languages, and eating healthy, are exactly what my grandmother and mother did all their lives.<br />
Maybe that is not so much ironic, as delusional.<br />
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In literature, I love irony. Also in life. Irony makes life interesting. If I refer to someone as living in an “Irony-Free Zone” I do not mean it as a compliment.<br />
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On the other hand, this morning I woke up to un-ironic, good news from the elections, locally and in various other states. <br />
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* This is true. I knew they had lived at 216, rue Pelerin, and so with the help of an old map and a charming man at our hotel, I figured out that rue Pelerin is now rue Pasteur, and we went to that number to find that there was a house, that looked just like the house in the picture of my mother looking coy in the front yard. It was still there and was now <a href="http://smpaa.edu.vn/index.php/about-us/">Soul Music & Performing Arts Academy (SMPAA).</a> On the tile floors where my mother once roller-skated indoors (so she claimed) Vietnamese children now dance hip-hop. Christine Lehnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04103231336494365248noreply@blogger.com0