Planning, planning, planning. . .

For the next several days, I will be quiet.

I will be planning. Actually, HELPING to plan.

We will have a brief visit with our daughter--and we will. . .

taste some wedding cake. . .

look at wedding flowers. . .

shop for wedding shoes. . .

All so that we will be ready for a FALL wedding.

My Generation's War

I have learned, when I use examples during my teaching, to qualify the time frame of my reference. I have had too many blank stares when students have NO clue to what I am referring. So when I talk about Vietnam, I always say--that is my generation's war.

With today being Memorial Day, a time set aside to remember, I recall young men. I knew several young men who went to Vietnam--classmates from high school or college. Of those who went to Vietnam, two were killed there.

Larry was our college class president. He volunteered for the Marines immediately upon graduation from college. Somewhere along the way, before he was deployed, he got married. He was sent to Vietnam February 27, 1968. At that time, the usual tour of duty in Vietnam was one year. Larry was killed in a helicopter crash on February 4, 1969, just days before he was due to return home. At the time, the crash was attributed to hostile action. However, witnesses have since reported that the true cause was a mid-air collision between two U.S. helicopters.

When his funeral was held, I was one of the classmates who volunteered to speak. I have no recollection at all what I might have said. I just remember having this incredible sense of the terrible waste of a life. He was such a decent guy--with a sweet winning smile. And he lived all of 25 years.

Jay was a high school friend of my husband's. They had grown up together; their families attended the same church. Jay had met a perky young woman, and they were quickly engaged. Then, he volunteered for the Marines. He too was deployed to Vietnam. On November 16, 1966 he was killed in a skirmish with Vietcong. Jay had spent time at the base camp and had built an observation tower. During the skirmish, he had climbed that tower to get a better view of what was happening. An explosion knocked him from the tower, and he died. He was one month shy of turning 20.

I had exchanged a few letters with Jay, which I saved for years. In 2001, I heard from a buddy of his, who read a comment I had written on a memorial page. I sent the buddy those letters. He used them in a lovingly written memorial that you can read here.

I was attending graduate school when I learned that Jay had been killed. To work through that awful news, I sat at the piano in the house I lived in during grad school, and played over and over the lovely aria from Handel's Messiah "I Know That My Redeemer Lives".

My recollection is that Jay's funeral had an open coffin with his nearly unmarked body lying in repose. Memory can be faulty--I asked my father about this recollection. My father was pastor of the church Jay 's family (and my husband's family) attended at the time. My father could not confirm my memory. Maybe I only imagined it.

After many years, I finally went to see the Vietnam Memorial in DC. I slowly walked along those gleaming black sections of the Wall that reflect the faces of those who grieve their losses. I found Larry's name, and I found Jay's name. I slowly ran my fingers over those names.

Two young men--two lives sadly cut short.

My generation's war. Oh, if only it were the last war.

-----------------

Photo of Larry Houck from

http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/lehouck.htm

Photo of Vietnam Memorial from:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:TouchWall.jpg

Been there, done that. . .

FULL DISCLOSURE--since I don't want to be accused of pulling a Maureen Dowd, the following post comes from an email I received from a friend, who got it from an email that's "been going around."

-----------------------------------------------------------

AAADD
KNOW THE SYMPTOMS.....PLEASE READ!

Thank goodness there's a name for this disorder.
Somehow I feel better even though I have it!!
Recently, I was diagnosed with A.A.A.D.D. -
Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder.

This is how it manifests:
I decide to water my garden.
As I turn on the hose in the driveway,
I look over at my car and decide it needs washing.
As I start toward the garage,
I notice mail on the porch table that
I brought up from the mail box earlier.
I decide to go through the mail before I wash the car.
I lay my car keys on the table,
put the junk mail in the garbage can under the table,
and notice that the can is full.
So, I decide to put the bills back
on the table and take out the garbage first.

But then I think,
since I'm going to be near the mailbox
when I take out the garbage anyway,
I may as well pay the bills first.
I take my check book off the table,
and see that there is only one check left.
My extra checks are in my desk in the study,
so I go inside the house to my desk where
I find the can of Pepsi I'd been drinking.
I'm going to look for my checks,
but first I need to push the Pepsi aside
so that I don't accidentally knock it over.
The Pepsi is getting warm,
and I decide to put it in the refrigerator to keep it cold.

As I head toward the kitchen with the Pepsi,
a vase of flowers on the counter
catches my eye--they need water.
I put the Pepsi on the counter and
discover my reading glasses that
I've been searching for all morning.
I decide I better put them back on my desk,
but first I'm going to water the flowers.
I set the glasses back down on the counter,
fill a container with water and suddenly spot the TV remote.
Someone left it on the kitchen table.
I realize that tonight when we go to watch TV,
I'll be looking for the remote,
but I won't remember that it's on the kitchen table,
so I decide to put it back in the den where it belongs,
but first I'll water the flowers.
I pour some water in the flowers,
but quite a bit of it spills on the floor.
So, I set the remote back on the table,
get some towels and wipe up the spill.
Then, I head down the hall trying to
remember what I was planning to do.

At the end of the day:
the car isn't washed
the bills aren't paid
there is a warm can of Pepsi sitting on the counter
the flowers don't have enough water,
there is still only 1 check in my check book,
I can't find the remote,
I can't find my glasses,
and I don't remember what I did with the car keys.
Then, when I try to figure out why nothing got done today,
I'm really baffled because I know I was busy all day,
and I'm really tired.
I realize this is a serious problem,
and I'll try to get some help for it,
but first I'll check my e-mail....

-------------------------

The above litany was sent to me by a friend. I howled--oh, yes, I recognize all those symptoms. As I said in my post title, "been there, done that. . ."

A Tip of the Hat to the Bard

Thank goodness for Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac. Today's entry, for May 20, reminds us that even the most famous of authors can have his works published, unauthorized.

For it was on this day, in 1609, that an unscrupulous publisher laid claim to publishing a book called "Shakespeares Sonnets."

As Garrison Keillor points out, " Many people think that Thorpe published them without Shakespeare's consent."

Here's a longer discussion of this publication:

"Shakespeare's sonnets were published in 1609, no doubt without authorization, by the unsavory Thomas Thorpe (1580-1614), described as "a publishing understrapper of piratical habits" who "hung about scriveners' shops"; in order to pinch manuscripts. There was no reprint until 1640. Despite a conspiracy theory that would insist that the volume was suppressed, sonnets just were not in vogue anymore. The 1640 piracy titled, rearranged, and combined the sonnets until those to the young man seem to be to a woman. For 150 years this was the basis for the sonnets: early piracies. Indeed one might feel uncomfortable reading the sonnets, most intended probably as private missives from the poet and lacking that public show-off quality typical of other Renaissance sonneteers. If he had wanted us to witness them, they'd be plays. "

from http://wsu.edu/~delahoyd/shakespeare/sonnets.html

Well, I certainly don't condone unauthorized publication, but the end result--a collection of 154 of the loveliest poems in sonnet form--has enriched all humanity.

Unlike some people, I have not read all of Shakespeare's sonnets. I haven't even memorized any of them. But I do love many of them.

So in honor of this anniversary of publication, herewith another of my favorites:

Sonnet 29

by William Shakespeare

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.

A Tale of the Sea-Going Cowboy

I have written several articles for a small historical journal. I wrote a fairly lengthy biography of my paternal grandparents first, then I explored three generations of TCKs (third culture kids), and just this month, my third article for this journal was published.

It is the story of my maternal grandfather and his adventure as a sea-going cowboy. Since the article has now apperared, I can tell the highlights here, without detracting from the published version. Besides, the journal is not available on news stands, so I am not depriving the publishers of any income.

Here the story:

Right after World War II, my grandfather--or Pappap, as we all called him--volunteered to help rebuild Europe by taking a load of horses to Poland. World War II was incredibly destructive--some 50 million people were displaced through all the fighting. Not only that, but most farm animals had been killed--either as a result of combat, or to be eaten as food for the starving people.

The Allies, anticipating the eventual outcome of the war, got together and planned to rebuild Europe, including restocking farms. The United States took former ships used in battle, and converted them into animal transport ships. They had sailors to sail the ships, but they didn't have cattle hands or farmers to care for the animals.

The peace churches in the United States and Canada--for example Mennonites and Quakers--had won the right to provide service to the country that did NOT require a young man to join the military. One of those ways was farm service. So the United States' government approached the peace churches to help round up men to tend animals during the crossing of the Atlantic.

Here's what the advertisement said, in part:

"Two thousand men wanted to serve as livestock attendants on board ships carrying livestock to Europe to replace killed-off animals. Applicants must be able to work with animals, willing to do manual labor, and of good moral character. Men especially desired who will conduct themselves without reproach in foreign ports. Age 16-60. Trip takes 4 to 6 weeks. Pay $150.00 per trip."

My pappap was 59 years old when he answered this ad! I suspect part of his interest in going to Europe was the sheer adventure of it all. Perhaps another part of his motivation was the fact that his youngest son, my uncle Davey, volunteered to go--at age 18. I can almost hear my pappap saying: If Davey can do it. . .

The ship Pappap sailed on was named Mount Whitney. This was a large ship, with the capacity to transport 1400 animals: mostly horses, with a few heifers. The ship had a crew of 64 sailors, and 75 sea-going cowboys. Pappap was one of two men aged 59--the oldest on the ship.

Their destination was Poland. They sailed January of 1947 with their destination the Polish seaport of Gdansk. This city had been occupied by the Nazis, as had all Poland, but the S.S. made it their particular place. When the Allies advanced on the city, the S.S. troops defended it fiercely--so the Russians, who were the lead Allies, bombed the city almost into oblivion.

My pappap witnessed these scenes of destruction. Buildings were still lying in ruins, rubble everywhere. Orphans roamed the streets during the day, begging anyone for food. Women helped to clear piles of bricks, readying the place for rebuilding.

During their Atlantic crossing, on board ship, the sea-going cowboys tended the animals, feeding them, making sure the horses stayed on their feet in spite of heaving ocean swells. If an animal died, they winched it up with a pulley and heaved it overboard. Of course, there was the ever-present animal manure to clean out, which also got swept overboard.

Every day, sailors and sea-going cowboys alike were issued a carton of cigarettes. My grandfather was a non-smoker--and also a deeply grounded moral man. So he declined the cigarettes. He didn't realize, until he got to Poland, that cigarettes were valuable tender, used for trading on the black market. He regretted his stand--because he learned he could have traded cigarettes for food and clothing for poor Poles.

On the trip home, the ship put in at a harbor in Sweden to refuel. The winter was bitterly cold, and the ship ended up being icebound in the harbor for 7 weeks. So the journey, that the ad promised would take 6 weeks total, ended up taking much longer. He did not return home to Pennsylvania until the end of April.

It was the adventure of a lifetime for Pappap. He never again made any trip overseas--although he dearly wanted to. My earth-bound grandmother nixed any such idea.

Oh, how did these men come to be called sea-going cowboys? Simple. Each man was issued a Coast Guard certificate that allowed them to sail on U.S. ships into foreign ports. The certificate listed them as "cattlemen." However, the seasoned sailors on board all the ships cut through that nomenclature--and simply called them "cowboys." And, of course, since they went to sea, they became tagged as sea-going cowboys.

-------------------

Photo credits:

1) my grandfather David Slagenweit--family photo

2) horses on shipboard--credit Lowell Hoover

3) Gdansk destruction--credit Everett Byer

4) Polish orphans--credit Everett Byer

5) dead horse overboard--credit Lowell Hoover

Summertime!

OK--the last final exam has been handed out, completed and collected. And the stack of papers on my desk has been graded. I even have the Excel spreadsheet all set up, ready to calculate on one click of my finger (oh, so much easier than the old days of adding machine, pencils and endless calculations late into the night!).

So, what's next?

~SUMMERTIME~

True, I am a tad early, as far as the weather is concerned. Our cool spring continues--laced with days of crazy rain--that replenishes our parched earth, which suffered from a dearth of snow this winter.

Summertime got me to thinking of summers when I was in college. We would empty out our dorm rooms, and head off to various locations. With my parents in Africa, I sought summer work where I was a live-in maid. That meant travelling to Canada, and saying goodbye to my college boyfriend for the summer. And who knew if we would still be a couple when we returned to college in the fall? The romance usually didn't last.

Perhaps that separation tinged with the possibility of a stalled romance helped inspire some of the summer songs of my youth. One such sobby song was Bryan Hyland's "Sealed with a Kiss." And, yes, I know that song really (make that REALLY) dates me. So be it.

"Sealed with a Kiss" is number 53 on Entertainment Weekly's assembled list of the 100 Greatest Summer Songs of All Time.


Herewith the top 25:

1 The Lovin' Spoonful ''Summer in the City'' Summer of '66
2 The Beach Boys ''California Girls'' Summer of '65
3 Alice Cooper ''School's Out'' Summer of '72
4 Martha and the Vandellas ''Heat Wave'' Summer of '63
5 The Drifters ''Under the Boardwalk'' Summer of '64
6 The Doors ''Light My Fire'' Summer of '67
7 Martha and the Vandellas ''Dancing in the Street'' Summer of '64
8 Madonna ''Borderline'' Summer of '84
9 Sly & the Family Stone ''Hot Fun in the Summertime'' Summer of '69
10 The Rolling Stones ''(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction'' Summer of '65
11 Eddie Cochran ''Summertime Blues'' Summer of '58
12 The Hues Corporation ''Rock the Boat'' Summer of '74
13 The Beach Boys ''I Get Around'' Summer of '64
14 Grand Master Flash & the Furious Five ''The Message'' Summer of '82
15 Mungo Jerry ''In the Summertime'' Summer of '70
16 Rod Stewart ''Maggie May'' Summer of '71
17 The Beatles ''A Hard Day's Night'' Summer of '64
18 The Surfaris ''Wipe Out'' Summer of '63
19 The Beach Boys ''Wouldn't It Be Nice'' Summer of '66
20 The Police ''Every Breath You Take'' Summer of '83
21 Raspberries ''Go All the Way'' Summer of '72
22 The Carpenters ''(They Long to Be) Close to You'' Summer of '70
23 Jefferson Airplane ''White Rabbit'' Summer of '67
24 Elton John and Kiki Dee ''Don't Go Breaking My Heart'' Summer of '76
25 Bob Dylan ''Like a Rolling Stone'' Summer of '65


To see the remaining 75, go here. You can also read the fun descriptions of these songs. Among my other favorites are numbers 5, 15, 35, and 47. And I can always listen to number 73--summertime or anytime.

Any favorites of yours in the list? Do tell.

Road Kill

I hate road kill. Nothing makes me sadder when I am driving along any road than to see road kill. Frequently these flattened fauna are so indistinguishable as to be no longer recognizable as one of God’s creature. Of course, there is the occasional time when I see a deer along side the road, head drawn back in the rictus of death, belly bloated from lying there too long. Such a sight just makes me sad.

In some of our European travels, I have purposefully watched along roadside to see whether or not it is apparent that Europe has the same excess of animal highway deaths as we do. Once, when I didn’t see any dead animals, I asked in innocence—do you have any road kill. Oh, yes—we do. But I wasn’t convinced. Then it occurred to me that, given how long Europe has been inhabited by humans, by now many of the wild animals have been driven away, thereby reducing the numbers that could be killed.

One of the reasons I so hate road kill is that unbridled growth in our part of the country has meant that more and more open fields and farm lands are being converted to sprawling suburban development. When my husband and I first moved to this part of Pennsylvania, the magnificent rolling mountain just to the north of where we live was open space. Albeit forested. Now, there are bare patches creeping up the mountain as more and more individual houses have been constructed. Recently a farm wonderfully named Whispering Winds was sold piecemeal to several developers. I can’t help but wonder when the houses begin to be built there where will the small creatures go? Displaced yet again, they will wander out on to local roads and get smooshed.

There is another aspect of road kill, of course: the sudden and inadvertent convergence of car and deer. My brother recently wrote of an experience he had, along with his wife and another passenger. Thankfully, they were all OK, though the car was a bit worse for wear.

One of my favorite poems is about road kill, in a way.

Traveling Through The Dark
by
William Stafford

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
------------

I have used this poem in the composition course I teach—I ask the students, how many of you have hit an animal while you are driving? Usually many hands go up. Then I ask—did the experience make you think about the human condition, about mortality? No hands. Or, I ask, did any of you go right home and write a poem after the experience? Again, no hands.

Well, I still don’t like road kill. But I draw deep sustenance from the sentiment of William Stafford’s poem.

“I thought had for us all—my only swerving.”

The Love of A Mother

So, I went to tea today with my step-mother. This little event is something of an annual tradition at the retirement village where she and my father live. It's a nice idea--a time to honor mothers and daughters. After all, all women are at least one of those!

Since I was with my step-mother, the event got me to thinking about mothers. Herewith, a few thoughts.

What makes a woman a mother? You might think the obvious answer--she has a child or children. And, in a sense, you would be right--but I will be more expansive than your answer might have intended. To be the mother of a child means that you nourish someone, in a loving maternal way. And that does not require that you have actually borne a child.

This definition certainly applies to my step-mother. She is a blessing straight from heaven. After my mother died, my father announced that he intended to re-marry. All of his children quickly voiced their support and consent. Enter--Verna Mae--my step-mother. Now, of course, it wasn't quite so simple or whirlwindy as I make it sound. But about two years after Mother's death, my father and Verna Mae were married.

She is the heart and soul of steady, unflinching goodness. My mother, Dorcas, would have been a hard act to follow. She was a great woman. Verna Mae had neither need nor inclination to compete with that kind of person. Verna Mae is calm, low-key, solid, and grounded. I don't think she has ever been threatened by the memory of my mother.

Here's part of what makes Verna Mae amazing to me--she had never been married before she married my father. Perhaps, she thought she would live her life out quite happily as an independent unmarried woman. That she was willing to consent to marry my father is a great thing for our family--that's the amazing part: her willingness to trade her life to that point for the unknown.

Maybe you begin to get the drift of this partly rambling reverie on motherhood. Verna Mae had no children--at least none that she gave birth to. But she has loved me and my brother and sister. She loves our children. So she is every bit a mother and grandmother to us all.

There have been several women in my life who are mothers without having had children. Previously, I have written about my favorite aunt. She has never married, and has never had children--but, oh, did she ever provide loving nurture to me. She nurtured a love of classical music in me. She took me to see movies when I was a child (which, truth be told, were verboten as far as my very strict grandfather was concerned), and she enthusiastically discusses politics with me.

She also exemplifies how being a mother (or grandmother) means nurturing children. She lives in a town in New York state, some 20 miles north of New York City. Across the street from her house lives a family where twins were born about 13 or 14 years ago. When the young couple who had the twins asked for my aunt's help caring for the babies, my aunt's first reaction was HELP. "I don't know anything about . . ." (fill in the blank with some essential baby care skill)--that's what she told me.

But, she pitched in. And over the years, she has become the grandmother for those twins. They come to her house every Sunday morning, giving their parents a wonderful time of quiet and respite. She has patiently answered the questions these sweet girls have asked. She lets them do things, such as draw on the walls, that would no doubt be absolutely forbidden in their own house.

Believe me, I could go on. It fills me with sweet comfort and deep pleasure to know that not only did my own mother, and grandmothers love me fiercely, but so do my step-mother and my aunt.

So, here's to all the mothers--whether the children they have were born from their bodies or from their hearts.

--------------------------

One more quick "mother" update. The first of the baby doves has hatched. Scrawny little thing, really. But the mother dove is rather fiercely protective of this seemingly inconsequential bit of fluff.

Sometimes you just have to buy a book TWICE. . .

Well, you might wonder, why would someone buy a book twice. First, let me point out that I have bought several books twice.

As you can imagine, a lit major has bookshelves stuffed with all manner of books. Add to that a portion of my career devoted to teaching, with the attendant free books. And you perhaps can begin to envision places in our house--here a bookshelf, there a bookshelf. I have never counted all the books in the house, but I am quite sure there must be 500 or 600 hundred books. Oh, wait--I forgot the basement. Make that 1,000 books.

So, why buy a book twice. Well, the main reason is I decide I want to re-read a book I have already given away. I separate my books into two basic categories: keepers, and give-aways. When I loan a give-away to someone, I really don't expect or even want the book back. I urge my friends to pass the books along to yet someone else.

If I LOVE a book, and don't want to risk its never being returned to me, I don't loan it. Or, if I loan it most reluctantly, I say--PLEASE please give it back when you are done.

I have just finished reading a definite keeper book. But--and here's the catch--I read it on my Kindle. Now, one nice feature of the Kindle is that ALL books are keepers--Amazon keeps them for you, even after you have read and deleted them. But, I loved this book so much, I want the print copy. So, I will be buying it (waiting, of course, until it comes out in paperback).

I had not heard of the book Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout, until this year's Pulitzer prizes were announced. Olive Kitteridge won for fiction. One of the other nominees is A Plague of Doves, by Louise Erdrich, which sits on my waiting to be read shelf. I figured, if Olive Kitteridge won over a novel by Louise Erdrich--who I love as an author--then Olive Kitteridge must be some book.

So I ordered it for the Kindle. And read it voraciously. And LOVED it! Just loved it. Here's the New York Times review of Olive Kitteridge. The work is a collection of 13 short stories that form a novel of sorts. For comparison sake, the work reminds me of one of my all-time favorite works--Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio. Like Winesburg, Ohio, Olive Kitteridge is set in a small town. Where Winesburg is obviously in Ohio, Olive Kitteridge is set in a small town in Maine.

Like Winesburg's residents, the residents of Crosby, Maine, lead desperate quiet lives. One of my favorite stories in Winesburg, Ohio features a spinster who keeps waiting for a beau who is never going to return. One night, she can stand her lonely life no more, and when it begins to rain, she strips and runs out into the street naked. She thinks the rain will somehow renew her. Ironically, the only person she encounters is a deaf bum who stumbles about. She tries to make contact with him, but in his deafness, all he can say is "What?"

The characters in Olive Kitteridge have that kind of desperation. The title character Olive is not particularly likeable, but she grabs your heart, nevertheless, and engages you. At one point, when she encounters an anorexic teen, she tells the teen that she breaks Olive's heart, because she--Olive--is starving. Since Olive has been described as a large woman, the reader recognizes that Olive does not mean physical hunger--but emotional hunger.

This novel is definitely ONE terrific read--and I heartily recommend it.

DISCOURAGED!

I just finished grading two (TWO!!)** sets of research papers. The papers are to be 10 pages long, arguing a position, using appropriate sources, etc. etc.

Well, I am done! So , why would I be discouraged?

Because in each of the sections of papers I graded, I found two instances of outright plagiarism. My policy is the student gets a zero (0) on a paper where there has been plagiarism. There is no excuse, absolutely none, for academic dishonesty.

But it makes me very sad--and discouraged--to find those instances. I know, I know--I know students are busy. I know they are balancing many different proverbial balls in their lives. But, cheat to get work done? No. I neither can nor will ever condone cheating.

'Nuff said.

------------

** to my brother--no smart remarks about "only two sets"? Remember, I am supposed to be retired!

The Safety Syndrome

The other evening, the local news gave its teaser headline: A young woman was threatened on Facebook. Stay tuned to learn the details.

Well, I thought--what has happened. Every so often, there is a story about this or that breach of personal safety with Facebook as the vehicle, or some other electronic mechanism.

For example, I heard about a couple who was sued, with the actual serving being accomplished through Facebook. This story came out of Australia--and even though I "googled" to find out more details, I couldn't verify what exactly happened.

Anyone in the job market should be cautious about the information available for the finding on Facebook, or other internet sites.

And, of course, there is cyberstalking.

When the local news got around to the Facebook story, it turned out a young woman was threatened with bodily harm by her ex-boyfriend on Facebook. So, the story was NOT that Facebook is dangerous, but that it was the MEANS whereby a very misdirected young man threatened someone.

Safety, of course, is a very important consideration. We should all be aware of ways that we are exposed, with the Internet magnifiying that exposure. But, Facebook itself is NOT to blame. You can set your profile in such a way that only approved people can view it. And you can turn down any and all requests that you have no idea where they originate.

I get the impression that local news features such stories partly because they want to sensationalize the issue, and partly because they don't understand the technology. What they clearly do NOT intend to do is provide useful information that reasonable people can act upon. So, what can we do?

Use common sense--it applies as easily in the new wired environment as it did before we have such a thing as cyberspace.

In Praise of Famous Men

For the longest time, I listed James Agee's and Walker Evans' seminal work Let Us Now Praise Famous Men as my favorite book. I still like it very much, though I would not be able to narrow the choice of favorite book down to ONE favorite.

But the title has such an evocative ring to it that it gets me to thinking of famous men I have known.

One such man was a friend of ours. I first met Fred Speaker--that was his name--when I worked for the state medical society. He was the legal counsel for that organization. Even though he was an attorney whose legal career was very successful, perhaps he would have preferred people to identify him as a Penn State football fan. I don't know why he was so crazy about Penn State football, but he was. In fact, he converted--an appropriate term, since it was a near religious experience--my husband and me into becoming Penn State football fans.

When Penn State was playing Notre Dame during its 10 year series in the 1980s, Fred saw to it that we got tickets to all the games Penn State played against Notre Dame, including those at Notre Dame's campus. Sometimes he used his connection with a priest friend of his, who called upon a bishop in San Fransisco (or somewhere) to get tickets. For that particular game, we sat with Father Dan, who seemingly forgot he was supposed to cheer for Penn State. When the Notre Dame band marched onto the field, Father Dan was excitedly yelling--GREAT KILTS! Not your average football cheer.

Back to Fred. Besides being a Penn State fan, Fred had two things stand out in his distinguished legal career. He was appointed by President Nixon to run to National Legal Services program, for a time. At some point while serving in that capacity, he crossed swords with Vice President Agnew, who tried to use his influence inappropriately. Rather than give in to political pressure, Fred resigned in protest.

But the pivotal event of his career was his order to dismantle the electric chair in Pennsylvania. The story of that event is told in Fred's obituary that appeared in the New York Times. He had occasion to visit the state prison at Rockview, where the electric chair was housed. Herewith the rest of the tale from the Times:

(He entered the) state's death chamber, where he saw the big wooden electric chair sitting starkly in a room with an overhead exhaust fan to remove the stench of death and holes in the floor so the official witnesses to an execution could have a place to throw up.

As Mr. Speaker later recalled, it was all he could do to keep from throwing up himself, as he suddenly realized that for all the legal trappings and statutory authority, executions, which he had previously supported, were no more than premeditated, cold-blooded ''administrative murder.''

''All I had to do was see that electric chair,'' he said. ''I looked at the place where somebody pulls the switch and burns somebody to death. That just wiped out all the great philosophical views that I had.''

Biding his time until the day in January 1971 when Governor Shafer was replaced by a Democrat, Milton J. Shapp, Mr. Speaker, who was planning to drive to Washington with a friend, listened on the car radio until the new Governor had been sworn in.

Then, mindful that he would be Attorney General until his successor had been approved by the State Senate and sworn in, he got out of the car and mailed an official letter to the Rockville prison warden, ordering him to dismantle the electric chair and citing an accompanying legal opinion he had signed declaring the death penalty unconstitutional as ''cruel and inhuman punishment.''

This bold act was something that I always admired about him.

One time, when Fred was talking with my husband, he remarked that he didn't want only to be remembered as the person who stopped the death penalty (for a time) in Pennsylvania. My husband asked why--and Fred demurred that he hoped he would do other great things. He even ventured to say that his obituary would read--the man who ordered the dismantling of the electric chair. He was most prescient in that thought. My husband reassured him that that deed alone was great and worthy as anyone's life achievement.


Fred has been long gone, having died some 13 years ago. Hundreds of people attended his funeral, held in the local Catholic cathedral. I suspect one thing would have meant more to Fred than all the accolades spoken about him: among the floral arrangements sent to honor his memory was a wreath from Coach Joe Paterno.

The Best Laid Plans

It's become something of a family tradition--every Mother's Day, my husband offers to buy me all the annual flowers I want. And, each year I go a little crazy. OK--make that a lot crazy. I have added and added and added pots until there is neither room around the house, nor energy in my bones to plant them all.

This weekend, we had a sudden dose of summer after an abnormally cool spring. The temperature jumped into the low 90s. So, naturally, I kicked into high gear where plants are concerned. So when my husband suggested getting the annual plants a weekend earlier than usual, I was set.

We ended up with six flats of various types of plants, and carefully unloaded them. My plan was to have them carried out to the area behind the house, inside the pool fence. I have all my empty pots lined up and waiting there. We also have an old decrepit picnic table that serves as a perfect potting table.

Just as we began carrying flats into the pool area, a startled bird flew past us. I didn't think much of it, until I saw it.

A nest.

In one of my waiting pots.

Oh, dear--the mourning doves are procreating again.

So, I quickly abandoned my planting location, and moved it to the other side of the house. Mama (or Papa) Dove soon returned, and resumed nesting. As soon as the chicks hatch and fledge, I will make sure the pot is moved. The nest is nothing to speak of at all--just a smattering of twigs placed on top of the soil in the pot. Sorry, doves, no more using empty pots as nests.

Thanks to Robert Burns for the post title--somehow the title seems most apt in that Burns wrote his poem that contain that line upon having plowed up a mouse's nest. He rues having disturbed her nest--"I'm truly sorry man's dominion,/ Has broken nature's social union" and he then concludes:

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Nature intrudes into human designs time and again. So, for today--I did just a bit of planting. I leave the nesting mourning dove undisturbed. And contemplate Robert Burns' wisdom--"The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/Gang aft agley." Ain't it the truth.

The Old (New) Swimming Hole

Unlike some of the bloggers who I read, we do not live along side a stream or a river. So, our summer swimming pleasure comes through the very suburban site of a swimming pool.

I recall fondly swimming in a genuine swimming hole in my teen years. Many such swimming holes in this part of Pennsylvania were created when creeks were dammed. The dams served a purpose in their time--they powered mills. But now, they no longer do. So a bit at a time, the dams are being disassembled, as they block the healthy flow of water.

In place of a swimming hole, suburban backyards have been dotted with swimming pools. There are some parts of the country where you can see pool after pool after pool if you view neighborhoods from the air. The neighborhood we live in has some 40 homes. We moved here almost 30 years ago in the fall, and there were NO swimming pools here. The next spring, we had a swimming pool installed. It seemed like a luxury at the time. But over the years, it has provided much entertainment, first for our son, and his friends (one of whom showed up with an inflatable row boat!), then for our daughter, who held her high school graduation party around the pool.

The pool has been the site of other parties--one celebrating a good friend's 60th birthday, one celebrating my husband's 60th birthday, and one celebrating the anticipation of my father's 90th birthday.

With our children grown and gone, I have turned the pool into a sometime summer fun site for neighborhood children.

One thing the pool does require is MAINTENANCE. And, occasionally, parts need to be replaced. We noticed several summers ago that the liner of the pool was beginning to wear out. Normally, the liner should last about 15 years. The first liner lasted about 11, and was replaced. This one had lasted 17 years--so I guess the average turned out to be what it should--a liner SHOULD last 15 years.

So, it was time to get a new liner.

Herewith, the process.

First, you drain the pool--all the way to the bottom (and hope it doesn't rain--it did!).

Then the people from the pool company come and do the rest. The old liner is cut up, and taken out--I was not there to see (or photograph) that step.

The new liner is then placed in the pool, and a pump is attached to suck out the air, which causes the liner to adhere to the sides.

Then you make sure the water truck comes to fill the pool. Yes, you COULD do it with a garden hose but it . . .takes . . . a . . . long . . . time.

Then you put all the fixtures in place--ladders, diving board, and all the chemicals to balance Ph and keep the water clean.

Almost ready--make sure the warning signs are in place.

What is there left to do? Hmmm--hope for warmer weather (we have had a very cold spring) and on a sunny Saturday, invite the neighbor children over!

Spam!

As a user of go*gle mail, I daily go into my spam folder and clean it out, deleting all the ridiculous messages there.

I know, I know--if I just leave them there, after 30 days, go*gle will clean them out. But, frankly, I am so offended by the thought of people abusing the internet this way, that I just can't help but clean out that folder. It's a bit like the feeling I get when I see trash thrown down in a public place--along a sidewalk, or at a store entrance. I just have to pick it up--it's my nest that's being fouled also.

Anyway, I must confess that I am amused at the putative subjects of some of the spam messages. From today's batch:

• booster for your manhood


• lift your darling sexuality with help of blue pill. salubrious effect assured


• get matched with quality on line schools


• ybyzef click here


• easy process & fast decision on a new MasterCard
  
  My response to all of the above--yeah, right! Although, I am impressed that a spammer would use the word "salubrious."
  
  

I am most amused that go*gle uses its tracking software to insert ads along with these somewhat salacious titles. The Hormel Meat company has a permanent ad at the top of all the spam mail, so that I can always click on a link to a Spam recipe! Like savory spam crescents. Hmm--while I look to see what ridiculous spam mail I get, and then delete said mail--am I really thinking about BAKING with Spam?

Spam as a meat is a product that seems to making a comeback. In a BBC story, there is the suggestion that Spam sales can be seen as a barometer of current economic status. The economy goes down, Spam sales go up.

It's been ages since I ate Spam. My husband recalls it being served in his home when he was growing up.

We have a friend--now deceased--who was born in the Netherlands, and was about 10 years old when the Nazis occupied the country. As the war dragged on, the situation grew dire in occupied countries. People were quite literally starving. Then weather compounded the situation with a hard winter. The people called it the hunger winter. When the Allies liberated the Netherlands, and the rest of Europe, food distribution could begin. Spam was one of the products; it was also distributed in quantity to U.S. soldiers. Whether our friend got Spam from a soldier or from food distribution, it was an unspeakably welcome gift.

Our friend remembered with great fondness receiving Spam. For the rest of his life, he relished the taste of this life-saving food.

If only the current purveyors of spam to our computers had such good intentions.

The Woman Makes the Clothes

You know that expression--clothes make the man? Well, I believe where Michelle Obama is concerned, the expression should be--the woman makes the clothes.

It is so incredibly refreshing to see a wonderfully self-possessed common sense intelligent woman in the White House.

Recently, Essence magazine released their latest magazine with Michelle Obama, and her mother, gracing the cover. As she has before, Michelle is wearing an off-the-rack dress--in fact, a T*lbot's dress. Here is our nation's First Lady, wearing this store's clothing, presumably of her own volition. She is not wearing high-end designer labels that are loaned for a one-time use; she is wearing the kind of clothing many of us wear. T*lbot's--a store where I have been known to shop--should be thrilled.

So, when I was in T*lbot's the other day, I spied the dress. I had no intention of buying it (not my kind of dress), but it was fun to see it in the store. I mentioned something to the sales clerk about the Essence magazine cover photo. Well, she said, here it is--as she handed the magazine to me. Then, she continued, but I don't like the sweaters Michelle Obama chose to wear with the dress. The colors are off.

WHA. . .? You are kidding me. The First Lady wears your dress. She is on the cover of a national magazine. And you don't like her color choice for the accompanying sweaters? Puh-lease.

Anyway.

It has been fun catching the various news stories about the Obama family settling into a living routine in the nation's home. Michelle's incredible sense of the right thing to do--inviting members of a cooking class into the White House kitchen to watch the chefs at work; planting a garden with children; praising a group of young girls at a school in London--makes me catch my breath.

Add to these stories of the obvious fun President Obama seems to be having in the lighter moments of being president--helping children roll eggs on the White House lawn, running with the new first dog, Bo--and I am left with nothing but gratitude that at this moment, Obama is our president, and Michelle is his wife.

And They're Off !

No sooner had I spied the baby mourning doves, in the process scaring the parents out of the nest, when I discovered they are now gone. Fledged (I hope). I peeked in the nest yesterday, only to find this.

An empty nest. Note, the one forlorn feather left behind--baby fluff. I looked all around to see if there were any abandoned babies, but they appear to be gone. Just like our own children--they grow up so fast!

After a very cold spring, we have had a bit of rain, and today, lovely sunshine. Flowers have seemingly burst into bloom in a split second.

Almost 30 years ago, when we moved into our house, I spent one fall (while being 8 months pregnant) planting about 100 bulbs. The tulips and daffodils have long exhausted themselves. But the grape hyacinth bloom ferociously every spring, dividing as they go. So I dig them up, and plop them into the ground in new places.

My Easter flowers also end up gracing the grounds. Herewith some hyacinths and daffodils.

I have some indoors right now, that will be planted any day now.


And one more big spring project is underway--subject of a future post.

What's going on in your spring clean-up, blooming world?

They're Ba-a-c-c-k

Remember last year when I found a mourning dove nest in the arbor vitae tree next to our front door?

Well, the nesting pair is back. Having read that mourning doves, while they build incredibly flimsy nests, will sometimes return, I did not take down the nest over the winter. I just allowed it to sit on its precarious perch--in all its twiggy glory.

We have had several pair of mourning doves hanging around this late winter and early spring. They have patrolled the ground under our bird feeders, pecking away garnering whatever seeds may have fallen.

Even though they are rather common birds, I enjoy watching them. Their lovely pastel grey feathers that occasionally flash a spot of pink fascinate me.

A week ago, we had some workers here cleaning up the yard in readiness for spring. I was sort of patrolling the yard, watching the crew of men raking, edging, cutting grass--when I spotted a white blob in the middle of our street. It looked like a child's stuffed toy. I walked out to investigate only to discover it was a now-deceased mourning dove.

A neighbor was close by, and he said he had seen a red-tail hawk fly over about ten minutes earlier. Perhaps he startled the hawk, but for whatever reason, the hawk dropped the dove right smack in the middle of the street. Whether the hawk snatching, or the precipitous drop, the dove was most certainly dead.

All this occurred before I spotted the nesting dove in the arbor vitae. I have seen another dove nearby the nest, so I assume the dead dove was not part of the nesting pair.

I kept monitoring the nest, from a respectful distance, all week. I decided to postpone trimming the arbor vitae until the babies hatch and depart. And I sneaked my camera in from time to time to grab a quick photo.

On Easter Sunday morning, I took another peek into the nest--suddenly a startled parent dove flew out, and then the other! (Well, the red-tail didn't get half of this pair.) And, then I saw them--the chicks, two balls of grey fluff with tightly shut eyes. I grabbed a quick portrait then retreated. By the time we returned from church, a dove parent was back nesting on them.

Completely unrelated to the doves, here's the Easter present my daughter-in-law brought along. I will have to rush over to Julie Z's blog and read all about caring for orchids.

The Power of One

Several years ago, I read Bryce Courtenay’s novel The Power of One. I was drawn to the book, and enjoyed it a fair bit, for its descriptions of growing up in southern Africa. I can’t say that I think the book is great literature, but it was an enjoyable read at the time.

What I especially liked about the book is its title: The Power of One. The movie version of the book played up that element a bit more than the book itself does.

I have just finished reading a non-fiction work that illustrates a true meaning of the expression “the power of one.” David Relin’s account of Greg Mortenson’s remarkable effort to build a school in rural Pakistan is the subject of the work Three Cups of Tea. If ever there were an example today of “the power of one” it would be Greg Mortenson. If you have not read Three Cups of Tea, I recommend it—I venture that he may have done more to “win hearts and minds” in the Muslim world than all the U.S. military action in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Simply—Greg Mortenson builds schools in small villages in Pakistan first, and then in Afghanistan.

Did you see the movie Charlie Wilson’s War? The movie ends with Congressman Charlie Wilson, who helped arm Afghans in their struggle against Soviet soldiers, pleading to have U.S. funds sent to Afghanistan and Pakistan to build schools. Had Congressman Wilson’s plea been heard and granted, we might not be facing the seemingly intractable problem of religious radicalization in that part of the world.

The power of one!

There are other stirring examples. Having grown up nearby South Africa, I watched that country for years, convinced that apartheid would only end badly—possibly in a civil war. Of course, we all know it didn’t. It ended bloodlessly, for the most part. Much of the peaceful end to that awful codified separation of white and black people came about because of one man: Nelson Mandela.

I have never met Nelson Mandela, but those who have say they are immediately struck by the moral force of the man. Whether that moral force grew out of his years of imprisonment—he spent 27 years in prison—or out of the righteousness of his position, or even out of an innate sense is hard to say. But it is clear that he has a great of morality that surpassed most of the whites in South Africa who would have seen him, by virtue of being a black man, as their lesser.

The power of one!

One more example. I just got the latest newsletter from Hawk Mountain. This is one of the organizations we proudly support. This year is the 75th anniversary of the Sanctuary at Hawk Mountain—and it is all because of the efforts of one woman that this place exists. In 1934, Rosalie Barrow Edge leased the top of Hawk Mountain to protect raptors from hunters who gathered each fall to shoot them for sport. In so doing, she created “the world’s first refuge for birds of prey” (Hawk Mountain News, Spring 2009, p. 1). September 11-13, 2009 will be the 75th Anniversary observance of Hawk Mountain. Part of the celebration includes the release this summer of a biography by Dyana Furmansky of this remarkable one woman nature activist. Rosalie Edge’s efforts, which began when she was a girl observing birds in Central Park, New York, have helped create a true raptor and other birds treasure in Pennsylvania. Each fall the Hawk Mountain Sanctuary conducts bird migration counts in part of the Appalachian Flyway. The Sanctuary has hundreds of volunteers and many young scientists who train in internship capacities.

All because of the power of one!

(Photo of Rosalie Barrow Edge from http://www.depweb.state.pa.us/heritage/cwp/view.asp?a=3&Q=443908)

One Hit Wonders

My blogging friend Philip, knowing my love of literature, shared this interesting story with me.

It's about authors that never made it "big" as they only wrote one novel. I admit--I editorialize when I say "never made it big." The writer actually simply points out who these one hit wonders were.

Here they are, author and book:

1. Harper Lee - To Kill a Mockingbird
2. Margaret Mitchell - Gone With the Wind
3. Emily Bronte - Wuthering Heights
4. J.D.Salinger - Catcher in the Rye
5. Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray
6. John Kennedy Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces
7. Sylvia Plath - The Bell Jar
8. Anna Sewell - Black Beauty
9. Boris Pasternak - Dr Zhivago
10. Arundhati Roy - The God of Small Things

Of the books above, I have read all but A Confederacy of Dunces, so I suppose I shall have to put it on my list to read.

I find this list curiously puzzling. In many instances, the reason the second novel was not written is not for lack of inspiration. Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell had opportunity to write another novel, although Margaret Mitchell was killed when she was struck by a car, ending any possibility of a literary come-back.

Some never had a chance to write another work. Emily Bronte died one year after her masterpiece was published, and Sylvia Plath committed suicide the year The Bell Jar was published. Anna Sewell died soon after her book came out. In each of these instances, the premature death cut short any literary career or any subsequent novel.


Of course, some of the writers moved on to other forms of expression. I would never call Oscar Wilde a novelist. He is far more famous for his wit, and his having flaunted Victorian morals, famously losing his libel trial. His literary reputation stands on several successful dramas that he wrote.

Sylvia Plath, albeit short-lived, is far more famous for her stunning poetry than her auto-biographical novel.

Perhaps the most famous writing procrastinator is J.D. Salinger who has a small body of work, some longer stories collected into novella form. So, I would hardly call him a one hit wonder. In fact, I think he is as famous for his renowned reclusiveness.

Salinger and Arundhati Roy are the only two on the list still living, so there's always time for them to write another "hit."


One novelist not on the list is Ralph Ellison whose Invisible Man made his reputation. There are stories of Ellison working and working and working on his second novel. During his life, it was never published. When he died, a manuscript was found and eventually assembled for publishing--a rambling work--it never reached the proportion of acclaim Invisible Man garnered. Another one hit wonder?

I suspect there are other novelists out there whose reputation was made on the strength of one stunning work.

After reviewing the list, I can only say--if I can fail the way these writers have failed, I will be in very good company indeed.