here still running

2009-01-06T13:16:00.005-05:00

When you're ten, the best way to your boy's heart may be through his baby brother. (Hannah, Carter, and Rochelle; L to R)
Or maybe not.

As this reveals, Miz Scarlett is over her pique at the disruption in services last month, and has resumed her regular devotions. It also reveals I am (finally) following the good example of other bloggers and posting kitteh pictures while my own mind is blank: enjoy!

We Must Remember This

2008-12-31T14:29:00.004-05:00

Lately I don't seem to care to read anything but History, likely in part to be a sign of a stubborn perversity of character, for I am an American, and it has long been observed, by ourselves and others, that Americans are more interested in what comes next than in how we got here in the first place. History, after all, is bunk.

At first we literally had no recorded past--no institutions, no traditions--except those we brought as European immigrants; it was in freeing ourselves from the oppressive weight of that past that we transformed a mixed body of captives, immigrants, and despised survivors into something that had never been known before--a New Order of the Ages: Americans. Moreover, this successful rebellion against the past promised an ever richer and brighter future; the untapped wealth of the new continent, technological innovation, and the genius of a free people combined to insure that, no matter how much the present was better than the past, the future would be better still. The Neo-Conservative insistence that they make history rather than subject themselves to it exemplifies a rich vein deep at the core of being American.

My generation felt a widespread suspicion of this assumption of Progress, though it was not the first to feel it threatened; the "Lost Generation" of post-WWI intellectual modernists, those who got through the Great Depression--other generations of Americans had gravely considered if "progress" could, or should continue, only to emerge with the triumph of the Grand Alliance over the Axis Powers in WWII and the New Deal repairs to Capitalism , which continued for two more decades until questions re-emerged about inclusion into the brighter world--minorities, women, the poor; what we have come to call "identity politics"--and the wisdom of including unwilling peasants around the world at the point of our guns.

In my Sophomore year of high school--1961--the U S moved from being a Creditor to a Debtor nation, a condition which has persisted and accelerated. Also in that year, the U S began to apply its new strategic doctrine of "Flexible Response", as opposed to the "Massive Retaliation" of the Fifties under Eisenhower, to Southeast Asia: opposing what was seen as Soviet expansion in the Post-Colonial world with ground troops rather than atomic bombs. And in Albany. a county seat town in SW Georgia, local Black people were demanding the rights of U S citizens.

It has, at best, not been Progress, but more the opposite, ever since; the size of the U S foreign debt is perhaps the single most salient economic fact of our lifetime, it is still heresy to ask if the U S must continue to spend hundreds of billions to police an increasingly resentful world, often through the most brutal and unpopular of local, Westernized surrogates. There has been some advancement towards a more inclusive society, but even here, failure is pervasive. There has been no victory--no triumph over evil--since these questions were raised nearly fifty years ago. Instead, we has been presented, since at least 1980, with repeated policy errors compounded by the need, popular and elite, to deny that these facts exist.

Obama's election is widely hailed as a sign that these trends may finally be reversed, and that we may, for he first time in decades, be part of the solution rather than the problem. Maybe, but I do not see Obama nor the associates he has chosen so far, to be leading the way, especially in foreign policy; at best, he may provide an opening for us to point the way we want to go, which I believe he will then follow, but he is far too shrewd a politician to stick his neck out that far ahead. The more significant question is whether or not we have become so degraded by our experience in this new world so as to prefer willful ignorance. If not, we may indeed take a step towards being a city, if not that example for all others of Winthrop's sermon aboard the Arabella, one ready to take its place among others.

Home Sweet Home

2008-12-22T16:03:00.004-05:00

The furniture has been here for nearly a month, so it's been long enough to acquire a more lived-in look. From the top, the Dining area (I am not responsible for the "chandelier") looking towards the entrance (on the left), the Living area from the dining table towards the fireplace, and the living area from the entrance with the kitchen and a bath in the background. Reminder: close the door on interior shots.

Just in Time

2008-12-22T15:27:00.005-05:00

I went to the Phoenix airport last Tuesday afternoon for my flight home. Regrettably, I neglected to observe one of the Prime Rulez for U S domestic flights: Nevah Accept a Connection Through Chicago between December 1st and April 1st, so I went back to Nimsey's (Daughter: short for "Lil Nimrod") for another night and another try, which brought me to the airport parking lot in Hartford at about 1:00 AM Thursday, with the cheerful holiday greeting from the shuttle driver "We gotta Big Storm comin' in tomorrow night, and another Sunday." After a half-hour of ice chopping, I was on the road with the basics running through my head: get Scarlett, go to pharmacy, re-stock larder. I finished about ten minutes before the first flakes fell in earnest; the above shot is from the front window Saturday morning.

Other than bringing a camera with an almost dead battery, not bringing my cellphone charger,
and the above, the trip went smoothly. I must figure out how to get some of the better pictures from Nimsey's e-mail to my photo file, as we depended on her camera, but I did get a couple before the battery died.

The big news was Carter Wonderbaby (shown) learning to crawl Sunday afternoon, which he repeated half-heartedly for Mommy's videocam, and refused to do for Daddy for the next day or so, perferring to sneak in practice while Daddy wasn't looking. For the experienced, he was at the rocking back and forth on hands and knees stage, and the raised on hands and push off straight-legged with feet stage, which he often enjoyed, but which produced no forward motion, which eventually annoyed him on occasion.

I have been recovering over Lamb and a Lobster, Shrimp, and Whitefish Gratin with Leeks and Carrots; I shall have to ask Paul and Jane to allow me to join the Mutual Workout Encouragement Society and Camp Meeting soon. And get myself to church Wednesday night.

A Blessed End of Advent and Joyous Christmas to all y'all from Miz Scarlett (also shown) and me.

Announcement

2008-12-08T18:14:00.001-05:00

For those who may not have quite given up hope that I may blog, however unlikely that may be beginning to seem, it won't be this week; I leave for a week in Arizona tomorrow. Yes, I will bring my camera, but not my laptop.

Spare Thou Those

2008-11-17T14:25:00.003-05:00

This was in response to a book review Paul posted a link to at his place: Byzigenous Buddhapalian. Bacevitch is Andrew J Bacevitch. The Limits of Power: the End of American Exceptionalism, which was recently published and is apparently getting some attention.

Bacevitch, as quoted in the link and on Rachel Maddow's show Friday, says nothing that is inconsistent with the conventional wisdom of the History of U S Foreign Relations over the past forty years.

The more interesting question to me is why anything Bacevitch is saying should be news to anyone who claims to be informed about the subject, whether scholar, pundit, or public official. The short answer is, of course, "sin", or, as he points out more specifically: the arrogance, greed, and self-righteousness which permeates, but is not limited to, all these groups.

A friend of mine joked during the '96 elections that the trouble with Republicans was they didn't really believe sin as an experiential fact. Another very astute friend, when I asked him what he was currently reading in the Summer of '06, replied *Immoral Man and Moral Society* I take some comfort in reading the President-Elect has been influenced by his reading of Reinhold Niebuhr. None of this should be taken to claim Niebuhr as an infallible guide; to do so would be oxymoronic, intrinisically contradictory to his point. He was, for example, far too ready to belittle or ignore the U S role in the formation of the Cold War.

He does, however, keep an important insight before us, which may be especially useful as we attempt to discover thirty years of Republican sin in detail and to do what we can to make amends; it is always too late to control the outcome, but it is always time to repent and make the effort.

"Spare Thou those who confess their faults." eh?

Election Day in Connecticut

2008-11-04T16:14:00.002-05:00

One of the first things I did after moving last month was to go to Town Hall and register to vote in my new location. Later, I looked up the voting location on a map; it's a middle school in a part of town I ordinarily wouldn't go.

Late this morning, armed with the paper I got when I registered, I went looking and found the site with very little trouble ( passed the side street it was on, but looked and noticed the name as I passed, so I doubled back). I found a parking place close to the entrance and, though there was a steady trickle of people making their way to the entrance, there was no line outside, only a man with an Obama sign and a woman with a McCain sign standing in the proper place, quietly chatting with each other.

There wasn't a line inside either, and the registration paper saved me an extra step, as my ID (driver's license) still has my old address. One side, a paper ballot, and it was done within a minute or two.

I joined the sign carriers to chat for a few minutes, and joked about how congenial they seemed. They both said something like "Hey; we're all in this together."; it seemed courteous not to point out that was a Democratic point this year. Both were friends and veterans of many an election. I did remark that the lack of a line might be attributed to the fact that both campaigns make the same assumption about the way Connecticut's going; I don't suppose there are lines in Utah either.

In all, a low key and steady event: the way "Nutmeggers" like to think of themselves.

I'M BAACCKKK!

2008-10-21T15:24:00.003-04:00

OK, briefly:

I've been ill, but am fine now, thanks, I've moved, gotten a new computer, and a new innertubes server, the last being a major part of the delay. I also have new phone service with a different provider; Ill get an e-mail together later for those of you who wish to keep track of me off the tubes. If you have not been part of this elite group in the past, you may apply in the comments to this post.

Sorry for the delay; fighting the corporate powers is tedious, as some of you know from your own recent experience.

That is all.

Internet Disruption

2008-09-22T15:33:00.002-04:00

Hi all, my Internet service has been interrupted due to the move. I'm fine and should be back online next week.

09/23 Tuesday afternoon

I'm back in person on the innertubes; thanks to my lovely and gifted lil Nimrod for the first part of this message, and to Mimi for letting you all know the trouble was with the Internet provider, and not me.

Tha-t-t-t-hat'a all, folks.

Blogger Down: Returns to Action

2008-09-15T16:20:00.003-04:00

Dear all:

I have been in the West Haven VA Hospital since Thursday PM, but now (4:21 PM 09/15/08: Happy B'day, Mimi!) am back home. Symptom: "kidneys took the weekend off" says the Doctor, who had a nice sense of humor. I felt sluggish and w/o appetite Saturday, went to bed after church Sunday, skipped a meal or two, and passed out Tuesday AM getting up. At this point sanity and good sense dictated calling 911 to to be admitted; I chose to try to get enough strength to do it myself Thursday Noon. Thanks: I've already thought so, too.

Treatment consisted mostly of continuous hydration by IV for 72 hours, another 24 to make sure the kidneys were still moving towards "normal" levels with liquids by mouth, then discharge for follow-up Monday to make sure I'm ready to do the MRI that is still scheduled for the 26th. Explanations await the MRI, but tentatively, since I've had no major changes in diet or habits for over a year, the hypothesis is I got dehydrated, partly because of my Ileostomy (I have no colon, and cannot re-absorb liquids as efficiently as before, but that was 26 years in July), which avalanched. The Ultrasounds suggest "something" "or or near" the left kidney, but the indications are so vague the techs struggle to decide what to say about it.

For the time being, I'm well, but still a little puny (Alas! Not in size.) which will likely delay my anticipated move until at least the first of the month.

So what did you guys do this weekend? Divest?

Tomato Season

2008-08-25T21:22:00.002-04:00

sometimes seems as if it will never come, especially with a cool, rainy Summer such as this has been. Nine pounds (8.98, to be precise) may seem like a lot at once, but after slow roasting half, and making Ratatouille with the rest, I may have to get a few more by Friday. Oh, yeah, Gazpacho: make that maybe five pounds more.

The Meaning of It All, Courtesy of Mr. Idle

2008-08-19T11:20:00.002-04:00

The Expanding Universe song from "The Meaning Of Life"; click on the post title to view it.

Georgia On My Mind

2008-08-11T21:07:00.002-04:00

My first reaction was, "Why does that dolt want to take over South Ossetia? Does he think the Russians won't intervene? Or does he think the Americans will intervene on his behalf?"

The historical background is that Ossetia, and the other autonomous areas Georgia attempted to invade, have been independent and at odds with Georgia since before the Russians showed an interest more than two centuries ago.

The economic context is equally plain: the Russians furnish Europe with oil and natural gas. With Ukrainian independence, Russia lost most of her Black Sea ports; Georgia provides an avenue for Caspian oil while leaving the Russians out, which gives other major interests (can you say "Exxon Mobil?") an opportunity to deal from a position of dominance.

The Georgian President clearly decided to end a long standing border feud, which may very well have included Ossetian irregulars taking advantage of Russian protection to engage in provocative acts. Unambiguous information about the deployment of troops and their potential on both sides is lacking; Georgia claims to have withdrawn, and to have been invaded by Russia, but, given the distances involved and the effective range of modern weapons, "withdrawal" and "invasion" mean relatively little at this point.

The Russians, to their credit, have already called an emergency meeting of the Security Council to intervene, which the U S later urged as if it hadn't already happened. The French are working "on the ground" to appeal to both sides for a cease fire. And contradictory statements as to the facts come from both sides, as civilians die, and flee, and weep.

"Great power" theory, developed in the late stages of Western Imperialism, does allow for the sponsorship of small, relatively weak states by the powerful. It does not follow that the powerful should choose whom they will sponsor foolishly, with only one factor predominating. Especially, it does not allow the weaker state to determine the course of the Great Power, by sending a brigade in support of other foolish adventures, nor to entice the Power into a conflict far greater than the interests at stake. The morons directing U S foreign policy appear to be committing both these errors here, at a time when their ability to back up such idiocy is grievously lacking.

A Little Late Night Fun

2008-08-09T20:41:00.004-04:00

The dance group Pilobolus with a piece to The Lovin' Spoonful's "Summer in the City". If you're almost that old, but not quite, you may remember the group leader, John Sebastian, doing the theme to the TV show "Welcome Back, Kotter."

The Casualties of War: Rape

2008-08-08T19:39:00.002-04:00

I accepted Military duty for two reasons: to insure I would be able, in the future, to visit my mother in the U.S., and to avoid being raped in prison.

Since my era, when most women in the armed forces were nurses and therefore officers, whom enlisted swine were not to think about, on penalty of violating The Military Code, much less touch, the integration of women in "non-combat" roles (Tell that to Major Tammy Duckworth, who ran for Congress without legs) has changed the interaction of male and female service members. I would feel more sympathy for military supervisors, who must struggle with protecting rights on both sides, while dealing with ambiguity and getting on with a very difficult task, except that rape is a matter of power, and they have the power, and are often the guilty parties.

Anecdotally, a friend is a victim of such circumstances. She is multi-lingual, forceful, and directed; she now finds it nearly impossible to leave her house, to drive is impossible, and using public transport is planning a mission, with plenty of prescription help. The Army (she's a reservist) and VA deny she's got any reason for PTSD, in part because the 24 hour battle she was in, with ammo running low, doesn't count 'cause she's a girl. Girls aren't supposed to be in combat, therefore it didn't happen.

I'm brought back to this shameful horror, not that it's ever very far away for me, because of a report in the Sacramento Bee (part of McClatchy; if this doesn't work, use the link to the right under "U S news source worth reading": http://www.sacbee.com/111/story/1135543.html) ) for the testimony before the California legislature of a sailor for Veterans' rights. You will also find the story of the female "contractor" who was gang-raped by her co-workers, and kept in an eight foot metal box, until a sympathetic guard gave her a cell phone to call her father.

Whether I agree with their commitment to the military or not, these are dedicated and responsible people who have been brutally treated, denied, and cast aside to defend the indefensible. Clearly, the U S armed forces need a thorough housecleaning, which will not happen without the persistent, active investigation of such wrongs. This will be possible only with the active interest of the public.

With the oceans of horror this maladministration has brought us, we may want to allow ourselves to overlook one or another example; we cannot allow ourselves to overlook this one, for it is a part of a much deeper systemic evil: the denigration and suppression of women, the silencing of their voices. The U S military has failed, grossly and dishonorably, to address this evil; however, I think they may, if firm direction comes from the ultimate civilian authority. The military heard Truman say "Blacks are an equal part of the armed forces", and subsequent administrations continued it. It only takes a boss who says "Cut this shit out, and I mean it." for it to work.

Pillar of Fire

2008-08-07T19:46:00.008-04:00

A volcanic eruption with a lightning storm at Chiat, 1300 km. south of Santiago, Chile. Our place is fragile indeed, but in the hands of El Shaddai.

H/T AZ Dollar Bill, Combat Medic, and good person, who is also the source of the Swan picture.

OK, OK; Here We Go Again.

2008-08-06T20:16:00.004-04:00

Above: tonight's supper: Rockfish (very much like Red Snapper) with sauted Fennel and Red Onion, leftover potato salad (which didn't go well), and snap beans with Roasted Red Peppers. The wine was a rich Alvarinho from Portugal: Auretus 2005 from Trajadura, the color of honey and almost as rich, but with the varietal acidity and minerality which makes it so good with seafood. This one would also match very well with Roasted Chicken and other dishes I would hesitate to put an Alvarinho with; thus far I had only drunk the Spanish Galician version of the grape, Albarinyo, which has decidedly less weight and depth.

Below: supper a night or so ago: Seared Lamb with garlic and Ratatouille, with a little too much squash. I have several variations of this classic dish running in my head, now that tomatoes are in; nonetheless, to not abandon the concept altogether, there must be eggplant, plenty of olive oil, tomatoes, garlic, and basil. After that, the discussion may begin: are you an innovator or just plain whacko?

All of it was pretty tasty, aside from the usual post-mortem of "less of this, more of that". All of it is relatively quick and easy, without processed ingredients, because a) I'm lazy, b) I'm convinced it's good, and c) only rarely do I get so curious (Duck Confit, for example) that a & b get overwhelmed.

Thank All Y'all

2008-07-24T20:24:00.002-04:00

for your good wishes. I had a wonderful dinner at my all-time favorite restaurant*, and suffered the penalty and reveled in the pleasure of gluttony, and got the owner/ chef's** recipe for Duck Confit: woo hoo!

* Arugula in West Hartford

** Christiane Gehami

It's Here!!!!!!

2008-07-22T23:02:00.005-04:00

The Really Important Event, or, more accurately, the sixty third anniversary of the Really Important Event. Whaziz? The birth of the only JohnieB that ever was (to my knowledge).

So here's your invitation; no reservations required, nor need you check razors, butcher knives, forty-fours nor other tools at the door, though we do request you keep their use to a minimum till the party gets goin' good. Thank you.

Poetic Justice: Dreaming for Action.

2008-07-22T13:49:00.002-04:00

Part Two: The Transformation of Energy

Older people remember a time when no aspect of life was planned around energy use. Children did not learn in school how to grow and prepare their food; almost all transportation, over long distances, used the oxidation of fossil fuels as the energy source; end use of products were "off the books", generating enormous material waste in "landfills".

At first, only a few "tree-huggers" sought comprehensive change; then, as more people began to look for ways to escape endless commutes in expensive SUVS, local solutions began to appear. City councils and legislatures were driven to provide alternatives, and some long-cherished privileges were lost. Innovations were difficult at first, then local efforts began to combine, and demand grew that obstacles be eliminated. The economic boon to areas that cooperated was made known by the new entrepreneurs.

The solutions were coordinated with public-private consortiums to develop renewable energy sources; the new systems were mandated to use a rapidly rising percentage of "clean" energy, creating a major market. On the private level, major public funds were directed to low-cost loans, privately administered, for green construction and renovation, and for R & D. The new companies formed to provide the services provided new and productive work, partnering with educational institutions for their training programs.

Though the transformation is far from complete, it is well underway, and well-established; today wind turbines are far more common than "gas stations", and private vehicle ownership is far less common: most people don't want the bother, though there are still specialized uses. Gardens connected to schools, neighborhoods, and workplaces are commonplace.

Final Alert

2008-07-21T19:28:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow is the Really Important Event; watch for announcement.

The Really Important Event Update

2008-07-21T11:22:00.002-04:00

Two more days left

Sunday Dinner with JohnieB

2008-07-20T20:00:00.004-04:00

You'll notice a certain similarity: fish simply prepared and pasta with Asparagus and fresh peas, with local fresh Chevre, peaches, and blueberries for dessert; this is pan-seared Sea Scallops and Couscous.

Part of the reason is lack of imagination/ laziness, perhaps, but the peas and asparagus are still beautiful (the shells on the peas were yucky, but the peas weren't affected) and the asparagus may well have been the best of the year so far: firm and green with tightly closed, dense heads. I love Moroccan/ French style Couscous, and it is ready in minutes. It has a slight nutty but unobtrusive flavor which goes wonderfully with fresh vegetables. Besides, I am beginning to sense I have an audience for this kind of thing, and I didn't want to disappoint either one of y'all.

Pan-seared Scallops are a real treat, and terribly simple, but they must be done correctly; overcook them and you may as well eat rubber. A cast iron skillet, or one with some thermal mass, on medium high heat, with butter to coat. Place the scallops on the surface for one minute, turn them, and remove the pan from heat. Leave the scallops for perhaps a minute, no more than two, which in my opinion is pushing it, plate and eat. No salt, no herbs, no damned fiddlin' around with anything, except a fork. I like Chardonnay, malolactically fermented (without oak) for this. The current one is "Razor's Edge" from Australia, but Tolossa from California (Sonoma, I think) and many French White Burgundies are wonderful.

Countdown to the "Really Important Event"

2008-07-20T12:24:00.001-04:00

Three days left.

H/T Eileen Fluffikins the Episcopali-Fem

Not a Cook; Not a Problem

2008-07-15T19:16:00.004-04:00

Store bought cooked and deveined Shrimp, store bought Spinach Ravioli, with Asparagus, fresh peas, and red Scallions, with my best oil and Brittany sea salt. Yes, you must boil the Ravioli in salted water for five minutes, and the peas/ asparagus for 2-3 minutes. You can boil water, right?

Oh yeah, it took almost ten minutes.

Sunday Dinner at JohnieB's

2008-07-13T19:55:00.004-04:00

Okey-dokey; here it is: Salmon en Papillotte with an herb mixture, some of which was intended for BBQ dry rub (as far as I remember, mustard, lemon pepper, lavender, tarragon, fennel, and maybe celery salt), the evolving potato salad (I added fresh marjoram last night), and a Tomato Foccaccia from Kathy the Genius Baker. The wine is an exemplary Vin du Pays D'oc, a 2006 Pinot Noir from "France", without the intensity and focus of some high end Pinot, but hey: it was $10, and has more than enough fruit and varietal character for anybody. A terrific Summer Red called "Hob Nob".

The only improvement I can think of is to cook the fish over charcoal or a wood fire, to get some smokey flavor.

Back to eating.

Poetic Justice: Signs of A Better World

2008-07-13T19:48:00.003-04:00

Part One: the Closing of The U S base at Guantanamo

The new administration shut down the prison facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and repatriated over 70% of the survivors with reparations and incarcerated others in the United States after trials. After several years, the facility was re-opened under the UN's auspices for those convicted of War Crimes in its World Court at the Hague. In 2014, the first prisoners--William J. Haynes II, formerly General Counsel of the U S Dept of Defense under Rumsfeld, and David Addington, former Counsel and Chief of Staff to Cheney, both disbarred attorneys, arrived at the new facility. The trials of former Attorney General Gonzalez, former Defense Secretary Rumsfeld, and Ex-Vice-President Cheney continue. Former Attorney and Law Professor John Yoo, who served in the Attorney General's office, remains a fugitive. The former President remains in exile in Dubai.

Workers Dying

2008-07-12T21:19:00.003-04:00

The United Farm Workers report the second death this week from Heatstroke in California, the fourth in the last two weeks, aged from 64 to 17.

Heatstroke is preventable, but, by the time the victim shows symptoms, it is often a crisis, frequently fatal. The symptoms are easily distinguishable from the much more benign "Heat Exhaustion"; one victim is pale, grayish, the other is flushed and ruddy. Any civilized legal code will require that supervisors be able to recognize and deal with the difference. Regrettably, "civilized" does not describe those in charge of growing our nation's produce.

Many of the deceased leave dependent children, or, in one case, were children themselves. But they are Mexican migrants, not human beings, whom Godde made and loves. Their deaths are part of doing business, and there are many who will eagerly take their places, and not ask "Why is this position open?" The impetus for change has to come from elsewhere; neither bosses nor potential workers, for the most part, will do it. Legislators, and that means the public, must put a stop to what, in effect, is homicide. It is shameful to us all.

I will attempt the link: ufwofamer@aol.com>; visit for details.

Scarlett's Avocations

2008-07-12T20:04:00.005-04:00

Poppa, make it come down and play!

They're still around; I'm sure of it!

One of Scarlett's pleasures is find moths to play with her. She works very hard at persuading them that it will be as much fun for them as for her, but this rarely has much effect, much to poor Scarlett's displeasure.

Last night, there was an especially large specimen, which she very much wished to examine, but it insisted on remaining on the ceiling: taunting poor Scarlett, who began to mewl every few seconds to express her frustration and displeasure: damned bug! After a bit, Poppa decided he might perhaps swat at the creature and encourage it to fly lower and more slowly: alas! Preliminary ballistics estimates indicate that Poppa may have gotten too much of the critter with the old T-shirt-- the tool of choice; though the remains were not found, much to Scarlett's disappointment, it is possible it ended up in the wastebasket, where she disdains to look: TBTG.

Nonetheless, Scarlett continued in hope, scanning the room for some time, and springing up the wall in attempts to capture what Poppa could not see.

For Those Trying This At Home

2008-07-10T12:00:00.003-04:00

Several have expressed interest in that Lamb/ greens below; here are a couple of ideas to jazz it up.

Oil-cured olives w/ herbs. Better yet, Tampenade (paste of olives, garlic, and oil) on toast rounds

Shaved red onion/ Capers

Artichokes, Lemon Zest, and Mint, with a milder vinaigrette (easy on mustard, lemon juice instead of vinegar)

Green beans, Favas, or Green peas

Sunday Dinner at JB's

2008-07-06T21:07:00.004-04:00

I hope it looks good; it was: warm lamb w/ Rosemary au jus with mixed greens and a Mustard Vinagrette, Spinach Ravioli w/ roasted garlic (not shown) and a 2002 Old Vines Tinto del Pais (Tempranillo) from the Cigales region. Hedonistic maybe, but easy: 20-25 minutes to make, like falling off a log. Of course, for three or four, providing you are able to get your kid to consider it (I wasn't), it could get 'pensive, but for us single Hedonists, let me say: (giggle , snicker) "Free at last!"

Thanks to a Visitor

2008-07-05T19:59:00.002-04:00

How long ago was it: sheez--maybe five years, maybe more.

As is the case with many parishes, mine organizes fun outings for fellowship, especially in the Summer months. Here, it could be Tanglewood Saturdays, with a Picnic, or a trip to NYC; this was down the road to our local minor league baseball team, the New Britain Rockcats. I took my Godson, who was about eleven at the time. All together, adults and kids, maybe twenty people. I enjoyed the game, and the GS was enjoying hangin' with his buds; it was fun to compare live baseball at this level to the only other examples I could remember--American Legion (older kids to teens): amateurs forty years ago. As is usual, there were all sorts of promotions--kids' events, and yada yada--associated with the thing, and, as the game ended, there was to be a fireworks display; after a few hours of fun with people I know and love in the sunshine, my guard was down.

GS was down near the field, by the first base side, when I knew I had to leave immediately. I got him, and said "We gotta go." which he accepted; maybe he sensed I wasn't just being an adult spoilsport. We went through the concession area in silence, and around the high metal fences of the practice field in near dark, with the flashes and booms behind us: flickering on the walls. I was holding his hand, and realized I was doing it to remember I was nearly 60, and not 22, in the U S and not Vietnam. As we made our way back to the parking lot beyond the trees, I explained tersely what was up, and he said "Godde will take care of us". And I knew where I was. When I told his Mom, she said, "He's always had Spiritual insight."

I must say more. He's nearly HS graduation age now, and, though he acolytes, I've lost touch with him, as men sometimes, to my sorrow, do. I have tried to reach out, but little has happened. He has had serious anger issues for most of the time since, and has, according to his Mom, been violent in school more than once. He's African-American, growing up with a single Mom, and, even if he graduates, which I don't know about, it will be from one of the worst school districts in the country: under Federal court orders for decades, isolated from the money and power which are available in abundance across the town line in every direction, full of drugs and violence. He's gifted, angry, and Black, and we haven't provided him with a fair chance, and he knows it.

I'm sorry, but I don't know what to do but grieve. Should I at least hope he isn't murdered, or that he doesn't end up in jail? Or, as some of us decided in Vietnam, is it better to die or be wounded, and get it over with? I feel as if we have been swept away by the powers of this world into the pit, without any help.

Happy Independence Day

2008-07-03T21:27:00.003-04:00

10 May 68: I'd been in Vietnam for a month and six days, and things were beginning to shake out; I was assigned to the Interrogation Section of the Detachment, because of my language training, though I'd had no formal training as an Interrogator. Hence the assistant OIC (Officer in Charge) of the section, a stocky young black man, was to show me the ropes. After the evening meal, we had returned to the Stockade, instead of showers, volleyball, and beer, to get me started with my first enemy soldier.

The Stockade was just a bulldozed area, surrounded by barbed wire, with a corridor through the middle and several sections covered by a tent on either side. We "drew" the POW from one, under the supervision of the MPs, and took him to another with a table and maybe a chair or two.

Em tien gi? ("What's your name?") And the answer, the Lieutenant showing me the steps and having me do them, the POW graciously helping us out. Several more questions, and answers.

Then a sound they both recognized, but I didn't, a kind of whirling whistle, then a sound "SHUMP!" They both "move out smartly" the Lieutenant taking me and the POW, who doesn't need any coaxing, straight out the front gate beyond the compound to a hole in the raw red earth: 2 feet wide, maybe six long, and about five-six feet deep, the three of us: the Black officer, the North Vietnamese soldier, and me at the bottom of the hole. We wait, and there are more whirling whistles, maybe three or four, then SHUMP, then no more for maybe five minutes. It's an odd place--MLK has just been shot, and I'm in the bottom of a hole with two men of color who know what's goin' on, and I don't, yet, in some sense-- the brotherhood of those being shot at--we are together, and politics is irrelevant. Then the Lieutenant decides there's been enough training for the night; it's almost as if he and the POW know this, or have decided this, and are letting me know.

It's nearly dark now, and we go back to our tents, the Lieutenant and I, and wait for maybe an hour, or a little more. We begin to hear an occasional fireworks like sound from the distance: "Maybe a probe at the perimeter." says the LT. Shortly the guys who were taking showers and playing volleyball start showing up; the rockets (Soviet 122 mm. Katusha) had hit the ammo dump just across the airstrip maybe 200-300 meters away from them. People were scrambling, soapy, wet, and naked, over the wet pallet floors for cover. The Club NCO had broken out the hard liquor (unheard of in I Corps!). After a little while, they had decided to come back.

I still had some booze I had brought from the rear back South in the Highlands, which was consumed as we sat on top of the bunkers, listening to the automatic weapons fire (we thought) and the small explosions of mortar or rocket fire (RPG: a different sort) until the small hours. Then, about 1 or 2 am, there was an enormous fireball from the direction of the airstrip; the sounds of gunfire/ explosions having increased steadily all the while. Within another hour or so, another, similar explosion; each was 10,000 gallons of gasoline exploding, surrounded by three days' worth of artillery rounds, rockets, ammunition, grenades, mortar rounds, and other assorted very lethal stuff for a 23, 000 soldier unit. We waited for another hour or so after the second big bang, then drifted off to our bunks.

The next morning, about five hours later, with some rounds still "cooking off" (exploding because of heat), I wander up the hill to take a piss, passing the bunker we'd been sitting on most of the night a few meters to my left. In the grass, just off the path to the piss tube, I noticed a jagged piece of metal, maybe 9-10 inches long, four wide at most, and a little less than 1/2 inch thick: jagged and razor-sharp on every edge; it weighs maybe three or four pounds and is still hot from the explosions. Twenty feet to the left and one of us would have had no skull worth taking notice of.

Civilians insist on shooting off fireworks to "commemorate" our Independence, even though it is often illegal; perhaps you can understand why I neither want nor need such reminders.

I'd Like to Thank PJ

2008-07-03T15:22:00.014-04:00

instead of the rest of youse bums; I mighta never got picked for de Bootifull award.

Oh.

Thanks to all my wonderful internet friends, and mom and apple pie and this grate land of ours and of course godde... (Gratuitous cummings reference) And to da nice Creator of this thing, very little of whose blog I am able to read, but Padre vouches for her, and we all know what's dat worth? http://arteypico.blogspot.com/

Ahem. Many of my choices are those who have already gotten named, but some of the omissions (so far as I yet know) cannot stand

1) Mimi at Wounded Bird (http://thewoundedbird.blogspot.com). I'd rather think she's already been chosen and I've missed it than to believe nobody's named her yet.

2) Wormwood's Doxy (http://wormwoodsdoxy.blogspot.com/) The blogger name alone would be ample reason, but there's the person behind it: tough, bright, deep and compassionate. Not the most prolific, but always one of the best.

3) The Cunning Runt at Little Bang Theory ( http://littlebangtheory.wordpress.com/) Good dinners, fun friends, and the best Nature Photographs I know, except for that one recent lapse indoors! Go there and see for yersef.

4) Like some of the others, hardly overlooked, and for good reason, Tobias at In a Godward Direction (http://jintoku.blogspot.com/). You wanna understand stuff?

5) Only one more!?? This is impossible! OK, now the curve, not a blog exactly, but the website for the Washington bureau of McClatchy newspapers, which is practically the only consistent evidence that investigative journalism as an institution has not yet died in the U S (http://www.mcclatchydc.com/)

As soon as tech support gets back to me, I'll make this all purty and like it's 'pposed to be, mostly. Imperialist rule mongers.

Sunday Dinner at Grandpa's

2008-06-29T19:24:00.004-04:00

Probably looks, at first glance, a lot like last week, and--sure enough--there are broad similarities; I'm learning to use parchment paper, no matter what time of year it is, so whitefish from the oven: this week, a whole trout with butter, lemon oil, lemon pepper, Tarragon, and celery salt, being too lazy to go downstairs to fetch in some Lovage. The Pasta is Whole Wheat Orioccioche ("Little Ears"); Bionaturalae makes the only one I've tasted I really liked.

The Vegetables bring some familiar cast members back: Fava beans and Asparagus, with a odd little addition: Seawort. I love Favas, despite their association with a certain fictional evil genius (Still: Fava beans with Chianti and Liver??!! Anyway.) and despite the fact they are almost as much trouble as they are worth. They deliver what Butterbeans promise. Seawort is tender, grassy, and Salty, with many minerals, as it is a sea plant; it works as a seasoning as much as an additional vegetable element.

The wine is an Austrian 06 Huber Gruener Veltliner.

Kitteh Pictures: That Is All

2008-06-27T16:58:00.005-04:00

Weary

2008-06-23T12:27:00.004-04:00

Can anyone tell me why we have a Congress, or a Supreme Court, for that matter? Either or both seem to be expendable on the grounds of efficiency and cost-cutting. Constitutional interpretation can be (is) handled by a small group within the Justice Department (sic) of recent graduates from Pat Robertson's law school. Pelosi and Reid's Congress can be replaced by a GS-9 with a rubber stamp.

No president in history comes close to Dubya in the number, frequency, and magnitude of "high crimes and misdemeanors", yet the Congressional leadership refuses to avail itself of our only remedy. Don't worry; it'll all be over soon.

This week, a "compromise" by the Democratic Congressional leadership on FISA shredded and flushed the Constitution, one which allows the Attorney General to forbid federal courts from considering questions which he/she asserts concern "national security", and which removes private entities and public officials from any future liability for their crimes. The Democratic nominee endorses it, though he claims it's not perfect. One "supplemental funding" bill after another sails through Congress to continue the war, while members of the armed forces continue to be victimized by multiple tours and the denial of appropriate services and treatment by administration officials, including "medical professionals." A suicide bomber killed more than fifty people in Iraq a day or two ago, an Iraqi government official killed a U S soldier and wounded 5 others South of Baghdad yesterday, while U S politicians talk of the "progress" we're making there, as the resurgent Taliban controls more of Afghanistan. Meanwhile, reporters in the war zone such as CBS's Lara Logan complain they can't get these stories on TV. She did, on the Comedy Channel, thanks to Jon Stewart.

For some time, perhaps years, most Americans despise Congress even more than the rest of the damned guvmint; the numbers I saw this week are between 70 & 80% for Democrats, Republicans, and Independents. In 2006, we voted for a new set of rascals with the demand they do something about all of this; again, why do we bother electing them?

With so few signs of hope from the princes of this world, what from the princes of the church: specifically, from the Anglican Communion? The recent GAFCON meetings in Jordan and Jerusalem did well as farce, with Big Pete trying to enter Jordan while under suspicion of at least condoning, if not directing, a massacre of Muslims in Nigeria and pointedly ignoring the Bishop of Jerusalem's requests not to meet in the Holy Land.

All this is described, in his opening address, as a sign of God's working through "orthodox biblical Anglicans" (such as Santa Barbara's Ahramson and Virginia's Minns) to restore the "church" destroyed by teh Evil Gay Menace headquartered in the U S and Canada. The Communion leadership, including the Archbishop of Canterbury, has been so grossly negligent in punishing these miscreants, despite the patient pleas of the faithful (mostly from Nigeria through Uganda to Kenya) that outside measures, such as GAFCON, have been forced upon True Biblical Orthodox Anglican Leaders, Big Pete being first among them. Nonetheless, as one observer noted, none of them seem to be willing to leave the cesspool of depravity the Anglican Communion has become in their eyes, no matter how much so many of us long for it. In this, it seems to me, that we are not dividing or destroying the church or the Anglican Communion, but recognizing that, in their thought, word, and deed, such as are in GAFCON have already done so.

I don't often say so, but I'm really fed up.

Too Much of A Good Thing Is Just What I Had in Mind

2008-06-22T19:17:00.005-04:00

Here's the end result; I must make a note that Blogger wants to upload these in reverse order. Software rulez. Perfectly delicious, so far--I haven't started dessert--and so easy to do; I do know that cranking it out for a family is a different story, and nobody has time to shop, but I still wonder, what's so peculiar about eating this way?

Peach, bing cherries, and raspberries w/ fresh Chevre, Cod en papilotte with fresh scallions, peas and asparagus dressed with olive oil.

You might say it began with a friend's mentioning of Catfish en papillote, but it's probably more accurate to at least mention clean dishes vanishing before my very eyes and, hey, ya gotta have at least a knife to spread the peanut butter, right? So I like to think it's a reward for a clean kitchen, including pitching the soupy greens in the crisper and forgiving myself for wasting food, and adding a few plants to the back porch; really, though, it has to do, more than anything else with the rich blessing Godde pours out this time of year: cherries, peaches, and raspberries with fresh Chevre is dessert, and dinner, besides the fish, is fresh green peas and beautiful asparagus from the Great White North. Thanks, Canada!

Shelling peas was a common task in my childhood: sitting on the front porch after breakfast with a big bowl full of purple hull peas to be cooked for lunch. Most of the day's cooking would be done by 10:00am or so; supper (the evening meal) was often made up cold, though stovetop cooking could be a part. Then, shelling peas was a chore; now, it seems a homey pleasure: as good as eating them.

Some of the new additions don't show--dill and oregano are behind the sage on the upper shelf, Lavender is in the window, and Rosemary in the back of the lower shelf.

"A Perfectly Gawgous Vegetable Dinner"

2008-06-13T18:36:00.005-04:00

Dinner, the Revised Standard Version: no favas, new red potatoes, hericots verts, and shallots on the greens, w/ Vinaigrette, S &P, and Raspberries win over Strawberries.
Dinner as originally planned: Bing Cherries, Fava Beans, baby greens, A tomato and Artichoke Foccaccia from Kathy the Baker, red berries, and an Unoaked CA Chard. The fresh local Chevre is missing.

The cherries are not part of dinner, but are out as a snack until they're gone (Probably Sunday).

Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune, or: Woodstock Nation

2008-06-13T16:14:00.004-04:00

Discovered again at Mimi's (thewoundedbird.blogspot.com, which is also on the blogroll to the right.
My politics (shown) have been consistently in this area for some time.

http://www.politicalcompass.org/printablegraph?ec=-9.88&soc=-8.77

The Aforementioned Little News

2008-06-12T20:28:00.003-04:00

I had a good flight and trip to Arizona, though I was one seat away from a screaming two year old for four hours plus. I found when I could see what the parents were doing to cope, and heard the stories, it was much easier to bear. It was delightful talking to the parents, when they had time, and to the couple next to the Dad, whose wife turned out to be another Disciples Minister with many of the same acquaintances I have. Prayers for Ben and Susan, Dominic and Michelle and their families, and remember the stranger, whose struggles you do not know.

I settled in smoothly, and took Peter out (Walking! In Phoenix! Very rad!) for Pizza (They were Greeks from Chicago, so the Pizza was very good, and with Anchovies!), then up the street for handmade Sorbet and Gelato in a place owned by a Gay couple who are friends of my Daughter's business partner, which I didn't find out till later.

Thursday I showed up, though I felt I was coming down with something: "No sweat; Carter's got a cold." Friday I stayed in my room, eating Kung Pao Takeout to clear my head, and missing the chance to care for Carter while Amy made podcasts at her partner's eco-friendly home/ business site. By Saturday I felt well enough to doze in front of the TV with Carter on my chest while Amy had time to eat, shower, and run errands. He still sleeps better (and longer) if he's being held; he had just started a "eat and fuss all night--sleep all day" routine the day before I arrived. It turned out the best thing I could do was hold him: darn! Sunday we took him out for his first outing, and Amy got her first massage since delivery Monday, then I got to do laundry for the return flight.

We added two boys to my seat section in Nashville, so I got to play Grandpa with them. The flight was delayed, then diverted by bad weather, so we flew to Buffalo for a gas stop/ wait, which put us into Hartford well past one AM, which wasn't so bad, as it was only ten something Phoenix time, but harder on the boys, who were asleep before it was all done. The little one, about six, got chewing gum for his ears, which ended up all over his hands!

These are mundane ("worldly") things, with grace in more moments than any of us notice, except perhaps in the "Ohhh! and Ahhhh! baby encounters; I've alluded to only a few of the others in this first post. This does not mean there weren't many more.

Pictures AZ 06/03-06/10

2008-06-12T19:57:00.007-04:00

Apres le bain, what does every baby turn to when wrapped in a nice clean towel? Bien sur, la merde!

Dad and the boys. Peter is a step-son to Jeff, but it looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, for which I am very grateful.

Mother and sons; Dad barely visible on the right.

Carter on the floor in his infant playpen: awake for once

Peter and Jasmine at Ju-Jitsu; she is a little older and larger and just as skilled, so they push each other's growth.

A Teaser

2008-06-12T16:50:00.002-04:00

We'll be back in a few hours with more photos and a little news.

Greater Love Hath No One

2008-05-29T22:01:00.003-04:00

A belated Memorial Day post.

One of the frustrating things to me about communicating with non-veterans is the facility with which the focus turns to, and remains with, horror. Though there are some sad details--the hero, one of them--dies in the beginning, this is about love, and not misery.

Imagine that you arrived in Vietnam four or five days ago, the place the whole world is watching and talking about. After a couple of days drawing gear, you are driven by truck along the infamous, if you are paying attention, and you are, Route 9, which runs parallel to the DMZ about 6 miles South of it. It is dotted with lonely little hilltop outposts, all of which have been the site of at least one ferocious battle, and most often many more than that, in the last year between the Marines and the enemy. You stop at one long enough to join your unit, and go to a bunker in a night position a mile or two to the Southwest where you join another Marine in a two man position, who helps you to settle in. You are scared shitless: literally; you couldn't go if you tried.

You've set up two hours on guard, two off, and just when it's so dark you can't see a thing., there is an enormous flash and boom right in front of you; the concussion lifts you and throws you both violently against the back of your bunker. The veteran Marine is calmly talking you through it: check your body parts, still there? Are you bleeding? Wounded? You both are up now, because, as he explains, the enemy is likely to attack, which is true. There is a firefight until near dawn: killing and being killed. In the intervals, to keep you relaxed, he tells you about his sister back home, whom he loves, and how he's not sure he wants to show you her picture until he knows you're the kind of guy that deserves the favor.

At first light, he shows you how to clean up and prepare to move to the next position. He has baptized you into your unit; he has shown you, the new guy, things you will need to know to make it out alive. As you prepare to move out, a sniper's bullet suddenly kills him. Alive, and a helpful older friend, then dead; you have never seen a person die before. You move towards him, then hesitate, overcome by shock. another of the older members of the unit sees this, and tells you, "Look; last night you needed his help, and he gave it. Now he needs you to get him back home." So you carry his body to your next position, a mile or so; you have been in the field in Vietnam for less than one day, you have, barring being killed or wounded, approximately 390 more to go.

Forty one years later, you're thinking of looking up the guy's sister and telling her how much her brother loved her, and how much you loved him.

Gardens in a pot

2008-05-27T21:12:00.002-04:00

OK: enough letting the adorable duo keep the place open (and didn't they do a fine job? A hand for the lads, if you please.); Grandpa Johnie has to write something, and, while awaiting permission for a more serious and belated Memorial Day post, here's some whimsy (without the formidable Miss Vane)

Gardening in a third floor walk up in town long after Osteoarthritis has set in requires ruthless practicality; ya aint gonna grow peas (Southern or those nice lil Yankee things), pole beans, squash, eggplant, lettuces, or much of anything, in fact: not even tomatoes (I've tried: not worth it). You must put your efforts in minimal and minimalist directions; it also helps to have a good greengrocer/ plant seller nearby.

Thus the herb garden under whatever windows are available, or can be made so. This weekend I bought and potted Spring Onions, Chives, Marjoram, Sage, Peppermint and Thyme. (A photo may follow when I learn to load stuff onto the 'puter). For reasons personal to my supplier (he's a recent Widower) Rosemary and some of the others I may usually expect weren't available, so I looked at the stuff outside Whole Paycheck this evening while picking up some Sole for dinner. The Rosemary and Lavender looked OK, but how often (and for what) do I use fresh Oregano (it was Greek, though)? Savory, I haven't seen. What am I leaving out? Basil? Too much hassle for a bunch--maybe for the occasional Marinara, but not for Pesto or other bulk uses. A nice little Bay tree would be lovely.

These are partly rhetorical--brainstorming aloud--and partly an at-large question; what have you grown in pots? Any tricks,or advice you'd share.

Our lines are open and ready to receive your call.

I Have Two Adorable Grandsons

2008-05-17T07:54:00.004-04:00

Peter, 10 years, holds his little brother Carter, 3 days. Aren't they wonderful? And, no, that's not really a question, so make with the "Ooooos and Ahhhhs" already.

Carter Reid born May 13, 2008

2008-05-17T07:40:00.003-04:00

Blame Eileen

2008-05-16T11:41:00.002-04:00

What Alcoholic Drink Are You?

You Are A Martini

You are the kind of drinker who appreciates a nice hard drink.
And for you, only quality alcohol. You don't waste your time on the cheap stuff.
Obviously, you're usually found with a martini in your hand. But sometimes you mix it up with a gin and tonic.
And you'd never, ever consider one of those flavored martinis. They're hardly a drink!

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Updates: May 13th, '08

2008-05-13T11:41:00.007-04:00

I'll be out for a few hours (it's almost Noon); SIL at home says "best time: yes!" almost 0900 his time (and his first! He sounds excited!)

See all y'all later.

2:28 PM EDT, three hours ahead of Phoenix. I tried calling the home and Daughter's numbers, which are in "message" mode. SIL and I were probably too excited to remember how we were going to stay in touch. I expect they are in the middle, perhaps at the Birthing Center, and I will hear as soon as there's any news.

3:20 PM

I found my SIL's phone number, and left a message: just afternoon, Phoenix time. Continuing prayers for all.

3:47 pm

don't you just love it when things start to happen a bit, when you've been waiting? SIL just called from the birthing room: pains 2 minutes apart and "growing stronger" (lovely euphemism, isn't it?), 80 % dilated. 1 cm across (10 is max). I read this as systems go and running, though marked by who knows what fear, hope, love? I expect things to begin to hop, (is that a Regionalism?) so there may not be time to share news for a bit from their end. SIL will pass the knowledge of your prayers and support to daughter, who requested them for her struggle.

I'm not sure there's been a final decision on by what name he shall be called.

Anxious: who? Me?

10:12 PM

Daughter just called from Phoenix, , sounding like an old hand, with the new baby crying in the background. Both are fine; he was born about two hours ago: 4:30 Phoenix time.

Thank you all for your prayers and support.

Department of Dumb Things to Do Inadvertently

2008-05-10T13:28:00.003-04:00

While living in Oklahoma c. 1980 for a M. Divinity, I took my United Methodist friends up on an invitation to supper on a weeknight: very casual, en famille. I had taken the car stereo out a day or two before, including the radio, so I was soundless. As I was leaving in late afternoon (Prime Time for these things), my elderly Landlady poked her head out of her side of the house and said, among other things "There's storms brewing this evening.", an entirely common exchange, especially in Spring or Autumn. "Storms" may ALWAYS include tornadoes in this context; " I didna hear yet of none sighted on the ground, but we all know it's possible." I nod and pull out, and within minutes am on a highway (4 lanes, but not Interstate).

There is a village halfway between my origin and my destination: a drive-in, a good sized Roman church, and a very few houses and streets: no traffic lights, but signs that say they'd really like you to slow down a little. As I slow from 60 to maybe 50 on the edge of town, I look once again at the cloud that has formed within the ten or fifteen minutes since I left the house. It forms a diagonal line at approximately 45 degrees from top to ground: sharp and distinct; it appears to have drawn by a ruler: black on one side, sunshine on the other. The first very big and forceful drops hit my windshield. Within a matter of seconds, I am in the village, doing ten miles an hour and reducing my speed further; it is raining so hard I cannot see the hood of my car, but catch glimpses of taillights in front of me. It is not so much a matter of going anywhere, but maintaining one's position as long as one is able; I think "If the windshield isn't destroyed (some of it is clearly big hail by now) I won't stop yet." Then, within a minute or two, the rain and hail are sharply reduced, and I can see a very wet road with limbs here and there, so I proceed carefully to Sam and Sharon's. I can't find Sharon and the kids at the Parsonage or the church next door, but a note saying "Sam, we're in the storm cellar." So where have the Methodists put this storm cellar?

As I continue my search, Sam and his golfing buddy pull up to park in front of the house. He tells me there were tornadoes on the ground, and still are to the SE, as we learn through the static when we join Sharon, the girls, and their next-door neighbor, whose cellar they use. Sam tells me, or we both learn, one of the tornadoes had touched down about 100 meters to our North, and was running parallel to the highway we were on, until it crossed about 1/2 kilometer behind us, removing the roof of the drive-in. Sam and his buddy got out of their car and lay in the ditch, getting soaked, while I drove, oblivious to the larger context.

I had cleaned up after a tornado touched down in a residential area just north of my undergraduate school: volunteers putting a community face on the anti-war (1970) movement. One had destroyed a small part of a small town where my first congregation after Seminary was located. My Oklahoma kinfolks always had a dugout for home canned goods and a quick trip if need be; now I am reminded of scurrying to the bunker outside the hooch when we heard the first "incoming" rounds go off--122mm Katushya rockets--in Vietnam, a once a week occurrence.

I have never before realized how much I take these experiences as "given": for granted; "everybody knows that." Keep living, keep learning.

My Friend In Surgery

2008-05-08T09:57:00.004-04:00

My friend and Vietnam Comrade, David, started his surgery about an hour ago. He does appreciate the attention of the prayer posse, as do I.

05/ 14 UPDATE

I saw Dave tonight; he says he expects to go home tomorrow, but he's in a lot of pain, and his body is still adjusting to the new, if temporary, regimen. He'd had a good day, then a long nap (medicated), then woke up in considerable pain.

This an Airborne Combat Veteran who was Evaced to Japan wounded; if he says "It hurts; I need something." they better give it to him, or I will be angry.

Civilians.

This the Most Sumptious of Feasts: Really.

2008-05-06T20:47:00.005-04:00

Since I visit to Syro-Palestine in May, 1997, as news reports echoed with the Israeli Right's support of the undermining--A marvelous, Godde-given, dare I say? opportunity for a multireligious team of loving Archeologists turned Cheap Trick Politics, a banquet (and I've seen others, perhaps more worthy), but to my taste this needs to be in the glorious Mediterranean Spring/ Summer, and with time and beds and food and carrying on for whatever time's needed, on a villa or a few, in city or two: can you imagine, much less use, 23 species of oregano, as on Cyprus?

I was very pleased with Kevin's, the Cathedral Choir's, and our Soloist's Kevin Murray's performance of Vaughn Williams (And Herbert's) Five Mystical Songs early Sunday Evening; perhaps the Heavenly Feast, in this Sillilissima Season of Political Nonsense somehow masques real experience, and therefore politics is on my mind. Which, let no one deliberately misunderstand me and half-grant what I wish, does not mean I want to talk about any aspect of the damned foolishness, nor the ways it's being covered, nor how we managed to end up in such a pickle (I taught that to unwilling Undergrads, who learned something, for eight years; I can bore the best of them. Oh, except model freaks: "Depicting Waterloo at the crucial fifth hour, when ...")

How do we get the political systems to respond to the best, and not the worst, in ourselves?

Come, My Light, my Feast, my Strength:
Such a Light, as shows a feast:
Such a feast, as mends its length:
Such a Strength, as Makes a guest

Majestic Duck Leg: My First Cassoulet

2008-05-05T00:20:00.005-04:00

I tried a Duck Confit about three weeks or more ago, and decided "WTF?" and started a Cassoulet today. I think encountering Martha Stewart's version in a magazine at the Vets Center was the final straw. It's not that easy to find a recipe; there appear to be roughly as many as there are cooks who make it; the main traditions are associated with three towns in SW France: Toulouse, Carcassone, and Castelnaudary. All consist of white beans cooked with meats: pork, preserved Goose (Carcassone) or Duck (Castelnaudary), and Mutton (Toulouse and Carcassone). Castelnaudary has the Cassole, the earthenware pot it's traditionally made in, from which the name of the dish comes (in Occitan). Some speculate that the pots of beans were made while bread was being baked in the village oven, then placed in the oven as their loaves came out, to cook in the residual heat.

I am grateful for the Internet, the luscious Goddess who passes along traditions I may, and do, connect, in a belated Beltane celebration, for such a delicious grateful attention to beans, broth, and meat over the centuries. After going over a number of recipes, I felt I understood the base: Baked beans with meat: essentials including beans, meats, garlic, and tomato. I do thank my brothers and sisters at the Polish butcher's: servers and customers alike, for revealing themselves through their food.

The stock in which the beans are cooked before being baked is important; I used the Ham butt with Rind, carrot and an onion studded with whole cloves, 1/4 c. tomato sauce, and a bouquet garni of Leek, Thyme, Bay Leaf, and Lovage (celery taste; I grow it) in cheesecloth. I went to the Cathedral Art Show--I missed the Eucharists today--then, coming back around 1:30, cooked the beans for a bit, then went back for Choral Evensong and a Concert of Vaughan Williams's Five Mystical Songs on the Herbert texts which was wonderful, finished the beans and put things together for a slow oven roast in a cast iron Dutch Oven: ham butt and rind; great sausage and hams and veal! And WP's (Whole Paycheck's) version of Andouille, which aint that bad, I hope.

I sampled it before going to bed: late; I believe it lives up to expectations, and look forward to the next few days of seconds.

This Post is NOT About Food (Really)

2008-05-02T18:24:00.003-04:00

It's about looking for a butcher shop. Bear with me, vegetarian friends.

As I explore new recipes, some of the ingredients are getting a little more exotic, from the perspective of a simple country boy like myself (and, no, I didn't go to Harvard, though I have driven through it several times and spent some enjoyable time in its bookstore), such as Garlic pork sausage a la Languedoc. It seemed as if my choices had come to supermarkets (ugh!), a local store which does only Yuppie specialty cuts (Whole Tenderloins, anyone?), and Whole Paycheck. Tofu is looking better than it used to.

Today I ask my friend and greengrocer Mike, who used to work at Yuppie Meats years ago, and he came up with two recommendations: one general and one Polish. New Britain, where the grocer/ farm is, is a small working class (Stanley hand tools) town with a large Polish community. I've had a great meal or two with friends at local restaurants like Krakovia, , so I decided to try to find the butcher shop Mike described.

OK, I get lost a time or two and have to double back, but then I think I've found it: Polish, begins with "N", and on Broad street; I'm the only customer there who orders in English. Good so far, but it doesn't seem to fit Mike's description. With the help of another customer, I order some Kielbasa (tough, right?) but also learn the place I want is about 3-4 blocks further. When I see it, I know it's the right place as I park. It's a small store with a big L-shaped meat case, with six or seven staff behind it and a dozen customers in front. One arm of the "L" is for cured meats, the other for fresh. When my turn comes, I awkwardly apologize for speaking English, and try to describe what I want: cured ham, garlic sausage, fresh pork shoulder. The lady takes me in hand, and in thickly accented, barely discernible English, explains what many of the items are. It is rushed, and getting more so, but she shows me, and answers my questions as best she can, and gives me several samples: some of the best meats I've tasted in many a year.

I have more trouble with the fresh meat side, but one of the other staff jumps in to help, and it is solved quickly. By this time, I'm re-thinking a couple of things I passed up in cured meats the first time, and several customers pitch in to offer comments and suggestions, including the names for "black sausage" and "cured Ham" in Polish.

I basked in, and am now reflecting on, the helpfulness strangers showed, the pride they took in the ways their people had developed, not only simply to feed themselves, but to celebrate the gifts of abundance Godde had given them, and how they had used it. The counter clerk had pointed out how lean the sausage was "No Fat!", and a customer advised "we shouldn't eat this, at our age, but a little is good." and another "This one is good for the heart." "This one you saute with onions, or just slice it and eat it."

I was a stranger, and was welcomed, and taken in, to be shown the things we all delight in here.
The meat was secondary.

Not Only Official, but Reliable

2008-05-01T14:14:00.003-04:00

I'm still surprised by how much the climate changes here with a fifty mile trip North; last night Amherst radio was calling for frost warnings. It was noticeably cooler here, but nothing like that.

The Crocuses and Daffodils are gone, and the tulips--red, yellow, even purple--are in full bloom, as are multitudes of flowering trees spreading pink and white all over town. The tree in front has lost its red buds, and is now a bronze color: preparing to leaf. I can no longer see through the tops of Elms and Beeches behind the garage which mark the property line; there are several shades of green, from almost yellow to at least three darker shades, though none so much so as they will be in Summer: all bright, lively, and beautiful.

I've noticed some Forsythia along the highway for a couple of weeks, but it's not yet fully developed. I have a chance to make a progress check later this afternoon. All this means I can start to take the itch to restore my kitchen herbs and maybe a tad more somewhat seriously; my planter's sense has never fully adapted to New England: tomatoes go in the ground on Memorial Day, instead of starting to eat them. I have to keep reminding myself.

All of which brings up the other itch--moving: UGH! Twelve years' worth of HEAVY, mostly junk. Still, living on the first floor and having a real kitchen looks better every year, not to mention enough room for more than one guest at a time AND maybe even a 10 X 20 garden patch of my very own.

And then it gets complicated. New England (Gawd save it!) is expensive, though it does offer a good many amenities which are more scarce elsewhere. And not even grandchildren are reason enough to live full-time in Arizona, even Flag. Nonetheless, the culture I crave is not the dominant one in Connecticut, rather the eddies and sloughs of different drummers, who keep eccentricity alive in out of the way places, and Vermont is too damned cold in Winter. The best answer, for now, may be a return to the small town area around UCONN, in the Northeast part of the state, though I am concerned about getting too far away from active life.

Nutz: it looks as if I'm back to Craigslist.

Boeuf Bourguignon

2008-04-16T21:55:00.002-04:00

I have just eaten the first Boeuf Bourguignon of my life, thanks to Ms. Child, Godde love and keep her--I made it myself. I don't know how it compares to others, but, if it gets any better than this, I expect to die of completely solid arteries within two years. Yeah, it's a lot of work, but it all shows up in that wonderful sauce.

Wooooooo!

Blackberries or, Granny: an Introduction to Theology

2008-04-15T20:28:00.003-04:00

I think there's an earlier draft of this somewhere in the innards of this contraption, which likely indicates I ought to return to pen and paper.

The world is this big in 1950 or so: my house and the following: across the street one door down is my Daddy's older brother, Unka B. Behind his house is the small frame building from which they run their electrical contracting business. There are two massive oak trees, one in the center of the yard, and one marking the border of the next lot beside the path. There's an outdoor brick fireplace/ grill between the trees, and below it, at the end of the shop, under the second oak, my Uncle's toy: an Air conditioner he designed and built. Later this becomes the business. Beyond that is an overgrown lot behind Granny's house, which is past the vacant lot between the two houses, where a covey of quail live; my Uncle likes to squat by the brick grill at dusk and whistle until the birds appear at the edge of the yard. Unka B bought the three lots and built two houses just before the war, one for him and one for his parents.

The most important place is, of course, Granny's house, where we make cookies (I have an identical bowl in my kitchen now; I don't think I've ever used it, but it needs to be there), and spend Friday nights to get away from our parents. Granny makes us anything we want for supper, but sometimes things don't taste as they should, which we have learned is because Granny was a Yankee and can't help it. We sometimes tease her about this.

One of the very best suppers in Summertime is Cobbler, which she is the best at making. There are two kinds, and I still can't tell which is the better: peach (OMG!) or, maybe even better, blackberry: biscuit dough baked over sweetened fruit. Sometimes Strawberry Shortcake, in which the dough is baked separately, with layers of fruit and whipped cream, is a nice change, but blackberry may be best, because we have the fun of picking the berries. Between Granny's yard and her neighbor's, at the back, are two rows of blackberry bushes whose branches arch back across one another, forming a tunnel full of sun and the best berries--a cathedral-- which no adult can reach, because they're too big to pass through, but we're not, and we fill our buckets while they struggle with the briars. Brer Rabbit got nuthin on us. As my mama was confined to the nursing home in the last few years, she told me my Grandfather and namesake, Granny's husband, had planted the blackberries; I hadn't known that.

Granny taught me to read before I went to Kindergarten; school being an unusual favor at the time for my class; it was a private school. I remember Bugs and Daffy, but I suppose there were Three Little Ducklings as well. She had a big upholstered chair with wide arms; each of us could sit on a side and read along. She taught us songs, too: "Rock a bye, Baby", and others.

She would tell me sometimes "I wouldna trade a farm for ya." which I thought was sweet: a farm with all kinds of animals and things! I didn't know then that she had left Indiana and the security she may have thought she had found with a husband twenty years her senior, at nineteen, with a baby Unka B and another on the way, when Dad Wood's siblings sold the farm out from under them when their parents died. He had left college and his dream of being a Methodist Minister to care for them and the farm for twenty years, buried a first wife and raised a daughter; he never went back to Indiana again. I know very little about the lineage from which my surname comes; it stops, for all practical purposes, with him. A farm, and the security, and the position it conveyed, was nearly everything in Indiana at the turn of the Twentieth century; I meant more to her than that.

When Granny died, in 1963, my cousin, Unka B's daughter, told me Granny suddenly sat up, at the end, and said "I see my mother" and fell back, to speak no more. Granny was a step-daughter, in an age when that mattered; she never spoke of the woman who raised as anything but "my step-mother," though she was close to her half-sister, Pauline.

Over the years, I have come to realize that, when I think of Godde as a human being, I know what She looks and sounds like, and I'm sure who it will be, should we still know such things, who will greet me in my time.

Second Thoughts

2008-04-11T19:21:00.000-04:00

Lightly toasted Pine nuts; that is all.

More Indulgence

2008-04-11T18:57:00.002-04:00

Well, certain other blogger/ cooks, whose initials are The Cunning Runt, got me thinking about Ravioli the last couple of days, and whitefish fillets were as cheap as fresh fish gets in New England, plus J, my Winehead and connection, suggested a California Viognier, so I indulged in Asparagus/ Lemon Ravioli at my local Whole Paycheck, roasted the fish with Lemon Zest and Tarragon, and dressed the Ravioli with my best olive oil (currently Lebanese), and minced garlic, plus shaved Parm/ Regg, to be followed by mixed greens and a pear. Note: warm, but do NOT let garlic brown in the slightest.

Simple assembly. Delicious. And only my usual three Friday stops to get it all. It helps to be known; I've shopped with my greengrocer for five years, and have started volunteering there. J knows I don't care much for Oak in wines, and am a little tired of the Chard/ Reisling regulars. Viognier, to my surprise, is grown in the Rhone Valley. I've been associating it with the adjoining areas East, primarily Austria, but I know next to nothing about Rhone Whites.

I am now patiently explaining to Mz Scarlett that this is servant food, and need not be taken seriously by Cat. She seems to think the Tarragon and Lemon ruin otherwise good fish.

In Memoriam: Daddy and Snoopy

2008-04-06T15:50:00.004-04:00

No, not the famous WWI fighter ace, but a little known Dachshund (1959-1973), brought into our family as a puppy, allegedly as a pet for a five year old girl, then living undercover as the family dog. Nobody ever pretended otherwise; we all shared in her exuberant love: put her on her rope so she could tumble down the back steps to challenge the squirrels in the pecan trees for her yard. She once more than challenged a neighbor's incautious German Shepherd; even with Snoopy on her rope, it took the Shepherd only fifteen seconds or so to conduct an ignominious retreat beyond her borders.

She was quick to greet me when I came to my parents' house during school or the army, and would welcome an acknowledged guest as soon as this was made clear to her. By the late Sixties, she was my Daddy's dog; her cover was completely blown.

He arose early, cherishing the quiet coffee on the front porch in his father's rocking chair as the night became day: brooding, perhaps, over his choices made and unmade. But, to get there, he had to perform the morning rites.

When he awakened, and staggered sleepily in to take a piss at about 4:30 or 5:00, he went by Snoopy, nestled in her swaddling clothes in a cardboard tray near the furnace, which she only fit into with effort; she had become a fairly large dog: 40+ lbs. He would move in the dark to start coffee, and, having made it, adjourned to the porch. When he returned, Snoopy would begin to stir in her dreams. As he made breakfast, she would begin to get her hind legs out of bed. When the toaster went down, she began to move in earnest, but without undue haste; she knew exactly how long things took.

Within moments of the toast popping up, Snoopy was at her place at table, waiting patiently for her portion. One piece on my Daddy's plate, and the other broken up and dropped on the carpet for his dining companion, who relished her vittles. This had been their routine most of Snoopy's life.

My Mama told me, years after Snoopy's death, that my undemonstrative Daddy had cried when Snoopy died. Though I am sure this was not the only time, I never heard of any other.

April 4th

2008-04-04T19:06:00.002-04:00

About mid-way through the day, I realized it was April 4th; forty years ago, just after midnight, I got on a chartered flight to Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam. About this time of day, MLK, Jr. was murdered in Memphis: not directly related events, of course.

Both events had begun earlier, and had, in my case, been largely decided by 28 Sep 66, the date I joined (yes, you heard that right) the U S Army. Before then, my life seemed as if it might have a point: if not immediately, then at least it might develop one. For the past forty years, it has not seemed so, though I have continued to look, and to try to make one.

You see, I am convinced, despite these decades of evidence, that my life has a purpose, which is not summed up in social or interpersonal roles, nor even in occupation or profession. This week, I answered two important questions "Yes, I do"

Do you believe that Godde loves you?

Do you believe She has a purpose for you that She wants you to fulfill?

Perhaps the questions arose from this week, though I didn't share the significance of the date with my interrogators. (One of them already knew, of course). Therefore, I am trying something different and very difficult for me, though I have been enticed by my previous experiences with it: silence. I'm not sure yet, but this may include less internet participation.
Let she who has words of wisdom speak.

Speak, Lady, for your servant is listening.

Perfect

2008-04-02T20:31:00.002-04:00

Roasted wild caught salmon: more red than pink, but cooked, with lemon zest and juice.

This is what a pro does every time.

So Much for Low Fat

2008-03-31T18:52:00.002-04:00

Well, the good news is it's delicious; parsnips and duck may not be quite tomatoes and basil, but not far from it as a sign of Godde's liking us. And the wine--an '06 Mendoza blend of Malbec, Merlot, and bits of Cab/Syrah, is outstanding: Cos de los Siete by Michel Rolland. Get it if ya can.

Pretty basic: cut up a 5 lb. duck and render surplus fat/ make cracklins. With a film of duck fat remaining (you will get about a cup for other purposes: confit, etc.) , salt and pepper, then add the duck pieces fat side down, and brown well on all sides: 15-20 minutes, over moderately high heat. (BIG pan: 12" at least) Season with ~ 1/4 t. salt, two branches fresh rosemary, and two bay leaves. Turn heat to low, add 1 1/2 lbs. Parsnips, peeled and cut into 1 1/2 pieces, two c. shallots peeled only, and two large heads divided but unpeeled garlic. Cover and steam for 30 minutes, or until vegetables are just tender. Scoop out vegetables and duck with strainer, draining latter on paper towels.

Serve with green salad/ mustardy vinigrette, and baguette. Eat duck with fingers, like fried chicken. Enjoy garlic with baguette and spit hulls on plate, as I have been doing for the last 30 minutes or so.

Pepin again, this time from *Jacques and Julia Cooking at Home*: pretty and big almost coffee table book, but with some good recipes, hints, etc. inside.

Serves 4 normal appetites, and who wants to encourage gluttony? You gotta know by now I losing that fight.

Try Again

2008-03-29T21:03:00.002-04:00

It's time--Oh, alright, it's way past time-- for the low fat cookbooks to come out more often. How could this have happened in such a short time? (Rhetorical: I know perfectly well how).

Anyway, I didn't have the ingredients, nor want to chase them down, for Boeuf Bourguignon, though I had the onions and a lovely cut of chuck, so I froze the Chuck, but the duck wasn't gonna be thawed until tomorrow, so what's tonight? All the fish looked so lovely last night, and I have this delicious malo-lactic fermented (In stainless, not Oak barrels) Chard, so off I go, with recipes in my head, looking for trout.

It's a simple recipe, thinks me: Herb-encrusted Braised Trout. Ah, but it calls for 12 3oz fillets, which seems excessive, so I have two: a little over 8 oz. With a mushroom medley and a seasoned breadcrumb mixture: no problem. On detailed reading of the assembly, problems begin to show themselves; it's a layered dish, like a Lasagna, but I only got two fillets to layer. Furthermore, I must cut the proportions of the mushroom mix and the crust WAY down. Way FURTHER down next time, but that's what this is about. Of course, after everything from olive oil to reconstituted mushrooms and broth to raw fish is laid out (my counter space being twice the size of my chopping block), Miz Scarlett T. demands ...? What? Not food, a clean box, nor attention, it seems, but demands, nonetheless. A decision must be made. (Yea passive voice!) She loses, for now, and sulks.

Clearly, the accompaniment for this needs to be simple, and well-known: a Salade composee of Bibb Lettuce, fingerling potatoes, leftover green beans, and scallions.

Everything comes out surprisingly tasty, given the sturm und drang and the skullsweat that went into producing it. Too much crust, but hey: bread crumbs, a dab of oil, and chives. It's obvious that, with the right balance of ingredients, this is a simple and delicious winner.

Thank you, Mr. Pepin, even if you do like ketchup on your burgers. And thanks to your lady friend (RIP) for the dry rub blend. The recipe in question is from Jacques Pepin. Simple and Healthy Cooking. Rodale: 1994. It's a beautiful book, with charming illustrations by the author, whose paintings were on display at a museum in the town where I shop for vegetables and bread; the menu for the reception was as you may imagine: to make the poor foodie crazy with longing.

Why the hell did I get an invitation?

A Day Late

2008-03-26T22:31:00.004-04:00

March 25th is the date of birth of one of the greatest writers (my opinion, and nothing humble about it), Mary Frances (Flannery) O'Connor of Milledgeville, Georgia. I am most grateful to the Cunning Runt at Little Bang Theory for calling this to my attention. Here's a bit of my post from his blog,

Southern writer. Catholic writer. Hmmph: writer.

Perhaps my very favorite beginning of any novel is that of *The Violent Bear It Away*; may I?

Francis Marion Tarwater’s uncle had been dead for only half a day when the boy got too drunk to finish digging his grave and a Negro named Buford Munson, who had come to get a jug filled, had to finish it and drag the body from the breakfast table where it was still sitting and bury it in a decent and Christian way, with the sign of its Saviour at the head of the grave and enough dirt on top to keep the dogs from digging it up.

The letters were collected and edited by her friend Sally Fitzgerald and published as *The Habit of Being* by FSG in 1979.

My last year of Seminary a granddaughter of John Dewey taught a required “Christ and Culture” course in which many of the students were coming in as shocked Bible Belt believers. We read *A Good Man Is Hard To Find*; they couldn’t believe the author was a Christian. I loved reading The Misfit’s lines aloud: heh. If you looked carefully, ya could see the tiny explosions going off behind their eyes.

The Library of America volume is all you need, and you do need it: both novels, both major short story collections (there are none better in English), and letters and essays.

Rest in peace and rise in glory, Miss O'Connor: great American writer.

Traveling with Cats

2008-03-24T00:06:00.001-04:00

Ok, why AM I calling a beautiful married woman of my recent acquaintance pet names online? There's a story, ya know.

When I got married, our daughter had two demands to go along with the deal: a new kitten and a jar of pickles. Hey, she was barely twelve; she's thirty six now, and still a bit of a fruitcake, which is just fine with her Daddy.

Well, the kitten was named ("Wait for it!") PJ, after the baby in the Family Circus cartoon strip: the littlest member of the family. It helped Amy to think she was bigger than somebody, I suppose. Shortly thereafter, I was driving my cranky step-daughter and her totally stoned cat in a twenty three foot U-Haul with everything we owned from Arkansas to Indianapolis, to drop her off at her Father's (the reason she was cranky: step-mother straight out of Cinderella and a wus who wouldn't stand up for his daughter; I nearly punched him at her first wedding), then two more days of driving in strange country (Pennsylvania) with a pill down PJ's throat every morning to keep her amiable.

PJ was a bit of a pill after we got to Connecticut; she keep running across the road, getting her hip broken, then spending the night to work the pins out, and to deposit moles as gifts at the garage door each morning. We and the Docs finally gave up, which resulted in a screwy move as she planted her right rear foot, but it didn't keep her from doing what she liked. We kept her until Amy moved to Arizona. Poodge and Peedge were some of her nicknames; as usual (including the current case sleeping in the armchair behind me) I ended up as primary care-giver, and got pretty attached to the little varmint.

On Giving Up.

2008-03-21T14:52:00.003-04:00

Ken wrote in a comment on the "Invasion and Occupation" thread,

I don't know what to do anymore. The urge to give up, to not vote, to withdraw is overwhelming. But we can't. Can we?

March 21, 2008 12:18 PM

No, we can't give up, which doesn't mean we must go to every fight we're invited to. It also means we don't have the luxury of giving in to that sense of helplessness we all feel.

It may seem to be an incredibly long string of defeats, but it depends on where we start from. If we took it for granted things have mostly been just and fair throughout American History, and the Indochina Wars were an anomaly, it does seem inexplicable. If we accept the cultural myth that ordinary people have power because it's the American Way, we wonder why "our" government is so unresponsive.

It was these questions, in part, which drove me back to the study of American History after I came back to "the World". I am more convinced, after thirty five years as Amateur and Professional, that the U S invasion of Indochina was not an anomaly, but just another damned example, and that ordinary people only rarely and indirectly make political decisions, and don't follow through very well.

My point is, we are not working against forty years only, and a rare mistake, but the American Experience for over four hundred years; Vietnam is who we have always been, and the rest of the world has begun to tell us so, which may be, much as I hate to consider the possibility that there may be one, a positive contribution by Dubya. His callous arrogance has finally pushed the rest of the world far enough to get them to say what they really think of us.

One of the themes that made this history possible was the notion, derived in part from Puritan views of their New World mission, that America was to be an example--"a city on a hill"--for the rest of the world to emulate. Once they meet us, they will do their best to be us--native peoples, exploited immigrants, other countries, etc. Given this belief, it may be difficult for us to hear that they don't want to be invaded, used for cheap resources and labor, etc., so we may continue to lord it over them as "the only Hyperpower".

It may be one of those "camel and needle" jokes, only I'm not laughing. Individually, most Americans are good people you'd like to know; collectively, we are the world's a**hole. So, despair is not an option, even though the job is a little bigger than we allow ourselves to notice most of the time.

Peace and solidarity, all y'all.

Invasion and Occupation

2008-03-18T15:47:00.003-04:00

For those of you who don't yet know, I am a Vietnam Veteran and an Anti-war Protester: then and now. I was diagnosed with PTSD by the Veterans' Administration in 1985 (the first year it occurred to me to ask "Whhhaaaaat?"); I received a disability rating in 1996, which was upgraded to 100% service-connected in 2004.

The Indochina Wars are ancient history to a good many Americans, for we are a radically ahistorical people: always ready to pull up stakes, "Move on to Texas", and forget what we left "back there". It always surprises me that it's been forty years (on April 4th) since I arrived in Vietnam; the memories are often more immediate and pressing than what I did this week. I am not the only one; I got an Anonymous comment this week on the "Quang Tri, Summer, 1968" thread.

Still, many of us--the survivors of violence, substance abuse, and self-destruction, the victims of which have outnumbered those killed during the war since the early 1990s--now have been warehoused in relative comfort; we lead quiet and modest lives for the most part, in out of the way places. We go far out of our way to avoid any semblance of conflict. We are remarkably gentle and often loving people, once you get through the veneer. We keep a low profile, rarely expressing ourselves with those we do not yet trust.

Remember Gulf War I? Run by Vietnam Veterans like Schwartzkopf and Powell, it was the Anti-Vietnam: quick, clean, did the job and came home to much acclaim. We vets were glad to join the acclaim, in part because we knew it was partly a guilty reaction and a wish to recognize us, however belatedly and indirectly. No need to say more to civilians; I've been in group with GW I vets.

And now we are at the fifth anniversary of the (Forgive me!) Godde damned invasion and occupation of Iraq for the domestic political benefit of the worst President in American History and his collection of fuckwitted callous arrogant thugs to distract the public from their utter incompetence and cluelessness about how to interact with the former colonial world. They lie to exploit the fears of the people for their own gain, and they trash what were once honored symbols of our country as they lead us, please, Godde, not irreparably, into fascism. And, once again, as in the Sixties and Seventies, our Congressional leaders put their Constitutional duty off the table, and posture for re-election. And what have we veterans been doing?

When I got back in 1969, I hoped, and prayed, and worked, and begged, that the American people would learn something from what we had done. That way, at least, there would have been a positive outcome from the blind arrogance, the futile overwhelming violence. Yeah, right.
The speed with which we as a people went from outrage to burial was stunning; despairing, I turned to my own affairs. Stunned and disgusted , I watched the Reagan/ Bush counter-revolution; if this is what my fellow citizens are capable of, better for us both if I avoid them.

And then Junior, who managed to make Dan Quayle look good, the world's best argument against inherited privilege, was given the golden opportunity; so he continued to read My Pet Goat until his handlers took him off-stage. Promptly, his advisers hid the evidence they had ignored, and made up a connection against a country, Poppy's old nemesis, full of oil: surprise! They drooled nonsense about "Mushroom clouds" which the press release transfer media presented as fact. After all, they were Very Important People in Positions of Public Trust.

Some of us not so important people demonstrated, of course. We argued the case was flimsy, and that war wasn't the only, or even a good option. But, within a couple of months, Captain Codpiece's media consultants declared "Mission Accomplished!". But nobody came home yet. And now nearly four thousand will have come home in secret, in aluminum tubes at midnight. And tens of thousands will drool in powered wheelchairs while their mothers adjust to a life of caregiver. And hundreds of thousands will fight to get what their government promised them, and be denied, until they give up, or kill themselves in one way or another: unnoticed again.

Five years. A presidential election. Until January of last year, a completely complaint Congress run by a man with slaves in American Samoan factories. Five years of demonstrations. Of supporting alternative candidates, including combat veterans slurred as "soft on security." Of ranting on the internet (Natassihusb--"Nat"; read it backwards) Of a Fascist court. Of a completely embarrassing foreign policy on display to a world that was sympathetic, briefly, in 2001, until they were told their pathetic and stupid help wasn't needed. Of the decimation of professional Intelligence, Foreign Policy, Defense, and Legal personnel, who were crushed and driven out by the the White House, AKA Dick Cheney.

And now we who have cried, and begged, and wept, and despaired to be delivered from the plague we called upon ourselves, are being driven from our homes, are losing our retirements, and face the whirlwind. We do not even dare to ask for justice from the Hague, for example, but only that the storm cease, and we be left to piece together our lives.

It has been a very painful five years to live through. The Abu Ghraib scandal was especially difficult for me, who had dealt with POWs. "Disappointing" seems too much an understatement, but we veterans are used to disappointment after all this time. We learned, long ago, not to expect anything for what we were asked to do, and did, except heartache and bitterness. We learned to watch others succeed, while we struggled. The Rev. Jeremiah Wright, Barack Obama's former Pastor, has been in the news for his "anti-American" views lately; the difference between him and a lot of us, and not just veterans watching the horrors of another useless war, is that he's being noticed.

There's "shock and awe" this last couple of weeks that this is going to cost us more than $3 trillion dollars in direct costs, and multiple times more than that over the coming decades, even if we ended it promptly in the Spring of next year, which all sane people hope for. But there are the other costs, in lives diverted and destroyed, in so many needs not met, in all the slow, little seen ways we destroy our own security and pull our own civilization down to the dust. This war, too, will continue to bring woe to many who were young a few years ago.

Let's end this.

The Invasion of Grenada

I didn't want a monument,
not even one as sober as that
vast black wall of broken lives.
I didn't want a postage stamp.
I didn't want a road beside the Delaware
River with a sign proclaiming:
"Vietnam Veterans Memorial Highway."

What I wanted was a simple recognition
of the limits of our power as a nation
to inflict our will on others.
What I wanted was an understanding
that the world is neither black-and-white
nor ours.

What I wanted
was an end to monuments.

W. D. Ehrhart

Aunt Myrt

2008-03-16T18:43:00.003-04:00

Myrtle Jewell Frizzell Bonner Denison Jones, b. April 18, 1901, Bokhoma, I.T. (Indian Territory), d. sometime in the early Nineties, in a nursing home in Camden, Arkansas, in the care of her baby sister's children, who, at least in my case, loved her dearly.

And who wouldn't? Good-natured, to everyone including children, but ready to spit in the eye of any transgressor, and never hiding that fact, even from children. She was too much like her mother, perhaps, who was proud of a supposed connection to Thomas Jefferson (grandmother's oldest son, Uncle Alvin, did genealogical research which, ironically, demonstrated that, not only was Jefferson an upstart (everybody in Virginia knows that) but so were his well-born Randolph in-laws, in comparison to their family. heh.

Alas, both Aunt Myrt and her Mama--Grandmother-- had an abundance of the family gift for butting heads; I'm sure Myrt's teen-age years were dramatic. Thank Godde for Johnie Frizzell, who rarely but effectively kept them both from going too far. Grand dad's "Now, Hattie" told her when she was pushing it; she counted on him to do it.

Aunt Myrt grew up in a company town--the lumber company owned the town, the buildings, streets, sidewalks, etc., and employed all the town officials. SE Oklahoma was not entirely civilized at the time; the New Yorker, in a 1970s profile of then Speaker Carl Albert, pointed out it was hard to get a jury there in a murder trial, in that most believed in "Judge not, lest ye be not judged." Aunt Myrt enjoyed taunting the town cop on the streets as a young teen, who would happily have used his hog-leg .45 to end the matter, except for her father and her mother's brothers. One of my family pictures shows great Uncle Orville in a Black hat, with his right hand drawing back his dress coat in a practiced gesture; you can't quite see what you know is there.

She married, several times, her great love being the Native American Denison, who died working on a pipeline in Texas. She was a "Rosie the Riveter" at Tinker AFB in Oklahoma City, and I doubt she gave up her independence willingly, except on her terms. Her terms were "Ol' Bill Jones," who was very sweet to me, but not always to her; he had been on the Italian Front in WWII, and, in retrospect, clearly had a bad case of PTSD. They fought, and eventually split.

By the time I was in seminary around 1980, she was living next door to her son (and my mama's childhood playmate) South of Oklahoma City. There were deep eroded gullies behind the house, and beautiful red sandstone rocks shaped like blooming roses which are unique to the area. I liked to stop and spend an afternoon and evening with her on my way to visit my folks. Within a few more years, her son and my father had died, she sold the farm, and moved to the old folks' housing in my hometown where Mama was. She had a few more "good" years, until Dementia took hold, and even that in her style; among other things, she began to hallucinate her handsome young Doctor dancing naked on the rooftops across the way. And what's so bad about beautiful young doctors dancing naked for you, I ask?

I like to think my ninety year old Aunt, that lovely, lively strong loving woman, was dancing naked into Heaven, with whomever she damned pleased. We are so quick to call it "Dementia", because it no longer fits into our arrangements. But I like to entertain the notion, though it may well offend her mother--my grandmother--that such states are an advance welcome party from Godde, welcoming another beloved child to her true home.

I love you, Aunt Myrt.

Further Comment Is Not Required

2008-03-14T22:36:00.001-04:00

I must say, I'm a little envious. If I were slightly younger and not employed here, I think it would be a fantastic experience to be on the front lines of helping this young democracy succeed. It must be exciting for you...in some ways romantic, in some ways, you know, confronting danger."
-- George W. Bush, during a video conference with military briefers in Afghanistan

Garry Trudeau's "Say What" from Doonesbury

What's the Deal?

2008-03-13T16:19:00.002-04:00

A number of people I like and respect passionately support Senator Obama for the Democratic nomination for President. I don't see why.

He is, by all accounts, a terrific speaker/ campaigner, and he is telling us something we want very much to believe; we can work our way out of this disaster together (the last seven years or the last thirty: your choice). Last Autumn, just before the selection process began in earnest, I hoped so, too. I do believe this nation is deeply, seriously off course, for reasons that have become legion: torture, wiretapping, the erosion of production, an economy based on one real estate bubble after another and vast debt, unnecessary invasion and occupation of whatever country the idiot damned well feels like, the stalking terror of illness, and so, on and on.

We need change, and need it desperately: absolutely. What change?

Brzezinski as Sec. of State or again as National Security Advisor, as under Carter? Going back far enough is change of a sort, I suppose. An incremental approach to health care to put more of the burden on the sick? Not much change there. National Security policy seems to be mostly open options, or a blank slate.

Given the alternative of a traumatized ex-fighter jock with a legendary temper who's spent the last quarter-century in lobbyists' pockets, Mr. Hundred Years' War, whose a F***in Republican besides, I suppose I must hope that Obama is better than than I've been able to sense thus far, especially in the last six months.

How 'bout a little help, friends? Please, no links to long news items or cheerful statements about how so many young people are back in the process and especially no BS about making nice with the Republicans across the aisles; my memory is not that short, or that bad. Why, in general policy terms, do you believe Obama will be a good President? Hell, for now, even half-way decent: no more incompetent, well-meaning outsiders, please.

I'm serious; I need this.

Da Middle Name Meme Thang

2008-03-11T16:27:00.002-04:00

No matter what she says, I blame Eileen, and not the Padre Grandpa of the World's Most Bootiful Grandchile (excepting boyz named Peter in Arizona, but that's a given: no offense, Ms. Bebe)

Here are the rules:
1. You have to post the rules before you give your answers.
2. You must list one fact about yourself beginning with each letter of your middle name. (If you don’t have a middle name, use your maiden name or your mother’s maiden name).
3. At the end of your blog post, you need to tag one person (or blogger of another species) for each letter of your middle name. (Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they’ve been tagged.)

1. is done

2. R is for rebellious. I don't like to be told what to do.

O is for Onery or Obstinate, depending on dialect

B is for brave. I've been told this by people who should know; and no, I don't
mean the official version

E is for evasive, which makes these things a pain in the patootie

R --What wuz that other one? Risque or Raunchy sense of humor, though I can't remember
jokes to save me.

T I am something of a tease; it's one of my ways of expressing affection

Six people is ridiculous, given the length of time this has been running, and given some of the more...deserving, shall we say? tagged me.

Play if ya want or have time: Jane R, Mimi, Kristin, Paul, Crimson, and Nina

Empty Nest

2008-03-10T13:06:00.002-04:00

The place seems empty today, as Miss Scarlett is at the Vet's getting her new 'do until about 4:00. " 'Do" in her case involves what is called a "lion cut": very closely trimmed except for her legs, tail, and head, which requires being knocked out. I think it looks like a Poodle done up for a show. It makes her look ridiculous for a couple of months--she's less than half normal size, but I'm the only one who gets to see her that way, as she hides from company regardless of her state. And, even if I had a camera, she insists there be no photographic evidence.

The grooming is necessary in that her fur is so long and thick it becomes tightly matted despite any brushing she will allow, which becomes an irritant. It is especially bad around her neck and throat/ chest, which she begins to scratch constantly; this is the sign she's as ready as I am to "git her done." (Not very in either case)

It is a semi-annual reminder how much I miss her when she's not around. Whatever did I do before she came?

What Do You See?

2008-03-07T12:24:00.004-05:00

The original caption was "Redneck Mansion", with the implication that the owner/ residents are from the shallow end of the gene pool. The location is likely some area where infrastructure, development, and resources do not flow endlessly from competing megacorporate Cornucopias, where ingenuity and making do are more valued than what's in your wallet.

Why stay where living is so hard? The beauty of unspoiled land, the real community of friends and extended family, suspicion that chasing rats in a gas-guzzler in the suburbs while your teen-ager deals Cocaine is not worth the move; in short, that the American Dream is not about Consumerism. A lot of us pay lip service to those values, even as we wait in line at Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts to chant our well-rehearsed order.

What catches my eye, as a former Architecture major, is the planning of a small community--six or so family units--with the landscape. The footprint is not large, the "found object" or reclaimed units, are arranged creatively and attractively in a unified composition, allowing for public and private spaces. There is a cold frame for gardening, a pond, a weather worn teak bench, planted borders, ivy from the balconies, a lawn chair or three. I doubt a bulldozer was used to scrape the land bare, followed by more machines to dig, and deposit chemicals, finally topped by a spray on lawn.

I find this a hopeful place, vital in ways that most suburbs will not be until they are obsolete forty years after they are built. Think of almost any condo development, with their rulez about your tacky picnic blanket over the rail or your child's toys visible after 5:00 PM.

Let them bury themselves, or, better yet, don't let them at all.

Yeah, well

2008-03-06T18:41:00.002-05:00

I've been casting about for a topic for a couple of days now; so, what's in the net?

The schismatic heretic Schofield has "resigned", but still claims to be bishop of the diocese of San Joachim, Province of the Southern Cone. The Primate of all Nigeria, his indirect patron, responds to questions about ordering a massacre of women and children with a smile and a "no comment." , though he says Muslims don't have a monopoly on violence. Both are still invited to Lambeth this Summer, as is the bishop in the CoE who is notorious for declaring "Once you've had Black, you'll never go back." in reference to his serial Gay affairs, while the good family man, the Bishop of New Hampshire, may not go as an "official" guest because he is "immoral."

The two candidates for President (you don't think I'd count a Repiglikkin, do you?) are tied, and practically indistinguishable, and the MSM-created identity gotcha contest is practically the only subject of discussion, though Bob Herbert (one of the columnists the NYT has no reason to be ashamed of) pointed out this week the War has passed the 2 trillion mark, and will go to 3 trillion before anyone can imagine it will be stopped. The gain thus far has been to turn a tyranny into a failed state. The long-term obligations to the U S economy, should the Chinese allow us to meet them, will be considerably more. And only a few advocate televised drawing and quartering for the guilty parties, who are legion. Pre-existing illness, long-term illness, and being wiped out by corporate fiat are common forms of economic death in these United States.

Given the best of foreseeable worlds, Dubya will not start WWIII, but go quietly, leaving all this to his Democratic successor. Even with massive and unobstructed effort, some of the damage since the Reagan era will not be reversed. The destruction of the Constitution, the arbitrary seizure of power by the President, will not be relinquished by anyone in that office, for the best of reasons, of course.

I hang with and comment on a progressive feminist blog, where most are secular and a number declared Atheists or Agnostics. I love and respect them, I prefer their company, I was one myself many years ago, but I can no longer grasp what gets them up in the morning and through the day. From whence does their help come? Everywhere I look today I see human evil, in the church and without, in high-minded and gutter politics, in my own heart, for that matter; ya don't have to go looking for trouble: already here, and thriving.

So, if history is just "one damned thing after another", do I have any remedy, any advice? No, I don't "have" it, but I know where I'm looking for myself; you can take it or leave it: it's always been free.

37 For God will save Zion and rebuild the cities of Judah; *
they shall live there and have it in possession.

From today's Psalm in the Daily Office. Rulers fall, and the high are brought low, but the people, though they suffer, often unjustly, continue.

"Happy are they whose trust is in the Godde of Israel: Rachel and Leah"

paraphrase of Ps. 146

A peaceful night and a blessed end be to all of us

OH NOSE! Iz Ben Tagged

2008-02-28T11:12:00.003-05:00

Da Rulez

Rule 1) List three reasons for your blogging.
Rule 2) List the rules.
Rule 3) Tag three others with the thread.

I.

a) I wanted to practice writing, to keep my hand in, and had begun to feel the need to go on (and on and on) in the comments on OP's blogs, which may have become an imposition, if it wasn't already. The solution was obvious; git yer own durned blog, so I did.

b) I feel even more a part of the kewl kidz group; y'all know who you are. I am bemused by the power of these virtual friendships to become real and lasting, even when we meet "in de flesh."

c)It's easier to be both immediate and more detached simultaneously, which in some cases I find to be a real advantage. In person, I tend to get excited and blurt things out without thinking them through; sometimes that bites my tush.

OK, that's one and two. As to three, play if ya wanna: don't feel ya gotta.

Crimson Rambler
FranIAm
Kristin

The Joker to the Thief

2008-02-26T18:12:00.005-05:00

There must be some kind of way outta here
Said the Joker to the Thief

Bob Dylan: "All Along the Watchtower"

Yeah; I'm in: where else?

Are we supposed to link to this blogswarm against the war thingie?

Everything Except Bread

2008-02-23T15:11:00.003-05:00

Shopping was a day late this week, and I was out of everything, but Kathy the Baker (not an academy award winner, though she deserves it) couldn't make it up from the coast due to inclement weather, so I'm without baguettes and foccaccia; nonetheless, I shall try to struggle through somehow with the following resupplied (I can always make biscuits). Kathy is one of those mid-career professional dropouts who really should be said to have finally bloomed into her calling; she makes the best bread in Connecticut. I'd be a lot more open to a warmer climate if she ever (shudder) retires.

the list ( I don't make one, except as a "don't forget thing; I have to look and feel what's there)

fingerling potatoes
shallots
Red Chard
sugar snaps
spinach
celeriac
carrots
thyme
cilantro
oregano
lemon grass
haricots verts
lemons
D'anjou pears
tofu
tempeh
hummus
eggs
a good English Cheddar
more Raclette & Fruli Romano (I made sauce last night)
bran muffins
a whole grain loaf
3 Scallops (1/2 lb.: beautiful)
a pound of Cod fillet
Sweet Italian sausage
1/2 lb. bacon
2 pork chops
whole grain pasta: Spagetti, Penne Rigate, Chiocciole (Bionaturae is the best tasting)

And potables

2005 Marsannay (Burgundy for the cellar: tasted in store; still too tight to drink)
2004 Jean Baptiste Adam Reisling D'Alsace Reserve
2006 D. Pedro De Soutomaior Albarino Bias Baixas (from Galicia, the part of Spain that's above Portugal: marvelous with seafood, especially shellfish)
Manzanilla Sherry
Tiz Red, a light California Red blend recommended by my merchant
2005 Les Cotes Dolt Cahors

I feel better with the larder at least partly filled

Sam

2008-02-22T19:32:00.002-05:00

I usually met Sam on the red concrete steps at the rear entrance; it was the morning side and he liked the sun warming his beat-up old body after a rough night. Sam was gray--different shades--and missing most of one ear--the left, I think, and sometimes his fur was matted with blood from the evening's activities, but it's been nearly sixty years: I can't be sure. There was nothing at all gentle about Sam; I have no idea how many deaths he had in his past: a finite number, I'm sure, but who knows how many, counting rodents, birds, and other cats, most likely.

Sam was the first pet animal I knew: I was maybe four--but somehow "pet" doesn't quite fit--he was too independent for that, a child could see it. He stayed with my Uncle and Aunt across the street, or, at least, showed up for food and a nap in the sun on a regular basis. I don't remember Sam inside; he may have gone in at times for various reasons, but I see him always outside, usually in the back, in the sun, or stalking the quail in the lot next door, where my grandfather had planted blackberry bushes on the far side.

Despite his experience and general temperament, Sam was remarkably patient and forgiving with small children; I can remember hoisting him by his tail, as much as I could lift him off the steps (not much) and being looked at with a world weary cat's eye, as he waited for the experiment to cease, which only took a few seconds, given that he weighed about a third of what I did. An adult of any species would still have the scars. Animals clearly sense a difference between children and adults; Sam was the first to teach me that, and I haven't forgotten it.

RIP, old Tomcat

The Good of History

2008-02-22T12:51:00.002-05:00

"History is bunk."
Henry Ford

"it is to interpret the past for the purposes of the present with a view to managing the future."
John Lewis Gaddis. The Landscape of History. Oxford. OUP: 2002

One of George W.'s less known, or at least less often referred to, "accomplishments" is his B.A. in History from Yale University, widely known as one of the world's great universities, at which, co-incidentally, Professor Gaddis teaches. It is easy to take this record of a past event as evidence in support of Ford's comment; on Gaddis's side, one might easily object that it could as easily have been in Molecular Biology or Quantum Mechanics, if one notes a) most faculty at Yale know a trap when they see it and, b) there is nothing a University won't do to keep powerful Alumni happy. I confess I have given passing grades to undergraduates for work I would have been ashamed of in Junior High; it didn't seem entirely fair to let them get that far and then introduce standards.

One of the best Chroniclers of the Indochina Wars, Frances Fitzgerald, did a study of American History textbook publishing in the late Seventies: America Re-visited, in which she noted that large school districts, such as Dallas or Chicago, in conjunction with publishers' marketing reps, drive the content of secondary school texts. The academics listed as authors of these books often have had little to do with that content for a decade or more, as it undergoes successive revisions, which are done by lesser known academics or educational specialists unfamiliar with the field. At best these often are bland, "balanced", and inoffensive to any conceivable demographic: in short, terrifyingly dull. They also are often triumphalist, jingoistic, right-wing crap which pass on the usual lies about the American past. I keep one of these, published in 1981, called History of a Free People; I withhold the publisher and authors' names here to avoid singling out only one guilty party.

This is not a rant about the abysmal ignorance of U.S. secondary school and college graduates; there are enough of those, showing us how many voters cannot find the Middle East, much less Iraq, on a map. It is partly a response to Howard Zinn's article in the Progressive, to which Jane R. at ActsofHope provides a helpful link. (How many times must I say it? You should be reading it; there's a link to the right: use it.) Zinn argues all the attention and fuss about the presidential race is a waste of time--just vote; it takes two minutes, and tiny differences between candidates may make a big difference--when we should be working before and after to drive the winner to more just and sensible policies. But how can we perform that most important task if we don't know our present circumstances? And how can we know that unless we know where we came from and how we got here: not the usual boring nonsense, but the truth? How can we make things better if we've no idea of what better actually is?

It's also partly personal, a justification for posting memories that I suspect many readers simply don't know how to react to, except with sorrow and anger that such things happen, and so many people need to deny. It's only a few bad apples at the bottom of the barrel, after all, just some genetically challenged hillbilly woman: nothing to see. To me, sharing painful memories is not only a matter of personal healing; in fact, I do not believe I will be fully healed until I may see an impact on my community and my country. I have learned to deal with them well enough for now, more or less, but, until school boards start to insist on History as it really was ("Es ist etwas engentlich gewesen"), until reporters and editors start to challenge candidates who play fast and loose with the facts, and write about what they know, and not what they get handed to them by a flack, and until those candidates suffer less for telling the truth than for lying through their teeth for political gain, until then, we need to tell, and hear, the truth, lest reality tear our lies from us fiercely, all at once, and we then mourn the consequences.

True War Stories

2008-02-20T21:05:00.003-05:00

One of the good parts about being a veteran is the stories you get to hear that most civilians miss. I've been in a Yoga class at the Vets Center for the last six weeks or so; one of the other vets is a young woman, who I figured was an Iraq War Vet, given her age. Tonight she talked about her recent experience.

She'd been a truck driver in the Reserves or the Guard, but had been inactive for five years, had a couple of kids, and was proceeding with her life when she gets a phone call; they're calling her up for Iraq: report in thirty days. The 1-800 people tell her her choice is ten years in federal prison and a $300K fine, or Iraq, so she kisses the kidz and goes.

After a year of driving convoys (definitely one of the best ways to get KIA or seriously screwed up) she gets a conference call from Administrative HQ in Missouri, with her Colonel and First Sergeant listening in; she hasn't signed a military contract: she is, in reality, a civilian. She swears and carries on, but it's true. Her unit offers her $90K to sign up, on the spot, for another year's chance to get killed or maimed, which she declines. Her company commander orders her to get ready for the night's convoy. Sure, a**hole, and I'm gonna take a video of everything that happens, including your orders, OK? So she gets mandatory anger management classes four nights a week until they figure out a way to get her to Quatar where she waits for a couple of weeks, until the Air Force takes pity on this Army orphan and gets her a commercial flight stateside. They do ask her to unload her M-16, but then tell her to board the aircraft, automatic weapon and all. However, when she gets to Baltimore, they do make pay nearly $500. to get all her gear (with M-16? I missed that, but I'll follow up if anybody wants me to do so) home to Massachusetts, where she's now in a Vets support group (women) and trying to get her benefits for some time now, with the help of the Disabled American Veterans. (Note: it's nearly impossible to get any benefits without the help of a trained Service Officer,; with such aid it only takes a couple of years, in my case to get an upgrade, not to get benefits started. I'd been in that process since 1998).

We laugh about these things among ourselves because we know they're true, no matter how outlandish and ridiculous they seem. Indeed, the crazier the story, the more likely it is to be sober fact. I just thought it might help some of you civilians to know these things; OCICBW.

Quang Tri, Summer, 1968

2008-02-18T15:32:00.003-05:00

The date is my best recollection; it could have been my birthday, for all I remember. We were set up in an old French fort of poured concrete buildings with corrugated metal roofs, all above ground. It formed a square roughly 200m. on a side, with an earth berm and bunkers surrounding the buildings on the perimeter, and an open area just outside for Hueys, the smaller scout choppers (OH-13s, if you care) were parked between the perimeter and the hooch next door.

In the early afternoon, a 3/4 ton truck drove up outside our hooch, its markings & paint identifying it as from the armed forces of the Republic of Vietnam (South--our "allies"), or ARVN: in this case from the National Police Field Force (NPFF). We sometimes had to go on missions they were involved in: they'd surround a village, pick out a few people, and start beating them, etc., and we'd watch, helpless to control them. Their national commander was a close ally of President Ky; he's the one in the famous photograph shooting a bound prisoner in the head at point blank range. I usually call them "Gestapo", but they're actually closer to Ordnungpolizei, the field units who rounded up the Jews of Europe.

Two of the NPFF were in the back, which was covered; momentarily they flung something out over the tailgate as if they were unloading sacks of grain: about a five foot drop. It was the body of a woman in a coma. They explained to one of the ARVN Interpreters who were attached to our teams that some one in her village had stated, probably under duress, that she had a relative with the NLF (the enemy). They had questioned her by tying her and turning her upside down in a big earthenware jar of water, then releasing her long enough to ask her a few questions before repeating the process. The last time, she didn't re-gain consciousness, so, having no further use for her, they brought her to us.

I don't remember having much of a reaction at the time, other than "Why us, dammit?" The MPs decided to hold her for "observation" to see if she came out of it; I suppose they called in a medic, but it wasn't my job, so I didn't pay too much attention. There was no point in objecting to any of this--it was "costs of war"; anyone I could have informed could see it as readily as I. The MPs put her in the back of their facility--an barbed wire enclosure with pallets and a tent with the sides up where she was tended by several other female detainees. She hadn't re-gained consciousness when she left about Noon the next day.

I didn't do anything; I was only there to see. And, if it isn't torture, why do I still see the truck, and the heat and light of the day, and the "cage" where detainees were kept by the MPs? Why do I feel stained? How can so many people know about these things and shrug them off or justify them as merely "psychological" or "legal stress?" And, when atrocities are reported--whether they be historical as with the working class Social Democrats from Hamburg in Ordnungspolizei 101, or as current as the present government of the United States--how can we shrug, and go on, and later say, "We didn't know."

Why I Worked For His Opponent

2008-02-18T13:30:00.003-05:00

From Garry Trudeau's Doonesbury site,

SAY WHAT?
"It is not like putting burning coals on people's bodies. The person is in no real danger. The impact is psychological."
-- Sen. Joe Lieberman, after voting against a bill prohibiting waterboarding

If this evil scum (CT-Likud) had to deal with memories of waterboarding victims for forty years, I don't think he'd be so quick to venture an opinion on matters he knows absolutely nothing about. However, judging from this week's vote on S.2248, it appears to be a majority view in Congress. Under the "leadership" of Sen. Rockefeller, the Senate caved to Cheney's long-term goal of gutting the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, passed in the aftermath of the Indochina Wars; government officials may no longer be sued for violations of civil rights, such as drowning someone a drop at a time.

Imagine being helpless, fighting as hard as you can to breathe, and getting nothing but water in your lungs as they gradually fill up, and you lose consciousness again, only to be awakened for a repeat. Try it on for a day or so. then tell me it aint torture. "Psychological" my ass: psycho.

"Torture is something that happens to other people." It just happens: no good people decide to do such things to other human beings and carry them out in secret and then lie about it. Nothing to get upset about; it's for your "security"; you do feel more secure, don't you?

Thanks to Paul at BB for the story on FISA and for keeping this issue going; it's too personal for me to do so very often, but sometimes I gotta.

Different Cheeses in the House Quiz

2008-02-17T21:35:00.004-05:00

What's in yer house right now? Here's mine,

Chevre

Fruli Pecorino Romano

Gorganzola Dulce

Taleggio

Petit Basque (sheep's milk)

Raclette: a Swiss good for melting

Simple Fish Stew

2008-02-15T17:05:00.003-05:00

2 lbs. Monkfish, cut into medallions, approx. 3/4" thick

4 medium red potatoes, 3/4" dice

2 sweet onions, (Walla Walla, Vidalia, etc.) chopped

Butter for sauteing, approx. 4 Tbl.

Milk or Cream, depending on your concern for your arteries

Salt

Red Pepper flakes or Saffron

In a 4-6 qt. heavy covered pan or pot, Sweat the onions in 2 Tbl. butter. Saute the Fish in the remaining butter separately for a minute or two and add to onions. Add just enough milk, with a little cream, to barely cover. Add salt and pepper flakes or Saffron (Not both!) Cook, covered, for 10-15 minutes, then add potatoes, and cook until tender. Serve with green salad, crusty bread, and a nice unoaked Chardonnay. I'm also thinking maybe a Spanakopita style popover, with spinach, egg, lemon, and nutmeg would be good.

It's almost ready, so I'm outta here.

Leftovers

2008-02-14T19:16:00.002-05:00

My mama was not a gourmet cook; she worked with what she knew, which was plain down home Southern cooking--no herbs nor spices to speak of, and sometimes, shall we say, more traditional than thought out?

But there was a mantra: local and fresh. She shopped at a butcher's for her meat, and locally raised produce was the standard, not the exception. Yes, she canned and, later, froze some things for later use, but it was always with the thought "Fresh is best." I've shelled many a bean or pea on the porch on a Summer morning that was brought by "a friend" the night before from their garden, to be served for Dinner ("Lunch") or Supper ("Dinner") later that day. My Daddy raised 117 tomato plants for five people the first year he was retired--some for eating, some for canning, and some to give away. (He always said the best way to eat tomatoes was going down the row with a salt shaker.) That barter system was a part of being a good neighbor; you had to have something really good to give away to be able to hold your head up and look your peers in the eye as you gave 'em a sack full of ...well, lotsa things.

Peas ( 11 varieties one year, all "field peas"), tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, lettuce, collards, turnips and greens, radishes, onions (about five different types), garlic (finally), potatoes, summer squash, peaches (bought by the bushel), blackberries, sweet potatoes, corn--during "Season" almost nothing was bought. People staggered their crops; if you knew your friend was putting in corn, you might back off corn a little and focus on tomatoes.

What prompted this memory was tonight's dinner: not thought out, nor anything in particular. Last night I had poached salmon, roasted French Fingerling Potatoes w/Thyme, and fresh Sugar Snap Peas. Tonight I plated the cold Salmon, warmed the potatoes in the toaster oven, and "nuked" the peas gently to warm them: one of those days; I drove 230 miles today and wasn't ready to fuss.

The point being: the peas were raised locally in a greenhouse; even re-heated they still had a lovely flavor and some texture, the same with the potatoes--mildly sweet and nutty, with a lovely potato mealiness. The point being: fresh. Local. It holds up. It tastes better. It's good for you and the environment. It gets ya out in the garden "in the cool of the day" like you know Who.

Merton on Writing

2008-02-13T10:28:00.002-05:00

If you only write for yourself you can read what you yourself have written and after ten minutes you will be so disgusted you will wish that you were dead.

New Seeds of Contemplation p.111

The Silly Season, Part I: Politics As Usual

2008-02-12T19:55:00.000-05:00

Put no trust in princes, in any one
Who has no power to save
Psalm 146: 1

Let me say from the outset that, though I may refer to the current unpleasantness, and I may ramble on about it from time to time in other posts, that it's not primarily (of course it was) about the outcome of the Democratic party's Presidential selection process. I have been disgusted, almost without exception with the choices on both sides since 1964--more so with Republicans, surely--this season is not the worst I remember, by far. I have high standards for such; the first choice I was offered by the American political process was Humbert Humphrey, Richard Nixon, and George Wallace.

The questions that have intrigued me, and continue to do so, are those dealing with why it seems to be the case that our party system only rarely offers any good candidates, and usually only one at a time. I incline to the view that the last good President was FDR, who was hardly without fault: personal or political; since WWII they have ranged from "tolerable, given the context" to "shockingly horrendous". Is this due to the pernicious influence of the bad post-war policies and politics that helped create and sustain the Cold War; that is, have our goals been such that good candidates and policies are sifted out long before they reach national prominence? Or is it our two-party system, and the groups that have dominated it for the last century and a half? Do we deserve better candidates, or are we, as we like sometimes to think, part of the problem? Or maybe it's just the media, mainstream or "liberal" or corporate--plug in your favorite villain.

Still, as one European paper put it in a 2004 cover story on our most recent choice for President, how can that many people cast such a stupid vote? Put it another way; it's not just that the choice looks like Clinton or Obama vs. McCain, it's why and how these three people have been selected to be our choices to lead this nation. What I think I looking for, in this silly season, is not so much a candidate or a policy to support, no matter how much I may want the U S out of Iraq, but to identify signs of hope in the political process. How will we begin to know when "things" are getting better? From whence does our relief come? How are we to read "the signs of the times" to do those things which we may, "from the bottom up," in our local contexts, to improve our lot? Voting doesn't seem to change much, however necessary it may be, if only to prevent the kinds of disasters we have recently been subjected to.

I'm It, and Another Bump on the Learning Curve

2008-02-09T21:27:00.001-05:00

Here's da rulez;

Pick up the first book of 123 pages or more.

Go to p. 123

Read the first five sentences.

Post the next three sentences.

From Melvyn P . Leffler's A Preponderance of Power

He (sec. of State James Byrnes, in 1946) parried Russian requests for trusteeship rights iin the former Italian colonies, and he insisted the Dodecanese be returned to Greece. Most important of all, he supported Italian claims to territory in Venezia Giulia and adamantly resisted Tito's efforts to gain Trieste.

Tensions remained acute in the key Adriatic port.

I have no idea who's playing, and who's left, so Jane R., BB, Kristin, Mimi, and ...is Nina in yet?

My First Troll

2008-02-08T13:46:00.000-05:00

A review of my older posts reveals a particularly noxious troll has shown up here, as expected. Therefore, I must reluctantly begin to screen comments as best I can; perhaps more experienced friends have suggestions as to Better Troll Management Techniques? (BTMT)

Resurrection: Practice, Practice, Practice

2008-02-07T10:45:00.000-05:00

I realized my comment in response to y'all on the previous post was turning into a rant of thanks, (?) but--hey, if ya can't rant on yer own blog, why blog at all, right?

Thanks, all y'all, for the kind help and support. It's helped me to begin to come to terms with it, I think. I have a right to my anger. I need not follow my old way of acquiescing and stuffing it, to have it emerge in self-destruction. You have shown me just how alone I was then, by showing me that I'm not alone now; thanks be to Godde, and all of y'all.

I remember reading Nora Gallagher's account of her discernment process in *Practicing Resurrection* a year or two ago, and have only just come to realize that I read it as fantasy:

"Discernment Process"?!!!!

There was nothing in it that felt like discernment at any stage, then or now, unless you count the members of the Committee looking for a way to make an unpleasant choice, so they could go back to their day jobs. It was, from beginning to end, a process of judgment by the Diocesan Committee I, and nothing more. Help to discern the action of Holy Wisdom in my life?

Spiritual abuse.

Ordination Selection Process Homesick Blues

2008-02-06T15:13:00.000-05:00

Ash Wednesday, Anno Domini 2008

Nina, at Dancing Through Doorways, has the Ordination Selection Process Blues this week; I don’t know how to deal with her grief, and that of others, except to share my own. She says sharing helps; I hope so.

On June 6, 1982, I was ordained in the reformed church tradition I grew up in, The Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). For those of you unfamiliar with it, think “Communion-centered worship, United Church of Christ (UCC)”. When I planned to move to Connecticut at the end of 1984, I asked the UCC about the recognition of my orders, and was told to “Come on up, and we’ll take care of it when you get here.” It’s too bad I accepted this at face value, and did not get it in writing. I’ve blamed myself for naiveté since; I only rarely allow myself to be enraged at the betrayal, for I am a poor White Southern male raised in the Forties and Fifties, the child of Depression parents. If I don’t make it, I only have myself to blame.

One of the first things I did when I got to Connecticut, at my wife’s suggestion (the consequence of an off-hand callous remark about some holiday traffic fatalities), was to contact one of the Vets Centers that had begun to appear for Vietnam Veterans. I heard, for the first time, about something called “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”, and began to seek treatment, more from a need to fill my time than a conviction that I was “disordered” or had any intractable problems because of Vietnam—that had been sixteen years ago. If there were problems, as I came to realize, this was the way to dealing with it so as to make it “no problem.” Identify the issues, find the solutions, and apply focused effort, and the competitive vocational field will be made level.

After more than two and a half years of hardship with my new family, struggling to survive economically with odd jobs and church piece-work, I was allowed to seek jobs in the UCC, and accepted one of the first two I interviewed for, as an Interim Associate Pastor of a large, inner-suburb CT church. My predecessor left me with an empty file cabinet and the warning “watch your back”. I did my best for seven months, then, as my fifteen year old daughter waited in my office, was fired with a month’s pay. I cried when I was told, as I watched my livelihood, my career, and my vocation go down to the pit. I spent that day and the next cleaning out my office. Later, as a part of what was supposed to be a “healing process”, a sympathetic official told me the Senior Pastor had a reputation of going through Associates as if they were the 2nd Lieutenants he commanded in the Korean War; one gets killed, plug in another.

My marriage survived the next two years, through sheer determination on both our parts, and I found a job with a Non-Profit (NPO) through a local Council of Churches, providing rent subsidies and case management to homeless people in the area. I began graduate work in U S History, thinking I might revive an old dream of teaching, my second choice. But a family, a commute, and a full time job took too much time from my studies to make a success, so I took a final M.A.

We moved to be near the university, as all three of us were students by then. In doing so, I looked at the UCC church options, and decided to please myself, my career being no longer an issue, and look for an Episcopal church: love at first, and ongoing sight. Within a year I was received by a bishop. I began to wonder again “Where is Godde’s purpose in the midst of this? Is this a renewal of ministry, and, if so, in what direction?” and started discussing it with the Rector, and later, the Curate and a few lay leaders in the parish. They encouraged me to explore becoming a Priest in the Episcopal Church, as, I remembered, a colleague back in the South had done. Ironically, he had become, by that time, the Chair of the Ordination Committee in a NE diocese, and was happy to hear the news. “How is it possible to be certain about anything as squishy as the Will of Godde?”, the Rector re-assured me; “You know what it’s about, John. Don’t worry; you’ll be fine.” Formal endorsement by the Vestry followed, the Senior Warden now being the Canon to the Ordinary here.

But an interview with the Diocesan proved a slippery thing to schedule. This, I was told, was because, for the first time, Connecticut had more persons beginning the Ordination Process than positions for new Priests, which was a source of great concern to him. I wrote. I called, time and again, for almost a year, and was assured the bishop was very much aware of my position, but had to deal with other matters first now, or till October, the last of which was the Diocesan Convention which elected his Successor. But, before the last, we had met, finally. He greeted me with the remark that his old friend, my Rector, seemed to think I might walk on water; I was flattered to come with a good recommendation. He told me he would be turning my participation in the process over to his successor, one of the Suffragans, the other having been defeated for the position. To begin, I would join the other candidates for several days of vocational examinations, the official beginning of the process, contracted to a program at a nearby (Non-Episcopal) seminary.

I had taken such an examination before my original process, and was not overly anxious about this part. It was thorough, but seemed fair, and I enjoyed my time there. We were told we would be able to review the report before it went to our diocesan officials, and make comments, or even challenge anything we thought unfair. It hardly seemed necessary, until I got the initial report. It seemed anything but fair—narrowly focused on obscure points, which were exaggerated and out of context, and overlooking most of my strengths. I protested in writing, and got all the most offensive judgments removed, or so I was told. Nonetheless, it was frightening to be so misjudged. What, I wondered, could have gone so wrong? How could the examiner have arrived at such a misleading and distorted picture from the materials provided? Congratulations: you have a scheduled retreat weekend with Committee One of the Diocesan Commission on the Ordination Process. Read this novel. Don’t worry. Bring your Spouse. And hold your liquor. I still cannot read Russell Banks, but it’s not his fault. There were six aspirants; one would be eliminated.

Here self-doubt barges back in. What if I had been more assertive, and less content to follow the questioner’s lead; “Doesn’t anyone want to ask about my last position in the UCC?” The first question I answered badly, the scenario being conflict in the Altar Guild. The others seemed to go better, despite my spouse’s anxiety after Lunch in our room. A few weeks later, I got the results; the committee thought (What obfuscation!) a Vocational Diaconate suited me, but not the Priesthood.

No one had discussed the Diaconate with me at all, except as a transition. When I asked—my Rector, the Diocese, the bishop appointed to break the news (on his way out, having lost the Diocesan election), and, finally, the Religion Professor/ Priest who was the Diocesan expert—what the Vocational Diaconate was seen to be, the answer, in every case, was “We don’t know yet; we don’t seem to have made up our minds.” So, in what direction do you see my vocation leading? What am I being offered? “Oh, that’s for you to figure out, and then we’ll tell you if you’re right.” I’d had enough.

In less than three years, I was bankrupt, divorced, and thinking about suicide. I have spent the last decade in hiding, more or less, dealing with the aftermath, with Godde’s help, revealed in, of all unlikely places, the Vets Centers, and, it must be said, my former Rector, and some members of my new parish. Later, I told one member of the committee that I had come to understand and even to accept their point; she told me they had wanted to know what happened in the UCC.

Lord, have mercy

Christ, have mercy

Lord, have mercy

I'd Blame Crimson Rambler, But I Don't Know Her Well Enough Yet

2008-02-05T19:56:00.000-05:00

Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?
this quiz was made by Lori Fury

An Anglican Quiz for yer pleasure

I Blame PJ

2008-02-05T11:02:00.000-05:00

You are The Sun

Happiness, Content, Joy.

The meanings for the Sun are fairly simple and consistent.

Young, healthy, new, fresh. The brain is working, things that were muddled come clear, everything falls into place, and everything seems to go your way.

The Sun is ruled by the Sun, of course. This is the light that comes after the long dark night, Apollo to the Moon's Diana. A positive card, it promises you your day in the sun. Glory, gain, triumph, pleasure, truth, success. As the moon symbolized inspiration from the unconscious, from dreams, this card symbolizes discoveries made fully consciousness and wide awake. You have an understanding and enjoyment of science and math, beautifully constructed music, carefully reasoned philosophy. It is a card of intellect, clarity of mind, and feelings of youthful energy.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

The Monday before "Super" Tuesday

2008-02-04T09:40:00.000-05:00

Just in time for tomorrow's "big doin's", Robin Morgan has written a sequel to her justly famous 1970 essay "Goodbye To All That". There is a link if you haven't read it, or, at least, not recently. Those without first-hand memories of the American Left c. 1970 may need a bit of help with the latter, which is provided in the link, which can be found by clicking on the title of this post.

Worth a read no matter how you vote--you do plan to vote, don't you, when given the chance? Even if only to "Resist the lies of Reaganism", as a button a friend of mine grabbed before me once put it.

And a grateful H/T to one of the best womanbloggers on das 'Net, Egalia of Tennessee Guerilla Women, which is to say the best, period; all y'all stop by and visit, ya hear?

Go Figure

2008-02-03T20:31:00.000-05:00

You're Brandeis University!
Most everyone you run across assumes that you're Jewish. You probably are Jewish, but even if you're not, everyone believes that you are. You've been doing a lot more research lately, though some of it is a bit worrisome and even steamy. Though you also try to keep religion out of the shadows. You're really known for being able to inspire friends. You know at least thirteen short people with brown hair named Rachel or Sarah, and you wish people would stop asking about them.

Thanks, Paul.

Lunch

2008-02-02T14:14:00.001-05:00

Let's talk indulgence: lunch, including recipes.

First, a nice healthy breakfast, so as to have a clear spirit: oatmeal with wild blueberries and apricots: Sumatra coffee for a heart starter.

Then, Thinking about that leg of lamb from last night: free range, grass-fed, and local: roasted with thyme and olives with Herbes de Provence, still pink the next day.

Oh yeah, and soup: Chard with Lemon (recipe follows, from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking For Everyone. What? You don't own it? This is the one I woulda gotten after the "How to boil water" basic Cookbook, if I had known then.)

And what I think of as the main course: local sweet organic carrots and sublime shallots, roasted with butter, thyme, and Brittany sea salt: dayum!

Wine note: I went back to my shop looking for more of the beautiful Spanish Merum Monastrell 2005 Dennis noted earlier, (link to follow, if I can figure out how) but found another, a Luzon Verde 2004, also from Jumilla, and also good, and also a $ 9 bargain: huah, Spain!

This is simple and easy food, folks, but, as so many point out, it's all about ingredients. Local and fresh trumps Organic from factory farms in the Imperial Valley, for me. I have the time and inclination to have searched for suppliers and distributors for most of this, though I confess that Olive trees are scarce in CT, as is Monastrell. If ya got a little ground, which I do not, and the time, growing yer own is a lovely option, which I daydream about frequently. Ya can't get good results with those little paper boxed months-old shallots from yer local supermarket; I've not been inside one in six months, but that's luck and the time to chase around for specifics.

OK: enough chatter, recipe.

2 bunches green Chard (about eight -ten cups leaves, loose)

1 lg. onion, diced

2-3 red potatos (I use whatever I got), thinly sliced

6 1/2 c. water

Butter, or Olive oil

sea salt

juice of 1 large Lemon, or 2 cups Sorrel leaves. stems removed

Saute potatos and onion s in soup pot over med high heat until they color: ~ 8 minutes. Deglaze with a little water, add greens and cook till wilted (5 minutes), then add rest of water and cook ~ 20 minutes. Let cool and puree in blender. Bring back to warm temperature, and add Lemon juice if you didn't use Sorrel. Serve with croutons and creme fraiche or sour cream garnish.

Ya owe it to yerself to make this at least once: heh.

Oops

2008-01-29T20:17:00.000-05:00

I thought the prayer was commonly known to be that of Sir Francis Drake, Elizabethan Explorer/ Pirate, but a couple of people have asked me about it, so credit is due to him.

Sorry 'bout that.

Getting Directions

2008-01-29T11:20:00.000-05:00

Disturb us, Lord, when We are too well pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we have dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
With the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.
We ask You to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push into the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

I’ve wanted to write about something I know nothing about. In fact, I’ve been avoiding writing about it for several days It’s been near the center of my conscious life since November of ’06—no, a lot longer than that, several decades at least. Maybe since I learned “Now I lay me down to sleep”.

Prayer.

I mean, I’m a Christian, among other ways to describe myself, yet I sometimes feel like the least of those; prayer, or, more accurately, the lack of it or my frustrations with it, being one of the major reasons. I don’t know what I’m expecting, or why I’m frustrated, or what, if anything, I should be doing, or not doing, differently. I read about it, and think I’ve got a handle on it, but it escapes my grasp so quickly; “I fall down, and must get back up.”

I believe one of the reasons I found the Episcopal Church congenial is its encouragement of corporate prayer—the community, gathered and scattered, is one at prayer. There are times for prayer, and places devoted to prayer, and, when people say, “I’ll pray for ___”, I had a sense that, whatever they were doing, they were doing what they called “prayer” on a regular basis. Nor did I ever feel excluded or pressured; it was there: nothing more.

With that help, I’ve joined in; I attend worship, both Sunday Eucharist and Holy Day observances, regularly, and I use the Daily Office (online, thanks to the sisters of St Clare in Cal-e-forn-eye- a). A wonderful ex gave me a copy of Benedict’s Rule, with Sr. Joan’s most helpful commentary, which I sporadically use. I am starting yoga as a Christian discipline. And yet. Still. Perhaps “my heart is restless”.

The immediate issue is a search for a Spiritual Director, a person trained to check in with a wayfarer to help her/ him discern what is of Godde, and what is dross. I’ve tried this twice before, but now see I wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared to bring an engaged prayer life to the discussion. How is this time different, or is it?

That answer can wait. Evaluation follows action. I am searching along two paths: local and not so local, to see if I may find a guide. I have had a sense, for over a year, that something is waiting for me to come to meet it, and that this is the issue in my life.

So, friends, whatever you call it—prayer, meditation, good vibes, kindly thoughts, or no name at all—please; I need all the help I can get. And thank you all for your help thus far.

Big Sky

2008-01-26T20:53:00.001-05:00

a rare weather phenomenon, which I never saw in five years there. Taken in Hastings, NE. It is caused by supersaturated air, which is much colder than that near the surface, dropping suddenly, being heavier than the warmer, drier air at the surface.