“Marxism is the opium of the intellectuals.”

- Edmund Wilson

Oh, I'm ready for it
Come on, bring it.
Oh, I'm ready for it
Come on, bring it.
Oh, I'm ready for it
Come on, bring it.
Oh, I'm ready for it
Come on, bring it.

So kiss me goodbye.
Honey, I'm gonna make it out alive.
So kiss me goodbye.
I can see the (tubesock) in your eyes.
Goodbye.

So my dad kinda has this strange idea that "Snakes on a Plane" somehow corrolates with Sock Wars.

What is this "Sock Wars", you ask? I'll tell ya.

It's basically like capture the flag, but you chuck socks at each other instead of a ball; the two teams' home bases are artfully piled mounds of cardboard; and the flag is a glowstick instead of a flag, because it is played in the dark.

The War starts on *August 18th.

Think that you can handle it?

If you're interested, talk to my peeps using the contact info.

*Part of the b-day festivities!

Salmagundi
(sal muh GUN dee) noun

This peculiar word describes, in its narrow sense, a dish, usually served as a salad, consisting of a mixture of chopped cooked meat, onions, hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, pickled vegetables, radishes, olives, watercress and other ingredients, with salad dressing, sometimes arranged in rows to form a color pattern. The term, however, is sometimes applied to a much simpler concoction: a meat and vegetable stew. It can also be spelt with a final -y instead of an -i.

Salmagundi has a much wider figurative application, as a term denoting any heterogeneous mixture or miscellany, and in this sense it is a synonym for gallimaufry or olio or hodge-podge, a medley, a potpourri, a mishmash, a farrago. A painting, for instance, or any work of art, for that matter, revealing a mixture of many influences may be referred to as a salmagundi or pastiche. There is a jocular saying that a camel is a horse designed by a committee. That would make the poor beast a sort of salmagundi of an animal — a little of this and a little of that. Any creation in which too many cooks have had a hand may sadly turn out to be a salmagundi. The word is derived from the French noun salmigondis, said to be based, in turn, on the Italian for "pickled salami," known as salami conditti. Though it has nothing to do with the old nursery rhyme, the sound of salmagundi brings to mind the sad tale of

Solomon Grundy
Born on a Monday
Christened on Tuesday
Married on Wednesday
Took ill on Thursday
Worse on Friday
Died on Sunday
This is the end
of Solomon Grundy

and the end of salmagundi.

My example: The Minnesota Organization of Blogs (MOB) is a salmagundi of sagacity, savoir-faire and a bit of silliness.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Secondhand Lions is both a great addition to this blog series and a well-received film by the young men in our bi-weekly viewing group. The viewing group has largely followed the order of the original class I taught a few years ago while the blog series has gone on to feature additional movies. This week I decided to overlap the two and feature the same movie in both. As such it was a change of pace for the class in that it's not a war movie or a western, but a comedy. Even the movie makes many important points about honor, honesty and "what a boy needs to know to be a man." The story is about a young teenage boy, Walter (Haley Joe Osment), who has grown up without a father - and with a never-ending series of lies from his irresponsible and self-serving mother. In her latest scheme she dumps him for the summer with his eccentric great uncles, Hub (Robert Duval) and Garth (Michael Caine) McCann, about whom many local rumors and legends have circulated about their supposed wealth — and how they came by it. Walter's mother has two objectives; get some time away without the responsibility of having Walter around, and the hope that Walter might find out where the brothers hide their money.

Garth and Hub don't appear to be especially upright examples of virtuous men as they live in a poorly maintained house on a remote farm or ranch in the wilds of Texas and their main form of entertainment is taking potshots at the series of opportunistic traveling salesmen that come their way. As the days and nights go on, however, Walter starts to hear an amazing tale of adventure, courage, romance and justice spun out that almost sounds too good to be true, especially after his experiences with his mother. While Walter fears being abaondoned, his uncles (especially Hub) fear becoming useless. While Garth appears willing to settle down and act his age, Hub is still restless for his lost love and not ready to surrender to the expectations of old age. As Garth explains it to Walter, "A man's body can grow old but the spirit inside of him doesn't."

Naturally their fears are mutually answered in each other, especially as Walter gets curious about the mysterious speech Garth says that Hub gives to young men on what they need to know to be good men. It could all get pretty syrupy but for a brisk plot and a series of great scenes that advance the story and message. In particular, the scene were Hub, Garth and Walter stop for barbeque at a roadhouse and have their meal interrupted by a young ruffian and his gang who decide to have a little sport with the "old men." Viewing the youth as no more of a bother than a mosquito, Hub continues his discussion, telling Garth and Walter:

Here's a perfect example of what I've been talking about. Since this boy was suckling on his momma's tit, he's been given everything but discipline. And now his idea of courage and manhood is to get together with a bunch of punk friends and ride around irritating folks too good natured to put a stop to it.

Naturally this means the rumpus is soon on, and the leader of the group asks Hub who he thinks he is. Suddenly taking the young man by the throat, Hub stares down into his eyes and delivers the second-best monologue in the movie:

I'm Hub McCann. I fought in two world wars and countless smaller ones on three continents. I've led thousands of men into battle with everything from horses to swords to artillery and tanks. I've seen the headwaters of the Nile, and tribes of natives no white man had ever seen before. I've won and lost a dozen fortunes, killed many men and loved only one woman, with a passion a flea like you could never begin to understand. That's who I am.

After administering a thrashing to the gang Hub brings them back to the farm to tend their wounds and they listen raptly (in sight of, but out of the hearing of, Walter and us) as he ultimately gives them "the speech" that Walter so longs to hear, but is still excluded from hearing. Later, after being confronted by Walter, Hub agrees to give the boy "just a piece" of the speech, promising to deliver the rest when he's older. The part he shares is the number one monologue in the movie:

Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things that a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil. And I want you to remember this, that love...true love...never dies. You remember that, boy. Doesn't matter if they're true or not because those are the things worth believing in.

Ultimately Walter's mother returns, accompanied by an unsavory new boyfriend. When the boyfriend outrageously steps over the line, Walter has to draw upon the seeds of courage and self-respect that have been planted over the past few months to face her (and get her to face herself) as he makes his case that his best hope for the quality of the rest of his life is to stay with his uncles instead of following her to Las Vegas. Since the movie is told as a flashback, Walter obviously stays with his uncles and grows up. We can assume that he ultimately hears the rest of the speech from Hub on "what a boy needs to know to be a man" but this is never shared with the audience except for the excerpt above.

Typically in this series I include a series of questions and points to ponder for readers to consider or share with others. There were some questions I asked the boys last night about the underlying themes of the movie (including some of the plot elements I haven't covered here), but I think I will leave you with the same "homework" I gave to them. I told them the next time we get together they need to come back to me with at least one thing they think went into the rest of the speech we didn't hear. If you want to help us out, leave your thoughts in the comments section below.

The recent story of the drunk driver taking out an entire house has reminded me of the time when our own house was unable to duck.

It was in the spring of 2003, about 10:15 at night. The Reverend Mother and Tiger Lilly had already gone to bed and the young Mall Diva was upstairs, probably flipping through fashion magazines. I was on a couch in my basement trying to catch the Twins score on ESPN (I hadn't even heard of blogging at that time) when I heard a strange rushing noise that lasted just long enough for me to cock my head and try to classify the sound before it was replaced by a loud crash and a shudder through the house. I, and the cat that was on the back of the couch, immediately levitated and were on our toes. As a parent you learn that while the first sound you hear is important, it is the next sound that tells you how serious the situation might be so I froze for a moment waiting for my next clue: would it be screaming, crying or someone yelling at the other cat?

It turned out that the next sound was that of the Diva's feet stampeding down the steps from the upstairs to the main level, then her voice saying, "Dad - someone's crashed into our house!" About that time I had cleared the basement steps and could see a strange light outside our dining room window, reflecting a strange kind of fog. "Get me the phone," I said to the Diva as I headed for the front door, which is right next to the dining room. As I opened the door and came out on our porch I could see a white car crumpled up under the window box a few feet away and resting on my shrubberies, with several heads inside the car bobbing around. Behind the car and parked in the half-circle driveway that divides our front yard was another car, the driver's side door open and a man standing behind it, shouting in a very authoritative voice, "Turn the car off, you are not going anywhere."

I've just about got the scene processed in my head when the Diva comes out with the cordless phone. I dial 911 and when the operator comes on and asks for a description of the problem I respond with my address and the statement, "Someone has just crashed their car into my house."

"What was that again?" said the operator.

"I said, someone just crashed their car into my house."

"Is anyone in need of medical assistance?" she asks.

"Not yet," I reply.

"Just so you know, officers are on the way."

By this time people were climbing out of the crashed car looking rather dazed and the mysterious driver of the second car was still shouting instructions. I could already start to hear the sirens, as everyone of my neighbors in the vicinity had already called 911 themselves before I even placed my call. I asked the men who had gotten out of the crashed car if they were all right, but they didn't have much to say. As they were all standing, however, I figured they must not be hurt too bad. The second driver approached and I met him out in the yard where he introduced himself and gave me the story thus far. It turns out he was driving along the highway near our house when he had noticed the white car driving erratically and then saw it clip a minivan and force it off the road. As a concerned citizen and a computer analyst for the State Patrol he was offended and when the white car didn't pull over after the accident he had followed it while calling 911 on his own cell phone. The driver in the white car noticed the attention he was getting and exited the highway in an attempt to lose his pursuit in the streets of my neighborhood.

My house is near the highway and sits in a commanding position where three streets come together in front of it. I also happen to have a large front yard. The driver had barreled down the street toward my house and tried to make a left turn onto another street, but given his speed and physical impairment (drunk) couldn't quite make it. He hit the curb, launched his car into the air, landed halfway across my front yard, careened the rest of the way across the grass (dropping parts everywhere), crossed my driveway, took out a lamppost, broke through one hedge, crossed another sidewalk and kissed my stucco. Later we would pace off 27 steps from the cracked curb to the gouge in the yard where the car first nosed in.



Of course we soon had all kinds of company. Two local squad cars, a couple of Highway Patrol units, an ambulance, a firetruck and eventually a flatbed tow-truck showed up, along with a goodly number of my neighbors. Oh, and my wife and other daughter poked their heads out of the front door to see what was going on as well. After my initial health check on the four men from the white car I hadn't had any more words to, or from, them and let the officers on the scene sort things out. Once it was determined that everyone was alright and that the front of the house wasn't going to fall over it was all rather anticlimatic. The relief I felt was matched the next day when we found out that the driver actually had insurance (though I suspected that wouldn't be the case much longer).

He was insured by Farmer's, which called and apologized on behalf of their client and arranged for an appraiser and an engineer to come out and examine the house. While the yard and shrubs were looking pretty rough, the damage to the house was negligible. There was a very thin vertical crack in the stucco underneath the dining room window. The engineer also expressed his admiration for the construction techniques of our home, which was built in 1948. He showed my wife where the rim joist the house rests on was actually constructed of two joists sistered together, and that according to his instruments the rim joist had moved all of 1/16 of an inch before snapping back into place. No doubt the hard landing in my front yard and the resulting slide through my greenery had diminished the impact which was fortunate for us and for the driver and his passengers. The driver was also fortunate that he had hit where he did; if he had gone just a little further to the left he would have been into the front porch and probably would have brought the portico down on top of himself.

All in all, God was looking out for us and for the drunk joker. We also got a little money out of deal and the house has stayed solid ever since. Perhaps best of all, the soon-to-be-driving Diva received an up-close example of the combination of alcohol, speed, mass and friction.

An interesting and illuminating history lesson, courtesy of today's The Writer's Almanac. Check out the Wikipedia link in the article below for more details.

It was on this day in 1793 that Maximilien de Robespierre, became the head the Committee of Public Safety, which led to the Reign of Terror in France.

Robespierre had started out as an idealistic lawyer and judge. He was well known for representing poor people in court, and he often spoke out against the absolute authority of the king. Even after he became a public figure in Paris and Versailles, he lived an extremely frugal life. He lived as a lodger in the house of a carpenter. He worked on the first French constitution and fought for universal suffrage. He opposed all forms of religious and racial discrimination, taking the unpopular view that that even Jews and black slaves should be granted full citizenship.

After the French Revolution broke out, Robespierre was elected to the new National Convention, where he called for the execution of the king. He then worked to unify the various splinter groups within the revolution. At the time, France was being threatened by war with Austria. There was also a great fear of civil war breaking out between the various revolutionary factions. In his diary, Robespierre wrote, "What is needed is one single will."

And so, a man who had fought for constitutional democracy and universal citizenship found himself helping to organize a military dictatorship. On this day in 1793, he took his place on the Committee of Public Safety, which would rule France for the next year. And in order to keep French citizens in line, Robespierre advocated the use of the guillotine, a new machine that was supposed to make all executions efficient and humane. The guillotine was set up in the Place de la Révolution, which later became the Place de la Concorde, and over the next year more than 2,000 people were beheaded for having opposed the Revolution.

At first Robespierre executed people who had supported the monarchy. But then he began to execute revolutionaries who were too moderate. And finally, he began to execute people who had merely opposed him on one issue or another. Eventually, members of the National Convention began to realize that no one was safe, and even they could be the next victims. So they turned on Robespierre. Exactly one year, to the day, after he had taken control of the Committee of Public Safety, he was arrested, and the day after his arrest he went to the guillotine himself.

For more than a year Robespierre had been executing people in the public square to cheering crowds. When Robespierre went to his own death at the guillotine, onlookers said the crowd cheered just as loudly as ever.

I know that all of you have been eagerly awaiting the premiere of the show that I described in this post a while back.

"Instant Beauty Pageant" (Mall of America episode) will apparently be airing this weekend on the Style Network, which is on Comcast and Dish Network in the Twin Cities, but not DirectTV. It broadcasts this Friday at 10 p.m., and again at 1 a.m., 8 a.m. and noon on Saturday. Yet again on Sunday at 11 a.m., 9 p.m., and Monday at 12 a.m. and 12 p.m. (all CST).

Gosh, I wonder if anyone will see it?

I was an innocent bystander working at one of the shops the crew visited, and they snuck up on me with the camera and lights. I don't know if I'm in the show or not, but keep a look out for the dark-haired girl with eyes bigger than a deer's in headlights.

PS: Just twenty-four more days!

When I first met my wife I didn't have much appreciation for art. About the only thing you'd have found on my walls back then was white paint (and food). My favorite artist was the guy who put all the tiny numbers inside the little outlines on the kits I bought as a kid. That may have been because I had a better odds drawing to an inside straight than trying to draw a recognizable picture.

All that aside, today is the birthday (1870) of one of my wife's all-time favorite artists, Maxfield Parrish. Thanks to her, I've also come to appreciate Parrish's work and I love to look at prints of his dreamlike landscapes and portraits. The unique colors and "glow" in his work are so rich and interesting and it is fun to picture yourself standing (or reclining) in each scene. I even have an outline in my head for a story that I hope to write one day, set in a world that looks like his paintings (I've named the woman in the image below "Calla").



I obviously can't claim to be too fine in my artistic sensibilities, or unique in my appreciation of Parrish. He's probably more of a "popular" artist than what the more sophisticated might consider a "master" (at one time in the 20th century it was estimated that one in every four American homes contained a Maxfield Parrish print), but I enjoy the fantastical elements and sense of fun in his paintings and I've always had the sense that they were fun for him to paint as well. There are other "popular" artists such as Thomas Kinkade and Terry Redlin who have made luminescence part of their trademark, but it seems to me to be an almost forced quaintness on their part (or at least profitable repetition), rather than something emanating from the artist's imagination.

Parrish was pretty prolific, but I still wish there was more of his work.

Amanda Lee Donoho at The Wide Awake Cafe reacts to John Kerry's statement that the Israeli-Lebanon (actually Israeli-Hezbollah/Syria/Iran) conflict would never have occurred if ""I were president.". Her post, If Kerry Were King of the Forest features a photo of Bert Lahr as the Cowardly Lion and speculates on what else surely wouldn't have happened if Kerry were president. Check it out.

Unlike the Cowardly Lion, however, you'd have to say Kerry has some nerve.

Life is sad, believe me Missy,
When you're born to be a sissy
Without the vim and verve.

But I could change my habits,
Nevermore be scared of rabbits
If I only had the nerve.

I'm afraid there's no denyin'
I'm just a dandylion
A fate I don't deserve.

But I could show my prowess,
Be a lion not a mowess
If I only had the nerve.

Oh, I'd be in my stride, a king down to the core
Oh, I'd roar the way I never roared before
And then I'd rrrwoof
And roar some more.

I would show the dinosaurus
Who's king around the fores'
A king they'd better serve.

Why with my regal beezer,
I could be another Caesar
If I only had the nerve.

Still, what it reminds me of is another famous song from "The Wizard of Oz", sung to the same tune:

"If I Only Had a Brain."

Revanchism
(rih VAN shiz um) noun

Revanche, French for "revenge" has given rise to the noun revanchism, the policy of a nation seeking to regain territory lost to another nation, such as France's attitude and policy towards Alsace and Lorraine, lost to Prussia after the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71. The adjective describing the policy is revanchist (rih VAN shist). The revanchist attitude of the Arab states as to territory lost to Israel after the Six Day War of 1967 has played a prominent part in causing the turmoil of the Middle East.

My example: 20th century revanchism described nations seeking to regain territory in Europe and the Middle East. In the 21st century a cultural revanchism can be seen in the reconquista movement promoted by La Raza and others (perhaps nations?).

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

I thought I'd have a new "Friday Fundamentals in Film" post ready for today but time and circumstances worked against me. The next one in the series is imminent, however.

I did, however, recently see a movie that will never make it to the FIF list, but I'll describe it here as a warning and public service. The movie is The Producers: The Musical, a remake by Mel Brooks of his 1968 comedy classic, with the latest version essentially being a filming of the hit Broadway-musical version of the show. I ordered the remake from Netflix with both anticipation and trepidation. I loved the original movie and was interested to see how it would look with a real budget, but I was concerned with how it some of my favorite scenes might translate into the modern version. The original was so off-the-wall and unlike anything else I'd ever seen (I don't think I stumbled across it until the mid-70s) that I've always cherished it even though it looked as if it had been written in one weekend and filmed in two. The success of the Broadway version in recent years encouraged me. The fact that I hadn't noticed the new movie when it was first released to the theaters, however, might have been telling.

The latest version is fast-paced and very slick looking. I will say that I like Nathan Lane as Max Bialystock better than Zero Mostel, but Matthew Broderick as Leo Bloom is no Gene Wilder; in fact, he couldn't carry Wilder's blanket. Broderick plays the same whiny nebbish he's played in The Road to Wellville and The Stepford Wives (a long way from his role as Col. Robert Gould Shaw in Glory). Of course, the role calls for a whiny nebbish, but while Wilder made it funny, Broderick never rises above the annoying.

The best thing the movie did this go-round was to expand the role of Franz Liebkind, the erstwhile Nazi turned playwright. The best and funniest scenes involve Franz, played by Will Ferrell — and I should let you know that I normally cannot abide Will Ferrell. While I missed Dick Shawn as Hitler, the flower-power-hippie role as presented in the original movie obviously was too dated for this version, and updating to a gay parody was inspired. The problem was (as is often the failure with Brooks films) in beating the joke to death. Brooks at his best (Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, imho) sets up the joke, gets the laugh and moves on to the next absurdity. At his worst (e.g., History of the World, Part 1 and Spaceballs - which even so has many funny scenes) you see the joke coming a long way off, it is carried on for way too long, and then repeated again and again. TPTM falls into this bog.

There are some good bits in the new version, and the movie is not bad as a Netflix rental, especially if you keep your expectations low (a service which I hope I have performed).

I've been following the story about the fire that's burning through the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) in northern Minnesota. It's not like it was a big surprise or anything, the situation has been inevitable since a huge windstorm resulted in a massive blow-down of 400,000 acres of trees in 1999. Afterwards any cleanup was stymied by policies and politics. Necrophiliac tree-huggers strongly objected to letting logging companies clean out the deadfall and to the thought of second-hand exhaust from vehicles and chain saws (motors have long been banned from the BWCA) violating the pristine area. Meanwhile the Forest Service pretty much took the position that "Nature created the mess, let her clean it up."

We were all just waiting for the unavoidable spark, conditioned by years of warnings from Smokey the Bear to dread forest fires and hoping that the inevitable wouldn't result in a flaming holocaust. Now that it's here, though, it's looking as if it won't be as catastrophic an event as some might have feared (unless you're a species of endangered wood tick or similar trapped in the thousands of acres burned so far). While the sky in the area may not be as pristine as it was, it is generally acknowledged that an occasional fire is a good and necessary thing for the ecosystem. Or, as Kenneth Mars might have said in Young Frankenstein, "A riot (fire) is a terrible thing. Und I think it is high time ve had one!"

In reading the news, however, I think I've seen some similarities between what's going on in the Boundary Waters and events in the few-boundaries Middle East. Certainly there's been all kinds of kindling piled up for years in the area and politics and policies have prevented any serious effort to get in there and clean out the fuel. In fact, "controlled burns" of aggressions immediately followed by half-measure mediations have only increased the pressures. Conditioned by years of fears that a fight such as what is happening in Lebanon would lead to World War III, we all held our collective breath at first, but now it is looking as if the result may be clarity instead of calamity. And maybe just what the region needs.

What is interesting (and the reason it hasn't blown up - yet) is that countries such as Eygpt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia have, for the time being, apparently signed up for the International Don't Call list and Hezbollah and Hamas are therefore having a hard time getting the "Arab street" to return their calls. Those three countries, and others in the region, have their own reasons for not being too concerned if the Shiites hit the fan if it serves to crimp Iran's ambitions in the region. Instead, whatever adventurism on the parts of Hamas and Hezbollah may sparked this conflagration, it has literally blown up in their faces.

The problem for a guerilla operation is that it is in trouble when it gets entrenched. Once you, say, actually have a headquarters with a mailing address you can't assume the old advantages still apply to you. Once your opponent musters the will they'll be ringing your doorbell like Jehovah Witnesses and you're going to get ALL the literature whether you like it or not. Similarly, I don't think the old bail-out tactics are going to work. As long as Israel maintains the momentum and focuses only on southern Lebanon there likely won't be much in the way of "World Opinion" cavalry to ride in to the rescue. I think the usual players are content to sit back and watch Iran and Syria's proxies get slapped around a bit, knowing that when's it all over they, too, will be free of a nuisance and will still have plenty of time to denounce Israel's aggression.

Collateral damage is inevitable and unfortunate, but the real endangered species is the parasites that have lived off of the blood (and money) of others and used their neighbors as human shields. Still thinking they were playing by the old rules, Hezbollah has said that the only way they'll lay down their weapons is if you pry them from their cold, dead fingers. Only this time the Israeli response was, "finally, a peace proposal we can support!"

Time for a "Night" out: Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly, the Reverend Mother, myself and possibly the Revered Mother-in-Law will dine and compete at Keegan's this evening.

I'm thinking of making the Mall Diva pay since she just got a 13% raise after less than a week on her new job!

My grandmother just moved into an assisted-living center. It's a nice place, the staff is great and she was the one who ultimately decided it was time so everything is generally acceptable. By my count, this is the fourth time she's moved since she left the house after my grandfather died, and each time she's had to shuck more things; not an easy thing for someone who's a bit of a hoarder by nature.

"Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without," was the motto of her generation, so nothing was ever parted with lightly. Bales of wire hangers from the dry-cleaners; stacks of empty Cool Whip containers (some even with lids), enough to stage a road show of the "500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins with plastic bowls as hats; plus many other treasures with stories that still have some miles left on them. Each move was like peeling off another layer or two of husk and now we're down to the kernel and cob, with a few wisps of silk. The new place is the smallest yet and she's down to the essentials, with still a few eccentricities such as the radio that hasn't worked in no one knows how long. Some things were questioned during the pack-up but there is no one else in the family who can say they know what it is like to walk into a new room and know that it is this far and no further, last stop, and so slack is given.

The things left behind just don't dissolve away, of course. When I was down there earlier this month Grammy's previous apartment was still half-full of "things" that needed to be dealt with. It was like preparing for an estate sale, or hearing the reading of the will, but without someone dieing first. Still sad, though. "Dishes are going here, linens with so-and-so. What do you want? What can you take?" It's almost overwhelming to me, seeing it for the first time, but my parents have been looking at it for weeks.

"What do you want? What can you take?"

My wife and daughters and I roam the rooms, lifting, turning, trying to imagine what we might do with this or how we'd use that. For the ladies it's just so much stuff; there's little here that they've ever seen or had a connection to. I'm using my eyes and my memory, looking for something to take away that has extra meaning. In a closet I find a couple of hats of a kind that my grandfather wore when gardening. My heart races as I pick them up, but they're just hats. There isn't any dirt or sweat stains on them, and they don't smell like him. They're just hats and I put them back on the shelf. I do end up with a few things, and my daughters find some jewelry they like. Patience finds some hats that look just funky enough for her. Faith picks up some linen napkins and some old lamps for her trousseau - transferring things from this last apartment that will ultimately go in a first apartment. My wife scores some cookie sheets and Tupperware and a huge measuring cup. It is just about all that we can fit in the car, yet it seems as if the stacks left in the rooms are barely diminished. Still plenty of room for ghosts, though, and everything must go eventually.

"What do you want? What can you take, please?"

We all go along all through our lives picking up things we want or have to have, generally parting only with the things that wear out or break down. Sure, we know that certain things are hopelessly out of style, or will never be used again, but we'll deal with them "later" when we have "more time." It all stretches out behind and around us as if we're so many Marleys and we're all so used to it that we hardly notice. It makes me wonder what my kids will want when I get to that place with no closet space. Will someone take the leather jacket? The golf clubs? The Monty Python tapes?

What will they want? What can they take?

Samuel L. Jackson will be the voice of God on a new CD version of the New Testament due to be released this September. (HT: Robbo at The Llama Butchers.)

It sounds logical; Morgan Freeman has already played God (and George Burns is dead), and the producers must have liked Jackson's reading of "I will strike down upon them with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brother and you will know my name is THE LORD when I lay my vengeance upon you."

I guess I buy it; about the only person cooler than Samuel L. Jackson is God, but doesn't it make you kind of wonder who's been cast for the other roles?

Who's Satan, Mr. T — or Gilbert Gottfried? (Though I might characterize that voice as being more like Barry White's.) How about Jon Lovitz as Judas, and William F. Buckley for the Apostle Paul?

As for voicing Jesus himself, Brad Pitt would be great box office, but I'd prefer E.F. Hutton. After all, as the old commercials always said, "When E.F.Hutton talks, people listen."

There's an interesting story that's been going through the emails for a couple of months, but I haven't read any accounts of it in the blogs. I got around to checking it out and I found out that not only is the story true (and pretty neat), there's another eerie detail as well.

The main part of the story is that construction is about half-completed on the USS New York, a new amphibious assault ship for the Navy that will be launched next year. There are a couple of details that make this noteworthy: the ship is one of three such craft made to support special operations missions against terrorists, and all three ships bear a name associated with 9/11. The other two ships are the USS Arlington (for the Pentagon) and the USS Somerset (for the county were Flight 93 crashed). The coolest detail is that the New York's bow is made from 24 tons of scrap steel salvaged from the Twin Towers and reforged. You can read the touching story here.


Artist rendering of USS New York (Northrop Grumman)

While the Navy used to name battleships after states of the union this practice is currently reserved for nuclear submarines, so resurrecting the name for an amphibious assault ship required an exception. In fact, there have been at least seven ships named the USS New York, and the last one was a sub (I know, a sub is really a boat, not a ship).

Here's the eerie twist: after googling the name of the ship I discovered that prior to the submarine the last USS New York (BB-34) had been a battleship that had seen action in both World Wars. The keel of that battleship was laid on a very interesting date:

September 11, 1911.

Quotidian
(kwoh TID ee un) adjective

Quotidian means "daily," i.e., recurring every day, as in a quotidian report, and in that sense is synonymous with diurnal but only in the first meaning given under that entry, i.e., "daily," as opposed to "daytime" used attributively. By extension, quotidian has acquired the second meaning of "everyday" in the sense of "ordinary, commonplace," and in certain contexts, "trivial." In this extension, it follows its Latin antecedent quotidianus (daily), which acquired the meaning "common, ordinary." Things that go on day after day do become run-of-the-mill after a while. Variety is the spice, etc. The American poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), in The Comedian as the Letter C, wrote: "...the quotidian saps philosophers."

My example: The best bloggers disprove Stevens, being both quotable and quotidian.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Today's Strib has the details on the sentencing of a man who pled guilty to helping his wife and her teenaged sons kidnap two young women who where then prostituted and used as sex slaves until one escaped and brought the situation to light. Newspaper accounts suggest that the wife was the ringleader.

Lamiea Kerschbaum, Kerschbaum's wife, has been charged with kidnapping and false imprisonment and is in the Ramsey County jail awaiting a competency hearing on July 26. She recently spent months at the state mental hospital in St. Peter being evaluated...

...Investigators think the Kerschbaums used pistol whippings, drugs and threats of voodoo to keep the girls under their control.

While her husband and one of her sons have pled guilty, Lamiea Kerschbaum's trial has yet to begin.

Lamiea? That sounds an awful lot like one of the recent "Challenging Word of the Week" entries I posted back in May. An excerpt:

Lamia
(LAY mee uh)noun

The lamiae, in classical mythology, were a race of monsters with female heads and breasts and the bodies of serpents, who enticed young people and little children in order to devour them. The story went that the original lamia was a Queen of Libya with whom Jupiter fell in love. Juno became furiously jealous and stole the children of the queen, who went mad and vowed vengeance on all children. Lamia became a term for any vampire or she-demon. The literal meaning of lamia in Greek is "female man-eater." In medieval times, witches were sometimes called lamiae.

Note to soon-to-be parents considering names for your impending children: if you see "Lamiea" or something similar in the baby name book you just might want to cross that one off the list.

Chad the Elder apparently is on assignment in Russia. His post about flying into Chelyabinsk reminded me of some favorite passages about Russia from P.J. O'Rourke's book, Eat the Rich:

In the old days, the soda pop tasted like soap, the soap lathered like toilet paper, the toilet paper could be used to sand furniture, the furniture was as comfortable as a pile of canned goods, the canned goods had the flavor of a Solzhenitsyn novel, and a Solzhenitsyn novel got you arrested if you owned one. Now the Russians have discovered brand names...

My six-hour flight to Siberia took two days. Airline employees circulated with walkie-talkies. Not satisfied with individual screw-ups, they apparently wanted to coordinate them.

"Everything’s unready to go in the cockpit."
"Roger that. We’ve got the baggage lost."
"Seat selection’s a mess."
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Catering’s not f*****d up yet."

Granted, O'Rourke may not turn a comedic phrase as deftly as Vlad Putin, but I've always kind of liked him. I hope conditions have improved since that was written.

Good luck, Chad.

My first job was pumping gas at my father's gas station, back in 1970. The price per gallon fluctuated, but was usually around 34 cents. Gas stations competed for customers then, offering full service window-washing and offers to check the oil and tires. We also awarded Top Valu stamps and frequently gave out promotional gifts like glassware and steakknives, or had game pieces to attract repeat customers.

When the '73 OPEC oil embargo came along the availability of gasoline dropped, the price shot up, and my dad happily trashed the Top Valu stamp machine. The new price of gas was shocking - as much as 42 or 44 cents per gallon (41.9 and 43.9 cents, actually), and consumers were very price sensitive. We once had our price at .41 and our driveway was crammed with cars while the driveway of the station across the street — at .43 — was as barren as the ANWR during the caribou's non-breeding season. As I recall, I was also making less than $2 an hour back then.

Ah, the good old days, eh?

Not necessarily, even with gas pushing or exceeding $3 per gallon. A National Policy Analysis report by David Ridenour of the National Center for Public Policy Research has an interesting comparison between the price of gas and other commodities in April of 1981 and today. According to data he cites from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the average cost of a gallon of regular unleaded gas (sans taxes) in '81 was around $1.26, which would be $2.83 in inflation-adjusted dollars today. Yet the average cost per gallon of regular unleaded (pre-tax) in May of this year was $2.29, about 19% below the adjusted cost. Furthermore, he indicates that in the late 70s and early 80s the adjusted cost was regularly over $2 per gallon, while the .25 per gallon pre-tax cost of gasoline in 1922 is the equivalent of $3 today.

By comparison, the report shows that a half-gallon of milk in 1981 cost $1.12, and $2.09 in May of this year. Both milk and gasoline have increased at slower rates than inflation over this time, but milk prices have increased at a slightly greater rate than gasoline. I figure we don't notice this so much because we rarely buy 20 gallons of milk a week. (But can you imagine a "Got Gas?" advertising campaign?)

Another popular commodity, bread, has also increased 103 percent in the past 25 years, which is about 8% below the rate of inflation. Meanwhile, the cost of postage-stamps offered by our government-run monopoly have just about matched inflation over the same period.

While it's never fun to pay out the big bucks at the gas station, the impact on the family budget hasn't been as extreme as it might appear. Furthermore, we can be very glad that our cars don't run on bottled water, which on a gallon-to-gallon basis is nearly three times that of gasoline. As Ridenour notes:

If I'm not mistaken, water is the most abundant resource on the planet, it is not controlled by a cartel, its known reserves are not limited primarily to volatile areas of the world and it requires substantially less refinement than gasoline to bring to market.

Anyone interested in getting into the Big Water bidness with me?

Hi guys! Wow, it's been a long time. I almost don't know what to say! Almost.

So, there's this Swedish scientist named Jarl Flensmark who thinks that wearing high-heels makes people schizophrenic and subject to other mental disorders (HT: Samantha Burns). I think he's absolutely nuts. I wear high heels all the time and there's nothing wrong with me!

I am, however, the girl who puts on her heels right before leaving the house and takes them off right when she reaches her destination, such as church. My pastor asks me if we're standing on holy ground.

Apparently, "during walking, synchronised stimuli from mechaneroceptors in the lower extremities increase activity in cerebellothalamo-cortico-cerebellar loops through their action on NMDA- receptors."

Followin' me here? And no, a mechaneroceptor is not a dinosaur.

"Using heeled shoes leads to weaker stimulation of the loops. Reduced cortical activity changes dopaminergic function, which involves the gangliathalamo-cortical-nigro-basal ganglia loops."

Basically Jarl is saying that walking in heels can prevent the neuro-receptors in the calf muscles from releasing dopamine, which is a necessary compound for mental well-being. Thanks Jarl. Sure you haven't been wearing your heels to work lately?



He also points out that wherever heeled shoes have popped up around the world, so have mental institutions.

Hmmm. You know, I wonder if this has any connecton with me failing the insanity test (if the link makes you laugh, you're insane).

BONUS! Random stuff!

What is Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia?

Oh, never mind, it's just my yard. It's dry, dry, dry. Walking across my grass sounds like stepping on pretzels. There was more precipitation from the watermelon-seed-spitting contest at the church picnic last Sunday than we've had in the last month. I go out to get the morning paper and the voices of the blades of grass cry out to me like a million little William Shatners: "Must...have....water...now. (Khan!)"

I'm not insensitive. I've tried to help. The yard is too big to save everyone, but I turned on the sprinkler over the weekend for the sections closest to the house. The ground sucked it up so fast that the vacuum almost pulled me over backwards. Two months ago all was lush and green and the grass would do the wave, taunting me as I mowed. "Na na na, hey-hey! Mulching? We don't need no stinking mulching!"

Now the only patches of green are the weeds, which are (as always) undaunted. "No, no, it's cool, man. We like it like this, no matter how hard or dry it gets. One day, us weeds and the cockroaches are going to rule everything!"

Lord, send the rain. Soon.

Amy Ridenour is among those wondering why Joe Biden is not experiencing the uproar and outrage over his demeaning remark about Indian-Americans that, say, a conservative radio broadcaster would receive in similar circumstances.

As Biden recently said:

In Delaware, the largest growth of population is Indian Americans, moving from India. You cannot go to a 7/11 or a Dunkin’ Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent. I’m not joking.

I think the reason is obvious. Okay, two reasons. The second one being that given Biden's record, everybody just assumes he stole the line from someone else; perhaps Archie Bunker.

Pismire
(PIS mire, PIZ-) noun

A pismire is an ant, but the term has been applied contemptuously to a despicable individual. Robert Penn Warren, the American poet and novelist (b. 1905), used it that way, "What do you think I'd do with a young pismire like you?" Shakespeare knew the word. In Henry IV, Part 1 (Act I, Scene 3), the impetuous young Harry Percy, known as Hotspur, cannot bear to hear the name of Bolingbroke:

Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In the same play (Act III, Scene 1) the same Hotspur uses the word ant. In reviling Mortimer's father, he says:

...sometimes he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp (mole) and the ant...

In the earlier speech, the Bard obviously needed a two-syllable synonym for ant. Pismire is derived from Middle English pissemyre (a urinating ant, based on Middle English pisse, urinate, plus obsolete mire, ant). A pismire, then, is a urinating ant, i.e., an ant exuding formic acid.

My example: From my time living in more southerly parts of the country I am familiar with a colloquial version of this word: pisant, or pissant. The meaning is the same, however, as I always heard it used (or used it myself) to describe someone who is an irritating nuisance. I don't think any of us knew we were borrowing from Shakespeare or thought in terms of having formic acid released upon us (irritating but not very damaging), but we definitely knew that to use the word was to describe someone who was an irritant completely out of proportion to his or her significance, kind of like ....

Well, I'll leave the examples this week to you. If you'd like to supply the name of your pet pissant, do so in the comments or include the word and the individual in one of your posts and send me a link so I can see it.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Given the stereotype of bloggers as basement-dwelling cave fish, you might be surprised to learn that a goodly number of us emerged, blinking, into the light for an afternoon of golf Friday at Valleywood Golf Course in Apple Valley. The event was the second annual Millard Fillmore Open Championship (which goes by an abbreviation that I won't use here to avoid attracting the porn-crazed), hosted by Learned Foot.

When you realize that golf is nearly "blog" spelled backwards, however, our interest in the grand sport is more logical. Actually, perhaps "golb" is a better description of the game my threesome played. There are good reasons, for example, why I am known to the golfing Jedi as "O.B. Juan". My teammates, Triple-A and Surly Dave, meanwhile, can be compared to Jack Nicklaus (as in Bobby Jones saying of Nicklaus, "He plays a game with which I am not familiar.") Triple-A's readers won't be surprised to learn that his tee-shots veer strongly to the right. Dave's political leanings are harder to discern from his golf game since he seemed to favor left and right equally. His performance around water hazards, however, could be described as "Kennedy-esque", so we may have to keep an eye on him.

Despite our adventures, we found ourselves on most holes waiting for the walking two-some in front of us to move out of range (vertically and laterally). Nevertheless, somebody two or three groups behind us called the clubhouse to complain about slow play and the ranger paid us a visit. The ranger thought it was somebody two groups behind us who had complained, which would mean it was Foot's group, and it was Foot, therefore, that Triple-A assigned the blame. Up to that point Triple-A had been content to write the initials of the golf tournament into every sandtrap he encountered; now angered, at the next tee-box he used the seed/fertilizer mixture provided for filling divots to pour out a rude message for LF. And it was perfectly spelled.

I didn't see enough of anyone else's game to offer a comment, but I will note that Nihilist-in-Golf-Short-Pants showed up at the course wearing the same outfit as I: navy blue shorts and a white golf shirt. It was hard to tell us apart at a glance; the telling clue was that he was the one wearing dark socks. Meanwhile Bogus Doug, looking for a hobby to replace blogging, showed up looking like a contender for "Whitest Person in America", but as he forgot his sunblock, was well out of the running by the 18th hole.

Afterwards we caravaned over to Foot's house for German and Italian sausages and fireworks. Like Foot's blog, the evening was explosive, highlighted by shrieking outbursts, fiery retorts (and reports), dramatic fizzles and nervous neighbors. Oh, and of course, there were the fireworks, too.

I can't wait for next year!

In the hills of life there are two trails. One lies along the higher sunlit fields where those who journey see afar, and the light lingers even when the sun is down; and one leads to the lower ground, where those who travel, as they go, look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread, and gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done.

This, my story, is the story of a man who took the trail that leads to the lower ground, and of a woman, and how she found her way to the higher sunlit fields.

Traipsing the woods and hills of Missouri this past week and revisiting the depredations of the "bushwhacker" era on my ancestors, put me in mind of a book that has long been read for generations in my family, "The Shepherd of the Hills." It is a stirring tale of romance, action and dark, even violent, secrets that weaves some important character lessons without being sanctimonious (well, maybe a couple of times). Set in the nearby Ozarks it was one of the first best-sellers in modern American literature and helped make its author, Harold Bell Wright, one of the most popular (if critically dismissed) writers of the first half of the 20th century. It also happens that this book was first released to the public on this day in 1907, 99 years ago.

It is a great book for all ages, but especially for young teens. I read it aloud to both my daughters when they reached a certain age and they loved it and were captivated by the story, but it will also appeal to boys and there's plenty to think about for adults as well. Reportedly based on a true story (my grandfather had a copy of the book autographed by one of the minor characters in the tale) there's a romance, but also plenty of action, and a deft and engrossing illumination of good vs. evil. Or, as the book itself says, "The story, so very old, is still in the telling."

It is also the book that first put Branson, Missouri on the map as a tourist destination — long before anyone ever thought to plug an amp into a guitar or glue a sequin onto a coat.

Wright was a minister before turning to writing novels and the book has a profound but not obtrusive spirituality that sometimes borders on the worship of Creation over the Creator but offers an interesting insight into the timelessness of the story. At one point the main character, in one of the few "speeches" in the story, offers the following for those who might judge the quality of another character's life:

"Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. How often have we seen them jostled and ridiculed by their fellows, pushed aside and forgotten, as incompetent or unworthy. He who sees and hears too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who, having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand.

"We build temples and churches, but will not worship in them; we hire spiritual advisers, but refuse to heed them; we buy bibles, but will not read them; believing in God, we do not fear Him; acknowledging Christ, we neither follow nor obey Him. Only when we can no longer strive in the battle for earthly honors or material wealth, do we turn to the unseen but more enduring things of life; and, with ears deafened by the din of selfish war and cruel violence, and eyes blinded by the glare of passing pomp and folly, we strive to hear and see the things we hve so long refused to consider.

(He)knew a world unseen by us, and we, therefore, fancied ourselves wiser than he."

Look the book up and you and your children will be glad you did. You can read it through to yourself in a few hours, or aloud in six or so. (Don't settle for the movie version, though. I saw it and only the title and some of the names of the characters were familiar to me; the charm of the story was gutted.)

Near as anyone can remember, the last person buried at the Ficke Cemetery was carried in there in 1958, the year I was born. I don't know how many cars, if any, may have been in the procession then but today we take two vehicles out to where my great-great-grandfather, George Marion West (see previous post) lies. My parents lead the way, and my wife and daughters are riding with me.

In many ways it's a trip back into the past: memories my parents have of coming to this place, memories I myself have of similar trips to other grounds with my grandfather. Fittingly, we start our trip by driving on the old Route 66 before turning off on a succession of county highways named after letters of the alphabet. We pass through small communities such as Japan (pronounced "Jay-pan") and Strain, before turning onto a smaller road named for what once was the Red Oak community. Red Oak leads to a gravel road, which itself merely covers the original Indian trail that made its way down to the Bourbeuse River. A centuries-old oak tree, deliberately bent so that it grew into a 90-degree trail marker, still points the way.

At a certain point past the marker tree we stop the cars and get out to apply liberal amounts of Deep Woods Off before embarking by foot along a path pressed into the tall grass of a wooded field by a tractor and hay-wagon. Along the way we see through a gap in the trees an almost surrealistic sight of white cattle standing in a flourescent-green pond. "I think this is it," my father finally says, stepping down into a ditch and then up the bank to lift a single strand of barbed wire.

The woods beyond the wire at this point don't look noticeably different from everything else that's around, but we line up single-file to duck under the wire and proceed into the leafy darkness as if on safari. There is no path, and our eyes constantly switch from looking at the person in front, to looking down for a place to put our feet, to looking up again to make sure a branch isn't snapping back into our faces. There's supposed to be a cemetery here?

Sure enough, within a few minutes my parents have found a tall, columned monument rising high enough out of the sumac and other weeds and saplings to where it can be more easily seen. Even at that it takes a few moments for its outline to become clear; using the monument as a reference point we begin to see other, smaller shapes emerging from the shadows, brambles and tall grass around us.


Stepping carefully, holding back or pressing down saplings, we all move slowly, sometimes almost losing sight of each other in the foliage. My parents know the general direction to find the stone over great-great-grandpa George and two of his wives. His first wife was a Ficke, which was what brought him back to this place. Her name was Henrietta and she bore him two children before dying from complications from the birth of the second, who turned out to be my great-grandfather, William. She would never know her son, but I would eventually meet him a couple of times (so I'm told) when he was much, much older. George and his second wife, Martha, would have 11 children, but I have to admit to some favoritism for Henrietta, who died young, for bringing William into the world and, hence, my grandfather, my mother, and me.



The single stone for George, Henrietta and Martha is large and relatively easy to spot; other markers are smaller and harder to see. Most difficult to see, and to look at, are tiny headstones for infants and children. We're here on July 3, and my wife finds a small stone for a child who lived from July 4 to August 3, 1892. Regardless of size, all the stones we come across face to the east, in the direction from which their saviour will return.

It's a bright, sunny day and very hot, but there's an eerie quiet and stillness in this place, far away from everything else and virtually untended for who knows how long. There're probably more than 100 people people buried here. You think about the ghosts that might be lingering, and then you don't have to just think: you can see them.


Two faces stare out from the white circle, mute witnesses to time passing by.
Looking again at the large monument we first came across we can just make out the faded faces of a husband and wife etched into the upper part of the granite, fading from sight and probably from memory.

Something else is missing. When we find the main gate of the cemetery my mother is certain that there once were large stone columns and an arch marking the entrance. A rusty, metal gate among the briars is all that is there today. Her memory is probably correct, though, and the arch may stand on someone else's farm or resort today, or rests at Restoration Hardware.

Earlier, on the ride out here, my wife had wondered how many cemeteries there might be in rural Missouri that had disappeared from the memories of those alive today. There's no answer to that, but I told her that, except for this trip today, the memory of the Ficke Cemetery in my family would have passed with the generation in the car ahead of us. Now, two more generations know of it and have walked (unsteadily) on its grounds. I don't know what that is worth, or what it will mean, but I think I will be back at least once more.

My father is talking about coming out here again in the fall, after the frost and the cold have made it easier to see the ground. He knows a couple of men with connections to the people buried here and thinks that with light chainsaws and some people to drag the brush away the site can be cleared enough to make it visitable for a few years. I offer to come down early on Thanksgiving week and he thinks that might be a good time to do it. I suppose to some people such a project might appear as useless as leaving a perfectly good stone arch hidden in the woods where no one could appreciate it. Certainly the dead don't need a fancy portal to their burying grounds, or care if the brush is cut back over them. That doesn't mean that there isn't some need or appreciation for these things from the living, however. Something inside me, anyway, says this is just the right thing to do. Moreover, it's not a chore but something I want to do. Though I have never met anyone buried here, if they hadn't lived, and met, I wouldn't be here.

I know only the sketchiest details about the lives of my ancestors and have nothing but my own imagination to picture the lives of the others here, but there's still a kinship. When we've cleared the grounds this fall I'm sure I'll pause at the end of the day beside a newly visible headstone and, like them, turn my face to the east and think about eternity.

Update:

My earlier musings on Memorial Day and rural Missouri cemeteries can be found here.

We're visiting my folks for the holiday, and right now we're about to go out in the country to Red Oak to try and find the cemetery on what was the old Ficke farm and to check on some ancestors. My great-great-grandfather, George Marion West, married Henrietta Ficke in 1878, but she died of complications after giving birth to my great-grandfather in 1881. George would outlive two more wives (the second, Martha Brown, bore him 11 children) and is buried beside Henrietta and Martha at Ficke. I have a picture of him that I'll scan and post in the next day or two.

George died 18 years before I was born, but my grandfather would tell stories about him. One of the things my grandfather often talked about was how his grandfather George could remember being five years old and his father, John, waking him up to say good-bye because he had enlisted in the Union army to fight in the Civil War. Great-great-great-grandfather John West died of pneumonia at Vicksburg, and George never saw his father again.

In his later years, my grandfather (another John West) would write a brief memoir of his grandfather. In thinking back over the hard times and trials that have made this country, it seemed like a good day to share a slice of a long ago life and death.

George Marion West
by John West

Grandpa George was nearing the age of sixty when I was born. From memory he was a large, robust man. Circumstances played a role in my getting to know him in his later years. The last days of his life were spent in our home.

On rare occasions he would engage in conversation about his boyhood life. It was seldom that he discussed events that pertained to himself and never in a boastful manner. He was a congenial "man's man", however children were not drawn to him for reasons that cannot be explained. He never showed anything but kindness toward children. His father left home to enlist in the army when he was about five years old and he never returned. Grandpa George never forgot the experience of his father's leaving their home on the Bourbeuse River to go away to war. He spoke with sadness of the memory even in his last years. He had memories of the war as it affected the home life of the people in the community where he lived. There was conflict between neighbors and frequent raids by Bushwhacker elements resulting in the loss of livestock and anything of value in the homes. There were frequent skirmishes that resulted in loss of life.

In the early years of his life most every family experienced hardships in everyday living. Grandpa George perhaps suffered more than a fair share of such experiences. He grew up fatherless in a period of extreme poverty that was made worse by the long-suffering that was brought on by the war. In his words, he was "kicked from pillar to post," living and working hard wherever food and shelter were available. He worked during all seasons clearing land and planting crops on the Bourbeuse River. His rewards were food and shelter.

In the year 1941 through coincidence I met a gentleman in Owensville, Missouri who grew up from childhood with Grandpa George. The gentleman's name was Homer Michel. Mr. Michel was in his late 80s and very alert. He and Grandpa George were near the same age. They were from the Bourbeuse River communities of Walbert, Strain and Champion City. Mr. Michel described Grandpa George as being a rough and crude young man in his teen years. He was large and robust with extraordinary strength. Typical of the times, many disagreements were settled by fist-fights and Grandpa George always accounted himself well in such fracases. He could be a mean man physically when circumstances warranted it and the "bullies" of the community were content to let him be. At the same time he was respected throughout the community for his kindness and honesty.

In a rare exchange with Grandpa George I recall asking him if he had ever had a fist-fight and, if so, had he ever been whipped. He told me that everyone had fist-fights when he was a lad. He seemed proud to admit that he had been whipped once. The story, as he related it, was that he had got the better end of fights with two grown men in separate fights. He was no more than 18 or 20 years old at the time. The two of them together teamed up on him at night and beat up on him. he did not think they fought fair. They used "lap" rings for knucks and managed to pull his shirt up over his head and one of them held him while the other poured it on. He carried and wore with pride several scars on the back of his head that he used to remind himself that fighting was poor business.

Unusual circumstances prompted Grandpa George to move his family and home from Franklin County to Crawford County. Legend has it (Grandpa George never related the story to me), that a farm trade was made between Grandpa George and a friend wherein the exchange was made on an even-up basis with no money or other consideration involved. The reason behind the exchange was that the friend who owned and occupied the farm in Crawford County was involved in a serious feud with his neighbor on an adjoining farm and the problem had become so acute that lives were in jeopardy. The feuding neighbors were more than just neighbors, they were also brothers and each was a friend of Grandpa George. The exchange of farms solved the problem. Grandpa George was rewarded by acquiring a farm that was considered much more valuable than the one he exchanged for it.

Lengthy conversations were not a habit and were always to the point, using a minimum of words. He appreciated humor in moderation when circumstances were better served by it. He was not an emotional being. Happiness or sorrow were seldom expressed outwardly beyond a stoic acceptance of the situation at hand. He was an orderly individual. His home, farm equipment and farm animals were well cared for. Neatness was a virtue.

In spite of being handicapped due to a lack of formal education, Grandpa George progressed from poverty to prosperity during his active years. His compassion for ungrateful members of his family reduced him to poverty again before his death. His last years were spent in declining health and, against his independent nature, he was forced to depend on others for daily care. During this period of illness he never complained and displayed quiet dignity. He died January 12, 1940 and is buried in the Ficke Cemetary at Walbert, Missouri.

Next: the hidden and unnoticed past.

Our family drove to Missouri for the holiday today. On the highway we overtook a car with a bumper sticker that said:

Men are idiots. And I married their king.

"I bet she's real easy to live with," my wife said. "Not like me. Then again, I'm not married to the King of Idiots."

"Well, no," I said, "but I am 27th in the line of succession."

"Well that's really something," she said, brightly. "I bet some of those guys ahead of you have got to be pretty old, so you could be moving up if they die, say from natural causes."

"Or if their wives throttle them," I said.

"Sounds pretty natural to me," she said.