1357 As summer winds down

The coffee shop is changing its hours--now I have to wait until 7 a.m. So many of the college kids have returned to school that the local business people are filling in with "alumni" who now may be grandmothers themselves. Labor Day week-end is a real hoot--you never know who the wait staff might be.

The programs this past week-end were wonderful. Friday night the symphony offering was "Broadway and the Movies" with Kern, Rodgers, Webber and Williams. Saturday night was Gary Puckett, who I'm guessing must be nearing 60, but still has a fabulous voice. He gave a lovely Christian witness and had a time where he invited veterans to come to the stage to shake their hands.

The weather has turned a bit. Coolish. I purchased regatta t-shirts for both of us, not that I'm much of a sailor, but I watched them being made--3 colors, designs on both the front and back. Really labor intensive when done on the old fashioned silk screen. Mine is long sleeve, and yesterday on my bike ride it felt really good.

I'm working my way through Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow. With all we hear about intrigue and chaos in our 21st century government, I must say, it can't touch the 18th century. I'm amazed this country ever made it through the first 5 years. Gleaned along the way: Hamilton was a man of deep, unalterable principles; hair trigger temper; superhuman stamina who enjoyed beating his enemies at their own game; magnified his personal problems; was quick to perceive threats and issue challenges.

"If Washington was the father of the country and Madison the father of the Constitution, then Alexander Hamilton was surely the father of the American government." (p. 481)

1356 Why don't they listen to [insert name here]?

Greg over at Shush [Aug. 10] has a point that reminds me of the peace activists [even the name is a bit bizarre] who were here at Lakeside last week. Reminds me of the grieving mother who has already personally met with the president but wants one more shot to tell him he's wrong. However, Greg is talking about the American Library Association, a group sort of like the elected representatives from thousands of churches from hundreds of denominations who gather annually to feel important passing resolutions no one will ever read, and no one outside their little "club" supports. He writes:

The complaining on the ALA Council list for the past month has been something to behold. "Why aren't there news releases out on those resolutions!" "Why didn't American Libraries put more information about those resolutions in the magazine!" "Why hasn't George Bush begged our forgiveness for going into Iraq after we passed our resolution!" Well maybe not that last one but you know they dream about it. Anyway, a number of the more vocal liberals are up in arms because they feel the resolutions on disinformation and on Iraq haven't been properly promoted. They've been demanding that ALA staff drop everything they might be doing (probably even vacations) and devote all their time to telling the world that ALA has stuck her foot in her collective mouth once again."

And let us go back to the torture resolution once again. In April of this year the Bill of Rights Defense Committee offered an invitation for ALA to sign on to a letter opposing torture. The immediate response of Councilors? Sure! No mention of who the group was but they're against torture too so let's make common cause! Apparently once a resolution is passed, ALA is then forced to hop on any bandwagon and storm any windmill that may cross the shadow of one of the Council's proclamations.

These resolutions do nothing but drain time and energy away from ALA but they are the bread and butter of Rosenzweig, Kagan, SRRT, et al. These are the things that make them popular when they're sitting around with their various leftist friends from other leftist groups and organizations. All tittering away over bad Bush jokes and bragging how they convinced a national organization to say "F U" to over half the country. Rosenzweig is already on record that sabotage and invective are what make him happy. Are we really supposed to believe he has the organizations best interest at heart? Any of them?

If you're not a librarian, you're scratching your head--especially if your town library branch has been closed, or the hours cut back, or everything on the shelves is 20 years old to pay for the computer system. "What's this to do with libraries?" you wondered. Greg's point exactly. You are now smarter than the folks he has to work with on ALA. It's a good template for your own association or organization or church council TO AVOID.

1355 Resurrection lilies

Before we purchased our Lakeside home in 1988, I'd never noticed the lovely pink resurrection lily, which just surprises you suddenly on an August day by popping up through the soil. I rarely see them in central Ohio, although I'm sure they are there perhaps sneaking through in July when we are up here. We asked our neighbors about these splendid surprises, and they told us their name. Mrs. Thompson, the former owner, was known for her love for and tender care of a variety of blooming plants, ground cover and run-away bushes. We have a magnolia bush that is half the size of the house.

Borrowed from www.greyfort.com photo album
So I was a bit shocked when Susan last week-end and Jean this week-end, our house guests, both called them "naked ladies."

More in the category of "naked lady" was the across-the-street renter this past week. An extremely well-endowed, middle-aged earth mother type, she walked her three dogs each morning. . .in her sheer nightgown. And with no plastic baggies for the follow up.

1354 Gardening tip

You probably thought you'd never see a gardening tip on Ms. Brown Thumb's blog, didn't you? I saw one in the paper this week that reminded me we need to do a little ivy pulling around the porch. The columnist said you can remove those little "footprints" that are left on siding and foundations after you've tugged and struggled with the tenacious ivy. Dab them with linseed oil (boiled or raw), let it soak for 15 minutes, then scrape with a wood scraper or rough cloth.

As far as I know, there is no way to remove your children's footprints from your heart. They will continue stomping around even when almost 40.

1353 Mohammed's message for Cindy

Mohammed at Iraq the Model has a thoughtful message for the grieving Cindy Sheehan, who has let herself become a tool of the anti-war forces and continues to spill her son's blood.

"You are free to go and leave us alone but what am I going to tell your million sisters in Iraq? Should I ask them to leave Iraq too? Should I leave too? And what about the eight millions who walked through bombs to practice their freedom and vote? Should they leave this land too? Is it a cursed land that no one should live in? Why is it that we were chosen to live in all this pain, why me, why my people, why you?

But I am not leaving this land because the bad guys are not going to leave us or you to live in peace. They are the same ones who flew the planes to kill your people in New York. I ask you in the name of God or whatever you believe in; do not waste your son's blood. We here have decided to avenge humanity, you and all the women who lost their loved ones." Read "A message to Cindy Sheehan" here.

1352 Langston Hughes' Brass Spittoons

The assignment in writing class was to write a poem about some type of job we'd had in the past, and the teacher provided Langston Hughes "Brass Spittoons" as a sample and we spent some time discussing what he might have meant. Tricky stuff, deciphering what a poet might intend. Although there's little doubt that cleaning a spittoon wouldn't be much fun.

So I used Hughes' poem as a template for mine, following his style, to write about corn detasselling, the adolescent right of passage in the midwest. [I don't know enough html code to get this to space correctly--if anyone can suggest an indent that isn't a blockquote, let me know.]



Working for DeKalb Seed



Pull the tassels, girl.

Polo
Dixon
Stratford
Woosung

Pull those pollen tassels.
Mud between the rows
in between your toes.
Bugs on the stalks.

Mud in the boots
dirt in your gloves
Sunburned eye lids.
Dew on the leaves
Soaking your sleeves.
Forget where you are, girl.

Two weeks in hot July, girl.

Fifty cents
One dollar
Two dollar
Save it all

Buy shoes for the horse,
a dress of course
For a Saturday date.

Tug those tassels, girls

sisters
friends
sack lunches
dropped at the farm by moms.

Faster, faster arms aching
Get a rhythm, back be breaking
Water at the end of the row.

At night in your sleep, girl,

row on row
on cutting row
on green row
on glistening row

All night till dawn
Pull the tassel,
Hey, girl.

1351 You can't be too careful in a small town

In writing class the assignment was "Choose a well-known person from public life whose actions betrayed the trust or adulation he or she had earned from the public. Write an editorial, poem or song lyrics about the actions of this person."

So I chose to write about finding an old book of poetry at last Sunday's used book sale, written about 35 years ago by a man who was the pastor of a large suburban church and a rising star in Christendom. I poured out my disgust recounting how I flipped through it reading the dedication to his wife (to whom he was unfaithful), the acknowledgement of his congregation's support (which he abandoned), and doing the math in my head to try to figure out where he might be today. I used no names--not his, or the church or the city.

As our little group critiqued my essay, the story of infidelity mixed in with colophons and dedications must have sounded vaguely familiar--beyond the usual country and western ballad "you done me wrong" motif. One woman asked his name, and I told her. She said she knew his father from another state. Another woman in the class from the east coast said, I work with his daughter.

There are just no secrets in Lakeside!

This is not us, but the room looks familiar

1350 Free to a good home

While biking to writing class yesterday, I stopped at a cottage with a card table in the drive-way on which were stacked books and games. The sign said, "Free--please leave the table."

Smart lady! When I was Head of the Veterinary Library at Ohio State we occasionally gave away journals we didn't plan to bind. From my office I took a small oak table from an earlier generation of library furniture (I had an eclectic decor that spanned 50 years) and put it in the hall outside the library's doors. Then I piled it high with wonderful race horse journals that were at least 5 years old, and not in our binding quota. I made a sign, "Free to a good home" which seemed appropriate for our specialty. When I opened the library the next morning I was shocked to see all the journals on the floor and the table was gone!

I was a member of all the college listservs, so I immediately sent out an e-mail message pleading for my table and explaining my error. It was returned the next night with no comment.

1349 What's Becker sniffing?

Why shouldn't CNOOC (i.e., The Chinese government) just own all our oil, Mr. Becker? Why stop with just UNOCAL? Why shouldn't the Peoples Liberation Army be embedded right off shore in our gulf and Alaska. Noooo problem. Geeesh. Sometimes I can't believe the stupidity of the "experts."

1348 What is your favorite food to grill?

A web site I stumbled into asked me that very personal question. Tomorrow when our son and my husband's sister and husband are here, I plan to grill bratwurst, but it will be done on the kitchen stove in my big black cast iron skillet. The dirty little secret is that it is cleaner, faster and healthier to use the stove and carry it to the deck after assembling everything at the kitchen table. If Pete and Peg are reading this, the lovely grill you gave us is next door at the neighbors where we can use it any time we wish, but so far, the demand has never come up. Tonight I'm grilling salmon--same method.

1347 Bryant Gumbel and Kelly Ripa

Kelly has had guest co-hosts this week because Regis is. . .on vacation, I guess. Never have I seen a more mismatched pair than Giant Bumbel and Kelly Ripa. There was absolutely zero chemistry, he isn't funny, he is snide, and he stepped on her lines. I don't think this man likes anyone, especially someone better looking than he.

Miss Flora

On July 26 my first grade teacher died. Born in 1906, she was 40-something the day we walked home from school together on a crisp fall day, me feeling quite important to be in her presence, pacing myself to keep up with her brisk steps. My family had moved to Forreston in the middle of my first grade year, and our second home in that town was across the street from her home where she lived with her parents. Mercifully, I have forgotten her exact words when I asked the prim, diminuative spinster in high heels and a suit how old she was, but do recall to this day her reply was sharp enough to teach me it was rude to ask a lady that question.

First grade in her classroom was traumatic for me. My Mt. Morris teacher, whom I loved, had already told me that I should expect changes--"they say 'thuh' instead of 'thee'" she quietly told me, referring to one of the few words I could read, "but there is a wonderful playhouse in Miss Flora's classroom." But that wasn't all, I painfully discovered. The Forreston first graders knew how to read sentences and spell, and I didn't. The first time Miss Flora began calling out words and my classmates put pencil to paper to write them down, I just stood up to look at someone else's paper to see what I should do. The entire class gasped and pointed and she flew across the room like a tiny bird to stop my cheating. One day Miss Flora kept me after school for 45 minutes staring at the blackboard until I could figure out what the word "paragraph" meant.

A dishtowel from the cute playhouse was once tied around my face when I talked out loud, and another time she jerked my braids hard from behind because my head was too close to the paper when I printed. Mainstreaming as an educational concept was not known then--we all just went to school together. Children who couldn't read or write were either ignored in the back of the room or ridiculed. She made life miserable for one little boy whom I still remember. He dropped out of school in second grade.

One day last week my brother called me from Florida to say he'd seen her obituary in the hometown newspaper. I'd forgotten that he too had been in her first grade. "What I remember about her," he said, "is that when we were quarantined (one of my sisters had polio in the fall of 1949) and couldn't go trick or treating at Halloween, she brought candy to our house."

Generations of children really did get a solid foundation from her, I know that intellectually when I look back and realize all the basics I learned in her class. Still, I was pleased to hear that little snippet of her kindness to a suffering and frightened family. My own memories needed a little balancing.

1345 When is stealing not theft?

When a library publication prints the story. Conservator compares the theft of classified documents with the theft of maps, as reported in Library Journal and American Libraries.

"The headline for last Tuesday's article refers straightforwardly to an "accused Yale thief." The article's lead paragraph states equally straightforwardly that Mr. E. Forbes Smiley III is "charged with stealing rare maps," etc.

Needless to say, the initial notice in American Libraries on Berger's unauthorized removal of documents from the National Archives contains no version of the words "theft" or "steal." "

In checking the American Libraries website, I noted this resolution on disinformation. It's a hoot, considering their own carefully worded obfuscation and manipulation of information to say nothing of playing in the puddles instead of checking the ocean.

1344 Erma Bombeck and Peter Jennings

The Jennings eulogies have not mentioned his connection to Erma Bombeck. It was her appearances on Good Morning America in the 1980s that got us switched from CBS to ABC. Not that Jennings was on the morning show, but we'd turn off the TV after her monologue and when we turned on the TV in the evening after work, there he was. Walter was gone by then, we weren't crazy about Dan, so Peter seemed a fresh face--handsome and articulate--appearing everywhere in the world when exciting events happened.

CNN grabbed us briefly in the first Iraq war, then it was back to ABC and Peter. Fox News was a late comer to our local cable carrier, so I didn't pay much attention to it until maybe 2002 or 2003. I gave up on Mr. Jennings during the beginning of the current war. As professional as he was, he just couldn't hide his distain and dislike for President Bush. It colored everything he said, from word choice to the slight sneer. If he ever let a positive phrase pass his lips, I'm guessing he was quoting someone else, something all the MSM do to appear "balanced." I also didn't like that he was so critical of US policy, but hadn't become a citizen after two decades on the payroll (he corrected that shortly before the cancer appeared).

However, his eulogies brought out many things I didn't know--like he hadn't finished high school but attained the heights of popularity and income and continued on a never ending search for information and comprehending complex topics. He loved interacting with children and appreciated jazz. I didn't know that and feel better about him now. I know he will be missed by his many fans.

He is survived by his fourth wife, Kayce Freed, and his two adult children with third wife Kate Morton.

1343 Photos of Lakeside

Eric was one of my "blogging" students two weeks ago, and when he got home he posted some photos of his vacation here. Stop by and say Hello and introduce yourself.

1342 Sailing the front porch

My husband took sailing lessons last week in the mornings, but because he was teaching art in the afternoons, he didn't have any time to practice. He's found a neighbor to go out with him this afternoon (brave man--the water is terribly calm). So he's practicing on the front porch.

Here's the set up as I step around the corner to watch. The rope is tied to the kitty condo and held by his left hand. He has two 12" high folding stools representing the sides of the sunfish sail boat. The rocker is close by supporting the tennis racket which he is using in his right hand as the "tiller." On the floor is the instruction book with 200 diagrams and illustrations, open to the skill on which he's working.

I don't know what he looks like on the water, but he's darn good navigating the front porch.

1341 Reading the sports page

Yesterday in writing class, Naomi who teaches creative writing to children, mentioned an odd factoid about newspapers--the reading level of the sports page is higher than the front page or op ed! "It's the similes and metaphors," she said. "They require a higher level of comprehension." Could it be? So this morning at the coffee shop I glanced at the sports page of the USAToday, just for fun.

Here's a statement from the Money page:

"Sprint and Nextel have a game plan for the future, and it's not what you might think. The play book goes like this. . ." Couple of sports idioms--financial pages do a lot of that. Almost exclusively written by men who think their audience is male.

Now here's the sports page:

"Pittsnogle went from reserve center to cult hero to verb in the space of a few weeks. Physically, he's 6-11. Metaphorically, he stands much taller." This article uses these colorful and alliterative phrases: "a wisker short"; "unlikely underdog"; put him on a pedestal"; "play in the paint"; "quick-draw jumper." Full Pittsnogle story here.

Not only was the sports writing better paced with more difficult vocabulary and idioms, but it actually used the words VERB and METAPHORICALLY. I would have written more, but someone joined me at the table, so it was time to chat.

Made a believer out of me.

1340 Writing at Lakeside

Writing class this week is taught by Patricia Mote of Berea, Ohio. Not only is she an experienced teacher and author, but she is also a publisher and editor. And she comes to class prepared! I love that! So she brings a wealth of talent to the class. She's doing a beginners group in the morning and advanced in the late afternoon. Her next project is a book about the restored theater district in Cleveland which she tells me has the second largest number of theater seats in the country next only to New York.

I biked home at 5:15, ate a little supper and then returned to the Rhein Center (no AC and getting hotter as the day progressed) for watercolor class. Remember the chanters I wrote about a few entries back? Chant for peace with 7-11 songs (7 words sung 11 times)? Well, they were the only other group in the building. I thought I'd go crazy. Not a word about the One who can really bring peace.

1339 The Big E

This week at Lakeside, Dr. Eugene Swanger is the Big E. Yesterday it was standing room only in his lecture about China and Taiwan. As the room filled up Pastor Barbara had to direct some people to the lobby of the hotel to meet the fire code. It being Peace Week, one sweet 70- something lady in front of me said, 'Someone can have my chair, I can sit on the floor.' Then a negotiator type guy standing against the wall began interrupting Barbara's introduction of Dr. Swanger by suggesting, peaceably of course, how we could all adjourn to another room (already being used for something else) while wasting 15 minutes of the limited time. Pastor Barbara graciously declined his offer and continued. Love that woman. Great smile.

But usually, the Big E is Mike Albert, the Elvis impersonater. He draws a huge crowd and fills Hoover Auditorium. He puts on an outstanding show varying it from year to year, and has his own fan club.

I talked to him this morning on the phone. Yes, the Big E was in my son's shop to get his trailer fixed. My son asked him what he did and he just said he had a rock and roll band, because without his wig and bling bling, he really doesn't look like Elvis. When he found out who he REALLY was, my son called me and put the Big E on the phone, so we chatted about Lakeside. Really nice guy, too.

1338 Did you spend the night at Grandma's house?

Parenting is the title of a column in the Plain Dealer written by Dr. Sylvia Rimm. This morning's question was from a mother of 3 whose own parents who live close don't invite her children to have "overnights," but her husband's parents who live some distance welcome the opportunity. I only skimmed it since I was already writing this blog in my head, so I don't recall Dr. Rimm's solution.

Did you? I didn't. Well, once I think. It must have been for a very good reason, and because it was so rare, I remember that time with great fondness. My paternal grandmother was blind, but she knew all about kids--she'd raised 9 on a farm with no plumbing or electricity. My dad, understandably, believed she'd paid her dues in the mothering department, and didn't want her watching kids for anyone, not even my mother. His siblings just ignored his example, and so my cousins had all the fun plus grandma's good company and the influence of her sweet nature.

My husband and his siblings and cousin spent every week-end with his "Neno and Biggie." Those days and their fine Christian values and modeling really live on in his memory to this day. While his parents slept in on Sunday morning after a night of partying, the kids were in Sunday School at Memorial Presbyterian. The grandparents were actually raising his cousin, so I suspect the other children were welcomed playmates for her. He also spent his summers with his father's family at a cottage at Lake Webster, Indiana. His parents were divorced, so this was a way to be a part of his father's family. God bless all the aunties and grandmas who fill in the missing chinks in a child's life!

My own cildren never spent overnights with my parents, although all their cousins did (I think it was rare). I did ask once, was turned down, and never asked again. We lived two states away, so obviously a week-end jaunt wouldn't have been convenient. Once when the children were in pre-school we did take a week's vacation and left them with my sister-in-law who had a day care center. They thought they'd died and gone to heaven, and hoped all the other kids were new "cousins." When they were in middle school we flew them to California to spend a week with my father-in-law and his wife. They still talk about that visit (grandpa cooked bacon in the microwave!) and remember it fondly.

I didn't read Dr. Simm's reply, but because the writer refers to her parents' home as "museum like" I think I can detect the problem. Either Mommy has no rules at all and wants no one, especially Mom, to discipline the little sweety pies, or she has a list of rules to follow that runs to eleven type written pages, about bedtime, favorite foods, allergies, bath temperature, laundry soap, type of reading material, etc. Someone doesn't measure up in these kinds of situations.