tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53079753018718077762024-02-06T20:40:36.066-08:00Beyond EntropyAlisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-19529585820485610142018-07-16T16:38:00.000-07:002018-07-16T16:38:37.903-07:00Froby: The Great Dane Who Thought He Was A Deer<br />
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Froby: the Great Dane Who Thought He Was A Deer: </div>
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Part 1. How It All Began</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I confess I’ve been
totally smitten</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">By a canine vast, not
by a kitten.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He was found at the
pound</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But he’s bound to come
round</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To our house, when the
papers are written.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I penned this little ditty on July 19, 2011. We had just
found the successor to Enkidu, our sensational Portuguese water dog, and were
waiting for the animal shelter to deem us worthy of adopting one of their own.
It had taken us quite a while to find a dog not thin enough to get between the
uprights of our fence, not agile enough to jump over it, and not clever enough
to dig his way to freedom under it. I was looking at the animal shelter's
website when my eye was caught by a family of Great Danes: a female and her
three, seven-month-old puppies. We hied ourselves to the shelter and asked to see
the male.</div>
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Kobe was named after Kobe Bryant, the basketball player of Extreme
Height and Even More Extreme Notoriety for Sexual Misconduct. “I’m not naming
our dog after a rapist,” protested Eldest Son Iain, and who was I to argue? We
changed his name to Froby after the notorious Sir Martin Frobisher, the man who
single-handedly put the “fool” into “fool’s gold”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(But that’s a story for another day.) Kobe
was duly brought out on a leash and handed to Robin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a sorry sight! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked for all the world like an English-style
toast rack covered with a harsh, staring coat of black, gray and a rather
grubby white. He could have been an illustration from a textbook: ”The Skeletal
Structure of a Dog”, for every bone in his body was painfully visible. Great
Danes are inveterate leaners, and true to form, Frobe leaned heavily against
Robin, while fixing us both with his expressive, golden eyes. "Take
me," he implored. “I'll do anything you want if you’ll just take me out of
this ghastly dump. All I need is a little TLC, honest! You’ll see, I’ll love
you forever, I promise!" </div>
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<br /></div>
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The staff looked us over critically. I was entering the 10th
year of my adventure with Parkinson's, and my mobility was sorely
compromised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were obviously wondering
how I would cope. I thought about long walks, even runs, such a colossal dog
would surely require and wondered too. Was I taking on too much— more than I could
handle? Was it fair on the dog? What about my husband—was it fair on him? On
the cats? My ruminations were cut short when the staff raised the subject of
Wobblers Syndrome. They were pretty sure that our chosen one was developing this
malformation of the spine that would lead to partial, then total paralysis of
his back legs; that we were probably facing a short life for him, and not a
very healthy one at that. They were not at all sanguine about the prospects of
finding a better qualified, willing adopter, however, and so it was agreed. Kobe,
now Frobe, would come to live with us, and we would all muddle through as best
we could.</div>
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Froby was willing, even eager, to get into the car. So far,
so good; maybe there was less to taming semi-wild dogs than I’d feared. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call me Dog Whisperer . . . Home again, I
leaned <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>down almost imperceptibly to
reach the leash looped around his neck, with a view to affixing it to his
animal shelter-issue collar, I was blown away by the sudden eruption of raw
canine power that pulsed through his meager frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about strong—the leash was ripped from
my hands, and our brand new family member disappeared into the tangled,
overgrown corner of the yard that none of us had yet ventured into.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We went to bed that night with three questions uppermost in
our minds: 1) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is the yard Great
Dane-proof; </i>2) Assuming it is and we still have a dog, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How in the world will we begin to make his acquaintance,</i> and 3)<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> What will the good folk at the shelter say
when we confess that we lost him already, less than one hour after they gave
him into our care?</i> </div>
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<br /></div>
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With these concerns buzzing in my brain, sleep was, to put
it mildly, fractured. I had an inkling that I’d need to be well rested come the
morrow, so I practiced relaxing exercises and waited, with some apprehension,
to discover what the morning would reveal. </div>
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</style><br />Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-58770599042356256552018-06-07T11:06:00.000-07:002018-06-09T20:50:00.448-07:00Whatever's the Matter with Percy?<br />
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Percy has been going through a rather difficult phase lately
– staying out all night, snarling at her best pal Froby, refusing to come when
called . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. I'm not sure whether it's
teenage angst or a midlife crisis. Yes, I am aware that it's generally an easy question
to discern– age of onset gives the clue - but that's for humans, not dogs.
What does middle age look like in dog years? In Great Dane years? In Great Dane
with Wobbler’s Syndrome years? There is an unfortunate correlation between the
size of a dog and its expected longevity: the smaller the dog, the longer it
lives. Thus the demise of our faithful, 130-lb Newfie, Phoenix, from lymph node
cancer at the tender age of 8; of our glorious, medium-size Portuguese water
dog, Enkidu, of an enlarged heart at only 12. Meanwhile the tiniest Yorkies and
Chihuahuas yap their way through as many as twenty-plus years. But I digress.
Back to Percy . . . </div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all started with
the kitchen door. Now, bear in mind she had used this door multiple times a day
for as long as she’s been with us, about six years. Considering the number of
times she asks to go out every day purely in order to bark a request for
re-entry, I estimate her “kitchen door events” at approx. eleven thousand and
fifty-seven . Despite this, I say, she simply refused the kitchen door, going
instead to the dining room’s French doors where she sat on a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>small rug conveniently placed, and waited <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>expectantly for me to open it. </div>
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Many years of living with Froby’s sporadic, prolific and
entirely unpredictable incontinence meant that I took her urgent request to go
outside seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>l hurtled over - “hurtling”
being for me a relative term these days, implying not so much speed of movement
as "with a mounting fear of the ghastly repercussions should I not get
there<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in time". I decided to engage in
warfare with her: she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> return to
using the kitchen door!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the dog training experts
tell you never to begin a battle unless you know you can win it; I chose to
ignore them all, and next morning, unleashed my opening salvo.</div>
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“Other door”, I commanded when she went to the dining room
door. “Go to the Other Door.” Percy smiled at me, wagged her tail, and budged
not an inch. I tried again, my words a little slower and louder (rather in the
manner of a tourist in foreign lands convinced that the natives will understand
proper English if only it is spoken loudly and slowly enough: “OTHER DOOR!!” Her
smile morphed into a grin, Robin proffered his help, to no avail. My fundamental
error of logic struck me full force: true, I had her breakfast held hostage,
but she had a weapon infinitely more <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>menacing – after a full nine hours in the
house, her bladder was FULL (and who knows what else besides?)</div>
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<br /></div>
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As they say at Wimbledon, Game, Set and Match! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hastily I told her, “You can go out of any
door you like, just as long as you Go Outside NOW! “</div>
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And. She. Went! </div>
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She has returned to her old, sweet, goofy self. True, she
still insists on only using the dining-room door, but I have perceived a method
to her madness: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the red tiles of the
dining room are smaller and less smooth than the pale ones in the kitchen. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And thus less slippery!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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So what appeared to me to be nothing more than arbitrary
caprice on her part turns out to be nothing less than the far more laudable Instinct
for Self Preservation: she knows that, with her Wobbler’s Syndrome worsening, walking
into the kitchen has become a Very Bad Idea indeed. Her legs slide out from
under her and her poor, bony elbows, ribs and knees hit the hard tile floor
with a bang that makes my teeth curl. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Forgive me, Percy, for doubting the moral integrity of your
actions.</div>
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Wow, but it’s hard to second-guess the mind of a Dane!</div>
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</style>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-89722052562231838882018-01-01T18:14:00.000-08:002018-01-01T18:14:05.353-08:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">THOMAS: the Perfect Fire, Part 2.</i></b></div>
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I cannot recommend trying to sleep in a car, even next to such
an enchantingly picturesque beach as Carpinteria. This is especially true if you
have a cat yowling at full volume in the back seat. I wondered dimly if a towel
draped over the carrier would shut him up, as it does a parrot, but was far too
cold and stiff to go to all the trouble of finding out.</div>
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Our first day as refugees from the fire: actually, I suppose
"evacuees" is more accurate than “refugees", which I think
implies something political. Nuances of vocabulary aside, once a brief glance
at the fire map had dispelled all hope of returning home in the foreseeable
future, we needed two things in fairly short order: breakfast, and a bathroom. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(How I felt for families wjth babies or small
children to care for!) The first café we tried could not serve us breakfast
because power outages had played havoc with their computers, which were down
for who knew how long. I briefly considered volunteering to scramble any number
of eggs with no help from a computer whatsoever, but thought better of it.
Which is quite possibly why I’m still alive today.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We were relieved to find a Motel 6 with a vacancy, and planned
to spend the next night there. But ever-vigilant fire watcher Lorna had other
ideas: parts of US 101 had been closed, or were in danger of being closed;
Thomas was roaring north and would soon be threatening Carpinteria. She
strongly advised that we move up the coast to Goleta, just north of Santa
Barbara, and adjacent to the airport.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ah yes, the airport. For, in an act of cosmic serendipity,
we were booked to fly up to Seattle from Santa Barbara that very Thursday,
returning on Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed downright
cavalier to leave our pet sitter in charge of a house that might burst into
flames any moment, but she insisted she was up to the challenge. Knowing how
much the dogs loved and trusted her, also that there was still absolutely
nothing either Robin or I could do apart from look anguished and wring our
hands - and I’m none too sure how to do even that. (Note To Self: watch more
Victorian melodramas), we reasoned that, once evacuated, we might as well be in
Seattle as in a motel.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Meanwhile, we looked into having the Humane Society go and
rescue the dogs, as they were picking up large animals (horses, zebras,
giraffes etc.) in the evacuation zone: they refused, unimpressed by my argument
that both Great Danes were easily the size of a small horse. I'll swear I
shrank a good three inches under the withering glare of the H.S. rep when I
admitted that yes, we no longer owned a vehicle big enough to transport both
dogs. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My special relationship with my clothes was getting pretty
intense by now, and we were both longing for a shower; thus we disobeyed
Lorna's explicit orders and drove home. That was probably the most
extraordinary drive of my life. The air, as we crossed the Ventura County line,
became putrid with smoke. Where it was thinner we saw evidence of the firefighters’
extraordinary work: over and over again, fire blackened hillsides reached right
down to houses that stood unharmed at their base. But tragically, some still
smoking piles of rubble amid charred trees marked the spot where a family’s
life-as-they-knew-it was terminated, an enforced fresh start imposed</div>
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Hopes of a shower were thwarted yet again: Lorna told us
that all four exit roads had been closed an hour or two previously, sealing off
the flaming Ojai Valley from the outside world. One exit was now open, and we
should take it while we could. Pausing only to grab a few clothes for our
Seattle trip, and to reassure the dogs of our fundamental,
all-appearances-to-the-contrary-notwithstanding dependability, </div>
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we bade our home <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">au
revoir, </i>hoping it would not prove to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">adieu.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I can prevaricate no longer: I must tell you about Tuesday
and Wednesday nights. But first, a slightly more intensive geography lesson:
the Ojai Valley sits roughly 750 feet above sea level and is approximately 3
miles wide and 10 miles long. To the north are mountains ranging from four or
five thousand feet to the imposing Topa Topas, visible to the north-east from
our dining room window, at close to 7 thousand. Mountains to the south, which
our kitchen looks out on, are not to be sneezed at, checking in at around 3
thousand.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Only one road, the 150, traverses the valley, providing the
sole exit to the east; to the west it is briefly joined by the 33, which offers
a straight run to Ventura in one direction, a “gee, it sure looked shorter on
the map” mass of sudden inclines and hairpin bends leading – eventually – to
Maricopa in the other. Firefighters were making a desperate effort to redirect
the fire to bypass Ojai to the south. That is to say, within a few hundred
yards of our house. This critical time was to occur on Tuesday night; danger was
directly proportional to wind speed.</div>
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Tuesday evening's weather forecast was far from reassuring;
in fact, it was downright terrifying. The Chief Weather Guru waved his arms at
a map featuring a massive, immobile high pressure area centered on us which, he
stated bluntly, meant inevitable winds of at least thirty mph blowing the fire
from the mountaintops, down the valley, straight at our little town. Losing our
home looked like a certainty. “It’s only stuff” was the mantra I had heard
repeated. True, true, but we are at heart a sacramental people, imbuing our
“stuff” with all the power of the memories that it invokes. </div>
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We went to bed dreading what the morrow would bring – and
yet when we awoke, the weatherman had been dumbfounded, the “inevitable” winds
had failed to materialize. Ojai was saved! The fire chief himself called it
“miraculous”. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
To cut a very long story short, we had an almost exact
replay on Wednesday, with the exception that the fire, driven by winds of 3-4
mph (not 30-40, thank you CWG) and strongly encouraged by legions of fire
fighters, skirted Ojai to the north, threatening our good friends’ homes, but
ultimately leaving most of Ojai standing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postlude:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></b>January 1,
2018</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there the story of the fire – or at least, our involvement
with it - comes to an end. Still no rain, but the winds finally show
signs of abating, giving firefighters a chance to contain the active edges of the
fire. But back in early December, Thomas was till 100% unchecked. We flew out of Santa Barbara the next day, Thursday, on a packed plane, returning
on a half empty one four days later (funny thing – nobody wanted to be in Santa Barbara anymore). Our car was covered in ash, which blew
off as we drove. Breathing masks were essential, both indoors and out; the air in
town looked like diluted porridge, and was chokingly hard to breathe (shades of
Beijing). Everywhere we went, we were acutely reminded of our good fortune: so
many people were homeless, or had lost their livelihood – a car mechanic’s
garage with all his tools, a potter’s barn, burned to the ground; a craft shop
aimed at the tourists who ordinarily flock to Ojai, closed for lack of
customers. Restaurants with a freezer full of spoiled food and no patrons. It
has been inspiring - and truly humbling – to see how the community has rallied to
help those affected by the fire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Incidentally, the entire firefighting system was incredibly
impressive – they fought with brains, not just water and fire retardant. Foreseeing
a problem, they moved to extinguish it like a panther closing in on its prey. Would
that our government acted with such grace and economy of movement! The police
too were phenomenal, maintaining order and preventing looting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It could have been so much worse, but Thomas still stands
unchallenged as the biggest and most destructive wildfire in the history of
California.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-56193699872432141072017-12-15T19:07:00.000-08:002017-12-23T15:10:52.189-08:00The Story of a Fire: SoCal, Dec 4 - ?? '17<style>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">THOMAS:</span><b><span style="font-size: small;"> the Perfect Fire</span></b><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a strange feeling that Monday as I picked out my
clothes for the day: a suspicion that I would feel rather differently about
these clothes when I took them off; that I was entering into some kind of a
special relationship with them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That evening, around 9 o'clock, a friend texted me: "Have
you heard about the fire?" No, indeed I had not. I pushed aside a gnawing
sense of unease – Santa Paula was 15 miles away, surely a comfortable distance -
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and called Robin who was still at work,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>blissfully ignorant of the fire. He told me
he would come home directly. By now my sense of dread was had grown to unbridled
fear; I wished Robin would hurry up<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>come home. Surely once he was home,
everything would go back to normal! But news grew still more dire: much of Santa
Paula was under mandatory evacuation orders, while Ventura<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- well, it was hard to know what exactly was
going on in Ventura. We heard rumors – a brand new apartment building<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>burned to the ground; bone dry vegetation
erupting in flames at the touch of a single spark. dozens of homes in flames,
the fire, 100% uncontained, spreading like . . . , well, like wildfire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helpless to do anything to help apart from pray and stay out
of the firemen’s way, Robin and I sat on our patio praying the rosary, and
watched the orange glow move along the mountain peaks at an alarming rate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to bed with my clothes on, (see
“special relationship” above), just in case we needed to evacuate, while Robin made
himself fairly comfortable on the sofa in the living room, setting his alarm to
wake him every hour to check on the flames’ progress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He never got the chance: at 2 AM the sheriff knocked at the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Evacuation in your area is not
mandatory, but if I were you I would get out now, and I wouldn’t stop to think too
hard about what to take with me.” That was enough for us!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stumbled about, trying to think of things I
would need and, for the most part, failing miserably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own personal Eeyore was silent, replaced
by a sort of desperate positivity: "We'll just have to spend one night
out, and then it will be all clear and we can go home.. So I don’t really need
to worry about clothes, do I? " Meanwhile, Robin grabbed the yearbooks
that were the record of our homeschooling years, and which, I am happy to say,
came quite willingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not so Pyga the kitty cat, a hissing, spitting ball of fury who,
lacking any clue as to Robin’s good intentions in cramming him into his cat
carrier, let out a shout of protest on every outbreath. I know, I know, cats
don’t “shout”, they “meow”. Not Pyga. He shouted. It was the most unearthly
racket – I later tried to imitate it, but try as I might, could not attain the
decibel level Pyga achieved so effortlessly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least, I assume it was effortless – he was
able to keep it up for hours on end, with no appreciable wear to his vocal
cords.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another indefatigable family member was our daughter Lorna.
From her apartment in Seattle, she kept us informed of damage thus far, of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the fire’s progress, and road closures. Thank
God for a computer literate daughter! It was eerie, driving through the night in
pitch darkness with only Lorna’s voice for company. And Pyga. Mustn’t forget
Pyga . . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ojai Valley is ringed with mountains, and there are only
four roads going in, much the same number coming out. (Thank you<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, Fiddler on the Roof</i>). Hwy 33, the main road,
was closed, so we took our chances with Hwy 150, the grossly contorted hypotenuse
of the triangle formed by Ojai, Ventura and Carpinteria, bordered by Hwys 33,
150, and US Interstate 101.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
News relayed by Lorna was increasingly grim: the fire
(nicknamed "Thomas") was spreading at the rate of one acre per second
(you read that right - one acre <i>per second</i>), fanned by winds of 60 mph, gusting up to 80. Hundreds of
homes in Ventura were in flames, the firemen too occupied with their efforts to
prevent Thomas from spreading to deal with houses that were already ablaze - a
sort of real estate triage, in effect.. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We reached Carpinteria, pulling to a halt <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by the sea, not far from where Eldest Son Iain
had camped with his family last summer, under somewhat rosier circumstances. I
didn’t know what the morrow would bring,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>but one thing was clear: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thomas looked as if he was planning to stick around for
quite a while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;">To Be Continued</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. </span>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-56245178886765772732017-09-19T22:31:00.000-07:002017-09-19T22:31:08.350-07:00"I can't believe I've lived all these years without knowing this word". . .
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Today's
"I can't believe I've lived all these years without knowing this word"
(courtesy, as ever, of Anu Garg’s magnificent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A.Word.A.Day</i>) is . . . wait for it . . . 'tenesmus'.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">It is a
noun, and it means, "A distressing but ineffectual urge to defecate or
urinate."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">There - see
what I mean? Only think about where and when you might have used this truly remarkable word, and I fully expect you will find possibilities stretching in an unbroken line to the horizon and beyond. (Kindly do not ask me how I know what lies beyond the horizon: let's just say, I have my sources.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And so I exhort you - make up
for lost time, for all those squandered opportunities when you could have used
'tenesmus' and didn't (admittedly for good reason, since up till now you had never heard of the word), and beginning today, simply insert 'tenesmus' into your
everyday conversations! Your friends and family will be gobsmacked, as will any
potential job interviewer with an ear for unorthodox vocabulary. (You may want
to consider carefully the tension </span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">implicit in</span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> the phrase, “distressing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but</i> ineffectual”; does this really imply, as indeed it seems to, that something distressing will, in the normal run of things, be effective?) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, if indeed you find yourself in a job interview and the subject of tenesmus is raised, consider carefully whether you ought not look for a different job.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now it’s time for our Exciting Contest: just use
“tenesmus” in a sentence of any length, preferably in English, using words containing not more than 15 syllables, and add it to
the Comments section. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ll be glad you did - </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so will I! </div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-3116337845637288502017-05-03T13:54:00.001-07:002017-05-03T13:54:25.769-07:00In Which I Consider The Possibility That I Have Gone Completely, Stark Raving Bonkers.<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Yesterday I opened an email
from my friend “Cicely” (names changed to avoid embarrassing innocent victims),
and noticed with some surprise that, while it was dated May 1, the previous
email was from February 2. Had I really not communicated with Cicely in those
three months? Of course I had – but here was proof positive that I had not. How
could this be? What did it signify?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Feeling just a wee bit
queasy, I opened the email: it told me that she and her husband “Cuthbert” were
going to San Juan on Thursday, returning on Friday, to check on the new
renters. Now, bear in mind that this was first thing in the morning and my
brain was still more than a little groggy from sleep and
caffeine-insufficiency, also that for quite some time now my mind has (quite of
its own volition) been taking mini-vacations in the Pacific Northwest where we
lived for twenty-four years and all six of our children were born, and you will
understand what happened next: <i>I thought
she meant the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington and British
Columbia!</i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Beyond gobsmacked, that I was!
How could it be that in all the years I had known her, Cicely had never once
let slip that she and Cuthbert own a rental property on the San Juans?
Moreover, they were flying up to Washington on Thursday and back on Friday.
Highly uncharacteristic – there was definitely something fishy going on. Add to
this the missing three months of emails, and you will get some idea of my
complete bewilderment and confusion.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>So this is what it's like, I
thought. This is the beginning of the end, of the utter mental chaos and
inability to manage one's environment that gives dementia such a bad name.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Maybe, I thought, I am
misremembering the islands’ name: maybe the San Juans are actually the
California islands – could that be it? Hastily, I Googled San Juan Islands.
Sure enough, there they were just as I remembered them, firmly plunked in the
Puget Sound. Not only that, but Oh Glory! As my eyes traveled down the list of
San Juans, they came to a screeching halt at <i>San Juan Capistrano</i>. Aha! Capistrano I know about: our family spent
three months there living in a house right on the beach, while my husband was
running an anti-euthanasia campaign back in ’92. San Juan Capistrano was where
I bathed our then youngest in the kitchen sink and practically wiped out my
right knee on a rock, body-surfing.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>San Juan Capistrano is also
where Cicely’s mother’s house is: a house that has been rented out for some
years, ever since Cicely’s mom moved on to a place where she has no need of an
earthly dwelling.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Even the three months of
missing emails had a benign explanation: Cicely had been clearing out February’s
emails, found “If you loved ‘LaLaLand’ you’ll love . . . “, and forwarded it to
me to see if any of their movie suggestions appealed.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>Ta-da – vindicated! Guess who
isn't crazy after all – but when I looked up LaLa Land in the dictionary and
learned that it is “</span><span>a euphoric dreamlike
mental state detached from the harsher realities of life”, I think I may just
pay it a visit. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span>I’ve had about all I can take of the “harsher
realities of life” for the time being.</span><span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-31256575857161908462017-03-08T14:59:00.000-08:002017-03-08T14:59:35.769-08:00WALTZING MATILDA - SHOCK HORROR REVELATION!!!!!!!
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WALTZING MATILDA – SHOCK HORROR REVELATION!!!!!!!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a thunderbolt out of the blue it struck me: Waltzing
Matilda, which is practically Australia’s national anthem, is in duple time.
That's right, two beats per bar! All my life, I have unquestioningly believed
that it is in triple meter – after all, that's what a waltz is, isn't it? ONE –
two – three, ONE – two – three . . . and now I put on my critical listening
ears, I find it is actually a march: ONE – two, ONE - two, LEFT- right LEFT - right.
What, Waltzing Matilda not a waltz? Next, you’ll be telling me that <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=brighton+rock+candy&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8">Brighton
rock</a> is not made in Brighton, or that <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=toad+in+the+hole&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8">toad-in-the-hole</a>
is not now, nor has ever been, an amphibian. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What's up? Have the Australians, with their highly developed
sense of irony, been playing an elaborate practical joke on the rest of the
world? I found the answer here, in Rolf Harris’s entertaining and highly
informative preamble to his inimitable rendition of the song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bl-YI44XYjI">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bl-YI44XYjI</a>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aha! All stands revealed: a “swagman” (wandering hobo)
carries his meager belongings, and such tucker (food) as he possesses, in his
“swag”, a ragged blanket tied around his shoulders, which he mockingly refers to as
his “Matilda”, or life companion. So “waltzing” has nothing to do with dancing,
but rather evokes a slow, weary trudge through the Australian bush, whose
grimness is briefly relieved every morning by such magical sounds as these: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1yf1bP_W4E">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1yf1bP_W4E</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, we learn that our hero has run afoul of the law – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he has stolen a jumbuck! </i>What is a jumbuck,
I hear you ask. Hmm, should I tell you, or make you listen to the song? I’ll
tell you this much: the penalty for stealing one in 19<sup>th</sup> century
Australia was death . . . and uh-oh, here comes the “squatter”, or landowner, (strange
isn’t it, how the meaning of the word has changed?) mounted on his
thoroughbred. Choosing a quick death by drowning over a protracted one ending
with hanging, our lamentably uncatechised swagman leaps into the billabong,
crying, “You’ll never take me alive!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there we have it: a rattling good song, a brief foreign
language lesson, and an introduction to Australia’s unique wildlife (be sure
not to miss the Thorny Devil.) And if you’re still itching for a waltz, try
this one: <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tchaikovsky - Waltz of the Flowers</span> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxHkLdQy5f0">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxHkLdQy5f0</a>.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-38214863173770018102017-01-13T14:44:00.000-08:002017-01-13T21:29:24.392-08:00How Rude - or then again, Perhaps Not!<style>
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I’ve been thinking about words that appear to be rude, but
aren’t. Words you can use with impunity in front of your Great Aunt Bertha,
knowing full well that, when she fans herself and reaches for the
smelling-salts, you’ll be ready with the perfectly innocent definitions culled
from A.Word.A.Day.com. For your convenience, I replicate them here: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Crapulous </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">adjective</span></i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">: Sick from excessive drinking or
eating. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">From Latin crapula (drunkenness), from Greek kraipale (hangover,
drunkenness). Earliest documented use: 1540. Also <a href="http://wordsmith.org/words/crapulent.html"><span style="color: blue;">crapulent</span></a>.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Modern
Usage: (Mother): All right, Timmy, go ahead and have another slice of cake; but
don’t blame me if it makes you crapulous!</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Bonus: We
learn the Greek for a hangover: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kraipale.
</i>You never know when it may come in handy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Pricket</span></div>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;">
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">noun</span></i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">:</span></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">1. A sharp point or spike for holding a candle.</span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">2. A male deer in its second year, before the
antlers have branched.</span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Diminutive of prick/prik, from Old English prica (point). Earliest
documented use: 1331. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Mod Use: “This pricket’s way too small – the candle
keeps falling off!”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Fard </span></div>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;">
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">noun</span></i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">:</span></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Makeup</span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1;">
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">verb tr.</span></i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">:</span></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">1. To apply makeup.</span></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><br /></td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 2; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">2. To embellish or gloss over.</span></div>
</td>
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;"><br /></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">From Old French fard (makeup), from farden (to apply makeup), of Germanic
origin. Earliest documented use: 1450. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Modern usage: “Will you please stop farding in the
bathroom and come for breakfast?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Cunctation - </span><i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">noun</span></i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">: Delay;
procrastination; tardiness. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;">From Latin cunctari (to hesitate, delay). Earliest documented use: 1585.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Modern Usage: “Even as a baby he was given to
cunctation: he’d wake me up at 2AM, but not to nurse; he’d just yawn three
times and go back to sleep.”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cock up – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">noun: </span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Something
going horribly wrong, e.g. this definition, which the computer stoutly refused
to provide. Instead, I was treated to those infuriating whirling circles –
definitely a cock up. And I can provide no “earliest documented use”, either.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, about those two bonus words I promised you. Here they
are:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Bonus Word #1: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">verb: </i>formicate, To swarm like ants.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Modern usage: </span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">At
graduation, visitors beheld the campus covered with formicating students.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Bonus Word #2: absquatulate:
verb: to make off with something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Modern usage: “I say, that bounder just absquatulated
with my cricket pads!”</span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enjoy introducing your friends to these words – but don’t be
surprised if you get a few strange looks along the way!</div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-15465507303875890362016-08-27T10:57:00.000-07:002016-08-27T10:57:16.724-07:00How to Catch A Seagull
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At no point in my adult life have I devoted significant
mental energy to contemplating how to catch a seagull. Never, that is, until I
found myself discussing this very question with some newfound friends at the
beach one Sunday afternoon in early August. It turned out that not only had
they captured a seagull in the past, but they were willing to try it again.
There was even a teenage boy (let’s call him Hamish), eager to make the
attempt. My sole job was to observe from a respectful distance and take
scrupulous mental notes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here's how it's done: first, Hamish selected a part of the
beach with few humans, especially of the junior variety who like to run around
screaming. Ensuring that there were sufficient seagulls in sight, both airborne
and waddling along the sand, he scooped out a shallow trench more or less the same
length as himself, and lay down in it. Taking a large towel, he covered himself
from feet to chin. Both arms lay cunningly concealed beneath the towel. One
arm sneaked out, bearing a succulent morsel of leftover foodstuff designed to
titillate a seagull's taste buds into paroxysms of delight (in this case, the
remains of a chicken wing with just a hint of Alfredo sauce), and placed it on
the towel, right over Hamish’s stomach.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now came the hard part: we waited. And waited. And while we
waited, (it being rather a hot afternoon,) my lunchtime beer kicked in and I
began to fantasize. Suppose we get lucky, I thought; suppose a gull spies the
morsel with its beady eye, and swoops down to claim it as its own. The moment
for action has arrived! Like a coiled viper, Hamish unfurls his betoweled arms and
seizes the hapless bird in his steely embrace. He has our seagull!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, so now what? What exactly does one do with this very
unhappy captive bird, whose mighty beak is thrashing around, inches away from Hamish’s
eyeballs—eat it? Sorry, seagull pie is out of the question: when asked by a
journalist why seagull meat never put in an appearance on the daily menu, a Devon
fisherman replied in his broad West Country drawl, “If ‘ee puts a seagull int’
oven wi’ a brick, th’ brick ‘ud be done first, and it’d taaste better.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps it could be tamed and kept as a pet! I looked up
“domesticate” in the massive dictionary (which, thanks to the marvels of the
common cell phone, I just happened to have with me) and found that the process of
domestication generally involves such a close association with human beings
that the animal loses its fondness for living in the wild. One look into that flashing
eye, one ear-piercing, raucous shriek, one moment’s contemplation of their
disgusting personal habits that make them about as desirable a pet as an airborne
dung beetle, and I was convinced—there would be no seagull perched in my
kitchen, screeching incessantly, taking enormous pecks out of any human foolish
enough to venture within striking range, making vast, splashy messes of fishy-stinky
seagull poop all over the floor . . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My reverie was cut short by Joe’s return. Dusting sand off
himself, he admitted defeat: perhaps there had been one too many children
running on the beach; perhaps it was the wrong brand of Alfredo sauce; perhaps
the birds simply weren’t in the mood . . . Whatever the reason, the
seagull-capturing quest had proved a failure.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I couldn’t honestly say I was sorry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-75717821119072004282016-07-16T12:23:00.000-07:002016-07-16T12:23:10.569-07:00HEAT - and What To Do About It<blockquote type="cite">
<div>
<span>"Who goes out in the midday sun? </span><br /><span>"Mad dogs and Englishmen"</span><br /><span>This
little couplet runs through my brain every year when the temperature in SoCal inches towards 100F and I recall the land of my birth. There, in
the halcyon days before the climate went berserk and triple digits
invading Buckingham Palace became almost commonplace, something quite
extraordinary happened: pretty much any time the sun put in an
appearance, no matter how brief, every piece of turf, no matter how
minuscule, was instantly covered with sweating bodies roasting painful
shades of reddish pink, slowly turning as if on an invisible communal
spit. "Carpe solem" might be their motto: seize the sun.</span><br /><span>Let
us now leave my ex-countrymen, and turn instead to the suburban back
yards of the US where the cry rings out, "I'm too hot, Mom, it's too
ho-o-t, Mom, MOM, I said, IT'S TOO HOT!" (As if the current heatwave had
been entirely mom's idea . . .) Here are a few of my favorite things to
do with hot, crotchety children:</span></div>
</blockquote>
<b>* </b>set<b> </b>the little ones loose to "paint" the driveway, the flowers, and each other with paint brushes and water.<div>
*
Put two buckets of water on the grass (or any thirsty ground) with
measuring cups, empty yogurt pots, plastic toys, and ping pong balls
(hold them underwater and let go - whose will shoot highest into the
air?)</div>
<div>
* Buy some cheap synthetic bath sponges, hold them underwater, then SPLOSH! Wettest game of catch EVER!</div>
<div>
*
Give each child a 2-liter soda bottle full of water, and see who can
empty theirs fastest. Is it quicker to twirl and shake the bottle or
simply hold it still?</div>
<div>
<blockquote type="cite">
<div>
<span>* Teach them a little anatomy. Where does </span>blood
flow closest to the skin's surface? Fill a bucket with cold water and
give each child a wash cloth to dip in it. Have them slosh the wet
cloths on various body parts - knees, shoulders, feet, the back of the
neck, tummy . . . Eventually, help them notice that a wet cloth on the
back of the neck is a dynamite cooler-offer. Why? Because blood flow to
and from the all-important head all passes through the neck, where
veins lie close to the surface. Can they make an ice-filled sock cooler
that will stay tied around their necks as the ice cubes melt in a
delectable, icy trickle?</div>
</blockquote>
* Think ahead: put containers
of your own devising filled with water in the freezer overnight (just
for fun, add a little oil to one and see what happens.) Melt them in the
sun, in shade, in water. Which is fastest? Where will they last longest?</div>
<div>
For a grand finale, have everyone dip their heads into the bucket, then SHAKE like a mad dog.</div>
But please, stay out of the midday sun! Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-55018129729956163532016-06-28T13:48:00.000-07:002016-06-28T13:49:19.823-07:00"Goodbye, and thank your mother for the rabbits<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Goodbye, and thank your mother for the
rabbits": A Unit Study, </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Part the Second, June 2016. (Part 1, see March 1)</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 3;">
I have a friend who maintains that all of human history
can be reduced to two questions: "What could possibly go wrong?" and
"How was I to know"? In 1859, an Englishman by the name of Thomas Austin
released twenty-four English rabbits into the wilds of Australia, saying as he
watched the twenty-four cute, fluffy little tails hop merrily off into the sunset,
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"The introduction of a few rabbits could do little harm
and might provide a touch of home, in addition to a spot of hunting.” If pressed,
I’m sure he would have added, “What could possibly go wrong?”</span><b><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Quite a lot, Mr.
Austin, quite a lot</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">LOGIC, HISTORY and BIOLOGY</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Invite
the children to attempt to outthink Mr. Austin. What dangers can they foresee
that Mr. Austin could not? (Hint: hybrid vigor; rapid proliferation; few
predators; ideal climate; farming vital to the economy.)</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 8;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For starters, he failed to realize that
bringing 24 of England’s finest rabbits to interbreed with the Australian
locals would, thanks to hybrid vigor, produce a veritable SuperBunny<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only were rabbits perfectly suited to
the climate, whose mild winters meant they could breed year round, but farmers
who ploughed up vast areas of scrub and woodland unwittingly left behind them
ideal conditions for warrens. What followed was the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">fastest spread ever recorded of any mammal</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">anywhere in the world</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>Within ten years, rabbits were so
numerous that over two million could be shot or trapped annually without making
a dent in the population. In less than 30 years, so great was the damage
inflicted on farmers’ crops, that the government of New South Wales offered a
£25,000 reward for <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"any method of
success not previously known in the Colony for the effectual extermination of
rabbits." (Just for fun, estimate how much<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>£25,000 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>would be worth today.) On
an outline map, http://www.kidzone.ws/geography/australia/map-australia.htm
have the children draw in the three “rabbit proof” fences. What kinds of
animals were used to help in the building? In the maintenance of the wall? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Is
anyone talking of building a wall today? </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
MATH The reproductive potential of
a female rabbit is truly phenomenal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
single female can, in seven years, become the matriarch of 184,597,433,860
offspring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost two billion</i> cute little fluffy tails, from one female and
her female descendants. http://www.bio.miami.edu/hare/scary.html</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
For a different take on a similar
mathematical phenomenon, read</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;">One
Grain Of Rice: A Mathematical Folktale</span><span style="color: blue; text-decoration: none;"> by</span><span style="color: blue;"> </span><span style="color: blue; text-decoration: none;">Demi</span><span style="color: blue;"> </span><span style="color: blue; text-decoration: none;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
For the younger children, read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Muddle-headed Wombat</i> by Ruth Park,
Australia’s delightful answer to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Winnie
the Pooh</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Investigate marsupials; also</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Egg-laying mammals that are only found in
Australia: duck-billed platypus, echidna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
DRAMA and HISTORY: They say, “it's an
ill wind that blows nobody any good”; during the Depression meat was extremely
hard to come by – except, that is, for rabbits. Who might have spoken our
opening line? Make up, and act out, a short scene featuring a family during the
Depression who have not a morsel of meat in the house, and precious little else
to eat. An unexpected guest knocks at the door, bearing a gift from her mother:
you guessed it – rabbits for dinner! And as they wait for the bunnies to cook,
they join in singing, “Waltzing Matilda”. I’m quite sure they knew what all the
words meant, and after singing along with this, so will you!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bl-YI44XYjI</div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-50146606483158854192016-06-07T18:21:00.000-07:002016-06-07T18:21:01.532-07:00Earwigs By the Book, Part 2
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Earwigs By the Book, Part 2</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you may recall from Part 1, I set myself the task of
writing an entire blog about earwigs using only the six references in the
Eyewitness book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Insects</i>, and earwig
minutiae already lodged in the darkest recesses of my brain. No Internet
whatsoever! I had two questions: could it be done, and would the results differ
significantly from an e-version? Which would be a better model to use to teach
writing? There, that’s three questions. We’re off to a great start! I turn to
the index, and thus to the first mention of my subject.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Earwigs can fly! I glean this from the Latin name,
Dermaptera, "skin wings". This refers to their tissue-thin hind
wings, which are kept folded beneath their very short, much tougher front wings.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here I encounter my first problem: not everything that has
wings can fly. Can an earwig? I know I’ve never seen one airborne . . . The
only available book that offers to tell me is volume 5 (or possibly 6) of
Encyclopaedia Britannica – a daunting prospect if ever I saw one. I yearn for
Siri, for the instant access to information she offers. “Can earwigs fly?” I
would ask, she would answer yes or no, and just like that, I would know. Oh,
the temptation to tap into that infinite ocean of knowledge the Internet offers!</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reluctantly leaving the question of flight unanswered, I
turn back to the book. I am relieved to find that earwigs do not in fact crawl
down the ear of a sleeping human and take up residence in the brain. Furthermore,
earwig mothers are awesome! They dig a small hole for their eggs then stay on
guard until the nymphs are hatched. If the eggs are scattered (presumably by
some malevolent researcher) she will gather them up and put them back in the
hole; when the young nymphs emerge, mama earwig stays with them until they are
able to fend for themselves. Get that, Hallmark? You have a new pin-up candidate
for Mother's Day cards! Maybe such maternal solicitude accounts for the earwig's
evolutionary success story: judging by the fossil record, they have changed
little in 35 million years.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They may not care for a sleeper’s ear, but one thing they do
like to crawl into is the nasturtium flower. You can tell just by looking at the
little pointy bit at the back that it’s an earwig’s Ideal Home. A fact that I
chose to ignore when, as a girl of about ten, I spent a significant chunk of my
early summer laboriously interweaving sticks to make the framework of a den at
the base of the cedar of Lebanon at the bottom of our garden. My plan was to
cover the framework with nasturtiums, thus providing myself with a colorful,
fragrant getaway in which to while away the lazy days of summer, and quite
possibly the occasional night as well. Nourished by the adjacent compost heap,
the flowers did their part and grew apace; with mounting excitement I looked
forward to the day when I would enjoy my first picnic lunch in my den. What a
very "Swallows and Amazons" thing to do, I thought, imagining my
eager friends vying to take their turn in my flowery sanctum.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ve guessed what comes next: as I took my first bite of
whatever succulent treat I’d chosen for my sandwich (quite possibly a
Winnie-the-Pooh special, honey and condensed milk – I was ten, after all,) I
was puzzled by the sound of raindrops falling in my perfectly dry den.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A glance at the ground revealed the awful
truth: it was alive with earwigs, plopping gently from the flowers to form a
shining, golden-brown carpet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I high-tailed it out of my labor of love den in less time
than it takes to tell, and I never looked back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there you have it: blogging without a (n/inter) net! I
rather enjoyed it – I’d never have recalled the nasturtium den that wasn’t
without ransacking my brain for a story. As for the tantalizing question of
whether earwigs fly, I just checked Wikipedia and the answer, as is so often
the case, is a resounding . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes and
no.</i> There are around 1200 species worldwide and some do, some don’t. It
would be hard to write an interesting paper about that, I think</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As to whether I can write an interesting column without the
Internet . . . well,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You Be The Judge. And please, let me know the verdict!</div>
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<br /></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-65493622163909973822016-06-02T12:40:00.000-07:002016-06-02T12:40:31.219-07:00Earwigs By The Book
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a startling
encounter in the bathroom last night. In the dark. Something . . . someone? had
its . . . his? hands around my neck in a malevolent tickle that gave fair <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>warning of its evil intent to throttle me to
death. Meanwhile, his accomplice was crawling up my leg, pausing to savor enormous
bites on his way . . . I took a deep breath,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>stilled the panic mounting in my breast, and TURNED ON THE LIGHT!!!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two earwigs, blinking stupidly (if earwigs do indeed blink,
which I think they don’t,) momentarily transfixed by the light. I was seized on
the spot by a burning desire to find out everything I could about earwigs, what they
were doing in my bathroom, and most important of all, how I could keep them
from returning. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, this is where the story takes a surprising turn. The
next sentence should read, what with it being the 21st century and all, "I
opened up my computer and logged on to my trusty search engine." But this
is where the story enters perhaps the realms of anti-science fiction, because
the next sentence actually reads, "I was overwhelmed by an irresistible
desire to open a book."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not Google—a book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book that was calling me so eloquently, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">INSECT – Discover the world of insects in
close-up – their behavior, anatomy, and important role in Earth’s ecology, </i>sat
among the other Eyewitness Books that I had been eyeing as likely candidates
for my next run to the thrift store. As I removed it from the shelf it clung
stickily to its neighbors as if to say, “Hey, I’ve been sitting here for years
– why move me now?” It fell open to the double page, “How to avoid being eaten”
(if you’re an insect, that is); there I found the incredible bombardier beetle,
who has discovered that nothing deters a hungry predator like a good explosion
right in his face. In the top right corner a hawksmoth caterpillar stretches
out its unusually large head, tricking predators into thinking the caterpillar
is in fact an extremely small but very poisonous snake. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fascinating stuff!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the very same page sits the weta, an enormous cricket from
New Zealand that filled the role, normally filled by mammals, of ground-dwelling
predator; this was necessary since the only mammals native to New Zealand are
two species of bats. Once rats hitchhiked a ride with mankind onto the main
islands, the weta “meta” sorry end, and today is extinct in all but the
smallest islands.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My goodness, but I had forgotten how much fun it is to
browse a good book! Look—here's a man with a bee bonnet (looks rather like my
Russian ex-boyfriend… I wonder) . . . And here are two entomologists visiting
Alexandria, Egypt in 1920 who spent the night collecting bed bugs rather than
sleeping. Their tally by morning? Both men had 70 pins with 10 bugs on each. By
my reckoning, that’s fourteen hundred bed bugs. Not a bad night’s work . . . Hmm,
this browsing business is getting out of hand. It’s as bad as the computer for
tempting you to stray off topic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But off the topic of earwigs in a book about insects carries
one into the wonderful realm of compound eyes and beetle antennae. Did you know
that each hair around the mouth of a carpet beetle larva has its own “ball and
socket” joint, and can probably pick up vibrations? Or that a locust curves its
wings when landing to trap the maximum amount of air and ensure a gentle meeting
with the ground, in a manner later copied by airplane designers?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 10;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Get off topic on Google (worse yet, on Youtube,) and find a
world of salacious gossip about the British royal family, and fifteen uses for
a used teabag. And those are the least objectionable, that merely waste time and
jam your browser. They don’t threaten to lead one into an utterly depraved
lifestyle—though mind you, I haven’t checked out numbers 12-15 of those things
to do with a used teabag . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But earwigs – what about earwigs? Could I come up with
enough content for a blog from the (count ‘em) six earwig references in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Insect? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Tune in tomorrow and . . . Now, I know I
don’t exactly have a stellar record with lead-ins to part two of a blog (the
rabbits are still waiting in Australia, though I did much better with How to Make
the Perfect Pot of Tea.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow, I will attempt the death-defying stunt: blogging
without a net. Relying entirely on those six references to earwigs from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Insects</i>, and rosy earwig reminiscences
from my youth, I will produce an entire blog! An extraordinary feat – if,
indeed, it can be done. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Tune in next time to find out.</div>
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<br /></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-19736988691552817352016-05-10T19:26:00.000-07:002016-06-01T10:29:23.381-07:00A Farewell to Andrew Episode 6: In Which We Really Do Say Goodbye<style>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“It all happened so fast at
the end,” says Gerry, as we stand in what will, if all goes according to plan,
be Andrew’s room for the rest of his life. “We were going to paint the room
your favorite color. What is your favorite color? There wasn’t even time to ask
you!”</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">A quick glance around reveals
the answer. “Yellow,” I speak for Andrew. “Pale yellow.” If it hadn’t been his
favorite before, it certainly is now: this is his room at L’Arche, and for the
first time in his life he will live at a different address—in a different
state, even—than his parents. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I shift my powers of
observation, such as they are, into grinding gear, and rev them up mercilessly.
First impressions, I remind myself, are important. The room strikes me
instantly as perfect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A window in the
eaves swings open to reveal a splendidly mossy roof, (how poetic, awfully glad
we’re not responsible for the upkeep,) and a view of the lively street below—so
many people walking so many dogs! You can tell it’s an old neighborhood by the cars
lining the streets—automobiles are not destined to disappear into garages for
another decade or three—as well as by the trees: great and small, conifers and
broadleaves, straight and gnarled, an entirely disproportionate number of them
in intoxicating bloom. This is May in Seattle, after all, and the air is heavy
with the scent of blossoms.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">But the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pièce de résistance </i>comes when I turn back into the room, and it is
straight out of John Cleese’s Fawlty Towers: two carpeted steps about three
feet wide leading to a door roughly two feet above floor level, which opens
onto . . . (drumroll . . .) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">THE CLOSET!!!!!
</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of coat hangers and oodles of
space, I notice, as well as a nifty spot to hang out in; there is also a
bookcase, a chest of drawers. We’ll have to find him a desk . . . An
unexpectedly personal touch from the previous occupant: a mobile of balsa wood
aeroplanes whose gunmetal grey strikes a vivid contrast with the yellow walls.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And now we’re at that awkward
moment where Gerry is inviting us for dinner (they take food very seriously at
every L’Arche home we’ve been to) and Andrew is telling us loud and clear, in
unmistakable body language, that it’s cool, he really doesn’t need us to hang around,
in fact, Mom and Dad, Will You Please Go Now? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And so, just like that, it’s
over. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We embarrass him with one
more hug.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Then</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Really</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Do</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Go.</span></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-11445860919818499882016-05-03T21:09:00.000-07:002016-05-03T21:09:03.633-07:00A Farewell to Andrew Episode 5:
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In which the Ordinary
becomes Almost Sacred, and then goes back to being ordinary again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ritual is a great buffer between us and what one might term
“the stuff of life.” We go about our daily lives doing more or less the same
old things with the same old people in the same old way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, quite suddenly, whether you were anticipating it
or not, everything changes, becomes fraught with meaning. Because this is, you
see, The. Last. Time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday there was a comfortable pad of time: two whole
days. Now only one remains: tomorrow will be The Last Time one of us (who will
it be?) walks over to the inaptly named Guest Cottage, (so called when my
English mother was its sole occupant; it’s all SoCal terracotta tile, no
honeysuckle and hollyhocks twining around this door, but she loved to call it
her “cottage”, it made her think of home . . .)Whichever of us has volunteered
will do last battle with the impossibly sticky sliding door, last battle with an
impossibly somnolent 31 year old . . . All the same old things, but with one
difference. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The last time. Andrew will pick up the newspaper for the
last time. Such a simple act, dusted now with sanctity. Likewise taking out the
recycling. Or loading the dishwasher, four plates jammed into each slot. There
will be nobody to do this anymore. Our home will never be quite the same again.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are fortunate; we knew this was coming, have had time to
prepare our emotions, to alter our life stories gradually. Not for us the sudden
devastation of an accident. Not this time. Or a heart attack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It reminds me of a poignant poem by Thomas Hardy; the last
verse goes something like this: (his love, who used to take this walk with him,
is either ailing or dead, I forget which. Dead. She died, thus he is returning
to an empty room. Hence the poignancy): </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I went again today, just in the former way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Surveyed around familiar ground,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“On my own again — what difference then?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“Only that underlying sense</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of the look of a room on returning thence.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes, Andrew, you will be greatly missed. And we know that
you will be greatly treasured at L’Arche; so I think, on the whole, that it’s a
good thing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t you?</div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-41049857147040610032016-05-02T21:21:00.000-07:002016-05-02T21:21:30.230-07:00A Farewell to Andrew, episode 4<style>
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<u>Getting Andrew out of bed: a photo adventure</u></div>
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Here is Andrew, sound asleep:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjFFk_LpUhhvQethCg2uNsGGJAGk0O-MC74_Jlb3BpCeg_idY7iFWl3Fk73sQIl5UaW3oyqcPkv5VwL0tizGuAb8QDfLFqRfSh96OJ1BLh2jYDeQQZrLB3naqsRF_R9tmIqJBkfNtTDcE/s1600/IMG_0596%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjFFk_LpUhhvQethCg2uNsGGJAGk0O-MC74_Jlb3BpCeg_idY7iFWl3Fk73sQIl5UaW3oyqcPkv5VwL0tizGuAb8QDfLFqRfSh96OJ1BLh2jYDeQQZrLB3naqsRF_R9tmIqJBkfNtTDcE/s400/IMG_0596%25281%2529.JPG" /></a> </div>
Mummy: “Wake up, Drewie, it’s a brand new day – it’s time
to go PLAY!”
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Andrew: “You’re joking, right? (groan) Please, somebody tell
me she’s joking . . . “ <br />
Mummy: "Come on boys, up and at 'em, jolly hockey sticks and all that!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHceiL7Gn95ohyqcoB5jqDni_Z9kORZp3nxmOHXi0teis6tK3oNd3kxd1bfdhkf5NHt1BQb0ZJ1jahcALPdGiQpCRkbgTpsagyagAtAm4j35rUazC_UzlHNMKCfM-rDOkw_-vBmXAn7Us/s1600/IMG_0597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHceiL7Gn95ohyqcoB5jqDni_Z9kORZp3nxmOHXi0teis6tK3oNd3kxd1bfdhkf5NHt1BQb0ZJ1jahcALPdGiQpCRkbgTpsagyagAtAm4j35rUazC_UzlHNMKCfM-rDOkw_-vBmXAn7Us/s400/IMG_0597.JPG" /></a></div>
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Andrew: “How about if I sit like this? You see, I really am
going to get up . . . just as soon as you walk out that door and give a man a
little privacy.” (Thinks: “Just as soon as she’s out that door, I am going
STRAIGHT back to bed!”)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tIYMLG9T9jfiyXfskbPBG4G8LUHqeZl1LwjLMWq4y-PCi8bcXy9YMDu1dwB132hpcDVAh4b9vIsdZCRjVsAxgImt_dOTKOu7EOUiO8XzNTaGRb4WwG0M1gqIOxZi3BSsop2WfqypCjA/s1600/IMG_0599.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tIYMLG9T9jfiyXfskbPBG4G8LUHqeZl1LwjLMWq4y-PCi8bcXy9YMDu1dwB132hpcDVAh4b9vIsdZCRjVsAxgImt_dOTKOu7EOUiO8XzNTaGRb4WwG0M1gqIOxZi3BSsop2WfqypCjA/s400/IMG_0599.JPG" /></a> </div>
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Poor Andrew – his mum is wise to his tricks! “Andrew, let me see you
with BOTH LEGS over the edge of the bed . . . BOTH FEET on the floor” (this
seems to be the magical point of no return: if I get him this far, he has never
yet retreated under the covers.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTbI2LOk3DkEU0-67MzVo07f8WQmMmAFoatCuKJyO3WEToVYBRwwhAGmvgdf9Y43BOIwdg0fJKJt6JzX9SoVBtrx0JPp3dmOo8CLAw_31xj9U5hpNNSAQ83lmNhwYAOjUzgOQzIZDe24/s1600/IMG_0601.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTbI2LOk3DkEU0-67MzVo07f8WQmMmAFoatCuKJyO3WEToVYBRwwhAGmvgdf9Y43BOIwdg0fJKJt6JzX9SoVBtrx0JPp3dmOo8CLAw_31xj9U5hpNNSAQ83lmNhwYAOjUzgOQzIZDe24/s400/IMG_0601.JPG" /></a></div>
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Another day, successfully greeted!</div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-72441375954666092412016-04-30T21:04:00.001-07:002016-04-30T21:04:27.728-07:00A Farewell to Andrew, episode 3: How a little dog training worked on me.You know those parenting books that suggest you deal with bad behavior by waiting for, and rewarding, the good? If you're anything like me, you're thinking, "If I could but find ONE MOMENT of praiseworthy behavior, I wouldn't even be asking the question . . . "<br />
<br />
Andrew has always been a rather noisy chap, and far from abating as he aged, the range of squeaks, grunts, hums and honks has greatly increased—most especially when we're at Mass, trying to maintain at least a modicum of reverence. Andrew: "Honk—click—HMMMMM—grunt—splort"<br />
Me, in hushed tones: "Andrew, you need to be quieter; people will think you're weird."<br />
Andrew, looking stricken: OK, sorry-sorry-sorry." (Pause) "HMMMMMMM—snort—honk—splurt!" etc.<br />
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Now, I know enough about human nature to realize that when there's a problem in a relationship, trying to change the other person is invariably a lost cause. But try as I might, I simply could not ignore the cacophony emitted by my second son. What could be done? It was a stalemate.<br />
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Then I happened to read in <u>No Bad Dogs,</u> a dog training book by Barbara Woodhouse, about the extraordinary effectiveness of physical touch: a touch which "calms the wild dog, . . . produces ecstasy in dogs when you caress them." She continues, "I lay my face alongside the dog's (which is) cupped in my hands, and I sense that my deep love and admiration for it passes right through to its mind . . ." In other words, touch brings about a telepathic communication. If it worked for Barbara Woodhouse and her dogs, could it work for my second son and me?<br />
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I had no doubts about Andrew's receptiveness; I was more concerned about me.<br />
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Could I overcome my natural restraint and reserve, and abandon myself to praising Andrew? Could I touch his shoulder as he hunched over his morning bowl of cornflakes, rice milk and banana, and transmit my deep love and admiration for him? Could I really put all that into a touch? How about my tone of voice; could I make it convey great joy to Andrew—tell him that I think him the most wonderful young man on earth?<br />
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I had reckoned without one thing: the astonishing power of words. In the beginning, God used words to call all created things into being: now, He was using the power of the spoken word to heal a mother and her son. As I spoke words of love and admiration to Andrew, blow me down if my feelings didn't follow suit! It was <i>easy </i>for me to make my touch tell him of my deep admiration, because thanks to the verbal affirmations, I really believed it! I thought of books that advised couples who want to feel more love in their marriage to <i>act as though </i>they are in love, and I recognized that this was exactly what I was doing. And it was working!<br />
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Of course, it hasn't all been wine and roses: my husband, who had been getting quite sentimental about the forthcoming farewell, was brought back to reality with a vengeance this evening when he found that Drew had just unloaded all the dirty dishes from the dishwasher, and painstakingly put them away in cupboards and drawers. What do you do with a 31 year old who has no clue about clean and dirty? <br />
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Hold his face in your hands, lay your cheek against his, and tell him that you love him absolutely, unconditionally, and forever.<br />
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Use words if you have to.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-15338960315100889392016-04-29T19:31:00.000-07:002016-04-29T19:31:56.151-07:00A Farewell to Andrew, episode 2L’Arche communities in the United States provide homes and workplaces
where people with and without intellectual disabilities live and work
together as peers. At the heart of L’Arche are the adults who have intellectual
disabilities—known as “core members”—and Andrew is to be one of them, starting next Thursday. We are so excited for him, and I looked for something amid the writings of the founder, the French Canadian Jean Vanier, that will give the unique flavor of L'Arche so you can rejoice with us. I found this story of eight year old Armando, told by Monsieur Vanier:<br />
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"Armando cannot walk or talk and is very small for his age. He came to us (L'Arche) from an orphanage where he had been abandoned. He no longer wanted to eat because he no longer wanted to live cast off from his mother. He was desperately thin and was dying from lack of food. After a while in our community where he found people who held him, loved him, and wanted him to live, he gradually began to eat again and to develop in a remarkable way. He still cannot walk or talk or eat by himself, his body is twisted and broken, and he has a severe mental disability, but when you pick him up, his eyes and his whole body quiver with joy and excitement and say: "I love you." He has a deep therapeutic influence on people.<br />
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(At a gathering of bishops in Rome in 1987)<br />
"I asked a bishop if he wanted to hold Armando in his arms. He did. I watched as Armando settled into his arms and started to quiver and smile, his little eyes shining. A half hour later I came back to see if the bishop wanted me to take back Armando. "No, no," he replied. I could see that Armando in all his littleness, but with the power of love in his heart, was touching and changing the heart of that bishop. Bishops are busy men, they have power and they frequently suffer acts of aggression, so they have to create solid defense mechanisms. But someone like Armando can penetrate the barriers they—and all of us—create around our hearts; Armando can awaken us to love and call forth the well of living waters and of tenderness hidden inside of us."<br />
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I (Alison speaking) hope this touched your heart as much as it did mine. Andrew is going to a place where he will be deeply loved and appreciated, not just by his family but by a community of his peers, for the rest of his life.<br />
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I couldn't wish for a happier ending.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-40553067112905012302016-04-28T10:58:00.000-07:002016-04-28T10:58:09.989-07:00A Farewell to Andrew, episode 1Hear that rumbling sound? It's the wheels of the tumbril, carrying
the prisoner to his execution at the guillotine. Dostoevsky describes
this last journey in a memorable passage from the Brothers Karamazov,
which I last read about a decade ago (this is a disclaimer - I may well
be misremembering, but you'll get the general picture.) This scene
haunts me when I'm preparing for a Major Life Event - a move, for
instance.<br /> We join the prisoner a couple of streets from his gory des<span class="text_exposed_show">tination.
The sun is shining, the road lined with trees - surely he has all the
time in the world to enjoy this peaceful scene! But underlying it all is
the rumble of the tumbril's wheels; they turn a corner -- one street
closer to his doom . . .<br /> And yet, the sky is a marvelous blue,
clouds tinged still with dawn's rosy tint . . . surely nothing very
terrible can mar a day like this! Besides, this street is so long, why
worry about what lies beyond its end . . . <br /> Another corner - the
last corner. Now Madame Guillotine comes into view. But still, one may
turn one's back on her in a last, desperate attempt to avert the
inevitable . . . the crowd, many wearing red ribbon neck ties in a
grisly parody of what is to follow, sing raucous songs, hoping for a
botched, extended execution . . . The executioner appears: it's time to
mount the fifteen steps to the scaffold! How far are fifteen steps, each
one a memory of a past era, each one almost a lifetime . . . <br /> The
last step: time to rest the head on the block, eyes closed against the
wild death stares of the grisly inhabitants of the bloody basket beneath . . .</span><br />
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I hasten to say that it is not Andrew's move to L'Arche that prompts
such ghoulish musings: for him, it is a marvelous opportunity, the best possible development. It is, rather, my selfishness speaking. After
thirty-one years of being Andrew's mum, spending significant chunks of
every day with him, what next? How do I cope with my Andrew-less
existence? <br />
One week from tomorrow, he goes. I invite you to walk
these last seven days, seven steps, with me; looking back over his
early years, forward to what he can expect from his newfound friends at
L'Arche, above all savoring the moments of these seven last days
together.<br />
Walk with me. </div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-15710568276211300112016-03-28T13:53:00.000-07:002016-03-28T13:53:32.129-07:00El Niño—or then again, perhaps not.
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El Niño, March ‘16</div>
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“Ha, ha, ha" chortled the weatherman; "you can
never say 'definitely' in weather forecasting, but this winter's El
Niño looks like a done deal. There‘s no way it can’t happen.” Instantly, signs
sprouted along the roadways: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get your
sandbags here!</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We have emergency
rations, and you're gonna need them!</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><i>!</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><i>Water! Matches! Firewood! Stock Up NOW!!!" </i>After five years of crippling drought,
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Obviously something did, or I wouldn’t be writing this.
"El Niño", the little boy charged with the important job of bringing
water to the parched West Coast of the United States of America, has apparently
been waylaid by a meteorological old man in a scruffy raincoat, handing out
candy in the Seattle area. (Seattle has enjoyed its wettest winter on record,
thank you very much.) El Niño continues his journey south, lavishing water on
the Oregon coast (as if they need it) and Northern California (ditto, but at
least it keeps the redwoods and marijuana plants happy); but just about the
time that he reaches San Luis Obispo, about 100 miles north of Ojai where I
live in desiccated splendor, the after effects of his sugar high kick in. He
curls up, exhausted, and falls fast asleep.</div>
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This is why, in the massive face of this record El Niño, Ojai’s
rainfall total for the year is precisely .05" higher than last year. That's right; one half of one tenth of an inch. There
is still hope: our alleged "rainy season" lasts until the end of
April. Maybe in the next few weeks, having indulged his sweet tooth, El Niño
will deign to come on down to SoCal and dump at least 20 inches of blessed
rainfall on our thirsty landscape.</div>
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Otherwise, I’m afraid the weathermen are going to have to
eat their words. And since there won’t be any cooling draft of H<sub>2</sub>0
to wet their pipes, I'm sorry to say that I hope they choke on them. </div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-8456490451305095772016-03-14T18:27:00.000-07:002016-03-14T18:57:18.247-07:00The Perfect Cup of Tea: Part the Third.<style>
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What You Will Need: One ceramic teapot; cups or mugs of fine
bone china; tea bags or, for the purist, loose-leaf tea; a small
jug of 4% milk; sugar lumps and tongs.</div>
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Fill the kettle with enough water for as many cups of tea as
you desire. Bear in mind that there is a drought here in Southern California,
and refrain from filling the pot for an entire rugger team if all you want is
one cup for yourself. Even if there is no drought where you live, there very
well could be. Besides, using power to heat all that water just to throw it
away doesn't make sense. End of politically correct admonition.</div>
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Bring the water to a full, rolling boil. What is that? Let
me tell you what it is not: if you see little bubbles all around the edge
politely popping as if to say, Will this do? The answer is an emphatic no, it
will not. If the entire contents of the kettle are seething with bubbles that
refuse to give up, that's more like it! Notice that the bubbles keep popping as
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… Oh crumbs, I forgot about the tea! While the kettle is
coming to the boil, heat the pot with water from the hot tap. This will take no
more than two minutes. Drought hint number two: use the teapot water to heat
the cups or mugs. What should these be made of? There is little doubt in my
mind that tea tastes better drunk from bone china. There is equally little
doubt that the more expensive china has been crossed with lemmings: put it
anywhere near the edge of a table and it will hurtle to its doom the second
your back is turned. Thwart its self-destructive tendencies by purchasing
pre-used cups from the thrift store, and save the best stuff until you have
friendly eyes to help you watch over it and there are no happy Great Dane tails
wagging enthusiastically at prime teacup level.</div>
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A word about cleanliness: the saying, "what the eye
don't see, the heart don't grieve for" might have been made for teapots. Why
else would a Brown Betty be brown, if not to hide the thin patina of scum
remaining from previous brews? (Relish, if you will, "patina" and
"scum" appearing in the same sentence. If you look up
"patina" you'll see that it's a bit of a stretch applied to a ceramic
teapot since it usually describes metal, but anything in the cause of tea,
wouldn't you agree?) The same cannot, however, be said of teacups; these must
be scrupulously clean and, drought or no drought, equally scrupulously rinsed.
There's nothing more destructive to an ace cuppa than the chemical tang of dish
soap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My favorite tea is Taylors of Harrogate Yorkshire Blend,
which I buy from Amazon in boxes of 160 bags, and very good it is, indeed it
is. My husband Robin, on the other hand, swears by Barry’s Irish. The funny
thing is that blind taste tests have proved that neither one of us can tell the
difference, yet we stick faithfully to our avowed favorite. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are best when allowed to steep no more
than ten minutes; theoretically, tea bags can more readily be removed than
loose leaves; I wish I could say that I do so with any regularity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I close with two anecdotes that illustrate rather different
tastes in tea strength. When breakfasting in a B&B in Clonmacnoise, Eire, Robin
was offered a pot of tea with his full Irish breakfast. Somewhat to his surprise,
the waitress produced a little tin teapot from her apron pocket and asked him
in all seriousness, “Will you be taking five bags or six?” Without skipping a
beat, he opted for six.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other extreme, my mother was helping the Ladies’
Guild of her church in Everett, Washington, as they prepared tea for a social
function. Quite a number of guests were expected, and the Enormous Ceremonial
Urn was brought out and filled with (almost) boiling water. The person in
charge of teabags dug out from the back of a cupboard a half-empty box of
Lipton’s that looked as if it had been there for years; having unwrapped the
first, she reached for a second, saying brightly, “I don’t think two would be
too many, do you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s as well my mother had no liquid in her mouth at the
time, or it would have surely ended up sprayed through her nose. Many’s the
chuckle we’ve enjoyed over that story: “To each his own,” indeed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-31350932272046987712016-03-12T10:44:00.002-08:002016-03-12T10:44:19.845-08:00The Perfect Cup of Tea: Part The Second
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The finest cup of tea I ever tasted was made for me by Mrs.
Taylor. Tiny and silver-haired when I was born, to my eyes she aged not a day
until her last illness twenty-eight years later. She lived in Winchester, near
the cathedral immortalized in song by the New Vaudeville Band, and it was there
that I arrived by train to visit her one drear afternoon in October,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Preparation for The Taking Of The Tea (I soon realized that
tea prepared with such painstaking attention to detail demanded a formal title)
began in her clean but comfortably lived-in kitchen. (I should mention that Mrs.
Taylor was the only person I knew whose house never needed cleaning—at least I
presumed it didn’t, since it was never dirty nor did I ever once see her with a
dust rag in hand.) On the tea tray went a cloth of white linen with an
exquisite cutwork embroidery design, and two matching napkins. The cloth was
almost obscured by two teacups of finest bone china in a delicate floral pattern,
a matching milk jug, a bowl to catch the drips from the tea strainer, a teapot
complete with elegant cozy, and a thermal jug whose function was as yet
shrouded in mystery.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the kitchen, I witnessed Mrs. Taylor warming the pot,
then adding a quantity of tea leaves so surprisingly large that I wondered fleetingly
whether she had been taking lessons from the keepers at Bristol Zoo. I was
greatly relieved when, in the comfort of the sitting room, our chairs on either
side of the fireplace and the tray on the small table between us, it turned out
that the thermos flask was full of just-below-boiling-point water that she used
to dilute the extraordinarily strong output of the teapot. There was something
almost mesmerizing about watching her pour, first the milk, then the incredibly
strong tea, then the very hot water, until the cup was the exact taste I
preferred. Oh, I'm forgetting the sugar! Mrs. Taylor was well aware I did not
take sugar, and she certainly knew that neither did she, but there was a bowl of
sugar lumps, complete with tongs, to spare me the embarrassment of having to
ask, "just in case" I had changed my mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gradually I became aware that I was witnessing a ceremony
from a bygone era. The goal was not, as is the norm today, the speedy production
of a large quantity of tea to be slurped from hefty ceramic mugs, but rather the
making of individual, six ounce cups of tea, each one perfectly tailored to its intended
drinker. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There didn't seem to be quite enough air in the room. At
least, as I sat up ramrod straight, frantically trying to avoid disappointing her
expectations of a tea guest, I found it hard to breathe; in retrospect, I can relate to the
female actors of Downton Abbey who described how restrictive their crushingly
tight corsets were. It’s hard to misbehave when you can scarcely breathe!
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The funny thing, looking back, is that it was all about love,
though the word was never spoken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
love that lay behind Mrs. Taylor’s extraordinary attention to detail in giving
me a tea experience that remains vivid thirty-five years later; it was love
that made me so desperately eager to please her in return. I imagine she fed me
sandwiches and delectable little tea cakes, but I honestly don’t remember. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The love was in the teapot, and that’s what I recall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-5792899827305733332016-03-09T14:21:00.000-08:002016-03-09T14:22:42.006-08:00The Perfect Cup of Tea - Part The First <style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How may I approach such an exalted topic? Do I dare presume
to add to the reams already penned on the subject? Perhaps the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">via negativa </i>is the way to go, since for
some reason it seems easier to state <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what
a thing is not </i>than<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> what it is: </i>and
so, ladies and gentlemen, I give you My Two Worst Ever Cups of Tea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How well I remember my first cuppa in America: the memory
pains me deeply, indeed, the wounds have scarcely healed after all these years.
The waitress seemed to smirk as she delivered me a stone cold cup and saucer, on
which lay a dispirited-looking teabag still in its paper envelope. Next to it,
a small metal teapot betrayed no reassuring signs of heat; indeed, I could
touch it quite comfortably with my bare fingertips. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, the first and cardinal rule of making tea, dinned into
me since early childhood by every significant adult in my life, is this: Always
Use Freshly Boiling Water. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aghast at such a flagrant breaking of this law, but keenly
aware that every passing second only made matters worse, I hastened the tea bag
from its envelope into the cup. As expected, when I added the
"boiling" contents of the teapot, the only perceptible change was a
slight staining of the water in the immediate vicinity of the tea bag. Leaving
it for several minutes did little to help, and neither did the addition of the
synthetic contents of the little plastic pot of “creamer”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the most insipid cup of tea I have ever had the
misfortune to drink.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the opposite end of the tea-making spectrum lies the choice
brew served up by the zookeepers at Bristol Zoo. In his youth, my brother Ian
(same name as our Eldest Son Iain, just with a different spelling) got a summer
job tending the zoo’s animal inhabitants, and among his tasks was that of Chief
Teamaker for the Animal Keepers’ Tea Break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As he was to discover, there was quite an art to this, a strict protocol
that came as something of a shock to Ian’s system, and had to be followed to
the letter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, the pot. This was lined with a thick, tannin-rich
scum, built up over years (decades?) of use <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and
no cleaning whatsoever. </i>Ian’s life nearly came to an untimely end the day
he tried to help by giving the pot a good scour . . . His vocabulary was
greatly enlarged that day, but there weren’t too many places he was welcome to
try it out: certainly not at the Prentice family dinner table. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next, the tea leaves which had to be PGTips (loose, of
course—no sissy teabags for this rugged bunch.) How many teaspoons? Well, there’s
a daft question! Just pour in the right amount, straight from the packet. If
your spoon can stand up in the finished slurry, it’s strong enough. At this stage,
milk and sugar were added and the whole given a thorough stir before the final
stage: filling the pot with freshly boiling water (at last, something we can
agree on!) stirring it once more<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>and leaving
it to steep for at least fifteen minutes to allow the full glory of the tannins
to develop. Not tannic acid, mind you; this is not found in tea. Tannins, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thearubigins, </i>are found a-plenty, and may
cause antioxidant activity. Hooray! Tea’s a health food—I always knew as much!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Somewhere between these two extremes
lies the magical brew favored by Mrs. Patmore, Agatha Christie (“Tea! Bless ordinary
everyday afternoon tea!") as well as by my Welsh grandmother, whose every
afternoon was punctuated at 4 o’clock on the dot </span>by a singsong, “Now
what I’d like is a nice cup of tea.” All other activity came to a halt until
Gran had her Willow Pattern teacup in hand<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span>and an
episode of The Archers, an early farming soap opera that she followed
faithfully, on the radio.<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But what went into making that daily
cup of ambrosia will have to wait until Part The Second.</span></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-71717610157813690682016-03-01T14:48:00.000-08:002016-03-01T14:48:57.368-08:00"Goodbye, and thank your mother for the rabbits": Part the First, March 2016
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<br />
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You can take the mother out of the homeschool, but you can’t
take the homeschooler out of this mother . . . especially when it comes to (ta-da)
. . . Unit Studies!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take this morning, for instance, when I happened upon the
seemingly innocuous phrase<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">, “Goodbye,
and thank your mother for the rabbits.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harmless enough, you may think . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But not for a home-educating parent who thinks in unit studies. </i>She
would take this phrase and milk it for every possible drop of teaching content.
You will be surprised how much there is!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me show you how it works for me, in hopes that you’ll
find something you can use, or at least be infected by my enthusiasm. Let’s
start with: </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>“Goodbye”: the word originated in the late
1500’s; “Godbwye,” a contraction of “God be with ye”, was soon further shortened
to a simple “goodbye.“ To find the reason behind this truncation, have the
whole family say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">godbwye </i>every time
they leave the house—or just a room—for one day. Which is easier to say,
godbwye or “bye”? Is anything lost in the simplification?</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>“Thank you” and gifts: thank you letters always made
me feel sick with guilt; I knew my children should write them, and I really
meant to make them, but so much got in the way … End result, everybody felt
bad, (especially me) and the letters never got written.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now that I have 20/20
hindsight, I can do it right: </i>I create a “Thank You Box” with paper,
stickers, crayons, envelopes and postage stamps, and make producing one thank
you letter per day part of every school day till they are all done. (I find that glitter helps.) The box makes it easy for the children, while envelopes and stamps
make addressing and mailing easy for me until the children are old enough to do
it themselves. I call attention to articles about letter-writing going out of
style, and the children feel proud to be different.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have fun brainstorming situations where thanks are
appropriate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These include Worship
of God; thanks for gifts (of time, kindness, money, physical things etc.) Who
do we suppose wrote the first thank you letter? What did it look like? Might
it have been a scratch on a rock? A whale tooth? A feather? (I like that—a thank
you feather!) When have I been particularly touched by a gift? Can I give a
gift like that to someone I love? Do gifts always have to cost money? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Google and read out loud the poem ‘Bobby’s Presents’ by
Elsie Duncan Yale. Bobby buys things he wants for himself, and gives them to
his family members—a baseball for mother, a bat for daddy, a jack-knife for
baby . . . Being a thoughtful chap, he realizes that these gifts may not be
entirely suitable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right now</i>, so he’ll
borrow them—just for a while . . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The poem is, of course, intended to be humorous. But I have
a friend whose husband and two adult sons really like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Games of Thrones, </i>and just guess what she got for Mother’s Day last
year? (and, I believe, her birthday as well!)Perhaps her husband should have read
‘Bobby’s Presents’ as a boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I only got through goodbye and thank you; that’s what
happens with unit studies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tune in next time to discover what happens . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beyond the rabbit-proof fence! </i></div>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5307975301871807776.post-55610555570694815812016-02-28T14:20:00.000-08:002016-02-28T14:23:36.767-08:00To Draw, That We Might See: Part The Second (Still February ’16)<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">As I hope you recall, my
last blog left you on tenterhooks, perched on the edge of your seat, pondering
the burning question: Was John Ruskin, the famous nineteenth century London art
critic, pleased by the advent of the camera? Would he have been thrilled out of
his tree by the miraculous technology of today’s tiny cell phone camera, which
puts capturing both panoramic vistas and intricately detailed close ups into
the hands of the rank amateur? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">As you may have deduced (aided,
perhaps, by the title of this blog) the answer is a resounding no. Cameras,
Ruskin came to believe, stop us seeing<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i>
He noticed that would-be photographers were so preoccupied with their cameras,
so busy twiddling and fiddling with various knobs, that they quite forgot to
look at the particular bit of the universe that had inspired them in the first
place. Not so with the gentle art of sketching; having selected the scene, the
artist takes out her sketchbook, pencils and paper, finds a place to sit that
is neither too hot nor too cold, too bright nor too shady, carefully sizes up
her subject, and finally puts pencil to paper. Producing even a simple sketch requires
several minutes of intense looking, and it is in the looking that the magic
happens. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">Ruskin became a passionate</span><span style="font-family: "times"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> enemy of the camera and promoter of drawing—indeed, he spent four years
on a campaign to get people sketching again. He wrote books, gave speeches and
funded art schools that still flourish today—schools that were (at least in his
day) dedicated not to drawing well, but to drawing at all. His ideal was that
people should slow down and smell the coffee (which had become quite a popular
drink by his time): “</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The really precious things are thought
and sight, not pace. It does a bullet no good to go fast; and a man, if he be
truly a man, no harm to go slow; for his glory is not at all in going, but in
being.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How beautiful is that—“his glory is not
. . . in going, but in being”? (By “man”, of course, Ruskin and everyone else at his time, and many people today,
myself included, understand “and woman.”)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ruskin died in January, 1900—the year
the chief of the Patent Office famously observed that it might as well be shut
down, since everything that possibly could be invented, had been (was ever a
statement as colossally and monumentally wrong as that!) I am glad, for his
sake, that Ruskin wasn’t born a century later, and so was spared the frenetic
acceleration of life brought about, first by the motorcar, then by the
computer.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So today, in honor of John Ruskin and all the many
20<sup>th</sup> century self-help gurus who have rediscovered the beauty of
life in the slow lane, I invite you and your children to join me on the cool,
unhurried pages of a sketchbook. And when you have produced a drawing —you’ll
notice, I didn’t say “a <u>good</u> drawing”—whip out your </span>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;">cell
phone, snap a photo, and save it till I’ve figured out how you’ll send it to
me.</span>
Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11547063089199698768noreply@blogger.com0