What Does OK Mean?

 Sometimes it just means everything is OK.

In my travels around here and there and including in Europe and Israel I have noticed that there are a few Englishisms that are used everywhere.  One of them is OK.  A couple others are hi and bye.

I wondered then what do you mean when you say OK?  Does it mean I agree you are right, I will do as you say?

Or does it just mean I hear you, OK?

It might also mean I'm done now, leave me alone!

Sometimes it means Here Goes!

In similar fashion, I wonder about upticks.  I often use it to mean I saw that.  But sometimes to mean I think that's great.  Inconsistent. 

What say you?

BTW, Shabbat Shalom!

Change Me

 

I had a thing written earlier today about all the ways I need to be changed.

Then, upon reflection, I realized that it was the wrong take on the matter.

It was still me-centric! Tricksie old Sister A. would have her way if she could…even in disguise!

So. Today’s text for feeding my head.

John 15:1-8

“I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. 2 Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He [a]takes away; and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit. 3 You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you. 4 Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.

5 “I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing. 6 If anyone does not abide in Me, he is cast out as a branch and is withered; and they gather them and throw them into the fire, and they are burned. 7 If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, you[b] will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you. 8 By this My Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit; so you will be My disciples.

Much better.

The Changeling

Well you can wake me up in the midnight hour

I'm gonna tell you just a what I seen

Many and many a moon ago there was a careless young mother. She was all of seventeen years, with clouds of wavy dark hair and a pretty smile, and this was her very first and only bebby. 

Her child was hale and robust with bright blue eyes and an agreeable nature. Many times, she was barely clothed for her mother didn’t see much point in wetting cloth just to wash it and dry it and wet it again. Fortunately for the wee girl, for girl she was, she was also of a warm metabolism and did not chill easily. An older mama might say that this mama was a bit lax and lazy in her ways. Ah, but she was a young thing full of songs and foolish love.

It was summer in that country, and truthfully all over the earth also. Many times, wee Millie would be left out on the green grass to sit and watch the birds and the trees and the flowers. She could not walk so her mother knew she could not wander. She was only six moons old.

Millie’s Da only knew that when he came home from the fields at night that his two girls were home and well and dinner was there waiting for him. He was a great believer in pie so most nights there would be a savory and a pie. Not really relevant I readily admit.

What neither Ma nor Da knew was that Millie had playmates to keep her company on those lazy mornings and afternoons between milky feedings.

Bunnies whispered secrets with whiskery kisses between. A great black bird flew over her grassy field from time to time, just checking. Poofy dandelion seed balls touched her lightly. With a tender forefinger Millie sent them flying.

Then there were sparkles and twinkles. Bubbles of shining pinkish light danced in complex patterns to her great amusement showing her things that do not translate well into speech, but then Millie was not yet speaking anyhow.

A great Cat with spikey tufts on its great questing ears sat just out of sight guarding Millie from fairies and the Changers. She only saw his green eyes from time to time, watching. Fairies did not tangle with the great Cat.

Of course, Millie was no changeling of old. She lived and did well with her young parents, but she was changed. As an older child she had sweet little dreamlike memories of those days in the grass with her playmates but no conscious recollections.

She knew she lived on a sweet little blue planet whirling in a great deep expanse filled with lights and stars and spirits and innumerable other bodies. She was a wise child filled with words beyond her years and later a wise woman. She was a credit to her teachers.

I suppose that in the process of living, if we have open eyes and open hearts, we all become changelings of this sort. Awareness grows step by step in like manner to how wisdom in mundane matters and intellectual knowledge grows.

Now Hear This

Way Down At The Bottom Of This Page

• Below the day's comments there is a list of pbird's most visited posts.
• Also listed are some of LoneStar Neanderthal's posts.

Below Tom Petty and North American Bigfoot Search and Dr. Greer himself we have a list.  It is a most useful and excellent list of linked sources for good stuff. Just a reminder! 

To wit:

• Online Etymology Dictionary
• Sacred Text Archive
• Polyglot Bible Index
• The Nag Hammadi Library Alphabetical Index
• Chabad-Lubavitch
• Health Ranger Report - Mike Adams
• Poetry Foundation
• Dr Steven Greer, Sirius Disclosure Home
• REFDESK "Fact Checker for the Internet"
• Earth Clinic - Natural Remedies and Alternative Health
• Dr. Syed Haider - Adam Gaertner’s Cancer Protocol
• Uncle Earl's Classic TV Channel

• Free Great Movies

In addition we have:

• A contact form
• A search bar
• A link to report abuse!
• A blog archive

That is all!

Maybe It's A Radio Station Really But In Print!

⁕ WHEEEE!™⁕

 Schmooozie!

Not

Newsie

Oh my word, would I love it if this blog was a talk radio station!  People could call in and we could chew the fat on air!  We could take song requests and I could play whatever music hit my head that day!

It would not be possible to show art work or photos, unless.....we did it as a podcast!...

The mind boggles!

You guys could all have time slots too!!

What do you think?

MEOW!

 

The Yom Kippur War 50th Anniversary and Something Else

 

Israel Observes 50th Anniversary of 1973 Yom Kippur War

Israelis will observe the holiday of Yom Kippur on Sunday evening and Monday in the shadow of the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, when Egypt and Syria attacked on the holiest day on the Jewish calendar.

***

 The war ended with Israeli victory, but at a terrible cost: nearly 2,700 soldiers were killed. Israel’s self-confidence, the legacy of the lightning victory in the Six Day War of 1967, was also permanently damaged.

But there were also positive outcomes — notably, the beginning of talks with Egypt, which resulted in the Camp David Accords of 1978, the first peace agreement between Israel and an Arab state, which paved the way for subsequent peace agreements.

 

 It was a very sneaky time to attack those wily Israelis.

In fact, it was unbecoming of Egypt and Syria!

I guess I will add what I was thinking about today.

*************************************

Unbecoming 

Ok, it happened again. A word popped up. I realized that I hadn’t heard it spoken in a while. We mature people know instinctively what it means. Sometimes I wonder about the rest of the world.

I checked etymologyonline.com and the definition is very plain. It means not fitting.

unbecoming (adj.)

1590s, from un- (1) "not" + becoming "fitting." Related: Unbecomingly.

I better check fitting:

fitting (adj.)

"proper, befitting, right," early 15c., present-participle adjective from fit (v.). Related: Fittingly.



OK, that’s all very fine and vague.

IMO, the implication is that unbecoming speech or action is that which makes one look bad. It could almost be described as using bad manners. Maybe there is an element of behaving below what one knows to be right, sloppiness or carelessness, giving vent to low passions.

This brings up the concept of you knew better, heard from a million mother’s lips.

When we see video of people brawling in public over nothing of importance, or hear foul speech uttered in an animalistic manner we cringe because it is so very unbecoming.

If the word does not exist in their minds neither does the concept.

I Have Two Questions

 Does anyone remember?

1. When kids all starting carrying backpacks? Heck, even I use one. No more purse.

2. When did they stop showing two movies when we went out to see movies?

I surely don't remember.

I will do a little research but I wondered because it seems that all of a sudden that was just over.

Remembered for youse guys by the Idiot Radio Station.

Intermission

 

Greetings!

Probably on the road today.

Shabbat Shalom!

How To Build A Monster

 

Let it be! lol!

This has to do with judging.

So, say, I see a painting. It exists, non-verbally. There it is. No one has said anything about it to me, or anyone as far as I know. It is unjudged. Not defined.

If I open my big mouth and say it is a piece of dreck, I have pronounced judgement on it. Now, I have made a thing. The thing I have made becomes real in a sense. There it is. A hateful little imp. That is, if anyone hears me.

Is it true or is it false. It is neither. It is subjective in reality.

I could have chosen to say this about anything. A song. A story. A person.

My judgement was unnecessary. It made a little creation of un-love.

This is all very new to me. I was thinking on this early this morning and it occurred to me that I don’t need to assign value to every darn thing I see.

What would be the loving thing to do?

Going back to the painting, I could be happy that the painter was able to do a painting and allow him the joy of it. I could think about what the painter was trying to express. I could just dig the colors. Whatever. I could let the whole thing alone.

Obviously, I have to judge my own work.  That's different. lol

For another thing, these creatures tend to breed more of themselves.

Who asked me?

There is only one Judge over all the earth.

 

So Tell Me

If you were a flower,

Which would you be?

Perhaps it's an odd question.

My old Native buddy said I

was a skunk cabbage!

 

 

Oh No! It's Uncle Bob!

 

“Something smells,” said Ramona. “Smells worse than that hog you have hanging up in that tree. By the way, I ain’t cooking that thing Big Boy! It can hang there until it's leg falls off and the raccoons get it!

“It smells like MD2020, like I would know….isn’t that what Bob drinks……oh no! He’s not here, is he?” Ramona leapt to her feet looking around wildly! She looked at Ralph with hope draining from her big brown eyes. 

“I told him he could come over. He has something for us!” said Ralph, with a smile on his big mug. “I said we could have some pork roast!”

He rolled over a big log then just to get out of her sight! Ramona had a pretty good throwing arm and plenty of ammunition to hand. 

About then, just in time to avert disaster depending on your point of view, Uncle Bob popped into view. And I do mean popped. First, he was not there, then he was there. Like that mountain. He looked like he had pet cockroaches. He looked like he died last week. If he wore pants the zipper would be 20 inches long, he had such a belly! He had a kind of pouch thing on a long strap over his shoulder and across his belly diagonally. This was unusual. Forest Folk are usually unadorned. 

“Hey,” said Uncle Bob. Now you must understand that he is only called Uncle because. He wasn’t anybody’s Uncle really. Nobody but Ralph would even talk to him. Bob didn’t care though, because he was perma-stoned.

“Hey…uh..” he was stuffing something into that pouch on his belly. At the same time he said, “I got you a cat! Look!” He held a lady cougar up by her scruff, while she kicked and screamed. Bob had pretty long arms so it kinda worked.

Ramona stepped way, way back. Her golden fur flashed in the muted sunlight as she sprang out of the way of the slashing claws.

Ralph got up from behind his log. He looked interested. “Let’s see…” said Ralph, reaching for the lioness.

“Dammit, Bob,” said the cat. “Put me down!”

She got a hind foot up on his face and started kicking. Fur flew. Also spit.

“You can get stuffed if you think you can keep catching me and keep taking me places. I will not comply, you horse’s posterior!

“When Tyler hears me, he will show up! Put me down!” she screamed.

An answering scream rent the air. Tyler had heard her.

“See,” said the cat! “Now you wait!”

About then she managed to twist her scruff out of Uncle Bob’s fist and took off into the forest. Last seen she was just a long tan tail disappearing into the shady undergrowth and ferns.

“Well, darn,” said Ralph. “I wanted a kitty, not a full-grown lioness. There she goes! I don’t want to talk to Tyler about this, Bob. Really, don't bring her here again."

“Hey, um, btw, how did you get here so fast, anyhow?”

A slow conspiratorial grin spread over Uncle Bob’s face. He blinked several times, sleepily. It was pretty gruesome to observe, but I digress.

“Lookie here R-bo,” said Bob reaching into his mysterious pouch. “I got this thing from some dudes in shiny green rompers the other day. I think they flew here from somewhere..but anyhow, man, it’s a portable portal. It’s way cool, Ralphie!”

Out of the pouch Uncle Bob pulled a circle of shining light that was flexible and compressible into a little shiny handful. He demonstrated it by holding it out and shaking it. It then became somewhat firm. He let go and it hung there in the air, shining, turning around anti-clockwise and making a slight electronic humming sound.

“Hold my hand Ralph, and I’ll jump through for a minute, but I don’t want to get lost, so hang on!” Ralph grabbed Bob’s paw and hung on and then Bob jumped into the circle and pretty much disappeared, except for his hand. In a moment he came back.

“See! It’s really cool.” He gave the circle a little shake and it collapsed into his hand, and he stuffed it back into the pouch. “Good thing you hung on, man, I was hanging out of a window somewhere…”

Ramona rolled her eyes, looking up into the forest canopy as if to say, “did you see that, God?”

“That is a super cool thing Bob,” said Ralph, “but why did they give it to you?”

“Oh,” said Uncle Bob, “I got them completely wasted, and sold them some of my herb. Ever see a stoned UFO pilot Ralph? Funny stuff, man….”

Note*Of*Appreciation

 Thanks!

Thanks for sticking around.  Thanks for coming by every day and visiting with us. Thanks for being such good sports about all the experimental writing by yours truly.  I have learned so much in the process.

Thanks to those of you who have written guest posts!

Lastly, thanks to LoneStar for his wisdom and his dependable cheerful attitude and his steadiness as co-Mod and writer.

It's been wonderful and so much fun.  

Let's do it some more! 

Meow!

Legrande

 

There he is again. This time exiting the drygoods store at the same time she is. What is he doing here anyhow, she wonders, as he walks away toward the busier downtown of Legrande. Cordelia doesn’t like to feel awkward.

But he does make her feel awkward.

Sunday

Saturday passed uneventfully. The next day she wakes at her usual 5am. She takes her time preparing for the day. It is expected that the schoolteacher will attend church, as do all decent ladies in Legrande, though as far as we know there are only decent ladies here. Therefore, she is preparing to attend the service. It is a warm morning already.

After tea, toast, and an egg, she hears the Methodist bells begin to ring out over the little town. It’s time. She sighs, wraps on a light shawl, picks up her bag and leaves her house. An erratic little wind lifts the leaves on the trees slightly, almost laughing.

It is the only church in town, so all the families and singles out walking are headed in the same direction. She feels impatient with them, all these quiet people walking together.

Six of her young girl students run together and take hands to form a ring. Laughing, they sing and make the circle turn to the left. Cordelia hears the word omen in their song and stops in her tracks. Little blue eyed and brown eyed souls in Sunday dresses make a pretty sight. The children’s dancing ring breaks up and they run to catch up to their parents. She thinks she must be wrong and walks again. If we could see her, we would see the little wrinkle between her eyes because she doubts herself.

Maria Belloni calls out a greeting to her and waves. Cordelia puts her worries behind her and enters the church and finds a seat in a back pew. She sings with the people and looks around to see who is there this morning. She prefers not to have people behind her looking at her! She is a little furtive in thought and rather self-conscious.

In the front pew, during the sermon, she sees a lady that she does not believe is  from Legrande. The lady is beyond her middle years, small and plump in a deep red silk dress, she wears a little lace head covering. For a moment Cordelia sees her own mother. Surely not! She has a momentary urge to run out of the church. But that would be the talk of the town, so she stays seated. It seems a bit too warm and breathless in the room. The sermon goes on in predictable fashion, the pastor extorting on the subject of forgiveness. She begins to be deeply troubled by her own manner of abandoning her home.

After church services everywhere and at all times, people stand and talk for a while before going home. Legrande is no different in this regard. Several mothers greet Cordelia and want to discuss their children’s lessons and progress and behavior. She works to reassure them all that things are going well at school. Mrs. Belloni wants to introduce her to a newcomer in town and calls her over to where she is standing with a man. Mr. Belloni has had some dealings with him. He is the same man she saw on the road. He has bought a ranch west of town and will be raising cattle. His name is John Higgins. He has a friendly manner and a warm handshake. She feels a bit flustered in his presence.

When at last she turns to leave she notices that he has a large black feather in the band of his hat.

* 

She smells roses, the scent of roses is on the breeze as she walks home, heavy, and sweet. Intoxicating. And maybe she didn’t pin up her hair very well. Who can say, but as she walks it falls loose around her shoulders. A veil of dark waves. Her hands fly up, but the damage can’t be repaired here in the street, so she scurries homeward. Just as she is almost in her door, she hears a bicycle bell of all things and turns to face the street.

A young fellow that she has never seen before, in an outrageous green velvet suit with knee length trousers, with tightly curled red hair, has stopped his bicycle right before her door. “Mrs. Higgins!” he calls with an impish grin. “I have a delivery for you!”

The raven on the eaves of her little house watches implacably as she hurries indoors and slams the door. She might have even gone so far as to lock the door! But some things are not so easily kept away.

* 

Three weeks pass. She begins to forget the strange Sunday.

* 

There is no mail delivery in Legrande. One must go to the post office to pick up mail. So, accordingly, Cordelia walks to the dry goods store where the post office is located to get her mail, if any. There is a letter from Spokane, from home. She puts it in her bag, nods goodbye to the desk clerk and walks home with something like dread in her heart.

Sitting at her table, in the kitchen, she cuts it open with a sharp little knife. It is from her father. There is a newspaper clipping inside. It is a notification of her mother’s death, an obituary. There is a dark little photo on the clipping of a small lady in a dark dress with a little lace head covering. Cordelia can hardly take a breath. Amelia, her mother, is gone. A heart attack.

She sets the actual letter aside but knows that she must read it. She picks it up again.

Her father thanks God that she is living, forgives her sudden departure, would like to hear from her again. He mentions that Franklin Lewis is married. Her tears fall for many minutes.

* 

On a Wednesday, upon returning home, she finds a small vase made of green glass on her porch. In it are three red roses and a branch of rosemary, with a black feather also. There is a note.

Miss Monson:

I was delighted to meet you at church.

May I see you again?

Yours, John Higgins

Cordelia has no idea where he might have found roses in Legrande. It is beyond her understanding. At last, she smiles.

* 

Shall we turn the dial back now? You see how this is going. There will be a measured courtship. There will be a wedding. There will be a life lived out so long ago now. These are our great-grandparents’ years. Theirs, not ours. We can only try to imagine the reality they lived.

The dial turns back and the focus changes. The chickens and the black dog fade from our vision. Cordelia and John Higgins become indistinct historical images.

We see the little town as a remote sepia image once more, antique, unknowable, safe from our inquisitive modern eyes.

Excuses, Excuses

 

blah, blah, blah!

Today was apparently yakking with relatives day and I did not finish that story or anything at all. My sole surviving sister bent my ear for a good three hours.  I will say it was nice that it was not by telephone.

But Happy Sunday, 17th of September 2023.  What a date.  I can hardly believe it.  It sounds like some future date.

So, let's just chat like we always do.

Your indigent tattler, pb

A Troubled Dream

 

*I left home at 18 years of age. I had a high school diploma and that was good enough. I answered an ad and applied for the job of teaching school as far away from home as I could manage. I had some savings. Enough to resettle in the primitive little wooden town.*

A Troubled Dream 

Cordelia Monson is stretched out on her narrow bed. She tosses fitfully, first one side, then another. She cries out briefly.

Outside the sky is a sullen emerald green. Light seems to emanate from the clouds as if they contained some sort of innate illumination. Far over the hills outside town she hears slight mumblings of thunder and perhaps a sort of echoing call.

Her mother will be grieving. She finds herself walking in the basement of her old home in Washington. It is very dark down there with the spare bed and dressers and other old forgotten things. She feels her way around, hands outstretched. She hears dull rumbles and mutterings from the small basement windows, which are open, strangely.

How did she get here, she wonders.

She walks from room to room calling, whispering “mother….mother.” The storm nears. She can see lightning flashes, but they are strangely colored. Lightning is not green, surely.

Something large and black with a huge wingspan flies near her head suddenly and she swings at it with all her strength! Large black wings brush her unbound hair, and she sits up suddenly in bed, shuddering.

Cordelia decides to write a letter to her mother tomorrow. Sighs.

She thinks of Franklin Lewis, arises to close her bedroom window almost reflexively, and hops back into bed. Tomorrow is a school day. Dawn is hurrying to her.

* 

After she has dressed for the day and eaten a hurried little meal of bread and butter with sweetened tea, she gathers a few things into her school bag.

When she opens her front door fresh morning air with some dew still in it washes over her. She takes a deep breath and looks at the sky and the mountains. She can smell various resinous plants, sage I suppose. There is another woodsy essence aloft also. A slight breeze teases her carefully arranged hair. Out of the corner of her eye she sees some great bird with black wings fly by and disappear behind her house. She does not know it, but the word omen begins moving toward her conscious thought.

She squares her shoulders and thinks of the 15 children that she will be meeting with today. This brings a smile for she is a careful and kind school mistress. It is her second year as school teacher here. The town’s people are pleased with her.

Walking back towards town and the school, the road is dusty as is usual for summer. She passes a man on the road who takes his right hand out of his jeans pocket and tips his black hat as she passes. “Good morning,” she whispers, chin up, eyes down.  No casual flirt is our Cordelia. She has a polite, remote manner, as she was taught is correct, but she has seen him anyhow. 

She unlocks the front door of the little school building. There is no bell for her to ring as there is no bell tower. A coat of white paint would help a lot here. 

She doesn’t need to make a fire today. The stove in the corner will stay cold. At her desk she waits until all 15 students have arrived and taken their own seats. She glances out the window and down the street, but she doesn’t know what she is looking for out there. In any case, the man is not visible from the school.

She says hello and good morning as she stands there. The morning sun defines and highlights her fresh pleasant appearance. Cheeks are pink, eyes are dark blue, hair is nearly black and swept up. She leads a simple morning prayer and the pledge. She goes about her lessons and the morning passes cheerfully. The room is noisy but orderly.  She does not require the children to be silent as some do.

The littlest children make her lonely in a way she doesn’t quite perceive. Their tender earnest foolishness touches her heart.

The children run home to their mothers for an hour at noon for lunch and a little rest. After lunch, at school Miss Monson, as they call her, watches over some outdoor play. Then everyone goes back inside for a couple of hours more schoolwork, and the day is done.

* 

No one escorts Miss Monson home. She has no anxiety about being alone. Nothing untoward has ever happened to her in Legrande. By herself, carrying her school bag, she retraces her steps from this morning to her little house. There is no lawn here, but just a path through some random vegetation. Walking to her door, she notices a black feather lying there beside the path. It was not there that morning.

* 

She doesn’t know if her letter will open more wounds than it heals, but she writes it anyway. Mr. and Mrs. R. Monson, 160 Poplar Ave, Spokane, WA. Roger and Amelia. Perhaps they will have thought she was dead somewhere. For the first time she considers her cruelty. She walks to the tiny post office in the drygoods store and posts her letter, for better or for worse. She is very glad that she will not be a witness to the reception of her letter.

* 

There he is again. This time exiting the drygoods store at the same time she is. What is he doing here anyhow, she wonders, as he walks away toward the busier downtown of Legrande. Cordelia doesn’t like to feel awkward.

I Walked Out

 

A watery oval dresser mirror. The kind you can tip to change the view. She sits on the little wooden bench before it, brushing her long hair out. A nightly ritual. She wears her dressing gown over a long-sleeved white nightgown. Her eyes are dark and deep. A small wrinkle distresses her brow as she regards herself. 

My hair flows down over my shoulders and reaches my waist. Does it need to be this long? If I had married Franklin I would be sitting in a fine house before a beautiful mirror. I would likely be a mother by now with a son or a daughter. Therein falls the shadow. I could not conceive of sharing a bed with Frank Lewis. So, I walked out. I paid a price. I don’t think he did, except for the embarrassment of having me leave him so precipitously.

Cordelia works for her keep. She teaches school for the 15 school age children in Legrande. In this town the children attend school until they are in eighth grade and pass certain required tests.

The children in her classroom originate from four families. She thinks of each one frequently. The Larsons send Millie 5, Susan 6, Ed 10, and his twin Will. The Roberts children are John 7, Marylou 10, Freddy 12 and Louise 15. The Matsons have little Fay 5 and her brother Taylor 9. Then there is the Belloni family and their five. Mario 5, Peter 7, Lily 9, Marco 12, and Justina 15.

Louise and Justina help with the five-year-olds. Louise is a slight little blond who looks young for her years but is wise. Justina is more blooming and has a sly sense of humor. When something foolish happens in class Cordelia and Justina’s eyes often meet in amusement.

None of this affords Cordelia much in the way of reimbursement. She lives in a pure cash economy. She has never written a check or had an account of any kind at any business. The small house is provided to the teacher, and she receives about $30.00 monthly in cash from Legrande.

I left home at 18 years of age. I had a high school diploma and that was good enough. I answered an ad and applied for the job of teaching school as far away from home as I could manage. I had some savings. Enough to resettle in the primitive little wooden town.

Some evenings she goes to supper at a student's home.  Tonight she does not.What does a lady who lives alone in a small rural town in c. 1910 cook for her own dinner.  I have only conjecture.  

Nevertheless, it is a pleasant evening. A soft scented breeze comes through the open window. Darkness comes, she lights her kerosene lamp and prepares for bed.

 Should you wish to read the paper, here is its address: https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/188059720.pdf

Just A Tiny Peek

 

Legrande

Once upon a time, some time before our time, but not too many decades ago, there was a small western town.

The view from way back here is sepia toned. One sees a rough high mountain range beginning several hills and valleys away from the little town.  It seems to be a summer or late spring.  The few trees are all covered in leaves. The trees appear to be rooted near a quiet little river with high banks. It would be a good camping place for nomadic native travelers to stay down and out of sight in.

There are some cattle scattered over the near landscape.

Turning the dial, so to speak, we can travel deeper into the view. There is one main street.  No street lights. The street is not paved.  It is dusty and dry. No one has planted flowers in boxes or pots in this town.  Watering them would be impossible. 

Just like in any western movie, there are wooden buildings, some with the false fronts so beloved in the old west. It seems to be deserted in the noonday heat.

There is a Methodist church, a grocery, a doctor’s office, the town hall, a post office, a saloon/café with two rooms upstairs for the rare traveler, and a dry goods shop attached to the feed store.  There is a small school building near the edge of the tiny business district. Further down the one main street are several houses. Some very humble indeed, some average for the time and place and one rather more grand one where perhaps the mayor or the owner of the several businesses lives. There are flowers in pots on the front porch of this house. Geraniums, I'd say.

Turn the dial a bit more and the sepia resolves into dry pale color. None of these wooden structures wear any paint. No, I am wrong.  The Methodist church is painted white, like it would be, of course. The sky is a washed blue and the trees show their faithful light green. We are at street level now. A dog searches along the street on some mysterious canine mission. A chicken flies up out of his reach. The dog is black of some retriever type and the chicken is brick red.

It's very quiet today in Legrande. Slight wind noise. There are more chickens somewhere near. The wind carries their fussing to our ears.  A dog barks.  A door slams. Children's giggles and yells come from behind the school.

We take a stroll down the dusty road. So far, no human soul is visible. Laundry hung out to dry behind houses flaps slowly in the breeze, as evidence for human habitation.

At last, there is a sighting. Pausing before a small house behind a tiny fence, something catches the eye. If we just casually remain where we are, hands in pockets, hat pulled low over the eyes, we can see Cordelia Monson in her rented backyard pacing to and back. There is nervous energy in her steps.

It becomes apparent that we are visiting 1910 approximately. For Cordelia wears an ankle length dark skirt of a simple flared shape, and a white long-sleeved blouse with a collar up to her chin in spite of the warmth of the day.  Her hair is up in the stylish pompadour manner of the day. She wears thin leather button up boots. She seems as if she might be in her mid-twenties, and she lives alone here in this tiny house.  We may assume its tidiness and paucity of belongings. She will have a narrow bed, included with the house. Her clothing will be in the bedroom, a few bits of furniture in the main room. She will own some kitchen gear.  There will be a wood stove, as that is all anyone has. She possesses a Bible, some writing supplies and this and that, grooming items such as a young lady of her class would own.

The truth of the matter is that Cordelia is a kind of escapee. She was not born or raised in Legrande.  It is her refuge.

Glory!

Humpty Dumpty took the book, and looked at it carefully. "That seems to be done right—" he began.

"You're holding it upside down!" Alice interrupted. 

"To be sure I was!" Humpty Dumpty said gaily, as she turned it round for him. "I thought it looked a little queer. As I was saying, that seems to be done right—though I haven't time to look it over thoroughly just now—and that shows that there are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents—" 

"Certainly," said Alice. 

"And only one for birthday presents, you know. There's glory for you!" 

"I don't know what you mean by 'glory,' " Alice said. 

Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't—till I tell you. I meant 'there's a nice knock-down argument for you!' " 

"But 'glory' doesn't mean 'a nice knock-down argument,' " Alice objected. 

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less." 

"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

 "The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master—that's all."

<°‿°>

You know how it goes.  The word that hit my head this morning was "glory." Hm. Thinks I, was bedeutet das? Why?

Glory doesn't actually mean whatever Humpty says it means, though I thought of him immediately.

Thought of a poem about it.  Nothing but glory do I see. Like that. But I managed to get a grip and stop that!

At its most basic, glory is bright light, verging into halos and crowns of light on divine figure's heads.

A woman's hair is said to be her glory. Now we are getting somewhere. 

glory (n.)

c. 1200, gloire "the splendor of God or Christ; praise offered to God, worship," from Old French glorie "glory (of God); worldly honor, renown; splendor, magnificence, pomp" (11c., Modern French gloire), from Latin gloria "fame, renown, great praise or honor," a word of uncertain origin.

The etymology as *gnoria "knowledge, fame" to gnarus "known" and i-gnorare has been acknowledged by some scholars, and rejected by others. In its favour speak the semantics of words for "glory", which in Indo-European societies mostly have to do with "spoken praise", "reputation by hearsay". Against the assumed etymology speak the phonetics. [de Vaan]

Meaning "one who is a source of glory" is from mid-14c. Also in Middle English "thirst for glory, vainglory, pride, boasting, vanity" (late 14c.), Sense of "magnificence" is late 14c. in English. Meaning "worldly honor, fame, renown." Latin also had gloriola "a little fame." Glory days was in use by 1970. Old Glory for "the American flag" is first attested 1862.

The Christian senses are from the Latin word's use in the Bible to translate Greek doxa "expectation" (Homer), later "an opinion, judgment," and later still "opinion others have of one (good or bad), fame; glory," which was used in Biblical writing to translate a Hebrew word which had a sense of "brightness, splendor, magnificence, majesty of outward appearance." The religious use has colored that word's meaning in most European tongues. Wuldor was an Old English word used in this sense.

***

Psalm 3:3
But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.

So, perhaps we can let Humpty get away with his definition a little bit. Glory in this sense can be a fine argument for the importance and definition of a person.

Of course his claim to mastery of words is vainglorious indeed.

Joyous Configuration

I read a tiny bit about configuration. What I got out of it was that it has to do with a good functioning conjunction of hardware and software. I thought that was cool. 

We really do strive for our configuration to be joyous!  How clever of the Thumbies to think of that useful phrase!

In addition to that, I want to say that it has been joyous to talk with you all and get to know you a little.

So. Let us go onward to greater heights of glory!! This worldly configuration is not our resting place.

Who Has Seen The Wind

 

Who Has Seen the Wind?

BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:

But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.



Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

I bet that anyone who has gone to school in this country in the 50s or 60s or maybe even later, has heard this poem read to them by a schoolteacher. Who has seen the wind is one of those things. We know that we have not and cannot see the wind, but we know it by its movement, and we know the things it moves.

I have been thinking about the wind lately. In storms or even little breezes that move my neighbor’s wind chimes I sense something special. It makes me feel that something tangible from God is afoot. It alerts me. I wait for messages.

So, I checked out some well known verses on the subject of wind.

John 3:8

“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

These people are moved by the breath or Spirit of God, not by any natural force.

Acts 2:1

“When the day of Pentecost arrived, they were all together in one place. And suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. And divided tongues as of fire appeared to them and rested on each one of them.”

The Spirit of God was definitely there!

Hebrews 1:7

Of the angels he says, “He makes his angels winds, and his ministers a flame of fire.”

Isn’t that lovely?

Maybe wind is a metaphor for movement, doing, something happening! Sometimes it is God moving us or the world. Sometimes it’s just a hint, a message saying, “here I AM!”

In great ripping, tearing storms I love to go out and just feel it. I love to be there in it and greet the Lord. I don’t think that I am alone in that.

Raising The Son, Perhaps

 

Jabberwocky

BY LEWIS CARROLL
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.



“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”



He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

And stood awhile in thought.



And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!



One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.



“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.



’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky: a summary

In terms of its plot, ‘Jabberwocky’ might be described as nonsense literature’s answer to the epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf: what Christopher Booker, in his vast and fascinating The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories, calls an ‘overcoming the monster’ story.

A hero leaves home and goes out into the world in order to face down some evil; after encountering difficulties and tests of his bravery, he is triumphant and vanquishes his foe; and then he comes home again. It’s a story told again and again in literature, from Beowulf to The Lord of the Rings. Of course it is also an example of what we would now call the fantasy genre: supernatural or fictional monsters or creatures feature (namely, in Carroll’s poem, the Jubjub Bird, the Bandersnatch, and, of course, the Jabberwock itself).

The structure of Carroll’s poem echoes this basic plot structure (‘overcoming the monster’) in two ways: through adopting the ballad metre traditionally used for poems telling such a story (that is, the four-line stanza, or quatrain form), and through repeating the opening stanza in the closing stanza, suggesting the hero’s return home after his adventure.

But is this where the chief appeal of the poem lies, when so much of the language Carroll uses is, clearly, nonsense?

After all, as well as being an example of a fantasy quest, the poem is also a masterpiece of linguistic inventiveness: every stanza is a feast of neologisms – new words, coinages, nonsense formations. Several of them have even entered common usage: ‘chortle’ (a blend of ‘chuckle’ and ‘snort’) and ‘galumph’ (meaning to move in a clumsy way) are both used by many people who probably have no idea that we have Lewis Carroll to thank for them. (‘Mimsy’, too, is often credited to Carroll – though it actually existed prior to the poem.)

The whole article is worth reading, though I think there is precious little nonsense there!

*!* 

Now, in addition to all of this, I get a faint sensation that the poem could be about fitting a young fellow for life, with all a parent's good, but possibly futile advice.

And yet, in spite of all, the boy goes out and slays his indescribable monster.  He is greeted back at home by his delighted, and no doubt, very relieved parent!

"Beamish boy!" has long been used by my own self as a term of approval and glee even. All the unfamiliar words somehow ring true.  Maybe in some sense we all understand the bardic urge to mangle and improve on the language.

I would enjoy to know what you all think!