The dollar coin honoring our 18th president has been issued by the United States Mint. I have a roll of the coins sitting here on my desk, and it brings to mind the story of how he became known as Ulysses Simpson Grant.
When he was born, his mother was confounded by all the relatives offering their opinions about what and after whom he should be named. To avoid offending anyone, she told them all to write their choice on a piece of paper, which she would put into a hat, and whichever one she drew would be the baby's name. It was her mother-in-law, who had been reading the classics, who submitted the winning entry, Ulysses.
His grandfather, meanwhile, was so put out that the boy wasn’t given his name that the only way to appease him was to add it, and so the child was christened Hiram Ulysses Grant. He went by his middle name, though, and his chums called him Lyss.
The congressman who wrote his recommendation to the U. S. Military Academy didn’t know Grant’s full name, but he knew the families and assumed that he had been given his mother’s maiden name, so he filled in the name as Ulysses Simpson Grant. Grant decided he could straighten it out when he got to West Point.
Upon his arrival there, however, he happened on a list of the incoming cadets tacked to a bulletin board on which he was listed as U. S. Grant. He liked that so much, thinking it the perfect name for an American army officer, that he never had it corrected. His classmates teased him by calling him Uncle Sam Grant, and for the rest of his life he was known to his comrades as Sam.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Loss of Innocence
I was doing very poorly on spelling tests when I was in the second grade. I generally spelled only two or three of the words correctly. After coming home with yet another poor result, my mother sent me to my room to study my newest batch of spelling words. When I thought I was ready, she quizzed me, then sent me back to my room to work on those I got wrong. It took several repeats, but finally I had those words down cold. The next day, I sailed through that spelling test with confidence.
The day after that, however, my teacher, Mrs. Mackin, made me stay in the room when the other children went out for recess so she could talk to me about the spelling test. I had gotten nine of the ten words right, a huge improvement. The problem was that the little boy who sat next to me, whose name was Van, had also gotten only one word wrong, which we both misspelled exactly the same way. Since Van always did well on his spelling tests and I didn’t, the teacher suggested that the sudden miraculous improvement in my spelling was the result of my having copied the words from Van’s paper.
I was shocked and appalled -- so genuinely aghast, in fact, that the teacher had to believe me when I explained how hard my mother had made me study the spelling words.
What was really sad was that up until that moment it had never once occurred to me in my innocent young life that there even was such a thing as cheating.
The day after that, however, my teacher, Mrs. Mackin, made me stay in the room when the other children went out for recess so she could talk to me about the spelling test. I had gotten nine of the ten words right, a huge improvement. The problem was that the little boy who sat next to me, whose name was Van, had also gotten only one word wrong, which we both misspelled exactly the same way. Since Van always did well on his spelling tests and I didn’t, the teacher suggested that the sudden miraculous improvement in my spelling was the result of my having copied the words from Van’s paper.
I was shocked and appalled -- so genuinely aghast, in fact, that the teacher had to believe me when I explained how hard my mother had made me study the spelling words.
What was really sad was that up until that moment it had never once occurred to me in my innocent young life that there even was such a thing as cheating.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Composers notwithstanding
I heard the Overture to Il Signor Bruschino by Rossini this morning. This piece is well known for several sections in which the second violins are required beat out a rhythm by tapping their bows on their music stands.
Composers have also been known to call for using the wood part of the bow on the strings, either striking them (col legno battuto, "hit with the wood") or dragging it across them (col legno tratto, "drawn with the wood").
As far as I've ever known, violinists hate doing those things. Beginning violin students are warned never to hit anything with their bows, because if the wood breaks, it cannot be repaired. If required to perform a piece where the bow could be damaged, players will try to bring a cheap old bow to use.
There's a scene in the movie "The Competition" which always bothers me. In order to show their appreciation for something Richard Dreyfuss does in a rehearsal, the wind players of the orchestra applaud while the string players all tap their bows on their instruments.
I don't think so. Professional musicians do not bang $4,000 bows against $35,000 violins for anybody. Not even Richard Dreyfuss.
Composers have also been known to call for using the wood part of the bow on the strings, either striking them (col legno battuto, "hit with the wood") or dragging it across them (col legno tratto, "drawn with the wood").
As far as I've ever known, violinists hate doing those things. Beginning violin students are warned never to hit anything with their bows, because if the wood breaks, it cannot be repaired. If required to perform a piece where the bow could be damaged, players will try to bring a cheap old bow to use.
There's a scene in the movie "The Competition" which always bothers me. In order to show their appreciation for something Richard Dreyfuss does in a rehearsal, the wind players of the orchestra applaud while the string players all tap their bows on their instruments.
I don't think so. Professional musicians do not bang $4,000 bows against $35,000 violins for anybody. Not even Richard Dreyfuss.
Monday, May 23, 2011
I'll Take You Up On It
Although I have no recollection of it whatever, when I was quite young I apparently began agitating about wanting to learn to play the piano. I must have been persistent, because in the summer of 1955, when I was eight years old, my parents bought me a piano, and my mother arranged for me to begin lessons that fall.
At my very first lesson, my piano teacher, Mrs. Roberts, explained what was expected of me in the way of practice. She said there was no excuse for not practicing. “Even if you hurt a finger,” she said, “you can work around it. The only way to get out of practicing would be to break your arm.”
The next day, therefore, on my way home from school I fell off my bicycle and broke my arm. Lessons were suspended for six weeks.
A long time later Mrs. Roberts told me that for years she had always given new students that same no-excuse-but-a-broken-arm speech, but after me, she never said it to anyone again.
At my very first lesson, my piano teacher, Mrs. Roberts, explained what was expected of me in the way of practice. She said there was no excuse for not practicing. “Even if you hurt a finger,” she said, “you can work around it. The only way to get out of practicing would be to break your arm.”
The next day, therefore, on my way home from school I fell off my bicycle and broke my arm. Lessons were suspended for six weeks.
A long time later Mrs. Roberts told me that for years she had always given new students that same no-excuse-but-a-broken-arm speech, but after me, she never said it to anyone again.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Whether the Weather Is or Ain't
I recently heard a woman on television say, "If you don't like the weather in Texas, wait five minutes -- it will change!" as if that was really cute and really original.
Everybody says that about wherever they live. Something else everybody says: There are only two seasons in ...
... Chicago -- winter and August!
... Texas -- summer and notsummer!
... Maine -- winter and the Fourth of July!
... Michigan -- winter and road construction!
... Alaska -- tourist and winter!
... Florida -- hot and hotter!
... Vancouver -- summer and hockey!
Yeah, yeah, real cute.
Mid-Michigan where I live has three seasons -- fall, winter, and summer. It goes right from cold, wet and windy March into summer with hardly a 70-degree day in between. My first spring-less year here I said to somebody, "Don't you have spring here?" and he said, "Oh, sure -- remember last Wednesday?"
This year we're doing the yo-yo thing. Last week it was 85 degrees one day and 53 the next. It looks like we're not done with that yet. The predicted highs for Monday and Tuesday next week are 82 and 63, respectively.
But today is supposed to be sunny with a high near 80. Maybe today will be spring. That would be nice, especially if it is to be the very last day for life on earth.
Everybody says that about wherever they live. Something else everybody says: There are only two seasons in ...
... Chicago -- winter and August!
... Texas -- summer and notsummer!
... Maine -- winter and the Fourth of July!
... Michigan -- winter and road construction!
... Alaska -- tourist and winter!
... Florida -- hot and hotter!
... Vancouver -- summer and hockey!
Yeah, yeah, real cute.
Mid-Michigan where I live has three seasons -- fall, winter, and summer. It goes right from cold, wet and windy March into summer with hardly a 70-degree day in between. My first spring-less year here I said to somebody, "Don't you have spring here?" and he said, "Oh, sure -- remember last Wednesday?"
This year we're doing the yo-yo thing. Last week it was 85 degrees one day and 53 the next. It looks like we're not done with that yet. The predicted highs for Monday and Tuesday next week are 82 and 63, respectively.
But today is supposed to be sunny with a high near 80. Maybe today will be spring. That would be nice, especially if it is to be the very last day for life on earth.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
In a twinkling of an eye at the last trumpet -- and here it comes
Loyal reader Nancy S. of Bath, Michigan, has suggested I comment on the prospect of the world coming to an end on Saturday.
Yes, there are folks who actually believe the world will end two days from now. An 89-year-old Colorado "Internet preacher" named Harold Camping came up with the date after combing the Bible for clues and adding up the days. He says the world will end in fire, which will disappoint those who prefer to have it end in ice. (You'll remember Robert Frost said he really didn't care which.) If they were predicting it would end in flood, I'd say they had a better chance, at least in North America.
This is the same guy who made the same prediction for a date in 1994 and is now explaining that his calculations were wrong that time, but he's got it now.
How unhappy will Mr. Camping's followers be, do you think, when they wake up Sunday morning to find they and the world are still here?
At least he won't have to explain why he didn't prepare a sermon for Sunday's service.
Yes, there are folks who actually believe the world will end two days from now. An 89-year-old Colorado "Internet preacher" named Harold Camping came up with the date after combing the Bible for clues and adding up the days. He says the world will end in fire, which will disappoint those who prefer to have it end in ice. (You'll remember Robert Frost said he really didn't care which.) If they were predicting it would end in flood, I'd say they had a better chance, at least in North America.
This is the same guy who made the same prediction for a date in 1994 and is now explaining that his calculations were wrong that time, but he's got it now.
How unhappy will Mr. Camping's followers be, do you think, when they wake up Sunday morning to find they and the world are still here?
At least he won't have to explain why he didn't prepare a sermon for Sunday's service.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Mother Married a Hunky (Part 2)
Prologue: Two Bohemian words figure prominently in this story. One is bábovka, pronounced bob-BUFF-ka. It’s a kind of poppy-seed pound cake made in a bundt pan. The other word is bačkory, pronounced buch-coody, which rhymes with much-goody. (Trust me.)
One time when they hadn’t been married too long, my folks stopped one evening to visit with my father’s parents and two unmarried sisters who still lived at home. Grandma served coffee and bábovka, and in a sincere effort to compliment the cake as well as to show her willingness to absorb some of the ethnicity of her husband’s family, my mother said to her mother-in-law, “This bačkory is the best I’ve ever had.”
Everyone laughed. My mother wanted to know what she had said, but nobody would tell her. They all thought it was so cute, and Grandma just nodded her head and beamed upon her new daughter-in-law, accepting the praise in the spirit in which it had been given.
Alone in the car on the way home, my mother demanded to know what was so funny, and my father said, “You told my mother that she makes the best house slippers you ever ate.”
Epilogue: If you're going to pick up one or two words of a foreign language from hanging around people who are speaking it, what are the chances one of them will be the word for house slippers? But I can tell you how my mother heard it, and probably often. Grandma Knez couldn’t abide seeing people without shoes. If someone came into a room in stocking feet or, worse, barefooted, she would encourage them -- not so subtly -- to put on some house slippers by pointing at their feet and crying, “Bačkory! Bačkory!”
One time when they hadn’t been married too long, my folks stopped one evening to visit with my father’s parents and two unmarried sisters who still lived at home. Grandma served coffee and bábovka, and in a sincere effort to compliment the cake as well as to show her willingness to absorb some of the ethnicity of her husband’s family, my mother said to her mother-in-law, “This bačkory is the best I’ve ever had.”
Everyone laughed. My mother wanted to know what she had said, but nobody would tell her. They all thought it was so cute, and Grandma just nodded her head and beamed upon her new daughter-in-law, accepting the praise in the spirit in which it had been given.
Alone in the car on the way home, my mother demanded to know what was so funny, and my father said, “You told my mother that she makes the best house slippers you ever ate.”
Epilogue: If you're going to pick up one or two words of a foreign language from hanging around people who are speaking it, what are the chances one of them will be the word for house slippers? But I can tell you how my mother heard it, and probably often. Grandma Knez couldn’t abide seeing people without shoes. If someone came into a room in stocking feet or, worse, barefooted, she would encourage them -- not so subtly -- to put on some house slippers by pointing at their feet and crying, “Bačkory! Bačkory!”
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Just some questions
1. Isn't it ironic that air is a poor conductor of heat, and yet those of us who live in colder climes spend so much money heating the air inside our dwellings? We would do better to live in warm water in the winter months, but then, that isn't very practical, is it?
2. Why can't we move the flood waters from the middle of North America to the U.S. Southwest where there is a serious drought?
3. Who cares why the Schwarzeneggers are breaking up?
4. What took her so long?
2. Why can't we move the flood waters from the middle of North America to the U.S. Southwest where there is a serious drought?
3. Who cares why the Schwarzeneggers are breaking up?
4. What took her so long?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Im Himmel gibt's kein Bier
The Pabst Brewing Company is moving its corporate headquarters to Los Angeles, according to a story I heard on NPR this morning. They went on to say that sales of its signature product, Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, have rebounded in recent years due to a growing cult following. Sales had been in decline over the past thirty or so years, not entirely because I stopped drinking it.
Pabst Blue Ribbon figured prominently in my beer-drinking life in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, starting when I was in college in Wisconsin back in the days when an establishment with a "B" license could sell beer to persons 18 and older. Going out to the B-bars (especially on Thursday, known as "Loadin’ Night") was required behavior back then. My particular favorite place was Rudy’s Tavern, where a "Shorty Pabst" (an 8-ounce can) was a quarter.
One of my Blue Ribbon memories is about the time a college friend who lived in Milwaukee invited me and another pal for a long holiday weekend. Her father worked for Pabst, and he kept a refrigerator in the garage filled to capacity with PBR. We had the place to ourselves as her family had gone away, and the three of us spent three days doing almost nothing except playing pinochle and drinking beer, with occasional breaks for food, shorter ones for sleep, and short but frequent ones for going to the bathroom. By the time we left, the refrigerator in the garage was empty.
When I was a starving graduate student, I started buying brands like Old Milwaukee and Red White & Blue because they were even cheaper than PBR. Later I took a shine to Stroh’s. Now my favorite is Miller Genuine Draft.
But I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for Pabst Blue Ribbon. This is not original, of course, but it’s what I remember of our version from those old Wisconsin days:
I think that I shall never hear
A poem lovely as a beer,
With golden crown and foamy cap,
The brew that Rudy's has on tap.
Poems are made by fools, I hear,
But only Pabst can make a beer.
Pabst Blue Ribbon figured prominently in my beer-drinking life in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, starting when I was in college in Wisconsin back in the days when an establishment with a "B" license could sell beer to persons 18 and older. Going out to the B-bars (especially on Thursday, known as "Loadin’ Night") was required behavior back then. My particular favorite place was Rudy’s Tavern, where a "Shorty Pabst" (an 8-ounce can) was a quarter.
One of my Blue Ribbon memories is about the time a college friend who lived in Milwaukee invited me and another pal for a long holiday weekend. Her father worked for Pabst, and he kept a refrigerator in the garage filled to capacity with PBR. We had the place to ourselves as her family had gone away, and the three of us spent three days doing almost nothing except playing pinochle and drinking beer, with occasional breaks for food, shorter ones for sleep, and short but frequent ones for going to the bathroom. By the time we left, the refrigerator in the garage was empty.
When I was a starving graduate student, I started buying brands like Old Milwaukee and Red White & Blue because they were even cheaper than PBR. Later I took a shine to Stroh’s. Now my favorite is Miller Genuine Draft.
But I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for Pabst Blue Ribbon. This is not original, of course, but it’s what I remember of our version from those old Wisconsin days:
I think that I shall never hear
A poem lovely as a beer,
With golden crown and foamy cap,
The brew that Rudy's has on tap.
Poems are made by fools, I hear,
But only Pabst can make a beer.
Friday, May 13, 2011
P.S. It's Friday the 13th
The first time I heard it, I thought that ...
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear,
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, was he?
... was the funniest thing I ever heard. It probably was, since I was about three years old.
When I was about nine years old, I heard somebody telling somebody else (on television) that "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" meant we come from dust and when we die we go back to dust, and the other person said, "Then you'd better go check under the bed, because somebody is either coming or going."
And I thought that was the funniest thing I ever heard.
Yesterday I heard Newt Gingrich is running for President.
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear,
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, was he?
... was the funniest thing I ever heard. It probably was, since I was about three years old.
When I was about nine years old, I heard somebody telling somebody else (on television) that "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" meant we come from dust and when we die we go back to dust, and the other person said, "Then you'd better go check under the bed, because somebody is either coming or going."
And I thought that was the funniest thing I ever heard.
Yesterday I heard Newt Gingrich is running for President.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
My New Wheels
The lease was up on my automobile this month, so I needed a new ride. I really wanted to economize now that I'm retired and my income is reduced. We really only need one good car between us, so I thought I'd get myself a beater just to buzz around town in. However, it seems that the Cash for Clunkers took all the $1500 used cars off the market, and besides, after seeing what $5000 will buy, I abandoned that idea.
I looked into leasing or buying new, buying used -- I even thought about buying the gas-guzzling SUV I had been leasing, but that was a bad idea too, especially since gasoline was $4.29 a gallon that week.
So, I finally decided a late-model mid-sized used car would do. I stopped to see the dealer up the street, who just happened to have for sale a 2007 Chevrolet Malibu with 8840 miles on it. Yes. That's what I said.
It's a nice car. Looks brand new inside and out -- talk about the little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays. It's got four doors and power stuff and a DIC (computerized Driver Information Center). It can get 22 mpg in town and 32 on the highway. Its color is given as "amber bronze metallic," which is a sort of light gold-ish tan. It's a nice car to drive. I'm liking it a lot
I had several stops on my shopping trip today, and as I drove around town I kept noticing other vehicles similar to mine in size and shape and color, and I suddenly became aware of exactly what has happened to me.
I am driving an old-lady car.
Oh, well. If the shoes fits...
I looked into leasing or buying new, buying used -- I even thought about buying the gas-guzzling SUV I had been leasing, but that was a bad idea too, especially since gasoline was $4.29 a gallon that week.
So, I finally decided a late-model mid-sized used car would do. I stopped to see the dealer up the street, who just happened to have for sale a 2007 Chevrolet Malibu with 8840 miles on it. Yes. That's what I said.
It's a nice car. Looks brand new inside and out -- talk about the little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays. It's got four doors and power stuff and a DIC (computerized Driver Information Center). It can get 22 mpg in town and 32 on the highway. Its color is given as "amber bronze metallic," which is a sort of light gold-ish tan. It's a nice car to drive. I'm liking it a lot
I had several stops on my shopping trip today, and as I drove around town I kept noticing other vehicles similar to mine in size and shape and color, and I suddenly became aware of exactly what has happened to me.
I am driving an old-lady car.
Oh, well. If the shoes fits...
Saturday, May 7, 2011
The Governor's Portrait
The official portrait of Jennifer Granholm, Michigan's first woman governor who left office this year, was unveiled in the Capitol rotunda yesterday in Lansing. It was painted by Michigan artist Charles Pompilius.
In the portrait, the former Governor is standing, with one hand on a globe and the other at her hip, indicating she means business. She is not smiling; the look on her face is pleasant but serious. Instead of looking directly out at the viewer as most portrait subjects do, she is gazing out a window "toward the future," as she herself explained. Other symbolism is embodied in a mortar board, a miniature wind turbine, a shovel, and a model of the Chevrolet Volt.
And she's wearing slacks.
Go Gov.
In the portrait, the former Governor is standing, with one hand on a globe and the other at her hip, indicating she means business. She is not smiling; the look on her face is pleasant but serious. Instead of looking directly out at the viewer as most portrait subjects do, she is gazing out a window "toward the future," as she herself explained. Other symbolism is embodied in a mortar board, a miniature wind turbine, a shovel, and a model of the Chevrolet Volt.
And she's wearing slacks.
Go Gov.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Der Doppelgänger
The recent royal wedding has dredged up a lot of reminiscences about the groom’s mother. So, I’ll dredge up a story of my own from about twenty or so years ago, which involves my partner’s sister, Penny, from Indiana, and a friend of ours named Joyce.
Joyce was not the only person who thought Penny looked a lot like Princess Diana. They were about the same age, and the same height (close to six feet), and while some of it was face and some was carriage, a lot of it was hairdo. On the few occasions when Joyce had met Penny, she liked to tease her by calling her “Lady Di.”
Penny had come up to visit us a week or so before Christmas. We went shopping and ended up at a local Target store, which was packed with holiday shoppers. When we were ready to check out, we got into one of the long lines and waited.
Also waiting two lines over was a woman with a little girl probably about nine years old. The girl was staring at Penny, and finally yanked on her mother's sleeve, whispering and pointing. Her mother looked over, smiled slightly and shook her head. The little girl persisted, and I heard her mother say, “No, that’s not her.” The girl became more agitated, bouncing up and down while tugging at her mother’s coat. More firmly, the mother said, “No, it isn’t. What would she be doing in a Target store in Lansing, Michigan?”
Just at that moment, I saw Joyce coming into the store, whom we hadn’t seen in a while. I hailed her, and she came over to say hello to us. I indicated Penny and said, “Look who’s here.”
Joyce immediately gasped in surprise, went down in a low curtsy with her head bowed and her hand over her heart, and said, “Your Highness!”
The little girl about fainted.
Joyce was not the only person who thought Penny looked a lot like Princess Diana. They were about the same age, and the same height (close to six feet), and while some of it was face and some was carriage, a lot of it was hairdo. On the few occasions when Joyce had met Penny, she liked to tease her by calling her “Lady Di.”
Penny had come up to visit us a week or so before Christmas. We went shopping and ended up at a local Target store, which was packed with holiday shoppers. When we were ready to check out, we got into one of the long lines and waited.
Also waiting two lines over was a woman with a little girl probably about nine years old. The girl was staring at Penny, and finally yanked on her mother's sleeve, whispering and pointing. Her mother looked over, smiled slightly and shook her head. The little girl persisted, and I heard her mother say, “No, that’s not her.” The girl became more agitated, bouncing up and down while tugging at her mother’s coat. More firmly, the mother said, “No, it isn’t. What would she be doing in a Target store in Lansing, Michigan?”
Just at that moment, I saw Joyce coming into the store, whom we hadn’t seen in a while. I hailed her, and she came over to say hello to us. I indicated Penny and said, “Look who’s here.”
Joyce immediately gasped in surprise, went down in a low curtsy with her head bowed and her hand over her heart, and said, “Your Highness!”
The little girl about fainted.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Just Do It
I have always liked television cooking shows. I used to have to do serious channel surfing to find any, but nowadays there are whole networks devoted to food. They show the oldie moldies like Julia Child and Graham Kerr, and they show the currently famous like Paula and Rachael and Ina and Giada and the ubiquitous Bobby Flay, and some newbies too like Aarti and Nigella, and some oddities like the two fat ladies.
And all the while the cooks are showing and telling us how, they can't just do something, they have to go ahead and do it. All of them. All the time.
I'm going to go ahead and dice the celery.
Let's go ahead and get started on the sauce.
Then you can go ahead and add the cheese.
Why do they all always have to go ahead to do it? Why can't they just add the damn cheese?
And why, oh why, do they all grab everything?
I'm going to grab the heavy cream.
Let me just grab this big pan.
I'll just grab some things from the freezer.
To grab is to seize something suddenly, generally with some sense of urgency and a very tight grip. You grab somebody by the lapels. You grab at a gunshot wound in your arm. You grab each other when you are frightened. You grab a lifeline.
You don't grab cream. You take it from the refrigerator. You retrieve it. You get it. Get. What's wrong with get? A perfectly good word.
Aw, nuts. I'm gonna go ahead and grab a drink.
And all the while the cooks are showing and telling us how, they can't just do something, they have to go ahead and do it. All of them. All the time.
I'm going to go ahead and dice the celery.
Let's go ahead and get started on the sauce.
Then you can go ahead and add the cheese.
Why do they all always have to go ahead to do it? Why can't they just add the damn cheese?
And why, oh why, do they all grab everything?
I'm going to grab the heavy cream.
Let me just grab this big pan.
I'll just grab some things from the freezer.
To grab is to seize something suddenly, generally with some sense of urgency and a very tight grip. You grab somebody by the lapels. You grab at a gunshot wound in your arm. You grab each other when you are frightened. You grab a lifeline.
You don't grab cream. You take it from the refrigerator. You retrieve it. You get it. Get. What's wrong with get? A perfectly good word.
Aw, nuts. I'm gonna go ahead and grab a drink.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Blessed Be
The beatification of John Paul II yesterday took me back to his election, which -- somewhat incongruously -- is linked in my mind with the big-screen TV they had in the Student Union at Western Illinois University. It was one of those primitive projector types with a lousy picture and even worse color, but it was new and exciting technology at the time.
One day in the fall of 1978, I was having lunch in the Union and watching the news on the big TV. They showed film of white smoke coming out of the ceremonial chimney at the Vatican, indicating that a new Pope had been elected.
His two predecessors, Paul VI and John XXIII, were both very well thought of -- John was especially beloved by the people, I think. So, when I heard that the new Pope had chosen John Paul for his name, I remember thinking, "Well, this guy is a diplomat."
He only lived about another month, of course, and they went through the whole exercise over again. I just happened to be sitting in the Union watching the news on the afternoon when the white smoke rose again. When they said the new Pope had chosen as his name John Paul II, I thought, "Now there is a diplomat!"
One day in the fall of 1978, I was having lunch in the Union and watching the news on the big TV. They showed film of white smoke coming out of the ceremonial chimney at the Vatican, indicating that a new Pope had been elected.
His two predecessors, Paul VI and John XXIII, were both very well thought of -- John was especially beloved by the people, I think. So, when I heard that the new Pope had chosen John Paul for his name, I remember thinking, "Well, this guy is a diplomat."
He only lived about another month, of course, and they went through the whole exercise over again. I just happened to be sitting in the Union watching the news on the afternoon when the white smoke rose again. When they said the new Pope had chosen as his name John Paul II, I thought, "Now there is a diplomat!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)