It's Leap Day of Leap Year, and I have been trying to discover why it's called that. What is this Leap business about? What are we leaping over, into, or upon?
Ask.com says it's because we "jump ahead one day." That's lame. Actually, in order to do that, we'd have to take a day away from February so we could leap into March, but we are delaying the arrival of March, so that won't work.
Wikipedia doesn't consider the question of where the Leap comes from at all.
Dictionary.com, however, says it comes from the Middle Ages when the extra day caused the fixed (church) feast days to "leap" ahead one day in the week. Seriously?
I've had to come up with my own solution, which is: as we all know, the astronomical year is 365.25 days long, and if we didn't add one day to our shortest month every four years (except for years ending in 00 unless the year ending in 00 is divisible by 400) we'd get left behind, so we have to take a giant leap for mankind.
And Bob's your uncle.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Mare Can, eh?
A very long time ago I read a story about two men, one an American and the other a Canadian, who embarked on a six-week fishing excursion in the wilderness of northern Ontario. They drove as far as they could, then continued on foot, making the first of several trips to transport their equipment and supplies to the banks of a river a half-day's trek into the wilds. For several days they returned each day to where they had left their vehicle and toted more of their gear to their campsite. On the fifth day, when each man had loaded up with as much as he could carry, there was just one medium-sized box left. The American said, "Well, give it to me, and I'll carry it." But the Canadian said, "No, we'll come back for it tomorrow." That, they say, is the difference between Americans and Canadians.
I was reminded of that story last week when our hired girl was here. There were two large baskets of clean clothes and a dozen garments on hangers that needed to be brought up from the basement laundry room. It would have taken me three trips, but Jenny simply put one basket on top of the other, the hang-ups on top of that, and lugged it all up the basement stairs in one.
Definitely American.
I was reminded of that story last week when our hired girl was here. There were two large baskets of clean clothes and a dozen garments on hangers that needed to be brought up from the basement laundry room. It would have taken me three trips, but Jenny simply put one basket on top of the other, the hang-ups on top of that, and lugged it all up the basement stairs in one.
Definitely American.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Been there, saw that
Georg Friedrich Händel was born on this date in 1685 in Halle, Germany. After studying in Italy for a while, Handel relocated to London in 1712. He changed the spelling of his name to George Frideric Handel (sans umlaut), was naturalized a British subject, and became as thoroughly English as he could. He was extremely famous and very highly thought of in England, where he was best known and honored for his many operas. When he died in 1759, three thousand people attended his funeral.
He is buried in Westminster Abbey in a section known as the Poets' Corner. Geoffrey Chaucer was the first poet to be buried in that area, hence the name, and many, many other poets, dramatists, writers, composers, musicians, and actors of all sorts are among the many buried there and many, many more who have memorials there. (Jane Austen has a wall tablet; Laurence Olivier's ashes are interred there.)
I visited Westminster Abbey a long time ago, and when we got to the Poets' Corner, the tour guide began reciting names and pointing to where the honored ones were buried. He pointed in my direction when he mentioned Handel, and I looked all around to the right and left and back and front and didn't see anything indicating where Handel's remains might be. Finally I looked down and saw to my utter astonishment that I was standing on him.
He is buried in Westminster Abbey in a section known as the Poets' Corner. Geoffrey Chaucer was the first poet to be buried in that area, hence the name, and many, many other poets, dramatists, writers, composers, musicians, and actors of all sorts are among the many buried there and many, many more who have memorials there. (Jane Austen has a wall tablet; Laurence Olivier's ashes are interred there.)
I visited Westminster Abbey a long time ago, and when we got to the Poets' Corner, the tour guide began reciting names and pointing to where the honored ones were buried. He pointed in my direction when he mentioned Handel, and I looked all around to the right and left and back and front and didn't see anything indicating where Handel's remains might be. Finally I looked down and saw to my utter astonishment that I was standing on him.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Hail to the Chief
I see that it was 40 years ago today that Richard Nixon began his historic trip to China. That reminded me that someone recently asked me which U. S. President, of those whose terms I witnessed personally, I thought was the best. After a moment's thought I said I felt obliged to say Lyndon Johnson, because of his domestic policies, and in spite of the war in Viet Nam. I then added that for foreign affairs, I'd have to choose Nixon.
However, my favorite President, among those who held office in my lifetime, is Harry Truman. Partly because he was a real man of the people, and partly because the list of his truly important and historic accomplishments include the Marshall Plan, NATO, the Truman Doctrine, desegregating the armed forces, ending the railroad strike. What I most like him for, however, is that shot of whiskey he poured himself every morning. He'd raise the glass and say, "Well, it's noon somewhere," and toss it back.
My kind o' guy.
However, my favorite President, among those who held office in my lifetime, is Harry Truman. Partly because he was a real man of the people, and partly because the list of his truly important and historic accomplishments include the Marshall Plan, NATO, the Truman Doctrine, desegregating the armed forces, ending the railroad strike. What I most like him for, however, is that shot of whiskey he poured himself every morning. He'd raise the glass and say, "Well, it's noon somewhere," and toss it back.
My kind o' guy.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Baking Day
The brownies are gone, so it was time for me to bake something today. I decided on my soon-to-be-famous hazelnut shortbread cookies, which I more or less invented when I found myself with a whole bunch of ground hazelnuts left over from a coffee cake recipe I had tried and didn't like. It's basically the same as my traditional rohlíčky, but substituting the ground hazelnuts for chopped almonds and making little round cookies instead of crescents.
Although I say it myself, they are very, very good. I can even tell you how good. Last year I donated some of these cookies for an employee bake sale at the place I used to work and my partner still does. I put four cookies each into ten snack bags and labelled them with the ingredients and an asking price of $2.00 a bag.
I was told that during the sale some dude approached looking for something to have with his morning coffee. He was interested in the shortbreads but complained that the price seemed kind of high for four little cookies. The persons running the sale suggested to him very politely that since it was for charity, he should just suck it up. Finally he forked over the two bucks and went away. Five minutes later, however, he came back and bought all of the remaining bags of the hazelnut shortbread cookies.
That's how good they are.
Although I say it myself, they are very, very good. I can even tell you how good. Last year I donated some of these cookies for an employee bake sale at the place I used to work and my partner still does. I put four cookies each into ten snack bags and labelled them with the ingredients and an asking price of $2.00 a bag.
I was told that during the sale some dude approached looking for something to have with his morning coffee. He was interested in the shortbreads but complained that the price seemed kind of high for four little cookies. The persons running the sale suggested to him very politely that since it was for charity, he should just suck it up. Finally he forked over the two bucks and went away. Five minutes later, however, he came back and bought all of the remaining bags of the hazelnut shortbread cookies.
That's how good they are.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Getting To Know You
One time the company I used to work for had an all-employee meeting that included a catered sit-down luncheon. To accommodate several hundred people, it was held in a vast conference room with dozens of large round tables set for ten people. Seating was assigned, and care had been taken to place together people from different departments who might not know each other well or at all. All of us at my table seemed to be complete strangers, and what conversation there was at first was stilted and awkward. Some of the tension was relieved when a swarm of professional waitpersons swept into the room and began serving the first course.
During the interval between the time that most people had finished their salad and the next course was served, a young woman from the P. R. department started flitting around the room stopping here and there at one table or another to take photographs. Our table was given a miss, for which I was grateful, and I turned to the woman next to me, whom I had never even heard of before, and said, "I don't think it's nice to ask people to smile for the camera right after they've eaten spinach salad."
She laughed, smiling broadly enough for me to see that there was a rather large piece of spinach stuck right between her two front teeth.
And no, I didn't tell her.
During the interval between the time that most people had finished their salad and the next course was served, a young woman from the P. R. department started flitting around the room stopping here and there at one table or another to take photographs. Our table was given a miss, for which I was grateful, and I turned to the woman next to me, whom I had never even heard of before, and said, "I don't think it's nice to ask people to smile for the camera right after they've eaten spinach salad."
She laughed, smiling broadly enough for me to see that there was a rather large piece of spinach stuck right between her two front teeth.
And no, I didn't tell her.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Button Up Your Overtoast
I think French toast must be the ideal breakfast comfort food -- simple, classic, and delicious. It is not a new idea at all. People have always looked for ways to use up food that would otherwise go to waste, and the practice of soaking old bread in milk and/or eggs and then frying it in oil goes back at least to ancient Rome. An old French term for it, in fact, was pain a la Romaine, "Roman bread." Nowadays the French (and a growing number of pretentious Americans) call it pain perdu, which means "lost bread." Maybe pain recyclé would be more appropriate.
I always thought we called it French toast because it was French fried, although I think that technique really requires complete immersion in oil. The British call it eggy bread or gypsy toast (I really like that name), and various other places around the world call it things which in their language translate to French toast, egg bread, egg toast, or fried bread. In several countries its name, in the vernacular, means "poor knights," which apparently has something to do with lower-level soldiers only getting lowly French toast for dessert. Another odd name comes from the Czech Republic, my ancestral home, where they call it chleba v kožíšku, "bread in a little coat."
Bread choices vary from place to place and to individual taste, although plain old white bread is favored by most. I've heard of people using croissants for French toast. I had never done that, but this morning, seeing these two croissants on the kitchen counter that were already four days old, I thought I might as well give it a try. These croissants were already pretty hard, so I didn't get my hopes up.
I cut them lengthwise and soaked each half in a blend of egg and milk with a little sugar, cinnamon and vanilla. I fried them in butter, and then I ate them, and I have only one thing to say: YUM!
I always thought we called it French toast because it was French fried, although I think that technique really requires complete immersion in oil. The British call it eggy bread or gypsy toast (I really like that name), and various other places around the world call it things which in their language translate to French toast, egg bread, egg toast, or fried bread. In several countries its name, in the vernacular, means "poor knights," which apparently has something to do with lower-level soldiers only getting lowly French toast for dessert. Another odd name comes from the Czech Republic, my ancestral home, where they call it chleba v kožíšku, "bread in a little coat."
Bread choices vary from place to place and to individual taste, although plain old white bread is favored by most. I've heard of people using croissants for French toast. I had never done that, but this morning, seeing these two croissants on the kitchen counter that were already four days old, I thought I might as well give it a try. These croissants were already pretty hard, so I didn't get my hopes up.
I cut them lengthwise and soaked each half in a blend of egg and milk with a little sugar, cinnamon and vanilla. I fried them in butter, and then I ate them, and I have only one thing to say: YUM!
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Time's up!
People talk about having an internal clock that they can call upon to wake them up without an alarm. I don't know if I have one of those, but I do seem to have an internal timer.
I have this odd capacity for knowing when a certain amount of time has passed, which comes in handy when cooking. I will put something in the oven, set the timer for x-number of minutes, and then go do something else. After a while, I'll think it's about time for the thing to be done, and when I go look, almost every time the timer will show there is less than a minute to go, sometimes only a few seconds.
That came in handy yesterday. I put a pan of brownies in the oven and set the timer for 25 minutes so I could check them, knowing I'd probably leave them five minutes longer. Then I came into my office and got all absorbed in writing my blog posting. After a time, I suddenly thought that the brownies should be done, and wondered if the timer had gone off but I hadn't heard it. I hurried to the kitchen to check.
Sure enough, I had pulled another one of my tricks -- I set the timer but didn't start it. The brownies looked just fine, and the toothpick I stuck in the middle came out clean. Later taste-testing proved they were perfectly baked.
It's uncanny, this internal timer of mine. But it saved the day, and the brownies. (And yes, they were from scratch.)
I have this odd capacity for knowing when a certain amount of time has passed, which comes in handy when cooking. I will put something in the oven, set the timer for x-number of minutes, and then go do something else. After a while, I'll think it's about time for the thing to be done, and when I go look, almost every time the timer will show there is less than a minute to go, sometimes only a few seconds.
That came in handy yesterday. I put a pan of brownies in the oven and set the timer for 25 minutes so I could check them, knowing I'd probably leave them five minutes longer. Then I came into my office and got all absorbed in writing my blog posting. After a time, I suddenly thought that the brownies should be done, and wondered if the timer had gone off but I hadn't heard it. I hurried to the kitchen to check.
Sure enough, I had pulled another one of my tricks -- I set the timer but didn't start it. The brownies looked just fine, and the toothpick I stuck in the middle came out clean. Later taste-testing proved they were perfectly baked.
It's uncanny, this internal timer of mine. But it saved the day, and the brownies. (And yes, they were from scratch.)
Monday, February 13, 2012
Elope
In last night's episode of "Downton Abbey" on PBS, the youngest daughter of the Earl was planning to run away with the chauffeur to get married in Gretna Green. Somebody in British literature (Jane Austen in particular) is always running off to Gretna Green to elope. I've always wondered what was so hot about that place.
Well, I looked it up, and it seems to be the Vegas of the British Isles. Unlike England, in Scotland anybody over the age of 14 can get married without parental consent, there is no waiting period, and as long as you have two witnesses, anybody can officiate -- no clergy or justice of the peace required.
So Scotland is the place for eloping couples, and, if you take the main road from London to Edinburgh, the first town you come to once you cross into Scotland is Gretna Green. Go no further.
I presume what happens in Gretna Green stays in Gretna Green.
Well, I looked it up, and it seems to be the Vegas of the British Isles. Unlike England, in Scotland anybody over the age of 14 can get married without parental consent, there is no waiting period, and as long as you have two witnesses, anybody can officiate -- no clergy or justice of the peace required.
So Scotland is the place for eloping couples, and, if you take the main road from London to Edinburgh, the first town you come to once you cross into Scotland is Gretna Green. Go no further.
I presume what happens in Gretna Green stays in Gretna Green.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
One more
The Michigan State men's basketball team beat Ohio State last night in Columbus, breaking the Buckeye's 39-game home winning streak and tying Ohio State for first place in the Big Ten Conference. It was never very close, and with less than two minutes to play and Ohio State trailing by ten points, some of their fans obviously lost hope and decided to beat the crowd to the parking lot. The television camera briefly showed people leaving their seats and moving up the aisles, and I said out loud, "And that starts the fans for the exits."
That just popped right out of my mouth, just like all those other things that are stored away in my Jack Brickhouse Chicago Cubs WGN Television Baseball Game Broadcasts Depository. I missed that one a couple weeks ago when I wrote about the things Brickhouse always said that I still say when an occasion fits the pronouncement.
People often left Wrigley Field before a game was over when the Cubs were losing so badly there was no hope of a comeback, but what prompted a lot of them to get up and leave all at once, and Brickhouse to comment on it, was generally one bad thing that happened late in the game -- a scoring play in the top of the ninth that put the game out of reach, or some last chance the Cubs flubbed in the bottom of the inning.
There have been a lot of years when that happened to the Cubs in a lot of games. But we suited up for 'em all.
That just popped right out of my mouth, just like all those other things that are stored away in my Jack Brickhouse Chicago Cubs WGN Television Baseball Game Broadcasts Depository. I missed that one a couple weeks ago when I wrote about the things Brickhouse always said that I still say when an occasion fits the pronouncement.
People often left Wrigley Field before a game was over when the Cubs were losing so badly there was no hope of a comeback, but what prompted a lot of them to get up and leave all at once, and Brickhouse to comment on it, was generally one bad thing that happened late in the game -- a scoring play in the top of the ninth that put the game out of reach, or some last chance the Cubs flubbed in the bottom of the inning.
There have been a lot of years when that happened to the Cubs in a lot of games. But we suited up for 'em all.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Our Day (Me and Eleanor, that is)
Eleanor Roosevelt wrote a syndicated newspaper column called "My Day" for 27 years (1935-1962). She wrote six days a week, and according to what I just read about it, the only time it was interrupted was when Franklin died, and then she only missed four days. She wrote about all kinds of things that interested her, and she didn't shy away from giving her opinions on political and social issues.
I presume my mother must have read it a lot or that it somehow made some sort of impression on her because whenever somebody said something like "How was your day?" she would raise her eyebrows significantly and say with a great deal of dramatic weight, "My Day," stringing each word out very long and making it sound like those were the two most important words ever spoken. I have absolutely no idea why she did that.
Well, Eleanor was a better woman than I am, I can tell you, because I'm having trouble coming up with something to write about three or four days a week, much less six. I got to thinking about ER's daily writings when I stopped to think what I did today that might be worth writing about and came up with nothing.
Well, I did make peanut butter cookies. They are far and away the best peanut butter cookies in the entire civilized world, for which, alas, I take no credit because it's my mother's recipe which, according to her notation on the card in her metal recipe box, she got it from a bag of Gold Medal flour.
Perhaps I should have titled this posting "Ho-Hum" instead.
I presume my mother must have read it a lot or that it somehow made some sort of impression on her because whenever somebody said something like "How was your day?" she would raise her eyebrows significantly and say with a great deal of dramatic weight, "My Day," stringing each word out very long and making it sound like those were the two most important words ever spoken. I have absolutely no idea why she did that.
Well, Eleanor was a better woman than I am, I can tell you, because I'm having trouble coming up with something to write about three or four days a week, much less six. I got to thinking about ER's daily writings when I stopped to think what I did today that might be worth writing about and came up with nothing.
Well, I did make peanut butter cookies. They are far and away the best peanut butter cookies in the entire civilized world, for which, alas, I take no credit because it's my mother's recipe which, according to her notation on the card in her metal recipe box, she got it from a bag of Gold Medal flour.
Perhaps I should have titled this posting "Ho-Hum" instead.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
No No Nigella
On her show yesterday Nigella Lawson made hors d'oeuvres that included bite-sized potato pancakes, the main ingredient of which was mashed potato flakes. The only thing I like better than potatoes is potato pancakes, so I decided to try these for my breakfast this morning, sans the horseradish/sour cream/salmon/dill topping. I found the recipe online, and while I did cut proportions down, the only real change I made was to add a little more milk as the batter was very thick.
Nigella cooked her little pancakes on a dry griddle, so I heated up a small skillet and made one four-inch pancake which I cooked for the times recommended on both sides. It was only slightly browned (but so were hers), and it was extremely dry. It did not taste very much like potatoes. It really didn't taste like much of anything.
I had used only half of the batter, so for the second run I added a little drop of vegetable oil to the skillet. That second pancake came out a nice golden brown, wasn't nearly so dry, and tasted a whole lot better than the first one. In fact, it was actually pretty good.
They always say that it is the fat that makes food taste good, and this was a dramatic confirmation of that.
As to this thing I have about potatoes -- well, I think that in another life I starved to death during the potato famine in Ireland, and now I just can't get enough o' dem spuds.
Nigella cooked her little pancakes on a dry griddle, so I heated up a small skillet and made one four-inch pancake which I cooked for the times recommended on both sides. It was only slightly browned (but so were hers), and it was extremely dry. It did not taste very much like potatoes. It really didn't taste like much of anything.
I had used only half of the batter, so for the second run I added a little drop of vegetable oil to the skillet. That second pancake came out a nice golden brown, wasn't nearly so dry, and tasted a whole lot better than the first one. In fact, it was actually pretty good.
They always say that it is the fat that makes food taste good, and this was a dramatic confirmation of that.
As to this thing I have about potatoes -- well, I think that in another life I starved to death during the potato famine in Ireland, and now I just can't get enough o' dem spuds.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Jubilee
Because of genealogical information I've put out on the Internet, I've heard from relatives I didn't know I had. Most recently there was Cousin Gail from Chicago last summer, and just this weekend, Cousin Natascha from Vienna.
One I don't figure to hear from is Cousin Elizabeth from England. Since she is by the Grace of God, Queen and Defender of the Faith, I imagine she's too busy to bother with a twenty-second cousin in America. And today she is celebrating 60 years on the job, which is kind of weird since it forces her to celebrate the day her father died.
If QEII can last another 3 years and 216 days, she will surpass Queen Victoria as the longest reigning British monarch. I hope she makes it.
Congratulations, Cuz.
One I don't figure to hear from is Cousin Elizabeth from England. Since she is by the Grace of God, Queen and Defender of the Faith, I imagine she's too busy to bother with a twenty-second cousin in America. And today she is celebrating 60 years on the job, which is kind of weird since it forces her to celebrate the day her father died.
If QEII can last another 3 years and 216 days, she will surpass Queen Victoria as the longest reigning British monarch. I hope she makes it.
Congratulations, Cuz.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Another country heard from (literally)
I delete a lot of email without opening it, not just when they seem suspicious, but anything that looks like junk or that I can tell I am not interested in. Yesterday morning I was about to trash an email message from a sender whose name I didn't recognize, but something about the subject line made me stop. It said "Ahnenforschung." I didn't know that word, but there is a kind of ancestor table that genealogists call an Ahnentafel, so I thought I'd open it to see if it had something to do with genealogy.
The message began: Ich hoffe sie können die deutsche Sprache - da ich leider kein Englisch kann.
My German is lousy (I took it in college a hundred years ago), but I had no trouble understanding that sentence: "I hope you know German because I can't speak English."
The message was from a 39-year-old housewife and mother of three named Natascha Fida who lives in Vienna, Austria. She told me that her maiden name was Knez and that her Ururgroßeltern were Franz Knez (born in 1821) and Josefa Kubat. They are my great-great-grandparents too, so that makes Natascha Fida of Vienna my third cousin.
I had to blow the dust off my Cassell's German Dictionary to understand everything she was saying. Then I used Google Translate to help me compose a reply in German. There is no telling how stupid what I wrote might sound to a native German speaker, but I have heard from her again, and she seems to have understood everything I said. She sent me some documents, I sent her some information, and we have made a family connection. How cool is that?
I'm glad I decided to open that email.
The message began: Ich hoffe sie können die deutsche Sprache - da ich leider kein Englisch kann.
My German is lousy (I took it in college a hundred years ago), but I had no trouble understanding that sentence: "I hope you know German because I can't speak English."
The message was from a 39-year-old housewife and mother of three named Natascha Fida who lives in Vienna, Austria. She told me that her maiden name was Knez and that her Ururgroßeltern were Franz Knez (born in 1821) and Josefa Kubat. They are my great-great-grandparents too, so that makes Natascha Fida of Vienna my third cousin.
I had to blow the dust off my Cassell's German Dictionary to understand everything she was saying. Then I used Google Translate to help me compose a reply in German. There is no telling how stupid what I wrote might sound to a native German speaker, but I have heard from her again, and she seems to have understood everything I said. She sent me some documents, I sent her some information, and we have made a family connection. How cool is that?
I'm glad I decided to open that email.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Tallahassee Lassie in My Dreams
I had a dream last night that I was watching an old silent movie that featured a blonde woman on a stage dancing, and somehow I knew the woman's name was Tallahassee. I woke up then but couldn't go back to sleep, intrigued by the idea of people having the same names as capital cities.
Now I actually know a fella named Trenton, and there are plenty of Pierres out there, but then I came up with Montgomery Clift, Olympia Dukakis, Helena Bonham-Carter, Augusta Leigh, Denver Pyle, and Jackson Pollock. I also thought of Charleston Heston and Indianapolis Jones, which I admit probably shouldn't count, but it was 4:30 in the morning, after all.
Madison for a girl's name is trendy right now, but that may have started a dangerous trend. Just imagine naming a tiny new-born Sacramento or Topeka or Little Rock. Can you hear the kids at recess on the first day of school?
"Hi, my name is Salt Lake City. What's yours?"
"I'm Baton Rouge, but everybody calls me Stick."
Cripes.
Now I actually know a fella named Trenton, and there are plenty of Pierres out there, but then I came up with Montgomery Clift, Olympia Dukakis, Helena Bonham-Carter, Augusta Leigh, Denver Pyle, and Jackson Pollock. I also thought of Charleston Heston and Indianapolis Jones, which I admit probably shouldn't count, but it was 4:30 in the morning, after all.
Madison for a girl's name is trendy right now, but that may have started a dangerous trend. Just imagine naming a tiny new-born Sacramento or Topeka or Little Rock. Can you hear the kids at recess on the first day of school?
"Hi, my name is Salt Lake City. What's yours?"
"I'm Baton Rouge, but everybody calls me Stick."
Cripes.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Wanna bet, Phil?
Michigan has its own groundhog, a female named Woody who lives at the Howell Nature Center. Unlike her more famous counterpart from Pennsylvania, Woody doesn't depend on her shadow. She apparently just gets a general impression, which is conveyed by how long she remains outdoors. When she comes out of her little house on February 2, if she hurries right back inside, that means more winter; if she stays out a while, she's going with an early spring.
This morning Woody stayed out well over 30 seconds -- so it looks like early spring in Michigan. Punxsutawney Phil, who saw his shadow this morning, is predicting six more weeks of winter. Most other prognosticators -- Jimmy the Groundhog in Wisconsin, General Beauregard Lee in Georgia, Buckeye Chuck in Ohio, Wiarton Willie in Ontario and Staten Island Chuck in New York -- agree with Woody. Only Malverne Mel in New York is on Phil's side.
Last year Phil said early spring, while Woody's prediction of a long winter came true, with significant snowfalls well into April. Although she is young (turning 14 this year) and, therefore, relatively new at this prediction stuff, Woody's record is much better than Phil's. He is right only 39% of the time, whereas Woody has made the correct call 9 of 13 times (70%).
Although our winter has been rather mild so far this year in Mid-Michigan, I'm hoping Woody has nailed it again, but either way -- if Groundhog Day comes, can spring be far behind?
This morning Woody stayed out well over 30 seconds -- so it looks like early spring in Michigan. Punxsutawney Phil, who saw his shadow this morning, is predicting six more weeks of winter. Most other prognosticators -- Jimmy the Groundhog in Wisconsin, General Beauregard Lee in Georgia, Buckeye Chuck in Ohio, Wiarton Willie in Ontario and Staten Island Chuck in New York -- agree with Woody. Only Malverne Mel in New York is on Phil's side.
Last year Phil said early spring, while Woody's prediction of a long winter came true, with significant snowfalls well into April. Although she is young (turning 14 this year) and, therefore, relatively new at this prediction stuff, Woody's record is much better than Phil's. He is right only 39% of the time, whereas Woody has made the correct call 9 of 13 times (70%).
Although our winter has been rather mild so far this year in Mid-Michigan, I'm hoping Woody has nailed it again, but either way -- if Groundhog Day comes, can spring be far behind?
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
No More Presidents
In 2007, the U. S. Mint began issuing coins in their Presidential Dollar series, four different ones a year featuring former presidents in order, starting with George Washington. They are "golden" coins similar to the Sacagawea dollars; that is, gold in color only. So far they've been through our twentieth president, James Abram Garfield. His coin came out last November.
This series was inspired by the State Quarters that were issued between 1999 and 2008 on which the Mint made a mint, as it were. It costs about 7 cents to make a quarter, so for every one that was taken out of circulation and saved by somebody, 18 cents went into the Treasury. The total profit from the quarters is estimated at $3 billion.
The presidential dollars haven't had the same success, and they're talking about discontinuing the series. I think the problem is basically that people don't like dollar coins anyway so they really don't circulate widely and lots of people don't have a chance to see very many, much less collect them. And, when it comes to sticking a coin in a drawer, never to be spent again, a dollar is a bigger investment than a quarter.
It will be ironic if the Garfield coin is the last of the presidential dollars since he was in office only six months, the last two in a coma.
This series was inspired by the State Quarters that were issued between 1999 and 2008 on which the Mint made a mint, as it were. It costs about 7 cents to make a quarter, so for every one that was taken out of circulation and saved by somebody, 18 cents went into the Treasury. The total profit from the quarters is estimated at $3 billion.
The presidential dollars haven't had the same success, and they're talking about discontinuing the series. I think the problem is basically that people don't like dollar coins anyway so they really don't circulate widely and lots of people don't have a chance to see very many, much less collect them. And, when it comes to sticking a coin in a drawer, never to be spent again, a dollar is a bigger investment than a quarter.
It will be ironic if the Garfield coin is the last of the presidential dollars since he was in office only six months, the last two in a coma.
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