The long and the hot of it

I love radishes, and I am anxious for the ones my partner planted for me (in the flower bed under the bay window) to be ready to harvest.  She pulled one up a couple days ago just to see, but the root was very long and skinny, nowhere near mature enough.  I washed it off anyway and tried to eat it, but it wasn't crispy yet, and it was so hot it set my tongue on fire. 

That did not surprise me, however, because in my experience, small radishes are often hotter than large ones.  In fact, the smaller, the hotter, and vice versa.  It makes me wonder if there isn't some universal law of nature that requires all radishes to have exactly the same finite amount of heat, so that the larger the root bulb, the milder the taste since the volume in which the pungency is distributed is larger, whereas a tiny radish will concentrate the same amount of heat-producing elements into its own tiny little self.

Think there's any truth to that?

Nevertheless, it reminds me of a woman I knew long ago whose last name was Braddish.  To help people understand and remember, she was in the habit of saying, "Braddish -- like radish with a B."  Well, that was fine, until one day when somebody remembered the B but not the vegetable and greeted her with, "Good morning, Mrs. Bunyan."

And that is true.

W

The Houston Astros are in Chicago, finishing up a three-game series with the Cubs.  I've watched at least part of all three games, and I wondered why the announcers kept comparing the Houston players' stats to American League players.  So I Googled it. 

Holy cow!  When did the Astros move to the American League?  And how did I miss it?  I guess I really don't pay much attention to what's going on in baseball if it doesn't involve the Cubs, or even if it does, sometimes.

I'm surprised the American League would take the Astros.  They're worse than the Cubs.

I'm watching the rubber game of the series even as I write.  The Cubs are ahead 14-6 with two outs in the top of the 9th inning.  This is my kind of baseball.  Now I'm a big enough fan to appreciate a 1-0 pitchers' duel, but a game like this one is what puts the fannies in the seats.  There have been 29 hits, 4 errors (not counting a couple that were scored as base hits), lots of throwing and running and sliding, plenty of extra base hits, some fine defensive plays and a couple goofy ones.

Because both teams have players named Castro (Cub Shortstop Starlin and Houston Catcher Jason), I indulged in a little fantasy-baseball fantasy in which our Castro is someday traded to Miami.  Then when those two teams played each other, it would be Castro's Astros vs. Starlin's Marlins.

Or not.  Oh, here we go.  Ground ball to the shortstop ... throw to first ... out!

Cubs win!

A little culture in my life

I am reading a biography of human rights crusader Susan B. Anthony (1820-1906). It mentions that she became acquainted with and greatly impressed by the work of Harriet Hosmer (1830-1908), a sculptor someone described as “the most famous American artist you’ve never heard of.”

Well, I had heard of her, but that was all, so I looked online for pictures of her sculptures so I could see for myself, and I was extremely impressed too.

I did find it rather ironic, however, that a sculptor who was brilliant enough to create:

and:

 

and especially:

should be buried in a grave marked with:

 



 

So, okay, here is the story of ...

... how I made it into the elite University Choir.

I’m not much of a singer, but I can carry a tune, and I always loved singing in choruses and choirs in school and at church, and I wanted to be a choir director when I grew up.

To that end, I enrolled as a music major at Wisconsin State University-Stevens Point in 1965. In addition to the English and history and other basic stuff all freshmen had to take, I was also required to take voice and piano lessons, music theory class, and be in two ensembles. Since I didn’t play a band or orchestra instrument, I had to get my ensemble credits from vocal groups, and the only two possibilities for me that first semester were the women’s glee club, which welcomed all comers, and the University Choir, which required an audition.

The University Choir was directed by David Dick, head of the choral/vocal faculty. All hopefuls came to rehearsals at first, and the director scheduled private auditions throughout the first week. Before the first rehearsal of the second week, the cut list was posted on the rehearsal room door, I guess so that if your name was on it, you knew not to come in any more.

My name would probably have been on the reject list except that I managed to miss my originally scheduled audition, having totally forgotten about it. Mr. Dick pointed that out at the next rehearsal, and I was so genuinely embarrassed and contrite that he gave me a second chance. In his studio that afternoon, he asked me what part I sang, and I said I always sang alto. After he heard me sing, I could tell he wasn’t impressed. He sat thinking for several long moments, and I sensed he was uncomfortable. Finally, he said, “Can you sing second?” By that he meant, second alto, the lowest female voice; second altos are generally rather scarce. I assured him I could and had sung second alto. “All right,” he said at last.

Whew. I made it.

When I told my voice teacher that I was singing second alto in the University Choir, she was puzzled because she had already decided I was really a mezzo-soprano. “You do have a strong lower register,” she said, not wanting to criticize the Chairman’s decision. “I suppose that’s why Mr. Dick put you in that section.”

No, Mr. Dick decided that another voice in the second alto section, even a mediocre one, was better than having to tell me to my face that I wasn’t good enough to be in his choir.

Shame on you, Google!

I was thinking about relating the tale of how I got to be a member of the exclusive University Choir when I was a freshman in college way back in 1965.  A principal  player in the drama was Mr. Dick, the choir's director.  I couldn't remember his first name, and although he is most likely dead by now, I thought I might find a reference to him somewhere on the Internet, so naturally I tried Google.

Thinking that his first name might have been Robert, I entered the search terms “robert dick choral vocal choir.”  Notice the first item in the list of search results:

Google must be using an X-rated algorithm.

Lakota, Cheyenne, Custer and Me

The anniversary of the Battle of Little Bighorn (June 25, 1876) is coming up this month.  In 1983, while driving from Michigan to Washington, we stopped there to take a look.

Civil War battlefields, of which I have seen a few, tend to be picturesque places near rivers or streams where there are trees and hills and low stone walls and ante-bellum farm houses and barns.  The place where Custer last stood was flat, open prairie covered with parched, brown grasses.  It was 107 degrees in Montana that day.  After a look through the sauna-like visitors' center (if it had air conditioning, it didn't work), my traveling companion decided she'd had enough and said she'd wait for me in the car.

I decided to take a tour of the battlefield, which was tricky, even with the map provided for the purpose, because of the lack of any identifiable vegetation or topographical variation by which to navigate.  The National Park Service had constructed some asphalt paths that wound their way around the battlefield, and I began to follow one.  Almost immediately my attention and progress were arrested by a short post at the edge of the path topped with a 5-by-7-inch plastic sign that was tilted up at a 45-degree angle for easy reading.  It said, "STAY ON THE PATH! THIS IS RATTLESNAKE COUNTRY!"

Not sure whether or not the snakes understood that they were not to come near the path, I high-tailed it back to the car, and we drove on.

Noah he wasn't

We've had a lot of rain in the last couple weeks, some in torrential downpours, and seeing water standing in places where it shouldn't be reminds me of the time long ago when the vacant lot behind our house became a virtual lake after some very heavy rains.  I was about eight at the time, which would have made my brother fourteen years old.

He and some of his friends spent an afternoon building a raft out of scraps they scavenged from the numerous houses under construction in our neighborhood. I, of course, was hanging around on the fringe of the activity like any other annoying little sister would do, but suddenly, the most amazing thing happened:  the boys invited me to be the first one to ride on their raft.  Predictably, as soon as it was launched, the raft sank with me on it.  I got soaked. 

Luckily, Mother was just leaving to pick Dad up at the train, so we hid behind the garage until she was gone.  At the back door, my brother picked me up and carried me through the kitchen and down the hall to the basement stairs, so I wouldn't drip all over the floor.  While I put my clothes in the laundry basket, he brought me a towel and dry clothes to put on.

At the time I didn't realize that I had been chosen for the maiden voyage because they weren't sure the raft would float, nor did I understand that my brother's subsequent gallantry was born of fear of the trouble he would be in.  I just enjoyed conspiring with my big brother.

Several years later I saw an episode of "Leave It To Beaver" in which Beaver sinks in a boat built by Wally and his friends.  A very believable story.