I've been thinking about future travel plans and where I’d like to go and what I’d like to see. I freely admit that I am a sight-seer. I know it is considered unsophisticated and banal and downright common to like to see sights, but that’s why they’re there, isn’t it? To be seen.
Some of my favorite tourist things are historical, like Civil War battle fields or places where Presidents from other centuries were born or lived or got shot or whatever. Museums are good because there’s lots to see in one place.
There are some sights that are worth seeing but once you have, you're done. Mount Rushmore is one of those. You drive a long way to get there, pay to park, walk a long way to the visitors’ center, and finally you look up and – there they are – four faces carved in the side of a mountain. “Okay, what’d’ya wanna do now?”
Plymouth Rock is another one (“Yup, there it is all right.”) and so is Niagara Falls (which someone once described to me as the second greatest disappointment in the life of a new bride). “Oh, look! Water falling over a cliff.” Got it.
Not all natural wonders bore me. The Blue Grotto, a sea cave on the cost of Capri in Italy, was very cool. Here’s how I described it at the time:
”Arriving on the Isle of Capri, we took a motor boat to the Blue Grotto, where we transferred to row boats (four people to each) to go inside the cave. You have to lay down almost in the boat to get into the narrow little mouth of the cave. When the tide is up, you can't get in at all. Inside the water is bright azure blue as if illuminated artificially, but, of course, it isn't. The guys rowing the boats sang most of the time inside the cave.”
There was also one special moment I will never forget. My friend Marcy and I ended up in different boats, and at one point when her rowboat and mine were fairly close, she looked at me, put her palms up and shrugged her shoulders as if to say “What’s the big deal?”
I called out, “Take your sunglasses off.” She did, and then she said, “Oh, wow!”
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Friday, September 7, 2018
As Much As I Hate To Admit It
I have no use for Colin Kaepernick who is, among other things, a male chauvinist pig, but I am on his side with regard to his protest during the playing of the national anthem. If the First Amendment grants citizens the right to burn an American flag in protest, then it ought to permit a person to protest by taking a knee during the playing of "The Star Spangled Banner."
I have written on the topic of disrespecting the national anthem in a previous posting (see "Shame on You," from January 22, 2012), and I include a few pertinent sentences here.
In my youth (and yes, that was many decades ago) when the anthem was performed before a sporting event, spectators stood, removed hats, put hands over hearts, and even if they didn't sing along, they did face the flag, and even if they weren't exactly solemn, they were at least quiet for the duration. When it was over, they applauded and cheered, not for the performance but for the anthem and the republic for which it stands.
Over the years, sports fans have started clapping and cheering closer to the start of the song than the end of it, until at some events they carried on clapping and yelling and making noise throughout. As time goes on, fewer and fewer folks actually sing, stand, remove hats, and put hands over hearts, or for that matter, even pay any attention to the anthem at all.
An athlete who kneels, and remains quiet and still during the performance, shows more respect for "The Star Spangled Banner" than the guys drinking beer and yucking it up with their pals while the anthem is performed.
I have written on the topic of disrespecting the national anthem in a previous posting (see "Shame on You," from January 22, 2012), and I include a few pertinent sentences here.
In my youth (and yes, that was many decades ago) when the anthem was performed before a sporting event, spectators stood, removed hats, put hands over hearts, and even if they didn't sing along, they did face the flag, and even if they weren't exactly solemn, they were at least quiet for the duration. When it was over, they applauded and cheered, not for the performance but for the anthem and the republic for which it stands.
Over the years, sports fans have started clapping and cheering closer to the start of the song than the end of it, until at some events they carried on clapping and yelling and making noise throughout. As time goes on, fewer and fewer folks actually sing, stand, remove hats, and put hands over hearts, or for that matter, even pay any attention to the anthem at all.
An athlete who kneels, and remains quiet and still during the performance, shows more respect for "The Star Spangled Banner" than the guys drinking beer and yucking it up with their pals while the anthem is performed.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
She said, he said
A bird feeder hung on a shepherd’s hook attached to the deck of a house, about three feet above the wooden railing.
A dove flew near the feeder, then lit on the railing below it. She looked up at it for several moments, then decided to take a crack at getting some of the tasty seeds inside. She flew upward, flapping her wings hard, hovering unsteadily trying to land on the little perch. It was just too small.
Disappointed, she alit on the railing again. Her boyfriend flew in just then to join her.
“I can’t get into that bird feeder,” she complained.
“I’ve told you before,” he said. “We can’t use this one.”
“But I’m hungry,” the girl dove said.
“I know. We’ll have to try somewhere else.” He flew off into a nearby tree.
“Look! Look!” she cried. “That little sparrow is eating the seed!”
Her pal returned to check it out, and sure enough, a small bird sat on the perch and pecked at the scrummy treats inside. He dropped a steady stream of emptied hulls as he chewed, causing the doves to moan.
They discussed the matter again. “Why don’t you try?” the girl dove asked. “You’re so good at things like this.”
Flattered, the boy dove took off, flying up high, scaring away the sparrow, but failing to get his feet on the small perch. Instead he went up and landed on the top of the crook, striking a pose.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the girl dove said, turning away. He flew down, confronting her with a steady gaze. They talked the matter over for another few moments, then flew off in the direction of the house next door.
Or at least, that’s what I saw from the kitchen window last evening while I was washing the dishes.
A dove flew near the feeder, then lit on the railing below it. She looked up at it for several moments, then decided to take a crack at getting some of the tasty seeds inside. She flew upward, flapping her wings hard, hovering unsteadily trying to land on the little perch. It was just too small.
Disappointed, she alit on the railing again. Her boyfriend flew in just then to join her.
“I can’t get into that bird feeder,” she complained.
“I’ve told you before,” he said. “We can’t use this one.”
“But I’m hungry,” the girl dove said.
“I know. We’ll have to try somewhere else.” He flew off into a nearby tree.
“Look! Look!” she cried. “That little sparrow is eating the seed!”
Her pal returned to check it out, and sure enough, a small bird sat on the perch and pecked at the scrummy treats inside. He dropped a steady stream of emptied hulls as he chewed, causing the doves to moan.
They discussed the matter again. “Why don’t you try?” the girl dove asked. “You’re so good at things like this.”
Flattered, the boy dove took off, flying up high, scaring away the sparrow, but failing to get his feet on the small perch. Instead he went up and landed on the top of the crook, striking a pose.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the girl dove said, turning away. He flew down, confronting her with a steady gaze. They talked the matter over for another few moments, then flew off in the direction of the house next door.
Or at least, that’s what I saw from the kitchen window last evening while I was washing the dishes.
Sunday, August 5, 2018
I'm not going to sell my guitar after all
The first guitar I ever saw was in my grandparents’ basement. It had belonged to my uncle who died in World War II and had probably not been touched after he left for the army. I found it one day when I was playing down there, and although I was only about four or five years old, I managed somehow to prop the dusty old thing up on a chair. I remember standing there brushing one finger across the strings and thinking how cool it would be if I could actually play it. Completely out of tune, possibly with strings missing, it must have sounded dreadful, but I was enthralled. Playing the guitar was a little wish that I kept in the back of my mind for years.
In the sixth grade, I met a girl named Chrissie Sherman who was way too cool -- smart, popular, athletic, good looking – everything I wasn't but wanted to be. I wanted, in fact, to be just like her in every way. Then somebody told me that Chrissie Sherman played the guitar. That put me over the top.
Despite my parents having strained the family budget to buy a piano and give me lessons, I started asking for a guitar. As always in such circumstances, my mother said, “Well, you save your money, and when you have enough, you can buy one.” It was her way of approving a scheme without committing to pay for it.
I started saving every penny I could, mostly from my allowance, and in a year or so I took myself into our local Olsen’s Musicland and announced I had come to buy a guitar.
Mr. Olsen asked me how much I had to spend, and when I told him proudly that I had $8.50, he said that a guitar would cost about three times that much. A dream crushed! At that rate, I’d never be able to save enough to buy a guitar and be like Chrissie Sherman.
Aware of my disappointment, Mr. Olsen said, “I do have a ukulele that costs $8.50. How about that instead?”
Assuming that any stringed instrument with frets was close enough, I bought the little Harmony uke and took it home.
Armed with a “Ukulele Ike” book Mr. Olsen had thrown in, I managed to get the thing tuned. The songs in the book, however, gave me melody and words and chords, but what I knew about playing music on the piano did not translate. And it made my fingers sore. After a couple days, I put the thing in the closet and left it there.
I came across the ukulele a couple years later, and one evening when I was supposed to be doing my Latin homework, I took another crack at it, and this time it made sense. I was to strum the chords to accompany myself as I sang the tune. Duh.
I had a lot of fun playing that little ukulele. When I was in high school, my folks bought me a baritone uke for Christmas. It was 1962, and guitar-playing folk singers were all the rage. A baritone ukulele is just like a guitar that's missing two strings, so I had no trouble learning to play the guitar too, always somebody else's. In fact, I carried on playing borrowed guitars until 1967 when I finally bought one of my own.
One afternoon in the early 1970’s while I was sitting alone playing my guitar, it hit me for the first time that here was a dream that had actually come true. I remembered how often and how hard I had wished that I could play the guitar, and here I was doing it, and doing it pretty well.
I guess I owe it all to Chrissie Sherman, who, I found out later, did not and never had played the guitar at all.
In the sixth grade, I met a girl named Chrissie Sherman who was way too cool -- smart, popular, athletic, good looking – everything I wasn't but wanted to be. I wanted, in fact, to be just like her in every way. Then somebody told me that Chrissie Sherman played the guitar. That put me over the top.
Despite my parents having strained the family budget to buy a piano and give me lessons, I started asking for a guitar. As always in such circumstances, my mother said, “Well, you save your money, and when you have enough, you can buy one.” It was her way of approving a scheme without committing to pay for it.
I started saving every penny I could, mostly from my allowance, and in a year or so I took myself into our local Olsen’s Musicland and announced I had come to buy a guitar.
Mr. Olsen asked me how much I had to spend, and when I told him proudly that I had $8.50, he said that a guitar would cost about three times that much. A dream crushed! At that rate, I’d never be able to save enough to buy a guitar and be like Chrissie Sherman.
Aware of my disappointment, Mr. Olsen said, “I do have a ukulele that costs $8.50. How about that instead?”
Assuming that any stringed instrument with frets was close enough, I bought the little Harmony uke and took it home.
Armed with a “Ukulele Ike” book Mr. Olsen had thrown in, I managed to get the thing tuned. The songs in the book, however, gave me melody and words and chords, but what I knew about playing music on the piano did not translate. And it made my fingers sore. After a couple days, I put the thing in the closet and left it there.
I came across the ukulele a couple years later, and one evening when I was supposed to be doing my Latin homework, I took another crack at it, and this time it made sense. I was to strum the chords to accompany myself as I sang the tune. Duh.
I had a lot of fun playing that little ukulele. When I was in high school, my folks bought me a baritone uke for Christmas. It was 1962, and guitar-playing folk singers were all the rage. A baritone ukulele is just like a guitar that's missing two strings, so I had no trouble learning to play the guitar too, always somebody else's. In fact, I carried on playing borrowed guitars until 1967 when I finally bought one of my own.
One afternoon in the early 1970’s while I was sitting alone playing my guitar, it hit me for the first time that here was a dream that had actually come true. I remembered how often and how hard I had wished that I could play the guitar, and here I was doing it, and doing it pretty well.
I guess I owe it all to Chrissie Sherman, who, I found out later, did not and never had played the guitar at all.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
What chamber pot?
It was pointed out to me today that I haven’t posted anything in this here blog thing for several weeks. When no topic came immediately to mind, I consulted a Word document I keep on my hard drive entitled “blog ideas.” That’s where I jot down a few words to remind myself of subjects I might want to write about.
When I opened the document, I saw this on the first line:
Defenestrate – why?
Well, why, indeed? Why do we need a word that describes something so specific? (In case you’ve forgotten, it means to throw something or somebody out a window.)
We don’t have a word that means to save the pasta water when we drain the spaghetti, nor a word that means to put food in the dog’s dish, so why do we need a word that means to throw something out a window?
Could I use it in a sentence? Sure. “The Senator wants the bill to be defenestrated.” Or how about, “The defenestration of chamber pots is prohibited.”
Or, for a snappy come-back, there’s always, “Oh, go defenestrate yourself!”
When I opened the document, I saw this on the first line:
Defenestrate – why?
Well, why, indeed? Why do we need a word that describes something so specific? (In case you’ve forgotten, it means to throw something or somebody out a window.)
We don’t have a word that means to save the pasta water when we drain the spaghetti, nor a word that means to put food in the dog’s dish, so why do we need a word that means to throw something out a window?
Could I use it in a sentence? Sure. “The Senator wants the bill to be defenestrated.” Or how about, “The defenestration of chamber pots is prohibited.”
Or, for a snappy come-back, there’s always, “Oh, go defenestrate yourself!”
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
A Royal Leader's Loyal Readers
Don’t be fooled by today’s title – it has nothing to do with anything.
About three weeks ago I signed up to receive daily emails from Merriam-Webster (as in, Dictionary) in which they send me their Word of the Day. So far there have been two words I’d never heard of, both of which I promptly forgot, and one word that was familiar but I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. I’ve forgotten that one too. Obviously, daily vocabulary injections are lost on me.
Anyway, what’s more fun are links in the email that lead to articles on M-W’s webpage that deal with words and word usage, and language in general. It was there that I discovered some new words that I liked.
One that I didn’t know even needed to have a word to mean what it means is acnestis, which is the name of the place in the middle of your back that is just out of reach so that it is impossible to scratch there if it itches without assistance or equipment.
Another very cool word is biblioklept, meaning someone who steals books. “Book thief” pales in comparison, doesn’t it?
I also liked agelast, which is somebody who never laughs. If you know somebody like that, don't take it lightly. Being an agelast is no laughing matter.
About three weeks ago I signed up to receive daily emails from Merriam-Webster (as in, Dictionary) in which they send me their Word of the Day. So far there have been two words I’d never heard of, both of which I promptly forgot, and one word that was familiar but I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. I’ve forgotten that one too. Obviously, daily vocabulary injections are lost on me.
Anyway, what’s more fun are links in the email that lead to articles on M-W’s webpage that deal with words and word usage, and language in general. It was there that I discovered some new words that I liked.
One that I didn’t know even needed to have a word to mean what it means is acnestis, which is the name of the place in the middle of your back that is just out of reach so that it is impossible to scratch there if it itches without assistance or equipment.
Another very cool word is biblioklept, meaning someone who steals books. “Book thief” pales in comparison, doesn’t it?
I also liked agelast, which is somebody who never laughs. If you know somebody like that, don't take it lightly. Being an agelast is no laughing matter.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Pick your poison
Playwright Lillian Hellman once said that if you want to know how people will feel about you when you are dead, just go to Europe for a year. When you come back you’ll see how many people didn’t even notice you were gone.
Another way to learn what people think about you is to listen to the innocent voices of their children.
Whenever I visited my brother and his family, I liked to take a quick trip to a grocery store to pick up a loaf of plain old white bread for myself. I never cared for the kind my health-conscious relations always kept on hand, those multi-whole-grain loaves that resemble matted kitty litter.
One day when preparing lunch, my sister-in-law asked my five-year-old niece what kind of bread she wanted for her sandwich. The little girl replied, “I want some of Auntie Jan’s decadent white bread.”
So, how do you really feel about it?
Another way to learn what people think about you is to listen to the innocent voices of their children.
Whenever I visited my brother and his family, I liked to take a quick trip to a grocery store to pick up a loaf of plain old white bread for myself. I never cared for the kind my health-conscious relations always kept on hand, those multi-whole-grain loaves that resemble matted kitty litter.
One day when preparing lunch, my sister-in-law asked my five-year-old niece what kind of bread she wanted for her sandwich. The little girl replied, “I want some of Auntie Jan’s decadent white bread.”
So, how do you really feel about it?
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