A Child's Christmas in Central Illinois

Like Dylan Thomas, I plunge my hands into that snow drift of Christmas memories and pull out a handful.

Food--Since we lived within five minutes of my father's parents and 20 minutes of my mother parents, Christmas Day was always consisted of two gatherings with two major meals and two sets of presents. Turkey was the meat of choice at Grandma Kelmel's while roast goose was the tradition on the Finch side. I always looked forward to staying with Grandma Kelmel for several days after Christmas as she and I would "pick" over the turkey carcass for most of our meals. Plum pudding as the desert of choice at the Finches, while pumpkin pies were featured at the Kelmel meal.

Cousins--lots and lots of cousins. Being an only child, the commotion and noise of family Christmas gatherings was both stimulating and at times overwhelming.

Sleeping uncles--tradition held that we had the Finch Christmas at noon and the Kelmel Christmas in the evening. As a result, the afternoon was composed on uncles asleep in the living room while the aunts gossiped and bragged in the kitchen. The kids were relegated to remain anyplace where they would not disturb the uncles. I learned early on "to let sleeping uncles lie."

Ban-lyon Shirts--For the Finch side we always "drew names" so each person only had to buy for one person. Uncle Earl always asked for a Ban-Lyon shirt (double knit polyester). Never failed. He had to have had dozens of them in his closet, since he never wore them to work.

Miscalcuations--My perverse sense of humor got me into trouble with a couple "special gifts" over the years:
     --Aunt Doreen loved the musicals made by Jeannette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy. Their signature duet was "Indian Love Call," which is the most parodied song in American history. One year Kevin, Mary, Aunt Jo & I did a tape recording of "Indian Love Call," (Aunt Jo on the piano, Kevin on the trombone, and Mary & I singing (I was the one off key all the time). Needless to say, Aunt Doreen did not find it at all amusing. It was always a sore subject with her for many years after. Once video tape films became available I gave her for Christmas a VHS version of the film which featured the song. It did little to assuage her pique.
     --Dieter's spoon--Aunt Jo was always talking about going on a diet, so one Christmas I gave her a "dieter's spoon," which was a teaspoon with a large hole in the bowl. She did not find it particularly amusing in spite of her well know sense of humor. I learned that a person's practice of self-deprication was not an invitation to participate.

Pinochle Games--Once I was old enough to play pinochle, which was the card game of choice for both families, I was allowed to partake in the games of the adults. The Finch side played double pinochle, which uses two decks instead of one. I once dealt a perfect hand to my partner (which statistically is almost impossible in double deck play) but misdealt, which voided the hand. I was not allowed to forget that error for many, many years.

Millburg Gatherings--My Grandmother Kelmel's family--the Millburgs--gathered each Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter, and Fourth of July. Six of the sisters had married farmers, and all had very large families. By the time I was ten they had to limit the gatherings to only the Fourth of July as no one had a large enough house to accommodate everyone in cold weather. When I was five or six my parents hosted one of the last Thanksgiving gatherings. How we got all of those people inside that tiny house on Illini Drive I do not know. All I remember of the day is that the men went hunting and came back with a wash tub full of dead, skinned rabbits. Fortunately, these gatherings were potlucks, as cooking for that many people would have been beyond my mother's humble culinary skills. The one Christmas gathering I vividly remember was at someone's farm where there was a large forzen pond out behind the barn. The reason I have such vivid memories of this event is that their dog bit me on the cheek when I tried to pick it up. My natural affection for dogs was circumscribed by the experience.

Dad's Gifts for Mom--It seems as if every Christmas my Father would purchase some really expensive dress for my Mother from the most expensive women's shop in Taylorville. Often these were dresses that Mother would never wear. She would take them back and exchange them for dresses she could wear to work. The problem was that the dress shop carried few dresses that Mother considered appropriate for the office. A couple times the owner of the dress shop just gave Mother the money back when she could not find anything she liked in the shop.

Booze--The weeks before Christmas were times when Dad came home in loads of "gifts" from the salesmen who sold products to the township. Bottles of expensive whiskey, boxes of candy and tins of gourmet popcorn were unloaded each evening when he came home from work. After Dad stopped drinking the liquor bottles began to accumulate in our bar. Eventually, he began giving it away to friends.

Midnight Mass--Mother and I usually went to Midnight Mass. She always preferred to sit toward the back of the church, so I could see very little and with the Latin Mass, I understood even less. My chief memory is of the incense and my intense desire to go back to sleep.

Buying Christmas Trees--When I was in eight grade, Sister Loretta, who was my eight grade teacher and principal of St. Mary Grade School, asked me to help her and the other sisters decorate the church for Christmas. This was done on Christmas Eve day. I helped carry the large plaster statues of the Mary, Joseph, the Christ Child, a cow, a couple sheep and a donkey out of the church basement and up to the sanctuary. When this was done, Sister Loretta handed me a leather pounch full of money and told me to go buy six Christmas trees for the sanctuary. Now it was a cold, snowy day and I was not old enough to drive, so I do not know how Sister thought I was going to get the trees. I walked seven blocks to the nearest place where they sold trees and began looking at the meager selection left late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. The man who ran the gas station where the trees were sold, asked what I wanted and when I told him he was surprised at my request. We picked out the trees and I paid him. Then he took pity on me when I told him I was going to have to drag them to the church, making at least three trips. In retrospect, all of the needles would have been pulled from the trees in the process. The kind man closed his business (he was working alone), loaded all the trees in his pickup and drove me to the church. Then I had to figure out how to get the tree stands on the trees, something I had never done before. Once in place, it was obvious that the trees were some of the worst anyone had ever seen. Whether anyone said anything to the priests or the sisters about the scraggly trees, I do not know. But I remember that the next year there was a notice in the church bulletin the Sunday after Thanksgiving asking for volunteers to decorate the church for Christmas. Either by design or accident, the Sisters were no longer in charge of decorating the church for Christmas.

Most of all I remember the sense of wonder and magic that seemed to fill the air on Christmas Eve. Regardless of all the presents, turmoil, family angst or commotion of Christmas Day, the night before Christmas was, and still remains, the holiest of times for me. The beauty and joy of Christmas has always been in the anticipation, a feeling never dulled.

Is Consistency Too Much To Ask?

If one examines the baseline beliefs of many Evangelical Christians when it comes to the support of Israel, you find that they base their beliefs in the idea that the end of the world and second coming of Christ will be signaled by a massive conflagration in the Middle East. Therefore, according to their theology, anything that precipitates Armageddon is acceptable.

In the same context, opposition by such groups to efforts to control global warming is based on the belief that with the arrival of the end of the world coming sooner rather than later, worrying about the environment is a waste of time and effort.

Accepting both of these ideas at their face value, I then have to wonder why these same people get so upset over federal and state deficits. If "the end" is coming soon, then what does it matter how big the national debt becomes? If they are consistent in their beliefs, then their motto ought to be: "Spend like there's not tomorrow!"

Perhaps they think that since the cause of much of the national debt (and state debts, too) comes from social and foreign aid programs that help people who do not share the same religious, ethical and moral beliefs as the Evangelicals, then it is wrong to add to the debt.

In my old age I have decided that the only true test of a religion is whether or not it can admit that there are other ways to salvation besides its own.

What's a nickel really worth?

     I am always amused at how a seemingly normal conversation can trigger some random thoughts that bring back memories of years gone by. In his delightful book "A Child's Christmas in Wales," Dylan Thomas describes his memories of past Christmases as a large snow bank, and each time he sticks in his hand he pulls out some random vision of his youth.
     Today a conversation at dinner led me to recall that when I was 5 or 6 years old I managed to swallow a nickel. Of course I was taken to the doctor, an old and barely competent company one. After a cursory exam, he pronounced that my parents needed to monitor my fecal matter until it was determined that the missing coin had been passed out of my system.
     As was the case for most of my childhood, I spent weekdays with Grandfather and Grandmother Finch since both my parents worked outside the home. So, when I next went there to stay I came equipped with the pot off my old child's training potty and a set of clothespins with which my dung was to be examined.
    Grandmother, apparently misunderstanding the need to conduct a thorough search, looked into the pot with the first deposit, dumped it in the toilet, then went off to find a nickel in her purse, which she gave me. "There," she said, "you've got your nickel back."
     No further scrutiny was made of my shit as she must have told my parents that the missing monetary unit had been recovered. Who knows? I may still have the lost buffalo head still lurking in the depths of my bowels. Which would mean that I have more cents than some people credit me for.

How do we get out of here?

Proposition: That our Founding Fathers sought to fashion a government capable of accommodating free will with justice and human dignity.

To wit: Inherent in the American economic system are cycles of growth and decline. Those cycles are as much a part of our national economics as is the "law of supply and demand." What we seem to have trouble doing is figuring out how to help people during the periods of decline without making them dependent on government during periods of growth. Perhaps even more difficult is to figure out a method that keeps the same racial or ethnic groups from being the ones that suffer the most during the declines and gain the least during the growths.
     Any rational person who looks at our history over the past 75 years will note that the present financial crisis is not the fault of any one party or person. And even if it is, our Constitution reads, "We the People..." meaning that we all have a responsibility to help solve that crisis. We did not get into this crisis overnight and we are not going to be able to get out of it quickly, either.
    Deficit spending was adopted during the Great Depression as government attempted to bring the nation out of severe economic troubles. Since the 1950s we have continually relied on deficit spending until we have reached a point where almost half of every tax dollar is going to pay interest on the debt. Is the sole solution to cut all government programs so that we can devote more resources to paying down the debt? With unemployment in the 9 to 10% range, what kind of crisis will be fostered with we dump hundreds of thousands of government employees into the unemployment lines?
     The real test of our willingness to do what is right is not found during the moments of crisis. It is found in the growth times when real discipline is need to make choices that gradually reduce the size of debt and government.
     Government is like very pleasant drug. We like having things done for us, things handed us, and things built in our communities. We've become too dependent on those "fixes," and now we find that declining economic times make it hard for us to get our "fixes." But kicking that habit--going through rehab--is very difficult. Now we are faced with either going "cold turkey" or into some sort of treatment program that gradually weens us off our dependency. But, again, there's the rub. Do we have what it takes to keep cutting, gradually, when times get better? Can we resist when someone points out a new "need" that cries out for a new government program? Are we "heartless" to do so if there is a real need?
     The current crisis over the debt ceiling is being compounded by the fact that both parties have sworn off the so-called earmarks. How do legislative leaders get their party members to line-up behind a plan if the only incentive to do so is "its the right thing?" Ironic that one of the reasons we have a problem with the national debt is that it got that way in part due to earmarks, but now when we need the carrot of earmarks, all we have is a stick.
     To truly solve our problem, in the long term, without creating a bigger economic crisis, we need compromise and gradual reductions in government programs and gradual increases in revenue. Everyone must be willing to sacrifice, but the only ones currently being threatened with sacrifices are government employees, Social Security pensioners and the military. After 9/11 we were told to go out and spend money. Only members of the military and their families were asked to make true sacrifices. The entire nation should have been asked to pay a "war tax" to foot the bill for the "War on Global Terrorism." Instead the debt ceiling was raised again and again as we borrowed from the future.
     It is time for all of us to give a little for the good of all. If we freely give, it will be just, it will preserve human dignity. And our Founding Fathers would be proud.

Life is Bittersweet

     Last weekend was filled with as wide a series of emotional swings as I have experienced in some time.
     Pay Myers, a lady with whom I worked for many, many years died after a long and difficult struggle with cancer. Not only did we have to bare the news of her loss while out of town, we were unable to gather with other colleagues to mourn with them at her funeral.
     We got the call about her passing as we were driving to Pennsylvania to attend the wedding of Boss Cook's great niece. I always find great comfort in how families come together to celebrate such events. However, the joyful wedding was interlaced with pain of wittinessing Mom Miller's continuing mental decline.
     Then there is the news that friends who have been struggling to have a child after having previously lost one in the middle of a pregnancy, did give birth to healthy twin girls.
     The opening of the TV fictional medical series "Ben Casey" comes to mind: "Man, Woman, Birth, Death, Infinity." 

I Wanna be Like Mike?

     Over the first 50 years of television, a commonly held belief has been that people who watch TV (and movies for that matter) tend to model their behaviour after the people they watch. Hence the strict censorship of TV in the 1950's to the 1980s. The normative behaviour theory has been the basis for forcing networks to impose some sort of ratings system to warn-off people from programming that might be considered offensive.
     From shows like "Daddy Knows Best" (even though his wife and kids usually did know best) to "The Cosby Show," Americans were presented with "ideal" middle class families. The implication being that we all ought to live like, act like, and aspire to the types of behaviour we were watching.
     Now cable/satellite TV gives us "Swamp People" and reality shows about Texas women and wild hogs in Texas and the people who hunt them.
     Is this the new normal?"

The Macrocosm of the YMCA Locker Room

There is a certain element of membership of the YMCA who leave towels laying around, spill food on the floor and don't clean it up, don't flush toilets, etc. Among the membership of the YMCA there are four basic thoughts of how these slackers should be treated:

Those who use the up-scale special locker room that costs extra but gets cleaned more often:
  --Conservative: "Let's leave those boors in the regular locker room to their own devices and lower my taxes."
   --Liberal: "Let's put more money into education so that everyone will know how to behave in a locker room and I am willing to help pay for the cost of that education."

Those who use the regular locker room (where the messes are):
   --Liberal: "Let's put up a few signs with rules and then try to point out to those who have not had a proper education how it works--lead by example, and I'm willing to pay a little more to help out.
   --Conservative: "Constitution says I can do what I want and so does the NRA. And  by the way, lower the taxes of those wealthy dudes.

Brain Thought Transmissions

Based upon many, many years of research and observation, I have a theory to offer the scientific world: The size of jewelry worn about the face and neck is in direct proportion to the diminished mental capacity if the wearer because said metal and plastic ornamentation blocks the transmission of intelligent thought waves within the wearer's brain.

This is especially true with very large earrings.

The alternative theory is that large quantities of jewelry around the face and neck attract those random stupid thoughts that float in the universe having been released when brain surgery is done on people who have had the self-restraint not to act on them.

Thoughts on Memorial Day

Having grown up in a family with a Dad who had served in World War II and a Mom who worked in a defense plant during the same war, and both of them very active in the Veterans of Foreign Wars post in my hometown, Memorial Day was always an important event in our home. There was a parade and then some ceremony. I recall Dad on the speaker's platform when he was serving as commander of the VFW post. So I approach this "holiday" with a reverence that borders on religious.

From younger days when I saw American history as an endless string of "us versus them" conflicts where the emphasis and fascination was on the "heroic soldier," my thinking and feelings have evolved into something much more sophisticated and subtle. While Memorial Day was originally intended to honor those who fell in battle, it has become a cross between honoring anyone who served and some sort of official start to the summer outdoor grilling season. The later having no connection to the former in the minds of many people--just a three-day weekend at the beginning of summer.

More and more I have come to view the true human costs of war not in terms of those who laid down their lives for our country. In a sense their pain and suffering ended when life left their bodies. The long term costs of wars has been in those left behind. The broken families, hugs never given, friendships never shared, communities and homes a little diminished for loss of each life. There is also the suffering of those who survived battle's horrors. Today we are more attuned to what is labeled post-traumatic stress, but that does not lessen the internal battles which occupy the minds of those who survived.

The film "We Were Soldiers," which is about the U.S.'s early involvement in Vietnam, offers images of what I have come to see as the ultimate costs of war--the delivery of telegrams to the wives of men who were killed in the battle. The soldiers who died paid a heavy price, but so did their families, loved ones and friends who had to live out their lives with only the memory of their lost ones.

This Memorial Day I will keep in my thoughts all those who are today still paying the price for war: lives traumatized, the "vacant chair," the parent gone forever. Herman Wouk wrote, "Th beginning of the end of War lies in Remembrance." When we forget the true price of war, we will continue to fight wars.

Men doing what?

Admittedly, I have gone way out of my way the past 40+ years to avoid locker rooms, but my recent foray into water aerobic exercise has caused me to become re-acquainted with those bastions of maleness. What has caught my attention is the tendency of men, even the 20-somethings, to grunt and groan as they dress and undress, towel or eliminate bodily waste.

Is the Freeport YMCA an enclave for overly vociferous males who announce every exertion with what Shakespeare calls "windy suppuration of forced breath," or am I too long away from male company in such surroundings? Do women vocalize their efforts with such in their locker rooms?

I find it all so odd, so very odd.

"I'm just sayin..."

Upon reflection I have come to the conclusion that the Finch male of a certain generation has a tendency to become more and more vocally opinionated in old age. We were brought up in an environment where "children are to be seen and not heard," and where the elders of the family were inclined to contradict or correct you at any time--regardless of your age and/or how embarrassing it was in that situation. Therefore, we grew up having to bottle up lots of opinions and feelings.

Now that we've reach the age where there are no more "parental" figures to stomp on us, we tend toward become more vociferous in expressing our feelings, and perhaps even seem to expose a certain meanness of spirit at times. Or at least I sometimes feel that in afterthought of a comment that it was "out of character" for me, so my old self sees it as a mean spirited. Thin line between being a lovable curmudgeon and a crabby old codger.

On the other hand, maybe I am just getting too self-analytical in my dotage.
"Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well."

Reflections on a Day for Mom

     When you reach my age and there are too many important people in your life who are no longer here, days like Mother's Day become bittersweet.
     My parents were not the types to overtly express feelings; life was a series of unspoken affectiona that were demonstrated by just doing things or buying things for the person for whom love was felt. As a result, Mother's Day was never about hugs and saying, "I love you, Mom." It was being there and having a gift, regardless of how useless or unneeded it was. "It's the thought that counts," was coined for my mother.
    Nevertheless, now that she's gone, days like today cause me to miss the hugs and "I love yous" that should have been standard fare. I only pray that I have done a better job expressing to my family the love I feel for them.

Wrangler No-Nos

     As the owner of a 2008 Jeep Wrangler I like to think that I am part of a community for rugged individuals who lay claim to something of a Wrangler life-style. However, over the past few months I have observed other Wranglers which I consider NOT fitting that image. This Blog is asking for others to post their observed "Wranger Non-Nps."

1) A very pink Wrangler, something like a Peptobismal color.
2) A Chihuahua for a pet --riding on the passanger side.

The Hoot’s Corner Curmudgeon -- To Government Aid or Not to Government Aid?

PROPOSITION: The problem with this country is that there are too many people who begin discussions with the phrase “The problem with this country...”

TO WIT: This morning Sally Cooper, the newest and youngest reporter for The Hoot’s Corner Budget dropped by to “talk through” her most recent ethical dilemma. You see, Sally graduated from Harvard College with a degree in Moral Philosophy and a minor in Political Science. Some would see those two as contradictory, but for Sally, a peaches and cream complexion natural blonde whose father owns the newspaper, the real rub came when she began her reporting gig. Face it, there aren’t many jobs out there for Moral Philosophy majors, so the family business was a natural alternative to a “do you want an extra shot of expresso in that latte?” type of job.

          Reporting the “truth” had come up against the hard reality of newspaper economics for Sally. Here’s her conundrum:

A recent survey of the residence of Hoot’s Corner by The Pew & Bench Public Opinion Group, showed that only one person in the entire town had never received some form of government aid.

For the rest of us—everything from food stamps to farm subsidies, from home purchase allowances to Cash for Clunkers, from school aid to subsidized college tuition, and from tornado and flood disaster relief to Extension Service advice on home gardens—some form of government assistance has made our lives easier, our cares less burdensome.

The one person who had not succumbed to the highly addictive “drug” of government aid was John Harington, the town’s foremost industrialist and its largest private sector employer – Harington Amalgamated Toilet Seats, LLC.

          Known locally as HATS, the company has been more or less recession proof, never suffering from economic ups and downs. HATS was founded in 1926 by the late Maxine Ellsworth Harington, John’s doting mother. Mrs. Harington is also widely known locally for her philanthropic activities on behalf of feral cats.

          The City Council is in the planning stages to present Mr. Harington with a plaque acknowledging his record of avoiding government subsidies of any sort, but Sally discovered something in government files. Using the Freedom of Information Act Sally uncovered the fact that while Mr. Harington has never personally received government aid, his company has been selling airplane toilet seats to the Pentagon for $600 each since the 1960s, and that the vaunted toilet seats that HATS made for the International Space Station had contracted out at a mere $1,299 each. The very same item at the Home-boy Depot retails for $24.95.

          Sally whined, “The problem with this country is that everyone gets some sort of government help, yet everyone rants about the taxes to pay for all that aid, especially Mr. Harington, who spends large sums of money buying Tea Party ads in Daddy’s newspaper. How can I remain morally honest to myself if I do not report the $600 toilet seats as a form of government aid to HATS (a wholey own company of Mr. Harington)? But how do I keep Daddy happy if do report them?” Sounds like a great topic for a doctoral dissertation in moral philosophy.

Point. And period.

Getting Into A Role

     Part of the attraction of fiction (whether in book or visual mediums) is that the reader/viewer is transported away from her day-to-day life into someone else's world. During the early part of the 19th century ministers and physicians were critical of the popularity of novels because of the perception that people were avoiding their own lives to live in the worlds of people who were not real. That came to be known by the middle of the last century as the Walter Mitty syndromee.
     Regardless of Walter's flights of fantasy to escape a hum-drum existence, people can succumb to thinking they someone else, even to the exclusion of the real world in which they are supposed to function. A similar unhealthy attachment to characters portrayed by actors is another sinister side effect of fiction.
     Having read about actors like Hal Holbrook (who has done Mark Twain for decades) and how they can sometimes have difficulty separating their own identity from that of their character's, I was still not prepared for how attached I have become to Silas Wright Terry. He is the Civil War naval officer I portray in a one-man show. Researching his life and that of his family is taking over all my spare time (and some that is not so spare). It is quite astounding how obsessed one can become.
     Having just purchased on-line an original document with his authenticated signature on it may qualify as obsessed--at least according to Boss Cook.
     While I do not think I shall ever need mental health care for this, I am starting to be cautious with the time I devote to my new alter ego.
     I supposed that one has to sacrifice for his art. Alas!
    

The Hoot’s Corner Curmudgeon -- Cash for Clunkers

PROPOSITION: The problem with this country is that there are too many people who begin discussions with the phrase “The problem with this country...”

TO WIT: In 2009 Herman Meister sauntered into my place, announcing his presence with “The problem with this country is them damned tax and spend Democrats.” He then proceeded to launch into a lengthy diatribe against the stimulus package and its impact on the long term economic stability of the United States.

          For those unfamiliar with Herman, it should be noted that Herman relishes the fact that he “lives off the grid.” He has no mailing address, no TV, no telephone (cell or land-line), no Internet, no radio, and brags about the fact that he has not paid taxes since 1954. The only newspapers he reads are the ones in which his bottles of absinthe come wrapped. Herman’s son-in-law/nephew bootlegs the banned booze in from Mexico, so the newspapers that Herman claims to read are in Spanish; no one has yet to determine if Herman can read Spanish. But I digress.

          Regardless of what sources of information Herman does not consult on any form of a regular basis, he is generally misinformed on all topics, a fact that has never stopped him from offering his profound and highly un-thought-out opinions on virtually everything.

          Having completed his dissertation on the evils of the economic stimulus package, Herman then informed me with delight that he had just inked a deal for a new car, the first in his life time. The car was purchased under the “Cash for Clunkers” program. Herman traded in his 1962 Ford Galaxie for a new Focus.

          The $4,500 that sweetened Herman’s deal for the new car was made even sweeter by the fact that twice in the last 47 years the Galaxie was totaled in car wrecks and Herman had been paid off by insurance companies for the “fair market value” of the car both times. Herman hoped that the fact that he had installed a 1947 Cummins diesel engine in the Galaxie the last time it was totaled would escape notice until all of the paper work had passed government approval. It seems that a 1947 Cummins diesel engine gets better gas mileage than the government requires in 2009 under the Cash for Clunkers program.

          Timidly I asked he thought he was being disingenuous by condemning the economic stimulus package while taking advantage of it? After he spit chewing tobacco juice into the old Crisco can he carries for such purposes (note: he stopped smoking in 1974 when he learned that the government was putting chemicals in cigarettes that caused him to wheeze when he breathed), Herman opined, “Heck no. It’s the American way—get all that you can while you can, and if I got mine and you didn’t get yours, then that’s your problem.”

          Point. And peiod.

An Old Friend is Back

     When I first moved to Freeport I rented a small room from an elderly lady. No TV (unless I wanted to sit in the living room and watch what she watched). Fortunately I was "adopted" by Jeanne and Paul Potter, who invited me to come to their home some evenings. It was the Potters who got me hooked on the British series "Upstairs, Downstairs" which ran on PBS' Masterpiece Theatre.
     I just became enamoured of the series, delighting in each episode and the unfolding lives of the characters. One reason why the series appealed to me was that it gave me an insight into my father's parents. They were born into and raised to adulthood in the British class system that is depicted in the series. I came to better understand their attitudes toward many things.
     When the series came out on DVD I bought the complete set and have spent days on end watching one episode after another--much to the dismay of my wife, who has never been a fan.
    And now, o joy of joys, on the 40th anniversary of the start of the series, they have produced a three episode sequel. Last Sunday was the first installment and it lived up to every expectation. Only one cast member from the original series is in the new one (Jean Marsh who played the parlor maid Rose and now returns as the head housekeeper), which takes place many years after the first series ended, but in the same house (165 Eaton Place--pronounced One-Six-Five Eaton Place), and it follows the lives of both the servants and the masters of the house.
     When I went to the UK in 1976 I forced my companions to accompany me to find 165 Eaton Place. Sadly there is no house number 165 on Eaton Place--which was probably a fortunate thing as whoever would have lived there would have had to suffer constant visitors looking for Lord and Lady Bellamy, or Mr. Hudson the butler or Miss Georgina (Lord Bellamy's ward)--can you say crush? And I was not the only one, even Snoopy in one of the Peanuts cartoon strips at the time was infatuated with her.
     Welcome back my old friend, it's so nice to see you again. You've aged better than I.

"Gone for good"

     It must be the water I've been drinking, but word usage and phrases are suddenly catching my attention. And then they rattle around in the vast emptiness of my cranium until I can't stand it. Almost worse than getting a song stuck in you head ("Its A Small World").
     To whit: "Then it'll be gone for good."
     What does that mean? Is the fact that whatever "it" maybe, it is good that its gone? But if you use the phrase to say when some one died "he's gone for good," do you mean it is good that he's gone? Or that he went to a good place, assuming you have some knowledge of his ultimate reality.
     These things hurt to think about.

Your Basic Porcelain Throne Musing

“Crap.  Crapolla.  Feces.  Turd.  Poop.  Doo-doo.  The list of euphemisms is endless when it comes to that most basic of bodily excrements—shit,” he pondered as he sat upon a toilet awaiting his own body to work through the process of eliminating waste product.  “Basically, what is this stuff?  A by-product of what we eat, yet as a society we scorn its existence, as if the human body could survive without the regular purging of its own digestive tract.”

          His mind then began to wander over the subject in a more scientific manner.  He was curious as to what the medical folks had discovered about shit.  He recalled that he had once asked his doctor whether or not it was possible to determine if one had the correct balance of fiber in one’s body based on the consistency of one’s own feces.  The doctor was both stumped by the question and repelled by the though of contemplating such a subject.  Yet, there have to be medicos who have studied the subject.

          “So, Mrs. Young, what type of doctor is your son?”  inquired the lady of her companion at the spa.

          “He’s a proctologist who teaches at Johns Hopkins Medical School and he specializes in the study of the excremental processes,” came the response.

          “That’s impressive.  In other words, he’s a doctor of shit, or perhaps a shitty doctor?”

          “He does take a lot of crap over his job,” the sardonic mother intoned.

          But really, surly some biologists and medical doctors know something about this generally unspoken of field of study.  People suffer from constipation and diarrhea, and there are medicines to relieve such problems.  There are all those ads on TV for fiber filled drinks and tablets for “regularity.”  So somewhere, someone is looking into shit and its nature to create these medicinal aids.  How would you write a research grant for this field?  Who would fund such research?  Proctor and Gamble?  Is that where the name “proctologist” came from—the Proctor of Proctor and Gamble?

          “But I digress,” he thought.  “What about all the permutations of the word’s usage.”  For example:

          “Eat shit” sometimes linked with the perhaps more extreme command, “and die.”  Which would be worse, to be forced to actually eat shit and then be left alive to remember the experience, or eat shit and then die?  

          “Tough shit,” which generally means “I don’t care.”  Did that expression come about through the pain people suffered from constipation, and someone else not caring that the other person was hurting from a clogged ass?

          “Beat the shit out of,” generally means to defeat another person or group to the point of humiliation.  “The Cubs beat the shit out of the Cardinals,” is a usage of the phrase seldom heard, but one for which Cubs fans long.  While in a baseball motif, there was once the newspaper clipping he had seen were a typo indicated that a certain major league player was in a “shitting slump.”  Maybe that is a form of constipation.

          “When the shit hits the fan,” gets used a lot.  In polite company the phrase is sometimes rendered “When the ship hits the sand,” but either expression denotes a situation in which something bad happens.  Does the phrase have its origins in a situation in which actual shit hit a fan and was thus spread across a wide area and onto many people?   A sort of misplaced manure spreader?  A manure spreader, the one product the manufacturer will not stand behind.

          “Get your shit together” is another common usage.  Did this phrase have its origins in a mother’s constant nagging of her son to clean up his totally messy room, the “shit” in this case being all the “stuff” lying around the room? 

          And that brings to mind a curious thought about the connotations of the word.  In the “get your shit together” phrase, the connotation of “shit” can be either good or bad.  In “this is some good shit,” the connotation is positive in that the grass is high quality.  Conversely, “you’re in deep shit,” and “this ain’t worth a shit,” have the connotation that shit is bad.  “Shit and shoved in it” is also a phrase that infers that the newly created pile of fecal matter is something that one has had the misfortune on having fallen back into.

          Since the word “shit” is considered vulgar, the rules governing when it can or should be used do not exist.  Hence an attractive woman can be referred to as “her shit is hot,” while her nose-in-the-air attitude caused by her good looks would be referred to as “she thinks her shit doesn’t stink.”

          And then there’s the union of the profane and the scared —“holy shit!”  Now, this does create a myriad of possibilities.  Can something be both disgusting and sanctified?  What defines it?  When Pope Saint Hyginus (136-140) had a bowel movement, did he produce “holy shit?”  During the Middle Ages when Europeans were preoccupied with the relics of saints, did anyone ever try to pass off a turd of St. Francis of Assisi as a relic?  If a sinner suffering from severe constipation suddenly has relief and thanks God for the easing of pain, is that “holy shit?”

          “Enough!” he thought.  “I’ve gotta get more fiber in my diet.  These mind trips while I’m waiting for the passage of one of the Rockies are pushing my psyche into some deep shit.”

I Get Strange Stories via Emails

Note to my readers: this story was the body of an on-line friend who said he was forwarding it to me as a "precautionary tale of what might come to be." Take it for what its worth.

FROM: The Standard-Journal On-Line – April 1, 2015

FEDS INVADE COUNTY: Hundreds Under Arrest – Judges and States Attorney Freed—Fired Finally Quelled -- By Jeremy Wilson, Special to the Standard-Journal
     Over five hundred FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco and Fire Arms (ATF) agents, along with U.S. Marshals and the Illinois State Police broke through a corridor of several hundred members of the Stevenson County Sheriff’s “special posse” just before dawn this morning. According to a statement issued by the FBI’s Special Agent in Charge a brief gun battle was halted when U.S. Army armored personnel carriers supported from helicopter gunships joined in the assault.
     "Seeing the firepower provided by the Army broke the will of the insurgents,” said Charles McMurtrie, the FBI agent who coordinated the attack which broke a thirty-five day stalemate between the Stevenson County sheriff’s “special posse” and a host of federal and state agencies intent on serving warrants and writs to officials in the county.
     A potential second fire fight between the assaulting agents and sheriff’s posse members who had built fortifications around the Stevenson County jail was averted when the helicopter gunships began circling the compound. The total number of those rounded up by federal and state authorizes exceeded five hundred-fifty, although an exact count will not be known until all of those detained in the massive sweep have been processed.
     Johnson Balter, Stevenson County State’s Attorney, along with Chief Circuit Judge Angela Rudy and Associate Circuit Judge Vincent Cashen were freed from the county jail where they had been held for over forty days after Stevenson County Sheriff Jimmy Pigeon refused to submit to arrest on nineteen contempt of court citations. When the Illinois State Police attempted to serve writs of habeas corpus to free Balter, Rudy and Cashen, Sheriff Pigeon deputized over six hundred "special deputies" to shut off all roads into the county.
     The initial contempt of court citations stemmed from the refusal of Sheriff Pigeon and his cousin Timmy Pigeon, Stevenson County Board Chairman, to complete economic interest statements required by law. In addition, both the Pigeons and the majority of the Stevenson County Board have refused to complete W-2 forms needed to process their salaries, travel expenses and meeting reimbursements.
     In a statement issued soon after he was elected, Sheriff Pigeon stated, “I will not provide anyone with information that links me in any way to the socialist national government, the unconstitutional income tax and the one-world government advocated by the Tri-Lateral Commission and its puppet the United Nations.” Since March of 2014 Stevenson County has been paying its employees without deducting state and federal taxes, as well as Social Security and Medicare. In addition the county ceased making payments to the Illinois Municipal Retirement Fund (IMRF) on behalf of its employees. All moves order by the County Board as a protest against federal and state laws regulating local units of government.
     When a group of county employees sought an injunction in circuit court to force the county to resume the IMRF payments, they were barred from the courtroom by sheriff’s personnel acting on orders of Sheriff Pigeon. Injunctions and writs issued by the Illinois Supreme Court and the federal magistrate in Rocktown proved fruitless of the same reasons.
     Many county residents expressed relief that the situation seems to have been resolved. The virtual isolation of the county left store shelves bare, gasoline supplies dwindling and those employed outside the county unable to work. According to statements issued by Sheriff Pigeon, “the purpose of the blockade is to stop anyone not recognized by the Sheriff’s Office from entering the county and will in no way inhibit the movement of law abiding people or legal goods into or out of the county. I am the top law enforcement officer in the County,” the statement continued,” I cannot and will not recognize anyone from state or federal courts as having jurisdiction here.”
     Fearing confrontations, most residents did not attempt to pass through the road blocks despite the sheriff’s assurances. Companies making deliveries to stores, businesses and gas stations in the county also refused to enter the county. Unconfirmed reports state that the Wisconsin State Police and a large contingent of the Wisconsin National Guard had assembled where Illinois routes 2 and 7crossed into that state. The Standard-Journal has been unable to determine whether or not those units participated in the relief expedition that began this morning.
     The presence of the additional law enforcement personnel today provided the needed manpower to quell the riot and looting that had gone on in the downtown of Keysport. Four square blocks of the city have been consumed by fires started by rioters, but firefighters were prevented from reaching the fires due to absence of police personnel. In creating the “special posse” to guard the county, Sheriff Pigeon jailed any law enforcement officer in the county who refused to submit to his orders. Keysport as well as all the other towns in the county were left without police protection. Traffic accidents, including one involving a drunk driver that took the lives of four children on a school bus, went without investigation because of the stand-off with federal and state law enforcement.
     States Attorney Balter stated that he believed that the county judicial and law enforcement systems will be back to normal in a few days. Illinois State Police District 29 commander will serve as the county's sheriff-pro tem until a special election can be held, according to a statement released by the Chief Justice of the Illinois Supreme Court.

Editor’s Note: Much of the information reported in this article will either be news to our readers or confirm rumors that have circulated in the community. Since Sheriff Pigeon began his standoff with state and federal authorizes the Standard-Journal offices have been occupied by members of the “special posse” and all our editions have been subjected to heavy censorship. We regret that we were prevented from upholding our journalistic obligations when our community needed us the most.

How Comest Thou Hither?

     As a city-raised only child, one of the places I always felt truly free was on the farm of my uncle and his eight children. I would spend several days there each summer, greatly enjoying the "different" life they led. No in-door toilet; all of us sleeping in one big room. Barns, corn cribs and machine sheds to discover. I was truly the proverbial city slicker, but mostly I didn't care.
     Today, the free feelings from those days are recalled for me when I use the phrase, "Going to water the ducks."  Through some accident of events, one of my cousins had discovered that the ducks would attempt to drink or caputre a stream of urine as it left his body. That got transformed into all the boys "watering the ducks" on numerous occassions. We thought it was great fun, and the ducks did not seem to mind. Whether this particular diet impacted the taste of their meat, we never knew. It was fun then and the memory of those times comes back to me with the expression.
     My intent is to make this blog a place where I can freely express ideas and hear from anyone who wishes to comment.