Archive for December 2012
Good morning, Netizens…
Her ideas have been widely promulgated on the Internet.
“Expectations are high that the EPA will act swiftly in Obama's second term to more aggressively promulgate a variety of new rules and regulations aimed at all forms of pollution, including greenhouse gases. These will almost certainly meet legal challenges of their own.” — From an article by Tom Zeller, Jr. at The Huffington Post, November 28, 2012
The origin of “promulgate” is a bit murky, or perhaps we should say “milky.” It comes from Latin “promulgatus,” which in turn derives from “pro-,” meaning “forward,” and “-mulgare,” a form that is probably related to the verb “mulgēre,” meaning “to milk” or “to extract.” “Mulgēre” is an ancestor of the English word “emulsion” (“mixture of mutually insoluble liquids”), and it is also related to the Old English word that became “milk” itself. Like its synonyms “declare,” “announce,” and “proclaim,” “promulgate” means to make known publicly. It particularly implies the proclaiming of a dogma, doctrine, or law.
Good morning, Netizens…
The student's vacuous facial expression suggested a lack of comprehension.
“When the leaves begin to turn and the temperature calls for long sleeves, we stow the whites and rosés in favor of reds. It's easy but vacuous logic. Color is not the most significant factor in drinking [wine] seasonally. It's texture and weight.” — From an article by Eric Asimov in the New York Times, October 24, 2012
As you might have guessed, “vacuous” shares the same root as “vacuum”—the Latin adjective “vacuus,” meaning “empty.” This root also gave us the noun “vacuity” (the oldest meaning of which is “an empty space”) as well as the verb “evacuate” (originally meaning “to empty of contents”). Its predecessor, the verb “vacare,” is also an ancestor of the words “vacation” and “vacancy” as well as “void.” All of these words suggest an emptiness of space, or else a fleeing of people or things from one place to another. “Vacuous” appeared in English in the middle of the 17th century, at first literally describing something that was empty. It acquired its figurative usage, describing one who is lacking any substance of the mind, in the mid-1800s.
Good morning, Netizens…
Good evening, Netizens and friends…
For decades of my life I have lived with an underground river of thought, of ever-changing and unspoken sound and fury that has kept me writing about life inside and outside my consciousness. Sometimes this unexpurgated prattling gets me into trouble, even with people that I may have thought understood what motivates me to write, but apparently misunderstood what I was trying to say.
However, this constantly-flow of thought has persevered over the years up until just before Christmas this year. Perhaps it is a number of close personal friends who have passed on, or those who are on the verge of falling by the wayside. In my moments of reverie I increasingly ponder our own vulnerability. After all, I turn 67 years of age in just a few days, which I often observe is much older than I ever dreamed I would reach. Still violence seems to be increasing while I watch.
However, no issue in the news has more captured my attention than arming school teachers in Utah public schools. Is this a cure for the acts of random violence which has so devastated public schools, such as in Newtown, Connecticut, or is this just part of an increasing tendency to commit great acts of violence?
In this picture from the Associated Press, Christine Caldwell, left, receives firearms training with a 9mm Glock from personal defense instructor Jim McCarthy during concealed weapons training for 200 Utah teachers Thursday, Dec. 27, 2012, in West Valley City, Utah. The Utah Shooting Sports Council offered six hours of training in handling concealed weapons in the latest effort to arm teachers to confront school assailants. Is this a cure or merely part of a bigger problem?
Good afternoon, Netizens,..
The two antique collectors found themselves embroiled in a spirited donnybrook over the value of an unusual piece of furniture at the auction.
“We are in the middle of a donnybrook about the threat that falling off a 'fiscal cliff' poses for national security (to say nothing of what it would do to domestic discretionary spending).” — From an article by Gordon Adams in The Inquirer (Philadelphia), October 25, 2012
The Donnybrook Fair was an annual event held in Donnybrook—then a suburb of Dublin, Ireland—from the 13th to the 19th centuries. The fair was legendary for the vast quantities of liquor consumed there, for the number of hasty marriages performed during the week following it, and, most of all, for the frequent brawls that erupted throughout it. Eventually, the fair's reputation for tumult was its undoing. From the 1790s on there were campaigns against the drunken brawl the fair had become. The event was abolished in 1855, but not before its name had become a generic term for a free-for-all.
Good morning, Netizens…
“Rick Owens creates worlds more than fashion. His shows are famous for their otherworldly ambience, from the mise-en-scène (from foam to fire to electrifying light shows) to the soundtrack.” — From a post by Matthew Schneier on Style.com's Style File blog, November 5, 2012
“Studio pictures tend to have a more controlled and artificial mise-en-scène no matter how elaborate and detailed the setting. The lighting is, after all, unnatural, space is confined, and locations are constructed. The emphasis is more on the interaction of characters and less on the interaction of character and environment.” — From Ira Konigsberg's 1987 publication The Complete Film Dictionary
In French, “mise en scène” literally means “the action of putting onto the stage.” The term's use originated in stage drama, where it refers to the way actors and scenery props are arranged; as its usage expanded into other narrative arts, its meaning shifted. In film production, “mise en scène” refers to all of the elements that comprise a single shot; that includes, but is not limited to, the actors, setting, props, costumes, and lighting. The director of a play or film is called the “metteur en scène”—literally, “one who puts on the stage.”
Good morning, Netizens…
The flu debilitated him and left him bedridden for several days.
“Hard hits are part of the game. But vicious hits intended to debilitate a player, maybe end his career, are intolerable.” — From an article in the Chicago Tribune, March 8, 2012
“Debilitate,” “enfeeble,” “undermine,” and “sap” all share in common the general sense “to weaken.” But while “debilitate” holds the distinction among these words of coming from the Latin word for “weak”—“debilis”—it packs a potent punch. Often used of disease or something that strikes like a disease or illness, “debilitate” might suggest a temporary impairment, but a pervasive one. “Enfeeble,” a very close synonym of “debilitate,” connotes a pitiable, but often reversible, condition of weakness and helplessness. “Undermine” and “sap” suggest a weakening by something working surreptitiously and insidiously.
Good evening, Netizens and friends…
As a writer and journalist, I strive each year to create vivid characters
that reach out to your imagination, to indwell in your consciousness and
allow you to enjoy all the rich, full range of the emotions. Each year, as
has been my habit for over a decade online, I have sent an electronic
Christmas card to everyone on my personal writer's mailing list, and this
year is no exception, although this year it is belated somewhat.
No, this won't be an exercise in plagiarism, by sending each of you graphics
or highly ornate Christmas cards by e-mail, for I know of lots and lots of
people who do that as witnessed by how my e-mail bogs down each and every
year about this time, no matter how robust I build my servers. No, this is a
story, one of the oldest stories I know by heart, and each year I rejoice in
retelling it, over and over again.
In 1983, which is the first year I began this tradition, my mailing list had
only 28 names in it (yes, I have a writer's archive that reaches back that
far) but when I sent out my first Christmas Card, we didn't have the World
Wide Web quite working yet in Spokane, so it was a text file. By 1990 the
numbers of people receiving this same text file had grown to over 60, and
now on the cusp of the new millenium, it numbers around 500 people.
However, in 1992, much to my surprise, I found myself reduced to tears by
the telling of this annual story, because people, most of whom I have never
or will possibly will never meet in my life sent copies of the story they
had received either from me or others, to THEIR friends, adding little bits
of sentiment of their own, perhaps items about their families, afterward.
Last year, over 3200 such messages followed my original posting. As one
system administrator in Bayview, New York observed:
“…I felt compelled to respond to this, as it came to me through half
a dozen other people, and although it is one of those dreaded “chain
letters” that one encounters so often on the internet these days, I agree
with you— it is well worth repeating and passing on. Merry Christmas to you
and your loved ones. “
It is with humility and best wishes in my heart, I am proud to present the
greatest Christmas story of all time, and I give it to each of you as our
personal gift, in the hopes that you will read the story, take it into your
heart, cherish it and yes, please, pass it onto someone you love.
THE CHRISTMAS STORY
As told by a man named Luke
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar
Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first
made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, everyone unto his own city. And Joseph also went
up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of
David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage
To be taxed with Mary his expoused wife, being great with child. And so it
was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should
be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in
swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for
them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping
watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon
them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tiding
of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in
the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you: You shall find the babe wrapped in
swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel
a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in
the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the
shepherds said on to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see
this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in
the manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying
which was told them concerning this child.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the only true star of Christmas, in a story
that has withstood the test of time for us all, Emmanuel, which translates
from the Aramaic to mean, Christ with us.
May all the blessings of this most joyous time of year be with you and those
you love most dearly. May you be overwhelmed with the depth of love that the
Birth of the Christ Child represents to all our lives, and may it give you
Peace and Goodwill to all men.
Dave Laird (firstname.lastname@example.org)
…and a cast of 100's of The Community Comment Blog…
I remember making bells for the Christmas tree out of egg cartons and foil; this and chain links made out of different strips of colored construction paper and Elmer's glue (or even homemade flour glue). All our decorations were home made. Most of our gifts were homemade. My best dresses were sewn by my mother; toys made by my Dad. Those were the simple days of Christmas.
Our tradition was to put the tree up very late – sometimes on Christmas Eve. It was hand cut by Dad after a drive in the country. It had to be a tree that needed loving. A “Charlie Brown” tree. We would put our handmade decorations on it and then stand around with the only store bought item – icicles – and one by one, we would lay the strands individually on branches. It was a lovely tree!
Christmas Eve day we would make cookies. These were for Santa – but we would test drive a couple dozen before we left them on a plate for the jolly fellow, along with a glass of milk. Every year this little gift would be miraculously gone on Christmas morning. We were in awe! There would even be sleigh tracks in the snow in our front yard. I was always so impressed that he landed in OUR yard!
The night before Christmas we would all get in the station wagon and Dad would tour the town looking at Christmas lights and decorations. We had our tree – but everyone else had “outside” decorations! Every year they were more and more fantastic! Even as an adult, I must go out Christmas Eve and tour the Christmas Village our town has become. It is a magical thing!
Christmas morning we had strict traditions:
* we had to sleep in until at LEAST 6:30 in the morning. (My brothers, sister, and I would stay up all night in anticipation, hoping to at least hear Santa – just once. Never happened – but still the anticipation was delicious and enchanting.)
* We had to have a substantial breakfast – boring, boring, boring – but this one morning it would be individual cereal boxes of sugar coated, not Mom approved cereal.
* After breakfast we could check out our stocking which always had an apple and a banana in it. That was it. Our whole stocking was fruit (to make up for the Sugar Pops)
* Once we were done with our obligatory fruit, we lined up to go to the Christmas tree, shortest first. As the years went by, my siblings grew taller than me, so that when I was 18, the oldest, I was first in line!
* Dad was assigned the Santa duty of doling out presents, one-at-a-time. While one present was being opened, exclaimed over, gushed over – the rest of us silently sat on our hands, whispering ooos and ahhs to the recipient, all the while trying to patiently wait for the next dole-out.
The rest of the day would be wonderfully exciting – we'd feel love in the air, we could smell it! The banquet would be a feast of scents and tastes. Everything was brand new and bright.
We would sleep like lambs Christmas night, tucked in our beds, still twinkling with the sounds and scents of Christmas!
Have a wonderful Christmas!
Good evening, Netizens…
Since he spent so much of his childhood around horses, it was not a surprise when James decided to apprentice to learn to be a farrier.
“Idling in her cramped workspace outside the Washington International Horse Show, where the day's first whinnies were echoing throughout Verizon Center, the longtime farrier saw a lame brown gelding and an anxious owner approach.” — From an article by Jonas Shaffer in The Washington Post, October 25, 2012
“Farrier” is now usually applied specifically to a blacksmith who specializes in shoeing horses, a skill that requires not only the ability to shape and fit horseshoes, but also the ability to clean, trim, and shape a horse's hooves. When “farrier” first appeared in English (as “ferrour”), it referred to someone who not only shoed horses, but who provided general veterinary care for them as well. Middle English “ferrour” was borrowed from Anglo-French “ferrour” (a blacksmith who shoes horses), a noun derived from the verb “ferrer” (“to shoe horses”). These Anglo-French words can be traced back ultimately to Latin “ferrum,” meaning “iron.”
Good evening, Netizens…
People all over the world have observed celebrations linked to the summer and winter solstices since ancient times.
“Experts on Mayan culture say that date [December 21, 2012], the winter solstice, simply marks the end of a cycle, no different than flipping the calendar to a new year after Dec. 31.” — From an article by James Figueroa in the Pasadena Star-News (California), November 25, 2012
In the Northern Hemisphere, the summer solstice occurs on June 21 or 22 and the winter solstice on December 21 or 22. In the Southern Hemisphere, where the seasons are reversed, the solstices are exactly the opposite. For several days around the time of the solstices, the sun's appearance on the horizon at sunrise and sunset seems to occur at the same spot, before it starts drifting to the north or south again. “Solstice” gets its shine from “sol,” the Latin word for “sun.” The ancients added “sol” to “-stit-” (“standing”) and came up with “solstitium.” Middle English speakers shortened “solstitium” to “solstice” in the 13th century.
Good evening, Netizens…
The Christmas Present
Copyright December 2000
by Dave Laird
The weatherbeaten old highway had seen better days, lots of patch jobs
hastily done by county employees who didn't care how well it held up. Where
it crested the steep grade, the roadway generously overlooked part of the
sloping valley to one side, with a tiny creek now frozen hard as a rock in
the throes of winter. Down the road a quarter of a mile, there were a set of
huge scars where, one spring several decades ago, the creek had neatly
bisected the roadway in a flood. The patch job bore mute testimony to the
violence of the washout, still to this day.
In the half-hearted sunshine of a cold winter morning, a rattling
clattertrap of a vehicle, a faded red Toyota Landcruiser with dented fenders
and a spare tire on the back door that jiggled at every bump, began wheezing
its way up the hill, desperately attempting to dodge the potholes, and as it
reached the scars on either side of the roadway, it momentarily slowed.
Behind the wheel, a woman with hair gone to white, slowed down, carefully
downshifting, easing her way over the broken pavement. Although she wasn't
that remarkable, really, she was the kind of woman that if you met her in
the grocery store, you would remember her brilliant blue eyes and white
hair, all soft and downy, and perhaps the gentle lines of humor that tickled
at the corners of her eyes. She wore a brown 60's-style Chairman Mao work
cap, shoved back on her forehead, and was dressed in a faded pair of bib
overalls with a blue nylon down-filled jacket, open at the throat. There
were a brace of pencils jutting this way and that out of the front pockets
of her overalls, which lent her a rather businesslike air, much like a
farmer on his way to town.
It was not unusual that the road was devoid of any other traffic at this
hour of the morning. Those few houses scattered throughout the hills on
either side seemed vacant, or so it appeared, driving down the road. Having
been this way a number of times, she knew better. Since this was part of the
Spokane Tribal lands, there were Indian families for the most part, living
back in the trees, eking out their humble living hidden in nearly invisible
cul de sacs that more resembled dirt tracks than driveways.
Down the road a few miles from the summit, where the valley began spreading
out a mile or more on the right side of the highway, there was a wide spot
in the road, and easing the Landcruiser off the side of the road, she
stopped, turned off the engine, listening to the sound of silence,
interspersed with the cooling sounds of the exhaust. A pair of brilliant red
cardinals landed on the barbed wire fence to her right, and saluted her with
a blast of song before they, too, went along their way, leaving her and
As she opened the driver's door, it complained with an angry squeal of rusty
'I must do something about that hinge', she thought to herself, and she went
around to the back of the Landcruiser and opened the rear compartment.
Sitting on the rear deck, she began unlacing her brown leather shoes, and
putting on a pair of well-worn hiking boots in their place, meticulously
making certain to tie double knots.
Inside the open maw of the rear compartment, she fetched a tiny Coleman
stove, a large canteen and a slightly-dented teapot, which she carefully set
on the rear deck, and fumbling in her jacket, she came up with a book of
matches. She lit the stove, poured water into the pan and setting it atop
the stove, she then squatted on her heels beside the road, gazing at the
snow-covered mountains off in the distance. A meadow lark gave voice,
somewhere off in the wheat stubble, but otherwise, there was no sound to
break her reverie until the tea pot began whistling.
She made two cups of tea in tiny porcelain tea cups with matching blue
flowers around the sides; she used a pair of tiny tea strainers to brew the
tea. She carefully set both cups in matching saucers on the rear deck, then
turned off the Coleman stove, and taking one of the cups with her, once more
resumed her vigil squatting alongside the Landcruiser, leaving the one cup
sitting in its saucer beside the stove.
It was cold there in the shadow of the mountain on the other side of the
road from the valley. She quietly sipped her tea, and the steam from the tea
in the icy cold air quickly built a soft-edged cloud around her head.
The land was hard and cold, with tiny bits of snow and ice hiding in the
shadows where the sun would not reach until spring. It was, as she had once
read, resolutely sleeping. If you were to gaze across the wheat stubble
toward the mountains, you would never know it was the day before Christmas.
Nothing moved, not a vehicle in sight and only a few birds chattering in a
madcap way from atop a nearby power pole broke the serene silence.
“Time to go', a voice inside her head spoke, and quickly gulping down the
last of her tea, she reached inside the Landcruiser and removed a holly
wreath from inside, and carefully draping it over her left shoulder, hanging
it beneath her right arm, she picked up the single remaining cup of tea, and
closed the back door.
She'd been this way for fifteen years, so her feet, unbidden, knew the
nearly invisible path that led between the rocks on the side of the road
opposite the valley. She moved with care, trying to avoid spilling any of
the tea, as she wove her way up into the rocks overlooking the road.
Finally, just as she was about winded, she reached the peak of the hill,
overlooking not only her Landcruiser parked below, but the entire valley,
open at her feet.
A pair of towering fir trees stood back among the rocks, and as she neared
them, she could see an empty china cup and saucer were still sitting there
where she had left them the previous year, untouched and unmoved. She
carefully set the cup of tea sitting on its saucer beside the empty cup, and
taking the wreath from around her shoulder, she hung it on one of the giant
fir's spreading branches. There was no sign of the previous wreath, but
nature has its ways.
Then, picking up the empty cup and saucer, she softly said, “I just came to
wish you a Merry Christmas, honey. It's been fifteen years since I last saw
you, but I'll never forget our Christmases together. I brought you a cup of
your favorite tea, and a wreath, just like always. Oh, how I wish you could
be here, with me, again. I miss you so.”
She stood, unjudged by any, save a curious blue jay who carefully examined
her from the relative safety of a nearby branch, curiously observing the
tears silently streaming down her face and onto her jacket.
Then, as soft was the feathery white hair which shone in the morning's
light, she walked from that place, her hands brushing the hot tears from her
cheeks, as she strode back down the way she had come.
Over fifteen years earlier, at her late husband's request, she had buried
him there, between the pair of fir trees, where he could gaze at the valley
below. Each year, in good weather and bad, she had brought him her presents,
and thus she had become a part of Christmas itself.
Good evening, Netizens…
The talk show host's impolitic remarks were often the target of public outrage, but they also earned him legions of fans.
“She'll say what's on her mind, no matter how wildly inappropriate or impolitic.” — From a movie review by Steven Rea in The Philadelphia Inquirer, October 18, 2012
“Impolitic” appeared 400 years ago as an antonym of “politic,” a word that basically means “shrewd,” “sagacious,” or “tactful.” “Politic” came to us via Middle French from Latin “politicus.” The Latin word, in turn, came from a Greek word based on “politēs,” meaning “citizen.” “Impolitic” has often been used to refer to action or policy on the part of public figures that is politically unwise—from British statesman Edmund Burke's judicious “the most … impolitick of all things, unequal taxation” (1797) to People journalist James Kunen's ironic “The author of these impolitic remarks has risen to the very pinnacle of politics” (1988).
Good morning, Netizens…
Like other Christmas stories I have written over the years, this is an exerpt from what I call a living series I call Tales of the City and, in this case, the story is true. Although it hails from a different time, a different place in my life, and perhaps I have taken some liberties with insouciant Metaphysical Philosophy, it is a story of the Anticipation of Christmas. The Anticipation of Christmas can change people for the better, as you will quickly see.
Old Sarah stirred restlessly, laying in the pile of newspapers behind the shopping mall in Century City. Of all the places that she had found to stay, this was by far one of the best. The warm air being pumped out of the mall by huge fans beneath the street kept her warm on even the chilliest of southern California nights.
Normally nobody bothered her here either, as she was always very careful to arrive long after the crowds of shoppers had gone home, and the few security guards still on duty were inside the mall somewhere guzzling styrafoam cups of hot coffee and minding their own business.
Except, now that it was nearly Christmas, she had to adjust her schedule to compensate for the late shoppers that jammed the mall until closing time. Tonight, for example, she had not been able to tiptoe into her customary place until nearly midnight, and still she couldn't sleep.
Images of her kids, now fully grown and on their own, kept haunting her. It had been nearly five years since her divorce from Ben and she hadn't heard much from either of them since. Of course that was a two-way street, as she would be mortified for either of them to see her now. Ben didn't help much
by saying some of the nasty things he'd said, either.
“That no-good rotten drunken bastard”, she muttered angrily, turning over, making certain to clutch her shopping bag close to her. “Wish his memory'd leave me alone so's I can sleep.”
She had lost her home nearly a year before, about the same time she lost her job at Carlyle's machine shop outside of Bakersfield, and when unemployment finally ran out, she had found herself, at age 54, too old to get another job and too young to retire. Shortly thereafter, she joined the ranks of the
homeless on the streets of Glittertown.
It hadn't been as bad as she had first imagined. Once you learned the ropes, a body could survive with some degree of comfort living on the streets, and it was never boring. Prior to joining the homeless, Old Sarah had never really had the time or energy to just watch people. Why, they were more fascinating than anything she had ever seen. The countless types of people, the voices and the looks on their faces when they thought no one was watching them…why it almost made living on the streets worthwhile.
Now Christmas, there was a matter of a different color.
“People start being extra polite to one another at Christmas, somewhat like peaked frilly white frosting on a cake that tastes bad to begin with.” she had observed earlier in the day to Charlie, one of her few friends. “They simply aren't the same over Christmas, until all the goodness they are supposedly feeling wears off, and then they go back to being their same nasty old selves. What's even worse is the kids these days never learn what Christmas is really about…”
Charlie had thought that was particularly funny, and laughed until he started coughing. Charlie was dying of emphysema, and living off his pension in an old hotel. He had offered, time and again, to let her stay at his room, but she refused, knowing that the room barely had enough space for Charlie and his collection of Zane Grey novels, let alone her.
The morning damp had moved in, and gray was already whispering its way across the eastern sky when Sarah stirred and moved out of her spot, long before the mall employees or early shoppers began arriving.
She had just stopped off at one of her usual morning stops, a MacDonalds that stayed open all night, to buy a cup of coffee and try and filch a copy of the early morning paper.
Frustrated at not finding a paper inside the restaurant, she had gone back outside, under the glare of the Golden Arches, to check a few of the trash containers next to the bus stop for a paper to read, when she saw the guitar laying on top of a pile of greasy rubble in the dumpster behind the restaurant.
Back in the 60's she had played the guitar quite well, and used to sing in the coffeehouses of that time. That had been one of the things that Ben did that ended their marriage, once and for all, was smash up her ivory-inlaid Gibson guitar during one of his drunken rages.
Surreptitiously looking around to see if anyone was watching, she lifted the guitar carefully from amid the mix of food and paper containers in the dumpster and set it carefully aside, next to her coffee. On a whim, she dug a little deeper into the rubble and found a battered, but serviceable hardshell case for the guitar, and before she finally quit digging in the filthy dumpster, had found several books of Christmas music to boot.
“Looks like somebody else is having a tough Christmas,” she muttered to herself, carefully putting the guitar back inside the case where it belonged.
She wandered aimlessly for a few moments, her newly-acquired booty tucked under her arm, until she found the right spot, next to an old, abandoned railway spur, where no one would notice her. Sitting down, she experimentally plucked a few strings, then strummed a few notes. Yes, she could still remember quite a few chords.
An hour or so later, as the sun began climbing in the east, she carefully put the guitar inside the case, and finishing off the last of her coffee, headed purposefully toward where she customarily met Charlie each day. Charlie, as usual, was already there, sitting on the park bench, basking as the early morning sun began warming the little park where they had met, on a daily basis, more or less for the last five months.
“What's you got there, Sarah?” Charlie peered at her over the tops of his bifocals, as she strode up with the guitar case in view.
“I found this guitar in a dumpster behind the MacDonalds. It even has a case and some Christmas music, 'n there's nothing wrong with it. It ain't busted or anything. What's even better, I think I remember how to play it.”
“Well I'll be damned.” Charlie took out his pipe and a rumpled sack of pipe tobacco and began stoking up his pipe. “Let me hear you play a few tunes.”
Sarah shyly opened up the guitar case, next to her on the park bench, and took the guitar out. Like most of her fractured dreams, old memories unfolded in Sarah's mind, as she struggled to tune the guitar. She had been there once, singing in front of uplifted faces in the coffeehouses. She had once been a folk singer, back in the 60's, although in those days her Gibson and her voice were both much better.
This was a good guitar, as guitars go, although not a Gibson, still it had a straight neck, and the strings were not too bad.
The morning waned, and as they returned from their usual noontime trip to the taco vendor, sitting in the park, she played what she had hoped to be her last song for her fingers and her voice were both getting sore. Charlie, who had sat there the whole time, with a beautific smile on his face, tapping his feet to the beat, sighed deeply when she became adamant about quitting.
“Could you sing me a song, please?”
A black child, holding firmly onto the hand of a young woman behind the park bench, was struggling against the woman's insistent efforts to leave this area of the park. He asked the question again, in that same soft voice.
Sarah turned to look at him, and realized that he was blind, for he had a white cane in one hand opposite his attendant. And behind the bushes she could see a small group of children, all with white canes and escorts, getting off of a delapidated old school bus at the curb.
“Why…sure,” she stammered. “I'm really not a very good singer, though.”
“We used to have a teacher that sang to us, but he died, and now we don't have anyone to sing Christmas songs to us anymore.”
The young boy pulled his attendant, somewhat against her will, around to the front of the park bench, whereupon he prompted sat down on the grass, only to be joined by the rest of the children from the School for the Blind.
“Please…” he whispered softly. “Please sing some Christmas music for us.”
Sarah picked up the guitar once more, inwardly chiding herself for the tremor in her hands, while Charlie smiled that same enigmatic smile of his, and leaned back, puffing silently on his pipe.
She sang Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and then when one of the kids asked to hear it, Jingle Bells. Of course, there was a request for Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and then Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She played nearly every song in the faded songbook, and many of them twice, even three times.
When she finally stopped to catch her breath, and to rest her fingers, she realized, with a sense of shock, that she had lost track of how long she had been playing music for these kids. The sun was going down, yet the children were sitting silently in a circle around the park bench, their sightless
eyes and faces upturned, as if to capture every nuance, every phrase and tone of each song, patiently waiting for more.
Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, someone from the school, a supervisor probably, reappeared with the wheezing schoolbus, to retrieve all the children. One by one, each of them solemnly reached out to touch her face, and thank her for singing to them. When the last child had thanked her by
touching her face, she and Charlie were once again alone, together.
As they trudged back the way they had came, and as the night dressed itself in its finery ready to take to the streets, in a secret corner of the park, an elderly old man dressed in a moth-eaten red suit and faded red pants, a very special old magician with a white beard known to children both sighted and unsighted throughout the world, peered over the tops of the bushes as Sarah and Charlie passed on their way into the twilight. He had delivered an early Christmas present—one battered guitar and its case for Sarah, former bag lady and musician extraordinaire, who would find it, on her way back to the meaning of Christmas.
The city, contrary to what some people think, breathes and has life. Although we hear so much about the bad things in the city, occasionally, and with no help nor assistance from us, goodness just naturally oozes forth from its concrete and steel barriers and just embraces us. The City lives.
Postscript: Although the real-life embodiment of Charlie passed on in 2000, Sarah, despite her advancing years, has gone on to a well-deserved retirement and currently lives in a senior center in Santa Monica, California. However, I have it upon good report that each Christmas she still makes the rounds to assisted-living facilities, foster care facilities and other non-profit agencies where she plays Christmas music.
“Lifting the taffeta hanging from the seat under the windows, he stroked the pipes of the radiator. He touched cold metal, metal algid as ice!” — From Carl Van Vechten's 1925 novel Firecrackers: A Realistic Novel
“They knew how to keep moving, with air so algid it hits like a sledgehammer the moment you step into it.” — From Michael D'Orso's 2006 book Eagle Blue: A Team, a Tribe, and a High School Basketball Season in Arctic Alaska
“Algid” is a rather cold and lonely word, etymologically speaking—it's the only word in any of the dictionaries we publish that comes from the Latin word “algēre,” meaning “to feel cold.” Also, English speakers have warmed to its many synonyms—among them “cold,” “frigid,” “arctic,” “chill”—much more readily than they've taken to “algid.” Even its compatriot, “gelid”—also a Latin-derived adjective that can describe ice and arctic temperatures—has managed to outpace it in most decades of the approximately 400 years the words have been in use. In one context, though, “algid” does something its synonyms don't: it describes a severe form of malaria that is marked by prostration, cold and clammy skin, and low blood pressure—a meaning that probably hasn't done much to endear the more general use to speakers of English.
Good afternoon, Netizens…
Every year about this time, I have written or reposted my Tales of Christmas. Some are quite old, having been written clear back into the early 80's and 90's, while some others are more recent. These are gentle stories, expressing in my own way, the subtle and sweet meetings of the Christmas Season.
I am somewhat belated this year, largely due to various constraints of work and family responsibilities, but each day from now until Christmas Day, I will be posting one or more of these tales, and closing out the Christmas Season on Christmas Eve, as in years gone by, with the telling of the true story of Christmas from the Holy Bible, just to keep the meaning of Christmas alive.
So, from our house to yours, with all the loving nature of the most joyous season of the year, Merry Christmas to one and all.
Good afternoon, Netizens…
Here is a Christmas fable for both the young and the young at heart. Written in 2001, and later copyrighted, but not before I substantially modified and edited it in 2009, this tale has more miles than my tired old van.
The China Doll
Written by Dave Laird
November 22, 2001
Copyright Dave Laird
None of the stuffed animals reclining against the overstuffed sofa in the front window of the Swap and Shop on West First Avenue actually saw the blue china doll arrive, since she was obviously inside a set of pasteboard boxes, although they all could clearly see the boxes being hauled into the front door of the old pawn shop on a dolly on Monday morning. It had been a few days since anything interesting had happened in the old store. They had long since grown tired of gazing out onto the sidewalk, where hobos, winos and the homeless gathered together to talk, gamble or share bottles of cheap wine, so they welcomed just about any changes that might come about.
Peter Panda, because of his great height, could clearly see that the boxes were overflowing with used clothing, tattered school books with their covers all bent and mangled and the various other bits and pieces that were hanging down the side. Old Burt, towing the dolly like a locomotive behind him, set down the dolly on the creaky wooden floor by the cash register. Until his arrival, his stepson Billy had been reading a weathered comic book from a pile of Superman comics he kept stashed by the cash register for just such occasions.
“What's you got?” Billy asked his stepfather brightly, as if he really cared a great deal about it. “Looks like you've got yourself some kids' stuff.”
Old Burt chewed on his lip pensively a moment, as if debating whether to chew him out for sitting around reading comic books when he should be sweeping the sidewalk out in front or perhaps, god bless him, dusting off the shelves. He sighed, and leaning on the dolly, said, “No, I just got some stuff from a landlord over on Grace. He said the tenants were busted by the cops for meth last week, and since they were six months behind in their rent, he finally evicted them this morning. Three weeks before Christmas, and the whole lot of 'em are in jail, 'cepting for their daughter, who's been placed in a foster home somewhere. A sad story, I tell ya.”
Wide-eyed, but being very careful not to make any noise, the twin stuffed otters peered at one another from their vantage point in the front window, their black eyes blinking, at hearing this bit of news. They were both very shy and unworldly, having recently arrived in the store's front window after the freight truck in which they were riding had crashed outside of town some months back.
“We Little Beasts don't use meth,” Agatha the chimpanzee hissed, giving a repoving look in their direction. “Only very bad humans do that.”
“What's Christmas?” Oliver, the grey overstuffed cat asked hesitantly, sitting behind them on one of the semi-vacant bookshelves. Oliver, like most of his species, was exceedingly curious about everything and always prided himself on knowing the latest events. “Is that a thing or just a place?”
“SSSHHHHHH!” Peter Panda admonished them all, waving one paw in the air frantically. “If you persist in making so much noise, I cannot hear what is being said. Even worse, the humans might get suspicious.”
Once more, all the animals gathered in the front window fell back into that peculiar posture of relaxation they all maintain when there isn't anything really important to watch, and within minutes, half of them had fallen back to sleep.
It was a short time later that the otters, Hissie and Missie, in adjusting themselves into a more comfortable position, suddenly noticed the Blue China Doll sitting back in one corner of the storefront window. They were both very sure she had not been sitting there before, her expression blank, her eyes gazing through the dusty window to the street outside.
“Hello?” Hissie asked in a barely audible whisper. “I say, how long have you been sitting there?”
“Not long,” the doll barely answered. Her pretty blue satin dress was soiled in places, her hair badly mussed up, as if she had just arose from bed, with her face smudged with sleep. “I just arrived a short time ago.” Her voice drifted off, as if it took a great deal of energy even to speak. “Where am I?”
Peter Panda, who awoke the instant he heard them whispering, leaned toward the twin otters and looking directly at the doll, stated, “Why, you are in the front window of a place called The Swap and Shop, on a street called West First Street, though we know not where that might be. The two otters to your right are Hissie and Missie, the yellow tomcat behind you on the bookshelf is Oliver and the Chipanzee to your left is Agatha. I am called Peter Panda. If I might ask, what is your name?”
“I… I'm called Cass,” the doll whispered, brushing fitfully at the dirt on her dress.
“If you will pardon my manners,” Peter whispered knowingly, “you look like you could use a bit of rest. Generally speaking, we try to keep our conversations down during the daytime when the owner and his stepson are around, to avoid suspicion. We will have lots of time later on to talk more about things, so close your eyes and try to sleep.”
The day wove fitfully through its paces like a drunken sailor marches down the street, and shortly after Old Burt turned off the blinking neon sign over the front door, and he and Billy left the store for the night, only then did the stuffed animals in the window begin to stir themselves, and only after each of them had stretched thoroughly, did anyone speak.
“How did you come to be here?” Oliver the cat purred, stretching himself to full length behind the blue china doll atop his perch in the bookcase. “Since none of us saw you being carried in, one must presume that you came in among those boxes of things Old Burt carried in this morning.”
“Yes, tell us your story!” Missie the otter exclaimed in a loud voice. “All of us came from someplace, once upon a time. Tell us about where you come from.”
The blue china doll hesitantly stood on her feet, and attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress, said in a soft undertone, “I came from a horrid place, actually, although my mistress was as gentle and loving a creature as any of the Little People I've ever known. There were terrible things taking place, at all hours of the day and night. My mistress cried a lot, because no one fed her. Once or twice strange men and women came for her, took her away and made her cry some more. I wanted so to make her smile again, but try as I might, I could not. Yesterday more strangers came for her, and took her away for good, but not before the men in blue uniforms had taken away all the rest of her humans.”
“Well, since you had a mistress,” Hissie the Otter said, her oval brown eyes gazing at the doll, “Why is it she didn't come back for you? Peter Panda had a mistress once, for most of his life as a Little Person.
Peter's mistress did something he calls passing away, and she was no more. If your mistress is still in our world, why hasn't she come to claim you?”
Peter Panda abruptly stood up at this point, and smiled gently upon hearing this. “From what I have learned about human-kind, when they pass away, they cease to exist. They die. They cross over. In Cass's case, I believe someone took her mistress away before she had a chance to take Cass with her. Such horrible things should not be spoken of so near to Christmas, however. This is supposed to be a time of joy and great happiness.”
“As I recall, you were about to tell us about Christmas,” Oliver the Cat sighed, laying back down, his large green eyes blinking in the dim light shining through the store window. “I am very confused. Is Christmas a place in the heart or a thing?
“It depends,” Peter said evenly. “To those who have had a mistress or master, it is always a place in the heart. To everyone else it is a thing, a time of the seasons when humans get and give gifts to one another and perform acts of kindness like Little People do for one another every day.”
“Do they only do these things at Christmas? That's ABSURD!” wailed Oliver.
“I'm confused!” both Hissie and Missie exclaimed in unison.
Cass, smiling a bit for the first time since she had joined the group of stuffed animals in the window, held up one hand, quieting everyone down.
“To my mistress and others of her own human size, Christmas is a time of love, of tenderness and great mysteries. There are all those pretty gifts to buy for other humans, and sweetbreads and rich fudge to make for everyone. There is crinkly wrapping paper around gifts beneath the Christmas Tree, and sleigh bells ringing in the snow. It is one of the most joyous times, and they do this every year.”
“That sounds delightfully familiar,” Peter Panda said, nodding his leonine head. “I remember something quite like that back when I was with my mistress a long, long time ago.”
He paused, scratching his large pink nose for a moment, then in a puzzled tone of voice asked, “Just a few minutes ago, however, you whispered how horrid it had all been. What went wrong? Isn't Christmas supposed to be a joyous time of year?”
“Oh yes,” Cass said, nodding her head vigorously. “When my mistress and I were hiding beneath her bed one night, she told me all about how, once things got better, we would have a Christmas celebration, just like we once did.”
“Hiding beneath the bed? Hiding from WHOM?” Peter Panda asked gently, his eyebrows arched high up on his head. “That sounds simply dreadful.”
“Our last night together, her family held something they called a 'meth party',” Cass said. “Lots of new people came over, and started acting in very strange ways. My mistress and I hid beneath the bed after one of the adult humans slapped my Mistress across the face and made her cry. All I was ever able to figure out was she had made them all very angry through no fault of her own. When people started hitting her, she came running into our room, grabbed me and hid beneath the bed. People were kicking at her, trying to drag her from beneath the bed and yelling loudly. It was very frightening.”
“They do such strange things whenever there is meth around,” Agatha murmured. “I heard about these things from Richard the Lion, who chanced to be here, in this place once. He had a huge tear in his side, the direct result of a meth party. Eventually Old Burt gave him to some strange woman who chanced by the store one day. Richard was SUCH a delightful old scamp! Despite his injury, he told us such marvelous stories late at night and made us all laugh. I was so sorry to see him go.”
“Now I'm REALLY confused,” Hissie the Otter said softly, speaking to Missie. “First they are planning a delightful-sounding celebration, and next they are chasing Cass's mistress into her room, where she and Cass both hide beneath the bed. Were they celebrating Christmas?”
“No, silly,” Cass said gently, scratching both of the otters behind the ears which sent the pair into throes of delight. “It was the adults and whatever meth is that started the problem. Once the meth dealers started coming by, they stopped celebrating Christmas entirely. Had I not been there, to see the pretty lights and hear the joy in their voices, I would have never believed that such a thing was possible, after seeing what meth did to their lives. Meth destroyed Christmas for everyone. Everyone. I so wish I could have seen another Christmas with my mistress. It is such a special time,” and with a glance in the direction of Oliver the Cat, added softly, “It is such a special place in my heart.”
“Meth does terrible things. As I said, you never find Little People that use meth. We are smarter than that,” Agatha said with another reproving sniff. “They say humans are the smarter species. HA!”
The rest of that night, they sat up telling tales about The Humans, laughing at some of the funny things they did. Even Cass, who had once been so forlorn, joined in their laughter, and sang a few of the old Little People songs for them. Still, it was long before the sun would soon brighten the eastern sky when nearly everyone had fallen back to sleep, except for Oliver the Cat, that is. Like usual, he was sitting with his tail curled up around his nose, cautiously watching the window, when the old elf dressed in red and white came by.
The wizened up old man dressed in a red snow suit somehow stepped inside the store, although it was hours and hours before Old Burt was due to arrive and unlock the door. Peering uncertainly at a list he held in his right hand, he walked over to where the Little People were all laying in the store window. He stood looking over the top of his glasses, until he spied Cass, sitting back in the shadowy corner where she had returned for her day's rest.
“Ah,” he said, and reaching past Peter Panda, he gently picked up the blue china doll, first smoothing her hair and then smiling to himself. To everyone's surprise, he spoke the language of The Little People flawlessly, not the language of the humans. It was the first time any of them had ever heard a human speak in their own ancient tongue.
“You are the one they call Cass?” he gently asked the Blue China Doll.
“Y-y-yes,” Cass said uncertainly. “Are you taking me back to my mistress?”
“Not to worry, pretty doll. I am taking you home with me, right now, and in a few weeks, I will take you to a new home, where they still have Christmas lights, sleigh bells and shiny presents wrapped up beneath a Christmas tree.”
The old elf wrapped her up carefully in a warm fluffy blanket, and pausing long enough to pet and admire the other animals who, by now, were wide awake. Having petted all of them once more, he strode out the door to where an old wooden sleigh and eight tiny reindeer stood waiting in the cold gray of the early snowy morning.
Putting Cass beside him on the worn leather seat, he called to his reindeer by name, and with a hearty wave at the assembled Little People remaining in the window, mounted up and up into the sky, and as they rode out of sight, everyone, all the Little People with their noses pressed against the glass of the old storefront heard him cry, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Good afternoon, Netizens…,
Diners will no doubt be pleasantly surprised that such a fine champagne is served with the special holiday menu's first course as lagniappe.
“That type of service was common in the country stores and small businesses I dealt with when growing up. At a little grocery and feed store near my home, I even got lagniappe dropped from the candy counter into my bag as a boy.” — From an article by Bob Anderson in The Advocate (Baton Rouge, Louisiana), November 7, 2012
“We picked up one excellent word,” wrote Mark Twain in Life on the Mississippi (1883), “a word worth traveling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word—'lagniappe'…. It is Spanish—so they said.” Twain encapsulates the history of “lagniappe” quite nicely. English speakers learned the word from French-speaking Louisianians, but they in turn had adapted it from the American Spanish word “la ñapa.” Twain went on to describe how New Orleanians completed shop transactions by saying “Give me something for lagniappe,” to which the shopkeeper would respond with “a bit of liquorice-root, … a cheap cigar or a spool of thread.” It took a while for “lagniappe” to catch on throughout the country, but by the mid-20th century, New Yorkers and New Orleanians alike were familiar with this “excellent word.”
Good morning, Netizens…
“Florentines in the 1980s still valued their families and insisted on eating together every day, even as they recognized that several forces including television, restaurants, and the rapid pace of work undermined commensal meals.” — From Carole M. Counihan's 2004 book Around the Tuscan Table: Food, Family, and Gender in Twentieth Century Florence
“Nunez's work on bacteria that invade the gut focuses on competition between the naturally occurring, or commensal, bacteria that live in the intestinal tract, and invading pathogens.” — From a press release from the University of Michigan Health System, November 1, 2012
Commensal types, be they human or beast, often “break bread” together. When they do, they are reflecting the etymology of “commensal,” which derives from the Latin prefix “com-,” meaning “with, together, jointly” and the Latin adjective “mensalis,” meaning “of the table.” In its earliest English uses, “commensal” referred to people who ate together, but around 1870, biologists started using it for organisms that have no use for a four-piece table setting. Since then, the scientific sense has almost completely displaced the dining one.
Good morning, Netizens…
The linoleum featured a colorful pattern of large quadrate shapes.
“For dessert, Namiri brings out quadrate slices of baklava accompanied by strong Turkish coffee.” — From a review by Christy Khoshaba in the Monterey County Weekly, May 26, 2011
Sharp-eyed readers may recognize the “quad” in “quadrate,” suggesting the number four. “Quadrate” is in fact a relative of Latin “quattuor,” meaning “four,” though its direct line of descent links to “quadrum,” meaning “square.” Other descendants of “quadrum” in English include “quadrille” (a square dance for four couples), “quarrel” (a square-headed bolt or arrow), and “quarry” (a place where large amounts of stone are dug out of the ground); the latter of these can be traced back to a Latin word meaning “squared stone.” “Quadrate,” incidentally, can also be used in much more specific senses to describe a type of heraldic cross or a portion of the skull in some vertebrates.
It is the end of a terrible day, with 20 children dead along with 7 adults. It is beyond my comprehension how this can happen.
What can I pray? I ask for peace and comfort, as much as it can be felt by broken-hearted families. I ask for kindness to each other, being gentle, being there. I ask for some understanding to make sense.
My faith does hold some comfort to me, knowing that each child and each adult who died are instantly in the hands of God.
God be with all who have been impacted by this terrible tragedy.
Humbly yours, Jeanie
Good morning, Netizens…
Despite having a vast overload of work keeping me from my appointed rounds, I could not help but ask a theologically thorny question in the face of the deaths in Newtown, Connecticut, as it has been haunting me since I first heard the news yesterday and saw the President of the United States wiping the tears from his eyes.
Or, more in keeping with the deeply-moving statements made by Jeanie last evening, based upon my knowledge of the certainty of both good and evil in this macabre world we live in, I cannot help but ask the question in the face of the terrible events that unfolded yesterday, when does this cease being a mental health issue and when does it become pure evil?
Somewhere in Connecticut today, there is a somber and nearly-overwhelming image that hardly any of the news media have sought out: a lovely Christmas tree with presents stacked high beneath its boughs laden with lights and icicles, but the child who was to be there on Christmas Day, with his/her eyes alight with joy has been killed in what I would term an act of indiscriminate violence. Is that not evil?
I submit that the only grace, if there is any hope for that, is that 20 lives which were snuffed out have been delivered to a place where they no longer will know fear.
The book effectively portrays the leader's strengths without resorting to hagiography.
“'Lincoln' gratifyingly dodges the kind of safe, starchy hagiography that some Spielberg skeptics feared. Rather, the filmmaker … proves yet again that he is the best filmmaker currently engaging in the form of assiduous research and creative interpretation known as historical drama.” — From a review by Ann Hornaday in The Washington Post, November 9, 2012
Like “biography” and “autograph,” the word “hagiography” has to do with the written word. The combining form “-graphy” comes from Greek “graphein,” meaning “to write.” “Hagio-” comes from a Greek word that means “saintly” or “holy.” This origin is seen in “Hagiographa,” the Greek designation of the Ketuvim, the third division of the Hebrew Bible. Our English word “hagiography,” though it can refer to biography of actual saints, is these days more often applied to biography that treats ordinary human subjects as if they were saints.
My one regret as a parent (Oh, ok, I have a gazillion regrets, but this one particular one wasn’t my fault!), and that is that my two sons never got their picture taken with Santa. We tried but failed miserably. It happened that my first son was born on the 10th of December – a little too young for a picture with Santa, mainly because as a new mother, I was NOT going to let just anyone hold my brand new baby. Not even a jolly old saint of a man, wearing red pajamas and ho-hoing loudly, giggling his large belly. No way.
Good morning, Netizens…
Conference attendees will have plenty of chances to schmooze with the industry's power players.
“Children were given the opportunity to try on costumes, test their balance on a mini tightrope or schmooze with the clowns.” — From an article by Sara Schweiger in the Telegram & Gazette (Worcester, Massachusetts), October 4, 2012
“Schmooze” (also spelled “shmooze”) is one of a small, but significant, number of words borrowed from Yiddish that have become relatively common parts of the English language. Other such words include “chutzpah,” “lox,” “maven,” “mensch,” “nebbish,” “schlep,” and “schlock.” Though classified as a High German language, Yiddish also borrows from the Slavic and Latinate languages as well as from Aramaic and Hebrew. It was the Hebrew “shěmu’ōth” (“news, rumor”) that provided Yiddish with the noun “shmues” (“talk”) and the verb “shmuesn” (“to talk or chat”). Although originally used in English to indicate simply talking in an informal and warm manner, “schmooze” has since also taken on the suggestion of discussion for the purposes of gaining something.
Good morning, Netizens…
“In the 1950s, male college students served in the military but couldn't vote, and colleges imposed parietal rules, which kept young men out of women's dorms.” — Harrisburg Daily Register (Illinois), March 27, 2012
“[Tuatara] also have a pronounced parietal eye, a light-sensitive pineal gland on the top of the skull. This white patch of skin called its 'third eye' slowly disappears as they mature.” — From an article by Ray Lilley in The Associated Press, October 31, 2008
Fifteenth-century scientists first used “parietal” (from Latin “paries,” meaning “wall of a cavity or hollow organ”) to describe a pair of bones of the roof of the skull between the frontal and posterior bone. Later, “parietal” was also applied to structures connected to or found in the same general area as these bones; the parietal lobe, for example, is the middle division of each hemisphere of the brain. In the 19th century, botanists adopted “parietal” as a word for ovules and placentas attached to the walls of plant ovaries. It was also in the 19th century that “parietal” began to be heard on college campuses, outside of the classroom; in 1837, Harvard College established the Parietal Committee to be in charge of “all offences against good order and decorum within the walls.”
Good morning, Netizens…
The author has interspersed the guidebook with illustrations of the different birds we might encounter on the safari tour.
“Students attend from 8:35 a.m. to 4:06 p.m., in 10-period days that intersperse traditional classes like math and English with technology and business-centric courses like 'workplace learning,' which teaches networking, critical thinking and presentation skills.” — From an article by Al Baker in the New York Times, October 21, 2012
“Intersperse” derives from Latin “interspersus,” formed by combining the familiar prefix “inter-” (“between or among”) with “sparsus,” the past participle of “spargere,” meaning “to scatter.” In “sparsus” one finds an ancestor to our adjective “sparse,” as well as a relative of “spark.” (The relationship of “spark” to a word that describes something being scattered about makes sense when you think of sparks bursting or scattering off a flame.) “Intersperse” is often followed by the preposition “with,” as in “a straggling street of comfortable white and red houses, interspersed with abundant shady trees.” (H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds)
Good evening, Netizens…
“Dracula builds a five-stake resort for his monster friends to disport themselves unbothered on vacation, but his daughter falls in love with a somewhat dopey human.” — From a review of the movie Hotel Transylvania by Jeff Simon, Buffalo News (New York), September 28, 2012
“A hulking, forbidding terrace, unlike anything else in town, rears up out of nowhere. In its heyday, it was the home of the wealthy with cast iron balconies for them to disport themselves on.” — From an article by Chris Lloyd, The Northern Echo (England), October 24, 2012
Geoffrey Chaucer was one of the first writers to amuse the reading public with the verb “disport.” Chaucer and his contemporaries carried the word into English from Anglo-French, adapting it from “desporter,” meaning “to carry away, comfort, or entertain.” The word can ultimately be traced back to the Latin verb “portare,” meaning “to carry.” “Deport,” “portable,” and “transport” are among the members of the “portare” family.
Good morning, Netizens…
Tuck a homemade pomander in a gift basket to lend it that wonderful holiday aroma.
“Apple pomanders are still much used to scent linen closets and store with furs to prevent moths.” — From an article by Ellen Probert Williamson in the Roane County News (Kingston, Tennessee), October 1, 2012
In earlier times, there was more at stake in the use of an “apple of amber” (the literal meaning of Anglo-French “pomme de ambre,” modified to “pomander” in Middle English) than the addition of holiday spirit. Pomanders were used to offset foul odors and were also believed to protect against disease. Early pomanders were usually mixtures of fragrant spices, herbs, etc. in small metal containers, and they were often worn on chains, as jewelry, around the neck or at the waist. Today, we no longer believe pomanders ward off infections, but we still like nice-smelling things, and the word “pomander” survives to name the modern version of this aromatic, decorative object.
Good morning, Netizens…
Good morning, Netizens…
For most of the year, it lives in the deepest most-depraved corner of our basement, in a little-used closet space beneath the basement stairs, somewhat adjacent to the hot water heater. Each year, in my experience, it is reverently disassembled and put in a pasteboard box for yet another year, and returned to that space from which it was brought forth. It is our Christmas Tree, and although previous to my marriage to Suzie, over a decade ago, I had always used a living evergreen, cut freshly each year and installed triumphantly in its place of honor. Thus it was decorated and once Christmas was over, the ornaments were unceremoniously put back in their boxes for yet another year, and in lean years, the dead tree was used for firewood.
Suzie has taught me the importance of traditions, such as a Christmas Tree that lives, unseen and unspoken, in a dark and foreboding place in our basement rather than on some Stevens County back road hillside. Actually our Christmas tree has little to do with its faux pine tree exterior. When we first were married, the Christmas ornaments came carefully packed in two large pasteboard boxes, mostly hand-wrapped in newspaper, some in their original boxes. The tree even lives in a box of its own. Nearly all of them have historical significance, although to ordinary people or visitors, the significance of the history involved depends upon how well you know our families.
Some of the baubles and decorations are antiques, or at least qualify themselves as being old enough to remember each bauble's lineage, which may involve invoking the name(s) of the various deceased members of the family from which they came, or the various geological places on the planet where they were purchased. If you went to Billy Bob's Drive-In Restaurant in wind-blasted god forsaken Kemmerer, Wyoming for a quick bite to tide you over on your long jaunt to Nebraska, where all godly citizens are born and raised, and if you happen to see a trinket beneath the glass counter that is calling your name, it might be hanging beneath our tree, waiting to have its story told to some unsuspecting person. Complete, of course, with the denouement that you nearly died of ptomaine poisoning from eating a sludge burger at Billy Bob's, of course. You didn't know that when you impulsively bought the bauble that says, “Kemmerer, Wyoming, Gateway to the sublime”, but the story of your experiences out on the grasslands of Wyoming lives on, hanging mutely upon our tree.
Every Christmas Tree must have an angel atop its spire, and our Christmas tree vastly outdoes them all when it comes to sheer tawdry cheek with just enough of a touch of the celestial to make it part of the deepest meanings of the Yuletide. As ethereal and mystical as the old angel looks, however, women, in particular angels, haven't worn gowns like that in multiple decades, which is about how old our angel is. Before you ask, however, our angel atop our Christmas Tree, has an all-knowing smirk on her face that suggests she has seen over forty Christmases come and go and thus she has seen it all, and no, she doesn't wear knickers. No self-respecting angel atop a Christmas Tree should need to be worried about such things.
Good morning, Netizens…
The ancient Romans revered certain gods and goddesses as tutelary deities.
“You can see a similar restlessness in the range of C.K.'s influences…. Indie film pioneer John Cassavettes may be another tutelary spirit.” — From a review by Adam Wilson in Salon.com, September 25, 2012
“Tutelary” derives from the Latin noun “tutelarius,” meaning “guardian.” “Tutelarius,” in turn, was formed by combining the word “tutela” (“protection” or “guardian”) and “-arius,” a suffix that implies belonging and connection. A more familiar descendant of “tutela” in English might be “tutelage,” which initially described an act or process of serving as a guardian or protector but has also come to refer to teaching or influence. If you suspect that “tutor” is also related, you are correct. “Tutelary” can also be a noun referring to a power (such as a deity) who acts as a guardian.
Good morning, Netizens…
“When I heard Peyton Manning might have hypermnesia, I was going to buy him a get-well card. Then I learned that it's a fancy way of saying he's got an abnormally sharp memory.” — From an article by Bob Molinaro in the Virginian-Pilot, January 30, 2010
“'Funes, His Memory' tells the evocative tale of Ireneo Funes, a Uruguayan boy who suffers an accident that leaves him immobilized along with an acute form of hypermnesia, a mental abnormality expressed in exceptionally precise memory.” — From John Brockman's 2011 book Is the Internet Changing the Way You Think?
Perhaps the most famous individual to exhibit hypermnesia was a Russian man known as “S,” whose amazing photographic memory was studied for 30 years by a psychologist in the early part of the 20th century. “Hypermnesia” sometimes refers to cases like that of “S,” but it can also refer to specific instances of heightened memory (such as those brought on by trauma or hypnosis) experienced by people whose memory abilities are unremarkable under ordinary circumstances. The word “hypermnesia,” which has been with us since at least 1882, was created in New Latin as the combination of “hyper-” (meaning “beyond” or “super”) and “-mnesia” (patterned after “amnesia”). It ultimately derives from the Greek word “mnasthai,” meaning “to remember.”
I went out and got the mail and found it snowing, just a little, like snow sprinkles. It's December already and shoppers are in a frenzy.
This year, more than any other, I am NOT doing the shop-til-you-drop thing, buying trinkets and goblets and niknaks, O My, for family, and friends, and acquaintences. (Knowing full well, I will see all your purchases given in the “spirit of Christmas,” at every yard sale I go to this spring and summer. For a buck!)
This year I see my life in a different perspective. It's more precious to me. My priorities have changed. I don't jump on the computer as often or as long. I appreciate my friends and my family more. I'm focused on my two new grandtwins. I am kinder to people around me. I listen more and opine less.
I have been through a lot this last six months, in and out of hospitals and doctors' offices, multiple surgeries, procedures, tests. I thought I would never get well. But I am. Now looking back, I think of all the people who have chronic illnesses, some pretty bad, some eventually fatal - and these people usually have a palpable zest for life. It's not about buying presents at Christmas, going through Black Friday, and mobs of shoppers for days on end. It's about life. Smellng roses. Having a snow flake kiss your tongue. Holding a baby. Holding anyone. Telling friends you love them. Enjoying little moments every day all day long.
It's a wonderful life!
Enjoy your day today!
Good morning, Netizens…
“The Mexican Dinner has a little of everything; the moist tamale and cheese enchilada, both with chili, are especially good.” — From a restaurant review in Texas Monthly, November 2012
“You think I'm full of shame and regret for what I've done now, Sister? You could shave me bald as a cue ball and I'll still be the hottest tamale in this joint.” — Chloë Sevigny in the television series American Horror Story, October 2012
“Hot tamale” is sometimes used figuratively, as in our second example, to suggest sexual attractiveness, but it's the word's literal use that puts it in an interesting category. How many English food words can you name that derive from Nahuatl, a group of languages spoken by native peoples of Mexico and Central America? You've probably guessed that “tamale” gives you one; it came to us (by way of Mexican Spanish) from the Nahuatl “tamalli,” a word for steamed cornmeal dough. Add to the menu “chili” (from “chīlli,” identifying all those fiery peppers); “chocolate” (from “chocolātl,” first used for a beverage made from chocolate and water); “guacamole” (from “āhuacatl,” meaning “avocado,” plus “mōlli,” meaning “sauce”); and “tomato” (from “tomatl”). Top it all off with “chipotle” (a smoked and dried pepper), from “chīlli” and “pōctli” (meaning “something smoked”).
Good morning, Netizens…
“[Mrs. Vance] … reappeared, stunningly arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match.” — From Theodore Dreiser's 1900 novel Sister Carrie
“This 'Members Only' club was where Chicago's nobbiest [people] gathered to shut out people who were not like them in order to lead the good life of golf, horses, bathing on a private beach, and social events.” — From an article by Henry Kisor in the Chicago Sun-Times, November 4, 2001
“Nobby” comes from the noun “nob,” which is used in British English to mean “one in a superior position in life.” (“Nob” may have begun as a slang word for “head,” but etymologists aren't completely sure. A possible connection to “noble” has been suggested as well.) Appearing in English in 1788, “nobby” was first used to describe people of strikingly exquisite appearance. It has since extended in usage to describe the places frequented by such people, as well as their genteel customs. Charles Dickens, for example, wrote in Bleak House (1853) of “[r]especting this unfortunate family matter, and the nobbiest way of keeping it quiet.”
Good afternoon Netizens…
He is not above conniving against his own co-workers if he thinks it will benefit his own career.
“Families fare badly in Western drama. Oedipus kills his father, Lear's daughters connive against one another, and Ibsen's Nora walks out on her husband and their three young children.” — From a theater review by Steven G. Kellman in Current (San Antonio), August 22–28, 2012
“Connive” may not seem like a troublesome term, but it was to Wilson Follett, a usage critic who lamented that the word “was undone during the Second World War, when restless spirits felt the need of a new synonym for plotting, bribing, spying, conspiring, engineering a coup, preparing a secret attack.” Follett thought “connive” should only mean “to wink at” or “to pretend ignorance.” Those senses are closer to the Latin ancestor of the word (“connive” comes from the Latin “connivēre,” which means “to close the eyes” and which is descended from “-nivēre,” a form akin to the Latin verb “nictare,” meaning “to wink”). But many English speakers disagreed, and the “conspire” sense is now the word's most widely used meaning.
Good morning, Netizens…
You may be able to extend your own garden's growing season considerably by using cloches to protect plants from colder temperatures.
“Another popular hat is the cloche, which rose to fame in the 1920s. The bell-shaped hats come in a variety of patterns, colors and textures.” — From an article by Julia Hatmaker in the Patriot News (Harrisburg, Pennsylvania), September 23, 2012
The word “cloche” refers to very different things but the connection between them is apparent in the word's meaning: “cloche” is French for “bell,” and both the gardening cloche and the hat cloche are typically shaped like the archetypal bell. The gourmands among you may be aware of another kind of cloche as well. Covered in our unabridged dictionary, Webster's Third New International, “cloche” also refers to a bell-shaped cover placed over food in cooking or serving. The French word “cloche” comes from Medieval Latin “clocca,” which is also the source of the words “cloak” and “clock.”
Good evening, Netizens…
The wide receiver hotdogged in the end zone after catching the touchdown pass.
“Benson hotdogged with her usual flair…” — From Matt Warshaw's 2010 book The History of Surfing
The verb “hotdog” first appeared in the 1960s as slang for surfing with fast turns and quick movements. Surfers adopted it from the use of the noun “hot dog” for someone who is very good at something, which was popularized around the turn of the 19th century along with the interjection “hot dog” to express approval or gratification. In time, the noun became mainly associated with people who showed off their skills in sports, from basketball to skiing, and the verb form came to be used for the spectacular acts of these show-offs. (As a side tidbit to chew on, the word for the frankfurter that might be eaten while watching athletes perform is believed to have been first used by college students. That “hot dog” was current at Yale in 1895.).
Good evening, Netizens…
He scumbles his seascapes until they are suffused with, and nearly veiled by, a pale golden light.
“Edouardo Vuillard's 'Woman Lighting a Stove in a Studio' … trades the common impasto of Impressionism for a lighter scumbled texture.” — From an art review by Evan Gillespie in the South Bend Tribune, August 2, 2012
The history of “scumble” is blurry, but the word is thought to be related to the verb “scum,” an obsolete form of “skim” (meaning “to pass lightly over”). Scumbling, as first perfected by artists such as Titian, involves passing dry, opaque coats of oil paint over a tinted background to create subtle tones and shadows. But although the painting technique dates to the 16th century, use of the word “scumble” is only known to have begun in the late 18th century. The more generalized “smudge” or “smear” sense appeared even later, in the mid-1800s.