In Memory of Jesse Winchester

Jesse Winchester May 17, 1944 - April  11, 2014

Jesse Winchester
May 17, 1944 – April 11, 2014

I never met Jesse.  I never spoke with him.  I never saw one of his concerts.  In fact, I did not even know his name until I wanted to quote some of the lyrics from a beautifully written and poignant song recorded a few decades ago by Jennifer Warnes, entitled “You Remember Me.” (Click to listen to it.)   It is about her former lover who became a priest (or a nun, if sung by a man).  It was perfect for my book, Foul Shot, but I knew it was copyrighted material and I would need to obtain permission.  While there are no set rules on this, it can cost thousands to quote a few lines of some rock songs and I wanted to use several verses of “You Remember Me.”  I found that Jesse had written it and contacted him by email.  I explained that I was self-published and did not have a big budget (any, really), but loved the song.  He gave me full permission, gratis, writing, “You have my permission to quote from ‘You Remember Me’ in your book. Thank you for asking, congratulations and good luck with the new publication.”  He requested nothing in return.  I did cite his generosity in my dedication and sent him a copy.  He wrote back that he had received it on February 26, 2014.  He thanked me for it and for mentioning him in the dedication.  “It looks very readable,” he wrote.  It was the same month that he was diagnosed with bladder cancer.  He died just weeks later.  Although I doubt that he had an opportunity to read Foul Shot, I have a faint hope that he did and liked how I used his song.

Although not so famous as a singer outside of his loyal folk music followers, Jesse’s songs were recorded by Nicolette Larson, the Weather Girls, Michael Martin Murphey, Reba McIntyre, Wynonna Judd, Jimmy Buffett, Tom Rush, Ted Hawkins, The Everly Brothers, Patti Page, Ronnie Hawkins, Elvis Costello, Alex Taylor, and many more, as well as Jennifer Warnes.  In fact, Bob Dylan once said of Jesse, “You can’t talk about the best songwriters and not include him.”  As is often the case, the recorders of his songs made his works more famous than Jesse was.

There are many ways to judge people.  Without personal contact, we oft judge them by less than reliable sources.  I had minimal contact, only email, with Jesse, but feel I have some validity in saying that Jesse was not only a great songwriter, but a decent person.  In all of our correspondence, he was friendly and gracious.  He was generous in allowing me to quote his song with no remuneration.  He even took time to write a kind note when he received my book, although I am sure it really held little interest for him at that point.  “Your new book arrived – thank you again.  And I appreciate the nice reference . . . . Good luck with your new baby.”   I judge people by their actions and Jesse’s were generous, indeed.  Thank you, Jesse, you were a kind and generous soul.  Your songs will continue to touch our hearts for many years.  And, come spring, another cherry blossom tree will be planted in your memory.

Ring Dem Bells- For the Salvation Army

The Duke

The Duke

While Duke Ellington made “Ring Dem Bells” famous in 1930, the Salvation Army has put it into practice for many years.  Ever since the San Francisco Salvation Army first utilized crab-cooking kettles in 1891 to collect money to help the needy, red kettles have become a part of the Christmas season.  While I can’t swear they used bells that first Christmas, we expect them now.  The kettles have become the biggest fund-raiser for the Army’s charitable programs for the whole year.  Although the Army does pay people to ring the bells when needed, they love it when volunteers ring the bells for two reasons: it saves money so there is more for their work with those in need and the volunteers are much more enthusiastic than the paid workers.  The kettle return for volunteers is almost always higher than for paid workers.  After all, they can arm-twist friends and acquaintances without any qualms.  I know.  I ring that bell.

Mikey and the Scottish Santa.  Great knees, huh?

Mikey and the Scottish Santa. Great knees, huh?

Bell ringing can be fun.  On behalf of the Gold Country Celtic Society, I recently took a shift with my friend Mikey.  Although he is a bagpiper and has played them when we’ve done it previously, we were going to be inside of a local supermarket and he thought it might be a problem.  Judging by the response, probably that would not have been the case.  I came as the Scottish Santa and it was a real kick.  Probably 99% of the people would break into a grin when we greeted them with a “Merry Christmas” as they came in the door.  I had one man ask what tartan I was wearing.  “McClaus, of course,”  I replied.  The women were interesting, with several of them stuffing money in the kettle while commenting on our good-looking knees.  When one woman I know came into the store, I said, “Merry Christmas, Carol.”  She looked at me quizzically and said, “How do you know my name?”  Mikey said, “Santa knows everyone’s name.”  But the kids were my favorites.  Handing them a candy cane and seeing the look in their eyes gives me a thrill every time.  As a kid who believed in Santa, I can relate.  As Santa now, I can enjoy.  Although the two hours standing after putting up Christmas decorations all over the house earlier did get to my aging back, it was well worth it.

salvation-armyOkay, here comes the pitch.  If you’re a part of any business, club or society, take a day and “ring dem bells.”  It is fun, rewarding and helps your community.  We’ve had a “Battle of the Media” between The Union newspaper and KNCO radio.  I don’t know who will win, but The Union publicized their day and gave away a lot of free stuff.  All that for bragging rights and a plaque.  If you want to have a kick while doing good, click here for your local Salvation Army location and sign up for bell ringing.

Merry Christmas from the Scottish Santa.

 

Mother-In-Law Day

Common idea of a Mother-in-law

Common conception of a Mother-in-law

Sunday, October 26, 2014, is Mother-In-Law Day.  Mothers-in-law are a favorite butt of jokes for stand-up comedians. Rumble seats in the old coupes and roadsters were called mother-in-law seats because those who rode in them were out of the passenger compartment, and presumably out of the driver’s hair. If you google “mother-in-law jokes” you will have page after page of sites listed. A few of the less offensive ones are listed below:

Adam was the happiest man who ever lived because he didn’t have a mother-in-law.

My mother-in-law’s second car is a broom.

A man in a bar says to his friend, “My mother-in-law is an angel.” His friend replies, “You’re lucky. Mine’s still alive.”

Q: What’s the difference between an outlaw and my mother-in-law? A: An outlaw is wanted!

The definition of mixed emotions is seeing your mother-in-law drive over the cliff in your new Porsche.

So is Mother-In-Law Day a joke, too? Absolutely not. Started in 1934 by a newspaper editor in Amarillo, Texas, it is now observed on the fourth Sunday in October. Or not. Over the last eighty years it has not exactly caught fire. But do mothers-in-law deserve the almost universal vilification and lack of recognition they have received? Maybe some do, for there are both good ones and bad ones. Yet, if anyone suggested ignoring Mother’s Day and Father’s Day because some mothers and fathers have not deserved to be honored, they would be booed and driven from the stage in a shower of rotten tomatoes. In that spirit, let we who loved our mothers-in-law honor them on Mother-In-Law Day. I will, even though mine is no longer on this earth.

True, my mother-in-law and good friend

True, my mother-in-law and good friend

From the moment we first met, my mother-in-law and I hit it off. Her name was LaTruda, a name she hated, so she went by True. It was an appropriate name for her because if anyone was true to the ones she loved, it was she. She was attractive, lively and had an incredible wit. If she were angry with someone, that wit could have a razor edge. However, in the 36 years I knew her, she never turned her quick mind against me. In fact, my wife (an only child) used to say that she knew we had to work any disagreements out because she could never “run home to Mama.” She said that Mama would have sent her back to me, her buddy.

My mother-in-law thought that the term “in-law” was demeaning to me and seldom used it. At a country club event to which my mother-in-law (sorry, True) belonged, we took an opportunity to dance together. A woman who was also a member asked her who I was. “My son, Ron,” she replied without hesitation. The lady smiled. “Oh, I can see the resemblance.” We both had a hard time stifling our laughter.

To say we were simpatico would be an understatement. She had a flair for style and I enjoy dressing with a flair. We had similar tastes in music, including classical, 40′s swing, rock and roll, and jazz, however she was a fine musician (like my wife), while I could only listen to the music. We both were avid readers, devouring books. We both enjoyed crossword puzzles. We both took Latin in high school, the “dead language.” We both enjoyed a similar sense of humor, oft considered warped by those who did not think in the same way we did.

After college, I ended up working in my in-laws’ family business. I ran one of two locations and had pretty much total control of its day-to-day operation. They also almost always had a house close to my wife and me. For 16 years, they even had one on the same property as ours. We went on a number of cruises as a family over the years. Normally, that would be a recipe for disaster: working, living and playing in such close proximity with family often causes friction. Such was not the case with my mother-in-law. While there were a few occasions when my father-in-law and I had problems, my mother-in-law stood as Horatio on the bridge against his angry outbursts (which he did have). Her rapier wit provided a great defense.

In 1994, we sold the family business and in 1995 all moved to the Isle of Man in the British Isles. There were my wife and myself, our daughter, my in-laws and our Sheltie, Fionna. We all lived on the same property and I remodeled their place, former stables, to reflect a bit of Southern California and to include conveniences not common in the Isles, such as a large shower with hot water from a pressurized tank and a side-by-side refrigerator. It was during the remodel, when she couldn’t remember what I had just said about the work being done, that we realized something was wrong. She had been stricken with Alzheimer’s. Even as this horrendous disease attacked her, she kept her sense of humor. “There’s one advantage,” she once told me. “I can read the same book over and over again.” One byproduct of the disease is a lowering of inhibitions. When she first went to the hairstylists with my wife, the assistant was a woman named Fionna. “Fionna?” she asked. “I have a . . .” She paused. My wife’s heart almost stopped as she expected the woman to be equated with our dog. “. . . a friend with your name.” To this day, I wonder if she were playing a mind game.

True as a young woman, with her movie-star looks

True as a young woman, with her movie-star looks.  Her beauty wasn’t just skin deep.

Due to my father-in-laws’ medical problems, we moved back to the States. While pricier, the medical care in the States had more to offer. But there was no “magic pill” for True’s condition.  As her disease progressed, she forgot my name, but she would look at me and say, “You’re a good man.” After her passing, I wrote her eulogy, which was sent to all who knew and loved her. It was a woeful duty and a great honor. As her son, it was also my right. So I now honor her memory on Mother-In-Law Day, although Altera Matris Diem, translated from Latin as “Other Mother’s Day,” would be much more appropriate and I am sure one she would prefer. It is also a title she deserves.

The Star-Spangled Banner

flagOn September 14th of this year, our national anthem will have its bicentennial celebration of when Francis Scott Key first wrote the words.  Janine Stange will complete a 50-state singing tour of it by performing this challenging melody at Fort McHenry on our national anthem’s 200th anniversary.  So, before we get into the history of our beloved anthem that the late Caldwell Titcomb, president of the Boston Theater Critics Association and professor emeritus of theater criticism at Brandeis, noted that it has a melody that far exceeds the range of the average person (ever try to sing it on key?), let’s have a little trivia fun.  If you go to a pub quiz on September 14th, it just might help.

1.  Where is Fort McHenry?

2.  How many Americans died in the attack on the fort?

3.  During what war was the song written.

4.  What was the original title?

5.  Where was Francis Scott Key when he wrote the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner”?

6.  Why was he there?

7.  How many stars and stripes were on the flag Key saw flying over the fort?

8.  Who wrote the melody?

9.  Who did he write the melody for?

10.  What is the vocal range required to correctly sing the melody?

11.  How many verses are there?

12.  Who was the first President who had it played for official events?

13.  What President signed it into being the national anthem?

14. What was the first year it was played at baseball’s World Series?

15.  Who broke all traditions to sing it on September 13, 2001?

British burning the White House

British burning the White House

If you found this difficult, don’t feel badly.  It was meant to be.  You will find all the answers in this posting.  The War of 1812 was, like so many other wars we fought, not universally popular.  In Europe, England and Napoleonic France had been engaged in battle for many years.  While Thomas Jefferson’s Democratic-Republican Party (later the Democratic Party) sympathized with once-republican France, the Federalist Party leaned toward trading-partner Britain and many of its followers even continued trading with them during the war.  The main American grievances were that the British would stop American merchant ships and seize any sailor they thought subject to British impressment (which they applied rather liberally) and that the British actively encouraged Native Americans to attack American settlers.  American expansionist ambitions played a part, too.  Although many New England maritime states were against it, the War Hawks (a term first used in that war) prevailed and a declaration of war squeaked by on June 18, 1812.  To say that American victories were spotty would be an understatement.  The invasion of Canada was a fiasco.  While the army did capture, sack and burn the capital, York (now Toronto), it retreated with heavy losses.  In retaliation, the British sacked and burned Washington, including the White House, after scattering the poorly led and organized American defense.  Tit for tat.  Along the way, they brought back loot and prisoners.

Old Ironsides in action

Old Ironsides in action

This is not to say that America had no victories.  In the sea, our ships did surprisingly well against the world’s naval super-power.  More heavily armed and built of stout American oak, our frigates proved a match for the British ones.  The USS Constitution, “Old Ironsides,” defeated and captured four British frigates.  American privateers (legalized pirates) effectively harassed British shipping.  Many sailed from Baltimore Harbor.

Having defeated Napoleon, the British felt they could make short work of the upstart Americans.  If they took Baltimore, they could not only almost eliminate the privateer threat, but cut their former colonies in half and defeat them in detail, or in smaller units rather than all at once.  And that was the plan.  However, the Americans put up a lively land defense, so the British decided to attack by sea, taking Fort McHenry in Baltimore Harbor.  With warships that could sit out of range of the fort’s guns, they thought they could pound it into submission.  And now we come to “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Fort McHenry with the rockets red glare

Fort McHenry with the rockets red glare

Francis Scott Key was a lawyer and amateur poet who had gone to the British to obtain the release of Dr. Beanes, a friend of his who had been taken captive when the British had sacked Washington.  It was a classic case of the worst and best of timing.  While on a British warship, he observed the shelling of Fort McHenry.  One can only imagine how he felt as he observed the wildly-inaccurate Congreve rockets (with a red flare) and mortar rounds (bombs bursting) exploding in the night sky, lighting the defiant battle flag over the fort.  Four Americans died from the shelling.  Then came the dawn.  Major George Armistead ordered the 30′ by 42′  fifteen stars and stripes flag (Vermont and Kentucky had joined the Union) be hoisted and Key saw it.  He penned his poem, “Defence of M’Henry,” on the back of an envelope (no, Lincoln did not write the Gettysburg Address on one).

Not long afterwards, Key changed the name to “The Star-Spangled Banner” and put it to music.  The melody he chose was one he’d used before, “The Anacreontic Song.”  Composed by John Stafford Smith for the London Anacreontic Society (Anacreon was a classic Greek poet who loved wine and women), it had become a popular bar song with many different words.  Key liked the tune and it became our national anthem.

Although it was widely sung, “The Star-Spangled Banner” took many years to become our national anthem.  “Hail Columbia” and “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” were strong competitors, but sharing the same melody with “God Save the King (or Queen)” knocked “My Country ‘Tis of Thee ” out of the competition.  President Woodrow Wilson began to have it played at his public appearances in 1916.  In 1918, baseball’s World Series played it before every game.  Still, it wasn’t our national anthem.  On November 3, 1929, “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” stated “Believe It or Not, America has no national anthem.”   Finally, on March 3, 1931, President Hoover signed the law making “The Star-Spangled Banner” our national anthem.

Christina Aguilera: Fail

Christina Aguilera: Fail

Many singers decry the melody of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”  Since it has a melody that spans nearly two octaves, when most people are good for one, at best, it is daunting to sing.  Not only that, few people know the first verse perfectly, much less all four.  Consider Christina Aguilera’s performance at Super Bowl XLV.  Yet, many famous singers have sung it without complaint.  One of the most unusual ones did so at St. Paul’s Cathedral on September 13, 2001.  Queen Elizabeth II sang it with all those attending the 9/11memorial service there, the first British monarch ever to do so.  At least in public.

Guns of August

Russian troops- poorly trained, incompetently, inadequately armed, but many in mumber

Russian troops- poorly trained, incompetently led, inadequately armed, but vast in number

One hundred years ago this month, the world entered into a conflict that became known as The Great War and, eventually, World War I.  While the Archduke Ferdinand and his wife Sophie of the Austro-Hungarian Empire were assassinated by a Serbian nationalist on June 28th of 1924 and Austro-Hungary declared war on Serbia one month later, it might have been a localized war between the two.  If not for a series of alliances.  But by August, the die was cast.  In that fateful month, Germany declared war on France, Britain declared war on Germany, Montenegro declared war on Austro-Hungary, Austro-Hungary declared war on Russia, Serbia declared war on Germany, Montenegro declared war on Germany, France declared war on Austro-Hungary, Britain declared war on Austro-Hungary, Austro-Hungary declared war on Belgium, Japan declared war on Germany, and Japan declared war on Austro-Hungary.  Although the Ottoman Empire did not technically enter the war until November, it closed the Dardanelles that month, pinning a part of the Russian fleet in the Black Sea.  Since Britain, France and Germany had colonies in Asia, Africa, the Middle East and in the Pacific where battles were fought, the world was at war.

Over the top of the trenches and into the machine guns.  Frontal assault into sure death was the norm.

Over the top of the trenches and into the machine guns. Frontal assault into sure death was the norm.

These were not idle declarations of war.  By the end of August, Germany had overrun Luxemburg and Belgium (with no declaration of war), and the Allies (France and Britain) had been pushed back across the Marne River into France, with thousands of casualties on both sides.  Russia had suffered a costly defeat at the Battle of Tannenberg, with 140,000 of their soldiers dead, wounded or captured.  Combined British and Japanese forces captured the German-held port of Tsing-tao in China and New Zealand troops seized the German half of Samoa.  First blood had been drawn, in the tens of thousands, and it would not end for four years and millions more deaths.  Brave men would charge into the certain death of machine guns on the orders of short-sighted generals who did not vary their tactics in the face of more efficient weaponry.

Interested onlookers at the Versailles Peace Treaty negotiations in 1918.

Interested onlookers at the Versailles Peace Treaty negotiations in 1918.

Barbara Tuchman described the dominoes that fell to bring about the Great War in her book, The Guns of August (from whence I got my title for this blog).  Many of the ills in today’s world came as a result of the Great War.  The vindictive peace at Versailles in 1918 had a direct effect on the rise of Nazism in Germany.  In spite of one of President Wilson’s Fourteen Points being self-determination, colonialism persisted.  In fact, the Ottoman Empire’s holdings in the Middle East were broken into mandates administered by France and Britain.  These lines became countries, without regard to ethnic or sectarian populace, and have much to do with the current problems in the Middle East today.  The fall of the czar in Russia was hastened by the war and the Kerensky democratic government’s continued support of the war had much to do with its fall to communism.  From there, it spread to China and North Korea with the aid of Russian support.  Many of the Balkan problems can be traced to the creation of Yugoslavia as a reward to Serbia after the war.

A French soldier and a German soldier in the same trench, no longer fighting.

A French soldier and a German soldier in the same trench, no longer fighting.

Idealism can be deadly.  When men enlisted on both sides, they were sure they would be home by Christmas.  They went with a youthful patriotism and enthusiasm.  Yet they were soon bogged down in the mire of trench warfare and thick mud.  When America entered in 1917, it was to be “the war that ends all war.”  Obviously, that was not the case.  George Santayana wrote, “Those who do not know history’s mistakes are doomed to repeat them.”  What can we learn from this war one century ago?  Here are a few of my observations:

1. Winning a battle does not ensure winning a war.  Winning a war does not ensure winning a lasting peace.  Both sides dreamed of winning the big battle that would force the other side to sue for peace.  Battles were won, many times by the Germans, but it was four years of a bloody war of attrition before Germany sought peace.

2. The spoils of war will always spoil. Refrain from taking them.  The French were still livid at the Germans seizing Alsace-Lorraine after the Franco Prussian War forty years before.  President Wilson claimed self-determinism of all people to be a goal when America entered the war, yet that was not the case when peace was finally made.  It was the winners seizing whatever they wanted and playing political games with the rest.  That sin haunts us to this day.

3. Do not start a war, but make sure you win.  Then have an exit strategy and plan for the fallout that happens even if you win.  The sides were too evenly matched and the sheer numbers of men and equipment made a quick victory impossible.  It became a war of grinding away at each other, destroying men and economies. England had a thriving, world dominating economy at the onset of the war and never recovered that strength.  Both sides were anxious to get into the fight and, in a very real sense, neither side won.

4. Wars are often fought with the tactics and strategies of the previous one.  But situations change, as do weapons and combatants.  Be ready to change your strategies, tactics and weapons as quickly as needed.  That did not happen in the Great War, with generals pouring men into hopeless offenses.  A definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, while expecting a different result.  By that definition, both sides had many insane officers.

5. Everybody lies. Well, almost everybody.  While T.V.’s Dr. House may not have always been right about that, too often it is true.  Doubt what everyone says, but yourself. Maybe even yourself.  Err to the side of caution on the oxymoron, “military intelligence.” Many men have died because of faulty intelligence before a battle.

6. There will always be another war.  This was to be the “war that ends all wars,” yet that obviously was not the case.  All too often, the previous war leads to the next one. And the outcome of that often reverses the gains of the previous one.

Does following these six points ensure success in war?  If you say “yes,” please check out point 6.

 

Word-Cross or Crossword Puzzles

The Mother of all Addictions -Crossword, that it.  December 13, 1913

The Mother of all Addictions -the Crossword one, that is. December 13, 1913

My name is R.L. Cherry and I am an addict. If I go too many days without my crossword puzzle, I break into a cold sweat and become disoriented. A pun clue for disoriented would be someone who emigrates from China to the USA. Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Too many crossword puzzles. I blame my condition on Arthur Wynne, an Englishman whose first “word-cross” puzzle appeared in the New York World on December 13, 1913. He is generally considered to have created the first form of this addictive pastime, but some dispute this. Yeah, I know I should have written this on the centennial of that date, but I was not aware of this fact until recently. Art’s puzzle was diamond shaped instead of the current standard square and had no blacked-out spaces, but the genie was out of the bottle and, like crack cocaine, soon had unsuspecting puzzlers addicted. Fortunately for people like me, it does not destroy body and mind like cocaine, just takes control of them. Wynne and the World were sole suppliers until the Boston Globe took a piece of the action in 1917. By the Roaring Twenties, the nation was hooked on “cross-word” puzzles. Interestingly enough, The New York Times, which now publishes the acme of American crossword puzzles, wrote in the 1920′s that they were a “sinful waste in the utterly futile finding of words the letters of which will fit into a prearranged pattern, more or less complex. This is not a game at all, and it hardly can be called a sport . . . [solvers] get nothing out of it except a primitive form of mental exercise, and success or failure in any given attempt is equally irrelevant to mental development.” They did not include them in their paper until 1942. English newspapers held firm against the onslaught until 1930, when the Times succumbed. British crossword puzzles are quite different however, from the ones on this side of the Pond. And the rest is history. Well, all of that was history, too.

My personal story began in the 1980′s. I was pretty much puzzle-free for most of my life. Sure, there was the occasional experimentation in my youth. Most people do, right? They just never admit it. Anyway, a woman who was a secretary at our business offered me a puzzle from the local paper, the San Bernardino then-named Sun Telegram. How often does it start that way, a friend saying, “Just try it. You can walk away any time you want to.” It was an entry-level puzzle, not the hard stuff. I remember when I had the clue of “a Malaysian canoe.” The answer, of course, was a proa. I said, “Not fair. Who ever heard of a ‘proa’?” I should have walked away then, seen that this could not end well. Instead, soon the Sun Telegram no longer gave me the thrill I needed. I progressed to the Los Angeles Times and, finally, to the real hard stuff, the New York Times. Sure, I occasionally dabbled in the Boston Globe’s and the San Francisco Examiner’s offerings, but they were just diversions, not completely satisfying. New York Times crossword puzzle editor Will Shortz became my main supplier, giving me the stuff that I needed. I was happy, at least for the time it took to finish my morning puzzle. Then I moved to the Isle of Man in the British Isles.

British Crossword Puzzle

British Crossword Puzzle                            For the solution to this puzzle, click here

Crossword puzzle withdrawal is not a pretty sight. The sufferer often finds him or herself rooting through old newspapers and books for a hidden puzzle. Sleep is difficult, often interrupted with visions of grids and clues. Fortunately, I found the British version. It is much different from the American one. As you can see by the example here, they have fewer crossing of letters and fewer words in the grid, making it necessary to solve each clue without the help of the crossing words for other clues. They make extensive use of puns and word play. The clues normally have two parts, one a more direct hint and the other more obscure. The solver must completely immerse oneself in that thought pattern. If you have read my book, Christmas Cracker, you experienced one when Morg encounters the diabolical British crossword puzzle in the course of solving a mystery. Often I would not solve the puzzle in one day, but would clip it out to finish it the next day. But the next day had a new one, adding to the pile. I became frantic, trying to complete puzzles days old while not finishing the current one. I was in serious danger of O.D.ing on words when we moved back to America.

I now have my habit under control. I can do my crossword in the morning, then have a normal life for the rest of the day. The only problems are Monday and Tuesday. Will Shortz starts the week (Monday) with an easy one, steadily making them more difficult each day until nirvana on Saturday. Sunday’s puzzle is large and difficult enough to give a thrill. But Monday and Tuesday’s are just too easy. There is no high in finishing them. I avoid them, knowing that they will only leave me with a craving for the harder stuff. But I endure it. I’m tough. Wait, is that a crossword puzzle from the Times that I never worked? Give it to me! You value that hand, give it to me now!

My Corpse, My Corpse, a Compromise for My Corpse

 

Richard III No Coward in Battle

Richard III
No Coward in Battle

Before I make my compromise proposal, I will give a recap of my post back in August of last year.  I wrote about the legal battle over the skeleton of Richard III, who  had been killed in the Battle of Bosworth Field, near Leicester, while battling Henry Tudor (soon to be Henry VII) in 1485.  His mutilated body was buried in a graveyard in the Greyfriars church in Leicester (no cathedral burial for Richard).  When Henry VIII disbanded the monasteries, the friary was seized and sold.  Eventually, poor Richard’s grave was destroyed and forgotten.  Sic transit gloria.

 

 

Richard III's Bones

Richard III’s Bones

Vilified by Shakespeare’s masterful propaganda piece, Richard III, as a man of a twisted body, mind and soul, he came to be considered the epitome of cruel, ruthless ambition.  However, in the last century several groups were formed to promote a more sympathetic view of Richard.  In 2011, the oldest one, the Richard III Society, began a search and, eventually, found Richard under a green 1987 Mini Cooper.  Well, not exactly, but he had been paved over for a parking lot, so he might have been under one at some point.  Anyway, the government, Leicester City Council, the University of Leicester, Leicester Cathedral, York Minster, and the Richard III Society all agreed to let Richard lie in Leicester Cathedral.  He was even to get a table tomb, like many more beloved English monarchs.  It looked like Richard might rest in peace.

The Broom Plant a.k.a Genista

The Broom Plant
a.k.a Genista

Enter the Plantagenet Alliance.  The word Plantagenet evidently was a nickname given to Geoffrey of Anjou because he wore a sprig of the broom plant (genista) in his bonnet, planted brooms to provide cover for his hunting grounds or for some unknown reason lost in the mists of time.  Not long after he went to the happy hunting grounds, his son became Henry II of England in 1154.  Three centuries later, Richard, Duke of York, called himself Richard Plantaginet (sic) when he took the throne and was the last Plantagenet king.  After Richard was disinterred in 2012, some fifteen collateral descendants (not direct-line, but from a relative) formed the Plantagenet Alliance to stop the Leicester contingent from having his bones.  (Too bad Geoffrey hadn’t been nicknamed Broom.  The Broom Alliance would have been funnier).  The Alliance said they should decide and York Minster was their choice.  Other proposals cropped up, including Westminster Abbey and the Worksop Priory Church.  That last, little-known place was proposed by the MP from that region, claiming it was a good compromise because it was located halfway between Leicester and York.  I’m sure it had nothing to do with the expected £4,000,000 in tourist revenues from Richard’s bones.  The courts recently ruled that Richard would stay in Leicester, saying that there was “no direct evidence of any definitive wishes expressed by Richard III as to his place of burial.”  The Alliance is threatening an appeal.  The Mayor of Leicester has said, “Those bones leave Leicester over my dead body.”  Lawyers’ fees could outstrip tourist revenue if something is not done.  So I have a proposal: divvy Richard up.

Many saints of the church have a bone here and another one there, known as relics and often stored in a fancy container known as a reliquary.  Take ST_OSWALDSt. Oswald, a sanctified king of 7th century Northumbria.  Originally buried at Bardney Abbey, three of his bones are still there, or so they say.  Peterborough Cathedral claims an arm and monasaries across England (Bath, Glastonbury, Reading, St. Albans, Christchurch (Hants), Tynemouth and York) say they have a bone or two.  Hildesheim, Germany, built a shrine that supposedly houses his head,  All of these locations got some play from the pilgrimage crowd.  Many others, including St. Andrew, St. Paul, and St. Thomas á Becket, are scattered as well.  Why not Richard?  While I would not call Richard a saint (all indicators point to him having killed his young nephews for the throne and had at least a couple of affairs), it would end the legal haggling and expenses of those involved to follow those precedents.  Put his rib cage (heart) in Westminster Abbey, near his wife Anne Neville.  His head (brain) should go to York, where he plotted his rise to power.  His pelvis is a different matter.  He had two, maybe three, illegitimate children of unknown mothers.  Since John of Gloucester was the most famous one, let Gloucester Cathedral have his pelvis until better claimants arise.  As for the rest of his bones, bury them at Leicester.  Well, except for his right hand.  I’m sure Richard would want that to go to St. George’s Chapel in Windsor, in front of the tomb of Henry VII, middle pointing skyward.

 “As long as I don’t get covered too much in egg and tomato I’ll be all right.”

“As long as I don’t get covered too much in egg and tomato I’ll be all right.”

To date, the royals have abstained from  commenting on where should Richard’s final resting place should be.  I suppose they feel they have had enough embarrassment in the press for verbal faux pas in the past and are lying low.  But now is the time to act, before the nation descends into a civil war to rival the so-called War of the Roses.  Send Richard’s bones to be ambassadors of good will and financial gain to the far regions of England.  I know he would have a good laugh about that.

Memorial Day

I normally like to write tongue-in-cheek posts.  I do love witty pieces and make my own attempt to follow in kind.  While I hope that this will not be morbid (like the one about my dearly-departed Aussie, Jilly), it will be a reverent remembrance of an uncle I never met, Earl Owen Thresher.

Earl Owen and his fiance in happier times

Earl Owen and his fiance in happier times

Earl Owen (Eardie) was born on December 27, 1921.  He was my mother’s baby brother, the youngest of five children, and my mother loved him dearly.  He had been engaged to a girl, but they had a fight and broke up in October of 1941.  So, as young men often do, he reacted rashly and joined the Marines to get away from it all.  They made up and got back together, but there’s no going back on an enlistment.  After boot camp on Perris Island, he went into the First Maine Division.  Then December 7, 1941, came around.

Earl Owen's enlistment picture

Earl Owen’s enlistment picture

 

You can read a factual account of Earl Owen’s (using first and middle name is a Southern thing) service record by clicking here.   While he is listed as in the Fifth Marines, he was proud of being in First Marine Division, a part of the Fifth and known as “the Old Breed.”  While they were also called the “Raggedy-Ass Marines,” an officer said that, “the tradition of hard, dirty service started in the First.”  I will not cite the military data from that website, but will tell you what my mother told me.  Earl Owen was not a born soldier.  He wept when he returned for Christmas in 1941, telling how rough it was in the Marines.  This is not a criticism of the Corps, since they were going to fight a tough enemy and had to have tough men, but rather an attempt to convey how difficult a task it is we ask young men (Earl Owen was 19 years old) to do for us.  My mother said he feared he would never see his girlfriend or his family again.  And he did not.  On September 26, 1942, he was killed by enemy machine gun fire while on patrol on Guadalcanal.  His body was never returned to the States.

Earl Owen on his last leave before Guadalcanal.

Earl Owen on his last leave before Guadalcanal.

My mother told me stories of Earl Owen, his wit and his joi de vivre.  She said he always had a smile, a twinkle in his eye.  Once, when he was late for school, she took the blame (and punishment) for him.  It reminds me of how my two older sisters have treated me though the years.  She told me how his girlfriend did not marry or even date for many years after his death.  She told me how much she loved him.  PFC Earl Owen Thresher did not receive a Congressional Medal of Honor, a Silver Star or even a Bronze Star.  He had no Arlington burial.  He was one of many young men who gave their lives for this country and get no recognition.  They fight and die without any press, without any fanfare, without any ticker tape parades.  They just do their duty.  To me, he and his ilk are heroes.  I hope that, on this Memorial Day, he and so many other men who gave their lives for us will not be forgotten.

Easter Sunday Remembered

Easter 1951 with my mom, sisters and me.  Hey, it's baby fat!!

Easter 1951 with my mom, sisters and me. Hey, it’s baby fat!!

As long as I can remember, Easter Sunday has been a special day in my family.  Although my family definitely wasn’t rich, my parents found enough money to buy me a new suit if we I had outgrown my old one (from the discount stores of the day, J.C. Penney’s or Sears and Roebuck’s) and provide candy for our Easter baskets.  I always wore a suit to church.  Form follows function and the function was to give God our best.  For my sisters, my mom would sew a new Easter dress each year.  My oldest sister always wanted a “store-bought” one instead.  When she was in junior high, she saved up her baby-sitting money and purchased one.  Although it was not of the quality of the ones my mom made, it was “store-bought” and that was what mattered.

After church, my mom would lay out a lunch with a baked ham that had been cooking all morning.  My sisters and I would stuff ourselves on ham and scalloped potatoes before experiencing that high that only a chocolate bunny can bring.  While Halloween was a time of candy gluttony, Easter was a time of connoisseur candy.  Now obviously I did not get Godiva bunnies or truffle Easter eggs, but there was something about those chocolate bunnies and marshmallow chicks that was just, well, special.  It was quality rather than quantity.  At least quality in my young mind.

Then there were the dyed hard-boiled eggs.  I loved dyeing them in the solution made from dissolving  tablets in water, using flimsy wire holders to dip them.  Of course, they never looked as pretty as the pictures, but it was still fun.  However, I did not really like eating them.  I could barely stomach them, far preferring scrambled ones.  The pleasure was in the decorating, not in the eating.  So for many days after Easter, my dad would have hard-boiled eggs in his lunchbox.  Fortunately, he did enjoy them.

Easter in the Late '50's Dapper Dude with an Easter Bunny.   See, I told you it was baby fat.

Easter in the Late ’50′s
Dapper Dude with an Easter Bunny.
See, I told you it was baby fat.

Now there are those who decry the Easter bunny and colored eggs for Easter as pagan traditions of fertility.  Even the name Easter, they say, comes from the Anglo-Saxon goddess of the dawn, Eostre.  That last has not been proven, but it is etymologically likely.  Well, there’s nothing wrong with “baptizing” a celebration, taking those “fun” parts that do not violate any Christian principles and incorporating them into a Christian holiday.  Many of those Christmas traditions so many cherish, like a Christmas tree, mistletoe and a yule log in the fireplace, were “baptized” as well.  There is nothing evil about enjoying yourself while celebrating a Holy day, a.k.a., a holiday.  God created fun.

Okay, I’m off my soapbox and back to remembering.  As you can tell from the pictures, celebrating Easter has been a long-standing event in my life.  And it continues to this day.  Having become an Anglican, I am into “smells and bells,” i.e., formal worship with incense and ritualism.  There is something that tugs at the heart strings when the organ hits the opening chords of Ralph Vaughn Williams’ “Hail Thee Festival Day.”

I admit, it does not appeal to everyone.  It’s sort of like sushi, you love it or you hate it.  No middle ground.  And I love it.

In my white suit with the late, great Jilly-dog.

In my white suit with the late, great Jilly-dog wearing her formal kerchief.

I have said before that I am an unabashed traditionalist.  I hate it when Shakespearean plays are given a modern setting and/or modern language.  I still believe in taking my hat off when entering a restaurant and opening the door for a woman.  Sadly, I admit that I have sinned in no longer opening the car door for my wife.  Mea culpa.  However, I continue to wear a suit to the Easter service, a white one for the last couple of decades (I know white is only for between Memorial Day and Labor Day, but rules can be broken for a good cause).  I have no intention of trying to make anyone else do so, but I feel I must.  Maybe it was by being taught, but then again maybe it was genetic.  It is who I am.

 

Don’t Kill the Cat

Yeah, I know I'm great.

Yeah, I know I’m great.  But you’re chopped liver.

Let me state that, although I’m not really a “cat person,” I do get along rather well with those domesticated tigers.  In fact, when we saved one from certain death at our business, it adopted me.  Yonke Gato (Junk Cat) would crawl up my arm and go to sleep across my shoulders as I did paperwork at my desk.  He would also bite and claw about anyone else.  Maybe it wasn’t so much love, but mutual respect and honesty about how we felt about each other that formed our relationship.  I didn’t pretend to love cats and he didn’t pretend to love people.

Pet me, pet me.

Pet me, pet me.

I did own a cat for several years.  Her mother abandoned her and her siblings in our garage in Lake Arrowhead, CA.  We named her Fosbury after Dick Fosbury, developer of the Fosbury Flop.  Like Dick, she was a high jumper, even though she was the runt.  All of her litter mates died (sorry cat lovers, but it’s the truth).  She became the proverbial “Cat from Hell.”  She would rub up against your leg, but when you reached down to pet her, she would  grab your hand with her front claws and bite it.  Hard.  She also would leave us “gifts” on the front doormat.  Heads of gophers, skinned grey squirrels, blue jay feathers and body parts.  They made for pleasant surprises when you opened the front door.  When we moved overseas, a couple we knew offered to take her and we gladly accepted.  They were afraid, however, that their big tom might pick on her.  Vain fear.  She tormented him so badly that he kept throwing up when he ate.  They finally gave her a private room in the house so tom could keep his dinner down.  Amazingly, the couple still corresponded with us and sent occasional photos as Fosbury morphed in Jabba the Hutt.

Maybe that’s why I found it interesting that when author Alan Beechey recently gave a talk on mystery writing at the Unicorn Writers’ Conference in Portland, Connecticut, he cited the first rule of writing a mystery as being “Never kill a cat.”  It gave me pause.  No, not paws, pause.  He said that it wasn’t good to kill a dog in your book and that it was rarely good to kill a child, but you should never kill a cat in your story.  It’s better to kill off an innocent child than a cat?  Why is it that cat lovers make them sacrosanct?bast

In ancient Egypt, cats held a special place.  They were near and dear to the goddess Bast.  In fact, killing a cat got you the death penalty.  That, I must say, is a fate even worse than having your book be a flop because you have a killer knock off kitty in your mystery.  However, it just goes to show you that love of felines is a long-standing tradition.  It seems that mystery readers walk like an Egyptian, at least in their pet preferences.

Being a dog lover, I don’t really understand the puss aficionados.  Dogs will mourn their masters (or mistresses), even loyally tending their graves. (click here).  Cats are more inclined to view late owners as a source of protein.  (click here)  This is not to disparage Tabby.  If anything, it makes the feline more pragmatic than  the canine.  After all, will starving yourself help bring back a loved one?  You just want to make sure kitty knows you’re taking a catnap rather than having a coronary.

Back to the first rule of mystery writing, perhaps it has to do with many mystery readers being cat owners.  I’ve never seen the pet demographics on whodunit readers, but it could be.  Perhaps many mystery readers are ancient Egyptians with long life spans.  That sounds like the basis for a new series to rival Twilight.  Whatever the case, I am wise enough to heed the warning.  I can assure any potential readers of my books that no cats will be killed in any of them.  In fact, no cats will be harmed in the making of them or in their plots.  I pledge that I will respect the rights of all cats.  So if you’re a cat lover, you can indulge in reading my books without any guilt.  Sort of like having a Diet Coke that tastes like a hot fudge sundae.  Enjoy.