"The Drowning Guard"

A recent news story reminded me of a novel I read several months ago. The news story was about a planned tunnel to be constructed under the Bosporus between the eastern and western parts of Turkey.

The novel, by Linda Lafferty, is loosely based on actual people and events during the 1820s in the Ottoman Empire. If you have any interest in that part of the world and it’s history, this is a fascinating story. The lead character is the Sultaness Esma, favorite sister of the sultan and a woman before her time.

As was customary in that time and place, the Sultan maintained a large harem. The women were essentially slaves, but generously pampered and kept hidden away, to be summoned only for the Sultan‘s pleasure. It was, however, not customary for a woman to have a harem, but Esma did. Her harem was a group of women friends to keep her company in her gilded cage. [Sons of living Sultans also were held under what might be considered house arrest so they were less likely to try to depose their fathers.]

Esma had her own palace and ran it as she pleased -- sometimes testing the severe restrictions placed upon women. She was purportedly a beautiful and seductive woman with a strong sexual appetite. The story goes that she took a different Christian bed partner every night. Following her frolics with each man, he was silenced by being drowned in the Bosporus, thus the drowning guard.

As were most of the guards and male servants, Esma’s had been captured during military campaigns and forced to serve their Ottoman captors. Considering their inescapable fate, they were clothed, fed and sheltered as valued servants. The man Esma chose to drown her victims was a Serbian Christian with whom she fell in love. Of course, being a Muslim and royalty, she could not act on her feelings.

The novel is well-researched and written. The characters are believable and well expressed.

So, getting back to the news story -- I imagined divers stumbling across the skeletons of hundreds of Esma’s victims during construction of the tunnel. Not something I’d want to discover. 

Stripping the Washington Monument

For those who might have forgotten, we had an earthquake and hurricane during the same week a couple of years ago.  While we’ve weathered many hurricanes over the years, earthquakes were a new experience around here.

Washington icons including the Washington National Cathedral and the Washington Monument both suffered serious damage.  Countless smaller structures also were damaged.

Thanks in large part to a private donation, the WM is nearly completely repaired and may reopen in the Spring.  Interior repairs are still going on, but the outer, sandstone and mortar repairs are finished.

It wasn’t that long ago that routine maintenance necessitated scaffolding surrounding the WM.  An artist installed light blue fabric and lighting that looked especially beautiful at night.  The same effect was repeated this time around and is now being dismantled.

Last week I was concerned about the scaffolding workers because the weather was cold and very windy.  [Can’t be easy working under those conditions, 500 feet in the air and on a hill that is popular with kite-fliers.]  However, today is brilliantly sunny and 70 degrees.  I'd give anything to be up there with them -- the view would be extraordinary!

P.S.  Congress was very lucky that the enormous cast iron dome on the Capitol didn’t collapse during the quake.  Thankfully, the slaves who built the structure did an excellent job.  Yes, slave-labor built many Washington landmarks.

Assassination

On November 22nd in 1963 I was a newly minted high school freshman.  After only two months in high school, I hadn’t yet gained any sophistication or maturity as had many of my classmates.  I admit it; I was a dweeb, but that was OK.

Mr. Crampton taught freshman English and, although I thought he was kinda cute, he was a strict, demanding teacher.  [I thought several of my male teachers were kinda cute, but it was just raging hormones.]

In my high school, it was unusual to hear announcements over the P.A. system during classes.  When the familiar little noises of the system being activated got our attention, Mr. Crampton stopped his lesson so that we could all hear what was so important.  All eyes went to the speaker on the wall.

In mere seconds, our world stopped rotating on its axis and everyone held their breath in shocked horror -- President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas, Texas and had been rushed to a hospital.  As we gaped, open-mouthed at each other we had no idea what to do or think.  Even stolid Mr. Crampton was at a loss for words.

What seemed like mere seconds later, word came that the president had died.  The blood that had drained from our faces earlier stopped when our collective hearts skipped a beat.

After the moment it took to absorb this dreadful information, tears started burning and breathing became difficult.  The next announcement was to release us from class to gather in the gym to await buses to take us home.

Melancholia is common among teens, but it was outweighed by fear and dread that day.  I wouldn’t say mass hysteria broke out, but every one of us wondered how our country could survive the blow and, indeed, how the world would not collapse around us.

I don’t remember how I got home.  I don’t even remember what members of my family said -- I was in a daze that lasted until the funeral.  I can still hear the slow beat of muffled drums accompanying the cortege to Arlington National Cemetery.  The magnificent, high strung, black, rider-less horse with boots facing backwards in the stirrups was so evocative of our young, charismatic president.  The truth of our loss was overwhelming.

Memories from those days are still vivid:

The president’s hands flying up to his throat;

Mrs. Kennedy crawling over the trunk of the limo to help the Secret Service agent into the car;

The horrified and heartbroken crowds who had gathered to welcome the president;

Lee Harvey Oswald being shot by Jack Ruby in a crowded hallway;

The view from the book depository where Oswald took aim;

Mrs. Kennedy stoically witnessing Lyndon Johnson’s swearing-in on the plane that would bring her husband’s body back to Washington;

Events seemed makeshift until the funeral.  It was formal, orderly and dignified.  The solemnity of the event was not spoiled by too much talk from TV commentators.  The simplicity of the formal, military honors was utterly appropriate and moving.

When the bugler muffed a note while playing TAPS, it was as if he was as overcome with emotion as was the rest of the country.  He felt bad for missing the note and had never done it before but I can’t imagine anyone not understanding.

Fifty years after that horrible day, the memories are surprisingly vivid.  JFK’s daughter, Caroline has just been sworn in as the U.S. Ambassador to Japan and will be there on the 22nd.  I wish her peace.

Some color or a Monday night

Getting very frustrated!

For more than a week, I have been unable to post any pictures on my blog.  Can't figure out why and blogspot is not responding to my feedback.

Any ideas . . . ..???

Body Parts

When I mention that I have a substantial postcard collection, friends often give me some of theirs.  This* one came from a friend who visited Gerusalemme (assuming that is present-day Jerusalem).

It looked kinda kinky on first viewing.  When I read what it was on the back of the card, I dropped it in shock.  The shriveled object in the center of the suggestively-shaped thing is believed to be a finger from the Apostle Paul.*

Personally, I think it is grotesque and, at the very least, unseemly, to enshrine and display severed body parts.  But I'm a Presbyterian, so what do I know about such 'sacred objects.'  Also, I have to wonder how this relic was obtained.  I mean, did someone just sneak up to Paul's dead carcass and whack off a finger?  Maybe his other fingers and toes are spread out around the world . . . ..!!

*Note:  Eerily I was unable to upload the promised photo.  I tried several times.  Do you suppose I have displeased the heavens?

Please say a little prayer . . .

This adorable 8-year-old is under-going chemo for lymphoma. He lives almost 700 miles from me, but I love him just the same. His human mother (my sister) has steadfastly shared pictures and stories about Tucker so that I could enjoy him from a distance.

 

All of his human family members are devastated and praying that the chemo can stop his cancer. He has been cherished since he was born. His closest furry friends are a tiny Westie named Bailey and his next door neighbor, also a Goldendoodle.

 

When you have a spare moment, please ask God to send Tucker and his family strength to get through this. Many thanks!

I Love Autumn

Around D.C., Autumn often arrives slowly, producing lovely mixes of colored leaves that last for a while because the really cold weather doesn't usually arrive until December or January.  I also enjoy the migrating Lady Bugs and Monarch butterflies.

Hope you are enjoying whatever season you are entering and appreciate the change.  I know I could not live in a place where the weather was always the same, but to each her own  .   .     .

My sermon for a sunny Saturday.

Oh, to be so carefree and have no worries again!  I still feel like this on occasion and wish I could be four again (without having to repeat my teens.)  I wouldn't be a teen these days for love nor money!

Children are forced to grow up too quickly and lose nearly all of what should be carefree childhood.  They cannot play outdoors without worrying about being snatched.  Parents instill their little ones with fear of strangers to the point where friendly, harmless types like me feel afraid to even smile at a little child, much less strike up a conversation.

Can we ever go back to a time when children left the house early in the morning and played until they were hungry?  We didn't need fancy toys and manufactured our own adventures using our imaginations and whatever raw materials were at hand.

I fear that modern electronics and lazy/too busy parents are responsible for children missing out on their childhoods.  Cellphones, computers, television and electronic games prevent kids from developing their minds in a natural way.  Just once I'd love to watch a child pick up a stick and some leaves to create a little boat to "sail" on a puddle.  Running just because she can should be allowed without the rigid control of "helicopter parents."

I wish . . .
 

An Indian Prayer

The following came in a mailing from an American Indian nation asking for donations to their school. The simple, pure prose appealed to me because it uses words I prefer to formal prayers with their thees and thous.

Genuine humility is an important element when one is praying and this prayer embodies that -- for me, anyway. The author is not credited.


O’ GREAT SPIRIT,
Whose voice I hear in the winds,
And whose breath gives life to all the world, hear me!
I am small and weak.
I need your strength and wisdom.

Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever
behold the red and purple sunset.

Make my hands respect the things you have
made and my ears sharp to hear your voice.

Make we wise so that I may understand the
things you have taught my people.

Let me learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.

I seek strength, not to be greater than my
brother, but to fight my greatest enemy -- myself.

Make me always ready to come to you with
clean hands and straight eyes.

So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you without shame.

I am not Malala . . .

. . . and I thank my lucky stars that I am not.

Living in a country that requires education for all children and pays for it with taxes is a huge gift. Too many of us did not and still do not appreciate the ease and safety of getting an education in the U.S.

Another reason I am not Malala is that I possess none of her courage, strength or perseverance. This sixteen years old young woman has already had nearly a life time of experience and still remains a thoughtful and intelligent girl willing to put others first.

Malala Yousafzai spoke to school girls from the D.C. region during a recent event sponsored by the World Bank. During the Q&A session she was asked if she had ever wished she was a boy and what she would advise fathers of girls.

“I would tell them don’t give anything extra to your daughters, but don‘t clip their wings. Let them fly, and give them the same rights as your sons. Give them a chance to be a human being.”

Those who tried to eliminate her influence by trying to kill her instead created a martyr. This poised, gentle young lady is now an inspiration to girls and women worldwide. I hope and pray she lives a long and fulfilling life.

History Repeated

The photo illustrates what happens when one of the huge rolls of newsprint ends and another begins. It also seemed analogous to the story that was cut in half by it in today’s Washington Post.

It is about Syrian Christians being tormented because of their religion. Christians in other majority-Muslim countries also are being targeted and harassed or murdered because of their faith.

Just as Christian crusaders centuries ago believed that Jews and Muslims were infidels and must be driven out of the Holy Land, Muslims are using the same reasoning to go after non-Muslims.

The three, major world religions, Christianity, Judaism and Islam all worship one deity. The name for this deity is different within each group but it is one and the same. Wouldn’t it be grand if they could all embrace that fact and let all the other dogma not get in the way of living in harmony?

I have no bone to pick [forgive me] with Muslims and Jews not eating pork. And so what if their Sabbaths are on different days? Women who cover their heads will get no argument from me. [I do make an exception for the burqa because it is simply inhumane.] Religious restrictions are important to each group but are not excuses for hatred and discrimination.

Religious intolerance has stewed for centuries, some worse than others. It’s on a tear right now. If I had my way, Jerusalem, an ancient city at the heart of the three major religions, would be a neutral, internationally policed city. I can dream, can’t I? 

Pick-a-little-talk-a-little, pick-a-little-talk-a-little . . .

. . . CHEAP, CHEAP, CHEAP, pick-a-little-talk-a-little-more. . .

With apologies to Mr. Meredith Wilson, the above seemed the right caption for this photo.  Can you guess the group (in Washington, D.C.) to which I am referring?

 

The biggest feet I've ever seen!

This is a U.S. Park Police horse on the National Mall.  I should think anyone wanting to make trouble would think twice before messing with THIS big boy!