Twenty one years ago today . . .

. . . my nephew, Zach was born. His mother, my youngest sister Janet, struggled for many hours to deliver her first son, but he refused to cooperate. He seemed reluctant to leave the cozy, quiet spot he had occupied for so many months. A C-section put an end to that and his beautiful self entered our world.

Time flies is so cliché AND so true. Before our eyes, he has transformed from a cuddly, curious little guy into a thoughtful, caring man. He’s still a gifted cuddler/hugger and undeniably handsome. I get the feeling that, like his Dad, he’s not entirely comfortable with his good looks. I think that adds to his appeal.

Seven years after Zach was born, Alex made a scary entry into the world. He had several serious and potentially deadly health issues. He spent his first three months in Children’s National Medical Center, about 60 miles from his family’s home. His mother and I spent many hours and days with him there. In no small part, Janet’s strong will and faith carried Alex through those crucial months.

Alex may have been fragile during his first couple years of life, but Zach was the one on his support team that encouraged him to be a normal little boy. His loving patience and protection of his brother could have easily turned to resentment over all the attention Alex’s precarious health necessitated. It never did.

Zach has become more reserved the older he gets, however there are still ample opportunities for hugging. The marvelous thing about his hugs is that they are sincere and last as long as the huggee wishes. Not many young men are so open to hugging an older, chubby aunt or his forgetful grandmother.

Can you tell that I’m proud of this guy and love him to death? He has given me so many happy memories: flying kites and picnicking at Hains Point, exploring in Rock Creek Park and Roosevelt Island. He, his Mom and I made several memorable visits to the old Capital Childrens’ Museum, too. Alex joined us once and Zach was a perfect guide for his little bro.

So . . .. happy birthday, Zach. I’m so glad you are in my life!

Zach: Alex's official shoe-tier.

Zach: Poppy's official crab pot look-out.



Best buddies with Grammy and Alex

Another good book about the Norman Conquest

As I’ve confessed before, I love reading historical novels. They put a personal spin on events and breathe life into history not found in straight history books. I just finished another I’d like to share.

Handfasted Wife by Carol McGrath tells part of the story surrounding the Norman Invasion made by William the Conquerer in the 1060s. Something I was previously only aware of as an event in ancient history. It took on personal importance when seen through the eyes of a woman who was personally and deeply effected by it.

Handfasting was a traditional way of marrying among the Celts. The man and woman pledged fealty to each other without the interference of clergy or government. In this story, it proved disastrous for the couple.

When William had almost completed his conquest, he decided that the late king’s wife should marry someone loyal to William. Thus the hand fasting was declared null and void and Edith (Elditha Swanneck) lost Harold, her husband and the father of their half dozen children. He became the new King of England and married his predecessor’s widow. He died at the Battle of Hastings and his handfasted wife had to identify his mutilated body while her son was taken hostage.

The behind the scenes machinations to achieve political and logistical goals are fascinating and some times disturbing. However, the novel reveals how fiercely and intelligently noble women fought against the Norman Conquest, nearly derailing it. 

Now just hold up . . .

. . . do we really want to create a martyr? Boston Marathon Bomber, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is up for the death penalty. He and his now-deceased brother carried out a heinous attack on innocent civilians. I don’t question that he must be punished for that.

However, to like-minded young terrorists-in-the-making, Tsarnaev is already a hero. If he is put to death for his heroic deeds, he instantly becomes a martyr.

Radical Islamists already have no problem blowing themselves up. They believe that such sacrifice guarantees their welcome into heaven as heroes.

Wouldn’t we be playing into the extremists’ hands if we take Tsarnaev’s life? Of course, it will be done humanely because Americans are always humane, right? His execution at our hands accomplishes a terrorist’s ultimate goal: to die a martyr.

On the other hand, if he remains in prison for the remainder of his life, he will live a pretty good life: sheltered, clothed, fed regularly, entertained, free education and health care, etc. A far better existence than that of hundreds of thousands of refugees and our own homeless people.

So what is the answer? Hard labor.

Abortion With a Bicycle Pump

“Bicycle pump abortions would be an ideal birth control method in developing countries, according to a young Australian doctor.” Vacuum extraction using this method, developed in Eastern Europe for “lunch-hour abortions” costs considerably less than electric machines specifically designed for abortion.

Now that you’re gasping in disbelief as I did when I came across the newspaper clipping, I will elaborate.

During the early 1970s my architect-dad was asked to travel to Malaysia in connection with a World Bank birth control program. Apparently his expertise in hospital design and construction was needed.

Dad died six years ago and we are still sorting through work related documents he saved; and he saved a lot! He accumulated several newspaper clippings while in Kuala Lampur and its surrounds. The clipping to which I referred above was stapled with several more. A more humorous, but unkind clipping told of a contractor who was building a posh new development in Milan. It happened to be in a neighborhood where prostitutes had long plied their trade. Being that this would distract potential buyers, he decided to take action.

Renting a helicopter one night, he circled overhead and dropped “bombs” filled with indelible ink onto the women. He claimed to have tried coming to an agreement with the streetwalkers, but the neighborhood was a prime spot for picking up wealthy patrons. When he failed at negotiating, he threatened to use fire crackers next time. Forty years later, who knows how it all played out.

My point in rehashing these old news stories is to illustrate how minds used to work to the detriment of women. I can only hope that abortion is no longer considered a birth control method in developing countries and that bicycle pumps are used only to refill flat tires.

The things that were done to women in the name of expediency and cost-effectiveness were horrifying and must never be repeated. Having said that, I do support a woman’s right to choose but for the sake of compassion not convenience.

Sloe Gin Balls

Several years ago my older brother and his wife were coming to visit. I knew what he liked to drink, but had no clue about her tastes. Told that she liked sloe gin fizzes, I scrambled to the liquor store to buy supplies.

What did she choose to drink? -- ginger ale. I’m not one to force booze on anyone because I hardly touch it myself. As I handed her a glass of ginger ale, I started wondering what I could do with the sloe gin. Today it came to me.

For Christmas I usually make Jack Daniel’s Balls. [I know, yuck it up all you want.] This time around I decided to use the sloe gin instead of bourbon.

The recipe is incredibly simple.

2 cups finely crushed vanilla cookies (I use Nilla Wafers)
6 oz. chocolate chips
1/2 cup sugar
3 Tbs. light corn syrup
1/3 cup bourbon or sloe gin
1/2 cup finely chopped walnuts

I crush the cookies in a food processor. Noisy, but easier. You can also do it in a zipping plastic bag with a rolling pin. Melt the chips in a medium sized microwavable bowl for about 40 seconds then remove and stir with a wooden spoon until smooth. Add the sugar and corn syrup. Tip: I squirt a bit of nonstick spray in the measuring spoon to make the syrup slide out and not stick. Add the booze, nuts and crumbs. Mix together then roll into walnut sized balls and roll in confectioner’s sugar. I did not use nuts this time because I didn’t have any and they turned out well.

As is true with women, these improve with aging in an air tight container. [No, don’t put your woman in an air tight container. She likes to breathe and move about.]

Happy January 2^nd!
 

A Good Memory

A few nights ago, Spouse and I were watching “Too Cute” on the Animal Planet channel. For those of you not familiar with it, it is a show featuring utterly adorable puppies and kittens from birth through joining new families.

When a clutch of Wiemaraner puppies came on, we simultaneously said “remember the dogs . . . .?”.

Years ago, we were driving home across the Whitehurst Freeway when we came to a broken-down car. A woman and two handsome Wiemaraners were standing close to it. It was a cold, windy day made worse by their being on a elevated highway next to the river. There was no shoulder for her to pull onto, so they were in the active roadway.

At the time, I was driving my dearly beloved Pinto station wagon, so we pulled over and offered them a lift. [This happened before cell phones, so they were really in a bind.]

The two big dogs seemed happy to jump into the back and the woman climbed into the back seat. The dogs soon lay down and the woman thanked us for stopping. She was headed for her husband’s office at 16^th and K Streets, so we drove her there.

She thanked us profusely. As we drove away I believed she would have done the same for us had our roles been reversed.

Creepy-Cool Coincidence

Early last week, I read about a special sculpture on loan from Italy to the National Gallery of Art, here in D.C. Two photos were included in the article and soon I became obsessed.

“Dying Gaul” is a fatally wounded warrior in battle. His weapons lie near him and his face is stoic, disappointed and filled with pain. It is beautifully and incredibly realistically rendered in marble. To me, it represents the futility of war and terrible waste of human life.

Last evening, I started reading a novel and, about a quarter of the way through, one of the lead characters revealed that she, too was obsessed with the “Dying Gaul” sculpture. The coincidence creeped me out. 

I met Uncle Sam on January 26th, 1981 . . .

 . . . and here he is:

His name was John W. Rusk and he had been "Uncle Sam" since 1947.  We met in the Rayburn Senate office building when I went up to The Hill for my work.  He was just strolling around and handed me the above postcard.  He said that many others had tried to take his place but that he was the original and genuine "Uncle Sam."

 

On the back he signed it in elegant script and wished me well.  He was soft spoken and a gentle man, unlike so many Capitol Hill minions.  I think we need someone like him to remind Congress of the pride and dignity he embodied.

"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?