Saturday, February 25, 2006
ANOTHER ONE Now and then I actually meet people who complain about the fact that they have another birthday coming up. They are going to be one year older and insist they don't like - even the idea of growing older – one little bit. I have just from the celebration, by family and friends, of my 90th year on planet Earth and it has been a very good day. I look forward to more of them. The present tally is: Ninety down and ten more to go!” 2016 will see me hit the one-hundred year mark. After that I'll just have to take my chances, I suppose. You may think such talk to be an idle whim; the prattle of an Old Man. Not so. I've been working on that plan for a good many years and I am convinced that's the way things are headed. I make an honest attempt to provide form my physical self all those qualities thought to be essential to extended years of enjoyable. There's adequate rest, for instance, and I don't let any of these become overdone, thoughtless habit, this includes as much physical work as the body can endure – the body, I said, not the mind which can do some tricky stuff you don't want and certainly don't need if you are at all serious about adding to your number of my years. It can be done. It is being done. Who was it recently - and in the bright world of comedy, too - George Allen who aimed at a hundred and made it. Right away, another funny-bone Jimmy Durante, I think, pledged to try to outdo him. If you have lingering doubts read the Obit columns in your local paper and watch many one hundred-plus persons are particularized in print Funeral homes are waiting longer these days. A plan to celebrate my one hundredth birthday has become a matter of observing proper etiquette, as well. Several years ago, when a young lady surgeon at University Hospital, Charlottesville, Virginia accepted me from a helicopter as a bundle about to burst and fashioned a new aorta for me, I felt re-made and ready. I invited her to be present at my 100th Birthday, February 25, 2016. She accepted and promised to be there. Now, you wouldn't want me to fail to keep my word, would you? It's still ”on” Doctor H. Ninety down - only ten to go! A.L.M. February 25, 2006 [c417wds]
Friday, February 24, 2006
PLANTED PLANET
In 1790 this nation of our was inhabited by one occupational group. Records clearly show that ninety per cent of all early Americans were into agriculture in one way or another. Think ahead to 1970, for instance, and you can clearly see how we have shifted in an occupational sense. In more recent timers, it has been altered even more radically until the work of the farmer has become a lost art, and agriculture is low-rated as a lifework; rural persons seen as second-class, even comic citizens. We laugh at what we once were. I bring this up again at this time, because another occupational sphere of American life is rapidly departing in a similar manner and we are allowing it to happen - even encouraging leave faster. Those individuals who did not prosper as well as they thought they should moved westward and opened up vast news areas of agricultural development. There were few individuals left to fill the jobs such as lawyers, teachers, ministers, storekeepers, bankers, carpenters, stonemasons, innkeepers- only ten percent of the t total population total population was available for such jobs and, in truth, many -even most of them, did “a little farming on the side. The minister of our church in the 1700's made his, living buying and selling cattle and by investing in lands which he, then, re-sold to full-time farmers or cattlemen. Inventions, too, changed the needs of the times. In 1793 Eli Whitney invented his cotton gin which caused changes in the need for field hands. In 1834 Cyrus McCormick patented his reaper which reduced the workload of framers harvesting grains. John Deere and Leonard Andrus, in 1837, began marketing steel plows and, that same year, a new,more efficient reaper was patented. We can see how such a flow of innovations -often from part time farmers, oddly enough, brought about radical adjustments and outright changes in farming. Such a list could be continued endlessly touching on all branches of agriculture, but that smattering should be sufficient to show us that the same sort of thing is taking place right now as we continued to shift our manufacturing capabilities to foreign soil. You can, if you wish, if you wish, show how development of our communications skills and equipment are at fault. We have, in one sense, soft and hardware ourselves to critical points of no return. We have not yet come to realize that the concept of world trade is a reality. Our Congress needs to rid itself of old-fashioned political party mental quirks and stop pushing the “slumber-on button so often and so freely A.L.M. February 24, 2006 [c454wds
Thursday, February 23, 2006
RITUAL OF THE FAMILY COW Time was when I could get up at 5:30 in the morning; step into the fresh softness of the day's first light; stand in the shimmering wetness of a dew-tainted landscape of part-colored primness beyond the window sill, and take an easy breath of the grass-scented air. It dug deep into my lungs with wonderful abundance. Then, feeling my way along, dressed in denim overalls I made it down to the kitchen. There, I filled my lungs with the first smoke of the day by habit which now see as a senseless part of my day then after a sort wait habit forced me to the back porch where I acquired a loose, straw hat. I then, fully committed, gabbed the milk bucket, being careful, of course, not to clang the heavy handle on the edge of the bucket. I had children sill asleep. My wife, by this time, would be stirring, I knew, creating a breakfast that would ”happen” later bacon or sausage, toast, eggs in some form,milk and coffee. It would be there when I came in from the morning ritual of milking the cow. Closer to the barn I would “heel” my smoke in the wet grass, and looked across the field to see if our Guernsey cow “Goldie” had left her favorite site under a fine gum tree pond-side. Some mornings I had to call her in. I'd let the handle down sharply on the milk can's edge - angled towards her like a speaker cone - and she'd started a smart amble toward the feeding stall an instant later. In the barn there was a special smell from the feed barrels and all tons of newly mown hay in loft. Several ducks would soon come out from under the feed racks and begin hissing and stalking about seeking food they could not see yet. They were tall, ed-faced ducks - all “non-quackers.” They hissed and complained a lot and always on starvation status. Milkers always threw ears of yellow corn their way before going to the end of end of the area to feed the pigs. They were often half-grown hogs eating their way happily at a momentary advantage or screaming at excessive greed of others. Meantime, the cow was ready and waiting for the molasses flavored grain mix she loved. The milker would then take an old, bent bucket from a nail on the barn wall. He p[himself well. A few preliminary were sent along the sides of the bucket was a way to get any stray bits of grass or dirt which may have dropped from the udder area at first touch. The loud “ting” caused by that action called ”Tiger” to his tin platter nearby. “Tiger” was our barn Cat who thought he ran the place. He got “first milk” - always. And, “seconds” as desired . When the man stood up that signaled the end. The cat bounded to highest spot available, the ducks scattered, the cow stood still awaiting a verbally assured handful of the molasses tainted feed. The milker often added that as a special note of gratitude. In house the sweet smell of bacon held sway, yes and fresh bread and coffee. Nostalgia? I'd like to think it can happen at any time and in just about any line of work. Let it happen for you. A.L.M. February 23, 2006 [c578wds]
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
HOW DUMB I AM! I hate to admit it, but I was not even aware at our major ports where operated by a British firm! The current plan which became known today urges us to shift them all to an Arabic firm out of Dubai, U.A.E. It came to me as a surprise and, I dare to hazard a wild guess, that thousands upon thousands of other dumb bunny, sadly informed citizens met then subject in the same uncomfortable, way. Now, as we cringe naked more or less among the nervous nations, with a President who's ratings will take a nose-dive tonight as both friend and foe adjust to the idea of our six major ports let out to bidders who will run them for us. George Bush would have to have started talking six months ago to have any hope whatsoever of putting such a concept across. I have strong feelings this evening that today - February 21, 2006, marks the end of the George Bush presidency in some ways. Among the opposition party's candidates, Hillary Clinton, has been quick to say she will introduce a bill to kill the entire venture. Such party action, so soon, is largely grandstanding, while the real harm being done to George Bush's presidency is left with you and with me – the common citizens of our nation. In political matters we are not too bright. I can sit here, right now, and give you an impressive analysis of what our media will be. The nicer units among our media will say Bush's action is “stupid”. Even close associates of George Bush will succumb to the blanketed blandishments of both the printed and the tele-spoken, pictured words. Newspaper editorial staff members will join together to create such prize-winning header as “Stupid! Print media persons will make use of the actuality of TV and the news people TV will paraphrase what they read in the papers. They will bat the subject back and forth until the next press release in made available. I agree with Bush's decision. He six ports have already been under foreign care from years. I don't yet understand exactly what the reasons must be for wanting to make a changed at this time, but feel our has checked that and other such tedious points as well. Meanwhile, think about it. Does it bother you that some of New York City's largest and finest buildings are owned and operated by Japan? Are you concerned that you are making your wife and children ride around in a foreign-made car using gas an and oil from wells owned and operated by the Dutch, British, Saudis, Mexican, Iraqi, Irani, Nigerians and who knows what other people? You wear clothing, footwear, foods and medicines made in a score of around the world. Our favorite brands of many have been made in owned and operated plants in Indian, Taiwan, Nepal, or Haiti. Even now, a new store is being readied on 63rd Street in New York City which will sell products to us by their Chinese trade names. As on as a foreign firm can do their job of managing the ports well they are a plus value. Their wok has merit if it well done. We need to do all we can to help make these ports more efficient, dependable, profitable and growing. They need to see at that various ships dock when and where they are supposed to dock, unload and reload efficiently; observe set rules and regulations , and they have to deal with labor union demands as well. The Longshoremen have never been short on stubbornness, you may remember. Just as it has been in the past, all security measures - and this a critical point in this entire discussion - all security measure responsibilities for the entire port are under the direct control of the United States of America with local Port Authority assistance, of The U.S. Coast Guard and other government branches including national and state military units as required. Don't you find it odd , and disquieting, that we cannot set forth the name of even one American company which is capable of operating these eight ports? Perhaps some of today's “politicking protesters” could look to bringing about some changes in that area if they truly wish to see our ports under local control some day. A.L.M. February 22, 2006 [c730wds]
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
DIRTHumus, soil – that which we often call “dirt” in many types and textures – has a proper and controlling place in the botanical world but some question remains as to the wisdom of making it the basis of our literature. I doubt that the use of excessive cursing, obscenity and sacrilege is really any worse today than it has been for generations, but the means of communicating them have burgeoned into a gelid mass which cannot be measured as it continues to grow, to spread, to penetrate, to infect, canker, rot and ruin – constantly selecting, choosing, setting apart, scarfing in learned, science-tainted methods and carefully delineating among fringe and factions seeking to emulate the lowest elements of civilization. It seems, at times, filth feeds upon filth. The arts of printing, photography, the transmission of actual sounds and the sight of human bodies in action are cast into space and passed along for prurient perusal. To some extent the writer who uses such language contends it to be “realism”. You will hear the same argument today in favor of filth in literature. The Norwegian writer Ibsen said that he and Zola were alike in some ways. “Yes, said Ibsen, “ Zola descends into the cesspool to take a bath; I to cleanse it!” The novel “Nana“, read today, probably would not excite comment. It is mild by today's standards - or lack of them. Today's writers insist their dialog is typical of today's conversation. Emile Zola had a special ability which enabled him to select subject which were distasteful to the general level of society of his time. Zola could pick and choose ways to handle the material he selected in such a manner that it would titillate as well as educate. Some writers in our own time are adept in the use of that same technique. They, you might say “get away with it” and other writers emulate their work in a clumsy, oafish and crass manner. All of us, of course - even though we find it difficult to admit having done so – have tried to our hand at such forms of the art - “the stuff that sells” - with varied results. I have known that strange loneliness of having a story published which caused that edition of the magazine to be banned on campus at girl's. The local paper had an ombudsman-type gossip column declared it was the use of a piece of classical nude art which had got critics excited. I felt better about the whole affair after that and continued to write short stories. From that time I learned which stories should bear my real name and which ones were pen- named. None of those stories ever fell into a low level which seems to be today's accepted mode. Had I spiced them up a bit I may have become a famous writer. But - a poorer person. A.L.M. February 21, 2006 [c488wds] (
Monday, February 20, 2006
BACK THEN I have , for a long time, had a special, personal feeling about the restoration of the town of Williamsburg, Virginia to its Colonial splendor. I feel I had a family connection, a somewhat closer tie to the changes which started when I was at a curious teen ager and while my Uncle Thomas Glen McCaskey was a student at the College of William and Mary. He was very much 'taken'' by the project from the very first campus rumors saying that Rockerfeller foundation funds were going to be available. Uncle Glen's enthusiasm impressed my older brother and I would bring back the gallant Colonial lifestyle we admired so much and we both became ardent supporters of the restoration work which was to bring about so many changes for so many people. From the start new paths of potential value to specific lines of study were undertaken in addition to the actual physical restoration of more than one hundred old building in the area. One such early spin -off, I recall, was on which as of special concern for us,in particular.. The excavations being done around Burton Parish Church in Williamsburg were deemed to be the site where coded artifacts would be unearthed which prove behind all doubt that the literary works we attributed to one William Shakespeare were, in truth, all writing by one Francis Bacon . Maybe you remember that confusing time. Thus far the the supposed coded plates have not been found. My Uncle joined the Rockefeller group and stayed with the Williamsburg Corporation the rest of his life. When he was Vice-President of Development, believe that was the name, he often had a traveling companion in some of his travels - my Aunt Leah - nee Miller, a Williamsburg native whoso folks lived on South England Street until that, too, became part of the restoration. That gave my bother Al, and me even closer ties to Colonial Williamsburg. A.L.M. Febuary 20, 2006 [c340wds]
Sunday, February 19, 2006
WASH DAY
Years ago, when families were larger, when ( or, your “ Grandmother”, if you are younger) made any reference to “wash day” she was talking - not about a few hours during which the family laundry would be “done.” She meant, instead, a full dawn-to-dusk time slot - an entire day - which also had associated hold-over jobs which could last rest of the week. It was often an outdoor activity. The home laundry concept was awfully slow moving into the 20th Century so the routine stayed rather privative. I can remember our neighbors doing their Wash Days out-of-doors and it seems to me they did it rain-or-shine and in all seasons as well. They pretty much followed the rules which their Grandmother had set. Our mother, much younger, adapted the procedure to suit smaller home...not just the kitchen where it often started but - depending on the severity of the weather - it could meander throughout the entire house. Fire was featured fire and the boys next door started a hot one in the back yard over which was suspended a monster, black, iron called a “kittle”. It measured about a yard or more across the top and was the same one used to make apple butter and hog- millin' days each Fall. You had to work from whichever side the wind did not blow the smoke in your face. Water was brought from the cistern on the back porch in b buckets, and when the water was boiling a bit they whittled yellow blocks of home-made soap into the tide and stirred. The women had three piles of laundry nearby. One was the better white things; next was colored items and the third, and largest stack, was work clothes and rags to be used in unending housecleaning chores. I never knew the exact routine. The idea was work each pile through the hot, soapy water - scrubbing stains and spots with knuckles or a washboard, as needed; then, to rinse (pronounced always as “wrenched”) each item in clear, usually cooler water in another nearby tin tubs and dipping items and starch in starch and bluing solutions as needed. Colored items are carefully dipped, not boiled, rinsed gently and set apart. The rough work clothes and rags and have been soaking in the big, iron kettle and they could be scrubbed, rinsed and hung up to dry. We had a wire clothes line in our yard the family next door stayed with Mother Nature. The rags and some work cloths were hung on the wire fence at the back of the yard; tea towels on the and the top of the hedge between our two places was covered. White, frilly stuff was be taken inside and draped over a wooden spindle clothes hanger rig to dry inside the porch. The back yard had to be cleaned up ,of course. Nothing was wasted. As the day waned they scrubbed the back porch with the soapy water from the kettle; poured the tin tubs of “wrench” water into the flower beds, washed the tin tubs and put them in the shed where they were kept. At our house it was all done in a modified manner. In winter clothing could be found drying at just about any place might go. Before too long we moved into an apartment house and got our first electric washing machine which went by the name: “Easy”- a rather large, copper-tubbed machine with a wringer which served us well for many years. A.L.M. February 19, 2006 [c594wds]
|
