Wednesday, November 26, 2014

4:27

Click to Mix and Solve

My Pet Scot's View of Life with a Pixie


            One of my friends is an artist. We discuss life, dragons, sex with wicked elves and lately anthropomorphism. She sent me a huge file of illustrations, none of which are hers. I don’t post hers because this is usually a PG to G rated blog. Her drawings are never exactly PG. They’re more R to XXX.

            Anthropomorphic art and literature takes in everything from Peter Rabbit to Laurel K. Hamilton’s torrid (read pornographic) fairy fiction. My favorites include the Redwall series. They’re fun books written for pre to late teens. I’ve read most of them.

            Almost none of the art she sent can appear here, but this one I especially liked. I don’t know how to title it. Is she stealing carrots? Going to share with friends? I dunno. I just like the picture.
 
 

 

            The bunny girl reminds me of my children, two of them especially so.

            I like girls with swords pictures. They fit in nicely with some of my oral stories. This one reminds me of the warrior princess in my current story.




 
            And this last one is my pet Scot’s view of life with a pixie:



Harry thinks he needs a coffee cup like this one


Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Hunting the illusive Mr. Jones.


Hunting the Wild Illusive
 
So … my writing partner and I are trying to tell Albert Delmont Jones’ story. He will have a chapter of his own mostly because he was a bad boy, and bad boys are more interesting than saints. As with many of the personalities that make up the history we write, he is illusive. I feel like a hunter stalking the wild, pixie-eating lion. (I don’t think lions actually eat pixies, but you never know with lions.)

            We’ve accumulated some good documentation. Antonius, “Ton” to readers of our history blog, spent hours researching Jones. (I miss Ton. He was a tenacious researcher.) And we found things as well. What we don’t have is key issues of Jones’ magazine, Zion’s Day Star. Some issues are in the Library of Congress. We’d need over three hundred dollars to have them copied, money better spent on other things. The key issues (1882-1884) are no where to be found.

            We have bits of early life biography. We know something about his family. We have a spotty criminal record. We know about a failed bank, real-estate deals gone bad, a scheme that sucked in someone who we usually see as an adept business man, money borrowed from a rich iron merchant, and we have divorce records. We don’t have his photo. We believe it’s in the New York City archives, but no one has located it.

            As with any research project there have been dead ends – hunches that did not work out or that remain unproven. The next step down from hunches are wild guesses. We’ve made a few of those, none of which were fruitful. It’s like playing “cowboys an Indians.” You can shoot all you want, but if the other person refused to die, you can’t do anything about it but whine.

 


Bows and Arrows and Little Toes.
1940


            My oldest daughter attracts boys. She’s mostly oblivious. She is good at identifying nonsense. Most twenty-something young men are full of nonsense. I don’t have to point that out. She’s tumbled to it, and probably did so when she was seven.

            Annie and my baby half-sister have made a teddy bear village. BHS thinks that’s super. Annie crafts stories, and they play act. Annie will make a good story teller one of these days if she wishes to write.

            My CPI recertification class was last night. Four hours of lecture and role playing. I got to be the bad-acting student, mostly because I’m small. So I was restrained in various ways. I surprised a principal who took the course by being able to pin his arm down so he couldn’t move. It’s not about strength but position. Most of the class is about the mechanism of emotional release and how to handle the explosive emotions of students. It’s very interesting. But it’s not a fun class.

            My body temperature is off kilter. I bought a new heating blanket, the kind with dual controls. That’s part of my neurological problems, and it comes and goes. It’s not fun. But a good snuggle helps relieve it.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Solving it.


If solving a jigsaw puzzle takes longer than expected, try this:  

Find the border pieces first. Solve from the border inward. While you’re solving the border sort out pieces that have similar colors or patterns. Green was a prominent color in our last puzzle. Put those pieces in one spot out of the puzzle area. (I start my puzzles in the upper left corner.) As the similarly colored or patterned pieces are found, put them together. When you have them all assembled put them in the puzzle frame. 

Remember, though, that you’re building the puzzle from the frame inward.
 
Look for clues. For example, a bit of blue sky at the edge of a puzzle piece tells you it connects to the sky area. Straight lines are a give-away too. If they continue across the piece, then they connect to another piece with a similar straight line. Puzzle solving is based on pattern recogniztion. However, note the picture patterns first, the shape of the puzzle piece second. If you focus on puzzle piece shape first, it will increase your time.

This should speed up your puzzle solving.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

So-so at 4:05

Click to Mix and Solve

Crime!


            So, today was on the not-fun side. The circuit breaker for our furnace went bad. It’s cold. The furnace will run, but the breaker buzzes loudly. So we’ve turned the heat down. An electrician is coming tomorrow to replace the breaker. Until then we’re all wearing sweaters.

            I had the day off (both jobs). It’s a school holiday. And I scheduled myself off for today on my ‘other job.’ I’ll spend my night off snuggling ol’ knobby knees.

           I’ve almost caught up on the laundry. That’s always a near miracle. Try doing the laundry for seven people! Okay six. My oldest does her own.

            I didn’t get anything done other than work out when the electrician can come and do the laundry and cook dinner. Good dinner though, even if I say so.

            I noticed that none of my blog readers tackled the “what would you be?” question.

            One of the school counselors sent a really nice email: “You are wonderful! Thank you! So many would-be writers struggle with this and exaggerate expectations in their own minds. And so many of them floursh in your classes because you see past their difficulties to their gifts. You are a huge blessing in their lives. It never ceases to amaze me how many non-writers choose and love your classes!” Nice, huh? Better than a chocolate bar. …

            I’m collating papers. I keep our research material in binders. As needs change I move some of them into other sections. For instance, if I have a newspaper article that mentions two people, while we write about one of them, the paper is in his binder. When we write about the second person, I move the paper to his binder. They’re all tabbed with sticky notes, so that isn’t hard work. Just time consuming.

            I’ve been watching detective videos. This is a quick assessment:

 

            Colombo - Contrived, irritating, predictable.

            Perry Mason - Gorgeous 1950s sets. Good plots. Perry always wins his case, except once in the whole series.

            Burk’s Law - Utterly stupid American TV.

            77 Sunset Strip - Campy. Funny when it’s supposed to be serious.

            Wild, Wild West - Meant to be funny, but often isn’t. Fun though.

            Dragnet - the 1950s shows are the best and hold up well. The 1960s shows are a rant disguised as a crime show.



            Inspector Linley - Same complaints as noted in a pervious post.

            Inspector Gently - Really good to so-so.

            A Touch of Frost - Uniformly good. Police work is iffy by American standards, but then that’s so of most crime shows no matter who makes them. Frost reminds me of someone I know. I like this show.

           Various Agatha Christie based shows: Mostly really good. I was disappointed in Moving Finger. Nemesis was good.

 

            Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce Sherlock Holmes movies and shows. Funny, entertaining.

 

            Though A Touch of Frost is high on my list, Law and Order is still the very best show.

Monday, November 10, 2014

What would you be?


So … I’m still vegetating. But I’m much better than I was. I still sleep endlessly after I take my new medication, and I’m lethargic. I am back to work. Most days I make it through my schedule without feeling as if I am dying.

I’ve continued my story about the eleven year old warrior. Except she’s now fourteen. This isn’t something I’ll write. I just entertain my family with it. As she is now she’s in the wild mountains with a wolf companion who isn’t really a wolf. He was a bad boy and was turned into a wolf because of his sins. I’ve married off the bad man-wolf’s daughter to prince Robert. They’re off with 125 knights conquering what was her father’s kingdom. Papa can’t come because he’s a wolf, more or less forever.
 
Imagining the World as Other
 

This is the longest continuing story I’ve ever told my family. When we’re in a deep sleepy snuggle Knobby Knees says, “Okay, tell me what really happened.” That version is not for young ears.

I CPI recertify next week. CPI training is instruction in non-violet take down of violent students. I’ve only used those skills once. But I have to stay certified. It’s not a fun course.

I’ve been thinking about the world. It’s not a very nice place. And it’s never what it seems. We presume things about it that aren’t true - or of necessity true. We ignore huge bits of it. What if a planaria had true genius. How would you know? Most people reject the idea of invisible beings, but there is evidence for them. Because the idea falls into the area of superstitious belief, it’s a fringie concept usually left to horror novels and science fiction movies. But I think invisible beings exist. Don’t you? No? You mean you don’t believe in God, the angels?

The world as we see it is incomplete. And humans are unobservant. They believe nonsense and reject truth as if it were nonsense.

When I’m drowsy with my meds, I drift into thoughts of the otherness of our world. I get to make it up. But there is a reality out there, just beyond my grasp. I would like to find it. I’m certain I never will

So suppose space travel becomes common in say two years. Maybe through a sudden, surprising leap of technology. And you decide to take a tour of Nether Space. Your tour ship crashes, and, while the residents there can save your life, they say: “We can reconstruct you and make you walk and see again, but we cannot restore your form.” You’re given several choices, each of them somewhat anthropomorphic but not really so. What would you choose to be if you had to look something like a cat or a goat or a deer or a cow or a fox?
 


What Would You Be?
 

I’m sticking my cute little nose into the life of A. D. Jones. He was a bad boy. I don’t have a photo. I probably won’t find one either.
 



 

Tuesday, November 04, 2014

Lost in the Wilds ... O. Reader's Adventures with ....


A gig too far

A final word from Scotland.

Our trip to a folk festival finally came to an end, and amongst the singers who sang, we saw Amy who has featured on these blogs in the past. As I have connections with her family, I made sure I saw her two performances.

Amongst the mishaps of the ten days, our extended party  all got dressed up to visit a place called Aberfeldy for a religious meeting, only to find that the congregants had all pushed off to a semi-annual conference that weekend. So we spent the day as uncomfortable tourists in the area, somewhat “improperly dressed.” But it ultimately led to us visiting what I can only call a gig too far.

There was an advertisement on the wall for the Aberfeldy Festival. Attending the Perthshire Amber festival we had nothing booked for this final Saturday night, and hey – there was Karine Polwart. My daughter had seen her when she first went solo at the Cambridge folk festival, and today she is very well-known as a singer songwriter. Look her up on Wikipedia. Mrs O sings one of her songs “Follow the Heron Home” which has become a sort of standard in folk clubs today.

So we booked.

The problem turned out to be that a festival may have a folk artist as headliner, but it doesn’t necessarily mean it is that kind of festival.

As we soon found out when we turned up. The pleasant lady at the door asked if we wanted to leave our coats in the coat check room? No thanks – we would stick them on the back of our chairs. Chairs – what chairs? This venue didn’t actually have unreserved seating – more like unreserved standing.

I have been told by my daughter that many concerts are standing only. The problem was – this was nothing like a folk concert. The first two acts reminded me of punk bands from 20-30 years ago. The drummer did a nice impersonation of Animal from the Muppets, and the lead singer with his Adolf Hitler moustache, and musical looping box made loud discordant sounds while shrieking unintelligible words. The audience, ourselves included, were sort of crammed shoulder to shoulder, jigging up and down in a kind of unison – a rather difficult feat to accomplish successfully when you have an overfull glass of beer in your hand. At one point the vocalist looked like he was going to launch himself into a spot of crowd surfing – memories of Jack Black in School of Rock going splat on the floor.

Mrs O and I (by far the oldest people in the building) eventually worked our way to the edge of the fray, and sat down in a heap on the floor. The dance floor pulsated under our bottoms with the beat, as we leant back on the wall against a radiator which supplied a comforting heat. Then - all of a sudden, through the scrum came two ministering angels, two very pleasant ladies with concerned faces, carrying chairs. Would we like a seat? How sweet. How nice. As they disappeared, my daughter (still standing) said – do you know who that was? Karine Polwart and another band member. She must have seen us from behind the curtains and worked out that we had to be part of her core audience, rather than being there for the supporting acts. So – KARINE POLWART BROUGHT OCCASIONAL A CHAIR. How kind. My daughter Facebooked her with thanks after the gig, and got a nice reply.

As for Karine – how on earth she got booked for this gig, who knows. She introduced herself as feeling like the spotty kid at school who finds herself invited to the wrong party... But she did her stuff. And the audience went all quiet, and morphed into an attentive crowd who gently swayed and sang along with the choruses. It was quite a transformation. It was nice that the good people of Aberfeldy had such eclectic tastes.

Even if Occasional didn’t.

As a Pixie addenda: http://www.folkradio.co.uk/2014/11/amy-goddard-burn-glow/

New to My Collections


World War Soldier's Mail: Bulgaria 1916
 
 

Germany, 1919.
National Assembly Issue with Commemorative Cancels.

Sunday, November 02, 2014

Thursday, October 30, 2014

O. Reader's Day


6.30 a.m.  Wake up too early and decide to rise and work on speaking engagement waiting for me when get home from vacation in Scotland. Do three minutes and then do crossword instead.

9.00 a.m. Rest of family surfaces. Well, it IS a vacation.

10.00 a.m. Go for walk alongside the River Tay. A famous preacher probably got his middle name from this river – many Scots took it, and then took themselves off to Ireland before heading to America. Beautiful autumn colors, which is why the folk festival is called Perthshire Amber. Take numerous photos and manage not to fall into the river.

12.00 noon. Mrs O collects more wool from the festival HQ. Everyone who can is knitting squares that get put into a huge blanket that then gets sold off to raise funds for a charity. They should have raised sufficient money to pay for training a guide dog by the end of the week. (Total cost about 20 thousand GBP). At most concerts there are a host of mainly women knitting away while the performers perform. I have this mental picture of women knitting by the guillotine during the French revolution...
 

12.30 p.m. Family repair to Indian restaurant for cheapo midday meal. Also a place that has internet and phone access.

12.35 p.m. Telephone the company back in Wales who are going to dismantle and then reassemble my mother’s special bed into another room while she is staying in respite care, after the “vaudeville special” of an ambulance crew getting her out of her house. Bed, what bed? Job, what job? Paperwork, what paperwork? Mrs O quietly rants (she is so much better at it than me) and it is promised before the week is out.

2.00 p.m. Singaround and Tunes session. Each day a different pub is “Pub of the Day” and anyone can go there to sing and drink. In Scotland it divides into a battle between tunes and singers. You have to dive in and start before yet another fiddle player starts another 10 minute opus that sounds identical to the last one. I managed to get in Wheelie Bin Fire. I don’t know what they call them in America, but over here each home has several very large plastic bins that have to be put outside their homes – some for rubbish, others for recycling. Because they are on wheels they are called – Wheelie Bins. To the tune of Johnny Cash – Ring of Fire.

Some stupid clown set my Wheelie Bin on Fire

And they danced all around as the flames they grew higher

And it burns, burns, burns (all join in on this bit)

My wheelie bin fire, my wheelie bin fire.               

 

The verses have such lines as – the sight at dawn was quite fantastic, smouldering rubbish and molten plastic...

 

6.00 p.m. Another meal and drinkies for those who aren’t driving.

8.00 p.m. Concert at Pitlochry Town Hall – Buddy Macdonald (Canadian), Eliza Lynn (American) and the Paperboys (Canadian). Good show. We went specially to see Buddy Macdonald. He emailed me the chords of his song “Bright Star Shining” a couple of years ago, and I regularly massacre it at singarounds in Wales. Free beer, and for the drivers, tea, coffee and biscuits. Very civilized.

11.30 p.m. Home and for most bed, but for me checking all emails as internet access has returned. Several comments on a post on another blog. So research and post. As you do.

2.00 a.m. Next morning. Creep into bed. A sleeping Mrs O mumbles “What time is it?” I don’t answer and she says no more. How does Gone With The Wind end? – “To-morrow is another day.”

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Vanilla Wafers


So … I had a stressful day. I sent a young man to the office. This was his third trip. Instead of reporting to the office, he hid out in the boy’s room. The principal fished him out. He and his parents are now faced with a decision. They can withdraw from my class. Or his mother must attend his classes.

            Last class of the day was total fun though. This is a Grades 1-2 literature class. We read stories and craft our own books. The books are made up of pictures, puzzles, counting games, a short writing (or picture) cut-out and similar things. We finished our first major project, so today was party day: Chocolate Milk, Vanilla Wafers, music and cartoon videos, and lots and lots of chatter. We drank a gallon of milk and consumed a huge box of cookies. One of the little girls said, “This is the best class ever! … Are we allowed to do this?” I assured her we were.

            Knobby Knees met me for coffee. I left him to his hardware shopping (bet he comes home with junk food too), and stopped at the Goodwill Store. I found books!

I found an Anne McCaffery book I haven’t read. And Sarah Prineas’ The Magic Thief. That’s on our short list for next semester’s mid-grades reading, but I haven’t read it. So this was good. Best of all, I found the one volume of the US Army’s pictorial history of World War 2 that I was missing.

So … how was your day?

Monday, October 27, 2014

Anthony's Day

8:00am: Coffee, oh yes, coffee
8:30am: More coffee
9:00am: Editing
10:00am: Editing
11:00am: Editing
12:00pm: Food. Send flirty emails to two separate women, engage in Skype banter with two others, FB chat seventeen-year old “boob explosion” daughter of a friend
12:30 pm: Feel guilty for being such a dog
12:31pm: Guilty time over
12:45pm: Chase Wife Unit around the kitchen with wooden spoon. Forget wearing wool socks. Slip on hardwood
1:00pm: Bandages
2:00pm: Editing
3:00pm: Editing
4:00pm :Editing
5:00pm: Editing
6:00pm: Home cooked meal cooked lovingly by Wife Unit. Suck it, feminists!
7:00pm: Board game with kids
8:00pm: Editing
9:00pm: Editing
10:00pm: Editing
11:00pm: Editing
11:20pm: Bedtime!
11:30pm: Try to peel myself off ceiling when Wife Unit puts all the cold body parts on me under covers
11:45pm: [REDACTED]

God made men to warm cold toes. Live with it!
 

From Harry - Inspired by "News"

 

The News


1:45 am - Pixie arrives home. Eats saltines with spinach dip and a glass of milk.

2:15 - Spooning her pet Scot. I deny that pixies snore.

8:15 - Intense snuggle.

8:45 - or so: Pixie makes coffee, gossips with snuggle partner.

9:12 - Pixie is shuffling papers, trying to sort mess on her desk.

9:36 - Pixie reads email. Writes reply. Returns to sorting papers. Thinks about writing stuff. Is pleased with new ‘thoughts.’

10:00 - Pixie reads stupid stuff on Internet. Frowns. Decides to ignore it.

10:06 - Pixie is in chat room scolding rude man. Throws same out of chat room

10:27 - Mailman delivers package, pleasing pixie no end.

10:36 - Pixie is reading today’s mail.

11:00 - Pixie puts quilt in wash.

11:08 - Pixie is playing with new toy. [See entry for 10:27]

12:02 - Pixie is multi-tasking: Washing, cleaning work room to start new research project. Filing stuff. Looking for a lost file folder. Occasionally playing with new toy.

12:30 - Pixie is taking a break, writing this, and sipping coffee.

 

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Flirting, Dragon Sex, and Coffee


            So … Knobby Knees and I went off to town. He needed some man stuff, and I needed the disinfectant, deodorizing cleaner for the carpet. We stopped in at my favorite gossip place. Two of my usual coffee mob were there. Poor KK. I think they overwhelmed him. One of them flirted with him. I’d have been miffed, but she’s a flaming lesbian. He blushed brilliantly. I finally told him she was teasing; that she was not interested in men much. Poor, poor flustered man.

            Next I have to disinfect the inside of the cubby where the pipes are located. I don’t feel up to that today, so I’ll probably do it on Monday. We raised enough money selling things on ebay and on Craiglist that I can pay one major bill. This is good. We have thousands more to raise. But this is a good start. Uncle B’s share will pay off my aunt’s rehab clinic. This is good too.

            I’m going to sell the First Edition, Second Printing (1904) of the French language Millennial Dawn. It’s in super shape. Last time someone listed one online it was priced at nearly seven hundred US dollars. I’ll ask 125.00. I think the higher price isn’t realistic, though it is a very rare item.

            I removed a boy from my class. He decided that he can’t behave, so off to the office he went for a conference with the principal. Why they funnel the bad boys to me is a mystery. Well … not totally. I’m one of two CPI (crisis intervention) trained teachers at our school. So I get the hard to handle ones, even if they don’t otherwise belong in my classes. For example, I have a disgraphic young man in my writing class. He can’t write. The class isn’t designed to improve his penmanship or address similar issues. It’s for students who already like to write. But there he is … in my class, put there in an evil conspiracy between counselor, principal, and parent just to give me headaches. And his behavior is a growing issue. He’s on his last warning. I’ve contacted his parents. A family conference with the principal is next. Then he’s out for good.

            In fairness this isn’t all irritation. I have another young man with similar issues in that same class. His first assignment was supposed to be a short story. I got one sentence from him. Between us we set progressive goals; he’s now up to eight or nine sentences. This is real progress.

            I teach in a high-expectation school. We expect excellence academically and behaviorally. If a student can’t reach that standard, they’re returned to one of the more traditional schools. The chances of a return to our school are slim, though it has happened. Those students who have academic promise but known behavior issues are admitted with an educational contract that clearly spells out procedures and expectations. There is no leeway.

            I missed work Thursday. And last night I slept twelve and a half hours. I’m starting to feel some better. I think I’ll turn KK into a dragon tonight and have my way with him. …

Thursday, October 23, 2014

From O. Reader


Misadventure

I was going to call this - Don’t try this at home. But actually you would have to live in an unusual home to even contemplate trying it.

We were half way driving to Scotland and stopped off at one of the motorway service stations. A visit to the rest room was in order.

Mrs O pointed to the arrow. It appeared to me that the way to my intended destination was up the escalator. So I leapt onto it. No, she cried, it is NEXT DOOR to the escalator. Our later conversation went on a rather repetitive and circular journey. Me  – if the rest room is next to the escalator why did you point UP the escalator? She – since I pointed to the entrance NEXT TO the escalator, why on earth did you GO up the escalator...?

But alerted by Mrs O as I was being swept up into the sky, I turned around and tried to run down it. As you do. Well, as you do If you are an idiot. Or think you are immortal. Or something. Doh. I discovered that running down an upward moving track is quite easy and quite fun. Until you reach the bottom. But jumping off a moving platform turns a straight forward jump into an inadvertent dive.

I shot forward, to the consternation of Mrs O and a collection of multinational shoppers, and only saved myself from serious injury by instinctively remembering days of long ago and doing a roll – coming instantly to my feet and walking off nonchalantly and rapidly around the corner – before crumbling in considerable pain. An ashen faced Mrs O followed me to pick up the pieces.

Fortunately, I haven’t broken anything. I was able to hobble to the car and we continued our journey. But I now have a bruise in the exact shape of a mobile phone on my thigh!

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Thupp


            I’m more than a little frustrated over our progress with volume two of Separate Identity. We’re rethinking one chapter. This means that I’ll have to reread several thousand pages of material. I’ll start that project this weekend. This is a key chapter – one of the most important. It’s partially written, but I think we’ll trash what we have and approach it differently.

            K. Knees returns from Portland this evening. He’ll come home to a mess. The plug to the south side main drainpipe gave way. It’s in a cubby in the first floor bedroom. Water flooded the carpet. I had to move things, call the plumber to fix it, and rent a carpet cleaner to suck out the water. It’s almost dry. When it is dry we’ll spray on a disinfectant enzyme cleaner. What a mess. I’m stressed. And it cost nearly 300 dollars to have this fixed, not counting the cost of the carpet machine rental.

            I got an email from one of my former students from back in the day when I taught at some university or other. She’s mentally ill. She was when she was my student. My one observation is that if you invite evil into your life, you compound your problems. She’s addicted to vampire novels and writes poetry about sex with demons. I think this is dark and seriously dangerous. There is another, hidden world. It is real, and if you go there you harm yourself.

            I’m unhappy with one of my writing classes. This is not a class for reluctant writers. It’s for students who already love to write, but it’s stuffed with kids whose parents made them take the class hoping it would fix problems. One parent admitted she hadn’t read the syllabus. So now I have a bunch of problem children dragging down the rest of the class. On the plus side is a dis-graphic young man who has gone from writing one sentence to writing six or eight. This is a real accomplishment. He sees himself as stupid because of a learning disability. He’s far from stupid.

            One of my coffee mob friends helped me with the flooded bedroom. She’s coming over this afternoon to help put things back in order. We’ll sort out the closets while we’re at it, and send all the outgrown clothes to a thrift store.

            Uncle B and I are still selling things to pay off our collective medical bills. I hate parting with some things, but we do need the money. We’ll list some things this week, mostly stuff that’s interesting but doesn’t contribute to our research. We’ll list a first edition second printing (1904) of the French translation of Millennial Dawn – Plan of the Ages. One like it was for sale for six hundred dollars. I think we’ll ask 125.00.

            I need to wash all the bedding before winter starts. Well, I probably don’t, but I feel better when I know all the blankets and quilts have been washed.

            Uncle B’s YA novel impressed me. I’m sad he decided it was not worth continuing.

            I teach three classes today. I’d rather stay home. I have to explain the difference between Separatists and Puritans to second and third graders. And I have a K-1 literature class in the afternoon. I don’t look forward to either of those. I really need to stop working. I just can’t.

            So much is piling up; at least I feel it is. The shutters on the front windows need to be replaced. That’s not a huge project. I’d like to get that done before first snow.

            So, how was your day?

           

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Sometimes all it takes is patience

I've been pursuing the scarcer varieties of German inflation era stamps. Sometimes it's the shade that makes them scarce, or the placement of an overprinted denomiation, or sometimes it's the separations. Most stamps you're familiar with are perforated. Some German stamps are separated by a rouletted cut. Some of the inflation era rouletted stamps are scarce, even really expensive.

I found this lot on ebay:

Most of this is interesting but fairly common. There are a few not so common but not all that expensive. And then there is this --

It's not earth-shakingly expensive, But as a used pair is hard to find.
I'm pleased with myself. Thank you very much!
 


 
Then there are these. Some of these have no real value. They're worth pennies.
The 5, 50 and 75 thousand mark stamps have a catalogue value of about sixty dollars. The 200 mark stamp is worthless because of its condition. The 50 mark stamp (upper right corner) has a Michel Cataloge value of 150 Euros. It is somewhat less in the Scott Cagaloge.
 
This is an auction photo, though I now own these stamps.
If you're patient, nice things can come your way.
These are examples.
 

Monday, October 20, 2014

From "the old guy's" work in progress ...


I don’t fly in airplanes much. But I can tell you I don’t like landings. I read in some novel that the ground rises to meet you. That’s not what happens. The plane descends to meet the ground in a parody of a lovers’ embrace. I closed my eyes and forced them back open and watched out the window.

            I was surprised at the trees. The streets below were thickly lined with tree. I like trees. Forests sing to me, and this was an urban forest. We crossed the Potomac, green with algae or slime or whatever. The Washington Monument came into and passed out of view, and we continued to descend. The city proper appeared. The buildings are white or shades of off-white. It’s all that marble and concrete. I should have expected it, but where I lived it’s all red brick, and only one building is taller than four stories.

            The wheels hit the runway with a slight bounce. The flaps came up. There was a roar. The plane slowed, and I relaxed. There is nothing worse than falling out of the sky. A stewardess welcomed us to “our nation’s capital,” telling us it was approximately 4:02 and asking us to remain seated until we parked at the gate.

            Everyone seemed anxious to exit the plane. The aisle was full. I don’t like crowds and I especially don’t like to be herded like cattle, so I hung back. The plane emptied quickly. The stewardess leaned over Mr. Red Tie. His head still rested on his shoulder. She gently shook him; he fell forward. She reached to shake him again but pulled back.

            Consternation was replaced with panic. I could see it on her face.

The Indian man stood. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “Can I help?”

The stewardess nodded. “I’ve got to tell the captain.”

The man from India squeezed past the exiting passengers and felt for a pulse. He glanced our way, nodding slightly and shaking his head.

“We need to get you off this plane,” Leland said.

I nodded, and, as the tail end of the exiting herd passed our row, I stepped into the aisle. “Will that man be alright?” I looked back. The captain and stewardess blocked my view.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Mr. Gaunt said. “Probably had a heart attack.”

 

Though Leland Gaunt and I had known each other only for the duration, I felt as though we were now friends. This is unusual for me. I make few real friends, though I try to be friendly to everyone. I turned to thank him for his company and guidance.

Before I could speak he pointed to something behind me. “I think that’s your party,” he said.

I looked. It was. My dad’s back was to me, but I knew it was he.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Because Roberto Asked

Dream Stamp
The New Guiana Black on Magenta
Only Known Copy
Last sold for nearly ten million US Dollars.


First stamps issued for postal purposes. From my album. Sorry the picture quality is poor.
 

Among the rarest I own.
These are Postage Due stamps from Italy.
Note the one mounted by itself. Do you see that the number of value is inverted. That makes this an expensive stamp.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Used

Okay this is more about my stamp collection. Live with it! It is my stress reliever. My Germany and Area collection is very specialized. That means that I collect varieties and sometimes both unused (called 'mint' by collectors) and used. These are from Danzig as an independent city-state post World War I. The used specimens from the hyper-inflation era are usually rarer because they were in use for a very short time.

Below are used examples of the first of the Danzig inflation issues.



Tuesday, October 14, 2014

So ...


Well … I’ve returned to a full work schedule, not that I’m at all ready for that. But if I don’t we live in poverty.

            While I’ve been sick I’ve watched a huge amount of old television shows. Some of them are very poorly done, and some of those are so poorly done that they’re funny. Captain Midnight was high adventure in the 1950s. The dialogue is funny, the science invariably wrong. But it’s a fun show. The original Dragnet shows are still good, though police work has changed since the 1950s. It has held up well as entertainment. Combat! a World War 2 adventure, is still excellent. It was essentially an anti-war series, but within the limits of theater, accurate and interesting.

            I watched some of the older BBC crime dramas. The BBC version of the American show Law and Order is uniformly bad. The dialogue is improbable, the characters mentally ill, and the police work seems unrealistic. The American version is much, much better. The Inspector Linley mysteries are mixed. Some are really good. Some are not. Some episodes are filled with unnecessary personal conflict. It distracts from the story, rather than furthering it. His ability to solve crimes often comes not from good police work or deductive reason but from plot necessity. But it is good enough that he kept me entertained through several episodes. The other BBC crime and law shows are very poor.

            Bad TV isn’t unique to the UK. The American show Burke’s Law is silly to the point of stupidity. Made in color and with updated production standards it would be Inspector Linely on meth.

            When you’re mostly house bound, little things are entertaining – I suppose. I’ve read a lot, written some. I spent a lot of time in bed. My current meds are doing bad things to my skin. I bruise easily.

            My sister took me to coffee Saturday. Some of our usual coffee group showed up, mostly because of text messages. We’ve switched coffee shops. I don’t know why exactly, it just happened.

            One of our coffee mob writes paranormal romance. Her stories tend to be “torrid.” They’re probably not something most of my blog readers would find interesting. But she can write well. We discussed her work in progress. I think the discussion left the nosey neighbors (table next to ours) in shocked silence. As I understand it, the main characters are a sea-warrior turned into a wolf by a goddess of some sort. She keeps him as her “companion.” Use your imagination.
 
Our Coffee Group.

            I want to go camping before it turns cold. Just overnight. I like the sound of the river at night. I like the feel of a hot camp fire, and I want to eat food cooked over fire. And I want to snuggle what’s his name in a sleeping bag.

            I’ve been poking at things like the German-American Bund. Nasty bunch. Deluded. Eventually they’ll show up in my history class. As with many elements of American History, we sanitize it for high school. I don’t sanitize anything. There are some excellent raw films of Bund meetings. They speak for themselves. Next semester, we’ll watch one. I find it particularly offensive that citizens of countries with poor economies or insignificant political influence call German speakers Nazis. There are very few Austrians or Germans who find the Nazi movement attractive. Some glory in past empires that were characterized by murder, rape and the subjugation of civilizations as good as their own. Those empires were as brutal as the Nazis.

            I didn’t work last Thursday. I spent most of the day out in the barn and in the pasture, trying to get everything ready for winter. I work a little, then sit and sip coffee. Remember the male goat that thinks I’m his mommy? He still follows me everywhere. He’s very affectionate. He likes to be petted, talked to, and likes to make mischief.

            We’re getting more deer on our property than usual. Deer hunting season starts in a week. If there are poachers out, the deer would be showing up in no hunting areas, so that may explain it. Male deer are very unpredictable. It’s not wise to make friends with them. Besides (not that you want to know this) they sometimes mistake a human female for someone they might find sexually attractive and become very aggressive. There are several theories as to why this is so, but I think the explanation is that they’re just bloody perverts!

            I put out new salt licks in the trees. If it turns into the cold and snowy winter everyone seems to expect, I’ll put out feed and hay.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

I'm not going to post ...

I won't post comments that promote irrational ethnic hatred, that imply that one nationality can tell the truth and another cannot. Don't make them. You won't see them here.

The Big Guns


A. E. F. stands for American Expeditionary Force.
Assembling the Guns: World War I

What really happened to the Big Bad Wolf ....


Friday, October 10, 2014

Amy!


AMY GODDARD

Burn And Glow

Incantus Media

 

Originally from South Wales, singer-songwriter and guitarist Amy Goddard now lives in Portsmouth, where she performs regularly at local folk and acoustic clubs. She co-wrote and released one CD with a friend and musical partner, Helen Harris, before circumstances dictated she continue in a solo capacity. She then embarked on a life-changing course that explored a holistic approach to both singing and songwriting and gave her the confidence to produce a whole album’s worth of her own songs.

 

These stem from her self-confessed epiphany, the catharsis of writing obliquely about her own experiences without spelling them out; for, by majoring on this principle of lyrical detachment, she leaves the listener to draw his/her own conclusions by using personal experience to fill in the picture with specifics. This apparent ambiguity can lead to some revelations and unexpected insights through its flexible portrayal of key feelings and images. Make Me Whole, for instance, is a beautiful song depicting the solace found in playing a musical instrument but written from that object’s point of view, whereas Don’t Try tellingly expounds the virtues and value of a listening ear over and above a more active (albeit well-intentioned) problem-solver. On the other hand, Amy shows she can also write powerfully dark songs that more directly explore their subject (Suzie, which examines the lasting effects of serious bullying). And then, the disc’s ostensibly-final track One More Song is the perfect encore. Amy also admits to deriving songwriting inspiration from John Stewart (who could forget Daydream Believer?) and in addition to covering his song, Jasmine, she’s penned a tribute to John, Lonesome Picker, while the breezier of her own material also seems to reference John’s work, if at times (Morning Train, Just Be You) a touch obvious in its sentiment and expression. As is the brief medley of lullabies that derives from childhood memories of these being sung to her by her mother.

 

But the finest of her compositions – I Will See, with its striking, assured imagery; Don’t Try; the painfully vulnerable Web Of Lies – prove to be very special indeed, as is the intimate and involving atmosphere conjured by the album’s production, which conveys so well the close-knit sense of identification with her listeners that Amy’s persuasive singing voice affords. Her guitar work is both stylish and amicably phrased, allowing just enough space into the sound-picture for very occasional, selective instrumental enhancements (double bass, guitar and percussion – Greg Mudd, James Crocker) and subtle backing vocals (Matt Goddard, DiElle and the Igloo Choir). This rather lovely CD is so aptly titled, for it surely burns itself into your consciousness and leaves a wonderfully warm glow there.

 

www.amygoddardmusic.co.uk

 

David Kidman

The Living Tradition, issue 104, October 2014

 

Thursday, October 09, 2014

Harry's rare, one-of-a-kind stamp


It's my blog and ...

If I want to post stamp photos I will! Thupp!


Not mine, but I wish it was. Early Airmail. Germany. Expensive.

Wednesday, October 08, 2014

From O. Reader


 THE PHOTO BOOK

 

            Earlier this year, Mrs O and I had a 40th wedding anniversary celebration. The family came up and we all had prezzies.

            My daughter did a photo book for the two of us, and then the extras were a necklace for Mrs O, and for me some sheet music autographed by the late John Stewart. If you have read some of my older posts you will know why the latter is special, but if not, then no matter.

But the photo book contained numerous surprises. Earlier this year she and her husband stayed at our home to look after her grandmother, while I went to America to be ill. And, with a photo book in mind, she raided our photos, stuffed in boxes and all sorts of places; then she raided photos at my elderly mother’s, and then she raided photos from a friend who sometimes does anonymous battle/banter with me on this blog. She dug out so much stuff that I just didn’t remember – being somewhat elderly and forgetful now.

            There is stuff in the photo book that I have not seen for a million years.

            There is me walking on my hands with a 5 year old chortling in the background. At school I could cover the length of the school gym on my hands – reminding me of Boswell’s politically incorrect dog quote in Life of Johnson: “Sir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.” I had put such youthful achievements completely out of mind.

            There were photos from the two ends of the British Isles, John O’Groats and Lands End. One vacation I cycled from one to the other, camping on the side of the road in a kiddie’s play tent. I had tried to waterproof it but the aerosol can ran out, so I took a chance that it wouldn’t rain. I lost. At the very end was a postcard I sent to my mother from Lands End after eight days and 930 miles (the route was slightly off course so I could freeload on friends at various stations on occasion when I didn’t feel like wet camping.)

            The postcard contained eight lines of verse (or worse):

 

The Land’s End folk were roused from sleep

By one loud crash, then groans,

And rose to find a crumpled heap

Of mainly skin and bones!

Which exclaimed: “eight days it took

- I’ve done it – though I’ve roughed it!”

Then with a contented look

- The apparition snuffed it!

 

            I have no recollection of writing that at all. It is probably just as well.

            That trip was my only experience of Glasgow, cycling home at the time they threw people out the bars. I have never seen so many people fighting in the streets, and being bundled into the back of Black Marias. I put my head down and pedalled like crazy to Hamilton Race Track for another wet night. I have not been back.

            I remember I had made a list of things to do before reaching a certain age. This was one of them. The next was to canoe up the Grand Union Canal from London to Birmingham – but I pedalled back from Lands End in time to film a wedding where I met the future Mrs O and priorities sort of changed.

            There were pictures of me and the future Mrs O in Spain, where she was working. The hairstyles were interesting. There were meetings in the woods under the guise of picnics, because the group she worked for was still banned in the last days of Franco. And then all the rest, our first home, birth of child, pictures of child biting father’s feet, father putting on a horrified look while holding a book entitled Baby Taming, and fancy dress. Oh yes, fancy dress. Mrs O used to make costumes and in the regular parties the congregation we attended held for the kids, there was always someone who would write a song and get the kids to mime – generally with loads of wild enthusiasm but a certain lack of attention to detail. On one occasion our daughter played a little piggy who in the middle of the song, decided she’d had enough and escaped from Noah’s Ark, and resisted all attempted to put her back, while the singers flailed away as if nothing had happened.

            Then there was the time we made the front page of Welsh newspapers when our tandem bicycle was stolen. The reporter came and clucked sympathetically and took pictures of us looking glum. Then – just to show in the office, nothing more – could we pose as if riding an invisible tandem? Of course we could and we did, and of course that was the picture they used. Still, it ultimately got the machine back and we lived to pedal another day. In due course a kiddie seat was fixed on the back and we had some tiring holidays trying to pedal up and down mountains.

            There were photographs taken on long distance solo cycle rides (250 miles variety) where a certain correspondent insists I ate something off at a midnight cafe in Pembrokeshire and was ill in a ditch. I really don’t remember that. I am sure he imagined it.

There were vacations here and there, and pets – including a dog that grew and grew. Our daughter wanted a dog, and her best friend had picked up a stray on the side of the road, taken it home, to be presented with eight puppies of indeterminate breed. We had one of them. The first time the dog visited my mother, it enthusiastically leapt onto her lap. My mother’s cup of tea in hand shot up like a Fascist salute and we had the tea stains all over the curtains for years. Of course, as soon as our daughter got the dog she met her future husband, and we were left with the animal. Sadly our lifestyle precluded the kind of care Mutley needed, but we re-homed him in an untidy house full of children, and hopefully he lived out his life in doggy-heaven.

            Celebrations – so many years of this, so many years of that – yes, it’s a picture of a life.

But it was a bit disconcerting to think that my daughter rummaged through all that stuff. I mean, ALL that stuff - bottom drawer, bottom cupboard, attic, and all the rest. What actually is there? We haven’t looked ourselves for years. I just hope she didn’t come across my diaries...