Tuesday, October 29, 2013


My aunt is physically much better, though she is depressed. I think the depression is natural, considering the circumstances. She’s had lots of company and does better when someone’s here to visit. But when they’re gone she falls into a hand-wringing state worrying about everything.

I go home Wednesday evening. One daughter will stay for the week and one lives with them. I have a profound sense that we have worse times ahead. I hope not.

I sent an email to the principal of the school where I teach. I left for my aunts in such a hurry I forgot to pass on some information. It’s one of those things that I don’t know if it’s just normal child behavior or something more disturbing is going on. One of the eight year old girls in introduction to classics class told me that she and a female cousin play “animal mating.” They watched a series of animal videos (mostly cartoon format) and they pretend to be animals. She wasn’t clear on what “animal mating” was in her view. But we should note the comment. It doesn’t rise to the level where we call CPS. (Child Protective Services).

My pet Scotsman should be here this evening along with some of the girls. One of us is taking aunty to her place of employment to talk to human resources about applying sick leave and that sort of thing. We could do this over the phone, but aunty thinks she should do this in person, and none of us push much with her so we can keep her calm. Besides, it’s good for her to do what she can do and not vegetate. We’ll have to go grocery shopping soon too.
This is stressful to me, and I can only imagine how much more stressed my aunt is. She is the one sick, after all.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

What if ..

If you read our history blog, you already know that my writing partner’s wife (aka Aunt Shirley) had a stroke. She’s recovering better than expected. She has her speech back with some loss in the names of things. She can walk close to normally. She was released from the hospital this afternoon. 

I’m going to be there until Wednesday. Both her daughters are here (or there. Isn’t that confusing?) and we’re sharing the dozens of tasks still needing attention. But we’re less panicked than we were. 

One of the lessons in this is that I need to make a “what if” book. Anyone with precarious health should do that. I’m going to start with the basics, the wills, the funeral insurance policies and things like that. Then I’ll move on to more complex things. We have bunches of artwork and books and just “stuff” that will need to be described and suggestions made as to its disposal. I’m sure my children have no clue what’s worth something and what’s just pretty junk. I need to tell them or they’re likely to donate it to a thrift store. 

So the plan is to put all the important papers in one place, and to leave helpful hints on disposing of the things they may not want.

You should do that too, no matter what your age or state of health.

The Auction Song!

O. Reader should make a youtube video of him singing this ....

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Welsh Parakeets - From O. Reader

On the premise that if you can’t beat them you might as well join them, I have been joining Mrs Occasional in “spare” moments at college to learn one of the three current versions of Welsh. (And that’s just in Wales!)

They gave us all a shiny badge to wear reading “Shwmae!” The aim was to attract Welsh speakers. This is the local dialect for “Hi there!”

Armed with said badge I have spent the afternoon treating elderly patients’ feet in their homes. One lady had the TV on full blast, showing a program in Welsh.

“So you speak Welsh then?” I ventured cheerily.

She looked at me blankly. “No” she said.

“But you’ve got the Welsh language channel on TV – S4C - Sianel Pedwar Cymru....?”
“Oh that’s not for me, it’s for the budgerigar – he understands it!”

Friday, October 18, 2013

I'm hungry now ....

I haven’t felt well enough to write anything today, but I’ve thought about Mr. Paton off and on all day. The more I read about him, the less I like him. I’ve read my partner’s summary and analysis of one of Mr. Paton’s letters and one of his articles. I have some ideas. I’ll put them in an email later and see what my WP thinks.

I’d be much happier if we could find any of the personal letters of the principal actors. There a few for two of these people and none for one of them (that we know of), and none of them seem relevant to events from 1878-1879.

I posted a broadside on our public history blog. It’s a bit of mystery. We don’t know who published it, not with certainty anyway. We’re divided on a date. Judging by the type face, I’d say this was a Civil War era tract. My writing partner, on the same basis, says it’s probably from a later era, maybe Spanish-American War or World War I. I could go with later, but not as late as WWI.

I haven’t checked the logical repositories. I’ll do that tomorrow, though I don’t expect to find anything. Broadsides rarely survive. And it’s even rarer for them to make it into a major collection.

If I can prove that it is from the Civil War era, we’ll use it in our current work in progress.
So much for that. I feel like warmed over goo at the moment.


Knobby Knees’ meetings were today. I should say are today, because they’re still in session. Even so, he called me during the lunch break and sent four text messages, the shortest of which was, “This is really boring.”

I haven’t eaten much today. Nothing sounds nummy. Maybe I’ll talk our chef out of a huge salad, something with mushrooms, olives, hard salami, cheeses, a boiled egg or two, some croutons, maybe a bit of ham. And lots of greens. And Great Gobs of bleu cheese dressing or creamy Italian dressing. And cheese cake: Plain with a dribble of chocolate syrup on top. God wants you to eat green stuff. He must. He made lots of it.
Or maybe an omelet. An omelet would be good. I’m thinkin’ cream cheese, black olives, bits of bacon, mushrooms (Morels if we have them).

Driving the Pass

Going the Other Way

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Seducing a Scotsman, Money, Bibles and stuff

Harry tells me he’s improving some. I’m happy to hear that.

How to Get a Knobby-Kneed Scot's Attention

I think I’ve noted somewhere else on this blog that, left to himself, Knobby Knees packs his clothes in a paper grocery sack. I usually make sure he has a suitcase. I did so for this trip. (He’s off to Salem, Oregon, for a meeting.) So ... Here’s the scene:

Pixie is packing a small suitcase. There is an order about these things. (I read a book about it once. Don’t ask why. Probably boredom or incurable curiosity.) So I have his socks rolled up and packed in a row against the right side. I’m rolling up his underwear and arranging the shorts next. (You can save space by rolling clothes instead of folding them.) Knobby Knees enters room stage left.

KK: What are you doing!?

Pix: Packing your clothes …

KK: I see that … But … {insert wide-eyed look here} Your umm pretty much naked.

Pix: I am? I have shoes and sox on. That’s not exactly naked …

KK: And a hair ribbon. Cute shoes. Are they new?

Pix: Yes.

KK: Are you trying to seduce me?

Pix: You mean I have to try?

KK: Ummmm not every hard, I’m sure. What if I’m late? I might get stuck in traffic in Portland.

Pix: Your conference isn’t until tomorrow. You won’t be late.

KK: You have a point, Lass.

Packing for Knobby Knees: The shoes, socks and ribbon attraction.
Might be an unsafe move for some. Consult an expert before trying it.

So, he’s off to Portland and points south.

I completed by child crisis intervention courses and am now certified. My back and shoulders are sore because we role-played situations, one of which involved the "butt to butt" take down. Because I’m small, I role-played the violent student.

This restraint method involves two staff members standing on either side of a student, grasping their arm above the wrist, on count of three stepping inside foot out while leaning forward and turning "butt to butt" with the other staff member and pulling the student forward. The student ends off balance, facing downward. It’s a non-violent, safe restraint. Hopefully, I’ll never have to use it. But I’m getting a known offender in one of next semester’s classes. District administration thinks he’s safe to return to classes, and they think I have the personality for him – and the understanding of his situation. Sigh. We have a very big, but gentle male teacher. I’d have put this kid in his class.

So … we let a huge amount of historical material go because we didn’t have the money, not even for one item. To buy the collection would have taken about two hundred dollars. Most of the material is relevant, but on the margins for the book we’re finishing. But the items didn’t sell. So we’ll see. I’ve had to put all our "extra" (who ever has extra?) money in a fund for a plumbing repair and a new washer and drier. My old washer and drier were in the house when I inherited it. They were old then. The drier has stopped working and we’re having trouble with the timer on the washer. So time for new. That means I have a few dollars to put into cheap stamps but nothing for anything else.

Speaking of cheap stamps: I found some Austrian stamps I didn’t have. I paid two dollars for an entire lot, but there are three hard to find stamps in it. Now they’re mine, or will be as soon as they arrive at my mailbox. The photo below shows the ones I wanted. The rest of this lot I had, though I can add a few from it to a second, world-wide album too.
Austria: Postage Due from the 1920s. High values.

There’s a new Bible floating around out there. It’s a revision of an older translation. Lots to like in it. Some changes that puzzle me. A typo on one page. It’s pretty, gray leather. Some nice person gave me one, though it’s not available for the general public yet. I’ve read to Deuteronomy and selections from elsewhere, principally the gospels and Isaiah.

In some areas the revisers didn’t go far enough so there are English grammar issues that remain from the old version. The one that makes me wince is the use of reflexives pronouns (I myself, etc.). The original translator used this, knowing it was questionable grammar, to convey an otherwise untranslatable emphatic expression in the original text. I think it’s distracting and un-needed.

The older version came in for some praise and some condemnation. But if one sat down with a Greek text and say the New English Bible and compared them, this translation outshines the NEB even with its rough grammar.

I guess my one complaint, and it’s not a huge one, is that the revisers should have gone further to make the English grammar reflect current usage. I’ll continue to use the older version for comparative study. In many ways it’s better.

Also there’s a section in Genesis where the court officials' dreams are analyzed by Joseph. I’m not very proficient with Hebrew. An introductory course doesn’t make you an expert at all. But I think they’ve got one word wrong and it mangles the story. I’ll look later.

My writing partner translated Matthew from the Greek to English some years ago. He doesn’t circulate it. It was an exercise for him. But I like it. I think it’s better than this new version. My WP won’t say (He claims he doesn’t know, but he does it with a twinkle in his eye), but I think one of his friends/acquaintances who lives in Tacoma helped with this revision. He has a massive library on the original texts. It makes me jealous. My WP sent them the 1876 edition of Tischendorff’s Greek text as a donation. That was nice of him. And I didn’t whine too much when I discovered that.

I have enough of a library to keep me happy. I go off wandering in the original language texts in spurts. So what I have is adequate.

KK texted me from Portland. I won’t repeat it; it’s kinda private. But I can report that he likes cute shoes and sox and hair ribbons.

What Knobby Knees Trip looks like from Portland to Salem. Ignore the irritating man who made the video. He's not on long.

Deep from the hidden rock fortresses of Wales ....

Things to blub by

By Occasional Reader

I pride myself on having a nice, cynical, protective shell against the vicissitudes of life.

But the older I get, the more emotional certain things make me. The family laugh at me – with kindness I trust – but they would, wouldn’t they? But there are certain snippets of film and certain pieces of music that cause me to sniff, which of course I immediately have to put down to the apparent onset of a cold.

Motion pictures first.

One of the first ever posts I did on this blog was about the original version of The Miracle Worker, the story of Helen Keller, blind, deaf and dumb and how she was reached by teacher Annie Sullivan. I first saw the film with a bunch of macho lads, and wham – we were not prepared for the impact of the final moments. Gulp! It was really most embarrassing...

Then there was the old film The Snake Pit about Olivia de Haviland being incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital. There is a scene there of a large room filled with people, faces filled with both hope and hopelessness and an indefinable longing, as the camera travelled over their heads while a resident sang Going Home. It’s an old spiritual, known to many as the slow movement of Dvorak’s New World Symphony. I was probably a little fragile at the time I first saw the film on TV – in fact, I know I was for reasons I will not disclose here, but I disgraced myself good and proper in company when I first saw that. My self-image of the day suffered drastically. I was actually human.

It is strange things that can set me off with at least a mild lump in the throat. The building a barn sequence in Witness. Goodness knows why – it is a happy scene, illustrating the seemingly idyllic existence of the Amish in contrast with the harsh realities outside from whence the fugitive has come – but when you know the film, there is a sting in the tail. Eden don’t actually exist in this world.

And any film that has a death of a sympathetic character... I only have to see Robert Donat as old Mr Chips telling those at his bedside that he’d had lots of children and they were all boys... and I’m away. Even the British TV series Inspector Morse (or as we tend to call him here, Inspector Grumpy) has an effect when Morse’s unhealthy lifestyle eventually finishes him off.

That’s films – but – aaagh - when you get to music...

When my daughter first got into music, it was folk music – traditional from me and more modern folk-oriented material from her favorite teachers in school. We used to play the Waterboys’ Stolen Child again and again in the car taking her to school. It’s from a poem by W.B. Yeats. Several people have put it to music, but this was our version. Mike Scott sings the chorus and an Irish actor recites the poem. Again, like the barn sequence in Witness, it is not directly sad. The poem talks of the child being caught away by the faeries – but it’s the line "For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand" that gets me. Is it escaping misery? Is it embracing folly? Is it loss of innocence? Is it holding onto innocence? Is it just an oblique way of talking about growing up, or not growing up – a case of lost boys Peter Pan syndrome? Whatever, it made me buy a slim volume of Yeats poems. (Strangely, Mrs O who knows far more about real poetry than I do, dislikes the "song" and finds it boring.)

Then there is Eric Bogle. Bogle is a great writer of humorous songs. I really like humorous songs. You can perform humorous songs and get away with it even with a rubbish voice. But Bogle’s songs have a bit of an edge to them, and some are really quite cruel. But it is his anti-war songs based on the First World War that are something else. My favourite is Gallipoli (also known as: The Band Played Waltzing Matilda).

There’s a verse in the middle:

But the band played Waltzing Matilda,

when we stopped to bury our slain.

We buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,


then we started all over again.

It is the pause – just slight, almost imperceptible, that makes it. That’s the killer. I learned the song and was all set to do it at the local folk club – because the chords are dead easy. But I got to that bit and could never complete it in practice, and then Mrs O sternly forbade me to try.

And my final choice for now – the Miner’s Lullaby by American Bruce "Utah" Phillips.

My favourite version of this was actually sung by my daughter at the Shrewsbury folk festival a couple of years ago. I know, I know – proud father syndrome – but you could hear a pin drop when she did it.

It’s all about miners, mainly European immigrants from a Catholic background, who worked in terrible conditions underground. If there was an accident and the miners were trapped, there was rarely hope of rescue. Although the singer (wife of a miner) is Roman by faith – so for a Catholic, suicide is a mortal sin – her man still always goes down the shaft with a tin of morphine. In the event of being trapped by a roof fall, the men can ease their passing.

The chorus goes:

Husband, sleep, lay your head back and dream.
A slow fallen leaf borne down to the stream.
Then carried away on the wings of morphine,
Homeward far over the sea.

Every time she has sung that – and I always nag her to do so whenever we visit somewhere new – it has the same effect – grizzled old folkies wiping their faces over their beer, and pretending they’ve just got something in their eye.

Well, writing all this has cheered me up no end.

Pass the Kleenex will you.

Friday, October 11, 2013


Shape Shifting Dragons, Writing, Perversion in the Park

I still lose focus easily, so I’m bouncing between playing with my stamps, cleaning the house and writing. I think I’ve done some good writing today. I’m left with an unanswerable mystery. Well, it’s unanswerable given the state of known documentation, but sometimes unexpected things turn up. A Mr. Russell (I affectionately call the man Chuckie) wrote that he had previously met and admired many of the principals behind the 1878 Prophetic Conference. But, damn it, he gives us no names. I can verify that two of these men knew Russell. The names of the rest are a mystery.

My writing partner sent me a section analyzing a letter and short article written by a Mr. Paton [whom I not too affectionately call Paton the Perv.] Well done I think.

Black toast and cream cheese is nummy. I had some; bet you’re jealous.

I will probably have to reinstall windows soon. Right now the problems are just irritating. But I’m a thinkin’ that they’ll just get worse if I don’t

One of my sisters dropped by in the late afternoon yesterday and coaxed me out with the promise of hot coffee and fresh donuts in the park. This often turns into an informal gathering. It’s a kinda sorta women it the park thing. Text messages fly; phone calls are made. So we ended up with fourteen friends and acquaintances sipping coffee and gossiping in the large gazebo.

I like many of these women, but not all of them. Those who spark off each other usually behave, but not always. It can be a fun, though intense gathering or it can be sleepy, gossipy stuff. Yesterday was a little of both, but it ended as a slow motion train wreck.

New to the group is my roomie from when I was at WSU. We shared a dinky apartment for my last two years at WSU. (We chose it because it was in a state of decayed elegance, had a small swimming pool, and was inexpensive.) My introduction to her wasn’t quite as odd as Dr. Watson’s to S. Holmes, but along that order. After we graduated, she went her way into the wilds of high finance and intrigue, but we’ve kept in touch by mail, email, text, post cards and such. She moved back to Washington State about umm eight months ago.

Not long after we moved into that little apartment, I learned to expect the unexpected from her. I helped her prepare a dinner for her then boyfriend. I didn’t like him much (at all really), but she was a friend in need. He was the kind of man that would – stone sober – flirt with a lamp post if he felt it would have sex with him. Anyway, the dinner went so-so with nothing really awful happening, nor anything really nice. Two days later I found her sitting at our little table crying her eyes out. They’d separated and she was heart broken. Pffft. She was better off and I told her so.

Within a couple of weeks she brought home … umm I’ll call her Nancy, though that’s not her name … and introduce me to her. Took about six seconds to figure out that Nancy was into my roommate’s pants. I don’t care what sexual preferences you have or that she has, but my dear LORD, she managed to pick really questionable people upon whom to bestow her affection. I also pretty much determined that my roommate did other things that I might not ever do.

My boyfriend, now husband, was off at Georgia Tech becoming a hell of an engineer. We exchanged emails and phone calls. I didn’t ‘date’ anyone. I’d had my eyes on Knobby Knees since I was twelve. … So when the conversations between my roommate and some of her more questionable friends strayed into areas that were umm what’s a good word for this? Extreme? Perverted? I don’t think either of those cover it, but it’s close. … I’d find something else to do or another place to be. I – with no question of doubt – knew she lead a colorful life.

Isn’t "colorful" a polite word?

So … anyway … we’re all sitting munching what snacks we brought and sipping our drink of choice. We’ve broken into smaller groups. My sister, my ex-roomie and two of my writer friends who live locally (Fantasy writer, another historian) are sitting at the same table. Fantasy Writer Girl is testing out a story concept. Some of this is wild. I think she has sexual situations patented. (That’s supposed to be funny.) Some of what she writes is fairly (okay sometimes extremely) raw.

My ex-rommie listens.

FWG asks, "So what do you think?"

Ex says, "I’ve done that. More than once. You have the anatomy wrong."

I sip coffee and bite a bit of glazed donut.

FWG’s jaw drops. She may write this stuff, but she doesn’t "Do" this stuff.

Ex continues with a very graphic description of shape shifting not very normal sex. (You don’t really want me to describe it, do you?)

My sister whispers, "You don’t really mean that? I mean, you didn’t really do that?"

Ex says, "Yes, I did."

Historian says, "It’s not that uncommon." Her eyebrows are raised in slight surprise.

Ex says, "Have you done it?"

Hist says, "Once, when I was drunk."

I take a bigger bite of donut, figuring if my mouth is full I don’t have to contribute to this fascinating in a train-wreck sorta way conversation.

Sister looks ill. FWG asks a question I won’t repeat. Ex answers in some detail. The next closest tables have gone quiet. Those at them are, judging by the look on their faces, totally fascinated, disgusted, curious, or interested. Someone asks, how do you get one to do that. Ex assures them it’s fairly easy.

I take this all in. Then I say, "So, how’s your mom?" This is followed by a moment of silence. Then laughter.

Knobby Knees is going to Salem next week. I don’t like it when he’s gone, even if that isn’t all that far away. Life without my pet shape-shifting, Knobby Kneed dragon goat boy is empty. I’ll mope.

It’s about time to lay in a huge supply of hot chocolate mix. I need a new winter coat.

Tuesday, October 08, 2013

Monday, October 07, 2013

Marty Robbins!

Girl. Vienna, Mid 1870s

Music that makes you sway your hips and jiggle your butt ... and tap your toes

Hot sweaty sex, cute boots, and stamps: Life's essentials.

I’ve been researching and writing all day. I work in spurts because I lose focus after a few minutes. My writing partner and I spent about an hour on the phone early this morning and he sent me notes and research goals. Right now I’m working on a minor incident that illustrates the differences between two key characters. This has been a difficult few paragraphs to write. I’ve decided to say that we don’t know whom to believe. I lean toward believing a Mr. Barbour and disbelieving a Rev. Feltwell. But there is no persuasive evidence one way or the other. I don’t expect that we’ll find anything more than what we have.

The real issue is that the key parties, Russell and Barbour were willing to believe and say bad things about each other on slim evidence. Feelings were raw. Barbour was not above lying. Russell’s vision was sometimes clouded by personal feelings. The Feltwell incident as we’re telling it now, is connected to the 1878 Prophetic Conference. We may move it to another part of the chapter. But for now, it goes in that section.

So much for that. … I’ll go back to that later. I need a break from thinking.

I bought some stamps at auction for cheap. Only one of them was what the sale said it was, but that’s okay. The price I paid was so small that it was still a bargain, and the other two (there were three stamps in the lot) filled gaps in my old brown Scott International 19th Century Album.

I bought (each lot under three dollars) bunches of early Austrian stamps too. The dealer’s description of one of the lots was very poor. He put up three photos, showing what were probably the least interesting of the stamps, but added that there were three hundred twenty-eight stamps in the lot, way more than he showed. So I bid and got the works for two dollars and twenty cents.  Not bad. And there were stamps that I needed. But best of all is a color trial proof of a 19th Century Austrian newspaper stamp. Some of the privately perforated stamps, a few early semi-postals and such were in there too. One really messy album page of postage due stamps was fun. And there were two complete sets with the color varieties of the 1908 Rulers issue. I filled some hard to fill spaces in my albums from this lot.
High Values from the 1908 Issue.

I have one more lot coming from Canada. I was the only bidder. There are several things in my favor at the moment. Austrian stamps, except for the real rarities are not in high demand. I watch for the larger, messy, poorly photographed and poorly described lots. Most of these aren’t what I want, but if there is a hidden bargain, it will be in one of these. Some dealers are too lazy to describe their wares. Too bad for them; good for me!

I had a very hard time at work last night, but it passed without causing a rush to the hospital.

We’re trying to finish the current writing project because someone (who I shall not name) is rushing into print to try to claim credit for our research. The word “bastard” has crossed my mind a time or two.

We’re supposed to have a rough winter. I’ve bought everyone but dau 2 and 3 new winter boots. They’re picky. I gave them the money and they’ll pick out their own. Oh and Dau 1 being a working woman these days will buy her own. So that means I bought boots for Annie, Kat and myself. Did I just confuse you? Welcome to my addled brain.
 Mine. They're PINK!
The only thing nice about being brain-damaged and sick is that there are unaccountably lucid moments. One of the Russian writers had a similar disorder and wrote about it. In those brief moments, there is unexpected clarity and pleasure. They don’t last. They are seconds long. Oh, and not that you really need to know, but there is heightened pleasure in life’s most basic event. Makes sex nice, even if the rest of my life is often miserable

One of Life's Essentials.

Sunday, October 06, 2013

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

Mr. Queen


Sleepy Pixie

Life puzzles me. I hate it sometimes. Occasionally I’m indifferent to it. Sometimes it’s endless fun.  Today was a mixture of all of those. I am tired constantly. It’s hard to function. I’m having more trouble than usual covering my confusion. But on the plus side is one of my young writers who at fourteen writes nearly at a professional level.

There’s probably a better way to phrase that, but I’m too tired to think of it.

I can’t maintain a normal body temperature so I’ve been sleeping with a heating blanket and a fluffy jama top. If I wear the bottoms, then I eventually wake up feeling like a roast turkey. During the day I wear the full outfit – booties, bottom, top. When I’m sick like this I have vivid dreams. They’re usually short, often a snippet of something more complex, and they go away too fast to tell a coherent story. It’s like watching a seconds long clip from an old Technicolor movie. The colors are too vivid, a step beyond real life.

A few of them have been unaccountably upsetting, given the subject matter. This was so of a dream that had me looking through the dining room window of the house we lived in then I was twelve or so. Everything was as it was back in the day down to the clock on the wall. No one was visible. It scared me silly. It was very disturbing and I can’t tell you why.

I have three boys in my classes who share attention issues. Two of them are destined for a referral. One of my students fell out of a tree and bounced. She’s out for the week. Her mom said she fell almost twenty feet. I didn’t ask why she was climbing the tree. I’ve had her before and can figure that out for myself. I really like her, but she’s impulsive.

My youngest writers (2-3 grade mixed class) make me laugh. One insisted that ants have no eyes. We found an image of ant eyes. We’re working on crafting dialogue. That’s not an easy task when you’re that age, but they’re getting it.

I have a cousin who lives on Long Island. Her husband works at the UN. We were best buddies growing up. People mistook us for twins. We look much less like each other now. She emails me about twice a week, but today she called and we gossiped for an hour or so. She’s funny. I always enjoy her calls.

I’m having trouble making a program work. It’s really a ‘filter’ that allows teacher access to youtube but blocks student access. The techies say it should be fixed on my computer by tomorrow. I hope so. I played parts of three CDs for my cultural enrichment class: Vivaldi, Big Bands/Swing, and 50s rock. That produced an interesting reaction that included a long discussion of who liked what and what piece of music was annoying.

We had an impromptu dance going. I showed them a simple swing dance step. The result was a bunch of little girls and one little boy dancing in the classroom. It was fun to watch.
Roberto is issuing a translation into Italian of G. Storrs Six Sermons. He says nice things about my WP and me in the preface. I hope his book sells well.