We all assign meaning to our special places. It may be associated with some event, some person, some memory. Not so long ago I received an e-mail from my cousin and attached to it was a series of photographs of Paris by night. One of these photos brought up one of my special places. So, come with me, and I’ll show you.
First, we take the Metro to the San Michelle. At Place San Michelle we stop for a few minutes at the little café on the corner. Let’s pretend it’s late November and this year’s Beajolais has just been released, and there is a nip in the air. One of the wonderful things about Paris is that you can sit at a table in a café as long as you like, and nobody will bother you not even the waiters. As we sit and enjoy our glass of wine we watch the people and smell the river which is just across the way, we feel the gentle warmth of the heater.
After we finish, we will walk just a short way to the Rue de la Buchene to Shakespeare and Company, Paris’s foremost English language bookstore. We go across to number thirty seven and are greeted by a young person with either a British or French accent; it doesn’t matter because they will be friendly. The first thing we notice is a fire ring in the floor where at one time a fire must have been built to warm the place or to cook something, or both. Like any other bookstore, except for the sham bookstores in the mall, there are too many books for the space. The walkways between the shelves are narrow and poorly lit. The smell of paper fills the air, and when you move a book the dust tickles your nose. The French do not have music in their shops, so the only thing you hear is the other people moving around and a snip of a conversation here and there.
This is not the original Shakespeare and Company. In 1919, Sylvia Beach, the daughter of a Presbyterian minister from New Jersey, opened up a bookstore that would specialize in English and American books. For the next twenty one years the store became the premier salon for the writers and artists of the Lost Generation. Almost any one of note came to the shop, Hemingway, Juan Gris, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and many more.
Not only did Sylvia Beach provide a venue for them to meet, she also became somewhat of a patron to some. It was her support that allowed James Joyce to write Ulysses. She provided him with monetary support and published the first edition under her name with her money. As a reward in 1922 Joyce signed with another publisher leaving Sylvia holding the bag. She was able to recoup some of her loss by selling the original plates. If you are lucky you can still find a copy printed with those plates.
In 1940 when the Nazis moved into Paris, Shakespeare and Company disappeared in one night. The shop was closed and the books were hidden in an apartment. Sylvia Beach never reopened the book shop. In 1951 it was opened by another owner.
If ever you are in Paris, you must stop in.
Au Revoir
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Franny and Zooey
A novel (?) by J.D. Salinger
Review by:
Fred Shira
I read all of Salinger’s work, he was not that prolific, back in the 1960’s for a couple of reasons: one, it was the hip thing to do, and two, it was the hip thing to talk about when trying to pick up girls. “Have you read such and such by Salinger; isn’t it just great. How he speaks to our inner being”. Inner beings were a big thing in those days. This was in Washington D.C. where the wide eyed girls from across the country came to find husbands.
I have wondered why Salinger became such a hermit, living a life way out of the public eye. Maybe it was because of his books. The Catcher in the Rye is a good book and should be required reading for all fifteen year olds. Maybe the roar of the literary dollar harkened to him to keep writing and we, little intellects as we are, will keep buying. When ole’ J.D. passed away I thought it might be a good idea to reread some of his work, so I rummaged through the boxes in the attic and found a copy of Franny and Zooey thinking this would be a good place to start, now I think it is also a good place to stop.
Franny and Zooey is a snapshot of two characters looking for a story. It is divided into two sections appropriately named, first Franny and then Zooey. It’s not a long book, a mere 202 pages, and it could probably be pared in half by taking out all the superfluous descriptions and verbiage padding.
The first section finds us at a New England college on the day of the big Yale game. Franny, a spoiled little rich girl, comes to town to meet her boy friend whose main concern is a paper he wrote about Flaubert for an English class and is disappointed that no one wants to read it. The first scene is set with Lane, that’s the boyfriend, sitting on a train platform waiting for Franny to arrive. He is wearing a Burberry raincoat. I have to wonder if Salinger got a coat for the product placement.
After Franny arrives they go to a restaurant where the conversation turns to snails, how they are so above everyone else and chicken sandwiches. Franny relates to Lane that she has read a book about a monk who went around saying the “Jesus Prayer” like a Buddhist mantra. She plans to follow suit to find true enlightenment. Franny then refuses to eat the chicken sandwich which Lane cajoled her into ordering, and then she faints. End of story number one. The one point of tension is when Lane hints that they may have sex if he can find a back way into the Franny’s room.
The second story is Zooey. After Franny comes to she goes home to the home of her parents in upper east-side Manhattan. He we meet the Glass family which dominates Salinger’s later writings, as a matter of fact all his writings, except for Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. We learn that there were seven Glass kids. They were all contestants on a radio quiz show, “It’s a Wise Child. All gifted. Zooey is a TV actor who criticizes everything and everybody he comes in contact with.
The first half of the story is a dialogue between Zooey and his mother, who he calls Bessie, in the bath room. Poor Zooey has to take his bath hiding himself behind a curtain while his mother sits and smokes. Salinger sets the scene for us like he is being paid by the word. He even goes so far to describe every item in the medicine cabinet. Bess wants Zooey to bring Franny out of her doldrums and make her eat some chicken soup, Jewish penicillin, even though the Glasses are Catholic.
The second half of the story is a very long diatribe where Zooey tries to explain the essence of Eastern mysticism with Franny laying on the couch lamenting the fact that in her four years of college she has only heard the term, “wise man” once, and that was pertaining to some guy who made a lot of money, such a Philistine.
To make an overly long story short; its girl has a spiritual crisis, brother helps her understand, girl gets better. The only real action in the story is that everyone is always lighting cigarettes, except for Zooey who smokes cigars, and moving ashtrays around. Smoking was very chic in the fifties when this story was set.
Perhaps there is more to this story when you look deeper. Does the name Glass signify some sort of transparency? Does Zooey go through some sort of metamorphous when he returns to his room and changes his sweaty shirt? Do the two older brothers, Buddy and Seymour stand for some abstract spiritual power figures? This could all be so, but the book is too droll to think that much about. When it’s finished you just want to put it back in the box in the attic,
Maybe Salinger should have followed the lead of Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell and wrote one good book then quit.
A novel (?) by J.D. Salinger
Review by:
Fred Shira
I read all of Salinger’s work, he was not that prolific, back in the 1960’s for a couple of reasons: one, it was the hip thing to do, and two, it was the hip thing to talk about when trying to pick up girls. “Have you read such and such by Salinger; isn’t it just great. How he speaks to our inner being”. Inner beings were a big thing in those days. This was in Washington D.C. where the wide eyed girls from across the country came to find husbands.
I have wondered why Salinger became such a hermit, living a life way out of the public eye. Maybe it was because of his books. The Catcher in the Rye is a good book and should be required reading for all fifteen year olds. Maybe the roar of the literary dollar harkened to him to keep writing and we, little intellects as we are, will keep buying. When ole’ J.D. passed away I thought it might be a good idea to reread some of his work, so I rummaged through the boxes in the attic and found a copy of Franny and Zooey thinking this would be a good place to start, now I think it is also a good place to stop.
Franny and Zooey is a snapshot of two characters looking for a story. It is divided into two sections appropriately named, first Franny and then Zooey. It’s not a long book, a mere 202 pages, and it could probably be pared in half by taking out all the superfluous descriptions and verbiage padding.
The first section finds us at a New England college on the day of the big Yale game. Franny, a spoiled little rich girl, comes to town to meet her boy friend whose main concern is a paper he wrote about Flaubert for an English class and is disappointed that no one wants to read it. The first scene is set with Lane, that’s the boyfriend, sitting on a train platform waiting for Franny to arrive. He is wearing a Burberry raincoat. I have to wonder if Salinger got a coat for the product placement.
After Franny arrives they go to a restaurant where the conversation turns to snails, how they are so above everyone else and chicken sandwiches. Franny relates to Lane that she has read a book about a monk who went around saying the “Jesus Prayer” like a Buddhist mantra. She plans to follow suit to find true enlightenment. Franny then refuses to eat the chicken sandwich which Lane cajoled her into ordering, and then she faints. End of story number one. The one point of tension is when Lane hints that they may have sex if he can find a back way into the Franny’s room.
The second story is Zooey. After Franny comes to she goes home to the home of her parents in upper east-side Manhattan. He we meet the Glass family which dominates Salinger’s later writings, as a matter of fact all his writings, except for Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. We learn that there were seven Glass kids. They were all contestants on a radio quiz show, “It’s a Wise Child. All gifted. Zooey is a TV actor who criticizes everything and everybody he comes in contact with.
The first half of the story is a dialogue between Zooey and his mother, who he calls Bessie, in the bath room. Poor Zooey has to take his bath hiding himself behind a curtain while his mother sits and smokes. Salinger sets the scene for us like he is being paid by the word. He even goes so far to describe every item in the medicine cabinet. Bess wants Zooey to bring Franny out of her doldrums and make her eat some chicken soup, Jewish penicillin, even though the Glasses are Catholic.
The second half of the story is a very long diatribe where Zooey tries to explain the essence of Eastern mysticism with Franny laying on the couch lamenting the fact that in her four years of college she has only heard the term, “wise man” once, and that was pertaining to some guy who made a lot of money, such a Philistine.
To make an overly long story short; its girl has a spiritual crisis, brother helps her understand, girl gets better. The only real action in the story is that everyone is always lighting cigarettes, except for Zooey who smokes cigars, and moving ashtrays around. Smoking was very chic in the fifties when this story was set.
Perhaps there is more to this story when you look deeper. Does the name Glass signify some sort of transparency? Does Zooey go through some sort of metamorphous when he returns to his room and changes his sweaty shirt? Do the two older brothers, Buddy and Seymour stand for some abstract spiritual power figures? This could all be so, but the book is too droll to think that much about. When it’s finished you just want to put it back in the box in the attic,
Maybe Salinger should have followed the lead of Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell and wrote one good book then quit.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Review/Essay "A Case for Christ"
The Case for Christ
By Lee Strobel
A review by Fred Shira
“Whatever gets you through the night”
To quote Tennessee Williams from his play, Suddenly Last Summer: he writes in the tragic voice of Catherine, “We are all of us children in a vast kindergarten trying to spell God’s name with the wrong alphabet blocks”.
Lee Strobel makes no attempt to deceive us with his title, The Case for Christ. He sets forth with lawyerlike precision an argument for the existence of Jesus Christ as presented to us in the four gospels of the New Testament. Strobel, a professional journalist with legal training and experience covering criminal cases for the Chicago Tribune, builds his case with a collection of interviews with some of the world’s most highly reputed biblical scholars. But like any good trial lawyer he hand picks his experts to elicit the answers he needs to advance his theory ignoring those that will refute his theme.
There is no mention of the Nag Hammadi Gospels, the scrolls that were discovered in a cave in 1945 that have been authenticated by the most reputed biblical scholars. These document the fact that there were other gospels as well as those included in the New Testament. Even the Bible tells about seventy apostles, not just twelve. During the first few centuries there were several competing sects for what was to the be the true church. Orthodox Christianity became the strongest movement edging out the others, except for a couple that still survive today: the Coptic Christians of Egypt, and some of the branches of the Eastern Church. The Roman Church was further strengthened during the reign of Constantine; the emperor allegedly gave the power of the Empire to the Church in Rome: “The Gift of Constantine”. Although this was later proven false it did put in place the Golden Rule: “He who has the gold, makes the rules”.
Strobel submits his case to us in three sections with fourteen postulates each requiring that you accept the gospel writers as definitive sources of history. He pays little heed to the fact that the four gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, are self evident with little or no outside confirmation.
In the first section, “Examining the Evidence” Strobel takes down a winding path of assumptions and questionable logic. His first hypothesis is that the Gospels as recorded were handed down to the writers by eye witnesses, and that there were other witnesses to make certain of the accuracy; therefore the stories could not be corrupted by legend. The Gospel of Mark was the first written, and most scholars have concluded that at least six authors made contributions. Mark was written about 70 CE which would have been some forty years after the death of Jesus. Now if you consider that forty years had passed and that the life span was probably around fifty years, or so, the life spans stated in the Bible do not stand-up against biological fact. With fifty years the normal there is little chance that there were many, if any, dependable eye witnesses. In his book, Who Wrote the Gospels, Randel McCraw Helms predicts that there were at least five transitions through the oral phase before they were written down. When you consider the mythology that has grown up around 9/11 in just a few years, it makes any historical approach to the Bible suspect.
Strobel assembles his proposition much like an artist who chooses to fill in the negative space around a painting to reveal the central object. In order to find the clear and truthful picture you need to arrange all the negative space components leaving out none and adding nothing that should not be there. Not only must you have faith in the picture you also must have faith in the artist’s intentions of portraying the truth. Therein lies the quandary: what do you accept at face value and what do you question? Strobel suggests that we use simple logic to determine the truth; however, logic and reason are the two biggest enemies of religion in general, and orthodox Christianity in specific. All religion is a construct, that is, it is an idea without any clear proof of fact. It has no empirical basis in reality; we can only know it by what someone else has told us. We can not smell, nor see, nor hear, nor taste, nor can we have a tactile experience with religious thought. We have no a priori relationship with religion; that is, we are not born with a concept of God. This must be learned. A child only knows, “Jesus loves me, yes I know because the Bible tells me so”. Remove the Bible from the argument and there is no argument.
Throughout the entire book Strobel cites “The Jesus Seminar”, a group of 150 biblical scholars who have worked collectively over the past twenty-five years to explore the life and times of Jesus and place him in an historical context. Of course, their conclusions run counter to those of Strobel; therefore, he denigrates them at every turn. This is much like miscoloring a portion of the negative space.
The two seminal questions in the second section, “Analyzing Jesus”, are: was Jesus the Son of God, and did he know it. How do you answer such questions? Here all we can do refer is to the New Testament. Is the Bible a textual history or an edited amalgam of the pieces and bits gathered to support orthodox Christianity. If, in fact, there are answers to the questions, the starting point for discovery would possibly be in the deep corners of the Vatican library. Strobel quotes a Biblical scholar, Dr Carson, “So part of Christian theology has been concerned with not ‘explaining it all away’ but with trying to take the biblical evidence and, retaining all of it fairly, find ways of synthesis that are rationally coherent, even if they’re not exhaustively explanatory”. Thus like any good prosecuting attorney, set the answer then construct the evidence to reach that conclusion.
The resurrection of Jesus is the foundation of orthodox Christianity. If the resurrection were proven false then the whole of western religious thought would crumble bringing down with it a good deal of western civilization.
First what do we know from actual historical records about the crucifixion of Jesus. We now that a person called Jesus of Nazareth was arrested, tried, beaten, made to carry a heavy wooden cross through the streets to Calvary Hill. There he was nailed to the cross members and raised above the ground then his feet were nailed to the upright member. After six hours Joseph of Arimetheia received permission to remove him from the cross if he were in fact dead. We know that his side had been pierced by a roman spear, to what extent we can only guess. After he was removed to a crypt owned by Joseph of Arimetheia his wounds were dressed and he disappeared sometime in the night. That is what we know. All the rest is faith, believing with no guarantee. Stobel presents us with a story founded in biblical references and logic. Here again it become incumbent on the reader to believe or not believe at his own volition.
The great American thinker and psychologist William James ended his essay, “The Will to Believe” with a quote from Liberty, Equality, Fraternity written by Fitz James Stephens.
“What do you think of yourself? What do you think of the world? … These are questions with which all must deal as it seems good to them. They are riddles of the Sphinx, and in some way or other we must deal with them. … In all important transactions of life we have to take a leap in the dark … If we decide to leave the riddles unanswered, that is a choice; if we waver in our answer, that too is a choice: but whatever choice we make, we make it at our peril. If a man chooses to turn his back altogether on God and future, no one can prevent him; no one can show beyond reasonable doubt that he is mistaken. If a man think otherwise and acts as he thinks, I do not see that any one can prove that he is mistaken. Each must act as he thinks best; and if he is wrong, so much the worse for him. We stand on a mountain pass in the midst of whirling snow and blinding mist, through which we get glimpses now and then of paths which may be deceptive. If we stand still we shall be frozen to death. If we take the wrong road we shall be dashed to pieces. We do not certainly know whether there is any right one. What must we do? ‘Be strong and of good courage.’ Act the best, hope for the best, and take what comes… If death ends all, we cannot meet death better”.
In the final analysis all we can do is find someway of thinking, some method of ontological perception, that helps us get through that long, dark metaphysical night.
To further paraphrase William James, we will not know the answers, if in fact there are answers, until the back cover is closed.
By Lee Strobel
A review by Fred Shira
“Whatever gets you through the night”
To quote Tennessee Williams from his play, Suddenly Last Summer: he writes in the tragic voice of Catherine, “We are all of us children in a vast kindergarten trying to spell God’s name with the wrong alphabet blocks”.
Lee Strobel makes no attempt to deceive us with his title, The Case for Christ. He sets forth with lawyerlike precision an argument for the existence of Jesus Christ as presented to us in the four gospels of the New Testament. Strobel, a professional journalist with legal training and experience covering criminal cases for the Chicago Tribune, builds his case with a collection of interviews with some of the world’s most highly reputed biblical scholars. But like any good trial lawyer he hand picks his experts to elicit the answers he needs to advance his theory ignoring those that will refute his theme.
There is no mention of the Nag Hammadi Gospels, the scrolls that were discovered in a cave in 1945 that have been authenticated by the most reputed biblical scholars. These document the fact that there were other gospels as well as those included in the New Testament. Even the Bible tells about seventy apostles, not just twelve. During the first few centuries there were several competing sects for what was to the be the true church. Orthodox Christianity became the strongest movement edging out the others, except for a couple that still survive today: the Coptic Christians of Egypt, and some of the branches of the Eastern Church. The Roman Church was further strengthened during the reign of Constantine; the emperor allegedly gave the power of the Empire to the Church in Rome: “The Gift of Constantine”. Although this was later proven false it did put in place the Golden Rule: “He who has the gold, makes the rules”.
Strobel submits his case to us in three sections with fourteen postulates each requiring that you accept the gospel writers as definitive sources of history. He pays little heed to the fact that the four gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, are self evident with little or no outside confirmation.
In the first section, “Examining the Evidence” Strobel takes down a winding path of assumptions and questionable logic. His first hypothesis is that the Gospels as recorded were handed down to the writers by eye witnesses, and that there were other witnesses to make certain of the accuracy; therefore the stories could not be corrupted by legend. The Gospel of Mark was the first written, and most scholars have concluded that at least six authors made contributions. Mark was written about 70 CE which would have been some forty years after the death of Jesus. Now if you consider that forty years had passed and that the life span was probably around fifty years, or so, the life spans stated in the Bible do not stand-up against biological fact. With fifty years the normal there is little chance that there were many, if any, dependable eye witnesses. In his book, Who Wrote the Gospels, Randel McCraw Helms predicts that there were at least five transitions through the oral phase before they were written down. When you consider the mythology that has grown up around 9/11 in just a few years, it makes any historical approach to the Bible suspect.
Strobel assembles his proposition much like an artist who chooses to fill in the negative space around a painting to reveal the central object. In order to find the clear and truthful picture you need to arrange all the negative space components leaving out none and adding nothing that should not be there. Not only must you have faith in the picture you also must have faith in the artist’s intentions of portraying the truth. Therein lies the quandary: what do you accept at face value and what do you question? Strobel suggests that we use simple logic to determine the truth; however, logic and reason are the two biggest enemies of religion in general, and orthodox Christianity in specific. All religion is a construct, that is, it is an idea without any clear proof of fact. It has no empirical basis in reality; we can only know it by what someone else has told us. We can not smell, nor see, nor hear, nor taste, nor can we have a tactile experience with religious thought. We have no a priori relationship with religion; that is, we are not born with a concept of God. This must be learned. A child only knows, “Jesus loves me, yes I know because the Bible tells me so”. Remove the Bible from the argument and there is no argument.
Throughout the entire book Strobel cites “The Jesus Seminar”, a group of 150 biblical scholars who have worked collectively over the past twenty-five years to explore the life and times of Jesus and place him in an historical context. Of course, their conclusions run counter to those of Strobel; therefore, he denigrates them at every turn. This is much like miscoloring a portion of the negative space.
The two seminal questions in the second section, “Analyzing Jesus”, are: was Jesus the Son of God, and did he know it. How do you answer such questions? Here all we can do refer is to the New Testament. Is the Bible a textual history or an edited amalgam of the pieces and bits gathered to support orthodox Christianity. If, in fact, there are answers to the questions, the starting point for discovery would possibly be in the deep corners of the Vatican library. Strobel quotes a Biblical scholar, Dr Carson, “So part of Christian theology has been concerned with not ‘explaining it all away’ but with trying to take the biblical evidence and, retaining all of it fairly, find ways of synthesis that are rationally coherent, even if they’re not exhaustively explanatory”. Thus like any good prosecuting attorney, set the answer then construct the evidence to reach that conclusion.
The resurrection of Jesus is the foundation of orthodox Christianity. If the resurrection were proven false then the whole of western religious thought would crumble bringing down with it a good deal of western civilization.
First what do we know from actual historical records about the crucifixion of Jesus. We now that a person called Jesus of Nazareth was arrested, tried, beaten, made to carry a heavy wooden cross through the streets to Calvary Hill. There he was nailed to the cross members and raised above the ground then his feet were nailed to the upright member. After six hours Joseph of Arimetheia received permission to remove him from the cross if he were in fact dead. We know that his side had been pierced by a roman spear, to what extent we can only guess. After he was removed to a crypt owned by Joseph of Arimetheia his wounds were dressed and he disappeared sometime in the night. That is what we know. All the rest is faith, believing with no guarantee. Stobel presents us with a story founded in biblical references and logic. Here again it become incumbent on the reader to believe or not believe at his own volition.
The great American thinker and psychologist William James ended his essay, “The Will to Believe” with a quote from Liberty, Equality, Fraternity written by Fitz James Stephens.
“What do you think of yourself? What do you think of the world? … These are questions with which all must deal as it seems good to them. They are riddles of the Sphinx, and in some way or other we must deal with them. … In all important transactions of life we have to take a leap in the dark … If we decide to leave the riddles unanswered, that is a choice; if we waver in our answer, that too is a choice: but whatever choice we make, we make it at our peril. If a man chooses to turn his back altogether on God and future, no one can prevent him; no one can show beyond reasonable doubt that he is mistaken. If a man think otherwise and acts as he thinks, I do not see that any one can prove that he is mistaken. Each must act as he thinks best; and if he is wrong, so much the worse for him. We stand on a mountain pass in the midst of whirling snow and blinding mist, through which we get glimpses now and then of paths which may be deceptive. If we stand still we shall be frozen to death. If we take the wrong road we shall be dashed to pieces. We do not certainly know whether there is any right one. What must we do? ‘Be strong and of good courage.’ Act the best, hope for the best, and take what comes… If death ends all, we cannot meet death better”.
In the final analysis all we can do is find someway of thinking, some method of ontological perception, that helps us get through that long, dark metaphysical night.
To further paraphrase William James, we will not know the answers, if in fact there are answers, until the back cover is closed.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Owain’s Own
By John Corns
Review by
Fred Shira
The Owain referred to in the title Owains’s Own refers to the hero of Welsh folklore, Owain Glyndwr, anglicized by William Shakespeare, Owen Glendower who in the fourteenth century was born into an aristocratic family that lived and owned property along the Welsh and English border. After the death of his father, Owain was sent to London to study law. While in London he witnessed the failed Peasants Revolt of 1381 when they rose up seeking to abolish serfdom. In 1383 he returned to Wales, established himself as a country squire, and started what was to be a large family.
In 1401 Owain broke away from England and, along with his followers, crowned himself Prince of Wales. From 1401 to 1412 he was involved in the popular Welsh Revolt, Glyndwr Rising or the Last War of Independence. With the loss of several battles and the shifting of English politics, he simply disappeared from the history books leaving his later life to the imagination of the historians. But, from this lost rebellion Owain Glyndwr galloped into Welsh mythology and the history books.
There have been roughly 65,000 books written about the Civil War. They have covered every battle from nearly every perspective. There are books on sex during the Civil War and cook books from the Civil War. I sometimes wonder if there is a receipt for cooking corn bread on a rifle ram; this was very common place.
John Corns is a retired Army General with a deal of combat experience during the Viet Nam war. He brings that experience to his story. One of the most interesting things about this story is that it tells us something about a part of the war that has not been over written: the war in the Appalachian Highlands of what was then Virginia. In comparison to the great battles of the war this section of the country witnessed only minor skirmishes; albeit if any battle can be considered minor when brave men fight and die.
Owain’s Own is a chronicle of the life of James M. Corns from his days as a young man in Wales through his experiences in the war to his ultimate end. In the mid-nineteenth century James, call Jamie, lives with his parents on a farm in Wales. The farm was owned by an absentee owner who could simply throw the family off the farm at any given whim.
Here’s an interesting note: In mid-century it became very fashionable for the London gentry to clear their farms and make them into hunting preserves. The Crofters (farmers) of Scotland had been on their farms for generations when they were simply turned out with no where to go. Harriet Beecher Stowe the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Life Among the Lowly that heralded the mistreatment of the slaves of the US South wrote how wonderful it was to go to the hunting preserves: a bit of irony here. Many of the Crofters settled in Nova Scotia.
Jamie and his friend, virtual brother, Gareth, left for America leaving behind a cloud of rebellious activity. Upon leaving Jamie’s father counseled him to go to American and own land: land where he could not be expelled simply by caprice. He and Gareth land in Philadelphia where Jamie finds employment in the construction business. He learns the trade of masonry and grows to own a contracting company of his own. He falls in love and marries but at the expense of his friend, Gareth. After some difficulties with his business he moves to Virginia with a short stop over in western Pennsylvania at his wife’s parents.
In Virginia with the help of an uncle he acquires a small farm and begins a new life and expands his family. Things go along fine until Virginia’s secession from the Union and war breaks out. Jamie feels that he should serve to protect his land, and he believes in the Southern Cause. He serves loyally and fights bravely and is promoted to the rank of colonel. It is during the war that he begins to experience problems with him family. He is ambivalent about his duty to his soldiers and his wife and children. His reason for joining becomes clouded with the separation of West Virginia. Is he still protecting his land from the Union when it is now part of the Union? This becomes a very interesting point. In 1861 after a dubious election and a questionable interpretation of the Constitution western Virginia is formed into a separate state: West Virginia. As you can imagine this would have put the men who joined the confederacy into quite a quandary. Just where do they stand. A good question for the historians.
John Corns gives us a very good compelling look at the history and geography of the mountains of West Virginia. He writes a love story like a historian lacking the florid language of a poet, but none-the-less he spins a good tale.
.
By John Corns
Review by
Fred Shira
The Owain referred to in the title Owains’s Own refers to the hero of Welsh folklore, Owain Glyndwr, anglicized by William Shakespeare, Owen Glendower who in the fourteenth century was born into an aristocratic family that lived and owned property along the Welsh and English border. After the death of his father, Owain was sent to London to study law. While in London he witnessed the failed Peasants Revolt of 1381 when they rose up seeking to abolish serfdom. In 1383 he returned to Wales, established himself as a country squire, and started what was to be a large family.
In 1401 Owain broke away from England and, along with his followers, crowned himself Prince of Wales. From 1401 to 1412 he was involved in the popular Welsh Revolt, Glyndwr Rising or the Last War of Independence. With the loss of several battles and the shifting of English politics, he simply disappeared from the history books leaving his later life to the imagination of the historians. But, from this lost rebellion Owain Glyndwr galloped into Welsh mythology and the history books.
There have been roughly 65,000 books written about the Civil War. They have covered every battle from nearly every perspective. There are books on sex during the Civil War and cook books from the Civil War. I sometimes wonder if there is a receipt for cooking corn bread on a rifle ram; this was very common place.
John Corns is a retired Army General with a deal of combat experience during the Viet Nam war. He brings that experience to his story. One of the most interesting things about this story is that it tells us something about a part of the war that has not been over written: the war in the Appalachian Highlands of what was then Virginia. In comparison to the great battles of the war this section of the country witnessed only minor skirmishes; albeit if any battle can be considered minor when brave men fight and die.
Owain’s Own is a chronicle of the life of James M. Corns from his days as a young man in Wales through his experiences in the war to his ultimate end. In the mid-nineteenth century James, call Jamie, lives with his parents on a farm in Wales. The farm was owned by an absentee owner who could simply throw the family off the farm at any given whim.
Here’s an interesting note: In mid-century it became very fashionable for the London gentry to clear their farms and make them into hunting preserves. The Crofters (farmers) of Scotland had been on their farms for generations when they were simply turned out with no where to go. Harriet Beecher Stowe the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Life Among the Lowly that heralded the mistreatment of the slaves of the US South wrote how wonderful it was to go to the hunting preserves: a bit of irony here. Many of the Crofters settled in Nova Scotia.
Jamie and his friend, virtual brother, Gareth, left for America leaving behind a cloud of rebellious activity. Upon leaving Jamie’s father counseled him to go to American and own land: land where he could not be expelled simply by caprice. He and Gareth land in Philadelphia where Jamie finds employment in the construction business. He learns the trade of masonry and grows to own a contracting company of his own. He falls in love and marries but at the expense of his friend, Gareth. After some difficulties with his business he moves to Virginia with a short stop over in western Pennsylvania at his wife’s parents.
In Virginia with the help of an uncle he acquires a small farm and begins a new life and expands his family. Things go along fine until Virginia’s secession from the Union and war breaks out. Jamie feels that he should serve to protect his land, and he believes in the Southern Cause. He serves loyally and fights bravely and is promoted to the rank of colonel. It is during the war that he begins to experience problems with him family. He is ambivalent about his duty to his soldiers and his wife and children. His reason for joining becomes clouded with the separation of West Virginia. Is he still protecting his land from the Union when it is now part of the Union? This becomes a very interesting point. In 1861 after a dubious election and a questionable interpretation of the Constitution western Virginia is formed into a separate state: West Virginia. As you can imagine this would have put the men who joined the confederacy into quite a quandary. Just where do they stand. A good question for the historians.
John Corns gives us a very good compelling look at the history and geography of the mountains of West Virginia. He writes a love story like a historian lacking the florid language of a poet, but none-the-less he spins a good tale.
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Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Red Jacket
THE RED JACKET
Grandfather said:
“By 1948 the world had got pretty much back to normal, or as normal as it was going to get with the Russians lurking around every corner. All the men who went off to war had come home, at least those that were coming home; they bought new homes with mortgages, went to school on the GI bill, had kids, joined the Masons, purchased new cars with car payments, and gave their wives Mixmasters for Christmas. I was ten and the world looked pretty promising.
“One day, Todd, my friend, came by on his bicycle and said, ‘Come on let’s go down to Albertson’s Department Store there’s this neat jacket in the window’. I asked my mother if I could go, and off we went. And there it was in the window: a red jacket with white stripes down the sleeves made out of this silky stuff. And, on the back was the sign for The Chicago Cubs, my baseball team. I wanted that jacket. It cost ten dollars. I rode home as fast as I could and asked my mother if I could have ten dollars to buy that jacket. It was so neat. My mother said, ‘Honey, we just can’t spend ten dollars right now, and it doesn’t sound like a jacket that your little sister could wear when you out grow it’. Nearly my entire wardrobe was ‘hand me downs’ from my cousins; I only got new clothes at Christmas when I wanted a bicycle or something. I just had to have that jacket. Wow, the Chicago Cubs!
“At the beginning of summer my dad would give me two dollars and tell me it was for spending money, and I had to share it with my sister. Mostly we would spend it at the ice cream truck that came around each day. You could get a big ice cream bar for just a nickel. So the two dollars would last us most of the summer. But this summer my dad gave me my two dollars and shook my hand just like a grown up then turned around and gave my sister two dollars too. On one hand that was a good thing because I didn’t have to share my two dollars with my little sister, but why should she get two dollars. She was only six years old. She should only get, maybe, seventy five cents. But I was glad I had two dollars for the jacket, and only eight more to go.
“But how was I going to get eight dollars. That was a lot of money. I thought maybe I could go around the neighborhood and see if anyone needed any help with the yard or something like that. Then one Wednesday I was sitting on the curb in front of our house when this guy named Raymond came by and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to figure out some way to make some money. Then he said, ‘I’ll give you a dollar if you sit right here and watch for Mr. Clark’, the Clarks lived just down the street from us. He told me that I was to watch for Mr. Clark, and when I saw him, I was to run up to the door at the Clarks and yell that Mr. Clark was coming home. And for that I would get a dollar.
“I sat right there on that curb, and Mr. Clark never came home. A while later Raymond came out of the alley and gave me a dollar. Now I had three dollars. I only needed seven more. I did this for the next two Wednesdays and got a dollar each time. Now I had five dollars. I was half way to wearing that neat jacket.
“Then on the third Wednesday while I was sitting there reading a comic book waiting to get my dollar from Raymond, I saw Mr. Clark’s car turn at the corner and come up the street. I shut that comic book and ran to the Clark’s house opened the screen door and yelled, ‘Mr. Clark is coming home’. Then I went back to the curb and waited for Raymond to come with my dollar.
“I waited and waited and Raymond didn’t come. So I got up and walked back to the alley to see if I could get my dollar. I found Raymond there behind a big bush. He didn’t have any clothes on. I asked him if I could have my dollar because that would give me six dollars and the jacket cost ten dollars. He told me that if I went to the Clark’s front door Mrs. Clark would give me a package. Then he would give me two dollars. I ask him if that was one regular dollar and another dollar or was that one regular dollar and two other dollars. He told me that he would give me my regular dollar and then another two dollars. Man, that was three dollars. That would give me eight dollars. Only two to go.
“I knocked on the Clark’s front door and Mrs. Clark came to the door carrying a big package. She handed me the package and kind of looked over her shoulder and said kind of loud that I was to take this to my mother. She handed me a dollar too. Now this was something. I didn’t know if this was one of Raymond’s dollars or not or If this was a whole ‘nother dollar. If it was a whole ‘nother dollar that would give me nine dollars. Wow, only one dollar to go.
“So I ran quickly to our house and gave my mother the package. She looked kind of surprised, but I didn’t care I was going to get three dollars for picking it up.
“I ran back to the bush in the alley and told Raymond that I got the package from Mrs. Clark and took it to my mother just like she said. He got real mad at me. I asked him if I could still have my three dollars, because I took the package to my mother just like Mrs. Clark said. He told me he would give me four dollars if I would help him find a sheet or a blanket on a clothesline along the alley. I told him I would rather just have my three dollars now. He got mad again.
“So, I walked along the alley looking into the back yards, and I saw some sheets hanging on the Sharp’s clothesline. I went to the house and asked Mrs. Sharp if Raymond could borrow a sheet. She just laughed and said that she needed all of her sheets. So, I walked along the alley some more and found an old blanket by the Frank’s trash can. I took it to Raymond, and he wrapped it around himself and ran down the alley. I ran after him asking if I could have my four dollars now. But he just kept running out of our neighborhood where I wasn’t allowed to follow him.
“I wanted my four dollars. That’s ten dollars I could get that neat jacket. Then I got an idea. Maybe Mr. or Mrs. Clark would help me get the four dollars since that’s where Raymond visited. He must have been a real good friend of theirs. Maybe they would pay me the four dollars then they could get it back from Raymond.
“I knocked on the Clark’s door and Mr. Clark opened the door. I explained to him, ’on Wednesdays Raymond would pay me a dollar to tell him when you were coming home but you didn’t come home except for today and I ran to the door and hollered just like I was supposed to because you were coming home but today he must have lost his clothes because he was in the alley behind a bush and he had promised to pay me four dollars to get him a sheet off a clothesline but Mrs. Sharp said she needed hers so I found a blanket by the Franks’ trashcan and gave it to Raymond who was still behind the bush he took the blanket and ran down the alley but I couldn’t follow him because I wasn’t allowed to go that far and since you and Mrs. Clark were friends of Raymond could you help me get my four dollars because there was this jacket at Albertson’s Department Store that Todd showed me and it had the Chicago Cubs on the back and the Chicago Cubs was my favorite baseball team’. Mr. Clark looked real mad. He hollered ‘Gladys’ and slammed the door.
“I never did get that four dollars. Todd and I rode down to Albertsons Department Store and looked at the jacket again. You know, it was a crummy jacket anyway”.
Grandfather said:
“By 1948 the world had got pretty much back to normal, or as normal as it was going to get with the Russians lurking around every corner. All the men who went off to war had come home, at least those that were coming home; they bought new homes with mortgages, went to school on the GI bill, had kids, joined the Masons, purchased new cars with car payments, and gave their wives Mixmasters for Christmas. I was ten and the world looked pretty promising.
“One day, Todd, my friend, came by on his bicycle and said, ‘Come on let’s go down to Albertson’s Department Store there’s this neat jacket in the window’. I asked my mother if I could go, and off we went. And there it was in the window: a red jacket with white stripes down the sleeves made out of this silky stuff. And, on the back was the sign for The Chicago Cubs, my baseball team. I wanted that jacket. It cost ten dollars. I rode home as fast as I could and asked my mother if I could have ten dollars to buy that jacket. It was so neat. My mother said, ‘Honey, we just can’t spend ten dollars right now, and it doesn’t sound like a jacket that your little sister could wear when you out grow it’. Nearly my entire wardrobe was ‘hand me downs’ from my cousins; I only got new clothes at Christmas when I wanted a bicycle or something. I just had to have that jacket. Wow, the Chicago Cubs!
“At the beginning of summer my dad would give me two dollars and tell me it was for spending money, and I had to share it with my sister. Mostly we would spend it at the ice cream truck that came around each day. You could get a big ice cream bar for just a nickel. So the two dollars would last us most of the summer. But this summer my dad gave me my two dollars and shook my hand just like a grown up then turned around and gave my sister two dollars too. On one hand that was a good thing because I didn’t have to share my two dollars with my little sister, but why should she get two dollars. She was only six years old. She should only get, maybe, seventy five cents. But I was glad I had two dollars for the jacket, and only eight more to go.
“But how was I going to get eight dollars. That was a lot of money. I thought maybe I could go around the neighborhood and see if anyone needed any help with the yard or something like that. Then one Wednesday I was sitting on the curb in front of our house when this guy named Raymond came by and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to figure out some way to make some money. Then he said, ‘I’ll give you a dollar if you sit right here and watch for Mr. Clark’, the Clarks lived just down the street from us. He told me that I was to watch for Mr. Clark, and when I saw him, I was to run up to the door at the Clarks and yell that Mr. Clark was coming home. And for that I would get a dollar.
“I sat right there on that curb, and Mr. Clark never came home. A while later Raymond came out of the alley and gave me a dollar. Now I had three dollars. I only needed seven more. I did this for the next two Wednesdays and got a dollar each time. Now I had five dollars. I was half way to wearing that neat jacket.
“Then on the third Wednesday while I was sitting there reading a comic book waiting to get my dollar from Raymond, I saw Mr. Clark’s car turn at the corner and come up the street. I shut that comic book and ran to the Clark’s house opened the screen door and yelled, ‘Mr. Clark is coming home’. Then I went back to the curb and waited for Raymond to come with my dollar.
“I waited and waited and Raymond didn’t come. So I got up and walked back to the alley to see if I could get my dollar. I found Raymond there behind a big bush. He didn’t have any clothes on. I asked him if I could have my dollar because that would give me six dollars and the jacket cost ten dollars. He told me that if I went to the Clark’s front door Mrs. Clark would give me a package. Then he would give me two dollars. I ask him if that was one regular dollar and another dollar or was that one regular dollar and two other dollars. He told me that he would give me my regular dollar and then another two dollars. Man, that was three dollars. That would give me eight dollars. Only two to go.
“I knocked on the Clark’s front door and Mrs. Clark came to the door carrying a big package. She handed me the package and kind of looked over her shoulder and said kind of loud that I was to take this to my mother. She handed me a dollar too. Now this was something. I didn’t know if this was one of Raymond’s dollars or not or If this was a whole ‘nother dollar. If it was a whole ‘nother dollar that would give me nine dollars. Wow, only one dollar to go.
“So I ran quickly to our house and gave my mother the package. She looked kind of surprised, but I didn’t care I was going to get three dollars for picking it up.
“I ran back to the bush in the alley and told Raymond that I got the package from Mrs. Clark and took it to my mother just like she said. He got real mad at me. I asked him if I could still have my three dollars, because I took the package to my mother just like Mrs. Clark said. He told me he would give me four dollars if I would help him find a sheet or a blanket on a clothesline along the alley. I told him I would rather just have my three dollars now. He got mad again.
“So, I walked along the alley looking into the back yards, and I saw some sheets hanging on the Sharp’s clothesline. I went to the house and asked Mrs. Sharp if Raymond could borrow a sheet. She just laughed and said that she needed all of her sheets. So, I walked along the alley some more and found an old blanket by the Frank’s trash can. I took it to Raymond, and he wrapped it around himself and ran down the alley. I ran after him asking if I could have my four dollars now. But he just kept running out of our neighborhood where I wasn’t allowed to follow him.
“I wanted my four dollars. That’s ten dollars I could get that neat jacket. Then I got an idea. Maybe Mr. or Mrs. Clark would help me get the four dollars since that’s where Raymond visited. He must have been a real good friend of theirs. Maybe they would pay me the four dollars then they could get it back from Raymond.
“I knocked on the Clark’s door and Mr. Clark opened the door. I explained to him, ’on Wednesdays Raymond would pay me a dollar to tell him when you were coming home but you didn’t come home except for today and I ran to the door and hollered just like I was supposed to because you were coming home but today he must have lost his clothes because he was in the alley behind a bush and he had promised to pay me four dollars to get him a sheet off a clothesline but Mrs. Sharp said she needed hers so I found a blanket by the Franks’ trashcan and gave it to Raymond who was still behind the bush he took the blanket and ran down the alley but I couldn’t follow him because I wasn’t allowed to go that far and since you and Mrs. Clark were friends of Raymond could you help me get my four dollars because there was this jacket at Albertson’s Department Store that Todd showed me and it had the Chicago Cubs on the back and the Chicago Cubs was my favorite baseball team’. Mr. Clark looked real mad. He hollered ‘Gladys’ and slammed the door.
“I never did get that four dollars. Todd and I rode down to Albertsons Department Store and looked at the jacket again. You know, it was a crummy jacket anyway”.
I wish I had a purse
I WISH I HAD A PURSE
I just read a piece by Nora Ephron. It was titled, “I hate my purse”. In this piece she bemoans the fact that she must carry a purse just to have the things close by that she needs for everyday living. Actually, the way she describes it she has enough to outlast a minor siege.
Men, don’t carry purses. I’m not sure why. Maybe, it’s because we have to have both arms free to do the things that men have to do. I mean how could you fight off a mugger if you had one arm out of commission holding a purse. I suppose you could hit him with your purse, but that would sound bad when you told the story down at the pool hall, or while drinking beer with the guys. Who would want to be considered a purse hitter. Men simply would not do that. Maybe another reason for not carrying a purse is that it would hamper you when you needed to climb a tree to save a kitten, or climb a tower to rescue a damsel in distress. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a damsel, but I’m just saying. We go through life having to be prepared for all sorts of emergencies that would prevent us from carrying a purse. Some Italian men have worked this out. I think they just purposely avoid situations where they would be called on to use both hands. Well, real American men would never shirk their responsibility, and you never know what lurks around the corner.
I work sort of an inside outside job. Actually I own a construction management company that supervises the construction of sewage treatment plants, a noble job but a stinky one. I like to watch the look on peoples face when I tell them that I am in sewage then walk away with-out explaining. Most days I am in and out of an office trailer or an office building. And, during the winter I have to dress for the cold.
When it’s cold outside I wear a coat, then when it’s particularly cold I wear a vest along with the coat. Now consider this: I have four pockets in my pants, four pockets on the outside of my coat then two on the inside, two pockets in my vest, and two in my shirt, that makes fourteen pockets for me to carry the all the tools of my trade and weapons of manly responsibility.
With winter coming on I went into the attic to get out my winter clothing. I have a very good green Carhart coat and a matching vest, although it’s brown. Carhart makes a real mans’ coat. I mean this coat can not only keep out the cold, but when combined with a Carhart vest they can stop up to a .38 caliber bullet—I think. This is tough he-man clothing. If the pioneers would have had Carhart the west would have been settled fifty years sooner.
As I brought my Carhart armor down from the attic, I went through the pockets to see if I had any of the tools and weapons that I needed left over from last year. I found a number of vital things: in one pocket there was this gray furry hard thing that turned out to be a lemon ball. I want to keep this in case I need a sugar fix while at the plant. I also found a receipt for a custom pool cue that cost $800; I told Mary that I bought it used for $25, then told her when the credit card bill came that Meucci was a specialized testing firm, and I would have to bill it out. I don’t know how I’m going to pull this off, but I’m clever. Someday when she’s in a real good mood, I’ll laugh and tell her, “Boy, I got you on that one”, then hope she thinks I’m witty. That I have to destroy by fire; simply throwing it way will never do. I found a post-it telling me I had a doctor’s appointment that I missed: the doctor makes me pay whether I make it or not if I don’t cancel at least twenty-four hours in advance. No one pays me anything when they don’t show up, but, then, I don’t save lives I only build places to deal with their poop. I found several gas receipts that Mary had first asked me for, then demanded I give it her. I think I told her the machine was broken and wouldn’t give receipts. I found some gooey stuff that resembles something that came from the plant; some things are better left unknown. I’ll have to scrape it sometime this winter, and I have to remember that that pocket is out of commission. In a vest pocket I found a watch. I thought it cool one time to have a pocket watch with the fob hanging out then pulling out the watch, flipping open the lid, reading the time like they did in the cowboy movies. I don’t think it works anymore, but I’ll keep it anyway.
Women have to carry many more things than men do. For instance, men don’t need cosmetics, at least most men. None of us need to carry tampons, that’s for certain. We never carry tissues; that’s not a man item. We carry handkerchiefs, or at least we are supposed to. We are not allowed to carry the check book, and only a small amount of cash. If we get too much cash we tend to get in trouble. My kids help with the cash monitoring. I used to have cash in my pocket. I could pull out a knot and peal off some bills. Then I got children, and now I have no cash. We may be allowed to carry a credit card with strict instructions to keep every receipt and write down anything you buy on the phone or internet. No excuses. There is an implied death threat with this one.
Women have several rings, so they can organize their keys. They have a ring for their house keys, a ring for their car keys, and another ring for other keys that might have. Men just bunch everything up on one giant ring. Some as a badge of honor clip it to their belt so all can see that they are important people; they have the keys. On these outside rings men will carry a flashlight, a bottle opener, even though beer bottles have screw off caps, you never know, or even a Swiss army knife with twenty-five blades complete with magnifying glass. I would bet you they can’t tell you where all these keys go.
Women have to carry things for kids to play with while waiting in a restaurant, and many, many more items that are foreign to men. They keep this all well organized in the various compartments and purse pockets. There is never a time that I can’t ask Mary for something in her purse that she can’t direct me to the exact compartment and the position the thing holds. They can walk along the street with this hung over their like it is an appendage to their body. No matter the occasion they are ready. War, famine, pestilence, no matter bring it on.
Sometimes I think I do pretty well with my fourteen pockets, or thirteen with one temporarily out of commission. I only carry the things that I need to go about my day. I carry a Buck pocket knife big enough to skin a bear, again you never know. I have a cell phone that rings then hides in one of my pockets. I have to search frantically trying to find it before the answering thing takes over. I have one of those pocket computers that allows me to access the internet where I have every bit of the fund of human knowledge from the beginning of time at my finger tips. I never use this because I don’t know how to work the little software programs, and the battery is invariably discharged when I try. But, I carry it anyway; people think I’m a right up-to-date guy. Mary bought me this nice leather cover noted pad; it even has a pen in a little loop on the inside. My instructions were, “Write it down!” This was said with authority. I sometimes have trouble remembering things. It seems I forget more things that I used to. Oh, I can remember Connie’s phone number from the ninth grade, and I can remember Leslie’s grandfather’s amateur radio call sign, but I can’t remember the pin number for the bank. Some days I think I could hide my own Easter eggs.
When I stop for coffee early in the morning, I stuff any available pockets with goodies to get me through the day, and to sustain me if I am taken hostage by some crazed sewage robber. I really drink tea, but coffee sounds more manly.
Then I got a lap-top computer. This worked great. I could carry it with me and have all the plans, specs, e-mail and everything else right at my fingertips. But, it will not fit into any of my fourteen pockets. It doesn’t work for me to carry it in one of those padded cases designed to protect it and keep it handy. I tried this but I was always walking off and leaving it then spending the rest of the day backtracking trying to find it before it either got stolen, or knocked in a tank of you know what. I thought of getting a backpack. This seemed like a good Idea. But thought about how I would look like a Sherpa traipsing along looking for some mountain to climb.
The other day I bought one of those new ten inch lap-top computers. This is the thing—snazzy. It is small enough to carry around and big enough to be able to read things. This is the answer. But, it still will not fit into any of my pockets.
If I only had the nerve to carry one of those big purses that women have wrapped around their shoulders, I could stick my new computer in it. I could get myself organized and be able to find my cell phone when it rings. I could just stick my hand down in the designated pocket and get my pad when I need to write something down. This would be my shoulder office.
Now if I was to carry a purse, I wouldn’t want just any old purse. No, I want something like a Gucci bag, or at least a knock off Gucci bag. I want one of those designer bags that you see on television. If I’m going to do it, I want to do it in style.
And, if I do decide to start carrying a purse, I have to practice saying, “Yeah, that’s a purse. You wanna fight about it?”
I just read a piece by Nora Ephron. It was titled, “I hate my purse”. In this piece she bemoans the fact that she must carry a purse just to have the things close by that she needs for everyday living. Actually, the way she describes it she has enough to outlast a minor siege.
Men, don’t carry purses. I’m not sure why. Maybe, it’s because we have to have both arms free to do the things that men have to do. I mean how could you fight off a mugger if you had one arm out of commission holding a purse. I suppose you could hit him with your purse, but that would sound bad when you told the story down at the pool hall, or while drinking beer with the guys. Who would want to be considered a purse hitter. Men simply would not do that. Maybe another reason for not carrying a purse is that it would hamper you when you needed to climb a tree to save a kitten, or climb a tower to rescue a damsel in distress. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a damsel, but I’m just saying. We go through life having to be prepared for all sorts of emergencies that would prevent us from carrying a purse. Some Italian men have worked this out. I think they just purposely avoid situations where they would be called on to use both hands. Well, real American men would never shirk their responsibility, and you never know what lurks around the corner.
I work sort of an inside outside job. Actually I own a construction management company that supervises the construction of sewage treatment plants, a noble job but a stinky one. I like to watch the look on peoples face when I tell them that I am in sewage then walk away with-out explaining. Most days I am in and out of an office trailer or an office building. And, during the winter I have to dress for the cold.
When it’s cold outside I wear a coat, then when it’s particularly cold I wear a vest along with the coat. Now consider this: I have four pockets in my pants, four pockets on the outside of my coat then two on the inside, two pockets in my vest, and two in my shirt, that makes fourteen pockets for me to carry the all the tools of my trade and weapons of manly responsibility.
With winter coming on I went into the attic to get out my winter clothing. I have a very good green Carhart coat and a matching vest, although it’s brown. Carhart makes a real mans’ coat. I mean this coat can not only keep out the cold, but when combined with a Carhart vest they can stop up to a .38 caliber bullet—I think. This is tough he-man clothing. If the pioneers would have had Carhart the west would have been settled fifty years sooner.
As I brought my Carhart armor down from the attic, I went through the pockets to see if I had any of the tools and weapons that I needed left over from last year. I found a number of vital things: in one pocket there was this gray furry hard thing that turned out to be a lemon ball. I want to keep this in case I need a sugar fix while at the plant. I also found a receipt for a custom pool cue that cost $800; I told Mary that I bought it used for $25, then told her when the credit card bill came that Meucci was a specialized testing firm, and I would have to bill it out. I don’t know how I’m going to pull this off, but I’m clever. Someday when she’s in a real good mood, I’ll laugh and tell her, “Boy, I got you on that one”, then hope she thinks I’m witty. That I have to destroy by fire; simply throwing it way will never do. I found a post-it telling me I had a doctor’s appointment that I missed: the doctor makes me pay whether I make it or not if I don’t cancel at least twenty-four hours in advance. No one pays me anything when they don’t show up, but, then, I don’t save lives I only build places to deal with their poop. I found several gas receipts that Mary had first asked me for, then demanded I give it her. I think I told her the machine was broken and wouldn’t give receipts. I found some gooey stuff that resembles something that came from the plant; some things are better left unknown. I’ll have to scrape it sometime this winter, and I have to remember that that pocket is out of commission. In a vest pocket I found a watch. I thought it cool one time to have a pocket watch with the fob hanging out then pulling out the watch, flipping open the lid, reading the time like they did in the cowboy movies. I don’t think it works anymore, but I’ll keep it anyway.
Women have to carry many more things than men do. For instance, men don’t need cosmetics, at least most men. None of us need to carry tampons, that’s for certain. We never carry tissues; that’s not a man item. We carry handkerchiefs, or at least we are supposed to. We are not allowed to carry the check book, and only a small amount of cash. If we get too much cash we tend to get in trouble. My kids help with the cash monitoring. I used to have cash in my pocket. I could pull out a knot and peal off some bills. Then I got children, and now I have no cash. We may be allowed to carry a credit card with strict instructions to keep every receipt and write down anything you buy on the phone or internet. No excuses. There is an implied death threat with this one.
Women have several rings, so they can organize their keys. They have a ring for their house keys, a ring for their car keys, and another ring for other keys that might have. Men just bunch everything up on one giant ring. Some as a badge of honor clip it to their belt so all can see that they are important people; they have the keys. On these outside rings men will carry a flashlight, a bottle opener, even though beer bottles have screw off caps, you never know, or even a Swiss army knife with twenty-five blades complete with magnifying glass. I would bet you they can’t tell you where all these keys go.
Women have to carry things for kids to play with while waiting in a restaurant, and many, many more items that are foreign to men. They keep this all well organized in the various compartments and purse pockets. There is never a time that I can’t ask Mary for something in her purse that she can’t direct me to the exact compartment and the position the thing holds. They can walk along the street with this hung over their like it is an appendage to their body. No matter the occasion they are ready. War, famine, pestilence, no matter bring it on.
Sometimes I think I do pretty well with my fourteen pockets, or thirteen with one temporarily out of commission. I only carry the things that I need to go about my day. I carry a Buck pocket knife big enough to skin a bear, again you never know. I have a cell phone that rings then hides in one of my pockets. I have to search frantically trying to find it before the answering thing takes over. I have one of those pocket computers that allows me to access the internet where I have every bit of the fund of human knowledge from the beginning of time at my finger tips. I never use this because I don’t know how to work the little software programs, and the battery is invariably discharged when I try. But, I carry it anyway; people think I’m a right up-to-date guy. Mary bought me this nice leather cover noted pad; it even has a pen in a little loop on the inside. My instructions were, “Write it down!” This was said with authority. I sometimes have trouble remembering things. It seems I forget more things that I used to. Oh, I can remember Connie’s phone number from the ninth grade, and I can remember Leslie’s grandfather’s amateur radio call sign, but I can’t remember the pin number for the bank. Some days I think I could hide my own Easter eggs.
When I stop for coffee early in the morning, I stuff any available pockets with goodies to get me through the day, and to sustain me if I am taken hostage by some crazed sewage robber. I really drink tea, but coffee sounds more manly.
Then I got a lap-top computer. This worked great. I could carry it with me and have all the plans, specs, e-mail and everything else right at my fingertips. But, it will not fit into any of my fourteen pockets. It doesn’t work for me to carry it in one of those padded cases designed to protect it and keep it handy. I tried this but I was always walking off and leaving it then spending the rest of the day backtracking trying to find it before it either got stolen, or knocked in a tank of you know what. I thought of getting a backpack. This seemed like a good Idea. But thought about how I would look like a Sherpa traipsing along looking for some mountain to climb.
The other day I bought one of those new ten inch lap-top computers. This is the thing—snazzy. It is small enough to carry around and big enough to be able to read things. This is the answer. But, it still will not fit into any of my pockets.
If I only had the nerve to carry one of those big purses that women have wrapped around their shoulders, I could stick my new computer in it. I could get myself organized and be able to find my cell phone when it rings. I could just stick my hand down in the designated pocket and get my pad when I need to write something down. This would be my shoulder office.
Now if I was to carry a purse, I wouldn’t want just any old purse. No, I want something like a Gucci bag, or at least a knock off Gucci bag. I want one of those designer bags that you see on television. If I’m going to do it, I want to do it in style.
And, if I do decide to start carrying a purse, I have to practice saying, “Yeah, that’s a purse. You wanna fight about it?”
Charlie's Boots
Charlie’s Boots
I have worn boots most of my life. Boots have helped to define just who I am. Now I wear tassel loafers; that should tell you something about me today. I was raised in the sand hill, tumbleweed, no rain part of Kansas. And, if you are brought up in Dodge City and have something to do with horses; you wear cowboy boots. Point of fact, no question. I probably started wearing cowboy boots at a pretty early age; I don’t remember exactly. But, I’m sure I did.
I don’t remember how old I was but we were still in the bicycle stage. There was this kid named Charlie who had a pair of boots. These were not any ordinary boots, these were BOOTS. They were black cowboy boots with pointy toes, so pointy that he could have kicked a hole in almost anything he set his mind to. They had red, white, and blue eagles inlaid in the stove pipe stops that went almost up to his knees. The vamps, that’s the bottom or foot part, had red leather sewn on them kind of like wing tips.
These were the coolest boots I had ever seen. How I envied Charlie. Any kid that had boots like this had to be way off the cool scale.
One Saturday morning I happened to be at the Montgomery Wards store for some inane kid reason, and I ran into Charlie. And, you will simply not believe this: he was buying a black leather motorcycle jacket. I mean he was buying a black leather jacket. Man, if having the boots was not cool enough the black leather jacket with all the zippers and buckles blew him out of this world. He was five dollars short , and I felt such a honor to loan it to him. After all I was contributing to improving the coolness of the world.
Charley would wear his boots and that jacket riding his bicycle all over town. Although I didn’t see it, people would stop their cars when he road by thankful just to be in the same world with this cool guy. Shop keepers would leave their stores and come out on the sidewalk to watch him go down the street. I’m sure they wished that he would come to their store to buy something just so they could tell him, “There’s no charge, Charlie, just having you stop in is the bright spot of my day”. Charlie with his boots and jacket was the paragon of coolness, the zenith of our teen aspirations.
From then on Charlie set the “cool” mark for me. And, maybe the only time I got close was in the middle 70’s. DISCO TIME. This was when they had music where even white people could find the beat. It was the time of Gloria Gaynor, “I will survive”, and George Clinton, “Burn Baby Burn” and Donna Summer, “Let Dance”. And dance we did. There were Disco clubs all over the place. I spend one winter in South Carolina at a racehorse training center. And everybody knows where there are horses there are women. And, I was single, and Aiken hosted three disco places. WOW!
I moved to New York City and worked as an exercise rider at Belmont Park. New York City is the most exciting city in the world; it has the absolute worst and the absolute best of everything. I took to it like a monkey to a football.
Now check this out. I bought a pair of Kroop high heel exercise boots, they are sort of cool, not as cool as Charlie’s but okay. I wore starched and iron jeans, turtle neck shirts, and a leather sport coat.
I had a full beard which I kept well coifed and a small gold ring in my left ear. I topped this off with a fedora like Indiana Jones wears on his big adventures. I was studying writing at the New School in Greenwich Village and fencing at the Santelli Fencing Saloon on Sixth avenue. And on top of that I was riding horses for a living.
How cool was I. About two notches below Charlie.
I have worn boots most of my life. Boots have helped to define just who I am. Now I wear tassel loafers; that should tell you something about me today. I was raised in the sand hill, tumbleweed, no rain part of Kansas. And, if you are brought up in Dodge City and have something to do with horses; you wear cowboy boots. Point of fact, no question. I probably started wearing cowboy boots at a pretty early age; I don’t remember exactly. But, I’m sure I did.
I don’t remember how old I was but we were still in the bicycle stage. There was this kid named Charlie who had a pair of boots. These were not any ordinary boots, these were BOOTS. They were black cowboy boots with pointy toes, so pointy that he could have kicked a hole in almost anything he set his mind to. They had red, white, and blue eagles inlaid in the stove pipe stops that went almost up to his knees. The vamps, that’s the bottom or foot part, had red leather sewn on them kind of like wing tips.
These were the coolest boots I had ever seen. How I envied Charlie. Any kid that had boots like this had to be way off the cool scale.
One Saturday morning I happened to be at the Montgomery Wards store for some inane kid reason, and I ran into Charlie. And, you will simply not believe this: he was buying a black leather motorcycle jacket. I mean he was buying a black leather jacket. Man, if having the boots was not cool enough the black leather jacket with all the zippers and buckles blew him out of this world. He was five dollars short , and I felt such a honor to loan it to him. After all I was contributing to improving the coolness of the world.
Charley would wear his boots and that jacket riding his bicycle all over town. Although I didn’t see it, people would stop their cars when he road by thankful just to be in the same world with this cool guy. Shop keepers would leave their stores and come out on the sidewalk to watch him go down the street. I’m sure they wished that he would come to their store to buy something just so they could tell him, “There’s no charge, Charlie, just having you stop in is the bright spot of my day”. Charlie with his boots and jacket was the paragon of coolness, the zenith of our teen aspirations.
From then on Charlie set the “cool” mark for me. And, maybe the only time I got close was in the middle 70’s. DISCO TIME. This was when they had music where even white people could find the beat. It was the time of Gloria Gaynor, “I will survive”, and George Clinton, “Burn Baby Burn” and Donna Summer, “Let Dance”. And dance we did. There were Disco clubs all over the place. I spend one winter in South Carolina at a racehorse training center. And everybody knows where there are horses there are women. And, I was single, and Aiken hosted three disco places. WOW!
I moved to New York City and worked as an exercise rider at Belmont Park. New York City is the most exciting city in the world; it has the absolute worst and the absolute best of everything. I took to it like a monkey to a football.
Now check this out. I bought a pair of Kroop high heel exercise boots, they are sort of cool, not as cool as Charlie’s but okay. I wore starched and iron jeans, turtle neck shirts, and a leather sport coat.
I had a full beard which I kept well coifed and a small gold ring in my left ear. I topped this off with a fedora like Indiana Jones wears on his big adventures. I was studying writing at the New School in Greenwich Village and fencing at the Santelli Fencing Saloon on Sixth avenue. And on top of that I was riding horses for a living.
How cool was I. About two notches below Charlie.
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