Well, one comment. One will not see this on any other TEC associated web presence.
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Received Through Diocesan Channels and Presented Without Comment
Well, one comment. One will not see this on any other TEC associated web presence.
Friday, September 29, 2017
Jack O'Neill
When you get all screwed up, and you jump in the ocean, everything’s all right again.
The first time I saw the Pacific Ocean, I couldn't wait to jump in. I ran the breadth of the sand by Prospect Street in Newport Beach and leapt, with board in hand, into the waves.
I immediately regretted it. Dang, that water's cold.
(For those who have never been, the Pacific is cold in California, Washington, Oahu, Maui, and New South Wales, Australia. Man, that beast is chilly.)
While I had packed a wetsuit, it had been a thinner, "shorty" model. I had figured that early October in southern California would be no worse than south Jersey in late May and I was spectacularly wrong.
So, off I went a few miles north to buy a more reasonable wetsuit. In the shop, the very young woman behind the counter pointed towards a variety of highly colored suits with dramatic names. I looked at her in skepticism until another clerk, much closer to my age and with wind and sun- chiseled features, stepped in and said, "The O'Neill's are over here" . Yes, he grokked. If you're surfing the Pacific, or anywhere else, really, it's best to wear an O'Neill. As it says in the interior of every O'Neill suit, "It's always summer on the inside."
[An important note: We are not paid by O'Neill to hawk their products or are in any other way contracted to them. I wish. Like all true watermen, we are opinionated about valuable equipment.]
Jack O'Neill, born in Denver in 1923, is one of those guys who sounds like he's from a Kris Kristofferson song: "He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction....". Like true watermen of any generation, he had a tendency to dive into things and figure out, after much discomfort and no small amount of danger, how to manipulate the circumstances to his advantage.
While still a child, O'Neill's family moved to Long Beach, California where the formerly land-locked kid, like stout Cortez, saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. I remember being a kid from Ohio and seeing the Atlantic for the first time and knowing that it was about to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between that vast body of wild water and me. It appears it was the same for O'Neill.
He attended the University of Portland on a G.I. Bill after serving as a Navy pilot during World War II, earning a degree in business. Although there was no such thing at the time, he may as well have earned a degree in marketing, too, as he was a natural. He was married, held a collection of jobs and, after moving to the Ocean Beach section of San Francisco, went surfing every day there were waves worthy of riding.
However, as we have noted, the Pacific is cold. If it's cold in southern California, a scant hour or two from the Mexican border, it is really cold in northern Cali. So that he could surf more days and much later into the less accommodating season, O'Neill began to experiment with a variety of methods of keeping himself warm while in the water.
He would begin his experiments on his kitchen table, taking wool or cotton long underwear and slicking it down with lanolin to provide insulation. When that proved inadequate, he would then fill coveralls with foam packing material. When that was too heavy he would cannibalize a surplus rubber life raft and sew it into a suit. Or maybe the lining of a airliner's cabin carpeting would work? None of these attempts really answered, until he had that moment of discovery.
Contrary to popular belief, O'Neill did not create the wetsuit. The material had already been developed by a physicist at Berkeley to line deep-sea, hard-hat diving suits. The genius of O'Neill was to take the material and shape it in such a manner that one can wear it without a canvas outer layer and move in it with the fluidity required on a surfboard. Also, one has to give such a product an attitude, and that's where O'Neill's natural sense of marketing took over.
[If we may pause for a moment to comment on the nature of the wetsuit, especially as not everyone has worn one. Wetsuits are not waterproof [those are called dry suits]; wetsuits are designed to let a small amount of water permeate the material and rest between the inner layer of the suit and the wearer's flesh. The heat from the human body then warms this circulating micro-thin layer of water, keeping the wearer's body temperature at a safe level.]
While his acquaintances were skeptical, O'Neill was a surfer and knew beyond a doubt that once it was discovered that there was a magic suit that could make cold days manageable and the summer a little closer to endless, other surfers would sell, borrow, or steal whatever they could in order to claim this bit of fashion. Originally selling them out of a converted shack, and them moving the whole business to Santa Cruz nearer the middle of the state in order to be closer to the burgeoning surf crew, O'Neill coined a term familiar to those in search of an oasis in the midst of the beaches of both coasts. He called his place a "surf shop". The O'Neill wetsuit was born and, with it, a whole new industry.
O'Neill would go to trade show after trade show, bringing along his children not just for their company or so that they could learn the family business, but so that he could fit them into their own wetsuits and toss them in a tank of ice water to prove how well the suits worked. In the frigid tank, the kids would paddle on small boards, dive under the surface, and otherwise comport themselves like children in the water. Nowadays, that would get O'Neill at least a stern talking-to by the authorities; back then, it sold wetsuits. Lots of them. He even hired real surfers to serve as the models for his inventory, lifting many of them out of obscurity and near-poverty.
Wearing a full, lush beard in the days before they became common, and sporting an eye patch that was necessitated when he got whacked in the face with a surfboard [it happens; I had a $4000 dental bill from just such a calamity], O'Neill sought to become the literal face of his company, presenting something counter-cultural and piratical about surfing. With his new-found wealth, O'Neill sponsored surf competitions that encouraged professionalism and athleticism, and permitted surfing's growth into a legitimate, competitive sport.
O'Neill was a ubiquitous character in California culture and in the ads for his own company. He flew planes and balloons, shaped surfboards, and engaged in various adventures. Opening stores on four continents, and creating a line of apres surf clothing and accessories bearing his name, he became particularly involved in efforts to combat ocean pollution, creating the O’Neill Sea Odyssey, a marine and environmental education program, in 1996. In moments of late life reflection, O'Neill regarded the OSO as the best thing he had ever done.
Jack O'Neill, born in Denver in 1923, is one of those guys who sounds like he's from a Kris Kristofferson song: "He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction....". Like true watermen of any generation, he had a tendency to dive into things and figure out, after much discomfort and no small amount of danger, how to manipulate the circumstances to his advantage.
While still a child, O'Neill's family moved to Long Beach, California where the formerly land-locked kid, like stout Cortez, saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. I remember being a kid from Ohio and seeing the Atlantic for the first time and knowing that it was about to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between that vast body of wild water and me. It appears it was the same for O'Neill.
He attended the University of Portland on a G.I. Bill after serving as a Navy pilot during World War II, earning a degree in business. Although there was no such thing at the time, he may as well have earned a degree in marketing, too, as he was a natural. He was married, held a collection of jobs and, after moving to the Ocean Beach section of San Francisco, went surfing every day there were waves worthy of riding.
However, as we have noted, the Pacific is cold. If it's cold in southern California, a scant hour or two from the Mexican border, it is really cold in northern Cali. So that he could surf more days and much later into the less accommodating season, O'Neill began to experiment with a variety of methods of keeping himself warm while in the water.
He would begin his experiments on his kitchen table, taking wool or cotton long underwear and slicking it down with lanolin to provide insulation. When that proved inadequate, he would then fill coveralls with foam packing material. When that was too heavy he would cannibalize a surplus rubber life raft and sew it into a suit. Or maybe the lining of a airliner's cabin carpeting would work? None of these attempts really answered, until he had that moment of discovery.
 |
| The young O'Neill and the even younger, original wetsuit |
Contrary to popular belief, O'Neill did not create the wetsuit. The material had already been developed by a physicist at Berkeley to line deep-sea, hard-hat diving suits. The genius of O'Neill was to take the material and shape it in such a manner that one can wear it without a canvas outer layer and move in it with the fluidity required on a surfboard. Also, one has to give such a product an attitude, and that's where O'Neill's natural sense of marketing took over.
[If we may pause for a moment to comment on the nature of the wetsuit, especially as not everyone has worn one. Wetsuits are not waterproof [those are called dry suits]; wetsuits are designed to let a small amount of water permeate the material and rest between the inner layer of the suit and the wearer's flesh. The heat from the human body then warms this circulating micro-thin layer of water, keeping the wearer's body temperature at a safe level.]
While his acquaintances were skeptical, O'Neill was a surfer and knew beyond a doubt that once it was discovered that there was a magic suit that could make cold days manageable and the summer a little closer to endless, other surfers would sell, borrow, or steal whatever they could in order to claim this bit of fashion. Originally selling them out of a converted shack, and them moving the whole business to Santa Cruz nearer the middle of the state in order to be closer to the burgeoning surf crew, O'Neill coined a term familiar to those in search of an oasis in the midst of the beaches of both coasts. He called his place a "surf shop". The O'Neill wetsuit was born and, with it, a whole new industry.
O'Neill would go to trade show after trade show, bringing along his children not just for their company or so that they could learn the family business, but so that he could fit them into their own wetsuits and toss them in a tank of ice water to prove how well the suits worked. In the frigid tank, the kids would paddle on small boards, dive under the surface, and otherwise comport themselves like children in the water. Nowadays, that would get O'Neill at least a stern talking-to by the authorities; back then, it sold wetsuits. Lots of them. He even hired real surfers to serve as the models for his inventory, lifting many of them out of obscurity and near-poverty.
Wearing a full, lush beard in the days before they became common, and sporting an eye patch that was necessitated when he got whacked in the face with a surfboard [it happens; I had a $4000 dental bill from just such a calamity], O'Neill sought to become the literal face of his company, presenting something counter-cultural and piratical about surfing. With his new-found wealth, O'Neill sponsored surf competitions that encouraged professionalism and athleticism, and permitted surfing's growth into a legitimate, competitive sport.
O'Neill was a ubiquitous character in California culture and in the ads for his own company. He flew planes and balloons, shaped surfboards, and engaged in various adventures. Opening stores on four continents, and creating a line of apres surf clothing and accessories bearing his name, he became particularly involved in efforts to combat ocean pollution, creating the O’Neill Sea Odyssey, a marine and environmental education program, in 1996. In moments of late life reflection, O'Neill regarded the OSO as the best thing he had ever done.
O'Neill died a couple of months ago at the age of 94, having lived an enviable life. Although, speaking for the army of desk-bound occasional surfers, even if he had never developed the wetsuit or contributed to the sport and culture of surfing, if he had just been that lone character living in a glorified shack in Santa Cruz, he still would have served as an icon just for a philosophy such as this: “The three most important things in life: Surf, surf and surf.”
Thursday, September 28, 2017
I Couldn't Agree More
I have a little problem. Actually, it used to be a little problem but lately it’s become a big problem. It may be your problem too. The problem is “No problem.”
Forget about climate change. The real change we need to worry about is language change. And unlike meteorological doomsayers, I don’t need an apocalyptic documentary to prove my claim.
Forget about climate change. The real change we need to worry about is language change. And unlike meteorological doomsayers, I don’t need an apocalyptic documentary to prove my claim.
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Monday, September 25, 2017
Some Nice Writing
"The past was filling the room like a tide of whispers."
I'm re-reading Ross MacDonald's The Drowning Pool right now and came across this fine sentence above. It reminded me of how literate "private eye" fiction could be in the hands of people like MacDonald, Raymond Chandler, and Dashiell Hammett.
I'm re-reading Ross MacDonald's The Drowning Pool right now and came across this fine sentence above. It reminded me of how literate "private eye" fiction could be in the hands of people like MacDonald, Raymond Chandler, and Dashiell Hammett.
A Communication from a Distant Place
Regular readers may recall that I received a message a couple of months ago from a long-dormant theological listserv, one that was attached to an ancient e-mail account at an Ivy League institution in which I studied and worked nearly twenty years ago. It urged me, in what seemed to be part of a coordinated effort, to mention certain political talking points in my Sunday sermon.
I haven't heard from it since until this morning. I am now being urged to mention Puerto Rico in my sermon this week and make "Puerto Rico to Trump what Katrina was to Bush". I would find this amusing, but I know that some of my colleagues will follow this direction and turn Gospel-based proclamation into just another tedious political lecture.
Oh, look. The media have gotten it, too, it seems:
Yep. Q.E.D.
Wow, people are catching on. I'm rather honored to have been included among those expected to spread propaganda on behalf of...whom? The e-mail I received was not signed.
I haven't heard from it since until this morning. I am now being urged to mention Puerto Rico in my sermon this week and make "Puerto Rico to Trump what Katrina was to Bush". I would find this amusing, but I know that some of my colleagues will follow this direction and turn Gospel-based proclamation into just another tedious political lecture.
Oh, look. The media have gotten it, too, it seems:
Some obvious parallels to Katrina here. https://t.co/XzCrRgaSy3— Nate Silver (@NateSilver538) September 25, 2017
Yep. Q.E.D.
Memo went out to the listservs https://t.co/ilz78ONYHj— Stephen Miller (@redsteeze) September 26, 2017
Wow, people are catching on. I'm rather honored to have been included among those expected to spread propaganda on behalf of...whom? The e-mail I received was not signed.
This “the White House is ignoring Puerto Rico” line that has popped up tonight is a brazen and cynical lie. https://t.co/vD3FjKtZju pic.twitter.com/r1jNv1L9Ny— Charles C. W. Cooke (@charlescwcooke) September 26, 2017
More on the Millionaire Slap Fight and It's Repercussions
Players, sportswriters, and maybe even the owners seem to think that fans will find it impossible to give up football on Sundays in the fall. It’s not. A few years ago, I finally stopped buying the season tickets to the Giants that my father had first purchased 50 years ago and rebought every subsequent year. It was painless and a long time coming; I now spend fall weekends largely watching amateur youth sports from the sidelines. It’s an exhilarating experience, free from egotistical victory dances and other forms of inane exhibitionism, including juvenile posturing from adults that masquerades as deep social commentary.
I went on Twitter very early this morning, a medium I have not visited in some time, and found that wealthy athletes and wealthy politicians and wealthy pundits were going at it in some kind of mutually assured destruction. This seems common in our post-religious age. Christianity is a much more peaceful way of life, but to each, his own.
I went on Twitter very early this morning, a medium I have not visited in some time, and found that wealthy athletes and wealthy politicians and wealthy pundits were going at it in some kind of mutually assured destruction. This seems common in our post-religious age. Christianity is a much more peaceful way of life, but to each, his own.
Mate, You Should See the US
Last month I spent a few weeks in remote and regional Australia talking non-stop with Aboriginal people. Meanwhile, a debate raged about statues. How many times do you think anyone mentioned statues to me during my trips? Exactly zero. No one talked to me about constitutional recognition either. Or about local councils who banned Australia Day, supposedly in their name.
In Kununurra, I addressed the Wunan Foundation’s East Kimberley Aboriginal Achievement Awards. I spoke about how the narrative of Australia today being a racist society holds Aboriginal people back. Many Aboriginal people thanked me for my comments, saying they’re sick of hearing racism is the cause of their communities’ problems. They were the only conversations I had about racism.
It's easy to get a collection of ill-educated, pre-diabetic university children over-excited about statues, it's a whole other thing to address real issues. In neo-Marxism, the abstract always outweighs the actual.
In Kununurra, I addressed the Wunan Foundation’s East Kimberley Aboriginal Achievement Awards. I spoke about how the narrative of Australia today being a racist society holds Aboriginal people back. Many Aboriginal people thanked me for my comments, saying they’re sick of hearing racism is the cause of their communities’ problems. They were the only conversations I had about racism.
It's easy to get a collection of ill-educated, pre-diabetic university children over-excited about statues, it's a whole other thing to address real issues. In neo-Marxism, the abstract always outweighs the actual.
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Oh, Look. A Slap Fight Among Millionaires.
Stevie Wonder joins #takeaknee protest against Trump's attack on NFL players
Suddenly, my preference for Australian football and German soccer is looking pretty good.
Also, when the wealthy and privileged begin an internecine fight, I just want to make some popcorn, sit back, and enjoy the pathology. Now, that's some real sportings.
Suddenly, my preference for Australian football and German soccer is looking pretty good.
Also, when the wealthy and privileged begin an internecine fight, I just want to make some popcorn, sit back, and enjoy the pathology. Now, that's some real sportings.
Saturday, September 23, 2017
Catholic Scholars vs. The Pope. How Wonderfully Medieval.
Clergy and Lay Scholars Issue Filial Correction of Pope Francis
The initiative, the first time such a mechanism has been used since the Middle Ages, accuses the Pope of “propagating heresies” and respectfully asks that he teach the truth of the Catholic faith in its integrity.
The Two Features of Academic Life: Gibberish and Fatigue
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| Read this and make sense of it; I dare you. |
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| This is what happens when an overworked graduate student is hired to compose a book's index. |
Friday, September 22, 2017
Mary Printz
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| Printz in the foreground |
I have a modest goal on Friday mornings, which is to write about interesting people in the belief that readers are interested in anything that is interesting. The problem, of course, is that I'm the only judge of what is interesting, and my tastes can be both eclectic and eccentric. This may explain this week's biography, as its subject is certainly esoteric.
Of the people about whom I write, some were of a smaller impact on world affairs and the grand progress of culture, arts, surfing, or popular culture than others. Some have had books written about them and have figured strongly in history. Some are people I've known personally who were, like most of us, all but invisible in greater history, but have meant something to me and to those who matter to me.
Then there are some who are not well-known but have had a subterranean influence on our culture. Those may be as modest as a telephone operator.
Mary Printz was an unlikely muse to a couple of Broadway composers. In our contemporary world her specialty has long been made redundant by the oppressive technology of communication that surrounds us. Before text messaging, e-mail, voice mail, and even answering machines [remember those?], Printz served a valuable role in keeping those in fast-moving businesses in contact with all of their varied concerns. Unlike much of modern technology, she did so in ways far more physical than a smart phone app.
Printz was born in the Midwest but moved to Virginia in her childhood. Despite a polio affliction and a failed marriage, she moved to New York City in the 1950's to seek a small portion of adventure. There, she worked in a variety of jobs related to the entertainment industry, eventually meeting her second husband. As he was a cocktail pianist and worked almost every evening, Printz took a night job with an answering service.
For those younger than I who may be unfamiliar with answering services, they were as indispensable, if not as ubiquitous, as a smart phone is today. When someone dialed your home or business phone number, and it was not answered in a certain number of rings, the call would be transferred to the answering service. There, a human being would pleasantly greet the caller and note whatever message was to be left. When available or willing, one would call one's service to receive the messages that had been recorded, with pen and paper, by the answering service operator.
As the rector of a parish in the 1990's I inherited an answering service from my predecessor, who found answering machines inelegant and blanched at the notion of carrying a phone on one's person during the course of the day. I have to say, I found it a rather deluxe experience. Not only can one escape from the incessant calls received by clergy, usually about matters rather minor, but I would be notified of true emergencies right away. After a short time, I came to know the operators by name and voice, if not by face, and found them to be invaluable. In fact, when once lost trying to find a house in a congested part of town, and before the advent of GPS systems, I called my answering service operator [from a pay phone!] to ask if she had any idea where the street might be. She did, and gave me directions.
So it was with Mary Printz. As the service for which she worked held clients who were primarily from the Broadway industry of actors, directors, producers, investors, musicians, and writers [frankly, I can't imagine a more neurotic collection of people], who tended to the dramatic even when not in a theater, Printz discovered her service included not just relaying messages, but becoming a confidant, unofficial assistant, and sometime co-conspirator with a collection of people both famous and plain.
In addition to her desk-bound duties, Printz would check on apartments left temporarily vacant by actors in road shows, water their plants, pick up their laundry, negotiate repairs with a building's super, and other non-standard services. In a famous story, one of her clients, the actor and playwright Noel Coward, absolutely had to have a bottle of scotch on a Sunday evening when all of the liquor stores were closed. Since Printz was married to a musician, and they can find liquor anywhere at any time, she had her husband personally deliver a bottle to Coward's apartment just in the nick of time. Due to these services, Printz became so in demand that she was able to start her own agency and, at its peak, served over 600 customers.
Her true fame came when Adolph Green and Betty Comden, the husband and wife Broadway writing team and clients of Printz's, wrote a hit musical with Jules Styne based on the life and service of an answering service operator. Debuting in 1956 and running for three years, Bells Are Ringing introduced Judy Holliday, playing the character based on Printz, to stage and screen fame and brought songs such as the title tune, "The Party's Over", and "Just in Time" to the chart of American standards. The plot concerned an answering service operator who, like Printz, served an eccentric cast of characters in ways beyond her defined duties. As it's a Broadway production, the operator also finds love with one of her clients.
Those who counted on Printz included a broad spectrum of performers such as Candice Bergen, Shirley MacLaine, Robert Redford, Burt Reynolds, Brooke Shields, Spencer Tracy, Tennessee Williams, and the rock band Kiss. By the end of her life, when technology had replaced answering services and Printz's company had diminished in its number of employees and clients, Woody Allen still preferred Mary Printz to any electronic alternative.
Printz died in 2009 at the age of 85. The musical based on her life is still produced, at least by high schools, for a generation clueless about the days of pay phones, answering services, and living operators. There are clergy I know who wish they could offer a fraction of that kind of service to their parishioners, as she understood how kindness can maintain and enrich a community.
Of the people about whom I write, some were of a smaller impact on world affairs and the grand progress of culture, arts, surfing, or popular culture than others. Some have had books written about them and have figured strongly in history. Some are people I've known personally who were, like most of us, all but invisible in greater history, but have meant something to me and to those who matter to me.
Then there are some who are not well-known but have had a subterranean influence on our culture. Those may be as modest as a telephone operator.
Mary Printz was an unlikely muse to a couple of Broadway composers. In our contemporary world her specialty has long been made redundant by the oppressive technology of communication that surrounds us. Before text messaging, e-mail, voice mail, and even answering machines [remember those?], Printz served a valuable role in keeping those in fast-moving businesses in contact with all of their varied concerns. Unlike much of modern technology, she did so in ways far more physical than a smart phone app.
Printz was born in the Midwest but moved to Virginia in her childhood. Despite a polio affliction and a failed marriage, she moved to New York City in the 1950's to seek a small portion of adventure. There, she worked in a variety of jobs related to the entertainment industry, eventually meeting her second husband. As he was a cocktail pianist and worked almost every evening, Printz took a night job with an answering service.
For those younger than I who may be unfamiliar with answering services, they were as indispensable, if not as ubiquitous, as a smart phone is today. When someone dialed your home or business phone number, and it was not answered in a certain number of rings, the call would be transferred to the answering service. There, a human being would pleasantly greet the caller and note whatever message was to be left. When available or willing, one would call one's service to receive the messages that had been recorded, with pen and paper, by the answering service operator.
As the rector of a parish in the 1990's I inherited an answering service from my predecessor, who found answering machines inelegant and blanched at the notion of carrying a phone on one's person during the course of the day. I have to say, I found it a rather deluxe experience. Not only can one escape from the incessant calls received by clergy, usually about matters rather minor, but I would be notified of true emergencies right away. After a short time, I came to know the operators by name and voice, if not by face, and found them to be invaluable. In fact, when once lost trying to find a house in a congested part of town, and before the advent of GPS systems, I called my answering service operator [from a pay phone!] to ask if she had any idea where the street might be. She did, and gave me directions.
So it was with Mary Printz. As the service for which she worked held clients who were primarily from the Broadway industry of actors, directors, producers, investors, musicians, and writers [frankly, I can't imagine a more neurotic collection of people], who tended to the dramatic even when not in a theater, Printz discovered her service included not just relaying messages, but becoming a confidant, unofficial assistant, and sometime co-conspirator with a collection of people both famous and plain.
In addition to her desk-bound duties, Printz would check on apartments left temporarily vacant by actors in road shows, water their plants, pick up their laundry, negotiate repairs with a building's super, and other non-standard services. In a famous story, one of her clients, the actor and playwright Noel Coward, absolutely had to have a bottle of scotch on a Sunday evening when all of the liquor stores were closed. Since Printz was married to a musician, and they can find liquor anywhere at any time, she had her husband personally deliver a bottle to Coward's apartment just in the nick of time. Due to these services, Printz became so in demand that she was able to start her own agency and, at its peak, served over 600 customers.
Her true fame came when Adolph Green and Betty Comden, the husband and wife Broadway writing team and clients of Printz's, wrote a hit musical with Jules Styne based on the life and service of an answering service operator. Debuting in 1956 and running for three years, Bells Are Ringing introduced Judy Holliday, playing the character based on Printz, to stage and screen fame and brought songs such as the title tune, "The Party's Over", and "Just in Time" to the chart of American standards. The plot concerned an answering service operator who, like Printz, served an eccentric cast of characters in ways beyond her defined duties. As it's a Broadway production, the operator also finds love with one of her clients.
 |
| An interesting coincidence: Holliday's first job in the acting industry was with Orson Welles' Mercury Theatre...as a telephone operator. |
Printz died in 2009 at the age of 85. The musical based on her life is still produced, at least by high schools, for a generation clueless about the days of pay phones, answering services, and living operators. There are clergy I know who wish they could offer a fraction of that kind of service to their parishioners, as she understood how kindness can maintain and enrich a community.
Friday, September 15, 2017
James Herriot
If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.
It's in the autumn that I miss my dogs, too. All of the dogs I've known. They loved to ramble, as well, this time of year. While they were of varied breeds and even more varied personalities, they all had rambling in common. I never felt more British, even in places like Mississippi or the Virgin Islands, than when on a ramble with a dog.
It is also in the autumn that I pull from the shelves a volume or two of James Herriot's. Not the greatest of writers, as least not in the classic British tradition, a bit too derivative of P.G. Wodehouse, sometimes, but a writer of one, particular talent: He could make the mundane and routine worthy of celebration. That ability, alone, puts him in the top tier of writers.
That, and he loved dogs, too. Not just dogs, but all of the creatures, great and small, that filled his world.
James Alfred Wight, better known by his pen name of James Herriot, was born in northern England but moved with his parents to Glasgow, Scotland while still an infant. In a marvelous coincidence, his father worked with my grandfather in the ship construction industry in nearby Clydebank. Here, the working class formed a strong community with mutual care, plain values, and amusement at life's follies serving as its chief features. This background would come in handy.
Herriot graduated from Glasgow Veterinary College in the spring of 1939, scant weeks before the outbreak of World War II. In the summer of the next year, at the beginning of the Battle of Britain, Herriot accepted a position at a humble veterinary practice in Yorkshire, England. It was here that he would build his life as a veterinarian, husband, father, business partner, and, eventually, celebrated author.
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| The original practice, now the Herriot museum. |
Much of Christianity is taken with the intention of incorporating common life with common faith. Hence our shared document of faith and practice, The Book of Common Prayer, a volume that contains a multitude of prayers and collects that elevate the common experiences of everyday life. While our celebrity-aware culture often highlights those of transient glamour, and even more transient "talent", and can frustrate the faithless as they pursue that which can never be caught, and feel an absence of real purpose with thwarted fulfillment,
If one suffers from such, there is liberation in finding small moments worthy of celebration in even the most minor of circumstance. That which is humble to some often leads to a deeper faith, sense of purpose, and balanced happiness for many more. Finding joy in one's work and family in those common moments has provided for more spiritual awareness than any collection of over-wrought books on "happiness" or the bilious homilies of clergy.
Upon his return, James Herriot's days were filled with the routine work of a country vet. He answered calls 24 hours a day, seven days a week, on farms made remote by the geography. He polled cattle, castrated pigs, delivered breech-born calves, and euthanized house pets. He dealt with "playsome" hogs and remarkably feral barn cats. During lambing season, it was not uncommon for him to work for days on end with very, very little sleep. So fatigued could he be that on one occasion, while answering a middle-of-the-night emergency call, he attempted to give a gynecological examination to a bull.
Some personalities would find this nothing less than Sisyphean drudgery. Herriot, instead, found it the source of life, filled with birth, death, disease, healing, and occasions for the demonstration of what Dylan Thomas called, "The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower". For all of the human ills forced upon the world through the latter half of the 20th century, Herriot discoverd the secret of a life well-lived in the sheer power of creation.
[Former and current philosophy students may remember Heidegger's notion of "handiness". Some things, like a hammer, can be described in their intention and usefulness, but its utility is not realized until it is actually taken in hand and employed to drive a nail through wood. We can speak of the merger of the eternal and the temporal in our lives, but unless we actually take to hand the routine of our lives, we cannot discover the holy that resides within it.]
A frustrated writer in his youth, Herriot began to keep a journal of his days. When it was discovered, and admired, by his wife, she encouraged him to seek out a publisher for them. Publishing in the United Kingdom was once a rather open affair, with all sorts of volumes being produced for the consumption of a highly literate public. Herriot's early journal, If Only They Could Talk, was published in 1969. It sold modestly, but fulfilled a sense of expression for Herriot and he returned, satisfied in his art, to his work at the practice.
However, a publisher from the United States, traveling through the English countryside, picked up a stray copy at a train station bookstore and, intrigued with the volume's rhythm and subject matter, offered to publish the book in the U.S.A., along with any other journals that Herriot wished to adapt. In 1972, All Creatures Great and Small was released, making its way quickly to the top of the New York Times bestseller list. It would be followed by subsequent volumes, their titles also taken from verses of the familiar hymn, Royal Oak [Hymn #405 in the Episcopal Church's Hymnal 1982].
Herriot became a bit of an institution, with even a long-running television show based on his books in Britain, Canada, and the United States. [ I actually saw an episode on late night TV in Australia last year.] The former location of his veterinary practice is now a museum dedicated to the world he created in his books about his ordinary, yet revelatory, days in Yorkshire.
Through all the fame and fuss, as is typical for even a transplanted Glaswegian, Herriot did not allow his life to be interrupted or altered. He continued to be the local vet, even as his practice changed with the times, with more house pets than large farm animals as his patients. If reading the books for the charming animal stories, one also notices his piquant observations about country life and the characters who inhabited the Dales. As with the poetry of Robert Burns, while what is on the surface is a record of country life, deeper truths about human nature are also revealed.
Herriot's books are still in print and still popular enough that one may find volumes on sale even in the rather desiccated bookstores of the 21st century. There is even a James Herriot calendar that is produced annually. If one travels to the town of Thirsk in North York, the real location of the Herriot's fictionalized version, one may see that his stories are responsible for the area's most viable industry. Namely, that which is generated from tourists eager to see the farms, fields, and livestock that Herriot brought to life. As mentioned, his practice is now a museum, the tools of Herriot's veterinary trade are on display at yet another museum, and for a time the local pub changed its name from what it was originally to what it is called in the books.
During a physical examination necessitated after being injured on the job, he was rammed by a ram, it was discovered that Herriot had cancer. He suffered quietly from the disease, under the care of his physician daughter and giving over the more difficult aspects of the job to his veterinarian son until his death in 1995 at the age of 78.
Since then, the local train station has been named in his honor with a statue to him unveiled by the actor who portrayed him in the television adaptation of his books. The veterinary practice, now in the hands of Herriot's son, is still active and still addressing the needs of a variety of patients, from Yorkshire beasts to herding dogs to house cats to a merchant seaman's chimpanzee.
Of his life, as measured through his kind and gentle stories, Herriot once noted that which powers our relations with our animals and one another,
I went back to my conversation with Siegfried that morning; we had just about decided that the man with a lot of animals couldn't be expected to feel affection for individuals among them. But those buildings back there were full of John Skipton's animals - he must have hundreds. Yet what made him trail down that hillside every day in all weathers? Why had he filled the last years of those two old horses with peace and beauty? Why had he given them a final ease and comfort which he had withheld from himself? It could only be love.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
An Obituary of Note
J.P. Donleavy has died. The last of the Irish rakes, even if he was born in Brooklyn.
He was profiled in The Coracle a few years ago. Someday, when I'm not otherwise engaged, I'll tell you of our first and only meeting. It was a corker.
He was profiled in The Coracle a few years ago. Someday, when I'm not otherwise engaged, I'll tell you of our first and only meeting. It was a corker.
The Feast Of The Holy Cross
Today is interesting for two reasons, one archaeological and the other personal. In the first case, during the reign of Constantine, the first Christian Roman Emperor, his mother Helena went to Palestine to find places significant to Christians. Having located what she believed to be the sites of the Crucifixion and the Burial, she had the Church of the Holy Sepulchre built over them and dedicated on this day in the year 335.
Interestingly, the locations are considered by contemporary archaeologists to be surprisingly accurate.
In the second, personal, instance, this is the anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. The parish where that occurred, St. Peter's in Waterford, Pennsylvania, is pictured above.
Back in the Bag
Well, it was inevitable. I've been "reactivated", as they say, and will once again be wearing an esoteric uniform in service to some portion of the Leviathan. At least it's for a good cause.
For long-time readers, you may recall that I served as a chaplain mostly to the merchant seaman who populate the commercial ports of the eastern U.S. You may also recall that, during part of the government shutdown Kabuki theater of about six or seven years ago, we were informed by the Obama administration that we were disallowed during that period to pray in public. Despite the obvious Constitutional ignorance of that stance, one that was probably presented by some bureaucratic microbe exercising a portion of his or her anti-Christian zeal, the government of the United States was forbidding the free exercise of religion.
So, I called a lawyer or two, arranged for potential bail, and invaded the port out of which I worked with the intention of violating this dull-witted command. When I explained my intention to the guards at the gate, they laughed and said, "Go ahead, padre. We don't mind."
Well, so much for the agonizing reappraisal of questioning authority. I would have made a poor social justice warrior. I did, however, submit my resignation from active chaplaincy. I preferred to step back from an institution that would, in a moment of transient ideological confusion, abrogate my rights as an American.
But, I didn't completely walk away, mainly as I recall the whole reason I was involved in this was because of the events of sixteen years ago. Also, from time to time, I did some good work. Now that Texas, Florida, and the U.S. Virgin Islands are a mess, and commercial merchant shipping is serving the bulk of the non-military relief efforts, I'm needed again.
I've found my dress uniform, or at least parts of it, which is useless to me as no one is wearing dress uniforms in this rotation of duty, but I believe I tossed out my decrepit work uniform, along with the various cloth insignia, so this week will be a bit of a scramble to gather replacements so that I pass muster. Since I'm being sent south to areas with, at best, spotty wifi, this will also be the last post for a week or so.
However, there will be a Friday biography tomorrow, on the 22nd, and on the 29th, by which time I will have returned. Please check in on Fridays and please come back once we've returned to daily blogging.
O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreads out the heavens and rules the raging of the seas, receive into your protection all those who go down to the sea in ships and occupy their business on the great waters. Preserve them both in body and soul, prosper their labors with good success, in all times of danger, be their defense, and bring them to the haven where they would be, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Contrary to What Most University Trained Eco-Warriors Think, Wildfires are Actually Good for Habitat
Next spring will bring mushrooms, flowers and woodpeckers to the Chaparral forests.
For the early American Indians [or, in Caucasian, "Native Americans"], wildfires were so important for the propagation of edible species that, in times of potential famine, the tribes would set fires purposely.
For the early American Indians [or, in Caucasian, "Native Americans"], wildfires were so important for the propagation of edible species that, in times of potential famine, the tribes would set fires purposely.
Wednesday, September 13, 2017
Don't Send Your Kid to Coker
I have abstracts of dissertations sent to me for review. I didn't realize, or believe, that this was the ENTIRE published academic paper until my second glance.
For those of you are aren't burdened with having to know about such things, autoethnography is the hip, new genre in the study of humanities. All it entails is the author writing about her or his rather ordinary life. Yeah, that's it. It's the perfect discipline for the frivolous, narcissistic age in which we live.
By the way, those who attend this college fork over $28,464 a year to be educated by this professor.
By the way, those who attend this college fork over $28,464 a year to be educated by this professor.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
This is Uncommonly Foul and Surprisingly Common
Cop Cleans Out Wallet Of Unlicensed Hot Dog Vendor Just Because He Can
During riots on their campus this past year, the U.C. Berkeley police chose to "stand down" so that protesters favored by the mayor's office were given free reign to abuse and attack people and burn buildings. It appears at least something stirs them to action.
During riots on their campus this past year, the U.C. Berkeley police chose to "stand down" so that protesters favored by the mayor's office were given free reign to abuse and attack people and burn buildings. It appears at least something stirs them to action.
Before and After
Before and after satellite views of the U.S. and British Virgin Islands. They appear to have been stripped of foliage by the hurricane. If you have ever been to these islands, it is hard to imagine them denuded of vegetation, especially the national park that takes up two-thirds of St. John.
I'm hoping we'll hear more of what's happening as I would think the circumstances are dire and in need of address. The Episcopal Church has a strong presence in the USVI and will disseminate goods and services from funds donated to Episcopal Relief and Development via their web page, if interested.
Unpopular Thoughts
The practice of TV and cable news repeaters giving their report in the midst of hurricane winds and rain, while sometimes strapped to an object, is idiotic. These are the same people who scold surfers for riding waves TWO DAYS before the hurricane arrives.
Someday, I'd like to attend a men's breakfast at some parish where we would not feel the need to speak of spiritual things. Since I always have to talk about spiritual matters, it's a rare treat to speak of things that normal men talk about. Conversations about baseball, for example, permit a liminal awareness of the life of the spirit and strengthens the fabric of community. Although, I suppose I feel that way only when the Cleveland Indians are doing well. Otherwise, it's "Hey, how about that Jesus guy?"
I notice weather and climate become synonymous whenever political points can be scored.
I prefer Big Bash cricket to the traditional. Well, except for the absence of cucumber sandwiches. The idea of cricket with cheerleaders, colorful team names and uniforms, a showy scoreboard, and a flashing LED wicket are too absurd and wonderful not to appreciate.
Someday, I'd like to attend a men's breakfast at some parish where we would not feel the need to speak of spiritual things. Since I always have to talk about spiritual matters, it's a rare treat to speak of things that normal men talk about. Conversations about baseball, for example, permit a liminal awareness of the life of the spirit and strengthens the fabric of community. Although, I suppose I feel that way only when the Cleveland Indians are doing well. Otherwise, it's "Hey, how about that Jesus guy?"
I notice weather and climate become synonymous whenever political points can be scored.
I prefer Big Bash cricket to the traditional. Well, except for the absence of cucumber sandwiches. The idea of cricket with cheerleaders, colorful team names and uniforms, a showy scoreboard, and a flashing LED wicket are too absurd and wonderful not to appreciate.
Monday, September 11, 2017
Worth Noting
The terrorists that killed 2,997 people 16 years ago Monday presented the 21st century with a radically different revolutionary than the ones that stormed our imaginations in the 19th and 20th centuries.Please read the whole article; it's worth it.
They didn’t overthrow the world order. They did overthrow our conception of where on the economic strata revolutionaries come from.
The 9/11 terrorists did not step out of the pages of Les Misérables. Like most revolutionaries, they stepped out of privileged places. Osama bin Laden, the seventeenth child of a billionaire, appeared as the type of figure Karl Marx’s proletariat rebelled against. Bin Laden’s followers, if not hailing from the economic stratosphere, generally emerged from comfortable backgrounds...
Robespierre, like his father and his father, worked as a lawyer. Danton? Lawyer. Desmoulins? Lawyer. Mao’s father was one of the wealthiest farmers in his area of China. Lenin’s parents taught in local schools before his mom turned attention to mothering and his dad became an administrator overseeing many schools. Che Guevara worked as a doctor healing people before he worked as an executioner killing them. Fidel Castro’s wealthy sugar-cane-farmer father sent him to elite boarding schools....
Day of Days
I have a memorial to attend this afternoon. It will be small and quiet and a few of us will gather afterwards and do what people do when they are forced by a calendar to recall things they would sometimes rather not. Mainly, we will order a drink or two and share photos of grandchildren. All in all, despite the disruptions and emotions of that day, our portion was marked with moments of uplift and remarkable success. So, there's that.
That's all I really want to say, as I find it unseemly to speak about my minor and relatively safe participation, especially as compared to the stunning sacrifice of the members of the fire and police departments. I note that contemporary clergy now take "selfies" [stupid word] when participating in rescue events and post them to social media for their colleagues to admire. I'm glad we didn't have such things sixteen years ago.
The article linked to below captures our slight, but historically interesting, part in what ultimately changed our culture.
9-11 Water Evacuation Was ‘Bigger Than Dunkirk’
That's all I really want to say, as I find it unseemly to speak about my minor and relatively safe participation, especially as compared to the stunning sacrifice of the members of the fire and police departments. I note that contemporary clergy now take "selfies" [stupid word] when participating in rescue events and post them to social media for their colleagues to admire. I'm glad we didn't have such things sixteen years ago.
The article linked to below captures our slight, but historically interesting, part in what ultimately changed our culture.
9-11 Water Evacuation Was ‘Bigger Than Dunkirk’
Sunday, September 10, 2017
Saturday, September 9, 2017
Light Blogging Ahead
Just when I thought I was getting too old for this, the phone rings.
Well, it bleeps.
Because of the expected drain on Coast Guard and Maritime Administration support personnel, including chaplains, in addressing the emergencies in Florida and the Caribbean, I find that I've been "re-activated".
While I imagine I'll be subbing locally for those being sent south, this will add to my activities and reduce the time I spend with The Coracle. I'll try to get at least one posting up a day, though. Also, we're about three weeks ahead on the Friday biographies, so those will continue uninterrupted.
A Collect for those in harm's way:
Almighty God, we know you do not willingly afflict or grieve your children: Look with compassion upon those experiencing the devastating effects of tempest and flood. Comfort those who have lost loved ones, grant healing to those who are injured, and give strength to responders, community leaders and all involved in restoring balance to the displaced. Grant them hope and an awareness of grace in the days to come, and all for the sake of your son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
A Sensible Letter That Will Be Wildly Ignored
Princeton president asks Senate committee to avoid ‘religious test’ in judicial appointments
To phrase this pungently, it is unconstitutional, probably illegal, and immoral to limit the participation of an American citizen in American governance solely because that person is a believer.
The Episcopal Church's comments on this issue may be found here.
Friday, September 8, 2017
Gertrude Bell
All the earth is seamed with roads, and all the sea is furrowed with the tracks of ships, and over all the roads and all the waters a continuous stream of people passes up and down - traveling, as they say, for their pleasure. What is it, I wonder, that they go out to see?
I will have no locked cupboards in my life.
For an Ohio hillbilly, I have known, worked with, served, and educated a surprising number of members of the privileged classes. I admit I was a bit of a reverse snob at one point, really not expecting much from those graced with inherited money and status, and the education and opportunities that went with them. It is safe to say that my automatic opinion of them was rather low.
However, the odd trajectory of my life has caused me to intersect with writers, actors, artists, a governor, a senator, a congressman, millionaires, a network news anchor, publishers, a Nobel laureate, and some of the great thinkers of our era. I have educated the children of accomplished parents, at least three from families significant in the history of our country. I have learned that they are not the stereotypes of their socio-economic class any more than I am of mine. From them, I have seen examples of great insight, true compassion, and genuine labor too many times to ever again make assumptions.
While there may have been a time when I would have snorted at the story of Getrude Bell, daughter of the 2nd baronet and sister to the 3rd, born of wealth, privilege, and connections, I appreciate her life, effort, passions, and accomplishments more each decade. Given our current world situation, I especially appreciate her noble, if inevitable, failure.
Bell was born in Durham, England in 1868. While still a toddler, her mother died giving birth to Bell's younger brother. Her father, who was doting by Victorian standards, raised Bell to enjoy the country life with all of its outdoor pursuits and energies. When he remarried, Bell's step-mother, an author of children's stories and mother of three of her own children, made sure that young Gertrude was well-read and well-mannered, despite the general wildness of the household.
While she was never an unpleasant child or young adult, Bell could be willful and occasionally reckless. Some of this may be traced to being her father's tomboy; some of it to the energizing personal freedom that was being discovered by English women in the late 19th century. When she was of age, Bell matriculated from Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford University's first college for women. She earned a degree in history in just two years.
I imagine there may have been the expectation that she would return to the Yorkshire Dales and find an appropriate land-owning husband, raise a brood, and maintain the ramparts of British verve for another generation. Instead, she set off to visit her uncle, the ambassador to Persia. Intoxicated by travel in exotic lands, Bell continued to journey throughout the Middle-East and The Levant for several years. She would employ her degree in history and her talent as an amateur archaeologist in visiting sites of interest and discovery throughout the region. In the decade before World War I, she would write four influential travelogues and a collection of poetry that were well-received among the literate.
She also spent the turn of the century perfecting her technique climbing mountains, an interest sparked by those youthful rambles with her siblings. Between 1899 and 1904, Bell climbed several Alpine peaks, discovering a number of ascent paths. She was the first person to summit what came to be called Gertrudspitze, which was named for her.
While she made ample use of guides on her ascents, Bell was never protected from the realities and dangers of mountain climbing. Once, over a particularly fretful 48-hour period, she and her team clung to safety ropes suspending them from a cliff during a brutal storm that featured punishing hailstones and what overexcited contemporary meteorologists refer to as "thunder-snow". Bell and her guides were eventually able to descend, with Bell very close to death.
With the onset of World War I in 1914, Bell offered her services to the British forces in the Middle East. Naturally, as she had traveled extensively in the area, had drawn maps of heretofore unknown areas, was familiar with the customs of the local tribes, and had developed in her travels a working knowledge of many of the Levantine languages and dialects, including fluency in Arabic, she would be of considerable aid to the war effort. If the reader knows anything at all about military logic, regardless of culture or place in world history, it will come as no surprise that her offer was denied.
Not one to be daunted, Bell volunteered for the Red Cross and was sent to Europe. As the war continued, and more sensible officers were granted command, a couple of bright fellows, who had read her books and knew of Bell's time in the Middle East before the war, insisted that she be transferred immediately to British Intelligence in Cairo. One of those bright fellows had already met Bell when she had visited his archaeological site during her travels in 1909. His name was T.E. Lawrence, although popular history knows him best as "Lawrence of Arabia".
Reunited with Lawrence at the Arab Bureau, an eccentric Anglo-French cooperative venture to ensure continued European influence in the Middle East, Bell, although a civilian, began the process of organizing all known intelligence about the Arab tribes. While mostly neutral, the tribes had outrages perpetuated against them again and again by the Turks, thus encouraging them eventually to align themselves with the British. She was then transferred to Basra, the Judaeo-Christian city in Mesopotamia [Ottoman Empire], to prepare maps and gather intelligence for the march on Baghdad. Upon the seizure of that famous and ancient city, Bell was named Oriental Secretary for His Majesty, King George V.
During her considerable travels throughout the region during the final two years of the war, Bell was witness to portions of what is now known as the Armenian Genocide. By the time the Turks had finished their attempt to eradicate the Armenians from the world's population, 2 million were dead and remarkable atrocities had been perpetrated. Clearly, the end of the conflict in Europe would be just the beginning of conflict in the Middle East. As was the practice in earlier times, the colonial powers did what they could, for better or worse, to try and prevent it.
In his role as Great Britain's Secretary of State for War, Winston Churchill asked Bell and T.E. Lawrence to aid in the Middle East peace negotiations that were an extension of the Treaty of Paris. Beginning in 1921, Bell and Lawrence were to participate in one of the most controversial actions of the 20th century; so controversial that it is easy to claim that their work still greatly affects our contemporary world.
With the defeat of the Turks in World War I, the Ottoman Empire was no more. This left a great portion of the world without a government, however barbarous and cruel, to permit its structure. Bell was asked to continue in her role as Oriental Secretary and to design a new government for the recently liberated states of Arabia and Mesopotamia. Both Bell and Lawrence felt strongly that the time had come to the various tribes to self-govern and, if provided with a workable structure, be permitted independence. It was a bold plan, thoughtful in its execution, and reflective of Bell and Lawrence's knowledge and familiarity with the Arab tribes. Ultimately, it was also naive.
Despite his heroic work during the war, and a degree from Oxford, Lawrence was still remembered for being the illegitimate issue of a nobleman. In English society, it was easy to dismiss his notions. As he had witnessed countless battlefield deaths, atrocities, and had been captured and tortured by the Turks, he was beginning to show the signs of that compounded trauma and was starting his gradual withdrawal from the world. Bell, on the other hand, was to the manor born and was of considerable influence as both her family and friends were well-placed in high office. She proved to be formidable in her attempt to grant the promised independence to the tribes and to prevent future conflict.
Over the period of ten months, Bell produced her masterwork: a comprehensive re-structuring not just of governmental systems, but of the very borders of countries themselves. Her report, "Self Determination in Mesopotamia", became the focus of debate for the next few years, as the European powers struggled to re-structure the Middle East in such a way that conflict could be minimized. That was Bell's intention, anyway. However, the Europeans desired to still be able to harvest much of the wealth of the area for their own purposes.
Whole books have been written about this process, and for those who appreciate backroom shenanigans, betrayals, and exercises of wanton power, it is hard to top what eventually produced the Cairo Conference of 1921. TV shows about dragons and duplicity are nothing compared to the reality of great world powers struggling for dominance. While Bell did not achieve her vision of an independent Middle East, with tribes empowered by self-determination, her work did transform Mesopotamia into modern-day Iraq. With Bell serving as liaison between the Iraqi leadership and the European powers, she convinced Winston Churchill that it would be far more profitable for all involved if Iraq could make its own way in this new world. While troubled with a harsh dictatorship and religious strife in recent years, Iraq existed through much of the 20th century as a model of what could be achieved by an independent state. Without her efforts, this would not have been possible.
In addition to, in essence, creating the nation of Iraq, Bell also established the National Library of Iraq and, in relation to her work as an amateur archaeologist, the Baghdad Archaeological Museum, both institutions of venerable quality and influence.
[A personal note: My mentor, a Baghdad native and man of considerable academic achievement, first realized his potential as a boy roaming the vast stacks of that library. I like to think, in more whimsical moments, that given his influence over my own work, Bell's labors influenced my life and work, as well]
Those old enough to remember, and who lived through the early days of Iraq, especially during the 1920's, regard that period as a golden age of peace and growth. While those Middle Eastern map lines drawn by a collection of Europeans in the early 20th century have also lead to much of the strife of the early 21st century, as surely as one generation's solution is the next generation's problem, Gertrude Bell is fondly recalled by Iraqis, even in the roiling religious cauldron of their contemporary reality.
Bell, exhausted by the labors associated with nation building, returned to England in 1925 to find her native country decimated by the war, with a disrupted economy, gross unemployment, and one-third of the male population dead. The graceful days that she recalled from her youth were long gone and never to return. As the victims of World War I suffered even into the next decades, so Bell joined their company. Gertrude Bell committed suicide in 1926.
Bell was interred in the British Cemetery in Baghdad. Her funeral was attended by every British and Iraqi official. The king of Iraq, himself, observed her funeral procession from his balcony in great solemnity and respect.
David George Hogarth, the eminent archaeologist and one of those men who originally recognized Bell's talents in Middle Eastern intrigue, wrote the following for her obituary in the journal of the Royal Geographical Society:
While she made ample use of guides on her ascents, Bell was never protected from the realities and dangers of mountain climbing. Once, over a particularly fretful 48-hour period, she and her team clung to safety ropes suspending them from a cliff during a brutal storm that featured punishing hailstones and what overexcited contemporary meteorologists refer to as "thunder-snow". Bell and her guides were eventually able to descend, with Bell very close to death.
With the onset of World War I in 1914, Bell offered her services to the British forces in the Middle East. Naturally, as she had traveled extensively in the area, had drawn maps of heretofore unknown areas, was familiar with the customs of the local tribes, and had developed in her travels a working knowledge of many of the Levantine languages and dialects, including fluency in Arabic, she would be of considerable aid to the war effort. If the reader knows anything at all about military logic, regardless of culture or place in world history, it will come as no surprise that her offer was denied.
Not one to be daunted, Bell volunteered for the Red Cross and was sent to Europe. As the war continued, and more sensible officers were granted command, a couple of bright fellows, who had read her books and knew of Bell's time in the Middle East before the war, insisted that she be transferred immediately to British Intelligence in Cairo. One of those bright fellows had already met Bell when she had visited his archaeological site during her travels in 1909. His name was T.E. Lawrence, although popular history knows him best as "Lawrence of Arabia".
Reunited with Lawrence at the Arab Bureau, an eccentric Anglo-French cooperative venture to ensure continued European influence in the Middle East, Bell, although a civilian, began the process of organizing all known intelligence about the Arab tribes. While mostly neutral, the tribes had outrages perpetuated against them again and again by the Turks, thus encouraging them eventually to align themselves with the British. She was then transferred to Basra, the Judaeo-Christian city in Mesopotamia [Ottoman Empire], to prepare maps and gather intelligence for the march on Baghdad. Upon the seizure of that famous and ancient city, Bell was named Oriental Secretary for His Majesty, King George V.
During her considerable travels throughout the region during the final two years of the war, Bell was witness to portions of what is now known as the Armenian Genocide. By the time the Turks had finished their attempt to eradicate the Armenians from the world's population, 2 million were dead and remarkable atrocities had been perpetrated. Clearly, the end of the conflict in Europe would be just the beginning of conflict in the Middle East. As was the practice in earlier times, the colonial powers did what they could, for better or worse, to try and prevent it.
In his role as Great Britain's Secretary of State for War, Winston Churchill asked Bell and T.E. Lawrence to aid in the Middle East peace negotiations that were an extension of the Treaty of Paris. Beginning in 1921, Bell and Lawrence were to participate in one of the most controversial actions of the 20th century; so controversial that it is easy to claim that their work still greatly affects our contemporary world.
 |
| Churchill, Bell, and Lawrence on camels |
Despite his heroic work during the war, and a degree from Oxford, Lawrence was still remembered for being the illegitimate issue of a nobleman. In English society, it was easy to dismiss his notions. As he had witnessed countless battlefield deaths, atrocities, and had been captured and tortured by the Turks, he was beginning to show the signs of that compounded trauma and was starting his gradual withdrawal from the world. Bell, on the other hand, was to the manor born and was of considerable influence as both her family and friends were well-placed in high office. She proved to be formidable in her attempt to grant the promised independence to the tribes and to prevent future conflict.
Over the period of ten months, Bell produced her masterwork: a comprehensive re-structuring not just of governmental systems, but of the very borders of countries themselves. Her report, "Self Determination in Mesopotamia", became the focus of debate for the next few years, as the European powers struggled to re-structure the Middle East in such a way that conflict could be minimized. That was Bell's intention, anyway. However, the Europeans desired to still be able to harvest much of the wealth of the area for their own purposes.
 |
| Even in the Mesopotamian wilderness, there is time for tea. Bell with Arab and British officers. |
In addition to, in essence, creating the nation of Iraq, Bell also established the National Library of Iraq and, in relation to her work as an amateur archaeologist, the Baghdad Archaeological Museum, both institutions of venerable quality and influence.
[A personal note: My mentor, a Baghdad native and man of considerable academic achievement, first realized his potential as a boy roaming the vast stacks of that library. I like to think, in more whimsical moments, that given his influence over my own work, Bell's labors influenced my life and work, as well]
Those old enough to remember, and who lived through the early days of Iraq, especially during the 1920's, regard that period as a golden age of peace and growth. While those Middle Eastern map lines drawn by a collection of Europeans in the early 20th century have also lead to much of the strife of the early 21st century, as surely as one generation's solution is the next generation's problem, Gertrude Bell is fondly recalled by Iraqis, even in the roiling religious cauldron of their contemporary reality.
Bell, exhausted by the labors associated with nation building, returned to England in 1925 to find her native country decimated by the war, with a disrupted economy, gross unemployment, and one-third of the male population dead. The graceful days that she recalled from her youth were long gone and never to return. As the victims of World War I suffered even into the next decades, so Bell joined their company. Gertrude Bell committed suicide in 1926.
Bell was interred in the British Cemetery in Baghdad. Her funeral was attended by every British and Iraqi official. The king of Iraq, himself, observed her funeral procession from his balcony in great solemnity and respect.
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| Bell's grave in contemporary Baghdad, still under the stewardship of respectful Iraqis. |
No woman in recent time has combined her qualities – her taste for arduous and dangerous adventure with her scientific interest and knowledge, her competence in archaeology and art, her distinguished literary gift, her sympathy for all sorts and condition of men, her political insight and appreciation of human values, her masculine vigour, hard common sense and practical efficiency – all tempered by feminine charm and a most romantic spirit
Thursday, September 7, 2017
Not Good News
HACKERS GAIN DIRECT ACCESS TO US POWER GRID CONTROLS
Sensible people have been warning about this for a couple of decades. Insensible people in industry and government don't seem to get it.
Sensible people have been warning about this for a couple of decades. Insensible people in industry and government don't seem to get it.
News from Home
CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Three Taco Bell employees opened fire on two armed and masked robbers early Wednesday, killing one, police said.
The other day someone asked me if I ever left my keys in my unlocked car or left the doors to my house unlocked at night. My response? "I'm from Cleveland." In fact, this Taco Bell is right next door to my former apartment.
The other day someone asked me if I ever left my keys in my unlocked car or left the doors to my house unlocked at night. My response? "I'm from Cleveland." In fact, this Taco Bell is right next door to my former apartment.
No Animal, Insect, or Arachnid in Australia is Harmless
Peppa Pig Episode Pulled From Australian TV for Telling Children That Spiders Are Harmless
For example, here's one that was outside the door of my residence:
For example, here's one that was outside the door of my residence:
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| One day, I saw it eating a bird. |
Wednesday, September 6, 2017
You Know, It Actually Did
Hurricane Harvey revealed the awesome power of real America
In a related item, the following was sent to me from one of my former students who lives in coastal Texas:
In a related item, the following was sent to me from one of my former students who lives in coastal Texas:
Day 5. 6? 27? River Plantation had 12-13' of water, from what we could see if the water lines on the houses.
I can't even describe the smell. Raw sewage mixed with plain old dirt and animal droppings, and just plain filth. I don't know if I can ever get it out of my nostrils.
Dumping a person's entire life of gathering, collecting and fussing over in a soggy mess, so saturated that they just fall apart in your hands - prized possessions now have to be shoveled into a wheel barrow to be dumped at the curb with dry wall and insulation.
Today I had to bring two camera bags with 4 very expensive cameras to a homeowner. Thousands of dollars worth of equipment!She very quickly said "Oh no, they're gone. They will never work again." And turned to another task. I had to put it on the pile of sewage and drywall to be picked up by the dump truck tomorrow.
So much sadness. So much loss.
Yet...
Both yesterday and today, every 10-20 minutes another group came by offering sandwiches, water, fast food, home cooked food, Gatorade, and even popsicles, ice cream (they even had the ice cream truck music playing, which made everyone smile for a minute), and even beer!!
I shoveled contaminated, fiberglass laden water, 4" deep, and joked and laughed with total strangers. I have no idea who they are, and will most likely never see them again. But for a moment, a day, we were friends. Community. Family.
When we knocked on doors checking on family members we knew nothing about, just an address and maybe a name, we didn't think to ask about skin color, sexual orientation or party affiliation before taking on the task. We just wanted to make sure they were safe, had food and water, and let them know a loved one was concerned about them.
This has been a horrific week, but it has been a wonderful one.
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Monday, September 4, 2017
Because of Becker's Death, This has been in My Head Today
The blistering guitar solo is actually by Skunk Baxter, the world's most interesting guitarist and intelligence agent [really]. He was profiled a few years back in The Coracle.
The Importance of Biffo
CNBC: Twitter is ‘toast’ and the stock is not even worth $10: Analyst
Twitter decided to represent only the "progressive" perspective on society, even going so far as to ban some mild contrarian voices. Plus, it has given a platform to those who find fault and insult in just about everyone and everything, demanding that people be fired from their jobs and harassed in private life if they do not prescribe to the current groupthink.
While that makes those who share that perspective feel affirmed, when Twitter's business plan depends on a broad appeal, it can shrink your audience and your bottom line.
Since the late 1970's, the Episcopal Church has held a similar practice. While it does not ban in the same manner, dissenting voices can be "excised" from the greater church, dissuaded from continuing to participate, and even hauled into civil court by the church leadership. The belief that we can only be a church [that is, a denomination of greater Christianity] if we all have the same thoughts and use the same words has diminished our numbers, parishes, and advocacy.
The Episcopal Church into which I was ordained three decades ago used to relish what the Australians call "biffo", which is the high-spirited shoving that takes place in rugby, soccer, and Aussie football [the world's greatest sport] when the competition is tight. We used to argue points, express honest opinion, and truly wrestle with change. This biffo process brought us an improved prayer book and hymnal [sorry, traditionalists, but both books hold a more coherent theology], the ordination of women, the open welcoming of gay people, and many other improvements.
Moral superiority feels good to the "in crowd", but is generally off-putting to the remainder of society, including those somewhere between the two. Since, at any given time, roughly half the country is "liberal" [however that is now defined] and the other half "conservative" [ditto], that means one-half of our society is excluded. So much for "Everyone is Welcome" signs and the promotion of diversity.
It rather answers the question as to why we're a shrinking form of Christian witness. When we find half or more of general society unworthy, and even deplorable, we have already eliminated any inroads that can be made. Match that with a shallow sense of moral superiority and a traditional discomfort with the working class, and it's a wonder we're still in operation.
Twitter decided to represent only the "progressive" perspective on society, even going so far as to ban some mild contrarian voices. Plus, it has given a platform to those who find fault and insult in just about everyone and everything, demanding that people be fired from their jobs and harassed in private life if they do not prescribe to the current groupthink.
While that makes those who share that perspective feel affirmed, when Twitter's business plan depends on a broad appeal, it can shrink your audience and your bottom line.
Since the late 1970's, the Episcopal Church has held a similar practice. While it does not ban in the same manner, dissenting voices can be "excised" from the greater church, dissuaded from continuing to participate, and even hauled into civil court by the church leadership. The belief that we can only be a church [that is, a denomination of greater Christianity] if we all have the same thoughts and use the same words has diminished our numbers, parishes, and advocacy.
The Episcopal Church into which I was ordained three decades ago used to relish what the Australians call "biffo", which is the high-spirited shoving that takes place in rugby, soccer, and Aussie football [the world's greatest sport] when the competition is tight. We used to argue points, express honest opinion, and truly wrestle with change. This biffo process brought us an improved prayer book and hymnal [sorry, traditionalists, but both books hold a more coherent theology], the ordination of women, the open welcoming of gay people, and many other improvements.
Moral superiority feels good to the "in crowd", but is generally off-putting to the remainder of society, including those somewhere between the two. Since, at any given time, roughly half the country is "liberal" [however that is now defined] and the other half "conservative" [ditto], that means one-half of our society is excluded. So much for "Everyone is Welcome" signs and the promotion of diversity.
It rather answers the question as to why we're a shrinking form of Christian witness. When we find half or more of general society unworthy, and even deplorable, we have already eliminated any inroads that can be made. Match that with a shallow sense of moral superiority and a traditional discomfort with the working class, and it's a wonder we're still in operation.
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Saturday, September 2, 2017
Nurse Arrested for OBEYING the Law
This has been making the rounds of sidestream news and should be shared far and wide.
Shall we ease into our Labor Day weekend with an absolutely repulsive video of a police detective abusing his authority against a completely innocent person for no real justifiable reason? Oh, why not?
Shall we ease into our Labor Day weekend with an absolutely repulsive video of a police detective abusing his authority against a completely innocent person for no real justifiable reason? Oh, why not?
Friday, September 1, 2017
Archibald McIndoe
Per ardua ad astra, or "Through adversity to the stars"
Growing up, most of the adult men whom I knew, my father and uncles, my teachers and coaches, were veterans of either World War II and/or the Korean War. They never spoke about it, of course; their reticence is well-known to anyone who has ever lived with "The Greatest Generation". Silence was the chief feature of their military service. I recall, after their deaths, looking up the service record of Dad and my favorite uncle and whispering to myself, "Wow."
These were usually very good men, not haunted by their experiences nor debilitated by them, who returned to the United States after their uniform days, found jobs, got married and had children, bought homes and cars and gas grills; and left the horror behind them to be re-integrated into a society that needn't know of what it was really like.
When I moved to the United Kingdom at the age of fifteen, I found myself in the company of the British version of these men; my mother's cousins, my teachers and coaches. They, too, were quiet about the wars. A few wore their regimental ties, some bore a small ribbon of some import on the lapels of their jackets, others would march in parades and enjoy some pints with their veterans organization. Otherwise, they, too, would marry, work, build homes, live a normal life uncluttered with issues from the past. In both cases, society welcomed their return and, unconsciously or not, aided in that re-integration. In the U.K., though, I noticed one startling difference. I had never before seen so many men who bore the marks of war.
One of my favorite teachers had one arm; the empty sleeve of his suit jacket would be neatly tucked into the jacket's pocket. [He wore a Black Watch tie each day, so I had a pretty good idea of how the arm had been lost]. Another was missing a leg; still another an eye. One of my rugby coaches had a channel that had been blown through his ear in the perfect shape of a bullet. One of my mother's cousins, who would wear long-sleeve shirts even when playing tennis on those rare, hot days in Scotland, once rolled up his sleeves to work on something in the yard, only to reveal horrific burn scars.
When his wife noticed that I had noticed, she said, "Bill was in the Royal Navy". That was all she said; that sufficed.
These lasting signs of trauma had been, to use a contemporary term, "normalized". To be missing a limb, eye, or 50% of one's flesh did not mark or otherwise stigmatize the victim. Like the war itself, it was something that needn't be discussed. It was accepted and life continued.
But what of those whose injuries were not so easily normalized? What about those who regarded themselves as grotesque and, if we are to be honest, were sometimes found hard to look at? For them, a remarkable physician had a brilliant idea on which much of our contemporary treatment of the disfigured is still based.
Archibald McIndoe was born in 1900 in the city of Dundin, New Zealand. An exceptional student with an aptitude for medicine, he graduated from the University of Otago in his home state and served out the remainder of his medical training as a surgeon at the largest hospital in New Zealand. His superlative ability took him to the Mayo Clinic, to private practice in London, back to the United States and back again to England. By 1938, he had become a world-recognized expert in reconstructive surgery. At the outbreak of World War II, his services became more in demand than ever.
Realizing that healing involved more than just repairing the body, McIndoe sought changes in the quality of life of those in recovery from horrific burns and facial destruction. To that end, he dispensed with hospital clothing and permitted the soldiers and sailors to wear their uniforms, instead. He prevailed upon local townspeople to invite the wounded to dinner in their homes, enabling them to be treated as human, and not as creatures from a horror film.
Noting the differences in those who had suffered burns at sea rather than on land, McIndoe, after due research, realized that immersion in saline would speed the healing of burns. With ample opportunities to try new skin graft techniques, the art of facial reconstruction would be aided by the development of what has come to be known as the "McIndoe Nose". It is a process still in use.
However, his best idea may have been The Guinea Pig Club.
An aside: Early in my ordained ministry, just days after I first became the rector of a parish [I was 29 at the time], I visited one of my parishioners in the burn ward of a hospital in Pittsburgh. He had entered a tool shed that was filled with gas fumes from a leaking container while he was smoking a cigarette. Most of his skin melted in the very hot, very quick and, according to witnesses, very quiet explosion.
When I first saw him he was in a saline bath washing his own dead flesh from his arms. He was in remarkable pain, but was more worried about his appearance than anything else. His primary concern was that his wife and young daughter would find him too grotesque to love. It was heartbreaking. I recall noting at the time that the success or failure of his treatment would have more to do with how he would be regarded by those whose love he needed than by the capable ministrations of his healthcare team.
The good news is that he was, and is still, loved by his wife and daughter; and, I know, by the two subsequent children they had. While still heavily scarred, he has recovered in all the ways that matter.
The Guinea Pig Club was designed to be a mutual aid society for those maimed and disfigured in the war. It was, for all intents and purposes, a drinking and social club, nothing more or less. Besides the obvious physical qualification for membership, the GPC members were all patients of McIndoe's at the hospital in Sussex that became the center for the treatment of such grievous injuries. Through the Club and the hospital, McIndoe used his considerable charm and massive reputation to engage the citizens of the local community in the healing process.
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| The Maestro and The Guinea Pigs |
We are McIndoe's army,
We are his Guinea Pigs.
With dermatomes and pedicles,
Glass eyes, false teeth and wigs.
And when we get our discharge
We'll shout with all our might:
"Per ardua ad astra"
We'd rather drink than fight.
We are his Guinea Pigs.
With dermatomes and pedicles,
Glass eyes, false teeth and wigs.
And when we get our discharge
We'll shout with all our might:
"Per ardua ad astra"
We'd rather drink than fight.
It goes on a bit, as each member of the Club often added his own verse or two, some of them rather ribald. Anglicans and Episcopalians should note that it is sung to the tune of Aurelia, better known from its opening verse, "The Church's one foundation...."
McIndoe became a loving figure to these men. They called him "Boss" and "The Maestro"; he called them his "boys". A whole generation's worth of wounded and their medicos learned of and benefited from McIndoe's true sense of healing. After the war, the Guinea Pig Club continued to meet annually into the next century.
Archibald McIndoe would continue his work in plastic surgery and healing methods at his hospital in Sussex after the war and until his sudden death from a heart attack in 1960. He would receive a knighthood in 1947. The hospital remains in service and is recognized as a leading center for the treatment of burns. Other treatment and research centers may be found in England and New Zealand bearing McIndoe's name in his memory and honor, carrying forward his manner of patient care and Christian love.
Recently, a statue of McIndoe was unveiled in East Grinstead. The sculpture displays an airman, with ruined hands and a scarred face. Standing behind him, resting a supporting hand on each shoulder, is the figure of McIndoe.
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| Some of the surviving Guinea Pigs by the statue of The Maestro. |
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