Festinord

There was a young Mormon, a Swede,
who hoped that he soon would succeed
in finding a bride
in Festinord's tide;
for otherwise he could not breed. 

Have you considered the versatile dandelion as part of your emergency preparedness?

Dandelions are the bane of many gardeners’ existence. But if you think this is going to be a column about how to get rid of them; think again. Because dandelions are quite useful. Even in an emergency.

Hikingware.com encourages you to think about having a supply of dandelions on hand in case of a disaster. They are edible . . . and, as dandelion wine, even drinkable! (But always drink in moderation, especially during an emergency!)

In the spring they provide one of the most abundant early sources of pollen for honeybees, ladybugs and many other beneficial insects beginning to lay their eggs. The pollen provides a much needed source of protein to feed new larvae. Honeybees are very happy with acres of early dandelions. And honey from hives or from the wild is an excellent all-around food for children and adults. 

The lowly dandelion has been used as a food and medicinal plant for millennia. The word itself comes from the Greek, then French “dent de lion” or lion’s tooth for its deeply lobed green leaves. Young dandelion leaves can be served in a salad mix while the flower bud can be fried in butter and end up tasting like mushrooms. The dried root makes a reasonable coffee substitute.

There are even culinary dandelion varieties available in a few seed catalogs that can be grown in a vegetable garden, producing larger leaves than those found in your lawn. If you pick the leaves, do it before the plant goes to flower, as they become bitter.

Dandelions can be made into wine and beer. For wine, you will need a quart of fresh, unsprayed, well-washed flowers. Pour a gallon of boiling water over them and let stand for four minutes. Remove the flowers and cool to 90 degrees before adding yeast, sugar and sliced lemons and limes. Place in a fermenter. The wine will be ready in about three weeks. It can be a valuable item of barter for you if regular sources of income are unavailable after a disaster or emergency. But please remember you have to either barter it for something or else give it away. DON'T try to sell it for cash -- that becomes a Federal offense.

Lastly, dandelions have many medicinal uses. According to the University of Maryland Medical Center, dandelion plants were boiled by Native Americans and then used to treat a variety of illnesses including kidney disease, swelling, skin problems, heartburn and upset stomach. The Chinese used it in traditional medicine to treat stomach issues, appendicitis and inflammation and lack of milk flow in breasts. Europeans used it to treat fever, boils, eye problems, diabetes, and diarrhea. 

So, if you have an unused patch of poor ground, why not try a dandelion patch? As anyone with a lawn knows, they're nearly impossible to kill and will reseed themselves at the drop of a hat. Or you can pick them in the wild, since they're everywhere. 

The Mattress

Inventing the mattress sure ranks
as blessing for which we give thanks.
A hammock's okay,
but it makes your back pay.
And who wants to sleep on bare planks? 

How to Save Money (after an evening spent rereading Robert Benchley)

With the world's eyes glued on Rio for the Olympics, and everyone asking the question: "Who, or what, is Camoes -- some kind of hand soap?"-- and with the aftermath of Brexit, the Boer War, and Bollywood, and a bull market that is so historic it makes the Hindenburg crashing into an iceberg seem like a walk in the park -- well, all I can say is that this sentence has run on to ridiculous length and had better come to a stop before somebody gets it in the labonza . . .

Which brings us to the subject of how to save money.

For most people, earning money is easy; they get a job, collect a paycheck, and then try to hide it from Uncle Sam by depositing it in a cheap brass spittoon bought on eBay for $1.99, plus shipping and handling.

But saving money, now that is a horse of a different kettle of fish, and no mistake.

As wise old Justin Timberlake once said: "Money doesn't grow on trees unless you prune it with golden shears." Which only goes to prove that Timberlake is about as dumb as a sawdust brisket.

The first thing to do if you are sincere about saving money is to quit reading this article right now and go looking for diamonds in the south of France. You won't find any, but the bouillabaisse is very good and I won't have to write another word, since I'd rather be out trout fishing on the Provo River.

Oh, I see. You wish to continue reading . . .

Fine. Be that way.

The next thing to do when you are determined to save some of your hard-earned mazuma is to open an overseas bank account. Or take up the accordion. Either way people will hate you passionately.

Next you should invest in something you can either eat, yell at, or sleep on when you retire. Because, believe me, by the time you stop working the banks will all be convenience stores and Wall Street will be nothing but an alley where pushcarts hawk second hand cardboard.

Once the above steps are achieved, you will find a sense of peace and purpose descend upon you. This is known as 'Knox's Senile Reflex', and can be treated effectively with syrup of squills or a dose of Carmen Miranda.

Experts agree that you should start saving when in your twenties. But what do they know? The experts also said red wine was good for your heart, but forgot to mention that it makes your liver burp in French.

The question of accumulating Bitcoin has bedeviled savers for quite some time. The best advice, as always, comes from a complete stranger I met on the bus. He said "You can't go far wrong with a barrel of pickles."  How true.

It should be self evident that a penny saved is a penny earned. Put another way, take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves. (Some more Timberlake malarkey, no doubt.)

Put some of your savings in warp coils, video cassettes, and powdered kambucha; they all will increase in value. They have to, since they're worth nothing right now.

And finally, always pay yourself before you pay anyone else. That way, when they repossess your house and car, you can rest easy because in forty more years you'll have your own timeshare dumpster on the beach.
 

The One-Way Wagon

Ted Natus, founder of Hamernick’s Decorating on Rice Street said: “The wagon was tilted so it was going one way.”   

(As reported in the St Paul Pioneer Press by Fred Melo)

The one-way wagon trods a path

that only leads to tears and wrath;

a juggernaut, or Conestoga,

it will not calm at all like yoga.

Please take heed, ye drivers plucky;

one-way wagons are unlucky.

You can drive the ox a bit,

but in the end the fan will hit,

and those you've thought to leave behind

will make you taste the bitter rind

of eating crow with humble pie --

and learning not to think 'banzai'! 

MAD Magazine

I cannot think a better screed
was ever writ for boys to read
than MAD -- that graphic jape sublime,
whose pages parents thought a crime.

A whoopee cushion on the trends
of Eisenhower times, from pens
that ruptured smugness like a bladder --
making music all the madder.

A boy who read its antic pages
knew that clowns were our true sages.
I may be a lousy rhymer,
but MAD was my New England Primer.

An Indian from Bangalore

An Indian from Bangalore
exclaimed in a rage "What a bore!"
"To simplify taxes
will take many axes
before we can even the score!"

letter to nathan sunday july 31 2016

I had a touch of my old complaint, kidney stones, last night, so instead of snoozing peacefully I sat up most of the night, just going over the last few days spent with my ex, Amy.
A bowl of chicken broth went down well this morning, and I think the worst of the attack is overfor now.

Where to start? (The better question is probably 'where to end'?)

Forgive me for burdening you with my jejune ruminations, but I want to put my thoughts down to get them organized and analyzed, plus I have always trusted your judgement and discretion.

Anywho . . .

As I've mentioned, Amy is going to go live w/our Daughter Madelaine back in Virginia so she'll have someone to help look after her and help her file for Disability (she's still 3 years away from being able to file for early Soc Sec like I've done).

Amy has been wrapping up her life here in Utah Valley and has involved me in some of it. Since I have a storage closet as part of my apartment deal she asked if she could leave some things behind in it. Since I don'tuse it, I saw no problem. So she has crammed it full of suitcases and bags and cheap plastic tubs and photo albums (and her collection of 2-thousand DVDs). In doing so, she and I have cautiously been reviewing our life together, and I've come to the conclusion that she regards me mainly as someone she can talk to. She has a great, consuming need to talk deeply and in detail about relationships and family. I am very thankful she does not want to talk about the Gospel with me anymore -- she does that with her sister Kathy, up in Idaho. Most of our arguments were about LDS theology, or about food & diet & nutritional supplements.

So I found myself nodding my head frequently and saying "uh-huh" or "of course" a lot.

She told me some very shocking things about our children. I never realized (or perhaps did not want to know at the time) how hard things have been for them -- not just growing up, but right now. Where I today see my kids as mature, well-balanced, active, adults, Amy has informed me of the tremendous struggles that each of them are facing -- some that started long ago, and some that are very recent. My kids have never told me about these things, but they opened up to their mother.
There's no need to go into details, but if you ever hear me complaining about my ungrateful kids again you have my permission to kick me in the butt. The poor kids are weighed down with problems that would have certainly crushed me at their age. BUt since they won't open up to me, I guess I'll just have to remain in the background and give long-distance love & support.

Amy also told me all about her second marriage, and her affair while she was remarried. I found I could not gloat over her mistakes, but also could not offer her much comfort either. In fact, I started to get bored of the whole sordid thing after a while. She cheated on her second husband not out of romance or even physical attraction, but just because she felt he was ignoring her. It's an old and cliched story -- like the clown with a broken heart . . .

Amy has been cooking all her meals at my house since moving out of her apartment last Thursday. With her special dietary requirements (all self-imposed) she won't eat anything I keep around, so she brought over dozens of special organic, grass-fed, free range, non-GMO stuff to keep in my fridge -- and then promptly became too weak to do her own cooking, so I did it for her. Which I don't mind -- I like to cook.  
She drinks an incredible amount of kambucha and chia seed suspensions. And puts sterilized clay in it.

I've got to stop and rest a moment . . .

Now that I've had a little nap in my recliner . . .

So last night Amy wanted to watch the movie "The Five PEople You Meet in Heaven", with John Voight. I wasn't too keen on watching it, but since she is, in a sense, a guest in my house, I said okay. I had read the book when it first came out, but didn't remember very much of it.
Much to my surprise I found myself bawling through much of it. When it was over Amy wanted to have a long talk about our relationship, now, as she said, that "You're back in touch with the spirit."
I had to explain to her that nothing was changed or enhanced for me after viewing the movie -- that I had simply been emotionally manipulated by the film, and did not view it as a spiritual experience.
I think I was finally able to make her understand that about me -- not everything that moves me is some kind of spiritual revelation, but more likely just the product of my own imagination and emotions being triggered by an event or narrative or even a memory. I have grown to mistrust my feelings and desires as a sure compass to spirituality. More often, I am greatly moved by my own desires and stratagems that have little or nothing to do with the Holy Ghost.
If something is common sense and does somebody some good, and nobody harm, then, and only then, am I willing to consider it as coming from God. Amy's decision to divorce me was not a revelation. My decision to move back to Thailand and out of my children's lives for so long was not a revelation, but a selfish bit of foolishness. On the other hand, my decision to take the discussions, get baptized, serve a mission, marry Amy, etc., were all inspiration.

I also wanted to tell her that the more she 'opened up' to me, the more she appeared as merely wanting to justify all her own decisions and actions, many of which were hurtful to me and to our kids. However, that would be like the pot calling the kettle black -- meaning I am just as guilty about making poor choices that have not done anything good for my kids, or for others. The difference between Amy and me, I am finally convinced, is that at least I KNOW I have been foolish and selfish and should not be trusted. If Grace is not an operative principle of the Gospel, then I'm doomed.

Amy leaves this Tuesday morning for Virginia, and so once again she is, in a sense, abandoning me. Despite all that I've said above, she and I have established a wary friendship, a sort of Detente. I have enjoyed making 'organic' meals for her and listening to her and even doing her laundry. We sat together on the little couch my daughter Sarah gave me, her feet tucked under my legs for warmth, to watch Deana Durbin movies. I even got her to watch a silent movie with Harold Lloyd, and she grudgingly admitted it "had some good parts". There are strands of her long hair all over that little couch, all white. Having her around is more of a comfort than anything else to me.  And in a few days she leaves me again. I think I will hate the silence that is the only thing to replace her in my apartment, and my life.

I wish I was a garbageman

I wish I was a garbageman, and drove the garbage truck;
I think that it would be such fun, and I'd feel full of luck!
To back the beeping wagon up to dumpsters great and small;
and then to lift and shake them as if they were a beach ball.
Each morning I would jump from bed, as happy as a lark,
and then upon my journey I would happily embark;
down alleyways and up steep hills, and round the mansions big -- 
and if some rich guy said I smelled I wouldn't care a fig! 
For I am serving ev'ryone the same, no matter who
they might be to others in this worldly wobbly zoo.
Ev'ryone makes garbage and they need it hauled away;
and I'm the one who does it, and I even get some pay!
You can be an astronaut, a lawyer, or dragoon --
all I ask is just a truck and streets with garbage strewn . . . 

Cleveland

A reporter in Cleveland did say

"That RNC gets in the way

of viewing this city

with more than just pity."

And then she flew out the next day.