Who was Albert Schweitzer?

 

**Dr. Albert Schweitzer (1875-1965)**

**Early Life and Education**
Born on January 14, 1875, in Kaysersberg in the province of Alsace-Lorraine (then part of the German Empire), Albert Schweitzer grew up in an environment where music and religion played central roles. His family had a long line of pastors, and Schweitzer would later follow in these footsteps. He demonstrated prodigious talent in music, especially on the organ.

**Academic and Musical Pursuits**
Schweitzer was not only a theologian but also a musicologist and an accomplished musician. He studied theology and philosophy at the universities of Strasbourg, Paris, and Berlin. In addition to his theological work, he wrote extensively on music, particularly about the works of Johann Sebastian Bach. His book, "J.S. Bach," is a cornerstone of Bach scholarship. As an organist, Schweitzer performed across Europe, emphasizing the importance of historical accuracy in playing Baroque music.

**Medical Pursuits and Work in Africa**
In his 30s, Schweitzer was moved by accounts of the health crises in Africa. He decided that, despite his significant accomplishments in music and theology, he was called to serve humanity in a more direct manner. At 30, he began studying medicine to establish a hospital in Africa. In 1913, he and his wife, Helene, founded a hospital in Lambaréné, Gabon. Despite numerous challenges, including the two World Wars and bouts of illness, Schweitzer maintained his commitment to the hospital, which still operates today.

**Philosophy: Reverence for Life**
Beyond his tangible achievements, Schweitzer is perhaps best known for his philosophy of "Reverence for Life" ("Ehrfurcht vor dem Leben"). This ethical framework posits that all life is valuable and deserving of respect. It formed the bedrock of Schweitzer's philosophy and guided his work in Africa. He believed that by showing deep respect and care for even the simplest forms of life, we recognize a universal will-to-live, fostering a more compassionate and just world.

Schweitzer's philosophy influenced ethical considerations concerning human life and contributed to discourses on animal rights and environmental conservation.

**Honors and Later Life**
Schweitzer received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1952 for his humanitarian efforts and contributions to philosophy. He continued his medical work in Gabon until his passing in 1965. Throughout his life, Schweitzer emphasized the importance of service and personal sacrifice for the greater good. His life, an amalgamation of various pursuits, was a testament to his profound commitment to alleviating suffering in the world.

**Legacy**
Dr. Albert Schweitzer's legacy is multifaceted. As a theologian, musician, philosopher, and physician, he showcased the potential of dedicating one's life to intellectual pursuits and tangible service to humanity. His hospital in Gabon remains a symbol of his enduring commitment to those in need. His "Reverence for Life" philosophy continues to inspire individuals across various disciplines, urging us to recognize the inherent value in all life forms.

Forty Four Dollars and Found.

 

 

 

 

Forty-four dollars and found.

August 26. 2023.

I arrived at the kolache place at 7:05 a.m. The weather was cool and clear. The wasps have a nest in the Hruska’s sign above the door, and the sullen creatures were already busy hovering in front of and menacing passersby.

My garment bottoms extend past the end of all my summer shorts, so Amy is only happy when I wear long pants in public. Which is okay except when it gets above 90 degrees – which happened today. That makes me a little impatient for fall weather. Still, with global warming, greenhouse gas, and Trump running off his mouth ad nauseum, I believe the Wasatch Valley will likely not see comfortable fall temperatures until Halloween.

Trick or Treat!

Today’s haul is $44.00 in my #10 can and nine kolaches.

My haiku today:

Glance at a cloud once,

Then turn away for a bit –

Look back, and it’s gone.

Seven people stopped to tell me they liked my haiku. That pleased me enormously. I enjoy analog praise more than likes and emojis on digital social media.

Several people bought me bottles of Glaceau SmartWater. I never drink ‘em. They go to Amy. Since she says I already got a smart mouth . . .  (Henny Youngman, get outta town!)

No street construction work today. I guess those guys have a five-day workweek. So, I was spared an incipient migraine.

On one of my bathroom breaks, I left my can in front of the wheelchair and propped my haiku up against the backrest. Someone put a five-dollar bill in my can while I was gone. That was a happy surprise, and it triggered a flashback to my childhood – when Dad would drive the whole family down Larpenteur Avenue in Saint Paul in late October to search for suitable jack-o-lantern pumpkins. Back then, Larpenteur was studded with corn fields and truck farms. We always went on a Sunday, so no one manned the vegetable stands. They were all at church (or, more likely, inside, glued to their TVs watching football.) Each stand had a coffee can on a table, with a scrawled sign giving the prices of corn, squash, tomatoes, and pumpkins. The farmers trusted Sunday shoppers to drop in the right amount. That’s a warm memory I like to mull over when today’s world gets too chilly and distant.

There were no crazy people today during my shift in front of the Kolache place. No extended conversations with anyone, as a matter of fact. People came and went, dropping money in my can and bringing me kolaches with little to say.

Except for that age-old question that is beginning to bug the Skittles out of me – “Are you homeless?”

I must have gotten that question a half dozen times today. The next time somebody asks me that, I’m going to answer “Yes” and see what happens . . .

 

A visit with Rylee. Friday. August 25. 2023.

 

 

A visit with Rylee. Friday. Aug 25. 2023.

"Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is Man." (Alexander Pope.)

I arrived in front of Hruska's Kolaches this morning at 6:49 a.m. with what I thought was a fine haiku:

"Mount Timpanogos –

Thrust up, in legend, to guard

Against the freeways."

 I was ready to study Man in all their shapes and moods.

I was given my first kolache, egg & bacon, at 7:38 a.m.

Then came an unsettling lull in reactions to my sign. No more kolaches. No dollar bills, or even coins. Lots of foot traffic, but very little notice of me.

Until a white-haired middle-aged woman read my haiku several times before demanding: "What is that? Is it anti-Mormon?"

"Certainly not!" I replied. "What makes you say such a thing?"

She did not deign to answer but huffed off.

Initially, I told myself she must be a priggish cretin, an unpleasant anomaly. But then I cooled down and thought, 'If that lady thinks it's anti-Mormon, then others are likely to think that way, too; that may explain the lull this morning.'

So I got off my high horse and hastily scribbled another haiku:

The morning shadows

Melt away in the warm sun –

Yet August weakens.

Within 5 minutes of displaying the new haiku, I got another kolache, and a dollar bill in my canister. Is there any correlation, any causation, here? If there is, I can't see it. One thing that might have made the first haiku this morning less attractive to passersby and bakery customers is that the first line – "Mount Timpanogos" – is a long and slightly difficult phrase to take in all at once. My panhandling experience teaches me that more people will read your first line if it's Dr. Seuss-simple, like "The cat in the Hat", and react more positively than if you start with something portentous, like "Mount Timpanogos." Go figure.

That first dollar bill had stamped on its back, 'FEDERAL ENDORSEMENT OF A DEITY OR RELIGION VIOLATES THE CONSTITUTION.'

But, hey, a buck's a buck. You can pencil in horns on George Washington – but I'm still gonna spend that dollar bill.

So today, I got a total of 8 kolaches. And twelve dollars.

I forgot to shave this morning. Amy and I went to the Provo Rec Center at 5:15 for a swim and a run on the treadmill. When we got home, I felt in a rush, so neglected to mow the chin spinach. I always feel scabby when I don't shave. As I write this, I run my fingers over the stubble, trying to decide whether to shave now or wait until tomorrow morning. Or grow a bushy beard that makes Amy leave me in a few weeks.

Most bakery customers don't make eye contact with me and don't stop to read my haiku, which takes, what, less than 30 seconds to scan? But I do not bear any malice towards these Philistines. None at all. Mainly because the sidewalk slab right in front of where I park my chair is tilted ever so slightly. Just enough so that people who are determined to be oblivious to my presence, usually by staring at their smartphone, often trip over the raised lip of the slab – stumbling away in hilarious disarray. Serves 'em right . . .

Another delicious diversion for me occurs when parents sit at one of the bakery picnic tables while their children monkey with the big overhead umbrella. The umbrellas each have a crank to open them and fold them shut. No child can resist a crank – they are hardwired to start turning it the moment they lay eyes on it. This results in the umbrella canvas collapsing on the whole family and threatening to smother them. It's a scenario that never grows stale to me.

About halfway through my shift, a young lady named Rylee bought me two kolaches, one savory and one sweet, and then sat down on the sidewalk next to me to chat. We had a pleasant ten-minute visit. She's a dental hygienist from St. George who only works four days a week. SHE WAS STUMPED when I asked her what she did with her 3-day weekends.

"Clean the apartment?" she replied doubtfully.

She clearly felt a more dynamic response was needed, so she added:

"Maybe go on a date or something?"

I decided not to press Rylee. If she wants to spend three days a week on the couch, sucking on a can of Cheez Whiz, while watching Hulu, that's none of my affair.

At 11:54 a.m., I was offered kolache #9 by a kindly-looking gent in a black t-shirt and shorts with the Nike logo on them both. I politely turned him down, explaining that people had been so generous that I didn't need any more. (Amy is making fettuccine with hamburger/tomato sauce for lunch today.)

And so I closed up business for the day on the stroke of noon. I put all eight of my kolaches out in the community kitchen here at Valley Villa for others to enjoy. Five minutes later, a lady from down the hall brings us the platter they were on and thanks us for the meal. Did she take all 8? I suspect she did. I'd like to knock on her door and ask. But as my Uncle Felbish used to say while stuffing dynamite down the garbage disposal: "Never trouble trouble unless trouble troubles you."

 

Poet Panhandler or Panhandler Poet?

 

 

Three weeks ago, I stationed myself by the Center Street entrance to Fresh Market's parking lot with my "Poet for Hire" sign. Heavy traffic meant a lot of people would see it.
But my hopes that people would stop to inquire about commissioning me didn't pan out. I just got a sunburn, that's all.
So I moved down Center Street to settle under a tree by Hruska's Kolache Bakery. The response was better; I got a few commissions for poems. The foot traffic is good between 6:30 a.m. and Noon.
But as I've shared earlier, ChatGPT can now write rhyming verses just as well as me – so there's no more fun doing it. Not for me. Besides, the Venmo account isn't working anymore.
I floundered around with writing out some long topical verses to display at the kolache place – but people either hurried mindlessly by or stopped to argue with me. All I wanted was some simple appreciation, not a debate.
So, last week, I switched to simple haiku verses. And that did the trick. No more arguments. It only takes 15 seconds to read one, so more people stop to read. And the more obscure I make my haiku, the more often people seem to appreciate it.
In addition, I placed an empty food storage can in front of my wheelchair (yes, I use a wheelchair – mainly because it's more comfortable than a folding chair and easier to transport) and was pleasantly surprised that even people who don't bother to read my haiku still put money in the can. They think I'm a homeless derelict, I guess. What I have come to think of myself as genuinely being is a poet panhandler or a panhandler poet. And please be forewarned that I will include all snarky email responses I receive from the four people I am sharing this with in future posts. So watch your mouse.

What follows is a daily account of how this stunt works out. Let's start with today – Thursday, August 24th. 2023.

I arrived in front of Hruska's Kolaches at 7:03 a.m. this morning. The weather was cool and cloudy.
Hruska's is sandwiched between two pawn shops. It's a tiny place. Not more than five people can get inside to order at one time. Luckily, they have six picnic tables on an asphalt lot adjacent to the bakery.

Today's haiku:
Ants on the sidewalk.
Just how many have I squished?
A jury awaits.

I also drew a cardboard sign: "DO NOT FEED THE POET."
That one was used only twice today. For brief intervals. Both times, it got a gaping, startled facial response. Nothing verbal. I'll play with it some more tomorrow.

My first donation of $2.00 came at 7:09 a.m.

At 7:26 a.m., a woman gives me a sausage & gravy kolache.

At 7:330 a.m., another lady gives me a twenty dollar bill, first asking anxiously: "Are you taking money?" To which I reply vigorously: "I sure am!"

It's interesting to see what people do with their brown paper bags after they've extracted their kolache. Some fold it up and keep it. Some crumple it into a ball to toss in the trash can. Nobody ever inflates it to pop. That's what I did with every single paper bag I ever got my hands on as a kid. From personal research, I'm happy to report that the Kolache place uses a good quality paper bag made by Duro Bags that can be inflated, shut, and smashed together for an altogether satisfying loud report.

The city is tearing up the street and sidewalks by the kolache place to make way for more parking space. It's a hellacious amount of noise on occasion. Construction lasts for two more weeks. After five hours or so of such din, I get the megrims. But all artists must suffer . . .


At 8:29 a.m., a man in a dark business suit puts a dollar in the can.

A young man, grinning like a gecko, comes up to ask: "How many have you squished?"
I tell him: "Over a lifetime, maybe a million."
He offers to fist-bump me. I oblige.

At 7:42 a.m., I take my first bathroom break. I'm on diuretic medication, so I need to pee a lot. It's a two-block walk over to Fresh Market. I barely made it without having an accident. Their men's room is ill, and the toilet stall is filled with monotonous graffiti of the '***k Biden' variety. And their toilet paper is thinner than graphene membrane.
                                                                                                                                           
I take another bathroom break at 9:01 a.m.
I'll try the Provo City Hall men's room in the lobby tomorrow. It's about a half block less of a walk.

At 9:30 a.m., a young girl gives me $5.00.

At 10:16 a.m., a young woman puts a dollar in my can and says, "Have a nice day." I don't think she bothered to read my haiku.

A man named Jacob stops by to share with me a poem he has written, entitled 'Yourself more than grasses and wood."  It's something about crickets and asphalt streets. I pretend to listen with great interest, hoping he'll feed the kitty—no such luck. I wish him good luck with his poetry, and he mercifully leaves without wanting to discuss the craft of poetry with me.

At 11:47 a.m., I'm ready to call it a day. But there are six white-shirted guys with neckties at one of the picnic tables – are they any good for a donation, I ask myself. They have all read my haiku and smiled at it. So, I gave them ten more minutes before taking off. They leave at 11:54 a.m.  No donations. The momsers. 

Where are the Philadelphia Office Workers? (Dedicated to Katie Mogg.)

 

 

In the heart of Philadelphia, tales are spun,
Of office workers, who've found a new kind of fun.
No longer confined to tall buildings of glass,
They’ve discovered a secret, and let the old ways pass.

“Why return?” they ask, sipping tea from a mug,
Wrapped in blankets, all snug as a bug.
For their pets now assist in the daily grind,
Dogs on keyboards, and cats who remind.

Once they’d rush through the streets, to catch a train,
Now they laugh at the thought, it’s clearly insane!
Why wear shoes, when socks will do?
Or trousers, when pajamas have the better view?

By the Liberty Bell, they’ve claimed a new right,
To work from the couch, both day and night.
The whispers speak of a magical chair,
That massages and warms, beyond compare.

Some say it’s the cheese steaks, so close at hand,
Others believe it's the allure of home-bands.
A guitar break here, a drum solo there,
Who could compete with such domestic flair?

Is it the sunlit corners, or gardens that bloom?
Or simply the solace of their own room?
Whatever the reason, in Philly they stay,
Home is where work is, come what may.

But if you ever find the answer, clear and true,
Please let us know, for we're curious too!
Till then, let them be, in their homebound glee,
For a happier worker, there may never be.

The Monarch Butterfly. (Dedicated to Kori Rumore Finley.)

 

 

In the realm of dancing sunlight beams,  
Where the meadow meets the sky,  
The monarch, in its golden dreams,  
Flits and floats and flutters by.

With wings kissed by tangerine hues,  
Veined in rivers of obsidian thread,  
Its majesty none could refuse,  
A floating tapestry widespread.

In migration’s mighty quest,  
Thousands journey to the sun,  
From the north, south, east, and west,  
A symphony, perfectly spun.

Its metamorphosis, a tale so old,  
From humble caterpillar, green and stout,  
In chrysalis, secrets begin to unfold,  
Till a monarch, in glory, comes out.

In gardens, where children play and laugh,  
Their delicate wings ignite youthful awe,  
Tracing paths on nature's behalf,  
An embodiment of nature's law.

The whisper of its fleeting flight,  
Echoes life's transient song,  
Yet in its short span shines so bright,  
Teaching us to be strong.

Hail to thee, Monarch of the day,  
Symbol of endurance, grace, and might,  
In your beauty, you lead the way,  
Guiding us from dawn to twilight.

Politicians Need Oversight. (Dedicated to Robert Greene.)

 

 

In halls of power where voices ring,
Decisions made, where hopes do cling,
Yet shadowed hearts oft go astray,
When ethics' light dims and fades away.

For politicians, in noble guise,
Can lose their way, forget the prize,
Of service true and public trust,
When ambition's call turns hearts to dust.

Without a watchful eye to guard,
The line 'tween right and wrong grows hard,
For power can taint the purest soul,
And make one's noble goals unwhole.

An oversight, strong and clear,
Might keep them straight, dispel the fear,
That they, unchecked, might bend the law,
And towards their own desires draw.

For in the watchful gaze of few,
The many find a path that's true,
A safeguard 'gainst the darker side,
Where unchecked power and ego reside.

Oh, let not trust be so naive,
That we let slip what we believe,
Ensure a panel, firm and just,
Keeps politicians bound to trust.

In them we place our hopes and dreams,
Yet oversight ensures it seems,
That ethics’ call, both loud and grand,
Will guide each choice and every hand.

scams

 

 

ever since old Barnum had the Fiji mermaid shown

Americans their dollars on such stuff have always blown.

we like to think we're able to discern 'tween right and wrong;

but hucksters find us easy prey and rob us with a song.

because we think that money grows on trees across the street;

because we do not want to work, but gather manna sweet.

because we think we're owed so much in this here promised land --

the scammers can relieve us of at least a couple grand.

banks, of course, are quite legit, and so is Wall Street, too --

so if you lose your shirt to them you shouldn't feel too blue.

try crypto-coin or gold bullion for safety and repose.

(Me, I stuff my dollar bills inside some pantyhose.)

 

Bottled Water.

 

 

I drank from the garden hose as a kid.

It tasted of vinyl and something of squid.

But no one today would touch such a source;

'twould fill them with fear and likely remorse.

It's got to be bottled and from pristine spring --

and cannot be bought for just a shoestring.

 

Shakespeare's Lost Sonnet.

 

 

It was found behind an Elizabethan counterpane in a country home in Bedfordshire. Scholars are continuing to examine it closely.

 

Upon a stage of love, where all do play,
The roles of heart's desire and deceit.
In gowns of silk, women oft' hold sway,
Their whims like waves that doth in tempest meet.

They shimmer bright as morning's first sunray,
Yet, change their course as swiftly as the fleet.
Anon, they love, then turn their hearts away,
Their sweetness soured, turned bitter from the sweet.

Yet, is it they who flicker and do sway,
Or our desires that wax and swiftly wane?
Forsooth, our hearts do falter in the fray,
In passion's storm, love's vessel feels the strain.

In women's hearts, a fickle flame may glow,
Yet, 'tis our own reflections they do show.