The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter One. by Tim Torkildson.

 

CHAPTER ONE.  A flea in the flock.

The land now known as Dickendoof emerged in the aftermath of the Roman Empire's collapse. This once Roman province transitioned into a landscape dominated by Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, an era rich with fascinating stories and historical shifts.

In the early 9th century, these kingdoms faced repeated onslaughts from the Viking invaders. King Alfred of Wessex emerged as a heroic figure, leading the resistance and ultimately establishing a period of relative peace. The fruits of his efforts bloomed when Æthelstan, his grandson, successfully unified Dickendoof under his rule in 927. (If this sounds like English history, it's because the typesetter was drinking heavily when he set this up.)

But the life in medieval Dickendoof wasn't a tranquil one for everyone. Amidst the serene pastures and rugged landscapes, there were tales of struggle and hardship. The story of Earwig, a knight, and Fardel, a humble peasant, comes to mind.

One day, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Earwig met Fardel near the edge of a muddy field. The peasant’s calloused hands were hardened by the harsh reality of his labor. "How do you fare, Fardel?" Earwig asked, shifting in his shiny armor.

"Weary, Sir Earwig. The King’s tax collectors came again. They've taken nearly half of my crop," Fardel replied, his eyes reflecting the hardship of his life.

"Half? That's too harsh," Earwig murmured, realizing the burden the crown placed on its people.

During the reign of the Normans, which began with the famous battle of Hastings in 1066, the feudal system had firmly taken root. The common folk like Fardel were required to give a significant portion of their produce as tax, or rent, to the noble lords who, in turn, provided military services to the King.

Earwig, a knight, was caught in this intricate web. He was responsible for protecting the realm, but also understanding of the troubles faced by peasants like Fardel. The Knight-errant mused, "I shall bring this matter to the court, Fardel. The peasantry's struggle ought to be recognized."

"Will it matter, Sir Earwig? Will they hear us?" Fardel asked, skeptical.

"We must try," Earwig asserted. "The realm thrives on its people. They cannot be left to suffer."

Such exchanges gave birth to the Code of Magnesia in 1215, a crucial document in Dickendoof's history. It limited the monarch’s arbitrary use of power and established the principle that everybody, including the king, was subject to the law.

Unfortunately, the law didn't entirely ease the peasantry's plight. Further rebellions, like the Peasants' Revolt in 1381, echoed the constant struggle between the rulers and the ruled. However, these events gradually shaped the societal structure and governance of Dickendoof, leading to the development of more balanced systems and the slow march towards a more democratic society.

Dickendoof's medieval history is a saga marked by kings and knights, peasants and serfs, battles and rebellions. It is a story of hardship, resilience, and evolution. It’s in the tales of people like Earwig and Fardel that we find the true strength and spirit of this land, the heartbeats that echoed across the realm, and the voices that refused to be silenced. The narration of this history, written with quill on parchment, has withstood the test of time, allowing future generations to reflect on the struggles and triumphs of their ancestors.

So wrote Underlip the Scribe, many centuries past.

We haven't time to do a full workup on Underlip the Scribe right now. There's a pot of fudge working to a boil on the hallway radiator that needs attending to. Suffice it to say that this intriguing story, for the most part, is cribbed from Underlip's magnum opus: Holus Molus.  

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In the vast, rugged landscape of Dickendoof, nestled in the heart of Medieval Europe, society exhibited a hierarchical structure that was both compelling and inherently stratified. Knights, like our Earwig, served as the stewards of the land, dispensing justice and ensuring the peace. Peasants, such as Fardel, worked the fields, cultivating the fertile ground in return for protection and relative stability. Yet, as tightly knit as this social fabric was, it found itself rent apart by an unexpected threat – dragons.

One day, as Earwig strode through the bustling marketplace, he bumped into Fardel, who was visibly perturbed.

"Fardel, why so pale?" asked Earwig, seeing the worry etched on the peasant's face.

"It's them dragons, milord," Fardel replied, his voice trembling. "They're devourin' folk left and right. Me own cousin, Bertie, was taken just yesterday."

"I've heard tales, but how many are there?" queried Earwig, gripping his sword hilt instinctively.

"There be seven, milord. Seven fire-breathing devils tearing through our fields, our livestock, our kin," Fardel declared, a bitter resentment lining his words.

Recognizing the need for swift action, Earwig called for a council. Nobles and commoners alike gathered to devise a strategy to rid Dickendoof of the dragons. They concluded that they needed a special weapon, a weapon made from the metal mined from the highest peak of the nearby Iron Hills.

This plan set into motion, the community sprang to work, rallying together in the face of danger. Miners braved the treacherous cliffs to extract the needed metal. Blacksmiths hammered tirelessly, forging a blade strong enough to pierce dragon scales. This shared effort showcased the unity of the Dickendoof society - nobles, knights, and peasants, all working together for the common good.

When the weapon was finally crafted, it was bestowed upon Earwig. He journeyed to the dragons' lair and, after a hard-fought battle, succeeded in ridding Dickendoof of the monstrous threat. The dragons were vanquished, and the kingdom breathed a sigh of relief.

Yet, amidst the victory, a chilling realization dawned on them - the dragons were not a natural menace but a creation of the wizards, the supposed wise men of Dickendoof. The wizards, cloaked in their enigmatic power, had unleashed this terror, playing with lives as if they were mere chess pieces.

The society of Dickendoof, after surviving the dragon onslaught, stood together, united in their denouncement of these wizards. Earwig, victorious yet contemplative, addressed the crowd, "We knights and yeoman, we nobles and peasants, have labored together, fought together, and triumphed together. But it is our wizards, the ones who should have been our guardians, who brought this havoc upon us."

He paused, looking out over the silent crowd, "These wizards, who toyed with the natural order, who bred fire-breathing beasts to terrorize our lands, they are the true menace. A menace we shall no longer abide."

His words echoed across the kingdom, a strong and irrefutable indictment of those who had so callously endangered them. It signified a turning point in Dickendoof's history, a period where society recognized and repudiated the reckless wielding of power. And so, with new resolve, they began rebuilding, learning from the past, and standing firm against those who would disrupt the harmony of their land.

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If we bother to look at other original sources on the early chaotic times of Dickendoof, we won’t go far wrong by quoting an ancient mage known as Woodruff the Wizard.  He was a chatty old bird, whose scribblings on wizardry are currently housed in the National Archives at Happy Landings, New Bipple. He has some interesting things to say about the wizard problem that plagued the early Dickendoofers. We quote him at length and verbatim,bad jokes and all, for historical accuracy and because we’re too darn lazy to edit this windy melange:

 A Whisker-Twirling Discourse on Wizardry

Ah, there you are, curious stranger! I am Woodruff the Wizard, purveyor of the perplexing, wielder of the wondrous, and not to mention, the honorary custodian of the Cursed Coffee Pot of Calcutta. Let's bend a few corners of reality, shall we?

Being a wizard is not just about the flashy staffs and billowing robes. It is a state of being that is akin to winning the lottery, but instead of money, you receive a ceaseless torrent of eccentricities. Ah, how marvellously madcap it is!

The first thing you must understand is the importance of the beard. A wise man, Hocus P. Pocus, said in his seminal work "Beardonomics: The Facial Fuzz of Wizardry," "A wizard without a beard is like a cat without its whiskers - it simply isn't done!" And to that I say, cheers! I've had more birds nesting in my beard than I care to count. Once, I found a nest of miniature unicorns! A miracle of the highest magical order, if I dare say so.

Wizardry isn't just beard-growing, though. There's the mastery of magic to consider. Just last week, I attempted to summon a loaf of bread and ended up with a very disgruntled, carb-phobic dragon in my pantry. He and I had a very insightful conversation about the perils of gluten.

Alchemy is another core aspect. Now, let me tell you about the time I accidentally brewed a love potion instead of my morning coffee. Everyone in the village, from the stoic butcher to the aloof librarian, fell head over heels for the town crier. 'Twas a spectacle indeed! Sir Smokes-a-Lot, a renowned alchemical scholar, once said: "The bubbling brew within a wizard's cauldron mirrors the swirling madness within his mind." I can't help but nod in fervent agreement every time my coffee maker belches out a rainbow.

Then there's the quintessential art of divination. It might sound glamorous, but let me assure you, the tea leaves are rather moody. In the wizardly bestseller, "The Sneezy Seer's Guide to Grumpy Grains," Mysterio the Mystic advised, "Divination is the delicate dance of courting the chaos of the cosmos." Well, I once danced with the chaos, and it left me with two left feet. Literally.

However, it's not all tea leaves and transmutations. There's a softer side to being a wizard, like managing your mythical menagerie. For instance, my phoenix, Percival, is afraid of heights, and my pet basilisk Basil has a terrible case of stage fright. Tending to them teaches me the magic of empathy. It's a charm you won't find in any grimoire.

Then comes the final, and perhaps most crucial, characteristic of being a wizard: our insatiable curiosity. Sir Cognito, in his enlightening tome "The Wizard's Ever-Questing Eye," puts it so aptly: "A wizard's mind is an unending spiral, always circling towards the next enigma." One minute I'm investigating the uncanny correlation between goblin economics and moon cycles, the next I'm chasing a thought that leapt out of my own head!

Ah, I digress. Time's a precious commodity in the wizarding world, particularly because it has an uncanny knack for knotting itself up when you least expect it. But even as I traverse the chaotic cosmos of magic, these humorous hiccups serve as the breadcrumbs on my spellbound journey.

So, dear reader, being a wizard is not just about the flashy pyrotechnics and miraculous manifestations. It is about living a life filled with the unexpected, the uncanny, and the utterly unexplainable. It's about embracing the chaos and dancing with the bizarre. It's about finding joy in the journey, even if you're just following a trail of breadcrumbs through a labyrinth of lunacy. Now, if you'd excuse me, I believe my coffee maker just belched out a unicorn…

~

After rereading the above tripe from Woodruff, it’s no wonder Sir Earwig wanted to exterminate the whole tribe of warlocks. Not only did they bring dragons upon the land, but they were spreading logorrhea like mad.

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The end of the first chapter of this fantastic history seems an appropriate place to explain who is actually writing this book. It's a group effort by the Writer's Gulden. We are a group of writers dedicated to the spread of mustard. And so from time to time you will notice subliminal messages encouraging you to use more mustard. 

I am Arthur Pennyroyal; duly elected secretary to the Writer's Gulden. Most of this fantasy is being cobbled together by me, although I'll continue to use "we" when I wish to interject something. Makes it sound more majestic and otherworldly. We hope for bestseller status for this book, since mustard is getting way too expensive. And we use a lot of it during our meetings.

 

The Pickle.

 

 

The history of the pickle is as old as civilization itself, with origins that trace back to 2030 BCE. Often enjoyed as a tangy addition to sandwiches or a crunchy companion to cheeses, the story of the humble pickle is steeped in a worldwide culinary tradition that has continuously evolved throughout centuries.

The very first evidence of pickling comes from ancient Mesopotamia, where cucumbers from the Tigris Valley were pickled. This ancient technique was used as a means of food preservation, especially during long journeys. The process, which involves soaking foods in solutions that either promote or prevent fermentation, allowed for a longer shelf-life of produce and protected the abundance of harvests from spoiling.

As trade routes expanded, pickling techniques spread to other parts of the world. In fact, cucumbers were introduced to the Mediterranean region through trade with the Tigris Valley. Ancient Greeks and Romans appreciated the nutritional and preservative aspects of pickles. Notable figures such as Aristotle and Julius Caesar endorsed their health benefits. Aristotle praised the healing effects of pickles, and Julius Caesar is said to have fed them to his troops for strength.

The pickle's journey continued eastward to India, where it developed into a cherished tradition. The practice of pickling in India encompassed a wide range of fruits and vegetables and incorporated a variety of local spices, creating a medley of flavors unique to Indian cuisine.

Fast forward to the Age of Exploration in the 15th century, when pickles played a significant role in sustaining sailors on long voyages. It was during this period that Christopher Columbus reportedly brought pickles to the New World. The vitamin C-rich pickles helped prevent scurvy among sailors, an affliction caused by a deficiency of this important nutrient.

In the United States, the story of the pickle intertwines with the tale of immigration. The iconic dill pickle, as it is known today, has roots in Eastern European Jewish communities. Jewish immigrants arriving in New York in the late 19th and early 20th centuries brought their pickling traditions with them, peddling pickles in pushcarts around the Lower East Side of Manhattan. This cultural addition quickly embedded itself in American culinary fabric.

Today, pickles are enjoyed in many forms across the world, with regional variations reflecting local produce and palate. From the salty-sour German sauerkraut and the spicy Korean kimchi to the sweet American bread-and-butter pickles, the art of pickling continues to evolve and diversify.

Whether they're providing a punch of flavor in a sandwich, acting as a cooling condiment in a spicy meal, or even being deep-fried at a state fair, pickles have endured as a testament to our ancestors' ingenuity in food preservation. The history of the pickle is ultimately a history of human civilization, reflecting our journey from ancient techniques of survival to a modern world of diverse culinary delights.

 

Limburger Cheese.

 

 

Limburger Cheese, famous for its strong odor but loved for its rich, savory flavor, is a historically significant dairy product with origins tracing back to the 19th century in the Duchy of Limburg. The Duchy, located in the heartland of Western Europe, straddled territories across present-day Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands, providing an intriguing socio-cultural background to this unique cheese.

The inception of Limburger cheese can be attributed to Belgian Trappist monks from the monastery of Saint-Sixtus in the 1820s. Influenced by the traditional methods of cheesemaking from the French-speaking Wallonia region of Belgium, the monks began crafting a soft, washed-rind cheese with an unmistakable aroma, giving birth to the first Limburger cheese. Over the years, the production of Limburger cheese shifted predominantly to Germany, with the Allgäu region becoming one of the significant producers.

From the industrial perspective, it's fascinating to note that the cheesemaking practices for Limburger migrated to the United States during the wave of German immigration in the mid-19th century. By the turn of the 20th century, Wisconsin had become a central hub for Limburger production in the United States, continuing the tradition and supplying the cheese to the domestic market. Chalet Cheese Cooperative, the only U.S. producer of Limburger cheese as of my knowledge cutoff in 2021, faithfully upholds this legacy, handcrafting the cheese and carefully aging it for at least two months to develop its characteristic flavor and smell.

Limburger is a washed-rind cheese, meaning that during the aging process, it's regularly bathed in a brine solution. This treatment encourages the growth of beneficial bacteria, contributing to the cheese's distinctive aroma and pungent flavor profile. Despite its infamous odor, often likened to sweaty feet, the cheese offers an unexpectedly mild, buttery taste with a slight tang.

In terms of usage, Limburger cheese is versatile. In its native regions, it is traditionally served with dark rye bread and onions, often accompanied by a robust Belgian ale or a hearty German lager. This classic combination is popular in the American Midwest as well, known as a Limburger sandwich. Moreover, the cheese melts well, making it a suitable addition to dishes like fondue, gourmet burgers, or oven-baked potatoes.

For those with a daring palate, Limburger cheese is also a key ingredient in adventurous culinary creations, incorporated into cheese boards, or paired with fruits and cured meats. Importantly, it's best consumed at room temperature to fully appreciate its complex flavor profile.

In summary, Limburger cheese, with its vivid history and unique characteristics, remains a testament to the rich traditions of European cheesemaking. Its robust smell might raise some eyebrows, but for those who venture to taste it, the cheese offers a complex, satisfying flavor that outweighs any initial olfactory reservations. Today, it continues to be a culinary delight cherished by cheese enthusiasts, who appreciate th

 

Franklin Pangborn.

 

 

Franklin Pangborn (January 23, 1889 – July 20, 1958) was a consummate character actor who left an indelible mark on Hollywood's Golden Age with his unique style and unforgettable performances. His idiosyncratic persona, often playing the finicky, easily flustered and slightly effeminate characters, brought humor and dynamism to any film or television show he was a part of.

Pangborn was born in Newark, New Jersey, and began his acting career in silent films in the early 1920s. Despite the limitations of the silent era, Pangborn's expressiveness and ability to convey emotion with his eyes and gestures were apparent from the beginning. As talkies emerged, his vocal inflections added another layer to his persona, enhancing his performances in a way that would not have been possible in silent films.

Throughout his career, Pangborn worked with a number of notable directors such as Preston Sturges and Ernst Lubitsch. These directors were drawn to Pangborn's distinctive character work, often casting him as the officious clerk or the fussy hotel manager. He had the unique ability to fully embody these characters, making them more than just peripheral figures but significant contributors to the storyline.

In films such as "My Man Godfrey" (1936), "Hail the Conquering Hero" (1944), and "The Sin of Harold Diddlebock" (1947), Pangborn showcased his range. He never shied away from the comedic aspects of his roles, delivering one-liners with perfect timing and inflection. His physical comedy, too, was unmatched. Pangborn’s characters might be frazzled or flustered, but he played them with such charm and wit that audiences couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Pangborn was also an active player in the world of radio and television, demonstrating his versatility across different mediums. His work on the Jack Benny Program on radio and later on television was a particular highlight of his career in broadcasting.

However, beyond his memorable performances and his remarkable consistency as an actor, Pangborn’s real legacy lies in his ability to take stereotypical, one-note characters and breathe life into them. He imbued each role with depth and personality, turning even the smallest of parts into a memorable performance. He perfected the art of the character actor, understanding that while his role may not be the central focus, it was crucial to the overall success of the film.

Despite passing away in 1958, Franklin Pangborn's legacy endures. He was not just a character actor but an icon, a symbol of a time when every role, no matter how small, was critical to the story. With over 200 credits to his name, Pangborn remains a fixture of the Golden Age of Hollywood, and his contributions to film and television continue to be recognized and appreciated by audiences and critics alike.

In essence, Franklin Pangborn is a testament to the power and importance of character actors in the world of cinema. His roles, albeit often small and seemingly inconsequential, were executed with such charisma and skill that they have stood the test of time, cementing Pangborn as one of Hollywood's most celebrated character actors.

 

Rubber Bands.

 

Rubber bands, also known as elastic bands, are ubiquitous items in our daily lives. They are remarkably simple and versatile, used in diverse settings from offices and schools to homes and factories. Their history is intertwined with the discovery and commercialization of rubber, providing fascinating insights into the ingenuity of human innovation.

The story of rubber bands begins with the rubber tree, Hevea brasiliensis, native to South America. For thousands of years, indigenous peoples used rubber to create various items, like waterproof shoes and balls for games. They learned to tap the tree's bark to extract the milky latex, which they would subsequently dry and harden.

European explorers brought rubber to the Old World in the late 15th century, but its unique properties weren't fully appreciated until the 18th century. In 1770, British scientist Joseph Priestley noted that rubber was effective for erasing pencil marks, leading to its English name: rubber, the "eraser."

But the real turning point for rubber—and, by extension, rubber bands—came in the 19th century. Charles Goodyear, an American inventor, discovered the process of vulcanization in 1839. By heating rubber with sulfur, Goodyear found that it became more durable and less affected by temperature. This development allowed rubber to be used in a wider array of products, including the predecessor to modern rubber bands.

The rubber band as we know it was patented in England in 1845 by Stephen Perry of the rubber manufacturing company Messers Perry and Co. These bands were made from vulcanized rubber and used to hold papers and envelopes together, and it was a revolutionary concept at the time. Perry's rubber bands were the first to be produced on a large scale and opened the door to countless applications that we see today.

During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the rubber industry expanded rapidly, with plantations spreading across British and Dutch colonies in Southeast Asia. This provided a steady supply of raw material for rubber bands and other rubber-based products.

Throughout the 20th century, rubber bands became increasingly common and essential in various industries. Advances in manufacturing techniques led to improved quality, durability, and elasticity. The bands started being used in diverse applications such as fastening bags, bundling products, aiding in home crafts, and even in technology like airplane and automobile production.

In today’s world, rubber bands continue to hold their significance. They are manufactured in different sizes, colors, and strengths, catering to a multitude of uses. In the digital age, where paper usage has decreased, rubber bands have adapted, finding relevance in tech, fashion, agriculture, and beyond.

The humble rubber band, therefore, stands as a testament to human ingenuity and adaptability. Born from the sap of a tree, propelled into ubiquity by the spark of innovation, it has stretched and flexed its way into the annals of history and remains a staple of our daily lives.

Prose Poem: Who Makes The Grilled Cheese Sandwiches? (Dedicated to Emily Heil.)

 

Amy puts them under the broiler, and uses mayonnaise.

Me, I fry 'em in a pan, using lots of butter.

So who's right, and who's wrong?  Me or my wife.

We both can't be right. When it comes to grilled cheese sandwiches.

It just ain't natural.  It's contradictory.  An anachronism.  Subversive.

Thinking outside the universe.  Like H.P. Lovecraft.

The cheese really doesn't matter.  We get a block of processed cheese each month

from the Food Bank, so we use that.  We tried cream cheese once.  Not a pretty sight.

Go ahead and laugh, but I'm thinking of taking this issue to the Supreme Court.  Or the Food Channel.  Or my old friend Crazy Henry.  

He lives on grilled cheese sandwiches, and Kraft's Mac & Cheese.  Nothing else. Not a salad or an apple or hamburger.  He drinks skim milk.  He's been called Crazy Henry ever since tenth grade, long ago, when he ordered a Capuchin monkey from the back page of a comic book and kept it in his bedroom until his mother made him take it to Como Zoo. Did you know it was Ted Fingerhut -- the guy who owns the Fingerhut Catalogue Company -- who first started selling little monkeys in comic books?  From there he went to plastic car seat covers.  Man, those things got hot and sticky in the summer, back in the 1960's.

And my mother never made us kids grilled cheese sandwiches.  Not once.  She could have made the effort.  Made us a normal lunch.  But she had to make tuna salad instead.  Nothing but tuna salad.  Amy and I both agree, at least, on that:  The only good tuna salad is a thrown-away tuna salad.

Did I mention the cheese really doesn't matter?

Prose Poem: The Angel Unaware. (Dedicated to Laurie Goodstein.)

 

Frustrated at how little my Social Security provided, I joined the gig economy.  Since I like to write doggerel, I had business cards made up that read: "Poet for Hire."  I had the same made into magnetic signs for my van.  Bright yellow.  Very catchy.

Then my wife hand-lettered, on white poster board, "Poet for Hire."  I took this over to the nearby supermarket parking lot and stood on the sidewalk during rush hour.  I figured somebody might be curious enough to stop and talk and maybe I could write them a limerick for a few bucks.  Not panhandling, you understand.  I had something tangible to offer in exchange for payment.

After an hour a woman approached me.  She had a pinched, drawn face, and was wearing torn jeans.  Smoking a cigarette -- which is always suspect here in Utah. She was pushing a shopping cart full of Diet Coke, bags of Doritos, a gallon of Clorox, rolls of Charmin and a huge package of Bounty paper towels.

"You must be hungry -- here!" she said, handing me a bag of Doritos and a Slim Jim.  Before I could give her my business card and explain what I was doing she wheeled her cart away.  Like she didn't want to talk to me.

That opened the floodgates.  Now people drove up to me waving dollar bills in my face.  Or pushed deli sandwiches, bottles of water, and fruit leather into my hands.

"Wait! Stop! Let me explain!" I pleaded with them as they all drove or walked away before I could offer them my services.  They didn't want my services.  They had no interest in my business card.  Finally I took hold of the arm of a young man who gave me a Hershey bar and forced him to hear me out: "I can write you a funny verse on anything you like! Something for Father's Day or to your girlfriend."

He shook me loose. Then beamed at me.

"That's okay, sir. For all I know I'm entertaining an angel unaware, as it says in the Bible. Happy to do it. Good luck to you!" he said as he practically ran away from me.

So I was nothing but a panhandler to these people after all.  A test of their charity.

"How'd you do?" my wife asked when I got home. "Anybody hire you for a poem?"

"Here" I said bitterly, laying sandwiches, candy bars, dollar bills, and bottles of water on the kitchen table. "I'm gonna go down to Wendy's. See if they're still hiring for weekends."

Everyone Needs a Small Town.

 

Everyone needs a Marshalltown, Iowa; a Zap, North Dakota; or a Swink, Colorado.  A small-town place where one can sit quietly and invite “a green thought in a green shade.”

It doesn’t matter if you are born into such a setting, or come to it later in life.  The important thing is to recognize it and grab hold of it while you can, while the blood runs red and the mind still fights its own discontent.

We joke about the small town, quoting to each other Fred Allen’s story of the seaside village that was so mundane the tide went out one day – and never came back.  New York and Chicago and Los Angeles are crammed chock-a-block with people who have ‘escaped’ from America’s small towns.  Usually to find work and to lose heart.

Small towns can be suffocating, with their blindered zeitgeist.  But they are also liberating, with an anomalous peace that roots deep.

I have lived in several small towns over the course of forty years; towns where the traffic lights simultaneously blink yellow all night long, where mail only comes to post office boxes,  where locks on doors are rusted open from disuse, where grain elevators are the tallest buildings not only in town but in the whole county. 

In these towns all the church bells ring at noon on Good Friday, and business closes up.   Streams of children walk to school, and walk home again for lunch.  Old men sit in the VFW, watching their beer grow warm and flat, remembering the September weather in Inchon. Though the children still frolic, the adults have learned not to bustle, but to treat sidewalks like minefields, stopping frequently to examine the terrain.

 There are benches in the town square, where I have sat many a drowsy summer afternoon or tangy fall morning to watch the same people go to the same places.  This is not monotony.  It is purpose and instinct.  The heavy hardware store door needs oiling.  But I like to hear it clear its raspy throat.  The gazebo needs painting. Chipmunks have set up a commune underneath it and hold comic battles with the squirrels to defend it.  I don’t think great thoughts while sitting on a park bench in a small town in the middle of Iowa, but I don’t think bad thoughts, either.  On such benches, on such days as I could filch from work, I have thought about how much I would like to see a barn owl or recall the milkweed silk and the cottonwood fluff piling up in the dry gutters on a breezy day.  I have relived the small moments that echo so momentously in my life – the day I was baptized, as an adult, into a new church, and the night I met a Thai woman during Songkran, and what came of  those events.

The big city will feed you life, almost intravenously; in a small town you chew over the cud of your existence again and again.  It takes courage and tenacity to live in a small town and not go stir crazy.  To live in a big city all it takes is money, or something to counterfeit it.

We should all have a Marshalltown we can go to when things are too noisy, too intense, and too unstable.  I hope I’ll meet you there some day, on a park bench over by the courthouse.

It's always time for pickled herring!

 

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Pickled herring, a popular delicacy in Scandinavian and Northern European cuisines, has its roots deeply embedded in historical food preservation techniques. As with any food, its consumption carries a mixture of potential benefits and drawbacks, and it is vital to consider these to make informed dietary decisions. One of the most notable advantages of pickled herring is its rich nutritional profile. High in protein and omega-3 fatty acids, it provides essential nutrients that can contribute to various aspects of health, including heart health, brain function, and overall immunity.

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Omega-3 fatty acids, in particular, are highly lauded for their numerous health benefits. They play a crucial role in brain health, reducing inflammation, and improving heart health by decreasing triglycerides, blood pressure, and the build-up of plaque in the arteries. Regular consumption of pickled herring, which is rich in these essential fatty acids, could help prevent chronic diseases, such as heart disease and Alzheimer’s. Moreover, the high protein content can aid in muscle building and repair, making it an excellent choice for those seeking to increase their protein intake.

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Pickled herring is also an excellent source of vitamin D, a nutrient not found abundantly in many foods. Vitamin D is essential for bone health, immune system function, and the absorption of calcium. Its presence in pickled herring can help prevent vitamin D deficiency, which is often linked to bone diseases such as osteoporosis. Furthermore, this fish also provides a considerable amount of B vitamins, notably B12, which is key for nerve function and the production of DNA and red blood cells.

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Despite the numerous benefits, consuming pickled herring does present some potential downsides. The pickling process often involves the use of vinegar, salt, and sugar to enhance flavor and longevity. Consequently, pickled herring can be high in sodium, which, if consumed excessively, can contribute to high blood pressure, heart disease, and kidney disease. It is therefore essential to consume this food in moderation, particularly for those with existing health conditions or those on a sodium-restricted diet.

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Another downside to consider is the sugar content. Although not as significant as the sodium content, the sugar used in the pickling process can contribute to the overall calorie count. This could lead to weight gain if not balanced with other low-calorie food items and regular physical activity. Additionally, excessive sugar intake is associated with an increased risk of conditions such as type 2 diabetes and heart disease.

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Moreover, pickled herring, like other fish, may contain traces of heavy metals such as mercury, depending on the water in which it was caught. Although the levels in herring are typically lower compared to larger fish like tuna, the potential risk cannot be completely disregarded. Regular consumption of fish with high levels of mercury can lead to mercury poisoning, which can negatively affect the nervous system and cognitive development.

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Allergies are another potential concern. As with other types of seafood, some people may be allergic to herring, leading to reactions that could range from mild, such as itching and rash, to severe, such as anaphylaxis. It's therefore essential for those with known seafood allergies to avoid herring, while those trying it for the first time should do so with caution.

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From an environmental perspective, herring is considered one of the more sustainable choices in terms of seafood. They are usually caught using methods that do less harm to the environment compared to other fishing practices. However, there are still concerns regarding overfishing and the potential impact on herring populations and the broader marine ecosystem.

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Despite these potential drawbacks, the taste of pickled herring is an appealing factor for many people. It offers a unique combination of tartness from the pickling process and the inherent fishy, yet milder flavor of the herring itself. Its distinct taste is celebrated in many traditional dishes and events, adding a cultural richness that extends beyond its nutritional profile.

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In conclusion, the pros and cons of consuming pickled herring are multifaceted, involving considerations related to health, diet, environment, and culture. Its nutritional benefits are substantial, including a rich supply of omega-3 fatty acids, protein, and certain vitamins. However, concerns about sodium and sugar content, potential allergenic properties, and traces of heavy metals underline the importance of moderate consumption. With this balanced view, one can fully appreciate the value and potential drawbacks of this traditional delicacy.

The LDS Faith is no sheyne maysele.

 

A faith community distinguished by its emphasis on love, service, and an unending sense of optimism, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or the LDS Church, as it is often referred to, is widely acknowledged for its mesira nefesh (devotion) to charitable endeavors. This, some say, is no sheyne maysele (simple tale), but a foundational part of the Church's teachings, deeply rooted in its scriptures, traditions, and doctrine.

The LDS Church's remarkable tzadakah (charitable giving) is derived from its theological mandate of "love thy neighbor." This principle is woven into the very fabric of LDS culture, extending beyond mere financial contributions to include acts of loving-kindness, outreach, and voluntary service. From assisting their mishpokhe (family) and community to reaching out to the world's destitute corners, the LDS Church encourages its members to be the personification of a mensch (person of integrity and honor), always willing and ready to help others.

The LDS Church, being a global organization, has developed far-reaching humanitarian efforts that illustrate its extraordinary baleboste (competence in managing households or organizations). For instance, LDS Charities, the humanitarian arm of the Church, continually responds to crises worldwide, providing essential relief in the forms of food, shelter, and healthcare.

At the heart of these generous acts is the LDS concept of "diener" (servant), which embodies selfless service and love for humanity. This has led the LDS Church to establish welfare programs, education initiatives, and employment assistance schemes that target those suffering from poverty, illiteracy, and unemployment. The Church's long-standing welfare program, for instance, epitomizes this diener spirit, offering assistance to the needy and facilitating self-reliance by fostering a work ethic and building life skills.

For many in the LDS Church, the act of giving is seen as a mitzvah (commandment), not merely an optional good deed. This spiritual responsibility is formalized in the practice of "tithing," where members donate ten percent of their income to the Church, fueling both local congregational needs and global humanitarian projects. Such consistent and disciplined financial contributions highlight the LDS Church's generosity.

Another unique practice within the LDS Church is the concept of "fast offerings." Once a month, members voluntarily fast for two meals and donate the money saved to the Church. This money is then used to aid those in need, demonstrating the LDS Church's commitment to shared sacrifice and communal support.

At its core, the LDS Church's philanthropy is rooted in the Yiddish ideal of being a mensch – performing good deeds not for praise or recognition but because it is the right thing to do. From welfare programs and humanitarian aid to education initiatives and disaster relief, the LDS Church's bountiful giving encapsulates the Yiddish saying, "A guter mensch tracht zu helfen" – a good person seeks to help.

Indeed, the LDS Church’s generosity is not a bubbe meise (old wives' tale) but a lived reality, a testament to its foundational tenets of love, service, and community. It is this spirit of giving, this consistent and concerted outreach, that sets the LDS Church apart as a paragon of religious and humanitarian generosity.