Inventing the pizza's heroic;
chewing it, you can't be stoic.
The crust and the sauce,
with toppings -- it's boss!
It's Homeric, or even Troic!
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Monday, September 5, 2016
Dissenters
But it came to pass in the fifty and sixth year of the reign of the judges, there were dissenters who went up from the Nephites unto the Lamanites; and they succeeded with those others in stirring them up to anger against the Nephites; and they were all that year preparing for war.
Helaman 4:4
Honest disagreement is no bar to amity;
but backbiting dissension leads to dire calamity.
No two people think alike but that's no cause to fight.
Only lust for power turns debate to dynamite.
So if your shoulder holds a chip, don't nail it down -- instead
pry it loose and throw it into any old woodshed.
Stow your tongue and bow your head, then turn the other cheek;
otherwise a traitor you'll become and havoc wreak.
And when the battle's over, win or lose, you won't receive
any of the plaudits that you thought you would achieve.
The readers who speak their own mind
The readers who speak their own mind
are not often very inclined
to dally with prudence;
instead they like rudence.
Their ignorance is nonaligned.
are not often very inclined
to dally with prudence;
instead they like rudence.
Their ignorance is nonaligned.
The Paper Drive: Another Stumble Down Memory Lane
The crisp colors and temperatures of fall remind me of the paper drives we held at Tuttle Grade School in Southeast Minneapolis when I was a moppet.
Everyone took the newspaper in those wasteful and extravagant days. Delivered to your doorstep before the dew was gone in the morning, and then again as the meatloaf came out of the oven at eventide. Sitting on the porch reading the newspaper was as common and iconic as raking leaves in the fall or cutting the grass with a push reel mower in the summer.
And those were days when the long shadow of the Great Depression still lingered in the minds, if not the wallets, of my parents. You cleaned your plate. You turned off the lights when nobody was in a room. You saved up string and rubber bands and newspapers; because there was no telling when you might need to tie up a parcel for mailing or spread out some newspapers prior to filleting a dozen crappie -- and nobody in their right mind made a trip to the store just to buy string or an extra newspaper.
And so every well-regulated household had its pile of newspapers in the basement or the garage. And there it sat, gathering dust and sheltering silverfish, until the annual paper drive.
Memory no longer informs me what the money raised was used for -- perhaps a new mimeograph machine or school field trip to the Bell Museum.
What I do recall distinctly is my sudden decision to pretend I had an allergy to the sisal twine used to bind up the stacks of newspapers. The twine had a peculiar tangy odor and was stiff and prickly. You could almost get a splinter from it.
Out of the blue I told my second grade teacher, Mrs. Redd, that I was allergic to twine. In proof I began sneezing the minute a ball of twine was brought near me. They were unconvincing sneezes; weak and insincere. But Mrs. Redd swallowed my fib -- hook, line, and sinker. And thereafter, right through sixth grade, I was excused from having to tie up the stacks of lose newspapers.
I never had to worry much about bringing in a goodly amount of newsprint. My mother religiously kept every edition, neatly bundled and tied with string (not twine), and had me lug each stack out to the garage for safekeeping. Plus our next door neighbor was old Mrs. Henderson, a widow whose basement was a fire trap from the extent of her newspaper collection. Brown and flaking, she had copies dating back to World War Two (the newspapers were brown and flaking, that is; not Mrs. Henderson). Each year she graciously allowed me to scoop up a dozen or so bundles for the paper drive.
So I had it made in the shade. I loaded the bundles on my wagon on a glorious autumn day and trundled them the one block to Tuttle, where they joined a huge pile on the front lawn that soon took on the dimensions of a small turreted castle nearly two stories high. I dumped my stack and then joined the other kids in climbing to the top of the pile to yodel like Tarzan while the turrets swayed like a pendulum. How and why no one was ever buried alive in a newspaper avalanche is still a mystery to me. Maybe guardian angels aren't such a myth after all . . .
Teachers and students alike dreaded one thing during the paper drive -- a long soaking rain. Such an occurrence would turn the newspapers to mush, making them useless to sell. The pile grew so large that no single sheet of canvas could cover it all. Half-hearted measures were made to cover it up piecemeal with old blankets and tents at night. But everyone kept a weather eye peeled until the big truck came from the paper mill to pick it all up.
In fifth grade an evil idea came to me and my comrades during the paper drive. Since the paper was sold by weight, what if we were to surreptitiously slip a few bricks and stones into our paper bundles, thus fraudulently increasing the take?
Our crime was discovered by Mr. Berg, the sixth grade teacher. Under his stern gaze we sullenly removed the rip rap from our bundles. He then bade us begone, and never sully the good name of Tuttle Grade School again with such low maneuvers.
I would have felt pretty bad about it, except that evening I happened to take a stroll over to the schoolyard, since I lived just a block away, and saw Mr. Berg and a few other teachers, under cover of darkness, dousing some of the newspaper bundles with buckets of water -- and they were NOT attempting to put out any fire . . .
Everyone took the newspaper in those wasteful and extravagant days. Delivered to your doorstep before the dew was gone in the morning, and then again as the meatloaf came out of the oven at eventide. Sitting on the porch reading the newspaper was as common and iconic as raking leaves in the fall or cutting the grass with a push reel mower in the summer.
And those were days when the long shadow of the Great Depression still lingered in the minds, if not the wallets, of my parents. You cleaned your plate. You turned off the lights when nobody was in a room. You saved up string and rubber bands and newspapers; because there was no telling when you might need to tie up a parcel for mailing or spread out some newspapers prior to filleting a dozen crappie -- and nobody in their right mind made a trip to the store just to buy string or an extra newspaper.
And so every well-regulated household had its pile of newspapers in the basement or the garage. And there it sat, gathering dust and sheltering silverfish, until the annual paper drive.
Memory no longer informs me what the money raised was used for -- perhaps a new mimeograph machine or school field trip to the Bell Museum.
What I do recall distinctly is my sudden decision to pretend I had an allergy to the sisal twine used to bind up the stacks of newspapers. The twine had a peculiar tangy odor and was stiff and prickly. You could almost get a splinter from it.
Out of the blue I told my second grade teacher, Mrs. Redd, that I was allergic to twine. In proof I began sneezing the minute a ball of twine was brought near me. They were unconvincing sneezes; weak and insincere. But Mrs. Redd swallowed my fib -- hook, line, and sinker. And thereafter, right through sixth grade, I was excused from having to tie up the stacks of lose newspapers.
I never had to worry much about bringing in a goodly amount of newsprint. My mother religiously kept every edition, neatly bundled and tied with string (not twine), and had me lug each stack out to the garage for safekeeping. Plus our next door neighbor was old Mrs. Henderson, a widow whose basement was a fire trap from the extent of her newspaper collection. Brown and flaking, she had copies dating back to World War Two (the newspapers were brown and flaking, that is; not Mrs. Henderson). Each year she graciously allowed me to scoop up a dozen or so bundles for the paper drive.
So I had it made in the shade. I loaded the bundles on my wagon on a glorious autumn day and trundled them the one block to Tuttle, where they joined a huge pile on the front lawn that soon took on the dimensions of a small turreted castle nearly two stories high. I dumped my stack and then joined the other kids in climbing to the top of the pile to yodel like Tarzan while the turrets swayed like a pendulum. How and why no one was ever buried alive in a newspaper avalanche is still a mystery to me. Maybe guardian angels aren't such a myth after all . . .
Teachers and students alike dreaded one thing during the paper drive -- a long soaking rain. Such an occurrence would turn the newspapers to mush, making them useless to sell. The pile grew so large that no single sheet of canvas could cover it all. Half-hearted measures were made to cover it up piecemeal with old blankets and tents at night. But everyone kept a weather eye peeled until the big truck came from the paper mill to pick it all up.
In fifth grade an evil idea came to me and my comrades during the paper drive. Since the paper was sold by weight, what if we were to surreptitiously slip a few bricks and stones into our paper bundles, thus fraudulently increasing the take?
Our crime was discovered by Mr. Berg, the sixth grade teacher. Under his stern gaze we sullenly removed the rip rap from our bundles. He then bade us begone, and never sully the good name of Tuttle Grade School again with such low maneuvers.
I would have felt pretty bad about it, except that evening I happened to take a stroll over to the schoolyard, since I lived just a block away, and saw Mr. Berg and a few other teachers, under cover of darkness, dousing some of the newspaper bundles with buckets of water -- and they were NOT attempting to put out any fire . . .
Sunday, September 4, 2016
The prodigal
A prodigal returned; was met
by those who never could forget.
They cherished naught but memory,
and made it rub like emery.
The prodigal must fight the past;
his 'friends' would like it long to last.
For prodigals the future beams,
and recollection turns to dreams.
But those with no cause to repent
oft turn the welcome to torment.
Though prodigals have made mistakes,
I think the smug make more heartaches . . .
by those who never could forget.
They cherished naught but memory,
and made it rub like emery.
The prodigal must fight the past;
his 'friends' would like it long to last.
For prodigals the future beams,
and recollection turns to dreams.
But those with no cause to repent
oft turn the welcome to torment.
Though prodigals have made mistakes,
I think the smug make more heartaches . . .
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Harold Bloom said . . .
"We read . . . in quest of a mind more original than our own."
Harold Bloom
The mind of man cannot contain
the least scintilla to make us vain.
Upon an anthill we recline,
while universes round us shine.
The pinnacle of wisdom here
is really nothing but small beer.
Original, and so unflawed,
is the mind of Christ and God.
Harold Bloom
The mind of man cannot contain
the least scintilla to make us vain.
Upon an anthill we recline,
while universes round us shine.
The pinnacle of wisdom here
is really nothing but small beer.
Original, and so unflawed,
is the mind of Christ and God.
Helaman 3:3
And it came to pass in the forty and sixth, yea, there was much contention and many dissensions; in the which there were an exceedingly great many who departed out of the land of Zarahemla, and went forth unto the land northward to inherit the land.
Helaman 3:3
Contention and dissension make a restless people flee
to other lands in hopes of finding more serenity.
But whether to the mountains or the bronze and pebbled shore,
their travels cannot take them to a place of sweet rapport.
That only can occur on journeys of the heart and soul;
where God, invited in, can make a refugee feel whole.
Friday, September 2, 2016
Hikingware Emergency Preparedness Blog #1
FINDING POWER DURING AN EMERGENCY
An EMP blast from the right location has the ability to do serious damage to the power grid. The American government created a report that is hundreds of pages long to address this potential disaster. Not only is an EMP a serious concern for our nation, the majority of us are woefully unprepared to find power after such an event.
How about you? Hikingware.com offers this list of alternative power sources if you happen to get in the way of an electromagnetic pulse that shuts down the power grid:
Car Batteries – The robotic cars of this age will surely have most of their useful parts scrambled but the power you can yield from a car battery is substantial. In fact with a simple converter you are able to power homes with your car!
- Household Batteries – If you are already prepping you should have this power source en mass. If not seek them out. I am sure Americans have tons of batteries in use they could pull power from. Dump toy boxes, search pantries, video game controllers and other appliances that hidden and rarely used.
- Household Batteries – If you are already prepared you should have this power source en mass. If not, seek them out. Americans have tons of batteries in use that they could pull power from. Dump toy boxes, search pantries, video game controllers and other appliances that hidden and rarely used.
- Alarm Systems – Criminals evolve just like the rest of us. Since they realized cutting the lines that run to your alarm system is a good way to negate its efficacy, alarm companies have moved to wireless. That means your system is powered by some alternative source of power. Your cameras as well, if wireless, are pulling power from an independent source.
- Cable Boxes – The cable companies install these boxes on the side of our homes and even sometimes inside the house. These are wired to the power but are also backed up with a some type of battery.
- Marine Batteries – In a situation like this it’s very unlikely that you will be trolling around the local bass waters in your jon boat, especially if you have no way to tow it. Utilize the power of your marine batteries as an emergency source for your home.
- Laptops – Most of these shutdown with 10 or so % of power left to assure you don’t find it completely dead. Either way, with the right tools you can easily harvest power from your laptops. However, be aware that you can receive a powerful shock from your laptop if you fiddle around the inside without knowing what you're doing. This is one power source you'd better study up on before trying it out!
- Portable Electronic Power Sources – These wonderful power bars or power boxes can be fueled by anything with a USB port and left on standby for the day the lights go off.
Love More, Worry Less
Love is so important that Jesus called it “the first and great commandment” and said that every other particle of the law and words of the prophets hang upon it.
President Dieter F. Uchtdorf
The Savior and the Father have a constant love for me;
but I in turn can only love them faint and fitfully.
For I am filled with gravel and the lusts of flesh, alas;
my fickle passion for my God still withers like the grass.
Oh help my love a river be, as strong as rooted Nile!
Give to me a solidness that nothing can beguile!
These clouds and vapors that I spout cannot contain the love
I yearn to have for Thee and all Thy blessings up above.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Power breeds contention
And it came to pass in the forty and second year of the reign of the judges, after Moronihah had established again peace between the Nephites and the Lamanites, behold there was no one to fill the judgment-seat; therefore there began to be a contention again among the people concerning who should fill the judgment-seat.
(Helaman 2:1)
Power breeds contention like a pile of dung breeds flies;
those who seek it stoop to bribes and rioting with lies.
There's farce and melodrama, and a bit of nonsense, too,
when schemers or mad dreamers put their ideas up for view.
When the people's voice at last has spoken in reply,
it may have been bamboozled and have chosen the wrong guy.
Will God stay at the helm of any ship of state so sunk
in corruption that its moral compass acts quite drunk?
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