Here’s an updated reposting of a piece I wrote some time ago. It’s the time of the year…
It has been almost 14 years since my mother died. Thoughts, sights, and sounds remind me of her almost daily.
Words she often turned into her own askew versions. Her penchant for reading EVERY street sign whenever she was in the car. Twinkies she hid in the freezer in violation of her diet. The one constant reminder is my white hair, undeniable genetic evidence that part of her remains with me.
These are memories of a special woman.
Each year, on a particular date, there is a poignant reminder of something she did for me.
I suspect she had similar traditions with my brother and sisters; she was that kind of a mom.
She had a way to make you feel special.
Nevertheless, this one was between us.
As many of you know from my writings, I do not share the faith that my mother did. She had absolute confidence in her beliefs. Despite all the things she experienced, the joys and the sorrows, she never once doubted her faith.
She made a valiant effort to share her faith. If there is any blame to go around for her failed attempt to instill that in me, the fault is mine.
What is the annual event that triggers such a memory?
St. Joseph’s day.
Every year, I would get a card from my mother. It came in the mail. It was not a text, an email, or a phone call. It would arrive in the days just before the 19th, more evidence of her careful consideration and purpose.
She took the time to select, address, and mail a card. Through a simple gesture, she preserved the dying art of thoughtfulness.
The card celebrated the Saint’s day of my (sort of) namesake. Her thoughtful gesture had a dual purpose, serving as a subtle reminder of her faith. I used to chuckle whenever I opened the card. Amused by my mother’s determination, yet touched by such a simple, caring act.
She never gave up.
Since her passing, I miss the card every year and her every day.
Mom, while you may not have succeeded in making me a Saint there is a good chance you made me less of a sinner.
Happy Saint Joseph’s Day.
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As was inevitable, I have found a bit of a downside to living in Arizona. It’s not the rattlesnakes or scorpions—I find them intriguing, and I’ll have more on that later. Instead, it’s something infinitely more mundane but nonetheless important to me.
Now I’m not one to quibble about money. If I want something, I buy it. If I could have bought it for less somewhere else, this would have no bearing on my life. I wanted it, and I bought it.
Neither penny wise nor dollar foolish, just happy.
The problem here is not only the price of this item but even finding it has become problematic.
T’is the season for those of us with Irish ancestry to celebrate with the traditional Irish Soda Bread with Corned Beef, Potatoes, and Cabbage dinner boiled in Guinness—a worthy sacrifice of a wonderful beer. And although my genetics say there are both Scandinavian and Jewish traces, it was a recent discovery and unknown in the formative years, thus no yarmulke, children named Sven, or other traditions.
But it would appear that the Irish never made it this far. The Irish influence seemed to fade after the Mississippi. There are some Irish pubs, but I prefer to do this myself.
Perhaps, if they had pushed on, their patron saint, St.Pádraig or St. Patrick in the vernacular, might have also been petitioned to remove the snakes from here. Then, we’d have the same availability and pricing for the ingredients for the holy repast.
But, alas, it is not to be. Corned beef is a wee bit pricier here, as is the cabbage. Now, truth be told, I can do without the cabbage. Even the nectar of Guinness cannot fully mask the taste, but tradition is tradition.
I’d like to blame the supply chain problem left over from the pandemic, but I can see the prices in New England are their usual low; thus, that excuse fails. A return to the homeland would require freezing to death so that’s out. So here I will remain.
But, I will stay with my usual habit, buy corned beef and cabbage, and enjoy my beloved tradition. We are only here once, and denying yourself something seems a foolish philosophy.
Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh
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To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.
Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare
171,476
For those of you who prefer graphic representation of numbers,
That is the approximate number of words currently in use in the English language. While estimates vary, the average adult has a vocabulary of somewhere around twenty thousand words or so. A child has a vocabulary of some three thousand words. (as long as you don’t count the ones they seem to invent on a daily basis.)
So do we really learn that many more words between our first speaking efforts and adulthood? Maybe, but studies have shown the difference is really more just the ability to refine the more common words in more detail.
For example, a child might call every round rolling thing a ball where an adult might refine it into baseball, basketball, or bowling ball. Yet even those of us who may not enjoy reading (why?) have such a vocabulary at their command,if they would only use it.
One interesting study showed that over the course of ten years, the Wall Street Journal used approximately twenty thousand unique words. In contrast, William Shakespeare’s work contains more than twenty-five thousand words.
By the time of his death at age fifty-two, Shakespeare produced more unique writing than all of the writers for the Wall Street Journal did in ten years. And he did this by hand, absent all the expediencies and capacity of computers and printers.
I wonder if that is an indication of the demise and descent of our literacy?
If you’ve ever read something written in the 17th or 18th century—if you haven’t you should demand to be compensated by your high school or college for failing to provide an education—you can’t help but notice the beauty of the language. Because they could not instantly send an image of their child’s latest accomplishment, or the hues in the morning sunrise over their newly settled village, or the color in the eyes of their beloved, they were compelled to find the words.
And they did. From the common person to Shakespeare, they found the words.
While technology is often a boon to society, there is always some element of loss.
It would seem we have lost much of the art of writing with such compelling force as to bring tears or smiles to the reader. And while a picture may be worth a thousand words, our ability to instantly create and send thousands of pictures does not compound the value.
I would argue it diminishes it.
Our addiction to the visual—where our eyes and brains do not have to think but merely serve as voyeurs of whatever we choose to watch—has caused us to sacrifice the once unlimited ability of the human mind to imagine things just by writing about them and by having others read about them.
And I think, if the study of vocabulary were repeated today, we’d find we’ve lost, both in number and quality, many of the words that once decorated our lives. And lol, rotflmao, wtf, and omg are not words by any stretch of the definition.
I wonder if there will ever be another Shakespeare or Chaucer or Homer whose writing will last for centuries…
“It seems to me that poverty is an eyeglass through which one may see his true friends.” ― Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales
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In keeping with the need to woke the world. I give you, Woke Shakespeare. Stripped of all those now unacceptable terms which so terrorize, diminish, and traumatize us. I should add a trigger warning, but wouldn’t the word “trigger” also cause a “trigger” response to the idea of violence?
It is a conundrum. How to woke the world without sending it into convulsions.
Sonnet 118 by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee she/he/they to a summer’s day? Thou They art more lovely and more temperate: (in a non-threatening non-sexual connotation unless there is a free, articulable, and willful acceptance of such an overture) Rough winds do shake the darling buds Strong winds do move the emerging flowers of May, And summer’s the warm seasonal lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven warm the sun shines, And often is his their gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometimedeclines chronological, but meaningless, age finds us all By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy he/she/they eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair pleasant and non-judgmental appearance thou ow’st; Nor shall deaththe endbrag thou wander’st in his shade,come unpleasant When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st So long as menpeople can breathe or eyes can seeand perceive the world regardless of any disabilities, So long lives this, and this gives life to theeshe/he/they.
This rush to ameliorate reality by masking it does us no good and serves to diminish us all. That words can hurt is not in doubt, but only if we give them the power to do so. Where will such nonsense lead us?
And by proclaiming I am now a We, does it truly alter the reality. Like our friend Shakespeare also (kind of) wrote, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” (Historical note, while the quote is accurate, it is only part of the full speech by Juliet to Romeo. She was referring to him as a Montague and, Romeo responds, if he were not a Montague she could marry him with any hinderances. So I may be guilty of cherry picking a quote. Nothing is ever simple.)
Antigonishby William Hughes Mearns
Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there! He wasn’t there again today, Oh how I wish he’d go away!
Whenever someone declares he or she is a we or they, I think they are meeting the man on the stairs…and running away in terror.
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Sort of “don’t ask, don’t tell, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, out of sight, out of mind, you didn’t see anything” policy.
Nothing to see here, everything is just fine.
If it bleeds, it leads, unless there is a gun involved. Then we bury the story along with the victims.
The only exception is if it involves a police officer as the shooter. Then, we canonize the victim and ostracize the cop.
Problem solved. We can focus on things we care about, like the Kardashians (the first alien contact!) or some reality TV show.
MAGI Make All Guns Invisible
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We recently found ourselves in an unfamiliar pet supply store through bad planning on our part. Let me explain.
We use places like Petco as a poor man’s aquarium and a source of entertainment for our grandson.
Laugh if you will, but it works. He also loves walking through the lighting section at Home Depot, and there is no admission fee.
Since he now recognizes many places, i.e. Dunkin’, McDonalds, and Petco, when we made the mistake of driving to Petco without checking to see if it was open, we faced a crisis.
Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but a two-year old set on seeing the fish, birds, and mice, and told it wasn’t open yet, comes pretty darn close.
Thus we searched for “Pet stores near me” on Google maps. And we found an alternative.
On arrival, we discovered this place harbored no live creatures, merely supplies and pet food. Our walking around browsing didn’t seem to phase the store employee, so we wandered around.
Yeah, until we killed them, boiled off the feathers, ground them into little pieces, and packaged them up for Fido to devour.
Thankfully, the lack of live critters didn’t matter to Levi. It was a new and exciting place to explore.
But what caught my eye was a display of refrigerated dog food. On the bag, in a grand proclamation of why one should consider this food for one’s beloved dog, was a somewhat contradictory declaration
The contents of the bag held chicken from Cage Free Chickens.
This, I assume, was intended to spark images of happy chickens frolicking in the sun, happily running to and fro, free from the horrors of a cage.
Yeah, until we killed them, boiled off the feathers, ground them into little pieces, and packaged them up for Fido to devour.
But we are supposed to take comfort because they lived a cage free life? Given the choice, I bet the chickens would prefer to leave this planet via natural causes.
Now, before anyone thinks I’ve gone vegan, let me make it clear. I love chicken, steak, fish ham, and all other of evolution’s creatures cooked to perfection.
But if we have to assuage our conscience with disingenuous labeling, it makes us all food hypocrites.
Think about it. Given the opportunity, most dogs would take delight in chasing down and personally terminating with extreme prejudice any chicken found frolicking outside the cage.
Trust me on that. We had two Yorkies who were serial chicken killers. Cage Free wasn’t even a consideration to Ralph and Max. Vulnerability was key.
Cage Free, indeed. It should read cage free before execution. Let’s at least be honest about it, and not a bunch of chickens.
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A troubling new trend is gaining ground across this country. While the goal—equal access to quality education—is both laudable and crucial, the means to achievement is disingenuous and fraught with contradiction.
It seems in pursuit of equity in education, some schools are eliminating honors programs. The argument that minority students are underrepresented in proportion to their numbers in the general population is irrefutable yet proponents of eliminating the programs twist these numbers to suit a pre-conceived concept as a solution.
Here is an excerpt from a Wall Street Journal report.
“Parents say academic excellence should not be experimented with for the sake of social justice,” said Quoc Tran, the superintendent of 6,900-student Culver City Unified School District. But, he said, “it was very jarring when teachers looked at their AP enrollment and realized Black and brown kids were not there. They felt obligated to do something.
Culver City English teachers presented data at a board meeting last year showing Latino students made up 13% of those in 12th-grade Advanced Placement English, compared with 37% of the student body. Asian students were 34% of the advanced class, compared with 10% of students. Black students represented 14% of AP English, versus 15% of the student body.”
Clearly, the underrepresentation of Latino students is an issue worth addressing, but eliminating the classes at the expense of those other segments of the student body seems short-sighted. There would be no difference in arguing for the elimination of these programs if one claimed the overrepresentation of Asian students justified the programs demise. But I bet the cries in opposition would be different.
Advanced classes cultivate high achievers. The programs recognize the differences in learning abilities, drive, and innate intelligence and serves to offer those students a more challenging learning environment. While everyone deserves an equal opportunity, we shouldn’t penalize those who embrace these opportunities because others do not. And, if there is something systemic preventing some from achieving their full potential, we need address the problem not the symptom.
Rather than eliminating the program because some groups are underrepresented, perhaps resources need to be allocated to determine why this is so evident and how to address it. While the data represented in this article only deals with one school district, a more comprehensive study of these programs nationwide seems called for.
And wouldn’t better question to ask be Why this is happening rather than eliminating programs which merely masks the problem?
While everyone deserves an equal opportunity, we shouldn’t penalize those who embrace these opportunities because others do not. And, if there is something systemic preventing some from achieving their full potential, we need address the problem not the symptom.
Joe Broadmeadow
I wonder if the demographic makeup of athletic programs also reflects any disparity. And even if it does not, athletics culls out those of lesser ability. Not everyone can hit a fastball, dunk a basketball, or run for a touchdown.
I’ve heard no discussion about eliminating athletics because certain groups are underrepresented. When it became clear there was discrimination in college athletics against women, schools improved program access and increased funding for women’s athletic programs.
They didn’t eliminate the programs—and one still had to compete based on your athletic skills—they improved the system.
At the risk of sounding prejudicial, in the district represented in the article Latino students are clearly underrepresented. Wouldn’t it be a more effective and lasting solution to put our efforts into improving the opportunities for these underrepresented students rather than denying it to others?
We often abuse the use of the term racist when dealing with human differences. we deem any problem between one class of people and another racial when the very definition of race would contradict such depiction. Not every decision or difference that arises between different groups or individuals is racially motivated. To define it as such, is to gloss over the fundamental issue and drive us further apart.
One can safely assume that this is one factor in the flight of many students from public to private or charter schools. Many of these schools don’t have to deal with the problems inherent in public education. Cities and states struggle to fund education, but it is difficult to compete in an environment where those who can afford it can buy a better system.
I don’t blame any parent for making that decision. We did it with our daughter, but as a society failing to provide minimal funding for public education is “penny wise and dollar foolish.” And, diminishing the availability of the very programs the offer public education students the opportunity to compete equally with private schools is a choice to embrace equity masquerading as mediocrity.
Public education should be challenging, welcoming, and available to every student willing to take advantage of it. As a country, our very survival depends on it. Otherwise, let’s just give everybody a 4.0 average, a trophy, and a diploma and declare victory.
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My grandson, Levi, has reached a new plateau in communication and conversational skills. He has progressed to where he now grasps both the sounds of words and their intent and can twist them to his own purpose. Some still cause him to break into raucous laughter, such as clump or zucchini, for which there is no rhyme or reason. Others he merely likes the feel of them as he repeats them whenever the spirit moves him.
I’ve written about this progressive development before, (read it here), but now the vocabulary, coupled with his grasping of the concept of numbers, increases daily.
Books that once seemed just entertainment are now referred to with astounding specificity. It’s no longer enough to grab a pile of books to read—which used to be all he wanted—now he handpicks the daily book list, depending on his mood.
Some of these newly acquired words are eminently clear, and others require a bit of deciphering, but each day brings something new. His skills at listening and, more dangerously, repetition also grow more deliberate.
Some words he now uses lack preconceived notions of their context. The other day, when asked what he wanted for breakfast, he immediately answered with one of his newest words.
“Pickles.”
A response both honest and straightforward, lacking any preconceptions about the appropriateness of the answer. It was sheer honesty.
That’s the beauty of youthful innocence. Society has not bombarded Levi with cultural demands about the “right” thing to say. When asked a question, he doesn’t consider the consequences of the answer. He merely gives it in the best and most honest way he can.
There are moments—and they seem to compound daily—where he grasps a new word through his almost supernatural hearing, and runs with it. Some are funny when he places this newfound sound in a totally out-of-context exclamation. Some are certain to bring a sharp rebuke from my daughter about “teaching” him such things. But they are all part of the process.
The genuine pleasure is the once exciting first sounds and babble have transformed into conversations. We’re not quite at the point of discussing philosophy, the existence of alien lifeforms, parallel universes, or the nature of life, but it is only a matter of time.
For now, I settle for the “Pickles” for breakfast responses to my many questions.
And while I have your attention, I’d like to take a short, informal poll. First, speaking of things I am banned from teaching him, I was advised, nay I was commanded, not to teach Levi the following.
Great big gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts, mutilated monkey meat, baby birdy bloody feet (repeat verse) and I forgot my spoon.
I think it is harmless, what say you? I mean, it is only a matter of time before he reads this himself. Or even better, writes his own witty ditty.
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Inexplicability is not evidence of divine intervention, it is merely an indication of the current limitation of human knowledge.
Joe Broadmeadow
Let’s take a look at two simultaneous events. One involves a devout Samaritan (I use this term only in the context of their kindness and charity, not implying any particular religious affiliation.) The other involves, Pseudotriton ruber, or a Red Salamander.
The Samaritan, let’s call her Sam, and the red salamander, let’s call him Sal, are, at the precise moment in time, going on about their business of living.
Sam, on a mission to sub-Saharan Africa, is working as a doctor caring for the poor.
Sal is looking for bugs to eat.
Sam, while walking to a remote village, is attacked by a lion. She survives, but as a result loses a limb. Let’s say a leg.
Sal, at the very moment of the lion attack halfway around the world, is attacked by a snake. He also survives but loses a limb as well.
Millions of Sam’s fellow religious devotees hear of Sam’s plight (accompanied by a request for donations, of course) and pray for her recovery. No mention is made of praying to regrow her limb, yet pray they do. Being Ecumenical, they also pray for the lion.
Sal, bereft of any religion or company of fellow salamanders holding a common faith, retreats to his warm spot under the rotting log away from the snake. There he rests.
The Samaritan, no matter how much good they have done in the world, no matter how fervent or voluminous the prayers beseeching divine intervention, no matter how faithful they have lived their lives, Sam will never regain the limb.
We prayed and it happened. No one could explain it. The doctors were stunned. So it must have been the prayers.
Joe Broadmeadow
The salamander, without praying to any god and without holding any religion, will simply grow a new limb.
So, the ability to regenerate limbs exists in the world. Under the tenets of most religions, the Supreme being created everything. Yet they saw fit to endow salamanders (and a few other species) with the capacity to regenerate limbs, but not, according to texts, the one creature made in their image.
The efficacy of prayer, never validated by any meaningful scientific examination, is just assumed by the faithful in a self-limiting fashion.
They continue to petition for prayer warriors to join together in something they believe, absent any substantiation whatsoever, to have worked in the past.
Inexplicable recovery from terminal cancer, comas, or other catastrophic conditions, when the sufferer is the beneficiary of prayers, is assumed to be divine.
We prayed and it happened. No one could explain it. The doctors were stunned. So it must have been the prayers.
This ignores the fact that just a few decades ago, doctors couldn’t explain infections, didn’t know about viruses, and would be stumped (no pun intended) by a patient presenting with epilepsy (which they would consider demonic possession.)
Inexplicability is not evidence of divine intervention, it is merely an indication of the current limitation of human knowledge.
A salamander regrowing a limb without any benefit of faith or prayer, and the fact that not one human being in all the history of the world ever regrew a limb, miraculous or otherwise, is just ignored.
It is simply a mystery of faith.
Sal, newly re-limbed, emerges from the log and is promptly eaten by the patient snake—it’s always a snake playing the bad guy—thus the circle of life continues.
Sam limps her way through life, wasting money on each pair of shoes she is forced to buy by the two-legged world. No accommodation is made for those who identify as one-legged.
I am going to go out on a limb here (hehehe) and say that about sums up the reality of life.
P.S. In the interest of full disclosure, while searching for a prayer to regrow a limb—don’t chuckle, there are prayers to regrow almost anything except limbs. It is only a matter of time before the church catches on to the idea of marketing prayers to cure ED since they seem to be the most prolific commercials on TV these days—I did come across a reference to a Church proclaimed miracle in Spain in the 17th century. Here’s the link.
I’ll leave it to you to decide the validity of the claim. The church declared it a true miracle, but keep in mind they also claimed the sexual assaults by priests to be untrue, so there’s that.
Nevertheless, the number of miracles concerning inexplicable cures attributed to divine intervention merely because we have no other explanation isn’t made more factual by these anecdotal claims of limb regeneration. I think we need a few more regrown limbs before we deem it miraculous or divine. Since the everyday world is full of examples (albeit perhaps not enough) of accommodations for those who have lost the use of limbs, the scourge of limbless and limb disabled perseveres.
I stand on my original point.
But one can always try prayer if it gives you comfort.
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During one of my recent forays online to deal with Medicare and other age-related matters, I received a message to take advantage of my Silver and Fit benefits. What are they you might ask?
Well, they are one of those things you get for being old. They don’t call it that, oh no. Instead, they hire talented novelist wannabes to craft creative ways to make it seem like an adventure.
Once you become eligible for Medicare, you are now on a Journey (queue the Celestial Music.)
The journey is called the Aging Journey.
What?
I have taken many journeys. And for every single one, the planning begins with picking a destination. These journeys do not have to involve far-off destinations or involve elaborate plans, but they have to end up somewhere.
They do not have to involve hours, days, or weeks of travel.
They do not have to involve multiple modes of transportation.
Sometimes the journey may be as simple as your favorite breakfast spot or pub.
Sometimes it may involve another town, county, or state.
Sometimes it may involve a whole different country.
I hope to live long enough to leave the earth to visit the moon or Mars.
But never, in all my times of planning journeys, did it ever involve getting old and dying.
This journey certainly fits the bill of philosophers and songwriters who talk of the journey as being more important than the destination. It is certainly more mysterious. And it is the only journey we all get booked on at the moment of birth.
It’s the boarding pass for being alive. Some get first class, some coach, some cling to the sides, but all board the same train.
We most likely will not know when the journey ends, how the journey ends, or where the journey ends. Depending on your philosophy about leaving this mortal coil, you may never know the details at all. Only those left behind will.
Nevertheless, the Aging Journey will, in a continuously speeding up passage of time, arrive at the journey’s end.
I hope the destination is far off in the future for all of you. And I hope, when the journey inevitably ends, you can look back and say, “Thanks, what a ride.”
JEBWizard Publishing (www.jebwizardpublishing.com) is a hybrid publishing company focusing on new and emerging authors. We offer a full range of customized publishing services.
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