My Decision on the Iowa Caucus

You may recall I’ve said before in this blog, that Herman Cain stated that all a presidential candidate needs to become a good president is intelligence and character, for he will have all around him men chosen for the right advice on matters of state. I’ve had my eye on a certain candidate who has these two factors in generous supply, plus much more of the knowledge of matters of state.

I cast my vote for Rick Santorum, the one who has the perfect family for the White House—remember my saying that early on too? I heard part of his speech today from Iowa. No teleprompters and spoken from the heart. He quoted Chuck Colson who said most of the inmates in our prisons today are there because of the breakdown of the idea of marriage. [Not a direct quote.] Santorum is a good man for these times. Chuck Colson knows what he’s talking about. He’s a very good man too, whose life work is trying to help prisoners find their way back and not repeat their crimes.

I’m not posting 31 blogs for December, though I could if not for the pain. ♥

Explanation

My “Mostly for Americans” blog wasn’t quite clear. Of course, I knew you could not click on the blog itself. I meant for you to type it in and locate it. I did that to find exactly which rendering of the Hymn it was, and will tell you it’s the one sung by four high school choirs plus a kid’s elementary school choir. I do hope you will listen to it. It’s great. I do have an excuse for my clumsiness, you recall. I am in great pain.

Every month I aim to write the number of blogs that the month has days. There’s one more day this month and I need to write four more blogs. Maybe I should make some more mistakes and then write short apologies! I hope you all have a good sense of humor. Humor aside, my blog has had 46 hits today. ♥

AOL Could Do a Better Job

A different neighbor brought in my mail today. He’s the third man in my block who has done so since my surgery. From him, I learned the first man is not doing so well after his surgery of Wednesday. Just about an hour ago I, learned of another friend who is not doing well after an unusual activity, shooting a woodpecker pecking holes in his house. It’s a story that should be written up, but I’m not the one to do so.

I mention these things, not that they are items for AOL’s daily news on my computer, but partly because of the news AOL does present us with each day. A typical line-up of topics includes: a mansion on sale for a few million, the latest car design or mistakes in auto manufacturing, precious pictures of missing children that break my heart, pictures of missing moms, political facts and gossip, some celebrity couple’s pending divorce, sports often with a fight between players and coaches and even with the crowd watching, the scantiest attire some movie star wore in public, some drug bust or related activity, ad infinitum. What an ugly self-portrait we offer to other countries.

Immediately after 9/11, AOL cleaned up its act a bit. It even sounded patriotic, but that didn’t last long. With the world in its present chaos, we don’t need most of this stuff clouding our screens and our attention. Someone will say, “Oh, it gives us relief to think of those things.” What a thin canvas supporting such thoughts.

AOL, give us something more enlightening, more important to real life, more beneficial, more inspirational. The scanty attire is not news. When you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it all. Boring!

What can you do for your country? ♥

Mostly for Americans

Somewhere in this blog, is the mention that I cry easily at touching news. I’ve just had a sudden attack of tears from a forward that I hope you can locate. It’s certainly not news but is as old as time itself.


Click here: Battle Hymn ♥♥♥

Here Is More about that Nasty Fall

On Thursday, December 22, as I was about to enter WinCo supermarket I fell, and someone called 911. For once, I heard the siren blowing for me. My spine was fractured but did not require surgery. The silliest thing a doctor can say to a woman living alone is, "Rest, and time will heal it." So, five days later, around 5:30 a. m., I fell again, hitting the same spot on the hip. (I must have strong bones.) This time, I had to press my Watch Dog alert for help, for I couldn't move my body. Believe me, the fire department’s turning metal against metal to get into my house is about the most wonderful sound in the world. Firemen are my heroes, and they were there in about five minutes.

The paramedics were right behind them, of course, and I opted not to go back to Emergency. So, I am living with the pain of recovery and reading anything seems not to delight at the moment.

But I want to tell you what I learned in the process.

The firemen got here first but they did not come to the room where a dim light showed and where I was. In fact, they could actually partially see me from the entryway, and see pictures I had knocked down from the wall, but I could not see them at first. But they went in the other direction.

I think there were two reasons for that: they knew the paramedics had arrived, and in this day of high and weird crimes, they checked out the house. Then they came to me, saw they weren't needed further, and departed. Later, I saw they had left a light burning in my study. Well, I'm glad they do check that way, even in a nice neighborhood. That conclusion goes into my memory for "crime facts." ♥

Good Report

If you’re keeping up with the progress of my recent accident, let me say I am a little better. It’s easier to get in and out of a chair, and I’ve found an excellent way to sit there for a rest. In a big wing-back chair, one ordinary toss pillow cushions my back. Under each arm stands a fat sofa pillow that rests the arms. Then while the arms rest, they also hold up my head. I can sleep in that position. My feet stay on the floor, and so, I don’t spend the night in that fashion, but must resort to the agony of getting into bed.

It’s such a hurt to function, that I forgot to open my Christmas presents till almost 4:00 this afternoon. What lovely gifts! Seems I’ll be watching some new DVDs while eating banana bread in candlelight, and wearing a new outfit. This pain-killer sends me to sleep at the computer; I’ve had three naps since starting this blog. Time to quit. ♥

’Tis the Season

Every year some singer or singers mar the Christmas carols by mispronouncing the word “Israel.” They sing out clearly and plainly “Is-rye-el.” Where do they get this abomination of the word? Look it up, and you’ll find this is wrong. It may be from their “little knowledge is a dangerous thing” bones. In Latin the “ae” is pronounced like a long “I” in English. But if you pronounce that word that way in this song, then there is no “e” left for the last syllable “el.”

Last night on the program following (I think), the wonderful West Point Holiday special, a young man sang a solo The First Noel, with the line, “Born is the King of Israel.” He seemed to exaggerate the mispronunciation, as if trying to show the audience how to say it. Man, did he goof! As I say, look it up. ♥

More about Solar Lights

One comment under my blog “Solar Lights and Family’s Doings” offers additional information for practical application of solar energy. I recommend my L&L readers check this out and also spread the word. I may repeat this advice several times, for I think it is important. I don’t understand every bit of this information, but perhaps most of you will. So, let there be light and all the other amenities of life we now pay money for. Wouldn’t you enjoy those free? Merry Christmas! ♥

What a Thursday!

This blog is for my far-flung family and my close friends. For others, it may be boring.

Amy, my driver, and I started out with the regular Thursday appointments and had a quick lunch in the car, for she and Joe were having company that night and they would watch the BSU Bronco game against Arizona State. (BSU creamed them.)

Then we headed for the supermarket to buy fixings for a great Christmas dinner. I got out of the car at the door of WinCo and Amy was going to park. I didn’t get inside the store. I took a spill. My head and shoulders were inches from Amy’s front right tire. I remember hoping she would not run over me. Someone called 911 and soon I was on my way to St. Al’s. Tests later, I got the news that I had a fractured spine, a minor case not suitable for surgery, thank goodness. (I’d hate to experience a major type of this accident.)

In the meantime, Amy took my grocery list and shopped for me and got the groceries into the house, and stowed the cold stuff properly.

After I swallowed a pain pill called Norco, I was able to walk a bit in the hospital, and the doctor decided I could go home, but not in a cab. The nurse called Amy to the rescue with the order for me to rest and let the fracture heal itself. That’s what I’m doing. It’s restful to sit in this chair and type, but getting up and down is often excruciating. I am also half asleep for I took the second pain pill at 9:30 this morning, and none in the night.

This is to alert all readers that I may not be blogging for a few days. Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukah! ♥

Catherine Crier Was Wrong

Catherine Crier was wrong last night on Greta’s show, by decrying Gingrich’s idea of Congress’s demanding an explanation from justices of the Supreme Court for their radical, unconstitutional decisions. Not once did she refer to the system of “checks and balances.” Not only should the Supreme Court be subject to this check by Congress, but also, the President should be likewise. As for the check on Congress, this goes on all the time: members are checking each other constantly. The problem with this branch of government is that it’s almost impossible to get one side to listen to the other side well enough. A balance is often lacking.

Although Crier was once a judge, Gingrich is a greater intellect. I’m quite sure he understands the Constitution more clearly than Crier does. ♥

Solar Lights and Family’s Doings

Now winter has begun, by the calendar. This area hasn’t seen any real winter yet, but we probably will in the next two months. By e-mail I sent quite a number of people the forward about solar lights. Every household should have these in their yard so that when power outages occur, they can be brought into the house to give light, and the next day go back into the yard to “gas up” again for the next night.

Christmas mail has diminished this year at my house, that is, via the Post Office. E-mails galore, however. And as many letters as cards. The new addition is more Christmas telephone calls. The economy isn’t the only reason for the change. So many of my Christmas contacts are as old as I am, and may not be able to handle such mailings. I spent hours composing my first long letter—three big pages—mailed it, and then revised it to fit the next recipient, and continued revising and mailing. It takes a great deal of time for this, and I won’t finish the project till sometime after Christmas. I haven’t heard from two ladies who were my teenage friends, who live in Oklahoma and Kentucky. Perhaps today.

The grandson, who was moving to Texas from California, got his family settled there in the same town as the other two grandchildren who live there. I hope they are located near a public library, for this family is full of readers. In California the library was about a block away from the house. How delicious! So, the family Christmas dinner will obviously be enjoyed in that town without anyone’s needing to drive a distance.

I am enjoying my new 42 –inch HD television, but haven’t memorized all the numbers of the channels I watch. I am considering purchasing a few more channels.

Tomorrow is another Thursday. I may go into a book store. I’m planning to Nook in Dean Koontz’s new novella The Moonlit Mind, but I want to see another book in person before I Nook it. Koontz is one of my favorite authors.

Just think, if you had a few solar lights in your house during a power outage, you might still be able to read!

And now, to watch from a quiet distance as men cut down the huge weeping willow tree in the yard next door. If only the neighbor on the other side of my yard would cut down his willow tree, what a cleaner backyard mine would be. ♥

Paul and Huntsman Belong in the Just Prior Blog

I meant no slight by forgetting Ron Paul and Jon Huntsman in discussing the GOP candidates. We keep hearing they don’t have a chance; that must have been in the back of my mind. They are also good men. Ron Paul is a medical doctor (OB/GYN, I believe). Why would a doctor leave his practice and go into Congress? Perhaps to change the laws which affect his profession? The talk says Paul may win the Iowa caucus but could not win the nomination. I don’t know enough about Huntsman to have an opinion.

Romney is gathering endorsements, but I think the only one of them who can beat Obama at the polls is Newt Gingrich. ♥

A Woman Can Change Her Mind

If a woman had been in on writing our country’s founding papers, she would have likely included the above sentence somewhere in them. That is, the independent type of female would have. Perhaps such women get the blame or the credit for today’s women of thought. So, I’m preparing you for my changing my mind.

I am not sure which presidential candidate I’m for at the moment. It was news to me, till about an hour ago, that Newt Gingrich created the practice of earmarks! So, why don’t we leave him to write his good history books, and elect someone else. More enlightenment will probably turn up.

I have pointed out two good men, Santorum and Cain. I will add to that list Romney, Perry, and Bachman. But a word about Bachman: If women read what I’m saying here, most of them in the country would surely chastise me. But I really don’t think our president should be a woman who dresses in the current style when that style is a skirt half way up her thigh when she sits. Or a dress that is as form-fitting as Princess Kate’s sister’s dress in the Royal Wedding. When such a president walks across a room, all the male eyes—which dominate the gathering—will not remember what they are there for, but will take in the show. I’m not suggesting Bachman dress like former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, but how about like Nancy Reagan? A female president does not have to live by current styles, but set her own, and let the country follow suit.

Actually, I prefer a male in the presidency, and I won’t go into reasons for that preference. But the above reason is enough. ♥

Dear Lori in Colorado,

You must not be reading your e-mail, for you haven’t answered an important one I sent you several days ago. Here’s hoping to hear soon. ♥♥♥

Thursday Was Yesterday Again

It was a different sort of Thursday. After the hair salon, Amy and I had lunch at Applebee’s, shopped briefly at Target’s, and then she left me at my primary doctor’s office. It was only about 2:30. My appointment was for 4:15. But Amy needed to go to the dance recital of her little granddaughter, age 2, at 3:00 in another town.

So how did I spend my time as I waited to be called? Every now and then the doctor’s large waiting room cleared of patients. At that point I got to my feet and did exercises, looked out the big windows at the hospital compound three floors below, with tiny people constantly on the move, and tried to figure how I could take the big, beautiful Christmas tree home with me in my pocket. Then I was called, right at 4:15.

The doctor said he thought I would live, but he had blood drawn. He’ll mail me the results.

Then I met perhaps the twentieth cab driver I’ve used within the past year. It was almost dark when we reached my house. He left, but I should have had him unlock my front door for me. I could not manage it. Two locks. So, I walked to a neighbor’s and climbed what is to me a steep grade from the road to the house, not knowing if he and his wife were home. I saw no lights through windows, though the yard dazzled with Christmas lights. But they were home, and Stan said he’d put on his shoes and be right there. I started back and he got there the same time I did. He easily got the door opened and wanted to know what gave. So, I gave a recital about the recital, and the rest of it. Lovely neighbors, Stan and Jackie.

I was especially glad I had prepared my supper ahead of time. I took it easy last night and watched the debates in Iowa. Slept in my chair, through the debates the second time, and perhaps the third time, for I awoke at 2:10 and they were still at it. Then I went to bed, and to sleep about 2:30. Awoke at 5:30 and got up for the day. ♥

Merry Christmas to My House

Every year I give a Christmas present to my house. It can be as simple as a decorative waste paper basket or something more expensive. This year it is a big item, not for my vanity’s sake, but for my eyesight’s sake: an HD television screen. It was delivered just before lunch today. The table for it came several days ago and Amy and I moved books to make room for it. I paid the delivery men to move the parts of the wall system from place to place to make room for the table. The next day Grace and I got the books back in place. Then I donated some great books I’ll never read again to the Idaho Youth Ranch store. They could be nice Christmas presents for other readers. I think I may be the last one in the family to have an HD set, for I haven’t desired one till now. Some in the family have more than one in their houses.

Giving presents to others is more enjoyable to me, of course. The problem these days is wrapping them for mailing and getting them to the P. O. Many of us senior citizens have to resort to giving checks. Let’s see now. There are 43 family members for me. Why don’t I send them each a hundred? That’s only $4,300. (Joke.) They have more money than I. (Not a joke.) But if they visit me, I usually have something to give them. Merry Christmas! ♥

America, Then and Now

Currently, criticism is aimed at Newt Gingrich for his allegedly suggesting American children learn to clean toilets. His column today located at
NewtGingrich@email.humanevents.com explains what he is actually talking about, the worth ethic that made our country great. His critics left out he also suggested the children work in the school’s cafeteria, the office, the classroom, and not just clean toilets—and for real money.

Can you imagine the nonsense from the Labor Department that says children cannot work on the family farm?! Another American institution that helped make America great. By that equation, probably coming down the road, is the edict that girls cannot help their mothers around the house.

Why should we be like Europe in these respects? Read what has happened to France in a book by Corrine Maier, Hello Laziness: Why Hard Work Doesn’t Pay. Then be glad she singles out America as the exception to her rule. What America really does need now is the right man in the White House who knows how to govern and to lead. ♥

What Really Matters

These days, we hear much about character, particularly with regard to presidential candidates. Voters criticize at the drop of a bit of hearsay, as well as the candidates’ castigating their rivals. Let’s take a moment for checking our own personal inventory of the standards we live by. What is it we see in our fellowman and dislike?

For me, two items: the lack of one’s not keeping his promises, no matter of how unimportant the one who makes the promise sees it. For example, if you promise me you will call, come by in person, answer my letter, be on time, read my blog, and all other such non-earth-shaking actions, I expect you to keep your word. If you break such a promise to me, it always means a waste of my time, as well as possibly loss of money.

Recently, I had to break a promise. However, I called and explained I could not do what I promised. The reason was that I had to go by ambulance to the emergency room at a hospital. That was around 5:00. I came home around 9:00 by cab. I cannot ask for favors from my friends and neighbors, even if they say, “Call me if you need anything anytime.”

The other item—well, it seems to be more of the same—breaking promises. But these are not promises for me, but for the person who makes the promise. Such as: he will read the book I recommended to him, loaned him, or gave him. When I do this, the book means a great deal to me and I want to share it with others. If it’s a loan, I certainly expect the return of the book within a reasonable time period, and I’m not talking about two or three days. Most such books I’ve recommended are on the small side, often less than 200 pages, and are books I’ve read several times. To name a few of my favorites: Man’s Unconquerable Mind (Highet); Fahrenheit 451 (Bradbury); Gift from the Sea (Lindbergh); My Normandy (Dennis); Eats, Shoots & Leaves (Truss); The Silence of the Sea (Vercors); Out of the Silent Planet (Lewis); A Point in Time (Horowitz); The Scapegoat (du Maurier).

Not for only politicians, but for everyone, promises are meant to be kept.

Niall Ferguson

Another great book presented on C-SPAN today: Niall Ferguson’s Civilization: The West and the Rest. This book will air on PBS in 2012. Ferguson has a resume of one publication after another, seemingly all winners of some award or another, and holds several degrees, including a D. of Phil., and also several professorships and research scholarships. He is located on the Internet, of course, and I will not go into what is there for you to read. But I must tell you something that clicked with me from his interview. He said while he was still in his teens, he read Tolstoy’s War and Peace TWICE, and it changed his life.

He also said American society will not be right again till we elect leaders who understand and experience the kind of education he talks about in this book. He even referred to Shakespeare as an example of the sort of education he meant. I agree with that.

I will get this book as soon as I can, but I want to predict now that it will probably prove to be another MUM book, a companion to MUM. I imagine he is quite familiar with that gem of a book. If we liked Man’s Unconquerable Mind, we will surely like this one. ♥

The Last Word

One of the primary instructions in Public Speaking 101 is pronouncing clearly the last few words of each sentence and not let them fade away. One newsman of the past excelled in this clarity, Edwin Newman. (He is a minor character as a newsman in Grisham’s film “Pelican Brief.”) But currently, this bit of learning seems not important enough for many making speeches or commenting on the news, to make the effort. Many persons on television are “fading away,” if I may put it that way, by forgetting to sound those last words as distinctly as the rest of the sentence. Some culprits are Bill O’Reilly, Barack Obama, and a “star” on our local PBS channel. This characteristic appears in the local man’s recorded DVDs.

Like penmanship in grade school, has public speaking disappeared from the high school curriculum? Not that these names listed belong to the younger generation; they don’t. Perhaps this is a subject O’Reilly should look into. ♠

My Thursday Out, Plus

On my day out yesterday, I greeted several people who served me in the stores with a “Merry Christmas.” They all reciprocated with the same, except one. Behind a counter in the deli department in a very large supermarket, the woman glared at me and said something indistinguishable. She had a foreign accent. I kept smiling at her.

Book buying was at a minimum, only one volume, and it was for someone else.

I purchased one gorgeous pomegranate (at $1.78, I think it was). It is for a guest coming to my house tonight for dinner, my great-grandson Rocco. He is two years old. I never saw a pomegranate when I was a child. He has lived in the Middle East for a good part of his life, and he might have seen pomegranates there, but he will not likely remember them. This will be fun. Also, Rocco will bring his parents, Rob and Melissa.

People have asked me how Rocco got his name. It’s one his dad just liked. I think he met a Rocco in a book series, perhaps in the comics. You never know about my family. We sometimes do odd things. Rocco has a cousin named Philip, who in his early teens is becoming quite a scholar on World War II. And that cousin, Phil, and his family are moving to Texas from California. So, three of my grandchildren and their families will be living in Texas. That part of the clan expects to celebrate Christmas day there. Gooch will be coming from Australia for that. His wife, Shirley, has already arrived, I believe.

Another part of the clan will probably celebrate Christmas in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I’m always invited there. Sometimes I get there, but this year it is questionable. Travel is not easy for me these days.

I’m sure Susan’s three children will be home in Atlanta. Two of them live there, and the oldest will surely come from his senior year at West Point. He will know soon where the Army will post him. How I miss Susan who died in 2006.

Back to work now. ♥

How a Dictator Gets Elected

He makes many speeches, tells many lies, sounds good, and throws around money to pay dummies to vote for him, even perhaps more than once. He knows most of his audience doesn’t read, or hear intelligent discussion on television programs or anywhere else, and won’t know the differenve between what he's saying and the truth. It’s that simple. ♠

A Common Sense Question

Why should the press, or anyone else, believe Ginger White and not Herman Cain? ♠

Citizens in Action

The weekend brought a bit more information about and insights into the qualifications and philosophies of the GOP presidential candidates. My choice I arrived at quite a long time ago, actually when he first announced, the real brain among them, with some other highly qualified candidates. But Newt Gingrich stands heads taller than the rest. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answers the questions asked and one can get a glimpse of his mental faculty. Not only does he give the correct answer, but he can add all the footnotes anyone might desire. From the beginning, I felt people would gradually pay attention to his knowledge of history and government and his common sense. I saw the figures climb till now he is ahead of the others.

One thing I heard Newt say days ago was that Rick Santorum would make an excellent Attorney General, that he is a scholar on the Constitution. Indeed, last night, during a debate on the Huckabee show, Santorum pulled a copy of the Constitution from his pocket. He’s my pick too for the Attorney General.

Last shopping day I bought Newt’s latest book, co-authored with William R. Forstchen. It is the best-seller The Battle of the Crater, a novel about the heroic black troops that fought in it, a battle most of us have likely never heard of before. But Newt’s knowledge of history is unusual, and I imagine Forstchen’s is too. I looked over the book, read the Acknowledgments and learned that no memorial exists in honor of these warriors. I’m sure these two authors will see to that, for there should be such a memorial. As I’m still reading John Grisham’s Litigators, I will finish it first, and then this Battle will be next.

Back to Newt now. Watching C-SPAN, I joined a big square-table discussion of a Professor Hart talking about the candidates with about 12 ordinary citizens. In the beginning, their choice of candidates ranged wide and diverse. At the end, Newt was the almost unanimous choice, but only one, I think, said another name, though with a hint of apology, and almost in a cover of silence. He was definitely for the two Mormons running in the race, and they didn’t get anywhere. But the sad tale erupts that these dozen citizens were not up with the news. They didn’t begin to know what I know about this, and I don’t know much. After these people left the room, another set rushed in. This was a group of journalists, and whatever, there to discuss the other set of people who had been there. This discussion was extremely dull. Professor Hart was great and the first bunch interesting. But if these first twelve were a cross section of voters, no wonder we get the wrong people into office sometimes. ♥

What Followed Vail’s Letter in My Journal

“As the above letter indicates, war is being waged. The Soviets took Budapest several days ago. Five thousand refugees are to come to the United States, but I heard over the radio that 30,000 men from Budapest alone are on boxcars headed for Siberia. Many will die from exposure on the way. Tonight we heard that 40,000 more are to go. It is so terrible I can hardly write of it. On the night (night it was here) the communists took the city, John and I listened to the radio till the wee hours on Sunday morning. Reports were that the Hungarian radio operators left their stations with these words: ‘We are leaving our posts. The Russians are too near. Help us, United /states. The U. N. is too late. God save our souls.’

“It was so sad, hearing this in the night especially. Election news a few nights later, was not nearly so time-stealing.”

I have vividly recalled that night many times, as one of the worst and most important in my life—indeed in the history of the world. Those Hungarians calling for our help seemed to be shedding heart-breaking tears. I was proud, in a sense, that the Hungarians rated the ability of these United States over what the U. N. could do in a positive way. And such has always been the case. Our young people don’t learn about this sort of tragedy in their schools. Not to know history is a guarantee to repeat it. ♥

The Additional Letter from Margaret Vail

“Chateau de Launay
Sigournais
Vendee
France

“November 6, 1956

“My dear Mrs. Rinard,

“Your letter of April 9 was received, and read with such great pleasure. I have been prevented, from many things from answering as soon as I should like to have done, but have not been prevented from thinking of you and your family, so far away.

“As a matter of fact, you were not as far away as this during the first three months if this year—for I was in the United States! I paid a long-hoped for, long deferred visit to my native land, leaving here just before Christmas, returning on Easter Sunday. I had not been home for seven years so you can imagine my joy at seeing my country again, and family and friends there. I went and returned by boat, disliking airplane travel intensely. This got me home a few days late for Rose-Helene’s eighteenth birthday but we celebrated that and Easter, at the same time, she being at home then for her holidays. She would have been in school, in any case, had I returned for March 22.

“Now she is in Switzerland, studying at the Interpreters’ School of the Geneva University. My husband and I drove her to Geneva early in October, spent a few days with her there, to get her happily and comfortably settled. Her letters tell us of her interest in her work—which, however, is very difficult—of her pleasures in the Swiss way of life, her fondness for the Swiss people she has met. She is continuing her studies of the three languages she already knows, but must learn a fourth before she can get a diploma from the Interpreters’ School. She may choose Russian, the most useful language to know today, she has been advised. Whether the world is at war (which we pray it will not be) or at peace, theirs is the language to know if one wants to find an interesting and useful situation. It is such a difficult language, I do not know whether if Rose-Helene could master it, but believe she will try; failing that, she will probably study German.

“Little John Lindsley Rinard has had his first birthday. Now there will be first teeth, first words, first steps to look forward to. How often I think of families without children—which are not families at all. Two people alone, a husband and wife, cannot constitute a family. What a void must be in their hearts, as well as in their lives. We learn much of life’s purpose and meaning through our children, through them comes to us much of life’s joy. They can bring sorrow, too, but knowing and facing trouble is part of understanding the meaning of life, Isn’t it? So far my only child has brought us only joy, and pride, but that may not always be so. If, one day, we should be disappointed in her, I hope I shall remember that, for eighteen years, she was all that we could hope for a daughter to be.

“But tell me about small John, and Susan; I didn’t mean to veer away from the subject of your children. I enjoyed so much hearing about your lives, knowing you and your husband through what you tell me of your daily routine. Today, you are voting, as I wish I could do—it is at times like this that I regret living so far from the country which is so near and so dear to my heart. From where I am, as I view the situation, it would seem that President Eisenhower will be re-elected. If this should be, let us hope his health will stand the strain of another four years in office. They promise to be hard years—the heart-breaking and dramatic events of the past ten days presage that. Oh, if only good could come out of all this turmoil and trouble; if only it could lead to better understanding between countries, between peoples. We must pray that those in whose hands our own small destinies lie, are given wisdom, strength, courage. At the moment, things look so very dark for us all.

“Your husband wanted to know what crops were gown on our farms. Wheat mostly; winter wheat only, no spring planting is done. Beets and cabbage are grown for fodder and food—Vendiens eat a great deal of cabbage. The farmers use oxen for plowing, there are only a few tractors in the whole Department; they talk to their beasts as they work, and give them names like ‘Springtime’ and ‘Rose Garden.’

“I had quite forgotten that I promised to send you a chapter of my new ms. I left for America soon after having written you. I can still send it, if it interests you. Write again, won’t you, when you have time, I enjoy this new acquaintance with you. Kindest thoughts and best wishes to you all.”

[Vail’s name here ]

Herman Cain’s Suspension Speech

That was the verb he used: suspend. He didn’t say he was “quitting” his campaign. He’s just beginning his Plan B. I will not imitate the newspeople who tell you what he said right after you have heard him say it, but I do want to analyze his words a bit. If viewers awaited a confession of the alleged “affairs,” they were disappointed. He used the words “allegations” and “unproved.” I ask you, did you ever hear the Kennedy men confess their affairs to the public? Or LBJ? Or Jackie O.? One difference between these shenanigans and whatever Cain might have done is the fact that Cain is a Republican and the others were Democrats, as well as most reporters.

While we awaited Cain’s speech in front of his new headquarters in Atlanta, I heard a commentator actually refer to many more complaints that would be coming forth, if Cain stayed in the race! That person should be fired.

Unlike situations in which we see politicians confess their marital infidelities on live television with their wives standing beside them, looking sad and even haggard, perhaps forced to appear as if in support of such a husband, Gloria Cain stood a little farther back (perhaps she knew her husband would be throwing out his arms), smiled, and clapped her hands with her husband’s well-wishers. It appeared to be genuine support of him.

Cain was more forceful with this speech than with any other I’ve heard of his. He might be called “worked up” or even “angry.” But I really think it was a case of loss of sleep but it was a positive result. I believe this speech will go into the history books.

Cain will be announcing soon whom he will support in the presidential race. Any of the candidates would be foolish not to offer Cain a position in their government, if they are elected, but should not mention such a promise before their own success. It must not be a bribe.

I still strongly believe the concentric circles possibility I wrote about earlier is the culprit for this fiasco.♥

Another Letter from M. V. Found

Early to bed and early to rise, as old Ben said. I awoke shortly after 5:00, allowing time to let my readers know about my find before I head out for the day. I had a strong feeling yesterday that I might have copied M. V.’s letters into my Journal of ever so long ago. I discovered one from 1956, but found no others. I will type it here as soon as I have time, perhaps not until after the weekend.

One reader in another country will be especially interested in this letter from M. V., but I cannot contact him. His e-mail isn’t working for me. If he is reading this, he will know he’s the one I’m referring to, and perhaps can do something about his e-mail address. My machine has said at least a dozen times “an unknown member,” yet his e-mail arrives here.

M. V.’s letter does not contain a great deal of information, but does tell when she visited the States, where her daughter is and what she is doing. She is concerned about the turmoil going on in the world, during the administration of President Eisenhower.

I really enjoy seeing the count of hits on my blog from around the world. One blog has almost 100 hits now, and others are close to that. People everywhere know English and that is great. I appreciate all of you. In this country many readers are involved with face book, but I do not care to participate in it, for it takes too much time from my writing. A writer can spread himself too thin, you know. Surely my readers would rather read a bit of fiction from me, now and then, or a book review, than to read about my daily doings. And especially read about others through my words here. ♥

In Defense of Herman Cain

I just listened to the latest bit of news about Cain’s current attacker. She is doing some good acting, But I believe it is just acting. Perhaps not “just” acting. There may be a mental illness that describes what she is doing. If you listen to her carefully, you will note an abundance of repetition, told in a smooth and practiced way. The other day, I read the inscription Cain penned in a book which he autographed for her. It was a touching one. However, it might have been the same message he wrote to several dozens of people he worked with. At that moment, I envisioned her as having taken the inscription to mean more than he meant it. Many a female, especially teenagers, have fallen in love with an idea, and lived that idea for years, maybe even for the rest of their lives, and possibly ended up this way, accusing the secretly loved one, in revenge, even to the point of physical danger to the one “loved.” To speak as well as she did, she might have had a small bit of tranquilizing drug to get through it calmly. The recent telephone calls Cain made to her, if he really did, could have been to beg her not to go through with this charade.

I am not being political in this. Cain is not my choice for president, but someone else is. I am not of his race. And I still think he is a good man. Is he stupid enough not to know these affairs would arise if he ran for office? He may not be wise in many ways, but I do not think he’s stupid about the possibility of such scandal—if it were truth. I think he has worked too hard to get where he is, to risk a scandal, if it were true.

My blog about the concentric circles is still why I think this is happening. ♥

Little Boys Can Say Cute Things Too

When “Gooch” was barely old enough to have a Halloween mask of his own, he was wearing it up on top of his head. Susan asked him. “Why are you wearing that thing on top of your head?”

He said, “So I can see God.” He was not yet three years old.
♥
Once Gooch hadn’t eaten the peas on his plate. I admonished him to eat them, and added, “Do you know there are little children in the world who do not have anything to eat?”

He said, “Let’s send the peas to them.”
♥
When the third child joined the family, he didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to, for his older siblings talked all the time, and he just smiled at them. But one day the family made a visit to a farm, where Mike, one year old, saw his first live chickens. Later in the week, fried chicken was on the dinner table. Mike wouldn’t eat any of it. In fact, he almost cried. I realized he was remembering the live creatures he’d seen on the farm. He said something like, “Can you put it back?” I think he meant could I put the chicken back together again.

Gooch, age three, spoke up, “All the king’s horses couldn't do that.”

I looked at Susan and shook my head no, she was not to add, “And all the king’s men.” That was just ready to pop out of her mouth.

What great kids they were.♥

Three Cute Remarks from Little Girls

When our daughter was only two years old, she and I were discussing milk at the breakfast table. I told her milk came from a cow. She beamed, exclaiming, “Did the cow spit up this milk last day?” When I hesitated for an answer, she added, “Did he?”
♥
Another little girl said to her mother, “Mother, I love father, but I feel closer to you.”
“Why is that, dear?” the mother asked.
“Well, I’m your flesh and blood, but I’m related to father only by marriage.”
♥
Our daughter, still about two years of age, was playing outside with a friend in a fenced-in front yard [a river ran parallel to our road], when I heard Susan cry out. She had hurt her hand. I watched through an open window as she hurried to the steps, as if to come inside to me. Then suddenly she stopped, kissed her hand, and said, “Now, it’s all better,” and went back to play.
♥♥♥

Another Word about Man’s Unconquerable Mind

In deleting letters from my files tonight, I ran across a great note from my friend Mary McKenzie. She wrote: “I began reading that book you lent me [one of several] at 4:00 Sunday, and I didn’t stop till I finished it around 10:00. You know, one time a lady gave me a book to read, and I’ve said for years it was the best book I’d ever read. But now I must say, it’s the second best book, for this one is the first best.” She was talking about Man’s Unconquerable Mind (MUM) by Gilbert Highet. My blog stats show 80 hits for my blog about MUM, which I wrote about on February 15, 2010. I wish I had time to read it again. Of course, I have read it several times, and have parts of it memorized unintentionally, but it’s good for many more reads. ♥

A Question for the Media

Earlier, I mentioned I like to see a bit of intellectuality from the man in the White House. Then last night a business man in Las Vegas, Steve Wynn, in quoting Henry Kissinger, told a group of people that only two things are required from any president, intelligence and character, for he will have all around him the best brains in the business to advise him. That fits Cain.

Then a comment from Brit Hume was sort of what I had been trying to say about Cain. Hume said, in the debates, Cain talked about the topic up to an edge of his information and understanding, and then only repeated himself after that. But he said Newt Gingrich could talk in great depth on the subject, for he had always been able to do so, for he was brilliant. I agree with that. Newt is still climbing in the polls, but rough times are apparently ahead from the media.

But I want to pose a question about Gingrich, or rather about the media. We have probably all heard him say over television he is aware of his past sins, and that he has confessed them to God and has been forgiven. Then he has joined the Catholic Church and is happy and fulfilled with that experience. Now Media will be bringing up these past sins, of course, and will ignore the new man that Gingrich has found in his religion. My question to the media is: isn’t this change in Gingrich exactly what the Christian religion is about, repentance, forgiveness, and redemption? If Christ were among us today, He would likely ask, “Which of you will cast the first stone?” ♥

Cain’s Book

The chief element of Herman Cain’s book This Is Herman Cain! is his confidence he will become the 45th president of these United States. When he was trying to decide to run, his wife Gloria told him she didn’t want him to run. He asked her, why not? She said, you might win! Good enough reason for a wife not to want her husband to run for the highest office in the land. He has succeeded at everything else he has tried, why wouldn’t she expect him to win in this?

And he could win. As I’ve said before, he is a good man, a patriotic man, and a conservative one. “Conservative” refers to the wish to conserve our Constitution, which others are trying to destroy, wittingly or unwittingly.

The 222-page book takes us through various jobs and positions Cain has held, while being aware of the “45” that appears in odd places, such as on his flight 1045 and hotel room, 45. He has interpreted this number in such a way to be signs of God’s will for him. And he may be right. But could not that 45 also mean he might win the office of Vice President? But Cain doesn’t feel called to be Vice anything, He’s ready for the top post.

From where I’m watching, something is missing in this scenario. I keep saying he’s a good man, and I know he’s a college graduate, but I like to see a bit more intellectuality in the person who becomes president. You read what his first grade teacher told his class, that black children were not getting the same education as white children, and his decision to work hard to succeed. That’s highly commendable, but for me, it is not enough. I want the man in the White House to be able to discuss great literature, great art, and great music, not after a night of cramming for some state visitor’s arrival, but from a lifetime of a cultured background. The humanities (literature, art, music, history, etc.) are subjects every child needs to study in school, the sooner, the better. Students, fortunate enough to continue their study of such subjects in the college of their choice while getting that degree in business, engineering, or whatever, will have a more fulfilled life.

But Mr. Cain is versed in the Holy Bible. That is a great asset and Biblical Literature is one of the humanities. And he is a good man. ♥

Frying Bread

When I got to the kitchen this morning, I detected the delightful aroma of frying bread somewhere in the neighborhood. If you haven’t experienced that, take another look at the DVD of “Julie and Julia.” Early on, Julie is frying chunks of a specialty bread, as she rhapsodizes about the glory of butter. When they are golden brown, she tops them with chopped tomatoes, and we don’t see what else, but perhaps some cheese, and of course, herbs, and then she probably puts them under the broiler a few seconds. As her husband wolfs these down, he talks with his mouth full and says, “This is good!”

Such a scene makes you want to go to the kitchen and prepare the same delight. But you don’t, for you know there is no butter in the house, and you know, butter is the ingredient that makes this feast delicious.

The houses in this subdivision are well insulated. Nevertheless, cooking smells often permeate the area at least as far as to the next house. Last winter, almost every work-day evening, around 9:00, I knew someone was heating up a frozen entrée, often of turkey. I wanted to put that person into a story, with the female protagonist going out into the snow to find the poor soul who has come home after a long day’s work, and has only a frozen entrée to heat up for his supper. She wouldn’t make herself known, for after all, she doesn’t know everyone in the subdivision, and she might have some surprises. It is enough for her to know who is tantalizing her taste buds. If she should be a writer, she might even concoct more to the story: yes, while the man lets his food get cold, she may learn he is also making a bomb in his kitchen. Here, in this nice neighborhood? The suspect is a business man, owner of a hardware store! If that writer’s name is really James Patterson or Robin Cook, she will really get into trouble and may not live to get out of this house again. For a while, that is. She doesn’t get rescued; she must get herself out of this mess.

Why do readers always ask, “Where do you get your ideas?” when zillions of them are floating around in your brain? The dilemma is which to choose. (That thing in your brain is called imagination. If you don’t have tons and tons of that, you’d better get out of the kitchen.)

“Kitchen” reminds me of why I wrote this. The sense of smell is not used enough to help detect crime in our fiction. I don’t mean smells of horror—which dominate plots well enough—but ordinary odors that could inadvertently lead to the bad stuff.

Why not fry yourself some chunks of bread in butter now and see if anyone comes smelling around. You may meet someone exciting. ♥

Catch-up

You read about the 45 hits this blog received before 9:00 this morning and about my prediction that number might be doubled in the afternoon. It was. Before 4:30 there were 91 hits for the day, with more time left of the day. What I want to point out is that the most popular blog today has been the one called “The 39 Steps and North by Northwest,” primarily for writers. That pleases me greatly. Some members of my writing group are creating a complete novel in the 30 days of November. I have no idea how many in the state’s several writing groups are doing that nor how many are reading my blog. I hope my writing has helped someone in their efforts.

If you haven’t seen the 2008 version of “The 39 Steps,” you’ve missed some great acting. Hitchcock made his film of that name in 1935, but this 2008 version is so much better. But then he made “North by Northwest,” as his repeat. It’s also a great one, but not quite so great as the 2008 one with Rupert Penry-Jones. ♥

A Busy Monday for My Computer

What a flood of hits on today’s blog, 45 before 9:00 a. m. That may double in the afternoon.

Monday is a busy day on my computer. What gives? Are you readers checking the blog on computers at your offices? I’ve long wondered how you can tell you want to read a certain blog without first opening it. In my abundant ignorance, I’m open to ideas on this.

But plans are to get a little more less-abundant in my ignorance. I will reread Yours Is the Earth, and this time, take notes on the computer (since my handwriting is unreadable even for me these days). Then I may publish these notes onblog. That won’t be this week; it will take me awhile, but I will try to rush it a bit. ♥

Progress!

The worst invention of the 20th century was the telephone. That is, after the 21st tinkered with it. If you ever call a doctor’s office these days, you may agree with me. Menu after menu, often with no dish listed fitting your appetite, or perhaps hunger. So much of the patient’s time is wasted, with badly worded info, non clear numbers, and even ads. At the other end, the office feels what a great service it is doing, and the money it saves. Them. And how costly it is for the patient in time spent. So, I’m going to change all that.

When I run for president, I will promise the people that all such menus must start with the option that says, “If you need to talk with a human being, press 1.” And such calls must be taken right then, not in a call back at 5:00, when it may be too late with your situation.

I hear you cheering! I’ll expect your vote. ♥
.

The Latest Book I’m Reading

While I can hardly put down John Grisham’s Litigators (Darcy’s Story moves much more slowly), the new one is This Is Herman Cain! A book of only 222 pages with several family photos, it holds one’s interest, for this is a man most of us hadn’t even heard of before he got into the presidential race. And even now, the television does not tell all we might want to know about him. I’ve barely begun reading the book, but can tell you what his earliest memory is. On page 13 he says:

“My very first memories were of when my brother and I were little boys—Thurman must have been about four; I was five—and we were living in an apartment at the end of a building in what we called ‘the Projects,’ government supported housing downtown, on Gray Street . . .

“I can remember attending Gray Street Elementary School, up the street from the Projects. One day the teacher told us, ‘You are not getting the same education as white students.’ When she said that, I didn’t get mad. I just decided: Okay, I know that, but I’m still going to work as hard as I can to succeed . . .”

Like others’ first memories, this aim to succeed seems to have carried through the rest of his life. He has succeeded! Not only has he succeeded, but in several areas of activity, including business and the arts. And everyone seems to like him. He has a great sense of humor. In his recent debate with only Newt Gingrich, he began his last question to Gingrich, with “If you were elected Vice President, . . ." That brought down the house.

At this point, I still believe Herman Cain is a good man. I believe those blondes that are after him are/were paid to do that. From what source? Well, who would most desire his dropping out of the campaign? I believe that, in a situation like this, it would take concentric circles to get the job done, with impunity. And who is the current best worker of concentric circles? You decide. ♥

Yesterday’s C-SPAN’s 1st Sunday Treat

Ben Mezrich was the featured guest on C-SPAN’s in-depth interview with an author yesterday. He probably could have talked another three hours about his work, as he is indeed full of it. Mezrich calls himself a cinematic writer, rather than a literary one. He doesn’t start a book unless he can envision it as a movie, not with specific actors in mind.

This program covers only nonfiction writing and while Mezrich’s books [that have sold] sound like fiction, he says every bit of them is true. This proved to be a controversial point from a caller or two, but what he writes is generally called Creative Nonfiction. The creative aspect makes the writing sound like fiction and, of course, could be exactly as it really was, and delights many readers.

Mezrich enjoys casino gambling and it seems each book may have some of that in it. Bringing down the House was the first one that sold big. His research proves to be prodigious on such topics. You can find the first page of this one on the Net, where you can get a taste of how he sends the reader to page 2 quickly. I won’t list all his books and movies here, but I want to point out three other worthwhile notes for writers.

His father insisted that the children in the family read two books a week, beginning when they were little. It didn’t take Ben long to graduate to reading many more books than the required number, a great many more. From the age of twelve he knew he wanted to be a writer. His parents were not too happy with this, but supported him his first year of trying to write.

He writes quickly, after about three months of research, and after revising a bit as he goes along, he does not edit his work. Once he wrote one paragraph of a story and sent it somewhere and received an offer of $400,000 for the story. Almost unbelievable, right? I think all that reading in childhood paid off.

Let me tell you about his sports life. He said he had never hit or caught any ball thrown to him! He is hardly ever outside, is a nut about writing. He is married and has a son, 19 months old.

I’d like to tell you more about this interview, but this is too much now. Perhaps you can locate it on Book-TV and watch the entire three hours of it. ♥

The Herman Cain-Newt Gingrich Debate

Unlike two other current presidential candidates who pick at each other, Cain and Gingrich got along extremely well together with this debate. As for substance, Gingrich had the edge on Cain. He had his answers and the discussion of them without hesitation more readily than Cain did his answers and comments. Gingrich is a scholar, a historian, and a brilliant man. He knows how to be president and would have the best brains available to form his Cabinet and Staff.

Cain is a good man, I believe, and has some excellent ideas for leading the nation. However, I felt he took ideas from Gingrich along the way, ideas that Gingrich has long lived with and advocated. That only proves Cain is a fast learner. And Cain gets an A+ for humor. Gingrich gets only an A. ♥

Catch-up

What a busy, hectic week I’ve just had. Workers were here at the house Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and I was out all day—till about 7:00 p. m.—on Thursday. But I did manage to read a little before I retired at night. 10th Anniversary is finished, as well as The Terrorist Next Door and A Point in Time. Other reading continues. I have added two other books to the stack, both in progress. One is john Grisham’s The Litigators and the other is Janet Klymer’s Darcy’s Story. There’s more to say about them later.

For family news, let me tell you son Gooch and his wife Shirley were in a car wreck a few days ago in Australia (not their fault). She was bruised enough to be in the hospital and he broke his left wrist. I saw a picture of them there. She was in a bed and he was sitting beside the bed, showing off his bandaged wrist and hand, both smiling big.

My second son, Mike, called me this morning just as I was about to eat my breakfast egg, around 10:15. He knew about the wreck in Australia and he said, in essence, “One of these days we are going to get news that someone n the family wasn’t so fortunate.” How that breaks my heart just hearing it said. I hope they are all good drivers and I know they don’t drink or take illicit drugs. But the other driver on the road? That’s another story.

Grandson Rob hurt his ankle playing volley ball and yesterday he said the problem has gone into his shin. He’s the one who is six feet, seven inches tall, and who played basketball all the way through college. The first four years, that is. He is planning to go to Australia in the near future (and his wife and Rocco), where he will work and also study on his master’s degree.

So far as I can tell, the rest of the family is doing all right. I am still receiving the antibiotic in my left eye and Doc reported the hemorrhage has lessened and he says the vision is better. You could not prove that by me.

Phase 1 of my kitchen remodeling is now done. This week, the floor got its new vinyl, a historic pattern, black and white squares on the diagonal, covering a length of 28 feet without a seam. The chandelier over the dining area was moved over about three feet and the table is more centrally located than it had been. I read in a new magazine last evening, “The kitchen is where everyone lives, why not make it fabulous?” Well, “fab” doesn’t exactly fit mine, but I’m on my way.♥

A Point in Time

David Horowitz’s new book, A Point in Time, has only 128 pages, but it may be his most important work. In three chapters, dated October 2006, November 2008, and December 2010, he follows the book’s subtitle, The Search of Redemption in This Life and the Next; however, I will need to read certain sections again before I understand fully if he concludes with the answers sought. Sometimes, as I read a nonfictional volume such as this, I get sidetracked by the beauty of language and Horowitz is an expert at this artistry. But that is what a meditation should do—elucidate the discussion with the beauty of language.

Throughout, Horowitz ponders his own life span, as he falls prey to diabetes (Type 2), cancer, and problems of his heart, in addition to the shock of the sudden death of a daughter. He builds a swimming pool for his health, but then moves into another house. This new location has room for his wife’s horse, as well as his umpteen dogs who accompany him on his daily walks.

But the author discusses Marcus Aurelius, especially with regard to his own father, and moves on to the works of Dostoevsky and ends with the Requiem Mass of Mozart. This post is not to be as long as Horowitz’s book itself, but I want to mention that the discussion on Dostoevsky touched my memory veins. Not everyone has plowed through The Brother Karamazov, but I did, many ears ago. Not only that, but my students saw the film version of it. I remember watching it every hour it was shown for several days, year after year, and I’ve never tired of it. I watched it again about a month ago. Not exactly like the book, the basic philosophy is nearly the same. The most important idea I hoped my students realized to their cores was enacted in a courtroom scene. Ivan Karamazov, a journalist in Moscow, and self-admitted atheist, finally understands on the witness stand, that if there is a devil, there must be a God too. Horowitz does not quote such simple wisdom in his work, but the gist of what he does say is close.

Horowitz writes as if he is old and might die tomorrow. I am older than he. We share some coincidences in our lives, including physical ailments, but a more important one is that he writes beautifully and I appreciate reading what he writes. I have seen him many times on television and heard him talk about this book on C-SPAN before I bought it. (I have a habit of doing that.)

I think Horowitz believes his people, the Jews, face another colossal tragedy, even in America. The handwriting is on the wall. Horowitz is a friend of Erick Stakelbeck and, of course, would have read the latter’s The Terrorist Next Door. I anticipate that with his taking care of his health, Horowitz will live to write many more good books. ♥

From the Horse’s Mouth

I must quote a bit from the book The Terrorist Next Door for you. On pages 186-187, the author sits down to talk with “a former terrorist operative….Today, [that man] speaks out forcefully against jihadist ideology. He has written about what transpired in his life as he adopted the jihadi mindset and was conditioned by adherents of Islam’s Salafi sect to accept violence:

“I passed through three psychological stages to reach this level of comfort with death: hatred of non-Muslims or dissenting Muslims; suppression of my conscience; and acceptance of violence in the service of Allah….

“…Once I was able to suppress my conscience, I was open to accepting violence without guilt …One Salafi method of generating this crucial attitude is to encourage violence
against women, a first step in developing a brutal mentality.”

This doesn’t need comment from me. Read the book! ♥

About My Facebook

In case I can’t reach everyone through e-mail, let me tell you here, I’ve decided not to do Facebook. I do not have time for it. I can’t understand how a writer has that kind of time. It’s great for posting photos of your family’s doings, but I would not be adding pictures to mine, I have the camera, but am not adept with it. My fingers are too old, I suspect.

Too, I did not care for Facebook’s practice of sending out letters over my name. Some people were not addressed properly as I would have done. And I’ve heard a report from a highly reputable source that one’s info is not 100% private. I know you can hear otherwise, but just one reliable source that it’s not “safe,” is enough. I would not put anything in it that I would want to keep private, of course, as I suppose most of you agree.

However, my blog is checked by multiple sources. I expect that and I don’t mind. That’s their job (and then someone posts it elsewhere). For example, under Henry Kissinger’s name, you may see the reference to what I wrote about him. Fine with me. For all I know, one blog reader in Russia may be Putin himself, watching what this person who thinks for herself has to say about things, including politics. He hopes to be top-dog again in Russia with the next election, you know. Maybe he has my name on some list of “marked targets.” And maybe you’ll find this blog under his name too. It really is a small world these days. ♥

A Good One for the writers Among You

In Henry Kissinger’s Acknowledgments in his new book, he lists numerous editors and/or assistant editors, secretaries, librarians, et al, and finally gets around to his wife, who read some of the chapters. Then, in case, one wonders about their day-to-day living with this baby On China, he says, on page 23, “Solitude authors (or at least this author) generate around themselves when writing.” Many authors probably have not reached this level of opportunity because of children at home, or an unsympathetic spouse, and perhaps haven’t started their own magnum opus. But this is excellent advice for those who can manage it. Living alone is not enough. Someone has to do the chores, call in needed workers for repairs or whatever, pay the gardener, and answer the phone, for the business of living can interfere with the art of living, the work of a solitude author. But wouldn’t that be a great day to be free to be a solitude author and write your magnum opus?

By the way, Kissinger says he’s been to China more than fifty times. I remember reading, early on in their marriage his wife was learning to cook with Julia Child’s cookbook. They did/do entertain in their home, but it must be between books. Good luck, writers! ♥

My Current Reading

As you’ve read here before, my reading contains several books at the same time. Some books were postponed while I fretted about my eye problem. But reading with a strong magnifying glass with a light on it is not too bad. Unlike reading on the Nook, it is much easier to check back to a certain section and make notes. I want to talk about a book I am not reading, but got a free look at. It was too, too disappointing to read title page, publication info, Table of Contents, Dedication, Acknowledgments, the author’s Preface or Introduction—you see, I can’t easily look back to see which it was, but the exact title for this section does not matter—and then, at last, only one or two pages of the book itself. So far, I do not wish to purchase it on my Nook. Not enough there to tempt me. This tease of a book is Kissinger’s On China. I saw his interview about it on C-SPAN and it sounded interesting. Perhaps it is. If I have a good chance to do so, I may look over the real book at Barnes and Noble and then decide if I want to purchase it.

In the meantime, I am near the end of The Terrorist Next Door by Erick Stakelbeck, a short book, only 226 pages of text. The Lantern-Bearers, essays by Robert Louis Stevenson, is underway. Ann Coulter’s Demonic is also underway. The volume that is really moving along fast is 10th Anniversary by James Patterson, not his latest offering, but one I’ve had for a good while. It is rather large print and the chapters are extremely short. I like both of those characteristics in a mystery story. And, not to come up short for reading material, I’ve added to the stack, The Roald Dahl Omnibus, Perfect Bedtime Stories for Sleepless Nights. The latter contains 682 pages. I’ll be awake for a while for that one.

Now. I need to finish Terrorist and 10th Anniversary this weekend. See you later. ♥

Addendum

I saw the candidates a second time tonight and they were all there and spoke and answered certain questions. Each one gave such a good speech: Cain, Bachman, Perry, Paul, Gingrich, and Santorum. I wanted to vote for each one of them. Santorum was last and I kept watching for I wanted to get the exact title of Karen Santorum’s book. It’s Letters to Gabriel. Now it’s after 1:00, time to read a bit. Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll tell you what books I’m currently reading. ♥

Presidential Candidates in Iowa Tonight

I tuned in late to C-SPAN tonight and missed the first speech, which was from Newt Gingrich. I’m sure it was excellent. He’s brilliant. Ron Paul was next and he did a great job too. Third was Rick Santorum, former U. S. Senator from Pennsylvania. What a speech he gave! He made me cry, telling about the baby he and his wife lost. If everyone could hear him tell that story, America would surely have fewer abortions.

After the loss, Karen Santorum, the Senator’s wife, wrote letters to the baby. Eventually, they became a small book. I think the title is Letters to Our Baby. Only 2,500 copies were published, and so, it would be difficult to find a copy. It made me think of you, Marsha and Jake, with your loss—our family’s loss—of little Johnny.

A good-sized crowd attended this forum, many more men than women, not always the case. These people seemed to be the salt of the earth, and they hung around a long tine to talk with the candidates. I repeat what I said in an earlier blog: Rick Santorum seems to have the ideal family for living in the White House. ♥

More about France, Particularly Paris

The first book I read on my new Nook was The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, by David McCullough, whom I saw on C-SPAN in the interview about the book. McCullough is an excellent writer who does a great deal of research for a book. He said he could have written several more books with this research. In April of 2008 I particularly enjoyed his John Adams, quite a sizable tome. The Greater Journey wasn’t quite so challenging. In fact, it was easy to read.

These Americans in Paris were, first of all, in the early 1800’s, medical students. Before anesthesia was used, French doctors excelled at cutting, off or out, parts of the body without evidence of concern for the patient. They went from patient to patient without even washing their hands! When the doctors checked patients in large wards of many beds in close proximity, as many as 100 students crowded around to observe. One student once climbed on the doctor’s back to get a look. The doctor shook him off.

One advantage for the American medical students in Paris was that they could study the ailments of women, whereas an American woman wouldn’t let a male doctor see her body. One woman declared she’d rather die than be examined by a male doctor. And she did die.

My great, great uncle, John Berrien Lindsley, was one of these medical students studying in Paris. But I can’t believe he did so without sympathetic concern for patients. He came from a religious home that was humanitarian in its outlook. In the latter years of the1800’s, Berrien was credited for ridding the South of cholera and founding the first Public Health program in the country.

Overlapping the time medicine drew foreigners to Paris, the Louvre did too. Artists came from various countries to copy paintings in the Louvre, in an effort to learn more about their chosen field of work. They numbered too many to mention them all here, but I will talk about one American who had never, at that time, lived in America, John Singer Sargent. When he was just a young man, other artists who watched him paint declared him a genius early on. This might have been why he was: McCullough narrates that Sargent’s earliest memory was his seeing a cobblestone of a bright red hue that fascinated him when his nurse took him out for his daily airing as a mere baby. This baby was not quite so mere as most, it seems, for he remembered the red cobblestone and thought about it all the time, apparently. Each day he begged the nurse to show it to him again. This must have been in Italy, for the cobblestone was at an address with a “Via” in it. As some of you might have guessed by now, of course, I added this story to my essay about earliest memories in this blog. I love the red cobblestone story.

Much more happened in this book than things medical and artistic. I believe there must not be any bloody war scenes anywhere as in this volume. I heartily recommend it to all those interested in medicine or art or war. ♥

News from a Great Grandson

Below is part of a letter from a great grandson of mine, named Philip. It truly delights me to hear he’s taken up story-writing. He is also a student of World War II, a thought that engages my interest favorably too. Read what he says.

“Hello, Grandma, this is Phil. I really enjoyed the World War II story you sent me. I was just looking for a good World War II story when you sent it.

“I am currently writing a story about slavery set from the 1600’s to the 1800’s. History is my favorite subject. I enjoy writing as well.”

Roald Dahl wrote an excellent WWII story that I will send Phil. It’s called “Beware of the Dog.” Or perhaps he can find it at the public library near his house. I once read something like the fact that Dahl wrote numerous short stories which he sent to American magazines [he was British] and they readily bought them. Many readers probably think he wrote only about chocolate for children. Not so. “Beware of the Dog" is one of the best stories I’ve ever read and some of my English classes read it too. It was also produced on film, but no dog was in it. I recall this version used the Angelus instead of the dog—I think because American readers don’t often know French. I have a thick book of Dahl’s stories, which I’ve not got around to reading yet. But I will, for it is big print. In another blog I’ll write about the latest book I read on my Nook. ♥

Here It Is

Let me alert you to the following. This story has gone through contests in two separate statewide competitions, several years apart. One gave me no award whatever and the other gave me First Prize. I hope you enjoy it.♥


TO SAVE A BRIDGE


It began at midnight yesterday. The long-awaited invasion of Europe by the Allies was underway. Weather conditions on the coast proved unfavorable for troop convoys to land without the scheduled full moon. But General Eisenhower took his staff meteorologist’s recommendation and proceeded with the invasion. To our amazement, the Nazi soldiers in the Loire Valley left our streets and rushed to Normandy. News spread like wildfire and eased our war-weariness to an extent: we heard it was the beginning of the end. I wrote it all down, as papa taught me to do—and to write and read, indeed to think—like an adult, before he left for war, against a time like this.

Hitler ordered the destruction of all the wine-producing châteaux in France. Château Vougeot is not so large and well known as Mouton-Rothschild, and not one of those tourists drive out from Paris to see, but we have our good years. Hitler isn’t punishing us for putting best labels on poorest wine we were forced to send to German troops fighting in Russia. He can’t know that. No, this latest order is predicated on his diabolical bent to destroy all things French except what he stole. This means especially the wine industry, as precious to us French as the art treasures in the Louvre. I learned of his objective in time to try to save our château.

Yesterday, before hearing of the invasion, I attended my first Résistance meeting, which included just the leader and me. Though he said I was so young—my being a girl didn't matter—I learned how to plant a land mine encased in wood. Then shortly after noon when we saw châteaux in the distance go up in flames, it was time to plant those mines.

The fires formed something of a lopsided circle, and were closing in, sneaking along in the underbrush as well as reaching for the heavens. Our château, larger than the others in this area, might be last, as a sort of climax perhaps. It is the first château on the main road, just one mile from the bridge, and after us, the enemy could make a laughing exit.

With so many trees about, no one saw me move bricks and bury two land mines close together just a few yards inside our front gate, on the route the Nazi soldiers always used when they rang our doorbell. It was far enough inside the courtyard that any friend who might arrive would still bear to the right, heading for the east entry, and be safe as usual. But we expected no friends to call. They had houses to protect. Afterwards in the kitchen I deliberately cut my left hand. I see that as foolish now, but at the time I thought, how could anyone suspect me of planting mines if I had an injured hand? Mama bandaged it but she didn't know about the mines or about the deliberate cutting. We females have to cope, for our men folk are away fighting the war or doing slave labor and starving to death in prison camps. When my brother Henri turned sixteen, away at school in England, French Intelligence grabbed him up for training. Mama keeps our wine business going with the help of my six-year-old brother Jacques and me, and occasionally neighbors. But without copper sulfate it's impossible to keep fungus out of the vineyards. Much effort has gone into planting a garden—mostly parsnips and turnips—to feed us and as many others as we can. How we could use Henri now, but we haven't heard from him in over three months.

Now Jacques and I hide among the vines, where Mama sends us, with bread, cheese, and inferior grapes wrapped in a damp cloth, and in my good hand my father’s leather portfolio of valuable papers. We find two other children here and their mothers, women who have worked for us when we could afford to pay them and who have no vineyards of their own. Some still work for us without pay other than a noon meal, such as it is. We daily go about our work, hoping to avoid being picked off by Nazi soldiers at target practice.

Jacques and I are short enough not to have to crouch among the vines as the adults do. We know to keep still and quiet when the situation demands it, but my hand hurts and I find being still difficult with both a bandaged hand and the portfolio to protect. I forget my discomfort, however, when we see smoke billowing from the village church, a building used these days only for peasant weddings, though it is not big enough to hold the crowd. This is a heart-breaking blow, for our family has taken care of it since the early 1700’s.

Jacques and I relocate ourselves some distance from the château, closer to the edge of our property, almost directly across the road from the church. A short distance from the church is an open car, signifying the Nazis’ presence. We witness the top of the bell tower fall, leaving the bell held up by the four corner posts of the tower, it reverberating with a plangent chime once as burning wood crashes against it. The bell eventually gets so hot it turns red as we watch, so strange, like a bell on a Christmas card. Then we espy four soldiers, and hear them laugh with bravado, as all of them relieve themselves into the fire. I imagine they joke about trying to put out the blaze.

The one who struts around as if in charge of the others keeps repeating the word schnell, which means quick or hurry, I know, but I do not know what die Brücke means. French children do not study German in school, but Papa says that is a mistake, that we need to know the language of the enemy. I agree with Papa.

Finally the Nazi soldiers leave, driving away from us. They must be saving our house till last, for it is so near and yet they drive elsewhere. We watch the fire for a long time, until the old structure with its ten pews is no more. Only one part is left standing, seemingly not burned at all. Strange, when the rest of the building burned so quickly.

Before we are back with the others hiding in the vines, I see by a trace of moonlight those same four soldiers return in their open car and stop at our front gate. They never have driven right up to the door; even when it rained. I think they like to hear their hobnailed boots pound our brick, in step with each other, as if they paraded before their Führer himself or were bent on his command, as was apparently the case now. They do not notice the disturbed bricks as they march toward the château forty feet away.

A few minutes before, I was a child. Now I grow up. I think of Papa and Henri. If I were a German officer, would it cross my mind that a French prisoner was someone's father and therefore spare his life? That's exactly what I think about these four Nazis. They are each probably someone's father, certainly someone's son. Guilt overwhelms and tortures me for my brutal action to be undone.

But it is too late, even if I knew what to do. The mines explode, leaving voices and hobnailed boots silent on an eerie parade ground. I cry out in agony on my knees, pressing my bloody bandaged hand into the soil to punish myself. I have killed a human being, not just one, but four. Jacques does not see what happened but as he puts his arms around my neck, I feel his little body twist around to look for the source of the big noise. I try to concentrate on the irritation of the knapsack of bread and cheese bobbing against my back. I cling to him, trying to hold back my tears, as we move forward into the vines, looking for Mama.

No one has seen her all evening.

I think of the difference between soldiers killing soldiers at war and a child killing soldiers as I’d done. War is not a child's duty, but that is what the Résistance is about. I console myself with the thought I might have saved Mama's life as well as the château. (As I write this now, I know eight French citizens, all friends of ours, burned to death in their homes last night.)

I stumble and drop the portfolio. My hands shake as I grasp at posts and miss, almost falling, and even at vines to try to stop the shaking. The silence among the women and children is unreal.

Hours pass as we wait for something to happen other than the new putrid smell among the smoke. Nothing does, except in the semi-darkness I realize my bandage has a dark spot. Blood. Soiled blood. As my eyes linger on it, it seems to grow. Blood covers my hand. It transfixes me and I soon fall asleep.

As dawn breaks, the women move about in a surreal tableau like eager spirits gathering up the dead before daylight catches them at it. They sweep up bits of uniforms and ignite the pile, its odd-smelling smoke becoming part of the already polluted air. Two women salvage four Luger pistols from the shrubs, apparently thrown from the blast unscathed. Strange, I think, but I know nothing about firearms. Other women get the car down the road and into a ravine. A boy, hardly older than Jacques, siphons out almost a full tank of petrol.

With difficulty I remove traces of my part of the tragedy, though no one seems to connect me with the event. Perhaps the bandaged hand has done its job. Some women replace the broken bricks with whole ones from over the courtyard and pour cherished Cabernet Franc Red over the wide-spattered -blood on the bricks and swab them down, anticipating a uniform redness. I keep wondering where Mama is.

At last everyone leaves our property to see about their own houses, most of them small cottages. Survivors from the burned châteaux will be back tonight to sleep at ours. I must help get everything ready for that. Jacques and I go into the house.

Mama does not appear. I search all the rooms in the part of the château still in use. On the floor near the front entry, leaning against the baseboard, rests a homemade gun. Afraid to touch it, I nevertheless pick it up and stow it in a closet, out of sight, wondering what Mama had in mind for it. The Résistance leader told me people had such guns but never said who had them.

With sinking heart, I replace the portfolio of valuable papers in Papa's cabinet in his study, and secure its key in its hiding place. I give Jacques the last of the cheese and grapes and tuck him into bed. How much of his composure is fear and dread, and how much is bravery, I can’t determine. Covering him with his favorite red blanket, I see my hands of the same color moving about. All is blood, my heart cries. I stand outside his door until I hear the sound of a child sleeping. Then, unable to hold back my tears, I make my way along the road toward the church that is no longer there. Perhaps it will still offer refuge.

This night, which seems not over though it is a new day, I witness the making of history important to my family, the destruction of this church. An ancestor of my great, great grandfather, the first Vougeot in the Loire Valley, built the church of storybook design in the seventeenth century. As I near the rubble with some charred slabs of wood still burning, Mama rises from the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard and comes toward me.

"Cherie, oh my cherie, I got four of them with just one shot!"

She is shaking in a frightful way, her teeth clattering, even with the heat of the fire still around her on a warm night. It shocks me to see her wearing her best dress, a crimson silk she bought in Paris. Yes, she would want to look her best if she were shot dead or captured by the enemy. How long has she been here?

"I thought of Charles and my Henri and I just shot them, four of them with one shot!"

I don’t like her laughter or her huge glassy eyes. I wonder at her need to come to the church after killing the enemy so happily. She is proud of what she has done; perhaps her prayers are those of thanksgiving.

"Man maman, let's go home."

"Where is Jacques?"

"He's asleep, man maman. He was so tired. He didn't see anything except the fires. Come home now and I'll fix you breakfast. We'll share that last egg.”

"What the war has done to you, my Rose-Hélène! Here you are, not yet fourteen, leading your old mother as if she were blind or crazy."

She stops walking. "Four of them!" Ordinarily she would never call herself old.

"Hush, man maman. Come along. You need food and rest.”

"Suddenly she throws back her head and yells, as if to the world, "Four with one shot! I saw them coming! Coming to destroy us."

She bursts into tears. I hug her, twice bigger than I.

How much of the truth should Mama hear? Would knowing everything cure what seems to be a new problem? From now on, would I be taking care of her? I hug her a little tighter. Surely Papa would be home soon but in what condition? Maybe I'd be caring for both of them.

At least I save our house and thousands of bottles of our best wine, sealed up behind a brick wall, hidden from the Nazis. Some people will probably claim me a hero, if they ever discover the truth, but I decline and don't admit anything. I’m just another French patriot out of millions. I won't let myself become a hero, or a pacifist either. We have seen too much of that at Vichy. Our once-loved Marshal Petain is even now accused of treason. Yesterday I would have been afraid to write this down, but today it seems safe, for the war must be almost over. The Germans have more important missions than to return to this part of the Loire Valley to finish off one château.

As we begin the trek back to the house, I see the church bell now lying among the ashes. I must get Monsieur LeMaine to retrieve it, for its replacement in the new church when the time comes. We pass the confessional, not burned at all. We stop. Light plays up in old-style French an inscription on the rough-hewn relic: This confessional is for anyone at anytime but especially for a Vougeot with a great sin. A chill envelops me. I reach out my bandaged hand to the confessional to promise my return to it, priest or no priest. Even a few of them have turned into collaborators.

Back at the house, Mama cleans and redresses my wounded hand with not a shadow of mental aberration showing on her beautiful face. We share the fried egg and days-old brioche. I will be more satisfied with her condition when she changes into her everyday work attire.

Later this morning, while mama sleeps, with her crimson dress hanging in its proper place in her armoire, the women feed eighteen local refugees in our kitchen. I slip out of the house and walk to the church ruins again, to talk directly with God this time.

I kneel before the inscription with the crackling and popping of dying fire sounding all around me. I confess my sin of taking human life and know forgiveness as I have never known it in my short life. When I rise to my feet, a ray of sunlight shines through the valley's smoke, settling on the strip of wood where the inscription was a few minutes before. It is no longer there. It lasted just long enough for me, I reason.

After a few hours of fitful sleep, I return once more to the burn only to find the confessional itself is now ashes. But something wonderful will replace it in our lives. When we rebuild the church, I will insist on the same inscription on the confessional, especially for a Vougeot with a great sin.

I stand in the middle of the road for a time, looking toward the bridge, as if to see Papa and Henri coming home. But of course, the smoke over the valley is too thick to see anything in the distance. But the bridge must still be there. Perhaps I—
Yes—it strikes me—that must be what die Brücke means, the bridge! They meant to destroy the bridge, once they had crossed to the other side. Awe-stricken by a deed I was not aware of doing at the time, I wonder about forgiveness while saving a bridge. I need to talk with Papa.

Mixed joy and sorrow envelop me as I return to the house, to finish writing the story of this day. I am not sure I like being an adult. But one thing is certain: I will never be the same person as before.

On the front step I look around. Toward the east the air has cleared a bit and through an intervale I would ordinarily miss noticing, I witness blue sky just waiting to spread over this valley. It will be difficult to realize the war still goes on.

A Note till Tomorrow

Some of you have probably been looking forward to my promised story or stories. I have not forgotten. I have had to be away from the computer too much lately. I hope sincerely to have some freedom in that respect tomorrow. But here is my first-prize winning poem.


THE SCENT OF SUMMER©

Between the meadow
and the ditch
I dig asparagus, as wind
wafts over planted fields,
encircling cathedral spires
(that some call pines).
I scent twice-turned earth
as sweet as new-cut hay
so fresh, so brief,
one could miss knowing
the thrill, the joy,
of all this. ♥

What a Lovely Day It Is, but Isn’t Every Day that Way?

No news overnight, of course. However, I’m not sitting here, just taking chair space. I am busy writing something all the time. Currently I’m checking over past writings for possibly sending them out to some national contests, actually international contests, for some subscribers for the magazine reside in other countries. The items in mind I have never sent anywhere till now. It will take months to know the result of such contests, but one must be patient. Let me add here, three requirements are necessary to succeed at this sort of contest. One is patience after you send out your manuscript. Don’t watch the kettle come to a boil. Another is awareness that there is always someone who writes better than you. And the third one is the necessity to stay busy. Begin a new story, or finish the one already started. Patience, awareness, and necessity, in this order, begin with PAN. Get accustomed to the word PAN. Make it your mantra. Don’t reverse it and take a nap. Stay busy with writing.

While I’m busy at this project, I write little on the current novel or my nonfiction book, write just enough to keep in touch. But the stories for any contest will go out and it will be back to the other. Of course, we’ll also soon know the topics for next year’s League contests, and they will take priority.

(What I can’t understand are those would-be writers to say they don’t know what to write about. While they don’t have ideas, I don’t have time.)

As you start a new writing project, remember what David McCullough said was the third aspect of writing: thinking. I’m sure he didn’t intend it comes third in the doing, I’d say second. This is the order I pose them for myself: research, thinking, and actual writing. Of course, one thinks all the time he’s researching and making notes, and while writing. But during the thinking process, an author is concerned with such things as how to start the magnum opus or what to tell when. I like my idea of writing something first and then deciding where it goes. But you must decide which method is best for you. ♥

Another Late Bulletin

Late last night I had an e-mail that said my contest submissions would be here either Friday or Saturday. The lady had put them in a big envelope and then had forgotten them. She also wrote that I had won a second and a third place, and she thought a first place. But I don’t know which ones placed where yet. ♥

Late Bulletin

Well, Jake, the packet with my submissions has not yet arrived in the mail. No explanations, but I suppose the lady must be busy with more important stuff. Maybe she hates to show me I did not win anything. However, I keep busy, working on next year’s stories.

But I haven’t given up all hope, of course. Tomorrow I should be out all day and if it comes then, I will not know about it until about 6:00, for I have an appointment at 4:00 with my eye doctor, and then grocery shopping last. But, Jake, thanks for being interested in this project. I’ll let you know a.s.a.p. ♥

The Latest

Word has come that my contest submissions will arrive in the mail, tomorrow presumably. But the e-mail had an interesting additional point. The secretary/editor of the chapter says she will be coming to visit me in a dew weeks and will bring another member with her, one I have not yet met. (Gosh, that means I will have to clean the house! And have some goodies ready. I knew there would be a nice side to this. Feed your guests and perhaps they will forget you do not make sense.)

But I want to tell those of you who missed it yesterday, David McCullough spoke at the Charlotte, N. C., book fair, about his new book, The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris. As always, McCullough was a delight to listen to. His whole speech delighted many, of course, but some of it was especially good for writers to hear, if not all of it. When someone in the Q&A period asked him if he spent more time in research or in actual writing, he answered we must not forget a third step in the process—thinking. How timely! I had recently discovered the benefit of being dressed for bed and sitting a while in almost darkness, in say, the living room, a room you do not sleep in, or a garden room, or even just outside if no one disturbs you, and letting all the thinking of the day flush out of your mind BEFORE you try to sleep. Settle there, without slouching, and hash out the next thing for the latest plot, if you must, and then clear your mind of it completely. I sit with my back to a dimly lit lamp and study the geometric designs it makes on the ceiling and walls, the identical design every night. That helps me to rid myself of plot intrigues, and all the day’s activities, and sleep comes more easily.

I certainly plan to buy McCullough’s new book for my Nook. ♥

Herman Cain

Herman Cain has today won the Republican Straw Vote in Florida. I am delighted. He is a brilliant man and as far as I can tell, has always had an excellent, even a perfect, answer to his questioners. With his background in business, he would be like a fresh breeze in the White House. He would also get the black vote, as well as many white votes. He has a good chance to win the nomination. ♥