John Lennon

was killed thirty years ago today.

So wildly famous, and the recipient of such adulation, that he in his own mind, with his compadres, was bigger than Jesus Christ. More influential, he later clarified.

John: "Well, originally I pointed out that fact in reference to England. That we meant more to kids than Jesus did, or religion at that time. I wasn't knocking it or putting it down. I was just saying it as a fact and it's true more for England than here. I'm not saying that we're better or greater, or comparing us with Jesus Christ as a person or God as a thing or whatever it is. I just said what I said and it was wrong. Or it was taken wrong. And now it's all this."

In the event, the devil won when the assassin's bullets found their mark. There can be no rationalization by which murder is justified.


John Lennon 9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980 RIP

Never Forget

Pretty in Pink and White

Our first significant snowfall, that is, a snow requiring shoveling from the walks, fell a couple days ago. As I was removing the wet white stuff from the walk, I espied these miniature roses bravely soldiering on through the wintry blast.









Inside, our Christmas cactus resides in the kitchen window alcove. This plant has been a resident for thirty-nine years, maybe forty, the mists of memory being what they are. It suffered a severe trauma three years ago, and we feared it would meet its demise. However, severe trimming and tender loving care revived it, and now she is offering her blooms again, and right at Christmas time!











How blessed we are. Flowers inside and out!

Magnificat

And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord,
And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him from generation to generation.
He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.
He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He hath helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy;
As he spake to our fathers, to Abraham, and to his seed for ever.
--from Luke's Gospel, Chapter 1

Statue at Church of the Visitation.

Ron Santo

Don Babwin's piece on Ron Santo.

Ronald Santo February 4, 1940 - December 2, 2010 RIP

Gwendolyn Brooks

Gwendolyn Brooks, American poet, was born June 7, 1917 and died December 3, 2000. Though a prolific poet who published volumes of work, this brief eight-line verse is the poem most often found in anthologies and textbooks. THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. Go here to hear Ms. Brooks explain how she came to write this poem, which you may also hear her read.

Who Are We?

There is plenty of blame to go around. Blame? It's not my fault. Contemporaneously to the living beyond our means has grown a society in which nothing is my fault. Result: "irresponsible entitlement".

Why are we surprised? We are into the third generation who have been trained to believe that we can live beyond our means; that we can spend ourselves rich; that we are entitled to so much more than any other people have ever had; that if we want it, then we need it; that the economy will endlessly generate more riches if only we will continue to spend; that there is no tomorrow, or if there is it will be brighter than today.

Now, we find that, unlike what we've been taught, living on someone else's money is not a sustainable economic program, either in the home or for the government. So, let's put on the brakes, stop, and fix the problem. Really? Those who have suggested sound principles by which to accomplish this are already hearing the outcry of the Entitled. I am Entitled to more services and lower taxes. I am Entitled to a guarantee of endless fiscal well-being. I am Entitled. You, on the other hand, should bite the bullet and stop behaving in such a piggish manner.

Most Americans, and I include those who are "below the poverty line," live better than most kings and princes throughout history were able to live in their wildest dreams, notwithstanding their coffers of gold and emeralds, and land and subjects to serve them. (Official poverty level for a family of four is in excess of $22,000, and thus those who fall below this mark are Entitled to my assistance. I do recognize that there are those among us to whom we must provide assistance, and do so with kindness and compassion.)

And I am one of the Entitled. After all, I paid into and accepted the conditions of the "Social Security" scheme along with everyone else. And I accept my monthly stipend, to which I consider myself Entitled. Should the "government" in its efforts to pull us out of our current mess, consider a reduction in my stipend? Certainly. And they should cut salaries and programs.

Is there hope? Certainly. Is there danger of failure? I like to hope not. I can dream, can't I?

And Now It's December

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

Bone-tired last evening, sitting in the recliner, keyboard on my lap. Aim: a post for Wednesday morning. Head snapped up, maybe when Jethro shot someone, and the above (not including picture) was sssssssssssssscrawled down the screen. A good way. I eliminated some and left this as a demo.

I staggered up the stairs, brushed my teeth and fell into bed. Didn't even take time to shave, which is as standard as brushing my teeth before bed. Almost. Oh, yes. Bob Cratchett shaves before he goes to work in the morning. Lothario shaves before he goes to bed.

So, when I arose this morning, it was snowing and there was already a skiff of the white stuff on the ground and places. "Skiff" may be a word Mom made up, but that's what she would have said. Never hear the weather girl say it, though. (Vague recollection of my Thoreau suggests that a skiff may be a small boat. Oh, well.) Don't ever want more than a skiff of snow, but I hear that farther north there may have fallen a boat-load, and no small boat, either.

May your day be pleasant, whether or not you have snow to shovel!