Tag Archives: a personal note

Plumbing the Depths

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I am by no means a handyman. Don’t even think about calling me to fix something. But our bathroom sink was clogged, and over the years, I’ve learned how to do this particular job. I did it, and that’s why I’m running late this morning.

It makes me happy to be able to accomplish something. I mean, this is Day 5 of trying in vain to sort out my inexplicable loss of referrals from Facebook–but now at least my drainpipe works!

There’s something I very much want to write about today, but due to massive Global Warming forecast for tomorrow, in the form of snow and sleet and freezing rain, we will try to do our weekend’s grocery shopping today instead of tomorrow.

Meanwhile–hey, join in the fun, and try to get here from your own Facebook page! You can even take that Hank Williams song and share it with your Facebook friends. I’d like to see what happens as a result.

Why Do Liberal Soreheads Visit This Blog?

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A reader took sharp exception to my March 16 post, “Are We Too Old to Appreciate Cool Fashions?” and has since taken even sharper exception to everything else she has found on this blog. I wonder if someone has taken away her Play-Doh.

Her thinking, such as it is, leads her to conclude that I, personally, physically attack people whom I perceive as being divergent from my own point of view: “And I’m sure you would have beaten up anybody who was different from you.” Actually it’s the leftids and the college “students” who are doing that, these days.

My thoughts, she says, are “dusty.” My writing is just a lot of “elderly and cliched comments.” She doesn’t much care for you, my readers, either, characterizing you as “poor old people who have no real concept of modern life.” Ooh! That was the most unkindest cut of all! Nor does she like the “stupid cat videos” I post here.

I’m not even a good fantasy writer, but only a “crotchety elderly man who knows nothing of literary fantasy more modern than C.S. Lewis.” And as for you, dear readers, “You are all old fogeys.”

Feel the love.

She does remark that she isn’t trolling. Gee, you could’ve fooled me.

I hardly feel it’s necessary to answer any of this sad, angry, Calibanesque twaddle. But I can’t help wondering why such an  unhappy individual would spend any time here at all, among people and content she detests. And do I really need to point out that the chronological age of any decently-executed fantasy is totally irrelevant?

Betcha anything she voted for Hillary.

So first we’re all deplorables, and now we’re all old fogeys. Wear those badges proudly, folks. If the people who gave you those labels were to esteem you, you could be pretty sure you have been doing something very wrong.

Trivializing Women

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When I was a boy, our popular culture often depicted women as trivial creatures who couldn’t do much of anything and whose primary interests in life were clothing, hair, and gossip. Just search “women in 1950s commercials” and you’ll see what I mean.

If the media had to take notice of a woman who had actually done something, pains were always taken to argue that she was “still a lady, still daintily feminine,” still bedazzled by a new dress, even while she ran a business, made a scientific discovery, or wisely managed her household.

The overall impression I got, as a 10-year-old boy, was that women were, well, boring. But then I knew my mother and my grandmothers and my aunts were not at all boring, not trivial, not silly or anything like that. It made for some confusion.

I think we can all be happy that this isn’t done anymore. Except by the fashion industry, Hollywood, fantasy novelists, and feminists. And men, for that matter, are now trivialized, too. Except for when we’re demonized. Our popular culture has a lot not to recommend it.

Women are not trivialized in the Bible. And if we cannot see that the Biblical images of women are infinitely truer to life, as we ourselves live it, than anything slopped out to us by the advertising and entertainment industries, and by liberal politics, then our vision doesn’t amount to much. Think of Phebe, servant of the church at Cenchrea, and a deacon, who picked up Paul’s epistle in Corinth and delivered it to Rome. Think of literally hundreds of other examples.

And I would not be writing this, or anything else, but for my wife’s wisdom and diligence in managing our household–not to mention also having to manage Aunt Joan’s finances and paperwork, too. The work she does is staggering to behold.

Moral: The way they show it to us isn’t like it is.

If it were, the human race wouldn’t last another week.

(P.S.–I know “Phoebe” is normally spelled with an “o”, but I’m going with the spelling I find in my own King James Bible.)

‘Sno Problem

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Well, the great big snowstorm is over, the sun is shining merrily, and a lot of people in New Jersey are annoyed that a state of emergency had been declared for what turned out to be only an ordinary snowstorm. Six inches, at the most.

The National Weather Service must have changed the forecast a hundred times, leading up to the actual event. With that many changes, you can hardly call it a forecast at all. If a Roman emperor’s astrologer ever tried to amend his predictions that many times, he’d’ve been thrown head-first off a cliff.

The nooze media and our Blue State politicians decided to go with the most draconian forecasts and see if they could scare everybody off the roads. An official state of emergency, by the way, winds up costing local businesses a lot of money, because they generally have to shut down for the day.

There is a slight problem today with yesterday’s snow having developed a hard, frozen crust–makes me very glad I cleared our cars yesterday, and didn’t put it off till today. I think I’ll get my exercise today walking to the Y and back, which is about three miles. Certainly can’t ride a bike; and anyway, there’s enough snow on top of my bike’s tarpaulin to keep it safe from the high winds that have been vexing us for several days.

So, let’s see how long it takes me to do this… and then I have to finish reading The Silver Trumpet, trying to be ready for the next book the Lord gives me to write.

The Sort-of Blizzard of ’17

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When I woke up today, we were getting snowflakes the size of feathers, just like Herodotus (who should have known better) reported from the northern regions that were, to most of his readers, fabled. And I thought, “Hoo, boy! Good thing the leaves aren’t on the trees yet! It’d pull down all the power lines.”

Now, after 10:30 a.m., there’s a lull in the precipitation and the snow is mixed with freezing rain–which’ll mean the devil of a job, cleaning the cars. The official and bona fide prediction is it’s supposed to snow all day, with accumulations up to 15 inches. Just going by what I see, that would surprise me.

Well, we’re all stocked up on groceries, we have electricity, there’s nowhere that we have to go today, and I think what I’ll do is blog off and on, catch up on some of my reading, and do a jigsaw puzzle with Patty–who has a bad backache today, for no reason we can think of, so we’d appreciate a prayer or two.

I don’t think this storm, in this part of New Jersey, called for the declaration of a state of emergency.

But if you hear nothing further from me today, it’ll mean I was wrong.

So You Think You Ought to Have a Pet Door…

And the sage said unto them, “Behold, there are old squirrels, and there are bold squirrels, but there are no old, bold squirrels.”  —Cat Wisdom of the Ages

I’ve often wondered why, if you have a pet door that lets your cat or dog go out or come in, that the odd possum, skunk, or squirrel doesn’t come in, too. You’d think it’d because to invade a house full of cats or dogs would be, well, suicidal. But watch this freakin’ squirrel try again and again to get into the house through the pet door–with the cat standing right there in plain sight! I would love to ask that squirrel what the dickens he was thinking.

P.S.–Our mayor just called to tell us that a state of emergency has been declared in advance of the predicted big-mama snowstorm. I don’t know if there’s any penalty for declaring a state of emergency and then nothing happens. Well, we shall see.

Farewell, Imagination Theater

When a good thing comes to an end, there seldom seems anything on hand to take its place.

This weekend was the final broadcast of Jim French’s Imagination Theater, home of America’s finest original radio drama. It couldn’t be helped. Jim French, who wrote hundreds of the scripts, acted and directed in them, and ran the business aspect of the enterprise as well, had been in radio since World War II, in Seattle radio since 1959, and put in the last 21 years on Jim French Productions–and he just can’t carry it any farther. He married his wife, Pat, in 1950, and she was his partner in every sense of the word–writing, acting, and directing. Pat died last month. It tears my heart to think of it.

Patty and I have been listening to Imagination Theater every Saturday night since sometime in the 1990s, and we will very keenly feel its loss. These shows were wholesome as well as entertaining. We bought a lot of their discs. We chatted with them on their blog. We’ve got T-shirts.

I have included a recent sample of their work, if you’d like to listen to it.

Jim, old man, I’m sure we aren’t alone in missing you and your work. It meant a lot to us. Go with God, my friend. Go with God.

More Snow’s on the Way

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Thanks to the government snatching an hour from us, I find myself, on this first day of Daylight Savings, running slow, running tired, and running late. Why do they do this to us every year?

Now I’ve got to go outside–it’s about 25 degrees, just now–and scrape and chip the ice off my car before it starts snowing again. Our forecast calls for beaucoup snow over the next 48 hours. Dig that Global Warming!

Is there any truth to the rumor that Climbit Scientists are banding together to form the Mary Toft Society? Named for the 18th century serving-lass who convinced a passel of learned doctors that she had given birth to rabbits (see yesterday’s post on that edifying subject), the society plans to advocate for bigger, stricter, and more comprehensive government controls on every aspect of human life which could conceivably affect the climate–in short, on every aspect of human life, period.

Aw, to hell with them! Literally, I guess. The earth is the Lord’s, not theirs. He is the sole proprietor, and His word shall stand. His word, not theirs.

The Paper Labyrinth

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Aunt Joan’s life savings have just about run out. And because her care in the nursing home costs more than the whole family put together could ever pay, she has to go on Medicaid.

So now we wander in a paper labyrinth, part maze, part hall of mirrors, back and forth, up and down, around and around, and God only knows if we’ll ever come out the right door. Last week it was Joan’s birth certificate. Now it’s her bank statements, month by month, going back five years. Medicaid demands them. We have to provide them. And one of the banks seems intent on making this as difficult as possible.

My wife, a high-class bookkeeper all her working life, has been trying to manage this. Yesterday I spent all morning at a couple of different banks, finally coming home under the blissful illusion that we’d actually accomplished something. Nope. Just caused another avalanche of paper to fall on our heads.

I want to know how a younger person, who is not a widely experienced bookkeeper and who has to report to work every day, could ever possibly hope to handle this. Take a year off work? Or try to do all this when he gets home from work? Oops–everybody you’d need to talk to is gone for the day. Maybe magic. Yeah, magic! That might work.

I have to stop writing about this now. My head is pounding.

Sanity Break: Your Pet Mouse Loves You

It’s a grey, dreary, drizzly day today; and as I enjoyed my cigar outside, I thought of a pet I had many years ago. A mouse.

Her name was Sleepy, and she was about the lovingest little creature you ever saw. Her babies took advantage of her, mobbing her for nursing well after they were too big to need it anymore. She used to climb up onto the water bottle and chatter at them.

I used to take her downstairs, lie down on the floor, and let her run around the living room. She would run a little ways and then run back to me, a little farther each time, until she finally made it to the wall–but always back to Daddy. I took it as a lesson in prayer: make a lot of little prayers during the course of the day, just to maintain my connection to my Father in Heaven.

Mice make wonderful pets, they’re incredibly intelligent; but I don’t keep them anymore because we have two cats. Besides which, a mouse will only live for two years or so, and it breaks your heart to lose one.

True, wild mice invading your granary, that’s not good. But God has also created them with loving hearts–and that’s another thing we never would have thought of, in His place.

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