Last night at we were our son's house for dinner, and his fiancée made several excellent dishes, of which the okra and olive dish was the one I liked best. I love okra anyway, in any form — curries, gumbo soup, or just plain deep fried. She also made a sole with white sauce, a dish with tofu and vegetables, and salad. Dessert was a strawberry cheese pie that rounded out the meal perfectly.
Our older granddaughter is getting ready to apply for college, and had been working hard on her college admission essay, which she asked me to look at. She did very well in several college preparatory exams, and we are sure she will continue to do well in whichever college she eventually attends. In a couple of years her younger sister will also be ready to pursue higher studies. They are wonderful young women, and we are very proud of them.
A compendium of images - most original, some not - words, and links, sometimes musical, gathered for the exclusive enjoyment of friends and relatives, some old, and some new.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Bookmarks
The website bookmarks I have accumulated have grown so that they are today quite unmanageable. Just to scroll through the lot takes time, and organizing them is a task, long overdue though it is, that just keeps my procrastination engine idling. Shouldn't such things be done automatically on the computer? Isn't there a sort of back up program that can immediately figure out what goes into which folder? Why aren't the geeks working on the problem? Or are they already? Sheez!
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Gurgles etc.
As one gets older, one's eating habits can change, usually for the worse. We either eat too much, or we eat the wrong kinds of things. Fats of course are the most disagreeable, and sugars equally so. Yet oftentimes it's hard to avoid either.
Having punished my digestive tract with too much junk for more decades than I care to think about, I now have to do penance for my sins. Antacids are a necessary and frequently used item in my medicine cabinet, my intestinal growling after meals has become a commonplace, and a former steady regularity has taken on a more urgent and irregular turn.
What is especially interesting of late is that my interior noises have acquired a distinctive sort of sound. Quite different from the low rumbles and mild quakings of just a few years ago, they seem now to have adopted a higher-pitched, almost puerile, and — dare I say it — a quite noticeably feminine quality. It is as though my gut has been transmogrified from a baritone to a countertenor, or worse yet, a soprano.
I can be sitting in my easy chair watching the evening news after dinner, and there comes this small voice from the inside roughly between the sternum and the umbilicus. Sometimes it even surprises me during a nap. Is it my imagination or a dream? It seems to be calling my name!
My unease is compounded by the recollection of a story titled "Lukundoo" by Edward Lucas White. I first read this story as a teenager, and even today it can still give me the creeps.
English Pronunciation
The following has appeared in several websites. Its authorship is uncertain, though it has at times been attributed to TSW (?) or George Bernard Shaw.
I take it you already know
of tough and bough and cough and dough.
Others may stumble, but not you,
On hiccough, thorough, lough** and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps.
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead — it's said like bed, not bead.
For goodness sake, don't call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat.
They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for pear and bear.
And then there's dose and rose and lose
Just look them up--and goose and choose.
And cork and work and card and ward.
And font and front and word and sword.
And do and go, then thwart and cart.
Come, come I've hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Man alive,
I'd mastered it when I was five!
Friday, November 25, 2005
Day after Thanksgiving
Actually, I don't much like turkey, though everyone else at table at our house yesterday loves it. Out of the goodness of her heart, my wife made a ham also. I did have some token slices of the turkey, just to show my appreciation. Along with the meat, we had baked yams with marshmallows, chestnut stuffing baked separately from the bird itself, cranberry sauce, vegetables, and to round things off, three pumpkin pies. There was also ice cream for those who wanted some. There were eight of us at Thanksgiving dinner.
The rain held off till late, and then gave our garden a good soaking overnight. A wet carpet of birch leaves greeted me this morning as I went outside to fetch the paper.
Here is where I go off on a tangent to rant about our newspaper. It's getting thinner and thinner every day, and nothing but the most outrageously liberal diatribe and editorials show up in it. Someone on the radio said the other day that most major newspapers in this country are losing their readership because of the internet and television. The San Francisco Chronicle leads the pack by a country mile in this decline.
But as a longtime subscriber I am not going to cancel just yet, though the day may soon come.
The rain held off till late, and then gave our garden a good soaking overnight. A wet carpet of birch leaves greeted me this morning as I went outside to fetch the paper.
Here is where I go off on a tangent to rant about our newspaper. It's getting thinner and thinner every day, and nothing but the most outrageously liberal diatribe and editorials show up in it. Someone on the radio said the other day that most major newspapers in this country are losing their readership because of the internet and television. The San Francisco Chronicle leads the pack by a country mile in this decline.
But as a longtime subscriber I am not going to cancel just yet, though the day may soon come.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
River Cruise
This was written for for a club newsletter after our cruise along the Rhine, Main, and Danube Rivers, from Amsterdam to Vienna.
As you may know, these days in Europe they no longer use francs, deutschmarks, pesetas, escudos, or lire in those places where previously these currencies were legal tender. The Euro is today the common currency over much of western Europe, and its use will no doubt spread as more countries on that continent join the union.
There are some things about the Euro that are worth noting, especially if you are planning to visit Europe. The Euro started out a few years ago almost on a par with the US Dollar, or even a little below. Today the Euro is a lot stronger than the dollar. (The Euro’s current relationship to the greenback is roughly the same as the greenback’s relationship to the Canadian loonie, so Canadians traveling in Europe have a worse time of it than Americans.) On our recent trip through Germany, the conversion rate was about $1.35 to 1 Euro (my keyboard, unfortunately, does not have a symbol for the Euro). A traveler from the U.S. would be wise not to fall into the trap of assuming that a Euro is worth about the same thing as a dollar. Checking out prices in European shop windows, a traveler must do some rapid mental arithmetic to come up with the final cost that will show up on his or her credit card.
The U.S.Dollar bill is still widely accepted for tips and such in Europe. There is something about the greenback, some mystique, one might say, that makes people’s eyes light up overseas. Never mind that it is worth less than the Euro today, our greenback is still a greenback, against which all other currencies are compared.
There is no one Euro bill. The one Euro denomination is a copper-alloy coin, not paper. They also have a two-Euro coin, and fifty-cent, twenty-cent, ten-cent, five-cent, and one-cent coins. All that produces a lot of weight in one’s pockets. The lowest denomination paper money is the 5-Euro note.
In German-speaking countries, the Euro is pronounced ‘Oiro’, which sounds exactly like the Portuguese word for ‘gold’. The German ‘eu’ sound is ‘oi’. In France Euro becomes the Uhr-O, because of the French ‘eu’ sound.
* * * * *
Public toilets in Europe are generally clean. But to get in you often have to pay. Neither a tip nor a bribe, it is quite simply the Price of Admission. A woman sits outside the door barring your entry until the right amount – which typically ranges from 20 cents to 1 Euro depending on the classiness of the facility – is dropped into the waiting dish or placed in the correct slot. In some toilets, they even have coin-operated turnstiles. No coins, no go. (U.S. coins are not legal tender, but I imagine a sawbuck might persuade the woman to let you in.)
In out-of-the-way places, especially those in Germanic communities where the facilities for those of the male gender are marked Herren, toilets may not be as clean as you are likely to come across in the bigger towns. Some may be labeled simply pissoirs, which needs no translation from the French. Often such places do not require payment, which may be why they are not maintained in as hygienic and odor-free a state as those that do. I recall a sign in the WC in a Bräuerei (beerhall) that read: “Bitte im sitzen pinkeln.” No need to refer to my German phrasebook to understand that beer-saturated Herren were being politely asked to sit as a precautionary measure.
While we are on the subject of WCs, a couple of related matters are also worth noting. Firstly, German toilet tissue is different than the American variety. It is a dull grey, about the color of a Wehrmacht sergeant’s uniform, with a rough, pebbly texture, and it comes in small, firm, and unyielding rolls. It is not the squeezable quilted stuff that you have seen in our television commercials, the kind that housewives are depicted as ecstatically fondling to sample its softness. German toilet tissue is no-nonsense: practical and functional. It is, to coin a phrase, rigidlyTeutonic.
Secondly, you will seldom find paper towel dispensers in German WCs. Instead there will be a metal box with a continuous cloth towel hanging below it, bearing the marks of much handling. Though it is engineered to operate by pulling down on the cloth to reveal a fresh, clean section, the mechanism is usually so stiff that it does not budge, and the same cloth section gets used over and over. Hygienically questionable, to say the least. Safer to use the hot air blower instead.
Cigarette smoking is very popular in Europe. There are few restrictions on smoking, even in the better restaurants, although some may set aside certain tables for non-smokers. It is therefore not uncommon for wienerschnitzel to acquire a nicotine flavor, or weissebier to have a smokey aftertaste. Airports are a joke. They have an area for smokers, but cigarette smoke floats over the partition and permeates the air because there is no way to exhaust it. You can be in a supposed non-smoking area yet be forced to inhale second-hand smoke wafting through.
Cigarette dispensing machines are located on many street corners all over Germany. Anyone with the right coinage can buy cigarettes. Kids as well. No wonder so many people smoke.
* * * * *
European public transport is efficent. Their streetcars – called in Vienna the Strassenbahn as opposed to the subway, or Unterbahn – are smooth, fast, and some of them very modern, built in such a way that entrance (eingang) and exit (ausgang) are at curb level so that elderly riders do not have to negotiate a single step. A nice feature for some of us.
To pay the fare once aboard, an adult on the Strassenbahn puts a 2-Euro coin in the ticket-dispensing machine (no senior discount; but children pay only 1 Euro) in back of the vehicle’s operator. Out pops a ticket. But that’s not the end of it. The passenger has then to take the ticket to get it time-stamped at another machine in the middle of the car. Since most first-time visitors may not know to do this, courteous Viennese fellow-passengers will show them the way so they don’t get in trouble should an inspektor materialize.
In northern Germany, the customary morning greeting is “Guten morgen”. In southern Germany and Austria, they say “Grüss Gott.” Seems people from different parts of the country can sometimes have difficulty understanding one another.
Viennese pastries are exquisite. Viennese coffee is too. But in today’s Vienna, McDonald’s now occupies the ground floor of the very house in which Johann Strauss Jr composed the “ Beautiful Blue Danube” Waltz. By the way, the Danube we saw is not blue, though it is beautiful still.
At a typical Viennese Konzert in a baroque former palace, we are treated to a touristic variant of what Walter Cronkite on PBS hosts each New Year in Vienna. But instead of the Staatsoper or the Philharmoniker, the orchestra that we hear is made up of young music students and performers and the conductor, though competent, is not top-rung. Commercial though it undoubtedly is, the concert succeeds in capping a delightful Viennese evening, and the famous final Radetsky March by Strauss Senior, in which the audience is encouraged to join by clapping in unison on the downbeat, can still stir up memories of the glittering society of the Hapsburg era.
Bijou & Roxy
While the eastern and middle parts of our country are experiencing some arctic weather, we are fortunate here in, yes, sunny California to have had a string of gorgeous days, for which we are thankful. The forecast for tomorrow is partly cloudy, and rain is expected on Friday.
* * * * * *
They were quite unique in their heyday, those oldtime movie houses with names like, Ritz, Roxy, Star, Bijou, Empire, Grand, Orpheum, Coliseum, Plaza, Rialto, Majestic, and Liberty.
Where are they now? Well, physically, many still exist, having been transformed into art houses that show foreign or indie movies. Some have been restored to their former glory, with their bright neon marquees and sculpted Art Moderne pylons. Others, especially in blighted neighborhoods, have been turned into houses of worship and even skating rinks.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
They were quite unique in their heyday, those oldtime movie houses with names like, Ritz, Roxy, Star, Bijou, Empire, Grand, Orpheum, Coliseum, Plaza, Rialto, Majestic, and Liberty.
Where are they now? Well, physically, many still exist, having been transformed into art houses that show foreign or indie movies. Some have been restored to their former glory, with their bright neon marquees and sculpted Art Moderne pylons. Others, especially in blighted neighborhoods, have been turned into houses of worship and even skating rinks.
* * * * * *
Monday, November 21, 2005
Fine Dining
We tried a new restaurant in town. It looked very attractive from the outside, and even more so on the inside. White linen tablecloths and napkins folded in tidy shapes, dark panelled walls and enough lighting for you to read the menu without squinting. A fairly new place, one we had not noticed before on our visits to this street, this restaurant was described in elegant script lettering on the marquee as serving Persian cuisine.
The hostess was tall and elegantly dressed, fortyish, with brindled blond hair ('streaky' I suppose would be the term commonly used) tied back in an elegant bun; probably of Iranian heritage (though 'Persian' would be the preferred designation these days, as on the marquee outside). The menus were nicely bound in leather, and the prices of the items offered would likely be classified in most newspapers' restaurant reviews as $$$. There was a respectable wine list, the waiters and busboys wore dark slacks, white shirts and bow ties, the noise level was low, and the whole ensemble augured a fine dining experience.
A complimentary plate of cheese, walnuts, and herbs appeared, along with squares of unleavened bread, a dish of butter, and ice water in stem glasses. The menu gave the Persian names of each dish, with a clear description of what it was.
And then it happened. The hostess returned to our table after we had studied the menu for some minutes. She said: "So, have you guys decided?" [Italics mine.]
The anticipation of a fine dining experience vanished in a trice.
The hostess was tall and elegantly dressed, fortyish, with brindled blond hair ('streaky' I suppose would be the term commonly used) tied back in an elegant bun; probably of Iranian heritage (though 'Persian' would be the preferred designation these days, as on the marquee outside). The menus were nicely bound in leather, and the prices of the items offered would likely be classified in most newspapers' restaurant reviews as $$$. There was a respectable wine list, the waiters and busboys wore dark slacks, white shirts and bow ties, the noise level was low, and the whole ensemble augured a fine dining experience.
A complimentary plate of cheese, walnuts, and herbs appeared, along with squares of unleavened bread, a dish of butter, and ice water in stem glasses. The menu gave the Persian names of each dish, with a clear description of what it was.
And then it happened. The hostess returned to our table after we had studied the menu for some minutes. She said: "So, have you guys decided?" [Italics mine.]
The anticipation of a fine dining experience vanished in a trice.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Late Fall
Another in a series of lovely Fall days with mild temperatures, clear skies, and colorful foliage, some of which have descended from their precarious perches to blanket the roads and lawns along my hour-long, three-mile walk up the hill and back. It being Sunday morning, the route was only mildly trafficked, a few cars, a couple of bicycles, and only two or three pedestrians. Accompanying me on the walk was Garrison Keillor and his Prairie Home Companion, which I listen to on National Public Radio on weekends as faithfully as I do the Newshour with Jim Lehrer on weekdays.
Yesterday my wife and I attended the annual general meeting of our social club. It was an all-day affair that included a so-so lunch of overcooked chicken and ribs. The meeting went off well, without major incidents or the heated dialogue that had in prior years been a defining feature of such meetings. The main topics discussed were the the ongoing saga of a recently acquired property that was to be refurbished into a suitable clubhouse, the raising of annual membership dues, and a somewhat premature move to integrate several chapters of the organization into a larger entity. Nothing of any significance was accomplished, which is about the way such events have devolved in the past.
At a dinner party to celebrate the birthday of their sixteen-year-old cousin, we saw our two granddaughters as we had hoped we would.
Yesterday my wife and I attended the annual general meeting of our social club. It was an all-day affair that included a so-so lunch of overcooked chicken and ribs. The meeting went off well, without major incidents or the heated dialogue that had in prior years been a defining feature of such meetings. The main topics discussed were the the ongoing saga of a recently acquired property that was to be refurbished into a suitable clubhouse, the raising of annual membership dues, and a somewhat premature move to integrate several chapters of the organization into a larger entity. Nothing of any significance was accomplished, which is about the way such events have devolved in the past.
At a dinner party to celebrate the birthday of their sixteen-year-old cousin, we saw our two granddaughters as we had hoped we would.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Carpe Diem
There are some days when everything seems to go right. Today happens to be one of those days.
I awoke at 6:00AM, earlier than usual. Did my three-mile exercise walk in weather that was just glorious even for this magnificent climate. The Japanese maple provided a touch of brilliant color to our front yard. The oatmeal I made for breakfast in the microwave oven was of the exact consistency to suit my taste.
The FM radio I use on my walks was tuned to our local public radio station. The morning program's host was interviewing Chuck Close, whose art I have admired over the years, and whose 80-plus self portraits are currently on exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Also at SFMOMA are sculptures and other works by Kiki Smith. We plan to visit the museum after Thanksgiving.
Unusual for me, I accompanied my dear wife to the shopping mall. Once inside she went her way and I went mine. Unusual for her, she met me back at the car only eight minutes later than the agreed meeting time, which was probably a record. I bought a Christmas present for a close friend who recently had eye surgery. It's a bit early for Christmas shopping, I know, but the gift is exactly the kind of thing he would appreciate.
My wife had prepared a dinner of boeuf bourguignon in a new slow cooker she recently bought. After six hours of cooking the beef was of a sublime degree of tenderness. It was accompanied by linguini al dente.
And tomorrow we get to see our granddaughters again.
A perfect day, and likely a perfect weekend to look forward to.
I awoke at 6:00AM, earlier than usual. Did my three-mile exercise walk in weather that was just glorious even for this magnificent climate. The Japanese maple provided a touch of brilliant color to our front yard. The oatmeal I made for breakfast in the microwave oven was of the exact consistency to suit my taste.
The FM radio I use on my walks was tuned to our local public radio station. The morning program's host was interviewing Chuck Close, whose art I have admired over the years, and whose 80-plus self portraits are currently on exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Also at SFMOMA are sculptures and other works by Kiki Smith. We plan to visit the museum after Thanksgiving.
Unusual for me, I accompanied my dear wife to the shopping mall. Once inside she went her way and I went mine. Unusual for her, she met me back at the car only eight minutes later than the agreed meeting time, which was probably a record. I bought a Christmas present for a close friend who recently had eye surgery. It's a bit early for Christmas shopping, I know, but the gift is exactly the kind of thing he would appreciate.
My wife had prepared a dinner of boeuf bourguignon in a new slow cooker she recently bought. After six hours of cooking the beef was of a sublime degree of tenderness. It was accompanied by linguini al dente.
And tomorrow we get to see our granddaughters again.
A perfect day, and likely a perfect weekend to look forward to.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Virus!
The anti-virus program in my computer announced this morning that an incoming virus had been detected and blocked. I searched for the infected file and deleted it, without knowing whether that was really the right thing to do, whether the deletion might screw up another application or file. So far nothing untoward has surfaced, and I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed.
Meanwhile I'm running another complete virus scan, just to be sure there's no more of the little boogers hiding in the hard drive.
That some people will spend valuable time cooking up these devilish viruses with intent to harm others is incomprehensible to me. They are abnormal, these virus inventors, and Hell must have a special corner set aside just for them.
Meanwhile I'm running another complete virus scan, just to be sure there's no more of the little boogers hiding in the hard drive.
That some people will spend valuable time cooking up these devilish viruses with intent to harm others is incomprehensible to me. They are abnormal, these virus inventors, and Hell must have a special corner set aside just for them.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
The Consulate
Two days ago I had to drive to San Francisco to pick up our single-entry tourist visas from the consulate of the People's Republic of China.
The consulate is housed in a large building at the corner of Laguna Street and Geary Boulevard, a short distance from St. Mary's Catholic Cathedral. At the corner, behind police barricades which seem to have been set up specifically for them, were several Chinese women of middle age. On top of the barricades some envelopes had been taped, and in the envelopes were a number of pamphlets.
One of the women was making some languid gestures with her arms which suggested tai chi movements. The other women sat quietly on the curb. One was eating her lunch. None of them made any effort to pass out pamphlets or to attract the attention of passers-by. There were no banners protesting the treatment of Falun Gong members in China, nor any indication that Tibet was on the agenda, nor any sign of SFPD presence.
The only security person in the neighborhood was a uniformed Caucasian man who was clearly on the consulate payroll who stood outside the entrance to the visa office directing the applicants to the various windows inside. The applicants were so many that they had to stand out in the open on Geary Boulevard. There must have been well over fifty people in line.
Without having to join the queue, I was pointed in the direction of the pick-up window where a young woman accepted the receipts I proffered, checked them against her copies attached by rubber band to our passports, which she pulled from trays filled with passports beside her, accepted the cash (no checks or credit cards) for the visa fee, rubber-stamped my copies to show that the visas had been delivered, and without another word beckoned to the next person behind me in line to approach her window.
The consulate will not accept visa applications by mail, nor will it mail approved visas back to applicants. The applicant has either to appear in person, or send a designated representative to deliver and pick up the documents.
The visas are valid for one entry into the PRC within the next three months. They cost us $50 apiece. And the consulate seems to be doing a land office business every single working day.
The consulate is housed in a large building at the corner of Laguna Street and Geary Boulevard, a short distance from St. Mary's Catholic Cathedral. At the corner, behind police barricades which seem to have been set up specifically for them, were several Chinese women of middle age. On top of the barricades some envelopes had been taped, and in the envelopes were a number of pamphlets.
One of the women was making some languid gestures with her arms which suggested tai chi movements. The other women sat quietly on the curb. One was eating her lunch. None of them made any effort to pass out pamphlets or to attract the attention of passers-by. There were no banners protesting the treatment of Falun Gong members in China, nor any indication that Tibet was on the agenda, nor any sign of SFPD presence.
The only security person in the neighborhood was a uniformed Caucasian man who was clearly on the consulate payroll who stood outside the entrance to the visa office directing the applicants to the various windows inside. The applicants were so many that they had to stand out in the open on Geary Boulevard. There must have been well over fifty people in line.
Without having to join the queue, I was pointed in the direction of the pick-up window where a young woman accepted the receipts I proffered, checked them against her copies attached by rubber band to our passports, which she pulled from trays filled with passports beside her, accepted the cash (no checks or credit cards) for the visa fee, rubber-stamped my copies to show that the visas had been delivered, and without another word beckoned to the next person behind me in line to approach her window.
The consulate will not accept visa applications by mail, nor will it mail approved visas back to applicants. The applicant has either to appear in person, or send a designated representative to deliver and pick up the documents.
The visas are valid for one entry into the PRC within the next three months. They cost us $50 apiece. And the consulate seems to be doing a land office business every single working day.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Bookstore Cafe
The café at our local bookstore has maybe a dozen tables, and on a Sunday afternoon, most of them are occupied. The denizens are mostly young people with laptops or PDAs, and they sit there for hours, nursing paper coffee cups from which the lattes have long been drained. Many look like college students, and they have several books laid out on the tables as they do their typing or writing. Several have the shaven heads that are so much in vogue these days. One has an iPod with earbuds stuck in his ears.
The decorations on the walls are large posters of famous books ("Death of a Salesman", "Catch 22", "Tell It On The Mountain"). Above the coffee bar is a painted frieze with images of famous writers ranging from Joyce to Tolstoy.
The decorations on the walls are large posters of famous books ("Death of a Salesman", "Catch 22", "Tell It On The Mountain"). Above the coffee bar is a painted frieze with images of famous writers ranging from Joyce to Tolstoy.
Reading Material
Books I'm currently reading:
"From Babel to Dragoman" by Bernard Lewis.
"Best American Essays 2005"
"The Double" by José Saramago
Books I have bought and will read later:
"The Wisdom of Crowds" by James Surowiecki
"Mao – The Unknown Story" by Jung Chang and Jon Halliday
"From Babel to Dragoman" by Bernard Lewis.
"Best American Essays 2005"
"The Double" by José Saramago
Books I have bought and will read later:
"The Wisdom of Crowds" by James Surowiecki
"Mao – The Unknown Story" by Jung Chang and Jon Halliday
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Granddad
At the time the photograph was taken, in July 1921, he was thirty-four years old. He stands with his left hand in the pocket of his dark suit jacket. His right hand, holding a cigarette in a long holder, rests on a wooden studio prop made to look like a rustic bridge. The backdrop is obviously fake: the feathery tree on the left, the misty horizon, the foreground flowers, all look as if they might have been copied from a 19th century academic painting.
He is wearing very shiny patent leather shoes and what looks like spats (or else the shoes are of two-toned leather). His shirt collar looks to be of the stiff kind, maybe backed by celluloid, and he has a cravat, probably silk, with a stud just under the knot. In his breast pocket he sports a handkerchief, and under the jacket he wears a light-colored vest or cardigan with buttons.
He is a dapper man, seemingly very conscious of his appearance. His head is long and narrow. Already he is going bald at the crown. His ears stick out somewhat. He has a firm chin and a steady gaze, a fine nose and a full lower lip. Except that he has less hair and a darker complexion, he looks quite a lot like his fourth son (my father) at the same age.
It is quite likely that at the time the photograph was taken, he was already a widower, for otherwise his wife, the great love of his life, would have been in the picture. She died, reportedly from puerperal fever, following the birth of the last of their five children, and the only girl.
This is the only photo of Grandfather as a young man, as far as I know. He passed away in 1943.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Veterans Day
Can there be any melody so moving to the civilized ear as the sound of 'Taps'? A lone bugler is all it takes, and then the ensuing silence fills its listeners with a sadness so profound it ignores the hollow words of politicians.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Sidewalks
We call them sidewalks over here. The British call them pavements. Just a small linguistic difference, of no great importance. They exist, the sidewalks, in most cities and towns, and they vary.
In Lisbon, Portugal, for instance, the sidewalks are made of stone, chiseled by stonecutters into four-inch cubes. This is generally true in other parts of Europe as well, where the historic town centers have been preserved.
The cobblestoned sidewalks can really be a menace if they are not kept in good repair. My wife had an accident in Lisbon in 1992 because of a hole in the sidewalk on the Rua Aurea, and an ambulance had to be called to take her to the municipal hospital. We almost missed our train to Madrid as a result. So be careful out there.
I usually pay attention to sidewalks. Sometimes they tell stories.
In the downtown area of this suburban community the sidewalks are, I would guess, on average about sixty or more years old. Every so often, at intersections, one is likely to find stamped in the concrete the name of the builder, and sometimes the date. American workmanship was something to be proud of back then, and the builder wanted his workmanship to be noticed and remembered. The same was true of manhole covers.
On some street corners in downtown San Francisco, the city fathers decades ago had installed ornamental brass or bronze plates with the street name on them. It was done probably as a matter of civic hubris and not for the benefit of the osteoporotic elderly who couldn't raise their eyes towards the street signs on the lamp posts.
On my walk yesterday in San Mateo I came upon a portion of a sidewalk which had several names scrawled into it, likely soon after the cement had first been poured. There were four names, one along each side of the square of cement. Two were boys' names and two were girls'. There was also a date, 1968.
Now, assuming that the writers were young people of junior high school age (which is probably the age when young people would amuse themselves with this sort of thing), the foursome, if they are still around, would be around the age of fifty by now.
Will they remember, I wonder, what they did back in 1968? Are they still friends? Or more than friends, perhaps? Were they, back then, already 'going steady', to use that archaic term? Did they marry, and if they did, were their partners any of the names scrawled on that sidewalk? And their children, would they have known that this particular section of concrete on a San Mateo sidewalk bore an inscribed memento of their parents' youth? Would this little fragment from their past be a topic of conversation at family gatherings?
What sort of life would they have led since they set their names in concrete?
And where are they now?
In Lisbon, Portugal, for instance, the sidewalks are made of stone, chiseled by stonecutters into four-inch cubes. This is generally true in other parts of Europe as well, where the historic town centers have been preserved.
The cobblestoned sidewalks can really be a menace if they are not kept in good repair. My wife had an accident in Lisbon in 1992 because of a hole in the sidewalk on the Rua Aurea, and an ambulance had to be called to take her to the municipal hospital. We almost missed our train to Madrid as a result. So be careful out there.
I usually pay attention to sidewalks. Sometimes they tell stories.
In the downtown area of this suburban community the sidewalks are, I would guess, on average about sixty or more years old. Every so often, at intersections, one is likely to find stamped in the concrete the name of the builder, and sometimes the date. American workmanship was something to be proud of back then, and the builder wanted his workmanship to be noticed and remembered. The same was true of manhole covers.
On some street corners in downtown San Francisco, the city fathers decades ago had installed ornamental brass or bronze plates with the street name on them. It was done probably as a matter of civic hubris and not for the benefit of the osteoporotic elderly who couldn't raise their eyes towards the street signs on the lamp posts.
On my walk yesterday in San Mateo I came upon a portion of a sidewalk which had several names scrawled into it, likely soon after the cement had first been poured. There were four names, one along each side of the square of cement. Two were boys' names and two were girls'. There was also a date, 1968.
Now, assuming that the writers were young people of junior high school age (which is probably the age when young people would amuse themselves with this sort of thing), the foursome, if they are still around, would be around the age of fifty by now.
Will they remember, I wonder, what they did back in 1968? Are they still friends? Or more than friends, perhaps? Were they, back then, already 'going steady', to use that archaic term? Did they marry, and if they did, were their partners any of the names scrawled on that sidewalk? And their children, would they have known that this particular section of concrete on a San Mateo sidewalk bore an inscribed memento of their parents' youth? Would this little fragment from their past be a topic of conversation at family gatherings?
What sort of life would they have led since they set their names in concrete?
And where are they now?
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Waiting Room
The lab at this hospital is crowded most mornings, and so it is today, notwithstanding the inclement weather outside. There is a number-dispensing machine in the waiting room, and newcomers are instructed by a sign posted on the wall to take a number so that their wait time will be shortened. It is difficult to understand the logic of this instruction — taking a number does not in fact shorten the wait.
The patients in the waiting room range in age from their twenties to their eighties, and in ethnic diversity they appear to cover the entire demography of the Great State of California. They are there to have their blood tested, for whatever reason their personal physicians may have decreed that a blood test is needed.
There is a television set hung on a bracket at the end of the room farthest from the receiving windows, where three receptionists, each in her own window with a small privacy screen separating them, periodically call out the numbers that the waiting patients hold in their hands.
The patient whose number is called then heads towards the designated window where he or she delivers the slip of paper from the doctor to the receptionist, is asked a couple of questions to confirm his or her identity and/or insurance coverage. Once the formalities are complete, the patient is instructed to sit down and wait some more.
The television is tuned to a station which has a morning variety show hosted by a pretty blonde woman and a dark-haired man with a winning smile and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of quips. The quips and the banter cause the audience in the television studio to burst into silent laughter, silent because the volume on the TV is set to mute. This is so as not to interfere with the workings in this hospital waiting room and the sequential calling out of the numbers, and the calling out by the lab technicians of the names of those whose paperwork has already been processed and may therefore proceed to another room where the blood samples are drawn.
Among the twenty or so people in the waiting room, only one seems to be paying any attention to the television. For all the entertainment value that the TV can provide for the waiting patients, it might just as well not have been there at all. The remainder of the people are either reading outdated magazines (three-month-old copies of "People" or "The Smithsonian" or "Cosmopolitan"), or staring at nothing in particular (the old gentleman with the red socks does this), or watching the door anxiously in anticipation that the next number or name called will be their own. A couple of them sit with their eyes closed.
The next lab technician to appear calls out a name. It is a Spanish name, and the technician, who is from Sri Lanka, has some trouble pronouncing it. No one responds after she has tried to say the name three times, pronouncing it differently each time. Then, as she is about to abandon the prospective patient for another, a Hispanic man in his forties jumps out and says to please wait a moment. He stumbles outside, and immediately returns pushing an old man in a wheelchair, who wears a baseball cap with the bill pulled down almost to his nose. It is clear that he is the father of the man pushing his wheelchair. The Sri Lankan technician greets them, and leads them into the next room.
And then another technician appears, and another name is called. And so it goes on for the better part of the morning.
The patients in the waiting room range in age from their twenties to their eighties, and in ethnic diversity they appear to cover the entire demography of the Great State of California. They are there to have their blood tested, for whatever reason their personal physicians may have decreed that a blood test is needed.
There is a television set hung on a bracket at the end of the room farthest from the receiving windows, where three receptionists, each in her own window with a small privacy screen separating them, periodically call out the numbers that the waiting patients hold in their hands.
The patient whose number is called then heads towards the designated window where he or she delivers the slip of paper from the doctor to the receptionist, is asked a couple of questions to confirm his or her identity and/or insurance coverage. Once the formalities are complete, the patient is instructed to sit down and wait some more.
The television is tuned to a station which has a morning variety show hosted by a pretty blonde woman and a dark-haired man with a winning smile and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of quips. The quips and the banter cause the audience in the television studio to burst into silent laughter, silent because the volume on the TV is set to mute. This is so as not to interfere with the workings in this hospital waiting room and the sequential calling out of the numbers, and the calling out by the lab technicians of the names of those whose paperwork has already been processed and may therefore proceed to another room where the blood samples are drawn.
Among the twenty or so people in the waiting room, only one seems to be paying any attention to the television. For all the entertainment value that the TV can provide for the waiting patients, it might just as well not have been there at all. The remainder of the people are either reading outdated magazines (three-month-old copies of "People" or "The Smithsonian" or "Cosmopolitan"), or staring at nothing in particular (the old gentleman with the red socks does this), or watching the door anxiously in anticipation that the next number or name called will be their own. A couple of them sit with their eyes closed.
The next lab technician to appear calls out a name. It is a Spanish name, and the technician, who is from Sri Lanka, has some trouble pronouncing it. No one responds after she has tried to say the name three times, pronouncing it differently each time. Then, as she is about to abandon the prospective patient for another, a Hispanic man in his forties jumps out and says to please wait a moment. He stumbles outside, and immediately returns pushing an old man in a wheelchair, who wears a baseball cap with the bill pulled down almost to his nose. It is clear that he is the father of the man pushing his wheelchair. The Sri Lankan technician greets them, and leads them into the next room.
And then another technician appears, and another name is called. And so it goes on for the better part of the morning.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Recovering
We're delighted to learn today that our friend, who had a health crisis that required a week's hospital stay, followed by another week in a nursing facility, is back home under the care of his dutiful and hard-working wife. He is able to get around on his own, but naturally he has to be a bit more careful as he continues to regain his strength.
The Block
I'm beginning to understand what 'writer's block' is. You sit in front of a blank word processing document on your computer screen, tap a few keys to form a sentence, or maybe two. Then highlight the whole business and hit the 'delete' key. You do this a number of times in a period of time, say, an hour, and you realize that nothing will happen. At such times it is probably wiser to get off your behind and take a walk, get a bite to eat, or attend to housekeeping.
On a good day, though, you can be sitting in this very same spot, and without much deliberate effort, the words will just roll out of you in a steady stream that might continue unabated for several paragraphs or even a whole page, until you breathlessly (figuratively speaking, of course, since pecking at the keyboard with two fingers is not physically demanding) decide that it's time to stop for a breather. So you stop, but you remind yourself that you want to keep the creative engine idling, so that it does not shut off completely and leave you stranded once again in the middle of writer's block limbo.
So what have I written thus far? Not a heckuva lot that anyone can consider halfway memorable. Because I have not posted anything in a couple of days, this bit of twaddle might suffice as a filler. Until something else comes along.
On a good day, though, you can be sitting in this very same spot, and without much deliberate effort, the words will just roll out of you in a steady stream that might continue unabated for several paragraphs or even a whole page, until you breathlessly (figuratively speaking, of course, since pecking at the keyboard with two fingers is not physically demanding) decide that it's time to stop for a breather. So you stop, but you remind yourself that you want to keep the creative engine idling, so that it does not shut off completely and leave you stranded once again in the middle of writer's block limbo.
So what have I written thus far? Not a heckuva lot that anyone can consider halfway memorable. Because I have not posted anything in a couple of days, this bit of twaddle might suffice as a filler. Until something else comes along.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
British Phrasebook
My wife and I love to browse in bookstores. All kinds of bookstores, from small independents to the chains, and we can spend many hours in them. We sometimes buy books online, but not too often — usually when a book we're looking for happens not to be available at the local store.
The sections that interest me especially in a large bookstore (or in a library for that matter) are the language, linguistics, history and travel sections. If the bookstore has comfortable armchairs or sofas, as many of the chains now have, then the time just whizzes by while I check out what there is of interest.
A couple of nights ago we were at our neighborhood Borders. While my wife was looking for her knitting and crocheting books in the crafts section, I found in the language section a tiny book that is truly a gem of scholarship.
It's the "British Phrasebook" published by the the Australian company Lonely Planet Publications Pty Ltd. The title is, in my view, something of a misnomer, as it is not simply a phrasebook in the usual sense of such travel accessories (of which I have quite a selection already, incorporating many different languages).
No, the British Phrasebook is much more than that. Its 304 pages contain a wealth of information, from the very first line of its Introduction ("The English — in England — are among the most tolerant bigots on Earth") to the very comprehensive list of Suggested Reading (three sections General, By Region, and Academic) at the end. In between are an extended capsule history of the development of the English language; chapters on pronunciation, usage, and slang; Cockney and other accents and dialects; Scots Gaelic and Welsh; British Society; American vs British English; Government and Politics; the Educational System; People and Placenames; in addition to the usual pocket phrasebook material (food, drink, entertainment, shopping, around town, in the country, sports, going out, and so on).
I did not know, for example, that Durex, a brand of condom, is now the name for condoms in general, or the origin and meaning of "mews" as an address, or the dotty British practice of "letterboxing", a massive treasure hunt in Dartmoor that attracts people from all over, including America. Tips abound ("Never ask for just a 'beer', always specify the quantity, such as 'a half of lager' or 'a pint of Guinness'.")
When a football crowd wants to tease someone about being overweight, it will chant:
Who ate all the pies
Who ate all the pies
You fat bastard
You fat bastard
You ate all the pies
The authors of this small Phrasebook, scholars all, are to be commended for putting together a remarkably comprehensive and articulate (not to say hugely amusing) booklet that sums up the British character while providing insights into a society that Americans may think we know much about, yet often find quite baffling.
The sections that interest me especially in a large bookstore (or in a library for that matter) are the language, linguistics, history and travel sections. If the bookstore has comfortable armchairs or sofas, as many of the chains now have, then the time just whizzes by while I check out what there is of interest.
A couple of nights ago we were at our neighborhood Borders. While my wife was looking for her knitting and crocheting books in the crafts section, I found in the language section a tiny book that is truly a gem of scholarship.
It's the "British Phrasebook" published by the the Australian company Lonely Planet Publications Pty Ltd. The title is, in my view, something of a misnomer, as it is not simply a phrasebook in the usual sense of such travel accessories (of which I have quite a selection already, incorporating many different languages).
No, the British Phrasebook is much more than that. Its 304 pages contain a wealth of information, from the very first line of its Introduction ("The English — in England — are among the most tolerant bigots on Earth") to the very comprehensive list of Suggested Reading (three sections General, By Region, and Academic) at the end. In between are an extended capsule history of the development of the English language; chapters on pronunciation, usage, and slang; Cockney and other accents and dialects; Scots Gaelic and Welsh; British Society; American vs British English; Government and Politics; the Educational System; People and Placenames; in addition to the usual pocket phrasebook material (food, drink, entertainment, shopping, around town, in the country, sports, going out, and so on).
I did not know, for example, that Durex, a brand of condom, is now the name for condoms in general, or the origin and meaning of "mews" as an address, or the dotty British practice of "letterboxing", a massive treasure hunt in Dartmoor that attracts people from all over, including America. Tips abound ("Never ask for just a 'beer', always specify the quantity, such as 'a half of lager' or 'a pint of Guinness'.")
When a football crowd wants to tease someone about being overweight, it will chant:
Who ate all the pies
Who ate all the pies
You fat bastard
You fat bastard
You ate all the pies
The authors of this small Phrasebook, scholars all, are to be commended for putting together a remarkably comprehensive and articulate (not to say hugely amusing) booklet that sums up the British character while providing insights into a society that Americans may think we know much about, yet often find quite baffling.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Once I built a railroad . . .
Well, actually, it was a model railroad, built on a sheet of 4x8 feet plywood that took up nearly a quarter of our son's bedroom. He was then about ten years old.
The locomotives, two of them, were built from metal kits by Tyco. Took me about a week to get the engines looking right, including painting a weathered look to them. Made the roadbed of a cork-like material, then laid the track on the plywood, which had been set on folding legs. Tiny nails were the rail spikes. Had pretty good eyesight then.
After the track was laid, and the switches, sidings, level crossings and other features were in place, my son and I did the messy landscaping with a plaster-of-Paris-like material called Hydrocal, using crumpled newspaper forms and strips of brown paper from grocery bags soaked in the Hydrocal and laid over the forms. We had a small hill through which a tunnel ran, trees made of twigs and rubbery lichen bought from a hobby shop, and finally buildings, including a hotel, a factory, several houses, a gas station, all from plastic kits that we glued, and then painted to give them that weathered realistic look. The tunnel entrance was a plaster cast that looked pretty darn good.
Rolling stock we bought ready-made from the hobby shop: hoppers, tank cars, box cars, a caboose, reefers. The hill was painted in varied earth tones and given a brownish green coating of a sawdust-like material to resemble spots of grass.
The power came from a small controller with a dial that regulated the speed of the locomotive, and had forward and reverse. For a kit-built locomotive, our 2-8-2 Mikado was a fine workhorse as it pulled a mixed lot of rolling stock round and round with a delightfully steady whir past the little village and through the tunnel.
In the end we disposed of our railroad through a want ad in the local paper, but my son has continued his interest in model railroading into adulthood and now has a stable of highly detailed brass locomotives in his collection. It's a fine hobby, this model railroading. Once bitten with the bug as a kid, you never let it go.
Once I built a railroad, I made it run,
Made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad, now it's done --
Brother, can you spare a dime?
.
Plasma at Last, Ma
As I mentioned a while back, we had been looking to replace our old 27-inch television set with one of the new flat giant screen plasma jobs. And in so doing, we were also replacing the receiver and speakers of our old stereo system, to keep up with technology and the times. After a couple of months of pondering and researching, we finally went ahead with the project.
Guess what? Technology gets more complicated with each new wave. What used to be a simple project that we could set up and hook by ourselves with simple tri-colored connector cables, and ordinary lamp cords for the speakers, has now become a major production involving many hours of intricate labor and testing by specialists who are able to speak with grave conviction about the benefits of DTS and THX and RGB and 5.1 audio and optical connectors and progressive scan and high definition and heaven knows what else. It is an arcane world that most ordinary retired persons like me would be extremely loath to enter.
Even the straightforward old remote control with just a few buttons to change channels and sound volume has now taken on the look and function of an elaborate and elongated handheld computer, with more buttons than are visible on any of the component parts of the system. Indeed, the DVD player I have needs its dedicated remote control to do things that are necessary but cannot be done on the player itself. You lose the remote (as I did) and the party's over.
Technology is wonderful, as we all have come to accept, and I'd be the first to say that the picture on our new screen is unbelievably lifelike, and will be even more so after we sign up for digital broadcasts in high definition. Still, no one should be blamed for expressing a longing for the less complicated technology of yesteryear.
It goes without saying, of course, that I would not be likely to miss the old blurry black-and-white television programs.
Guess what? Technology gets more complicated with each new wave. What used to be a simple project that we could set up and hook by ourselves with simple tri-colored connector cables, and ordinary lamp cords for the speakers, has now become a major production involving many hours of intricate labor and testing by specialists who are able to speak with grave conviction about the benefits of DTS and THX and RGB and 5.1 audio and optical connectors and progressive scan and high definition and heaven knows what else. It is an arcane world that most ordinary retired persons like me would be extremely loath to enter.
Even the straightforward old remote control with just a few buttons to change channels and sound volume has now taken on the look and function of an elaborate and elongated handheld computer, with more buttons than are visible on any of the component parts of the system. Indeed, the DVD player I have needs its dedicated remote control to do things that are necessary but cannot be done on the player itself. You lose the remote (as I did) and the party's over.
Technology is wonderful, as we all have come to accept, and I'd be the first to say that the picture on our new screen is unbelievably lifelike, and will be even more so after we sign up for digital broadcasts in high definition. Still, no one should be blamed for expressing a longing for the less complicated technology of yesteryear.
It goes without saying, of course, that I would not be likely to miss the old blurry black-and-white television programs.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
The China Clipper
The San Francisco Chronicle today has a story about a celebration of the 70th anniversary of the first trans-Pacific flights by Pan-American Airways from San Francisco to points in the Orient, including Hong Kong and Macau. Very nostalgic.-
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
About Oil Painting
Now here's one topic dear to my heart that I haven't yet touched upon.
As mentioned in my profile, I am into oil painting, and since my retirement I have turned out well over a hundred paintings, large and small. They're mostly landscapes and cityscapes, with a number of still lifes and portraits thrown in. Tried abstractions, but they did not turn out well. Mostly I do studio, as opposed to plein air, work. I work from photos, not copying them, mind, but using them for composition or to round out an idea. On occasion I have copied the Old Masters just for fun.
My original paintings have been exhibited in several of our local public buildings over the years: the City Hall, the Public Library, the County Court House. When I started exhibiting, I was excited about it, and sent out announcements to my friends and former co-workers. The exhibitions attracted the attention of a local newspaper reporter, who gave me a bigger headline than I might have deserved, and some twenty or thirty sales eventually resulted. My collectors are loyal folks, and several of them have come back to acquire more of my works.
I've given away dozens of paintings to relatives and friends as gifts on their birthdays, anniversaries, and such. Also donated several to be used as prizes at functions of the social club to which I belong.
I used to stretch my own canvases, and prime them with acrylic gesso — usually three coats — to give them the right 'tooth' for the application of the paint. Nowadays it's less convenient to make my own canvases, so I buy them ready-made, but I still give them a couple of extra coats of gesso, with the required drying time between coats.
I have tried using acrylic paints, but oil is really my medium. I like the feel of it, its covering power, the brilliance of the glazes you can achieve with it, the heavy impastos when needed. Oil is more forgiving of mistakes — you just scrape the paint off of the canvas and do it over. You just can't do that with watercolors.
My granddaughter has been trying her hand at oil painting also. A senior in high school, she has excellent hand-eye coordination, and a definite feel for the medium. She is still learning, just as I am. One never stops learning. There's always something new you can find. That's the fun of it.
As mentioned in my profile, I am into oil painting, and since my retirement I have turned out well over a hundred paintings, large and small. They're mostly landscapes and cityscapes, with a number of still lifes and portraits thrown in. Tried abstractions, but they did not turn out well. Mostly I do studio, as opposed to plein air, work. I work from photos, not copying them, mind, but using them for composition or to round out an idea. On occasion I have copied the Old Masters just for fun.
My original paintings have been exhibited in several of our local public buildings over the years: the City Hall, the Public Library, the County Court House. When I started exhibiting, I was excited about it, and sent out announcements to my friends and former co-workers. The exhibitions attracted the attention of a local newspaper reporter, who gave me a bigger headline than I might have deserved, and some twenty or thirty sales eventually resulted. My collectors are loyal folks, and several of them have come back to acquire more of my works.
I've given away dozens of paintings to relatives and friends as gifts on their birthdays, anniversaries, and such. Also donated several to be used as prizes at functions of the social club to which I belong.
I used to stretch my own canvases, and prime them with acrylic gesso — usually three coats — to give them the right 'tooth' for the application of the paint. Nowadays it's less convenient to make my own canvases, so I buy them ready-made, but I still give them a couple of extra coats of gesso, with the required drying time between coats.
I have tried using acrylic paints, but oil is really my medium. I like the feel of it, its covering power, the brilliance of the glazes you can achieve with it, the heavy impastos when needed. Oil is more forgiving of mistakes — you just scrape the paint off of the canvas and do it over. You just can't do that with watercolors.
My granddaughter has been trying her hand at oil painting also. A senior in high school, she has excellent hand-eye coordination, and a definite feel for the medium. She is still learning, just as I am. One never stops learning. There's always something new you can find. That's the fun of it.
All Souls' Day
Today is All Souls' Day, a Roman Catholic day of remembrance for friends and loved ones who have passed away. Yesterday was All Saints' Day, a universal Christian feast honoring all Christian saints, known and unknown. All Saints' Day used to be called All Hallows' Day, and the vigil of it was All Hallows' Eve, or Hallowe'en.
All Souls' Day is known in Mexico as El Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. There will be celebrations in cemeteries, with cut paper decorations, food, and picnics, in honor of the departed. The events held are not somber, but joyful. Mexicans believe that the spirits of the dead visit their earthbound families on October 31 and leave on November 2.
All Souls' Day is known in Mexico as El Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. There will be celebrations in cemeteries, with cut paper decorations, food, and picnics, in honor of the departed. The events held are not somber, but joyful. Mexicans believe that the spirits of the dead visit their earthbound families on October 31 and leave on November 2.
Nevermore
There was this goodlooking woman I saw today at our local Costco. Tall and elegant, she had the glossiest, blackest shoulder-length hair. She was dressed all in black, with a couple of tasteful silver accouterments here and there upon her person, and that black outfit of hers seemed to emphasize the color of her hair ever more.
Some writers would describe her as "raven-haired". Why is the raven the bird of choice in describing the color of a woman's hair, one might wonder? Why not "crow-black", or "blackbird-black"? My hunch is that it might have all started with E. A. Poe and the mysterious avian visitor who rapped on his chamber door, quothing the same word all the while.
Nevermore.
.
Some writers would describe her as "raven-haired". Why is the raven the bird of choice in describing the color of a woman's hair, one might wonder? Why not "crow-black", or "blackbird-black"? My hunch is that it might have all started with E. A. Poe and the mysterious avian visitor who rapped on his chamber door, quothing the same word all the while.
Nevermore.
.
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