Be Mine (more cards for you, for St.Valentine's Day)

 Again, I've been raiding my supply of ephemera acquired during my quest for postcards, scanning & cleaning them to the best of my abilities via P'shop, and submitting them for your perusal. 

Some of them were single images, pretty much the standard one-sided cards like most of us exchanged in school – for those, I didn't think anybody would want to look at pictures of off-white cut-out cards. There's one that has moving parts, and I took it apart to show how it works, so you get both the together and the separate images. The rest were folded cards, so there are two images per card: outside and inside (yeah! lookin' at Valentine guts!).  

The makers of this one saw me coming,
didn't they?

If you like what you see, and you know somebody else might like this stuff, as well, please copy/share. Click any image (as usual) to embiggen.

The head is a cutout, & the card folds
for pop-up puppr

Held together with a brad, the head
rocks side to side to make the eyes move

It looks really disturbing when
separated

I guess it isn't Valentine's Day w/o pudgy kids…

… and cute, badly-rhyming verses

Not sure whether cute or creepy

this is probably cute

My personal nerdy fave for the moment

Boy meets girl

story complete

Sad face

sad stuffings

This one has tattered doilies

& seemingly unrelated innards

This one's not actually a Valentine, but it kind of sums up my own
relationship history, so it gets included.
It's also probably cut from a box

Rituals Must Be Observed

It's that time, again.

Not an earworm. Just a part of my life, annually appreciated.

Thanks for the Memorial: The Trek Begins Early

We were originally planning to leave for our cruise on the evening of Monday immediately prior to our Friday launch date (as I mentioned in my earlier post), but we made the important discovery that the weekend included Memorial Day, so my friend was blessed with a four-day weekend from work.

I will be forever thankful twice over, now, for the sacrifices made so that I might have comfort and freedom in this country… this added time meant that we would have the opportunity to stop a couple of places along the way, to see a little bit of what they had protected.

Our original plan involved not sleeping in a bed anywhere between the Mississippi river and Puget Sound. Our new plan allowed for us to leave home early Saturday morning and rest two nights in western Nebraska before heading upward and onward.  It also allowed me to pay my respects to a representative few of those who gave that Last Full Measure of Devotion: our hosts for the weekend were retired military personnel who had been asked to participate in an early Memorial Day ceremony near their home. They invited all of us to go along. The boys were inclined to mow the lawn and otherwise sit back and relax. My friend had studying to do.

I accepted the invitation.

At the church cemetery for Berea Lutheran Church, near Chapell, NE.

I was not disappointed. The day was lovely, with a strong breeze lifting the flag proudly, and carrying voices up and outward to the fields. Our hostess gave a thoughtful speech encouraging family and friends of veterans to ask questions, ask for stories of service from their loved ones, before those stories are lost. 

When the service was done, we returned home to relax and enjoy each other's company for the rest of the day.

Day is done

Monday would be a long day, with a new, extended itinerary, and we needed to rest up for it.


Update:
Here's the video I took of our hostess delivering her speech:

The Twelve Days of Christmas are not here yet

I've heard at least a half dozen different references to the twelve days of Christmas as leading up to Christmas Day, from advertisements to newscasters, all making the same mistake.

I'm not a Christian by most strict definitions (agnostics can't really make a claim to being anything, can we?), but at least I know that the twelve days of song begin with Christmas Day and end on Twelfth Night. It doesn't take a Shakespearean scholar to remember that.

The twelfth night was the night of the arrival of the three magi. It's also known in some circles as Epiphany (I like having a special breakfast on that day, out of sheer punliness). It's the day, back before the Victorian era, when English families exchanged the most treasured gifts (Christmas Day was reserved for services, with prayer and then feasting). It's the day they finally burned the yule log and observed the rest of the fun pagan rituals we now think of as part of Christmas celebrations -- you know, the parties, the dances, the drinking, the carousing, and the joyous, raucous riot.

I guess that economic issues must have forced folks to cram all their gift-giving into the first day, some time about a century and a half ago, but that doesn't mean the holiday shifted forward two weeks. Will somebody please tell the media?

Thank you to all veterans, on your day

To all who served:

May there come a day when we no longer need your services, and never again come a day when you are not appreciated.

Happy Independence Day, America!

I'm a little short on sleep, this morning. It seems that, once the tents go up around the Midwest, hawking pyrotechnics, some of my neighbors can't keep their rockets in their pockets, so to speak. Last night, at 1:15 and again at 1:45, some clever soul set off those big cannon blasts. Well, it was, technically, the 4th of July. I guess they don't want to compete with the big show at Citizens Lake, tonight, so they suffered premature ignition.

But, during the course of the day, there will be real celebrations. Out at Monmouth Municipal Airport, planes come and go for the Fly-in Breakfast and concert. People will be having picnics all over the place. I may even go picking blueberries at a pick-'em-yourself farm near the River. And, of course, in the evening there are fireworks and bands playing at local watering holes. I will avoid those.

If, however, you are out and celebrating this day, I hope you enjoy every second of it. And, remember what it's really all about.

Happy Father's Day!

For all who have well-sired young'uns, this day is for you. Salutations!

And, for those whose young'uns aren't so well-sired... my Pop's sympathies. He knows how it feels.

On Mothers

This mommy and her husband have garnered my awe:


and it gets better.


I picked this up while visiting Hot Air. AllahPundit had brought this to the page, with the videos, and the comments got me to really thinking about the attitudes folks have toward child-bearing and child-rearing, today. Some, like me, think it's pretty spiffy that a few people have the wherewithall to raise kids well and happy. Some others have downright offensive views, as far as I'm concerned:

In as much as you gotta respect that the man has stuck around and his 18 kids are all with the same momma, there’s just something about a couple that reproduces like their hobby is populating the Earth, when there are so many kids around the world who will not be eating tonight. Seems to me if they love kids so much, they can travel to Africa or Far East asia to pick up a few over there.

As if children were a commodity one could drop by one's favorite boutique for – that darling, fashionable one just like Brangelina's.

Raising kids with love and joy is a gift, and it's one which may enable those kids (or some just like them) to grow up to solve the political problems in Asia and Africa which leave so many children starving and desperate.

As the eve of Mother's Day grinds its way toward an end (all right, it's only about 3/4 through, right now), I find myself thinking about what it is to be a mother. By all biological rights, I can take that label for myself, but by all that is real, I can't. I can't even imagine what it is to be the woman who raises a child, sees to its needs, and receives its love in return. I have a good and active imagination, but it won't go there (probably for my own good. I have enough regrets already).

Still, I am ever-amazed by those who manage to do the thing I could not do, and raise a healthy child. The woman who took in and adopted my daughter has all my respect, as do my own mother, my sister, and my brugly other's wife.

My own mom had startling success – three out of four of us have a little chemical imbalance, and yet, three out of four have been successful in life, even by the standards of the general public. Then of course, there's me. But don't discount that, either. Mom managed to keep me together when nobody else could, back in the worst of my days (well, she had a little help from my seester, but then, where did she learn how to be stable?). She's propped me up when I've needed it, and somehow managed to keep a straight face when I was a complete idiot, so as to make me less embarrassed than usual at my own reflection. No small stuff.

Mothering is a rare gift. Good mothering is rarer still.

Illustration from Yourself and Your House Wonderful, by H. A. Guerber, Uplift Publishing, 1913

Postcard, non-gratuitous: Merry Christmas!

As the card says,
May Christmas morn dawn brightly and fill your heart with many joys.

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

I hope everybody has been having a wonderful day, with feast and with family (that includes extended family -- kin and kindred). I am now going to prop myself up in a corner and pretend I wish I had not had that last bite of Jackie's (original Woolworth recipe) pumpkin custard pie. My abdominal wall may regret the last action, but the taste buds cry out for still more.

Happy Thanksgiving! May you have much for which to be thankful.

Postcard: Happy Independence Day!

I don't care much for fireworks, but I still eagerly anticipate Independence Day each year. It isn't just that I love the Sousa music, or that I love this country, but that this day means so much to every American. This is the day we, as a nation, decided we must stand on our own feet, independent of the protection and the burden of our mother country.

We really didn't have a very good reason to thumb our nose at the King of England, after all. As colonies go, we had a pretty good life. Our tax burden was modest -- smaller, in fact, than many royal subjects "back home". The benefit we received was pretty darned great, as well, since the Royal Army had just saved our land from the encroaching French frontiers, as part of the Seven Years War (our part of which we conveniently named for the enemies -- the French and Indians -- so as to separate ourselves from our historical, moral obligation).

Nevertheless, we were an adolescent people, led by a group of hotheads and a few relatively temperate souls. We sought our own, separate identity. We were sure we deserved to be treated as equals in every way, so we issued the Crown scathing insults: you're a crummy father, you're a bully, you never let us have anything we want, and, besides, you never asked us if we wanted to be born into this family, so we want out.

We got out. We, as a nation, took our chance to grow up. It wasn't easy -- nothing of real value is. Thousands of lives were lost. Families were rent in half. It was years before the initial war ended, even more years before we had a stable government -- nearly a century, really.

As a result, we have every reason to take pride in our accomplishment, to stand free, to keep a democratic republic running fairly and, for the most part, to do so honestly. We have continued to grow and learn from our mistakes. We aren't perfect, but, by God, we're becoming grownups, by God, we're family, and by God, we try.

Take pride in this great country. Celebrate her -- and our -- independence safely and with joy. But above all else, celebrate!

Happy Father's Day!

Especially to you, Pop!

One father is more than a hundred school-masters.
-George Herbert



Everybody has these great and moving tributes to Dads worldwide. I'm afraid I lack the words to express the complex, complicated, extraordinarily ordinary relationship I've had with mine. He's my pop. He's entirely too dignified to be called "Pop", and, yet, he seems not to mind too strenuously when I call him that.

This week, Pop has already repaired the front porch roof (see picture, above), and is now resting after having denuded the garage of its poor, sad shingles. He does not work out there in the heat of the day. He may be a little crazy, but he's by no means stupid.

Pop is the smartest man I have ever met -- and I haven't spent my entire life in this cow town out in the middle of nowhere. I've been places, shaken hands with all sorts of folks. Pop was a college professor, a nuclear physicist, a published author (and of a genuinely, deliberately humorous piece, no less!), and still is a hard-working fellow who likes to solve puzzles both on the page and in real life. He's also pretty handy-dandy at woodworking, but, since he's extremely self-critical, he doesn't do much of it, any more, more is the pity. Pop has a marvelous eye with his cameras, keeps a beautiful, neat, and functional garden, can cite verse both high and doggerel, was once a champion-level square dancer, knows the difference between a Fragonard and a fragmentation grenade, and is as great a cook as his mother was (actually, slightly better).

In other words, my father is pretty close to Renaissance Man.

It's hard as hell to live up to that standard. I figure I'm doing well if I keep my hair combed and my fingernails unchewn. But I try, because Pop would appreciate it.

Isn't that what Father's Day is supposed to be about?

Postcard: lest we forget

May your Memorial Day be peaceful and filled with friends and loved ones.

A salute, on Armed Forces Day (with postcard)

How happy am I when my soldier is by,
While he kisses and presses his Annie O.
'Tis a soldier alone can delight me O,
For his graceful look do delight me O;
While guarded in his arm
I'll fear no war's alarm,
Neither danger nor death shall e'er affright me O.

-Dumbarton's Drums (Trad.)

I won't limit my admiration and affection to soldiers alone. Every man and woman serving in our armed forces, today, earns hugs, kisses, and a big, serious salute.

Not-so-gratuitous Postcard: Happy Mother's Day

M is for the million things she gave me....


Yes, it's a day invented by a greeting card company to improve sales. Who cares? It's a good day to honor the woman who put up with your idiocies for all those years (and, if that's not coming from your female biological progenitor, find a woman who has given you the support which got you to this point, and give her flowers and candy, or a really neat finger-painting to go on the refrigerator, or whatever you think she'll like best from you).

In accordance with my mother's wishes, I will not get all sappy and sentimental over this holiday or our relationship. I will simply repeat what I've said over the years, to friends who have worried about becoming their mothers:

1. There are fates much more terrible.

2. If only I could be so lucky.

3. I'll share mine with you. She's a really good one to copy.

4. Come have some tea with us.


That last one is her advice. You'll feel better about yourself after a few hours in her company.

Happy Moth-er's Day, Bat!

Easter wishes

For the faithful


and the secular


I wasn't raised in a religious environment. Just about the only "regular" time I went to church was when we visited the farm where Mom grew up, and Grandma Helen (technically, our great aunt) made us dress up and attend Easter services at the Methodist Church in Minooka, IL. I don't have clear memories of the services themselves, or even of the day being particularly holy to us. What I do recall is that it was always a time to refresh the spirit. And I always felt surrounded by people who loved me, who therefore would do anything, make any sacrifice for me.

After the misery of winter, we'd take a long drive from our home down here on the other side of the state, and the weekend with family and friends and quiet, reserved happiness gave us something magnificent to carry home with us. It didn't exactly require faith in something huge -- just acceptance of the love of those who did have that faith, and enjoyment in the company of family.

I'm still agnostic. I still don't have any answers to the ultimate question of the universe ("42" notwithstanding). But what I do know is, this weekend is a time to appreciate the gift of love in all its forms.

So, whether you believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God or not, have a happy Easter. Share the love.

Gratuitous postcard: St. Paddy's day edition

It's not exactly politically correct, even from its own time, but I thought I'd better put up a card to wish everybody a


Happy St. Patrick's Day!


From the red to the green...

Happy Birthday, General Washington!

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his essay, Civilization:

The true test of civilization is, not the census or the size of the cities, nor the crops –– no, but the kind of man the country turns out.

The ultimate example of that kind of man is honored this week.

I'm not one to celebrate all the presidents (there are so many to pointedly not celebrate), so I avoid the whole "President's Day" thing. I don't shop the sales, I don't break from my work schedule, or any of that. I do still reserve this day each year to celebrate the man who set the tone for the presidency, the nation, and, perhaps, the globe:

Labour to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire, – conscience.
Rule from the copybook of George Washington when a schoolboy.

Which rule he reiterated, to a strong degree, as an adult:

If men are to be precluded from offering their sentiments on a matter, which may involve the most serious and alarming consequences that can invite the consideration of mankind, reason is of no use to us ; the freedom of speech may be taken away, and dumb and silent may we be led, like sheep to the slaughter.
Address to the officers of the Army, March 15, 1783

Even though, in my view, he never received sufficient respect from his supposed friend, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington laid a framework even Jefferson's ambitions could not completely undo at the time:

Let me now... warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party.
Farewell address, Sept. 17, 1796

There are days I believe Jefferson -- in the long run -- won the war, as well as the battle, and now in government too much time is spent in a partisan clash of egos, instead of on concerns of conscience and the good of the nation.

Still, we will, as Emerson suggested, "hitch our wagon to a star," and strive to meet the original standard.

And George Washington set a very high standard indeed.

My personal favorite postcard of him is this:

I don't imagine those who know me will take long to wonder why.

Being of a rural/farming region, I learned to appreciate some of the less-well-known facts about the man. For example, Washington invested considerable time in improving the lot of American farmers, and improving their spirits besides.

Farmer, inventor, architect, surveyor, soldier, statesman, scholar, all-around good guy, that -- and more -- was George Washington. As Daniel Webster once put it,

America has furnished to the world the character of Washington. And if our American institutions had done nothing else, that alone would have entitled them to the respect of mankind.

Happy 275th, General Washington! May your star always shine upon us and within us.

Postcards for the New Year

I attended a small gathering with friends, last night, to ring in the new year. We had a pleasant evening, watched a couple of silly movies, had a few laughs, I sang one song (none of us even pretended to attempt "Auld Lang Syne" since I think I'm the only one who knew any of the words (and I pretended I didn't, because I'd rather sing something a little less maudlin).

No champagne, no confetti, no noisemakers, no party hats (darn it. I left my glittery top hat hanging in the front hall when I went out -- distracted by kitties). Just good company and a few good laughs, especially over Hollywood's problems with basic laws of physics and why so many truly talented actors could involve themselves in the making of "Flash Gordon", knowing how bad the script was, and seeing how wooden the actor in the title role was.



Our houses have more company, this week, so there may be a bit of light blogging. However, I've (once more) neglected until late to link to my column*, so please drop in over there, and leave comments if you wish. I'm hoping that, in light of last evening's events, there is no real prophecy, there.

Plus, at that blogsite, I've been working on another little project you may enjoy, timed for the beginning of this new year. It will be updated as my work progresses.


*which the editors of the Daily Review Atlas print each Friday, at no cost to me.

Postcard, brevkort, and breakfast of happiness

Because of divorce and a peculiar family dynamic, Mom was raised by her aunt and uncle from the time she was about four years old until she married Pop. One of the best things to come from this arrangement was that we had extra "grandparents". Plus, Mom had an extra grandma, in effect, by virtue of her maternal aunt's marriage.

We were all blessed, therefore, to spend Christmas, plus several other holidays and a few other occasions, on the farm that family had owned since the middle of the 19th century. Outside the window of the room we kids most often filled, there stood and spun a 40-foot-tall windmill which still drove the pump for the farm's water as late as the 1970s, as the wheel at the top creaked and whined all day and night. That noise, combined with the excitement of being with the rest of our gigantic family, meant we all had a lot of sleepless nights.

For all the lack of slumber, we could always count on prying open our eyes to real, hearty farm foods -- dozens of eggs, scrambled and/or fried, slabs of bacon, fresh bread, cinnamon-raisin toast, and, occasionally, the real treat: pancakes.

Still, we never had the one treat Mom remembered from her own childhood -- the treat her grandma called "plumkuchen," but was nothing like the recipes we found as we searched Mom's 300+ cookbooks for a reasonable facsimile.

The trouble is, the treat Mom remembered was a bit like a light muffin with a fresh prune plum half (pit removed) baked up in one of those round-bottom pans that, in Scandinavian circles, makes them "AEbleskiver". It seems Great-Grandma had come up with a variation on the Danish treat (though how she got the original, since she was German, we'll never know. We'll just assume she had friends in high cupboards).

At any rate, here's our reasonable facsimile of the family treat from days of yore:

Plummy kuchen-thingies
stove top -- no baking!

Ingredients:
3/4 cup sifted all-purpose flour
1 Tablespoon granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cardamom
1 cup heavy cream (or, in a pinch, half-and-half)
2 egg yolks, slightly beaten
2 egg whites, beaten until soft peaks form
melted butter
1 dozen fresh prune plums (small, dark-skinned, and heavily sweet), halved and pits removed

Directions:
Sift together flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and cardamom. Mix dry ingredients and cream into egg yolks. Fold beaten egg whites into the yolk mixture.

Heat pan over medium heat, brush lightly with butter. Half-fill wells with batter, drop in a plum half, cook until bottoms of cakes are puffed up and rich golden-brown, turn them to brown other side.

May be served plain or sprinkled with powdered sugar. I like them plain.

Apparently, the Danes served them without plums, and later American recipes included applesauce (hence the "AEble" part of "AEbleskiver"). But snce I'm in the process of growing a couple of dwarf prune plum trees in my yard, Mom has talked frequently of the day we can use the harvest to make these treats.

In the meantime, we're faking it with other fruits (namely apples, canned apricots or peaches).

And it's still a really great way to break fast on Christmas Day in the morning.