Has it happened? Is the who/whom distinction a thing of the past? I ask because the upper right corner of today’s NYT’s Sunday Opinion section asks: Who should Trump pick to be his running mate? Who? Not whom? The NYT! Et tu? Argggggggh!
Jackie Hostetler shared her “Tiny Love Story” with us today:
I eat an egg, over-easy, every morning.
In the summer, I make the egg myself. As a teacher, my mornings are slower during those months. It tastes fine. But during the school year, my husband makes the egg every morning. Same stove. Same pan. Same ingredients. Yet his egg is unbelievably delicious. Is it cliché to say the secret ingredient is love? Is it my love for him that makes the egg so good, or his love for me? Probably both. I think he uses more butter too.
Met Diary is especially good this week, IMO. This note is by Claire Steichen and is called “Rush-Hour Read.”
I was on a rush-hour train going uptown with my children, a 3-year-old and an infant. I had to stand with the stroller and the baby, but I found a spot where my daughter could sit a little ways away.
After she sat down with her “Madeline” book, she looked up at me. ”Mommy, you were going to read to me,” she said.
I made eye contact with a man sitting next to her. He was tall and slim, with a beige cotton summer suit and a bow tie.
“Sweetie, ask the man if he will read to you,” I said.
The man gestured toward himself.
“Me?” he said.
I nodded.
Then he read “Madeline” from 42nd Street to 72nd, as riders nearby looked on and listened.
We are going to continue stealing material shamelessly. I mean “sharing.”
This poem was in The Writer’s Almanac yesterday. It’s called “Sparrows” and is by Bill Holm.
Morning after first snow—
outside my kitchen window,
gray sparrows flap up
and down on a sagging clothesline.
It is a corn dance
in honor of sunshine on snow.
What joy in a sparrow’s body
as he jumps and eats—
a world of red barns,
snow, old clotheslines
and corn kernels is enough.
No brooding on hunger and death,
no suspicion among the sparrows.
I return from seeing a woman,
full of joy and dancing in my body—
lie awake all night
putting away old dreams like a man
packing for a long trip.
Now it is clear: her face
comes to me, and I sink
into sleep like childhood,
rising hours later to bright sun,
sparrows dancing on the clothesline.
In a world of grief, no one
has any right to such gifts
as I am given; I take them,
put on my feathers, and go
dance in the snow.
The poet who wrote “Sparrows,” Bill Holm, died at age 65 in 2009. He was 6′ 5″, bearded, and had a booming, generous personality. He was called “the polar bear of American literature.” He was of Icelandic descent and spent much time in Iceland, though he was a loving child of Minnesota.
Holm taught for 27 years at Southwest Minnesota State University at Marshall. One of his books, “Boxelder Bug Variations,” came about because of an assignment he gave his students, who complained that they had nothing to write about, out there on the prairie. “He told them, ‘That’s ridiculous! You can write about anything!’” his editor said. “A boxelder bug was crawling across his desk, and he said, ‘You can write about this!’ And he gave them that assignment. And then he gave it to himself.”
The Pistons’ winning streak ended at two. They lost to the Clippers last night, 112-106. They were up by 9 at the half, and by 5 going into the fourth quarter but the wheels fell off the bus at that point. The Lakers are next, in LA on Tuesday.
Today’s puzzle constructor, Peter Koetters, had a bright idea. It’s Edison’s birthday today so he constructed an Edison-themed puzzle. It included his full name in the answer, many of his better know inventions, the word “inventions,” and a grid design that depicts a light bulb. He called it “Bright Ideas.” You can see the design, below. The letters EDISON comprise the filament of the bulb.
66D is SPIRIT PHONE, clued as Edison’s “Failed device meant to communicate with the dead.” Modern Mechanix magazine published an article in 1933 detailing a covert gathering that allegedly took place in Edison’s laboratory in the winter of 1920, attended by several unnamed scientists. [OC note: We don’t think this means the scientists were not given names by their parents at birth — just that their names were not included in the article.]
According to the story, “Edison set up a photo-electric cell. A tiny pencil of light, coming from a powerful lamp, bored through the darkness and struck the active surface of this cell, where it was transformed instantly into a feeble electric current. Any object, no matter how thin, transparent, or small, would cause a registration on the cell if it cut through the beam.” The group spent hours observing the instrument for any movement that would indicate a successful connection with the beyond—to no avail.
At 108A the clue was “Soldier’s helmet, in old slang,” and the answer was TIN HAT. It led Son Volt to share this remarkable song performed by The Pogues, an Irish/English Celtic punk band: ”The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.” It’s about war. The song was written by Scottish-born Australian singer-songwriter Eric Bogle in 1971. The “tin hat” in it is anachronistic — steel helmets were not issued to the soldiers who fought at Gallipoli.
From the sublime to the despicable. I chuckled when I saw that the answer at 87A was SANDUSKY. Seriously? The clue could have been something like “Depraved sex monster on Paterno’s staff,” but it was “Ohio home to Cedar Point, the ‘Roller Coaster Capital of the World.’” A missed opportunity, for sure. I’ve long maintained that Sandusky’s only crime was that of a poor career choice. If he had gone into the priesthood, he’d be Pope by now.
I’m enjoying a book given to me by friend Norrie: Doris Kearns Goodwin’s memoir about growing up a Brooklyn Dodgers fan: ”Wait Till Next Year.” I grew up living close enough to Ebbets Field to hear the cheers from our back porch, but I never went to a game there. By the time I was eight the Dodgers were gone. I did see games at the Polo Grounds. Not the Giants though: The Mets played there in ’62 and ’63. Anyway, here’s a paragraph on Goodwin’s first visit to Ebbets Field with her dad in 1949. She was only six.
As the game got under way, my father proceeded to point out to me all the distinguishing features of the park: the uneven right field wall with the scoreboard in the middle and the Schaefer beer sign on the top, where the “h” would light up for a hit and the “e” for an error; the curious advertisement for Abe Stark’s clothing store, “Hit sign, Win suit,” which earned Stark such visibility that he was later elected borough president; the presence of Hilda Chester, a large woman in a print dress repeatedly clanging two cowbells to support the Dodgers and irritate the opposition; and the arrival of the Sym-Phony, a ragtag band formed by a group of rabid fans whose comic accompaniment had become an institution at Dodger games. When they disagreed with an umpire’s call, the little band played “Three Blind Mice.” When a strikeout victim from the opposition headed back to the dugout, they played “The Worms Crawl In, the Worms Crawl Out.” As opposing teams grew irate at these antics, a sense of camaraderie grew among Dodger fans that made the experience of going to Ebbets Field unforgettable.
Are you familiar with the “traditional Indonesian percussion orchestra?” It’s called GAMELAN. I vaguely remember hearing of it. According to Wikipedia, it’s made up predominantly of percussive instruments. The most common are metallophones (played with mallets) and a set of hand-drums called kendang, which keep the beat.
The kemanak, a banana-shaped idiophone, and the gangsa, another metallophone, are also commonly used gamelan instruments on Bali.
Other notable instruments include xylophones, bamboo flutes, a bowed string instrument called a rebab, below, and a zither-like instrument called a siter.
Additionally, vocalists may be featured, referred to as sindhen for females or gerong for males.
Why aren’t these women smiling? Phil — what did you say to them?? Jeez Louise!
Here’s how it all sounds. And we’ll let these fine young folks send us off today. See you tomorrow!
The Wellington Files 