I always felt a little bit of a sham celebrating St. Patrick's Day. Like a true Heinz 57 American, I assumed I had some Irish blood in me somewhere; I just didn't figure it would be more than a drop or two. We did the DNA test thing last year, and I was pleasantly surprised. I can't compete with my husband's 56% results, but 6% for me is about 5% more than I would've guessed. (How wrong I was about other aspects of my own DNA ancestry is fodder for another post.) I should've guessed I had a little Irish in me based on how much I enjoy drinking beer.
Beer is a pretty big deal in Ireland. This is not news. What was news to me, however, were the following little factoids I distilled from some Googling;
Beer has been brewed in Ireland for 5000 years or more. Hops doesn't grow well there, so early beers were barley-based ales. They were brewed locally by women known as alewives. Brewing was traditionally a female profession from ancient history until the Middle Ages.
Half the alcohol produced in Ireland is beer. This may be news for the whisky fans.
Stout used to be the leader but was overtaken by lager in the 1900s. Stout initially meant higher alcohol content. In the Irish stout world, Guinness is king, In 1756 Arthur Guinness secured a 9000 year lease on the brewery location at St. James Gate in Dublin. It is the largest brewer of stout in the world. It began brewing Irish dry stout, using roasted barley, to avoid paying the additional tax levied on malted barley.
Porter is a dark colored beer resulting from roasting the malts, barley, and other ingredients. Guinness stopped making ale in 1799 to devote its attention to porter.
I'm not a fan of dark or heavy beers. My favorite Irish beer is Harp. Harp is a lager style, which means it is lighter in color. Lagers are cold processed which means the beer ferments at a lower temperature. Guinness developed the Harp brand in the 1960s.
Irish red ales Such as Killian's Irish Red get their reddish color from the caramel in the recipe. Ironically, Killian's is no longer available in Ireland. Coors bought the rights to the name in the 1980s.
And last but not least (did I bury the lede?):
Until the 1970s, pubs in Ireland were closed on St. Patrick's Day. Excessive revelry during Lent was frowned upon in the heavily Catholic country.
It's hard imagining a dry St. Patty's Day in Ireland! We often throw a party at our house, but this year we're headed downtown to celebrate with a bigger crowd. I'm hoping it's dry, but only meteorologically speaking. Drink responsibly!
Not being a country music fan, about all I know about Kitty Wells before listening to her obit on NPR is that she was a singer in that genre. What piqued my interest was that she was one of the first female singers to hit big. Her first hit, 1952's "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels", was an answer song to country music superstar Hank Thompson's version of "Wild Side of Life". Apparently one of the song's writers had been dumped, and wrote "Wild Side" to vent about what a tramp his ex was. "Angels" rebutted, basically saying if she was a tramp, it was probably due to some no-good man treating her bad. (Pardon my grammar - I am trying to be authentic with the topic here.)
First things first: are you telling me NO women were popular singers until the 1950s???? That just seems strange to me. But if it says so on Wiki, it must be true. Apparently record labels were hesitant to record solo women, thinking they would only sell if they were in duets or backup singers. Kitty Wells changed all that. Although it was initially banned by NBC radio, the Grand Ole Opry and others for its adult theme, people couldn't get enough of "Angels". With it, Wells became the first woman to have a number one song on Billboard magazine's country chart.
Note Thompson's song with the similar theme was not banned.
Secondly: to be honest I think I was more intrigued by the concept of the "answer" song. Apparently it was a popular trend in country music of that era. It has popped up in other genres from time to time. I wonder if there are more answer songs out there than we realize?
I Heard It Through The Grapevine - Marvin Gaye answer: Won't Get Fooled Again - The Who
I Want To Hold Your Hand - The Beatles answer:Born To Run - Bruce Springsteen
Ain't Too Proud To Beg - Temptations answer:Let's Get It On - Marvin Gaye
Let's Stay Together - Al Green answer:Beat It - Michael Jackson
Welcome To The Jungle - Guns n Roses answer:I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
Like A Virgin - Madonna answer:Losing My Religion - REM
How Will I Know - Whitney Houston
answer:You Oughtta Know - Alanis Morissette
Yes, I am just having a little fun with titles. The true answer songs are 100% devoted to answering the original, beginning to bridge to chorus to end. Some answer songs are lame, simply turning a few of the original song's lyrics around to reflect an opposite viewpoint. Others are fully formed and could stand on their own. My favorite example of this is Lynyrd Skynyrd's angry, indignant "Sweet Home Alabama" in answer to Neil Young's "Southern Man". Extra points awarded when the performer is also the songwriter. Somehow this gives more authenticity to the 'answer'. It's not unusual for singers to perform songs written by others. In fact, it is the norm. But after all the hype about Ms. Wells' groundbreaking offering with "Angels", it was a letdown to learn she had not written the lyrics and was just called in to sing that day as part of her recording contract. Who even knows if she actually identified with the lyrics, and was striking a musical blow for women's rights? Unfortunately it is more likely she just came in to the studio, sang the song, collected her paycheck, and went home.
Whatever the circumstances, thanks, Ms. Wells et. al., for giving female performers a jump-start in 1952 and also to the writer of 'Wild Side', without which we would have had no need for an 'answer' song. Who knows how long it would have taken otherwise?
The original version of this post first appeared in July 2012.
Mother Nature dropped a bitterly cold nastygram on our doorsteps this week. While I abhor cold weather in all its guises, I admit I am crushing on the meteorological moniker sometimes bestowed upon these events: 'polar vortex'.
I find myself swishing it around in my mind as well as my mouth, enjoying the feel of it as that V and that X come tantalizingly close to colliding, were it not for the abrupt intervention of R and T. I really don't care what it means (although I did Google - NERD). It's one of those great phrases I will be tossing around for as long as I can get away with it. Somebody please name a car and a lipstick and a Ben & Jerry's flavor after this thing ASAP. Marketing gold, I'm tellin' ya.
Which of course got me thinking about other phrases I enjoy saying, hearing, thinking, regardless of what they mean. In my favorites, the words just sound great together. Much like a fine wine, the individual components intertwine in a way that guarantees satisfaction. It's all about the perfect pairing of consonants with syllable count. Too many vowels, and you come off wheezy and ineffective. Too many syllables, and it's clunky and unpronounceable. And don't forget about a touch of emphasis at the proper time. In the above example, it must be the VOR; not the PO, not the LAR and certainly not the TEX.
Here are a few more of my favorites. Check out those consonants!
Battlestar Galactica - it's all about the 'ac', a little about the added 'a'. Battlestar Galactic would be fairly cool, but that extra 'a' is the cherry on top.
Big Bang - short and sweet, yet explains a complex astronomical phenomenon even a four-year-old can understand. And you can't ignore the sexual overtones here. Apologies to all the four-year-olds.
Event Horizon - maybe due to the perfectly wretched eponymous movie, but a shiver runs down my spine whenever I hear this phrase. It says Ruh Roh! in the classiest possible way.
Superconducting Super Collider - all those S's slamming around, describing something so smashing, one 'super' doesn't do the job!
Boom Stick - Originally intended for baseball bats, but I hijacked it for my tennis racquet. At my age this is a bit of a stretch to describe my game, but it amuses me, so it stays.
Seeing a pattern here. The science community must have a heckuva marketing linguist stashed away somewhere!
There is some science behind my amateur analysis of what makes words 'sound' good together. Turns out most people prefer words with a good balance of vowels and consonants. Words containing letters that make more noise ('plosive' to you linguists out there) attract more attention - the backfiring cars of phonetics. And as in most things, sexism also rears its ugly head. Some letters are perceived as masculine; others feminine. There is some overlap between the noisy letters and the masculine letters, as anyone who has raised boys could have predicted.
The cold is already receding from my part of the country. I won't miss it, but I will miss hearing and reading about the Polar Vortex throughout the day. I know I can count on the wordsmiths to come up with a few more delightful word pairings to get us through the winter. A pity we also have deal with the not-so-delightful weather they accompany.
Soon we will be rescued from two months of ho-hum televised sports viewing with opening of the baseball season. Huzzah!
I know, I know, baseball has an image problem. The fan base is shrinking. Many consider it boring. You know what? I don't care. I feel the same way about certain sports, so, non-baseball fans, I share your pain. You watch your stupid boring sport, and I'll watch something worth watching. How anyone who watched the final game of the 2016 World Series thinks baseball is boring is beyond me. But I digress.
Okay, full disclosure: I have powerful, sentimental motivation to follow a sport that admittedly can be a bit of a slog if you're not familiar with the game. My dad was a multi-sport athlete in high school and earned a baseball scholarship to Sul Ross University in Alpine, Texas (my birthplace). Alpine is out in the far west mountainous triangle-shaped frontier of Texas. Back then it was just a wide spot on the road. but it was a real baseball hotspot due to the obsession of wealthy rancher Herbert Kokernot. Dad played for Mr. Kokernot's Alpine Cowboys until he was signed by the Milwaukee Braves in 1956. He pitched for the Braves in their farm system for a few years before realizing the baseball biz wasn't likely to support his growing family. Oh, how times have changed.
Opening Day always opens the memory floodgates of our family baseball lore. There's the tawdry yet amusing shenanigans of baseball wives (told by my mom - about other wives, natch - Dad claims no knowledge of any such goings on). Mom does wish we'd quit telling about the time she dashed out of her seat to dodge an incoming foul ball tip, leaving me behind, an innocent, gormless infant, blissfully unaware of the 70 mph cowhide-wrapped bullet of death about to rain down on my head. Handy tip: foul tips are possibly the lone disadvantage of players' wives getting those great seats behind the home dugout.
I'm thrilled to be able to show you the hilarious grainy video of the players milking cows on the mound as a publicity stunt. Luckily for my dad, he was a country boy born and raised. He knew his way around a set of udders just as well as he did a baseball diamond.
I am able to share with you an example of the requisite yellowed newspaper clippings like the one here, bragging up my dad as 'the big righthander' and 'fireballer' and the pitcher of not one but TWO shutouts in post-season play as a highschooler. Ain't no thang. Just two shutouts. In two appearances. Probably in the same week. Yawn.
This is why, at the Jones household, we understand why the baseball pitcher's arm is considered the most valuable body part in professional sports. This is why the Rangers' devastating loss to the Cardinals in the sixth game of the 2011 World Series still gets me a little choked up (we will not speak of this *sniff*). And this is why I'm so freakin' pumped for baseball season to start. Got the hat. Got the shirt. Got the remote. Let the games begin.
A version of this article first appeared in the 2016 A to Z Blog Challenge.
While browsing the news one day when we still lived in Minnesota, I read about a woman called Ann Bilansky. Ann has the dubious distinction of being the first white person and first (and last) woman executed after Minnesota became a state. She was hanged in 1860 after being convicted of the poisoning death of her husband.
This news nugget made me wonder about other women who have been executed for their crimes. There aren't that many, thank goodness! But there are more than fifty that have met that fate from colonial days to the present. A small percentage compared to five figures' worth of men executed, but still, fifty is a lot.
Of these, half a dozen were considered serial killers; most in the modern era. Several were killed during the Salem Witch Trial era. A disturbing number were convicted of murder by poison, usually arsenic. I suppose it's true what they say: poison is a woman's weapon (unless you run Russia or North Korea).
Fellow writers, if you're looking for story ideas, look no further. There are some real doozies. And as they say, truth is stranger than fiction.
Some notorious female criminals are familiar to many of us.
The movie Monster starring Charlize Theron was based on the life of serial killer Ailene Wuornos, who was executed by lethal injection in 2002.
Ethel Rosenburg and her husband Julius got the chair in 1953 after being convicted of espionage (selling nuclear secrets to the Russians).
Mary Surratt was hung in 1865 for her role in the conspiracy to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.
And then there are the less well-known. As you can imagine, there are some fascinating stories lurking in the background. Consider:
Martha Beck, who got the chair at Sing Sing in 1951. She was one half of the infamous Lonely Hearts Killers duo. Trust me, folks, this is one of the rare occasions I did NOT enjoy the research process. Lawd. I think the entire series of Law & Order SVU is some iteration of their sordid tale.
Elizabeth Van Valkenburgh was executed in 1846 for poisoning her husband. She was hanged while sitting in her rocking chair, as she was tremendously overweight and the executioners wanted to avoid botching it.
Two unfortunates who did not avoid botching: Roxana Druse, whose botched hanging in 1887 resulted in a slow, agonizing death by strangulation; and Eva Dugan, who was decapitated during her hanging in 1930. Both fiascos resulted in a change in methods of execution in the respective states (Arizona and New York).
Josefa "Chipita" Rodriguez was hanged in Texas in 1863. She said little during her trial for murder during the commission of a robbery. It's thought she was covering for her son. Her last words were something to the effect of 'I'm not guilty'. Rumors abound that moans were reported coming from her coffin. Her ghost is said to haunt the town of San Patricio, where she died.
Hannah Ocuishis the youngest known legally executed person in American history. She was 12 when hanged in 1786; her victim was 6. Hanna beat her friend to death for ratting on her over some stolen strawberries.
Lavinia Fisher was hanged in 1820, convicted of crimes perpetrated on guests at an inn she and her husband owned in Charleston, South Carolina. There are some wild rumors about their exploits. My favorite is that like one of the female villains in the James Bond lexicon, Lavinia killed by crushing her victims' heads between her legs.
Presently there are fifty or so women sitting on death row somewhere. They may not all face execution. Some may escape, a la The Shawshank Redemption. Some may escape legally by having their convictions overturned. Some may avoid the chair or the needle if the capital punishment laws in their area change. Some may not outlive their sentence. One thing's for sure: that extra X chromosome is not much protection if you do the crime.
This post originally appeared as part of the 2016 A to Z Blog Challenge.
Back home now from a recent visit to Texas. The destination was nothing new - I grew up in Dallas. But traveling is always instructive if you pay attention. Some things I learned during my latest sojourn:
General travel stuff
The flight you are early for always leaves late.
The chances of your flight leaving on time (or even early! yes, it does happen! which is how I ended up spending the night at a Holiday Inn on Delta's dime recently) is directly proportional to how late you are running. Very late = very likely.
Checking a bag at the gate is the greatest idea since pop-top beer cans, especially if you don't have to worry about making connections.
Getting stranded overnight is fairly painless if the hotel is free and you haven't checked your bag.
The people whose airport jobs entail a lot of sitting on stools seem to be the ones most eager to take their breaks.
Taking off is fun every time.
Airplane wheels thumping back into the undercarriage is scary every time.
Handbags are useless for travel unless they can be carried over a shoulder.
If your travels take you through the Atlanta airport, wear comfortable shoes.
If you have less than a one hour layover through ATL, you will not make your connection.
Always let the ladies in heels go ahead of you on the airport escalators, bless their hearts.
Stepping onto a Down escalator with a heavy carry-on in one hand and a purse in the other, while wearing bifocals, is the closest I'll ever get to competing on American Ninja Warrior.
Having a family of readers who love to pass their books along is great, but makes for a heavy carry-on. Ebooks, people!
If I'm going to continue carrying this many real books in my carry-on, I need to get in better shape or get a carry-on size bag with wheels.
If you don't think losing 5 pounds will make much difference, try getting from ATL terminal T to D with a 20 lb. carry-on. Now I know why the pioneers dumped their heavy stuff all up and down the Oregon Trail.
What is with the creepy billboards at ATL? One was a slightly menacing message from a cyber security outfit. Another advertised software to 'influence' customer decisions. Big Brother, anyone?
Every time I go to Texas, I discover a new favorite beer.
Believe it or not, there is such a thing as too much Tex Mex.
Believe it or not, there is such a thing as too much chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and cream gravy.
Dallas has been overrun with donut shops. Add them to the list of taco stands, nail salons, and Walgreen's/CVS - there's one on every corner.
There is a heavy price to be paid for eating one's way through Texas (see what I did there?). The only thing that saved me this time: I don't like donuts.
You get very little writing done until you put your cell phone away. Sadly, ditto for books.
Spanx are always a good idea. Always pack the Spanx just in case.
Dreds are the hair version of Hoarders.
Possums are way cuter as babies.
If NSA is creeping all of us online, how about hacking into Ancestry.com and 23andme family tree DNA data? Possibly solve some cold cases in the process, amirite?
When making your own window screens, aluminum window screen is to be avoided at all costs. Go with the fabric screen instead. 2 hours per screen vs 20 minutes. Hey - I said it was random!
My latest book, The Dala Horse, is set in post-Civil War Texas. As I was researching that era, I came across an amusing compilation of recipes for coffee substitutes. The Union/Yankees/Northerners included the port of Galveston as part of their naval blockade to cut off supplies to the South. Many items, not just coffee, were unavailable for years.
Newspapers went kaput because newsprint was no longer available. Although many folks were used to making their own clothing at that time, they had the additional fun of having to make their own fabric during the war as well, since bolts of woven fabrics were scarce. But of all the things on hiatus in the South during and for a time after the Civil War, coffee was the most missed and most celebrated upon its return.
When contemplating this post I was sorely tempted to try out some of these substitutions and report on how they tasted compared to the real thing. There's just one problem: I don't drink coffee, mainly because I don't like coffee. I don't think I could have rendered a fair opinion. Roasted lug nuts would have probably tasted as good or better than actual coffee to me.
Then, as now, coffee was grown mostly in tropical hemispheres and imported for our consumption. So getting a crate of coffee beans delivered from Sao Paolo to San Antonio wasn't gonna happen with Great Scott's Anaconda snappishly guarding the door. But lots of other things grew wild and rampantly in the warm American South and were quickly pressed into service. Anything that could be roasted, ground, and brewed with hot water, was. Everything from corn meal to beets, rye, asparagus (seeds, not spears - mercy, no!), acorns, chicory, turnips, barley, parsnips, wheat, field peas, okra seeds, sweet potatoes, popcorn, cotton seeds, and tree bark was put forth. I kid you not. Tree. Bark. I will quote the actual 'receipt', as they were wont to say for 'recipe' back then, lest you not believe me:
"Take tan bark, three parts; three old cigar stumps and a quart of water, mix well, and boil fifteen minutes in a dirty coffee pot." Arkansas True Democrat, October 17, 1861
And you thought Starbucks had exhausted all possible coffee iterations. If this really was a thing, it goes a long way toward explaining coffee drinker halitosis.
Every substitute suggested was strongly backed by the person suggesting it, claiming it was as good or better than the real thing. This is utter nonsense, of course (except maybe for the chicory, which I understand is still popular as a coffee ingredient in certain parts of the south). People couldn't wait to get their coffee beans back in the pot after the war. I wish the acorn recipe had panned out. I would be sitting on an acorn coffee goldmine thanks to the massive and prolific jack oak tree in my front yard. Instead, I'm forced to rely on the local squirrel population to remove them from underfoot, bless their hearts. If they can learn to operate a wheelbarrow, they can use mine, no charge.
There have been many other instances food shortages since the 'unpleasantness' between the North and the South. Many items, including sugar and dairy products, were rationed during World War II. But this was before my time. More recent supply chain interruptions have not been war-related, thank goodness. We had the 2015 Blue Bell listeria scare. And the Cheesepocalypse (the 2014 rumors of a Velveeta shortage). And the temporary Twinkie extinction of 2013. All three products are restored or soon will be, and their consumers are ecstatic - even though their waistlines won't be. (Is anyone else worried that the most recent shortages have occurred not in an effort to conserve resources for a nobler effort, but because of faulty business or manufacturing models of over-processed, unhealthy junk food we shouldn't be eating anyway?)
That's not to say current generations haven't experienced sacrifice. They've come up with a way to inflict one upon themselves. It's called a 'diet'. Just talk to anyone who has voluntarily given up meat or pasta or sugar. Their behavior is eerily similar to the pioneers who longed for their coffee beans. Here's the modern version of the Five Stages Of Deprivation:
1) Reminiscing - stories of how things used to be 'before', when their metabolism was fully functioning or before they learned more than they wanted to know about the processed food industry.
2) Self-pity - The sad little tear quickly wiped away after fruitlessly perusing a menu at a chic new bistro for something they are willing to eat, and having to settle for a side salad.
3) Ingenuity - The bizarre formulations concocted in a desperate attempt at approximating the missing item. Google 'gluten-free brownie recipe'.
4) False Confidence - The insistence that their substitute food of choice is just as tasty as the original. For the best example of this, sit next to your vegan cousin next Thanksgiving.
5) Ecstasy - The rapturous expression at the inevitable slip when they allow themselves a nibble of the forbidden item.
I wish it weren't so, but I've learned these things from sad experience. Our coffee supply is fine. But the ice cream - well, that's another story. Here at my house, we're somewhere between Self-Pity and Ecstasy. At long last, the first Blue Bell delivery in months finally arrived at our local grocery store. But it's so dang expensive, we wait for it to go on sale. They better hurry. We're starting to run out of tree bark and cigar stumps.
The original version of this post was published in December 2015.
As Lent is upon us, I have been interested to learn what people are giving up in this season of abstinence. It is no surprise to me that the item most often abandoned is some sort of food. There are a few iconoclasts who do without tobacco, or alcohol, or shopping. I never got beyond the idea of renouncing something edible (I gave up chocolate). To many of us, foregoing food is the ultimate sacrifice. There is only one person to blame for my epicureal preoccupation: my mother.
Mom is the last of her line in a fine tradition of southern cooks. She grew up in a large family. Her own mother, my grandmother Winona, had to satisfy nine healthy appetites for the better part of two decades. Winona had no microwave or dishwasher as helping hands in the kitchen. It is no wonder, then, that as the oldest of six children, my mother soon found herself the number one kitchen assistant, and thus learned to cook at the apron strings of the master.
It is difficult to recreate the multi-dimensional majesty of my mother’s cooking
via the printed word. Thanks to Mom, if I ever find myself on death row and they ask me what I want for my last meal, I am ready with an answer: my mother’s chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, green beans, and her homemade yeast rolls. Her home-brewed iced tea is the perfect accompaniment. As is the case with most meals, the meat is clearly the star.
Chicken-fried steak is a southern specialty, often confusing the uninitiated. Is it steak? Is it chicken? Deep-fried or pan fried? Some are surprised to learn it is only the humble cube steak, pounded into tender submission before being dunked in milk to allow the flour coating to stick. Then the palm-sized portions hit the hot grease of my mother’s black cast iron skillet with the initial hissssss to rival any McDonald’s French fry operation. Once they have turned a toasty brown and filled the house with the intoxicating aroma of fried meat (my apologies to vegetarians), they are ready to eat. When that first batch hit the paper towel-lined serving dish to make room in the skillet for the next, my father could always be found skulking about in the kitchen, stalking stray nibbles of steak that had become separated from the Pangaea of the bigger portions. Done properly, as my mother always did, chicken-fried steak requires nothing sharper than the side of your fork to divide it into bite-size pieces.
The side dishes pale in comparison to this pan-fried glory. They are there for the sake of upholding tradition; and in the case of the potatoes, upholding my mother’s cream gravy.
Never in all my classroom hours of chemistry or math did I ever approach the level of timing, precise measurement, and pure artistry required to duplicate Mom’s cream gravy. Making gravy from scratch is my culinary Holy Grail. I have tried and failed more times than the Jamaican bobsled team. There are just too many things that can go wrong. The grease must be of the correct temperature (hot) and quantity (equal to the flour). The flour must be stirred into the hot grease vigorously, so that the dreaded lumps cannot form. Then, and only then, the correct quantity of milk is added. If you do not own the little pink crockery bowl my mother uses for the milk, you will never be able to get the milk quantity right. I do not own one of these bowls, as they have not been made since 1960.
This is why, when Lent rolls around each year, giving up some sort of food is the worst suffering I can imagine. When I am feeling contemplative, I wonder how something so harmless as a good meal in good company should be something I should try to control; avoid, even. Then I look at my last cholesterol test results. I suppose setting aside one of my favorite edibles is the least I can do for Lent this year. If I had any guts, I would have given up chicken-fried steak.
Once upon a time not long ago, my daughter and son-in-law were visiting. One evening we went to a brew pub for dinner. In addition to great food and beer, it happened to be Bingo Night.
It has been ages since I played Bingo. I don't remember exactly when, but it was long before disposable Bingo sheets and fancy daubers. We used more substantial cardboard Bingo cards and little cardboard dots and squares to cover any numbers called. And yes, sometimes we went old school and used dried beans. At the end of each round, we dumped off the dots/squares/beans and started over again with the same card. Recycle!
Bingo originated in Italy 500 years ago as a lottery game. It has been popular in America for nearly 100 years. In the 1920s, toy entrepreneur Edwin Lowe noticed Bingo at a rural Georgia traveling carnival and brought the idea back home with him to New York. It was a huge hit. It's still a lottery or gambling game. But it has been put to work as a fundraiser so often, even churchgoing grannies don't mind 'gambling' if they can tell themselves it's for a good cause.
One of the ironies of Bingo is that it is seen as a social activity. But you should have seen our table of six once the Bingo commenced. All banter ceased. Even cell phone interaction came to a screeching halt. All ears and eyes were on the caller and the card. Our meals were delivered, but they did not interrupt our game. Either you learned to multitask the dauber and the fork, or your meal went cold. Stopping Bingo to eat was not an option.
Next time we go out for Bingo, I want to show up prepared. I want my own personal dauber, preferably Lord of the Rings (Aragorn) or Wile E. Coyote. I am looking for a cell phone app that interprets the called Bingo numbers into a text, sort of like a cross between Shazam and closed captioning. Finally, I am bringing a feeding tube so I won't be distracted by silly things like chatting with my dinner companions, eating, and drinking beer. That's why I love Bingo - it's so social!
This being February, and myself having more than a passing interest in history, I would be remiss if I did not devote at least one post to Black History Month.
Now I could ramble on as I am wont to do. There are topics a-plenty, all of them fun, interesting, entertaining, enlightening, informative. But I'm not gonna ramble today, because I want to keep the focus tight.
During February, we hear a lot about slavery and the civil rights movement (as well we should). But I don't recall ever seeing much on the founder of the celebration itself. His name was Dr. Carter G. Woodson.
Dr. Woodson has an impressive background. The son of former slaves, he was the oldest of nine. Young Carter had it tough. Growing up on a farm in modest circumstances, he was no stranger to hard work. He did not let his humble beginnings stop him. In fact, he put that work ethic to good use and graduated early from high school. In 1912 Woodson become only the second black man to earn a Ph.D. from Harvard University. He traveled the world. When he returned home, his lifelong goal was to promote the study of black history. Exceptionally intelligent, Woodson wrote several scholarly works with historical or educational themes, including The Mis-Education of the Negro. He encouraged the study and interpretation of black history by founding Black History Week in 1926. It was a hit, could not be confined to only seven days, and since 1976 we have been celebrating the entire month.
Dr. Woodson was heard to express the wish that someday there would be no need for a special month devoted to black history; that recognition of societal contributions to history would be colorblind. I support that sentiment. But I also like celebrating history! So let's do both - recognize contributions by all, celebrate contributions by all. And give props to Dr. Woodson, without whom February might just be that annoying short month when we have to buy cards, flowers, and chocolates, or else.