The Brothers of July

The Brothers of July

(To the tune of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home")

 

Here's to the brothers of July,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's to the brothers of July,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's to the brothers of July,

Who joke and play and never say die;

And all their birthdays

Are bunched up in July.

 

Here's little Yen just gone fifty,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's little Yen just gone fifty,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's little Yen just gone fifty:

Nifty, unthrifty, a little bit shifty;

And his birthday's a mirth day

For the brothers of July!

 

Here's jolly John at fifty-three,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's jolly John at fifty-three,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's jolly John at fifty-three,

Picking and penning and all can agree,

That his birthday's the first day

For the brothers of July!

 

Here's poor old Brer at fifty-five,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's poor old Brer at fifty-five,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's poor old Brer at fifty-five,

Gimpy and gray and barely alive,

And his birthday's the worst day

For the brothers of July!

 

--July 24, 2018

Mike at Sixty-Four

Today would have been my brother Mike’s 64^th birthday. My mind kind of baulks when I try to imagine a 64-year-old Mike; would he wear a grey beard? Would he be fatter or thinner? How much of his great strength would he have left? Would he be plagued with any of the other health problems that bedevil the rest of us boys or would he have his own peculiar ailments? Where and how would he live? Would he, could he, finally be happy? Speculations that can never be known or will ever be known, now. For good or ill, the matter is settled.

I was watching Crimes and Misdemeanors the other day, and I was reminded by the accent of the little old professor in it that in the past I could do a passable version of him and that Mike had wanted me to do it as a voiceover on a project he was speculating on. And that led me to thinking about his favorite movies and music and above all authors, and how his own Archive was scattered to the winds, and of how much it revealed about him, and of how much of it could I remember.

For a moment I was panicked by how little came to mind. There was of course first and always Ernest Hemingway, whom Mike looked upon almost as a father figure and role model. Straight-forward, hard-writing, hard-drinking, a man’s man who knew his hunting and who could throw a punch and write a lean, sinewy prose. The fact that Heminway ultimately committed suicide was an unfortunate element in the mix; it always suggested it as an alternative to suffering. Thankfully it never came to that.

But as I thought more and more about it, more authors sprang to mind. The trouble was there were almost too many to remember, and John recalled more. John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, John Gardner, Herman Melville, William Shakespeare, William S. Burroughs, Jean-Ferdinand Celine, Charles Bukowski, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Leo Tolstoy, Cormac McCarthy, Thomas Harris. They came in layers through his life, first American Modernism, then Russian Realism, then Outsider stuff, then Modern American Gothic; with Shakespeare and Melville sprinkled liberally throughout.

And almost inextricably linked with that was his taste in music. The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, Tom Petty, Van Morrison, Boomtown Rats, Pink Floyd, Roger Waters, David Bowie, The Clash, Big Audio Dynamite, Nine Inch Nails. Music that tended to struggle with Issues, and Dark Emotion, and Troubled Relationships. There had to be real meat in the stew, something to get your teeth into and chew a bit.

Along with Books and Music, I wanted to include Movies, but fewer examples sprang to mind. The Godfather I & II, Apocalypse Now, The Seven Samurai, The Seventh Seal, M, and Jaws, of course. These are films that I can definitely state had his loyalty. I’m sure there were many more, but again, my mind baulks. He was less demonstrative about film, but again, you can see the themes of Struggle and Survive, with very little Sentiment.

Which I think contradicts an ultimate truth about my brother, which is that he was a man of great love and loyalties. But he had been hurt: the disillusionment of religion (the hypocritical JW’s), a tragic high school romance (rejection), our parents seeming indifference to his future (what did they know about college?); all had made him wary about where to place his trust. I think his approach to art, whether literature, music, or movies, was the rejection of sentiment and the development of a hard outer armor, that tested and turned whatever was flung at it. Something tough to protect the tender soul underneath.

Before he passed away, I think he was beginning to come out of his shell. As an uncle, he could be a better kind of a parent, and get love that was sincere and adoring. His caregiving job was a good outlet for his inner teacher and guard-dog. He was responding to the arguments of a cleaner kind of religion. If he had lived, who knows where he would be now?

Happy Birthday, Mike. We remember. We remember, though we can forget so much.

 

Happy Birthday, Mr. Howard

Today is Robert E. Howard's 120th birthday. The original classic Texas Fantasist. I've always liked him and his greatest creation, Conan, as any search of this blog will show. I've always kind of wanted to like him more. I've bought tons of related material; I've also found it fairly easy to part with them. His philosophy is peurile; his personal relationships were pitiable; yet there is a sort of spirit and verve to him and his work that makes the sale. He is the equivalent of a hamburger and fries compared to a quality restaurant meal. And a burger can be delicious and just what you want. So let's raise a glass to poor ol' Two-Gun Bob, gone far too soon.

"Remembering Him Like Anything": Tolkien's Birthday

Today, January 3^rd, would have been Tolkien’s 134^th birthday. I remember for years I had pronounced his name TOLKINE (I’d only ever seen it written down). I was only corrected when the Carpenter biography came out, but it still took me years to make the switch over. Even today I sometimes, out of old habit, will still do so. It is, of course, more properly TOLKEEN, with TOLKIN an acceptable, if less accurate, more popular way. I remember seeing Mel Tolkin credited as a writer on All in the Family and kind of wondering. According to David Bratman (on John D. Ratliff, Tolkien scholar’s, blog), “I once knew a Tolkien fan who also collected material relating to the TV writer Mel Tolkin, because his name resembled "Tolkien" - though there was no genealogical nor etymological relationship at all.”

While looking up material I found another ‘icon’ style portrait of Tolkien. Whether such pictures are related to the fact that he was Catholic, or that many fans consider him a secular saint, a sort of patron of Fantasy writing in its highest sense, I find it hard to tell. If it was because he was a Catholic, I wonder how sincere such efforts are. Is anyone seriously pursuing the cause for sainthood? If so, I can think of at least one miracle connected with the man.

Whatever the case, Happy Birthday, Professor. You would have been way past the Old Took now.

“And while the vain world careless sped
Unheeding the heroic name—
The souls most fed with Shakespeare's flame
Still sat unconquered in a ring,
Remembering him like anything.”

-         The Shakespeare Memorial, by G. K. Chesterton

Thursday Thoughts: Pop's Birthday

Today would have been my father’s 97^th birthday. I recall my rather brief summation of him from my autobiographical effort, What Happened: “There was Pop, a.k.a. Elthor Edgar Gustav Babel Jr., more sensibly called Buddy: a country boy of German ancestry, a Korean War veteran, a fisherman, bowler, and baseball player, sometime owner of a beer joint and now a truck driver for SMI, the local steel mill.” To that I might add a voracious consumer of Westerns and country music, a humorous man who enjoyed the classic 1940’s comedians, an appreciator of mysteries from Perry Mason to Columbo. In many ways a reticent man; it was hard to draw out any personal anecdotes, though he was never shy about giving his opinions about anything. His revelations about his life were mainly through his actions; if you ever got any story out of him about his old days, it was generally astonishing. When you consider that he was already 41 when I was born and nearly half his life was already past (and it would be at least 13 years before I would feel up to asking any questions about his life – and much longer before I would ask them right to his face), it was no wonder that there would be much of his history that is still a mystery to me. Mom loved to tell stories about her life, Pop – not so much.  Most of my good memories about Pop are from my childhood. Riding on his shoulders and touching the ceiling, presents when he came back from his trucking runs (at least usually a stick of gum), trips fishing or camping, or long family drives in the country. There was a long stretch when he was getting more tired, and I was (I know) getting more disappointing as I failed to buckle down to life. Then there was a long stretch after he retired and my usefulness as a caregiver became more apparent as he and Mom aged. The last years after Mom passed away were in some ways the best with him; without a buffer zone between us and an increased mutual reliance on each other, we were led to a new closeness. I think some of my favorite times in those days were when we’d watch Perry Mason together. It reminded me of older days from my childhood, of perhaps a Saturday afternoon when we’d watch a monster movie or an old comedy. Happy Birthday, Pop. I made a carrot cake so we could all celebrate. 

Ha-roo, Ha-righ, For the Month of July

 Not much to say today, mainly because it's been a very busy day. We had a combined birthday party for all our July birthdays, featuring two cakes and eight pizzas (I don't look forward to my blood sugar reading tomorrow). There was swimming in the pool and much talking and family reminiscing. We were surprised and pleased that the Tovars could make it after all; Ollie and Julia are just at that age when they are endlessly fascinating to watch. The day never got too hot, with lots of cloud overcast and strong breezes, rare indeed for a July day in Texas. Susan, Andy, and Kameron; John, Amy, Joey and Morgandy; Kelsey and her Ryan; Kaitlyn and her Ryan and Ollie and Julia, and they brought their Doberman Kia over for good measure. Oh, and me, the Oldest Inhabitant.

I've been thinking lately about writing projects that I haven't finished yet, and whether I should apply myself to them, bring them to completion, and clear the decks, as it were. I could flesh out the outline and finish Thrand. I never polished off Timmy, the tale of a boy who 'inherits' his great-uncle's library; I never did figure out exactly where that was headed. I knew more or less where J. A. B. S. (Junior Agent, Bureau of Shadows) was going, but it needs a deal of working out to conclude. And then there is of course American Prometheus, which is an unfinished chapter of an unfinished book, 'Bob's Book Two' (provisional title). Prometheus grew to be almost more ambitious than a chapter and sank (as a project) under its own weight.

Well, a quandary that I simply can't face this evening, and really needn't. I'm feeling a little too 'bloated and bilious' (if happily so) for any serious thinking, too satisfied with the present to think too much about the future. But then, tomorrow is another day. 

Sixty Three Years Ago Today

 

I think this is the earliest photo we have of Mike on file; it is labelled Mike, 1 year old. He would have been 63 years old today. As a tribute I post this story he published in the 1982 Persona when he was in college.

BY THE LAKE

 

     The clouds came in over the river; pregnant with rain and wind and filled with summer lightning -- high, golden, and faraway.

     We sat in the grass by the boat dock and watched it come; the air around us first empty and silent, waiting for the storm, then loud with the sound of the wind in the pecan trees and the thump of the fat raindrops against our backs as we ran for the lakehouse.

     Afterwards, the grass was wet and very green and the sky glowed with the coppery, after-storm glow as we picked up branches the wind had broken from the trees and stacked them in a pile.

     Beneath one of the trees was the nest of a bird made of brown grass and string. It was torn apart and in it were three tiny pink and gray sparrows that you said I should not touch because the mother bird would not take them back if I did.

     I picked them up anyway and looked at them as they squirmed there in the palm of my hands, which always seem too big when handling very small things or trying to be gentle. The little birds seemed to be too small to contain all the things that God meant a sparrow too contain and yet they were very much alive; their black-rimmed, tightly shut eyes and bright yellow beaks bobbing and pecking at my fingers. They were naked and blind and as they squirmed there in my hands they reminded me of the things I can never tell you with my mouth; the words I can only say when I read to you from a book I love, or touch your hair in the darkness or show you the river at dusk; things as vulnerable as them and yet ever so more complicated.

     You came and took them from me, slowly and carefully, and held them in the lap of your dress, your July-brown legs sticking out from underneath as we sat in the wet grass and watched the storm clouds over the river --- high, golden, and faraway.

 

                        --Michael Babel, PERSONA 1982

Happy Birthday, J. R. R. Tolkien!

 

Well, today is the 133^rd anniversary of J. R. R. Tolkien’s birthday, and as usual I like to note the date in some way, and perhaps meditate a bit on what the Professor means to me and on the state of his legacy.

This year I’d like to especially think about what he means to what they call my ‘faith life’. While a lot of people take Middle-earth to be a pagan place, or at least a pre-Christian place, deep reading reveals the profound religious bones that underlie the work, implicitly in The Lord of the Rings and more explicitly in The Silmarillion. Tolkien always makes sure his ‘legendarium’ never directly contradicts the Christian faith, and even went to some pains to make sure it would dovetail with the Bible, perhaps an account of Genesis from another point of view. A lot of recreational readers (especially of The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings) take the religious aspect as just so much chin-wagging or window-dressing, a bit of verisimilitude to help sell the story, no more than a piece of colorful mythology like Crom or Cthulhu. I think this attitude might be what is leading (in part) to the inadequacies of things like The Rings of Power.

For myself, Tolkien’s work is what led me obliquely to my own Roman Catholic faith. I say obliquely, because Tolkien led me to C. S. Lewis and his apologetic work (not to mention G. K. Chesterton), and Lewis, though an Anglican, through his orthodoxy, helped lead me to be a Catholic (it’s funny how often that happens to Lewis’s readers). Further delving into Tolkien’s personal life confirmed him as an admirable paradigm and did not hurt my decision to become Catholic. This was further deepened by Holly Ordway’s Tolkien’s Faith last year, which finally solidified my understanding of Tolkien as a person.

Tolkien has often been jestingly proposed as a candidate for sainthood, even to the point of having devotional candles sold on Etsy. Although certainly not a recognized saint (yet) in the Catholic Church, there is no stricture against asking any blessed soul (whether in Heaven or still in Purgatory) for help and intercession. That might be superfluous for me, considering how much he already gives me with what he left here on Earth.

What can we expect from Tolkien in 2025? I really don’t know. I have not heard any rumors about publication for any ‘new’ unpublished works; I would certainly welcome another edition of The Old English Exodus (not Middle-earth related, but the most unavailable of his scholarly works) even if only in paperback. Perhaps the most we can hope for are ‘repotted’ volumes, collecting various strands of the ‘Great Tales’, like the books Christopher Tolkien edited together for Beren and Luthien or The Children of Hurin. Or perhaps an anthology volume, gathering several shorter works together, a book like A Tolkien Miscellany or Tales from the Perilous Realm. What is almost certain is that there will be a dozen or so mediocre-to-poor books ‘about’ Tolkien and Middle-earth and maybe one or two with real insight, with perhaps a useful ‘technical’ volume somewhere in the mix. Only time will tell.

In the meantime, Middle-earth exists in that same timeless bright, shadowy realm glimpsed from afar as if through deeps of time, that can never be stained by the dirty devices of marketing or modernity. And it is for this ‘birthday gift’ from J. R. R. Tolkien that I raise a glass in remembrance to him, on this, his birthday. Peace and honor and thanks to you, Professor!

Birthday Books 2024

 

The Man Born to Be King: Wade Annotated Edition, by Dorothy L. Sayers

Thorn, by Jeff Smith

I spent my birthday present money on these books, and they came in today at about 1 PM, a day earlier than they were scheduled. As I have previously described them in an earlier Wish List post, I won't describe them in much more detail. The next time I want to re-read The Man Born to Be King, I will use this edition; it's only drawback seems to be the rather small type; necessary, I suppose, to fit everything into the space allotted, but a bit of a strain on these tired old eyes. Needs a bright light right on the page, and maybe my cheatin' glasses. Thorn is kind of a typical college strip of its time, spotted with sex and drugs and angst as it goes wandering around in and out of a fantasy story, liberal rubbish, episodes in a student's life, and even stretches with a visiting fellow cartoonist. Strange to think that at the same time I was going to SWTSU Smith was working at developing the Bones and publishing in his college paper. 

Happy Birthday To Me! 2019

 

I am 61 today! Here is what it was like when I was only 56.

7/16/2019: Got up about 5:30 AM and started a document of annotations for AGODP. Got through about the first page (beginnings are always heavy lifting, as far as annotations go).

Started making a document of “Annotations on A Grave on Deacon’s Peak”. Worked all morning and finished Chapter One, in 5 pages. Made a few more notes and blocked out topics for Chapter Two. My researches led me to some surprising revelations, which makes me think my brain is smarter than I am. At 2:30 PM I’m waiting for John.

And he came knocking at the door just as I finished that sentence. We yakked for about an hour about the book and about more of his philosophical quest and had a great session. In the evening while I was looking at YouTube I found a great stretch of music including Tolkien poems set to music by Clamavi De Profundis, and for a while I was swept back to my original experience of reading Tolkien, unvarnished by the imaginational trimmings of others, when it was just me and the text and the emotions evoked by the bare, primitive, heart-shaking words. I felt again that stab of joy, rising out of the deeps of time, now my own deeps, and saw my past bright and clear and fresh as from a far-off view.

Filled with memories of 50 years ago, when we watched the moon landing, and of going out to look at the moon (as if I could see something) and thinking there were people up there. I was five days away from being 6 years old.

 

7/17/2019: Got my computer to pop open, so I watched “The House with a Clock in Its Walls”; not bad, but not great. Just a tweak or two from being really enjoyable. I don’t know, something in the editing, I think. Let me dream about my own movie, who could play, who direct, and so on.

In September 2015, I came up with the idea of “Dead Ready by 2019” and here it is. Other things I was thinking about at the time were joining the Church and writing “An American Fantasy”, and here they are, accomplished. How about that?

 

7/18/2019: Kenny’s 51^st birthday. Facebooked him thrice and said three decades of the rosary for him at 7 PM. Spent the morning annotating Chapter Two of AGODP.

 

7/19/2019: Bible and prayers. Spent much of the morning writing “Thoughts on the Future”. Took garbage out a little after 7 AM and saw a raccoon. At 9 AM, breakfast. At 10 AM, went to check the porch. Nothing, but was able to save a toad from the kiddie pool. Didn’t do a lot today. Watched about 6 or 7 Comedians in Cars Drinking Coffee.

 

7/20/2019: Was able to get computer open, so started to watch “An Awfully Big Adventure” but it was quiet and slower than I remembered, so I bailed about 1/3 of the way through. Wrote my reminiscence on the moon landing on FB, and at about 5 PM wrote to John.

My memories of the moon landing are rather staticky; I remember seeing it in black-and-white, seem to recall that viewing was wedged in between shows Pop and Mom REALLY wanted to watch (but they were aware of the historical significance), and of going outside (day or night?) and looking up at the moon over the trees in the Coors' yard. I wonder if I thought I would see anything. I do remember thinking (probably I had heard it from someone) that for thousands of years people had wondered about the moon and now that there were humans up there. It would have been just a few days before my 6th birthday.

·       He: “I have an extremely low-resolution memory of the moon landing happening that I suspect is really a memory of your memory, as it were. I hate to say it, but I guess having grown up with man on the moon as a fact, the technical triumph notwithstanding, I’ve always had a kind of "so what" attitude about it secretly.  Just an earth-bound misfit, I.”

Went out to look at the moon, but it hasn’t risen to sight here just yet.

 

7/21/2019: It occurs to me that people more or less avoid you a week before your birthday so they can hoard up their attention and good cheer until it's needed on the actual day. While the birthday boy himself often acts more sociable and cheerful as if to remind others that he still exists and is the kind of jolly fellow whose birthday elicits celebration.

For some reason thinking a lot about "Over the Garden Wall". About AGODP done in that style.

The irony of course is that someday, that future day I look forward to, to the detriment of the present time, will never come because I'll be dead and I'll have wasted the actual day I'm living in hoping for a day to come.

 

7/22/2019: Got up at about 6 AM after a night of getting up and down. Dreamed of a rich hoard of comics and toys gotten out of the old Bazaar of dreams, bought cheaply and covered with dust, that when cleaned turned out to have tons of comics, Marx figures, figures of sharks and lions (including an Omi), and even (I think) Kingdom Hearts stuff. Opened the door and windows to catch the early morning air for once, then (having completed the Bible) started with the Catechism, which I intend to read aloud straight through, a couple of sections each day

 

7/23/2019: The usual times and actions. Much writing in the morning, though, on Barek&Dunwolf, introducing ol' John Craft! My e-mail to John, who has been feeling poorly:

 I hate the floaty feeling. It makes me think I need to do something but seems to disconnect me so that I feel I can't do anything. I want to say please, please take care of yourself, but it's not as if you wouldn't if I didn't say anything! But you know what I mean. I love you so much and value your existence.

As for me, I certainly have to hang on at least till Thursday; not only for my birthday but also because Mr. Jerome finally gave me the definitish word today that the 25th will be the release day! He said the book is at the printers e'en now. So we have that.

Still working on Barek & Dunwolf (working title: 'Shutting the Door') and hope to have it done soon. Gandalf voice: "By your birthday at the latest!" And by your he means my.

I always wanted to give Bob the birthday date of whenever the book was published, like Tolkien gave Bilbo September 22. Now that seems a little selfish. Well, it will be easy to remember, anyway.

Okay, a little list. If I get $100 for my birthday, like I did last year, what is the best use to get the most books for my bucks?

The Enchanted World: Gods and Goddesses  $13.40

The Enchanted World: The Lore of Love    $5.79

The Well-Tempered Critic                 $14.44

Father Christmas's Fake Beard            $8.00

River's Edge (Blaylock)                            $19.00

Over the Garden Wall                     $14.00

A Celtic Temperament                     $14.00

Old Thunder                              $9.00

This adds up to $97.63; that includes the shipping, which I've added. That would close out The Enchanted World, my Robertson Davies books, and Terry Pratchett. And catch up my Blaylock and put Over the Garden Wall to bed at last. [Don't remember if I got everything just then, but I do have it all now.]

 

7/24/2019: Woke up about 5:30 AM again. Got dressed and out of the house by 6:45 AM. As I walked down the driveway a red cardinal feather came drifting down by my side; a rare occurrence that you actually see a feather fall. Put it in my pocket. Morning cloudy and cool for summer (low 70's). Brought the paper up and there was the raccoon, eating cat food and paying me no heed, with a trap cage not four feet from him. Went in.

Started reading "A Case of Conscience" again. Taking recycling out I saw a dragonfly with black and golden wings, perching on the fence. The morning air and wind is just glorious, bouyant, with just a hint of fall.

Today is being so beautiful, it almost wakens the old pessimist in me and makes me suspicious. Didn't have to turn on the AC until almost 2 PM. Reading Blish again after so many years is delightful; the Lithians bear comparison to the Vulcans in many ways as races supposedly based on Reason. Zings and twinges in my veins and muscles of course and numbness in my hands, but really nothing that hasn't been going on all year. What I really need to get on is my writing, but even that seems to be just a matter of scribbling; it lies plain before me. One small nagging thought is should I make the cake tomorrow (my actual birthday) or wait for the weekend (when there might be a family gathering), and how to determine it? The future, in many ways, seems wide open.

Finished reading A Case of Conscience at exactly 8 PM; ready to go in and clean up.

Came back and took up ‘Barek & Dunwolf (Shutting the Door)’ and wrote up to page 23. In a nice short march of the end. 10:30 PM right now.

 

7/25/2019: Woke up very early, about 4 AM I guess, and the first thing I did after devotions was sit right down and finished the first draft of Shutting the Door, at 6:11 AM. It clocked out at 30 pages. Sent a copy to John and banked a copy. Looked and saw that AGODP was finally being offered on Amazon, and excitedly announced it on FB. Got ready and left for church a little after 7 AM. Today, besides my birthday and the day of publication, is the Feast of St. James, our church's patron saint. After an intimate Mass, I went out, grabbed a donut hole on offer, then ducked into the Parish Office to see about my Baptismal certificate. As I walked home saw Yen had called, so I called him back and we talked as I walked home. I got home at 9 AM and had to pause talking to make Kam breakfast, then called and we talked a while more until Kaye had to use the phone. Many happy birthdays on FB by then, including promises to buy the book. Took a noonish nap, found I had missed calls from Kaitlyn and Isabel because I hadn't turned my ringtone back up, then John called, and opined the fact that he was stuck at home watching Alfred, otherwise he'd have visited today. I told him I knew needs must, and that we could get together over the weekend. I called Susan and we decided I should go ahead and bake the cake, so I went in and did that. Then Andy called and said not to make supper, he was bringing Chicken Express! Yay! I went in at 4 PM and iced the cake. A little after 6 PM Andy came and called me to supper and we had a nice meal (chicken strips, biscuits, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn nuggets, hushpuppies, and dipping sauce) such as we hadn't had in years. They gave me a birthday card with $50 in it. We were so full we're saving cake for later tonight. Started reading "Black Easter"; it must be over a decade since I last went through these books, probably closer to 2 decades.

Elvish 'Birthday'

It just recently came to my attention that in Morgoth’s Ring (the 10^th volume of The History of Middle-earth) Tolkien’s last note on the subject states that the Elves’ gestation period lasts one year (because Elves have to beat out Men on all counts; in fact an earlier note suggested that it lasted 104 years!), and that they do not celebrate the day of their birth, but the day of their conception, which of course Elvish parents, being in superior control of their bodies, know exactly when that is. But since the day of their birth tends to be near the day of their conception, there seems to be little difference in the celebration.

Of course, since Tolkien was a Catholic, he knew that the life (and therefore the person) began at conception. By these standards my ‘Elvish Birthday’ (considering my mere mortal nine months) is somewhere around October 11, 1962. I was overdue for 2 or 3 weeks, so the dates are a little slidey. I always did like October, even beyond the pleasures of Halloween.  I wonder if this is somehow related?

The Carousel of Life

 

Yen Enthroned

These past few days have been an emotional rollercoaster for many reasons, some more personal that others. There are several things that I feel I must note. The first is the birthday of my little brother Kenny (I say little, though he is now 55 and has two kids). Still, my little brother. Those are my hands hovering over him.

(3) Little Brothers - Phineas and Ferb - YouTube

While I was looking for a photo of him I ran across this picture of us as kids from when we all went camping, which we would do in the summer. Looking closer, I realized that I was holding a book, and that that book must be the Reader's Digest Great Stories for Young Readers. The Grimms [Pop's sister and her husband and son and his kid] must have brought it with them that year, and there I was reading it. I've already got a bit of a belly. It's so odd pinning it down after all these years. And those are Kenny's hands on my head, in a neat little bit of serendipitous mirroring. 

And lastly, I sadly feel that I must record the passing of Vader, our big old Rottweiler. His 'sister', Kylo, had already passed away a few months ago, and since he showed no outward signs of any sickness, except a sort of sad listlessness, the general conclusion is that he finally died of a broken heart. Half the time I called him 'Rocky', because he was very like Pop's [well, Susan's, technically] old Rottweiler. He was a good-natured, happy lunkhead, and a good watchdog, and I will miss him. 

Taken this May.

Happy 150th Birthday, GKC!

 

“Gilbert Keith Chesterton  (29 May 1874 – 14 June 1936) was an English author, philosopher, Christian apologist, and literary and art critic.

“Chesterton created the fictional priest-detective Father Brown, and wrote on apologetics. Even some of those who disagree with him have recognised the wide appeal of such works as Orthodoxy and The Everlasting Man. His writings were an influence on Jorge Luis Borges, who compared his work with that of Edgar Allan Poe.

“He was educated at St Paul's School, then attended the Slade School of Art to become an illustrator. The Slade is a department of University College London, where Chesterton also took classes in literature, but he did not complete a degree in either subject. He married Frances Blogg in 1901; the marriage lasted the rest of his life. Chesterton credited Frances with leading him back to Anglicanism, though he later considered Anglicanism to be a "pale imitation". He entered in full communion with the Catholic Church in 1922.

“Early on Chesterton showed a great interest in and talent for art. He had planned to become an artist, and his writing shows a vision that clothed abstract ideas in concrete and memorable images. Chesterton loved to debate, often engaging in friendly public disputes with such men as George Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Bertrand Russell and Clarence Darrow. According to his autobiography, he and Shaw played cowboys in a silent film that was never released.

“Chesterton usually wore a cape and a crumpled hat, with a swordstick in hand, and a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He had a tendency to forget where he was supposed to be going and miss the train that was supposed to take him there. It is reported that on several occasions he sent a telegram to his wife Frances from an incorrect location, writing such things as "Am in Market Harborough. Where ought I to be?" to which she would reply, "Home". Chesterton was part of the Detection Club, a society of British mystery authors founded by Anthony Berkeley in 1928. He was elected as the first president and served from 1930 to 1936. 

"The Chesterton Society has proposed that he be beatified. The Bishop Emeritus of Northampton, Peter Doyle, in 2012 had opened a preliminary investigation into possibly launching a cause for beatification and then canonization (for possible sainthood). but eventually decided not to open the cause. Chesterton's The Everlasting Man contributed to C. S. Lewis's conversion to Christianity.” – Extracted from Wikipedia

Well. Today would have been Chesterton’s 150^th birthday, and I had to mark it somehow. I have tons of books by and about him, and a new one, The Everlasting Man: A Guide to G.K. Chesterton’s Masterpiece , is high on my wish list.

The Birthday Boy

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born this day in 1892, in Bloemfontein, South Africa, the older son of John and Mabel Tolkien, who had moved for the business opportunity John had of working as a bank manager there. After Arthur’s death three years later the rest of the family (which by this time included Ronald’s younger brother Hilary) stayed in England permanently. Despite his distant birth and foreign name, Tolkien has become forever linked with the idea of Englishry through his efforts to create ‘a mythology for England.’

Whenever this time of year rolls around I always have thoughts, not only what the world would be like if Tolkien had never existed, but also most particularly what my life would have been like if I had never found his work. If I had never gone to a high school play of The Hobbit when I was nine, which led me to read The Hobbit in middle school, which led me to The Lord of the Rings and the works of C. S. Lewis in high school, how different my life would have been. Better? Worse? Definitely different, and hard to imagine. The works of Tolkien, even the example of his life, continue to be a deepening influence on my understanding of literature, on my faith, and on my philosophy of life.

Middle-earth, of course, was already quite celebrated when I came to it, but it had more of a cult status. It was in no way the easy popular phenomenon that the Jackson films have since made it. Then it was the province of geeks and weirdos and a hardcore of literary scholars, and the price of admission to the temple was actually reading Tolkien’s work. There were no super deluxe illustrated annotated editions to preen over; battered paperbacks were the common treasures. There was no settled widespread iconography; when someone said ‘Gandalf’, Ian McKellen did not spring immediately to mind to obliterate all other portrayals.

There were many artists and even authors who strove to develop Middle-earth and even more broadly the fantasy genre (which Tolkien’s work at least codified). The difference in those days was that the core of fans acted as gatekeepers and critics, as they had since the days when the Ace pirated paperback edition was driven out of existence by those ‘respectful of a living author’s wishes’. The difference these days is that such licensed deviations as Middle-earth: Shadows of War or Amazon’s The Rings of Power offer up lore contrary to Tolkien’s actual vision, and the unwary and enthusiastic accept them as equal to Tolkien’s invention.

Sorry to go off on such a side rant. The road to Middle-earth that I took is still there and indeed has deepened with each new authentic Tolkien publication; it just may be harder for a new fan to find under the parasitic undergrowth. Middle-earth, and indeed the fount and spring that The Lord of the Rings has proved to be, is a gift that keeps on unfolding. I don’t know how many times I have read the books, but yesterday was the first time I ‘saw’ Sam finding the site of ‘dreadful feast and slaughter’, a scene soon passed over, but which seems to me worthy of illustration.

It was nearly a year ago that I started my examination of LOTR, and in that time I’ve barely unpacked the half of it. I think I will have reached my own end before I ever come to the end of Middle-earth. Happy Birthday, Professor Tolkien.