An Ornamental Memory

 

It was the '73-'74 school year and I was in Fourth Grade at McQueeney Elementary. My teacher was Mrs. Bratton; I think I have mentioned elsewhere that she was the Miss Othmar to my Linus. We had been Jehovah's Witnesses for almost three years (three years is a significant amount of time; for instance,  when you are nine years old; it is 1/3 of your life). Christmas time was always fraught for us, both at school and personally, when the heart yearned for celebration, color, community, and of course presents. We were not absolutely cold turkey on the subject; we still watched all the Christmas specials and attended the SMI Christmas Party (with its free meal, presents for the workers, and free candy for the kids, it would have been financially foolish not too). But there were no presents to be unwrapped, no home decorations, no wishing anybody Merry Christmas or even Happy Holidays, without it being a moral quandary. At school it just made you odd.

So you can imagine my mixed feelings when Mrs. Bratton gave everyone in our class a little satiny ornament like this with each student's name on it in glitter. Could I accept it? I felt I had to. Did I want to accept it? I absolutely did. It was a momento from my favorite teacher, my crush; although part of a class-wide presentation it had MY name on it. It made me feel 'seen', to use the phrase. Not only as part of all the other kids, but apart from them, even apart from my brothers, a beloved unit but all too often seen as 'the herd'. My own name there, written in golden glitter. My mother was not so deep in JW brainwashing that she had the heart to make me throw it away, but of course we had no Christmas tree to hang it on. It was stowed away.

When we came back to Christmas sometime in the late Seventies I could at last hang it up. Through the years it has become a little battered and worn, but not bad for a cheap little something over half a century old. It's 'silk' is unraveling a bit amd it lost its original little loop to attach the hook. That has been replaced with a yarn bookmark that belonged to Mike, one of his own sentimental Christmas presents, attached with a pushpin. Once I pass there will be little reason for anyone to keep it anymore: it is one of those 'Tragic Treasures' that has no real value except to me. There are few things I would regret the loss of more; it is irreplaceable. But the memory is the important part. And here it is. 

Friday Fiction: She Was the Most Powerful Witch of Us All

 

16. She Was the Most Powerful Witch of Us All: (Dream 2017)

A boy and his teenage sister have gone to stay the week with one of their mother's old aunts who has agreed to watch them. One day the aunt has to go out. Suddenly the sister, who is bored, wants to have some friends over for a party, and her boyfriend is curious and disruptive about the property. The boy, who has been respectful and even a little awed by the aunt and her house, goes around trying to restore things, discovering as he does that he has certain powers and calling on other relatives to help. In effect he cleans up but, in the process, must rearrange things, which the aunt, in the process of years, has allowed to get shabby, disorganized, and hoarded. Another Aunt, who arrives to help the boy ("I couldn't help hearing about your troubles, people and THINGS kept talking about them") reveals that the group of aunts were all witches, and the one they were staying with was the most powerful witch of them all but dedicated her powers to making herself the "perfect" home. The boy's own mother didn't want him to be part of that nonsense and made the family swear never to mention magic, but now he has learned how to do it himself out of desperation. When the first aunt comes back, he apologizes for all the changes, telling her all the things he had to do, including "bringing back Caer Oom and the old time" for a bit. The aunt is delighted: he has brought together family that has been scattered for a long time, learned about his own powers, and actually reminded her of her own goals which she has lost sight of for many years.

This is one of my recorded dreams that I culled out onto a list as a possible short story or a Young Adult novel. It was set in a more contemporary time than the illustration I've used.

Action Figures to be Noted: The War of the Rohirrim

 

I don't know why I didn't think of it before, but of course they were going to have action figure tie-ins to The War of the Rohirrim. The first two are Figuarts, which means they are larger and better articulated than the usual figures. The other four figures (described as Wave 1) come with the build-a-figure parts of the Snow Troll, an interesting sales ploy that almost assures the sale of the others.

Added Note: Doesn't Helm look like a Viking Santa Claus?

Out of the Shadow Library Comes Something More Concise

 

“By no stretch of fancy can the human mind connect together snuff and diamonds and wax and loose clockwork.”

“I think I see the connection,” said the priest. “This Glengyle was mad against the French Revolution. He was an enthusiast for the ancien regime, and was trying to re-enact literally the family life of the last Bourbons. He had snuff because it was the eighteenth century luxury; wax candles, because they were the eighteenth century lighting; the mechanical bits of iron represent the locksmith hobby of Louis XVI; the diamonds are for the Diamond Necklace of Marie Antoinette.”

Both the other men were staring at him with round eyes. “What a perfectly extraordinary notion!” cried Flambeau. “Do you really think that is the truth?”

“I am perfectly sure it isn’t,” answered Father Brown, “only you said that nobody could connect snuff and diamonds and clockwork and candles. I give you that connection off-hand. The real truth, I am very sure, lies deeper.”

He paused a moment and listened to the wailing of the wind in the turrets. Then he said, “The late Earl of Glengyle was a thief. He lived a second and darker life as a desperate housebreaker. He did not have any candlesticks because he only used these candles cut short in the little lantern he carried. The snuff he employed as the fiercest French criminals have used pepper: to fling it suddenly in dense masses in the face of a captor or pursuer. But the final proof is in the curious coincidence of the diamonds and the small steel wheels. Surely that makes everything plain to you? Diamonds and small steel wheels are the only two instruments with which you can cut out a pane of glass.”

The bough of a broken pine tree lashed heavily in the blast against the windowpane behind them, as if in parody of a burglar, but they did not turn round. Their eyes were fastened on Father Brown.

“Diamonds and small wheels,” repeated Craven ruminating. “Is that all that makes you think it the true explanation?”

“I don’t think it the true explanation,” replied the priest placidly; “but you said that nobody could connect the four things. The true tale, of course, is something much more humdrum. Glengyle had found, or thought he had found, precious stones on his estate. Somebody had bamboozled him with those loose brilliants, saying they were found in the castle caverns. The little wheels are some diamond-cutting affair. He had to do the thing very roughly and in a small way, with the help of a few shepherds or rude fellows on these hills. Snuff is the one great luxury of such Scotch shepherds; it’s the one thing with which you can bribe them. They didn’t have candlesticks because they didn’t want them; they held the candles in their hands when they explored the caves.”

“Is that all?” asked Flambeau after a long pause. “Have we got to the dull truth at last?”

“Oh, no,” said Father Brown.

As the wind died in the most distant pine woods with a long hoot as of mockery Father Brown, with an utterly impassive face, went on:

“I only suggested that because you said one could not plausibly connect snuff with clockwork or candles with bright stones. Ten false philosophies will fit the universe; ten false theories will fit Glengyle Castle. But we want the real explanation of the castle and the universe. But are there no other exhibits?” - The Honor of Israel Gow, G. K. Chesterton

Meditating on my previous post reminded me of this little paperback I used to have, and in which I first read The Honor of Israel Gow.  I know Chesterton is not a scientist or a formal philosopher, but he makes a lot of good points in entertaining ways.

 

Thursday Thoughts: Clarifying (I Hope) My Position

 

I recently underwent a controversy with a loved one over Facebook, pursued through Messenger (privately) though it began as a published meme. I cannot seem to let it go until I explain (somewhere) my thoughts. He meant it as a cute kind of a joke; I saw it as the subversion of a popular culture children’s icon in service of an ideology that the icon did not (in its officially released work) support. It was accompanied by a collage not only of actual images from the icon’s career, but Rule 34 generated sexual images. It did not seem to be just a joke to me; it subtly promoted, even propagandized for, a damaging point of view. The debate soon evolved into what we meant by facts and what we meant by science.

 [Innocent Smith is on trial for shooting at Dr. Warner. Dr. Pym has declared Innocent to be a ‘destructive type’, doomed by nature to a path of ruin; in answer, Michael Moon declares Dr. Warner to be a ‘destructible type’ doomed by his character to be ever assaulted.] “Dr. Pym was indeed on his feet, looking pallid and rather vicious. “I have strictly CON-fined myself,” he said nasally, “to books to which immediate reference can be made. I have Sonnenschein’s ‘Destructive Type’ here on the table, if the defence wish to see it. Where is this wonderful work on Destructability Mr. Moon is talking about? Does it exist? Can he produce it?”

“Produce it!” cried the Irishman with a rich scorn. “I’ll produce it in a week if you’ll pay for the ink and paper.”

“Would it have much authority?” asked Pym, sitting down.

“Oh, authority!” said Moon lightly; “that depends on a fellow’s religion.” – Manalive, G. K. Chesterton.

In other words, yes, facts are facts, but interpretation of facts lie within the characters and aims of the interpreters [a fellow’s ‘religion’]. An argument that, of course, cuts both ways. But it does not allow either side to claim its interpretation of a fact is itself a fact.

“Facts," murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, "how facts obscure the truth.  […] Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up—only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.” – The Club of Queer Trades, G. K. Chesterton

He made an appeal to the ‘science,’ linking article after article, and described what I would describe as an ‘interpretation of facts’ as ‘the facts’. Science admits that it is an ever-evolving process and different scientists may disagree about these interpretations and the one that works best is usually accepted but may change in time; medicine itself is as much an art and a philosophy as it is a science (you may well be able to do something but is it the right thing to do?). Feelings are at most a datum and cannot be appealed to as an argument; they are changeable, nebulous, and anecdotal, and may be affected or formed by many factors, including mere selfishness. And even if 99 out of 100 had these feelings, it might make something legally and socially acceptable but not correct. Not a truth-affirming ‘fact’, as such. He is making as much of a philosophical argument as I am, though he has not acknowledged it as such.

We left things at a truce and not a triumph for either. We both continue to think we are right. He believes his position is kinder because it promotes a point of view that makes some people happier; I believe mine is kinder, if sterner, in that it does not indulge in emotional fantasies leading to physical damage. Ironically, he might possibly make the same accusation levelled at my religious beliefs. And then we’d have a whole other philosophical argument to unpack.

And who needs that at Christmas?

Wideo Wednesday: Singing Carols

There are innumerable adaptations of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and as one might expect from the title, many of them are musicals. I think the first adaptation we ever saw was the acting out of "Ebenezer Scrooge" on Captain Kangaroo (with Mr. Green Jeans as Scrooge and Mr. Bunny Rabbit as one all-purpose Ghost, if I remember correctly). There was sure to be one heart-warming song, one desolate repentant song, and one or two actual Christmas carols. "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" (yes, that's the correct punctuation) and "Good King Wenceslas" are favorites. Villain songs (like "We're Despicable") might accent the darker elements of the tale. Here are a few I've plucked off of YouTube, plus Mr. McGrew's Christmas Carol from The Simpsons for good measure.

Ebenezer Scrooge (Teresa Brewer)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mo_QdtpGyc

We’re Despicable (Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, 1962)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cY2GB47cabs

Thank You Very Much, Mr. Scrooge (Scrooge, 1970)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dkq7WZTzkLQ

I Wear a Chain (The Stingiest Man in Town, 1978)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mmu4znI-zs&list=PL_2jZnipHnMKhdEiH7bUDyoraEdU_WJ36&index=7

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen (A Christmas Carol, 1999)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJpCUMdYPyk

Good King Wenceslas (A Muppet Christmas Carol, 1987)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owWfN6-9hAQ&list=PL95B02D6E9667F567&index=7

Mr. McGrew’s Christmas Carol (The Simpsons)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUmL0SOPUG8

 

Im Jest Sane

 

“Middle English demonstrates the need for standardized spelling and usage because during that period, there was a significant lack of consistent spelling across different regions and writers, with the same words often spelled multiple ways, making reading and understanding written text challenging due to the lack of a set standard. This issue was largely resolved with the introduction of printing, which helped solidify consistent spellings in modern English.” Asking people to try to use they’re, there, and their correctly is not nit-picking or one-upmanship, but an attempt to maintain readability. Otherwise, in five hundred years we could be back to this.