Improbable Bostonian

The Wanderer - Final Translation

2011-11-17T08:02:00.015-05:00

Here is my complete translation:

Often the solitary one waits for honor for himself,
God’s compassion, although he sorrowful at heart
over the seaways stir with his hands
the frost-cold sea, for a long time
traveling paths of exile. Fate is very resolute.
So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardships, of fierce slaughter, deaths of dear kinsmen: Often I must, alone, the hour before dawn lament my sorrow. No one is now alive to whom I dare openly reveal my soul. I know as a truth: It is in a warrior noble custom
That he firmly bind his life-enclosure,
govern his wealth-chamber, whatever he may think.
Weary heart never provides fate,
nor does troubled heart provide help;
Therefore, those who are eager for glory often bind fast
a sorrowful mind in their breast-chamber.
So must I my spirit—
often wretchedly sorrowful, separated of homeland,
far from kinsmen bound with fetters,
since long ago I covered my former lord
in darkness of earth, and I, wretched, thence,
traveled sorrowful as winter, sought over the freezing waves, hall
sorrowful, a giver of treasure
Where I far or near
I might find one in mead-hall who knew my people
or could find me, friendless, would console me, entertain me with pleasures. He who experiences understands
how cruel is sorrow, as a companion,
For him who himself has few beloved friends
The path of exile holds him, not at all twisted gold,
his soul-chamber frozen, not at all earth’s glory.
He remembers men of the hall and receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his generous lord
accustomed him to feast. Pleasure all perished!
Therefore he knows, who must do without his lord-friends
beloved teachings for a long time.
When sorrow and sleep simultaneously together
often bind a wretched solitary thinker,
it seems in his mind that he embraces and kisses
his lord of men, and he lays hands and head
on his knee, as sometimes before he
benefited from the gift-seat in days of yore.
When the friendless man awakes again,
sees before him tawny waves,
sea-birds bathe, wings spread,
frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.
Then are the heart's wounds more grievous, sore for the sake of beloved.
Sorrow is renewed
when the mind reviews memory of kinsmen;
he greets with melodies, eagerly examines
hall-companions of men. Again they swim away.
Floating spirits there seldom bring
familiar speeches. Care is renewed
to him who very often must send
his weary spirit over the freezing waves.
Therefore, I cannot imagine, throughout this world,
for what reason my spirit does not become dark,
when I entirely ponder the lives of warriors,
how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
brave noble kinsmen. So this Middle-Earth
of all days everyone perishes and falls.
Therefore a man may not become wise before he has
his share of winters in kingdom of the world. The wise man should be patient,
not too angry, nor too hasty of speech,
nor too weak a warrior, nor too reckless,
neither too fearful nor too glad, nor too greedy for wealth,
nor never too eager to boast, before he knows well.
A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
until, stout-hearted, he knows well
whither thought of the mind wish to turn.
A wise warrior understands how spiritual it will be
when all this world's riches stands ruined,
as now here and there throughout this world
walls blown upon by wind stand,
frost-covered, the dwellings snow-swept.
The wine-halls decay, rulers lay
deprived of joy, army all fallen,
splendid by the wall. Some war took away,
carried into death; one a raven bore away
over the deep sea; one the grey wolf
shared with death, one a sad-faced warrior
hid in a grave.
So the Creator of men devastated this world,
until, lacking the revelry of town-dwellers,
old works of giants' stood empty.
He with a wise mind then deeply ponders this wall and this dark life,
the one wise in mind often remembers long ago
multitudes of slaughter, and says these words:
“What has become of the horse? What has become of the kinsmen?
What has become of the gift-giver?
What has become of the feast-seats? Where are all the hall-joys?
Oh, alas for the bright cup! Oh, alas armored warrior!
Alas the king's might! How that time departed,
grew dark under cover of night, as if it never were.
Now stands on track of the beloved war-band
a wondrously high wall, adorned with likenesses of serpents.
Multitudes of spears, weapons greedy for slaughter,
took away the warriors - the glorious fate –
and storms crash against these stony-cliffs;
falling frost with tumult of winter,
binds the earth, then darkness comes,
night-shadow grows dark, fierce hailstorms issue
from the north in anger toward warriors.
All earth’s kingdom is full of hardship,
fate of events overturns the world under heavens.
Here riches are transitory; here friendship is transitory, here
mankind is transitory, here kinsmen are transitory;
all this earthly-foundation becomes idle.”
So said the one wise in mind, sat himself apart at counsel.
Good is he who maintains his faith, never reveals his
suffering from his breast too quickly, unless he, warrior,
knows beforehand how to bring about
the remedy with courage. Good is he who seeks mercy for himself,
comforts from the Father in heaven, where the protection exists for us all.

This concludes "The Wanderer", who is not only crossing the earth but also traversing the metaphysical landscape of faith and fate.

It is quite possible that there are two speakers in “The Wanderer”. There is the narrator who introduces the work from lines 1-7 and who completes the elegy with lines 111-115. In its final lines the narrator tries to reaffirm his (and the readers) belief in God: “Good is he who seeks mercy for himself, comforts from the Father in heaven, where the protection exists for us all.” This is to be expected, for all elegies have in their text a search for consolation that is (re-)discovered in Christian faith.

Then there is the wanderer himself; alone on the sea, friendless, and at the mercy of nature. He laments his losses and reflects upon the ruin of mankind as he realizes that all of life – “All this earthly foundation” - is transitory. The stark images of loss and abandonment that the poem has brilliantly conjured are compelling. The snow falls and seagulls stand in for hall-companions as the wanderer rows across the frost-covered waves and cries out, “What has become of the horse? What has become of the kinsmen? What has become of the gift-giver?” The wanderer’s description of his own immediate situation is much more forceful and heartbreaking.

It is possible to believe that the wanderers religious affirmation is akin to the old adage that “There are no atheists in foxholes. However, it is also possible that the wanderer has used his time of exile for personal reflection that has reaffirmed his faith and allowed him to move beyond the pain of the transitory world to find solace in the mercy from his Father in heaven.

This is for each reader to ponder and discover for himself.

The Wanderer - 2nd Assignment

2011-11-10T13:50:00.009-05:00

The Wanderer continues his journey of exile. Here are lines 39-80a in the original Old English:

ðonne sorg ond slæp somod ætgædre
earmne anhogan oft gebindað.
þinceð him on mode þæt he his mondryhten
clyppe ond cysse, ond on cneo lecge
honda ond heafod, swa he hwilum ær
in geardagum giefstolas breac.
ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,
gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,
baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra,
hreosan hrim ond snaw, hagle gemenged.
þonne beoð þy hefigran heortan benne,
sare æfter swæsne. Sorg bið geniwad,
þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð;
greteð gliwstafum, georne geondsceawað
secga geseldan. Swimmað eft on weg!
Fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð
cuðra cwidegiedda. Cearo bið geniwad
þam þe sendan sceal swiþe geneahhe
ofer waþema gebind werigne sefan.
Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þas woruld
for hwan modsefa min ne gesweorce,
þonne ic eorla lif eal geondþence,
hu hi færlice flet ofgeafon,
modge maguþegnas. Swa þes middangeard
ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð ond fealleþ,
forþon ne mæg weorþan wis wer, ær he age
wintra dæl in woruldrice. Wita sceal geþyldig,
ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde,
ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig,
ne to forht ne to fægen, ne to feohgifre
ne næfre gielpes to georn, ær he geare cunne.
Beorn sceal gebidan, þonne he beot spriceð,
oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe
hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille.
Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið,
þonne ealre þisse worulde wela weste stondeð,
swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard
winde biwaune weallas stondaþ,
hrime bihrorene, hryðge þa ederas.
Woriað þa winsalo, waldend licgað
dreame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong,
wlonc bi wealle.

Here is my translation:

When sorrow and sleep simultaneously together
often bind a wretched solitary thinker,
it seems in his mind that he embraces and kisses
his lord of men, and he lays hands and head
on his knee, as sometimes before
he benefited from the gift-seat in days of yore.
When the friendless man awakes again,
sees before him tawny waves,
sea-birds bathing, wing spread,
frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.
Then are the heart's wounds more grievous,
sore for the sake of beloved. Sorrow is renewed
when the mind reviews memory of kinsmen;
he greets with melodies, eagerly examines
hall-companions of men. Again they swim away.
Floating spirits there seldom bring
familiar speeches. Care is renewed
to him who very often must send his weary spirit over the freezing waves.
Therefore, I cannot imagine, throughout this world,
for what reason my spirit does not become dark,
when I entirely ponder the lives of warriors,
how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
brave noble kinsmen. So this world
of all days everyone perishes and falls.
Therefore a man may not become wise before he has
his share of winters in kingdom of the world. The wise man should be patient,
not too angry, nor too hasty of speech,
nor too weak a warrior, nor too reckless,
neither too fearful nor too glad, nor too greedy for wealth,
nor never too eager to boast, before he well knows.
A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
until, stout-hearted, he knows well
whither thought of the mind wish to turn.
A wise warrior understands how spiritual it will be
when all this world's riches stands ruined,
as now here and there throughout this Middle-Earth
walls blown upon by wind stand,
frost-covered, the dwellings snow-swept.
The wine-halls decay, rulers lay deprived of joy, a fallen army,
splendid by the wall. /

And here is the translation by award-winning poet Greg Delanty:

Whenever sorrow and sleep combine
the wretched recluse often dreams
that he is with his loyal lord.
He clasps and kisses him, lays
his hands and head on those knees, loves
the liberal ruler as in whilom days.
As soon as the sober man wakes
he sees nothing but fallow furrows;
seabirds paddle and preen feathers;
snow and frost combine forces.
Then his heart weighs heavier, sore
for the loved lord, sorrow renewed.
He recalls friends from the past,
gladly greets them, feasts his eyes.
His mates swim in waves of memory.
Those fellows float away in his mind,
barely utter a word. Down again
the man knows he must cast
his harrowed heart over frigid waves.
It’s not hard to guess why in the world
my spirit’s in such a stark state
as I consider the lives of those lords,
how they abruptly quit the halls,
the bold youth. In this way the world,
day after day, fails and falls.
For sure, no man’s wise without his share
of winters in this world. He must be patient,
not too keen, not hot tongued,
not easily led, not foolhardy,
not timid, not all gusto, not greedy
no too cocky till he knows life.
A man should take stock before a vow,
brace for action, be mindful
of the mind’s twists and turns.
The wise man knows how ghostly it will be
when all the world’s wealth is wasted
as in many regions on Earth today,
the still-standing walls wind-wracked,
ice-bound; each edifice under snow.
The halls fall, the lords lie low,
no more revels, troops of gallant veterans
valiant by the wall.

The Wanderer takes on new levels of despair as he falls into a fitful sleep. In his dreams he is once again with his lord, showing him fealty (as he should) and remembering the many times he knelt before the “gift-seat” (a throne) from where his lord favored him with gifts. For a moment, the wanderer knows happiness once more.

Then he awakes suddenly to “frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.”

However, he – either in his delirium or futile hopes - believes that he is still in the company of his hall-companions. He remembers their songs and their fellowship. But, in the end, it is just a gathering of gulls that float nearby, preening their wings. Cold reality sets in once more. The gulls swim away from him leaving him alone on the water. The spirit of the wanderer longs to travel with them over the frozen waves. He is grief-stricken once more.

The wanderer uses the bitter cold as an analogy for wisdom when he says, “Therefore a man may not become wise before he has his share of winters in kingdom of the world.” As he travels through this particular winter the wanderer is gaining wisdom that he also shares with the reader. However, it is doubtful that the wanderer will actually survive through many more winters.

The wanderer reflects on the notion that all of human existence is transient. After all, he knows from bitter experience that he once had lord, who provided him with a home that was shared with people he loved. But, in the blink of an eye, all that disappeared. When he combines this sense of loss with his knowledge that men will die, he cannot help but reflect on how all of creation will eventually fall into ruin, too. Here the poem expresses this notion of transience with the image of a fallen army in front of a wall that is covered with frost, buffered and battered by the winds that slowly but surely wear it into a state of decay and, finally, into nothingness. One day the earth (middangeard – “Middle-earth”), too, will suffer the same fate.

And the wanderer rows on…

The Wanderer

2011-11-03T07:35:00.011-04:00

"Introduction to Old English Literature" has kicked into high gear.

We are now translating poetry from the Anglo-Saxon world. This reminds me of those many months translating lines from Beowulf; The work is a challenge of finding the correct word-order while attempting to discern and maintain the original intent of the author.

First up - The Wanderer.

Our assignment for the next three weeks is to translate one-third of the poem into Modern English. I have decided to share my labors with you as well as my thoughts and observations about the work as a whole.

If you're still interested then read on...

This poem tells the story of a wanderer, a lone warrior who roams the world seeking shelter and aid after the death of his lord. In the first part of the poem the wanderer has set sail on the wintery sea. He finds no comfort roaming the wilderness beyond civilization. His monologue is a lament for his exile and the loss of kin, friends, home, and the generosity of his "gold-friend" (his liege lord). Poignantly the speaker imagines that he is among his companions and embracing his king, only to awaken to the reality of the gray winter sea and the loneliness of one in exile.

The poem is (possibly) an elegy, defined in literature as a mournful, melancholic or plaintive poem, especially a funeral song or a lament for the dead.

It is important not to underestimate the meaning of exile while reading the poem. This was not the Old West. Americans have long romanticized the notion of living alone on the frontier and traveling beyond civilisation into the wild. However, in the Anglo-Saxon age, a man was defined and nurtured by his role in society and by the lord he served. If you did not remain in your society then you were an "outlaw"; neither bound nor protected by your clan. This was a punishment; a form of living hell from which the wanderer may certainly perish.

Here are the first 38 lines in Old English:

Oft him anhaga are gebideð,
metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ,wadan wræclastas. Wyrd bið ful aræd!
Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig,
wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre:
"Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce
mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nanþe ic him modsefan minne durre
sweotule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat
þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw,
þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde,
healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he wille. Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan,
ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman.
Forðon domgeorne dreorigne oft
in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste;
swa ic modsefan minne sceolde,oft earmcearig, eðle bidæled,
freomægum feor feterum sælan,
siþþan geara iu goldwine minne
hrusan heolstre biwrah, ond ic hean þonan
wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind,sohte sele dreorig sinces bryttan,
hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte
þone þe in meoduhealle min mine wisse,
oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde,
weman mid wynnum. Wat se þe cunnað, hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan,
þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena.
Warað hine wræclast, nales wunden gold,
ferðloca freorig, nalæs foldan blæd.
Gemon he selesecgas ond sincþege,hu hine on geoguðe his goldwine
wenede to wiste. Wyn eal gedreas!
Forþon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes
leofes larcwidum longe forþolian

Which I have literally translated thus:

Often the solitary one waits for honor for himself,
God’s compassion, although he sorrowful at heart
over the seaways for a long time
stir with his hands the frost-cold sea,
travel paths of exile. Fate is very resolute.
So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardships,
of fierce slaughter, deaths of dear kinsmen:
Often I must, alone, the hour before dawn
lament my sorrow. No one is now alive
to whom I dare openly reveal
my soul. I know as a truth:
It is in a warrior noble custom
that he firmly bind his life-enclosure,
govern his wealth-chamber, whatever he may think.
Weary heart never provides fate,
nor does troubled heart provide help;
Therefore, those who are eager for glory often bind fast
a sorrowful mind in their breast-chamber.
So must I my spirit--
often wretchedly sorrowful, separated of homeland,
far from kinsmen bound with fetters,
since long ago my former lord covered
in darkness of earth, and I, wretched, thence,
traveled sorrowful as winter, over the freezing waves
sought, hall-sorrowful, a giver of treasure
Where I far or near could find I might find
one in mead-hall who knew my people
or me, friendless, would console me, entertain me with pleasures. He who experiences understands
how cruel is sorrow, as a companion,
For him who himself has few beloved friends
The path of exile holds him, not at all twisted gold,
his soul-chamber frozen, not at all earth’s glory.
He remembers men of the hall and receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his generous lord
accustomed him to feast. Pleasure all perished!
Therefore he knows, who must do without his lord-friend's beloved
teachings for a long time.

A much more poetic translation is here, courtesy of award-winning poet Greg Delanty:

The loner holds out for grace
—the Maker’s mercy—though full of care
he steers a course, forced to row
the freezing, fierce sea with bare hands,
take the exile’s way; fate dictates.
The earth-stepper spoke, heedful of hardship,
of brutal battle, the death of kith and kin:
“Often at first lick of light
I lament my sole way—no one left
to open my self up to wholly,
heart and soul. Sure, I know it’s the noble custom for an earl
to bind fast what’s in his breast,
hoard inmost thoughts, think what he will.
The weary mind can’t fight fate
nor will grim grit help. Driven men often harbor
chill dread fast in their chests.
So I, at sea in my angst,
(wretched outcast from my land,
far from kind kindred) brace myself,
having buried my large-hearted lord
years back in black earth. Abject,
I wander winter-weary the icy waves,
longing for lost halls, a helping hand
far or near. Maybe I’ll find
one who’d host me in the toasting hall, who’d comfort me, friendless,
gladly entertain me. Any who attempt it
know what cruel company sorrow can be
for a soul without a single mate;
exile’s path holds him, not finished gold;
a frozen heart, not the world’s wonders;
he recalls retainers, reaping treasure,
how in youth his lavish liege
feted and feasted him. All is history.
He who lack a loved lord’s counsel knows this story:

I am simply in awe of the power and majesty found in these lines. "Stir with his hands the frost-cold sea" may be the most vivid description of rowing a boat that I have ever read. It doesn't take much to imagine the gray skies filled with churning clouds as the dark sea rolls with whitecaps as a lone man fights against both the current and his fate (wyrd). The sorrow in his inner-voice reflects his longing for the home he once had while attempting to arm himself with a steely resolve to face the grim future that lay before him.

The image of this man burying his lord ("since long ago I covered my former lord in darkness of earth") is heartbreaking. One can assume from the text that this man is unable to return to his family simply because he has not done so. I surmise that he has buried them all.

The Anglo-Saxon word "eardstapa" literally translates as "Earth stepper" which has been fashioned as "Wanderer". He is one who walks the Earth. And he is doing so alone - truly alone - in the wilderness.
I do not know where the Wanderer will lead us to next. I have not read ahead because I want the story to unfold before me as I translate the poem.

For now, I am haunted by his desolation.

Insights from Cædmon

2011-10-13T07:34:00.007-04:00

My Introduction to Old English Literature class has introduced me to Cædmon's Hymn; more importantly, it has given me insight into the Anglo-Saxon world that I never expected.

First, some history: Cædmon was an illiterate cowherd who one night learned to compose songs in the course of a dream. This tale was preserved by the 8th-century monk Bede and is told in Book Four, Chapter 25 of Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People. It was translated into Old English, probably during the reign of King Alfred the Great, by an anonymous Mercian scholar. Cædmon composed what is believed to be one of the earliest forms of Old English poetry. All of this took place sometime between 657 and 684 AD.

And yet, this is not what fascinates me about details of Bede's account of Cædmon. Instead, it is line 6 from Bede's account that excites me. here it is in Old English:

"Ond hē for þon oft in ġebēorscipe, þonne þǣr wæs blisse intinga ġedēmed, þæt hēo ealle sceoldon þurh endebyrdnesse be hearpan singan, þonne hē ġeseah þā hearpan him nēalēċan, þonne ārās hē for forscome from þǣm symble ond hām ēode tō his hūse."

Translated by me as follows:

"And he therefore often in banquet, whenever there was judged to be cause for merriment, that they all had to sing to the harp in order, then he saw the harp approach him, then for humility he arose from the banquet and went home to his house."

A less cumbersome translation follows:

"...and for this reason sometimes at a banquet, when it was agreed to make merry by singing in turn, if he saw the harp come towards him, he would rise up from table (in humility) and go out and return home." *

Essentially, Cædmon could not sing any songs in front of the harp because he did not know any and, in his embarrassment, he left the banquet.

As I mentioned earlier, Cædmon was an illiterate lay brother of advanced years who was assigned to the monastery Streonæshalch. In short, he was not ordained as a monk; he was a worker who was occupied primarily with manual labour and with the secular affairs of the monastery. Yet, a close reading of line 6 tells us so much more about the life of Cædmon and the other brothers of the monastery.

The inhabitants of the monastery engaged in banquets. This means that it was possible for the monks to live well; if not all the time then once in a while, at least.

Members of the monastery attended the banquet. However, we do not know if both clergy and laymen attended together or not. I propose that both clergy and secular members were in attendance; if only because it is hard for me to believe that Cædmon was the only illiterate lay brother at the monastery. It stands to reason that the educated members of the order socialized with the laymen in fellowship.

The banquets often involved singing and a harp was used as an accompaniment. I do not know if the songs were sung while the harp was played along or if the harp was used as an introductory device only. Either way, there was music in the lives of those in the monastery.

When the monks did sing at banquets, a harpist made his way around the room for the monks to sing "in order". Whether this is by rank or simply by seat location is unknown. However, when the harpist stopped in front of you it was your turn to sing.

Singing was a form of recreation and used to "make merry". Clearly the oral tradition was both respected and enjoyed by the members of the clergy in the Anglo-Saxon world.

I may be over-romanticizing it a bit but I love the image of the monks sitting together after a hearty meal, reveling in their fellowship and choosing to make merry by lifting their voices together in song while a harp adds its voice to theirs. I can almost hear their voices echoing through the rafters as their melody moves outside the walls of the monastery and slowly drifts across the countryside and up into the night sky.

*http://www.jesus.org.uk/vault/library/bede_history.pdf

"Control of the Magic"

2011-09-14T07:46:00.007-04:00

During my last session of "Crusades, Plagues, and Hospitals: Medicine, Religion, and Society in the Medieval Mediterranean" the discussion veered into fascinating territory. Professor Ragab made an intriguing, impassioned speech about how the people who lived in the Levant believed that spirits always walked among them and how this affected their day-to-day existence (I believe this discussion actually refers to the Islamic view of Angels). Clearly, any ideas of a spiritual nature would have been abhorrant to the invading Crusaders from the West. With this backdrop I certainly hope to learn more about the day-to-day magic that pervaded their lives so long ago.

My train ride home was full of ideas from the lecture; specifically, I was comparing how the Anglo-Saxon peoples also believed that magic was infused in their daily lives and how the Church sought to supress the pagan inclination toward "false gods" to that of the medieval Crusades.

Throughout Anglo-Saxon England (which existed from the 5th century until the Norman conquest of England in 1066) the Anglo-Saxons believed that there were spirits and supernatural forces that affected their daily lives. In The Real Middle-Earth by Brian Bates the author discusses the common practice of circumventing "local practices" and establishing the Church as the lone source of religious, supernatural authority:

"As ever, many of the bloody battles between warlords, chieftains and kings were over wealth, power and honour. Some were about rival religions, and involved the power of Rome and Europe-wide politics. Essentially it was a struggle for the control of the magic. The wizards and seeresses practised with the blessing and energies of the enchanted landscape and the spirit world, whereas the Christian missionaries wanted those powers to be mediated exclusively through the Church" (153-154).

Much like with the inhabitants of the Levant, the Church conspired to impose their own rituals over the existing religious practices of the indigenous peoples of Anglo-Saxon Britain. This process is illuminated from a passage found In CHAP. XXX. A copy of the letter which Pope Gregory sent to the Abbot Mellitus, then going into Britain. [601 A.D.] of Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England. This letter detailed how the conversion of the "pagans" in Anglo-Saxon England could be accomplished:

To his most beloved son, the Abbot Mellitus; Gregory, the servant of the servants of God. We have been much concerned, since the departure of our people that are with you, because we have received no account of the success of your journey. Howbeit, when Almighty God has led, you to the most reverend Bishop Augustine, our brother, tell him what I have long been considering in my own mind concerning the matter of the English people; to wit, that the temples of the idols in that nation ought not to be destroyed; but let the idols that are in them be destroyed; let water be consecrated and sprinkled in the said temples, let altars be erected, and relics placed there. For if those temples are well built, it is requisite that they be converted from the worship of devils to the service of the true God; that the nation, seeing that their temples are not destroyed, may remove error from their hearts, and knowing and adoring the true God, may the more freely resort to the places to which they have been accustomed. And because they are used to slaughter many oxen in sacrifice to devils, some solemnity must be given them in exchange for this, as that on the day of the dedication, or the nativities of the holy martyrs, whose relics are there deposited, they should build themselves huts of the boughs of trees about those churches which have been turned to that use from being temples, and celebrate the solemnity with religious feasting, and no more offer animals to the Devil, but kill cattle and glorify God in their feast, and return thanks to the Giver of all things for their abundance; to the end that, whilst some outward gratifications are retained, they may the more easily consent to the inward joys. For there is no doubt that it is impossible to cut off every thing at once from their rude natures; because he who endeavours to ascend to the highest place rises by degrees or steps, and not by leaps. Thus the Lord made Himself known to the people of Israel in Egypt; and yet He allowed them the use, in His own worship, of the sacrifices which they were wont to offer to the Devil, commanding them in His sacrifice to kill animals, to the end that, with changed hearts, they might lay aside one part of the sacrifice, whilst they retained another; and although the animals were the same as those which they were wont to offer, they should offer them to the true God, and not to idols; and thus they would no longer be the same sacrifices. This then, dearly beloved, it behoves you to communicate to our aforesaid brother, that he, being placed where he is at present, may consider how he is to order all things. God preserve you in safety, most beloved son. http://www.ccel.org/ccel/bede/history.v.i.xxix.html

The Church engaged in this type of activity for nearly 600 years before the time period (from the 11th-13th century) that our class will cover this semester.

So, while the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons was not as spectacular as that of the Crusades in the medieval world, it was no less pervasive and determined.

19 Years and Once Upon a Time Ago

2011-08-26T10:27:00.014-04:00

Today is Jenna's 19th birthday and I have been strolling down Memory Lane.

As I have mentioned on the blog before, Jenna and I used to sing in the car together. Alot. Obviously, as Jenna got older there were some CD's that didn't make the transition; like, say, Disney soundtracks. But that doesn't mean we didn't listen to them once upon a time.

In honor of the day I am presenting two songs that we used to sing to (quite loudly) from The Little Mermaid and The Lion King.

It's funny to remember that Jenna really enjoyed when I sang the "Zazu" part from "I Just Can't Wait to be King" because he was all cranky and parental sounding. It seems he had more of an influence on my parenting style than I initially thought...

Go ahead - sing along. You know you want to.

Happy birthday, Jenna!

Love, Dad

So...Where Were We?

2011-01-25T07:49:00.005-05:00

Many of you (okay...one of you) actually noticed that I hadn't posted anything in awhile. I believe the exact text was "You no bloggy; me no likey."

This made me smile.

Another friend asked why I hadn't actually posted anything since September and my mumbled response was something like "I haven't felt like it" before I changed the subject. Like ignoring my blog, I didn't feel like sharing my thoughts on the topic because, really, what can I say?

I haven't felt like it.

Sadly, this is pretty accurate.

After Mark's death I had so much to deal with on my own that the idea of sitting down and sharing my thoughts with others really seemed like an indulgence that I didn't wish to spend time doing. In this case, my thoughts have been my own and I truly didn't feel like sharing them. I now realize that this has spilled over into areas of my life that I didn't expect - like blogging.

There are times that I have wanted to share some of the wonderful experiences of the latter half of 2010 with you. However, I have not wanted to share any of the negative experiences on this space. Somehow I felt this was dishonest so, instead, I have shared nothing.

Truthfully, the loss of my brother has been an undercurrent to everything that has gone on in my life since June 30th. It has colored (tainted?) the way that I have experienced nearly everything for the past 7 months. There are times when the hurt makes a simple experience even more meaningful and awesome. Sadly, there are times when an experience that should simply be a joyous one is also tinged with melancholy. And this is to be expected. After all, I have experienced loss before (we all have) and I do know that this too shall pass. It's just taking its sweet-ass time doing so.

I have been writing this post for minutes now and I still don't know where it is going...

I guess I just wanted to give all seven of my readers a head's-up to let you know that yes, I am still alive but that - at least since June 30 - I really haven't felt like talking about my life.

Yet, rest assured; this too shall pass.

Living in Absurdistan

2010-09-02T07:22:00.003-04:00

This is yet another reason why I love Jon Stewart:

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Mosque-Erade

http://www.thedailyshow.com/

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

A lot.

Eighteen Candles

2010-08-26T08:11:00.004-04:00

Today Jenna is eighteen.

Between these photos Jenna has lived a lifetime.

And today she has her whole life ahead of her - again.

I envy her. I'm proud of her. And I can't wait to see what the future holds for her.

Happy Birthday, Jenna!

For Mark

2010-07-09T08:56:00.006-04:00

We are here today to celebrate the life of Mark Robert Peterson. We are not here today to debate, rehash or reexamine the difficulties, challenges or the personal demons that Mark faced most recently; for that is for each of us to do within the privacy of our own thoughts and in our own way.
In celebrating Mark today we pay respect to the man who was a son, a brother, a husband, a cousin, a nephew, an uncle, a friend and most importantly, a father. All of you are here today because Mark played a role in your life, just as you did in his.
And, in writing this eulogy I’ve asked some of you to share your memories of Mark. I was amazed by how many of the adjectives used by each of you actually overlapped with each other.
Apparently many of us thought that Mark was funny. Mark had a quick wit and an easy charm that never failed him. Mark liked to laugh and he liked to share that laughter with those around him.
My daughter Jenna reminded me of Mark’s unfortunate choice of nickname for her when she was about 5 years old – “pooper”; which she never really understood. Finally, a few later when she called him on it, he replied, “Oh, OK - Peanut” and that became her new nickname. She never understood that one, either but it made them both laugh whenever he said it so she let it slide.
Mark had an easy charm. In fact, “Charm” was Mark’s stock in trade. When he left nursing and tried his hand at medical sales he had to submit a monthly expense report complete with receipts. He was really, really bad at it. Mark’s answer? He became fast friends with the secretaries who didn't mind receiving an envelope of crumpled up receipts from him once a month.
Mark also gave and inspired loyalty. More than a few of you said he was “like a dog” – loyal to the end. Mark would move Heaven and Earth for a friend or loved one. If Mark was your friend then you had a friend for life. This is evident in the fact that so many people have reached out to my family from across the decades to share their love of Mark.
Another word used to describe Mark was compassionate. Mark dedicated his professional career to the needs of the patients under his care. As a registered nurse, Mark found a way to channel the healing hand to others that had sometimes eluded him in his personal life. Martha, Mark’s friend and Supervisor, told me this: “In all of my 32 years in nursing I have never worked with a nurse with whom I have had so much fun. No matter what the day was like, no matter how busy or stressful, he was always there to provide a broad smile and some much needed comic relief. He was an extremely caring and compassionate nurse, excellent at his job, and the patients just loved him. In fact many patients who Mark had cared for in the Cath Lab that have come back to us in the past 3 years have asked for him.” For me, it was nice to see that the loyalty he had always inspired in his friends and family found its way into his professional life, too.
I must point out that some other words used to describe Mark were “stubborn”, “vain” and “egotistical”. From personal experience I cannot disagree. I know that Mark hating nothing more than knowing that he was slowly going bald while I am able to stand here before you with a full head of hair.
Mark was also a fighter, and here is where the word “stubborn” comes into play. My father remembers watching Mark play football against players on the field who were twice his size – and who were afraid of him. Heck, even I was afraid of him because Mark would simply not back down from a fight of any type. Aunt Janice reminded me that a perfect example of this tenacity was the time when young Mark (around age 6 or so) used these blow-up boxing gloves against his cousin Scott – and promptly punched his tooth out. It didn’t matter it was a “game” (and in Aunt Janice’s living room, no less) but Mark did not want to lose. Mark did not do well with “loss” of any type and he took each loss personally.
As all of you know, Mark struggled with the death of our Mom. After she died, and when he needed it most, Mark found a home with Henry and Ilona Mitchell, who helped to put Mark back together again. They have long been the family of his heart. The Mitchell’s did more to ensure young Mark's well-being than any of us were able to do alone. Words cannot express the debt that we owe to them; I can only say that my family will always be grateful to their family.
Mark was all about family; whether that family was his biological one, his adopted families, his family of friends or the families that he himself created with both Rory and Christine. If we can say nothing else about Mark, I think we can all agree that Mark was a devoted father to his children. Mark loved each of them unconditionally and eternally. When he was able to do so, no one was more attentive or loving of his children than Mark was. In fact, the best of times in Mark's adult life were spent in the company of Jack, Caroline, Jake and Matty.
Mark had his faults; we all do. However, when all is said and done, Mark tried his very best to do what was right for his family and those who loved him. And family is why we are all here today, after all – isn’t it? Look at us. We come from all different backgrounds and in all shapes and sizes. Mark, Barbara and I were all adopted by Joan and Cliff; there is not a drop of blood shared between us. As the adopted son of two wonderful parents I can tell you from first-hand experience that blood does not make a family; Love makes a family. In his own way, Mark loved all of us and we have been brought here together today because of our love for Mark. We are a family. We are the family that Mark created. And we are his legacy.
Dr. Samuel Johnson said, “It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives.” As I stand here before you today, I see that Mark Peterson - who was at once a son, a brother, a husband, a cousin, a nephew, an uncle, a friend and most importantly, a father, lived very, very well, indeed. As I said earlier, we are Mark’s legacy. Let us be worthy of this honor.

Father's Day 2010

2010-06-21T07:33:00.006-04:00

I had arrived at his house five minutes earlier than expected. We left immediately, leisurely driving down Route 106, discussing family issues, the weather and just commenting on what a beautiful Saturday morning it was. We eased into traffic from Exit 9 on Route 3 and it was a quick mile and a half to the Independence Mall.

Dad commented that he usually parks over near Pizzeria Uno because the lot near the cinema is always full. I gamble that - at 11:20 AM - it would not be crowded. I was right.

We entered the Mall right at the cinema. As we walked towards the ticket booth Dad was scanning the wall for a poster of the film we were about to see. He was disappointed when he didn't see one. "I'm sure they'll have one inside," I said reassuringly.

While we waited in line Dad reminded me to ask for one adult and one senior citizen because "You get a discount, you know." He was right; I saved .50 cents on his ticket.

Tickets in hand, we walked across the front lobby towards the video games. Dad browsed the selection and stopped at a hunting game. "I used to be pretty good at shooting games," he said.

"Do you want to try your luck?" I asked. "I have .50 if you want it?"

He thought about it for a moment, then "No, that's okay. What time does the movie start?"

"12:10."

"We'd better go get our seats."

I look at my watch. It is 11:25. "Sure, Dad. Whatever you want."

As we walked down the darkened, empty corridor to theater #4, I spied a poster for our film. "Here you go, Old Man." We paused an looked at the grizzled black and white poster that showed head shots of our four heroes.

"Who's who?" Dad asked, squinting in the dim light.

"I pointed from the top left, "That's Hannibal. Here's Face, B.A., and Murdock."

Dad smiled and said, "This will be fun."

We entered the dimly lit theatre. Overly-loud movie Muzak was playing over the same three "trivia questions" that were repeated ad-nauseum. Dad chose our seats in the 2nd aisle from the back row, because he can see better from that distance. We took our seats and looked around. We laughed. At 11:28, we were the only two patrons seated in the theatre. By the time the movie started we were two of seven.

Dad had declined any popcorn of beverage as he was "saving his appetite" for the pizza and soda we were going to get after the movie.

For now we were locked and loaded and ready for "The A-Team".

We chatted for a while - eating up a half an hour with small talk - and then we sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Dad has a lot on his mind lately. I wondered what thoughts were racing through his head. He broke the silence and said, "This is a good day, me boy. Thank you."

"Thanks, Dad. I think so, too."

As the lights dimmed, Dad turned to me, smiled and said, "Here we go."

I love it when a plan comes together.

One Hundred Years

2010-06-15T07:42:00.004-04:00

My Nana, Margaret Little, is one hundred years old today.

In recognition of this milestone, she has received accolades from President and Mrs. Obama, The Pope, Cardinal O'Malley and Representative Delahunt. Today is also "Margaret Little Day" in Quincy, MA.

Nana may or may not know these facts but her family does.

We celebrated at the nursing home on Sunday, bringing together cousins, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The guest of honor smiled infrequently, scowled at my aunt's insistence on feeding her cake and not so subtly stuck her finger up her nose, to great guffaws of laughter from Jenna.

In fact, laughter fills my memories of Nana.

Most of the family holidays were spent on Watson Road with Nana and Grampa. Grampa was taken from us too soon (in 1976) yet Nana shouldered on. Our family Christmas party always included a "gift box", in which the Master of Ceremonies would dispense presents to each guest and then mercilessly tease them about it. I was the first Master of Ceremonies and that never changed. For some reason my family enjoyed my twisted sense of humor and double-entendre laden quips. This part was easy, you see, because many of our gifts were bought at Spencer Gifts. Nothing spelled out "hilarity" quite like watching an elderly relative open a gift from Spencers.

My favorite present may have been the time that Nana opened a bottle of heated massage oil - and she didn't know what it was used for. Even funnier was Uncle Tommy's repeated attempts to trade his present - or any present - for the massage oil.

Oh! I also enjoyed when Uncle Tommy's sister, Barbara (the nun) got a box of condoms - ribbed for her pleasure.

After gifts were given out my cousin Scott would bring out his keyboard and lead the family in Christmas Carols. Nana nearly choked on her egg-nog the first time she heard Scott and I sing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" but she asked us to sing it again year after year.

Laughter wasn't relegated to just the holidays.

I remember having dinner at Nana's house sometime in 1978. Mom, my siblings and I just finished the main course, With dishes in the sink Nana asked if we wanted dessert. My brother Mark (who was nine) asked "What's for dessert?"

"I have cookies for dessert," Nana said.

"Hmmm...what kind of cookies?"

"Well, I have - what do you mean 'What kind of cookies?'" Nana sputtered, as we laughed and laughed. "They're cookies, for chrissakes!"

"I know, but what kind of cookies are they?"

"Caca-looley Cookies - that's what type they are! You'll eat 'em and like 'em!"

And he did.

Forevermore, oatmeal raisin cookies in my family have been known as "Caca-looley Cookies."

Nana has seen much in her one hundred trips around the sun. She has seen the science-fiction of her youth become the realities of day-to-day life. She raised her siblings and then married and raised her own family, which now consists of three daughters, six grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren and many nieces and nephews. She spent forty years with Andy Little before being widowed. She has buried two daughters, numerous family members and even a dog or two. Through it all, Nana always found time to laugh. In doing so, her family laughed with her.

Today, I remember the laughter.

Happy Birthday, Nana.

Sunscreen for the Class of 2010

2010-06-11T07:25:00.009-04:00

It is with great pride that I tell you that Jenna graduated from high school on Friday, June 4th. Those closest to her were there to celebrate this milestone event. Jenna can now enjoy one last summer of high school before she heads off to college in the Fall.

I believe that she will do very well in college. Jenna has the will, intelligence and determination to succeed at whatever she puts her mind to doing. Trust me, she has proven this part time and time again. Once she sets her mind to something then she will accomplish it. I'm not sure exactly where she gets that level of stubborn from. Let's just say that both sides of the family are equally culpable in this regard. Just the fact that she is going to the college of her choice means that she is much more prepared to face her future than I ever was.

In honor of this milestone event, today I share with you an essay titled "Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young" written by Mary Schmich and published in the Chicago Tribune as a column in 1997. Schmich has described the column as "advice for living without regret." She described it as "the commencement address that she would give if she were asked to give one." Her advice is simple, funny and profound.

"Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen."

Across the Finish Line

2010-05-28T07:14:00.006-04:00

Jenna graduates from Scituate High School next Friday. However, today is her last official day of classes. It still amazes me to think about this fact.

I called Jenna this morning to wish her a good day. I assumed that she would be on her way to school - perhaps with a coffee - to sit out the next few hours in barely-contained glee.

I should have known better.

When she answered the phone, Jenna was already partying in the high school parking lot. In the background music and laughter filled the air. I could barely hear what she was saying but the joy in her voice was unmistakable. I laughed out loud and congratulated her on making the most of this day.

As I thought about my daughter and her friends celebrating this momentous occasion I couldn't help but think about my high school days with my friends. I wish that we had done something like this when we graduated from high school so many years ago.

Still, it seems that high school kids are the same in any era and from anyplace. The world is at their feet and their futures are months away. For now, there is just this moment; this final goodbye from the world that she has known for twelve academic years. I do not know what friends Jenna will bring with her from high school as her life moves forward. I do know that she will never forget this life that she leaves behind.

Farewell to the Riddermark

2010-05-11T08:02:00.004-04:00

My last class in "Tolkien as Translator" is tomorrow night. My final paper is nearly complete; just some minor edits and a final read-through and it will be done. I have re-read "The Lord of the Rings" and studied the languages of Middle-earth; all under the watchful, knowledgeable gaze of Dr. Marc Zender.

Dr. Zender jumped right into things on the first night of class. I listened intently, concerned that I did not have an anthropological language background and that I would not be able to follow along. This notion was was slowly dispelled over the next 1.5 hours. Then, something miraculous happened.

Dr. Zender was talking about the Riders of Rohan, and how Tolkien infused his languages and cultures with the linguistic echoes of our own Old World cultures, now lost to time. Then, Dr. Zender started to recite - from memory - the Ride of the Riddermark. His confident recitation started slowly at first and gathered in intensity as the passage continued on. Suddenly thoughts of Beowulf crept into my mind. Is this Tolkien or Beowulf? This sounds just like some passages from Beowulf.

As Dr. Zender finished the passage, we applauded. Never before had I heard Tolkien read aloud yet I realized now that it should be. Or, at least, some of it should be. Dr. Zender now spoke about how Tolkien altered his writing styles based on the source-culture or literary material and that, yes, there is much of the Anglo-Saxon world - and Beowulf - to be found in the passages concerning Rohan.

And I was hooked.

Dr. Zender has both impressed and inspired me. Once I was content to simply be a teacher of English lit. I now find that I want to specifically study Old English literature. I had an inkling of this notion after I finished "Beowulf & Seamus Heaney" with Professor Daniel Donoghue. Later, my heart stirred when I heard Benjamin Bagby's presentation of Beowulf and I knew that something about this moved me. Then there was " Tolkien as Translator: Language, Culture and Society in Middle-Earth". I have learned so much in this class. Mostly I have learned that I have so much more to learn.

Here, in it's entirety, is the passage Dr. Zender read on the first night of class. Read it aloud (particularly the text in italics) and listen for the alliteration as you do so. See if you can feel the sense of doom and destiny for Théoden as he leads his men to war. It may not change your life; but it changed the way that I look at mine.

“On down the grey road they went beside the Snowbourn rushing on its stones; through the hamlets of Underharrow and Upbourn, where many sad faces of women looked out from dark doors; and so without horn or harp or music of men's voices the great ride into the East began with which the songs of Rohan were busy for many long lives of men thereafter.

From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning

with thane and captain rode Thengel's son:

to Edoras he came, the ancient halls

of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;

golden timbers were in gloom mantled.

Farewell he bade to his free people,

hearth and high-seat, and the hallowed places,

where long he had feasted ere the light faded.

Forth rode the king, fear behind him,

fate before him. Fealty kept he;

oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.

Forth rode Théoden. Five nights and days

east and onward rode the Eorlingas

through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood,

six thousand spears to Sunlending,

Mundburg the mighty under Mindolluin,

Sea-kings’ city in the South-kingdom

foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.

Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,

horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar

sank into silence: so the songs tell us.”

— JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Bk. V, Ch. 3, ‘The Muster of Rohan’ (p. 803)

To The Dung Pit

2010-04-28T13:32:00.003-04:00

I have one reader who asked to see the type of writing I'm doing for my Tolkien class. Therefore, here is a post I added to The Prancing Pony, the online forum. The topic this week is "Orcs & The Black Speech".

I was intrigued by the background information that Tolkien gives the readers regarding the Orcs of Middle-earth. As always with Tolkien, there is a subtext to what he says and how he says it. Therefore, I found what Tolkien had to say about the Orcs to be quite telling. Simply put, he doesn't like them at all. The proof of this is in the fact that Tolkien denied them the power of a unique language for their own use.

In Appendix F, Tolkien noted that Orcs "had no language of their own, but took what they could of other tongues and perverted it to their own liking" (Tolkien 1131). Furthermore, Tolkien tells us that the Orcs quickly developed many different dialects among their kind which made the language virtually useless between their different tribes. Simply put, they had no language of their own. Unlike the Dwarves whose language was given to them by their god, the Orcs are linguistic orphans and their language is the bastard-child of Westron, Black Speech and their own garbled, foul tongue.

The longest Orc phrase is nothing but curses and filth: "Uglúk u bagronk sha pushdug Saruman-glob - búbhosh skai!" (translated as "Uglúk to the dung-pit with stinking Saruman-filth - pig-guts, gah!") whereas Tolkien provided Aragorn, Gandalf and even Frodo the opportunity to display their linguistic talents throughout the text. This weeks readings tell us that the Black Speech was created by Sauron in the Dark Years, who devised it for all those who served him, yet this plan ultimately failed. However, Orcs took bits and pieces of the Black Speech and sprinkled it throughout their own tongues. We also know that their are bits of Westron thrown into the Orcs linguistic soup as well. Simply put, the Orcs literally stole scraps of conversation from the table of the other races of Middle-earth. Orcs are the ultimate scavengers and their language is the perverted fruit of their lazy, linguistic attitudes.

For Tolkien the philologist this attitude would be an anathema to him. I do not believe that Tolkien could better display his utter disgust for the vile creatures that he created then by not giving them a means of linguistic expression that was unique to their culture. They couldn't even talk amongst themselves if they were from different tribes. By making the Orcs the bottom-feeders of the language pond he would naturally, inherently despise them simply because they do not measure up to his own exacting, linguistic standards and those that he bestowed upon the Dwarves, Elves and men of Middle-earth.

The Road to Osgiliath

2010-04-02T07:17:00.006-04:00

I have had the joy of re-reading The Lord of the Rings for my class "Tolkien as Translator", taught by Dr. Marc Zender, Lecturer on Anthropology.

Weekly we delve into the linguistic origins of several of Tolkien's invented languages (and their real-world inspirations), and two of his invented alphabets. In this, I have found that I am a novice compared to a handful of my classmates who enjoy an intimate knowledge of Professor Tolkien's masterpiece. Many weeks into this course and I am still amazed that it is possible to take a class that studies The Lord of the Rings.

Within the online forum The Prancing Pony, we also have the opportunity to discuss the literary as well as the technical aspects of the text. During my re-reading and every once in awhile I am awestruck by the poetry and poignancy of particular passages. Here is one I recently shared with my classmates on the forum:

"Standing there for a moment filled with dread Frodo became aware that a light was shining; he saw it glowing on Sam's face beside him. Turning towards it, he saw, beyond an arch of boughs, the road to Osgiliath running almost as straight, as a stretched ribbon down, down, into the West. There, far away beyond sad Gondor now overwhelmed in shade, the Sun was sinking, finding at last the hem of the great slow-rolling pall of cloud, and falling in an ominous fire towards the yet unsullied sea. The brief glow fell upon a huge sitting figure, still and solemn as the great stone kings at Argonath. The years had gnawed it, and violent hands had maimed it. Its head was gone, and in its place was set in mockery a round, rough-hewn stone, rudely painted by savage hands in the likeness of a grinning face with one large red eye in the midst of its forehead. Upon its knees and mighty chair, and all about the pedestal, were idle scrawls mixed with the foul symbols that the maggot-folk of Mordor used.
Suddenly, caught by the level beams, Frodo saw the old king's head: it was lying rolled away by the roadside. 'Look, Sam!' he cried, startled into speech. 'Look! The king has got a crown again!'
The eyes were hollow and the carven beard was broken, but about the high stern forehead there was a coronal of silver and gold. A trailing plant with flowers like small white stars had bound itself across the brows as if in reverence for the fallen king, and in the crevices of his stony hair yellow stonecrop gleamed.
'They cannot conquer forever!' said Frodo. And then suddenly the brief glimpse was gone. The sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell" (Tolkien, 702).

Dannielle Cagliuso, a classmate whom I only know online, had this to say about the passage:

"It is not only beautifully worded, but full of beautiful sentiment and hope, as well. Frodo's misery had become so deep and impenetrable that his exclamation - and sudden burst of optimism - is shocking and profound."

With this, Dannielle summed up my unspoken thoughts beautifully.

God, I love this class.

Darkness Falls

2010-03-11T07:13:00.005-05:00

Once a feisty cavalier King Charles Spaniel stood guard over the side yard. Nothing escaped his (or was it her?) eagle-eye. Low growls would become yippy barks as he/she defended the realm against all who would dare to walk upon the sidewalk in front of the house.

This is when I would see our neighbor; as she stood on her steps talking with the dog, telling her companion that "It's okay. They're nice people." I didn't see her often; sporadic at best. Yet, when I did, there was a pleasant wave and a quick hello before I would continue on my walk either to or from my own house.

She was elderly, but not too much so. She had a small frame, with curly hair the color of gun-metal. Her small white house was "cute", but only because it was so tiny when compared to others around it. Had she lived here all her life? Did she raise a family here? Was this where she chose to make a life for herself or was this the next stop after her children were grown with lives of their own? I have no idea. And now I never will.

I haven't seen our neighbor since December and the side yard is empty. No growls are heard; no wagging tail is seen, and no gentle admonishment is heard from the side door.

The house is quiet now.

No one who lives near us knew her. She lived ten houses away and I never even knew her name.

I like to think that she's living with a relative and the she and the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel are content in their new surroundings. But, I think I say that to make myself feel better.

Darkness falls over our neighborhood. There are no lights on inside the house to be seen through the windows from the street. At night the emptiness fills the air.

No dog, no lady and no chance to ever say "Hello" again.

I Got Nothing...

2010-03-05T07:25:00.006-05:00

Ever since someone told her blog world that people don't keep up their blogging also are people who kick puppies I felt that I had to write something - anything - to spare me this label of "Puppy-kicker non-blogger". However, and as much as someone doesn't want to hear that school work takes precedence to blogging well, I'm sorry, it just does. I use my time before work to write the weekly summaries I have due each week for my "Tolkien as Translator" class. Between this class and "The Irish Hero of Myth and Saga" my writing dance card is pretty full. Still, I hate disappointing someone, so here we are.

What to write...?

Yeah...I got nothing.

This is the blog about nothing.

It is the "Seinfeld" of blog posts.

Speaking of Seinfeld, his new show "The Marriage Ref" is pretty piss-poor entertainment.

Although, for my money, Alec Baldwin is one funny bastard.

I think he's the biggest reason I watch "30 Rock".

That, and Tina Fey. Fey is funny and hot in that geeky, hot librarian way.

Hot librarians rock.

I haven't been to a library in ages.

I get most of my books in used bookstores.

I hope to own a used bookstore someday.

Jenna told me that when she writes a world-famous novel I can sell it in my bookstore.

Most of my reading is being done for class (see classes above).

I started to read "Don Quixote" but had to stop so I could re-read "The Lord of the Rings".

I'm pretty amazed at Tolkien's ability as a wordsmith. There are echoes of Norse, Old English and colloquial English throughout his work.

I love learning.

I love reading.

I occasionally love blogging.

So here we are.

More next week - promise.

Odds 'n Ends - UPDATED with more college-y goodness!

2010-01-21T07:26:00.005-05:00

Happy New Year!

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

Sorry 'bout that.

My blog absence came about after I was told that it seemed like my blog was just an attempt to elicit "kudos" or "congratulations" for being a dad. While I don't believe this is true, it bothered me that my writings here could have been perceived in this way. Therefore, every time I attempted to blog about something I heard this criticism repeated back and forth in my head. Ergo, no writings.

I think (hope) that I'm over it now.

In any event, here are the bullet points of news from before Christmas:

Jenna applied to SEVEN colleges and has been accepted to FOUR - Anna Maria, Colby-Sawyer, Plymouth State and now Central Connecticut State University. We're still waiting for word from the other three. As I told her directly, she is already further along in a college career than I was at her age. I am very proud of her.
I finished my second semester at Harvard on December 17th. I earned a "B+" in both my "Folklore & Mythology" and "Expository Writing" courses. Now I am waiting to see if I will be accepted into the degree program there.
Next semesters classes: "The Hero of Irish Myth & Saga" & "Tolkien as Translator: Language, Culture and Society in Middle-Earth".
My father turns 73 next week. In honor of this milestone he has asked that the family gather at Pogo's in Bridgewater for a hearty breakfast. My Dad is a man of simple desires.
In the last month Dad has had two eye surgeries to correct his vision. Now he sees better than ever. He says he can read National Geographic magazine easier so this is a good thing.
I highly recommend "Cranford" on Masterpiece Theater on PBS. Dame Judy Dench is stellar as Miss Mattie. There is no simple way to describe the easy charm of a story set in a small town in England during the 1840's. However, I find myself swept up in the lives of these characters.
Have I mentioned that I love my cardigan sweaters?
I highly recommend a snowy afternoon at James's Gate watching Manchester United while munching on Gate nachos and drinking a pint of Guinness in front of a roaring fire.

And there you have it.
Welcome to 2010, everybody.

Merry Christmas to All

2009-12-25T00:01:00.003-05:00

Oh, Holy Night

2009-12-24T07:21:00.004-05:00

Now that Jenna has her driver's license (I know, right?) we don't spend as much time in the car together anymore. Therefore, we have not listened to our usual collection of Christmas music this year.

While Jenna always made sure that my favorite Christmas song ("All I want for Christmas is You") was either on a cd or on her I-Pod she always managed to sneak this song in as well.

Kneel Before Walken!

2009-12-14T15:53:00.003-05:00

Words fail me...unless that word is "AWESOME!"

Clasped in Silence

2009-12-08T07:16:00.008-05:00

"Hi Nana. It's Andrew."

If she recognized me she had no way of telling me. Her speech has long been garbled and unintelligible. Nervously, I sat next to her and started to talk. I needed to fill the silence; to subdue my own fears of this situation and to calm myself. I told her about my recent activities at work, school and home. I related stories of my father, brother and sister to her, too, without a glimmer of acknowledgement. Finally, I mentioned Jenna and her ambitions for college. Nana raised her eyebrows and said "Ooh", in the same agreeable way she always did.Through misted eyes I started to relax.

I pulled the photo of Jenna from my wallet. "This is what Jenna looks like now," I said as I held it up to her face. "She's come a long way from the little girl whose hair you were always brushing out of her eyes," I said, laughing. Slowly Nana reached her hand up to take the photo from me. Gingerly, I placed it in her hand and helped her lift it closer to her face. After a few moments I placed it back in my wallet and looked at her face. There are many, many creases there now and her eyes are closed more often than not. She's smaller and more fragile although she still looms as a giant in my memories. I wonder if she knows that I'm here? I think that she does.

Suddenly she strained against the chair in an attempt to stand. I patted her arm and told he that she didn't have to get up and that I'll get her whatever she needs. Again, more silence.

I looked at the shock of white and gray hair on her head. It was looking a bit unruly this morning. I spied a brush on her dresser and asked "Would you like me to brush your hair?" She turn her head slightly in my direction. I took this as a "yes". I grabbed the soft, black brush off the dresser and slowly brushed Nana's hair. The thick bristles moved through her soft, gray hair and I followed each stroke with my left hand, to smooth out my amateur grooming attempts. When I finished with her hair I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Her skin was delicate like an ancient parchment; the weight of years having changed it so. "I love you, Nana," I whispered.

I sat back in my chair. I babbled at Nana a bit more when, finally, I said "I can't think of anything else to say so I can either go or maybe I can just sit here and hold your hand?" I realized too late the absurdity of giving a woman who can't speak a question to answer. I reached forward and took her right hand in mine. Her hand - with skin like parchment - was tiny in mine. I gently slid my hand under her fingers and said "I'm just going to sit here for a while."

Almost imperceptibly, her hand closed on mine just a tiny bit more.

Scars

2009-11-05T09:04:00.005-05:00

Today is the 25th anniversary of my Mom's passing and I have nothing to say.

Every year I have some memory of her that I share with you; this year I have nothing. I was trying to come up with something to write but once I realized that I was "forcing it" I decided to stop trying. I wonder if I have somehow forgotten the stories? Is there nothing left for me to say about her? Is that even possible? What does this mean?

As I told a dear friend this morning "Time really does heal all wounds although it does leave the scars behind." However, scarring is a natural part of the healing process.

I realize now after all these years that I've moved beyond the pain of her death and I probably did some time ago. I no longer cry to myself when I think of her and I can't even say that I think of her every day anymore. This seems wrong and yet, right, somehow. I wish I could explain it better but words fail me today. All I know is that I sit here 25 years after the death of my mother and, somehow, I have found peace with it.

Wow.

I still miss you, Mom...and I always will. But the pain has gone away and all that remains is this scar.

The Last First Day

2009-10-08T07:24:00.005-04:00

Jenna began her senior year of high school on September 8th and, as I do every year, I was there to see her off. Things were a bit rushed this year and the early arrival of the school bus meant that there are no pictures of her waiting outside. Still, I was there so I will always carry that memory with me.

As the bus pulled away I realized that this is the last time that Pam and I will be standing here together like this, watching our daughter leave on the school bus.

I was wistful.

It's been a long journey getting to her senior year. As I stood watching her get ready to go my mind wandered back to my last first day of high school. I have no recollection of it; it was just another day. Not that my parents didn't care. Rather, Dad was already at work and Mom was still dressed for bed, working on motivating Mark and Barbara up out of bed and out the door, too. Still, while I don't remember my last first day I will always remember hers.

As I drove towards Boston I was in stop and go (mostly stop - long stops - school buses, remember?) traffic. I was following Jenna's bus about 6 cars back and she was sitting in the back of the bus. As we stopped to pick up more kids I sent a quick text to Jenna that her bus seemed awfully crowded. Her reply echoed that of seniors throughout the ages: "If any underclassman thinks they are gonna sit with me just because there are no more seats...they have a surprise coming."

Apparently seniors are seniors everywhere. I sat in my car and laughed and laughed. The more things change...

My daughter, the senior. Wow.

This last, first day of school was much as her first, first day of school. My daughter, marching off into her future, as her proud parents stand nearby and wave goodbye.

A Summertime Thing

2009-09-30T07:25:00.008-04:00

The summer sun was cold in 2009. Spring lasted for far too long and bouts of rain punctuated New England through the month of July. When summer did finally arrive, few were the days that I drove around with the car-top down and the radio on. Yet, when I did, I was always glad to find this song playing across the dial.

This is my favorite song of the Summer of 2009.*

*Which only beat out this song as my favorite.

Moments of Silence

2009-09-11T08:43:00.006-04:00

I was just leaving my office to get coffee when the first radio broadcast telling us that "a plane" had flown into the World Trade Center was met with chuckles. "What idiot could fly a small plane into that big building?" Ted said aloud. Still, we were unsure what was happening, even as we watched live footage of the smoking tower on TVs in the office next door. Then we watched in horror as another plane hit the Towers, quickly proving this was no joke - or accident. Confusion reigned in our office. Too many questions; too few answers. However, after we heard that the Pentagon had been hit then all bets were off. The unthinkable became the now.

We were under attack.

Katie and I lived in Jamaica Plain and we had access to the Orange line, commuter rail and even a cab, if necessary. We volunteered to stay behind in the office so that people who lived further away could leave earlier. I felt that I should stay at work as long as possible - phones being critical services and all that. I wanted Katie to leave; she wouldn't. We were two of the last people to leave the office. We exited the building onto Franklin Street. We were shocked by what we heard.

Nothing.

The city was silent. There were no horn blasts, no cars speeding through red lights and no sounds from anyone on the street. White, puffy clouds passed through bright blue skies and the temperature was warm. A late summer day with a hint of Autumn in the air. It was a beautiful day. As people silently walked passed us heading towards South Station I stood on the corner of Franklin and Congress, wondering when the next airplane would fall from the sky.

And I was afraid.

"My daughter lives too far away" I thought as I contemplated the end of the world. Too many people I loved lived too far away from me.

Our train ride home was silent, too. The click-clack of the train wheels the only sound louder than my heart which was pounding in my chest.

As we exited Forest Hills the silence was shattered by the sound of a fighter jet streaking over the city. We knew all air traffic had been grounded. The sight of this attack craft searching the skies a grim hint of the hours and days ahead.

We arrived home and called our families. I called Jenna, who had arrived home safely from school. I called my Dad, who was safe at home, too, and wondering what the world would look like tomorrow.

Like the rest of America, we stayed glued to our television sets, watching our lives unfold (and end) before us; watching our futures change before our eyes. Our silence was only punctuated by the horror of it all.

We cried as the Towers fell.

We cried a lot that day.

There are very few events of my lifetime that are burned into my consciousness: The notification from the doctors that Mom had died, the Challenger explosion, and now this. To this day film of the burning Towers fills me with a dread and sorrow that I can't explain. Scenes from movies that feature the Twin Towers in their skyline seem old, out-of-date, profane.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. It is the horror that stalks the shadows of my complacency and smugness. It is a living thing; a scar on my personal psyche as well as that of our country. It is the wound that never heals. I hope it never does.

Because as much as I want to forget it, I never want to forget September 11, 2001.

Following the Path

2009-09-03T13:41:00.011-04:00

Six years ago I received a gift at my 20th high school reunion.

Not everyone received a gift that night. I'm sure that some did while others did not. I was one of the lucky ones.

I had just ordered drinks for my wife and I when a woman I knew a lifetime ago walked up next to me. We reintroduced ourselves and made small talk while the bartender made our drinks. My friend quickly caught me up on the last 15+ years of her life while I listened, amazed.

She had lived more in fifteen years than I had my whole life. She had her ups and downs but she was still standing in the ring, swinging and jabbing at whatever came her way. I complimented her on her appearance. She was always beautiful in high school and time had done nothing to diminish her beauty. There was still the same fire in her eye, depth to her laugh and sincerity of spirit. The years may have kicked her around a bit but, in the end, she was the same woman I knew so long ago.

It was a death that kept us together.

A fellow classmate died not long after our reunion. Thanks to the reunion committee, she was able to pass this information along to many at once. I knew she was close with our now-departed classmate. I sent her an e-mail of condolence, expressing my sympathy at her loss. And we began to talk. And talk. And talk.

Soon we were hip-deep in e-mail conversation.

We realized we shared much more in common then we ever had as kids. Back then I was a "skinny little nerd boy" (her words) and she was a "burnout" (not really, but she wasn't a prep, princess or jock so that's all that was left). Now we were adults, and our friendship once forged in the fires of high school now was now fully-formed with a lifetime behind us. We had our shared experiences even as we realized our paths had diverged somewhere along the way. Sure enough, our paths now rejoined further on along the bend. Now, we both enjoyed writing, wine and good books. We laughed at the same jokes and watched the same movies. We were comfortable with who and what we are. I could see the shadow of the friend I left behind in high school even as I marveled at the woman who was becoming my friend today.

Life intervened and she became our neighbor, living the next street over from the house we had recently sold in JP. We enjoyed drinks at James's Gate and cocktails at Costellos. We walked the streets for First Thursday and the paths of Forest Hills Cemetery for the Lantern Festival. We founded our 2nd book club together and we shared meals in each others home. We laughed when it was right to do so and we listened to each other when it was needed.

In short, she became my true friend.

I'm saying good bye to my old friend this weekend.

My friend has finally found what she has always looked for - even when she didn't know she was looking for it. She is following her heart - and her love - to Arizona. She has put her faith in the greatest gift she has - herself.

Selfishly, I wish she had found what she was looking for here and not there. Nevertheless, she has found it and I am truly, sincerely happy for her. While I am wishing her well, I realize that I will miss her presence at book club, around the dinner table, at the Gate and in my day-to-day life. Thankfully we will stay in touch with e-mail, cell phones and Facebook. She will never truly be gone yet she will always be a bit too far away.

Goodbye, dear friend. Thank you for finding your way back into my life.

Our paths have diverged once more.

Yet I know that we will meet again, just a little further on down the road.

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be." - Douglas Adams

Unexpectedly Orange

2009-08-28T06:00:00.005-04:00

Wednesday evening, After a long, arduous day, I joined the throngs of traffic on route 128, heading for home. I was soul-weary and contemplative. The sun was setting; my mind was everywhere and nowhere as I neared the Blue Hills.

Suddenly The yellow-gold light of sunset surrounded by the blue haze of the late day sky changed. In an instant the thick, puffy clouds overhead blazed with a brilliant orange, more Autumnal than summer, changing the hue and complexion of everything around me. The road ahead looked as if it was a movie shot with an orange lens. I had never seen anything like it.

"Wow. An orange-colored sky'", I mused to myself.

Suddenly I was grinning from ear-to-ear.

The song "Orange-Colored Sky" by Natalie Cole was one of Jenna's favorites as a child. She would sing it loud and often in the car with me. In fact, it is a staple on her I-Pod even today.

I could not help but appreciate the fact that the sky over my head - an orange colored sky - took place both on her birthday and right when I needed it most.

A Thousand Words

2009-08-26T06:20:00.000-04:00

Whenever possible, I have always kept a picture of my daughter on my desk at work. This served to remind me why I got out of bed and came to work everyday; to provide a good life for her. Even during the worst days in the office I was able to look over and see the picture of her smiling face. I drew comfort from her presence there.

When Jenna was five I was working in the admissions office of a local hospital. Her picture (the one seen above) was on my desk, which was situated right at the entrance to the office. In short, anyone who came into this office walked past me to do so. Of course, working there for a few years I had become friendly with many of the doctors and social workers. They would sometimes stop by during down times for a cup of coffee, some light conversation and some good jokes. There was much laughter in the office in those days. As people milled around my desk everyone of them knew who Jenna was because of her photo and my stories of her, even though they had never met her.

Because my shifts at the hospital sometimes required weekend work, Pam had agreed to drive Jenna to my work to meet me before the end of my shift. Jenna would come into the office, where I would have a paper and crayons for her to use while she waited for me to finish my shift.

On one of her first visits to my office word got around very quickly that "Jenna is here!" Soon there was a parade of women to my office, to meet the girl that they had heard so much about but whom they had never seen in person; only in pictures. Jenna enjoyed the attention and, proudly, so did I. I cracked a few jokes, everyone laughed, and then Anne arrived.

Anne always asked me about Jenna and she was tickled pink to finally meet her in person. Introductions were made and Anne asked Jenna some basic kid questions. "Do you like Elmo?" No, she didn't. "Do you like Rugrats?" Yes, she did - very much so. Now a few other clinicians as well as my co-workers were scattered around the office watching as Jenna worked the room, talking with Anne. Finally, Anne commented on Jenna's looks.

"You are a beautiful girl."

"Thank you," Jenna replied.

"You're welcome. Really, you're a beautiful girl and you look just like your Daddy. Did you know that?"

"Uh, huh," Jenna nodded.

"You're beautiful and your Daddy is handsome. Do you think your Daddy is handsome?"

Jenna paused, dead in her tracks.

She put her hand to her chin, swiveled her chair and looked squarely at me, deep in thought. After an eternity, Jenna turned to Anne and proudly proclaimed, "My Daddy's not handsome; he's funny!"

The laughter from everyone gathered was loud and long .

Finally, with mock indignation, I asked aloud, "Wait a minute. Did my daughter just tell all of you that I'm not much to look at but I have a good personality?"

It took a long time for the laughter to die down. Through it all, Jenna went back to her coloring, a slight smile on her face.

After seventeen years, I have many, many stories like this about my beautiful daughter and they are filled with laughter.

After seventeen years, I still have her picture on my desk at work.

And I still draw comfort and inspiration from it.

Happy Birthday, Jenna.

The Paw

2009-08-12T07:34:00.007-04:00

Last Thursday was Malcolm's twelfth birthday. We celebrated in our usual style - chicken and rice for dinner. He was happy.

Later in the evening I sat on the floor with Malcolm; scratching him behind the ears. As always, Malcolm draped his paw over my arm while I did so. If he misses with his first attempt, he tries again until he gets it right. Finally, paw in place, he lays his head down, contented, as I scratch his ears, his chin, his chest. He sighs deeply, contentedly, all while his paw rests over my arm.

I have never known why he does this. Is it because he likes contact? Does he enjoy the movements of my hand and places his paw there to keep it in place? Is it instinct?

I have no idea.

What I do know is that Malcolm has always been very generous with the "Paw of Love" (as Katie calls it) with me. While I think the name is silly, the sentiment attached to it is not. I know that I find "the Paw" to be as much a source of comfort for me as much as my hand is for him. There is a security found within this tender touch; this subtle reminder of our bond as a pack.

As Malcolm looks at me again I think that I catch a quick glimpse of his soul within his big, brown eyes.

It is an old soul.

More than that, it is a good soul, one that instinctively knows the power found within a simple, gentle touch.

Dog Days

2009-07-28T07:23:00.010-04:00

As Katie and I walked back from CVS early Sunday afternoon I was taken back by how quiet it was on Centre Street. Not quiet...maybe "still" is a better word. Nothing was moving; no pedestrians and nearly no cars were to be found anywhere. The threat of thunderstorms in the local forecast and the drowning humidity made storms all but assured. Based on this forecast we had cancelled our trip to the art show in the South End to await the oncoming storm.

Once back at home (with my shirt fairly sticking to my body) we opened the door to a beautiful 70 degree centrally air conditioned house. I was now convinced that we had made the right choice to cancel our plans. It was a hazy, hot and humid Sunday in July and I did not feel like spending it outside at all.

It's about time, too.

Don't misunderstand me - I do not enjoy a "hazy, hot and humid" anything but I am happy for those people who suffer the other nine months of the year in New England just to get to the Dog Days of Summer.

The "dog days of summer" of course refers to the hottest, most sultry days of summer. In the northern hemisphere they usually fall between early July and early September. The Old farmer's Almanac lists the traditional timing of the Dog Days as the 40 days beginning July 3 and ending August 11, coinciding with the ancient heliacal (at sunrise) rising of the Dog Star, Sirius. These are traditionally the days of the year when rainfall is at its lowest levels.

Tradition was thrown out the window this year. After suffering through the coldest, rainiest June that I can remember in my whole 43 years clearly the dog days of summer have finally arrived in New England.

Now, during the last week of July, the Dog days are finally here.

I'll be in my air-conditioned house...probably napping...

A Life Well-Lived

2009-07-14T07:28:00.008-04:00

On Saturday we attended a memorial service for Rosamond S. (Peach) Merrill, who died on June 25 at the age of 86.

I had only met Mrs. Merrill a few times. Her family is one of the founding families of Marblehead who can trace their lineage back to 1633. She was a true New England Yankee. However, my lasting impression of her will always be as a beautiful, vibrant woman and every inch a lady.

After the service at Old Burial Hill in Marblehead there was a luncheon at a local church. There was a table at the church hall covered with photo albums. Leafing through her photo albums I must say that I believe that she did thoroughly enjoy herself. Inside of her own, personal photo albums were pictures of Mrs. Merrill as a young Miss Peach, who had various suitors and who traveled extensively across the US and in Europe. She loved her family and friends and there were photos of all. There were pictures of her in new cars, wearing the latest fashions, and smiling infectiously. There were even some tastefully done boudoir photos (very tame by our standards) of a woman who was very much aware of her beauty.

In short, she lived her life.

Her children had prepared a small pamphlet of her life. On the front was a picture of her with the following in quotations:

"I thoroughly enjoyed myself."

I asked Janet if and when her Mom had actually said this. Both she and Robin (her sister) replied that "Mom said it all the time."

I challenge all of us to do the same.

A Star to Steer Her By...

2009-06-30T07:26:00.006-04:00

When I was 10 years old my Dad took me deep-sea fishing out of New Bedford with some friends from Freetown. We were awake at 4AM and on the road by 4:30. It was a grey, overcast day with a light drizzle that did nothing to dampen my spirits. We climbed aboard the small seagoing vessel and set course for the fishing grounds. The seas were choppy and the boat rose and fell with the waves. After we settled in I chatted with the captain (who was amused that I was wearing a life preserver) and he explained to me the various ins-and-outs of what he was doing. It was a planned 45 minute ride. I was hungry. I ate a Hostess blueberry pie and fell asleep on top of a bench. I was woke up only as we made our first stop. Our lines went in the water and I waited...waited...waited for anything to happen. The distant storm was still causing rough seas and the boat was gently tossed with each wave.

Finally, after long minutes of waiting, something happened.

I threw up, spreading blue vomit across the sea over the side where I was fishing.

Damn Hostess blueberry pie.

Thus was my first (and not my last) bout with sea-sickness. One memorable hydrofoil trip to Nantucket caused the worst bout of sea-sickness I have ever known. It was a stormy day. The sea churned and waves crashed against the second-storey window of the boat where we were sitting. It was the longest hour of my life. I made three trips to the bathroom during this time and when I was seated on deck I sat staring at the pattern in the rug because it was the only thing I could look at that wasn't moving. Katie says that she had never seen anyone so pale, green and sick in her life.

Yet I love the sea.

Ever since I was a young boy I have loved the idea of sailing the ocean aboard a frigate or a ship of the line. I'm sure this idea has been given life from repeated viewings of The Sea-Hawk and Captain Blood as a kid but I think its more than that. Life aboard a sailing vessel is, to me, the height of romantic adventure as well as personal fortitude. There is an honesty to it, too; challenging and respecting the sea and all her myriad ebbs and flows. I have often wondered if I could rise to this challenge?

As an adult I have visited a few sailing vessels.

I vaguely recall my Aunt Barbara taking us to the USS Constitution when we were kids on some unspecific school vacation week but all I clearly remember about it is going to McDonald's for lunch. How sad. Last year I finally got to board the USS Constitution as an adult.

What an amazing experience.

The Constitution is a magnificent vessel, lovingly and painstakingly maintained. The guided tours are informative and gently educational. The sense of history aboard her is palpable.

Early one summer morning 10 years ago I climbed aboard a Tall Ship that had docked in Duxbury. I spent nearly two hours on board. I was like a kid in a candy shoppe, touching anything that was "touchable", laying on the deck to get views of the masts and I was even gently rebuked for climbing on some of the rigging. Still, I wouldn't have missed this time aboard the ship for nearly anything.

Nowadays I spend my time reading of naval heroes and their adventures. I have no illusions about how awful life on-board these vessels was for those who served on them. Instead, the books that I have read on the subject all agree that a crewman's life aboard an English sailing vessel was horrible. Yet, I must admit that Captain Jack Aubrey and Captain Horatio Hornblower fill my reading days with adventure on the high seas. In my dreams, I imagine myself alongside them; standing on the deck of a tall ship, with the wind at my back and a star to steer her by.

And I'm not puking Hostess blueberry pie over the side, either.

Father's Day

2009-06-19T07:35:00.006-04:00

Sunday is Father's Day. I plan on visiting with my own Dad this weekend even as my daughter spends time with me. I like the multi-generational aspect of this. Daughter, Dad and Grampa all celebrating Father's Day together.

I can only assume that my own Dad and Mom really wanted to be parents, although Dad has never actually discussed this with me. It is just an assumption on my part but since the adoption process is long, exhausting and expensive there had to be great intent there.

Obviously, as long as I've known him, he's always been a Dad. I don't know how he viewed his life before we kids came along; perhaps I never will. This really isn't the type of thing that Dad likes to discuss. He's not that type of guy. He's just a product of his generation. Case in point: two years ago my brother and I - independent of each other - made the mistake of giving Dad a peck on the cheek for Christmas. After I did so, he got all flustered and commented gruffly, "Mark did that when I saw him this year, too. We don't do that..."

It sounds worse than it was. Dad just appreciates a firm handshake, a clasp on his shoulder, and warm greetings instead. It stands to reason that Dad rarely discusses "feelings", either. He will - if he brings it up. Otherwise, it is a slippery slope of conversation that I usually avoid so as not to make him uncomfortable.

So, while I know that the Old Man likes being "Dad" I often wonder what his life was like before I came along. What was he doing with himself? Who was he?

And then I realize, these questions are pointless.

If anyone asked me the same questions I couldn't answer them, either. Because, for me, anything that I ever did up until August 26th 1992 was kind of an illusion. I was existing without living. The birth of my daughter gave me life. Jenna's life jump-started my own.

I love Father's Day. Not because it is a day for Jenna to remember me. Rather, it is a day for me to reflect upon and remember all that I am because of her place in my life and in my heart.

Finally...

2009-06-03T07:19:00.019-04:00

It is early in the morning as I log into the Harvard Extension school online.

I had to go back into my e-mail to find my login ID. Its really bizarre; with an "@" symbol as the first character and no discernible formula to its design. Which is probably exactly why Harvard chooses to do it this way - I.D. protection and all that.

I put in my password and the menu screen appears. I choose "View Grades", which brings me to this option: