Football before soccer deserves a word or two more before two million years ago when Benjamin Frankenrock and Prince Og first invented the modern game. Unfortunately, as so often happens in the past, the classical soccer of the cavepeoples was lost to antiquity, to the ages, where it was covered over and long forgotten.

Yes, before Rome fell in 476 AD, when the Germanic warlord Odoacer forced the last Caesar, Romulus Augustulus, to surrender the Imperial laurel and march with head lowered over the span bridging the blond waters of the Tiber, long before then, the true rules of the game had faded from the collective memory of man and woman.

In their place, the masses resorted, with unbridled fervor, to the uncontrolled kicking, smacking and socking of ball things with their feet, hands, heads, every part of their bodies and in every fashion. There were none to few restrictions and little guidance. It was a madhouse, every player to himself and Katy bar the goal.

True, there were some efforts to return to a more refined contest. The Aztec peoples of Mexico played a hips-only ballgame whose origins date back to 1400 BC. Hip-ball was a small and commendable step backward, but there was this disheartening habit of sacrificing the losing team. In China, during the Han Dynasty (206 BC – 220 AD), a lukewarm attempt was made to resurrect a no-hands game, but the ball passed with little advancement. The ancient Greeks enjoyed the sport of Episkyros, or Common-ball, but it was largely a grouping of adolescent males in scant or absent attire attacking each other to the cheers of their watching city states. The Romans favored combative endeavors, adopted the Greek game and renamed it Harpastum, meaning to carry away, seize or snatch, which is what Rome did to the rest of the world until Odoacer finally evicted Caesar from his hilly retreat on the Tiber. After the fall of Rome, things truly disintegrated. During the Middle Ages, Mob Football was the rage. A team could have as many players as could be mustered, and there were no rules. Well, manslaughter and outright murder were generally frowned upon. It is said that Mob Football is still played in some parts of the United Kingdom — a troublesome thought, but let’s fast forward to the 1800’s and see what’s happening in England.

In 19th Century Britain, rugby is all the rage. As a game, the competition is somewhat more controlled than Mob Football, but still a rockem’ sockem’ endeavor. Grand fun. Players can kick, throw and run with the ball, and it’s lawful to hack the legs out from under another player – to the extent there were laws and players left to play. Teams agreed on the rules for each game on the day of the match, and there was often a crying lack of uniformity.

Something needed to be done.

Between October and December 1863 at the Freemasons’ Tavern in Great Queen Street, London, the team leaders from the British football schools gathered to resolve the issues. “Injuries are too great and many,” one yelled. “Who knows whose team is best?” another hollered. “The rules aren’t the same,” the corner quietly commented. “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,” they all agreed. “If I’m the best, I want the world to know I’m the best,” the scholar athlete stated solidly, standing on the table. “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!!!” rose to the ceiling and spilled to the street.

And, so it was done.

A comprehensive set of rules was adopted for soccer football, and The Football Association (The FA) was established to regulate and oversee the newly found game. Unfortunately, some of the rugby football proponents withdrew and established the Rugby Football Union, but soccer football had started and it was not to be stopped. In 1872, the world’s first soccer football competition, the FA Cup, was initiated. In 1888, the world’s first soccer football league was established in Birmingham, England. In 1904, the international soccer football body, the FIFA (the Federation Internationale de Football Association), was formed in Paris, France, and FIFA declared that, from thence forward, international soccer football through all the lands would adhere to the Laws of the Game of The Football Association.

Benjamin Frankenrock and Prince Og, Junior, would be proud. They are proud. The world is proud and better for the return of soccer football.

And, in 1930, the first international soccer football competition, the World Cup, was sponsored by FIFA. Since then, there has been a World Cup every four years, except for the war years of 1942 and 1946. This year, 2014, is the 20^th World Cup and it is a grand event.

Soccer football is the most played and watched sport in the history of man and woman.

It may be a small step backward to the time of Frankenrock and Og, but it is a great step forward for the planet and the peoples of the Earth.

Hooray Soccer: On to the World Cup, the Round of 16 and the Unbridled Excitement of a New Game with Old Rules!!

Go Teams.

There’s no game.

Like an old game, I’m sure.

Grandpa Jim

FunScript PostScript to Post: Please note from the header picture that Uncle Joe has peaches at the farm, and sweet corn is anticipated by the 4th of July and the game between Brazil and Colombia.

Up Dated Date Script: The Fourth of July is winding down. Good food and fellowship and it was as hot as the 4th of July, as the day does so well each year. We all gathered before the flat screen to watch Brazil and Columbia square off. Between chasing grandkids, I would catch up. At the end, it is Brazil 2 and Columbia 1, no losers, but only one can advance. Very good teams and an excellent match, happy sad, and now on to the next. Futball is like that.

Before balls were rocks.

* * *

“Ouch, that hurt!”

“Young Prince Og, Junior, it is I, Benjamin Frankenrock, Thinker of the Tribe. Let me assist in the discovery of your new game.”

“My Dad, King Og, said you were in France.”

“I have returned from my travels in space and time, Little Prince.”

“I see that you have. You wouldn’t happen to have a band-leaf? My toe is smashed.”

“As I minister to your wounded appendage, Fleet Lordling, may I suggest a few adjustments to your competitive endeavor?”

“Shoot.”

“You, my Fledgling Noble, are attempting to invent the sport of football.”

“I would call it foot-rock, and it’s not much of a sport.”

“It will be in the future, my Injured Aristocrat.”

“Dad said you’d talk like this. He said to humor the Big Head. Ok, when?”

“In the far days of FIFA and The World Cup. Then shall be great competitions of speeding teams kicking, heading and shooting rocks into waiting and guarded goals. Oh, those will be the halcyon days of fore.”

“Benjamin Frankenrock, you are off your noodle. There is nothing fleet about kicking rocks, especially big ones. It’s like getting socked. The little rocks work better, but they’re more difficult to control. We tried melons, but when you head a ripe fruit, it gets very messy and gooey and everything slows down.”

“Your persistence, Diminutive Ruler In Waiting, is commendable. By those endeavors, you have unwittingly stumbled on name for your game. ‘Soccer’ it shall be called from its painful origins. And, as you have experienced, rules shall be important to the survival of the sport and its participants. Your pubescent pugilisms have pointed the way. Heading and kicking shall be allowed, but no arms or hands. And a net is needed, so the score can be kept.”

“There will be no scores with rocks and melons, Benjamin Wander Thoughts. By ‘score,’ I assume you are talking about those number things you scratch on the cave walls. It’s hard to tally with a dragging foot and drooping head. The sport is too hard to progress.”

“Exactly, my Sagacious Sageling. You need to invent the ‘ball.’ Remember the ‘Clothing Rule’ your Father, the Grand King Og of All the Cave People, did institute — with my help, of course.”

“Now, that was a good idea. Body coverings. Furs in winter to protect from the environment and shorts in summer to enjoy the environment. You did good with that one, which is probably why Dad let you come back to the tribe. But, tell me more of this new ‘ball’ thing”

“Old clothes, my Ruler in Forming, what happens to the old clothes?”

“The rags are soft. We stuff them together for pillows. That was your second best invention, the ‘pillow,’ which is probably why Mom told Dad to let you come back.”

“Such wise parents you have, oh Doting Teenager. Don’t forget the ‘sewing.’”

“Ok, you have a head on your shoulders, Benjamin Brain Tease. That was the other reason Mom and her lady friends argued for your return.”

“You budding wisdom is exceeded only by your penchant for praise, my Ogling. Now, if I may, why don’t you suggest to your talented and beautiful mother that she sew a round skin casing and stuff some rags into your new ‘ball’? Then move to your newly netted field, with your crowd of player friends watching, and kick and head away. Before their eyes, you will have invented socker-less Soccer. The adulation of the mob will ensure your advancement to the throne of your ancestors.”

“Brilliant, if I do say so myself, but I will let others, with your encouragement, say just that. Now, what was that FIFA and World Cup you mentioned?”

“Later, my Young Sports Originator, by my wrist sundial it is almost time for Germany and the United States to play in the Finals for Group G. The winner will advance to the Round of 16. From there, who knows, perhaps the championship of The World Cup of Soccer. Brazil, Chile, Columbia, Uruguay, Netherlands, Mexico, Costa Rica, Greece, France, Nigeria, Argentina and Switzerland have already advanced. I am on the edge of my rock. These are exciting times.”

“You are full of strange names, Benjamin. What are these ‘exciting times’?”

“More ‘when,’ my Tantalized Cro-Magnon, and ‘when’ is just around the corner, a millennia or two away, now that you’ve invented the game itself. I’ve got to find a seat by the set to watch the show. Don’t worry. I’ll be back for your soccer game, the first ever soccer game. You cannot imagine the fun you are about to start. Truly, there is much fun awaiting, my Ruler To Be, much fun awaiting.”

* * *

That Benjamin Frankenrock does have a way about him.

Oh, by the way, it is almost time for the game.

Hurry, don’t be late for the show.

It’s far too much fun.

Grandpa Jim

Foot Script: Germany beat the USA 1:0 to win Group G and advance. Despite losing to Germany, the US Team also advanced to the Round of 16. Portugal beat Ghana 2:1 to tie with USA for second place in the group (both teams having identical 1-1-1 records in group play), but the US lost today by only one goal to Germany while the German Team had beaten Portugal 4:0. That differential was the tie-breaker favoring the US Team. So, USA advances and will play again next Tuesday. Oh my, it is good such excitement happens only every four years — in our millennium, of course.

Summer is warm.

A curiosity of summer is the physical recognition that there is an ideal temperature for the surroundings of the human body. Winter does not generate such awareness of the environment.

Winter is cold.

Draped in bulky garments, the frigid temperatures of the dark months jolt us to the thinness of our temporality. We would expire without jackets, boots and scarves. In winter, we know we are in a fight for our survival. This is not the time for the musing on idealities. Throw another log on the fire, don another layer of fur, and pop a hot brick in the bed. Do what you can to raise the room temperature, and do not bother me with thoughts not related to the warming my feet. This is war, not reverie.

Not so summer.

The days of long light are blessed with a bounty of heat. In the comforting envelope of warmth, we smile as the sweat soaks our shirts and beads of water trickle down our necks. Our immediate dreams and pressing needs are those of diving into ponds and standing under cool showers. True, the elevated temperatures can, at times, be itchy, drippy and even clammy. We can be a bit uncomfortable. Yet, it is an ambient and passing discomfiture, encountered lightly with a quiet mind and passing with the setting of the sun and the cooling eve. Temperature is not a demanding and distracting battle in a frozen and bewitched kingdom with a talking snowman who dreams of a heat he dare not encounter. Summer is different. Even on the hottest of vacation days, a curious cerebral separateness directs our minds to idle thinkings. We are not huddled in manic fear of our imminent demise should the pilot light fail. We think easily, lightly, ideally.

One of those idle thoughts of the summertime is that of the ideal temperature.

What is the perfect temperature of habitation for the human body?

Where is that mythic spot without sweat or freeze?

In my house, the thermostat is set at 68 F (20.0 C) in winter and 78 F (25.6 C) in summer. Me and we, my families through the days of my life, have always done it that way. With the gauge adjusted to those points, from deep dark to long light, we feel a corporate coziness in winter and a congenial coolness in summer. And, when the bills arrive, we applaud each other for the economic balance of our varied temperaments.

On the Internet is a great deal of detailed information of body temperature to ambient temperature and room temperature to the ideal body. In these idle days of summer, let us not be so definitive. In this time of mild musing, let us not belabor the obvious. Let us cut to the chase. Go with the flow. Focus on the temperatures on the wall of our lives. The average from winter to fall is right there. It is half way between 68 F and 78 F. The number is: 73 F (22.778 C).

Voila!

Another secret of the universe before our very eyes.

And, from a quick reading of the experts inhabiting the global Pangaea of digital thought, they agree. Smack dab in the middle of the hits that google and yahoo their way to my waiting screen, 73 F is the ideal setting for human living.

Now you see why I like summer

The mind works easier.

Do you agree?

Mine does.

Ahhh. . . .

I quite enjoy.

The days of summer.

Those lazy hazy crazy days of summer.

You know, I think it’s time for a nap and relax at 22.778 C.

Grandpa Jim

Summer is upon us. The Solstice of Summer is Saturday, June 21, 2014. That will be the first and longest, if not the hottest, day of summer.

Here, in Texas, August has tended for the past couple years to be the warmest of the months. Nonetheless, around these parts when the temperature is on the rise folks like to say of the day: “It’s hotter than the 4^th of July.” July 4^th is and has long been the traditional standard of comparison for swelter and sweat. I enjoy saying on the day itself: “It’s as hot as the 4^th of July.” I laugh to announce that phrase on the day that is its own comparison.

On the first Fourth, July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress accomplished the incomparable and approved the Declaration of Independence. Two hundred and thirty eight years ago, the separateness of a young nation was documented and declared. July 4^th is recognized as the birthday of the United States of America. For that and for its significant placement in the registry of hot days, July 4^th is widely recognized and jointly felt to be the true start of summer.

It may not be the first or the hottest day of summer, but the Fourth of July is for many the most welcome. Kids are off from school, families are together traveling and pool waters are beckoning. It is a grand day of festivity, fireworks and relaxing.

Here, you see the Red Ball of Summer waiting for the kids to find their way and jump with glee into the cooling, if lukewarm, waters.

To accompany the pool frolics, burgers, dogs and brats will be grilled for the bathing suited throng. This year I again enter the ranks of the backyard chefs. It is a big move. Today, I broke down and purchased a grill for delivery next week. Over the next two weeks, I will practice searing, roasting and burning various foodstuffs to my wife’s amazement in preparation for the grand day.

While I exercise my nascent cooking skills, the crepe myrtles above crinkle their blooms in wary warning to those who dare approach the smoking grill and its gesticulating caretaker. This budding pink beauty overlooks the pool and is ready to drop its blossoms in alarm should I fail to make the culinary grade.

In front, it’s red neighbor turns away with dainty concern and a trace of lofty disdain, wrinkling its petals that my failed grillings may wrongly reflect and sully its true color.

As they say in the circus and among backyard chefs: “The show must go on.” And so it shall. I have the advantage of side dishes, salads and appetizers to buffer, if needs be, a failed entrée. “It’s not the food, it’s the day,” I’ll sing to the crowd and silently pray the burgers aren’t burnt, the dogs aren’t dark as dirt, and the brats behave like bratwursts. And, if by some miracle of fate and fiction I do pull it off, I will regally wave my tongs in the air and humbly bow to the appreciative applause of a satiated and appeased backyard.

Good grilling,

Grandpa Jim

“I forget how to spell simple words.”

“What are ‘simple words?’”

“Words like ‘the’ and ‘a.’ I can’t remember how to spell them. They just don’t look right.”

“How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“Well, its not Alzheimer’s. You’re too young. What year is this?”

“Why?”

“Just answer the question. Who’s doing the analysis here?”

“It’s 1955, I’m eight, and I’m in second grade.”

“Don’t get uppity with me. I’m trying to help you. Let’s see, in 1955, Alzheimer’s was just beginning to be understood as a disease.”

“I have a ‘disease?’”

“Maybe, but not Alzheimer’s. Today we know Alzheimer’s Disease is caused by changes in the brain beginning in middle age and resulting in a progressive loss of mental ability. Few doctors were diagnosing Alzheimer’s in 1955. Folks talked about senility and old age. You’re too young to be senile.”

“I’m confused. Who are you?”

“I’m you, today, in 2014. I’m me looking back at you and trying to understand what was wrong with us. I’m in your head and, I guess, in this post too.”

“That’s strange.”

“Quite normal these days, but let’s get back to you in 1955. Did you hit your head recently, knock yourself out, lose consciousness?”

“No, I’ve never been unconscious.”

“What about that time the guys tossed a rock and they yelled at you to catch it with your new baseball glove.”

“I missed. I’m not much of an athlete. The rock hit my forehead.”

“And?”

“I bled all the way home. Mom screamed and almost fainted. I have a big scar at the hairline. Here, you can see it.”

“I know it well.”

“I never passed out or felt woozy. Nothing like that. It was a scalp wound. Cuts to the head bleed a lot.”

“Yes, well, I think we can eliminate amnesia. You could loose the memory of ‘the’ and ‘a’ from a good crack on the head, if there was sufficient injury or shock to the neural tissues inside the braincase. When I think of the event, our memories are uncluttered. They’re far too clear.”

“I don’t think I like hearing you say ‘our.’”

“You’ll get use to it. Now, back to work, are you frightened of words?”

“Are you nuts?”

“You better hope not. Do you have a phobia of spelling?”

“A ‘phobia?’”

“A phobia is an irrational fear of something that leads to avoidance of the object, activity or situation. Be honest, I remember those little notes you hid in the palm of your hand.”

“Nobody knows about them.”

“Nobody does not include me. Admit it, why did you write the spelling words on those pieces of paper and hold them in your lap during the tests?”

“I didn’t think I could spell.”

“And?”

“I forgot the list one day.”

“And?”

“I got 100%”

“Bingo. You had a fear of spelling words correctly. Orthographobia is the technical term.”

“I like words. I’m the best student in the class.”

“You had a word phobia and that’s that. Let’s think about what else you had.”

“You think. I’ll listen.”

“I got it. I mean we had it. You still have it.”

“What do I still have?’”

“Dyslexia. Dyslexia is a family of disorders related to reading and writing. The sufferers have trouble integrating auditory and visual information. The sounds don’t match what you see, so you can’t make sense of what’s right in front of your face. The nontechnical name is ‘word blindness.’”

“I’m blind?”

“Not blind blind. You can see fine, but you are blind to ‘the’ and ‘a,’ and I think I finally know why. Remember your phonics class?”

“I’m not very good at phonics. I’m still figuring it out.”

“Exactly. Phonics was teaching us how words as they appear in their written forms are supposed to be pronounced by our mouths. We didn’t like it.”

“Who didn’t like it?”

“You don’t like phonics. Do you see why? You don’t like phonics because the spelled words don’t look to you like they sound in ordinary speech. We resisted the phonetically-defined approach to translating the word’s appearance to the word’s accepted sound. ‘The’ didn’t look like  ‘duh,’ which is what it sounds like. ‘A’ wasn’t ‘uh.’”

“That always bothered me. Still does.”

“As it should. And, we were slow to learn and accept the mechanics of phonics because of our innate and irrational fear of spelling. That fear was the personal trauma I was looking for, the equivalent of being hit on the head. Orthographobia blinded us to the phonetical approach to seeing and understanding the ‘the’s’ and ‘a’s’ of our young world. Now, it all makes sense. In my day, we know that forgetting how to spell simple works is a problem many dyslexic people experience. Wow, I never realized we were dyslectic.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Study phonics. You have to learn our way out of this condition. Commit to memory that ‘the’ is spelled ‘the’ and pronounced ‘duh,’ even though it makes no sense. Now that you can spell without a crutch, the roadblock is removed to learning phonics and recognizing ‘the’ and ‘a’ for what they are, simple words you have to work to memorize. You needed a little self confidence, and you gained that when you forgot the cheat sheet and realized you could spell.”

“I wasn’t really cheating. I studied those words. I had the list just in case.”

“I’m with you, but you didn’t know we didn’t need the list because of our orthographobia. Once you realized we could spell, the fear was conquered. Your mind is now free. You can use our memory to see, say and spell those simple words.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Oh, this feels so good, so good. I’ve worried about us for years.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome. Now, study hard.”

“I will, if you promise one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t come back for a very long time.”

“Now that’s a promise I can keep. You’re on your own. For now.”

Grandpa Jim

Historical Postscriptology: Other possible names for your consideration for the fear of spelling simple words incorrectly could be “simspellaphobia,” “theaphobia,” and lastly “theanesia,” if the fear causes a brief amnesia while holding a single finger in the air and repeating aimlessly “Duh, Duh, Duh?”

“A penny for your thoughts.”

That is an old phase.

English-based, as I think pennies first were.

In 1546, a literary gentleman of Albion, by the name of John Heywood, penned a book of English proverbs. Included in the tome (the volume was reportedly 200 pages in length) is the catchy salutation that titles this web log (or “blog”) post.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

The words are grouped in such a fashion that one might use them to draw another from personal reverie to considered attention.

I’ll pay you a penny for your thoughts.

“What are you thinking?”

What, indeed?

Perhaps a thought of pennies.

Pennies are old. One source suggests King Offa of Mercia minted a silver penny around 785 AD. From the map, it looks like Mercia was smack dab in the middle of Anglo-Saxon Britain — England, as we know it today.

In 1792, The United States Mint continued the tradition from beyond the sea. That year a pure copper penny emblazoned with Lady Liberty was introduced into circulation. In 1857, the penny was downgraded to 88% copper and 12% nickel and fitted with a flying eagle. In 1859, the eagle was replaced by Lady Liberty making a comeback, but this time she was regaled in a stylish headdress of native American origins. This is the famed Indian Head cent and it remained in circulation for some fifty years. In 1909, President Abraham Lincoln took center stage on the shining circlet, and he continues in that position of prominence to this very day.

Old Abe is an imposing figure.

Unfortunately, not so the cent.

The US penny is now 2.5% copper plating over a zinc body.

I still consider it good luck to find a penny. I find more these days and I’m not really looking. I suspect folks just drop and leave. The cent is not worth the bend. I spot the discards by the reflection of white zinc worn through the copper coating. I bend, retrieve, rub and rotate the coin in the light to help make out the date hidden on the scratched and abraded surface. That’s part of the good luck. The recall of memories from the found year.

I put the penny in my pocket and I’m sad. I’m sad because I feel the penny is not what it used to be. People don’t care for them like they used to. Things aren’t the same, and I know that’s okay, but I’m still sad when I slip that worn penny into my pocket.

When I was a kid, I rode my bike five miles to the bank in our small downtown. Around the handlebars was wrapped a yellow moneybag with the bank logo faded to indecipherability. There was no money in the bag. The money was safe in the pocket of my jeans. I’d get to the bank and trade my savings for rolls of pennies. 50 pennies to the roll. Back home, I’d sort the hoard to find new years for my collection. My oldest and favoritess find was a Lincoln-head penny from 1909. That was the year of President Lincoln’s first minting. I never found an Indian Head penny, but my Dad gave me the ones he’d found as a boy. When my parents moved to assisted living, my sister discovered the collection and mailed me the blue folders with the single cents each carefully cataloged by the year of its issue.

I didn’t mean to write about pennies. I was going to write about Penny Lane, the Beatles, and Life in the Fast Lane. Roads, highways, interstates, the autostrada and autobahn, fancy speeding cars, and lifestyles going so fast we don’t slow down much anymore.

So, I didn’t write about that, but I guess I did anyway.

When I take the grandkids to the mall, we lean over the fountain, the water rising and falling, splashing and laughing, and we see the coins beneath the surface. My 3-year old grandson turns up and asks, “Why the coins, Faw Faw?” I smile and answer, “For a wish. Throw a coin and make a wish.” He thinks and says, “Let’s do it, Grandpa.” I fish in my pocket, feel the rough rounded edge and retrieve the worn penny. “Here you go. Close your eyes, toss and make a wish.” He does and I’m happy.

An old penny is best for wishes.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Grandpa Jim

Scotland’s favorite son and poet, Robert Burns, had a heart for the old ways. In the last ten years of his young life (he died at 37), Robbie worked to find and save the faded lines of local legend, the remnants of fleeting tune that haunted and hid among the high hills and upon the mists of the lonely moors.

One such verse was penned by The Bard in 1794 and printed in 1796. In his walks and rests at the local stops, The Ploughman Poet heard bits, pieces and perhaps more, perhaps much of the whole weave and warp of a welcome and much loved lilt. Or, perhaps, he glimpsed only a line or two, and his native sense and wandering imagination provided the rest.

Of this, we may never know. Of this, we have the whole. Of this, you have the lines:

“My love is like a red, red rose

“That’s newly sprung in June;

“My love is like the melody

“That’s sweetly played in tune.”

As can be imagined, much has been written of the what, where and why of this, his sweet-found rhyme, “A Red Red Rose.” But, stop. Is there more to be seen? When Robert scrivened in his homeland of Scotland, at evening on a small town’s bench, tired and bent, did he glance up and see her, as she walked past and smiled a fleeting smile back?

In all the countries of all the earth, Scotland has the highest percentage of redheads. Lads and lassies with the brightest and rarest of hair colors. Deep burgundy, burnt orange, shining copper. Red hair. In most lands, one maybe two percent have the red flowing locks. In Robbie’s homeland, 13% of the population are redheaded. And, with that red hair, is seen the twinkle of gray-green eyes and freckle or two over fine fair skin.

“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass” is the very next verse.

Do you see what the poet Robbie saw?

Do you see her?

Young Robert raised his eyes and saw among the lines on his worn note page, her passing smile and bright red hair.

She held his gaze and in that moment gave the verse its heart and the words their fire.

“My love is like a red, red rose” — the first line.

“As fair thou art, my bonnie lass” — line #5.

And, in closing, our poet plays the words as only a poet can:

“And fare thee well, my only love,

“And fare thee well awhile!

“And I will come again, my love,

“Though it were ten thousand mile.”

The fair glance of a redheaded lass did fare well for Robert and his noted lines.

To the poet, there is little more compelling than love at first sight.

The sight of a comely lass with flashing red hair. . . .

John Wayne did not have a chance.

In the 1952 film “The Quiet Man,” Maureen O’Hara plays a young Irish maiden by the name of Mary Kate Danaher. Mary Kate is herding sheep in a field when she glances up and catches the eye of John Wayne, playing the character Sean Thornton, a retired boxer returning to the lands of his family. Of that scene, Maureen O’Hara says it was the most important in the movie: “I felt very strongly that if the audience believed it was love at first sight, then we would have lighting in a bottle.” The audience believed and was captivated, as was Sean. It was a moment captured in time. It was love at first sight. It was lighting in a bottle.

By the way, did I mention, Maureen and Mary Kate have fiery red hair to match their temperaments?

And, did I say, the Irish have the next highest percentage of redheads, at ten percent of the population?

Redheads have made a stir and left a lasting impression. The remembered glance of a much-revered poet and the lasting sight of a much-loved actor provide a pleasing telling and welcome show. The burning bright locks hold special sway and place among us the many watchers.

To the redheads: Bravo and Hurrah!!

Grandpa Jim

In military speak, “D-Day” means “the day.”

The term was used in the context of a super secret operation where only a few knew the actual date of the event. In the planning, folks would say this happens on “D-1,” meaning D minus one or the day before D-Day, or your group will do this on D+3, meaning D plus 3 or 3 days after D-Day. By the use of this D-for-THE-Day parlance, everything could be planned around the day without anyone (or, at most, a very select few) knowing the date for the beginning of the attack.

The most famous D-Day was June 6, 1944.

Seventy years ago, Allied Forces landed their troops on the Normandy coast in northern France. Those beaches were heavily fortified and soundly manned to resist and repel invasion.

Such days are not easily described. I have watched the war movies recreating the landings on those beaches and the fight up the cliffs. The images from those films do not leave my mind. They return late at night to wake me worried from sleep, the sights and sounds before me still. It was, by all accounts, a most horrible day.

The Allied soldiers were from many countries: the United Kingdom (England), the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Free Belgium (“Free” means their country was occupied and the soldiers were in exile fighting to regain their homeland), Free Czechoslovakia, Free France, Free Greece, Free Netherlands, Free Norway and Free Poland.

Against those soldiers wading through the salty waters and slogging across the wet sands waited the occupying armies of the German Third Reich.

Shells exploded, bullets screeched and men fell.

On the shores of France, up the cliffs and into the fields and byways of the surrounding countryside, 20,000 men fell that day and 5,000 did not rise again. They died there, and many more died for many more days after that as the liberating forces pushed ever eastward.

There is in the memory of death a wish to forget. To remember rather the countryside quiet, the birds soaring freely in the sky. To walk between the crosses and realize that wish to forget, as much as we would want it to be, cannot and should not be realized. The blood of brave men is not forgotten, nor should it ever be.

I have never heard of another D-Day.

I think the term fell from use.

Once was enough.

I hope so.

With so many others.

On this, the memory of that D-Day.

I hope so.

Grandpa Jim