“Who moved the Breakfast Rock? I am OG, King of the Cave People, and I demand to know who moved the Breakfast Rock. The shadow from the big hill has shrunk back from the Wake-up Rock, which has been in the light for an hour. The Breakfast Rock should be right beside Wake-up, but it was moved back into the morning shadows and is only now catching the sun. I’ve been up for an hour and I’m hungry. Why am I waiting for breakfast? Who moved forward the time for breakfast?”

“It was I, King OG, Benjamin Frankenrock, Thinker of the Tribe, who stands in the rain and watches the lighting strike. I thought it would be a good idea to let everyone enjoy the summer sun for an hour before breakfast. I also moved the Bed-time rock so we can all go to bed an hour earlier and use less wood on the evening fire. Now, we are the first Green Cave Persons Tribe.”

“Benjamin Frankenrock, you have stood too long in the rain. The ‘Green’ movement does not start for thousands of years. Some of you Neanderthals move those rocks to their proper places so we can get back in tune with the sun. And you, Benjamin, why don’t you take a trip to that ‘Paris, France’ you’re always talking about and practice the writing scribble you invented.”

Many years later Benjamin Franklin did just that. He moved to Paris, France. Now, this Benjamin Franklin was the very great great great grandson of the first Benjamin Frankenrock, and like his granddad, Benjamin of the new United States of America liked to stand in the rain, watch the lighting and discover new things like electricity with kites and keys. Well, in an old bookstore in Paris, Benjamin of the US of A discovered some old rock writings signed by a “B. F., Caveman.” Curious, our B. F. studied the drawings. The next morning he woke with a flash and blurted out to the world: “Daylight Savings Time! I have rediscovered it!”

And, he did.

Unfortunately, in the history of Man, Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal, Daylight Savings Time is the most complicated thing that has ever been invented. King OG didn’t understand it. We don’t understand it. No one understands it. But, the daylight savings thing of the Benjamin’s appears here to stay.

I have read many definitions and explanations of Daylight Savings Time and none of them are consistent or particularly lucid. So, I will spring-forward and fall-back to the definition that magically appears when I type “Daylight Savings Time” into my Internet Search Engine (as they say, “When in doubt, just ‘Google it.’”). Here is the definition: “Time as adjusted to achieve longer evening daylight, esp. in summer, by setting the clocks an hour ahead of standard time.”

Whether the rationale is rising earlier to enjoy a pre-jentacular horse ride in the park or staying up later for a post-prandial catch of bugs or round of golf, we will never know which argument won out and convinced the world to change from good old-fashioned caveman sun time. Even the supposed saving of firewood, candles, coal and electricity is up for debate, and it is contested by some whether Daylight Savings Time is “green” after all.

It is no lighter — the sun pays no attention to our clocks or our adjustments of them.

When you do use our modern clocks and you spring forward an hour in the spring and fall back and hour in the fall, which is the simplest description of what you do to be in sync with Daylight Savings Time, it does certainly seem, to us who use the clocks, darker in the morning and lighter in the evening than Sol, our star, intended, and that, for some with their reasons, is apparently a comfort and justification, though, I suspect, for us, the many, it is more a distraction and puzzlement than a cause to stand in the rain with kite and key and wait for the lighting flash.

“Ouch, that hurt!” young Benjamin exclaimed in the rain, holding his kite. “I wonder what time it is. With the wet, my watch is ruined. Oh, no bother, our Sun knows best.”

Well said, Benjamin, well said, as you said, in your book, remember the line: “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” That’s what it really is all about. I think we can leave the sun in its hours to Mother Nature, and let King OG have his breakfast on time.

Have a great day – it’s the same number of hours either way.

Grandpa Jim

This day we honor our fallen dead.

178 years ago, on this day, the defenders of the Alamo died.

Those men stayed at their posts and gave their lives that Texas would live today.

*

The most popular tourist site in Texas is an old Spanish mission in San Antonio. It was never much to look at, and it’s not much of a site today: a sprawling complex with a few buildings and a chapel. The chapel has been restored, and the grounds are meticulously maintained, but the place is still not much to look at.

On March 6, 1836, 189 Texans died there.

In the early morning hours of that day, President General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna of the centralist government of Mexico ordered 1800 of his men to assault the Alamo Mission. Above his command station, a blood-red flag flew. The defenders had been declared “pirates.” As such, no quarter could be given. It would be a fight to the death.

Because some of the Alamo defenders were related to soldiers under his command, Santa Anna did excuse those relatives in the Mexican forces from joining in the attack. It was a small mercy.

The remaining Mexican soldiers and officers followed their orders. They attacked the mission from one side and were repulsed. Another attack was launched from the other side and was thrown back. Finally, a third attack of the combined forces was made. Overwhelming the defenders with their greater numbers, the Mexican soldiers breached the outlying walls. Uniformed attackers poured into the Mission compound, firing their rifles and stabbing with their bayonets.

Some weeks earlier, the Commanding Officer of the defenders, William B. Travis, had couriered an urgent message “To the People of Texas & All Americans in the World.” Perhaps the most famous part of that letter is this: “I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his honor & that of his country. VICTORY OR DEATH.”

Recognizing that attack was imminent and his forces could not prevail, on March 5th Colonel Travis gathered the defenders and explained their circumstances. The position was hopeless. The Colonel gave each the chance to escape or stay. At that time, Travis did not know that three days earlier, on March 2nd, the delegates to the Texas Convention in Washington on the Brazos had voted and declared independence from Mexico. The commander and the volunteers facing him were fighting for a new country, the Republic of Texas. Although they did not know Texas was a sovereign nation, those men knew who they were. They were Texans. The vast majority were from other states and other countries. Almost all the native-born Texans were of Mexican descent. Whatever their origins, they were one and all Texans. They were fighting for their homes, their families and freedom. Each made his own decision. They stayed.

There is little glory in the aftermath of battle. The bodies are collected and buried . . . or burned. Many fell that chilly winter day in the new State of Texas. All the defenders lay on the cold ground. They were joined by many young Mexican soldiers who knew little of why they had fought. Brave men died that day – on both sides.

On April 21st, at the Battle of San Jacinto near present-day Houston, General Sam Houston and his army took General Santa Anna and his army by surprise and defeated the invaders in 18 short minutes. No red flag flew that day. When the captured General presented himself before Sam Houston, Santa Anna asked that the Texans “be generous to the vanquished.” General Houston was. The captured General and his troops were allowed to return to their homes. In granting mercy, Houston did reply to the Mexican Commander, “You should have remembered that at the Alamo.”

“Remember the Alamo” is a cry that echoes still over the old Spanish mission in San Antonio. The buildings themselves may not be much to look at, even with the tender care they receive from the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, but they do not go unnoticed. The blood of brave men stained the soil there. The visitors remember and they come. They come because men did not leave that mission. They stayed, they fought, and they died for what they believed.

Remember the Alamo.

*

Thank you for reading.

The body of this post, between the Texas stars, is largely the same as published here on this site before today. This is, however, the first these words have appeared on the anniversary of the battle and its aftermath. For this reason, the words are now seen and felt to share more closely in the memory, the loss and the legacy of the fallen heroes.

We do remember the Alamo,

Grandpa Jim

“What winter is it?”

Apparently, there are two winters: 1) the astronomical winter, and 2) the meteorological winter.

“Did you know that? Who told you that?”

Well, we all know the astronomical winter – I thought. That’s our winter winter. This astronomical winter started December 21, 2013, the winter solstice, the day our sun (sol) said, “No, I’m stopping and standing still (stice) and not moving the day to be any shorter.” On that memorable day of sun-stop, the daylight was the shortest of the year, and the night was the longest and darkest. “Brrrr, it feels like winter.” That winter, this winter, our normal, every-year winter, will end March 20, 2014, the first day of spring, the vernal equinox, the day the daylight and darknight will be equal. Equinox for equal (equi) and night (nox). It’s been that way for ever and ever, or at least as far back as the Romans and their Latin words for it. Those are the normal seasons of our weather, our winter.

“I mean: what’s going on and why the change of season?”

Weathermen and weatherwomen love bad weather. We’ve seen the reporter-forecasters dressed in their shiny plastic slickers bent into the hurricane-force winds shouting to the camera, or garbed in their stylish station-monogrammed ski jackets in a white-out of snow and ice, one hand grasping a light pole or the antlers of a moose, the other gesticulating frantically to the world. What do they have on their faces? You’ve seen it. Admit it. They’re smiling. They are all sporting big happy grins in the worst weather in the universe. Weatherpersons love bad weather. Don’t get me wrong. I love and like my local weather celebrities. I watch them day and night. I’m being honest. They are smiling in the midst of the tempest.

They invented it, the other winter, the meteorological winter. It’s even named after them, the meteorologists.

“Why would they do such a thing? They seem so nice on the telly.”

They are so nice, and they love their work, and they got what they wanted: a colder and more newsworthy winter.

Meteorological winter does not start on the first day of the winter season. Meteorological winter starts on the first day of December and ends on the last day of February. December, January and February are the coldest months of the year. The announced rationale for changing seasons is this: “It makes things more sensible. Those are the coldest months. Everyone can feel that. Why hide behind the sun? The seasons are so outmoded, so old-fashioned. Let’s get the temperatures out in the open where they belong?”

By way of example for the new seasoning of winter, here is a recent headline and the weather folks’ talk from Minneapolis, Minnesota (a notably cold and frozen dominion): “Meteorological winter ended Friday. . . . It was the coldest in a generation. . . .The average temperature was 9.8 degrees . . .That’s the ninth coldest in records going back to 1871. . . . This winter is even more of an aberration when considering the number of days that have seen below-zero temperatures. There were 47 in the Twin Cities – enough for the fourth most on record and the most since the winter of 1935-36. . . .’Yeah, it’s brutal. . . . It’s been a brutal winter.’” The picture at the top of the article shows us all: A very photogenic well-groomed fellow in a blue designer bathing suit is stepping out of a Minneapolis sauna into the cold and snow with – you guessed it – a big smile on his face. He has to be a meteorologist.

You gotta’ love ‘em:  the new meteorologists and their new meteorological winters.

The weather may be the same, but the new seasoning does have a cool say.

Certainly, the new news is newsworthy and the reporting entertaining.

I guess we shouldn’t get stuck in those old seasons of the year.

Still, I feel an attachment to the solstices and equinoxes.

Perhaps, we can have the best of both worlds:

Exciting TV weather persons to watch,

And seasons for a quiet walk.

I’ll see you in the spring.

Whenever it arrives.

Grandpa Jim

“Why, My Child, is February so short?”

“Daddy Dear, I know the answer true. We learned the poem in school, from Mother Goose.

“Thirty days have November,

“April, June and September.

“All the rest have 31,

“Except February alone,

“And that has 28 days clear,

“And 29 in a leap year.”

“But, Daughter Dearest, why only 28? What is the reason for that?”

“Alas, My Father, I know not the answer to your question.”

Romulus, Numa Pompilius and Caesar did.

On March 27/28, 771 BC, in what is modern-day Italy, the twins Romulus and Remus were born of Martian or Herculean descent. Their Olympian origins were discovered by the bad King Amulius who had the twins thrown into the Tiber River to drown. The River Tiber did not agree with Amulius’ pronouncement and carried the babies to the protection of a mother wolf and a woodpecker who fed the boys and a shepherd and his wife who raised the twins to manhood. Grown, the twins returned, deposed Amulius and decided to found a new city. On April 21, 753 BC, Romulus founded that city on the Palatine Hill, named it Rome after himself and became its first king.

Legend has it that King Romulus wanted a calendar to record his exploits, like founding a city and starting an empire. So, he developed the first lunar, based-on-the-moon, calendar. That first lunar calendar started in March and ended in December. The ancient Romans considered the winter time between December and March to be a monthless period, because from an agricultural perspective (and they were an agrarian culture before their legions starting conquering the world), nothing much was happening during those chilly winter days, except waiting for warmer weather.

Wait. There was this very old festival of Februarlia which occurred around the full moon before the month of March. It was the rainy season in Rome, and a good time to dust, clean and attend to the washing that had built up over the winter. I guess you could call it the festival of spring cleaning. In any event, the domus smelled better afterwards.

In 715 BC, Numa Pompilius succeeded Romulus and became the second King of Rome. Numa was a thinker. Rome was growing, and there was more to keep track of, even during the chilly days of monthless winter. Numa Pompilius thought, and he thought, and finally he said, “We need more months.” A royal Roman committee was formed, and two new months were chosen: the first Ianuarius (January) and the second Februarius (February), named after all that nice smelling fresh linen.

The committee members put all the days left in the year in a pot, and it was about 57 – 29 for one and 28 for the other. “Who gets more?” they said to each other. They gave Numa a Romulus coin and said, “You flip.” He did, Numa Pompilius flipped the coin, and January got 29 — at that time. February got the 28, an uneven number. Uneven numbers were considered unlucky by the Romans, but that’s the way the denarius (coin) bounces and the itrion (honey cookie) crumbles – as they say in Rome.

Year later, in 46 BC, Julius Caesar had finished his conquests of Gaul and Britain and was settling into the Forum, when he noticed that old Lunar calendar of Romulus and Numa Pompilius wasn’t working so well. Caesar liked things to run smoothly. Every leap year, February was even shorter (23 or 24 days, “Ugh”) and you had to add a whole leap month of Intercalarius (“Huh”) after February to line things back up. “Very untidy,” the Conqueror of the world thought. “Something must be done about this. Those Egyptians I subjugated had a solar calendar that seemed much neater. Why not try that?”

He did. Caesar did it.

In 45 BC, the new Julian Sun Calendar took effect. Copies were handed out by insurance agents throughout the Empire. No messy leap months squeezing February and confusing the royal tax collectors. The months were evened and balanced quite nicely.

“Thirty days have November,

“April, June and September.

“All the rest have 31,

“Except February alone,

“And that has 28 days clear,

“And 29 in a leap year.”

“A nice touch,” the Imperial Caesar adjusted his laurel crown. “I like leaving February at 28, and only one leap day every four years. Quite manageable. Maybe February’s not that unlucky after all. You know, I always thought March had an unlucky feel to it, especially the Ides. The Ides of March gives me the shivers. Don’t know why? I’ll have to ask Brutus about that.”

And now you know the rest of the story.

Enjoy the rest of your February.

Don’t worry about March.

The Ides will arrive.

Soon enough.

Grandpa Jim

In Chaucer’s day in England was spring later than in today’s day in Texas?

From Dallas to the North Pole is 3,961 miles (6,375 kilometers). The distance from London to the North Pole is 2,668 miles (4,294 kilometers). In its day, London is closer, by some 1,293 miles (2,081 kilometers), to the North Pole. For this reason, England would be expected to linger somewhat in its cooler days.

Geoffrey Chaucer is widely regarded as the Father of English literature. Geoffrey was born in 1343 in London, England. He died in that city on October 25^th, 1400. We suspect London was both farther north and colder than Dallas in Chaucer’s London when the bard penned, around the year 1382 AD, the opening lines of “The Canterbury Tales.”

“Whan that April, with his shoures soote

“The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

“And bathed every veyne in swich licour

“Of which vertu engendred is the flour.”

Do you see the scene in the poet’s paint? It’s April in England with the showers falling to pierce the drought of March and generate in sweet rain the flowers of spring. The flowers are blooming in April in London.

Now, take a look at these pink petals primly pointing the path in Dallas this February, 2014.

Can this be the sole effect of geographic distance from the pole or are we witness to a globe warmed from the distant days of Middle Age in Europe to modern age in Texas?

At home here, the red-honeyed colors harbor a harbinger of hot days and warm nights belying the later words of our scrivener of yore.

A stand of bushy white honey suckle silently secure the gauge of the rail’s past right-of-way turned to trail the words of the young laureate Frost’s 1915 “A Prayer in Spring.”

“Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;

“And give us not to think so far away

“As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

“All simply in the springing of the year.”

And, there, if we spy near, we, like the rhyming Robert, can ply among the white of flowers the buzz and fly of a brown bee busy in its work.

“Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

“Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

“And make us happy in the happy bees,

“The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.”

Still, even today in the earlier Texas spring, there is a way to travel before the Indian Hawthorne’s leaves of winter green are hidden behind the velvet shades of western sunset.

And, our summer-waiting crepes tower, shadowed sentinels, no horns of petalled plenty there, not yet, not until the hot heat of bright sun’s earlier season crowds our spring to soften their silent stance.

While the first soiled pink tennis ball of summer soon bounces past, freed from its den to roll and stop in the early light of an even earlier game.

Beneath all this talk of poets and climate change, the prettiest petal is sometimes the least seen and most hidden.

In late sun hour, the vernal lane lengthens to a hot soft, “Good evening.”

A fleeting damsel of day in her hurried steps dropping a solitary bloom, the last lace to grace a block of ancient limestone, its solid veins unconcerned with a passing change in climate — whether Dallas or London, England or Texas, 2014 or 1382.

To some there is beauty in the same no matter its change.

Grandpa Jim

It’s fun and sports in wintery Sochi, Russia, even though it’s really not the 22^nd Winter Olympics.

Or, is it?

Intrigue has long lurked in the shadows of the Olympics, and winter competitions are no exception to the mysterious backdrop of international Olympic sports.

In 1921, the Congress of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) sat, rubbing their hands and thinking. “Why not?” the delegates said to each other, heads back and eyes wandering the darkened ceiling. “Why not have France, the host nation of the upcoming 1924 Summer Olympics, hold an International Winter Sports Week in Chamonix, France? The IOC would, of course, be a patron of the colder-weather event, but we just won’t call it an Olympics.”

At this point in time, the Summer Olympics were well established, but no official wintery-white and open-air blustery Olympic schedule of games had been initiated. The first international Summer Olympics of the modern era were held in 1896 in Athens, Greece, under the epic story-book shadow of Mount Olympus and the gods of ancient mythology. That first Summer Olympics was a great success, with the most athletes and the biggest crowd of any sporting event to date. And, it was there that the IOC was first constituted as the think-tank of big-league Olympic intrigue – sorry, I mean – sports.

“Yes, that does sound like a good idea,” the IOC planners whispered among themselves. “Let’s have this International Sports Week in Chamonix. You never know, it might be a success.”

It was a great success.

For 11 days, 250 athletes from 16 countries competed in 16 events and had a rousingly invigorating time in a winter wonderland of amazed fans. The competitors from Finland and Norway won more medals than all the other countries combined. Those ruddy Finish and Norwegian athletes stood in their stocking caps and ski jackets on their winner’s blocks and shouted: “YES to Winter! And, YES to the Winter Games!” How could they say anything else? A sportingly-fine winter is something of a tradition back home.

Back in their darkened planning room, the IOC planners squinted and ruminated. “Yes,” they said, excitement creeping into the room and lifting the shades. “Yes, Yes, Yes!”

The next year, 1925, the IOC announced with grand fanfare and much acclaim the creation of an official and separate Winter Olympic Games. “Hooray,” Norway and Finland shouted. “Bring on the medals.” (You may note that in the standings in Sochi today, Norway is leading with 10 gold medals!)

But, that was not the end of things.

The shrewd back-room planners in their elegant Pink-Panther suits thought more and hard, did a quick ju-jitsu and jumped on the table with a slam-bang toboggan of a grand idea: “Let’s retroactively rename the 1924 Games in Chamonix the first Winter Olympics. It’s always good to build on success. And, who doesn’t love the Olympics?”

It is hard to argue with success and with the shrewd machinations of seasoned media manipulators.

The rest has been downhill ever since: Go Olympics! Go Winter! Go Winter Olympics!

I love and enjoy every event, and, you know, I kinda’ enjoy the intrigue too.

Even though, to be precise, this really is the 21^st Winter Olympics.

Don’t tell anyone – just have a wonderful time of it.

Sit back in your seats and watch the intrigue – sorry, I mean – the sporting events.

As the Pink Panther would say: “What’s life without a surprise or two, or even twenty-two?”

Smile — it’s winter outside in Sochi and much fun still to happen.

Grandpa Jim

I stopped for coffee.

Some say I need the caffeine to start.

After my walk, I turned my steps toward the local coffee shop. (The name is withheld so I cannot be accused of promoting a particular merchant, but for the curious of mind, the sobriquet on the sign is the combination of a fixed luminous point in the sky and male deers tilting antlers in the woods.) I walked into the shop of celestial stags and ordered one of my favorite caffeinated beverages: “Full strength, please. No decaf today.”

In a normal – if somewhat shaky – year, the average USA American consumes 1,204.5 eight-ounce cups of coffee. If this average “Joe” or “Jane” were to purchase those small cups of java at the home shop of the cosmic ungulates, the cost to our wired consumers would be $1,987 each. Wow! You can see why coffee purveyors are pouring out onto every corner.

Even then, the US is not at the top of the coffee-bean list. The folks up Finland way consume more coffee per year than any other country. Sweden is second. Those two northern neighbors are in a warm race in their cool climes for the #1 spot at the hot espresso bar. After the lands of the midnight sun, France, Germany, Italy and Canada harbor the most coffee drinkers. USA sippers find themselves in the second tier. From the number of new sun-object ruminants locations being constructed in US strip malls and town centers, the Scandinavians should quickly lift another cup of that dark and lovely beverage if they are to maintain the place of merit as the possessors of most increased metabolic rates on the planet.

Yes, the caffeine in coffee increases the subject’s metabolic rate, as well as lowering the risk of cardiovascular disease and diabetes. The other positive effects are increased attention, alertness and decreased fatigue – which is why I stopped for my boost under the sign of the aquatic female.

The past week has been quite the time and good reason for an energizing beverage.

On Valentine’s Day, last Friday, our newest grandchild, a beautiful baby girl, was born! Fanfare, Clapping, Loud Shouting. Before the joyous birth, we had the other grandkids in groups for about a week. I compare this to juggling kittens on a moving train while trying to do the laundry, because you really can’t think of anything else and you really don’t know what you’re doing – or, at least, I didn’t, and that’s for sure. But, eventually, the train stopped, the kittens jumped over us and the piles of soiled clothes, and ran to the hospital to be with the new baby and the happy parents — while we sighed and slumped in amazement and awe: “She’s so pretty, don’t you think?” “I do.”

And, and you can cap that with her little stocking cap, we have been doing all the things you do to move into a new home. A place we have had our eyes on for some time came free at the same time the new baby opened her eyes with a cry for attention. Paperwork and grandkiddenwurk have made for tiring and very fun times.

Which is why I was worn and in search of a stimulating beverage as I pulled the money from my running shorts and plopped the coins down on the counter.

“Coffee, please!”

Coffee is the most sought-after source of caffeine in the USA. In my country, coffee is the most consumed beverage, after water — of course. For the average American, 67.2 milligrams of the person’s daily consumption of 131.9 milligrams of caffeine come from coffee – that’s 51% of the daily dose from the hot filtered water of the dried beans of the coffee bush. The other sources of caffeine are about evenly split between tea, carbonated beverages and other beverages. From the numbers, It’s almost all fluidized drinks that harbor the stimulating caffeine-compound. Food only accounts for 2.3 milligrams a day, about 2% of the caffeine entering the human bloodstream in a single day.

“Food! Who eats caffeine? Another cup of ‘Joe,’ if you please.”

Oh, by the way, “caffeine” is a French word for made-from-the-coffee-bean. And, French chemists claim to have first isolated the jittery chemical 1,3,7-trimethylxanthine, which to the rest of us, who aren’t chemists, means CAFFEINE! Thank you, France. But, don’t try to order a pour of 1,3,7-trimethyxanthine, unless you want a blank smile in return and nothing in your cup.

Stick with coffee. It’ simpler and so to the point.

So, I said to myself, as I sipped my coffee, “It has been a good week: My favorite hot beverage, a happy smiling baby and a new place to prop my feet as I sit back and thank Ms. Bright-In-The-Night-Sky A-Few-Dollars-More for a quiet and refreshing break.”

Stop by and say hello.

It is a pleasant place to prognosticate with friends.

I know you won’t get lost, because I know you know the name of the shop.

Grandpa Jim

“’From Your Valentine.’ Oh, Daddy, do you see how he signed the note?”

“Yes, my Daughter,” the Jailer answered. “You see because the one they call Valentine healed your blindness. Now, he has paid for his crimes.”

“What crimes, Father Jailer?”

“Blind-now-seeing Daughter, the young priest, Valentine, did not follow Emperor Claudius’ decree: No couples shall be married, and all young men shall join the armies of the Empire to fight in the campaigns. Always before, young men when wed were exempt from service. Not so now.”

“What did my Valentine, Father?”

“He married the young lovers, my child. For that, he has paid with his head.”

“Oh Father, how could they? He was a good man.”

“I think more, Daughter. I think a saint, Saint Valentine.”

And, so it was, in the year 280 AD on February 14^th, for his crime of uniting young lovers, Valentine was executed by the Roman Emperor, Claudius. Before the execution, the quiet priest healed the jailer’s daughter of her blindness and revealed to the world his sainthood. He also left behind the memorable note signed “From Your Valentine” sealing the kind cleric’s claim to the hallmark of Valentine cards.

The 14^th of February had long been associated with love, and it is curious that the Emperor would choose that day to seal the fate of the first Valentine.

On February 14, the Romans celebrated a feast that was ancient when Rome was founded. Called Lubercalia, it was a grand spring festival to celebrate the warmer weather, the planting of the new crops and the anticipation of new unions. A great jar was placed in the middle of the festival grounds, and into that jar were placed the names of the eligible young maidens. Each young man would draw a name from the jar, and the two so partnered would spend the festival together and perhaps form a more permanent bond should the flower of love blossom and bloom. The 14^th day of February was a time for shy smiles, the exchange of names and salutations, and a quiet evening walk in the Forum touching hands.

Even before the energies of man, the birds knew the day. For any who walk the woodland trails following the advent of spring, the young birds in pairs swoop and soar and chase one after the other stopping for twigs and soft grasses for a hidden nest in the far trees and a new family of tiny chirps and hungry mouths. In the Europe of the Middle Ages, it was held and believed that February 14^th was the day the birds began to fly and find their partners, a time of love in the woods and in the skies.

In 1381 AD, that chaser of tales, the good Geoffrey Chaucer, did pen “The Parliament of Fowls,” in which the bard’s clear words unite the quick flight of our fair feathered friends in time of fresh flowers to the sad plight of the dear saint who gave his life to bind young lovers in vernal equinox:

“For this was St. Valentine’s Day

“When every bird of every kind

“Comes to this place to choose his mate.”

The world, in its many ways and times, is a strange and amazing place to bring a saint to follow a festival to spy in flight the avian rite of spring on that same day of their own choosing.

Happy St. Valentine’s Day to you and yours.

Find a tree-lined path to walk, friends with hands held close.

Smile and lift your heads to catch the antics of young cardinals paired.

Search a spring festival, wish each other best and exchange to each fair accord.

For two may not know now where such will lead, but know you now a Valentine is waiting there for you to see.

Grandpa Jim

They were bigger than the Monkees would ever be.

They were bigger than anything or anyone.

They were and are the Beatles.

Behind the couch in the living room, I wasn’t looking for bugs. I was listening to Beatles. It was 1964 and it was “Meet the Beatles!” time. Leaning against the back of the sofa and warmed by the bright sun shining through the cold glassed sliding door that separated me and the music from the frigid outside of Iowa winter, USA, I was in a happy daydreamland of Beatles lyrical fun.

Mom wandered through and peered over at me on the floor. “I like them,” she said. “I like the sound.” That was it. I mean that cemented the whole thing. They were in. Moms do not like teenager music. She did and that meant it was more than just kid music.

It was, it was in time and it was needed.

Just two months before, on Friday, November 22, 1963 at 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time in Dallas, Texas, President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. To this day, I can go back in my mind and sit on that hard folding chair in our high school auditorium, stare up at the wall clock above the basketball goal and hear the Principal say the words: “The President is dead.” We were young. We liked Jack Kennedy because he was young and full of energy with his young family and smiles and vacations at the beach. We weren’t politicians. We just liked him, and we were sad. We were all sad.

Then these kids from Liverpool showed up.

And, the girls started to scream and shout.

I mean you could hear the noise in Iowa.

It was “The Ed Sullivan Show.” We watched “The Ed Sullivan Show” every Sunday night. It was what families did together – back then. Our TV screen was black and white and grainy. Ed Sullivan was this ancient character who couldn’t really talk and murmured things like, “Now, on with the show,” but it didn’t sound like “show,” it sounded like “shoe” or “shuuu” or something, and you couldn’t get it out of your head, because the sound was so odd, but you looked forward to hearing it anyway. The show itself was great, with acts from everywhere: jugglers, magicians, pianists, gymnasts and bands. Not just old bands and show bands, but new rock-and-roll bands — which was pretty neat for an old-guy with a speech problem.

Sunday night, February 9, 1964, the new band was the Beatles. I can’t remember the words of their songs, but I can go back in my mind and feel that soft couch, peer at the black-and-white TV screen in the corner of our darkened living room and hear the Beatles. I can hear them standing there in their stiff suits, straight manner and long hair. After the music ends, old Ed walks onto the stage and puts his arms around the smiling lads from Liverpool, thanks them “For a greet shuuu” and waves woodenly to us out in TV land. And, I can remember my Mom smiling back.

Vietnam was starting up.

We needed to smile and laugh and see a crazy bright side to things.

The Beatles did just that with album after album and single after single that soared to the top of the charts and lifted our spirits and warmed our hearts in the escalating cold war that followed the death of our President and claimed so many and so much of ourselves.

It is a strange thing to say, but they never let us down and they left much that we are better for.

The four were just a small group, but their presence and their sounds were larger than life.

Sometimes a simple word is best: The Beatles were fun when fun was needed.

Through the good and hard times, you were fun when fun was needed.

For that, I can say from the bottom of my heart: “Thank you.”

You and your music reached out and held our hands.

Thank you, for showing us a better world.

Through the songs and the tears.

Grandpa Jim

Yesterday was a cold day on the Katy Trail. Temperatures stayed below freezing, starting in the teens and hovering in the 20’s, an unusual entrant to February for Texas. And, to top it off, we had snow. Here you see a lonely runner crunching forward in slow approach:

Slogging onward and away up that way, the solitary figure drifts from view, trudging ever into the numb of north.

From his guarded alcove, the edge of cold is sharp enough to harken St. Francis with an offering of seeds and comforts to grounded aviaries and other friends.

School continued despite the inclement weather, although pick-up was something of an ice rink from slick intersection to snow-packed cross-street. My nine-year-old granddaughter was disappointed the teachers hadn’t cancelled classes to allow the building of snow people and the throwing of snow sphericals. There was an incredulity in her innocent comments which invited agreement, especially when she noted wisely: “We really haven’t had snow all winter, only cold. Don’t they understand?”

The honesty of her reverie stopped me to wonder on the ancient conundrum of species homo sapien: “Why can’t we just do what we want to do?” In simple form, I guess that is the succinct restatement of the common situation of all of life: Why school? Why a job? Why this job? Why only this much money? Why rules? Why schedules? Why not a red sports car? Why not a bigger house? Why not a snow day? Why? Why? Why?

The three grandchildren stayed for the night, sleeping and talking past lights out. I could hear their animated voices from their bedroom hideaway. In the morning, the youngest, my three-year-old grandson, over a bowl of colorful cereal, spilled the proverbial milk: “Grandpa, we prayed to God-on-the-wall that there wouldn’t be school today.”

Of course you did. When in need, take your cause to a higher authority. Even at three, just recourse is recognized.

“It didn’t work Grandpa,” the young lad observed with a dribble of milk down the chin and onto the shirt, which I dabbed with a towel and thought in my mind: “Or, did it?”

My mind wandered down the trail as I remembered the common words of many a Sunday sermon, the preacher pounding the podium: “There are no unanswered prayers. There are two answers: Your answer and God’s answer. Your prayer was answered. Now, what are you doing about it?”

What indeed?

But, perhaps my adult wander into wistful reflection was an unneeded detour for the grandson and his two older sisters. The threesome was already packing up with smiles and laughter — which I thought was the best answer I had ever seen or heard to the preacher’s question.

The answer from the heart of children is: “If you can’t do what you wanna’ do, enjoy what you gotta’ do.”

I love kids.

They understood that naturally.

God’s “No” answer did not slow them down one bit.

They were up and ready to go — even though it was not what they woke up wanting to happen.

About two hours later, I entered the school auditorium for my nine-year-old granddaughter’s Biography Day presentation. The young girl was costumed in a blue house dress with white polka dots, a white apron with a red heart on the pocket with the words “I Love Desi,” and a bright red wig. At the end of the short speech, which was clearly and certainly delivered with a naïve smile (reminding me so much of her character), my granddaugher announced with a coy turn of the head, “I am Lucille Ball.”

And, she was.

They both were. Bravo and applause.

“Do what you enjoy and enjoy what you’re doing.”

If there was anyone who lived that, it was in her life and character “I Love Lucy.”

She is and was a sweet girl who got up with a smile and somehow muddled through the day with a happy laugh at “The End.”

I love Lucy. She did a great job. They both did. And, by their actions, those two sweethearts answered one of the most vexing questions in all of human history: “Now, what are you going to do about it?”

A wink, a smile, a red wig, and the heart of child.

It is a good day, whatever we’re doing.

Don’t you think?

I do.

Grandpa Jim