Superman – Man of Steel: Superman In The Comics And At The Movies – The New Hope

It’s a blockbuster.

My granddaughter and I were wondering what to do Monday morning. Everyone else was working. “Grandpa,” Katelyn said, “Man of Steel.” “Superman?” I asked. “Yep,” she confirmed.

So, with no one watching, we steeled off to the theatre for the 11 am show.

“The Man of Steel” is a phrase that dates back to 1986 when the comic-book Superman was revamped, restructured and upgraded with a new look. Yes, Superman started in the comics. In fact, two high school kids living in Cleveland, Ohio discovered the superhero in 1933. Jerry Siegel was the kid-writer and Joe Shuster was the kid-artist who together described and drew the blue costume, red cape and red-and-yellow “S” on the chest of the man-from-Krypton. He was, even then, a dashing figure.

In 1938, the two young people sold the Kansas farm boy with the hidden powers to Detective Comics (which became DC Comics). Siegel and Shuster bartered their rights to Superman for $130 dollars in cash and a contract to provide DC Comics more super materials. In retrospect, the price was not much for the person-from-another-planet-with-the-amazing-powers who would become an international cultural icon.

Superman first appeared in Action Comics #1, the June 1938 inaugural issue. The cover is that of a tight-suited, clean-cut figure in a flowing cape running with a car lifted above his head. The strongman drives that car into the shattered remains of what is obviously the bad-guy’s transport, as the local citizenry run screaming away, their hands in the air. Without a doubt, the man-of-first-appearance made quite a first impression.

And, he did. He initiated the comic-book boom in super-heroes-in-tights. Who would have thought guys in tights would sell comic books? Our two kids from Cleveland did, and so did DC Comics. In fact, Superman-in-the-Comics became so popular that in February 2010 an original Action Comics #1 with the car-tossing-man-in-tights sold at auction for a cool $1,000,000. Superman is here to stay.

Now, on to the movies.

Paramount Pictures first hired Superman to do a series of seventeen, ten-minute, animated cartoons between 1941 and 1943. Of course, Superman posed for the cartoonists, but he wasn’t actually in the pictures.

Apparently, the purchasers-of-tickets-to-dark-theatres liked what they saw. In 1948, Columbia Pictures coaxed Superman to appear in the live-action film entitled simply “Superman.” In 1950, Columbia asked the increasingly-popular speedster to re-appear in “Atom Man vs. Superman.” As the last title suggests, the plot was thickening.

In 1951, “Superman and the Mole Men” tunneled into theatres everywhere. The film was fifty-eight minutes long, was shot in 12 days on a studio back-lot, and was a trial run for the TV series “Adventures of Superman.” Interestingly, an actor by the name of George Reeves played this Superman who bridged the movies to T.V.

In 1978, the real Superman movies started with “Superman I” and an all-star cast. Marlon Brando played Jor-El, the Kryptonite father of Kal-El (Superman’s space-born name before he landed in Kansas and moved in with the Kents). Gene Hackman entered the scene as the evil and dastardly Lex Luthor – boo, hiss. And, of course, Christopher Reeve (no apparent relation to George of the Mole Men above) was the clear-eyed man-in-the-skies and the mild-mannered Clark Kent on-the-ground with the dark glasses slipping from his, or Clark’s, nose as they both fall for Margot Kidder playing the knowing and ever-caring Lois Lane – hooray, much clapping and great fanfare.

The series was born: “Superman I” (1978), “Superman II” (1980), “Superman III” (1983), and “Superman IV: The Quest for Peace (1987).” Superman Reeve and Reporter Kidder starred in all four, and all four were financial successes, but near the end the fans were getting tired. A change was needed, and Superman retired from the cinemas . . . for a while . . . to contemplate what should be his role for a changing planet.

Superman attempted a return in 2006 in “Superman Returns.” It wasn’t the same. A tragic accident had paralyzed Christopher Reeve. He could not return for the role. The new actors received positive reviews and the film did well at the box office, but it really . . . well . . . it wasn’t Superman. Maybe Superman was a hero-of-the-past, without a home or a need in the new age.

Last Monday, for us, the “Man of Steel” returned. There is a realism in this new film that I don’t remember since I opened my first comic book years ago. It’s not the same and I know that, but somehow it is and I don’t know exactly why, but it is. All the fantastic special-and-can’t-be-avoided effects assaulting me in my lounged-and-tiered recliner are there. I was anchored firmly in place to the floor of the timeless-and-dark-polished mega hall of mesmerization and sensory deprivation, but somehow all the trappings of the modern cinema didn’t seem to matter. I even forgot I had on 3-D glasses.

I’d never seen this person before, this Clark Kent, but I had. I know I’d never seen Krypton like this, but I had – I just didn’t remember . . . until now. This was new, but it had always been there. When I tossed our empty popcorn bag and nacho container into the leaving trash receptacle, I knew that. As I carried our shared Superman-memorial soda cup into the mall and Katelyn adjusted her “I-Love-Superman” sunglasses, I knew it had always been there. I just hadn’t seen it before.

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I’m glad Superman is back. Take a look and see for yourself. You may not be surprised. You may find an old friend, or maybe a new one. Superman is like that – timeless, I hope.

See you at the theatre – I’m going back for a second look,

Grandpa Jim

 

 

 

Winter Wheat – The Pictures Are Here!!! See The Harvest Worth Talking About, A Golden Bridge Through The Seasons

The winter wheat is late this year. In fact, the farmers of central Texas are just now harvesting the golden fields of grain, and we are only ten days from the first day of summer.

Why do they call it winter wheat?

Now, that is a very good question. In this part of Texas – down from Dallas/Fort Worth through Abbot, West and Penelope to Waco, the farmers planted the seeds for the current crop back in November of last year — 2012. Remember, fall of 2012 started on September 22, 2012, and our past winter started on December 21, 2013. So, the wheat seed was planted in the fall, but it’s not called fall wheat.

I just talked to Uncle Joe down on the farm and asked when he planted his winter wheat. The response was November 26, 2012. I asked Joe what he was doing today, and he said he was harvesting winter wheat. Hmmmm, I thought, and inquired, “When would you normally harvest the wheat?” “About May 15th to the 25th,” was Uncle Joe’s answer.

Folks, this winter wheat harvest in Texas is about a month late, just making it in before the end-of-spring line, which is June 20, 2013, and nudging right up there to summer, which begins June 21, 2013. It may be that some farmers will be harvesting winter wheat in the good old summertime — after June 21st.

I asked Uncle Joe why the wheat was late growing this year. “It didn’t rain until Christmas,” was the ready explanation.

With no rain, it appears the wheat seeds rested and enjoyed the Holiday lights, waiting for a Christmas Day gift of moisture falling from above, before germinating and breaking the surface of the dark plowed ground.

“But, why do they call it winter wheat?” I asked Uncle Joe, remembering the reason I’d called.

“Because our wheat grows in the winter,” I heard over my cell phone. “Wheat up Kansas way, as far south as Oklahoma, is planted later because of the cold. That wheat comes up in the spring. They call it spring wheat, because it grows in the spring. Our winters are milder in Texas, so we can plant in the fall and the wheat grows in the winter – winter wheat.”

Makes sense.

“What you using to harvest the wheat?” I asked.

“A combine with a platform head and reel,” Uncle Joe answered, matter-of-factly.

“And, how’s the yield look?” I was curious, what with late rains and a late harvest.

“In an average year,” Uncle Joe began, always careful not to answer a question too directly, without some background information and time for thought. “In a good year, we’ll average about 50 bushels.”

“That’s per acre, right?”

“Right . . . per acre.”

“And . . . how’s it looking this year?” I was getting curious.”

“Pretty good, I’d say.”

“About how good?” The suspense was getting to me.

“Most is coming in at . . . or above . . . say . . . 60 . . . some up to 80.”

“Wow, Joe, 60-80 bushels per acre for winter wheat. I mean, that’s great.”

“Not bad. Would you like me to send you some pictures of the harvest?”

“Sure, Joe. I’ll put ‘em in the blog post.”

 * * *

Check back later. When I get those winter wheat pictures, I’ll post them right here.

It may take a while. Uncle Joe’s out there right now bringing home the harvest.

Now, that’s got a right nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?

* * *

For your perusal and enjoyment, here are the pictures from Uncle Joe of the ongoing winter wheat harvest.

I call this first one “golden wheat at evening with the combine working and the corn stalks beyond tasseling.” It sure looks like that corn is making for a fine harvest of its own.

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See the sun catching Uncle Joe or Brother Charles (can’t tell who is driving) right in the eye. I think that far-off corn is growing as we watch.

 

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It looks to me like that combine below is heading back to the road to lighten all that grain it’s hauling.

 

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Sure enough, I see Brother Charles off-loading those wheat kernels in a golden stream to the waiting grain wagon. It doesn’t seem these farmers are stopping for dark. The shadows are lengthening.

 

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After a gulp of Gatorade and half a sandwich, they’re back at it. You can see the wheat straw left behind by the combine. That straw can be raked and baled for cattle feed. Down at the farm, pretty much everything goes to some use. It’s that way in the country — always has been.

 

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Below, Charles has made the turn for another cut and glean. A word about that turn. The entire field is mapped by a Global Positioning System (GPS). Uncle Joe installed a tower back by the cow barn. The satellites in space talk to the combine’s onboard computer through that tower. When the turn is made, the computer processes the GPS information and aligns the combine for the next cut. Day or night, the combine can roll and the harvest continue.

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And, night it is getting to be. But, the combine keeps cutting, the wheat keeps piling and the farmers keep working. It’s that way at harvest time. And, I’m glad it is. So, we can wake up to that bowl of cereal and just keep eating.

 

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Right nice of them, don’t you think?

Grandpa Jim

 

 

Witch Hazel – From Old England On A Cold Winter’s Day, We’re Off To Follow The Scary Old Road To Apothecary

Is witch hazel a witch itself, or is that twitching the hazel witching?

Witch hazel is a popular, ornamental, flowering, deciduous shrub. “Deciduous” is a word meaning the leaves fall off the plant in the winter.

The flowers of the witch hazel are unusual in that they often appear on the barren stems after the leaves have fallen and the skies turned cold. The witch hazel plant is thought to have originated in North America, Japan and China. The North American species is sometimes called “winterbloom,” because that is what it does – it blooms in winter, and there the story begins. . . .

Witch hazel flowers are clustered together, with each separate blossom having four long, slender, strap-shaped petals extending from a core bloom. These straps, which are finger-like in appearance, can be yellow, orange or red. Altogether, the flowers look quite bizarre. On a winter’s trek through a barren wood with a bracing wind blowing, the twitching fingers of the witch hazel could be seen to twist and reach out toward the walker — as if casting a spell. I am reminded of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz, her face contorted under the tall, black, pointed hat and those long-nailed fingers wiggling out to scare Dorothy and her little dog, Toto.

Perhaps, witches have always behaved in this way. It may be part of the show — you know. If you’ve ever ventured through the naked woods to buy a potion from one of the original purveyors of pharmaceuticals (or watched from the safety of a theatre seat), you know you want to feel you’re going to get your monies worth – that this is the real thing. For credibility, perhaps the witches of movies and lore have had to look the part, as they bend over the boiling and bubbling cauldrons and wiggle their fingers, before reaching out the vials and taking the coins from the shaking hands of their customers.

You were never so glad to leave. Rushing back along the path, you spy the colorful hazel blooms and mutter to yourself, “Witch hazel, witch hazel,” and hurry on your way. Apparently, the name stuck, and that odd winter plant with the finger-like petals came to be known as the witch hazel.

Reinforcing this interpretation is the fact that the word “witch” derives from the Middle English word “wiche.” “Wiche” itself comes from the Old English word “wice,” which means pliant or bendable. In the Old England of yore, hazel twigs were used as divining rods. A divining or dowsing rod was used to find ground water, buried metals, gemstones and gravesites. It was thought the divining rod would bend toward that which was hidden in the ground. The bending of the finger-like stick resembles the fingers of a witch’s hands twitching and pointing down into the pot of newt’s eye and frog’s leg. We see there the origins of the word “witch” — in the words and traditions for finger-like motions and appearances.

It was, I fear, fated that the strange-looking, cold-weather bloom with its pliant and bendable finger-like petals would seem of witching origins. Those petals moved like a witching rod, and they may well have appeared to the viewer hurrying past to resemble the hovering hands of the ladies of legend plying their trade in natural medicinals.

Between the two of us, I know the witch hazel is no witch itself, but I still see through its winter flowers a land of flying monkeys and hear far off a cackling laugh.

It never hurts to have a bucket of fresh water standing by. . . .

Just in case – you know,

Grandpa Jim

A Baby Mammoth Would Be A Nice Discovery – From Russia With Love

Will a herd of wholly mammoths again be heard pounding the grassy steppes of Siberia?

The possibility exists – if a living mammoth cell can be found, and the extinct animal can be cloned from that living cell.

In the paper last week, it was reported that a wooly mammoth carcass had been found on the Lyakhovsky Islands off the north coast of Siberia. This is not new news. Folks up there have been digging up mammoths for years. So, what’s the big deal with this latest find?

Blood

This mammoth had been flash frozen in pure ice. And, in the icy cavities beneath the prehistoric tusked creature, pools of dark red blood were spied. When the scientists broke through the ice, the blood came running out. Samples were collected, packed with preservatives and sent to Yakutsk, Russian for evaluation. If there are living blood cells in those samples, the possibility of a successfully cloned de-extinct young mammoth just went up remarkably.

The reason the scientists are so excited is that the blood of mammoths is thought not to freeze in extreme temperatures. In part, scientists believe this is what kept those behemoths of old trudging through the frozen landscapes of Siberia 10,000 years and more ago. Mammoth blood is apparently a type of antifreeze that kept the big animals warm – along, of course, with a healthy dose of fat and a very serious wooly overcoat. The temperature at the site where the blood was found was about 17 degrees Fahrenheit (-8 degrees Celsius). And still the blood flowed. Ladies and gentlemen, we may have a living mammoth cell.

If that cell is alive, here is how the cloning may work. Scientist will coax the cell to re-produce into more cells, hopefully many more individual cells – say a couple of million cells for starters. Cloning is not a sure thing — so, the more raw material to start, the better the chances of success. Next, those smart guys in the back room will try to re-program some of those cells, that are so quickly dividing, to grow together into an embryo, that is, a little baby mammoth. (This has to be very tricky step, but the science of cloning has advanced, and a living embryo is apparently a very doable thing – if you can get a bunch of living cells to start.) Then, that little baby mammoth embryo will be implanted into a surrogate elephant mother’s womb. (Elephants are the closest living relatives to mammoths.) If all this can be accomplished (and you can see there are a great many “if’s”), the next step is PATIENCE. The normal gestation period for an elephant is about two years. So, get ready to wait, and wait, and wait. And, when the phone rings in the middle of night two years from now, jump into the car and rush to the elephant hospital and wait, and wait, and wait some more. . . .

What’s that noise?

It sounds like a loud rumbling, like a stomach growling.

A baby elephant is called a calf. A calf may stand three feet (one meter) tall and is usually quite hairy with a long tail and a very short trunk.

The stomach of a baby elephant calf will make loud rumbling and growling noises that other elephants can hear. To Mom, this is a contented sound saying, “Everything is okay, and where’s the food?”

At that moment, the delivery room door crashes open and the baby elephant doctor rushes out, pulls his mask aside and shouts, “It’s a boy!” He pauses and adds, “A very hairy, wooly, healthy mammoth calf!”

Now, that’s a story I want to read. It may well be better than Ian Fleming and 007. For fun, the cloning experts may want to borrow one from the James Bond titles. If I may suggest, those very happy grumblings sound to me like “From Russia With Love.” How about to you?

I hope someone brought a lot of baby food,

Grandpa Jim

The Five E’s – Express, Entire, Entertain, Encourage, Excite: Why We Do What We Love To Do And Why It’s Good For Us

I started to write this piece to explain why I write.

“Why do I write?” I asked myself.

Good question, I thought, and immediately sermons came to mind.

A good sermon-giver often has numbered points and those numbered points often start with the same letter – to help you remember what the preacher said when you rush out afterwards for Sunday brunch (we know you were thinking about lunch at church). At the restaurant, someone is going to ask: “What did Brother John say?” If Brother John ordered his points and used the same starting letter to alliterate and reinforce your memory, you may remember the words and quite impress the table company with your theological acumen.

The “FIVE E’s” are: 1. Express, 2. Entire, 3. Entertain, 4. Encourage and 5. Excite.

That’s why I write. I think it’s why anyone does what they love to do.

#1, Express: I, like you, want to express myself. I want to let others know how I feel about things, life, the news, colors, numbers, the cold I had last week, and what my Grandmother told me all those years ago that just popped into my head. The first “e” is Express, because we all need to do it, and we should. We need to express who we are and what we’re about.

#2, Entire: The second “e” is Entire, because, quite simply, we do what we do to be complete. We each have a nudging feeling of incompleteness, like when the TV show stops and the commercials start, we know there is something more, and we feel compelled to wait and see. The wait-and-see is our need to be completed, to be finished, to be entire. That’s why we never stop looking for stuff to do, things to be better at — that rainbow just over the hill and around the bend that will answer all our dreams and make us perfect. Of course, we never find perfection, but we never stop seeking. And, when we find something we love to do and we know we want to do it, we go head-and-sinker overboard to get better at it, to make-or-break, to sink-or-swim, to be-the-best and show-the-world. That’s why I write. To some extent, I think it’s why we all do what we do – to be Entire.

#3, Entertain: Selfishness will only get you so far. The first two “e’s,” necessary though they be, are I-centered e’s: I want to Express myself; I want to be Entire. Self-based motivation is absolutely necessary for a good jump off the line, but it will never carry you through to the finish. Now, we turn to the U-based e’s. I may not look altruistic, but I do know I can never do for myself if I don’t do for others. So, I write to Entertain you. I want to Entertain you. Without someone else involved and appreciating what I’ve done, there’s really no point in me doing anything – and certainly not what I love to do. We are social creatures. We must interact. Entertain is also the secret of the second “e,” Entire. Try as we might, we will never feel complete until someone else smiles back at us and says, “Well done.” We entertain because the buck does not stop here, it goes from me to you and back again. I must Entertain you to be Entire; I must Entertain to Express myself; and I must Entertain so that we together can be more than me.

#4, Encourage: Every once in a while, you learn a Secret of the Universe. This is a big one: Encourage. There is no greater motivator in the history of man and woman, and no greater return for your efforts. I write to encourage you, to bring a smile to your face, a quick step to your walk and a word to share with others. It’s a snowball effect. When you do something you love to do, those around you see it, they feel it, it brightens their lives, they are encouraged, and they share that warmth and energy with others, where it starts to roll, to gather mass and momentum, and pretty soon, you turn a corner, and SMACK – it hits you right in the face, knocking you down with a laugh and a smile and the realization: “I started that.” Yes, you did. Encouragement never returns empty-handed. It’s the gift we get by the Encourage we gave that comes back to Encourage us even more.

#5, Excite: As you lie there, knocked down by the snowball of Encourage-ment on the rebound, you feel it. I’m excited, you pinch yourself. Others are excited, your eyes widen. I feel great; I’ve got energy, you jump out, dazed and a bit light-headed. What happened? The Five E’s are what happened. You practice the first four (Express, Entire, Entertain and Encourage), and the fifth (Excite) is the bonus ribbon on the package for you and others. It’s not that you do what you do to obtain excitement. It’s that when you do what you do to Express yourself, to be Entire, to Entertain and Encourage others, the Excite just happens, and the energy will flow. There is no guarantee of good health, but if you practice the E’s, you will have done everything you can do. You will Excite and you will be Excited. Some might say it doesn’t get any better than that.

So, what was the sermon about?

Swallow, before you answer,

Grandpa Jim

The Slow Way Back: Wildflowers Bloom Beside The Track — The Texas Star

Yesterday was my wife’s mother’s 83rd birthday. Congratulations, Me Maw.

After a luncheon party at the hall in the central Texas town, we took the old road to the country cemetery to visit the resting place of a few more relatives.

This road passes along a railroad right-of-way that’s no longer in use. The new tracks are about a mile off, on the other side of the interstate. The unused track way remains, with the rusting rails. This is where the trains rolled across the prairies from the far mountains to the Gulf of Mexico and the ports of the Old South, and then back again.

Around the road, the engines and cars dropped seeds, to join the seeds of the Texas prairies.

The road is amazing.

Between the green-planted fields and barbed-wire fences, the short stretch of protected gravel blooms with wildflowers that have inhabited the glade for decades. These are not the farm-raised and crew-planted wildflowers sculpted to the slopes of the newly designed interstates. The new interstate flowers are beautiful and I would not detract from their beauty, but the flowers of the little road are another creation. These are the native flowers of the land’s far past, mixed with the new breed of tramps that shifted aboard the box cars and were tossed by the barreling trains.

In their way, they are the true blooms of Texas.

Petal, color and form change and are more diverse than their interstate cousins.

And, they are the more surprising.

Yesterday, I saw the tall red spikes and asked as we bumped along, “What are those?”

We slowed.

“I haven’t seen those since . . . 2005.” My wife stopped the car and rolled down her window. “Mom and I were driving to the cemetery. They don’t bloom often.”

I opened the door, stepped out and took some pictures.

 

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“What are they called?” I asked as we drove on.

“Don’t know.”

“We’ll check the wildflower book when we get home.”

Standing Cypress is the entry name. Other common names include Flame Flower, Indian Plume and Texas Star. From the names, the bloom has been around for a while – although seldom seen. They may have traveled far to be here, or stayed long hidden from our view.

Little surprises around the bend and down the lane,

Memories of far-flung remembered blooms,

Indian Plume, the Texas Star,

Grandpa Jim.

Healthiest State For Oldsters, Oldest Torah Scroll and Oldest Frozen Living Plants

This is a red-letter news day: Old people are living better, a very old scroll is faring better, and moss hidden under the ice for centuries is sprouting new growth for the better. Wrinkle your nose like Bugs Bunny and shout, “What’s up, Doc.” Good news may be on the rebound – three articles in one news day is a cause of guarded celebration.

Gopher alert!! Minnesota wins!! United Health Foundation, a non-profit group, ranked each U.S. state’s performance in providing a healthy environment for oldsters (folks they defined as “seniors” by being over 65). Minnesota was at the top as the healthiest state for older folk to reside. The Top 10 includes Iowa (my home state), Colorado, Utah, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Maryland and Hawaii. Across the country, those 65-and-over (“Don’t call us ‘old.’”) are the U.S.’s fastest-growing age group. My parents, who are both over 90, live in a gorgeous assisted-living complex on an Indian reservation south of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Go, Mom and Dad — that’s the way to stay healthy in a healthy state for seniors!! Back to the report, the study found that half of our oldsters have multiple chronic health conditions, including: over-weight (25%), physical inactivity (30% — “Hard to be too active when you’re pushing the century mark in a wheel chair.”), and arthritis/immobility (52% — “You live that long, what’s wrong with letting someone else do the pushing – my knees do ache?”). Although these can be serious conditions, in some ways, they don’t bother me as much as other things, because they seem in a way the natural concomitants of aging and being allowed to kick-back and enjoy visits from the grandkids, great grandkids and great-great grandkids. (“Whew, that’s a lot of kids to be grand about – no wonder we feel a little tired.”) What bothers me is this statistic: 14% of our seniors are hungry. This makes me sad and angry. I don’t understand why in the United States of America in 2013 anyone over 65 should go to bed hungry. I believe age should be respected, and those who have worked their lives for others should be cared for. Yes, the costs will go up. Medicare spending will be about $500 Billion in 2013; and it will double to about $1 Trillion in 2013. Nevertheless, I feel, in my heart, that our oldsters are worth every penny of it – they’ve given more to us than we can every give back to them. As we leave no child behind, no senior should be left behind. And, not one should go to bed hungry. Sorry, I’ll get off my soap box. One final story: When my Grandma Ethyl was in the nursing home years ago, she looked over at a much younger version of me and asked: “Why am I here? I can’t chew. I can hardly see – mostly shadows. You have to shout for me to hear you. Why am I here?” I looked at that dear woman and said what came into my mouth: “You’re here for me, Grandma. You’re here for me.”

Scrolls can last longer than people. In the far past, it was traditional to hand letter the first five books of the Bible, referred to as the Pentateuch, onto long sheets of animal skin or parchment, put a wood or metal rolling pin at each end — so the handles stick out, and roll the ends around the pins and toward each other, forming two fat rolls when they met. That’s a scroll – a script that’s rolled from both ends to meet in the middle. When it’s a scroll of the Pentateuch, it’s called a Torah scroll. You unroll the scroll to find your place – and, that can be a challenge. Books with pages are much easier, but the scroll was an earlier invention. The scroll that was recently re-discovered in the University of Bologna library in Bologna, Italy, is a sheepskin document 40 yards long and 25 inches wide. The library thought it was rolled around 1650 AD. An expert has tested and documented the correct age to be about 1200 AD, some 450 years older than expected. As such, it is the oldest know complete Torah scroll. As a wise man is suggested to have once said: “If you last long enough, you may be kinda’ important.” Well said. I like the quote in the paper about the scroll, which sums things up nicely: “It is fairly big news . . . scholars get excited by very small things.” And, very old things — you gotta’ love those scholars, whatever their age.

And, to continue our old news from the news day: “Mosses buried under the ice for 500 years sprout again!” Back in the so-called Little Ice Age, between 1550 AD and 1850 AD, global temperatures dropped (“So much for global warming, huh?” – “Don’t know.”), and the Canadian glaciers advanced — covering, blackening and discoloring the poor little mosses in their paths. Now, temperatures are rising again (“Global warming, right?” – “Don’t know, temperatures seem to go up and down, but they seem to have always done that.”), and now the glaciers are retreating — leaving the poor frozen squished and squashed moss remains behind. But, “Wait,” the researchers at the lab in the University of Edmonton, Canada, shout to each other, “Look, there, that smashed little moss on the lab bench is branching out green and its stems they are a-buddin’.” And, it was true. The dead plants they’d dug were dead no longer. Five hundred years under the freezing ice and still they bloom. That’s a hardy bryophyte, and a worthy comment on the will to live and the value of life — however old they may be. Keep growing moss! You’re our kind of plant.

And, there you have it: Three uplifting stories from the good news of the day. Oldsters are doing better, old books (scrolls) are being read, and dead moss is alive again. The message to me is clear: visit a senior friend or relative today, pick up a book or scroll for the nightstand, and never underestimate a green plant – they’re our friends too. The news does not get better than this: a wise relative, a good read, and something green. And, all in one day.

My heart is lightened.

Cheers,

Grandpa Jim

Couplets, Meter, Iambs, Iambic Pentameter, Heroic Couplets, Rhyming To Set Free

Couplets.

A “couplet” is two lines of poetry that have the same meter and may, or may not, rhyme.

“Meter” is the length of a line of poetry, measured in the number of syllable groupings in the line.

And, what is the “iamb?”

A two-syllable grouping, like “with that” or “unfold” – with the accent on the second syllable, is called an iamb. The syllables in these iambs can be split into separate words or be separate words – it doesn’t matter to the poet.

To help see the splits and accents, you can write a line of iambs like this:

With THAT/ you CUT/, on LY/ when YOU/ un FOLD?

This line is riddle: What is it?

SCISS ors/ of COURSE/, with CARE/ is WHAT/ you HOLD.

Both these lines have five iambs, so the meter is five. (I had to invert one iamb, scissors, with the accent on the first syllable — but that’s fair in the land of verse.) A five meter line is called a “pentameter,” because five is “pent” in Latin. Four is tetrameter, because “tetra” is the Roman four; and trimeter, with “tri,” is three — on the old Iberian Peninsula where you find Italy.

Our example couplet is now two lines of rhymed iambic pentameter, behold:

With that you cut, only when you unfold?

Scissors of course, with care is what you hold

A couplet, like this, with the meter of iambic pentameter, is called a “heroic couplet.”

Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter, and his sonnets each end with a rhyming heroic couplet.

Rhyming couplets are one of the oldest and most successful rhyme schemes in the history of poetry. Chaucer’s “The Canterbury Tales” is written in rhyming couplets.

Now, you can do it too. Give it a try.

To read more about iambic pentameter and poetry, check out the blog posts of September 19, 2012, November 13, 2012 and May 15, 2013. To find them, click on the “Blog Posts” tab above. Once you’re there, type in “iambic pentameter” in the search block with the spy glass, and off you go.

Per HAPS/ it’s TIME/, why NOT/, give IT/ a TRY,

You NEV /er KNOW/, you MAY/ be COME/ a WARE.

And SEE/, once YOU/ start, YOU/ may NOT/ re VERSE,

To FIND/ your DREAMS/ on ly/ in ME/ tered VERSE.

I MAG/ ine WHAT/ the PIC/ tures MAY/ be THERE

Be YOND/ a LAND/ not LIM/ it ED/ by EYE.

Or, to allow you to more easily read the lines:

Perhaps it’s time, why not give it a try,

You never know, you may become aware.

And see, once you start, you may not reverse,

To find your dreams only in metered verse.

Imagine what the pictures may be there,

Beyond a land not limited by eye.

Good travels,

Grandpa Jim

Tornadoes Spin, Writer Falters, West Nile Misses, Allergic Rhinitis Launches

More tornadoes spin as writer falters, while West Nile misses and allergic rhinitis assaults us.

Allergic rhinitis is not a type of rhinoceros. It is hay fever. In north Texas, the pollens are upon us. Warm weather, rains, thunder, winds and winter wheat harvests launch the microbes at our noses.  At first, I thought I had West Nile fever, visited one of my doctors, told him I had been bitten by a mosquito, related that I was experiencing flu-like symptoms (headache, nausea, weakness and stuffy head) and directed to him a simple question: “Am I gone in three days.” (I am something of a hypochondriac and can over-react.) To his credit, the physician took me seriously, requested my blood and ordered the test (you can test for West Nile with a simple blood test). My concern with West Nile is that 99% of the people in Egypt have the Immunoglobulin G (referred to “ImG”) in their bloodstreams, which means that 99% of the persons in the country of Egypt have been bitten by an infected mosquito and survived the disease with little or no symptoms. That is the good news. Most people do not even know they have been infected by the West Nile virus, and most have no significant symptoms from the bite. A very small percentage – in the range of 0.1% of the remaining 1% or less — does. They develop things like meningitis, encephalitis and polio (all very serious disorders) and some (a very small percentage of that already very small group – so, really, there is very very little chance of this) die. That’s the problem. And, I had three of the four high-risk factors for possibly having a bad case: male (yes, males get West Nile fever and complications more often than females), over 55 (I know I look younger – thanks), and hypertension (high blood pressure, genetic in my family and nicely controlled, but still a risk factor). The fourth is a compromised immune system (e.g. from immune suppression drugs after an organ transplant). I do not have this one, but I have the first three and one more that wasn’t in the Internet articles – I live in the bulls-eye of the worst outbreak of serious West Nile consequences and deaths in the world last year: north Dallas, Texas. I was worried. If you have an active case of West Nile, you test positive for something called Immunoglobulin M (in doctor lingo, “ImM”); if you’ve had the virus in the past, the ImM floats away and ImG takes its place (and I think you are inoculated and can never get the disease again, even if bitten again, which is a lucky thing for all those people in Egypt). The phone rang. “Yes,” I answered. “You have no ImM or ImG,” the nurse read, and added: “Stay away from mosquitoes.” Hurray, and I have.

But, not the tornadoes. They’ve been south of us, across the Czech and German farmlands of north Texas; and north of us, across the state of Oklahoma. Many have lost their homes and some have died – including, sadly, some elementary school children in a suburb south of Oklahoma City. I do not make light of the tornado’s spin and the devastating consequences of its path. It is difficult to write these words without stopping and wiping a tear. Our thoughts and our prayers reach to all those affected. Even with the best of our technology, the wild storms are not predictable. They churn the air and touch to ravage the ground, and those few who can’t avoid their march often suffer terrible consequences. And I sit and complain of allergic rhinitis. I do no more and will treat the symptoms and be thankful I can do that with minor discomfort and small loss of sleep. I blame the tornadoes. They have stirred the atmosphere, born high the dusts and pollens, and fanned those antigens hard at our respiratory systems. Still, I complain no more. These things will pass. As will their more serious effects. It is a small aphorism that time heals all things. I know this, but the healing for a wrecked home and a small child’s life leaves a grief I feel never leaves while we abide here in this life, nor should it. A friend, who had lost someone dear, once told me, after reading all the books on grief and after hearing friends tell him to stop grieving, his response became and is yet: “Thank you, but don’t tell me how to grieve or when to stop grieving — my grief is my own.” So it should be. I think the memories of loved ones lost and dear pasts held close should never really leave us, but stay to lend us strength and quicken our resolve to lend our hands to help others find their way from trouble’s grasp.

Thank you. This has helped. I feel better. And, I will continue to do what I love best while energy and pen lend their support. Stop by anytime, and thank you for caring.

Grandpa Jim

A Month of Tornadoes, Fire and Explosion: Granbury, Cleburne, Ennis and West, Texas

Last Wednesday night, May 15, 2013, we watched a line of storms on the TV weather radar. The colors grew from greens and yellows to reds and purples, darker and darker, as the bright lines twisted together in ever more complex patterns. Tension and worry grew in the meteorologist’s voice as he waved his hands at the front racing across the screen.

Then, the reports started coming in: Tornadoes were on the ground . . . in the small towns south of Dallas and Fort Worth . . . the rain was too dense . . . it was too dark to see what was happening . . . a tornado a mile wide was ripping Granbury . . . more funnels clouds were sighted approaching Cleburne . . . Ennis was on the path.

Some months ago, we drove through Granbury on the way to visit a niece down the road in a small college. Granbury is a pretty town built along a long lake formed from the Brazos River. On the way back, we changed our path to drive through Dinosaur Valley and then skirt the town of Cleburne, where a nephew who is a police officer lives with his young family. From there, we angled back up to Dallas, but farther ahead to the east is the village of Ennis, the rolling hills of the bluebonnets and the little kolache shop down by the interstate. These are the homelands of my wife and her family, the settling farms of the Czechs and Germans who till and love the land. Not far to the south is the hamlet of West where, on Wednesday, April 17, 2013, the local fertilizer plant ignited in a fireball and exploded with a force that devastated the small country community and was seen around the world.

Last Wednesday night, May 15, 2013, 16 tornadoes struck north of West and south of Dallas-Fort Worth. In the sister towns of Ennis, Cleburne and Granbury – with Granbury the hardest hit – six people lost their lives, more than a 100 were injured and 100 homes were destroyed.

In Granbury, Eddie Parsons, his wife Bobi and their three sons huddled beneath pillows and mattresses in two bathtubs as the winds raged and the deafening sounds assaulted the four-bedroom home. When they dared look out, nothing remained but the slab of the house and the two bathtubs. “God wrapped his arms around us here, just long enough,” Eddie’s voice cracked, as his eyes searched the concrete for their past life.

In the same neighborhood, Christy Russell, her husband Carlton and daughters Bryanna and Addison, surveyed the devastation that had left many around them homeless. They had been lucky. Their home had minimal damage. At the side of her mother, 11-year-old daughter Bryanna said simply, “Stuff can always be replaced.” Yesterday, on Sunday, the family went back. “We want to clean up our house so we can help others,” Mom said.

In less than a month, the farmlands and small towns south of Dallas and Forth Worth have suffered much. Stuff can be replaced. People cannot. We mourn their passing. Stuff can be replaced. It will be, and those no longer with us will be remembered. There is great strength in the rolling hills and soft plains of these lands. There is greater strength in the quiet hands and strong hearts of the townspeople and farmers who will help each other rebuild the homes and remember their dead.

Grandpa Jim