Yesterday was my wife’s mother’s 83^rd 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.

“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.

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.

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

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

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

Words are held

Close by each

,

With different

Meanings fraught.

Don’t you love it?

In its way

It’s poetry

Or just verse

In the lines.

Not loud

Like a computer turning on

In the night

But soft

Like rustling wind in the trees

Through the glass.

Which can be loud

But even then

Not so

That when it wakes

It would hurt

to hear.

I tried writing a Rondeau (pronounced “ron dOe”).

The Rondeau is a form of French poetry. In its classical 16^th century form, a Rondeau is composed of 15 lines with only two rhymes (represented by “a” and “b”) in three stanzas (stanza breaks are represented by a dash or “-“) and a refrain (represented by “R”) at the end of the second and third stanzas, with the refrain also being the opening phrase of the poem. In poetry lingo, you write this scheme as follows: aabba-aabR-aabbaR.

The reason I found the Rondeau and wrote one of my own is that I remembered one of my favorite poems from grade school and looked it up on the Internet. Lo and behold, it was and is a Rondeau. It’s hard for a poem to change its stripes.

The poem is “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae. Here it is. See if you can find the Rondeau.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Do you see it? The rhyme scheme is: aabba-aabR-aabbaR (blow, row, sky, fly, below – ago, glow, lie [In Flanders fields] – foe, throw, high, die, grow [In Flanders fields]).

In this poem, each line (except for the refrain) is eight syllables long, divided into two-syllable groupings, with the accent on the second syllable. For example, the line “If ye break faith with us who die” can be written as follows to show the two-syllable groupings, each separated by a forward slash (/), and the accents shown with an apostrophe (‘): “If ye’ / break faith’ / with us’ / who die.’”

The syllable grouping of a line is the “foot” or imprint or stride or cadence of the line – you can see and hear someone walking or skipping with that beat. A two-syllable grouping with the accent on the second syllable is referred to as an “iamb” or “iambic” foot (this was Shakespeare’s favorite syllable grouping and it is the beat of the human heart, “ta Dum”).

The number of feet in a line is the meter of the line. A line with four feet is a tetrameter (“tetra” is the Greek prefix for the number “4”). So, each line “In Flanders Fields” is a line of iambic tetrameter, which is a fancy way of saying “eight syllables long, broken into groupings of two, with the accent on the second syllable.”

There you have it. Now, you are ready to write your own poem in lines of iambic tetrameter. And, if you follow the  scheme of “In Flanders Fields,” you will have written a Rondeau.

If you like, and are so inclined, try lines of iambic pentameter (with “penta” for “5” in Greek), which means lines of ten syllables, in groupings of two, with the accent on the second syllable. Iambic pentameter was Shakespeare’s favorite, and here’s a good example from his Sonnet 12 that tells us the hour:

“When I do count the clock that tells the time”

“When I’ / do count’ / the clock’ / that tells’ / the time’”

It is too late the clock does show to me.

So back to bed and wait the dawn to see.

And in your sleep so let your mind rhyme free.

To wake and find the poet you can be.

Fun dreams,

Grandpa Jim

This is not your normal parade and these are not your normal cars.

What is an “art car?”

First, it must be a car, something with wheels that moves down a street. Most have motors, but this may be optional.

Second, it must be art. As is said, art is in the eye of the beholder. In the case of the art car, it is in the eye of the molder or owner of the car. Many cars are too old for ready car duty, but too dear for their owners to let them depart. So, they are transformed into something of memory, figment, fantasy, the nostalgic, even the apprehensive, and in it all there is at work the wildly vivid imagination of the cartist transforming his or her old mobile into something beyond time, age, space and street.

You must decide for yourself.

We did this last Saturday as we wandered Allen Parkway in Houston, Texas, wide-eyed and wondering at the lined art cars waiting to begin their march to memory in the 26th Annual Houston Art Car Parade.

Let me start with what I consider the classic art car. Here are three examples of “Glue at Work.” You’ve got a car, stick something on it. That’s art.

Another of my classic art car looks is the “Glue and Glitter.” Here is one that has been around for years. As with most art cars – at first glance – you’re never sure what it is.

Not all art cars are molded. Some are painted. Please observe the following, which I call, in order, hopefully: “Teeth for Two,” “I Can Paint,” “Hip, Hip, Hooray for Hippies Too” (this is two shots of the hood and door), and “Where Did I Put That Planet?”

“Terry the Pterodactyl” reminded us of our visit to the Natural History Museum:

And, of course, there’s always an Edsel. This was actually redesigned as an art car earth mover, of sorts; but don’t be hood-winked, it’s still an Edsel. You can disguise it, but you can’t hide it.

Simply stated, strawberries are best:

Birds of a Feather, Flock Together – here under the watchful eye of the Bird Master:

And, what’s a home or car without a Nome or two?

Around this one, the crowd was deep and the laughs loud. The bass and claw-fish were well articulated and moved to the orchestrated notes of classical and other more raucous tunes from the dock of the bay to down on the bayou. What will they think of next?

There you have it, a sampling at best. I bet you get the picture and wish you could have been there. Sometimes a picture is worth a 1,000 words. For these cars, sometimes more.

Take a stroll down the street and if you’re quick and look up quickly you may just spy

A bird bath on wheels, a musical mongoose or grandma’s pies glued on high.

It’s not every day or at every corner that you can wave and see

An artsy car rolling down the street dressed as a bee

Or glittering in rhinestones like Liberace,

But there it may just be

For you to see.

Wow, gee.

Grandpa Jim

“Are we in Anaheim?” I asked.

“Anaheim who?” the driver answered.

“Anaheim, California,” I mused, “because that sure looks like Sleeping Beauty’s Castle at Disneyland.”

With that, the driver, my classmate, drove over the lowered drawbridge, through the open gate and into the courtyard of Neuschwanstein Castle.

“Ta Da!” my student acquaintance announced. “We have arrived at the global symbol of the era of Romanticism, commissioned and built — at exorbitant personal expense, I might add — by none other than King Ludwig II of Bavaria!”

“Do you think he’ll be mad?” I asked naively.

“Some think he may have been. Sadly, he only lived in his fairy-tale retreat for 172 days before his body was found floating mysteriously in a nearby lake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Many are. But the House of Ludwig continues in this magnificent structure. We must tour it.”

“Why are those military types running this way with guns in their hands,” I asked with heightening concern.

“Oh, right, driving is not permitted. I saw the sign back beyond the turn.  You were sleeping.”

“And you drove on?”

“Of course, this is a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I was hoping to continue my lifetime beyond this experience.”

“Tut, tut, my sleepy student friend. I am sure art will triumph over folly.”

And somehow it did. We weren’t arrested. In my memory, my jovial student archive of arcana, with his erudite knowledge of the premises, won us a private showing of the nooks and crannies of Ludwig’s aviary.

It was a once in a lifetime experience.

I’m still continuing mine and had forgotten that particular experience. Then, the email arrived with the picture of Neuschwanstein. A young friend of ours was visiting, and she sent us a shot from her cell phone of the white limestone structure rising high into the skies.

The article on the Internet says construction began in 1868, the topping out ceremony was in 1880, the King moved into the unfinished castle in1884, his mother visited in 1885, and by 1886 the external structure was mostly finished, but not all.

On June 13, 1886, King Ludwig was found, head down, arms extended, shoulders floating above the shallow near-shore waters of Lake Starnberg.

The King’s watch stopped at 6:54 pm.

No one knew or knows what happened.

* * *

Neuschwanstein means the “New Swan Stone Castle.”

A swan floating in the waters, King Ludwig died beneath the ramparts of the house of stone he spent so long to build and lived to enjoy for such a brief time.

The castle lives on and invites its friend to visit. Since it opened to the public on August 1, 1886, only 49 days after the Swan King left us, over 50 million visitors have passed beneath its portals and wondered at its beauty and meaning.

Some say he was mad — King Ludwig.

What he left behind is not the dream of a madman.

It is a vision of another and better place, one reaching to the heavens and freed of earthly bounds.

We hope King Ludwig has reached that palace he sought so long and built to share. Our wish is that the monarch may find it complete, to wander at peace through the spacious hallways and around the soaring turrets, admiring the view beyond and now within his reach.

Beauty is often the product of a kind and determined mind.

Thank you, friend, for allowing us to visit.

Rest well,

Grandpa Jim

140 million miles by the 2030’s: That’s the word on the street and in the papers. Governments and corporations are focused on that date to reach the Red Planet and establish the first Martian Colony.

In the early 2030’s, the orbits of Earth and Mars will approach a near point.

You may recall the wealthy Dennis Tito, who paid $20 million in 2001 to hop a Russian rocket to the International Space Station. Dennis is advertising for a nice young couple to do a Mars flyby in 2018 – all expenses paid, of course. This would apparently be a test run to check out the equipment and get a close-up view of available home sites for a permanent move round about 2030.

Acknowledging the logistical difficulties in coordinating a move to the 4^th planet’s suburban neighborhoods, NASA Administrator Charles Bolden recently stated: “We’re developing today the technologies needed to send humans to Mars in the 2030s.”

The Dutch group Mars One is out in front of those NASA types and is asking for money to be mailed to the non-profit organization to fund a landing in the 2020’s. Mars One already has simulated pictures of a nice little colony, with small white homey motel units connected by tubes, and a space-suited parent walking to the Mars rover parked out front to begin the morning commute to work.

The colony resembles the one my nephew visited to work on Mars in Utah just a few weeks ago. They have Mars set up there . . . in the painted desert . . . way out there between the isolated mesa’s — row-on-row, while in the sky the far-off sun still bravely shines. Water is scarce and the whole place has the look and feel of an other-worldly planetary adventure. It is, of course, a simulated Mars, not the real thing, and its purpose is to prepare young engineers and their friends for a flight to the real thing.

Whereas mine was the Sputnik generation with heads turned up at night scanning the nearer skies for the streaks of satellite flashes, these new engineers, scientists, explorers and colonists are the SpaceShip generation waiting to board and head out “to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilization, to boldly go where where no man or woman has gone before.” Star Trek is upon us. Let the flight begin.

Never wonder that wonders never cease.

Turn on the computer and book a personal space.

The heavens have always been out there, but they have never been so close.

They are waiting and the Red Planet is beckoning.

For you to board and reach for the stars.

Safe travels,

and

don’t

forget to

send a postcard.

You know we’ll be waiting,

Grandpa Jim

Brother Charles informed us that he was pulling the radishes in his garden. This was three weeks ago. I was amazed. In early April, the rich farmlands of central Texas had already begun to yield their bounty.

We had driven into the front lot of Uncle Joe’s farm, and Charles was headin’ to his pickup. As we unloaded, he stopped and stood and talked with us and shared his tale of radishes.

In the country, you stop to talk. It’s the thing to do. Sometimes, it can be a while before you make it to the front door. It’s not just Garrison Keillor and tales from Lake Woebegone. I hail from the Midwest, and the stand-and-talk was there. It’s here along the gravel roads of the Lone Star State. I bet you it’s ‘bout everywhere ‘round the world where there’s country and folks workin’ the land — ‘cause that’s the way it is in the country. You betcha’ and pass the biscuits.

As the stop-and-talk progressed, my mind wandered out over the newly planted fields and I wondered about the radish.

The radish is an edible root vegetable:

A fruit you are not, round red radish knot

Vegetable you be, a delight to see.

Not always round and red, some of my favorite childhood radishes were long and white. They were in Grandma Sally’s garden. She could grow anything, and many things she did grow quite well indeed, behind the little house in the city. Her entire backyard, down to the crick and almost reaching the lot lines on each side, was garden. Sally was from the country. In the country, you didn’t just grow grass. You grew real stuff you could eat. You grew food.

“Them city folks got no sense,” she’d say in my mind.

“What ya’ need a lawn of green to walk on?

When a garden of greens you can munch on.”

That lady had a way with words and with plants, and she was right on.

There was always something to eat when I stopped by to mow the front lawn. Grandpa wouldn’t let her garden the front. Can’t have the neighbors talking now. Can we?

No one knows for sure when the radish was first established as a domestic foodstuff. It was well-established as a back-yard crop with the early Greeks and Romans. Little seed packets with the hand-drawn pictures on front were likely being traded over the back fence, say some 2,300 years ago. They still are today.

Wild forms of Rambunctious Radish can be found in west Asia and Europe, along with its near relatives, Mr. Mustard and Topsy Turnip.

The Greeks called the little fella’ “raphanus,” which  means “quickly appearing.” It certainly is that to this day, as Brother Charles can and did so well attest to us just the other day.

The name “radish” derives from the Latin word “radix,” which means simply “root.”

The root of the word is the root itself

With pun intended and fun extended.

So, linguistically speaking, the Greeks and Romans had a hand in its upbringing. It is from those tongue-tied origins, that we surmise the beginnings of back-yard bounty. The truth is that no one knows for sure when the first grandma planted the first new seed and handed that first washed and cleaned little root to her grandson for a nibble.

Thank you, Grandma Sally, I still look forward to greeting that rambunctious little fella’ and welcome its early arrival down at the farm.

Thank you, Charles, for stopping for a talk.

We gotta’ get a goin’ now.

On, into the house.

You betcha’

Grandpa Jim