Cooking justice

They’ve found another alleged Nazi war criminal—a 93-year-old German man who’s number four on the Simon Wiesenthal list of most-wanted. The charge is that he was a guard at Auschwitz.

Hans Lipschis, who actually lived in the US until we deported him in 1983 for concealing his Nazi background, says yes, he was in the Waffen SS at the extermination camp, but he was just a cook.

Well, Steven Segal was “just a cook” in Under Siege. We all know how that turned out. I think the "just a cook" defense is in the same category as "only following orders."

That aside, I’m kind of disturbed that there are apparently another 49 old men who are known to have been guards at Auschwitz. What the hell does it take to bring these people to justice?

Gratitude Monday: Natural wonders

Last week was one of those that makes me just want to stamp my feet & toss my toys out of the pram. Well—not at the same time, of course, because if I were in a pram it would be hard to stamp my feet to any good effect. Also—it would have to be a pretty big pram. Um.

Whatever. It was really…not my finest hour.

And I was still scuffing my metaphoric toe in the dirt andpouting this morning, so I hauled my cranky, ungrateful ass out to the Stevens Creek Reservoir to stomp around in nature. It makes a nice change from the gym, or even the paved Stevens Creek Trail.

So imagine how chuffed I was to be graced by coming across more wildlife than I’ve ever seen there: two bunnies hopping right across my path (at different times), a hummingbird, a robin, a California blue jay, a deer (first ever I've seen in this area), a raptor bird and some sort of large-ish, sleek water-type bird (perched on a tree limb).

With each sighting I felt better and lighter.

So—huge shout-out for whoever sent those critters my way. I take your point.

Decoding the past

An interesting WWII story—letters sent by a British POW in Germany back to his family actually contained intricately coded messages that no one has understood for about 70 years. The letters passed German censors, were read by British authorities and then sent to his family, who didn’t know anything about the hidden information.

Sub-Lieutenant John Pryor was taken prisoner at Dunkirk and spent the rest of the war at Marlag und Milag Nord camp, where he wrote the letters. Following the war he pursued his career in the Royal Navy. By the time he got round to writing his memoirs he couldn’t recall how the code worked. It wasn’t until his son, an academic, turned it over to a Ph.D. student specializing in PoW escape plans, who collaborated with mathematicians, historians and geographers, that it was finally deciphered.

Here are a couple of the things that strike me about this story:

Pryor spent five years in Marlag/Milag. He was 21 when he was taken prisoner. I cannot imagine what that kind of confinement at that age must do to a man. According to Wikipedia, the camp housed (give or take) 5000 men; it had a library of 3000 books. Up until I downsized a couple of years ago I had a library of 3500 books. My mind boggles.

Yet following liberation he returned to the RN, raised a family and led what we might think of as an ordinary life (if there be such a thing). He died in 2010, aged 91.

And that’s the other thing that I can’t shake: So many of the men who fought that war endured terrible conditions, did terrible things and must have had terrible memories. Yet, like Pryor, they came home, largely packed those memories away in an attic (literal or metaphorical) and got on with their lives. They neither boasted nor whined.

So I’m really glad that Stephen Pryor found someone who could uncover part of his father’s history, and that the world knows a little bit more about his life.

Phenomenal women

I love this story, from NPR’s Ofeibea Quist-Arcton: a Nigerian woman on a mission has founded a program to train other women to be first-rate auto mechanics.

Yes, we’re talking the No. 1 Lady Mechanic Initiative. (Apologies to Mma Precious Ramotswe.)

What I particularly like is the quote from a 2009 graduate, Faith Macwen, who’s now working for what must be a sought-after auto company: When male colleagues put her down, she says, “But we made them realize—I made them realize—we can do it.”

It’s the fact that she changed the first-person pronoun from plural to single that drives the point home. She’s fully aware of her own achievement.

You go, girls!

Bells on the battlements

I wouldn’t ordinarily comment on a state visit by a foreign head of state to Britain, but this time I have A Connection. My friend Marcia was part of the band who rang the bells in the tower of Windsor Castle to as Queen Elizabeth II welcomed Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan.

It’s interesting to me that HM is probably investing more money in horseflesh than in the bells of the royal residence. Marcia told me that the bells were on a long draught (distance between the ringing chamber floor & the ceiling), & the longer the draught, the trickier the ringing, since there’s more room for the rope to swing about.

Also, the ringing chamber could do with some guides & better lighting. & it had bare boards & no carpet; they put down rubber mats & small carpet squares for the ringers.

(Why does this image come to me of Scrooge stopping Bob Cratchit from putting another lump of coal on the fire? “Poke it, man; poke it!”)

At any rate, the Brits do know how to put on a show. Here’s a clip from The Telegraph—fragmentary, but still, you get the drift:

Two comments on this whole thing. There were military bands & carriages & flags & limos & squadron after squadron of mounted troops. That must have cost someone a few bob. But the ringers got paid £4 each for supporting their country at an official royal residence on a state occasion. I think they typically get paid around £20 or so when they ring for weddings. & I’m not sure whether £4 even buys you a pint of bitter down the pub.

I really like the final frames of the video—focusing on the very attractive butts of both the horses & their riders.

Damn.

Not so cruel after all

It was a blast getting through April, National Poetry Month. I shared 31 poets in 30 days, and every one of them brought out something from deep within me. Some thoughts from the month:

Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman” practically sings itself. In the very rhythm and the vibrant images, you see a woman striding into the place, just taking charge and enjoying the hell out of it.

I keep finding myself sneaking back to archy—I can’t get enough of that cockroach. Honestly, between him and mehitabel, who needs cable TV?

My visceral response to “Ulysses” really disturbed me. I’m thinking about that one. Poetry’s meant to provoke emotion, I know; but even so…

I realized who Ozymandias reminds me of: Larry Ellison. Am I right, or am I right?

There are some poems that you have to hear to understand, and some that you have to see. Some poets distill the big ideas into just a few syllables; others give us lush word dreams. Poetry is a broad tent that way.

Some poems get you laughing because they’re purposely silly, like “Jabberwocky” and “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”. And then there’s “Pied Beauty”—which just makes you smile for joy.

You can see terrible things through poetry—a concentration camp, a gas attack, hell itself.And you can aspire to great things.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled blog. Don't you dare touch the remote.

Fear & loathing on the high desert

I was talking with my sister yesterday and what she told me made my blood run cold.

She’s taking a ceramics class, and she made a ferret.

Then she told me that she made a prairie dog, but didn’t hollow it out properly, so, “My prairie dog blew up in the kiln.”

Well, you don’t hear that sentence very often, do you?

But that’s not what scared me. It was the notion that she’s even in a ceramics class. Back when she lived in the Springs, she used to spend time at this place called Kiln Time (or maybe it was Killin’, I can’t remember; but it was something sickeningly cutesy).

And she made stuff.

And she sent it to me.

I can’t recall all of them, but I do recall a bunch of ovoid things that were painted like Easter eggs, and little chickens.

And here’s my fear: that some time in the foreseeable future, I’m going to find a UPS package on my doorstep, and there will be a ceramic prairie dog in it.

Or a ferret.

The cruelest month: Quaint honour turn to dust

My final National Poetry Month poem is Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress”.

You know, when you’re in high school, you think reading a 300-year-old poem about a guy trying to get into his girlfriend’s knickers (if they had knickers back then) is pretty racy. (Or you did when I was in HS; maybe now you’d have to catch them in kindergarten.)

But some years on, I read this differently: Marvell is reminding us that life is short, and when you get to the end of it what you’ll regret is more likely going to be what you didn’t do than what you did.

Every step of the way we have choices. Take this turn or that? Order your usual latte or try something potentially icky with soy in its name? Shake his hand or give him a bit of a snog? Little black dress or multicolored silk with handkerchief hems? Callas or Tupac? Bus or Tube?

(In each of these instances, there’s a third option: do neither, which—when I think of it—is heartbreaking.)

When Marvell urges his mistress to become with him “am’rous birds of prey” and tear pleasures with rough strife, he’s advising us to rip the hell out of life, in much the same way Tennyson did when he had Ulysses say, “I will drink life to the lees”. One view from the young man, another from the old.

I wish I’d paid more attention to them both.

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day;

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the Flood;

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow.

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

        But at my back I always hear

Time's winged chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long preserv'd virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust.

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none I think do there embrace.

        Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may;

And now, like am'rous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.

Let us roll all our strength, and all

Our sweetness, up into one ball;

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

That’s it for poetry month. I’ve really enjoyed reacquainting myself with the 31 poets (remember, I started with two at the beginning). I so need poetry in my life.

Don’t we all?

Gratitude Monday: Consistent, not complacent

I’ve been doing a lot of exercise since around December. Either at the gym or—now that the daylight starts earlier—out on local trails. Nothing complicated—walking, mostly, with a bit of a trot thrown in if my knees give me permission.

I’ve noticed that I feel better in general, not only from the exercise, but also because I’m actually doing it. & for that latter blessing, I have Penelope Thompson to thank.

Penelope was my personal trainer when I was going through a fitness program at a health club in Seattle. She & the program were among the very few worthwhile things from my stay there. She was the perfect trainer—understanding my starting point, & blocking out a steady path to my goal. I met with her three times per week for 12 weeks, & then twice a week for 12 weeks. I got to know & hate & then love the stepmill; ditto the BOSU ball. She had me doing about six kinds of crunches & working my way through a phalanx of futuristic machines.

She kept me interested, encouraged me, praised me & prodded me. She kept me from being crabby; & let me say this: I can crab for Cal. She was perfect.

So when I started thinking about getting back in shape after the past three years of crap, I harkened back to Penelope. I’m walking—although I do it at a good clip: 4.9 mph straight walking on the treadmill; 5.2 mph average when I layer in the trot. & I walk between a 13-minute & 14-minute mile when out on the trails.

Here’s the key for me, which Penelope taught me: I’m consistent, but not complacent. Getting out & starting it each morning is about 70% of the accomplishment; once I’m out, I’ll finish, 40-60 minutes. I began with about 30 minutes per day in December, so I’ve progressed. When my knees allow, each day I trot for a couple of minutes more than the day before. I pay attention. & for me, that’s huge.

So as I clock off another weight milestone and enjoying getting back into some of my clothes, I’m thinking a lot about Penelope. ¡Muchas gracias, mi hija!

The cruelest month: Puddle-wonderful

I can’t let a National Poetry Month go past without an entry from e.e. cummings. Last year my Poem in Your Pocket Day poem was “plato told”, which is probably my all-time cummings favorite. But this time I’ll give you “in Just”.

There’s something about the balloonman whistling far & wee that makes me smile. I once bought a watercolor from an artist because it was of a balloon man & it reminded me of the poem. I sent the painter the poem, too.

The thing about cummings is that you have to look at his poems, you can't just listen to them. The structure is as important as the words. (Take that, French professor!)

in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far          and             wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles

far

and

wee