10,000 Steps (and Photos?)

Jane magnolias in glorious bloom on the FTCC campus (March 13)

Almost three months have passed since I last posted here–by far the longest dry spell since I started writing in 2016. Not accidentally, this hiatus coincides with my newly rediscovered passion for fitness. Last May, my family doctor told me that at 6.6%, my hemoglobin A1c level had crossed the threshold for diabetes–but that I could reverse the diagnosis through diet and exercise. She sent me to a nutritionist, whose dietary advice I have followed meticulously for over 9 months, and by November, my labs were mostly on the normal range. In January, the Apple Watch inspired me to start walking. I also joined the YMCA and signed up for an aerobics class at school (instructors can take one free class each semester). To date, I have lost 136 pounds, built some heretofore untried muscles, and begun slowly building a new wardrobe. Continue reading

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“They Shall Not Grow Old”: See it if you can!

For the Fallen
By Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain. Continue reading

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Fruition: 2018

As I began to ponder the year soon coming to a close, it seemed necessary and fitting that I end the longest hiatus of my blog-writing career with a brief narration of the project–now complete–that has consumed my life for the last four years. During that time, I have focused much of my attention on the effort to commemorate, both personally and professionally, the centenary of World War I. Not coincidentally, I last posted here on November 11, one hundred years after the Armistice ending the ghastly war that gave us the map, the context, and even the vocabulary by which we still understand the ensuing century. As that project came to its logical conclusion during those frenzied days of early November, I realized that I could take the time to breathe, to collect my energies, and to move onto as-yet undetermined paths. So today, I am taking the opportunity to review this project as it came to fruition in 2018–focusing primarily on the last few events that provided me with a sense of fulfillment like no other. Continue reading

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The Mother of Beauty: World War I in Word, Image, and Song

Published below is the text of a talk I will give tomorrow to commemorate the Armistice centenary as part of a series of events entitled “FTCC Remember World War I: 1914-1918.”

“Death is the mother of beauty,” wrote Wallace Stevens, one of the few poets of the Lost Generation who did not actually serve in World War I. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, —that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,” wrote John Keats 100 years earlier. These twin ideas are a premise—and a promise—I have had ample opportunities to test over the last three years in my preparations for this very moment. And now we gathered here in this auditorium have another such opportunity: This bugle, so hauntingly played by FTCC student Mynia Hughes, served in the trenches of World War I. Its dents—the scars of battle—cause it to be slightly and poignantly out of tune. Yes, the plaintive notes of “Taps” on that bugle are beautiful to me. So are the poppies whose red splendor inspired Major John McCrae to write the famous “In Flanders Fields” a mere thousand days before he died of pneumonia and meningitis while serving at a Canadian field hospital in France. The poor soil of Flanders was richly fertilized by the nitrogen from explosives, the lime from demolished buildings, and the blood and bones of soldiers who gave their lives there, creating a blanket of scarlet over no-man’s land.  Continue reading

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One Doomed Youth–and 17 Million More

From July to November 1917, Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was a shell-shocked second lieutenant in the Manchester Regiment, under the care of W. H. R. Rivers at Craiglockhart War Hospital. There, he became close friends with Siegfried Sassoon, who became his poetic mentor and helped him revise the following poem, one of his most memorable: Continue reading

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Sloganeering: Fake Language Is the Problem–Not Fake News

Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford (courtesy of Shutterstock, 2018)

I have not posted anything on my blog since September 21–over a month ago, my longest dry spell since I began it in May of 2016. Significantly, this hiatus coincides quite neatly with the weeks that have elapsed since the political circus that began on September 27, when Christine Blasey Ford made a public accusation of being sexually assaulted 36 years ago, and ended on October  6, when Brett Michael Kavanaugh was sworn in as the 114th Associate Justice of the United Stated Supreme Court. This coincidence is not accident; in fact, I began and made a few notes for the current post as early as October 5. I suppose I should reveal now that I had even collected plenty of evidence of the point I wanted to make. Unfortunately, it was all on one side–the one I have considered the wrong side for the last 45 years. So I kept looking for more–in vain. Continue reading

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Grammar, Meet God

Michelangelo, “The Creation of Adam” (1508-1512)

Although I care deeply about language and am passionately interested in its origins and characteristics, I have no claims as a linguist. Therefore, what follows comes more from my heart than my head–mostly emotion tempered with a bit of knowledge cobbled together from lifelong interest, a graduate-school class on modern English grammar, and a few quick searches on Google. And I suppose it includes a smattering of faith as well.

Let’s start with nouns. No matter what our level of linguistic expertise, we all have a strong sense of what it is to be a noun. We learned in the third grade that a noun is the name of a person, place, or thing. Then we expanded our understanding of “thing” to include abstract ideas like . . . well, interest and grammar and faith, and even metaphors like heart and head. And we pretty instinctively know how nouns behave, so we are willing to accept the existence of gerunds and infinitives–i.e., that verb forms can actually act in a sentences as nouns. Linguistically, a noun can be the subject of a verb, the object of a verb, or the object of a preposition. Syntactically (in English), nouns can occur with definite and indefinite articles and with adjectives. Continue reading

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My Brief Encounter with Erney Krongard

Despite the apparent obscurity of this World War I-era postcard, the charm of its rough sketch of doughboys at the front and the accompanying doggerel prompted me to buy it from eBay along with others more charming still–and of much more historical interest. However, I was even more enchanted by the cryptic message on the reverse:  Continue reading

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Nothing’s Fair

For more than two years, I have been immersed in a project designed to commemorate the centenary of World War I in my freshman composition classes and–this November–across the campus of the community college where I teach. I have already chronicled some results of this venture elsewhere on the blog, so I won’t repeat them here; if you’re interested, you can find the previous posts by typing “World War I” into the search field on the right. However, I will return briefly to the most precious gift I have received during the entire two years–the ability to experience firsthand the horrors of life and death on the Western Front through the books I have read. They have been mostly novels, some written soon after the war by veterans or their contemporaries, an equal number of more recent vintage. Continue reading

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Saying Goodbye to Maggie

Maggie the Waif

On November 1, 2016, a calico cat now known as Kedi (after the movie) gave birth to four kittens. By the beginning of December, even though the calendar had not officially passed the winter solstice, the weather was cold, and she found shelter for her brood in a broken-down Mazda Miata convertible missing its plastic rear window. My husband Pavel, the owner of the car, had become a crazy cat lady soon after we adopted our first cat, Eppie, in 2010. So when he found this family in his car, he brought them inside and put them in a spare room sequestered from our other cats. They were all sniffling and snorting and coughing, so he took them to a veterinarian, who helped them recover. The kittens were three males in tuxedos and a ginger female, who became Maggie. As kittens do, they soon won our hearts. Continue reading

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