Roscoe and Charlotte

Sand Cave and White Rocks

Rachel was determined that we would make the hike, so we did. It took me several days to
recover from the soreness in my hips and legs.

Some flowers

How about a red trillium? We may have brought these back from North Carolina.

Or some blooms on the redbud trees? We have an abundance of redbuds. Pia loved the leaves.

Globe flowers we transplanted from Grandma's old property in Keokee.


















Or the fragrant lilac, which always reminds me of Grandma, whose birthday is today. Ten years ago I brought lilacs to her hospital room where she was recovering from cancer surgery. We've been blessed.

Mom

When we were kids, Mom used to smoke Benson and Hedges 100's. Every day a fog bank of smoke hung in the house, from  knee to shoulder height. I gave her a hard time about smoking.  One time she had quit, but then a few weeks later one night I saw her standing in the back yard. I looked out the glass door and could see the orange glow of a cigarette. To mess with her, I went out there, and she tossed the cigarette, stamped her feet and made a fuss. But I saw a neon trail of light arc over the fence and back down on the other side. Mom used to insist that she wasn't a true smoker because "I only smoke them half." She did finally quit for good back in the 80's.

I get my interest in art from Mom. She first joined the Garden Club when we moved to Bay St. Louis in 1967. She made flower arrangements that kicked ass in most every competition, due to her flair for elegance and simplicity. She complained that her friends copied her style. Mom's first venture out of the house was to volunteer to help Brother Hilbert at St. Stanislaus in his art classes. The fads of string art and macrame were passing, just in time for ceramics and decoupage. Mom brought home an assortment of ceramic molds, and I'd help her pour the liquid clay, let them dry, then we would remove the big rubber bands to reveal the soft uncooked ceramic Nativity sets or frogs. Mom developed a specialty painting Nativity sets.

Mom also loved plants and flowers. She and dad built rock gardens around the house--another fashion of the late 60's. They dug up the sod, laid down plastic sheeting, poured a layer of gravel, and then amidst all that they planted cactus and other desert succulents like yuccas. The cactus were horrible, but the yuccas were the worst. These were stiff, sharp, badass yuccas that would pop a basketball like it was a balloon. They were so horrible that the meanest bully on our block didn't have the heart to shove you into a yucca, although he was not above making the threat.

Mom moved on to African violets and during my middle school years she had them all over the house, under fluorescent lights Dad hung for her. The Sea Coast Echo once interviewed her about African violets and Mom insisted that they were not hard to grow. Then when Dad built the house in Waveland in the early 80's, he built Mom a greenhouse. She wanted a small greenhouse, but Dad found a deal on a massive commercial greenhouse, way too big for them. For a while they raised and sold hanging baskets of bougainvilleas, for $10 each.

Mom used to tell funny stories about losing each of us in our early childhoods, which were funny back in the day, but over the years became kind of alarming, in retrospect. For instance, when I was 4 or 5, I used to run away from our house in Biloxi, to the end of our subdivision a couple blocks away, through a small patch of woods to the grounds of the Biloxi VA Center. I'd crawl under the fence and go explore the grounds, which I remember because they reminded me of Germany. Mom also told the story of how my Dad came home for lunch, when he was still at the Air Force Base. He had stopped at McDonalds' for a bag of burgers and fries, and said he could have sworn that my 3 year old brother James was there, eating lunch with some black men. Mom said it was impossible because James was in the back yard playing, but sure enough he wasn't there. Shortly the men brought him back and resumed road work on our street. James had climbed the fence and walked up to strike up a conversation. And then Mom also told a story from when we first moved to Bay St. Louis, and we lived on DeMontluzin St. in a rented house for a few months. Mom got a call from the A&P supermarket a few blocks away, that my three year old sister Karen had walked up there naked. I don't think she lost Keith that I can recall. Just the rest of us, me at least three times, James twice, and Karen once. Although Keith, for his part, was a rough and tumble child who was always out getting himself hurt and had to be run to the emergency room more than the rest of us put together.

Mom's cooking varied from delicious to horrible. Mom made some classic German dishes every now and then, like when her brother was coming to town, or when she had our friend Father Gasper over for dinner. Mom made a delicious rouladen with red cabbage and kartoffel cloese. She made delicious German hard rolls called bruchen every so often. She made what she called German pancakes, which were crepes. She made a delicious streusel kuchen. She made a pound cake so good that my life long dream is to have another one as good. Mom prided herself on her brown gravy, and she quoted others praising it, which indeed was always delicious. Likewise, her turkey dressing was really the gold standard. But she struggled the most with local staples like red beans and rice, which neither she nor Dad grew up with. Dad made her put ground meat in it, which kind of ruined it. It was truly disgusting. Better were some staples of Dad's long life in the military, like chipped beef on toast.

Mom always wanted to go back to Germany but never had the chance. Sometimes I think about how hard it must have been to leave one's home country and family behind at the age of 33, never to return. Mom blamed Dad for never making a way for her to visit home. She said he could have gotten her a free or low cost plane ride home through the military, but he never did it. To her last days it never took much prompting to get her to go back into her resentments over this issue.

Dad was always a frustrated would-be farmer, but Mom resisted his desire to move out to the country, fearing isolation. Dad tried to raise farm animals anyway, including at various times quail, goats, bees, geese, ducks, mourning doves, pheasants, rabbits, bantam chickens, and homing pigeons. Dad would quickly lose interest in his new animal husbandry hobbies, leaving Mom to feed and clean up after the animals. For a spell they had big salt water aquariums, which took a lot of work and expense to keep up. Mom would complain about having to do all the maintenance once Dad lost interest, but couldn't allow the animals or fish to suffer, so she did what had to be done.

Mom started working, over Dad's objection, when my youngest brother Keith started school, when I was 10. She got a job as secretary at Our Lady of the Gulf Elementary school, where she worked for the next 11 years, surviving almost a principal per year. She was forced out of that job finally by a principal with whom she'd had a falling out. So she went to work for the public middle school, and I remember hearing grumblings that some considered her a busybody. She ended up as a teacher's aide at the Waveland Elementary School, and then she took a second job at Wal-Mart. So, into her mid-60's Mom is working two jobs. Why? Who even knows? She liked having her own money and she liked being busy.

This workaholic stretch came to an abrupt end in 1994, when she got into a car wreck two blocks from the house. She had just dropped off Rachel, whom she'd had get her ears pierced at Wal-Mart, and she brought her over to Dad's on her break. A few minutes after she dropped off Rachel, here comes Dad pulling up into our yard in his Ford Taurus station wagon, carrying Rachel to the door, saying some guy told him Mom was in a wreck. I look up and traffic was stopped all the way past our apartment. Up the road I see her red Cavalier knocked over in the ditch, blue and red lights flashing.  I took off running up the street. Mom was sitting in her driver's seat, a paramedic was holding a bloody towel to her face. She had hit the windshield with some force. A piece of her scalp the size of a quarter was embedded in the shattered glass. Mom was conscious, talking in a childlike tone, not sure what happened or what she had done. I spoke reassuringly to her, rode in the ambulance with her. They cleaned out her wound, stitched her up, took x-rays. They didn't check then, but she also broke her wrist. It took her a while to recover. Mom quit her job at Wal-Mart after that; it was just too much. I also think the head injury took a toll, because after that it seemed she got more paranoid, more emotional, harder to deal with.

Mom was a shopper. Up until her car wreck, she could walk your legs off in a mall. As a kid I dreaded any trip to the mall with Mom, up until the age where I realized I could go off and do my thing and check back with her at a certain time. In her later years, she developed a fondness for the home shopping TV networks that exploit older people for their time and money. She was constantly ordering things she didn't need, and trying to give you things you didn't want.

Mom had a taste for gambling. In the old days she used to play bingo. She kept two or three of those blotter pens in her purse with which she marked her paper cards. I went with her a time or two, and bingo was clearly a favored ritual of some of the Catholic ladies, who would pull St. Joseph's Day beans out of their purses as good luck charms. A thick pall of cigarette smoke would hang in the air and would soak thoroughly into your clothes by the end of the night. Somebody would holler bingo, and everybody else would politely murmur their frustration and disappointment.

Then in 1992 casinos were legalized on the coast, and Mom shifted gears to the slot machines. Dad never liked the casino, and I agreed with his sentiment. Mom had all kinds of theories about which slots paid off, how they were "set" by the casinos, and how to take advantage. The flames of Mom's minor league casino habit was fanned by her inscrutable good luck. When we would visit, she would invariably have enough points built up to treat us to the buffet that would otherwise be about $25 a person. Mom would sneak off after the meal to play the slots for a few minutes, and every time she'd come out with money. I used to fuss at Mom about the casino, saying that over time your expenditure would average out to the house advantage, whatever that was, but people will tend to remember their winnings but forget the times they pay in. Mom knew it wasn't the healthiest way to spend her time and money, but like the home shopping networks, there were many things the casinos did to exploit her loneliness and loyalty.

Mom's greatest gift to us was her faith, which was strong and unwavering. In countless situations she turned to God for help and she saw life as a spiritual experience. She told the story of a time when she was having problems with Dad and me, in my teen years. She was feeling desperate and alone, and she went down to the chapel at the seminary to pray. She said that while she was praying, she heard a voice speak to her and say, "Brunhilde, I have called you by your name, and you are mine." At that moment she had a vivid memory of being a small child, going with her friend and babysitter to a church in a local monastery, and cleaning. She said that they cleaned the candle holders and the brass, all the while singing, and she felt joyful and at peace. That feeling came back to her, and from that moment on she knew everything was going to be okay. Mom's faith carried me through my darkest days, and for that I owe her a debt I can never repay.

But oh Lord, I have a lot of conflict in my heart over Mom. I struggle over what to say about it, knowing that what I write here is in the public domain, and could hurt some other people. I hate that she died in a state of denial of certain things. Especially in the years after Dad passed away, Mom was pretty bad about talking about all of us children behind our backs, and was especially hard and unfair towards her sons' wives, each of whom are the glue in their respective families and deserved none of Mom's harsh judgment. But Mom would deny it when confronted, so problems tended to go undiscussed and unresolved. It hurt our feelings to find out about her issues with us, and then instead of talking them through, she would deny ever having said the comments that we were certain were made repeatedly. We've all had to figure out how to do handle this on our own. I guess that will continue to be the case. But I forgive her and hold no grudges, because I understand her. I hope that she is in a place where she can see, and I think she is.

I guess in every life we get a certain amount of baggage handed to us from all the things that happened to our parents. Understanding what happened in Dad's childhood helped me understand Dad better. I know what happened in Mom's childhood, not sure exactly why it played out in our lives like it did. Mom got harder to deal with as time went on. For all the conflict Mom had with Dad, he was her buffer and her reality check, and once he passed away, there was a certain lack of objectivity that crept into her way of dealing with things.

Oh well. I guess we take what life gives us and see what we can do with it. I hope I have learned something from how Mom handled us--good examples and bad examples. One day my kids will have to sort out my legacy and I hope I'm in a good place in relation to all three of them.

I love you Mom. It will soon be 18 years since Dad died, and over that time his voice is firmly in my head and I communicate with him pretty much every day. I was blessed to have worked through my issues with him while he was still alive. I don't so much hear Mom's voice as feel her presence. One day I'll get that delicious pound cake...

Stuart Walton – Why have we stopped seeing UFOs in the skies?

Stuart Walton – Why have we stopped seeing UFOs in the skies?:

...There are no UFOs, and there never were. That, at least, is the official story, and it commands acceptance. There was something reassuring in the notion that the Ministry of Defence took them seriously enough to monitor reports, and perhaps even a trace of disappointment that virtually none of those alleged sightings was left unexplained when the desk closed in 2009. They were all night-flying aircraft, weather balloons, comets, car headlights seen at unusual angles through trees and mist, often by people who had been drinking, or who were half-asleep, or of whom it could be said, in the judicial discourse, that the balance of their minds was disturbed. Some of the famous photographs are of Frisbees. Whatever I saw in Manchester was there in front of me — there remains no doubt in my mind about that, even after 32 years — but I have never worked out what it was....

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Vast Public Indifference: 101 Ways to Say "Died"

Vast Public Indifference: 101 Ways to Say "Died":

...Starting today, I'm going to start running a series called "101 Ways to Say Died." In this project, I will be cataloging all the synonyms for "died" that appear in early American epitaphs.

In order to qualify, the word/phrase must appear in the main part of the text, not the verse. That is to say, I'm looking at the part where it says, "Here lies John Doe, died January 1, 1750," rather than the poetic epitaph that sometimes appears after the primary epitaph. If I can't make it to 101 with this criterion, I'll look at the verses. Similarly, I'm going to limit eligibility to pre-1825 stones with the option to extend that to 1850 if I fall short of 101...

link found on Boing Boing.

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Crocuses

Pia

Something had to give. Pia had turned our garage and porch into a barn. She was terrorizing our new puppy Charlotte. The last straw was when she started eating the new growth of deliciously tender irises.

Nan gave Pia to her friend Mary who has a farm. Pia had a good home, although we miss her. In exchange, Mary gave us Roscoe. It's a pretty fair trade.

How Memes Are Orchestrated by the Man - Kevin Ashton - The Atlantic

How Memes Are Orchestrated by the Man - Kevin Ashton - The Atlantic:

...The word "meme" comes from evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins. Bits of information, memes, propagate from brain to brain through imitation, are subject to selection and can be regarded as living structures, he says, "not just metaphorically but technically," because new information changes our brains. They are often made deliberately--think catchphrases, slogans, melodies--and makers may try to propagate them as fast and far as possible, or make them go viral. The myth of the "Harlem Shake" is that its viral spread was spontaneous, not directed by financial interests--a pop culture, popular uprising. Here's how the meme and the myth began....

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Obituary for a NASCAR Fan - Neatorama

Obituary for a NASCAR Fan - Neatorama:

Tim Hopkins of Memphis, Tennessee died last Saturday. His obituary indicates that he's gone home to join legendary race car driver Dale Earnhardt, who died in 2001. Here's the brilliantly written opening sentence of Hopkins's obituary:

Timothy Wayne “Tim” Hopkins, 54, went to be with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and Dale Earnhardt to contribute his building and painting expertise to the constructing of many heavenly mansions on Saturday, March 23, 2013, in Memphis.

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How Gearbox's 'Truth Team' outwitted Borderlands feedback | Polygon

How Gearbox's 'Truth Team' outwitted Borderlands feedback | Polygon:

An interesting story about how the finger pointing at the moon is not the moon, and how game developers must sort through feedback from focus groups...

...These three fallacies led the Truth Team to come up with a few tricky fixes for common complaints from focus testers. For example, early testers reported that the sprint speed was too slow. Rather than increase that speed, Gearbox designers simply scattered more debris on the ground, and increased the player's field of view. Players passed by objects with increased frequency, giving the illusion of speed without requiring any huge adjustments to the play mechanics ...

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Experience 'Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth' | Spotlight | BillMoyers.com

Experience 'Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth' | Spotlight | BillMoyers.com:

I remember watching this when it first aired in 1988. Wow, Joseph Campbell kind of changed my life, by causing me to look at things differently. It was the first time I understood that stories had certain ancient themes that teach us something about life.
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'One Nation Under Stress,' With To-Do Lists And Yoga For All : NPR

'One Nation Under Stress,' With To-Do Lists And Yoga For All : NPR:

A book review on the history of stress as a concept, as well as the politics of stress, or how political issues contribute to the internalizing of what might once have been social problems. I guess I first heard of the concept of stress in college, when I learned about Hans Selye and his General Adaptation Syndrome, which became a model for understanding how the trials of life take their toll.

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I'm A Mormon. Pop Culture Often Mocks My Faith, But Fallout Treated It Right

I'm A Mormon. Pop Culture Often Mocks My Faith, But Fallout Treated It Right:

A Mormon plays Fallout: New Vegas and finds that the game treats his religion with some respect...

...I was nevertheless surprised and impressed by what I found inside The Old Mormon Fort: a struggling but hopeful sanctuary for the lost and ill-fated souls of the Mojave wasteland. I found a people whose purpose very much in harmony with the aspirations of Mormonism and Christianity generally. (For those who may have heard otherwise, we Mormons worship Jesus Christ and consider ourselves Christians.) While Mormons weren't the ones running the show-it was the Followers of the Apocalypse who had set up shop there-their noble goals and purpose, connected as they were (at least nominally) to the Mormons, gave me a strong feeling of appreciation. They intrigued me...

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OTL: His Game, His Rules - ESPN

OTL: His Game, His Rules - ESPN:

So, is Goodell the devil? As a Saints fan, I have to say yes. In reality, well, I have to say yes, because I'm a Saints fan. Gregg Williams said he got calls from 20 other teams telling him to take a dive on the bounty issue because all those other teams did it too. Yet Goodell said there was no evidence of bounty programs on other teams. I think he sent a message by what he did to the Saints, and we have a right to be pissed at him. All that said, they've got to do something about head injuries or football will soon be a thing of the past.

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About R.Crumb -- Crumb On Others, Part 1

About R.Crumb -- Crumb On Others, Part 1:

PRESIDENT OBAMA Robert: "I kind of have ambivalent feelings toward Obama. I think he really tries. He’s trying to do the right thing, but he’s just up against it. I read Wendell Potter’s book about the health insurance companies trying to stop health care reform. Wendell Potter was a whistle-blower who worked for Cigna for 20 years as a PR man. And then he dropped out. He said his conscience started bothering him too much so he dropped out of the whole thing. And then he started preaching against the health insurance companies. He was embraced by Obama’s people because of that. They brought him in and he spoke to senate committees. So he got to watch Obama closely and see what he was doing. He said in his book that Obama worked on that project every day for a year trying to fight for that health care reform. The guy worked really hard, and he tried to have the best team around him but he couldn’t bring about any kind of effective health reform. He’s up against such powerful forces. People are pissed that he hasn’t turned things around and saved the world, but, you know, he doesn’t have that kind of power."

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7 Mind-Blowing Traits Of Postmodernism | Thought Catalog

7 Mind-Blowing Traits Of Postmodernism | Thought Catalog:

1. Unmediated experiences don’t really exist.

One of the big claims of postmodernism is that there’s no such thing as an experience that isn’t mediated. A mediated experience is basically any time something facilitates the way you interact with another thing, a person, or given situation. “Mediated” is kind of a broad term because it even includes language, so talking to someone is already a mediated experience if you can wrap your brain around that. When you send a text message, that’s mediated because the person isn’t right in front of you. When you chat to someone in GChat but not in real life, that’s a mediated experience. Your social world is nothing but green “available” dots next to a bunch of screen names on a list. And get this: now you don’t even have to purchase concert tickets to live events anymore, because you can just get the clips on YouTube later. Bowery Presents, one of the big music promoting agencies, streams a lot of their concerts live on YouTube right when they happen, so you don’t have to leave your bedroom to see your favorite band perform. The question is, what do you miss by not being there for real?

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6-Month Pinhole Exposure Made with a Beer Can - Neatorama

6-Month Pinhole Exposure Made with a Beer Can - Neatorama:

One more random very cool thing:

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Astronaut Chris Hadfield's otherworldly Earth landscapes, from space - Boing Boing

Astronaut Chris Hadfield's otherworldly Earth landscapes, from space - Boing Boing:

I guess there is a lot to get upset and angry about, but this is awesome. Chris Hadfield is an astronaut aboard the International Space Station, who has taken these extraordinary photos. He also did an awesome AMA on Reddit from space.

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Thanks, Obama!

Thanks, Obama!:

New meme blog. Way to go, Obama. You ruined everything.

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Abigail Edwina Ott (2000 - 2013)

This really hurts, but I have to write it down.

Abigail passed away some time overnight this past Thursday, January 24th. Friday morning I didn't see her in her usual place--babysitting Pia in the garage. We worried. Sometimes Abby would seek a quiet place to get away from Pia or Gizzy when they would get on her nerves. But it was unusual for her to be gone this long. Freezing rain was forming a crust of ice on everything, and we worried.

Over the past few years, Abby would lie down in the sun in such a way that Nan and I would check on her to make sure she was okay. She'd raise her head, like, "Do you mind? Trying to sleep here." Abby would lie down in the snow the same way. She was never bothered by cold. Nan and I  figured that one day we'd find her that way and she would have passed away. Which is just how I found her on Friday afternoon when I felt like I just had to go look for her. I had a bad feeling.

But you know, Abby had a good past few months. One of the great joys of my recent life has been walking the furry family down the hill to the cabin as often as daylight and weather would permit. Gizzy would get excited whenever I'd put my shoes on. When I'd gather my walking stick and step out onto the porch, Pia would spin and dance with joy. Abby would follow along, slow and stiff, stepping carefully. In back of the pack would be Tobicat, still part of the clan, but keeping her own personal space.

A few weeks ago we had an unnaturally warm winter day, and I stood by the cabin as the furry family played on the river bottom. Gizzy danced around Abby, trying to jump up and nip at her ears, and Abby stepped back and forth, stiff-legged, trying to play in her own careful way. Abby was feeling so good she snatched up a plastic water bottle and brought it to me, ready to play our old game of pitch and catch. It didn't take long for jealous Gizzy to snatch it away and steal Abby's sunshine. But Abby always had great dignity, and took Gizzy's antics in stride.

Our time with Abby is woven with our experience as a family. I can still remember one particular Sunday lunch at Grandma's, when Nan suggested that we take a ride to go look at some Sheltie puppies at a lady's house in Long Hollow. Nate went with us. Abby was in a group of about four or five adorable fluff balls. Her siblings were all hopping up and down at the fence, eager to meet new friends. Abby, meanwhile, shyly poked her head out of the dog house and approached more cautiously. Abby's color was more blonde than her sibs, and something in her disposition just seemed right.

Abby was a Frisbee dog. I got her started at our old house when she was a pup, by rolling the Frisbee, engaging her instinct to give chase. Within a few weeks she was snagging them in flight. Over time, it became her specialty and my bond with her. When she'd see me coming she'd frantically run around until she found a Frisbee and hold it in her mouth, ready to play. It was always a sad sight when I'd come home and be too tired to play Frisbee, and I'd look out in the yard and there would be Abby, Frisbee in mouth, gazing forlornly towards the house. Nan considered Abby frisbee irresponsible, because she had several Frisbees out in the woods at any given time. But a lost Frisbee was always the thrower's fault. She would make an effort to bring back every throw.

Grandma used to babysit Abigail during the day while the kids were in school or when the kids were out for the summer. I remember one time picking up the kids and Abby from Grandma's in our green Dodge Caravan. Abby sat between the girls on the middle seat. One time we were riding along and Abby pulled a Slim Jim wrapper out of Rachel's pocket and when Rachel tried to get it away from her, Abby snapped at her. Rachel was crying, and I fussed at her for not showing Abby who is boss. I reached behind me to swat Abigail, missed and smacked Whitney on the leg. So I had both girls crying, while Abby sat back there wondering what was wrong with them.

One time the kids spent the night at Grandma's and Saturday morning I went out to feed Abby and couldn't find her. I finally thought to look in the van, and I'd left her in the van all night. She just patiently waited to be let out. No big deal.

About the only thing that could get a rise out of Abby, besides a Frisbee, was loud noise. At the sound of thunder, she'd go charging off into the yard, barking, ready to bite. One time we were setting off fireworks at Grandma's and Abby would charge into and bite at the firecrackers, but never quite burned herself.

Quite a few years back, Nan and I drove to Mississippi to visit my mother, who was recovering from heart surgery. We left the kids at Grandma's and took Abby with us in our old red Plymouth Neon. Abby was the most patient and well-behaved car rider we ever experienced. The only problem we had was that she would start out in the back seat, work her way to standing between the front seats, then eventually climb into Nan's lap.

One time when Abigail was a young dog, Grandpa was at Ed's Grocery, about a mile up the highway from their house. Grandpa looked over and saw a Sheltie in the yard adjacent to the store, and exclaimed, "Abigail! What are you doing down here! You're gonna get yourself killed!" Grandpa picked up the dog and tried to put it in his truck. The dog protested in that dignified manner of all Shelties. Meanwhile, Arlene, owner of Ed's, came out and asked Grandpa what he was doing. It was only then that he realized he was trying to put somebody else's dog in his truck.

Abby was the matriarch to the furry family. All the other pets looked to her for guidance and leadership. She gave the others a lot of leeway, but when they pushed her too far, she would show them in no uncertain terms who was boss. We will miss her so much.