Paul and Ringo are knights now, honored for their contribution to music.
John was shot and killed a long time ago.
George died of lung cancer, possibly exacerbated by a stab wound inflicted by a thief.
Their music lives, though, and much has become classic in the genre. But their guitars will never sound quite as sweet. Their synthesizers are stilled. The sound systems they used are obsolete.
Yet, the music lives on. The fun music, the obscure, the love songs and the laments all live on.
My son and his wife recently spent a week in Rome. They loved the food; they enjoyed the ancient ruins; and they loved the countryside full of wildflowers. Someday I’d like to go!
When I think of Italy, so many things come to mind. Food. Who doesn’t love Italian food?
Music. Who doesn’t love Andrea Bocelli’s wonderful tenor?
Ruins. Who doesn’t love all the incredible architecture? You saw some of that in the Bocelli video, so I won’t repeat it.
The gorgeous countryside. Who doesn’t love the beauty?
The sea! Who doesn’t love the seaside?
And the faces of the people. How can you not love this face?
This is one of those words that has SO many meanings. . . .
My luggage was opened and checked on our flight to South Dakota. All they found was the tiny little pocket knife I knew I shouldn’t carry in my purse. They let me keep it. Good of them.
My husband is trying to check the proliferation of the lantern fly in our raspberry patch. To make matters worse, he also found a Japanese beetle yesterday. Nasty bugs.
I remember having to check and recheck my answers in long division homework in sixth grade. Drove me crazy. I have something called dyscalcula, which is like dyslexia only with numbers. I used to erase holes into my papers.
Sometimes we say Check! when we approve of something. Or we use the same expression when we’re ticking things off of a checklist.
We write checks to pay bills. I’m showing my age, though, right? Most of my bills are paid online these days.
Checkers is a favorite game for all ages.
When we play chess, we use check and checkmate to indicate the opponent’s king has been stopped or the queen is unable to move. I’m not a good chess player. Strategy games are not my favorites.
On fabric, a pattern of different-colored squares is called checked or checkered.
Someone of dubious character may be said to have a checkered past.
And there’s more, but I think that’s enough for now. I need to check my time:)
He was born in a tiny room that faced the canal. He grew up with the smell of the rancid water as a normal part of his life. No one ever went swimming in the canal, or dipped a cup into the oil-scummed surface to take a drink. It was for transport, nothing else. Everything got dumped into the canal–sewage, food garbage, dead pets, and the occasional human body.
He was helping on a canal boat by the time he was three. It was his whole life. His wife and children would do the same.
The first thing that came to mind for me is a favorite Bible passage:
Luke 6:36-42: Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful. “Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you.”
Sometimes, this passage is used as a promise that when we are generous with our financial giving, God will reward us accordingly–that is, with material gain.
(I did not quote the entire passage here, but only the salient verses for my point. The rest of the passage is similar in its meaning, and money and material wealth are not mentioned.)
If we look at the context, however, it is clear that there is no money involved here. What is to be given is mercy; not judgment, not condemnation, but forgiveness. When we forgive, then we will receive forgiveness in good measure. When we fail to forgive, holding grudges and offering judgment, condemnation, and lack of mercy, then we cannot expect to receive forgiveness ourselves when we hurt others.
This world could use a lot less judgment, criticism and condemnation, and a lot more forgiveness, mercy, and compassion. No doubt.
If you’ve always lived in a big city where there are lights all over, day and night, you’ve never really seen what’s up in the sky—an amazing, stellar array that you can only imagine unless you get out into the country, especially in the northern climates, where there is no artificial light at all.
There’s even a shooting star in there. Almost looks like a snowstorm, doesn’t it?
Terry grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He’s a Yooper, for those of you who know the term. He was so excited to take me up there for the first time, to see his home country and meet his parents. He told me that one of the things he missed the most was the clear, star-filled skies he enjoyed as a kid.
I have to admit, they were pretty impressive. Even in the middle of their short summer, the air had a nice nip to it after dark. We sat one night on the shores of Ice Lake just watching the reflection of the stars on the still water. Quiet, peaceful, a great way to relax—-
IF you had remembered to use the Deep Woods OFF! spray. Otherwise, the mosquitoes and deer flies would carry you away to be eaten at leisure in their horrible, dark, dirty dungeons.
What, you don’t believe me? Go up there without any bug protection. You’ll learn.
He waited. Patient, calm, enjoying the serenity of the woods. Once he’d settled in, the birdsong resumed; the small critters went back to scurrying here and there. A squirrel whose tree he was sharing even chittered to him now and then. His blind was as comfortable as such things can be. The day was pleasantly cool, partly cloudy, breezy. He was sure he was downwind, having observed the trails for weeks before he set up his blind.
He was locked, loaded, and ready. Now, just to enjoy the wait.
Toward evening, with the sun low in the sky, he jerked out of his near-sleep when a small tree nearby rattled its branches. Moving slowly, he raised his weapon. It took just a moment to adjust the focus. Ah, beautiful. Perfect. His target’s nose was twitching, but not on alert. Majestic antlers announced his age and rank.
The light was perfect. The breeze was perfect, Unbelievable that it was going to be so easy.
Slow pressure on the trigger. Count two-three-four CLICK! The buck never knew what hit him as he wandered away, but the photographer knew it was his best shot ever.
CATARACT: a medical condition in which the lens of the eye becomes progressively opaque, resulting in blurred vision.
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A cataract can also be a waterfall, or a rush of water. The word comes from late Middle English: from Latin cataracta ‘waterfall, floodgate,’ also ‘portcullis’ (medical sense 2 probably being a figurative use of this), from Greek kataraktēs ‘down-rushing,’ from katarassein, from kata- ‘down’ + arassein ‘strike, smash.’
I have one, on my right eye. The doctor said it’s the hard kind, and will probably need to be surgically removed in another year or so. He said if it bothers me, to let him know. I did, right there on the spot. I constantly want to wipe that eye, feeling as if there’s a film on it, something in the way. But my vision is still clear, so he wasn’t in any hurry.
If a cataract is not removed, here is what the eye will eventually look like:
Kind of creepy, right? From what I’m reading, mine is probably an inherited tendency. My mom had one removed–maybe it was both eyes eventually, I can’t remember for sure.
It’s amazing how different this procedure is today compared to 50 years ago. Back then, I remember people having to lie perfectly still for a long period of time; no light, so the eye was covered with a black patch. Now, it’s a simple thing with a very short recovery period, and clear vision restored almost immediately.
I guess I’m glad I don’t live back in the good old days 🙂
So I figured out that the earlier post I wrote today on smorgasbord was actually yesterday’s post. Sigh. This old granny seems to be having a hard time catching up.
Anyway, I’ve always wondered why it’s call julienne, but never looked it up. So today’s the day. Annnnd, I found that the word comes from a soup of the same name, which is prepared with thin strips of vegetables garnishing it — in French a potage julienne.
Okay, but I still don’t know why it’s called julienne. Keep searching. I find this:
Early 18th century (originally as an adjective designating soup made of chopped vegetables, especially carrots): French, from the male given names Jules or Julien, of obscure development.
So here’s the story:
“Hey, Jules! Get over here and slice these carrots to toss into the soup! You’ve been on break long enough!”
Jules sauntered to his work station, irritated at being made to do such menial work when he was so talented. He should be head chef, he’s just that good.
He scrubbed his carrots, topped them, skinned them, and cut them into manageable lengths. The, WHACK! in half, and WHACK in quarters. He liked the looks of that so much better than the coin-shaped pieces they usually added to the soup.
He looked again, realized the pieces could be even thinner for faster cooking. WHACK! went his knife, and he signaled to the chef that he was finished.
The chef, seeing what Jules had done, was at first thoughtful, then beaming with pleasure. “Exquisite! They will cook quickly, and give the soup a unique appearance. Good job, Jules!” He clapped Jules on the back as he beckoned another worker to carry the carrots to the soup pot.
And, to Jules’ endless delight, potage julienne had been born; a soup that would carry his name to all kitchens of distinction for ages to come.
Swedish, from smörgås ‘(slice of) bread and butter’ (from smör ‘butter’ + gås ‘goose, lump of butter’) + bord ‘table.’
Interesting how the meaning of a word changes over time. From a simple piece of bread and butter to a whole array of delectable foods, a smorgasbord today offers hundreds of choices.
The first time I remember hearing this word was when I was somewhere between the ages of 10-12. We had moved from Minnesota to Portland, Oregon, and some new friends had invited our family to a smorgasbord. My word, what a feast! I don’t remember specifics; just that there were so many choices, and they all looked and smelled so good! I took tiny portions, but still ate my stomach full.
Now I live in Pennsylvania. In our part of the state, the most well-known smorgasbord restaurant is the Shady Maple in Lancaster. It’s ginormous. You could go there every day of the week and never sample everything that is offered.
It is a favorite stop for people visiting Amish country. The food features many Pennsylvania Dutch dishes. You can eat there all day, but I doubt your stomach would survive 🙂
They offer a special every day, which can range from freshly roasted turkey to grilled-to-order steaks.
And the dessert section–not just a table, but a whole section–is a very dangerous place for a diabetic. Cakes, pies, puddings, sweet rolls, cookies, ice cream–it’s all there, in plenteous array.
There’s a farm market, too, which is delightful just to wander around in.
So if you’re ever in the neighborhood, do stop in. You won’t regret it 🙂
It is a favorite stop for people visiting Amish country. The food features many Pennsylvania Dutch dishes. You can eat there all day, but I doubt your stomach would survive 🙂
Just Writing! 