The Goodness of the Hippo and the Tortoise

Note:  Pings are silent signals submarines use to notify each other they are nearby.  The Internet uses the same technology for blogs.  A ping tells Followers you are nearby, ie, have posted.  Your post shows up on the Follower's blogroll.  Pings also tell others in wider Blogville that you exist.  This helps other bloggers find you.  If you click on one of your interests, you will find profiles of others who have the same interest.  Without pings, your profile slips further and further, into the 10,000 or so who may have the same interest.  You can sign up for pings at: http://pingomatic.com/.  It's free.  Every time you post or have increased blog activity, you should ping.  So, bookmark the site.)

I think a donation wins out over a gift card.  I am very happy with this! However, I'm not sure if you want my donation to go to an Animal Shelter or a Soup Kitchen shelter that serves the unemployed and/or homeless.  I take your comments seriously and will be most happy to donate to either.  I'm staying tuned because I want my little Spring Celebration to spread sunshine!
  
Your comments (and e-mail requests) also stir the Louisiana stories.  And there's a whole mess of stories!  (A mess is Southern for that amount which satisfies a designated number of people.  How many ears of corn to shuck?  Until there's a mess to feed four hungry people.) 

Several Louisiana stories percolate now.  How one particular story bubbles to the top, I honestly don't know.  Except that your comments give me a sensing of what you'd like to hear:  Hard scrapple, whimsical, amusing or a bit of fun.

Because life can get quite serious. Teresa Evangeline (http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/) and I enjoyed an e-mail exchange that focused on how excessive negativity overwhelmed the spirit. At least, our Soul Sister spirits. Many people thrive on negativity, can't get enough of what's wrong, pounce on the slightest mishap with undisguised glee. 

I make every effort to avoid these people.  Even if I'd agree with what they'd say.  I just can't take all that negative energy.  Life's too short, the sun's too bright, to get bogged down in mumbo-jumbo.

Good and bad exist as polar opposites, life's yin and yang, if you will.  Can't have one without the other.  So, this morning, while reading this weekend's Parade magazine, a comment from David Gergen, the Harvard professor and CNN political analyst, caught my attention:  "As my favorite preacher, Peter Gomes, says about how one should handle adversity in life, 'Get used to it, get over it, and get on with it.'"

And, unfortunately, when it comes to earthquakes, the world's definitely getting 'used to it'.  The horrific quakes in Haiti and Chile were heart-wrenching.  The ensuing slew of smaller quakes and aftershocks, from Illinois to Japan to Hawaii and back to Chile and Haiti, elicited shivers of fear.  Nothing prevents an earthquake.  Nothing stops an earthquake.  Nothing stops a tsunami, its first cousin.

But nothing also stops the human spirit, even when an earthquake rains death and misery.  The entire world witnessed how the Haitians, who already possessed few material goods, coped with even less, many with nothing.  But a previously ignored people never lost faith in God, themselves, and in humanity's goodness.  And, though a more affluent country, the Chileans also suffered terribly, but maintained their indominable faith and perservered.  Both countries accepted what had happened and got on with it.  Survival.

But millions of people around the world contributed to this survival, either through financial donations, personalized relief efforts or both.  This generosity sparked hope that goodness trumped negativity.  Survival.

Like others with practical experience, a nurse with 20 years experience also contributed to this goodness.  I'd like to thank and applaud Enigma4Ever, a Follower, at http://watergatesummer.blogspot.com/ for all that this warm, giving person contributed during these disasters.  Her blog remains a shining example of how a knowledgable person can spring into action for the common good. 

Enigma posted emergency telephone numbers, tirelessly coordinated detailed information, and consistently pointed volunteers in the right direction on not one blog, but a series of blogs (also on Twitter) that kept people informed in a calm, professional manner.

I hope Enigma's gotten rest.  But I doubt it.  This is one dynamite gal whose passion for life goes beyond self.  Thank you, Enigma! 

And I need to recognize and apologize to Sandi at http://itstartedwitharitzcracker.blogspot.com/ and Cheryl K at http://www.lakemarymusings.com/ for not including their names on my Spring Celebration list for the Over the Top award.  I didn't realize the paper with their names (and a smaller paper I still can't find) had been scattered by a spring breeze.  Sandi's on crutches at the moment but is positive about tossing the sticks soon.  Cheryl and her hub are housesitting -- which includes minding four young kids -- but, like Sandi, accomplishes all with grace. Please accept what I hope is a happy award.  And please pass it on to five people.  I'm sick of Cotton Mather's shadow.  It's time to spread some smiles. 

For those of you outside the United States, Cotton Mather was a Puritanical leader/preacher during the early 1600s who thought being normal was sinful.  However, not long ago scholars found correspondence that said Cotton Mather enjoyed a glass of wine and liked to laugh (horrors!)

Now, about the photo at the bottom, photographer unknown (as far as I can tell).

After the tsunami hit parts of Asia some years ago, a smaller tsunami hit Kenya.  This baby hippo washed ashore near Mombassa, Kenya.  Volunteers placed the hippo in an animal shelter, where the baby bonded with the 100-year-old tortise.  The unlikely pair established a nurturing relationship that amazed everyone.  For these two aren't known for being pals within the animal kingdom. 

And, as the hippo grew older and bigger he still remained near the tortoise, very caring and respectful, when the hippo could easily have squashed the tortoise.  (Eventually, though, the hippo had to move on in life and do what hippos do.)

But people can do the same.  Get along.  Work together.  Be pals.

If only we'd get on with it.

Grandpa Takes a Trip (Louisiana Stories)

Some comments before today's story: I am delighted you enjoyed the Seven Remarkable People series and thank you for your generous comments and encouragement to publish the series. As I commented, I lack a clear path as to how to achieve this. But others have stepped forward with advice and help that may prove fruitful. And I've begun to research possible avenues. We'll see how this shakes out. I didn't start this blog with the intent of publishing. Whatever evolves will be one of life's smiley faces!

I want to thank my original Followers for sticking with me. You've allowed me to veer off course and wish Elvis a Happy Birthday, get out of the hot Louisiana sun, and otherwise indulge my blogging streaks.

And I want to extend a warm welcome to the new Followers and hope you find the Louisiana stories interesting. Today's story will continue with the aftermath of my great-great grandfather Stilly's unfortunate demise back in 1859. (I've provided enough info that you don't need the earlier blog.) But, wait, don't ho-hum click off. The story's got an unexpected twist.

And a big Thank You to the kind blogger at Adventures of the Cautionary Tale (see Followers, red hat in photo) for my Barnes & Nobel prize. The last time I won a prize was in first grade when the teacher pulled my name for the classroom Christmas tree. I was excited then and am excited now. Adventures of the Cautionary Tale is a beautiful blog, and I urge you to click on over. The blogger's daughter, Maddy, had a small accident but is now doing well. This makes me happy.

I also want to thank our godson's wife, Kathy, for figuring out how to install the counter widget you see to the right. My husband and I also enjoyed the delicious meal godson Rob prepared the other night. (Yep, the dude cooks!)

Now, about today's story. Since my family tree goes so far back in American history, I can't tell their stories without involving a sense of history. But I work to keep this history at a minimum. And I try very hard to keep historical events balanced and without narrative emotion. (Besides, you already know that I'm a loyal American with deep Louisiana roots.)

As such, today's story weaves through history. But I hope it is more a story of survival. I've received several e-mail requests for a Depression-era story. But I went with this story first. As bad as the economy is -- and like everyone else, my husband and I have made adjustments -- there can be worse, not exactly good news, but, in terms of survival, hard work, creativity, and a positive outlook can win the day!

Today's story . . .

***

No one in the family ever forgave Stilly for getting himself killed at that poker tournament deep in Louisiana's bayous. All Stilly had to do was stay alive one more day, win the next night's poker pot, and nobody in the family would ever have to lift a finger again. But, no. Not Stilly. He'd trusted too much and gone to sleep under that old oak tree without thinkin'. And somebody had shot him dead.

Of course, family members hadn't thought to caution Stilly about the evils of gamblin'. When a man's work brought in gold coins that bought land and kept the family in high style, lectures didn't seem quite right. According to my grandmother, everyone prayed for Stilly's soul. (But, according to my father, most prayed Stilly would keep up the winning streak.)

Because back in 1859, my great-great grandfather's gambling skills had made him a legend in Louisiana's treacherous bayous. However, back on firmer land, in Tangiphoa Parish, north of New Orleans, when word came of Stilly's death, relatives called Stilly's dying 'inconsiderate'.

The understated emotion bespoke about as close as a Southerner could get to disowning a relative without insulting the spirit. Stilly just shouldn't have strayed from Southeast Louisiana's more conservative morality and gotten involved with wanton Cajuns who didn't give a damn.

And knowing that Stilly had come close to winning what would turn out to be 75 miles of oil-rich marshes and bayous made his demise especially rude. The fact that Stilly's body had been thrown to alligators in the bayou hadn't raised an eyebrow. Gamblin' was a sin. Everybody knew that (except Cajuns and Protestants in Mississippi who cut the cards when the preacher wasn't lookin'.)

Nevermind. The deed was done. The aftermath would just have to be dealt with. There was no gettin' around the fact that Stilly's murder in 1859, at that poker tournament in the bayous, had thrown the family into economic turmoil.

But, to his credit and in spite of his gambling ways, Stilly had been a God-fearing man who had married a woman of strong character and good virtue. Lucy accepted her widowed fate with a Bible in one hand and a hoe in the other. She focused on saving the homestead and raising two adolescent sons who didn't gamble, drink, use tobacco or whore around.

But, above all, her sons had to fear God. Lucy worried Stilly's gamblin' blood would lure her adolescent boys off into the alligator-infested wilds that had gotten her husband killed. Without muscled arms to help work the farm, Lucy couldn't survive in a male-dominated, rural society. She'd have to move in with a relative and hope for a charitable lifestyle.

So, during a time when devout Christians viewed vanity as the devil's mastiff, Lucy adhered to old-fashioned sensibilities and accepted the reality of what needed to be done. Lucy believed hard work kept the mind from thinking about what might have been. And reading the Bible every night soothed the soul.

But hard work and prayer accomplished only so much. Fortunately, Stilly had had the good sense not to take all his money to the poker tournament. (For the murderer had also robbed Stilly's pockets, heavy with gold from the first night's win.) But gold coins left with Lucy enabled her to pay the yearly property taxes on the homestead and other properties Stilly had accumulated. Lucy and her sons substantially enlarged the house garden and bought several milk cows.

Profit from the sale of milk and produce in the nearby town of Ponchatoula both clothed and educated her sons. The money also enabled a cushion for the next cycle of taxes. The family lived frugally but retained its successful status.

However, demanding work took its toll. Three years after Stilly's death, Lucy no longer appeared a fair-complexioned young woman with dancing blue eyes and long chestnut hair beneath a sun bonnet. She now fulfilled the role of family matriarch, a mature woman with weathered skin and shrewd eyes who didn't shirk hard work and family responsibilities. Relatives sometimes helped.
But in an era when self absorbed into family, the conscientious mother earned respect for not leaning on others. Lucy was a determined Christian woman who believed in family, hard work, frugality, and prayer.

Of course, Lucy had suitors. Women routinely died in childbirth and left widowers with children to raise. But a married woman often lacked the decision-making freedom that came with Lucy's widowed status. The properties Lucy had protected could disappear to drink or worse in a new marriage that turned sour. Stilly's sons required a legacy in order to succeed in a South that valued land ownership. So, Lucy kept to her charted course. And the family prospered.

Until the drums of civil war reached Louisiana. On January 26, 1861, Louisiana seceded from the United States. Barely three months later, on April 12, 1861, canons at Fort Sumter, South Carolina, fired the opening volleys of what would become the Civil War or War Between the States. The Confederate States of America (CSA) formed. On April 25, 1862, Federal or Union troops captured the port city of New Orleans.

Even though Louisiana had one of the largest populations of freed slaves, significant numbers of whites didn't support slavery. So Louisiana got pulled into the Civil War's diametrically opposed directions in a manner that footnoted history. In order to appease anti-slavery supporters, for the duration of the Civil War, until General Robert E. Lee surrendered to Union forces on April 9, 1865, Louisiana had two governors: One for designated Confederate areas; the other for designated Union areas. (This moral divide within Louisiana's multi-ethnic, multi-racial, and deeply religious population would contribute to Louisiana's emerging image as a 'foreign country', an image that lingers.)

Although both of Lucy's sons survived the Civil War, one fighting for the North, the other for the South, the proud matriarch, a Union supporter, lost her land and possessions either to taxes or the Carpetbaggers who followed in the War's wake. Wars cost money. Both sides had raised taxes to support the War's effort. But the South's 50% tax increase accomplished more than bullets and stripped average, non-slave-owning Southerners of their land.

By 1865, the Civil War had brought the South to its knees. Like a funeral dirge, doom permeated the land. The South's attempt at nationalism had failed miserably. Too idealistic to comprehend what war involved, everyone now faced the hard reality of what war had brought. A muted sun hung in a low sky over trees burned into eerie shadows and soil blackened with soot. Disillusioned soldiers, many on wooden crutches, barefoot, skin turned blackish-purple from frostbite, returned to a home that existed only in hell. Battle-hardened men with thousand-yard stares looked but didn't see, heard but didn't hear, felt but didn't feel and committed suicide. Women cried and pounded their fists, angry at their men for going, angrier at their God for not coming. And children with gaunt faces and hollow eyes and bloated stomaches sucked dirty thumbs and hid in corners.

Without a sense of place, tattered families roamed the desolate countryside in a desperate search of food, devouring anything with nutrients, even raw potatoes gleaned from a field. Raging inflation had spiraled basic commodities beyond reach. Few possessed the $100.00 needed for a barrel of flour. Gold, silver, and bronze coins used as pre-war currency had almost disappeared from commerce. Paper money issued by the CSA proved useless.

A barter system emerged: Work for food, perhaps a place to live. A one-room shanty with a dirt floor sheltered a once proud family. Union supporters hadn't fared much better, if any. The guns of war hadn't cared about who lived where. So, with the land scorched and ravaged and with little opportunity to provide for families, bitterness grew, especially when Washington, D.C. forbade Southerners to bury war dead with Christian headstones. Even Louisiana's Union supporters railed at the edict. Though officials eventually rescinded the order, the damage had been done. The North had won the war but lost the peace.

Stilly's family never returned to the cohesive unit that had existed prior to the War. Lucy eventually found work in a mercantile store. She lived out her days in a room rented from a family that also struggled. Her sons married and lived wherever work existed, usually as day laborers. That is, when they found work.

Reconstruction followed the Civil War, the period from 1865 to 1877, when Washington, D.C. dictated how the South restructured itself. Federal officials governed the South with an iron fist, with coveted work going to an old-boy network that controlled every aspect of daily life. Carpetbaggers or opportunists descended upon the region. Corruption grew. Mayhem prevailed.

However, Stilly's descendants avoided the sharecropper system that developed after the Civil War. (The sharecropper system, where workers lived on a farm and worked off living in a shack, would pull both blacks and whites into an economic slavery that wouldn't end until the Civil Rights Act of 1964.)

Corrupt Federal officials and Carpetbaggers now owned many of the surrounding farms and plantations. These noveau riche Northerners didn't hire Southerners. Not for money. But these new landowners eagerly accepted sharecroppers. An inability to work off inflated rent for miserable shacks ensured a generational system of practically free labor.

In a time when having nothing meant exactly that, my forebears remained God-fearing people. They didn't steal, turn to prostitution or beg. Family stories abound of how forebears lived in tents or lean-to's and scraped together a meagre existence. Angry armies had destroyed crops, fruit trees, and forests. Available sources of meat, like deer, had fled or been devoured by hungry soldiers. Rotting corpses polluted streams. Most of my ancestors suffered from rickets and malnutrition. The very young and the elderly and lame died. Children ate mud pies. But my forebears survived. And, in the South, this meant the family name survived with honor.

For there was no shame in being poor. Only admiration for honest values and hard work.

And, since hard times eventually fade into what was and the resilient human soul recovers, my scattered family put down roots in Southeast Louisiana and began to prosper. Until the Panic of 1873 and the Long Depression that lasted until 1879. Once again, everyone lost everything. Economic survival meant living on the edge. Just existing. The lack of money in circulation forced a return to the barter system. But the winds of change had re-defined basic survival.

The discovery of oil in Pennsylvania in 1869, the expanded railway system, and the impact of the Industrial Revolution demanded a more educated worker. But just as new jobs emerged, the Industrial Revolution also erased jobs. The efficiency of Eli Whitney's cotton gin reduced the availability of work, even allowed landowners to shrink the sharecropper system. At the height of the Long Depression, thousands of uneducated, unskilled workers and their families lived in unspeakable poverty in Louisiana (and throughout the United States).

Fortunately, Stilly and Lucy had instilled the importance of education in their sons. This legacy enabled their heirs to find decent work in a rapidly changing world. But, still, without a major sum of cash to buy a respectable piece of property, the family faced a limited future.

Until 1912.

Stilly's grandson, my grandfather, got married on Friday. On Saturday, he left for the Panama Canal.

For a full year, like thousands of others who saw opportunity, Pa worked to build the 53-mile canal that connected the Gulf of Mexico with the Pacific Ocean.

He ate the food provided, slept on a bunk bed in a rough barrack, and saved every pay check. Pa worked dawn to dusk beneath a scorching sun, endured the thick humidity, and avoided malaria.

At the end of the year, my grandfather returned to South Louisiana with enough money to pay cash for 600 acres of good, solid land.

His wife, my grandmother, who had remained with her family in Gonzales, Louisiana, quickly got pregnant but suffered a miscarriage. But, according to Ma, there wasn't time for tears. Work needed to be done.

Pa had retained enough cash to build a house on land that first required clearing. But he had to do most of the work himself to remain within budget.

He lived in a tent on the property. Once a month, he rode his horse the 30 miles to Gonzales to see his wife.

And Ma got pregnant again.

A year later the small family moved into their spacious, three-bedroom home with its wrap-around porch.

My grandfather carried his true love over the threshold. Into the parlor, the wedding gift my grandmother had so wanted.

And my father grew into manhood on the farm, graduated from Louisiana State University, served in WWII, met my mother, became an attorney, and here I am, on the liberal side of Stilly's war-torn family.

And once a year, for the past three years, I went over to West Virginia, pulled out the $100.00 bill I'd pinched together and played the slots.

Last year I hit a $2500.00 jackpot and headed home. Don't plan on returning.

Gotta know when to fold 'em.

A Water Mill in Skovmollen, Denmark

A centuries-old water mill in Skovmolken, Denmark, captures my imagination this morning. This is good. Since my next Remarkable Person comes from Egypt, I am at least across the Atlantic Ocean. Just need to get further south, to another continent. This will happen. In the meantime, the water wheel soothes perplexed thoughts about greed. Not the pinch-another-cookie-type greed. I'm talking about Wall Street, gold Rolex, private airplane greed. The kind of greed that puckers the mouth like a tart lemon.

First, though, the water wheel. Last summer, my husband and I visited Danish friends in Aarhus, Denmark, the country's principal port, second largest city, and unofficial capital of Jutland, the peninsula that winks at Norway. (With archaeological evidence dating back to 770 A.D., Aarhus, now with a population around one million, may be one of Scandanavia's oldest cities.)

Among our many outings, our hosts took us to Skovmollen, a brief ride through the lush countryside from historic Aarhus. After a delicious meal in a restored building, we sat outside on benches and enjoyed the conversation that flowed from relaxed camaraderie.

The Danish water mill, attached to the left of the single-story restaurant, filled much of the conversation (see photo, right). Earlier, we had looked inside the cross-beamed enclosure, first mentioned in writing in 1570, and marveled at how the infrastructure still functioned. Granted, there had been improvements and changes through the centuries. But the historical integrity of the mill and the restaurant remained. And the nearby stream flowed clear and fresh over rocks that dotted the water's bed. And a simple path opened into the small forest that hugged the stream's far bank.

I also thought about another bench setting, several years earlier, in Copenhagen, an international city with a considerable port and shipping infrastructure. But, unlike most port cities, the scarred underbelly that can blight a city's beauty had been muted. The owner of one of the world's major shipping companies, a Dane, had turned what had been a port's rough fringe into a park.

This Dane, who had owned the land, had then turned the park over to the city of Copenhagen. Benches now lined the generous sidewalk that hugged the water. While kids rode bicycles or couples strolled or young mothers pushed carriages, in the far, far distance, the multi-tiered ferry to Oslo prepared to depart. Thanks to this Danish philanthropist (and one of the world's richest men) the port's functionality remained while everyone's quality of life expanded.

Now, let's fast-forward to yesterday, when my friend Judy and I visited nearby Washington, D.C.'s National Geographic building and the Terra Cotta Warrior exhibition. Yes, the exhibition thrilled. The size: horses weighed 700 pounds; warriors weighed between 350 and 400 pounds. Workmanship hadn't overlooked the smallest detail: intricate indentations on an archer's foot covering; breast plate tile designs; elaborate hair top knots.

Judy and I left the Exhibition enthused. We wanted to talk about what we had seen. We wanted to share the exhilaration that knowledge brings. But there was no bench outside. So, with no place to sit, we kept walking, skipping the over-priced Downtown haunts (Republicans eat Here; Democrats eat There) for McDonald's, of all places, and a decent coffee and questionable nibbles. Nevermind. Any port in the bench-less storm.

So, why is there a lack of benches? Washington, D.C. is probably one of the world's most beautiful cities. Monuments truly stand in majestic glory. We Americans are proud of our many achievements. Sixth graders in Montana can identify photos of the Washington Monument. But, short blocks away from these expected, recognizable monuments are just as recognizable streets -- Massachusetts Avenue, Pennsylvania Avenue, Connecticut Avenue -- that lack benches. Why? Because Washington, D.C. has a homeless problem. The homeless sleep on benches.

And in churches. After our McDonald's stop and en route to the Metro, Judy saw that the double front doors to one of the older churches were open. We decided to look inside and were awed by the domed ceiling, marbled side altars, and impressive stained glass. While a worker vacuumed the deep red carpet, two worshippers knelt in prayer, and four of the city's homeless just existed, scattered among the pews, lost in their day-to-day world of black bags, murmurings, and empty eyes.

That evening I wondered where these homeless now slept. Washington, D.C. maintains shelters. Significant out-reach programs exist. Still, shelters fill. Programs don't always reach everyone. And it bothered me that both homeless and visitor lacked a bench. Not that benches should be homes for the homeless. No, no. The public enjoys certain rights...but, if there's no bench, is there a larger problem?

I'm not so naive as to think the homeless problem is completely solvable. But I'm old enough to understand that problems have solutions. I'm old enough to remember another era when people worked together for the common good; when Republicans didn't eat Here and Democrats didn't eat There; when the United States didn't summarily invade another country; when all Americans felt a sense of duty and sacrifice; when the lesser moral gave way to the greater moral; when greed was a dirty word.

So, I opened one of the lovely blogs I follow, A Taste of Denmark (see Blogs I Follow), and returned to the January 15th post: Skovmollen, Moesgard, Aarhus. Ahhh, there was the bench my husband and I had sat on.

And, then, I remembered (again) one of my favorite quips: Athatha Christie once said of her anthropologist husband that the older she got the more he became interested in her. What Dame Agatha meant was that the past held valuable information that enriched the present.

Appreciating the past is good. Remembering is good. I wish those who constantly try to pull down President Obama would remember that internal discord ravaged the Qin Dynasty, the era that produced the Terra Cotta Warriors. I wish that these obstructionists -- the politicians, bankers, doctors, lawyers, Republican tea-baggers, and Wall Street elite -- would realize that President Obama wants to sit with them on a bench where the coversation centers on what's good for our country. The good that could come from such a positive conversation would benefit you, me, and the homeless.

Like the water mill in Skovmollen, we can preserve the nobility of went before us without limiting the future.

Moroccan Argan Oil

Moroccan argan oil! Hmmmm, you ask, What does Moroccan argan oil have to do with Seven Remarkable People? The short answer is, absolutely nothing, per se. Whoa, there's a reason! The morning got away from me. Just too many moving parts.

So, probably on Monday, I'll write about my next Remarkable Person. In the meantime, though, I'd like to share with you what I've learned about argan oil: It works. (And if you already know this, please excuse my enthusiasm!)

I've got really dry skin and am always on the look-out for a cream or oil that does more than just glob on the surface. Well, about a month ago, I found a travel article about a goat and berry bushes and the argan nut that caught my attention.

In Morocco and parts of Egypt, there's a goat that thrives on the argan berry. The black goats jump, almost fly, into the rather large, rough-looking bush and eat the berries. (See photo, right.) The goats excrete the nuts. North African Berbers collect the nuts, clean them, then pulverize the nut to obtain the oil. This process, which has been on-going for long centuries, remains as it was in today's Morocco, where tourists and locals can buy the oil in small village shops or from vendors. For the commercial market, machines clean and pulverize the nuts. However, the product remains organic. And First Cold Press is best.

After reading the article, I thought back to a beautiful little container of oil I'd bought in Italy a couple of years ago. I'd wandered into a small, but pricey, boutique on a side street in Grado, and thinking I was sampling a scent, sprayed my wrist lightly. Instead, of a perfumed mist, though, a blob of oil splattered my wrist. And this turned out to be a stroke of good luck. After massaging my hands, the oil felt light, then lighter, and disappeared into a silky, really nice feeling. I bought the little jar.

But I couldn't open the jar and travel with it ... those airline rules ... so returned home, tucked the jar in my cabinet and forgot about it. After I read the argan/goat article, I raced for the jar, brought it to the pharmacist to check that the content hadn't spoiled (it hadn't), and began using the product. A week later, I couldn't believe my hands were actually mine. And I'm convinced a couple of crows feet have disappeared. (Humor me!)

Knowing I'd eventually run out,I ordered more from Amazon. (There's a variety product names.) Only $32.00 for 100ml (free shipping). What arrived is from Morocco and the same quality I purchased in Italy, at half the price for double the amount (I poured some of the new oil in the pretty little jar that turned out to be very expensive.) Next up: Shampoo.

Oh, almost forgot...when my argan oil arrived, I excitedly showed the bottle to my husband -- and was about to tell him how the oil came to be -- when he said, "Oh, that's the oil from that nut that a goat craps out." When we lived in Egypt, he saw these goats in some of the more remote villages.

Happy Birthday, Elvis!

Happy Birthday, Elvis! In my mind's eye, you look the same, still handsome, still rockin' and still swiveling.

Now, don't be offended, but I didn't know I was going to fall in love with you. Grade school was kinda young for that stuff. But, a bit later, oh, man, you got my hormones rockin'! Well, to be fair, the same thing happened to my girlfriends. We used to argue who would marry you, not that it was legal for girls our age to get married, except in Mississippi, where the legal age was 13. But, sigh, not in Louisiana, where we had to be 16. So we fantasized that, since Mississippi was close to Louisiana, you'd know we were Here and Somehow we'd end up in Mississippi, all married and happy. And to prove our loyalty, we turned the volume down real low when Pat Boone sang.

It didn't worry us girls one bit that you couldn't marry all of us. Because I knew, deep down, that once you saw Me, well, you wouldn't notice Melodie and Bitsy and the rest. And when Melodie announced, during a sleepover, that You were her True Love, I kept quiet, for I knew. That is, until Priscilla entered the picture. Sigh!

Okay, I'll admit it: I didn't know what jealousy was until you hooked up with Priscilla. I took your poster off my bedroom wall, rolled up your swiveling hips and stuck you and your pouty lips under my bed. On the other hand, Melodie ripped you off her wall, tore you into little pieces and stuffed you in the garbage can. Even her mom thought that was a bit much. She liked you. As did my mom. Maybe they even loved you. I don't know. Moms didn't talk much about love Back Then.

But, like Melodie and thousands - no, millions! - of others, I never stopped loving you. I love you today, your 75th birthday, as much as I ever did. And I keep your 78-RPM Christmas album nicely wrapped, in a box, in a chest where there's a copy of my marriage certificate. I'm sorry, Elvis, but it wouldn't have worked between us, not that way. But there are different kinds of love. And, when my husband and I went to Graceland some years ago, he fell into respect-love.

Our tour group started out happy and excited. By the time we exited your home and paid our individual respects before your grave, everyone was crying. We just couldn't help it. If the contributions you made to the music industry awed us, your creative genius muted us. And how you must have suffered, deep inside, pierced our hearts. We had grown up with you and hadn't known and silently wondered how this could have happened. I guess we were just all shook up with being young.
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Those of you who'd like to take a pictorial trip to New Orleans (and environs), please visit http://neworleansisrelentless.blogspot.com (I subscribe via e-mail). Jolie's photos, with little or no comment, speak volumes and offer something for everyone.
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I'm presently re-reading Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series and can't recommend it highly enough. Mr. Smith really is a philosopher. He writes about Life, through the most charming stories, and in the most entertaining, refreshing, feel-good way. You don't have ti read the stories in order, but I think it adds more to what you get out of the series. Enjoy! Enjoy! (His latest book is about London during WWII; I'm waiting for the paperback to add to my collection...hard to do, but won't be long.)
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My Remarkable People series should return around Tuesday or Wednesday. And, what's up is a Feel-good angel! XOXO, Kittie

Seneca and George Bush and Sarah Palin

On page 152 of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, one of Mary Ann Shaffer's characters states, "As Seneca says, 'Light griefs are loquacious, but the great are dumb.'" And this quote hit a responsive chord. (And you probably can guess Why.)

I remembered Seneca (also called Seneca the Younger) from an LSU lecture I didn't cut, but not much of the particulars, except that he was a Roman philosopher, one of the Stoics. So, thanks to Wikipedia, this is what I've bundled together:

Seneca, who lived from 4 BCE - AD 65, is thought by many to be the first great Western thinker, especially in regard to human relationships. As one of the Stoic Philosophers, he considered destructive emotions to be the result of errors in judgment...and the belief that it is virtuous to maintain a will that is in accord with nature. The Stoics presented their philosophy as a way of life, and they thought that the best indication of an individual's philosophy was not what a person said but how he behaved. (Wikipedia)

And, just as I was re-acquainting myself with the Stoics, I remembered Justinian I. ("Of course, Justinian!" I said to myself. "Where has my brain been?" Duh!) But back to Wikipedia for details: As the Eastern Roman Emperor in Constantinople (Istanbul), Justinian I or Justinian the Great (AD 483 - 565 AD) shut down all philosophy schools, including the Stoics, in 529 AD because he perceived their pagan character to be at odds with his Christian faith.

Now, without turning this simple blog into an historical outline (because much happened then), suffice it to say that Justinian I is considered a saint among Eastern Orthodox Christians, is commemorated by various Lutheran churches, is reviled by some as a 'cruel and incompetent ruler', and is respected by most for rewriting the Corpus Juris Civilis, the basis of civil law in modern states. (Wikipedia) Justinian's rule is also part of history's time line where the Roman Empire and the Byzantine Empire blur into one.

Justinian exercised the despot's self-righteousness to engage the Empire in two costly wars, in Carthage and the Kingdom of Italy, and build the very expensive Hagia Sophia Church.

Fun guy that he was, Justinian paid scant attention to the financial drain these wars cost, ignored the tactical error of splitting his troops, and didn't care that the construction of the costly Hagia Sophia Church drained coffers perilously low.

Because in the 540s the Bubonic Plague hit. And spread throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. People died in the thousands. The living stacked the dead on streets when cemeteries filled.

And because so many died, Justinian lost his tax base.

And because of this financial loss, the Empire he had somewhat succeeded in bringing together would decline. And a few wars would be lost to the marauding Arabs. And the church that would stand in glorious splendor for a couple of centuries, would become a mosque (Istanbul's Blue Mosque).

And Justinian's descendants wouldn't crawl out of this historical hole until the Ninth Century.

And the plague that hit would be known as the Plague of Justinian or Justinian's Plague.

And the reign of Justinian I would be known as a pivotal point in history.

I doubt that Bush thought about -- or knew about -- Justinian I when he invaded Iraq. I doubt that Sarah Palin and others in that self-absorbed and self-righteous circle realize that their verbal bites spread a plague that can pull the United States down.

Because these dysfunctional political hacks are a caricature of the loud loquaciousness Seneca warned against.

Shiloh and Meet Peter

Shiloh is a new beginning. It's great feeling better. (And I guess I shouldn't have whined yesterday, but, oh, what a challenging day...thanks for your get-well wishes. Trust me, they helped!) A visit to the internist said I had a massive ear infection, separate from the scratched cornea. The antibiotics kicked in during the night. Today seems, well, normal, without all that dizziness. But, I had to chuckle at myself...before going to bed I "straightened" the holiday candles in the family room...this morning they looked like little leaning Towers of Pisa!

Tomorrow or Friday will be Peter's Christmas story, a 1988 vintage story. I'm just going to jump into the story. So, a bit of set-up today. How my husband and I got to live in Nairobi, Kenya, for three years I'll leave for another day. (Actually, after you read about Peter, you'll see that there are "Nairobi stories" in the wings.)

Peter was our housekeeper. I know that sounds Grand; however, the reality was much needed local employment. We didn't really need or want a housekeeper. But, when word spread that new Americans had moved onto Chalbi Lane, we were inundated with resumes. (Anyone new would have generated the same employment push.)

In 1989, Kenya was (and remains somewhat) a country of contrasts. A very small middle class existed. Think Rich or Poor...with gradients on either side. (There is now a much larger middle class, with many living in Western-style townhouses, and who may not have housekeepers. However, a housekeeper position in Nairobi is still considered upscale employment among those other than the Kikuyu, the ethnic group/tribe that pretty much runs the city and looks down upon those not Kikuyu, making it difficult for people like Peter, a Luo, to obtain a government position.

Anyway, in a country with few factories, intense rivalries among the 54 ethnic groups, and a predominately tourist-based economy, the housekeeper position was (and is) considered coveted employment, with serious resume and interview competition.

Since the dollar was high and we'd be living off the local economy, finances expanded to afford Peter's salary, a very high salary, higher than what a government employee made. We also paid into the national health care program and so on. And, once a month a representative from the National Labor Board visited the premises to ensure that everyone involved honored the contracts entered into. This contract included living quarters for Peter on the premises, which, for our particular house (Think: colonial), were attractive (Think: studio apartment) and included running water and electricity at no cost to Peter.

Peter was 50 years old, spoke four languages (but, as we later learned, most Kenyans speak four languages: Kiswahili, English, and two or more tribal languages) and had an impressive resume from working in the international community. Peter promised to "protect the house", an uspoken service a housekeeper provided.

Africans lived in the majority of houses on Chalbi Lane, with a sprinkling of Indians and foreign nationals like us. Not to hire a housekeeper would mean our house would be the only house on Chalbi Lane, actually a very long street, without a housekeeper. This would be totally unacceptable to Kenyans, where individuality takes a back seat to the collective effort. With so many looking for work, it was our responsibility to hire a housekeeper. End of discussion.

Behind our house was the opening of what city planners had hoped would be a park. But, squatters had long occupied the open land, constructing one-room dwellings out of mis-matched, scavenged materials that somehow remained standing. Packed dirt roads, narrow and filled with deep holes, meandered through this community of 10,000 or so inhabitants that backed onto Chalbi Lane (and looked much like you see on TV). Small stores, dukas, with comparable, over-priced 7-11 items dotted neighborhoods.

This community lacked comprehensive electricity and running water. Those dukas and houses that backed to our fence had found a way to tap into our electricity and share that luxury (charging a price for sharing). Our electricity bills were beyond belief; our employer said, "Let it go," and paid the bills without complaint.

And, so, I'd sometimes accompany Peter into the village behind us, along the widened path turned into a mini road that ran parallel to one side of our house. I'd decided that to get along, I'd have to go along and that, whenever possible, we'd buy vegetables, soft drinks, and so on from the merchants in the village. They appreciated the business and, after several months, prices didn't require the lengthy bargaining common to Kenya (and other African countries). However, relations didn't really cement until some children, totos, kicked a soccer ball that deflated when it bounced onto the barbed wire/spiked glass atop our fence. I bought them a new ball. The village chief took this opportunity to get the kids to play in another area...small delivery trucks turned into the village, to the left of where the kids played and would dart out...and, so, everyone was pleased.

Especially Peter. He liked to brag that he worked in a house "with a good name". Unfortunately, this bragging usually occurred in the village bar. Peter had a serious binge-drinking problem that he had hidden during the hiring process. With my husband traveling elsewhere in Africa most of the time and with me being the only other occupant in the house, Peter had quickly figured out that there really wasn't much for him to do. But when there was work to do, Peter was often drunk (a happy drunk, but still drunk) or nursing a hangover. Even the Labor Board rep had said I should fire Peter.

But every time I came close to doing so, Mama Mary, his senior wife, would show up at the house, holding a fat, gurgling baby. Mama Mary couldn't have children. She had "disappeared" for nine months, only to re-appear with this baby. Peter told me she had paid $200.00 for the baby, which, they then said was Peter's child, and, so, legally it was. This news, of course, shocked me...because the baby wasn't adopted; the child, a girl, had been bought outright. Peter said buying a boy would be too much. (Another gasp!) But the deed was done, a common deed in parts of Africa I soon learned, and Mama Mary would plead with me not to fire Peter because he really did send money to his family.

I knew this to be true and, so, Peter remained (my husband agreed, for work was difficiult to find, with so many dependent upon a paycheck) and life went on...until Peter couldn't resist that bar...one never knew when this would happen...two days later...two weeks later...three months later...and the cycle would begin again.


Peter also possessed one of those upbeat, happy personalities that could sell snow to an Eskimo. He was smart, very smart, and could solve problems/resolve situations (that seem to abound in Africa) with efficiency and diplomacy. And not just for my husband and me. He had a reputation among the Kenyans as a fair, honest person, so much so that they often forgave him individual loans for changa, the local, potent brew, that Peter had run up. Everyone recognized Peter's problem which was, in essence, Africa's problem. But we'll talk about that another day.


In the meantime, Peter's personality was such that when I asked him what he wanted for Christmas, his answer really, really surprised me.