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Democracies Die When Elections Don’t Matter

Is our democracy at risk? Many recent discussions have focused on that issue with questions about the meaning of “democracy.” This set me off looking for a definition, but it turns out that the concept is not entirely straightforward. I found not a single definition, but varying ones.

One dictionary said democracy was “government by the people, especially rule of the majority; government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections.” Another source said: “a system of government by the whole population of all the eligible members of a state, typically through elected representatives.” A third source: “the belief in freedom and equality between people, or a system of government based on this belief, in which power is held by elected representatives or directly by the people themselves.”

          These definitions raised all sorts of questions in my mind. Democracy is government by “the people,” but what is the definition of “the people”? Is it the same as “the eligible members of a state”? The whole population cannot vote in an election; Ten-year-olds don’t get to cast a ballot. Isn’t it important to define what the “eligible members of a state” ought to be for a democracy? If the franchise is restricted to a tiny part of the society, but the leaders are picked by majority vote of that small group, is it a democracy? I guess it is, at least according to one definition, but not in my mind.

          One democracy definition emphasized majority rule, but I have heard of the “tyranny of the majority,” and wondered if we would consider a country democratic that horrendously oppressed or denied access to the ballot to all those not in the majority. (“No democracy can long survive which does not accept as fundamental to its very existence the recognition of the rights of minorities.” Franklin D. Roosevelt.) And, if a system selects representatives with a plurality but not a majority, is it not democratic or is it a lesser form of democracy?

          One democracy definition said “free elections.” That is not a self-evident phrase. I was not sure how I would define it, or if it could be defined except by negative examples.

          Even though I felt as if I would know a democracy when I saw it, I was not sure that it could be defined. Part of the problem is that the definitions, like most definitions, were binary—something was either this or not this. Something was not “sort of” this or a “better or more complete version” of that.

          The third definition included a component the others did not when it said a democracy was a system of government based on the belief of equality among people. It seems to me that one facet of a better democracy is that the ability to vote is widespread, indicating equality among the people, and that all voters’ votes count the same, again indicating equality among the people. The elected representatives of the society are then chosen by determining who had the most votes cast in an election where all the voters have equal access to cast ballots and all votes carry equal weight.

          I also noticed an important absence in all the definitions. They had agreed that a representative democracy had the electorate picking people to represent them in government. But the definitions do not say that the people or the electorate choose the form of government in which their representatives will govern. But surely, the structure of the government has something to do with democracy. And “democratic” countries can be structured in ways that seem to make them more or less democratic. The U.S. Constitution contains many non-democratic features which assure that all votes do not have equal weight. One example: Because each state selects two Senators the votes in small states count more in constituting the Senate than votes in large states.

          But even so, I think that most people believe that in a democracy elections matter. We, the People, no matter how we define the People, should be able to change those who represent us through our elections, and therefore voting is important. Of course, that is frequently not true in our country. Our presidential elections are an example.

          I vote in New York, but it is clear long before the voting who will win the presidential race in my state. The result will be the same whether I or ten thousand others vote or not. The election is a mere formality and voting in a New York presidential race does not really matter. Instead, the relative handful of “swing” state voters actually control who will be president. Their votes count a lot more than mine, and a basic principle of democracy is undercut.

But now there are movements to make many more elections mere formalities, and they present basic threats to our democracy.

(continued Dec. 20.)

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Snippets

The paper bag from the food shop had printed on it “Established Since 1914.” Does that convey a different message from “Established 1914”?

The movie was labeled PG. The caution was for “rude humor.” I was surprised, for in my experience starting at two years, five months, and four days, kids are inordinately fond of rude humor.

I know that the headline is not really funny, but still: “Volunteer Dies After a Sheep Charges at Her on a Therapy Farm.”

Since assertions without substantiation are now widely accepted, it is time for me to make at least one: Unvaccinated children who get Covid, no matter how mild, run an increased risk of developing later-occurring autism. Please feel free to pass it along.

Did you find the World Chess Championship as heart stoppingly exciting as I did? Were you surprised that the best chess player is Norwegian?

Surely you found the end of the Formula One season extraordinary.

If those two events did not capture your attention, did the win by Miss India captivate you?

Or are you just surprised what some people get passionate about?

“There are still mysteries.” Kevin Young, Bunk: The Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, and Fake News.

The tornadoes, of course, decimated power poles and lines and left many communities without electricity. And, in a cruel twist, a tornado wiped out a candle factory. Does the Deity have a dark sense of humor?

Covid has made my doctors’ visits better and worse. To have waiting rooms less crowded, appointments seem to be more spread out, and I am seen more promptly now. On the other hand, the waiting room tables are now kept clear, and I don’t get the chance to thumb through eighteen-month-old magazines I don’t otherwise look at.

‘Tis the season: Athletes get athletes foot, but astronauts get missile toe.

It was the night before the twenty-fifth reunion. A group had assembled at a tavern that was a hangout in the years after the high school graduation. Marty went up to the bar. Marty had been a middling student. Marty had been a middling athlete. But Marty had moved high up the executive chain in a local corporation and was a semi-bigwig in the small community. Marty ordered a beer. The bartender turned to get the ordered bottle. Marty put $10 down. But then after the briefest of moments, as the bartender turned to uncap the bottle, Marty looked around to see if anyone was watching, but did not see me. He put his hand over the bill, palmed it, and put it in his pocket. Then somewhat conspicuously he went to his wallet and laid down a $100 bill on the middle of the bar.

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Dinner with Mom and Dad (Guest Post from the NBP concluded)

When dinner was over it was usually close to my bedtime and bedtime was the best time of the day! It was the ultimate kid time—catered completely to and for me—with the goal of accomplishing my favorite activity in the universe: sleep! Each of my parents would come in and say goodnight to me in their own special way, but they did it one at a time. I had each one all to myself. Snuggling down into my comfy jammies, I got to listen to stories and songs. For a while there I even got to suck my thumb.[1]

I made my parents wear out copies of many children’s books: Good Night Moon; The Very Hungry Caterpillar; Horton Hears a Who!; Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (every day for me); The Mitten; Millions of Cats; Amos and Boris (one of my mom’s favorite’s); Where the Wild Things Are; Alexander and the Wind Up Mouse; Frederick; The Six Little Possums and the Babysitter (another of my mom’s faves); Ox-Cart Man; Caps for Sale; The Velveteen Rabbit (William T. Bear hated that one); Beatrix Potter, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein. There was also Roald Dahl and the series featuring George and Martha hippopotami. I was also friendly with Lyle Crocodile, Babar, Corduroy, Frog and Toad, and the Berenstain Bears.[2]

My mom invented her own story series, which she did off the cuff. The main character was Little Green Frog, which, of course, was me, and her best friend was Myrtle the Turtle. They had lots of adventures and ate lily pads for cookies. Little Green Frog’s mom and dad were Mommy Purple Frog and Daddy Purple Frog. I loved those stories and regrettably don’t remember any of them. Mom would let me contribute to the plots, so one night I made my mom kill off Mommy Purple Frog and learned that Little Green Frog would be taken care of by Daddy Purple Frog. The next night Daddy PF instead of Mommy PF made the hit list, and Mommy PF took over. The next night I had her kill off both of them, and there was still a back-up! Aunt Orange Frog took over. So, I killed her off, too, and then I was sent to Grandma Green Frog and so on and so forth until we had run through several branches of the family tree, which seemed to blossom exuberantly, somewhat assuaging my fears of being alone and unadopted. Confusingly, I was never handed off to a reptilian babysitter….…

Little Green Frog stories were usually way cheerier than those death spirals. Also, my mom had magic mom powers, and sometimes, if I were unusually tense, she would rub my back and my head and tell me to calm my breathing. Then she might sing me a song or two or three. Sometimes my dad would take the mic and sing to me (in his own soothing, tone-deaf way). His songs were always super comforting to me, too, and I never wanted them to end.

Bedtime was kid time. Pure and simple. No thinking or action required on my part. It was when my parents came down to my level. These were the times my imagination was let out to pasture (counting sheep that could leap and leap). It was a special time completely designed for me. I remember it with great fondness.

[1] Quitting thumb-sucking is like quitting smoking; One needs to be in the right mind-frame. I became resolved to quit after a visit to the dentist where he told me and my mom that if I didn’t quit, I’d push my two front teeth out so much that I’d need braces or forever look like a beaver. That was the incentive I needed. I quit cold turkey. The worst flashbacks and slip-ups occurred watching Disney’s animated Robin Hood, because the wimpy lion of a Prince John sucks his thumb, and he makes it look soooooooo comforting. I improved on his technique though improvising on my own: when I sucked my thumb I would also curve my index finger around the tip of my nose and pet it. And zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz………

[2] All these books meant so much to me that when I was in college, I went out and rebought the entire collection. Ahem, yes, a certain parent was socially responsible and into educating other children so donated the majority of my childhood stuff as it was deemed too young for me.

On September 1, 2021, the NBP posted “Non-Binary Tennis.” Search Results for “Non-Binary Tennis” – AJ’s Dad (ajsdad.blog). On October 8, AJ posted “Toy Retreat.” Search Results for “Toy Retreat” – AJ’s Dad (ajsdad.blog.)  They are worth reading.

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Dinner with Mom and Dad (Guest Post from the NBP)

I was about 6 or 7 at the time. Even at that tender age, life was confusing to me. Excessively shy, I spoke to no one at school. That seemed to be all right with my classmates who couldn’t decide whether I was a boy or a girl…well, neither could I. They mostly ignored me. So, in short, schooldays were a trial. Nighttime, however, was different—sort of.

During the time that I was imprisoned in school, both Mom and Dad were at an apparently wonderful place called “work.” But come early evening, the clang of the front gate and the opening and closing of the front doors heralded the arrival of the evening ritual. A parent, usually my father, would be home.

 Upon return from a hard day’s work in Candy Land, my dad would greet me, say goodnight to the babysitter/housekeeper, and head directly to the kitchen to start dinner, leaving me to blissfully continue watching The Fresh Prince of Bel Air or whatnot, and in “off” mode. Shortly thereafter, the second clanging signaled the return of Mom who called out a hearty “Hello” and retired upstairs to the kitchen for her much-earned post-work “decompression treats”—a Marlborough Light 100 and a cocktail (just like Don Draper!). I was still downstairs watching Willy from Philly but I could hear the talk talk talking begin. They would talk about their day, politics, international debt, the Twizzlers’ quarterly report, I don’t know what.

My parents are smart people. They were both professors. I‘m pretty sure I learned the alphabet from their various degrees and titles—A.B., B.A., J.D., LL.M., M.A., Ph.D., Dr., Esq. My father taught law and my mother taught biology and did neuroimmunological research (whatever that is). But they are also historians, mathematicians, political scientists, social scientists, religious historians, logicians, librarians, and all-around cultural aficionados, who are interested in everything (even the Twizzlers’ supply chain)…and it’s exhausting. They are the epitome of smart in my eyes, and it is harrowing to grow up amidst people of such smartosity (smartosity? Yeah, good word). My parents could and would seemingly talk about any subject in depth, and they were capable of what seemed to me to be astounding logical reasoning, assessment, and analysis. They spoke a different language, a version of English that not even Mr. Rogers spoke. So, the prospect of dinner and its accompanying table conversation was daunting.

Anyway, in the kitchen, as if they needed more nerd juice, they would be joined by The PBS Newshour correspondents MacNeil and Lehrer.[1] In hindsight I’m proud that my family was so non-traditional that my dad would don the apron while my mom would get her Don on, though that was normal for me at the time. Oh boy though, while I was hearing their voices intermingled with MacNeil’s and Lehrer’s, my heartrate started to rise because I knew it was coming… my summons: “Dinner!”

At dinner, while they discoursed on everything from the physics of pinwheels to the philosophies of Plato (not to be confused with Play-Doh), I would play with my food, pretending my broccoli stalks were a bunch of little trees and I was a brontosaurus munching down the forest. Nom! Nom! Nom!

Their gift of gab and their cerebral fusion was advantageous to me because I didn’t have to say much of anything. They could get swept away in their own conversations, ones which always seemed to be in that foreign language and weren’t meant for child consumption anyway: GDP, GOP, GOD, it was all the same to me. At that very tender age, though, I thought I should be able to use the word republican (in a negative, but, of course, very objective way), but I only envisioned that this pelican-dinosaur hybrid had mighty beaks, talons, and a huge wingspan. It was handy for me that my parents gabbed on and on; it left me and my republican free to forage and roam in The Broccoli Forest.

But it was going to happen. There was inevitably going to be that question. It’s such a zinger that I have to screw up my courage even to write it down. Truth to tell, any question to me was disconcerting because the spotlight would turn towards me, and I hated the spotlight.

But the question was going to be asked. Here it comes now…………..

“HOW ARE YOU!?”

DUN DUN DUNNNNNN!

And now I’m yanked out of The Broccoli Forest and shoved into the interrogation chair. 

Oy vey, “How are you?”—this three-worded question completely confounded and dumbfounded me. That I didn’t know how I was, couldn’t even begin to think how I was, made me feel that the most appropriate answer was, “Stupid,” which I didn’t want to admit. So I lied and responded monosyllabically, “Ok,” when what I meant to say was, “I’m a stupid little ball of death today, thank you for asking. Now leave me alone.” But I wasn’t that eloquent (nor polite enough to say thank you) and wouldn’t have been able to muster “little ball of death” at the time because I had no vocabulary for what I felt nor was I assertive enough to request being left alone. I’m not ok, I wasn’t ok, I never was ok, but how could I say that? How could I put that into words? How could I tell my parents?

Instead, when the conversation spotlight rounded on me, it went something like this:

Dad: And how are you doin’, kiddo?

Me: Ok.

Mom: How was school today?

Me: Ok.

Mom: Did anything in particular happen?

Me: Uh uh.

Dad: Did you do any art today?

Me: Uh huh. Draw.
            Dad: What did you draw?

Me: Shapes and colors.

Mom: Do you like dinner tonight?

Me: Eh.

And here’s where I get to show my verbal acuity: “It’s better than stir fry.”

And so forth and so on until my parents gave up.

When I felt that the spotlight was about to shift in my direction, my emotional spikes immediately bristled. As the spotlight dejectedly faded away, those spikes relaxed, and the rest of me went back to playing in The Broccoli Forest.

My parents wanted to know of my wellbeing, and bless their huge hearts, they tried. They wanted to know what happened in school, how my day was, what I was studying, if I had made any friends (ha!)—stuff parents want to know about—but that was information I just couldn’t provide them. I would get angry with my parents for trying to Drano me, unclog me with all these questions to which I had no answer.

Sometimes at the dinner table, feeling overwhelmed, I would blow a fuse…gastrointestinally speaking. I would oftentimes get horrific stomachaches. In those cases, which were not what you’d call rare, I told my parents that my stomach was “stabby,” and then I would get up from my chair and get down on my spot on the Oriental rug underneath the dining room table where I gleefully curled up into a little ball of pain. I’m sure my parents were concerned (I do remember having to actually go to a gastroenterologist), but allowed me this puppy-like behavior recognizing, I guess, that I needed it.

Under the table, in fetal position, I would be oddly content (though in physical pain) listening to my parents’ continuing conversation, and I would be overwhelmingly comforted and feel as safe as I’ve ever felt. Just hearing them, being near them, and having their voices blurring together in the background was of the utmost comfort…when I know I was completely sheltered from the probing question spotlight. That I could just be near my parents and listen to their intonations and the timbre of their voices but not have to actually try and translate what they were saying gave me a feeling of utmost security and downright coziness. I loved my spot on that carpet because it was mindless, and for the most part, my only thoughts were on physical pain, which was much more manageable than mental pain.

[1] Actually, I thought it was just Mr. MacNeil Lehrer, and he was one big brainiac of a guy. He was a major figure in our household—like my parents’ Big Bird.

(Concluded December 13)

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It’s a Miracle (concluded)

Miracle on 34th Street differs from many Christmas movies because it is a subtly subversive film. Not many movies of the era had the female lead portraying a divorced, working, single mother. And her work was not that of a secretary or nurse. Instead, she is successful in a high-powered job. Nevertheless, she also has what was not seen in other movies, the difficulty a single mom had (and has) in obtaining childcare, and that is why, of course, she accepts neighbor Fred Gailey’s assistance in looking after Susan (Natalie Wood). The established order of 1947 may have pretended that divorced, working mothers did not exist, but this reality is front and center in Miracle on 34th Street.

The movie slyly subverts in many other ways, including the delightful martini scene where a man gets his wife quite tipsy in order to ask a favor or when Kris asks the precocious Susan if she knows what the imagination is, and she replies, “Oh, sure. That’s when you see things, but they’re not really there.” Kris Kringle replies, “Well, that can be caused by other things, too.” Or when Mr. Shellhammer, the Macy’s executive wistfully hopes that Kris Kringle is not grievously nuts: “But . . . but maybe he’s only a little crazy like painters or composers or . . . some of those men in Washington.”

The movie satirizes psychology, of course, but Kris Kringle is subverting something broader than that. The movie is questioning the reactions of many to those who do not conform to the established norms. Kringle’s answers to several simple but hardly important questions are amusing but also are a challenge to an established order that asks such questions routinely. How old is he? On his employment card he writes, “As old as my tongue and slightly older than my teeth.” And at his sanity trial District Attorney Mara asks Kris, “Where do you live?” He replies, “That’s what this hearing will decide.” (I learned from Kringle in his examination by the psychologist that Daniel D. Tompkins was vice-president under James Monroe, a factoid I tried hard to work into many conversations including with friends with whom we used to have Christmas dinner who lived in the Staten Island Tompkinsville section, named for Daniel D.)

At first glance, the psychologist may appear to the bad guy at the heart of the movie, but I think the film appealed to me because it is really the “system,” not an individual, being challenged. Those who put Kris on trial are not bad people but people merely doing their jobs. Kris is not rebelling against them but against something more pervasive. As he says, “Oh, Christmas isn’t just a day. It’s a frame of mind, and that’s what’s been changing.” And: “Seems we’re all so busy trying to beat the other fellow in making things go faster and look shinier and cost less that Christmas and I are sort of getting lost in the shuffle.” It is something much broader than an individual like Scrooge or Bailey that needs changing.

The most subversive statement comes not from Kris but from Alfred, the young man cleaning the locker room: “There’s a lot of bad ‘isms’ floating around this world and one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn, it’s the same—don’t care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck.” The ‘ism’ mentioned is not communism, fascism, or socialism, but, although  does not say it, capitalism, surely a statement subverting the social order of 1947 of the post-World War II and nascent Cold War era. And ever since.

It isn’t fascism or communism that Kris feels as oppressive, and it is not those ideologies that put him on trial. What subtly appealed to me on a level I did not realize when I first fell in love with it, is that the movie is a rebellion against the prevailing order, and from my boyhood until today part of me has wanted to be a similar rebel, which I have only fitfully managed to do.

However, Kris and his defender Fred Gaily are sweet, not destructive, rebels, for the movie has its traditional side. It is also a movie about faith and belief, although faith and belief in what is not defined. Thus, Susan Walker says “I believe. . . I believe. . . It’s silly, but I believe.” And Fred Gailey, later to be repeated by Doris Walker, pronounces, “Faith is believing when common sense tells you not to.”

 This, too, appealed to me. I never knew what I wanted to have faith or belief in, but I wanted to have a faith and belief. And at the end of the movie when the cane is spotted in a room of the envisioned house, I perhaps, too, like Susan, had a spot of belief.

This year I will again watch Miracle on 34th Street, although I plan to wait until nearer Christmas to do it. I am planning a new holiday viewing schedule for myself. I am going to watch all the Christmas shows that I can and that I have not seen before to see what else is out there. I have already started this project and have watched A Boy Called Christmas, A Castle for Christmas, Jingle Jangle, and A Sherlock Carol. (Unfortunately, the performance I was planning to attend of Golden Girls Live! Christmas Show was cancelled because of a cast member’s illness.) Surely there are enough unwatched-by-me Christmas shows to fill up December. The heavier fare can wait until next year. Maybe such watching can squelch all feelings of Bah Humbug, which is a major goal for the end of this year. (Some old movies, of course, might still slip in. A few scenes, for example, from Elf are always welcome.) If I carry out this project, perhaps I will report on it later.

 But I will conclude my viewing with Miracle on 34th Street, saving the best for las

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It’s a Miracle

          For most of my life, I did not feel as if it were truly the Christmas season until I saw it again. In the many years before VCRs, DVRs, and Netflix, I would carefully examine the weekly TV lists in the Sunday papers until I found its time, for there always was at least one time that it was shown. Then I would plan my schedule to make sure that I could see it. This is why I have seen Miracle on 34th Street more than any other movie—the black and white version made in 1947. I was never disappointed. When I was a child, this Wisconsin boy liked what seemed to be real exterior shots of exotic New York City and footage of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade with balloons that now looked quaint.      

The movie, however, made me something of an activist. The film was colorized and that version, to my horror, was the only one I could find to watch one year. My distress increased because it had dropped a scene, a key one with a bit appearance by Jack Albertson in the post office sorting room. I dashed off a letter to the TV station decrying the bastardization. I am still waiting for a response, but, to my relief, I could find the original version in later years. (I know there is a remake, but I have not seen it. Why watch it when the original is close to perfection?)

          My seasonal quest was in place when I linked up with the spouse in my twenties. We sat down to watch it in our first Christmas season together, and I found out that she had not seen it. To help her grasp the magic of The Miracle on 34th Street, I told her that the actor playing Kris Kringle had made only this one movie, and she, with the wide-eyed trust of early love, believed my jest. (N.B.: I have never, ever tried in earnest to mislead the spouse, he protested too much.) When years later she saw Edmund Gwenn in another movie, she was, how to put it, put out, but our marriage somehow survived if only by the slenderest of heartstrings. (Gwenn, of course, was in many movies, but he got his only Academy Award for playing Kris.)

          I don’t remember when I first saw the movie, but I have a memory of having read the story in Scholastic or some other school magazine before seeing its depiction. However, I have not trusted the recollection. It seemed unlikely that a screenplay would have been part of my grade school reading. On the other hand, I have recently learned that the story was novelized when the movie came out and editions of it were being printed when I was a schoolboy. So, perhaps, it did get excerpted in something I read when I was ten or twelve.  (Valentine Davies wrote the story of Miracle, for which he won an academy award. Davies, who died at 55 in 1961, wrote the screenplays of many successful movies and a Writers Guild award is named after him.)

          I have tried to figure out why the movie appeals to me much more than other classics, such as White Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Life, and A Christmas Carol, all which—and many other holiday films—I have enjoyed. Of course,  Miracle is well acted with heavyweight Hollywood stars in the lead roles—Maureen O’Hara, John Payne, Natalie Wood, and, of course, Gwenn—with actors in the character roles whose names I did not always know but I recognized from many films and TV shows. It has some touching scenes. When Kris speaks in her native language with the little, WWII-displaced Dutch girl who has come to see Santa, I invariably tear up. That said, the movie, in my opinion, does have one major flaw—it’s pro-suburban bias. The cute-as-a-button little girl and the aspiring lawyer want to move out of New York City to, of all places, Long Island. I can’t imagine how any sensible person would have wanted to give up their apartments overlooking the parade route and Central Park, especially when, in those days, apartments were hard to find and might have been rent-controlled.

          However, I have always overlooked this gigantic flaw in the plot, and on my twentieth or thirtieth watching, I started again to wonder why I was especially drawn to this Christmas classic. I realized that this movie was different from the holiday films that have the characters overcoming obstacles so that loved ones (and family) can celebrate the joyous times, films such as White Christmas, and Home Alone, and the various rom-coms where lovers have to learn they are right for each other in time for Christmas.

Miracle is also fundamentally different from the films of personal transformation or even resurrection, such as It’s a Wonderful Life or the many adaptations and derivatives of A Christmas Carol. (At least one of the actors of Miracle on 34th Street, the marvelous Gene Lockhart, who plays the judge, also appeared in a filmed version of A Christmas Carol, playing Bob Cratchit.) Doris Walker (Maureen O’Hara) does change in the course of the movie, but it is not the result of supernatural beings or forces as in many other Christmas movies. She instead gets a renewed appreciation of life that grows out of human interactions and observations that all of us could experience. But even though Doris’s new outlook is important to the film, it is not really the core of the movie.

(concluded December 8)

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Snippets

The headline referred to “corporate profiteers.” Isn’t that redundant?

Do the French call it the English Channel?

A hockey player was suspended for slew footing. Slew footing must be the greatest name ever for a sports infraction. Surely baseball’s balk, basketball’s charge, soccer’s offside, and football’s pass interference don’t measure up. (But false start has some potential on the colorful front.) I am not a great hockey fan and don’t believe that I have ever seen it, but I gather slew footing is dangerous. When I first heard of slew footing, I did not know that it was a hockey term and assumed that it was something that happened in a Harlan County holler.

I like Christmas carols, or at least most of them. However, I could live happily if I only heard The Twelve Days of Christmas once in a season, or perhaps not at all. And it contravenes the Christmas spirit to give someone 78 gifts.

Knitting seems magical to me. How do those two needles and a ball of yarn construct something that stays together in a useful shape?

I assumed that the Michigan school shooter was not Black when I realized that Fox News was not running wall-to-wall coverage of the killings.

I have seen reports that the country is having an increase in murders. Another way to say this is that the increase in firearm killings that began under President Trump continues.

I like manatees. I have swum with manatees. But I don’t believe that they exist. They are not mentioned, not even once, in the Bible.

I read the Bible fairly often. I have read much Shakespeare and have seen many performances of his plays. Yet, to my deep regret, I can quote from memory little of the Bible or Shakespeare.

“What men usually ask of God when they pray is that two and two not make four.” Anonymous.

“The formula ‘Two and two make five’ is not without its attractions.” Dostoevsky.

“The handwriting on the wall may be a forgery.” Ralph Hodgson.

A topic for further consideration: The grounds upon which the Supreme Court narrows or overrules Roe v. Wade are crucial. If the Court decides that women do not have a constitutional right to abortion, states can pass laws that allow women to terminate pregnancies. If the Court says that a fetus is a human being with rights, then states could not allow abortions.

“He is a prince.” Doesn’t sound derogatory. But compare: “She is a princess.”

I adopted an Asian child. They take care of their parents in old age.

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PlaceMap (concluded)

The islands labeled on my map-placement that most intrigue me are those that I have never or barely heard of–for example, the Revillagigedo Islands. Wikipedia tells me that they are four volcanic islands in the Pacific about 300 miles off the coast of Baja California and are “under Mexican federal property and jurisdiction.” (I don’t know what that means.) The islands were uninhabited when Europeans came across these lands, but a naval station now has a staff of 45 on one of them.

Clipperton Island I have now learned (and will soon forget) is about five hundred miles southeast of one of the islands of the Revillagigedo archipelago. Maybe that would give you an idea where it is, but if not, it is about 600 miles southwest of Mexico, if that helps. It has not had inhabitants since the end of World War II, but about 100 people lived there in 1914 to mine guano deposits. By 1917, all but one of the males had died of scurvy and bloodshed. Several novels have been written about Clipperton. I have not read them; if you have and would recommend any, give a shoutout. The atoll is now an overseas state private property of France. (I don’t know what that means either

My eye has been drawn to the placement section labeled Crozet Islands. I am looking in the southern Indian ocean closer to Antarctica than any place sensible. My intensive five-minute research tells me that the islands were whaling and sealing centers in the nineteenth century, and now two dozen people are stationed there doing meteorological, biological, and geological research. I do not fantasize about a visit. The average highs during summer are about fifty degrees, and while it seldom gets extremely cold, it rains 300 days a year and winds exceeding sixty mph occur one in three days. Do the handful of researchers consider this a good posting?

Amsterdam Island, roughly in the same part of the world as the Crozet Islands, is about equidistant between Madagascar, Antarctica, and Australia, which, of course, is another description for the middle of nowhere. A Spaniard first came across the then uninhabited dot in 1522, but he was not even impressed with it enough to give it a name, which came a hundred years later when a Dutch mariner named the island after his ship. (Did he not have a mother?) Amsterdam Island, too, was once a sealing center; it, too, does not have a native population; and it, too, has a research station with a couple dozen people. It, however, might be a better place to study whatever they study than Crozet. It has a mild, oceanic climate, with average highs in the 50s to near 70 degrees Fahrenheit.

St. Paul Island is Amsterdam’s neighbor, only 60 miles away. (There are other St. Paul Islands around the world, including one north of Cape Breton.) Amsterdam Island is ten times the size of St. Paul, but that doesn’t say much since Amsterdam is only twenty-one square miles. I can’t imagine what it is like to live on two square miles of land in the middle of the ocean, and apparently no one else knows either because St. Paul does not even have a research station and is uninhabited.

Even more remote—“one of the most isolated places on Earth”—are the Kerguelen Islands in the sub-Antarctic, but the main island is comparatively large, about two-thirds the size of Corsica. The weather “harsh and chilly with frequent high winds” surrounded by seas that “are generally rough.” Even though the Kerguelens are also known as the Desolation Islands, about five or six dozen soldiers, engineers, and scientists are there conducting research.

The Kerguelen Islands may be remote and isolated, but the Heard Islands are even closer to Antarctica and—surprise, surprise—uninhabited. However, 150 years ago up to 200 people “living in appalling conditions in dark smelly huts” were there until they wiped out the seal population. Not surprisingly, the “meteorological records at Heard Island are incomplete,” but what is known does not indicate an enticing climate.

The Heard Islands are followed on my placemat by the legend (Aust.) and the Amsterdam, St. Paul, and Kerguelen Islands are followed by (Fr.) while (U.K.) appends St. Helena. These are not the only countries who “own” remote, uninhabited specks. My eye scans the map, and I quickly see N.Z., India, Japan, U.S., Port., Sp., Mex., Ec. Den., Nor., and more. I am sure that many of these places present some sort of adventure or political story, contain unusual flora and fauna, and are the site of important research, but my little bit of reading has not made me want to seek them out. I realize that I live on an island and travel frequently to another isle. While both are familiar each also contain new stories and sights that continue to fascinate me. I don’t need to visit those specks on my map.

On the other hand, Aruba, with a status I don’t understand—it is a “constituent country” of the Kingdom of the Netherlands—has an average high of 86 degrees in January with infrequent rain. Some might consider this more pleasant than the winter weather of Long Island and Manhattan.

Posted on by rjonakait

PlaceMap

          The colorful, plastic-coated placemat I often eat from at first looks as if it should have an ad for a tree stump removal business in one corner, a maze to be traced with a crayon, another ad for a gun shop, and a Bible verse in the center, but this placemat was not pilfered from my local diner. I bought it at the wonderful Roadside America, a miniature village housed in an old dancehall off a Pennsylvania interstate. The tourist attraction was then for sale, and now, sadly, closed. When I was there, it looked as if it needed all the support it could get, so I decided I would buy something from the gift shop. I had trouble selecting among the sparse and tired-looking wares. I finally decided on a couple of “Painless Learning Placemats.”

          One has a Mercator projection of the earth in black and white with all the country boundaries inked in but no labels on one side, and on the other has the same map with the countries colored with one of four colors and each nation labeled. (Apparently the placemat’s designer wished to give another example of the famous four-color map theorem that says no more than four colors are needed to color the regions of a map so no two adjacent regions have the same color. Go ahead. Try coloring in a map and see if this is right. The theorem has a controversial proof, but we can leave that for another day.)

          I could use this table covering to improve my knowledge. I might test myself by trying to remember what countries border Burkina Faso or whether St. Lucia is north or south of St. Kitts or Barbados, but I have not done that. My ignorance has remained even though I have been looking at this map-placemat for several years.

What mostly draws my attention to the placemat are not the continental countries, but the little specks of land dotted in the oceans. These islands fascinate me. This may have come about by the boyish, romantic imaginations of what life was like for the exiles and castaways marooned on remote islands. Of course, there was Napoleon and his first exile on Elba. I learned early the famous palindrome “Able was I ere I saw Elba,” but I had little idea where it was. I knew that Napoleon escaped this island and led armies once more, which all seemed wildly adventurous. I knew that later he was again exiled, this time to St. Helena, which was chosen because its remoteness made escape much harder. From my placemat map I now see that St. Helena is in the South Atlantic about halfway between Brazil and Angola. Yep: it would be a long swim to Paris.

          When I thought of Napoleon’s exiles, I assumed that the emperor had the run of Elba or St. Helena and was not confined to a prison such as on Alcatraz or Devil’s Island. The image of Napoleon at St. Helena did not conjure up thoughts of Dreyfuss, Papillon, or the Bird Man but of Robinson Crusoe, the shipwrecked castaway on an island off the Venezuela coast. Well…it did until I tried to read Daniel Defoe’s book. I was expecting an adventure story along the lines of the Count of Monte Cristo (fun read). Instead, I encountered ponderous prose trying to make theological points, which I think boiled down to “it is good to be a Christian,” although it was never clear what the book meant by “Christian.” Before reading Robinson Crusoe, I thought that the book was primarily about the relationship between the castaway and Friday, and I kept awaiting the native’s appearance in hopes that the prose would become readable. I was disappointed. (What does it say about Crusoe and Defoe that Robinson can’t bother to learn or use “Friday’s” actual name?)

          A real-life inspiration for Robinson Crusoe was Alexander Selkirk, who was a castaway in the uninhabited Juan Fernández Islands for four years in early 1700s. This archipelago has three main islands, now named Robinson Crusoe, Alejandro Selkirk, and Santa Clara. When I first read about Selkirk, it intrigued me that there were places on this earth that had no humans. But as I thought further, I was amazed that some dots of land in thousands of miles of ocean were inhabited. How did that come about? Of course, many of these specks on my map have had inhabitants for a long time, and many of these islands were known to and fascinate me—Hawaii, Tahiti, Pitcairn, Easter, Wake, Midway, Shetland, Faroe, Galapagos Islands—but it is all those islands I had never heard of that have been intriguing me.

(continued December 1)

Posted on by rjonakait

First Sentences

“Exactly what befell the President of the United States has never been fully understood.” Jethro K. Lieberman, Everything is Jake.

“New York’s Grand Opera-house was in the midst of a triumphant four-week run of performances by Edwin Booth, the greatest Hamlet of his generation, that Saturday in 1879 when twenty-six-year-old William R. Davis Jr. and his companion approached the huge doors of the heavily marbled theater.” Peter S. Canellos, The Great Dissenter: The Story of John Marshall Harlan, America’s Judicial Hero.

“A fourteen-year-old girl sits cross-legged on the floor of a circular vault” Anthony Doer, Cloud Cuckoo Land.

 “When you reach your fifties, it gets easier to notice the big ways in which the world has or hasn’t changed since you were young, both the look and feel of things and people’s understanding of how society works.” Kurt Andersen, Evil Geniuses: The Unmaking of America, A Recent History.

“Nineteen years before she decided to die, Nora Seed sat in the warmth of the small library at Hazeldene School in the town of Bedford.” Matt Haig, The Midnight Library.

“Insecurity combined with arrogance is good DNA for a comedian.” David Steinberg, Inside Comedy: The Soul, Wit, and Bite of Comedy and Comedians of the Last Five Decades.

“Many times since the Earth was young, the place had lain under the sea.” Edward Rutherford, London.

“Just as the first rays of dawn swept the eastern wall of the small castle, a detachment of soldiers landed on the beach below.” John Prevas, Hannibal’s Oath: The Life and Wars of Rome’s Greatest Enemy.

“Captain Kidd laid out the Boston Morning Journal on the lectern and began to read from the article on the Fifteenth Amendment.” Paulette Jiles, News of the World.

“In October 1846 the poet William Cullen Bryant visited the Delaware Water Gap, the spot where the Delaware River cuts through the Kittatinny (or Blue) Mountains.” Lawrence Squeri, Better in the Poconos: The Story of Pennsylvania’s Vacationland.

“Major Picquart to see the Minister of War. . . .” Robert Harris, An Officer and a Spy.

“My father had a little joke that made light of our legacy as a family that had once owned slaves.” Edward Ball, Slaves in the Family.