Tuesday, May 21, 2013

UHM, HENRI, COULD YOU JOIN US IN THE CLASS HOCKEY TOURNAMENT?

Fr. Henri Brodeur, MS
P. Henri Brodeur, MS

English = Black
Français = Bleu
Españ
ol = Verde


The last time I saw this face was two years ago.  It was looking up at me from a wheel chair.  I have been having that experience a lot as I go through life.  It's getting to be that I am happy just to be talking to someone from between a pair of wheels than from a frame of fine pine.  Anyway, there was Henri and he was pretty much the same guy that I had known some 55 years before.  Quiet, gentle, monosyllabic, direct.  I did not know him that much because our paths crossed in school a bit but then since I was two years ahead of Henri in school, as I moved along he stayed behind and we did not meet again until about 6 years ago.  He was in the wheelchair then.  It was an off again, on again life, but his heart was not up to the task of keeping up with the rest of him.  
So I did not know Henri to the degree would permit me to get too serious here.  So I will turn to my brother Denis, aka "Reef Lector" of Internet fame.  Denis and Henri were classmates.  As such, one day would come when one of them would teach the other about life.  So I'll let Denis tell you the story about the lesson.

1. My announcement of Henri's death.
Hi.  I don't know if you have been made aware, but Henri Brodeur from Berlin, NH went to the Lord on April 1.  He had been ill for a long time with a rather interesting array of ailments and sundry conditions.
The last time I saw him was two years ago in                                   Attleboro and he was in a wheel chair as he had been for several years before.  So, pray for his departed soul.
2. Denis responds
 "I have a great story about Henri.  Can't tell you right now because one of our granddaughters is visiting, so I have to close out".  So, he leaves for a little while.  Then...
 "Here goes.  Back to Enfield 1957.
We all know that every one from Berlin, NH can really skate.  Henri was no different.  However, he never signed up for hockey.  When the Class Tournament arrived at the end of the hockey season (The longest sport season in Enfield) I was a senior and was elected to make up a team from the 12 guys in our class.  Since we were only 12, I thought I'd ask everyone to play.  I was a bit skeptical about Henri since he had never played the entire time he was at Enfield, but I knew he could skate.  Man, could he skate!  I had seen him several times during recesses.  So, I asked him if he would play.  He hesitated for a bit.  I was thinking, "Well we got 11 anyway."  

I was going to tell him he'd be the only one in the class who wasn't going to be on the team when he said, "Yes, thank you, Denis for asking."  After the game, I said to myself, "Thank you for asking Henri."  

He scored three goals and made everyone else look silly.  If you're from Berlin, NH, no matter what your druthers,  you CAN play hockey, even on "figure skates." "

The moral of the story is not the figure skates.  It is that if you wait until you think that someone is good enough for something before you ask, you'll probably never get the answer, and the precious prize that the answer will bring.

Thank you, Denis.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
'
La dernière fois que j'ai vu ce visage fut il y a deux ans. Il me regardait d'un fauteuil roulant. Cette expérience ce répète beaucoup le plus loin que je vais dans la vie. Je suis  en train d’être heureux quand l’occasion se présente, de pouvoir parler à quelqu'un d'entre une paire de roues plutôt qu’à quelqu’ un encadre de quatre planches d’érable bien polies. Quoi qu'il en soit, me voila avec Henri et il était à peu près le même gars que j'avais connu quelque 55 ans plus tôt. Calme, doux, monosyllabique, direct. Je ne le connaissais pas beaucoup parce que nos chemins se sont croisés à l'école un peu mais depuis que j'avais deux ans d'avance sur Henri à l'école, quand j’ai quitte Enfield, NH,  il est resté derrière et nous ne nous avons pas rencontré de nouveau jusqu'à ce que, il ya environ 6 ans, nous avons jase un petit bout quand  était dans le fauteuil roulant. C'était une situation ou aujourd’hui il était bien et demain, non pas. Son cœur n'était pas à la tâche de soutenir le reste de son corps.
Donc je n’ai pas connu Henri a un niveau d’intimité qui  me permettrait d'être trop sérieux dans mon jugement de sa personne. Je vais donc demander à mon frère Denis, alias «Reef Lector " de grande renommée a l'Internet. Denis et Henri étaient camarades de classe. En tant que tel, un jour viendrait où l'un d'eux enseignerait a l'autre quelque chose d’important a propos de la vie. Alors, je vous laisse avec  Denis qui vous racontera l'histoire de la leçon.
1. Mon annonce de la mort d'Henri.
Salut. Je ne sais pas si tu as été mis au courant, mais Henri Brodeur de Berlin, NH est allé vers le Seigneur, le 1er Avril. Il avait été malade pendant une longue période avec un carnet plutôt intéressant de maladies et de conditions diverses.
La dernière fois que je l'ai vu il ya deux ans à Attleboro il était dans un fauteuil roulant comme il l'avait été pendant plusieurs années avant.
Donc, prie pour le repos de son âme.
2. Denis répond
 «J'ai une grande histoire a te raconter a propos d'Henri.  Je n’ai pas le temps de te la raconter maintenant parce que une de nos petites-filles est en visite.  Alors je dois « fermer".
 Donc, il me laisse pour un peu de temps. Et puis...
 "Bon, retournons à Enfield - 1957.
Nous savons tous que qui que se soit qui est d’origine de Berlin, NH peut vraiment patiner très bien. Henri n'était pas différent. Cependant, il n'avait  jamais signé pour le hockey. Lorsque le tournoi de classe est arrivé à la fin de la saison de hockey (la plus longue saison de sport a Enfield) j'étais la personne élu pour former un équipe parmi les 12 gars dans notre classe. Comme nous étions seulement 12,  j’ai pense que je demanderais à tout et chacun de jouer. J'étais un peu sceptique quant à Henri puisqu'il n'avait jamais joué durant les presque quatre ans de notre séjour à Enfield, mais je savais qu'il pouvait patiner.  Mon vieux, ce mec pouvait patiner.  Eh, comme il pouvait  patiner! Je l'avais vu plusieurs fois durant les récréations. Alors, je lui ai demandé s'il voulait jouer. Il hésitât un peu. Je pensai: «Eh bien, nous sommes 11, de toute façon."

J'allais lui dire qu'il serait le seul dans la classe qui ne n’allait pas être dans l'équipe quand il me dit: «Oui, je te remercie, Denis,  pour m’avoir demander." Après le match, je me suis dit: «Merci d'avoir approche Henri."

Il a marqué trois buts et a fait tout le monde avoir l'air ridicule. Si tu es de Berlin, NH, quelles que soient tes penchants, tu peux jouer au hockey, même en «patins de fantaisie». "

La morale de l'histoire n’a rien a faire avec les patins de fantaisie ». C'est que si vous attendez jusqu'à ce que vous pensez que quelqu'un est assez bon pour quelque chose avant de poser la question, vous n'aurez probablement jamais obtenu ni la réponse, et ni le précieux prix que la réponse apporterait.

Merci, Denis.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

La última vez que vi esa cara fue hace dos años. Él me miraba mientras estaba en una silla de ruedas. Esta experiencia se repita cada paso que tomo en adelante durante la vida. Estoy tratando de ser feliz cuando se presente la oportunidad, hablar con alguien en medio de un par de ruedas en lugar de alguien acostado entre cuatro tablas de arce altamente pulidas. De todos modos, aquí estoy con Henri y fue casi el mismo chico que había conocido unos 55 años antes. Calma, apacible, monosilábico, directo. Yo no lo conozco mucho porque nuestros caminos se cruzaron en la escuela un poco, pero porque yo tenía dos años antes de Henri en la escuela cuando me fui Enfield, NH, permaneció detrás y no nos hemos reunido de nuevo hasta que haya cerca de seis años, pasamos un ratito en conversación y el estaba en la silla de ruedas. Era una situación de hoy bien estar,  o mañana, no. Su corazón no tenía más le fuerza y la energía de sostener el resto de su cuerpo.
Así que no conozco Henri a un nivel de intimidad que me permitiera ser muy serio en mi opinión de él. Le preguntaré a mi hermano Denis, alias "Reef Lector" estrella a l’Internet. Denis  y Henri eran compañeros de clase. Así un día llegaría cuando uno de ellos enseña en el otro algo importante sobre la vida. Así que os dejo con Denis que le indicará la lección de la historia.
1. Mi anuncio de la muerte de Henry.
Hola. No sé si estabas al tanto, pero Henry Brodeur nacido a  Berlin, NH se fue al Señor el 1 de abril. Había estado enfermo durante mucho tiempo con una lista interesante de enfermedades y diversas condiciones.
La última vez que lo vi hace dos años en Attleboro que estaba en una silla de ruedas como lo había sido durante varios años.
Por lo tanto, ora por el eterno descanso de su alma.
2. Denis responde -
 "Tengo una gran historia que contar acerca de Henry. No tengo tiempo para desvelarla  ahora, porque una de nuestras nietas está de visita. Así que tengo que "cerrar".
 Por lo tanto, me dejo un poco de tiempo. Y entonces...
 "Bueno, de vuelta a Enfield - 1957.
Todos sabemos quién es originario de Berlín, NH realmente puede patinar muy bien. Henri no fue diferente. Sin embargo, nunca se ha registrado para el hockey. Cuando el torneo de clase se produjo a finales de la temporada de hockey (la temporada más larga del deporte a Enfield) Yo era la persona elegida para formar un equipo entre los 12 chicos de nuestra clase. Como sólo estuvimos 12, creo que me gustaría pedir a todos y invitarlos a participar en la jugada. Yo estaba un poco escéptico porque Henri nunca había jugado durante los casi cuatro años de nuestra estancia en Enfield, pero sabía que podía patinar. Vaya, este chico podría patinar. Bueno, como pudo patinar! Lo vi varias veces durante los descansos. Así que le pregunté si quería jugar. Dudó un poco. Yo pensé: "Bueno, somos 11, de todos modos."

Yo diría que sería el único de la clase que no estaría en el equipo cuando me lo dijo. "Sí, gracias-Denis, que me pregunte" Después del partido, Yo dije: "Gracias que has invitado a Henri.”

Anotó tres goles y hizo que todos parezcan ridículos. Si usted está en Berlin, NH, sean cuales sean sus gustos, usted puede jugar al hockey, incluso con " patines de fantasia."

La moraleja de esta historia no tiene nada que ver con patines de fantasia". Es que si usted espera hasta que usted piensa que alguien es lo suficientemente bueno para algo antes de echar la pregunta, es probable que nunca obtendría la respuesta, y ni siquiera  el premio preciado que proporcionaría la respuesta .

Gracias, Denis.




Thursday, May 9, 2013

PICKING A PAIR OF CHEAP CHEATERS FOR READING

I have to tell you this story.  I also have to tell you that I have other, more important things to do, but this is too rich to take the chance that I will forget it.
I could start this story way back before creation, but the deluge is more fun, so I'll just dive in with a very short introduction.

A couple of years ago I had new synthetic lens implanted in my cataract-filled eyes.  After all was said and done I needed to get some spectacles that would allow me to read and to operate my computer.  The doctor told me that all I would need would be some $1.00 "Cheaters" from the thrift store.  I followed his suggestion and went to the store.  I walked in, picked up two pairs for the sake of multi-location operations, paid my $2.14 (VAT in California) and left.  I would have been gone in three minutes, but because of the line at the cash register, It was more like eight minutes,  DONE!

Today, while at the $0.96 store for other errands, I saw something akin to the picture featured above.  Yes, a nice looking lady whom I think, was shopping for a pair of reading glasses.  Maybe even two, what do I know?  I don't even know if she was shopping for "reading" glasses or for "look good" glasses.  She never once glanced at anything that had any writing on it to verify the effective results of having the glasses sitting on her nose.  Oh no, not this person.  All she ever looked at was her face in the little mirror provided for such as she.  I went around, bought my two items, cashed out and sneaked a look over my shoulder as I was leaving and there was the lovely lady still trying to figure something out by trying on cheap cheaters and checking the effect in the mirror.  I don't know at what time she arrived there to begin her project, but I do know for a fact that she was still at it at least 12 minutes more while I was casually sneaking snoopy goo-goo eyed glances at her to see if she was making any progress.

I have to say, I did think that here was a rather exquisite example of the essential difference between a man and a woman.  A man goes to buy glasses to see what is written on the printed page more clearly.  A woman goes to buy glasses so that she can spend time looking at her reflection so that she can see how she looks more clearly.  It's an interesting thought.  The only conclusion I could not make about this experience was the answer to the question:  "I wonder how many times a month she does this?

Oh, yes, I still have the two pair that I bought.  They still work fine and I am still as ugly as I was the day that I bought them.  

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

VIRTUE IS IN THE CENTER; WHAT ABOUT THE TRUTH?

I never asked myself that question
until today.  Then I found this in the search engine and I got a few shivers in the right places.
Doesn't this seem to make sense? On the surface, it sure does.  It would seem that the truth is always preferable to an intentionally delivered non-truth.  Ah, I think I just tripped over something.  Technically, a lie is the communication of an idea or a thought that is other than the one that the speaker really has in mind.  Some lies are innocuous attempts at humor.  Like for example the wry announcement, "Great weather out there today!" during an ear-ripping Nor'easter.  No harm done there.  I did try to convince myself that dentists don't lie, but I never really succeeded. Over the last few years I have grown accustomed to the painful feeling, so I just relax in the thought that it will all go away rather quickly.  After the first time I visit a dentist, I don't get the false reassurance any more.  If the dentist does try to tell me that it will not hurt, I have gotten to the point where my response is, "You mother told you never to fib."   That little bit of infantile language has two effects: It makes the dentist smile and it is never repeated to me by the same dentist.
Talking about comforting someone with the truth instead of with a lie, one dentist whom I really respected and thouroughly enjoyed at one time,  slipped an "OOPS!" in there while fishing around in the deep dungeon of the # 32 molar.  She made the mistake of retracting herself from the dungeon.  I smiled and said, "OOPS??" Are you sure that you're supposed to say that?  She did not exculpate herself, much to her credit.  Furthermore, she said, "I can't anaesthetize you any more, so what I have to do now is perhaps going to be "uncomfortable."  I smile sweetly at the fair young lady and said, "Perhaps?"  "Uncomfortable?"  Tough lady, this dentist!  She came back with, "I am making allowances for your threshhold of pain."  She shut me up by diving back into my gaping pie hole before finishing the sentence.  Yeah, it was a smidgeon more than "uncomfortable" but I lived through it and never held it against her because I can't do that to people who give me a reason to have fond memories of human foibles.
Comforting people with lies is not good practice.  Telling someone that "This is smoothe, low alcohol Bourbon" (55% alcohol) is not a comforting way of acting.  The famous repartee, "Don't sweat it, it's just small stuff" will make the speaker feel good and the hearer feel good if it is true.  If it is not true, then neither will escape the remorseful after taste and the resulting discomfort in the relationship is quasi assured.
So, even if the truth is going to hurt, deliver it anyway.  If it hurts so badly that the relationship is dead, that's not all that bad.  It's one less cigar that you'll have to give at your wake...or one less Kleenex.  The way I'm sizing up my situation, I think I will be able to get by for about $10.00 for both commodities, including matches.

Oh, and by the way, remember, "It's a sin to tell a lie."

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

BOSTON, SNIFFLE, BOSTON

Boston and the rest of the world have to take a lesson from Vatican City and Rome.  Talk about soft target!  These crowds are HUGE, they're celebratory and they are all unarmed. Yes, I have been there often, very often.  There was a time when I felt totally safe.  Then there was the shooting of the Pope; then there was the Twin Towers; Oklahoma City and some more.  I have also been in St. Peter's Square after all of this and the crowds there do not get any smaller.  They are still huge and generally well behaved.  They are also very sure that they are being watched.  How can they not know.  Just look at that uniform.  Only blind people  could miss it.  It is the epitome of high visibility security.
See that halberd?  Don't mess
with it.  It is sharp,  and it is pointy...real pointy.  See that baby face?  He knows how to use it.  He also knows that everyone in the crowd knows that the pretty clothes and the pretty face are as tough as nails.  And the eyes? Those eyes don't miss a trick.  They are trained to catch every detail.  The ears below the helmet are also trained.  Most pairs of ears sitting above the pretty colors understand at least three languages.  Many of them can handle and sort out four or five.  And these are the "cute" ones.
Go back up to the young lad in the picture up on the left.  See that sword on his left hip?  I guarantee you that is is not an ornament.  These guys are the NHSA (National Halberd & Sword Association.)
Every crowd in this part of the world also knows that there are many "spectators" who are trained security people.  Some from Vatican city and some from Italy.  It is well known that St. Peter's Square is deeply infiltrated by security personnel.  The "narcs" are perhaps lucky that many eyeballs are on the Michelangelo uniforms making it easier to profile the would be bad people.  Who knows?
Yes, as we know even he cannot be 100% sure of his safety.  It is however clear that there is a presence around him, one, colorful and attractive and one plain and unobtrusive.  Is there a lesson there for us?  It is hard to say. St. Peter's Square is not 26 miles long.  It has its own inherent dangers.  The greatest one is that it doesn't present any great and clear way of escape.  It of course has cameras, but it also has the network that I mentioned above.
The last time I was there, less than one year ago, I realized that this could in fact be a target.  Not for any special reason.  Just because that is the effect that today's world has on just about all of us.  It is too bad.  All we can do as individual's is to keep making deposits into the "good human" bank with regularity in order to see if we can make some progress toward outweighing the scales of the malevolent buffons who surround us everywhere we go.
In the end, I still think that the department of Homeland Security migh profit from a visit to the Swiss Guard Commander.  I'm sure that he speaks English.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

...SEVEN SENATE DEMOCRATS HAVE YET TO COME OUT IN SUPPORT OF MARRIAGE EQUALITY

I got this in my email today from a political activist.  So I have decided to let you all know about "Marriage Equality" by Paul Dion.  In case you are wondering whether or not I am going to pull out my moral stance on the subject - I am, but just a little bit.  But I do have one.  A very stubborn one as well as a nuanced one.  Much too complicated for 500 words.  So this is going to be reality based sarcasm.

There are several fundamental non-equalities in a same-sex marriage.  Just for starters, I issue a few.
1. Everyone knows that there is no marriage without a daily quibble or outright spat about the toilet seat being left up.
2. Everyone knows that there is no marriage without a clearly defined owner of who gets the last word.
3. Everyone knows that there is no marriage without the remote possibility of engendering offspring. (I offer Sarah and Abraham as examples.)
4. Everyone knows that there is no marriage in "gender."  SEX is where it's at, not "gender" for crying out loud!
5. So, when all these things add up to "no marriage" then the "gender" of marriage = neuter. (You can look it up in any grammar book where there is no sex, just gender.)  Gender = no marriage.
5a. The question that I have is: "With all this talk about "gender" why do we even bother talking about same SEX marriage?
6. Everyone knows that for a true marriage to exist, the ensuing divorce has to be a vicious battle of wills between a man and a woman fighting over money, property and custody of children.  What's going to happen to that?  Will the lawyers go hungry?
7. Everyone knows that it takes testosterone and estrogen go have a real newsworthy, headline grabbing divorce.  That's why "gender" unions won't work.  The tabloids will go broke because they won't have any more real marriages to denigrate.

I must say, to be fair, that I am solidly convinced that the government can grant marriage licenses to whomever it pleases, provided, of course, that the recipients are human.  That does not mean that I think that what the government does is moral.  Not at all.  In fact I know that it is immoral.  It goes from one bribe source to another to the detriment of the common good.  That is immoral because it contributes to the preparation of the nation for its downfall. I do know, according to the moral principles of the relationship between law and virtue, that the lawmaker should never make a law that countervails virtue.  Laws that are counter basic morality are not enforceable laws and are therefore not real laws at all.  The law must always make it easier to practice virtue.  I don't think that anybody should put the Constitution of the United States of America before the fundamental natural law that governs right human conduct which is in commonality with the Law of God.

We hear a lot about same-sex marriage being an attack on the institution of marriage.  The wise-crack answer is usually, "It's not attacking my marriage."  You're right, except for one thing.  It is an attack on your children's perception of human morality and over time it will erode the moral fiber of this democratic republic...all the way to its downfall.  Remember Greece?  Remember Rome? Remember Constantinople?  

Therefore, every time the lawmaker caves in to a special interest, the greater good suffers at the hands of individual greed and the republic gets weaker and weaker every time.

Remember, you read it here.  That way you won't be tempted to cry at my funeral.


Tuesday, April 2, 2013

HOW DO YOU SIGN FOR TWO?

It has been a long time since I have had some fun at this site.  Lately I have had some intellectual and emotional throwback moments.  One of them hit my funny bone when I and the Voice from the Kitchen went out for something to eat while we were on a relaxation trip.  It just so happened that we were the only two non Chinese Nationals in the entire two or three acre  mall.  It was  a very interesting experience.  We went in to a simple restaurant and when I entered the hospitality lady asked me to confirm that we were two by holding up her fingers in the configuration that you see here on the left.  
I decided to have some good natured, humorous banter with her by holding up my hand with my thumb and forefinger separated.  She caught on and said, "Is that two?"  I said, "Oh, sorry.  No this is what I really wanted to say," and I held my hand up with my ring finger and pinky in the air and said, "This is what I really meant."  She laughed and again, ferociously, this time, literally threw the culturally proper sign for the number two into my very sharply focused line of vision.  Laughing and chuckling we made our way behind her sashaying saunter to the table that was available.  When she had put a safe and private distance between us, Belle asked me, "How do you think up this stuff?"  Actually, I don't think it up.  It just slices and stabs its way into my brain.  Many times  day.  You don't hear it because I am so busy with so many things all day that I can't capture it all.  Every day I finish the day with more forgottens than remembereds.  Trust me, it is very frustrating.  It is perhaps a good thing that what I fail to capture is really not very important or significant.  I suppose that is a good thing.  
I hate to imagine what would happen if I captured significant thoughts and then proceeded to run them through the mish-masher of my brain for public consumption.  It would be a disaster.  You too, then must be thankful that society at large is not in any grave danger of being severly and crippingly brain-wounded.  
So, friends, take it easy.  I will not take you through the pain of telling you how many cultural ways I have observed of how to count to ten on your fingers.  We (United States) start with the index; some Europeans start with the thumb and the Japanese start with the pinky.
Some start with holding the finger out away from the palm while others signify the count by folding the appropriate finger into the palm.  So you see.  If you live long enough in the company of people from different corners of the world, you can learn a lot of ways to do a lot of unimportant things.  
I wonder in which country or on which planet the people who invented the computer on/of protocol of using the same command switch for the start and the stop.  

Relax and enjoy my vacation time along with me.

Friday, March 15, 2013

GUESS WHICH ONE WAS ELECTED




COULD THEY, OR WOULD THEY?

I decided to show this in black and white because of all the people in this graphic there did not emerge the new pope.  Of all the discussions and guesses and yes, even bets, it would be interesting to know what the odds were that the archbishop of Buenos Aires would be the one elected.  Actually, they were not that bad.  About 30%. 
It is rather attractive to us as human beings to turn everything into a horse race.  It matters not what the purpose of the endeavor is, we are always attracted by the strong desire to forecast the outcome.  Our drive to measure the probability factor of any outcome is more than we can control.  Just plain guessing is not enough.  We have to do the math.  We do it for just about everything. 
We squeeze and pat; kick and shake; slice and dice; turn and flip; push and pull; ask and opine and do just about anything to try to arrive at a sure prediction of the ultimate result.  We all know that it is nothing but “snake-oil” science, but it is better to nurse that rationalization than to admit that it is really nothing but a gamble.  We have to admit, we enjoy the game.  The more mysterious the process, the more fun we get out of projecting the outcome.  That is why the election of the Roman Catholic Pope is so intriguing and so attractive to the prognosticators, insiders and outsiders alike.  In the case of the Vatican event, there don’t seem to be any “insiders.”  Even this time when, after the result was known, it was bandied about that the “winner” had come in second in the previous election.  How true can that be when nary a public “bet” was expressed in his favor before the voting began?  Doesn’t that make you just a little bit skeptical about how much anyone really knew?  If they did know, especially the newspaper people, would they not have floated the prediction?  Would they not have placed their bets with the Irish gambling houses? 
Furthermore, I get this strange question ratling around inside my head:  after it is all over do they still hang around with each other for about a week or more.  They’re out and about, celebrating together, patting one another on the back and calling the winner “Holy Father.”  “Holy Smoke!” is what I say.  Aren’t the losers just a little bit disappointed?  What about the guy who came in second?  Maybe he doesn’t feel quite so bad because after all, the winner did get at least 67% of the vote.  That’s quite a margin.  And it only took five rounds to get it done.  Who knows, maybe it was “rigged.”  I am sure that it wasn’t rigged, but that it was a foregone conclusion before the fifth round.  They knew what they were doing.  That’s perhaps why they can hang around together after.  They decided what to do and how to do it and it became a very solid corporate decision.
When they got together for prayer the next day one reporter quoted the new pope as saying to his electors, “I pray that God will forgive you for what you have done.”
With a sense of humor like that, we might have a sign that we are off to a good start.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

AH, YES, BIG CITY LIFE

There was an interesting episode in my life a couple weeks ago.  It happened in San Diego, California   Not the largest city in the country, but larger than South Hadley, Massachusetts, where I grew up, or Holyoke, where I went to school and where my grandparents lived.  It is certainly bigger than Enfield, New Hampshire and even bigger than Enfield, Connecticut.  To put a finer point on it, it is even bigger than Springfield, Massachusetts which I think must be a city of about 1,000,000 by now.  I say all of this because big cities have some very interesting moments along the course of any given year.   I know because I have been around some of them along the course of my life.  Rome, Italy was the one that I was the closest to for four years.  Boston, Massachusetts is familiar to me; Los Angeles is a place that I know fairly well; I started by disliking San Francisco and a long association (six years) with that city didn't change my initial impression.  Paris, France I do not like because of the people, but the place, I like.  I much prefer Lyon and Grenoble in France and that might be because they are more than somewhat smaller than Paris.  The big difference though is the people.  I won't mention Manila, Tokyo and Hong Kong.  I was in Taiwan for three days once when I was younger and I have some very nice memories of of it.  One story of what happened to me there is heart warming and humorous all at the same time.  I'll have to remember it so that you can enjoy it too.
Of them all, as well as some that I have not named, San Diego, California is my total favorite.  
So, a little while back I was in San Diego and I followed my habit of picking up both alternative press newspapers.  I like them both. One is small and artsy (San Diego CITY BEAT) and the other (The  San Diego READER) is a lot more prosperous and runs about 150 pages on a weekly basis.  It is edgier, as you can see by the cover indicating a piece of investigative reporting.  I read them both every time I am in San Diego.  I always start with the City Beat because it is about a fifteen minute project.  Then I move on to the Reader and that can take as much a almost a week because of the crossword puzzle and other interesting nooks and crannies.  It also features one of the oldest and best investigative columnists I have ever read.  He has to be at least 90 years old by now, and he keeps on writing edgy, well researched, in your face columns.  So I try not to miss any of his writing.  
Back to my "big city" story.  
Turns out that a historical building in downtown San Diego had just been bought by a group that plans to remodel and refurbish it to suit its needs.  Turns out that it was a parachute factory early in its history.  When it became known that it had been sold and that it was going to be torn inside out, a cooperative art group of young and starving artists was able to get permission to have a one day graffiti art exhibit inside the building.  I thought that the idea was brilliant.  I thought that the buyers are marvelous to give people a chance to express themselves in such a challenging venue.  In fact, it was not just the artists who were expressing themselves.  We visitors were too.  We didn't just put our $5.00 on the table.  We walked around, met one another, told ourselves our level of appreciation and by our very present, made a statement about the meaning of the event.  I made the tour three times in the hour that I was there.  I made the dumb mistake of forgetting my camera at home.  I took pictures with my telephone but they did not succeed very well.  The introductory picture at the top of the page shows you what kind of art we saw that night.  There was not a single wall left untouched...even those what were not plastered.  They turned everything into an artifact.  It was great.
Three cheers for a series of initiatives that didn't let ceremony, rules and/or regulations stand in the way but facilitated a life event for the good of the community.  I can only hope that someday you can have a similar experience.


ONE LUNG, ONE HEART


I once had a semi-relative who had one lung.  It was in the days when tuberculosis was still a threat in the United States.  I say he was a semi-relative because he was one of those people whom you always called uncle or aunt simply because of the simple fact that they were adult friends of your parents.  It was being a "hapa" except that we didn't know that term back then.   Now we have a new Pope who has one lung and he is still going strong.  Just like our Irish "Uncle Dave."  Uncle Dave was a rarity.  He was married to a lady who was from a very staunch Franco-American family with Franco-American mores and values.  Yep, he beat ol' Jack to the punch.  
Dave was a great guy.  He married a sweet lady Irene and they had son Dennis.  Yeah, the Irish spelling won that round.
So now the world has been introduced to a real world phenomenon in Vatican City.  This new Papa really breaks the mold.  He is a real, honest to goodness "Hapa."  I'm not centuries old, believe me, but I would dare wager that there has never been a "Hapa" pope.  This is a real piece of creative Italian problem solving, compromising, Machiavellian Gerrymandering.  Are those enough metaphors for you in one sentence?  It is also quite a piece of hair-splitting expertise by those wily Jesuits.  How to get one of your guys in the position to which you owe vowed obedience?   From the area where "rice Christians" were invented!  So, all around we keep the Italians happy because they get one of their guys in the driver's seat.  They get some revenge by laughing at the rest of the world trying to pronounce his surname.  Of all the easy ones that we know, Conti, Pace, Montini, Scola, Capone, Cuomo, Arcaro or even Fratangelo, we get a "hapa" by name of Bergoglio.  I bet that even in Argentina he had some fun with that one.  The television networks are going to have to conduct Italian as a Second language courses to teach their personnel how to pronounce that.  Actually, it's a good thing that he chose Francis as his AKA.  It was always a little difficult for me to get accustomed to hearing people refer to Pope Benedict XVI as Pope Ratzinger.  Now the Italians can get their revenge by having a name in the office that only they can pronounce correctly.  I have to admit that I got a smile hearing him speak Italian with an Argentinian accent.  I am constantly told that I speak Spanish with an Italian accent.   What a world we live in!
So, the Italians get one of their own back on the throne, kinda, and the South Americans can go nuts thumbing their noses at the North American Gringos who are still standing in line wondering when it is going to happen to them.  There's not a thing that Ellis Island can do about that.  
If any of  you are harboring desires to go to Rio de Janeiro for the Youth day shindig, Good Luck!  Half the population of the planet will be there.  I can see airplane fares from North American going to 10,000 simoleons, round trip...on a gaudy Yellow and Green Brazilian airlines Boeing Z3330SP Bergoglio.
Let's pray that God will give him some time to get something done.

Friday, March 1, 2013

THE ORIGINAL MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

http://blog.moski.me/2012/05/human-voice.html
http://365newthoughtsperyear.blogspot.com/2012/12/aida-carmen-and-la-traviata-who-are-they.html
First, I give credit to "Moski Doski" whom I found during my search for an attractive, catchy picture for this thought of mine.  Here's his introduction to the thought that he had on this subject:

In spite of all our communication technology, no invention is as effective as the sound of the human voice. When we hear a human voice, we instinctively want to listen, in the hopes of understanding it. Even when the speaker is searching for the right words to say. Even when all we hear is yelling, or crying, or singing. That's because the human voice resonates differently from anything else in the world. 
That's why we can hear a singer's voice over the sound of a full orchestra. We will always hear the singer, no matter what else surrounds it.
I decided to get back to the process of writing because after a lay-off caused by a ton of other things, like earning $ being one, I can now sit on my Gold Bullion and turn to doing something that I like.  I have a line of notes to get back to, but this comes first because it has a strong dose of nostalgia tied to it.  I think I may have mentioned the core thought sometime before, but I'm going to chance it because this is a new twist.
Without getting into the grimy details of the story, let me just say that there came to my gray matter that there is a person in the world who refuses to sing "a capella" in the church choir. Must have instrumental music.  No music, no voice!  Oh boy!  That lit my fire.  I remembered the rather heated but very respectful and very humorous exchange between EFR Dion and my dear, dear, one-handed grandfather, Joseph.  My grandfather lit the fuse under EFR by asking me the challenge question: "What is the first musical instrument in the world?"  I tried everything that I could think of, and all he would repeat was "NO."  Then he simply said, "Ask your father."
I didn't know what I was in for, and I didn't have the slightest clue that there might be a skirmish in the still.  So, I asked my father.  He named a long string of instruments, some of which I had mentioned, but I somehow did not feel as though he had hit on it, and I said so.  So, of course, he said, "Ask your grandfather."  I did not sleep very well that night.  I was shivering all though the first half of the day because I knew that I was going to walk from school to Grandpa's house for lunch.  The only good thing about that day was that he had to work late that day and so he had now gone to work in the morning.  So, we did not walk together to get to lunch.
As a matter of distraction  let me say that all of this happened before there was a telephone at Grandpa's house.
I get there. I hug him. He hugs me back.  I get my feet back on the floor and when he's sure that I'm in balance he fires the dread volley: "Well, what did he say?"  
"Uh, Hummm, well, I don't know.  He named some stuff that I don't know about, but I still don't think he's right."
"He doesn't know?"
"Maybe he knows, but I don't think that anything he said last night is what it is.  So, I don't know."
"HA!  He doesn't know."
"Well, maybe..."
"Nope.  No 'Maybe.'  He doesn't know.  Whatever he said he was just guessing."
Now I have told you all that I am not afraid of my Grandfather.  But at this moment I am one uncomfortable 9 year old boy.  I sneak a peek at JMT Joyal, my beloved Grandmother, but she's staying safely protected by the cast iron stove.  This is man talk and she is not having any part of it.  
I'm going to try to save the day.  I offer a weak question,
"What do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him that it's the human voice."
"The human voice?"  That was a reflex that I didn't think I had in me.
"Of course.  God made it so that people could sing to Him just like the angels do.  He should know that!"
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure.  Father Ginet knows that too."
OOOooohhhh!  Now I know that my father can't win this one.  The feared/beloved/respected pastor knows.  All of a sudden I am now trembling not from Granpa fear but from the fear of having to tell EFR Dion that Joseph Thibault has one up on him.  Why oh why doesn't my grandfather have a telephone?

Dear reader, I will not stretch this out any more.  But this was a discussion that lasted a couple of weeks.  EFR Dion LOST, big time.  I am convinced that he deserved to lose.  I can say that now that he is comfortably in the Bosom of Abraham.

It brings me back to the "a Capella  refusal.  How can any singer, especially one in a church choir like the one to which I'm referring, with any real grasp of the rich truth that the human voice is the pre-eminent musical instrument on earth refuse to sing a Capella?   We have the one instrument that comes from God.  
Hearing about this the other day also made me remember the time that I was driving towards the San Francisco Bay Area of California and on the radio there was by happenstance a classical music radio station.  One of the presentations was a recording of an opera singer who was "playing" an instrumental composition with her voice.  No words, just the notes off the music sheet.  I had never heard anything like it before then and haven't had a similar experience since.  It was exhilaratingly beautiful.

In the traditional ways of the Catholic Church, the Lenten Season was a time when musical instruments were not to be played as accompaniments to the human voice.  That must have been "instrumental" in the development of Plain Chant since it is easier to sing a Capella and, in fact, sounds better that way.  

So, that is my stated conviction on that question.  I'm sticking to it and I am sure that it will be the reason why a big bunch of you will have absolutely no inclination to cry at my funeral.

Monday, January 14, 2013

HOW SMART IS SMART?

Welcome to my 21st century life.  I have been resisting the temptation to acquire a "smart" phone.  It was mainly a prejudice against manufactured, artificial intelligence.  I have problems enough with "smart" alecs that I was avoiding contact with anything that might come close to resembling "alecs."  But then, "Bozo" that I am, I did something that made me reconsider my position.
It was a cold and blustery day.  I mean, really cold.  Not just SoCal "cold", but PQ cold.  Something 28 degrees at 7 in the evening.  Yes, we have been getting some of that this year.  In fact, we have some of it right now.  So, to continue my truth is stranger than fiction story.  It was a cold and blustery day, so I put on my flannel, floppy "hoodie."  This on top of two tee shirts, a thicker than usual long sleeved shirt, a sweat shirt and the Hoodie.  I did what I had to do and upon my return decided to do the laundry that was starting to get passed the stage of usual and ordinary volume.  I therefore threw the clothes that I was wearing into the washing machine, went for the rest of the batch of the matching shades of color.  All filled up.  Hot water? On.  Cold water? On. Batch size setting? On.  Water temp setting? On.  Soap? Done.  Whitener? Done.  Cover? Down. Speed? Set.  Timer?  Set.  All systems - "Go!"

15 minutes later, I had the need to text someone.  I started to look for my phone.  I spent 10 minutes looking for it.  I could not call it because I was alone in the house.  The Voice from the Kitchen was at work.  I heard the washer come to a stop after the rinse cycle.  It was then that I knew where my phone was...and now you know too...Stercus Equi!  Sure enough!  As I was transfering the spun-dry clothes from the washer to the dryer, I found my phone.  So, I put it in the dryer too, even though I was absoutely sure that it could not be revived.

After all of that, I remembered that I had a "free upgrade" on the cell phone account.  I went online, saw that there was a "Smart phone" available for "free."  After some dutiful due diligence, I found that because of the fact that we have a WiFi system in the house and that WiFi systems are quasi ubiquitous, I (we) could actually afford the "Free" upgrade.  So far, so good.
Here below,a humorous exchange between me and a relative:
"Sent from my Windows Phone"
Me:  Hey,'j'a notice I got a smart phone?
Response: I did not notice you now have a smart phone.
Me: I will have to live 10 more years so I can learn how to use it!
Response:  Kinda makes you wonder how smart your phone really is.....should be easy.

Me:Yes, dear, my phone is smarter that I am, but with any amount of luck, I will out live it.
Now, a humorous, true story about how I treat cell phones,smart or otherwise.
1. 2 years ago, when I was sicker than I normally am,  my phone fell off my night table into the container that I was using to measure my daily urine output.  Of course, this happened at the end of the day...sooo... I drowneded it! :-(
2. 3 weeks ago I wore a woolen jacket/hoodie, loose fitting contraption and had my phone in the pocket.  When I got home, I did the laundry, including the hoodie and the ph...oooo...nnnn ... Oh, S...!
What makes this funny and not disastrous is that since we have five phones on our account...there's usually at least one that is up for free upgrade...I, none other than I, am at the head of the account.  So I jumped on the Internet, found a free smartphone, and voila!  Just to prove that, "Tout ce qui va mal ne tourne pas en merde!"
So, now I have a phone that is smarter than I.  But, I keep it honest, because I showed it  where I keep the piss bucket!
Do you think I should tell this story on "365..."  It's very true, without a single syllable of exaggeration. :-)
Response: Judging by the past, you will outlive your phone.  Blog or no blog.....that is the question.  Don't know...
Me:  Blog or no blog?  Hmmm...  Gotta admit though,it is a funny story.
Response: I will admit, it's funny!  What the heck, go for it, but don't tell anyone I sanctioned it.
                    Pseudo me
Me: I'll pseudo you!;-)
          Sent from my Windows Phone
That, my loving friends, is the story of my new "smart phone."  It was not smart enough to avoid being acquired by me.


Sunday, January 13, 2013

POTATOES AND BREAD WITH SPAGHETTI -- yyummmm

I have to tell you a little story about how well some people travel and about how hard it is for some people to accommodate to the change in culture from one country to another.   Actually it is more about food than anything else.  As you go along through the story you will think of other things that are difficult to switch on and off in our fundamental cultural DNA.
There are places in North America, Europe and South America where it is but a short walk away to another cultural mind set.  In Southern California, for example, it is but a stone's throw away to go from sliced bread to tortillas, beans and soccer on the southern end and from Bourbon horse racing and baseball to Rye whiskey and hockey, on the northern end.
Europe and Asia offer similar challenges to those who live there.  The challenges are greater when North Americans or Asians go to Europe and experience three or four culinary cultural changes in a two week period.  This is a short story about a two week period of exposure to one single cultural change.  Mainly from rice to pasta.
Not from rice to USA style, once a month or so of spaghetti and meatballs, but from rice, the staple, to pasta the staple.
"When are they going to stop serving pasta?"
"They won't stop serving pasta."
"I've had too much already."
"If you were Italian, you'd quickly get sick of rice at every meal."
"Oh, but everyone loves 'pancit" and 'lumpia.'"
"Those are not Filipino staples.  Rice is the Filipino staple, just as potatoes are the staple of many european countries and pasta is the staple of the Italians."
"Well, maybe I'll just stick with bread."
"Good idea."

Have you ever been to the Middle East?  The food is tasty and delicious.  Rice is the staple, along with bread.  Hummus is everywhere, all the time.  Here, you can have my share of that.  Fish, dried and salted, fresh and pickled [your choice] for breakfast.  I love pickled fish for breakfast.  So do the Swedes and the Norwegians from what I have heard.  I guess it all depends how you were brought up.

Like for instance, did you ever ask yourself why you would eat bread, potatoes and spaghetti at the same sitting?  Isn't that a bit too much starch?  We do it all the time, right?  Get a "Big Mac" with double cheese and a large fries.  Now listen, I will take Balut and rice anytime over the Big Mac.  I just heard ten people choking over that last one.  Choke all you want.  I just saw ten Japanese running toward the seaweed (Nori) and sweet rice rolls before punching in their PIN number for a vending machine can of Sapporo beer.

You realize, of course, that we could go on all day talking about these things.  So I'll let you off the hook here.  I will go home now to enjoy my oxtail stew with banana hearts, bitter melon cooked in a crushed peanut broth/sauce.



Saturday, January 12, 2013

YES, VIRGINIA THERE IS AT LEAST ONE LEFT-HANDED BARBER ON EARTH

In eight years I have yet to encounter a good barber in Moreno Valley, California.  In truth, there is hardly anything good that I have encountered in Moreno Valley.  I have a good computer geek, guy; there is a good bakery where the Mexican bread is delicious and baked in batches all day long; there is a good liquor store [that's not as easy to find as it may seem] and lastly, it is a stroke of good fortune that 99% of gasoline stations are self service these days.  My last encounter with a barber was this morning, January 12, 2013, Pacific Standard time in the U.S.  The saving grace about this barber is that he is left handed.  Now, you may say, "Ha, so what?  10% of the human population on planet earth is left handed."  Go ahead, scoff, sputter and stamp your feet, but left handed barbers are rare.  The proof?  I have had, at last count, at least 1,000 haircuts from no less than at least 50 hair cutters, just to be brutally and honestly conservative.  Furthermore, I spent 15 minutes googling for a picture of this human phenomenon and found the ONE that you have above.  I went through at least 100 pages of search in "images" and no matter what I wrote, most of what I kept getting were pictures of barbers shears made for left handers.  No way was I going to use one of those silly pictures.  What does that prove?  So Wiss makes left handed shears for barbers to stuff museum cases around world.  Whoopie.  Show me the barber.
So, this morning I went to get a haircut.  I do that only at times when I feel absolutely compelled by my very loose social conscience to do it.  You now know that the person who cut my hair is left handed.  As an aside, it shows.  Never again.  At least not to that left handed hair cutter.  So, that's what I get for discovering a left handed hair cutter in Moreno Valley.   Double Whammy, that!  The left handed person who cut my hair this morning is not now and never will be a barber.  Not within the parameters of my definition of "barber."  I didn't really realize it while still in front of the barber shop mirrors.  It could have been the uncontrolled giggles and outright laughter of the Voice from The Kitchen that turned me on to the reality of what my coconut looks like now.  But hey, my loose social conscience, my "insouciance" about my personal aspect helps me to laugh it off and say, "What the hell!  It'll grown back in and in a month or so, I'll go somewhere else...like to my Chaldean brethren in San Diego."  They're all right handed and, they are all barbers...even the Vietnamese woman who rents one of their spaces.
Eight years I am in Moreno Valley and no good barber can I find here.
Wait until you hear what happened to me at the doctor's office four days ago!  
Let me tell you, with a sense of humor and a warped mind, it sure is fun getting old!

Friday, January 11, 2013

I AM NOT OLD, I AM JUST SLOW

I know I have been away for a long time.  It is because I am doing my best to meet a deadline.  It happens to me every year at this time.  I have this historic event that I spearhead at the church.  It demands a lot of my time and it occupies my grey matter for 12 months of the year.  So, I do not have much time to write.  Now, things have happened that I just have to get off my chest.  So, I have decided to give myself some down time for some R&R.
The other day I had to go to the doctor.  Actually, I really did not have a medical reason to go.  I was just celebrating the one preventative visit that medicare gives me every year.  At that rate, the US is not going to win any prizes for giving its citizens a chance to reach old age.  It costs more to get old in the US than anywhere else in the "first world."  That's perhaps why we are not first on the life expectancy charts.  But that's not a disappointment for me.  I'm happy with what I got.  Besides, I'm not really that old.  I found out today that in the mobile home park where we live these days, there are 28 residents who are over the age of 90.
Most of them live alone.  Only three are not ambulatory.  Two are on the  neighborhood watch patrol team.  
I don't know about 90, but I do know that when we go to the weekday morning Mass where there are about 150 people in attendance, not less than ten of them are at least 80.  All of them but one or two still drive.

So, I am going to the doctor.  It is exactly 1 short mile away.  By short, I mean it is exactly 1, not 1.2.  I know because when I was incapacitated  a couple years ago, measured it with the odometer of the car.  So, since we have but the one car, and since the Voice from the Kitchen is also the Wallet of the family, I assured her that I would be comfortable walking while she used the car to go to the office.
So I did.  Naturally, before leaving I took my precautions, just as my mother always told me to do.  I combed my hair; blew my nose; left that handerkerchief home and put a clean one into my pocket and finally made it to the ceramics near the door and then, and only then did I hit the pavement.  [Yes, I still use white handkerchiefs.]
I checked the satellite time on my shiny new smartphone.  12:45 it said.
I take off with a smart, snappy stride.  I'm really hauling it.  The wind is whistling in my ears and I'm having a hard time keeping my hair in order.  [Yes, I still have hair.]  I check the traffic.  Wow, the street is barren of autos.  I boldly jump off the curb and fly across the typical California four lane city street.  Now I am on the correct side of the street and it will be smooth sailing all the way to the sawbone's office.  I'll tell you, I am snapping stercorem.  I get there in no time.  So fast that I could hardly enjoy the scenery in the bright SoCal sunshine.  I don't slowdown as I approach the door.  A quick glance at the box where the Los Angeles Times is usually sitting there waiting for me to drop my heard earned $ in search of the crossword puzzle is empty.  Rats!  I go through the door and I remind myself that the mile has been covered.  I reach into my pocket to ascertain by how much I had surpassed the open air walking mile record.  
KKEERRRASSSHHH!  13:15 is sitting there smiling back at me --- 30 MINUTES!  What a disaster!  What a calamity!  What ever happened to my 12 minute mile?  Where did my 5 kilometers per hour go?  I know it was around here somewhere.  Oh, my!   I still have not accepted it.  I still think that the satellite was wrong that day.
Maybe so, but I admit, I am afraid to put the satellite to the test.  I think I'll just lie down and have a little snooze.  Maybe I'll get my speed back that way.
I put this here so that I would be sure that you found this humerus!



Wednesday, January 2, 2013

AN IRISH BLESSING -- REALLY?

"22 Yahweh spoke to Moses and said,
23 Speak to Aaron and his sons and say: This is how you must bless the Israelites. You will say:
24 May Yahweh bless you and keep you.
25 May Yahweh let his face shine on you and be gracious to you.
26 May Yahweh show you his face and bring you peace.
27 This is how they must call down my name on the Israelites, and then I shall bless them."  [Exodus, Chapter 6]

And all the time you thought that came from Waterford so that they could make the best crystal in the world!  Gotcha there.  Turns out that God forgot the part about the "wind bein' at yer back" and the "road always risin' before you," the "sun always bein' warm upon yer face," and the "rain fallin' softly upon yer fields."  I do admit that I like the whole thing.  When I heard the God part of the blessing this morning, I was rather happy that God had beaten the Irish to the punch.  It would be hard for a Canuck like me to have to admit that God hadn't thought of it first.  But then again I figured that at least there's no argument about who made up the "Our Father."

As I was sitting there I was thinking, "Why was it the shepherds who got the news of the birth of Jesus first?"  Imagine, shepherds.  Of course maybe it was because there they were in the middle of the night, the only ones awake and alert.  That's their job.  Caring for sheep, not for themselves.  Does that sound like someone you know?  So, right from the first moment, we know why God has come among us.  To serve.  To stay awake.  To care for others.  The King of Kings doesn't show himself to those on earth who consider themselves to be high and mighty.  He shows Himself first to the lowly and makes them look up into the heavens to see the angels before they look down and see Him in the manger -- the feeding trough that the shepherds use to take care of the animals entrusted to them.  

French Frog that I am, I sat there listening to the Bible reading at Mass this morning and was thinking about the blessing that was dictated by Yahweh.  I thought about the shepherds and then thought about the prayer dictated by God's Son, the Our Father.
I thought I was doing well, but then my French caught up to me and I had a fancy answer to the Shepherd question.  Hang in there with me now. I know that there aren't too many of you out there who can follow this, but that's OK.  I want to show you my silly mind at work.
Shepherd in French is BERGER.
To give shelter to someone in french is ÉBERGER.
So, Jesus born in a shepherd's shelter in a shepherd's feeding trough had to give the first nod to the shepherds, right?  After all, He was in their house.
Now if I could only find out why everyone thinks there was a cow there too.  The ass is no problem since that is the beast of burden who was galant enough to make Mary's trip a trifle more bearable.  But a cow, in a shepherd's cave?  Hmmm?

That's my French lesson to you for a while.