3rd WORLD vs 1st WORLD

Do you know the difference between the 1st world and the 3rd world?  There are a lot of them not just one or two.  On the political side there is one that jumps out at me all the time.  Not just these days either.  This has been a long time thought with me.  The very evident difference is that the 1st world fights against letting people cross the line into it.  The 3rd world fights against letting people out of it.  Just look at the US.  We're always fighting against the influx of third world people.  Little do we know that the leaders of those self-same people wish that they would stay home. Can you blame them?  Just look at the surface image it gives the world about the leadership qualities of the leader who can't keep his people home.  If it were my country, I sure wouldn't think that it is so great that everyone wants to get out.  The 1st world leaders are probable saying to themselves, "If we could lose about 35,000,000 people over the next five years we'd be in better shape."  It's too expensive to have that many people.  It's also too inconvenient because they are always complaining.  You can therefore see that there is no one in this world who is happy.  It's just that the cause for the raw nerves is different.  The leaders are unhappy.  Some because too many people are leaving and the rest who stay are unhappy that they have to stay.  Other leaders are unhappy because too many people are staying and they think that the leaders should coddle them more, so there is unhappiness all around.
The 3rd world people, on the whole are happier than those in the 1st world.  Look at those kids in the picture.  Their happy with the oily, grimy, urine and feces infected water in which they are gamboling.  They also know that when they get home they are not going to get ripped by mama for getting their clothes wet.  They just hang them up somewhere and slip them back on tomorrow when they are dry.  They didn't have to worry about ruining their Adidas, for sure.  The parents of these urchins are happy because they know that the children will find something to do.  Breakfast will not be a problem because they can sneak over to the bakery and the night shift guy will slip them some half-baked bread that didn't come out right because the day-shift idiot forgot to buy a back-up LPG tank. You're starting to get the point, right?  The parents of 3rd world children have the same kind of life.  No pressure.  The offspring are not going to want a cell phone.  A what?  The parents  are going to make do with what comes along during the waking hours that they are strong enough to endure.  The nice part is that the only debt they have is one of gratitude for the small gifts that they are able to garner from day to day.  One of the things that they may dream of, if they are inner city folk, is the greater food supply that they imagine is in the rural area.  In some countries, that may be true, but in others, not.  So, essentially, the poor don't have any expectations of grandeur, so eat, sleep and forage.  Some might get lucky and wangle a way into a higher economy, but it doesn't happen often, and they know it.  
The 1st world people are never happy with anything.  Their telephone is good only for telephone calls.  It doesn't tell time, it doesn't play music, it doesn't take good pictures, the GPS in it is weak and the Internet connection is weak too.  Problem is "everybody" else has a 2.5 inch by 4 inch computer that makes Eniak look like a single cell amoeba.  So they're unhappy.  Mama and Papa are unhappy because they want a Rolls Royce and a Ferrari, on top of the HDTV that takes up the entire north wall of their 5,000 square foot home that is currently underwater up to the gills.  Sad to say, even those of us who are "poor" don't sleep at night because there is too much to lose. 3rd world people don't have anything to lose.  When is the last time you tried to convince your children and your spouse to downsize and to move to Haiti?
Anyway, you have enough of my unwitty sarcasm by now and you've got the point. 
I gotta go.  I just had to erase some stuff that has no place in polite discourse.  
Let me invite you to read the comment to the blog post that was linked here yesterday.  My friend Justa wrote it.  Very touching.
Click here.  When you're there click the word "comment" right at the bottom of the article.

HOME

Believe it or not, this thought is not totally mine.  It was first put forth in the Bible.  Last Sunday, December 4, in Catholic churches around the world people heard the words written by the Prophet Isaiah about the beauty of coming home.  To enjoy the wonderful sentiments of the great mouthpiece of God Himself, I encourage you to read chapter 40 of the Prophet Isaiah. If you are interested in some of the thoughts that we here in Southern California heard from the priest who preached at the Mass that we attended, you can click here.
Home always seems to be more meaningful and more of an attraction at this time of the year.  I can remember many conversations that I had with people at this time of the year.  They were made special because either I was the one reminiscing or they were.  No matter what or who the source was, the sentiments were pretty much the same.  They revolved around parents, relatives, food, activities at home, in the community, the neighborhood and in the homes of close relatives and of course, church.  I had these conversations with people from different corners of the globe.  [I know, globes don't have corners.]  Just to show you that this one does, I remember exchanging nostalgic moments about the Holidays with Brazilians, Italians, French, Spaniards, English, Australians, Africans, South Americans, Pacific Islanders and Asiatics.  The stories were all slightly different, but essentially the same.  I assure you that home is home in any language you speak and from whatever heart the story is springing.  It doesn't matter if it is an igloo, a cave, a bamboo shack, an inner city attic or a mansion with golden door knobs and five-inch thick carpets all over the place.  I assure you that the kid who grows up in the Basque country of the Pyrenees has memories that are every bit as powerful as as the Gaucho of Argentina or the squid hunter in Micronesia.  This is the season when the human race finds its unity.  The mystery is that it comes to this realization because this the season when the disparity and the inequality in the world are the most evident.  The paradox of it all is that in the great divisions we discover the essential unity of who we are.  it is at this time of the year when we discover life despite the presence of death.  We discover health in helping those who are too sick to help themselves.  We discover wealth in the penury that surrounds us.  We discover maturity in the child, despite the childishness of the adults around that very child.  This is the time of year when we become aware that home is the place of redemption.
In conclusion, I have to say that for many years now, many years, I have rarely had  joy of being home for the holidays.  Yesterday, Sunday, I heard the missionary priest say that all he wanted for Christmas was something that he could not have .  Home.  I know where he comes from.  It's not much, but to him it is home.  The second part of my thought when he said that, was, "In California, especially in Southern California, most of us have "HOMES" that are but memories. " We have homes here too.  Our children are home here.  But for most of us, Home with the capital "Haich" is somewhere else, and always will be.
If you have time, you can get some of my spiritual reflection here, if you haven't already been there by clicking on the link above.  In the meantime, peace and joy to you all.

UNIQUE TALENT? WHO, ME?

PUNKIN HEAD!

This is an experiment.  You are going to help me to decide what my unique talent is.  I have decided to answer that question here and now.  I have been spending more time on the Internet than any mere mortal should.  About 80 % of it is in job search mode.  Over the last month or so I have come to the point, finally, of realizing that I have to decide what I want to be when I grow up.  Imagine, after close to 50 years of  "advising" people by telling them that in order to be happy, they have to know what they have and what they want to do with it, I am digging into my inside to find the answer to those questions.   I came to this down to earth truth when I got an email from a man who was responding to my cover letter to his company.  Here is my cover letter:

I don't need a job, I need work.  Put it in front of me and I'll do it.  Not BS, BATB [Beating Around The Bush] just plain and simple work.  I'm a 75 year old dude.  I've already had a career.  All I need now is a job.  If you have one that you need done from a computer station, stop twiddling your thumbs and send it to me.

Ready.  Get set.  Go!

Now, if you owned a company and you got a cover letter like that what would you do?  You can be honest with me.  Actually, you're sitting there wondering just what it is that you would do.  Well, here's what the man who received this cover letter did:

Paul

If you end up applying, pls tell me so I can review your application myself. Liked your writing style on your blog
Keep in touch,
Steve

So now I have to answer the question on the profile that asks: "What is your unique talent?"  There is no way that I can answer with the smart Alec retort: "I awready tol'ja, WORK."  I have to be smoother than that, after all, this is a job interview.  Right, Steve?  I always have some trouble answering that question.  You would think that at my age, I would have the answer.  I do, but frankly, I have always, until right now, given people the answer that I thought would line me up with the income stream that I so desperately need.  This time I have decided to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the heartfelt, deep down gut shot, take it or leave it truth.  I have the unique talent of being a chameleon.  Put me anywhere on earth and I will blend into the woodwork inside of three to six months.  Now, that is not going to earn me a living.  The reason for that is that I did not marry an anthropologist.  So, I have kept that as a bragging point taken from my spotty past.  My equally unique talent is to be able to use words that indicate absolute values and make them relative.  Like "unique" maybe?  But all humorous sophistry aside, I am really good at writing and teaching.  I have a facility with words.  I have the ability to be logical and to make deep concepts make sense to anyone from the baby sitter to the college graduate.  I can do this across a fairly wide band of disciplines, but most of all, and very importantly, especially Theological truths.  On this blog you don't get to see the Theological side of me, so you have to take my word for it.  If you want to see some of my work on the church side, just click here for a sample.  

So, Steve, now that I have answered that question, coupled with the quote to which you answered, I can say that this blog post is my application for work at your company, www.lifebushido.com  

Stay tuned.

BAD HANDS

Hello:  You got a truncated message yesterday because my arthritic, numb and dumb fingers hit the wrong key.  Happens to me a lot.  Not to worry, dear ones, it's not your fault.  It's arithmetic catching up to me.  If you want to know how it feels, wait until your hands have worked for you for 27,300 days like these poor appendages have done faithfully for me.
These guys have been through a lot.  I remember the summer when I was digging a ditch for a friend of my father's.  This guy was a combination auto-body fixer upper and a mechanic and a painter all at the same time.  He was alone in his shack of an office that sheltered (somewhat) his enterprise.  It happened to be on the river side of South Main street, in South Hadley Falls, Massachusetts.  Polish guy he was.  There was a small rivulet of a stream down the embankment behind the shack.  That's where all the "Hazardous waste" went.  Of course, I use quotes because you all know that were no "hazardous wastes" 60 years ago.  So, anyway, I got the job, one Summer, of cleaning out the rivulet.  It was a slow moving and sluggish "body of water."  Well, I think it was water, somewhat, I guess.  There were a lot of weeds along the sides [banks?  hardly] and I had to make sure that this rivulet was cleared and looked spiffy so that everyone would think of it as scenery rather than sluice juice gone wild.  So, on the appointed day I went to Ted's auto shop and reported to work.  My first paying job.  I was but 12 years old, so needless to say I didn't get paid much.  Anyone want to venture a guess?  No?  I don't blame you.  $0.25 per hour.  Yep.  I kid you not. It took me three weeks to finish the job according to Ted's tastes.  I was in there pulling weeds, hacking away with the "D" handled shovel.  Barehanded, of course.  The first money I got was a whopping $5.25.  You've never seen anyone so happy over that kind of money.  Had I decided to get my hands examined by the corner doc, he would perhaps have told me to quit.  No way was I taking that chance.  So I persevered.  I can't remember how much I made, total, but it doesn't matter.  That was my first test.  It was also just the beginning of torture for my hands.  Still to come along the way was the molten lead, the filter-bed filter cleaning with razor blades, the unloading of box cars full of filter bed sand, plucking chickens eight hours a day for three days straight, tobacco farm suckering and picking, hockey rink snow shoveling, underwater boat dock assembling.  Six hours a day for three straight days...all of them underwater.  I got to the point that I could stay under for over a minute and a half.  I was like a prune for a week after.  My fingers didn't work for a long time.  I mean, they were curled up all the time.  Just the right size to slip a can of Bud into the curve, though.  I'll never forget that Summer.  Bud and uncooked hot dogs every night for the week that we were setting up the water front for the Summer camp.  I wonder if that helped to get my hands to the point they are now.
Actually, I have to confess that after the age of about 19 or 20 my hands went on vacation.  Until I started to drive professionally, that is.  Airport shuttles.  Luggage, in, luggage, out, 30 miles on city roads and start over again.  I did a lot of professional driving.  I think that's why my fingers are still curled up and won't get straight any more.  The worst of it is that they don't work on the Bud can any more...nor on the floppy, slippery hot dog.  Man, you might as well stick a fork in me, I'm done!
Before I leave, I have to tell you that the job where I had to work with molten lead was the toughest one on my hands.  My hands got so tough from handling the hot molded lead plates that we were making,  I could pick up hot platters and pans that were out of the kitchen oven for only about 5 or 6 minutes.  I'll never forget that.  I had to throw that in here.  The more I think of it the more I am amazed.
Anyway, pity me for my stiff, numb, almost no feeling left, hands.  If that's all I ever have to complain about, I don't want any of you crying at my funeral... Not that you would any way :-)

NARROW MINDED? NOT ME. I'M OPINIONATED

Narrow minded?  Not ME. I'm just opinionated, that's all.

    The narrow minded ones are those who comment on other people's blogs with the same argument, no matter what the blog title or topic is.  They make generalized statements that you can't argue against because they are so general that it is impossible to challenge them.  That is one of  the most maddening, to me anyway, character traits that I encounter.  We all have a point of view in life.  As you can tell, I have a point of view.  My challenge is to go back over the all the hundreds of articles I have written over the last 380 days to check for the focus of what I have produced.  I often think of what it would look like if I could distill everything and put its core meaning down in 50 words or less.  I know that there is a way to do that.  My challenge is not so much the method as the time.  I would never be able to produce anything during the time that it would take to discover the bulls-eye of my opinion[s].  So I guess you and I will never really know what it is that I am opinionated about.  In my opinion, one of them anyway, it's a good thing to not know specifically the pinpoint of your opinionation.  The vagueness of what it could be allows me to shepherd several seemingly unassailable opinions for the fun that I can therefore get out of being thought of as being opinionated about everything.  Thereby avoiding the Narrow Minded label.

Narrow-mindedness is the worst fault.  Narrow-mindedness knows no logic.  Narrow-mindedness doesn't allow new intellectual light to seep in to stretch the grey matter synapses to the bandwidth that is needed to deal with contemporary reality.  The narrow minds just sits there and dares the world to stretch it...open it.  The narrow mind is as tight at the main vault at Fort Knox.  It allows itself one function, no matter the context.  It does provide a lot of entertainment for us opinionates, I have to admit.  Global warming is not man-made.  It is God's punishment of mankind for rampant, legalized abortion.  Ethanol aids and abets legalized abortion because it uses up food and mothers get aborted out of fear that they won't be able to feed their baby.  I know that you don't want me to continue going down this road.  You get the point.

I think that opinionated people, like I am, have the ability to stake out their convictions in a logical, close-knit argument.  What makes me opinionated is that I may not let you know that you're getting to me and that I am coming over to your way of thinking.  I will keep testing my theory for a long time because that way I'll be sure whose on to the truth, me or you.  I can't speak for other "hard heads" but I can say that I do acknowledge the validity of positions and statements of fact expostulated by enlightened interlocutors.  I always call that espousing the truth that I have discovered at an unexpected source.  

οἱ πολλοί -- λαουτζίκος -- πολλοί

I know, you can't read the title.  That's OK, neither can I.  No, I take that back.  I can read the title and I can understand it.  It's the reality behind the meaning that I can't understand.  I thought that I would give you a different flavor.  This has been a culturally challenging day, so I figured a little dose of culture would not hurt anybody.  So, I wrote the title in Greek.  It is late, so I didn't go to the character map to get the language in the all upper-case format.  I just got it where I found it...on Google, of course.  Should I complain to Sergei that he doesn't make it easy enough to get Greek caps?  If I did, he might make it work.  Allow me this digression.  Several years ago, I did make a remark to Google about the lack of Greek alliterations in the search engine and the translation gadget.  I only gave one example.  I said that if the Google in Athens and Sparta could be used in Greek, it should be possible to have Greek language results to searches and translations in the United States.  I got a nice letter back and inside of one year, Google had Greek.  
Back to work.  I am a person who does not have much faith in what is politely called, in English,  "the people" and in Greek "Hoi Polloi."  Now I used Greece as an example because this is the civilization that is touted as being the mother of democracy.  Well, you see where that has got them.  You also see where it has got us.  You also see where it has got a lot of others as well.  I know that there is another side to this opinion, but I for one think that "the people" don't generally make very good decisions about a lot of things.  One of the most interesting examples of making stupid decisions is to be found in an early book of the Bible.  Read chapters 8 to 10 of the First Book of Samuel.  It is the story of when Israel demanded of God to give it a king.  Yegads, what idiots!  They got a king all right...Guy by the name of Saul.  A flaming idiot he was.  Not only that, the ones who came after him do not have a long and illustrious history.  You can get that image by reading the Prophets.  
You think, oh yeah, what they needed was rule by the people, grass roots stuff.  OK, bring on the Greeks.  In comes Alexander himself.  Oh, no.  This is worse.  Alexander didn't last long.  Neither did the Greeks in Israel...So you know what?  The Israelite kings turned to the Romans for help and support.  Oh, that was a real smart move!  Heee.  Aren't these people ever going to learn?  The answer is, "NO."  
3,500 years later, here we are.  We don't have a king either.  Maybe we should have one.  Oh yeah?  They got one across the Pond.  HHmmm...
You're now saying to yourself, "Where is Dion going with this?  This isn't a thought, it's a rant."  Rant?  No way.  It's only a rant if it has nasty words in it.  This is clean as a whistle.  So far.  Actually, I want to make the point that crossed my mind today during the heavily multi-cultural funeral rites that I presided.  I had prepared myself for the mix of cultures to be present.  It was interesting to be there and to be in charge of the process.  Everybody behaved.  Of course, anyone can stand ANYTHING for only an hour, right?  Then on the drive back home I listened to the news.  What a mistake!  Complaints about the new Coca-Cola Can; Gossip about 9-9-9; Comparing Newt to a newt; Nasties about Mormons; Warnings about Sharia; Advice of how to ship 25,000,000 Mexicans back south of the border; Gnashing of teeth about the rejection of the "Scientific" assurances that human life, as such, begins at conception; Assurances that we should follow the British lead and close our embassy in Tehran [we did that in 1974];  Assuring us that it is totally unnecessary for our children to be forced to learn "cursive;"  Crying and wailing for more taxes to be assessed against the Millionaires and Billionaires.  Through it all I remembered how just recently how a man who didn't know the fundamental grammar rules of our major language was elected president, and now we have to listen to the same crowd who did that, tell us how to save our beloved homeland from disintegrating.  
Hoi Polloi indeed.  Bring on the clowns.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.  How does that square with the famous Greek aphorism, Όλες οι κάρτες, "Everything passes."  Yeah, maybe.

DEBT OF GOOD CONSCIENCE

Every U.S. citizen including all newborn babies owe a $46,000 as their share of national debt.   
I suppose that I could really go off the deep end here about the national debt of the United States of America. That is not what my thought is today.  I rarely, if ever think about our national debt.  It gets expressed in numbers so large that they actually mean nothing to me.  It is therefore time for me to introduce you to a cultural form of indebtedness that doesn't get much play here in North America.  It is what I want to translate into English as the Debt  of Good Conscience. I am calling it that from the concept of the debt culture of countries in Asia and other parts of the world.  In the Philippines, the Tagalog culture calls it Utang sa loob.  That is to say, Internal debt (internally known through a sense of gratitude). In the Ilokano culture. It is called Utang a naimbag a nakem.  Good will debt.  I have heard that other cultures have a similar cultural idea of moral indebtedness  but I am not familiar with them, so I will stick to what I know. This is a more complex form of indebtedness than appears on the surface.  There is a part of this debt that can never be repaid.  That which is "owed" to parents, close relatives, siblings and other special people who have participated in the person's upbringing.  There is another level of debt that is generated by the "normal" exchange activities of life.  The relationship to the school teacher, the minister, the employer, the friend's parents and the friend, of course.  This is a debt that can generally be satisfied through the gentile and polite exchanges that take place between people throughout life.  We have a level of this in our culture as well.  We usually call it "social pressure" or "social obligation."  We also catch ourselves saying things like, "I really have to got to this birthday party.  They do so much for us."  As you know, we have a lot of this that goes on in life, but we don't seem to have a good name for it yet.
The highest form of this debt is practically impossible to wipe clean.  Most  often the principals on either side of the debt scale die before the slate can be wiped clean.  In some cultures, the person who leaves a large debt hanging out there is judged to be unworthy of a happy situation in the after life.  Does that sound familiar?  I don't know about you, but I've heard something akin to that in certain circumstances during my life.
Frankly, I more often than not, feel like I have some "debts of good conscience" out there that I will never be able to pay off.  I also, frankly, try to smooth it over by being nice to others in the hope of putting the scales into balance. I hope that somehow that will work.  I have one hanging out there that bugs me a lot.  If I ever get the courage, I'll tell you about it.  who knows, maybe if I publish it on the Internet, a solution might present itself.  Now there's a thought.  I think I will sleep on it first.  It is a nice story, until it gets to the point where I goof.  The more I think of it, the more I know I'm going to tell you about it.  
As far as the USA national debt goes, my suggestion is, forget it.  There's nothing we can do about it anyway.

LASTING MARRIAGE -- NOT LAST MARRIAGE

"HOUSE AND RICHES ARE AN INHERITANCE FROM ONE'S ANCESTORS, BUT AN INSIGHTFUL WIFE IS FROM THE LORD." (Proverbs 19; 14)
The ex-Voice from the Kitchen, now Belle, and I had an interesting experience this evening.  We were at the church where we spend a lot of time.  We sat in on a reflection/instruction about marriage given by a Catholic priest.  You know, the kind of people who don't get married by choice.  They still think that  the have what it takes to make sense when they talk about marriage.  Belle and I are Catholic.  Very Catholic, as a matter of fact.  We do believe that celibate priests have something to contribute to the knowledge base of how to live so that you can be successful at marriage.  This guy didn't do too badly.  I wasn't sitting next to Belle.  I was sitting next to my Puerto Rican colleague from New York.  So you know that she and I had a good time whispering nasty remarks to one another during this whole thing.  Especially when he said that women think that men are so uncomplicated that there is no mystery to them at all.  I leaned over and said, "That's 'cuz we only have one thing on our minds all the time."  She laughed and said, "Even you?"  Wow, and I thought that she knew me.  The guy was kinda cool.  He is an Irish guy originally from Maine.  He is good company away from the Altar too.
I did have a serious thought through this whole event.  I ran it by Miss P.R. and she agreed with me.  I mentioned that when you hear a Catholic priest talk about successful marriage you hear a lot about Love and Law.  Love is the real glue of the relationship.  Since Matrimony is a Sacrament in the Catholic Church, Love is the key element that has to be present to make a marriage successful.  Law is a stand-by reality in case Love and spirituality need something to lean on.   I agree with that, as long as you're not talking about Romantic Love.  Romantic love is fine, but it sure is a roller-coaster ride.  When it comes to identifying the core of successful marriage, I have come to side with the more scientific crowd, usually called psychologists or whatever else.  I think that they have a better take on what the foundation of a successful marriage is.  This includes the Sacrament of Matrimony.  No, it is not because the scientists are married and the priests are not.  In fact, the intellectual product that you hear from these scientists is far from being 100% connected to their own personal situation.  No, no.  Socrates was right when he said that knowing is not the key to morality.  Believe me, I agree with the scientific results of the scientists, but I have to abstract from their personal behavior.  But you knew that already, right?
Anyhow, they say that successful marriage is based on a well constructed mutual understanding relationship.  This well constructed understanding between the spouses serves as the foundation for Love.  It produces deeper love than Romantic Love.  Through understanding, the love that develops is based on intellectual strength rather than on emotional flexibility.  This does not obviate the need for the law, both legislative and moral, but it makes the relationship more stable and more satisfying. Since this is a more comfortable and satisfying state, Romantic Love episodes are also more gratifying and contribute more effectively to the stability of the union.
So, what do you say?  Interesting thought, right?  Say yes.  
I don't disagree with the priests, at least not with those who have some brains and who use them.  I do, however, think that they should incorporate a little more psychological science into their sacramental and moral reflections.  Challenge us a little bit.  Challenge themselves a little bit more too.  
In case you're wondering, I do believe in the Sacramental power of Matrimony.

VALUE vs MEANING

I have experienced a lot of life and a lot of exits from life.  Each exit from from life is different and each one translates the value of the life into a more universal meaning.  Value is defined by observable behavior.  Meaning goes far beyond value.  It penetrates more deeply into the internal life of those who get touched by the life that creates it.  There are many levels of life, and many expressions of it on earth.  The flowers of the fields and the gardens, the birds of the air, the fish in the bowl, the animals who share our living space all have a value.  They also all have the ability to inject meaning into our own human life.  Because these life levels do that,  we appreciate the meaning of human lives that touch us.  We all know that someday we will have to do without the real value of  the lives of our friends and relatives.  We also know that we will carry the meaning of these lives with us until we, in turn reach our limit.
Each life has limits.  The value of each life has limits.  The meaning of each life has limits.  Human life, like any other form of life can only go just so far and just so deep.  We all know that.  We see it in our own lives.  I can use myself as a handy example for that statement.  I have childhood friends whom I have not encountered personally for over 60 years.  Some of them would like to see me again, and vice versa.  Others are glad that they don't have to endure even the faint thought of my existence, and once again, vice versa.  Interesting thing about that feeling...It applies to some people with whom I deal almost every day, too!  The other thing that we all know is that the joy of life is in presence, not absence.  The deepest emotion of joy that comes from life is from its meaning, not from its value.   When we comment about someone that we admire don't we say, "X means a lot to me?"  We don't usually talk about value.  Not me, anyway.  I would find it nasty to say about a friend, "Yeah, she/he is worth a lot to me."
So, like everyone else, George Woodworth, he of revered memory, meant a lot of good things to many people.  He also, just like the rest of us, turned his share of people off.  So, since I represent those who revere the powerfully meaningful good part of  him, let me try to mention some of the more powerful meanings that will continue to survive the life that has finally come to an end.
1. His honesty.  When he loved you, you knew it.  When he didn't, you knew that too.
2. His ability to love deeply and to share it.  George is perhaps the best thing that ever happened to Kyocera.  He fell in love with Mr. Asa Jonishi and many others who held key positions in the company.
3. His ability to appreciate and absorb the culture of the Japanese people and of the corporation itself.
4. His loyalty, to people and to the corporation.
5. His ability and willingness to share his knowledge and life experience without the fear of losing his job to someone who learned from him.
When I came into his life, he took a chance on me.  I was at the threshold of a change in career.  All I had was my culture and my intellect with no work history in the United States.  I had solid educational credentials with a long history of overseas endeavors, including my masters degree from a foreign university.  When I got the chance to interview in front of Mssrs.  Jonishi, Hasegawa, Imamura, Nagai, Shirai, Heath, Woodworth and Umemura, I must have done well because I remember that I did not have to ask anyone, not a one, to repeat a question because of tortuous English pronunciation.
In the interest of full disclosure, I had also received the endorsement from one of George's most respected friends, Jack Swank.  He is the one who asked me, "You're a Catholic priest, isn't it against your religion to be anti-union?"  I laughingly answered that by the time I was ordained everyone knew that I was anti-union and they anointed me anyway.
In the end, I got the job.  I left after about 5 years.  I haven't heard the end of it yet.
There was competition for the position.  I do know that.  But because George was willing to gamble, we worked together well and never ceased being friends.  Our trust in one another and our deep acculturation to the environment was certainly beneficial to Kyocera.
That's it for now.  December 1 is the last "Cumpa."

ALMOST THREE WEEKS LATER -- A CRY FROM THE GRAVE

This day begins the  era of endless silence for a voice that has been supporting me for thirty-four years.  The entire experience of this beginning is marked by the end of an era.  
It all began to come home to me when I decided  that to solve a small language question, I would email a Japanese friend of mine who follows this blog.  When I thought of doing this, I immediately realized that I had not heard from a long time supporter of mine for many days.  This fellow would send me at least 3, many times 5 or 6 emails per day.  They were the usual kinds of emails that people flood the ethersphere with these days.  Some I would open, some I wouldn't.  This pattern of his went on for over two years, so I could recognize the repeaters from the new ones.  So life went on.  When I thought of my Japanese friend, who also happens to be close to the emailing friend, I sent an email to the Emailer and said, "if you need help, tell me."  Then I emailed the fellow in Japan.  After that, since my curiosity was getting the better of me, I researched my email to see exactly how long it had been since the last email I had received from the once forgotten, now remembered emailing friend.  It turned up to be November 8.  Nearly three weeks.  I went about my business and kept checking my email to see what would happen.  Early this morning, it happened.  The mutual friend from Japan told me that George had died two days before.  
Now this is really the negative side of life in the fast lane.  A person who is present in my life every single day of the week, through more than one or two "pings" a day, disappears for 17 days and I don't notice the absence.  It is but through a coincidental mental connection that I even had the faint inkling of an irregularity.  It reminded me of when I shaved off the beard that I had carried for over one year.  It took a week before the first person made a remark about the fact that I was now clean shaven.  One week!  It is like information overload.  Or is it like an environmental habit, such as a "favorite" shrub that gets cut down from next to the main entry to your home and it takes a week or more to realize that there is a "hole" where the shrub used to be.  But this is a human friend.  Not just any, ordinary friend.  Read on...
I finally got some contact information.  His telephone number reached me.  I immediately called and the wife answered the telephone.  She had been seeking me for the entire three days.  She even went the fifteen miles to where she knew that I once lived full time.  She knows that my son lives there.  She got there, saw his vehicle in the driveway.  Knocked on the door a lot and got no response.  She finally went back home and found someone who could manage her husband's computer and was able to send me the telephone number by email.  We spoke for about an hour.  
Email is what you make of it.  It can be mechanical and it can be personal.  A continuous flow of it from the same source can become "white noise."  Like the stream behind your country home.  Or like the car radio that is on but not communicating because there are too many other claims on the driver's attention.  That's what happened to me.  It is too bad that the "Endless Silence" started early because my senses were someplace else.  

CUTE, CUTE CROWD CONTROL, NO HALBERD, but...

I was talking with a missionary priest this evening and we mentioned Vatican city in our conversation.  It made me think of a run-in that I and some friends had with the Swiss Guard.  I have to tell you that the only pleasant thing about the entire episode is the telling of it.  It was not caused because we were perceived as a threat to the Pope's security.  It was caused by the fact that we had taken advantage of a crowd crush and went for a stroll behind St. Peter's Basilica and were making our way to the gardens.  Of course we never made it.  Because it was a festive occasion, the guard was decked out in the ceremonial uniform that you see here.   Most often, on weekdays, the uniform is a dull, bluish grey.  When they are in their work-a-day bluish greys they lose their boyish, sweetie-pie aspect and look just like the tough New York, no nonsense street patrol.  The baby faced crowd-control patsy shown above is very noticeably armed with a well honed, very pointy sword.  He knows that you know that he knows how to use it.  So, that's why he can be polite, even downright charming.  Pose with you for pictures, say a few words in well formed English syllables and then move on to the next cluster.

We got stopped by one of the gate guards whom we thought we had snookered.  When his partner returned to the gate after a snooping round, our man came to greet us, yes, halberd in hand.  The business end stayed up and away from the line of sight, but the shaft running down alongside his pretty knicker uniform pants, gently resting on the ground said all we had to know.  The business end of his person was drilling holes through us.  The fierce blue eyes in this guy spoke the only language we had to know.  He was so polite, respectful, speaking softly but firmly in Italian, powdered lightly with a Frenchy accent.  We feigned ignorance.  He gently tried French.  Blank.  Feigned, of course.  He smiled.  Shifted his feet. Sharpened his eyes.  Returned to Italian.  "Reverends, this is not a joke.  You are leaving now, and I will follow you to the perimeter."  He moved aside, halberd still up, thank God.  As we passed before him, we muttered deeply felt "Thank you's" [in Italian, of course] and walked with purposefulness to the neutral zone.  When we got to the end of the line, he said, "Reverend Fathers, do not play games with the Swiss Guard."  In really, really nice English.  We all laughed nervously while he and his partner were victoriously smiling.


If you are ever in Vatican City, enjoy the sight of the uniforms.  Do not be fooled by them.  They are covering a small but tough and dedicated army that serves the Kingdom of God.  Death in the line of duty would be a reward for them.  They are Swiss, but in Vatican City they are more than Swiss, they are Catholic, they are tough and they are fearless.
The photo on the right is what they look like most of the time.

I AIN'T HAD A THOUGHT NOW FER 24 'OWARS

Za matter a fack, I think if'n I had one, I cain't 'member it no how.
If anybody talks like that, it shore as shootin' ain't me.
An' if anybody talks like that, t'ain't no way 't kin be me neither.
Now, that might sound like an exaggeration, but somewhere out there is a person or two who can communicate in that style.  The only place I have even come close to that kind of communication in English is in the movies.  I do have to say that I did come across the close relative of that kind of  speech in France.  The interesting part of that experience is that I could understand it and my French colleagues could not.  There are some things that surpass the boundaries of our world.  Here are a couple of examples.
This is a direct quote from a comment on the "365..."
How about "bakero"? Ask your Japanese friend what it means if you do not know. Heeeee.
My comment back was, "Why would I ask a Japanese the meaning of a Spanish word?"
She writes back, "Are you completely sure?  The Japanese used to say that on Palau all the time."
Sure looks to me like I have to get some help from that linguist PhD again. I'm sure he'll say something smokin' smart like, "It's a mystery to me, Bubba."  Ouch!  Smile, Kevin.  'F'ya don't treat me good, I won't babysit ya no more."  
On a more serious note, I decided that I would, in fact, send an email to my blogging Japanese friend and ask him if he can help with this expression as used by the Japanese soldiers during the occupation of Palau.  I mentioned to my friend from Palau that the Japanese had perhaps heard it in Portuguese occupied Macao and were using it as an insult against the locals on Palau.  This kind of stuff happens.  
I promise that I will let you know what I find out about this.  I just know that you are all fidgeting with frenetic anxiety about  this intriguing reality.
Finally, I have to tell you that in thinking of the Japanese, I  thought of my dear friend G. Woodworth.  I haven't heard from him in nearly three weeks and I used to get at least five emails from him every day.  He's not Japanese, and it's a long story.  Someday, if you behave, I'll recount it to you.  For now, do me a favor and hold your breath.  OK?
Thanks.

THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, .99c STORE BLACK FRIDAY

Some things that caused me to have some thoughts today.
1. I was bitten by the "clean up your car" bug.  So, out came the vacuum cleaner and the "Crack reacher attachment" and I got to work.  Man, was I ever doing great.  Things got interesting when I go to the trunk.  It was there that I discovered that I didn't have a jack in the trunk!   What?  No Jack!  Where is it?  I can't believe this.  When, in the last seven years did the jack leave the car?  Holy Moley!  That's the bad part.  The good part is that I had two jacks in storage in the shed.  I found the one that was for a car like the one I have and my problem was solved.  Sweeeet!
2. I was also attacked by the fix your garden hose bug.  That was rather easy until I discovered that someone had "touched" my spare parts drawer.  Grrr...  When the boys were young and growing up this really used to get me bunched up in the system.  Today was frustrating because there was no 12 year old youngster around to blame and to jack up [pun intended] my blood pressure.  It took some shuffling around, but I did locate the parts I needed and got the job done.  Super efficiently too, 30 minutes for a ten minute project.

3. The find of the day, pictured here.  While being conquered by the "sweep the Patio" virus, I moved a cardboard box under the bench near the south wall and it had something inside it that clinked.  Hmmm... Naturally, being a curious young dude, I opened the box and much to my surprise I discovered some San Miguel Beer.  Twelve bottles.  Two of them had the clamp-on top of the one on the left.  They were both empty.  The others with the more traditional metal crimped cap still were full.  Upon closer examination I determined that these bottles were in fact direct products of the Philippines and did not have provenance from the United States.  It had to be that a relative or a friend had sneaked them into this country from Manila, all the way back in 1990.  This was the year of the centennial of the existence of the world famous brewery whose home is Manila, Philippines.  The broken label on the neck of the special bottle on the left has the "100" written on it and served as a seal of authenticity during the year of the anniversary and was not exported as such.  The bottle on the right was produced entirely in the Philippines as is clear by the part of the label that cannot be seen in this photo.  The celebratory label with the crowned "100" and the flag waving over it is a sign of when the product came to be.  So, see, it was quite a day.  THEN...
4. I didn't have my camera with me because it was after sundown and I never expected to see anything worthy of my photographical expression.  I had gone to Home Depot and was returning when I saw the store-front of the $0.99 outlet emblazoned with huge lettering "SUPER SALE"
Now, boys and girls, we know that  the global economy is in the tank and just mightily squirming, trying to get out.  If I get the opportunity, I'll stop by there and squint around trying to see just what that means.  I can't help but wonder what the impact on the hard working third world peons will be.  Who knows?  They are perhaps so poor that they have nothing more to lose.

That's it.  My "Black Friday" was a fun day.  I also had the blessing of a nice two hour nap.  A luxury in my life.  
Besides all that, because I am publishing this while the clock is still on the 11/25/2011 side of 12, my electronic accountant is going to credit this production toward the 365.  And that's OK. what the Hay, this coming year I get an extra day to do the same amount of work.  God is good!

IT'S THANKSGIVING -- HEY, TEXT AND DRIVE

I had to put this up the moment I saw it.  It is perfect for the heaviest driving season of the year.  I and my wife once drove through the San Joaquin Valley in Central California at the breakneck stop and go speed of 10 miles per hour.  Yes, boys and girls, 300+ miles on the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  This cartoon is so rich.  Enjoy it.
x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x
Now, this is the hour when the "Bell Tolls."  It is exactly one year since the very first post of this blog came into existence.  It continues.  Different title, same intent.  To keep me thinking and helping you to do the same.  My computer says that this is the 365th post for the blog.  The calendar says that it is November 25, 2011 and that completes a 365 day year.  However, for technical reasons I get credit for fulfilling the quota, but for actual readership purposes, the number is only 363.  So, now that you know that I am a complete failure, you must be saying, "Why continue?"  That's an easy one.  I still have a lot to say.  I still have something different enough just about every day to keep you interested.  I still have enough autobiography left for my children to discover that I have to continue.  I have some plans for future "Thoughts" that will serve to rattle your cages a little bit as well.  Since I am fond of cage rattling, I can't stop this while I'm planning so much fun.
Let me kick this off with one that happened today.


When is the last time you had a "silent discussion" with your spouse?  Mine was today.  It was short.  There was no "winner."  It makes for good telling.
We're going to the Thanksgiving dinner.  We get off the highway, go toward the bottom of the ramp and see, off to the left, a tall, thin, mustachioed mendicant.  Immediately Belle [I am honoring her request to stop referring to  her as the "Voice from the Kitchen.] says, "Do you have something for him?"
I saw two things that did not resonate with her. 1* The light was about to turn in my favor.  2* The man had a small dog on a leash.
My retort: "If he can afford to feed his dog, he doesn't need my money.  After he eats his dog, I'll contribute."  SILENCE.  Oh yeah.  It lasted about five minutes.  It ended in a nice, concessionary tone expressing sympathy for our ailing #2 son that we had to leave at home.  During the silence, I could hear her disagreeing with me, but I think she had also come to the factual observation that by the time we had reached his position by the side of the road the light was green.  So an eleemosynary act under those conditions would have been inappropriate at best and stupid, at worst.  So, in the end, it makes for a cute story with a happy ending.  Besides, I'll make it up to God by doubling the next one.
A good start to the new batch of "365 Thoughts."
Have fun.

THANKS TO THE ENGLISH FOR...

While I was in church this morning, I had a bunch of  Brit/USA thoughts flit across  my mental horizon.  Somehow I wonder why the English get so much of our attention.  After all, they were not the first to the party.  But they sure stole the show, didn't they?  Right out of the gate they have the largest, oldest operating company on the North American continent (Hudson's Bay Trading).  They aren't even the first Christians to make it here.  Not even the first missionaries.  Just as they were behind Raul Amundsen to the  South Pole, they were behind Leif Erickson to North America.  Perhaps, thankfully for them, Leif was more interested in the fish than in the land.  Or maybe he had a solid home life, who knows?  Then, of course, the Spaniards claimed the sunny south.  Their predilection for warm weather must have had something to do with the way the flags were planted.  The Portuguese were in on the game too, but no one could tell them apart from the Spaniards except for the fact that their language was so sloppy, that no one could understand them.  It is possible that they made friends in Brazil because of their delivery of cheap labor from Africa.  So, with all of this spinning round and round in my coconut, I came home and found a little boy in a shirt that was printed with an image close to the one at the head of this piece.  It's then that the following happened:
Dear English, thanks for the pretty color scheme for our own flag.
                             Thanks for letting us borrow and remake your language.
                             Thanks for being more interested in Canada than in US.
                             Thanks for disliking the French more than US.
                             Thanks for exiling the best cooks to Louisiana.
                             Thanks for wearing those nice, bright red unis to Concord.
I have told you once before that I worked for a British Company for a couple years.  Some of them have a sense of humor about "losing" the "States" and some do not.  No matter who they are, they do enjoy the days off.  They also like to claim Thanksgiving as their gift to us.  That, dear friends is a story for a different blog and a different time.  Be that as it may, I do hope you are having a blessed Thanksgiving episode this year.

THANKSGIVING THOUGHTS -- GOBBLE, GOBBLE

THE NATIONAL BIRD OF THE USA

Do you know why I put that caption there?  Give it a thought.  You must know that before the Bald Eagle was declared, by an act of congress to be the national bird, there had to be a discussion, right?  The guys in Washington had to debate the question right?  So, come on, you do agree with me that one of the candidates for the honor had to be the Wild Turkey, do you not?  Maybe someone knows, but unless we go back to the acts of Congress of the early 1780's, we won't really know.  What we do know is that Benjamin Franklin wrote a letter to his daughter deriding congress and its decision to choose the Bald Eagle over the Wild Turkey.  Was he ever in on the discussion?  We do not know.  Is this a serious letter or a tongue-in-cheek bush beater?  We don't know that either.  So, the Bald Eagle it is and my national bird remains:

Now, a moment of autobiographical revelation.  Turkey was rarely, if ever, the center piece of the Thanksgiving celebration on 1 Hartford Street.  We had a huge pot of stew made of  meat balls, pigs' hocks and thickened with a generous amount of burnt wheat flower.  The technical, scientific name for this delicacy is "Ragou au Pates de Cochon."  It is the one meal that MJT Dion did and her pre-eminence in the art of its preparation was never challenged by anyone else.  This stew, perhaps a cousin of  Acadian Gumbo, has not graced our table for nigh on to 27+ years, as follows:

It was a year when Edward Dion, who was suffering from Alzheimer's Syndrome had occasional outbursts of clarity.  MJT decided to fight her agora phobia to come to Southern California accompanied by her grand-daughter Lisa, just for Thanksgiving.  It was a foregone conclusion that the STEW was the fare of the day.  We all put in our time for the meticulous preparation.  The crowning moment was when Ed arrived and saw "Mina", he smiled, got happily agitated and for about ten minutes stayed close to "Mina" though he could not speak.  She too was speechless, but from emotion.  It was a marvelous celebration.  I will never forget it, and I'll bet that if you ask Lisa about it, she just made get a little weepy for a moment too.

Since then, we have turkey and bunch of other stuff.  We are a mixed culture household [always have been, only now it's more Asian than Canadian], so there are a lot of varied expressions of the celebration.  Except for one.  It is always a religious occasion for us.  I could get Theological and Biblical here, but let's just say, that if Thanksgiving is to be true to its nature, it has to take the Creator and the Father and the Son and the Spirit seriously in the expression of gratitude.  Even if you start with the centuries old tradition of harvest festivals, we are convinced that you have to place God at the head of the event.  Therefore, no matter what your position about Thanksgiving is, please remember, for at least one instant, that it goes beyond the turkey to God.  That, my friends, is my thought for the day.

WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO BE WHEN I GROW UP?

This is not the way I wanted this "Thought" to start.  When I was looking for a theme "tag", I saw this and I knew that I should have thought of it 30 years ago.  So I have been trying to turn my body mechanics around a bit so that I can get my right foot to plant a swift and fast retributionary pain into my glutii maximi before I continue with this piece.  Especially since I knew then, [30 years ago, I mean] what the right answer to the child's question was, is and always will be, and I didn't put it out there for my son to use it.  Yuk!  I'll tell you why I should have been more alert at the end of the "paper."

I was about six or seven, I guess when one day I asked MJT Dion what she wanted me to be when I grew up.  She simply said, "That's up to you.  I'll never tell you what I want you to be."  Well, that was disappointing.  I didn't think of getting back to her 40 years later to repeat the question.  After all, I was somewhat older, though, like all boys, not yet grown up.  But, Hey, I forgot and never did get around to it.  In fact what I did do was to ask EFR Dion the same question when he appeared from work on the same day.  Boy, was I ever in for a shock.  He said, <your mother and I have promised ourselves that we would support you to become anything you want to be, as long as it is good.>  Just one minute here.  You mean that you and she actually have a strategy?  Sheeesh!  I can't begin to tell you how many nights I twisted and turned over that one.  Remember now, I wasn't even eight years old yet.  I don't know how old I was , but I sure know that I was not yet 8.  
It was the Sunday after the fateful day [I really remember this] when we were sitting around the "parlor" [sitting room, you know] reading the "Funny Papers" and everyone was there.  I asked if it was permitted to us to ask for advice about what to do with our lives.  The two adults looked at one another, I think they felt embarrassed, and they joined in to assure all of us that we could feel comfortable to ask them what we wanted and that they would help us.  You are reading this, shaking your head and not believing what you are seeing in your head.  But it is true.  Also, it did make me feel better.


Thirty plus years later.  Number one son, he who lived the first five days of his extra-uterine life without a name, asked me the fateful question: "What do you want me to be when I grow up?"  He had to think that he was in trouble or something because it took a few seconds while I enjoyed my life flashing before my eyes before I could answer.
"I want you to be a kind and honest man."  
"No, I mean, what do you want me to do, like work?"
"It doesn't matter to me, as long as you are kind and honest."
"What about Mama?"
"She thinks the same way."
"Really?"
"Yes, dear."
"Can I ask her?"
Now picture John Alden <standing first on on foot and then the other, and not knowing on which one he felt the better.> [Longfellow, Miles Standish]
"Of course."
I continue my chore, tremblingly, to be sure, in the conviction that I was now going to  have a series of miserable  nights, like those of yesteryear.
I should have relaxed.  The Voice of the Kitchen and I had had the "talk" long before the "question."  
My son has never commented on this.  He has asked for guidance, fully knowing that the spiritual part of his life was to come first in anything that he did, or was.


We had prepared ourselves for this moment because we are aware of the cultural differences that exist in our lives.  It has worked out well.  We think.


Now, about the ANSWER.  When my son asked me the "question" I knew the answer, but it didn't impose itself on my brain at the time.  The mother in the picture above has the right answer.  Be happy.  The goal of everybody is to be happy.  I learned that in my very first class in Philosophy 101.  The goal of every human being is to be happy.  How could I miss that?  I went to school from age 5 years and 9 months through age 28 and 3 months and I failed the easiest test question that I ever got.  Talk about Dunce, with a capital "D"!
Of course, I could talk to you for another year explaining what that "Be Happy" means, but just let me suggest that you stand in front of the mirror and talk it over with yourself for a while.  It will be less boring that way.

BREAKFAST(S) OF MEMORIES

When I was a boy.
When I was Papa.

When I wake up now.

I remember Pablum left over from my baby siblings.
I remember Quaker Oats.
I remember buttered slices of toasted bread.  Dreikorn's it was mostly.  The local bakery, of course.
I remember Allard's milk.
I remember the milk man, too.  Leo Durand.  A kind of distant relative, he was.
I remember listening to the adventures of the Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers and Gene Autry.  That's where I got to know about Hot Ralston, Wheaties, Kellog's Corn flakes, Shredded Wheat, Cheerios.
Actually,some of the above entered my life through the Shadow, The Green Hornet, Dick Tracy and the Texas Rangers.
I remember buckwheat crepes with real maple syrup.
I also remember Aunt Jemima pancakes with real maple syrup.
I remember fried eggs and bacon with toasted bread.
I also remember that we did not own a pop-up toaster.
I remember Easter Sunday breakfasts with fried ham slices, fried eggs and fried potato slices.
I remember that strawberry preserves were rare.  Welch's Grape Jelly was the daily, and it seemed, forever fare.
I remember that breakfast was ALWAYS eaten at home.

I remember Italian breakfasts.  Fresh bread ["buns" I guess you could call them], simple local cheese and coffee.
This lasted for four years.

I remember Filipino breakfasts.
Dried, salted fish, rice and coffee.
Some fresh bread [Pandesal], butter, preserves and coffee.
Fresh avocado with calamandin and coffee.
Fresh papaya [yellow or pink] with calamandin and coffee.
Sausage, rice and coffee.
Calamandin is a small, lime-like, soft peeled citrus fruit, sour.

I remember when I was Papa breakfasts.
Sausage, rice and coffee.  Quaker oats for the sons.
Toasted bread, peanut butter, strawberry preserves and coffee.  Milk.
Quaker oats all around, coffee for me.
Sunday morning breakfast nook time after Mass.  Great stuff.
Great coffee.

Breakfast now.
Anything edible that I don't have to cook and coffee.
Anti hypertension drugs.  Coffee
Anti gout drugs.  Coffee
Salmon oil capsule.  Coffee

This is almost my entire life.
See how simple it is to be happy.
See how simple it is to live long.
All it takes is COFFEE.

MYSTERY OF LANGUAGE AND MUSIC

 I did this because I was thinking about the mystery of language and music the other day.  It's not a big mystery, I guess, but I do think about it now and then.  I wonder if there is a language technician somewhere in the world that I am going to meet one day.  During our conversation, that individual will be able to take the mystery about which I am going to write, out of my life.  During our conversation, the mystery will be turned into complete intellectual understanding.
Consider the different sounds of languages.  Consider that there are languages with practically no hills and valleys in their accentuation.  These are the languages where you can never put the accent on the wrong syllable.  Then there are languages where the accents add a lot to the meaning of the words spoken.  There are languages that have a lot of twisted tongue involvement.  Some have accents and tones too.  Some need to have the speaker put some throat stops into the sections of certain words.  I suppose I could go on, but I trust  that by now you get the point.  It is an introduction to the mystery of language and music.  It struck me the other day that although there are some languages that to some people may sound strange, and even unpleasant to hear, some languages come across as fluid and pleasant to the ear.  Even to the person to whom they mean absolutely nothing.  Now, after all that, I ask, <Why is it that every language has the ability to produce sweet music?>  Good grief, even the German language has sweet music, much of it admired internationally.  We've all heard the famous World War II bar song about Lily Marlene, right?  Oh, and by the way there is also a very sweet bar song that came out of Japan during that self-same war.  What about the famous Tagalog song, Dahil Sa iyo [Because of You].  What about Olivia Newton John?  Or the Beatles? Or Tom Jones?  Did you ever hear them speak during an interview?  What happens to their Cockney when they sing?  What about Celine Dion, my almost relative?  Or, for those of you old enough to remember, what about Maurice Chevalier?  
You all know that there has to be a mystery there somewhere.  It struck me the other night because I was listening to the National Public Radio station and the featured music was Norwegian love songs.  I was blown away.  Such sweetness!  I couldn't understand a word, but I was floating in air.  It struck me then that I would perhaps never understand what was happening, but as long as it was so beautiful, I would continue believing in it.
That's the way it is with mysteries.  As long as you enjoy them, you don't have to understand them.  We are surrounded by many such realities.  Some we embrace, some we reject.  Some attract us because of their ability to draw us into thinking that we would unlock them someday.  Some draw us to them because we like them just for what they are.  We feel no need to understand them as long as we can continue to enjoy them.  One way or the other, and maybe some more in between, I think that it is a good thing that I don't understand every little and big thing that accompanies me through life.  Not only would that make it impossible for you to live with me, it would be impossible for ME to live with ME.  Now that you know that about me, you have no reason to cry at my funeral.  If you did, THAT would be a mystery.

WORD ASSOCIATION GAME -- REALLY

CLICK HERE FOR PAUL'S REACTIONS

Here's what happened to me today.  I was driving back to our residence from visiting our relatives in a city 90 miles away.  The radio was transmitting "Prairie Home Companion" with Garrison Keillor.  In a very short time this program succeeded in getting somnolence to attack the Voice from the Kitchen and Garrison Keillor ruled the cabin for the next 60 or 70 minutes.  Along the way, I got this silly game going inside my head that surprised me because it didn't seem to have been triggered by anything that Guy Noir was doing to solve his case.
So here it is.  I would think of a country and then say the first, or only, person's name that crossed my mind right after becoming explicit about the country I was naming.  So, I am inviting you to have some fun with me.
When I arrived home, I listed the countries that I had "named" in my head and the name of  the first person who claimed the cranial space.  Then I would do the same for the first country that came to mind, in perfectly spontaneous and serendipital order.  I will give you the list of the countries in the order that I wrote them down.  This too was a rather "stream of consciousness" exercise.  If you want to play, just do what I did.  If no one pops up, don't sweat it, just move on to the next one.  The first point of interest is to see how many you can get.  The second point of interest is to see how many of  yours will duplicate mine.  Finally, you will know some that I didn't think of, so you can add them and send them to me for my enjoyment.  You will find my "associations" by either clicking here or on the link below the map at the head of this post.  Ready?  Get set.  Go....
USA
CANADA
ARGENTINA
VENEZUELA
ITALY
FRANCE
ENGLAND
HOLLAND
SWITZERLAND
GERMANY
NORWAY
CHINA
JAPAN
SINGAPORE
TURKEY
IRAQ
EGYPT
KOREA
AUSTRIA
AUSTRALIA
PHILIPPINES
EL SALVADOR
NICARAGUA
MEXICO
HAITI
SOUTH AFRICA
INDIA
SPAIN
POLAND
PORTUGAL