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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

THE "OTHER" GOSPEL, THE MEMORY OF THE BIBLE IN THE EYE OF YOUR CAMERA

The one I had was brown

Have you ever been on a pilgrimage?  Have you ever read Geoffrey Chaucer?  have you ever heard of the Pilgrimage to Mecca?  Did you ever ask yourself why Jesus, Mary and Joseph were 100 miles away from home when Jesus got lost?  How often do you, if ever, dream of traveling to your favorite religious site?
When you think of that, what is your first preoccupation, after money, of course?  Is it your prayer book or your camera?  
Why do I bring this up?  Because it came to me the other day when I though that it might be a good idea to dig out some old pictures and give them to our sons for Christmas.  So, of course, I dove into the box(es) of photos and the box(es) of SD computer chips to see what pictures they might appreciate more.  The emotion that overtook me while I was doing this was quite a surprise to me.  I decided that none of the pictures that I was viewing would be of any real lasting value to either one of them.  Why?  Because it struck me with some emotional intensity that what I was looking at was interesting, but certainly not engaging.  The exercise was rather fun, but did not rise to the level of awe before a family collection of treasure.  So, I stopped myself from spending any more time doing this.
It came to me that the truly meaningful pictures were VERY few and far between.  How many pictures of 3 and 4 year boys are meaningful?  There is one that I like, but I couldn't find it, so that was a disappointment.  Or was it?  It made me think of the picture that I took with my Kodak Box camera of old.  It was at Niagara Falls somewhere in the 1957 range.  It was one where I captured the boat, "The Maid of the Mist" floating at the foot of the falls and surrounded by a very clearly defined rainbow.  I admired that picture for a long time, but then I changed my domicile so many times during the passing years that all I have is the memory.  I have the memory, and nothing else, of my favorite picture of EFR Dion coming down the back stairs of our house on Hartford Street in South Hadley that I took with the same box camera by Kodak.  I remember it because it was February, a few days after he had announced that he had now lived longer than his father had.  I could go on for some time reminiscing about pictures that I remember and about pictures that were never taken.  Those that were never taken are still vividly present to me.  They move me as much as those that occasionally fall under my gaze.  Despite the convictions expressed here, I still find myself clicking away on special occasions.
In the introduction I asked about pilgrimages and what is the more important, prayer or picture.  I wonder what the right answer is.  It is impossible to go to a revered location on the planet without capturing the reality of it on camera.  I have my favorite pictures of places that I have seen only because I went there to pray.  I don't look at the pictures very often, if ever, but the fact that I stopped and captured a rare reality helps vivify my memory of it.  It is like multi-media impact on the brain.  It is rather certain to me that the effort that it took to stop, assess the angle of importance, check the position of the sun, wonder if I should have Belle there or not, should I activate the flash, how close do I want to get, portrait or landscape mode, etc.  All of this activity contributes in some way to the memory of the event.  In many ways it makes viewing the picture less important down the line because the memory is all the more explicit.
Think of it this way.  Mary and Joseph lost track of their Son one year during the annual pilgrimage to Jerusalem for prayer.  They didn't need a camera to remember where they found him.  I think that He never forgot it either.  We don't hear a single word about him for another 20 plus years, except that when He got back to Nazareth, he obeyed them and grew in age and wisdom.  Period.
Who needs a camera for that?

AIDA, CARMEN AND LA TRAVIATA, WHO ARE THEY?

L’amour est un Oiseau Rebelle
Love is a rebellious bird

By Verdi
It's in Italian and is set in Egypt

Today, I was beset by one of those flashbacks that happen to old people now and then.  This one was a nice warm and fuzzy, good humored one.  I didn't get the shivers that usually attack me when I think of some of the calamitously stupid things that I have done along the road of life.  I remembered the gang of three or four WWII veterans who had been friends forever.   Two of them happened to be my uncles.  They were the younger brothers of my father.  You know him, EFR Dion.  The four of them were opera "buffs" and they usually spent Saturday afternoons listening to opera during the Texaco Radio broadcast of the Saturday matinee from the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.  I would occasionally be there with them.  Not for the opera, mind you, but because I liked being with them and they did not seem to mind my being there.  After all, I was still a teen ager at the time.  
Well, as most of you know, I am not a teen ager any more.  But Saturdays still do come and go. And there is still a radio station here in Southern California that carries the opera from the various opera houses around the world.  Today was Saturday and I was running around town doing "this and that" and listening to Aida in between short hops from "this" to "that."  During one of the hops the memory of one of those post meridiem sessions struck me.  It was the time that one of the gentlemen in the room said that he was of the opinion that the words of the "tunes" that are sung in Opera were not meant to be understood.  Well, he didn't get far with that statement.  The other three chimed in with loud and monosyllabic dissent.  They are printable, but not appropriate.  Then I remember my uncle Ed coming to the defense of the brave heart who dared to venture such an inconoclastic opinion. Ed simply said that if the words were not meant to be understood, the writer would not have provided any for the singers to vocalize.  He also said that just because we five could not understand them didn't mean that there were none in the world who did.  The person with the daring opinion then challenged my uncles who were fluent French speakers if they understood Carmen.  They, to their everlasting credit, confessed that they did not.  So he won...or he thought that he did.  Not so fast, Red Ryder!  Other opinions flew around the room and it was really nice for me to hear what they had to say.  
Some of the ideas were really quite philosophical.  I remember some of them.  
One was that the singers also had to act.  So they needed real words to be able to convey the emotions that the play was meant to portray.  I thought that was pretty intelligent.  Then one said that a Boy Scout skit conveyed ideas and there no words in many of them.  True enough says another, but Boy Scouts don't sing.  The actors in an opera have to sing.  If the author of the play is sophisticated enough he can match the words with the notes in the music so that the sound of the voice and the pitch indicated by the music match and help to make the emotions clearer for the actors and for the spectators.
But then another said that he didn't think that was a good thought at all.  In fact, said he, French authors wrote plays in Spanish and Italian people wrote some in French, and so on.  
But wait, says the originator of the discussion, that just means that the words don't really matter to the audience.  
One of the thoughts that made the rounds that day was that the audience did not go there for the play anyway, they went for the music...the instruments, from the strings to the brass to the percussion and, yes, to the human vocal chords were the true and only reason why people paid to go sit there during a play that they could not follow.
The four of them decided that they would all sleep on it and talk about it on the morrow while fishing for pickerel at Lake Arcadia.  I don't know if they did or not.  As for me, I only have two things to say. 
1. I know the words to the Aria cited above from Carmen.  She is a tough broad, believe me.
2. I also know the words to the drinking song from La Traviata.  By the way, it is not nice to be called "una traviata."  In fact, the song in the opera  says plainly that the woman is not going home with the fellow who brought her!
I like to listen to opera for some of the reasons that were brought up on that Saturday PM some 60 years ago.  I am glad that there is still some opera on the radio.  It is true that it is no longer sponsored by Texaco, but that doesn't make it any the less enjoyable.  

MR. MIYAGI WINS A BIG ONE IN LAS VEGAS

Karate Kid 2 Mr Miyagi's philosophy

Last night I did something which I rarely do any more.  I watched a boxing match.  As I have grown older I have come to dislike boxing because it is really quite savage.  It is so savage that it is getting closer and closer to being almost as bad as American football.  In fact, these days there are many more "punch drunk" footballers, or ex-footballers than there are"punch drunk" ex-boxers.  Be that as it may, I was there watching the fight between Manny Pacquiao, the Filipino idol and Juan Manuel Marquez, the Mexican who in three previous tries could not find a way to get past the "Pacman."  When he did find a way, after 41 rounds of confrontation, my mind instantaneously flew back to the Miyagi-Karate Kid philosopy of hitting the agressor on the side that is open and vulnerable because his attacking side is busy trying to do you in.  The win by Marquez was a perfect picture of the philosophy in actuality.
For those of you who saw the "Karate Kid 2" film, the picture of the little toy drum in the upper left-hand corner is familiar.  Mr. Miayagi explains the success of the drum with the mantra that both sides hit at the same time, but from opposite positions.  Never can one striking ball hit both sides at the same time.  There is always an opposite blind side to every agressive action.  Putting that philosophy into reality last night, Marquez was able knock the Pacman senseless, not only from the power of his own right hand but aided by the force of the momentum generated by a right hand from Pacquiao that was dodged by Marquez who countered in a fraction of a second with a pile-driver of a right hook dead center to the face of the Pacman.  The force of the right handed attack by Pacquiao carried him into the right handed missile while his entire left side was completely useless to him as defense.  Score a big one for Miyagi.
You can see what I am talking about by clicking here below.  The graphic view of my description can be seen starting at about 22 seconds into the video and repeated twice more until about 34 seconds.  You'll see.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2DOiuuUe-A

I have to say that all the while being Miyagi oriented, I have also been thinking about the way that it is possible to do this in other areas of life. One of the people who is very adroit at doing this in politics is Carl Rove.  He requires his target to respond to an unsavory proposition so that during the time when the target is crafting the response, Carl does what he wants to do thereby requiring more crafting by the target thereby giving Carl more time to settle into the results of the initial proposition.  To get back to the toy drum analogy, by the time the target gets around to responding, the drum beat has gone on so many times that the rhythm has turned to Carl's side of the drum.  I suppose that there would be more examples that I could propose, but you get the idea.  If you've seen the film, "Karate Kids 2" and you see the 10 or 12 seconds worth of the attached video, you will see the truth of the philosophy.  If you're not careful, it may occupy a lot more of your time that you would normally be willing to devote to such things.

I therefore wish you a happy philosophical moment.

THE SEASON FOR NOSTALGIA IS OFFICIALLY OPEN

I THOUGHT IT WAS A CHRISTMAS RUSH, DIDN'T YOU?

I got this in the mail today.  December 1, 2012.  I'm supposed to be happy that the main post-office in this back-water city is going to open for two Sundays to be able to cope with the "Holiday Rush."
I know that I have an exceedingly bad reputation as a guy who hasn't sent Christmas cards for ages.  Despite my horrendous reputation, you have to admit that I do send a lot of Happy Christmas e-mails.  C'mon now, you know that I do.  This year, for many of you, there will be a nice long lead-in to the Christmas Day Holy Day, so you won't want to miss it.  It's going to be religiously prayerful.  I think you'll like it.  If you don't, remember that there is a delete function on your device.
But that's not nostalgia, now is it.  But this is.

Christmas used to be the incarnation of Hell for the USPS.  Where we lived there was always a good chance that there would be snow.  Actually, snow was not that bad because the weather warms up generally when there is snow.  No snow, bbbrrrrrrr!!xx!  Then, of course, there were the millions of Christmas cards of all sizes that had to be hand sorted by address.  For all of you young people who are reading this, no, there were no zip codes back then.  
And there were different rates for different classes of mail.  Just like now. Really.  Forever, man, forever!
1. Mail that was sealed and had a street address followed by "City."  That meant that the mail was staying within the boundaries of the return address.  Got that?  Good.  Cost, $0.015
2. Mail that was not sealed but had the flap tucked into the envelope, and all the same stuff as above ... it stayed in the city.  This mail cost $0.01.
3. Mail that was sealed and was going out of the city. $0.03, first class.
4. Mail that was not sealed but had the flap tucked into the inside of the envelope and was going out of the city.
$0.02, second class
5. Air mail to far away places, like Los Angeles, or God forbid to Montreal or some other place in Quebec...forget it.  Only rich people could do that.  I didn't look it up, but I seem to remember that it was something like $0.05 per 1/2 ounce.  I assure you that I do not exaggerate when I say that people mailed that stuff in the Thanksgiving season by 1st class to save the outrageous cost of the air mail "rip-off."  (By the way, we didn't have the exprression "rip-off" then.  I figured you could handle an anomally or two, now and then.)
So that's the nostalgia about the mail rates.
Now let me drop a few words on you about the mail delivery during the Christmas Season.  I must confess that I don't remember Sunday delivery.  But I do remember this:  
a> Twice a day delivery, at least Monday through Saturday.  This started, I think, on December 1.
b> An army of temporary mail delivery people on just about every single route.  No, there were no little convenient postal jeeps in those days.  You got dropped off, filled your bag and walked...snow or no snow...-10 degrees or +5, it didn't matter.
c> High schoolers of a certain age were recruited to fill the ranks.  I know, my uncles did it in South Hadley and I have a friend, a reader of these lines who did it too.  I don't remember the "detail of the certain age definition."
If anyone of you remembers, please let me know and we'll announce it for the record.
The best for last.
Remember, that for several years as I was growing up there was a War going on, in Europe and in Asia.  There were more houses with missing husbands, children (mostly boys) and all kinds of other friends and or relatives.  Most, I think, were just absent.  Many, too many, were simply GONE.  
Our family, by the grace of God saw all of our members come back in one piece.  
Mailing something to them was the best price of all, FREE.
It was possible to send as many letters and cards that you wanted.  You could even address it "Soldier with the least mail" and it would be taken and some soldier in a forgotten corner of the upheaving world would  get it and cry silently because someone had thought of him.

All good things come to an end.  When the Postal Service flattened all the rates to three cents, my mother and father cut back from about 200+ cards to only the closest and dearest 120+ in a snit of desperation and exasperation.  Maybe one of my siblings can enrich that memory.
================ Those are my thoughts and memories on the first day of the Christmas Season, also known as The First Sunday of Advent.
if you have something to share with the world, now is your chance.  Send it to me.  It's Christmas, remember.  Our thoughts and memories are the best gift that we can unwrap for those who are seeking something precious.  There is nothing more precious than what God has filled us with.  Do it.

I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT, GOLF'S NOT A SPORT

HEY, I'm vindicated.  Golf is not a sport.  Not any more than bird watching, driving a race car,playing bridge or fighting at a hockey game.  Now that they have to argue about whether or not a person can anchor his leverage point for a swing meant to direct a stationary ball I am convinced that this is nothing but wimps playing "watching the grass grow" with a ball [stationary, of course] for an excuse.

No wonder Tiger had time for extra-curricular activities.  There just wasn't enough challenge to his day job.  

I have never been much of a golf guy.  It reminds me too much of wine guys.  They never have a enough time at any event to tell people all that they really think everyone should know about their area of expertise.  Real athletes who compete in real sports can generally get the conversation job done in about 25 words or less.  Like, "Yeah, I did a mile in 3:5352618 in the Olympics last year."  Or we have the hockey player who can get it done just before the final buzzer, "I beat Jacques Plante with 0:0627831 seconds left on the clock with a slap shot from the left point, in Montreal." [Italics, his] 

I have no idea what golfers drink, but I happen to know at least one  hockey player who doesn't drink anything but straight Bourbon, neat.  

Look, if you're going to play a sport, play one that's going to make you sweat. Play one where the ball moves.  Heck, they don't call Bridge players athletes do they?  Oh, not yet, you say.  Hmmm, I suppose that the day will come.  These days anything can happen, sex has turned into gender, so I suspect that golf and bridge can turn into sports.

There remains one essential question: "What are the golfers who grew sturdy bellies to anchor their clubs going to do if the belly anchor becomes a no-no?  Maybe they'll have to take up bridge where they will be able to anchor their elbows on the table.

Oh, I loved writing this one!

PREJUDICE -- DID I EVER GET A LESSON!

Fr. J. Junio, Lupe and Mirna
Notice the entry to the house
right on the canal

This is a funny story.  It's funny because no one got hurt.
I have to start by asking if you have ever made yourself a promise to stay away from a certain city, even though you had never been there?  Are you sure?
If you have been so strange as to do that, you will be as strange as I am.  You bet.
For some strange reason I had made a decision that Venice, Italy was a place that I wanted to avoid.  I had a reason or two, but mostly I just didn't have the "yen."  I had seen all the pictures of gondolas and water and all the rest of it.  St. Mark's square with all the pigeons and a bunch of people on a pier hanging around with actors in masks.  I had no interest of ever going there.  Also, I have to tell you that I was sure that a place with all those canals just had to smell bad.  Of that, I was sure.  WELL...
A few weeks ago I spent a day in Venice, Italy.  Actually, that's all I spent there.  Before we got there, the announcement was made that there are no autos in Venice.  We were also told that we would have to take a water taxi to get to the center of town.  Well, we did all of that.

That's the Voice from the Kitchen in the center.  The taxi was quite comfortable, if a bit on the rocking boat side, if you get my meaning.  We were approaching the center of town and there was no foul smell yet.  Oh yeah, I was being alert.  As we were approaching the dock the word was passed around that this was a high water time and that getting around would be a little on the difficult side.  We were going to have to walk on narrow platforms that would keep us out of the water.  My mind got to whirling around wondering what that was going to look like.  We were assured that because we got there on a high water day it would be difficult to walk around as a group and tour the place.  First, we were going to St. Mark's, and we would shift around town after that.  But first we had to mount the "dry foot platforms."  Imagine how often they have to do this!  Actually, one of the residents told me that if the water doesn't come up too high they just put their boots on.  I did not snap a photo of it, but I did see black high-water boots in the windows of the clothing shops. 500.00 Euro dresses in the same window with 25.00 Euro black high-water boots!  That in itself made me wonder why I had decided never to come here!
I took a picture of St. Mark's square with water all over, and rising...and a picture of the water coming up through the cracks.

Not a pigeon in sight!  And by the way, the air is far, far from being foul.

See, I wasn't exaggerating.  Those feet that you see are on the high-water platform.





Venice is known for a lot of things, but I was intrigued by the items that don't appear in the travelogues.  The transportation system of small "boat busses" and larger ferries is a wonder to see.  The houses with entries that are right on the canal.  Most of them have another opening on the opposite side that leads to the sidewalk, but it is still strange to see what you can see in the first photo of this piece.  We walked around a lot, and saw some exciting squares where the Venetians can spend time socializing and gossiping on dry land.  I also found out that Venetians are friendly and chatty.  I thought that the Romans had a monopoly on that.  I'm glad that I got a lesson about being nice to tourists from the place that I had mentally disparaged for so long.
I learned a lot about Venice while I was there and I continue to fish around for interesting tidbits about the place.  I did not do any pre-visit research because I was still mired in my prejudice.  Now that I have been there I know that I made a mistake in carrying my attitude around for so long.  Not that I would have reached there any earlier, but I would not have cheated myself out of the mental freedom that I lost because of my narrow-minded, ignorant opinion.  
I am therefore inviting you all to go through life with open minds.  It won't assure you of earlier visits to far away places, but it will keep you at peace with yourself...You'll never have to confess like I just did...

At high tide the bow and stern decorative high necks have about 2 inches of
clearance over the top of the arch of the pedestrian bridge...and the
gondolier must crouch to pass under.  Notice the grilled window in the
building.
When two gondolas meet or have to go around the same corner, people gather by the
guard rails to watch the professional athleticism of the gondoliers as they
navigate around each other.