"High Country: Bugherd" is up over at Avenir Eclectia.
22 January 2012: Feast of Bl. William Patenson.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
"Old Married Couple" in Whortleberry's Strange Valentines.
11 January 2012: Feast of Bl. William Carter.
When the chips are down...
Thanksgiving is safely past and I pretty much survived...I think. *quick non-T.S.A. pat-down* Yeah, pretty much still in existence. Although, the day before Thanksgiving, I was seriously considering alternatives to this state.
This year, we decided to buy the Thanksgiving dinner pre-built. A couple of the local supermarkets offered already cooked Turkeys, side dishes, and pies for a reasonable price, and this looked like the way to cut down on combat around the dinner table. Until recently, rather than looking like Norman Rockwell's version of Thanksgiving, ours tended to have more in common with discussions between, oh, say Julius Caesar and Vercingetorix at Alesia? (I would have said Lee and Grant, but our scrums weren't nearly so Civil.) We figured out that most of the fighting took place because everyone was exhausted by dinnertime Thursday afternoon. The wife and number one daughter had worked until late at the supermarket the night before (when you work in the service industry, there is no such thing as a holiday--those are for your betters who work weekdays, 9-5). Then everybody'd hit the floor early so as to get the cooking done for that photo op banquet table that only we would see. By the time dinner was ready, we really shouldn't have been allowed anything sharper than a bowling ball with which to carve the turkey.
After about fifteen years of this stupidity, the penny finally dropped. Why did Thanksgiving have to be on Thursday? Why not Friday? It's not like it's a religious festival that's pegged to one particular day. If you really are thankful, I suspect the Lord will probably take your "thank you" call on Friday. Besides, by celebrating on Friday, both ladies were more likely to be off from work and they could recuperate from what they un-laughingly referred to as "hell week" by sleeping-in Thursday.
Anyway, back to my bid for nonexistence. I'm at the store Wednesday morning to pick up the Thanksgiving dinner when I think of something. This grocery chain carries my favorite salty snack, Wise potato chips (Dr. Pepper and Wise BBQ chips, breakfast of champions--it's a Southern thing). Why not pick up a bag or fifteen? I normally shop at the store at which the ladies of the house work, so I wasn't sure where the chip aisle was located. I see a stocker adding a competitor's brand on a display in front of the checkout aisles. I look around and notice he's the only employee in sight aside for the red-shirted cashiers. I go over and ask, "Excuse me, could you tell me where the Wise potato chips are located, please?" He straightens up and blinks at me. His accent is purest Caribbean as he replies, "I beg your pardon?" Okay, I probably said it too fast and most likely mumbled. "Could you tell me where to find the Wise potato chips, please?" As he stares at me, my eye travels over his left pocket on which is emblazoned, "Frito-Lay." As my mind goes from All Ahead Two-Thirds directly to All Astern Full, I notice that his shirt's red doesn't exactly match the store personnel's red. He looks at me oddly and points down the main aisle. "Uh, chips are down on sixteen." My first thought is to reach inside my mouth, grab my butt from the inside, and jerk hard in hopes that I can cause myself to pop out of existence on this particular plane. Instead, I thank him profusely, assure him that Lay's is my number one choice when Wise aren't available (true), and beat feet out of sight. After adding two bags Wise chips to my cart (Regular and BBQ) I went back up to check out, taking care not to pass the gentleman working on his display. I'd like to take this occasion to tell Frito-Lay that they have a very nice, extremely patient, and mega-forgiving gentleman stocking shelves for them.
Note to FTC: Bought the Wise chips myself. Frito-Lay probably isn't about to send me anything now.
28 November 2010: First Sunday of Advent. Feast of St. Andrew Trong. Council of Clermont launches First Crusade 1095, Magellan sails into Pacific from Atlantic 1520, Beethoven premiers Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major 1811, Louis b. Mayer opens his first movie theater 1907, Tehran Conference 1943, Mariner 4 lifts off for Mars 1964.
This year, we decided to buy the Thanksgiving dinner pre-built. A couple of the local supermarkets offered already cooked Turkeys, side dishes, and pies for a reasonable price, and this looked like the way to cut down on combat around the dinner table. Until recently, rather than looking like Norman Rockwell's version of Thanksgiving, ours tended to have more in common with discussions between, oh, say Julius Caesar and Vercingetorix at Alesia? (I would have said Lee and Grant, but our scrums weren't nearly so Civil.) We figured out that most of the fighting took place because everyone was exhausted by dinnertime Thursday afternoon. The wife and number one daughter had worked until late at the supermarket the night before (when you work in the service industry, there is no such thing as a holiday--those are for your betters who work weekdays, 9-5). Then everybody'd hit the floor early so as to get the cooking done for that photo op banquet table that only we would see. By the time dinner was ready, we really shouldn't have been allowed anything sharper than a bowling ball with which to carve the turkey.
After about fifteen years of this stupidity, the penny finally dropped. Why did Thanksgiving have to be on Thursday? Why not Friday? It's not like it's a religious festival that's pegged to one particular day. If you really are thankful, I suspect the Lord will probably take your "thank you" call on Friday. Besides, by celebrating on Friday, both ladies were more likely to be off from work and they could recuperate from what they un-laughingly referred to as "hell week" by sleeping-in Thursday.
Anyway, back to my bid for nonexistence. I'm at the store Wednesday morning to pick up the Thanksgiving dinner when I think of something. This grocery chain carries my favorite salty snack, Wise potato chips (Dr. Pepper and Wise BBQ chips, breakfast of champions--it's a Southern thing). Why not pick up a bag or fifteen? I normally shop at the store at which the ladies of the house work, so I wasn't sure where the chip aisle was located. I see a stocker adding a competitor's brand on a display in front of the checkout aisles. I look around and notice he's the only employee in sight aside for the red-shirted cashiers. I go over and ask, "Excuse me, could you tell me where the Wise potato chips are located, please?" He straightens up and blinks at me. His accent is purest Caribbean as he replies, "I beg your pardon?" Okay, I probably said it too fast and most likely mumbled. "Could you tell me where to find the Wise potato chips, please?" As he stares at me, my eye travels over his left pocket on which is emblazoned, "Frito-Lay." As my mind goes from All Ahead Two-Thirds directly to All Astern Full, I notice that his shirt's red doesn't exactly match the store personnel's red. He looks at me oddly and points down the main aisle. "Uh, chips are down on sixteen." My first thought is to reach inside my mouth, grab my butt from the inside, and jerk hard in hopes that I can cause myself to pop out of existence on this particular plane. Instead, I thank him profusely, assure him that Lay's is my number one choice when Wise aren't available (true), and beat feet out of sight. After adding two bags Wise chips to my cart (Regular and BBQ) I went back up to check out, taking care not to pass the gentleman working on his display. I'd like to take this occasion to tell Frito-Lay that they have a very nice, extremely patient, and mega-forgiving gentleman stocking shelves for them.
Note to FTC: Bought the Wise chips myself. Frito-Lay probably isn't about to send me anything now.
28 November 2010: First Sunday of Advent. Feast of St. Andrew Trong. Council of Clermont launches First Crusade 1095, Magellan sails into Pacific from Atlantic 1520, Beethoven premiers Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major 1811, Louis b. Mayer opens his first movie theater 1907, Tehran Conference 1943, Mariner 4 lifts off for Mars 1964.
"When all else fails..."
Most people I've noticed appear to accept instruction sheets and booklets as just another form of packing material, like brown rice paper, newsprint, and that squeaky foam that comes in bizarre shapes.*
A model kit company (Testor's, I think) used to include on their kit instructions a drawing of an exasperated looking man, covered in bits of model airplane and streamers of glue, sitting on the floor looking at an instruction sheet with the caption: "When all else fails, read the instructions!"
Occasionally, this could be a portrait of my daddy. He was the sort who believed in opening the box, pouring out the pieces, and immediately putting the whatever together--"Instructions? Instructions? We don't need no stinkin' instructions!"
As evidence, the Commonwealth will introduce Exhibit 22B:
Time: 14:26 Christmas Day a heck of a lot longer ago than I care to think about.
Place: A house on the south bank of the Potomac River.
Subject: "Hey, let's give the new toy a whirl!"
We had received one of those new blenders from someone I forget and Daddy was "hot to trot" to try it out. He decided the best way would be to whip up some milkshakes. The two of us retired to the kitchen followed as usual by a lap fice and three cats (after all, the bipeds were heading for the place from which all good things flow). As he unpacked the blender, I snagged the instruction book as it flew by (hey, I'll read anything up to and including the wrapper off a roll of toilet paper--do you know how many board-foot go into the average roll of--oh, yeah...the story). While I worked my way through the lawyer talk in the first several pages (something to the effect of please don't be an idiot while trying to use this wonder of technology--and when you are, don't sue us), Daddy put the blender together, measured out the milk and put it, several scoops of vanilla ice cream, and a number of healthy shots of chocolate syrup in the glass part. He plugged it in and just as I got to the part that reads, "WARNING: DO NOT OPERATE WITHOUT LID IN PLACE!" pushed the button. The geyser of chocolate milkshake hit the ceiling and spread to cover him, the counters, the various small predators present, and a goodly portion of the floor. The next happening was the precipitous departure of all quadruped life forms. My mom, having been trampled in the stampede (well, at least below the knees), comes into the kitchen at "All Ahead Full," surveys the desolation, and, without cutting her throttles, makes a high speed 180 degree turn to port and exits the area of operations. My daddy looks at the new decor and says, "Well, son, I guess we better clean up." Going after the mop and bucket, the thought runs through my mind--as Tonto said, "What do you mean 'we' white man?"
*Old Poot Digression:
One of the great losses from the slow death of print journalism is the absence of newspaper used as packing material these days. Often, the newspapers could be more interesting than whatever they protected in shipment.
As most seemed to come from retailers in smaller cities and towns, one was given a snapshot of life away from the larger and, often, rather boring mainstream media outlets. Being small towns, the stories tended to be covered in an "up close and personal" way. A murder which might be covered in Baltimore only because of the novel way the dearly departed was done in and then in only two and a half short paragraphs on page 18--inside column, would be splashed across the front page, above the fold, with jumps to three different large column-inch feature articles covering what was thought to have happened, who was thought to have dunit, why they were thought to have dunit, when the heinous deed was done, how they accomplished this piece of human drama, and the fact that their (the victim, murderer, or whichever family or friend) Uncle Fudd was coming in on the bus from Chilhowie to officiate at the celebration. For those of a writerly bent, this is the grist for the keyboarded mill. Outside of Arnold Toynbee, this is the magnification at which most writers work. If writers were supposed to write what they'd experienced as opposed to what they know (the last delivered in a thick Russian accent), most fiction would be really boring. While most of us write about the experiences of our lives and those of our friends and families (in my case, this is pretty much a non-starter. None of my family have been particularly homicidal--at least to those within the family), without the wider knowledge of life we obtain through watching others' disasters, our output would be on a par with that seen on the "walls" in Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451."
18 September 2010: Feast of St. Gerreoulus. Constantine the Great wins battle of Chrysopolis becoming sole emperor of Rome 324 AD, Moscow burns 1812, "Fugitive Slave Act" passed by U.S. Congress 1850, South African troops land in German Southwest Africa 1914, U.S. Air Force established 1947, Voyager I takes first photo of Earth and Moon together 1977.
A model kit company (Testor's, I think) used to include on their kit instructions a drawing of an exasperated looking man, covered in bits of model airplane and streamers of glue, sitting on the floor looking at an instruction sheet with the caption: "When all else fails, read the instructions!"
Occasionally, this could be a portrait of my daddy. He was the sort who believed in opening the box, pouring out the pieces, and immediately putting the whatever together--"Instructions? Instructions? We don't need no stinkin' instructions!"
As evidence, the Commonwealth will introduce Exhibit 22B:
Time: 14:26 Christmas Day a heck of a lot longer ago than I care to think about.
Place: A house on the south bank of the Potomac River.
Subject: "Hey, let's give the new toy a whirl!"
We had received one of those new blenders from someone I forget and Daddy was "hot to trot" to try it out. He decided the best way would be to whip up some milkshakes. The two of us retired to the kitchen followed as usual by a lap fice and three cats (after all, the bipeds were heading for the place from which all good things flow). As he unpacked the blender, I snagged the instruction book as it flew by (hey, I'll read anything up to and including the wrapper off a roll of toilet paper--do you know how many board-foot go into the average roll of--oh, yeah...the story). While I worked my way through the lawyer talk in the first several pages (something to the effect of please don't be an idiot while trying to use this wonder of technology--and when you are, don't sue us), Daddy put the blender together, measured out the milk and put it, several scoops of vanilla ice cream, and a number of healthy shots of chocolate syrup in the glass part. He plugged it in and just as I got to the part that reads, "WARNING: DO NOT OPERATE WITHOUT LID IN PLACE!" pushed the button. The geyser of chocolate milkshake hit the ceiling and spread to cover him, the counters, the various small predators present, and a goodly portion of the floor. The next happening was the precipitous departure of all quadruped life forms. My mom, having been trampled in the stampede (well, at least below the knees), comes into the kitchen at "All Ahead Full," surveys the desolation, and, without cutting her throttles, makes a high speed 180 degree turn to port and exits the area of operations. My daddy looks at the new decor and says, "Well, son, I guess we better clean up." Going after the mop and bucket, the thought runs through my mind--as Tonto said, "What do you mean 'we' white man?"
*Old Poot Digression:
One of the great losses from the slow death of print journalism is the absence of newspaper used as packing material these days. Often, the newspapers could be more interesting than whatever they protected in shipment.
As most seemed to come from retailers in smaller cities and towns, one was given a snapshot of life away from the larger and, often, rather boring mainstream media outlets. Being small towns, the stories tended to be covered in an "up close and personal" way. A murder which might be covered in Baltimore only because of the novel way the dearly departed was done in and then in only two and a half short paragraphs on page 18--inside column, would be splashed across the front page, above the fold, with jumps to three different large column-inch feature articles covering what was thought to have happened, who was thought to have dunit, why they were thought to have dunit, when the heinous deed was done, how they accomplished this piece of human drama, and the fact that their (the victim, murderer, or whichever family or friend) Uncle Fudd was coming in on the bus from Chilhowie to officiate at the celebration. For those of a writerly bent, this is the grist for the keyboarded mill. Outside of Arnold Toynbee, this is the magnification at which most writers work. If writers were supposed to write what they'd experienced as opposed to what they know (the last delivered in a thick Russian accent), most fiction would be really boring. While most of us write about the experiences of our lives and those of our friends and families (in my case, this is pretty much a non-starter. None of my family have been particularly homicidal--at least to those within the family), without the wider knowledge of life we obtain through watching others' disasters, our output would be on a par with that seen on the "walls" in Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451."
18 September 2010: Feast of St. Gerreoulus. Constantine the Great wins battle of Chrysopolis becoming sole emperor of Rome 324 AD, Moscow burns 1812, "Fugitive Slave Act" passed by U.S. Congress 1850, South African troops land in German Southwest Africa 1914, U.S. Air Force established 1947, Voyager I takes first photo of Earth and Moon together 1977.
"Conversant with..."
One of the joys of life as I think I know it are the conversations I get to take part in. As an example:
The other day, I'm putzing with the computer while the wife works a puzzle in one of her books. The conversation goes something like this:
Wife: "What does 'SSN' mean?"
Me: (immediately): "'Submarine Nuclear'--an attack boat."
Wife: "I don't understand."
Me (still looking at screen): "It's a ship designation part of a Navy hull number. 'SS' for a diesel submarine, 'SSN' for a nuclear powered attack boat, 'SSNB' for a boomer."
Wife: "A what?"
Me (mind still in neutral): "'Submarine Nuclear Ballistic.' A boat that launches ICBMs."
Long silence. I finally look around and she is regarding me with a confused expression (well, maybe, a more confused expression than I usually seem to induce in normal people).
Me: "What?"
Wife: "I'm sorry, I just don't get it."
The penny drops.
Me: "What's the clue?"
Wife: "It says, 'Nine digit designation.'"
Me: "Oh." Oops. "'Social Security Number,' dear."
Wife: "Ah. That works."
I dunno, maybe I was in the business too long?
On another subject:
It's been noticed lately that cats are showing signs of being sentient. The cats maintain that they were from the beginning--they just didn't want to put up with a lot of stupid conversation.
Karina Fabian, a specialist in astro-nuns, gumshoed dragons, and zombie haute cuisine, asked me , "So why are cats lowering their standards now?"
Why are cats coming out of the closet at this late date? I'm not totally sure. Dorsey, our cat and the handsome guy at upper left, seems to operate on a "need to know" basis; so like a China watcher, I'm making a guess. It may be a case of "if you want something done right, you do it yourself." I'll let you know more as I find out, but at the moment, it's strictly a matter of reading around the edges.
27 August 2010: Feast of St. Ebbo. Battle of Plataea 479 BC, Battle of Long Island 1776, Federals attack Cape Hatteras 1861, first jet aircraft--a Heinkel 178--flies 1939, Mariner 2 launched to Venus 1962.
The other day, I'm putzing with the computer while the wife works a puzzle in one of her books. The conversation goes something like this:
Wife: "What does 'SSN' mean?"
Me: (immediately): "'Submarine Nuclear'--an attack boat."
Wife: "I don't understand."
Me (still looking at screen): "It's a ship designation part of a Navy hull number. 'SS' for a diesel submarine, 'SSN' for a nuclear powered attack boat, 'SSNB' for a boomer."
Wife: "A what?"
Me (mind still in neutral): "'Submarine Nuclear Ballistic.' A boat that launches ICBMs."
Long silence. I finally look around and she is regarding me with a confused expression (well, maybe, a more confused expression than I usually seem to induce in normal people).
Me: "What?"
Wife: "I'm sorry, I just don't get it."
The penny drops.
Me: "What's the clue?"
Wife: "It says, 'Nine digit designation.'"
Me: "Oh." Oops. "'Social Security Number,' dear."
Wife: "Ah. That works."
I dunno, maybe I was in the business too long?
On another subject:
It's been noticed lately that cats are showing signs of being sentient. The cats maintain that they were from the beginning--they just didn't want to put up with a lot of stupid conversation.
Karina Fabian, a specialist in astro-nuns, gumshoed dragons, and zombie haute cuisine, asked me , "So why are cats lowering their standards now?"
Why are cats coming out of the closet at this late date? I'm not totally sure. Dorsey, our cat and the handsome guy at upper left, seems to operate on a "need to know" basis; so like a China watcher, I'm making a guess. It may be a case of "if you want something done right, you do it yourself." I'll let you know more as I find out, but at the moment, it's strictly a matter of reading around the edges.
27 August 2010: Feast of St. Ebbo. Battle of Plataea 479 BC, Battle of Long Island 1776, Federals attack Cape Hatteras 1861, first jet aircraft--a Heinkel 178--flies 1939, Mariner 2 launched to Venus 1962.
"What's in a name?"
"To name something is to own it." This is an old idea from the beginning of time. If you can name something, not only can you describe it, you can possibly control it. This why among people who believe in magic and witchcraft, most have a secret or "spirit" name that is only known to them and a select few.
Naming conventions is something a fiction writer needs to keep in mind when introducing his or her characters to the reader. How people name their children and how those children identify themselves will tell a lot about the culture.
In medieval Europe the rise of family names came from people being known by their occupation, a feature, where they lived ("Miller," "Fuller," "Long," "Short," "Bridges," "London," "Longbottom") or who they were related to ("Watson," "Fitzhugh," "Brothersson [that one I don't think I want to look too closely at]"). As a note, in Iceland four members of a nuclear family can have four different last names such as Rorick Erikson, his wife Feya Jorgansdaughter, and their childern Erik Rorickson and Trondi Roricksdaughter (something that gives an Icelandic phone book a slightly higher page count than War and Peace).
The Romans seemed to have a dearth of names that were fashionable over the millennium their republic and empire lasted. To paraphrase Sam Goldwin, "Every Tom, Dick, and Harry was named Gaius." It seems there were only about eight names used for boys and approximately the same number for girls. This led one barbarian chieftain to remark, "The Romans must be a poor people as they can afford so few names to chose from." With everyone named pretty much the same thing, the Romans had to resort to nicknames and qualifiers such as "the elder/the younger," "Black/florid/tall/short/fat," "The African/Thracian/Iberian," etc (which somewhat puts the lie to "Roman efficiency"). The same sort of thing arose among the men who fought the War Between the States. So many were either named John or something outlandish that, like the Romans, most ended up known more by their nicknames (Ulysses Simpson Grant and John Bell Hood were "Sam" as an example) or used their middle name (William Dorsey Pender was known to his contemporaries and history usually just as Dorsey Pender--one of the uncles on my father's side and our cat of the moment were named "Dorsey" for him). In the movie "Zulu," the fact so many Welshmen were named William Jones is highlighted in the practice in Welsh regiments of using a portion of their service number as a qualifier ("2451 Jones" or "Jones 6325"). We ran into something like this in a medievalist group I belonged to. We had three "Roricks," "Rorick Rorickson," "Rorick the Long," and the luckiest of all, "Rorick Joanna's Husband."
Another name use convention I've found notably within three groups is the first two initials used rather than first and second name. Quite often when you run across such, there is a fair chance that the person (male usually) is either a Russian, an Indian (from the subcontinent rather than Amerindian), or worked for the Norfolk and Western Railway.
If you write crime, keep in mind dang near everybody on the street goes by a nickname. Part of this just a natural human affinity for such and part is because there are a lot of dudes out there you just don't want to know your real name. There's also the "AKA" factor (Also Known As). Multiple aliases are the norm (without such, police files that take up three floors could probably be kept in one file cabinet with a drawer left over for munchies and another for girlie magazines). As one cop said, "Everybody on the street's got a name."
There is also the divide between East and West. In eastern Asia, the family name comes first followed by the given names. In my young and more foolish days, this used to trip me up when doing research on that area. As I have to read in translation, whether the family name came first or last (and Lord help me, I even came across one in which it was sandwiched between two given names) seemed totally at the whim of an editor in either New York or London. Before I wised up, I wasted time looking for information on Saburo Sakai under what I thought was the family name, "Saburo"--which is kind of like trying to look up James Longstreet under "Jimmy (by the way, he went by "Pete")."
For the writer, naming characters gives you a certain power. The name can describe their inner person (Dickens' name picks immediately pops to mind), make them ridiculous ("Major Minor," "Private Means,"), show how life treats them (Joseph Heller's "Major Major Major"), or you can honor someone (my naming of spacecraft such as the survey vessel Alfred L. Wegener or the "Hero" class destroyers Kevin Barry and Todd Beamer). The guys in England who translated Rene Goscinny and Albert Uderzo's French comic "Asterix the Gaul" had a field day with this with folks like the Roman commander, Cumulus Nimbus, the over weight Goth, Hemispheric, the Greek Mercenary, Neverataloss, and the confused Egyptian vacationer, Ptennisnet (personally, I think the Druid's name "Readymix" in the American translation used during the comic's short run in U.S. newspapers was funnier than the Brit "Getafix"). I've noticed that Karina Fabian's elves in her Dragoneye, P.I. series have the same lamentable taste in names as Neverataloss' parents.
One thing a writer should probably have little fear of is coming up with a name that nobody would give their kid. Looking at some names will convince you that either all their taste was in their mouth or they must have hated their offspring. I remember a lady who had to go through life as Rose Thorn--naturally, she married a guy named Bush.
3 February 2010: Feast of St. Liafdag of Jutland. Spain recognizes U.S. 1783, Meiji Emperor enthroned - Tokyo 1867, Earthquake - Hawke's Bay, New Zealand 1931, U.S. Marines and Army capture Kwajalein 1944.
Naming conventions is something a fiction writer needs to keep in mind when introducing his or her characters to the reader. How people name their children and how those children identify themselves will tell a lot about the culture.
In medieval Europe the rise of family names came from people being known by their occupation, a feature, where they lived ("Miller," "Fuller," "Long," "Short," "Bridges," "London," "Longbottom") or who they were related to ("Watson," "Fitzhugh," "Brothersson [that one I don't think I want to look too closely at]"). As a note, in Iceland four members of a nuclear family can have four different last names such as Rorick Erikson, his wife Feya Jorgansdaughter, and their childern Erik Rorickson and Trondi Roricksdaughter (something that gives an Icelandic phone book a slightly higher page count than War and Peace).
The Romans seemed to have a dearth of names that were fashionable over the millennium their republic and empire lasted. To paraphrase Sam Goldwin, "Every Tom, Dick, and Harry was named Gaius." It seems there were only about eight names used for boys and approximately the same number for girls. This led one barbarian chieftain to remark, "The Romans must be a poor people as they can afford so few names to chose from." With everyone named pretty much the same thing, the Romans had to resort to nicknames and qualifiers such as "the elder/the younger," "Black/florid/tall/short/fat," "The African/Thracian/Iberian," etc (which somewhat puts the lie to "Roman efficiency"). The same sort of thing arose among the men who fought the War Between the States. So many were either named John or something outlandish that, like the Romans, most ended up known more by their nicknames (Ulysses Simpson Grant and John Bell Hood were "Sam" as an example) or used their middle name (William Dorsey Pender was known to his contemporaries and history usually just as Dorsey Pender--one of the uncles on my father's side and our cat of the moment were named "Dorsey" for him). In the movie "Zulu," the fact so many Welshmen were named William Jones is highlighted in the practice in Welsh regiments of using a portion of their service number as a qualifier ("2451 Jones" or "Jones 6325"). We ran into something like this in a medievalist group I belonged to. We had three "Roricks," "Rorick Rorickson," "Rorick the Long," and the luckiest of all, "Rorick Joanna's Husband."
Another name use convention I've found notably within three groups is the first two initials used rather than first and second name. Quite often when you run across such, there is a fair chance that the person (male usually) is either a Russian, an Indian (from the subcontinent rather than Amerindian), or worked for the Norfolk and Western Railway.
If you write crime, keep in mind dang near everybody on the street goes by a nickname. Part of this just a natural human affinity for such and part is because there are a lot of dudes out there you just don't want to know your real name. There's also the "AKA" factor (Also Known As). Multiple aliases are the norm (without such, police files that take up three floors could probably be kept in one file cabinet with a drawer left over for munchies and another for girlie magazines). As one cop said, "Everybody on the street's got a name."
There is also the divide between East and West. In eastern Asia, the family name comes first followed by the given names. In my young and more foolish days, this used to trip me up when doing research on that area. As I have to read in translation, whether the family name came first or last (and Lord help me, I even came across one in which it was sandwiched between two given names) seemed totally at the whim of an editor in either New York or London. Before I wised up, I wasted time looking for information on Saburo Sakai under what I thought was the family name, "Saburo"--which is kind of like trying to look up James Longstreet under "Jimmy (by the way, he went by "Pete")."
For the writer, naming characters gives you a certain power. The name can describe their inner person (Dickens' name picks immediately pops to mind), make them ridiculous ("Major Minor," "Private Means,"), show how life treats them (Joseph Heller's "Major Major Major"), or you can honor someone (my naming of spacecraft such as the survey vessel Alfred L. Wegener or the "Hero" class destroyers Kevin Barry and Todd Beamer). The guys in England who translated Rene Goscinny and Albert Uderzo's French comic "Asterix the Gaul" had a field day with this with folks like the Roman commander, Cumulus Nimbus, the over weight Goth, Hemispheric, the Greek Mercenary, Neverataloss, and the confused Egyptian vacationer, Ptennisnet (personally, I think the Druid's name "Readymix" in the American translation used during the comic's short run in U.S. newspapers was funnier than the Brit "Getafix"). I've noticed that Karina Fabian's elves in her Dragoneye, P.I. series have the same lamentable taste in names as Neverataloss' parents.
One thing a writer should probably have little fear of is coming up with a name that nobody would give their kid. Looking at some names will convince you that either all their taste was in their mouth or they must have hated their offspring. I remember a lady who had to go through life as Rose Thorn--naturally, she married a guy named Bush.
3 February 2010: Feast of St. Liafdag of Jutland. Spain recognizes U.S. 1783, Meiji Emperor enthroned - Tokyo 1867, Earthquake - Hawke's Bay, New Zealand 1931, U.S. Marines and Army capture Kwajalein 1944.
The desert and the story teller.
For the teller of stories, the desert is often the place of the other. A place outside the world of settled man where strange and dangerous things and men move just on the edge of perception. It is seen as a place where anything can happen because the laws of normality don't apply there. The desert is a dimension from which monsters and raiders come. This still holds true for story telling today. It is probably no accident Stephen King set a large part of The Stand in the desert or that Michael Crichton placed the "Wildfire" lab in The Andromeda Strain there. Hollywood loves it as a setting. It's close, spooky, timeless, and relatively cheap in which to shoot a movie.
The thing that really hits you about the desert is the silence. It's not just quiet, sometimes, when there's no wind or flies, sound hasn't been invented yet. This affects people in different ways. Some try to be as quiet as possible. As if the least sound they make is deafening and may lead some doom down upon them. Others go the other direction. They try to fill up the silence all by themselves. They sing, talk, and make music much louder than is their wont when in civilization (or what passes for such). They seem to fear that the silence will suck away the sounds, so they must supply a surplus to even it out.
The desert blasts not only objects, but people also. It sometimes seems that anyone who lives alone long enough in the high desert ends up either a saint or a mass murderer.
For the writer, the desert is always there waiting. It would be terrible to waste it.
Buck Fever: The Deer Hunting Tradition in Pennsylvania. Mike Sajna. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1990.
Late November is special to me. Three major events in my life collide at that point in this month: my birthday, Thanksgiving, and deer season west of Blue Ridge. The week of Thanksgiving meant I would get to miss school for a week, much to the shared relief of both student and teachers (back before school administrators were under the impression that children belonged to them, it was sufficient that my mom sent in a note saying I wouldn't be in school the next week). Season opened in Virginia's Rockbridge and Augusta Counties the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving. So my daddy and I loaded the truck when he got home Friday afternoon and, after dinner with my mom, the two of us would head southwest. We'd get to the camp about 22:00 [10:00 pm] and be unloaded and in bed by 23:30 [11:30 am]. Ah, to sleep (like that was going to happen with deer season opening at daybreak). During the rest of the dark hours, the rest of the family, in-laws, and outlaws straggled into camp making sure to be in time for breakfast. Then, gray in the eastern sky, we headed for our spots on the mountain where we'd take that six, eight, or--can it be?--the thirty point buck.
Mike Sajna writes about one deer season at his family's deer camp in Warren County on Pennsylvania's Allegheny High Plateau. We meet the various members of his own platoon of the "pumpkin army." The hunters depicted are recognizable to everyone who has hunted with good hunters as opposed to the game hogs, drunks, and hunting slobs one hears about all too often. The Yoopers they ain't.
The reader also learns that deer hunting was destroyed in Pennsylvania by market hunting in the 19th century. How a group of hunters got together and started the state's first conservation organization, the Pennsylvania State Sportsmen's Association, which led in turn to the Pennsylvania Game Commission in 1895. Sajna tells of John MacFarlane Phillips who, horrified at the thought that he had killed the last deer in the state, set out to put the matter right. And put the matter right he did. Through his and his fellow hunters efforts, deer were successfully reintroduced to the state's woods. Upon his death at 92 in 1953, The Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph called him the "Grand Old Man of Conservation."
Best, Sajna limns the relationship between he and his father as hunters, men, and father and son.
Buck Fever is not a book only for hunters; it will show the non-hunter what goes on in and around a proper deer camp. This is a book that works on many levels as Sajna blends the several interrelated story lines in such a way that each compliments the others and builds a strong and enjoyable whole.
24 November 2009: Feast of St. Andrew Dung-Lac & companions, publication of Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species 1859, my birthday (you win some, you lose some).
The thing that really hits you about the desert is the silence. It's not just quiet, sometimes, when there's no wind or flies, sound hasn't been invented yet. This affects people in different ways. Some try to be as quiet as possible. As if the least sound they make is deafening and may lead some doom down upon them. Others go the other direction. They try to fill up the silence all by themselves. They sing, talk, and make music much louder than is their wont when in civilization (or what passes for such). They seem to fear that the silence will suck away the sounds, so they must supply a surplus to even it out.
The desert blasts not only objects, but people also. It sometimes seems that anyone who lives alone long enough in the high desert ends up either a saint or a mass murderer.
For the writer, the desert is always there waiting. It would be terrible to waste it.
Review (Note to FTC: I bought this dang book myself!)
Buck Fever: The Deer Hunting Tradition in Pennsylvania. Mike Sajna. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1990.
Late November is special to me. Three major events in my life collide at that point in this month: my birthday, Thanksgiving, and deer season west of Blue Ridge. The week of Thanksgiving meant I would get to miss school for a week, much to the shared relief of both student and teachers (back before school administrators were under the impression that children belonged to them, it was sufficient that my mom sent in a note saying I wouldn't be in school the next week). Season opened in Virginia's Rockbridge and Augusta Counties the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving. So my daddy and I loaded the truck when he got home Friday afternoon and, after dinner with my mom, the two of us would head southwest. We'd get to the camp about 22:00 [10:00 pm] and be unloaded and in bed by 23:30 [11:30 am]. Ah, to sleep (like that was going to happen with deer season opening at daybreak). During the rest of the dark hours, the rest of the family, in-laws, and outlaws straggled into camp making sure to be in time for breakfast. Then, gray in the eastern sky, we headed for our spots on the mountain where we'd take that six, eight, or--can it be?--the thirty point buck.
Mike Sajna writes about one deer season at his family's deer camp in Warren County on Pennsylvania's Allegheny High Plateau. We meet the various members of his own platoon of the "pumpkin army." The hunters depicted are recognizable to everyone who has hunted with good hunters as opposed to the game hogs, drunks, and hunting slobs one hears about all too often. The Yoopers they ain't.
The reader also learns that deer hunting was destroyed in Pennsylvania by market hunting in the 19th century. How a group of hunters got together and started the state's first conservation organization, the Pennsylvania State Sportsmen's Association, which led in turn to the Pennsylvania Game Commission in 1895. Sajna tells of John MacFarlane Phillips who, horrified at the thought that he had killed the last deer in the state, set out to put the matter right. And put the matter right he did. Through his and his fellow hunters efforts, deer were successfully reintroduced to the state's woods. Upon his death at 92 in 1953, The Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph called him the "Grand Old Man of Conservation."
Best, Sajna limns the relationship between he and his father as hunters, men, and father and son.
Buck Fever is not a book only for hunters; it will show the non-hunter what goes on in and around a proper deer camp. This is a book that works on many levels as Sajna blends the several interrelated story lines in such a way that each compliments the others and builds a strong and enjoyable whole.
24 November 2009: Feast of St. Andrew Dung-Lac & companions, publication of Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species 1859, my birthday (you win some, you lose some).
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