Snow

     I didn't set off soon enough to see the sled races and other activities up near Sunrise ski area. the parking lots (car parks) were full. I'd taken my time getting up there taking some snapshots on the way. The contrails are left by aircraft flying east from Phoenix. Am I too old to get a good pair of huskies to go skijoring or skijooring? I haven't been skiing for a couple of seasons now I really should stretch, exercise and go up for a couple of half days . . . .

Full moon

 

An adjusted snapshot of moonlight taken this morning at about 5 o'clock looks rather like day-for-night technique used a lot in old black and white western movies.

Three hours later under the sun the same scene looks like this:

From the bookshelves 71

    I sat nervously unable to tell the visiting school inspector what badgers ate. Cajole as he might I was unable to answer. "Do they eat toast?", he prompted. I was sure they didn't. I was about seven years old and was going through a period when I was unable to write more than a line or two on any subject even though at that time I was a fidgety chatterbox in class. I'm no longer a chatterbox but getting more than a few lines out of me is a struggle. Look up educate. It is a leading or drawing out . . .               Up and Down in the Dales is Gervase Phinn's fourth autobiographical book

From the bookshelves 70

A book of essays by Guy Davenport worth re-reading.  I  have not read any of Guy's fiction. The title essay of this book begins:

The difference between the Parthenon and the World trade center, between a French wine glass and a German beer mug, between Bach and John Philip Sousa, Between Sophocles and Shakespeare, between a bicycle and a horse, though explicable by historical moment, necessity, and destiny, is before all else a difference of imagination.

The essay's subjects range from Homer to Guy's next-door-neighbour. As a Rhodes Scholar at Merton Guy studied Old English under Professor Tolkien.

From the bookshelves 69

The last six of the Great Ideas series.

From the bookshelves 68

     With an erudite introduction part of which reads:

The reader may have noticed that, until this moment, I have avoided giving a single, comprehensive term to these collective terms. That is because there isn't any. Oddly enough, the compilers of the numerous lists of these words, though obviously enthusiastic philologists, have never felt compelled to settle on a group term for them. The explorer in this field will find these words variouusly referred to as 'nouns of multitude', 'company terms', 'nouns of assemblage', 'collective nouns'*, 'group terms', and 'terms of venery'. This last seems to me best and most appropriate, and itself warrants some explanation. 

* I hold this to be a misnomer since, obviously, it can be confused with the strictly grammatical term referring to such words as 'majority'. The same may be said of 'nouns of multitude'.

From the bookshelves 67

That volcanic hill again.

AM Sunday 24 January

From the bookshelves 66

     Poems in Anglo-Saxon and suggestions of the possible routes taken by the monks escorting Byrthnoth's body from Maldon to Ely. More on Wiki for the curious

One fence too far?

 

This small group gang of elk way out in the open seem tired. When I first spotted them most were standing, then as I took pictures several began to lie down. they were just too far away to get a decent shot. One usually sees antelope in open country like this.

From the bookshelves 65

Six more of the twenty-four paperbacks Penguin published in the Great Ideas series.

The Big Storm

     California mud slides; flash flood warnings in Phoenix and southern Arizona; Interstate 40 closed and up here in the White Mountains it looks like this:

 

From the bookshelves 64

One of those books I read before seeing the film.

Raiding the bookshelves again 63

Here's a neat little collection of Penguin paperbacks published with embossed covers:

Reading

     Our small book group now has a place in the blogosphere to communicate with each other and the rest of the world.

     I mentioned Black Elk on a previous post . . . now I'm embarrassed - Kathy has a copy of Black Elk Speaks on her shelves.

Sunday, Sunday . . .

     I've never spoken about where it is that I live exactly except for posting a few snapshots . . .

     I changed my location from Round Valley to Eagar in the profile temporarily to see who else in the vicinity is blogging. Eagar returned thirty-one hits: 3 by invitation only; 4 with no blog and 20 blogs with at least one post. Round Valley returned only three; and Springerville seven of which one is by invitation only. So, I changed my profile to read Valle Redondo.  Here is a good, concise personal idea describing the area by a chap called Rusty.

     I have the emmigrants yearning to return home to a past that no longer exists. This morning I listened to a programme about W B Yeats's  The Lake Isle of Innisfree, a poem he came to detest reciting in inverse proportion to it's popularity . . . Yeats wrote the poem when he was twenty-three or four years old.

eirenic

More Greek . . . tut, tut.

     I've been reading through a college textbook of essays and found this word. A new word to me. An unfamiliar word one comes across through reading is more likely to be remembered . . .

     What does it mean? Do you think I can remember where I read the word to find the sentence in which it was used?

Oxo tins and . . .

lunch for school. I never ate a school dinner.

     The last fun question on Radio 4's Any Questions this week concerned the nutritional value of the lunches that some parents pack for their children. The questioner asked the panel what they had in their lunch boxes for school. None of the panel had had a packed lunch at school but remembered some of the dismal school dinners they were served.

     I used an Oxo tin for at least my first year at secondary school in which I packed a sandwich, a banana and a Jacob's Club,  . . . mmmm I don't remember a drink. Cheese and tomato was my favourite sandwich or rather the one I remember most. Banana is my usual choice of fruit along with apple.

     Mum and dad kept a village shop when I was at primary school so I went home for lunch while all the dinner children walked in pairs along the High Street, past my house, to the old school house in Maldon road which served as the school canteen and venue for parties and the like. Only once was this pattern broken when mum was very ill with influenza. Rather than go with the other children for school dinner I went across the street and had lunch with Mrs Enion. Her twin sons were away at boarding school. I don't know what dad was doing that he couldn't look after me; my sister must have been working as a nanny at that time and was away too. I vaguely remember our teacher collecting five shillings (5/-) dinner money every Monday morning.

     I was used to having quite a bit of time to myself in the middle of the day. I could go for a walk and some times walked to the newspaper-shop at the other end of the street to by a comic although Arthur Mee's Children's Newspaper and Eagle were delivered to the house along with the Daily Telegraph. On Fridays I'd go to Mr Brown's for a nice piece of cod and chips.

Yesterday . . .

    I don't like going to Phoenix because of the heat; I don't know the city very well. My visits are usually for business or to accompany Kathy when she has an appointment at the Carl T. Hayden VA medical center. The idea then is to do the business and come home the same day, a 450 mile round trip, as quickly as possible.

    Yesterday's journey was different because we took the dog, Kiki, so I had the excuse of walking Kiki to explore the Steele Indian School Park.  The weather is still reasonably cool. I'm not in the habit of taking the camera and playing the tourist but this time I remembered to take it along so here is a taste of  that walk. And an enlightening: I didn't know that I didn't know about the writings of Nicholas Black Elk (1868-1950) . . . I will correct that.

 

Then there was the drive home through Payson and up the Mogollon Rim

 

A portion of the rim from Kohl's Ranch/Christopher Creek area.

Entropy

    Am I ashamed to display such disarray to the world? And such careless treatment of books? I am slowly wrestling the chaos into some semblance of tidiness, not necessarily order. Books do eventually get put on to shelves or stacked into neater and safer piles. I still have a path to the desk and computer - just. It was the same at school. Term would start with everything stacked neatly under the desk lid and by the end of term the lid would not quite lie shut . How to arrange books? Some order them on the shelves by size. Others, so I've heard, by the colour of the binding; the more conventional by subject matter; or fiction by strict alphabetical order by author. Some shelves are for books yet to be read; others for those to be re-read. On my shelves the poetry books tend to stay close to each other probably because I rarely refer to just one one poetry book at a time. the Folio books stay in their slip cases and congregate in their own book-case. I enjoy dusting the books and putting them on the shelves and here is the result:

    I make no resolutions simply because a new year rolls round. I'm not a very resolute chap at present.  I've a few more pages of the Life of Insects to read before the group gets together to discuss it later this month. I'm awaiting Tove Jansson's The True Deceiver to arrive. This was another work recently read, abridged, on BBC Radio 4.

Orphan post

     Singing has always been a part of my life. My mother had a small sweet voice and I always liked to sing and hum to myself on those long walks I took with dad on autumnal Sunday afternoons. Dad didn't sing but thumped away on the piano; listened to French radio and read Paris Match.  I would sometimes help him learn lines for a play . Evenings were spent by the radio listening to Journey into Space on the BBC Light Programme or me curled up in Dad's lap listening to him read Treasure Island. Mum knitted. I had lots of pullovers; I would help choose the patterns and the colours.

     Wednesdays were early closing so I knocked on the front door instead of coming through the shop when I came home after school. Wednesday four o'clock was the time Choral Evensong was broadcast on the Home Service and I associate the ethereal sounds of an anthem sung in some far away cathedral with home and a coal fire.

     Christmas was nearing when the bakery across the road began selling crumpets. Tea in the sitting room by the fire was a treat. My uncle Bill (Mum's only brother) and auntie Lee would pay their annual visit a week or two before Christmas. For several years their gift to me was the Rupert Annual.

     The one live Christmas tree we had, when I was about four years old, we planted in the garden and it survived and grew into a forty foot tree before being blown over in the gales of  . . . 1987 was it?

     I think the first Christmas carol I learned was the Czech Rocking carol, then Away in a Manger and the hymn Once in Royal David City.

What about now?

     Now? I sing and play the traditional Christmas carols I grew up with and raid the Oxford book of Carols for more from other seasons. Tschaikovsky's 'Legend' The Crown of Roses is one of my favourite modern pieces . . . And here is another New Year.

Christ's mass

     Now that he season that celebrates Christ's birth has finally arrived, many of the secular lights will be extinguished and trimmings taken down and the trees discarded or mulched. What of the other remembrances celebrated by the Church at this time? St Stephen, the first Christian martyr; St John the Evangelist; the Holy Innocents and the Epiphany and childhood of Jesus?

     I continue living in my own little world, that flow of the Church year learned as a choir boy and continued as sacristan at the parish church where I grew up. Christmas began for me then at 3pm on Christmas Eve with the live broadcast of the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College Chapel, Cambridge.

     David Wilcox's musical influence seems to remain strong . . . and each year one new musical piece is commissioned . . .

     I wondered when I was little, "Who is this Mary? And what's a virgin?".

     I don't worry much about the pagan origins of some of the things we do at this time of the year. The time of year in the northern hemisphere when the long dark nights begin to shorten is a cause for celebration. A time to anticipate the first aconites and snowdrops . . .

     So, what did I do with the day? Mass to hear the Gospel . . . ultra-traditional goose for dinner, traditional carols to listen to and to play and sing;  and Kathy likes to watch lots of Christmastime themed movies . . .

The remainder of a white Christmas

From the bookshelves 62 ?

I will attempt to finish or rather continue to read and re-read this work . . . one day.

I walked this

morning along the Little Colorado river, part of the Becker Lake riparian wildlife area. I remembered my camera to take some snapshots . . . here are some of the results.

 

 

 

Life  is often described as a journey.  On this journey we experience many things and collect mementos, items which may not have any intrinsic value but are  valued none the less as reminders of past events or people we have known who have made the journey lighter.

    Along the way we fall in with companions who share the journey.  Geese fly in company when they journey south from northern climes in the autumn to warmer areas, avoiding the wintry conditions further north.  They fly in a 'V' formation.  They do this because the beating wings of the leading birds creates lift for those behind.  The flying range of the flock is greatly increased over that of a bird flying alone.

    People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going quicker and easier, because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.

    Whenever a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone, and quickly gets into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird immediately in front.

    If we have as much sense as a goose, we will stay in formation with those who are going the same direction as we are.

    When the lead goose gets tired, he rotates back into the formation and another goose takes the lead point.  It pays to take turns doing hard jobs.  The geese honk from behind to encourage those up front to keep up their speed.

    What do we say when we 'honk' from behind?

    When a goose falls out of formation and goes to ground because it is sick or injured two other geese will follow it and stay with it until it recovers or dies.  They resume their journey with another formation or catch up with the original group.

    If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like that.

    I found this story amongst my school notes, a much copied anonymous piece, one of those mementos imbued with extrinsic value if only the analogy can be learned and put into practice.

Silence

More reading . . .

I'm reading the stories from Notwithstanding by Louis de Bernières. BBC Radio 4 recently broadcast several of the stories.

Still awaiting The Life of Insects to arrive. This is an allegorical novel by Victor Pelevin which the reading group will be discussing next year . . . January.

Tempus Fugit

     So what have I been up to this past week? The usual which for me means walking with a neighbour who likes the company; collecting the mail, most of which is for Kathy as she manages to get on so many mailing lists from buying from so many catalogues, and getting lost playing music nearly everyday. There must be some sleeping, eating and household chores and the occasional honey-do each day, too.

     Oh, and reading. I received my Folio Society selections this week which included Kevin Crossley-Holland's The Seeing Stone.

This is an award winning book, a retelling of the Arthurian legend from the perspective of a thirteen year old boy at the end of the twelfth century when Richard Cœur-de-Lion is off on Crusade and Prince John is lusting after the throne of England. This is the first book of a trilogy written for young people.

The chapter 41 heading is Mouthfuls of Air. And that segues into Antony Burgess:

I haven't read this for a very long time. I was sent to the dictionary to look up hebetude. And that leads to the venerable O.E.D. Is this the only dictionary with a users guide?

 Simon Winchester has written about the making of the first edition of the O.E.D.

 

And before that he wrote The Professor and the Madman; an account of the extraordinary contribution to the dictionary of an inmate of Broadmoor and his correspondence with James Murry . . .  

I am become a wraith . . .

catching up on Stuart's blog:

Remarkably Clear Insight of the Day

If you spend your whole life working to avoid making a scene, you will wake up one day to realize that you are no longer in the play, and nor should you be- you've ceased to be worth watching.

. . . . do you . . . .

dream monochrome . . .

or colour?

From the bookshelves 60, 61

A painstakingly made book . . . then a movie. I read this at a time I was doing a clinical-internship in a nursing home as part of an occupational therapy assistant course. This relates obliquely to the story of the man in Brussels who recently reported that he was conscious for the past twenty odd years; not in a coma.

     I mentioned in a previous post I occasionally miss John Ciardi, or rather his pieces about words on All Things Considered (or was it Morning Edition?). I re-read an excerpt from Invisible by Paul Auster in GRANTA 106 which makes reference to Bertran de Born, a poet condemned to carry his own severed head like a lantern for causing a bitter rift between a prince and his father.  He appears at the end of Canto 28 of Inferno.