The Lies they Spread

 

Imagine being so broken that you not only think like Stephen Miller but agree with him.

Does everyone who comes to the United States behave like angels? No. But neither do those who've been here for generations.

All I know is that my Dad and his brother and parents came to the United States in 1950, leaving the Netherlands, devastated by World War II and subsequent catastrophic floods, and that's *exactly* what they reproduced here.*

Immigrants come to this country filled with hope. Many of those fall in places where at worst, society is wary, but at best, where society is welcoming. I'm blessed that my Dad came to a place where the latter occurred.

Individuals may cultivate cruelty in their hearts, but I firmly believe those who come to the United States -- or those who move from one country and culture to another -- will for the vast majority reflect their reception. If they're received with kindness, they reciprocate kindness. Those who are received with hostility on a consistent basis are more prone -- and bless those who return hostility with kindness -- to return that hostility.

Hearing our leaders spew bile like Mr. Miller makes me weep for the nation.

*Maybe in your racist heart you're thinking, "Well, they were Christians. They were (whispered) white. So they fit in better." If you're thinking that gives my family a bye, you're part of the problem.

Politic Slop

“In all governments or political transactions, a man’s religious opinions should never be called in question. A man should be judged by the law, independent of religious prejudice.”

~Joseph Smith in Saints, Vol. 1

Hoooo! Hooooo! Hooooooooo!

Youngest just called and we had the following conversation:

Me: Hello.

Him: Dad, food for thought, you should become a mall Santa 

Me: Oh?

Him: You know, just in case the INL thing doesn't work out. You've got the personality for it.

Me: Cranky old coot?

Him: No, you'd be a very sweet Santa.

Me: Okay. Well, do you know of any openings?

Him: I could go create one.

Me: That might not be a good thing.

Him: Yeah. They might find out we're related.

The Best Part, Part I Dunno Anymore . . .

The Book of Boy, by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

(Spoilers)

"Hello, milord." I spoke with my mind, as I speak to all creatures.

From somewhere within the broken skull, he answered. "Hello, Boy. My, you have grown."

I smiled. "Yes, milord. I'm an angel, it seems."

"An angel? How grand. Do you . . . know where my wife is? I can't seem to find her."

I blinked back tears. "I am sorry, milord. She awaits you in heaven."

Sir Jacques trembled, reaching -- I clasped his hands. How I used to marvel at his hands, the palms as calloused as tree bark. How his skin was so soft. "Shh."

"You were always so good. Help me, Boy."

I wrote about this book that there's no hooptedoodle. But boy, there is. The last two pages made me weep.

"Call Him A Liar, and Cure It"

I'm not saying this kind of thing is happening in the United States now (outside of the Department of the Treasury) but I am saying we ought to be able to recognize bald-faced propaganda when we see it.

From "God's Smuggler":

East Germany was just then going through a devastating food shortage. The enterprising German farmer had not taken at all kindly to the collective idea; he had quit the land in such large numbers that that fall there had been no one to harvest the crops. The government had pressed production of mechanical harvesters, accompanied by a massive propaganda campaign. There was going to be plenty of bread because socialism was superior to the enterprise of individual farmers.

There was only one trouble. To ebe harvested by machine, the wheat had to be dry; a couple of days more sunshine were required than for hand reaping. And of course that year it rained. It rained every day, right at the time of the harvest.

And then suddenly, all over the country, posters appears carrying this little verse:

Ohne Gott and Sonnen schein

Holen Wir Die Ernte ein.

Without God and without sun

we will get the harvest done.

I could see that this slogan had really shaken the people. It was a brazen duel between the new regime and God Himself. The rains continued, and the harvest did not get in. Overnight as suddenly as they had appeared, the posters vanished -- except for the sodden few that you could still see clinging to the lamp posts.

The government did what only the government would try: It denied the food shortage. There was bread aplenty. To say anything contrary to that was the lie.

So. Whose lies do you believe?

And who is the better liar?

Is it the bellowing one over there,

trousers gouting with fire?

Or the fellow, trousers aflame,

Screaming from atop the turret -

Surely he's much more easy to blame

Call him a liar, and cure it.

The Mental Deterioration Continues

We have church at noon. We have had church at noon for more than eleven months now.

Yet this week I have twice told random children and my wife that we have church at 10:30 am and, in the case of this morning, that we needed to get on the dime if we were going to be there on time.

I blame it on an undercaffienated system. Or maybe it's just that I'm a doddering old fool. But I'm going to stick with the caffiene thing.

Burley Idaho Temple

On a whim (at least for me) Liam and I went on a tour of the Burley Idaho temple today.

Drove two hours to shake hands with Brother Dansie, who lives across the street from us in Ammon.

It was a good day.

One detail I missed but that Liam picked up on: The stained glass had white flowers going down to tuberous roots. I figured they were lilies. No, they are potatoes. Which makes a lot of sense.

God's Smuggler, First Chapter Sounding *Awfully* Familiar

I’m reading “God’s Smuggler,” by Brother Andrew with John and Elizabeth Sherill.

It is, so far, a tale of The Netherlands during World War II. When I got to the passage below, all I could think of was the two Canadians on the motorcycle that came into Dad’s village in The Netherlands – not far from where this story takes place – to tell them the war, for them, was over.

The text, because the photo is a bit poor:

[His mother’s] only consolation was that Bas [his brother, who I believe was profoundly autistic] had not lived to see this time. He never could have understood the ache in his stomach, the dark fireplace, the treeless street.

At last the day came when mama could not get out of bed. If liberation did not come soon, we knew she would die.

And then in the spring of 1945, the Germans left and the Canadians took their place. People stood in the streets weeping for joy. But I was not with them. I was running every step of the five miles to the Canadian encampment, where I was able to beg a small sackful of breadcrusts.

Bread. Quite literally the bread of life.

I brought them home to my family with shouts of “Good! Food! Food!” As Mama gnawed the dry crusts, tears of gratefulness to God rolled down the deep liens in her cheeks.

The war was over.

The story thus far takes place in the village of Witte, which Brother Andrew describes as being on the polders, four miles from Alkmaar. I can’t find it on Google maps, which tells me it’s either a false name or so tiny it doesn’t merit a mention on maps. There is a Wittelte on the maps, but it’s further inland, between the Ijsselmeer and Germany, so that can’t be the place. He tells a lot of stories which echo in the stories Dad told of the same time in Santpoort, not too far away. Mischevious boys is certainly what stands out, as Dad and his brother weren’t little angels. Brother Andrew put rationed sugar in German gas tanks, set off fireworks to annoy the soldiers, among other things.

I’m looking forward to reading more of the story. Kind of adjacent to my won heritage.

"Farting Around," or so I Thought

Stomped up the stairs because on my Ring app I could see people "farting around" on the porch without ringing the bell.

Was stopped in my tracks by our daughter, who said it was my wife and a friend on the porch, that I should probably calm down, and that no one was "farting around" out there.

I slunk back downstairs into my antisocial lair to lick my wounds.

"You Screwed Up, Huh?"

Moral: Pay attention to proper page numbering.

Situation: Monday afternoon, a document I thought was finally done was rejected at the last moment because the cover page was numbered as Page One, when it's not supposed to have any number at all.

Ordinarily an easy fix, but Page 2 has pen-and-ink signatures on it that no one wanted to re-do to fix the page numbers electronically.

So luckily we can do pen-and-ink changes of a minor nature, which helped get the document approved and to bed today.

Still:

I'm glad it's all resolved, though there are a few people who will probably look at me cross-eyed for the next little while.

The Leper of St. Giles

First of all, spoilers. If you haven't read Ellis Peters' "The Leper of St. Giles," don't watch the video. I'll try to keep spoilers in the text to a minimum.

It was YouTube and Derek Jacobi who introduced me to Brother Cadfael. I think I've watched them all. Then I started finding the books at local thrift stores. I read all I could find. Then last Christmas I asked for more books.

They're enchanting.

Mysteries, by design, tend to be character- and place-driven, and this one certainly checks the boxes. I love that with nothing more than a keen eye and a wealth of experience, Brother Cadfael can suss out any mystery. Yet even as he does, he remains askance at times of human behavoir.

And Peters' writing is perfect. She's not pretentious, nor too ornate, nor is she too spare. She doesn't weigh the text down with accents, or jargon, or what have you -- though in the books I've got, she does offer a glossary at the back. I've read a few period pieces where accents would be involved and they can be heavy-handed. Peters recognizes that nothing should get in the way of the story, and thus generally avoids patois.

It's Official

 

So here we are. Scout trailer in front of the house this weekend (now parked at Michelle's Dad's house). Because we're back into the Troop 1010 thing.

First meeting of the "new" troop last Thursday. Five girls there. We'll see how many come to the next meeting with registration forms and payment and a thirst for adventure that far exceeds my own.

I spent about an hour going through our personal camp gear looking for a bucket of Nalgene bottles I swear we had, as we try to figure out what happened to the bucket of Nalgene bottles that went with the scouts. I did finally find ours -- remembered I had a bucket I was using for sitting purposes in the basement bathroom I'm working on. I can't get the bucket open, but it *sounds* like there's some bottles in there. And I'm sure the rest are out in the camper, because Michelle took some to camp this summer. Part of the mystery solved.

A few good things: Their enthusiasm is contagious. And we won't be doing any camping until late January, or whenever they schedule the Winteree.

I go where I'm needed, I guess.

Can? Kicked Down the Road until Jan. 31

 

So I know this is a bucket that gets kicked, but you get the point.

Government re-opened as of last night, at least until the end of January, so it doesn't look like furloughs for us. As I'm a fan of many nasty habits like regular meals and making those mortgage payments, this is good news, though it was fun to think about for awhile until reality set in that it would likely mean using up all of my vacation time for the forseeable future to keep the lights on.

They Touched Hips

Drama, ripped from the pages of the Peanuts comic strip, January 1976.

The Browns' elementary school collapses. Sally is convinced it was a suicide because she has a habit of speaking to school buildings and they speak back and she knew it was depressed.

They end up attending the same school as Marcie and Peppermint Patty, and Chuck has to share a desk with the latter.

Here she is, alarmed their hips are touching.

I haven't finished reading the year's worth of comics, but this appears to be a storyline he dropped rather quickly.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

Ope. He did go back to it, briefly, in September:

Yes, More Aurora Photos

Again a great night for auroras. Not as bright this time around, but some nice blues thrown in.

Reflections of A Scientist

If we pause for a moment and think about things, we're not altogether all that far apart on things.

That is, of course, a big "if."

That's part of what Henry Eyring addresses in his book, "Reflections of a Scientist," a series of essays he wrote and that are compiled by his son Harden.

More about his life here, including his contributions to science, specifically chemistry. I won't pretend to understand any of it, but it seems significant enough.

Eyring breezily, and easily, discusses that science and religion aren't all that far apart. Both invite investigation, skepticism, and a willingness to keep on trying and looking past the warts and difficulties to find what works, or "the truth," as he describes it.

My favorite quote: "There are all kinds of contradictions and religion that I don't understand, but I find the same kinds of contradictions in science, and I haven't decided to apostatize from science."

He recommends a hearty science eduation -- naturally -- particularly one that "contraditcs" what many religious faiths hold true. In that he supposes that exposure to the contradictions will ease new minds into understanding and pondering them, rather than looking at them superficially and deciding which way to go without much study. That's a lesson we could all learn on a great many subjects.

The Aurora Borealis!

Fought hard to get through the traffic and city lights and all the traffic up in the foothills east of town, but we did get to see us some Northern Lights.

Klinger's Boa Constrictor, Stained with Liver

 

Found this on the DuMont today, and it made me angry.

If course it's rage bait meant to elicit comments and shared, and I fell for it.

But it is *so* wrong.

And worse yet, I suspect it's a mix of rage bait and artificial intelligence slop. I'm sure the prompt went something like this: "Write a plot summary for a MASH episode featuring Klinger and Hawkeye where Klinger got succotash on his boa [because they have no idea what a stole is, these infantile little language-garblers-for-money] because Hawkeye didn't want to eat any more liver "

My friends and I had some fun with it.

A Cycling Tour of Clodagh Rodgers, and Other Rabbit Holes

For some reason, I got to thinking about Michael Palin of Monty Python fame tonight.

That led me to find and watch the Monty Python episode called "The Cycling Tour," in which Palin plays a cheerful idiot cyclist who crashes his way through North Cornwall until he ends up in front of a firing squad in Soviet Russia because a food scientists he happened to meet along the way was injured in an auto accident, thought he was Scottish folk singer Clodagh Rodgers, and then a mix of Clodagh Rodgers and Leon Trotsky.

So now I'm listening to Clodagh Rodgers on YouTube, having descended further into a really odd YouTube  wossname . . . rabbit hole.

Michael Palin really does a passable Rosemary Wood too.

So, Which Is It?

Spotted in the wild today:

I don't know which of these statements to believe. Either it's actual video of the incident, or it's AI generated.

Maybe it's a hybrid - but in any case, the Las Vegas Review-Journal needs to state clearly what's going on here.

And while I appreciate them being up-front about AI use, the statement poses more questions than it answers. And if the situation leads to a big explanation on how AI was used, they might be better off not using it at all.

NIMBY Grousing

So there's some growth around here lately.

Many running for ze pooblic office in Idaho Falls are griping about "all the apartments" being built. They don't like them. They want, like the Tolkien's elves, for everything to remain static.

Me? I kinda like coming into town from the south and seeing these apartment buildings near the freeway, rather than the empty fields that have been there since I was a kid (There are three hotels going up in the area too. Neat.)

There's a loud group of people locally who don't want more people coming here. Oh, they want more places to eat and shop and do things, but they don't want more people -- you know, the catalyst that brings more places to eat and shop and do things.

I'm tired of it.

I posted this on a local site, and I stand by it. They were griping about the "lack of planning."

You do know that earlier this year Bonneville County suggested laying groundwork for an expressway south of town. Residents out there went totally bonkers and the county backed down, or at least radically scaled back the vision. A big part of the problem planners face are NIMBYs who want planning to occur unless it happens to impact them.

And yes, I do know there are impacts. Take a gander at Hitt Road between Iona Road and the Yellowstone Highway. The house I grew up in used to be there. It's gone now. That's part of the price we have to pay for growth, and there aren't a lot of people around here willing to pay the price.

Here's that plan. And out of it we're not going to get the groundwork for an expressway (like they're griping about) but another imitation of Sunnyside Road, which they're also griping about.

Same thing at I-15 and US-20. Idaho Transportation Department has a plan to relocate that junction and really get rid of a nasty bottleneck in town -- but when they held an open house, the preferred option was "Do nothing!" because it was going to disrupt the stasis, the static situation the local elves want to preserve.

Upcoming in Ammon: A proposal to convert some fields on the edge of town into a commercial area and room for 1,200 houses. People in an uproar because they don't want the field by their house to be filled with houses. The only way to prevent that is to BUY THE DAMN FIELD, but they'd rather usurp the rights of others to preserve stasis.

Whatabouttaxes and whatabout roads and whatabout schools? Yeah, that's a pickle. But new residents and new businesses bring in new tax revenue to pay for all those whatabouts.

Chore List Update

Back in mid-July, I offered an update on my chore list.

Things have not improved.

Well, they actually have. I've gotten more chores done. But the list keeps getting added to, which is the nature of lists, so it feels like not much progress has been made.

Behold:

A major - and expensive - list removal involved the $1,500 we paid to have the spruce tree in the front yard taken down. I'm still working on getting the wood from it chopped into bits, but the tree is indeed gone, leaving me a rather massive chore for next summer, mainly reconfiguring the space where the tree was. That'll involve removing some roots that are in the way of pavers and popping up in the yard, and cleaning all the gravel I put under the tree, sorting it from the needles and other gunk. I mean, I guess I could just get new gravel. But part of me really objects to the thought of throwing away rocks.

I'm actually tossing this list and starting a new one. It's just too scribbled to read anymore.

The Corps of Discovery: They *Don't* Teach This in School

This review could easily devolve into the old Boomer trope: "Why don't they teach this at school?" Well, frankly, there's just too much. Too much to learn, too much to read. Too much to absorb.

In Idaho, we get this history obviously as part of "Idaho History," which was required of fourth and eleventh graders when I was of school age.

I'll admit here I don't remember much of what I learned, partly because it's so long ago and partly because I've read a lot of such history, writ small and writ large, since then, and it's all become muddled in my brain.

It's clear even with Stephen E. Ambrose in his book "Undaunted Courage: Meriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, and the Opening of the American West" (finally we get to the subject of this review). It's an excellent book, full of detail, told in a splendid voice often in the written words (and creative spelling) of Meriwether Lewis. Highly recommended; I have yet to read an Ambrose book that's a stinker.

I did learn a lot of stuff I didn't know about the Corps of Discovery; mainly that it was splendidly led by insightful, hardy, and lucky people who treated some people with too much deference and others who deserved better treatment with some disdain and cruelty, particularly the Nez Perce of Idaho.

Also: Did not know that after the voyage was over Lewis was slow as tar in getting any organization going in their collected journals while he fought petty battles with other members of the corps that wanted to publish or did publish their own writings and ended up killing himself in Kentucky as a result of what may have been a lifelong battle with depression and other mental illness or a combination of that with addictions to morphine, opium, and alcohol. Or it might have been syphilus. That's not the kind of things they tell fourth graders.

Anyway, highly recommended reading. I'll be passing the book on to my wife. And I enjoyed the little bits of trivia I encountered in the book.

So, What Happened to the Magpie?

On magpies, the irascibility of:

"The grouse and three of the magpies were dead, all killed by the survivor. [President Thomas] Jefferson ordered that special care be given the remaining magpie and prairie dog so that he might see them on his return to the capital."

From Stephen E. Ambrose's "Undaunted Courage," concerning specimens sent to Washington by the Lewis and Clark expedition.

I wonder: How long did the remaining magpie survive?

There's this.

The bird - and the prairie dog - were sent to a museum in Philadelphia, where it appears they lived for a time.

A Post Not Made

Scuttlebutt: Enough money to go through Nov.17 if the shutdown continues.

Officially, of course, no news. Which is fine. Speculation doesn't help matters.

Politics doesn't either, and there's plenty of that to go around.

Halloween? Feh.

I've seen a few old farts (my age and older) on Facebook lamenting their lack of trick-or-treaters and the general feeling that the Vibe of Halloweens Past just isn't what it used to be.

My response: And? Holidays evolve and change over time.

Stop trying to relive your childhood in modern times.

Talk to the kids. Are they having fun at the trunk-or-treat and other modern Halloween activities that you hate, apparently?

If they're having fun, leave them alone. Let them have fun and go be grumpy somewhere else.

And tell me with a straight face that you really miss your Welcome Back Kotter costume choices. . . .

It's hard to believe these even existed -- plastic moisture-retaning masks to top off designer garbage bags you hoped wouldn't rip before the night was over.

Stumbled across this video tonight: Look how much the "commercial" aura surrounding Christmas has evolved over the years. I particularly like the irony of aluminum Christmas trees dying off thanks to the Charlie Brown Christmas special, and then having the specials themselves die off as the viewing audience is fractured by streaming and other such junk of today.