A Retrospective of Valentine Day Essays

© 2016 By Bob Litton. All rights Reserved.

Well, no, the doldrums have not gone away already. On top of that, now I have a sinus infection to cope with.

Still, Valentine’s Day is almost on top of us; and, as usual, I feel I must say something concerning that fateful day. There’s a tone about this period of the month that appears to have a most negative effect on my health and attitude; I just had that insight a few minutes ago while I was gathering the URLs below: I seem to endure a low energy level around February 14, so I dig up old newspaper columns I have written and publish them here in “The Vanity Mirror”, in lieu of fresh writings.

I no longer spruce myself up for Valentine’s Day, no longer call a girlfriend…because there is no girlfriend. As Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) wrote in one of his best poems, “They flee from me that sometime did me seek”. It’s all part of the territory, along with a broken tooth, graying hair, an overly stout midsection…and an empty pocket. An ebullient personality and scintillating conversation cannot make up for all those deficits.

Nonetheless, you folks can still find something to peruse about Valentine’s Day in my “archives”; and, just for this year, I have made the reading easier for you by pulling together the URLs for those essays: here they are; enjoy!

https://boblitton.wordpress.com/2015/02/14/appreciating-valentines-day-2/
https://boblitton.wordpress.com/2014/01/16/a-valentine-for-quasimodo/
https://boblitton.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/love-endures-even-in-this-cynical-age/
https://boblitton.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/what-of-whom-do-we-love/

Be sweet to your Valentine…if you have one!
—BL

 

 

The Doldrums

Dear Reader,
I don’t know if this message is relevant to you or not. If you are a WordPress blogger who has boarded my blog as a “Follower”, then it most likely does not relate because you receive an email flag every time I publish a new post. And, if you are a new visitor to my site and do not expect to return, then it does not relate in your case either. However, if you visit me occasionally and intend to return for more reading pleasure but have not signed on as a “Follower”, then this message is definitely addressed to you.

All that wind is the preface to my admitting to a lack of wind in my sails right now, so I have been merely tossing on the waves here on the pond of “The Vanity Mirror”. I will continue to be idle at least for a little while longer, for I am in “the doldrums”. I looked that word up in an online dictionary to be sure I was using it appropriately, and I certainly was:
dol·drums
  (dōl′drəmz′, dôl′-, dŏl′-)
pl.n. (used with a sing. or pl. verb)
1.
a. 
A period of stagnation or slump.
b. A period of depression or unhappy listlessness.
2.
a. 
A region of the ocean near the equator, characterized by calms, light winds, or squalls
b. The weather conditions characteristic of these regions of the ocean.

All the above definitions are at least poetically pertinent, but the highlighted one fits my present condition best. I have had to contend with several enervating problems lately: a plumbing problem that resulted in a squishy carpet in my living room, tugs of war with so-called medical providers, and a next door neighbor who is dying of lung cancer. (As a former journalist, I have seen several dead bodies; and I visited my mother in the ICU ward when she was dying from heart failure; but this is the first time I have seen the outward evidences of a body attacked in various ways by a vicious, ugly disease.)

I know I have published posts in the past that I composed as I wrote — “off the top of my head”, as the image goes —; and the problem is not that I do not have topics at hand (even a significant amount of research done on a couple); but I don’t have the emotional energy right now to produce. Hopefully, by the end of this month I will be ready to move forward.

The above sentences might strike a few of you as arrogant, as if I were imagining a line of people waiting at the ticket window and being told that the show has been cancelled tonight. Well, although that is not really the case, it isn’t far from the truth either. I always look at my “stats page”, and I regularly see small flags from certain countries which I have begun to perceive as frequent visitors who, for whatever reasons, do not wish to click the “Follow” button. So, you see, this post is essentially my apology and explanation to them. Please be patient and come back. In the meantime, there are many prior posts in the “archives” to peruse — three years’ worth — and they don’t die just because the ink is dry.

Best regards and thanks to all of you!
Bob

The Widow’s Pique

© 1968, 2016 By Bob Litton

NOTE TO READERS:  Almost in self-defense, I feel I must provide the exculpatory background for the poem published here today. In 1968, when I composed the first version, I was a fairly young man and still wrestling with some anger toward my parents for not providing me with a “happy home” like some of my friends seemed blessed with. The poem (as I deem it) was a seepage of that anger.
     As I grew older, however, much of that anger dissipated and I began to view my parents in a more charitable light; I began to recall their difficulties and benefices as often as their faults. A growing awareness of my own weaknesses certainly contributed to the forgiveness.
     I showed the poem to my professor in Old English, hoping for at least a bland approval. Then he surprised me by asking me to read it to our Anglo-Saxon seminar class. That was undoubtedly a mistake, since I was the only male in a class of ten students. I don’t think any of the ladies appreciated it; at any rate, none of them applauded after I had finished reading.
∗ Although the “models” for the two characters in this cameo production were my parents, the full scene is not meant to be complete portraits of them: The production is intended to be a broader satire, as is hinted in the title. The widow here is viewed as typical of some women, but not all women. The same is true of the “first man”.
∗ I kept the poem in my files for decades, not sure what to do with it. On the one hand, even I grew to find its “cynicism” a bit overdone and its tone too critical of my parents (for I continued to view them primarily as models here). On the other hand, I retained some feeling of pride in the imagery and rhetorical value of several of the lines and, as always, relished my talent for irony. Oh, how I love irony!
∗ Anyway, I took it out of the files today and worked it over some, particularly in an effort to improve some of the rhythmical parts. I doubt that I was very successful, but I do think it is at least slightly better than the original version. Scansion was never a strength in me.
     So, please, dear readers, try to concentrate on the rhetoric and the irony and don’t become deflected by the cynicism.
BL 

∗The red asterisks above indicate paragraph indentions. For some reason I have not been able to fathom, the editing page will accept some of my indentions but not others. And I have given up trying to correct the malfunctions.

I

Framed where the stair turns, her first man smiles —
sketched in the flesh, painted in absentia,
sepia-and-umber-toned like a Dürer print.
Gray tendrils from ledges of brow
curl down coppery loam toward gold-flecked iris.
Filled with actions and fortunes outside
this mundane scene, one more rainbow’s pot
grandly refracts in his Balboan eyes.
His pollen-drugged thoughts disperse,
cast adrift upon disclaimed, illicit streams.
“Don’t we come out of the soil to leave it —
to seek the sun, bowing upward through
its radiance, hungry for heaven’s nutrient,
disdaining the toilsome tunneling of a root?
The meshes of a root!  Entangling itself
confusedly in the dankness of the earth,
while beyond a shuttered window the sun…laughs…”
But since the window opened to night, not day,
he paused fatally the lunar interim,
an orchid wilting on the widow’s bosom.

II

Now she, broad-faced lily plucked from the pond —
nourished with cold cream here — eyes him warily
as she descends the clef-curve of the stair.
Fearful of the sun’s leer — with its jaundice
that burns into amber — glistening, yes,
like a fly’s neck — she shuts the shutters.  Clack!
Woman’s woes concretized streak her hair,
counted each day with petulant lips
redundantly before a two-faced mirror:
“I must rinse it tomorrow,” she sighs.
On the couch…just so…composed with a pill,
she still rummages for the witch’s brew
or whatever the ad of the living:
auguries, faith-healers, folk medicine ─
anything but gamble and scramble for fool’s gold,
as he did!  Motion is always a circle, it seems.
And this now man who lumps in his bed and wheezes!
Why didn’t someone warn her?  Foolish girl,
to marry again in the giddiness of death’s divorce.
She knows at last: This one, too, won’t blot the sun.
At the edge of lamplight she pinches from her lips
an idea, “After he’s dead, I’ll get a dog.”

Finis

Identity

© 2016 By Bob Litton

Note to Readers: This short story was written back in the late 1960s (or perhaps the early ’70s); I was in graduate school at the time. With that background, some readers might view it as juvenilia. But I have kept it in my files all these years and took it out today and still like it.
The reason I have not sought to have it published before now is because one of my former professors deflated me by declaring, “You’ve got this kid thinking like a Harvard graduate, Bob!” Today, however, I recalled reading a 
Life magazine article decades ago about a 10- to 12-year-old boy who was attending science courses at the University of Chicago. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, the devout prodigy replied, “Well, right now I want to be a priest, but when I get that old I might feel different.” How mature an insight for a boy that young!
     Another element I want to mention: From the time I started to write stories (as an adult) I realized that my efforts were not stories so much as they were essays with characters in them.
Whatever its literary worth, I hope you will gain something from reading “Identity”.
—BL

Chuck could tie his own shoes now.  He was telling himself that over and over again as he struggled with the laces.  “Hurry Chuck!” his mother called from the living room below.  At last, they were tied!  He stood, looking critically at the closet mirror.  He was wearing his red cotton shirt, just like Gene Autry’s shirt, at least as it always appeared in the comic books.  His blue jeans, too, were just like Gene Autry’s jeans.  If only the shoes were cowboy boots, but his mother had said those would have to wait until Christmas.  Chuck lowered his pants’ cuffs over the shoe-tops so that the laces were at least partly covered. When I get my boots I won’t have to bother with laces! he imagined.  His appearance was most important today because he was going to the state fair with his mother, going to the fair for the first time in his life.

He hopped down the stairs and found his mother opening and closing her umbrella to make sure it was still reliable.  She was very mistrustful of mechanical things.
“Oh Mother, we won’t need that, will we?”
“We might.  We’ll be out there all day, and the radio said a squall line is gathering in the north.”
“What’s a squall line?”
“A lot of rain all bunched up.”

The bus Chuck and his mother rode was crowded with young people in sweatshirts and crazy hats.  Teenagers, swinging their arms carelessly about and yelling to each other the length of the bus, awed the boy.  He knew they were not adults like his mother, who was a large, country-bred woman, yet they were bigger than he;  and, although he didn’t know the word, he could sense their competitiveness.  Huddling as close to his mother’s side as he could, he observed their antics.

They were unseating each other as an impromptu game.  A standee would try to eject a likely victim from his seat.  If he was successful, the seat became his own, and it was then up to the new standee to find a weaker opponent to dislodge.  Each victim held on to the seat bar with all his might, and it usually took several minutes of straining to pull him loose.  Chuck’s mother ignored these frolics, but he watched them fascinated.  And so it went until they arrived at the fairgrounds.

Balloons!  Pennants!  Reds, blues, yellows, polka dots and stripes!  A waving, weaving mob of people.  It was too great a task for Chuck to keep his attention trained on any single sight; there was too much variety.  Here, a little girl, hardly older than Chuck himself, was licking at some pink, fluffy stuff that reminded him of angel hair.  There, an old man, gray-grizzly, with a yellow apron on was blowing cacophonous, quasi-music through a silver disc and then bellowing out that the crowd should buy his bits of tin.  Now came a bunch of teenagers, six abreast, shuffling along the paper-littered street and carrying large teddy bears and tawdry little chalk figurines.  In the distance were elevated machines going round and round high in the air with screaming people in bullet-shaped cars.  Beyond those strange machines were tents flapping in the damp wind over farm implements.  In another direction were sedate buildings draped with flags, and open air stages where bands were playing.

Suddenly Chuck noticed a tent with posters hanging down its sides, posters like giant comic book covers.  On one was a woman with long, frizzled hair who was smiling at the two huge snakes encircling her body.  Such sharp teeth she had!  In another picture an otherwise human sort of man—who looked depressed to Chuck—had alligator scales all over his body.  Chuck paused, heedless of his mother, to gaze at the bizarre posters. They saddened him; but he sensed they weren’t supposed to, so he felt guilty about his sadness.  His mother came up to him and gave him a gentle nudge meaning to come along with her, but he didn’t move.  Instead, he memorized the heavy, dark lines and the ferocious coloring of the posters.

A man behind a wicker-wire cage with a large roll of tickets was hawking for one show:  “Step on in, folks, and satisfy your curiosity.  If you hurry you can still catch the famous Crisp family of acrobats.  Most talented folks you’ll ever hope to see.  Only one dime, ladies and gentlemen, only one dime.  Thank ya, lady…thank ya, buddy.”

Chuck’s mother looked down at her son with a teasingly inquisitive smile, “Would you like to go in?”

Chuck hesitated, glancing at the man high above him and then at the lane of sawdust leading through the tent flaps.  He nodded affirmatively without looking at his mother.  He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to go in there, but he thought his saying “no” would somehow be detected as a sign of fear, and Gene Autry wouldn’t respect a “fraidy-cat”.
“Two, please,” said his mother to the hawker, opening her coin purse and delving for the dimes.
“Thank ya, lady.”

Inside the tent was a fat, hemp rope stretched on short poles cordoning off a sawdust arena.  Since there were no seats, the crowd gathered close to the rope, jostling each other, vying for clearer views.  Chuck’s mother was tall and sturdy enough and not too feminine to push men around.  Her neighbors all agreed she had pushed her husband right into his grave.  Now she elbowed her way up to the roped boundary and pulled Chuck up in front of her.  The boy grabbed the rope to maintain his equilibrium within the slightly swaying crush of the crowd.

The scene before Chuck made him draw his shoulders in, and his hands moistened as they more tightly gripped the itchy twists of the rope.  There were ten small people, about Chuck’s height but with adult-size heads and mature faces, and they were performing acrobatic stunts.  The stubbiness of their limbs made the lithe agility of their movements seem all the more incredible than if done by ordinary humans.  Chuck had thought such beings existed only in the tunnels and towers of fairy-tale books where they hammered on anvils or spun gold out of straw.  Yet here they were in the flesh bouncing through somersaults.  Finally they all came together and proceeded to form a human pyramid by standing on one another’s shoulders: the seven males formed the base and middle, and the three females towered on up until the last could almost touch the peak of the tent.  When they had successfully completed this stunt, the crowd clapped enthusiastically for them.

Only Chuck remained silent and still.  He couldn’t have told why, if anyone had been concerned to ask, but he felt dread welling up within him.  He suddenly wanted to leave this tent with its sawdust and ropes and weird denizens.  But his mother’s broad body was flush against his back, and there was a thick mass of enchanted spectators around the roped perimeter.

The family of dwarfs broke up the pyramid and were preparing to leave so that the next act could enter, when one of the male dwarfs happened to notice Chuck and, laughing in an increasingly extroverted manner, exclaimed, “Brothers!  Sisters!  See, he’s like one of us.  He’s our brother!”  Then the humorous dwarf came up to Chuck and tried to tug him into the arena.

Chuck suddenly realized why he had wanted to escape earlier, why he was repelled by the very sight of these people.  Yes, he was like them, for they were all wearing red shirts and blue pants.  Two more of the dwarfs recognized the significance of their brother’s allusion and then they, too, pulled gently at Chuck’s sleeves and chimed in with the sing-song cajolery:  “Come, little brother, and join our fun!  Stand on your head or turn a somersault!  We’ll show you how.”  But Chuck clung with all his might to the rope and would not be dislodged.  The spectators began to titter, cheer, laugh.  In a short time the tent became an echo chamber of hilarity.  Even Chuck’s mother smiled and tried to encourage her son to go into the ring and play with the dwarfs.
“Go on, Chuck.  They won’t hurt you.  They just want you to play with them.  They’ll show you how to do a somersault.”

But Chuck held to the rope, speechless, practically mindless with the agony of his humiliation, until finally he began to cry out—to squall, “No,! No! Never!  I don’t want to be like them.  Never!  Let me go home!!”  The ducts of his eyes opened and a downpour flooded out.

The mob of people, all bunched up, melded by curiosity into a single, monstrous being, gradually ceased to laugh.  Its face, just recently so wrinkled with laughter, now took on the bathetic expression of an extravagant tragedian.  A multitude of eyes suddenly became blandly solicitous for this odd little boy who apparently didn’t know how to play but would rather cling to the rope as though he were a hundred feet off the ground.

The three dwarfs let go of Chuck’s arms.  They were embarrassed that their good-natured camaraderie should bring tears to a child’s eyes.  Chuck’s mother looked at them apologetically and was just about to verbalize her feelings when one of them interrupted her:  “It’s all right, lady.  We didn’t mean to frighten him.  Poor kid’s scared to death.  Better take him home.”

As he left the tent Chuck suddenly stopped crying.  He felt the surprising calm that follows a total cry.  But the tears remained on his cheeks, and the cooling twilight air seemed to crystallize them there.  With arm crooked, Chuck wiped the freezing tear-drops on to the red cotton of a shirt sleeve.  He wondered at the strange calm within him and at some new tempest welling but still submerged.  Something had been destroyed; something else was germinating.  Peripherally, he was aware that his mother was trying in her own way to console him.
“My goodness, Chucky!  What’s wrong?  They didn’t mean you any harm.  Are you all right now?  My goodness!  I’ve never been so embarrassed.  You did want to see them, didn’t you?  Yes, you know you did.  Weren’t they wonderful acrobats?  We’ll be home soon.  Do you want some cotton candy?  No?  Oh well….”

Chuck twinged at his mother’s obtuseness.  All she had seen was that he hadn’t wanted to go into the ring and that he had embarrassed her.  She didn’t recognize the meaning of his refusal to identify with the dwarfs─his rejection of them as “brothers”.  In that moment some of her authority as interpreter of the external world dissipated.

For the rest of the week Chuck was quiet and reserved.  He played unwillingly with other children and brooded much.  Even apparel became a matter of indifference to him; he wore whatever his mother laid out, neither exhibiting any preference for the red shirt nor avoiding it.  When Christmas arrived at the end of the week he accepted the boots under the tree as indifferently, almost as though he had forgotten about them.

Chuck didn’t forget the dwarfs though.  As the sense of injustice against his own self waned he gradually came to accuse himself of acting wrongfully against the dwarfs.  Over and over he relived the scene in his mind, trying to imagine a happier outcome.  In one daydream he was wearing something other than red and blue, and the dwarfs were oblivious of his presence.  In another he dignifiedly but kindly refused to participate and made them feel good by the graciousness of his refusal.  His imaginings increased in their romanticism: In the last he was jumping over the rope and tumbling with the dwarfs enthusiastically, brilliantly, so that they begged him to join their troupe.  The grotesque contrast between this day-dream and actual fact brought Chuck up short in his imaginings.

It snowed all New Year’s Eve, and nearly a foot of snow had accumulated by the time the sky cleared that night.  Chuck put on his coat and boots and went out to stand on the back porch.  A full moon glimmered luminously on the snow.  Over one of the pecan tree’s crusted limbs was scurrying a shadowy squirrel.  Ah, thought Chuck, how great it must be to be simply a squirrel looking for a pecan—a squirrel in all its squirrelness hunting pecans, unconscious, not wishing to be anything else!  Why were little boys afflicted with the urge to pretend to be something they are not?  Why must they torment themselves pretending they are cowboys—or dwarfs?  Ah, to be a squirrel!

And then he laughed.  In helpless, boyish giggles did he laugh.

Finis

On Words

©2016 By Bob Litton
There were periods in my life when I earned a living employing words. And I have read many more words through a lifetime, a lot of which I never have used in my own compositions. I had to look too many of them up in a dictionary or guess their meanings from the contexts; one such term is “fascicle”, which I came upon yesterday in a book about the poems disguised as prose in Emily Dickinson’s letters. That word was used in this sentence: The poem follows a progression found in some of Dickinson’s other nature poems of the fascicle years: first a simple description of nature and then, in a later stanza, the leap to the transcendental level.” And that is followed by an ambiguous use of the word transitive in one of her briefer poems:
         That a pansy is transitive,
          is its only pang.
          This, precluding that,
          is indeed divine.

Like most English words, the above two terms have more than one meaning. Looking them both up in my dictionary, I inferred that fascicle, as intended by the critic, refers to Dickinson’s habit of bundling several poems together, punching a couple of holes through the pages, and running strings through them—making her own books; for, one of the meanings of fascicle is “one of the divisions of a book published in parts.”

As for transitive, I sensed while reading Emily’s poem that she was using that word in the same sense I would have used transitory or transient, meaning “of brief duration/temporary.” I wondered if her choice had been dictated by a concern for meter and connotation, since transitory contains one syllable more than transitive, and transient summons an image of physical movement, particularly of hoboes, as much as it does of time passing. That poem, a virtual brain-teaser, is difficult enough in its composition and content without adding ambiguous acceptation to the puzzle.

It is not just in academic and poetical works that I find words that halt my reading pace. Recently I was escape-reading in an omnibus volume of Nero Wolfe novels and novellas by Rex Stout. Twice in a single day up popped a word that I had seen before, but long ago, and I could not recall its exact meaning. No dictionary was at hand. I thought I would remember the word and look it up later; I kept on reading; I didn’t remember the word. Such occurrences have  happened too many times.

Before I leave Rex Stout’s works, I want to mention an example of how Stout never passed up an opportunity, even in his Nero Wolfe novels, to castigate organizations such as the FBI and even the G. & C. Merriam Company, publisher of Webster’s New International Dictionary, whenever they breached his principles. The first chapter of Gambit (1962) opens with a scene of Wolfe sitting in front of his fireplace, tearing out pages of the new dictionary, and tossing them into the fire. He explains his activity to a new client, who has just entered the room, thus:
          ‘Do you use ‘infer’ and ‘imply’ interchangeably, Miss Blount?”
          She did fine, She said simply, “No.”
          “This book says you may. Pfui. I prefer not to interrupt this auto-da-fe. You wish
           to consult me?”
I agree with Nero Wolfe’s, i.e. Rex Stout’s, judgment about infer and imply absolutely.

Another problem I have with words, and even proper names, is that I often forget the most common ones — not just the rarely used or more difficult ones — the frequently used ones. And worse still, often I have thought of the word I needed within the previous hour. Naturally, this problem is directly related to my transformation into an old man. If  I were not a compulsive writer, perhaps such a weakness would not be as exasperating as it is; but when I have to pause  in my typing several minutes — perhaps even pull up an Internet dictionary or call a friend — to recover the desired word, well, that’s just maddening.

And that is one of the reasons I don’t produce as much for this blog as I would like.

Finis

 

Crosses on law enforcement vehicles

NOTE TO READERS: I know I have been presenting bare blog posts the last few months because of physical problems and depression over the national and international scenes. Well, I am back now — sort of — but in a different tenor.
     My repressed anger is beginning to force itself into expression. I am contemplating a fairly lengthy jeremiad about the world around me, but that will take a while to develop and compose.
     For the moment, I am involved in more immediate and very local issues. The other night I attended a city council meeting and, with the help of another local activist, convinced the council members that they should be more concerned about the needs and convenience of the citizenry. It was over a fairly small issue — the scheduling of council meetings — that likely would not interest global readers.
     This morning, however, our two local papers published a letter-to-the-editor I had written protesting the pasting of religious decals on the rear windows of county sheriff department vehicles. That letter, I figured, should be of interest to citizens all over my homeland, maybe even the world. And that is the reason I am publishing it here today. I have expanded it slightly.
     I hope you find it interesting, even provocative.
—BL 

     * * * * * *

I hear the Brewster County Sheriff’s office has received more than 1,000 comments on their web page applauding the sticking of religious-oriented decals on their vehicles, and only a few condemning the practice.

Many people in Brewster County, being Christians of one sort or another, are undoubtedly in favor of that advertising. Others, not wishing to alienate themselves from their fellow citizens, probably will shy away from criticizing it. Our natural inclination is to say only positive things, not negative ones. Many others, not being Christians or not even being religious, will probably shrug their shoulders, thinking, “What’s the use of quarreling over such a petty matter? Let the idiots run with it. We’ve got more important issues to tackle.”

Well, I think the 1st Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which prohibits the favoring of any religion, is very important. I will be as fervid in my defense of the 1st Amendment as the NRA gun-runners are absolute in their espousal of the 2nd Amendment.

The vehicles driven by our state, county and city law enforcement agencies are purchased with money coming from taxes paid by ALL the citizens of those jurisdictions. And not all the citizens are Christians; many are not even religious.

What is the message intended by the decals with their white over tan crosses and thin blue lines intersecting the horizontal bars? Are we to interpret them to mean that if you are a Christian you will be treated preferentially by the officer driving that patrol car? When he or she pulls you over for driving too fast or recklessly and you inform him/her that you are a Christian, will he/she give you a warning ticket and wish you a merry Christmas?

I am not so rigid in my insistence on the separation of church and state that I find “Merry Christmas” greetings repugnant; the political correctness notion has its own extreme. Nor do I see anything wrong with Sunday school classes holding Easter sunrise services at public parks where beautiful natural settings are most available, for those services last only a couple of hours and then the folks will depart. Such gatherings are private and relatively isolated and presumably no proselytizing will go on there.

But setting up crèches on courthouse lawns or hanging a bunch of paintings of angels in the county clerk’s office (as they do in Ward County) is promoting a particular religion. And a few decades ago, the Monahans, Texas, school board granted the First Baptist Church there permission to use the school district’s multi-purpose building for a revival. Those practices are repugnant and can even be viewed as bullying.

Finis

2015 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,600 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 43 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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