It Was the Best of Blogs, It Was the Worst of Blogs

Rethinking Imbolc

2012-02-01T20:49:00.000-05:00

Weaving St. Brigit's Cross from JustWeaving

Today is the feast of St. Brigit, which coincides with Imbolc, a Ráithí Fírinneacha na Bliana--"One of the True Quarters of the Year" (along with Samhain, Beltane, and Lughassadh, and as opposed to the solstices and equinoxes). It's the first day of spring by the Irish reckoning, and given that it's in the mid-sixties here in Philly, it certainly feels like spring.

Groundhog's Day is definitely related to Imbolc, and if that damned groundhog says we have six more weeks of winter, when we haven't had even one week, it's time to string up the rat.

Anyway, I wrote a paper on the Irish holiday of Imbolc; here's a taste:

While Imbolc is undoubtedly a feast of spring, and a feast celebrating Brigit, there is, I think, a third element to the feast which is sometimes overlooked—it is likely that Imbolc is a feast of purification, and perhaps represents a longer period of purification, analogous to several other Indo-European and even Christian festivals. Moreover, this feast of purification is intimately bound up with the holiday’s other meanings honoring spring and Brigit—that all three are important to understanding the origins of Imbolc.
...

The four main feasts of the Celtic calendar—commonly known by their Irish names Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane, and Lughnassadh—when their themes are examined, form a series of corresponding concepts. Samhain is a feast of winter, death, and the ancestors, while Beltane is a feast of summer, sexuality, and fertility.

If Hamp is right, and Imbolc is analogous to the February period of purification found in Roman and Christian tradition, then perhaps Imbolc, like Lughnassadh, was a period and not a single day. It is currently impossible to prove that the pre-Christian Irish observed Imbolc as such a period, but as we have seen, we have analogous ideas in neighboring cultures, and even a Gaulish month called “purification” which falls around the time of February

You can read the whole thing at Scribd

The True Meaning of Halloween

2011-10-29T17:41:00.002-04:00

The scene out my back window right now. Yeah, that's snow.

As I'm sure some of you know, Halloween has its origin in the Celtic festival held on November 1st; the Irish called it Samhain (and the Scots call it Samhuinn, which is essentially the same thing), the Welsh call it Calan Gaeaf; the former means "End of Summer" and the latter "The First Day of Winter". And while there are lots of associations with things like faeries and ghosts and a thin veil between this world and the Otherworld, it's also deeply associated with the harvest, with getting the food in for the winter.

Because the holiday we now call Halloween was originally the eve of the first day of winter, as evident in the names I listed above. This, of course, is why the winter solstice is called Midwinter--because it fell between the beginning of winter on November 1st, and the end of winter on February 1, called Imbolc in Irish and Candlemas in English (and surviving in the US as Groundhog's Day, which has its own tradition of predicting the coming of spring).

Halloween is the beginning of winter. We're far enough from the equinox to notice that the nights are getting longer, the weather is cold, the mornings have frost. It's not hard to see how this transition, this slide into the dark time of the year brought us associations with death; the plants are dying, the harvest is reaped, the animals are slaughtered* to be cured and eaten over the winter. It's only natural that death is on the mind, and from that closeness with our dying environment, we draw closer to our own departed. Both the Dead and Winter are integral parts of Halloween; in fact, I'd say they're inseparable.

So it's with no small amount of amusement and annoyance** that I woke up to see it snowing on October 29th. It's really unusual for us to get snow in October here in the Philly suburbs; I mean, we've occasionally gotten a few flakes, but so far we've got at least three inches, probably four, and it's not going to stop snowing until tonight. We're not ready for this kind of weather--none of us were. Our decorations are getting blasted by the wind and snow; I hope that the rubber bats and spider don't disappear on us.

So my husband and I are spending the day watching Halloween cartoons, eating the food for a cancelled party, and drinking, and occasionally going out to shovel the walk.

We're getting the real meaning of this old Celtic holiday--winter isn't coming, it's already here, kids.

Consider this Nature's Trick; the treat is... um... I guess it looks nice?

*In fact, in Welsh the month of November is called Tachwedd meaning "slaughter"; compare with the Anglo-Saxon name for November, Blōtmōnaþ, "blood month".

**Annoyance, as it has resulted in me having to postpone my Halloween party for a week. At which point it's not a Halloween party, is it? I guess we'll call it a Guy Fawkes Party, or something.

My Husband Has Accused Me Of Being a Hobbit

2011-10-19T20:07:00.000-04:00

A trip to the Lansdale Farmers' Market on Saturday gave me a chance to pick up some fresh mushrooms--in this case, portobello and shitake. Now, living in southeastern Pennsylvania, we are lucky to live in mushroom central, and so the mushrooms you pick up are often picked within a few days, unlike what you get at the supermarket. (This particular provider also picks local wild mushrooms, like Hen of the Woods, which I'll have to try next time--which means more soup!)

What does any of this have to do with the usual geeky content of this blog? My husband, seeing me so excited about the mushrooms, accused me of being a hobbit:

Hobbits have a passion for mushrooms, surpassing even the greediest likings of Big People. A fact which partly explains young Frodo's long expeditions to the renowned fields of the Marish, and the wrath of the injured Maggot.

Yeah, there's a lot of eating in Lord of the Rings, and much of it involves mushrooms.

And so today I decided to try and make my own mushroom soup. See, one of the things I liked at my old job was the soup in the cafeteria--it was just Au Bon Pain, but the mushroom bisque was really delicious (if probably horribly fatty). It's simple enough, actually--especially since I cheated a little and used beef bouillon for the base. (Hey, after making navy bean soup from scratch, including boiling a ham bone for a couple of hours, bouillon feels like a cheat.) Also, a little bit of cream and a lot of roue works just as well (for me) as a lot of cream. I'm sure my doctor will appreciate that.

I also racked the mead I started in January; that will hopefully head out as Christmas gifts.

Into the Dark

2011-09-23T23:10:00.000-04:00

September in Valley Green

So autumn begins, though you wouldn't know it from the weather we're having here in Philly--it's warm and rainy, like most of August was. In fact, it's been raining so much that the foundations of the porch I share with my neighbors is about to wash away.

It was a bipolar summer, swinging between a dangerously dry July that seemed to stay somewhere in the low 100s, and an August and September that was beset by two hurricanes, floods, and on top of it all, an earthquake.

It's a rainy night, and from here on out--at least until the winter solstice--every night will be longer than the last one. Each day is darker.

Maybe it's just the mood of... well, the whole damn world. Not that long ago, London was up in flames; riots in Europe and an Arab Uprising that, despite real success in Tunisia and at least partial success in Egypt and Libya, seems to be stalling in places like Syria. No one seems to know whether the Euro is going to completely fall apart; whether the U.S. is going back into a technical recession (though, as someone who can't find a full-time job no matter how many resumes I send out and interviews I go on, I don't care if it's a technical recession or not, it feels like a depression to me). No one knows what's going on, only that it feels like the world is on the edge of a precipice.

But maybe that's just the Dark talking. This is the time of year when markets crash and seasonal depression sets in and all the promise of spring, well, it gave way to summer, but now summer is gone--no more trips to the beach, lazy afternoons by the pool or open fire hydrant, no more barbeques or picnics... Because it'll be cold and dark and wet and miserable...

Of course, autumn has wonderful things--arguably the best food (as someone who loves turkey and pumpkin pie and apple cider), and the best holidays (because yes, I'm already planning my Halloween party). And Oktoberfest--let's not forget that. But... but it's dark, and the cold sets in, and the anxiety of the holidays (and the bills that come after) are looming on the horizon.

But... But... It's temporary. All things are temporary. The darkness is temporary. The cold is temporary. The recession is temporary. That's why the year is a wheel--it all comes around again.

I keep thinking back to the Rally for Sanity last year, when Jon Stewart said "These are hard times, not end times." There is an apocalyptic undertone to American culture, and probably always has been, since religious extremists in funny hats came here to build their shining city on a hill. But that's not how things actually work--we're not moving towards an endpoint, an Armageddon followed by Utopia. Everything is temporary, whether it's the darkness that comes from an axial tilt, or the lack of money in my back account, or even your life.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself. But in the meantime, it's going to get dark and cold, and we have to survive it. Everything's temporary, but we still have to get through it.

Well, to leave on a happier note, go check out some pictures of this year's Loughcrew equinox sunrise; like Newgrange, it's a chambered mound aligned with the sunrise, in this case with the equinoxes (Newgrange, course, is aligned with the winter solstice).

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

2011-09-22T18:40:00.000-04:00

The Atlantic makes the argument that R.E.M. was "America's Greatest Band":

Try naming another rock group without a traditional sex symbol on its roster that released only very-good albums for its first 16 years of existence—albums that were willfully arty and seemingly uncommercial and yet continually built the band's following. That's a lot to do, for what amounts to an incredibly long time in the fickle world of pop music.

I won't say they were the greatest band (though the article qualifies this by adding up longevity of career, longevity of quality, and depth of influence--Nirvana? Wilco? the Decemberists? should I go on?--making a good argument), but they were undoubtedly my favorite, and the first band I became really obsessed with. When I got my first guitar, I spent hours in the basement, trying to teach myself "It's the End of the World"; and the absolute joy I felt when I figured out Peter Buck was using droning string on "7 Chinese Bros." is probably never going to be paralleled, at least in terms of playing music--so simple, but there it was.

Yeah, that's about how I'm feeling right now.

There was this one Friday, in May of 1992, which changed my life. I was thirteen, and stuck in junior high. Now, my cousin gave me her tapes of Green and Out of Time, since she'd replaced them with cds. And so I played them, and loved them, but didn't really go beyond that. And then I saw R.E.M. on a rerun of Unplugged. Disregard the ultimate quality of the performance--me, I hate the sound of those amplified acoustic guitars that sound so nylon-y--because that's not what's important. I heard "It's the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine)" for the first time.

And I was mesmerized by the rapid fire of words and images. The next day I took my allowance money, walked to the Ames the next town over--because this was all before Amazon and Napster, and hell, I lived in a small town in rural Pennsylvania, and the closest record store was a Sam Goodies at the Coventry Mall ten miles away--and bought a cassette tape of Document. This was the first album I ever bought. I spent an entire weekend trying to memorize the lyrics, constantly rewinding and replaying the song. Over and over again. Mesmerized. And because of that, I wanted to learn guitar, and I wanted to form a band. Music suddenly seemed like more than silly pop songs about love. Music had meaning, music could make you think, music was an overload. Music could promulgate ideas. From this song, I suddenly dived into the world of rock and roll, and my whole world, the old order, collapsed. Music was no longer a thing in the background , or something you have to sing in church. It was something that took you over, possessed you.

And R.E.M. sang about a world that was, in some ways, familiar; rural Pennsylvania in the late 80s-early 90s was probably a little closer to the Southern Gothic (right down to Confederate flags, which were and are unnervingly popular in the area) they sang about than anything I heard coming from the radio in 1991 (with the obvious example of Nirvana's Nevemind, which hit home in a somewhat different way--but the twenty years since that album's release is something for another post). I can practically feel the humidity just thinking about long, hot summers walking around the small town I lived in, walkman playing Fables or Reckoning. And I think I'll always associate Murmur with autumn, not only because of that famous cover of kudzu, but because of when I bought it and played the tape until it began to warp.

It's a little weird to think about how much R.E.M. formed me: I started reading Faulkner because the band said Fables of the Reconstruction was greatly influenced by him, especially The Sound and the Fury (which then became a favorite, if confusing, book). I started reading the Beats for the same reason--because R.E.M. talked about Kerouac and On the Road in interviews. I got into Big Star and the Velvet Underground and Patti Smith and Television and hell, I even learned to look past the songs about cars and surfing and girls to discover how awesome and sad and gorgeous the Beach Boys songs really were, all because of R.E.M. I bought the Replacements' Let It Be because Peter Buck played on one track--"I Will Dare", which fourteen years later would be played at my wedding--and was subsequently sucked into that band's mythology.

And yeah, I could talk about politics, because they were undoubtedly political, but I think I would have turned out a liberal anyway; I was already on that road. Besides, I think getting your politics from artists isn't always the best idea.

So I can't help but ignore people who say "Well, they sucked now anyway." Because for me, R.E.M. aren't just the last few lackluster albums. They're the band I was listening to, thirteen and lonely and trying to figure out who I was. They're the band that introduced me to music and books and art, the band that made me who I am today.

Well, them and repeated watchings of the Indiana Jones and Star Wars franchises. But that's a different story.

Signposts Near the End of the Road

2011-09-20T09:42:00.002-04:00

At some point in the near future, I'll write a longer post about the death of Borders (and of Atlantic Books, a small chain here in the Mid-Atlantic, mostly centered on the Jersey Shore). But in the meantime, enjoy these two signs I saw at the Montgomeryville Borders before it closed:

Indeed, my fellow bitter ex-booksellers, indeed.

Does Anyone Else Do This?

2011-09-18T18:10:00.001-04:00

Like I said, I came back from vacation yesterday, and Philadelphia feels like autumn: nights in the low fifties, days in the mid sixties. The change in weather has prompted me to switch drinks.

Normally, during the summer, I drink gin & tonic, and during winter I drink manhattans. So I'm switching over, and it occurred to me--does anyone else do this, i.e. divide up what alcohol they drink by what the season is?

Now, some drinks are fine all year 'round--wine, beer, and oddly (given how I feel about manhattans), scotch. Though, of course, different beers are brewed for different times of year, and fruity wines are better in summer.

Just curious if I'm the only one (or the only one who reads this blog) that's so particular of what kind of drink they have at what time of year.

Woohoo--tortured syntax. Must be the alcohol.

Ooo! Look! Social Networking!

2011-09-17T19:47:00.001-04:00

So I was on vacation this week, which means I needed to find something to occupy my mind when I wasn't working (because I have one of those jobs where you work from "home", and never get vacation time--ergo, I carted the computer to the beach).

This resulted in two things: first, I started playing with Tumblr (can you say that on Blogger? Will they silently ban me or something? Let's find out). Mostly as a way to post a couple of Instagram pictures I took, since Blogger doesn't have an actual interface with that app. (The other photos were posted only on Twitter; if you care, you can hunt them down; they include an R2D2 made out of sand) (Wait--can you post multiple semicolons in a sentence?) (Wait, how am I going to end this sentence?).

R2D2 (his head caving in) stares at the ocean. As my husband said, "The moisture farm finally kicked in"

So I'm not sure what I'll be doing with the Tumblr site, other than playing with photography. Though I may use it to write tv reviews, an idea of been playing with. Yeah, I probably spend too much time over at the A.V. Club, but I still think it could be fun.

Anyway, I also started playing with Formspring. So, you know, feel free to ask me questions.

I want to keep this blog focused on Celtic studies, geekery, and Philly. So the Tumblr, that'll be something else. We'll see.

So yeah, I'm not dead or anything.

My Grandfather Was an Atlantic City Rum-runner; I Drive to Delaware

2011-08-03T09:50:00.000-04:00

Genealogy is a hobby of mine, in part born from listening to my family telling stories during holiday dinners. Recently, while gathering some information about my mother's family, she told me that she'd recently heard from her sister--my aunt--that their father--my grandfather--was a rum-runner.

My grandfather could make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs

"What?" My mother was not aware of this.

"Well," my aunt said, "remember when Uncle Joe would yell at [his kids], and dad would say, 'Hey, lay off, we did worse things when we were their age'? Well, that's the 'worse thing'--he ran alcohol between Atlantic City and Philadelphia during Prohibition."

Apparently he could get from AC to Philly in about an hour--keep in mind, this was before the AC Expressway.

Actually, that may have been in his favor.

So aside from a certain pride in having a small-time criminal in my family--and apparently my step-great-grandmother did a similar thing up in Brooklyn, because who's going to question a nice old German lady with a derringer in her pocket?--this knowledge put me in mind of something else.

Pennsylvania wants to privatize its liquor stores. And even me, the flaming liberal, is all for it, because I'm tired of driving down to Delaware in order to get a decent price and selection.

Two years ago, my husband and I took a road trip through New York and New England. While staying around Lake George, I had to run into a Rite Aid for some deodorant. There I saw a thing unimaginable in Pennsylvania:

What is this I don't even...

Beer! Cases of beer! For sale in a drugstore! That last irony not lost on me, I stared, in awe of a state where I could buy beer in the same place I could pick up a Vicodin prescription, condoms, Cheetos, and suntan lotion.

In Pennsylvania, you can only get the last four in one store. Well, you might get Cheetos at the beer distributor. But for the most part, you can't sell beer in grocery stores or drugstores, unless the grocery store has a restaurant--which essentially means "Only in Wegmans and Sheetz". And while I love Wegmans' beer selection (and, well, everything else they sell), the closest one is about ten miles away.

Yeah, you can't really just walk into a grocery store and pick up a six pack, much less a case. It's very rare. And supposedly the state wants to change that.

Or do they?

Socially conservative lawmakers who want to tamp down alcohol consumption also could oppose the bill.

Turzai has argued that Pennsylvanians pay high prices for a low selection, while the state's dual roles of selling alcohol and enforcing drunken driving and alcohol laws represent a conflict of interest.

Under his bill, the state would auction off 1,250 retail licenses - 750 to big retailers such as supermarkets, and the rest to smaller enterprises.

So what worries me--because as far as I know, there aren't any actual bills--is the idea that socially conservative lawmakers will privatize the system--but only allow a small number of stores. If we're going to privatize, let's throw open the doors. Let me buy beer at Rite Aid if I want. Let the bars stay open till 4 am if they want. Don't make me drive to Delaware to buy wine or scotch at a more reasonable price--let me buy wine at the grocery store.

When I worked in retail, I had to card kids buying cigarettes or porn. It's no different carding them for alcohol. The people of Pennsylvania aren't children, we can take care of ourselves. We can buy beer on Sundays without becoming alcoholics, and we can buy wine at the grocery store just like people in other states. It works elsewhere around the country--why not here?

I get the revenue argument, and I get the union argument--those are separate issues, and worth considering, especially how the state would make up the lost revenues if they gave up the state stores. But what I don't like is the argument--which I've heard often in this state--that if we allow people to buy alcohol outside of a strictly regulated system run by the state government, chaos will rule and the state will be overtaken by a drunken orgy.

If only.

Happy Lughnassadh/Lammas!

2011-08-01T15:30:00.000-04:00

Wheat Field with Reaper and Sun - Van Gogh

August 1st on the traditional Irish calendar marks Lughnassadh--"the assembly of Lugh", wherein Lugh of the Long Arm, the Many-Skilled God of All Arts, is honored, along with his foster-mother Tailltiu, who first tilled the land in order to plant crops.

§59. Tailltiu daughter of Mag Mor king of Spain, queen of the Fir Bolg, came after the slaughter was inflicted upon the Fir Bolg in that first battle of Mag Tuired to Coill Cuan: and the wood was cut down by her, so it was a plain under clover-flower before the end of a year. ...and Cian son of Dian Cecht, whose other name was Scal Balb, gave her his son in fosterage, namely Lugh, whose mother was Eithne daughter of Balar. So Tailltiu died in Tailltiu, and her name clave thereto and her grave is from the Seat of Tailltiu north-eastward. Her games were performed every year and her song of lamentation, by Lugh. With gessa and feats of arms were they performed, a fortnight before Lugnasad and a fortnight after: under dicitur Lughnasadh, that is, the celebration (?) or the festival of Lugh.
--Lebor Gabála Érenn

So what's so great about Lugh? Why's he so important? We can be relatively confident he was worshiped in places like Iberia (where we have inscriptions to "the Lugoves", which means "the Lughs"), Gaul (with the city of Lugdunum "fort of Lugh", today called Lyon), Britain (where the story of Lleu is set down in the fourth branch of the Mabinogi), and Ireland (where we have lots of stories about him), and so on. So why is today, the harvest day, the day the Celts worshipped Lugh?

Simple--not only was he the MacGyver of deities, he got the secrets of harvesting food from the king of the Fomoraig, the Bad Guys of Irish mythology:

Thereafter Lugh and his comrades found Bres son of Elotha unguarded. He said:"It is better to give me quarter than to slay me."

"What then will follow from that?" said Lugh

"If I be spared," says Bress, "the cows of Erin will always be in milk."

"I will set this forth to our wise men," said Lugh.

So Lugh went to Maeltne Mor-brethach , and said to him: "Shall Bress have quarter for giving constant milk to the cows of Erin?" " He shall not have quarter," said Maeltne; "he has no power over their age or their offspring, though he can milk them so long as they are alive."

Lugh said to Bress: "That does not save thee: thou hast no power over their age and their offspring, though thou canst milk them. Is there aught else that will save thee, O Bres?" said Lugh.

"There is in truth, Tell thy lawyer that for sparing me the men of Ireland shall reap a harvest in very quarter of the year."

Said Lugh to Maeltne: "Shall Bres be spared for giving the men of Ireland a harvest of corn every quarter?"

"This has suited us," said Maeltne: "the spring for ploughing and sowing, and the beginning of summer for the end of the strength of corn, and the beginning of autumn for the end of the ripeness of corn and for reaping it. Winter for consuming it"

"That does not rescue thee," said Lugh to Bres; "but less than that rescues thee."

"What?" said Bres.

"How shall the men of Ireland Plough? How shall they sow? How shall they reap? After making known these three things thou wilt be spared."

"Tell them, said Bres, that their ploughing be on a Tuesday, their casting seed into the field be on a Tuesday, their reaping on a Tuesday." So through that stratagem Bres was let go free.

The Second Battle of Moytura

The story of Lugh wrestling the secrets of agriculture--in other words, making sure people can eat--from Bres is paralleled in Christian texts wherein St. Patrick does battle with Crom Dubh. The theme of St. Patrick winning food has many versions, the oldest of which is found in the vita found in the Book of Armagh, and other variants, as described by Máire Mac Neill:

In general, the folk-legend has the following plot: the saint comes to the distrct and begins t build a church; in a time of food-shortage he asks the pagan magnate for food for his workmen; the pagan has a fierce bull which kills all who approach it, and he offers the bull to the saint in the ope that it will kill him; the bull, however, submits quietly to being taken and slaughtered; the bull's flesh is eaten by the saint's company but the saint enjoins that the hid and bones be carefully kept; the pagan, enranged at the loss of his bull and the failure of his plan, asks the saint to give back the bull; the saint has the bones and hid put together, and the bull rises to life.

The Festival of Lughnasa, pg 393

Mac Neill's book is the go-to source on the holiday, and if you can get a copy of it, grab it--it's often very hard to find.

And it wasn't just the Irish: the medieval English knew the day as hlafmæssen-dæg, literally "loaf-mass day"¹, the feast of first fruits, when the harvest first ripens. The cereal crops come in, and are turned into such wonderful things as bread, beer, cakes, whiskey, Cheerios... Well, I think Cheerios. Pretty sure.

Anyway, the word eventually became Lammas, and was the time of year for the Lammas fairs, especially the Ould Lammas Fair, held in Co. Antrim, Ireland, for the last four hundred years. Mac Neill maintains that Lammas--particularly given its timing on August 1st ultimately comes from Lughnassadh, and I really don't see any reason to contradict her.

In Wales, the day is called "Calan Awst", which is rather straightforward, meaning "First Day of August". And as far as I know, there's no connection made between Lleu and August 1st. Indeed, very little of the day seems to survive in Wales; Mac Neill mentions that in the nineteenth century, people would gather on the Breckon Beacons, heading for Llyn y Fan Fach, as described by Sir John Rhys, where the Lady of the Lake would make an appearance.

But Lugh shows up in Wales as well, as Lleu, the put-upon son of Aranrhod, cursed by his mother, raised in isolation by Gwydion, murdered by his wife's lover, but ultimately triumphs over all of it to become king of Gwynedd. It's unfortunate that we only have scraps left to us in the Mabinogi and the poems of Taliesin to piece together Lleu's story.

So today, Loaf-Mass-Day, the Festival of Lugh, and oddly enough the birthday of Clau-Clau-Claudius in the city of Lugdunum, I baked a loaf of beer bread, and will enjoy eating it, preferably with a bottle of beer homebrewed by a friend of mine.

On that note, I leave you with "John Barleycorn"; I wish I could find the Fairport Convention version, but Traffic will have to do.

NOTES

1. Just as Christ-mass is now Christmas, Loaf-Mass became Lammas.

Fresh from the garden

2011-07-24T19:56:00.000-04:00

Summer is brutal.

So I live in the Megalopolis, which you may know is now under the so-called "heat dome". And it does suck. Temperatures in the 100s, but it's not a dry heat--it's moist as a gym sock, and smells as bad. I spent yesterday sweating my way through the Village, and yeah, I pretty much soaked my clothes in my own broth. Disgusting.

But on the plus side, I spent this afternoon working in my stepbrother's vegetable garden--which brings me to tonight's post. As awful as this summer has been--and it has been a long, hot, disgusting mess, hotter than last year, and incredibly expensive to run the air conditioning (which is necessary, since I work from home)--there is a huge benefit that we really shouldn't lose sight of: fresh vegetables, as opposed to the stuff you find in Tomatoland.

Except for the red onions, all of this came from his garden, except for the red pepper, which came from a pot in my backyard. Yellow squash, broccoli, tomatoes, red pepper, and red onions, sauteed in olive oil and lemon juice. I had it with rice pilaf and some fried tilapia (so yeah, I guess I cancelled out the healthy angle of the vegetables).

So I'm grateful for the summer. It's when things grow. No summer means no vegetables. Summer will become autumn, and autumn will bring the harvest--this is a preview. And I'm glad for it.

Where's the Allen Wrench?

2011-07-04T21:16:00.001-04:00

Hënj: Ikea Does Stonehenge

Ah--that's up there with my favorite, Peephenge.

A New Map for Ireland

2011-06-12T21:22:00.001-04:00

The Archaeological Institute of America has a new "Archaeolgical Heritage Map of Ireland" produced using Google Earth. The KML file shows dozens of sites (Tara, Newgrange, Dun Aonghasa, etc.), with the usual goodies that Google Earth can provide.

Go and play with it.

A screenshot of the whole island from the AIA website

About the lack of posting

2011-06-12T16:46:00.000-04:00

A few deaths in the family, and my weird, piecemeal job have thrown a spanner into my ability to blog with any regularity. I hope this will change soon.

In the meantime, one of those deaths has inadvertantly given me two things to post about:

Here is a video I took at Arlington after the funeral; my husband and I sort of stumbled on the Changing of the Guard ceremony, and I was able to take some video:

The relative who died had a scrapbook belonging to her in-laws; it's all postcards that date to about a hundred years ago, including this one:

Cats With Guns--Yes, They WILL Haz Cheezeburger

Dreamland

So as to the second item, I'm thinking of making a new blog about these old postcards--images of them, how you could send one and expect it to get to its destination the same day (as my husband said, "Oh, so it was basically email"), things like that.

Which doesn't mean I'm abandoning this blog--if anything, I think having a structured blog will help me get my head back into working on this one.

Bring Back May Day!

2011-05-02T21:36:00.002-04:00

May Day at Pottsgrove Manor, 2008. Photo by me on a lousy flip phone

Oddly enough for those who know me, I'm not referring to reviving International Worker's Day in the United States; that's already become sort of a thing, between union activists and immigrant rights groups. No, I'm talking about the older May Day.

So I was on a trip through Europe in 2005, and while riding through Austria, saw maypoles throughout all these small villages. I was surprised to see them, but more surprised that they were apparently permanent fixtures (though the ribbons had come down, as far as I could tell from my seat on a bus, whizzing by at 75 miles an hour). My mom told me that apparently her mother's town in upstate Pennsylvania used to have a maypole; but this goes back to the 1910s and 1920s, and I doubt they still do. But still, the apparently celebrated May Day up into the twentieth century in rural PA.

OK, so what?

I want to bring it back.

I like holidays; I think we need more of them.Now, I know what you're saying--what the hell is May Day? And do I have to dance around a giant pole? As to the second, you don't have to, but it's fun to do so.

As to the first question, here's the deal: May Day used to be the start of summer. The Irish called it Beltane, and had a number of stories about supernatural events happening on the night before: it was one of the nights the sídhe (fairies) were out and about. Lots of stories about Fionn mac Cumhaill take place at Beltane; and it's the counterpart of Samhain, which we know as Halloween. Samhain is the start of winter; Beltane is the start of summer. Samhain settles up accounts, makes sure the harvest is in; Beltane is about planting, about making sure the crops are fertile. Samhain is about the dead; Beltane is about life.

The Germanic, Nordic, and Slavic/Baltic countries have Walpurgisnacht; they burn bonfires, and like the Celts, held that this began the summer. This, of course, is why the summer solstice is "Midsummer"--it falls in the middle between the old reckoning of summer's beginning at May 1st, and fall's beginning at August 1st. Also like the Celts, it was a night of magic and danger, when "witches" were burned on bonfires in order to celebrate the return of the summer.

The Romans had their own holiday, Flora, celebrating the goddess of flowers; no doubt this gave way to the Catholic idea of the May Procession, wherein the flower goddess is replaced by a statue of the Virgin Mary covered with a flower garland; we celebrated this when I was a kid in Catholic school.

OK, so it's a day for bonfires and dancing around a maypole, the first is cool, the second is for SCA geeks, right? Well, yeah, but there's also the May Queen, a kind of Miss America for the holiday. And Jack-in-the-green, a guy who dresses up like a tree. And plays about Robin Hood and King Arthur. And staying up all night before with your friends and collecting the new greenery to give away as "may baskets". And dancing, and singing and...

Did I mention the sex?

Oh yeah, see, May Day is also about sex.

I mean, you're dancing around a phallus because everything's gone green again. And there's a beauty queen. And you stay up all night, hanging out at the bonfire, or in the woods. With your significant other.

Come on, people, it's kind of a no-brainer.

Another Celtic Grave Story

2011-05-02T20:50:00.001-04:00

The BBC has a brief news item on the grave goods of a Celtic princess in what's now Germany; I assume it's the same as this one. Nothing really new, as far as I can tell, but hopefully we'll see more of the goods as time goes on.

April WAS the Cruelest Month

2011-05-02T20:46:00.000-04:00

Briefly, I had a death in the family; it was a shock but not unexpected.

Also, I went on a couple of interviews for a job, only to be sent a letter that they went with someone else. Why, I'll never know, since they never say. But this means I'm still without a full-time job, which is making things tight, and with everything going on, I haven't been focused on blogging or my website.

Sorry.

April is the cruelest month

2011-04-01T18:35:00.001-04:00

Why? Because it snowed this morning here in Philly.

The Mercer Museum, not far from my house. Photo from the Inquirer

At least, I assume it did. I slept late, and the snow was gone, replaced by rain by the time I got up.

The advantages of working from home.

Mother Nature seems determined to make me miserable this season.

Sadly, this is not an April Fool's joke.

Supermoon Over Glastonbury

2011-03-23T21:46:00.000-04:00

One of a couple of pictures of the "Supermoon" from last Saturday.

I love the optical illusion of the "giant moon" created by a telescopic lens. If only the moon could actually appear that large. Still, it creates a neat image, even if it's (I assume) a composite image.

Can a thirty-two-year-old have tonsillitis?

2011-03-23T12:37:00.000-04:00

All signs point to yes...

Was Hamlet Irish?

2011-03-12T17:45:00.001-05:00

The Guardian has an article about the recently-published theories of Dr Lisa Collinson, a professor of medieval Scandinavian at Aberdeen, wherein Hamlet's name is traced to a medieval Irish story; she sums up her ideas at the Oxford University Press blog:

[I]n an article published online last week in the OUP journal Review of English Studies, I have set out my own – no doubt even less perfect – theory, which I hope will be of as much interest to artists of various kinds as to scholarly specialists.

In this new article, I conclude that Hamlet probably came ultimately from Gaelic Admlithi: a name attached to a player (or ‘mocker’) in a strange and violent medieval Irish tale known in English as ‘The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel’. If I’m right, this means that some version of the Hamlet-name was associated with players hundreds of years before Shakespeare lived or wrote.

And she gives an interesting argument which you really should read in full.

But I'd like to see if anyone has ever traced the story of Hamlet to the Old Irish story The Destruction of Dind Ríg.

In that tale, Loegaire Lorc is king of Ireland, and his brother Cobthach is a petty king of Bregia. Out of envy, Cobthach kills Loegaire, and then proceeds to kill his nephew Ailill. He only leaves Ailill's son, Moen Ollam, who is driven mute by the events, until he was an adult. Then, upon being struck, he regains the ability to speak, and is renamed Labraid. His uncle welcomes him to a banquet at Tara, but then has him driven out because the people say that Labraid is more generous than Cobthach. Labraid/Moen goes off into exile, and then takes on a wife and allies. They plot to return to Cobthach's lands, and proceed, using both force and a magic harp that puts people to sleep, to sack the stronghold Dind Ríg.

Cobthach and his great-nephew make peace, and Labraid/Moen rules over Leinster. But he isn't satisified, sicne he still hasn't had revenge over his great-uncle for the murder of his father and grandfather. Labraid/Moen constructs a house of iron, and invites Cobthach and his people into it for a feast--but Cobthach would only enter if Labraid/Moen's own mother was also in the house. And so they enter to feast, while outside, Labraid's men start building a fire. They point out that his mother is still in the house, but she tells him to go through with it. And so Cobthach is killed, as is Labraid's mother. But unlike Hamlet, Labraid survives.

It's not hard to see some parallels with Hamlet: the murderous brother; the muteness perhaps akin to Hamlet's madness; the exile and return in order to get revenge; the uncle inadvertently killing the mother. If Hamlet's name comes from Irish is it possible that his story--deriving from an unrelated source, though both stories deal with the destruction of a royal house--does as well? That it somehow filtered into medieval Norse literature?

Sure? Why not? But then again, how would it have happened? I don't know, but I'd be curious to find out.

About Those Skull-Sipping Britons

2011-02-19T21:05:00.001-05:00

So going beyond my annoyance with Reuters' reporting on how the very early Britons (i.e., living some 12,000 years before there were any Celts) drank from human skulls, let's talk about how this practice went on even up through modern times: Yes, I speak of the Penglog Teilo--the Skull of St. Teilo.

Writing in The Source, Buckley quotes an Asaph Dar, who describes how, at least in the 19th century, there was an association made between the nearby St. Teilo's Well, and the chalice made of his skull:

The faith of some of those who used to visit the well was so great in its efficacy that they were wont to leave it wonderfully improved. An old inhabitant of the district, Stephen Evans (Hifyn Ifan) used to relate a story to the effect that a carriage drawn by four horses came over to Llandeilo. It was full of invalids from the cockle village of Penclawdd, in the Gower Peninsula, who had determined to try the waters in the well. They returned, however, no better than they came; for though they had drunk of the well they had neglected to do so out of the skull. This was afterwards pointed out to them by somebody and they resolved to make the long journey to the well again. This time, we are told, they did the right thing and departed in excellent health. Such is the great persistence of primitive beliefs that while the walls of the church have long fallen into decay [9] the faith in the well continues in a measure intact.

Whether this belief, that the efficacy of the well's water would only hold if one drank with the skull of St. Teilo (who, curiously enough, has a cult which lays claim to at least three bodies at three different churches), is an ancient one, is unknown.

The act of drinking from a skull is hardly limited to 19th century Welshmen; indeed, their Celtic forbearers were quite happy to drink from skulls, if Livy is to be believed:

The Boii stripped the body of its spoils and cut off the head, and bore them in triumph to the most sacred of their temples. According to their custom they cleaned out the skull and covered the scalp with beaten gold; it was then used as a vessel for libations and also as a drinking cup for the priest and ministers of the temple.

Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, III.23.24

But it's not just Roman propaganda which recounts this; in Bruigean Atha I, a tale from the Fionn Cycle, Fothad Canaindi, a leader of a rival fianna, says that "It is a prohibition for me to drink ale unless it be drunk with white faces", by which he means he only drinks ale from a skull.

Drinking from a skull was hardly the province of the Irish or Welsh, of course; there are medieval Continental accounts of drinking from skull cups in religious settings.

The new story of 15,000 year old skulls used for drinking is held up as a gory detail of the ancient past, one replete with cannibals and all manner of barbarism out of a horror movie (or, well, something staring Arnold Schwarzenegger). But change the setting slightly, and the skulls become holy relics, and drinking from them a type of Christian piety.

Perhaps the modern disgust (and fascination) with the idea is bound up in our detachment from the material world: our meat comes pre-ground, pre-sliced, wrapped in plastic. Dealing with animal bones, unless you are truly into cooking, is a rarity outside of, say, eating some Kentucky Fried Chicken or buffalo wings. Just today, I was making a pot of navy bean soup, using the remains of a ham I'd saved from Christmas. As the soup cooked, the meat came off the bones, and the marrow flavored the waters, so that the bones became clean and hollowed, and I could pull apart the joint. I saw the ball-and-socket of the pig's hip, and thought about how this had once been an animal walking about. And there was nothing strange about it, though it did impart its own type of awe--that in some ways, I am no different from this animal. I am flesh and sinew and bone, and I could be as easily boiled and separated. I felt for the pig, but it didn't stop me from cooking it.

Real skulls have been used as props in Hamlet; real cadavers used by medical students; real bodies, skinned and cased in a silicone rubber in Bodies.

And so maybe there wasn't anything that strange about drinking from a human skull, depending on context and circumstances. But I can't lie--I am a product of late 20th/early 21st century America. The concept still hold a sort of gruesome fascination.

I'll leave on this oddity:

While [Perceval and the Fisher King] were talking of one thing and another, a boy came from a chamber clutching a whilte lance by the middle of the shaft, and he passed between the fire and the two who were sitting on the bed. Everyone in the hall saw the white lance with its white head; and a driop of blood issued from the tip of the lance's head, and right down to the boy's hand this red drop rain. ...A girl who came in with the boys, fair and comely and beautifully adorned, was holding a grail between her hands. ...The boy saw them pass, but did not dare to ask who was served from the grail[.]

--Chrétien de Troyes. Perceval: The Story of the Grail.

But then compare with the Welsh version of this story, where the wide-mouthed dish (which is what a "grail" originally meant) is gone, and replaced by a severed head:

Then Peredur and his uncle discoursed together, and he beheld two youths enter the hall, and proceed up to the chamber, bearing a spear of mighty size, with three streams of blood flowing from the point to the ground. And when all the company saw this, they began wailing and lamenting. But for all that, the man did not break off his discourse with Peredur. And as he did not tell Peredur the meaning of what he saw, he forebore to ask him concerning it. And when the clamour had a little subsided, behold two maidens entered, and a large salver between them, in which was a man's head, surrounded by a profusion of blood. And thereupon the company of the court made so great an outcry, that it was irksome to be in the same hall with them.

--The Story of Peredur

And of course, there is the famous story from the Mabinogi, where the severed head of Bran (the original Fisher King) holds an Otherworldly feast. Confusing heads and cups? Maybe, but maybe not.

Reuters: Not One for Understatement

2011-02-16T18:29:00.002-05:00

Ancient Brits ate dead and made skulls into cups:

Ancient Britons devoured their dead and created gruesome goblets from the skulls of their remains, according to new research published on Wednesday

Feeling peckish?

I'm surprised it isn't followed by a series of exclamation points.

Now, I don't know enough about the report to really comment, except to point out that this wasn't the Celts, so please no more stories about the evil, bloodthirsty savage Celts. These bones are from 15,000 years ago--before the last Ice Age, and at least 12,000 years before there was such a thing as a Celt. Also, the article later bothers to point out

They said the circumstances behind the deaths of the Cro-Magnons (European early modern humans), whose bones they discovered, can only be guessed at.

They may have been killed, butchered and eaten -- with the skull-cups just the end of this event -- or may have been part of the group who died and were eaten in a crisis situation, with the skull-cups created as a tribute to the dead.

"We simply do not know," they said in a joint emailed response to questions.

But hey, if we can't be sensational about archaeology, why report it at all?

Cannibalism can be a touchy issue in anthropology; and the article isn't very helpful, suddenly switching to Greeks reporting on Scythian headhunters, Vikings (take that, Swedes!), and those evil Tantric Buddhists, all of whom were cannibals.

Well, so were those football players in the Andes, but hey, why let circumstances like starvation get in the way of a good story?

Also, aren't vampires basically into liquid cannibalism? Think on that next time some tween squeals about Twilight. Those girls are on the long, dark road to cannibalism.

Picture from the Guardian, not Reuters.

A (Very Late) Happy Imbolc!

2011-02-02T21:54:00.000-05:00

For those who don't know, Imbolc--falling roughly halfway between the winter solstice and spring equinox (or, Christmas and Easter)--is the old Irish start of spring; it's a feast of purification¹, and comes a day after the feast of Brigit, the goddess and the saint. In the Catholic calendar, it's also Candlemas/the Feast of the Purification of Mary. But you probably know it best as Groundhog Day.

Using this day for prognosticating the future weather goes way back, certainly long before some Pennsylvanian marmot chewed his way out of the ground. Plus, before him, it used to be a snake. To read a good summary of how Brigit relates to spring and predicting the weather in February, check out Alexander Carmichael's classic Carmina Gadelica:

The serpent is supposed to emerge from its hollow among the hills on St Bride's Day, and a propitiatory hymn was sung to it. Only one verse of this hymn has been obtained, apparently the first. It differs in different localities:--

'Moch maduinn Bhride,
Thig an nimhir as an toll,
Cha bhoin mise ris an nimhir,
Cha bhoin an nimhir rium.'
Early on Bride's morn
The serpent shall come from the hole,
I will not molest the serpent,
Nor will the serpent molest me.

Other versions say:--

La Feill na Bride,
Thig nighean Imhir as a chnoc,
Cha bhean mise do nighean
’S cha dean i mo lochd.' [Imhir,
'La Fheill Bride brisgeanach
Thig an ceann de in chaiteanach,
Thig nighean Iomhair as an tom
Le fonn feadalaich.'
'Thig an nathair as an toll
   La donn Bride,
Ged robh tri traighean dh’ an
   Air leachd an lair.' [t-sneachd
The Feast Day of the Bride,
The daughter of Ivor shall come from the knoll,
I will not touch the daughter of Ivor,
Nor shall she harm me.
On the Feast Day of Bride,
The head will come off the 'caiteanach,'
The daughter of Ivor will come from the knoll
With tuneful whistling.
The serpent will come from the hole
   On the brown Day of Bride,
Though there should be three feet of snow
   On the flat surface of the ground.

The 'daughter of Ivor' is the serpent; and it is said that the serpent will not sting a descendant of Ivor, he having made 'tabhar agus tuis,' offering and incense, to it, thereby securing immunity from its sting for himself and his seed for ever.

In America, the day has become associated with the 1993 movie Groundhog Day. In one of those wonderful cosmic convergences, the theme of the movie actually fits the original theme of the holiday: Phil Connors, the miserable, venal weatherman played by Bill Murray, spends lifetimes living the same day over and over again, indulging in every vice you can find in a small Pennsylvania town, before slowly learning to become a better person. What's funny, of course, is that the origin of Imbolc--like the Roman Lupercalia, or the Catholic Lent--is in a time of purification. Like Phil, we're all living the same day over and over again; sometimes we waste our time, which is easy, especially in winter when we're miserable. But hey, unlike Phil, we don't have an eternity to get it right. We invent times like Imbolc to get ourselves back on track, to remind ourselves that winter doesn't last forever, that spring is coming, and we need to get our heads together. To purify ourselves, to make ourselves better people.

Hey--the groundhog called for an early spring. Better get crackin'.

1. Eric Hamp, 'Imbolc, Oimelc', Studia Celtica, 14/15 (1979/1980)

Google Finds a New Way to be Awesome

2011-02-02T21:06:00.000-05:00

A new project from Google is the totally cool "Art Project", which uses the tech behind Google Streetview to take you on a tour of famous museums around the world, like the Tate and the NY Met. On the list is the always wonderful Cloisters Museum of medieval art in New York. Check it out to see the famous Unicorn Tapestries, the Nine Worthies tapestries (which includes a famous image of King Arthur), and a whole host of medieval art.

I Am Not Looking Forward To The Eagle

2011-01-25T22:22:00.000-05:00

I have yet to be satisfied with a film treatment of Roman Britain (*cough* The Last Legion *cough*), and I have the feeling The Eagle might annoy me much like 2004's ridiculous King Arthur.

"But you haven't seen it yet."

No. I haven't. And yet I'm already annoyed. Why?

Well, The Eagle, much like the forgettable film Centurion, is about the legendary Ninth Legion, which supposedly disappeared during a disastrous run-in with the local Britons up north of Hadrian's Wall around the year 120. Of course, whether this actually happened--not so much a local uprising, which is pretty much par-for-the-course, but the disappearance of the legion--is a matter of debate.Still, it's not the historical ambiguity that bothers me.

It has 2nd century Picts speaking Scottish Gaelic.

Let me say that again.

It has 2nd century Picts speaking Scottish Gaelic.

There is so much wrong with this.

According to the London Times

Macdonald has a fairly free rein in recreating his ancient tribe; but he is determined to be as authentic as possible, with the tribesmen in the movie all speaking Gaelic. In order to achieve a little contemporary symbolism, the Romans will be played by American actors.

[snip]

They were a more indigenous folk than the Celts, who were from further south,” he argues. “They were probably small and dark, like the Inouit [sic], living off seals and dressed in sealskins. We are going to create a culture about which no one knows much, but which we will make as convincing as possible. We are basing it on clues gained from places like Skara Brae and the Tomb of the Eagles in Orkney, so that we will have them worshipping pagan symbols, like the seal and the eagle.

OK. Where to begin. First, if you want to be authentic, then you wouldn't have Picts living in the second century speaking Gaelic, which wasn't spoken by any sizable portion of people living in Britain at that time. For one thing, "Gaelic"--in this case, the Scottish dialect of Goidelic--didn't exist; there were dialects of Old Irish, mostly spoken in Ireland (I don't think there were any Irish settlements in Britain at the time, but I could be wrong). Having Picts speak Scottish Gaelic is like having King Alfred the Great speaking Elizabethan English and declaring it authentic.

Secondly, the Picts, insofar as they spoke a Celtic language, were Celts. "Celtic" isn't a race, it's a group of related languages/cultural output. That Pictish was probably a strand of Celtic--specifically P-Celtic, and thus distantly related to Gaulish and ultimatley Welsh--is largely accepted by academics, though there are always some who disagree; Wikipedia has a pretty decent introduction to the disagreements, and where the current thinking stands.Even as early as the 1500s, scholars saw the similarities between Gaulish and Pictish (yeah, I was surprised too by the early date; George Buchanan figured this out a full hundred years before Edward Lhuyd pioneered the use of "Celtic" to describe the related languages of Welsh, Cornish, Irish, Manx, etc.).

I'm not sure how Macdonald can say "They were Celts, expect that they weren't; they spoke Gaelic, except they didn't; this is authentic, even though we don't know anything about the Picts, except that we do, since they were short and not Celtic" and not expect my head to explode.

I get that the Picts helped form the Scottish nation; but they weren't Scotti, the name of the people who conquered them; they probably adopted Gaelic as it became advantagous to speak the langauge of the political elite, but that was centuries after the events of the movie. The best evidence we have tells us that they were related to the other Britons just south of them, who went on to become the Welsh, Cumbrian, and Cornish peoples. If he wanted to be "authentic", he could have had them speak Welsh, which is closer to what we know of Pictish than Scottish Gaelic is.

Moreover, the non-Scottish history of Northern Britain is often glossed over in popular culture, which is very frustrating. (To see Y Gododdin called "The Oldest Scottish Poem" is completely anachronistic. Sorry, Kenneth H Jackson, but come on!)

I hope the music for the movie is by these guys:

Because their knowledge of Druids is as well informed as The Eagle's knowledge of the Picts.

But Does It Taste Like Guinness?

2011-01-16T13:24:00.000-05:00

Via io9, scientists have figured out how the Celts brewed their beer:

The first step to drinking like the Celts is to dig an oblong ditch. Pour in water and barley, and leave them there until the barley sprouts. Once they have, they need to be dried. Light a fire at each end of the ditch and keep it going until the barley is dried. This will darken the beer and give it a smokey flavor. It will also dry the grains slowly enough that they'll secrete something called lactic acid. Like other acids, it tastes sour. Sourness and smoke; delicious. Some of the grains will char. Leave those in the ditch for future archeobotanists to uncover. Mash up the grains to maximize the amount of sugar that the yeast, which gets added later, has to feed on.

Hops weren't used in beer until sometime in the High Middle Ages; at least, that's the earliest it's mentioned. Instead, beer was flavored with gruit, a combination of herbs, some of which were mild narcotics: nutmeg, mugwort, yarrow, and henbane were among those used. Henbane, of course, is potentially very toxic, though here it's obviously diluted. Moreover, henbane is interesting, as it's associated with the oracles of Apollo, and with the Celtic god Belenus, for its hallucinogenic elements.

Why you shouldn't drink beer with henbane.

The Greco-Roman world wasn't too keen on beer; the emperor Julian wrote

Who and from where are you Dionysus?
Since by the true Bacchus,
I do not recognize you; I know only the son of Zeus.
While he smells like nectar, you smell like a goat.
Can it be then that the Celts because of lack of grapes
Made you from cereals? Therefore one should call you
Demetrius, not Dionysus, rather wheat born and Bromus,
Not Bromius.

Of course, the poem is a little more complex than it looks; there's a lot of punning in there:

However, even a beer lover like myself knows that stale beer does pretty much smell like piss.

As we all know, primitive man invented beer; but the Celts invented Guinness. And for that, we are grateful.

When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed.

2011-01-10T15:21:00.001-05:00

Except when they aren't.

I have nothing intelligent to say about the shooting this weekend. It seems like every week, there's a new shooting; I'm pretty sure someone killed a school vice-principal last week. And to be honest, I came of age when school shootings became common, in the 1990s; don't forget, there were a lot before Columbine. But being numb doesn't mean I think it's OK, or unimportant. I just know that I'm not the smartest kid in the room.

So. Before we tear ourselves apart; before anyone invokes Sarah Palin or Karl Marx or schizophrenia or Bleeding Kansas; I just want to listen to some music.

Make me laugh, funnyman:

Not funny, but he's right.

We live in hard times, not end times.

New Celtic tomb found

2011-01-07T14:55:00.001-05:00

At the Heuneburg hill fort in southwest Germany, already the sight of a good deal of archaeological work, the undisturbed tomb of what they believe was a Celtic noblewoman has been found. The tomb is around 2600 years old, which places it at the time of the Bronze Age western "Hallstatt D" culture, which was transitioning into the Iron Age Celtic La Tène culture.

So why is this interesting? Well, Heuneburg was an important Celtic settlement; it's possible that it's the city of Pyrene mentioned by Herodotus:

For the Ister [Danube] flows from the land of the Celts and the city of Pyrene through the very middle of Europe — History 2.33.3

There are dozens of graves that have already been found, but most were either destroyed by the elements, or robbed in antiquity; it's rare that modern archaeologists are able to find an undisturbed inhumation.

To get an idea of what an aristocrat's tomb can look like, check out this reconstruction of the Hochdorf tomb, which dates to 530 BC, not that long (archaeologically speak) after the recently-found tomb, and only about twenty miles away:

Click on picture to see original on Wikipedia

(What you can't see, off to the top right, is a giant cauldron, originally filled with 100 gallons of mead. Also found were golden shoes, a gold-leafed dagger, and other precious items.)

Hopefully, the public will soon see what's been found; Heuneburg is already the site of a reconstructed Celtic village.

The location of Heuneburg:

View Larger Map

I like to take pictures

2011-01-06T19:19:00.000-05:00

I have some new updates at my Flickr page.

You'll Pry My Butterscotch Krimpets From My Cold Dead Hands

2011-01-05T18:12:00.004-05:00

Food of the gods

When I started this blog, I called it "The Philadelphia Preservation Society", mostly as a joke, playing off the Kinks' Village Green Preservation Society, one of my favorite records. Well, maybe we need a Preservation Society now.

A&P, who owns the local chains of Superfresh and Pathmark, declared bankruptcy in December, leaving the fate of 5,500 jobs up in the air. They've already closed several stores around my town (Lansdale). Safeway has closed some Genuardi's, as well, and now apparently Acme--yes, "the Ac-a-mee", my dear North Philadelphians--is closing some stores.

All of this is bad enough--especially for those who live in the city and only have access to public transportation, making getting fresh food that much more difficult. But there are some surprising repercussions, apparently:

TASTYKAKES IS IN BIG TROUBLE

Now, you have to understand--Tastykakes are as much a part of Philly as the Liberty Bell, pretzels, cheesesteaks, Yuengling, and questionable behavior at sporting events. Everyone knows how to scrape all the butterscotch icing from the package of krimpets; and who does love the creamy inside of those little Kandy Kake hocky pucks? And the mini-pies: baked, not fried, and filled with blueberries, or cherries, or apples...

Man, I'm getting hungry.

If we lose Tastykakes, we lose another part of Philly. "It's just snacks," you might say. Well, sure--but since when isn't food part of culture? What's Italy without salami? Ireland without potatoes? India without curry? Food is one of the most elementary things we deal with every day. "But it's just mass produced cakes." Sure, you could say that--but I bet you haven't eaten one.

It's a question of jobs, of course--if Tastykakes gets sold, we could lose even more jobs, or worse--lose the jobs altogether, like when Hershey sent all their jobs to Mexico. That's right, Hershey, PA doesn't make chocolate. If they get sold, the recipe could change, and not taste as good as it does now.

Sure, it's silly to get sentimental about snacks. But it's about identity, and about the loss of regionalism. Tastykakes and Yards tastes better than Twinkies and Bud Light (well, maybe don't eat beer and cakes together). The local almost always tastes better than the national. Smaller scale allows a greater attention to detail than a larger scale.

And hey, I want to win a case of tastykakes next time I see the Flyers.

2011: Back to the Future

2011-01-02T22:17:00.003-05:00

When I started this blog in 2007, it was part of the World Without Oil alternative reality game. At the time, gas prices had started slowly rising, but in the game, they were shooting up, beginning at $4.12 and eventually ending at $5.59.

Well, as we know, in 2008, oil did shoot up to nearly $150/barrel, which I think was around an average of $4.11/gallon--as in the game. And then, of course, everything came crashing down, millions were thrown out of work, and oil fell down to $33/barrel.

Jump ahead now to 2011, and oil's at $91/barrel and gas over $3.10 (at least here outside Philly). Higher gas prices may be ahead, up to $4.11 again. And now we have over 9% unemployment, and U6 (under-employment) (hi, that would include me) at 17%.

Rising gas prices in an economy that's not getting better for us in the bottom 90%? Well, if you can see how this is sustainable, enlighten me.

1993 Predicts the Future

2010-12-31T16:00:00.002-05:00

Not too bad for twenty years ago, but it wasn't AT&T that gave us all this:

They got some things wrong, of course--we don't swipe a card to use EZPass, and no one sends faxes anymore. But still, it's pretty good.

Halfway Out of the Dark

2010-12-28T22:38:00.007-05:00

So I grew up as a geek; my mother raised me on Star Trek, my first computer was a TI99/4A, and I've had a subscription to National Geographic from the time I was nine. So the yearly Doctor Who Christmas special is a highlight of the holiday for me. And the most recent one is arguably the best (though "The Christmas Invasion" comes in a close second).

Yes, Michael Gambone is wonderfully nasty as the Scrooge stand-in Kazran Sardick; there hasn't been a Scrooge who was that much of a bastard since George C. Scott. And the steampunk mise-en-scène fits so nicely, so well for a Christmas Carol retelling (and for some reason, it works better for me than "The Next Doctor"). But what made this episode so good was two-fold: it gave a surprisingly fresh take on the Dickens warhorse, and it really embraced the secular meaning of this season: as the Doctor says, we're halfway out of the dark.

Amy and Rory are on an interstellar ship headed for disaster unless the man who controls the skies over his planet--Kazran, who inherited this position from his father--clears the skies and lets them land. He won't, simply because he can--and, as he says, the planet already has a "surplus population"--who needs another 4003? So, naturally, the Doctor needs to change him, and since it's Christmas, he's inspired (in a fairly straightforward way) to take on the role of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Kazran's memories are changed in front of his--and our--own eyes, once the Doctor goes back to change him into a better person. Moffat knows how to play with time travel better than any of the writers of the revived show, and he pulls out all the stops here, including a clever take on the visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future. Kazran's lost love Abigail is, unfortunately, apparently suffering from Victorian Novel Disease, but at least she exists for more than breaking Kazran's heart; Katherine Jenkins's voice is appropriately haunting, and let's face it, singing to sharks is cool.

Like Dickens, and like It's a Wonderful Life, this is about someone who isn't too far gone, who can be redeemed. Kazran's father was too far gone--he was dead; Mr. Potter was too far gone--he never even had a crisis of conscience. But Scrooge? George Bailey? You and I? We're not too far gone--we can come back out and see the light.

We've come through the longest night of the year; from here on out, the days get longer, even if winter's grasp on us won't lessen for a long time.

On Christmas Eve, while driving home from seeing some friends, my husband asked "Why do you think Christmas is so tied up with being depressing? I don't think Charlie Brown started it--so where did it come from?" We didn't come up with a good explanation, just a list of examples--Charlie Brown Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life, the great O. Henry story "Gift of the Magi". Catcher in the Rye is about a kid losing his mind right before Christmas. The Bishop's Wife is about an angel who falls in love and can't do anything about it. We talked about whether it was a post-war phenomenon, whether it was born of that whole modern alienation problem. But now I wonder if it isn't partially because it really is the darkest time of the year, and we suffer from a type of seasonal affect disorder. Or if it's tied up in anxiety about families, and at least in the U.S., families are flung to the four corners, and often not speaking to each other; this is certainly true for my family. But Christmas is all about families, they say--and so anxiety reigns.

But maybe it's as simple as seeing all the commercialism, the worrying about money, about status, about presents, meanwhile every day gets darker and darker, and so striving for something more--because something has to bring us out of the dark.

Well, we're halfway there--the sun is no longer standing still, the days will slowly get longer, the year is about to begin again.

Also, finally, isn't Matt Smith wonderful as Eleven? I can't wait for the next series to start.

To Drive the Cold Winter Away

2010-12-20T17:22:00.005-05:00

All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!
Good fortune attend each merry man's friend,
That doth but the best that he may;
Forgetting old wrongs, with carols and songs,
To drive the cold winter away.

Here on the US east coast, the longest, darkest night in nearly four hundred years has begun.

Thankfully, this isn't a metaphor--it's science.

Tonight in the northern hemisphere is the longest night of the year, the Winter Solstice; and it's the first time in hundreds of years that the longest night of the year has had a lunar eclipse.

Actually, I don't know how this is the darkest night--if the moon is in total eclipse, it's not like it's a new moon, which we can't really see; even if it's dark red, it's still a light.

The court in all state now opens her gate
And gives a free welcome to most;
The city likewise, tho' somewhat precise,
Doth willingly part with her roast:
But yet by report from city and court
The country will e'er gain the day;
More liquor is spent and with better content
To drive the cold winter away.

But that's not really why I'm posting. For what the moon is doing--passing through the shadow of the earth, from light into darkness and again into light--is much like the Winter Solstice itself, when we reach the longest night, when the strength of the sun (metaphorically) is at it's lowest point, and ancient people waited out the night to see the sun rise again, knowing that after this, the sun would gradually strengthen again, that the long, dark nights would eventually give way to spring, to summer, to growth. And regardless of whether we ever had Christmas, we would still have had the solstice, we would still have had that long, dark time of year, when we light lights through the night.

Thus none will allow of solitude now
But merrily greets the time,
To make it appear of all the whole year
That this is accounted the prime:
December is seen apparel's in green,
And January fresh as May
Comes dancing along with a cup and a song
To drive the cold winter away.

Last Friday, my husband and I threw a party, because that's what you do this time of year. I don't mean that dismissively--I am being entirely sincere. These are the longest nights; it's cold, it's miserable, and there's little to do outside but rush from one place to the other. We gather together, eating and drinking, talking and remembering, because this is when things are slow. We need a break--like the sun, we're worn down, and waiting for renewal.

To mask and to mum kind neighbours will come
With wassails of nut-brown ale,
To drink and carouse to all in the house
As merry as bucks in the dale;
Where cake, bread, and cheese is brought for your fees
To make you the longer stay;
At the fire to warm 'twill do you no harm,
To drive the cold winter away.

And from now until after the New Year, the sun stands still--for that's what "solstice" means in Latin--and so do we. And on this, the longest night, when even the moon, for the first time in hundreds of years, goes from full brightness to an eclipse, it's good to remember, beyond the politics of Christmas, of buying gifts and worrying about the bills to come, of whose family to visit (or whether to avoid families altogether), it's good to remember that while we live, each night will come to an end, just as much as each day. Sometimes it takes longer to see the sun again, but it's coming. It will come. And the night will, eventually, end.

When white-bearded frost hath threatened his worse,
And fallen from branch and briar,
Then time away calls from husbandry halls
And from the good countryman's fire,
Together to go, to plough and to sow
To get us both food and array,
And thus will content the time we have spend
To drive the cold winter away.

Mumming--It's Not Just For Old People On Two Street Anymore

2010-12-19T12:14:00.004-05:00

Philebrity has a post on Nerd Island, a new mummer brigade which directly tries to appeal to younger artists and activists in the Philly area.

For those who don't know, the Mummer's Parade is held on New Year's Day here in Philadelphia; it's a day-long parade of people in costumes, divided into four groups--comics, string bands, fancies (which combine elements of comics and string bands with small floats), and the fancy brigades, which have very elaborate, feather- and sequin-covered costumes.

It's something to see, usually while drunk--which is OK, since the comics are usually still drunk from the night before. All of which is keeping in the tradition of mumming, which goes back to medieval Europe. Mumming plays, wren boys, the Mari Lwyd, and the Philadelphia Mummers are all part of a larger tradition wherein the working classes (both urban and agricultural), given freedom from work for two weeks, drank and ate and partied, often to the dismay of their social "betters". It's one of the reasons the Puritans outlawed Christmas in both Britain and America in the 17th century (see the fantastic The Battle for Christmas for more on this).

What's interesting about Nerd Island is that unlike the other brigades, these aren't from the old neighborhoods--these are young people, seeing an opportunity to carry on a tradition, while getting it back to its anarchic roots. Like the best comic brigades, they're using pop culture and politics for their inspirations (for Nerd Island, it's the environment), and in keeping with the spirit of Christmas, taking donations for charity (in this case, Haiti).

This is one reason I love Philly--here we have this drunken, crazy parade, and it's entirely keeping with a medieval tradition, even if we don't realize it.

Plus ça change...

Happy Eponalia

2010-12-18T19:24:00.003-05:00

Eponalia--the Feast of Epona, the horse goddess of the Celts--is one of the only pre-medieval festivals connected to the Celts that we can directly point to, if only because it was preserved in a Roman calendar.¹ Though a Celtic goddess, she was adopted by the Romans, and her cult was widespread.

Called the Guidizzolo inscription, this rustic Roman calendar, found in norther Italy (near Verona), in the province of Gallia Cisalpina, mentions this feast as

'XV Kalendas Ianuarius Eponae'.

This date--counting backwards fifteen days from the Kalends of January (i.e. January 1), would lead to today's date, December 18th, as explained here:

--American journal of archaeology, Volume 8

Of course, why Epona was worshipped in December is unknown; but it is interesting to note the old Welsh custom of the Mari Lwyd held around the time of the new year (i.e. January 1), wherein a mumming troop carry around a horse's skull on a pole, the jaws hinged so that the skull can talk and engage in rhyming contests, earning food for the mummers. The origin of the custom is unknown, but certainly Wales had its own horse goddess in Rhiannon.

And so, have a happy Eponalia!

For more about Epona, check out Epona.net, the most comprehensive site on the subject.

NOTES

1. The other two are the famous "TRINOX[tion] SAMO[nii] SINDIV" i.e. "three-nights of Samonios today" on the 17th of Samonios; when the month of Samonios occurred is of much debate; the other is "DECAMNOCTIACIS GRANNI", the ten-night festival of Grannos, about which we know nothing, not even when it occurred.

Rachel Bromwich, 1915-2010

2010-12-18T15:35:00.003-05:00

Via Heavenfield, I've learned that Rachel Bromwich has passed away at the age of 95.

Professor Bromwich, more than any other scholar, has influenced my work; my website (and really, my life) would be much poorer if I'd never come across her writings.

Her Trioedd Ynys Prydain is one of the most important works on Old Welsh literature--really, if you're interested in Welsh literature and legend, you can't just pick up a copy of the Mabinogion, you have to seek out TYP. The notes alone are an impressive encyclopedia of Welsh myth and legend. And her works on Welsh Arthuriana in general are without match. She also was instrumental in translating the works of Sir Ifor Williams, whose studies on Taliesin are among the best.

She published an updated edition of TYP as late as 2005; I can only hope to be as active at that age (or live that long).

2010-12-15T22:48:00.001-05:00

Google's new reading level results have me feeling pretty good about my website (it could be worse): http://bit.ly/gv1ePW

Saving the St Chad Gospels

2010-12-11T14:31:00.002-05:00

Via Heavenfield, there's apparently work being done by the University of Kentucky and the Litchfield Cathedral to digitize the St Chad Gospels:

Video via Heavenfield

For those who are wondering, this gospel contains the Surrexit Memorandum, one of the earliest texts in the Welsh language (which you can see at my website, with a translation of one section by John Rhys.)

2010-12-11T01:00:00.002-05:00

Today's video: Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight)--the Ramones.

2010-12-10T20:05:00.001-05:00

Raiders of the Lost Ark is on; it's not very Christmassy, but it is one of the few perfect movies.

Searching for Light in the Darkness of Insanity: a review of the Secret of Kells

2010-03-27T22:42:00.011-04:00

Bitter is the wind tonight.
It tosses the ocean's white hair.
Tonight I fear not the coming over on the Irish Sea.
of fierce warriors of Norway

--9th c. Irish poem

So no doubt if you noticed this film was nominated for an Academy Award, facing off against Pixar's Up, as well as Coraline, and Wes Anderson's The Fantasic Mr. Fox, you probably said to yourself, "what the hell is The Secret of Kells?" Which is a shame, because you've missed out on one of the best movies of the year.

It's become a cliche to talk about how the Irish saved civilization--not that they did it alone, of course, but that the Irish monks helped keep literacy alive in the West is without doubt. They also, in the process, created one of the most beautiful books ever made--the famous Book of Kells.

The Secret of Kells is the story of that book... sort of. We don't know who actually created the Book of Kells, whether it was started by St. Columbcille on Iona, or whether it was the product of the Abbey of Kells, or whether it was started on Iona and finished at Kells, or even which artists put their hands to it. And so Kells puts its creation in its proper context, during the tumultuous period when Vikings attacked Britain and Ireland, sacking abbeys, burning books, looting gold, and scattering the literate communities to the winds. In this world we find Brendan, an orphan raised by his uncle Cellach, the abbot of Kells, who is understandably obsessed with fortifying the abbey in the face of the Viking raids. But with this determination comes a stultifying existence for Brendan, only alleviated when the illuminator Aidan comes, having escaped the destruction of Iona.

Aidan is an artist--for him the creative practice is a way to give hope in dark times. For when life is only struggle, when it's only about building walls out of fear of the inevitable, the very enjoyment of existence is extinguished. For Aidan, everything about life hold beauty and wisdom--not just what can be found in books or in the abbey, but the natural world, as well, like the best of those Celtic monks. So Aidan encourages Brendan's interest in the art of illuminating manuscripts, while Cellach only wants Brendan to focus on building up the walls of the abbey. Brendan naturally rebels against Cellach, and leaves the abbey for the first time. He heads for the forests, looking for plants to make the ink used in the manuscript.

Here he meets Aisling, a faery girl, one of the sídhe, who saves him and the cat Pangur Ban (!) from a pack of wolves. Like Aidan, she teaches Brendan not to fear the natural world, to enjoy it and and learn from it.

But the Vikings are a real threat, and the abbey is vulnerable, despite Cellach's best efforts. And Vikings aren't the only danger--there is also Crom Cruach, the dark spirit who haunts the edges of the woods.

But the book is most important thing. Aidan is old, his hands shake, his eyes are dim. He wants Brendan to design the Chi-Rho page:

The actual Chi-Rho page from the Book of Kells

The Chi-Rho page is one of the most intricate pieces of art ever created; I have a large copy of it, measuring twelve inches by about fifteen, and I still can't imagine creating such tiny, interlacing details; the picture above doesn't do it justice.

So that's the beginning of the story of the film; but what you should really go for is the art. This is easily one of the most beautiful animated films I have ever seen. From what I've read, it's mostly done in the traditional, 2D, hand-drawn animation, which rather neatly imitates the look of a manuscript. It doesn't rely on gimmicks like 3D, or the plastic-looking CGI of Dreamworks and (forgive me) Pixar--like the best and earliest Disney features, it uses the ability of the human hand to create a lush and vibrant world, intricate in detail and never condescending to the audience. (And the details are stunning--see if you can spot the ogham in the forest).

This is a film about the power of art to bring light--illumination--in times of darkness. To bring joy, to fire the spirit, to help us communicate, to give us a reason to communicate. This is a film about finding joy in the face of destruction, to live in spite of death.

Also, for those of you who have some knowledge of Old Irish poetry, stick around through the credits--it's no mistake that the cat is named Pangur Ban.

Yeah, I'm not going anywhere.

2010-02-10T18:28:00.002-05:00

If I can open the door, I'll take another picture; this was earlier today, and it's gotten worse.

Torchwood Coming to FOX? NO! NO NO NO!

2010-01-26T20:56:00.005-05:00

So Russell T. Davies is working with FOX to bring Torchwood to America.

Not amused

I'd like to get excited, but some of us remember the time FOX tried to take on Doctor Who.

So a few caveats:

First, please, please, please don't set it in America. But if you must, don't set it in L.A., damn it.
Second, let's not forget that while FOX was home to The X-Files, it's also the graveyard of Firefly, Dollhouse, Arrested Development (yeah, not sci-fi, don't care, I'm still mad), and, again, the infamous Doctor Who tv movie.
This is American tv--what are the chances Jack's sexuality is imported unaltered?

So--how bad do you think it'll be?

*For the record, I'm not a Paul McGann basher. The movie wasn't the worst thing I've ever seen, just painfully American.

I'm sure this hasn't been done before...

2010-01-26T20:48:00.004-05:00

There are 5092 novels set in the Middle Ages

Which is why my (hypothetical) mystery novel will be set during the beginning of the Roman colonization of Britain. And the detective is a druid.

Wait, what's that you say? It sounds like Cadfael or The Name of the Rose with white robes and hard-to-pronounce names? Dammit. Yeah, well... You and my husband can go back to reading Conan Doyle; I have genius to tap into.

Time for some Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race

2010-01-25T20:17:00.004-05:00

America is ending the ban on importing haggis.

As a native Philadelphian, all I can say is, hey--I grew up eating scrapple. Haggis is child's play.

Now if we could just get wine without sulfites...

Really, I'm just glad she wasn't dating Kirk.

2010-01-24T22:46:00.003-05:00

This is an interesting (to me) post/quiz about/for people who are uncomfortable with the Spock-Uhura pairing in the Star Trek reboot, and how often racism plays into it. I largely agree with the post, except for one thing: I thought the pairing was weird because I tend to think of Spock as repressing any romantic, sexual side, except for the whole pon farr 7-year-itch, so to speak. On the other hand, subverting the idea of a Kirk-Uhura romance was good, just because I didn't expect it. But apparently I was wrong--Vulcans don't wait for pon farr, it doesn't work that way. So it's not weird for Spock and Uhura to be dating.

I dislike is the implication of the post that if you're bothered by the romance, it's because of Uhura. For me, it's how I thought of Spock's character. It's not that I think he's not being really Vulcan if he dates Uhura; I just never thought of him as having any passion. It never occurred to me.

Am I prejudiced against nerds?

(Is using the word "nerd" offensive?)

I don't know about the argument that in the 24th century Uhura and Spock would have the experience of being outsiders in common; I'd hope that by then, being a black woman wouldn't have any more significance than having red hair. But then again, even red hair is still an issue, apparently.

Humans are stupid.

And I always wanted red hair, but that's neither here nor there.

I grew up watching TOS, since my mom was a big fan. I'm sure there are a lot of things I missed, and don't remember correctly; I've only seen a hand-full of episodes as an adult, mostly I don't think it's in syndication right now. Is it?

Now, TNG, that I remember. And it helps that Syfy (ugh) plays it on Mondays. (Mondays? I think so--days blend together).

And they didn't even need those stupid glasses.

2010-01-24T20:02:00.003-05:00

Here's a fascinating article about how medieval monks "saw" their designs in "3d":

The Book of Kells and similarly illustrated manuscripts of seventh- and eighth-century England and Ireland are known for their entrancingly intricate artwork -- geometric designs so precise that in some places they contain lines less than half a millimeter apart and nearly perfectly reproduced in repeating patterns -- leading a later scholar to call them "works not of men, but of angels."
But behind the artwork's precision is a mystery: How did illustrators refine the details, which rival the precision of engravings on a modern dollar bill, centuries before microscope lenses were invented?
The answer, says Cornell University paleontologist John Cisne, may be in the eyes of the creators. The Celtic monks evidently trained their eyes to cross above the plane of the manuscript so they could visually superimpose side-by-side elements of a replicated pattern, and thereby create 3-D images that magnified differences between the patterns up to 30 times.

Read the whole thing, it's fascinating.

"...one of the more horrifically difficult languages of Europe"

2010-01-23T15:32:00.004-05:00

I just came across this year+ old entry at Cantos of Mvtabilitie, and love it:

You could make a case that Old Irish is a 'Classical' language, like Latin or Greek or Sanskrit. Latin? After a while, ordinary Latin ends up being more or less transparent to the reader. (Ordinary Latin, not Tacitus or Propertius.) You can read it quite cheerfully. And Greek I think always remains a bit trickier (the midgy drifts of particles, the propensity to dialectical forms, the specialised jargons). And Sanskrit is like an exotic holiday for Classicists: a new script, a complicated phonology, the system of sandhi-variations which obscure the endings, and a general rather bewildering mixture of stylization and lushness. Like the above trio, Old Irish is Indo-European, has a heroic literature, and grammatical features such as inflected nouns and adjectives, plus a complex conjugated verbal system.

But describing the Old Irish verbal system as 'complex' is like referring to the Arctic as 'somewhat chilly'.

Yes. Indeed. I still can't wrap my head around Old Irish. Put Old Irish in front of me and ask me to translate it, and I might weep. Or send you on your way to David Stifter.

Oddly enough, the great Whitley Stokes could handle Old Irish, but apparently never mastered Modern Irish.

For those of you who love language, or Old Irish, go read it.

Open Your Mouth and Say Nothing

2010-01-14T21:04:00.003-05:00

So apparently doctors don't like people complaining about them--how shocking.

Some docs, worried about their reputations, are trying to fight back against negative reviews, requiring patients to sign contracts — critics call them “gag orders” — promising not to post comments to public sites. Others ask patients to sign over copyright to future comments, hoping for leverage to have any nasty tags removed.

Complain about your doctor, and he can refuse to treat you?

There's another side to it, of course:

“There’s no venue for physicians to get their side of the story out,” said Segal, who notes that doctors can't respond to specific patients because doing so would violate federal privacy laws.

While some sites, like Angie's List, know who's posting, most don't identify or verify commenters, said Segal, who blasts that anonymity.

“You don’t know whether it’s a patient, an ex-employee, an ex-spouse or even a competitor," Segal said.

I understand the urge to fight back against someone complaining about you. But what's really disturbing to me are two things: first is the copyright idea. Let's look at that again:

Others ask patients to sign over copyright to future comments, hoping for leverage to have any nasty tags removed.

Wow. And I thought the RIAA overreached.

And secondly, there's this:

Patient will not denigrate, defame, disparage, or cast aspersions upon the Physician; and will use all reasonable efforts to prevent any member of their immediate family or acquaintance from engaging in any such activity,” reads the “Mutual Agreement to Maintain Privacy”
...
The contracts typically limit patient comments for five years from the last doctor’s visit and they imply that breaking the terms could land the patients in court.

So let's say I signed onto this contract because this is the only doctor I know--let's face it, most of us work full time, may have restrictions on who we can see put on us by our insurance plans, and even if we didn't, shopping for doctors can be an exhausting experience, especially if you have something seriously wrong with you. Or worse yet, let's say most or all doctors adopt this practice, so I can't even rely on a "free market" approach of just hunting down a doctor who doesn't require this kind of contract. And my (hypothetical) doctor screws up and doesn't diagnose a brain tumor, and I die. If my family publicly complains that hey, this doctor is a quack who can't find a baseball-sized tumor, they can be hauled into court and sued for complaining in a public forum.

I actually understand the position of doctors--or really anyone--who are being anonymously criticized, sometimes unfairly, and sometimes may be lied about. But then again, without the protection of anonymity, people probably wouldn't publicly complain, and sometimes those complaints are earned. I can think of several off-hand as I sit here, but to be honest, I'm afraid to post them because I don't want to get any negative repercussions for the patients involved, since the situation is on-going.

And really, what I find disturbing isn't the idea of doctors being able to fight back and reclaim their reputations; what I find really scary is the idea of using copyright law to fight them, and of suing patients' families. Because my husband, who makes $15/hour and drives our rattling ten-year-old Ford Taurus, really doesn't have the right to challenge my Miata-driving doctor who makes $150,000 a year.

I hope he likes fixing that clunking noise it makes.

At Least I Can Finally Buy Beer on Sundays. But Only After 11 AM.

2010-01-11T20:57:00.005-05:00

New Jersey's Assembly moves to legalize medical marijuana, joining a growing list of pragmatic states; meanwhile back here in Pennsylvania, it's barely the 20th century, and we still can't decide if selling beer in the supermarket will result in rum, Romanism, and rebellion. But if we sell it with a sandwich, that you have to eat in the store, that's just tolerable.

Given how much money the state makes in taxes on alcohol, you'd think they'd jump at the chance to legalize medical marijuana.

New Post at Philly Grubbers

2010-01-10T11:29:00.001-05:00

I have a new post over at Philly Grubbers: How Not to Make Pizza. Now with YouTube!

Baby, It's Cold Outside. No, I Mean Really Fricken Cold.

2010-01-09T12:37:00.004-05:00

I'm supposed to go out and pick up some groceries, but I'm just not motivated yet, thanks to the weather. Oh, sure, the sky is clear and it's sunny, but it's in the low 20s. But hey, at least I'm not in Europe. Or the Midwest. Or... well, let's just say as far as winters go, Philly's not that unusual, but with more snow. (Yay snow!)

Lifehacker has some tips on keeping warm. Me? I'm a believer in longjohns and hot toddies.

The Decline and Fall of South Street

2010-01-09T10:03:00.005-05:00

Pearl Art is closing at the end of the month. I'm both depressed and not surprised. South Street has been in a rapid decline for several years now, ever since they started raising the rent rates. But there are a lot of causes behind the emptying of South Street, much of it sad.

So let's take an incomplete tally:

The Brick Playhouse: well, this is a case of mismanagement--I know, because I was a member. But the few years I was part of the Playhouse was some of the happiest of my life.
Zipperhead: namechecked in the Dead Milkmen's "Punk Rock Girl, it was, of course, a clothing store. Best part about the place was the exterior (which may still be there, I don't know, I haven't been down that way in a while)--big ants crawling up the side of the building. Apparently they've moved and changed their name, and the fact that I only found out about it in 2010 says something, though maybe it just points out my own ignorance.
Spaceboy Records: and when we lost Zipperhead, we lost their neighbor, Spaceboy. I loved Spaceboy--they had a great selection of new indie, new lps, old LPs and CDs upstairs. But with the massive changes in the record industry, even big chains have gone out of buisness. Between the high rents and the decline of record sales, there was no way a place that deals largely in new music products was going to survive, but it still hurts.
The Book Trader: not exactly gone; they moved up to 2nd and Arch. But I miss their two-story store on the corner of 5th and South, with the big bay windows where you could look out on the street below, busy with foot traffic, lit up at night. They moved, but it's not the same, and South Street isn't the same.
Philadeli: sure, it was pricy, but they sold six-packs, great sandwiches, and now they're gone too.
TLA Video: I don't know what got them more--the rise of Netflix, or the decline of South Street? Sadly, I'm going with Netflix overall, because this isn't the only store they've closed; they've also closed the one near my old apartment on Spring Garden St.

And there's probably lots of others that I can't remember.

There are a lot of causes--South Street's rent is too high, we're in the Great Recession, and media consumption has moved from brick-and-mortar stores to the computer. And there are still places that I like down there--The Bean Cafe, Tattooed Mom, they're still there, and hopefully will stay there. But I've lost a lot of reasons to go down there.

And now Pearl Art, where you could find just about anything you wanted, is gone. And I hear that's as much how the company--not this particular store--is managed.

I don't have to leave my house anymore to buy a book, or find a record, or rent a movie, or talk to friends. Everything can be done right here on my laptop, as I sit on the living room, warm and narcotized by the soft glow of Law and Order in the background, while tabs for Netflix, Amazon, and Facebook are up on the browser. But doing so, I'm losing something. I'm losing real human contact, I'm missing meeting new people, I'm missing finding things by accident.

Update
Den just reminded me of Tower Books, also gone a long time, before even Tower Records, IIRC. He used to sell his zine there.

In Which I Rant About the History Channel and the Apocalpyse

2010-01-08T21:37:00.003-05:00

I really shouldn't watch the History Channel--it just makes me mad. And so I'm watching a program called "Seven Signs of the Apocalpyse", showing how science proves we're living out the Book of Revelation.

Yeah.

First of all, how is interviewing a bunch of evangelical fundamentalist nuts about the apocalypse "history", when they believe it to be a future event? And furthermore, the winning stupid comment goes to Left Behind author Jerry Jenkins, who, speaking against the idea of gamma rays hitting the earth, said "God doesn't have to use science to destroy the world". What? What does he think science is--a branch of magic? "God doesn't have to use geomancy to destroy the world"? I ... I can't even figure out what that means. What does that even mean???

"God doesn't need sound waves to make a noise."

"God doesn't need to use words to recite The Waste Land"

I know, looking for real history--as opposed to another episode of "How awesome is Dan Brown?"--on the History Channel is like looking for educational programs on TLC, which, if I remember correctly (and I do), used to mean "The Learning Channel", where they'd show programs like the awesome Connections. And now...

And now I just heard a guy say "Well, ancient peoples didn't know human anatomy, but they did know blood is the source of life." WHAT? Really, there were no doctors? Hippocrates? Celsus? Oh, those guys were morons--they didn't anything about the human body.

Also, the source of life? What does that even mean? What a meaningless phrase.

Look, I'm glad I'm alive in a world of MRIs and antidepressants, but I really get tired of the idea that everyone who came before the modern world was just a bunch of morons sitting around banging rocks together.

Update

As my husband just said, "I guess they're not going to show Power of Nightmares on here."

Lansdale Gets a Farmers' Market

2009-07-11T11:09:00.004-04:00

So two years ago (wow, was it that long ago?), when I was writing for the alternative-reality game World Without Oil, I predicted that with a catastrophic oil spike and subsequent economic meltdown, Lansdale--the town I moved to and now live in--would start up a farmers' market. Though the town is situated amongst some of the best farmland in the Philadelphia exurbs, and is surrounded by local farms and dairies, it hadn't take advantage of this with a local farmers' market.

Well, two years, an oil crisis and Great Recession later, and Lansdale finally has it's own farmers' market. I've just come from there, actually, where I bought some black raspberry jam and some rather creative bread (long story). I was there last weekend as well, on the Fourth of July opening. Both weekends it's been very successful, which is encouraging, and it looks like the borough council will have it permanently approved, with a ribbon cutting on August 1st--which, in an odd bit of synchronicity, is the old Celtic harvest festival of Lughnassadh, also called Lammas in Scotland and England.

At any rate, it's an encouraging sign that communities are starting to think local, and doing something about it. The world is rapidly changing, and the old ways will not return. We still have our three-thousand mile Caesar salads (and I'm as guilty of anyone of enjoying that), but it's unsustainable in the long (and maybe even short) run, and better that we plan on this now than wait until we can do nothing about it.

O Hai--Still Breathing

2009-06-07T21:42:00.003-04:00

Now, I've been off in job-search land. Last December I got my intern certificate, allowing me to teach (within certain parameters) in Pennsylvania. Problem is, I can't find a job. It's not just that there's a glut of English teachers--though, let's face it, there are since what else do you do with a degree in English? it's not like the publishing houses are hiring. I've gone to job fairs, and been told that there just isn't room in the budget for more English teachers. Science, math, those are the fields where there's a lack of teachers. I've only two years left to finish this intern certificate before I either pass, or lose it entirely. So time's ticking, and I'm nervous.

But! At least I still have a job. Right now, the U3 stands at 9.4% (probably will be revised upwards, as so often the monthly numbers are), and U6 (which is a lot better picture of what's really happening) stands at 16.4%. Sure, our wages are frozen, taxes have gone up, raising our mortgage payments, but at least we still have a job--even if I'm stuck in one while unable to find what I really want. Honestly? I'm lucky, and I realize it.

And our current job is only a ten mile commute, which is better than a lot of my past commutes. Meanwhile? Gas has jumped from around $1.60 last December to $2.50 this week. In six months. The pendulum has swung again, and it won't be long before we're hit with $150 a barrel again.

Yeah, I'm rambling--I'm trying to get back into the swing of blogging.

This looks like a good one

2009-02-16T16:51:00.002-05:00

Frontline this week is tackling the market crash/economic meltdown/recession/O-MI-GOD-WTF-HOW'M-I-GONNA-PAY-THE-BILLS-ATHON:

I'm glad I don't work in retail anymore.

2008-12-30T19:13:00.001-05:00

When, as I scarf down take-out General Tso's, I see on the 6:30 news that 160,000 stores will have closed by the end of this year, and another 200,000 by the end of next year, I feel lucky that I no longer work in retail.

Mind you, I miss working in a bookstore. I loved being surrounded by books; and when I left my last retail/bookstore job, it was to work in a library. But this weekend, I got an email from Borders about their Sacramento store going out of business; now, I don't live in Sacramento and the nation-wide email was an accident on the company's part, but I'm not surprised to hear about bookstores--even a chain--closing. Philadelphia's loosing/lost Robin's, and I'll be surprised if that's all.

I think it's seeing bookstores go out of business that gets to me. Books are my passion--they're what I spend most of my waking life pursuing. I love books, both what knowledge or entertainment they contain, and their physical forms--the simple portability of a paperback; the gold runes on my leather-bound copy of The Hobbit; the reprint of Aubrey Beardsley's illustrations for Le Morte d'Arthur I found over in Glastonbury. I even like the idea of e-readers (I say "idea" because I don't actually own one, but wish I did)--the idea that I can (potentially) carry around my library in a little machine is really seductive for me, and it's only the lack of money keeping me from buying it (that, and I hear the Kindle needs a little more work).

Anyway, the economy is bad, and focusing on bookstores seems almost irrelevant. But in Philadelphia we're having trouble keeping the public library branches open though there's hope on that front. Literacy is so important, and books the medium, that--not to be overly dramatic, but--it breaks my heart to see stores closing.

In Other Good News...

2008-10-11T19:29:00.001-04:00

I passed my CLEP College Math exam, which means I never have to take a math class again.

I don't hate math--though, it being so pure a science that it's unrelatable to my life (unlike, say, biology), I find it difficult to memorize, and thus learn. And no, math isn't unrelatable or absent from every day, but I still don't understand what a function is, or how to graph the inverse of a something-something. Or what the hell use is the square root of -1, which doesn't actually exist(???). On the other hand, it feels good to do an equation, find the value of x, and find out I got the answer right.

I really believed I was going to fail; I took the practice test last night and failed miserably, and spent the night crying and scared that I'd fail and not be able to get my certification. But it's over, I'm relieved and exhausted, and gonna get a beer.

Oh, Philadelphia, You Still Have My Heart

2008-10-11T19:20:00.001-04:00

The Flyers' opener just started; they brought out Sarah Palin for some ceremonial dropping the puck. And the crowd booed. It was so loud, you could hear the music being turned up to drown them out.

"Philly is a Democratic town--what were they thinking?"

To which Den said, "Well, it's the same people who thought they'd throw us roses in Baghdad."

Touché, my hockey-loving, part French Canadian husband, touché.

2008-10-09T22:37:00.001-04:00

OK, I guess ping is working fine; I'm not entirely sure how I'll use it yet, but I like the idea that I don't have to manually crosspost to every networking site, and I'll remember to update at least one of my blogs...

This is a test of the emergency blogcasting system

2008-10-09T22:33:00.001-04:00

I'm just testing to see how ping.fm works, whether my blogs are updated.

Life Goes On Without Me

2008-07-26T17:09:00.004-04:00

I've been bogged down with school--since February, really. I'd like to post more, but I just don't get the chance.

I watch the news, read blogs, listen to podcasts, and I realize that I really don't know what's going on in the world. The market falls, the market rises, oil rises, oil falls, Yes, we're going to bomb Iran, No, we're diplomats, are you crazy?

Anyone know the number of a good haruspex?

I just found out that my local independent grocery store is going out of business. I'm bummed on several levels--first, it was a great place to get really good beer--microbrews, imports, etc. I'm really gonna miss Middle Ages' Druid Fluid, because the closest place selling it is up past Bethlehem.

But I'm also depressed to see a good, locally-owned, organic-dominant grocery store go out of business. Not enough people went, obviously--it was only just over a year old, meaning it's been in Lansdale about as long as we have. There are lots of places around us going out of business, too--some chains (CompUSA and the Bombay Company left last year, and recently my husband said there were empty stores at the mall), some local. The bowling alley burned down last year, and there's no plans to rebuild. This town--like a lot of SEPA (uh, Southeastern Pennsylvania)--just feels like it's dying a slow death. Which, to be fair, it's been doing since the 1970s, just the time when I was born.

It's weird, to feel like you've been born into a dying land. While other parts of the country improve, grow, etc. (Phoenix, California), the rust belt keeps... well, rusting.

What has this to do with oil? (Or any other potential disasters?) I don't know. Maybe when transportation gets too expensive, the trend will reverse. Maybe the Southwest will be uninhabitable. Maybe we'll get a local grocery store again.

But maybe things will just go on as before, with this area on life support, barely breathing, while everything but the big box stores fail.

I don't know.

That Grinding Noise You Hear Is My Teeth

2008-06-26T21:54:00.003-04:00

Oil closes near $140/bl.

CIBC sees $7/gal. gas by 2010

Worst June for the Dow since 1930:

"One thing is for certain, if crude continues to rally, stocks are dead," said Dale Doelling, chief market technician at Trends In Commodities.

"If stocks have another day like this tomorrow, then the fallout next week could include government intervention in the markets," said Doelling.

It's all getting a bit surreal, isn't it?

Oh, and by the way: Royal Bank of Scotland (which, my dear Philadelphians, owns our very own Citizens Bank) is predicting a market crash.

Woohoo.

Offshore Drilling: the Sweatpants of Our Oil Crisis

2008-06-20T23:01:00.003-04:00

Watching the US contemplate offshore drilling as a solution to the energy crisis is kind of like switching to sweatpants when we put on weight--yeah, you think you feel better, but if you don't change your eating habits, it won't matter--you'll die from heart disease or diabetes complications.

Actually, it's worse than that--more like a diabetic pigging out on hot fudge sundaes. Because the only way to cope with what's going on is not to drill for more oil in less easy-to-reach spots (and watch the cost of recovering that oil spiral upwards). No--the way to cope is to stop consuming oil in such massive quantities.

Conserving--dieting--is the only way to ease this crisis. Switching from jeans to sweatpants is just giving in.

The Line Between Fiction and Reality

2008-06-14T15:57:00.004-04:00

A year ago, I took part in an ARG (alternative reality game) called World Without Oil. In it, I and nearly 2000 other people imagined what life would be like if oil suddenly shot up in price--a world where Peak Oil is manifest.

The funny thing? The game starts with oil at $4.12/gal. A year ago, this honestly seemed a little over-the-top; I was paying $2.58 at the Wawa on Dekalb Pike & Welsh Road (if you, reading this, know Montgomery County). But one year, and here we are, where the game began. Of course, they got one thing "wrong", for in the game diesel was $3-something a gallon, and today it's around $5.

I don't claim to know what's going on; but I turn on NPR, turn on CNN, and now they talk about the end of oil--or at the very least, cheap oil.

In the real world, I do live with my husband in Lansdale; I have a marginal garden I'm hoping produces at least one tomato (which would be better than last year). We don't work at home, we still drive the ten miles to Horsham--and for that relatively short distance I'm grateful. It costs four dollars a day to commute, which is still cheaper than the train (and there's no easy way to go those ten miles without a car).

At any rate, a year later and people seem to be waking up to the reality that oil isn't going to be cheap anymore. It's not like the 1990s, when I learned to drive, and I could buy a gallon of gas for 90¢ and spend Friday and Saturday night driving around with my friends and not even think about it.

The world is moving on; some days I wonder what relics we'll leave, what they'll think of us. And if we'll ever see a day when walking on the moon sounds more like a myth than a historical fact.

EDIT:*For some reason, links to my posts are missing from their archive.

Week 31: Time I Had Some Time Alone

2007-12-15T09:50:00.000-05:00

This is gonna be my last post for a while, so here it goes.

I woke up today to a blinding sight, sun on newly-fallen snow; I woke my husband Dennis. We smiled, went out, and shovelled the walk. We shoveled our next door neighbor's walk, too, since he's old and he's been using a snowblower for the last ten years.

We came in; hung up our wet clothes, some of which I had to crochet myself. We had hot chocolate. It's something we do sparingly even in good times. We had toast from bread I made.

We talked about Christmas, about how it'll be different this year, about how we can't really give gifts, but that it doesn't matter anymore.

Philadelphia is Philadelphia, which means that there are Red Zones and Green Zones, but that was true even before the oil crisis. Philly's been a hard--but interesting--place to live for years now. The city center has an infrastructure going back to before the Age of Oil; things will continue, life will continue.

Three hundred years ago or so, Ben Franklin invented the Franklin Stove, which proved to be more efficient than the regular fireplace. Den and I are saving up for one; my parents have one. I'm sure in the near future everyone (give or take) will be using one. It's practical, it makes sense.

Which means people will probably still go on burning oil or using a fireplace, because humans, like most animals, don't adapt well to change.

I've been thinking a lot about evolution. People think that evolution is about progress, about reaching some sort of Platonic ideal of your species, but it isn't. It's simply the ability of mutation. Everything mutates, and some mutations can survive, and some are a dead end. Just look at the dinosaurs--those that mutated and eventually became birds survived. Those that didn't, well, didn't.

Humans evolve. Slowly, I guess, until a massive event where only the fittest survive. The Ice Age springs to mind--humans in the north changing pigment, changing the amount of body fat, and you end up with Norwegians or Inuit, depending on the area and what the exact environment is.

We have to evolve. I know you know that, but it doesn't hurt to say it.

We have to evolve.

Eventually, the oil will become to expensive to extract. We may come up with alternatives for some things, but overall, I don't see ethanol or wind energy replacing oil--or coal for that matter. Not until the coal runs out. We'll find ways to cling to our lifestyles, like an alcoholic drinking mouthwash. We'll drink till we die.

But some of us will survive, because some of us can adapt. I don't know if I'm going to be one of them. I don't know if my children (hypothetical for now) will be among them. But I know that, just as some dinosaurs became birds, some people will go on, living in an age without oil, an age without ease.

We're the last, you know. The end of a golden age that maybe was only pyrite. It's like some Greek story, like Icarus or Atlantis. Like Camelot. I remember reading The Last Battle, the last book in the Narnia series. King Tirian laments that he lived to see the end of the world, and how much better had he died before-hand. I've been thinking about that a lot.

It's not so much the end, but the end as we know it.

And I feel fine.

Week 29: Giving Thanks

2007-11-22T10:06:00.000-05:00

Goose is one hell of a tough bird.

What people may not realize about wild game is that it's not tender like the nice cuts of meat at the supermarket. It's tough, and you have to cook it the right way. A goose takes 25 minutes per pound, and at twelve pounds it took about five hours. Turkey might take five hours, but we're talking a twenty-pound turkey.

At any rate, tonight we had goose, squash, peas, greenbean casserole (honest to god, mom still had those damn French's Onions or whatever they are. Guess they never go bad), potatoes, apple-walnut-raisin stuffing (my idea--putting fruit in a goose sounded good), and for the first time real cranberries, not the stuff out of can.

To be honest, I still like the canned jelly better. I'll adapt.

Everything but the cranberries was local; do cranberries only grow in New England? And we had pumpkin pie made with real sugar pumpkins. But again, I still prefer the canned mush. I guess I'll get used to it.

But, seeing as today is Thanksgiving, this is what I'm thankful for:

my family, especially my husband
I'm still employed
we still have our house
that Pennsylvania has a lot of farms
that I'm still a pretty-good shot with a rifle.

I know, there are other things. But I just feel grateful that I think we can make it through the winter. I don't think it'll be easy, but we can do it.

November can be a dreary month, especially when it rains. We just sit at the computer, checking patents, breaking for lunch, breaking for dinner. We try to get the week's work done in about three days, so that we have four days off. The company pays us by the work we do, not by the hours, so it makes sense.

So we spend our days trying to fill the time. I've started crocheting again; I used to do it as a teenager, but never kept up with it after I went to college. Just wasn't that interested, and besides, I can always buy a sweater--why make one?

Well...

So I'm trying to make a blanket, but I'm not very good at it. I keep having to unravel and start again. And it's only one color--I can't really do much else.

To be honest, I'm bored.

Survival--when we're talking about just getting through the day, when every day will be the same--when survival means "here, eat this canned food that you've been eating every day this week"--when survival means you don't go to the movies anymore or buy CDs anymore because that money's going towards the heating bill, and besides, there aren't any movies being made and the theaters are mostly closed, except for the occasional repertory theater--when survival means just getting through the damn day, it can be pretty damn boring.

Maybe the depression's just getting to me. I've been off my medication for months now, and while sometimes I'm too busy to feel anything, there are other times--and I know the winter will be like this--other times when I despair.

And I still can't figure out what to give Den for Christmas. I dunno, I guess I'll crochet something. Last year, I bought him a Playstation.

Omnia vanitas...

Week 28: Baby, It's Cold Outside

2007-11-15T10:40:00.000-05:00

November comes, and with it the frost.

I remember the Thanksgiving when I was ten; that was 1989. It snowed on Thanksgiving Day, and I remember being both thrilled with the snow, and a little mad that it hadn't come earlier and given us an extra-long vacation.

Now, of course, I'm hoping the snow won't come early this year. Last year, I don't think we got snow until January, but then again, last year it was in the 60s on Christmas. Bleh.

So it's cold. Not dead-of-winter cold, but cold nonetheless. And Den and I are trying to think of ways to keep warm.

Our house, being old, uses radiator heat. The system was updated before we bought the place--new water tank, etc.--and supposedly it's more efficient than gas heating hot air. Problem is, we're still relying on gas. Natural gas, unlike oil, supposedly hasn't peaked yet, but it's a matter of time. On the plus side, our windows are new, the roof over our heads is good, and we added insulation in the attic when we moved in.

Still, I hope we can get through the winter like we have the last couple of winters--turn the dial back to 65°, wear sweaters, and when it's really cold, huddle. Heh.

In other news, we finally got Kate off to Reading. Den and I drove her down to King of Prussia, where a Greyhound terminal is still operating. It was the day after Halloween--Samhain, November 1. Old Irish new year, a time of ghosts and all that.

According to my stepfather, in the old days you didn't get candy at Halloween, you got cans of food and whatnot. It was more like begging door-to-door. Well, everything old is new again, I guess. Kids came in costumes, and we gave "treats"--raisins, oatmeal cookies (made with honey not sugar), and a few lucky kids got caramel apples.

If I was a kid, I'd be pissed. But the parents looked happy.

The next day, we drove Kate down.

"You'll call me when you get in, right?"

"Don't worry, Mary. It's Greyhound, not an airplane."

"I know. But you'll call, right?"

"Yes."

Den asked, "Do you think they'll finally reopen the Reading-Philadelphia line?"

"Pfft. They've been talking about it for ten years. If this doesn't do it, nothing will," I said.

The bus started it's engine. "Be careful, Kate."

"You too."

And with that, the bus pulled out of the terminal. I followed it, down to the street, down to 202, and I watched it pull away over the horizon and out of site, like ships at sea, like all those people who sailed to the New World, leaving friends and family behind, into the great unknown.

Den put his arm around me. We went back to the car and headed home.

She did eventually call. She's with her family now in Reading, trying to figure out what to do with herself.

I just hope I get to see her again.

Finally, a brief couple of things. The garden did OK, but not as great as I would've hoped. I got some tomatoes, some peppers, but animals ate some of my tomato plants, and I know someone stole the carrots--they were pulled right out of the ground. I guess I dozed off. I've guarded it off and on--I rigged up a system where the lights go on in the garden, and sets off a buzzer in the bedroom, but sometimes I'm too slow to catch the thief.

Still, we've stocked a lot of food, and my folks' garden did great, as did my stepbrother. So hopefully we can mooch off of them to some extent. Sounds bad, but we're offering something in return:

Den's relatively young and strong, and can chop firewood; so can I.
I'm a good shot with a gun. I've been going out and hunting wild game for meat--geese, rabbits, deer.

There aren't a whole lot of deer around, though--I think they've been pretty picked over. But there always seems to be more Canadian geese.

The funny thing, is that I remember this one Christmas when I was seventeen. I'd gotten it into my head that we should have a "Dickensian Christmas". So my mom, humoring me I guess, got us a goose from Zerns (she also got a turkey--smart thinking), and I found recipies for chestnut stuffing and plum pudding. Well, we found out a few things:

geese don't have a lot of meat on them. A lot of fat, but not a lot of meat.
chestnuts explode if you don't cut slits in them.
plum pudding has a hell of a lot of ingredients, and yet no plums, just apricots.

So we're back to eating geese. Tough birds, but at least they're currently abundant and free.

So. We're a week from Thanksgiving, and I've got some work--some hunting--to do. Be writing again soon, I hope.

Week 24: That's the Sound of the Men Workin' on a Chain Gang

2007-10-20T23:24:00.000-04:00

Kate's still with us. We've been having trouble getting a hold of her family. A lot of phone tag.

Here's the thing. Pennsylvania has some of the best farmland in the country. We really do. We can grow almost anything here--corn, grapes, apples, wheat, you name it. Jersey's much the same. The thing about agriculture, though, is that it requires a lot of manual labor.

I wasn't sure when I read lead-tag's journal about FEMA the labor camps whether he was kidding or not. Well, not. Kate and I stopped down at a local orchard to get some produce, and we saw all these people out working in the trees. "OK," I said, "guess that's what ya gotta do." But then Kate said she recognized one of the workers.

"That's Lisa--"

"Huh?"

"Over there, that's Lisa. She's--I worked with her. She lost her job when I did."

"What's she doing out here?"

"I-I don't know."

I walked up to the kid running the stand. "Hey--what's with the people?"

"Huh?"

"Where'd they come from?"

"Oh, they're from the camp."

"Camp?"

"Yeah, the camp. Outside of Norristown."

"There's a what?"

"You know, with the trailers and stuff. Refugees, I guess."

"From what?"

"Homelessness, I guess. Look, all I know is they're brought here to pick the apples."

We doubled-back after buying our produce, and snuck into the orchard. There we saw Lisa, up on a ladder.

"Lisa!" Kate's voice was little more than a hiss.

"Kate? Shh! Kate, don't let 'em know you're here."

"Why?"

"Quiet! Look, wherever you came from, go back. You don't want to get caught up."

"Caught in what?"

Lisa looked around, I guess for a boss. Nothing. "After you left, the government came through--told everyone who wanted that they could find work out in the country, and a place to live. So I went. I was tired of being shot at."

"Damn it, Lisa, you shouldn't've left. Arthur would've--"

"Arthur's got his own problems. There's a price on his head."

"What?"

I laughed. "'Price on his head'--what is he, Robin Hood? Are we back in the Middle Ages now?"

Kate gave me a withering look.

Lisa continued. "A gang. Look, it's a long story. He's got problems with a gang; I got the hell out of there. Jumped on the truck and didn't look back."

"Why didn't you try to get back to West Chester?"

"Um... Because I'm a lesbian and they're devout Catholics?"

"Yeah. Well, I doubt you're gettin' any pu-"

"Shh. Look, guys, get going. Go home. I'll see if I can talk to you later."

Kate said, "I still have my cellphone."

"OK."

We still haven't heard from her.

Week 23: An Unexpected Party

2007-10-12T20:30:00.000-04:00

I was awoken this morning by pounding at the door.

"Kate?"

"I need your help."

"Obviously, if you're up here."

I brewed some coffee--something I rarely do anymore, due to the cost and scarcity, but this counts as a special occasion. We sat at the kitchen table, as I made some toast and preserves.

"I need to get to Reading."

"Good luck."

"No--I mean it. I need to get home. To my parents."

"Why? What's going on? I mean, other than the end of the world as we know it."

"I was laid off. And I haven't been able to get to class--I can't afford it now."

"Oh."

"Can you help me?"

"I..."

"Mary, please. What choice do I have?"

What choice do I have?

"Take a couple of days and stay with us. OK? We'll figure out how to get you home, but take a couple of days here and rest. Try and get a hold of your mom, see what's going on in Reading."

That afternoon, we went down to my parents' place for lunch; Lansdale has a shuttle going back and forth between the train station and Center Point in Worcester. Kate told my folks about losing her job, and how she needed to get to Reading.

"Are there still Greyhound buses?" Kate asked.

"In King of Prussia, there are," my stepfather said.

"Is--is there any way to get there? I know, I should've gone from Philly, but, I guess I wasn't thinking."

"It's alright, Kate," I said, "I'll take you."

And I will, but not for a few days--I'm going to try and get a collection for gas money.

I've got a bad feeling about this...

Week 23: I Just Wasn't Made For These Times

2007-10-11T20:19:00.000-04:00

The ax came down on Friday. Half the office was let go, including Kate. Her paystub in hand, she took the trolley back to Arthur's.

"They laid me off."

"I'm sorry, Kate."

"No--it's OK. I--I can just spend more time on school."

"Yeah."

"Arthur. I don't know if... I don't know how I'll chip in right now."

He nodded. "There's probably something. The co-op--"

"The co-op already has three people working there. That's all they can support. They want volunteers, not workers."

Arthur began fiddling with a broken radio. One of his sister's kids dropped it down the stairs that morning. "Kate, I'll help you as long as I can, but--"

"But this isn't a charity. I know."

Kate left. Arthur sat back. He knew what she was going to do, but he didn't feel he could stop her. Resources were stretched as it was.

That night, Kate packed two bags. There wasn't much left--the bed and dishes she knew she'd have to leave behind; she selected a few of her favorite books. A few favorite clothes. A few favorite cds. Her laptop.

She missed the apartment. The backyard, with her tomato plants; the mantel over the fireplace, where a Buddha sat next to a rosemary tree; her books. It wasn't much, but it had been hers. But that was over now.

"Where are you gonna go?" Lisa, who worked with her until the layoff, had been her roommate for the past two months here at Arthur's. She'd been let go too.

"I don't know. I just want to go home. I want to go back to Reading."

"How?"

"I don't know. I just--look, I've got some friends out of the city. They say things are OK out there. I'm going up to them, and from there, I'll figure something out."

"Are you serious?"

"What choice is there? I can't stay here. I can't even go to school anymore. At least in Reading I have family." She paused. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

In the morning, Kate took the trolley to 30th Street Station, boarded the R5, and headed for Lansdale.

Week 21: Village Green Preservation Society

2007-09-21T23:44:00.000-04:00

Preserving the old ways from being abused
Protecting the new ways for me and for you
What more can we do?

I haven't been telling some of the good news, because it's so easy to be distracted by the bad. So here's some good news:

1.) My parents' vegetable garden has had a bumper crop. Tomatoes canned for the winter, peppers turned into pepper relish, beans frozen for the winter, etc. Ate the latest zucchini tonight while visiting for dinner. They even have two pumpkins that survived--pumpkins have never really done well in the past, usually only one that makes it.

2.) Lansdale recently created a farmers' market in town, so that folks didn't have to trek all the way to Skippack or take the train down to Glenside. It's been in the parking lot of the shopping center just west of the town center; I think by next year they're building a permanent space.

3.) On the back of the Lansdale Farmers Market, it sounds like the communities of Lansdale, North Wales, Montgomeryville and the northern part of Worcester are banding together. Now, this is actually a pretty wide area--maybe ten miles in diameter. They're talking about petitioning Septa to increase their routes (Worcester doesn't have any connection to Septa). There's talk of starting a wind-farm, and getting PECO in on it.

The funniest thing I heard was from a couple of bar owners who've complained about the lack of beer in the area; so they're working with the Keystone Brew Supply store to start a local brewery. I don't know how much they can do at this point--it's so late in the season--but by next fall I guess we'll have some local beer being produced.

4.) Horses. Worcester has at least three horse farms, probably more. (There's also at least one sheep farm, but that's another story.) Well, the local communities are looking into getting them to breed a lot more horses. Let's face it--if we're not going to be running a lot of cars, there's always the Amish Way.

5.) Speaking of the Amish, there's apparently a move to get some Amish up here from Lancaster to basically teach us how to do what they do--that is, live without modern convenience (more or less--that's a very simplistic way of thinking about the Amish, but I'm not getting into that now).

So yeah, some things are OK. We're holding onto the house, at least as of now. While there's been some layoffs at the company, they haven't chopped off our heads yet, so there's still hope.

As for my folks, they're safe. The looters haven't been around lately, in part because Worcester's started a volunteer police force. They're a more visible presence now; and a couple of my relative (nephews, cousins, etc.) have joined. So while I doubt everything's going to be nice and normal, at least things are a little safer.

I'm writing this on the Autumnal Equinox. It's been a long, scary summer, but maybe the autumn will be better. It's starting to feel that way. But at the same time, I have to remind myself that yeah--it's autumn now. It's getting cold, and soon it'll be winter. And it's going to be a hard winter.

But for now, I'm just going to look forward to harvest, to Halloween, and to the work ahead.

Week 20: More on the Sunoco Incident

2007-09-15T22:05:00.000-04:00

It's been three days since the Sunoco Incident. They--that is, the state and city governments and thus the media--are saying it wasn't terrorism per se, but an attempt to steal the oil. At least, that's the story right now--who knows? But I swear to god, people are stupid--as baltpiker pointed out, the refineries have been under guard for months now. There was no way they'd get away with it. The identities of the thieves haven't been released, and that's making me suspicious. On the other hand, I guess if it was terrorism, they'd have struck at a time when they could get mass casualties, and not at five in the morning.

I went downtown today, in part because I'm a fool and in part because I'm an ex-journalism student. Den has a lot of work to get through, though, so he stayed behind.

So I hopped the R5 from Lansdale down to Market East. There was a huge backup getting off because in order to leave the platform you now have to go through metal detectors and pass bomb-sniffing dogs and whatnot. So even if the Sunoco job wasn't terrorism, the cops aren't taking any chances.

I hate to say it, I can't blame 'em.

There are National Guard troops in the city now; not just down at the refinery, but posted outside Independence Hall, outside (and in the courtyard of) City Hall, down at the Stock Exchange--you get the idea. Let's face it--if people are nuts enough to attack an oil refinery, what's to stop them from attacking anything else?

OK, I'm feeling a little paranoid these days.

As I said, some two hundred people died from the gas leak. The city's in mourning. This is my city--I grew up here as a kid, I lived here until the spring. My heart is still here. And maybe that's why I felt like I had to come down.

There was a tent set up in the park next to the Constitution Center. Volunteers I asked what they needed--"Anything. Put together food packages, first aid kits. Head down to Graduate [Hospital], they could use some volunteers."

"What about down in South Philly?"

"You don't wanna go down there. Besides, only the National Guard is going down there."

"Why?"

"Why the hell do you think? Look, you wanna help or not?"

"Yeah, I do. What can I do?"

So they set me to putting together food packages. Canned goods, mac & cheese, the usual food drive stuff. What amazes me--and encourages me--is that people, despite their resources being tight, are giving.

Around noon, they let us take a break, so I headed over to the Reading Terminal for some lunch. Normally (or at least normally being six months ago) the place is packed, every day of the week--but now, well, not so much. Oh, there were still folks getting lunch, mostly in suits, but the crowds definitely weren't there.

So anyway, I sat and had spinach pie at the Middle Eastern place, and a pretzel from the Amish pretzel guys. I knew I was spending a lot of money--money we need--but I was famished, and it'd been a long time since I'd had anything special like that. And, I don't know, I figure the sellers need the money too.

I also bought some fish and packed it in ice. I haven't had fresh fish in months--you just don't find it for a reasonable price up in the suburbs anymore. I admit, I'd packed a soft-vinyl cooler just for this. There's nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone.

After lunch, I headed back to the volunteer station. Talked with some other people--a lot who lived in town, but a few from the suburbs who came down on the trains like me. (I'll get to what we talked about in another post.)

So anyway, I called it a day around 6:30 and tried to get on a train. Well, stupid move, because the station was packed, and I ended up sitting for an hour and a half waiting for a chance to get on a train. Den offered to pick me up in the car, but I told him not to waste the gas. I did call him when I was near the station, though, and he walked me home.

God, I'm exhausted. Anyway, this is a really abbreviated version of what happened. I'll post more later.

Week 20: Happiness is a Warm Gun

2007-09-14T14:46:00.000-04:00

My stepfather was a marine in WWII. My mom is a retired nurse. Overall, I feel pretty fortunate. Though my stepfather is old, he's physically and mentally much younger--apparently it runs in his family.

I bring this up for two reasons. The first is that I don't know if we can keep the house here in Lansdale. Jesus, I hate even thinking about this, but it's getting too expensive, and I'm afraid the bank will foreclose. We didn't get a crazy subprime loan, we have a tradition, fixed-rate mortgage that back in May was only 31% of our income--which is about standard. But now, with gas being more expensive, food more expensive, electricity more expensive--you get the idea. The cost of the house hasn't gone up, but everything else has. And while we've still got our jobs, I don't know how long that will last--they've started laying off some of the lower-skilled and recently hired folks at the company; they had tried just using attrition, but it wasn't working fast enough--who wants to retire now?

So one of these days, the ax is gonna fall. And what'll we do then? Foreclosure, I guess.

Unless someone blows up the bank that holds our mortgage. I don't know if that would even work, but hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

So when that happens, we really have only one alternative--move back in with my parents. God, I never though I'd have to do that again...

But that's not the only reason I mention my parents. The other is that Worcester, where they live and where I grew up, isn't much of a town--I think it's technically a "township", which means it doesn't have much infrastructure. There aren't any local cops, the firehouse is all volunteer, and there isn't a public sewer or water system--everyone's on wells. So things are really isolated, and it's typical that people have several acres to themselves.

Well, a few days ago, they got a call from my stepbrother David, who lives down the road from them. His next door neighbors had been shot and the house ransacked. Now, we're talking about a town where the worst crimes were speeding and the occasional domestic disturbance. Not a place with a lot of murder or robberies. But the Johannsons were murdered. Valuables stolen. Dave doesn't know who did it, and really, who knows? Could be local, could be someone from Philly, or one of the near-by towns. No one knows anymore.

Anyway, so now my parents--who've always been cautious, and who already owned a few guns--are pretty much in a siege mentality. Hell, I am too. And now I wonder if Den and I should be living with them just to keep everyone safe.

I don't know. I don't know what'll happen next. But damn it, I don't want to lose my house.

Week 20: They've Finally Attacked Sunoco.

2007-09-13T09:24:00.000-04:00

I don't know who remembers this, but six years ago this week was the terrorist attacks. You know, the ones people used to think of when you said "terrorism". I was in college at the time--a grad student, working for an MA in English because I didn't know what else to do with my time. Economic slump, no call for ex-English majors, not much call for anything. So I lived with my parents, worked at a Barnes & Noble, took classes at West Chester (where I'd just graduated), and tried to be a playwright in the Philly scene. To be honest, it was ideal, because I'm lazy and adverse to working in an office.

And then one day I was driving down to school--to think I used to drive from Worcester to West Chester, 30 miles each way, every day. And I heard about the first plane, and then as I listened to channel 6 on the radio, I heard Charlie Gibson suck in his breath when the second one hit.

Class was canceled, as was the night's Philly Fringe shows. As I drove home, the B&N I worked at was closed up and the parking lot empty. I just remember drinking a lot, because my parents were down the shore on vacation, and my sister was back in school up in Edinboro.

I guess where I'm going with this is that as messed up and terrifying as things seemed back then, it wasn't anything compared to what's happening now.

There was an attack on the Sunoco refinery down in South Philly this morning. No one's sure exactly what the story is--channel 6 says some low-level mafia trying to steal oil and sell it themselves and botching the job, while channel 10 puts in on more Muslim terrorists, like those guys at Fort Dix. What we do know is that there was a gunfight, two explosions, and a large leak of "anhydrous hydrogen fluoride"--thousands of gallons, they're saying. Hundreds of people are dead--refinary workers, folks asleep in bed. Anyone on I-95 seems to have gotten away in time, but maybe we just don't know about it yet.

Because this happened early in the morning, around 5 am, it wasn't as bad as it could've been--no one was at the Linc or a Phillies game, and while folks were on I-95 going to work, rush hour wasn't in full swing.

That's all I know. I don't think Kate's hurt--she's over in West Philly, and the wind doesn't blow west usually.

It's only ten o'clock, but damn it I need a drink.

I'll write more if I know what's going on.

Week 17: And we live a life of ease/Everyone of us has all we need.

2007-08-21T01:24:00.000-04:00

Arthur's house has three floors and a basement. Five bedrooms, a backyard garden.

He'd lived alone for years now, since Hannah left. But with the crisis, he'd opened his house to friends. In some ways, there wasn't much of a choice.

Kate moved into Arthur's house; the apartment was too much, too expensive, and it wasn't safe to be alone there anymore. With her came a coworker who used to live out in West Chester with her parents; the girl hasn't seen her parents for two weeks now. They shared a bedroom on the third floor, along with Kate's two cats.

There were others, mostly friends who worked in the city and couldn't afford to go home anymore, couldn't go back out to the suburbs. Sarah, a paralegal, came with her husband and baby; Arthur'd never wanted a baby in his house--he wasn't good with children--but he couldn't say no. They took over what had been a second-floor "drawing room" in better days. His cousin John came, bringing an Irish wolfhound. "This is worse than the baby," Arthur sighed. But again, there wasn't a "no".

What Arthur couldn't do was convince his mother. She stayed in her rowhouse the Great Northeast; Arthur hoped she'd made friends with the Russian mafia. He called her every night, just to make sure she was still alive.

And there were others, drifting in and out. Friends from the zendo; artists; friends from his day job who needed a place to crash.

He liked his quiet life; he'd had enough excitement in Iraq. Now, there was no such thing.

The riots haven't touched Philly yet. Septa, in a move that shocked everyone, was still running. Full capacity, every trolley car, every subway car, every one of the dwindling buses. They promised they were working on a diesel-electric hybrid, but they'd been promising for at least seven years.

There's still time, he thought. If we can just keep things going, if we can just avoid--

A gunshot; it sounded at least a block away.

The riots may not come, but Philly was still Philly.

The mantel clock chimed; it was one a.m. In four hours, he had to get up. It almost didn't seem worth going in.

Week 16: Since Rationing Started Baby, You Just Take Your Stuff And Hide

2007-08-15T21:33:00.000-04:00

They've started rationing, even electricity, so I'll try and make this as brief as I can.

My job consists of proof-reading patents for the government; I don't work for the government, just a company contracted to it. So I get to see all sorts of patents; it used to be they were mostly pharmaceutical or golf-based. (No, I'm not kidding about golf.) Lately, though, there've been a lot of patents coming through on energy technologies. Solar batteries, hybrid cars, anything that can save on energy use. I don't know how many or if any of this stuff will ever really hit the market, or at least if it'll be seen by anyone other than the wealthy.

I did one smart thing before all this went down--I bought a SW/AM/FM radio that can be powered through a crank. I originally bought it for camping. (Huh. Only last summer we went up to Promised Land Park. Don't think I'll ever see that again. Haven't though of it till now.)

Anyway, with the radio, I'm able to pick up stations from all over. KWY is still running, as is WHYY, but a lot of stuff is intermittent; and WHYY had a habit of conking out even before the oil shocks. However, I can pick up the BBC World Service (though it's very faint). Unfortunately, I don't speak any modern languages except some muddled Welsh, so the Spanish-language stations aren't much help to me, other than (swear to god) Radio Havana. Yeah, I know, communist dictatorship, but at least it's in English and comes in really clearly.

So today Den and I were in the basement, working on our brew*, listening to the radio, when we heard about this. I don't know what to make of it yet. White supremacists, the radio said. Wonderful--just what we need. I knew it would happen some day.

Meanwhile, Den's cousin is being shipped off to Iraq. Army translator--the kid's good with languages. Jesus, I'm scared for him.

You know, nine months ago, it was Christmas. Den and I and our friend Mike went to see Children of Men, and found it the second most depressing film ever**--though I did love it.

Well, I came across this post from the UK--chilling ain't the half of it.

Guess that wasn't so brief after all. Better sign off now and crank up the radio.

*We brew mead. I know that sounds kinda odd, but I'm an amateur medievalist. Or was, I guess. Anyway, mead is easy--just water, honey, and yeast. And some chemicals, but I bought a good supply a few weeks ago, back when the store shelves hadn't run out.

And of course, now we have the bees dying off...

**Oddly enough, the most depressing was Pan's Labyrinth. Again, awesome movie, but man, I needed a drink afterwards. The third most depressing is Requiem for a Dream, which I don't think I can ever watch again.

When Hunger Comes A-Rap-Rat-A-Tat, Rat-A-Tat At The Window...

2007-08-10T21:05:00.000-04:00

I know I haven't been keeping up with posting. Sometimes I feel like there's nothing to say, and sometimes I feel too shell-shocked to say anything.

Three days ago, I rode my bike out to a local poultry farm over in Hatfield, hoping to get some eggs. They were sold out. "Sold out? How can you be sold out?"

"Look, chickens aren't magical, you know, it's not like you can just wish up some eggs from 'em."

And so I tried riding down to Merrymead, the dairy. It isn't far from town--in fact, it's halfway between my place and my parents down in Worcester. There was a line when I got there--people are panic-buying, hoarding whatever food they can. I admit, I'm trying to do that too, but you can't really hoard dairy or eggs--they go bad quickly.

"Half-gallon of 2%, please."

"Seven dollars."

I didn't know what to say.

"Seven dollars?"

"Look, you wanna go somewhere else? They'll probably charge you ten."

"For a half-gallon?"

"You think it's cheap to run a farm?"

I know how expensive it can be, though not in the sense they mean.

A few tomatoes and squash had started coming in two days ago--small, of course, not ripe yet.

Yesterday morning, they were gone. Picked off, presumably eaten.

This is my food. I planted it, I'm going to harvest it.

So.

So I got a shotgun. I just want to scare the thieves, I don't want to shoot them. I can't really blame anyone who's hungry for stealing, but they're taking food out of our mouthes.

So tonight, I'm sleeping on a cot in the mudroom. I've hooked up the motion sensors, and if they go off, I'll be right there to scare them away.

I hope.

You know, I'm not anti-gun, but I've never wanted to own one. At least not until now.

God, I just wish this would be over.

In other news, I haven't heard from Kate for a couple of days. I don't like it--I don't know what's going on with her right now, and I'm worried. I offered her the spare bedroom, but she still won't take it.

I just don't know what to do.

Week 10: Engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin

2007-07-05T22:08:00.000-04:00

First, just want to mention that the company has finally decided that we can just email them our work. Eventually, I hope they'll just set up an ftp server that we can upload to, instead of having to send multiple emails with different documents.

I've been looking into CSAs--there are a few in the area, but they're several miles away, and so we have to ride our bikes. Well, now that we don't have to go to work, we have the time to ride several miles a day, but bringing back the eggs or milk is a pain. Den tried jerry-rigging baskets to our bikes; they're not as stable as we'd like, but we make due.

I got a call from Kate; things aren't going so well in Philly. Go figure. Her bike was stolen by a group of kids; she'd be worse off, but a friend of hers scared them away by shooting at them. Didn't kill anyone, thankfully. I told her that if she ever needs a place to stay, if the city gets to be too much for her, we have an extra bedroom and would be happy to have her. I hope she knows we're serious.

I haven't been this dependent on my bike since I was fifteen and living up in Boyertown. Out there, there aren't any Septa lines; there's really no way to get around without a car. I can't imagine what they're doing. I posted a photo from the farmers' market up there at my flickr account:

Every Friday they've had car auctions--folks would pick up a car, maybe work on it, give it to their kid when they turn 16, whatever. The funny thing is that a couple of years ago they stopped having the livestock auctions on Saturday nights; I don't know if it was an economic thing or a health hazard, or what. But they continued with the car auctions, since it was so popular.

I have the feeling they're back to auctioning pigs and chickens instead of Ford Escorts.

A few months ago--November--my husband and I were on our honeymoon. We went to the U.K.--England and Wales specifically. Two nights in London, Halloween spent at Glastonbury, and the rest of the time in Wales. Well, the funny thing is that we stopped at the University of Wales in Lampeter, because they have an online masters program in Celtic studies, which is my hobby.
Anyway, skip ahead to the end of April, and I read this:

The age of cheap oil is drawing to a close, climate change already threatens, and politicians dither. But the people of Lampeter, a small community in the middle of rural Wales, gathered together earlier this week to mobilise for a new war effort. They decided to plan their "energy descent".

When Den read this, he laughed. "It's like they're finding ways to get you to move there."

I wish.

But not only that--I wish that we'd do this here. In Lansdale, in Philadelphia, wherever. Pennsylvania has a lot of coal and several nuclear power plants, so while we're not hurting for electricity, the stress is obvious, and sometimes electricity doesn't replace oil.

We need to get off it--completely off it--as soon as possible, or we're dead. And we're at the point where there's no choice.

Week 10: Heroes and Villains

2007-07-04T14:05:00.000-04:00

Kate was riding to the co-op on her bike. She'd been warned that it wasn't safe, but really, what's the point of having a bike if you can't use it?

A group of young men stepped out in front of her. She tried to go around, but they grabbed her, caught her, took the bike and her wallet. They left her self alone, though, when a neighbor came out side and fired a gun in the air. For this small miracle, she was grateful.

The neighbor--Arthur--was an artist; she knew him from the local Buddhist zendo. He didn't seem the type to own a gun.

"What, and Buddhists don't practice martial arts, either?" he laughed, picking her up off the ground.

"I--yeah. Well, thank god."

He offered her an escort to the co-op. He went back into the three-story house; old houses, Victorian, full of gables and back staircases, and backyard gardens. She followed. He grabbed a handgun, concealed it, and put a jacket on.

"Isn't that illegal?"

"So's mugging."

"I thought you were an artist."

"I am. I'm also not stupid."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean you're stupid. Look, I'm an artist, but I was also a Marine."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Desert Storm ."

"Wow. I had no idea."

"You ready to go?"

Kate paused. "Do you think it's safe?"

"Probably not. But we've gotta eat, right?"

She nodded, and followed him outside.

I'd just like to thank WWO for awarding this post. :)

Week 9: Taking the Plunge

2007-06-27T12:48:00.000-04:00

Well, we've done it. We've become homeworkers.

Basically, being a homeworker means that we're given computers by the company to do our proofing and editing on, and then once a week come to the main building and turn in our work.* Which sounds like a good deal, I suppose. It also means no health care.

We're both relatively healthy--physically anyway. I've suffered from depression for as long as I can remember, and I don't know what I'll do now without being able to afford my medication. I don't know what to do--I could try something herbal, but I'm skeptical. On the other hand, what choice to I have?

And how can I not be depressed when things are going like they are? Jesus, what a hell of a time to buy a house.

On top of that, I've been taking birth control for years--and now? I don't know. If we can't afford contraception... God, I hate the thought of the rhythm method. But I'm not sure what else to do. It's not like there's many condoms around anymore--latex may not be made from oil, but transporting them takes as much oil as anything else. And oil is being diverted to emergency services and the military now--not to Trojan.

So we're homeworkers. We've canceled our cable, canceled our cell phones. We still have the internet, and rabbit ears work just as fine as when I was a kid in the '80s.

We're spending a lot of time around the house now. But at least I have time to tend the garden.

*Why they don't just have us email the work to them I don't understand. For an IT company, they're very scared of new technology. However, I think they're getting the idea that work is going to have to be emailed.

Week 8: Wither Canada?

2007-06-23T12:51:00.000-04:00

My husband is part French Canadian. He doesn't actually know his French Canadian grandmother--she died before he was born. But he's been to Canada, and attributes his love of hockey to being part Canadian. And a Philadelphian in the 1970s (Go Flyers!).

Of course, his 13 hours in Canada consisted of having his truck broken into and stealing his birth certificate. It's a long story.

So hearing that we've invaded Canada, his first response is, "First we stole Wayne Gretzky... They won't like that."

So much for the longest peaceful border in the world.

They're talking about rationing, but no one seems able to get off their asses and get it started. My stepfather lived through the Depression and WWII--he remembers rationing. It can be done, it can even be orderly. But these days we're too goddamn stupid, greedy, and lazy to do it right.

We can be just as bad, Den and I. We want chips, we buy chips. We want pizza, we buy pizza. It's hard to break the habit. I've never thought of myself as an addict, but the idea of rationing just shows how addictive "freedom" is. I can't say that buying pizza whenever you want it is actual freedom--I don't know what it is. Middle class, I guess. But just that one little encroachment--"no, you can't gorge yourself anymore, you have to share with everyone"--is still hard for me to grok.

God, I'm hungry just thinking about it.

The garden is doing well. After a cold, rainy spring (with snow in April--I'm still bitter), June's been pretty good. The tomatoes and peppers are coming in OK. Haven't seen signs of the potatoes, and I hope the squirrels didn't eat them.

I know I need to learn how to can. Again, I'll be asking my stepfather. I feel lucky, knowing someone that connected to the past.

One last thing regarding shortages--I've been skipping some of my doses, so that I can slowly stockpile my meds. I don't know if this is a good idea or not, but if I can't get them normally, at least I'll have a small supply to ween myself off of them. You know, if it gets desperate.

Week 7: Standin on the Corner, Waitin for the Bus

2007-06-12T12:31:00.000-04:00

Say hey mister driver man
Don't be slow
Cause I got somewhere I got to go...

I don't know whether Septa is a boon or a curse. (I also don't know why I just used "boon" or "curse", but I think I should put down the damn fantasy books for a while.) Septa is notoriously badly managed--every two years or so they talk about funding shortfalls and rate hikes. I can't help but wonder where all the money is going, and I know I'm not the only one.

But having said that, Septa is all we've got. We need it--especially now. Since the crisis, Septa's been adding more buses and trolleys, and running the trains more frequently, but as Baltpiker points out, there's a labor shortage. We need more drivers.

And we need more trolleys. Having more buses on the road is good, but it's temporary. The oil is drying up. The LA Times said that there's no way to avoid fuel shortages now. So what good is a bus when you can't run it?

And that brings me to our problem. Den and I are stuck in Lansdale, and have to get to work in Horsham. Now, normally this wouldn't be a big deal, since Lansdale and Horsham are both right on Rt. 63--a straight shot. But there isn't a busline that goes down 63 from Lansdale to, say, Willow Grove (which is east of Horsham). The easiest way to get from Lansdale to Horsham is to take the R5 to Glenside, and the 22 bus up to Horsham. It's like taking the wrong sides of a triangle when you could just take one leg. The trip is theoretically over an hour one way--which, granted, could be worse, and often is, with the trains and buses being overcrowded.

I shouldn't have quit my job at Temple. An easy train ride down the R5, and I'd be at work in 45 minutes at the most. But no--I had to quit. I had to get away from my weaselly little boss. It sounded like a good idea at the time...

If the fuel runs out... Look, in Pennsylvania we're kinda lucky, because there are a lot of farms. Dairies, vegetables, poultry, we've got it. But do we have enough? Is everyone gonna descend on the farmers' markets this weekend? And a lot of stuff, a lot of vegetables, aren't even in yet and won't be until July or August.

The good news--and there is good news--is that Den finally got to pick up a bike. We were gouged on it, of course--$300 for a used Cranbrook. But I don't see an alternative.

Week 6: Denial Ain't Just a River

2007-06-09T22:12:00.000-04:00

Kate rides the trolley. She doesn't drive, doesn't even use the bus. She buys local food from a co-op. She says this won't affect her.

Kate works on the eighth floor of the EPA building. She is a record keeper; by night, she works on her MLS at Drexel. Eight floors being a long way up, she takes the elevator.

The air conditioning didn't seem to be working right. It was humid; the polyester shirt she wore stuck to her, not letting her skin breath, her sweat to escape. Four people got onto the elevator with her; at least one could use another shower. Kate tried to subtly breathe through her mouth, but that isn't something you can do subtly, and so she made her way to the back of the elevator so that none would notice.

Between the third and forth floors, the elevator stopped. Then the lights went out. "Crap--I've got a meeting in ten minutes," one of the men said.

"Eh, it'll be back on in a second."

"I thought they fixed the elevators," Kate said.

"That's not the elevators--that's the electricity."

"Oh."

They stood, shuffling a little, loosening collars, joking about the weather, the high gas prices. "See, that's why I live in the city and take public transportation," Kate said triumphantly.

"Yeah. The city's a great place to be when society's falling apart."

"Let it go, Paul," said a woman, who'd been silent until now.

"No--I mean it. The city was a cesspool before the crisis, and it's only getting worse. Did you hear about the shooting--"

"Which one?" Kate asked.

"Yeah. Exactly. Which one. And that was before--"

"Before the oil shock. Yes. We know."

"Three shootings a day. Did you know someone siphoned my car?"

"Huh?" said Kate.

"Siphon. Stole my gas. If I'd been there--"

"Yeah. God, it's stuffy in here. Do you think we'll run out of air?"

"I'm telling you," said Paul, "if it wasn't for the security in this building, I'd carry a handgun."

"Thank god for security," the woman said.

"Yeah? Let's see you say that when you get held up again. You were lucky last time."

The lights came on. The hum of the air conditioning kicked on. The elevator slowly lurched up to the sixth floor, and then the eighth.

Kate came to her desk, sat down, and opened her email. It was already a long day.

Week 5: How Dry I Am

2007-05-30T18:52:00.000-04:00

"19.99."

"Huh?"

"19.99. This case of beer. It's usually $17.76." My husband put the case of beer down on the linoleum. "We're gonna have to drink this slower than usual."

So much for beer at the cookout.

We'd been planning a cookout to celebrate moving to the new house. But I went to the store this week to pick up hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, the usual stuff, and the bill came to $150. Two months ago, that was more than I spent in a month for groceries. Now?

"Have you heard from anyone about next weekend?"

"Yeah. Well, Bert isn't sure he can come down from Bethlehem. Roger's not coming, 'cause he's all the way in Jersey. Kate says she's coming, and so are your parents."

"Anyone else?"

"Haven't heard."

I hate that my friends and I are spread out. It wasn't a big deal, when you could afford to drive ten, twenty miles one way to hang out with someone. But now?

My sister lives in Florida. Other relatives are out in California, Missouri, Colorado. It was only seven months ago they were out here for our wedding.

Don't know when I'll see any of them again. Just can't afford it.

Week 4: Welcome to Killadelphia

2007-05-22T23:37:00.000-04:00

The bad thing about Philadelphia is that it's hard to separate one cause of violence from another.

I can go for days without watching the local news. It's usually the same: fire in Kensington, shooting in West Philly, robbery in North Philly, racial strife in South Philly. It's like MadLibs--all you do is move the crimes, going round-robin. Shooting in Kensington. Robbery in West Philly. Fire in South Philly. And so it goes.

A few blocks from Kate, when you cross over into West Philly, there was a shooting at the Hess station. Hess is known for carrying the cheapest gas--them and Wawa. Well, whatever cheap is these days, I don't know.

But it was at a gas station. Two men arguing, one pulls a gun, shoots the other, drives off. That's what I heard, anyway. There's so many shootings these days, it's hard to keep them separate. A shooting. A fire. A robbery. A drug bust. A kid shot in crossfire. There've been at least 130 murders this year, and it's only May. Probably more. I've lost count.

But it was at a gas station. Three blocks from a police station on Chestnut. And a lot of us can't help but wonder whether this was the normal kind of shooting--drugs, a woman, a botched robbery.

Or fighting over gas.

I'd say it's gonna get ugly, but it's already ugly in Philadelphia. It was ugly before the shortage, and it ain't gonna get pretty any time soon.

The Hess station ran out of regular gas two days later. I drove by, on my way to see Kate, and saw that only premium was left. So much for the cheapest gas in the city.

Week 3: I Never Wanted To Be a Housewife

2007-05-16T21:25:00.000-04:00

I'll tell you one thing that scares the hell out of me--running out of birth control.

When I was a kid, both my parents worked. We were poor, working class Irish--my father didn't finish high school and so bounced from job to job, until getting a job with the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Man, that feels weird now, just thinking about it. He died of cancer, and I sometimes wonder if it was being around those exhaust fumes for 8+ hours a day that did it.

My mom was a nurse; in the 1980s, this didn't seem to be anything special, but by the end of the 1990s and on, being a nurse meant you had a good-paying job, albeit dealing with sick people for the most part.

Both their parents worked; my dad's mom, because his dad died when he was four, and my mom's mom because her dad died when she was sixteen. My dad died when I was seven, but since mom was already working, this didn't change much her being home; we had less money, and she worked more hours, but otherwise, things went on as before, only a little more empty.

I'm starting to notice a pattern.

At any rate--work is what my family has always done. We didn't have any stay-at-home moms, no housewives.

Where am I going with this?

My job--my boring, stupid, data entry job--has the option of working from home, and only coming in one day a week to drop off what you've done.

It's a tempting offer.

Right now we carpool, my husband and I, since we work at the same company. But it's getting more expensive, driving to work. He's talked about becoming a homeworker, suggesting I should too.

One problem.

No health care for homeworkers.

Well. That's one hell of a wrench to throw in. I currently spend $50 a month on medication--birth control, anti-depressant, and allergy medication. No health care means pregnancy. No health care means depression and anxiety attacks come back. No heath care means... well, I can live with sneezing a lot.

I'm not sure what to do. There's got to be something. Maybe a new job, something closer to home.

I'm at a loss.

Some good news: we moved into the house last week, and I went out to Lowe's and picked up plants for the garden--tomatoes, green peppers, jalapeño peppers, squash and zuchini. I had to go to a local independent to find the onions, potatoes, and herbs I wanted to plant (mint, parsley, the usual stuff).

Now I have to sit and wait. And weed. I don't really like either.

Week 2: Ain't No Water In the Well

2007-05-09T21:03:00.000-04:00

"You win the bid on the Victrola?" Kate asked me.

"No--but I've got another one lined up. Don't know if I can afford it."

"How much is it going for?"

"Hundred dollars."

"Well, that's not so bad."

"Um."

"Um?"

"Well, dude, you take the trolley to work. I gotta drive."

"Ooo. Ouch."

I keep looking at our mortgage. Right now, we can pay it pretty easily--you know, as long as we don't go to the movies every weekend or buy every CD we want on a whim. Piracy is our friend; it was before, copying movies or downloading music, but now, I swear, it's probably the only way I'll hear the new Wilco album. Which sucks, because I usually go and buy their records, not just download, like somebody who's dead or rich as sultans, like the Beatles.
But I look at the mortgage, and I look at how much money we put in the car this week, and I get nervous. I know, everybody has to tighten the belt, but...
Well, I guess I could stand to loose some weight. Let the tightening begin.

Week 1: Kate Gives Thanks

2007-05-01T23:56:00.000-04:00

Kate has never owned a car. She never even learned to drive. On moving to Philadelphia to attend Temple University, she found she didn't need a car, that Philly's public transportation was decent enough that she could get around without needing a car; and besides, her boyfriends usually had one.

When she found that her boyfriend of the last five years was cheating on her, she threw him out--well, the relationship had been falling apart for the past year, with her in grad school and him not even holding down a job. Change was needed.
A car, however, was still not needed. Even without a boyfriend.

Public transportation is Kate's friend. SEPTA--that institution both dreaded and necessary for Philadelphians--was enough to get her from her apartment in University City, to her job at the EPA in Center City, to school at Drexel after work, and back home again. This particular rout is one of the few running on trolleys.

Kate loved the trolleys. Running above ground and below, avoiding the jerking terror of a bus, she happily paid her two dollars a ride.

And then they started talking rate hikes. Again.

"What're you doing Friday?" she asked Mary.

"I dunno, probably watching a movie with Dennis. Why?"

"Wanna come down and hang out?"

Mary, unfortunately, didn't live around the corner like she used to when they both lived in Fairmount; instead, the two girls had gone to different ends of the city, Kate to University City, with its students, anarchists, and Ethiopian immigrants, and Mary to Mount Airy, with its liberals, Unitarians, and strong community organizations.

For being in the same city, they didn't see each other as often as they'd like.

Mary sighed. "Yeah, but can you take the train up here? I don't wanna drive down."
"Why not?"

"Dude--have you see the gas prices?"

"Not really--why?"

"Four dollars a gallon. I'm putting more than $200 a month into my car. Just in gas."

"Wow," Kate said flatly.

"Easy for you to say--you don't have to deal with any of this."

"So are you coming down?"

"Are you coming up?"

A pause.

"Yeah, I'll come up, if you'll drive me home--I don't like taking the train that late at night."

"Well hell, we might as well come down if we're going to drive there and back anyway."

Kate smiled. "Cool. We'll go over to Dahlak's and get a drink? I'll chip in for gas, too."

"You don't have to... Hell, yes you do." Mary gave a caustic laugh and hung up.

Week 1: Mary Begins to Plan

2007-04-30T11:18:00.000-04:00

"What are you looking for?"

"Hmm?"

"On eBay," my husband said. "What's are you looking for this time?"

"A record player."

"We have at least two."

"Yes, but they run on electricity. I want one of those old hand-cranked Victrolas."

He sighed. He's used to this, I guess.

Back a couple of years ago, when Katrina was still swirling in the Gulf of Mexico, I told him that the New Orleans was done for. He laughed--"You're always predicting the end of the world."

"It's not the end of the world--just New Orleans. Look, I'm not the only one who sees it--National Geographic wrote about it, their local papers wrote about it."

"About what?"

"The levees."

And when the levees broke, he nodded his head and said he wouldn't doubt me so quickly anymore.

In less than a month, we move to Lansdale, a small town about twenty miles outside of Philadelphia. The reasons are varied--it's cheaper there, low taxes, low crime, a nice house we can actually afford without having a subprime mortgage. There's a nice backyard, with room for a vegetable garden, and we're on the R5 trainline, so getting into the city isn't difficult.

The other reason, the more esoteric reason, is this--I want land. Even if it's just a small plot. I need to get away from living in a small apartment with my husband, depending on fast food and surrounded by junk. I need to plant a garden. I need to be within biking distance of my parents and their four acres.

Maybe it's just a mental security blanket, but as I watch the gas prices get higher, and going to work costing more and more, it makes less sense to stay in the city. Even if they do have the best farmers' market in the Delaware Valley.

(We Are) The Philadelphia Preservation Society

2007-04-30T09:00:00.000-04:00

This blog is mainly a work of speculative fiction, working with the World Without Oil game. My fiction revolves around a small group of friends and family spread out across the Delaware Valley, and how they cope with the oil shock.