23 and Thee

  
   Ah March, the month of my nativity and the first day of Spring. And that basketball tournament. I used to go to college basketball games when I was in college. Boston College had a good team back then. Bob Cousy, the former Celtics great, was the coach. Occasionally my old school makes the tournament. but mostly they don't.
   I never learned to dribble myself and don't really understand the game. Disorganized football was my sport. But I do study the bracket each year. A good 80% of the entrants are there year after year. But there's always the handful of newcomers and also three or four schools I've never heard of. Where is Gardner-Webb located, or Wofford? And what does VCU stand for again?
   I'm not interested in the perennial performers. I want a Cinderella team to follow. Last year it was Loyola Chicago who made it to the Final Four on the rosary beads of Sister Jean, a 97 year old nun who prayed for the team from her wheelchair courtside.
   This year the potential Cinderellas have had their pumpkins smashed early, so I looked for a good Jesuit school to follow. Boston College is a Jesuit school. There were actually six of them to start, but now that we're down to the Elite Eight, only Gonzaga remains. The "Zags" from Spokane.
  I wondered who or what Gonzaga is.  Well it turns out Aloysius (or Luigi) Gonzaga was an Italian aristocrat who lived in the late 16th century. He was expected to become a soldier and take over his father's estates, but he decided to become a missionary. It took years to convince his father, but at the age of 17, he entered a Jesuit seminary. When he was 22 he had a vision from the Archangel Gabriel who told him he would die within a year. The next year the plague hit Rome. Gonzaga insisted on working with the sick and soon fell victim himself. He died a few months short of his ordination at age 23.
  Gonzaga was canonized  in 1726, 135 years after his death. In the 1880s when an Italian Jesuit missionary started building a college in the pioneer town of Spokane, he decided to name it after his fellow Italian and Jesuit. Go Zags!
   Now this post should end here, but the only reason I'm posting at all is that by a remarkable coincidence, I came across another saint who died at the age of 23: Saint Louis of Toulouse. I've been reading about the Middle Ages and came across a reference to a Bishop Louis of Toulouse. I remembered that the California city of San Luis Obispo was named after a French Bishop and checked it out.
   Sure enough this Louis was the son of the King of Naples back in the thirteenth century. When the king was captured in Spain during a battle, he obtained his freedom by sending his three sons as hostages to take his place. This was a common practice in those days. The sons were treated well and given an education. If dad behaved for seven years, the boys would be sent home. Louis was supposed to take his father's place, but  was inspired by one of his teachers in Spain to become a Franciscan friar..
   Because of his royal connections, Louis was appointed bishop of the French city of Toulouse. He could have lived like a prince, but instead went out to work with the poor. After six months he was exhausted and resigned as bishop. He died of a fever a few months later at the age of 23. He became a saint in 1317, twenty years after his death.
   In 1772 when the Franciscan priest Junipero Serra was building a mission in what is now San Luis Obispo, he named it after Louis of Toulouse. There are more than 10,000 Catholic saints and I'm sure research would turn up several more who died at age 23 or younger. There's Saint Maria Goretti for example who died at age 11, as well as the 110 infant and child martyrs of the French Revolution.
   Sports update: The Zags were defeated last night in Anaheim, but they'll be back.

There's a college in Spokane named after Saint Aloysius Gonzaga.

Saint Louis of Toulouse has a whole city named after him.

The Scrapegrace (sic) of God

   Several years ago I came across a kitchen tip that said old credit cards made good bowl scrapers. I tried it and they work well for getting out most of the leftover dough or batter in a bowl. You don't want that goop drying in the bowl. It will set like concrete. The funny thing is, when we have guests, they'll sometimes say, "Did you know there's a credit card in your sink?"
    A couple of years ago I saw an ad saying the plastic scraper was the hot new tool for the amateur chef. The ad said these scrapers were a little known secret of the pros. They were selling for five bucks. I just checked Amazon and saw that their hotness has cooled. You can get a set of three for $7.52. Available in brown. They're slightly bigger than a credit card, but I'll stick with what I have.
   Under the comments section someone mentioned President Trump was selling scrapers for $1.99 each. Trump products are usually more expensive than the run-of-the-mill, so I went to the White House website and sure enough, there were Make American Kitchens Great bowl scrapers for only two bucks. I checked out the asterisk explanation at the bottom of the page. It turns out it really is a credit card, and every time you use it, you make a 99¢ donation to the 2020 campaign. "You scrape so we can scrap!"

Just say No!

Novelist Girl

   This past Thursday evening I went to a Writers' Workshop at the Roseau Library presented by fellow Wannaskan Almanac writer Kim Hruba. Catherine Stenzel, also an Almanac writer, rode along with me.
   Kim had gone to a writers conference last November in Kauai, Hawaii. She had published her first novel Elevator Girl in 2014 through a hybrid publishing outfit, a form of self-publishing with perks. Her book is available on Amazon. The 62 reviews give an average four star rating.
    Kim has been working on her second novel, Etiquette Girl for the past three years and says it's been slow going. Kim has five kids at home and is very involved in the Warroad community. Last year she convinced the McKnight Foundation to grant her enough money to attend a writers conference where she could get advice on her book and also pitch the book to literary agents.
   After much research, she chose the Kauai Writers' Conference held over five days last November. When you get a grant, you're expected to bring back what you've learned to your community, thus Thursday's workshop. Kim is doing a second workshop today in Warroad.
   Kim talked quite a bit about her sessions with NYC agent Jeff Kleinman, who makes a living from sales of a handful of successful books to the big publishers. Jeff was brutal as he reviewed the submissions of Kim and her fellow attendees. Kim said she got valuable advice for improving her novel and was gratified when Jeff told her she was only two drafts away from being ready for the big-time.
    There's over a million books published each year. This is good news for book lovers, if somewhat daunting. But it's even more daunting for writers since only a handful of these books will provide a good living for their authors. Kim will continue to write no matter what, but she would like validation in the form of royalty checks.
   There were several other aspiring writers at Thursday's workshop. I myself have no interest in jumping into the fiction shark pool, but Kim said several of the attendees were working on memoirs. I could see myself writing a memoir: "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life...etc."
   Kim says a memoir should start out at the great crisis of the hero's life, then reel it in and gradually lead up to the crisis again. I did not know that. "As I lowered myself into the reputedly dormant volcano, I heard an ominous rumbling from below, so I deleted the word 'reputedly,' which is good, since my agent told me to lose all the adverbs."
   Kim gave us copies of a handout she had received in Hawaii. It divided all fiction into three broad areas: Literary, Upmarket and Commercial. Literary is arty and award winning. The author keeps his or her day job. Upmarket is character driven. The writing is of a high quality, but the plot is juicy enough to provide the author with a comfortable living. Commercial is as the name implies, out to make a buck: Tom Clancy, Danielle Steele, and other well-known philanthropists.
   I could jazz up my memoir to make a million: "As I lowered myself into the volcano, my soon-to-be-ex girlfriend, Maia, sobbed from above, 'Dante, I know you're just going down there to meet Rumi, and I've got your Buck n' Bear Lynx 440C Tactical Folding pocket knife right here and I know how to use it.'"
   I bet agent Jeff would love it. Especially the knife bit.

   Thanks Kim for a fascinating look into the cut-throat world of publishing. I admire your perseverance. Good luck!

Writer Girl

There and Back Again

   We had so much fun driving to Boston last April on mostly back roads that we did it again in December. We haven't celebrated Christmas with our kids for many years, partly because Teresa's dad is 101 and doesn't travel well. So Teresa's sister Becky, her husband Jack, Teresa and I stay in town and perform the old rituals with Einar or Enar as he now calls himself.
   This year Teresa nd Becky decided it was time for some of the other siblings to come to Roseau so we could get out of town. Becky and Jack would go down to St. Cloud where their kids live and Teresa and I would take the long road to Boston. Of course we would have to keep an eye on the weather. If a blizzard appeared in the forecast, we could duck into the nearest motel and live on continental breakfasts until the plows came by.
   We planned to spend a night in Chicago to visit my sainted aunt Mary, cousin Liz and her friend Ralph. When my sister Mary-Jo learned of this, she bought a one-way ticket to Midway so she could ride to Mass. with us. She's a venerable road tripper.
   We left Wannaska at seven a.m. on Wednesday, December 12, 2018. We were in Duluth by noon and crossed the bridge into Superior. Duluth is hilly and pretty. Superior is flat and industrial. I know there's a pretty part in Superior, but our route winds through a wasteland. Even the houses, even the Santas in front of the houses, look industrial. We started noting the drop in gas prices: $2.49 at home, $2.14 here (I won't bore my readers with further prices: the lowest was $1.70 in Ohio. Illinois and Indiana were also low. Highest in NY and Mass.
    Siri gave us route down to Black River Falls on Hwy 53, a four laner-through towns. At Solon Springs we took a detour around Upper St. Croix Lake, source of the beautiful St Croix River which further south forms the Minnesota-Wisconsin border. This was cabin country with fish houses on the lake.
   We pulled into our motel on the south side of Black River Falls. We were able to walk to the Mocha Mouse across the way. It seems everyplace in Wisconsin sells cheese, even coffee shops. The Mocha Mouse also served sandwiches, local crafts and there was even a used bookstore upstairs. Coffee shops in Wisconsin also sell beer for the over-caffeinated. There was a display from the local vineyards of which it appears there are no end. This was a perfect refuge after almost 500 miles on the road.
     After a passable continental breakfast, we hit the beautiful back roads of woods and farms tucked between steep hills. I saw an Amish wagon being slowly pulled up a steep snow covered road. Patience in motion. We got lunch in Janesville, giving Paul Ryan's hometown a little business.
   Soon after, we were crossing the flat Illinois farmland. We were going to go all the wat to Aunt Mary's house on the far south side of Chicago avoiding freeways. This was something I had never tried before in all my many trips through Chicago. I was curious at what point the urban would take over from the rural.  The answer, on my route at least, was in the city of Geneva, 35 miles from the Loop. Aunt Mary's place was 44 miles from Geneva. Taking the freeway would be two miles longer, but twenty minutes quicker. Those twenty minutes were spent sitting at stop lights. Which gives you a chance to look around. On the other hand, it took several minutes to pass through the Saganashkee Woods. The St. Casimir Lithuanian Cemetery closer to Aunt Mary's was also a formidable open space.

Pass Through The Sugar Cone Mountains

   I'm going to tell you a little story about a misunderstanding I had recently. I was scrolling through my social media when one of those sayings people are always posting popped up. There was a picture of a stern looking man who was saying, "If you want to make everyone happy, sell ice cream."
   "How true," I thought. It put me in mind of the ice cream sellers of Ireland. When my extended family was staying just outside the lovely town of Dingle ten years ago, the ice cream truck would pull up to our compound every afternoon and we would give him good trade.
   When I returned to Dingle four years ago with friends, I ran into the ice cream man at the top of Conor Pass. Now Conor Pass is Ireland's highest mountain pass. Part of the road is carved into the sheer rock face of the mountain and for a hair-raising mile it is one lane only. When you reach the top of the pass, nothing would be more restorative than a nice ice cream. And sure enough, there in the little scenic overlook was the ice cream truck. Yum!
   I think this view is the most beautiful spot in a very beautiful country. Having ice cream to go with it doesn't hurt. We went back to Dingle with family and friends this past July. Teresa stayed back in Mass to watch our middle son's two young children. What a saint. So I was having a roistering time, keeping late hours, etc.,etc.
    I awoke late one morning and discovered a couple of friends were heading up to Conor Pass. This was their first trip to Ireland. "When are you leaving?" I asked. "Right now," they said. I was already dressed so I hopped in the back seat of their little car and off we went. "Wouldn't it be a fine thing," I thought, "if the ice cream man was up in the pass." When we got to the top, there he was with his little signboard propped up in front. And he sold coffee! The saints be praised.
   We milled around a bit, enjoying the view, and I began to regret my lack of breakfast. Well wouldn't you know, the ice cream man sold two kinds of soup. I had the minestrone. Hot and filling. I chatted with the man a bit. "Ah, yes. My office has the finest view in the world." I agreed heartily. Turns out he has a Thai girlfriend and they spend winters in Thailand. Conor Pass is one of the few places in Ireland that gets snow.
   The ice cream man had made me truly happy that day and I thought about that saying on my computer. I came across it again and studied the man's features more closely. Well I'll be blowed if it wasn't Steve Jobs! His crack about ice cream was meant sardonically. Well I just say no to his sardony even though he did bring the world a product that has improved my life and which I must keep within arm's reach at all times. But did he have to be such a SOB while doing it?
   Ice cream is a metaphor for the pleasure of living. Enjoy it before it melts. Acid is not an appropriate topping.

Ireland's highest ice cream truck, at 1,496 ft (456 m).

Fat Friday

     Happy Fat Friday! Or Vendredi Gras as the French would call the day if the French celebrated Thanksgiving. A friend told me on Thanksgiving that he was looking forward the day after: his favorite Friday of the year. A day of no obligations. Meals ready to eat. Just add heat.
     I agreed with him, but as the day progresses, I find I'm doing things here, there and everywhere. I did sleep in an hour. That was a good start. I went to the guest house to stoke the fire. I don't believe in astrology, but I was born under a fire sign so tending a fire is a pleasure. I noticed the bin of burnable trash and decided to reduce that to ash The cardboard boxes burn well, but the junk mail requires poking. Fuel, heat and air, those are the three elements of fire. A judicious poker being the honorary fourth.
    I had bought a new shop vac a few weeks ago, but hated to open the box. These things usually require assembly. But what the heck. If it looked too complicated, I'd just shove it back in the box for another day. But the only requirement was to remove a twist tie from the cord. I plugged it in just to assess the noise level and suction. Not bad, and succulent. I carried it over to the garage, where we would use it mostly for vacuuming out our cars which were sitting right there. Again, I "what the hecked" and vacuumed out the front and back seats. Teresa's car is never dirty. Mine leads a harder life.
     As I was burning trash earlier, I had noticed a postcard from Stephan, a guy I met in Ireland. He seems to travel constantly and sends me postcards. I rescued the card, a nice picture of Edinburgh, and resolved to send Stephan a card even though I haven't been anywhere postcardable. I also owed a note to our hosts for Thanksgiving dinner.
    While I had been vacuuming the cars earlier, I remembered I wanted to fire up the snowblower before I needed it. It always starts easily even with the pull cord, except for the first time after it's been sitting all summer. Sure enough, it wouldn't start. There are four different steps. I did them all four times. I pulled the plug. It had spark. The fuel tank looked low. I got the extension cord to use the electric start. Bang! she started. When it it's ten below with a foot of snow on the driveway. Future Joe will thank me for taking care of this.
     Thank goodness for days like this with no obligations. I get so much done.

I cleaned the beach, assembled the chair, and distilled this gin.

Holiday Tour

This is not funny!

   Thanksgiving gets little respect. I've heard many otherwise sensible people say that Thanksgiving should be moved to mid-October like in  Canada. But that's not going to happen. We are never going to copy the Candians in anything, though we should copy them in many things.
   People complain that the Christmas hubbub starts right after Halloween. Thanksgiving is only tolerated for its long weekend; our only dedicated four day weekend of the year. Those four days tempt people to travel further than they should. For what? A turkey dinner? A fine turkey dinner can be had much closer to home. Everyone should stay off the roads. There's a lot of crazy people out there.
   Halloween is the appropriate start of the Season of Light. By early October we've finally accepted that summer is gone and won't be back for a long, long time. This is scary. Unseen forces are shortening the days. Darkness extends its realm. We don masks for a day in a pathetic attempt to frighten away the monsters that may be coming, forgetting for a night the monsters that are already here. We eat a bunch of candy which makes us feel worse. That's Halloween.
    A bit further back we had Labor Day, the very first made-to-order three day weekend. It was a supposed end mark of the summer season. A sop to the working man who must return to his job after spending the summer at his rented beach cottage. No one complained that the stay at the beach only lasted a week. No one complains that it took a depression and a world war to bring about changes that gave the working man enough money for a week in a cottage. And now his wife must work too to affard the week at the beach, and the kids are left on their own. Mother and dad go their separate ways. Beach house is turned into condos. That's Labor Day.
     earlier in the year, summer got rolling on The Fourth of July, even though the days are getting shorter by then. We set off fireworks to remind us of the wars that set us free. It's a follow-up to Memorial Day, which honors the troops that fought in those wars. Memorial Day is not that important a holiday because it shifts around to the nearest weekend. I'm all in favor of that. It's like Presidents Day. Couldn't Washington and Linclon have been born on the same Monday? Their birthdays are so close. They were so indispensable to the country's survival. Maybe they'd pull the turf tighter over their heads if they could see us know.
     And don't let us forget St. Patrick's Day. A sign of spring, of shamrocks and flowing streams of Guinness. By some incredible quirk of Irish luck, the Saint's day falls on the day the British occupiers sailed out of Boston Harbor in 1776. They had been under siege all winter until Washington mounted cannons captured at Fort Ticonderoga upon Dorchester Heights overlooking the city. The British agreed to leave without burning the city if Washington agreed not to sink their ships. The British might have left on the 16th, but by the aforementioned Irish luck, they sailed on the 17th. That day became a civic holiday in Boston. It still is. No school! Yahoo! We always went to the big parade in South Boston, which has since sadly moved to the weekend.
     Valentine's Day? A special day for lovers. I guess that's all of us, or should be. Which brings us back to New Year's Eve. The lights of Christmas are going out. Let's have one more blowout before confronting the darkness that stretches endlessly ahead.

The Italians Have Twice As Many