This goes without saying when it comes to my emotional health, but the malaise has spread to my mortal coil.
I’m at an age when digestive complaints are more the rule than the exception. But when my latest discomfort turned out to be the equal and opposite problem from my usual torments, I grew concerned. Once I’d dosed myself and, shall we say, eliminated the problem, I was left utterly enervated. No energy. Even more alarmingly, I had little appetite.
I did a web search for DELTA VARIANT SYMPTOMS, of course. But whatever I’ve got doesn’t sound like that. I’m hoping things will be better tomorrow. I had a reasonable supper tonight, and enjoyed it, but found in my heart no desire for further snacks. That’s not normal. I’m running out of groceries and need to go to the store, but I lack motivation.
It would be nice if the indifference to food lingered on, became my new normal. As long as the stomach cramps don’t come back.
I’ve shared the clip above before. It’s Motown group The Toys, singing A Lover’s Concerto, from 1965. I just like it. Driving around in my loaner car, which has no working radio, I’ve been reduced to singing to myself for entertainment. Last Sunday on the trip to Kenyon, I was working on this one. I’ve always been good at remembering song lyrics and poems, but if I neglect them for a while, bits of the lines slough off. But I went over them enough times to reconstruct them, pretty close. It gave me something to do besides pondering my mortality.
As I’m sure you know from news reports, I had another birthday this weekend. I keep waiting for someone to yell “Walker is in his 70s! This is ridiculous! Aren’t we going to do something about this?”
But no one ever does. It’s almost as if the world doesn’t care.
But aside from that, it was a pretty good weekend. The best birthday I can remember in a long time.
Got a free meal from a family member, who drove a considerable distance to be with me. That’s appreciated.
Also took advantage of a couple freebies in restaurants I frequent, over the week.
I heard that translation work may be coming this week. And even that my car part might come in (!).
Also a couple other items I don’t feel free to share publicly. One of them was that a big mistake I thought I’d made turned out to not be nearly as big as I thought. Made my crowded interior life a touch roomier than it’s been.
Then on Sunday, I drove down to Kenyon for our every-other-year (I can never remember whether the word is “biennial” or “semi-annual”) family reunion. A bittersweet one.
We held it in Depot Park, next to the municipal swimming pool and across the road from the bare spot where the old Root Beer stand used to be. The weather was beautiful, unusually so for the beginning of August in Minnesota.
Attendance was down. Scheduling conflicts, Covid fears. I don’t know what all. Perhaps the main reason is that the old mainstays, “the Cousins,” grandchildren of our immigrant patriarch John Walker, have mostly died off now. It’s become a reunion of second and third cousins. And second and third cousins tend to be less invested in one another than their “cousin” parents.
And, of course, all the families are smaller nowadays.
The word around the picnic tables was that this was likely to be the last Walker reunion ever.
There was a small crisis to handle. Cousin Doris, widow of Cousin Jim, had some family history items she needed to pass on, since she’s moving to an apartment. Among them were a lot of family letters – significance unknown. And my great-grandmother’s wedding dress from 1890. And Great-Aunt Charlotte’s porcelain doll (possibly valuable). Plus four very large photographic portraits, of my great-grandparents and of their individual parents, in couple shots, dating back to the mid-19th Century.
I took it all, except for the doll (fear not; it found a home). I have no place to display the photos, but I’m the family historian, so they go to me. In my basement for now.
I find it poignant and sort of metaphorical that our family heirlooms, such as they are, should end up in the home of a childless man. After me, who knows what will become of them?
I should have noted the Feast of Saint Olaf (Olav) of Norway yesterday. Or even better, the day before, so you’d be prepared to attend mass, as I’m sure you would have wished. Yesterday was Olaf’s feast day in the church calendar, July 29. However (as I mentioned in a book review a while back) I’ve been won over to the revisionist figure of August 31 for the actual date of Olaf’s death. So today will do.
Besides, I’m not all that fond of Olaf. Or of Olav, either.
The short video above invites you to visit the site of the battle, Stiklestad, near Trondheim (I had ancestors from nearby). However, just now you can’t go to Norway unless you’re willing to submit to a couple weeks’ quarantine. So I don’t really recommend it. The video suffers from the presence of short-haired Vikings, a current plague in the reenactment world. Also, I don’t think the scene of the battle was wooded. (You can’t actually stand where the battle occurred anymore, due to slippage of terrain a long time ago.) But the production values aren’t bad.
Tomorrow is my birthday (won’t tell you which one). And Sunday is a family reunion.
I’ll post on Monday, if I survive and avoid arrest.
Big weekend. I saw new (old) things, did my Viking shtick, sold books, and exerted myself more than I’m used to these days. Probably good for me, but it made me thoughtful too.
I’m embarrassed, as a native of southeastern Minnesota, to have had to learn this, but there’s a pretty neat museum in the town of Hastings that I’d never heard of before. It’s called the Little Log House Pioneer Village, and one assumes it started modestly and just grew. It features a large collection of historical buildings, from pioneer cabins to hotels and post offices and gas stations. Some of the stuff goes back only to my childhood, but that’s a long time, after all.
The picture above shows you where we were camped (and by our camp, I mean my tent and awning). Looking up the street you can see just a little of the collection of buildings at the museum. The white building dominating the left-hand side is the town hall from Nininger, Minnesota, a storied place in Minnesota history. It was a utopian community, which Ignatius Donnelly (a radical Republican who eventually become a Populist) promoted as a model community of the future. The crash of 1857 doomed it, leaving Donnelly bankrupt.
Donnelly, a Philadelphia native, was Lieutenant Governor of Minnesota from 1860-1863, and also a congressman and a state representative. He ran for Vice President on the People’s Party ticket in 1900. His greatest fame, though, was as a writer, a forerunner to today’s pseudoscience cranks. This was a man born for the cable channels. His book on Atlantis: The Antidiluvian World is still being reprinted, and continues to be studied by ancient mystery geeks. He also wrote a book about the Great Flood, and championed Francis Bacon as the author of Shakespeare’s plays. In addition, he was a pioneer of Science Fiction, writing a future dystopia novel called Caesar’s Column that was a big success in its time.
The Little Log House Museum hosts an Antique Power Show (steam engines, tractors and classic vehicles) every year. I’m told the place is generally packed for the event. They skipped it last year, of course. And the public seems to still be cautious – our crowds this year were only fair. Still, I sold a moderate quantity of books, and had some pleasant interactions with my species in fairly pleasant weather. It was hot, but I enjoyed fair shade under my awning (better the second day, when we moved my tent onto the east-west tree line). This was not my usual group of Vikings, but a couple of the younger members plus a group of very young new recruits. This made me, perforce, the village elder, and occasional dispenser of dad jokes. I let them have the combat shows all to themselves, but lent some of them arms and armor.
These days I feel my age more every time I do one of these events, but in fact I felt less tired the second day than I expected, and I feel less wiped out today than I also expected. My main concern right now is carrying stuff up and down my basement steps, because there’s no room to store my Viking things on the main floor of my house – and let me tell you, Viking things are heavy (as are books). I need to think about cutting back – not on the events I attend, but on the impedimenta I bring along. I expect I’m going to have to downsize my operation to a plain book table in time.
I was happy, through the good efforts of my printer, Elroy Vesta of EJ Enterprises, Fergus Falls, MN, to have the new paper edition of The Year of the Warrior available to hand sell. I meant to get my picture taken with it in costume this weekend, but it slipped my mind. Here’s a more modest picture.
Today is one of my industrious days. A little translation work came in. Proofreading, actually, which is fairly easy and I believe I do it well. It doesn’t pay much because it goes fast and this employer pays by the hour. But it’s income. And not devoid of fun.
The project – which I won’t give you a hint about, not even the format – is one we’ve been working on, off and on, for years now. I recall remembering it recently, and thinking, “Well, that one must have died in production.” But here it is again.
The wheels of cinema grind slowly.
Not long ago I saw a news item that announced they were starting production on the very first project I ever worked on. I’d long written it off as a sad casualty – I’d really liked it and wanted to see it made. And behold, it’s getting done, at last.
Makes me feel better about the rate my novels are coming out.
I expect I’ll be able to post something tomorrow, but if I don’t show up, remember I’ll be at the Little Log House Antique Power event in Hastings, Minnesota on Saturday and Sunday. God willing.
Another week has been transferred to history’s OUT box. On balance, it won’t be remembered by future biographers as one of my better ones. But it could have been worse.
No word about the car, of course. I keep hoping the July 30 date they gave me for part delivery was only a worst-case scenario, but we live in a fallen world. (In the Garden of Eden, I’m sure, car parts always arrived on time.)
Then there was my struggle to find a new lawn guy, which I chronicled yesterday. I’ve determined to leave the final decision until Monday, because I still want to talk to the guy who put a flyer up at my church. But if he doesn’t show this weekend, I’ll go with one of the Home Advisor sharks.
Had a couple plumbers over today, to look at my water heater, which has been making disquieting banging noises. The diagnosis? Sludge build-up – no doubt due to the high mineral content of our local water. Recommendation: new water heater. Which my home warranty program should pay for, but there will be the deductible. I expect that will be in addition to the deductible I already paid for the plumber’s visit today.
What else? I just put a package in the mail to Sweden. There’s a company (I won’t say its name) that advertises Viking accouterments on Jackson Crawford’s YouTube channel. I sent away to them for a linen tunic, because I wanted a new under-tunic (the ones I’ve been wearing are getting threadbare). I ordered XXL, and got it, and it was too small. So I ordered a XXXL, and that was too small too.
I mean no offense to Swedes when I say that their definition of “large” is somewhat different from mine. And I’m well aware that Americans in general, and I in particular, are way too fat. Which is too bad, because it seems to be well-made product.
But the fact remains that these shirts aren’t suited to a large segment of the American market. To add injury to ignorance, the return postage cost almost what one of the shirts cost me.
Little shocks to the bank account; they add up. But those are the terms of my life these days – the Lord provides. And sometimes I need to make small economies.
On the plus side, I’ve made substantial progress on King of Rogaland. I feel at this point that I’m beginning to get a handle on the project. In fact, I think this could be the best book I’ve ever written. I think I’m a better artist than I was 45 years ago, which ought to be expected, or I’m doing something wrong.
The song in the video above is “Aura Lee,” an American piece sometimes attributed (wrongly) to Stephen Foster. The lyrics were in fact written by the American poet W. W. Fosdick, who died in 1862, aged 37. The melody was by an English immigrant, George R. Poulton, who died in 1867, aged 38 (according to Wikipedia, he was tarred and feathered in 1864 for having an affair with a young student).
The song was published in 1861, and became tremendously popular with soldiers on both sides of the Civil War. One can understand why. I’ve always loved it. Elvis Presley used the melody for his song “Love Me Tender,” but I prefer the original. This rendition is done in period style by the 97th Regimental String Band.
May sunshine come along with your weekend, and swallows in the air.
Photo credit: Daniel Watson @danielwatsondesign. Unsplash License.
What did I worry about before I owned a house? I’m sure there were issues, but that was in another time and another place…
Anyway, right now my concern is lawn mowing. I gave up doing it myself when my hips went bad; I’ve officially declared lawn mowing A Thing I’m Too Old to Do, like climbing ladders and enlisting in the Navy Seals.
I used to have a guy. A cheerful fellow who may not have been the best, but didn’t charge a lot. Last year, I noticed, he came around less and less often. And sometimes I had to call him and ask whether he was still in business. Then this year, he showed up and told me that from now on he wanted to be paid in cash.
I didn’t like the sound of that. The next time he came, I paid him with a check and told him I needed to do it that way, for my tax records. Which is true.
He has not shown up since. So I started looking for a new guy. I called one guy who put up a flyer at my church, but so far he hasn’t had time to come and look around. Which doesn’t bode well.
Then I did an inquiry through Home Advisor. And now I do not lack for applicants. I’ve had several calls today. Oddly enough, they all make pretty much the same pitch, and ask pretty much the same price. (I suspect they collude, like a cartel.) So I guess I could just pick one.
My problem now is, I don’t want to hire any of them.
I said their proposals were similar. Another similarity is their salesmanship. They try to keep me on the line until they can wear me down. They try to hold me hostage till they can close that deal.
I am well-known to be a pushover. I’m easily bullied.
But one thing I won’t do, is say “yes” when I’m not ready. If one of these guys had just said, “Here’s what I’m offering – think it over and get back to me,” I’d be his huckleberry.
I’ll probably end up hiring the one I hated least.
I haven’t written down any dates, but for the last ten years or so with all the push to stop using incandescent bulbs, I’ve purchased several CFLs that did not last as long as I thought they should. Has that been your experience as well?
I remember touring an energy-saving model home at a museum in Georgia and the guide saying CFLs were super longlasting. The Internet is saying they could last five to ten times longer than incandescent blubs. My wife almost derailed the guide by asking if their long life relied on leaving them on most of the time. Our CFLs have burned out just as quickly, if not more quickly, than regular bulbs, and maybe that’s because we turn off the lights when we leave the room, like our fathers taught us to do. (We’re not lighting the whole neighborhood, are we?)
As I type, it occurs to me the lights in this room have been in place for a very long time, at least long enough for me to forget when I put them in. They’re probably LEDs.
We wrote last year about the number of filaments Edison actually tested, because folklore has run away with that number. Today, I offer you a video that shows a light bulb that has been burning since 1901 and the story of a group of businessmen who conspired to keep light bulbs from becoming nigh-perfect.
Romans 8:20 says that God has subjected the universe to futility. And sometimes I try to game that futility. I dare the universe to frustrate me in a small way, so to speak, in order to sidestep some greater frustration.
As best I can recall, this never works. But it doesn’t stop me trying.
Case in point, my car, which remains immobile in the transmission shop lot, awaiting shifter cables. These cables are Chrysler products, and come from China. Apparently the two big Cs, China and Chrysler, are not playing well just now. Which is why I haven’t had my car for a full month.
The last time I’d called the shop about it, they said the latest delivery date they’d gotten from the dealer was July 7.
So, when an opportunity to drive down to Faribault and have lunch with some high school friends on the 7th showed up, I thought, “Ah ha! I shall agree to this appointment, which will give the Frustrating Universe the opportunity to have the shop people call me that day to say the parts have come in. And I won’t be able to pick the car up right away. Perhaps that’s enough inconvenience to tempt the universe’s Frustration Protocols!” So I drove down to Faribault in the loaner (a Honda Civic) today, and waited for the call.
No call. I called the shop after I got home and they told me the dealer is now saying maybe July 30.
I think the Frustrating Universe saw through my ruse, and took its revenge.
In any case, I had a nice lunch. We ate at a place called the Depot in Faribault; it’s the old Rock Island Railroad depot, converted into a popular bar and grill. (I expect my grandfather knew the place, though he worked for the Milwaukee Road.) I’d never been there before. My hamburger was excellent.
I have to admit I wasn’t entirely sure who everybody was. We’ve all changed beyond recognition since the 1960s. But we had plenty of Old Geezer Stuff to discuss. Aches, pains, operations, diagnoses, enforced diets. I came away actually feeling pretty healthy, if you grade on the curve. At least I haven’t had a stroke or a heart attack yet. (Is saying that a challenge to the Frustrating Universe?)
I shared with them a scene I’d just written for the new Erling novel. Old Steinulf (you may recall him from the earlier books) fights a young guy and kills him, but ends up on his back in the grass. He says, “Can somebody give me a hand up? When you’re old, it’s a lot easier to kill a man then to get up from the ground.”
Thoughts sparked by Independence Day, and the noises thereabout:
Imagine you knew a man who never quit picking on his wife. Whenever you’re with them, he’s criticizing her. Telling her to stand up straight; you could lose a little weight; why don’t you take a cooking class; what do you do all day – the house is a mess! Constantly compares her to other women – why can’t you be like Sally? Or Phyllis? Or Amy? “You know, the fact is, my wife isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
So you take him aside and say, “Buddy, you’ve got to lighten up on your wife. You’re killing her spirit. You need to show her some love.”
And he’s offended. “What do you mean, I need to show her love! I love her to death! Everything I do and say is for her! I’m just trying to improve her!”
Would you consider that guy a good husband? Would you admire his love for his wife?
Of course not. He’s an abuser. An emotional abuser certainly, and very possibly a physical abuser too.
As I’ve mentioned (probably too often), I have some personal experience with an abuser. I’ve learned some sure marks of domestic abuse:
Abusers proclaim their love in principle – they’re offended if you question their love. “I love this person more than anybody else in the world. That’s why I have to be so hard on them. To help them be better.”
The Abuser will go on to explain that he would love to be nicer to the Victim. He dreams of being nicer to the Victim. But the Victim is so perverse, so uniquely stupid and evil, that he’s not able to go that way. The peculiar difficulty of the situation requires unusual, severe discipline. Purely for the Victim’s own good, you understand.
It seems to me this kind of behavior is apparent in the world of citizenship too.
There are people out there – lots of them, and some of them enjoy a lot of power – who say, “Well, yes, I never speak of the United States without criticism. I emphasize America’s faults, failures, and sins, and gloss over its virtues and achievements. I never compare it to other countries except unfavorably. But that’s because this wicked, vile, racist, oppressive country (which I love) has always covered up its sins in the past. If we don’t bring those sins out into the open now – put them in the spotlight, rub everyone’s face in them – we can’t do justice to history.
“I love America so much that I will show my love for it by condemning it, beating it up, throwing excrement on it. If I were to compromise and give America a moment’s affirmation, the whole project of Fundamental Transformation would fail. Because up until I showed up, nobody ever knew or taught anything about slavery.
“After all, that’s how you demonstrate love, by helping the loved one improve. By constantly denigrating them. My abuse proves my love for this vile, wicked country. Which I love so much.”
Does this analogy mean that all liberals are abusers? Not at all. There’s another category – Enablers.
Enablers disagree (quietly) with the Abusers, but haven’t the nerve to stand up to them. Because then the Abuse might fall on them. Better to let the abuse continue, and keep the peace. If you just appease the Abuser, maybe he’ll be satisfied and settle down. It’s not that big a deal.
Appeasement has always worked in the past, after all.
