Winnie-the-Pooh is Now Public Domain

Every year creative works slip into the public domain for use in Geico ads and local craft fairs. This year, the first story by A.A. Milne of his delightful bear in the Hundred Acre Wood has become public domain.

Johnathan Bailey of Plagiarism Today spells out what isn’t public domain, which is every Disney created and other Winnie-the-Pooh stories.

“Milne actually wrote four books based on the character and books 2-4 have not lapsed into the public domain. This means that many of the characters from the series, most notably Tigger, have not lapsed and will not for a few more years. In fact, the image of Pooh wearing a red shirt was not published until 1932.”

Cold day chronicle (also, Norway is open!)

Most of what’s below can be skipped without any loss to the diverse richness of your life. It’s just the account of my day, offered here for your perusal because I can’t think of anything actually interesting.

No, wait, I do have one interesting fact. Norway has opened its borders again. The requirement that people traveling from countries outside a certain short list must go through a quarantine period before entering has been lifted. You still need to show proof of vaccination, but this is a big relaxation. A step back toward normal life, one fervently hopes.

“Following a recommendation from the National Institute of Public Health, the government is abolishing the requirement for entry quarantine because it is no longer considered necessary for infection control,” the Norwegian Ministry of Health stated.

You may recall that I predicted something like this just a few days ago, based on the amount of translation work I’ve been getting – which would seem to indicate a belief inside the film industry that freer association and travel are coming. I didn’t expect it to happen this fast, though. No doubt the movie moguls I serve in my small way have friends in high places, who tipped them the high sign.

Today was my first day without translation work since… I don’t recall. Probably less time than I think. But it’s been a string of days. I’d marked today out, whatever my work situation, for shopping and errands. (Note: it’s in times like these that I contemplate finding a wife. Only I know she’d retaliate with a Honeydo list.) The coldest day of the week isn’t prime time for such activity, but there are moments when you just need to go to the store, or else you’ll run out of some staple, like chocolate or beef jerky or pigs’ feet.

As I planned my day, I realized a lot of stuff had piled up on my list. It called for careful trip planning and logistics. Aside from the gym in the morning, which was a separate excursion, I must:

Go to the post office. Take my suit to the cleaners. Run my car through the car wash (not optimal on a day with a high around zero, but on the other hand there wasn’t much of a waiting line). Go to Wal Mart for a new computer monitor (because I knocked the old one over and broke the screen. Nothing to do with old age and clumsiness, of course – I was just as clumsy at twenty. And the piece of junk was always unstable. Which should teach me to buy computer components at Wal Mart). Get groceries. Stop at the drug store for immune system supplement. Then get the new monitor working, which is always more complicated than you expect, if you’re over ten years old.

I’m planning to work on the novel tonight. If God gives me strength. And the monitor doesn’t fall over again.

‘A Ghostly Shadow,’ by H. L. Marsay

Inspector John Shadow of York, hero of H. L. Marsay’s police procedural series, is annoyed by many things. Crowds for one, which is unfortunate for a man living in a tourist city. Festivals. Geese. Modern music. Social interactions. At the beginning of A Ghostly Shadow, he’s annoyed, as Guy Fawke’s Day approaches, by the costumed tour guides leading “ghost walks” through the city. York is renowned for several ghosts, most prominently Guy Fawkes of the Gunpowder Plot and Dick Turpin the highwayman. Currently, a couple new guides from Oxford have established themselves in the city and are dressing as Fawkes and Turpin, taking business away from local ghost impersonators. Also, somebody has been stealing tour brochures from kiosks.

Then the new Dick Turpin is found hanging from a tree, near the very spot where the original Dick swung for his crimes. Shadow’s team must investigate the murder, under pressure from the city, as usual, to wrap things up before it affects business. Inspector Shadow’s attitude is not improved when he sprains his ankle and has to depend on other people’s help.

I suspect my affection for this series springs from my identification with Shadow himself, as a fellow misanthrope (though I think he’s ruder than I am, yet people seem to like him for some reason I can’t divine). But the writing isn’t top drawer (author Marsay is prone to clichés like “pale and drawn”). Nevertheless, the book was fun to read, and there wasn’t much to offend me. Recommended for light reading.

Sunday Singing: Rock of Ages

“Rock of Ages” performed by James Ward

I’m sure you’re familiar with Augustus Toplady’s hymn “Rock of Ages,” written in 1776. I don’t know how many believers are singing this hymn with James Ward’s arrangement, written in 1985. Ward lives in Chattanooga and served for many years as the music director at a church in my denomination. This arrangement is printed on the page opposite of the traditional Toplady tune in the Trinity hymnal, which is the hymnal PCA congregation use.

If this is a new tune for you, I hope you enjoy it.

Rock of Ages, cleft for me
let me hide myself in thee;
let the water and the blood,
from thy riven side which flowed,
be of sin the double cure,
cleanse me from its guilt and pow’r.

Continue reading Sunday Singing: Rock of Ages

What is Truth? What is Comfort? Blogroll Links

A college professor told me he gets the most response from his students by exposing them to the first question of the Heidelberg Catechism. It challenges contemporary assumptions and calls out our faith.

What is your only comfort in life and death?

“That I am not my own, but belong with body and soul, both in life and in death, to my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from all the power of the devil. He also preserves me in such a way that without the will of my heavenly Father not a hair can fall from my head; indeed, all things must work together for my salvation. Therefore, by his Holy Spirit he also assures me of eternal life and makes me heartily willing and ready from now on to live for him.”

Here’s some other reading from this weekend.

Reaction: Kevin Holtsberry reviews the novella Trust by Italian author Domenico Starnone. “I enjoyed the story as a mediation on the way we create stories and perceptions of ourselves and our lives, about who we are and why we do what we do, etc.”

Paul Auster: Locked in a room, unsure of many people and things, the writer in this Auster novel wrestles with the difficulties of knowing and telling the truth. (via Books, Inq.)

Jew­ish Book Coun­cil has released its list of win­ners of the 2021 Nation­al Jew­ish Book Awards. The winner for fiction is Joshua Cohen’s The Netanyahus: An Account of a Minor and Ulti­mate­ly Even Neg­li­gi­ble Episode in the His­to­ry of a Very Famous Family. (via Literary Saloon)

Writing: What could happen if you committed to writing at least a little every day?

One Nation Under the Pope: Some politically and theologically conservative leaders today dislike the secular government we have in America and would like to unite the country under one holy, Roman high priest.

Glynn Young: A grassroots level summary of a major problem with journalists and how the Internet changed the news.

Photo: Main Street, Columbus Junction, Iowa. 2003. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.

cracking Down on Journalists in Cuba and Hong Kong

Communists need their people to toe the party line without question, just like INGSOC does in Orwell’s 1984.

In Cuba, the island nation that could be a paradise, 66 protestors arrested for their actions last summer were tried in December and are still awaiting their sentences. A few who were also arrested for unauthorized use of speech have been sentenced to 15-30 years in prison.

“It has never been easy for journalists to work in Cuba,” Juliane Matthey, press officer for Latin America at Reporters Without Borders, said. On the organization’s 2021 list ranking countries on journalistic freedom, Cuba is the 9th worst, not taking last summer into account.

The Communist Chinese continue to bully journalists in Hong Kong. Stand News was the largest free news agency in the country until Dec 29, when police raided their offices. “The online media organization, which had operated for seven years, took down its website and social media accounts and dismissed all staff.”

Live from Worcester, it’s G. K. Chesterton

Being somewhat busy tonight, and having no useful ideas of my own, I turn this space over to G. K. Chesterton as my guest blogger. This film is from his appearance at Holy Cross College, Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1931. His remarks will be brief, and a couple splices in the film have been patched with still photos.

Have a good weekend, my friends, and don’t go outside barefoot.

Ice Road Walker

Winter driving in Tromso, Norway. Driving yesterday looked nothing like this, but it’s Norway. Photo credit: Remi Jacquaint @jack_1. Unsplash license.

Back to translating today. I’ve been pretty busy for… well, for the last couple months. My subjective conclusion is that, although Norway remains locked down fairly severely, its film and TV industry is planning on working pretty hard, pretty soon. I think it’s agreed by all the smartest people that entertainment folks are infallible harbingers of future events, like groundhogs in little sunglasses.

Yesterday’s drive to Montevideo (yes, we have a town called Montevideo in Minnesota. I take no responsibility for this. The culprits are long dead) was a cold one. I said the other day that this winter has been an old-fashioned one. By that I meant old-fashioned in terms of frequent snow and thick snow cover. It’s been atypical, however, in terms of yo-yo temperatures. On Tuesday it got up to over 40⁰ Fahrenheit. Stuff melted all over the place. On Wednesday I got into my car at 7:00 am with the temp around 4 below. It rose to about 2 below as I drove, and soared to 8 above by the time I got back to the Cities.

This wasn’t winter like the picture above (chosen mostly because it was taken in Norway). This was one of those clear, cloudless days where the heat is raptured into what I once saw described as “the tremendous heat-sink of a clear winter sky.” This is the cold of space. Alien. Merciless. Frigid as a Minneapolis Star & Tribune critic when sent one of my books to review.

These cold-weather drives put one in mind of Fridtjof Nansen – if you’re a self-dramatizer like me. The cold permeates the car’s frame overnight, and it lingers, even with the heater on full blast. It was an hour before I could take my gloves off, and longer before I could take off my Homburg (it was a funeral. Had to wear my black Homburg).

I wore my black suit with waistcoat, and a Thinsulate scarf and my lined trench coat. Thinsulate gloves too. I was still bloody cold.

I returned to Minnesota from Florida, years back, because I missed spring.

This is the measure of how much I love spring.

Spring, you owe me.

In memory of Aunt Ada

Photo by Mayron Oliveira @m4yron. Unsplash license.

Today I once again drove several hours to attend a funeral in a distant part of the state. It was for my aunt Ada. I wasn’t terribly close to her, but I was fond of her. She may have been the happiest of my mother’s sisters (though I wouldn’t be dogmatic on the point). She worked for years as a school lunch worker, and sang with the Sweet Adelines. She was in her 80s, and her death was quick and easy, as such things go.

She was the last person living to have borne my maternal grandfather’s last name. (I’m not telling you what it is, because as you know it’s a common security question.) Though Grandpa has many descendants, they all come through the female line.

Turnout for the service was very good, and about half the crowd was her descendants and their spouses. It occurs to me that a very good (though not infallible) indicator of a persons’ happiness may be the number of children, grandchildren, etc. who show up at their funerals. I know conventional wisdom today says you’re happiest concentrating on career and self-actualization, but I think there’s a lot to be said for big families. My funeral, unless my plan for world domination succeeds, will probably be a fairly dismal affair.

Think how many people you know who have only one child, and are miserable because that child is unhappy or making bad life choices or on drugs or something. When you have one kid, you’re putting all your legacy eggs in one basket.

Have a “quiver full” (as the Bible puts it) of offspring, and you spread out the risk. One of those kids is likely to be happy and successful, and give you some satisfaction.

And let’s face it, “only” kids face challenges. When I was in school, and only kids were rare, it was commonly understood by the rest of us that only children had socialization problems. They came to school with expectations about how they’d be treated that were doomed to be disappointed. They’d missed out on the friction with siblings that prepares one for playing with others.

Advice on family planning, from a childless man. Take it for what it’s worth.

And farewell, Aunt Ada. You did good.

‘Have His Carcase,’ by Dorothy L. Sayers

Harriet wished she knew more about times and tides. If Robert Templeton [her fictional detective] had happened, in the course of his brilliant career, to investigate a sea-mystery, she would, of course, have had to look up information on this point. But she always avoided sea-and-shore problems, just precisely on account of the labour involved.

The eighth Lord Peter Wimsey novel by Dorothy L. Sayers is Have His Carcase (a joke on “Habeus Corpus”). In this book, Lord Peter once again joins forces with Harriet Vane, mystery novelist, the woman he loves. Who continues to steadfastly refuse his marriage proposals.

Harriet is having trouble with her latest novel, and so has repaired to a (fictional) resort town on the southwest coast of England to concentrate. One day she takes a walk on a coastal road to clear her head, and stops for a picnic lunch on a beach below some cliffs. There she spies a human form lying immobile on top of a flat rock. Approaching to investigate, she finds a man dead, his throat cut, the blood still flowing freely. Knowing that the tide is coming in soon, she takes photos to document the body’s condition. By the time she makes it to the nearest town and gets the police to investigate, the body has washed away, not to be found for some days.

Harriet is a savvy businesswoman, and does not hesitate to tell the press about her discovery. She also starts asking questions about the victim. He was a “dancing partner” (gigolo) at one of the local hotels, and had recently become engaged to a very rich older woman. Which makes the woman’s son an obvious suspect in the murder, but he has a pretty good alibi.

Lord Peter soon shows up to help her investigate (the police don’t mind, of course, thanks to his reputation and political connections). Those police are inclined to dismiss the death as suicide, but Peter and Harriet find that theory improbable for several reasons. What they finally discover will be very strange indeed.

I hadn’t read Have His Carcase for nearly fifty years, and I liked it quite a lot, but not as much as I liked it the first time. I’d forgotten about the long section devoted to breaking a cipher (only interesting if you want to work it out on paper with the sleuths, which doesn’t appeal to me). And the final conclusion of the book was more ambivalent than I remembered. Nevertheless, Dorothy Sayers’ narrative skills are very strongly on display here, and there are some great scenes. The final twist is brilliant (in my opinion). And she includes a delicious, Dickensian policeman’s name in this book, too – Inspector Umpelty. You can’t hate a book with an Inspector Umpelty in it.