Yesterday, three AP reporters published this account of the war horrors suffered in Mariupol, Ukraine. On March 4, the city lost power. The only stations the radios could receive played Russian news People took everything they could from the grocery stores.
On March 6, in the way of desperate people everywhere, they turned on each other. On one street lined with darkened stores, people smashed windows, pried open metal shutters, grabbed what they could.
…
Nearby, a soldier emerged from another looted store, on the verge of tears.
“People, please be united. … This is your home. Why are you smashing windows, why are you stealing from your shops?” he pleaded, his voice breaking.
Cactus Watching the Sunset. Photo credit: Tom Gainor @its_tgain. Unsplash license.
Finished my paying translation for today. Working on the volunteer stuff now. I came across an expression that the author himself says is something “the old folks said” (and he’s writing in the 1890s). I have a vague idea what it must mean, but I thought I’d check with a couple Norwegian resources on Facebook. One was a former seminarian, the other a historian. Neither had ever heard of it. So I figure I’ll make my best guess, and footnote it, and chances are nobody will ever figure my mistake out if I’m wrong.
Here’s a story I came up with.
There was a young man who longed for ancient wisdom. He traveled the world, speaking to the wisest people he could find in Africa, the Middle East, and the Far East. He sat at their feet and listened to their wisdom, but his heart was not satisfied.
Eventually he made his way to the American Southwest. He heard of a Navajo wise man who lived in a hut on a mountaintop. He climbed the mountain, with much labor, and spoke to him. “I am seeking ancient wisdom,” he said. “What do you have to tell me?”
“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life,” said the old Navajo.
“You don’t understand,” said the young man. “I was seeking ancient wisdom.”
“It’s 2,000 year old; what do you want?” replied the old man.
Another busy day. I have much translating to do. This situation would be more pleasant if it was all paying work, but I found out yesterday I’d fallen behind in my volunteer stuff. The volunteer stuff pays better, of course, but I’ll have to wait till I get to Heaven to collect.
Beautiful day today. Temperature in the 50s. It was a genuine pleasure to be outside, the short time I spent there. That hasn’t been true for some time.
I continue listening to Norwegian radio, both secular and sacred. Today one of the hymns I listened to was one that’s very popular among my tribe, though it comes originally from the hated Swedes. “Blott En Dag” means, essentially, “one day at a time.” Above, a young Sissel does it on Norwegian TV. The standard English translation is called “Day by Day” (not to be confused with the ditty from “Godspell”). Its first verse goes:
Day by day, and with each passing moment,
Strength I find to meet my trials here.
Trusting in my Father’s wise bestowment,
I’ve no cause for worry or for fear.
He whose heart is kind beyond all measure
Gives unto each day what He deems best.
Lovingly, its part of pain and pleasure,
Mingling toil with peace and rest.
You can read the rest here, along with a short bio of the lyricist, Carolina Sandell, a really excellent Swedish hymn writer.
That mention can suffice to make this my obligatory Women’s History Month post, now I think of it. Don’t say I never threw a bone to the feminists.
Nothing to review, and I’ve done little but work in the last few days (no, that’s not true. I loafed yesterday. It was Sunday). So I’m journaling today, I guess. Yet again.
It was warm today, in the upper 30s. Tomorrow will be even better, and I don’t see a freezing day on the horizon. I approve of this development. I shall tip the waiter generously.
I complained, the other day, about my inability to understand spoken Norwegian, the language I translate professionally in text form. One of our readers, Deborah HH, suggested I listen to Norwegian radio. I thought this an excellent suggestion, and installed a Norwegian radio app on my cell phone.
My strategy (or wishful thinking) is to attack the problem subconsciously. I will just have the radio on, listening idly as I do other things. No sustained effort to understand what I’m hearing. My working theory is that that effort is a part of the problem. I know all these words. I just don’t process them when they come in through the audible gate. When I consciously try to interpret, I get hung up on individual words and lose the flow. What I need is an involuntary response. I’m hoping that as I listen over time, my subconscious will jump the gap and connect to my dictionary storage unit. Something like “total immersion” learning.
It took some searching to find the channels I wanted. Most Norwegian radio is indistinguishable from American radio, except for the announcements. They play music, and it’s mostly American music. I wanted talk, and in the Old Country language. There’s an NRK (Norwegian National Broadcasting) channel that’s all news, and that’s just the thing, as far as it goes. But around 2:00 pm (our time) they switch to BBC News, which is no use at all (in more than one sense).
But I finally found a channel to listen to after that. It’s Jæren Misjonsradio (Jæren Mission Radio). If the name Jæren seems familiar, its old name is Jaeder, and it’s the region where Erling Skjalgsson lived in his time (around Stavanger). A region with a great evangelical tradition, of which my ancestors were a part.
They feature preaching in Norwegian, which is good. I recognize the Bible passages, and that helps me along. And the music they play is mostly in Norwegian too – and some of it’s quite excellent.
Today I heard one preacher – a good one – and happened to notice his name on the crawl. Carl Fredrik Wisløff. This was thrilling. Wisløff was a prominent evangelical preacher, teacher, and writer in Norway up to his death in 2004. I used to sell some of his books in the bookstore at the seminary – we had a large stock of one of them. He even visited our schools once, I’m told, but that was before my time.
“Ukrainian Alleluia” by Craig Courtney, performed by the Wellington College Chorale
Composer Craig Courtney wrote this piece in 2007 as a testimony to the enduring faith of Ukrainian Christians and our eternal hope.
3Once more they cried out,
“Hallelujah! The smoke from her goes up forever and ever.”
4 And the twenty-four elders and the four living creatures fell down and worshiped God who was seated on the throne, saying, “Amen. Hallelujah!” 5 And from the throne came a voice saying,
“Praise our God, all you his servants, you who fear him, small and great.”
6 Then I heard what seemed to be the voice of a great multitude, like the roar of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, crying out,
“Hallelujah! For the Lord our God the Almighty reigns. 7 Let us rejoice and exult and give him the glory, for the marriage of the Lamb has come, and his Bride has made herself ready; 8 it was granted her to clothe herself with fine linen, bright and pure”—
for the fine linen is the righteous deeds of the saints. (Rev 19:3-8 ESV)
War has a glory to it. We marvel at Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy for refusing to fear Russian invaders. The mayor of Kyiv, Vitali Klitschko, has shown similar valor. They have inspired thousands of people from other countries to join their fight, including a man known as the deadliest sniper in the world. This is the fight that’s been handed to them, and they are brave or cocky enough to not shirk it.
For many Russians, the opposite is true. Their leaders are cruel bullies who tell them it is sweet and fitting to die for the fatherland, which is the meaning of the Latin words above. Wilfred Owen’s poem on this idea has stuck with me since my college days. War is an ugly thing many are called to do; the elites who will direct other people in other places so that they will not suffer call it sweet and fitting.
Peace: I was unable to find a published announcement of an event I heard about on the radio, that radio stations around the world were playing Beethoven’s Symphony 9 or at least the last movement, “Ode to Joy,” as a bid for peace in Ukraine. On Wednesday, twenty members of the Kyiv’s orchestra played it in the city square.
Russia: Peter Hitchens says he has been fond of Russia, of the heart he believed he saw in Russian people. “What if this could now be put right, if once again the sweet, low houses of Moscow could be populated by gentle, literate, moral people,” he once thought. He sees no chance for that now. (via Books, Inq)
Photo: John H. Garth Memorial Library, Hannibal, Missouri. 2003. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
And the translation work keeps coming in. If I were tired of it, I would not tell you. Because I have an international trip this summer to support. Plus inflation to cover. Also, it’s nice to be needed, when you’re me.
It’s cold, cold, and I have to go somewhere tonight. But tomorrow’s supposed to be warmer, and Sunday warmer still. Maybe this will be the turning point – just as Daylight Savings Time falls, clattering like a muffler off an old car. Maybe spring is coming. Or milder weather, with some consistency, at least.
The song above is an old Faeroese ring dance song, translated into Norwegian. I heard it first from a Norwegian folk group, but their version doesn’t seem to be on YouTube. However, this one isn’t bad, and they illustrated it with footage swiped from the 1958 film, “The Vikings,” starring Kirk Douglas. For its time, that movie made commendable gestures in the direction of trying to be kind of authentic. In some ways. Sort of.
It’s still better than the History Channel series, now metastasized to Netflix, they tell me.
The song is about King Olaf Trygvesson (whom you may remember from The Year of the Warrior), and how he built and launched his great ship, Ormen Lange (the Long Serpent). The chorus goes:
The dance is loud in the hall, when we dance in the ring!
Gladly ride the men of Norway to the Thing of Hildar (a kenning for battle).
Speaking in general terms, hard-boiled mysteries written before the turn of the millennium tend to be a good bet for me. A little more modern than the classics (which I also like), but before the explosion of Wokeness that has fatally infected so much recent literature. Jack Lynch’s Bragg books are a good example.
So I tried out W. Glenn Duncan’s Fatal Sisters, part of his Rafferty series. The intention seems to have been to produce something reminiscent of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels.
Sadly, it didn’t quite work for me. But read on. You might like it better.
Rafferty is a private eye in Dallas. Like Nick Charles and Spenser, he has a steady girlfriend (though because of the time of writing, the author didn’t feel it necessary to make the girlfriend a two-fisted martial artist. And that’s always nice). Rafferty operates alone, but has a dangerous friend called “Cowboy” who backs him up when things get hairy.
In Fatal Sisters (I haven’t figured out yet what the title means. Probably missed a clue), Rafferty gets a call from Patty Akkister, a fairly ordinary young wife. She says her husband Sherm is missing. But it’s all hush-hush, because, she says, Sherm is actually a spy, off on one of his secret assignments. He’s been gone so long, though…
Rafferty has run into situations like this before. Clearly, old Sherm is having an affair, and using the spy story to explain his absences. Rafferty takes the case, in the hope of catching Sherm and talking him into going back to Patty.
Unfortunately, Rafferty’s wrong. Sherm’s no spy, but he is involved in some very dangerous business. And before he’s done, Rafferty will find himself dodging bullets and protecting people – including Patty – from serious mayhem and murder.
I’m not entirely sure why Fatal Sisters didn’t work for me. Rafferty was an okay character, though he never really came alive in my mind. He’s a wisecracking PI, which is a great tradition, but it seemed to me his dialogue never quite hit the target. The book was interesting enough, in a “something to read while waiting for a plane” sort of way. And there was a pretty good surprise at the climax.
On the language side, the profanity quotient was much lower than we get in our decade. So it had that going for it.
Busy, busy today. Busy like a maur, which is Norwegian for “ant.” Working on a project I won’t describe to you, of course, except to say that it’s more difficult than the usual fare. I’m dealing with some dialect here. I do surprisingly well with dialects (having figured out the “trick” of it some time back. You need to imagine the sounds of the words). But it still takes longer than the usual stuff. And involves harder thought.
It’s just as well I had inside work to do. It was cold outside. Clear, but cold, though it wouldn’t have seemed so bad a month ago. Yesterday was partly cloudy, and the temperature soared into the 40s, which feels pretty good in March. Exchanged a few words with one of the neighbors, who complained about his aches and pains due to moving snow. The warm day had been ushered in by a heavy snowfall. We have now, according to the neighbor, exceeded the average snowfall for the year. It’s been a yo-yo year, we agreed. The temps have gone up and down, and every time they passed the freezing point (either way, it seemed), we got another dump of snow.
My usual favorite radio talk show didn’t grab me today, so I slipped in my DVD of “Wisting” (a Norwegian production, you may recall, which I worked on a bit). I wanted to listen to some spoken Norwegian. When I go there this summer, I’d like to be able to understand people. I can speak TO them – haltingly, but understandably. But I can’t understand them when they talk. The words, so comprehensible on paper, blur together and mean nothing to me. It’s frustrating. Here I am a genuine Norwegian translator, with credits, and I can’t understand the spoken language.
One of my great fears is that someone will someday expose me for the imposter I am.
I guess I’m not the only person who feels that way.
Marine Archaeologist Mensun Bound led a team on a search of Antartica’s Weddell Sea to find the famous vessel of explorer Ernest Shackleton, who lost the ship in 1915.
“Endurance, a 144-foot, three-masted wooden ship, holds a revered place in polar history because it spawned one of the greatest survival stories in the annals of exploration. Its location, nearly 10,000 feet down in waters that are among the iciest on Earth, placed it among the most celebrated shipwrecks that had not been found.”
What they found was “in a brilliant state of preservation,” Bound said.
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