Yes, you’re in the right place. This is where you get my occasional book reviews, but more often you get excuses for why it’s been several days since the last review. Not that you’d expect me to read a book every day. I know you pretty well by now, Gentle Reader, and you’re not unreasonable. As a matter of fact, I think you’re pretty gosh-darn patient.
It was a weekend full of translation work for me. Which is good. I approve, and am grateful. Only Christmas’ wingéd chariot keeps drawing near, and I haven’t started my cards yet. No, that’s not quite true. I gave the address labels a start yesterday. And then got confused and lost all my work. I shall resume, Sisyphus-like, tonight. If I can work up the energy. (My cold is better, but I’m still a little tired.)
The book I’m reading at the moment is Dorothy Sayers’ classic Five Red Herrings, which is considered a masterpiece of the railroad timetable school (which was very popular at the time). But I feel I’m not doing it justice, because I’m not making spreadsheets of all the data. Thus, my progress is slow.
But I share the little video above, which is the original titles for the BBC production of Clouds of Witness, back in the 1970s. Broadcast in the US on Masterpiece Theater. I always liked that music.
By the way, have I mentioned I did translation work on a production that was broadcast on Masterpiece Theater last spring? I’ll tell you about it if you insist…
Busy. I am busy. Busy like the bees, and the beavers, and any number of industrious, alliterative animal life forms.
I posted the video above (recorded in Denmark) because I was on a long road trip over Thanksgiving, and I told the story thought to be behind this ballad. I’ve mentioned it here before. “Sir Patrick Spens” is thought to be (loosely) based (with a shipwreck thrown in) on historical events surrounding the death of Queen Margaret of Scotland. Known in Scotland as Margaret, Maid of Norway. And in Norway as Margaret, Maid of Scotland.
She was the last royal heir of the Scottish Canmore dynasty. Her mother, who had already died, was a Scottish princess married to King Erik II of Norway. When all the rest of the Canmores were gone, Margaret became presumptive heir. At 7 years old, she was betrothed to Prince Edward of England (later Edward II) and sent home to assume the throne. But she took sick on the voyage and died in the Orkneys.
The struggle for the throne that followed is the actual background for the “Braveheart” story, but it wasn’t cinematic enough for the screenwriters. So they invented that scene where Edward I hangs the Scottish chieftains, an event that never happened.
Poor Margaret lived on in song and story, the Maid of Norway (or Scotland). Elevated by that “Camelot” instinct we all bear within us, the sense that if some hero (or heroine) of the past had only lived, everything would have been all right. A shadow of Eden, perhaps.
Anyway, I took a long ride over Thanksgiving, and we had a very nice family celebration. Especially nice after last year’s isolation. I came home with leftovers, which is nothing to sneeze at, at today’s prices.
And I came back to work a-waiting. For the moment it seems to be pouring in, and I can translate as much as I can handle.
And that was a little frustrating too, because I had a pile of jobs to do that I’d put off over the holiday. Doing my laundry. Talking to Customer Service at the grocery store about why my gas rewards card isn’t working. Calling my health insurance company to find out why a medication they’d always paid for was suddenly refused (this got straightened out, and required a visit to the store for a refund). Something more that has to be done on my mortgage refinance, for some reason. And now I learn that my internet provider is withdrawing service, so I’ll have to find a new one of those.
Not to mention the Sverdrup Society work I haven’t had a chance to look at for weeks.
Thank you for your time. I must return to my workbench now.
“An Early Spring,” by the American primitive artist Grandma Moses (1860-1961). We had curtains printed with this pattern in our house when I was growing up.
It isn’t often I actually have a busy day. But this was one, at least by my sedentary standards.
However, it was a good day. I’m still slightly elevated in the wake of Atlantic Crossing winning the Emmy award. You can expect me to mention it, ever so casually, for the next few years. Or at least until the next Emmy win. Shoot, I could conceivably be marginally associated with an Oscar someday.
The first big job today, after my obligatory run to the gym, was baking pumpkin pie. Last year, for reasons too obvious to mention, my family did not gather for Thanksgiving. And so I made no pies, because it’ silly to bake two pies for my sole use. But this year – it was just decided – some of us are getting together. So I made my pies. The best pumpkin pie in the world, I say with all due modesty.
I baked them, and I shamelessly sampled one. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had any for two years, but it seemed to me especially good. So the first job was a success.
The second job was paying my bills, which is usually a Thursday job, according to my personal liturgical calendar. But garbage men must adjust on Thanksgiving, and so must I. Thanks be to God, my social security deposit had cleared yesterday. So I was in good shape for writing the checks. (Not sure when I’ll get paid for my new client’s job.)
Then I had to do some minimal housecleaning. Not because the place is mostly immaculate and just needs a touch-up (ha ha). Rather, because someone was coming by on business, and my home was such a magpie’s nest that a few things had to be moved around so there’d be one flat place where documents could be laid down.
The aforementioned business was refinancing my mortgage. It’s a good time to do it, and I found out I could save about a C-note a month without extending my payment schedule much. In times like these, it seemed prudent.
So the notary showed up at last, and he shepherded me through about 67 signatures. Some of them required dates, and the dates have to be entered in a particular format. Nevertheless I made it through, and now the deal is done and I have that accomplishment to savor. Almost as if I’d been productive. A penny saved is a penny earned, as Franklin said (or is rumored to have said). So that’s as if I earned $1200 next year.
If you discount inflation.
I still have some preparation to do for Thanksgiving, but I’m feeling good about the day. And in that spirit, I shall enhance your life. I shall enhance it by sharing my mother’s pumpkin pie recipe, which ought to make your own life at least $1200 better:
MY MOTHER’S PUMPKIN PIE RECIPE
1. Look at the recipe on the can of pumpkin pie filling (I found Festal this year! That’s the brand we had when I was a kid! Haven’t seen it for years).
2. Follow that recipe precisely, with only two changes:
3. First change: Use 7 eggs instead of 3.
4. Second change: Pour it into two deep dish pie tins instead of one.
5. You’ll end up with two mild, custardy pumpkin pies that even people who don’t like pumpkin pie will like.
6. That’s it. Remember to be thankful for Lars Walker’s generosity. Checks and bank transfers will not be refused.
Big news for discriminating fans of historical drama – Atlantic Crossing, the Norwegian miniseries that ran on PBS Masterpiece last spring, and which (I think I’ve mentioned) I worked extensively on as a script translator, won the International Emmy Award for the best TV film or miniseries. The ceremony was last night. I am moderately elevated about this. My boss, Linda May Kallestein, who was a co-writer as well as translator, sent me a photo of herself holding the coveted statuette.
I wasn’t aware of it, but you can order it on DVD now – and it’s not prohibitively expensive.
Today, of course, I worked at translation. Made good progress, too, and I’ll put some more time in tonight. I’ve got personal business to handle as well, but everything’s in hand.
Started reading a book by an unfamiliar author the other day. A bargain book for Kindle. According to the description it’s a Christian book, and it has a lot of good reviews.
Alas, so often the descriptor “Christian” indicates poor craftsmanship. So it was here.
I won’t tell you the author’s name or the book’s title. They might be favorites of yours. Many people better than me in almost every respect enjoy – or even write – books that don’t please me. It’s not for me to look down my nose at them. I know I’m turning into a literary snob in my dotage.
The author just hadn’t mastered the craft. The story may have been good – I tried to hang with it, to see if the plot grabbed me when the prose didn’t – but in the end I couldn’t hack it. I was opening it out of duty rather than anticipation.
So much in writing depends (as in jazz) on the notes you don’t play. There are lots of things you don’t need to tell the reader, if you can suggest them – through word choice, rhythm, juxtaposition. When the reader expects you to say something and you don’t, that makes him guess at your reasons. Such things make the reading experience a collaborative one, a kind of dance. It draws the reader in.
This author knew nothing of these things. He may learn the craft in time. You’ve got to start somewhere. I wish him well.
Above, a video of The Dragon Harald Fairhair, the largest Viking ship replica ever built. She was constructed in Haugesund, Norway, and I hoped to see her back in 2016, when she was supposed to come to Duluth. But that was prevented by maritime regulations. She’s been sitting in Mystic Harbor, CT for a couple years now, and I wonder what her future will be.
Anyway, this is a cool video, mixing comments by crew members with epic sailing footage. I believe I haven’t seen it before, which means somebody probably sent me the link once, and I was too busy to look at it.
Got up, dim and early, to be in place to deliver my PowerPoint lectures on the 793 AD Viking raid on Lindisfarne, and on the conversion of Norway. I spoke to a small class of seminary students. They did not break into uproarious laughter at my jokes, nor did they weep at the profundity of my wisdom. But they didn’t laugh me out of the room, either. Which is something, in the greater scheme of things.
A nice thing that happened was that, as I was lecturing, I suddenly discovered connections between the two lectures I’d never noticed before. These talks were conceived separately, but I found previously unnoticed ways they fit together.
I love it when ideas fit together.
Of course, that’s also to be expected when you’re a monomaniac.
Just before I left for the seminary, I got an email telling me I’d gotten the translation job from the filmmaker to whom I’d been referred recently. The referral came from someone to whom I’d previously been referred. So now I’ve got referrals at two removes. I think that qualifies as word of mouth. Some measure of business success.
The job isn’t huge, but it has a more imminent deadline than I’d expected. I’ve still got plenty of time to finish it, but this adds an element of dramatic tension to my days. And I suppose that’s not a bad thing, for a phlegmatic guy.
I have to attend a Sons of Norway meeting tonight, and I was asked to do a lecture. So I’m in haste. And I haven’t finished a book to review.
Hence, the video above. I was looking for one thing, but found it didn’t exist. Instead I accidentally found this video, which I think is kind of nice. This is Sola, Norway, where Erling Skjalgsson lived, in case you’d like my fictional descriptions improved on.
The circular stone array is some kind of ancient ceremonial spot. I think I used it in one of my books.
The stone church you see, with stones numbered and parts of the walls made of glass, is the “Sola Ruin Church.” It was mostly demolished during World War II, but someone thought to number the stones so they could be reassembled, which was done. I’ve been there. Picked up a small stone from the yard and took it home with me. I keep it at my elbow when I write.
This is a very old church – probably 12th Century – but not old enough to be Erling’s. In my novels, I assume Father Ailill’s church stood on the same spot.
Can I share my thoughts on podcasts for a minute? Are you okay with that? I mean, I can just share a few thoughts about a problem or two that I have with some podcasts—maybe two problems, I don’t know, I’m just thinking out loud here.
If everyone’s okay with that, I’ll just share, and you don’t have to read it. I’m not saying you have to read anything I write here. That’s silly.
So, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll share a few thoughts on podcasts and then we’ll move on to regular blogging. Okay? Okay.
When Rush Limbaugh died earlier this year, I didn’t know what to say about him. I listened to his show for a several years in the 90s and 00s. He was a top-notch professional who put together the best talk show on radio. There were times I got tired of it (political news can drag somedays), but the other shows couldn’t keep up. I heard a bit from Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck, but they just couldn’t fill the hour like Rush could.
I’m going blame him for training my ears to good radio. Now, I have a hard time listening to the way some people talk on air. Some podcast hosts just talk to much. That’s probably a common complaint. A couple podcasts I like say their listeners complain about too much friendly banter, saying they want solid conversation only. That’s not my complaint. Friends talking cheerily isn’t something I get often.
My complaint is something I’m calling structural talk or talking about talking. The best example of this is killing a joke with explanation. Some people can’t let a quip or witty remark go by naturally. They have to gut it and pull out its heart to diagram the funny.
A more common example of structural talk is what I demonstrated at the beginning of this post. When podcast episodes are an hour or longer and several minutes are burned with talking about what they’re going to talk about, I can’t continue to listen. Closely related to this are the hosts who explain their point into the ground. In both cases, the talkers are thinking with their mouths without empathy for their long-suffering listeners.
Brevity, you may have heard–I mean, you know this right? Stop me if you know this already–is the soul or heart or core, the important part is what I’m getting at–the central part of whit. That’s what brevity is.
It occurred to me today that the tribute I posted on Monday to my friend and former boss Paul Nash, who died Saturday, was missing an important element.
I forgot to talk about his gift for helping. That’s a biblical gift (1 Cor. 12:28), and Paul had it to a greater degree than anyone I’ve ever known.
In the years I worked for him, I can’t recall ever hearing him turn anyone away who came to him for help. If he couldn’t help by himself, he could always think of someone on his extensive contacts list who’d be able to. Most of the time, though, he could help personally, because he was one of those omni-competent people who make lesser men feel inadequate. He was physically strong, and good with his hands, and he’d grown up on a farm and knew how to tinker with things. He knew work-arounds. He knew a trick or two they don’t teach you in school.
And he always had time. Even if the day was full of important phone calls and meetings (they usually were; his schedule was insane), he could take an hour or two to help you out. He could always finish the rest of his work later that night. Maybe he’d only get a few hours of sleep. Or none at all. Sleep was boring, anyway.
I’m not like that. I’m good for about two things in the world – writing (translation is a sub-category thereof), and acting/reading copy. If I try to help you out with any problem outside those areas, I’ll probably drop something or step on it or set something on fire.
I’m not sure whether the world needs a lot of people with my gifts. It never runs out of the need for people like Paul. He’ll be missed, by many, many people.
I’m busy with translation work today, and I’m still reading the long book I’ve been working on. But I do have something to write about.
My friend and former boss, Pastor Paul M. Nash, passed into glory, far too young, on Saturday following hospitalization. I’m not sure of his exact age, but he was younger than me and – to all appearances – in better health.
It was Paul who hired me and brought me back home from Florida in 1995. Through the years I worked as his office assistant in the Home Missions Department of the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations, we were sort of a Laurel and Hardy team, each complementing the other in terms of our strengths.
Paul was one of the godliest men I ever knew. He wasn’t just godly in his heart – he worked actively at his holiness. He disciplined himself and kept himself on a leash. I expect I was a disappointment to him in that arena.
Yet, unlike a lot of disciplined types, he was not grim or cheerless. Quite the contrary. Paul was always the life of the party. Things got interesting when Paul showed up. Laughter soon followed.
In many ways he reminds me of descriptions I’ve read of Hans Nielsen Hauge, the founder of our branch of Lutheran Pietism, of whom I’ve written often. Like Hauge, Paul was an A-type who had trouble sitting still, who always had to be doing something useful. He loved airplanes and flew them to facilitate travel for his ministry. He got up early and worked late, and figured there’d be plenty of time to rest after death. Which, sadly, has come.
After his retirement from Home Missions, he started a work called Shamgar Ministries. There’s a brief bio there.
