I am a busy man. Busy, busy. Like a bee. Or a beaver. Or some other animal that starts with a “b.” Busy as a butterfly? Busy as a badger? Busy as Behemoth?
Anyway, I’ve got translation work today. Sweet translation work on a project which (as usual) I can’t tell you anything about. I will tell you (because it’s redundant) that it’s in Norwegian and I need to run it through the processors between my ears, extruding in the end an English script of rare beauty and grace.
It’s a good script, too. One I’m happy to be involved with. I will tell you that. I don’t think the lawyers will object.
Also, I’m only about a third of the way through the hypertrophied book I’m reading for review, so there wouldn’t be a review tonight anyway.
Instead, I found the video above. It’s by a guy I know nothing about, and my sharing it implies no endorsement of any kind. But he was at the Avaldsnes Viking Festival last summer when I was. So you can get the flavor of it. He missed a great opportunity, though, in not getting a shot of me in my Viking togs.
The essence of a story is conflict. We may think the essence as theme and remember some stories for a moment of discovery or clarity that moves us, but that moment must come through conflict to carry meaning.
In a 1959 text called Understanding Fiction, Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren write, “A story is a movement through complexity to unity, through complication to simplicity, through confusion to order.” Both adventures and mysteries follow this path. You begin with many questions and maybe competing statements of fact. The confusion may be as simple as being lost, and finding the way out takes a lot of problem solving. When order or simplicity is found, when the events finally make some sense, then you have a story.
There are many types of conflict, Brooks and Warren note, but an account of “purely physical conflict” can’t be called fiction. Motives and ideas are necessary. We need characters, not just actors. A writer needs to “investigate motives” and “imply sympathy or antipathy” for the characters involved. Dr. Jones wants to preserve the ark or save Marion and himself. Belloq wants to use the ark to conquer the world. (And there are layers of conflict despite what fan critics have said.)
In another Saturday post, I said games and sports could hit the points of story, and I think motives and character is what I was talking about. The conflict is there, and if you impute evil intent onto the other team, you’ve got something that smells like a story.
What else have we got?
Book Banning: The ALA asks us to believe “2,571 unique titles were targeted for censorship” in mostly “school libraries, classroom libraries, or school curricula” in 2022. That’s a 38 percent increase over 2021. Though you may suspect the ALA of cooking the books to raise this number, a glance at the top 13 most challenged books shows “claimed to be sexually explicit” on every title. Why are any of these recommended in schools?
But the Communist Party sought also to erase Christian ethics. “Love your neighbor” violated the Marxist principle of “class struggle.” Thus, pastors could be charged with “preaching class peace.” Lutherans had an extensive network to help the poor and the disabled, but this was held to compete with the state and to keep the deprived “in thrall to their exploiters.” Consequently, the church was defined as an enemy of the state. One of the Lutheran bishops summed up the goal: “Everything that is connected to the Christian faith or reminds one of it must disappear from the life of the people and its individual citizens.”
Ukraine: “[Victoria] Amelina is one of Ukraine’s most celebrated young literary figures and a common presence at literary festivals both in Ukraine and abroad.” Now, she researches war crimes, starting with what happened to children’s literature writer Volodymyr Vakulenko.
A visiting preacher from England spoke out our church last year, and he share what he was offered for breakfast by his host on his first morning in our city. There may have been more to the offer, but he focused on his initial take on being offered biscuits and strawberry jelly. He knows how Americans use English differently than he does, but he couldn’t help reacting to the thought of having cookies and strawberry Jell-O for breakfast, because that’s the British use biscuits and jelly. For the actual food he was being offered, he would have said scones and jam.
The American Encyclopaedic Dictionary of 1896 defines biscuit first in this way: “Thin flour-cake which has been baked in the oven until it is highly dried. . . . Plain biscuits are more nutritious than an equal weight in bread, but owing to their hardness and dryness, they should be more thoroughly masticated to insure their easy digestion.” Among other explanations, the writers warn that toasted biscuit crumbs have been used to “adulterate coffee” grounds (which is far preferable to sheep dung, if adulterated coffee is all they have at the market). They also allow that some biscuits are “raised” with shortening or “lightened” with baking powder and perhaps known to be dunked in coffee, but this definition doesn’t carry the weight of authority of the first one does.
Look at the etymology of the word, and you see what our forefather’s bit into. Biscuit comes through the French from the Medieval Latin biscoctum, which means “twice-baked.” It’s something of a fraternal word to biscotto, which is actually baked twice and dunked in 99.97% pure coffee.
So, how did twice-baked flour discs become comforting bundles of all that’s right with the world?
Shawn Chavis of How Stuff Works attributes it to improved flour coming out of Midwestern mills and the invention of baking soda in the 19th century. In these early days, risen biscuits were called “soda biscuits” by some to distinguish them from the regular kind.
Fluffy biscuits rose in the South for a variety of reasons. Debra Freeman writing for King Arthur Flour notes regional biases sidelined this quick bread in the North and allowed it to flourish in the South. Mix in particular creativity from various African Americans, and Southern biscuits were popping out of American ovens from coast to coast.
Avaldsnes Church on Karmoy island. Picture by me June, 2022.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this blog hasn’t been providing enough Viking News lately. Why would anyone come to a book blog, except to read about Viking News? Sure, I’ve given you a few saga reviews in recent weeks, but what you want (I have no doubt) is the kind of breaking, “you read it here first” information for which my name is, perhaps not renowned, but definitely -nowned.
Well, I’ve got one today. Not only is it a major archaeological story, but there’s a personal connection to me – which makes all the difference, I know.
The story was announced yesterday, but I waited till an English version appeared today to share it. Because I hate translating for free.
Just over a hundred years ago, the archaeologist Haakon Shetelig was incredibly disappointed when he did not find a Viking ship during an excavation of the Salhushaugen gravemound in Karmøy in Western Norway.
Shetelig had previously excavated a rich Viking ship grave just nearby, where Grønhaugskipet was found, as well as excavated the famous Oseberg ship – the world’s largest and most well-preserved surviving Viking ship – in 1904. At Salshaugen he only found 15 wooden spades and some arrowheads.
“He was incredibly disappointed, and nothing more was done with this mound,” says Håkon Reiersen, an archaeologist at the Museum of Archaeology at the University of Stavanger.
It turns out, however, that Shetelig simply did not dig deep enough.
About a year ago, in June 2022, archaeologists decided to search the area using ground-penetrating radar or georadar – a device that uses radio waves to map out what lies below the surface of the ground.
Now if you’ve been following this blog, you know that I have a personal connection to Karmøy island. My great-grandfather Walker was born there (under another last name, naturally), and baptized at Avaldsnes Church (pictured above). The three mounds described in this article are a short distance north of the church, and I don’t believe I’ve actually ever seen them.
Still, I was at Avaldsnes last June, precisely when they were doing the georadar surveys. That pleases me immensely. I was On the Scene – if clueless as usual.
I’m trying to decide if the apostle Peter is a good example of saying the quiet part aloud. When someone notes that an activist or someone has said the quiet part out loud, they mean this person has admitted to principles or goals his people usually leave unsaid or even deny. And Peter is famous for speaking his mind.
On Good Friday, we remember that Peter told Jesus he would die before he denied Christ. “Peter said to him, ‘Even if I must die with you, I will not deny you!’ And all the disciples said the same” (Mt. 26:35 ESV). But he did deny the Lord, and I assume the others did too by running away.
When Jesus filled the fishermen’s nets to overflowing, Peter said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord” (Lk 5:8 ESV), saying immediately what the others may think later, that they were unworthy to stand so close to a holy man. Many years later, Paul had to rebuke Peter for holding Gentile believers to an unholy standard, implying they should maintain Jewish habits in order to be right with Christ (Gal. 2:11-14).
With these and other examples, Peter shows himself to be a great example of a Christian who can’t keep his act together, who lives in continual repentance for not living what he actually believes. In this way, perhaps it’s right to say he says quiet things aloud, and by doing so, he helps us recognize or reject what he says. We can say we do believe that and it’s wrong, or we do believe that and it clashes with other professed beliefs.
Or perhaps we deny that we will ever reject Christ, and then we hear ourselves rejecting him. Don’t let that be your final word. Christ’s work on the cross is enough to flood your entire life and raise you to a new life with him.
Ah, the high adventure of the author/translator/lecturer’s life! I’m back from my travels, none the worse for wear in spite of age, infirmities, and my well-attested general incompetence.
I set out on Sunday morning, which was clear and cold. It’s about 3 and a half hours to Bemidji, a world-famous northern Minnesota center for winter sports and summer fishing. I arrived in plenty of time to get lunch at a restaurant – something I’ve done rarely of late, due to tight money. But I had prospects of income, and I counted my chickens before they hatched, eating some of them in the form of a turkey dinner. Even went crazy and had pie for desert, which is probably imprudent when you’re about to speak publicly. Living dangerously, however, has always been my style.
Trudy and me and Brad. Do I look like a statue in a wax museum to you? The thought crossed my mind…
I arrived at the church where the Sons of Norway meeting would be held, and met Brad and Trudy, my hosts, who’d thoughtfully dressed as Vikings to help me feel at home. (Actually, they’ve decided to push Viking themes in an effort to stir up interest in their lodge after the setbacks of the Covid lockdowns). They were very helpful and competent, and – to my amazement – my laptop hooked up seamlessly with the projector. I’ve learned to be highly pessimistic about such hookups based on my recent experiences, but this went like clockwork. Which filled me with a different foreboding. This foreboding, fortunately, proved unfounded.
At the appointed time I delivered my tried and true lecture on the book Viking Legacy (which, in case I haven’t mentioned it in the last few minutes, I translated). There were a couple glitches in my PowerPoint presentation, but those were due to human error (mine). By and large the lecture went extremely well. The Sons of Norway people had promoted the event extensively, and they were pleased with the turnout. I was pleased with the audience response, and (especially) by book sales.
After everything was over and we’d swept and garnished the room, Dan and Trudy took me to their home, where we’d agreed I’d spent the night. They gave me a lovely supper, and we talked till after 9:00 p.m., which was staying up pretty late for me that particular night (Brad is himself the author of a book, A Conversaunt Existence, on the existence of God). We were concerned about weather forecasts predicting dangerous driving conditions in the morning.
In the morning there was in fact a light mist falling, which froze on all surfaces. But when Brad left for a meeting, he called back to say the roads seemed all right. So I set out for home, driving a little under the speed limit until I got to the four-lane highway, where everything seemed clean and dry. I arrived at my destination safely, and my GPS will vouch for it.
Now I’m in pretty good spirits, but bone-weary in that way that only an introvert feels when he’s been through an explosion of socialization. I have, nonetheless, the satisfaction of coming home with a lighter load than I took out, as cash weighs a whole lot less than books.
The only way I can imagine in which the expedition could have gone better would have been if I’d found true love.
But I expect true love is heavier than either cash or books.
Any readers living in the Bemidji, Minnesota area may be interested to learn that I will be lecturing on Viking Legacy to the local Sons of Norway lodge this Sunday, Feb. 26 at 2:00 p.m. The location will be Calvary Lutheran Church, 2508 Washington Ave. SE.
Today I was interviewed on a local radio station, KB101 FM. Through the magic of modern technology, you can enjoy the interview right here, even if you’re not privileged to live in the Bemidji area.
Today has been quiet for me – in a sense – and busy in another sense. I’ve not stirred abroad nor moved from my habitation this day, even to go to the gym. The gym is, in fact, closed, but I didn’t plan to go there anyway. We’re enduring the Great Blizzard of ’23 – or so the Chickens Little of the media would have us believe. What it’s been doing, in actual fact, is snowing. The winds haven’t been all that strong in Minneapolis, nor the snow especially heavy (thus far). What this storm is, is long. It started the night before last, and is supposed to drag on till late tomorrow.
But I have enough food to get me through, and I had some work to do, which brightens any day. I wish I could tell you about the latest project, which I just turned in. It contains elements that please me. I can’t say more than that. But it helped to warm the winter in my aged heart.
Above, a little video about George Washington’s face – since it’s still Washington’s birthday for a few hours as I write. The near-apotheosis of Washington in our early Republic was probably a political necessity, but it’s regrettable that the reaction to it – which has become malignant paranoia in recent years – has turned many people against him. Washington was (according to my reading) in fact a fascinating, complex man who worked hard at appearing one-dimensional.
I love historical reconstructions like the ones in the video above. But I happen to know that even this one is glamorized. The real Washington was (like a large percentage of his contemporaries) heavily scarred by smallpox. (Andrew Jackson was the same.) Blemishes as common as that were, I suppose, generally overlooked. Smooth complexions were much admired – especially in women, who made it a point to stay out of the sun – but you couldn’t insist on them.
Washington was also – or so I’ve read – very vain about his “figure.” He (like me, I must confess, though I’m not nearly as tall) was built rather broad at the hips. But he refused to believe it, despite what his mirror, and his tailor, told him. He insisted that his breeches be cut to the width he believed they ought to be, rather than what they were. Kind of like reverse anorexia. Thus his pants were always tight and uncomfortable.
But he had a purpose in concentrating on his appearance, in always being “in character,” in never relaxing in public. He felt he was setting a precedent for his nation. Nobody knew how the elected leader of a republic was supposed to comport himself. Washington had to make it up as he went along. As a schoolteacher makes it a point to be very strict during the first few weeks, to set a tone for the class that he can ease up on later, Washington established precedents for the presidency. Later chief executives, like Lincoln, were able to ease up on the dignity a bit, because Washington had left behind such a weight of reverence.
I fear the reverence is about gone now – it’s not all the fault of the present incumbent, either – but Washington did a pretty good job in his time.
It’s been cold this week. We even had a bit of wintery precipitation, which we call snow around here, but you probably have real snow in your area and would laugh at us for using the same word to refer to whatever that was in the air a minute ago. It’s winter here. With current events as they are, it feels like winter everywhere.
He recalled the city he’d escaped from,
the scorched terrain he searched by hand.
He recalled a weeping man
saved by the squad.
Life will be quiet, not terrifying.
He should have returned a while ago.
What could happen to him, exactly?
What could happen?
The patrol will let him through,
and god will forgive.
God’s got other things to do.
Winter can feel like that. Quiet enough to allow you to push back both real and imagined terrors, worries that the world is leaning into the curse, that God has other things to do. But such feelings belie the hope we have in Christ. As Christina Rossetti wrote in “A Better Resurrection“:
My life is like a faded leaf,
My harvest dwindled to a husk:
Truly my life is void and brief
And tedious in the barren dusk;
My life is like a frozen thing,
No bud nor greenness can I see:
Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring;
O Jesus, rise in me.
What else to we have today?
Bookstores: Focusing on a new store in Concord, N.C., called Goldberry Books, World magazine reports on the return of small booksellers. “In the last decade, the American Booksellers Association (ABA), a trade organization for independent bookstores, has actually seen steady growth. In 2022, its members operated more than 2,500 locations—up more than 50 percent since 2009.”
Fathers: Ted Kluck talks about his friends’ fathers, who are coming to the end of their lives. “They taught us how to goof off and bust chops and work hard and be generous and stay married. . . . Do they make dads like these anymore?”
Remembering: Joseph Conrad wrote, “The dead can live only with the exact intensity and quality of the life imparted to them by the living.” Patrick Kurp reflects on this as well as Thelonious Monk’s love of the hymn “Abide with Me.”
Anoka, Minnesota. Creative Commons license, Tim Kiser.
If you are (or were) a fan of Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion, you’re familiar with the town of Lake Wobegon, Minnesota.
Lake Wobegon is (we are reliably informed) a cover identity for Anoka, Minnesota. Anoka is a northern suburb of Minneapolis today, but it was a quiet rural community when Keillor was growing up. (It also boasts of being the Halloween Capitol of the US, for some reason I haven’t discovered).
Anyway, you may recall Keillor talking about the Sons of Knut lodge in Lake Wobegon. The Sons of Knut are obviously based on the Sons of Norway. And there is indeed a Sons of Norway lodge in Anoka. It’s called, not the Sons of Knut, but “Vennekretsen,” which is Norwegian for “circle of friends.”
I told you all this to sidle around to the fact that I spoke to Vennekretsen Lodge last night. It went great. The people were very kind and hospitable, and receptive to my presentation. They also bought a fair number of books. And they served a great big cake, because it was the 100th birthday of one of the lodge members. Haven’t seen a cake like that in a long time.
Anyway, what I mainly wanted to write about tonight was the adventure of preparing for that event. Because it wasn’t any walk in the park (except in the sense that parks nowadays tend to be places where you’ll get mugged).
When I do a presentation, I generally prepare by rehearsing several times, and also by pulling out things I think I’ll need to take along, and piling them somewhere so I won’t forget them on the date.
What I didn’t expect was that I’d trip on a laptop cord and yank the thing down onto the floor on Sunday. The screen was ruined. I’ve always found it difficult to use a computer without a working screen.
So – although it’s my general policy not to do commercial transactions on a Sunday, but this was an emergency – I ran to Micro Center, the best computer store in these parts, and quickly found several inexpensive laptops there. I had to wait around a while to get sales help, because Sunday’s a big shopping day for people less spiritually-minded than myself. When I finally got hold of a salesman, he actually recommended the least expensive machine on the shelf. “Does everything the others do, and it’s cheaper!” he said. Sounded great to me.
What I hadn’t noticed – and it would have meant nothing to me if it had, because I’m ignorant – was that what I was buying was a Chromebook. I didn’t know (then) that Chromebooks are the Trabants of the computer world, minimalist machines that only do a few things. Perfectly fine for their target market, but I’m not that market.
I even asked the salesman if it would run Microsoft 365, and he said yes. This is technically true, but it will only run it through the Chrome browser. IT IS USELESS FOR TAKING AWAY FROM HOME AND GIVING A POWERPOINT PRESENTATION.
I even mentioned to him that I needed a laptop for a PowerPoint presentation. At that point he was (understandably) eager to get rid of me, and he said nothing. I hold him morally culpable for this.
Anyway, I took the thing home and tried to get it set up, growing increasingly frustrated. A couple posts on Facebook got me the information I needed – Chromebook was wrong for me.
On Monday I took the thing back to Micro Center, returned it, and got an HP, which turned out to be pretty much identical to the one I broke.
But I got it set up at last. And I was able to head out on schedule for Lake Wobegon in the evening.
One last insult remained, however. When I got to the church where the lodge met, we found that my new machine would not communicate with the digital projector on site. I ended up having to borrow somebody else’s laptop and run the presentation from a file on a thumb drive (I always bring a backup copy on a thumb drive, because experience has taught me that something always goes wrong). The upshot was that this laptop, which I’d gone to such pains to acquire and prepare, was redundant, and my beautiful, carefully selected title fonts, not loaded on the borrowed machine, did not appear.
Now I’m worrying about projector compatibility in the future.
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