I sat down to watch the local news on TV last night, and learned that one of my oldest friends is dead.

I’ve written about him here before, calling him “Elmer.” Since I don’t know how his family would react to my reminiscences (though I have no reason to think they’d be offended), I’ll continue to use that name.

Elmer and I met in elementary school, back in Kenyon. As our class’s social hierarchy evolved, the two of us found ourselves thrown together more and more, not because of similar interests or personalities, but as partial outsiders, boys who didn’t play well with others. A sturdy, black-haired kid, Elmer was not in the least diffident, and if he possessed any sense of shame I never saw a sign of it. He loved to say and do provocative things, just to get a reaction. Continue reading R.I.P. "Elmer" →

Jeremy Webb wrote his play for high schoolers, but it’s gained legs for a broader audience. “I think that it’s great for adults because it breaks all the rules,” said Webb. The one-act comedy has Shakespeare’s characters accusing their playwright of various injustices. (via ProfShakespeare)

Former President George W. Bush was presented with the Book of Revelation hand-copied by prisoners in a Chinese labor camp. Twenty men wrote out the entire Bible while in prison and smuggled it out the day before their meeting was exposed to officials.



A friend copied an admonition from Trollope on how boring preachers can be, while still tolerated, and what caution young preachers should take from it.

No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of compelling audiences to sit silent, and be tormented. No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, (sic) and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege, the same respectful demeanour as though words of impassioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips. . . . Yes, my too self-confident juvenile friend, I do believe in those mysteries, which are so common in your mouth; I do believe in the unadulterated word which you hold there in your hand; but you must pardon me if, in some things, I doubt your interpretation.

Anne M. Doe Overstreet writes beautifully about working, “ankle-deep in glory and dust,” as a landscaper.

I can do this, I thought, recalling long summers weeding the massive vegetable gardens my parents had. It’ll provide solitude, exercise, and mental space to work on poetry. Mostly true, resoundingly true, and not so much true.

On April 15, 1918, Jack was ordered to advance his troops behind a barrage of British shells fired by big guns far behind the lines…. Jack ordered his men over the top of the trench parapet and led them straight towards the enemy as the barrage of high explosives riddled with shrapnel landed ahead of them, blasting the German trenches and soldiers. Then, suddenly, as they advanced with bayonets at the ready, the barrage stopped advancing and began to come back toward them. Soon Jack and his men were being bombarded by their own artillery from far behind them, and to his helpless fury Jack watched his men being blown to pieces in the constant roar of their own artillery support. Suddenly Jack saw a blinding light, everything went completely silent, and then the ground came up slowly and hit him in the face. Jack had been hit by both the concussion and shrapnel from a British shell. His trusted sergeant had been between Jack and the shell when it exploded and was blown to bits. Apart from his own efforts to escape, Jack remembered nothing more of the battle.

(Douglas Gresham’s account of his stepfather C. S. Lewis’s wounding in World War I, from his book, Jack’s Life.)

Today is Veteran’s Day, the commemoration that used to be called Armistice Day, back when everyone fondly hoped that the last war had been fought. A hearty thank you to all military veterans who read this post. I’m flying a flag for you.

Someone asked on Facebook today, “What one historical event would you change, if you could go back in history?” My answer was, “I’d stop the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo.” Continue reading Eleventh hour, eleventh day, eleventh month →