Three things.
One: blasted the stones.
Two: fixed the ice maker. Hey, you say, didn't you fix that last month? Yes. It promptly froze up again, so I accessed the control panel, disabled Control Lock, pressed Control Lock and Freezer for six sections, cycled through some options and ended on Fd, which would force defrost the ice maker. It was supposed to beep for 20 minutes to indicate the process was working. It beeped for nine hours. But after nine hours I could take the ice bucket out and dislodge the build-up, which was the size of a small hard drive. Now I am at the kitchen table, and the ice maker is making small pained whining noises as it makes the cubes, like a costive dog attempting to excrete a LEGO piece.
Two: GOD BLESS CHOLERA
It’s a few days late, because I wrote yesterday in advance, and I am now writing this in advance, but: The Game brought me back to life. Monday Night Football. If I had sat at home by myself and watched the game it would’ve been sad and small, I think. When you watch a football game and it’s not your team, it’s for the love of the sport and the admiration of the skill. And of course the brutality. Can’t forget the brutality!
Seeing it with your old friends is different. The first game of the year is special, because this will set the tone. Or it will not. But it might. Actually, it will, and you know it. If you lose, it’s a sign of challenges to be met and problems to be solved. If you win, it means that THIS MIGHT BE THE YEAR. But you know in your heart that if you lose the first game, there will be gloom in the back of your head about the season for a few weeks, until the number in the win column are big.
The best game, when you think about it in retrospect, is one in which you lose the first half and win the second. This means your team can get hit hard in the puss and shake it off and drill deep down to find what’s required. If you win the first half and lose the second, it’s a sign that you have great abilities, but you’re lacking psychological rigor, and you got lazy. You coasted, instead of playing to the last second. If you win the first half, get bested in the second but still win, it’s worrisome, but a win is a win.
This game was the first example. A miserable first half that made you think all the hype and hope did not survive contact with the real world. It was apparent that the hated opponents, for whom one had new grudging respect, had the mo. And then the jo. But then, dang! Second half, things click, new determination, reservoirs of confidence and intention and confidence tapped, and everything swings. The other guys are on their back foot. What worked for them doesn’t work anymore. Our guys claw at the O line fight and claw and sack and tackle, and you can feel the shift. Or, as the Crazy Uke said: MO HAS PUT ON A VIKINGS JERSEY
When everything started to swing I started to sweat, because hope is the worst. But then we score. And then we score again. We are, at this point, clinking glasses. I never imbibe in the afternoon, but an eventing game, past nine, yes: I hit the cold clear stuff. Aquavit from the source, from Iceland, slightly syrupy with the caraway note. We are standing and hooting and toasting and hollering the litany of nonsensical compound Slavic oaths. CHOLERA is a common cry of despair but sometimes I will just parrot back Slavic phonemes in improper calibrations, shouting GOD BLESS CHOLERA in Ukrainian or Polish when the team runs for 18 yards.
Anyway, we won. And the combination of friendship, football, pizza, cashews, halftime break for cigars, a clement evening, and VICTORY somehow surmounted all the angst and agita of the last fortnight. Is that odd? It’s all so convoluted. But was just what I needed.
Just a game. Just a game. But I drove home even-keeled and happy. And it still killed me: I’m starting to begin to possibly maybe accept that we’re moving. And I hated that 3% less. But I still hate it.
The First Thing, about blasting the stone: did the backyard on Monday, and everything looks bright and clean. I’ve the whole south wall to do next. For the next people. (Sigh of despair.) Skipped the task on Tuesday, because it was cloudy and cool and damp, and since my wife went to the office I spent the whole dank day on webwork and scanning and sorting and planning. The first day that's felt normal in a fortnight.
It’s supposed to get warmer. It should. It must.
It’s 1943.
It’s a small town. We’ll be paying it a visit tomorrow, in Main Streets. For now let’s see what the paper was saying .
For no reason at all, there’s just a picture of Fannie Hurst in the corner of the page. And Mrs. Henry Morgenthal on the other side. They're just . . . there.
The latest and best and most up-to-date. A sign that the town was a prosperous, progressive city to which people would move for the solid good life it offered.
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Unusual? How? |
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Here’s what “askart.com" has to say:
Born in Oneida County, New York, in 1868, he later he came to Nebraska with his parents, living on a homestead where he learned the habits of cowboys and Indians and the covered wagon trains. The love for art work became evident early in life and at the age of eighteen he was operating his studio. His hand made portraits and landscape paintings were considered among the best. He was well known in his field of work.
Wonder where they got that information.
Could be worse, guys:
Stern challenge sternly accepted:
Damned grim Spirt, there. Damned buff Sam, too.
The serial:
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It was a sorry day when this tradition ended. Something to look forward to, an ongoing story to stir your sense of romance and intrigue. |
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The third page is mostly syndicated features, including this:
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In 1942, when Colliers refused to send him abroad as a World War II correspondent, Mr. McCormick moved to NBC. The following year he became central Pacific correspondent, based first at Pearl Harbor and then at Guam. He roamed much of the Pacific and was shot at by Japanese snipers while covering the conquest of Iwo Jima. Many years later he was shot at by rebels in Angola while covering the rebellion against Portuguese rule.
Apparently he didn’t sever his role with Colliers when he moved to NBC. As for “WNU,” it was, in 1940, the “the oldest, biggest syndicate in the U. S., with more clients than all other syndicates combined.” The article is about the head of the syndicate, and says:
Wright Arthur Patterson is editor in chief of Western Newspaper Union, which supplies "boiler plate" (stereotyped feature columns) and "readyprint" feature pages to rural newspapers. The nation does not stir at mention of his name, but he has some 12,000 country editors as clients (of whom about 4,000 consider Pat Patterson their personal friend), and through their papers he has a total circulation of more than 30,000,000.
Forgotten today. But the founder’s home is a tourist destination now.
Parting advice: please limit your phone calls to three or four minutes. There’s a war on, you know.
They could've said this is much less space, but it gave you a sense of patriotic duty. I'm doing my part to beat Hitler by hanging up the phone!
That will do for today. Restaurant industry pages in the Decades project. I fear I may have bobbled URL last week, so perhaps you should start here. and yours truly as Buzz Lightyear at the Substack. See you around.
