an amazing life

We think about our place here, our function, our significance... and much of that will be written or speculated upon outside of our own hearing... maybe most of it after our own passing. Today I am thinking of a woman who has seen her share of obstacles, of times when she probably could've thrown in the towel, of when life was not what we would call fair. She recently turned 85, and is important to me, and a role model for anyone. I salute her today.


Born in a farmhouse right after Christmas, 1924, the second child of William (Bill) and Elsie. Not a remarkable child, or particularly gifted in anything, other than tenacity and the will to carry on. Her elder sister Elanore preceded her by two years, and the sisters would need a strength and pluck, which somehow they received in fine supply. Bill worked the farm and Elsie was his helpmate, he the son of German immigrants, she was third generation German American. Bill had an accident and had injured his head, and friends and relatives covered his farm duties until he recovered. The sisters learned from a young age the importance of community, of family and of helping out.

Some say it was a result of that accident, but in any event, Bill developed a brain tumor and died in 1928, his daughters were just six and not quite three. On the cusp of the great depression, their mother was left alone. In years to come, Elsie would marry another Bill, he was divorced, and the father of two boys, Delbert and Billy. In time, this yours and mine family would have three more children of their own - Dorothy, Eunice and Don.

She went to grade school, and at that time, many children were needed as farm hands, so oftentimes they did not go to school beyond the 8th grade. In 1939 she was confirmed and graduated from Osborn Elementary School, and went to work on her parents farm. A few years later, she met a handsome young man at a dance, they dated for awhile and married in 1943. They had their first child in 1945, their second in 1947 and found out that she was expecting their third in the summer of 1948. Just before she found out that she was pregnant, Marge and Les attended the funeral of a friend of theirs, a young man killed in a farm accident, leaving his wife and young children behind. Les was mortified, and saddened to his core. He told Marge that he could not imagine leaving a family like that behind, and how sad it must be for the man's family. A few months later, on a Wednesday, he went into the house and told Marge that he wasn't feeling well. He took to his bed, a rare thing indeed for this strong young man. By Sunday he was dead, of a kidney ailment that now would have been treated easily with antibiotics. Marge spent the entire time at the visitation, the funeral, and the days after, telling anyone and everyone that she was pregnant, lest anyone start rumors...

In July, 1948 she faced the world with a three year old, a seven month old and another on the way. He was born in February, 1949 and given the middle name of Lester. Les' younger brother Ray was a farm hand and worked for them. He was a happy go lucky sort, quiet and diligent, yet more than ready to raise a glass of beer or several when given the chance. Had his brother lived, Ray would've been one of those free spirits who never would've thought of marrying... but he was needed. Ray and Marge were the same age, as Les had been four years his brother's senior. Ray did what he could to console the young widow, helping out as much as he could, and escorting her to a dance or two and helping to care for the young children when he could. In October, 1949 they were married. Their uncle was now their step-dad. The four children born to Ray and Marge all had the same last names as Marge's first three kids, and the older three were both cousins to and half siblings to the younger four.

They kept the farm and raised the seven kids as one family. They never got rich, but they were never wanting for anything either. The years passed, and the kids got married and grandchildren came along. In the late 80's they sold their farm and moved to a trailer park not far from where they had spent their nearly 40 years of marriage. The kids would take their parents along on trips, and the two were happy to see things beyond the farm,and they enjoyed the journeys, and spending time with their kids and grandkids...

One trip Ray began to show signs of hostility, confusion and... dementia. When they got back to Wisconsin, one of the daughters scheduled him for a check-up. The doctor found nothing physically wrong, but requested that they follow up with a neurologist. He determined in short order that Ray had Alzheimer's and the family should start to prepare for his long slow slide into the black hole that is that disease. Seven months later he was in a nursing home, and for the next seven years he drifted further and further away, finally passing in October, 1998, one day after their 49th anniversary. He was finally home again. The funeral was a standing room only affair - his quiet gentle nature had touched so many people, and friends and acquaintances that he had not seen in years were there to offer comfort and support to the family.

In 1995, in the midst of Ray's struggle with Alzheimer's, Marge had reluctantly gone on another trip with one of the kids. Her daughter, son-in-law and two kids took grandma out to Pennsylvania to the Pocono's to see some of the countryside. The day that she got home, she called her daughter, the same one with whom she had traveled, and tearfully reported that she had passed blood, and she feared for the worst. Her beloved mother Elsie had met with a similar fate, passing away to colon cancer in 1964. Elsie had sat at the funeral of her sister, a victim of breast cancer, knowing that many of the same people would be gathering for her funeral in a short period of time. She was right, and two weeks later she passed away at the age of 63.

Marge was 71 at the time of her diagnosis. Her doctor felt that it was a small mass and might not even require chemotherapy. A one foot section of her colon was removed, along with a few lymph nodes. Wrong prognosis - she would need chemo, but probably only once a month, and it would probably be mild enough that she might not lose her hair, and would only be necessary for a few months. Wrong, and wrong and wrong. Chemo was weekly, she became sick and week, and lost all of her hair, and after 11 months, she begged them to stop. They did, and in 2000 was declared totally cancer free. There has not been in any reoccurrence. It was feared that during her treatment, she would not make it, leaving Ray alone in the fog of his Alzheimer's.

She claimed that her grandchildren were an inspiration to her, and she maintains that if the cancer ever returns, she will not fight it... Having lost her sister Elanore to cancer during Ray's treatment at the nursing home, and many of her other friends, she was determined that no heroic measures should be taken to save her life. None have been necessary.

She leaves for a trip out west tomorrow, to visit a son in Arizona and a brother in California. They always love to have her visit every year, as she brings her cheerful nature and her love of beer and playing cards. It's all good for her now. She can leave her mobile home behind for a couple of months, and have the winter pass by without her. When the time comes for her to be called home, she is ready - life has been full and plentiful and challenging. Not easy, or perfect of smooth... She will start many a sentence with "Years ago..." and launch into a little essay on how things were for her when she was growing up... The years can't take away her spirit, her laughter, or her knowledge that it's all been worth it...

My children's maternal grandmother... and a grand, grand lady she is... bon voyage, Grandma!

what lies betwixt

Something I wrote a few years ago, and had this on my Yahoo 360 page... I still like it, so still want to share it...
I'd like to remember laying down between your legs, and licking, starting at one knee, and tickling and circling and flicking my tongue from your knee up and down and swirling and slowly. Very slowly inching up your thigh - making you put all your weight on your hands - so you can thrust your hips forward, if you wanted - and then you'd throw your head backwards, and shake it back and forth. You grit your teeth and suck in a huge breath - because it felt so good - and I am just getting started. Can you feel that tongue, it’s working it's way around - higher, and higher - I'm almost to that place - where your legs meet your torso. I have to detour now - I need to suck and nibble on that tendon – you know that I love that nice firm little cord that connects your legs right near your butt cheeks. It's sticking out, I take it between my lips and nibble it gently, and you like it, yes, you really like it. But you want more; you want my tongue and my mouth somewhere else, somewhere very close by. You're starting to wiggle and squirm and you're starting to say something, but you've closed your thighs a little around my head, and I can't quite hear clearly. You're breathing in faster - I can hear your breathing through your clenched teeth - the only words that I can make out clearly are "Come on..." and "PLEASE" - otherwise it's garbled. I flick on the tendon a little bit, and reach underneath you to grab your butt - I'm preparing to take my sucking and licking and nibbling to a new level, and I figure that I will need to have a good grip.




I lift my head up a little and I look up at you and you are really enjoying yourself – you are sporting a smile that could thaw a polar ice cap. I lick my way up your thigh, across your hips - zoom onto your stomach - linger for a few seconds in your navel and then help myself to a nipple - then to another. You like that - you start to moan and purr, but at the same time you press on my head - you'd like me to continue that pleasure making a little lower, in the area I have just left to move up here. I free up a hand from beneath you and slowly, lightly let my fingers wander down to your special place - and they are immediately greeted with warmth and wetness - and a sharp intake of breath. I run a finger up and down your slit - you are so wet, oh honey, so, so wet. You start pumping your hips a little and pressing against my hand, trying to draw me into you. OK, if you insist, first one, then two, fingers quickly sink inside you. OH, OH - the heat and the wetness - you are so unbelievably hot, honey, wow. You like this, but you are losing control. The fingers are good, you love having something inside you, but you want that tongue, and soon, after enough suggestive pressure on the top of my head, I start licking my way down again, enroute to a rendezvous with my fingers, right in the center of your bodily pleasure...



My tongue continues it's way down. I love the squirming and the anticipation, the breathless, almost pleading, urgency of a woman on the verge. I might travel back up and nuzzle your breasts for just another moment, luxuriating in the soft warm flesh - then to kiss your neck, your chin, and of course, your mouth. Before I go down, to complete what you so desperately want, I'll kiss your ear and tell you what I'm about to do.



Something like - "You want it so bad, don't you, honey, are you ready? Do you feel this tongue in your ear, - very, very soon, it's going to be somewhere else. It's going to be tasting and licking your hot, wet, lovely flesh, right in a spot that is going to make you feel so good, you're almost going to cry from the sheer pleasure... Do you want this tongue, if you do, you're going to have to tell me...tell me what you want me to do with it. Shall I circle around and around, making gradually smaller and smaller circles...until I get there, right where you want it? And where is it - do I go inside, or stay on that special spot - do you want me to lick hard or soft? So soft that you can just barely feel it, oh my God, honey - you are so fucking hot, I feel how hot and wet you are, my hand is soaked - do you want my tongue where my fingers are? Do you want to cum, right now, do you?" You would be wiggling and writhing and breathing so hard, it would be hard to for me to proceed - and you're trying to help me, trying to tell me what I wanted to know. But it's not easy, your breathing is jerky, you want it so bad - you grit your teeth, and suck in a huge breath, but it gets caught in your throat. You open your eyes wide as I trail my tongue down from your ear, down your neck, making big sweeping circles around your neck and upper chest, then I lightly bite each nipple, with my lips covering my teeth, trying to give you a little feel of pleasure and pain. You start pushing on my head in earnest, mumbling "Now, Now, Now - please, plllllllleeeeeeeeeeassssssse - EAT ME NOW - Just fucking do it - now!" And I will, the table is set, no more delightful torture is necessary. I kiss each nipple once more, and my tongue travels a straight line, from between your lovely breast, over your stomach, flicking lightly along the way - a quick kiss and a couple flicks at your navel - and you are anxiously awaiting it's arrival. You violently thrust your pelvis against my hand, which has been churning with two fingers inside you. I have avoided your clit, as my tongue wants to sample it first, and it is just about to arrive (and so are you!). I give full kisses on your mound, taking as much of your mound into my mouth as I can, and I stretch my tongue out and reach toward your slit. God you are hot...As we near the final phase, I reposition myself - I work my fingers in and out of you several times, and you are about to go over... I take my fingers - so full of your juices, and I place them into my mouth - and it so lovely, you taste so good.



From there my hands go back to your ass - and you raise up, and my tongue stretches out to its entire length and I touch you there, very gently. Your head goes back and then violently side to side. I want this for you now, almost as bad as you want it for yourself. I drop down, to the bottom of your opening, flicking, back and forth - gradually increasing the pressure as I move up the slit. You are moaning and smiling - your head is at an almost grotesque angle - the pleasure almost forces it back all the way, but your curiosity and longing to see what I am doing brings in forward. I take one delightful dip into you all the way, into an incredible hot blast furnace of moistness - and you begin to cum. I go back to the clit, my tongue curved lengthwise into a tube to surround your button - and you shake violently and the moistness turns to a flow - so wet. My hands grasp your ass cheeks, so I can firmly administer to your needs, but also to steady you so you can just go completely over. And you do, alternately shouting, then almost whispering - "God, yes, yes yesssssssss, oh fuck - now now now…” as your voice trails off… Then suddenly, violently you shriek “NOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!" And the words are no longer words, just sounds - nasal, guttural - as wave after wave of pounding pleasure sweep over you.



The smile of a woman in her consummate pleasure - it is pleasure/pain on the way up - a longing desire, but here, now - at it's fullness, is just sheer, wanton, abandon and release. Your pelvis is wracked with continuous pounding as your orgasm hits full thrust, and just hangs there - you are so into the moment, you have given yourself to it - totally. My tongue has encased your clit, and I turn my head to circle it completely - working hard to control you. Finally, I release your buns and lower you down - you lower your pelvis, and my lips take you in to my mouth more fully... and finally, oh ever so gradually, the waves start to subside. Still ever so wonderful and beautiful - you are able to breathe, and your smile is of utter, complete bliss. You throw your head back all the way, trying to get the circulation to resume - your midsection has so dominated your body's attention, it was as if all things centered there, and the rest of the body starved and waited until it was over. And it is ending, slowly; ebbing away - giving you so much pleasure, as it gradually fades away. And you are done. I sense the completion. I crawl up to your chest - I love the symphony of a heartbeat that has just finished a masterpiece - and yours does not disappoint me. Though your body is moving toward a resolution and relaxation, your heart is pounding ferociously - speeding frantically to nourish all your extremities. As your heart finds equilibrium, I’m satisfied that I have accomplished my mission. I move my mouth to yours, so that we can reward ourselves with a kiss. A long, slow, satisfying kiss... and it is good, very good.

Yes

And in this place and time, in this moment, I still see it, can feel that warmth surrounding me, being totally surrounded and consumed and knowing that I as I probe your depths, it is you that is inside me... I feel that incredible warmth, heat that holds me, floating, transfixed, lost in this moment of anticipation, building, yearning... yes, I, am, inside... inside you, all the way, but it is not enough, never enough, the fever, hold me right there, clench around me, hold me in your nether depths like you want to take all of me... moist urgency, clenching muscles, then clenching teeth, fists, butt muscles, all a symphony of sex, yes, not moving now, just holding here, can I go on, is there another millimeter that I could push further, can you spread for me a little more, take me in deeper, I can't be in deep enough, should we go on from here, start the fever, frenzied push that leave us gasping and heaving, and leaving some of me in you... as your eyes hold me, hold me right here, just as tightly as your sheath grabs me and beckons me further... let us hold on, right here, right now, and know that this moment, it is not about completion... that will take care of itself, but in this moment we are complete, the puzzle pieces fit, the clocks have all stopped, the calendar has no meaning - we have this moment, we are this moment, we cannot be deprived of what is here, what is now...
Sliding back, not out, knowing that at some point, I must take leave of you, but for now, let us go forth into this great adventure, let us find that rhythm, ride this wave, take this moment, and build on momentum, I want you, take me further into your depths, have me now, take me all the way, this great act of acceptance, not to fulfill some want, to scratch some itch, not to play out some evolutionary urge, but take me, have me, all of me, let me, show me, urge me, yes, yes, I cannot close my eyes, as you own those, I feel that beckoning urgency, you clasp my soul with your pools of light, and your body composes the symphony of echoes, and cries, and grasp around me, urging me to fill you, fill you, take out that last oozing ounce of emptiness, and have me splash inside you with a willing, aching, yawning yes... yes, now... we have this moment, and then can freeze it, keep it, call it up and lovingly turn it over... yes
No hurry, no worry, no haste... just being, being inside you...yes... being, being inside you, let us hold onto this, being together, inside you, this moment is forever...

Hidden namesakes

I usually post all original stuff, things that I write. But this caught my fancy, as I am a connoisseur of words. I thought that this was very cool... from the magazine "The Week" page 48, December 4, 2009 edition. The origin of words... The article describes words, and how they came to be... some have been bandied about recently, others are part of our common usage, and some are, well... just interesting.


"Author John Bemelmans Marciano pays tribute to the forgotten figures behind 10 everyday words."

John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, is famous for a particular type of obscurity. You may know nothing about him other than that he was saved from oblivion by the way he liked to snack—with a slab of salt beef stuffed between two pieces of toast. He is famous, in other words, for being the obscure figure behind a word that people often assume was not named after anyone. The earl might be the patron saint of a condition we might call anonyponomy. He is a man who is almost anonymous despite the eponymous use of his name in everyday language. He is not alone, though, in this limbo. As the examples here show, there are delightful, remarkable, and ridiculous figures and stories lurking everywhere in our speech.

MAVERICK (n.)
Samuel Augustus Maverick was a Yale grad­uate, lawyer, Mexican War veteran, and San Antonio mayor who owned so much Texas real estate they named a county after him. In the mid-1840s, Maverick accepted a herd of cattle in exchange for a debt and, not caring much for livestock, neglected them to the point of allowing calves to wander about unbranded, a cardinal sin in the free-ranging days before barbed wire. The lack of a brand became a brand in itself: Whenever anybody found a stray calf with no markings, they said, “That there’s a maverick.” Metaphorical uses soon followed.

GUY (n.)
In the wee morning hours of Nov. 5, 1605, Guy Fawkes was arrested in a rented storeroom under the House of Lords that was suspiciously packed with 36 barrels of gunpowder. Under torture, Guy confessed to being part of a Roman Catholic conspiracy to assassinate King James I, his family, and both houses of Parliament; he was hanged.

For more than 400 years, Guy Fawkes Day has been celebrated across the United Kingdom with fireworks and bonfires. On these crisp, late-autumn nights, children parade effigies of Fawkes through the streets chanting, “What shall we do with him? Burn him!” Upon reaching the great central bonfire, the kids toss “the guy” into the flames and then, if they are traditional, follow it with an effigy of the pope. Etymologically speaking, a “guy” came to mean someone of grotesque appearance, which came to include everyone, at least everyone in America.

DUNCE (n.)
John Duns Scotus was a Scottish theologian and one of the most influential thinkers of the Middle Ages. An ardent follower of St. Francis, Duns Scotus spent his career at the universities of Oxford, Paris, and Cologne. He provided the definitive argument on the then culture-war issue of the Immaculate Conception, after which it became Catholic dogma that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was conceived without sin. For his delicately shaded approach to this and similar difficult issues, he earned the nickname Dr. Subtilis, and his theories held sway from his 1308 death through the end of the Middle Ages.

Duns Scotus’ followers, the Scotists, dominated theology until another gang of scholars, the Thomists (after Thomas Aquinas), encroached on their turf. These new philosophers ridiculed the hairsplitting sophistry of Dr. Subtilis and his Dunsmen (pronounced DUNCE-men), who were impervious to learning anything new or different. In the intellectual rumble of the Renaissance, the elegant theories of Duns Scotus were knifed on account of his blockhead followers. To be called a “dunce” became the worst insult a would-be man of letters could receive.

TAWDRY (adj.)
Once upon a time, (the middle of the seventh century), there was a young English princess names Æthelthryth, or, as the Normans would later call her, Audrey. Princess Audrey was widowed after a marriage that, we are told, was never consummated. She took a vow of chastity, but her father the king required that Audrey marry again; her new hubby, understandably less than thrilled about her promise to God, bribed the local bishop to make the vow go away. The bishop instead helped Audrey escape, but hubby got wise and gave chase. Divine intervention in the form of a prolonged high tide provided Audrey cover for her getaway, causing her husband to give up and find himself a more ready gal to marry. Becoming a nun, Audrey founded the Abbey of Ely. Many years later, as she lay dying after a life of good works, Audrey developed a red, burning tumor around her neck, which she gladly accepted as punishment for the many frivolous necklaces she had worn in her youth. As a reward for Audrey’s extreme devotion to not having sex, she was sainted, and her feast day was celebrated with an annual fair held at Ely.

In a show of medieval irony, a certain kind of frilly silk neckerchief was known as St. Audrey lace, or “Taudrey Lace.” This item was a top seller at the St. Audrey fair, especially among “country wenches” who bought the cheapest and gaudiest varieties, paying little heed to Audrey’s cautionary tale about the link between necklaces and neck tumors.

PANTS (n.)
Pantaleon was an unmarried physician and citizen of the pagan Roman empire who could, simply by invoking the name of Jesus Christ, perform such miraculous acts as healing the blind. Jealous, Pantaleon’s fellow doctors denounced him to the emperor, who asked the good doctor to give up this Christian nonsense—whereupon Pantaleon proved the power of God by curing a man of paralysis. Having witnessed the trick, the emperor condemned Pantaleon to death for practicing black magic.

As is the case with many Christian martyrs, death was the beginning of a second life. Pantaleon became the patron saint of bachelors and physicians, and his name could be invoked to cure a variety of ailments. When the Black Death swept through Europe, St. Pantaleon’s stock went up dramatically in places like hard-hit Venice, where a spectacular church was dedicated to him. “San Pantalone” became so identified with Venice that his name was borrowed by the commedia dell’arte for the character of the prototypically greedy Venetian merchant.

The commedia dell’arte had story lines harking back to Roman times, but was played out as improvisational farce. Each actor of the troupe dressed in mask and costume as one of a repertory of stock characters, such as Arlecchino, easily recognizable in his trademark diamond-patch outfit and better known to us by his Frenchified name, Harlequin. The costume signature of Pantalone was a pair of red leggings that reached the feet, a distinctively Venetian manner of cladding the legs that audiences outside the region found remarkable. Over the years and in various languages, the character’s name was borrowed to describe varying fashions of long trousers and related garments. By the mid-1800s, the Anglicized name Pantaloon had comfortably been shortened to “pants.”

JANITOR (n.)
Pity poor Janus, once the mightiest Roman deity of all. He was the father of the gods—until his worshippers fell all over themselves for the flashier, sexier Greek pantheon and left Janus to be the god of doors. Janus was well suited to his task, at least, having a face on both the front and back of his head. Those who attended to the god of doors—that is, doorkeepers—came to be called janitors.

WIMP (n.)
The original wimp was J. Wellington Wimpy, the porkpie-hatted mooch of the Popeye cartoons, whose perennial gambit “I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today” never quite succeeded.

E.C. Segar’s Thimble Theatre, the comic strip in which Popeye first appeared, is remarkable for its contribution to the lexicon. In addition to “wimp,” Segar is also responsible for the word “goon,” from his hairy warrior woman Alice the Goon, and probably the vehicle name Jeep, after Olive Oyl’s pet Eugene the Jeep, a magical and resourceful creature from the fourth dimension whose entire vocabulary consisted of the single word “Jeep!”

CARDIGAN (n.)
The Charge of the Light Brigade, immortalized in the poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson, was a big fat mistake. A miscommunicated order during the Crimean War’s Battle of Balaclava (1854) led to a cavalry assault so foolhardy that the enemy Russian troops thought the onrushing Brits had to be drunk. The doomed but brave sally sparked the English imagination in a romantic period when the doomed but brave was much celebrated.

The leader of the charge managed to make it through unscathed, and went home to England a hero, an unlikely outcome for James Thomas Brudenell, the seventh Earl of Cardigan. Cardigan had risen through the army via family connections and purchasing commissions; he certainly hadn’t done it by being an upstanding citizen or military man.

In one respect, however, Cardigan treated his subordinates splendidly. Wanting his 11th Hussars to be the spiffiest regiment in the Queen’s army, Cardigan spent an estimated 10,000 pounds a year of his personal fortune outfitting them. Reportedly, this included a knitted, button-down vest of Cardigan’s own invention that he and his men wore under their battle uniforms to stave off the Crimean cold. Whether true or the fantasy of an enterprising sweater salesman, the story was widely believed, and with everyone wanting to copy the heroes of the Light Brigade, the cardigan became the fashion of the day. What would Mr. Rogers have done without them?

FRISBEE (n.)
In the 1930s, a couple of drunk Yale students munched down a pie and started playing catch with the leftover tin plate. The game took off, and soon the whole campus was eating pies and playing the new sport. The students’ pastry of choice was made by Mrs. Frisbie’s Pies of Bridgeport, Conn.; it’s unknown whether this preference speaks to the quality of her pastry or the aerodynamics of her tins, which came embossed with the company name.

Mrs. Mary Frisbie was likely amused by this tossing around of her plates; certainly, her bakeries were selling a lot of pies—80,000 a day in 1956. On the other side of the country there was a guy who would’ve envied her: Fred Morrison had created a disk designed specifically for flying, but no one was buying them. Trying to cash in on the UFO craze, Morrison released the Pipco Flyin-Saucer, then the Pluto Platter, which caught the eyes of the Wham-O corporation. Wham-O executives had recently created the biggest fad America had ever seen, the Hula Hoop, selling 25 million units in four months. They purchased Morrison’s designs, realizing why success eluded him: His names all stunk. They soon learned there was already a better name for a flying disk—Frisbie—in a place where the sport was wildly popular. Wham-O decided to call its plastic version the same thing, but to trademark the name, it changed the spelling to Frisbee. (Very tricky.) The Frisbee wound up being Wham-O’s most popular and enduring product.

CRAPPER (n.)
Thomas Crapper is a man yet to receive his due. Most reputable arbiters of etymology deem urban legend the idea that he had anything to do with the word “crapper.” To be sure, the word “crap” predates Mr. Crapper. Crappa was a medieval Latin term meaning “chaff,” from which developed many variations, all generally meaning something left over. Crapper as a last name similarly has agricultural roots: It is a variation on Cropper.

The first usage of “crap” in regards to excrement was recorded in 1846, too early for it to have anything to do with Thomas Crapper, who was not yet 10. Young Crapper, however, would grow up to be an early purveyor of the flush toilet. His London firm manufactured thousands of such toilets, all emphatically marked CRAPPER’S. American servicemen visiting London during the Great War thought this was the funniest thing they had ever seen, and, according to one theory, brought back with them a new word.

It does seem fair to question, however, just how a plumbing-fixtures manufacturer came by so serendipitous a surname. Fate? Or was it a case of nominative determinism, in which Thomas’ surname steered him into his life’s work? Or did Thomas choose the name Crapper for professional advantage? That would show some serious dedication to marketing.

From the book Anonyponymous: The Forgotten People Behind Everyday Words by John Bemelmans Marciano. ©2009 by John Bemelmans Marciano. Used with permission.

Merry Jolly Happy Wonderful Thankful

And as I spend a few moments to catch my breath before scurrying off on yet another Christmas related mission, I have to be thankful for a few moments. It's not thanksgiving, but the end of the year and the Christmas season always trigger reflection over the past year... I can lean towards getting all atwitter at some of the less than favorable things afoot in my life... and it is easy enough to invoke the "look at me, woe is me" thing... What I choose to reflect upon at this moment is all the things with which I have been blessed.

I could list or catalog or inventory the many blessings with which I am surrounded... my kids first and foremost, and the love and support of friends, my abilitiy to think and communicate, and my nice girl Maggie, who loves me without condition and reflexively... a warm house, and on and on and on... Liane is so very important to me, and I would be remiss without mentioning her. Rather than blather on and repeat and recook the same sentiments I leave you with this: Merry Christmas, and many blessings to you and yours in the coming year.

"We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." Thornton Wilder.

and again...

Besides the multitude of celebrities, I have been party to at least ten funerals this year, four in the month of January alone. Over Thanksgiving the father of another close friend was buried.Yesterday, my daughter and her boyfriend attended the funeral of a woman from her boyfriends Army Reserve unit, who involved in a horseback riding accident just before Thanksgiving, and passed away last weekend. My brother's mother-in-law died Wednesday at the age of 83. We go, we hug family, we hear eulogies, some powerful and inspirational, some tired and empty - some we don't hear at all, as we are lost in our thoughts of mortality and the meaning of it all...

Cayla, the woman whose funeral was yesterday, was 22. She was married January 9, 2009. Her husband was in Iraq when she was injured in the accident. She never regained consciousness... and last week the family made the decision to donate her heart, liver and kidneys for transplants. Four people will get new life because she lost hers. Cayla joined the Army right out of high school, and had been in Kuwait for a year from mid 2007 to mid 2008. She was in college seeking a degree in large animal veterinary science. It's over now, she is resting in the cold, frozen ground.

Her husband will have to go back to Iraq. Her unit will carry on without her. Her family has memories and a whole in their hearts. And life will go on, whether we want it to or not. My prayer is that her almost 11 months of marriage was fulfilling and made her happy. In years to come, her husband will be able to remember her and smile and know that their time was fleeting, but good. We all need to remember that life is like that, fleeting, but good. Embrace today, and each other.

first snow

And the snow begins to fall outside my window. It is the first snow of the season. The farmer has just finished cutting down the corn in the field across from my house. Everything is so quiet, a car goes by once in awhile, and the sound carries a long time. I always wondered why the quiet seems so much quieter this time of year, and the sounds that do come seem to echo across time and space almost endlessly... then I looked around and discovered - it's the leaves.

More so the lack of leaves. When the trees have leaves, there is a constant white noise of rustling, of the breeze meeting leaves and knocking around inside a tree, dusting the branches, caressing each leaf. And when those leaves have fallen, there is silence in their place. And the millions of leaves that serve as buffer or shields to all the sounds between our ears and the source of those sounds... swallow up and don't allow what we are able to experience in the purity of winter.

Taking a walk this time of year unlocks treasures that are kept hidden from us during the other times of the year. The leaves hide many things from us, and though I love the fall, and as the leaves leave us, they give us a splendor and grandeur that give new expression to the spectrum of color. When those leaves rest on the ground, they give our ears that same chance to drink in a spectre that eyes cannot comprehend. Nature has so many treats for all the senses, but this kind of quiet surely has to be a balm for the soul. The cool air dives into the lungs and refreshes and renews us as well, but being able to turn off all the other sounds and hear just what peace sounds like, is a peace that heals, a peace that caresses and soothes.

Yes, there will be the howling swirling gusts of winter that pound at the foundations, and the snow will pile up and bury many of these treasures, and the cold will be so raw and penetrating, and we will be left wondering what purpose we have in ever leaving our homes... but now, in this light, with the first snow falling, with not a sound to be had for miles around, I can feel the blood pressure plummet, I can feel a peace descending that won't be quickly dissipated. We all have our vision of a perfect day... and yes, a clear blue sky, with a whisper of a breeze on 75 degree day surely might be that.

But here and now - the grey in the sky is sprinkling the confetti that celebrates another change of season. That sky seems to have swallowed up every sound as well, so when that deer darts for cover just ahead, his hooves are like thunder, and we share a kinship of accelerated heartbeat and adrenaline, and does he know that he startled me almost in the same way that I startled him? Around the next bend in the trail, a fox and I share a moment of pensive study, as each wonders what the other will do. I have the luxury of stopping this time, allowing her to go wherever she would like, as I am not out seeking food, just more silence.

In this season of giving and receiving, nature wants to take part as well. It gives us that sense of awe and wonder, and reassures us of the timelessness of all things, this quiet existed eons before I got here, and will not be chased away by helter skelter busyness that people want to chase after. I have come to reclaim my gift of wonder, and the woods gives ceaselessly, unselfishly, breathtakingly, heartbreakingly, quietly.