Research Boring? Not in My Book

General James Longstreet: Defying the Stereotypes

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sat, 03 Oct 2015 21:35:00 +0000

General James Longstreet

What do Civil War General James Longstreet and U.S. Senator Strom Thurmond have in common?

They both served their country, they were both Republicans, and they were both born in Edgefield County, South Carolina. That’s not far from where I live.

On the surface, they seem mighty similar. But on closer inspection, they are radically different.

James Longstreet was second in command to Robert E. Lee at the Battle of Gettysburg. While he highly respected his superior, Longstreet held a different philosophy regarding war tactics. He petitioned strenuously for Lee to move to a defensive position between the Union Army and Washington, D.C. where they could find “ground to their own liking.”

Lee was an aggressive leader who, like General George Patton of World War II, had much success, yet high casualties. These traits did not serve him well in this pivotal battle. Analysts believe his command style did not suit the situation at Gettysburg, but Lee was unable to adapt. He, against the advice of many of his officers, decided to attack the middle of the Union forces on July 3, 1863.

Longstreet was reluctant to lead an assault he did not believe in, and reportedly asked to be replaced, but Lee refused. The "Gettysburg" film clip below shows Longstreet’s vision of what has become known as Pickett’s Charge. A vision that proved devastatingly true.

After the war, Longstreet committed the unpardonable sin in the eyes of the “Lost Cause Movement,” which romanticized the Confederacy. He publicly criticized Lee’s leadership at Gettysburg in his memoirs. Worse than that, he became a Republican after the war. This was not Strom Thurmond’s Republican Party (the party infamous for its Southern Strategy). No, this was Abraham Lincoln’s Republican Party. Longstreet served in the administration of Ulysses S. Grant. He advocated equal rights for blacks. For these reasons, he was vilified by his former compatriots.

Longstreet's statue at Gettysburg

In 1998, the above statue of James Longstreet was one of the last to be erected. Compare it to that of Robert E. Lee. Rather than set upon a massive pedestal as are most generals' statues, it is tucked into the trees and at ground level.

Robert E. Lee

I wonder which took more courage for Longstreet—fighting the horrific battles of the Civil War or daring to hold unpopular beliefs among his own people.

Strom Thurmond, Longstreet’s fellow native son of Edgefield, fathered a black daughter while he labored to obliterate civil rights for African-Americans. Who showed integrity? Who pandered to white racist fears for his own advancement?

I know whom I admire.

Seamus an Chaca

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Thu, 01 Oct 2015 21:11:00 +0000

Don’t dump on the Irish or you may go down in history as “Seamus an Chaca,” translated as James the Shit.

A Catholic monarch in 1688, King James II of England put the Protestant powers in a tizzy by granting all Christians the right to worship as they pleased. A big hit with the Irish, but a job killer for James.

The Protestant establishment called on William of Orange, a Dutch Protestant, to invade and eliminate James the Free Love Hippie Flower Child. Within the elite, James was not a popular guy and had little support. It might've had something to do with him ogling their wives "mightily." Even his daughters, Mary and Anne, jumped ship and sided with William of Orange (Mary’s husband). James lost the throne and moved to France.

Pope Alexander: "What? Louis 14
was a douche."

Two years later, the Dethroned One returned via Ireland with an army of French regiments, bolstered by the Irish, often armed only with farm implements.

In 1690 on the River Boyne, north of Dublin, they hit a formidable wall composed of William of Orange’s forces, the Dutch Blue Guard, along with many Dutch Catholics. The kick in the Irish gut was William’s key ally—Pope Alexander VIII (not a fan of the French king, Louis XIV).

During the Battle of the Boyne, James’s forces were overwhelmed and the French cavalry organized a hasty, but orderly retreat. Meanwhile, King James Two hauled his butt to Wexford, then slinked back to France.

Kiss it, James.

This vanishing act did not sit well with the Irishmen who'd fought fiercely with no more than pitchforks in hand. Hence, on the Emerald Isle, James is forever associated with a stinking pile of excrement.

Sources: "The Battle of the Boyne." BBC News. BBC, n.d. Web. 01 Oct. 2015. <http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/events/battle_of_the_boyne>.

Murphy, Colin. "Seamus an Chaca." The Priest Hunters:. Dublin: O'Brien, 2013. 33-36. Print.

Photo: "Carfania & Marcolf: Different Positions for Mooning Judges." Purple Motes. N.p., n.d. Web. 1 Oct. 2015. <http://purplemotes.net/2015/05/17/carfania-marcolf-mooning/>.

Seven reasons NOT to time travel to the Middle Ages

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sat, 01 Aug 2015 19:14:00 +0000

Time travel is an intriguing concept that, according to scientists, Einstein’s E=mc²makesfeasible—if you’re heading to the future. Stephen Hawking insists going back in time is impossible. Who knows? However, if the ability exists, when you go to the days of knights and ladies, be sure you don’t become a damsel in intestinal distress. Otherwise, here’s what’s in store:

1. Should a doctor suspect you have internal bleeding, he might prescribe a tincture of ethanol mixed with a ground-up mummy robbed from an Egyptian grave. Somewhat pricy, in any case.

2. If struck by a stroke, however, you could enjoy powdered human skull mixed with chocolate. A little gritty, but yum!

3. While hobnobbing with England’s King Charles II, he may offer you his personal tincture, “The King’s Drops,” consisting of human skull powder mixed with alcohol. Bottoms up! Yet, the skulls that create these scrumptious cures come from Irish burial sites, so maybe Slainte! is more appropriate.

4.Wounded during your Gothic Getaway? A bandage soaked in human fat is the Neosporin of the day.

5. A good human blubber massage will ease the gout you’ve picked up, pigging out at all those fabulously fatty feasts in the Great Hall.

6. While not easy to procure, still-warm human blood makes an amazing energy drink. If you’re traveling on a budget, you can linger after an execution and, for a small fee, purchase a steaming cup of hoodlum hemoglobin.

7. Before you return, the Franciscan friary’s recipe for human blood marmalade is a marvelous souvenir.

As Renaissance genius Leonardo da Vinci said, "We preserve our life with the death of others. In a dead thing insensate life remains which, when it is reunited with the stomachs of the living, regains sensitive and intellectual life." Who are we to argue?

Source: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/the-gruesome-history-of-eating-corpses-as-medicine-82360284/#QDCdORGr8dsv1HTq.99

Photo: http://www.nlm.nih.gov/exhibition/historicalanatomies/cheselden_home.html

Freedom of Thought

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Wed, 03 Jun 2015 15:52:00 +0000

In 1968, my sophomore year of high school, Huckleberry Finn set me free.

I grew up as a Catholic with lots of questions. I believed deeply in a loving God, but so much doctrine seemed fraught with injustice. “Why can’t unbaptised babies go to heaven? They can’t help it if their parents don’t go to church.” “If a person lives where they never even heard of Jesus, how can they get to heaven?” “If someone grows up poor and in a bad neighborhood, is it right they are judged the same as someone with good parents and a comfortable home?”

My mother found my questions annoying, maybe even disturbing. Huge sigh. “I don’t know, Mary Beth,” she would say. “That’s something you can ask God after you die.” I was dismissed.

Between my shyness and the distress my mother displayed, I didn’t even broach the subject with the nuns. They might have deemed me a smart-ass or some other variety of troublemaker. There were no answers to be found from my catechism classes, weekly sermons, or family. I learned to keep my thoughts to myself, but the internal struggle continued.

Did God love all his creation or just some of us? Could some have been set up to fail? What about the ones my church taught were definitely going to hell? My heart ached for those people. Did that mean I loved them more than God?

That question disturbed even me. I was horrified by these thoughts and stashed them into all-too-shallow graves. Before long, they would dig themselves out, causing me to cringe in the humiliation of my heresy.

Then came tenth grade English and the thirty-first chapter of Huckleberry Finn, the story of a boy escaping civilization with a runaway slave, Jim. Ken Burns calls Chapter Thirty-One the “moral climax” of the story. Huck learns that Jim has been captured and will be returned to slavery. The boy becomes ashamed that he has done something as vile as helping a runaway slave, that he was “stealing a poor old woman’s n--- that hadn’t ever done [him] no harm.”

He felt certain he would burn in hell. Once he wrote a letter to Miss Watson detailing Jim’s whereabouts, he felt free from sin. Yet warm memories of their trip down the river and the many kindnesses Jim had bestowed on Huck tortured the boy.

“It was a close place. I took [the letter] up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: “All right, then I’ll go to hell”—and tore it up.”

The potency of these words—only powerful because Huck truly believed he would go to hell—slammed me in the heart. What more can you sacrifice for the love of another than your immortal soul? It is the ultimate act of love.

Yet, I saw this through the eyes of one who grew up watching the Civil Rights Movement battle injustices on the daily news. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been gunned down only months before.

The original audience in 1885 had no such perspective; many likely still subscribed to the beliefs about slavery and the nature of black people with which Huck was surrounded. How many early readers still believed Huck’s attitude was sinful?

That led to my moment of enlightenment—Truth is not determined by popular consent. Belief by everyone you know does not constitute Reality. I believed God rejoiced at Huck’s decision and He would rejoice as heartily if I, too, would think beyond what we call “conventional wisdom.” Even Biblical interpretation is subject to human fallacy.

Perhaps God smiled warmly on my questions. I was no longer a heretic. I became free and I remain free. I ponder the nature of God and humans. My worldview does not conform fully to any one religion or denomination, but is always based in love.

Twain’s masterpiece has been controversial since its publication in 1885. Then it was banned as “immoral”, “suitable only for the slums.” They made no mention of the racial stereotypes and epithets that concern censors of today. Yet all these protectors of youth have neglected to examine the permission the book gives its readers to think their very own radical thoughts.

Like Huck. Like me.

NOTE: This article was reworked from a previous post on my private blog.

Word Histories: In Defense of Rush

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Fri, 08 May 2015 00:31:00 +0000

A Man of the Ages

Off the bat, I admit this defense is slow in coming. The controversy I hope to put to rest occurred over three years ago, but is there any statute of limitations on rectifying slurs against a man’s character?

You may remember 2012 when the question of contraception as a standard healthcare benefit was being hashed out in the public discourse. A law student from Georgetown University, Sandra Fluke, argued passionately that this must be universally covered.

Rush Limbaugh made a simple comment taken completely out of context. Commenting on Ms. Fluke, Rush said—and I quote, “What does that make her? It makes her a slut, right?”

Oh, the flap that followed! So many were appalled at this “attack” on the character of the young woman.

But consider that Rush is a man of the ages. The term “slut” only took on the current sexual context in 1966. Yes, you read that right—1966! And Rush is so much older than that. He, I’m sure, is aware that the word has a wide and varied history that has nothing to do with this vulgar definition.

The word came into being in the 14^th century as a description of a “dirty, slovenly, or untidy woman.” Chaucer referred to an untidy man as one. Basically, the word described a lazy slob, man or woman. If a kitchen maid kneaded her bread poorly, the little hard pieces in the loaf were called “slut pennies.” So, come on. It’s not what you were thinking.

In fact, Samuel Pepys, a pretty well-respected guy from the 1600s, wrote in his famous diary, “My wife called up the people to washing by four o'clock in the morning; and our little girl Susan is a most admirable slut, and pleases us mightily, doing more service than both the others, and deserves wages better.”

While some of you with wicked minds might find this strange, Pepys was merely being playful with the word, like calling his child a scamp or a rascal.

Which is no different than the misunderstood Rush Limbaugh. Surely, he was calling Sandra Fluke a “scamp” or “rascal” who pleased him mightily. After all, he’s just a big, cuddly grandfather figure.

Shut up, Rush.

Source: http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?allowed_in_frame=0&search=slut&searchmode=none

Book Review: The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sat, 21 Mar 2015 21:04:00 +0000

I don’t know what I expected when I started The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden, but what I got wasn’t it.

Author Jonas Jonasson’s writing style keeps the reader at a distance from the characters, using minimal dialogue or even names. I was strangely drawn in, nonetheless.

The whole thing was much like Forrest Gump in its absurd situations, that only worked for Forrest, I think, because he was mentally handicapped and of pure heart. He had no idea what he went through was phenomenal.

Here, we have an exceptionally intelligent woman who is able to pull off the most astounding things because she can hide her intellect behind the face of a black woman who grew up cleaning latrines. This enabled her to be invisible. No one in the time frame story could fathom a person like the young South African, Nombeko.

While many of the events in the story challenge common sense, it works because Nombeko is so understated. Nothing much rattles her; she uses logic as she maneuvers among crazy people and emotional basket cases. Her calm manner and dry sense of humor enabled me to swallow it all.

I thoroughly enjoyed the great detail of actual world events starting in the 1960s to the present. Jonasson is either brilliant, a great researcher, or both.

While this book is certainly unusual—quirky really—I enjoyed it.

Robert Todd Lincoln--A Life of Synchronicities

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sat, 28 Feb 2015 00:05:00 +0000

Robert Todd Lincoln as a
young man--rather dashing!

I heard an odd bit of trivia concerning the eldest son of Abraham Lincoln.

I’ve always heard lots about poor Willie, who died while in the White House, and Tad, called a “notorious hellion” by observers. They say he even charged people to see his father, but that’s a bit off-topic.

Robert was the only son to reach adulthood and was enrolled in Harvard during the Civil War years. Mary Todd kept him out of the war until the final months when he was made a captain and served on Grant’s immediate staff. Understandably, this embarrassed young Robert Lincoln. As it should have.

Abe and Mary Todd invited Robert to accompany them to the Ford Theater the night of his father’s assassination, but he declined. Once tragedy struck, the son rushed to his father’s side and was with Abe Lincoln at the time of his death.

Notable, but not odd. On to some eerie coincidences. Robert Todd Lincoln was present at two presidential assassinations and I’m not counting his father’s.

As James Garfield’s Secretary of War in 1881, Robert was with Garfield at the Sixth Street Train Station in Washington, DC when the president was shot. The leader hung on for eleven weeks, then died.

Twenty years later, President William McKinley invited Lincoln to accompany him to the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York. There, an anarchist shot McKinley in the abdomen, resulting in his death about a week later.

Robert Lincoln was later invited to another presidential event, but before anyone else could say it, he responded, "No, I'm not going, and they'd better not ask me, because there is a certain fatality about presidential functions when I am present."

There have been four fatal assassinations of presidents of the United States in our history. Robert Todd Lincoln was in attendance or arrived shortly thereafter for three of them.

Now for good measure, one more odd coincidence. While in college, Robert Todd Lincoln was jostled on a crowded railroad platform in Jersey City until he was crushed against the train. In later years he wrote, “In this situation the train began to move, and by the motion I was twisted off my feet, and had dropped somewhat, with feet downward, into the open space, and was personally helpless.”

Run, Robert! Run!

Suddenly, a rescuer grabbed his coat collar and hauled Lincoln to safety. He turned to thank his rescuer, only to find it was the famous actor, Edwin Booth.

Robert told of the incident to a colleague on Grant’s staff who happened to be Edwin Booth’s friend. The friend wrote Booth of the incident, who remembered it, but had had no idea the young man was the president’s son. They say it was a comfort to him in later years after his brother, John Wilkes’s dirty deeds.

Robert Todd Lincoln lived to the ripe old age of eighty-two--not the rock star his father had been, but witness to some of the most momentous events of his lifetime.

An intelligent Forrest Gump, you might say.

NOTE: This article was reworked from a previous post on my private blog.

Word Histories: Gorilla

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sun, 15 Feb 2015 02:12:00 +0000

Hanno! What an asshat.

I wanted one of my characters in Aroon to call someone a gorilla. They couldn’t. The word as we know it today didn’t exist in 1750 when my book takes place.

An American missionary to Liberia, Thomas S. Savage, first acquired bones of a new species of ape. In 1847, Savage and naturalist, Jeffries Wyman, presented their findings to the Boston Society of Natural History where they gave the skull and bones the scientific name of Troglogdytes gorilla.

Savage and Wyman got the word “gorilla” from Hanno the Navigator, a Carthaginian explorer of the fifth or sixth century B.C. who took 60 ships through Pillars of Heracles (Strait of Gibraltar) and down the West African coast. How far south he traveled is controversial. It seems Hanno and his Carthaginian colleagues made changes in the distances and directions of his account to conceal the true routes. They were determined to remain masters of the seas.

You know what they say about Carthaginians.

One strange excerpt of his logbook states that they came to an island “inhabited by a rude description of people. The females were much more numerous than the males, and had rough skins: our interpreters called them Gorillae. We pursued but could take none of the males; they all escaped to

"My bad."

the top of precipices, which they mounted with ease, and threw down stones; we took three of the females, but they made such violent struggles, biting and tearing their captors, that we killed them, and stripped off the skins, which we carried to Carthage: being out of provisions we could go no further.”

That is disgusting. I would imagine they came across actual gorillas that the explorer thought were rough, hairy people. Seriously, Hanno? The skins they stripped from the females were taken back to Carthage where, it is said, they remained on display for 350 years until Carthage fell to Rome.

The term “gorilla” came from Hanno’s native interpreters, leading Online Etymology Dictionary to speculate it was an African word. When Thomas Savage and Jeffries Wyman encountered this new species, they decided the creatures were the ones described by Hanno centuries ago.

I guess gorillas were Sasquatch of the 1800s.

Sources:
1. http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?allowed_in_frame=0&search=gorilla&searchmode=none
2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanno_the_Navigator
3. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorilla

A Monument to Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sun, 08 Feb 2015 04:07:00 +0000

One month from today is the fiftieth anniversary of a major turning point in the Civil Rights Movement—the assault on the Edmund Pettus Bridge known as “Bloody Sunday.”

Nearly two years ago, my husband took me on a surprise trip to Alabama. After an evening at the Monroeville Courthouse watching a local production of To Kill a Mockingbird, we headed north toward Montgomery. At Exit 167 on Interstate 65, we turned west on U.S. Highway 80, the route marchers took from Selma to the statehouse in Montgomery—a 54-mile trek along the highway.

Once off the exit, I was struck by a National Park Service sign that announced the “Selma to Montgomery National Historical Trail.” This was it. The road those courageous men, women, and

children had hiked, risking all. I was overwhelmed and moved to tears—tears that fell intermittently during the entire drive to Selma.

As the trip progressed, my husband, Wendy, and I speculated on what such a long walk (it took five days) would be like. We had only a month earlier entered the Cooper River Bridge Run, a 10K in Charleston, South Carolina. Even though I was a walker, the 6.2 miles generated painful shin splints. How did these people do it?

“They were in their church clothes,” Wendy said. “And dress shoes.”

Shoes worn by Juanita T. Williams
during the Selma to Montgomery March

Oh, my Lord. We wore comfortable clothes and shoes designed for optimum support on a walk only a fraction of the distance. They wore wingtips. Juanita T. Williams, activist, donated her leather loafers to the Smithsonian Institute. The blisters and open sores must have been agonizing.

After driving nearly an hour, my breath caught in my throat. The Edmund Pettus Bridge. The site of such brutality that the rest of the nation could no longer turn away in apathy.

We parked the car and, hand in hand, began to walk across the landmark as my emotions again simmered to the surface.

The bridge's sidewalk was surprisingly narrow. A thin metal rail provided the only barrier between me and the swirling waters of the Alabama River. My moderate fear of bridges kicked in and I insisted on walking on the road side. However, there was no shoulder between it and the cars, and my husband worried I would be struck by a passing vehicle. They were moving at a pretty good clip. Finally, we compromised with me walking behind him, a foot or so away from the road, as we continued to hold hands.

“How did they fit on this sidewalk?” I asked.

Reviewing the films with that in mind, I saw that they walked in twos, careful not to step into the road. I know they wanted to follow all laws, hoping to prevent excuses, it turns out, the authorities did not need.

We reached the end of the bridge. The National Park Service website describes what happened there in 1965.

"As they crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge on March 7, they were met by a column of State Troopers and local volunteer officers of the local sheriff's department who blocked their path.

The non-violent protesters were told by Maj. John Cloud that they had two minutes to return back to their church and homes. In less than the time allotted, they were attacked by the Law Enforcement Officers with nightsticks and teargas. According to several reports, at least 50 protestors required hospital treatment. The brutality that was displayed on this day was captured by the media; however, the media was held back as the protesters retreated, where the violence continued for some time."

Reproduction of MLK's
Birmingham jail cell

What was then Haisten’s Mattress and Awning Company is now the National Voting Rights Museum and Institute. Its collections feature the history of the nonviolence movement as a whole, including the works of Gandhi and Mother Teresa. A replica of Martin Luther King’s cell in the Birmingham jail moved us, but what struck us most was the exhibit that ran throughout the museum. The footprints of Foot Soldiers for the movement.

Shoes of civil rights workers

Not only were shoes featured at this museum, but also at the Martin Luther King Visitor Center in Atlanta. It’s a powerful metaphor. It took the baby steps and grand strides of thousands of people to cross that bridge and lead the rest of us to the freedom King dreamed about.

Two weeks following Bloody Sunday there were not 600 marchers ready to cross Edmund Pettus Bridge. There were 25,000. And with a court order, they completed that march to Montgomery—five months before President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act.

Yes, the Edmund Pettus Bridge is a shrine. To determination. To courage. To justice.

And I was humbled to be there.

Photo of shoes from http://www.smithsonianlegacies.si.edu/objectdescription.cfm?ID=242

Cruel and Unusual

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Thu, 29 Jan 2015 15:57:00 +0000

A portion of F.W. Byrne's "Execution of Robert Emmet in
Dublin in 1803"

In 1766, Father Nicholas Sheehy was hanged, drawn and quartered, then decapitated by the state. This was his penalty for a murder he clearly did not commit.

During my research, I recently found a book, The Case of Fr. Nicholas Sheehy, edited by Ed O’Riordon that compiles the known accounts of this tragedy. I immediately ordered this treasure trove.

While corresponding with Mr. O’Riordon, he forwarded me an article he recently wrote for the South Tipperary Nationalist newspaper. In it, he considered the horror we feel as ISIS beheads innocents before our very eyes. “It is,” he writes, “the stuff of nightmares.”

Even as I compose this post, the fates of a Japanese journalist and Jordanian pilot are teetering between freedom and a barbaric death. O’Riordon quotes the reactions of two British Prime Ministers. David Cameron called the actions “despicable and barbaric” while former PM John Major referred to “thirteenth century barbarism.” All true. It sickens every one of us. Many news outlets (thank God) refuse to show the videos and I, for one, will not watch.

Yet, nearly 250 years ago, Father Nicholas Sheehy, a parish priest of County Tipperary, dared to stand up for the poor and struggling against powerful landowners considered by one historian “lunatic fringe.” Convicted of a trumped-up murder charge, the priest’s execution was swift and brutal.

O’Riordon brings this home as we think of today’s news reports. “We should hold on to those feelings of terror and dread and use them to understand the feelings of the people of South Tipperary when Fr Nicholas Sheehy P.P. was hanged and beheaded in Clonmel, in front of his parishioners and family, in 1766.”

Not the thirteenth century. Only two and a half centuries ago. Under British law.

Unbelievably, that was not enough. The priest’s severed head was staked in front of the jail for TWENTY YEARS for all to see as they walked the streets—as a ghoulish warning.

This was not uncommon practice then for true or perceived criminals. About ten years earlier in Boston, a slave named Mark was hanged for murdering his master. His rotting body was placed on display for twenty years. It is said Paul Revere passed these remains on his famous ride.

While we are appropriately horrified by what is going on in Syria and Iraq, it would serve us to remember that, but for a handful of generations, go we.

And yes, it was every bit as horrific.

NOTE: The above picture is from the cover of Ed O'Riordon's book "The Case of Fr. Nicholas Sheehy". While it does not depict Sheehy's execution, Robert Emmet's was similar.

Connections

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Tue, 20 Jan 2015 01:38:00 +0000

If you touched an item belonging to someone long deceased, would you sense his spirit? Could you experience her presence? My encounters tell me sometimes yes, sometimes no. I invite you to share your views on this subject.

The historical figure on whom I base my book, Aroon, is Father Nicholas Sheehy of Clogheen and Clonmel, who was executed on March 15, 1766 for treason. It’s not simple, but basically, like Martin Luther King, Jr., he urged the poor Irish to stand up for themselves as men.

I visited the tomb of Father Sheehy in 2005. Did I feel something? Yes. Was it overwhelming? No. Nevertheless, standing in the ancient graveyard on that misty day, while unseen ravens squawked from overhanging trees, I felt something. I was there for a reason, I believed, called to be in this place, and I would return.

Since then, I started this blog, which has put me, via the internet, in virtual contact with Father Sheehy. As I wrote in my last post, a descendant of Mr. Billy Griffiths confirmed that a cure Father Sheehy reputedly left to the Griffiths did indeed exist, even to this day. She could not confirm its effectiveness, but she assured me that, as late as the 1970s, folks still sought it out.

I have had other encounters with Father Sheehy’s footprint on this earth. A young Irish student from Clonmel, County Tipperary, the very town that held the priest’s trial and execution, contacted me seeking more information about the historical figure. I told Ciera what I knew, sent a few photos, and in return, she emailed pictures of the museum’s artifacts. Relics of which I was unaware.

These items included Father Sheehy’s signature, which once again, caused me to speculate on this legend as a flesh-and-blood man. In what ways was he just like us? How was he exceptional?

Ciera was permitted, by appointment, to view this and his purple stole. She sent me the photo she took. The symbol of his station among the common people whom he died to defend. Even gazing at the item on my computer screen, I was in awe of his courage and commitment.

On this very day, I’ve received more information from an historian from Clogheen, County Tipperary, the village to which Nicholas Sheehy ministered. I will share that in another post.

The man was real. His mission was righteous. And he paid the ultimate price.

Father Sheehy's Secret Potion

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 21:49:00 +0000

The mausoleum that Father Sheehy hid in.

The Irish are known for their whimsical stories that some even believe are historical truth. While researching the martyred priest, Nicholas Sheehy, I found my share of questionable “facts”. For instance, the landowner I based much of Aroon on, Sir Thomas Maude, wore a donkey’s tail, they say, indicating his high level of jackass-iveness. (If Shakespeare can invent over 1000 words, surely I can conjure up one.)

Another interesting account, told to me by local Clogheen historian John Tuohy, pertained to the time Father Sheehy was a fugitive from the law. Considered treasonous for his associations with the Levellers, Sheehy went into hiding. By day, he huddled in a mausoleum found in the Shanrahan Cemetery where he now lies. By night, he emerged, then crawled through a small window in the adjacent farmhouse to be fed and pampered by a Protestant couple, Mr. and Mrs. William Griffiths. There, he was permitted to secretly perform his priestly duties.

The farmhouse is still there.

When Father Sheehy finally decided to give himself up, with the provision that he be tried in Dublin rather than locally, he had little to give his gracious hosts. So, as the story has it, he bestowed upon them a secret cure for eczema and various other ailments, with the condition that it be shared freely with the common people in need. Father Sheehy’s other stipulation was that the recipe be handed down through Mrs. Griffiths, whose maiden name was Baylor, to the women in the family.

While this is a very kind account of Father Sheehy’s love for the poor and gratitude to a generous family of another faith, I was skeptical of its truth. It sounded like the exaggerations I’ve read too many times on this journey with Father Sheehy.

Then, a most unexpected communication arrived. An American woman who’d read my accounts on this blog contacted me, hoping I had more information about Father Sheehy. But she enlightened me far more than I had her.

The woman is the descendant of the Griffiths couple who hid Father Sheehy. I was stunned when she informed me that two members of her family still hold the recipe of which I’d read, known by them as “the cures.”

Father Sheehy's grave--a double tomb
holding him and another priest.

While she did not own the recipe herself, she wrote that as late as the 70s, one relative was “actively concocting and distributing the cures. They were known throughout the region and … people were coming to the door all day and all night to request various things” which her relative mixed for them, refusing any payment. Just as Father Sheehy had specified two hundred years previously.

The hairs on my arm raised as I read her email. The story was true and, quite possibly, Father Sheehy’s gratitude is still helping the common people all these decades later, to this very day.

My new friend wrote, “I can’t speak to whether they actually could be scientifically proven to work, but I certainly can confirm that they are real and that people believed that they work.” She went on to say, “We were always told that they were given to the family by a priest who the family concealed, but we hadn’t realized what a famous and interesting priest it was until recently.”

For me, this new knowledge brought Father Nicholas Sheehy out of the realm of legend and into the real, flesh-and-blood world. I felt closer to him. And more curious. If this was true, what else actually happened? (Surely not the ass’s tail.)

Thanks to another reader, I was able to learn more of the tangible existence of this fascinating man. Look for that in next week’s post.

New Year--New Classics Challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Mon, 30 Dec 2013 01:40:00 +0000

I am pleased to announce that, with the completion of The Call of the Wild, I have successfully finished Sarah's 2013 Back to the Classics Challenge. (See my post at the beginning of the year.)

Other books I read include Kidnapped, The Three Musketeers, Moll Flanders, Beloved, and Light in August. If you are interested in my thoughts on any of these books, click on the title.

This year, Sarah (from www.sarahreadstoomuch.com) is turning over the reins of the challenge to Karen K. at her blog, Books and Chocolate. (http://karensbooksandchocolate.blogspot.com).

I am officially accepting the 2014 Back to the Classics Challenge with these books on my list:

A 20th Century Classic: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
A 19th Century Classic: A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
A Classic by a Woman Author: My Antonia by Willa Cather
A Classic in Translation: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
A Classic About War: The Guns of Navarone by Alistair McLean
A Classic by an Author Who Is New To You: Candide by Voltaire

According to the rules, each book must be at least fifty years old, and more importantly, I can change my mind! Wish me luck.

Book Review: The Call of the Wild

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sun, 29 Dec 2013 23:42:00 +0000

When Sarah’s 2013 Classic Challenge included the category “Classics Involving Animals,” I admit I was somewhat disappointed. I am not an animal person. Not to say I want to see them harmed. I just don’t relate to them much.

With a sigh, I chose Jack London’s The Call of the Wild and, if you note the date of this review, you’ll see that I left it until the very, very last minute to read.

Yet, I enjoyed the book. It tells the story of Buck, a dog living the life on a California ranch. Part St. Bernard, part Scotch shepherd, Buck is a large, strong dog who is kidnapped and sold to a network providing sled dogs for the Alaskan Gold Rush. Told primarily from Buck’s point of view, he faces challenge after challenge in the icy wilderness of the North.

A while back, my husband ordered, via Netflix, the 2008 Discovery Channel reality show entitled Iditarod: Toughest Race on Earth. I was fascinated and hooked to the drama of this grueling race. Initially, I was put off by the arduous training and brutal aspects of the sled race. But, as I got more into the show, I was amazed how the dogs interacted with each other and their dedication to the work before them.

Without this introduction to these work dogs, I would never have accepted London’s “personification” of the dog characters. I would never have believed that a sled dog too injured or sick to pull would be heartsick when cut from the team. However, the dogs on the television show became despondent when they couldn’t pull.

In London’s book, a dog named Dave became too sick to run. The mushers took him out of the harness so that he could run free, hopefully resting and recovering. But Dave bit through the harness that connected his replacement to the other dogs and stood firmly in front of the pack, daring them to go on without him. I learned this is not romanticism. These dogs are that dedicated.

SPOILER ALERT: At the end, Buck feels a call he cannot resist and returns completely to the wildness of his ancestors. He is then completely fulfilled. Here London is saying that our true natures cannot be fully bred out of us. Does that relates to us humans as well? Is our history hard-wired inside us?

I’m still not an animal person, but I have an enormous respect for these sled dogs in real life and in fiction.

The Bigger They Are ...

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sat, 19 Oct 2013 19:47:00 +0000

"I've got gas."

Fifteen short years from now will be the 1000^th birthday of William the Conqueror. Most of us know him as the Norman invader of England in 1066, a masterful figure of history.

Can you imagine the funeral of a man so compelling that, a millennium after his birth, anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of world history has heard of him?

No, I don’t believe you can.

Before we get to that, let me explain that William was a product of an affair between the Duke of Normandy and a woman named Herleva. He was initially called William the Bastard for that reason, but as time went on, I’m sure it took on a more modern meaning.

He was a cruel S.O.B. In one town, people hung up pelts as a way of ridiculing his maternal grandfather, a tanner. William had their hands and feet cut off. Needless to say, William maintained his rule by fear rather than any deep-rooted respect.

Also, he struggled with his weight, another motive for ridicule (behind his back, if you treasured your extremities). King Philip of France said he looked like a woman about to give birth.

His stomach hung over his saddle which, ironically, led to his death. While riding, he was thrown against the pommel of his saddle and his organs were ruptured. He died some weeks later.

While awaiting death, he tried to make amends for his many sins. Yet, at the end, all his “entourage,” be they relatives or friends, took off to protect their own interests. All his worldly goods were stolen, including his clothes. One lowly knight was left behind to transport his body to Caen where William was to be be interred.

There, after some Benedictines took responsibility for the body, a fire broke out. Most of the mourners left to extinguish it. A few monks were left to put his large corpse into a small casket. And that’s when it happened.

According to Orderic, a chronicler of the time, "the swollen bowels burst, and an intolerable stench assailed the nostrils of the by-standers and the whole crowd." They don’t make incense strong enough for that.

After a very few words quickly spoken by those who’d courageously remained in the chapel, a man called out that William had stolen that very land from him years before and he refused to let the “Bastard” be buried there. The bishop had to shut him up with a payment of sixty shillings.

Over the centuries, William’s bones were stolen and only one thigh bone was returned. That last relic lies in his grave, covered by a stone slab. One epitaph reads, "He who was earlier a powerful king, and lord of many a land, he had nothing of any land but a seven-foot measure; and he who was at times clothed with gold and with jewels, he lay then covered over with earth."

… the Harder They Fall

Sources:

http://penelope.uchicago.edu/~grout/encyclopaedia_romana/britannia/anglo-saxon/hastings/williamdeath.html

http://www.history.com/news/10-things-you-didnt-know-about-william-the-conqueror

http://www.sacred-texts.com/etc/fcod/fcod14.htm

"I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain"*

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Thu, 17 Oct 2013 00:25:00 +0000

Photo Credit: Herr Olson

During this month of swirling dead leaves and the zombie-like stalks of once-lush corn, the days shorten in anticipation of All Hallow’s Eve, an ancient festival of the dead.

The perfect month to research archaic burial practices, right? That’s right where I am in my book, Aroon. And boy, did I find some strange customs.

Ghosts and ghouls reflect the age-old fear of disturbing the dead lest they unleash their supernatural powers upon us. Many practices through the years stem from this fear which, have no doubt, is still found in many people today. I've recently moved next door to a cemetery and have been looked at suspiciously by more than one person.

Medieval churches throughout Europe were charged with caring for the dead, and before the services of CSI: Miami, it was the duty of the clergy to determine whether or not the death resulted from foul play. Before Christianity took hold, burials were not to take place inside the limits of the town. It wasn’t until the year 752 that the pope authorized the establishment of a churchyard where the deceased were buried in consecrated ground.

Photo by: Dean Ayers

In the thirteenth century, cemeteries were ordered to be securely enclosed, so that animals could not graze there. But that did not stop them from becoming a playground on festivals and holidays. Many medieval people felt that the dead were still with them on some level and would enjoy the party, so to speak.

And party they did. Rough games, dancing, and drinking led to the inevitable brawl which too often resulted in the deaths of a participant or two. As you can imagine, there was a fair amount of damage to the gravestones as well.

According to Bertram S. Puckle (really?) in his 1926 book, Funeral Customs, “the poor Vicar of Codrington, in 1862, found people playing cards on the communion table, and when they chose the churchwardens, they used to sit in the sanctuary smoking and drinking.” Ah, remember when.

Puckle wrote that as far back as the Iron Age, people were buried with their feet facing east, perhaps as a custom of sun-worshippers. Later, Christians have been buried facing the same way since from that direction, they surmised, will come the final summons to Judgment.

Another interesting custom was that people were buried to the west, east, and south of the church itself, but rarely to the north. The only graves found there were of murderers and other criminals. This is because structure of the church, like its deceased members, also faced east. Therefore, the north or left side of the altar is the Gospel side, which calls on sinners to repent. Was anybody listening?

It could get right crowded. Photo by: Bogdan Mugulski

Sometimes a person was interred face down. If it was a first-born child, this would prevent further children from being born in the family. A very ghoulish form of birth control.

Witches were often buried this way in an effort to keep their spirits from causing trouble. During a serious cholera epidemic in Hungary, they determined the cause to be a particular witch’s curses. Her body was quickly exhumed and she was re-buried face down. Oddly enough, that did not curtail the spread of the disease. They dug her up again and turned her clothing inside out. Even that didn’t work! Once again, she was brought up from the grave, this time to cut out her heart and divide it into four pieces, each of which was burned at a corner of the village. I'm assuming that did the trick.

At times, criminals and other sinners were forbidden from the consecrated burial grounds of the righteous, so they were planted at a crossroads. Apparently, this was an effort to confuse the vengeful spirit (who was hopefully directionally-challenged) and prevent him from returning home to torment family members. His heart was anchored with the ever-popular wooden stake to keep him firmly in the grave.

As a final effort to keep this pissed-off ghost off kilter, the funeral procession would arrive at the burial site from one direction, only to return home a different way. That ghost would have to be one smart cookie to have found his way back after all those safeguards.

This is one of my favorite old traditions. It was believed that a “newcomer” to the cemetery was to act as watchman until an even more recently deceased person showed up to take his place. In some parts of Ireland, a pipe and tobacco were left so the person could have a smoke during his watch. Always hospitable, those Irish.

Nobody wanted this post, so if two new occupants arrived at the cemetery simultaneously, the funeral processions would rush to get their guy into the ground first. This led to harsh words, which developed into the inevitable free-for-all, the corpse set aside until the matter was resolved. No occasion is too solemn for a good fight.

Also in Ireland, if you were plagued with warts, you need only grab a handful of dirt from under your right foot and throw it on the funeral procession. Voila! No more warts. But you might get a mighty beat-down from the mourners.

In Brittany, France, it was believed that once dead, you must eat as much dirt as the bread you had wasted during your lifetime. That’s one way to get the kiddies to eat their crust.

"Eat yer grub."

*Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems

Photo Credits:

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/herrolsen/5042335699/">Herr Olsen</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/deano/167117371/">Dean Ayres</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/migulski/2890674178/">Bogdan Migulski</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8765199@N07/4292214097/">One lucky guy</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>

Book Review: Kidnapped

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Mon, 24 Jun 2013 13:35:00 +0000

I’ve discovered I love nineteenth century adventure stories.

For the “Back to the Classics Challenge” sponsored by the blog Sarah Reads Too Much, I read The Three Musketeers (see review) in January and now Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped.

When published in 1886, Kidnapped was already historical fiction based in part on a real life struggle between England’s King George (Could he get along with anyone?) and the Scottish Highlanders. It centers on a 1752 event known as the Appin Murder where the king’s agent, Colin Roy Campbell, was murdered by a sniper. Alan Breck Stewart, a key character in Kidnapped, was accused and convicted of this murder in absentia. The event was also featured in Sir Walter Scott’s Rob Roy.

In Stevenson’s novel, seventeen-year-old David Balfour (fictional) is kidnapped and on his way to the American plantations as a slave (many are unaware of colonial America’s white slavery) when the ship picks up a stranded Alan Stewart. The two become allies against a sinister captain and crew when their own ship hits a reef and sinks. The remainder of the book is a fictionalized version of the intrigue surrounding the Appin Murder and its aftermath.

Like The Three Musketeers, the book is crammed with compelling characters and fast-paced action that kept me glued to the pages. I read it on a weekend car trip and finished it within hours of arriving home. The dialogue was often written in a Scottish Highland dialect that I found fun to read and included many local and likely archaic words from that area. The definition of some could not be discerned from the content, but I only looked up a handful to understand the plotline.

I enjoyed reading Treasure Island several years ago especially since we live near Savannah, Georgia, where some of that story is based. But I must say Kidnapped was even better. It is a great book and a fun read.

Book Review: Light in August by William Faulkner

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sat, 08 Jun 2013 19:21:00 +0000

William Faulkner and I just aren’t going to get along. I chose to read Light in August because I had never read one of his books and knew I’d enjoy his Southern setting. Which I did.

The book starts out with a poverty-stricken pregnant girl, Lena Grove, walking across the Deep South in search of her baby’s father. It then describes Joe Christmas, a pale-skinned man with mixed blood who is hounded from place to place by his “defect.” A sad, lonely minister, Reverend Hightower also has a starring role in this book of engrossing characters.

Characterization is Faulkner’s forte. He goes into detail with even the most minor players so that the reader feels connected to them all. Each backstory was fascinating and made me want to know more and more of each character.

Faulkner also is a master of imagery. Without being too heavy-handed with it (like an author who merely wants to show off his talents), he uses similes and metaphors that caused me to pause at their perfection. Describing a brand new fire truck as arrogant and proud, he adds, “About it hatless men and youths clung with the astounding disregard of physical laws that flies possess.” Yes. Exactly.

So, you may ask, what is the problem? Wordiness. Sentences that drag on, phrase after phrase until I’ve long since lost the gist of it. I am aware (and annoyed) that my “Old Age ADD” may be at play here, but I need to stop after a thought or two and digest before adding any other points to the sentence.

Making my point, I said to my husband, “Listen to this.” I was unable to finish the sentence before he barked, “Enough!” It was just too much!

Sometimes pages and pages seemed to go on like that and I found myself drifting away from the storyline. I often actually lost the storyline altogether, becoming frustrated and confused.

I did finish the book out of stubbornness. But I won’t read another one.

A Message from Montgomery

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Thu, 30 May 2013 15:12:00 +0000

Note: Please be forewarned that I have included a disturbing photo at the end of this post.

The morning of my sixtieth birthday, my husband, Wendy, and I drove into downtown Montgomery, Alabama, counting on road signs to guide us to civil rights landmarks. We passed one for the Civil Rights Memorial and, while backtracking to find it, an iconic red-brick church rose up before us. My heart caught in my throat at the site of the Dexter Street Baptist Church where MLK, Jr. was pastor from 1954 to 1960.

On December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks was arrested after she famously remained seated on a Montgomery bus. One day later, people crowded into this very church where they decided to launch the bus boycott. Wendy and I speculated on the fear that must have permeated the sanctuary barely four months after the widely publicized torture and murder of Emmit Till. (Photo is at the end of the post.) We are in awe of the astounding courage this non-violent protest required.

Unfortunately, a funeral was scheduled for that morning, so we were unable to go inside.

Wendy had read that the Civil Rights Memorial was only a block away, so we rounded a corner and came right up on it. I quickly recognized the black-table fountain from my Southern Poverty Law Center literature. This gorgeous monument was designed by Maya Lin, designer of DC’s Vietnam War Memorial. She was inspired by MLK’s paraphrase of Amos 5:24, “We will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

Photo from www.splc.org

Inside, we learned that she left a space on the civil rights timeline to
indicate that there were many incidents before this time and after.

I was not surprised that, to enter, we had to go through airport-like security since I was well aware of the many death threats against founder Morris Dees. Also, you may remember the 2009 murder of a Holocaust Museum security guard by an aging white supremacist.

Among other things, the museum featured a fascinating mural of the major events during the Civil Rights Era. But there was also a reminder that, on a smaller scale (thank God), these types of things still go on. One example was a pair of young men who were “looking for people to kill.” Black, Hispanic, anyone as long as they weren’t white. They eventually killed a young girl because “she trusted us and she was in-between.”

One of the last exhibits was the Wall of Tolerance, a digital display where the names of people who have taken the following pledge flow down the screen.

“By placing my name on the Wall of Tolerance, I pledge to take a stand against hate, injustice and intolerance. I will work in my daily life for justice, equality and human rights - the ideals for which the Civil Rights martyrs died.”

Both Wendy and I proudly added our names and immediately watched them roll before my tear-filled eyes. I tried several times to photograph them, but none came out. The photo below came from the SPLC website.

I was one year old when the Brown vs. Board of Education decision was handed down. I grew up with this movement in the background and was profoundly affected by it as a teenager. Human dignity and civil rights issues have molded my life. I feel very strongly that forgetting the sacrifices of the martyrs who came before us risks a return to the oppression that provoked it.

Photo of 14-year old Emmit Till
in his casket. The inset shows
the boy before the murder.

Inside "To Kill a Mockingbird"

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Tue, 21 May 2013 00:03:00 +0000

The courtroom of "To Kill a
Mockingbird"

It was my birthday and we were headed for Mobile, Alabama. “There’s a Carnival cruise ship there,” my husband, Wendy, said. “I hope you brought your passport.”

“I bet you got a good price,” I teased. This was Day Two of my five-day sixtieth birthday celebration and each day was a surprise. Wendy would come to a corner or fork in the road and I would watch anxiously to see which way we went, adjusting my guess based on the turn. I was having a blast.

At about eleven in the morning, he steered the VW into a truck stop for a restroom break. Or so I thought. He didn’t get out of the car, but instead handed me an envelope and said, “Here. This is your birthday gift.”

When I opened the card, I cried out with joy and gratitude. Inside were two tickets to the local production of To Kill a Mockingbird that Monroeville, Alabama residents put on each year. Monroeville is the home of reclusive author Harper Lee and the prototype for much of the book—her only work and my very favorite book/movie.

I have read the book a handful of times, but I have seen the movie too often to count. As a conflict resolution teacher, I used clips from the film to show how Atticus would get spit in the face by Bob Ewell, wipe his face and walk away—not in fear, but in courage. Never did I have a middle schooler call Atticus a coward; they all recognized his dignity and valor. And when the black townspeople at the courthouse rose in honor of Atticus after he defended Tom Robinson, tears never failed to fall from my eyes. (During my single days, I often said I’d like to marry Atticus. )

I meant marry the Gregory Peck
version.

We drove the twenty miles to Monroeville and had a look around. The Old Courthouse Museum was where Lee’s father, the model for Atticus Finch, practiced. This courtroom was studied and measured by set designers, then re-created in Hollywood where the movie was filmed. Stepping into the actual room was magical.

No photography during the play,
so use your imagination.

While we looked around, one of the curators asked Wendy if he would like to be on the jury for the evening’s performance. They chose only white men for authenticity. “Do it!” I urged. This could not get any better. Imagine him behind Gregory Peck, looking stern and disgusted with Tom Robinson.

Entering the courtroom, I sat in the witness chair, channeling Mayella Ewell. “Your fancy airs don’t come to nothin’, Mr. Finch!”

Mayella on the stand

Me on the stand

I climbed into the balcony and crouched where Jem, Scout, and Dill watched the trial with Reverend Sykes and the rest of the “colored” community.

Outside the courtroom, encased in glass, is what’s left of the tree that grew in front of the real-life Radley house. This was as close as falling into a rabbit hole and landing in 1930’s Maycomb, Alabama, as one can come. My whole body buzzed with excitement.

Me as Mrs. Dubose: "Don't you say 'hey'
to me, you ugly girl!"

In the evening, we sat outside the courthouse for the first act. An amphitheater has recently been built where pre-trial scenes are enacted.

After that, the court clerk and Sheriff Heck Tate announced those selected for the jury. Wendy and his compatriots headed in the back way and I found a seat on the jury side of the courtroom, second bench back. Right behind me sat “Miss Maudie” and “Miss Stephanie” who whispered their gossipy comments throughout the play. Only those within a couple-foot radius could hear them. It was so cool!

Many of the local actors are related to, knew, or knew of the actual people the book was based on. I was very impressed with the talent of these volunteers, who have even taken the production around the world.

Atticus Finch Monument

Atticus Finch, although fictional, is an American hero. In Monroeville, the Alabama State Bar erected a memorial to him, calling him a “lawyer-hero.” The American Film Institute named him the greatest film hero in the last 100 years. Over the last fifty years, this novel has affected people throughout the world the way it has inspired me and I was privileged to feel a part of it.

Aarrgh!

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 23:13:00 +0000

I love onomatopoeia.

You remember, words that sound like their definition. In writing my book, I needed my character to wail in anguish. I needed a really strong onomatopoeia.

The internet is a wealth of amazing information. Yet, I have to wonder who puts in the countless hours in front of a screen plugging in this drivel--I mean, data. I don’t know who you guys are, but I’m grateful for your time and personal sacrifice.

Here are a couple of interesting websites that helped me this week. First, check out “Written Sound: How to Write the Sound of Things” at http://writtensound.com. You can peruse an alphabetical listing of all the collected “words that imitate sounds.” Or you can search them by topics such as Weather, Music, Explosions, or Gas.

Check it out. These words can be fun. You’ll find the old stand-bys you studied in fifth grade such as buzz, giggle, and hiccup. And a couple I would challenge as onomatopoeia at all, like oops or cliche. (Really? A worn, played-out phrase sounds like cliché? I can’t see it or hear it.)

Gwuf, gwuf

But then there are the unique and intriguing ones like …

           Flibbertigibbet: a flighty, gossipy young woman
       Gwuf, gwuf, gwuf: footsteps (Can’t you hear them?)
           Kish, kish: ice skates during a hockey game

And, although I’ve never been on a subway during an important announcement, I can imagine the loudspeaker sounds like “thisshig rrrerrk.”

But what about wailing in anguish? I found “argh,” which according to one entry on Urban Dictionary (http://www.urbandictionary.com/), is “the correct version of an expression of frustration or anger.”

The sample sentence given is "No brigette, argh is spelled with an h and not just arg."

You would think someone so concerned about the correct spelling of a word like argh would know to capitalize a proper noun. More than that, as it turns out, the word arg or argh has more spellings than you can possible imagine.

For that, may I direct you to “The Aargh Page” at http://osteele.com/words/aargh#? On that page is an impressive chart of all the possible spellings of aargh, along with how often and where each spelling has been found in print—from argh to (I kid you not) aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!!!

Whoever put this together, I commend you while I urge you in the strongest possible terms to get out more.

As for my story, I had my character cry, “Aarrrrgh,” showing he is obviously in pain without being, you know, too splashy.

Ahem. Anyway, in order to avoid too much babble and blather, descending into gibberish—you know, yadda yadda yadda--I believe I’ll close.

Pirate Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/earlg/

Eighteenth Century Desperate Housewives

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 21:19:00 +0000

You’re a Christian in eighteenth century Europe. Life becomes so unbearable that you don’t want to live. According to your religious beliefs, however, when you commit suicide, you are damned for all time. What to do?

But wait! Not if you murder someone else. You may be hanged for homocide, but you can repent on the gallows, obtain absolution, and spend eternity with Jesus in heaven. Voila!

This was the reasoning of a number of people from around 1612 to 1839. They no longer wanted to live, but in order to avoid an eternity of hellfire, they decided to commit murder instead.

But these were not uncaring people. In their “kindness,” they often killed an innocent child, one whose pure soul would enable him to go straight to heaven himself. (One woman slit a boy’s throat so severely, she said she could “look down into his neck,” in her own words.)

Once the deed was done, they immediately went to the authorities to report their crime, and await execution. A win-win.

I first heard about this convoluted thinking on PBS’s This American Life. Last August, the episode entitled “Loopholes” featured Kathy Stuart of the University of California Davis who has researched this phenomenon known as “suicide by proxy.”

Stuart discovered about 300 of these cases that occurred over 200+ years, usually committed by women. Some, she noted, did not even express regret over what they did. So how did that work? If they were not sorry, how could they be forgiven and escape damnation?

The priests or ministers at the gallows would often ask, “Do you think God can be fooled in this manner? You know that by doing this you actually have committed suicide.”

The perpetrators agreed, according to Kathy Stuart. But the accused merely confessed these crimes as well—and then repented. Problem solved.

Officials were frustrated by this trend and, in 1702, made the executions more painful and shaming. Nope. Didn't work. These people were looking to die; they didn’t care.

In 1767, courts went so far as to take away the very incentive for the horrific crime—they removed the death penalty altogether. That should have stopped the behavior in its tracks. And yet, it continued.

Beyond understanding, the practice did not end until the next century. “It really seems like people didn’t get the memo,” Stuart says.

Sooo, they killed a small child, confessed, repented, and spent their even more miserable lives in some hole of a prison. Obviously, these “desperate housewives” were not as clever as they thought. The "dumb criminals" of yore.

Book Review: The Great Gatsby

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 15:45:00 +0000

My niece assured me I could read all of The Great Gatsby on my flight from Philadelphia to Columbia, SC. The plane pulled up to the terminal with four pages left to read.

Scene from the 2013 remake

I had seen the 1974 movie starring Robert Redford and Mia Farrow, but as is often the case, I found the book so much deeper and more profound. First, the lifestyle of the uber-wealthy in the Twenties was set in the first forty-seven pages before we even confronted the mysterious character of Jay Gatsby.

It was clear that despite the massive, beautiful homes, servants, and leisure time, the lives of the rich on Long Island were vacuous and, to me, boring. That explains the draw of neighbor, Gatsby’s, spectacular parties. We learn later through the narrator, Nick Carraway, that the galas were merely a way for Jay Gatsby to find his way back into the life of his first love, Daisy Buchanan (Nick’s cousin).

I won’t give away the story, but suffice it to say, the simple devotion of Jay Gatsby slams into a world where the lifestyle and prestige that money brings has a powerful grip of its own.

One of my fascinations with the book comes from the fact that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote this novel in 1925, in the midst of the “Roaring Twenties.” To me, the lives of the characters exuded emptiness, and it is amazing that Fitzgerald exposed this before the Crash of 1929, while he, his wife, and the rest of America were enmeshed in this lifestyle.

On a side note, I was struck by the racism of the day and how we can see remnants of it even now. Tom Buchanan, the husband of Gatsby’s beloved Daisy, says in conversation, “The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” He adds, “It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”

There are disparaging remarks about Jews as well, which are striking when you think the Holocaust is years in the future. It reminded me that eugenics (the “science” that expounds the superiority of some races over others) was embraced during this time, and was not really discredited until after Hitler’s atrocities.

All in all, I found the book thought-provoking, with much to say to us now in our materialistic culture.

"A Baby's Venom:" Beloved

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 15:02:00 +0000

The book, Beloved, has a definite chill to it. The story, the characters, the world in which the characters are forced to exist all drew me in. And there I sat, captivated, uneasy, and creeped out. But mostly captivated.

Beloved is the story of slaves, in captivity, during escape, and in freedom, spanning from about 1855 to 1873. The images the book draws of the physical, but mainly emotional trauma of life as another man’s chattel are stark and distressing. Written from the slaves’ point of view, Toni Morrison was able to put me into their shoes more completely than I had felt in all my previous readings. Perhaps it is her gift for poetic prose that touched me so deeply.

Aside from the torment of enslavement, Morrison adds a more mystical, other-worldly aspect to the story with the appearance of the protagonist’s dead child, Beloved, now grown and in new flesh, at the family’s door. Ghosts coming to life don’t unnerve me that much, but while this innocent child returning as a young woman should have induced some sympathy in me, I felt none. She creeped me out.

The real value of this book, however, are in the deep insights it offers to us as human beings. One that particularly struck me was that those who consider themselves superior debase themselves in their efforts to keep others “in their place.” Morrison wrote, “Whitepeople believed that whatever the manners, under every dark skin was a jungle…” Through the system of slavery or any effort to demean another people, the oppressors become debauched themselves. Morrison writes, “The screaming baboon lived under their own white skin.” While reading this, the History Channel’s “Ku Klux Klan” was on the television, driving this truism home to me in all its horror. It also is evident in research I’ve done on the 18^th century oppression of the Irish peasants.

I did find the style and structure of the book to be confusing at first. I had to re-read the initial twenty-five pages before I understood what was what, but I would urge anyone drawn to this book to stick with it. The rewards are bountiful.

Book Review: Moll Flanders

noreply@blogger.com (Mary Beth) — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 18:21:00 +0000

It has always been my contention that while times change and the world does progress (even a sketchy analysis of history tells us that), human nature remains the same. Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders, written in 1722, supports that view.

In this novel, Moll (not her real name) tells her own difficult and sordid history that begins with her birth to a convicted thief in Newgate Prison. She becomes a ward of the state and after her early years with some gypsies, she is placed in the care of a kind and humane foster mother. The book follows her highs, which are quite lofty, and lows, which are quite sordid.

Despite her poor beginnings, though, many of her lows came of her own poor judgment. Defoe warns in his introduction not to glorify these choices, and the character herself often rails against her own decisions. Yet, through Moll, Defoe shows a fascination with the darker side of life and an understanding of this woman that fascinates me.

Defoe wrote the book at age sixty-two and had been imprisoned twice by that time, once for indebtedness and once for his politics. I imagine he met and spoke to many women like Moll since I’ve learned prisons in those days were not typically segregated by gender.

Moll Flanders as played by Alex
Kingston

Mainly, the book features a flawed character who nonetheless is admirable for her spunk and determination in a world where all the cards are stacked against her. Not only is she lowborn, but she is a woman. Moll makes clear the yoke she is under two hundred years before women were deemed worthy of the right to vote. She is a person of remarkable insight.

Some examples of Moll’s wisdom include “She is always married too soon who gets a bad husband, and she is never married too late who gets a good one” and “From hence ’tis evident to me, that when once we are hardened to crime, no fear can affect us, no example give us any warning.” That second one explains why theft was rampant in an England where the penalty for the crime was hanging. It also explains why the death penalty today is no real deterrent.

This book has captivated me and I will read it again. The language is a challenge since the wording and syntax are somewhat archaic. It took me a couple of chapters to get used to it and I skimmed some, making sure I at least had the gist of the passages.

This aspect did not keep me from understanding and enjoying the story at all. I highly recommend this classic.