Legends and Lore

Great Smoky Mountains: Black Bears and Backpacking

2013-10-07T08:00:00.001-07:00

Last weekend, my wife and I backpacked for three days in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. Mystical and majestic, the mountains seem to sing me a siren's song. I have said it before, but I'll say it again, it is just wondrous to me what God can do.

Backpacking requires that I pack everything I could possibly need into a pack and carry it for an entire journey. It isn't an easy job. By the time I had packed a first aid kit, food, clothes, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, pillows, stove, tent, and water, my pack weighed in at 34 pounds and Jennie's weighed 17.

It isn't easy talking Jennie into this kind of trip, and I must be some kind of super mediator when you think about it. Somehow, I have the ability to talk my wife into putting 15-20 pounds on her back and hiking up a steep mountain for six hours straight with the promise of Alfredo noodles and a packet of tuna and a few photo opportunities. Perhaps I should take my magic mediating skills to Washington. All together, our trip was a three day, 15 mile journey.

Though Jennie enjoys the hike once we are out there, she really only goes so I don't have to go by myself. She would admit that she hates everything about it while we are climbing, and I admit that it truly is exhausting. Sweating and out of breath, she mumbles her disdain and occasionally shouts, "Is that bear poop? Oh Paul, I don't want to see any bears.Q" The first day, I can only comfort her with lies: "No honey. That is (insert random animal here) poop. We have nothing to worry about." Admitting that the big pile of berry-seed droppings belongs to a bear would only add to the joys of hearing her worry.

Our first night was spent in a shelter. This night, we shared the shelter with a father and son from Cincinnati, and two brothers from South Carolina, who have hiked together since 1974, and their nephew. All the shelters in the park are three sided with two sleeping platforms, and they accommodate twelve hikers. While hearing and sharing stories with the other hikers, Jennie and I learned about hand-slung chitlins from One of the South Carolina men. Evidently, hand-slung means they spin it over head to clean the intestines of feces-yuck.

We spent the next night at a tent site next to a roaring mountain creek. We arrived early (around 2pm) and had the site, and the whole mountainside, pretty much to ourselves. Unplugged from technology, we spent the entire afternoon playing Yahtzee, talking, and reading-it was very nice.

Day three has Jennie saying that she can't wait for a shower for the millionth time. Not showering doesn't bother me like it does her, but I admit that I was ripening quite well. We had received news from other hikers that a beehive was a little further down the trail, and this made me nervous. Last year, a hornet's nest had taught me that I have an allergy to bees. This nest was on the first green of a local golf course, and after a fit of punching myself in the ear while trying to rid myself of the winged tasers, I wound up delirious and sitting on the clubhouse floor. Unfortunately, my allergy pin was in the van--not in the backpack.

We packed up and left at daylight and successfully snuck past the bees. Now that the end of the hike was near, I admitted to Jennie that much of the seedy droppings we saw on the trail indeed came from bears. "I knew it!" She said.

If you know me, and most of you don't, I love to tease and aggravate most anyone around me. Approaching a bridge, I decided to tease her a bit. I said, "Wouldn't it be something if right when I stepped on the bridge there was a bear on the other side, and we just stood locked in a staring contest both refusing to give in to the other one? And then the bear dropped one of those seedy piles while he was staring at me, and in an act of defiance I did it too?" I expected to hear Jennie call me an idiot, but instead she screamed and squealed, "Oh my God. There's a bear!" There actually was a bear and her three cubs just off the trail on the other side of the bridge. We backed up and tried to take some pictures, but we were too far away. The park's website suggests holding your pack over head and yelling to run off bears; so, after some yelling and some caveman like dancing with my hiking sticks, the bear and her cubs ran off--so exciting. Thus ended our wild mountain journey.

Are You a Good Samaritan?

2013-09-30T07:02:00.001-07:00

Are You a Good Samaritan?

Now, when I say “Good Samaritan,” I don’t mean the leave a penny on the counter or the I give my spare change to the baseball kids at Wal-Mart kind of Samaritan. I’m talking about the inconvenience yourself, donate your time, help others in need, be a part of a greater cause type of Samaritan. Do you consider yourself a Good Samaritan? Is it something that is important to you?

Besides blessings we receive for following the greatest commandment, charity work has many other benefits: it helps you make new friends and contacts; it increases your social skills; it combats depression; it increases self-confidence; it improves your overall health, and it advances your career. Charity and volunteering generally just makes you happier.

Have you ever been on the receiving end of such good works? I know I have. Just this past summer, my family and I were hiking and camping in Michigan at Ludington State Park. Ludington is a beautiful park that is butted up to Lake Michigan. At the park, I met Lois Pauley. Lois and her family have camped at Ludington for 37 years, and she is known as the “Waffle Lady.” Eight years ago, she and her family began “Waffle Wednesday.” They would make waffles for the other campers or for whoever happened to show up. They began with a single waffle maker, but the free breakfast has grown so much that she now uses two double-waffle makers and goes through about eighteen pounds of waffle mix at a time. Meeting passersby and hikers is what she enjoys the most about her breakfasts, and she says that she gains way more than she gives. To help keep track of her multitude of visitors, she keeps a scrapbook full of names, pictures, and park history. My family passed by her site after hiking in from an overnight backpacking trip in the dunes. Passing by, I jokingly asked if the breakfast was for anybody. Without pause she said it was and started making us waffles. The conversation and food was delightful.

Does the charity that you give, be it time or money, benefit all who are involved? Of course it does. Personally speaking, there were times that I and my family needed and benefited from charity programs. If it weren’t for the good people who volunteered their time and their charity, I’m not sure I could have finished college and gone on to teaching. It really made a difference in my family’s lives—what a good service they provided.

Here are a few places where you can be bigger than yourself in our community: The Brazil Food Pantry; the Humane Society; Riley’s Children Hospital; Catholic Food Charities; the Goodwill store; Senior Living Facilities; rotary clubs; libraries; churches; the list just goes on and on. Wherever you decide to spend your time, make sure that you are having fun. Remember, your time and work should benefit you and the organization you are helping.

What charities have you helped or benefitted from?

Natural Health and Home Remedies

2013-09-16T05:26:00.001-07:00

Home Remedies

My Aunt Kathy is up from Missouri, and this weekend her, my mother, and I were speaking of the many spells, concoctions, remedies (tortures) that their mother (my grandmother) subjected my cousins, siblings, and me to in our youths. Anything from a coughs, the flu, spider bites, wasp stings, or a case of head lice was readily cured by something that my grandmother believed would help.

Many of these home-made cures were staples of the medicine cabinet and they doubled as medicinal and practical purposes. I hated to mention to Grandma that I felt anything less than the utmost of health and vitality. At the mere whisper that my stomach was upset, Grandma would serve me up a sweet but hideous looking glass of prune juice. It looked like the swill at the bottom of a tobacco chewers spit cup, and I must say that as a child, I thought it tasted that way too. The prune juice was meant as a stool softener—constipation was her go to diagnosis. If the prune juice didn’t quench grandma’s taste for inflicting torture, Castor oil did; the oil, a taste I will never, ever, forget was like the oldest, ugliest, and flat out meanest brother of stool softeners . . . it worked beautifully.

Another surefire way to cure an ailment was with Vick’s Vapor Rub. Even if you tried to hide it, grandma could tell by your voice that you had a cold. The white container with a blue lid in her hand, she sat on the edge of the bed and had you sit up. I admit that it was nice and soothing when she would rub some on my chest and under my nose; it made my eyes water a little, and I actually could breathe a little better. However, was it really necessary, Grandma, to make me eat a finger full of this greasy salve? It coated my teeth as I choked it down, making it impossible to sleep for I then had to incessantly swallow for fifteen minutes straight trying to vacate my mouth of that impossible coating.

Sometimes I felt as if Grandma and my mother sat at the window waiting/praying for one of us to fall and scrape a knee. Why else would they consider putting what felt like battery acid on our cuts and scrapes? Walking in the house with a banged up knee, she would grab a bottle of Mercurochrome or iodine and swab it into the open wound. Oh my God, how it burned. Back then I was sure that it would burn completely through my leg, “It burns Grandma!” any one of us would say as she fanned the burning with a magazine. “It’s ok. We used this stuff when I was a little girl and it healed right up,” she would say. I still cannot believe that they endured the same pain in the early 1900s and in turn passed it on to their kids and grandchildren. I know, because they always told me, that people were tougher back then, but give me a break. It seems borderline insane.

Just like all kids, my cousins, siblings, and I loved Easter, Halloween, Christmas, and Valentine’s and all the sweet sugary goodies that our parents allowed us to stuff in our mouths. In the same way that kids think about the present, and not the future when they stand in place and spin in circles, we gorged and gobbled all the sweets we got our hands on. Mom, because of Grandma’s warning, worried about the worms that Grandma assured her would infest our stomachs from eating too much candy. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?—baloney! Grandma used a spoonful of sugar to transparently mask the disgusting taste of turpentine (the kind that cleans paintbrushes). It worked as well as a smile masks a shark.

Bug bites: I was gathering eggs for my Great Uncle Virgil when I was a teenager. Somewhere in the process I was bitten by a spider. A knot the size of a silver-dollar raised on my arm. Upon showing my uncle (who smoked a pipe), he put a big chaw of the pipe tobacco in his mouth and after it was real good and real slobbery, he splatted it onto my arm and wrapped a kerchief around it. I remember watching his spit seep out from underneath the cloth and drip off my arm—yuck—but my arm healed. So again, I guess it worked.

Anyhow, I survived the stomach aches; the stopped up noses eventually cleared up; my knee did heal; I am never and probably never will be malnourished or wormy, and my arm never fell off from the spider bite. So that being said, maybe it worked? What kind of home remedy tortures do you remember?

Technology and the Myth of Social Media

2013-09-12T17:06:00.002-07:00

Are you a digital native or a digital immigrant? If you did not have email, text messaging, or smartphones when you were young, you are a digital immigrant—someone who is new to the imposing processes of constant connectivity. If you have always had these technologies, you are a digital native—you are used to the connectivity and are a bit out of place without it.

Technology has taken over virtually every aspect of our lives. It seems that regardless of where I am, someone, anyone, can contact me electronically—I can run, but I can’t hide. If you are less than 25 years old, you are likely ok with this. You tend to look at your phone every thirty seconds to check a Facebook, Twitter, email feed, or text message during face to face conversations failing to realize how off-putting it is to someone like, well, me.

We have long thought that technologies are causing us to lose human touch connections. However, I think just the opposite is true. Humans are social creatures, and we always will be. We are simply using other mediums to socialize.

Take Facebook for example. Without it, you actually must engage another human being in conversation that is physically in front of you with manners and etiquette. With it, you begin conversations with hundreds or thousands of acquaintances that are on your friends list. I liken Facebook to being in a gymnasium with everyone I have ever remotely known. We all have megaphones, and we are all shouting things like, “I just want to thank God because my hubby got up and let the dog out while I slept. I am so blessed!” or vague posts such as, “I am so disappointed in you. You people really need to grow up,” leaving me to wonder who you are talking to and then assuming that maybe it’s me—ick, the stress of it all.

There is also the problem of social media used in unlawful or unethical ways. We all know of someone, usually a child or predator, who has used social media to make someone else’s life miserable. They wrongly use the internet to humiliate, insult, or extort our children, and then leave parents and schools to pick up the pieces of a young and wrongly shattered life.

How does this happen? We parents allow it to happen, but how can we prevent it? Here are some things that will help: 1) Make a habit of going through your child’s phone. If they don’t like it, or if you catch them deleting text messages, take the privilege away—no excuses. 2) Insist that your household computers and tablets only be used in the most traveled room of your home (usually the kitchen or living room). Remember that when you let your child have internet capabilities in the privacy of their bedroom, you are letting them walk through the virtual door of God knows who. You wouldn’t let them walk into a random strangers home, so don’t allow them to enter virtual homes either. 3) Teach your child that if they are attacked online to ignore it. I know how hard this is, but trust me it is the only viable solution. 4) Remind them, and yourself, that we all leave digital footprints and that anything we post via the internet is forever and can be screen captured—do you really want a vicious response or risqué photo to reappear when you are applying for your dream job? 5) Know every password to every social media account your child uses—again, no excuses. 6) Talk to your child about the importance of tone when writing and discuss the importance of kindness.

Do I do this with my own children? You bet I do. They may not always like it, but to echo my parents, they have no choice in the matter.

I, at 42, am a digital immigrant; however, I am a willing victim of 21^st century technology. I have a blog, a Twitter account for my students and their parents, a seldom used Facebook account, and a couple websites—if you can’t beat’em, join’em.

How do you feel about this subject? Do you believe these technologies are hurting or helping us?

2013-09-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

“Cat’s in The Ladle” and Other Food Myths

Have you heard rumors about restaurants? Juicy rumors about restaurants serving cat meat, rat infestation, or dead animals in sandwiches? This hearsay pops up from time to time. Twisting our taste buds and cracking the gears in our stomachs and minds. We know what these rumors do to us: we spread the word quickly without reasoning the validity of the gossip.

Think about the restaurants that have to battle the rumor and fight to keep patronage. These myths, malicious rumors, often cripple their short term business and have the potential to hurt the longevity of their restaurant. Most of the time, the rumors are false. Why do these tales surface?

With this legend, as with all, it is important to break the story into the following parts: who is the rumor about? Who is it told to? And then, why is it told?

According to Snopes.com, the complaint of foreign objects in food is most often against one of the bigger restaurant chains and is for monetary gain—the accusers are trying to extort money. However, the accusers, in their moment of self-indulged brilliance, imagine a quick cash payout and fail to realize that when the claim is false, the process is a form of extortion. The accusers will file a claim with the police department in hopes of making their claim “legitimate.” This is where the get rich quick scheme goes horribly wrong—it all comes out in the wash so to say. As the claim is investigated by the legal system and by the restaurant and as the claim is found false, the shysters are quickly charged with filing false police reports and grand larceny. They then scramble and try to drop their charges against the restaurant, but it is too late.

Other restaurant myths are aimed at non-chains or against specific ethnicities. These claims are results of xenophobia—fear of foreigners. When I was young, my town of Desoto, Missouri got its first Chinese Restaurant. The restaurant, owned by a very nice and wonderful Chinese family, was clean and friendly. The restaurant thrived; we had nothing but pizza and burgers before they moved to town. As their business grew, the bottom line of the local restaurants began to fall. Stories of filth and the serving of cat meat, both of which were not true, surfaced.

Xenophobic rumors are common in small towns throughout the country. These tales are usually started by territorial business owners in the same town who are losing customers. The loss of income is combated with vicious hearsay. The target of the rumor can do nothing more than wait out the gossip.

What kind of rumors have your heard about restaurants in your own town?

Digital Citizenry and Social Media Myths

2013-09-01T06:38:00.001-07:00

Do I do this with my own children? You bet I do. They may not always like it, but to echo my parents, they have no choice in the matter.

Give Me Some Peanuts and a Blackjack

2013-08-29T17:24:00.001-07:00

This past weekend, my son and I sat down to our favorite sporting event in all of sports—the Little League World Series. The Little League World series, televised for years, has always been known for the high expectations it has for the players. They have rules governing players, parents, and coaches and expect all to show be superlative in sportsmanship manners and etiquette during the competition. Usually, the participanting teams comply and display true and pure sportsmanship values—that is until this year.

The championship game pitted West California against Japan. The Japanese team has made it to the final game to play The United States eleven times since 1998. The teams from Japan have always displayed a sense of respect and love for the game. Additionally, they consider the opportunity to play sacred, and hardly show anger, or any emotion for that matter, until the game is over when they run out to pay homage to the bust of Babe Ruth—they consider him the God of Baseball. It is just a joy to watch them play. (Japan went on to win 6-4)

I appreciate and admire when I see the teams give their best and show respect for each other and for the umpires and officials. After spending an entire year dedicating every idle moment to this one goal, I can see and understand the competitiveness on the field. However, it also pains and embarrasses me to see the American team choke their bats, stomp off the field, cry in anger in the dugout, and glare at their opponents.

What has happened to youth sports in America? Between coaching and observing the news, we have seen: overzealous parents stomping up and down the sidelines; relentless trash talking; obscene gestures; intimidation; fights; and deaths from violence, and all of this is for you sports. (Insert irony and sarcasm here.)

Youth sporting event violence has been on the increase in recent years and it is widely believed to be the result of role model mimicry. When this behavior is accepted and encouraged among adults, whether it is parents or professional athletes, is it a wonder that the young do it too?

It is now fashionable to be a jerk to society as long as you are supporting a sports team. Mama and papa bears are at the games and are protecting their kids. In the heat of the moment they often will simply go too far. I would love to always root for the home team, but when I see athletes acting like babies, I can’t help but to secretly root for the other guy. I am only speaking for myself, but I’m sure I’m not alone.

What is your opinion on sports and bad sportsmanship in America?

Angels Among Us

2013-08-18T14:48:00.002-07:00

Angels Among Us

        First let me say that I have a certain fondness for nostalgia and sentiment. This past week I read an article about nineteen-year-old Katie Lentz who had been in a car accident on her way to Jefferson City, Missouri. The car, completely destroyed, was upturned making it impossible to extricate Katie. The decision was made to upright the car. This had the potential of changing the pressure on Katie’s body, which could end her life. Katie asked for someone to pray with her before the righting the car.
        Here is where the story gets exciting: seemingly from nowhere, a priest walks to the car and offers to pray with Katie. Katie was extricated, and the priest disappeared. No one at the scene recognized the priest, and of the 70+ photos taken at the scene, the priest was not present in a single one. Those at the scene believe the priest was an angel who had materialized and then vanished.
        I had hoped so too. After reading the article, I excitedly showed it to my wife: “Jennie, you have to read this.” I then shared it with Mr. Glen Gill, my colleague and living encyclopedia of seemingly everything: “Glen, you have to hear this!” My body tingled with excitement, imagining that Michael Landon’s Touched by an Angel could possibly be true. I told them both how I hoped they never found out the identity of the priest. I mean, I want to believe in angels.
        What is an Angel? The etymology of the word suggests that it comes from ancient Greek meaning messenger. Primarily, Christians are aware of three: Gabriel, Michael, and Lucifer; however, there are many more. With a little research it is evident that there are nine main angels (Wikipedia.com is the easiest and fastest place.). Each angel has a specific purpose. My favorite is Michael, always has been, the defender/fighter of God. Maybe it’s a spark of my adolescent admirations of the Lone Ranger, the Duke Boys, John Wayne, or Superman, but to me an Angel that is a designated fighter is just cool.
        Much to my dismay, the priest turned out to be a real priest. Reverend Patrick Dowling is a Catholic Priest who arrived at the scene and walked up to the accident to pray and help. In my opinion, this is even better. We expect an Angel to be merciful and, well, angelic. But, a human who is angelic, what can be better? I cannot express how thrilling and inspirational it is to me to read about leaders like Rev. Dowling and Pope Francis and the non-judgmental messages of love, humility, and good works. These, we can all achieve.

What are your thoughts on angels--do you believe in them?

Indiana Snakes: The Truth

2013-08-03T17:58:00.001-07:00

I’m not sure why, but I have feared snakes. Dogs? Yes. Snakes? No. Most of my friends fear snakes. My brothers, one in particular, are terrified of them. Actually, most all of the population has an instinctual fear of snakes. Fear of snakes is the number one animal phobia in the United States driving people to run them over with their cars, throw rocks at them, shoot them, and do many other countless things to what is really an eco-important and unassuming part Mother Nature. On a side note, most species are protected by the State of Indiana and should be left alone.

Here is a quick quiz for you. 1) How many species of water moccasins do you think we have in Indiana? Two. One is the Copperhead and the other is the Cottonmouth. 2) Are snakes poisonous or venomous? Venomous. 3) How many venomous snakes are in Indiana? Four.

There are very few venomous snakes in Indiana, about ten percent of the total species. Oh, and we really do not have “moccasins” as most people describe them. Most of the snakes that people like to call moccasins are only water snakes. The copperhead and the cottonmouth are the only two “moccasins” we have. As long as I have lived in the state, and as much as I am outdoors I have only seen one copperhead and I have never seen a cottonmouth. We just do not have cottonmouths around here; though, I am sure that you or someone you know would swear up and down that you have. According to the DNR, there is only one county in the far south central part of the state that has a cottonmouth population.

My wife, Jennie, and I were recently walking around Shakamak State Park. As we walked, a car passed us, stopped, backed up, sat for a few minutes, and then left. Jennie and I both wondered what they were doing. As we walked it became obvious: there was a snake in the road and the driver saw this.

The snake was a Black King Snake. The snake was about three feet long and black from head to tip with a white belly. It was warming itself on the pavement of the road and looked to be dead when we walked up to it. I easily could have grabbed it, but decided to agitate it instead. I wanted to video tape this encounter, so I could show it to my students this upcoming school year. Jennie recorded with my iphone while I first moved it with a stick.

The snake’s appearance quickly changed. The ashy black snake had yellow bandings on its back that brightened as it coiled around. The snake took a defensive posture, quickly flicked its tail to sound like a rattler, and coiled to strike. I knew it wasn’t poisonous— Indiana’s only poisonous snakes are the occasional Copperhead, the virtually nonexistent Cottonmouth, and the almost never seen Timber rattlesnake and Massasauga rattlesnake—and I also knew that the snake was only biding time until it could slither away. After I recorded enough for a good classroom discussion, I moved it into the ditch where it quickly disappeared.

Here is a link to a video I uploaded of this encounter. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2Tb79mYHnY

Catfishing Lore and Childhood Memories

2013-07-28T16:36:00.003-07:00

Catfish. What do you know about these odd looking, slimy, and sometimes disgusting creatures? Like most people, you have at least heard much about them. Things such as they are slimy; their "horns" are sharp and can slice you wide open; they will eat anything, even people; some have been found to be so big that they can swallow a Volkswagen Beetle with little difficulty, or a scuba diver with complete ease.

It is true that they are slimy. The slime helps to protect them from infections and bacteria. If you catch one, the worst thing you can do is let it roll around in the net or on the ground. It is better to handle it by the mouth if you intend to release it. Their "horns" (actually part of their fins) are sharp when they are small. This protects them from predators. Around the weight of three plus pounds, they are too dull to really stab or cut. Catfish do not grow large enough to eat a person. The world record blue cat is currently around 140 pounds (Virginia), and the current record for a flathead cat is around 120 pounds (Kansas). So, the next time that someone swears there are fish big enough to swallow a man whole at the Cataract Lake dam, roll your eyes and say, Wow!

In North America we have five basic species of catfish. Common terms are yellow bellies-- probably the most disgusting; this fish is primarily less than five pounds and actually will eat anything. Not a favorite at the dinner table, it tastes like river mud smells. The channel is the most commonly caught and ate. The flathead is the stuff that legends are made of. Flatheads eat live food, are voracious fighters, and have a clean fish flavor. Lastly, the blue cat. This species has the capability of growing the largest. Not particularly a favorite for the dinner table, the blue mostly eats dead food and has an oily flavor. Lastly, the spoonbill cat. This is a prehistoric looking fish that can grow up to 140 pounds (Kansas) but is protected in most states, I really have no idea how it tastes.

Growing up, my family loved to begin catfishing when the dogwood trees bloomed in the spring. At this time of year in the Midwest, the river water temperature is rising and triggering pre-spawn behavior. The catfish feed aggressively until the spawn. When the water temperature is right, the female releases her eggs and the male fertilizes them. He then stays with the nest and fry, protecting them from predators and intruders. The bite is virtually nonexistent until the male leaves the young. For us Hoosiers, this is normally between the middle of May until the end of June. During July and August, the bite increases as the catfish aggressively gain back the lost weight.

On my favorite childhood catfishing trip, my two little brothers, Gordon and Danny, my dad, and I floated the St. Francis river in Missouri. I really don't remember if we caught catfish, but we did swim, eat, and try to fish. I remember that we boys had a bad habit of getting in Dad's tackle box and not latching it shut. Gordon had additional habits of hooking others and snickering when he was in trouble. We were sitting on the bank fishing by lantern light until it was time to run our trot line. Dad had walked a few steps away to relieve himself when his pole had a bite. "Dad, you have a bite," I said. "Go ahead and grab it," he answered. Gordon, Danny, and I looked each other in the eye and we each had the biggest of poop-eating grins on our faces. We were going let the fish bite until he thought his pole would be pulled into the river.

"It's really biting Dad."

"Grab it son."

"We'll it's your pole. I think you should be the one to get it. It's going in."

Dad, unable to see his pole in the darkness and unaware that we would grab it if necessary, ran to his pole. His tackle box was in his way. With what he thought was a Carl Lewisesque leap, his toe caught the tackle box. Dad sprawled forward onto the sandy ground, the tackle box looked like it literally exploded, spewing sinkers, hooks, and lures volcanically like a fisherman's psychedelic dream. Gordon, Danny, and I erupted in laughter. Dad was cussing and trying to recompose himself. Oh my God, he was so angry with us. For the next few hours we just sat and silently stared at our poles while Gordon made little whimpering snickers and snorts trying to suppress his uncontrollable laughter. Dad seethed. What a night. Believe it or not, Dad even loves this story. It was an heirloom; our last childhood trip down the St. Francis.

I have guided catfishing trips for years on Cataract and Raccoon reservoirs, and I will pass along what I have learned. 1) Use bait that is oily and/or bloody. 2) Fish close to structure. 3) Keep your bait off the bottom when pole fishing (Catfish have overbites. They do not "play" with their food, it may seem so, but they are trying to get it out of the sediment on the bottom.) 4) Fish when the barometer is high, or when it plummets before a storm. 5) Try to fish from late afternoon to midnight. 6) Take some snacks and enjoy yourself.

What do you know about cat fishing? What is your favourite bait? When do you think the best time of year is?

History of the Barber Pole

2013-07-20T10:37:00.001-07:00

Barber Pole Quackery

I have a toothache, I’m depressed, and my throat hurts. I need to see if my barber, Zeb, can get me in.

When you see a red and white striped, spinning pole outside of a haircutting establishment, with the all too fun illusion of ribbons flowing upwards as the pole spins, have you ever wondered if the colors or the pole has symbolic meaning? I would say, who hasn’t? So, with an open invitation to double entendre and eye rolling smirks I will discuss the barber pole. Hm mmm, "That's what she said." I just couldn't resist.

I took some time to look up the history of the barber pole in Funk and Wagnell’s, dictionary of folklore. With information hardly more than a blurb, I searched further information through various reputable sites on the web.

The barber pole was once a plain pole that was wrapped in bloody bandages to signify a place of medical practice. It later was a pole, painted red and white, with a basin atop signifying a bowl for leeches, and a basin below signifying bloodletting. You see, way before we acquired the much wiser knowledge of ear candles, colon cleansing, the “ped egg,” and detoxification, we were silly enough to believe that the body had four humors: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. We also believed that the blood did not circulate in the body but remained stagnate. When there was an illness, melancholia, or if you just felt lethargic, you would go to the surgeon (in this case the barber), squeeze the pole to dilate your veins, and have some of your blood drained from your body allowing the body to make new and cleaner blood. Even George Washington took part in this. On his deathbed with a throat infection, he allowed about 80 ounces of blood to be drawn from his arm. It is not a definite that this is what killed him but it surely didn’t help. How silly they were, if his doctors only knew that they could just detoxify his body through soaking his feet or by lighting a candle and sticking it in his ear they may have saved him. Ha! What fools!

So why did the barber become the surgeon? We have to look at the 17^th Century church. It turns out that the bloodletting was originally performed by the institutions of the Catholic church. Most doctors and medical facilities were owned by the Catholic Church, and the church forbade the practice in belief that the human body was sacred and nobody should see the “dirty” parts. It didn’t take long before the practice of medical care was picked up by others, in this case by barbers.

Interestingly enough, barbers became known for this throughout the world. They would cut hair, shave faces, extract teeth, and perform surgeries. This seldom bode well for patients. Unclean conditions and instruments caused frequent infections. Believe it or not, washing hands and sterile medical implements are actually relatively new inventions (late 19^th century). It was also the 19^th century when barbers ceased the medical practices for the sole practice of barbering.

End of the story? No. Even after the separation of barbering and doctoring the barbers kept the pole. The pole is symbolic of the barbering profession. Thus, who gets to use the pole for representation is cause for argument and legal battles between stylists and barbers. Michigan has even proposed legislation that only permits barber shops to use the symbolic red and white pole.

So would I let my barbers Zeb or T.G. extract a tooth or draw blood? If there were no other facilities around, yes, I would. They seem like nice enough guys. Why not? Next week look forward to a column about catfishing lore.

Renewing My Mancode License

2013-07-13T11:39:00.003-07:00

Renewing My Bro Code License—a trip to the barbershop

I am ready for a trip to renew my Mancode License, to the Mecca of Manliness, the Cultivator to the Code, the Gas Tank of Testosterone, to the . . . BARBERSHOP.

Once in a while, about every three weeks or so, I feel like I need to take a sabbatical from my daily life of political correctness and pleasing others. I feel a need to be real and honest; to forget about saying the right things to the right people; to drop my arms from their defensive position and relax and just be comfortable being myself; so, I go to the barbershop.

For the first several years of my life, my dad inflicted his personal idea of a good haircut on me. He was a soldier in the Army, so, he sheared my head in a “military” style cut until it would be hard to discern my head from the oniony head, just can’t keep from touching it, Chia Pet plant. Luckily, these years were on or around military bases, so, all the other kids had similar hairstyles. At around 7 or 8 years old, Dad became a part-time soldier and a full-time civilian. We lived in the same town as my grandpa, and Grandpa took over Little Paul’s hair-cutting.

Grandpa took me to Buzz’s Barbershop in Desoto, Missouri. Buzz was a retired war veteran and ex-star athlete in Desoto. In the basement of his home, Buzz had plenty of chairs where the town’s old men could sit, gossip, and reminisce about times gone by. He also had a barber chair. In between sentences and during awkward pauses, Buzz would cut hair if there was a person sitting where the scissors work. Buzz and a nice man named Basil Davis were who cut my hair while I lived in Missouri. Occasionally my Aunt Kathy would cut my hair in her salon, but I honestly always felt a little “girly” at the salon unless it was empty.

When I moved to Indiana, I had a hard time finding the barber shop atmosphere I was accustomed to. Moreover, there were fewer and fewer barbers to be found; the profession seemed to be dying off. I was forced to break the Man Code and get my cut at salons and boutiques. I still received good haircuts, but the salon had a feminine “ambiance” instead of a manly “feel or smell.” Now, I acknowledge this perspective is relative; I was simply accustomed to barbers. I know that many guys are accustomed to stylists at salons and boutiques. One of my best friends, Chad, had never been to a barber until I took him to one in Terre Haute. He had a good time listening to all the man talk in the shop, but he didn’t like the feel of a man touching his hair. He felt out of place, while I felt right as rain.

Barber shops are therapeutic to me. Two to three times a year, my wife treats me to a haircut and hot lather, straight razor, shave at Red’s Barber Shop in Indianapolis. Though it is a bit disconcerting to be so vulnerable with the business end of a straight razor touching my throat, it is relaxing, top notch, and pampering . . . and this man-spa pampering still is allowable under Man Code rules.

I primarily go to Timberman’s in Brazil, Indiana. I love it there. I like all the manly artifacts in the shop: baseball memorabilia, hunting tools, deer heads, and stuffed fish line the walls and start conversations for us customers. I also like that there is an ally close to the side entrance, it makes me feel like I could be on “the lamb” but could still sneak in for a quick haircut (childhood game). Zeb, T.G., and Mr. Timberman (the barbers) always seem to be in a good mood, and they are always rip-roaring ready for a good joke or story. Sometimes we may get a little carried away with our cutting up, but Parker,( TG’s son) is usually there to inject his wit and sarcasm and bring us back to a manageable level. For example, when Zeb asks me, “How do you want it?” and I say, “Make me look like George Clooney,” Parker is there to say, “I don’t think that is ever going to happen.” Haha—thanks Parker. The Man Code permits insults as long as they are witty.

The hair cut is over. As quickly as I leave, the next man sits in the chair and jumps into the conversation wherever it had left off. Once again, my license is validated and I am again a card carrying man with a great hair cut to boot. Next week, I will share information and research about the barbering profession. If you would like to comment on this column or on others I have written, you can follow me at paulharbour.blogspot.com

Human Touch

2013-07-05T17:59:00.002-07:00

What is the human story worth? My family and I recently visited Spring Mill State Park just south of Bedford, Indiana. Nice weather was forecasted, and we had the time, so we quickly loaded up the tent and the bikes and took off. A couple of hours later, we were choosing the better spot to strike the tent, quite the decision since I do not like to sleep on a slope.

We then began busting camp while Jennie and I bickered about which bikes I brought and forgetting the rainfly on tent—I temporarily forgot to prioritize what was important and what wasn’t.

The next day we visited the grist mill in the pioneer village. Honestly, we weren’t expecting much. We figured we would see a couple log homes and a mock-operational mill. Without saying, we were so wrong. The village is collectively many log homes, some moved in from different locations, complete with artifacts and antique relics. Each building is a museum in itself. The mill is fully operational and is fed only by the chute water that flows in from a spring in the forest. Running once an hour on the hour, you can watch the water turn the wheel, which turns the gears and grinds the cornmeal. The man working the mill is a historian and is kindly ready and able to answer all your questions no matter how trivial.

My wife Jennie enjoyed the weaver’s house. There, another historian sat and created handmade rugs on the handmade loom. (They sold for $20 at the apothecary!)The loom was a gift from the homeowner to his wife—2013, and we choose gifts for our wives just as badly now as men did then. She answered our questions while she worked and took the time to explain the work and its importance during pioneer times.

From the weaver’s home, we walked and viewed the schoolhouse; the tavern/inn; the still; another homestead; the potter’s house; and the garden (beautiful). Lastly, we visited the stables/blacksmith. Here we met Everett Rance and his daughter the potter.

While our boys played in the water and visited the church, we stood, watched, and talked. Jennie watched and talked to the potter while she imprinted maple leaves, freshly picked from the tree, onto her handmade pottery. Commuting over two hours to work for the park, she is a wealth of information and a talented artist. Her friendliness and ease of conversation mesmerizingly delighted Jennie for quite some time.

Mr. Rance and I spoke casually about state parks and his travels. Mr. Rance looked to be in his seventies (forgive me Mr. Rance if I am wrong). He spoke fondly about pulling a pop-up trailer in his station wagon throughout the country and visiting state parks when his children were young. As he reminisced and spoke of when his family was making their memories, his sentimental smile and candor thrilled me into keeping my own mouth shut and making a conscious effort to write his words into my own mind while thinking of my own memories with my family.

“We always teased my son for going into each state butt first,” he said. He explained that his son claimed an allergy that could only be medicated with food. So, he was ever in the cooler getting out something to eat. He also talked about togetherness and how close his family was during those times.

“We never had a lot. Anytime we had a dollar, we spent it going somewhere. We didn’t consider it wasting money. We considered it making memories. One night, after our oldest daughter had left home, my wife and I were lying awake in the camper. Our two daughters slept in the same bed. Our son had his own little space where he slept. The youngest girl was still quite little and this was the first time she had to sleep by herself. In the middle of the night, in the softest little voice, we could hear her calling to our son. She kept whispering his name over and over. He finally answered her and she said, ‘Can I touch you?’ She was so little; she just wanted to know someone else was there.” His smile was so sincere and real at that moment. It immediately grabbed my heart and forced an unswallowable frog to lodge in my throat.

What are emotions and human touch worth? We can’t place a value on our travels or the moments spent with our families. Of all the money I have spent on frivolity, I, like you, wouldn’t trade a solitary dime for the memory of my family’s love.

Please share an interestingly "Human" stoy of your own.

LEGENDS AND LORE: How Necessary is Grammar?

2013-07-05T17:58:00.001-07:00

LEGENDS AND LORE: How Necessary is Grammar?

I have went away for a while getting my Master’s, but now I am finished with it and have time to get back to writing. While I was away, I done alot of homework and than I remodeled the kitchen.

Ok. Ok. I can’t take it anymore. I must stop this disgustingly obvious bad grammar. I would bet that many of us did not even notice all the mistakes. Just to clarify, when using the helping verb has/had/have it often changes verbs to their irregular forms if they have one. I should have said, “have gone.” Done alot should be “have done a lot.” A lot is actually two words, though most people believe it is one. Lastly, then vs. than—I see many of my friends and colleagues misuse these two little gems. Simply put, then has an element of time. The user is implying a future action. Than shows a comparison. There you go. Now you can better outsmart your personal writing software. (grammargirl.com)

What does all this matter? To the dismay of many of my English teaching comrades across the country who so enjoy raising their eyebrows and smirking while pointing out, “Ahem, you shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition;’ or,’Only you know if you ‘can’ do something. However, if you are asking me for permission, you must use the word ‘may." it truthfully doesn’t matter that much. What’s important in language is comprehending the message. Understanding what is said and the meaning of what is said are what matters most. However, I admit that it is good to know proper grammar rules when writing, but even that knowledge must be taken with a grain of salt. Most formal writing is written on Microsoft Word or other writing software. Thus, autocorrect plays a significant role in helping to identify the more obvious grammatical errors. Frankly, anyone with a good writing software program can don the appearance of a decent writer.

The English language is dynamic and always changing (redundant—did you catch it?). Our language is saturated with colloquialisms, dialects, borrowed words, and figurative expressions to the point that grammar rules fall in and out of practice continually. Lately, mostly due to text messaging, acronyms have even crept into our language as actual words. The “word nerd” in me always chuckles when I read AWOL or sna*u in national newspapers; look this one up on your own and you too can smirk when you read it in the papers or hear it on a mentioned in the pulpit.

Where you are, the grammar, and the language/dialect used has little bearing on what you understand and comprehend of the language. I was once in an Indianapolis mall when a young lady asked me, “What time it isms?” I didn’t search for an interpreter, or ask her to use proper grammar so I could help her. I just replied, “7 O’clock.” Usually, the context of the conversation alone helps the converser understand the foreign phrase and conversation. I enjoy watching Swamp People. The dialect and the Creole English are fascinating to me. They switch their subjects and verbs, end sentences with prepositions, and often use the wrong tense. But, I don’t care. I love it, and I completely understand their meaning.

If you too are a bit of a “word nerd” take some time to check out “America’s Secret Slang” on H2, a sub channel of The History Channel. Very informative, it helps explain where many of our figurative expressions come from—I ended with a preposition; is the meaning of the article now lost?

Hiking to Graveyards

2013-07-05T17:57:00.001-07:00

I am trying to get back into the hang of writing columns for the local paper at The Brazil Times

I know that I am a bit rusty, but I am sure that my writing will sharpen up eventually. :-)

A hawk screamed its unhappy welcome on a windy, grey, wintry day in Owen Putnam State Forrest. My wife and I went hiking on Monday. We talked about how we wanted to explore a new place on our way down snaky State Road 246. On a whim, we jaunted down a side road from State Highway 46 to the State Forrest’s office on our way to McCormick’s Creek State Park in Spencer. At the office, we grabbed some maps and discussed about whether or not we really wanted to hike on horse trails; if you have ever hiked a horse trail, you understand the argument. On the map, we saw landmarks of sandstone bluffs and Pleasant Hill Cemetery, and quickly decided on these destinations.

Down the trail we went. We hiked a handful of miles winding through the woods, up and down hills, and were forever in the mud. Jennie says that I fall too slowly to get hurt, thank God for that, as she watched me fall twice in the mud. We talked, and fell, as we photographed the ice covered 50 foot sandstone bluffs and then continued on to the cemetery.

The cemetery consisted of approximately thirty graves, most of which were put to use in the late 1800s. It was striking to note the amount of children buried in the cemetery; I can only imagine the depressing acceptance of life and death one must have during those times. We struggled to read the grave markers as many of them were marked with lambs, effigies, or epitaphs. Two stones were cast as vine choked oak trees. One grave in particular lay edged on all sides by enormous cedar trees. As I looked, I wondered how small they were or if they were planted by a family member on the day of burial.

I couldn’t help but think that the screams of the hawk were warnings to revere the sacred cemetery, and I did. I even felt a twinge of superstition as I carefully corrected my path as to not walk between the graves of family members. As it turns out, the cemetery is accessible by road, but the slippery, conversation-filled horse trails were worth it.

The Evolution of Language

2012-02-25T12:33:00.001-08:00

The Evolution of Language

Euphemism: (eu=good; phem=speech); a word or phrase used in place of a term that might be considered too direct, harsh, unpleasant, or offensive. The English language is dynamic. It changes constantly, and every year we average over 2000 new words or new word meanings that are added to our dictionaries. Learning new ways of saying old words is a constant in American society and it keeps teachers and writers busily aggravated while giving us the fuel to shake our heads and roll our eyes in disapproval.

Though the English language has used euphemisms and rewording since its birth, using words as empowerment tools for political or societal gain has taken on new forms and has used words and word play with increasing leverage. Words alone have the power to change opinions and gather support for most anything. Leaders in every field use euphemisms to redefine, in both positive and negative ways, how our most important issues are framed and discussed.

Think of how our past would have changed if literal words were used more often. Look at just a handful of euphemistic words or phrases and their literal meanings: passed away/dead; job creators/rich; visually impaired/blind; soon-to-have/poor; weapons of mass destruction/bomb; taxing the estates of the wealthy/death tax; embryo reduction procedure/abortion; democracies/countries that support the USA; love child/illegitimate child; illegal aliens/immigrants;

Euphemisms are broken into many categories including: abstractions, slang, redirections, and mispronunciations (usually with profanity). With euphemisms, we can imply a meaning without actually saying it. We can critique someone’s clothing without sounding self-righteous or judgmental; for example, “That makes him/her look fat or trampy.” Instead of, “He/she looks fat or like a tramp.” Instead of saying someone is stupid, we can say, “He isn’t very bright.” My wife can say of me, “He isn’t always the best dresser,” instead of, “He has no sense of style,” (every morning I ask her, “Do my clothes match?) Through euphemisms, we can seem proper when we talk about death, birth, sex, intelligence, God, and religion.

Now that we are in full swing of the political campaigning season, the words and speeches of our politically ambitious will be twisted and mixed beyond recognition. Just think, how would you be described by anyone who is running for office? I think they would describe me as a “new wave, big boned, stylistically challenged, soon to have, educator.”

youtube videos

2012-02-21T12:20:00.000-08:00

Story Starters

2012-02-14T09:59:00.001-08:00

Today in class, I put some story starters on the board. The students were to work with a partner and continue one of the three prompts on the board. Every few minutes I would say to switch. They would then switch and continue their partner's story.

The students really enjoyed it and compimented the lesson when it was over. We read a couple out loud during class, and will continue with a few at a time during future classes.

Be My Valentine

2012-02-12T08:40:00.000-08:00

Valentine’s Day, what a pain in the neck. Why are we pressured to buy gifts, write poems, and declare our love for another? Isn’t a card with heartfelt sentiments good enough? Even when our significant other gives us the ancient cliché, “You don’t have to buy me anything,” we know that’s a hidden code for “You better not forget me.” I guess to them it’s even more romantic if we buy a gift anyway even when we have been freed from all obligations.

Though it is hard to pinpoint exactly where the holiday originated, there are a few legends of the holiday's beginnings. These legends are not completely verifiable, but they are common enough to at least have some degree of believability, so, here it goes. The romantic side of Valentine’s Day is said to come from Lupercalia, a Pagan festival of fertility, that was celebrated in the middle of our month of February. This festival began with an animal sacrifice—nothing says love like a dead animal. After the sacrifice, the celebration continued with the ritualistic slapping of the young women with strips of the animal’s flesh and blood—ah, how romantic. Around the fifth century, the church renamed this holiday as Saint Valentine’s Day (thank heavens!).

Who was Saint Valentine? Who knows? The church canonized several Valentines, but the most accepted belief is of a Roman priest during the reign of Claudius the second. Claudius kept his soldiers in the field for extremely long periods of time, and the soldiers became homesick. So much so, that they became ill suited for battle. Therefore, Claudius banned the soldier and everyone else from the right of marriage. Valentine found this unjust and married the people secretly. When he was found out, he was arrested, jailed, and sentenced to death. While in prison, Valentine fell in love with his jailor’s daughter. On the day he was executed, he slipped his love a note that was signed, “From your valentine.”

Now, to the history of cards: Again, it is hard to pinpoint the exact origins of the cards. In Rome, cards baring the names of young people were once collected and placed in an urn. On Valentine’s Day, you would draw a card to see who your valentine was. You would show your affection to them and would then give them gifts later in the year. It can’t be proven, but a card signed Amanda Huginkiss was mysteriously discovered at every drawing--haha. The cards later became a declaration of love to your significant other. The cards could be quite elaborate and pictures of cherubs or Cupid, the Roman god of Love, were staples of the sentiments. The cards grew in craftsmanship and popularity when they became part of the Civil War soldier’s stationary ration. You can search vintage valentine’s cards on the internet to see the many good examples.

For our Valentine’s Day, we can buy a card (if you’re not imaginative enough to write a good letter), buy some chocolates (make sure it’s her favorite chocolates, not yours), or pay triple the normal price for some roses (it means more to her if you buy flowers randomly throughout the year). It’s up to you, but like she said, “You don’t have to buy me anything,” especially if you want to spend Valentine’s night on the couch.

http://www.history.com/topics/valentines-day/videos?paidlink=1&cmpid=PaidSearch_Google_HIS_holidays_valentine's%2Bday%2Blegends&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=holidays&utm_term=valentine's%20day%20legends#valentine-cards

Parts of Speech

2012-01-24T11:33:00.000-08:00

Having trouble knowing your parts-of-speech? Check out this web site: www.eduplace.com/tales/

Here you will plug in the parts of a speech for a great and wacky mad lib! Make sure you read it to somebody. They will find it hilarious.

The History of Profanity

2012-01-23T06:51:00.000-08:00

Gosh! The History of Four-Letter Words

            Expletive: an exclamation that is used to fill a vacancy, one that is usually vulgar. Have you ever let one slip? If you have, and you probably have, you’re not alone. I imagine the first curse word was mentioned when Adam found out that Eve had eaten the forbidden fruit. If one was mentioned before that, it was most likely when the first man to walk upright smashed his mouth while using a rock for a fork.
            Many of our most popular movies and television comedies are laden with profanity, innuendos, double entendres (a word that when used, is meant to be understood in a vulgar way), and slang. Even Disney movies do this—so the adults will be entertained while sitting with their children in the theater. However, this isn’t new to this generation. The English loved their adult humor just as much as or more than us. In fact, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales used humor that would cross the line even in today’s society, and this is a likely reason that students still enjoy studying him. Even the Holy Bible has phrases that were considered profane: II Kings, 18:27, “Eat their own dung, and . . .”(look it up the read the rest).
             Our language is dynamic and it always has been. Words that were once profane are now acceptable—gosh, golly, darn, dang, shoot, geeze, frick, frack, Jiminy Christmas, etc. However, these words are just as much a profanity as any other, simply because of when and how we use them. We instantly shudder when we hear certain words used in mixed company. As a matter of fact, there are several biblical words that if used in church today, would cause mothers and fathers to cover their children’s ears. Oh, and another darn thing—pardon my French. Have you ever wondered why it is so common to say, “Pardon my French,” after cursing? Well, since we brought our language with us from Mother England, our ancestors brought this phrase here with them. In English society, there were many words that were not considered the Queen’s English. Since the English society was a hierarchy of social classes, the poor had their own language that was mixed with slang commonly used in other languages. If the poor had a colorful four-letter word that wasn’t considered proper English, it was deemed vulgar or foreign. Often foreigners, especially the French, were enemies and were considered below Englishmen. So, not only when they cursed, but when they would behave in any vulgar way, they were essentially saying, excuse me for acting like a Frenchman—notice that the word “pardon” is a French word.
           Every language and every dialect has “forbidden” language. From the most refined individual to the least, we are all guilty of using a “word” when we are angered, in pain, or elated. When our nerves fire and our mouths open at the same time there’s no telling what may come out.

God Bless Us, Everyone

2011-12-09T07:20:00.001-08:00

If you read last week’s column, you now know the basic roots of our modern Christmas holiday. However, we now need to look at the influences that have made it into what it is today. In the 1600s (time of the Puritans), Christianity underwent many reforms. The basic viewpoints of religion became more strict and because of this, daily rituals were often reevaluated for their religious worth. Most anything that was fun, was discarded for its lack in the glorification of God . . . celebrations were no exception, and therefore, most were done away with . . . because of the Puritans, we had a time where Christmas was against the law. They, the Puritans, actually levied a 5-shilling fine for anyone who celebrated Christmas and was not working. For them, Christmas decor graced the town only if you happened to be wearing red or green while you were in the stocks. Imagine the chaos if someone actually tried to outlaw Christmas today . . . Oliver Cromwell did in 1645, and so did the city of Boston from 1659-1681—and we talk about the lack of reverence for the holiday. During the 19^th century there was an expanding divide between the social classes--sound familiar? New York actually had to institute a police force in response to Christmas riots since people were becoming so upset about the disparity between the social classes. Oh, and all the fine congressman we have today, who allegedly claim that there is a “war” on Christmas (check out the cable news channels for this one), and that Christmas has long standing traditions dating back to our forefathers? The old congresses met and legislated on Christmas day and did so for over 60 years—because it wasn’t important enough for them to spend it in reverence. Of course today many people’s biggest goals are to appear more filial, religious, and patriotic than everybody else. I’m a little surprised that it hasn’t been suggested to add “Christ” as a prefix to every holiday.

          It was during the 1800s that the holiday changed from the raucous celebration to a family oriented holiday. Families realized that strict discipline was not the best way of raising children, and instead opted for love and affection. The children took the forefront and the lavishing of gifts on the children was accepted during the holiday and was no longer considered “spoiling the child.” In my admiration for the power of literature, the Christmas card was born and contained these words: “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you.” This greeting is still the number one sentiment on Christmas cards today. The soft glowing scenes of Christmas that are so familiar to us, are thanks, in part, of the Montgomery Ward Company and artists such as Norman Rockwell. We may as well give a thank you to Washington Irving and Charles Dickens too for the endearing descriptions that helped to shape our current form of Christmas (can you hear all the middle-school teachers saying, “I told you so,” under their breath?).
          Speaking of Dickens, I just attended Beef and Board’s “A Christmas Carol,” with North Clay Middle School. What an amazing trip. Aside from the opportunity for students to be part of an elegant cultural experience, they get to witness one of the best and truest moral lessons in literary history. It is so hard to not get choked up when you see the remorse and regret in Scrooge when he realizes that Tiny Tim isn’t going to survive. It isn’t the same as reading the book—it’s better; it’s real; it’s wonderful.
          I would like to point out that I may have made a mistake in my previous column: according to Snopes.com, the ‘X’ used commonly in Christmas is not an altered sign of the cross. They say that it stems from the Greek letter “chi” and this is represented by a symbol similar to the letter ‘X.’ According to them Xian is also sometimes used as an abbreviation of the word Christian. I have heard both explanations. A professor of mine at ISU, and he studied at IU, claimed that it was the mark of the cross; I prefer to believe him, but I apologize if I am wrong.

Taking the Christ out of Christmas

2011-12-06T13:24:00.001-08:00

Taking Christ out of Christmas?

        For many years, I have heard people complain about the contemporary drive to take Christ out of Christmas. Many fear that the spiritual aspect of the holidays loses significance as time flies. Is it true that we have lost what makes Christmas truly great/ Has the holiday diminished in value? Is the spirit of giving wasting away as the world thirsts for more material and vanity?My next few columns will discuss the many legends, folklore and superstitions of Christmas. Here are a few facts about the coming holiday.
It helps to look at the roots of our Christmas tradition. The birth of Jesus was not celebrated, officially, until the fourth century. However, why is it celebrated in December? It is common knowledge that Jesus was not burn during the winter. After all, what would the shepherd herd in the winter? According to history.com, the Christian church adopted the tradition of the Pagan winter celebrations and insisted on the Pagans accepting the additional celebration of the birth of Christ along with their observed celebration of the winter solstice.
        Pretty much since time began, many cultures have celebrated the winter solstice. Traditionally, the worst of winter was over and the days gradually lengthened. Most of the cattle were slaughtered (no feeding in the winter), there was plenty of meat to eat, and the wine and mead reached fermentation.
        The combination of the old Pagan celebration and the new celebration of Jesus' birth, under Pope Julius I, made for a Mass service that then turned into a raucous celebration of eating and drinking ... a lot of eating and drinking. Actually, the Yule log of today is the remnant of a Nordic celebration, which had constant feasting while a huge log burned. It would sometimes take several days for the log to burn. In turn, this meant several days of feasting. During a celebration much like today's Mardi Gras, the people would party well into the night. Additionally, the poor would knock on the doors of the rich demanding the best food and drink. If they were ill received, mischief was sure to ensue.
       Every year, there is a new batch of malicious rumors meant to highlight all the powerful people who want to detach the holiday from its religious base. Just so you know, I am only pointing out the following facts because someone has made the mistake of telling me about the terrible evils that exist only to destroy the "true meaning of Christmas."
       One such fable is that the White House insists that the Christmas trees are Holiday trees. I see how this would upset anyone who knows how meaningful a fir tree is to Christianity. I mean, it was decreed that we should decorate our homes with the evergreenic symbol of endurance and renewed life in the New Testament, right? Oh, sorry, this too is another combination of Pagan and Christian beliefs. The greenery of the tree, the holly, and mistletoe, is a statement of the belief that vegetation will again grow at winter's end. Maybe we should call it the makes my house look pretty tree or possibly the look at how much more money I have than you tree?
        Don't get me wrong, my wife and I love everything about this holiday. We have two big trees and a few small trees in our house. My wife spends countless hours preparing, planning and decorating our home for the upcoming holiday, and our family tries to schedule time for watching "The Christmas Story," "Charlie Brown's Christmas," and "Rudolf The Red-Nosed Reindeer" movies. I am now (and always will be) the first one to wake up on Christmas morning. Just the thought of watching all the kids open their presents gives me goose bumps -- I love it. All of it.
Anyhow, the White House did not decree that Christmas trees would be renamed holiday trees (Snopes.com). Could you imagine? At a time when our country could hardly become more polarized than it already is, any deviation from the traditional for a person of power would mean doom and no chance of re-election. Sometimes, the absurdity alone of these rumors is amusing.
        Here is another one: "I hate it when they say or write X-mas."
This is a complaint I have heard since I was a kid. This legend is easy to debunk and makes perfect sense the more you think about it.
        Years ago, literacy was not common. If someone could not write their name, they often made the sign of the cross on important documents. The sign, or a person's mark, was a proper and binding signature recognized by institutions. As time went on, the cross turned a little and it resembled an X. So, X-mass is actually T-mass or (cross)mass. Using a cross in place of the word Christ is a far cry from sacrilegious. As a matter of fact, do you remember children crossing their fingers behind their backs while they lied? The inverted cross temporarily excused them from the rules of Christianity. For a brief moment, they were not Christians and therefore, could tell a lie.
        So, by comparison, the spiritual significance of our Christmas celebration today, is 10-fold more than it was in the past. Every year, the holiday, the giving, the buying and the folklorish untruths increase. Where it was once a single Mass or church service, it is now a multi-day celebration of services, passion plays and songs. Advertisement is a good reflection of pop-culture practice, showing that our Christmas holiday begins before Thanksgiving. I hope you have found some of this interesting or at least amusing. Watch for upcoming columns regarding some of the more endearing and sentimental aspects of this wonderful holiday.

Home Remedies

2011-11-30T11:55:00.001-08:00

It’s flu season and I can’t help but to think of the many spells, concoctions, remedies (tortures) that my mother and grandmother subjected my cousins, siblings, and me to as we were growing up. Anything from a cough to the flu, a spider bite to a wasp sting to a case of head lice was readily cured by something that my grandmother believed would help.

Many of these home-made cures were staples of the medicine cabinet and they doubled for multiple purposes. I hated to even mention that I felt anything less than the utmost of health and vitality. At the mere whisper that my stomach was upset, Grandma would serve me up a sweet but hideous looking glass of prune juice. It looked like the swill at the bottom of a tobacco chewer’s spit cup, and I must say that as a child, I thought it tasted that way too. The prune juice was meant as a stool softener; I guess it worked . . . eventually. If the prune juice didn’t quench grandma’s taste for inflicting torture, the Castor oil did; the oil, a taste I will never, ever, forget was like the oldest, biggest, and meanest brother of stool softeners/laxatives . . . it works beautifully.

Another surefire way to cure an ailment was with Vick’s Vapor Rub. Even if you tried to hide it, grandma could tell by your voice that you had a cold. The white container with a blue lid in her hand, she sat on the edge of the bed and had you sit up. I admit that it was nice and soothing when she would rub some on my chest and under my nose; it made my eyes water a little, but I actually could breathe a little better. However, was it really necessary, Grandma, to make me eat a finger full of this greasy salve? It coated my teeth as I choked it down making it impossible to sleep, for I then had to incessantly swallow for fifteen minutes straight trying to vacate my mouth of that impossible and detestable coating.

Sometimes I felt as if Grandma and my mother sat at the window waiting for one of us to fall down. Why else would they even consider putting what I considered battery acid on our cuts and scrapes? Walking in the house with a scraped knee, she would grab a bottle of mercurochrome or iodine and swab it into the open wound. Oh my God, how it burned. Back then I was sure that it would burn completely through my leg, “It burns Grandma!” any one of us would say as she fanned the burning with a magazine. “It’s ok. We used this stuff when I was a little girl and it healed right up,” she would say. I still cannot believe that they endured the same pain and in turn passed it on to their kids and grandchildren. I know, because they always told me, that people were tougher back then, but give me a break. It seems borderline insane. Now, how about the holidays?

Just like all kids, my cousins, siblings, and I loved Easter, Halloween, Christmas, and Valentine’s and all the sweet sugary goodies that our parents allowed us to stuff in our mouths. In the same way that kids think about the now and not the near future when they stand in place and spin in circles, we gorged and gobbled all the sweets we got our hands on. Mom, because of Grandma’s warning, worried about the worms that Grandma assured her would infest us from eating too much candy. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?—baloney! A spoonful of sugar masked the disgusting taste of turpentine like a smile masks a hungry shark. They actually had us eat a spoonful of sugar with a few drops of turpentine in it, and yes, it tastes exactly the how it smells.

Anyhow, I survived the stomach aches; the stopped up noses eventually cleared up; my knee did heal; I am never, and probably never will be, malnourished or wormy, and my arm never fell off from the spider bite. So that being said, maybe it worked?

Paul Harbour's first posting

2011-11-30T11:40:00.001-08:00

This initial posting is regarding my use of technology in my career. I am an English teacher, and in 2011, I must learn to use (efficiently) as much technology as I have available to me. That being said, we have MIMIO, screen projectors, and computer labs available at my school. I dream of the day that each student will have a tablet to use during class. It is funny that teacher once complained that students would try to text during class; we then complained that students would use laptops during class; before we could even ask for those technologies, laptops are a thing of the old and tablets are the new--we didn't get to use any of them.

The biggest hurdle we have in public schools regarding technology is the lack of funding. It seems that when money is available (and in Indiana it isn't), it is more readily used in extra-curriculars instead of for new technologies that would enhance learning. I know that if the money were available, my school would do its best to make and use new technologies. Of course there would be the problem of training and teaching the teachers how to use the new stuff, but that would be a welcome problem.

"Fear not," is a philosophy that is rooted deep in my religious beliefs. Because of this, I must be willing to tackle any and all new obstacles that I may face in the task of education. I am beginning a new class that will enable me to embrace change and learn the many advantages to using technology. I hope to use my new knowledge to assist my students in their educational endeavors.