Bilbo's Random Thought Collection

John Hetherington... was arraigned before the Lord Mayor yesterday on a charge of breach of the peace and inciting to riot, and was required to give bonds in the sum of £500 [for having] appeared upon the public highway wearing upon his head what he called a silk hat... a tall structure, having a shiny lustre, and calculated to frighten timid people.... several women fainted at the unusual sight, while children screamed, dogs yelped, and a young [boy] was thrown down by the crowd which had collected and had his right arm broken. 

If you were looking for the Poetry Sunday you expected, don't despair. Because today is Mothers' Day, the usual Poetry Sunday will not appear this week so that I can present the thirteenth iteration of my traditional Mothers' Day post, slightly revised and updated. It may be recycled and tweaked, but it comes no less from the heart. If you've read it before, just know that everything still applies ... read it again if you like, or come back another day for my thoughts on other things ...

Today is Mothers' Day, the one day each year we set aside to honor the lady we undervalue the other 364 (365 in leap years like this one). It's the day we remember the person who made our hurts better, explained our homework, cooked our meals, washed our clothes, drove us where we needed to go, warned us about our less-savory acquaintances, embarrassed us in front of our friends, and did her best to point us down the straight line of a moral and upright life.

Mothers are the wonderful and woefully underappreciated people from whom the Army and the Navy stole their one-time recruiting slogans - the Army's "We do more before 9 AM than most people do all day," and the Navy's "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." With all due respect to Soldiers and Sailors everywhere ... you don't have a clue.

Somewhere in my web surfing I found this little riff on how we look at our Mothers at different ages:

Age 4: Mommy can do anything!
Age 8: Mom knows a lot!
Age 12: Mother doesn't know everything.
Age 14: Mother doesn't know anything.
Age 16: Mother is so old-fashioned.
Age 18: Her? She's out of it.
Age 25: Mom might know something about that.
Age 35: Before we decide, let's ask Mom.
Age 45: What would Mom have thought about that?
Age 65: I wish I could talk that over with Mom.

It's true.

My mother passed away nineteen years ago at the far-too-young age of 74. She spent a long and honorable life raising four children who, I like to think, made her proud ... most of the time, anyway. And in her twilight years, her once-formidable mind ravaged by Alzheimer's Disease, she missed much of the result of her love and care and sacrifice - a son who can dance (and who may yet write that book she thought he had in him, instead of a blog), a small army of grandchildren, and six beautiful great-grandchildren who will never know her love and wisdom and the off-the-wall sense of humor* that brightened the lives of everyone who knew her.

The next generation of mothers is moving the family forward. Between them, my beloved daughters Yasmin and Tabitha** are raising the world's six greatest grandchildren (Marcy, Joe, Noah, Leya, Elise, and Ava). And someday those wonderful grandchildren will sit down on Mothers' Day and reflect - just as their opa does today - on the lady who gave up so much of her own life and dreams to make them who they are.

And so again this year, I wish my own Agnes, Yasmin and Tabitha, my sister Lisa and sisters-in-law Laura and Brenda, fellow bloggers Amanda and Fiona, my dear friends Kathy, Gail, and Lioudmila, and all the other mothers out there doing the world's toughest job, a very happy Mothers' Day and many more to come. We couldn't be what we are, or do what we do, without you.

And lest you think I'm getting too maudlin about the whole thing, here's a picture from long ago of my Dad with four then and future moms: my daughter Yasmin, my sister Lisa, Agnes, and my mother ...

We're an odd family, but somehow we've turned out more-or-less all right. Good parents will do that to you.

Oh, and in case you haven't seen it, here's "The Mom Song" by comedian Anita Renfroe, set to the tune of The William Tell Overture ...

Happy Thanksgiving!

I've been writing this blog since 2006, and some of you - masochists that you are - have been reading it for almost all of that time. You've learned many things about me over the years, one of which is that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. In a crazy world in which we too often focus on fear and negativity* and the material things in life, it's good to have a day on which to sit back and reflect on the things for which we can be truly thankful.

We’re living in a time when it’s easy to be distracted from things for which we can be thankful, because there is so much going on that is awful. For me, this year the awful things included:

A presidential administration and its unquestioning partisan supporters that continues to ruin America's standing in the world, coarsen our political discourse, and undermine the health, safety, and security of the American people;

The horror of realizing that many Americans accept frequent mass murder - even of little children - as an acceptable price to pay for the unrestricted "right to bear arms;" and

An administration that relentlessly works to undermine our legal system, our voting rights, and our fundamental institutions of government.

On the whole, though, it’s been a pretty good year. Although there have been negatives, I have to consider myself a lucky man for a lot of reasons … such as:

The patient and long-suffering love of a beautiful and endlessly talented wife;

Three loving and successful children of whom I am proud beyond all measure;

Six adorable, intelligent, talented, and loving grandchildren;

A large and loving extended family;

A comfortable retirement**;

A roof over my head***;

Good health†;

Good friends;

The good fortune to be able to live in the United States of America - a country which, for all its faults, gives me the opportunity to enjoy all of the above;

The ability to write what I wish in this space without worrying about government censorship††; and,

The ability to enjoy the good things of the world that would be denied by those whose harsh and intolerant worship of a jealous and angry God ignores the beauty and possibilities of the present in favor of rigid belief in an imagined paradise in an unknowable future.

I have many things to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day, and it's only proper that I should take a few minutes to acknowledge that I am, as ever, most richly blessed.

I wish all of you, Dear Readers, Friends, the very happiest and safest of holidays.

Have a good day. Give thanks for the good things you have and the bad things you don't. And stay out of the stores tomorrow ... you'll thank me.

More thoughts tomorrow, when we offer a new collection of Great Moments in Editing and Signage.

Bilbo

* Yes, Mr Trump and the GOP, I'm talking to you.

** So far, anyhow.

*** As long as we keep up the payments.

† Until the GOP succeeds in gutting Medicare, anyway.

†† Yet. Given Mr Trump's attitude toward the First Amendment, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

If you were looking for the Poetry Sunday you expected, don't despair. Because today is Mothers' Day, the usual Poetry Sunday will be pushed off until next week so that I can present the twelfth iteration of my traditional Mothers' Day post, slightly revised and updated. It may be recycled and tweaked, but it comes no less from the heart. If you've read it before, just know that everything still applies ... read it again if you like, or come back another day for my thoughts on other things ...

Today is Mothers' Day, the one day each year we set aside to honor the lady we undervalue the other 364. It's the day we remember the person who made our hurts better, explained our homework, cooked our meals, washed our clothes, drove us where we needed to go, warned us about our less-savory acquaintances, embarrassed us in front of our friends, and did her best to point us down the straight line of a moral and upright life.

Mothers are the wonderful and woefully underappreciated people from whom the Army and the Navy stole their one-time recruiting slogans - the Army's "We do more before 9 AM than most people do all day," and the Navy's "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." With all due respect to Soldiers and Sailors everywhere ... you don't have a clue.

Somewhere in my web surfing I found this little riff on how we look at our Mothers at different ages:

Age 4: Mommy can do anything!
Age 8: Mom knows a lot!
Age 12: Mother doesn't know everything.
Age 14: Mother doesn't know anything.
Age 16: Mother is so old-fashioned.
Age 18: Her? She's out of it.
Age 25: Mom might know something about that.
Age 35: Before we decide, let's ask Mom.
Age 45: What would Mom have thought about that?
Age 65: I wish I could talk that over with Mom.

It's true.

My mother passed away eighteen years ago at the far-too-young age of 74. She spent a long and honorable life raising four children who, I like to think, made her proud ... most of the time, anyway. And in her twilight years, her once-formidable mind ravaged by Alzheimer's Disease, she missed much of the result of her love and care and sacrifice - a son who can dance (and who may yet write that book she thought he had in him, instead of a blog), a small army of grandchildren, and six beautiful great-grandchildren who will never know her love and wisdom and the off-the-wall sense of humor* that brightened the lives of everyone who knew her.

The next generation of mothers is moving the family forward. Between them, my beloved daughters Yasmin and Tabitha** are raising the world's six greatest grandchildren (Marcy, Joe, Noah, Leya, Elise, and Ava). And someday those wonderful grandchildren will sit down on Mothers' Day and reflect - just as their opa does today - on the lady who gave up so much of her own life and dreams to make them who they are.

And so again this year, I wish my own Agnes, Yasmin and Tabitha, my sister Lisa and sisters-in-law Laura and Brenda, fellow bloggers Amanda and Fiona, my dear friends Kathy and Lioudmila, and all the other mothers out there doing the world's toughest job, a very happy Mothers' Day and many more to come. We couldn't be what we are, or do what we do, without you.

And lest you think I'm getting too maudlin about the whole thing, here's a picture from long ago of my Dad with four then and future moms: my daughter Yasmin, my sister Lisa, Agnes, and my mother ...

We're an odd family, but somehow we've turned out more-or-less all right. Good parents will do that to you.

Oh, and in case you haven't seen it, here's "The Mom Song" by comedian Anita Renfroe, set to the tune of The William Tell Overture ...

I regularly visit an interesting website that lists all the days, weeks, and months which have received special designations. There are, of course, days, weeks, and months to honor or commemorate just about everything you can imagine (and a lot of things you probably couldn't), and it turns out that today - January 15th - has been designated as National Hat Day.

Hats aren't very much in fashion nowadays unless you are the Queen of England

or you need to wear one as part of a uniform




Of course, there is also the special version made for the Trump supporter who needs protection from unwelcome ideas but is unwilling to give up the messaging value of his or her Trump-approved headgear.

Today is Christmas Day, the day on which Christians around the world celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, whose lessons and example many of them find admirable in theory but decline to follow in practice. Beyond the Christian world, it is a season for general good cheer, the exchange of gifts, and a month of uplifting and sentimental television shows which temporarily offset the sex, violence, and cynicism of the rest of the year.

We’ve long bemoaned the commercialization of Christmas, in which the purchase and exchange of gifts has replaced thoughtful contemplation and love of family. But now, Christmas has been politicized just like everything else. Conservative shouting heads complain about a “war on Christmas,” and both Christians and non-Christians complain about discrimination because they don’t want to have to be exposed to religious ideas and traditions which are not their own. Angry idiots object to hearing a generic “Happy Holidays” or "Season's Greetings" instead of "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," "Happy Solstice," "Happy Kwanzaa," "Happy Festivus," or other seasonal holiday. Nuisance lawsuits force towns and cities to remove nativity displays from public places. Scrooge lives on.

The traditional Christmas story that most of us recognize is told in the Bible in the second chapter of the gospel of Matthew:

2:8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 
2:9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. 
2:10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
2:11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. 
2:12 And this shall be a sign unto you; You shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. 
2:13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 
2:14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Whatever happened to the part about “peace on earth and goodwill toward men*?” It seems to have been replaced by “peace on earth, goodwill only to those who agree with me, and the rest of you can go to Hell.” It’s been replaced by rigid intolerance and stiff-necked self-righteousness that belie both the spirit of the season and the values and teachings of the person whose birth is being celebrated.

Nevertheless, for those willing to put aside their cultural tunnel vision and their petty carping and hatreds, the Christmas season offers a time for joy and renewal, regardless of the religious tradition they profess to follow. It’s a season in which persons of goodwill can come together and treat each other like real human beings rather than like despised “others” … if, of course, they’re willing to bend enough to do so.

And it is, above all, a season for children, who have not yet been spoiled by the cynicism and hatred they’ll learn all too soon. The look on a child’s face on Christmas morning is a wonderful thing, and it reminds us that there is still joy to be found in life, if only we can get past the greed, selfishness, and political chicanery.

And so, Dear Readers, Agnes and I wish all of you a very joyous holiday of your choice and a safe, happy, and healthy new year. Blog on!

Have a good day. More thoughts coming.

Bilbo

* Okay, “persons.” Don’t get your holiday knickers in a twist.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I've been writing this blog for more than 12 years, and some of you - masochists that you are - have been reading it for almost all of that time. You've learned many things about me over the years, one of which is that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. In a crazy world in which we too often focus on fear and negativity* and the material things in life, it's good to have a day on which to sit back and reflect on the things for which we can be truly thankful.

We’re living in a time when it’s easy to be distracted from things for which we can be thankful, because there is so much going on that is awful. For me, this year the awful things included:

A presidential administration and its unquestioning partisan supporters that continues to ruin America's standing in the world, coarsen our political discourse, and undermine the health, safety, and security of the American people;

The horror of realizing that many Americans accept routine mass murder as an acceptable price to pay for the unrestricted right to own and carry firearms; and

An administration that relentlessly works to undermine our legal system, our voting rights, and our fundamental institutions of government.

On the whole, though, it’s been a pretty good year. Although there have been negatives, I have to consider myself a lucky man for a lot of reasons … such as:

The love of a beautiful and endlessly talented wife;

Three loving and successful children of whom I am proud beyond all measure;

Six adorable, intelligent, talented, and loving grandchildren;

A large and loving extended family;

A comfortable retirement**;

A roof over my head***;

Good health^†;

Good friends;

The good fortune to be able to live in the United States of America - a country which, for all its faults, gives me the opportunity to enjoy all of the above;

The ability to write what I wish in this space without worrying about government censorship^††; and,

The ability to enjoy the good things of the world that would be denied by those whose harsh and intolerant worship of a jealous and angry God ignores the beauty and possibilities of the present in favor of rigid belief in an imagined paradise in an unknowable future.

I have many things to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day, and it's only proper that I should take a few minutes to acknowledge that I am, as ever, most richly blessed.

I wish all of you, Dear Readers, Friends, the very happiest and safest of holidays.

Have a good day. Give thanks for the good things you have and the bad things you don't. And stay out of the stores tomorrow ... you'll thank me.

More thoughts tomorrow, when we name the Left-Cheek Ass Clown for the month.

Bilbo

* Yes, Mr Trump and the GOP, I'm talking to you.

** So far, anyhow.

*** As long as we keep up the payments.

† Until the GOP succeeds in gutting Medicare, anyway.

†† Yet. Given Mr Trump's attitude toward the First Amendment, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

This is the eleventh year that I have slightly revised and updated my traditional Mothers' Day post. It may be recycled and tweaked, but it comes no less from the heart. If you've read it before, just know that everything still applies ... read it again if you like, or come back another day for my thoughts on other things ...

Today is Mothers' Day, the one day each year we set aside to honor the lady we undervalue the other 364. It's the day we remember the person who made our hurts better, explained our homework, cooked our meals, washed our clothes, drove us where we needed to go, warned us about our less-savory acquaintances, embarrassed us in front of our friends, and did her best to point us down the straight line of a moral and upright life.

Mothers are the wonderful and woefully underappreciated people from whom the Army and the Navy stole their one-time recruiting slogans - the Army's "We do more before 9 AM than most people do all day," and the Navy's "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." With all due respect to Soldiers and Sailors everywhere ... you don't have a clue.

Somewhere in my web surfing I found this little riff on how we look at our Mothers at different ages:

Age 4: Mommy can do anything!
Age 8: Mom knows a lot!
Age 12: Mother doesn't know everything.
Age 14: Mother doesn't know anything.
Age 16: Mother is so old-fashioned.
Age 18: Her? She's out of it.
Age 25: Mom might know something about that.
Age 35: Before we decide, let's ask Mom.
Age 45: What would Mom have thought about that?
Age 65: I wish I could talk that over with Mom.

It's true.

My mother passed away seventeen years ago at the far-too-young age of 74. She spent a long and honorable life raising four children who, I like to think, made her proud ... most of the time, anyway. And in her twilight years, her once-formidable mind ravaged by Alzheimer's Disease, she missed much of the result of her love and care and sacrifice - a son who can dance (and who may yet write that book she thought he had in him, instead of a blog), a small army of grandchildren, and six beautiful great-grandchildren who will never know her love and wisdom and the off-the-wall sense of humor* that brightened the lives of everyone who knew her.

The next generation of mothers is moving the family forward. Between them, my beloved daughters Yasmin and Tabitha** are raising the world's six greatest grandchildren (Marcy, Joe, Noah, Leya, Elise, and Ava). And someday those wonderful grandchildren will sit down on Mothers' Day and reflect - just as their grandpa does today - on the lady who gave up so much of her own life and dreams to make them who they are.

And so again this year, I wish my own Agnes, Yasmin and Tabitha, my sister Lisa and sisters-in-law Laura and Brenda, fellow bloggers Amanda and Fiona, my dear friends Kathy and Lioudmila, and all the other mothers out there doing the world's toughest job, a very happy Mothers' Day and many more to come. We couldn't be what we are, or do what we do, without you.

And lest you think I'm getting too maudlin about the whole thing, here's a picture from long ago of my Dad with four then and future moms: my daughter Yasmin, my sister Lisa, Agnes, and my mother ...

We're an odd family, but somehow we've turned out more-or-less all right. Good parents will do that to you.

Oh, and in case you haven't seen it, here's The Mom Song, set to the tune of The William Tell Overture ...

Bilbo

* Every time you groan at one of my puns, you should be grateful that you never had to go down in flames in a pun war with Mom.

** I don’t think of Tabitha as an “in-law.”

I saw an interesting comment on Twitter recently ...

If you check your calendar or newspaper daily almanac, you'll notice that there's a day, week, or month that's been designated to honor or call attention to almost everything you can imagine. Earlier this month we had Presidents' Day. February is Black History Month. This week is both Telecommuter Appreciation Week (celebrated each year during the week which includes Alexander Graham Bell's birthday, March 3rd) and National Eating Disorders Awareness Week.

And today, February 27th, is National Asshole Awareness Day.

Today is February 14th - Valentines Day.

It's a day for children to exchange kitschy valentines, men to obsess over the proper gift for their ladies, and women to guilt their men into delivering the proper gifts.

But we are living now in Donald Trump's America, where you'd best believe in that old-time religion*, and the old rules of Valentine love and lust no longer necessarily apply. Here's a collection of puritanical Valentines from CollegeHumor suitable for today's most conservative believers ...

Today is Christmas Day, the day on which Christians around the world celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, whose lessons and example many of them find great in theory but decline to follow in practice. Beyond the Christian world, it is a season for general good cheer, the exchange of gifts, and a month of uplifting and sentimental television shows which temporarily offset the sex, violence, and cynicism of the rest of the year.

We’ve long bemoaned the commercialization of Christmas, in which the purchase and exchange of gifts has replaced thoughtful contemplation and love of family. But now, Christmas has been politicized as well. Conservative shouting heads complain about a “war on Christmas,” and both Christians and non-Christians complain about discrimination because they don’t want to have to be exposed to religious ideas and traditions which are not their own. Angry idiots object to hearing a generic “Happy Holidays” or "Season's Greetings" instead of "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," "Happy Solstice," "Happy Kwanzaa," "Happy Festivus," or other seasonal holiday of choice. Nuisance lawsuits force towns and cities to remove nativity displays from public places. Scrooge lives on.

The traditional Christmas story that most of us recognize is told in the Bible in the second chapter of the gospel of Matthew:

2:8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 
2:9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. 
2:10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
2:11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. 
2:12 And this shall be a sign unto you; You shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. 
2:13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 
2:14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Whatever happened to the part about “peace on earth and goodwill toward men*?” It seems to have been replaced by “peace on earth, goodwill only to those who agree with me, and the rest of you can go to Hell.” It’s been replaced by rigid intolerance and stiff-necked self-righteousness that belie both the spirit of the season and the values and teachings of the person whose birth is being celebrated.

Nevertheless, for those willing to put aside their cultural tunnel vision and their petty carping and hatreds, the Christmas season offers a time for joy and renewal, regardless of the religious tradition they profess to follow. It’s a season in which persons of goodwill can come together and treat each other like real human beings rather than like despised “others” … if, of course, they’re willing to bend enough to do so.

And it is, above all, a season for children, who have not yet been spoiled by the cynicism and hatred they’ll learn all too soon. The look on a child’s face on Christmas morning is a wonderful thing, and it reminds us that there is still joy to be found in life, if only we can get past the greed, selfishness, and political chicanery.

And so, Dear Readers, Agnes and I and our extended family wish all of you a very joyous Christmas and a safe, happy, and healthy new year. Blog on!

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* Okay, “persons.” Don’t get your holiday knickers in a twist.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I've been writing this blog for more than 11 years, and some of you - masochists that you are - have been reading it for almost all of that time. You've learned many things about me over the years, one of which is that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. In a crazy world in which we too often focus on fear and negativity*, and on the material things in life, it's good to have a day on which to sit back and reflect on the things for which we can be truly thankful.

We’re living in a time when it’s easy to be distracted from things to be thankful for, because there is so much going on that is awful. For me, this year the awful things included:

A presidential administration and its unquestioning partisan supporters that has ruined America's standing in the world, coarsened our political discourse, and undermined the health, safety, and financial security of the great majority of the American people;

The horror of realizing that, for many Americans, the murder of children is an acceptable price to pay for the protection of the right to own and carry firearms; and

A profound undermining of my faith in the essential fairness and justice of our legal system and those who serve and administer it.

On the whole, though, it’s been a pretty good year. Although there have been negatives, I have to consider myself a lucky man, for a lot of reasons … such as:

The love of a beautiful and endlessly talented wife;

Three loving and successful children of whom I am proud beyond all measure;



A comfortable retirement**;

A roof over my head***;

Good health^†;

Good friends;

The good fortune to be able to live in the United States of America - a country which, for all its faults, gives me the opportunity to enjoy all of the above;

The ability to write what I wish in this space without worrying about government censorship^††; and,

The ability to enjoy the good things of the world that would be denied by those whose harsh and intolerant worship of a jealous and angry God ignores the beauty and possibilities of the present in favor of rigid belief in an imagined paradise in an unknowable future.

I have many things to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day, and it's only proper that I should take a few minutes to acknowledge that I am, as ever, most richly blessed.

I wish all of you, Dear Readers, the very happiest and safest of holidays.

Have a good day. Give thanks for the good things you have and the bad things you don't. And stay out of the stores tomorrow ... you'll thank me.

More thoughts tomorrow, along with a new batch of Great Moments in Editing and Signage.

Bilbo

* Yes, Mr Trump and the GOP, I'm talking to you.

** So far, anyhow ... we'll see how it looks after Congress gets done wrecking our health care and undermining the tax code for the average American.

*** As long as we keep up the payments.

^† Until the GOP guts Medicare, anyway.

^†† Yet. Given this administration's attitude toward the First Amendment, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

One of the most difficult things about planning the Thanksgiving dinner is not what to serve, but where to seat the guests.

You know what I'm talking about ... we all go through the exercise every year of figuring out where to seat each person based on an assessment of table manners, conversational abilities, political affiliation, familial responsibilities, and so on. It's especially dicey this year, when many families and friends are hopelessly divided by seemingly-irreconcilable political differences. Kings, Queens, and presidents have entire staffs dedicated to the issue of protocol and ensuring that everyone is properly seated and arranged ... we have to navigate the shoals of propriety and peacekeeping on our own.

Fortunately, a few years back I ran across this chart that I'll share with you as a way of helping you survive the holiday ...

Today (tonight, actually) is Halloween, the day when when evil, bloodsucking creatures swoop down on their unsuspecting prey, and legions of the undead lurch blindly around in search of brains.

But enough about the IRS and Congress.

My friend Mary is always a good source of interesting linguistic items, and she came through the other day with this word she spotted in a pub in Dublin, Ireland: samhainophobia - "a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of Halloween, despite conscious understanding by the phobic individual and reassurance by others that there is no danger."

The origin of the word traces back to the Celtic word Samhuin which, in turn, is derived from two Old Irish words: sam, meaning "summer", and fuin, meaning "end." Christians refer to Samhain as All Hallows Eve, although the feast of Samhuin predates the introduction of Christianity to Ireland, by at about 4000 years.

So, if you're afraid of Halloween in general, rather than of zombies, vampires, ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, or Republicans specifically, you suffer from samhainophobia.

Take two wolfsbane tablets, wear a garlic necklace, stock up on stakes and silver bullets, and call me in the morning.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

Happy Fourth of July!

Agnes and I are on the way home from a whirlwind visit to Pittsburgh to see our son, daughter(-in-law), four of our six grandchildren, and my sister and her family. It seems wrong to have to drive home on the actual holiday, but when you have to face the staggering amount of holiday traffic between Pittsburgh and NoVa, you do what you have to do in the vain hopes of maybe - just maybe - beating some of the rush. Keep your fingers crossed.

In the meantime, here's your thought for the holiday ...

If you were looking for Poetry Sunday, don’t despair – because today is Father's Day and I have my traditional (and slightly updated) tribute to fathers today, you won't get your poetry fix this week. My granddaughter thinks Poetry Sunday is lame, anyhow, so I guess at least one of you won't be disappointed.

Today is Fathers’ Day, the day we honor the man who contributed half of our chromosomes and many of the life lessons that shaped us into who we are.

Fathers don’t get the same degree of respect that mothers do. They work in design, rather than production, after all, and don’t earn the credit that mothers do for going through nine months of pregnancy followed by months of sleepless nights and years of worry. And truth be told, many fathers don’t earn that respect. For all too many men, fatherhood is an unfortunate side effect of good sex, and a child is an impediment to the enjoyment of life. For many men, fathering a lot of children by a lot of women is the imagined sign of a manly stud ... not of lives betrayed by a thoughtless ass who thinks with his man parts* instead of his brain and heart.

Luckily, though, there are many good men out there trying their best to be good fathers. It’s not an easy job, and not everyone is good at it** ... but fortunately, enough do.

I have often reflected back on the course of my life, and I've come to the conclusion I’ve been a better grandfather than I was a father. This is probably normal. You’ve seen more of life, and had more experiences – good and bad – to share. If you’re the grandfather, you get to be the gentle, wise, let-‘em-do-what-they-want fellow the children love to see, rather than the grouchy, tired father who has to put bread on the table, crack the whip, and enforce the discipline. You get all the joy of holding and loving the children with none of the negatives ... when the baby needs changing, for instance, there's none of that messy fuss - you just give her back to her mother. What's not to like?

I think that, from the father's perspective, we have our children too early in life. We're still learning how to be adults, and all of a sudden we're fathers, responsible for teaching our children all the lessons of life that we haven't even learned yet. Our children grow up as much in spite of our mistakes as because of our excellence in parenting.

When you get to be a father, you look at your own father differently. It was Mark Twain who supposedly once said, "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

It's true.

A good father, as I came in time to understand, is a gift beyond all price. The gold standard for fatherhood is, of course, my own father. He fought the Nazis*** in the skies over World War II Europe, ran his own business, raised four children and buried one, and cared for mom through the long years of misery as Alzheimer's gradually destroyed the mind of the dynamic and witty woman he loved. Dad left us two years ago, and I no longer get to hear his jokes and stories and learn the lessons he still had to teach, yet he remains the man to whom I owe whatever shreds of honor, decency, and ... well ... manhood that I can claim.

This was the man who battled for our freedom in 1944 ...


And here he is at the Mount Vernon Wine Festival in 2002, surrounded by admiring ladies (from left to right: our friends Susan and Nadja, our daughter Yasmin, and Agnes) ...

Here he is with my brother Mark and I, on the occasion of Mark's retirement from the Navy (our brother Paul served in the Army, but wasn't able to be there) ...

And here he is in December of 2013 at his 90th birthday party in Pittsburgh, surrounded by the friends and family members who came out to honor him in spite of some really ghastly winter weather ...

I'd like to think I made him satisfied, if not proud.

If you’d like to know more about the life of this wonderful man, you can read my remembrance here.

It's politically correct (bordering on mandatory) nowadays to say that a child can grow up just fine in a household with same-sex "parents," but you'll never be able to convince me that it's the same as being raised by a father and a mother who love each other, treat each other with dignity and respect, set a good example, teach their gender-specific life lessons, and subordinate their own dreams and desires to the momentous task of raising a brand new human being.

Have a good day. Honor your father. And if you're a father, be a good one ... preferably a better one than I was. Your children ... and indeed, the future ... are depending on you.

More thoughts later.

Bilbo

*  As Missandei would say. If you're into "Game of Thrones," you'll get it.

** As I have had the sad occasion to learn.

*** The real ones, the ones that murdered millions of innocent people and destroyed most of Europe, not the imaginary ones to which stupid people in this country compare their political opponents.