Sigh...

Well, I think it's funny...

My tastes in humor are simple and I like it clean and fun.  I don't care much for dirty jokes -- I used to think they were "edgy" but not anymore.  They're just crass.  And I don't care much for the "they're wrong" type of humor, nor does the "did you ever notice..." angle do much for me.
So what kind of humor do I like?
Well, stuff like this from a Fibber McGee & Molly radio show broadcast in 1945 at the end of World War II.
It's of the "deliberate misunderstanding" variety of humor.  Gracie Allen of Burns & Allen was a master of this type of humor, but the most famous example comes from Abbott & Costello.  Their "Who's on first?" bit is the classic of the genre.
Anyway,  this gives me a chuckle (it's about thee minutes long):

Fibber McGee and Molly

Gale Gordon (Mayor LaTrivia)

From a novel I wrote

(•‿•)

Sent to me anonymously...

 

My job kind  of requires me to be like this, although in another field, but definitely a male-dominated one that is all equipment and high-T mental and physical performance, although I am not a participant but an...hmm...advisor, assistant, analyzer...I guess.

Darn Corona-chan!

Mission Accomplished!

Encounter

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld....

~ Longfellow

This is how I dress on my days off when I go out.
Americans take no notice, but Japanese stop and stare.
And I'm really not a Disney person, much preferring Warner Brothers.
Well, okay, I do like Goofy and Donald Duck.  But Bugs Bunny is da bomb, and Daffy Duck knows where it's at.
And I'd like to go for a ride in the Wolf's car.

Another one

I thought I'd make applesauce cake today, so I got out my grandmother's old cookbook, published in 1942 by Good Housekeeping, to look up the recipe.
The book is more than 900 pages and crammed with all sorts of odds and ends placed between its pages -- newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, photographs, letters, bird feathers, four-leaf clovers and flowers -- accumulated through the generations.  Sometimes I look at them, musing at the odd things I discover; other times I ignore them as almost a nuisance.
Today, the item above caught my eye.  It's a remembrance card for my great- or maybe great-great uncle, who was killed in action in France during World War I.
The printed copy lists his date of death as October 1, 1918, but someone has penciled in a 6.  I don't know if that means he was killed on October 6 or October 16.
Kay Tusing is the third of my ancestors that I know of who was killed in action during World War I.  One of the others was killed in September, 1918, I think on the 29th.  The other was killed in April.  He survived the sinking of his troop transport by a German U-Boat in January, 1918, making it ashore to the Isle of Islay in the Irish Sea from which he was rescued and sent on to France where he was killed.





















I don't know the circumstances of Lt. Beach's death, only that he had graduated with a degree in engineering from Stanford, enlisted when America entered the war and was assigned to the 1st Engineering Battalion of the 32nd Infantry.
I know something of Pvt. Kayser's death because his sister Henrietta wrote to his unit commander and asked what happened.  Major Lucius Salisbury, 106th Infantry Sanitary Detachment, 27th Infantry, replied:
"Following over the top with the company, your brother stopped near the Knoll, and, exposed to heavy machine-gun and shell fire, had dressed the wounds of one man and started to dress those of another when a shell exploded and killed all three.  Your brother offered his life for the cause without regard to personal danger...."  There followed some lines of sympathy.
Reading a little bit of history of the war, I found that during the night of September 24 – 25, 1918, the 27th Division relieved the British 18th and 74th Divisions near Ronssoy, France. At 5:30 a.m., September 27, 1918, the 106th Infantry attacked as part of a major frontal assault in what was called the Battle of St. Quentin Canal, its assigned objective the capture of Bois de Malakoff, or as the troops called it, the Knoll.  During that battle, more than 13,000 American doughboys became casualties.  Pvt. Kayser had a lot of company.
Well, Pvt. Tusing, someone remembers you and wonders about your life more than a century after your passing, if that is any comfort to you.  Oh, and the wars continue.  Even the girls serve in combat these days.  Trust me, I know.  Progress!
(I may seem flippant in these comments, but my eyes have tears welling up as I type.  I want to write more about what I feel, but I can't.  I just can't.  Listen to the song.  Oh, and I lost interest in making an applesauce cake.  Maybe tomorrow.)

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.

Shovel them under and let me work—

                                          I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.

Shovel them under and let me work.

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

                                          What place is this?

                                          Where are we now?

                                          I am the grass.

                                          Let me work.

~ Carl Sandburg

"On the Wire," by Harvey Dunn

 

 “I tramped through the country
To get the feeling
That I was not a separate thing from the earth.
I used to lose myself
By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.
Sometimes I talked with animals….”

― Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology

Walking

I like walking more than just about anything. I'll walk anywhere, but I prefer walking in forest and field, hill and dale, seaside and riverside, and, of course, the mountains.
I can walk for hours and never notice the time passing or feel tired, and certainly never bored.
Sometimes people ask me what I think about when I'm walking.  All I can say is everything and nothing.  It depends.  If I have some problem or some issue to work out or resolve, my mind may dwell on that.  Or I may observe where I am passing through and what it is like.  Other times, I think of nothing at all, my mind as empty as a cloud drifting along the sky.
I prefer to walk alone, though I enjoy company when it's available.  I do prefer a silent companion, one who speaks rarely, unless there is something to talk about.  But mostly I prefer silence.
A dog makes the very best companion to walk with, because not only is a dog silent, but he notices things that you would not.  Of course, you need to have a well-trained dog who obeys you and does not rush off chasing wildlife or livestock.
I don't care to meet other people when I walk, and if I do I pass with a "good-day" and little more.  I'm not walking to interact with people but to leave the world of people behind for a while.

 “How did one begin an adventure? Almost any road you took would lead there, if only you went on far enough.” 
~ Barbara Newhall Follett

“The walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, … but it is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day.” 
~ Henry David Thoreau

Pick your heaven

If I had my choice of heavens, I think I'd pick one one where I could just hike as long as I wanted, as far as I wanted to go.  I would want to be physically fit, with good wind and stamina for uphill climbs, but I'd want to naturally get tired and be able to find a cozy spot in the sun and out of the wind to doze off at, waking up hungry to munch on an apple and a bit of cheese, maybe a cracker, and drink some water.  Not much of a meal for heaven?  Well, enough is a good as a feast.

The Ballad of the Sad Cafe

Midnight to lonely midnight, each night until the dawn, the sad set...

I must remember to use words of no more than one syllable

when addressing human beings.

What Man has Wrought

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday

Among the fields above the sea,

Among the winds at play.
~  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Girl talk?

Yeah, well you ought to listen to "guy talk" sometime!
Actually, I like this song.  It's kind of sweet.   And, um, also kind of true.
It's a shame no one would dare write or sing a song like this today.  I guess it's sexist, but so what?   Men and women are different and have not always the most flattering views of each other.  But that doesn't mean they don't like each other; in fact, need each other to be happy and content.  At least I do.

"Women and cats will do as they please,

and men and dogs should relax

and get used to the idea."

~ Robert A. Heinlein

Surfer Girl Credo

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Surfer Girl Credo

I was browsing through some old files I found on a thumb drive and found this from way back when.  Gave me a nostalgic chuckle about who I used to be and what my attitudes once were (not bad, actually).  I was very happy in those days, but, of course, didn't realize it. 

Wanda's Surfer Girl Credo

Even though surfer girls may have a don't-care attitude, they are classy. They relax and take life as it rolls in with the waves.  They are chilled.

*A surfer girl is confident, optimistic and friendly.
*She never takes life too seriously. She's cool and down with it; that means she is open-minded and ready to try new things.
*If someone does something she doesn't agree with, she doesn't start criticizing: let others do what they want, it's none of her concern.
*If someone complains about her, she takes it in stride--you can't please everyone.
*If someone's nasty to her face, she smiles and shrugs. 

“She was hurt to find life made up of so many little things. At first she believed most faithfully that they had a deeper meaning and a coherent larger purpose; but after a while she saw to her dismay that the deeper and larger things were merely shadows cast by the small. So she buried the whole great treasure of winged dreams and iridescent shades under an oak-tree in the farthest corner of her heart, and planted a bush of wild roses over it. A small grave of dreams. Secretly and silently she buried them, a little ashamed, as a burglar might be who had long pursued some gleaming ruby necklace, and, having by infinite stealth and risk obtained it, found that it was red glass.”
― Barbara Newhall Follett