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Dane Allred examines the "Abundance" of the universe in his list of "1001 Thanks"
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Saturday Feb 20, 2010
Saturday Feb 20, 2010
Practicing Patience
This last week I had to be patient, and I’m not really the most patient person in the world. I like to be doing things, and it’s hard for me to just sit and wait. I spent about 36 hours over 3 days just sitting and waiting. I used the time to write some of these episodes, and edit some past programs, but mostly it was just sitting around. That’s one of the great things about teaching. If I’m not talking to the class, I could be walking around the class checking on how the students are doing. There are always papers to score and record, and getting ready for my next class is always lots of work. I need to admit I am a very bad student. I can’t really sit for extended periods of time, especially if I’m supposed to be listening to someone else. I can usually keep myself busy if I need to, but sitting around isn’t my favorite. I do quite a bit of acting in movies and commercials, and those two activities take lots of patience. The shooting day is 12 hours long, and you are required to stay in the immediate area. For some commercials I’ve done, I’ve waiting 10 hours to do a 30 second piece, and then had to wait around for a couple more hours. The longest television shoot I’ve been to lasted 18 hours. I didn’t really do anything that day for the first 12 hours. Camera work of any kind seems to take forever. The camera is set up, and the set is dressed. The lights are focused and adjusted, then adjusted some more. Stand-ins get to have the cameras focused on them so the real actors can keep studying their lines, and then the lights are adjusted some more. This is all for one shot, or one particular view of the scene, and for reverse shots, reaction shots and establishing shots, just repeat all of this over and over all day long. One of my favorite phrases to hear after working on a scene for what seems forever is “moving on”. That means the next scene is about to be set up. For actors that means go sit somewhere for an hour and we’ll call you when we’re ready. I’ve been in about 20 movies and probably 30 commercials. The good news about shooting with video or film is the day usually ends, and you don’t have to keep doing the same thing day after day. I’ve also been in about 60 stage productions, which means as an actor you get to go to rehearsal day after day and do the same thing over and over again. Since I’m not a full-time professional stage actor, most of my rehearsals take place at night after a long day at work. My least favorite patience inducing necessity in stage productions is blocking, which means, “You stand here and move here.” Then after everyone knows where they are going to stand and where they are going to move, you get to rehearse it a few times. Rehearsals then continue two, three or four times a week for a month, or two, or three. If it’s a musical, I get to torture the music director as they try to figure out how to get me to sing the right notes. Then you rehearse the songs a bunch, too. We won’t talk about how frustrating I am to choreographers. At the end the process is to make a bunch of people dancing and singing on the stage look like everything is happening quite spontaneously. In the end, it is a rewarding process since when the show starts it’s fun to perform. Of course in most shows you can’t always be on stage, so there are times when you have to be patient and wait for the next part. I’ve tried to think of a show where I have had to be the most patient. It was probably when I was playing a corpse in “The Devil and Daniel Webster”. We were the dead jury who had to listen to a trial about Jabez Stone. Daniel Webster was defending him against the devil, and we had to stand and listen to the trial for 30 minutes. I was standing on a ladder the whole time and my insteps really hurt by the end of the trial. I patiently waited for 30 minutes to say “guilty” and then exit the stage and pull the rubber pieces off my face. I was glad we only had to perform three or four times. All of this practicing patience has made me more patient. But I still have a ways to go. But as Benjamin Franklin said, “He that can have patience can have what he will.” Got patience?
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Tuesday Feb 16, 2010
Tuesday Feb 16, 2010
Junk Food Junkie
I love food. My wife doesn’t really get how much I like being able to buy any kind of food I want and eat it anytime I want. She always tells me I should spend the money on clothes or knick-knacks. But that is where she gets her satisfaction, from being able to afford nice clothes and other things she wants. I just like to eat.I’m not sure why I like buying food so much. It must be the consumer in me. I really don’t like to fix my own food and eat it. It would make a lot more sense to make my own food because then I could eat even more food.
But there is only so much food one person can eat, and I’m not sure why I like prepared food better. I think it must just be junk food that I like the best. When I was small, I loved to go to the convenience store and buy candy and pop. I finagled for every penny I could get; cashing pop bottles, selling off stuff I didn’t want any more to neighborhood kids, and even charging them to look through my telescope. My favorite part of the week was when I had enough to go buy something and eat it.
I could have saved up money and bought something to keep, but I just love to buy something and eat it. I think it makes me feel rich. If I can spend money on something like junk food, I must be rich.
There really are only three or four categories of junk food I really crave. I think I could eat potato chips every meal if my health would allow it. A real treat for me is a bag of Lay’s Potato Chips – the real ones, not the baked ones. The greasier my fingers get the better I feel. The saltier my mouth gets the more I like it. Once my face is puckered up from the salty greasiness, I really like to chase those lovely chips down with some kind of carbonated drink, especially Pepsi, or ideally Wild Cherry Pepsi. I used to drink the diet stuff, but now I’m back on full sugar dosage at every drink. It really doesn’t seem to make a difference in my weight, and the great satisfaction that sugar rush gives me is really worth more than I pay. But don’t tell the companies.
I think there really is a plan behind the management of my junk food eating habits. I even read a book decades ago which predicted just this kind of corporate manipulation of my tastes. The title of the book I can’t even remember, but I do remember the pattern the book talked about. Get the customer to eat something salty, then something sugary, and then something salty again. Sounds like my daily routine, doesn’t it.
I really don’t believe there is a conspiracy out there to get me to each chips and drink pop, but I there is, it is certainly working. I don’t mind admitting I’m a willing participant, and I really don’t think I’ll be changing my snacking habits any time soon. But I have cut back and I think the real reason I like fast food and junk food is not just that it easy and available, but I think I use these tasty treats as a reward for myself.
These little rewards are a strange thing. They really don’t amount to much, but I have found if I do those things I know I need to do each day, and then reward myself with a little treat, I feel better. Then I want to do more of those things I know I need to do, and another little reward greases the wheel again. It’s an automatic feedback loop which has worked very well for me, and I don’t plan to change the way I get things done anytime soon.
The simple things in life seem to me to be some of the most satisfying. Seeing a sunrise or a sunset, accomplishing the little things that need to get done so the big things also get done, and rewarding that good behavior with a bag of chips might seem like a simplistic approach to life. But I like it and encourage you to do the same. Looking to the future, I can see a happy group of over-achievers eagerly munching junk food as the progress of the world is measured in chips and pop. It seems like a simple solution to encourage all of us to do that little bit more which makes all the difference in the world. We may be a bag of potato chips and a soft drink away from solving your most important problem. Long live junk food!!
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Monday Feb 15, 2010
Monday Feb 15, 2010
THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?
by Frank R. Stockton
In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but, whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places. Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured. But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance. When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena, a structure which well deserved its name, for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism. When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the inclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of *the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate. But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select among his fair subjects, and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection; the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home. This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady; he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments of the king's arena. The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan, for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands? This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of the king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were in no slight degree novel and startling. The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else, thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess. The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity. All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there! As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king, but he did not think at all of that royal personage. His eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature it is probable that lady would not have been there, but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done,--she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess. And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived, and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door. When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed. Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: "Which?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another. Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena. He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it. Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady ? The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him? How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger! But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned! Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity? And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood! Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right. The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door,--the lady, or the tiger?LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Monday Feb 15, 2010
Monday Feb 15, 2010
In Love With Being Alive
I love life. There really is nothing like experiencing a perfect day, hour or minute. I know life can’t be bliss every moment, but it really is worth those times we get to feel that all is right with ourselves, the world, and the universe.
There are some that stand out in my mind as I contemplate the times I really felt at one with the universe. The birth of my daughters are moments I will never forget, and welcoming them into this world was extraordinary. Running a marathon may seem like a strange way to experience the bliss of the universe, but it really is an amazing experience. Walking up a mountain and admiring the beauty of nature is another way. When the day is not going so well, it may be time to reflect back on the best of times.
Having daughters may be much easier than having sons, but there’s a tremendous amount of worry that comes with female offspring. Maybe because fathers were once young men, and they are familiar with the thought patterns and habits of the boys in the world. Let’s just say it’s not all purity and light. Now that my daughters are in their twenties, I feel much more comfortable with their ability to deal with the world. Sadly, they seem to grow up way too fast, and while we try to enjoy them while they are growing up, it all happens much too fast. We don’t really seem to understand they won’t stay young forever. But that doesn’t stop us from reflecting back and remembering how sweet it is to see your children mature into adulthood.
Running three marathons may seem a strange way to celebrate the bounty of the universe, but after 26.2 grueling miles, your mind has overcome the complaints of your body and you are sure you can do anything you try to do. It is a life affirming action, and the number of people who are participating in marathons grew 11 percent last year. The finishing time for runners is slower, which show an expansion in the sport for those running for the experience, and not necessarily to win the race. They want to see what they are made of, if they can accomplish something most other people consider crazy. Over a million people finished marathons last year, and the other road races showed growth as well. The average number of people finishing each race was over 4000 people.
Think about that number. Here are 4000 people all trying to do the same thing. They encourage each other as they run along, and the support staff all along the way cheer them on, too. It really is like a giant party celebrating just what the human body can accomplish. When it’s your body which has run 26.2 miles, it can be quite a celebration indeed.
But I really love what I experience when I am in nature. It could be just digging in the dirt in my yard and planting another seedling, hoping it will grow and flourish. I was even insane enough one summer to actually climb the mountain behind my house instead of just looking at it and wondering what it was really like up there. I didn’t use the right shoes; I didn’t train correctly for it; it didn’t take enough water with me; so it’s amazing I survived to tell the story. But on the way up the mountain I found a penny left by someone else two-thirds of the way to the top. I walked by a swarm of bumblebees, who weren’t afraid of me, so I wasn’t afraid of them, and they walked on my hands and arm, then flew away. I saw a field full of wild flowers and was probably the only person that summer to walk through them. At the top of the mountain, six thousand feet from where I started; I saw the massive trees which looked like twigs from the valley floor. They had been burned, or had become diseased, and had died.
But here they were at the top of the mountain, defying gravity and age to pull them down. When I look at them from the valley now, I know I’m not looking at small sticks on a peak. I’ve stood next to them and wondered just what they had seen happening down in the valley floor as we inhabited and once barren desert valley and made it bloom.
Perhaps lightning had struck these mighty giants. But they still stand today as a witness of the incredible grandeur of what this world really is. If we can only look up from our daily trudge, we might be able to see the splendor of the universe, and our place in it.
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Monday Feb 15, 2010
Monday Feb 15, 2010
Love is Green
Love is a strange word. When we think of the things we love, usually family is first on our list. Some people are easy to love, while some others make it difficult for anyone to love them. But when I started thinking about things I love, after my family, I think I would have to say I love tinkering.I would have to say I get my love of tinkering from my father. I didn’t think we had much in common until someone reminded me I didn’t fall far from the tinkering tree. It’s true we both have cut trees in the forest, and I do like gardening while he prefers ranching, but when it comes to tinkering, I admit I may have the same bug. We are both bargain hunters, too.
Two stories will illustrate what I mean. First, and I love to tell this story, my father once found a great deal on a couple of pontoons. For the uninitiated, pontoon boats have these floating devices that hold the boat up. Dad got pretty excited since he is handy and creative, so he decided to build a house boat. When he was finished, it was very nice, with a bathroom, kitchen, and places to fish both fore and aft. The great part about his ambition with this boat happens when it finally meets water.
Dad had over-estimated the weight the pontoons could float, and the boat didn’t even make it out of the trailer. He could see there was a problem, and the way to fix it was to get bigger pontoons. Now, remember, the reason for the boat was the good deal on the pontoons. So he had to buy bigger ones and the boat turned out fine.
What to do with the smaller pontoons? Only one thing, of course. Build another, smaller pontoon boat, which also worked fine.
So I made the connection when one of my friends pointed out my proclivity for tinkering. One of my favorite projects involved the windows we had replaced for our house. One of the employees of the window company asked me if I wanted the old windows hauled away. If you listen closely to questions like these, the natural reaction is to say “sure”. But you should always try to find out the real answer to the question. I asked the guy, “How much to haul them away?” He said, “A hundred bucks.” I said, “Leave them.” I knew I could find something to use them for, and I had a vague idea floating around in the back of my brain.
I have always wanted a greenhouse. If you’ve ever priced them, you would know they tend to be very expensive. Now I had windows, and they were nice double pane windows which were still in good shape. So my tinkering mind began to plan, and after looking at some designs on the internet, I decided to design a greenhouse around the windows. That meant measuring, calculating, and trying to decide just how big a greenhouse I could build. I had to decide if I wanted it tall enough to stand inside, and if I had enough glass to make it work.
Designing around existing pieces of glass isn’t much different than building a boat from the pontoons up. I decided on the shape I wanted it to be, and after making some pretty detailed plans, I began to build. I have never built a greenhouse before, and as the sides began to rise, I wondered how to make it all stand up so I could screw it together.
There probably are easier ways to build a greenhouse, and anyone watching must have wondered what I thought I was doing. There was one point I didn’t know if it would work, but with about a hundred dollars worth of lumber, mostly two by fours, I had a perfectly serviceable greenhouse.
It’s not the most appealing looking thing in the world, but it works. It does need a little bit of heat assistance in the winter, but it stays 51 degrees even in the coldest winter day. I installed a little adjustable wooden window which opens and closes if it gets too hot. It’s controlled by a little metal lever which is heat activated.
I’ve grown flowers for the spring, banana plants, tangerine and lemon trees in the greenhouse. I usually start some of the plants for the garden in the cold of winter, and I’ve even sold some of them on EBay.
Love is a strange thing. I love to stand surrounded by flowers and green plants in the middle of January with snow and ice all around the greenhouse I tinkered with until it was done.
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Wednesday Feb 10, 2010
Wednesday Feb 10, 2010
The Reformation
Nothing so needs reforming as other peoples habits. Mark Twain One of the great things about a routine is it does predict what will happen during the week. Working is a great way to get into the habit of doing some of the same things everyday. Get to work, get going, go to lunch, finish up, go home. We even end up doing some of the same things every night. Changing what we do is often very hard. Once we are in the grips of habit, it is very hard not to stop and have the giant soda every morning. We get to know the people at the store, get used to the drive, and find ourselves in the same place every day. When I was a junior in high school, I used to have the same lunch every day, even though it wasn’t very healthy. If you have had a Suzy Q, a delicious Hostess product, you know the whipped cream center surrounded by devil’s food cake is not the best daily lunch. Chase that sugary goodness with a little Fanta Orange soda, and you have the preferred lunch of my 11th grade year. I can even see myself sitting on the steps of the old Jordan High School at about the same time every day. Routine is good for us if we want to earn a living. When we are working for others, showing up on time and leaving at the appropriate time are considered good behaviors. Completing our work is usually a good indication we will keep the job, and routine can help us get things done. I find I get the most done early in the morning, but that might be because my job allows time to prepare in the morning. I do most of my teaching later in the morning and in the afternoon. I also teach some evenings, so if I get prepared for the day early, most of the rest of the day goes well. I hate when I don’t have time to get ready, and luckily, that happens less and less the longer I work. But it doesn’t take much to upset a schedule. There could be an accident delaying traffic on the way to work, or there could be extra errands. With recent construction on our roads, I have had some interesting delays. One of the changes was a left turn to go south. The light was adjusted to let the freeway traffic have the right of way most of the time, since that was the only freeway entrance into our fair city. So every morning for a year, almost without fail, I got to wait about a minute and a half at that light waiting to go south. I reformed my ways and decided to use the time better. Instead of getting impatient and wondering why I had to sit and wait, I decided to use the time to clean the garbage which is always accumulating in my car. Now that the road is finished, I almost miss the chance everyday to clean the car. Going to work a different way has also helped me save a little time now, so I can use those extra minutes to be better prepared for the day. Sometimes we have to reform our ways because we want to keep living. When the doctor tells me to stop using so much salt, I guess I better listen if I want to stay around. When I’m told to stop eating broccoli and spinach, I guess can I stop that, too. I really do like broccoli and spinach, but I don’t want any more kidney stones. I’ll bet I probably will get another kidney stone, but it won’t be from the oxalates in those vegetables. Some reform is fun. Deciding to do something new because we want to is a good reward for all the other stuff we may have to do we don’t like. During the last year, I’ve learned some new things about the computer, and about a few computer programs. That’s been fun for me because it isn’t what I do every day. But if you are a computer entry person and have to be on the computer every day, I probably wouldn’t like it. I’ve learned how to do some things I didn’t know I would need to know. In the past 10 years I’ve learned to blog, podcast, and text. I’ve learned to use a computer in ways I never imagined. I guess it hasn’t hurt me any, but it does make me wonder what kinds of things I’ll have to learn next. I hope it’s easier than texting. I’m still pretty bad at that. Let’s hope it’s not too technical or complicated. I just hope I understand it.LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Tuesday Feb 09, 2010
Tuesday Feb 09, 2010
The Cop And The Anthem by O Henry On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand. A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready. Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench. The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable. For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs. Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest. Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm. Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge. But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard. Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of. At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons. "Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly. "Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune. The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful. On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers. "Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting." "No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!" Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street. Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanor leaned against a water plug. It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle. Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said: "Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?" The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve. “Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching." With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty. At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct." On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin. The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen. "'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to leave them be." Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind. In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily. "My umbrella," he said, sternly. "Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner." The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously. "Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how these mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me--I picked it up this morning in a restaurant--If you recognize it as yours, why--I hope you'll--" "Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously. The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away. Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong. At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench. But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence. The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves--for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars. The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence. And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. Tomorrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him tomorrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would-- Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman. "What are you doin' here?" asked the officer. "Nothin'," said Soapy. "Then come along," said the policeman. "Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.
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Wednesday Feb 03, 2010
Wednesday Feb 03, 2010
A Little Too Much Honesty
I believe in being honest. I recently asked one of my classes if they took the spare change from vending machines. They are poor college students, so most of them said “Yes”. I told them it wasn’t their money, but one student insisted it was like finding money on the street. I assured them when I was a starving student, I, too, used to take the money left by someone else in a vending machine. It was found money. But now, I usually leave the change for someone who really needs it.
I’ve also asked students why they hate Abraham Lincoln. They look at me and wonder why I am saying such a strange thing. I tell them in the building where I work, enough students leave pennies lying around for the custodians to pick up that they can usually have a pizza party at the end of the year. The custodians tell me they pick up sixty or seventy dollars in a year. I tell the students it just shows a rampant disrespect for our sixteenth president to just leave him lying around like that. I tell them people in the future will wonder why we hated pennies so much.
I also asked the students if we could be too honest. One guy reminded me we don’t want to answer one question in particular too honestly. Guys know what question I’m talking about. If a woman ever asks you “Does this dress, these pants, this skirt, this Mumu, make me look fat?” There is no correct answer, but it does make me laugh when I think of Chris Farley’s response from “Tommy Boy”. You can never say it out loud to anyone, but he is immortalized on film saying, “No, your face makes you look fat”, or something like that. Honesty is a relative quality, and the closer the relative, the more dishonest you may have to be.
Really, though, honesty is overrated most of the time. No one wants you to be honest with them, and most times, you are asked to lie for someone else. Tell me you didn’t tell the boss his last idea was great when you really thought it was inane.
I’ve lied and taken the blame for someone else’s poor driving and denting of a van. I’ve lied about my weight, but it’s not what you think. I weigh about 180 now, but all during high school I was probably about 130 or 135. But there is no way I would have admitted that to anyone. I think I put 140 on my license just in case someone checked. So when I got fat in my late twenties, no one was happier than me. It may sound strange to be glad to carry around extra weight, but I am so much happier being fat than skinny.
Most of us aren’t really comfortable in our skin. We have a perfect image we really want to be, and almost no one is ever happy with how they are right now. When we ask others, they try to assure us we look fine, our lives are fine, and that we should be happy with our lives. But there always seems to be someone else happier, skinnier, richer, or whatever than we are. It’s a sad way to live, and while we wish our lives away, we are really being dishonest with ourselves.
Can I just be happy with this day, with this body, with this spouse, with this job, with this life? There are really only two choices. Happy, unhappy. Most of us choose to spend our days, weeks and years yearning for something we will probably never see. My wife gave me a great compliment the other day, and I don’t think she realized she did. She said to me, “But you don’t care what other people think about you.” She may be right. I think there is a small part of me which vainly wishes praise, but it is dominated by the comfortable part of me which want to wear pajama pants to Walmart. She’s even brave enough to be seen in public with me, since nearly everyone we know is aware she has to put up with me.
Maybe I’m just a little too honest. I should probably care more about how I look, but when I pointed out to some of my colleagues I had the hanger wrinkle on my dress pants. This particular woman was incredulous. She couldn’t believe I didn’t use special hangers for pants. They are even called pants hangers. I don’t use those for pants. Well, I do hang my pajama pants with them. That is my wife hangs them up for me. If it was my choice, I would probably just fold them up. Honestly.
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Wednesday Feb 03, 2010
Wednesday Feb 03, 2010
Value Meal You know I claim I don’t like to complain, but it does seem that’s mostly what I do. Since I’m trying to be honest today, I think I should honestly say I don’t like to complain. But today I will. I probably will tomorrow, too. I really do try to be honest, and I want others to be honest with me too. I think I have two examples which are bothering me today, so let’s get down to brass tacks, which I think means, getting to the heart of the business. Brass tacks must be used underneath the fabric, and where people can see, the upholsterers must use some other kind of tack. Anyway, I was really excited to have an Arby’s French Dip sandwich on the way to teach one of my night classes. I usually leave the high school with plenty of time to get something to eat before my college classes at 5:00, and I was cutting it pretty close. The French Dip, for those who are unfamiliar with one of the most delicious sandwiches ever invented, is roast beef on a stale bun. This must have been popular back when bread didn’t have all the preservatives, but the reason you don’t mind having a stale bun is because you dip the whole thing in au jus. Perhaps another explanation is necessary here if you don’t know what au jus is. The Encarta dictionary, which pops up on demand in my word processing program, tells us that it means “in it’s own juice”. I think it is French. In other words, meat juice served with meat. I would have guessed it was salty water dyed brown, but even if it is just brown salty water, it is also delicious. You dip the sandwich, soak up the salty goodness of au jus, and “Voila”, which is also French for “there you are!”, the formerly stale bun is now a sop, which means “food dipped in liquid”. I love the Encarta feature – who cares if it is right? Does this mean a donut dipped in coffee is also a sop? I think by now you understand my attraction to the French Dip sandwich has more to do with the au jus than the sandwich. Which is why I was not too pleased when I opened my order, after driving 10 miles to where I could eat a sopping sandwich, and found out there was no au jus. I know it is probably an honest mistake, but that’s what we are discussing today, isn’t it? An honest mistake is one not necessarily made on purpose, but still upsetting nonetheless. I was too far away to go back and get the delicious accompaniment to my now mostly just roast beef and stale bun sandwich, so I suffered in silence, and really, can I take offense if someone forgot to give me my au jus? I just love saying that phrase. Now let’s move to another “honest mistake”, which I think cost me one hundred dollars today. My daughter drives the Jeep, and the starter quit working, so I paid five hundred dollars yesterday to get it fixed. No complaints yet, since this is about typical for that car ever so often. I understand cars don’t last forever, and I do want mechanics to be there when I need them, so sometimes I may have to be the one making sure they stay in business. Maybe next week it will be you. So my daughter gets in the Jeep this morning, and since it was below freezing this morning, she turned on the rear defroster. Again, the car won’t start. So she calls me while I am in class, so I have to ignore her call and the text, which tells me her car won’t start again. By the time I call her at lunch, she has read my mind and called the shop to tow it back and see what is wrong. So here’s the report I get later in the day. Surprise! The wiring for the starter and the defroster are somehow connected! And it cost me one hundred dollars for the mechanic to find this out. When I called to make the payment over the phone, I asked about having the towing waived. For the uninitiated, if the car doesn’t work and it’s the shops fault, you usually aren’t charged to have the car towed back in. So when I questioned the towing charge, the person in charge waived it much too quickly. I mean it was a wiring problem, not a starter problem, and how could they have predicted they were wired together? Here’s what I think happened. Yank on the starter wires and you might short out the defroster wires. But they still got another hundred dollars from me.
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Wednesday Feb 03, 2010
Wednesday Feb 03, 2010
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THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM FAIRY TALE
By the Brothers Grimm
Once upon a time... There was once a miller who had one beautiful daughter, and as she was grown up, he was anxious that she should be well married and provided for. He said to himself, 'I will give her to the first suitable man who comes and asks for her hand.'
Not long after a suitor appeared, and as he appeared to be very rich and the miller could see nothing in him with which to find fault, he betrothed his daughter to him. But the girl did not care for the man as a girl ought to care for her betrothed husband. She did not feel that she could trust him, and she could not look at him nor think of him without an inward shudder.
One day he said to her, 'You have not yet paid me a visit, although we have been betrothed for some time.' 'I do not know where your house is,' she answered. 'My house is out there in the dark forest,' he said. She tried to excuse herself by saying that she would not be able to find the way thither. Her betrothed only replied, 'You must come and see me next Sunday; I have already invited guests for that day, and that you may not mistake the way, I will strew ashes along the path.'
When Sunday came, and it was time for the girl to start, a feeling of dread came over her which she could not explain, and that she might be able to find her path again, she filled her pockets with peas and lentils to sprinkle on the ground as she went along. On reaching the entrance to the forest she found the path strewed with ashes, and these she followed, throwing down some peas on either side of her at every step she took. She walked the whole day until she came to the deepest, darkest part of the forest.
There she saw a lonely house, looking so grim and mysterious, that it did not please her at all. She stepped inside, but not a soul was to be seen, and a great silence reigned throughout. Suddenly a voice cried: 'Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair, Linger not in this murderers' lair.' The girl looked up and saw that the voice came from a bird hanging in a cage on the wall. Again it cried: 'Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair, Linger not in this murderers' lair.' The girl passed on, going from room to room of the house, but they were all empty, and still she saw no one.
At last she came to the cellar, and there sat a very, very old woman, who could not keep her head from shaking. 'Can you tell me,' asked the girl, 'if my betrothed husband lives here?' 'Ah, you poor child,' answered the old woman, 'what a place for you to come to! This is a murderers' den. You think yourself a promised bride, and that your marriage will soon take place, but it is with death that you will keep your marriage feast. Look, do you see that large cauldron of water which I am obliged to keep on the fire! As soon as they have you in their power they will kill you without mercy, and cook and eat you, for they are eaters of men. If I did not take pity on you and save you, you would be lost.'
Thereupon the old woman led her behind a large cask, which quite hid her from view. 'Keep as still as a mouse,' she said; 'do not move or speak, or it will be all over with you. Tonight, when the robbers are all asleep, we will flee together. I have long been waiting for an opportunity to escape.' The words were hardly out of her mouth when the godless crew returned, dragging another young girl along with them. They were all drunk, and paid no heed to her cries and lamentations. They gave her wine to drink, three glasses full, one of white wine, one of red, and one of yellow, and with that her heart gave way and she died. Then they tore of her dainty clothing, laid her on a table, and cut her beautiful body into pieces, and sprinkled salt upon it.
The poor betrothed girl crouched trembling and shuddering behind the cask, for she saw what a terrible fate had been intended for her by the robbers. One of them now noticed a gold ring still remaining on the little finger of the murdered girl, and as he could not draw it off easily, he took a hatchet and cut off the finger; but the finger sprang into the air, and fell behind the cask into the lap of the girl who was hiding there. The robber took a light and began looking for it, but he could not find it. 'Have you looked behind the large cask?' said one of the others.
But the old woman called out, 'Come and eat your suppers, and let the thing be till tomorrow; the finger won't run away.' 'The old woman is right,' said the robbers, and they ceased looking for the finger and sat down. The old woman then mixed a sleeping draught with their wine, and before long they were all lying on the floor of the cellar, fast asleep and snoring. As soon as the girl was assured of this, she came from behind the cask. She was obliged to step over the bodies of the sleepers, who were lying close together, and every moment she was filled with renewed dread lest she should awaken them. But God helped her, so that she passed safely over them, and then she and the old woman went upstairs, opened the door, and hastened as fast as they could from the murderers' den. They found the ashes scattered by the wind, but the peas and lentils had sprouted, and grown sufficiently above the ground, to guide them in the moonlight along the path.
All night long they walked, and it was morning before they reached the mill. Then the girl told her father all that had happened. The day came that had been fixed for the marriage. The bridegroom arrived and also a large company of guests, for the miller had taken care to invite all his friends and relations. As they sat at the feast, each guest in turn was asked to tell a tale; the bride sat still and did not say a word. 'And you, my love,' said the bridegroom, turning to her, 'is there no tale you know? Tell us something.'
'I will tell you a dream, then,' said the bride. 'I went alone through a forest and came at last to a house; not a soul could I find within, but a bird that was hanging in a cage on the wall cried: 'Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair, Linger not in this murderers' lair.' and again a second time it said these words.' 'My darling, this is only a dream.'
'I went on through the house from room to room, but they were all empty, and everything was so grim and mysterious. At last I went down to the cellar, and there sat a very, very old woman, who could not keep her head still. I asked her if my betrothed lived here, and she answered, "Ah, you poor child, you are come to a murderers' den; your betrothed does indeed live here, but he will kill you without mercy and afterwards cook and eat you."'
'My darling, this is only a dream.'
'The old woman hid me behind a large cask, and scarcely had she done this when the robbers returned home, dragging a young girl along with them. They gave her three kinds of wine to drink, white, red, and yellow, and with that she died.'
'My darling, this is only a dream.'
'Then they tore off her dainty clothing, and cut her beautiful body into pieces and sprinkled salt upon it.' 'My darling, this is only a dream.' 'And one of the robbers saw that there was a gold ring still left on her finger, and as it was difficult to draw off, he took a hatchet and cut off her finger; but the finger sprang into the air and fell behind the great cask into my lap. And here is the finger with the ring.' and with these words the bride drew forth the finger and showed it to the assembled guests.
The bridegroom, who during this recital had grown deadly pale, up and tried to escape, but the guests seized him and held him fast. They delivered him up to justice, and he and all his murderous band were condemned to death for their wicked deeds.
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