Report From a Big, Fat Battleground State

Dr. Potomac is currently in a big, fat battleground state...I won't be more specific than that. On the authority of almost 24 hours here, I will make the following prediction. BUSH WINS. In almost 20 years of doing this stuff (for both parties, mind you) I have never seen a machine like this. It is kind of like Iraq War II: yes, there's technically an "Iraqi army" but it is up
against the Marine Expeditionary Force, the First Infantry Division and 2000 high-performance jet fighters. The Democratic 527s here are the fedayeen -- irregular forces engaged in guerilla activity. Lawsuits (RPGs), attacks on GOP headquarters, roadside assaults on campaign signs, etc. Harassing actions to slow but not stop.

I don't think they will show much on election day.

And where is President Bush? Minnesota, Michigan, New Jersey. Turns out Kerry's in those places, too. Don't listen to what they say. Watch what they do.

"What is good in life, Conan?"

"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and hear the
lamantations of the women."

All Roads Lead to Glastonbury

Are you as compulsively fascinated by the Episcopalian Druid story as I? Then you must go check out the Midwest Conservative Journal, which is doing a stellar job with this story. It turns out that the rector who posted the woman's ritual is married to a "druid" that happens to also be an...Episcopal priest. Moreover, the husband appears to have been using his church's pastor's discretionary fund as a stopping place for collecting fund to buy a property in Glastonbury, England.

Ah Glastonbury, of course it's involved. I am surprised that the husband is an alum of my college, but I am not at all surprised by the Glastonbury angle.

I am alive and so is Scooter the corgi. When the Red Sox won last night, I let out a yell while looking skyward (a red lunar eclipse seemed appropriate), and the wine started flowing. Well, we had a little champagne first, but it was awful -- got it at a wedding we went to a few years ago, and while still fizzy, tasted nasty. Three glasses of wine until bed at 1.

Called my 99 year old grandmother (turns 100 in December), a long-time Red Sox fan, this morning and chatted about the game. She stayed up past midnight to see it happen, and said she doesn't feel tired today at all. I hope I inherited some of her genes. She was 14 the last time the Red Sox won, but she doesn't remember it. Wearing my Sox hat today and it will remain on my head all day, even while I teach. Life is good.

Read some of these posts from Royal Rooters of Red Sox Nation, about what people did when Boston won:

*Celebrating with friends at their house. A buddy made a poor attempt at hugging me and nearly broke my nose, it still hurts this morning as the alcohol wears off. We went outside howled at the eclipse, and popped the champagne.

*My whole family and I were in the air, jumping and screaming incoherantly. I fell to my knees and couldn't stop grinning and laughing. My Dad was speechless, my grandfather called to make sure we were still alive.

*Screaming with 9 or 10 of my buddies, spraying each other down with Miller Lite because the bottles of champagne we bought were screw top and not corked. At first we were pissed that we didn't think to ask for the cheapest corked champagne in the store, but we got past that and drank that Andre Brut like it was Cristal.

*I jumped up and down screaming like a girl, did alot of screaming, little crying.....its all a blur. Then i poped some champaign, drank some sprayed myself with some, got some in my eyes, which made me cry some more, sprayed my dog. Hugged my dog,...i dunno its so crazy, Were the World CHampions

*I strapped on my sneakers to start the bottom of the ninth, and as soon as the last out was recorded, I bolted out of my place and went screaming down my street. It was amazing. More so because I wasn't wearing pants.

And Tom Boswell has a nice piece in the Washington Post today as well:

This week, many stuffy voices have already said that Red Sox Nation, with a World Series crown on its collective head, will suddenly be disoriented and suffer an identity crisis.

What will fans of the Red Sox do if they cannot recite, chapter and verse, the catechism of woe that has been befallen them and their forbearers? How boring for Red Sox fans to be just another franchise with no uniqueness, no aura of mythology.

These skeptics are, no doubt, the same clods that wonder how Washingtonians will cope with getting the Expos after 33 years without a major league team. What will we do without our angst-ridden identity as baseball lovers who're denied a team?

The answer, of course, is the same for both groups of the longtime baseball disenfranchised. After a certain necessary period of numbness and disbelief subsides, both will gradually become very, very happy and have a parade. Coping will be blissfully simple after that brief adjustment. And, every spring, Boston fans will be delighted not to answer questions about 1918, just as Washington fans will be pleased not to hear, "Will you ever get a team?"

This evening, there was a lunar eclipse that began about an hour before the game, a rarity that would have produced a blood-red moon during the game if only the sky had been clear instead of cloudy. Perhaps the overcast was better. Lunar eclipses are so mundane, if you think about it. Why, another one is due in 2007 -- barely a blink in baseball time.

The victory that arrived on this evening for the Red Sox and their true believers was far too rare and precious, too long overdue and spectacular in its consummation, to be upstaged by something so commonplace as the earth, moon and stars.

Here, here. Redemption at last.

Shaking the Sistrum

The Office of Women's Ministries has gotten its act together and issued a strong rebuttal to Christianity Today's assertion that the Episcopal Church support idol worship:

Office of Women's Ministries Official Response to Christianity Today's "Weblog: Episcopal Church Officially Promotes Idol Worship"


We have been astounded and grateful for the number of people who have taken an interest in The Office of Women's Ministries of the Episcopal Church through Christianity Today's recent weblog, "Episcopal Church Officially Promotes Idol Worship," as posted by Ted Olsen on October 26, 2004.

The material questioned in Olsen's article, "A Women's Eucharist: A Celebration of the Divine Feminine" was sent to us in good faith in response to our recent call for resources. We regret we did not realize that the material was copyright protected. Proper notifications were not included by mistake and so the page has been withdrawn from our website.

We profoundly regret that Christianity Today did not contact us before making claims such as, "?leaders of the Episcopal Church USA are promoting pagan rites to pagan deities." The resources listed on our website are not approved liturgics of the Episcopal Church. These liturgics are intended to spark dialogue, study, conversation and pondering around women and our liturgical tradition. There is quite a difference in presenting resources for people?s interest and enlightenment and promoting resources as official claims of the Episcopal Church. Only General Convention has this authority.

The current liturgy project ? A Call for Resources: The Women's Liturgy Project ? and the Women's Worship Resources section on our website is a grassroots, organic, interactive process. It is an offering to open the awareness of the many voices and needs that exist among people in the church as we all strive to find expressions of our life, love and faith in God.


I'm so relieved. I was terribly worried about the copyright violation issue, weren't you? (If you were worried about the copyright , you'll be relieved to hear that there isn't one. Apparently the "druidess" who wrote the piece is also the Episcopal Priest who submitted it. Let us rejoice that her seminary training was not in vain: she does have the pagan rites described in the Old Testament down to a "T." )

How incredibly sad that the Office of Women's Ministry cares more for legalism and copyrights than for Christ! Clearly, they depise and reject He whom their souls should love.

The Doc will probably declare today a holiday in his classroom in honor of his beloved Red Soxs' victory. But pleased though I am for the Doc, I'm happiest for the long suffering Scooter, no matter what the poet Burns says.

I won't accept any congratulations just yet, but I must say I am dazed, confused, and somewhat frightened about the World Series thus far. I figured the games would be close, probably a 6 or 7 game slugfest.

But 3-0 Red Sox? This has been almost too easy. And I have never witnessed, in my 20 odd years as a Red Sox fan, a time when every bounce goes their way, every gaffe they commit is harmless, and every gaffe the Cards commit is fatal.

Everything is going their way. They bumble into 4 errors game 1, and win. They repeat another 4 errors in game 2, and win again. They put a weak defensive first baseman (Ortiz) in the game to keep his bat in the lineup, and he plays flawlessly. The Cardinals' pitcher, who has batted all year in the NL, commits an mind-bendingly bad baserunning blunder off third (I don't remember ever seeing a player hesitate and then get thrown out after the opposing team was conceding the run -- never) in game 3, killing any chance of a rally. Things never happen this way for Boston. Never, ever, ever.

But now they are.

I am frankly not used to this. And the idea of winning, well, I am just not prepared for this. I have some champagne in the house, so that may come out.

All thrilling and terribly, terribly scary. I want it to happen, desperately so, but what's on the other side?

Well, congrats to the Doc...commiserations to Herr Soames, in re last night's game. I am sure that the Doc can just about taste the end to decades of degradation and humiliation and futility.

Of course, speaking as a pessimist, by which I mean a Philadelphia fan, the Red Sox can still lose this Series.

Given the Doc's somewhat obsessive interest (for a Pape!) [You mean that affectionately, right?-- Ed. Hey, of course! And no questions! I'm the Ombudsman!] in the current goings-on in the Worldwide Anglican Communion, I wanted to be the first to announce the official endorsement idol worship by the Episcopal Church USA.

That's really the only way to interpret "A Woman's Eucharist: A Celebration of the Divine Feminine". The theologically and biblically literate (and very funny) Ted Olsen at Christianity Today's Weblog pins this down as a worship ceremony of Ishtar/Ashtoreth/Astarte, the "Queen of Heaven" against whom Jeremiah issued some of his best, uh, jeremiads.

How very old-school, no? In a perverse, heathen kind of way?

Next up: blood sacrifices! It's a hip liturgical innovation!

Considering that this is, as Ted says, hardly hidden from public view on the official ECUSA website, can we simply conclude that the ECUSA is dead from the waist up?

This looks like an Onion headline, but it's not:

Buddhist Monks Fall for Beer Girls

These however ARE some of the latest Onion headlines:

Jacques Derrida "dies"

Kerry: Stem-Cell Research May Hold Cure To Ailing Campaign

Or this one from the Lark:

Ushers with stun guns stir controversy -- MONTGOMERY — Ron Henning recalls the day he first "put a man down" in the center aisle just before the pastor gave the altar call. "I thought he was reaching for a weapon in his pocket," Henning says. He rushed over, zapped the man with a church-issued stun gun and sent him to the floor for seven minutes, throwing the service into tumult. It turned out the man was heading to the altar to give his heart to Christ, but couldn't wait for the pastor to finish the altar call. The church apologized and paid the man $500, but he has not returned.

As the fog swirled over the river, across painted trees, gently obscuring a rose sky, it became obvious that the time has come for today's posting.

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-John Keats

Peter Brimelow says "Thank You for Smoking." Smoking can be good for you? Apparently in some limited cases, yes.

But consider this theoretical possibility: Should 60-year-olds take up smoking because its protection against Alzheimer's is more immediate that its potential damage to the lungs, which won't show up for 30 years if at all?

A theoretical possibility and likely to remain theoretical. Research into possible benefits of tobacco and nicotine is widely reported to be stymied by the absolutist moral fervor of the antismoking campaign ...

Why don't tobacco companies point out the potential offsetting rewards of smoking? Besides the usual corporate cowardice and bureaucratic inertia, the answer may be another, typically American, disease: lawyers. Directing the companies' defense, they apparently veto any suggestion that smoking has benefits for fear of liability suits and of the possible regulatory implications if nicotine is seen as a drug.

Which leaves smokers defenseless against a second typically American disease: the epidemic of power hungry puritanical bigots.

That last bit, a nice Menckenesque touch.

I fear that the friendship between myself and good Mr. Soames may be running into rough waters, at least for the next two weeks.

First, he scolded my dear Boston Red Sox for lack of personal hygiene and overall cleanliness, of which I happen to agree (Bronson Arroyo's cornrows make one wince -- I'd rather see him bald as a melon). Second, he reminded his devoted readers of the 1946 World Series between Boston and St. Louis, a seven game marathon won by the Cardinals. Third, he posted yet another reminder of the 1967 World Series between the same, also a seven game thriller won by the Red Birds.

As a bred and buttered New Englander and a lifelong member of Red Sox Nation, I cannot let these gratuitous taunts stand. Enos Slaughter is dead, and Musial and Gibson retired years ago. While the past can be illustrative, it acts only as a soft guide and not a strait-jacket. Whatever we seek to do, a dead man's icy hand obstructs us, wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne in House of the Seven Gables. What slaves we are to bygone times. So impressed by repeated failure, and trapped within our fears, we slip into nonsensical talk of curses and jinxes. If it is true that those who ignore the past are condemned to repeat it, those who live only in the past are condemned to miss the slow changes (not all of them bad -- is revelation a bad thing?) that occur within time, history itself.

Thus, while St. Louis beat the Red Sox in two great Series in '46 and '67, that is no guide to what will necessarily happen in '04. I remain optimistic, hopeful, and anxious for a better fate. A true fan can do nothing else. Change, in this case a Red Sox Series victory, need not be an awful thing. I quote the French Roman Catholic philosopher Gustave Thibon:

There are -- and this can hardly be overemphasized -- two very distinct types of the conservative mentality. One is that of the impotent and the satisfied, and this kind of conservatism, due to inertia, is far more the more widespread of the two; people hold onto what is because they have lost all ability to renew and build; lacking in the slightest motive virtue, they deify acquired momentum. But the other kind of conservatism is conservative wisdom -- that of Pascal, for example. It does not close its eyes to the defects of tradition and the established order; it well realizes that many things ought to be changed; it is merely skeptical as to man's creative capacities in general.

The Boston Red Sox are one of the grand old teams of baseball, the embodiment of the game's traditions, playing in America's greatest old ballpark, filled with the memories (good and bad) of thrilling games and storied ballplayers. Yet they have not won the title since Woodrow Wilson was president, doughboys fought the Hun, and spats and tails were all the rage (perhaps if they win, spats will come back? Hopefully not Wilson, though). This ought not to be. It will be a difficult task, against a formidible Cardinals team, but it can be done. If the Red Sox-Yankees series proved anything, it showed that Boston has remarkably resilient "creative capacities" for good.

No Series win since 1918. This defect in our "tradition and established order" ought to be changed. Embrace conservative wisdom rather than conservative inertia.

Root for the Red Sox.

The Stupid Tree

I thought this article from the Von Mises Institute was too rich to pass up, and certainly deserving a mention here at Curmudgeon Central HQ: an all-out assault on Shel Silverstein's famous children's book Giving Tree.

Given the idiotic assignation of human feelings to the tree in a story that depicts an odd man-tree friendship, it is hard to see the appeal of this book. Those drawn to it, it seems to me, tend to have a left-of-center orientation, and they like the message that it is better to spend a life giving than to spend one taking. If only the government could inculcate that value into the taxpayers! The book assumes that, surely, only the selfish would object to such a message ...

Halfway through my most recent reading of the book with my daughter, and knowing the ending, it hit me: this wasn’t a noble giving tree at all. This was a stupid tree. In giving to the boy-man at every opportunity, the tree thought it was doing right. Instead, it created a dependency relationship in his human friend that lasts his whole life and that leaves both impoverished. This is not a quality one would wish for a friend, and even more so, for one’s son or daughter entering into marriage.

Parents who raise their kids in this manner are bad parents who create selfish kids; governments that treat whole classes of people in this manner are bad governments that fashion dependency classes that cling to the State in a way similarto the way the boy-man depends on his tree-friend.

Now that is vituperation.

So long sad times
go long bad times
we are rid of you at last
howdy gay times
cloudy gray times
you are now a thing of the past!

Happy days are here again
the skies above are clear again
so let's sing a song of cheer again
happy days are here again!

All together shout it now
there's no one who can doubt it now
so let's tell the world about it now
happy days are here again!

Your cares and troubles are gone
there'll be no more from now on
happy days are here again

the skies above are so clear again
so let's sing a song of cheer again
happy times
happy nights
happy days are here again!

I don't think I've seen mention of this on the various sites I visit daily, but it looks quite interesting and useful: Buckley Online, the complete and searchable corpus of WFB's writings from the 1950s to the present. Columns, book reviews, speeches, everything. Hillsdale College in Michigan coordinated and hosts the project.

Scooter the corgi still has hair, as do I, but there is little liquor left in the house. Watching these games has drained me and my cabinet.

Just when you thought the games could not get any more tense, more exciting, more meaningful (after the train wreck of last year), the Yanks win 3 in a row and the blessed Red Sox win back 3 to be the first team in 100+ years of MLB history to recover from an 0-3 deficit.

A few observations:

It's been said by more than one sportswriter, but with blood stains showing through Schilling's sock, it was a scene straight from The Natural. "You ok, Roy?" "Let's play ball."

As if we don't have enough reasons to despise Alex Fraudriguez, the tomahawk chop on Arroyo's arm will do down as one of the cheapest shots, one of the most glaring examples of desperately poor sportsmanship in the history of the game. Low rent.

As one New England wag put it, rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for the house in blackjack.

Everyone keeps saying that Foulke is too exhausted to play in Game 7, that he cannot pitch or close today. That may be true, but if the Red Sox have a lead going into the eighth or ninth inning tonight, look for Pedro to be the closer. How about that for drama?

For good or ill, I have to teach tonight and cannot watch the game. By the time I get to my car, the game will probably be in the seventh, eighth, or ninth innings. Perhaps that's a good thing. I'll be spared the stress.

Go Sox.

Somewhere in Indiana there is a small, bald Corgi. Given the way the Red Soxs have been squeaking the games out, there's probably a bald Bostonian to accompany that Corgi.

What is better than two historians fighting it out? Not much, in my book.

One says that Scotland is fairly insignificant in UK history: "It is a statement of fact. Scotland matters for a single reason, which is its involvement with England from the 17th century onwards ... I love Scotland but it is not an important country."

The other, well, disagrees most heartily: "This is a basket of cheerfully stupid English prejudice. Of course it is true that Scotland is not important to England ... It is a fact that England failed to reduce it to Scot-shire and maybe that's a source of annoyance to some people in England. "

Fightin' words.

A Spot on Spats

Let me be upfront about my spats bias: I adore them. I especially adore them in a quiet grey worn with a grey morning coat worn by a man of suitable figure. That I have never seen them so worn does not dim my ardor for them any more than the fact that I have not seen the Beast Glaisant dims my passion for it. (Once one of my friends told me and assorted other friends that she dreamed she had attended my wedding. As she described who else was in her dream and the specifics of my dress, demeanor, etc. one of the other listeners demanded "But who was the groom?" The narrator looked baffled. "He was the one wearing spats," I helpfully supplied. She continued to look baffled.)

But of those spats to which the good Doctor linked in his screed, 80% of them were abominations unto the needle that sewed them. They made me think of Bertie Wooster's old Etonian spats:

For the last day or so there had been a certain amount of coolness in the home over a pair of jazz spats which I had dug up while exploring in the Burlington Arcade. Some dashed brainy cove, probably the chap who invented those coloured cigarette-cases, had recently had the rather topping idea of putting out a line of spats on the same system. I mean to say instead of the ordinary grey and white, you can now get them in your regimental or school colours. And believe me, it would have taken a man of stronger fibre than I am to resist the pair of Old Etonian spats which had smiled up at me from the window. I was inside the shop, opening negotiations, before it had even occurred to me that Jeeves might not approve. And I must say he had taken the thing a bit hardly. The fact of the matter is, Jeeves, though in many ways the best valet in London, is too conservative. Hidebound, if you know what I mean, and an enemy to Progress.

Count me with Jeeves on this one. Can we see that debonair expression of wit and style, by which I mean the dashing Mr. Peanut, wearing cat spats? No we cannot. It would be like seeing Mr. Peanut wearing a ball cap backwards, indoors. Civilization would end on the spot. Besides, we hidebound enemies to Progress eventually find a way to crush it:

"Jeeves, " I said, "those spats."
"Yes, sir?"
"You really dislike them?"
"Intensely, sir."
"You don't think time might induce you to change your views?"
"No, sir."
"All right, then. Very well. Say no more. You may burn them."
"Thank you very much, sir. I have already done so. Before breakfast this morning. A quiet grey is far more suitable, sir. Thank you, sir."

So your private pre-school is low on cash and you need a nifty new way to raise funds? Bake sale? No. Hike fees? No. Hire a whiskey expert to educate discerning parents for $35 a head? Yes.

Some big birthdays today as well:

Virgil was born on this day in 70 BC.

And Happy Birthday Friedrich Nietzsche, born this day in 1844. Thus Spoke Doc.

And (with much enthusiasm) Happy Birthday P. G. Wodehouse, born this day in 1884. Look to Roger Kimball to explain just why we still read the man. A smashing bit of all right, Jeeves!

As they say in job interviews, always ask for the job.

I have to say Kerry was pretty funny on the marry up line. " I'm somewhat disturbed," cries the Ombudsman "Kerry does have self deprecation! Where did THAT come from!"

Kerry the Catechizer

Golly where was John Kerry when I was getting confirmed. He knows so much. To him religion, and especially Christianity, is an open book. Nor only does he know bits and bobs of verse, but he also knows he loves his neighbor more than the President for one thing, unless that neighbor is an unborn child. He can ignore them. They don't vote.

Kerry speak: Highest levels=summits. It's barely coded. Perhpas along with "I have a plan", the Kedwards contingent also sings "Climb Every Summit!" Lyrics tomorrow.

Love it! I'm a "country person" according to Kerry. Friends, Roman, and country people, lend me your ears!

Those who live in glass houses

Did I just hear Sen Kerry, the plan man, disparge Bush for having a plan? And how silly does a man from Massachusetts sound trying to dispute a former Texas governor's understanding of border issues?

I have many things of pith and moment to say about spats, but the Presidential debate is on. I arrived late and missed, MISSED, the vaccine question. I am shattered. But me, with the help of a generous swig of bourbon, I persevere.

I was going to say of what I've seen so far el Presidente is doing well. We just had an awkward moment, but far better performance than the first debate.

I cannot quite tell from the portrait of a reclining Mr. Soames, but he would seem the type of gentleman to prefer spats. Today we see them in Broadway productions and retro shows ("steppin' out with my baby..."), but there was a time when they were quite fashionable.

The predecessor to spats was cloth shoe covers with a leather sole that were popular in England in the 1600s. The French removed the sole and incorporated the footwear into military attire. The design was actually longer, with the spatterdash (or gaiter, as they were also called) reaching nearly to the knee. The style moved across Europe, and by the 19th century they had been pared down to the shorter ankle length that is familiar today, fastened with a buckle underneath the sole. Near the end of the century, spats were a prized accessory worn by men and women alike. In winter, they would be made out of heavy boxcloth; in summertime, linen was the fabric of choice. As the fashion sense of the day became keener, the louder colors and shocking patterns of spats were simplified. High fashion dictated that the best-dressed person wore spats only in grey, white or tan.

And they are still being made for those adventurous types: white spats, a waistcoat, and a trim pocket square. And here too.

And the irrepressible John Derbyshire has been urging a spats revival now for over a year:

One additional sad thing about the death of Bob Hope was that he was the last person of any importance in the Western world to wear spats. (The late Duke of Windsor is the only possible contender for this title.) Spats disappeared sometime around 1950 — I can't remember ever seeing anyone, in the flesh I mean, wearing spats; though they must have been around when I was a small child, and my mother's older brother Bill, the snappiest dresser in the family, was said to have worn spats as a young man. Funny how these things ebb and flow. Perhaps spats will come back. After all, they don't make any less sense, and are a great deal more sightly, than body piercings.

Right. Odd how a pierced nose (or worse) gets nary a strange glace, but don a pair of spats and let the stares begin. I'm the weirdo?

And today is the Feast of St. Edward the Confessor. He is buried at Westminster Abbey.

Edward the Confessor, as he was known, had not been a particularly successful king, but his personal character and piety endeared him to his people. In appearance he is represented as tall, dignified and kindly with rosy cheeks and a long white beard. He was regarded as a saint long before he was officially canonized as Saint and Confessor by Pope Alexander III in 1161. A Confessor is a particular type of saint. The term applies to those who suffered for their faith and demonstrated their sanctity in the face of worldly temptations, but who were not martyrs.

King Henry III (1207-1272) held Edward the Confessor in great veneration and decided to rebuild his Abbey in the magnificent new Gothic style. He erected a new and costly Shrine with workmen and mosaics from Italy, which was finished in 1269. Sick persons made pilgrimages to the Shrine and knelt in the recesses to pray for healing. A cult of St Edward had grown up and people regarded him as the patron saint of England. However, after Henry III's death the cult declined and St George eventually became recognised as patron saint of England.

The Benedictine monastery at Westminster was dissolved by Henry VIII in 1540 and the Shrine despoiled. The Saint's body was buried in some obscure spot in the Abbey. Mary I restored the coffin to its place in 1557 and gave new jewels to replace the stolen ones. The fabric of the Shrine has suffered much during the centuries. However, the Confessor's coffin still lies in a cavity in the top part of the marble structure. The Shrine is regarded as the centre of the Abbey and five kings and four queens lie buried in his Chapel. Edward's wife Edith (died 1075) is buried near her husband's Shrine. On the western side of the Chapel is a stone screen with fourteen scenes of events, real and legendary, in the life of the Confessor. A special service is held every year on St Edward's Day (13 October).

Been busy and out of town a bit recently, so the posts have been few and far between. A few notes:

Yes, last night's Boston-EE game was a hair-puller, and, yes, poor Scooter the corgi was hiding underneath the desk for much of the night. Go Pedro. Please.

A belated happy first birthday to Mr. Soames, a font of culture and good taste in the world 'o blogs. The pleasure is all ours.

A new addition too: We've added Blimpish to our link roll, a lover of Strauss (Leo, not Levi), with the charming byline "In which, reaction." Here, here. As Paul Elmer More said of being a reactionary: it is essentially to answer action with action, to oppose to the welter of circumstance the force of discrimination and selection, to direct the aimless tide of change by reference to the co-existing law of the immutable fact, to carry the experiences of the past into the diverse impulses of the present, and so to move forward in an orderly progression.

I've been reading T. S. Eliot lately, Russell Kirk's biographical study plus an old short collection of his works.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.

The Wasteland, 1922

O perpetual revolution of configured stars
O perpetual recurrence of determined seasons,
O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying!
The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to God.
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

Chorus from "The Rock," 1934

Comfort me with apples

In honor of apple season, here is a very fine apple cake courtesy of a neighbor of ours. It's a remarkably versatile recipe, delicious at all times and with many beverages. The Ombudsman likes it with bourbon; the Lutherans pay it the high honor of saying it "goes really well with coffee". (Of course what Lutherans' call "coffee" bears little resemblance to the actual substance. Tonight at church the big debate was over whether to follow the wishes of the strong coffee contingent and go with a daring 6 tablespoons of coffee for 12 cups of water or to stick with the traditionalists who advocated 3 tablespoons for 12 cups of water. The traditionalists won. Perhaps those of you who actually drink coffee can attest as to whether this cake goes well with it.)

Cathy Orr's Favorite Apple Cake

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Combine:
2 c. flour
1 c. sugar
2 1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt

Cut in: 1/2 c. butter

Mix together:
1 c. milk
2 eggs
1 t. vanilla

Add to flour mixture. Pour into greased 9"x13" pan.

Peel, core and thinly slice 4-6 apples and arrange on top of cake batter

Combine: 1/2 c. sugar
3/4 c. nuts
1 1/2 t. cinnamon and sprinkle over apples. Dot with 1 t. butter.

Bake at 350 until done (about 30-40 minutes).

Here at The Company's Virginia branch we are, at this very moment, ferevently hoping that as part the Doc's big move, and big new job, he also got a bigger living quarters, because if the playoffs go as they are going now, poor Scooter needs a place to hide.

Laugh or Cry?

Just to add a laugh (or maybe cry) to your day. I had this question on my most recent US History to 1877 quiz: "When French diplomats demanded a bribe before negotiating with American representatives in 1797, the resulting controversy was known as the _____________ Affair."

I had two students answer: "Laissez."

Think about it...

And the verdict: Cheney won. Personally I expected Edwards to be good. I didn't expect him to cowed or timid. He's a TRIAL LAWYER, people. Timid ain't in the job description. So I'm not "impressed" that Edwards wasn't timid, which seems to be what makes most people think Edwards did a good job. He was fine style wise, but he wasn't up to Cheney's level on you know...the knowledge thing.

Admittedly, I do have a bias for Cheney. Obviously smart, detail oriented men with a dry sense of humor enthrall me, especially when they mention things like ricin.

But will this debate change anything? Not a fraction of a percentage point.

Incidentally Gwen Ifill was a fine moderator. Better than Lehrer. Perhaps the number two is angling for the top job after all...

"That's a lot of money even by Massachusetts standards." Super! Mind you I don't think the Feds should be involved in education so this bit all leaves me cold, but this plan action not only has killed my bottle of the Isle of Jura, but it occurs to me it sets up a perfect song for the Kerry Campaign:

" I have a plan, a plan for you, baby.
It's gonna come true, baby.
They think that we're through, but baby,

We'll be swell! We'll be great!
Gonna have the whole world for our date!
Starting here, starting now,
honey, everything's coming up roses!

Clear the decks! Clear the tracks!
You've got nothing to do but pay tax.
Vote for us and take a bow.
Honey, everything's coming up roses!

Now's our inning. We'll stand the truth on its ear!
Set it spinning! Vietnam was just the beginning!
Taxes up! Iraq's a plight!
We talk about plans 'til they're trite!
We'll be swell. We'll be great.
We can tell. Just you wait.
That big summit we talk about is due!
Honey, everything's coming up roses for us and for you!

We can do it, all we need is a hand.
We can do it, if Mama Teresa don't screw it!
Taxes up! Iraq's a plight!
We talk about plans 'til they're trite!
We can tell, wait and see.
There's the bell! Vote for me!
And nothing's gonna stop us 'til we're through!
Honey, everything's coming up summits and little plans!
Everything's coming up tres bon for Jacques Chirac !
Everything's gonna be insourced but globally !
Everyone's coming up roses for us and for you!"

"I don't talk about myself very much." says the VP. Yes! An INTROVERT on a political ticket. How refreshing! How delightful! Our day will yet come.

"A best defense is a good offense" says Edwards, but when you have to run the playbook by the global council, what kind of offensee are you going to have there, Senator? (And poor man, he keeps mentioning John Kerry, contra the rules. Basking in the greatness I guess.)

This "a long resume doen't equal good judgement" line. Can I get my future employers to adopt that approach please? None of them seem so inclined.

Good for both candidates. Talking about AIDS and not mentioning Africa and/or China as Gwen Ifill wanted is daft and wrong.

Cheney was much more gracious than I would have been about Edward's comments. We see now why I am not in politics.

Also I know about Edwards' trial record. And yes, he is part of the problem. And Cheney knows it too, but after a bit of an awkward lead in.

STOP THE PRESSES!!!!! A lawyer just said there are too many cases!!!! Mercy, he's out of The Guild. But Hurrah they have...A PLAN.

Under his standards though, Edwards cases on cerebral palsy would probably be out. Three strikes, Senator, you're out.

Whoa. Was it just me? Was Edwards INCREDIBLY patronizing when he talked about the Cheneys and their daughter? I mean breathtakingly so?

And I forgot..that Howard Dean line was superb.

Points to Edwards on the " was the question about jobs?" response. Smooth. But using old data with Cheney? Foolish, foolish, young man.

Gracious that Halliburton round quite depleted the Isle, looks like I'll have to switch over to the Craggamore before the evening is over.

I can't believe that a trial lawyer was daft enough to quible figures with Cheney. My gracious, Cheney lives for detail. He reminds me of that quote from Van Loon's Lives "he rattles off figures like water off a gutter."

Much smarter on Edwards part to switch to story telling, the trial lawyer's strength.

OUCH! The President of the Senate gets testy on attendance.

Is Cheney thumb pointing? Yes! Added to the drinking list.

Here in Dr. Curmudgeon's Virginia branch, we have broken out the Isle of Jura in honor the vice presidential debate. We will of course drink for the mention of "Halliburton" and "we have a plan","summit", and any mention of Kerry's Senate career from the VP.

I arrived late alas held up at a church function, but when I walked in all heck was breaking loose, with the VP delivering some lovely uppercuts. That line " you probably weren't there to vote for it" was priceless. The best part was that in response John Edwards made what can only be described as a moue. (He did the same when Cheney rattled off the figures and slammed him for not respecting Iraqi casualties.) I am enchanted; so few people moue today, and that a trial lawyer would moue is even more exciting. I have added Edward's moue to the drinking list.

For some reason, autumn is tied with poetry for me, perhaps becasue, I know about 5 poems, and three of them are autumn poems. 2 of the 3 are superlative works; one is definitely not, but as it does just fit certain days in Fall, like today, I give you:

October's Bright Blue Weather

    O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,
        And flowers of June together,
    Ye cannot rival for one hour
        October's bright blue weather;

    When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
        Belated, thriftless vagrant,
    And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
        And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

    When Gentians roll their fringes tight
        To save them for the morning,
    And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
        Without a sound of warning;

    When on the ground red apples lie
        In piles like jewels shining,
    And redder still on old stone walls
        Are leaves of woodbine twining;

    When all the lovely wayside things
        Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
    And in the fields, still green and fair,
        Late aftermaths are growing;

    When springs run low, and on the brooks,
        In idle golden freighting,
    Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
        Of woods, for winter waiting;

    When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
        By twos and twos together,
    And count like misers, hour by hour,
        October's bright blue weather.

    O suns and skies and flowers of June,
        Count all your boasts together,
    Love loveth best of all the year
        October's bright blue weather.
-Helen Hunt Jackson