Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Baum-Berkeley-Bode-Gliori-Kochenderfer-O'Brian

American Fairy Tales
by L. Frank Baum
Recommended Age: 8+

One of the trophies of my shopping spree at New York's Books of Wonder is this charmingly illustrated collection of short stories, reprinted by Dover, by the author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and many other magical stories.

Originally published in newspapers in 1901 as a syndicated series, the American Fairy Tales are a fascinating, though perhaps flawed, attempt to plant the magic of fairies and folk tales in the modern, scientific, commercialized soil of the U.S.A. Martin Gardner correctly points out in his introduction that a good part of the magic is squished out of the stories by such statements as "You are on Prairie Avenue, in Chicago." On the other hand, Baum more than makes up for this miscalculation with his sharp wit and his instinct for the right bit of nonsense at the right time. And perhaps, if you squint at them just so, these little mundane details (like "Prairie Avenue") work to the story's advantage. What American child since 1901 hasn't hoped that the paved roads, telephone wires, and steel I-beams of our world might not forever seal every door into the world of make-believe?

In "The Box of Robbers," a little girl living on guess-what-street in guess-what-town gets a silly surprise when she unlocks the lid of a trunk in the attic. The way she talks three Italian bandits out of robbing her house is as funny as the tongue-in-cheek "moral of the story."

"The Glass Dog" tells of the bargain between a magician and a glassblower, a tale in which everybody gets exactly what he or she deserves, though perhaps not in the way you would expect!

In "The Queen of Quok," a mischievous boy king cleverly avoids the awful fate of having to auction off his own hand in marriage in order to replenish the palace treasury.

"The Girl Who Owned a Bear" nearly gets eaten by it after a book agent, in revenge against her father, gives the girl a book whose pages come to life.

"The Enchanted Types" features a fairy-creature called a knook - a species that, I believe, Baum was the first to describe - who tries to do a good deed by freeing a flock of stuffed birds from a hat shop. The knook grows more and more desperate to make up for the harm his magic has unwittingly unleashed on the fashion world of 1901 - which, apart from a few details, sounds a lot like the fashion world of today!

An aspiring actress orders "The Magic Bon Bons" from a wizard, but someone else takes them home by mistake. First-year Potions students should read this is a cautionary tale.

"The Capture of Father Time" happens in a whimsical way, thanks to a cowboy's son named Jim and his skill with a lasso. As rare bit of early science fiction this story is priceless!

"The Wonderful Pump" tells how a poor farmer and his wife squandered a magical gift from a grateful beetle. (It's too bad that Baum spoils the magic by explaining how it worked.)

"The Dummy That Lived" is the wistful story of a wax lady in a shop window who, thanks to a mischievous fairy, comes to life. Unfortunately, knowledge of the world did not come with the package.

"The King of the Polar Bears" survives being skinned by humans, with the help of his friends the gulls. But can a feathered bear rule over his own kind?

And finally, "The Mandarin and the Butterfly" concerns a child-hating Chinaman (yes, it's that "politically incorrect," but remember when it was written). Forced to flee his native land, the Mandarin starts a laundry and makes a wicked bargain with a trapped butterfly -- a bargain that involves turning children into pigs!

If you love collections of fairy tales, especially books like Sandburg's Rootabaga Stories and Nesbit's The Magic World, check this book out. Perhaps you will agree that Baum graces the Mother Goose tradition with a delightful quirkiness that is distinctly American. If so, and again like me, you may also be interested in some of Baum's other non-Oz titles, such as Mother Goose in Prose and The Master Key.

The Enchanted Island of Yew
by L. Frank Baum
Recommended Age: 10+

Can a sex change take place in a fairy tale? Evidently, L. Frank Baum thought so. In Ozma of Oz, Baum transformed a mischievous boy into a perfect princess. And in this stand-alone book, recently re-decorated and re-issued by Books of Wonder, a female fairy is transfigured into a dashing young knight. Of course, with immortal fairies, one sex is as good as another; and in the medieval-type setting of the imaginary Island of Yew, boys get to have a lot more adventures than girls.

A fairy can only be transformed by the magical wish of a mortal. This particular fairy asks Seseley, a duke's daughter, to turn her into a knight for one year. Then, in the guise of Prince Marvel, she/he sets out to make her/his fortune.

All right, let's go with "his" for the time being. Though he is every bit a boy, Prince Marvel also remains a fairy, so there is really nothing he can't do and no trouble he can't get out of. This summons forth the main weakness of this book: the hero is never really in any great danger, and hardly anything troubles him. This isn't so for his faithful squire, a silly youth named Nerle whose fondest wish is to suffer misfortune, pain, and unfulfilled desire. Nerle is the one thing that saves this book from becoming a bore.

Marvel and Nerle travel through all the kingdoms of the Island of Yew, exploring realms no outsider has ever seen. They compel a band of robbers to reform. They become unwilling guests of a hideous king who is afraid to let them go because he doesn't want them spreading word of his ugliness. They visit a hidden kingdom where everything and everybody is doubled. (I know you won't understand that; you'll just have to read the book!) They free one kingdom from a tyrranical wizard (who rules by threat of turning people into grasshoppers), and another from a terrible red-headed giant. They face war, execution, enchantment, and even a magic mirror before Marvel's year as a human boy ends.

It's a charming story with a touch of romance and a very quirky ending. If you can't get enough Oz, visit Books of Wonder and look up this interesting rarity!

The Tiger's Egg
by Jon Berkeley
Recommended Age: 11+

I was delighted to hear from Jon Berkeley after I reviewed the first book of his "Wednesday Tales" trilogy, The Palace of Laughter. I would have been even more delighted to review the free copy of this second book that he meant to have sent to me. Unfortunately, his publisher never followed through. I ended up getting the book as a gift anyway, so all's well that ends well.

In The Palace of Laughter we met Miles Wednesday, an orphan devoted to his toy bear Tangerine; an angel-on-earth appropriately named Little; and many members of an evil circus that traveled around, stealing the joy from people's lives. Since the leader of the Circus Oscuro, the Great Cortado, has been locked up in a mental ward, his old clowns - the three Bolsillo Brothers - have started a new show and taken it on the road. The Bolsillos invite Miles and Little along on their summer tour, employing Little in a high-wire act and to arrange the music for the band (music which releases people from the enchantment the Great Cortado put on them), and employing Miles as a knife thrower's assistant, pooper scooper, and all-around dogsbody.

Things are going swell until the Great Cortado breaks out of the hospital and begins planning his revenge against the boy who put him there. Also, a less-than-trustworthy circus fortune-teller leads Miles into danger with the promise of helping him learn more about his parents' fate. Miles learns, almost too late, that Doctor Tau-Tau has betrayed him to a tribe of hairy, cave-dwelling people called the Fir Bolg. Tau-Tau and the Fir Bolg think Miles has a powerful treasure called the Tiger's Egg - perhaps because Miles occasionally meets and talks with a wild tiger that always turns up just when he is desperate for help.

Escaping the Fir Bolg without having his belly slit open (for they think the Egg is inside Miles) proves to be only the first of many hazardous adventures as Miles fends off attempts on his life, helps recapture the savage Null, begins learning to use powers he hardly understands (powers the well-named Shriveled Fella calls "the bright hands" and "the far eyes"), and prises the truth about his mother and father, morsel by morsel, out of the reluctant craw of the Bolsillo Brothers.

Those Bolsillos! They surely have the gift of comic patter; the Marx Brothers hold nothing over them! But good as their intentions are, they are reluctant to tell Miles the whole truth; so they use their patter to evade his questions. Among Berkeley's more astonishing achievements in this book is the way Gila, Umor, and Fabio Bolsillo resist Miles' inquisitiveness, managing to be breathtakingly funny, chillingly grim, and touchingly sad at almost the same time. Many other endearing (or, in some cases, repulsive) characters from the first book are back too, from the by-the-book constable to the police sergeant who yearns in vain for a good night's sleep; from the blind old sailor whose story-within-a-story is worth the whole book to the crooked Pinchbuckets and their latest dastardly daftness.

The most moving revelation of the book comes near the end, promising an even deeper and more dangerous journey in the final book of the trilogy. I will be looking for it. I may even spend money on it!

The Slippery Map
by N. E. Bode
Recommended Age: 12+

This story, supposedly told to N. E. Bode by the nuns themselves, is about a boy named Oyster R. Motel (!), raised in the convent where he was left in a basket as a tiny baby. Though the unpleasant Mrs. Fishback (who "helps" the silent nuns with any business that requires speaking) has nothing nice to say about Oyster, he is clearly loved by the nuns - especially Sister Mary Many Pockets, who found him on the steps. Nevertheless, Oyster is lonely. He longs to have friends, to have adventures beyond the rules and boundaries of the convent, and above all to find his parents.

Then weird things start to happen. Rips open in the fabric of the world, sucking children into them and spitting them out again. One of them finally comes for Oyster, taking not only the boy but also Mrs. Fishback's disgusting, fat dachshund named Leatherbelly. It turns out not to be alien abduction, though. Instead, Oyster has been sucked into an imaginary world created, a generation ago, by two children his age. The creators have become trapped in their own world, and now Oyster is the one who must save them. Why, you ask? Answer: They're his parents!

Oyster's parents are the authors of a truly odd little fantasy world, populated by various types and sizes of fairies, as well as by some dangerous creatures that take a good deal of avoiding. But their charming country has become an environmental and political nightmare, as everything has been taken over by a brutal ruler named Dark Mouth, whose toad-like minions force little people called Perths to slave in his sugar factory, eat sugar, breathe sugar, and so forth. Guided by an unlikely pair of Perths named Hopps and Ringet, and helped (sometimes reluctantly) by various others, Oyster sets off on a quest that takes him over a breathing river, through an underground world infested by dirt clams and spider wolves, through a dangerous forest, and up an unforgiving mountain. He meets a guru, a dragon, a TV personality (the personification of evil), and finally a monstrous warlord whose prisons are full of good people - including Oyster's mom and dad.

Here is a very sound story that should appeal to anyone who likes (for example) The Gammage Cup. It is a warm-hearted, sometimes moving, often funny tale full of strange images, happy surprises, and plenty of thrills. It seems there is, after all, a future for "N. E. Bode" (a.k.a. Julianna Baggott) outside "his" (?) series about Fern, Howard, and The Anybodies. In fact, this book is a healthy sign that, where young-readers' fiction is concerned, Baggott is just getting warmed up. I think this is her best work in this field so far.

Pure Dead Batty
(UK title: Deep Water)
by Debi Gliori
Recommended Age: 12+

The fifth of six books featuring the, ahem, colorful Strega-Borgia family of Auchenlochtermuchty, Scotland, is a bit of a downer, at least to begin with. At the end of the previous adventure (Pure Dead Trouble, a.k.a. Deep Trouble), the redoutable nanny Mrs. McLachlan sank into the waters of Lochnagargoyle and didn't come back to the surface.

What 13-year-old Titus, his sister Pandora, and their baby sister Damp - the most freakishly powerful sorcerer in training pants - don't know is that Mrs. McLachlan is immortal, and that she has taken refuge on an island on the edge of Death's realm, hoping to keep the all-powerful Chronostone from falling into the hands of the Prince of Darkness. Together with a fiend from hell, Flora remains marooned because Death refuses to take possession of the stone unless a mortal willingly passes into his realm with it - and because the thread that anchors her to her home has slipped out of the frozen fingers of the cryogenically-preserved Strega-Nonna.

How do the kids and their magical-beast friends get into deep water? Damp's growing ability to plunge into the world of stories and make-believe, along with her chatty bat familiar, has something to do with it. So do Pandora's camera with its mysterious power to capture images of the past, the new member of Titus's band with his non-mysterious power to cheese everybody off, the potion that makes Titus burst out into full (but premature) manhood just in time for the attractive young replacement nanny to arrive, the moving and talking portraits in the "ancestors' room," and the messages spelled out in letter-shaped refrigerator magnets. Meanwhile, their father has been arrested for murder, their evil Uncle Lucifer has hired The Devil Himself to put a hit on the whole family, and Marie Bain (remember, the worst French cook in the world?) gets her ultimate revenge.

If Harry Potter ignited in you a burning interest in things magical and Scottish, here's the series for you. It has loads of creatures that would make Hagrid's eyes dance with joy. It has bizarre, reality-bending magic. It has a castleful of whimsical marvels. It has bad guys of over-the-top campiness. It has violence, sadness, humor, and a lot of upchucking, besides other grossness. And it has one more book to go: Pure Dead Frozen.

Pure Dead Frozen
(UK title: Deep Fear)
by Debi Gliori
Recommended Age: 12+

In this sixth and last book about the flamboyant, magical, and chaotic Strega-Borgia family of Scotland, Satan (oops, I mean S'tan) becomes the star of a TV cooking show. Hell freezes over - literally. An army of miniature warriors settle a lifelong, deadly rivalry between two brothers. One lucky couple is struck by love at first sight. Two new members of the family come into the world, and one leaves it. A demon changeling is substituted for Titus and Pandora's baby brother. Time travel, trouble with wolves and dragons, a battle for the fate of the cosmos, a duel between a baby and a demon to see which can make the other more miserable, and a reluctant assassin's battle to protect his family drive the "Pure Dead" series to its final resolution.

In this book, you will meet a salamander with a lisp; an over-talkative bat; a pregnant dragon having second thoughts about her engagement to a loch monster; and a fairy tale come to life in "our" world, which makes an interesting change from Damp's growing power to enter the world of fairy tales. Like one of the characters in this book, it was evidently time for this series to "move on to the next great adventure" (borrowing a phrase from Dumbledore); but oh! what an end it makes, going out in a blaze of glory!

If you have enjoyed this series, as I have, you may be sorry to see it end. But I think it ends on just the right note, and at the right time too. If I had to complain about anything (and, you know, I usually do), it is the crowded canvas - crammed with so many character- and plot-threads, weaving together so densely and rapidly, that one worries whether it is really possible to tie them all up in a fulfilling way. But as to the sparkle, the energy, the vitality of Ms. Gliori's concluding fantasy, I can make no complaint.

From the obligatory "Dramatis Personae" list to the poetic justice that befalls its villains, Pure Dead Frozen strains Shakespeare through a sieve of children's cartoons, Mafia movies, Mother-Goose tales, and a joy of making evil look ridiculous. And as it ends, one feels a warm sense of knowing the author and the wild, weird, chaotic family she honors and lampoons. She both welcomes us into her home and warns us of the crocodile in the bathtub, the non-potty-trained baby dragon in the cellar, and the smart-mouthed tarantula whose nest is in the teapot. It is a home one enjoys visiting.

The Victory Garden
by Lee Kochenderfer
Recommended Age: 11+

For Teresa Marks and her father, their tomato-growing competition against Mr. Burt next door is very important. For one thing, growing garden vegetables is part of the war effort in a small Kansas town in 1943. In case you missed your history class, that's during World War II, when Teresa's brother Jeff and many other young Americans went to Europe or the Pacific to fight against Germany and Japan. Which brings up another, even bigger reason the tomato contest is important: it keeps Mr. Marks's mind off worrying about his son.

From the vantage point of 2008 (as I write this review), it is hard to imagine the burden this country's people carried, much less the courage and good cheer with which they carried it. We are distressed by a current war which claimed 5,000 American lives in its first 4 years; in my grandparents' generation, our country gave up over 400,000 lives to a war we were in for only 4 years. We are discouraged by prices in fuel (that haven't stopped us driving our cars), food (that haven't changed our eating habits), and other commodities (which we have continued to buy without letup, in spite of the late dip in our economy). Back then, the U.S. and the world in general was still recovering from a decade of depression, poverty, and famine in which many families lost everything they had; and in order to contribute to the "war effort," most Americans cheerfully gave up many of the comforts and plenties we take for granted. They saved pennies to buy war bonds; they saved junk that we would throw away as material for weapons and uniforms; and while farms grew food to ship to the boys "over there," people like the Burts and the Markses planted "victory gardens" so that they could save money and stretch the nation's food supply.

In 1943, just as the growing season is getting under way, Mr. Burt has an accident and must spend a while in a hospital out of town. Knowing what I have already said about the importance of their tomato rivalry, Teresa fights back against the plan to till Mr. Burt's garden under. She recruits kids from her school class to take over the Burts' garden as a project for the "war effort," selling the vegetables they grow to buy war bonds, and challenging her own father to the tomato duel at the county fair. Little does she realize how much work will be involved - sometimes backbreaking, sometimes heartbreaking. Little does she know that her do-good project will send her across the path of a runaway dog, a troubled boy, the local grouch, and a tragic young hero.

As Teresa follows the exploits of America's fighters in the air (like her own brother), tracing the war's progress on a big map on the dining room wall, so you will enjoy mapping Teresa's trajectory from naivete to wisdom, from childish bravado to courage, from focusing on the concerns of her immediate family to opening her heart to a wider community. It is an interesting journey to follow with one's imagination. We can only hope that such a spirit remains in our people, ready to rise to a challenge like the ones faced by Teresa's generation. [EDIT: Check out Ms. Kochenderfer's website for more information!]

The Nutmeg of Consolation
by Patrick O'Brian
Recommended Age: 14+

Book 14 of the "Aubreyiad" finds Capt. Jack Aubrey, Dr. Stephen Maturin, and 155 of their shipmates just where The Thirteen Gun Salute left them: marooned on an uninhabited South China Sea island after an uncharted shoal and a spectacular storm conspired to wreck their HMS Diane. With the local game population dwindling, the possibility of starvation looms in the not-too-distant future. Their one hope is to build a small boat out of the wreckage of the Diane, and send someone across perilous waters to fetch help for those left behind. But then a band of Malay pirates arrive, as desperate as the Dianes to control the island's water supply and prepared to fight to the last man to seize it. You think you have problems?

If you thus far followed the progress of Patrick O'Brian's twenty-part novel of naval and political warfare in the age of Napoleon, you might have started to grow restless after a long stretch with no fully-realized battle scenes. Might have, but probably haven't, because of the captivating characters of Jack and Stephen, the many passions of their lives (from music and botany to gunnery and deep-water sailing), and the people, places, and events surrounding them. Plus you have had courtroom drama, collisions of personalities (not all of them quite healthy), fascinating cultures, terrifying weather, and the intrigues of a highly skilled intelligence agent to absorb your attention. But even so, just suppose you have been hungering for a good, gruesome, shockingly violent battle. Would it thrill you to know that this book practically begins with one? Yes, I dare say it would.

It is a land battle, to be sure. But it's a ferocious one. And naval gunnery is what "floats your boat," fear not. Later in the book, Jack Aubrey outsails, outwits, and finally outfights a French frigate in an evenly-matched duel of naval maneuvers.

The Nutmeg of Consolation has all the loud bangs, flying splinters, and acrid smoke you could ask for; but it has so much more. It has a touching reunion with a beloved character we never hoped to see again. It has a duel of swords between a proud ship's surgeon and a boorish army officer. It has a duel of wills between a naval captain in the throes of a mid-life crisis and corrupt and hostile officials on land. It paints a picture of a savage period in the history of Australia that will leave you profoundly shaken. It shows the horrors of plague and the uncertainties of adopting children. It has perilous journeys into the outback, unexpected reflections upon the reading and writing of novels (coming out of the mouths of characters in a novel, mind you), long-delayed reunions, fortunes lost and regained, and an almost-fatal attack by -- ha, ha, I almost told -- but I will say this: I had already written The Magic Quill #126 before I read it (and 10 numbers after it), so don't go around calling me a plagiarist! "Great minds think alike" is my story and I'm sticking to it!

The final and decisive conflict of this story is one that threatens the friendship between Aubrey and Maturin. How this issue can raise more torturous suspense than anything else in the book is beyond my power to explain. Call it a miracle; one might well apply that word to O'Brian's work as a whole. Do, do come and witness this miracle for yourself. When you do, you won't waste time rationalizing it; you will simply believe, and be drawn out of yourself and into a time that now lives so vividly, but in words alone. And when it ends, you may find that "not a moment must be lost" before you set sail in Book 15, The Truelove.

The Truelove
by Patrick O'Brian
Recommended Age: 14+

The words "outraged platypus" appear on the third page of this book. Personally, I think that would have been a great title. However, for the title of his fifteenth installment in the adventures of British frigate commander Jack Aubrey and his physician-naturalist-intelligence-agent chum Stephen Maturin, Patrick O'Brian chose the name of a ship that doesn't heave into view for another 200 pages and more. Oh, well. We can't have everything.

Jack and Stephen are back aboard the Surprise, the privateer frigate Stephen recently sold to Jack. The nominal captain of the Surprise, as privateer, is faithful old Tom Pullings, but with Jack on board it sails as "His Majesty's Hired Frigate." And it's a frigate on His Majesty's business, too. British trade vessels have been caught in the crossfire between two rival chiefs on a Polynesian island, and Jack's orders are to figure out which side is most likely to swear allegiance to King George and help them rub out the other side.

It's a tricky thing, though. Ordinarily Jack relies on Stephen's advice. But this time, the nature of the mission seems bound to offend Stephen's anti-imperialist feelings. But Jack doesn't have time to agonize over the strain this mission will put on their friendship. The whole ship is being pulled apart and he is the last person to find out why.

Why? Because of a woman. A convict woman, escaped from the New South Wales penal colony, soon married to one of Jack's officers and, nearly as soon, the center of a tangle of romantic rivalry and jealousy that embitters the gunroom [or officer's mess, for those of you tuning in late] and threatens to undermine the discipline of the entire ship. What do you expect to happen when the officers despise each other, but that the foremast hands will choose up sides among them?

Prepare to behold Jack Aubrey's fury unleashed. Prepare for the seductive charms and vaguely chilling air of mystery that surround young Clarissa Oakes. Prepare for some gut-twisting battles, some thrilling naval-intelligence-type discoveries, some charming encounters with the nature and culture of the South Pacific, and loads upon loads of the tension that could, and often did, arise between strong-willed people forced to live for long periods between the decks of a small vessel in the middle of a huge ocean.

The Truelove has, above and beyond all that I have described, a virtually perfect plot that arcs gracefully from the first page to the last, and that nevertheless fits as snugly between The Nutmeg of Consolation and The Wine-Dark Sea as the battens fit into their cleats. (To understand this analogy better, read the book; Jack Aubrey's explanation of "battening down the hatches" is very helpful.) Replete with surprises, reversals, dark forebodings, dashing exploits, wistful partings, and the joy and anxiety of a brand-new father halfway around the globe from his firstborn, this book contains a rich world of experience for you to relish.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Tags Again

I have moved heaven and earth. I have tirelessly stalked the wild goose of Mound City. I have beared (sic) the line (sic) in its den, and gotten its number (on a small slip of paper torn off a roll of tickets). I have crossed all the teas in China, dotted Irish eyes when they weren't smiling, and wrestled with the angel of red tape until it said "Uncle." And when I was done doing all that, I sprayed my automobile plates with WD-40, scraped the '06 and '08 stickers off with the flat blade of a screwdriver, and triumphantly applied the '10 tags that I brought home as a trophy.

I may have mentioned before that the process of getting vehicle tags in the great State of Missouri is an ingenious plan to expose the criminal tendencies that lie within the meekest bosom. For if one is never tempted to get one's tags illegally, one must be virtuous indeed. My fourth time around was no exception to this rule.

First, my car failed both inspections (safety and emissions), requiring me to buy a new part to pass each (a light bulb and a mass air flow sensor). I had to wait for the M.A.F.S. to come into the shop on back-order, sweating over my apartment complex's threat to tow cars with expired tags; I then failed to complete all the tests needed to pass the inspection even after driving two and a half hours, city and highway, and had to spend half a day in the shop's waiting room while the techs drove my car around trying to get the sensor to complete the remaining tests. Not a bad day's work - and I mean "day's work," since in three visits I believe I spent over 8 hours in that waiting room, reading Patrick O'Brian novels and sucking on Dum-Dums (a perk of having Dobbs as your primary-care mechanic).

Second - speaking rhetorically, not sequentially - I had to make two visits to City Hall, a charming building modeled on some German Rathaus or other. The first visit, two weeks ago, was to get a copy of my 2006 and 2007 personal property tax receipts, which I couldn't find anywhere. Getting the 2007 receipt was a simple matter of visiting the collector's office and paying $1 for a duplicate copy of my tax bill, showing that I had paid in full. 2006 was another matter; no record of my having paid 2006 personal property could be found in the city's records. After being directed from the Collector's office to the License office to the Assessor's office & back around in varying order by people who gave meaning to the saying about the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing (e.g., they could see each other's doors along the same hallway, but they didn't know each other's fax or phone numbers), I finally met a truly friendly, cheerful, helpful person in the Assessor's office, who prevented me from going postal and told me what I had to do.

What did I have to do? I had (second-and-a-halfth) to obtain a 2006 personal property tax bill from a county I haven't lived in since late January 2006, after a protracted argument with a county collector who seemed to believe I should drive down to Union, Missouri, to pay it. (Thanks, lady, I needed the laugh.) I am still mystified as to how I was ever allowed to renew my tags in St. Louis City in 2006, or even get a 2007 tax bill from the city assessor (the one I had paid) without showing evidence of paying 2006 personal property. I took great pleasure in infuriating the Franklin County Collector by telling her I believed I must have paid my 2006 personal property to Yuma County, Arizona, by mistake - and if I could prove it, Franklin County, Missouri, could go soak its head - but by that time she had already cut a bill (with "Delinquent" stamped all over it in red ink) and mailed it to my new address.

Then (second-and-three-quarterth) I made my second trip to City Hall and, in spite of another truly helpful human being in the Collector's office, had to run up and down between the first floor and the fourth floor several times. All right, I took the elevator; and the elevator gods must have been smiling upon me, because the door always seemed to be opening just as I walked up to it. There was some controversy, at first, about whether I could pay my Franklin Co. bill in St. Louis city, a controversy which finally came out in my favor (eat your heart out, Franklin Co. Collector lady!). Then it was a simple matter of running up to Room 410 to buy a money order - then running back down to Room 109 to use the ATM because Room 410 only accepted cash or checks - then running back up to Room 410 to complete my purchase - then running back down to Room 109 to turn over the money order so they could send it to Union - then taking a number (aargh) in the License Office so I could finally present all my paper work - renewal application, insurance card, both inspections, both tax receipts, and a partridge in a pear tree - then running back to the ATM to get more cash to pay for the tags - then waiting in line again (briefly) to finish the renewal process - and then I was ready for WD-40 and the blade of a screwdriver!

P.S. A funny thing happened this morning, which I didn't mention to anybody at City Hall. I got a ticket for parking along the curb in my apartment complex. Not that I had any choice; the parking lot was overflowing by the time I got home last night. This place has a chronic parking problem; there are more apartments than spaces to park in. What really stung was that my ticket accuses me of parking where the curb was painted yellow, though in fact, there wasn't so much as a flake of yellow paint anywhere near my car. A few feet further on the curb turned yellow. The injustice rankled until I realized that I had gotten away with parking hard by a "No Parking" sign during last night's Symphony concert, and an hour past the expiration of my parking meter on my first visit to City Hall. Well might one talk of bearding the lion in his den! So what if the lion comes around by one's den to do a little shaving of his own?

Friday, May 9, 2008

Tight Week

My hours, minutes, and seconds this week are packed so tight they squeak. Sorry no updates since Monday. This has been "one of those weeks," and you'll hear about it when I have a spare moment that isn't earmarked for sleeping and eating. For now, expect to hear about some musical joy, some automotive pain, and my ongoing (and somewhat feeble) efforts to live as lean as the times. The picture is a slight hint.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Signing the Cross

From "In the Divine Service"...

Sometimes Christians make the sign of the cross on themselves. What does it mean?

The sign of the cross is a symbol to remind you of the price Jesus paid for you. It is a humble confession that you are a sinner who deserves the death Jesus died for you. It is also a joyful confession that you have been redeemed and forgiven through the bloody sacrifice of God's Son.

The sign of the cross is the symbol that was traced on your forehead (mind) and breast (heart) when you were baptized. In baptism, God buried your old sinful nature in the tomb with Christ, and joined you to His resurrection as His newborn child. So you are God's baptized child. You belong to Him by His grace. You can be sure He loves you, forgives you, and gives you eternal life.

When should we make the sign of the cross? You don't have to make the sign of the cross. But you can do so, as often as you need the reminder about God's grace to you. Do it whenever you want to remember, "Jesus died for me," or "I am baptized!"

Isn't this Roman Catholic? Roman Catholics do make the sign of the cross, perhaps for other reasons. But it is a Christian gesture, and you don't have to be a Catholic to make it. Surely it is good for all Christians to remember that we are baptized and redeemed. If something is good and healthful, should we avoid it simply because others use it wrongly? Should we stop eating fish because Catholics eat fish on Friday? Should we stop baptizing because Catholics do it too? It is enough to understand the symbol and benefit from it. Martin Luther, in his Small Catechism, instructs us to make the sign of the cross every morning and night when we call on our Father in prayer.

When would you suggest using the sign of the cross? At the opening of worship or prayer, the cross can be made while calling on God "in the name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Ghost," because Jesus' death on the cross opened the veil and gave us access to God. At Matins and Vespers, you could do the same at the words "Make haste to help me, O Lord," because our help is in the cross of Christ. The conclusion of the Creed, the benediction (blessing) at the end of the service, and after receiving Jesus' body and blood are other good times to remember the cross and baptism. Why? Because the faith we confess in the creed is centered on the cross. The peace the blessing promises us flows from the cross. And the Lord's Supper applies Jesus' sacrifice on the cross to you in a very personal, concrete way.

Is there a wrong way to use the sign of the cross? God's Word does not require us to sign ourselves with the cross. There is no biblical command to do it at certain times, or with particular frequency. Nor does God promise miraculous signs or material blessings through signing the cross. We should not use the cross as a good-luck charm. Nor should we feel burdened by obligation to sign the cross.

Make use of the sign of the cross as often or as seldom as you see fit. There is no need to be concerned if your neighbor uses it more or less often than you do. This doesn't mean he or she is a better or worse Christian than you. Assume that your neighbor feels a need for encouragement from the simplest sign that tells the Gospel story. Perhaps you will be encouraged as well!

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Laws of Felinity

This is hardly an original statement, but I don't own two cats. We just happen to live together. They have their rules, I have mine, and to the extent that we can make each other understand our rules, we get along quite well.

Sinead's Rules
  • Never pick me up unless you want to be clawed. When I feel like being held, I will climb onto your chest while you read on the couch or in bed. Get grabby at your own risk.
  • Don't disturb me when I am minding my own business, e.g. lying in a patch of sunlight. The consequences will not be severe (a painless warning nip, at most). But if I want attention, I will meow at you or roll flirtatiously on the floor in front of you.
  • So watch where you're walking, fatso.
  • Don't push me off the desk, bed, etc. against my will. You can tell by the peeved sound I make that I hate this.
  • Keep a close eye on the contents of the food and water dish. I have a big appetite for such a petit kitty. Plus, I've been experimenting with scooping water with my forepaw; there have been some messy accidents.
  • Be advised: any loose paper or plastic is mine to chew on or shred with my claws.
  • I can tell when you're calling me in that pretend-friendly way, when you really want to catch me and stuff me in the pet taxi to go to the vet. Please don't insult my intelligence.
  • Since you are so insistent about it (and particularly since you situated an ottoman next to your desk chair), I will stay off the desk while you are working - but only as long as you reach down and rub me between the ears every minute or so.
  • Excuse me, but the fastest route from one end of the apartment to the other is through the tangle of computer cables next to your desk. You will just have to put up with the fact that, quite by accident, I will turn off the master power switch to everything on your desk about every 50th time I make the trip. Which, when Tyrone and I are playing, may be daily.
  • Obey the meow. It means I need loving.
Tyrone's Rules
  • Obey my meow, too. It means "treat time."
  • I will let you pick me up and cradle me in your arms for a minute or so, but when I signal that I want down, kindly respect my wishes.
  • Any time the apartment door is open will be considered a legal round of the "run out in the hallway" game. You win if you can squeeze through the door without letting me out. If I win, I get to roll on the hall rug and laugh at you. For extra points, I may run upstairs and roll on the carpet there. Grabbing me or slamming the door on me is a foul.
  • If I am able to open a cupboard or closet door, I will do so in order to teach you a lesson in being more careful with your belongings.
  • I expect to be allowed to help any time you change the bedclothes, sort the laundry, or write checks to pay bills.
  • I want to be greeted when you come home from work. Most days, I will be waiting on the piano. Know when to expect me to put my forepaws on your chest, touch my nose to your lips, and sniff your breath. What you had for lunch is my business.
  • I may also wake you up at 3 a.m. by shoving your chin with my forehead. This means I want loving. You might as well wake up and give it, because I'm not going to quit.
  • If, however, I lie on the bed or couch with you - or, less often, on you - leave me alone. If you interfere with my relaxation, I will take it somewhere else.
  • Thank you for letting the bathtub faucet drip. Nothing makes me happier than playing with dripping tapwater and licking the dampness around the drain.
  • I am personally entitled to all water drained from tuna cans.
Robbie's Amendments
  • We'll see if this carefully-positioned book-end spares the master-power switch from being randomly switched off. For goodness sake, I turned the power-strip sideways to keep it out of your way! I have trouble finding the switch when I need it!
  • Cross me too many times on the closets and cupboards, and I'll get the duct-tape out again.
  • When I tell you to get down off the table, desk, kitchen counter, etc., don't give me a dumb look. You know exactly what I mean.
  • If you're going to lie down in my path at 3 a.m., prepare for pain. In the darkness, without my glasses, with my eyes glued shut from sleep, I won't see you lying there.
  • Your cuddly behavior - particularly Tyrone's head-butts and Sinead's purring - will be deemed adequate compensation for all the other trouble, including poop-scooping and picking cat hair out of the vacuum filter. So keep it up.
  • You should also recognize the times when I need comforting the most. Your concern is appreciated.
  • Your help making the bed is always appreciated.

Marvelous Nonsense

Here is one of my favorite pieces of nonsense. It was allegedly written by English humorist and playwright Samuel Foote in 1754, to test the memory of an actor (Charles Macklin) who claimed to be able to recite anything he had read once. There are variants of this story, however, as there are variants of the text itself, and as no version has any support in the memoirs of the persons supposedly involved, we can safely consign it to the realm of folklore. Nevertheless, it is important nonsense. It introduced the word "Panjandrum" to the world, it was popularized a century later in a children's book illustrated by Randolph Caldecott, and within living memory it has continued to be passed down by parents and teachers as a whimsical exercise in rote recitation. It provokes thought and discussion about the relationship between imagery and memory, and between grammar and meaning. It is part of a tradition that includes Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky" and Noam Chomsky's famous sentence "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously." It is neither a poem nor a story, but merely a brilliant piece of nonsense that has become part of the literary treasure of the English language. I give you

The Great Panjandrum
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make an apple-pie; and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street, pops its head into the shop. "What! No soap?" So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Joblillies, and the Garyulies, and the great Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all fell to playing the game of catch-as-catch-can till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Puzzlers

A friend of mine passed along some puzzlers, and now I pass them on to you. The answers will be in the comments, so you needn't spoil yourself by accident.

1. You're on the old TV game show "Let's Make a Deal." Monty Hall presents you with a choice of three doors. Behind one of the doors is a shiny new car. Behind each of the other doors is a goat. You choose Door Number One. Monty Hall, knowing which door conceals the car, opens Door Number Three and reveals one of the goats. Then he asks if you would like to switch your choice to Door Number Two. If you changed your choice, would you be more likely or less likely to win the new car, or would your chances stay the same?

2. There is three things wrong with this sentance. What are they?

3. You're sailing on a small, closed lake when you throw a 50-pound anchor over the side, and it sinks right to the bottom. Does the water level rise, go down, or stay the same?

4. You're driving over a steep hill. The uphill side is one mile long, and the downhill side is one mile long. Going uphill, your average speed is 30 miles per hour. What speed must you average on the downhill side to have an average speed of 60 miles an hour going up and down?