Bookless

Books on shelves lining walls, tucked in nooks and filling stalls.
One day they'll be gone, so we'll all be reading from our phones.

I miss the paper, miss the smell, of books and ink and words which tell
stories, poems, and news as well. I fear they'll soon be gone.

I love the feel of turning pages, traveling back through distant ages,
reading wise words from the sages. And all things written down.

Knowledge came in stages, and I fear that without pages
It will all be subject to changes. Things of import, ought be writ in stone....

The Police Gazette

When I was in elementary school I was not much on paying attention in class. I had all sorts of distractions at my disposal. The window by my desk offered a full view of Wm. Kelly Park in Brooklyn, and though it was empty during the school day, the subway tracks ran alongside of the park, with trains passing every few minutes. I used to watch those trains and daydream about the people on them, and where they were headed.

But, by far, my favorite distraction were the many books and magazines I smuggled into the classroom. My two favored literary choices in 5th grade were the latest Mickey Spillane novels my Dad used to read, as well as the Police Gazette.

While the former had all the suspense of a good murder mystery, along with a voluptuous secretary named Velda, the Police Gazette had all the lurid details of whatever horrifying crimes were making the current rounds. In addition to this attraction were the many "true" crime stories from New York City's past. I always preferred the ones from the turn of the Century. Being removed from the events by several decades made them seem less horrid, and more like entertainment.

So, I would fold the Gazette up, as best as I could within my loose-leaf book, and be transported to places far from the boredom of the classroom. It was a good system, at least for a while.

I had already been admonished by my teachers, and parents, about Mickey Spillane being inappropriate for a 5th grader, but the Gazette, well that was news, or at least current events in my opinion, and so it was fair game to read that in lieu of paying attention during "Social Studies". To me they were about the same. But not everyone agreed with my 11 year old thoughts on the matter.

The whole thing came to a head one day after recess. I had carefully folded my Gazette into my book and placed it in my desk, a two person affair with a space beneath the writing surface for storing books and pencils. Then I went to recess, with little idea of the betrayal which awaited my return.

As I re-entered the classroom that morning, something didn't feel quite right. Mrs. Denslow was looking at me with that sly, slightly amused look she always had when dealing with recalcitrant little boys such as I. But wait! As I passed by her I spied a copy of the Police Gazette on her desk! Could it be true? Mrs. Denslow, she of the halo braided hairdo, read the Gazette just as I did? I had always thought of the Gazette as a "man's" magazine, indeed I had first taken up reading it in the barbershop, where it lay alongside of Playboy and Esquire.

I gave Mrs. Denslow a knowing look, as if we shared some great secret between us. Summoning me to her desk she asked if I knew what the Gazette was. I happily replied that I did indeed, and I had the very same issue in my desk. I also added that I was very happy that we shared the same taste in reading material. That's when it hit me! Someone, most likely my desk mate, a refined young lady, had turned me in while I was at recess.

Mrs. Denslow explained to me that I was in class to learn, not in a tonsorial parlor, and as such, the Gazette was not really proper for me to be reading. She would have to call my father about this. We had already been through the Mickey Spillane episode, and I guess that she thought the issue of appropriate reading material had been duly addressed. My father was summoned to school for a meeting with Mrs. Denslow .

The next morning, about a half an hour before school began, my father and I met with Mrs. Denslow in my deserted 5th grade classroom. There is nothing more threatening to an 11 year old than being in the classroom alone with your father and your teacher. No good can possibly come of it.

Mrs. Denslow got right down to the issue, informing my Dad of my transgression, and reminding him of our previous encounter concerning Mickey Spillane. She was of the opinion that I should not be reading either those books, or the Gazette. My father agreed that these were not appropriate for class, but drew the line at her "suggestion" that I not read the Gazette in the barbershop. In his considered view, "What went on in the barbershop" was sacrosanct, and that included the Gazette.

I'm thinking about this episode now because I am just finishing the last Chapter of a book which recalls every lurid article I ever read in the Police Gazette. Like those stories, this one takes place in New York City, at about the turn of the century. Now, Mrs. Denslow was my favorite teacher in elementary school, and she may have been right about the choices I made concerning reading Mickey Spillane at such a young age. But, after all these years, I still have to disagree on the Gazette. Through its pages I developed a love of New York City and its criminal history. And that fascination has remained with me to this very day.

"Carolina Israelite" by Kimberly Marlowe Hartnett (2015)

I was first introduced to the writings of Harry Golden by Leonard Herman when I was 15 years old. He was the father of one of my friends when I was growing up in Brooklyn. Come to think of it, he also was the first person to expose me to Isaac Singer’s wonderful short stories. Years later; something like 40; I went to live in Charlotte, N.C. where Mr. Golden is somewhat of a legend; if only for the fact that he lived through the Civil Rights Movement here while writing about it like a liberal Jew from New York.

His home/office on Elizabeth Avenue was even burnt down in reaction to something he printed in his self-published newspaper the “Carolina Israelite” which is the tile of this book. The authors’ mother actually worked for Mr. Golden for a brief period in the 1940’s and uses the title in the way Mr. Golden meant it. It wasn’t the title of the paper as much as it was a description of Mr. Golden himself; he was the Carolina Israelite; roaming the wilderness of North Carolina espousing his views on racial and social equality, much as the Israelites roamed the desert for 40 years in search of a home.

The author does a wonderful job of chronicling the life of this enigmatic man; including his years in New York where he rose from the Lower East side selling newspapers on the corners, to engaging in some very astute stock market swindles which landed him in jail for a time. It was after his stint in prison that he began to roam, looking for a new start somewhere. For some reason he chose Charlotte, North Carolina as the place to transform himself.

As a spokesman for African-Americans he penned the controversial, and hysterically funny piece of satire called “The Vertical Negro Plan”, in which he solves the whole lunch counter seating problem which was then engulfing North Carolina by simply recommending that all seats be removed from restaurants and schools, as the only time black and white people seemed to have problems concerned seating arrangements; even on buses. Make ‘em all stand.

His friendships’ with some of the most influential men of his time are well chronicled, and the author does a great job of reviewing those relationships and even how some of them came about. His habit was to add a famous person’s name to his subscription list and then mention that they were subscribers, thus enhancing his own stature. Shades of his Wall Street days come to mind here. Surprisingly, most of those he befriended in this way actually did become friends with him. The Kennedy’s, both Bob and Jack; Carl Sandburg, who also lived in North Carolina; Adlai Stevenson; even Billy Graham all were proud to count him among their friends.

As far as Jewish-American relations go, Mr. Golden was not idle in that theater of operation. His most stunning piece of work; at least in my eyes; is his essay “Teaching Shylock”, in which he shows the reader how the “Merchant of Venice” and its portrayal of Shylock were not anti-Semitic at all. In fact Shakespeare has lampooned the Christian aristocracy in such a subtle way that people have been reading that play all wrong for 500 years. This is some accomplishment and I urge you strongly to read that piece. I will include a link to it at the end of this review.

In short, this is a wonderful book, long overdue, about one of the most underrated and unappreciated writers in American literature. It is only in the past 20 years that he has begun to be recognized as such. Lenny Herman was way ahead of the curve when he introduced me to the works of this wonderful man of letters.

Here is a link to the “Teaching Shylock” piece, which I really hope you will take the time to read.  If you are a Shakespearean scholar, or just a humble Jew like me, this piece will simply blow you away.

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2014/05/teaching-shylock-by-harry-golden-1961.html

And for a review of “For 2 Cents Plain” use this link;

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2009/05/for-2-cents-plain-by-harry-golden.html

Contemporary Grammar- The Elusive Semi-Colon

If you ain't got no use for good grammar; or speaking good; then this won't be of no interest to you, so skip it.

One of the hardest parts of reviewing books is avoiding nitpicking about meaningless stuff; and for the most part I think I do a good job in that respect. But I have held my piece for 6 long years now concerning the disappearance of the semi-colon from our language. It’s a kind of “endangered species” in the world of grammar. And, even when one is used, it is often used incorrectly.

Let me be up front about this; I never went to college. Actually, I went for 2 days. Took a look around and realized that I was only there for other people and their expectations of me. So, I stopped going. Maybe not the brightest decision; but it’s the path I chose. But that doesn't mean I don’t know my grammar. I learned it in grammar school; of all places. And the lessons stuck.

See what I have done in the last two paragraphs? I have used a semi-colon to extend sentences beyond simple statements and add nuance to the writing. In the first sentence I used one to judge my own statement, while still keeping the integrity of the first part. And I did that 3 times in the second paragraph. That’s one use for the semi-colon.

The other great thing about semi-colons is that they can be used as a sort of parentheses to insert an idea in the middle of a statement. This allows for more complex sentences and the insertion of a different thought, which may not be directly related to the one at hand; but adds to the sentence nevertheless.

Here’s an example from a book I am in the process of reading right now. As a matter of fact, this is the sentence which broke this “camels’ back”; resulting in this silly little article.

“Eliot personally convinced Vernon Stoufffer of the popular Stouffer’s restaurant to cooperate, even though the restaurateur, worried about the impact on his business, had refused to help Cullitan four years earlier.”

Remember the first rule about a comma? It’s used to separate something from the main body of a sentence. Moreover, it is supposed to leave intact the words on either end of the commas as a complete sentence. Read that one above again and see if it meets these criteria. Clearly this sentence is crying out for a breath; which can be supplied by my old friend the semi-colon. Let’s try it on for size.

Eliot personally convinced Vernon Stoufffer of the popular Stouffer’s restaurant to cooperate, even though the restaurateur; worried about the impact on his business; had refused to help Cullitan four years earlier.

Still doesn’t satisfy the rule about the two ends of the sentence making sense while standing alone. So, let’s try and break it up into two sentences for the sake of clarity.

Eliot personally convinced Vernon Stoufffer, of the popular Stouffer’s restaurant, to cooperate. The restaurateur; worried about the impact on his business; had refused to help Cullitan four years earlier.

That’s much better. It even provides proof of the rule concerning the joining of the two ends of the sentences as one coherent thought. It also shows very clearly the difference between the use of a comma; as shown in the first sentence; and the use of a semi-colon in the second sentence. Where the first sentence needed a breath; the second one needed a pause.

This is just me finally getting something off my chest which has been bothering me for some time now. It’s no big deal; my chest or the something I just got off of it. But I do feel better. And, by the way, if you go back about 4 years or more on this blog, you will find me guilty of everything I am complaining about here today.

1. com·ma

   ˈkämə/

   noun

   noun: comma; plural noun: commas; noun: comma butterfly; plural noun: comma butterflies

   1. 1.

      a punctuation mark (,) indicating a pause between parts of a sentence. It is also used to separate items in a list and to mark the place of thousands in a large numeral.

1. sem·i·co·lon

   ˈsemēˌkōlən,ˈsemīˌkōlən/

   noun

   noun: semicolon; plural noun: semicolons; noun: semi-colon; plural noun: semi-colons

   1. a punctuation mark (;) indicating a pause, typically between two main clauses, that is more pronounced than that indicated by a comma.

"The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry

O. Henry, along with the likes of Mark Twain, marked a new type of journalist; ones who became serious writers; a tradition which has continued to the present day. With such luminaries from Mark Twain on through to Jimmy Breslin and Norman Mailer, journalists have become, increasingly, some of the leading writers of their times. O.Henry was no exception. With his incredible feel for irony, and knowledge of human behavior, he wrote of the daily struggles which faced the generation of his time. Jim and Della are emblematic of that struggle, and the love for one another which enabled them to make it through the rough times. The irony in the story is apparent, as well as their love for one another. The illustration I have posted here is the "Adoration of the Magi" by the Italian Artist, Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510). This is a perfect Christmas story, which I have enjoyed for many years, thanks once again, to a grammar school teacher who really had a heart, and made a difference. Mrs. Denslow, this one's for you.

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

The Picasso from Rocky Mount, N.C.

The following remarks were delivered yesterday by Eddie Ray of the North Carolina Music Hall of Fame at the ceremonies honoring Thelonius Monk, which took place in Rocky Mount, N.C. I was privileged to be asked to write a little something befitting of the occasion; and glad to do it.

My original draft was a little bit different in that it included 3 paragraphs which Eddie Ray chose not to speak, thus proving his legendary talents as an accomplished Artists and Repertoire (A&R) man. I have been known to go on tangents and need minding. 

So, here is the text of the remarks as written by me and edited to a fine edge by Eddie Ray, and then spoken at the ceremony. It was an honor for me to write about Thelonius Monk; and although I might not be the number 1 fan as purported in the in the opening remarks; I do recognize the genius of the man.

Introduction by Bobby Monk.

Eddie Ray:

“Thank you Bobby,

When Robert Williams,  a devoted fan of Thelonius  Monk,  heard that I had been honored to participate in Thelonius’  97th  Birthday Celebration in his home town of Rocky Mount, NC, he sent me   some  suggested  comments  about his musical idol  that he would  have liked to share if he were participating in the Celebration.  Robert’s comments were so beautiful and emotionally moving, I decided to share them with you. He entitled his presentation, 

 

“THE PICASSO FROM ROCKY MOUNT”

“The leaves would have been turning; just as they are now. Look around outside at the beautiful colors surrounding us; these were the first sights that the boy would ever see.  And though he traveled far; would they ever leave him?  The sounds of his first winter would have been full of the wind as it howled and blew through  the hills;  and when it froze  he would have heard the cracking of the tree limbs as they broke away from the trunks, crashing,  quietly muffled on the snow  covered ground; crashing quietly; just like the struggles evident in his music later on; when discordant notes fought for a place among sweeter melodies. Could his senses have ever really forgotten from where that came?

Surrounded by the colors and SOUNDS of these hills and mountains where he was born had to have helped form the mind of the boy who would someday mesmerize the world with his unique SOUNDS. And although he would leave these hills at an early age; he was only 5 years old when his family moved to New York City; this is where he came from.

After moving to New York, where the people today still claim  him as their own;  it seemed like everybody wanted a piece of him.  A largely self-taught   musician, he did attend Julliard for a while; where it must have been difficult for him to contain his musical visions within the confines of a structured school setting.  But, at age 17 he toured with a gospel band playing the organ for a few years before forming his own ensemble. 

After that, came the legendary years, which produced such classics as “Round Midnight” in 1947. Photos of him at the time; he was 30; show a sharply dressed and focused man. I could go on about all his great achievements in the field of Progressive; and even Advant Garde Jazz, but all of that has been covered elsewhere by others. You didn't come here to hear a biography. You came here to celebrate a great musical SOUND.  

Somewhere, sometime; there was a note, or possibly a melody, which entranced you and drew you in, And then you were hooked on that “SOUND”. Thelonius Monk was that SOUND personified. And his entire life; until his death over 30 years ago; was a continued exploration of just how far he could take that SOUND, from Rocky Mount, NC to New York City and to every city in the world he took his SOUND he refined it each step of the way , adding something he heard here; and a note he heard there; until those combined SOUNDS became the soundtrack of his own life and travels; and the lives of those that traveled the musical path with him.

But in the end it always comes back to the place where it began. Sometimes it takes a while for the SOUND to travel; but travel it does. And this time it has traveled all the way back to Rocky Mount, NC where it began”.    ©Robert Williams

On behalf of the NC Music Hall of Fame,  I am  honored  and grateful  to have  the opportunity to  help  preserve, honor and promote Thelonius  Monk’s extraordinary contributions to the rich musical history of our State of North Carolina and to the entire world.  The memory and enjoyment of his amazing musical contributions to the world of music will live on forever.

For more about both Eddie Ray and the NC Music Hall of Fame in Kannapolis, go to their link at;

http://northcarolinamusichalloffame.org/

Scylla and Charybdis

This is a cool story and is a perfect example of reading being a key to self-education. I was reading a biography about Johnny Carson when I came across a phrase with which I was unfamiliar. I caught the meaning, but not the source. So, I looked it up. The phrase was Scylla and Charybdis and was used in reference to being in an awkward situation with little choice and dire consequences. At least that is what I inferred from what I read.  I wasn't too far off, as it is usually used to denote being between a rock and a hard place. Here’s why.

Scylla and Charybdis were the sea creatures who guarded the Straits of Messina; a place I have been to many times in the Navy. The first was Scylla, who was located on the same side as the Italian mainland and took the form of a 6 headed monster. The other, Charybdis was located by the shoals off the Island of Sicily and was characterized as a whirlpool. It was a double blind of sorts, as to pass too closely to one would put you in the range of the other.

This story is all a part of Homer’s story in "The Odyssey" as he is forced to choose which of the two demons he must face to successfully navigate the Straits. (He is described as having just passed the Island of Sirens.) He decided to risk the wrath of Scylla which would cause the least amount of casualties, rather than the whirlpool of Charybdis which would have meant the loss of his entire crew.

This is the origin of the phrase “between a rock and a hard place”, which also gave rise to the more modern “from the frying pan into the fire.” In Latin the phrase is “incidit in scyllam cupiens vitare charybdis” which translates as “he runs on Scylla, wishing to avoid Charybdis.”

This is what I love the most about reading. Everything I learn is another piece of the puzzle. But here’s the problem with learning stuff on your own. Most of my life I have been reading about things I have never heard pronounced aloud. President Truman had this same problem. 

I wish I had a buck for every time I mispronounced a name or word that I have come across while reading. But I also wish I had just a thin dime for each time I have been told I was pronouncing something wrong by someone who knew the correct pronunciation, but had no clue to the meaning behind the words. Undoubtedly, I would be awash in small coin.

The photo at the top is of the Castello Scilla located on the coast of the mainland at Calabria.

Charlotte Observer - Out of Control Delivery

This is what home delivery of the Charlotte Observer looks like after a 6 month battle with the newspaper concerning the lack of customer satisfaction. It’s confusing; on the one hand the newspapers bemoan their demise; on the other they treat their customers badly, furthering eroding an already declining readership.

This 6 month saga began on Thanksgiving. After a prolonged period of having my paper either missing, or thrown in a rain puddle instead of placed in the paper box, I made a call to the carrier and was called a “mother-f’ing asshole” by the thug who answered and then hung up. After several more calls over a period of days I finally called Taylor Batten, the editor of the Observer, who told me that the problem would be resolved. It was, for about a week.

Then, after I got past all of the merry go rounds on the different phone numbers I was supposed to call, I got the woman in charge of the route. She assured me that the guy doing my route was leaving at the end of December and that he was probably just being nasty. Oh, pardon me; I didn't know your carrier was just being “nasty.” That explains it all. And so things have continued on in this way in spite of my repeated calls to the carrier and the paper.

And that’s just the story as far as home delivery goes.

It’s worth noting two things about home delivery of the Observer. The newspaper always champions the working poor; while shifting lower paying customer service jobs overseas. I can now find out the weather in the Philippines by just asking the person who answers my call. It should be noted that not once have these people hung up on me or even cursed at me.

Also of note is that whenever you see the job advertised for delivery of the paper, it requires a drug test. And, also a clean criminal background check. So, the newspaper thrown in the street was presumably placed there by a non-drug user who has no criminal record. There are mornings when I actually see the delivery being made, since I’m always awake and in pain by 4 AM. The delivery person barrels through at about 40 miles per hour, window down, music up loud, and a newspaper hurtling through the air, where it lands no one cares.

The owner of the route which encompasses my home is Sharon Dawson and her phone number is 704-258-2924.  I’d list the Observer’s number but nobody there really cares.

The World Almanac - 2012

This is the book; accept no substitutes. When the power goes out, and the computers don’t work, this handy book is the place to be. Great for settling disagreements on almost any topic imaginable, it also contains copies of the text of the U.S. Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, a full color World Atlas, biographies of every President since George Washington, a complete list of every nation in the world; with vital statistics on each one; population of the world by countries, population of the United States by cities and counties, a brief overview of the world’s major religions, records of every Presidential election in our history, a full color review of the highlights from 2012, playing card and dice odds, ancient measurements such as the cubit, conversion charts for temperature, wind chill, heat index, metric system, extensive alphabetical listing of noted personalities living, noted personalities of the past, Broadway show records, economics, music, a section on aerospace, astronomy, calendars of all types, computers and telecommunications information, distances between cities, air traffic routes, median prices of existing homes by location, Income Tax information, zip codes, area codes, Morse code, marital status by households, a history of the United States, a short history of the world, a list of colleges and universities, acronyms, eponyms, foreign words and phrases, origins of names, sign language, buildings, bridges and tunnels, and about 200 pages of sports records organized by sport, date, feat accomplished, and records broken; like this one for one of the longest sentences.

This book, which is not necessary to update each year, is a good solid addition to any personal library. I even keep an old one in the car for the rare times I am caught without something to read. The biographies of the Presidents never get old, and there is always something new to be learned; even from an old almanac.

Reading for Fun - A Self Portrait

I began to read a new book the other day; I had just cracked the cover of the book which I intend to review next week; when I realized that I had no idea which book I had picked up, nor what the subject was about. I frequently have several books going at once, sort of a juggling act which I enjoy doing, but I always know which book I am reading. Apparently ,not this time. However, in  my defense I offer the following;

I had just turned to the first page of Chapter One; I read the Introductions, etc. later on, after I have gotten the flavor of the book, so as to avoid being steered in any direction other than that of the author’s own words within the narrative. This book begins with the line, “Fred Whalen learned to scam along the Mississippi, the river that divides America, at pool halls and revivals.” Great line; it  hooked me from the get-go, it has the elements of time and place, along with the personal type of pitch which appeals to me. In short; it made me want to read more; and I am in the process of doing just that. We'll have to wait and see if it can hold my interest against the other two I'm reading.

But, my greater point is this; I have finally reached the point I always dreamt about; I have become that absent minded, besieged by books, slightly confused type of old guy I always wanted to be. And, I actually understood Clint East Eastwood the other night. You got a problem with that?

"Rascal" by Sterling North (1964 Newberry Honor Book)

I have reviewed this book here before. I read it for the first time in 5^th grade, and many times since. Mrs. Denslow, the most saintly woman who ever taught a class, was my teacher at the time. She wore her hair in a halo braid around her head, with white blouses that buttoned up to her neck. I only mention it because she reminded me so much of the era in which this book takes place. Mrs. Denslow was born about 1904, and would have been the same age as the author, and so I must have felt like I was getting a peek into her world.

“Rascal” is the story of author Sterling North’s 18 months caring for a raccoon whom he named “Rascal” for all of the mischief he got into. He was abandoned by his mother and adopted by the author, who lived with his father in a Victorian house on the edge of a lake in Wisconsin. His father having been widowed when the author was a boy, made for an adventurous childhood, one which included building a canoe in the parlor, much to the chagrin of Mr. North’s older sister Theo. Although she did not live at home any longer, she felt the need to come and visit, criticizing all that she could.

Mr. North bonds with his new friend and they spend the next year and a half getting to know one another. Eventually, as Rascal matures, he hears the call of another, female raccoon and the author is confronted with a dilemma – should he keep the pet that he loves, or love the pet that needs to be set free?

The story takes place in the closing days of the First World War, which is probably another reason this book has endeared itself to me. Along with classics such as “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, “Penrod-His Complete Story”, and many others, this book really takes the reader back to a much simpler time, one which you will want to re-visit again and again.

Support Reading - Boycott HarperCollins

Although this blog reviews things other than books, and indeed, at times I stray off track into various different subjects, it is primarily a site about books. Ones that I have read in the past, as well as ones that I am currently reading. So, it would be remiss of me to overlook the news item that caught my eye this morning concerning HarperCollins and their plan, make that policy, to charge libraries a fee for each time an e-book is lent out after the 26th time. The impact that this would have on the Public Libraries as a whole, at a time in which library funds are being slashed across the country, is staggering. The libraries, underfunded as they are, will have no choice but to pass the fees along to their patrons. Many will be unable to afford the fees. Let's examine that scenario for a moment.

Back when Benjamin Franklin began the library system, books were very expensive and not many people could afford them. That was the impetus behind creating a Public Library to begin with. It was a way to help the public learn, to broaden their horizons and soar among the words of the great philosophers, poets and essayists. It was a noble endeavor embarked upon by the need to have an educated populace, as ignorance serves no legitimate purpose in any society.

Fast forward a few hundred years to the 20th Century. Libraries were built with the help of the wealthy, for use by the less fortunate. Andrew Carnegie, pictured above, comes to mind as a prime example. For my entire life, and that of our parents, the Public Library has always been there for us. They have rolled with the times, adding music and videos to their collections, reflecting the changing culture of the times. And it has worked out rather well. There are now more literate people than at any time in our previous history. And we were able to accomplish that without charging fees.

Let's look at it this way, the average classroom size is about 35 students. Let's say the class is assigned to read "To Kill A Mockingbird." There are 4 copies of the book in the school library, 3 paper copies and 4 e-books in the Public Library. That's 11 copies for one class to share. Wait! I forgot! There's more than one school in the area of the library. So, that means that most of the students will have to purchase the book to satisfy the assignment. Not a very promising outlook, is it?

One can't help but wonder where this will all lead. As traditional paper books give way to the e-book, what will happen to those who can't afford the fees to read? What future is in store for a society in which books are reserved for those with money? Victorian England and Charles Dickens both come to mind. Remember the part in "Oliver Twist" when Oliver is charged with the theft of a book from a bookseller - there were no public libraries in England at the time - is that where we are heading?

Perhaps HarperCollins will be doing away with printed materials altogether, eschewing them in favor of a new technology which will reward them handsomely? It's not unthinkable that eventually HarperCollins will take their entire inventory to e-books, thus eliminating many titles from the Public Libraries, replacing them with e-books which will generate a greater profit.

I called HarperCollins in New York about 2 hours ago. I was passed along to 2 voice mails, and then upon my insistence was permitted to speak with a live human being, at no additional charge. This person took my name and number and promised to pass my message along. I will print the response here, should I ever receive one.

In the meantime, if you care about books, libraries and reading in general, do us all a favor and make the call to HarperCollins. Let them know how you feel about this new policy. You can reach them at 212-207-7000. And if you are reading anything by Sarah Palin, Michael Crichton or Anne Rice, please contact them and let them know it is time to change publishers.

The Boston Public Library, founded in the 1850's, was really the first library intentionally founded to lend books for free. And they got it right when they stated their mission and goals;

•There is a close linkage between knowledge and right thinking;

•The future of democracy is contingent on an educated citizenry;

•There is a strong correlation between the public library movement and public education;

•Every citizen has the right of free access to community-owned resources.

Books I am Currently Reading

I don't always take out books to read all the way through. I sometimes look to affirm some of my beliefs by taking out books on the relevant subjects. I peruse them to either confirm, or refute, what I think I know. Those books, often, don't get reviewed here. In this first case, the subject is Malaria, a cause that I have been very interested in for several years, and on which I hold certain beliefs concerning the treatments and vaccines, that I wished to verify.

The book is informative, a bit over clinical for my purposes, but written in a very easily read fashion. Sonia Shah is an expert in the field of Malaria, and more than that, she seems to know the entire history of this disease that has afflicted mankind for over 500,000 years. The author also explores the various methods of treatments available today and their effectiveness, including the newer vaccines.

There is also a political component at work here, as the big pharmaceutical companies sell new these new vaccines, which are only effective about 50% of the time, to third world countries, along with the AIDS "cocktails." Rather than prescribing quinine and spraying DDT, as was done here in the United States, and the Panama Canal, to great success, why is this known, and effective treatment being denied to the African Nations? Why must they be subjected to these experiments at a time when they are fighting an immune disorder? Why are over 1 million people a year still dying in Africa, from a disease long ago erradicated here in the Western Hemisphere?

The answer usually centers around the environmental concerns related to DDT. Yet, when Katrina rolled through New Orleans a few years ago, we sprayed DDT to thwart the spread of the mosquitoes. Why there, and not in third world countries? My questions are largely about the legitimacy of making people take experimental malarial vaccines in order to obtain treatment for AIDS. It would seem to me, counterproductive, to further assault the affected immune systems with an experimental drug, rather than use the quinine and DDT. But that's why I read, to find answers.

I took this book out to review some of my knowledge about the differences between the major faiths in the world today, and why those differences affect us. Big topic with lots of side roads to explore. What I found is that while I know quite a bit about the subject, I know so little, and have so much to learn.

The last few days have been snowy, and I've been a bit lazy. (Chipping ice, digging out the car, replacing my car battery, etc.) I'm headed to the library later today, where I hope to find that "perfect" book. One that will keep me riveted to the pages from first to last.

Three for the Road

I carry three books in my car. You never know when you might have to wait somewhere and need something to occupy your mind. I usually have a book with me that I am currently reading, but these are my "backup" books.

The first one is this "Pelican History of the World". It has given me many informative and enjoyable hours when I was waiting in line somewhere, or even in severe traffic when I have had to pull over on the shoulder to let time pass. It has taken me from a chapter called "Before History" to the last chapter, which is called "The Post European Age" and includes the Cold War and it's aftermath, as well as "The Asian Revolution". It has proven invaluable at times when fact checking the various radio talk show hosts for accuracy. They have fallen short of the mark several times. History is a good thing to know if you want to stay objective.

This book, although 4 years outdated, is still a valuable tool in judging trends and debunking myths. With a complete World Atlas it gives a unique perspective on the news. It helps to see that Iraq was a roadblock to unifying the Islamic World, Saddam Hussein notwithstanding. Somehow, when you view a map, along with the news, you see the strategies involved in some of the political decisions being made by our respective leaders. This may be the most dangerous book of all, as it can make you think.

Actually, this was one of the items originally listed in the Patriot Act as contraband on airplanes. I make it a point to carry one whenever I travel. With a copy of the Declaration of Independence, as well as a copy of the Constitution, it really seems to annoy certain people. It also has information and demographics on every state in the Union as well as all the countries of the world, making it an excellent traveling companion. Kind of like the ultimate guide book. With the sections on culture and art you have a very enjoyable and handy mini laptop at your disposal.

The last book in my threesome is the Bible. I employ this King James version (courtesy of the Gideons)as a means of defense against those who would misquote it in various efforts to force their views upon others. Genesis and Psalms are my favorite parts of the so called "Old Testament", while "Romans" is my favorite part of "The New Testament". This book is especially helpful when confronted by overzealous bigots masquerading as People of Faith. Sometimes you can actually educate them. But not often.

There's alot of history, and the story of our whole civilization, told in these three small books. And the best thing about them is that they invariably lead you to find other books, more detailed, on each subject. It becomes an ever lasting chain
of learning, until you learn enough to know that it is impossible for you to know everything. And I don't. But one thing I do know is that I love these books.