SCOOP MURPHY WRITES AGAIN................

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2011-04-30T23:37:00.000-04:00

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THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MORGAN: Part 5 in an ongoing series

2011-01-30T13:46:00.004-05:00

First things first:


DOES IT GET ANY CUTER THAN THIS? GO STEELERS!

On with the rest of the programming:

So, maybe the cold weather has dissolved my plans to go walking today. It hasn't put a damper on my Wii Fit and the ever popular digital hula-hoop. Don't you just think it is twisted that Wii Fit is pronounced "We fit" as if it is a declarative sentence? Or, equally as twisted, that it could also be interpreted as a French statement "Oui, fit!"

Today is Blog Sunday. As soon as this missive is put to press, the TV goes on my drill sergeant avatar will be screaming my name. So, without further adieu, Part 5 in the continuing posting of THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MORGAN. Soon to be a made for TV series starring Ruth Naginnarb as Scoop Murphy.

NUMBER 18: NEVER ALLOW ANOTHER PERSON TO MAKE YOU ANGRY, NO MATTER WHAT THE CIRCUMSTANCES

Morgan as a soloist for Sacred Heart Church

Of course, sometimes we fall prey to other people making us angry. When that happens, you cease being logical because your thought process has been taken over by the ever absorbing dynamic of anger. One can mirror anger from some else or be deliberately goaded into losing control by someone with negative ulterior motives. By losing your self-control, you give up command of your senses to welcoming anger or, worse yet, allow yourself to be manipulated. Have you ever lost your temper only to regret it? Have you ever been able to remember what you said or did in a fit of anger? We all have done so, either partially or completely. All this proves is that we have relinquished control of ourselves.
       Instead, try being a calming and productive influence and leave behind a better situation. A side benefit is your blood pressure hasn't been elevated and your nerves aren't a wreck. Instead, there is more than one winner.

NUMBER 19: POWER OF A SHORT PRAYER
     This is a good one to go with the last point: say a short prayer for the angry person. If you aren't in the mood for that, saying one in thanksgiving for your own well being. The positiveness of this action will be a plus in your life. It will also be a plus to an angry person too in that you are holding a good thought for them. They may not change immediately and that is okay. If you see them once they are calm, you can tell them you prayed about the situation, which should be a plus for them. They may even decide to emulate you if you truly believe in the efficacy of prayer.

NUMBER 20: POSITIVE IMAGING
     For a large portion of our daily lives we are assailed by negative imagery. On TV and radio we are told we have bad breath, are in dire need of deodorant, and have feet that smell like a buffalo. Is it any wonder we suffer from a lack of confidence and feel that people might not like us?

Morgan in St. Mary's Grade School

    The secret is to think of what we want: money; a new car; a bigger home; a different job. Dwell on this goal until we can see ourselves having it. Do that on a solid basis and pretty soon good things will start happening.

NUMBER 21: KNOW YOURSELF FIRST AND THEN LIKE YOURSELF FOR WHO YOU ARE
    That is right. Know yourself first and then like it. Pretty easy, sweet, and short. Take stock of your good points and, above all, be honest about your bad points too. Don't ruminate on your bad qualities. Use your good ones to minimize the bad ones.

NUMBER 22: HELP OTHERS
   Think of the good feeling of helping others. You've had that experience, right? It is exhilarating. Always keep in mind the feelings of others and experiment with making people you come in contact with feel better for having known you. If you have made another life better or have made them feel uplifted about themselves, you have succeeded in life. Remember: if you are not sanctimonious or judgmental, instinctively people will want to be with you.

Thus sayeth the Morg.
Stay tuned for this limited series of life skills brought to you by Morgan James Brannigan. Last week was the 21st anniversary of his passing. Unbelievable how fast the time has gone, in some respects. He was so thrilled seeing the Berlin Wall demolished in his lifetime. He would have relished the Internet for all it is worth.

That's all, folks, at least for today. I've enjoyed visiting with you. Thanks for the coffee and the swell company. You know I love you madly.
Scoop

The Gospel According to Morgan: Part 4

2011-01-21T21:50:00.000-05:00

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MORGAN continues with a blockbuster. This one is such magnificent advice; but, for as elegant as the message might be, it is equally difficult successfully putting it into play.

One more warning: this one, much like the cheese, can stand alone but in this missive you will actually receive two passages.

Rule 16: AVOID ASSIMILATING ANOTHER PERSON’S POISON

Unfortunately, ours is not a world in which everyone is happy at all times. We may meet someone who is in a foul mood. It is quite possible that we many encounter someone who is sharp or curt in their manner toward us. Now, they might not be feeling well, just had a bad experience, or had an unpleasant discussion just prior to meeting you. Regardless of all this, they are the only person responsible for their poor behavior.

If we are being too sunny, too happy, too content, just seeing us may be fuel for a negatively postured person to detract some of it from us. Some people actively search for another to take things out on. They could be resentful of our status and want us joining them in their discomfort. After all, misery does love company.

Whatever their reason, regardless of their incentive, they are spewing the equivalent of poison in to the air that can be nearly tangible. This poison can make someone quite ill and actually become deadly. Knowing this, avoid, at all costs, assimilating any of the poison. Absorbing poison can cloud your thinking and, if allowed, will consume us and cause physical illness.

Instead, be polite and courteous displaying understanding, compassion, and love while taking care of yourself.

RULE 17: ACHIEVING GOALS THROUGH VISUALIZING

I have a technique I employ as a means to achieving my goals: visualizing. That is right, I practice seeing myself being successful just as if my accomplished goals are on the television screen. Try it. Once you have the perfect image, hold it in your mind’s eye. Focus on it and, after a while of viewing, your subconscious and other unknown factors will begin contributing and making your dream a reality. Example, if you want to be popular, image it and eventually you could become successful with it. Your personal demeanor and the positive image you project will attract others to you and good things will begin to be yours.

Two of Morgan’s passages are all you are getting today, my friends. That is it. You are shut off until a slightly later day. Never fear, there are many more of these to come. As a matter of fact, check out the rule on the right hand side. Makes me wonder what their position is on straws and napkins.

Love you all madly,

Scoop

The Gospel According to Morgan: Chapter 3

2011-01-09T11:38:00.006-05:00

Rule 13: NEVER GIVE ADVICE UNLESS IT IS REQUESTED
And even if it is requested, be gentle and ease into your message if it is harsh. Overall, personal opinions should be offered and not forced upon another. As a subset of this, be aware that everyone needs to be alone and given time to accept their own counsel.

Rule 14: TOUCH AND FEEL COVER A MULTITUDE OF SINS

Morgan in his smoking jacket accompanied by Blarney

The corollary to this is Kissing and Hugging need not lead to sex. They can also satisfy our need to love and be loved. If you love someone and you have problems with a simple touch or a quick hug, then they may not seem "real" and then they can be hurt emotionally without us feeling any guilt. You may have an issue actually loving them, even as a friend. The Viet Nam War was the first war televised nearly real-time into our homes with all its killing and carnage. Because it was on the TV screen, it didn't seem "real" and so we were not as affected personally by it and didn't feel the sense of loss or actual sorrow. Be careful when feelings like this are muted or horrible acts like murder become dehumanized and "normal."

Rule 15: LEARN TO SPEAK AND APPEAR UPBEAT
Here is an example: instead of asking "Is everything alright with you?" change your approach to "I can see you are doing well for yourself" or "You look so good and fit, how are you doing it?" If everything is less than perfect with your friend, this gives them the opportunity to let you know their status. If they are a little down, you just may have uplifted their spirits and ensured a positive subconscious association with them and they'll be encouraged by your company and counsel.

Thus, sayeth the Morg.
Have a great week and see you soon. Love you all madly, Scoop

HAPPY NEW YEAR MEMORIES

2010-12-30T11:48:00.002-05:00

This morning I sent a dear friend an email and part of it expressed how magical the time was when we grew up. As we are on the heels of a new year, a new decade, I am taken back to the days when days were more streamlined. Oh, it was just as stressful back in the good old days, but for a much more limited number of reasons. Frittering your time away didn't involve software.

We grew up in a neighborhood with Victorian era homes populated with neighbors who owned matching mentalities. The times were busy reflecting images in the shiny surface of Sputnic I. It was not without its flaws, but it was a magical time.

On New Years, our family always celebrated together. December 31st, was accompanied by Mom reminding Dad to start cooking the January 1st dinner of pork roast with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes. It didn't take much urging since he so thoroughly enjoyed cooking. For them, good luck started with a small taste of the New Years dinner immediately after all the fuss associated with the clock striking midnight.

As an added treat, we kids were permitted to take naps and were warned to stay in good humor if we wanted to stay up late to ring in the New Year. Not being in bed by 9 o'clock was wild enough, but we also became full participants in the festivities when the clock struck 12 and couldn't hold the excitement of it all.

As the clock hands moved to meet, we armed ourselves with pots, pot lids, serving spoons, and large cooking utensils. Then we'd poise ourselves between Mom at the back door and Dad at the front door. She would open the back door as we would bang our equipment, yelling at the top of our lungs for the old year to leave. We didn't need it any longer and all the baggage it brought. Then we'd run through the back hallway to the vestibule and front hall, banging our pots with all we were worth traveling the entire path. Once we joined Dad, he'd open the door with a sweeping gesture befitting a queen's footman, greeting the New Year, welcoming it in. A New Year: it was brimming with hope, opportunities, and clean slates.

One might think that enough, but why stop there? Dressed in our finest plaid flannel jammies and house coats, leather soled moccasin slippers (or penny loafers if need be), we'd march down the steps of our porch, onto the front sidewalk, down a few doorways (to old Mrs. Gallagher's dismay), and back up the steps for the original metal band's finale. A few years we had other acts which followed. Periodically, Dad would fire his Colt pistol up in the air over the densely wooded valley behind our home overlooking the site where William Kelly invented his version of what became known as the Bessemer process of making steel. William Kelly and Steel Making

Then, if the wind was at our Irish backs, Dad would produce a brown paper bag from the restricted top shelf of his closet where it had been secreted away since July. It was usually full of M-80s and other fire work wonders. Dad's closet was always forbidden territory because we knew it held his guns, a service revolver, bullets, and FIREWORKS. The only time this area was willfully opened to visitors was when our cat, Puddy, delivered 12 kittens there, one in every shoe the poor guy owned. That day he had to wear his slipper to the store and buy shoes so he could go to work.

Once the last of the explosions and flared lights illuminated the back yard, and Mom stopped grasping at her throat, yelling to be careful punctuated with refrains of "OH MY" and "MERCY" we'd retire to the dinning room for our taste of Dad's pork and sauerkraut. Life was good. It was difficult falling asleep after such excitement and it was an event I looked forward to each year.

Magical doesn't do the days then justice. I think you had to be there. HAPPY NEW YEARS, MY FRIENDS. May 2011 bring you everything you need and most of what you want.
See you in the next few days with installment 3 of THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MORGAN.

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MORGAN: Chapter 2

2010-12-30T10:58:00.002-05:00

In view of ushering in 2011, it is good to take stock in ourselves and see where we are with regard to the quality of our lives. In keeping with what I've started, here is THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MORGAN, CHAPTER TWO.

Rule 6: NEVER BACK SOMEONE INTO A CORNER
Give them a chance to change their standpoint or view. If that can't happen, try letting them off the hook. Allow them to save face.

Rule 7: EXPRESS APPRECIATION
And sometimes, express amazement at another person's achievements. Once again, people like recognition.

Rule 8: NEVER SHOW YOUR PLUSES TO THE DETRIMENT OF OTHERS
Just think about the Golden Rule.

Rule 9: BE ON TIME FOR APPOINTMENTS
If a person you are meeting is late, try being understanding. Clocks go wrong. Things happen. Plus, some day it may happen to you. If they make a habit of it, talk to them and let them know your time is as valuable as theirs. If they still keep it up, let them know you will only wait for 10 minutes and then you will leave. This way you are being respectful of them and yourself.

Rule 10: ALWAYS LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE
This is an old show biz dictum, but it works well in everyday life also. Vaudeville performers often cut short their act only to be asked for an encore. They felt it was better to have people say something like "Gee, I would have liked to have seen more. We'll have to come back." In other words, never overstay your welcome. People might be wishing you would go home and are just being kind or polite. If they do wish you would stay, then you will be asked back sooner.

TODAY'S BONUS:
Rule 11: LOOK AT A PERSON WHILE TALKING
This not only indicates interest, but it also makes you alert and looking for clues as to the sincerity in the other person's eyes and body language.

A Gift That Keeps on Giving: The Gospel According to Morgan

2010-12-24T00:50:00.001-05:00

MORGAN, my dad. What a guy. As his Christmas gift this year, he is still chasing me with his advice even though he came to terms with his limited engagement here on Earth in 1990.

Photo: Dad imitating Bing Crosby. Favorite buddy Blarney at his side. Circa 1979.

While doing some holiday related tasks, I rediscovered some of his papers in a file. I have a treasure trove of some of Dad's writings, mostly dealing with family history and lore. But today's papers are a different variety in that they are Dad's advice to his family. That is right. He's been gone 21 years and yet he still isn't finished passing along juicy tidbits. Luckily, I have his personal recipes, two or three cookbooks, and a few of his prized possessions such as his ravioli maker and his harmonica. Both are still producing beautiful treats. I nearly forgot about this document and all his great lessons

Remarkable that he guided me to the filing cabinet and folder reminding me at Christmas that his advice is still there for the taking. What a gift. Seven pages of deliberately printed rules of engagement with living, all in single spacing. Each page chalk full of solid state, 100% organic, homegrown, verified and tested, world-class advice according to Morgan James Brannigan.

Stay tuned as I share his thoughts with you over the next few blogs:

Rule 1: KEEP YOUR EXPECTATIONS LOW REGARDING FRIENDSHIP People may surprise you and be great, but remember that they are only human.

Rule 2: DON'T VOLUNTEER
When you are a member of a church or a club, wait to be asked to do a job. When you volunteer you can sometimes be thought of as an interloper. When you are asked, you are given the license by your group to do a job. They will be happier with you for cooperating than they would be thinking you are a know-it-all or bossy.

Rule 3: LISTEN MORE AND SPEAK LESS
When you listen to others, remember to show your interest in what they are saying. Don't force your conversation and views on people. They will resent it and not really listen to you if you do.

Rule 4: DON'T BE CONDECENDING
Your time is much better spent becoming adept at subtly praising others. Now, don't over praise them or they won't believe you, but do praise people often. Everyone likes having their accomplishments noticed.

Rule 5: NEVER SET OUT TO PROVE ANOTHER PERSON WRONG
Give your side of a topic, but also tender agreement with others, even if/when your point is more qualified.

Well, that is all you are getting today. Please stop by daily and check to see how well I am keeping up with this daily blogging thing. Stay tuned for tomorrow's dose of The Gospel According to Morgan.

I'd like to take this time to thank him for the time he took on this project. As an added bonus, I will be featuring his advice as I blog. Dad's sage advise will be here for your consideration as well. Don't thank me, thank him.

Students, Shoes, and Shows

2010-12-20T12:53:00.002-05:00

MY VERY FIRST GOAT....I AM SO PROUD

This morning a student bestowed one of the best gifts I've received from one of them: A PREGNANT GOAT. She and her family gave me a Christmas ornament of a pregnant goat which was utterly pronounced. The accompanying tag stated: "Merry Christmas and thanks from the families of Pignon, Haiti, for the gift of a pregnant goat."

Chocolates and bubble bath be damned! This goat is the greatest. I wish I could see its kid and the benefits it will have on the Haitian people in Pignon. Everyone should have a gift that keeps on giving like this.

Right up front I am going to reveal something that some of you already may have guessed:

YES, I ALSO BOUGHT THE BLACK AND WHITE OXFORDS AS WELL. And NO, I am not sorry or repentant about it in the least. No mea maxima culpa here, my posse. I love them. They are the most comfy things gracing my toes in a long time. So, there. Go get your own like Kathy S. did. She couldn't allow the days to tick by without snagging a pair either. Just call us the Star Dust Twins.

On to other items. Christmas music has been dancing through my brain like no tomorrow. Commercials get me the worst. They plant a seed that grows all day sometimes. This last week I've attended two wonderful holiday concerts: The Leahy Family Christmas and The Gay Men's Chorus of Washington.

LEAHY FAMILY CHRISTMAS: Canada's greatest family export. The entire group is made up of brothers and sisters, although they are bringing on their children in kind. These wee ones can do the Irish jig and prance like River Dance nearly as well as the adults. At this last concert, a two year old in diapers was up there doing his dance and was relentless and, considering his age, very dedicated to hopping in place and competing with his younger family members to some quick tunes. Their music is 100% wholesome and well presented to a packed crowd at George Mason University's Center for the Arts every year. If you are fortunate, you may see one of their specials on a public television channel near you.
LEAHY'S WEB SITE

GAY MEN'S CHORUS OF WASHINGTON: What an absolute blockbuster this one was. The first half presented a rich selection of seasonal music sung by 288 strong voices, including my great friend, Chris. One song which wasn't seasonally related, but just a powerful, was a tribute to Mothers of gay men. During this tune a slideshow was broadcast composed of candid photos of members with their moms. Some where from the time they were first born all the way to present age. It evoked an emotional response which caught me off guard.
The 2011 schedule has been released with the titles of their concerts:
For the Boys; Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; Crazy Little Thing Called Love; and last, And Now I Am Telling You which features the one and only Jennifer Holliday.
The ENTIRE subscription is $110 for all performances. That is nearly as cheap as a movie with popcorn and much better for you.
GAY MEN'S CHORUS OF WASHINGTON'S WEB SITE

English Channel and Its Islands

2010-12-14T21:54:00.000-05:00

Hello, Folks

Reading an interesting book: THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY. It is a wonderfully written quick read in epistemological format, and I love a voyeuristic peek...even if it is historic fiction.

A London-based author becomes interested in the World War II reminiscences of Guernsey Island during Nazi occupation. After an initial introduction, our author begins a letter writing exchange with villagers who reveal their most intimate look at the hardships, heartache, and resilience they all experienced.

DON'T LET THE TITLE BE OFF-PUTTING. It made me want to dismiss it as silly and overly cute. As it is, the story is not well represented by the title at all by adding the words "and Potato Peel Pie" and would have done better sooner without it. (They would have saved so much if they would have simply asked me.)

I was introduced to the existence of the English Channel Islands last year during my visit to Normandy. While trying to find a water taxi over the channel, I was checking out a map and saw them. It tickled me seeing islands named Guernsey and Jersey. "Don't they know they are cows?" I thought before realizing within a split second that the cows were probably named after the islands.

What amazes me is that they are part of the United Kingdom rather than France. Believe me, I don't begrudge the Crown any, it just seems to make more sense for France to have them since they are so close. Then the thoughts of the Philippines enters my mind and I move on to other related topics.

Remember this red hot tip: if you find a great book to read you won't think about what is going on on Capital Hill....or at least you'll have a break from it for a little. Enjoy.

Status Report

2010-12-13T23:29:00.001-05:00

Don't have a big concept to report today aside from the fact that it is cold. It is really cold. Not as bad as it is in some other parts of the country, to be sure. There were some snowflurries, but they were nothing but show. So, a full day of school is in my future tomorrow.

Tonight I had a wonderful time at my friend Mark's Christmas party he holds each year for his school's staff. This year, as with several others, it was held at Maggiano's on Wisconsin Avenue, NW in DC. Very fun people. Great conversation. Fabulous food.

The best part was the "gift exchange" that takes place. It is one of those swaps with convoluted rules on who gets what selection and someone else can "steal" it during the next round of swaps and still make it to their car. The other years I was the consumate guest being polite and deferring to his school's teachers and staff with regard to wrestling for the high-end gifts. This year I attended with Mark's approval and insistence that I take my gloves off and go for the jugular. Yes, I stirred the pot and made no bones about going for the best items available. Yes, someone took them away from me. It was all good though and in all good fun.

At one point I had a Keureg coffee system (-5 for spelling). Another round found me the proud, and temporary, owner of a NanoPod thingy I'd certainly lose in less than 15 minutes. Actually, I think I "owned" that twice. At the evening's end I walked out with a tasty package of Godiva, a $25 Macy's gift card, a lovely seasonal floral arrangement, a valet parking ticket, and a full belly. Not too shabby for a cold Monday. I hope yours was half as good.

SADDLE SHOES ARE BACK, BABY

2010-12-11T22:15:00.003-05:00

What is two-toned, come in a pair, and can take years off your life faster, and considerably cheaper, than plastic surgery?
Saddle shoes!
Those of you who Facebook read my recent announcement about my intention to outfit myself with what just might be my last pair of saddle shoes. The very thought of these shoes is like butter. I don't like them, I love them. When I saw Ellen sporting a pair on TV, it was all over, Rover. They would be mine again.
Shopping with my buddy, Lytle, I considered all the available Bass options at the store. They had black and whites, which were adorable. They had the light tan suede with dark leather; but, then I found the last official pair of mirror image dark suede with light leather. They seemed more appropriate for me to wear during my academic experiences and about town. With a long pant leg, they somewhat look like boots. LOVE THEM. As a matter of fact, I may marry them or at least sleep in them.

        My first pair were purchased at Littles Shoe Store in Squirrel Hill. The shopping trip was an incredible production which included 2/3rds of my nuclear family. Mom, Dad, Patrick, and I all piled in another love of my life, my Dad's 1965 screaming cherry red Chevy Biscayne. That bad boy auto featured Fingerhut waffle patterned plastic seat covers that left permanent impressions in your skin whether or not you were wearing a snow suit. It also had a manual transmission you don't see much these days: a "three on the tree." To the uninitiated, that translates into a three-speed with the stick shift on the drive column. The other incredible feature was the transistor radio Dad insisted sliding all over the dash board rather than having a built-in radio. Mom hated all that noise.

        In less than ten minutes we were in Squirrel Hill, Dad was swearing at other drivers and we were all scouring the street for an unmanned parking meter. Eventually, we strolled down the wide sidewalk and window shopped before walking into this elegant shoe store.
        I first spied them in the window that August day while preparing for my freshman year at St. Paul Cathedral High School. Breaking one of my first commandments, I coveted them at first sighting. Then, as if by magic, Dad said yes! He agreed. There weren't any negotiations. I didn't need to promise anything. THEY WERE GOING TO BE MINE. My heart was singing. Those sweet black and white shoes were going to be on my feet and my feet alone.
Then it happened and the day's events took an unforgettable turn: DAD STARTED BARGAINING WITH THE SALESMAN. He wanted a discount since he was "shoeing" his entire family. (They didn't know Mike and Kathy weren't there.) It made me want to crawl under the paisley carpeting and slime my way back over the welcome mat. Was Dad kidding me? HOW could he do this to me and my new image? You know what happened next? They ended up calling the manager over. Would it ever end? Dad shook his hand, talked some sort of animated chat, pointed at the boxes on the counter, and then he was offered a 20% discount.
         It was mortifying. It was not the only time Dad wrestled the price point in my presence. Those tales are for another time, but lets suffice it to say that I wasn't wild about any of those events either.
      I don't think I said a word going back to the car. To tell the truth, as soon as I turned the handled on the Ford gumball machine and started chewing on the rock hard ball, it was relieved to escape the store. At my advanced age I "get it" now. Morgan, you are clearly understood. However, I still can believe you did it and were successful. Moreover, I'll never forget that day's transaction.

Yesterday's Message

2010-12-10T11:48:00.001-05:00

         Intuition is a powerful tool, if we heed its message. Sometimes that little voice in our head is a faint whisper we are not too sure said much of anything until events fall into place. Other times it is an audible message that addresses us like an old friend, reminding us to act or to sit back and witness rather than be a participant. Next voice is a loud shout mimicking a town crier announcing the edict we must obey. After that, you may experience hearing a message from your board of directors. They are all business and read to you as if it is a segment of an annual report. The final voice is more along the lines of Verdi's Anvil Chorus and it all together impossible to ignore.

        Once my blog on The Importance of Doing Something was posted and read on December 9, I received an interesting response from a good friend and fellow blogger, Ms. Irene McQuillen. She was not my intuition, but measured somewhere on the message scale of between that of an Old Friend and the Anvil Chorus.
                       "So.......Ted made and honorable mention and
                        The Madonna and I didn't????????????
                       Don't we do something print worthy???????"
        The Madonna is her sister, Mavrene, who was named that by her grandmother as a child. Her granny was of the sainted opinion that Mavrene somehow resembled the Blessed Virgin Mary. The verdict is still out for the rest of us, but we all have nothing but respect for Grandma.

My answer to you, Irene and Mavrene, is a resounding YES. It would have been impossible listing all my friend's virtues and talents in yesterday's posting and, more importantly, I needed to save some material for other days. After all, I am going to try posting everyday for the next while (or until I forget). Please know that proper disclosure urges me to include that although you follow in your sainted mother's footsteps with regard to creativity, your sister is not gifted in that department. We will see if she really reads this blog when I check my email next. Is that a fair statement?
        Mavrene and I were roommates, you will recall. She was great at laundry while I excelled at ironing. So, being cutting edge gals, we job shared. The same with the kitchen: I cooked to her cleaning. She typed the term papers while I created artwork. That worked out quite well; but, I think you will readily acknowledge that you "have the knack" but, sadly, she does not. She never could make candle sticks from recycled baby food jars and ash trays. Wall sconces of spray painted egg shells just weren't her calling. With regard to the play dough floral arrangements, it is believed that her product didn't resemble the model.
Before closing I would like to stress that Mavrene has other admirable qualities which will fit into future blogs. Your level of creativity can be examined by readers at your blog site: Anger Management Girls

THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING SOMETHING

2010-12-09T11:02:00.004-05:00

I know, last time it was all about doing nothing. Now, here I am proposing the other end of the spectrum -- THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING SOMETHING.

Yesterday I was dinking about the internet as I am prone to do and stumbled upon an acquaintance’s writing. It had been awhile since visiting her site, so off I went for a reading reunion.

THE HAPPINESS PROJECT by Gretchen Rubin is delightful fare. Her premise is that for a year, she documented following the advice of many well know, and some lesser known, “authorities” on how to be happy. As she puts it, her writing focused on time “spent test-driving the wisdom of the ages, the current scientific studies, and the lessons from popular culture about how to be happy--from Aristotle to Martin Seligman to Thoreau to Oprah.” Lady, I like your style.

In a recent article, GR wrote on Huffington Post, she writes about being creative and suggests that sometimes you have to force the issue when you hit the proverbial wall. Periodically, you need to go guerilla. A book that was out a few years ago, The Artists Way, was of some assistance to a friend of mine whose well had gone nearly dry. I do not have a lick of experience with it, but she swore by it.

With writing, one method I learned years ago to battle writer’s block is to write badly on purpose. That is right, write badly. You can only keep it up for a length of time before it becomes better. It did the trick when I worked on contracts specializing in keeping the Russian army from your front doors. I dare say that it was successful, although limited in the creative department. If anyone is out there with an unexpected tent in your backyard emblazoned with a hammer and sickle, please speak up.

One of my last 45s: Instant Karma

(On a totally unrelated point, but a clear demonstration on the associative powers of my brain, please allow me to brag. Years ago, a military friend gave me a chunk of the Berlin Wall. It is in my desk and I look at it every day. Okay, it might be a forgery, but, as they say in Pittsburgh: “I don’t EVEN care.” It is a reminder of reaching success if you keep trying. Hey, maybe there is a relationship after all.)

Back to doing something: There are clearly points in my life when doing nothing is the order of the day (and usually a weekend at a monastery). Given that, there are more times when I really need to be all about doing something. Something particular. Something that makes me a better Scoop Murphy. Something that engages me and makes me a better person.

My friend Kate has a beautiful singing voice. Although it has been years since I have heard her, she is fully engaged in the practice. She is in a powerful choir and sings regularly, putting on stage performances with her friends. Another friend, Joe, is deeply involved with his church choir and their weekly mission of practicing on Wednesdays and magnifying the Lord on Saturdays. Angela dances competitively. This, too, I wish I had started earlier in my life. It is a difficult art form being deliberate about physical movement like this. I can do a great “white person’s gyration” but it takes effort being exceptionally graceful.

Another friend, Sandy, has a wood working shop in her basement that is enviable. So are her skills. As if that is not sufficient, she is now taking serious cooking classes well beyond Betty Crocker. Ted plays his instrument like a professional. Get out of the gutter. They are musical instruments. His flute graced my daughter’s wedding. Robbie is a naturalist in the outdoors. Yes, she keeps her clothes on. She is the most well versed person I have ever met on the environment and the great outdoors. It is impossible for her to see a bird and not identify it to you. Launching into an explanation detailing indigenous plants and geography during a completely different conversation is second nature for her, if you will pardon the expression.

What drives these people to do their something? I am going to guess my thing is writing. I might be flawed, but I thoroughly enjoy it down in my marrow. Louisa May Alcott inspired me as a wee tyke sitting on my grandmother’s front porch swing. To do what she accomplished and still drives home is so impressive. Perhaps I will not reach her heights, but I can keep trying.

Therefore, I am going to post on a daily or nearly daily basis, if only to turn the faucet and keep the water main of creativity flowing. It may end up being a trickle or the main just might burst.

Either way, it will keep me writing my other stories and attempting to reach out in print.

Wish me luck and let me know what you may do in this area yourself. Check out THE HAPPINESS PROJECT for some inspiration to call your own.

THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING

2010-12-04T17:54:00.003-05:00

From the frequency of my postings here, one might think I've cornered the market on doing nothing. Well, that might be true in the digital world as of late, at least with regard to this blog. I apologize. Facebook has syphoned some of my energies, and that is a pity on some levels and an absolute joy on others. *FB* has reunited me with kindred spirits from a planet far away. I am back in touch with friends from several former lives ago and it makes my heart sing. These are people who know ME. These are people who love ME even though they know me. These are people who have their umbilical connected to the same collective memory as me. What is not to love?

To those folks, I am indebted as they keep me honest and traveling forward with their support. I can't thank you enough. In my Windows world, you are my DOS.

Last weekend I went on retreat again. Silent retreat, and yes, I managed to find someone to talk to anyway. Usually it is a priest or a friend who is on the journey with me. We'll steal away into the conference room designed for such things and chat up our experience for 15 minutes or so as if we are criminals. We love it. Then, it is back to pulling "hard time" by keeping silence and walking the walk. We love that even more.
We pack wine and relax in the knowledge that we are not saints. That presents its own level of freedom, my friends.

I think at this point I need to disclose that I am in no way, shape, or form an "uber" Catholic. Far from it. If anything, I am what I term a Renegade Catholic. When even this level seems to fail my heart and head, I switch into "Rutheran" mode. This monastery doesn't force feed you beliefs or liturgy. It has a zen posture and welcomes everyone, regardless of your religious leanings. It isn't structured. You are on your own and welcome to take anything your little spirit needs in an effort to refresh itself.

Through the years I've gone on retreat a few different spots, but the Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, VA has my heart. It offers me the experience I need and as I drive back out to the highway from the Revolutionary War era farm settling, I am, once again renewed, forgiven, and uplifted.
Try it sometime: http://www.hcava.org/ They also have other monasteries, if you are interested.

Coming here 25 years ago introduced me to my spiritual leader, Father Mark Delery. What a renaissance man. Physician. Psychiatrist. Poet. Author. Abbot. Funny Man. Mark passed earlier this year. I've been here twice since he moved to the pasture, literally, and God knows I miss him. His words are still with me and that is what makes the difference. His spirit is still very much here. One of the biggest honors was receiving his personal phone number. We'd call each other to say hi or talk about a good book. We were pen pals as well, mailing quick notes and ultimately moving that through email. It was a debate who enjoyed the *fun*Valentine cards more. His were religious. Mine weren't.

One of the articles I read this time is also available online. It is THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING by Fr. William McNamara. Let me quickly add that you shouldn't let the fact that he is a priest hold you back from enjoying it. The fact that this man looks like he sees life a touch differently from the rest should prove appealing to many of you. He knows how to present an issue. He has many writings I've enjoyed through the years. They've helped smooth out some of the totally unrelated problems, challenges, and anxieties I wrestle with by letting me know it is okay to dismiss them, if only for a while. William McNamara is much older than the posted photo. He has enjoyed better health. The world will lose a great philosopher once he joins Mark.

Read his article...the entire article. Then do nothing. Give it a try. Do nothing. I dare you. Perhaps you scoff at the idea and probably think it is an easy thing to do. Do be hasty. It is one of the hardest things in the world to just BE. To sit and just think and watch the little details unfold without hastening them or assisting in anyway. I'd love hearing how you do and what you think of his article.

Until we meet again, stay out of the middle of the road. ;-)

Today and Every Labor Day

2010-09-02T21:22:00.003-04:00

Today: The end of World War II took place today…September 2… and what a progression from that 1945 milestone 1945 until today. Our USS Missouri’s deck must have been a grand place standing silent witness to that event. As a special turn, The Dream Foundation earned its name today. It ensured a 90 year old former Navy crew member’s return to that very deck where he saw the magic first-hand. Today, he arrived just in time for a special ceremony and posed in the same spot where he stood 65 years ago.

Today: The day the U.S. Supreme Commander, General MacArthur signed Japan’s surrender agreement, the Missouri was floating in Tokyo Bay. Today, it sits majestically, and fittingly, ensconced in Pearl Harbor. Stories about the “Greatest Generation” never cease to impress me.

Today: It is also one of those numerology days. It is the second day of September in the year of our lord 2010, so, it is 90210. Get you stamps canceled now. Only 26 more shopping days until the Feast of Good King Wenceslaus, and Scoop's birthday.

Today: Another oil platform has major problems and the Gulf is bracing for further damages. This time all the people survived the fire and escaped into the Gulf of Mexico with floatation devices. Two questions I have: how many of these platforms exist and how many prior locations have been capped? Wait, let me sneak in a third: Who takes care of these caps if they happen to uncork?

Today: Listening to oil rigs stories brings me to a small, but distracting misuse I need to do my best to remedy.

During news coverage, you’ll hear that oil wells are going to be filled with CEMENT. Reassured? Don’t be. CEMENT is the powdered silica mixture which, when added to a few other elements becomes CONCRETE.

Example:

Brother Darryl: We’ll need 5 sacks of cement to patch the sidewalk.

Concrete....and a tree

Other Brother Darryl: When it is cured, we’ll have a swell concrete path for walking to Larry’s.

Get it? Call the major networks for me. Please.

Today: Is just another day where my thoughts are directed southward to the Gulf of Mexico and the beleaguered Louisiana coastline. It wasn’t until my daughter married her Cajun husband that I really became aware of Louisiana beyond studying Jefferson’s purchase, Mardi Gras, and Johnny Horton’s hit tune “Battle of New Orleans.” Now, it seems, that I can’t escape the daily mention of it in some way, shape, or form.

Today: Our hurricane “man” Earl is making his way up the coast. Several friends of mine were part of the evacuations from different locations. Even more friends live in the predicted path and are just hunkering down for the potential beating. Hurricane parties are great fun, I suppose. My recent memory pops up an instant image of twisted trees, damaged homes cleaved with the trunks of healthy trees ripped, torn, and thrown onto roofs. That was just from a minor micro-burst during a good old fashioned storm. I can’t imagine a full force hurricane. Best of luck all you home and business owners near it. Best of luck to all you emergency personnel and crazy weather people in slicker suits. Best of luck to all you temporarily hired FEMA workers who will process even more paperwork.

Today: Should you be feeling sorry for yourself and believe your life is on a downward trend, listen up my posse. You are about to be upgraded to 1st Class. Remember hearing about the miners who are trapped underground in Chile? Well, rescue workers have estimated that they might be freed around Christmas. It is HOT, stinky, humid, dark, clammy: you name the negative environment and it is there. One of these unfortunate men, stuck a half mile down into the bowels of the Earth, is probably the only one who might not be looking forward to daylight. It seems his wife AND his mistress met each other while crying and wailing his name topside. His days are numbered no matter which way you count. Maybe he is the one whose request for bourbon and cigarettes was declined by workers.

Right Now: As this sermonette comes to a close, I want to take a special moment to reassure everyone that I will remember you once I am in the lap o’luxury. This status is rapidly approaching because my new best friend, Melissa H., has promised to show me how to make millions on the internet as soon as I fork over my banking information and password. It is going to be sweet, boys and girls. How frequently does a change like this happen upon an unsuspecting, gullible person such as moi? It is kismet!

So: while I am on my way to instant wealth and daily manicures, please stay out of the surf until Earl whips up the sand and puts it back down.

PS: Happy Labor Day. Go celebrate. Join a union or guild. Shop for school supplies and sneakers. See a movie. If you have the day off, make sure someone else is working.

He has slipped the surly bonds of Earth

2010-08-13T23:20:00.006-04:00

Every so often, life delivers a blow which is difficult to receive, register, and repair from. Recently, my dear friend, Joe, was forced to redefine the word resilient when he found a huge tree dividing his lovely, painstakingly decorated home. It must have been and still must be devastating for him to process.

Holy Cross Abbey grazing area in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Recently, I received a notice in the mail from Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virgina with updates on the Cistertian order living there. http://www.hcava.org/ This is a monastery where I have been attending silent retreats twice a year, if the wind is at my back, for the last 25 years. (Yes, I did write silent. It is glorious, even for me.) During that time I have gotten to know the physical and spiritual geography of this hallowed place. I've also gotten to know the monks, who call their home this pre-Civil War farm poised on a bend of the Shenandoah River.

Many here have given me much direction and spiritual leadership; but none more than Father Mark Delery. I am not embarrassed to tell you I really grew to love this man. Father Mark died on June 29th following an illness. I wasn't aware, since his phone and email weren't answering, until the quarterly monastic newsletter from the community arrived. After reading it, I have to say, I sat and re-read it, hoping it wasn't true since I was so looking forward to his company this weekend. After confirming the news, I sat and wept. Not for him, but for me.

From the retreat center viewing a field and the monastic center in the distance.

Mark has seen me through so much during a quarter century that it is too incredible to inventory. He was old. He shrunk and his dentures grew to no longer fit. They rattled some when he spoke in his soft Bostonian manner. His hearing was waning, so he couldn't hear his teeth and would whisper-talk, making people strain to hear him like he had to do with them. It was his way of leveling the playing field while having a little fun with you too. He had a private phone line and he and I would call each other chatting as best we could with his hearing and speech. I loved it and felt anointed being in his fan club. He told me once that although he had chased a "few skirts" in his day, that he had never received a Valentine. I cured that every year from that point. He sent a few back to me apologizing that his selection at the monastery's gift shop's stationery department was rather limited for Valentine cards. That made me laugh out loud as he was the king....strike that...abbot of understatement.

Father Mark Delery, O.C.S.O. (Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance http://www.ocso.org/) left this world an accomplished human. At 91 years, I would readily bow to his advice and direction based on his experience, education, and wisdom. When I delivered my worldly issues to him for examination I knew they were thoughtfully received. Mark had a number of feathers, eagle feathers, in his cap. He graduated from Boston College, and then attended Tufts Medical School. From there he served as a Captain in the U.S. Army Medical Corps before opening a medical practice of his own. He became a Diplomate of the American College of Physicians and American Board of Internal Medicine.

Mark entered St. Joseph's Abbey in Spencer, MA as a monk and then eventually became an ordained priest. In 1984, after transferring and living at Holy Cross Abbey, he was elected abbot. It was about that time when we met. He had taken the position of "Confessor" at the retreat house where he spiritually counseled an incredible number of people, until his surgery for colon cancer in June. The recovery proved to be too much for this gentle man.


1784 stone hunting lodge, surveyed by George Washington.

About five years ago, while serving as a reporter for a local Alexandria newspaper, The Del Ray Sun, I wrote a cover piece on Father Mark. Spring was just around the corner at the time and he had written a beautiful book The Parable of the Cherry Blossom. With D.C.'s annual festival, his book was a natural and had a fairly brisk sales record. It was a great article, if I say so myself; but that was because it was about him, his antics, accomplishments, and impact on an outside world where he really didn't visit all that often by choice. His next book was The Song of a Silent Stone about the resurrection of Christ which was incredible as well. I am proud to know that my article is in the collection of remembrances of him at this as well as other Cistercian monasteries.

His last book is one I loved too, but for different reasons. Mark wanted to extend the lessons learned by a fellow monk, Thomas Whalen, who died after having suffered from alcoholism. This book is called Feet of Clay Wrapped in Love and details his misadventures traipsing all over the United States after Monk Whalen. Writing this book, Mark wanted to give something to the 12-Step programs throughout the country. His book details how his friend had thrown in the towel and rosary beads on monastic living while taking the order's checkbook with him to liquor stores and hotels across America. Using his non-internet detective skills, he located his friend, and brought him back to sobriety and a useful place within the community. It is a sad and humorous book all in one.

The first time I met Father Mark, it is safe to say that, I was a fairly angry female recovering Catholic. Although I had been somewhat dutiful, I always felt a real sense of displacement and second-citizenry within the Church. My daughter had wanted to be an altar girl, and was declined because our diocese was one of two in the country opting out of allowing it. So, I entered the conference room and drew my sword with him, during a retreat, to settle matters for once and for all. He looked equipped for the task and I threw down my lead-lined gauntlet with a loud thud. He was a quiet, patient, and empathetic listener so instead of the full thrust of my anger, I collapsed in tears, with my nose bubbling with snot, as I spewed my "stuff" all over the room like Linda Blair's spinning head. I wish I would have filmed it.

St. Francis, tending to his frozen animals.

At one point, he asked me if I was finished and I answered NO!, regrouped, took a deep breath and kept on turning that shovel, which was quickly turning into a back-hoe. He asked again when I paused. Again, I firmly responded with NO! and reloaded.

The third time was his charm that day as I was finally spent. I sat with my crumbling, damp, shredded wad-pile of generic tissues (religious orders just don't go for any brand name products unless they are donated) in my hands, lap, and the antique trash basket next to the lamp table in his conference room. It was there he delivered the best and most startling spiritually directed message "Well, Ruth, that is the biggest bunch of bull shit I've heard in quite a while." Then he laughed. HE LAUGHED.After I replaced my eyes in their sockets, he went on to ask me the purpose of being bothered by all the noise of mankind when Christ's love was there for me for the taking. The Church was as flawed as anything since it was man-based. God was there and held nothing but respect and love for me. There was more to his explanation and conversation with me that day. It was what I needed to hear: God loved me even if the Church was less than glorious with its expression and delivery.

Then he directed me to go sit by the Shenandoah River on the other side of the grazing field. I agreed and asked exactly what I should do once I got there. He repeated a little more firmly, with a smile "SIT, JUST SIT." I still didn't get it. Finally he boiled it down some more and spoon fed me a task. "Go watch the ripples on the water." "Okay. And then what?" was my response. He took my hand and walked me out to the appointment board and penciled me in for an hour the next day. "Report in then." Pointing to 8:00 a.m. was his last direction. "I'll be late for Compline if we keep going today." and off he went whipping the hood of his monk habit up for his half-mile trek to the chapel near the main manse.

The Shenandoah River near Holy Cross. February 2010

He flew down the road in his exceptionally old van which no longer passed Virginia state safety inspection and could only be used as a farm vehicle on the grounds of the monastery. In that same dramatic fashion, dear Father Mark is off on a new adventure in a fully functioning body deserving his brilliant mind and charitable heart. Certainly he is sitting on the right-hand side of the Lord and I can only hope he is saving me a seat in that pew. Mark has slipped the surly bonds of Earth, as the old poem stated before television broadcasting ceased for the day, back in the day. He is certainly touching the face of God.

------------

If you don't enjoy poetry, stop right here.

For those of you who remember that poem being delivered, as U.S. Air Force jets flew in formation, just before the test pattern was blotted on your round screen until morning, I have posted it for your reading pleasure.

Written by the son of a Pittsburgher and member of the wealthy Magee family of Magee Hospital fame,

John Gillespie Magee touched my heart years ago with this piece. It has stayed with me for what seems like my entire lifetime. It is one of my all-time favorites.

High Flight

by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor even eagle flew—

And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

High Mileage Food or Hi, Mileage Food?

2010-07-13T08:07:00.005-04:00

So, my pretties, you thought you had escaped the summer without hearing from me. Well, you can relax just like I did while flying recently. Yes, yes, yes, you can thank me for keeping all those planes up in the sky. I am the one who takes the lead and employs the proper technique to ensure they stay aloft because there is no other way those big things arrive a mile high and propel themselves forward. It is a miracle.

Jimmy Morrison, of The Doors fame and a former resident of my community, used to sing that "You cannot petition the Lord with prayer." What a fool. He never did understand that three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and three "Glory Be's" are the absolute guaranty underscoring safety when flying. It isn't all that simple. Add to that the added spin of closing my eyes and resting my head back during take off and landing, and you have most of the magic. Feel free to help me and the airline industry by employing these steps when you fly. I'm keeping track and so far, it is working. Come to think of it, although I am not sure if this method can shift industries, but I just might see if I can apply it to deep ocean oil well caps. I'll keep you posted.

A few of you probably may think that protocol flirts with marginal behavior. I say to you that you have joined the ranks of Mr. Morrison.
People displaying hard-core aberrant actions abound and your thoughts need to be directed toward them. For this, I am just the person to help you.

Twisted Behavior Example 1: Last week, a 19 year old, Michael Jackson (no relative to the gloved one), somehow obtained (stole) a Metro Bus driver's uniform, hi-jacked a bus and wrecked it after collecting passengers. What should have indicated a red-flag to bus officials and consumers was that he reported on-time to the bus garage and drove the route courteously. More normal actions included him crashing the bus into a tree, inspecting the damage, and running into the sunset.

Example 2: Back in the day, Brian Highland had the slow-dance hit High on The Hill (song title and article on this topic)
He was early in a pronouncement of other actions here in DC. Now, my posse, who the hell would subject themselves to a high security search in order to enter "Our Nation's Capitol" seat of Government AND TAKE THEIR STASH OF DOPE WITH THEM? Yup, there is an entire list of folks who say, Please Bust ME! while entering the U.S. Capitol Building. Here is a helpful hint from Heloise: "Blowing smoke" is merely an expression referring to our Federal leaders and not a functional address. Yikes.

Example 3: Drilling deep water off-shore wells without a clue as to how to cap it. Happy Tar Balls, BP. Nuff said. Oh, wait, can I add in LeBron James and Roman Polansky here without giving them the dignity of their own example number?

One of the books I am reading is Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. It is by Barbara Kingsolver at her non-fictional best.

In this book, she weaves her family's tale of how they abandoned their Arizona life of siphoned water sources and trucked in food stores in favor of a smaller carbon foot print in rural Virginia on a farm inherited from family. It begs many questions and makes a reader wonder how the hell America has managed to arrive in the situation we are in with regard to food.

The oil crisis is magnified by the incredible amount of oil, required to truck food around the country. There are many sources for food far more localized than cross-country or another continent. Have a farmer's market nearby? Then there is a great place to buy what is probably fresher and healthier food than the genetically modified stuff (technical term) available at major grocery stores. Participating in a "CSA" or a community supported agriculture program is another path to travel. Here, for a modest money contribution, a nearby farmer will ensure delivery of his produce, eggs, and additional "farmerish" products to you on a weekly basis. Of course, as my friend, and occasional relative, Jazzy-Jenn says that she has "read Animal, Vegetable, Mineral. It is a good book. That life style does require becoming good friends with your kitchen." Perhaps that is the location of the rub for yours truly. Although I am a good (not great, just good) cook, I neglect that skill whenever possible.

Even though I love having tangerines in June, there was something to say for them being a substantial treat in the cold weather months. When I was a wee tiny Scoop, they would actually appear in my Christmas morning stocking treasure inventory along with walnuts. I loved it. Seasonal food was, well, to turn a phrase, SEASONAL FOOD. That used to mean that certain things were only available during selected times of the year. They also tasted better because artificial scientific parlor tricks weren't being enforced to produce or store them. The raw flavor came through rather than the diluted variety associated with forced growth and production. How do you structure a policy of delayed sexual activity with youth when we can't live without blueberries all year? It is all about more immediate gratification now with regard to everything. Food is just emblematic.

Can we return to a base of fewer chemicals on our plates and more nutrition and increased taste at the cost of having seasonal, local selections? You be the judge. Just go to your local web browser and do a Boolean search with the terms: community sponsored agriculture AND (enter your geographic location here). One of my results was Graceland Farms in Midland, VA . They support Northern Virginia delivery. There are many others. As a matter of fact, I bet if Jazzy-Jenn reads this, she'll email me the link of the one she uses.

Meanwhile, it is time for this gal to prepare for the rest of my day. WARNING: Later this week I will be traveling. Oddly enough, BREEZEWOOD, PA will NOT benefit from my carbon footprint abuse this time. No, no, no. Nashville is the destination of choice. It is the home of loved ones AND country music. I am hoping to get my fill of both and maybe some Tennessee produce.

Permit me to leave you with a "puzzlement" for reflection: What is the difference between a GEEK and a NERD? Many find them interchangeable terms and I say a resounding NO! They have definite differences in their application. I look forward to hearing from you.

Stay cool, my friends. I wish you the best in your attempts to obtain and maintain air-conditioning. I'm in good straights, but financially impoverished from ensuring my home's internal temperature. It is a preferred status, believe me. Meanwhile, I'll be praying the Sorrowful Mysteries as I hit Interstate-81 South and wish you the best in safety as you traverse that ribbon o'highway in your search for Nirvana this summer. Stop at a roadside veggie stand and ask the people where they obtained their produce. Ask if those peaches, tomatoes, eggplants, and squash have high-mileage or not. Think local as you hit the road. J'reviens and Happy Bastille Day and Morgan Brannigan's Birthday. Miss you, Dad. Hope you are having that Banana Cream Pie with Kathy.

Anonymous commented with the following:
        Great Country Farms, Bluemont VA (above Leesburg) does a coop program where you subscribe and they deliver out of their own fields. Also, nice field trip out to them (through Middleburg Wine Country) to pick your own on a hay ride...

        That said, just know some "roadside stands" are going down to the terminal in the a.m. and picking up trucked in produce... know your "farmer!"
       As for keeping planes in the air, my personal approach is to pray for "safe, scheduled landings" on the premise that it's the unscheduled, sudden stops that are the problem. (This all purpose approach covers the take off and landing in one convenient, all-purpose package!

------------------Lady Em from the Greek Islands writes:

Even this German can be creative!

Love you and as always inspired by you. You are AMAZING!!

----------------------And this from "Tuck Everlasting"

Loved this one as much as the others and it is true that the rosary is one of my most treasured items that I carry in my purse everyday. It belonged to my mother and now I carry it and say it as well.

Loved your comments about road side stands. Whenever Tom and I would go for rides we would stop at a stand and get whatever he felt we needed (since he was the cook for an while anyway) and we would enjoy and apple etc. going down the road. Your ideas are great and I wish more people would listen and do just some of the things you have suggested.

Thanks for keeping me in your very special group of friends as you will always be in mine.

Love,

Tuck

Skoolz Out and Life's Poetry

2010-06-25T00:38:00.010-04:00

Special Note:
As many of you know, I am currently celebrating this portion of the academic calendar. WooHoo.
Here I am, writing just a little early. Please know that I do it just for you, my sweet.

On with the show:
I saw a sign today that read "Poetry is everywhere."
I have to agree. It is in the written word, movements, and even the food we experience on a daily basis.

WRITTEN POETRY SEGMENT:

Does this man really need make up to impress you?

I'd like to start this blog with a quick nod to one of my favorite poetic interpreters: Alice Cooper.
Let's review class:
"School's out for summer       (Mr. Cooper is pushing the apostrophe usage here: poetic license is at play.)
School's out forever
School's been blown to pieces   (Figurative expression. Please don't report me to Homeland Security.)
Well we got no class
And we got no principles         (I would spell it princiPALS like Sister Regina suggested as a memory trick.)
And we got no innocence        (Sure, go ahead and remind me AGAIN.)
We can't even think of a word that rhymes (Quite possibly my favorite line in this piece.)

Thank you, Alice. Now take a seat and get your homework and notebook out. Opps, sorry for the seasonal slip. It takes about a week for any teacher to physically unfurl and to mentally shift gears.

MOVEMENT POETRY SEGMENT:
Years ago, back when the Earth was green and oil-ball-beach free, a dear friend of mine, who will remain nameless (Kae Lewis) moved from the Keystone State's Steel City (back when it earned its name with belching chimneys) to the Golden State, and all that the 1969 Western Expansion program promised. A few years following, and when the airlines were permitted to have "youth" fares without being accused of age discrimination, two of us followed suit just to do a quality check.

Disney's frozen bananas were met with great trepidation at first; but after a taste sample, it was adopted as a new favorite, but VERY unconventional, treat. Cuisine was much less exotic in those days. Bananas had only been witnessed in cereal bowls, ice cream splits, or directly from the peel. This was a culinary awakening at the time. Look at our clothes folks. We needed an awakening. And I needed to return the altar boy's smock to the church where I stole it. God help me, who let me loose back then?

Through the years, many other Pittsburghers moved. Some went west such as Miss Lewis ( left, center, Photo credit: Constance Lewis) and her family. Some of us scampered south-bound to Virginia like the carpetbaggers we are. Some were off to, well, you spin the globe and point your finger. We, the people from Pittsburgh, are everywhere you can name. Most of us participating in the search for economic liberation and gainful employment.

We search for each other and seek reminders of our home with the reliability of a Garvin GPS. Decades later, our necks reflexively snap at the very sight of the black and gold color combination. We love the Steelers. We worship the Penguins. We even pretend to still like the Pirates, especially if a non-Pittsburgher is talking smack about them. If you follow baseball, you know that we needn't go further to pledge our allegiance. More importantly, every town has a Pittsburgh bar. You can depend on it. Next time you travel, ask the concierge and they will direct you for a small fee and you won't need to go all that far.

Example: Enter Mike and his shop in Warrenton, Virginia. Check out a map to see where this is located. Hint: it isn't near Pittsburgh.
On The Run Sports and The Iron City Hot Dog Shop
The text color doesn't fully indicate that this is a link to his web site. [Please scan down Mike's web page for a view of current western expansion results.]

Once you cross the threshold of ON THE RUN SPORTS or THE IRON CITY HOT DOG SHOP, you're traveling through another dimension -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's a signpost up ahead: your next stop: the STEELER NATION!

Mike has a fantastic sports store on one side of his enterprise and a Pittsburgh style "hang out" on the other, complete with an extensive inventory of black and gold gear. [Sorry Digital Ghost, I thought this one photo of you in disguise would pass muster. By the way, Troy Polamalu wants his hair back.]

Talking with Mike over an authentic chipped ham bar-b-q sandwich, and a cold beverage, he waxed poetic (see it fits into today's theme) about the town we love. His philosophy is that none of us really WANTED to leave; we all were pressured into it for the love of an income. We didn't hate it. We didn't leave because we were angry. We left because we were forced during the tremendous economic shift that began in the late 1960s and early 1970s. That is when the gun fired for the state of the race to search for a new home. It marks the time when America, as a nation, started losing its industrial base as milked factories were closing in favor of golden parachutes and foreign profit margins. That was the last decade when the news reported on the Gross National Product. In a service-based economy there really isn't a product, so that isn't reported. We use unemployment to gauge things now. To me, it is a scary proposition for the U.S. to not have more manufacturing and be able to be more self-reliant for raw goods. That is a blog in and of itself.

But as Mike waxed, it is why we have the STEELER NATION. That is why we are still so incredibly loyal. It is why we still proudly sport black and gold well into the territory of other gang colors. We do so with the confidence that we will meet members of the cavalry who will readily back us up. Our tribe is there, flying the colors and sending the safety signal. Once we see and greet each other, we are home again, if only in our hearts.

FOOD POETRY SEGMENT:

Mike proudly serves nothing but products created in Pittsburgh. He has a secret recipe for his bar-b-que sauce for his chipped ham sandwiches served on potato bread buns. His preference is the classified blend of ingredients passed on to him by his parish priest at Holy Trinity Church in McKeesport, Father Bunchek. It is sinfully delicious. (you saw that coming, didn't you. I mean, really.) Well, Father, if Mike is true to your recipe, I worship at your altar.

This is where we come nearly full-circle with our little story. After receiving an emailed copy of the pink notice on the left, Kae, now residing in Cally-four-knee-a, decided to gather her posse and give them a taste of her home town. It was a resounding success.

If I may, I'd like to quote Ms. Lewis: "We got inspired by your Isaly's memento (in pink no less) and Greg decided to best ol' Fr. Bunchek (our very own) in the kitchen. We gathered friends and family for chipped ham BBQ samiches, slaw and the works. We all toasted you with a beer or three (but alas not Irons). And attached is the evidence.... Here's pal, Kansas-Sue, ready for her finger-lickin treat!!"

Even at a distance of 2,737 miles, it is apparent Mr. Greg nailed the sauce. If you check the strategically placed dribbles on the plate just near "Kansas-Sue's" right thumb, you can see it had reach the right consistency. Quite properly presented too, Mr. Greg.... Heck's Kitchen would be proud of you, my brother.

My last entry in the Food Poetry Segment can be found on the outskirts of Luray, VA, just near the amazing Luray Caverns. It is the one and only Flotzie's Soft Serve!!!! No, that is not me at the counter window; but that is not to say that I haven't frequented it.

As you head further west from Mike's Steel City Hot Dog Shop in Warrenton, VA, traveling about 35-40 more miles, you will probably be ripe for a cool confection and Flotzie's is the place. As you can see, they are no strangers to the art of marketing. Okay, so they aren't the only raconteurs to put the "e" in sundae, they are the ones angling those bargain hunting consumers out of their pews and into their line. I'm impressed that they go the distance to ensure that you are worshiping God as you know her that day as they check the date on your bulletin or it is no discount for you, you sinful loser. You just might have to wait until Tuesday when we're not sure if you are just glad to see us or if you are only interested in a split of another kind. (Photo: my design consultant and niece, Kerry)

My buddy and monk, Father Mark told me that "People are hell. You don't have to wait to die and go anywhere. You deal with hell right now." To that there is a corollary: Perhaps heaven is here and you needn't wait to die for it either. Sometimes people are heavenly. Special among them are card carrying members of the STEELER NATION.

Thanks for your time reading my poetic missive. If you need directions to any of the locations mentioned, try Mapquest.Com. As for me, I'm heading west, young man. Straight on to Mike's, making a right to Flotzie's, on to the third star on the left and then going straight til morning. See you next week, unless I am inspired to be in touch earlier. Of course, if you need to reach me before then, call the switchboard and leave a message. Gertrude, our trusted operator, will help you the best she can until I can return the call. God bless and Go Steelers.

Celebrating Daddy and Apostrophe Hell

2010-06-18T21:48:00.005-04:00

Morgan James Charles Brannigan: I salute you!
Thanks so much for being my dad and for being such an incredible one at that. Although we shared 39 years on the planet, it wasn't nearly enough. In some ways, we had only gotten started.
Photo 1: Morgan in his early "Bing Crosby" era.

There is an absolute void with you not here; but I'm not too sure you'd approve of how life has been evolving for mankind.
I remember the grace you said for our last Thanksgiving dinner with the family. You stated you were grateful to have lived long enough to have witnessed the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. It was a positive sign to you that the world just might be getting their collective act together. A friend of mine gave me a chunk of the Berlin Wall and I have it on my desk at school in your honor.

You made the best jello. You made the best hot sausage sandwiches in the history of hot sausage sandwiches. You made delicious meals and treats when our larders were lean. You were artistic, creative, and loving. When it rained, you drove us to school. When I was bored or lonely, you manufactured amusements and gave me your time. When I was given a homework punishment of writing "I will not talk in class" 30 times, you sat me down and showed me how to hold three pens at one time.
Photo 2: Michael Charles Grohman Brannigan, my grandfather, with my Uncle Bob. Please note he set the familial tone for wearing fedoras.

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad. You are half the reason I am a good parent and I love you for it.

Photo 3: James Joseph "Cinders" O'Brien and his brood. Taken just before they were considering moving back to Aberavon, Wales, where he worked after leaving Tipperary, Ireland as a teen.

HISTORY OF CELEBRATING DADS:

Daddy Day didn't start until around 1910. At first it was fittingly celebrated on March 19, the feast of St. Joseph. Then it was moved to June in recognition of the father of the woman who pushed it to be a nationally observed day. Why June? Well, it was originally intended to honor his birthday; but, then the government stepped in. Our former president and source of Watergate amusement, Richard M. Nixon, officially deemed it a national day of observance on the third Sunday of June. It is good to know he was able to have that in place without it requiring a grand jury hearing.

While I was checking on a few details, a small one jumped out at me: the official flowers for Fathers' Day are roses! Wearing a red one denotes your dad is living while a white one is worn if your father is deceased. This is such a wonderful tradition that I have every intention of carrying it out this Sunday. Unfortunately, I'll be sporting white.

For those dads out there who are interested in milking the situation: check out the 25 different days fatherhood is celebrated around the world. You have to name it to claim it, my friend! This morning country western singer, Keith Urban, was being interviewed about Fathers' Day. His wife, Nicole Kidman, has a June 20th birthday, so that is what they will focus on this Sunday rather than Fathers' Day. (My daughter's birthday falls on Mothers' Day periodically, so I feel his pain.) Old Keith is using the September date Australians have set aside for Daddy Day. What a guy and a good sport. Then again, he is wealthy enough to fly from country to country yanking in gifts from all 25 different Fathers' Days world wide. Does that give you an idea, my brothers?
http://www.history.com/topics/fathers-day Celebrated 25 different days around the world.

APOSTROPHE HELL:
Father's Day or Fathers' Day? Dear lord, you see it both ways....every place you go....even Hallmark Stores.
Please know I admit to being lacking in spots with grammar and mechanics even though I pulled 12 years of hard duty with the good Religious Sisters (no apostrophe here) of Mercy. Believe me, Sister Regina, RSM, did her level best along with the other 11 ladies; however, I still have my issues with writing. I try. Some times I try harder than others. Periodically, the more I focus on some selected "rules" the cloudier the application becomes. That is why I am always in close range of reference book.

The rule for possessive plural nouns ending with an "s" is that you only need to place an apostrophe following the existing s.

If you were celebrating a day for only one father, it would be Father's Day since it is a singular noun.
Add another father to the fray, or perhaps several ba-jillion others, and it becomes Fathers who are being celebrated. That upgrades it to Fathers' Day with the apostrophe following the "s" rather than being placed before it. If you place it before the ending "s" then you have a day where you are partying in the name of only one dad ---- but it isn't Fathers' Day, the third Sunday of June, it is a day you are constructing all by your little self.

While we are chatting it up about apostrophes, let me explain to you that some children are being taught to refer to it as a "comma to the top" while learning grammar rules. If you are doing that, PLEASE STOP IT. You are probably one of those folks who uses words like "boom boom" and "thingie" to discuss body parts. PLEASE STOP THAT AS WELL.

One of my favorite books is EATS, SHOOTS, AND LEAVES by Lynn Truss. It is available in the original "adult" version which extols the virtues of the "Apostrophe Protection Society" in London. The book details stories of the steps these dedicated Brits take when they spot a publicly displayed sign with an incorrectly placed punctuation mark. They do what you would expect repressed Brits to do: they kindly send a note explaining the proper application and expect you to correct it. Don't you LOVE IT? Does that mean Scoop is repressed? Let's leave that for another blog, shall we?

The author's book dedication speaks to her dry humor:
"to the memory of the striking Bolshevik printers of St. Petersburg who, in 1905, demanded to be paid the same rate for punctuation marks as for letters, and thereby directly precipitated the first Russian Revolution."
That Ms. Truss is a witty one. Go to the "ly-berry" and check out her book. Literally.

So, darlings, go forward in the knowledge that summer is here and the beastly hot stuff is a-coming in short-order. Get that hat and SPF sun screen stuff ready as July 4th is around the corner. Happy trails and, should you have any further questions concerning grammar, please feel free to use the Grammar Girl gadget on my blog page. She is ready for action. She is capital, period. As the kids say, LOL.
Meanwhile, let me know what time to be there for the cook-out. I like my burgers well done with extra sharp cheddar.

Love you madly,
Scoop

Inclination versus Synclination and What is good for your Constitution

2010-06-15T01:22:00.005-04:00

While talking with a friend the other day, I used the word "syncline" and they accused me of inventing it. Oh, if I could only receive a by-line for a slick word in any one of the academically recognized dictionaries. It would add a codicil to my will that it would be noted on my resting spot at Calvary Cemetery. Following that, I would immediately force my appearance on NPRs "All Things Considered" in a New York nanosecond.
For your reference:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syncline

THIS IS A SYNCLINE:

Earlier I blogged about the incredible historic and lovely ride I experienced coming back from Pittsburgh the "long" way along Route 40. Once it merges with I-68, you have the thrill of seeing the Slideling Hill Exhibit in Washington County, MD. IT IS SPECTACULAR. Now, don't get too excited, it ain't no Grand Canyon, mind you, but it is awe inspiring seeing structural geology of a mountain right in front of your nose.
(Photo credit: Paul Breeding, 1988)

Thoughtfully, they've build road side parking and a sweet exhibit building explaining to you that you are looking at a mountain with a surgically removed notch. This particular slice is wide enough for a six-lane highway to pass through quite comfortably. Oddly enough for you consumers, they also have a gift shop where they sell rocks....probably from China. At a distance, one might think they are approaching the Cumberland Gap, but it ain't that either. It is the Sideling Hill Exhibit and worthy enough of being known far and wide by those who may travel by it.

(Photo credit: Scoop Murphy, 2010
Please note: Ms. Murphy did not have the benefit of a helicopter, much like the cheap boost Mr. Breeding relied on some 22 years ago. Ms. Murphy had to rely on good old fashioned levitation.)

Now for the second part: THIS IS AN INCLINE:

Built in the 1870s for worker transportation, these cable cars are actually "working museums" operated by Pittsburgh's Port Authority Transit. How fortunate they know the importance of keeping these going as how could they be replaced. People still depend on them to commute from Duquesne Heights and Mount Washington into a second means of going into the city. Some walk across the Smithfield Street Bridge, others hop aboard a bus, or stroll to a local business at Station Square at the base of the near ladder-like tracks. Vertically challenged? Check out the Duquesne Incline (3-tiered cars pictured on the right) or the Monongahela Incline (single level, bright red cars).

AMBLE AND PREAMBLE WERE SITTING ON A FENCE

So, off on a Saturday's thrill ride in the Virginia countryside with dear friends, Mr. and Mr. Pumpkinhead. (No, it isn't Halloween) and a mystery person. This person is a digital ghost who wants nothing of herself on the web. It took three emails, an in-person conversation, and a long telephone call, armed with a 2010 calendar in order for us to smooth out our collective calendar, but it finally arrived. We traipsed off to pay homage to James and Dolly Madison: the fourth official "power" couple in the United States. These folks were so early on the stage that they didn't have a concern about dinner crashers or people jumping the White House fence, unless you were the British coming to burn it down.

Montpelier's second floor served as Madison's library and probably the spot where our very Constitution was sketched out by this founding father. The room was chock-filled with tomes on government structures conceived throughout written history and they served as his reference point. Montpelier is situated 22 miles from Charlottesville, so I imagine he was still wrestling with dial-up Internet back then. It was handy that he had his own "ly-berry" as we say in Pittsburgh.

One issue with some of those books was the early graphics. Dolly was quite the hostess and usually too busy to pay attention to the mail Madison may have received. Unfortunately, a few of subjects did come to light during the recently televised interview with James and Dolly. In the wake of Barbara Walter's retirement, Scoop has been kind enough to pick up the torch. Needless to say, Dolly was taken a bit off guard, so James had to go to bed without his ice cream that night.

Scoop is proud to report that she was able stay on the property, in a guest home built by the DuPont family, when she attended several intensive workshops on the Constitution. It was an absolute thrill and honor to be able to walk the gardens, sit on the manse steps, or watch the horses in the adjoining pastures early in the morning and later in the evening. It is different being there as a tourist. Time is a buzz kill.

Lafayette gave the Madisons a tree (type I can't recall) in appreciation of their friendship and hospitality. It is still healthily enjoying its position of overlooking the property. Now, don't get me started on that Lafayette character. I think after he helped out Washington by squeezing the Brits at Yorktown he must have surfed his way all over Virginia, never paying rent again. I know Alexandria has several addresses proudly claiming him as a long term visitor rather than a resident. Translated: he never paid, unless he gave you a tree, perhaps. Please know I have nothing but respect for Lafayette and all his contributions during the Revolution. He was the ace in the hole when we needed him, so please don't think I don't value him. This "Biz Marquis" was certainly singing "You, you got what I need" as he traveled the Old Dominion. I just wonder what the Marquis did for a W-2 form following the war.

The entire day was lovely. Weather cooperated with the usual Virginia heat, coupled with some humidity, and accented by a good old fashioned downpour for the drive home.

Mr. Craig Pumpkinhead was a delight at the wheel; but then again, he had the full benefit of an experienced co-pilot who doubles as a near authority on Virginia by-ways and roadside attractions.

Mr. Mark Pumpkinhead gleefully accepted the starring role playing "Miss Daisy. No media hog here, my friends. Forever leaving the limelight to others, he uses every technique possible to deflect attention. Before closing, I would like to call your attention to the color-coordinated navy-and-white polo shirts. All I am going to ask is this: if you were going to purchase a new car, and you were in the back seat of this one, what exterior/interior colors would you select. Take a wild guess, my posse.

So, enjoy your week, my lovelies. Go turn up your air conditioning and chill. Think of me. The ordered HVAC unit is due to arrive. Meanwhile, I be here enjoying my new sauna and the mini-fan keeping the heat at bay so my laptop won't ignite. Please be warned: I do believe I am back in the blogging saddle again.

INTERNATIONAL, NATIONAL, AND LOCAL REQUESTS HAVE BEEN HEARD

2010-06-11T01:51:00.004-04:00

Greetings All!
It is with great excitement that I announce my departure from the Witness Protection Program and my re-entry into the blogisphere. I've missed each and every one of you; but following my duty in the double-naught spy community, it was in my best interest to lay low for a while. Rest assured all of you were constantly in my thoughts as traveled the world securing peace for mankind.

Life should be returning to the formal level of normalcy, so please settle in for a smooth ride. For the first few blogs, I'll be bringing you up-to-speed with critical events on all social fronts. Meanwhile, operators will still be accepting phone calls, requests, and inquiries concerning this blog. Please feel free to call or post a message.

DATELINE: Pittsburgh, PA
PRESS RELEASE: Mary Lou Brannigan Blows Out MORE Candles

June 5, 2010 is the day "Mamie" turned 89 years old. It is incredible sitting back and thinking over her life and accomplishments. I am proud to state that at this advanced age, she is still "full of vinegar" and loving life. She is, overall, the happiest I've ever known her to be. Yes, dementia has had its effects on her memory; but she has side stepped that entire issue and hasn't let it hold her back much. She is frail and not prone to moving as rapidly as she did even last year, but she is getting to her appointed location and that is what matters.

DATELINE: Louisiana and the greater Gulf of Mexico region.
I can't start really giving my thoughts on this topic as I'll either explode or hit a state of spontaneous combustion. Who is the freakin' ad wizard who thinks it is okay to drill that deep in the ocean without having a recovery plan? Even back in the day of my early espionage days, we would have to pre-plan missions with "worst case scenarios" so we could actually plan ahead for disasters that probably would never rear their ugly heads. I remember back to my days working with defense agencies during Desert Shield and Desert Storm that oil was the real issue. I remember being told during the dark days of oil shortages that vast reserves were identified under the waters of the gulf. That's right, we were not really dependent on that dirty and expensive Middle Eastern oil, we had fresh and sweet smelling oil for the taking, as soon as we were ready for it.

BP must have found it and decided we were all prepared to unleash this natural reserve and that is exactly what they've done. This situation leaves a unsettled feeling in my stomach much the same way as wondering if the brakes are really working on the roller coaster as you near the crest of the track. As I've stated on Facebook, we need to start thinking about finding a new planet. At this rate, colonization will need to be intergalactic once the Brits finish thanking us for 1776.

DATELINE: National Road
Speaking of history, the last time I was up north, I decided to drive back using the original "National Highway" which is Route 40 in Pennsylvania. What an amazing drive and, thankfully, no deadline was overriding when I need to be home, so I stopped at nearly every roadside attraction possible. Why, you ask? Because this is my life, folks. I've progressed from discos, meat-markets, short skirts, and spike heels to road side attractions. Maybe it is just easier. I don't know, but it is working for me.

Two spots along the path were General Braddock's own road side attraction: his grave (left); and the youthful 22 year old George Washington's creation of Fort Necessity (below). Both well worth the time and efforts.

Jumping in the "Way Back Machine" we set the destination for 1754. George Washington is a young fresh officer tasked with building a road to Pittsburgh. Chopping trees down at the rate of a mile or two a day, he is on his way to telling the Frenchies that they need to leave Fort Duquesne because the British feel it is their land. Along the way, there is a skirmish involving Indians, French soldiers (who conveniently dressed like Indians), and the British, lead by our hero, road builder, and G.W.'s boss, General Edward Braddock.
Unfortunately, Ed didn't make it beyond the skirmish. He took the bullet fired at him quite personally, and died. In a stroke of genius, GW buried Braddock in the direct path of the road, marching soldiers and cannons over the poor guy. This was to prevent enemies from knowing where Braddock was buried and having his grave or body desecrated. Pretty good move.

Shortly following this show of intelligence, GW displayed a huge lapse of judgment. He and his men came across an encampment of French soldiers and a few Indians. GW advanced with his men ambushing the French and killing Joseph Coulon De Jumonville, a French military leader of great note. The French were not happy about this event. I suspect that George and his men weren't either once they realized their faux pas.

The French decided to retaliate, and really, can you blame them? It wasn't even a fair fight. George really kicked up some major sand with this one. The French and Indian War (or, as I teach it "The French and Some Indians against the British and Some Indians War") started all because George was eager to take out the French and demonstrate his leadership abilities. He was in his young twenties, commanding men twice his age, and plowing his way through the wilderness building his road.

I think he deserves to have full credit for this war too. You will never find this in a history book OR at Mount Vernon's historical interpretation of his life. Why? Because the French forced GW to sign a document admitting he was a less than a gentleman for the manner in which he killed Jumonville and his men. To his credit, it is what brought us to the revolution itself, not to mention his future job security.

The battle at Fort Necessity in the summer of 1754 was the opening action of the French and Indian War. This war was a clash of British, French and American Indian cultures. It ended with the removal of French power from North America. The stage was set for the American Revolution.

This last shot is taken from the highest point on the road, dangerously close to another American historical setting: my senior year high school retreat with the saintly Religious Sisters of Mercy. http://www.jumonville.org/

Let's just say that for some, especially during the late 60's, alcohol and monolithic mountain top crosses just didn't mix. God bless Rachel Maloney (Sister Naomi) for being brave enough for sleeping in our bunk room and pretending to not hear our nonsense all night long.
She is certainly in heaven just for that act.

So, my posse, I am concluding today's blog hoping beyond all odds that you have forgiven me for my time in the witness protection program. I am back now and loving you more than ever. More blogs to follow.

How was that Kae and Emma?

2010-01-18T00:20:00.000-05:00

Hello. It has been a while; but, for good reason. The holidays, visiting family took me on the road, mostly southward. It was a hectic pace, but wonderful as well. Before I cover the familial portion, allow me to touch on a few other points first.

Are you seated? If not, at least move to a carpeted area before continuing reading. Why? Well, today I went to church. I've been a wee bit remiss here lately, so it was really over due. When you least expect it, something comes out and strikes you during this time. Hopefully, it isn't lightning bolts, but rather something spiritually uplifting.

There is a prayer in the mass which has always impressed me; but, at times seems incredibly meaningful, even in a secular application. Toward the end of the mass, the priest and everyone in the congregation all say:

"Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day. In your mercy keep us free from sin and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ."

The phrase within that prayer which strikes me is "protect us from ALL anxiety."
Free from ALL ANXIETY! Now, keeping us free from sin isn't too shabby a status either; but, it could lead to terminal boredom. Also, if juicy rationalizations count as a sin (maybe venial) then being without sin is probably too much for any of us to hope for any time soon.

Let's consider the being free from anxiety status...even for a day:

No worries about traffic making you late for an arrival.
Forget about that bank balance cutting it close to the bone.
Eat garlic all you want without fear of offending.
Go ahead, let that light-flashing police cruiser pass you. Its light tolls for another.
Giving a speech about reducing benefits and payroll? No problem.
Concerned about where you'll be spending your eternal rest? Don't give it a thought. Imagine everything coming your way being handled with the same aplomb.

Paying for Luggage = Search for Van

2009-12-25T02:58:00.002-05:00

Being Christmas Tide, please accept my warmest wishes that everything in your life receives a large and loving dose of fabulous. It is a special time of year that demands for us all to be a little reflective of the wants and needs of others. To someone, we are that "other" person in need of a wee bit of love and attention. Here is my wish for you: that you receive some of what you want and most of what you need.

Okay, so much for all the nice stuff and on to the real message of the season: I HATE THE AIRLINES. They are directly responsible for me (temporarily) losing the Broussard Family Dodge Caravan on Christmas Eve. Please be aware that I really HATED them before hand, but now, it is to an entirely new level.

Not just a few airlines are in this honored group, I really can't stand them all. Aside from forcing me to lose a family's means of transportation, it is that I am old enough to remember when flying was a special event. People dressed for it. It made you giddy with excitement. There was glamor involved. There was a subtle air of celebrity associated with it. It rated right up there with receiving a "long distance" call, lasting for more than one minute, that wasn't placed with the *charges being reversed or *collect. (*The Spring 2010 Course Catalog will offer "Analog Terms for Digital Divas: A Historic Overview.) Now, traveling by air is just slightly above *cattle car, in altitude and attitude, or simply the equivalent to floating in *full steerage.

We travelers are relegated to reporting to the terminal (no pun intended, but definitely applicable) before our flight for the same amount of time equal to that of our flight. This time period is also subject to being extended into days at the whim of the airlines profit margin. Thank you, Congress, for finally limiting the amount of time we can all rot on the tarmack to a mere 3 hours boiling in recirculated, un-air conditioned oxygen supplied with beverages and snacks served during that time as well as limited restrooms being available.

Time, Time, Time. It goes right along with Money, Money, Money. To that end, these damn airlines are charging for nearly everything but ice in your drink and believe me that day is coming as rapidly as the disappearance of the Macademia nut flight snack.

Standing curbside on Wednesday morning, I forked over an additional $20.00 for the one suitcase I was checking. Do airlines think you are going to travel without luggage during the holidays? That is besides the fare I paid them MANY MONTHS ago. In my suitcase I had what one might expect: too many clothes, some heavy shoes, a few small gifts, and an actual Christmas tree. There was no way on Earth that I was about to pay to schlep seasonal gifts with me in a second suitcase. The last time I flew, I heard a fellow passenger being threatened with pistol whipping if they didn't pay $80.00 more for their second piece of luggage which was

too large to be carry-on (or perhaps it should be called "carrion"). Quite easily my Christmas gifts would need to be reduced to Starbuck's gift cards, deflated beach balls, or stolen McDonald's straws, depending on the recipient. Am I being cheap? I don't think so. This situation is one of my personal protests: I will not pay transportation fees for non-human elements. Well, not unless they can fit under the seat in front of me or in the overhead compartment.

So, what this does mean is this: I am forced to shop in Louisiana once I arrive. This year, my school schedule translated into me arriving on 12/23. That translates to my shopping being conducted on Christmas Eve. You got it. I'm there with every other person suffering from micro-encephalitis at any store with an available parking spot. True, I have my list ready to be unleashed. Usually things go well. For the most part, I overspend and *underthink. Both are permissible, given the conditions. Again, though, who is the root of this evil doing? The freakin' airlines.

Alright, it is Christmas Eve. I borrow the Chrysler-Dodge Caravan from my daughter and her hubby and take off shopping in an area where I've never driven before. No problem, I've studied Lewis and Clark, I can handle this. Less than 4 miles down the road, my phone starts making the rude gastric noises that comes from either ingesting too much raw cabbage or failure to have a charge. Pulling into the shopping center's parking lot, I traverse the lanes looking for a suitable space. Eureka...I see it and park without employing an assault rifle. Life is good, except I can't get the key out of the ignition. That glitch is decoded in less than 10 minutes and now I can move on, right? Wrong-o. Now the radio won't stop playing even with the engine off and the key out of the ignition. So, with the little "juice" I have in my phone's battery, I call to own up to my stupidity. "Open the door, Mom. It will shut off." (Doesn't everyone have one child who has an expanded IQ? Well, count me in.)

Voila, I am in the store! ALRIGHT! Purchases are made! The credit card is approved (who needs Las Vegas?). Time for me to be heading back the way I came, except, I can't remember where I parked. I traveled down every aisle of the parking lot looking for a space that none of them stand out. Looking through the lot, most of the vehicles are white, with the exception of a maroon vagabond Monte Carlo. The Broussard van is white. Oh, fun, fun, fun. 30 minutes later, I call to ask the license plate numbers....maybe security can help me locate it ?.....well, neither owner has that committed to memory. No problem....15 minutes more, I turn my phone on one more time hoping the charge stays with me and ask for back-up.

Am I an idiot? (Whoa, I need to correct that negative self-talk this second.) What kind of stupid idiot am I? Even Rainman drove and did a fine job. I drove and lost a large vehicle in a defined amount of space. Of course, three minutes later, the delinquent van finally decided to give up the fun and games and put down the cloak of invisibility. Damn if it wasn't right where I left it: among the other white vans in a sea of white vans with white vans parked next to it.

Victory was mine. Thank you phone for hanging in there with me. Thanks, Corey, for not soiling yourself when I phoned to own up to my condition. Thank you, IQ for returning to the nest.

Next blog: Remote controlled fireworks and how to make your white van get a parking lot personality.

There's No Vember like November, like No Vember I know.

2009-12-01T14:48:00.005-05:00

Before moving on, remember to visit our sister site specializing in photo journalism:
SCOOPSIGNS.BLOGSPOT.COM

Ah, here we find our hostess, Lisa Marie, readying an enormously tasty dish calling for onions....LOTS of them. Tears fell like Niagra Falls; but, then Skippy to the rescue. How do you spell relief? Goggles and headlamp.

We all remember the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.

How about the guy who makes those candles fit into the candlestick holder. Will: you are one talented guy. Thanks for ensuring the ambiance. Now Mom, put the camera down and step away.

Dr. Brannigan. Your patient is one hellofa turkey.

Joe "COOKIE" Kopasek demonstrating just how freely Morton's actually does run. Look closely and you can actually see the steady stream. He adjusted and all was well. Our man "COOKIE" is the salt of the Earth.

Everyone's favorite Playdough expert, Miss Bell (right) and her trusted assistant.

Kerry (aka Aunt Keke) with her number one guy and hockey player, Mr. Will.

This woman is a national security risk. She arrived uninvited, stayed two days, and forced everyone to eat corn bread pudding. Unreal.

Queen Nana surveying her people. The evening's co-recipient of the coveted Scoop Award for Best Dressed. Rumor has it she is investing her $1.00 prize and taking the entire family on a European junket.

We've been having problems with this gal too. She visits during holidays and insists upon bringing her extensive toy collection with her. Code name: Miss Pitty Pat

Aunt Jasmine is just a wee bit too holiday happy. We wouldn't question her emotional status, but she was hanging out with us for a long day. Do not attempt to apprehend her alone. Try it when she is with people.

Skip, Chip, Shippy, Chipster, Hey Younz. Mamie just can't keep this guy's name straight and I won't let him forget it. He is new on the scene, arriving about 25 years ago. So, don't confuse him by calling him William. It will only serve to keep him dazzled and at the sink.

Why, just WHY, are these two so thrilled? Kerry (on the right) was so demoralized after not winning the Scoop Award for Best Dressed at Lisa's birthday luncheon (Lisa didn't win either) that she came with her guns loaded. No jeans. No yoga pants tucked in her boots. No flannel anywhere. Strictly glam.

The other co-recipient of the Scoop Award for Best Dressed: Nana Nonamaker. You can tell she is Skip's mom instantly. Is it the facial resemblance? No, the real truth is when he leaves the sink, she steps right into place. It is a familial routing synchronized through genetic programming that refuses denial. I just wonder when they will visit my home.

Skip recalled the fantastic cherry cobbler Mom/Nana made when he was a younin' and did his level best to recreate it. After days consulting with three internationally recognized culinary academies, he finally Googled a recipe and went for it. Here's Mom/Nana giving him the trade secrets for the next edition.

This is the premier broadcast of 'TURKEY CONFIDENTIAL' where emotional support was offered to those encountering cooking issues on the day-of-days. This only broadcasts once a year; however, a podcast will be coming soon on a blog near you...as soon as I can figure out how to do it without the use of a larger hammer or power saw.

Well, fan club, that was the holiday this year. Hope you enjoyed a peek into the inner sanctum of Club Naginnarb. Now, go look out your window and check to see if any golfers have plowed into a lawn ornament, landscaping or just hopped a curb. If so, remember to take the premier replacement for the jaws-of-life: a 9 iron club. Go for the windows on both sides just for measure.

Now, here is your coat. Your shoes are by the back door. I need to grade some papers. Be a dear and let yourself out. I'll keep an eye on you until your car starts.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING WISHES TO ALL.....

2009-11-23T10:47:00.004-05:00

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

This photo is of my family, the Brannigans. (Murphys for those of you who require continuity.)
     Dad's presence is felt as his eye focused through the lens capturing this feast. This was taken in November 1953. It was my brother, Patrick's, very first turkey day ever. Doesn't he do a fierce and accurate imitation of the Infant of Prague? If I keep working on our genealogy, perhaps I'll find out we are part Polish and that will explain his early skills. I bet his dinner was pureed that day and was from a small, stoutly shaped jar with a cherub-faced baby on it.
      There is my lovely, beaming sister, Kathy, keeping me on track, as usual. A duty she was destined to perform for the balance of her abbreviated life. She slipped the surly bonds of earth the Tuesday before Thanksgiving eleven long years ago. I am so thankful to have had her and rejoice in the legacy she has given to those of us who continue loving her. It still makes me laugh when I think of how my Beatles posters upset her hanging on the wall of our shared room. She accused them of making her uncomfortable when she dressed for work. It was a gentler time. In my sensitive manner, I told her "too bad" and they were there for keeps. She got married not too far after that. You lucked out on that move, Norman.
   Mike is there in his Hop-A-Long Cassidy shirt that he loved so much. It always made me mad that Mom sent away for a REAL plate and a REAL mug emblazoned with Hop-A-Long and his 6-shooters just for the express pleasure of my brother's epicurean experience. Mom was always fair, given the fullness of time. She sent away for a dress for me years later. It was offered by the Pittsburgh Press, was on a thick paper along the lines of the composition of today’s Sham-Wow, and was a reprint of the "yellow pages" directory. I wore it with black tights and, even though I thought I was quite MOD, thank you, I was petrified it would disintegrate was while it was being sported.
    Let's not forget Mom herself. Check out the Betty Crocker apparel, complete with a jaunty half-apron for full affect. Those of us who were witness to the early days of the Brannigan family know darn well she only warmed up the canned corn. Morgan whipped out the kitchen magic. He was the gravy king. She accomplished the curtsy as men only grilled outdoors at that point in history. Poor Dad would sit there and smile, as she would graciously deflect meal compliments.

The lesson in all this? Take a family photo on Thanksgiving Day. Freeze that memory, even if it is something less than what you think you feel it should be. Years later, it will be a treasure.

So, go charge up your camera battery or purchase a reserve of "AA" batteries for the holiday. Cook it up, dish it up, eat it up, and love it up.
Now, go get your raincoat and put your hood up. It is raining today and you don't need to catch a cold and be sick for the big gathering.
Let your self out. I need to check on the pies.

IT IS OFFICIAL: YOU CAN RELAX!

2009-11-22T20:58:00.003-05:00

That is right and you read it here first. It is finally safe for us all to breathe a collective sigh of relief and let those muscles go slack. What brings this new age of relaxation? Here is it:

Mary Louise Clare Gordon Brannigan, aka: Mamie, Mummy, Ma, Marlon, Weezie, Red, Little Red Rooster, Mrs. B, The Queen Bee stated in a telephone interview this afternoon that "EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL." Thus spoke the final authority on the state of the world.
Mamie surrounded by part of her royal court at Deep Creek Lake.
The entire quote was "Well, I've been cozy all day reading a great book and a wonderful thought came to me: Everything is under control. So, Ruthie, everything is wonderful." I responded that I was totally thankful for the update, and, after thinking about my respectful, but still quite smart mouth remark, something dawned on me as well. MAMIE IS 100% RIGHT. Everything is under control and it was a relief to hear it, be reminded of it, and feel it.

This is not to say that everything is going the way we all want it to go; but, it was a fantastic reminder that it makes no sense to twist ourselves into a bundle trying to smooth out the wrinkles beyond the length of our own arms. I am relieved. I am uplifted. I am thankful. Mom is one smart lady even in the midst of all her memory loss and struggle with dementia. She has laid down her cross and has come to terms with where she is and, probably for the first long term phase of her lifetime, she is mostly worry free because she has snuggled into a grip with her limitations. Impressive that with saying only one statement, and giving it only a minute or two of follow-through, she has managed to maintain her ability to be a great role model.

November 22: Today is a major milestone in American History. It is the day Camelot was brutally ended with JFK going not so gently in to the night.

I remember the day itself. Sister Helene, RSM came into our seventh grade classroom and whispered something to our homeroom nun's ear. She calmly stood and told us to line up, in the usual semi-military format the 1960s Catholic schools were famous for, that we were going to church. It was weird, but no other information was given. Once we were in the pews of St. Paul Cathedral, we were directed by our principal, Sister Mary Peter, to pray for special intentions. That was it. Still no further information.

It was easy to see that every member of the Religious Sisters of Mercy, within our eyesight, was horribly upset. Most of them were crying or praying, or both, in a very controlled manner. Shortly, Monsignor Andrew J. Pauley climbed the steps of the pulpit to address us. He was our pastor and spiritual leader, and resembled Pat O'Brien from the movie "Boys Town" in action, word and deed. (yes, I saw that movie...but not as a first run...as a rerun on KDKA, thank you). I loved him and the alcohol induced roseacea that mapped his warm face.

He stood there in his long black cassock and told us in gentle steps that our president was dead. He told us this was a sad day and that, because of all the sadness and change this would bring, that we needed to go home to our parents. Monsignor Pauley always had the right answer for everything, but this was beyond our wildest dreams! He told us we would also not come to school the next day. This was incredible news exceeding the usual thrill of being hauled into church every St. Andrew's Day only to be released early with the directive to celebrate his feast day.

At first it was a thrill to be let loose; but, we all could tell it was for the wrong reasons. As students, we had no way of understanding the impact or importance of any thing remotely related to the gravity associated with John Fitzgerald Kennedy's assassination. We did understand that it was serious and not a time to be giddy even though we were being given an early release followed by an entire day off.

Home I went to find my sainted grandmother, Grieggar, rattling her crystal rosary beads and crying. The black and white portable television set was at attention on its faux brass stand. We didn't dare turn the knob in the hopes of a cartoon show. No, this was serious. The broadcast was non-stop taking us through the steps of all that followed. Mom was seated beside her on the gold brocade sofa. She had abandoned ironing Dad's shirts, leaving the board upright with the water-filled Coke bottle with the sprinkler head stopper since we didn't have the incredible steam technology of today's appliances. It must be important as she hadn't unplugged the iron. She never let that stand alone in the on position unsupervised.

Eventually, while watching the one-eyed monster non-stop, I saw Jack Ruby shoot and kill Lee Harvey Oswald at the theater where he was hiding. It scared me that a policeman, Officer J.D. Trippet, was killed in the process. The impression was so powerful that I still recall the man's name. It made me wonder how soon Dad would be home safe with us rather than driving his patrol cruiser.

I was confused and, like many kids my age during that time, I wasn't asked my opinion. Nor was I asked to share how I was feeling about all this news. Anxiety wasn't as readily labeled or bantered about much like pro-actively addressed. We just dealt with it the best way we could.

We all plugged into the television set without much conversation for days to come. We cried mostly because our parents were crying. That just didn't happen all that readily. The only other time I had ever seen Dad cry before that point was when he was told his sister and my namesake, Ruth, had died. That was a much different and deeper level of pain and crying. This was a calmer, more staid, quiet projection of emotion. I was relieved it didn't reach the level it had with Aunt Ruthie, but both passages of time were hard to witness. It hurt me to see my parents and all the other adults in my world reeling from this calamity.

Since those days we've seen JFK immortalized along with Martin Luther King and the current Pope in a triptych on nearly every dining room wall. We also seen them all replaced by objects d'art as not that many people display these three together in their homes much.

A few years back, I was in Dallas for a conference. As any self-respecting child of this era would do, I took a cab to the book repository and walked the grassy knoll. The theater where Oswald was confronted by Trippet is now a bar. The marquee is still there as a silent sentry of the events that took place that day. It is as if Dallas would rather be known for a few other events, and can you blame them? There is a log cabin which belonged to Sam Houston nearby which was interesting since that is where I discovered he was born a Virginian. Dallas has done a wonderful job of maintaining respect; yet, moving on to the future, as it should.

Interestingly, today's milestone of JFK's assassination wasn't even brought up during the 6 o'clock news. It has been moved out further away from shore by the ripples of more current news splashes. Today makes me not only think about JFK but also about his place in history and mourn the robbery of his life. It also makes me mourn the days when he was missed more. Maybe because I was younger and it was such a seminal benchmark for me. Maybe it was because it was better to mourn the magic of Camelot rather than the current debt, war and other stressful headlines that won't go away.

Now, even with all this, please know that Mary Louise Clare Gordon Brannigan is still 100% right even in the face of all this negative history. We are okay. We made it through that. We'll make it through more. Everything is under control. Now, go get good and comfortable and start reading your book. Everything is under control. Go relax.

Scoop's Signs of the Times

2009-11-14T12:33:00.003-05:00

SCOOP'S SIGNS OF LIFE

Folks, you've asked for this and now it is finally here.
Scoop Murphy is bringing you more highlights of humanity in Scoop's Signs of Life.(click on one of the blue links.)

Feel free to pass it along and have your friends and neighbors join in on the fray.
Do you have a photo worthy of being displayed, email it to: scoopmurphy317@gmail.com
Then, sit back and watch the magic.
Of course, Scoop's Signs of Life is available under the "favorite blogs" area on the left side of this blog.

Greeting Card Moments and Oysters

2009-11-12T23:52:00.003-05:00

We all have those special moments we see portrayed on commercials. They just end or start differently for us. Today, for instance, I was knitting, watching TV and thankful to be inside during a "nor-easterner" which is currently pommeling east coast communities. What appears, but a greeting card commercial referring to a company with "mark" and "Hall" in the name.

It is a warm, family moment with a daughter thanking her mom for seeing her through a difficult year. To thank her, at the Christmas holiday, the daughter offers mom a card as an expression of her thoughts and thanks. Then it states that a card is the most important gift ever. To this I say, it better have been homemade or have a big fat check inside. I'm not saying that sending a card isn't meaningful, but it can't be the only gesture.

I would rather, much rather, have a homemade card in lieu of a Markhall card or cheap gift any day. That way, the card certainly is the gift. It is well thought through and time has been dedicated to ensure that it is expressing the right meaning. These Markhall cards are okay, but certainly not the end all. What do you think?

Is buying a store bought card the best gift that can be given?

Meanwhile, on to MOLLUSKS ON PARADE!
This fall I enjoyed one of the best weekends possible with great friends. We rented a fantastic home, on the shores of the Rappahannock River near Urbanna, VA, complete with a private beach, a generous hearth and a view of the sunset or rise that would entice Van Gogh. As if that isn't enough, there was a festival being celebrated in a nearby community. Not just any festival, mind you, the 52nd Urbanna Virginia Oyster Festival. Click on this link for further details. Urbanna Oyster Festival

To avoid the usual punishment offered to commuters by Interstate 395 south of DC, the drive down was through Maryland Route 301 and over a rather narrow bridge to Virginia's middle peninsula where Urbana is located. On the way, we stopped a great "Mom and Pop" restaurant called "Bo's"....it was delightful. Service was flawless thanks to our waiter, Kevin. This is not only the place to nosh, but the gift shoppe and Christmas store of your dreams. One rule for life that you should know before growing too comfortable is posted everywhere, for your reading convenience.

Please take note of the price tag on the hippopotamus statue in the case. It reads $45.00!!!! Don't believe me, click on the photo and it will increase in size so you can read it yourself. Unreal!? Is this anything you'd buy just casually on the road? Would you pay for anything shelved behind a sign like this? Just wondering. Customarily, I prefer to shop around a little when purchasing hippo statues. A gal just can't jump on the first one, can she?

We arrived too late at night to appreciate much beyond the moon's magnificence in the rippled mirror of the river. The night air was crisp with wisps of wood fires floating through. The following morning brought a clear view of the every widening Rappahannock on its path to the Chesapeake Bay. Just brilliant. And, just what the doctor ordered for a weekend retreat. I don't want to swim in it or fish, I just want to look. That is what I need.

All I can tell you is Oysters are the last things I thought I'd be celebrating, but it was a wonderfully uplifting and fun time. No huge crowds. No waiting in line for anything, well at least for very long anyhow. Small town with a big heart feel. I thought Andy would be riding down the center of the road with Barney, Floyd and Aunt Bea at any second.

The parade began with the leadership of the Knights of Columbus presenting colors. It is, in all my years in the Commonwealth, the only time I've ever seen the Virginia (Sic Semper Tyrannis/Thus always to tyrants) and the United States flags bracing the Papal flag. This really impressed me since I've always felt that Catholicism was far from the leading religion of Virginia's smaller towns. I would give that honor more readily to the Baptists or Presbyterians. Regardless, they put on a great show with their feather boa trimmed chapeaus, musketeer capes, and defender of the faith super hero body language. What is not to love?

Speaking of love, here comes the float carrying the crowned Oyster Queen and Little Miss Spat (the name of baby oysters....yah, who knew? Maybe the Gorton fisherman, but not me.) The cherry on this sundae is that the beauty queen in the lime green is a down syndrome child. These kids are so incredibly special and it warmed my heart that she was elevated to be "Little Miss Spat" and wave to her public from the float. Truly, this was a wonderful highlight for me.

The freshly revealed identity of the OYSTER MAN was sufficient to make me leave before having a second fried pickle. Once he unveiled himself, I yelled from the macadam with all my might "I SUPPOSE SANTA CLAUS ISN'T REAL TOO!" What a let down.
Remember in the Land of Oz you were to ignore the man behind the curtain? Well, in Urbanna it is regard the lady potato in front of the port o'potties. This gal has an incredible investment in her message. It is just a shame that I don't dial in to her frequency. She is riding on a float built by a nearby church. It had a pulpit, minister, choir...all looking quite like muppets. In each pew there were several rather large "pew potatoes" listening to the minister's speech. And there she was, in all her glory, and in the glory of God, profiling herself with a sign. 'HOT POTATO FOR GOD" Thankfully, this sign was being saved from certain doom by a page protector, even if the message was lost on me and my friends. Collectively we had well over 100 years of education among the four of us, so I didn't feel so badly that I missed the meaning. Anyone out there who can lend a hand with this one?

Just when you thought that Aunt Bea and Floyd were on the road to their Florida winter home, there they are selling the yummiest oysters in town. Paynes Oysters, my friends. THE place to go. She sells 'em, he cooks 'em. She also yells out the window chanting "Here comes the Po Po!" when the local police cruisers (cleverly disguised as golf carts) appear in the parking lot they share with City Hall and police headquarters.

Before I leave you, please see if you can answer the question: which of these two photos tell the tale that four teachers attended the 52nd Urbanna Oyster Festival? You be the judge.

Submit your entry along with a cashier's check for $1,000 and a self-addressed stamped envelope. Then, please see yourself to the door. Remember your coat, if you brought one with you. See you soon. I'll watch you until your car starts.

Happy Halloween n' Nat

2009-10-30T23:28:00.007-04:00

One of the many themes threaded through my blog is how I wonder about people and their actions. They will readily foist their thoughts about without regard to where they may land. Let's examine a recent example.

Yes, hard to believe, but I work multiple jobs so that I may live the luxurious life style so many who know me just flat envy. There have been periods, during the last few years, when I've had 4 jobs and volunteer work to juggle. It is no understatement that I am a busy gal.

This morning I dressed in the uniform of my "regular" job intending to wear it to school and then go about my business attending to my other responsibilities. It is unreal to me that people thought I was in some sort of costume rather than ready to nestle into the overstuffed captain's chair on the Enterprise bridge. What disrespect. What lack of social acuity. Beam me the hell out of here, my friends.

Today I also informed my students about the new federal law on the books regarding Halloween. It clearly states that all Snickers bars of any size need to be surrendered to their teacher as soon as possible or face a grand jury. One student proudly informed me that his dad is an attorney and he'd represent him for free. What is with this generation? Have they no respect for the law? It is frightening where this is leading.

Another cautionary tale of today's world is that we all need to slow down, this author included. Right now I am only working two jobs and the president of an organization of teachers. There is always the usual punch list of errands to run keeping the velocity of life pulsing. Target for nails, school supplies, shampoo. Off to Staples for more supplies then down to Barnes and Noble for the latest book I can't live without.

Rounding out the shopping, I head to the grocery store and pharmacy. Entering the store, I notice a lone shopping cart, ripe for the taking. Off I go with my list and mission focused. Then it happens. ERK. ERK. ERK. The rear left-hand wheel is in dire need of industrial strength "3 in 1" or a quick squirt of WD-40.
By the time I hit the olive oil aisle, I'm thinking maybe a little of it wouldn't hurt either. ERK.ERK.ERK. Oh, well. This was a quick stop, so no harm, no foul. I'll just get what I need and this cart will be fine.

After advancing aisle one, I finally engaged in an emergency interior discussion with my board of directors on the topic of returning the cart. The chairman decided NO. Since I wasn't shopping for much, I could endure it. 25 minutes later, it is warmed up and shrieking at a high fever pitch: ERK. ERK. ERK. This cart mocks me as I am being humiliating. Strolling by the coffee display, smiling like an idiot at shoppers as they stare at me as if just killed their dog. ERK. ERK. ERK. Of course, their carts are either brand new or just recently had a tune-up, front-end alignment and all their vital fluids topped off.

The entire time going through the store, I'm living as gracefully as possible with this grocery cart whose scourge is suffered by millions on a daily basis. Next: the pharmacy with its tailored selection of maintenance drugs always does a gal good. This week's batch is finished with an incredibly beautiful bright green transparent high dose gel tab of Vitamin D for the whitest woman I know.

Okay, while I am at the grocery store/pharmacy AND I've finished with the pharmacy, the next destination is the grocery side of the store, right? Yogurt: Check. ERK. Coffee creamer: check. ERK. Progresso Italian Wedding Soup: Check. Check. Check. Check. (It was two for one night.) ERK. Lettuce, tomatoes, apples, pears, bananas: Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. ERK. ERK. ERK. Oh, and a true sign that I am living on the right hand side of the Lord: Crystal Lite was on sale. ERK. ERK.ERK.

Never will you ever find me in line to do the "Self Checkout" dance routine because I stand in silent protest against all this automation every chance I get. Didn't the Uni-bomber warn us that we were eroding the dignity and availability of menial work for an entire tier of society with all of our cost saving automation. Alright, so he also lived in a hut and killed innocent people, I get that; but, those details are line noise next to the employment of unskilled labor who want jobs and to earn an income. As my friend Dora says, "Don't get me started on that."

So, I here I am, checking out with a human cashier, paying for my selections, placing my prescriptions in my purse and pushing my cart to the curb, demonstrating my sense of resilience. ERK. ERK. ERK. Parking the cart, I realize that, in a rare display of attempting physical fitness, I walked from Barnes and Noble to the grocery store. So I pay the piper and waltz off to my vehicle.

Fast forward. I am walking toward my back door, stopping to kiss my 13 month old boyfriend, Captain Parker and say hi to his darling mummy. Then, it dawns on me that although I am home, my groceries are still in that demonic cart at the grocery store's curb. In a twisted state of fate, I finally have my moment in the sun. ERK. ERK. ERK. As if I don't have enough to do, I get to repeat ride back to the shopping center. Lucky me. ERK.

Back into the car, cruising down the road, I run down the list of purchases, thankful that nothing is all that perishable. ERK. All will be well. All will be well, if the groceries are still there. ERK.
Amazingly, it is a happy ending folks. That damn cart was there, having a good giggle.

I've got to tell you folks, it might be time for me to be "beamed up" for a little wee while. ERK. Too much to do and simply not enough time. But please know, my friends, life is just too short to have a cart that squeaks or has a wobbly wheel or any other short coming. I deserve a new shiny chrome 2010 low mileage cart and will stay put at the store's entrance until it is available.

I bet you are wondering not just about me, but the fate of this shopping cart and others like it. Well, my little socially conscience vigilante, it is time for you to go home and watch this video:
THE SHOPPING CART WHISPERER
DON'T CLICK IT YET...DON'T BE RUDE.
FINISH THIS LITTLE BIT OF THE BLOG AND THEN CLICK, GEEZE.
Before you go, please know there is a link to raise your understanding of the fate of shopping carts. It is listed with the other blogs I keep for your reference. Just click on "NO MORE SHOPPING CART ABUSE" and sit back and prepare to learn.

See you next week. Please behave. Cough and sneeze into your elbow. Wash AND dry your hands thoroughly...Germs love damp surfaces, including your hands. Say your prayers. And, don't let the bed bugs bite, right Wendy?

Meanwhile, permit me to leave you with a quote to ponder. My daughter Jessica's signature line on her email is quite the statement to consider.
It reads I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE. IT IS LIKE NOW, ONLY LONGER.

Now be good, and show yourself out. Okay, go ahead, click the blue link now.

THE MAN IS BACK--- WATCH OUT BROWNS, Cleveland needs you to return

2009-10-18T13:29:00.001-04:00

FIRST THINGS FIRST! GREAT NEWS FIRST!
TROY AUMUA POLAMALU
RETURNS IN GAME 6, MY FRIENDS!
Okay, so he might be wearing a brace to support his knee, but number 43 is back in action. He has been missed. The Steelers just wasn't the same team with him on the sidelines. So grateful that you are back, Troy. Your STEELER NATION fans are cheering you on.

Go take care of those Cleveland Browns. Sorry, Molly, Black and Gold will win today over, hmmmm, is it brown and orange? I'll give you that your team should be well represented at Heinz Field today as the drive is somewhat convenient. Let's see what comes of this fabulous match. What a punishment that it isn't being broadcast. I will settle for the Redskins v. The Chiefs, but it isn't my first choice. Sorry, Judy. I still love them though.

EDITORIAL COMMENTARY FOLLOWS
(as if it wasn't leading)
As many of you know phonics, perhaps you will follow my concern with today's sportscasters pronunciation of BRETT FAVRE'S name.
Perhaps you are equally concerned, right along with me, that Brett can't really decode his own name. F-A-V-R-E. It is based in the French language and, basically translated from its origin in the early 15th century vernacular, means "he who can't rest or retire."
Every telecaster will say Brett's last name as if the R and the V are transposed. Folks, wake up, this is wrong.
His name is NOT "FaRRRRRvvvvve" but, rather, FAVVVVVrrrrre. It is tricky, but if you really look at the word you will see that the V definitely doesn't move. It remains stationary every time it is printed, so see if you can focus and say it correctly. I say this is the real reason the man cries during press conferences. He is in phonemic hell. Just a suggestion. Let me say that it feels great being able to get that out in print so now I can meditate free of any reoccurring thoughts of this incredible issue.

Now, moving along, let's just check our STEELER NATION representation on the pre-game show today. Oh yes, it is comprised of several wonderfully knowledgeable former players.
Boomer, nice seeing you again.
Jim, always a pleasure.

But, gentlemen, you take a back seat to two other key analysts:
(former) Coach Cowher, A PITTBURGHER
and
Dan Marino, A PITTSBURGHER and a distant cousin on my Mummy's side of the tree. {Are you folks in Wales thinking this is wonderful seeing your distant connections....it is waaaaayyyyyy distant, but a connection, nonetheless.}

Of the two, Dan is teacher's pet. Please, please, please, don't tell Bill Cowher as he may have a Brett FaVre moment on the telly. Dan is a guy from MY side of town. He is an Oakland boy from St. Regis Parish. Dan attended Central Catholic School for Handsome Guys which was, fortunately for my fellow high school academics, a mere three city-blocks distance from Oakland Catholic School for Gorgeous Girls. (Let's bow our heads at this point for the memory of St. Paul Cathedral High School which was renamed OCS when it became a diocesan concern.)
Check out this fresh face and how it has morphed into the glam-guy of today. Easy on the eyes, ladies. Am I right OR Am I right?
Oh, Danny. Your mummy is praaaaad of you! I leave you with this visual as I leave to troll the web for a broadcast of the Steeler-Brown game... If I may quote a sentiment my Mummy would have posed, "Oh my, look at those nice, straight teeth."
I remain, waving my Terrible Towel.

New Feature Added

2009-10-16T13:45:00.001-04:00

Have a Gmail, Yahoo, or AOL IM account? Then you can become an instant subscriber.
No more pesky emails from that poser Ruth Brannigan. Just pure Scoop straight to you.
Wow! Does it get any better than that?

SIGNS OF THE SEASON

2009-10-15T14:51:00.004-04:00

CAKE WRECKS Click on this link or the one listed on the left with other blockbuster blogs.
Okay, so I am starting out off topic. So what? Here is something that will make you smile. This link will take you to another very fun web site/blog I came across. Much like "Awkward Family Photos," this focuses on the wild errors that have been made with regard to professionally decorated cakes. As the blogger states, she features professionally prepared cakes because it just isn't fair to draw attention to the errors made in the home. Professionally trained bakers really should give us a certain level of confidence when we order these delightful taste treats. Typos and lack of communication shouldn't make for flawed events...oh wait, we aren't talking about MY blog, this is Cake Wrecks.
     Please enjoy these cakes. They are the only ones I've found to be over the top tasty while absolutely zero calorie AND fat free.
     NOTE: With the advent of publishing JULIE AND JULIA, AWKWARD FAMILY PHOTOS, and now CAKE WRECKS, I have but one question:

WHEN THE *&^^%%^$^$ is mine going to be joining the ranks?   Just askin'.

On with the Signs of the Season..............
Here I am in a local coffee lair advertising for my favorite football team: THE STEELERS. This year they're doing well. Granted, in a nationally displayed selfless act of generosity, they have given others a chance to shine; however, I have no doubt that they'll complete the year making this fan proud. In the authentic vernacular, that would be pronounced "praaaaaad." Go Steeler Nation!
     The only down side I am having is knowing my sweetheart, Palamalu, is being forced to let that long hair of his be helmet free until he recovers. He is missed. I am wearing black (and gold) in my heart until you return. I ain't the same without yinz.

EDITORIAL CONTENT FOLLOWS:
       Hey folks, what the &*$% gives with our public manners and sense of decorum lately? I get it that inconsiderate or rude or improper behavior has always plagued mankind and will remain a constant. What I am talking about it taking it to an aggressive, not assertive, level in public. We have all seen the horrible aftermath of what occurs with displays when people are behind the wheel. With all the public service announcements (PSAs) over the last few years, it is unbelievable to me when I see drivers darting and weaving through traffic as if they are the only people on the road. It makes me physically ill.
       Having been a pedestrian (or as my classmate Andrea pronounced it: ped-is-train) victim of hit and run when I was in first grade, I really wonder about how that person felt after hitting me and leaving me on the curb. My father received a radio message from the police dispatcher and raced to me. When he arrived, I was being cocooned in a moving van quilt by a very good road-side Samaritan who promptly handed over my guardianship. Twenty-three days later I was cleared to return to school. I seemingly remember every split second of that time and I believe it will stay with me for my entire life.
     No doubt Taylor Swift will remember her encounter with Kanye West. What madness placed him on his own committee to determine award winners? It took him way too long to apologize to this refined young lady. My hat is off to Taylor for how deftly she handled the entire situation. Now saying that, I feel it is required in the interest of full disclosure, to admit that I RARELY wear a hat. Regardless, it is a heartfelt WAY TO GO, TAYLOR!
     How about a joint meeting of Congress during a presidential address? I DON'T CARE IF YOU ARE A REPUBLICAN OR A DEMOCRAT, YELLING THAT SOMEONE IS A LIAR VIOLATES BEST PRACTICES. Following closely, not admitting that you did something wrong comes in a close second to it. How about voting on the essence of a good way to do business. Let's have a new House Rule: COLOR BETWEEN THE LINES.

     Years ago, my parents were living in Florida and had a long layover in Pittsburgh while traveling. My brother, Pat, went to the airport to enjoy their company. He and Dad were sipping on an adult beverage when their flight was announced (that is how long ago it was). My father was going to leave his drink there, even though it was a fresh one. Pat insisted that he could take it with him. Dad balked. "Dad, you're in Pittsburgh. You can kill someone as long as you clean up after yourself." Case closed.
     Suffice it to say that public demeanor and how we treat each other is a critical part of living. People who aren't in control of their public self because of mental illness need special handling, but the rest of us need to pick up the pace. We are all responsible for ourselves. Our public behavior converts to ripples on the pond of life echoing our statements long after we are personally silent. We need to model that for young ones and teach them by example. It is an old sentiment, but we need to be the change we want in the world. Sign on to this and take the pledge to brighten things up a wee bit. Maybe it will catch on and calm some of these wigged out folks a wee bit.
END OF LECTURE
RESUME NORMAL BROADCAST.........

DOR AND TOM HIT A MAJOR MILESTONE

Here is the winner of the adorable couple of the last 60 years. Dorothy and Thomas Thomas, my cousins from Wales. What a treat these sweet people are at the scene of their big celebratory dinner in Aberavon., Wales. It is a wonderful restaurant just near the water and a befitting backdrop in which to raise a glass to them and their love and testimony to its endurance through the year. Vibrant as ever, they made me tired running all over the countryside during my visit.
What a very special, very loved couple.
Congratulations Dor and Tom. You have done something most of us will never be able to do.

Joining them are their grandson Gareth and his girl friend, St. Leanne of the Internet Access on the left. On the right, Richard and Hazel, their son and daughter. Bottom right, their granddaughter Sarah and hubby Warren looking as the heirs apparent to a like celebration in the future. Lower left, their daughter, Laurie. Hollie's photo follows with her friend.

I would like to leave you with one last picture. No prize winner here, to be sure. But it arrives as another seasonal sign: THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. My neighbor, Paul, has a lovely yellow rose bush near his windows. Yellow roses are my absolute favorites, quite possibly since my high school graduation class carried a huge arrangement of them during our ceremony. Regardless, I adore them and the Thomas Moore poem THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. It is a sad, but lovely poem which the Grateful Dead alluded to in their song BLACK MUDDY RIVER. Moore's poem has been sung by Sarah Brightman, Charlotte Church, and Clannad as well as mentioned in ULYSSES by James Joyce. No slouch, that Tommy Moore. His mum is praaaaad, to be sure.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER by Thomas Moore
'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
From Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
This bleak world alone?

INTERNATIONAL AND LOCAL NEWS

2009-09-23T22:32:00.014-04:00

First, a word from our sponsor:

This segment brought to you by the new blog link:

"This Is Why You Are Fat"

It is the cousin to "Awkward Family Moments" Check it out, but you may want to take your Pepto with you. (The link is on the left column of this blog.)

And now, our lead story:

Opra-homa...

Please know I sit in the back pew of St. Oprah of the TV Wasteland; however, she has a powerhouse menu of CHEAP ways to give listed on her web site. Donating $5.00 gives a mid-wife kit; $10 offers psychological counseling; $7.00 dispenses a text book; a $10 microloan helps someone start a business. Check it out on www.oprah.com

There is a new book her show is highlighting called "Half The Sky" by Nicklaus Kristof and it is all about ways people can reach out to others. I'll never buy it; but, the concept intrigues me tremendously. Most people won't make a charitable donation unless it gooses the likelihood of an increased tax refund. Some will do it because, well, that is just what they do. This book is designed for those who usually don't. It maps out "how to" in the vernacular of the cheapskate in the hopes that even they will sign on the dotted line.

I'd like thinking I'm not a cheapskate; but, I am no high-roller donor either, although I'd apply to whomever is hiring for that position. Oprah's web site does offer a segment called "microloans" that has caught my eye. Well, maybe both eyes, to be honest.

What is a microloan? For the legal explanation: www.heifer.org
Providing food for the recipient family, it is the "gift that keeps on giving." It is also the gift that creates a product for them to sell. I love it because it follows the old "teach a man to fish" adage I've always supported over the "give a man a fish" routine. Since I also believe that "if you can work and need to work, then you should work this fits right. Quite handily, these are the very tools addressing that very subject. Each recipient of a microloan like this agrees to support another neighbor in need by passing on offspring of the original gift. That means your gift becomes the catalyst for a community to lift themselves out of poverty and hunger. Such a deal, bubala!

One I like is incredibly affordable. For $20.00 I'm shipping a "flock" of chicks, which is 10-50 of those feathery cuties to a person in need of a flock of chicks. What an absolute coincidence! Okay, so I won't be the one licking the envelope with those fluffy things inside; but, a farmer somewhere will do the deed.

Have too many of the chachkees (-5 spelling) catching dust? Birthday on the horizon? Ask for one of these loans to be donated in your name. It is God's grace we're passing on with actions like this, folks. It is really a no-brainer. $20??? Are you really going to miss that once or twice a year?

Dig shallow and sponsor one of these tickets to a full belly and some economic freedom. If you are feeling generous, donate it in my name. If you do, I'll return the favor. Think it over, folks. It really doesn't take that much to be a hero. Warning: it can be infectious.

And now, the local news......

My niece, Lisa, the Hand Model. I always knew she'd make it big in the digital field. Give her a HI-5, for sure. Since she has those manual topics uncovered, I see a pedicure in my future in the hopes of foothold on equal opportunity.

Okay, Will. From the looks of things, Belle appears ready to call in the authorities. Her cell phone display shows her dialing 1-800-SIR-MIXALOT

Who wants to fall on their backsides? Not too many people I know. But, really Will. I think your Mom wants her sofa back in the living room and liberated from your drawers. It is either that or your bed is looking for its mattress.
Question: If you do fall, how far up are you going to bounce?
Just wondering. Can I get a what-what?
I've been where you are sweetie AND I took a photo of the sign.

Have I mentioned that "Blades on Ice" is in the house? Yesireeeee. There is Coach Dad (Skip, Chip, Hip, Mip, Skippy) in the red hat and Will... the tall handsome guy in the back. He can skate like BUTTER, folks. As has been mentioned, "the kid has some pretty foot work out there." The CAPS and the PENS are waiting, MR. SLAPSHOT! Thanks for stopping by, my loves. Now, quietly show yourself out; but, come back next week.

Wales, Wales

2009-09-10T20:01:00.006-04:00

When I was a wee tyke, my friends and I jumped rope to a rhyme that included "Wales, Wales, Puppy dog tales" and little did I know that I'd be visiting long, lost relatives there many years later. It was a wonderful time visiting there and seeing the land of dragons. One climb up my family tree netted some glorious insight and incredible branches. The family photo on the left helped to make much of the growth happen. It was one of my Grieg Gar's photos. She was my Dad's mother and, if she was still alive, would have celebrated her 121st birthday this year. So, to come away from this particular search with living relatives was really powerful for me.

Please click on the photo for an enlarged view. Mr and Mrs Thomas Thomas and their sons Bernard (standing) and Thomas on his mother's lap. Pay special attention to Bernard's collar. That detail always makes me smile wondering if he caused that positioning or if it was his father?

The key mystery solving photo is on heavy stock paper and has the structure of a post card. The note was written on the back by the gentleman in the picture: "Dear Cousin May, Just a post card of my little team. Now blessed with two boys. Promise to write you soon and hope you will write to my new address. Love to your sisters. Good night and God bless you all, Love Tom"

May is my grandmother, my Grieg Gar, as we came to call her.

He was Thomas Thomas, my Grieg Gar's cousin. At one point, Thomas Thomas the older had ventured to Pittsburgh and stayed with James Joseph O'Brien and his family shortly after his wife, Mary Hennessy O'Brien, died. Mary O'Brien was Thomas' aunt and her sister, Johnanna Hennessy Thomas was wondering what had happened to her. So, he was sent to find out. During his lengthy stay, he traveled to New York and other places with my Great Aunt Margaret. His address was a home in Aberavon, Port Talbot, Wales.

Playing detective, I wondered if the photo studio could possibly be in business on some scale. Would this family have been listed on the Wales census? Checking out further sources, it came to me that one angle for more details would be to write a letter to the 4 possible addresses I had, which included the one on the post card back.

Mary Morgan and her home.
The same home of the Thomas Thomas Family in 1920.

So, I copied the Thomas Family photo along with several others, giving some background and a letter of introduction and mailed an envelope with it all off to each address. Within two weeks I had an initial response from the one and only Mary Morgan. Her letter detailed that she purchased the home once owned by the Thomas Family and was working on contacting them. Her neighbor was a childhood friend of the baby in the photo, Thomas Thomas the younger and so she was working on this with him.
Her letter sent my heart sailing knowing that a connection had been made.

My next connection was made through Mary Morgan's neighbor, Wyndem. He has been Thomas Thomas's (the younger) friend for over 80 years. Now, that is a record. I thought I had some long term friendships, but these two beat mine coming and going. What darling people. He and his wife were so warm and welcoming when I stopped by to thank them.

Tommy was given my address and wrote to me directly after seeing my letter of introduction. The family photo was the clincher for him since he, too, has a copy of the same post card in his possession. I guess that sealed the deal and confirmed my pedigree.

So, that brought me to Tommy and his wife, Dor. What dears. What darlings. What a treat it was to be in their company and that of every member of their family. Here we are on the beach of Ogmore by the Sea just near Bridgend, Wales. Well before traveling to Wales, Tommy, Dor and I exchanged letters, photos and some small gifts. After spending time with them, we also exchanged hearts. (Photo of Ogmore Castle...or what is left following the Reformation Period.)

(Photo: Ruth (the Irish maid); Jasmine with Dor Thomas, obviously the holders of my indenture contract

In preparation for our visit, Tom and Dor were apologizing profusely that Wales just wasn't the hot bed of activity. They sheepishly told me they really didn't have a candle to hold next to Washington, DC and that they only had old castles and pubs to offer. Castles and pubs, my friends, castles and pubs? Well, permit to enroll for that program! That is right up my history, geeky, cider swilling alley. (Photo: Ruth inspecting her ancestral manse. Oh how I wish. It is the once upon a time home of Mr. Talbot who ran the seaport of Port Talbot.)

Recently, I've learned that Tommy and Dor celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. I wish I could have been there sharing in the celebration. As it is, I am thrilled having had the enjoyment of their company. Maybe next year!?

WHERE DOES TIME GO?

2009-08-31T19:08:00.031-04:00

Swallow Tail Falls State Park - Katie Ann redefining "heads up" - Lisa and Chippy. They said it wouldn't last.

Hey There, Fan Club!!!!

Permit me to introduce myself: Scoop Murphy at your service.

I feel as if I've been missing in action for months. All of it for good reason, but

nonetheless, not showing myself on a regular basis.

Mea maxi me culpa.

At this point, all is right with the world again (nearly). The Acme Internet Company finally walked me and then a friend through set up procedures, took over my laptop's control at a distance (that is amazing to watch) and now I've been set free. It is nearly the same as being liberated from jail, but I really wouldn't know what that is like. (Don't worry, Terri. I'll never tell anyone about the June '69 incident on Walnut Street and the Squirrel Hill's No. 9 police substation. I know we inspired John Lennon's "Number 9" but I really think it is best we never mention being incarcerated with those hippies. After all, we might not be able to join

a country club if it came to light.)

Where do I start in an effort to catch up with the last few months? It is going to take some time, folks. That is all I can imagine. I know, I know, I still haven't finished writing about

my summer trip. You might even say I really haven't even started it.

Then we have the weekend at Deep Creek, Maryland

with the Brannigan Brigade. Simply fabboo.

Mummy reigned supreme, as us

ual. She really enjoyed herself; but, not as much as well enjoyed her company. There was one sticky point when she was less than thrilled being left behind as Lisa and I went shopping. Not in the least bit happy was our matriarch The Uni-bombess herself. Once we returned we filled her in that we were GROCERYshopping and not CLOTHES shopping. The storm front lifted in seconds once I reminded her that she hates shopping for food nearly as much as cooking. Another happy ending.

The ladies on the left are holding the future. Both are due with little girls and we all can't be happier. In this study in black and white, we find Colleen on the left with her hubby, Jay, standing in the background holding their baby, Katie Ann. They will have their baby "Nancy" in December. Alice, on the right, is married to Mike "Mikey the Cucumber Kid" Brannigan. They are due in February.

On to the rest of the crew:
From all appearances, these relative-type people appear to be "nice folk" right?

Well, don't let that fool you. To some of my readers, they may eve

n resemble the person in your morning mirror. Again, I wouldn't relax just yet. Here is why: When we played Trivial Pursuit, it was as if they were collectively

possessed by the devil. None of them would give me points for knowing the name of the bar on the hit sitcom, "Three's Company".....Okay, so I said THE BEAGLE.

The answer was THE REGAL BEAGLE on the card. Did this stinkin' bunch even

give me partial credit? Oh, no. They couldn't handle the fact that I

was blazing through the questions like the proverbial hot knife. through butter.
So, they barred me.

They halted my progress. They discounted my answers. What a bunch. Next year, see who gets a heaping helping of hospitality first! Just be warned: I am prepping for you and your methods for playing this game.

Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

You might want to wear sandals so you can count my score as it escalates!!!!!!!!

On a separate and very serious note, I'd like to say a few words about Teddy Kennedy.

Women who enjoy maternity leave as it is today, please say thanks to Ted.

People who need time off work to be with family members for emergency situations and still need their jobs, please say Thanks to Ted for his part in the Family Leave Program.

You know, whether you agreed with this man 100% or not, you have to admire his willingness to be a lightning rod for a cause in which he believes. Many people are able to spout off political views easily enough, but Ted put his remote control down and went out there to make things happen.

Please know I fully get that he was flawed. He admitted it as well. But, he also took responsibility for his actions. That is refreshing in today's world with people trying to dodge bullets about their part in unsavory outcomes.

After watching Ted's funeral mass, I couldn't contain myself any longer. I had to participate more actively than adhering my eyes on the screen. My friend, Maureen, and I agreed we'd meet at the Arlington Cemetery Metro stop and see where we could go from there. As if synchronized by Greenwich Observatory, we were at the cemetery's station platform within minutes of each other: she from

Maryland and me from Alexandria. A great spot was available and came complete with warm and friendly company as a bonus. In particular, we met up with Steve and Geraldine, an Irish couple here for a few years on a work assignment. It was lovely, if you enjoy standing for three hours at a curb side location.

The only real inconvenience

was getting a glimpse of and listening to the village idiots expressing their 1st Amendment rights

with their obnoxious signs criticizing Kennedy, second guessing O'Bama's sexual preferences, and walking on the American flag which was tied to a belt loop. They have been barred from h

eckling burials at the cemetery based on a law suit last year, thank God. However, they did

manage to feign a medical emergency when they thought the funeral procession was nearing. First responders were radioed in along with an ambulance to attend to them. Meanwhile, all they were attempting to do was create chaos and disturn a funeral while employing biblical distortions to justify their antics.

In a word: disgusting.

I wish they would have arrested them.
I wish

they would make them pay for the cost of the emergency call. I wish those people to receive the same joo-joo when their time is near.

The weather was with us the entire time. While it rained and poured on the nearby interstate running toward Richmond, clouds floated by without a disturbance. Shapes and billows passed overhead as if they were lovingly keeping us from a sunburn. Rays shots down through heavenly chinks directing Teddy to his resting place.

Once the cortege passed, Maureen and I ambled back to the station to recount the day's events. Traveling back on the Metro, dinner was in order since it was nearing 8:00 pm. A wonderful local Italian restaurant was sitting right there at the stop and we fell right into it. As if by magic, the owner had a tv playing coverage of the burial. For most of it, you couldn't see much save for profile and silhouettes for the darkness of night had welcomed itself as if a poetic backdrop. Lightning was filling the sky as the Kennedy family bid their final good byes to Uncle Teddy.

This weekend I hope to stop by and see him personally. He should be easy to find on that hillside. His was a job well done. May we all be able to say we gave it our all.

DUE TO TECHNICAL SUPPORT ISSUES

2009-08-24T18:01:00.002-04:00

BLOGGING IS BEING IMPEDED BY TECHNICAL SUPPORT ISSUES. MY INTERNET PROVIDER IS WORKING ON REPLACING THEIR LAME MODEM.

I WILL RETURN BY THE END OF THE WEEK. BEWARE!!

A Complete Unknown...With No Direction Home....

2009-08-16T02:07:00.003-04:00

Part of my beauty regimine for 40 years....

You're Bob Dylan? NJ police want to see some ID

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By WAYNE PARRY, Associated Press Writer – Fri Aug 14, 11:57 pm ET

Rock legend Bob Dylan was treated like a complete unknown by police in a New Jersey shore community when a resident called to report someone wandering around the neighborhood.

Dylan was in Long Branch, about a two-hour drive south of New York City, on July 23 as part of a tour with Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp that was to play at a baseball stadium in nearby Lakewood.

A 24-year-old police officer apparently was unaware of who Dylan is and asked him for identification, Long Branch business administrator Howard Woolley said Friday.

"I don't think she was familiar with his entire body of work," Woolley said.

The incident began at 5 p.m. when a resident said a man was wandering around a low-income, predominantly minority neighborhood several blocks from the oceanfront looking at houses.

The police officer drove up to Dylan, who was wearing a blue jacket, and asked him his name. According to Woolley, the following exchange ensued:

"What is your name, sir?" the officer asked.

"Bob Dylan," Dylan said.

"OK, what are you doing here?" the officer asked.

"I'm on tour," the singer replied.

A second officer, also in his 20s, responded to assist the first officer. He, too, apparently was unfamiliar with Dylan, Woolley said.

The officers asked Dylan for identification. The singer of such classics as "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Blowin' in the Wind" said that he didn't have any ID with him, that he was just walking around looking at houses to pass some time before that night's show.

The officers asked Dylan, 68, to accompany them back to the Ocean Place Resort and Spa, where the performers were staying. Once there, tour staff vouched for Dylan.

The officers thanked him for his cooperation.

"He couldn't have been any nicer to them," Woolley added.

How did it feel? A Dylan publicist did not immediately return a telephone call seeking comment Friday.

Sometimes the past is better left alone......'Nuf said.

Those School Bells Are Wringing

2009-08-12T22:37:00.002-04:00

Hello Fan Club,

Just a short message to let you know that, for me, the school week has started with a bang and merely continue along that line. Yesterday was long. Today was long. Tomorrow promises to be even longer. It is Back-to-School Night. It is a wonderful night where parents come to investigate the school, gather a sense of the staff, and come to know a few policies and procedures.

The only problem is teachers have been there well before students in the morning. Most of the teachers in my school can't afford to live in the area, so a long commute is involved. That means they work at least a 13 hour day. Perhaps not being aware of this, parents tend to wax on about their child's talents or concerns, sometimes to the point of disbelief. At least they are the ones keeping an eye on their progeny and attempting to keep them on track for the future.

All in all, it is just a long day. If you attend one of these evenings, think about thanking the teacher for giving up their evening to meet with you. As I said, many in this area drive incredible distances for affordable housing. They have their own young children to attend to and love. They may even have their own child's back-to-school night, but come to the one where they work instead.

And that's the way it goes...for today. See you over the weekend for the continuation of Life in the Fast Lane with Scoop.

The Prodigal Cousin Returns

2009-08-08T00:25:00.004-04:00

Dear Readers:

Before I start waxing poetic about adventures, I want to state one milestone:

As of today, we have lost 4,333 soldiers who were fighting in a war over oil.

They were sons or daughters; fathers or mothers; husbands or wives; brothers or sisters. Now they are memories. Say a prayer for them and the poor people who were murdered by a sick man in a Pittsburgh suburb health spa. Now I know why nuns would direct us to pray for a peaceful death.

On with the entry:

Please excuse this summer's lagging distribution of updates. My school's calendar came to a close and I took off for

an overdue visit with the Divine Miss "Z" and her parental units. It was grand, as always. Daughter dear is making her way along her route to being called Dr. Daughter Dear. She started her program this summer and is going at it great guns.

You GEAUX, Dr. Daughter!!! And, if you had to move a lar

ge distance away, thank you for making it the land of the drive-

through daiquiri in the "sealed container" as illustrated on the right.

For those of us working on a modified school calendar: school is back in session! With the

kiddos showing up last Monday, things are cranking up for another spectacular year. For

the last eight years, I've been teaching fourth grade, most

of which have been in a dual language (English-Spanish) setting. It was a great experience, but time had come for a new assignment. Now I am teaching "talented and gifted" 4th and 5th grade children as well as supporting K-3 classroom teachers in their quest to educate TAG students who were identified early. A new quest is always good for keeping you on your toes or, at the very least, constitutionally regular.

THIS SUMMER HAS BEEN MY PERSONAL TRAVEL EXTRAVAGANZA

If I may quote from the movie Auntie Mame, "Life is a banquet and most suckers are starving."

So it seems that in the era of the economic down-turn, I set off for my version of a European tour including:

*PARIS, FRANCE

*CAEN, FRANCE

*NORMANDY BEACHES

*TRAIN RIDE RETURNING TO PARIS

*PARIS BY STORM

* EUROSTAR HIGH-SPEED TRAIN THROUGH THE CHUNNEL T

O LONDON

*LONDON BY STORM

*RENTAL CAR AT HEATHROW AND LEFTIE DRIVE TO WALES

*BRIDGEND BY STORM

AS WELL AS PORT TALBOT, SWANSEA, ABERAVON, MAESTAG, PENTYRCH, PONTRHYDYFEN, and a host of villages in dire need of vowels.

Ms. Dawson and I are going to start a cottage industry selling exterior car magnets reading: CAUTION: YANKEE AT THE WHEEL. The fine art of driving on the opp

osite side of the road than what you are accustom is worthy of its own lengthy blog entry.

Writing about my trip is going to be presented in reverse chronol

ogical order. As a familial nod to my lovely relatives, I want to start with my visit to see them in Wales. Although

I was facing the reality of traveling there solo, at a timely point, my colleague and brave driving buddy, the Divine Miss Jasmine Dawson, determined that Wales was a great destination for her too.

As wild and crazy single gals, Jasmine and I travel well together. There is a certain consideration and balance demonstrated when we go to new countries which makes the trip enjoyable for both. Our plans were to meet in London at Waterloo Train Station: she from the US; me from France. The train station was switched once it was found out that Eurostar train

s now travel from St. Pancras Station. Being well schooled in li

turgical information and church history, I can assure you I have NEVER heard of St. Pancras prior to this train ticket. I've since come to know that, while in his teens, St. Panny was martyred for refusing to worship pagan gods and serves as a patron saint for teens.

Which triplet has the Toni?

St. Pancras Train Station, EuroStar Train @ St. Pancras, St. Pancras himself

As soon as I disembarked from my train and met up with Jas, my first request was to worship my own god, St. Champagne. Because of a shady Parisian cab driver, I had missed my intended train and was forced to arrive at St. Pancras over an hour late. Although I am not 100% successful, I do try my best to be on-time and where I am suppose to be, so missing

my train made for a solid dose of personalized anxiety. Jasmine, displaying patience in high-definition format, knew I'd do my best to be there as soon as possible. So, off we were to what is touted to be the world's largest champagne bar. In the contest of identifying the where-abouts of Scoop in an earlier blog, the winner is MR. BILL RUDIN!!! Bill, just between you and me, there is a suspicion you recalled the backdrop more from personal experien

ce.

THE MOST RECENT WALES INVASION:

For a map of Wales: http://www.walesdirectory.co.uk/maps/index.htm

Please refer to the M-4 Highway and focus on South Wales from Cardi

ff and then to the west

Before leaving Alexandria, I dropped by the library to pick up my requested travel book on Wales. It was incredibly unbelievable that this book was still on any shelf anywhere. Its size is 10" by 11" which is a large travel book by today's standards. Published in 1974, its maps show the majority of the roads we needed to travel as PROPOSED beyond a certain point. Motorway Number Four, aka: M4 was indicated beyond Cardiff as a dotted line. Thank St Pancras it was, in fact, completed along the same planned route. Regardless of the age, I love this book for its stories and suggested places to visit. As the librarian told me: HO

W MUCH COULD WALES HAVE CHANGED? Being unfamiliar with Wales, I was at a loss for an a

nswer at that moment, but, overall, it has changed quite a bit as I have come to find out.

Opting for an international dialing package on my phone was a smart move and relatively cheap for $5.99, plus phone calls. Being able to phone people, even at a $1.00 a minute, was worth the charge in terms of saving time and effort. After a few quick calls, Thomas Thomas decided to meet Jas and I along the road once we exited the M-4 at Bridgend. That way we could follow him to his home. Well, Thomas' great intentions lead to a little confusion as the spot he described never appeared to us. He was relegated to waiting by the roadside as we ambled about the area folding and refolding our maps, stopping at petrol stations, asking p

eople who didn't know, and traveling forward, we made it to his home before he did.

Dor, short for Dorothy, opened the door to us

and, in short order, provided us with a lovely cup o'tea. On our heels was their grandson and bon vivant, Gareth.

We all met. We all talked and never, never, never did we stop the conversation. For that matter, there really wasn't even much of a lull. We talked. We laughed. Many times we a

ll took our turns repeating our thoughts since our collective honeymoon included tuning in our ears for varied accents. Yet, we all never stopped smiling.

At first, Thomas and Dor tended to apologize, in advance, to their visitors that there really wasn't much to see in their area with the exception of castles and pubs. Being a history geek and a reputation for being a drinker or voluntary designated driver, well, pubs were well on my map. All was well with the world. They apologized that we wouldn't have all that much to do and might become bored. By the end of our stay, the new quote of our hosts was that we were leaving way too soon. They needed more time to show us around. We needed more time to explore and see what was available to us. Unfortunately, we readily agreed that we were leaving too soon.

Photo: Celebrating the first return of a O'Brien-Hennessy descendant to Wales in 125 years.

Top row: Scoop Murphy; Juan; Richard Thomas

Bottom row: Dor Thomas; Thomas Thomas; Jasmine Dawson

Amusingly, although everyone in the formal portrait is dressed as if they are noble of birth, Scoop is adorned in a floral frock, and perhaps projecting the role of a "Bridget" or an Irish maid being there to address their needs. God help them if they are waiting for Scoop's domesticity.

Time is not my friend all the time. There is so much more to present and it is growing late. Please stay tuned for further installments of the WALES INVASION and the balance of my trip.

Before I close for now, I need to say a great big thank you to the entire Thomas and Dorothy Thomas Family for making us welcome, showing us a fantastic time, and being so easy to love.

Prodigal Cousin Returns

2009-08-02T23:44:00.001-04:00

Does it get much better than returning to your familial estate and meeting your extended family? Please note the castle on the backdrop.

More to follow......

AS THE WORLD TURNS

2009-07-20T17:01:00.008-04:00

First of all, Happy Moon Landing, everyone.

Yes, I recall where I was. On the third floor bachelor pad lair of one Bernard "Rhat" Hockswender's Shadyside abode. Accompanied by Elisabeth (aka Tootsie) and Philip, we all dutifully did our best to ignore the black and white television being broadcast from its rounded Bake-O-Lite cabinet with its lovely antennae accessory.

It was hopeless trying to look cool and as if it was an everyday event. We were in awe. We were also drinking Boone's Farm Apple wine. Later I wrote in the 7/20/69 block on my complimentary Hallmark calendar (early forerunner of the Daytimer) the words: "Rhat's Moon Shot." Several weeks later he was checking a date on the calendar and was scandalized to read it. He informed me that he had never "mooned" anyone in his life. After my explanation, he was happier. The jury is still out on his record.

GO MOON WALKERS! (no Jacksonian implication intended)

Answers to the last blog posting:

(Sorry, no prizes were awarded. Relatives, friends, and readers do not qualify for the coveted mirror ball trophy.)

1. Caen, France at a lovely tented reception for the Alexandria, VA Sister City representatives, including moi, merci beaucoup. C'est magnifique!

2. Omaha Beach, Normandy, France : Mile Marker Double-Zero (00 kilometer, actually) is situated at the spot where the recapturing of peace and liberty began. It was humbling to witness the memorials and come to understand what was really offered here by incredibly brave men.

Please be on notice that Caen and Normandy will be covered more completely once I am home and a little repaired from this trip of a lifetime.

--------------------------

THIS WEEK'S: GUESS WHERE SCOOP-O IS LOCATED

Have at it folks!!!! Operators are standing by awaiting your emails.

And, yes, I am wearing the same shirt in both photos, so save your comments. ;->

WHERE IS SCOOP-O?????

2009-07-12T19:03:00.004-04:00

Here is your big hint:

The English Channel is in the distance.

KM stands for kilometer.

July Is A Happening Month

2009-07-08T01:10:00.006-04:00

Well, hasn't July started off with a big bang? Fireworks aside, the media has been going to town with all the voyeuristic thrills they lather up non-stop until you just can't take it any longer. Today I traveled back from the fantastic State of Louisiana following a grand visit with my favorite Cajuns.

The majority of my day consisted of going to the airport and waiting; checking in; waiting; going through security; waiting; walking across the tar mack to the prop jet; landing; waiting; boarding a REAL jet in Memphis; landing in Baltimore; waiting; driving home. Along the drive I stopped at a Best Buy to purchase a new phone as I had forgotten my favorite purple one at my daughter's. Sniff, sniff.

Even though I was relatively sheltered from the media in the aircraft, there was still coverage of St. MJ of the Glove. Televisions that usually broadcast the news from some MSNBC-Fox-feed, were universally showing the Staples Center memorial. It looked like Sear's television department broadcasting the same picture and sound track as I walked from the arrival to the departure gate.

In my car I plugged in my MP3 to continue studying French for my upcoming trip. While I was trying to link the player to my radio memorial service recaps were playing.

Once home, on my own television, I heard an announcer saying that this event will equal "Where were you when John Kennedy was killed." What the hell is going on with the world? Does anyone else find a flaw here? Following that, Sean "P. Diddy" Combs was somberly explaining how the world will never be the same. How right he is. Especially since all the while he ensured he was standing front and center to a huge Ciroc Vodka poster. Oddly, he is their spokesperson.

Is society so loosely bound that people need to grasp at times like this to find a community of like minded people? Are there that many lonely people looking for a sense of belonging, even to an event like this? For me, I must have a sufficient sense of belonging. If I hear the words "transcend" or "icon" one more time, I think I will either scream or start putting a quarter in a jar for each abuse.

I hope the sideshow is over or at least toning down and tapering off. Jacksonian tributes don't offend me when there is sincerity involved. However, these contrived P.T. Barnum media displays need to stop. For me it is in the same philosophical track where I feel the government doesn't need to legislate what happens in any woman's womb. The corollary being that artificially inseminating any womb with 8 embryos is just morally wrong.

There has to be some balance with all of this. Has anyone wondered who the biological father to MJ's children is and why he isn't stepping forward? Debbie Rowe isn't up for sainthood. Her maternal instincts rival that of a squashed grape. At least she is honest about it.

Have a wonderful next few weeks. Just call me Charles Kuralt as I'm on the road for a little. If I can, I'll post a few photos and you can guess Where's Scoopo?. Have fun. Be good to each other. Behave. Don't watch the telly. Read a book. Eat 5 fruits and vegetables a day. Call your Mother and Father. If they are no longer with us, say a prayer for them. Go to church. Help someone across the street, even if they don't want to go. When in doubt, chicken out. Take a daily vitamin. Keep working on those Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy. Oh, and everyone, please stay healthy. For your reference:

To feed the hungry;
To give drink to the thirsty;
To clothe the naked;
To harbour the harbourless;
To visit the sick;
To ransom the captive;
To bury the dead.

The spiritual works of mercy are:

To instruct the ignorant;
To counsel the doubtful;
To admonish sinners;
To bear wrongs patiently;
To forgive offences willingly;
To comfort the afflicted;
To pray for the living and the dead.

Things are going to be a little quieter

2009-06-28T22:46:00.004-04:00

Another Former Pittsburgher

Rest In Peace

Billy Mays

7/20/1958 - 6/28/2009

MY NEXT CAREER GOAL AND GOOD BYE MJ

2009-06-21T12:12:00.016-04:00

Please know I really feel badly Michael Jackson's life went down the path it did. He was a genius with a very ugly side. His hit songs may mute the voices of young boys who were paid large sums of money or quieted some other way. I still love his music and try not to think about the lesser part of his world.

Years ago I worked in the jewelry department, and sometimes candy, at the legendary Sears Roebuck store on Highland Avenue in the East Liberty section of Pittsburgh, PA . Please hold your applause.

One of the last times I was in there I bumped into a friend who was there for automotive work. He asked me "What is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Looking around my environment I was short for an answer. At least a GOOD answer.

The last "totem poles" of the East Liberty Sears.

In my more impressionable years, the store, which had been my second home and source of income during the days of my first apartment, had taken a turn for the shabby. Its pink walls were a wee bit filtered from vertical veneer of dust collections. The coffee shop, once famous for its hot dogs with square buns, was long since gone. My former heart throb who had worked in the men's department came to mind. That was a sweet walk down memory lane for me; but overall, Sears was a ghost town waiting to happen.

During its heyday, which just so happens to parallel my employment era, a co-worker and friend, Frankie, and I would go on break together. He always had a hustle going on for money. Frankie, or "Tookie" as we called him, had an unmistakable entrepreneurial energy about him. He didn't have watches tracking his sleeves, but he managed bands of the musical sort during his retail renegade days. Years later I came to find out that Frankie had hit it big. He had become Michael Jackson'smanager. He became "Uncle Tookie" to Michael Jackson.

The Pittsburgh news circuit, one which is quicker than any mechanism used by UPI, swirled that he had come to power by landing Jackson on M-TV as the network's first black entertainer. It kicked off his come back and jettisoned both of them directly into the drive-through lane of every bank they passed. A few years in the rear view mirror, Uncle Tookie met his demise with MJ when "Moonwalker" didn't hit the market in time for raking in Christmas billions.

What is remarkable about their relationship is that Uncle Tookie recently became MJ's manager AGAIN for his most recent and hopeful come-back. MJ was booked for an international concert tour and it looked as if the magic sparks were going to fly again. Almost. But, no cigar. Unfortunately, the only one of those coming from this is the one Frankie is smoking.

That is as close as I came to Michael Jackson. Two degrees of separation and $5.00 will get you a biscotti and a small latte at a Starbucks. So what. It is a fun story.

Let's not discount the Thriller cassette tape I purchased and wore thin singing to while driving down the highway with my daughter, Jessica. We watched the Thriller video thousands of times together too. I still can't moonwalk and, thankfully, I never really applied myself to learning. Perhaps this should be noted as my first flirtation with wisdom.

My thoughts go out to the three kids he left behind. The two with scarfs on their heads and the baby who was dangled out of the Paris window a few years back. It is yet to be seen if their lives will be better or more chaotic with his passing.

The other person my heart goes out to is my dear friend, Stacy RN. As a young teen, she fell in love with Michael Jackson hook, line, and sequined glove. Memorabilia? She had it all including the Michael Jackson doll complete with its red pleather jacket. I bet she wishes she still had it now. When I checked in with her, she wrote back saying how upset she was. Remembering when John Lennon died, I could relate. This is her strawberry fields forever.

Stacey said she is considering her first and last tattoo. It will honor MJ. I hope she thinks about it long and hard before doing it. I hope, if she goes through with it, she will have it placed somewhere that is easily concealed. (Hear me out, Stacey!) May it help her through the loss without putting any ink on her sleeve.

Meanwhile, I am still considering my next life. I'm pretty excited about it as this time I've decided on my career goal well in advance. There is no doubt, I want to be a "merchandise stylist" for QVC. Who could hope for anything greater? Your nails are always attended to by the network, as well as your hair and wardrobe. All you need to do is smile, smile, smile. Acting as if you are honestly excited that a caller bought a pink extension ladder than plays MP3 files as you climb is a big help.

YOU KNOW AND I KNOW I CAN DO THIS. I'd laugh all day and have so much fun it would be as if I never went to work. Certainly you are paid like a semi-celebrity too. The studio is in eastern Pennsylvania, a no-brainer. It is just down the road from the Dansko Shoe outlet. Yippee for me! If you should receive a call from QVC's Human Resources Department, please be kind when answering their questions about me.

Just think, when I am successful as the on-screen star, as we know I will be, you will be able to point your remote control to QVC and say "Hey, I know her!" Then you'll be able to blog a really swell story about me like I did with Uncle Tookie.

HOW'S THAT HOSSA?

2009-06-12T22:43:00.003-04:00

2009 Stanley Cup Winners

STARDATE: 1930; CAPTAIN'S LOGBOOK: APRIL 5

2009-06-11T16:53:00.024-04:00

My name is Scoop M.

I am a hopeful, and hopeless, genealogist.

Because of the adventures I have carving out my history,

I've been blog-free for longer than I realized.

For that I apologize.

Today, I am back, with a vengeance.

As an appeteazer before the main fare, permit me to present two digital images representing my "altar" (;->) ego, Ruth Brannigan. The first is a Ruth Brannigan of Facebook fame. The second Ruth Brannigan, winner of Chatham University's 2006 Graduate School of Education's Alumni Award in Teaching. Feel free to select the author of this blog. The woman on the right in the alum photo is Dr. Helen Faison, Ruth's mentor. Everyone from Pittsburgh during the 50s, 60s and 70s would remember her voice as she announced the snow days for the Pittsburgh City Public School District. All the Catholic schools followed her voice like she was RCA's dog Nipper any time a snow flake appeared. She is still getting it handled as a very current educational leader.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You would think by now I would have been cured of my familial researching ways, but it has only become worse since the advent of home computers and Mr. Gore's internet. Before those two double-wide doorways into research, I was relegated to going on "hit and miss" trips to the National Archives. Yes, I was one of those wacky xerox card carrying folks who wanted prints of microfiche images. I've actually had conversations focusing on the correct pronunciation of microfiche. "Micro-FEE-shhh" versus "micro-FISH" went on for quite a while until we reached a point when it just didn't digitally matter any longer. Now we are more into file size and if we should put it into Adobe before emailing. Who knew we'd come to this.

Nevertheless, there are times I feel like a time traveler and voyeur. Hours crumble in an instant once I start on a particular search for something. There are periods when connecting those dots just doesn't happen with much frequency. Each and every kernel of data is mined as carefully and diligently as if it is a pillar of suicide coal. The phrase "alleged relative" echoes in my mind when I think of how I can substantiate the research I've done before announcing my jeweled finds to anyone.

Recently I have come across two wonderful discoveries:

1. BRANNIGAN BRANCH: Once locating the 1930's U.S. Census, I've managed to find people who are related to "The Brannigans" and that is quite a watershed moment. The only Brannigan's I've ever known are my father's sibling's children and their families. That was it. Very small family tree when you think of it. Michael Brannigan, my grandfather, died in 1942 which was nine years before I reached this planet. We never met any of his relatives aside from his children and their progeny, so this is blockbuster. Well, at least to me.

2. CLAIR/GORDON BRANCH: On my mother's side, we really never knew any of her "blood" relatives either as she was adopted. I've finally been able to attach her biological family to her side of our tree and hope to land some of the lesser limbs in the future. I love Walter and Marie Gordon for not only adopting Mom, but for loving all of us as well. There is more of a story here and I'll cover it in another blog as I'm anticipating a development very soon.

MY TRAVEL SOUVENIRS:

THE BRANNIGAN HOME: (left) circa 1930 with Robert and Morgan posing for holy card pictures and (right) the home more recently in 2009

THE 1930's U.S. CENSUS:

It was a little more than 79 years ago when my grandparent's home at 548 South Graham Street, Pittsburgh 32, PA was visited by census enumerator Frank B. Tipton. Although I certainly don't have any first hand knowledge of that date and time, my dad, Morgan, often told stories in and out of school about those days. It was like warm formula to me (I was bottle fed, so it can't be "mother's milk") when I first saw this treasure. It was the first time I had ever really seen my grandfather's name and information about him in print.

It made me proud reading that in 1930 my grandparents were homeowners. I hasten to add that they could sit in their home and also LISTEN TO THE RADIO. Thank you very much! That was such a big issue back then that it was listed on the census report before, but right next to, the question asking if you lived on a farm. Being in the 7th Ward of Pittsburgh, that was met with a resounding negative response.

Now that technology and commerce have been addressed, we move into the personal portion of the interview. Michael was a male, white, and 38 years old. As they termed it, his "martial condition" was married at 19 years old. His employment was with "Paper and Cordage Company" in sales. (Sound familiar, Pat?) His citizen status is YES which was not necessarily the case for everyone during that period as naturalization wasn't on the forefront, unless you wanted to vote.

Both Michael and his bride, Mary, list themselves as being born in Pennsylvania following the trend as set by both sets of parents being born there as well. This is the major point of departure. This is where my grandmother started freewheeling with the interview. As I have come to know and verify the following:

(right) Michael at the beach

1. Michael Brannigan was born Michael Grohman, in Germany where they had been attending Lutheran services on Sunday. In 1899 they immigrated to the U.S., entering New York harbor on the German liner, the Kaiser Wilhelm. In order to marry Mary, Michael was baptized at St. John the Baptist (how simply fitting) and taking the surname of his step-father, Frederick Brannigan. This, I am sure, was the insurance policy Miss Mary needed in order to take him home for her father's approval. Mary's dad was none other than James Joseph O'Brien. St. John's is currently a microbrewery call The Church Brew Works. http://www.churchbrew.com/

(right) Catherine Bruce, the youngest of the O'Brien Clan

(left) Mary Gertrude Brannigan, the oldest sister (aka Grieg Gar)

2. My grandmother robbed the cradle. She was a good 2.5 years older than Michael. That didn't phase her in the least. She simply adjusted the numbers. No problem here. If you ever knew Grieg Gar, you clearly understood that life was strictly on her terms. If she liked you and you were any other nationality but Irish, she'd distort your name into something sounding as if it had a shamrock next to it. Robert Gilardi became Bobby Clarity. Nicky Richetti was transformed into Micky Raffety. She was amazing. The more you might try to sway her by repeating the name correctly, the more she'd smile, blatantly ignore you and continue to say it the way she wanted. No stress. No issue. No change.

What is sweet about this 1930's census report is that it is a loving snapshot capturing their entire family. Their daughter, Ruth, was 18 at this point. She wasn't employed and since it was April I am guessing she is still a senior at Divine Providence Academy High School in East Liberty. Her first brother of three, Norman, was 12 years old; Morgan was 9; and Robert was 6. God bless my grandparents.

Every three years another boy to chase. I have a few photos of them at this time in front of the house. Bikes were involved in one. In another they are standing straight like soldiers, yet smiling as if they just heard school was canceled. There are later ones of happy young teenagers dressed to the "9s" and looking like early Hollywood. They were happy and it showed.

I'm certain they had their fair share of heartbreak too as a mere 12 years after this census, Michael died at his own hands exhausted from a raging illness we suspect was stomach cancer.

It is so enriching finding these wonderful people and spending time with them. I try thinking historically in terms of how they lived, how they spent their days, and what drove their decision making. It is a rare pleasure coming to meet them, even if it is forensically.

I love "visiting" with them. Each time I review documents like the 1930 census, I realise something new, such as, their neighbors, Herman and Katharine Blank's 16 year old son Charles was going to be our neighbor when we lived on Morewood Avenue. Charlie Blank's daughter Cathy attended school with me from kindergarten through high school. Charlie's brother, George, was "Uncle George" to the neighborhood. George never worked and received some form of disability pay from injuries suffered during World War II. That always amazed me since he always seemed to do well in everyday tasks as well as competing in horseshoe championships in the Gallagher's back yard. Our parents directed us to be polite to him. Maybe he was suffering from some invisible form of hell from military days or simply existing on the government's dime. Who knows. I just find it uncanny that our families were so intertwined for such a period of time.

Genealogy. It is painstaking, brutal, and mocking when you can't complete the picture. It is also one of the most rewarding endeavors I've done. I really do wish my dad, Morgan, was here to see how I've picked up his sword and carried it forth. He would be right with me filling my head with even more details. As it is, I'll have to settle for the writings he left behind and his research as a springboard.

Look out, Miss Zelda. You're going to have quite a bit of reading at some point so you will know the rich history you have on your "Brannigan" side.

AT THE END OF THE DAY, ALL WE HAVE IS WHO WE ARE

2009-05-22T19:38:00.012-04:00

This weekend is Memorial Day.
Hot Dogs. Hamburgers. Potato Salad. All good things.
Even greater is getting back to the reason for the weekend. Remembering those who have defended us, promoted our security, and gave the ultimate sacrifice. Remembering is an exercise in expressing our own humanity. There are so many stories of bravery, selflessness, and honor for our focus. Just select one and give a heartfelt thank you. It is a gesture, but one that resounds within.
http://www.history.com/video.do?name=culture&bcpid=1681694254&bclid=1672079722&bctid=1586359460

Did anyone else notice that Barack O'bama spoke at the Naval Academy's graduation? It was interesting to me that his former presidential election opponent's son was one throwing his hat into the air. John McCain and his wife sat with others as proud parents watching their son accept his hard earned credentials. Imagine how close it came to this man offering his son his diploma. Do you think it crossed his mind as he listened to O'Bama driving home his secrets for success? You betcha. Life has its moments, doesn't it?

On Saturday of this Memorial Weekend I will be celebrating in an entirely new way: waiting for the Sears dishwasher repairman. At the onset it sounds like a glorious waste of time; but, I am actually looking forward to being tethered home for some time. There are several projects in which I am invested and many more I could initiate. So, having the gift of time is a thrill. Nothing else is really hanging over my head, so I actually find myself at an ideal time. It is the point on my timeline for which I've waited for years and I am calmly thrilled.

Meanwhile, if you are looking for a little entertainment, take a look at my latest and greatest blog site: AWKWARD FAMILY PHOTOS. It is pure gold, folks. Thanks for passing it along, Jesse. I promise to keep our photos off the internet.

Spring time brings many seasonal items along with it: strawberries, allergies, and end of year testing. During the next two weeks my students will be sitting for their Standards of Learning tests or, as we lovingly refer to them, SOLs. Prior to being a teacher, SOL had its own, unique meaning. In a way, that primary definition still continues with the new testing definition. All in all, what it means to the kids is the year is over. The issue is that we still have nearly a month to go before we release for break.

So, what is a gal to do? I've presented all the material and information these little lovelies should have entertained during their fourth grade experience. Now we get to explore. Now we get to see some topics I can't cover through the year as deeply as I would like. Now is the time I get to dabble in a few private projects with the kids.

What is my central topic? Etiquette. Yes, etiquette. The social graces. That is my personal focus with students, but especially at this point in the year. Many of my students are "latch key" kids who eat way too much and frequently from Styrofoam and paper wrappers. Many are first or second generation from third world countries living an immigrant's experience. They are darling, beautiful kids; but, their parents are gone more than they would like to be. Many work 2 and 3 jobs to pay bills, rent, and save for either their next visit home or to send money to relatives in their old village.

These kids are intelligent and fully capable of grasping the academic experience. When they finish school and attempt employment, one of the last bastions of discrimination can be based in the world of social engagement. They might be fully educated, but can they navigate a reception? Do they know the correct knife and fork to use at a formal dinner? Is there a level of equalized comfort in environments demanding seamless social behavior along side those from a more privileged background?

Please know that an etiquette class won't balance all of this out, but I do take comfort in the fact that it does make a distinct difference. The first class I did this with are graduating from high school this year. Talking with some of these same former students, they gleefully tell me how they used their knowledge during prom time, a wedding reception or a quinceanera (a 15th birthday celebration for a girl).

I have the dorkiest video on table etiquette that we watch together. It is awful, but one of the only ones I am able to find on the market. THE KIDS LOVE IT. It is so old that the padded shoulders in the girl's dresses are nearly to costume level. Yet, these kids are enthralled because they don't understand that it is dated. All they know is that isn't a lifestyle they've seen, so it must be the way it is. The video shows a multiculturally blended group of kids being carted around in a limousine to a country club luncheon. The boys assist the girls in being seated. The table is fully set with plate chargers. On the table there is more silver than they've seen displayed since their dad's uncle smiled at the last family party.

To go along with this I bring in crystal, china, silver, linens, salt and pepper shakers: the works.
Students practice setting the table properly, folding napkins with a flourish, seating each other, napkin placement, excusing themselves from the table. All in all, we play house on a much higher level. Again, they love it and are incredibly kind while ensuring that everyone is proceeding according the standards set by Letitia Baldridge. http://www.jfklibrary.org/Historical+Resources/Biographies+and+Profiles/Profiles/Letitia+Baldrige.htm
Once armed with the knowledge, these kids monitor and ensure proper behavior all on their own. It is a thing of beauty watching it all unfold.

The culminating experience is a luncheon at a restaurant across the street from the school. Girls arrive at school in dresses while the boys sport ties. One year a little boy showed up with a suit which was a step away from a tuxedo. It is beyond being darling. We line up two by two or as close as we can get. Boys escorting the girls across the street like gentlemen, holding doors and scooting chairs willingly. Everyone is on their best behavior. They treat each other with all the social graces they are able to engage. It makes my heart sing.

When we start our etiquette lessons, I'll keep you posted and give you a peek into this awakening. It will give you hope for the future.

And so it goes.

Have Some Mercy: Adopt a Nun

2009-05-10T22:51:00.010-04:00

Twelve years of my life were spent studying, or pretending to, at the feet of the masters: The Religious Sisters of Mercy. These ladies are a powerful group of women who, since 1843, have been directing souls toward redemption and education in the greater Pittsburgh area and around the world. Established in Ireland by Mother McAuley in 1831, this order landed in Pittsburgh and then moved on to other locations. For decades they pulled from the Irish districts recruiting young ladies to give their lives to the Lord. Powerful, yes; however, their order sets the tone for money when each nun takes the vow of poverty.

Poverty. Hmmmm. What kind of person actually takes a vow to be impoverished? These gals.

WARNING: These guys are the musical group THE SISTERS OF MERCY, but should not be confused with the RELIGIOUS SISTERS OF MERCY

The Sisters of Mercy, much like other religious orders, are experiencing financial challenges as their community members age. Most functional organizations are formed in the shape of a triangle so the base supports the point. Most convents operate as inverted triangles with the majority of their population being well into the retirement age.

One order, the Salesians, are approaching the situation with a novel method: ADOPT A NUN.
http://www.salesiansisters.org/adopt-a-sister.html

Their web site states:

A suggested donation of $160-$500 will enroll you in the "Adopt a Sister" program for 1 year. Your gift will help provide for the Sisters' retirement needs, and in gratitude for your faith and friendship, your "adopted" Sister will pray for you each day for a year.
Damn, er, I mean, Gee Willykers, that sounds like a bargain to me. And wait, there's more. For every nun you adopt you will also receive:

A biography of your "adopted" Sister (with her photo, address, phone number and birthday)
A certificate
Our bimonthly magazine - Partners in Giving

Sorry, no "Cap Snafflers", alarm clocks, traveler mugs, premium gifts or Billy Mays (another Pittsburgher) to sway you. That is unless you consider a substantial boost along the road to your eternal reward.

Back in the day, Mom would pull out a tattered envelope with S&H Green stamps and a paper booklet to fill with them. We'd lick those suckers and fill the pages because she'd take us for a treat after we'd pick up her new appliance at the redemption center. I would always wrestle through the pile of stamps hoping for the 100 point single stamps. One juicy lick and the page was filled with one lonely stamp. Well, folks, these nuns are the human equivalent of an entire book of 100 point stamps. You get a better deal than a Magic Chef Mix-Master at the redemption center too. You will get to join me sitting on a cloud well on the right hand side of the Lord. Why? Because I plan on jumping on this freight train to heaven.

That's right. I have already emailed the good Sister Mary Digital, RSM to see if they are up for the program. The Salesian nuns are grand ladies too, but they didn't lay down their lives so I could conjugate verbs and learn about the sacraments. So, I'm checking into adopting a nun from the Mercy Order Mother House in Pittsburgh. Most of the nuns I knew have probably passed on; but, Sister Mary Digital is checking on that fine point as well. I've asked about a few who served their time at Saint Paul Cathedral and hope there is a hit. Regardless, I'm prepared to go forward with any of them for my new best friend.

If you are interested in jumping on this soulful bandwagon, let me know; perhaps we could share.

Some folks call nuns The Penguins. Now, we all know The Penguins are really the screaming hot Pittsburgh hockey team. So, one might say that both my Penguin teams are rooted in Pittsburgh.

GO PENS!!! GO CAPS!!! GO SISTER MARY DIGITAL!!!

http://www.time.com/time/specials/packages/article/0,28804,1894410_1894289_1894282,00.html

Meanwhile, these gals have changed from the days when the metal rulers flew. No more shirt waist dresses either. Sister Mary Scullion of Philadelphia has been named in Time Magazine's 100 Most Influential People for 2009. Not too shabby!

WARNING: This is a picture of the "Old School" (hey, that is pretty funny) habit of the Religious Sisters of Mercy. DO NOT CONFUSE THIS WOMAN WITH ANYONE IN A ROCK GROUP.

88: Piano Keys and Mummy

2009-05-05T19:36:00.023-04:00

Left: In her last independent home with an arrangement from cousin Carolyn

Middle: Lucy Bruce and Mom at our reunion.

Right: Pat and Mom at Jesse's wedding.

A while back I wrote a tribute about my dad, Morgan. With Mothers' Day just around the corner, it is clearly time to shine the light on my mother, Mary Louise. Two weekends ago I went to Pittsburgh for a visit with her. Each time I make that trek, there is an unexpected side bar marking the time spent with her.

We'll go where ever she might like. Usually she is happy going just about anywhere. We've toured various art collections at the Carnegie Museum. A few times, we've gone on drives through the city and local countryside spying on places of familial note. When we can, we visit or have lunch with a friend of hers, even though those numbers are dwindling. We always have a coffee or two at Panera's so she can view computer photos and videos of my daughter, Jesse, her husband, Corey, and their adorable, smart, creative, intelligent, and beautiful daughter, Zelda. Overall, we make a day of it.

Her selection for this particular Saturday was to go to the salon. Calling Phillip Pelusi's salon, I requested someone with a gentle touch and patience as they would be dealing with Mom's notoriously tender scalp. She has always been sensitive to it since she had a fractured skull when she was much younger. The patience part comes in handy since she has mostly one gear and it is a slow one. It comes with the territory of being nearly 88. However, even in her downshifted life, she was intent upon having her hair "brightened" from a dull shade, quoting her, to one more flattering. Mary Lou has an eye for style. She did look better and, during it and following, she felt better.

Looking in the mirror once her stylist, Kali, was finished Mom beamed and said she looked 10 years younger. I guess that thrill never leaves any of us. Please believe me, she had that place hopping too. Coffee, Mary Lou? Let me walk you to the restroom, Mary Lou. Would you care for a magazine, Mary Lou? Oh, you don't care for that one, please let me go to the store and buy you the one you like, Mary Lou. The Nature Channel should have filmed how rapidly she spun her her web.
In general, the years have been good to Mom. She is spunky and still has her signature way of dressing in a color-coordinated, fully accessorized ensemble with perfect jewelry accents. Her purse, shoes and belt always match. Fashion is a slave to her.

Mom is an incredible lady. She's been through much in her lifetime. As a 10 month old, she was adopted by the couple we unquestionably considered our grandparents, Walter and Marie Gordon. Their baby had died a year or so earlier at the same age, so I imagine it was a perfect match for them all. They lived in a wonderfully cavernous home: 366 Winebiddle Street. She would sigh and invariably say when she'd mention the address: "Twenty-five rooms and five baths. A lot of rooms to clean."

Mom, being ever resplendent, at Jesse's baby shower.

She suffered a severe hearing loss following a bout with Scarlet Fever when she was around 7 years old. Still, she didn't let that define or limit her. Mom negotiated human systems and social structures with grace and aplomb.

When our grade school's convent was struck by the Hong Kong flu epidemic in the early 1960s, she was an emergency substitute teacher. She loved it and decided to start college. It made her so proud being a teacher.

Mom raised tens of thousands of dollars for the original Oakland Catholic High School building fund. One way she did it was to set up a table by the Civic Arena every Saturday and Sunday night very politely scalp hockey and concert tickets. Sunday mornings you could find her with fresh doughnuts from Rosenbloom's Bakery in Squirrel Hill on the steps of St. Paul Cathedral. Whatever it took, she would find the way to get it handled. So it was then as it remains today.

Mom with Corey at his wedding.

When they were 50 years old, my parents started a new life in Virginia. Neither one had spent much time out of the Steel City, but they made a leap of faith for a new adventure. During that time there were many high points for her. One accomplishment was working for the CIA. You might be familiar with Astronaut Barbie, but how about Undercover Mary Lou?

Mom, you are a wonder. Now, when we visit, I am thrilled that the majority of your limited memories are happy ones. It is wonderful knowing you love living where you do because this is the first time I can recall that you haven't wanted to move. You are beautiful and your heart is full and loving. I marvel at the things you've taught everyone who has been able to be chilly in your shadow.

HAPPY MOTHERS' DAY, MOM!

The Last Frontier

2009-04-23T08:34:00.014-04:00

I did take some great pictures; but, as splendid as they may be, they still don't to nature justice.

Recently, I've been giving names on the map much consideration. As a matter of fact, research is taking place on a specialize project for publication. Being the history nerd I am, it is very exhilarating to me. Two of the last three Sundays has found my trusted ride, Mosby (after the Confederate spy "The Gray Ghost" John Singleton Mosby), cruising the Virginia country side. Perhaps if my car was blue, I'd name it Grant and the Union would be represented. My friend or two, and I were spending time combing through the Great Valley of Virginia and its associated Blue Ridge Mountains. Last month, when I attended a conference at The Homestead, I had the thrill of experiencing the Allegheny Mountain chain which comprises the "other bookend" of The Great Valley. A member of the Mensa Club in Stiller Nation, VA.

Many people may feel they own sections of this land, but there is only one name of deed: God. It gives your heart, mind and spirit the freedom to just be. Don't get me wrong, I love Alexandria, Pittsburgh and my new found love, Louisiana (particularly south of Interstate 10).
Another project being accomplished is the travels of "Flat Stanley" for my second grade pen-pal, Oswaldo. What a great name. Mr. Stanley liked the barrels comfort after a long walk.
The Shenandoah Valley is a subset of The Great Valley and is a spot which was populated by "poor" Germans and Scot-Irish back in the late 1600s. When I say "poor" I mean more than they just didn't have much money. I'm talking about the risk involved with their fate. Following lean times in Europe, wealthy British land barons paid for them to go into the valley and surrounding mountain chains and function as human shields between the British plantations and the savages held by the wild frontier.

We meandered down the road nestled between the Massanutten Mountains and the Allegheny Mountains (I prefer the French spelling, thank you. Held over from the days of "New France" and yes, people also use Alleghany and Allegany interchangeably. Let them do as they please: viva la difference.) It was spectacular. Every little inch, every pebble, every drop of spring fed water.

The sign reads: "In June and July during corn-choppin time, this cliff serves the folks in White RCommunity as a time piece. Twenty minutes after sunlight strikes the rock face, dusk falls on the valley below." Sounds to me like you'd better be gettin' on home. How fantastic it is that an entire community is tied to nature like this.

Spring house photo: Holy Cross Abbey Farm, Berryville VA

Spring houses are everywhere. Little stone sheds poised over a naturally chilled spring of clean water, bubbling diamonds with clear ripples. Farmers' once stored their dairy products in there for the constant cool temperature and, centuries later, they are still chilled, but empty. Milk, cream, and cheeses for a farm's family use has subsequently been relocated into the interior sanctuary of a refrigerator.

As one of our days developed into a spectularly blue bright and sunny afternoon, we slowly graduated to a startling height just beyond Reed's Gap. It was without a doubt that the air may have been thinner, but it was incredibly delicious. Later, well before returning within the I-495 Washington Beltway, you could sense the shift from magical to the chase your tail reality of densely populated areas. The air was full of it in more ways than one.

Roads out that way are getting wider. Restaurants are open 24 hours. You can buy a book at 10:45 on a Sunday night just across from where brothers fought brothers to see if 11 states had the right to succeed from the United States. (Legally, they did.) Mom and Pop shops are all homogenizing into the blurred horizon we can see on nearly every other landscape, to our collective knowledge. It all makes me sad seeing its unique beauty slowly ebb away as this year's crop of concrete pilings blossom along with their building permits in a former grassy field.

My friends and I will be imitating Ken Burns for at least a few more Sundays and then we may shift to another part of the Old Dominion. I'm glad of it and can't wait. It is there, patiently waiting for another temporary excursion. We won't be seeing the Grand Canyon or the Matterhorn; but, we will be seeing the local equivalent. Smaller scale? Sure. But only in size, not meaning.

Take the time, wherever you live, to appreciate the changing times and the sights that might be here tomorrow and next year, but will be fallen in the next 20 years or so. Maybe scenery will become the victim of forgotten importance, back taxes or ill kept property, but it will be there waiting only a while before it is history of a different ilk.

Do what you can folks. Give yourself this visual gift that keeps on, but not forever. Go drive somewhere nearby and be a tourist. Stop for a roadside attraction. Soak it up. Don't be in such a rush. You'll never regret it. Channel the energy of a teenager who finally slows down long enough to speak with a parent and realize they are pretty interesting for being nerdy dorks. Go get in touch with your historic self. Who knows, maybe someday someone will slow down to read about you.

Let me know your discoveries, Lewis or Clark or whomever you are.
And so it goes, Scoop.

Okay, so it is not the finest advertisement for man's interfacing techniques with nature. I love it because, unless the wind blew it there, someone took the time to place a cinder block on this well-digging truck's hood to ensure its behavior.