After visiting the website of the Irish government, I know what I want to do for a living.  I want to be one of the photographers hired to help promote tourism in Ireland.  Everyone talks about their dream job-I think I've finally found mine. 

Ever since I can remember, Ireland has always held some mysterious fascination for me.  I think that is where my obsession with travel started.  Seriously, though, looking at these pictures, can you blame me?  Many places hold quite a bit of history, but for some reason, it seems as if Ireland has held onto its history in a more immediate way.  If fact, I was looking at different colleges in Ireland the other day and nearly all of them included classes, sometimes a major, in the Gaelic language.  This was particularly interesting since I remember seeing when I was a child a re-run of an episode, that looked like it was filmed in the early 80's or so, of National Geographic in which the narrator said that, except for the oldest generation in the most rural parts of Ireland, the Gaelic language was beginning to die out and would soon be lost forever, helped in no part by the fact that during the years prior to the creation of the Republic of Ireland, it was illegal to converse in anything but English. 

In the famous library at Trinity College in Dublin.  Ireland and books.  All anyone could ask of mortal life.

This is actually not in Ireland; it is the house C.S. Lewis bought outside of the town of Oxford, England.  This is my desktop picture to keep me motivated to not give up on my dream of travelling one day.  (I know, I know, the whole 'English/Irish' thing, I probably shouldn't.  But, hey Lewis is one (if not my most) of my favorite authors and he was Irish, so......)
If those haven't convinced you, perhaps this will.

Valentine's Day approaches.  ("The British are coming! The British are coming!)  When did Valentine's Day become such a test of patience?  Besides, testing my social patience is as pointless as training a rottweiler as a seeing eye dog.  Just kind of goes against nature.  Plus, as I explained last year, Valentine's Day has been taken entirely out of historical context and convoluted beyond historically accurate recognition.  Therefore, for the sake of our children's education we should completely eradicate this senseless holiday.  In their best interest.  And for the sake of their teeth.  Also, I hear that childhood obesity is reaching epidemic proportions-no need to pull out the tofu-dogs, just eliminate Valentine's Day.  Anyway, believe it or not, I don't necessarily hate Valentine's Day.  I just hate having to be conscious for Valentine's Day.  I'm truly glad other people thoroughly enjoy this amorous holiday, I personally just don't care.  If I don't care that they do care, they shouldn't care that I don't care, correct?  It's only polite.  I mean, really, it's Valentine's Day for heaven's sake.  Be kind and return the favor of ignoring me. Aside from that, by the time the holiday rolls around, I am entirely prejudiced against it.  Beginning in late January the Valentine's Day commericials for jewelry begin, and, truthfully they make me physically sick.  Seriously.  Diamonds?! On Valentine's Day?!  I'm sorry, but unless it is a multiple of ten anniversary, an engagement, or the death of a relative, diamonds should not pass hands.  Period. 
            It's not the whole "single's awareness" thing; it's just I've always hated public displays of affection and sentimentality.  And pink.  Pepto pink.  Some pink is cool, but not the kind which leaves the jingle from the Pepto Bismol commercials playing on repeat in my head for the rest of the day.  But, being single, you are often mistakenly perceived as an object of pity.  People want to give you suggestions as to how to 'catch a man.'  Well, personally, if he's running, I probably don't want that one after all.  Unless it was Paul Newman.  Or James Mcavoy.  Or Johnny Depp.  Or Mr. Knightley.  Or Darcy.  Or C.S. Lewis.  Or Mike Rowe, then I wouldn't have to get a new driver's license.  I'd even take Edmund Bertram if I didn't have to run too fast, even if he was an idiot.  So, checking my e-mail the other night and stumbling across this article was like saying, "Oh, look, rolling your eyes too many times really does make them stick."  I am now wall-eyed, my friends.  But the title was irresistible.  Dating Advice: 7 Mistakes Single Women Make.  The inspiration came from the author of the article reading some random advice book.  First of all, my take on advice books and survival shows is this: in case of fire Stop, Drop and Roll.  Anything else, use common sense.  When common sense isn't to be had, trust your instincts of self-preservation.  If those don't kick in, it doesn't really matter what love-life advice you get, does it?  The species won't last long in that line anyway.  So, I'll address a few of the mistakes which amused me the most.  I know everyone is simply thrilled.

1. We feel entitled.
Gottlieb: “Women try to be good friends to each other. We say, ‘You deserve this, you’re so great! You’re such a good catch! Any man would be lucky!’ [Men don’t say that to each other.] We are good catches, but we also are human and we’re not perfect and somebody’s going to have to put up with us for the rest of his life. And we forget. My dating coach said, write down all the reasons a guy would not want to date you.

3 things about this-A) I hope men don't say that to each other, that would just be, well, weird.  B) a 'dating coach'?!!!!  Since when has there been such a thing as a 'dating coach'?  What, is that like a physical therapist for the socially inept?  (And I can say that because I am socially inept, but I deal with it the traditional way-I have a well-stocked bookshelf.)  C)"...write down all the reasons a guy would not want to date you."  Great. Thanks.  I know most of my flaws and suspect the rest.  Thanks for reminding me.  That would be one reason why I'm not dating.  I know my limitations, and I have enough sense to realize it would be unfair to inflict them on some poor unwitting man.  Which is why I don't date.  Again.  Thank you for that painful reminder.  I'll just go back to my books now, thanks. 

3. We’re judgmental.

Gottlieb: “The guys I interviewed for the book said women judge them so much. Women gave me 300 reasons they wouldn’t go on a second date with a guy, and men gave 3. When guys are ready for that stage of life, they find someone who is good enough that they’re totally in love with—but that person may not seem to the outside world to be as appealing in superficial ways—maybe she’s not as accomplished or funny as the last girl. Whatever he sees in her, he does. Guys don’t sit and micro-analyze a woman the way a woman would with a man. He knows she’s not as hot as the last girl he dated, but that’s okay. She’s hot enough.”

I wasn't even going to touch this one, but couldn't resist.  First and foremost, the last two lines- I'm sorry, but what? So, it's okay that your wife isn't as hot as the girl before her?!  Oh. No. Secondly, just simply being 'good enough'?  Frankly, that's insulting.  No wife should tell her husband that, and no husband should say that to his wife.  That's like saying "Well, you're not what I'd hoped for, but I suppose I can settle."  If that isn't romantic, I don't what is.  Secondly, I'd like to know what those three reasons men gave are.  A brain? Maturity? An average decible voice? A distaste for daisy dukes and tube tops?  Sober?  Sane?  Responsible?  Who knows......

7. We think he needs to share every interest.

Gottlieb: “We say, ‘I’m a writer, but he doesn’t read! I’m creative.’ But people can be creative in different ways, and the fact that he doesn’t read the same books that you do, well, maybe he wants someone who he can talk about the baseball game with but you’re not that person. The guy doesn’t have to be one-stop shopping. You’re not going to share every single interest, and that’s okay. The shared interest should be, Do we want the same things out of life? Do we both want to be married right now?”

Personally, I don't want whoever I date/marry to share all my interests.  The reason I chose the hobbies I did was to get away from people.  You take a camera, drive to the middle of nowhere and spend hours by myself.  I read so that when I get tired of people I can simply shut the book and walk away.  I play the piano so that I'm not required to talk, etc. etc.  So, in the long run, it isn't sad that I have no reason to celebrate Valentine's Day-it's the best thing for everyone involved. 

(and one more for the history people)

(Look up Valentine's Day 1929, Chicago, if it doesn't make sense-or just look at last year's post here.)

So, 'snow' in North Carolina looks less like snow and more like, well, ice.  Oh well, beggars can't be choosers, I suppose.  The fourth photo is of a frozen strand of a spider's web.  I thought it was interesting, as I've never seen anything like that.  The eighth one down is a "Where's Waldo" kind of deal.  You have to try to find the bird in the photo.  Five bucks to the first person who finds it.  (Well, maybe not, but you at least get my congratulations.)

A few photos from Christmas in S.C.  The photography has unfortunately (or maybe rather fortunately, who knows....) come to a bit of a standstill lately.  Although I love many things about the state, eastern North Carolina, in the middle of the coastal plains, is not necessarily the most photographically prepossessing sight in the middle of winter.

When this little blogging experiment began I promised myself two things: (1) This would never become a chat-room therapy session, it would remain anecdotal.  (2) I would only post when I had a really good story.  Yes, well....instead it has occasionally digressed into pseudo-philosophical musings of the superficial type or bitter diatribes against such sickeningly prevalent celebrations as Valentine's Day.......(Sorry, still trying to suppress the gag reflex on that one......)  Hopefully, however, I have heretofore refrained from complaining (too much).  Yep, well, never too late to try something new, is it?  Only being facetious (somewhat.....).  Although I earnestly (and there is an importance to being earnest, is there not? Sorry, I've been reading Oscar Wilde to cheer myself up) hope this post will not be misconstrued as complaining, there does need to be some explanation for the remainder to be in any way slightly coherent.  (And hopefully it actually will be coherent; this whole thing is a bit extemporaneous, we'll see how it turns out.)  Here's the story-I recently graduated from college.  Good job, right?  Nope, no job, actually.  Anywhere.  So much for being of Irish descent.  I got the temper and pale skin but none of the luck.  I pick an economy nearly comparable to that during the Great Depression in which to graduate from college.  My timing has always been impeccable.  The idea of grad-school has always hovered around the fringes of possibilities considered; yet, the GRE still must be surmounted.  Grad-school costs more money.  Then there is always the question of, "Can I really do this?  Could I hack it, or would it hack me?"  Should I concentrate on getting into grad-school or spend that time looking for a non-existent job?  Stay here or leave?  If I leave, go where?  How little can a human being really live on without starving?  Etc., etc. The carnival of frustration has arrived and is setting up its pretty tri-colored tent in my backyard; incidentally, there seems to be a plethora of booths set up devoted to the art of defeatism (minus the acceptance of defeat), skepticism, and self-doubt.


     So, as always, books have become the life-boats on the doomed Titanic.  I've returned to my favorites, books and authors, and, although I've read them all before, they somehow still offer solace and a few minutes worth of sanity.  For instance, in Norman Maclean's A  River Runs Through It, there was one line in particular which offered a bit of respite from my mental version of an old LP.  Maclean says, "That's how you know when you have thought too much-when you become a dialogue between You'll probably lose and You're sure to lose."  The circumstance to which he was directly referring was a fishing trip, but it still has quite a nice ring to it, don't you think?  I've suddenly become like Rain Man when he would start quoting "Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third" every time his delicate internal balance became upset.  (Except mine is the much less amusing Norman Maclean version.)  Next was, of course, the venerable C.S. Lewis.  In Out of the Silent Planet, Lewis delves into many philosophical debates through the character of Ransom, all of which are thoroughly interesting. One of my new favorite lines, though is a statement that was spoken to Ransom just before he was being sent back to his own world.  Ransom spent the entire novel trying to outrun something which he eventually realized, after it occurred, was both inevitable and in his best interest.  As he was departing, he was told, "You are guilty of no evil, Ransom, except a little fearfulness.  For that, the journey you go on is your pain, and perhaps your cure: for you must be either mad or brave before it is ended." 


       Add that to my Rain Man mantra.  It's a good reminder-circumstances only dictate circumstances, not an individual's reaction within the circumstances.  The interesting thing?  My Rain Man mantra comes from authors whose works often resulted from rather unhappy circumstances of their own.  Maclean lost a beloved brother, Lewis had a rather unhappy childhood-he lost his mother at a young age, resulting in a rather difficult relationship between he and his father. His brief time in the trenches in the Great War remained with him throughout his life, he never gained the position he wished in the academic world, he lost the wife he married late in life after only a short marriage, his brother required some attention as he had a problem with alcohol, etc. Life wasn't Ozzie and Harriet or Leave It to Beaver.  It seems that this is the case with many of my favorite authors and artists.  Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind in the Willows, lost his mother at five years old, and his father abandoned the family, dying an alcoholic in France.  The uncle into whose family he and his siblings were adopted refused to send Grahame to Oxford, which was the desire of his heart.  Instead he was exiled to the Bank of England.  His wife did not supply conditions in which a happy marriage could thrive and their one son was partially blind; the son was killed by a train, some say in an act of suicide.  J.M. Barrie led a life which vacillated between imaginative euphoria and depression.  Charles Dickens led a very unfortunate childhood and adulthood did not improve; he and his wife, long estranged eventually separated.  Louisa May Alcott began to write in earnest to support a destitute family.  Samuel Clemens' father died, leaving the family rather struggling financially.  Later in life his beloved wife died of heart failure, a genetic failing which also claimed the life of his daughter only days after her return from a mental institution.  Another daughter died of meningitis, while he and his wife early in their marriage lost an infant son. 


    Okay, if you've been able to drudge through all of that depressing list of authors and events, let me explain my reasons for asking you to endure.  Here's the thing-these people took very unhappy circumstances and used them to their advantage.  Pain became a source and incentive for creativity.  Instead of sinking beneath the weight of circumstances they used those circumstances to instead create.  To improve a world in which they had not exactly experienced total bliss, they offered their suffering in the form of improved imagination and creativity.  I suppose my point is this: I could cry and complain (which I have done, sorry for that), allow a great 'weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth,' but what good would that do me or anyone else?  None, that's how much.  In other words, suck it up, get over it, and use the opportunity of wanting to get away from your own reality by trying to improve someone else's.  Okay, the free therapy is finally all done.  Thanks to all those who made it this far!  Now, what to do where?      
       

(This has nothing to do with the post, but instead of writing an entirely pointless different post I calculated that a mini 'sub-post' would suffice.  So here it is-I went to see Invictus last night.  I've always liked that poem, Morgan Freeman's acting, Matt Damon's adorableness acting, and learning about Nelson Mandela, so I've been really excited to see this movie.  A few things here: I didn't think I would ever see the day that Clint Eastwood of all people would direct a 'feel-good' movie.  Not that it wasn't well done and a wonderful movie to watch, it's just....well.....The Good, the Bad and the Ugly? For a Few Dollars More? However, I was pleasantly surprised; also, I now have one more reason to say that Morgan Freeman is AWESOME!  His portrayal of Nelson Mandela was absolutely stunning in my humble, non-Hollywood opinion.  Freeman made this movie.  Period.  Not that I'm discounting Matt Damon's ability here.  However (and yes, this is going to be 'tweeny-fan' girly comment) my concern was less about his acting (which was good-that South African accent has to be extremely difficult to master), and more about how darn cute he is!  Everyone always thought I was crazy, but who was right? My opinion was completely vindicated when he was voted 'Sexiest Man Alive' one year.  It's nice to be right.  (Okay, girly moment over.) Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie.  I still don't understand organized sports, but hey, throw Matt Damon (Matt Damon with a great tan, a wunnerful accent and sun-bleached blond hair) in there and I'm game (no pun intended).)

(A picture from the New York archives of the blizzard of 1888 which crippled the city. Utility lines were rendered useless when they snapped under the weight of 22 inches of snow.)

It seems that for some time now, all weather reports concerning the east coast have centered around the phenomenon known as 'snow.' We here in North Carolina have felt particularly slighted, as we have not received our annual drifts.  For the past couple of weeks an undercurrent of hope and excitement has flowed beneath the surface; conversations have inevitably covered the upcoming whiteout.  The more sinister of us have searched for a flag pole and a willing dupe on which to test the old 'A Christmas Story' trick.  We huddled around our televisions, obsessively returning to the 'Weather on the 8's.'  We hung on every word which fell from the weatherman's wind-chapped lips.  Some of the more ambitious even began to record the transpiring events for the day when primary accounts would be needed for an epsiode of 'When Weather Changed History.' Eventually our patient hopes were rewarded.  We could expect a 'dusting.' An inch, to be more precise. A mix of rain and snow-a.ka. frigid, toe-numbing slush.  The carnival was slated to begin late Thursday night.  72-hour kits were obsessively gathered and checked.  Flashlight batteries were repeatedly tested.  Fleece blankets were pulled out of storage.  And I made the mistake of going to the grocery store at 5:30.  Honestly, I feared for my life, at the beginning at least.  Eventually, however, my attention was diverted from my own personal safety to the observation of the highly interesting cross-section of human nature displayed before me.  The store at which I was shopping happens to lie at a very interesting junction of three neighborhoods.  One is two sets of apartment complexes devoted to the hordes of pursurers of higher learning euphemistically known as 'college students.' Another is the city's first version of 90210.  The last is primarily populated by young couples with small children.  Let me just say that I now know how each demographic is going to react to the apocalypse.  Seriously, no kidding; one trip to the grocery store became an education in human nature. 

As I pulled into the parking lot I had a coronary.  There was absolutely no room in the inn.  Anywhere.  I couldn't even put one of the college students into a little extra beer money (we'll address that later) to give me his parking space.  Finally, after searching for that elusive, non-existent port I spotted one.  Right next to bright, shiny Cadillac.  As I waited patiently for the pedestrians to take their right of way (and taking their time taking that right.  It's flipping freezing for pete's sake! You'd think they'd hurry) I spotted the proud owner of the Caddy.  Apparently Hoke was off that night, Miss Daisy looked a little lost.  She passed my window.  I smiled.  She returned the smile.  I put on my blinker.  She pointed to the empty parking space next to her.  I nodded and smiled.  She acknowledged my affirmation.  She parked her cart in the parking space and opened the back door.  (Just so everyone knows, the plan was to park my car and offer to help her put her groceries in her car.  However, I valued my life too much to park my little red bumper in the middle of the lot and get out.  Tempers were a bit fragile and I believe I would have been bludgeoned with a case of beer had I held up progress.  And my car would have disappeared.  Trust me.)

On to the second group.  The logically impaired college students.  While domestic goddesses were WWF Monday Night Raw-ing it in the middle of the aisle for the preservation of their offspring, a preservation which came in the form of bread, milk and peanut butter, the entire cast of Animal House (and no, I've never seen that movie) was stocking up for Oktoberfest.  It's good to embrace other cultures; shows an open-mindedness, don't you think?  At any moment I expected some blonde fraulein in pig-tails and those German predecessors of the mini-skirt to appear and begin passing out frothy mugs while all the male proponents of cross-culture customs broke into an a cappella rendition of Das Deutstchlandlied.

That leaves the young mothers with their children.  The checkout lines were interminable.  Snow.  Adrenaline.  The very thought of no school the next day.  'Nough said.  If that doesn't sum it up well enough, perhaps this will.

Needless to say, it was a highly entertaining trip.  Who thought the grocery store could be so much fun?

This last one is not from the mountains, obviously, but it was in the batch with the rest of them.  It is actually the carousel from the county fair.

I decided to change the background for the blog title, and, leaning towards the ADD side of life, I realized (as far as I remember, anyway, which isn't saying much.  But still.....) I'd never posted any photos from the mountain trip my mother and I undertook.  I'm really hoping I didn't actually post these and that this is not a mind numbingly boring repeat of something no one was interested in the first time it was posted....................

Although there was unfortunately no Brad Pitt in sight on Saturday, I did get to play Thelma and Louise by taking a road trip with a group of women.  To see The Phantom of the Opera.  Fortunately, no bail had to be posted.  The mother of my piano student told me not too long ago that "adjective" is no longer used in the classroom, as it isn't 'exciting' enough to describe descriptive words.  Apparently they are now being called *sparkle words* (insert hands raised 'Hallelujah' style with wiggly fingers).  Personally, using the more difficult 'adjective' never seemed to impede my ability to use them; I can't tell you what a preposition is, but I have a feeling I use those ocassionally as well.  Anyway.....Here are my *sparkle words* to describe the show: Spectacular. Mesmerizing.  Stunning.  Beautiful. Gorgeous. Wish you were here.  (Okay, I know that last one is not an adjective, and I'm only hoping the rest of them qualify, but you get the point.)  I read the book for the first time in sixth or seventh grade, and ever since then, I have wondered how they could accomplish the demolition of a chandelier on stage without incurring the wrath of sue-happy lawyers.  Well, now I know, and it was more than vastly entertaining.  It was an artistic revelation set to breathtaking music.  It is one thing to sit at a stoplight, belting out Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman in the secure solitude of a Mercury Milan.  It is an entirely different thing to feel the concussion of the drums as they accentuate the Phantom's footsteps as he descends the main staircase at the masquerade, dressed as the Red Death.  It was brilliant.  My only complaint is the same complaint I had before I saw it live.  Christine.  Being a slightly indecisive person myself, it is a shortcoming I can only barely tolerate in minimal amounts.  My "favorite" part?  At the end, in the Phantom's lair, after Raoul has discarded any regard for his own life, and has descended beyond the portals of hell to rescue the girl he has loved since his childhood with the type of devotion only Jane Austen heroines get the opportunity to experience- AND SHE CAN'T MAKE UP HER MIND!!!!! Really?!  I know the Phantom has that aura of mystery which usually surrounds paranoid, homicidal geniuses, but enough already! While the noose is tightening around the throat of the one man who truly loves her she does nothing but cringe and wail.  Voluntary helplessness is an unforgivable sin in my book.  So while Raoul is dying (literally and metaphorically) Christine decides to all but have a love-fest make-out session with his murderer.  Typical blonde.  (In the book she is blonde.  Her father was Swedish, after all.)  Anyway, other than that?  Marvelous.  Stupendous.  Entrancing.  I fell in love.  Not just with the production itself, but with....the conductor.  Strange?  I know.  I can tell you the moment it happened, though.  It was when Raoul first comes to see Christine after her astonishing success at the gala.  The mirror prop which eventually becomes the escape route through which the Phantom kidnaps her from her dressing room was somewhat tilted towards the orchestra pit.  The bottom of the stage obscured everything below the conductor's cummerbund while the angle of the mirror only revealed anything from the bowtie down.  Sounding stranger all the time?  Yes, I assume so, but let me explain.  In other words, the only thing visible was the conductor's hands.  Aside from Fred Astaire, men aren't usually described as 'graceful,' but this man was graceful.  To see what you were hearing is the only way I can describe the experience.  I watched him for a while, his hands enacting what the instruments would vocalize a split second later.  In the next scene, as the Phantom and Christine are moving across the candlelit subterranean lake, the conductor's silhoutte was rendered a bit fantastical and spectral by the smoke skimming across the stage and cascading over the ledge.  Again, his motions as he conducted the musicians was almost hypnotic.  I had never really thought about the vital role the conductor plays in such a production.  It was actually nearly as interesting to watch him as any of the other performers.  Anyway, it was fabulous and a grand time was had by all.  One day I'll see Les Miserables.  But my heart will always belong to the conductor of the Phantom. 

"A youngster, clutching his soldier father, gazes upward while the latter lifts his wife from the ground to wish her a 'Merry Christmas.'  The serviceman is one of those fortunate enough to be able to get home for the holidays." December, 1944- source-National Archives and Records Administration  (I've always loved this picture.  My only question is this: how in the WORLD did she keep up with a toddler in those heels?!  Look at those things!)

Okay, so I know this post is late, but by my standards of procrastination this post is actually about a week early.  It seems as if the holidays have really just sprung out from a hidden recess and caught me completely off-guard, unprepared as I usually seem to be for their descent.  I love the holdiays, Christmas and Easter are my two favorites; however, it seems as I get older, the ability to enjoy them diminishes in the face of what must be done by tomorrow.  Tomorrow becomes next week, and before I realize it, I have missed the beauty of daffodils on Easter morning, the anticipation of Christmas Eve, the quiet moment I used to enjoy as a child when we arrived home late on Christmas Eve after visiting my grandparents.  It may sound cliche to admit, but there was something sobering, even as a child, about that pause for a moment on my way to a warm home to look at the stars.  They always looked so hard and bright against the frozen, midnight blue sky.  The odd thing is, it makes you feel infintesimally small; suddenly, you feel your place in the grand scheme of the universe.  The infinite number of stars remind you of that hand which orchestrated their placement in the depths of the universe; the untold mysteries of eternity suddenly seem inexplicably familiar. Although you do not understand, you feel.  When I tried to explain this to someone once, they asked a bit skeptically, "You thought about all that as a kid?"  Well, no, maybe not, but sometimes I think as adults we underestimate children's abilities to understand things intuitively which they can't yet express coherently.  Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn't digress into any tangents......So, to get to the purpose of this post (and yes, hopefully, there is one.....)  Monday was December 7.  Pearl Harbor Day.  As an individual who becomes unduly excited by anything remotely connected to history, I was debating about whether or not to post something.  But what?  A history of events? No, everyone knows the story.  Roosevelt's "A Day That Will Live in Infamy" speech?  No, too depressing and political.  Then, fate made an entrance.  I could write about Christmas and D-Day.  Genius!  I was reading through a book I purchased when I visited the Library of Congress (I hope that if I live a decent life, heaven will be the Library of Congress....).  It is entitled "I'll Be Home for Christmas: The Spirit of Christmas During World War II."  I had to eat sparingly for the rest of the trip, as I spent most of my money in the bookstore, but with a title like that does anyone really fault me?  Anyway, I came across this passage as I was reading through it the other evening.  Forgive me as I type it out in its entirety.

In Norfold, Virginia, news that the United States had been plunged into war sobers the mood of the shipmates on the USS Washington.  When the radio plays "The Star-Spangled Banner," the men all stand and sing.  They realize that immediate action on the high seas is ahead.  A few days later, just before Christmas 1941, a writer for the ship's weekly news-letter, Cougar Scream, talks about duty, love, and sacrifice.

"The knowledge of a catastrophe cannot be comprehended within the immediate moments of its announcement.  It is one thing to know-it is another thing to realize.  We all heard the shocking narration of death, disaster, and destruction as relayed from Pearl Harbor last Sunday.  We know it took place.  But do we realize its significance?
  It is difficult to realize that some of our shipmates of former days and duties are dead; that others are seriously wounded.  It seems incredible that ships-of-the-line have been sunk.  And to watery graves went men who manned those ships.  those men wore the uniform of their country by their own choice, through their own free will.  When each solemnly swore: "I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America, and that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever, and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the Officers appointed over me, according to the rules and articles for the government of the Navy," he assumed a grave responsibility.  That responsibility can be shouldered only by the security of a sense of duty.  Duty is any assigned service.  Duty is founded upon love or upon fear.  A fearful man could not freely undertake this responsibility. he would have to be forced into it because he would be afraid of its obligations.  That rules out fear and leaves love only.  It might be a love of country; a love of home and family-and their attendant preservation; a love of an ideal and the subsequent pride of maintaining the high standards of that ideal.
  Love and Duty have one common denominator-Sacrifice.  Both require it; both demand it.  Without sacrifice there can be no duty.  Sacrifice is in proportion to love.  The more we love something, the less willing we are to part with it.  Since self-preservation is the first law of nature, it follows that we are least willing to part with our life.  To part with life requires a tremendous sacrifice and such a sacrifice demands a tremendous love.  Therefore, "Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends."
  The men of last Sunday who could not be bribed by the Grim Reaper to desert their posts; the men who placed duty, love and honor above fear, life, and dishonor; the men whom the Angel of Death tapped on the shoulder and who, without flinching, returned Death's gaze as they stood by their stations-those men were our shipmates of former days and duties; those men laid down their lives for their friends.  Greater love could no man have.
  We of the WASHINGTON pause with bowed heads to pay homage to our gallant brothers who have "given the last full measure of devotion."  May their souls rest in peace through the infinite mercy and love of Almighty God."

I have nothing to add to that which could possibly improve upon it; I simply want to add a few thoughts of my own.  There have been countless sacrifices made for each of us; and for those who feel as if there has been no mortal sacrifice made for their security and comfort, perhaps not.  I don't know the circumstances surrounding everyone's station in life.  However, I feel obligated to add that there have been countless sacrifices made for each of us.  Wealth and privilege were and are not guaranteed or promised to any of us, but humanity and the opportunity to both experience and express kindness have been.  If kindness, mercy and forebearance seem to be absent, a different sacrifice of Duty and Love has provided for that as well.  There was a "last and greatest" sacrifice which provided for each member of the human race.  "Sacrifice is in proportion to love."  That is what I feel the most at Christmas.  A birth meant for a death.  A death meant for the benefit of all mankind.  It may be politically incorrect to write about religion on something as public as a blog, but political correctness does nothing to salve the pains of the human race, those seen or unseen.  Political correctness does nothing to provide for the loneliness felt by so many at this time of year.  Political correctness does nothing to remind men of their essential humanity, the humanity which suffers empathy for others, the humanity which is an indication of that from which it is derived.  So, politically incorrect or not, I say, "Merry Christmas," with all its inherent meaning.