Technical Writer

Hot Spiced Wine

Only red wine will do for this drink, and you don't need expensive wine because you are going to pour a bottle or two into a pot, and warm it slowly over a low flame.  Into the wine put cinnamon sticks or just sprinkle some powdered cinnamon in the pot.  Slice up a couple of oranges, and maybe a lemon, and add a few whole cloves.  Add a little sugar to taste if you want.  This is the basic recipe.  You may add a few anise stars, maybe a little ginger, whatever you might enjoy that smells like Christmas to you.  Drink it piping hot, in a mug.  Why stop at one?  Remember, if you boil the brew you'll lose the alcohol, and what's the point of that?

Why Cause Trouble on the Way Out?

After the August war between Georgia and Russia, after the flames of burned towns and super-heated rhetoric died down, it became apparent that Georgia had provoked the war, and Russia accepted the provocation.  Certainly Russia could have displayed restraint and it did not, but in the particular instance of this war in their raw history, Georgia was not blameless, and instigated the war. 

During our recent political campaign, John McCain made a great issue about Russia's design on Ukraine and Georgia and what it would mean for the West. It struck me that his passionate discourse was the result of deep conviction, in fact an area of policy that seemed fully formed in his mind. On the other hand, I was not convinced that he could show restraint and international leadership in devising a solution. His position seems now to represent one plank of an administration agenda that has come into play this week in NATO.

The United States and other NATO countries in the past designed a joint Membership Action Plan (MAP) that lays out the circumstances in which a country may join NATO.  A country seeking to join is first admitted by the NATO countries to the MAP, a plan for eventual membership that requires a country to separate its civilian and military powers, reform the armed forces, and demonstrate transparency in government command and in intelligence services.

Just in April, in delicate negotiations among the NATO countries, the U.S. compromised its strong desire that Georgia and Ukraine be invited to join the MAP.  Western European NATO countries opposed the plan for a number of reasons including Russia's insistence against NATO membership for countries it claimed vital to its national interest.

A compromise was reached in which it was agreed that at some point the countries would be invited to join, but the time was not yet to invite them to the MAP, which would pave the way for membership.  Now it turns out that Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice, in advance of next month's meeting of the NATO alliance, has been pushing strongly, not just for their admittance to a MAP, but for full membership for Georgia and Ukraine. Again, the Western European NATO members oppose this.

I must quote journalist Judy Dempsey, who states in the Nov. 26 edition of the International Herald Tribune, that,

    "Rice's intervention, however, changes the dynamics, undermining what was agreed upon ... as well as the entire NATO entry process, diplomats said.

    "If you get rid of the Membership Action Plan, it sets a very dangerous precedent," said another NATO diplomat, "Once you skip the filtering process of MAP, then you are going down the slippery slope to the right to join NATO."

Why now, just weeks before the end of a disrespected administration that has wrecked havoc in the world, would Secretary Rice feel compelled to attempt to jam through a proposal that is certain to fail? What is there to gain by the outgoing administration's insistence that NATO bypass its deliberative process that in itself could assure success for its alliance? I would like to know.

Schwabisch Hall Christmas Market

Today, November 28, is a giant shopping day in Germany, and not because it is the day after the American Thanksgiving.  The stores offer big sales, but it is only a small part of what is really the big event here in Schwabisch Hall, and that is the start of the Christmas market. 

The Christmas market is throughout the center of town, extending to the tower gate under which is our small apartment.  When I look out the front door I see directly across the cobble stones the tiny door built into the wall that allows a small man to climb through after the gate is locked at night.  Oh--wrong century. The gate was locked in medieval times, and there was a night guard to admit the laggard farm hand or drunken lout who overstayed his time elsewhere.  No decent women were abroad after sunset.

I, however, plan to be out tonight with the crowds and the laughter and singing and hot spiced wine and wooden stalls alight with hand-worked ornamentstoysclothinggingerbreadcandycanesicedcakes and more, more.  A feature of Christmas market stalls is that each little roof is decorated.  I have watched the family closest to my door as they have worked for days preparing their stall, and this morning, the father decorated the roof.  Up went a shaggy camel, gaily caparisoned, and wise men in cloths of gold. The entire downtown, a network of cobblestone streets that are narrow pedestrian ways, will be ablaze all weekend, but not with work for the night-watchman to decry.

Schwabisch Hall, City of Salt and Night Lights

About 50 kilometers east of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, and a 2.5-hour train ride (alternatively, a taxi can close the distance in 45 minutes), is the equally old city of Schwabisch Hall. Hall means "a mound of salt," and this town grew as rich as its neighbor by distilling and selling salt. 

By the 5th century, the Celts discovered salty springs here and in the mid-11th century when the Benedictine abbey was consecrated, the city was officially recorded as a free imperial city in the annals of the the Holy Roman Empire. Bountiful taxes were paid directly to the emperor and the city was not beholden to the abbey or any feudal lord.

While I do not know this, I suspect that the word beholden, from Middle English and dating from the 14 century, may have derived from the Middle German.  I long to open my Oxford English Dictionary to read a good airing of this word.  What I know of the word is that beholden means to be obligated to another, whether person or concept. Often the two are joined as in the bonds of feudal loyalty, and bound to the past that forever creates the present in its old form.

The city of Schwabisch Hall grew rich from salt. Techniques of harvesting salt from the springs in town must have remained the same through the centuries because the process is very simple. Spring water is boiled in cauldrons, and salt is left behind and collected. The hard and dirty work of feeding the fires that boiled the cauldrons produced a rough lot of workers, and they were probably on the margins of society, one step up from the night-watchmen. Both the salters and the watchmen minded fire, which was as dire an enemy in those days as any marauding band of armed men.  The salters kept theirs glowing day and night, but the night watchmen sounded the alarm on their great horns should they see any outbreak of fire in town.

Schwabisch Hall was most recently devastated by fire in the 1720s, and 400 houses were burned to the ground. The streets themselves helped route the flames as the winds gusted down narrow passages, most being about 10 feet wide. New houses later replaced the ones destroyed, and now many of the building surrounding the lovely market platz are in the new, baroque style.

Imagine the platz:  It is night, and St. Michael's church stands on high ground at the top.  Opposite the church, across the wide cobbled open platz is the rathaus, or town hall.  To one side is a long hotel, and surrounding the platz on the other sides are very old companies that have been in business for hundreds of years. Today, large lanterns illuminate the buildings, which are plasterd over their half-timber frames.  The plaster is painted green, or cream, or salmon, and shades of yellow, and the fronts are decorated with dark red, or yellow and white and gold painted designs in long curls and sweeps. Some buildings have painted shields of professions, and other shields are painted with decorative flowers and trees and animals of the forest.The buildings could be many-tiered, colorful cakes, illuminated and set in place around the platz.  I want to break off a tiny corner of so many of these houses because I am certain that they really are made of gingerbread and icing.

Just off the main market platz are the narrow side streets, and these streets are often joined together by steep stairways linking them by several flights. The houses are all at least 300 years old, and one beauty was built in 1200.

A particular feature of building construction in this town is that a building would be anchored by a center pole of an upright beam of oak arising from a massive pile of stone in the basement through all floors, to finish at the roof of the house. The beam remains exposed as it rises through the floors. I saw one such house, and the center oak beam was 20 inches on the side, a little bit checked because it was hoisted green, and four stories tall.  The old beam has held up the house for 500 years.

No Pictures from Germany

I do not know why pictures will not upload to illustrate my posts from Germany, but if you check back around Christmas, when I return to the States, I'll illustrate what I write then. Just rely on your imagination until then.

Good Beginnings in Germany

Our host at the Hotel Spitzweg in Rothenburg ob der Tauber is the genial Klaus Hocher, a talented man of many parts, who settled in this town in Germany when he retired from his career as a chef around the world, including the Hotel Olympia in London, where he won a prestigious international catering award in 1962 in the category Chocolate, at the start of his career.   

Herr Hocher is a worldly man, but he is also now the quintessential Franconian innkeeper, interested in his guests and his family; in fact his daughter and her husband operate his newly opened second hotel, just a two-minute walk around the corner on the Rodergasse from our own small hotel on Paradeisgasse, a stone’s throw from the Marktplatz that is the heart of this ancient medieval town.

Rothenburg ob der Tauber on a high plateau was formed a millennium ago, an exurb but a kilometer across the Tauber River from the hamlet of little Detwang, still thriving today, which itself was founded in the middle 900s, with the St. Peter and Paul Church consecrated in 968. The grand new buildings surrounding the Marktplatz in Rothenburg had carved into the stone lintels of the doorways now weather-faded years from the 13^th and 14^th centuries.

Rothenburg was in those years a major center of commerce, and one of the finest and largest European cities.  The patricians of Rothenburg used some of their money earned from the salt trade and other commerce to improve the public good, and the city was rich enough that the town had forty civic water wells for drinking and firefighting, and water pipes to buildings were laid in the 16th century under the cobbled streets.  Just this year the city is installing new water pipes because those now 500 hundred-year old pipes are leaking and showing wear. 

The cobble stones of the Alter Keller have just been relaid over new pipes last week. The cobble stones are set deep and sand is poured around them much as brick masons sanded my brick sidewalk in Frederick, Maryland last summer.  With foot traffic and the few autos that use the interior streets in Rothenburg, the sand will become packed around the stones to form a good surface good for hundreds of years.

The city entered centuries of decline when the horror of the Hundred Years War altered Europe.  New trade routes bypassed Rothenburg, and the city faded in international fame.  Its beauty remained, however, protected, as the inhabitants today say, by poverty.  The gentry of Europe and the United States discovered this medieval town in the late 19^th century, and for awhile it seemed as if Rothenburg’s renaissance had come. 

The World Wars intervened, however, and at the end of WWII, something remarkable happened here.  In the waning days as the Americans were sweeping through Germany in March, 1945 hot after the holdout pockets of the Nazi high command, word came that the Nazi leaders fled Nuremberg, but 60 miles away, and were hiding here.  The Americans bombed the city overnight, and 300 houses were destroyed, 36 people died, and many kilometers of the city wall were destroyed.

This is the interesting part:  As a child, Assistant Secretary of War John McCloy had visited the city with his parents, and he loved the city.  He ordered the U.S. general not to bomb it again. Instead, the American general rode into the city in the morning, and the local commander defied military orders to fight to the end and he surrendered the town to save it. Three years later, Mr. McCloy was named Honorable Protectorate of Rothenburg. After the war, the city rebuilt itself, and the wall surrounding it bears the names of people from all over the world, and the year of their gifts to help rebuild Rothenburg.   Many American soldiers’ names appear on those bricks embedded in the rebuilt walls.

Herr Hocher joined us with a cup of coffee this morning at breakfast.  He and Joe spoke in English and German, a good deal of the latter because Joe is striving to improve his language skill.  Both men play chess.  In Joe’s youth, before family and professional responsibilities took over his life, he was devoted to the game.  Herr Hocher plays well himself, and he pulled down from a small shelf a well-thumbed and patched 1915 Staunton guide to chess, and the two fellows began looking at page after page of play details.  Herr Hocher said he was a specialist in the Evans Gambit and its many variations for opening a game. 

The opening can determine the course of game events, depending on the multiplicity of variables.  Bobby Fisher said that chess was life, and he saw the world through the lens of his game.  His game in life’s social interactions was poor, but he was on top of chess. This very afternoon at 2 p.m. Herr Hocher is meeting a friend of many years for a game of chess in the dining room.  He said of his friend, “He does not have a wife; he plays chess.”  The board is set up on a breakfast table under the lamps that illuminate a painting by a local artist by the door into the tiny kitchen.

Herr Hocher is a superb host. He greets our return to the hotel each evening with a small glass of fragrant, local liquor that burns going down.  He tells us stories and he prepares our breakfasts.  At the last at breakfast, one quaffs a glass of orange juice before setting out for the day.

 

Away Away to Germany

This evening I'm off to Germany with Joe.  We tucked the little brown cat in her posh and comfy quarters yesterday evening so we could pull out the suitcases this morning without needing to extract her from Joe's packing.  If we had an extended stay, we might take her with us.  We took Kitty to France when we went to stay for Joe's entire last sabbatical. On the very first day we lost the old fellow.

I mean that we lost Kitty. 

We were unpacking in our beautiful apartment near the Council of Europe, just off the city center of Strasbourg, France. Kitty went room to room to explore.  Missing him, we became convinced that he had slipped out the open kitchen window, and we cursed our carelessness. For the long miserable day we combed the neighborhood until we returned to the flat, heart sore and grieving.  We were on our balcony overlooking the Orangerie,  ruing the blue mean day, the trip, our miserable lives when our old pal stepped onto the balcony from a secret hiding place inside, and he asked us where the funeral was. Suddenly the sun came out, birds sang and the fountain in the square leaped high.  Kitty lived to age 21, and to tease us, once in a while he would speak with a French accent.  Now days, he spends his time in the afterlife playing chess with Winston Churchill.

Tammietta is safe and sound, and my thoughts are turning to the delights to come.  I just clicked on a link to the nightlife in Rothenburg ob der Tauber and discovered that apparently the entire village looks forward to the twice weekly puppet shows in the town square. What the people of this small town (12,000) do for a living is that many, many of them work in the toy manufacturing shops that feed the company Kathe Wohlfahrt. There are several stores in the town itself, and the company has a few international locations.   Here are some things they make.

The first is a pewter ornament, and this one is about 2.5 inches tall.

The next is a nutcracker, about 15 inches tall.  This is made right here in the region of Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Finally, here is a 6-inch toy shop.  Note the exquisite German workmanship (with all).  Also note that this little item costs $500. 

My trips abroad are not for shopping.  I have achieved the state of having too much stuff. I enjoy admiring the wares, however, and I will have mugs of hot spiced wine when we stroll around the market platz at night.

The Christmas market stalls look very much like this little toy. Here is a picture I took from our most recent visit to demonstrate what I mean. He is selling cheese.

Miss Helen's Ruby Ring

Upon the death of elderly Miss Helen in Myersville, young Claire, to whom she had given a delicate ring set with a small ruby, had much to ponder.  Miss Helen, a widow for many years, had received the ring from her husband when they were young. The ring could have gone to children or grandchildren, but it is now Claire's ring instead.  The ring needed a small repair, so Claire's mother took it to the jeweler, who told Claire's mother that the stone was a synthetic ruby. The ring was repaired, and Claire wears Miss Helen's ring.

Miss Helen's husband gave his bride a ring that grew in meaning and value thereby over the years.  The ring had relatively little monetary value, but that kind of value is always the first to be lost when we count what really matters in life, doesn't it? Claire now wears a ring that is old, and was given twice in love.  It must be a very powerful token indeed.  I imagine Claire will always wear the little ring, but if by chance it should be lost, the power of it will remain due to how it was given, and received.  It is the strong power of the gift that is real, and the pretty ruby ring its mere token.

Saturday Flowers #8

Roses and brush have a decidedly autumn flair, don't you think?  This will be the last bouquet from my florist until I return from Germany just before Christmas, and I leave this week.  I've been learning just enough German from my husband that I can negotiate important transactions such as, "Do you have flowers?"

I read a clumsily written book a few months ago that I couldn't put down because it was so lacking in artfulness.  I just had to see how it was constructed, to the end.  The author is popular, and you would know his name if you saw it here.  Reading his name here, however, might also be the signal that knowing this author, you might have declined his book, no matter that there was a dog on the cover, and it was a story about a very good dog indeed. I had an extra bill in my pocket, and I bought the book.  I have since given it away; I left it in a public place for a passer-by to pick up and enjoy.  There was one interesting scene in the book.

The protagonist, an artist, is sketching her beloved dog.  Over and over she draws the dog, narrowing her focus to the soulfulness of the eyes.   She is attempting to capture an ineffable quality that is somehow the most important quality.  She draws portrait after portrait quickly and in an abstract state, and the hours pass.  In what is nearly a trance she hears fluttering and rustling as she nears completion of the very best image she can capture of the beloved dog's spirit shining through the eyes.  What she actually creates is a portal for angelic intervention in a bad situation.  The author understands the transcendence of love and how love uses what is given over to it to work its way in the world.

Jealous Bitch Cabernet Sauvignon 2007

A good cab for $10?  Ha! You say? I found one. Jealous Bitch Cabernet Sauvignon 2007 is delicious, especially with Coho salmon and accoutrements, as was the menu this evening. The wine is delicious, and the adorable and beauty-challenged dog on the label is inspirational.

My husband is the one who chooses the wine for the family.  He studies and evaluates, and grouses and figures, and refers again to his cataloges and piles (yes, piles) of Robert Parker's Wine Advocate falling off the library table. When we go to Calvert Woodley in Bethesda to pick up the periodic order, I usually select a bottle or two based on the beauty of the bottle or the color and design of the label, but my choices really are to help him feel that if he were not in charge of our modest wine cellar, it would go straight to hell due to poor choice. I must amend that.  I have made some good buys. Consider the Cognac Tesseron, Lot 53, X.O. Perfection, for example.

It is wonderful cognac, and I know and respect cognac, but part of its charm for me is that it has enthralled one of my husband's colleagues.  This fellow is a runner, all sinew and econometrics. After his runs on a Saturday, if he is not in a marathon somewhere in the world, he'll tidy up and come to call. I get the Edinburgh crystal from the cupboard, and he and my husband repair to the garden, my beloved with a cigar and a tumbler of something decent, and his runner pal with tumbler filled with three ice cubes over which I pour a double measure of the good stuff. 

We last opened wine on election night. We broke open a bottle of champagne, and since the neighbors were asleep, or else on firefighting duty or celebrating in the bars of the city, we drank the entire bottle ourselves. The effect was transcendent, as was the election. 

Sam at the Obama Rally

My nephew Sam has this to say about seeing Barack Obama a couple of days before the election. He and his wife went to Manassas, Virginia for a big rally. He has this to say about it:

"Tamara and I left Baltimore at 5:30PM.  Traffic was thick until we took the exit off Route 66.  Then it was stop and go for fifteen miles.  Obama was scheduled to begin at 9:00PM; at 8:58PM we were still a mile away.  People were parking in nearby shopping mall parking lots, and we did the same.  Tamara and I hopped out of the truck, and began the one mile jog to the fairgrounds.  As we approached the roadblock stopping the advance of vehicles, the stream of attendees swelled in numbers and excitement.  There were the walkers, the joggers (us), the runners, the shirt sellers, button sellers, police, and (I counted) three counter-protesters.  The excitement of the people to get to the fairgrounds and see their man was greater than that of the fans at any concert I have been to.  He is truly something special.

"We were herded into the fairground entrance, past concession stands, past a racetrack, through a field, and up onto the top of a hill.  Walking across the hill, past a large 'Vote For Change' sign, I was able to get a view of the crowd that made the journey worthwhile.  A camera would not do the crowd justice, perhaps I say this because I forgot to bring a camera.  (Anyways, here is a picture I found: http://is.gd/6Mk4 )  Obama was late, but the people didn't seem to mind as they were dancing, talking, smiling - generally being inspired and happy.  Obama arrived around 10:15PM.  The approach of his caravan of vehicles was visible from where we were, and the crowd erupted in excitement.  He walked onto stage, approached the podium, and the crowd hushed as it bent forward.  His voice is just as powerful and charismatic in real life, a quarter mile away, as it is on TV.

"As we walked the mile or so back to the truck, we passed a fellow selling Barack Obama CDs out of his car.  To a cheesy, catchy beat, "You know we're voting for Barack, duh dah dah, Obama, He is who we're hoping for..."  His headlights lit up his sign which read, "And Don't Miss the Hit, 'Barack Steady' and others!"  Indeed.  The song still pops into my head from time to time.  They should have played it at the rally.

"The man brings people together."

Quick Squirrel

A neighbor lad has a downstairs back porch identical to mine.  The porch roof is formed by the balcony, and between the floor of his balcony and the roof of his back porch is a habitat for squirrels. I wonder what things are like in their nest, but it's likely to be a messy affair, judging from the enormous nests in nearby trees.  There have been wisps of cloth and twigs hanging from the neighbor's porch roof; the squirrels are preparing for winter. 

I am working in the upstairs office, which opens onto my own balcony overlooking the autumn garden.  Leaves are swirling in the brisk wind; how many perfect fall days will there be in what remains of the year?

A plump squirrel thunked a landing on the balcony a moment ago, and he just poked his little gray head in the open door, eyed me and backed off--but not too far, and we watched each other from about three feet apart. I think this charming little fellow must like apple pie, because I baked one late this morning to serve to guests a while ago, and there is still the apple-cinnamon fragrance in the house, and all doors and windows are open.  He just went on his way, maybe wistfully, because in truth the pie was good.

Saturday Flowers #7

The single stem of dark red yarrow is in the bouquet for drama. 

The front-page, above-the-fold photographs of The New York Times are frequently works of art in composition and meaningful expression, but today the Journal trumps the Times.

I must admit, however, that I am enjoying the Journal less and less these days.

A few minutes ago, my brother-in-law called to ask me to recommend a few books on grammar and language for his student daughter.  I turned my gaze to my nearby shelf of language books and my first recommendation was Strunk and White's The Elements of Style.  In my opinion, this is the quintessential English language reference book.  You may get yourself a used copy for a couple of dollars and have a handy paperback that explains the elementary rules of usage such as

"1. Form the possessive singular of nouns by adding 's.  Follow this rule whatever the final consonant.  Thus write,

Charles's friend

Burns's poems

the witch's malice"

(Notice that the authors neither begin the phrase the witch's malice with a capital t nor end the final example with a period. One learns so much more than what is expressly stated.) 

Read this book for an excellent grounding in sensible expression and use that will hold you steady in any linguistic head wind, and then trim your sails as need arises with any of the other manuals of style, such as The Associated Press Stylebook, or the MLS guide, and my favorite, The Chicago Manual of Style.With the precepts of Strunk and White clear in mind, you may learn the alternative styles that have developed for the print media, for different schools of academic use, for government and business, and recognize them as variations.

Snoozy Puppies

http://cdn1.ustream.tv/swf/4/viewer.45.swf?cid=317016

Try this puppy cam.  Moretta sent it to me, and I am watching it while awaiting Barack Obama's first press conference as president-elect.  Here is the address for a really fine blog.  lamoretta.typepad.com

Generational Difference

I have written that on the streets of my small city the day of the election, long before the polls closed, there was a sense of excitement and camaraderie amid the unexpected throngs pf people out at late morning I have not experienced since a march on Washington by the youth of this country on October 15, 1969.  What a difference the decades have made.  While my generation when we were young was compelled to demonstrate against a terrible war, we did not recognize the power of the vote.

Watching on TV the crowd of perhaps 125,000 in Grant Park the night of November 4, a crowd where some family members were among the joyful celebrants, I was happy, too, looking at the faces of purposeful youth.  Happiness aside, the demographic difference was striking compared to the crowd that had gathered at the McCain headquarters. It gives me great pleasure to have participated in an election where the Vietnam War, save in the person of a prisoner of war who refused release, did not override the hope for a new direction for our country.

It turns out that the world apparently shares that hope, adding to it a renewed respect for the United States.

What a wonderful country.

So Happy

I'm waiting up to call friends overseas about the good news of Obama's election. I do not want to call before a seemly hour, although I imagine they will be up and tuned to the election results before the coffee is brewed.

Some of our dearest friends live in Germany; they used to live next door to us in Frederick.  They returned to their homeland, he to direct a cancer research lab, and she to work in the administration of the sunniest city in Germany.  Their little Nick was born at our local hospital, but now he is nearly a teenager, at the gymnasium.  I think I will wake them up right now.

I called them, and they had gotten up early to watch the election results.  The news of Obama's election will resonate and expand over time.  We are a fortunate nation.

Apres Vote

The day will come when we all may vote online, but it will require not a sea change of confidence in the electronics at the voting booth today, but some demographic change in the number of people in the country or in their willingness to interact in person with others.  Here are two possible scenarios unfolding in our future:

Blob-like Americans will be sitting in front of the screen, ordering in, sending out, and meeting in cyber space and unwilling to interact personally except in the commission of crimes of violence against non-believers. This scenario of a science-fiction bent world may require a nano-virus to fell the population. In this world, the toxic waste in the environment and unforgiving climate turns the sad remnants of humanity into dome dwellers.  Moose have long been turned into stew.

Here is a better version:   The sun shines on a street such as Market St. in my town of nearly 70,000 people today at mid-morning, when people--crowds of them--most wearing "I voted" stickers actually speak to strangers and smile at each other as they go about their business, some returning to work, and others having the day off because it's election day. The predictions are that between 85 and 88 percent of the people eligible will vote today in Maryland, and I've spoken to some of them in circumstances where normally I would remain distant.  Conversation is induced by a shared feeling of responsibility and I will say it, after the longest campaign in history, a feeling of relief that this  day is finally here. Today I had a free cup of Starbucks coffee, and the joint was jumping with young voters.  I have not seen such comraderie and shared desire for an outcome since the October 15 war moritorium march on Washington, DC in 1969.

My nephew Sam, a student at UMBC and a thoughtful lad,  drove from Baltimore to Manassas, Va. last night to see Barak Obama. Sam was part of a crowd of between 80 and 90,000 people.  I am counting on the youth vote to put this country over the top today.

Saturday Flowers #6

Here are the most recent flowers on the kitchen table, my Saturday Flowers #6.  As the week progresses, the lilies will open. The smaller bouquet is of the remnants of last week's flowers, now elsewhere in the house.  I am fond of the little mustard jar, which came out of my great aunt's house when her estate was settled.  Actually, the mustard jar was a gift from my sister Yvonne, who saved it from the dump pile when Auntie's possessions were being dispersed.  Auntie died at 95, peacefully, in her sleep.  Her name was Anna Kate Koogle and she loved flowers, too.  Her claim to fame, however, was that she is the one who taught Claire McCardell how to sew.

When I was a child and visiting my grandmother, frequently Auntie would be visiting as well.  She'd be working at the treadle Singer sewing machine in the upstairs middle room, and the sewing machine was in front of an east-facing window.   

The sewing machine was bought by her mother in 1895, when as a young newlywed, Mokkin set up housekeeping. 

In those days a young bride took into the marriage linens that she would have made and kept for her new life.  I have a dozen lovely, white linen napkins that Mokkin hand sewed from a bolt of damask. I use them rarely, and only when there are people who would appreciate them, whether or not they know that the napkins are now 113 years old.  If someone admires them, and the napkins are admirable, being large, 22 inches square and as soft as can be, then I tell them the story of the young wife preparing her trousseau in 1895.

My great-aunt Anna Kate was one of her two daughters.  A son, Frank, died at the end of World War I, on a cot at Camp Meade, in Maryland, of influenza. His sisters both lived well into old age.

I'll add to this post more about Auntie, my grandmother's sister, later.

Converting a Doc from Publisher to Word

Earlier this year I sent a client a long document that I had written and cleverly and elegantly designed in Microsoft Publisher.  Publisher has features that make production of documents a pleasure, and it has been my design software for many years. When my client asked me for a Microsoft Word version of the document, I knew I was in for a conversion slog. Conversion is too simple a statement. I had to make a new document that was identical to the old, without the ease I had hoped between the programs.  The task was such a bear that I may never use Publisher again when working in Microsoft, unless the client is skilled in Publisher and specifically requests its use.