tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39281253745946805162024-03-12T20:29:45.186-04:00Looking Toward Portugal . . . .Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.comBlogger616125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-81834768207270047302023-12-31T15:10:00.000-05:002023-12-31T15:10:12.323-05:00Happy New Year 2024!<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5I1fJu7kYp9HkI2JUVEwGT5harbvVl_SMvrmTxmkIpMfQwCX4W9WUKbgf5-lRbff7yrehyphenhyphen1_3YMaWRAstciN4tvLMmOrIhk4xFl4Mn6O55XU-fGWrANGyZA7wHr6hHipw2OpWV1UW2185At8SY3SFVS7EdXfd20QeI3qBwaujTlrUCSFLiNoSzI3Uy9E/s720/Happy%20New%20Year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="720" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5I1fJu7kYp9HkI2JUVEwGT5harbvVl_SMvrmTxmkIpMfQwCX4W9WUKbgf5-lRbff7yrehyphenhyphen1_3YMaWRAstciN4tvLMmOrIhk4xFl4Mn6O55XU-fGWrANGyZA7wHr6hHipw2OpWV1UW2185At8SY3SFVS7EdXfd20QeI3qBwaujTlrUCSFLiNoSzI3Uy9E/w494-h343/Happy%20New%20Year.jpg" width="494" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Wishing everyone a happy, healthy, safe, and prosperous New Year. This past year has been a difficult one for many reasons although I am happy to report that life seems to be back on track. Look forward to some new postings here in the very near future. </span> <p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-82456666509783051332023-12-24T22:03:00.001-05:002023-12-24T22:03:51.577-05:00Merry Christmas <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLwkzGqqbQD11hVWPdZ4T_qBiIhZQQhT0RMWQyK5uJEPCb9YhXNY8v7F0bLF9Ct5NdS2cILYajH4P5-K-Uq8GS0qi1atVqfcuZnzldqJK7UPQB0s4hyqS4HGhe_MfT6C3XErwy6CGyc3g3e0Mv0qmoPqWRlxQ1oJ-0zznXUW83rxlZEqMvqPBkUFdWOg/s1024/1b3-TWINKLE.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1024" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLwkzGqqbQD11hVWPdZ4T_qBiIhZQQhT0RMWQyK5uJEPCb9YhXNY8v7F0bLF9Ct5NdS2cILYajH4P5-K-Uq8GS0qi1atVqfcuZnzldqJK7UPQB0s4hyqS4HGhe_MfT6C3XErwy6CGyc3g3e0Mv0qmoPqWRlxQ1oJ-0zznXUW83rxlZEqMvqPBkUFdWOg/s320/1b3-TWINKLE.gif" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Wishing all of my friends and followers a very festive holiday season. May you seek peace and tranquility among your family and friends. नमस्ते / Namaste. Steve</span><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-1547572790963078452023-11-25T21:15:00.002-05:002023-11-25T21:17:59.307-05:00Looking Toward Portugal — It’s Been 15 Years!!<p> <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">On this day in 2008 I launched a new blog and since then I have posted over 600 times. This has been a dry year due to an unexpected illness and lengthy recovery. But I’m back on track and hope to be posting new essays in the very near future. Thanks for your patience. And stay tuned. </span></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-88598933301249420372023-03-25T12:40:00.000-04:002023-03-25T12:40:40.872-04:00Without Facts and Evidence History Becomes Indistinguishable from Fiction<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5hH4nvAQFxvtL7vtu8E7msv-ONj5DwGWDwkQIri0jUZ7RFUTvXDKnLEbZU5o5WaqhypWGSO_sw3CWetf0sbVTXV6VEnFmbpT8Zf2Iu0P0hrFzBQMkzo7mO7zAhFibtugUdHnY9bFUf1v5wU9bObluW0RZg_59SUPeqn0EovxwWJoMszlQbl8_b6e/s776/depositphotos_2931445-stock-photo-gagged-man.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="762" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5hH4nvAQFxvtL7vtu8E7msv-ONj5DwGWDwkQIri0jUZ7RFUTvXDKnLEbZU5o5WaqhypWGSO_sw3CWetf0sbVTXV6VEnFmbpT8Zf2Iu0P0hrFzBQMkzo7mO7zAhFibtugUdHnY9bFUf1v5wU9bObluW0RZg_59SUPeqn0EovxwWJoMszlQbl8_b6e/w211-h215/depositphotos_2931445-stock-photo-gagged-man.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: arial;"><span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">A week ago, I posted a historical fact about Mussolini on Facebook along with a well-known photograph of the man. Now I have been informed once again that posting such a historical facts "goes against community standards” and I have been confined to Facebook prison, restricted from posting or otherwise participating in the public forum for one month. This is outrageous!!</span></span></span></span></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: arial;"><span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: arial;"><span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">What is it about this country that so many are frighted by the prospect that history should be understood through the sharing of facts and figures provided within their proper context? Or that only certain types of history can be taught and shared. But let us not discuss slavery, critical race theory, LGBTQ history, etc. </span></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial;">What are the words written on the Statue of Liberty? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Give me your tired, your poor,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial;"><i>The wretched refuse of your teeming shore</i>? What about their histories in this country?</span></span><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202124; font-family: arial;">It is time that we stand up with the courage to take our country back from those who wish to shape it only in their own image of what America is and stands for. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, arial, sans-serif;">History is who we are and why we are the way we are. Without it we go blind and ignorant into the future.</span></span></div></div>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-73818518825650697432023-01-23T15:49:00.002-05:002023-01-23T15:49:54.571-05:00A Snowy Football Game - Notes from the Sunshine State<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSA-CVTnelYOFvn0cKjLaUTxaIN16fbP1IDf57jZnKqds_QQOFn-boxcOM86f8xX9B6hun3mmmEIZJgySkMOq8y6xWpse6UiUEyTVvnxWirgfRsG8hqsm7UY5Vdthi8kpXRh9408GS2Vwr9nooJj6w4GOFdcDSTdyklb6IMP7JHTr5VGSteRPdiEFt/s550/official%20game%20program.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="431" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSA-CVTnelYOFvn0cKjLaUTxaIN16fbP1IDf57jZnKqds_QQOFn-boxcOM86f8xX9B6hun3mmmEIZJgySkMOq8y6xWpse6UiUEyTVvnxWirgfRsG8hqsm7UY5Vdthi8kpXRh9408GS2Vwr9nooJj6w4GOFdcDSTdyklb6IMP7JHTr5VGSteRPdiEFt/s320/official%20game%20program.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Yesterday football fans witnessed a mini-lake effect blizzard during the NFL playoff game between the Cincinnati Bengals and the hosting Buffalo Bills. The Bengals won 27-10. Several people were commenting on the game on social media, and my mom was watching the game on TV on a snowy day in Ohio and texted me here in Florida. “Great big flakes. Must be very odd for anyone who has never been in snow to watch it.” I bet it was. Over the years I have watched a number of games played in the snow on TV, especially growing up as a Green Bay Packers fan. Snow is nothing knew at Lambeau Field.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">And who can forget the 1967 NFL Championship game between the Packers and the Dallas Cowboys at Green Bay on New Year’s Eve? The Bengals - Bills game was a walk in the park compared to the infamous “Ice Bowl,” so called because of the brutally cold temperatures at game-time . . . 15 below zero with an average wind chill at −48 °F. Still nearly 51,000 attended the game which Green Bay won 21-17. An elderly spectator in the stands died from exposure during the game. The officials were unable to use their whistles as they froze to their lips. The late CBS commentator Frank Gifford even remarked during the game that he was going to take a bite of his coffee. It had frozen solid in his mug. It was not the last frigid game to be played at Lambeau Field, but it is certainly the most infamous in the annals of NFL football. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCLOZLuaXFmqUf9QteJvl32oPigqzkeRgem1_3AA683yWAZpFQZV6gOl_fhCfZi-BjQvJYtaug0kLwV7QKwkf1ViN49Uf5GCbePEws9F47_3GvDLkpju1SacmRcuhGK8MY2MLqzCf3fRKbmS18LO0gceX5VPsjbmAM7XbcSyiKkgVdr7WIC8lrSx1_/s292/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="292" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCLOZLuaXFmqUf9QteJvl32oPigqzkeRgem1_3AA683yWAZpFQZV6gOl_fhCfZi-BjQvJYtaug0kLwV7QKwkf1ViN49Uf5GCbePEws9F47_3GvDLkpju1SacmRcuhGK8MY2MLqzCf3fRKbmS18LO0gceX5VPsjbmAM7XbcSyiKkgVdr7WIC8lrSx1_/w467-h277/download.jpg" width="467" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I have only attended one snowy football game . . . a memorable match-up between Notre Dame and Navy on November 4, 1967. It was only my third college football game, the first being Bobby Dodd's Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets’ 14-6 victory over the Tulane Green Wave in Tech’s 1960 Homecoming Game at Grants Field, in Atlanta. My dad had graduated from Tech ten years earlier. Then there was the 1964 meeting between the Wisconsin Badgers and the Michigan State Spartans played before 67,000 fans at Camp Randall Stadium in Madison, Wisconsin. That was back when the Badgers were the lapdog of the Big 10. The Spartans won that one 23-6.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It was my junior year in high school and my dad and I left our home in suburban Chicago that Saturday morning for the roughly 120-mile trip to South Bend, Indiana. We arrived at Notre Dame Stadium in time to walk around and enjoy some of the pre-game activities. I purchased a copy of the game program featuring Jim Crowley, one of the famous 1924 Notre Dame “Four Horsemen” on the cover. They were the Irish backfield that was key to Notre Dame going 10-0 and winning the national championship that season, the first of three under legendary coach Knute Rockne. I still have it packed away in a chest. It was a beautiful mid-autumn day, and it was shaping up to be a memorable game. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghII7tohLar2azCghPyZqSHgrjSI2ZD0K_DB9r35BXA6Xer1nGt80HOoPMgh6Jkp-2Sqh07VOth5V53zmLrGq4Ut6Ja6SWBugW8_zH15QMibufH4oJeyFIJiI2Ql0F9C0vRJTlgorSkuJXJjgOCWtXwS-6CelQwp2viSGiRVH5pBQ6_tKDkD7YdO6z/s277/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="277" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghII7tohLar2azCghPyZqSHgrjSI2ZD0K_DB9r35BXA6Xer1nGt80HOoPMgh6Jkp-2Sqh07VOth5V53zmLrGq4Ut6Ja6SWBugW8_zH15QMibufH4oJeyFIJiI2Ql0F9C0vRJTlgorSkuJXJjgOCWtXwS-6CelQwp2viSGiRVH5pBQ6_tKDkD7YdO6z/w460-h302/images.jpg" width="460" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Fighting Irish of Notre Dame coached by “Era of Ara” Parseghian in his fourth season, and led by quarterback Terry Hanratty, Nick Eddy, star receiver Jim Seymour, and Larry Conjar, were the defending National NCAA champions having had the best scoring offense in the nation, with an average of 36 points per game. The defense was second in the country in points allowed. The Navy Midshipmen were also 4-2. The game was to be played before a sold-out crowd of just over 59,000.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The two teams might have shared similar records going into the game, but Notre Dame was dominant in ever respect. The last time Navy had defeated the Irish was five years earlier. The home team took the opening kickoff and marched it down field on the ground for 67 yards. Team captain Bob “Rocky” Bleier punched the ball over the goal line for the first score. Navy held its own and the first quarter ended in a 7-0 Notre Dame lead. </span> </p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Things quickly changed. Notre Dame caught fire and Irish quarterback Hanratty let loose with an aerial bombardment to Jim Seymour for a total of 64 yard and a touchdown. Three more unanswered scores and Notre Dame led 35-0 at the half. The other change was the weather. The pleasant autumn day quickly turned cold as the temperature dropped into the high 20s and it began to snow . . . hard. The people sitting next to us had brought extra lap blankets and thankfully we had dressed in layers. The hot chocolate sure tasted good. And plenty hot! At times the snow was so thick it was almost impossible to see the stands on the other side of the field. The crowd began to chant “Ara, stop the snow!” He was in control of his team on the field, but he had little to say about the weather. </span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kqxHICVEQIdNhdFfrRCR4rSMHZowt6EZXehYMr2KmJZwMUU1TsfsrnK_H0BBqRwOT3BcLW1NiKO7C7U7TFL0F5fvFTFbGWqUkh8GhkrtXzfqAllZSwHgemjRQ4OqXUK7Qp8O9MnLBEAusIIjItsWElFb2jCOwfNQfsVP4w5UEkuhZJqMIAsmOECl/s484/look%20at%20it%20snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="313" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kqxHICVEQIdNhdFfrRCR4rSMHZowt6EZXehYMr2KmJZwMUU1TsfsrnK_H0BBqRwOT3BcLW1NiKO7C7U7TFL0F5fvFTFbGWqUkh8GhkrtXzfqAllZSwHgemjRQ4OqXUK7Qp8O9MnLBEAusIIjItsWElFb2jCOwfNQfsVP4w5UEkuhZJqMIAsmOECl/w307-h475/look%20at%20it%20snow.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The weather certainly put a damper on the action in the third quarter. There were also several delays while the grounds crew cleared snow off the field to see the yardage markers and the goal lines. Navy quarterback John Cartwright ran for a short touchdown after the Middies recovered a Notre Dame fumble followed by a run for a two-point conversion and the score at the end of the third quarter was 35-8. This was the first touchdown Navy had scored against Notre Dame since their defeat of the Irish in 1962. The weather continued to deteriorate. The Irish scored one more touchdown and two-point conversion in the fourth quarter. Navy scored a second touchdown but failed on a two-point conversion run. The game ended in an 43-14 Irish victory. The Irish point total was the highest in the 41-year rivalry between these two teams dating back to 1927 and the seasons under coach Rockne. That first game was played in Baltimore’s new Municipal Stadium and signaled the start of what is now one of the longest-lived intercollegiate football rivalries in the country. Notre Dame won that first meeting 19-6. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It was a memorable game indeed. The Irish would go on to end the season 8-2 and ranked fifth in the nation in the AP poll. Navy, under third year coach Bill Elias, ended its season with a disappointing 5–4–1 record. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The snow had piled up during the game and instead of making the return trip to Chicago, we drove north 40 miles to my grandparents’ home in Decatur. Michigan waiting for the weather to improve. The roads were clear the next morning. That will be a game I will never forget.</span></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-50334780919639893582023-01-22T11:44:00.001-05:002023-01-22T11:44:39.256-05:00Where the Brave Find Their Eternal Rest - Notes from the Sunshine State<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQALQfyE6ONxRBED4DsFKOj3xBi0j7m_lOFXU3230q1E0z__LXzuL_uCYEgMl4jDVwwEU6QRLd3A0uHG6njPpKYGjEkyr506sRO-9MfndwYlHITlfpFRpwjCGhwZ4OMCfLKVytQH-K_ujp_nUAfGqTF8d3R8lTFS-JBKw178pr_ZTt4UA2n2_fOv-J/s1053/FNC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="1053" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQALQfyE6ONxRBED4DsFKOj3xBi0j7m_lOFXU3230q1E0z__LXzuL_uCYEgMl4jDVwwEU6QRLd3A0uHG6njPpKYGjEkyr506sRO-9MfndwYlHITlfpFRpwjCGhwZ4OMCfLKVytQH-K_ujp_nUAfGqTF8d3R8lTFS-JBKw178pr_ZTt4UA2n2_fOv-J/w485-h358/FNC.jpg" width="485" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> <i> The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.</i></span><div><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> – Scottish poet Thomas Campbell</span></i></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzgUNxeYv3TlzYJKA71ooeTWyjsod64RY05WFJv8JKy2mmwk3DwzEI_JE0KVfsYFUwst32aYsOCmwliE0WwucLaK2AGzehnpJBgatxoGSukCPyAU1y_ZKHhyz2MEJNMMREcA_jW7P2CEkXl_vs09qS8A1jcrNTu0PukP42oEm38t0uF3YP3HY6I8L/s506/Dad%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="506" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzgUNxeYv3TlzYJKA71ooeTWyjsod64RY05WFJv8JKy2mmwk3DwzEI_JE0KVfsYFUwst32aYsOCmwliE0WwucLaK2AGzehnpJBgatxoGSukCPyAU1y_ZKHhyz2MEJNMMREcA_jW7P2CEkXl_vs09qS8A1jcrNTu0PukP42oEm38t0uF3YP3HY6I8L/w270-h270/Dad%203.jpg" width="270" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Each time I have returned to Florida for the past several years I always make a point of visiting the Florida National Cemetery, my father’s final place of rest near Bushnell, a small south Sumter County town. Old soldiers do in fact die. Dad </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">passed away in October 2009 at the age of 85 and his memorial service at the cemetery took place the following April when his family and friends were able to gather in Florida. I had never been to the Florida National Cemetery before that beautiful spring day, and I did not know what to expect. The scrub back country of central Florida did not seem the appropriate place for a national cemetery. I was amazed and impressed by what I found. It is a majestic and solemn place as it should be for these brave souls who, regardless of who they were or where they came from, put their lives on the line to defend generations of Americans. It is a quiet place interrupted only occasionally by the sharp report of an honor guard firing a final salute or the sad moan of <i>Taps</i> floating through the live oaks, dogwoods and palmettos and over the thousands upon thousands of marble headstones lined up in neat, seemingly endless rows. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4njtEutqIrEg1fJ-A2qBpzz4yJi5DyJyxvE4HJNtZHOaDUm5UJ9F9sMptYGlEIPxliosjz9c74jHbm6vUYV3I-NJAfmPi9fP1OdKk2KPyXiC5W8islTrjMvmYq9KjYMbKo6os3UGrWl94B8ZGBWT5GT0B22uScQ_SPZZixqs5j8pnjSFoI0leWteB/s684/NationalCemeteryFloridaNational.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="684" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4njtEutqIrEg1fJ-A2qBpzz4yJi5DyJyxvE4HJNtZHOaDUm5UJ9F9sMptYGlEIPxliosjz9c74jHbm6vUYV3I-NJAfmPi9fP1OdKk2KPyXiC5W8islTrjMvmYq9KjYMbKo6os3UGrWl94B8ZGBWT5GT0B22uScQ_SPZZixqs5j8pnjSFoI0leWteB/w463-h284/NationalCemeteryFloridaNational.jpg" width="463" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Florida National Cemetery is located in the Withlacoochee State Forest, approximately 50 miles north of Tampa. The forest was acquired by the federal government from private landowners in the late 1930s, and the United States Forest Service managed the property until it was transferred to the Florida Board of Forestry in 1958. It is the second-largest state forest in Florida. In 1980, the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) announced it would establish a fourth national cemetery in Florida (there are now nine) and the Withlacoochee site was supported by government officials. The State of Florida sold the present tract of land to the VA in 1983 for the development of a Florida National Cemetery. The first internment took place in 1988. Today it occupies 517 acres and contains the final resting place for over 131,000 veterans and their dependents. Veterans from throughout the country and representing every major US conflict dating back to the Second Seminole War in Florida and the Civil War, are interred here. With about 1,100 World War II veterans dying every day, and now with an ever-growing number of Korean War and Vietnam War veterans passing away, such final resting places are increasingly in demand, even though only about 15 percent of the nation's veterans choose to be buried in national cemeteries. Florida National Cemetery is presently the second most active national cemetery in the country due in part to Florida, along with Arizona, being one of the country's top retirement destinations. More than 7,000 internments take place annually – on average more than 20 funerals a day. At this rate the Florida National Cemetery will reach full capacity of 180,000 interments by 2030.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo7fuw_v8ofhjJaioyqZc7wxrKuuWagFiJvrXo0tKfmncjOwRs249MIRjIFyFAUb9uxNuzzYN3sSuDRUq3bm6L32AasfgTiKI3AaoXxtWoK6xVbOIRKT6BBIFgZfl6huhTSZH0ay4nZ8rg9atOARA0UUFgdcu6_Yk4rxK75j9VL-fbzS5fD_MA9oWw/s894/Dad%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="719" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo7fuw_v8ofhjJaioyqZc7wxrKuuWagFiJvrXo0tKfmncjOwRs249MIRjIFyFAUb9uxNuzzYN3sSuDRUq3bm6L32AasfgTiKI3AaoXxtWoK6xVbOIRKT6BBIFgZfl6huhTSZH0ay4nZ8rg9atOARA0UUFgdcu6_Yk4rxK75j9VL-fbzS5fD_MA9oWw/w314-h391/Dad%202.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>All of these fact and figures fade into the background when I come to spend few minutes with my dad. His ashes are entombed in one of the cemetery’s columbaria. My uncle, a veteran of the Korean War, is in an adjacent columbarium. Not too far away is the grave site of my dad’s best buddy during the war. They were comrades in arms from Normandy, in the early autumn of 1944, until the Allied victory at the Battle of the Bulge in January 1945. They would not see each other again for 50 years and today a once small-town lad from Michigan and one raised in Baltimore, find their eternal rest together. Also nearby is the recent grave site of my wife’s maid of honor at our wedding, an early victim of the Covid-19 pandemic. She was taken much too soon. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">These visits are always sad occasions. How can they not be? But they also afford an opportunity to be near family and friends who have gone before us. It somehow lessens the pain of grief.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfe5WZ5yOSK8ZNa6ym90R4Z5fONn31eUalz4wXmcS2EU0M2nmCLhhU7dEpQ-swtKbGXtgApxYTS5pjxeZ1NpXJArQ8fWbx_15w1DgdKhnn14Fk7sJnypdChzBnr1kV9979iDbmIJKjmzWt2wxn-195MVlZLPpZacuukVfqfd4jsdHrykDO8TrEB8aB/s669/FNC%20cranes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="669" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfe5WZ5yOSK8ZNa6ym90R4Z5fONn31eUalz4wXmcS2EU0M2nmCLhhU7dEpQ-swtKbGXtgApxYTS5pjxeZ1NpXJArQ8fWbx_15w1DgdKhnn14Fk7sJnypdChzBnr1kV9979iDbmIJKjmzWt2wxn-195MVlZLPpZacuukVfqfd4jsdHrykDO8TrEB8aB/w504-h232/FNC%20cranes.jpg" width="504" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-50037241238426034622023-01-18T12:44:00.002-05:002023-01-20T10:40:02.394-05:00Fried Green Tomatoes - Notes from the Sunshine State<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4wUz5JFDaUI5sfkRmANF4mFc-PUKGLs77Di3Z9n0pFt1sI0K3OJuyWUGJhs3BXbw9_OJ8iibExV-0uQ2aOcFx8QDNdY_R9qziwydtvh7wtnwqfSNbYqf9Pav8ahRJHPa4XC-td-3HgmpkyEJWatjoAi0FcpOQrtzQyn-cIFwzU_yQz4iLkNmzSMi/s1200/Fried-Green-Tomatoes-9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1200" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4wUz5JFDaUI5sfkRmANF4mFc-PUKGLs77Di3Z9n0pFt1sI0K3OJuyWUGJhs3BXbw9_OJ8iibExV-0uQ2aOcFx8QDNdY_R9qziwydtvh7wtnwqfSNbYqf9Pav8ahRJHPa4XC-td-3HgmpkyEJWatjoAi0FcpOQrtzQyn-cIFwzU_yQz4iLkNmzSMi/w524-h348/Fried-Green-Tomatoes-9.jpg" width="524" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">One of the things we can always count on when we travel in Florida is a ready supply of fried green tomatoes. It seems like just about every place that serves good southern cooking offers them in one iteration or another. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Ripe green tomatoes are a very good source of vitamins A and C and potassium. They also contain iron, calcium, dietary fiber, magnesium, and other minerals. Frying ripe green tomatoes (not the same as unripe red tomatoes) is the most popular way to cook them, and for good reason. They are easy to slice then dredge in flour or corn meal after seasoning them with salt and pepper, and quickly fried on each side in shallow bacon fat. If using cornmeal, the slice tomatoes are often dipped in milk or a beaten egg to help the cornmeal stick to the tomatoes while being fried. It also allows the coating on the tomato to become thicker and less crunchy when compared to tomatoes cooked without a liquid wash. The slightly sour flavor is balanced out with the crunchy fried batter. Regardless of the manner in which they are served, the only other thing you need is a proper dipping sauce, and a Remoulade - rich, and a little spicy - is ideal and they often go with other dishes such as fried catfish, fried chicken, frogs legs, and cheese grits. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qa-8-rqUC1H3l9E8ayoeHzqlVFV2vl7IPJ3K5BI-TytkSthSfm76nklz99726BASO15ZRq2g6prot3ZnIh9_kSYgeCNIs7Dbf26GB8hwR6IV8kHMNVZrkEQKJuiqzABa-Fly1KcCbW4QQUaIAhE3QAwYOgGEjzTIOdKyYqlw5q1m4unBnrt1f5CK/s1000/remoulade.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qa-8-rqUC1H3l9E8ayoeHzqlVFV2vl7IPJ3K5BI-TytkSthSfm76nklz99726BASO15ZRq2g6prot3ZnIh9_kSYgeCNIs7Dbf26GB8hwR6IV8kHMNVZrkEQKJuiqzABa-Fly1KcCbW4QQUaIAhE3QAwYOgGEjzTIOdKyYqlw5q1m4unBnrt1f5CK/w495-h330/remoulade.webp" width="495" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Being a Midwestern lad, I had never even heard of fried green tomatoes until I lived in Florida while I was attending college, and then married a native Florida girl. Which seems strange as the dish was brought to the US in the 19th century and was frequently served in New England and the Midwest. The northern adaptations are more likely to use flour rather than corn meal. Their ready association with the South is more recent after the release of Fannie Flagg's 1987 novel <i>Fried Green Tomatoes</i> <i>at the Whistle Stop Café</i>. Flagg based the fictional Whistle Stop restaurant on the real-life Irondale Café in Irondale, Alabama formerly owned by her great-aunt. The novel was followed by <i>Fried Green Tomatoes</i>, the 1991 film directed by Jon Avnet and based on the novel. It was nominated for two Oscars at the 64th Academy Awards.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Regardless, I have learned to love fried green tomatoes and I enjoy them whenever and wherever we happen to find them.</span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-80252598616024651452023-01-09T09:52:00.003-05:002023-01-09T09:52:47.749-05:00When Your Luck Finally Runs Out - Notes from the Sunshine State<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSxP8N1KTmUzRZrWYtNRcnXLsW7RkH1oBbtf2LNEZVkvPsHAOBbQBa20WdCApNS9fYbZq5h-Xd8nGfCJven-zonz7k6NgHFCtnLCBy5ATUb5T9lgsbazzTIlx4wpMYyqjeA4uM9kyJ4a8Ib3QqWZwbRolt4ZnQ2BKaDwUZYQ_ZxlzrcQNjv1hkJw9/s1125/320765549_6011679938884217_500241561924381403_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="1125" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSxP8N1KTmUzRZrWYtNRcnXLsW7RkH1oBbtf2LNEZVkvPsHAOBbQBa20WdCApNS9fYbZq5h-Xd8nGfCJven-zonz7k6NgHFCtnLCBy5ATUb5T9lgsbazzTIlx4wpMYyqjeA4uM9kyJ4a8Ib3QqWZwbRolt4ZnQ2BKaDwUZYQ_ZxlzrcQNjv1hkJw9/w502-h127/320765549_6011679938884217_500241561924381403_n.jpg" width="502" /></a></div><p></p><div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We are approaching the end of the third year of the COVID-19 pandemic which struck the United States and the world in March 2020. Being in my early seventies, and suffering from an asthma- compromised respiratory system, a positive Covid-19 test for me during the pandemic carried with it an extra heavy weight. According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention [CDC], less than 15% of all reported cases in the US have been among people 65 and older although approximately half of all hospitalizations, and 75% of all deaths have been in this age group. Hospitalization rate for seniors reached a record high last winter during the Omicron variant surge and then dropped significantly over the summer months. But compared with other age groups, hospitalization rates have consistently been higher among the 65 and older population.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My wife and I considered ourselves quite fortunate that we were able to stay healthy throughout the height of the coronavirus pandemic, a time when countless thousands were struck down, and many of whom ended up on ventilators in overworked hospitals. And many of these victims died, their bodies warehoused in makeshift morgues. We stayed closely quarantined at home during the earliest months, not leaving our house for weeks on end. In 2020, and again in 2021, we chose not to make our annual summer-long escapes to the lake cottage in Maine, believing it was not wise to travel or to be far from our medical support. Life as we knew it had changed and we wondered whether we would ever be able to return to some degree of normalcy. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">For a time this past summer it appeared to many, at least in the US, that life might be slowly returning to what it had been before as more and more Americans are fully vaccinated and boosted. Like many others, after several months of home quarantine and only venturing into crowds fully masked, my wife and I gradually began to let down our guard once we had received the full program of vaccinations and booster injections. We continued to wear masks when around crowds of people, but we were less cautious when interacting with friends and family who were also fully vaccinated and boosted. Dire warnings were still there, but our attention to them had begun to wane. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Over this past summer we finally began to travel and return to restaurants and other public venues which we had given a long arm’s distance during the early months of the pandemic. We were exposed to individuals who shortly after encountering them tested positive for the coronavirus. We immediately tested and the results remained negative. We had, thankfully, dodged the bullet. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">With the onset of colder and damper weather, the coronavirus is once again on the rise across the country despite the fact that the population, in general, has an immunity wall built up against the Omicron variants. Immunizations, boosters, and prior infections seems to be keeping younger folks healthy. But the immune systems of people of advanced age are not as strong. A recent survey from the Kaiser Family Foundation found that 60% of seniors were worried about a rise in Covid-19 cases and hospitalizations this winter – a far larger share than average. Although the increase appears to be relatively mild and only a fraction of what it was during previous surges, older adults are still facing a far more serious situation similar to the peak from the Delta variant surge. According to one health expert, “anyone can get this, but the older you are, the more likely you are to have severe symptoms, the more likely you are to be hospitalized, and the more likely you are to die.” </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This pandemic appears to be far from over as new variants are more immune-evasive and relatively low utilization of treatments like Paxlovid may have played a role in the rising hospitalization rate among seniors. The main culprit, however, is booster deficiency which indicates waning immunity. If more seniors had their boosters the effect would be minimal. The whole idea is to be proactive with all vaccines and boosters. Even if you got sick, there was every good chance you would not end up in the hospital. According to the CDC, only about a third of those over the age of 65 have updated immunization and boosters which is not very promising, if one is to be proactive. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">During the latter half of December my good luck finally ran out and I weathered the inconvenience of a long siege of Covid, testing positive for well over a week with a stuffy head, a hacking cough, and a constantly running nose. I have no idea how or where I picked up the virus, but I was not over concerned. I know many who have dealt with Covid to one degree or another, and I figured that even if I was positive, knowing I was vaccinated and fully boosted reassured me that I would weather this siege. Then, a few days after I tested positive, my wife did too. Her case was relatively mild compared to mine, but we kept our distance with me sequestered in the downstairs den with the TV and my books, and SallyAnn remained in our upstairs bedroom and studio (also with a TV and all of her projects close at hand). We read and watched movies and we both completed the five-day Paxlovid cocktail and gradually saw improvement in our conditions. That said, this year’s Christmas celebration was a complete wash as plans to gather with family and friends were cancelled, or at least postponed, until everyone was healthy again.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">And now we are both finally testing negative for a few days, and we have left the chilly and damp north behind us, traveling to warmer climes . . . a small casita in the vicinity of Micanopy, about a half hour south of Gainesville, Florida which has long been our base of operations during visits to the Sunshine State. Florida has always been a big part of my life having vacationed here for decades and having spent my undergraduate college years at Florida Southern College, if for no other reason that I was quickly growing tired of those tedious Midwestern winters. It was here I met my wife of 48 years, a native Florida gal. Many of us, including my younger self, think of Florida as a place of sun and fun, a place to escape to when life elsewhere in America has grown old and tiresome. Yet for the natives, Florida can become just as old and tiresome . . . just a place to be. “Florida is a transient state in which too many rootless people dare nothing for the past nor this state’s future.” write Floridian writer Randy Wayne White in his novel <i>Ten Thousand Island</i> (2000). “Florida is a vacation destination or a retirement place, as temporary as time spent in a bus station . . . Like a bus station, Florida attracts con men and predators. It always has, Florida always will.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Over the past five decades we have made countless trips down Interstate 95 from Washington, DC to points in northern and central Florida. And it seems to me that Mr. White has captured the essence of what we have found. In contrast to my college days here, Florida has become a much redder state than it was in the past. Still, I try to look beyond this fact. There is still so much I love about this place . . . perhaps the edgiest edge of America there is. What better place to shake off the bug that bit us?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Perhaps this is not the best time to be traveling and we are taking extra precautions to minimize our contact with other people. We mask up when we are out in public areas and avoiding restaurants unless we can eat alfresco. The last thing we want is to weather another bout with the coronavirus. We were lucky the first time around. Maybe not so much should it strike again. Don’t bet your life on it. When in doubt, always mask up!! </span></div></div>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-33664277377385473032023-01-01T10:16:00.000-05:002023-01-01T10:16:21.016-05:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XFKYLhJ6mKHGUMTCBEzYk7GGDdTrfU3J6_PbF3SbSxQTaby5wRrYZZ8F-5aMMqnWzUQVCswO9SUDnZrs4JCT70Cfo0toh4_BfxlB4PJDnpmRXzAEfMPmUMN4RaMmqxNU7G2FKc_-B2dHBv8dH6kqse8IUBaZcxrtrqiVLEk23dLhqi850-ELSolu/s800/HNY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="800" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XFKYLhJ6mKHGUMTCBEzYk7GGDdTrfU3J6_PbF3SbSxQTaby5wRrYZZ8F-5aMMqnWzUQVCswO9SUDnZrs4JCT70Cfo0toh4_BfxlB4PJDnpmRXzAEfMPmUMN4RaMmqxNU7G2FKc_-B2dHBv8dH6kqse8IUBaZcxrtrqiVLEk23dLhqi850-ELSolu/w509-h334/HNY.jpg" width="509" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">Wishing everyone a very happy, safe, and healthy New Year 2023!</span></p><br /> <p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-39809678632324162582022-12-09T12:03:00.000-05:002022-12-09T12:03:13.002-05:00The Friday Night Fish Fry - Eating Vicariously<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOy7mhjxLSr-jEEKSOuC84MF4WO1iXiYC1VGuX4UHSOdD_GftOW8cRc3VD5sTV9qD-HDGTQIXRoSTCDqg5_miK9iH_45XlVEoSECtBubjltpspxAtjb9gh59piu3zPgyljETXB_Nz0nwvhoYhylFMYZVks_5wd_EwIGJ8TlED3BL2MlUHj348jUQJ/s1200/kegelsinn_milwaukee_fishfry.0.0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOy7mhjxLSr-jEEKSOuC84MF4WO1iXiYC1VGuX4UHSOdD_GftOW8cRc3VD5sTV9qD-HDGTQIXRoSTCDqg5_miK9iH_45XlVEoSECtBubjltpspxAtjb9gh59piu3zPgyljETXB_Nz0nwvhoYhylFMYZVks_5wd_EwIGJ8TlED3BL2MlUHj348jUQJ/w542-h360/kegelsinn_milwaukee_fishfry.0.0.jpg" title="Friend perch with potato pancakes (lefse) and apple sauce" width="542" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">With many folks returning to indoor dining now that the weather is turning cooler, one of my pandemic projects – eating vicariously at memorable venues of the past and writing about them here – has taken a backseat to other projects. But I still enjoy armchair recollections of favorite eating experiences that remain beyond my reach for any number of reasons. Most recently I waxed poetic about the iconic Chicago-style hotdog which is difficult to find beyond the environs of Chicagoland. This autumn I returned to favorite family haunts in southwestern Michigan where I enjoyed a traditional Midwestern Friday night fish fry at Clementine’s, in South Haven on the shores of Lake Michigan, where I was served a “mess of perch” just the way God always meant them to be. Oh my, were those perch tasty, served with tartar sauce and lemon wedges (more please!), and baked potato, and a thick slice of warm garlic bread. Oh, finestkind! So, this got me to thinking about all those wonderful Friday fish fries growing up in Midwest America . . . and in Wisconsin to be specific. Having lived on the Mid Atlantic for the past 46 years, I have missed the tradition of the Friday night fish fries. </span><br /> <p></p><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">One thing that can be said about a Wisconsin Friday night fish fry . . . it’s all about community. It’s as if the entire state, regardless of where one might reside, or which political or religious beliefs one adheres to, is sitting down to the same meal. One often goes to the same place and see the same people; something uniquely convivial. The Germans have a wonderful, almost undefinable word to describe it all . . . <i>die Gemütlichkeit</i> . . . a sense of geniality and friendliness. Everyone is out doing the same things. There is no reason to sit home alone. A Friday night fish fry bring everyone together. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This Wisconsin tradition can be traced back to the early 19th century when American pioneers and European immigrants – many of them Germans and Poles – settled along the western shoreline of Lake Michigan and its abundant lake and river fisheries. And it was religion which gave rise to the Friday night fish fry in the first place. A great many of the early arrivals were Catholic and the Church played a major role in the development of the state’s cultural and religious traditions. As far back as the mid-13th century canon law forbade Catholics to consume meat on Fridays as a way of commemorating the crucifixion of Jesus Christ on Good Friday. Many European Catholics brought this practice with them when they settled in America. By the mid-1960s, the Catholic church changed the rules concerning abstention from meat every Friday of the year and required parishioners to do so only on Fridays during the Lenten season. By then, however, the Friday night fish fry, which had begun as communal church dinner, had become an integral part of Wisconsin life.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The traditional Friday night fish fry received another boost to its popularity in 1920 with the arrival of Prohibition. Unable to legally sell alcohol, Wisconsin taverns began to take a lead from the Church and offer fish fries to stimulate business however they could in order to stay open. Freshwater fish like </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVj9x7h72G_iqBVPWFWwximKEbmE50FbWI2hvwq_Ng1Av5GQ2z5UqbE5zwXlV9ty1cDu78-h5Po0bQjNOJ7c8TD8zVv8sWCVR9S7W4QEI4ZCF9fXrQ0J6v5shg0r-8OPVKOTPfk3izdx_pf1nOsRF7QJLYEMXeaxuI8xnrBY2_4xck8VKCClT3quMB/s1200/Kruger-Fly-Fish-Bluegills1FEATURE1200x800.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVj9x7h72G_iqBVPWFWwximKEbmE50FbWI2hvwq_Ng1Av5GQ2z5UqbE5zwXlV9ty1cDu78-h5Po0bQjNOJ7c8TD8zVv8sWCVR9S7W4QEI4ZCF9fXrQ0J6v5shg0r-8OPVKOTPfk3izdx_pf1nOsRF7QJLYEMXeaxuI8xnrBY2_4xck8VKCClT3quMB/w480-h319/Kruger-Fly-Fish-Bluegills1FEATURE1200x800.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroLa0k4AGzBpyytjc0BJhgzVyXhXpWqpC5MF0P_1o4QP-f1S9IzSYHXZOivmBol-j0iMBPis_IIApehcVElHb4k8H3pZ8RjAWxoQbmijDZPWDYF5ojdinFq9Ag8o13mJAmszNjIkkneYMkLnlWj2soDL65Tcpt0j1ixpiHGi5ltkGtc7ZhdnMnx9X/s836/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="836" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroLa0k4AGzBpyytjc0BJhgzVyXhXpWqpC5MF0P_1o4QP-f1S9IzSYHXZOivmBol-j0iMBPis_IIApehcVElHb4k8H3pZ8RjAWxoQbmijDZPWDYF5ojdinFq9Ag8o13mJAmszNjIkkneYMkLnlWj2soDL65Tcpt0j1ixpiHGi5ltkGtc7ZhdnMnx9X/w501-h251/download.jpg" width="501" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyXMnOvF3_w3uHQ4Wnya_fuYZjm3H9ImrEWDNufdqUNEHck44DCDTh1aihZYgOokhNPrzaCVtA33zJdty5NjZLONiB4R5m9N77UomDPHSbi0xEIVl3xNo4P86s6LSp6WHjmQMLSK4YuNGsTVfVIiV98xz7fxKns7aN4TXt_89mxauJWTavvAlDnEOT/s1066/2ZICIINFZFKHHHR5G6KQAATJUI.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="1066" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyXMnOvF3_w3uHQ4Wnya_fuYZjm3H9ImrEWDNufdqUNEHck44DCDTh1aihZYgOokhNPrzaCVtA33zJdty5NjZLONiB4R5m9N77UomDPHSbi0xEIVl3xNo4P86s6LSp6WHjmQMLSK4YuNGsTVfVIiV98xz7fxKns7aN4TXt_89mxauJWTavvAlDnEOT/w498-h252/2ZICIINFZFKHHHR5G6KQAATJUI.jpg" width="498" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">bluegill, perch, and walleye were plentiful, cheap, and easy to prepare. And the aroma of all you can eat fried fish made it possible to mask the possibility that illegal bootlegged hooch was being served clandestinely. When Prohibition was finally repealed in 1933, fish fries and the serving of libations of choice became inextricably linked.</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When I speak of a traditional fish fry, I am not talking about an offering of fish and chips – usually deep-fried cod or haddock served with a side of “chips” (the old sod term for French fries) and malt vinegar – served every day of the week. Wisconsin Friday night fish fries traditionally offer local freshwater fish such as bluegill, lake perch, and walleye which appear on the menu only on Friday evening. In my mind bluegill is arguably the tastiest fish around followed by lake, or yellow perch. Walleye, a larger and more substantial fish, is often offered at fish fries, but it's not just reserved for Fridays. Many restaurants (especially supper clubs) have it on their daily menu all year long. Areas of the state bordering the Mississippi River (the border with Minnesota and Iowa) will often offer catfish. Scandinavian settled communities in northern and eastern Wisconsin (especially in Door County, the little finger of land extending into Lake Michigan), </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">favor the fish boil, a variant on the fish fry, which involves heating potatoes, white fish, and salt in a large cauldron.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiuO-Hgm0nqjbFxNKe0iQjbKPZWYtr4GOfB6ZmNlq_2vHyI7AV2auWUkuGMaJmzNEovOPqDQXacY0ClF576949QhEyB7s54LpDP6V0qZXwIobTifovm00gQc7inOsyjJBSvwjLkmkbEufQuYpa8JG5enTQmfs2bdWO7AjuPdRQokIwFQvwKSB_DcWd/s1000/Fish%20boil%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="1000" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiuO-Hgm0nqjbFxNKe0iQjbKPZWYtr4GOfB6ZmNlq_2vHyI7AV2auWUkuGMaJmzNEovOPqDQXacY0ClF576949QhEyB7s54LpDP6V0qZXwIobTifovm00gQc7inOsyjJBSvwjLkmkbEufQuYpa8JG5enTQmfs2bdWO7AjuPdRQokIwFQvwKSB_DcWd/w464-h249/Fish%20boil%202.jpg" width="464" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdA27mipCREZ8VmE4giPuM2UJGERJOwRXrkEa0tHW_tCHxojKlyK3-UMwQlwVsJYj1xnWSsr1Wga-KXzkonbVrfdXijJ9T3NzB2KwLgIKHqLyBwyBAf9whLqzdgm9m34cUzdErmR7hSGp_-3QjZbWH5_hDqajTjJvNU7bfSTiuLuTsfPxsIaZjnstm/s1200/Fish%20Boil%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdA27mipCREZ8VmE4giPuM2UJGERJOwRXrkEa0tHW_tCHxojKlyK3-UMwQlwVsJYj1xnWSsr1Wga-KXzkonbVrfdXijJ9T3NzB2KwLgIKHqLyBwyBAf9whLqzdgm9m34cUzdErmR7hSGp_-3QjZbWH5_hDqajTjJvNU7bfSTiuLuTsfPxsIaZjnstm/w494-h371/Fish%20Boil%201.jpg" width="494" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">During the spring smelt run, special "Smelt Fries" pop up around the state. Smelt are netted in rivers in the early spring and rarely appear on menus any other time of the year. They are small, similar to a sardine, and are served whole with only </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVeiXMyan5UhXTSk64CYnR_tNr1WHGiMCHJ9d-4zy01vSU5aWJf_f64QgkyLdGaa_j9fdQb5A_hqVqvF-Htc3zs7PJSEGQ7myZNcWqJZWLzhWYwLW2zEaptChAUY84zzPBWYSkQ4L2xzg8gWqQJyOgim8f-svnsAHUqJ27Od-aE1xutxp7ivMOfuC/s676/fried-smelt-pin2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="676" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVeiXMyan5UhXTSk64CYnR_tNr1WHGiMCHJ9d-4zy01vSU5aWJf_f64QgkyLdGaa_j9fdQb5A_hqVqvF-Htc3zs7PJSEGQ7myZNcWqJZWLzhWYwLW2zEaptChAUY84zzPBWYSkQ4L2xzg8gWqQJyOgim8f-svnsAHUqJ27Od-aE1xutxp7ivMOfuC/w466-h408/fried-smelt-pin2.jpg" width="466" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">the head, tail, and guts removed. I introduced my then Florida born and raised fiancée</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> to the joys of fish and smelt fries when she visited me in Milwaukee. After we were married,</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> we treated some of our Tucson friends to fried smelt in our humble graduate student apartment near campus (it was cheap and easy to fix). Regardless of which fish is served, beer, another Wisconsin staple, is normally used instead of water or milk to create the frying batter. It makes it lighter while adding flavor and sometimes color to the mix and very nicely seals in the flavor of the fish.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">"When I go to a fish fry, I feel like I'm dining with the whole state," writes Terese Allen, coauthor of <i>The Flavor of Wisconsin</i> (2012) published by the Wisconsin Historical Society. "I get a very strong sense of connection with my past and my Wisconsin culture. There aren't many food traditions, except for the ones in the home, that are that way anymore. It just feels like something we all get to do together." It is an “end-of-the-work-week rite . . . that brings people together to celebrate everyday life. It’s not a holiday, but it is a regular special occasion.” And part of the allure of the fish fry is the ambiance of the establishment where it is enjoyed for whatever reason. I could not have said it better myself. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When I was growing up one of the important questions come Friday was where we were going to eat fish tonight. We would occasionally have it at home, but we very often joined our fellow Wisconsinites at a favorite restaurant – usually near our homes in Madison, Lake Mills, and suburban Milwaukee -- diner, supper club, church community hall, American Legion post depending on what fish was served, the type of batter and seasoning used, and the quality of the various offered side dishes, including potato and macaroni salad, cole slaw, potato pancakes with either apple sauce or maple syrup (or hash browns, fried potatoes or mashed baby reds), rye bread, etc. And who could forget the lemon wedges, tartar and hot sauces, and malt vinegar. A serving of baked beans was not uncommon. Even school cafeterias offered fried fish on Friday – usually fish sticks – served with tater tots or French fries.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Living as close as we do to the Atlantic and the offerings of the Chesapeake Bay, we are in no short supply of some of the best available seafood. And over the years I have preferred mine broiled, baked, grilled, blackened, poached . . . you name it. I tend to believe that frying a good piece of fish detracts from its natural tenderness and flavors. A Wisconsin Friday night fish fry is another matter. Enjoy your Chilean sea bass, your sushi and sashimi, your sesame encrusted medium rare ahi tuna, your grouper and rockfish fillets and steaks. But when it comes to Friday evening in Wisconsin, there is nothing better than local bluegills, perch and walleye. And how do we like it? Fried of course.</span></div>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-62103444495821633992022-12-04T13:51:00.001-05:002022-12-04T14:11:47.808-05:00Holiday Cheese Dreams<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHdr-nbmhlyHKZS416RPU1PrrQHAY9nXzU-3FfNNHic9JRqolYbFocbCTow43PDe4_BeUwG8PR0hfYzeFD5SJF00_pUg3Y5On9A7V3HlIDyuR6LI7R3r5M5cxdGiBbwoY6qB8_AeeFvEYCFNg65zpwbHPrkrROWOym5dRDjDvi5r1WJBEo61883KF/s680/001656_Replace.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="680" height="513" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHdr-nbmhlyHKZS416RPU1PrrQHAY9nXzU-3FfNNHic9JRqolYbFocbCTow43PDe4_BeUwG8PR0hfYzeFD5SJF00_pUg3Y5On9A7V3HlIDyuR6LI7R3r5M5cxdGiBbwoY6qB8_AeeFvEYCFNg65zpwbHPrkrROWOym5dRDjDvi5r1WJBEo61883KF/w513-h513/001656_Replace.webp" width="513" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The holidays are certainly upon us, and with them comes a mail box stuffed full of end of the year pleas for charitable contributions and mail order catalogs of every size and description full of special holiday sales. I give what I can, and in the era of COVID-19, I am shopping online more frequently. Never having been a big shopper, I find this alternative more relaxing and satisfying. Unfortunately, a great deal of this mail ends up in the recycling bin. That said, I have always looked forward to the annual arrival of two catalogs in particular – The Swiss Colony and Wisconsin Cheeseman, two companies based in Monroe, Wisconsin whose products I have enjoyed for many years, especially during the holidays. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Swiss Colony was established in 1926 by Ray Kubly to market mail-order local cheeses. He later added sausages and various baked goods. The company changed its name to Colony Brands, Inc. in 2010 to reflect its new position as a parent company for an extensive portfolio of food and non-food subsidiaries and catalogs. The Wisconsin Cheeseman, a privately held mail-order food gift company established in 1946, publishes several catalogs annually, also featuring Wisconsin cheeses, sausages, chocolates, baked goods and other assorted food gifts. The company was more recently purchased by Colony Brands, and today the two catalogs are roughly similar in their content. I still like to peruse each and dream of their mouth-watering offerings.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwAvH4nBUsQ8jitk_iX4k6zxHaFrvnXHPPO-0s702aO1cG7xqyRnbCOJs2flTyBudTLiWoEziXjsgT8g4yMXb8xpY258H-6rO-q6lgMpgusvh8uD6ClIr1F90esKsInBHQnJ3nkf_TKz8SU9Q_VKv96ADzGG0OUKPxpaSqRQVQKXYndRUShxO1tXp/s716/83aa1d8d48ce43030f09fa2282810a06.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="716" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwAvH4nBUsQ8jitk_iX4k6zxHaFrvnXHPPO-0s702aO1cG7xqyRnbCOJs2flTyBudTLiWoEziXjsgT8g4yMXb8xpY258H-6rO-q6lgMpgusvh8uD6ClIr1F90esKsInBHQnJ3nkf_TKz8SU9Q_VKv96ADzGG0OUKPxpaSqRQVQKXYndRUShxO1tXp/w478-h317/83aa1d8d48ce43030f09fa2282810a06.jpg" width="478" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Back in the day, it was more than just a dream. When I was returning home to Wisconsin during my holiday breaks from college in the early 1970s, The Swiss Colony still operated brick and mortar stores offering it many products individually and in the various gift boxes still offered through its catalogs. What a treat it was to wander the aisles enjoying the aromas of fresh cut cheeses and sausages offered as samples to customers. My favorite was a store located in the nearby Brookfield Mall which also had a small Swiss café in the back . . . a favorite place for soups and sandwiches to fortify one for holiday shopping. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbycdNih105YtVlTV0v5gX-cAgDlo-25G-KBbxDMAIQyTWiemN7E6sdv3WlIIKj54HO6L-GsGCXpmCv_5TmhuWP-fetmWTxGKHw99GK5sRUyQSJiN-NzWEG7bgmLGjpLvNfOxb45MUs4XCQiVcZJWnlSSmx_qYI8CBpMDRzBklWp08-4InyU7GqoJo/s972/o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbycdNih105YtVlTV0v5gX-cAgDlo-25G-KBbxDMAIQyTWiemN7E6sdv3WlIIKj54HO6L-GsGCXpmCv_5TmhuWP-fetmWTxGKHw99GK5sRUyQSJiN-NzWEG7bgmLGjpLvNfOxb45MUs4XCQiVcZJWnlSSmx_qYI8CBpMDRzBklWp08-4InyU7GqoJo/s320/o.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Those days are far in the past, but I still reflect fondly on them during the holiday season as I peruse this year’s catalogs. And there is always a possibility that one of those lovely and tasty gift boxes will end up under the tree.</span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-10998180533416412832022-12-01T17:57:00.003-05:002022-12-01T18:04:41.954-05:00Still Looking Toward Portugal -- Has It Really Been 14 Years??<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGXmx0j83EAdPIDIQm_1BsZKBTaXsYlfJbij8SrmdmyPlkJAxdiXOSyewExOFcf5y0MDgGdH-syu2VRjO_X0lIoSHWxDJdeK7Cch0GuiEjwzQP6Wo6qpOdVHSyDHfEEgf_OyJA3ZMux9IT7LLmYfAcOOWpvttFvDlQODQF7YcvdLQ39hUqfMWDUtt/s438/LTP%20Postcard.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="438" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGXmx0j83EAdPIDIQm_1BsZKBTaXsYlfJbij8SrmdmyPlkJAxdiXOSyewExOFcf5y0MDgGdH-syu2VRjO_X0lIoSHWxDJdeK7Cch0GuiEjwzQP6Wo6qpOdVHSyDHfEEgf_OyJA3ZMux9IT7LLmYfAcOOWpvttFvDlQODQF7YcvdLQ39hUqfMWDUtt/w507-h312/LTP%20Postcard.png" width="507" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The past beats inside me like a second heart.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> – John Banville, The Sea (2005)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It was late November 2008 and I was sitting in my in-law's study in Gainesville, Florida where we had assembled for an extended family Thanksgiving celebration in Tallahassee the day before. I was working on some project notes and it struck me that it might be time to start my own blog.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It was something I had been considering for quite some time. I had been reading those of others, and I decided I had thoughts and observations I might want to share. I was not sure how it would play out, if at all, but I decided I was going to take a shot. One can never tell what might happen.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">A few days later, on December 1, 2008, my wife and I decided to spend our last day in Florida roaming the back roads around Gainesville – over by Cross Creek, Micanopy, Island Pond, and Hawthorne. This trip became the subject of my first blog essay which I posted that evening.</span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkq_EVxnjaJ0SV9Gcjfgjh7xc9pHf3oADzcLbF0MPRyWy78m4bvzAlfBZxhIweZo1V4fAjDWvTc72cguNC8U3cKPgaiGTw6QlakXp8KV_dgvOw3ryMz7jc9x9_rdS3ISrMbxoZsApEQDku3Nl6iuwH7AyzKol3N9tDRWO9AFHGFx1mjMiZ_cujXu5/s374/224268_1016487741278_2621251_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="374" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkq_EVxnjaJ0SV9Gcjfgjh7xc9pHf3oADzcLbF0MPRyWy78m4bvzAlfBZxhIweZo1V4fAjDWvTc72cguNC8U3cKPgaiGTw6QlakXp8KV_dgvOw3ryMz7jc9x9_rdS3ISrMbxoZsApEQDku3Nl6iuwH7AyzKol3N9tDRWO9AFHGFx1mjMiZ_cujXu5/w492-h391/224268_1016487741278_2621251_n.jpg" width="492" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve and SallyAnn Rogers. Cross Creek, Florida. December 1, 2008</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The narrow country roads passed under canopies of live oak festooned with long gray beards of Spanish moss. There was water in Cross Creek and in the River Styx (not always the case), and we observed white herons and egrets wading the sedgy marsh shallows looking for their next meals while an alligator rested on a nearby bank minding his own business. We wandered around Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ farm at Cross Creek and the surrounding pine hammock, and we were lucky to have the entire place to ourselves. I was reminded why I liked coming back to this special part of Florida. Perhaps Miss Rawlings said it best. “It is necessary to leave the impersonal highway, to step inside the rusty gate and close it behind. One is now inside the orange grove, out of one world and in the mysterious heart of another. And after long years of spiritual homelessness, of nostalgia, here is that mystic loveliness of childhood again. Here is home.” It was not my home, but I certainly felt at home there. I do every time I return . . . , something I hope to do early in the approaching new year. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So why am I "Looking Toward Portugal"? I suppose this is a legitimate question and there is no big secret mystery. For the past three decades I have been gravitating to the coast of Maine. At first, it was only during our annual summer hiatus, but in more recent years I have returned every chance I get regardless of the season. And each time I go back, I find myself standing on that rocky shoreline looking out to sea and pondering what lies beyond the farthest horizon. Gazing in a general easterly direction from the Maine coast, you will see nothing but the rolling expanse of the Gulf of Maine stretching toward the southernmost extension of Nova Scotia. Yet, if you continue across the Atlantic you will eventually arrive on the northern shores of Portugal somewhere near Oporto.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Doing this I was constantly reminded of Jack Kerouac’s observations when he stared out across the Atlantic from the shores of Long Island (he naturally gravitated to America’s two coasts) – “this last lip of American land.” Writing in On the Road (1957): “Here I was at the end of America . . . no more land . . ., and now there was nowhere to go but back.” Doing this I guess we are reminded of our limitations, but we are also offered a hint of what might be if we only choose to look beyond those far horizons while at the same time considering what lies at our back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I could have been satisfied with “Looking Toward Nova Scotia,” but I liked to think there was far more to consider beyond. Looking out to sea from "the Portugal side" of my own life and pondering what lies beyond that meeting of water and sky, I know that my grand search will never be over. Certainly not in my lifetime. I will always return to that "last lip of American land." It, too, is home.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">For the past 14 years I have been drawing on past memories and present-day concerns to try and understand better how I might want to navigate what the future might hold. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“The past is never dead,” William Faulkner writes in Requiem for a Nun. “It's not even past.” Writing in Moon for the Misbegotten, Eugene O-Neill tells us “There is no present or future – only the past, happening over and over again – now.” There is certainly something to this. Perhaps Søren Kierkegaard said it best. “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This is what I hope to continue doing with this blog . . . looking to the past to help me understand where I am now and where I hope to be in the future. The key to it all is hope. As the Buddha instructed . . . staying hopeful you will never know what tomorrow will bring.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Namasté.</span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-41821571155089062552022-11-18T12:43:00.000-05:002022-11-18T12:43:24.768-05:00There is Nothing Like a Chicago Hot Dog<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWrLKcxE01uF8QQMATSvbyb_i6koFS3aLc2djizBxgpof0eil_E3-gjVgMLgF9dlhCDbwwUMb8nXrJ-LTZ6wn0Dh1eNJIC5-Ks19XFnGyW3clnDtP5Mn5Gg_jFN16sp_MHdRRONhbAHJ3b-rCh4_kNRuxYFxTzaaydhFM2PKO6bwsAw-6d1Ef3NIw/s698/NationalHotDogDay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="389" data-original-width="698" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWrLKcxE01uF8QQMATSvbyb_i6koFS3aLc2djizBxgpof0eil_E3-gjVgMLgF9dlhCDbwwUMb8nXrJ-LTZ6wn0Dh1eNJIC5-Ks19XFnGyW3clnDtP5Mn5Gg_jFN16sp_MHdRRONhbAHJ3b-rCh4_kNRuxYFxTzaaydhFM2PKO6bwsAw-6d1Ef3NIw/w510-h284/NationalHotDogDay.jpg" width="510" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I find it rather strange that cities, towns, and regions have over time become associated with various types of food. Philadelphia has its eponymous cheese steak and Chicago its deep-dish pizza, the “Chicago Dog,” and its recently repopularized Italian beef sandwiches. St. Louis, Memphis, and Kansas City are famous for their barbeque. Montréal has its smoked meats and poutine and Halifax its donair kebabs (regular readers of this blog may recall my prior posting about these). There is New Orleans po’ boys and etoufe, Baltimore and its crab cakes and blue crabs, DC’s half-smokes, and Maine its lobsters, oysters and chowders. Don’t forget Boston’s baked beans and brown bread, New York’s deli sandwiches and bagels, Buffalo wings, Cincinnati chili, San Francisco’s ciopino and Tampa’s Cuban sandwiches (I have written about these, too). There is Seattle’s Pacific salmon and Dungeness crab, and Nashville’s hot chicken. I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea. Many places offer their own versions of pizza, steak, tacos . . . you name it . . . and there are certain local standards as to what constitutes a genuine cheese steak, a deep-dish pizza, or even something as American and ubiquitous as the hot dog (wiener, weenie, frankfurter, or frank).</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Hot dogs in their many local variations have been served throughout the United States since the late 19th century, and now they have adapted to the tastes of other countries, as well. Just about every region of the US has its own particular hot dog style; some are more interesting than others. Here in the DC area the so-called half-smoke is the local version popularized by the iconic Ben’s Chli Bowl in the U Street Corridor. Similar to the standard hot dog, but usually larger, spicier, and with more coarsely-ground meat – often half-pork and half-beef – they are served with herbs, onions, and chili sauce. Just up the road Baltimore-style hot dogs consist of a kosher beef sausage that is fried with bologna slices and served on a split-bread bun with a dill pickle spear. California-style hot dogs have long offered a different twist on the hot dog, and I can’t help but recall the dogs served up by Tail of the Pup when I was a young lad in LA. There are hot dogs with bacon, or dogs with jalapenos and sauerkraut, as well as veggie dogs. On one of my first visits to the Pacific Northwest I was introduced to the “Seattle Dog,” a relatively recent offering consisting of a Polish sausage nestled in a hoagie roll and topped with cream cheese and sauteed onions. Peppers and sauerkraut are often added along with yellow mustard. A bit farther to the north, Vancouver, in Canada, has its “Japadog,” a chain of street food stands serving Japanese-style hot dogs, including variations on traditional Japanese foods like tonkatsu, teriyaki or yakisoba. Anyone who watched MASH on TV will recall Corporal Klinger (Jamie Farr) praising Tony Packo’s famous Hungarian Dog in his and Farr’s hometown of Toledo, Ohio. It is a blend of beef, pork and garlic that is quartered and then fried and served with mustard, onions and a special chili sauce.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCMz4e7gjct77ECR2pSo7Gblz_UF5JcyHHBEsumUeuF0DaZwBX5pozV5bM9xbrdMV7bDD9OSzQGSjAHtVwcPnR0SjcFbcO5CDw9GD4Ve3lZsjo_eGIE8cU56PmXa60AvKJF0zNw_IB_CxmgJJz6IyTKiZ9rwK8hM-Tbex0ARZmbiYEFktHgYiUFTf/s794/Food_HotDog_RedSnapper.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="794" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCMz4e7gjct77ECR2pSo7Gblz_UF5JcyHHBEsumUeuF0DaZwBX5pozV5bM9xbrdMV7bDD9OSzQGSjAHtVwcPnR0SjcFbcO5CDw9GD4Ve3lZsjo_eGIE8cU56PmXa60AvKJF0zNw_IB_CxmgJJz6IyTKiZ9rwK8hM-Tbex0ARZmbiYEFktHgYiUFTf/w463-h370/Food_HotDog_RedSnapper.JPG" width="463" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">How can I write about hot dogs without mentioning the New England “red hot?” It has been said that you know you have crossed into Maine when you go to the local market and the hot dogs on display are a bright, almost neon red. They are not called hot dogs here. They are red snappers, pure and simple. Oh, you can get the regular hot dogs at grocery stores, but why when you can enjoy a red snapper instead? Red because of their obvious hue, and snapper because of the sharp snap they make when you bite into one. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzP1x1WPNv_6TQqPRS6shG3UOVbJd25LB28lK4jDX47L31WAlpCdfgzcPK_dNTVtgVMEv_tnkoY-0m9LnPUPW7OAzCa8xHd-y4b9PBZ_Lwvv0YfvQqLs7NrBmIRObL_81PjbSwuq5ZhaxGbn2k_PnzN1Vxs8q1xzbzB6oeZPno8V4RkhKTm20mEdSk/s220/220px-Detroit_Coney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="220" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzP1x1WPNv_6TQqPRS6shG3UOVbJd25LB28lK4jDX47L31WAlpCdfgzcPK_dNTVtgVMEv_tnkoY-0m9LnPUPW7OAzCa8xHd-y4b9PBZ_Lwvv0YfvQqLs7NrBmIRObL_81PjbSwuq5ZhaxGbn2k_PnzN1Vxs8q1xzbzB6oeZPno8V4RkhKTm20mEdSk/s1600/220px-Detroit_Coney.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">And then there is New York. The Big Apple seems to cast a large shadow on everything that happens in this country whether you like it or not. The simple hot dog reigns supreme, traditionally topped with a spicy brown mustard and either sauerkraut or onions sauteed with tomato paste. Then there is the Coney Island hot dog, perhaps the first hot dog served in the US having been introduced in 1867. It is a beef frank in a natural casing and served on a soft, steamed bun and topped with all meat chili, onions, and a healthy squirt of yellow mustard.</span> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">This past summer I read food writer and editor Helen Rosner’s “The Unbreakable Rules of the Chicago Dog—and When to Bend Them” in The New Yorker (July 3). Recounting the now familiar story of how the hot dog came to the Windy City in the late 19th century, Rosner writes that “this food of convenience evolved into a holy cultural object, until the act of building a proper Chicago dog demanded a degree of attention and care that verged on the liturgical . . . Among the devout, none of the dog’s nine individual elements is unimportant, and any deviation amounts to sacrilege.” I should be clear on one important point. Although Rosner grew up in South Side Chicago, she moved east for college, resettling in New York City where she continues to live and write. She understands what a true Chicago Dog is and should be, yet she has learned to bend the rules to approximate it with unauthentic ingredients. “Work with what you have, adhere to the blueprint as best you can, and you will build something beautiful: a hot dog dragged through a garden of earthly delights. And then, five bites later, it’ll be gone, and you can make yourself another one.” That’s fine. Just don’t call what it’s not. Being a native Chicagoan myself, however, I stand by the rules for a true Chicago Dog. </span> </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2PYJPBMSfgXYgwZDKXFARtKZwz7fAM_vM3yBqeT3krAgOSTcvx6dI_UM6Rtcbc5KWNrITPkbV0A6sb8Ph-zDdqwmg9slKufVZXzemZH0vfxuaCpSeqsGV2G0QRsCYA7WBjQw6Ii2Ot5RCwm0hnGqILr0UrLs7dETJDh7I4b9OIfKljIH0MvTw6xO/s362/Flukys_Hot_Dogs_on_Western_Ave_Chicago_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2PYJPBMSfgXYgwZDKXFARtKZwz7fAM_vM3yBqeT3krAgOSTcvx6dI_UM6Rtcbc5KWNrITPkbV0A6sb8Ph-zDdqwmg9slKufVZXzemZH0vfxuaCpSeqsGV2G0QRsCYA7WBjQw6Ii2Ot5RCwm0hnGqILr0UrLs7dETJDh7I4b9OIfKljIH0MvTw6xO/s320/Flukys_Hot_Dogs_on_Western_Ave_Chicago_2.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hot dogs made their first recorded appearance in Chicago at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, but the true Chicago-style dog was invented several decades later during the Great Depression when street cart vendors at the Maxwell Street Market came up with a way to offer a delicious hot meal served on a bun for only a nickel. Perhaps the best known of these purveyors was Abe “Fluky” Drexler who first opened his street cart at Maxwell and Halsted Streets just west of the Loop in 1929, offering the so-called "Depression Sandwich" - a hot dog with yellow mustard and “dragged through the garden” . . . relish, onion, pickle spears, sport peppers, lettuce, tomatoes wedges, with a dash of celery salt and a side of French fries A cosmopolitan meal. Skip the meat and it only cost two cents. Fluky added several more carts and business was good until World War II and the rationing of meat forced three of his four locations to close. The remaining stand closed in 1955 and did not reopen again until early 1964 as a brick-and-mortar establishment on North Western Avenue. It quickly became the largest hot dog joint in the city. There are still joints in and around Chicago that feature the so-called Depression Dog topped with crispy fries with mustard, onion and peppers. Not a true Chicago Dog by any standard but still a good meal, especially served with a cold beer.</span> </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Mmq2YdHpvNvC---iswtJAzVlJNR7ztAVSIQXdhuVkQc9V_Yby0PODAOTgr1nFWPeLw-cshLxdNtpw9KOQJjhj1PCE06tQufqcyQL6FNB97RuW-8I7bFarZ8v6JceuFvaTwrQ9nhjDs4SlaJ794J8_HNj6mJCAqawL8uUATE874kg1Y_ZhX39qgEV/s800/image8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Mmq2YdHpvNvC---iswtJAzVlJNR7ztAVSIQXdhuVkQc9V_Yby0PODAOTgr1nFWPeLw-cshLxdNtpw9KOQJjhj1PCE06tQufqcyQL6FNB97RuW-8I7bFarZ8v6JceuFvaTwrQ9nhjDs4SlaJ794J8_HNj6mJCAqawL8uUATE874kg1Y_ZhX39qgEV/w469-h312/image8.jpg" width="469" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So, what make a Chicago Dog unique and why? In the Windy City the expression “the Chicago 7" <span style="background-color: #ffa400;">*</span> have a special meaning. It refers to the key ingredients added to a boiled or steamed dog (never grilled) nestled in a steamed (never toasted) poppy seed bun: yellow mustard, “electric” green sweet relish, chopped white onion, dill pickle spear, hot sports peppers (there is no other acceptable variety), two slices of fresh tomato, and the pièce de réistance, a dash of celery salt to bring it all together. “Finesse matters,” Rosner writes. “A Chicago-style hot dog is an aesthetic creation as much as a culinary one.” More important than anything else, there is one unspeakable and unbreakable rule of a true Chicago-style hot dog. You should never, ever, ever put ketchup on it. If you do, you might as well pack up and leave town.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Putting ketchup on a hot dog is referred to in some local quarters as an occasional “affliction” of young people who do not know any better. Put ketchup on it and a kid will swallow anything. It has also been said that the only people who put ketchup on hot dogs are mental patients, and Texans. Any sane adult should understand that ketchup is the quickest way to ruin an otherwise perfectly good Chicago Dog . . . or any hot dog for that matter. There is no alternative. There is no compromise. When it comes to a hot dog, ketchup is <i>streng verboten.</i> Why do you need it when you have slices of fresh tomato lining the edges of the poppy-seed bun? Even Anthony Bourdain, the late chef, food reencounter, and dye in the wool New Yorker, agreed that the Chicago Dog is “the finest hot dog on the planet. There, I said it, and I meant it. Now f**k off.” High praise, adding "I think there is a time and a place for ketchup, and I don’t think the hot dog is one of them.” What more needs to be said on this score?</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvQoYu12jILDqrGEO5A_nHBIQZgeAreBTe_OIQWSEDVsCGFW_1b6QS-WCoLSlwFT3KkWte-G7pm9oubENSLHE44K-A-412dGBZUhYbAQthMGYCTsV7xa6N8Eg7jDhYzzt6T8_bOtMaBqtkD_oVxusM-bZAXKW1sJd_ZqU6TeHTiHn5ZYJGztI-18b/s500/fdef5525caf744d1fdfe98b6a3629452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvQoYu12jILDqrGEO5A_nHBIQZgeAreBTe_OIQWSEDVsCGFW_1b6QS-WCoLSlwFT3KkWte-G7pm9oubENSLHE44K-A-412dGBZUhYbAQthMGYCTsV7xa6N8Eg7jDhYzzt6T8_bOtMaBqtkD_oVxusM-bZAXKW1sJd_ZqU6TeHTiHn5ZYJGztI-18b/w473-h355/fdef5525caf744d1fdfe98b6a3629452.jpg" width="473" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">In a city where the local hot dog is king, Chicagoans have their favorite place that prepares it just right to their particular tastes. Some are loyal to Portillo’s which now has a number of outlets across the city and scattered about northern Illinois. My favorite was just a half an hour from my family home in suburban Park Ridge. Wolfy’s, at 2734 West Peterson Avenue, was relatively new when I first discovered it in 1968, and in the years since it has become an iconic landmark on the Far North Side. What a treat to drive down Peterson and see that large frank skewered on a giant fork (even more impressive at night when illuminated in neon). It offers all of the proper ingredients and it just seemed to taste better than any of the others offered throughout the city. The kosher all beef Vienna brand franks (established in Chicago in 1893 introducing its hickory-smoked hot dog at the Columbian Exposition) are served either steamed or charred. Your choice! The Chicago Tribune “Sunday Magazine” ranked for perhaps the first time in 1974 the city’s top hot dog emporia. Wolfy’s was number one and so it remains in this native Chicagoan’s heart.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">More recently in Condé Nast Traveler (November 2022), Rosner touches on something that rings true for me. “Whenever I go home – no matter how long I live elsewhere, Chicago will always be home,” Rosner admits. “Chicago has its own rhythms and moods, its own hierarchies and customs . . . it took leaving Chicago for me to truly love it, to really understand its grit and beauty.” It has been a while since I was last in my hometown, and it has been ever so long since I enjoyed a true Chicago Dog. I have eaten many wonderful hot dogs before and since, and each one is worthy of praise for one reason or another. But they were not Chicago-style hot dogs without the “Chicago Seven” . . . accept no substitutes! And regardless of where I might order a hot dog, I remain true to the gospel . . . no ketchup!! Ever!! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">[[ * Since the late 1960s, the “Chicago Seven” has normally referred to the defendants charged with conspiracy to incite a riot, and other charges related to anti-Vietnam War and counterculture protests in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Certainly not Chicago’s finest hour . . . this from one who still recall’s the sting of tear gas along Michigan Avenue. Thankfully it now refers to something that continues to bring culinary favor to the “City of the Big Shoulders.”]] </span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-80825300932931516462022-11-15T13:21:00.000-05:002022-11-15T13:21:22.949-05:00The Much-Maligned Carp<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS8Oe2stTtGSG3GDNl0MgTI0nyBM2J6v1nJrdcopdPWn2lqw9sf3c2ztfTjj7yZwbIn4oFaof2GN2LbNoWzPEkmzEApGFK447f0icktoUxc24UVQgv7F-NzrUr61CLZoqLKJLpKKSdD2aqr2Bqil-gncT_73egG5dh_OyNfOXq51Afv8pgG3Ebk25t/s1536/carp.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="1536" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS8Oe2stTtGSG3GDNl0MgTI0nyBM2J6v1nJrdcopdPWn2lqw9sf3c2ztfTjj7yZwbIn4oFaof2GN2LbNoWzPEkmzEApGFK447f0icktoUxc24UVQgv7F-NzrUr61CLZoqLKJLpKKSdD2aqr2Bqil-gncT_73egG5dh_OyNfOXq51Afv8pgG3Ebk25t/w501-h282/carp.webp" width="501" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I recently read an interesting essay in Jerry Dennis’ <i>Up North in Michigan: A Portrait of Place in Four Seasons</i> (2021) which dredged up an old memory of my youthful obsession with fishing.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I still love to fish although I find so little time or opportunity for it these days. One thing I have recognized over the years, however, has been a more mature and conservation-oriented ethic. As a young boy I wanted to catch as many fish as I could and to keep the ones I caught. Only then could I prove my angling prowess. It was not a successful outing unless I came home with a stringer or a cooler full of fish. It did not seem wasteful at the time as my family ate what I caught. But as I grew older, I realized what I liked most about fishing was the time spent on a favorite piece of water . . . alone with my thoughts in a nature filled with water sounds, a breeze shifting through trees saturated with birdsong. This is not to say I no longer kept the fish I caught. I did, but only one or two which very soon found their way to the dinner table. Otherwise, I was satisfied with the thrill of the hunt in beautiful surroundings. I became a firm believer in catch and release and the fish I did not intend to eat were returned safely to the water.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYA5bzMyNrBGS1Nd07pXrAWkX7oKEkDWOcy_DNg8NEU_4jy953wR-FdRrxHVL72Xlft6pB9CsWq-Rieh-9-L_qEjkfvXyE1zzaDIFpGM045m3I-VzmvoEyThD5qPCHN-c0CVqYUR6zfpZPIRRkxzfQ5xvTbNiPrYV_IhK3ZuA_V6ukOZKlPvYjQee/s1000/lake-mendota-madison-wisconsin-steven-ralser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYA5bzMyNrBGS1Nd07pXrAWkX7oKEkDWOcy_DNg8NEU_4jy953wR-FdRrxHVL72Xlft6pB9CsWq-Rieh-9-L_qEjkfvXyE1zzaDIFpGM045m3I-VzmvoEyThD5qPCHN-c0CVqYUR6zfpZPIRRkxzfQ5xvTbNiPrYV_IhK3ZuA_V6ukOZKlPvYjQee/w486-h365/lake-mendota-madison-wisconsin-steven-ralser.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I was in junior high school and living on the shores of Madison, Wisconsin’s Lake Mendota, I snuck off every chance I had to ride my bike down to the Tenney Park lock and breakwater to fish for bluegills, perch and sheepshead although I would occasionally score a larger northern pike. I took fishing seriously and I fished worms, minnows, and crankbaits, and I targeted fish I knew tasted good. Not all of my piscatorial comrades shared my discriminating tastes, however. I would often find a group of kids – some of them my classmates – sitting on a wall next to the lighthouse and locks fishing for carp that seemed to congregate near the boathouse. Some of these anglers had bamboo pole and others spinning rods and all of them were supplied with bags of white sandwich bread from which they crafted dough balls for bait fished under a bobber. Hot dog pieces were also</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> a very effective bait for carp. Most carp anglers fish their bait on the bottom but will often use a bobber to detect subtle takes. Carp are constantly moving and feeding during the warmer seasons, so it can take them a while to find an offered bait. They also have relatively small mouths and will often toy with a bait before consuming it. So,</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> it is important to use the right size </span><span style="font-family: arial;">hook.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClJvP_P8eUiubaASX-3gWJr3VWTf76lMDeXp7HomWiCNceO4ElbAPuwwRxSOphW9MgDXCUdOfIfVT1KH84NNa9-ig8njS0XYUgWuu5DtZNshRf6FKljxI8es8hcSr7Z3o_meEObS-3-i68GaWIII60TF-fSFYLMMI9Sy3LWKd2g6Rx5hLgu4JLrVA/s600/387_gphQ-vlqMZspGqmhuWxlLB91ayObGd9rEvjtL9vJ-Ow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="600" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClJvP_P8eUiubaASX-3gWJr3VWTf76lMDeXp7HomWiCNceO4ElbAPuwwRxSOphW9MgDXCUdOfIfVT1KH84NNa9-ig8njS0XYUgWuu5DtZNshRf6FKljxI8es8hcSr7Z3o_meEObS-3-i68GaWIII60TF-fSFYLMMI9Sy3LWKd2g6Rx5hLgu4JLrVA/w490-h335/387_gphQ-vlqMZspGqmhuWxlLB91ayObGd9rEvjtL9vJ-Ow.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Unlike me, these kids were not interested in catching food for the table; they were keen only in the sport of catching a large fish that would put up a good fight when hooked. They had no interested in keeping their catch. "The Carp is the queen of rivers and lakes; a stately, a good, and a very subtle fish,” wrote Izaak Walton in <i>The Compleat Angler</i> (1653), yet in this country carp are often classified as an invasive rough fish potentially disrupting entire ecosystems by out-competing more desirable local game fish and variable in terms of angling value. Instead of releasing their catch these kids threw them into a pile next to the wall where they quickly died. There was an older fellow whom I often saw fishing on </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUwoA5WMVfa5Fj9QIXNccdG39gQVBNRQwGw5rP-nd6542XntOOu06fQH0rfXZ9SBmfPt3i1m7bvk4UhVs_vtKpTNuZ7Q1Im7Cckco9BN6s8A2z9nofDCzCsDoT82Ut6Vwwl71OFkdOFHSq_hTcwBKsrm_fYRNIqSRqHwTxqXm1CDC9YU6VBCxQ59Q/s862/41d16c1c25e63a7618119f0d8e908174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="862" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUwoA5WMVfa5Fj9QIXNccdG39gQVBNRQwGw5rP-nd6542XntOOu06fQH0rfXZ9SBmfPt3i1m7bvk4UhVs_vtKpTNuZ7Q1Im7Cckco9BN6s8A2z9nofDCzCsDoT82Ut6Vwwl71OFkdOFHSq_hTcwBKsrm_fYRNIqSRqHwTxqXm1CDC9YU6VBCxQ59Q/w494-h278/41d16c1c25e63a7618119f0d8e908174.jpg" width="494" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">the breakwater, and he would occasionally gather up a few to take home. I don’t know if he ate them or used them to fertilize his garden, but at least they did not go to waste. The rest would become a stinking mess until someone from the park came along to dispose of them properly.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOwq5SUr6fPvGsQ0BthC3xUb96p6gNqM8xwjyMlQj-ZIFYmmnWMFDtrwWbX8wYYSk-qUJENtvLdoZm-9NTWknzBlaC38fqDdN5PIHeDqWhsgiMfX5nvkmSrUx8dCG4u4j43LgiUMMoOqN5ARwbnn8YUGisfO1tvUlD_a5ALh05NqnZ0QykAB2lrlS/s1280/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOwq5SUr6fPvGsQ0BthC3xUb96p6gNqM8xwjyMlQj-ZIFYmmnWMFDtrwWbX8wYYSk-qUJENtvLdoZm-9NTWknzBlaC38fqDdN5PIHeDqWhsgiMfX5nvkmSrUx8dCG4u4j43LgiUMMoOqN5ARwbnn8YUGisfO1tvUlD_a5ALh05NqnZ0QykAB2lrlS/w490-h276/maxresdefault.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It seemed such a waste to me. I could certainly understand the thrill of catching such a fish. I would occasionally hook a carp, and I enjoyed the fight it offered, but I </span><span style="font-family: arial;">usually returned</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> it to the water. I guess the catch and release ethic caught on earlier than I thought. Sometimes I would take it home and give it to our elderly Norwegian neighbors who very much enjoyed them. They also taught me the proper way to fillet a fish, a talent that has served me well in the many years since. And hell, if they eat </span><i style="font-family: arial;">lutefisk</i><span style="font-family: arial;">, why not take a chance on carp? [</span><a href="https://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2012/06/when-lutefisk-is-outlawed-only-outlaws.htm" style="font-family: arial;">https://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2012/06/when-lutefisk-is-outlawed-only-outlaws.htm</a><span style="font-family: arial;">l]</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carp remains a popular holiday dish in Central Europe dating back to the Middle Ages, particularly as a traditional Christmas Eve dinner in the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Poland. It is also frequently found on holiday tables in Hungary, Austria, Germany and Croatia. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnLW8MZC70DrdJS1-ENnzm2oQeEaf5V97a-icZSbm6jDk-QHdTmYFkM96iolDpKQOYXxV_0_5QlS4kgMZmxh9Of5XN3bpuXd6r_g3V554w6k3BaJFcAVhYiAc9prGu16lwYn9Oo-UHHqCyS8shwvWWwZrzTawCQYXChNyRPkpiVXJnwgq8eYuHmHPe/s819/christmas-fried-carp-fish-slices-ceramic-plate-holiday-table-close-up-traditional-eve-dish-polish-165494861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="800" height="532" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnLW8MZC70DrdJS1-ENnzm2oQeEaf5V97a-icZSbm6jDk-QHdTmYFkM96iolDpKQOYXxV_0_5QlS4kgMZmxh9Of5XN3bpuXd6r_g3V554w6k3BaJFcAVhYiAc9prGu16lwYn9Oo-UHHqCyS8shwvWWwZrzTawCQYXChNyRPkpiVXJnwgq8eYuHmHPe/w520-h532/christmas-fried-carp-fish-slices-ceramic-plate-holiday-table-close-up-traditional-eve-dish-polish-165494861.jpg" width="520" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Today, many states are beginning to view the carp as a game fish instead of a maligned pest. If you enjoy fishing, what are you obliged to do if you catch a carp? You can certainly keep them for the table as they are purported to be quite tasty when properly prepared. Although frequently served throughout Asia, many in the United States and Europe do not favor it claiming its flesh has an oily, or “muddy” flavor, or it’s too 'bony. Nevertheless, if taken from clean waters, carp can have a subtle and delicious flavor. It is also a great source of lean proteins and omega-3 fatty acids that promote healthy cardiac functions while exhibiting only trace amounts of mercury or lead.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHUR5yltkHErBVM0PVJuMwrtWTY-OJlM7FOcJAr02TjZL-fahCQT4VplEy_YKTte6zZQ9T4KzEYXCOlujRMXgfXG8_UmDP29egjtv99KaxqWFIxUNeJ9ya_mqivHg6IgL_BkRE4LwJeSIUUbrGZS__NMfUHqYzKd0Idrq6rmc5RNQbq0o1n3W0e7p7/s1200/sole-meuniere-featured-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHUR5yltkHErBVM0PVJuMwrtWTY-OJlM7FOcJAr02TjZL-fahCQT4VplEy_YKTte6zZQ9T4KzEYXCOlujRMXgfXG8_UmDP29egjtv99KaxqWFIxUNeJ9ya_mqivHg6IgL_BkRE4LwJeSIUUbrGZS__NMfUHqYzKd0Idrq6rmc5RNQbq0o1n3W0e7p7/w486-h486/sole-meuniere-featured-1.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Had those young boys understood what they were catching more than the simple act of catching, perhaps more of their catch would have been put to better use or returned to the water. </span></span><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-20341620771580574262022-11-07T10:55:00.001-05:002022-11-07T11:04:31.883-05:00That Pretty Lady<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYI_w4n8nMABSUU9S3gJMs6kpqI4PR0MgMzZt-CWa8x8TfS17GSpnSYah4fwo0QrbZ-M7VHgxbkpNtI4G0F-ghMn5m9pL678AOldMbtPXMvQ2PRT87pm_CX9zalGMu2PZzkQmWfJQNXdA1nLKmNdQNnC5sFeMO9QweFDpEM5tyiSeu-iY48KXZmiBi/s500/BILL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="500" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYI_w4n8nMABSUU9S3gJMs6kpqI4PR0MgMzZt-CWa8x8TfS17GSpnSYah4fwo0QrbZ-M7VHgxbkpNtI4G0F-ghMn5m9pL678AOldMbtPXMvQ2PRT87pm_CX9zalGMu2PZzkQmWfJQNXdA1nLKmNdQNnC5sFeMO9QweFDpEM5tyiSeu-iY48KXZmiBi/w504-h230/BILL.jpg" width="504" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">My first memory of the late Queen Elizabeth II goes back to 1955 when an uncle who had just returned from Canada gave me a Canadian two-dollar bill bearing her likeness. “Who is that pretty lady?” I asked. I was told that she was the new Queen of England. Of course, that did not make any sense to a four year old American boy. Yet over the years I have become more familiar with her and what would become her historic 70 year reign, the longest of any British monarch in history. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Queen had only been on the British throne for three years at that point and the world was still getting to know the young woman who was suddenly thrust into the limelight when her father, King George VI, who reluctantly came to the throne in late 1936 with the abdication of his brother Edward VIII, died in early 1952. This past summer she celebrated her Platinum Jubilee, and on September 8, she passed away quietly at Balmoral Castle, in Scotland, at the age of 96. Her eldest son, Prince Charles of Wales, ascended the throne as Charles III.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Scattered throughout our home are a number of items brought <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi110t72EG9jCwUPchohG6Oi7L5vMFdsMB38kAxs1_xQP5f-x3C-6ExlCexy8uZBQ-giL7FVAa7QhdBfhNHRn2rsUyR0fNlqK7dSqbwYf2JIlL8c3bCdPzskgj2B51cmLlTRCBYJfIXh0Dr2Ad_FFr8aXckAeIqM5nxStHWjnzVjv8_Y7XB8Kk2lsOi/s400/313794937_518704753457111_2405088135721317169_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="400" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi110t72EG9jCwUPchohG6Oi7L5vMFdsMB38kAxs1_xQP5f-x3C-6ExlCexy8uZBQ-giL7FVAa7QhdBfhNHRn2rsUyR0fNlqK7dSqbwYf2JIlL8c3bCdPzskgj2B51cmLlTRCBYJfIXh0Dr2Ad_FFr8aXckAeIqM5nxStHWjnzVjv8_Y7XB8Kk2lsOi/w201-h187/313794937_518704753457111_2405088135721317169_n.jpg" width="201" /></a></div>back from our travels in the United Kingdom, several of which are connected to the Queen’s long reign and evidence of the high esteem in which she was held throughout the realm, but also here in the United States, the history of which dates back to the late 18th century when the former British colonies along the Eastern Seaboard of North America declared their independence in Philadelphia on July 4, 1776. This was followed by a protracted war lasting until September 1783. The newly established United States fought another war with it former colonial master and its allies in British North America, with limited participation by Spain in Florida, between 1812 and 1815. Both major adversaries eventually grew tired of war and sought an armistice. The subsequent Treaty of Ghent led to a general status quo ante bellum. Since then, the US and Great Britain have enjoyed and maintained a peaceful coexistence which eventually led to a close and affectionate alliance during the two world wars in the 20th century, and as NATO partners after the war. The same can be said for the former British North America, which became the independent Canadian state in 1887.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Over the past several decades I have traveled many times to Canada and have developed a very close affection for that country and its people. I have traveled personally and professionally across the country from Nova Scotia to British Columbia, and I have always been greeted with Her Majesty’s portrait on Canadian coins and currency although there is no Canadian law that requires that the current British sovereign appear on the country’s monetary instruments, or that the design of the money be changed when one dies. Nevertheless, the Royal Canadian Mint has included the likeness of the current reigning monarch on its coins and bank notes when it started production in 1908. Since then, four monarchs have been featured: Edward VII, George V, George VI, and Elizabeth II. The Royal Canadian Mint has kept open the possibility that future currency may look different. “We are working on a plan to issue a variety of coins commemorating Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s lifetime of service as Queen of Canada,” the Royal Canadian Mint has announced. “The Mint will also support the Government of Canada as it works to determine a new design for future Canadian coins.”</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-gtCZIZa2Y6VtOPVIQhHaez4xCSexITKX2_2zDLyRM142DnLizKwSsJYfUPSmos2qzbUwVUlSLuwEGNeNATbzmfPKBRsssD6yrBVNv4uNvAiEWZ1d__9qS1NOaGdKC-iS_6nbngcO2AIqRCGxLurKuuGXC0GG1PlboFIcLDwP5bgqH1-nxieYvup/s1200/Shirley%20Temple%20queen%201935.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1200" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-gtCZIZa2Y6VtOPVIQhHaez4xCSexITKX2_2zDLyRM142DnLizKwSsJYfUPSmos2qzbUwVUlSLuwEGNeNATbzmfPKBRsssD6yrBVNv4uNvAiEWZ1d__9qS1NOaGdKC-iS_6nbngcO2AIqRCGxLurKuuGXC0GG1PlboFIcLDwP5bgqH1-nxieYvup/w468-h285/Shirley%20Temple%20queen%201935.jpg" width="468" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Canada did update its bank notes in 1937 after George VI became king, but the update was prompted by a new law to make all of Canada’s paper currency bilingual. The Bank of Canada took the opportunity to also add George VI’s likeness on all but two denominations of bills. Canada is unusual among Commonwealth nations in featuring the child Princess Elizabeth on a bank note. She was eight when photographed, and in retrospect, it looks as though someone at the Bank of Canada had a crystal ball. Nobody could have known that she would become first in line to the throne a year later. In 1935, she was just one among a half-dozen of King George V’s family members to appear on the Bank’s first series of notes. Canadian bank notes are unique in having featured both the child princess and the 90-year-old monarch – plus four other portraits of the Queen in between. We have watched her grow up and age gracefully. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRz2MF1IfjVHOI_c_cf-sANdyxdeEk9EIJV7i2Fib8_TRPdg7mgM8_aHcXlC0rJJ13a4nwe0XoeWn9SUMbBtm-JiXjNNuvqTJ8mlWHoQ6dgA1rKSlvvyZL9UkAHq4CcJbb02xUvo3LVvQqlzL1Pz4u4-porejoG_q4SP4e8ELyJWl95ixtEUZ-mPch/s1200/Landscape%20Series%201954.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1200" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRz2MF1IfjVHOI_c_cf-sANdyxdeEk9EIJV7i2Fib8_TRPdg7mgM8_aHcXlC0rJJ13a4nwe0XoeWn9SUMbBtm-JiXjNNuvqTJ8mlWHoQ6dgA1rKSlvvyZL9UkAHq4CcJbb02xUvo3LVvQqlzL1Pz4u4-porejoG_q4SP4e8ELyJWl95ixtEUZ-mPch/w452-h275/Landscape%20Series%201954.jpg" width="452" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Canada introduced the “Landscape Series” currency in 1954, a couple of years after Queen Elizabeth II ascended to the throne. She replaced her father on the country’s bank notes, and since then she has appeared on various denominations. The two dollar bill my uncle gave to me was part of this series. This is the first official portrait of the reigning Queen Elizabeth to appear on a Canadian bank note. This portrait became known as the famous “Devil’s Head” portrait when some claimed to see a devil’s face in the hair above the Queen’s ear. This created quite an outrage among diehard monarchists and the portrait was quietly altered. The Queen appeared on every denomination of this series—the last time this would happen. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvsyndaOKFWc7sO_A7CuvXdqrgz7g2asxO2oDQ5N18JrzsSTCLbbSry2nJ407HSZ8ToUuTfWj1EkyhRFgj_-0EdscQK5X34ulshUere1yy2jzxr-h3IMD1U9ubo1n4qGzqvFqBMfhtuspsRNWZNXLWsKL1388INgJwBP8j_4ZdE9eNFxOwhajkkQqm/s1200/Scenes%20of%20Canda%20Seiess%201969.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1200" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvsyndaOKFWc7sO_A7CuvXdqrgz7g2asxO2oDQ5N18JrzsSTCLbbSry2nJ407HSZ8ToUuTfWj1EkyhRFgj_-0EdscQK5X34ulshUere1yy2jzxr-h3IMD1U9ubo1n4qGzqvFqBMfhtuspsRNWZNXLWsKL1388INgJwBP8j_4ZdE9eNFxOwhajkkQqm/w474-h289/Scenes%20of%20Canda%20Seiess%201969.jpg" width="474" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It would be two decades before the “Scene of Canada Series” was introduced in 1974. As in the previous series, the Queen was intended to appear on all denominations of this series. It was decided, however, that Canadian notes should also recognize certain former Canadian prime ministers, and in the end the Queen appeared only on the $1, $2 and $20 notes. The new portrait was based on a photograph taken by a “court photographer.” Like the 1954 series, the Queen is not wearing a royal tiara as the Bank of Canada preferred it this way.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSyFYDhlfuhyHgVI4X7eaD3rhF8J5eSDfmnEpAktHFbsQ2AbriI61kAGLVF-MAsxlop7AMYMa1eC-3GRA9C6AxQiBoodzYjXE6qi2dUCdXvwZqS_aizxhxggni3I9rQpKbtk-9M_FwVPnuT-Ck73UXZqzH7Q12vAYvFWg3TTJdZ0SCjV0HKqCVIOn/s1200/Birds%20of%20Canada%20Sereis%201991.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1200" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSyFYDhlfuhyHgVI4X7eaD3rhF8J5eSDfmnEpAktHFbsQ2AbriI61kAGLVF-MAsxlop7AMYMa1eC-3GRA9C6AxQiBoodzYjXE6qi2dUCdXvwZqS_aizxhxggni3I9rQpKbtk-9M_FwVPnuT-Ck73UXZqzH7Q12vAYvFWg3TTJdZ0SCjV0HKqCVIOn/w485-h296/Birds%20of%20Canada%20Sereis%201991.jpg" width="485" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The “Birds of Canada Series” was first circulated in 1986. Also based on a court photograph. The portrait is larger than on previous series. The Queen wore a string of pearls given to her by her grandfather, King George V. This series was the first to delete the $1 note, replacing it with a coin popularly known as the “Loonie” as it bears the engraving of a Common Loon. The $2 note was subsequently withdrawn in 1996 and replaced by the $2 coin now referred to as the “Toonie.” The Queen only appears on the $20 note. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7rwAq3by7q1QJeE3EL9PlDSQqpl-ab5RmnXgNXF5V6oRVLI5pzNwYnJHoP79dNPcGa9rFSg-o1ZM2DBLBESu8sVl5Q-IUP1uD9k94V3Ev1PbgXBPMHhS_tkg8CiF-czEofrHnoQapWnUTvJbWz0HnUP4iScW38gtNKw4sG6EJ4-JAlv2S-DrRHLL/s1200/Blog-Queen-of-the-banknotes-Canadian-journey-series-1200x730.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1200" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7rwAq3by7q1QJeE3EL9PlDSQqpl-ab5RmnXgNXF5V6oRVLI5pzNwYnJHoP79dNPcGa9rFSg-o1ZM2DBLBESu8sVl5Q-IUP1uD9k94V3Ev1PbgXBPMHhS_tkg8CiF-czEofrHnoQapWnUTvJbWz0HnUP4iScW38gtNKw4sG6EJ4-JAlv2S-DrRHLL/w462-h282/Blog-Queen-of-the-banknotes-Canadian-journey-series-1200x730.jpg" width="462" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The “Canadian Journey Series” began circulation in early 2001 and was the first series to be conceived and designed on a computer although the portrait of the Queen on the $20 note was still created by hand as a steel engraving and has been described as “probably the finest portrait of the mature monarch to appear on any bank note.” Even the Queen seemed particularly pleased with it.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyex-IIUTV0KLJpkpphWnlzkLqtRLEfcJgvj_ahW2aWNX7-7LZidi4eC49ydCL2MLQ-D-TDi0rqc427feCfez8YctmymwsGY_-JADO6HbcXv5rKY2Upetx6WB8EzjYIj2a4W2uDoCJE1zirQg6JB1CbiZqJSbPG5HJhaeoEtdy6PISdwHPWYRquWnq/s1280/Blog-Queen-of-the-banknotes-frontiers-series-1280x596.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="1280" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyex-IIUTV0KLJpkpphWnlzkLqtRLEfcJgvj_ahW2aWNX7-7LZidi4eC49ydCL2MLQ-D-TDi0rqc427feCfez8YctmymwsGY_-JADO6HbcXv5rKY2Upetx6WB8EzjYIj2a4W2uDoCJE1zirQg6JB1CbiZqJSbPG5HJhaeoEtdy6PISdwHPWYRquWnq/w464-h216/Blog-Queen-of-the-banknotes-frontiers-series-1280x596.jpg" width="464" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The most recent series, the “Frontier Series,” was released in November 2012. Once again, the $20 note features a portrait of Elizabeth II based on a photograph commissioned by the Bank of Canada in the 2000s and receiving the Queen’s approval for use on the banknote. In September 2015, the Bank of Canada released a modified version of the banknote to commemorate Elizabeth II surpassing her great-great-</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">grandmother Victoria as the longest-reigning sovereign in British and Canadian history. becoming the longest-reigning monarch of the United Kingdom and Canada. It features the royal cipher of Elizabeth II and her portrait dating from 1951, the first Canadian banknote to depict Elizabeth II wearing a tiara. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Queen’s image is represented on the currency of dozens of countries of the Commonwealth which she ushered in during her long reign. The most populous of these being Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Tradition suggests that King Charles III will eventually replace the Queen on these countries’ currencies, although such changes have yet to be announced. “The passing of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II marks the end of an era for our country,” the Royal Canadian Mint announced. It is currently working with the Government of Canada on any future changes. Regardless, Canadian currency bearing the late Queen’s likeness will remain in circulation indefinitely.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So, this is my own small, and perhaps unique, tribute to the passing of Queen Elizabeth II who ascended the British throne a month prior to my first birthday. Far from being a monarchist, I have long looked upon her as a symbol of continuity in a fast-changing world. And now she is gone.</span> </div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-46254426569818696902022-11-06T11:50:00.000-05:002022-11-06T11:50:04.462-05:00A Return From Hiatus<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-F8UsDGnRTkVRK7H_FMxr8SOoHPBX7pH3Rnbbbhv8LQJO8xw2fv_aCLpDFipYxYOBp6rK3Vc_AC92FKnXSsU1bdOqmcCl72UIZibpQjef1NnfTDgsaJsS4KzBrey18N7o7qNyjsSKZuskEYtT1YBSEOokIkKIIsh5vsn052a74jSR_1dd3Lbg_rP/s1800/278372545_5405735712822255_5569128759674310204_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-F8UsDGnRTkVRK7H_FMxr8SOoHPBX7pH3Rnbbbhv8LQJO8xw2fv_aCLpDFipYxYOBp6rK3Vc_AC92FKnXSsU1bdOqmcCl72UIZibpQjef1NnfTDgsaJsS4KzBrey18N7o7qNyjsSKZuskEYtT1YBSEOokIkKIIsh5vsn052a74jSR_1dd3Lbg_rP/w502-h334/278372545_5405735712822255_5569128759674310204_n.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monhegan Island - Harbor and Village</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> have not posted anything here since mid April. It had been a long, cold and wet winter and spring arrived later than usual. The cherry blossoms came and went, yet the feel of spring was never in the air. We had a few days of more seasonable weather, but then it turned cool again, as if spring was never quite sure of itself. There was even some light snow around DC in early April. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Washington Nationals, our local Boys of Summer, returned with a new season of baseball only to quickly drop into the divisional cellar. There was early hope their bats would warm with the arrival of some seasonal spring weather, but they never emerged from those nether rankings, always seeming to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. They certainly looked nothing like the 2019 World Series champions. Bad went to worse, and they ended the season with a miserable record of 55-107 and 46 games out of first place and 16 games behind the next worst team . . . the worst record in all of Major League Baseball. There was certainly no reason to head off to Nationals Park to witness such an atrocity. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic in March 2020, we had not undertaken our regular escape to the lake cottage in New Gloucester, Maine which had been our summer holiday destination since 1988, and where we have spent June-October since my retirement in March 2010. Given the restrictions on travel and mandatory quarantines when entering the state, and with bans on travel to many of our local haunts, we chose not to travel during the summer of 2020. We did plan to return in 2021, and again this past summer, but due to circumstances beyond our control, our access to our little piece of heaven on Sabbathday Lake was taken from us. We remain heartbroken given our 32-year association with the lake cottage, but we are attempting to move on. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This year brought with it opportunities to travel more than we have since the beginning of the pandemic. In early June we traveled to Columbus, Ohio where I had the first opportunity in two years to visit with my 97 year old mother and my only sister (who turned 65 while we were there) and her family, including my four year old great-nephew. We had a COVID scare on our way home, but it turned out to be nothing and to date we have not been impacted by the pandemic as we remain fully vaccinated and boosted.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYg3wDRv6HD4AgAR4HIe-Ohij5XP8DuPCBZ2JZmnvGuM8IBb9O6KjlxCMGkNuYVDHXHdV1o_-p0H2hi5DQPkVfQaDfYQQbhaPhuScfKaujSLyPUC4bn6-257HXzoXMrCTHbkIbiKbGltY4aaSZghzM1KdjESvUMxrmK9GoK6l_gNGe9EzrSzl7Sx8F/s1125/314060205_642369680924910_6103094201085510320_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="1125" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYg3wDRv6HD4AgAR4HIe-Ohij5XP8DuPCBZ2JZmnvGuM8IBb9O6KjlxCMGkNuYVDHXHdV1o_-p0H2hi5DQPkVfQaDfYQQbhaPhuScfKaujSLyPUC4bn6-257HXzoXMrCTHbkIbiKbGltY4aaSZghzM1KdjESvUMxrmK9GoK6l_gNGe9EzrSzl7Sx8F/w468-h158/314060205_642369680924910_6103094201085510320_n.jpg" width="468" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We headed to Maine in early August, spending a couple of nights in Newport, Rhode Island with dear lifetime friends and their two delightful children which we look upon as our ersatz grandkids. It was the first visit to the area for both of us and we thoroughly enjoyed our time there. Then it was on to Maine and a return to Monhegan Island which we have been visiting annually since 1999. We have now decided that it will be our default summer Maine address from here on out.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There is something magical about this small one square mile island situated a dozen miles off Mid-Coast Maine. Captain John Smith was the first European to land on the island in 1614 although there is some evidence Viking explorers were there long before that. We have enjoyed being a part of this island community each summer and reveling in its rich history and it place in the evolution of American art over the past century. It is a place where we can take each day as it comes and we have found it an ideal place to relax, to write and paint while enjoying the fresh sea breezes off the Gulf of Maine and some stunning sunsets.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXR_x82KpCzW7jnpWwuc3EXlKWJ4InJHHIF6uPan0BumdldWwHm9cnK154Y7vi1IP3aNXsW_Yh1Fi-I90ycraztpkHVxh161XJ5bUHfk7yEs47iNyRwkPXuPRmyLCoGt_5PvMX3AEvAdc0OGOenjqYsAlUZOu_8QnOvjOHX9TguK2ZYF2qSFwxV_U/s534/313900941_1467336393754974_2040051234584366956_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="534" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXR_x82KpCzW7jnpWwuc3EXlKWJ4InJHHIF6uPan0BumdldWwHm9cnK154Y7vi1IP3aNXsW_Yh1Fi-I90ycraztpkHVxh161XJ5bUHfk7yEs47iNyRwkPXuPRmyLCoGt_5PvMX3AEvAdc0OGOenjqYsAlUZOu_8QnOvjOHX9TguK2ZYF2qSFwxV_U/w469-h224/313900941_1467336393754974_2040051234584366956_n.jpg" width="469" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeJYXyqFQn6Tz9Cz5xf3OQ0IcIzT-0hziPMBKS_EWmqhK9c37QKZUkpwE_XiD4_KyWdkEQtqO57ojmpuwB0ZSy65ssnzW2uckE4Ug1L7654V6m01fgaCt_udBl07j01ddc7IqXGvtUYaGV_jMFtzF8PnXpE5CY6ttwXy4D1pm0TZE5ZwL_6swqCcQ/s537/314396560_1067752863891827_3791744994875017431_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="537" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeJYXyqFQn6Tz9Cz5xf3OQ0IcIzT-0hziPMBKS_EWmqhK9c37QKZUkpwE_XiD4_KyWdkEQtqO57ojmpuwB0ZSy65ssnzW2uckE4Ug1L7654V6m01fgaCt_udBl07j01ddc7IqXGvtUYaGV_jMFtzF8PnXpE5CY6ttwXy4D1pm0TZE5ZwL_6swqCcQ/w472-h354/314396560_1067752863891827_3791744994875017431_n.jpg" width="472" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Returning to the mainland several days later we traveled to the far northern reaches of New Hampshire which we had also not visited for three years. It was nice to see some old friends and to explore the Great North Wood, just a little piece of heaven on earth. I have been regularly traveling there for years having stumbled upon this area quite by accident. I don’t know what I expected to find, but what I discovered was a country of beautiful landscapes and friendly people. It is a nearly pristine wilderness with far more trees, streams and lakes than people, and I have come to think of it as my “panic hole,” as Jim Harrison might have called it - a place where I can go to escape the stress and anxieties associated with my everyday existence. It is a place of solitude, of peace and quiet. The locals call it “God’s Country” and after spending a great deal of time there I have come to agree with them. Twelve years ago, on one such winter trip to the area, I trekked into the snowy back country above the Connecticut Lakes to consider retirement after a 32 year career with the Department of Justice, in Washington, DC. What would the rest of my life hold for me? The mind cleansed itself with each inhalation of the crisp, cold mountain air. When asked why he liked the Middle Eastern deserts, T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) supposedly replied: “Because it’s clean.” The same can be said for the Great North Woods of New Hampshire in any season. Trek into the woods and you will not find anything so pristine . . . so quiet . . . so clean. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Our next stop was Knowlton [Lac-Brome], in Québec’s Eastern Townships. It is the home of Brome Lake Books, made famous as the exemplar for the small bookstore in Three Pines, the fictional Townships village in the crime novels by Louise Penney. It has become a mecca for Ms. Penny’s many devotees and fans, and she currently resides nearby. Then it </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCra7TyAdva5q0MaJdHxTazCl1qq37q5hJH0KhYcnK0ez2XiosvMyVRwM7Bg48zH662t6emoNNfIuNWBWFW4pY0EwzLxDSl4gdMpRsKfnPIMsVTHAY333VKSZ1Xp3lGwZCtYUvKRFxF1EWbsJ0fZAp44t3WvqX47Wb8J-HRKjsCtETH7CrSUrW_EQN/s1423/314417002_3298754930337190_6015096904144696566_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1423" data-original-width="1117" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCra7TyAdva5q0MaJdHxTazCl1qq37q5hJH0KhYcnK0ez2XiosvMyVRwM7Bg48zH662t6emoNNfIuNWBWFW4pY0EwzLxDSl4gdMpRsKfnPIMsVTHAY333VKSZ1Xp3lGwZCtYUvKRFxF1EWbsJ0fZAp44t3WvqX47Wb8J-HRKjsCtETH7CrSUrW_EQN/w276-h352/314417002_3298754930337190_6015096904144696566_n.jpg" width="276" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">was on to Frelighsburg situated on the banks of the meandering Rivière Aux Brochets in the rolling orchard and vineyard country less than three miles above the US border and Vermont. The village has long been one of my favorite spots in the Eastern Townships which I visit as often as I can. Even though it is not among the locales frequently cited as a</span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjOHP8qeXeuJFrgXE-Yv7RblZp5WX_oiBY8Jhn0emkCFooHRtKu8vH8UQYGPqoOahTs9cD6fJX7Ex7LwOgBCuYx_LbBwuPjnwD0GWhrzp4VPbOL4TRMsM4lM5XJScSnTI2xDRounRwxuSL5uZP2BbWrhJXUzRqQTg9y9XqjVXuMl5JkmG2p62cQB2/s1212/314190048_1521114591644169_175952296094785042_n.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="891" height="407" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjOHP8qeXeuJFrgXE-Yv7RblZp5WX_oiBY8Jhn0emkCFooHRtKu8vH8UQYGPqoOahTs9cD6fJX7Ex7LwOgBCuYx_LbBwuPjnwD0GWhrzp4VPbOL4TRMsM4lM5XJScSnTI2xDRounRwxuSL5uZP2BbWrhJXUzRqQTg9y9XqjVXuMl5JkmG2p62cQB2/w299-h407/314190048_1521114591644169_175952296094785042_n.jpg" width="299" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">possible model for the fictional Three Pines, I have always pictured Frelighsburg in my mind’s eye when envisioning the layout of and the action taking place there in the novels. And there are three pines standing in front of the village hall. We enjoyed a relaxing lunch on a river-side terrace. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We returned to Maine for a few days to visit friends and to take care of some local business while returning to some of our favorite haunts from so many past summers. Our return was met with some trepidation given the feeling that we had been cast out of Eden for no reason under our control. Still, it was good to be back although I could not bring myself to visit the lake that had been a place of so many pleasant dreams. Just as in years past, it was difficult to leave but we did so in the knowledge that we will be returning to coastal Maine and Monhegan Island again next summer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">A few short weeks later we found ourselves returning to Ohio for another family visit. After a week there we continued to southwestern Michigan where my parents both grew up and where many of my kinfolk continue to live. Growing up, my family’s frequent visits to my grandparent’s small farmstead provided an opportunity to become familiar with an environment and lifestyle much different from the one I knew in Chicago, Detroit, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, and the other cities and towns from my youth. Edward Abbey, pondering his adopted home in the Arizona desert, once remarked that "every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary." Like Abbey's desert solitaire, I still carry in my heart and mind those childhood images of the rural landscape of southwestern Michigan. Though I have continued to live in an urban environment, I still think fondly of the Michigan farmstead of my youth. "This Midwest. A</span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgyyHHaUzHVPuD6Uo7FheaRs8AIT-lE3e3K4BkWhlcoSVFGUF21WBVg7gsiP3IN2EnKhNqWeOSHo2_7O3EDjfpIOYIgZn0nJtR5AFnc20EaGRr8XDVGmAENLo45fxAtHJ638xtmUFzvrsDwezWPWs2qQgjG-F7yUa_1fMe7FJgUIW7Zw08p1CJfLYu/s311/aaa001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="311" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgyyHHaUzHVPuD6Uo7FheaRs8AIT-lE3e3K4BkWhlcoSVFGUF21WBVg7gsiP3IN2EnKhNqWeOSHo2_7O3EDjfpIOYIgZn0nJtR5AFnc20EaGRr8XDVGmAENLo45fxAtHJ638xtmUFzvrsDwezWPWs2qQgjG-F7yUa_1fMe7FJgUIW7Zw08p1CJfLYu/w460-h308/aaa001.jpg" width="460" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my buddy Knight circa 1955</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">dissonance of parts and people, we are a consonance of towns," writes William Gass in Heart of the Heart of the Country. "Our outlook never really urban, never rural either, we enlarge and linger at the same time, as Alice both changed and remained in her story." Today my escapes to the countryside are an attempt to grasp these fleeting images. Perhaps someday I will find them and hold them tightly until those bright city lights, that abiding hum, fades away. And I will linger there forever. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhY1M-fSC69OMaUhNK3li8DYKtY9FvopHPQPMIbuNvbo9qc0FqJHo_9iwpsf40JF5NjBQssyBXKBkMhIXLxk3R5VfWwITiiCXJVX6LAyoy_6hcDNfRLp_x_Rieclnlplt2rxXWKbYPrFZRnYNjLgjfEEXi3Y4dAPGcTXWpcEiQv-w0i2N20ylEwjY8/s282/aaa.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="282" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhY1M-fSC69OMaUhNK3li8DYKtY9FvopHPQPMIbuNvbo9qc0FqJHo_9iwpsf40JF5NjBQssyBXKBkMhIXLxk3R5VfWwITiiCXJVX6LAyoy_6hcDNfRLp_x_Rieclnlplt2rxXWKbYPrFZRnYNjLgjfEEXi3Y4dAPGcTXWpcEiQv-w0i2N20ylEwjY8/w442-h410/aaa.jpg" width="442" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Returning to the old farmstead I was saddened to see how much it had fallen into disrepair over the years. The barn has collapsed, and trees are emerging from its skeletal remains. Gone, too, is the small one room schoolhouse where I began my formal education when I went to live with my grandparents while my folks were traveling on business. This recent visit was also a chance to visit the family graves and to remember </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFOjQvZCJQowNcGDW9JeQzX1UnpY0-rpmbFZ17_orD2jYqPn_SZpxdFQtIWrlMcKdOzlsjmfnk5x1wVQE3ELkOCIgU6og4tPMwfE8xBoEQCiHkNSzNo0wMsdtiLPhXL_UF_KwqJmUS6C_7vc2UkmhaE97Rrs9muMO_Rs5SXEvVn9TnX750fpSv099/s1125/314027873_5586479361429410_6090152681288642444_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFOjQvZCJQowNcGDW9JeQzX1UnpY0-rpmbFZ17_orD2jYqPn_SZpxdFQtIWrlMcKdOzlsjmfnk5x1wVQE3ELkOCIgU6og4tPMwfE8xBoEQCiHkNSzNo0wMsdtiLPhXL_UF_KwqJmUS6C_7vc2UkmhaE97Rrs9muMO_Rs5SXEvVn9TnX750fpSv099/w459-h344/314027873_5586479361429410_6090152681288642444_n.jpg" width="459" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">all of those who had gone before. We also had lunch with several of my cousins who have remained in the area; some of them I had not seen for many years. My mom’s two surviving siblings also joined us. I find the older I get the more important it has become to stay in touch with what family I still have. This is not always easy to do, but I take a certain degree of comfort in doing what I can to keep the channels open. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Michigan visit was also an opportunity to spend some time along the Lake Michigan shoreline. The Great Lakes very much figured into my younger days, and it was nice to see one of them again. My wife searched for sea glass at several spots, and I enjoyed the view across lake’s broad expanse to </span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEpqnozpLt1E_QMViRF_2K9cHsqnAslnRIEwngrHFP6deexY0oOhle2wvaAVUQuN-Kt8p0nc7cGsnJe7PtyWbjZVujaodUuzN0EWD4v24op_JplQPmdC-7vfrinm6rzH-HErbfxs_lnzuOdnc6t_9_-_mn79M22aS7OVgPX_Bz1GyvCs1NLE4jaxW/s1125/313995978_645294103982982_952885665291299524_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1125" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEpqnozpLt1E_QMViRF_2K9cHsqnAslnRIEwngrHFP6deexY0oOhle2wvaAVUQuN-Kt8p0nc7cGsnJe7PtyWbjZVujaodUuzN0EWD4v24op_JplQPmdC-7vfrinm6rzH-HErbfxs_lnzuOdnc6t_9_-_mn79M22aS7OVgPX_Bz1GyvCs1NLE4jaxW/w448-h335/313995978_645294103982982_952885665291299524_n.jpg" width="448" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Michigan at South Haven</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">the horizon while dreaming of local seafood. One evening we had dinner at Clementine’s, in South Haven, where I was treated to a “mess of perch” and recollections of the many Friday evening fish fries I attended when I was young and still had my feet firmly planted in America’s upper Midwest. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2ADH7485zjZMZeImtiRmd6Zvij0GVPDw69OmBts4O5hp2Ui-KXfapRaDdVCw_KgOvI2AmYN9POt0TiTabqhgmOr2mHo6WOLOoIzVl2wNoUP7TMoR55KAs28uU8FYDes1qzl-oSbucN5MiEi6sss2q1ad6pltFbGRyjoYRqHxGfMC6OLKROWjFt7q/s403/314391981_654026396280853_9054000810477905434_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="403" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2ADH7485zjZMZeImtiRmd6Zvij0GVPDw69OmBts4O5hp2Ui-KXfapRaDdVCw_KgOvI2AmYN9POt0TiTabqhgmOr2mHo6WOLOoIzVl2wNoUP7TMoR55KAs28uU8FYDes1qzl-oSbucN5MiEi6sss2q1ad6pltFbGRyjoYRqHxGfMC6OLKROWjFt7q/w471-h353/314391981_654026396280853_9054000810477905434_n.jpg" width="471" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Of course, no visit to the area would be complete without a visit to St. Julian’s winery and distillery in Paw Paw which recently celebrated its centennial,</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> and which has had a close connection with my family, several of whom have worked there over the years. Paw Paw, between Kalamazoo and Lake Michigan, is the center of a well-established, but less well-known wine producing area. There are two family-owned wineries in town where grapes and fruit grown in vineyards and orchards throughout the surrounding countryside are transformed into wines and sherries which are then distributed throughout the Midwest. When President Gerald Ford, from nearby Grand Rapids, moved into the White House in the summer of 1974, he brought with him some local Michigan wines. I tasted several and eventually returned home with a case of selected wines.</span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There was a moment of nostalgia on the return home. Passing through Toledo, Ohio we took a short detour to Garrison Road in the DeVeaux neighborhood on the city’s northwest side. My family lived there for a time in 1958-1959 when my dad was working on a project for the Otis Elevator Company. Although in the years since I have passed through Toledo on occasion on my way to someplace else, I had never been back to the old neighborhood. It was surprising now unchanged it was, looking very much like I remembered it. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-5VGutoah2xX36wfNatNuhqwuf2u2dEE11x4FmZwU8qi4zHd5dtRAiiyoERzmSaXgFtOOWk3vRK5dt1ebMjHIqwKB1S57pCl7biyET4ReXDTzTNEhJ6TrJW8hodwu9KyM2uUUA-VWw_okH5_prxeu27A6fZ8glpDy949aoGc2HvOCU3Y-kzaxXm2/s1125/309926103_3216651275224677_3707638860083014549_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-5VGutoah2xX36wfNatNuhqwuf2u2dEE11x4FmZwU8qi4zHd5dtRAiiyoERzmSaXgFtOOWk3vRK5dt1ebMjHIqwKB1S57pCl7biyET4ReXDTzTNEhJ6TrJW8hodwu9KyM2uUUA-VWw_okH5_prxeu27A6fZ8glpDy949aoGc2HvOCU3Y-kzaxXm2/w474-h356/309926103_3216651275224677_3707638860083014549_n.jpg" width="474" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Our block of Garrison Road is still a quiet, tree-lined residential </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">street. The backyard of our old house now has an in-ground swimming pool where I used to practice skating on a makeshift ice rink. The creek at the end of the street where we used to ice skate has been routed underground and the original Elmhurst Elementary a couple blocks away has been replaced by a newer and larger building. Although we did not live there very long, I still have very strong memories. It was along our block of Garrison Road where I first learned to ride my bike without training wheels, and it was there the neighborhood kids were introduced to the new Hula Hoop craze. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We returned to Maine for a week in October to take care of some unfinished business and to visits some spots we had missed in August. Once again, we stopped over in Newport Rhode Island on our way north. The autumn weather was absolutely gorgeous to match the fabulous fall foliage. We spent most of our time along the coast watching the waves </span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZAas6J3ZMFYzABigakHhHydoV-K1x9-dh5hmvapy7dOW6tncvkG6d3c_xZPwcArmSuufSoBGUqbChWDhUzO9f-5rrQYpHEz3UsbhyOZWb84rFWGxsptMeKSx5zLqyisDCuwWbHiAC06CWjqiP8mClT-FlEiBqS7WRXnXnIiySfKHDxsurj6kSL_U/s698/314333006_1410386412824813_4182485541558284968_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="698" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZAas6J3ZMFYzABigakHhHydoV-K1x9-dh5hmvapy7dOW6tncvkG6d3c_xZPwcArmSuufSoBGUqbChWDhUzO9f-5rrQYpHEz3UsbhyOZWb84rFWGxsptMeKSx5zLqyisDCuwWbHiAC06CWjqiP8mClT-FlEiBqS7WRXnXnIiySfKHDxsurj6kSL_U/w469-h271/314333006_1410386412824813_4182485541558284968_n.jpg" width="469" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monhegan Island in the distance</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">break along the shoreline and enjoying the local seafood. We spent a day at the Farnesworth Art Museum to enjoy the current Wyeth exhibits. I always enjoy revisiting many favorites paintings while being introduced to others I had never seen before. One gallery included Andrew Wyeth’s studies and completed early egg tempera paintings dating from the 1930s, while another gallery focused on a selection of his various island paintings across the years, including “Good-Bye,” his very last painting completed in 2008. We visited friends, enjoyed the local seafood, and I had perhaps one of the best ribeye steaks ever placed before me. The trip was far too brief, but we always enjoy any time we get to spend in Maine, and we look forward to our return next summer. It can’t come soon enough.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGvnoD_8ovs5Xeo-zoX0eHbsVIDjxTkHhvd5QvYLl_EpGsnXQ025kfYAhN7bxT8BHuLreS6_mamTU9WI2dG6DLE7BbRk6qnZdOPRILZcObip6LmgdORLb3EN9jdusaQZJA5EfDWVKBtGnI0HEjI7hVaH4ydBS6bmQrT9M0s76SQpiBeEpnhgs_ke-/s1125/313989240_1575022409595171_8134664755658198801_n%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="1125" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGvnoD_8ovs5Xeo-zoX0eHbsVIDjxTkHhvd5QvYLl_EpGsnXQ025kfYAhN7bxT8BHuLreS6_mamTU9WI2dG6DLE7BbRk6qnZdOPRILZcObip6LmgdORLb3EN9jdusaQZJA5EfDWVKBtGnI0HEjI7hVaH4ydBS6bmQrT9M0s76SQpiBeEpnhgs_ke-/w476-h268/313989240_1575022409595171_8134664755658198801_n%20(1).jpg" width="476" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">When we were not traveling, I was focusing as much attention as I could revising the text of my first novel. I have been pleased with the outcome although it has been taking me longer than I had intended. So, staying up-to-date with my planned blog entries has paid the price. There are just so many hours in a day. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I hope I am back on track. Finger crossed. </span></div> <p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-28888673126563269432022-04-19T14:03:00.001-04:002022-04-19T14:03:43.425-04:00Spring Has Barely Sprung<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQh9YkSSlbeu4dTFgZoo_VTeUKaLl4eXfR_CYFATEJuIMKGVRP0sw0HzN84pcmeLD3p0ywP_rwDH9J0GnXh_zL7f2FLPuQFpxonJc3A3HKpndJAVSeao1L7Vto91-H7EYMUr8BOCdoAnJljOFMdpbWpdRFBIBmb8YIUUTmgZ2dTcnvjjUapjN4mdtZ/s750/IMG_2430-750x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="750" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQh9YkSSlbeu4dTFgZoo_VTeUKaLl4eXfR_CYFATEJuIMKGVRP0sw0HzN84pcmeLD3p0ywP_rwDH9J0GnXh_zL7f2FLPuQFpxonJc3A3HKpndJAVSeao1L7Vto91-H7EYMUr8BOCdoAnJljOFMdpbWpdRFBIBmb8YIUUTmgZ2dTcnvjjUapjN4mdtZ/w487-h389/IMG_2430-750x600.jpg" width="487" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i><b>This is post #600.</b></i> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It has been a long, cold and wet winter and spring is late arriving this year. The cherry blossoms came and went, and they were as beautiful as always. But it just did not feel as if spring had actually arrived. Even the forsythia, that early harbinger of spring, took its own sweet time to bloom. Now the trees have leafed out, the grass has turned green, and the tulips and other flowers are in bloom. We had a couple days recently when the temperatures soared into the upper 80s, even into the low 90s, but it has turned cooler again, as if spring is not quite sure of itself. I thought it was at least safe to say that winter is over yet yesterday snow was falling on the edges of the DC metropolitan area. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Boys of Summer have returned, still those early season home games at Nationals Park were a bit on the chilly side. The Nats have been on the road but return home today and I cannot say the weather has improved that much. Unfortunately, neither has our hometown team that currently sits in the National League East cellar with one of the highest ERA averages in the Majors and the most walks issued. I heard on the radio this morning that the Nats are one of a handful of teams that has not had a day off since the season opened earlier this month due to the pre-season lockout and this has put added pressure on the bullpen that is still try find its rhythm. The Nats still have seven more games to play before their first break and hopefully the pitching staff will have found its groove by then and we can all take a breath. And maybe their bats will warm up now with the arrival of some seasonal spring weather this week and bigger home crowds cheering them on as they take on the Arizona, who is also in last place in its West Division, and San Francisco, who is tied for first in that division. So, we shall see.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Still, we should probably enjoy the cooler weather while it is still with us, for when the oppressive heat and humidity of a Mid-Atlantic summer returns, we will look back on this time and wonder why were complaining. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-6972700638532251212022-04-16T12:45:00.000-04:002022-04-16T12:45:50.916-04:00Shad - Some Thoughts on the American Fish<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLMy9yaGjiRWJ1ABvTt8FrJ4LxCgMU1Lu8SLUVO7dngYEVxXsuAMzC8SIAUBY_5DtKWxkYs7e-zDP2G-LhxTxgP2CgNKvWwiv_hfLePvvMR4-Ita_SnOivVKd1rUOUbvaetCXg0PJas7qvAP0n0dRDrzGeBGPjG27iGVe6na5SqMWNdWrdu8fXqVA/s1800/06.17_shad_issues_image.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLMy9yaGjiRWJ1ABvTt8FrJ4LxCgMU1Lu8SLUVO7dngYEVxXsuAMzC8SIAUBY_5DtKWxkYs7e-zDP2G-LhxTxgP2CgNKvWwiv_hfLePvvMR4-Ita_SnOivVKd1rUOUbvaetCXg0PJas7qvAP0n0dRDrzGeBGPjG27iGVe6na5SqMWNdWrdu8fXqVA/w502-h334/06.17_shad_issues_image.jpg" width="502" /></a></div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>I think that Europe never had</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A fish as tasty as the shad.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> — Ogden Nash</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I have been fishing since I was a very young boy . . . on the rivers and lakes of the American Midwest, the streams of western North Carolina and north Georgia, the interior and coastal waters of Florida and Maine, the headwaters of the Connecticut River in northern New Hampshire, and the Pacific waters off of Southern California. I have also fished in Canada, Ireland, France, as well as Germany and the UK where I was first introduced to shad. I never fished for them there, however, as shad had not been considered a food fish since the 19th century. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">European shad species – Allis shad and Twaite shad -- are members of the Clupeidae family – and are closely related to the herring and found from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean. They are an anadromous fish (living in both salt and freshwater environments). Mature shad spend their life at sea, but in the spring (usually in the month of May), shad of 4-6 years migrate far up rivers into freshwater to breed and spawn. The young shad live in freshwater for up to two years before they return to the sea where they will remain until they reach sexual maturity. Today shad are absent from many areas where they were once abundant; major European rivers such as the Rhine, Elbe and Thames are now devoid of shad and they are no longer found in landlocked European countries where they used to be present during their migrations. Overfishing and poor water quality have played a part, yet the biggest contributor to the reduction of shad populations are obstructions such as dams and weirs.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWyvwuJNz7bhPqRk_Z8ErqsvSigQgaSHrnuq-L_bY1-RNly94AZxrymO4cbubsuLbmTabrWoB9oYFqo15GigsEWekpezWwiAUX_nsyPlLnvnzoF-04o50WUhTdE_wb3S6j09zgmaV895TCYHA4ygCut0OvMb4FolvPdBnMOEJuUcWz1cAwtblRIRk/s800/WN-EP_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWyvwuJNz7bhPqRk_Z8ErqsvSigQgaSHrnuq-L_bY1-RNly94AZxrymO4cbubsuLbmTabrWoB9oYFqo15GigsEWekpezWwiAUX_nsyPlLnvnzoF-04o50WUhTdE_wb3S6j09zgmaV895TCYHA4ygCut0OvMb4FolvPdBnMOEJuUcWz1cAwtblRIRk/w480-h360/WN-EP_0.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I moved here to Maryland 46 years ago I was introduced to the waters of the Chesapeake and its tributaries. Yet there are two fish – according to John McPhee the “Founding Fish of America” – once common to the Eastern Seaboard and the Chesapeake that have largely remained a mystery to me. I am referring to the “delicious” American shad (<i>Alosa sapidissima</i>) and the hickory shad (<i>Alosa mediocris</i>). Like their European cousins, they are members of the herring family (<i>Clupeidae</i>) and spend the majority of their adult lives at sea and migrate up coastal rivers in April and May to spawn in freshwater. The best place to find shad is the Connecticut River (it is the state fish of Connecticut) although shad spawn in rivers as far south as Florida.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div>McPhee’s moniker is attributed to the fact that shad were a main food source for native Americans and colonists, and have been associated with other personalities and events of early American history, including William Penn, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Henry David Thoreau, and even Abraham Lincoln. There is the popular story – more likely a myth – that it was the shad that saved General George Washington’s Continental Army during its encampment at Valley Forge during the severe winter of 1777-1778. Threatened with starvation and little chance of fresh supplies, a false spring freshet supposedly enticed a “biblical proportion” of shad to begin an early run up the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers. Yet nowhere in his extensive letters and diary entries during that time did Washington make any reference to the miracle appearance of shad. Nor would a brief early freshet trigger such a large scale migration. Finally, archeological digs in the area have failed to turn up any shad bones in the vicinity of the winter encampment. Whether this story is true or not, it is clear that the shad was considered an important food source at the time. According to Rich Remer, writing for The Historical Society of Pennsylvania, “The magnitude of the spawning runs of the eighteenth and nineteenth century shad schools in America was legendary.” For most of American history, early spring meant a feast of shad although this tradition has since faded. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Shad has a particularly strong historical nexus with the Commonwealth of Virginia although its official state fish is the brook trout. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson were both partial to shad and it was frequently served at Mount Vernon and Monticello. Washington made a good income selling shad netted from the Potomac River. Records show that in 1772 alone, more than 1 million shad and herring were netted at Washington’s Virginia estate.</div><div><br /></div><div>Civil War soldiers had rations of shad, and John McPhee, in <i>The Founding Fish</i> (2002), tells us that it was shad that spelled doom for the General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia in early April 1865 as it was mounting a final defense of the Confederate capital at Richmond. On April 1, 1865, Lee’s headquarters was near Petersburg south of Richmond. With Union General Philip Sheridan and 3,000 troops advancing from the southeast, Lee ordered General George Pickett to defend Five Forks, a strategic road junction situated six miles south of the Appomattox River. It and the Southside Railroad were the last remaining supply lines to Richmond. Citing historian Shelby Foote, McPhee writes that when the battle ensued Pickett was two miles behind the Confederate line dining with Tom Rosser and Fitzhugh Lee, two other generals. The shad were running in the Appomattox River and Rosser had several caught for their midday dinner. By the time Pickett returned to his station his division had been routed and Lee was forced to evacuate Petersburg. Lee surrendered to Grant and Appomattox Courthouse eight days later.</div></div><div><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div>Shad has remained popular into the 21st century as a ritual meal for Virginia politicians during an annual springtime event known as shad planking. This tradition began shortly before World War II when Sussex County’s Democrats gathered to celebrate the annual shad spawning run on the James River. The fish were butterflied and nailed to hardwood oak planks and smoked over large wood fires. Begun primarily as a social gathering, it has since become a more bipartisan affair, often an opportunity for state politicians running for office to meet constituents and give speeches. But the real focus was on the shad served up with potato salad, collard greens, and cold beer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQnCJRLqDTP_SolSi6TSDhz_j1HFJdNLpWbixKFRm1DwIJjRXNFlkk71eukl3FoZH-aHDPbxumBKwjsbsfipU19Wp35vHChmAv_D5KvXMeMjbzh1uvN3KHffurpM32unhas4utamE3lO_9Ee7Br4SiQGYcAdbwXnneZr2aIw8OgWug-rAqkM6AYzzP/s1500/shad2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQnCJRLqDTP_SolSi6TSDhz_j1HFJdNLpWbixKFRm1DwIJjRXNFlkk71eukl3FoZH-aHDPbxumBKwjsbsfipU19Wp35vHChmAv_D5KvXMeMjbzh1uvN3KHffurpM32unhas4utamE3lO_9Ee7Br4SiQGYcAdbwXnneZr2aIw8OgWug-rAqkM6AYzzP/w475-h316/shad2.jpg" width="475" /></a></div><div>Given it importance throughout history it is safe to say that shad, whether it be smoked, grilled whole, baked, or deep-fried, makes for some mighty fine eating. Still, they are not to everyone’s liking. Many, like Ogden Nash, complain about it many bones. </div><div><div><i>Some people greet the shad with groans,</i></div><div><i>Complaining of its countless bones;</i></div><div><i>I claim the bones teach table poise</i></div><div><i>And separate the men from boys.</i></div><div>Shad have a sweet and delicate flesh that is healthy . . . but oh those bones! This problem can be partially alleviated by baking the fish to soften them. Others might be put off by it oily texture, but it has a wondrous flavor and is high in Omega 3. Just a little salt and pepper and spritz of lemon and its flesh will melt in your mouth. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Shad is also famous for its roe although it is not cheap. Females are laden with delicate eggs as they swim up their spawning rivers. A pair of lobe-shaped egg sacs can run upwards of $15 and they are only available in the early spring. Low in calories, roe is unfortunately high in cholesterol. Yet shad roe has one important quality going for it; “the roe is boneless, utterly” (Nash). Roe can be an acquired taste similar to that of liver and other sweetbreads, but when sautéed or fried properly to a golden brown in butter or bacon grease with a little garlic, it as a smooth and rich savory flavor, often taking on the those of whatever it is cooked with. Bacon has long been a traditional pairing with just a little bit of pepper, capers, and lemon. Taking caution to cook the roe at a low temperatures to avoid bursting the eggs sac, it can be eaten by itself or mixed with scrambled eggs, in an omelet, or with grits. Some prefer it raw served with cream cheese or a plain yogurt. </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOkWVMKajpXszsmZ7FDUtaL0it1wDOENx68JqTgSkpL1M728xBEnYvww-enK4gL_vUN4aH3WcpWwbNzBTEqymYDc_0sPH_HbKaED5mHza_E_6V6L7apklcIHH7GyAQI8WzrA-LrhNNJr_SNItD39CkXGuZmNgsEp_D99H0RnYOywZgbCf-L9q4Hmz/s1200/shad-season_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOkWVMKajpXszsmZ7FDUtaL0it1wDOENx68JqTgSkpL1M728xBEnYvww-enK4gL_vUN4aH3WcpWwbNzBTEqymYDc_0sPH_HbKaED5mHza_E_6V6L7apklcIHH7GyAQI8WzrA-LrhNNJr_SNItD39CkXGuZmNgsEp_D99H0RnYOywZgbCf-L9q4Hmz/w503-h264/shad-season_1.jpg" width="503" /></a></div>So what is so special about the shad today? My knowledge of the shad fishery is limited mainly to the Chesapeake Bay watershed, including the Susquehanna River headwaters and its eastern and western shore tributaries. Throughout the colonial period, schools of springtime migratory American shad became an important part of Chesapeake culture and the Bay’s largest and most important fishery. They make their spring migration from the Gulf of Mexico to the Chesapeake every year to spawn in the Bay’s many freshwater tributaries. Farmers would spread vast nets across the rivers and those not destined for the larder were used to fertilize crops. By summer, shad would leave the Bay and return to sea. The hickory shad, identified by its prominent protruding jaw, is often confused with American shad yet its is not as prominent in the Chesapeake and northward as the Bay is near the fish's northern limit. American shad are the largest (and considered the most delicious) of all the shads, often measuring 20-24 inches but can grow larger. The largest American shad ever recorded was 30 inches in length.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA215vx4fIwcjPUsDEga7PEbYRjSulQGKCg8bRxT8o5LYhhJg68AN9iGPkdfNFG-FnsE8rjKFXQMrNBYHOcn_d9KgBD0R_1chCOKHjqCIYGz5CATiEi90wz5VEX8wcumeFSG0KliGAG7lrEV53Mz-Y5S4plSIQOH2glkGWhW4mmHJBN9ZMAmOoA_48/s1627/Shad-Fishing-near-Port-Deposit-1905.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1084" data-original-width="1627" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA215vx4fIwcjPUsDEga7PEbYRjSulQGKCg8bRxT8o5LYhhJg68AN9iGPkdfNFG-FnsE8rjKFXQMrNBYHOcn_d9KgBD0R_1chCOKHjqCIYGz5CATiEi90wz5VEX8wcumeFSG0KliGAG7lrEV53Mz-Y5S4plSIQOH2glkGWhW4mmHJBN9ZMAmOoA_48/w489-h325/Shad-Fishing-near-Port-Deposit-1905.jpg" width="489" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Given it long association with the development of the United States, it is sad to say that the noble shad has fallen on hard times. Conservation experts have reported that the current American shad population is well below those of the early 20th century as a result of overfishing, dams construction, habitat destruction, and non-commercial by-catch from trawler fishing for other species on the open Atlantic. Many traditional shad fisheries, including the Chesapeake Bay watershed, have now been closed since 1980 with a moratorium on the harvesting of all shad to give the population a chance to rebuild this important fishery. Here in Maryland and DC (where it is also the official fish of the Nation’s Capital) both hickory and American shad have closed seasons and all fish must be immediately released. American shad are also closed in Virginia yet up to 10 hickory shad can be harvested on specified waterways. These moratoriums seem to be working as shad number are beginning to increase. Georgia and the Carolinas now have approved sustainable commercial shad fishing and they are probably the source of any shad currently found in stores and restaurants.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Beginning in the mid-1990's, the upper Chesapeake Bay stocks of American shad began to increase and a viable catch and release fishery reemerged in the Susquehanna River, particularly in the Maryland section below Conowingo Dam completed in 1928. Presently, the Susquehanna, Nanticoke, and Patuxent Rivers – all of them Bay tributaries – have seen their shad population rebound and remain relatively strong and are the primary systems that support viable American shad stocks in Maryland. Beginning last year steps have been taken to capture shad below the Conowingo Dam and trucking them upstream before releasing the fish back into the river to continue their spawning migration.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkPr3iyZAoDRndykEUUDDW-EqjH-toi7Yg1PXFk4wKtpPBWL2m3u3CEUfsbHZRvIrqhnsU_k4Hd2GF0SCII8cQ4e1SD4bahs9-h2QYEbRPfvi2Qj2q9617tDct84YDE7a3bxYsDwCMfc_Jh7Qb2yQXW_IwMka_68hT86Ovgorq0K6HjkBTJ_6HQ7o/s620/normal_iil_ian_jt_0590-600x390.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="620" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkPr3iyZAoDRndykEUUDDW-EqjH-toi7Yg1PXFk4wKtpPBWL2m3u3CEUfsbHZRvIrqhnsU_k4Hd2GF0SCII8cQ4e1SD4bahs9-h2QYEbRPfvi2Qj2q9617tDct84YDE7a3bxYsDwCMfc_Jh7Qb2yQXW_IwMka_68hT86Ovgorq0K6HjkBTJ_6HQ7o/w487-h316/normal_iil_ian_jt_0590-600x390.jpg" width="487" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">t has been many years since I first fished Maryland’s Susquehanna River below the Conowingo Dam built in 1928. An aquatic elevator, the largest of its kind in the world, was installed in 1991 at a cost of $12 million to, along with a smaller elevator constructed in 1972, lift fish almost 100 feet so that they might continue their spawning run into Pennsylvania and as far north as the Catskill Mountains in New York. Today there are four additional dams with “fishways” along the lower Susquehanna in Pennsylvania. These lifts were ostensibly constructed to assist the once abundant spring shad spawning migration leaving the Chesapeake just a dozen miles to the south of the Conowingo Dam and entering the Bay’s largest tributary. Anglers still target shad as a catch-and release fishery, and it was below the dam where I caught my first and only shad. Today most anglers at the dam are catching large catfish and smallmouth bass earning it praise as “ the best fish by a dam site.” Many hope to snag a nice and tasty blue catfish, and there are large flatheads holding in the dam pool looking for tidbits of fish coming out of the turbine wash. And there are always some shad in the mix if your timing is good during the spring.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcOY1d_lQG7nPpJPN-AmOErVDVVfj2KG_eJmt6mO8Q84_2eyziJhfg8LCB9XJkAVdIJvP2O2fzj6y1jpbH3M_NWRyZSOPIJvf5R8ftCItlcUKEm6yN3LXRaDi5aXlJ23QuIDWwTcuTwLVtYNsZ8NSrcd-qWSINBeGMg7Jmjcfjosnt0MVm4O3NGZW/s1800/oct_2_19_1800a-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcOY1d_lQG7nPpJPN-AmOErVDVVfj2KG_eJmt6mO8Q84_2eyziJhfg8LCB9XJkAVdIJvP2O2fzj6y1jpbH3M_NWRyZSOPIJvf5R8ftCItlcUKEm6yN3LXRaDi5aXlJ23QuIDWwTcuTwLVtYNsZ8NSrcd-qWSINBeGMg7Jmjcfjosnt0MVm4O3NGZW/w490-h326/oct_2_19_1800a-01.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is a sad fact that we will probably never again see the shad population return to its early abundance, the “savior fish” of the Native Americans and the early American colonists. That said, let us be thankful that there are efforts to same America’s Founding Fish.</span></span></div></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-36183183634981242972022-04-10T16:32:00.001-04:002022-04-11T08:50:20.408-04:00Riders on the Storm - Chasing Tornados<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPEHee5jXOviCHBVBMJzEl0p4mzbTZedigCL4piTfpewQGTnC8Q2i9jM_0W-ZAhQg1iq7aTmBWO6-twZqNvtTFgpqJaEGjmRVkgKbgrCdL475HA7EJfPNohx5hwZkj37IFnm2G92i6MiIU9F4TSPCwYE8UXaeSkPjaN6gIQWbBxN4Kv0dZxXKxeo38/s480/hqdefault.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPEHee5jXOviCHBVBMJzEl0p4mzbTZedigCL4piTfpewQGTnC8Q2i9jM_0W-ZAhQg1iq7aTmBWO6-twZqNvtTFgpqJaEGjmRVkgKbgrCdL475HA7EJfPNohx5hwZkj37IFnm2G92i6MiIU9F4TSPCwYE8UXaeSkPjaN6gIQWbBxN4Kv0dZxXKxeo38/w501-h376/hqdefault.jpg" width="501" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br />In my last posting on April 8, I mentioned a few of my close encounters with major thunderstorms and tornados. This came about after watching videos about tornados and the exploits of storm chasers in “Tornado Alley” of the Great Plains. These storms are created when dry cold air moving south from Canada meets warm moist air traveling north from the Gulf of Mexico.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCIJk4Gw-sqNTrxBTQVbkA06jMbUdQdVWsxIBKQny7-kB57PuW8dPmQmw7OTn0Xo6HSJZ-uWeG1VeM4lBlZxbbXLhW8ah2XzJgzp5rBizkS-zVssTM-m3kj3d5SxeHBXdU__mq07eABJpG8l_ZyiwxDaxl8rXOjmQQGEdsOadoghW6tl2tWIcZ0kB/s630/Moore%20Tornado.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="630" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCIJk4Gw-sqNTrxBTQVbkA06jMbUdQdVWsxIBKQny7-kB57PuW8dPmQmw7OTn0Xo6HSJZ-uWeG1VeM4lBlZxbbXLhW8ah2XzJgzp5rBizkS-zVssTM-m3kj3d5SxeHBXdU__mq07eABJpG8l_ZyiwxDaxl8rXOjmQQGEdsOadoghW6tl2tWIcZ0kB/w483-h288/Moore%20Tornado.jpg" width="483" /></a></div><br />During the spring and early summer storm chasers set out in search of “towers,” the looming cumulus clouds that can be the first stage in the formation of a supercell storm. Storm chasing often involves driving hundreds of miles in search of active severe thunderstorms. Many chasers spend a significant amount of time forecasting, both before going on the road as well as during the chase, utilizing various sources for weather data. Once located the serious chasers employ Doppler radar to spot rotation that spells the potential birth of a tornado. The idea is to get as close to the storm – even in its direct path – as safety will allow in order to take photographs, make videos, and record data. Many storm chasers are trained meteorologists seeking to learn more about how these storms work. Others are simply in it for the chase and bragging rights, and perhaps earning a modest salary selling data, video, and photography they collect.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Storm chaser, or spotters, are necessary as Doppler radar, which was first introduced in the 1970s, illuminates elements of these developing storms yet it can only detect storm signatures. It does not show where a tornado has actually formed or what it looks like on the ground. In the mid-1970s, the National Weather Service (NWS) increased its efforts to train storm spotters so they could identify key storm features such as severe hail, damaging winds, and tornadoes, as well as storm damage and flash flooding. According to recent statistics, there are more than 200,000 trained spotters in the United States.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Storm chasing became more popular after the 1996 release of the film Twister starring the late Bill Paxton and the late Philip Seymour Hoffman in one of his earlier film roles. It provided an action-packed yet fictionalized glimpse into the community of professional spotters hoping to put an instrument package – called “Dorothy” after the character in The Wizard of Oz who was suck up by a Kansas tornado – directly into the damage path of an EF5 tornado in order to gather data from the storm’s interior . . . what Hoffman refers to as the “suck zone.” But storm chasing is more than walking outside, or getting in your car, to look at the sky.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CswYQt60X-MGoI2dXzCv8R3LZIiSJbabEC4z3AwEzgMFh2qUsyXyg1VS6_8g24-cCWzA9UA9CgsP1tqYZr-lR-nsH3qS0lImq-7uxPtftl3WAwNNAiy1TEUokzsBJTfeQmyRzJYBpfDcCcWBIPipp-i5o6rw2pBK_7zeigevR3Kqie4CufWyVun2/s1880/Cloud-Formations-Wall-i175009629.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1880" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CswYQt60X-MGoI2dXzCv8R3LZIiSJbabEC4z3AwEzgMFh2qUsyXyg1VS6_8g24-cCWzA9UA9CgsP1tqYZr-lR-nsH3qS0lImq-7uxPtftl3WAwNNAiy1TEUokzsBJTfeQmyRzJYBpfDcCcWBIPipp-i5o6rw2pBK_7zeigevR3Kqie4CufWyVun2/w478-h254/Cloud-Formations-Wall-i175009629.webp" width="478" /></a></div><br />One has to know what one is looking for and what to do when a tornado is spotted. Working on the ground, however, these spotters can provide definitive information whether a storm seen from a distance is a supercell and provide visual information on the storm's shape and structure, including updraft towers, rotation in the wall cloud, striations, strength of inflow, and position of the precipitation core in relation to the wall cloud. A vast majority of tornadoes occur with a wall cloud on the backside of a supercell. Most of these signs – temperature, humidity or pressure inside a tornado – will not show up on Doppler radar. Spotters also look for ground disturbances beneath the wall cloud as a tornado forms not from the clouds down, but from the ground up; it might already be on the ground before the funnel becomes visible.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Spotters must also be familiar with the different shapes a tornado might take. The most common form is the relatively narrow vortex, or rope, tornado. Most tornadoes begin and end their life cycle as a rope tornado before growing larger or dissipating. Once on the ground a tornado will generally evolve into a cone shape which is more dangerous than rope tornadoes as their tracks leave a wider damage path. A wedge tornado has the appearance of an upside-down triangle and wider than it is tall. Its damage path is also broader than a rope or cone tornado. Perhaps one of the most fascinating storms to observe is the multi-vortex tornado when two or more funnels clouds occur simultaneously from the same wall cloud. Smaller “sub-vortices” will rotate around a larger primary vortex and often they will commingle into a damaging wedge tornado. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wp8E_GANqgk">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wp8E_GANqgk</a></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CrybVSBrr-aSNNE54J3eXatzXIgII0EGBVllMMymu1Mf7x8DiBh4VIdt6wvh6NzJcK3xwf03J5mYOrHxTAZiUgomzX8fNHdHMeZiD26_VUGJxD3-5yevsmyeYMFlT7k1DktezuVMOFnupEQpZryH8BpwiFiQkJ0b3o8f46vvQ2-ri8YYo64YwqwC/s1245/El%20Reno%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="1245" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CrybVSBrr-aSNNE54J3eXatzXIgII0EGBVllMMymu1Mf7x8DiBh4VIdt6wvh6NzJcK3xwf03J5mYOrHxTAZiUgomzX8fNHdHMeZiD26_VUGJxD3-5yevsmyeYMFlT7k1DktezuVMOFnupEQpZryH8BpwiFiQkJ0b3o8f46vvQ2-ri8YYo64YwqwC/w474-h238/El%20Reno%201.jpg" width="474" /></a></div><br />There are six categories of tornado – EF0-EF5 – on the Enhanced Fugita Scale established in 2007 and based on estimated wind speeds and relative damage. The previous Fugita Scale established in 1971 was based solely on the amount of damage. The NWS is the only federal agency with authority to provide official tornado EF Scale ratings based on the highest wind speed occurring within the damage path. Once again the NWS relies on ground spotters to ascertain this information. An EF0 tornado has winds estimated at 65-85 mph creating general light damage. An EF5 – the so-called “finger of God” – has wind speeds of over 200 mph causing devastating damage. The largest and strongest tornado on record was the EF5 El Reno wedge tornado occurring in Oklahoma on May 31, 2013. According to reports, it grew to a width of over 2.5 miles with a wind speed reaching 302 mph. Fortunately the storm occurred mostly in open country and so damage and lost of life was relatively low for such an intense storm. Nevertheless, 20 people lost their lives and over 100 others were injured during its 40-minute rampage. There was another EF5 tornado in and around Oklahoma City eleven day earlier with 215 mph wind killing 24 people and causing extensive and widespread damage.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Watching videos of storm chasers in action it is not difficult to differentiate the professionals from the hobbyists. Those in the know describe what they are doing and seeing and we can hear then making their detailed reports to the NWS and local radio stations to warn of tornados on the ground. The hobbyist narrative seems to be a repetitious litany of “oh my god,” “don’t get too close,” stop here,” and my favorite “is that a tornado?” Very often these catechumen are thrown off by so-called scud clouds which are nothing more than cloud fragments hanging lower than the rest of the clouds. Some may even appear to be have small funnels at their base. These are not tornados, but rather condensation suspended from the main layers of thick cumulonimbus storm clouds. Rotation is the key for the formation of a tornado and this is why it is important to have trained professional on the job. They know what they are doing, what they are looking for, and how to respond to changing conditions. Yet sometimes even this is not enough. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There are many inherent dangers involved in storm chasing ranging from the tornado itself, as well as from lightning, large and damaging hail, hazardous road conditions, downed power lines, and storm debris. There can be reduced visibility from heavy rain, and in some situations severe downburst winds may push automobiles around. Most weather-related hazards can be minimized if the storm chaser is knowledgeable and cautious while maintaining a safe distance and having an escape route should the storm suddenly change direction. Adding to these weather-related hazards are distractions to the chaser’s attention while driving – watching the sky, navigating, communicating, checking instruments, or taking photographs and videos. Most professional chasers work in teams to avoid dangerous multi-tasking.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwdZxtS3Tz92x2IEF5qcVErSoKjo6wR_u-MSL-05rhehL0O-j8c1W3EQ8ereXferPgVzU06Vjv41mt_S8yrie5bCOPHGNXm5P0K-9YggnxzdL0ucKzclSoH7ItmCgOeL89lSS3Vq4_zeZn0LgmXwlZjj2YdMJhJbjiw9Tf7Zv-V1AyEuovPFoxuTI/s1072/wrecked%20car.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1072" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwdZxtS3Tz92x2IEF5qcVErSoKjo6wR_u-MSL-05rhehL0O-j8c1W3EQ8ereXferPgVzU06Vjv41mt_S8yrie5bCOPHGNXm5P0K-9YggnxzdL0ucKzclSoH7ItmCgOeL89lSS3Vq4_zeZn0LgmXwlZjj2YdMJhJbjiw9Tf7Zv-V1AyEuovPFoxuTI/w488-h366/wrecked%20car.webp" width="488" /></a></div><br />Three of the El Reno fatalities were experienced professional storm chasers, the first known chaser deaths inflicted directly by weather. Several other chasers were also struck and some injured by this tornado and its parent supercell's rear flank downdraft. The three died when the storm suddenly changed direction and their vehicle was destroyed while attempting to place a TOtable Tornado Observatory (TOTO), on which the Dorothy packet in the Twister film was based, in the damage path of that historic tornado. This tragedy may have been prevented had they been equipped with mobile Doppler radar which has now become proforma in serious storm chasing circles as it provides near real-time updates on intensity and movement of the developing storm. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As exciting as the chase might seem, it is not something for the fainted hearted. Another good reason for leaving storm chasing to the professionals who know what they are doing.</span></div>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-12699074220606588862022-04-08T13:40:00.000-04:002022-04-08T13:40:27.135-04:00And the Stormwatch Brews<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5EPrgHUrpa0u1xp-gI6d6G6HsKt1qbabxeqKH1AwzTIJvto0oz0ecwI2OFJLBzKB3VR6udF9dg19o_krsWqKcGk25kAxW6lWxd4R1K95xf05vm2qpt0AVjcRwBpynSnb3fU1R5HvHifjjMgwcGjZizYtfiZ25JRWaMc9rILmsOl7Shjh7lc9iUhqI/s950/shelf-cloud-as_184196116-950x633.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="950" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5EPrgHUrpa0u1xp-gI6d6G6HsKt1qbabxeqKH1AwzTIJvto0oz0ecwI2OFJLBzKB3VR6udF9dg19o_krsWqKcGk25kAxW6lWxd4R1K95xf05vm2qpt0AVjcRwBpynSnb3fU1R5HvHifjjMgwcGjZizYtfiZ25JRWaMc9rILmsOl7Shjh7lc9iUhqI/w499-h332/shelf-cloud-as_184196116-950x633.webp" width="499" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> <i>And the stormwatch brews . <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> At the heels of a soft prayer</i> <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> – Ian Anderson, “Dun Ringill”</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I have been fascinated by powerful thunderstorms since I was a little kid. The more lightning and thunder the better. I can think of no better way to fall asleep than lying in bed listening to the approach of a thunderstorm knowing I am safe inside. Yet sometimes these storms pack a more powerful punch than first anticipated and one is forced to pay close attention in case they turn into some far more ominous than brief displays of lightning and rolling thunder. Having grown up in the Midwest I have learned to have a healthy respect for tornados and what to do should they develop.</span> </p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I recall living through several tornadoes watches and warnings, the most memorable being the broad outbreak through the upper Midwest on Palm Sunday, April 11, 1965, when my family was living in Madison, Wisconsin. We had gone to visit friends after church and I well remember the sickly green overcast that is a telltale sign of the potential for a developing tornado. We never did see any funnels clouds that day, but this outbreak produced 55 confirmed tornadoes, the fourth deadliest tornado outbreak in US history, killing 271 people and injuring 1,500. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I did not see my first tornado until four years later when I was visiting an old school chum then living in Texas. It was the summer of 1969 and I joined his family for dinner one evening at a local restaurant. While we were there we learned that a severe thunderstorm warning and tornado watch had been issued for the area. The sky was darkening and the wind was picking up outside, but we did not see any reason to be too concerned. But we kept an eye on the sky just in case. When leaving the restaurant, however, we looked toward the sunset in the west where we spotted what proved to be a multi-vortex F3 wedge tornado slowly moving toward the north. Fortunately we were not in any danger and so we stood there for quite some time mesmerized by the storm. It was fairly short lived and did not cause any significant property damage and no major injuries or fatalities. Still, it was a sight I would not soon forget. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtTo0VYsCwZ-3QS_swQDd3TaYSYOCU2T6Bzr1tpKQztEtJ8ZaetfxRr7uULC7yjrJrBZ6IJYOilE6h2CIWUA0qCAEva2hqrEqjLBF7z2RGGbMd2caTtJzzfZ0x6dmmBa0DAI3ki6N10xHHgKfshlJLBFbhow_Mfq0oSYlm5L-Hq12RojaNyZM9ts9/s1080/0b933f85fffce62ee6bd102caaa398ce04b7aa5f55e576c12e8ff960d8833568.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtTo0VYsCwZ-3QS_swQDd3TaYSYOCU2T6Bzr1tpKQztEtJ8ZaetfxRr7uULC7yjrJrBZ6IJYOilE6h2CIWUA0qCAEva2hqrEqjLBF7z2RGGbMd2caTtJzzfZ0x6dmmBa0DAI3ki6N10xHHgKfshlJLBFbhow_Mfq0oSYlm5L-Hq12RojaNyZM9ts9/s320/0b933f85fffce62ee6bd102caaa398ce04b7aa5f55e576c12e8ff960d8833568.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">During the summer of 1987 my wife and six year old son Ian found ourselves at the summit of Brasstown Bald, at 4,784 feet Georgia’s highest elevation located in the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest. We visited the observation center one afternoon for its refreshing temperatures during an otherwise very warm and humid summer day, and to enjoy the breathtaking 360-degree views into Tennessee and the two Carolinas. On this particular visit we observed a massive anvil-shaped thunderhead advancing in our direction. Deciding it unwise to be caught out in the storm this high up on the mountain, we decided to remain on the summit inside the observation center until the storm had passed. It is a good thing we did. As the storm approached we watched as bolts of lightning danced through the thunderhead and spiked the valley floor. It was a sight to behold. Before long the summit was completely enveloped by the storm. Lightning flashed almost non stop all around us and we could hear the sizzle of electricity in the air. Our little boy was none to happy but I explained to him that we were safe inside and what a special thing it was to witness a storm up close. I’m not sure he was convinced but he rode out the storm being as brave as he could. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There was another opportunity to feel the full power of a thunderstorm, and a massive one at that. On the evening of July 4, 1999, I attended the local holiday fireworks in Colebrook, New Hampshire. It had been a beautiful summer day to be exploring the Connecticut River headwaters hard on the Canadian/Québec frontier although the temperatures were in the 90s with high humidity. Afterwards I enjoyed a fine dinner at my favorite local lodge and a couple nightcaps in the tavern where the talk seemed to be focused on some predicted heavy weather to arrive overnight. Before turning in for the night I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and I quickly realized that the atmosphere had turned stagnant with no noticeable wind. I retired upstairs to read after mapping out a trip into Maine the following day, hoping for more favorable weather. The verdict was not yet in. Before hitting the hay I stepped outside again around 1am and notice some lightning flashes in the distant west beyond the Canadian frontier. It looked indeed like we might get a storm overnight. At the time I did not realize what an understatement that was. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4RUZBXmXmhAA1GfmGbmUWJ35uI3hVlJ0cSVvMnhn9eUxAHfJ0XYuxBRmfNFyD2DXq8v11wz35YwVooMIC1qgXGvTmCdyZKRELOA1u6LYs3wldg-MuA3EMsGnJyhyxrffNXYq63mnhy89s6cfAhFP94VQwe6Yl91wzVTv4U4SIRxpJZYgvv8DFYW-F/s419/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="120" data-original-width="419" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4RUZBXmXmhAA1GfmGbmUWJ35uI3hVlJ0cSVvMnhn9eUxAHfJ0XYuxBRmfNFyD2DXq8v11wz35YwVooMIC1qgXGvTmCdyZKRELOA1u6LYs3wldg-MuA3EMsGnJyhyxrffNXYq63mnhy89s6cfAhFP94VQwe6Yl91wzVTv4U4SIRxpJZYgvv8DFYW-F/w482-h139/download.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">During the pre-dawn hours of that July 4th, thunderstorms were cropping up out in the Dakotas, and they eventually organized into a bow echo on Doppler radar indicating a building derecho – a widespread and long-lived straight-line wind storm or quasi-linear convective system accompanied by violent down bursts. Damaging winds were occurring by the time the storm began moving across Minnesota to become known as the "Boundary Waters - Canadian Derecho." It would last over 22 hours, travel more than 1300 miles at an average speed of almost 60 mph, resulting in widespread devastation and numerous casualties in both Canada and the United States. Little did I know that evening that before morning it would have crossed Ontario and moved into western Québec north of Montréal with up to 6000 lightning strikes per hour and widespread wind damage. It arrived in the Montréal metropolitan area at 2 to 3 am causing serious damage before reeking havoc on the Eastern Townships of Québec and neighboring area of northern New England with winds upward of 90 mph. A tree farm in Sawyerville, Québec just a few miles northwest of where I was sleeping had most of its 2000-3000 trees destroyed.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7ezAkceIekKwwxV_aLI-Tc_oMeDveWEA1KOQDJXJElcFGoAUZcYuEZ7OPHEl-jH-t0E8I79LFbHuYG0yvjxCc7hK5K-l9_q337OiyyDinIhhGXNZJPf8eQIo7azQGtYg1TtL0bAkjzRG9AW1NV0URFUo55kqpHK9D56TdaxO_cc7Nc5NVsKLcZD0/s500/sherbrooketree.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="500" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7ezAkceIekKwwxV_aLI-Tc_oMeDveWEA1KOQDJXJElcFGoAUZcYuEZ7OPHEl-jH-t0E8I79LFbHuYG0yvjxCc7hK5K-l9_q337OiyyDinIhhGXNZJPf8eQIo7azQGtYg1TtL0bAkjzRG9AW1NV0URFUo55kqpHK9D56TdaxO_cc7Nc5NVsKLcZD0/s320/sherbrooketree.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was awoken by the storm in the pre-dawn hours of July 5th. The wind was rattling the windows in my room and the sky were illuminated by almost constant flashes of lightning while a cacophony of thunder boomed loudly over the sound of the wind. I climbed out of bed and looked out at a lake whipped into a frothy brew. Trees were swaying in the wind and the lawn was scattered with downed branches and leaves although the roar of the storm's winds was so loud no one could have heard trees snapping or falling to the ground. There was little chance to go back to sleep so I sat by the window and watched the storm as it continued its eastward journey. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The full impact of the storm became evident once the sun began to rise. The power was out to a wide swath of southern Québec and northern Vermont and New Hampshire, and after a cold breakfast at the lodge I took a drive to have a look around. Hundreds, if not thousands, of trees were down and branches were scattered everywhere. Wind gusts to 90 mph were measured near Colebrook and around the North Country. I crossed the border into Canada where Hydro-Québec reported that from the Montréal area into the Eastern Townships 600,000 customers had lost electrical power. Power would remain out for over a week in some places. I eventually crossed back into the USA at Coburg Gore, Maine which also experienced the destructive derecho winds. I found more trees splayed on the ground the result of vertical wind shear and micro-downbursts embedded in a broader swath of strong but less severe winds produced by the parent convective system. The derecho continued to cause damage across central and southern Maine before dissipating when it reached the Atlantic coast. The very long-lived “Boundary Waters-Canadian Derecho” was one of farthest northern derechos to have been recorded having destroyed hundreds of square miles of trees. Two people were killed and 70 were injured, almost all of them the result of falling trees or tree limbs. Despite all the damage, I consider myself lucky to have experience the full impact of such a historic derecho.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnrwPIaVT54Ak4pawFIHUujFA9v7GvdzHtrLgsks9Cfu85YIlfP1d5-79rdiCn63JzrB6Bm0YFM6CrHxJqxvxoiRMf6Av9wVdMF5fcaM1wl75rp2kbzOgVQwuPsgZvzGkyuHPwT3LFwWcyqcv0WJVDJEP3kd1hQUfT7Qz00M2c_1vXpp3Hb8B7_uJ/s265/download%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="265" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnrwPIaVT54Ak4pawFIHUujFA9v7GvdzHtrLgsks9Cfu85YIlfP1d5-79rdiCn63JzrB6Bm0YFM6CrHxJqxvxoiRMf6Av9wVdMF5fcaM1wl75rp2kbzOgVQwuPsgZvzGkyuHPwT3LFwWcyqcv0WJVDJEP3kd1hQUfT7Qz00M2c_1vXpp3Hb8B7_uJ/w416-h299/download%20(2).jpg" width="416" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;">During Ian’s sophomore year at the University of Maryland he once again found himself in the midst of a storm . . . this time a F-3 tornado that tore through Washington, DC’s northeastern </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span><span style="text-align: left;"> Maryland suburbs on September 24, 2001. The area was still </span></span><span style="text-align: left;">reeling from the 9-11 terrorist attacks and an anthrax </span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdls6mL7NrJY0d9xfa41arxTZxFZxbLI_AUA1UqZ2Tuwkp0Aycu3AIDXlnsbY1tPC2dr-NedLn5xFMkMnf7xSPtJeDnEl8O3gRGoDNSKDzAUlt89JyydV4nSHz9pcS0uOtnS9QUl9rjCMW-A0UVf3PdgXngUdhCQjIP_R5IPkoYkyqW9jB60ufBbE/s328/geosciences-09-00452-g001-550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="328" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdls6mL7NrJY0d9xfa41arxTZxFZxbLI_AUA1UqZ2Tuwkp0Aycu3AIDXlnsbY1tPC2dr-NedLn5xFMkMnf7xSPtJeDnEl8O3gRGoDNSKDzAUlt89JyydV4nSHz9pcS0uOtnS9QUl9rjCMW-A0UVf3PdgXngUdhCQjIP_R5IPkoYkyqW9jB60ufBbE/s320/geosciences-09-00452-g001-550.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>outbreak and nerves were frayed. This was the last of three tornadoes associated with a supercell storm that developed over northern Virginia late that afternoon and tracked 78 miles over a two-hour period. A well-defined hook echo near the southern end of the supercell tracked across Washington, DC before touching down on the DC-Maryland border just a mile north of our house and it remained on the ground for ca. 17 miles, dissipating near Laurel Maryland. This is the closest call any of us have had with a tornado and it was far too close for comfort. Especially for Ian.</span> </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekMz29jSXI09VrMHO6kaZnzc4d6HUdvULpZm3RR9RujdjFVeAw0JzcNVulJ543Acg_j42TwFsUfjJ0HuB7VOWKa8eyHPpSi0Wt9ZtMY5AIfCy124E9xo_jDRU0oH53uB9r16XvZp8RNmMOmAcjic7aLVTJFi9OJ8TSrBYdXPdmbZdLfGONT778A9c/s400/Balt_Sun_5.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="400" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekMz29jSXI09VrMHO6kaZnzc4d6HUdvULpZm3RR9RujdjFVeAw0JzcNVulJ543Acg_j42TwFsUfjJ0HuB7VOWKa8eyHPpSi0Wt9ZtMY5AIfCy124E9xo_jDRU0oH53uB9r16XvZp8RNmMOmAcjic7aLVTJFi9OJ8TSrBYdXPdmbZdLfGONT778A9c/s320/Balt_Sun_5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">With winds clocked at over 200 mph, the tornado produced heavy destruction from just west of the university campus were it caused approximately $15 million in damage, including several heavily damaged buildings, many tossed and destroyed vehicles, and two fatalities. Ian was in his high-rise dorm room on the western end of the campus when the storm struck. He first notice his window fan spinning wildly before realizing that it was not turned on. He looked out his window in time to see trees being uprooted and tossed about with other flying debris. The pressure was go great that it was difficult to open his room door in order to take shelter in the interior hallway as instructed. After the storm had passed he went outside to witness the utter destruction wrought in just a few short minutes. Two students were killed when the storm picked up their car near Ian’s dormitory and threw it into a tree in a parking area. Cars across the broad parking area were flipped and tossed about. There were broken and uprooted trees everywhere.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The tornado then struck the US Department of Agriculture Research Center, causing an estimated $41 million in damage to buildings and research documents. Before it was over 861 residential homes, 560 vehicles, and at least 23 commercial businesses were destroyed or damaged at an estimate of over $73 million. The September 24, 2001 tornado is noteworthy because of its nearly 17 mile track, and it remains the only long-track event with an intensity of F3 or greater to directly impact on the greater Washington, DC, and adjacent suburban Maryland region since then. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Recently I have been watching videos about tornados and the exploits of storm chasers, that fellowship of adrenalin-fuel meteorology junkies who seek out and track developing thunderstorm systems in “Tornado Alley” of the Great Plains – a reference to the region in the US Midwest that sees the most tornado activity. This is nothing I have ever done on my own save the occasional detour to check out areas recently impacted by severe storms. But I have long been curious what it would be like to be on the front line. I will have more to say about this is a future posting. So stay tuned. </span></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-53526214299757247672022-04-04T09:24:00.003-04:002022-04-04T09:24:54.902-04:00Can't Get Enough of Them Sugar Toads<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfrGjMAm3t8GfDdMcZWBAbqoztNgfu5g1gEdCDYj2XJdAw-TUXm6a0i28uXp8_2Ko4M4-x5pOakIlvqUM8aOXB0Rjx_mvzMpZpZcB5Q9mU_BbldhhtxG_dhlfh-Cepr70m0S9M6k6MCFB1YH9AWTK8yCNC_9lSHtSVASzWZOdNXjli2Lta2sYWPzgv/s867/Sugar-Toads-1-825x1100%20Garden%20and%20Gun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="802" height="509" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfrGjMAm3t8GfDdMcZWBAbqoztNgfu5g1gEdCDYj2XJdAw-TUXm6a0i28uXp8_2Ko4M4-x5pOakIlvqUM8aOXB0Rjx_mvzMpZpZcB5Q9mU_BbldhhtxG_dhlfh-Cepr70m0S9M6k6MCFB1YH9AWTK8yCNC_9lSHtSVASzWZOdNXjli2Lta2sYWPzgv/w471-h509/Sugar-Toads-1-825x1100%20Garden%20and%20Gun.jpg" width="471" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Some might say that sugar toads are the best fish most people have never eaten. In fact, I would venture to say that most would admit they have never even heard of this tasty delicacy found primarily in Chesapeake Bay where they thrive. When folks think of the Chesapeake, oysters and crabs come immediately to mind. But oh, there is so much more. Let us not forget the worthy rockfish (striped bass), to many the king/queen of the Chesapeake. And who can forget the succulent blue catfish, flounder, bluefish, Spanish mackerel, shad, croaker, spot, and a host of others that make the Bay such an interesting fishery. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Sugar toads – “sweet as sugar and ugly as a toad” – or northern puffer (Sphoeroides maculatus), is a non-poisonous species not to be confused with the other members of the pufferfish family (ca. 120 variations) which contain tetrodotoxin, a substance found in the liver, gonads, and skin, making them foul tasting and lethal to fish. “To humans, tetrodotoxin is deadly, up to 1,200 times more poisonous than cyanide. There is enough toxin in one pufferfish to kill 30 adult humans, and there is no known antidote.” That’s enough to make anyone turn away. That said, Japan still cherishes the poisonous pufferfish which must be expertly handled by a licensed chef specially trained to remove its poisonous parts. It is then served as a pricey dish called fugu which due its nature is largely banned in the USA. Good call. </span> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJIx_iFklE5DrAbQDmlJDIqHwmk0DE3cWdqTRMNZr-F-FIc9JqC2-pL9WlAGdjbg8tir3Fy7-OE96BYUby3fZN9Wj4km-RzaOWWrPIIJGUlP9U52CVWG_EGMokybTByUsr90UEZUfnRRWCGcSl9f07oo3K307aMBqQsoobeDMikuzRg7jAOehl_5L/s902/JZPJkEn-1EDIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="895" height="481" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJIx_iFklE5DrAbQDmlJDIqHwmk0DE3cWdqTRMNZr-F-FIc9JqC2-pL9WlAGdjbg8tir3Fy7-OE96BYUby3fZN9Wj4km-RzaOWWrPIIJGUlP9U52CVWG_EGMokybTByUsr90UEZUfnRRWCGcSl9f07oo3K307aMBqQsoobeDMikuzRg7jAOehl_5L/w478-h481/JZPJkEn-1EDIT.jpg" width="478" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Admittedly, the northern puffer isn’t pretty, covered as it is with tiny sharp spikes, and sporting four large and powerful teeth used to crush crabs, clams, shrimp and other shellfish that are its main diet. Among commercial fishermen, northern puffers were long ignored as by-catch and either thrown back or saved for fertilizer. They should not be confused with the oyster toadfish, or “oyster cracker” (Opsanus tau, in the family Batrachoididae). The toadfish lays the largest eggs of any Chesapeake Bay fish and it has a venomous spine on its first dorsal fin. Pain from this venom has been compared to a bee or wasp sting and for this reason they have no real commercial value. The northern puffer, on the other hand, has a clean, sweet and mild flavor – the white meat has a delicate sweet flavor similar to white perch and sea bass – and watermen would save them for the family table after selling their commercial catch. Eventually sugar toads became a staple on the menu boards of restaurants on both sides of the Bay. Found from early spring to autumn, and in winter in deeper waters offshore, soon watermen were targeting the northern puffer in the Chesapeake starting in midsummer by baiting “peeler pots” used earlier in the season for soft-shell crabs. Recreational fishermen often catch them with a two-hook bottom rig. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOBFBz3UrtAnoTxQIGtWd8iAy-gre5GZVSsfJORdWEmI1t9qj_VGo4Iqt1Q1HUJr0e9jrQL0rqQ1-7KUjWGXGDx3PQLkQX-RpW3KI3pkqWLr8JzGVJTRIT9HNPIEeInQG8r0RWE7lhd6WUfvOOiHzkSh90igzRc0Mln9w2eUj5aNgktc6XFs770pN/s2269/GG0317_harvest_03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2269" data-original-width="1626" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOBFBz3UrtAnoTxQIGtWd8iAy-gre5GZVSsfJORdWEmI1t9qj_VGo4Iqt1Q1HUJr0e9jrQL0rqQ1-7KUjWGXGDx3PQLkQX-RpW3KI3pkqWLr8JzGVJTRIT9HNPIEeInQG8r0RWE7lhd6WUfvOOiHzkSh90igzRc0Mln9w2eUj5aNgktc6XFs770pN/w378-h528/GG0317_harvest_03.jpg" width="378" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">On my various outings on the Bay in search of trophy rockfish and bluefish I would occasionally hook an oyster cracker, and more rarely a northern puffer, but I always returned them to the water not realizing until later just what a tasty delicacy the latter is. I won’t make that mistake again. Sugar toads – also referred to as “sea squab” in some quarters – are considered to be the fried “chicken wings of the sea.” Eaten with your hands, they are the perfect bar snack or appetizer served up with a cold beer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Preparation and serving sugar toads are a pretty simple process. The first step is to remove the head, innards, fins and bones save the spine, and the sandpaper-rough skin. Gloves are a must. Leave the tail on as this will make it easier to handle. Once cleaned, dip the remaining meat into buttermilk mixed with hot sauce and salt, then dredge it in flour seasoned with Old Bay spice and pepper. Repeat this process 2-3 times before deep frying for 5-7 minutes. When finished, the sugar toad will have the look of a fried shrimp only larger. The soft and flaky flesh will have a decidedly sweet, even melt-in-your-mouth consistency. But don’t stop there. Just like chicken wings, sugar toad go best with a preferred dipping sauce. Some favor honey, tartar sauce, or hot sauce while others might choose a buttermilk dressing infused with cheese, mayonnaise, chopped parsley, chervil, tarragon and chive, Old Bay and lemon. I personally like a melted garlic and anchovy butter. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It has been awhile since I have had a nice mess of sugar toads, and with the coming of warmer weather it will be time to head over to the Bay and reacquaint myself with this delightful delicacy. I may even bring a few home for the larder along with some soft shell crab. Bon appetit! </span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-29581366464073173822022-04-03T11:13:00.000-04:002022-04-03T11:13:52.343-04:00Wishing My Mom a Very Happy 97th Birthday!!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJa7kzLN-g39oe0EvA_6FGmHfD6t1KkQ3h6QB6lb5SIF54f79nKQW5x0pEtv6oWf5osvDjF2A_CpPpWMSjkIxorluA6HWoJB2z-WbA4Z0uOdJ4tNImbe07NC3hAyo0ne_PYJpZ_CqcqAzfxKt9PEQi7KywbPOAPncq6lCQyVB_maH20ro_Kr-mWxgP/s323/Mom%203.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="323" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJa7kzLN-g39oe0EvA_6FGmHfD6t1KkQ3h6QB6lb5SIF54f79nKQW5x0pEtv6oWf5osvDjF2A_CpPpWMSjkIxorluA6HWoJB2z-WbA4Z0uOdJ4tNImbe07NC3hAyo0ne_PYJpZ_CqcqAzfxKt9PEQi7KywbPOAPncq6lCQyVB_maH20ro_Kr-mWxgP/s320/Mom%203.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo taken April 2, 2022</td></tr></tbody></table>Who could not love that smile? Today my mother i</span><span style="font-family: arial;">s</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> celebrating her 97th birthday. She was born on this day in 1925 in Grand Rapids, Michigan and grew up in in Paw Paw, Michigan where she lived until she married my father on March 9, 1946. Dad passed away in 2009 but Mom has continued to live on her own ever since. Currently residing in Canal Winchester, a suburb of Columbus, Ohio, perhaps she is moving a little slower these days (I feel your pain Mom), yet she still drives, and she loves to get out and about and enjoy what life has to offer in spite of the pandemic. I only regret that I have not had an opportunity to visit with her over these past two years. Still, we text each other every day sharing news, weather forecasts and reports, and idle gossip. She keeps busy watching Ohio State sports, golf, her favorite programs, and she is always reading something.</span></span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, on this very special day I am wishing my Mom all the best as she celebrates 97 journeys around the sun. Let's all help her blow out all these candle!</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh5lNB0KQcTVFPPHFfSI5bTC7dsm8qTB-mVKqn9Vz3kmhbI85ybxvSAIS3AHRG7f1Sq47JJvZMVGr_I2gjdPx9TkeZ9z64tPNopZxkToxvoI9aBk3O6snx2VaJDiqX2TFWD7pi6p00g79RVNcsW1fJep1ksDwrKwwNQHawD0U07DENaTT5CwkbsaS/s540/Birthday%20cake.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="540" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh5lNB0KQcTVFPPHFfSI5bTC7dsm8qTB-mVKqn9Vz3kmhbI85ybxvSAIS3AHRG7f1Sq47JJvZMVGr_I2gjdPx9TkeZ9z64tPNopZxkToxvoI9aBk3O6snx2VaJDiqX2TFWD7pi6p00g79RVNcsW1fJep1ksDwrKwwNQHawD0U07DENaTT5CwkbsaS/w495-h371/Birthday%20cake.jpg" width="495" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></div>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-34235331444500111272022-03-27T14:54:00.003-04:002022-03-27T14:54:50.814-04:00Poetry Day for Ukraine<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-KI0ykpXfOi3S-u3SSB602-Dr_4XWHfHdGkkNkpdvhmEmh8lDrtc01GfBwkeCUiB_4o7qTxxq1XartJvdSypDQGvIo8ffPwzQgdjfrauM_7L4yoPFv-lChx4NDYFgj8l7HZ7rT1hY87XIozlJ2qQPuZbZ5kbvaLQdr4oquBbal1P6szPmNlMqM33/s300/Poetry%20Day%20for%20Ukraine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="300" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-KI0ykpXfOi3S-u3SSB602-Dr_4XWHfHdGkkNkpdvhmEmh8lDrtc01GfBwkeCUiB_4o7qTxxq1XartJvdSypDQGvIo8ffPwzQgdjfrauM_7L4yoPFv-lChx4NDYFgj8l7HZ7rT1hY87XIozlJ2qQPuZbZ5kbvaLQdr4oquBbal1P6szPmNlMqM33/w498-h260/Poetry%20Day%20for%20Ukraine.jpg" width="498" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">April is National Poetry Month established by the Academy of American Poets in 1996 to remind the public that poets and poetry play an integral role in our national culture, and in others as well, and they have an important place in our lives, both in the USA and beyond, to give fresh recognition and impetus to regional, national, and international poetry movements. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) adopted March 21 as World Poetry Day during its 30th General Conference in Paris in 1999. It was established to celebrate this unique cultural and linguistic expression. “Every form of poetry is unique, but each reflects the universal nature of the human experience,” writes UNESCO Director-General Audrey Azoulay; “Our aspirations of creativity that crosses boundaries and borders.” This is the power of poetry! This dialogue “enriches that catalyzes all human progress and is more necessary than ever in turbulent times. She concludes: “Oral traditions and expressions are used to pass on knowledge, cultural and social values and collective memory. They play a crucial part in keeping cultures alive . . . [and] allowed people to escape temporarily from their fears and to find comfort at home with their loved ones.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We continue to celebrate World Poetry Day "with the aim of supporting linguistic diversity through poetic expression and increasing the opportunity for endangered languages to be heard." This year UNESCO marks the advent of the International Decade of Indigenous Languages, to affirm its commitment to indigenous peoples worldwide. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This year World Poetry Day takes on a special significance and poets around the world have gathered to express their solidarity with the brave and heroic Ukrainian people as they defend their country from the savage and criminal war Russian president Vladimir Putin has unleashed on them for no other reason than to create a fascist state as the true and legal successor state of the brutal Russian empire and the former Soviet Union.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">In celebration of World Poetry Day and standing in solidarity with sister Cities of Literature in Lviv and Odessa in Ukraine, several of UNESCO’s 42 Cities of Literature have joined together to present the poem, “So I’ll talk about it” by Serhiy Zhadan and translated by John Hennessy and Ostap Kin. He is one of Ukraine’s best-known poets and novelists, who gathers crowds of thousands of people at his book launches and events. <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">https://www.calvertjournal.com/articles/show/12137/contemporary-ukrainian-poems </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>Men that dance the way they quench</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>steppe-fire with their boots.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>Women that hold onto their men in dance</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>like they don’t want to let them go to war.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As I celebrated my 71st birthday on Match 21 I joined poets and writers from around the world in support of the Ukrainian people in their brave stand against Putin's criminal war. Who can forget the words of Yevgeni Yevtushenko’s poem “Babyn Yar”? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>O, Russia of my heart, I know that you</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>Are international, by inner nature.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>But often those whose hands are steeped in filth</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i>Abused your purest name, in name of hatred.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We recall these words as Russian missiles land close to the memorial to that past massacre just outside Kyiv, the besieged Ukrainian capital. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Let these words and others ring again in our ears as we watch with heavy hearts the death and destruction visited on the brave Ukrainian people who only want to live in peace.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Слава Україні ! Героям слава !</span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-46413118154175106842022-03-23T15:59:00.001-04:002022-03-23T15:59:36.439-04:00Missing That Special Third Place<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcveldlfPuMXVkjbbBomKK58OuBMjkPNVkGotYyDNShi_FG3ABd3JwBTELSDyIoAWIGGAG1N0Exnz_rVGmLc6GRqd5sW_b0VXfsbDcwUmI5ZRW6-Id4kU0gxMu1Ht9phNkN4gCJTSYOgQVNZSt2de8K--SlMssBIDR4ZJe2zn17O2agcdKMcM6V5vy/s2500/_DSC1727A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1669" data-original-width="2500" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcveldlfPuMXVkjbbBomKK58OuBMjkPNVkGotYyDNShi_FG3ABd3JwBTELSDyIoAWIGGAG1N0Exnz_rVGmLc6GRqd5sW_b0VXfsbDcwUmI5ZRW6-Id4kU0gxMu1Ht9phNkN4gCJTSYOgQVNZSt2de8K--SlMssBIDR4ZJe2zn17O2agcdKMcM6V5vy/w488-h327/_DSC1727A.jpg" width="488" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">March 9 marked the second anniversary of the coronavirus pandemic lockdown, when the human species worldwide was forced to seek shelter in place, and in doing so alienating itself from the broader social constructs it has for so long taken for granted. Inter-personal relationships have suffered the most of all as we have gone so long without regular contact with family and friends. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Having written my doctoral dissertation on the German interpretation of “proxemics” – the study of human space and the various non-verbal modalities through which they can be expressed – I have naturally been drawn to Ray Oldenburg, an American urban sociologist, who has written about the importance of public gathering places for a greater engagement within a civil society. In The Great Good Place: Cafes, Coffee Shops, Community Centers, Beauty Parlors, General Stores, Bars, Hangouts, and How They Get You Through the Day (1989), and later in Celebrating the Third Place: Inspiring Stories about the "Great Good Places" at the Heart of Our Communities (2000), Oldenburg emphasizes the importance of these informal third places as “the heart of a community's social vitality and the foundation of a functioning democracy;” promoting social equality and community verve through a discussion of “grassroots politics” and thereby creating public association supporting individuals and their communities. These books have been called eloquent and visionary in that they lend the “third place” a necessary and vital balance to the other two “places” – the privatization of home life, which has been the main focus for most of us over the past two years, and our work places which also adhere to certain formal rules yet which many of us have been isolated from in favor of working from home.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">These so-called “third places,” on the other hand, are nothing more than informal public gathering places which allow individuals to set aside their daily concerns and obligations with home and work and to enjoy the company and conversation around them. In contrast, third places offer a neutral public space for a community to connect and establish bonds. Third places "host the regular, voluntary, informal, and happily anticipated gatherings of individuals beyond the realms of home and work . . . but sadly, they constitute a diminishing aspect of the American social landscape."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Informal public life is essential for the health both of our communities and ourselves. The anthropologist Edward Hall coined “proxemics” in the early 1960s and classified four major proxemic zones: intimate space, personal space, social space, and public space, aspects of the physical environment that affect behavior. Within these spatial modalities he also defined audio, visual, tactile and olfactory responses. Hall’s research, along with my own study of proxemic spatial behavioral patterns among the Germans, suggest that different cultures have different expectations of what is socially acceptable in the four proxemic zones. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">North Americans and Europeans in general prefer more social space while Latin Americans prefer more intimate contact when interacting with others. Still, North Americans and Europeans tend to draw a strict boundary between private, or intimate space, and public/social space. Population density also defines the noticeable difference between how rural and urban populations erect boundaries between private, which tends to be more formal, and public space. "In the absence of informal public life, living becomes more expensive,” Oldenburg writes. “Where the means and facilities for relaxation and leisure are not publicly shared, they become the objects of private ownership and consumption."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">In this particular instance, I am focusing on American social space, the third proxemic zone as defined by Hall. Without the chance for some degree of communal, public contact, we are relegated to our homes and work places where we tend to spend most of our time and which provide very limited social interaction. “Social well-being and psychological health,” Oldenburg tells us, “depend upon community. ”We are able to function better at home and at work as the “third place” provides casual interaction with those with whom we do not work and to whom we are not related. "What suburbia cries for are the means for people to gather easily, inexpensively, regularly, and pleasurably -- a 'place on the corner,' real life alternatives to television, easy escapes from the cabin fever of marriage and family life that do not necessitate getting into an automobile." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This social third space has sadly been a rare commodity over the past two years of the coronavirus pandemic . . . made even more so by the recent up ticks caused by the spread to the Delta and Omicron variants and people returning to the safety of hearth and home. Outdoor gatherings were a premium during the cold and wet winter months. This deprivation of casual interaction is a tragedy for us all and we try to make the best of it whenever and wherever we can. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Recently to COVID numbers have been going down and with the return of warmer spring weather there is once again an opportunity to return to our favorite haunts to renew and reset our social links with friends and family. I have also long counted on these third places as an alternative work place; an opportunity to seek out a social venue where I can be among people as I write while enjoying social contact, something to eat, and perhaps an adult beverage or two. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_36PAddrdCMDxXjtH24ZdncSjSzlJ5FbLVfqOzvSlXnanO1DSEku_QXAHDJeQ3Y1OJ3B_Yb5TkBDy80pXw-2gP2duvdJdSTPLicjc8GGuIs6v9DjDguEnhrpj5BC6WVOqrZy7AiQsPg3pefZMX8_9e6PKibHpB20y0yZsBQtqwLmSAS7ZJopXIfwq/s800/business-plan-resources-hero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_36PAddrdCMDxXjtH24ZdncSjSzlJ5FbLVfqOzvSlXnanO1DSEku_QXAHDJeQ3Y1OJ3B_Yb5TkBDy80pXw-2gP2duvdJdSTPLicjc8GGuIs6v9DjDguEnhrpj5BC6WVOqrZy7AiQsPg3pefZMX8_9e6PKibHpB20y0yZsBQtqwLmSAS7ZJopXIfwq/w488-h305/business-plan-resources-hero.jpg" width="488" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Coronavirus cases plummeted around the United States over this past year, and states and localities are dropping their mask-wearing requirements. That said, it is still incumbent upon on us to use a little common sense. Just as the COVID number are on the wane, they could easily spike again. This pandemic is not over and it is going to take all of us to do what is necessary to keep the numbers low. If not, we may once again be forced to seek shelter in our homes. Nobody wants that!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So eat, drink, and be merry, but do so with an ounce of protection. It benefits all of us.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg21xCcG9suPJ13itdMMVLyXR4cKEYlcDMrr9izwxTv-K-WC8w6IsqApv0nGVrsnIGExUMeCJVsuHqkEDIHRepAH3CtVkeveAnqtFTnGbMaMbQDrcf9SVtvJ8SRGPQItzFreqb4coife49OLNaL3rR-guhV_tUITBHolF9OYIVPbJQBqMQUdHc3L9/s1200/the-stable-1200x900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg21xCcG9suPJ13itdMMVLyXR4cKEYlcDMrr9izwxTv-K-WC8w6IsqApv0nGVrsnIGExUMeCJVsuHqkEDIHRepAH3CtVkeveAnqtFTnGbMaMbQDrcf9SVtvJ8SRGPQItzFreqb4coife49OLNaL3rR-guhV_tUITBHolF9OYIVPbJQBqMQUdHc3L9/w486-h365/the-stable-1200x900.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div> <p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3928125374594680516.post-4433051886658860832022-03-18T11:58:00.002-04:002022-03-18T11:58:35.531-04:00Some People Told Me - Why Do People Believe the Big Lie?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirmXEvZ9AZX3U__apC-qCZ8QUwjWdPpK6A_luP6HTiWBULN7Gr1LHWfziNNWNM5OrKy-9x6b6E_4kG-Yabou34a1j9lNVOkukA3e2YDYbaviFSUfm1Q6zaXuJ-FhpVUQUIOkcXYO1D0GkaHVSf44NR9S1PyCtXu19V9ViZnoE31CyOAv535KXD8Xwy=s1001" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1001" height="501" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirmXEvZ9AZX3U__apC-qCZ8QUwjWdPpK6A_luP6HTiWBULN7Gr1LHWfziNNWNM5OrKy-9x6b6E_4kG-Yabou34a1j9lNVOkukA3e2YDYbaviFSUfm1Q6zaXuJ-FhpVUQUIOkcXYO1D0GkaHVSf44NR9S1PyCtXu19V9ViZnoE31CyOAv535KXD8Xwy=w501-h501" width="501" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">An immediate alarm bell, a warning flare goes up, whenever a pundit or talking head begins a report with “some people told me.” Which people? When? What exactly was said and in what context? But more importantly, do these people even exist? In almost every instance I suspect not. If you can’t cite a specific source, if the information is second hand and only attributed to “some people,” this tells me whatever is to follow is more than likely a crock of unadulterated bullshit. I’m sorry, but let’s call it what it is. This is nothing more than an example of “fire-hosing,” a propaganda technique in which a large number of messages are broadcast rapidly, repetitively, and continuously without regard for truth or consistency. And people are eating it up whether it be true or not.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">During the four long years of the former White House interregnum, and throughout the past year, the so-called “Big Lie” has largely been attributed to the words of, the evidence provided by “some people.” But no one seems to know who they are. And yet the media keeps reporting these false narratives, perhaps because they cannot conceive of anyone who might have the impudence to distort the truth so egregiously. Yet it happens all the time. The American landscape seems to be full of people who believe these “some people” who exist only in the minds of those who wish to lie and distort. And what if such a claim is proven to be untrue? Normally this would be considered embarrassing and a sign of weakness. This is no longer the case. These “some people” and their spokespersons double-down on untrue claims to save face and personal credibility.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">It is our own fault that we are not more discriminating about what we choose to believe. Many prefer to think they are correct rather than admit they are wrong or have been duped by the unscrupulous. It has been shown time and again that repeating or amplifying false claims, even to refute them, makes people more likely to believe it. We would be far better off to value uncertainty and intellectual humility and curiosity. Those values help us ask questions without the expectation of hard/fast answers.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Why haven’t we learned our lesson and demonstrated the fortitude to ignore these claims and call them what they are? Perpetuating them comes with costs. Case in point . . . the January 6th Capitol insurrection and attempted coup. A year has passed, and the Big Lie is just as prevalent today as it was then. Why? Because the media is playing right into the hands of the perpetrators. Dr. Matt Blanchard, a clinical psychologist at New York University, has studied how we deal with what is purported to be true . . . what “some people” have claimed is the truth. People won’t so much believe something, yet they do seem willing to accept certain information or facts provisionally because it fits their frame of mind and helps them identify with others. Or it might help one vent some rage. What is believed “is always predicated on usefulness." After a time, the presumed truth is accepted as fact. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The Nazis were adept at perpetuating its Big Lie – claiming Germany’s ills were attributed to the Jews and their “stab-in-the-back” treachery – in order to exploit and manipulate people solely to appeal to ingrained historical anti-Semitism to gain their support. Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, freely admitted that the perpetuation of the lie is not dependent on the intelligence of those who created it, but rather on the “thick-headedness” and stupidity of those to ignorant to recognize it for what it really is. There is no reason to fear appearing impudent or ridiculous. Just stick to the story and folks will believe it to be the truth. Timothy Snyder, a historian who specializes in the study of fascism, wrote in The New York Times last year that one of the major components of the Big Lie is that it is immediately attributed to the side it is directed against. This is exactly what Adolf Hitler did in his Mein Kampf, and it is what we are seeing today in this country.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Frequent and tautological repetition is also key as its success is dependent on indoctrination from all angles. It becomes its own primary evidence. Repeat something enough it becomes truth. Who is responsible for this truth? More often than not it is “some people.” No one seems to need any more proof than that. It’s time to insist on those advancing the claims of “some people” to put up – show us the evidence – or shut up!</span></div><p></p>Steve Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15797234919854185892noreply@blogger.com0