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Harriet Beecher Stowe

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 15:56:29 GMT

Harriet Beecher Stowe

A Personal Portrait and Origins of a Magnum Opus

In 1852, a literary explosion in novel form rocked the United States striking to the core of regional conscience. Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a national indictment of the hotly contested slavery issue. Previously a poor and unknown housewife, Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of this phenomenon, became a household name overnight. Responding to her own compulsions in the novel’s composition, she was astonished at the furor surrounding her offering. Biographers and scholars have since delved into Stowe’s pre-best-seller days in an effort to isolate motives. Perhaps the clearest evidence for the birth of Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a strongly developed moral sense inculcated at an early age and forged in the childhood fires of one the more remarkable early nineteenth century families.

On June 14, 1811, Litchfield, Connecticut was unaware of its newest citizen’s future fame. People only knew that the Lyman Beecher family had another little girl christened Harriet Elizabeth Beecher. Nurture played a vital role in shaping young Harriet’s destiny. Her father, Lyman Beecher, has received scholarly evaluations spanning the spectrum from severely censorial to open admiration. It is certain that he was a unique individual whose overwhelming energy and vocal stance on issues translated itself to his children.

As a Calvinistic reverend, Lyman Beecher operated in sermon mode much of the time. E. Bruce Kirkham observes this in his The Making of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, writing that Beecher had “…fun arguing points of theology at the dinner table.”[1] Raised on such a steady diet of rhetoric, it is not surprising that the Beecher family should have produced an astounding display of talent in the oratorical and literary fields. Noel B. Gerson records a quote to this effect in the excellent biography Harriet Beecher Stowe saying, “Lyman Beecher was called ‘the father of more brains than any other man in America.’ “[2] The moral debate was ever a favorite to him and his offspring. This method of expression became a standard presence in Harriet’s prolific literary career. It appears multiple times in Uncle Tom’s Cabin where Harriet interrupts the narrative to address the “dear reader” directly for a long discourse in best lecture style.[3]

It was soon obvious to the Beecher family that Harriet had a nearly insatiable propensity for the printed word. Literacy instruction began at the age of four, and she ingested large portions of the King James Bible and Book of Common Prayer at the feet of her grandmother and aunt. Gerson tells us, “Before she was eight, she proved to Lyman Beecher’s satisfaction that she could master the content of adult books.”[4] She was given the run of his library. This prodigious intake coupled with the Beecher disposition for eloquence inevitably produced an equally vast output. The first hint was a prize-winning essay written at the age of eleven entitled, “Can the Immortality of the Soul Be Proved by the Light of Nature?”[5]

Harriet obtained her formal education at the Hartford Female Seminary, a girls’ school begun by her innovative sister Catharine Beecher Stowe who had acted on a desire for broader educational opportunities for women. Harriet was an apt student who found time for writing poems and numerous letters despite being set to teaching classes of her peers by her sister.

In 1832, Harriet moved with her family to Cincinnati, Ohio where she later met and married Calvin Stowe, a learned and distinguished Bible scholar. It was here that Harriet made her most significant debut as a writer prior to Uncle Tom’s Cabin fame. She became a regular contributor to the area magazines with her first piece being “Modern Uses of Language” published in the Western Monthly Magazine.[6] With the discovery that she could earn an income through relieving her compulsory urge for writing, Harriet thereafter regarded her work as a supplement to her husband’s meager salary as a professor. It was often that her pieces barely averted bankruptcy.

The US political climate throughout the 1830’s and 40’s was stormy. The national debate over slavery in the Southern states steadily escalated toward a climax. Slavery advocates and abolitionists engaged in bitter disputes, the rabid William Lloyd Garrison one of the more extreme examples who in his paper, The Liberator, attacked anyone and everyone who did not support him in calling for immediate emancipation.[7]

Cincinnati in its location near the slave-holding state of Kentucky was rife with the opposing currents. It is significant that Harriet’s writings make almost no mention of the subject prior to her novel examining it minutely. She was certainly not unaware of the issue having paid a visit to a slave-holding plantation across the Ohio River with a friend Mary Dutton in 1833,[8] however she felt no particular calling to add her opinion in print. Her thoughts as expressed to friends were moderately anti-slavery advocating “gradual emancipation through purchase and colonization in Liberia.”[9] Her opposition to slavery was always based on her deeply held beliefs in God and his love for all mankind. Dehumanization through being regarded as mere merchandise jarred horribly on Stowe’s moral sensibility. Yet she believed Garrison’s plan would ultimately harm both slaves and the South who depended on them. Thus she supported gradual emancipation. Then came the Compromise of 1850 containing the Fugitive Slave Law.

The Compromise of 1850 attempted to mollify both Northern and Southern states over the issue of whether slavery would be allowed in the new states being admitted to the Union. As a bone to the South, on outlawing slavery in the new state of California, the legislature enacted the Fugitive Slave Law that in effect declared that any free Negro residing in the US could be apprehended as a fugitive if a man were to identify himself as his master corroborated with the sworn testimony of a compatriot. Abolitionists were incensed. “The Two Altars”, an explicitly anti-slavery article appeared in 1851 marking Harriet’s debut as an abolitionist writer.[10]

1851 also found Harriet writing for an abolitionist newspaper called the National Era edited by one Gamaliel Bailey. With feelings at a fever pitch, Harriet received a letter from her sister-in-law observing, “If I could use a pen as you can, I would write something that would make this whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.”[11] Immediately following this exhortation, a commission from Mr. Bailey himself in the form of an advance payment on more anti-slavery literature and Harriet’s own deeply offended moral view on God’s love for humanity demolished the last barriers. Harriet informed Mr. Bailey that she had found inspiration for not a mere short story but a serial that could turn into novel. Uncle Tom’s Cabin had been conceived.

Readers of the National Era eagerly scanned the weekly issues for the next chapter of Harriet’s gripping installments depicting places and practices easily recognizable to them. Originally estimated to be approximately a six-month undertaking, Harriet Beecher Stowe’s creativity, drawing on her experience and imagination, stretched to nearly a year. When it finally drew to a close with the harrowing death of Uncle Tom at the hands of the sadistic Simon Legree[12], publishers detected a profitable venture. Some thought it too volatile for Southern audiences, but John P. Jewett, a Boston publisher, carried the day and produced the first edition of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.[13] Three thousand copies were sold the first week, and Harriet received a royalty check of ten thousand dollars. Truly her morals had served her well.

The public reaction to Uncle Tom’s Cabin was predictable. The South was violently hostile, and the North had found additional ammunition. Certainly Harriet was bewildered. Her conception of God’s love had led her in her mind to attack the system of slavery through her novel rather than individuals. She held a somewhat naïve belief that if only humane minds on both sides could “perceive its evils”, they would be led “to turn against it.”[14] The attacks on her veracity proved otherwise. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, instead of being the moderate chiding intended to nudge the nation toward abolition, drove a further wedge that led inexorably to a civil war.

Works Cited

Adams, John R. Harriet Beecher Stowe. New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1963.

Gerson, Noel B. Harriet Beecher Stowe. New York: Praeger Publishers, 1976

Kirkham, E. Bruce. The Building of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1977.

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Edited by Elizabeth Ammons. New York: Norton, 1994.

Wagenknecht, Edward. Harriet Beecher Stowe The Known and the Unknown. New York: Oxford University Press, 1965.

[1] E. Bruce Kirkham, The Making of Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1977), 8.

[2] Noel Bertram Gerson, Harriet Beecher Stowe (New York: Praeger Publishers, Inc., 1976), 2.

[3] Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin ed. Elizabeth Ammos (New York: Norton, 1994), 115.

[4] Gerson, 7.

[5] Gerson, 10.

[6] John R. Adams, Harriet Beecher Stowe (New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1963), 36.

[7] Kirkham, 13.

[8] Gerson, 38-39

[9] Edward Wagenknecht, Harriet Beecher Stowe The Known and the Unknown (New York: Oxford University Press, 1965), 181.

[10] Wagenknecht, 181

[11] Gerson, 64

[12] Stowe, 358-359.

[13] Kirkham, 141.

[14] Wagenknacht, 182.

An Essay

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 02:15:12 GMT

Laboring over an essay causes one to feel melancholy that it should be reviewed by such a limited audience as only one professor. This was written for today's exam in the class, Asian Civilization to 1500.

Han Confucianism Displayed in The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee

The Chinese worldview by the time of the Han Dynasty (206 BC—220 AD) had become a composite of Confucian, Daoist, and Legalistic principles. The melding of these influences during the Han dynasty produced what has been dubbed Han Confucianism. Han Confucianism was displayed to a remarkable degree in subsequent literature. The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee is an authentic Chinese detective novel set in the Tang era of 618—907 AD that provides wonderful evidence of the application of Han Confucian principles.

Judge Dee as the main character in The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee was the district magistrate of Shansi province. Based on an actual individual who lived in seventh century China, Judge Dee with the help of his lieutenants solved three murder cases using a mixture of Confucian, Daoist and Legalistic principles in his methods. The murder cases took place in both the upper and lower strata of Chinese society. The first was the double murder of an obscure silk merchant on the treacherous routes of his trade and another regular citizen. While in the opening stages of his investigation in this case, Judge Dee was apprised of a poor shopkeeper’s death. Operating out of his Confucian worldview, he took actions that established this death as the second murder case. Engaged in these pursuits, Judge Dee found himself obliged to take on a third case dealing with the death of a young bride on her wedding night. The bride had married into a very distinguished family, which added its own dimension to the situation. These simultaneous investigations that ultimately culminated in success established Judge Dee’s reputation as an exceptionally astute district magistrate of his time.

Confucianism was the dominant motivator evident in Judge Dee’s career. Confucian thought as a slight antecedent to Daoism and Legalism originated with a thinker named Kong Fuzi or Confucius, as the Western world knew him. A principle idea in Confucian thought was the attempt to understand humanity through the idea of relationships. To be human meant to relate. Five key relationships according to Confucius determined whether or not social harmony could be maintained. They were the following: ruler—subject, father—son, wife—husband, older sibling—younger sibling, and older friend—younger friend. The starting point for the entire framework was the family and respect for elders. A Confucian relationship, ruler—subject was evident in Judge Dee’s drive to solve his murder cases. He acknowledged as much when he observed to Sergeant Hoong that he…” as district magistrate…[was] considered ‘the father and mother’ of the people.” Again in the use of those filial terms, he was defining his role within the family context and the mandate to maintain personal virtue.

Confucian family roles also emerged in the manner that Judge Dee went about opening his second murder investigation. While in disguise, Judge Dee entered the house that had belonged to a late shopkeeper named Bee Hsun and was now occupied by his widow and her mother-in-law. Having met the mother-in-law in the marketplace and heard of her son’s death he became slightly suspicious on the account of her telling how the corpse’s eyes had bulged. His suspicion increased when he noted how the daughter-in-law, Mrs. Djou, scolded and reviled her mother-in-law for bringing a stranger into the house. This violation of the Confucian relationship of wife—husband, where the widow was abusing her husband’s relatives convinced Judge Dee to charge her with Bee Hsun’s murder without a shred of hard evidence.

Daoism emerged as counter-acting influence to Confucianism with entirely different emphasis. Whereas Confucians thought to oil the social wheels with an active effort to enhance personal virtue through the application of relational guidelines, Daoists sought more of a withdrawal as the key. Laozi, the obscure founder of Daoism, compared his recommendations for entering the “Dao” or “Way” to the nature of water. Water was weak on its own, yet it could accomplish great things through prolonging its very passivity. Striving had to be eliminated to a quiet moderation. Judge Dee exemplified this notion when he became frustrated with his lack of progress in his investigations. He decided withdraw for a time and spend the night meditating in the city temple hoping for an insight via a dream or vision. He was at first unsuccessful in calming his thoughts. However after having used the divination slips as a diversion and thought about a cryptic verse of poetry thus obtained, he at last became calm and drifted into a trance that produced a very satisfying vision giving clues to his perplexities if not dispelling them entirely.

Daoistic thought may have been the inspiration for Judge Dee to disguise himself as a doctor in order to gather information about the murder of the silk merchant. He reasoned within himself that people generally confide more to those skilled in the art of healing. It was the concept of ceasing inordinate struggle and allowing information and success to come his way naturally.

Legalism took a much more rigorous approach. A boon to the authoritarian inclined, it advocated clear strict laws imposed on a population with detailed punishments attached as deterrents to lawbreakers. Infractions could also be addressed on the concept of collective responsibility. An individual’s family could be punished for his crimes in the event he was not available for retribution. The gruesome punishments recommended by Judge Dee for the three criminals in each of his cases clearly reflect the influence of legalism. Adultery and murder of a husband or the breach of the husband—wife relationship was considered such a serious crime that when a confession of that nature was ultimately extracted from Mrs. Djou, she was recommended for the “lingering death” or gradual dismemberment. Thankfully it was mitigated to death with the first cut. Shao Lee-huai, the double murderer in the first case, was beheaded, and Hsu Deh-tai, Mrs. Djou’s lover and therefore accomplice in crime was strangled. The public spectacle described illustrates the mindset that these capital punishments would act as a deterrent to potential criminals. Justice was portrayed as this terrible entity that was no respecter of rank or position.

Judge Dee’s successful efforts in solving his cases and meting out due punishment as prescribed by legalistic governing earned him a promotion from the emperor. Han Confucian methods had led him to pursue cases where others would have feared to venture. The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee gives an accurate portrayal of actions modeled implicitly on the three elements of Han Confucianism.

Pleasure Deferred

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:26:57 GMT

Ah tis difficult to apply the above principle! All that is within me yearns to be lost in the utter bliss of a Tarkington novel yet foreign to the experience therefore affording an even more exquisite pleasure. Temptation must ever dog us in our daily lives. It must surely have been a divinely ordained event when today as I was locating books in the university library for research on Harriet Beecher Stowe, I discovered the treasure trove of Booth Tarkington. Divinely ordained to add strength of character as my hand under its own volition moved to extract the volume displayed in my current reading.

"Andrew," whispered my guardian angel, "You Must Not. You have an Asian Civilization examination on Friday. You need to plan for the essay. Did you remember that the first draft of your research paper is also due next week? and that you have a speech on Tuesday? and that your entire day on Saturday is taken up with a trip to NYC? and that you have Bible Study this Wed. eve? and Friday night is Thanksgiving supper? You must let it be."

"Yes, yes." I answered. "This could not have been sprung upon me at a more inopportune time. However, how about if I do my work early for the assignments you mentioned and reward myself for the triumph over procrastination with the now fourfold ineffable ecstacy of Tarkington?"

"Hmm, we shall see," he returned dubiously.

And it was done. The Flirt found its way into the stack which the librarian graciously checked for me, and the dueling forces were immediately engaged.

Tension builds by the minute even as I publicly journal about the war within. I have remained victorious to date. Can I withstand? Will I be standing proudly arm in arm with my guardian angel as we admire the "A" on Friday's exam?

Or will it end in crushing defeat? The pleasure taken now with future gnashing of teeth as deadlines arrive, and I am unprepared.

To arms! and may it be a desirable Victory.

What Road Would You Be?

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 00:12:13 GMT

Pleasantly blank thoughts flitted through my mind as my Corolla smoothly navigated the curves and hills on the county line road. The more than familiar scenery on this my regular route on the commute from home to college dwelt for an infinitesimal period in my cognitive processes before passing into oblivion. Yet there were the occasional anomalies that managed to prolong their consideration. One such was the marker proclaiming HEIDI DR. This consistently became the stimulus for imagination.

How, I wondered, did this particular road come by its moniker? No doubt at some point when roads in this area needed christening there was a certain Heidi who was somehow associated with this location. And certainly it is far from uncommon to have a road named for an individual. Yet often it is the full name of a famous persona or something equally impressive. Rarely in my experience had I seen an ordinary first name itself gracing the signpost. Then as the mental locomotive rushed on as it’s wont, I began reviewing the many terms in our rich language’s repertoire that signal a place for regular travel. Each is unique. Each conjures it’s own mental representation. To which would I want to attach my name?

Interstate Andrew?

Definitely not! I am not such a cosmopolitan

Andrew Highway?

Mm no. In fact I reject the entire industrial category

Andrew Avenue?

Not quite. I usually enjoy alliteration, however, it seems distinctly tacky in this case

Andrew Street?

Much too commonplace. It could be in any inconsequential urban area.

Andrew Alley?

A somewhat trashy nook with dangerously rickety housing and broken glass liberally scattered. The dumpsters are setting prominently in the corner. An abandoned warehouse…No no. Surely I deserve better

Andrew Rd.?

Extremely generic! One of those “little boxes on the hillside” An emphatic negative

Andrew Dr.?

Almost. Still the inconsequential image of a cul-de-sac with boringly middle class two stories and well-manicured lawns resembling every other development…

Andrew Lane?

Hmm. More congenial perhaps. Yet approaching too closely to the rustic..

Andrew Trail?

Narrow, winding, exhausting…Not at all!

Andrew Track?

The ear-splitting roar of engines or the pounding of hooves, feet, etc. No, no. Much too disturbing

Andrew Path?

Again the confines

Andrew Way?

Hmm. Could be the modestly successful route I envision yet does not please as the final one….

Andrew Boulevard.

Yes! This I believe is adequate to my expectations. A spacious tree-lined roadway exhibiting a quiet grace. A place to cruise unhurriedly with the most debonair sangfroid. That may be redundant, but I like those words.

What would you choose?

Indian Epics

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 02:20:04 GMT

Always be certain your character remains plausible. If in your narrative, you wrench him/her into a direction incompatible with the portrait painted in the reader's mind, you will lose your audience.

These thoughts remain foremost in my mind from the Creative Writing class I was blessed to attend a few years ago. I am experiencing the cognitive dissonance created when this rule of thumb is flagrantly breached. Indeed I am weary of the near constant contradictions presented in my current read. A demon who did not kill a woman because he wished to maintain his integrity....um.. Hello? I thought it was a demon and incomparably evil. I was not aware that they possessed anything resembling integrity.

The mighty monkey prince, Sugreeva, married to a beautiful woman and surrounded by other lovely women?? Wait a minute..I thought they were all monkeys. Are they somehow mixed up or they interchangeable or is it...? Sorry I'm confused.

It really becomes a labor and somewhat of a dizzying prospect to be constantly shifting the schema to accomodate the random whims of the tale. But then again..the 300 million plus gods in Hindu culture (as we learned in Asian Civilization class) would be enough to daunt even the hardiest soul.

The Joy of Old Notebooks

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 14:38:32 GMT

When one has accumulated a stack of used notebooks from years gone by, a perusal of them will prove most entertaining. I have not yet invested in a virgin notebook for this new semester, therefore I was richly amused this morning as I sat waiting for class to begin. The one I am currently using as a stand-in, is one from my FB Creative Writing class. I had to grin heartily at the tortured poetical attempts and the random thoughts recorded from those days. One of these items was a pet peeve list written as a warm-up exercise for a poem dealing with an issue. I have reproduced it (the list) here for your benefit.

Pet Peeves

1. Stepping in water in stocking feet
2. When a setter consistently ignores you
3. Scrolling back and forth to read text too wide for a computer screen
4. Peanut butter frosting on cakes
5. Highly excitable people
6. Smudge on eyeglasses
7. Excessively shrill, repetitive laughter
8. Finger nails on the chalk board
9. Wasting time on the volley ball court
10. Hard butter that tears up the bread
11. Flopping shoelaces
12. Pant legs that are too short
13. Showers that alternate cold/hot
14. Incorrectly folded hankies
15. Stories with no resolution
16. Rhymes that don't come

A Short Story from the Oregon Adventure

Sat, 29 Aug 2009 23:52:54 GMT

Background: In 2009, the author spent two months in the state of Oregon working in the hay harvest. His job consisted of driving a tractor-trailer hauling hay out of the field to vast storage sheds and stock piles. He experienced many adventures, one of which is detailed below.

The Power Line Problem

“Andrew, Do you copy?” the two-way radio crackled. It was Michael my co-worker.

I grabbed the mike. “Ten-four, go ahead.”

“When you get unloaded, go down the road to that field on the right—the one with the tight driveway. Go to the back corner of the field, cross the ditch, and there’s another load in another field back there.”

I digested this information with something of distaste. This obviously was going to be another one of “those” adventures. “Te-en four I’ll be there,” I responded.

I watched my mirror idly as David took the hay blocks off my trailers, and maneuvered them into the shed. All too soon the last one was within the squeeze’s grasp, and I was ready for another load. I released the parking brake, let in the clutch and guided the Peterbilt back out to the highway. After checking for traffic, I swung onto the road, keeping a hawk eye on the mirror as the sixty-four feet of trailers swept their path into position behind me. I was pulling a set of doubles with a forty-foot trailer towing a twenty-four foot pup trailer. They required careful foresight in making any turns. They held no regard for fence posts, stop signs, ditches or other objects but would crush them cheerfully if given a chance.

I traveled the few hundred yards to the field Michael had indicated on the radio. Before beginning the turn into the lane, I noted the vehicle approaching from the rear. This particular turn demanded that I position my truck as far on the left side of the road as possible so as to minimize any potential ditch surfing or destruction from the trailers. Already I had had an unpleasant encounter with an SUV driven by a lady who had failed to notice my right turn signal activated a ridiculously long time before the actual turn expressly to insure her awareness of my intentions. Therefore I watched this vehicle carefully, and was not surprised to see it dart past me on the right as I put my truck on the left side of the road. When the coast was entirely clear, I entered the field with the pup trailer doing only a minor dance through the ditch. Ah well. Empty was not problem. It was when they were loaded with twenty-four tons of hay that it became something of a larger situation.

I trundled to the corner of the field to which I had been directed, and did indeed discover a ditch that looked like it had been previously crossed at various times. I coasted to a stop and eyed it doubtfully. A two or three foot drop with no inclined plane of which to speak promised to snag my tractor’s fuel tanks. I could already see myself stuck faster than a burr in a buffalo’s hide. I was aware of the length of my Pete, having high-centered it at a previous field, and I was not anxious to repeat the situation.

“Michael, Do you copy?” I radioed.

“Yup, Go ahead.”

“Uh..I don’t think I can cross this ditch where they have gone before without high-centering the truck. It drops off too sharply.”

"We-ell, I’ll be there after a bit. You can wait till I get there,” he responded.

I replaced the mike and turning off the truck, settled down to wait for the man with the plan. It was rather convenient to have another head on which to push the situation.

After about fifteen minutes I heard the turbo whine and metallic clattering of the field squeeze as Michael drew up beside me briefly to assess the situation.

“I think there’s another way across down in those trees. I’ll go and have a look.” He moved off farther down the chasm and disappeared into the foliage. “Yeah there’s another lane down here. Come on down and you can follow me in.”

I re-fired my truck and did as directed. The sun disappeared as I entered the trees and there before me lay two ruts tracking their way across the ditch after which they made a slight turn to the right. Dense undergrowth lay on either side and the ground had an ominously spongy appearance. “Here goes nothing,” I resigned myself and reached for the inter-axle differential lock.

The truck shook violently as I eased it through the rutted track. Tree branches bent against the side, and brambles folded before the trailers. Then The Challenge loomed dead ahead. A telephone pole stood directly on the left side of the lane (if it could even be called a lane). A guy wire reached its way into my path, and I was expected to follow a left curve around the wire. Low-hanging tree branches with the capacity to remove smokestacks from big trucks lay to the immediate right.

I reached for the mike, “Michael, this is nuts!” I expostulated.

“That could be one way of describing it,” he drawled in reply.

I kept moving around the guy wire taking as much as humanly possible on the right without driving directly into the trees. I checked the mirror to see how the trailers were behaving. The first trailer cleared it narrowly, but it was obvious that the pup trailer was not going to avoid it. How hard would it rub? I decided to conduct the experiment, as backing up would not gain me much of anything anyway. The trailer moved inexorably forward, and the guy wire registered the effects remarkably. I was alarmed to see the entire pole whipping violently to and fro. Potential explanations immediately began offering themselves for consideration should I be the driver responsible for knocking down a power pole.

“Hey did someone just hit the power lines?” Kenton, another of the drivers, wanted to know. He was yet at the shed being unloaded and these particular lines ran directly past there. “They sure are shaking.”

The trailer moved on by and the pole steadied again, blessedly remaining upright.

“Yeah I nudged them a little,” I returned, masking my relief at not having to deal with a rather messy situation.

“Hmm it seemed like something more.” He mused.

I continued following the lane until I finally located Michael waiting for me in the field with a paltry four blocks to be loaded. It was not even a full load of eight blocks. After pulling alongside the stacks, I immediately began filling out the necessary tags to be affixed to each block. Within minutes, Michael had the hay on my front trailer, and it was again time for me to retrace my ridiculous path.

“You go on out first,” Michael directed. “That way I can shove your trailers around if I need to."

“Ten-four.” I exited the field and was again confronted with the now obviously bent guy wire. The tree branches shuddered as I delved as far as possible to the left.

“Stop,” Michael commanded. My trailers were again threatening the power situation. The truck lurched as I felt him thrusting the forks of the squeeze under the pup trailer and pushing it sideways. “Okay, go ahead.” I eased forward once more. “Stop!” came the directive again. More lurching, then finally, “Okay.” This time I was able to continue on my way out.

We finished out the load in another silly, small field beside my absurd path. After re-crossing the ditch, I at last was able to breathe freely in the welcome expanse of an open field.

I gratefully negotiated the drive out onto the road and back to the hay storage shed where Michael had first contacted me.

Later in the course of the day as we continued hauling to this shed, we had to avoid the power company service trucks parked alongside the road. Service trucks are an extremely familiar sight, and I thought nothing of it until suddenly it occurred to me-- there was no doubt a blink in the lights in the many homes surrounding this particular area as a direct result of my brush with the line.

It was then that the blessing of the bushes became crystal clear.

Illustrations

My Peterbilt

The Squeeze

The Naughty Yellow Jacket

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 04:25:42 GMT

Perhaps you have attended those wonderful outdoor picnics with the most delectable of food and weather. Beautifully warm breezes play gently with the napkin, as you shovel in those special victuals prepared only for such occasions. Light conversation and laughter tinge it all with an air of bonhomie warmer even the temperatures. It is the most perfect of times---until the yellow jackets arrive.

Nasty uninvited guests, they insist on attempting to sample your plate. With the belligerent attitude of a squatter army, they launch into a brazen dive for the goods. Driven nearly frantic with an insatiable sweet tooth excited to a frenzy by the suffusing zephyrs, they regard neither life nor possessor. The peace is shattered. Bitter remarks are exchanged concerning the pugnacious host. Everyone can be seen swatting gingerly at these intruders ever mindful of the potential pain should they decide to retaliate with the armory at their disposal. Occasionally a curious individual jig is introduced as it becomes evident that one of the horde's ire has been raised. And speaking of ire, it is completely mutual.

I was on an outing exactly as described only last evening. There was a beverage chest containing ice cold Pepsis packaged in the tall narrow necked bottles of yesteryear. I selected one of these with relish, admiring the vintage container. It does give such a subtle debonair atmosphere to attain the proper tilt to a casual swig J. Except when those swigs are interrupted.

After the ongoing battle for my plate, I was standing with a few friends, Pepsi in hand, engaged in conversation. Having duly made a remark, I punctuated it with a sip from the bottle. Imagine my surprise, when I felt a sharp stab of pain in my tongue instead of only the beverage. That is correct. A VISCIOUS, EVIL yellow jacket had climbed in to drink my Pepsi. I do not advise trying to drink a yellow jacket. My reaction was completely reflexive. My arm automatically flung the bottle to the ground with the speed with which you withdraw your finger from an extremely hot surface. My friends were somewhat startled. They gazed at me interestedly. Within the first seconds of pain, I knew what had happened. Do you know how much a sting on your tongue hurts? I do think the arm is almost pleasant compared to it.

I said, “A yellow jacket climbed in my drink, and stung me on my tongue!” I searched the ground and found the offender who seemed to be half expired. He had no doubt been going for a Pepsi swim. I now regret that I did not take the opportunity to immediately crush him to an unrecognizable ruin. My throbbing tongue I guess, made me think him already gone and was somewhat of a distraction. A kind person brought me a glass of ice water, and another offered to give me some peppermint oil. I said, “Itth okay. I thinkth I’ll be alwight.” I had a sudden speech impediment. I thought briefly of everyone I had met with that condition and thought it a novel one for me.

The individual did rummage around their vehicle and found a bottle of peppermint oil. They informed me that it was the best antiseptic around, and soaking a napkin with it, instructed me to press it to the affected site. I did so and certainly discovered that if a higher pain level means a more excellent antiseptic, peppermint oil qualifies handsomely. Hopefully it destroyed the last vestiges of malignant bacteria contained in yellow jacket venom.

Gradually (VERY) the stab did cease to become so knifelike to be replaced by something of a dull paper weightish sensation in the mouth. A few hours after the incident, a twelve or thirteen year-old friend asked me, “How’s your tongue feel? I wanna see.” How do you gracefully show someone a tongue wound? It reminded me of preschool days where occasionally we needed to express our displeasure. But I obligingly unveiled as much as possible only the afflicted corner for his inspection.

Today there is only a faint numb spot to remind me of the outrage. While still at the picnic, I did return to the area where I had been drinking with the intent of again searching for my foe and ensuring his demise, but I was unable to find him. Perhaps he limped off to recuperate for his next outing.

If you have read this far, I advise you to carefully inspect all food items should you ever have the opportunity to go on a picnic where the yellow jackets are also present. It is one of those salient pieces information you learn about in Health class. I could be in one of those little illustration boxes at the corner of the textbook page entitled, A Dangerous Drink, In 2009, at an evening outing, Andrew….25 of….” Etc. etc.

Although of course I would need to be hospitalized for days and die gruesomely of a horrible mouth swelling. Frankly I prefer it this way.

If you wonder why I did not see it in the bottle, these particular bottles were opaque.

Movies Based On Books vs The Imagination

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 00:36:09 GMT

With a Review of Prince Caspian

Occasionally when discussing a well-loved classic with fellow literary dabblers one will hear the question, “Have you seen the movie?” Perhaps the questioner does not intend it, but it gives opportunity for one to get the feeling that their digestion of the work is partially incomplete. A fuller experience will certainly include “the movie.” For myself, I am reinforced in the belief that this is an erroneous line of thought. My experience of the book has time and time again, been spoiled upon seeing the movie.

As I read a favorite book, a constantly moving picture, subject to my whim and the author’s skill, is passing through my mind. If it is engaging, I find myself standing breathlessly in the midst of the action as it swirls into another twist of the plot. When I revisit my favorite characters as I have been doing of late, I always receive the same sensation. I seem to be about ten feet away from the protagonist and hovering effortlessly above the ground. Invisible and inaudible, specter like I glide after them as they live their varied lives. I am party to all their soliloquies and internal musings. At times I wish so badly I could step out of my powerless role and simply say hello, or perhaps give a valuable tip. After having turned the last page and said a goodbye, a dull ache within longs for it all to be true. Then I must turn back the clock and attempt a solace by re-reading my favorite sections. The imagination is again given free rein to conjure the scene with perhaps a slight change in detail for added spice.

Having read a book and sitting down to see the movie, I involuntarily hold my previous mind picture in constant comparison. Quite often I find my imagined scene is infinitely more agreeable than that of those writing the stilted choreograph on the screen. When a familiar situation arises in the movie plot, I listen sharply for those words of conversation as gleaned and stored from the printed page. It is curiously satisfying to hear them pronounced verbatim a word or two behind me as I simultaneously supply the necessary quotation or the next required action. But they never have the same expressions or do it exactly in the same manner as they did in the mind’s eye. Usually they are much more disagreeable or ridiculous. I realize that it would be nearly impossible to perfectly reproduce a book in a movie’s span and it does require some adaptation. However when a perfectly good classic is subjected to a disgusting modernization, it almost becomes a desecration.

A case in point. In the second installment of the Chronicles of Narnia, Prince Caspian, C.S. Lewis portrays a good natured, golden-haired lad, (I am not exactly sure about the golden hair but I always pictured him so.) who remains sturdy in the face of frightening meetings with the Old Narnians and the subsequent overwhelming odds against the Telmarine army. He is also in awe of the four kings and queens of old who are called into Narnia by Queen Susan’s horn.

Not so in the film. He is rather shown as a brooding snarling sort of personage who immediately conflicts with the High King Peter over leading the army. When Peter plans and executes a disastrous assault against Miraz’s castle (a fictitious incident), a disgusted Caspian berates him. Peter sneers that it was he (Caspian) who blew the horn for help because he couldn’t do it on his own. Caspian retorts through narrowed eyes and a hard face, “My first mistake!”

Aaaaaargh!

Trumpkin, that jolly Red Dwarf, constantly ejaculating, "Beards and Bedsteads!" and the like, and always ready with cheerful cynicism and pishing of Aslan tales but a twinkle in the eye for their Majesties, is transformed into a sullen glowering embittered Son of Earth who stares insolently at their Majesties and offers biting sarcasm at intervals.

The visual narrative is also completely overloaded with incidences of the hackneyed “movie stare” of two or more individuals as they slowly move away from each other etc. Get over it! When does people ever gaze so protractedly at one another while a furious battle rages all around them? Or at any other time?

And to top it off completely, Queen Susan falls in love with Prince Caspian! How absolutely and utterly revolting! Why did some brilliant screen writer feel the need to have Queen Susan throw her arms around Caspian’s neck and draw his head down to hers just before returning to our world? And, once more, gaze long and lovingly into his eyes? Give me a break! This is most the adolescent rendition of the Chronicles of Narnia I have ever been ashamed to admit I witnessed! Please excuse me while I go have another good long scream! An exciting new twist? Absolute rubbish! The most unmitigated poppycock!

There are points where the book situation is reproduced almost exactly, and they speak the verbatim lines of text. But it seems a ludicrous mockery in the face of the grotesque wrenching of C. S. Lewis’s original plot.

Oh the movie Prince Caspian may be called a wonderful action packed thriller, but its makers have tried so strenuously, they have only succeeded in causing any common sensed viewer to pronounce it ridiculous. I think I must straightway reread a copy of Prince Caspian in order to cleanse my experience of that fantastically absurd romance and the devastating character assassinations. If this is modern interpretation, God help us all.

I suppose it is entirely my own fault. The remedy for irreconcilable differences between the imagination and the movie would be to either to watch the movie before reading the book or skip it entirely. Personally I am inclining toward the latter action.

Cinderella Revised

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 14:14:47 GMT

Today I turn in a completed essay for English Composition I class. The last step of the writing process mandates, "Share Your Results." Therefore I am taking it to heart.

It is a slightly altered version of the original Cinderella story.

I am open to any critical review.

Cinderella Revised

Once upon a time, near the capital of a large kingdom, there lived a rich lady with two daughters. They had almost all the ingredients for successfully ascending the social ladder. The lady’s husband had died, leaving her with a considerable fortune and fond hopes of marrying her daughters to handsome well-bred gentlemen. However despite her comfortable means, the lady became lonely for a companion. She wanted one with whom she could discuss the futures of her daughters. At times she felt that although her imagination could paint portraits of the most delightful taste, a second brush might well produce the ultimate masterpiece toward which they could strive together. Also she reasoned, a father figure would do well to increase her daughters’ chances for romance, as most gentlemen took families into careful consideration when they undertook to bestow their favor.

Sadly, many men considered it ill advised to marry a widow. The rich lady had all but given up hope, when one day she met a grieving widower. She was drawn to his noble melancholy countenance. He appeared to be a man of exceptional imagination with a capacity for infinite tenderness. His stray tears sparked an answering impulse in the rich lady’s bosom. She had also known many aching nights of loneliness as she lay awake in her large cold four-poster after her daughters had gone to bed. All her motherly instincts welled to the surface in a rush of longing to comfort him, and thereby also fulfilling her own desperate need for a hand to hold in the imaginative journey.

The widower and the rich lady began discussing their personal methods for coping with loss. At the end of the conversation, he kissed her hand gratefully, asking if they might not meet again, sometime in the future. They could update each other on the success of the techniques exchanged. The rich lady modestly inclined her head and acknowledged her pleasure at the thought. The widower bid her farewell and continued on his way with his gloom noticeably lifted. When the rich lady went to her home that evening, she still felt those masculine lips’ gentle brush on the back of her hand. Her heart sang in the knowledge that in a few days she would again see those rugged features behind which beat a loving heart.

The next meeting took place as promised and many more after that. In time the widower asked the rich lady to marry him. Her heart was so overwhelmed with the resolution of her one of deep-seated longings that she only nodded dumbly in response. They were married in sumptuous style as befitting the rich lady’s rank.

The widower had a daughter who was the same age as his new bride’s daughters. She had been the only child of his late wife, and together they had not withheld anything from her. Her main method of soothing her father toward her desires was a gentle loving disposition, serving to cloak a fierce protection of her territory. Using this guise, she succeeded in swaying her father to her every whim. To the newly wedded rich lady’s dismay, her dreams of sharing confidential times and visions for her daughters were cruelly dashed to the ground. Her husband made no secret of the fact that he considered his daughter the most beautiful maiden in the land, and the two sisters in comparison, among the most dowdy in character and appearance.

The rich lady noted her new stepdaughter’s attractive face and thought of the monopolizing nature lurking within. She realized that her ambitions would suffer a crushing defeat if she permitted this conniver to work her wiles on potential suitors for her own daughters’ hands. Shuddering at the thought of the unfortunate young man who should find himself honeyed into granting her stepdaughter’s every wish, the rich lady decided that she would undertake teaching the young girl the basics of discipline. Over her husband’s strenuous objections, she assigned her stepdaughter to the extremely unaccustomed task of kitchen duty. The husband withdrew further and even began hinting he had made a mistake in re-marrying.

After performing her duties in a very amateur manner, the stepdaughter, with no regard for cleanliness, would sit among the ashes of the fireplace and brood about the change in her circumstances. Her clothes wore out rapidly as a result, and she soon came to resemble a street beggar. The rich lady’s daughters were saddened and disgusted by their new sister’s stubbornness. They observed her dirty habit and christened her Cinderella in hopes that eventually the moniker’s shame would help her to realize the futility of such willful maintenance of pride. Cinderella, however, cornered her father every evening and poured out her woes in a wildly successful bid for sympathy. Together they lamented the death of her mother causing an increasing bitterness toward their new family.

One day there was a proclamation made throughout the land that the king’s son, the noble prince, would be holding a two-day ball for all the first citizens of the kingdom. This caused great excitement among the gentlemen and women, for the prince was unmarried. It was widely thought that this would perhaps be the occasion where the prince chose the one who pleased him most. Girls and women fluttered around to procure the most charming dresses and styles available for the ball. All the young girls experienced a quickening heartbeat whenever they thought, “Maybe it will be me!”

In Cinderella’s house, her stepmother heard the news with an excitement borne of the long years of waiting for just such an opportunity for her daughters’ debut. Her dreams, it seemed, stood an excellent chance of being fulfilled. She even allowed herself the luxury of thinking perhaps…perhaps one of her daughters might become queen! The stepmother thought of sharing this delightful proposition with her husband, however, she reflected that it would do no good as they had almost ceased speaking to each other. He would only deride her anyway in his blind admiration for his own Cinderella she decided. Ah Cinderella. What was to be done with her? Should she be allowed to attend the ball with her stepsisters? She had so far shown no inclination to stop her stubbornly willful silence toward her stepmother, choosing instead to avoid her whenever possible. Probably even now Cinderella was scheming to humiliate her new family at the ball with embellished tales of the steps they were taking to help overcome her headstrong tendencies. Maybe forbidding her attendance would be the final action needed to show her the futility of resisting authority. Yes, the stepmother decided. It would be a sharp lesson to be sure, however, it would do much good in the long run.

Meanwhile the two daughters themselves were in a delirium of excitement about the ball. Their mother had to lovingly caution them many times to curb the rowdy impulses leading to excessive chatter and boisterous laughter in discussing the upcoming event. It would not do to seem of the hoyden type, as many men in the kingdom, particularly among the nobility, were known to admire tastefully discreet behavior in women.

Cinderella was enlisted to help the daughters fix their hair and clothes in preparation for the ball. This she did in her customary silence, only answering once rather sarcastically to her stepsisters’ questions.

“Cinderella,” they asked, “Wouldn’t you like to go to the ball?”

“Ah, you are only mocking me because you know I will never be allowed to go to the ball.” She answered.

“But Cinderella, look at your clothes and habits,” they pointed out. “Do you think those attending the ball would gladly receive you in that condition? It is well that you stay home to reflect.” To this she made no answer retreating into mute melancholy.

When it came time to be off, the daughters and their mother climbed into the carriage and rode to the palace. Cinderella was nowhere to be found. Doubtless she was somewhere in a sulk reasoned the stepmother. She settled herself more comfortably among the cushions and looked forward to an evening of enjoyment.

The ball was a dazzling display of richly dressed men and beautiful women. The prince showed himself a most gracious host, dancing with each of the maidens in turn. This made it difficult to detect any favoritism. Thus the flames of jealousy were kept to equally low levels. The rich stepmother sighed with pleasure as she watched her daughters doing an excellent job of heeding her counsel to rein in their exuberance. And it seemed to her that the prince was turning a kindly eye toward the younger of the two. This was okay for she had noticed the Lord High Chamberlin dancing with the eldest. Things were coming along grandly.

Suddenly, half way through the evening, there was a stir near the entrance. All eyes turned toward the commotion to behold a magnificently dressed lady being ushered into the center of the room by a constantly bowing Lord High Chamberlin. Conversation abruptly died, the prince himself standing as though thunderstruck. Although it seemed to last an eternity, it was but for a moment, and as the prince recovered himself and strode to claim her hand, a subdued buzz of admiration broke out among the men. The ladies eyed her with some asperity for the prince danced as if in a trance. Gone was the impartiality so adroitly expressed earlier.

Many a young lady’s hopes lay in a shambles, and the rich stepmother felt as though the sun had disappeared in a cold drizzle. Why, she wondered, did these foreign princesses see the need to attend galas outside their own kingdoms? Didn’t they have plenty to keep them busy within their own realms? No they were not satisfied their own field, but must come lay claim to the prospects of others. It was a long evening.

Strangely, when the clock’s hands neared twelve, the foreign princess (for all had determined that to be her status) excused herself from the dancing, and resisting the prince’s pressing for her to remain, made her exit. After she had gone, the prince became listless and wandered around the room, showing no desire to continue dancing.

On the way home in the wee hours, the mother attempted to comfort her daughters who were on the verge of sobs about the evening’s ruination for the female population. She was hard pressed to offer consolation in the face of her own disappointment.

“Why mother?” they kept asking, “Why do men fall so hard for the prettiest face?”

“I don’t know, daughters,” she mused. “It does look as if the foreign intruder has stolen the prince’s heart, however, this is only one evening and perhaps she will not return. She left as though she had urgent business.”

Deriving a degree of comfort from the thought, they made ready for the second evening of the ball. When they arrived the next night, their hopes tumbled when the foreign princess not only again made her splashy entrance, but also was dressed more magnificently than before, the chandeliers causing a dazzling sparkle in the daintiest pair of glass slippers ever seen in the kingdom. The prince monopolized her the entire evening, indeed behaving as if the room was entirely empty save those two. The foreign princess herself seemed less reserved than the evening before and was clearly having a most enjoyable time. A deep and settled gloom caused the other ladies in attendance to be mostly silent except for the occasional remarks in undertones expressing a grudging admiration for the princess’s elegance.

The clock was just beginning to strike midnight when everyone was startled by the princess’s reaction. Starting violently, she wrenched herself free from the prince’s grasp and without stopping for explanation, fled from the ballroom. The bewildered prince hesitated at first, and then dashed after her. Furious conversation broke out immediately. What dire circumstances could have caused such an uncivil display?

The prince returned shortly in a pensive manner, tenderly placing something into his pocket as he passed through the doorway. As before, for the remainder of the night he was useless as a host.

The next day Cinderella’s stepmother observed that she appeared particularly buoyant. It was evident that prohibiting her from attending the ball had had none of the desired effect. A new tilt to the chin and a straightening of the carriage spoke of some secret triumph. The stepmother contemplated a reprimand, but felt too shattered over the events of the ball to follow through.

Then a strange report reached the household. Heralds had been sent forth from the royal castle proclaiming a most rigorous search for the fled foreign princess of the ball. The prince was anxious to find her, sealing his smitten status. Inquiries made among the palace servants as to seeing a fleeing princess on the night of the ball had yielded nothing. Most said they had only seen a ragged beggar girl who certainly did not fit the description of a foreign princess. The only clue left to the prince was one of the exquisite glass slippers that had been left in its owner’s haste. It was this item that the prince had been seen placing in his pocket on his return to the ballroom. Therefore the prince was sending a trusted messenger throughout the kingdom with orders to allow all the girls a chance to try on the slipper. The one whom the shoe fit would become the prince’s bride, as it would identify the sensation of the ball.

“Mother! Mother!” exclaimed the stepmother’s daughters. “Hope is not dead, surely it will not be difficult to fit a slipper.”

“It is true there may be the possibility of a reversal,” conceded their mother. “However, we must not allow ourselves to become overly excited.”

Together they eagerly awaited the messenger’s arrival. At long last he knocked at their door. So far, although hundreds of girls had attempted to put their foot in the slipper, no one had been successful, prompting some to suspect it as being magical. It was a sense of foreboding that caused the rich stepmother’s caution in regards to her daughter’s enthusiasm.

The daughters both tried mightily to don the slipper, however, it refused to accommodate them. Their eyes filled with tears as they admitted defeat, for it was the final blow to some of their most cherished dreams. The rich stepmother’s heart ached for them. She knew precisely what they were feeling as she had passed that way also. Through their clouded vision they noticed Cinderella standing in the doorway observing them.

“Cinderella…” began the stepmother. She wasn’t allowed to finish.

“May I try on the slipper?” Cinderella requested the messenger.

“Cinderella, you weren’t even at the ball!” exclaimed her sisters. “We mustn’t take up this gentlemen’s valuable time. There are many others who are waiting on him.”

“All girls are required to have a chance,” said the messenger.

With a gleam in her eye, Cinderella took the slipper and thrust her foot into it. It glided on as though sculpted there. Her family stood in shocked silence. Glancing sideways at them, Cinderella reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the other glass slipper and put it on. The messenger was gazing open-mouthed. Even as she did so, with a rush of wind and a thunderclap, a shimmering personage resembling a woman appeared. Waving her wand in an arc, the apparition touched Cinderella’s clothes, and immediately she was transformed into the splendor now recognizable as the foreign princess.

Laughing lightly, Cinderella introduced the woman as her fairy godmother, and explained how she had come a few days before to give her (Cinderella) a magical opportunity to attend the ball. “I was sitting in the kitchen, crying.” Here Cinderella looked straight at her stepmother. “When my godmother appeared and instructed me to fetch a pumpkin, lizards, rats, and mice which she changed into a coach, footmen, a coachmen, and horses. She then gave me my clothes as you see now, and told me to go enjoy myself. But she added a warning that I was to stay no longer than midnight for at that hour, everything would change back to its original state, and I would again be a poor ragged girl. That is why I left before twelve-o-clock and was nearly caught on the second evening. So you see,” she concluded, “I really did get to go after all.”

“So it really wasn’t meddling kingdoms, but only a meddling godmother,” reflected her stepmother. “I suppose this means you will become queen.”

“That is right,” asserted the messenger. “Your Majesty” he bowed to Cinderella. “Please allow me to escort you to the castle.”

Cinderella followed him to the doorway with her family staring after her. Turning to them just before exiting, she grinned. “You may come visit me whenever you wish. Perhaps I may even be able to put a bug in an ear or two about you.” And she was gone.

A laugh sounded from across the room, and Cinderella’s father strode into view from where he had been listening unnoticed. “Well wife, what have I been telling you?”

After the briefest and coldest of glances, his wife swept from the room. Cinderella’s stepsisters eventually married noblemen of the court who found them especially attractive as relatives of the new queen, but her mother never got over her husband’s betrayal and spent the rest of her life in a convent.