Charlemagne

From The Story of Mankind - Hendrik van Loon - 1921 (Public Domain now)

Charlemagne

HOW CHARLEMAGNE, THE KING OF THE FRANKS, CAME TO BEAR THE TITLE OF EMPEROR AND TRIED TO REVIVE THE OLD IDEAL OF WORLD-EMPIRE

THE battle of Poitiers had saved Europe from the Mohammedans. But the enemy within–the hopeless disorder which had followed the disappearance of the Roman police officer–that enemy remained. It is true that the new converts of the Christian faith in Northern Europe felt a deep respect for the mighty Bishop of Rome. But that poor bishop did not feel any too safe when he looked toward the distant mountains. Heaven knew what fresh hordes of barbarians were ready to cross the Alps and begin a new attack on Rome. It was necessary–very necessary–for the spiritual head of the world to find an ally with a strong sword and a powerful fist who was willing to defend His Holiness in case of danger.

And so the Popes, who were not only very holy but also very practical, cast about for a friend, and presently they made overtures to the most promising of the Germanic tribes who had occupied north-western Europe after the fall of Rome. They were called the Franks. One of their earliest kings, called Merovech, had helped the Romans in the battle of the Catalaunian fields in the year 451 when they defeated the Huns. His descendants, the Merovingians, had continued to take little bits of imperial territory until the year 486 when king Clovis (the old French word for “Louis”) felt himself strong enough to beat the Romans in the open. But his descendants were weak men who left the affairs of state to their Prime minister, the “Major Domus” or Master of the Palace.

Pepin the Short, the son of the famous Charles Martel, who succeeded his father as Master of the Palace, hardly knew how to handle the situation. His royal master was a devout theologian, without any interest in politics. Pepin asked the Pope for advice. The Pope who was a practical person answered that the “power in the state belonged to him who was actually possessed of it.” Pepin took the hint. He persuaded Childeric, the last of the Merovingians to become a monk and then made himself king with the approval of the other Germanic chieftains. But this did not satisfy the shrewd Pepin. He wanted to be something more than a barbarian chieftain. He staged an elaborate ceremony at which Boniface, the great missionary of the European northwest, anointed him and made him a “King by the grace of God.” It was easy to slip those words, “Dei gratia,” into the coronation service. It took almost fifteen* hundred years to get them out again. 

(* = error by van Loon;  TWELVE hundred would be more accurate. He MAY have been thinking about the "year 451" in the second paragraph; referring to an event several hundred years prior.)

Pepin was sincerely grateful for this kindness on the part of the church. He made two expeditions to Italy to defend the Pope against his enemies. He took Ravenna and several other cities away from the Longobards and presented them to His Holiness, who incorporated these new domains into the so-called Papal State, which remained an independent country until half a century ago.

After Pepin’s death, the relations between Rome and Aix- la-Chapelle or Nymwegen or Ingelheim, (the Frankish Kings did not have one official residence, but travelled from place to place with all their ministers and court officers,) became more and more cordial. Finally the Pope and the King took a step which was to influence the history of Europe in a most profound way.

Charles, commonly known as Carolus Magnus or Char- lemagne, succeeded Pepin in the year 768. He had conquered the land of the Saxons in eastern Germany and had built towns and monasteries all over the greater part of northern Europe. At the request of certain enemies of Abd-ar- Rahman, he had invaded Spain to fight the Moors. But in the Pyrenees he had been attacked by the wild Basques and had been forced to retire. It was upon this occasion that Roland, the great Margrave of Breton, showed what a Frankish chieftain of those early days meant when he promised to be faithful to his King, and gave his life and that of his trusted followers to safeguard the retreat of the royal army.

During the last ten years of the eighth century, however, Charles was obliged to devote himself exclusively to affairs of the South. The Pope, Leo III, had been attacked by a band of Roman rowdies and had been left for dead in the street. Some kind people had bandaged his wounds and had helped him to escape to the camp of Charles, where he asked for help. An army of Franks soon restored quiet and carried Leo back to the Lateran Palace which ever since the days of Constantine, had been the home of the Pope. That was in December of the year 799. On Christmas day of the next year, Charlemagne, who was staying in Rome, attended the service in the ancient church of St. Peter. When he arose from prayer, the Pope placed a crown upon his head, called him Emperor of the Romans and hailed him once more with the title of “Augustus" which had not been heard for hundreds of years.

Once more Northern Europe was part of a Roman Empire, but the dignity was held by a German chieftain who could read just a little and never learned to write. But he could fight and for a short while there was order and even the rival emperor in Constantinople sent a letter of approval to his “dear Brother.”

Unfortunately this splendid old man died in the year 814. His sons and his grandsons at once began to fight for the largest share of the imperial inheritance. Twice the Carolingian lands were divided, by the treaties of Verdun in the year 843 and by the treaty of Mersen-on-the-Meuse in the year 870. The latter treaty divided the entire Frankish Kingdom into two parts. Charles the Bold received the western half. It contained the old Roman province called Gaul where the language of the people had become thoroughly romanized. The Franks soon learned to speak this language and this accounts for the strange fact that a purely Germanic land like France should speak a Latin tongue.

The other grandson got the eastern part, the land which the Romans had called Germania. Those inhospitable regions had never been part of the old Empire. Augustus had tried to conquer this “far east,” but his legions had been annihilated in the Teutoburg Wood in the year 9 and the people had never been influenced by the higher Roman civilisation. They spoke the popular Germanic tongue. The Teuton word for “people” was “thiot.” The Christian missionaries therefore called the German language the “lingua theotisca” or the “lingua teutisca,” the “popular dialect” and this word “teutisca” was changed into “Deutsch” which accounts for the name “Deutschland.”

As for the famous Imperial Crown, it very soon slipped off the heads of the Carolingian successors and rolled back onto the Italian plain, where it became a sort of plaything of a number of little potentates who stole the crown from each other amidst much bloodshed and wore it (with or without the permission of the Pope) until it was the turn of some more ambitious neighbour. The Pope, once more sorely beset by his enemies, sent north for help. He did not appeal to the ruler of the west-Frankish kingdom, this time. His messengers crossed the Alps and addressed themselves to Otto, a Saxon Prince who was recognised as the greatest chieftain of the different Germanic tribes.

Otto, who shared his people’s affection for the blue skies and the gay and beautiful people of the Italian peninsula, hastened to the rescue. In return for his services, the Pope, Leo VIII, made Otto “Emperor,” and the eastern half of Charles’ old kingdom was henceforth known as the “Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation.”

This strange political creation managed to live to the ripe old age of eight hundred and thirty-nine years. In the year 1801, (during the presidency of Thomas Jefferson,) it was most unceremoniously relegated to the historical scrapheap. The brutal fellow who destroyed the old Germanic Empire was the son of a Corsican notary-public who had made a brilliant career in the service of the French Republic. He was ruler of Europe by the grace of his famous Guard Regiments, but he desired to be something more. He sent to Rome for the Pope and the Pope came and stood by while General Napoleon placed the imperial crown upon his own head and proclaimed himself heir to the tradition of Charlemagne. For history is like life. The more things change, the more they remain the same.

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Sunday, 10 MAR 2019 ...

Can ANY of you SUGGEST ...

... LEGAL alternatives to my irritating ...

... PLEAS for DONATIONS via PayPal, as a way to get money by using my computer? 

(In my CURRENT circumstances, I am NOT all THAT resistant to ILLEGAL;  I just lack CONFIDENCE about BEING ANY GOOD AT IT.)

If you know something that is NOT a scam, and actually WORKS;  I'm LISTENING!!!

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PHISHING:

noun

the fraudulent practice of sending emails purporting to be from reputable companies in order to induce individuals to reveal personal information, such as passwords and credit card numbers. "an email that is likely a phishing scam"

You probably get some (maybe a LOT) of THESE in your email ...

NOT many WORDS this time; what's ABOVE is probably OBVIOUS to MOST of you.

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Is long life hereditary?

As of TODAY (11 FEB 2019) I am 76.  May 25 of this year will make it 77.

My dad went at 70, but THAT was from complications after surgery.  HIS dad made it to 76.

Mom went at 88.  So, it would appear that the Binkley (Dad) and Williams (Mom) families have a fair amount of "long life" genes among them.

At THIS point, you may be wondering, "WHERE the HELL does "Gordon" come into the picture?"  Well, Gordon used to be my middle name (chosen by Dad in honor of a friend), until I went to court and had the family name lopped off.  I DID re-unite with the family later, but STAYED with the changed name.  ("What family doesn't have its ups and downs?"  ~Katherine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine in "The Lion in Winter")

Obviously, mortality has been on my mind lately.  I could GO before I finish this, OR, I may have another DECADE left.  Equally obvious:  improvements in medicine and medical care have to be factored in.

MOST likely CAUSE of demise ...
1) Accident.  I am weak and fragile, and have difficulty with even walking.  In my current condition, a FALL could be LETHAL, depending on HOW and ON WHAT I land.

2) Heart failure or stroke.  I have a blood pressure problem;  had it off and on for AGES.  Being treated for it, but the financial pressures I'm under sure don't HELP any.

Mostly just rambling (and sharing) here.  If there's a POINT to this;  it eludes me. 
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Fundraiser on facebook ...

I created THIS, to try and SURVIVE ...
  https://www.facebook.com/donate/748273218881025/?fundraiser_source=external_url

PLEASE!!!

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ANOTHER wonderful tale from O. Henry ...

A Departmental Case
  O. Henry (William Sydney Porter) 1909 - Public Domain now.

In Texas you may travel a thousand miles in a straight line. If your course is a crooked one, it is likely that both the distance and your rate of speed may be vastly increased. Clouds there sail serenely against the wind. The whip-poor-will delivers its disconsolate cry with the notes exactly reversed from those of his Northern brother. Given a drought and a subsequently lively rain, and lo! from a glazed and stony soil will spring in a single night blossomed lilies, miraculously fair. Tom Green County* was once the standard of measurement. I have forgotten how many New Jerseys and Rhode Islands it was that could have been stowed away and lost in its chaparral. But the legislative axe has slashed Tom Green into a handful of counties hardly larger than European kingdoms. The legislature convenes at Austin, near the centre of the state; and, while the representative from the Rio Grande country is gathering his palm-leaf fan and his linen duster to set out for the capital, the Pan-handle solon winds his muffler above his well-buttoned overcoat and kicks the snow from his well-greased boots ready for the same journey. All this merely to hint that the big ex-republic of the Southwest forms a sizable star on the flag, and to prepare for the corollary that things sometimes happen there uncut to pattern and unfettered by metes and bounds.

The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History of the State of Texas was an official of no very great or very small importance. The past tense is used, for now he is Commissioner of Insurance alone. Statistics and history are no longer proper nouns in the government records.

In the year 188-, the governor appointed Luke Coonrod Standifer to be the head of this department. Standifer was then fifty-five years of age, and a Texan to the core. His father had been one of the state's earliest settlers and pioneers. Standifer himself had served the commonwealth as Indian fighter, soldier, ranger, and legislator. Much learning he did not claim, but he had drank pretty deep of the spring of experience.

If other grounds were less abundant, Texas should be well up in the lists of glory as the grateful republic. For both as republic and state, it has busily heaped honours and solid rewards upon its sons who rescued it from the wilderness.

Wherefore and therefore, Luke Coonrod Standifer, son of Ezra Standifer, ex-Terry ranger**, simon-pure democrat, and lucky dweller in an unrepresented portion of the politico-geographical map, was appointed Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History.

Standifer accepted the honour with some doubt as to the nature of the office he was to fill and his capacity for filling it--but he accepted, and by wire. He immediately set out from the little country town where he maintained (and was scarcely maintained by) a somnolent and unfruitful office of surveying and map-drawing. Before departing, he had looked up under the I's, S's and H's in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" what information and preparation toward his official duties that those weighty volumes afforded.

A few weeks of incumbency diminished the new commissioner's awe of the great and important office he had been called upon to conduct. An increasing familiarity with its workings soon restored him to his accustomed placid course of life. In his office was an old, spectacled clerk--a consecrated, informed, able machine, who held his desk regardless of changes of administrative heads. Old Kauffman instructed his new chief gradually in the knowledge of the department without seeming to do so, and kept the wheels revolving without the slip of a cog.

Indeed, the Department of Insurance, Statistics, and History carried no great heft of the burden of state. Its main work was the regulating of the business done in the state by foreign insurance companies, and the letter of the law was its guide. As for statistics--well, you wrote letters to county officers, and scissored other people's reports, and each year you got out a report of your own about the corn crop and the cotton crop and pecans and pigs and black and white population, and a great many columns of figures headed "bushels" and "acres" and "square miles," etc.--and there you were. History? The branch was purely a receptive one. Old ladies interested in the science bothered you some with long reports of proceedings of their historical societies. Some twenty or thirty people would write you each year that they had secured Sam Houston's pocket-knife or Santa Ana's whisky-flask or Davy Crockett's rifle--all absolutely authenticated--and demanded legislative appropriation to purchase. Most of the work in the history branch went into pigeon-holes.

One sizzling August afternoon the commissioner reclined in his office- chair, with his feet upon the long, official table covered with green billiard cloth. The commissioner was smoking a cigar, and dreamily regarding the quivering landscape framed by the window that looked upon the treeless capitol grounds. Perhaps he was thinking of the rough and ready life he had led, of the old days of breathless adventure and movement, of the comrades who now trod other paths or had ceased to tread any, of the changes civilization and peace had brought, and, maybe, complacently, of the snug and comfortable camp pitched for him under the dome of the capitol of the state that had not forgotten his services.

The business of the department was lax. Insurance was easy. Statistics were not in demand. History was dead. Old Kauffman, the efficient and perpetual clerk, had requested an infrequent half-holiday, incited to the unusual dissipation by the joy of having successfully twisted the tail of a Connecticut insurance company that was trying to do business contrary to the edicts of the great Lone Star State.

The office was very still. A few subdued noises trickled in through the open door from the other departments--a dull tinkling crash from the treasurer's office adjoining, as a clerk tossed a bag of silver to the floor of the vault--the vague, intermittent clatter of a dilatory typewriter--a dull tapping from the state geologist's quarters as if some woodpecker had flown in to bore for his prey in the cool of the massive building--and then a faint rustle and the light shuffling of the well-worn shoes along the hall, the sounds ceasing at the door toward which the commissioner's lethargic back was presented. Following this, the sound of a gentle voice speaking words unintelligible to the commissioner's somewhat dormant comprehension, but giving evidence of bewilderment and hesitation.

The voice was feminine; the commissioner was of the race of cavaliers who make salaam before the trail of a skirt without considering the quality of its cloth.

There stood in the door a faded woman, one of the numerous sisterhood of the unhappy. She was dressed all in black--poverty's perpetual mourning for lost joys. Her face had the contours of twenty and the lines of forty. She may have lived that intervening score of years in a twelve-month. There was about her yet an aurum of indignant, unappeased, protesting youth that shone faintly through the premature veil of unearned decline.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said the commissioner, gaining his feet to the accompaniment of a great creaking and sliding of his chair.

"Are you the governor, sir?" asked the vision of melancholy.

The commissioner hesitated at the end of his best bow, with his hand in the bosom of his double-breasted "frock." Truth at last conquered.

"Well, no, ma'am. I am not the governor. I have the honour to be Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History. Is there anything, ma'am, I can do for you? Won't you have a chair, ma'am?"

The lady subsided into the chair handed her, probably from purely physical reasons. She wielded a cheap fan--last token of gentility to be abandoned. Her clothing seemed to indicate a reduction almost to extreme poverty. She looked at the man who was not the governor, and saw kindliness and simplicity and a rugged, unadorned courtliness emanating from a countenance tanned and toughened by forty years of outdoor life. Also, she saw that his eyes were clear and strong and blue. Just so they had been when he used them to skim the horizon for raiding Kiowas and Sioux. His mouth was as set and firm as it had been on that day when he bearded the old Lion Sam Houston himself, and defied him during that season when secession was the theme. Now, in bearing and dress, Luke Coonrod Sandifer endeavoured to do credit to the important arts and sciences of Insurance, Statistics, and History. He had abandoned the careless dress of his country home. Now, his broad-brimmed black slouch hat, and his long-tailed "frock" made him not the least imposing of the official family, even if his office was reckoned to stand at the tail of the list.

"You wanted to see the governor, ma'am?" asked the commissioner, with a deferential manner he always used toward the fair sex.

"I hardly know," said the lady, hesitatingly. "I suppose so." And then, suddenly drawn by the sympathetic look of the other, she poured forth the story of her need.

It was a story so common that the public has come to look at its monotony instead of its pity. The old tale of an unhappy married life --made so by a brutal, conscienceless husband, a robber, a spendthrift, a moral coward and a bully, who failed to provide even the means of the barest existence. Yes, he had come down in the scale so low as to strike her. It happened only the day before--there was the bruise on one temple--she had offended his highness by asking for a little money to live on. And yet she must needs, woman-like, append a plea for her tyrant--he was drinking; he had rarely abused her thus when sober.

"I thought," mourned this pale sister of sorrow, "that maybe the state might be willing to give me some relief. I've heard of such things being done for the families of old settlers. I've heard tell that the state used to give land to the men who fought for it against Mexico, and settled up the country, and helped drive out the Indians. My father did all of that, and he never received anything. He never would take it. I thought the governor would be the one to see, and that's why I came. If father was entitled to anything, they might let it come to me."

"It's possible, ma'am," said Standifer, "that such might be the case. But 'most all the veterans and settlers got their land certificates issued, and located long ago. Still, we can look that up in the land office, and be sure. Your father's name, now, was--"

"Amos Colvin, sir."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Standifer, rising and unbuttoning his tight coat, excitedly. "Are you Amos Colvin's daughter? Why, ma'am, Amos Colvin and me were thicker than two hoss thieves for more than ten years! We fought Kiowas, drove cattle, and rangered side by side nearly all over Texas. I remember seeing you once before, now. You were a kid, about seven, a-riding a little yellow pony up and down. Amos and me stopped at your home for a little grub when we were trailing that band of Mexican cattle thieves down through Karnes and Bee. Great tarantulas! and you're Amos Colvin's little girl! Did you ever hear your father mention Luke Standifer--just kind of casually-- as if he'd met me once or twice?"

A little pale smile flitted across the lady's white face.

"It seems to me," she said, "that I don't remember hearing him talk about much else. Every day there was some story he had to tell about what he and you had done. Mighty near the last thing I heard him tell was about the time when the Indians wounded him, and you crawled out to him through the grass, with a canteen of water, while they--"

"Yes, yes--well--oh, that wasn't anything," said Standifer, "hemming" loudly and buttoning his coat again, briskly. "And now, ma'am, who was the infernal skunk--I beg your pardon, ma'am--who was the gentleman you married?"

"Benton Sharp."

The commissioner plumped down again into his chair, with a groan. This gentle, sad little woman, in the rusty black gown, the daughter of his oldest friend, the wife of Benton Sharp! Benton Sharp, one of the most noted "bad" men in that part of the state--a man who had been a cattle thief, an outlaw, a desperado, and was now a gambler, a swaggering bully, who plied his trade in the larger frontier towns, relying upon his record and the quickness of his gun play to maintain his supremacy. Seldom did any one take the risk of going "up against" Benton Sharp. Even the law officers were content to let him make his own terms of peace. Sharp was a ready and an accurate shot, and as lucky as a brand-new penny at coming clear from his scrapes. Standifer wondered how this pillaging eagle ever came to be mated with Amos Colvin's little dove, and expressed his wonder.

Mrs. Sharp sighed.

"You see, Mr. Standifer, we didn't know anything about him, and he can be very pleasant and kind when he wants to. We lived down in the little town of Goliad. Benton came riding down that way, and stopped there a while. I reckon I was some better looking then than I am now. He was good to me for a whole year after we were married. He insured his life for me for five thousand dollars. But for the last six months he has done everything but kill me. I often wish he had done that, too. He got out of money for a while, and abused me shamefully for not having anything he could spend. Then father died, and left me the little home in Goliad. My husband made me sell that, and turned me out into the world. I've barely been able to live, for I'm not strong enough to work. Lately, I heard he was making money in San Antonio, so I went there, and found him, and asked for a little help. This," touching the livid bruise on her temple, "is what he gave me. So I came on to Austin to see the governor. I once heard father say that there was some land, or a pension, coming to him from the state that he never would ask for."

Luke Standifer rose to his feet, and pushed his chair back. He looked rather perplexedly around the big office, with its handsome furniture.

"It's a long trail to follow," he said, slowly, "trying to get back dues from the government. There's red tape and lawyers and rulings and evidence and courts to keep you waiting. I'm not certain," continued the commissioner, with a profoundly meditative frown, "whether this department that I'm the boss of has any jurisdiction or not. It's only Insurance, Statistics, and History, ma'am, and it don't sound as if it would cover the case. But sometimes a saddle blanket can be made to stretch. You keep your seat, just for a few minutes, ma'am, till I step into the next room and see about it."

The state treasurer was seated within his massive, complicated railings, reading a newspaper. Business for the day was about over. The clerks lolled at their desks, awaiting the closing hour. The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History entered, and leaned in at the window.

The treasurer, a little, brisk old man, with snow-white moustache and beard, jumped up youthfully and came forward to greet Standifer. They were friends of old.

"Uncle Frank," said the commissioner, using the familiar name by which the historic treasurer was addressed by every Texan, "how much money have you got on hand?"

The treasurer named the sum of the last balance down to the odd cents --something more than a million dollars.

The commissioner whistled lowly, and his eyes grew hopefully bright.

"You know, or else you've heard of, Amos Colvin, Uncle Frank?"

"Knew him well," said the treasurer, promptly. "A good man. A valuable citizen. One of the first settlers in the Southwest."

"His daughter," said Standifer, "is sitting in my office. She's penniless. She's married to Benton Sharp, a coyote and a murderer. He's reduced her to want, and broken her heart. Her father helped build up this state, and it's the state's turn to help his child. A couple of thousand dollars will buy back her home and let her live in peace. The State of Texas can't afford to refuse it. Give me the money, Uncle Frank, and I'll give it to her right away. We'll fix up the red-tape business afterward."

The treasurer looked a little bewildered.

"Why, Standifer," he said, "you know I can't pay a cent out of the treasury without a warrant from the comptroller. I can't disburse a dollar without a voucher to show for it."

The commissioner betrayed a slight impatience.

"I'll give you a voucher," he declared. "What's this job they've given me for? Am I just a knot on a mesquite stump? Can't my office stand for it? Charge it up to Insurance and the other two sideshows. Don't Statistics show that Amos Colvin came to this state when it was in the hands of Greasers and rattlesnakes and Comanches, and fought day and night to make a white man's country of it? Don't they show that Amos Colvin's daughter is brought to ruin by a villain who's trying to pull down what you and I and old Texans shed our blood to build up? Don't History show that the Lone Star State never yet failed to grant relief to the suffering and oppressed children of the men who made her the grandest commonwealth in the Union? If Statistics and History don't bear out the claim of Amos Colvin's child I'll ask the next legislature to abolish my office. Come, now, Uncle Frank, let her have the money. I'll sign the papers officially, if you say so; and then if the governor or the comptroller or the janitor or anybody else makes a kick, by the Lord I'll refer the matter to the people, and see if they won't endorse the act."

The treasurer looked sympathetic but shocked. The commissioner's voice had grown louder as he rounded off the sentences that, however praiseworthy they might be in sentiment, reflected somewhat upon the capacity of the head of a more or less important department of state. The clerks were beginning to listen.

"Now, Standifer," said the treasurer, soothingly, "you know I'd like to help in this matter, but stop and think a moment, please. Every cent in the treasury is expended only by appropriation made by the legislature, and drawn out by checks issued by the comptroller. I can't control the use of a cent of it. Neither can you. Your department isn't disbursive--it isn't even administrative--it's purely clerical. The only way for the lady to obtain relief is to petition the legislature, and--"

"To the devil with the legislature," said Standifer, turning away.

The treasurer called him back.

"I'd be glad, Standifer, to contribute a hundred dollars personally toward the immediate expenses of Colvin's daughter." He reached for his pocketbook.

"Never mind, Uncle Frank," said the commissioner, in a softer tone. "There's no need of that. She hasn't asked for anything of that sort yet. Besides, her case is in my hands. I see now what a little, rag- tag, bob-tail, gotch-eared department I've been put in charge of. It seems to be about as important as an almanac or a hotel register. But while I'm running it, it won't turn away any daughters of Amos Colvin without stretching its jurisdiction to cover, if possible. You want to keep your eye on the Department of Insurance, Statistics, and History."

The commissioner returned to his office, looking thoughtful. He opened and closed an inkstand on his desk many times with extreme and undue attention. "Why don't you get a divorce?" he asked, suddenly.

"I haven't the money to pay for it," answered the lady.

"Just at present," announced the commissioner, in a formal tone, "the powers of my department appear to be considerably string-halted. Statistics seem to be overdrawn at the bank, and History isn't good for a square meal. But you've come to the right place, ma'am. The department will see you through. Where did you say your husband is, ma'am?"

"He was in San Antonio yesterday. He is living there now."

Suddenly the commissioner abandoned his official air. He took the faded little woman's hands in his, and spoke in the old voice he used on the trail and around campfires.

"Your name's Amanda, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought so. I've heard your dad say it often enough. Well, Amanda, here's your father's best friend, the head of a big office in the state government, that's going to help you out of your troubles. And here's the old bushwhacker and cowpuncher that your father has helped out of scrapes time and time again wants to ask you a question. Amanda, have you got money enough to run you for the next two or three days?"

Mrs. Sharp's white face flushed the least bit.

"Plenty, sir--for a few days."

"All right, then, ma'am. Now you go back where you are stopping here, and you come to the office again the day after to-morrow at four o'clock in the afternoon. Very likely by that time there will be something definite to report to you." The commissioner hesitated, and looked a trifle embarrassed. "You said your husband had insured his life for $5,000. Do you know whether the premiums have been kept paid upon it or not?"

"He paid for a whole year in advance about five months ago," said Mrs. Sharp. "I have the policy and receipts in my trunk."

"Oh, that's all right, then," said Standifer. "It's best to look after things of that sort. Some day they may come in handy."

Mrs. Sharp departed, and soon afterward Luke Standifer went down to the little hotel where he boarded and looked up the railroad time- table in the daily paper. Half an hour later he removed his coat and vest, and strapped a peculiarly constructed pistol holster across his shoulders, leaving the receptacle close under his left armpit. Into the holster he shoved a short-barrelled .44 calibre revolver. Putting on his clothes again, he strolled to the station and caught the five- twenty afternoon train for San Antonio.

The San Antonio Express of the following morning contained this sensational piece of news:

BENTON SHARP MEETS HIS MATCH

The Most Noted Desperado in Southwest Texas Shot to Death in the Gold Front Restaurant--Prominent State Official Successfully Defends Himself Against the Noted Bully--Magnificent Exhibition of Quick Gun Play.

Last night about eleven o'clock Benton Sharp, with two other men, entered the Gold Front Restaurant and seated themselves at a table. Sharp had been drinking, and was loud and boisterous, as he always was when under the influence of liquor. Five minutes after the party was seated a tall, well-dressed, elderly gentleman entered the restaurant. Few present recognized the Honourable Luke Standifer, the recently appointed Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History.

Going over to the same side where Sharp was, Mr. Standifer prepared to take a seat at the next table. In hanging his hat upon one of the hooks along the wall he let it fall upon Sharp's head. Sharp turned, being in an especially ugly humour, and cursed the other roundly. Mr. Standifer apologized calmly for the accident, but Sharp continued his vituperations. Mr. Standifer was observed to draw near and speak a few sentences to the desperado in so low a tone that no one else caught the words. Sharp sprang up, wild with rage. In the meantime Standifer had stepped some yards away, and was standing quietly with his arms folded across the breast of his loosely hanging coat.

With that impetuous and deadly rapidity that made Sharp so dreaded, he reached for the gun he always carried in his hip pocket--a movement that has preceded the death of at least a dozen men at his hands. Quick as the motion was, the bystanders assert that it was met by the most beautiful exhibition of lightning gun- pulling ever witnessed in the Southwest. As Sharp's pistol was being raised--and the act was really quicker than the eye could follow--a glittering .44 appeared as if by some conjuring trick in the right hand of Mr. Standifer, who, without a perceptible movement of his arm, shot Benton Sharp through the heart. It seems that the new Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History has been an old-time Indian fighter and ranger for many years, which accounts for the happy knack he has of handling a .44.

It is not believed that Mr. Standifer will be put to any inconvenience beyond a necessary formal hearing to-day, as all the witnesses who were present unite in declaring that the deed was done in self-defence.

When Mrs. Sharp appeared at the office of the commissioner, according to appointment, she found that gentleman calmly eating a golden russet apple. He greeted her without embarrassment and without hesitation at approaching the subject that was the topic of the day.

"I had to do it, ma'am," he said, simply, "or get it myself. Mr. Kauffman," he added, turning to the old clerk, "please look up the records of the Security Life Insurance Company and see if they are all right."

"No need to look," grunted Kauffman, who had everything in his head. "It's all O.K. They pay all losses within ten days."

Mrs. Sharp soon rose to depart. She had arranged to remain in town until the policy was paid. The commissioner did not detain her. She was a woman, and he did not know just what to say to her at present. Rest and time would bring her what she needed.

But, as she was leaving, Luke Standifer indulged himself in an official remark:

"The Department of Insurance, Statistics, and History, ma'am, has done the best it could with your case. 'Twas a case hard to cover according to red tape. Statistics failed, and History missed fire, but, if I may be permitted to say it, we came out particularly strong on Insurance."

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*  Tom Green County - Where San Angelo is.
** ex-Terry ranger - The 8th Texas Cavalry
    ("Terry's Texas Rangers") of the Confederate Army   


Being a movie addict, it's almost impossible for me to read a story WITHOUT mentally casting someone to PLAY the main character;  usually an actor whose name is apt to be preceded with "The late".  :(

In the case of Standifer, my choice is movie stuntman and actor Richard Farnsworth. who left us in 2000, at age 80, by a self-inflicted gunshot wound (having been diagnosed with terminal bone cancer). ...

Richard Farnsworth  

https://www.listal.com/viewimage/5047528h

An American stuntman who, after more than 30 years in the business, moved into acting and became an acclaimed and respected character actor, Richard Farnsworth was a native of Los Angeles. He grew up around horses and as a teenager was offered an opportunity to ride in films. He appeared in horse-racing scenes and cavalry charges unbilled, first as a general rider and later as a stuntman. His riding and stunting skills gained him regular work doubling stars ranging from Roy Rogers to Gary Cooper, and he often doubled the bad guy as well. Although. like most stuntmen, he was occasionally given a line or two of dialogue, it was not until Farnsworth was over 50 that his natural talent for acting and his ease and warmth before the camera became apparent. When he won an Academy Award nomination for his role in Comes a Horseman (1978), it came as a surprise to many in the industry that this "newcomer" had been around since the 1930s. Farnsworth followed his Oscar nomination with a number of finely wrought performances, including The Grey Fox (1982) and The Natural (1984). In 1999 he came out of semi-retirement for a tour-de-force portrayal in The Straight Story (1999).
   - IMDb Mini Biography By:
          Jim Beaver jumblejim@prodigy.net

Final note by ME ...
Almost EVERYTHING here was stitched together from other sources, including Mr, Beaver's mini biography above, as I didn't think they could improved on by me.  I COULD have just used links instead, but I've noticed (from my site meter) that almost NOBODY ever clicks on THOSE.  So, I thought it best to put it all HERE, with proper accreditation.  HOPE you're Ok with THAT.  :-)

(Originally posted 29 JAN 2019 1225 CDT)

-

Coming to terms ...

NOTHING lasts FOREVER.

At seventy-six and a half, I've outlasted a LOT of people;  some of whom I've known personally, and many others I've known of, greatly admired, and am saddened at their absence.

Not a bad  run at all;  could have been worse.  :-)

-

A Roundel ...

... for folks who just DON'T take themselves all THAT seriously.  ;-)

From the Royal Australian Air Force ( https://www.airforce.gov.au/about-us/your-air-force/roundel ) ...

A roundel is a circular disc used as a symbol. In order to identify aircraft, the Royal Australian Air Force initially adopted the Royal Air Force's red, white and blue roundel.

During World War II, when an 11 Squadron Catalina was mistaken for a Japanese aircraft by a United States Navy Wildcat, the red inner circle was removed, but re-introduced after the war.

On 2 July 1956, the red kangaroo ‘in motion' was chosen as the most popular centrepiece from a range of other options (including the Southern Cross, a boomerang and a sprig of wattle). It has been displayed with pride, not only on aircraft, but on various promotional material since 1982.

The kangaroo within the Air Force Roundel always faces to the left except when used on aircraft or vehicles, when the kangaroo should always face the front of the aircraft or vehicle.

Copyright

Copyright restrictions apply to the use of any Royal Australian Air Force logo. They are protected nationally and internationally by the Defence Act 1903, Trade Marks Act 1995 and the Chester Herald Act 1939.

I think it takes SOME VERY COOL GUYS to adopt something like THIS to go on their warbirds; guys who just  DON'T take themselves all THAT seriously.  ;-)

-

I'm gettin' too OLD for this sh*t!!!

- Yesterday (Tuesday, 06 NOV 2018) I had two appointments at the VA Eye Clinic.

To use Metrolift, one needs to make a reservation at least a day before. When I remembered (Monday) that I had NOT done so, it was already just past 5 PM, and the reservation office was closed.

Taxi fare would have been so expensive that I took a chance and used the regular buses (FREE with the special card I have because of my age and condition), hoping the new walker mentioned in my My NEWEST Toy ... post, would let me handle the bus stops (some of which had broken pavement) without injury.

It DID!!!

On my return trip, I switched to another bus which dropped me off at the polling station so I could vote (Normally, I would wade through all the different races, BUT;  because of the recent behavior of a certain unmentionable party, STRAIGHT REPUBLICAN!!!).

I then walked several blocks over to the Kroger near my apartment for some groceries, only AFTERWARDS using a taxi to get home (just TOO MUCH of a load to carry that far).

Yesterday was more walking than I've done in MONTHS, and that walker made it POSSIBLE.

BUT, it DOESN'T prevent FATIGUE.  Several times I felt about to COLLAPSE, even in my apartment afterwards.  I was so tired when I hit the sack, I really wondered if I WOULD wake up the next morning.

I suppose I'm just gonna have to EASE into it.

This may all be academic;  I'm STILL RUNNING OUT OF MONEY and find it NECESSARY to BEG for donations AGAIN.  PLEASE!!! 

I tell the folks at the VA about this;  that the ONLY thing that could SAVE me in the long run is to become EMPLOYABLE.  They nod and smile;  but I can SEE they do NOT really comprehend.

How COULD they?  This is BEYOND any experience THEY'VE ever had.  HOW could running out of money KILL anyone in THIS country?  

I hope they NEVER find out;  I wouldn't wish THAT understanding on ANYONE.  :(

-

My NEWEST Toy ...

... sometimes, LIFE just SUCKS!!!  :(

Today (Wednesday, 31 October 2018) I had a Physical Therapy interview at the VA hospital, and came home with THIS ...

They had noticed my DIFFICULTIES with walking on less than perfect terrain, and were DETERMINED that THAT simple act NOT result in my death.

It really DOES help (a LOT), but for SOME (unfathomable) reason, I feel it kinda APPROPRIATE that I acquired it ON HALLOWEEN.  Sigh ...   ;-)
-

Revisiting "The HORROR - NO TV - :(" ...

On Wednesday, 17 OCT 2018, I sent THIS email to all my friends ..
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The HORROR - NO TV - :(

DIED;  and I CAN'T AFFORD to DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

MAY seem TRIVIAL;  but when you can BARELY even get about, it DOES kinda SUCK.


ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHH!!!!   :(

-- 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------.
Got THIS from a WONDERFUL gal who's donated a LOT to me ...
Hey Paul-what size tv do you have?

I answered ...
A 27" Sony Trinitron WEGA  KV-27V42 that I got from Sears in 2001.  It's a MONSTER, weighing about a hundred lbs.  When I moved into my current apartment in 2007,  I managed to lift it onto the heavy duty steel shelving I used for a stand  THEN, but I'd probably KILL myself trying to handle it in my condition NOW;  so I'll just call the leasing office and let one of their maintenance people take care of it.  The FUN part is FINDING something, and THEN going going out to GET it and bring it back when going ANYWHERE is SUCH a HASSLE.   ;-)


Her follow up ...
Paul-I would happily buy you a new tv :=). Why don't you pick something out online and I will order it and have it delivered to you? I'm a best buy or sears/Kmart fan (since looks like they are going out of business :-( ) if you could find something there or even macys-lots of coupons :=). Or amazon ... What do you say?

I replied ...
I may take you up on that.  I'll see what I can find on Best Buy's site;  need to check specifications to be sure it has the right connectors.  I'll try to get back to you in a few days.  Thanks.

BUT ...

My initial email was slightly exaggerated;  instead of "DIED", I should have said "DYING".  I REALLY believed that it WAS.

What was happening was more and more frequent LOSS of video for five to ten seconds followed by its return.  I felt this was a symptom of impending FAILURE of that 17+ year old picture tube.

It's STOPPED doing that, and if that monster is STABLE, I'm content to simply STAY with it for NOW.

That gal has helped me with donations SO MUCH, I regret that she can't claim me as a dependent on her income taxes.  I CAN'T (and WON'T) add THIS to her burdens.

Of course, THIS POSTING could JINX EVERYTHING.  We'll see.   ;-)
-

The Female of the Species ...

... is more more deadly than the male.

The Female of the Species
   Rudyard Kipling - 1911

When the Himalayan peasant
  meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster,
  who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted
  rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species
  is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra
  hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways
  and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion
  where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species
  is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers
  preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered
  from the vengeance of the squaws.
Twas the women, not the warriors,
  turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species
  is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting
  with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him
  isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands,
  each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species
  is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—
  worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations,
  Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely
  push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion
  in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him,
  ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial
  even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—
  Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—
  to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him,
  every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue,
   armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue,
  lest the generations fail,
The female of the species
  must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture
  for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—
  must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—
  not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by,
   is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living
  than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant
  and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking
  and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron),
  her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—
  in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children,
  Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion,
  but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species
  warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—
  even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—
  even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection
  of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—
  like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward,
  when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council,
  dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience,
  he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—
  which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover,
  that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—
  shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him,
  and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species
  is more deadly than the Male.

-

IFEL - K-4-61 - QUESTIONS

- Trying to sort out memories from 57 years ago.

The K-4-61 part of the title refers to Korean class of April 1961, at Yale University's Institute of Far Eastern Languages, that I attended as an Airman of the United States Air Force Security Service.

When I arrived, the the Company-sized detachment (Detachment 2 ???) was headquartered in THIS building at 109 Grove Street (???)'  ...

THAT building was one of FOUR dormitories we had; only ONE other of which I remember (the one I was assigned to) at 1 Hillhouse Ave, New Haven, CT,

Searches for "1 Hillhouse" come up with THIS pic of Warner House ...

... which looks KINDA familiar ...

... plus THESE, which look a LOT more familiar ...

Mistrusting my 57-year old memory, I HOPE some of you will help me get it RIGHT about Hillhouse.

My arrival was TWO YEARS before the release of "The Haunting" (based on Shirley Jackson's novel, "The Haunting of Hill House"; of which I was NOT aware at that time). but that TOP photo of the Warner House would CERTAINLY qualify as "spooky", and the OTHERS can be unsettling on a "dark and stormy night".

I HOPE some of my IFEL buddies can help me on the questions.  If ANY of you have photos from that time, I'd LOVE it if some were scanned and emailed to me.  I recall Joseph W*** sending a few, some years ago, but they were LOST when my previous computer DIED in 2015.

I HOPE I can UPDATE or REDO this post, FAR MORE ACCURATELY, down the line.

I'm ALSO gonna see if I can find some department at Yale that might help with the the Hillhouse history.

Thanks, in advance,  ;-)

A post I GOTTA do ...

I hope to elaborate on this facebook post.

GOTTA get around to a blog post about this. I experimented with a beard in the 70's. In 2003, Scott Peterson was caught and convicted for the 1st degree murder of his wife, Laci, and 2nd degree murder of unborn son Drew. It SPOOKED me to see this arrest photo; my 70's look would have been a TWIN.

--

I have been BLESSED, ...

... with SO MANY FRIENDS. :-)

Thank you;  ALL of you.
-

First surgery - results ...

On Wednesday morning, 26 JUL 2017, I took a taxi to the Michael DeBakey Veterans Hospital for a 7 AM appointment with the eye-sugeon.

This was for surgery to my left eye (the worst one), to remove the cataracts, and to insert a tube to help with drainage (to reduce pressure in the eye).

Because I would need some attention for the next 24 hours, and there was NO ONE to provide it, I stayed overnight. Had to sleep with an eye-patch taped on, to avoid injury to the eye.

When the patch was removed, I really couldn't see ANY difference in vision with that eye. The surgeon had warned me that could be the case, but felt the surgery was necessary.

When asked if I felt any pain or irritation, I mentioned feeling something between my eye and the lower eyelid. He said I was probably feeling some of the stitching. STITCHING on an EYEBALL!!!  Trying to IMAGINE that.  Perhaps I SHOULDN'T. :-)

He gave me a steel patch (with holes like a pepper shaker) ...

... to tape over my left eye before going to bed. This will be for a week.

He also gave me still MORE eye drops. I've been taking three types of drops, to control the pressure in both eyes.  I'll continue with those, but NOW for the right eye only.  The left gets three NEW types, for the next four weeks, to control any inflammation resulting from the surgery. SIX types to keep track of.  Does THAT sound like FUN?  :-)

I see him again, on Thursday, 03 AUG 2017, for a follow-up check.

They tell me it could be six to eight weeks before surgery to the right eye. Dr. Morris (the eye surgeon) is confident of more improvement with THAT eye, as its optic nerve damage is far less.

We shall see. :-)
-

Selfie taken in 2009

I STILL look like this (or WOULD, with a decent haircut);  someone who takes himself WAY too seriously.  I'll try to update this evening, less gloomy than I've been lately.  ;-)