It is a brilliant Sunday morning. The sun is shining; the clouds are few; we have a nice little breeze off the lake. All Sunday mornings should be this way. I am now into my 8th month of sans choir robe. Church choir was suspended (it seems) back in February. When? I cannot remember exactly.
Education time: for those with little training in the musical or language arts -- "Sans" means without -- "Con" means with. Thus if you do not have a big gulp, you are sans big gulp. No brain? sans brain. I first learned this sitting in a trumpet section when the music called for, "con mute." Nobody but Nobody knows why composers feels compelled to use the word "con." [It is pronounced CONE like the ice cream.] I've always held this theory that certain composers in an effort to be seen as musically brilliant feel the necessity of using as many Latin words (or Italian and German) as possible. Why say "soft" when you can write "piano?" I realize it is just part of the system. And, frankly, several times in church choir someone has asked me the meaning of some musical term. Being an expert is not all bad. Leonard Bernstein and Bach (etc.) those guys were true experts. Me? I'll do until those guys drop back by the porch
Don't want to bog down here, but another complaint is the person who must write music using B# and E# and Fb and Cb and, Heaven forbit, double sharps and flats. Life would be so much easier if their musical sensitivities were not affected by using the simple sharps and flats. I don't care if you write a sharp sign when the key is in flats. That doesn't bother me. Moving on.
Our little 4 year old Sadie (sometimes I call her Satan) has had a life lesson this week. We were down the hill playing ball with Oscar when a small frog tried to get out of our way. With my toe, I encouraged it to move under a tree. Sadie was watching. She has never spent a great deal of time with frogs. This one was about an inch round. Every time we see a frog I encourage Sadie to leave it alone. I use such phrases as: "It's a nice frog." and "Leave it alone Sadie." and "Be nice to the little frog Sadie."
Dogs learn certain words as they grow up. Sadie knows her name - the word Eat - and, of course, Squirrel. There are others including the word Frog. We have seen enough frogs to learn that word. On this day, the frog hid beside the tree. Sadie would go over and smell - jump back - then creep forward to re-smell and jump back. (Jump back, turn around, pick a bale of cotton, Jump back, turn around, pick a bale of hay) She reaches out with her left front paw and caresses the back of the frog. I'm telling her to be nice and leave the frog alone. "Nice Froggie."
Oscar barked at me to throw the ball. I did. As I turned my head back to Sadie, I think - I believe - Maybe, I'm not sure - Sadie grabbed the little frog in her mouth. Quickly I moved to get the frog released. As Sadie is wont to do, she immediately rolls on her back making it impossible to grab her properly. I shoved my fingers at the base of her jaw to open them. That usually works ... not this time.
I holler. Jam my fingers. All of a sudden her mouth becomes one big foam pit. The frog has wet inside her mouth. She jumped up and climbed the hill to the back porch. Once there, Sadie turn around and spit something out of her mouth to the yard. I have the picture now. After four years of pawing little frogs, Sadie has learned what happens when you pick up a frog in your mouth. You do know that I have never tried that myself. There is something not quite right about asking a frog to wet inside your mouth.
By the time I moseyed up the hill - I never run up a hill anymore - Sweet Satan was spitting and pawing and spurting. Dogs never seem to figure out that a big glass of water helps at times like this. I looked and couldn't find hide nor hair of the little frog. Now the question: did Sadie learn a lesson? Nah. I am willing to bet that she will give another try to frog eating.
Short book report. I watch Father Brown on PBS TV when I can get a new episode. He is cute with his housekeeper - rich young lady with car - Flambeau - and the local worthless police department. The show is set around WWII. I've written about this before. I discovered the The Complete Father Brown Stories by G.K. Chesterton in paperback and bought same. It is about an inch + 1/2 thick with type point less than a two. That is, I try to write this blog in a 12. The 797 page book is waaayyyyy smaller print. The stories were written in the early 1900s around WWI time.
Each story is about 15 pages in length. He begins each story describing the day, time, weather, atmosphere, scenery and thoughts of some character. A mystery evolves over several pages. Then, like magic, Father Brown, oft times accompanied by his friend, ex-thief and now detective Flambeau, will have a solution in less than a long paragraph or two. The obvious solution is not obvious to the reader or other participants in that story. And all is well.
If you like the TV series, you may wonder why you bought the book. They truly are not similar in the slightest. I've gotten to the point that I read a story or two, then, quickly move on to another book to cleanse my pallet. My relief book is I'll Tell You a Tale-- An anthology by J. Frank Dobie. It is an accumulation of his short stories and tales about the southwest - southwest Texas usually. My wife gave me this book back in 2002 when I was still teaching. I started and never finished it way back when. Nice book.
Blog has stretched out too long for today.
Tomorrow, we may go over to the other part of the lake. There is a boat parade for Trump. People will be driving boats and waving Trump flags and American flags. Nobody will be taking a knee. I heard bit this week. Stadiums should put a photo of Trump on their big TVs when they announce the Star Spangled Banner along with the message: "Please stand for the anthem or bow before Trump." I thought that was cute. Just imagine what flaming Liberals would try to make out of that. Moving on.