Happy Easter!

Happy Buzzard Day!

Yep, the Day of the Dead has nothing on March 15th, which is Buzzard Day in the township of Hinckley, Ohio. According to the Hinckley Township website, the vultures for which the area is known were supposedly drawn to the area by the carcasses and waste left behind after the Great Hinckley Hunt of 1818. The 1818 hunt was touted by organizers as "a war of extinction upon wolves and bears." Ah the early 19th century was such a gentle and civilized time!

Though this story has a morbid appeal, I like the idea that the citizens were visited by a plague of carrion birds after their bout of senseless killing, it's not likely the hunt drew vultures to Hinckley Township. It's equally unlikely that the alternate legend involving the local Wyandot tribe's hanging of a woman for witchcraft at the Big Bend of Rocky River created a supernatural beacon to which the undertakers of the bird-set hearkened. Anyone who lives in the Midwest, especially in areas where there are high bluffs or bodies of water around which thermal currents build, knows the buzzard is as much a part of the local fauna as the Sycamore tree is the flora. Though they may have been more noticable after the 1818 hunt, it's doubtless buzzards were living in Medina County around Hinckley Township long before settlers entered the area.

What would lead to March 15th being declared Buzzard Day, though, was an article that ran in the Cleveland Press on February 15,  1957. A Cleveland reporter had heard the local folklore that buzzards returned to Hinckley without fail every March 15th and he penned a piece on the subject. The story stoked the imaginations of local naturalists, ornithologists, and other reporters, beginning speculation on the predicted return of the big, black scavengers. When the birds made their appearance exactly as predicted about 9000 tourists headed for Hinckley.

Today you can celebrate the return of the vultures with a pancake breakfast hosted by the Hinckley Chamber of Commerce, see exhibits put on by the local elementary school, and buy crafts commemorating the return of the buzzards. Hey, Capistrano has its swallows, Ohio has its vultures.

Quote for March

March is a month without mercy for rabid basketball fans. There is no such thing as a 'gentleman gambler' when the Big Dance rolls around. All sheep will be fleeced, all fools will be punished severely... There are no Rules when the deal goes down in the final weeks of March. Even your good friends will turn into monsters.

- Hunter S. Thompson

The Funnies - Froggie Tango (1914)

Life Magazine, April 1914

I thought I'd get this one out in time for frog season here in Indiana. Soon the woods will be filled with the courtship songs of frogs. We've got quite a few ponds nearby and on a warm night when the windows are open you can sit and listen to the thrumming of amore. Nothing like it to cure insomnia.

Green Giant Peas!

In honor of the recently passed St. Patrick's Day, may the luck of the peas be with you...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

A St. Patrick's Day Reminder

A while back I received a summons for jury duty and wound up serving for a case that related to a traffic accident that occurred on St. Patrick's Day when a pair of (former) friends had one too many and wound up in a traffic accident. Now, there's nothing particularly "St. Patrick's Day" about drinking, especially drinking too much, but I thought it'd be a good time to delve into the TGFI film vault for a little information about the intoxicating effects of alcohol and to offer a word of caution.

March Full Moon - Moonlight Saving Time

With March 9th being the beginning of Daylight Savings Time, I figured I'd pay tribute to March's full moon with a little ditty by Dick Robertson and his Orchestra, Moonlight Saving Time.

Beware the Ides of March

Caesar: Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music cry "Caesar!" Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear.

Soothsayer: Beware the ides of March.

Caesar: What man is that?

Brutus: A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

In 44 BCE the fifteenth of March gained notoriety and became one of the turning points of Roman history when rivals assassinated Caesar on the steps of the senate. Shakespeare immortalized Ceasar’s demise in his work Julius Caesar and coined the phrase “Beware the Ides of March”, a warning that has remained in the vernacular since.

While there’s probably a chance of figuratively being stabbed in the senate in modern American politics, there hasn’t been a violent play for power in the Senate or House since Preston Brooks beat Charles Sumner. We prefer assassination by a thousand sound bites, its cleaner and everyone can watch from the comfort of their living room.

Welcome to National Peanut Butter Month

Welcome to National Peanut Month! In March we celebrate the humble ground nut, the goober pea, the nut George Washington Carver turned into the staple of lunchboxes across the United States. According to the National Peanut Board:

"European explorers first discovered peanuts in Brazil. As early as 1500 B.C., the Incans of Peru used peanuts as sacrificial offerings and entombed them with their mummies to aid in the spirit life. Tribes in central Brazil also ground peanuts with maize to make a drink."

It wasn't until the early 1800's that the peanut became a commercial crop in the US, and even then it they were primarily grown for their oil, as a cocoa substitute, and as animal feed. The Civil War introduced peanuts to Union Soldiers who brought them north.

In the late 1800's the popularity of the peanut grew as vendors with PT Barnum's circus sold roasted peanuts to circus-goers. Soon street vendors were selling roasted nuts from carts and hawkers were selling them at baseball games.

It wasn't until 1900 that practical cultivating machinery loosed the nut's mass appeal. Peanut oil, roasted and salted nuts, peanut butter, and peanut based candies hit the market and the peanut supplanted cotton as the cash crop of the south.

So, let's celebrate with a little recipe from the July 1918 issue of Housewives Magazine:

National Sleep Awareness Week

 The calendar is littered with odd holidays and observances, but one of my favorites has to be National Sleep Awareness Week. Strange to be aware of sleep, don’t you think?

Here’s a Tuska Radio ad from the December 1922 issue of Popular Science advertising the fact that your children can listen to the Sandman’s Story.  I’m guessing that this is a reference to Hans Christian Andersen’s 1841 folk tale Ole Lukøje. Andersen wrote:

"There is nobody in the world who knows so many stories as Ole-Luk-Oie, or who can relate them so nicely. In the evening, while the children are seated at the table or in their little chairs, he comes up the stairs very softly, for he walks in his socks, then he opens the doors without the slightest noise, and throws a small quantity of very fine dust in their eyes, just enough to prevent them from keeping them open, and so they do not see him. Then he creeps behind them, and blows softly upon their necks, till their heads begin to droop. But Ole-Luk-Oie does not wish to hurt them, for he is very fond of children, and only wants them to be quiet that he may relate to them pretty stories, and they never are quiet until they are in bed and asleep. As soon as they are asleep, Ole-Luk-Oie seats himself upon the bed. He is nicely dressed; his coat is made of silken fabric; it is impossible to say of what color, for it changes from green to red, and from red to blue as he turns from side to side. Under each arm he carries an umbrella; one of them, with pictures on the inside, he spreads over the good children, and then they dream the most beautiful stories the whole night. But the other umbrella has no pictures, and this he holds over the naughty children so that they sleep heavily, and wake in the morning without having dreams at all."

It seems odd to me that the ad execs at Tuska were so specific about the fairy tale. It would have been good enough to have said the kids can listen to their favorite fairy tales and then you can enjoy adult programming after they’re tucked into bed. The oddities of old ads, I guess.

Tuska Radios were manufactured by Clarence Denton Tuska. He graduated Connecticut’s Hartford High School in 1915 and by 1916 was secretary of the American Radio Relay League in Newington while at the same time attending Trinity College. From 1922-25 he manufactured radio receivers such as the one advertised in Popular Science. Tuska would serve during World War II and died on July 1, 1985 at the age of 89.

We’ve traveled pretty far afield of Sleep Awareness Week, but I can tie it together nicely. When I was a boy I used to sneak a little transistor radio into bed with me. Once the house got quiet and my parents were asleep I’d turn it on and scan the airwaves. I’d listen to just about anything, baseball games and talk shows, music and news, what mattered was the magic of catching a whisper on the night air and transmuting it into a voice. Inevitably I’d get caught and scolded for listening to the radio or I’d manage to keep my secret, fall asleep, and wake to a dead battery. The magic drew me in, regardless of the cost and though Tuska never became the household name like General Electric, Philco, or RCA I have to believe the same magic that captured me, captured Clarence.

So, sweet dreams Mr. Tuska and thanks for the part you played, thanks for bring the airwaves to life.

Quote for March

What's good about March? Well for one thing it keeps February and April Apart.

- Walt Kelly

Poem for March

The March wind roars

Like a lion in the sky,

And makes us shiver

As he passes by. 

When winds are soft,

And the days are warm and clear,

Just like a gentle lamb,

Then spring is here.

-  Unknown

Happy Easter!

Nobody forgot that Easter, not even with therapy...

Happy Easter to all and to all a good chocolate bunny!

The Tempter Wind

Mad as a March Hare

March and spring are in the air and in spite of winter’s best efforts, good old Mother Earth is tilting on her axis and bringing warmth and rejuvenation back to the northern hemisphere. As an aficionado of winter’s frozen wonders I always feel a little sorry to see the snow melt away and the greening of the grass, but I’m in the marked minority. Most people have been pent up in their homes and heavy woolen overcoats long enough, and they’re just bursting to get outside and do something.

Each year, when the first blush of real warmth washes over the Midwest, the garden centers fill with the eager. For the anxious amateur gardener its flats of pansies and good intentions that will surely be dashed by the bitter fact that the last frost date in our particular zone comes in mid April. Ah, how the hopes and dreams of youth so often flounder on the frozen rocks of reality.

Young men will cruise the city streets, windows down and tunes turned up to perform as their mating call. The heart will beat ardently. Sweaters and long underwear will be mothballed, replaced by shorts and tees. All will seem verdant and sweet, and then the late frost will nip the buds.

In 1546 John Heywood published a collection of proverbs, one of which illustrates the mesmerizing powers of March:

Thanne þey begyn to swere and to stare, And be as braynles as a Marshe hare.

For those of you who don't read much old English, that roughly translates to:

Then they begin to swerve and stare, And be as brainless as a March hare.

The phrase “mad as a March hare” has been popularly used since the mid 16^th century, but reached new popularity with the publication Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland which featured the character of the March Hare.

Unlike the wise fool of Carroll’s story, the madness of the hares isn’t so much a display of an altered world view as an outward sign of getting hot and bothered with the spirit of the season. The “madness” of hares during March is linked to a folk interpretation of mating season leaping, rearing, “boxing”, and general cavorting. Still, when you really think of it, it’s a very apt term for the madness that infects all of us during this time of year.

Weekends in March

Dear Reader,


I ventured out to celebrate a good friend's 60th birthday this Saturday. Per form, the weather proved to be cold and blustery but there are plenty of things to do on a Saturday in March when you don't have to be anywhere in particular. So, giving my friend his choice of where to have lunch, we found ourselves at the Rathskeller, sitting in the Kellerbar under the mounted moose head with the sun pouring in through the high windows. Between the spirits and the sunlight, one could forget the outside temperature hovered somewhere barely north of 30 degrees and a twenty mile-per-hour wind whipped through the streets. We ate a good meal of less-than-healthy food, drank, and discussed work, politics, and the general state of humanity in the modern age for a couple of hours under the roof of the building Vonnegut's ancestors designed then gathered our coats and set out on the downtown of Indianapolis.

From the house of Vonnegut we made our way to the Eiteljorg to catch the Red Black exhibit. For those of you who aren't Indianapolis natives, the Eiteljorg is the local museum of Native American and Western history. It's a lovely building that (by design) seems to rise out of the ground, kiva-style. The exhibit, like many good museum installations, left me feeling enlightened and troubled. My Cherokee heritage has always been a source of pride however, learning that my people kept slaves reinforced the realization that native peoples are just that - people. They have all of the same flaws and shortcomings no matter what their genetics.

From inspecting the past we made our way to the big downtown mall to discover another of the mega bookstores, Borders, is closing up shop in downtown Indianapolis. It was my wakeup to the fact that the chain had gone bankrupt. Had I waited ten more days I would have missed the entire thing and been left knowing something had been on the corner of Meridian and Washington Street but unable to remember what it had been. We shopped the remnants and it felt a bit like attending an estate auction while the viewing was still underway in the parlor.

I have the distinct feeling birthdays shouldn't come in March. It's too depressing a month, filled with rain that wanted to be snow but didn't make it and ceaseless, restless wind. Even the ground is wet, swollen and sick with too much rain. A lot of people would say the month of my birthday is just as inappropriate, January is a frozen and unforgiving month of bitter cold and driven snow - equally depressing. Still, I think March is worse. It's the season of promises on the brink. Of hints at warmth that turn out to be misleading; the weather version of red herrings. This March has come in like the proverbial lion but, in the hearts of every Hoosier, we know there's little guarantee she'll leave like a lamb.

I don't mean to leave you depressed! Looking at the facts, the days are getting longer and the average temperature is climbing with each day. Spring has arrived, harbinger of summer's long, languid afternoons and temperate nights. All is not lost - it's just a bit uncomfortable for a while.

Origins

Dear Reader,

There's been (at least from my limited prospective) a recent upsurge in interest in genealogy. Ten years ago I couldn't have imagined seeing television ads for websites that specialize in family trees. Now you see them all the time, common looking people touting how they didn't know great granddad lived next door to the famous Mr. X or that great-great grandma had a fascinating career as a secret agent spying on the Confederates and passing the info on to Grant in the form of coded tatting. They're very persuasive commercials, offering the possibility that the viewer springs from uncommon stock - that you are special because someone you are related to was special. That in this world of conformity and ever contracting borders, there might be someone in your family tree who struck out into the wilderness, tamed the unknown, tested themselves against the world and came out with more than a six-figure paycheck to show for their efforts.

I'm not knocking genealogy. My mother spent hours behind a humming electric typewriter, carefully recording information she found in the dusty back rooms of various libraries. Women of the 19th century told their story in quilting and mom told hers in leaf-thin pages of type held together in scavenged three-ring binders. For all of mom's typing and researching, I don't have a single spy or famous neighbor to talk about. Oh there are a few scoundrels (bootleggers and petty criminals including my grandfather who's been accused in family lore of 'borrowing' automobiles from alleyways as well as cooling pies off windowsills) but there are many more average folks running stores, planting corn, and working in factories.

The truth is that most of us spring from 'common' folk who lived simple lives. Consider that in 1910, a little over a hundred years ago (a couple of generations), the most common occupations were farmer and farm laborer. People either owned land that they tilled or tilled land that someone else owned. They worked hard to support their families, scratching a living out of the land and living by its rhythms; heroic in its own right without the necessity for famous neighbors.

Still, in spite of the heroism of the common man and woman, the desire to be special remains. I feel it every time I see one of the commercials I mentioned earlier. I feel it even more in March due to St. Patrick's Day and my family's (at least purported) Irish lineage. So, I did a little searching and came up with the following hopeful tidbit:

"Recorded as Madain, Madden, Maddin, Madigan and MacAvaddy, this is a famous Irish surname. It derives from the pre 10th century Old Gaelic name O'Madain, translating as the descendant of the son of the hound. The hound is famous in Gaelic heraldry having the virtues of speed, endurance, and loyalty. Most Irish surnames originate from a chief's nickname. O'Kennedy, for instance means the male descendant of the ugly headed one! The O'Madain's originated from lands on the River Shannon in County Galway, at one time holding over 25,000 acres. Even today name holders are still numerous in that part of Ireland. The Madigan branch of the clan are regarded as almost exclusively a Clare-Limerick family, although a branch are to be found in Counties Antrim and Derry in Ulster. Richard Madden, (1798 - 1886) was the author of the book 'The United Irishman', whilst many name holders emigrated to either America or England during the infamous 'Potato Famine' of 1846. Walter Madden, his wife Mary and their children Richard aged five and Alice, a baby sailed from Galway, bound for New York on the ship 'Junius ' on May 1st 1846. The first recorded spelling of the family name is believed to be that of Dermot O'Madadhain. This was dated circa 1100 a.d. He was chief of the Ui Maine, Connacht, during the reign of King Henry 1st of England, known as 'The Just", 1100 - 1135."

Being an aspiring writer, the bit about Richard Madden struck me most. There, of course, is no concrete connection between myself and the doctor, writer, abolitionist, and historian of the United Irishmen however the romantic in me would like to concoct one. One writer bridging himself to another writer, a writer who penned works 123 years ago during a time of turmoil and change. That's the sort of thing that can either inspire you or make the fiction you compose seem tawdry and pointless! Maybe I shouldn't go looking too hard for the ancestral wellspring from whence my literary desire flows. Maybe I'll find Niagara Falls and be so intimidated as to turn back to the shallow, current-less lagoons of a tamer life. That possibility is doubtful. I've never found comfort in fitting in (come to think I've never fit in) so under the glassy surface of the familial harbor lay sharp reefs on which to flounder. Better to point myself toward the horizon and all the unknown wonders it holds.