Large Fierce Mammal

Once Wendell Phillips and a young friend were sitting by the fire. It was a memorable evening. Recollections had flushed the cheeks of the veteran campaigner. Memories of former heroic days had loosened his tongue. He had completely lost himself in the thrilling recital of the past. The young visitor sat enthralled. At last, when he recognized that the evening was far gone, he rose with a start. “Mr. Phillips,” he exclaimed, as he grasped the older man’s hand, “if I had lived in your time, I think I would have been heroic too!” The veteran, who had accompanied his young visitor to the door, was noticeably aroused. As he pointed down the street, he drew the attention of his companion to flaunting indications of audacious vice. His voice was tremulous with indignation as he exclaimed: “Young man, you are living in my time, and in God’s time! Be sure of this: No man could have been heroic then who is not heroic now.” ~ There is Always a Time for Heroism, by GR Jordan (From The Emerging Revival, 1946)

There’s an old joke about a Boy Scout who, one bright Saturday morning, puts on his uniform and declares to his Mother that he’s off to do good deeds all day long. When he returns a few hours later, with a black eye and looking like he just escaped from a dude ranch by being dragged through a hedge backwards, his Mother asks him what happened.

He says, “I helped an old lady across the street.”

“But what happened to you?” his Mother asks.

“She didn’t want to go.”

I remember this tale every time I hear anyone claiming to be, or implying that they are, a “sheepdog”.

For there to be any need for sheepdogs, then there needs must be sheep. A mass of harmless, helpless dullards needful of being directed, protected, shorn of their useful wooly coats, or harvested for their meaty goodness by those who hold stewardship over them. Not unlike the way governments see the citizens of the nations they’ve been elected to “serve”, although that is a related topic deserving of its own specific treatment on another day.

If you’ve read the first installment of this article, you’ll know I’m not talking about the denizens of farm yard and pasture; nor of actual Dogs or Sheep. What I speak of is a silly and harmful affectation that afflicts human society. Within the context of human society then, my position is that assumption of the ostentatiously self granted title of “sheepdog”, by those who ever so nobly don its mantle, is at the center of a superfluous and misguided view defining patterns of behaviour that place the sheepdog in a position of superiority over all others on whom the chosen have bestowed the title of “sheep”. (more…)

REAL Sheepdog says, “So ye think yer a Sheepdog, do ye? Don’t flatter yerself!“ (Source: http://www.milkandhoneyfarm.com/dogs/dogs.html)

“I will not stand for trivializing the sacrifices made by those who fought and often died so I can sit hear speaking the truth as I see it, and to my mind the title of “Hero” is thrown around entirely too easily these days. There are times and situations in history that few of us can even imagine, and those times raise the bar on who gets to wear the “Hero” badge. Some of those we recognize today are Heroes. That having been said, the fact that countless others simply did their duty without ever once meeting that moment of truth demanding of heroism doesn’t make their actions any less worthy of celebration, commendation, and the sincerest of thanks for doing everything they did.” ~ Lest We Forget – A Parting Shot

Long before the 9/11 debacle precipitated rebranding of the word “hero” to mean anyone and everyone who wears the uniform of any military, public safety, or security agency or organization, regardless of that person’s job description, experience, personal attributes, or role in events, I took umbrage with some ill considered imagery based on animal stereotypes. I’ll be talking about them today.

I speak specifically of sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs;  and if you understand my policy of capitalization, you will get the lower case first letter of each of those words insofar as they are used in the context under discussion, for these references have no bearing on the creatures of Nature who hold true right and title to those names. Most particularly, I take exception to the widespread advocacy that society can be simplistically subdivided into people who fit neatly in one of these categories – most often by people who claim to be sheepdogs themselves. (more…)

But that shouldn’t stop you from reading.

“I am a product […of] endless books. My father bought all the books he read and never got rid of any of them. There were books in the study, books in the drawing room, books in the cloakroom, books (two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in a bedroom, books piled as high as my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of all kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents’ interest, books readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most emphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endless rainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves. I had always the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a man who walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass.” ~ C.S. Lewis

Mrs. LFM and I learned the love of books and reading in our early pre-school years, and whenever gifts are to be given or received, we both treasure a well selected book as a first choice. We keep a room dedicated as a Library, and our house somewhat resembles what C. S. Lewis described as his childhood reality. Notwithstanding that, we also have electronic options wherever we go. Our telephones contain so much storage that they permit loading on of any book you could ever want to read or refer to, as well as technical manuals pertaining to any work related issue we may be called upon to attack.The picture at the top of this page isn’t intended as a besmirchment of electronic reading devices. Rather, it’s a celebration of books. The love of them as objects deserving of love, and  by extension, the love of reading. I walk into a place where books dwell, like waiting portals to other realms and pathways to hidden – even forbidden – knowledge. I smell their subtle scent, delight in the feel of taking one in hand, and the whisper of its pages as they slip between my fingers. A sensuous thrill even before its author breaths a word to me.

A sadly increasing portion of the population have never learned to read for the sheer joy of it, and such people certainly can’t grasp why one not only might read for enjoyment, but why the same book might be re-read regularly. From this, I believe, has been spawned an estrangement from True Love, Friendship, and Community with Nature, and in this, I’ll again point to C. S. Lewis who referred to revisiting beloved stories as akin to spending time with old and dear Friends. He said a lot of things that point to the life lessons that can be absorbed from the gentle, and sometimes not so gentle, art of reading; among them:

“Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.”

“Since it is so likely that (children) will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker.”

“Adventures are never fun while you’re having them.” ~ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

“When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty, I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.”

“My own eyes are not enough for me; I will see through those of others.”

And last for today, but most importantly:

“Child,’ said the Lion, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own.” ~ The Horse and His Boy

The Winter Warlock meets Proto-Claus in a scene from Santa Claus is Coming to Town. There’s just something about the full on Nosferatu manicure, with its long, taloned phalanges, that really speaks to me. (Click to enlarge)

I’m of the generation that grew up watching Rankin-Bass Christmas specials. I remember them and their characters with fondness, bless their dead little eyes, with the notable exception of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer that came out in December of 1964 and fanned my hatred of bullies. Yes, it was thoroughly entrenched even back then, and I recall wanting to teach some of the characters some Reindeer games that involve a firearm and a barbecue.

For those of you who either don’t know what I’m talking about, or need a refresher, take a look at this video by a collector of Rankin-Bass action figures. To paraphrase something Mrs. LFM recently said, it looks like Rankin-Bass threw up in his house.

While Rankin-Bass has dabbled in more standard styles of animation, it’s the stop motion productions using what they branded “Animagic” that have always stood out for me, and while their work isn’t limited to Christmas topics, that’s what springs to most minds whenever the name of the company is mentioned.

Never mind that for those of you for whom this time of year is all about the 25th of December and a year end pissup a week later, this is the season that keeps kids up at night. Have a gander at this prime example of classic Rankin-Bassery.

And to conclude, you may find this gent’s review of the Rankin-Bass body of work an entertaining two minutes and eight seconds of your life you’ll never get back.

Sharon Coyle represents watchdog group The Canadian Association Alliance, the mission of which is to stand steadfastly and perpetually offended on behalf of all Canadians and those who love them. (CBC photo)

“First off, to assume someone is actually happy is obscenely offensive. Secondly, to speculate that a person is on holiday is equivalent to slapping them in the face.” ~ Sharon Coyle, Canadian Association Alliance

Back on the eleventh of this month, CBC radio show This is That interviewed Sharon Coyle (photo and quote above), of the Canadian Association Alliance. The topic was her organization’s stance with respect to holiday greetings. She suggested some substitutions that deviate from the traditional in a manner her group deems appropriate, and if Ms. Coyle is anything like the rest of them, they are very particular about tone. I personally listened to the interview the day it first aired, and while I was driving along the LaHave River, where I very nearly ended up in the drink on no less than four occasions.

Read the intro on the This is That website, and listen to the interview here. Let us know what you think.

Snow clearing on Coburg Road, Halifax, in this undated old photo. This is obviously NOT the storm I’m talking about.  (Source: CBC, courtesy Nova Scotia Archives)

Nova Scotians complaining about the state of the province’s roads in the wake of Sunday’s winter storm should be careful how much they grumble.

An old law still on the province’s books can order “all physically fit male persons” between 16 and 60 years of age to shovel out highways made impassable by snow. At some point the law was amended to include women, too. ~ Old law can force Nova Scotians to shovel highways

When I was about 3 years old, there came a snow storm that literally buried my home town of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. I grew up in a Cape Cod style house – two storey with sloping walls in all the second floor rooms due to the pitch of the roof. We had a spare bedroom up there along with my Father’s office and radio repair shop, and it had its own exit to the outside by way of a small exterior landing and a set of wooden stairs. This was fortunate because by the time the snow stopped falling and the storm winds abated, that second floor exit was the only way out … or back in for that matter.

I remember my Father clearing the snow off the landing, and calling out to the two nearest neighbours who lived on that side of the house. Everybody was in the same boat, but of those two we were the better off. They were calling out from second storey windows, and all their doors out were under 8 to 10 feet of fresh, wind packed snow. In the ensuing hours, and on into days, neighbour located and excavated neighour, and the jolly crew of shovellers steadily grew with each able bodied Gentleman freed.

That’s right. I said “jolly”. Municipal snow removal crews and equipment were as buried as everyone and everything else, but the citizenry of Lunenburg fell to without complaint; something that was undoubtedly true of those stout hearted worthies who inhabited similarly afflicted communities round about. People first freed each other and saw to it that their closest neighbours were freed, and in so doing they opened trenches to serve as passageways between. As the days went on, work crews were assembled that cleared the sidewalks that led along the main thoroughfares so people could open vital businesses like grocers and bakeries. Cut off from resupply for the time being, they would do what they could do. I remember walking with my Mother along Lunenburg’s Lincoln Street in a trench too high for a tall man to see over, with a blank snow wall on one side, and another snow wall on the other that was dotted along its length with the doors of the shops that lay within. Each door bore a sign that proclaimed what was behind it because all signage had been snow plastered over.

For weeks, the work of every able bodied man and woman was getting the town back to rights. While the men shovelled, the women of the town ran kitchens to keep them fed, and made sure there were warm places for people who couldn’t provide one for themselves. Some of the women, and children too small to shovel, delivered refreshment to the front lines. Through it all, friend and enemy alike laboured shoulder to shoulder, and in some cases grew a grudging respect between the previously estranged, of the sort that can only be found in shared hardship, where everything gets stripped down to the bare basics of what makes Man a social animal in the first place.

As the town was cleared, the roads to neighbouring communities had to be opened, and the snow depth far exceeded the capabilities of the machinery of the time. Back to the shovel, and I remember my Father, Uncles, and Grandfather joining the crew that opened the road leading to the community of Blue Rocks. Mid dig, they met the men of Blue Rocks coming the other way, and there was much rejoicing.

I was very young, but what I’ve brought forward with me, absorbed from the adults that surrounded me then, was a vibrant sense of urgency, adventure, and even what I might call a festival atmosphere. Would the townsfolk of Lunenburg have asked for this to happen? Of course not, but when it did, they didn’t need anyone to step in and tell them what needed to be done. They saw to their families, then their neighbours, and expanded outward from there. Personal animosities were set aside to the greater good of all. These are things we will need to do again, in the same order, when the excrement gets entangled in the ventilating appliance any time in the future.

Think on this as you read the article I quoted at the top of this piece.

My favourite of all the 12 deaths. No surprise there I suppose. (Click to enbiggen. Image source: http://katytowell.deviantart.com/gallery/36581720)

I first introduced you to Katy Towell back on Day 22 of this year’s season of Dark Sentiments. Today she’s back with a wonderful ditty you can sing for yourself, and sally forth with to serenade the neighbourhood! Her original art is here and here. Also, courtesy of a fellow fan, there’s music and lyrics to help you through this festive time. Speaking for myself, I’m looking forward to signing on to direct the SFM’s Grade 1 Christmas Concert.

This poem was inspired by actual events. I was there when it all came to pass.

A Christmas Announcement

By LFM

Once upon a time I knew
A little girl with trouble.
Instead of coming out her bum
Her farts would form a bubble.

The bubble would get stuck inside,
And really hurt a lot,
Regardless of how hard she squeezed
Or lingered on the pot.

The Doctor gave her pills to take,
But so there was no doubt,
He told her to tell Mummy
Every time some gas came out.

Everything was working,
And she did as Doctor said.
No matter what the time of day,
If up, or in her bed.

Then along came Christmas time,
And with it concert day.
She was the cutest little elf
In pre-school’s Christmas play.

Of twenty tots upon that stage,
Each parent saw but one
Who danced in perfect rhythm
‘Til “O Tannenbaum” was done.

And as the last chord faded out,
But ere the clapping started,
A cheerful little voice rang out with,
“MUMMY! I JUST FARTED!”

“Hunters in the Snow” by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, oil on wood, 1565.

Winter, in latitudes where sub-freezing temperatures can occur, brings with it harsh realities that only frantic and organized preparation in the months prior can meet with any hope of success, leading to the passing down of parables such as the story of the ant and the grasshopper, and the legend of the Wendigo. This is not hard to grasp, but the significance of the winter solstice is so profound that it has not gone unnoticed even by the inhabitants of lands with much more benign climates, where the season doesn’t ride in sharing a horse with the Angel of Death. ~ A Long Winter’s Night – The Winter Solstice is the Reason for the Season

“Hunters in the Snow“ was painted by Pieter Bruegel the Elder in 1565, depicting an unusually harsh winter that is held to be the precursor to the “Little Ice Age“. and represents the first time the beauty of a Winter landscape was ever portrayed in Art. Clicking on the image at the top of this page will enlarge it, but you will get an even better specimen here.

This marks the launching point for a BBC documentary that originally aired on 22 January 2013 titled Tales of Winter: The Art of Snow and Ice that chronicles the artistic discovery and expression of Winter, in all Her terrible and necessary glory. As described on the BBC website:

Winter was not always beautiful. Until Pieter Bruegel painted Hunters in the Snow, the long bitter months had never been transformed into a thing of beauty. This documentary charts how mankind’s ever-changing struggle with winter has been reflected in western art throughout the ages, resulting in images that are now amongst the greatest paintings of all time. With contributions from Grayson Perry, Will Self, Don McCullin and many others, the film takes an eclectic group of people from all walks of life out into the cold to reflect on the paintings that have come to define the art of snow and ice.

Here is the film. Decant an appropriate volume of anti-freeze concoction, grab someone warm to snuggle up with, and soak it up.

Written words are visual guides to the making of sounds that, when uttered aloud, convey meaning. An example is the word “label”.

A label can be a physical object that, when applied to another object, conveys important information about it. What it’s made of, how to use it, how long it may be kept, and the best means of storage before use or consumption. Things like that. These sorts of labels abound in today’s world and are vital to navigating the perils and pitfalls of acquiring and using the commodities we take for granted to feed ourselves and our families, clean our homes, ourselves, and possessions, and maintain our surroundings. To wipe our bums and blow our noses. Cure a headache.

And then there’s the other kind of label. This kind also abounds in today’s world, but less as a means of conveying important information than as a short cut around understanding. Understanding requires a desire for knowledge, and a willingness to be observant. To think and draw conclusions. Unlike labels of any description, these attributes are not common in the world. If this type of label is applied to a controversial thing – a firearm for example – or worse yet, a person, the label alone comes to replace the true substance of that to which it’s applied. That’s how we get terms like “gun violence” for example, flying in the face of the fact that violence doesn’t come in flavours, and notwithstanding the implement that is used to bring it about, there is only violence, and it springs exclusively from the mind of its perpetrator.

Similarly, there is no “gay love” or “straight love”, there is only love. There is no “gay marriage” or “mixed marriage”, there is only marriage. There are no “women’s rights” or “gay rights”, there are only rights. In not one of these examples is there justification for tagging violence, love, marriage, or rights with a qualifying label branding it as something different from every other expression of it. The term “racial hatred” doesn’t define a special brand of hatred. There is only hatred, and “racial” is the excuse for its existence – a label. The same goes for “religious intolerance”. ~ Wordly Wisdom Wednesday – Beware of Labels

Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Pagan, Wiccan, Atheist … you name it. It makes no difference what label you apply to yourself, nor even if you apply one at all, for the name holds far less significance than the fundamental and visible expression of your beliefs, and by that I mean the way in which they govern your behaviour. On those rare occasions when someone, learning that we LFMs are not Christians, inquires as to what then, exactly, we are, my reply is usually an iteration of this question – “Why don’t you watch me, see how I treat the world and how I live my life, and then decide for yourself from there?”

On even rarer occasions, when I feel the tone of the query calls for it, I fix them with a look that lasts until they start to seem uncomfortable, and then answer, “Noble Savages.” (more…)