I post a weekly diary of historical notes, arts & science items, foreign news (often receiving little notice in the US) and whimsical pieces from the outside world that I often feature in "Cheers & Jeers".
OK, you've been warned - here is this week's tomfoolery material that I posted.
CHEERS to Bill and Michael in PWM, our Laramie, Wyoming-based friend Irish Patti and ...... well, each of you at Cheers and Jeers. Have a fabulous weekend .... and week ahead.
ART NOTES— an exhibition entitled Supernatural America: The Paranormal in American Art will be at the Speed Art Museum in Louisville, Kentucky through January 2nd.
LAST THURSDAY NIGHT was the retiring Brian Williams' last broadcast on The Eleventh Hour, as Rachel reminded us.
"We have products for nearly all of that ..... in just our first commercial break".
THURSDAY's CHILD is one of sixty-seven tuxedo cats rescued from a New Hampshire home — when SPCA officials were told by police to expect only twenty-five — and all are under examination to see how many are suitable for adoption.
HOPING that the fossil fuel industry doesn’t succeed in sabotaging this:
ATTENTION HOLIDAY SHOPPERS— yes, my annual exhortation to purchase the Conservative Women’s Calendar for that special (or perhaps not-so-special) friend. To paraphrase the old MAD magazine headline, “Our Price: $5.00 — CHEAP”.
YOUR WEEKEND READ is this relatively brief essay in the American Prospect by Harold Meyerson asking, “Can career senators learn to speak presidential?” — contrasting Bob Dole, Joe Biden and LBJ.
HAIL and FAREWELL to Mike Nesmith— who performed at the final Monkees concert just a month ago — who has died at the age of seventy-eight.
TRANSIT NOTES— with the infrastructure bill, many regions are looking at what public transit can be — and in Ohio, a Toledo-to-Columbus passenger rail spur is among many options being considered.
FRIDAY's CHILD is named Echo the Cat— a Pennsylvania kitteh rescued from a building fire where residents initially ignored fire alarms … as they often went off for no apparent reason.
BRAIN TEASER— try this Quiz of the Week's News from the BBC ...… and the usually easier, less UK-centered New York Times quiz.
SEPARATED at BIRTH— the Brazilian-born CEO of Qualcomm, Cristiano Amon… and the London-born Trump aide of Hungarian descent, Sebastian Gorka.
...... and finally, for a song of the week ...........................… though I read of this event a long time ago, it was not until this Yuletide season that I heard a song that not only recalled it, but also provided some details. It was in the first year of World War I that the Christmas Truce of 1914 took place — a one-day respite from the trench warfare that (in time) was so grueling that it could not have been repeated. Yet in a gloomy world, being reminded of such stories soothes my soul.
On December 7th of 1914, the newly-annointed Pope Benedict XV suggested an official temporary truce to allow soldiers (the great majority of whom were of various Christian denominations) to celebrate Christmas, which was summarily rejected by all of the nations involved. Yet on Christmas Eve: at various places along the Western front (not all, to be clear) both Allied and German soldiers began to sing Christmas carols. In one part of Belgium, where British and German soldiers were locked in a stalemate, various reports of a German soldier carrying a white flag advanced into No Man’s Land— where heretofore, only those tasked with retrieving the dead bodies of their fellow comrades dared to tread.
On Christmas Day itself (and testimonials from the participants vary widely), exchanges of cigarettes, plum pudding and photographs took place and even some impromptu soccer matches took place. During this respite, others took the time to repair trenches and fortifications (as well as retrieve the dead).
German Lieutenant Kurt Zehmisch recalled: “How marvelously wonderful, yet how strange it was. The English officers felt the same way about it. Thus Christmas, the celebration of Love, managed to bring mortal enemies together as friends for a time.”
The High Commands of all of the warring nations strictly forbade any repeat of this truce, and the rising death count in the years to come would have made it impractical for even the most willing combatants.
One hundred years later in 2014 this statue — of a British and German soldier shaking hands and with a soccer ball between them — was cast by British sculptor Andy Edwards and named All Together Now. First unveiled in Liverpool, it was later sent to the Flanders region of Belgium near where the front was.
In 1984, seventy years after the event, the veteran folk musician John McCutcheon created a song for the event (from the standpoint of a fictitious soldier from Liverpool).
Born in Wausau, Wisconsin, his first guitar … was a mail-order variety. He became a multi-instrumentalist, noted for his ability on the hammered dulcimer— and first achieved fame with his 1977 album The Wind that Shakes the Barley. Disappointed with the quality of children’s music he heard, he has devoted part of his recording career towards rectifying that situation since 1983. He has also recorded with/produced other performers’ works, including Holly Near.
His most recent recording was 2015’s Joe Hill’s Last Will and at age sixty-nine, John McCutcheon still tours (though without any current dates).
When he sings Christmas in the Trenches: he often prefaces the tune with stories of those he has met who have either first-hand (or familial) stories of the Christmas Truce when he performs in Europe. He also speaks of managing to meet the last surviving US service member from World War I (Frank Buckles) before his passing in 2011 at the age of one hundred and ten.
My name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here I fought for King and country I love dear'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung, The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung Our families back in England were toasting us that day Their brave and glorious lads so far away
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound Says I, "Now listen up, me boys!" each soldier strained to hear As one young German voice sang out so clear
"He's singing bloody well, you know!" my partner says to me Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" struck-up some lads from Kent The next they sang was "Stille Nacht." "Tis 'Silent Night'," says I And in two tongues one song filled up that sky
"There's someone coming toward us!" the front line sentry cried All sights were fixed on one long figure trudging from their side His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shown on that plain so bright As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night
Soon one-by-one on either side walked into No Man's Land With neither gun nor bayonet: we met there hand-to-hand We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well And in a flare-lit soccer game … we gave 'em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home These sons and fathers far away from families of their own Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin This curious and unlikely band of men
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night "Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore
My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell Each Christmas come since World War I — I've learned its lessons well That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame And on each end of the rifle … we're the same