THIRTEEN DECEMBER 5ths
12/5/1456 – Earthquake strikes Naples; about 35,000 die
12/5/1492 – Columbus discovers Hispaniola (El Espanola/Haiti)
12/5/1893 – 1st electric car (built in Toronto) could go 15 miles between charges
***12/5/1929 – 1st US nudist organization (American League for Physical Culture, NYC)
12/5/1933 – 21st Amendment ratified, 18th Amendment (Prohibition) repealed
12/5/1951 – “Dragnet” premieres
12/5/1955 – Historic bus boycott begins in Montgomery Alabama by Rosa Parks
12/5/1969 – US performs nuclear test at Nevada Test Site
12/5/1976 – Buffalo Bill OJ Simpson rushes 203 yards
12/5/1981 – France performs nuclear test
12/5/1982 – USSR performs nuclear test at Eastern Kazakh/Semipalitinsk USSR
12/5/1985 – Great Britain performs nuclear test
12/5/2008 – OJ Simpson is sentenced to 33 years in prison for kidnapping and armed robbery
***BONUS: 12/5/1929 was a Thursday!!!
Lots more cool lists at: THURSDAY THIRTEEN.
I Am, In Fact, Homeward Bound
And–no offense intended to my traveling companion or my (several) hosts–I might add, instead:
I Am At Last Homeward Bound
Traveling? Stop by to see Call Me Cate at SHOW MY FACE.
Since I’ll be busy later today and traveling home tomorrow, I’m feeling the need to send out my early birthday greetings to Ms Sarah J Sloat, a poetry goddess whose work I have admired and extolled since I first encountered it, one who has both awestruck and inspired me since, and one who has seen fit to occasionally say something nice about my own work, which I take as a HUGE compliment.
Since I haven’t asked her permission, I will not post her work here, directly. But here’s a link to several of her many, many (ie volumes of) excellent poems, recently featured (some with video!) at the Avatar Review:
Riding Backwards on the Train
I’ll be headed home from Virginia to Vermont tomorrow on Amtrak, and I’m hoping I get to ride facing backward.
Happy Birthday, Sarah.
Oh! I almost forgot to mention! Do yourself a big favor and add Sarah’s blog The Rain In My Purse to your “Favorites” list!
Okay. I know I can be a curmudgeon, especially about holidays and such. I know I can be a little cantankerous.
But I try not to be mean-spirited; try always to be generous and compassionate about others’ feelings, as The Buddha suggests.
So let me just say this: I know I have much to be thankful for; know I have many people in my life for whom I should be (and am) thankful–including those I wish were not in my life, but who serve me well, providing examples of lives I am grateful I do not lead.
I guess I could make a specific list. There certainly would be at least thirteen names. But you all know who you are anyway, so why bother?
In addition to all the people I actually know, here are Sam and Dave, two more I’ve never met.
Even on Thanksgiving, there’s always THURSDAY THIRTEEN.
PS: Coincidentally, this just happens to be post #600 here at Scrambled, Not Fried. One more thing to be grateful for: Readership. Thanks!
(note to self)
Try To Not Be Oxygen Deprived
Keep calm and go see Call Me Cate at SHOW MY FACE.
They get ready to go and, as always, she’s far more excited about it than he. They will travel south. South is nearly inevitable, given their starting point. He approves of the plan to travel by train. Planes are faster, but their windows are smaller and the view is always clouded. Trains are like rivers and he’s almost always lived near rivers. He appreciates the train’s rhythm and the slow progression of alternating countryside and cityscape, the appearance and disappearance of landscape, the approach and retreat of horizons.
She recognizes that he’s not all that excited about traveling. He tells her that he likes to be places, just doesn’t really enjoy going to them. It would be best, he says, if he could just go to bed, close his eyes, and wake up away. She tells him she’s happy that he tolerates it as well as he does and always reminds him that he can stay home if he wants to. He almost always replies that he’d rather be with her than without. Still, he appreciates her graciousness, letting him off the hook easily when he opts for hermitage over gregariousness, for stillness over movement.
They disagree about desirable destination, too. Most of the time, when she talks about travel she talks about beaches, cities, and hotels; but all the time she’s talking, he’s thinking cabin, lake, woods. Even so, the thought of even the nicest cabin by the most pristine lake, deep in the deepest woods does not compare to his love for his own home, where he can lie down close his eyes, and go wherever he wants.
He doesn’t really care where he goes or doesn’t go. He doesn’t care where she goes, either, as long as she always comes home.