Armchair Travel
Thursday, February 28, 2008
How Good is Your Health Plan?
It's fun getting photos from all over the world. This one is by Daniel Gold, who bicycled from Cairo to Capetown in the Tour d'Afrique.
¶ 11:16 AM 0 comments
It's fun getting photos from all over the world. This one is by Daniel Gold, who bicycled from Cairo to Capetown in the Tour d'Afrique.¶ 11:16 AM 0 comments
Friday, February 22, 2008
Keeping a Promise
Back in 2002 David von Drehle was taking his baby out for a peaceful drive in Estes Park, Colorado, and on impulse he asked his mother-in-law, Marilyn Sue Mohler Ball, if she would like to go along. As they headed toward town, Marilyn pointed to a turn-off and David took it.
It led to a pull off with a view of Long's Peak.
"This is my favorite place in the whole world," Marilyn said.
"We sat there looking and talking as the engine idled and the baby snored softly," David wrote in a Washington Post article. "Somehow we wound up talking about climbing the mountain, which was just talk because Marilyn could not walk more than a couple of steps at that point."
"Then I remember, clear as a bell. Mailyn's sensible singsong. 'Oh well,' she said. 'Maybe when I die, my ashes can get there.'"
"I answered without thinking. 'If that ever happens and I'm still around, I'll take you.'"
Three years later Marilyn died and David kept his word. But it wasn't easy. He had to train hard and get an experienced mountaineer to go along. Marilyn's son Jim went, too.
David did some research on state and federal law regarding scattering ashes and discovered it was best to adopt a "less said the better" attitude.
To make a long (ha ha) story short, they scattered the ashes and Jim read a passage from a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
"Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream --
For the soul is dead that slumbers
And things are not what they seem,
Life is real and life is earnest
And the grave is not its goal.
'Dust thou art to dust returneth'
Was not spoken of the soul."
"We took turns flilnging ash downwind until the bag was empty," David continues. "We huddled together for a little prayer. Then we piled a half-dozen stones into a cairn to mark the spot, although I can't say why or for whom we did that."
I was struck by this article, reprinted in our local paper, because back in 1873 Isabella Bird and "Mountain Jim" Nugent climbed Long's Peak. Miss Bird was thought to be the second woman to make the climb, although she confesses that Nugent all but carried her the whole way.
"Jim dragged me up like a bale of goods, by sheer force of muscle," she writes. ¶ 2:35 PM 0 comments
It led to a pull off with a view of Long's Peak.
"This is my favorite place in the whole world," Marilyn said.
"We sat there looking and talking as the engine idled and the baby snored softly," David wrote in a Washington Post article. "Somehow we wound up talking about climbing the mountain, which was just talk because Marilyn could not walk more than a couple of steps at that point."
"Then I remember, clear as a bell. Mailyn's sensible singsong. 'Oh well,' she said. 'Maybe when I die, my ashes can get there.'"
"I answered without thinking. 'If that ever happens and I'm still around, I'll take you.'"
Three years later Marilyn died and David kept his word. But it wasn't easy. He had to train hard and get an experienced mountaineer to go along. Marilyn's son Jim went, too.
David did some research on state and federal law regarding scattering ashes and discovered it was best to adopt a "less said the better" attitude.
To make a long (ha ha) story short, they scattered the ashes and Jim read a passage from a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
"Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream --
For the soul is dead that slumbers
And things are not what they seem,
Life is real and life is earnest
And the grave is not its goal.
'Dust thou art to dust returneth'
Was not spoken of the soul."
"We took turns flilnging ash downwind until the bag was empty," David continues. "We huddled together for a little prayer. Then we piled a half-dozen stones into a cairn to mark the spot, although I can't say why or for whom we did that."
I was struck by this article, reprinted in our local paper, because back in 1873 Isabella Bird and "Mountain Jim" Nugent climbed Long's Peak. Miss Bird was thought to be the second woman to make the climb, although she confesses that Nugent all but carried her the whole way.
"Jim dragged me up like a bale of goods, by sheer force of muscle," she writes. ¶ 2:35 PM 0 comments
Monday, February 18, 2008
A Courteous Gesture by Thomas Hart Benton
Thomas Hart Benton was an aide-de-camp to General Andrew Jackson during the War of 1812, but after the war, in Nashville, Benton and his brother Jesse got into a ferocious battle with Jackson and one of his brigade inspectors, Billy Carroll, over "a very obscure point of honor."
Jackson was shot in the shoulder by Jesse Benton and nearly died. Thomas Hart Benton moved to Missouri and became a very popular senator. Ten years after their battle, they met in Washington, and bystanders feared they might draw pistols and go at it again.
But, as Robert V. Remini relates in "The Revolutionary Age of Andrew Jackson," Jackson "stepped up to his old enemy and asked him about the health of his wife. Amazed and somewhat pleased, Benton responded quickly and returned the inquiry...
"The next time the Missouri Senator saw the General, he bowed. Jackson shot out his hand. The two men shook hands and dissolved their old hatred. In the political wars ahead, each found the other a bastion of strength and support."
Benton was Jackson's number one ally in his kock-down-drag-out fight over the Bank of the United States, and many other political battles. The legend grew up that it had been Thomas Benton, not Jesse, who shot Jackson. They were such fast friends, it made a good story.
Almost ten years after their reconciliation, after Jackson was elected president, the bullet flattened out against the bone and threatened to cause paralysis, so his doctor decided to remove it.
"With Jackson fully conscious and gritting his teeth, the doctor probed and dug into the arm and finally caught hold of the flattened metal and pulled it out," Remini writes. "Jackson was nearly unconscious when the operation ended.
"In jest, someone standing nearby offered the souvenir to Benton, supposedly the owner of the bullet. The Senator refused, observing that Jackson had acquired legal title to it in common law by twenty years' possession.
"But it had been only nineteen years.
"'Oh well,' said Benton, 'in consideration of the extra care he had taken of it -- keeping it constantly about his person, and so on -- I'll waive the odd year.'" ¶ 1:54 PM 2 comments
Jackson was shot in the shoulder by Jesse Benton and nearly died. Thomas Hart Benton moved to Missouri and became a very popular senator. Ten years after their battle, they met in Washington, and bystanders feared they might draw pistols and go at it again.
But, as Robert V. Remini relates in "The Revolutionary Age of Andrew Jackson," Jackson "stepped up to his old enemy and asked him about the health of his wife. Amazed and somewhat pleased, Benton responded quickly and returned the inquiry...
"The next time the Missouri Senator saw the General, he bowed. Jackson shot out his hand. The two men shook hands and dissolved their old hatred. In the political wars ahead, each found the other a bastion of strength and support."
Benton was Jackson's number one ally in his kock-down-drag-out fight over the Bank of the United States, and many other political battles. The legend grew up that it had been Thomas Benton, not Jesse, who shot Jackson. They were such fast friends, it made a good story.
Almost ten years after their reconciliation, after Jackson was elected president, the bullet flattened out against the bone and threatened to cause paralysis, so his doctor decided to remove it.
"With Jackson fully conscious and gritting his teeth, the doctor probed and dug into the arm and finally caught hold of the flattened metal and pulled it out," Remini writes. "Jackson was nearly unconscious when the operation ended.
"In jest, someone standing nearby offered the souvenir to Benton, supposedly the owner of the bullet. The Senator refused, observing that Jackson had acquired legal title to it in common law by twenty years' possession.
"But it had been only nineteen years.
"'Oh well,' said Benton, 'in consideration of the extra care he had taken of it -- keeping it constantly about his person, and so on -- I'll waive the odd year.'" ¶ 1:54 PM 2 comments
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Isabella Bird Meets Mountain Jim
"...we entered a long gulch with broad swellings of grass belted with pines.
"A very pretty mare, hobbled, was feeding; a collie dog barked at us, and among the scrub, not far from the track, there was a rude, black log cabin, as rough as it could be to be a shelter at all, with smoke coming out of the roof and window.
"We diverged toward it; it mattered not that it was the home, or rather den, of a notorious 'ruffian' and 'desperado.' One of my companions had disappeared hours before; the remaining one was a town-bred youth. I longed to talk to some one who loved the mountains.
"I called the hut a a den -- it looked like the den of a wild beast. The big dog lay outside it in a threatening attitude and growled. The mud roof was covered with lynx, beaver, and other furs laid out to dry, beaver paws were pinned out on the logs, a part of the carcass of a deer hung at one end of the cabin, a skinned beaver lay in front of a heap of peltry just within the door, and antlers of deer, old horseshoes, and offal [guts] of many animals lay about the den."
Can't you just tell that romance is in the air?
"Roused by the growling of the dog," she continues, "his owner came out, a broad, thickset man, about middle height, with an old cap on his head, and wearing a grey hunting suit, much the worse for wear (almost falling to pieces, in fact), a digger's head scarf knotted around his waist, a knife in his belt, and a 'bosom friend,' a revolver, sticking out of the breast pocket of his coat; his feet, which were very small, were bare, except for some dilapidated moccasins made of horse hide. The marvel was how his clothing hung together, and on him. The scarf round his waist must have had something to do with it.
"His face was remarkable. He is a man about forty-five, and must have been strikingly handsome. He has large grey-blue eyes, deeply set, with well-marked eyebrows, a handsome aquiline nose, and a very handsome mouth. His face was smooth shaven except for a dense mustache and imperial. Tawny hair, in thin uncared-for curls, fell from under his hunter's cap and over his collar.
"One eye was entirely gone, and the loss made one side of his face repulsive, while the other might have been modeled in marble..."
Mountain Jim brings her a drink of water in a battered tin "apologizing for not having anything more presentable." They chat. She asks about some beaver paws and he presents them to her.
"Apropos of the wild animals of the region, he told me that the loss of his eye was owing to a recent encounter with a grizzly bear, which, after giving him a death hug, tearing him all over, breaking his arm and scratching out his eye, had left him for dead.
"As we rode away, for the sun was sinking, he said, courteously, 'You are not an American. I know from your voice that you are a countrywoman of mine. I hope you will allow me the pleasure of calling on you.'"
Guess what? She does.
¶ 5:24 PM 0 comments
Here's a passage from "A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains" by Isabella Bird, who traveled through Colorado in 1873.
"...we entered a long gulch with broad swellings of grass belted with pines.
"A very pretty mare, hobbled, was feeding; a collie dog barked at us, and among the scrub, not far from the track, there was a rude, black log cabin, as rough as it could be to be a shelter at all, with smoke coming out of the roof and window.
"We diverged toward it; it mattered not that it was the home, or rather den, of a notorious 'ruffian' and 'desperado.' One of my companions had disappeared hours before; the remaining one was a town-bred youth. I longed to talk to some one who loved the mountains.
"I called the hut a a den -- it looked like the den of a wild beast. The big dog lay outside it in a threatening attitude and growled. The mud roof was covered with lynx, beaver, and other furs laid out to dry, beaver paws were pinned out on the logs, a part of the carcass of a deer hung at one end of the cabin, a skinned beaver lay in front of a heap of peltry just within the door, and antlers of deer, old horseshoes, and offal [guts] of many animals lay about the den."
Can't you just tell that romance is in the air?
"Roused by the growling of the dog," she continues, "his owner came out, a broad, thickset man, about middle height, with an old cap on his head, and wearing a grey hunting suit, much the worse for wear (almost falling to pieces, in fact), a digger's head scarf knotted around his waist, a knife in his belt, and a 'bosom friend,' a revolver, sticking out of the breast pocket of his coat; his feet, which were very small, were bare, except for some dilapidated moccasins made of horse hide. The marvel was how his clothing hung together, and on him. The scarf round his waist must have had something to do with it.
"His face was remarkable. He is a man about forty-five, and must have been strikingly handsome. He has large grey-blue eyes, deeply set, with well-marked eyebrows, a handsome aquiline nose, and a very handsome mouth. His face was smooth shaven except for a dense mustache and imperial. Tawny hair, in thin uncared-for curls, fell from under his hunter's cap and over his collar.
"One eye was entirely gone, and the loss made one side of his face repulsive, while the other might have been modeled in marble..."
Mountain Jim brings her a drink of water in a battered tin "apologizing for not having anything more presentable." They chat. She asks about some beaver paws and he presents them to her.
"Apropos of the wild animals of the region, he told me that the loss of his eye was owing to a recent encounter with a grizzly bear, which, after giving him a death hug, tearing him all over, breaking his arm and scratching out his eye, had left him for dead.
"As we rode away, for the sun was sinking, he said, courteously, 'You are not an American. I know from your voice that you are a countrywoman of mine. I hope you will allow me the pleasure of calling on you.'"
Guess what? She does.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The Greatness of America
Here are two classified advertisements from the Washington, D.C. newpapers in the year 1842:
"Ran away, a negro named Arthur. Had a considerable scar across his breast and each arm, made by a knife; loves to talk much of the goodness of God"
"Ran away, a negro woman and two children. A few days before she went off, I burnt her with a hot iron on the left side of her face. I tried to make the letter 'M'"
Charles Dickens included these advertisements, along with many others, in his American Notes. He also observed that anyone in the American South who expressed the opinion that slavery was wrong could be hanged on the spot.
In a public park he head a mother tell her little boy that if he behaved himself she would buy him a whip "to beat the little n-----s with."
"This is not the republic I came to see," he said.
What's the point of dragging this up? Slavery was abolished, right?
The point is, in my humble opinion, that each and every one of the people who like to stand up and say, over and over again, how great America is -- how many such people do we hear every day? -- ought to read these testaments of inhumanity, baldly presented in the public prints of our nations's capital, and acknowledge that the bestial conduct they describe was condoned by all upstanding citizens, North and South.
Then, instead of talking about how great America is, they might say, "Well we've made terrible mistakes, but we've tried to learn from them and do the right thing."
If that were to happen (though I don't think it probable) I think America would be better regarded by the other countries of the world. Because I think the greatness of America is learning when we're wrong and working to make it right.
Here are some previous entries about Dickens' American Notes (the Cairo one is really funny):
Visit Scenic Cairo, Illinois!
Universal Disregard of the Spittoon
Dickens Has a Laugh With a Choctaw Chieftain
Great Turtle and Little Hatchet
"Those that want to be safe must hoist flags"
"A Proud and Pleasant Thing"
I Tried to Make the Letter M ¶ 7:38 PM 2 comments
"Ran away, a negro named Arthur. Had a considerable scar across his breast and each arm, made by a knife; loves to talk much of the goodness of God"
"Ran away, a negro woman and two children. A few days before she went off, I burnt her with a hot iron on the left side of her face. I tried to make the letter 'M'"
Charles Dickens included these advertisements, along with many others, in his American Notes. He also observed that anyone in the American South who expressed the opinion that slavery was wrong could be hanged on the spot.
In a public park he head a mother tell her little boy that if he behaved himself she would buy him a whip "to beat the little n-----s with."
"This is not the republic I came to see," he said.
What's the point of dragging this up? Slavery was abolished, right?
The point is, in my humble opinion, that each and every one of the people who like to stand up and say, over and over again, how great America is -- how many such people do we hear every day? -- ought to read these testaments of inhumanity, baldly presented in the public prints of our nations's capital, and acknowledge that the bestial conduct they describe was condoned by all upstanding citizens, North and South.
Then, instead of talking about how great America is, they might say, "Well we've made terrible mistakes, but we've tried to learn from them and do the right thing."
If that were to happen (though I don't think it probable) I think America would be better regarded by the other countries of the world. Because I think the greatness of America is learning when we're wrong and working to make it right.
Here are some previous entries about Dickens' American Notes (the Cairo one is really funny):
Visit Scenic Cairo, Illinois!
Universal Disregard of the Spittoon
Dickens Has a Laugh With a Choctaw Chieftain
Great Turtle and Little Hatchet
"Those that want to be safe must hoist flags"
"A Proud and Pleasant Thing"
I Tried to Make the Letter M ¶ 7:38 PM 2 comments
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Masterful Descriptive Writing From Isabella Bird
I've been re-rereading A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains by Isabella Bird about her trip to Colorado in 1873 and I am constant struck by the power of her descriptions. She's the only writer I've ever read who uses the word "empurpled."
She doesn't just see a horse, she sees "a high-bred, beautiful creature, stable-kept, with arched neck, quivering nostrils, and restless ears and eyes."
Then she mounts up and we get descriptions of the trails and the scenery. "It's not easy to sit down and write after ten hours of hard riding," she writes to her sister, "especially in a cabin full of people, and wholesome fatigue may make my letter flat when it ought to be enthusiastic."
Doesn't sound so flat to me:
"Very fair it was, after the bare and burning plains, and the variety was endless. Cotton-wood trees were green and bright, aspens shivered in gold temulousness, wild grape vines trailed their lemon-colored foliage along the ground, and the Virginia creeper hung its crimson sprays here and there, lightening green and gold into glory.
"Sometimes from under the cool and bowery shade of the colored tangle we passed into the cool St. Vrain [Valley], and then were wedged between its margin and lofty cliffs and terraces of incredibly staring, fantastic rocks, lined, patched, and splashed with carmine, vermillion, greens of all tints, blue, yellow, orange, violet, deep crimson, coloring that no artist would dare to represent, and of which, in sober prose, I scarcely dare tell." ¶ 8:38 AM 1 comments
She doesn't just see a horse, she sees "a high-bred, beautiful creature, stable-kept, with arched neck, quivering nostrils, and restless ears and eyes."
Then she mounts up and we get descriptions of the trails and the scenery. "It's not easy to sit down and write after ten hours of hard riding," she writes to her sister, "especially in a cabin full of people, and wholesome fatigue may make my letter flat when it ought to be enthusiastic."
Doesn't sound so flat to me:
"Very fair it was, after the bare and burning plains, and the variety was endless. Cotton-wood trees were green and bright, aspens shivered in gold temulousness, wild grape vines trailed their lemon-colored foliage along the ground, and the Virginia creeper hung its crimson sprays here and there, lightening green and gold into glory.
"Sometimes from under the cool and bowery shade of the colored tangle we passed into the cool St. Vrain [Valley], and then were wedged between its margin and lofty cliffs and terraces of incredibly staring, fantastic rocks, lined, patched, and splashed with carmine, vermillion, greens of all tints, blue, yellow, orange, violet, deep crimson, coloring that no artist would dare to represent, and of which, in sober prose, I scarcely dare tell." ¶ 8:38 AM 1 comments
