I watched the president's speech Thursday night, and while I felt he did a good job, with the nation divided between those who see the existential peril to democracy all too clearly, and those clamoring for disaster to come quickly, I'm not sure what good his words will do. I was glad not to have to comment on it, and gladder that our North Shore Bureau Chief Caren Jeskey took up the challenge.
By Caren Jeskey
"The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function."
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
Nothing makes sense sometimes. President Biden is being criticized for speaking to Americans as though we are divided into two camps. What am I missing? We are — solidly ensconced into rigid fortresses at this point, as we should be. I am happy to be dug in on the right side of things.
My tribe understands what the phrase “separation of church and state” means. We know that all instructional tomes, whether political, religious, or other, need to be revisited regularly, and amended to fit the current times. The Old Testament of the religion I was born into, Christianity, is hilarious. This text is also in the Orthodox Jewish Bible:
My tribe understands what the phrase “separation of church and state” means. We know that all instructional tomes, whether political, religious, or other, need to be revisited regularly, and amended to fit the current times. The Old Testament of the religion I was born into, Christianity, is hilarious. This text is also in the Orthodox Jewish Bible:
“The priest could not marry a prostitute, a defiled woman, a divorced woman, or even a widow. In order for the priestly line to be pure, he could only marry a virgin of his own people.”
—Leviticus
Also Leviticus:
“For whatsoever man he be that hath a blemish, he shall not approach [the altar]: a blind man, or a lame, or he that hath a flat nose, or any thing superfluous, or a man that is brokenfooted, or brokenhanded, or crookback, or a dwarf, or that hath a blemish in his eye, or be scurvy, or scabbed, or hath his stones broken. He shall not go in unto the vail, nor come nigh unto the altar, because he hath a blemish; that he profane not my sanctuaries.”
Stones are testicles.
No wonder generations of people being spoon-fed this stuff have lost their ability to see the intrinsic dignity of all human life and the absurdity of a false sense of supremacy.
An astute client commented that “progress is a pendulum.” As we watch years of growth being ripped away, she helped me remember that solace can be found in the idea that things will right themselves again. Especially with diligent efforts.
Okay, some things make sense. It was my sister’s birthday this week. We sat on the patio of The Fireside Restaurant on Ravenswood, pausing for Metra trains loudly whooshing by. My Grandma Olive and Grandpa Carl were across the street at Rosehill.
I've been thinking a lot about Olive lately. My mother’s mother. My sister and I have a bit of her in us. She got on a train from a boarding house in Wilmington, Delaware and headed to Chicago in 1927 at the age of 14. She was born on November 25, 1913, and lost both of her parents before she was one year old.
Lore has it that Olive’s folks were butchers. Since she left at such a young age with no mementos we lost the story of our ancestors, but they were Irish or Welsh. I perused the Wilmington Gazette and noticed a story from October or 1907 when Olive was not even a glimmer in her parents’ eyes. “Butchers Off to Chester: Members of the ‘Wilmington Butchers’ Association left this city at 1:30 o’clock over the Pennsylvania Railroad, for Chester, where they will be entertained by the butchers of Chester.” I pictured my great grandparents being entertained by men and women wrangling sows in white aprons on that journey.
Joe Biden is often described as a scrappy Irish Catholic (and as you know, raised his family in Olive’s home city). I think his family and mine might have a thing or two in common.
To entertain myself further, I read a bit of the Evening Journal on the day of Olive’s birth. Strange random poems and musings pop up throughout the news of the day, such as oil lamp fires, bike thefts and murders. “The Thirteen Hoodoo: There are thirteen letters in the name Woodrow Wilson. Woodrow Wilson was the thirteenth president of Princeton. President Wilson was nominated on the thirteenth of the month. Adding 1, 9, 1, 2, the year in which he was nominated makes 13.”
No wonder generations of people being spoon-fed this stuff have lost their ability to see the intrinsic dignity of all human life and the absurdity of a false sense of supremacy.
An astute client commented that “progress is a pendulum.” As we watch years of growth being ripped away, she helped me remember that solace can be found in the idea that things will right themselves again. Especially with diligent efforts.
Okay, some things make sense. It was my sister’s birthday this week. We sat on the patio of The Fireside Restaurant on Ravenswood, pausing for Metra trains loudly whooshing by. My Grandma Olive and Grandpa Carl were across the street at Rosehill.
I've been thinking a lot about Olive lately. My mother’s mother. My sister and I have a bit of her in us. She got on a train from a boarding house in Wilmington, Delaware and headed to Chicago in 1927 at the age of 14. She was born on November 25, 1913, and lost both of her parents before she was one year old.
Lore has it that Olive’s folks were butchers. Since she left at such a young age with no mementos we lost the story of our ancestors, but they were Irish or Welsh. I perused the Wilmington Gazette and noticed a story from October or 1907 when Olive was not even a glimmer in her parents’ eyes. “Butchers Off to Chester: Members of the ‘Wilmington Butchers’ Association left this city at 1:30 o’clock over the Pennsylvania Railroad, for Chester, where they will be entertained by the butchers of Chester.” I pictured my great grandparents being entertained by men and women wrangling sows in white aprons on that journey.
Joe Biden is often described as a scrappy Irish Catholic (and as you know, raised his family in Olive’s home city). I think his family and mine might have a thing or two in common.
To entertain myself further, I read a bit of the Evening Journal on the day of Olive’s birth. Strange random poems and musings pop up throughout the news of the day, such as oil lamp fires, bike thefts and murders. “The Thirteen Hoodoo: There are thirteen letters in the name Woodrow Wilson. Woodrow Wilson was the thirteenth president of Princeton. President Wilson was nominated on the thirteenth of the month. Adding 1, 9, 1, 2, the year in which he was nominated makes 13.”
They go on with other ways he can be associated with the number 13.
I’m going to do my best to get my personal pendulum to swing into a simple time where little ditties like Thirteen Hoodoo can drown out the overwhelming amount of conflict and confusion we face in the world today.
I’m going to do my best to get my personal pendulum to swing into a simple time where little ditties like Thirteen Hoodoo can drown out the overwhelming amount of conflict and confusion we face in the world today.
You must mean the Fireside, the 4 o'clock joint at Ravenswood and Rosehill Dr. Drove and biked past it many times, as Ravenswood makes for a great shortcut. And yet, despite all my time in Chicago, I don't remember ever going inside for a drink or a meal Betcha the food is good, too. I think they were known for their seafood and steak dinners, back in the day. The Fireside has been around for almost 120 years, so they must be doing something right. Yes, you read that correctly. They first opened in 1904.
ReplyDeleteOh thanks so much. I'll ask Neil to fix. I had salmon that came with a small serving of hot, classily thin french fries, and some green beans. It was delicious.
DeleteMy cousins, who grew up in the neighborhood, said that back in our day (late 80s, early 90s) The Fireside was where you wound up after you should have gone home, and you'd always regret it the next day, if not sooner
DeleteThat was a couple of owners ago, I believe, and it's a very nice restaurant now. Still open til four, for those who still do that.
It is nice Jim. The back patio is lovely, and I found the salmon, fries and green beans prepared just right.
Delete"Entertained by the Butchers of Chester" - poetry . . . and a perfect title for a memoir, painting, song, play - or any creative endeavor by an enlightened soul.
ReplyDeleteI was born 40 years to the day after your Olive. I feel the vibrations from over the horizon.
Thanks for reading and appreciating Dennis. :)
DeleteAre you sure, Caren, that 1907 was a simpler time? After all, there were a lot of believers in the number nonsense and a lot more fell for spiritualism's tricks as well. About that time, Douglas MacArthur was observing the Japan/Russia war on the Japanese side. And a few years later, people (Eugene Debs for one) went to jail for expressing an opinion contrary to the government's with regard to World War I, while Sgt. York was having his religious convictions overwhelmed by circumstances.
ReplyDeletejohn
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DeleteHi John. No, I'm not at all sure of that. There are ups and downs of every era.
DeleteYes, Dickens' "the best of times, the worst of times" seems always appropriate. Fitzgerald's aphorism fits forever as well, although I might wish to turn it around per Louise Brooks, who called herself a "well-read nitwit."
Deletejohn
I have yet to read her— didn’t even realize she became a film writer! Cool. https://www.wgbh.org/programs/2019/08/06/10-little-known-facts-about-silent-film-star-louise-brooks
DeleteUh-oh, "Neil Steinberg" also contains 13 letters. So does "my own pendulum," if I may paraphrase. Is this blog haunted, by any chance? ; )
ReplyDeleteIn my 72 years these are the worst times. Worse than the Cuban Missile Crisis. Worse than Viet Nam. Worse than our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Civil War never really ended. It went to sleep and it’s been awakened. Truth no longer matters to one of the sides.
ReplyDeleteLes, feels that way sometimes. Sending good wishes your way.
DeleteLol! Or should I say boooooooo???
ReplyDeleteWhenever I read anything from Leviticus I thank the Catholic Church for omitting that book from my indoctrination. Woodrow Wilson was the 28th President. The nuns did teach us history and how to count backwards.
ReplyDelete