Sat. morning in CPL

Saturday morning I was in the library, trying to wring information on John Yates Beall, Cascade’s Civil War “spy” (commando is far better) out of a couple volumes of Carl Sandburg’s biography Abraham Lincoln.

The library was full, as usual, of pre-teen Hispanic boys jockeying to play computer games. A tiff ensued and the exasperated librarian had to referee. One of the losers, loudly bouncing a soccer ball, as if he didn’t realize what gives in a library, assembled other losers and disappeared. The boy, who had been playing with a mobile device while two others looked over his shoulder, was one of the “winners.”

Kudos to Librarian Melissa Kane and her staff who must cater to this amazing range: a researcher looking for esoteric texts on Civil War privateers, a legion of fiction readers, a raft of young parents with toddlers in tow, a coffee klatch, and on-going spat mediation.

While national leaders squabble over unaccompanied minors and immigration, we local taxpayers provide services, without much say in the matter.  While I am never rude, as being poor in this country no picnic whatever your ethnicity, I feel like a patsy.

Make no mistake minimum wage has remained at $7.25 because of this endless parade of indigents, likewise depressing the local “prevailing wage.” This is the magic formula that has dismantled the American Middle class and gorgeously enriched the 1%.

What I don’t see among the Hispanic boys in the library is equally problematic: girls. Feminists have fought a hard/long for equal treatment and this guarantees we will have to fight the same battles over again.

I quizzed the librarian about what these boys read—“Nothing!” “Abs-solutely nothing!!!”

So here is a policy solution that will aid everybody:  To earn computer time: kids must write a book report at or near grade level, typed and illustrated.

Pickled American Individuality?

Pickled Individuality?

Hardly surprising that the University of Iowa landing in a top spot on a party school list is causing consternation in has official circles. U. of I. isn’t our only drinking problem—the new head of the U. of Northern Iowa discontinued Veesha as a near occasion of bingeing, rowdiness, property destruction, even death. Universities nationwide on the hot seat because of the problem of rape that has grown out of drinking. Last week, a U. of I. official was listing the “tools” he had to deal with the problem: 1) organizing alternative activities, 2) manipulating the hours/policies of bars around campuses, 3) alcohol education.

            Whenever I see these silly machinations, I can’t help thinking of my Paris friends’ little boy, age 11 then. We were walking down the street in Montparnasse one time and I said to him, “Pierre, Let’s get a glass of wine.” He ordered hot chocolate, and when I asked him, he confided he had drunk a bottle of champagne at his sister’s wedding. “But I didn’t get drunk,” he emphasized forcefully. Now, his boy had already internalized the French alcohol ethic: drink as much as you can or want, but do not lose your dignity.

            Someone with a more critical eye than mine is going to have to explain how in this the ostensible land of the individual we have surrendered individual volition to officials rather than teaching young people to manage themselves and protect their own dignity.

           

Testing, Testing, Testing 1-2-3

Testing, Testing, Testing 1-2-3

Best thanks to my niece B, who has been helping me get pix from my camera onto this blog. Earlier in the summer I took a great pic of a Dutch windmill, which has been imported to Fulton, Illinois and actually functions. However, it has taken me most of the summer to intersect with B and figure out how to reliably post it here.  Not that I have that much use for pix, most of these posts are ideas, but an occasional cat is nice, so here's Mutt, the sickly runt of a wild litter, who is doing so much better than he can harass me by crawling up and into a frond basket.

Summer Pride

      The other morning a school called me to sub for the day. I bathed, changed and made myself a lunch of potato salad with with onions, potatoes and banana peppers, all of which I grew. While I did not make the mayonnaise or lay the egg in it, the cucumbers and red peppers in the hot dog relish in it were from last year's garden.

      Likewise, the carrots in second salad—a Turkish thing with sliced carrots in vinegar and oil dressing--a multicolor carrot variety that flourished  this year. And though I did not grow the olive oil, I did press and make the apple cider vinegar.

Though the carrots are a bit of too much of good thing, I got a critical eye on a carrot cake.

The Consolations of Fall

      Summer's almost gone, winter's coming on, and it feels like fall. A time of nostalgia for the people who are gone—Mom, Dad, Funky Uncle Francis, Outrageous Aunt Delores, and Patrician Uncle Walter. Or are so far away I too seldom see them—Frau Welters in Berlin, my friends in Paris.

     Fall arrived early this year with the death of someone I didn't know well and could by no stretch of the imagination be considered close to. Au contraire, there was a touch of immortality about him, a twinge invincibility that is also gone. I suspect, precisely the lesson of fall: remind us of our immortality. So we are left to find our minor consolations—a good onion crop and a funny runty kitten.

Local Gossip--Consider the Source or Lack Thereof

      One of the permanent features of small town living is gossip. In a big city if somebody tells you something, you don't know the person or their story anyway; no surprise your response is, “Yeah, so what?” Here, folks pump for details.

       Local gossip has it that Kalmes Club 528 is closing. I would be one of the first to know, if it were because that would be the end of my little part-time, weekend gig. A fallacious story may arise from the owners occasionally lamenting slow nights, but it is not true. However, people may make it true if they eat out every weekend at chains like Olive Garden & Texas Road House.

      Sometimes, tho' gossip comes out of a vacuum. Wednesday, in Dubuque I checked with both the County Attorney and Sheriff's Dept. on the fate of Toby Donovan. They were remarkably niggardly with info and would only say that he is a resident of the Iowa Medical and Classification Center in Oakdale, Iowa. I recall visiting my mother there in the late fifties, when she had tuberculosis. We have mostly eradicated TB, but it seems proliferated criminality!

      Toby's parole was revoked on 23 May, and he has been at IMCC since. The spokesperson explained the facility “assesses treatment needs and determines where the individual should be—Fort Madison, Fort Dodge, Newton or another facility.”

     When I expressed surprise at the length of time was taking, she was defensive and resistant to telling me anything more.

The lesson here is to cast a critical eye on gossip and consider the source or lack thereof.

Unseen Pollution

Who would have thought that the weather wasn't telling us the entire story about human impact on the environment? A researcher was describing the effects of light pollution the other day. Never gave that one a thought. Apparently, flooding areas with light seriously inhibits nocturnal animals.  We know the curse of every big city dweller is lights that blot out the stars.

In terms of light pollution the Coohey River Walk is of particular concern because it is located so close to the river. However, the city utility says the lights are on a timer turned off at midnight and back on at 5 a.m. The pool and park are less of a location problem, but there is no reason to have them on, as the pool closed over two weeks ago. The new bulbs for the baseball diamond mystify me. The light spill is so spectacular, it allows me to mow most of my lawn while they are on.

Eyes, critical and otherwise, need light, but we are not nocturnal, and shades and hoods that keep light from spilling where we don't need/want it is something else we must think about. As if there isn't enough already!