465 lines
21 KiB
Plaintext
465 lines
21 KiB
Plaintext
®RM65¯start cybersenior.4.3(#14)
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************
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* THE
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* CYBERSENIOR
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* REVIEW
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************
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===================================================
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VOLUME 4 NUMBER 3 (#14) OCTOBER 1997
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet
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Elders List, an active world-wide Internet Mailing
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List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and
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published by members of the Elders for interested
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seniors worldwide. Contributions from non-Elders
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are welcome. Please query one of the editors first.
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Contents copyrighted 1997 by the Internet Elders
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List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the
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authors. Brief quotes permitted with attribution.
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The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review:
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Elaine Dabbs esudweek@mail.usyd.edu.au
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Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk
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James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us
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======================================================
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CONTENTS, Volume 4, Number 3, October 1997 (#14)
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EDITORIAL by James Hursey
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SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES by Robert S. Davidow
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Roberts tells us of Succoth, the week-long festival of
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Thanksgiving in Israel
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A POLISH CHRISTMAS by Jan Mokrzycki
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Jan describes Christmas traditions in his country,
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including recipes for holiday goodies you may want to try.
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CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS by Langston Kerr
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Langston finds a Christmas catalog in his mailbox and sits
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down right there to start looking at it, until fire ants
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give him other ideas.
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BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK by Des Weeks
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Des tries horseback riding for the first time and finds that
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Belle has a mind of her own.
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TO MY GRANDSON a poem by Eloise Blanpied
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==============================================================
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EDITORIAL
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by James Hursey
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Greetings to seniors world-wide from the State of Ohio in the
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USA, where, as I write, lovely October is just now beginning to
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don her most colorful garb. Ah! October! What more can you say,
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the very word a poem. I can look out the window at a cloudless,
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deep-blue sky, trees just starting to turn, some, getting the
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jump, as it were, on their fellows, already yellow and orange and
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brown, while others, still green with envy, await their turn.
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Yet, linked as we are, worldwide in cyberspace, we must remember
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that our friends Down Under, where the season are reversed, are
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even now enjoying Spring's re-awakening. Are they six months
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ahead of us, or six months behind?
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But no matter where we are, all enjoy the Holiday season, and in
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this issue of The CyberSenior Review, we get a taste (quite
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literally, including a recipe) of Christmas traditions in
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different cultures, starting with Robert's description of the
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Jewish Succoth, or Feast of the Tabernacle, a Thanksgiving
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festival.
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Then we may read about a Polish Christmas, as described by Jan,
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followed by Langston's humorous reaction to the arrival of the
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first Christmas catalogs in downtown Holly Springs.
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While perhaps clinging a-horseback to a barely controlled horse
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bound to have her own way is not exactly a holiday story (could
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be, however, consider the toy "rocky horse" Langston sees in the
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catalogue), we stretch a point and include Des's hilarious
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description of his first attempt at riding.
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We close with Eloise's lovely sonnet to her grandson, since, to
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all of us seniors especially, grandchildren are always in season.
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Holiday greetings (however you may celebrate in your part of the
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world) from the editors of the CyberSenior Review.
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==============================================================
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SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES
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by Robert S. Davidow
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This month we are in the midst of one of the joyous festivals,
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Succoth. Though marred by the recent violence, we still always
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have Succoth. Many of you will know this season as the Feast of
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Tabernacles. It is primarily a festival of Thanksgiving for the
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abundance of the harvest.
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Many of our citizens construct simple booths called a Succah
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(plural: Succoth). The biblical instructions given in Leviticus
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23, 42-43, are followed very closely and it is considered an act
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of reverence and piety to eat and sleep in the Succah during the
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festival.
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In addition to the Succah there is another symbol, a cluster of
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plants -- the lulav, esrog, myrtle and willow -- which are held
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prominently as the worshipper chants prayers or praises of
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gratitude to the Giver of all that is good. The lulav, a tall
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palm branch, denotes men of power and influence; the aromatic
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esrog men of saintliness and learning; myrtle the average men and
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women of the community; and the willow represents the poor and
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lowly. All of these together represent the Brotherhood of Man,
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where each member is responsible for the welfare and good name of
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the whole.
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In the period between the end of Yom Kippur and the beginning of
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Succoth (ten days) every spare moment is spent in gathering the
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materials of construction and building the family or community
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Succah. Children are major actors in these activities. The Succoth are usually simple frames roofed by palm leaves in this
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part of the world, reeds or other abundant plants in other parts
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of the world. The side walls are frequently sheets taken from
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the home. Inside, the walls are decorated by pictures (very
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frequently they are the renderings of the children) depicting the
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season. Hanging from the ceiling are the symbols of the harvest:
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beards of wheat, pomegranates, fruits of all kinds, and colored
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strips of paper. Each meal is accompanied by joyful singing.
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The week of Succoth is also a period when the family wanders the
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country rejoicing in the beauty of the land. Every park and
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tourist area is normally full to capacity. Lila and I really
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enjoy wandering the streets, examining these wonderful examples
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of folk art and rejoicing with the occupants. It is truly a fun
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time.
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Isn't this more interesting then the machinations of politics and
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violence? It is certainly better for the psyche. In a short time
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the winter rains will arrive and the land will blossom with new
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life and the cycle begins once more.
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===============================================================
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A POLISH CHRISTMAS
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by Jan Mokrzycki
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In Poland the most celebrated day is Christmas Eve, the Wigilia
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or the vigil awaiting Christ's coming. The tree stands already
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decorated and shining with all the presents piled up underneath,
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surrounding the crib. The women (we are a male chauvinist nation)
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have sweated for days preparing the supper which traditionally
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should consist of 13 dishes (number of apostles) all of which are
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non-meat as it is a fast day. This requires a lot of ingenuity
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from the cooks. In the table centre are the oplateks, thin
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communion-type wafers which have already been blessed in church
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and which the family will share, exchanging Christmas wishes with
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one another.
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Traditionally the table is covered with a white table cloth for
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Jesu's innocence and has some hay underneath to remind us of the
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manger. There is always an extra place set at the table for the
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unexpected guest as on this day anyone is welcome.
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Following the breaking and sharing of oplatek, the supper starts
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usually with either beetroot soup, white barszcz (recipe
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follows), or mushroom soup; then fishes, cabbage based dishes,
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mushroom gellieg fish, gefulte fish, finishing with a compote of
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dried fruit and cakes.
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After supper we sing carols, give out presents and at midnight
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everyone goes to the midnight mass. I should mention that the
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supper starts as soon as the first star appears in the heavens.
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Polish Christmas otherwise is similar to the Anglo-Saxon
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Christmas, only a bit more family based.
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ZUR OR WHITE BARSZCZ
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Scald 2 cups of rye flour with boiling water to make a thin
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dough, stirring quickly. When cool add one and a quarter pints of
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lukewarm water and place a smallish piece of wholemeal or rye
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bread in it.
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Cover the dish with gauze and leave for several days. It may form
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a crust of mildew which needs removing carefully. This liquid is
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the ZUR essence and is added to stock to form the soup. It will
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last for several home made soups with a special tangy taste. When
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essence diminishes you can replenish it by adding another piece
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of bread and more lukewarm water. This soup can be made with a
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vegetable stock for fasting feasts and on other occasions meat
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stock can be used. Quite often it has boiled potatoes added to it
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and pieces of sliced polish sausage making it into a meal on its
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own. I love it but it is not to everyone's taste. However it is
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worth trying.
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Crust (elephant's ears) makes 24 pieces.
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100 gr plain flour
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25 gr butter
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2 egg yolks
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1 tbs water
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lard for deep frying and icing sugar for sprinkling
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Sift the flour into the bowl and rub in the butter. Mix in the
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egg yolks and water to make a smooth dough. On a lightly floured
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surface roll out the dough into an oblong measuring 18x6 inches
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and cut in half lengthways. Cut into strips an inch wide by 4
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inches long. In each strip put a slit in the middle pushing one
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end of strip through making into a bow. While making the bows
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keep other strips covered to prevent them drying out. Heat the
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oil to 170 degrees C. for deep frying. Fry the pastry bows in
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batches until crisp and golden. Drain them on double thick
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absorbent kitchen paper, dust with icing sugar while hot. Cool on
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a wire rack then carefully place on serving dish, piling them up
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and up.
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Smacznego (ie. bon apetite).
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==============================================================
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CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS
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by Langston Kerr
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The Christmas catalogs are out again. Me and Marie got one from
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JC Penney in the mail a couple of days ago. We get all of them
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catalogs in the mail. Not as many as they used to be. Some of 'em
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quit sendin' out catalogs. Sears did. And Wards. Montgomery Wards
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used to send out a big ole catalog, but I ain't seen one of 'em
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in a long time. I reckon they quit. I hear tell you can't even
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buy things through the mail from a lot of them places like you
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used to. Times change, I reckon.
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I'll tell you somethin' else that's changed. Used to be you
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didn't start hearin' nothin' about Christmas till the first of
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November. And that was early. Back when I was a young'un, you
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didn't hear much about it till after Thanksgivin'. Now, they's a
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race on to see what starts first, school or the Christmas season.
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So far, school's got it beat but Christmas is comin' up fast. It
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ain't but a heartbeat behind. And if school didn't start earlier
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than it used to, Christmas would've beat it out. Is they
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somethin' wrong with that, or is it just me?
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Don't get me wrong here. I'm proud of my Christmas catalog. Me
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and Marie here just about fight over it. I love gettin' 'em in
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the mail. It made me feel like a kid when I went down there and
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pulled that thing outta the mail box. I set down right there on
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the ground beside the mailbox and looked at it. I didn't even
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take it to the house. I knowed if I took it back there, Marie
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would be rushin' me to get finished with it so she could look at
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it. I bet I set down there a hour or more, just lookin' through
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the thing.
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I like to look at the pitchers. It's got a big ole pitcher of
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Santy Claus on the front of it, settin' there at a table all
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surrounded by toys he's been makin'. He's got this little paint
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brush in his hand and he's paintin' on a little rocky horse. I
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wonder who's gonna get it? I think maybe a little girl
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somewheres. Little girls like little horses like that. It's too
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little to sit on and rock. You're just supposed to look at it I
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reckon. You give a little toy rocky horse like that to a boy and
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he's gonna sit on it and break it first thing. A little girl will
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put her dolls on it and play with it and keep it ferever if her
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brother don't get aholt of it and tear it up. That's the
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difference in boys and girls. One difference.
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They's a reindeer and a little raccoon and a little bunny rabbit
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a lookin' through the winder behind Santy Claus, a watchin' him
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paintin' on that little toy horse. It's dark out there where
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they're at and you can see a star in the sky behind 'em. And
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they's snow piled up on the winder panes. It's dark and cold and
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snowy. I set there on the ground by the mail box and I got all
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these Christmas thoughts runnin' through my head. I wonder if
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them little animals in that pitcher ain't gettin' cold a standin'
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out there a lookin' through that winder at ole Santy. Specially
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that little rabbit. I can almost see him a shivering out there in
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that snow. I ain't never seen snow on the ground at Christmas. I
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wonder if it snows anywhere on Christmas. You see all of these
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pitchers where it's snowin' on Christmas, but it ain't never
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snowed here on Christmas. Maybe it don't snow nowheres 'cept at
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the North Pole. On that pore little bunny rabbit.
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I look at that pitcher and I wonder where ole Santy Claus gets
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all the stuff to make them toys out of. Like that can of paint
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he's usin'. They's a can of yaller paint a settin' right there on
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the table. Where did he get it? Do they have paint stores up
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there to the North Pole? Maybe he orders it outta the JC Penney
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catalog. I start leafin' through the book to see if they got any
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paint in there. I don't see none. I go to the index and they
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ain't no paint listed. But I might be lookin' at it wrong. I
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ain't fer certain how to spell paint. They's some "pant sets,
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boys" on page 204, but that's britches. Ain't no paint in the
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Christmas book. But they got other catalogs. Maybe he orders it
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outta the big spring-and-summer book. Maybe he calls 'em up on
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the telephone and they ship it up there to him in March. I'm
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settin' there imaginin' the mail man pullin' up to his house at
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the North Pole with all of this paint and stuff he's got ordered
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outta the catalog. I'm really gettin' into this.
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And about that time a fire ant bites me on my finger. And
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another. And another. They's ants all over me! I'm gettin' eat up
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here! My mind's centered up on the North Pole but I've leaned
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over and put my hand on the ground and it's dead center on a fire
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ant nest!
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Boy! You talk about somethin' bringin' you back down to earth!
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They ain't nothin' like about a kazillion fire ants a chewin' on
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your hand! That'll do the job. One minnit I'm at the North pole a
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feelin' sorry fer some pore ole overworked mail man, all loaded
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down with about ten tons of paint and buildin' materials he's
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tryin' to stuff in this little ole mail box, and the next minnit
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I'm a fightin' the dark hordes a tryin' to have my hand and arm
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fer dinner! My mind flashes back to that little rabbit up there
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in the snow. He better be glad he's up there where they ain't no
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fire ants!
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Where does he get off, a feelin' sorry fer hisself fer bein' out
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there in the snow! If he thinks he's got it so bad, let him come
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down here and hop around on one of these dad burn fire ant beds
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and see what happens to him! He'd swell up like a big ole furry
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balloon. I'm mad at that rabbit. I'm mad at them fire ants. I'm
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mad at Santy Claus. I'm mad at JC Penney fer sendin' me that wish
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book. I'm mad at the mail man fer bringin' it. I'm mad at Marie
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fer bein' up there to the house while I'm down here fightin' off
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these fire ants. I'm jist mad! I take that Christmas book and I
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wield it like the weapon it is!
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But I got over it. I had me a little mad spell and I got it outta
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my system. I decided it was too early fer me to be lookin' at a
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Christmas catalog like that. So, I took it up there and give it
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to Marie. She was proud to get it. She's already got a bunch of
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stuff picked out to order!
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Aint life somethin? 'Specially here in Down Town Holly Springs.
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Merry Christmas, y'all.
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==============================================================
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BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK
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by Des Weeks
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Sometimes the urge, which I should resist, comes over me to try
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something new, something that I have never tried before. Last
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year it was gliding. This year I thought about trying horseback
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riding. So when I heard that my friends were courageously
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planning an exhilarating gallop over Dartmoor, I decided this was
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my chance to "have a go." I duly signed up with some twenty
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other brave souls.
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Eventually the day dawned and I set out for a stable on the edge
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of the moor. Here a miscellaneous herd of horses in all shapes,
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sizes and colours waited. Now I don't know if you have ever seen
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a horse close to -- they are ginormous! I mean, the littlest one
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(which I didn't get), stood about as high as Smeaton's Tower, and
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was nearly as wide too.
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Naturally, Belle, the horse I was presented with was twice as
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high, twice as wide and judging by her glaring eyes, twice as
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mean. I had noticed that in cowboy films, when six footers like
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John Wayne stood beside their steeds, they were the same height.
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Not Belle and me; I could just manage to look her in the nostrils
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while standing on tiptoe!
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However, the time came to mount. That was a laugh too. The
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stablehands didn't provide any ladders, so with a great deal of
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pushing and pulling plus some skittering and snorting from Belle
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-- I didn't think she was very amused -- I finally arranged
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myself in the seat -- sorry, saddle. Here I quickly made another
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discovery: saddles are not in the slightest way comfortable or
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soft -- quite the opposite. Still, with a quick check of the
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controls -- whoops, none to be found -- no brakes, no steering.
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no clutch or accelerator -- just horse, so I grabbed on to the
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reins which the stable boy indicated to me, and hung on for dear
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life!
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Then came the great moment, a mass exodus setting off in the
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general direction of Dartmoor. Now, a horse standing still is one
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thing -- but one on the move, that's a completly different kettle
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of fish! Talk about rock and roll. No, on second thought, don't
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-- I'd rather not be reminded of it.
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Being in a convoy of about 20 horses and "hangers-on" is quite a
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novel experience. The horses were used to this daily trek and
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knew just where they were going. They also knew that the sooner
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they got there, the sooner they would be back to their comfy
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stable and oats. So there was quite a lot of shoving and pushing
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-- all very well but not when my legs were dangling in the way.
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One of the guides politely informed me as to the use of stirrups.
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Belle just glared and kept on pushing her way through to the
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front of the column. However, things finally got sorted out and
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shortly the open moorland was reached.
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So far, so good. Progress was steady and the horses plodded along
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sedately. It was almost becoming enjoyable. Then suddenly, all
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the horses took it into their tiny little brains to charge across
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the land at a tremendous rate of knots (or so it seemed to me --
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you try hanging on to a bouncing bundle of hay with a steel rod
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down its back and you'll appreciate what I mean). I was told
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afterwards that this had been only a gentle trot. The silly
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horses tried this "gentle trot" several times along the way. No
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amount of cajoling, pleading or direct threats about a glue
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factory made any difference to Belle -- she was doing her thing.
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I was only along for the ride! I tried the steering once but all
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I achieved was a steely glare from a wicked looking eye -- so I
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quit!
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Finally, at last, after what seemed an eternity, the leaders
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headed back home. All was going well. There I was gently plodding
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along the well worn trail when Belle suddenly decided that she
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wanted a drink! Being Belle, she could not just drink from the
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nearest stream. Oh no, she had other ideas. Pushing her way
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through the other horses, forgetting about my legs, she plowed
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her way upstream until she was stuck in a little gully with steep
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banks on both sides and her progress any further was stopped. So
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there we stood, Belle drinking gallons of water and me losing
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gallons in perspiration, wondering what was coming next.
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Eventually an expert appeared on the scene. "Boy. She's gone a
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long way up." He observed. "Yes, she has rather." I meekly
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agreed. "Er, how do I get her out?" "No problem," said the
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expert. "Put her in reverse." Put her in reverse? Was he kidding
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me? But no, a sharp tug on the steering and Belle came slowly
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backwards -- for a litle way -- then she lunged sort of sideways
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and twisted and scrambled up over the bank. "Oh, well ridden,"
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said the expert. Well ridden? If only he knew! Soon after the
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stables were reached.
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After I had dismounted with some stiffness and said my sad(!)
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farewells to Belle, I struggled gamely back to my car. Now here
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was a steed I could really depend on to go where I wanted without
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any hassle, and the seat -- Oh bliss! Quickly I started the car
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and headed back to civilisation. The great adventure was over. I
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could now cross horse riding off my list. So, what next? How
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about hang gliding or parachuting -- neither could be as bad as
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horse riding.
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===============================================================
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TO MY GRANDSON
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by Eloise Blanpied
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I see in each unguarded laughing glance
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a sparkling of your younger self, when joy
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and trust spilled from your heart and you would dance,
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small hand in mine, a whirling, soaring boy.
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So brief, bright world! Too soon life's darker side
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bore through the joy with death and cruelty.
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Brave child who met that dark and would not hide,
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my arms recall your sob-wracked agony.
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I see in each unguarded laughing glance
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a seasoned strength, hard-tempered by hot tears;
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the wisdom yet to leap at life and chance
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at joy; compassion for another's fears.
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Though not a boy today, still not a man,
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your laughing glance tells how your soul began.
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===============================================================
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end cybersenior.4.3(#14)
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