A great part of our troubles are literally domestic or originate in the houses and from living indoors. I could write an essay to be entitled “Out of Doors,”—undertake a crusade against houses. What a different thing Christianity preached to the house-bred and to a party who lived out of doors! Also a sermon is needed on economy of fuel. What right has my neighbor to burn ten cords of wood, when I burn only one? Thus robbing our half-naked town of this precious covering. Is he so much colder than I? It is expensive to maintain him in our midst. If some earn the salt of their porridge, are we certain that they earn the fuel of their kitchen and parlor? One man makes a little of the driftwood of the river or of the dead and refuse (unmarketable!) of the forest suffice, and Nature rejoices in him. Another, Herod-like, requires ten cords of the best of young white oak or hickory, and he is commonly esteemed a virtuous man. He who burns the most wood on his hearth is least warmed by the sight of it growing. Leave the trim wood-lots to widows and orphan girls. Let men tread gently through nature. Let us religiously burn stumps and worship in groves, while Christian vandals lay waste the forest temples to build miles of meeting-houses and horse-sheds and feed their box stoves.
When the conduct of men is designed to be influenced, persuasion, kind unassuming persuasion, should ever be adopted. It is an old and true maxim that 'a drop of honey catches more flies than a gallon of gall.' So with men. If you would win a man to your cause, first convince him that you are his sincere friend. Therein is a drop of honey that catches his heart, which, say what he will, is the great highroad to his reason, and which, once gained, you will find but little trouble in convincing him of the justice of your cause, if indeed that cause is really a good one.
It was brought to light by a paternal grandfather who shall remain nameless in this space that the video of two weeks ago - that of Declan gettin' jiggy with it to the end credits of MADAGASCAR - was rather poorly lit.
I may be of the mind to accuse Grampa of being afflicted by poor sight, but his recrimination does lend an excuse to create another showcase for the young man who is turning into the Gene Kelly of the Fraser household. Or at least a damn site better than Vanilla Ice.
It's even funnier for me since I can see that he's emulating the dancing cartoon characters on the screen. The giraffe head-bop is my favourite.
Remember, volume is key to maximize the experience.
When I get to bitchin' about life's trivialities like I was doing yesterday, I just have to start thinking in Pirate Mode and realise that I'm currently surrounded by copious amounts of treasure, more than offsetting any minor (and temporary) inconveniences born of domestic routine.
Courtesy of a news article forwarded to me last week, I have been made aware of a delightful new form of poetry: Fibonacci poems. The syllables of each line follow the Fibonacci sequence of numbers where the next number is the sum of the previous two.
1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, ...
Here, then, is my previous post encapsulated in a more succinct (and geekier!) summary:
I love going in to work on Saturday mornings. In the same sort of way I'm looking forward to my vasectomy later this year. And yes, I don't doubt I'll be blogging about that when it happens, too. I don't get the opportunity to use the word 'scrotum' on the internet very often.
In the midst of your toddler's evening bath, your wife comes into the bathroom bearing your infant son in her arms and a fearful look on her face. Her first words to you are, "He's rigid, Simon. Does he look purple to you?" What do you do?