History Repeated

In his chapter, The Origin of Papacy, Guignebert outlines the historical rise of the pope in the Catholic church, providing discussion of inside and outside influences that defined and legitimized the pope's power. It didn't happen overnight, but over a few hundred years and through several generations of bishops of Rome, the office of pope evolved. Here's the passage in that chapter, which struck me, if not like a thunderbolt, at least with a sizzle as I recognized the repeat of history.

The second of these favoring outside influences was the Crusades inspired by him, which clearly set him from the beginning of the eleventh century at the head of all the Christians fighting the infidel. The Crusades did not succeed, but their early ephemeral triumph, and the years they lasted, and then too the hope, always springing up again after each setback, of a forthcoming new crusade, enabled the Pope to keep up indefinitely his attitude of supreme head of all believers, and the active champion of the faith. ...the Crusades enabled Western peoples to rediscover the East.

This Shouldn't Be

Brandywine, an heirloom, should be plagued with diseases and pests, right? And my Celebrity and Beefsteaks should have a few resistances bred in, right? Bah.

Here's my star Brandywine. Link to how it looked as a baby. This is all one plant. It bears, at the moment, 25 tomatoes, and there are many more blooms ready to form fruit. In comparison, my Celebrity, at next best, currently bears 12 fruit, and two of those are damaged by insects, whereas every Brandywine fruit is large, perfectly formed and unblemished by either disease or insects. Go figure.

Brandywine is the first of my reds (I have a couple yellows) to begin ripening. It's not obvious in this picture, but one familiar with the hues of ripening tomatoes can already recognize this as a Brandywine and not an ordinary red.

Oops, at the cleome in the bed next to my Brandywine, a wasp adds excitement to my photography session with the tomatoes.Here's my pathetic Celebrity, which slumps during the brighter part of the day. Bah.

From the Roof

Admittedly, I do a lot of my garden planning while looking out the window. Consequently, the best views are from the windows of my house. One of the more spectacular views this time of year is from the bedroom window on the second story, looking toward the front lawn. Unfortunately, we have screens on our windows--we're not barbarians--so I couldn't take a picture of the crepe myrtles from there, and those I took from ground level didn't do justice to these tall bushes. To solve this problem, I went on the roof!

Here's a morning shot, taken from the roof, of the front yard, a little as it looks from one of my windows.

The Odyssey for Fun

Aagh, I've been reading so much literature about Christianity that it's starting to weigh me down--Guignebert is not for the faint of heart. Although the mystics are refreshing, it's no substitute for getting away from it altogether. For fun, I picked up The Odyssey (trans. Fagles), which I read through with a study group about twelve years ago. Take my advice--don't read it the first time like that--boring. I since had the good sense to read it on my own, as it should be read once, as a rollickin' adventure story! The whole epic is one exciting scene after another, plots and hunts and monsters, daring escapes! There's even a loyal dog.

Here's an example of what I mean in this scene shortly after Odysseus lands at the island home of Circe, a scene that might as easily have been written by Jack London or Jim Corbett as by Homer.

I was well on my way down, nearing our ship
when a god took pity on me, wandering all alone;
he sent me a big stag with high branching antlers,
right across my path--the sun's heat forced him down
from his forest range to drink at a river's banks--
just bounding out of the timber when I hit him
square in the backbone, halfway down the spine
and my bronze spear went punching clean through--
he dropped in the dust, groaning, gasping out his breath.
Treading on him, I wrenched my bronze spear from the wound,
left it there on the ground, and snapping off some twigs
and creepers, twisted a rope about a fathom long,
I braided it tight, hand over hand, then lashed
the four hocks of that magnificent beast.
Loaded round my neck I lugged him toward the ship,
trudging, propped on my spear--no way to sling him
over a shoulder, steadying him with one free arm--
the kill was so immense!

After the successful hunt, what do you think Odysseus' men do when they see the stag? Pfft. No, they don't sacrifice it to the gods.

My hardy urging brought them round at once.
Heads came up from cloaks and there by the barren sea
they gazed at the stag, their eyes wide--my noble trophy.
but once they'd looked their fill and warmed their hearts,
they washed their hands and prepared a splendid meal.
Now all day long till the sun went down we sat
and feasted on sides of meat and seasoned wine.
Then when the sun had set and night came on
we lay down and slept at the water's shelving edge.

Men after my own heart!

The Scoop on the Preposition

"This is the sort of bloody nonsense up with which I will not put."