there is another sky ever serene fair and another sunshine
Based on the sonnet, There is another sky, by Emily Dickinson
There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there; Never mind faded forests, Austin, Never mind silent fields – Here is a little forest, Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum: Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
If I am honest, I have to ask the question, did I like the sonnet or did I go looking for something that I could use with a picture from my lunchtime walk to show off that I walk along the ocean at lunch time.
While the language is certainly infelicitous (surely Congress could have found better wording than declaring it illegal to “question” the validity of the national debt), the historical context makes its purpose clear.
I have to admire any optimist.
And anyone who feels that surely, Congress could have found better wording.
Congress?
Our Congress?
The Congress of the United States?
Surely, The Congress of the United States could have found better wording rather than using wording that was unfortunate or inappropriate?
That, dear reader, it what I call optimism.
Not wanting to be infelicitous but I am reminded of Sir Humphrey Appleby when he said, ” … the traditional allocation of executive responsibilities has always been so determined as to liberate the ministerial incumbent from the administrative minutiae by devolving the managerial functions to those whose experience and qualifications have better formed them for the performance of such humble offices, thereby releasing their political overlords for the more onerous duties and profound deliberations which are the inevitable concomitant of their exalted position.”
prodigious number people hanged by no means bad time for criminals
Inspired by:
In spite of the prodigious number of people who managed to get hanged, the fifteenth century was by no means a bad time for criminals.
A great confusion of parties and great dust of fighting favoured the escape of private housebreakers and quiet fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat.
Prisons were leaky; and as we shall see, a man with a few crowns in his pocket and perhaps some acquaintance among the officials, could easily slip out and become once more a free marauder.
As it appears in the 1926 title, The Book of The Rogue by Joseph Lewis French.
According to the Wikipedia, Joseph Lewis French. (1858–1936) was a novelist, editor, poet and newspaper man. The New York Times noted in 1925 that he may be “the most industrious anthologist of his time.”[2] He is known for his popular themed collections, and published more than twenty-five books between 1918 and his death in 1936. He initiated two magazines, The New West (c. 1887) and The Wave (c. 1890). Afterward he worked for newspapers “across the country” contributing poetry and articles. He struggled financially, and during 1927 the New York Graphic, a daily tabloid, published an autobiographical article they convinced him to write, entitled “I’m Starving – Yet I’m in Who’s Who as the Author of 27 Famous Books.”
The New York Times reports in his obit that Mr. French “insisted that the actual rewards of authorship were few.”
In his book of collected stories on pirates, Great Pirate Stories, Mr. French wrote:
It was a bold hardy world—this of ours—up to the advent of our giant-servant, Steam,—every foot of which was won by fierce conquest of one sort or another.
Out of this past the pirate emerges as a romantic, even at times heroic, figure.
This final niche, despite his crimes, cannot altogether be denied him.
A hero he is and will remain so long as tales of the sea are told.
So, have at him, in these pages!
A hero he is and will remain so long as tales of the sea are told
see taste touch smell hear Saturday morning traveling magic world wide web
I traveled to the town of Market Harborough, near Great Oxendon, this morning and fell for a place named The George.
The George bills itself as A former 16th century inn set in the beautiful surroundings of South Leicestershire.
The George features a traditional village bar and a large patio area to while away your days in the rolling Northamptonshire countryside.
It is, they say, “A place to eat, drink and sleep.“
The George offers an Auberge Supper, which I think means supper in the style of an inn or small hotel in France where three days a week, lunchtime and evening, we will surprise you with a different tempting 3 course meal. The Auberge Supper is always full of flavours and at a fantastic price.
The George offers afternoon tea where you can “Treat yourself and your friends to afternoon tea at The George. Homemade sandwiches, scones and cakes are served on the patio or in the dining room overlooking the garden. Indulge in a selection of teas or a glass of champagne.“
The bar at the George lets you, “Enjoy a handcrafted real ale or a chilled white wine in our cosy bar. An extensive drinks menu hand-picked from around the world, there is no excuse not to stop in and relax.”
The Sunday Lunch at the George is “Served midday till 3pm every Sunday, you will always find the finest Roast Sirloin of Beef.”
I clicked on an online link for the place and managed to spend a half hour on their website.
I looked at the all the pictures.
I read all the menus.
I could see it.
The photos showed a clean, well lighted place (to steal from Mr. Hemingway).
I could taste it.
Scones, cakes, a glass of champagne, finest roast sirloin of beef.
I could feel it.
I could sense the polished wood and the weight of the crockery.
I could smell it.
The smell of an old bar, of whisky’s and beers and the smell of the kitchen and again the roast meats.
I could hear it.
The clack of crockery and china. Chairs sliding on a wood floor.
It all looked so … civilized.
Far from the maddening crowd.
It is where a warm welcome will always await you.
There was a jingle when I was kid that went, “Let you fingers do the walking in the Yellow Pages.”
I let my mind do my traveling on the world wide web.
I had never heard of Market Harborough or Great Oxendon.
Not quite sure I know where they are.
I feel like I have been there, at the least to The George.
As you knew, today’s haiku is based on an a newspaper article about the restaurant industry.
In the guest opinion essay, “Foodie Fever Dreams Can’t Keep Restaurants Afloat” by Vivian Howard, a chef and restaurateur, is the author of two cookbooks and the host of the PBS series “A Chef’s Life” and “Somewhere South.”
Ms. Howard writes:
Even so, Chef & the Farmer closed, in large part because the inefficiencies, stress and fatigue brought by an unsustainable business model became impossible to ignore. Our industry needs to evolve or else more full-service, cuisine-driven restaurants like mine will languish their way to extinction.
About being in the restaurant business, she write: “…perhaps why you so rarely hear a parent say: “You should get into the restaurant business. It looks like a nice life.“
As Anthony Bourdain once said, “I mean, I admire anyone who wants to cook and knowingly enters the field.
It’s a hard thing.
But, you know, look before you leap.
Because I’ve seen that so many times, kids coming out of cooking school and working in my kitchens, and literally two weeks in, you see it.
You look behind the line, and you can just see the dream die.
This terrible information sinking in, like, “Oh my God, this is nothing like they told me it was going to be.”
And I am thinking of going out to dinner tonight.
At least, as of right now.
I think I need a job that pays you to be on the beach.
Maybe the one I have that lets me on the beach at lunchtime is good enough.
But consider the beach.
Twice a day the tide comes in and wipes it clean.
Completely and efficiently.
No fatugue.
No stress.
Though I am sure that if I had the job to clean sweep the beach twice a day, I would make a mess of it and I would languish on my way to extinction.
