One of the items on Tiger Lilly’s Christmas list was a snowball maker from Hearthsong. She was delighted to find it under the tree, especially with snow on the ground. Of course, when you’ve got a snowball maker, it’s a shame not to, you know, make snowballs. Then, what are you going to do with all of those snowballs, especially ones that are so perfectly formed and aerodynamic? I don’t know if this bodes well for TL’s cousin, Micah, visiting from Oklahoma where they don’t get much snow … or for anyone, for that matter.

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We have a Christmas Cactus plant in our bedroom. It’s called that because it’s supposed to bloom on Christmas Day. Usually it’s just a green, leafy thing but it buds occasionally — not just on holidays — and has beautiful flowers. On Friday and Saturday of last week it had some new, closed buds. On Christmas morning, however, it was in full, glorious bloom! How does that happen?

Here’s a shot taken today, the day after Christmas. It’s still lovely but the blossoms are already starting to droop a bit. Kind of a sad sight, like the scraps of wrapping paper lying around that were so beautiful two days ago. Ah, well, like Christmas, they’ll all be back again!

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Hugger-mugger

(HUG ur MUG ur) n., vb., adj., adv.

Through all its uses as these various, hugger-mugger involves two basic concepts: secrecy and disorder: True, these are distinct concepts – except that acts committed clandestinely are apt to be done in haste, and consequently in disorder. In any case, as a noun, hugger-mugger means “secrecy, concealment” or “confusion, muddle”; as a transitive verb, “to conceal, hush up”; as an instransitive verb, “to act secretly,” sometimes “to seek secret counsel”; as an adjective, “secret” or “confused”; as an adverb, “secretly or in confusion.”



It was spelt hucker-mucker in the 16th century; there was a Middle English verb mokere (to conceal, hoard) and a Middle English verb moder (to muddle). Lots of possible derivations; something of a muddle in itself. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet (Act IV, Scene 5), King Claudius, concerned about “the people muddled” as to the killing of Polonius, tells Queen Gertrude:



“…and we have done but greenly [foolishly] in hugger-mugger to intern him…”



Here Shakespeare uses hugger-mugger to mean “in secrecy and haste,” in a manner that would arouse suspicion of dirty work at the crossroads. Hugger-muggery means “secret doings,” suggesting haste, concealment and confusion – a word almost onomatopoeic, especially if prounounced in a stage whisper.



This selection is taken from the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House.

I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it.

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Merry Christmas, happy holidays and best wishes for a happy new year from the Mall Diva, Reverend Mother, Tiger Lilly and the Night Writer!

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Wayne at Questions and Answers Blog has tagged me with this weird meme; that is, list five weird things that I do. This was difficult because anything I do that others might think is weird could still seem perfectly natural to me. With input from close acquaintances, here are some ideas:

1. I have a lousy sense of direction and constantly transpose east and west when giving directions or trying to plot my course to somewhere. (I’m also not afraid to stop and ask for directions).
2. Even though I’m fully grown (and then some), I still don’t like most vegetables and won’t eat them if I can in any way avoid doing so.
3. I come up with a different name for my fantasy football team each year. Some past monikers have been: The Rush Limbos, The Fighting Quayles, Weapons of Mass Distraction, The Vermicious Knids and this year’s team, Violence & Comic Mischief (after the rating on a xBox game I bought for Tiger Lilly).
4. I have always told my children the truth about Santa Claus. I have, however, told them that the stories in The Onion are true.
5. I have worn a kilt in public.

It is customary with these types of memes to tag others. I think it will be interesting to see how weird some of the new names I’ve notice on the Minnesota Organization of Bloggers blogroll are. Therefore I hereby tag:

Alan Anderson
My Opera Life
Because I Said So
Space Beagle
Surly’s Soap Box
Almost On The Range

Let the weirdness begin!

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From a story I saw today on Foxnews.com:

JACKSON, Mo. — Nathan Warmack wanted to honor his heritage by wearing a Scottish kilt to his high school dance. Then a principal told him to change into a pair of pants.

What began with a few yards of tartan has sparked an international debate about freedom, symbols and cultural dress. More than 1,600 people have signed an Internet petition seeking an apology for the high school senior.

Having had differences of opinion with the Missouri high school education system in my day I guess I’m not surprised that young Mr. Warmack has had to fight his own Bannockburn for independence. Some have suggested that if the laddie had been wearing a dashiki there never would have been an issue. Perhaps, but don’t underestimate the narrow-mindedness of those who feel their fiefdom is being threatened. I shouldn’t impugn the motives of the school principal without having all the details, but I will suggest that he might have had a better idea of what he was getting into if he’d read this book.

I’ve signed the on-line petition in support of young Warmack (now more than 8700 signatures), and further express my solidarity by running this photo of myself (anyone interested in a “Best Legs in the MOB” contest?).

Give ’em hell, lad, or in the words of William Shakespeare, “Lay on, Macduff, and damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

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I read where Human Events Online has a list of the ten countries that vote most often against the U.S. in the United Nations General Assembly. I thought I could work up a little indignation, along with a blog post, by reviewing the list and swearing that I’d never visit them. Then I read the list and realized that my boycott would be about as much of a sacrifice for me as giving up lima beans for Lent.

Nor do these countries have any decent wines or snack foods I could snub. Instead of indignation about all I can muster is a bored, “Whatever.” But I will go this far: you guys better shape up or I will give you a taunting you won’t soon forget.

Here are the top(?) ten with the percentage of the time they vote the opposite of the U.S. in the General Assembly. Go to the link above for more details and commentary from Human Events Online. (HT: National Center Blog).

1. North Korea (96.7%)
2. Laos (95%)
3. Iraq (94.4%)
4. Turkmenistan (94.2%)
5. Vietnam (94%)
6. Congo (93.5%)
7. Bhutan (92.9%)
8. Saudi Arabia (92.8%)
9. Zimbabwe (92.8%)
10. Cuba (92.6%)

I know some readers may have the opposite reaction and will now move these countries up on their list of places to go. By all means, go and have a good time! You might, however, find it safer to bring a Canadian passport, just in case.

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The StarTribune had a story over the weekend about Nativity of Our Lord Catholic Church in St. Paul auctioning front-row pews to its popular Christmas Eve mass (read it here).

An excerpt:

To fundraisers at Nativity of Our Lord Catholic Church in St. Paul, front-row seats at a Christmas Eve mass have become the spiritual equivalent of arena skyboxes.

For about $1,000 per pew, well-heeled parishioners have bought the divine luxury of a reserved seat at the Rev. Peter Christensen’s 4 p.m. standing-room-only service.

The practice isn’t unheard of in the United States, and the money goes to Nativity’s populist-minded elementary school. But some religious scholars wonder if the auctioning of tickets to a celebration of the First Noel is more in the spirit of taking than giving.

I won’t assume we’ve got the whole story from the Strib, and I’m all in favor of letting markets work, but I can see where a certain ickiness can work itself into the equation. If only the Bible had something to say about this! Oh wait, I think it does:

James 2:1-4 (NKJV) —

My brethren, do not hold the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with partiality. For if there should come into your assembly a man with gold rings, in fine apparel, and there should also come in a poor man in filthy clothes, and you pay attention to the one wearing the fine clothes and say to him, “You sit here in a good place,” and say to the poor man, “You stand there,” or, “Sit here at my footstool,” have you not shown partiality among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts?

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If you saw the photo I’m sure you remember it.

It was the photo taken by Michael Yon of a U.S. soldier cradling and comforting Farah, a little Iraqi girl fatally wounded in a car bomb attack. It appeared in many places around the blogosphere (including this blog) and as a Photo of the Week in Time magazine. It is a powerful, haunting image that has already been recognized by Time‘s readers as one of the 10 best photos of the year.

The magazine is now holding open, on-line voting to identify the Photo of the Year, and you can get more details at the link above or vote directly here (a balloting page appears after you click through the slide show of the top 10). Yon’s photo is the only one in the top ten not taken by a professional photographer, but when I voted earlier today he had a commanding lead in the balloting. Still, I urge you to go over and cast your vote if you haven’t already. The other photos in the competition are spectacular as well, as you might expect, so it’s definitely worth a trip.

I remember the first time I saw the photo on Michelle Malkin’s blog. Each year it gets harder and harder for things to stop me in my tracks (unfortunately) but this photo did. It was the way the soldier cradled the little girl in his arms, his head bent low to hers and his face completely obscured by her body. In other circumstances it could have looked like a father cuddling his daughter, wrapped in towels and her hair tousled after a bath. It could be, that is, but for the soldier’s helmet, the tension in his neck and shoulder, the dirty street, the smear of blood on the girl’s leg and foot. And it is the feet that get to me every time.

When I see the picture, or think of it, I am always reminded of the photo of little Bailey Almon, clutched to the chest of a firefighter outside the remains of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. My own daughters were not much beyond the age of Bailey then, and I easily recognized the remaining sock on her foot as the kind I had slipped on and off many a tiny foot, usually with a little tickle or squeeze on the toes. Inside my head I can still hear the squeals and feel the life in the tiny legs as they kicked and pumped in my hand. It is my memory of those sounds and that feel, combined with the sight of those little, dying feet that always stabs my heart in these two photos.

Update:

I’ve restored the links above.

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