Blue-eyed grass and blue mistflower. October 2025.
With all apologies to Huey Lewis & and The News, I need a new song. Its lyrics will borrow from the Rolling Stones: “You can’t always do what you want,….but if you try sometimes, you just might find—you do what you need.” Yeah. That. We were told once to pay attention to our Inner Child, and I’ve done that far, far too much in my life. That little pouty bastard gets everything he wants to my usual detriment. I’m going to start listening to my Inner Parent. Maybe I’ll graduate to Inner Adult. (transactional analysis—I can’t escape the cultural references.)
Anyway, it’s fall y’all. The dusky red of the dogwood illumines in direct sunlight and dances a colored jig with the wind-bestirred poplar leaves behind them.
I planned our cruise on the Rhine River to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary, and redeem the ruination of our 25th. I purposefully reserved a cruise which docked at Strasbourg on our anniversary, looking forward to all it promised. The Year 2020 had teamed up with my back to scuttle our (limited) plans for our 25th. As that day dawned, I experienced a spasm in my back which necessitated taking an emergency muscle relaxant I keep on hand for these occasional problems. A fine dinner which we had planned to cook for each other became a take-out pizza, and for my wife, some wine. I crawled into bed early. Therefore, 2025 promised to atone for all of that. The pandemic had subsided, we had our health, and, well, what could go wrong? The trip had far exceeded our expectations for four days.
The day promised much: Strasbourg with its cathedral and its amazing clock where I planned to walk inside of it and marvel. Then my wife croaked from bed, “I don’t feel well.” We traded our anniversary cards, and she dragged herself out to breakfast. I chose to forego the group tour of Strasbourg on the French side of the river. “I can catch the afternoon shuttle back into the city,” I told myself. “At least I can see the cathedral and that famous clock.” I tucked my wife into a deck chaise to soak up some sunshine and spent a few minutes observing the begging swans and a heron across the river…
Swan at Kehl’s riverfront park. August 2025.
Finally I decided to go wandering. I stopped first to admire the mooring strategy of our ship, the Hlin, wondering still why the woman at the guest services desk couldn’t explain to me why our ship’s bow pointed southward when we were cruising northward. Later I learned from our “hotel manager” that the captain turns the ship around when docking so that the bow points upstream whenever the river runs high and the current proves strong.
The good ship Hlin pointing south as I photographed it looking to the north. Note the pedestrian bridge supports in the background. They figure into my afternoon adventure. August 2025.
I watched river ships carrying freight along the Rhine. Gases, coal, cars, and livestock all sailed past me. As I walked south, the river to my right and the park to my left, I saw a strange tree not far ahead. It proved to be a manmade thing, demonstrating the Germans’ ingenuity while reinforcing stereotypes about their precision and exactitude. The ‘tree’ looked real enough, and the whimsy of opening a neighborhood for sociable birds seemed admirable, but I couldn’t help noticing how the houses spiraled around the trunk in a near-perfect corkscrew. Other pedestrians paid it no mind, apparently inured to its presence.
I reversed course and headed north. The children’s waterpark to my left had become a bit too boisterous for me.
Bird treehouse. Kehl, Germany, August 2025.
I soon encountered a small marker in the ground, its painted message cracked from the sun’s rays and the weather, modestly announced, “Biblischer Garten/Jardin bibliqu” the remainder of the French title cut off by the sign’s erosion. I intuited it announced a Bible Garden and intrigued, set off on the graveled path. I learned at the end of the path its plan had been for residents to approach the river from land not vice versa; I had walked it backward. It made little difference. Each stop along the path—there were 17—announced an important aspect of the Judeo-Christian Bible, and not entirely the ones I expected. Yes, The Resurrection received a marker, and so too Pentecost but The Field of the Dead? And some I didn’t understand until I could translate them. (I didn’t think to use my smartphone.) Here are a few:
Das Totenfeld / Les ossements desséchés or in English, The Fields of the Dead. Biblischer Garten, Kehl, Germany, August 2025.
I especially like how The Last Supper rose up out of the shadows in my photo and how wheat had been planted in support of the marker.
Das Letzte Abendmahl / La Sainte Cène i.e., The Last Supper rising out of a field of wheat. Biblischer Garten, Kehl, Germany, August 2025.Crossing the Red Sea, Biblischer Garten, Kehl, Germany. August 2025.
The marker for Paradise evoked humankind’s ignorance of what is to come: it consisted only of a shiny cylinder rising out of a simple terra cotta marker similar to the others. A separate, hexagonal marker had the names of six different churches on it of varying denominations. I realized they had paid for the installation and marveled how such a thing could be placed in what seemed to be a public park, given the “separation of church and state” we have in America.
I returned to the Hlin and my wife, took her to lunch on board, and then tucked her into bed because she felt even worse than before. For my part, I planned to catch the 2 p.m. shuttle to Strasbourg. One learns to be prompt on board, so I gathered in the ‘lobby’ of the ship at 1:55 to walk with the other guests to the bus which we had been told would take 15 minutes. Remember that pedestrian bridge in the background of the photo above? That was the first bridge. The bus would be parked at the next bridge downriver. When I arrived at the gathering point, I surmised something might be amiss when I found myself alone with the guest services representative. She informed me the bus left at 2 p.m., not the group of guests walking to it. “But you still might be able to make it,” said the chipper (and overly optimistic) young lady. Google Maps tells me the hike should take twelve minutes; I had five. The distance (900 meters) equates to more than a half mile. I tried, really I did, but I simply can’t walk six miles per hour, and at my age and physical shape running isn’t an option. I missed the bus. I watched it/them drive across the bridge when I still needed about two more minutes.
Dejected, I attempted to see the upside. Yes, I had just force-marched myself through 92+ degree weather (Fahrenheit), but my wife might appreciate some medicines, right? And the steward for our deck had mentioned a pharmacy very close to the ship. I walked toward the center of Kehl. Along the way, I encountered a very, very strange sign:
Yes, just STOP. I do not think Beethoven would approve. Kehl, Germany, August 2025.
I located the pharmacy. Kehl is charmingly small (38,000), similar to so many small cities in America. Its downtown proved easily negotiable, and my first encounter with a European pharmacy enlightening. The ability to get a physician’s assistant-grade consult from the clerk impressed me. I returned with aspirin and throat lozenges. As I walked back to the ship, not sure exactly where I needed to go, I realized I would need to drop off the meds, turn around, and immediately march my way back across the park again to catch the final bus shuttle at 3 p.m. My first exercise session in mid-90’s weather had caused my shirt to stick to my back and chest. I realized some things are not to be. My wife and I would need to return, together, to experience Strasbourg as we had intended. Meds delivered, I grabbed my tablet, retired to the lounge for my first beer, and fired up an eBook. Later, the setting sun seemed to say, “You did alright today, sir.”
The sun sets over Strasbourg, France. August 2025.
I wondered today, “Where is the tea I ordered from Harney and Sons on the 6th?” Checking the delivery status of my order, I saw it’s coming USPS package service on the 20th. Huh. I looked it up on Google maps. Using the “how long would it take if I were walking?” option, it turns out it’s nine days and one hour from Milford, CT, to our house in Raleigh, NC. If we add in eight instances of needing to sleep for eight hours (64 hours, which is two days and 16 hours), we get 11 days and 17 hours. Really? 😳 Twelve days from the 6th is the 18th! It’s coming MONDAY and I could have walked it here by SATURDAY? Really? 🤔🙄
UPDATED!!
This gets even better. After I posted this, I thought, “Maybe I should check the math. That might be based on an erroneous assumption about how quickly a person can walk.” After all, I’ve had AI make a few errors before. Imagine my surprise…it’s 590 miles, according to Google Maps, and that’s 217 hours of walking. It’s…[smashes buttons on his calculator]…OMG! It’s only 2.72 miles per hour!! Are you kidding me? I’m old, I have bunions on both feet, and my right ankle has collapsed to the point of fraying a ligament, and I can walk faster than that. I’m pretty sure I could keep up that pace for those 16 hours/day, too, with a modicum of prep.
The Rhine River north of Breisach, Germany. August 2025.
We returned from our afternoon in Colmar, dined, and watched the sun set as we sailed north toward one of the many locks on the Rhine. I stayed up to watch, but the night grew later…
Approaching lights on the Rhine River. Locks? August 2025.
I managed to catch the first lock before bed beckoned beyond my ignoring it. I always cringe when I lean over a railing holding a smartphone to take a photo. I’m sure I’m going to watch an expensive tool/toy go “plop!” into the waters (or rocks) below.
Entering our first lock of the evening on the Rhine River. August 2025.
Heading downstream, the ship entered full locks which then drained before the ship continued its journey through the night.
The lock drained, the gate rises, and we continue on our way. August 2025.
At that point the clock chimed 10 p.m. and I headed to bed. Some of the folks stayed on the top deck through midnight and beyond as more locks were negotiated. The novelty never wore thin—any night which promised locks, a gathering topside seemed in order. If this appeals to you, I recommend booking in the May-September timeframe when temperatures support being outside comfortably. Even with temperatures in the 90’s during the afternoon, nights got very cool: by morning all but the really hardy wore a sweater or light jacket.
This past week we journeyed to Santa Fe, NM, where my brother has lived for about four years. This represented our last chance to do so, because he plans to relocate to a different state next year. Although our first two visits in 1996 and to my brother’s house in 2022 left us unimpressed with the city and its surrounds, I found my attitude changing this time. I think taking a more relaxed approach to each day helped, plus I’ve slowly decompressed over the past five years of retirement. My past as a Road Warrior for several years took a big hit when we all sat around in 2020 during the Covid pandemic. It kicked into gear again in 2021 and hadn’t dissipated by 2022. For whatever reason, we found ourselves hitting a few museums, seeing familiar sights, finding some new ones, and spent late afternoons in conversation prior to dining out every night. (Dining out might have aided our feeling of “vacation”.)
A few representative photos:
October begins: outside the Santa Fe Brewery on October 1st. Less than 2 miles from my brother’s house as a crow flies, but 4.4 miles by car. We stopped for a couple six-packs after a fine dinner at Escondido Santa Fe. I miss sunsets like this from my first decades in the western US. One needs to see the horizon to get good sunrises/sunsets. October 2025.
By October 2nd the federal shutdown in America took full effect, and we found all facilities closed at Pecos National Historical Park. I was unaware an important Civil War battle had been fought here when the Confederacy attempted to control the gold being mined in southwestern states. October 2025.
Because the national park closed, we turned north to a state park on the Pecos River. It catered mostly to campers and anglers, but provided some beautiful spots to stop and admire swiftly flowing water beneath the first signs of autumn. Rivers aren’t common in the semi-arid southwest. October 2025.
We visited the Georgia O’Keeffe museum Wednesday, a must stop because we had missed it in 2022 when our only day to do so turned out to be the day it closed. Out of deference for the artist I won’t reproduce her work here, although photos were allowed. Similarly I won’t reproduce the artwork I photographed at the Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian on Friday, October 3rd.
We ate New Mexican style food at Escondido, La Choza, and a super-high-end place called Sazón in downtown Santa Fe. On the 2nd we ate Indian at Paper Dosa, a restaurant we had seen on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives (Food Network). Mostly I will remember north central New Mexico like this:
On a walk from my brother’s house. This actually is in the middle of housing developments in the southwest part of Santa Fe. Housing in central Santa Fe is very expensive. I don’t remember the name of this yellow plants, but it’s everywhere. October 2025.
Several days ago I began a loving reminiscence for this little half-shelf of books:
Yep, repetitive, I know. September 2025.
Other than specific works of literature and the anthologies which collected them, I’ve pretty much trashed my college textbooks. One slim little volume, sporting a stiff paper cover, has followed me around since 1982 and will be there when I die very likely: Sentence Analysis by Donald W. Emery.
So small. So dull…to all but me. September 2025.
June 1982 brought me the final set of courses I needed to complete my English Education degree. Who knew a graduate-level course on grammar would be the most agreeable of them? Few of my fellow classmates agreed with me. First, the class began at 7 a.m., if I recall correctly, and ran for two hours. This allowed the professor (who happened to be the chair of the English department) to teach the class in only four weeks instead of eight. After the first week we diagrammed sentences. That’s all. Each day we discussed a construct of English grammar, diagrammed five sentences that night, and began the next class discussing how they should have been diagrammed and if there might be any which were open to interpretation. Even in something as definitive as diagramming English refuses to be pinned down. In fact, the professor told us we used the sentences in the book because they had been vetted to be “diagrammable”! It would take me too long to explain why English sentences as spoken and written by its practitioners do not lend themselves to analysis. Take my word for it, at least for now.
Unfortunately, I stole a bit of my thunder on this topic a couple of years ago when I ranted about compound prepositions, foreshadowing this book even if I didn’t name it. This series, Bibliophilia, however, purports to be about a love of books, not of specific topics per se. We attempt to not delve too much into the memories evoked by the books, but rather to celebrate them and explain why such feelings rise up. In this case, it’s pride pure and simple, pride in knowing something esoteric, something only a small sliver of English speakers know. My course contained about 15 students, all but three of whom were teachers returning for some of those credits mandated by law for the recently hired or to achieve a Masters degree. Despite the fact all were English teachers/English majors, I ran rings around that class. I aced it. I aced the final. After acing it I and leaving long before the rest of the class, I waited in the lobby for them to come out. “What did you do on the last one?” they asked. I could have been smug, and said, “what I did when we diagrammed it for homework,” because all of these sentences had been discussed in class. Instead I just answered the question. The bulk of these people were older than me. My pride came with a good dose of awkward, too.
Because we’re sticking to love of books, and on this shelf, love of language, I’ll save further discussions of the diagrams for another piece of writing. One memory will illustrate my love for this slim little volume: I hope I will never forget this experience which illustrates the frustration of teaching and the uselessness of diagramming sentences. In the 8th grade English classes I taught, I decided for a year or two to use diagramming sentences for a unit. I think this had to do with a “street cred” issue I had with another English teacher and also because teaching sentence diagramming comes about as close as possible to teaching math. Many teachers of English shy away from the ‘squishy’ nature of their chosen field. One can only teach writing by having students write and giving them feedback about it. This puts them in a bind. Reading, grading, and (God forbid) giving feedback requires huge amounts of time, time which could be better spent drinking beer/wine and reading a book. Worse, it’s nearly impossible to teach literature without having students write about it. Double-whammy because now one has to grade the content as well as the expression of it. But…begin a unit on diagramming sentences, and one can kick back like the math teachers do, marking the incorrect lines, assigning points, and adding up the points for a grade on that day’s assignment.
I don’t remember this kid’s name, so we’ll call him Rick. A little kid who could be used to illustrate the late-bloomer end of the scale for 13-year-old males, Rick sat in the front row because I probably put him there. His philosophy toward English seemed to be one of ignoring it: he had a perfect record for turning in homework which barely had been started or not turning it in at all. He consistently maintained a Failing grade–until I started the diagramming unit. Suddenly English interested him. He turned in every assignment. He did okay; not the top student, but a good solid one. Deconstructing sentences grabbed him in a way that constructing them had not. And as soon as we moved on, Rick’s turned his interest off like a faucet. His writing contained few sentences and none were well-written. I saw that just because you could take a car apart and put engine parts in one corner, drive-train parts in a second corner, and boxes surrounding them for the ancillary parts which supported those systems, that didn’t mean you could put the car back together. I also realized some students were going to tune out. They just were.
That’s why this book lives on my shelf. I glance at it fondly, remembering how truly great I was in the class! Quickly thereafter come the memories of how useless this information is to all but linguists, how useless it remains to teach to 8th graders (or any other student not majoring at the college level in English linguistics), and how I likely failed to provide some students the incentives they needed to try to better their skills at writing. It’s nice knowing something well that few know how to do all. It’s nicer knowing what to do with this knowledge to help others succeed.
If my self-defined word bibliophilia means both a love of books and a certain madness about them, what then describes a certain madness about books written by others about that very madness? A madness for madness? Is that a thing? Where and when does it stop? Ever? (Death would be a safe bet.) Of those who love to read, there exists a subset who thrill, not to be reading, but in anticipation of reading. Cue Carly Simon. People in this subset feel a fevered, shaking promise when entering a funky bookstore in the middle of nowhere and the first ten titles they see scream “READ ME! NOW!!” And yet…
Within this subset of bibliphiliacs, a smaller, more exclusive sub-subset exists. These distinct suffers of bibliophilia feel an intimate rush when they espy that one volume probing directly into their literary, book-loving soul, purporting to deliver not just a few hundred finely written pages but promising those pages will satisfy not just their book-lusting souls but will simultaneously glorify the very building blocks which construct the objects of their obsessions. It’s a feedback loop not unlike the pleasure paddles given to rats which OD’ed on opiates. It’s as if one of their objects of desire shed all the clothing of characterization and plot or rhetorical structure and laid themselves bare for the reader’s ultimate satisfaction. No wonder we tingle all over and feel a slight loss of rationale thought when we see these titles.
My, my. Did it suddenly get warm in here? Let’s cover up and move on…
Language books that stood the tests of time and usefulness. July 2025.
Despite having degrees in both Communications and English, I possess a scant half-shelf of books about the language I use. Perhaps this relates to the Communications degree carrying a focus of journalism and the latter one a focus on literature. The English degree also had a few courses pared from it because of the additional classes I had to take to get the “.Ed” added to the end of it. Linguistics interested me until I encountered the arguments for Noam Chomsky’s innate grammar versus the classic thought that grammar remains culturally induced. I suppose this means something important to someone, but who really cares right now? All books I bought for linguistics possessed such rarified, dry prose to make them insufferable the moment I finished the class which required their purchase.
Other books departed for different reasons. Those which all claimed to be about “being a writer” fell victim to The Purge of 2020 when I removed about a third of the library to live in boxes designated for assignment to others…or to the trash. I determined at that time I will never be A Writer although I will write. A freeing decision. Joining those were books which celebrate the language of English and which I found only mildly amusing: volumes by William Safire, Willard Espy, and Richard Lederer all sit waiting to grace someone else’s shelves.
Nine “keepers” don’t appear on the shelf at all because they are points of data in Kindle form. Several lovely books appear in this group: Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel in L:etter [sic] by Mark Dunn, sadly prescient for our time, where a Council decrees the removal of letters one by one from all written and spoken communication; Alex & Me: How a Scientist and a Parrot Discovered a Hidden World of Animal Intelligence—and Formed a Deep Bond in the Process by Irene Pepperberg which I haven’t read yet but which looks great; Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue: The Untold History of English by John McWhorter, a slightly controversial book dealing with how certain aspects of English came into being; and The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary by Simon Winchester, a true story about a murderer incarcerated due to insanity who nevertheless overwhelms the compilers of the OED with 10,000 entries. I’m looking forward to two more: Empires of the Word: A Language History of the World by Nicholas Ostler; and Kant and the Platypus: Essays on Language and Cognition by Umberto Eco.
Missing from the shelf because I loaned it ten years ago to a friend who I believe is “still getting around to it”: Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes: Life and Language in the Amazonian Jungle by Daniel Everett. Though some revile him, the book fascinated me. Everett traveled to the Amazonian jungle to proselytize Christianity to the Pirahã mostly by learning their language and then translating the Bible into it. A trained linguist, he discovered the Pirahã have no counting system, no fixed words for color, no concept of war, and no personal property. I seem to recall they didn’t have all the temporal aspects of language (past, present, future and the permutations thereof). The title comes from their belief that evil spirits (and snakes) can only get you when you fall asleep, therefore they attempt to sleep as little as possible. They sleep communally and at all times several will be awake talking to each other.
I decided to take pity on you. Rather than a lengthy bibliologue through the shelf, left to right (because that’s how these things are done), I’m breaking things out for individual treatment. In my subjective view of the shelf, L to R, it breaks into books about books and reading them; books about English, including how to physically present it on the page; a few books I’ve retained which promise advice on writing; and one lovely volume which defies categorization but touches on the meaning of words, poetry, and translation, all while tackling the relationship of cognition to language and adding in the personal pain of losing a spouse to a killer disease.
Or am I delaying and stringing out this series to heighten my pleasure? (It’s getting warm again…)
This little thing actually is a very small house. I think our guide said 600 square feet, but that might be overstating it. August 2025.
Monday, August 11, brought our first real step into France. (“Real” because technically the airport we landed at on the 8th, the Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg Airport, is in France and we were in France a good 10 minutes after we left the airport, too!) Colmar has the historical distinction of holding no military value when the Allies came bombing in World War II. Therefore an important city from the 800’s and a major trading town in the Holy Roman Empire can still show a visitor many historical and undamaged buildings. Being in the Alsace region, Colmar shifted back and forth between France and Germany after the Roman empire broke up. It’s been in France since the end of WWII. I think if we had known it considers itself to be the capital of Alsatian wines, my wife might have taken a different interest in it.
But it was hot. Really, really hot, about 95 degrees F. Having poorly planned my traveling wardrobe (a recently developing habit), I roasted in a collared shirt over a T-shirt. Our guide Johannes had narrated our Black Forest tour in the morning, and he continued his adroit guiding and droll humor in the afternoon. A small but critical step with a guide I learned later: make sure everyone has crossed the street on the light. He performed admirably, and I’m sure he narrated a good tour, but between the heat and the fact it occurred over a month ago, I remember only one thing distinctly (other than the lack of WWII bombing): it’s the birthplace and home of Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi, the sculptor best known for designing Liberty Enlightening The World, known in America simply as The Statue of Liberty. His sculptures appeared in several locations.
In the courtyard of Musée Bartholdi. “Les Grands Soutiens du Monde”. There’s a great deal of symbolism here having to do with the three figures (one hidden) representing Patriotism, Work, and Justice. September 2025.
A different view of Les Grands Soutiens du Monde. September 2025.A “pulled back” shot to display how this statue was situated, and the general ambiance of the Old City. I think this is “Fontaine Schwendi” depicting Lazarus von Schwendi who brought a Tokay grape to Alsace from Hungary. This grape became known as Pinot Gris and thus crucial for development of Alsatian wines. September 2025.
This building feature apparently will be recognized by players of some video game, or perhaps some strange streaming thing. I think it was “video game”. Obviously I have no clue. September 2025.
We wandered around the first of a good handful of cathedrals we would encounter during the trip, but ultimately we had to spend some time in what little shade we could find. Despite being a Monday, it also was August when it seems most of France takes a holiday.
Flying buttresses. I can’t remember if we were allowed inside–I wish we had gone in if the answer is “yes, you were.” Difficult to see are the bullet holes on the façade. Colmar didn’t escape allof the damage from WWII, just the bombing. September 2025.
Market Square, Colmar, France. September 2025.
The Colmar Market Square, stylized. September 2025.
While weeding something moved, just a bit, and I spied this Southern toad. I haven’t seen one around this house since we moved in over 8 years ago, but saw them regularly at our former house on a pond. Pretty lethargic—it’s a nocturnal creature. September 2025.
One month ago today we woke in our own bed after flying in from Belgium the night before. Only now am I catching up to yardwork, which these days consists of staying ahead of the interlopers in our all-natives garden covering the front yard and hacking away at plants in the back before they can seed. Their days are numbered: two weeks from now we hope to start the replanting of the backyard. I question, at times, why we paid so much to plant perennials which should natively grow here but there ya go. A complete and pleasant shock has been seeing the blue mistflowers explode in size and coverage. These beautiful and late-blooming plants had for years volunteered amid the purple coneflowers I’ve showcased many times on this blog. Most of them were taken out to facilitate the new landscaping plan, but the architect of that plan instructed his crew to transplant as many as possible. Given that it was a week into October, he also sprinkled any seed heads he encountered. I think the much better soil helped them out a little bit:
This bank of blue mistflowers looked reasonably modest in size when we left for Europe on August 7, 2025. They’ve now taken over this segment of the yard, overwhelming several plants underneath them. September 2025.Detail from a much larger photo of another bank of the blue mistflowers, showing how small flowers form much larger clusters. This photo is unretouched except for a slight amount of sharpening I added to see the flower petals better. September 2025.
I had to transplant two which ‘volunteered’ at the edge of the walkway to our front door and by doing so, obstructed most of the sidewalk. One withstood the shock and has many buds on it. The other has stood with severely wilted (but green!) leaves for almost four weeks. I keep telling it, “hang in there! You don’t need to bloom! Just live!”
all the voices in my head 