You cannot be everything you set your mind to!

A final childhood bubble was burst this morning and while it was a cruel, cold blow to face so early in the morning, I think it may impart a lesson, and may perhaps explain much of male nature to our softer, better smelling friends.

American children are taught, by their parents at a young age, and later the lesson is reinforced by the educational system, that with enough diligence a child may grow up to become anything he or she wants. Rich children, having watched mummy and daddy since the cradle, know perfectly well the world is their oyster. This lesson is reinforced continuously.

Smart kids see through the fallacy after a year or two of school. It's plain to them that they are brighter than the other kids, the teachers favor them, and they can out succeed their peers, anytime, any day.

It's the dumb ones, like me, who fall for it every time.

We see it, report card after report card, "not working to his potential". Is that encouraging in any way? Four times a year it's "Give the kid another round of "you can be anything....."

We dumber males take that snippet of parental "you can be anything..", and attempt to make it fit our world view, we enlarge it, expound on it. It becomes no more realistic, but it helps us through the day. No longer is it, you can become President, it's who says I can't date supermodels and actresses. I just need to work a little harder, move a little closer. Models need to date someone, why not me.

And then 50 odd years later the who facade tumbles down. Did you know that pure diligence and desire alone do not make all things possible? Matt Laurer had an interview on the Today show, with my life's most objectified, and second most desired woman, Meredith Baxter Birney. Together they dealt me a blow I may never recover from. I learned boys can't date models and actresses when the girls play for the other team.

I'm so sad.

Toad

Ever buy a Pagan Baby? Redux

I'm up to my ears in wood shavings and paint attempting to finish the wainscotting by the end of the week. So until tomorrow, please accept my apologies, and a replay of my favorite post. See you tomorrow.




Most of my childhood education was spent in the hands of parochial schools, back in the days when nuns ruled the universe. The nonsense they taught made you almost unfit for humankind.

For those of you whom your parents loved enough to send you to public schools, or those who came in the pre-post reform days, think of Jake and Elwood Blues at the hands of the good sister in Blue's Brothers. The scene in the movie where the boys go back to see the Penguin was not a joke to anyone educated in 1960's catholic schools.

Somehow they got away with the most egregious crap, but even the nuns knew they could carry it only so far, so to test the boundaries, they invented buying pagan babies. Let me explain.

One thing Catholic churches love is money, hard spendable cash, and someone, somewhere saw that the Easter Seals had a cash cow. RC's needed a similar scheme, so stole the idea, and moved the season to Christmas. Just after Thanksgiving, thousands of little Catholic kids were given books of missionary stamps and told to sell them to support foreign refugee camps and missionary priests, at a penny a pop, or a whole book for a buck. Money was due, and collections took place on Friday mornings.

Once your class collected a fin, you were entitled to buy a pagan baby. Best of all, it came with naming rights, and a certificate of authenticity.

Now, Catholic teaching is very particular about naming options for children. Either the first or second name had to be the name of a saint. No exceptions. When in doubt read a map of France. The Church in France put an St or Ste. in front of every pagan location name, and created innumerable saints.

So imagine its getting close to the holidays. The kids are wound up, its Friday, they've collected their fiver and its time to name their new pagan baby. The rules were the kids raised the money, the kids got to name. If you think there are a lot of post pagan adults in central Africa/Asia named Mary Catherine or James Joseph guess again.

My class and most people I have talked to went all out. Depending on how much your teacher would let your class get away with, some of the names were spectacular. Especially the Asian kids who had many r's in their names.

Many Catholic school educated adults of my generation live in great fear of getting that knock on the door late at night. You open the door, an African or Asian man or woman a bit younger than you is at the door. You ask how may I help you?

Daddy, its me Joseph Vanilla Wafers, don't you remember me?

Wishing, won't make it go away.

Toad

Chuck

Sing like this. (In a slow dirgeful manner) Or hum if you must.
Nobody, knows the troubles I see...
Continue dirging, you know the rest of the words, forgetting not the chorus.

Mrs. T has been presented a fait accomplis, in the form of an early Christmas present announcement. My bride is soon to become the mother of...


I'm unsure of its species. Ferret, weasel? The mind rebels. Mrs. T suggests it's a dog, but that seems unlikely.

Whatever, her name is Charlie, like that yucky cologne. Chuck to you and me. She's upwards of 5 weeks old and soon to leave her mother and sibs, to be watched over by Mindy, until Mindy brings her home for the holidays.

I'm told I'll be allowed to take her out if its dark, cold or inclement, that is until Mrs. T housebreaks her. If the Farmers Almanac is correct I'll not be posting much this winter, as I'll be out of doors.

Toad

More on A Christmas Cracker

Careful readers, periodically take pot shots at my reluctance to honor one of the stated goals of this blog, to point out the ways men and women differ. I plead guilty, with reservations. A greater fools errand than that I'd never invented. Then I came across this little gem in "The Illustrated Christmas Cracker", edited by J. J. Norwich.

Included is the following, a book review, unattributed but clearly written by a woman.

A book review from the American magazine Field and Stream, November 1959:

Although written many years ago, Lady Chatterley's Lover has just been re-issued by Grove Press, and this fictional account of the day-to-day life of an English game-keeper is still of considerable interest to outdoor-minded readers, as it contains many passages on pheasant raising, the apprehending of poachers, ways to control vermin, and other chores and duties of the professional game-keeper.

Unfortunately, one is obliged to wade through many pages of extraneous material in order to discover and savour these sidelights on the management of a Midland shooting estate, and in this reviewers opinion, the book cannot take the place of J.R. Miller's "Practical Gamekeeper".

I had to dust off my ancient copy of this edition to give this review its due, but clearly, any male reviewer wouldn't be so quick, or so insensitive as to dismiss the extraneous bits.

I trust this will quiet the madding crowd for a while.

Toad

All I want for....

As part of my public service awareness plan I will periodically present great ideas for presents for any occasion.

I lead off with this recent ad from one of my favorite shops. Cobblestone Shoe Repair. Yes, they are a shoe repair shop. They are craftsmen, who know and understand shoes. They are nit picky that way.

They also sell shoes. Alden. Allen Edmonds.

This is not an unsubstantial offer, for serious shoes. I recommend them highly.





This may finally get me to move these from my wish list to home, where they belong.


Toad

john julius norwich-A Christmas Cracker

Few Americans are aware of the erudite John Julius Norwich, 2ND Lord Norwich, only child of the British diplomat, notorious philanderer and war hero Duff Cooper and his wife, Lady Diana Cooper, the most desired hostess in between the wars England.

John has lived a fabled life, rich from exposure to most everyone of importance in the 20Th century, he's a well educated and enthusiastic raconteur, brought up since birth to provide "good value for money". Self described as "shallow", he is a most charming man.

Following Oxford he followed his father's career in the foreign service. Retired after a dozen years and took to writing, mostly histories, and editing. Later had an active television career, mostly in documentaries and is a well known speaker and preservationist in the UK.

For the past 40 years he has kept a journal of favorite little poems, odd definitions, strange anecdotes and curious correspondence. Since 1980, instead of sending Christmas cards, John has printed selections of his findings and mailed them to anxiously awaiting friends. Every 10 years they are collected and printed by Penguin.

My favorite are these two entries.

From Hoare's "Short Italian Dictionary, Cambridge, 1964
Baffona: f: Woman with not unpleasing moustache.

and this description of the Opera Carmen:(click photo to enlarge)


Toad

With Very Limited Appeal

Kansas Citians of a certain age will never forget the stories surrounding the kidnapping and murder of Bobby Greenlease. Although it occurred before my time, in the Kansas City of my youth, there was still a lingering curiosity surrounding the death of little Bobby.

Zero at the Bone, by John Heidenry provides an almost minute by minute account of the planning, kidnapping, murder, get away, ultimate capture and execution of the two culprits. The story is told in a stone cold, just the facts ma'am fashion. It's riveting. Names, addresses, phone numbers. It's all there.

The story fascinates on several levels. As a true crime novel its gruesome in its detailed account. As a mystery story, it closely follows the mystery of what happened to the stolen half of the ransom money. Something that the Saint Louis Police Department still won't talk about.

If it's your kinda thing, its worth the hour or two it takes to get through it.

Toad

Let the games begin

Nothing like a refreshing jolt of holiday Kool Aid, taken neat, first thing in the morning. Let the games begin!

I love Thanksgiving. It is the holiday I have the best memories of. The weather in Mayberry is still pretty good. Often Thanksgiving is 10+ degrees warmer and much sunnier than Halloween. Our first hard frost isn't for another week, and snow won't come until the week before Christmas. It's a good time of year.

My usual way of doing business includes waiting for the coldest weekend of the season to install the outdoor Christmas lights. Every year I study the weather channel to make certain it wouldn't be colder tomorrow, when I plan on lighting today. The last two years installations have been embarrassments to the good name of decorative lighting. It never got cold, so I was reduced to Christmas eve,eve. Never a good time to do a thorough job.

This year I thought maybe I'd try something different. I'd think the job through, in advance, and take advantage of the exceptionally nice November weather we've been having. And so I did. The job while far better than the last two years may not be up to Kansas City Plaza standards, but pretty good none the less. Now I'm having a quandary. Seemingly, I have some time coming up. Do I add more decorations?

We are going to have a fun weekend, beginning with Mr. Fox this afternoon. check in later and let me know how you're doing.

Toad

In Preparation

I promise to wake up in Thursday morning with a smile on my face, drink the Kool Aid and prepare for a holiday season full of warmth, brotherly love, and good will towards all if you will allow me this one indulgence.

In any way shape or form, does the term "Black Friday" entice you to want to leave your home at an unreasonable hour, credit card in hand, ready to lay waste to bargains galore? Do you get that warm, fuzzy, cuddly puppy, happy memory, free association when you consider the day?

It doesn't me. I'll take the retail employees view. It fills me with dread.

There are at least two urban legends as to how the term came to be. Neither reflects positively on mankind.

Don't buy into the madness. I recommend you sleep in, shop on line a bit, take the kids and grand kids to see The Fantastic Mr. Fox, and ease gently into the shopping season. It'll be there.

I promise that is my last unkind post about the holiday season...unless....

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving. If you'll be on the road be especially careful. I'll be waiting here for you.

Toad

book report day - My Three Fathers

Many of my favorite bloggers are fellow unabashed Anglophiles who periodically dip their toes into the heady mythology of upper class life, literature and mores of between the wars Britain. Today's recommendation has all that and spades. For added inducement, Mr. Patten offers a look at big time American WASP life with a bit of Washington/Georgetown politics thrown in for good measure.

If this is your cuppa tea let me suggest "My Three Fathers" by William Patten.

As the title suggests, the book is about his three fathers, but more importantly his mother, Susan Mart Alsop.

Father number 1 was Bill Patten, a minor American diplomat, New England WASP.

Father 2, his stepfather, Joseph Alsop, cousin of the Roosevelt's, long time syndicated political columnist.

Father 3, and unknown by the author until he was 40, his biological father, Duff Cooper, British war hero, Ambassador, legendary Lothario, and husband of Lady Diana Cooper, the most sought after hostess of her day.

Interwoven is his mother, noted Washington hostess, and novelist Susan Mary Alsop, descendant of the Jay family of American jurists, ambassadors, statesmen. Susan Mary had a gift for knowing everyone, and everything, and keeping it all under her hat.

You know the thrill of picking up a book, reading the blurb on the inside front cover, and saying to yourself, if this guy can write, I'll be up all night. This guy can write, I was up all night.

It is a fascinating family memoir, warts and all of his extraordinary family, an insight into post WW II history and strongly recommended.

Toad

Katy Day

Firstborns do not come with instruction manuals.

Too young couples are left to their own devices to figure out how to make the best of their new situations. We hadn't a clue.

Mercifully, infants are hearty and resilient souls and our daughter Katy not only rolled but prospered. From the moment of her birth she was queen bee. First child, first grandchild, first daughter in my family for many years. Later, as the only girl in a house of boys, she continuously made it clear she was no body's mouseburger.

While it often doesn't seem so at the time, children grow up too quickly.

In honor of her birthday today I present this photo extravaganza. Many of these photos I remember like yesterday.










Mercifully, she is on a beach somewhere on holiday and won't see this post for several days. Time enough for me to make my escape.

Happy Birthday Dahlink.

Toad

Shoe Queen

To quote the inimitable Governor of the great state of California, "I am a shoe queen." Second or third class in my case, but one none the less.

For fall and winter I favor chucka boots. Gotta be suede, gotta be hard soled. Brothel creepers are for spring and summer.

After about a minutes hesitation I picked up a pair of Bass Binghamptons yesterday. The color is browner than the photo shows, almost a snuff. After a strong coat of Scotch Guard they'll stand up to whatever winter throws my way.

Great shoes? No way, but they fit well and go with everything in my wardrobe. Who can ask for anything more?

Toad

Decadence

I am longing for a road trip, although none is in the offing anytime soon.

One of my life's greatest decadent pleasures while traveling is stopping for breakfast in a small town, far from home. To you it may be a simple pleasure, but for me it is an entire reason to hop into the car, and head off to parts far away.

I love the ambiance of small town cafes, being the unknown outsider in a place where everyone knows each other, listening to the farm report and local gossip. Lingering over a newspaper filled with stories from place names I have never heard of, and people I'll never hear of again.

Best of all who can wreck breakfast? I've only had one bad one. In a pinch I landed in a Waffle House, late Sunday morning near Asheville. I knew better, I did it anyway, I paid the price.

Always, if made in the back, you need to order a slice of pie to end your meal.

Toad

WW II in HD

I have been watching WW II in HD on the History Channel the past several evenings.

If you haven't been watching, it is much like the wars shows when we were kids, Victory at Sea, World at War and the like, only unsanitized and in color.

Using narrated letters home to personalize the combatants, the film is moving in its purity and ugliness.

My point today is not to shill for a television program, but to suggest that if you know one, talk to a veteran this Thanksgiving. My father and uncles served in WW II and when prodded wouldn't (couldn't) talk about their time in uniform. I feel I missed a lot.

Our brothers, sisters and cousins who have served in conflicts since have stories that deserve hearing. We owe it to them to listen.

Toad

This years project

Each year Mrs. T hosts a Christmas Eve dinner party for family and friends. We plan for about 50 people, get a pre-party head count well below that number, and somehow 50 show up. It's become a tradition.

Another tradition is that sometime around now, one of us will think up a new house project that just has to be concluded before the big event. Last year was a fairly insignificant crown moulding installation. Drum roll please, this year I am proud to announce our holiday project is hallway wainscoting.

I blame nerd girl, Mrs. Blandings for this years project. Her new stair runner photo set off a chain of events which can only mean several napless days and sleepless nights.

I spent most of the afternoon measuring and blocking projected panel sizes and locations. I was having trouble on the stairway until I remembered stair panels are not truly rectangular.

Hopefully, we shall be completed in time. We always are, but the added anxiety always makes for holiday fun.

Toad

History is written by the winners

While you are preparing for your traditional Thanksgiving school pageant its good to remember a little American History.

Americans tend to believe that the first European settlers to hit what is now the continental US were those dastardly, witch baiting Pilgrims who arrived near Plymouth Rock, Mass. Not true. Tidewater Virginians duel over less slanderous allegations.

Englishmen hit Jamestown settlement, in what is now Virginia in May, 1607, a good 13 years before Pilgrims came to our shores. In one of the great coincidences in history, the Jamestown settlers were met by English speaking natives. The natives learned English during the time of the earlier lost Roanoke settlement. One of the natives first questions was "Did you bring beer?" True story.

Those in the west often take a longer view of history than those in the east. Plymouth Rock and all their shenanigans is a long way from the Pacific. Westerners have a completely different dynamic than Virginians or Mass Bay colonists.

Those west of Denver know the Spanish were there first. Spanish explorers came to America 40 years ahead of the English. So successful were their explorations that Sante Fe,New Mexico had a large and growing population when in 1607, several months prior to the Jamestown landing, it was named capital of the Spanish New Mexico territory,

Easterners have a truly tough time wrapping that idea around their brains.

With a little more work on behalf of the Spanish, we might be enjoying tacos and dramas about Coronado instead of turkey and Pilgrims.

Toad

Harumph

You may have suspected that I'm something of a traditionalist. Not necessarily inflexible, just respectful of what came before.

That is why the weeks before Thanksgiving have truly begun to grate.

I'm sympathetic to the need of retailers to have a successful selling season, but I am uncertain why that requires Mrs. T's favorite radio station to begin with the Christmas tunes the day after Halloween. Or why the television networks have already begun airing Christmas specials.

Really, couldn't some things wait until Thanksgiving?

One of the downsides of moving Christmas from late December to mid November is that a sentient adult simply becomes sick of it, long before they hit the stores. I'm going back to my cave now.

On a completly different subject, have you seen Lonny Magazine? Lonny is an online bi-monthly design magazine founded by several escapees from Domino. Frankly, I find reading magazines on-line rather tedious, but it appears to be the future.

Toad

More questions

When, or more importantly why, did it become necessary to tell a man to remove his hat once he was inside a restaurant, or in a home, or at the table? Is this a regional thing somewhere? Where, I want to avoid going there?

My sainted mother would have knocked me into next week if I ever tried it. I know, in my heart of hearts, she would gladly and quickly rise from her grave today just to kick my backside if I pulled a stunt like that.

2. I suspect women are smarter than this, but I have been re-reading a number of old magazines lately. Ancient issues of Esquire, GQ, stuff that passed for gospel in my 20's and 30's.

I suspect the management of most magazines figure they have a reader for 3 or 4 years, before they outgrow it and move on. Recycling stories is mothers milk for them. Re-reading them has been a true revelation. Was I really that vapid?

I suspect women's magazines are just as bad. Imagine if you will, taking advice today from one of the mags for new moms. Stuff you believed was vital then, you wouldn't give a second look at today. You know better.

Oddly, old shelter magazines are rather fun.

3. I'm dating myself here, but where did all the Pink Elephants of days gone by go, and cukoo clocks?

Toad

Another Character Flaw

Of all the flaws in my character I am most appreciative of my disdain for spectator sports. I don't particularly care if you want to watch sports all weekend, but leave me out. Please. No football, no baseball, nothing on ice. I'm just not interested.

This past weekend was filled with "The Big Games" in NOLA, and I had much sport with the overserved fans from LSU Saturday night.

Late in the evening I got to talking with an older couple in matching LSU sweatshirts. Remember, if you ignore suckers when God sends them to you, she won't send them anymore, so ya gotta make hay, so to speak.

We were in a saloon, and I inquired if the L or the S was silent in the LSU. I couldn't make head nor tale out of the word. Slowly, as if speaking to an idiot (or Yankee) she told me the whole story of Louisiana State University.

"Are you coming from work?" I asked.

"No, we are here for the big game", this time he was allowed to slur.

Seem a little old to be students, aren't you?

No, we came to support our team.

Do you watch a lotta minor league sports? I inquired.

Then comes the whole championship story, blah blah blah.

Ya, but isn't the premier football league in the US the NLF?

Ya

Then everything else is second rate, right?

With that they left.

Sophmoric? You bet, but a lot of fun at the time.

Toad

What do you do?

Prior to moving to The Park, Mrs. T and I lived across the street from this house. (Best seen by clicking on the photo) It is owned by our favorite neighbors, a family of 4 who moved in a year or two before we moved out.


It is a lovely neighborhood, of basic suburban homes, on large lots, in a quiet suburb of Mayberry. Several days before Halloween, our friends had a fire.

My point today is not to dwell on a personal family tragedy, but to pose a morality tale, or more importantly an insurance dilemma.

The neighborhood isn't worth what it once was (we moved out). Our friends bought near the peak of housing prices and spent a boatload of cash customizing their home to their taste and lifestyle. Fire or no, financially they were going to get hurt if they had to move anytime soon.

Obviously, the land has value, but at current construction costs rebuilding this house to "before the fire" status would price it well beyond their neighbor's or even market value. Neighborhood indentures limit the minimium home size, and this was close, so they can't build smaller.

What do you do?

Toad