…is that they can’t TELL you what’s wrong when they’re hurting. Oh, they can vocalize alright, but they can’t verbalize. Right now, I’d give anything for my Casey-girl to be able to verbalize, instead of just vocalizing.

She’s at the vet overnight, and in the morning, they will sedate her and do x-rays (and clean her teeth). Per my vet’s email, the x-rays will focus

on the left rear leg and hip joint as well as the spine. At the moment, I would say the rule-out list should include bone infection, bone tumor, spinal tumor, disc disease of any sort. If I can’t find the problem with plain rads, then we’ll make a plan for referral for diagnostics outside the realm of my equipment. I know that osteosarcoma is every greyhound owner’s worst fear, mine as well. But we should wait and see what the films say first. As you well know, sometimes we have to wait long enough for a problem to progress a little bit before we can find the source. If our pets could talk to us, we would have a leg up, but they can’t.

This is Casey:

I’ve known her since January 2004, and she’s lived with me since Nov 2004 (she chose me sooner than that, but there were circumstances to work out, first). She’ll be 9 in March. She’s a shy girl, mistrustful of strangers, who thinks I hung the moon. When she’s scared, she runs to me. She chose me as the human she trusts the most, and she made it clear to her foster-mom that she wanted to live with ME, not with them.

I’m feeling helpless, right now. On New Year’s Eve, she suddenly yelped when she was standing up or lying down. This happened several different times. New Year’s Day, she seemed to be ok, but I ran her by the vet on the 2nd, just in case. I’m a big fan of “peace of mind” visits, and my vet is ok with that. Doc couldn’t find anything, so we chose not to do x-rays. Saturday morning, she started yelping again, so back we went. Again, Doc found nothing, so we took a “wait and see” approach.

On Sunday the yelps escalated. No longer a simple “Ouch!” it was now a full-blown “OMG, I’m Dying here!” scream, accompanied with frantic circling, holding her left leg as far off the ground as she could get it. This would be followed by her trotting out to the yard with no problem, as if nothing had happened at all.

So she’s at the vet clinic, waiting for x-rays. And I’m sitting at home, wishing she could talk.

It’s in the works to transfer hosting of this website sometime today or tomorrow. If anything weird seems to be happening, most likely that will be the reason.

We now return to your normal Monday morning blogging.

MacLeod writes

In the interests of balance …
Both sides of the story, shown here.

And what he links to is a horrorshow of Palestinian bodies, blood and tears at the hands of the IDF, juxtaposed with harmless and homemade missiles lobbed by the Pals into Israel hurting .. nobody.  Why, some of those pictures might even be fake.

The idea that them Hamas fellers is just a bunch of Huck Finns and Tom Sawyers throwing harmless pipe bombs around and hurtin’ nobody seems somewhat implausible given the suicide bombers and explosives and ‘Death to Jew’ chants employed by Hamas but whatever.

What I saw in that photo montage and in the news is that the Pals are acting like like inept tools and the Israelis are employing violence with precision, determination and skill.

Yo, Hamas: a high civilian body count means you’re doing it wrong.

Cross posted to Space For Commerce.

That was a treat – yesterday at Fredericksburg’s Pioneer Museum. I had a talk and a discussion for an hour, with a group of interested historians and readers, and then sat behind a small table the visitor center, between a shelf of scented candles, cowboy postcards and other souvenirs, and a large rack of maps and information about Fredericksburg and the Hill Country and signed copies of the Adelsverein Trilogy for two hours. All in all, exhausted, happy and talked hoarse. Richard Bristol, the event manager was a little disappointed that it was not standing room only – but alas, it seemed that an elderly retired admiral, who was very much a big wheel in local historical circles had died this week, and his memorial service was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. And Kenn Knopp, who is also very big in the local historical society, was ill and in the hospital … so not as many of the local enthusiasts were in attendance, but those who were, were very keen. One of them had seen the write-up in the Fredericksburg paper, had driven 200 miles.

They had set up a podium and folding chairs, in the old parish hall, which is now part of the museum complex, but I would have felt so stupid, standing up and talking to barely a dozen people, so I just said, heck with it; we pulled some chairs around in a circle, and I rattled on for a bit about how I came to write the books, what was so fascinating about the 19th century, and how I did research, then I read a bit from Book One (the part where the first party of settlers had a bonfire and celebrated among the trees on the first night after arriving at the site of Fredericksburg.) After that – question time!

Not terribly difficult ones; most about Fredericksburg, and the Civil War, and the Mainzer Adelsverein. All those present were interested and knowledgeable, and I have been so steeped in the original sources over the last two years that I could hold my own. Brief discussion of how many murders there actually had been on Main Street (only two, of the Itz brothers during the Civil War – J.P. Waldrip was killed a little way off Main, Louis Scheutze was taken from his house on Main and killed elsewhere), of the ways in which Prince Karl of Solms-Braunfels was an idiot (a practically endless list), the origin of the Easter bonfires on the hilltops around Fredericksburg (transplanted regional folk-way, nothing much to do with Indians) and the fact that long-trail cattle drives from Texas to Kansas only went on for barely ten years.

And the most gratifying part was that almost everyone at the discussion had either already bought a set of the Trilogy, or went and bought one directly afterwards, and brought it back for me to sign. As I had hoped, many of them have some connection or special interest: the lady who came 200 miles now owns the house which was built by the Itz family. Richard has ancestors on either side who are mentioned; Lt. Wilke, who went with John Meusebach on his peace mission to the Comanche, and the Stielers of Comfort who were strong Unionists – and still have a large ranch property on the road between IH-10 and Fredericksburg.

After that – two hours, as noted in the new museum reception center. Well, not exactly new, it’s an old historic stone house which became a restaurant at the other end of town, then painstakingly disassembled and put together again on the museum grounds. According to Richard, it took so long that the numbers on some of the stones had weathered away, and it was the very dickens to put it all back together again. It’s much lighter and more open than the house in which it first was – that house was very dim and cramped. Good for working up a mental picture of what the inside of the original houses must have been like, but a bit cave-like to spend two hours in. And the resident cats have moved one: one of them vanished, and the other made such a hit at the local ASPCA that she is now a foster-mother for kittens needing socializing, and lives there permanently. The Museum now has a crying need for some resident cats; the mice are insatiable, even though there isn’t any food kept in most of the structures.
There was a constant trickle of visitors, since this is the last weekend of the holidays. Most of the shops along Main had very serious after-holiday sales going on. After we were done at the Museum – all the complete sets of the Trilogy sold, BTW – and Richard bought the last set himself, Blondie and I walked down Main, and stopped in at a little bookstore specializing in Texiana, where I have hopes of them carrying the Trilogy also. It used to be situated in a nook of a store specializing in Christmas paraphernalia, but the owner has sold the stock and goodwill to another shop-owner a little way along. We spoke to the new owner, who is busy setting up all the books in a larger and more comfortable space. She was very interested about carrying the Trilogy, and wanted to know where and how to order them. (She also turns out to be a descendant of the Nimitz family - yay! Another local connection in the Trilogy!) Berkman’s, at the other end of Main, where I had a signing two weeks ago, sold out of the last copies they had within a day or two; as predicted, the people who bought Book One came back to get the subsequent volumes. We finished up with hamburgers and fries at a little joint called “Buffalo Nickel”. A good day – exhausting, but a good day.

Israel.  More to the point, their stand against Israel.

We’ve watched the following dance for decades:  Someone attacks Israel with the best they got; over the years it’s been everything from a full army, to terrorist bombings, to rockets fired into their homes.  Israel retaliates and kicks the ever livin’ crap out of whoever’s doing the attacking.  The rest of the world then throws up their hands and cries “Oh stop you big bad bully, you’re killing those poor oppressed people.”  They don’t complain when Israel is attacked, but when Israel retaliates, and, you know, WINS, then the world loses its mind and calls Israel the bad guy.  I don’t feel sorry for the scrawny kid on the playground who goes up and pokes the bigger, stronger kid in the eye.  Unless you have some serious Kung Fu, it’s just kinda dumb.

I once felt for the Palestinians.  I did.  I saw the camps on TV and I would also get irate about how Israel “unfairly” responded to attacks.  Then one day in the 90s, couldn’t tell you when, I saw the aftermath of a suicide bombing in Israel on the news.  There was a closeup of a little bloody shoe next to a bloody and singed doll.  That was the moment.  That’s when I stopped giving a damn about the terrorists attacking Israel.  If they were on fire, I wouldn’t piss on them to put them out.

What about the civilians in “Palestine?”  Used to feel bad for them too until just recently.  Sorry, when they elected Hamas into office, they became terrorist supporters.  They can all take a flying leap as well.  You wanted terrorists running your country?  You’re going to get what that brings.

I’ve said for a long time that I’m always surprised at the RESTRAINT that Israel shows.  Can you imagine any other country on the planet tolerating the amount of attacks on its people for this long and not completely wiping out the people responsible for the attacks?  I’m surprised they haven’t bulldozed the entire “State of Palestine” back into the mythical netherworld which it rose from.

Yes, I’m pro-Israel.  And even if they decided that they were done playing nice and wiped “Palestine” off the face of the earth, I wouldn’t think them evil or call it dis-proportionate.  Imagine what we would do if Mexico or Canada (okay, I can’t imagine Canada getting pissy about anything either but play with me here) started shooting rockets at us or sent suicide bombers over the border to kill our citizens.

You may ask why I put quotes around “Palestine.”  I don’t buy “Palestine.”  And the best argument against “Palestine” that I’ve ever heard is this.  “Show me a single example of “Palestinian” currency printed or minted prior to 1948.”  (JayTea from Wizbang…I think.)  Regardless of who said it, makes sense to me.  No currency, no country.

I’m a friend of Israel.  I support their actions to defend their people.  The rest of the world can fuck off for all I care.

Gas hit ridiculously high prices this year, so folks traded in their gas guzzlers for more affordable vehicles, and cut back on their driving. Now, because we’re not traveling as much, thanks to changed habits and the economic crisis, they’ve figured out that the federal fuel tax isn’t bringing in enough revenue. So they’re talking about increasing it, maybe by as much as 50%.

So gas is finally affordable again, and the feds want to raise the prices on it. Yeah, that’ll make folks drive more.

source

A recent poll found that 77% of Americans think the media is making the economic crisis worse, by “projecting fear into peoples’ minds.”

The majority of those surveyed feel that the financial press, by focusing on and embellishing negative news, is damaging consumer confidence and damping investment, making a difficult situation much worse. The poll was conducted via telephone, December 4 - 7.

The US survey of 1000 adults was conducted by Opinion Research Corporation and is statistically representative of the total U.S. population. The survey question: “Do you think the financial press is making the economic crisis worse by projecting fear into people’s minds?”

source

I know, I know – late to the party on all this, but I have taken such viciously cruel enjoyment in the spectacle of our very own totally unbiased, completely politically neutral commentariat/mainstream news media pretzel themselves into Gordian knots trying to explain (with increasingly redder faces) to us dumb proles why Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg is justly naturally qualified and specially ordained to rest her tuchas in the seat formerly held by Hillary Clinton … but that Sarah Palin, as a sitting governor, former Mayor and office-holder in her local PTA just doesn’t have the experience to be the Vice President of the USA.

Seriously – I love watching them squirm. Mind you, I am sure that Ms. Schlossberg us a very nice person, and anyone who knows a bit of American history can think of any number of occasions where a surviving spouse or total stranger was named to fill out a suddenly vacant term of political office with no other qualifications than a family connection and a familiar name. It’s just that watching various sycophantic news-critters scramble for cover is so darned amusing; really, oughtn’t they have hesitated for a couple of seemly moments before breaking out the knee-pads and waving the palm-fronds and singing “Hosannah! A Kennedy is come among us, Hosannah in the highest, for it is Camelot returning!” That Ms Schlossberg came out among us and stood revealed (apparently – and I will give credit for her just having a bad day and worse advice) as a relatively inarticulate, upper-middle-class air-head, with absolutely no experience in political life other than just standing there and being ornamental, and not a shred of anything resembling a qualification other than her maiden name and a sense of nobless oblige… well, really, it was pretty funny. But then I have odd tastes in comedy - I thought Mr. Bean’s Holiday was funny, too.

The only reassuring part about this whole farce is that it instantly became evident to practically everyone, save those die-hard Kennedy worshipers outside the state of Massachusetts (all half-dozen of them) that as a tenable proposition, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg in the Senate flew about as well as a twenty-pound lead brick. Perhaps we are not as close to a house of lordly, hereditary nobles as I feared.

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Seems a naked intruder thought to victimize an 88yr old lady. But she found something on him to grab hold of, and squeezed with all her might. He found out that 88 doesn’t mean frail. The intruder fled, but was captured by police.

I have to say, I’m surprised she found anything to grab hold of - if you’re going after an 88yr old woman, you can’t be very much of a man.

A bowerbird, or so I read years ago in National Geographic, or Smithsonian, or one of those other popular magazines with a bent towards science and nature, was a native bird species peculiar to Australia and the farther reaches of New Guinea, which had the curious habit of decorating its nest with all sorts of colorful bits of this and that – glass, shells, colored leaves, pieces of glass and plastic, berries – anything and everything which caught it’s eye and which it liked enough to pick up and take home, arranging it with all those other finds in pleasing patterns. This apparently makes sense to the bird doing the arranging, because they seem to be quite set on those patterns. They will, according to researchers, also restore bits that are deliberately disarranged back to the pattern which they chose. It also seems, according to the internet (which I turned to in confirming this tiny and almost useless bit of knowledge – hey, it’s on the internet, so it must be true!) it is the male birds who do this, so this is where this simile falls apart. I am, and have always been of the female persuasion and pretty happy overall with that designation, although in a truly just universe, I would have preferred looking a hell of a lot more like Audrey Hepburn, as well as having her mad dancing skilz.

But I do have somewhat of a similarity to the bowerbird (of whatever sex) because I collect stuff, random stuff that is attractive and catches my eye, and which I can arrange in attractive patterns. I do this when I write, or more specifically when I am reading and researching for what I am preparing to write. I never know what particular bit will engage my interest – and some items are very odd bits indeed. I keep coming back to them, and by this I know that they must be an element in the story. For “Adelsverein” I kept returning to the Goliad Massacre of 1836, to the kidnapping of children from the Hill Country by raiding Indians, to a throw-away comment in an old memoir – a then-senior citizen recalling that his youngest sister actually wasn’t of his blood, she was an tiny orphan found and rescued from the Verein camp on the Texas Gulf Coast, never able to recall her real name. I also kept circling back to the recorded memory of an elderly woman, recalling proudly that she was 90-something and didn’t need glasses to thread a needle – and also recalling that the husband she loved, and had been married to for only 13 years, being taken away by the Hanging Band during the Civil War and hung, for the crime of being a Unionist in a Confederate state – all this, in spite of her attempting to sneak his revolver to him. Reading about these tiny events was like getting a small electrical shock, or perhaps recognizing something that I had known in another lifetime. These combined with any number of other bits and pieces of frontier lore, with small and humble items seen in museums, with paintings and sketches of scenery, daguerreotypes and memoirs, even a 1850’s travelogue by a famously observant political writer who did a horseback journey through antebellum Texas and the south. Thrown into this mix are my own visits to various places in the Hill Country, my own first-hand observations of clear green rivers, their beds paved with round marble-white gravel, sessions with subject matter experts in frontier arcane, the memory of certain people and conversations — and then arrange it all in a somewhat-logical pattern. Just like a bowerbird, although my own bower is a famously complex excel spreadsheet of a dozen and more categories, organized by month and year. All those pretty, shiny bits are plugged into the place where they seem to me to belong.

In a year or two, there is a book come out of it, all; a ripping good adventure yarn with the added benefit of having the very best bits of it based on historical fact; not bad for a bowerbird.

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Sultry `Santa Baby’ singer Eartha Kitt dies at 81
By POLLY ANDERSON – 1 hour ago

NEW YORK (AP) — Eartha Kitt, the self-proclaimed “sex kitten” whose sultry voice and catlike purr attracted fans even as she neared 80, has died. The singer, dancer and actress was 81.

Family spokesman Andrew Freedman said Kitt, who was recently treated at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, died Thursday in Connecticut of colon cancer.

Dubbed the “most exciting woman in the world” by Orson Welles, Kitt’s career spanned six decades, from her start as a dancer with the famed Katherine Dunham troupe to cabarets and acting and singing on stage, in movies and on television.

She won two Emmys, and was also nominated for several Tonys and two Grammys.

To steal a line from Steve Martin, she was born a poor black child - mixed race, actually - in South Carolina, and became a legend. Rest in peace, Eartha Mae.

Mom was always an early riser - I think she was incapable of sleeping beyond 5am on most mornings. Christmas was no exception. We kids would try to stay up late the night before, but she would chase us to bed, and threaten to cancel Christmas if she found us out of bed or on the staircase. Family tradition was to not put presents under the tree until after the kids were in bed, to keep the illusion that it was Santa bringing them. We could put gifts we’d bought or made for each other under there earlier, but that was all.

Christmas eve was Mom’s big cooking/baking day (on top of all the baking she’d been doing since Thanksgiving.. several 25lb flour tins filled to the brim with different types of cookies, assorted pies lining the back of the counter, stacked 2-3 high on makeshift shelves). So on Christmas Eve morning, we’d get to open our stockings. The big treat (to me) was the little box of cereal - we even got to eat it out of the box instead of having to use a bowl. There was always some type of toy in the stocking, as well. We would then amuse ourselves in the livingroom or the basement, while Mom cooked and baked.

Christmas day, she’d wake us up, and we’d go tearing downstairs to make sure that Santa had really come. The presents would be overflowing the space under the tree. But the rule was that Dad hands out the gifts - no mad rush to the tree like you see in so many tv shows and movies. Dad, of course, was still in bed, sound asleep (or so he pretended). So we would carry him a cup of coffee, stepping oh-so-carefully as we navigated the staircase to the 2nd floor. Knock on the bedroom door, tiptoe inside, set the coffee cup on the nightstand next to the bed.

“Wake up, Dad! It’s Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Dad!”

No response.

Timidly touching him on the shoulder, trying to shake him. “Daddy, Santa came! Come and see the presents!”

Mumble, mumble, roll over.

“Mom! He won’t wake up!”

It was his annual game, although deadly serious to us. He HAD to wake up - it was Christmas! The game went on forever, although that probably means about five minutes in real-time. Then he would wake up, and Mom would chase us out of the room so he could drink his coffee and get dressed.

When he came downstairs, we were all near the tree, excited and expectant. Still in our pajamas, heads uncombed, ready for Christmas joy. He would take one package at a time from under the tree, and read the name on it out loud, handing it to the appropriate recipient. He did his best to rotate it so that we each got one at a time, but that depended on how they were stacked under the tree.

Later there would be a dining table almost groaning under the weight of the food Mom placed on it, and maybe visits to or from our cousins, but it’s the Christmas mornings that I remember best, with Dad pretending to sleep while we grew increasingly agitated, needing him to come downstairs so Christmas could begin.

Those Christmas mornings are 30+ years behind me, but they live fresh in my memory, and in my heart. Here’s hoping that you and yours are making memories today that will last as long, and that you are also finding comfort in the memories of Christmases past.

Merry Christmas!

The sermon from ‘The Bishop’s Wife‘

Tonight I want to tell you the story of an empty stocking.

Once upon a midnight clear, there was a child’s cry, a blazing star hung over a stable, and wise men came with birthday gifts. We haven’t forgotten that night down the centuries. We celebrate it with stars on Christmas trees, with the sound of bells, and with gifts.

But especially with gifts. You give me a book, I give you a tie. Aunt Martha has always wanted an orange squeezer and Uncle Henry can do with a new pipe. For we forget nobody, adult or child. All the stockings are filled, all that is, except one. And we have even forgotten to hang it up. The stocking for the child born in a manger. Its his birthday we’re celebrating. Don’t let us ever forget that.

Let us ask ourselves what He would wish for most. And then, let each put in his share, loving kindness, warm hearts, and a stretched out hand of tolerance. All the shining gifts that make peace on earth.

Amen!

Cross posted to Space For Commerce.

I don’t know how it snuck up on me. I’m sure it’s somehow related to the constant rotation of the earth, and its journey through space around the sun. Be that as it may, it’s suddenly Christmas. And I’m not ready for it to be.

Yes, I’ve sent out some cards (did that last Saturday, in fact), but I have several left to send. Yes, I bought (and delivered) some gifts. But I still find myself surprised to realize that it is now, this very moment, Christmas Eve, and that tomorrow is Christmas Day (and my youngest dog’s fourth birthday).

It can’t be Christmas already - I’ve not baked my spritz cookies, or made my mom’s cinnamon rolls, or thawed the turkey breast. Oh, wait - I don’t need to thaw the turkey breast - I’ve been invited to a friend’s house for Christmas dinner. I’ve not watched “It’s a Wonderful Life,” or “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.”

And yet, thanks to the inexorable turning of time, it’s Christmas, whether I’m ready for it to arrive or not. And I find myself periodically shifting between a “bah, humbug!” attitude (this is, after all, the first Christmas that I won’t be able to call my dad and brighten his day by singing “Merry Christmas” to him), and a humble gratitude that the seasons turn regardless, and that Christmas comes again every year, no matter what our circumstances may be.

I’m missing my dad, and I know I’m not the only person who will be facing their first Christmas since the loss of a loved one. And I’m not the only person spending the holiday miles away from any family members. In my case, it’s by choice - for others it may be due to the vagaries of weather, or the call of duty.

It can be a bittersweet day, or even a bitter day, if I let it. But I learned a long time ago, while in the Air Force, that *I* determine how my day will be, and that even a Christmas that should by rights be a sad time can be a glad time instead, if I choose that option.

So yes, I will lift a glass to my dad tonight or tomorrow, toasting his memory and acknowledging my loss. And I will say a prayer for all those who are dealing with loss at this time. But that will only be a portion of my day. The majority of it will be spent celebrating the joy of friendships and family, strengthening the ties that bind (and sometimes gag), watching my youngest dog chase his new ball around the back yard (he didn’t get the memo about how greyhounds don’t play). And I will join my friends for dinner, and be thankful that I have friends who open their hearts and their homes to those who are alone, even if they are alone by choice, as I am.

I will also spend some time remembering those who are alone this holiday season, by choice and by duty. Those who have chosen to serve their country by serving in her armed forces, and are spending this holiday scattered around the globe. I will lift a glass to them as well, and pray that it will be a day of peace for them, no matter where they are stationed.

It’s a Wii Christmas this year in our house, after having looked at what accessories and games cost, and their really being no particular need or desire for any other toys. A happy/occupied Red Haired Girl and Real Wife, with a nice prime rib roast in the oven, is all I really want.

Believe what you’ve heard, the Wii can cause injuries. While bringing ours in from the shop to wrap (in the midst of a 3/4 inch ice storm), I twisted my knee and apparently have a something-C-L injury. Oh well, I should be, and am, thankful for being on more familiar terms with orthopedic surgeons than with other specialists (orthopods never tell you how much time you have left). Anyway, I got an Indy 500 game that looks pretty cool so there will be some play time (with leg elevated, of course).

Merry Christmas to all of my fellow contributors, our loyal readers, and your families and loved ones.

Radar

I’m grateful that I work in a place where they still say “Merry Christmas” with absolutely no sarcasm or irony.  It is said with warmth and an honest wish for your happiness this season.

When I was still acting in “The Trial of Ebenezer Scrooge” there’s a scene at the end when Scrooge (played by your’s truly) is explaining his behaviour to the rest of the cast and audience:

“You should have seen your faces when you thought I was the man I was before…well not the man I was before, but the man I was before before.  But you HAD to believe I was the man I was before, I mean the man I was before before or nothing wonderful could have come from this trial.  But I am NOT the man I was before, nor the man I was before before, so…what I mean to say is…What I mean to say is Merry Christmas, the Merriest Christmas we’ve seen in many and many a year.”

This is kind of a key moment in the show.  I spent the longest time thinking about and working that scene.  The key was the “Merry Christmas.”  I played that part manic.  It’s supposed to be a bit manic.  I was delivering the “Merry Christmas” with a Santa Claus-ish type of chuckle.  It worked, but…it didn’t feel right.

One night on the way to rehearsal I heard that sappy Aid for Africa Song by the Brit’s BandAid.  You know the one, Paul Young starts out with “It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid.”  I got caught off guard and got a lump in my throat while listening to it.  But it hit me…just wish the audience a Merry Christmas.  Keep it simple.  And I got a very nice sigh almost every night.

So Merry Christmas one and all.  The Merriest Christmas we’ve seen in many and many a year.

Like this;  a company went, not to a bank, [1] but just this place where I gotta send a big chunk of my money every year.  And they said ‘hey, man, I’ve run my company right into the ground, I need some of that cash you guys jacked from the public to tide me over while I change my ways.’

Which, put that way, sounds like a junkie whining that this time he’s really really sorry he put his rent money up his nose instead of paying his rent, but if they just let him slide a few weeks he’ll have the dough ..

And I said to the guys running the place ‘hey, that sucks, don’t do that’.  And their governing body voted ‘no’. And I said ‘cool’.  And the guy who runs the place said ‘well, shucks, ah’m gonna do that anyway’.  And he did. [2]

And then the company, all bright and perky, blows a big chunk of cash [3] telling me ‘thanks, buddy‘.

To which my response, after careful editing because my first through fifth responses contained language that might make a sailor blush is …

Mr. Nardelli?   You, your dealers, or any of the one million people who depend on Chrysler for their livelihoods will never see a dime from me.

I was serious about this before but that ad really cheesed me off.

Kia?  I’ll need a new car in a few years.  Let’s talk.

Cross posted to Space For Commerce.

[1] A bank has stricter rules for handling money than the government ever will.

[2] It’s a weak metaphor, granted.

[3] Cuban cites 100k for the cost of the ad in the Wall Street Journal.

It’s mid-winter and bleak and cold, and almost Christmas.

(Found through a couple of links, through The Belmont Club and The Virginian)

And going from the sublime to the low-rent, there’s this…

(Courtesy of Chicagoboyz)

He really was a black hat, this particular villain; he was known and recognized throughout the district – around mid 19th century Fredericksburg and the German settlements in Gillespie County – by a fine, black beaver hat. Which was not furry, as people might tend to picture immediately – but made of felt, felt manufactured from the hair scraped from beaver pelts. This had been the fashion early in the 19th century, and made a fortune for those who sent trappers and mountain-men into the far, far west, hunting and trapping beaver. The fashion changed – and the far-west fur trade collapsed, but I imagine that fine hats were still made from beaver felt. And J.P. Waldrip was so well known by his hat that he was buried with it.

There is not very much more known about him, for certain. I resorted to making up a good few things, in making him the malevolent presence that he is in “The Adelsverein Trilogy” – a psychopath with odd-colored eyes, a shifty character, suspected of horse-thievery and worse. I had found a couple of brief and relatively unsubstantiated references to him as a rancher in the Hill Country, before the Civil War, of no fixed and definite address. That was the frontier, the edge of the white man’s civilization. Generally the people who lived there eked out a hardscrabble existence as subsistence farmers, running small herds of near-wild cattle. There was a scattering of towns – mostly founded by the German settlers who filled up Gillespie County after the late 1840s, and spilling over into Kendall and Kerr counties. The German settlers, as I have written elsewhere, brought their culture with them, for many were educated, with artistic tastes and sensibilities which contrasted oddly with the comparative crudity of the frontier. They were also Unionists, and abolitionists in a Confederate state when the Civil War began – and strongly disinclined to either join the Confederate Army, or take loyalty oaths to a civil authority that they detested. Within a short time, those German settlers were seen as traitors, disloyal to the Southern Cause, rebellious against the rebellion. And they paid a price for that; the price was martial law imposed on the Hill Country, and the scourge of the hangerbande, the Hanging Band. The Hanging Band was a pro-Confederate lynch gang, which operated at the edges of martial law- and perhaps with encouragement of local military authorities.

J.P. Waldrip was undoubtedly one of them – in some documents he is described as a captain, but whether that was a real military rank, or a courtesy title given to someone who raised a company for some defensive or offensive purpose remains somewhat vague. None the less, he was an active leader among those who raided the settlements along Grape Creek, shooting one man and hanging three others – all German settlers, all of them of Unionist sympathies. One man owned a fine horse herd, another was known to have money, and the other two had been involved in a land dispute with pro-Confederate neighbors. Waldrip was also recognized as being with a group of men who kidnapped Fredericksburg’s schoolteacher, Louis Scheutze from his own house in the middle of town, and took him away into the night. He was found hanged, two days later – his apparent crime being to have objected to how the authorities had handled the murders of the men from Grape Creek. It was later said, bitterly, that the Hanging Band had killed more white men in the Hill Country during the Civil War than raiding Indians ever did, before, during and afterwards.

And two years after the war ended, J.P. Waldrip appeared in Fredericksburg. No one at this date can give a reason why, when he was hated so passionately throughout the district, as a murderer, as a cruel and lawless man. He must have known this, known that his life might be at risk, even if the war was over. This was the frontier, where even the law-abiding and generally cultured German settlers went armed. Why did he think he might have nothing to fear? Local Fredericksburg historians that I put this question to replied that he was brazen, a bully – he might have thought no one would dare lift a hand against him, if he swaggered into town. Even though the Confederacy had lost the war, and Texas was under a Reconstruction government sympathetic to the formerly persecuted Unionists – what if he saw it as a dare, a spit in the eye? Here I am – what are y’all going to do about it?

What happened next has been a local mystery every since, although I – and the other historical enthusiasts are certain that most everyone in town knew very well who killed J.P. Waldrip. He was shot dead, and fell under a tree at the edge of the Nimitz Hotel property. The tree still exists, although the details of the story vary considerably: he was seen going into the hotel, and came out to smoke a quiet cigarette under the tree. No, the shooter saw him going towards the hotel stable, perhaps to steal a horse. No, he was being pursued by men of the town, after the Sherriff had passed the word that he was an outlaw, and that anyone killing him would face no prosecution from the law. Waldrip was shot by a sniper, from the cobbler’s shop across Magazine Street - no, by another man, from the upper floor of another building, diagonally across Main Street. He was felled by a single bullet and died instantly, or lived long enough to plead “Please don’t shoot me any more”. I have created yet another rationale for his presence, and still another dramatic story of his end under the oak tree next to the Nimitz Hotel. I have a feeling this version will, over time be added to the rest. Everyone who knew the truth about who shot Waldrip, why he came back to town, how the town was roused against him, and what happened afterwards, all those people took the knowledge of those matters to their own graves, save for tantalizing hints left here and there for the rest of us to find. The whole matter about who actually fired the shot was kept secret for decades, for fear of reprisals from those of his friends and kin who had survived the war. This was Texas, after all, where feuds and range wars went on for generations.

So James P. Waldrip was buried – with his hat – first in a temporary grave, not in the town cemetery – and then moved to a secret and ignominious grave on private property. The story is given so that none of his many enemies might be tempted to desecrate it, but I think rather to make his ostracism plain and unmistakable, in the community which he and his gang had persecuted.

As noted, the Adelsverein Trilogy is now loosed into the wilds of the book-purchasing public. All three volumes are now available through Amazon.com: Book One here, Book Two here ( wherein the Civil War in the Hill Country is painted in great detail) and Book Three, in which Waldrip recieves his just desserts, under a tree by the Nimitz Hotel Stables.

Another signing event, last night at Berkman Books in Fredericksburg, for the Adeslverein Trilogy. Berkman’s is one of those nice little independent bookstores, holding its own specialized little niche against the overwhelming tide of big-box-bookstores and internet sales; Texiana, lots of events with local authors, curiosities, antique and used books. The clientele is a mix of adventurous tourists and local residents who don’t care to drive to San Antonio or New Braunfels in search of their reading matter. And they have two cats on the premises – I promised that I would frisk Blondie on departure, to ensure that neither of them had stowed away to come home with is. Berkman’s in a rambling old house on Main Street, a little removed from the main tourist blocks along Main Street… which, however, is slowly spreading along the side streets, and east and west from Marketplace Square. David, the owner, had ordered ten copies of each volume, and there has been considerable interest – even some notice in the Fredericksburg Standard. Kenn Knopp, the local historical expert who volunteered (kind of glumly, as he is the first to confess) to read the manuscript of the Trilogy, only to be astonished and thrilled as he got farther into it – was going to meet us an hour before the signing started. He had a friend, Annette Sultemeier, whom he wanted me to meet. Ms Sultemeier is also a local historical enthusiast, and still lives in her family’s house nearby. James P. Waldrip, the infamous leader of the pro-Confederate Hanging Band, who persecuted local Unionists during the Civil War was supposed to be buried in the back yard of her family home. Waldrip figures as the resident villain in the Trilogy, and his come-uppance under a tree at the edge of the old Nimitz hotel property was described in Book Three. Supposedly, he was buried in that unmarked grave, outside of the city cemetery, to escape desecration of his resting place. He was an especially bad hat, with many bitter local enemies.

There was a nice crowd at the signing. David had thought there would be many more people at the signing than there were, but I didn’t mind. This way, I had enough time to talk to people and answer questions. Enough of them were coming specifically for the Trilogy anyway, so I didn’t have that awful experience of spending two hours, watching customers come in the door and sidling around the desperate author, sitting at a little lonely table with a pile of books. Almost everyone bought all three books, many intended as Christmas presents. The last customer of the evening was almost the most rewarding to talk to. This was a young college student named Kevin, fascinated by local history and majoring in it, who read about the signing in the Standard, checked out my website and came straight over with his mother. He asked a great many questions about research, and bought Book One… and his mother bought Two and Three. Christmas present, I guess!
Afterwards, Kenn Knopp treated us to dinner at the Auslander Restaurant, which we had eaten at once before, and recalled as being pretty uninspired foodwise, and kind of scruffy on the inside. Apparently it has since been renovated, for now it was very comfortable, and the food was terrific; jagerschnitzel to die for, accompanied by little crispy potato pancakes about the size of a silver dollar. Blondie and I walked back to the car, admiring the Christmas lights, all along Main Street. There seem to be many nicer restaurants along Main Street now – it was quite lively on a Friday evening. Blondie noted there were many more wine-tasting rooms, too. The Hill Country is slowly becoming the new Provence, as I predicted a while ago, or at least the newest Napa-Sonoma-Mendocino, as far as wine production is concerned.

It was a great way to finish up the day – the interest in my books being almost as much of a satisfaction as the food. I have been warned, though; the event at the Pioneer Museum, on January 3rd will be even bigger, and the local history enthusiasts will come armed with even more searching questions.