by Bodwyn Wook
THE Ongoing-conversation, at the following ‘link’, seems to have transmogrified:
‘Ishouldapologise’: GOOD Heavens! Well, ’tis my fault, I reckon. Yesterday, I moved that we vote to establish this as the ‘CiF’ all-in ‘thread’; and, in short order, ‘Dr Prodworthy’ seconded and passed the motion. Mr Gordon Brown had ought to watch his back — someone’s been peaching his play-book (grin!)….
ANYHOW, I do enjoy rattling along (“Christ!” — the American SWMBO, in the background, here….); and, if this can stand as a kind off ‘off-topic’ line, well, that’d be jolly. Only ‘Wook’s Nook’ may have to become ‘Wook’s & Andersen’s, Ltd’, or something — as soon as my eighty-six-year-old farm-neighbour, here at home in southern Minnesota gets ‘on-line’. Unbeknownst to Juddy — who detests all this “God-damn idiocy!” — his nephew Keith is planning to fix the old man up with w/a PC & subscription, for his birthday.
YOU Are right about the self-absorbed punditocracy — they mainly are involved in talking to themselves, which (as my psychiatrist last week said, whilst tinkering with my prescription) is ‘unhealthy’. That word is used a lot, one way or another, by the professional-classes, isn’t it? Well, when the Han Chinese get here, that will be that, for that gentry. As neighbour-Andersen says, “I AM keeping a list, by Christ! And I just hope the SOB’s don’t shoot me until I can had it over first!”
IN My ‘neck of the woods’ it is pretty flat and wide-open — just a bit like Oxfordshire, toward the Broads; and, just as flat as Norfolk in hither South Dakota, three hundred miles west from here. There were intermittent forest-lands, here — until the white man pulled in, in the 1850s — and, they cut down most of trees, for building. In the family home-stead, though, my sister & her family preserve some fifteen acres of the original eastern Blue Earth county ‘Big Woods’, which has never been clear-cut. Historically, the Indians here are the Ho-Chunk (‘Winnebago’) & Dakota peoples — there was a dire uprising in August of 1862, in which some of my earliest maternal German relations took a nervous part, on the white-side of things. Now, I am an on-and-off member of the mdewakanton ‘pow-wow’ club; and, there is a gorgeous wacipe at the third week-end of each September. I’ve interviewed some of the chaps on my monthly history-programme, on the local state-college (it calls itself a ‘university’, of course, in keeping with the self-adoring knack of my 1946-64 generation — but, there’s no Latin or anything: “Minnesota State University at Mankato”; the usual post-modern American brag & bounce!) radio-station, ‘KMSU’ — 89.7 FM.
UP North, there are forests. Up there, ni mah-be-ah–gan anishenabe, desh ni dodaim noka-dodaim ayaad. Andeg-inini e-zhin-ka-zo-yaan ee-desh ni-jika desh ni-nagamo desh nind-animia’a bi-ojibwe-mo-win…. I am adopted Ojibwe human-being and my name is Crow-man. I am a quondam medicine-lodge fire-keeper; a true honour for a mere You-re-A-Pee’in Americano.
FINALLY, The way to make this coffee one finds in cans in the grocery-stores, here, quite tasty is:
THROW A fistful of fresh grounds into a half-pot of cold well-water. Bring this to a to a rolling boil, on the wood-range. Then — wait no more than a minute! — top up with more fresh cold water and set back on the cast-iron stove-top, away from the fire-box. Let this steep and drink at leisure. The cold water settles the grounds, and if one pours carefully after five minutes, the stuff is — fine! Depending on the hard-wood one may be burning through the winter’s day, the stuff takes on a nice flavour from the incidental smoke. This is the sort of coffee Mr Judson Andersen, who is a Dane and Welsh, cooks; and, it is the ‘Swedish’ coffee my Great-Aunt Hudy Olsen (d 1974) used to make all her life….
I Haven’t resorted yet to frocks; but, I do do sweat-lodges — the 245-degree air really peels yours ears off, when someone throws cold water on the red-hot stones. Then we go out and pour well-water from pails over one other and turn somersaults in the snow. It’s best in January, starkers and at twenty-or-so-below (fahrenheit!), at night, and when a Moon is going. There’s more to it than that, fasting and so on, but enough of this for now. Each time one goes out is called a ‘gate’, and there is a lot of mythical significance to it all….
IT’S Twenty-to-nine, time for old people to go to bed. I’m up at sparrow-fart, to take a young calico cat called Emma Pouncer to the veterinary-surgeon, to be made into a lady!
[Emmett R Smith all rights reserved 14 November 2006]
TO ‘Lelia’ & All:
HERE Are some ‘links’ — however, be advised it is all very pedestrian & dull, as there are NO pictures (later, maybe…?) Take your pick, eh?
SOREHEAD- & other artistic-remarks, by Wook, Himself:
HISTORY-Stuff, mainly by some flounder named ‘Emmett R Smith’ (NOT the Yank footer-bloke!):
HISTORY-Reviews & so on, again mainly by this ‘Smith’:
SUFI Sneers & comments, mainly by M Nejmi:
AND, Of course, about Wook, Himself; and, whencefrom:
I’VE Got Ms Pouncer back & she is sleeping-off the mysterious disappearance from her life of the maternal-instinct, here in the office in Wook’s Farm, in the Hammerhead road, in old Squawbunion county, in haunted & decayed old southern Minnesota, under its rotting mansard rooves.
ALL For Nonce,
CC [retd], Bureau ‘B’, Cadwal Conservancy & IPCC-affiliate
ALL Postal enquiries should be directed via Vega-Sirius Lines, Ltd, c/o Jarnell Corporation, to:
[Emmett R Smith all rights reserved 15 November 2006]