History in Brief: Part IV: draft of a project

LONGITUDE

By

Chris Pelletier

copyright 2010

When you look at a globe or a map, you can see lines going up and down, as well as side to side. They make a grid pattern which helps to locate things on Earth. The lines going from east to west are called lines of latitude (or parallels). The lines running north and south are called lines of longitude. Both are very important to know for travel by ship, airplane and even cars. People use the lines for navigation, or steering your course.

In ancient Egypt, Aristophanes, a Greek mathematician and philosopher living in Alexandria, heard stories of how a well at noon showed the sun directly in it, but a well in a different city cast a shadow on the same day. So Aristophanes hired a man to walk from one city to another on a north-south axis. Using the information of distance, he calculated that the earth was round and was accurate in figuring its circumference. He was just off by a couple of thousands of kilometers. It was quite a feat for ancient times.

Sailors over the centuries used that knowledge and the stars to help get around. Using the stars to steer is an art still alive today called celestial navigation. Before modern times and GPS devices, though, sailors could determine how far north or south they were of the equator without much difficulty. However, figuring out how far west and east eluded them due to the inability to measure time. If one looks at 17th century sailing charts, there are many diagonal to steer by. And those were rough estimates.

That inability hindered determining longitude, and England offered a huge prize for an inventor who could come up with a working marine chronometer (clock). The task was daunting, due to the motion of the ocean, and many people tried. In 1735, a carpenter named John Harrison submitted a chronometer which held up to the rigors of the sea. From then on, nautical charts and navigation made shipping easier and safer.

History in Brief: Part III

English

by

Chris Pelletier

copyright 2010

In the twentieth century, English became the international language. With is 500,000 plus words (which seems to grow every year), it is arguably the most difficult language to learn. English has a variety of prepositions (which occasionally native speakers may misuse), an extensive vocabulary, exceptions to almost every grammar rule, spelling that challenges every native speaker, colorful idioms, and neutral nouns (a unique feature to European language). But where did it come from?

In the fifth century, Germanic Anglo, Saxon and Jute mercenaries sailed from northern England to fight for King Vortigern, who had hired them to secure his claim on England as King of all. They were expected to fulfill their duties and leave. They decided to stay and brought their many gods, culture, and language. They overran most all of England, and so the dominant language became Anglisc.

Four-hundred years later, Scandinavian pirates called Vikings invaded England in 793. They also went on to attack mainland Europe, as well. The invaders pushed into England and held onto a territory in northeast England called the Danelaw. From the Vikings came a new vocabulary to add on to the existing one. Many words starting with sk come from Old Norse.

The third most influential period of linguistic change happened in the year 1066. Duke William of Normandy, France, had been promised the throne of England, so he claimed. So at the death of Edward the Confessor, he sailed to England with a fleet filled with infantry and cavalry and a mix of archers and landed on English shores. Several weeks before in northern England, the Saxons had just fought off a large force of Vikings at a place called Stanford bridge. The Saxons heard of the Norman invasion and headed south. They valiantly met the larger force, held their own well, but eventually succumbed to the irresistible force of William. The Saxons lost, and French became the language of nobility in England for nearly 500 years.

With the invasions of England, the language changed, the vocabulary increased and the grammar tried to adjust to the way of the changes. English's main strength is its flexibility, and is always open to new words. Although it is a complex language, the richness of it makes the studying of it in detail truly rewarding.

History in Brief Part 2: a draft for a project

Pirates

by Chris Pelletier

copyright 2010

As long as humans have been transporting goods on the water, there have always been people who wanted to take those goods. They are called pirates. Piracy is the act of stealing goods on the water or using water to do a land-based assault for gain. From ancient times in Greece and Rome, pirates controlled trade in the Mediterranean Sea, until a consul of Rome, Pompeii Magnus, broke the piratical fleets, allowing shipping to resume safely.

Of course, pirates did not disappear. They still managed to find ways to come back. In the fifteenth century through the eighteenth century, a Golden Age of Piracy happened. British sailors, tired of the mistreatment and harsh conditions aboard naval and merchant vessels, joined up with French boucaniers, runaway slaves and whoever wanted to sail against all flags for profit. They had a democratic society aboard ship, where every decision was voted upon by the whole crew--even who was to be captain (imagine America having such democracy). They saw their lives as short, but merry with the trade.

The pirates terrorized shipping from the Caribbean to the American colonies. But once stability was maintained in the Caribbean and the American coast, the sea rovers went east to the Red Sea and had bases out of Madagascar to prey on East India shipping. But that field was soon to be difficult to sow. So the piratical boom died down to a whisper by the early nineteenth century.

Books and movies have romanticized the life of buccaneers and sea rogues, but the reality of the life of pirates was hard and dirty. They usually toiled and hunted, only to be put at the end of the rope and displayed in chains for carrion birds to peck upon and remind sailors to stay honest.

The Golden Age of Piracy of characters such as L'Olonais, Roc Brasiliano, Henry Morgan, Stede Bonnet, Calico Jack Rackam, Anne Bonney, Mary Read, Chares Vain and Blackbeard may have come to a close in the nineteenth century, but piracy has not stopped. Acts of sea robbery have been committed in the twenty-first century which are no less in scope than 300 years earlier in the Caribbean, south China seas and the Red Sea comes full circle with another rise with pirates audaciously seizing oil tankers.

History in Brief: A draft of a project

The Norse Discovery in America

by Chris Pelletier

copyright 2010

In America, October is a month which commemorates Christopher Columbus and his brave adventure from Spain that brought him to the Caribbean (in fact, he is credited with the discovery of America in 1492, when in fact, he had never set foot on mainland North America). The truth of the matter is that the first Europeans to land on North America had arrived 400 years before Columbus was born. That expedition was led by Leif Ericson.

Leif's father, Eric the Red, started his career in Norway, but got in trouble for killing a man. So Eric, his family and his followers fled to Iceland to avoid prosecution. In Iceland, Eric could not control his temper and once again killed a man. Eric had to leave Iceland, too, to he did not know where to go.

A fisherman told him of a land to the west, so Eric moved and founded a village in the land which he called Greenland (history's first real estate scam). Life was hard, but the village survived for hundreds of years. Leif grew up in that village and heard stories of a land to the west that fishermen had come across when they were blown off course. Eric, like his father, had an adventurous spirit and made an expedition in 1002 c.e. to explore that new territory.

After some sailing, his group landed in Canada, which he called Vinland. The land, unlike Greenland, had a lot of timber, wild game and berries. He established a colony, which was not destined to last long. The native tribes, which the vikings called skraelings, attacked the colonists and drove them back to where they came, never to return.

Archaeologists have recently discovered a viking settlement in L'Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, Canada, which supports the Vinland Saga. So, perhaps Americas need to switch Columbus Day to Leif Ericson day and give credit where credit is due.

Duluth: A scene from youth

To Duluth

by Chris Pelletier

copyright 2009

Approaching the mid-sized port northbound on highway I-35, Duluth reveals itself spread out on a steep slope. It reminds me of pictures of San Francisco. I wonder how fun it would be to take a sled down those hills in the winter. I worry about my aunt and uncle who have to drive down those hills when they are iced up.

After reaching the city center, parking is easy to find for my dad. There are plenty of spaces for visitors’ cars. I notice a big drop in temperature compared to Minneapolis. Even though it’s the middle of July, it feels like late October.

Duluth Harbor’s buildings are made from old dark brick. Many souvenir shops full of my favorite nautical curios are on the main street. I can see the maritime museum which is located next to the concrete canal leading to the harbor. My parents said we would go there later. Stretching across the canal is a gigantic lift bridge, which looks like it was built from a huge Erector Set.

Noisy seagulls squawk; the chorus of birds makes me feel like I am near the ocean. I approach a street vendor who works from an antique-looking red wagon and get a box of popcorn. I use only some of the money that my dad gave me. Soon a handful of white delights fill my cheeks. They are salty, but a bit dry. With another handful, I feed the hovering gulls by pitching the popcorn into the air. The greedy gulls swoop and dive for the morsels.

As I stroll along the shore of Lake Superior, it smells slightly of fish. Millions of smaller rocks make up the beach. Every step I take grinds them with a crunch. A flat pink rock looks inviting, so I pick it up and rub my hand on its smooth surface. It feels as if someone ground it down for me. With careful aim, I skip it across the water. The rock bounces about five times before it finally plunges into the lake with a plop.

I head to the canal which extends and turns into a pier. A gentle lake breeze brushes my skin as I walk out to a black and white lighthouse on the pier. I imagine that I’m some old bearded lighthouse keeper from 150 years ago trudging to work.

A horn blast from the water startles me. A huge iron ore ship is coming into port after visiting far away places. Tourists go to the wall of the canal and wave at the passing ship. Sailors line the rails of the ship and return the waves, as if they are heroes coming back from some glorious adventure.

The ship passes under the bridge and the ringing of a warning bell on the bridge tells people below that it is descending. I dream of being one of those sailors some day and have people wave to me as I return home.

Was that Bali or Belly?

My vacation has been proceeding well, except for computer difficulties. I realize how much my life has become so dependent on the machine on which I type and create. With all of the lagging and freezing, it is my constant fear that the machine will crash... and I just put a new motherboard in it several months ago. Tis vexing, to be sure.

Yesterday I went to Robinson's department store (defunct in America) in Kasukabe City, Japan (where I live for the time being) and attended what I thought and hoped to be a belly dancing show--the Turkish dance has been an intriguing subject of conversation these days.

I got there for a 3:30 show, but it did not start until 4:00. So I browsed through Hawaiian wares, as well as Turkish and southeast Asian. I got a seat in the front row, and I learned that I misunderstood. Instead of belly dancing, it was to be Bali dancing. I thought it would be relaxing, so I kicked back to enjoy the show.

The music started, and instantly the mood was set. My stress level increased a thousand-fold, as the dance music began. It sounded like the soundtrack of the Japanese animated movie Akira was being played on Coca Cola bottles by marimba players. Three Japanese dancers came from behind a wide screen dressed in Bali traditional costume. They were in their fifties and proceeded to dance. The one on stage right I presumed to be the teacher, since her moves were sharp and crisp compared to the other two. She was long and lanky with a long face to match. No smiles were let loose at all by the dancers during the traditional dance, and her face, with her makeup and all(I hate to say) was a bit unnerving (think Close Encounters of the Third Kind end alien with makeup). The dancers were not synchronized (I presumed the other two to be students) in routine and seemed to be out of synch spiritually, as well. Maybe if they had been from Bali... To their credit, though, they remembered the repetitive, simplistic, somewhat symbolic dance maneuvers that spread themselves like a small amount of butter over too big of toast in a fifteen minute (it felt longer) number.

Then the second dance came out. The soda bottles kept chiming out, with the addition of wood being struck together from time to time. The dancer was a woman who portrayed a traditional boy's dance. Her makeup, costume and mannerisms were huge in scope. What the first dance lacked in emotional flair, the second one made up for with an overabundance of emotion. Her eyes peered out piercingly to the audience, opening and closing. Her expressions almost became comical, and I had to keep myself from laughing for decorum sake when her eyes met mine (and they often did), especially since I was in the front row. The story of the dance seemed to be of a scaredy cat who went on some quest. Fear and shock was constantly expressed. I wondered if the character was facing a dragon or something. I will never know.

Now, I like to consider myself somewhat worldly and open to a myriad of cultural ways and practices-- I live in Japan. However, the Bali dance left an odd feeling within me. My mental state was shocked into another consciousness. I guess I expected to be relaxed, but became more agitated. The experience left me with a reminiscence of when I was in University and studying theater and attended several avante garde performances. I saw them and did not know how to process what I had just witnessed. The same thing happened, and to this moment I still wonder what happened.

Perhaps it was the music which struck an inharmonious chord, perhaps it was my sleepy mind...

Now don't be thinking, "Chris is so biased against other cultures and their dances because he's an American." Please note that I have little mercy for polkas (especially the chicken dance) and crump.

Dance can be therapeutic, transforming and enlightening, as with any art, so I will keep attending performances to expand my horizons. But yesterday's experience was like eating at some mom and pop restaurant. Maybe the food was a bit off, so I won't go back there again. But then again, perhaps the cook was having a bad moment with bills to pay, a disenfranchised girlfriend and a computer with viruses, so the restaurant may be worth giving another shot. Time will tell.

At any rate, I am going to see belly dancing today at 11 a.m. I hope there are no more surprises.

Carpe diem.

Battle at the Elven Forest: a scene

The Battle of the Elven Forest
By
Chris Pelletier

“All right, who are the teams?” I asked my other three friends, standing around in a circle on the freshly-cut green lawn.
“You and Turk versus me and Ols,” said Hoff. He always could make a snap decision in a heartbeat.
Turk and I looked at each other and agreed. He was thin and quick and would be usefful. We claimed the “Elven Forest” which was a group of five mature oak trees in the corner of Hoff’s backyard. The privacy of our adventure was protected by an unpainted, tall wooden fence, like the palisade of some ancient Viking fort.
Ols and Hoff begrudgingly accepted their fate of becoming orcs. The pair would be guarding and protecting the high patio deck. It was virtually a tower to the chocolate-colored castle.
Two artifacts, namely an old bowling trophy and a pair of hedge trimmers, were made the prizes. Turk and I had to protect the magic statue, while Ols and Hoff protected the Sheers of Atlas.
We gathered our weapons for the imminent battle. Hoff had cut up two of his unused hockey sticks to be swords. A mace was created from a pillow bunched up into a ratty, light green pillow case and a spear without the pointy end was made from a push-broom handle with the head removed. Aluminum garbage can lids provided our protection from the light hits that we would receive. Sixth grader innovations and imaginations are unparalleled. At that time we were quite resourceful with what we had on hand.
I took a hockey stick long sword, and Turk grabbed the mace. He looked quite the warrior in his sky-blue C-3PO shirt and denim shorts and knee-high socks. He had a white sweat band to hold back his dishwater-blond locks from getting in his eyes. The Minnesota summers did get hot.
We parted from neutral ground to our respective camps. In the Elven Forest, a war council of two was being held. Turk asked, “So, what do we do?”
I always loved strategy games like chess, Risk and Othello, and I had many opportunities to apply tactics to such wonderful games as “kick the can”, “capture the flag” and “king of the hill” in winter. I was training for this moment.
But now weapons were involved which changed things quite a bit. Of course, we did not want to hurt each other and we had an understood boys’ agreement just to hit weapons and shields and not the body, except with the mace. That was fair game, and probably explains why Turk took it up. His father was into karate and Turk had picked up some sparing techniques, so he was a warrior in training. Though I was larger than my other three friends, Turk and I were often evenly matched when wrestling in his dad’s basement on the foam pads. He would be a good in this upcoming fight.
We kids just felt like we wanted to act out what we experienced when we played the role playing game Dungeons and Dragons. Instead of paper characters of imagination, we were living, breathing elves. Actually Turk kind of resembled what I thought an elf looked like, with a long, slender nose and slightly pointed ears.
I responded to Turks question with authority saying, “Well, we’ve got to get to those clippers. I think it’d be best if one of us protects the statue while the other hits the tower.”
I was always a bit cautious, never willing to commit one hundred percent. I always needed something in reserve, so I found the middle ground to an all out attack. To get at the clippers, we would have to go up a flight of stairs onto the deck, as opposed to them having simply to stroll into our forest to claim the magical statue.
“So, who’s going to go? You or me?”
I felt glad in a way that he was willing to accept me as king of the forest that day. Usually he called the shots when we played at his house.
“You go and try to get it. Be sneaky and quick like a ninja. They’ll probably do what we are doing.”
Turk’s mouth was twisted up in reaction my plan, and he cast his eyes down. But when he glanced at his mace swinging in his right hand at his side, he pepped up a bit and said, “I’ll try.”
I smacked him on the shoulder and with a freckled grin said, “Don’t worry. I’ll hold them off if they get past you.”
Turk smiled, and we were suddenly surprised by Ols playing his brass band trumpet which he brought over as the signal that the conflict between orcs and elves was about to begin. He tried to make a motivating call to war, but it sounded like some song that was used by marching bands during the fourth of July parades. Ols caught Turk and I chuckling a bit at his attempt to add flavor to our game and he bared his teeth and pointed down to us. He raced to the stairs and wanted to get at us. Hoff tried to calm him down, but rage flowed within him.
Turk headed out of the forest swinging his mace around and around. Lifting my sword and shield, I took a defensive stance. The three and a half foot piece of wood was smooth to the touch, but a bit awkward to hold, as it was rectangular, as opposed to the round handle grips that I was used to with tennis rackets.
To help improve our odds, I quickly stashed the golden idol under a large root of the tree which was coming out of the ground and back in. It reminded me of pictures of the Lochness monster photos which were on TV. It was not the best hiding spot, but it was not readily seen without a good look.
My attention went to Turk as Ols, in his black t-shirt, was running headlong towards my elven friend. Ols was wielding the spear and looked like he wanted to ram it through Turk’s shield. Turk stopped in his tracks and lifted his shield to receive the blow and offer his own, if he did not get hit.
The battle of the Elven forest had begun.

Shall we dance?

It is the fourth day into my vacation, and I must say that my highlight had to be Sunday.

I have occasionally visited a place in Japan called Cstle Tintagel http://castletintagel.com/ for dressing up in armor and fighting. This Sunday had more peaceful pursuits.

I participated in a practice of 19th century waltz and and traditional folk dance. The waltz was different from the 1-2-3 that everyone has come to know. It was far easier than anything seen on So You Think You Can Dance? Actually with the country dances, I thought I could dance those rather well. One called the Count de ... was an interesting one which brought me back to my younger years.

When I was in elementary school, in gym class we learned square dancing. Of course, to most boys at the age of 10, they were squeamish. But I relished the fact that I could be dancing with some girls (my interest in the fair gender started in second grade, while most of my peers would dread the notion of contact for fear of getting girl germs from contact, like some form of the plague). We formed our squares and swung around arm in arm and do-see-doed, all to the tunes of some blue grass fiddle.

Well, time repeated itself years (and years) later. It was a British dance, but obviously the style had been incorporated by Americans and made their own. When I was doing the dance, it came natural. My moves fit the beat and tempo, I could remember all of the steps quickly. It was fun. Though I don't understand how some of the people did not get the dance and struggled to remember. Maybe square dancing was not in their DNA.

Another thing that was a bit funny about the experience. Most of the participants were Japanese women, and perhaps etiquette and protocol required them to say how tired they were after a dance. Now, I am not in the best shape, but I was hardly winded and did not crack a sweat after the dancing. I mean, most of the dance was waiting for a minute or two for your turn. It was not like dancing the foxtrot or anything. I could not understand how they could be so tired.

Anyhow, I look forward to the rest of my vacation. I plan to finish up my short story Trouble With T-Rex and get it out. I also plan to see fireworks at a zoo.

Carpe diem.

Vacation begins

I am starting my summer vacation. Huzzah!

The Chinese calendar suggests that today is the first day of autumn, though. I wonder how long the tradition can edure with the global climate changes that punch us in the nose every year challenging the claim of autumn begins August 7. I mean, it is a hot swamp in the Kanto plain of Japan now.

Well, my thoughts shall not be on the weather.

My vacation will be for a week. Somewhat long, but busy, I am sure, and that will make it fly by. Why will I fill my vacation with busy things? I should relax and let things pass by for a week. I guess plenty of time for rest in the grave.

My students would say it is O-bon (pronounced "oh-bone") vacation. O-bon is the Japanese equivalent of Halloween (minus the costumes and candy [and fun?]). The tradition is to mark a time when the living pay respects to the dead. People visit ancestral graves which contain bones and ashes (they usually burn their dead in Japan as per Buddhist tradition [and there isn't a whole lot of space on the island]). Some incence gets burned, the grave gets cleaned, silent prayers are offered, and the traditionalists invite the spirits to come to their house.

The spirits of the departed stay at the family domicile for a week. Some families provide a mini house for the stay (about the size of a large Barbie house, sans the furniture and trappings) and get fed some treats (healthy things; no mini-Snickers bars). After the stay, the spirits are coaxed to go back to the grave and life of shopping for Louis Vuitton bags, playing Nintendo DS, crooning out ballads at karaoke and piling into trains to fill them to 150% capacity to head to work for their twelve hours of labor.

Halloween is so much simpler.

So I have my break now and will be finishing up my short story called The Trouble with T-Rex. I worked on it for about three hours yesterday and I like where it's going.

Another question comes to mind. I sometimes argue with my British colleagues that the English made the language but Americans perfected it. I know, it is a bold claim. But look at the word vacation. It comes from middle French meaning freedom from something. That is what the people of the Stars and Bars say. Across the puddle, the British say holiday. Now holiday is a derivative of "holy day."

Which makes more sense? I have a vacation (i.e. freedom from work, school, whatever). I have a holiday (a day of a religious nature which brings me closer to the almighty).

The Brits argue that for them, the time off is religious and spiritual. I smugly grin and think, "Yeah, nice try."



Whether it is a vacation or holiday, I am relishing the fact that I don't have to work and can focus on writing.

A few more poems of old

I thought I would add a couple more poems from my youth. It helps me get in touch with feelings and thoughts which I have not entertained for a long time.

BEYOND LIFE

by Chris Pelletier
copyright 1987

Here I sit upon this hill
Feeling all and feeling nil.
I sit here among many such hills and tres
And grass and birds and flowers and bees.
I sip of the wine of enlightenment now,
And the old cares of mine are no longer somehow.
I had fled life before my day,
But now I can be happy and frolic and play.


THE OAK

by Chris Pelletier
copyright 1987

The brilliant oak tree stood alone on a hill.
Its green leaves fluttered
In the cool summer breeze
And whistled a tune.
Its boughs extended out,
Praising the glorious sun.
That oak is still a monarch of nature,
Standing alone on that hill,
Surpassing time itself.


IN THE CAVERN
by Chris Pelletier
copyright 1987


drip

drip

drip

falls the
water
from the
long
stalactite



causing a
TIDAL WAVE
in the pool below

Poetry from younger years

I was rummaging through my bookshelf last night after a hard evening of teaching my mother tongue to elementary, junior high and senior high school kids and came upon a tome which I had not cracked open for some time. A thin layer of dust had already made the dark blue cover gray-ish. The contents within stirred memories and dreams of youth.

It was a collection of poems. I thought I would share some thoughts of yesteryear with you today.

"Having All and Yet Nothing"
by Chris Pelletier
copyright 1987

Glorious days have come about,
Where people rave and people shout.
Exhalting my name through the lands,
My empire built up by my own hands.
I have all that I want, but not what I need.
"Tis a woman I desire!" I plead.
"Just one love, one hope, one future, onde dream.
To revive my dead soul, my honor redeemed.
For without love what is life? Please do tell.
A life without love is a void in hell.
Please, oh fates, just give me one I could love
That will share hers willingly and is pure as a dove.
This is my only true request:
"Give to me love, give me the best."


"Technical 2150"
by Chris Pelletier
copyright 1987

What happened long ago?
I wonder what it was like?
They actually used books
And desks and cars adn planes
And bombs.
It was a bizarre society.
Ouch! I hurt.
I'll press "C" for comfort.
That's better.
There must be a technical fault
In my elbow unit,
Because each time there is
An acid rain shower approaching,
I can... feel it.
It is a bizarre word-- feel.
There is my pet robot, Moof.
They actually had animals for pets long ago.
How barbaric?
I am fatigued now.
I'll pray for the success of the corporation...
And now, I'll press "off."
Good night...
off

A short scene: The Joust

THE JOUST
By Chris Pelletier
copyright 2009

I peddled at a leisurely pace to Lon’s house, being in no particular hurry to get to where I was just the day before. The Minnesotan July was rather mild, so I was in my comfortable tank top from the drier and the same pair of denim shorts that I had been wearing for the past couple of days.

As I rode, I was thinking about what we would do that day. I figured that we would probably do the usual: play Atari games or watch MTV. Lon was the only one of my friends who had cable TV, so he was quite popular.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived on his freshly tarred driveway. He was waiting for me in his stuffy garage, which smelled of cut grass from the lawnmower bag. His hands fiddled with his black, ten-speed bike. His mom was divorced, so he was left to entertain himself during summer vacations, and his older sister was usually our with her jock boyfriend. Once again we had the house to ourselves.

“Hey. How’s it going?” I asked.

He smiled, brushed back his sweaty, blond skateboarder bangs and said, “Hey. Let’s joust.”

“What?” I was not sure that I had heard him right.

“Let’s joust on bikes!”

We both loved fantasy games, and while growing up, we had our heads filled with the adventures of Robin Hood and King Arthur. So to live out a fantasy of jousting sounded like a wonderful idea. My head was involuntarily nodding. Besides, it was much safer than playing with matches and black powder like we did the week before.

He grabbed a pair of aluminum garbage can lids. Crashing them together like cymbals he said, “Here are our shields.”

“What about lances?”

He set the shields down with a loud clang and rummaged around through piles of stuff which lined the garage walls. Then he spun around holding a rake and a push-broom. Perfect.

Delighted, I grabbed the broom from his hand and a shield from the ground and went to my blue steed. Holding the ram-horned handlebars, I walked it to the vacant street in front of his house. Summertime was quiet in his neighborhood.

I was really excited about this and it was obvious that he was, too. We just smiled at each other from afar, about 70 yards apart. I wished I had armor and a horse.

“Ready?” he called out.

"Ready!”

We mounted our bikes, trying to balance while awkwardly clutching onto our knightly arms. At first, peddling slowly proved to be too unstable to ride, so we had to build up speed.

Faster and faster our legs kept going. Round and round they kept turning. After gaining my control and confidence, I aimed my lance for his shield which protected his chest. Seeing Ols set his lance into position, I grasped my shield’s handle with an iron grip, bracing for the inevitable impact from his lance. Adrenaline was making my heart pound furiously in my chest. I thought it would explode!

Then came the crash…

Book Review: Cowboy Culture

I just finished a wonderful book about cowboys.
(Yep, that's right. Y'all read that correctly. Cowboys.)

The work is titled Cowboy Culture: A Saga of Five Centuries by David Dary.

The work is in 14 engaging fact-filled chapters with an epilogue, notes and an index in the back.

The history starts off with the Spanish presence in New Spain and chronoligically (and topically) follows the evolution of what becomes the American cowboy. It ends with the way of the open range ending, as Eastern Americans throw up barbed wire fences and limiting cattle movement. It reminded me of the Kevin Costner movie "Wide Open Range" (which was a good movie).

Dary dispells myths protrayed by Hollywood and fiction and paints a picture based on facts. Illustrations and contemporary photos are sprinkled within the book to give clarity, featuring the people, the locations and the cowboy's equipment of the trade.

Chapter one of the book inspired a short story from me called "Vaquero", about a young man who is faced with a bandit problem and his cattle in 16th century New Spain (Mexico). I hope you will be able to read it in a magazine soon. I will inform you when it is available.

The rest of the book is full of stories, annecdotes, eye-witness accounts and facts about cowboys which are providing me with inspiration for other short stories and possibly some longer works of fiction. There is something alluring about that time period and location. Perhaps I have been a victim of Hollywood, too, but a romanticized view is OK. It is like sailors. There has been a romance with the sea and life at sea.

Being a cowboy or sailor was a difficult job with low pay, potential danger everyday, boredom beyond measure, forced to deal with a group that may not be exactly cordial, and short careers (if not lives). They also share a solitary practice in the vast expanse of openess. Perhaps people like me long for the solitude once in awhile and think how nice it must be to do that job.

But, having worked on ships, a life of solitude is a lonely one, indeed. So perhaps the position of cowboy is reserved for a few.

Fiction writers and film makers have embellished what a cowboy was, but as with most fiction, there is a grain of truth to art. It is true that they lowly in position, yet there was a certain nobility about them in their trade, with a code of honor and conduct which would be the equivalent to any medieval chivalric code and something people could aspire to follow today.

If you are a fan of history and wonder about life in the West for the cowfolk, please read this book. Enjoy it, as well as any books, for reading is a wonderful experience.

Carpe diem.


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