Post 32/2023. Many stories in public and social media are predictable, repetitive, breathless, reporting the way it is. That’s fine. We need news, important, accurate, comprehensive news. Hard news. Soft media (social media) is less my cup of tea. What I do in this blog, I trust, is no news, as in no news is good news. Ha.

At one time the letters of news stood for North, East, West, South, information collected from all four quarters of the world. News was once plural but is now generally singular (“the news is all about the weather tonight,” as opposed to the plural, “the news from wildfire zones are disconcerting and make one very anxious.)”

The foregoing is hardly front-page news. I gleaned it from my trusty The Wordsworth Dictionary of Phrase & Fable. The volume also spoke of Newsspeak: “”Language in which the words change their meaning to accord with the official party-political views of the state. Coined by George Orwell (1903-1950) in his 1984.”

I leave it to each one to sort out the news, chew it over, pepper it with a grain of salt, seek out the truth. Here my intent, for the most part, is different. While I follow the news daily, it only infrequently comes up for comment in my blog. Here I chose to feature the more prosaic, closer to home stuff. It’s first draft, journal-like, a record, off-beat, personal, sometimes reflective, though not closed to wider comment.

To illustrate, here’s a recap of my week:

Monday

Broken toe healed; the X-ray showed. Can now walk less like a penguin. For the first time in months Marty and I walked to church today–something under three miles return. Fine weather after a truly blistering hot week. Two other couples from Greencroft routinely walk to College Mennonite Church.

Tuesday

I’m super grateful to neighbor Floyd Miller for skilled work in helping me rework a few bookcases. The book-sorting business continues apace. Photos of it to come down the road.

Wednesday

We attended the funeral of Philip (Phil) Dintaman, Marty’s cousin, at Shore Church, Shipshewana, on Wednesday. The opening congregational hymn was My hope is built on nothing less, written by Edward Mote, about 1834. The chorus notes: “On Christ, the sold rock, I stand; all other ground is sinking sand, all other ground is sinking sand.” The Mast/Mishler cousins also sang two songs. Phil’s brother, Steve, gave a truly fitting meditation.

Thursday

Nothing newsworthy, comment worthy, or notice worthy appears to have happened this day. Or I’ve forgotten it. Well, blow me down. I just realized that this was a hot, energy-sapping, heat-action day where temperatures felt in excess of 100 degrees.

Friday

Visited Marty’s sister Doris (in nursing care) on Friday. Nice drive through the countryside to get to the city of LaGrange. Learned that morning that the air-conditioning at the Parkview LaGrange Hospital had stopped working and all the patients were moved to other area hospitals. The repair crew was still at work late afternoon Friday when we drove past on our way home.

Saturday

Saturday proved to be a highlight visit to The Haan Museum of Indiana Art in Lafayette. The museum has a 40-piece collection of pottery created by Marvin Bartel, Professor Emeritus, Goshen College. We took in the featured exhibition with Dean and Gwen Preheim-Bartel. Dean and Marvin are brothers. Delightful time.

I’m well on my way through Vesper Flights, by Helen Macdonald.

Bedtime reading this week

Calling the book an intersection of nature writing and personal memoir hardly does it justice. In the introduction she said: “Working as a historian of science revealed to me how we have always unconsciously and inevitably viewed the natural world as a mirror of ourselves, reflecting our own world-view and our own needs, thoughts and hopes. Many of the essays here are exercises in interrogating such human ascriptions and assumptions. Most of all I hope my work is about a thing that seems to me of the deepest possible importance in our present-day historical moment: finding ways to recognize and love difference.”

At one time Macdonald worked at a falcon-breeding centre in Wales. In her essay, Nests, she reflects on holding a falcon egg: “I discovered that if I held a falcon egg close to my mouth and made soft clucking noises, a chick that was ready to hatch would call back. And there I stood, in the temperature-controlled room. I spoke through the shell to something that had not yet known light or air, but would soon take in the revealed coil and furl of a west-coast breeze and cloud of a hillside in one easy glide at sixty miles an hour, and spire up on sharp wings to soar high enough to see the distant, glittering Atlantic. I spoke through an egg and wept.”

Last word

Here’s a shoutout to all the people who are expert at preserving fruits and vegetables. We bought some peaches and apples and melons this week. Dealing with even a peck of peaches is so worth it, even if messy on my part. Delicious fresh now, later frozen.

-John