my heritage

ouch.

5 Responses to my heritage

  1. That is the source of the word “sabotage” – the wooden shoes (called sabots) that were thrown into the big fabric mill machinery when the mill owners would not cooperate with the employees…

  2. Roger Kiser

    Bikermommy, I wrote you a thoughtful, clever reply, really I did, but Sarah’s maniacal megacensor program, which bowdlerizes any syllable not expressly approved by Emily Dickenson, crushed me like a bug. Why I don’t know, since i’m just as virtuous as she is. More maybe.

  3. Bikermommy

    I understand Roger. What’s funny is that the comment code itself often displays obscenities in the alpha portion of the code.

  4. Happy Blog-Mother’s Day!

    hint! hint!

  5. Roger Kiser

    Here are a couple of my favorite A. E. Housman poems.

    Do you recognize what this one is about?

    Oh Who Is That Young Sinner
    Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
    And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
    And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
    Oh they’re taking him to prison for the color of his hair.

    ‘Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
    In the good old time ’twas hanging for the color that it is;
    Though hanging isn’t bad enough and flaying would be fair
    For the nameless and abominable color of his hair.

    Oh a deal of pains he’s taken and a pretty price he’s paid
    To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
    But they’ve pulled the beggar’s hat off for the world to see and stare,
    And they’re taking him to justice for the color of his hair.

    Now ’tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
    And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
    And between his spells of labor in the time he has to spare
    He can curse the God that made him for the color of his hair.

    Do you know the historical allusions in this one?

    The Oracles
    ‘Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
    When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
    And mute’s the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
    And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

    I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
    The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
    And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
    That she and I should surely die and never live again.

    Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
    But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
    ‘Tis true there’s better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
    And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

    “The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
    Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
    And he that stands will die for naught, and home there’s no returning.”
    The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.