Being from Detroit, the week containing Dominion Day and July 4th was cause for celebration. In 1972, I was old enough to appreciate July 1 on a Friday and the 4th on Monday - and young enough to take full advantage of it. The fireworks shows from Belle Isle were something to experience.

Seems now most all of that is forced and over-celebrated ... and even less so now that Canada is no longer our friendly neighbor.

Canada ceased being "Canada" when they changed their flag and went metric. I recall buying gas in Imperial gallons: 5 quarts to the gallon. Remember - the industrial Revolution which formed the basis of today's technology was measured in imperial units, not French Revolution units.

Sorry, Canada - it was so good to know you.

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Jean wrote me and recommended this book: "one of the best books ever written for all ages…"

I'm happy to pass on her suggestion to y'all.

From another reviewer: "I can’t recommend this book enough, whether you are 12, 22, 42, or 92 years old."

“How do they look so together and perfect?” Asked the boy. “There’s a lot of frantic paddling going on beneath,” said the horse.

“The greatest illusion,” said the mole, “is that life should be perfect.”

Have at it ...

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Last of three Eastern Roman Empire churches erected on this site; built 360, completed 537AD in a grand style of Byzantine architecture.
This mosaic dates from 1122

Emporer John II Komnenos (1087 - 1143) & Empress Princess Piroska (Eirene) of Hungary (1088 – 1134) m. 1104 stand on either side of Mary the Virgin and the Christ child.

The mosaic was plastered over rather than destroyed upon the fall of Constantinople in 1453. The plaster was removed in the 1930s.
I had a chance to visit while it was still a secular museum; the structure was re-converted to a mosque in 2020.

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Introducing "Little Calico":

I've never made any secret of my fondness for cats. I have nothing really against dogs but to have a dog - or dogs - requires room to run, at least in my eyes. I don't like fencing a dog in yet most places I've lived do not allow dogs to roam free nor are dogs of the size I like suitable for the apartments I've lived in.

Yes, I know there are exceptions.

I wouldn't mind having two right now - two, because I live in coyote country and a coyote will injure or kill a single friendly dog, even of German Shepherd size. The dog wouldn't realize it was in a serious fight right away. But Wile E won't mess with two though - two dogs would tear the coyote apart if it wasn't fast enough on the escape. Can't though; I'd have to keep them penned up where I live. I wouldn't want a feather duster; I'd want one or two to take boonie-bouncing with me.

My last dog was a female Norwegian Elkhound:

Had her as a pup ... No, this is not her; even if circumstances had not gotten in the way, she'd have lived her life out sometime in the 80s. By then, my life was on a path that having a pet was not practical.

This was the mid-70s; she was stolen by someone I had thought was a friend - I never saw the dog or "friend" again; never even knew where they went. She was the last dog of mine ... I suppose after almost 50 years I don't miss her much anymore, only had her for about 6 months as a puppy. But sometimes I think about her. Time has a way of fading some memories ...

Sometime around 1990, I had a girlfriend with a retriever. We'd travel - for fun or work - but I-Can't-Recall-His-Name didn't take to travelling well. Said girlfriend passed ICRHN off to a friend who was better able to take care of him. They got along very well and when the inevitable breakup with the girlfriend came, it turned out the dog preferred to stay with the friend.

God visited me some time ago ... oh, it might have been about 1997. I didn't realize it at the time. Didn't think about it at the time. No burning bushes but a beautiful healthy German Shepherd deep in the Wilderness.

At least it was a dog that looked like a German Shepherd. Kind of like this picture but a little fuller.

I was out in central Nevada someplace out along US50. There's a lot of not-much through there. I had pulled off the highway to take a break. This dog came out of nowhere - I was a long way from any town or ranch, yet this dog came up to me from out in the sagebrush and just stared at me.

I stared back.

Where did this dog come from? He obviously hadn't been wandering for long; his coat was too clean, he appeared well-fed.

A dilemma.
Do I take him in? I live in a small apartment. Besides, if he had wandered off, his owners must be looking for him.
Or did they dump him? I didn't think about that at the time.
Do I try to bond with him? Then what? I can't care for him.

So I ignored him until he wandered away.
A few minutes later, I had second thoughts. Called out to him - he couldn't have gotten too far away yet; no response.

I didn't think much of it at the time, but - not even being sure "God" exists - I now feel I failed a biblical test.
And it bothers me much more now than it did 30 years ago.

Figure that.

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Published by Jean Sat Oct 7, 2006

The summer after fifth grade, we moved from our house in Uniontown, Ohio to the farm in Portage County. It was shortly after that move that my mom found the church she wanted us to attend... St. Michael's Byzantine Catholic Church.
In Akron, twenty-five miles from the farm. No more than ten miles from Uniontown. Oh, well. Long drives to get where you needed/wanted to be were not uncommon for our family.

Mom was born in Czechoslovakia, when it was still known as Austria-Hungary.
In her eyes, the Roman Catholics just didn't do it right.
St. Michael's was the church where the four of us kids (the youngest having not yet been born) finally took our first communions. On the same day. After having completed catechism and learning to "go to confession".

St. Michael's had, among seemingly hundreds of other social events and celebrations, an annual church picnic. The church owned property at the edge of another town not far away. This piece of land was a hill, at the top of which was the church cemetery. At the bottom of the hill, in the back, was the pavilion for the picnics. The pavilion was a huge, roofed-over concrete slab with benches along the outer edges. I remember large trees surrounding the entire piece of property, so the pavilion was nicely shaded.

The first picnic we attended there, I remember sitting beside my dad on one of the benches, listening to a local polka band and watching people dance. Dad loved music, but his sense of rhythm... or more appropriately, his lack of... kept him off the dance floor most of the time. So, I kept him company while people whirled, twirled, glided and bounced past us.
Mom was one of the dancers.

I could see Dad following Mom with his eyes, watching her graceful movements as she and her dancing partner... an older woman from the church... circled 'round and 'round the dance floor. I could tell that he would have liked to have been her partner in the dance. His gaze never left her face.

After she passed us several times, smiling at us while she danced, I heard Dad let out a long sigh. I turned to look at him, and heard him say so very quietly, "Isn't she beautiful?"
That was the first time I saw love and passion reflected in a person's face.
In that moment, he saw only her. The love of his life.

Not long after that time, their marriage started to fall apart.
But they never divorced, and he took care of her as she was dying from cancer.
I like to think that he never stopped thinking she was beautiful.

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