tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-342098282024-03-27T14:02:30.224-07:00MICHAELSPAPPYRandom thoughts from a largely-useless man.
Old radio shows, old movies, the simple life.MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.comBlogger6914125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-45243636185105846732024-03-27T14:01:00.000-07:002024-03-27T14:01:53.295-07:00Keep him locked up!<p> Her cheerful smile as she went out struck me as one of the most pathetic sights I had ever seen. Poor child, bustling off so brightly when her whole future rested on Ukridge's ability to raise a hundred pounds! I presumed that he was relying on one of those Utopian schemes of his which were to bring him in thousands - "at a conservative estimate, laddie!" - and not for the first time in a friendship of years the reflection came to me that Ukridge ought to be in some sort of home. A capital fellow in many respects, but not a man lightly to be allowed at large.</p><p>(from "The Return of Battling Billson," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-5411545285605602452024-03-26T04:57:00.000-07:002024-03-26T04:57:03.239-07:00Don't pop her bubble<p> She was a nice girl, the only noticeable flaw in her character being an absurd respect for Ukridge's intelligence and abilities. I, who had known that foe of the human race since boyhood up and was still writhing beneath the memory of the night when he had sneaked my dress clothes, could have corrected her estimate of him, but it seemed unkind to shatter her girlish dreams.</p><p>(from "Ukridge Sees Her Through," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-18454836200562399732024-03-23T04:18:00.000-07:002024-03-23T04:18:36.177-07:00Cauliflower brain<p> Like all writers, I had a sturdy distaste for solid work, and this seemed to offer a pleasant way out, turning literary composition into a jolly tete-a-tete chat. It was only when those gleaming eyes looked eagerly into mine and that twitching pencil poised itself to record the lightest of my golden thoughts that I discovered what I was up against. For fifteen minutes I had been experiencing all the complex emotions of a nervous man who, suddenly called upon to make a public speech, realizes too late that his brain has been withdrawn and replaced by a cheap cauliflower substitute: and I was through.</p><p>(from "Ukridge Sees Her Through," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-25507703032302434252024-03-22T05:03:00.000-07:002024-03-22T05:03:13.012-07:00Not much chance<p> "Alf Todd [a boxer]," said Ukridge, soaring to an impressive burst of imagery, "has about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a needle of melted butter into a wildcat's left ear with a red-hot needle."</p><p>(from "The Return of Battling Billson," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-1172563197564019392024-03-21T06:28:00.000-07:002024-03-21T06:28:23.870-07:00Not Cecil!<p> <span> "A lot there is the matter with your ankle."</span></p><p><span><span> "Sprained it yesterday, old man. Nothing serious," said Ukridge, reassuringly. Just enough to lay me up for a couple of days."</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> "Yes, till that ghastly female and her blighted boy had got well away."</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> Pained astonishment was written all over Ukridge's face. "You don't mean to say you didn't like her? Why, I thought you two would be all over each other."</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> "And I suppose you thought that Cecil and I would be twin souls."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> "Cecil?" said Ukridge, doubtfully. "Well, to tell you the truth, old man, I'm not saying that Cecil doesn't take a bit of knowing. He's the sort of boy you have to be patient with and bring out, if you understand what I mean. I think he grows on you."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> "If he ever tries to grow on me, I'll have him amputated."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p>(from "The Return of Battling Billson," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-23279922141955480202024-03-20T05:27:00.000-07:002024-03-20T05:27:23.059-07:00I forgot to mention him<p> I perceived a small, shiny boy by the window. Ukridge, realizing with the true artist's instinct that the secret of all successful prose is the knowledge of what to omit, had not mentioned him in his letter; and, as he turned reluctantly to go through the necessary civilities, it seemed to me that the burden was more than I could bear. He was a rat-faced, sinister-loking boy, and he gazed at me with a frigid distaste which reminded me of the barman at the Prince of Wales public house in Ratcliff Highway.</p><p>(from "The Return of Battling Billson," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-19717799020495710462024-03-19T05:52:00.000-07:002024-03-19T05:52:33.584-07:00A fine fellow<p> The farther I penetrated over the polished floor, the more vividly was it brought home to me that I was one of the submerged tenth and could have done with a haircut. I had not been aware when I left home that my hair was unusually long, but now I seemed to be festooned by a matted and offensive growth. A patch on my left shoe which had had a rather comfortable look in Ebury Street stood out like a blot on the landscape. No, I was not at my ease; and when I reflected that in a few moments I was to meet Ukridge's aunt, that legendary figure, face to face, a sort of wistful admiration filled me of the beauty of the nature of one who would go through all this to help a girl he had never even met. There was no doubt about it - the facts spoke for themselves - I was one of the finest fellows I had ever known. Nevertheless, there was no getting away from it, my trousers did bag at the knee.</p><p>(from "First Aid For Dora," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-72117116956271961732024-03-18T05:28:00.000-07:002024-03-18T05:28:55.284-07:00Not here, not now<p> As she preceded us down the long dining room, her arm linked in George Tupper's - she seemed to have taken a liking to George - I had ample opportunity for studying her, from her patent-leather shoes to the mass of golden hair beneath her picture-hat. She had a loud, clear voice, and she was telling George Tupper the rather intimate details of an internal complaint which had recently troubled an aunt of hers. If George had been the family physician, she could not have been franker; and I could see a dull glow spreading over his shapely ears.</p><p>(from "The Debut of Battling Billson, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-65486568989118399842024-03-15T05:45:00.000-07:002024-03-15T05:45:41.962-07:00The strangeness in the proportion<p> "<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: calc((var(--blog-item-title-font-font-size-value) - 1) * 1.2vw + 1rem); font-weight: var(--blog-item-title-font-font-weight); text-align: center;">There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion." </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: calc((var(--blog-item-title-font-font-size-value) - 1) * 1.2vw + 1rem); font-weight: var(--blog-item-title-font-font-weight); text-align: center;">Several decades ago, when I first saw that quote from Sir Francis Bacon in a pictoral collection in <i>Readers Digest</i>, it quickly became one of my favorites. By way of explanation, a face can be so perfect that it becomes almost uninteresting, whereas those with some slight defect by contrast become fascinating, or even hypnotic, and thus an "excellent" beauty.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: calc((var(--blog-item-title-font-font-size-value) - 1) * 1.2vw + 1rem); font-weight: var(--blog-item-title-font-font-weight); text-align: center;">An example might be the picture that I use for the character of Elliane McDermott in my Sir Cuthbert stories. In the first of the stories, <i>Cuthbert Solves a Case</i>, a friend asks Percy to tell her what it is that he doesn't like about her face, and he lists several supposed defects. She teases him that for someone who doesn't like her face he evidently has spent a good bit of time studying it. And defects they may justly have been, but he ends up marrying her anyway.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: calc((var(--blog-item-title-font-font-size-value) - 1) * 1.2vw + 1rem); font-weight: var(--blog-item-title-font-font-weight); text-align: center;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxGfJNxPvouT3jPj8GdonCR_meKH4Qagl8laEeL1C7MNBJmOy6jK1lIFU_G_VCSGD5M14SkNa7GP9QXRQPSncX_fjlsPlVJ8uSDmjog1JzSQMuUpqPI--JTEtPTdU21yo8g39U7KSzsemWz6LTY7CPP29OWIwcMBB4yKIaVwJ7WMzPzrt0KQXt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxGfJNxPvouT3jPj8GdonCR_meKH4Qagl8laEeL1C7MNBJmOy6jK1lIFU_G_VCSGD5M14SkNa7GP9QXRQPSncX_fjlsPlVJ8uSDmjog1JzSQMuUpqPI--JTEtPTdU21yo8g39U7KSzsemWz6LTY7CPP29OWIwcMBB4yKIaVwJ7WMzPzrt0KQXt" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-8658705241377675312024-03-14T03:41:00.000-07:002024-03-14T03:41:57.800-07:00He needs inspiration<p> <span> "What guarantee have I," demanded Ukridge, "that if I go to enormous trouble and expense getting him another match, he won't turn aside and brush away a silent tear in the first round because he's heard that the blighter's wife has got an ingrowing toenail?"</span></p><p><span><span> "You could match him only against bachelors."</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> "Yes, and the first bachelor he met would draw him into a corner and tell him his aunt was down with whooping-cough, and the chump would heave a sigh and stick his chin out to be walloped. A fellow's got no business to have red hair if he isn't going to live up to it. And yet," said Ukridge, wistfully, "I've seen that man - it was in a dance-hall at Naples - I've seen him take on at least eleven Italians simultaneously. But then, one of them stuck a knife about three inches into his leg. He seems to need something like that to give him ambition."</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> "I don't see how you are going to arrange to have him knifed just before each fight."</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span>(from "The Debut of Battling Billson," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</span></span></span></span></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-35381699246456847422024-03-11T04:50:00.000-07:002024-03-11T04:50:55.449-07:00Why worry about technicalities?<p> <span> "Gentlemen," said Ukridge, "It would seem that the company requires more capital. Hw about it, old horses? Let's get together in a frank, business-like cards-on-the-table spirit, and see what can be done. I can raise ten bob."</span></p><p><span><span> "What!" cried the entire assembled company, amazed. "How?"</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> "I'll pawn a banjo."</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> "You haven't got a banjo."</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> "No, but George Tupper has, and I know where he keeps it."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span>(from "Ukridge's Accident Syndicate," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</span></span></span></span></span></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-87155168390734379502024-03-10T03:44:00.000-07:002024-03-10T03:44:30.470-07:00Too confounded healthy<p> All over the inhabited globe, so the well-informed sheet gave one to understand, every kind of accident was happening every day to practically everybody in existence except Teddy Weeks. Farmers in Minnesota were getting mixed up with reaping machines, peasants in India were being bisected by crocodiles; iron girders from skyscrapers were falling hourly on the heads of citizens in every town from Philadelphia to San Fransisco; and the only people who were not down with ptomaine poisoning were those who had walked over cliffs, driven motors into walls, tripped over manholes, or assumed on too slight evidence that the gun was not loaded. In a crippled world, it seemed, Teddy Weeks walked alone, whole and glowing with health. It was one of those grim, ironical, hopeless, grey, despairful situations which the Russian novelists love to write about.</p><p>(from "Ukridge's Accident Syndicate," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-82365566600432556342024-03-05T02:57:00.000-08:002024-03-05T02:57:18.272-08:00Not the brightest bulb<p> If the leading incidents of S. F. Ukridge's disreputable career are to be given to the public - and not, as some might suggest, decently hushed up - I suppose I am the man to write them. Ukridge and I have been intimate since the days of school. Together we sported on the green, and when he was expelled no one missed him more than I. An unfortunate business, this expulsion. Ukridge's generous spirit, ever ill-attuned to school rules, caused him eventually to break the solemnest of them all by sneaking out at night to try his skill at the coco-nut-shies of the local village fair; and his foresight in putting on scarlet whiskers and a false nose for the expedition was completely neutralized by the fact that he absent-mindedly wore his school cap throughout the entire proceedings. He left the next morning, regretted by all.</p><p>(from "Ukridge's Dog College," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-953857800394546122024-02-24T05:25:00.000-08:002024-02-24T05:25:50.582-08:00Admiral of the Navy<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> You may not ever have heard of it, but there was once a rank of Admiral of the Navy, which was given to Admiral George Dewey after his victory at the Battle of Manila Bay in 1898. However, there was never a insignia created that had more stars than the standard one for Admiral. By 1955, the Navy had established that the rank was honorary, and when the rank of Fleet Admiral was created (with five stars), it was specified in a memo that "<span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">the rank of Fleet Admiral of the United States Navy shall be considered the senior most rank of the United States Navy."</span></span></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-14217095365492734762024-02-19T06:49:00.000-08:002024-02-19T06:49:43.539-08:00Don't drop it!<p> Some of us would go to the compound dump and root out old dry hard bread. If you scraped off the dirt etc. you could re-wet it, then squeeze out the excess water and eat it. I would scavenge the old discarded prune seeds, crack them open and eat the kernels. Bitter, but food. That potato bread was something else. As long as it wasn't sliced, it wasn't bad, but slice it or cut it and you had better eat it, because it would quickly get as hard as a brick. And whatever you do, don't drop a loaf on your foot.</p><p>(from <i>Behind the Wire</i>, by Philip Kaplan and Jack Currie)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-12489172760486256792024-02-19T05:22:00.000-08:002024-02-19T05:22:22.780-08:00Blurred line of distinction<p> <span> Miriam spoke suddenly. "Pete Shoyer has killed men for a few hundred dollars of reward money. Wouldn't such a man kill for what gold was on one of those mules?"</span></p><p><span><span> Swante Taggart drew a long breath. It was this he had been considering. There were men he knew who would not kill except in the name of the law - but there were others who would. The distinction between the peace officers of the time and the outlaw was either sharply drawn or it was scarcely drawn at all.</span><br /></span></p><p><span>(from <i>Taggart</i>, by Louis L'Amour)</span></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-52215408608584335902024-02-18T05:06:00.000-08:002024-02-18T05:06:05.862-08:00There is always that one heretic<p> Outside the door Taggart paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was true that Apaches rarely attacked by night, or they believed the soul of a warrior killed in darkness must wander forever, lost in the vast emptiness of a night without stars. But Swante Taggart was not inclined to be killed by the one Apache who might be willing to take a chance.</p><p>(from <i>Taggart</i>, by Louis L'Amour)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-8236676875605712092024-02-16T04:16:00.000-08:002024-02-16T04:16:11.519-08:00Hell afloat<p> Prison ships, often called "death ships" for their deplorable conditions, were routinely used by the British during the war, and the Jersey had a reputation for being the worse, earning the nickname "Hell." Disease and vermin ran rampant among the starving prisoners. The bodies of inmates who died might not be recovered for a week or more, left to rot in the cramped, airless hulls in which the unfortunate passengers were forced to spend twenty-four hours a day. By the end of the war, approximately eight thousand people were estimated to have died aboard prison ships in New York alone.</p><p>(from <i>George Washington's Secret Six</i>, by Brian Kilmeade)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-41509188754177523332024-02-15T09:43:00.000-08:002024-02-15T09:43:56.872-08:00Vega<p> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Our next-door neighbor has a female Staffordshire Terrier named Vega. I get to take walks with her frequently. According to Wikipedia, "<span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">The Stafford is considered a family pet and companion dog, and is among the breeds recommended by the KC for families.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; text-wrap: nowrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">Relative to the breed's ancestral progenitors, the AKC states: 'From his brawling past, the muscular but agile Staffordshire Bull Terrier retains the traits of courage and tenacity. Happily, good breeding transformed this former gladiator into a mild, playful companion with a special feel for kids.'"</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">Watchman, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, is a military mascot of the now-disbanded Staffordshire Regiment, and continues his duties as part of the Staffordshire Regimental Association. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">There have been five Watchman since 1949, and the current mascot is LCpl Watchman VI, who took up his duties on 5 March 2019.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOJfqsbfXT4rni2pWdNgxtm02mwO9U1t7To8kvIFg4eptOO0ygRMjJXKu7phN5A21Ekipg7L0yqgs4QnK2ZTitT7h7LBtLMqJJIcvXKxoATZ3B5ioZG6XmsmPhknnmGieQnHHzo45OKvBqVjZNr8ss9o9BtMs1pFLsGEvgIJqUNkQmjpWNoNps" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1920" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOJfqsbfXT4rni2pWdNgxtm02mwO9U1t7To8kvIFg4eptOO0ygRMjJXKu7phN5A21Ekipg7L0yqgs4QnK2ZTitT7h7LBtLMqJJIcvXKxoATZ3B5ioZG6XmsmPhknnmGieQnHHzo45OKvBqVjZNr8ss9o9BtMs1pFLsGEvgIJqUNkQmjpWNoNps" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;"><br /></span></span></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-41531589401456248432024-02-15T05:16:00.000-08:002024-02-15T05:16:41.988-08:00Always the silence<p> <span> The sky was faintly gray when Miriam Stark climbed the thread of a trail to the top of Rockinstraw Mountain, a single rose-tinted cloud above the horizon giving only a suggestion of the glory to come with sunrise. Yet there was enough light to see the web of faint trails, each leading to some vantage point from which the country could be observed.</span></p><p><span><span> She loved this place, for even on the hottest day there was a faint stirring of wind, and always there was silence, an unbelievable silence that left the mind free to wander without interruption.</span><br /></span></p><p><span>(from <i>Taggart</i>, by Louis L'Amour)</span></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-59440294945184497442024-02-14T05:05:00.000-08:002024-02-14T05:05:03.563-08:00When everything goes wrong<p> The jig was up. [Benedict] Arnold's worst fears had all been realized: The Americans were aware (or soon would be) of the depth of his treachery, but the British had yet to do anything to capture the fort and, without the plans, likely never would be able to do so. Thus, he was a traitor to one group, but hardly the hero he had anticipated becoming to the other. Now he would be nothing more than a failed turncoat - if he was even able to escape with his life, that is.</p><p>(from <i>George Washington's Secret Six</i>, by Brian Kilmeade)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-39267343240313834322024-02-12T04:30:00.000-08:002024-02-12T04:30:04.744-08:00Saltbox style<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> In his book, George Washington's Secret Six, author Brian Kilmeade mentions a house constructed in "the saltbox style." According to Wikipedia, that is "<span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">a </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gable" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #3366cc; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Gable">gable</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">-roofed residential structure that is typically two </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Storey" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #3366cc; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Storey">stories</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;"> in the front and one in the rear. It is a traditional </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_England" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #3366cc; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;" title="New England">New England</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;"> style of home, originally </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timber_framing" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #3366cc; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Timber framing">timber framed</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">, which takes its name from its resemblance to a wooden lidded box in which salt was once kept."</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinjlKj2caAPSInALCkpmooWhBnautOVPiUeUFNw4VqcQKJfdVthkkA70SuQxxnNCNXUADDJfrStlb_z6ZxMKDT0WeUBLhe2RENyzq1rJe1PA6TsFXifKp-DzrEePcjbpNbtm77FAMzG8oEy1cw99XQ4JSZMlc_cNycCdbBkd5Lqz-rWIyGYmCg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="871" data-original-width="1200" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinjlKj2caAPSInALCkpmooWhBnautOVPiUeUFNw4VqcQKJfdVthkkA70SuQxxnNCNXUADDJfrStlb_z6ZxMKDT0WeUBLhe2RENyzq1rJe1PA6TsFXifKp-DzrEePcjbpNbtm77FAMzG8oEy1cw99XQ4JSZMlc_cNycCdbBkd5Lqz-rWIyGYmCg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-16482765863422740072024-02-11T04:30:00.000-08:002024-02-11T04:30:00.096-08:00The Stinking City<p>What destruction and politics didn't drive out, filth did. Nicholas Cresswell, an Englishman visiting New York, recorded his disgust with the state of the city following the winter thaw in the spring of 1777. He complained about the sheer number of people crowded into the city's confines, "almost like herrings in a barrel, most of them very dirty and not a small number sick of some disease, the Itch, Pox, Fever, or Flux." He further opined, "If any author had an inclination to write a treatise upon stinks and ill smells, he never could meet with more subject matter than in New York."</p><p>(from <i>George Washington's Secret Six</i>, by Brian Kilmeade)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-25516701344087340312024-02-09T06:00:00.000-08:002024-02-09T06:00:24.515-08:00The family rebel<p> He had never consiered himself cut from the same fabric as the rest of the prominent landowners, and had gone to some pains to distinguish himself from their upright and uptight behavior. Abraham Woodhull was proud of being the black sheep of his straitlaced family, and he assumed the burden of familial duty with reluctance; it smacked of Old World thinking. If he was to reject King George's authority on the basis that the monarch had simply been born into his position, why could he not also reject his own family's expectations for him to pick up the mantle of Woodhull respectability simply because he was the sole surviving son-of-a-son-of-a-son-of-a-son?</p><p>(from <i>George Washington's Secret Six</i>, by Brian Kilmeade)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdS_2sUkwnads461y-ZwS5LzzHk7CbjWOF1S_8fvchdDslluCTcGudueEbHoCZQt3mBA_28vYGX3lftR7qz5xrj1N9TyK9wtmwvU0J7OTm6T8nUUJCeCwkXFMnMvK_F7maH2yAd14UqtQ0eOnJ5ODkbwBvQ94uv9MO1XFYTMIre5sIf7Lh6mSD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="620" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdS_2sUkwnads461y-ZwS5LzzHk7CbjWOF1S_8fvchdDslluCTcGudueEbHoCZQt3mBA_28vYGX3lftR7qz5xrj1N9TyK9wtmwvU0J7OTm6T8nUUJCeCwkXFMnMvK_F7maH2yAd14UqtQ0eOnJ5ODkbwBvQ94uv9MO1XFYTMIre5sIf7Lh6mSD" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34209828.post-44508321012890578672024-02-08T04:51:00.000-08:002024-02-08T04:52:17.633-08:00Washington's dilemma<p> "You can form no idea of the perplexity of my situation. No man, I believe, ever had a greater choice of difficulties and less means to extricate himself from them."</p><p>(General George Washington, writing to his brother Samuel in 1776)</p>MICHAELSPAPPYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09933691596886031814noreply@blogger.com0