November 19th, Tuesday | Hiram Bingham's Big (re)Discovery

The date is December 4th, Wednesday, and today I’m traveling from Auckland, New Zealand to Los Angeles, California and then Los Angeles, CA to Portland, OR. Phew.  

This week I’ll be on hiatus, check out Monday’s episode, December 2nd for the whole scoop!

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Lewis Carroll  

The sun was shining on the sea,

   Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

   The billows smooth and bright—

And this was odd, because it was

   The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

   Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

   After the day was done—

"It's very rude of him," she said,

   "To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,

   The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud because

   No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead—

   There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

   Were walking close at hand:

They wept like anything to see

   Such quantities of sand:

"If this were only cleared away,"

   They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops

   Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

   "That they could get it clear?"

"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,

   And shed a bitter tear.

"0 Oysters, come and walk with us!"

   The Walrus did beseech.

"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

   Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

   To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

   But never a word he said;

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

   And shook his heavy head—

Meaning to say he did not choose

   To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

   All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

   Their shoes were clean and neat—

And this was odd, because, you know,

   They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

   And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

   And more and more and more—

All hopping through the frothy waves,

   And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

   Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

   Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

   And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

   "To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—

   Of cabbages—and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

   And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,

   "Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

   And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.

   They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,

   "Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

   Are very good indeed—

Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,

   We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,

   Turning a little blue.

"After such kindness, that would be

   A dismal thing to do!"

"The night is fine," the Walrus said,

   "Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!

   And you are very nice!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

   "Cut us another slice.

I wish you were not quite so deaf—

   I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

   "To play them such a trick.

After we've brought them out so far,

   And made them trot so quick!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

   "The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:

   "I deeply sympathize."

With sobs and tears he sorted out

   Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

   Before his streaming eyes.

"O, Oysters," said the Carpenter,

   "You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?"

   But answer came there none—

And this was scarcely odd, because

   They'd eaten every one.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.

Hiatus Week Day 2: A belated autumnal poem to explain the Indian Summer phenomenon. 

The date is December 3rd, Tuesday, and today I’m coming to you from Auckland, New Zealand. 

This week I’ll be on hiatus, check out Monday’s episode, December 2nd for the whole scoop!

Legend of The Indian Summer

Kate Harrington

I have learned a simple legend,

Never found in books of lore,

Copied not from old tradition,

Nor from classics read of yore ;

But the breezes sang it to me

With a low and soft refrain,

While the golden leaves and scarlet

Fluttered down to catch the strain.

And the grand old trees above me,

As their stately branches swayed,

Threw across my couch of crimson

More of sunlight than of shade.

I had lain there dreaming, musing

On the summer's vanished bloom,

Wondering if each penciled leaflet

Did not mark some flow'ret's tomb ;

Thinking how each tree could tell me

Many a tale of warrior's fame;

Gazing at the sky, and asking

How the ''Indian Summer' came.

Then methought a whispered cadence

Stole from out the haunted trees,

While the leaves kept dropping, dropping,

To the music of the breeze.

“I will tell thee,” said the whisper,

“What I've learned from Nature's book;

For the sunbeams wrote this legend

On the margin of a brook.

“'Tis about an Indian maiden,

She the star-flower of her race,

With a heart whose soft emotions

Rippled through her soul-lit face.

“All her tribe did homage to her,

For her father was their chief;

He was stern, and she forgiving,—

He brought pain, and she relief.

“And they called him 'Indian Winter,'

All his actions were so cold ;

Her they named the 'Indian Summer,'

For she seemed a thread of gold

“Flashing through her native forest,

Beaming in the wigwam lone,

Singing to the birds, her playmates,

Till they warbled back her tone.

“When the summer days were ended,

And the chilling months drew near,

When the clouds hung, dull and leaden,

And the leaves fell, brown and sere,

“Brought they to the chieftain's presence

One, a ‘pale-face,’ young and brave,

But whom youth nor manly valor

Could from savage vengeance save.

“‘Bring him forth!’ in tones of thunder

Thus the 'Indian Winter' cried,

While the gentle ' Indian Summer'

Softly flitted to his side.

'When the tomahawk was lifted,

And the scalping-knife gleamed high,

Pride, revenge, and bloody hatred

Glared within the warrior's eye;

'And the frown upon his forehead

Darker, deeper, sterner grew ;

While the lowering clouds above them

Hid the face of heaven from view.

''Spare him ! oh, my father, spare him!'

Friend and foe were thrust apart,

While the golden thread of sunlight

Twined around the red man's heart.

'And her eye was full of pity,

And her voice was full of love,

As she told him of the wigwam

On the hunting-ground above,

'Where great Manito was talking,—

She could hear him in the breeze ;

How he called the ' pale-face' brother—

Smoked with him the pipe of peace.

'Then the warrior's heart relented,

And the glittering weapon fell: 

For the maiden's sake,' he muttered,

'Thou art pardoned,— fare thee well!'

' And the sun, that would have slumbered

Till the spring-time came again,

Earthward from his garnered brightness

Threw a flood of golden rain;

'And the 'Indian Summer' saw it,

She, the gentle forest child ;

And to ' Indian Winter' whispered,

See how Manito has smiled !'

'All the tribe received the omen,

And they called it by her name:

Indian Summer, Indian Summer,

It will ever be the same.

'Though the ' pale-face' gave another

To the lovely maid he won,

Nature still receives her tribute

From the wigwam of the sun.

' Here, alone, this shining symbol

Gilds the streamlet, warms the sod,

For no Indian Summer cometh

Save where Indian feet have trod.'

Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.

The date is December 2nd, Monday, and today I’m traveling from Port Vila, Vanuatu to Auckland, New Zealand.

This week I’ll be on hiatus, which may sound ridiculous considering the number of episodes I have to catch up on, but if you then consider that each episode takes me about 3 hours from research to writing to publication, I need time, that with working, I don’t always have. 

So this hiatus week will be a recurring thing I do to help me stay on top of episodes while I figure out how to produce them faster (!). And each week I’ll share some content I couldn’t otherwise share on here. This week I’ll be sharing poems that I think are quite delightful and quirky but that would otherwise be too long for a regular episode. Future hiatus weeks may be something different! Stayed tuned. 

So without further ado….

The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo

Edward Lear

On the Coast of Coromandel

   Where the early pumpkins blow,

      In the middle of the woods

   Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Two old chairs, and half a candle,

One old jug without a handle--

      These were all his worldly goods,

      In the middle of the woods,

      These were all his worldly goods,

   Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,

   Of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bo.

Once, among the Bong-trees walking

   Where the early pumpkins blow,

      To a little heap of stones

   Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

There he heard a Lady talking,

To some milk-white Hens of Dorking--

      "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!

      On that little heap of stones

      Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!

   Sitting where the pumpkins blow,

      Will you come and be my wife?"

   Said the Yongby-Bonghy-Bo.

"I am tired of living singly--

On this coast so wild and shingly--

      I'm a-weary of my life;

      If you'll come and be my wife,

      Quite serene would be my life!"

   Said the Yonghy-Bongby-Bo,

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

"On this Coast of Coromandel

   Shrimps and watercresses grow,

      Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"

Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

"You shall have my chairs and candle,

And my jug without a handle!

      Gaze upon the rolling deep

      (Fish is plentiful and cheap);

      As the sea, my love is deep!"

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Lady Jingly answered sadly,

   And her tears began to flow--

      "Your proposal comes too late,

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

I would be your wife most gladly!"

(Here she twirled her fingers madly)

      "But in England I've a mate!

      Yes! you've asked me far too late,

      For in England I've a mate,

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

   Mr. Yongby-Bonghy-Bo!

"Mr. Jones (his name is Handel--

   Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)

      Dorking fowls delights to send

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle,

And your jug without a handle--

      I can merely be your friend!

      Should my Jones more Dorkings send,

      I will give you three, my friend!

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

"Though you've such a tiny body,

   And your head so large doth grow--

      Though your hat may blow away

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy,

Yet I wish that I could modi-

      fy the words I needs must say!

      will you please to go away

      That is all I have to say,

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"

Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,

   Where the early pumpkins blow,

      To the calm and silent sea

   Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,

Lay a large and lively Turtle.

      "You're the Cove," he said, "for me;

      On your back beyond the sea,

      Turtle, you shall carry me!"

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,

   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Through the silent-roaring ocean

   Did the Turtle swiftly go;

      Holding fast upon his shell

   Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

With a sad primeval motion

Towards the sunset isles of Boshen

      Still the Turtle bore him well.

      Holding fast upon his shell,

      "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"

   Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,

   Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

From the Coast of Coromandel

   Did that Lady never go;

      On that heap of stones she mourns

   For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

On that Coast of Coromandel,

In his jug without a handle

      Still she weeps, and daily moans;

      On that little heap of stones

      To her Dorking Hens she moans,

   For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,

   For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.

The date is November 29th, Friday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu. 

And today is the birthday of Louisa May Alcott, American writer. 

Louisa May was born to a small family in 1832 in what is now Philadelphia, PA. They didn’t stay long there. The family would move to Boston shortly following Dad’s dream of founding a Transcendentalist school. The family would move 22 times in 30 years, mostly in and around New England. 

While Alcott’s father was a man of high-minded ideals, he was not a man of high income. From a young age Louisa May had to work to supplement the family’s income. She, her mother and sisters worked in a variety of domestic roles from governesses to seamstresses. 

Her father’s transcendentalist ideas did allow him to circulate with the likes of Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson and meant he placed a strong emphasis on reading and philosophy. At one point the family corresponded with Frederick Douglass while a housing a fugitive slave as part of the Underground Railroad. 

At age 27, Alcott began more seriously, a writing career. She started writing for The Atlantic Monthly, and, after a spell as a nurse in the Civil War— Alcott was a passionate abolitionist— and then as a patient from becoming deathly ill, her writing career took off. She published Hospital Sketches and Moods, both of which were well received for their humor and candor. She took on the pen name A. M. Barnard to publish more adventure-driven stories.

When Alcott’s classic Little Women first appeared in 1868, Alcott was skeptical it would be reviewed favorably—perhaps because she was concerned at how close it was to an autobiography. But it did well enough to have three sequels which followed the “little women” from adolescence to adulthood with their own kids: Good Wives, Little Men, and Jo’s Boys. 

One of Alcotts childhood homes in Massachusetts is now a museum dedicated to the Alcott family legacy, and Lousia May Alcott was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame 1996. 

Today is the birthday of Ann Dunham, American anthropologist. 

Dunham was born in Kansas, but became an island girl when she followed her parents in moving to Hawaii. While a student at the new University of Hawaii at Mānoa, Dunham met an intelligent, independent man from Kenya named Barack Obama. The two, Dunham 18 and Obama 23, fell for each other and married, against the wishes of their parents, despite the fact that Ann Dunham Obama was already 3 months pregnant. 

Dunham-Obama gave birth to Barack Obama II in August 1961 and was in classes the next semester, this time at the University of Washington in Seattle. Obama, Sr remained in Hawaii working in his original course of study. He departed for Harvard not long after that, Dunham raising little Obama in Hawaii with the help of her parents. Little did she know that her bundle of joy, who she would sometimes take with her to classes, would one day become that Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States. 

In addition to being a mother, Ann Dunham was an anthropologist who found her calling studying and aiding women of Indonesia. She lived in Jakarta with her second husband and 6-year-old Barack for a number of years before returning to Hawaii to begin work on a PhD, partially funded by a grant from The Asia Foundation. She would return again to Indonesia many times, a champion for women in rural communities and starting one of the early microcredit programs in Indonesia. 

Lullaby

Louisa May Alcott

Now the day is done, 

Now the shepherd sun 

Drives his white flocks from the sky; 

Now the flowers rest 

On their mother's breast, 

Hushed by her low lullaby. 

Now the glowworms glance, 

Now the fireflies dance, 

Under fern-boughs green and high; 

And the western breeze 

To the forest trees 

Chants a tuneful lullaby. 

Now 'mid shadows deep 

Falls blessed sleep, 

Like dew from the summer sky; 

And the whole earth dreams, 

In the moon's soft beams, 

While night breathes a lullaby. 

Now, birdlings, rest, 

In your wind-rocked nest, 

Unscared by the owl's shrill cry; 

For with folded wings 

Little Brier swings, 

And singeth your lullaby.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely weekend.

View this episode on our website.

The date is November 28th, Thursday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.

Today is Thanksgiving in America. It is a time for families and friends gather together to share a meal and spend the day reflecting on all the wonderful things, tangible and intangible, that have come our way over the past year.

So today I will just share a poem :) 

Thanksgiving

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We walk on starry fields of white
    And do not see the daisies;
 For blessings common in our sight
    We rarely offer praises.
 We sigh for some supreme delight
    To crown our lives with splendor,
 And quite ignore our daily store
    Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
    Upon our thought and feeling.
 They hand about us all the day,
    Our time from pleasure stealing.
 So unobtrusive many a joy
    We pass by and forget it,
 But worry strives to own our lives,
    And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year
    But holds some hidden pleasure,
 And looking back, joys oft appear
    To brim the past’s wide measure.
 But blessings are like friends, I hold,
    Who love and labor near us.

We ought to raise our notes of praise
    While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
    Of worry or of trouble;
 Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,
    Who knows the mask is double.

But he who has the faith and strength
    To thank his God for sorrow
 Has found a joy without alloy
    To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
    Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
 The hours and days a silent phrase
    Of music we are living.

And so the theme should swell and grow
    As weeks and months pass o’er us,
 And rise sublime at this good time,
    A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely Thanksgiving. 

Check out this episode on our website.

The date is November 27th, Wednesday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.

Today is the birthday of Fanny Kemble, British actress and writer. 

Fanny was born to an acting dynasty in 1809 and as such received her education in Paris in music and theater as a child, branching out to study literature and poetry in her teen years. 

She returned to London and set to work writing her own plays while performing in nearly all of Shakespeare’s classics on London stages, quickly becoming a favorite for her charm and good looks as well as her talent as a playwright. Although acting wasn’t her favorite, she was obviously talented, and it brought in a salary that she couldn’t refuse. 

While on an acting tour in America she met and fell in love with Pierce Butler. The couple lived in Philadelphia and had two daughters. But the marriage would not end well. Butler inherited massive plantations in the South from his grandfather not long into the marriage. Butler would travel South to oversee the plantations, leaving Fanny and the girls behind, perhaps already aware of Fanny’s abolitionist sentiments. Begrudgingly Butler took the whole family to Georgia in the winter of 1838, where Fanny was appalled to see the reality of slavery. The marriage quickly devolved, Butler growing abusive after being confronted with his own sins and a few cases of obvious infidelity. 

Kemble was finally able to separate from Butler in 1847. She made a living by turning to her writing and performing again at the theater circuits in America. She was forbidden to see her daughters who were in the care of their father. 

No longer under the control and abuse of her husband, Kemble wholeheartedly took up the abolitionist cause, publishing, most famously, Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-1839, about, of course, that fateful winter she spent in Georgia on her husband’s plantations. The text was taken up by abolitionist circuits as more ammo for their cause.  

She wrote a few additional plays, over ten memoirs regarding different times of her life, a collection of poetry, and translations of French plays. She returned to London, following a daughter who had married a British man. She passed away in 1893 at the age of 84. 

And today is the birthday of Bruce Lee, Chinese- American actor and martial artist. 

Bruce Lee was born in San Francisco, the son of a well-known Opera singer and heiress, though he spent his childhood in Hong Kong. After getting in an increasing number of street fights, some with persons in organized crime, his parents feared for his safety, though, he seemed to be winning a large number of the fights, thanks to his martial arts training. His parents sent him to America to finish his education.

A few years into studies at the University of Washington in Seattle, Lee moved to Oakland where he opened his second martial arts studio with a buddy, and opened its doors to all people, much to the chagrin of other Chinese residents. Becoming a prominent figure in the booming Bay Area, Lee began to venture into a more public sphere with live fights, and he landed a role in the 1966 television series The Green Hornet. Lee had studied drama during his time at University and had a good amount of experience from acting roles as a child and teen in Hong Kong. 

Bruce Lee is credited with elevating the image of Asians in America through his roles and public persona. He starred in eight feature films and either starred or was a guest in eight television series. Bruce Lee passed away unexpectedly at the age of 33 from a swollen brain, deemed to be the cause of a bad combination of painkillers. His legacy as the first big Asian American actor lives on. 

A Wish 

Fanny Kemble

Let me not die for ever when I’m laid

   In the cold earth! but let my memory

Live still among ye, like the evening shade,

   That o’er the sinking day steals placidly.

Let me not be forgotten! though the knell

   Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby;

Let me not be forgotten! though I dwell

   For ever now in death’s obscurity.

Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame,

   Trace not a record, not a line for me,

But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name,

   And in your hearts enshrine my memory!

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening. 

Check out this episode on our website.

Charles Schulz basically made a killing with Peanuts! A fiercely independent American surgeon shares a birthday with the cartoonist. Poem by Lewis Carroll.

The date is November 26th, Tuesday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.

Today is the birthday of Charles M. Schulz, American cartoonist. 

Charles Schulz had been working on his Li’l Folks cartoon for a few years before Peanuts evolved from it. Li’l Folks started out as a mostly one-panel comic and was featured in the St. Paul Pioneer Press newspaper for about three years before they cut ties. During that time Schulz did a few one-panel comics for The Saturday Evening Post. 

With that credit and his experience at his local paper, he was able to strike a deal with United Feature Syndicate, a comic syndicating company. Under the new name Peanuts, Schulz comic was first published in 7 newspapers on October 2nd, 1950. It took a bit to catch on, but by the 1960s, Peanuts was a hit and had its first animated performance in a Christmas special titled “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is still shown on NBC in December. After its premiere in 1965 it won an Emmy and a Peabody Award. 

In all Schulz wrote over 17,500 strips, rarely taking off even a single day. The merchandising of Peanuts became a source of intense wealth for Schulz, so that he was bringing in about $30 million annually from product sales, licensing, and endorsement deals. When the ice skating rink near his home in California shut down, he and his wife bought it and kept it going. 

Not keen on the business side of things, Schulz kept his focus on creating, hiring others to manage contracts and monetary affairs. In 1997, Schulz took a mandatory five weeks off for his 75th birthday - it was the only time during his life that Peanuts comics were “re-run.”  

Schulz was honored with a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame as well as a Congressional Gold Medal and various additional awards from the cartoon and comic community. He passed away in February 2000. 

And today is the birthday of Mary Edwards Walker, American surgeon and activist.

Mary Walker was a force to be reckoned with. Born in 1832 to a large family, Mary’s parents instilled in her a fierce independence and encouraged her to continually question gender and societal norms. In keeping with her family’s belief in equality and curiosity, Mary’s parents made sure their six girls and one boy received equal education. Since there were very few schools nearby, the Walkers started their own. 

Mary quickly gained a fascination with medicine after discovering a number of anatomy and physiology textbooks in her father’s possession. She attended Syracuse Medical School, paying her own way after saving up from working as a teacher. She was the only woman to graduate in the class of 1855. 

At the onset of the Civil War, Walker offered her skills as a surgeon to the US Army. Concerned that she was a woman, they declined, but offer her a position as a nurse, which Walker promptly rejected. Walker joined a civilian volunteer group as a surgeon instead. 

During the American Civil War, Walker was famously captured as she crossed enemy lines to treat wounded soldiers on the battlefield. She wore men’s clothing as was her mode of late, finding them easier to move around in and perform tasks in. From an early age her mother and father had endorsed wearing clothes that were functional, rather than gendered. Her mother had ranted to her children about the restrictiveness of corsets as well as the physical strain they put on the body.  

As a prisoner of war, she helped a confederate surgeon with an amputation before being sent to Castle Thunder. She was part of a prisoner exchange in 1864, just under a year before the war’s end. 

For her heroism she received a Medal of Honor after the war. She remains the only woman to receive the honor, which is the highest and most prestigious military decoration.

Acrostic

Lewis Carroll

Little maidens, when you look

On this little story-book,

Reading with attentive eye

Its enticing history,

Never think that hours of play

Are your only HOLIDAY,

And that in a HOUSE of joy

Lessons serve but to annoy:

If in any HOUSE you find

Children of a gentle mind,

Each the others pleasing ever—

Each the others vexing never—

Daily work and pastime daily

In their order taking gaily—

Then be very sure that they

Have a life of HOLIDAY.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening. 

Check out the show's website.

The date is November 25th, Monday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.

On this day in 1947, Hollywood studios in Los Angeles California instituted the first blacklist. Ten writers and directors under suspicion of communist sympathies were all fired from their respective posts and movie and TV studios were instructed not to hire them. The Hollywood Ten as they are known were requested to testify in front of the House of Un-American Activities. On the whole, the Ten believed the entire situation to be a witch-hunt by paranoid John McCarthy followers. Their “trial” was a clear demonstration of power on the part of the US Government, though the ordeal is rather hypocritical in light of first amendment rights which protect freedom of speech, including artistic expression.  

The practice of blacklisting artists - including actors - continued into the 1960s. 

And on this day in 1975, Suriname gained its independence from the Netherlands.

Suriname is located on the northern coast of South America and is the smallest country by land mass on the continent. Its population is an estimated 580,000 with the majority of people living in the northern half of the country. The climate is tropical and the plant life is lush, so it’s perhaps no wonder that European trading companies immediately set to work developing plantations and creating an agrarian economy. 

Suriname unfortunately, then became a center of slave exploitation. Primarily controlled by the Netherlands, slaves were shipped in from Africa, the East Indies, and India. To this day, Suriname is one of the most ethnically diverse countries. 

Suriname has struggled with corruption in government for decades although high literacy rates are a sign of improvement. Democracy was restored in the early 2000s, though current president Dési Bouterse has a questionable history, involving military dictatorship in the 1980s. The next elections in Suriname will be held in 2020. 

Tourism is indeed a part of the Suriname economy. The country is home to an extraordinary set of flora and fauna, as well as natural beauty like towering waterfalls, thanks to encompassing part of the Amazon rainforest. The interior of the country is said to be a birdwatcher's paradise. 

And today is the birthday of Kate Gleason, American businesswoman, engineer, and philanthropist. 

Kate Gleason was just shy of 12 when her father began training her as his assistant. Her step-brother had tragically died of typhoid fever leaving a void in her father’s heart as well as his gear-making company. Kate stayed by his side at the company, Gleason Works, for nearly 7 years, leaving at age 18 to enrolled at Cornell University’s engineering school, one of the first women to do so. 

Gleason was soon back by her father’s side though. She had become an integral part of management and development and Gleason Works didn’t last more than a semester without her. Kate Gleason went back to work and enrolled at the nearby Mechanics Institute, today Rochester Institute of Technology. 

Gleason took on increasing responsibility in the company and even ventured overseas to make sales in Europe, making Gleason Works one of the first American manufacturing companies to expand globally. 

Gleason left Gleason Works at age 47 and began to explore other fields. She got into construction and took on various building projects, in Rochester, South Carolina, and California. 

When she passed away in 1933, she left the majority of her $1.4 million estate (about $27 million in today’s dollars) to institutions in and around Rochester, NY, including her alma mater the Rochester Institute of Technology and the main Rochester Public Library. In turn RIT named their engineering departments the Kate Gleason College of Engineering and the Library’s main auditorium also bears her name. 

The Cherry Trees

Edward Thomas 

The cherry trees bend over and are shedding

On the old road where all that passed are dead,

Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding

This early May morn when there is none to wed.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening. 

Check out today's episode on our website.

The date is November 22nd, Friday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.

On this day in 1995, Toy Story premiered in theaters. 

Toy Story was the first feature-length film created completely using computer-generated imagery. It took around 5 years and $30 million to make. It was a worthy investment as Toy Story grossed nearly $380 million at the box office worldwide, was nominated for three Academy Awards and two Golden Globes, and launched a franchise of related merchandise, video games, and sequels. The most recent sequel, Toy Story 4, came out in June 2019 and grossed $1 billion at the box office. 

And today is the birthday of George Eliot, English writer. 

Of course many listeners will know that George Eliot is a pen name - the writer’s true identity was Mary Ann Evans. 

As a young child, Mary Ann Evans was declared unpretty. She did possess obvious smarts though, and so her father sent her to a boarding school in the hopes that she could develop her brains to make up for her lack of beauty. The amount of formal schooling she received was unusual for a country girl in the first half of the 1800s. 

George Eliot returned from school around 16 to take care of the home after her mother’s death. She continued reading voraciously and corresponded via letters with her former teacher. 

Still unmarried at age 21, George Eliot followed her father in his move to a town near the larger-sized Coventry, where she became friends with a well-connected couple, and started to mix with the intelligentsia of the town. When Eliot’s father passed away in 1849, it was if she was newly liberated. 

Eliot subsequently took a trip to mainland Europe with close friends of her and stayed in Geneva for a spell. Upon her return to England she relocated to London, taking up a position as an editor at a couple literary magazines as she continued to write on her own. While an editor she made up her mind to write novels, perhaps to fill a hole in what she saw as “Silly Novels by Lady Novelists.” 

Partly to keep her writing career separate from her editing career, and also to escape public scrutiny, Mary Ann Evans published all her novels as George Eliot. At the time, Eliot was living with a married man, and polite society disapproved of the arrangement, despite Eliot’s partner being in an open relationship. 

Mary Ann Evans was forced to admit that it was she who was truly George Eliot after other writers began claiming they were George Eliot. Fortunately, Eliot’s books had already become beloved by the public and Mary Ann carried on living with her partner without harm to her book sales. 

Eliot’s most notable novels include Adam Bede, The Mill on Floss, and Middlemarch. Middlemarch in particular stands out among her works - it is the novel most often adapted to TV and film and although scholarly opinions remain mixed, Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf were personal fans of the novel. Emily Dickinson once said in a letter to her cousin: “What do I think of Middlemarch? What do I think of glory?”

Count that Day Lost

George Eliot

If you sit down at set of sun 

And count the acts that you have done, 

And, counting, find 

One self-denying deed, one word 

That eased the heart of him who heard, 

One glance most kind 

That fell like sunshine where it went -- 

Then you may count that day well spent. 

But if, through all the livelong day, 

You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay -- 

If, through it all 

You've nothing done that you can trace 

That brought the sunshine to one face-- 

No act most small 

That helped some soul and nothing cost -- 

Then count that day as worse than lost.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely weekend. 

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The date is November 21st, Thursday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.

Today is the birthday of Catharina Questiers, Dutch writer. 

Catharina was born in 1631 in Amsterdam where she lived her whole life. She focused her efforts on plays and poetry and is speculated to be the youngest person to write Dutch plays and have them professionally produced. 

Catharina Questiers gained public noteriety when her play, based on the structure of the popular Spanish romances, premiered starring the alluring Ariana Nozeman, a top-billed actress. Sold out performances and positive reviews solidified Questiers as a playwright to watch. 

Questiers amassed a substantial amount of wealth in her lifetime. She didn’t marry until age 34 which was strange for the time. She claimed to have put off marriage because she enjoyed her freedom so much. Questiers also knew that once she were married she would have to give up any paid work, which she did after marrying Johan Cough in 1664. Her last play was The Battle for Laurels. 

And today is the birthday of Voltaire, French philosopher, writer, and historian. 

Voltaire was born Francois-Marie Arouet in 1694 in Paris to an upper-middle-class family. His parents hoped he would grow up to become a lawyer or at least have a steady career in government. But the independent-minded youngin wished to become a writer instead. 

However, young Voltaire did still have to make money and so he worked some jobs set up by his father. He wrote essays, histories, and poetry, developing a quick wit which made him a popular among the socialites in Paris. 

Naturally, his independent spirit and penchant for satire got him in trouble along the way. He went to jail or was exiled to England a few times in response to unflattering depictions of the Regent and the Church - though the French Regent would later honor Voltaire for his writings. 

Voltaire adopted the name “Voltaire” in 1718 after one of his spells in jail. His last name “Arouet” unfortunately was very similar to the French word for getting beaten up - an easy target for puns and highly unglamorous. As a child, Voltaire’s sister had often called him “un petit volontaire” or “a determined little thing.” Voltaire is also an anagram for the Latin-ized form of the French name “Arouet” - the anagram theory is supported by scholars. In any case, it certainly made him stand out even more among his contemporaries. 

Voltaire’s exile to England proved rather productive as he mixed with the best the literary community had to offer. Returning to France, he was able to finally sort out his shabby financial situation and receive money his father had tied up in a trust for him. With that, Voltaire could devote himself entirely to writing, without having to worry about money - must’ve been nice. 

Voltaire lived to the ripe old age of 83 - quite a feat in the 18th century. He is one of the most beloved French writers, countless writers, scholars, and politicians of his time and after cite Voltaire’s works as instrumental in forming their own philosophies. 

Famous quotations attributed to Voltaire include:

• “Best is the enemy of good.”
• “Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.”
• “The more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing.” And
• “Common sense is not so common.”

birth-day

Lucille Clifton

If you like this poem, check out the collected works of Lucille Clifton, a modern American poet.

Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.