This passage is designed to identify key problems in the foreign student's oral English upon arriving in the U.S.  In going over it with my students, I find myself asking an essential question: should I spend time trying to get students to use the somewhat sloppy American pronunciation and intonation (to prepare them for real world linguistic encounters)?  Or, on the other hand, should I be content to hear them pronounce words more clearly and correctly, albeit in a more British manner? I think I need to research the pedagogic literature to see which approach will achieve the better end result.  More to come on the topic...

In the American Culture section, a brief overview of the American govenmental system as an introduction to the topic of impeachment and an examination of the 1970s Watergate scandals which resulted in the only resignation of an American president, Richard M. Nixon. A portion of the film FROST/NIXON (2008) served as a suitable supplement to this topic, and the students seemed to enjoy this entertaining depiction of history, even though it took place long before they were born. A brief photographic excursion into the landmark February 1972 trip to China by Nixon and his highest advisors helped to arouse student interest.

The very purpose of existence is to reconcile the glowing opinion we have of ourselves with the appalling things that other people think about us.                        - Quentin Crisp

He attacked everything in life with a mix of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence, and it was often difficult to tell which was which.  ~Douglas Adams

 
Do not allow yourselves to be deceived: Great Minds are Skeptical... There is nothing more necessary than truth, and in comparison with it everything else has only secondary value.   This absolute will to truth: what is it? Is it the will to not allow ourselves to be deceived? Is it the will not to deceive? ... One does not want to be deceived, under the supposition that it is injurious, dangerous, or fatal to be deceived.
~Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 - 1900)

 
Greed is a dog; falsehood is a filthy street-sweeper. Cheating is eating a rotting carcass. Slandering others is putting the filth of others into your own mouth. The fire of anger is the outcaste who burns dead bodies at the crematorium.            
~ Sri Guru Granth Sahib (Sikh sacred text)

This afternoon, outside my window, a male cardinal perched on the branch of a nearby tree.  I grabbed my camera, used the digital zoom, and here is the result.  A little fuzzy to be sure, but a nice red surprise to brighten my afternoon.

 
I am at a loss for words to express my shock and dismay at what happened in Sichuan Province early this week.  The news images and videos say it all.  Pure human devastation on a nearly unprecedented scale.  And it all happened when I was in the final hours of my nearly month-long visit to various cities in China, a trip that was marked for me by the optimistic enthusiasm and exuberance of the Chinese population as the Olympic torch relay was making its way to city after city, to the happy cheers of a proud nation... in person and on national TV.  Amidst such calamity, one can only begin to ask why...  why does such healthy positivism have to be interrupted in such a cruel and heartbreaking manner, as it did in those suddenly helpless Sichuan towns, and now to a grieving nation in total shock?  Why?  I mourn for the innocent lost lives and pray for the survivors in their time of great need.

At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies.

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.

It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.

A very moving thing happened to me this evening. Following my day of work on assignment away from my home for the third night, I had a quick meal and headed home for my hotel room.  On the radio, a news report from China about the misfortune caused for so many people by the violent winter weather in the north, south and central regions of that country... frigid temperatures and heavy snows.

As an American, quite used to the calamity that periodically comes from natural phenomena like hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards, and the like... I saw an element of human tragedy in China that touched me deeply.  In that rapidly developing country, there are some 200 million migrant workers who supply the muscle and gritty toil in the cities to make the growing miracle possible.  A large percentage of these unsung heroes are now facing the impossibility of going home for the Chinese New Year... the only real holiday these people have at home with family throughout the year.  Now they are without transportation, and their hope fades with each passing day of adverse weather.

Having lived in China and having experienced first-hand the wonderful family tradition of this unique holiday, I suddenly found myself choking up in my car, eyes welling up with tears, as I pulled into the hotel parking lot, listening to the live audio of the humble yet desperate would-be Chinese travelers at train stations, completely frustrated by diminishing dreams. This is a story I really hope has some kind of happy ending, and if government can be the provider of such a turn around of fortunes, I earnestly pray that a suitable solution can be found by those in Beijing who have the power to make it happen, and soon.
~Richard

Update: My friend Penny conveys this encouraging news..."More than 120 trains left Guangzhou yesterday toward Hu Nan and Hu Bei province...and that 50,000 passengers at the airport left last night, too. Almost all the airports which were closed due to serious freezing re-opened."

Oscar Peterson, Virtuoso of Jazz, Dies at 82
By RICHARD SEVERO, New York Times
Published: December 24, 2007

Oscar Peterson, whose dazzling piano playing made him one of the most popular jazz artists in history, died Sunday night at his home in Mississauga, Ontario, outside Toronto. He was 82.

Michelle V. Agins/The New York Times
Oscar Peterson performing at Birdland in Aug. 2006.

The cause was kidney failure, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation reported. Mr. Peterson had performed publicly for a time even after a stroke he suffered in 1993 had compromised movement in his left hand.

Mr. Peterson was one of the greatest virtuosos in jazz, with a technique that was always meticulous and ornate and sometimes overwhelming. But rather than expand the boundaries of jazz, he used his gifts in the service of moderation and reliability and in gratifying his devoted audiences, whether playing in a trio or solo. His technical accomplishments were always evident, almost transparently so. Even at his peak, there was very little tension in his playing.

One of the most prolific major stars in jazz history, he amassed an enormous discography. From the 1950s until his death, he released sometimes four or five albums a year, toured Europe and Japan frequently, and became a big draw at jazz festivals.

Norman Granz, his influential manager and producer, helped Mr. Peterson realize that success, setting loose a flow of records on his own Verve and Pablo labels and establishing him as a favorite in the touring “Jazz at the Philharmonic” concerts in the 1940s and ’50s.

Mr. Peterson won eight Grammy awards, as well as almost every possible honor in the jazz world. He played alongside giants of jazz like Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, Charlie Parker, Roy Eldridge, Nat King Cole, Stan Getz, Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington.

A Story on Friendship
~ Author Unknown

      
    Some photos taken yesterday in my front yard.
    Click here to see these photos in full size.

A story is told about a soldier who was finally coming home after having fought in that ugly, senseless war in Iraq. He called his parents from New York.

"Mom and Dad, I'm coming home, but I've a favor to ask. I have a friend I'd like to bring home with me.

"Sure," they replied, "we'd love to meet him."

"There's something you should know," the son continued, "he was hurt pretty badly in the fighting. His vehicle was blown up and he lost an arm and a leg. He has nowhere else to go, and I want him to come live with us."

"I'm sorry to hear that, son. Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live."

"No, Mom and Dad, I want him to live with us."

"Son," said the father, "you don't know what you're asking. Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our own lives to live, and we can't let something like this interfere with our lives. I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He'll find a way to live on his own."

At that point, the son hung up the phone. The parents heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call from the New York police. Their son had died after falling from a building, they were told. The police believed it was suicide.

The grief-stricken parents flew to New York and were taken to the city morgue to identify the body of their son. They recognized him, but to their horror they also discovered something they didn't know; their son had only one arm and one leg.

The parents in this story are like many of us. We find it easy to love those who are good-looking or fun to have around, but we don't like people who inconvenience us or make us feel uncomfortable. We would rather stay away from people who aren't as healthy, beautiful, or smart as we are, or people who have wrinkled bodies.

Thankfully, there's usually someone who won't treat us that way. Someone who loves us with an unconditional love that welcomes us into the forever family, regardless of how messed up we are.

Tonight, before you tuck yourself in for the night, say a little prayer that you will have the strength you need to accept people as they are, and to help us all be more understanding of those who are different from us!!! There's a miracle called Friendship that dwells in the heart...  You don't know how it happens or when it gets started ... But you know the special lift ... it always brings. And you realize that Friendship Is God's most precious gift!

Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care at this time of Thanksgiving....

One year has passed now since your leaving, David, and the pain of missing you is still intense, especially at the holiday season like this -- when we all had the wonderful family Thanksgiving get-together only days away to look forward to.  You always made such times very special, like no one ever could or will again.  Your love and devotion to your family was never wanting, and your humor and compassion was contagious and nourished us until the next time we had the pleasure of your company. When my phone rings on Sunday mornings I still think it is you -- just calling to catch up on things, no matter how busy your work or studies had you. I can only thank God for giving me a brother like you, David, and I hope where you are now is peaceful, replete with laughter and inexpensive Chilean red wine, and full of beautiful music.     Hank!

Took my morning walk in very cool temperatures for the first time this fall. It was 35 degrees F. (2 degrees C.) when I set out on my daily 40-minute journey through the woods today. On the pathway was an appealing, thick carpet of yellow, gold and red leaves, which gave my footsteps the swishing sound I have always associated with this time of year. True autumn has arrived very late this year, and the temperatures have been consistently above average, often even at or near record territory. But the brisk air and the trees now working their way to nakedness were an apt reminder that "winter is a comin' in..."  It brings to mind the parody poem ANCIENT MUSIC  by Ezra Pound, a favorite of mine:

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
         Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
         Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
         So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

Isn't that fun?  And what better poem to memorize to shout at the top of one's lungs when the bitter cold and snow begin to depress us into submission?   (Incidentally, Pound's Chinese translations are among the most admired of his works, especially Cathay, which was published in 1915.)

As I walked, I was reveling in last night's brilliant 4-game sweep World Series win by my favorite team since childhood, the Boston Red Sox.  This is only the second time I have had the thrill of championship victory with this team (the other was in 2004) SINCE BIRTH! and it was a wonderful feeling.  But as my lonely walks often breed nostalgia, and as I listened to Brahms 2nd Symphony on my Walkman radio, I began to remember my earliest baseball memories.

One delight I have remembered for nearly half a century was the day my father drove me from Green Bay to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to treat me to my first professional baseball game.  While I have only faint recollections of the game itself, I do recall the names of the players I was able to see (Eddie Matthews, Joe Torre, Warren Spahn, Del Crandall, and the great Hank Aaron!!!)  I also have the recollection of falling asleep in the back seat of the car on the ride home, and waking up to hearing "On the Street Where You Live" from the Broadway musical MY FAIR LADY on the car radio.  I must have been swooning over my high school sweetheart, as that recollection is still so vivid, however ancient it might be. My father was so kind to me that day, and I am sure it represented a huge sacrifice to our family's precarious financial situation at the time.

Such are the random meanderings of an aging, sometimes lunatic mind, high on classical music and beautiful foliage, walking along on a cool early autumn morning here in Maryland.

Strange the way time works on us. Like an intravenous drip at the hospital, the constant plopping of the liquid from the bag into the vein. We sit (or lie) and watch, at first thinking that at such a slow rate the ending will never come. Then, before we know it, we begin to wonder if the nurse should be summoned as it seems the bag will empty very soon... The same is true of life (or love, or a job, or family...)... when we savor the freshness of beginnings, the rush of excitement that accompanies our new situation... at the time, we never see an ending, and such an eventuality of closure, the ultimate finality, is totally beyond consideration. Then Time, working its devastation at various speeds -- alternately racing breakneck or merely plodding along -- does its job.  Finally the end is in vivid, comprehensible and dreaded view ... or worse, much worse, an unexpected event comes along and more suddenly interrupts the natural passage of time. This is the always frightening potential that comes from the struggle between natural progression and the capricious workings of fate. For some, the interplay is exciting. For others, it is enough to keep us awake at night, staring in the dark at a ceiling we are never really sure we will see again.