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The CyberSenior Review Volume 4 Number 3
®RM65¯start cybersenior.4.3(#14)
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* THE
* CYBERSENIOR
* REVIEW
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VOLUME 4 NUMBER 3 (#14) OCTOBER 1997
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet
Elders List, an active world-wide Internet Mailing
List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and
published by members of the Elders for interested
seniors worldwide. Contributions from non-Elders
are welcome. Please query one of the editors first.
Contents copyrighted 1997 by the Internet Elders
List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the
authors. Brief quotes permitted with attribution.
The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review:
Elaine Dabbs esudweek@mail.usyd.edu.au
Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk
James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us
======================================================
CONTENTS, Volume 4, Number 3, October 1997 (#14)
EDITORIAL by James Hursey
SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES by Robert S. Davidow
Roberts tells us of Succoth, the week-long festival of
Thanksgiving in Israel
A POLISH CHRISTMAS by Jan Mokrzycki
Jan describes Christmas traditions in his country,
including recipes for holiday goodies you may want to try.
CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS by Langston Kerr
Langston finds a Christmas catalog in his mailbox and sits
down right there to start looking at it, until fire ants
give him other ideas.
BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK by Des Weeks
Des tries horseback riding for the first time and finds that
Belle has a mind of her own.
TO MY GRANDSON a poem by Eloise Blanpied
==============================================================
EDITORIAL
by James Hursey
Greetings to seniors world-wide from the State of Ohio in the
USA, where, as I write, lovely October is just now beginning to
don her most colorful garb. Ah! October! What more can you say,
the very word a poem. I can look out the window at a cloudless,
deep-blue sky, trees just starting to turn, some, getting the
jump, as it were, on their fellows, already yellow and orange and
brown, while others, still green with envy, await their turn.
Yet, linked as we are, worldwide in cyberspace, we must remember
that our friends Down Under, where the season are reversed, are
even now enjoying Spring's re-awakening. Are they six months
ahead of us, or six months behind?
But no matter where we are, all enjoy the Holiday season, and in
this issue of The CyberSenior Review, we get a taste (quite
literally, including a recipe) of Christmas traditions in
different cultures, starting with Robert's description of the
Jewish Succoth, or Feast of the Tabernacle, a Thanksgiving
festival.
Then we may read about a Polish Christmas, as described by Jan,
followed by Langston's humorous reaction to the arrival of the
first Christmas catalogs in downtown Holly Springs.
While perhaps clinging a-horseback to a barely controlled horse
bound to have her own way is not exactly a holiday story (could
be, however, consider the toy "rocky horse" Langston sees in the
catalogue), we stretch a point and include Des's hilarious
description of his first attempt at riding.
We close with Eloise's lovely sonnet to her grandson, since, to
all of us seniors especially, grandchildren are always in season.
Holiday greetings (however you may celebrate in your part of the
world) from the editors of the CyberSenior Review.
==============================================================
SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES
by Robert S. Davidow
This month we are in the midst of one of the joyous festivals,
Succoth. Though marred by the recent violence, we still always
have Succoth. Many of you will know this season as the Feast of
Tabernacles. It is primarily a festival of Thanksgiving for the
abundance of the harvest.
Many of our citizens construct simple booths called a Succah
(plural: Succoth). The biblical instructions given in Leviticus
23, 42-43, are followed very closely and it is considered an act
of reverence and piety to eat and sleep in the Succah during the
festival.
In addition to the Succah there is another symbol, a cluster of
plants -- the lulav, esrog, myrtle and willow -- which are held
prominently as the worshipper chants prayers or praises of
gratitude to the Giver of all that is good. The lulav, a tall
palm branch, denotes men of power and influence; the aromatic
esrog men of saintliness and learning; myrtle the average men and
women of the community; and the willow represents the poor and
lowly. All of these together represent the Brotherhood of Man,
where each member is responsible for the welfare and good name of
the whole.
In the period between the end of Yom Kippur and the beginning of
Succoth (ten days) every spare moment is spent in gathering the
materials of construction and building the family or community
Succah. Children are major actors in these activities. The Succoth are usually simple frames roofed by palm leaves in this
part of the world, reeds or other abundant plants in other parts
of the world. The side walls are frequently sheets taken from
the home. Inside, the walls are decorated by pictures (very
frequently they are the renderings of the children) depicting the
season. Hanging from the ceiling are the symbols of the harvest:
beards of wheat, pomegranates, fruits of all kinds, and colored
strips of paper. Each meal is accompanied by joyful singing.
The week of Succoth is also a period when the family wanders the
country rejoicing in the beauty of the land. Every park and
tourist area is normally full to capacity. Lila and I really
enjoy wandering the streets, examining these wonderful examples
of folk art and rejoicing with the occupants. It is truly a fun
time.
Isn't this more interesting then the machinations of politics and
violence? It is certainly better for the psyche. In a short time
the winter rains will arrive and the land will blossom with new
life and the cycle begins once more.
===============================================================
A POLISH CHRISTMAS
by Jan Mokrzycki
In Poland the most celebrated day is Christmas Eve, the Wigilia
or the vigil awaiting Christ's coming. The tree stands already
decorated and shining with all the presents piled up underneath,
surrounding the crib. The women (we are a male chauvinist nation)
have sweated for days preparing the supper which traditionally
should consist of 13 dishes (number of apostles) all of which are
non-meat as it is a fast day. This requires a lot of ingenuity
from the cooks. In the table centre are the oplateks, thin
communion-type wafers which have already been blessed in church
and which the family will share, exchanging Christmas wishes with
one another.
Traditionally the table is covered with a white table cloth for
Jesu's innocence and has some hay underneath to remind us of the
manger. There is always an extra place set at the table for the
unexpected guest as on this day anyone is welcome.
Following the breaking and sharing of oplatek, the supper starts
usually with either beetroot soup, white barszcz (recipe
follows), or mushroom soup; then fishes, cabbage based dishes,
mushroom gellieg fish, gefulte fish, finishing with a compote of
dried fruit and cakes.
After supper we sing carols, give out presents and at midnight
everyone goes to the midnight mass. I should mention that the
supper starts as soon as the first star appears in the heavens.
Polish Christmas otherwise is similar to the Anglo-Saxon
Christmas, only a bit more family based.
ZUR OR WHITE BARSZCZ
Scald 2 cups of rye flour with boiling water to make a thin
dough, stirring quickly. When cool add one and a quarter pints of
lukewarm water and place a smallish piece of wholemeal or rye
bread in it.
Cover the dish with gauze and leave for several days. It may form
a crust of mildew which needs removing carefully. This liquid is
the ZUR essence and is added to stock to form the soup. It will
last for several home made soups with a special tangy taste. When
essence diminishes you can replenish it by adding another piece
of bread and more lukewarm water. This soup can be made with a
vegetable stock for fasting feasts and on other occasions meat
stock can be used. Quite often it has boiled potatoes added to it
and pieces of sliced polish sausage making it into a meal on its
own. I love it but it is not to everyone's taste. However it is
worth trying.
Crust (elephant's ears) makes 24 pieces.
100 gr plain flour
25 gr butter
2 egg yolks
1 tbs water
lard for deep frying and icing sugar for sprinkling
Sift the flour into the bowl and rub in the butter. Mix in the
egg yolks and water to make a smooth dough. On a lightly floured
surface roll out the dough into an oblong measuring 18x6 inches
and cut in half lengthways. Cut into strips an inch wide by 4
inches long. In each strip put a slit in the middle pushing one
end of strip through making into a bow. While making the bows
keep other strips covered to prevent them drying out. Heat the
oil to 170 degrees C. for deep frying. Fry the pastry bows in
batches until crisp and golden. Drain them on double thick
absorbent kitchen paper, dust with icing sugar while hot. Cool on
a wire rack then carefully place on serving dish, piling them up
and up.
Smacznego (ie. bon apetite).
==============================================================
CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS
by Langston Kerr
The Christmas catalogs are out again. Me and Marie got one from
JC Penney in the mail a couple of days ago. We get all of them
catalogs in the mail. Not as many as they used to be. Some of 'em
quit sendin' out catalogs. Sears did. And Wards. Montgomery Wards
used to send out a big ole catalog, but I ain't seen one of 'em
in a long time. I reckon they quit. I hear tell you can't even
buy things through the mail from a lot of them places like you
used to. Times change, I reckon.
I'll tell you somethin' else that's changed. Used to be you
didn't start hearin' nothin' about Christmas till the first of
November. And that was early. Back when I was a young'un, you
didn't hear much about it till after Thanksgivin'. Now, they's a
race on to see what starts first, school or the Christmas season.
So far, school's got it beat but Christmas is comin' up fast. It
ain't but a heartbeat behind. And if school didn't start earlier
than it used to, Christmas would've beat it out. Is they
somethin' wrong with that, or is it just me?
Don't get me wrong here. I'm proud of my Christmas catalog. Me
and Marie here just about fight over it. I love gettin' 'em in
the mail. It made me feel like a kid when I went down there and
pulled that thing outta the mail box. I set down right there on
the ground beside the mailbox and looked at it. I didn't even
take it to the house. I knowed if I took it back there, Marie
would be rushin' me to get finished with it so she could look at
it. I bet I set down there a hour or more, just lookin' through
the thing.
I like to look at the pitchers. It's got a big ole pitcher of
Santy Claus on the front of it, settin' there at a table all
surrounded by toys he's been makin'. He's got this little paint
brush in his hand and he's paintin' on a little rocky horse. I
wonder who's gonna get it? I think maybe a little girl
somewheres. Little girls like little horses like that. It's too
little to sit on and rock. You're just supposed to look at it I
reckon. You give a little toy rocky horse like that to a boy and
he's gonna sit on it and break it first thing. A little girl will
put her dolls on it and play with it and keep it ferever if her
brother don't get aholt of it and tear it up. That's the
difference in boys and girls. One difference.
They's a reindeer and a little raccoon and a little bunny rabbit
a lookin' through the winder behind Santy Claus, a watchin' him
paintin' on that little toy horse. It's dark out there where
they're at and you can see a star in the sky behind 'em. And
they's snow piled up on the winder panes. It's dark and cold and
snowy. I set there on the ground by the mail box and I got all
these Christmas thoughts runnin' through my head. I wonder if
them little animals in that pitcher ain't gettin' cold a standin'
out there a lookin' through that winder at ole Santy. Specially
that little rabbit. I can almost see him a shivering out there in
that snow. I ain't never seen snow on the ground at Christmas. I
wonder if it snows anywhere on Christmas. You see all of these
pitchers where it's snowin' on Christmas, but it ain't never
snowed here on Christmas. Maybe it don't snow nowheres 'cept at
the North Pole. On that pore little bunny rabbit.
I look at that pitcher and I wonder where ole Santy Claus gets
all the stuff to make them toys out of. Like that can of paint
he's usin'. They's a can of yaller paint a settin' right there on
the table. Where did he get it? Do they have paint stores up
there to the North Pole? Maybe he orders it outta the JC Penney
catalog. I start leafin' through the book to see if they got any
paint in there. I don't see none. I go to the index and they
ain't no paint listed. But I might be lookin' at it wrong. I
ain't fer certain how to spell paint. They's some "pant sets,
boys" on page 204, but that's britches. Ain't no paint in the
Christmas book. But they got other catalogs. Maybe he orders it
outta the big spring-and-summer book. Maybe he calls 'em up on
the telephone and they ship it up there to him in March. I'm
settin' there imaginin' the mail man pullin' up to his house at
the North Pole with all of this paint and stuff he's got ordered
outta the catalog. I'm really gettin' into this.
And about that time a fire ant bites me on my finger. And
another. And another. They's ants all over me! I'm gettin' eat up
here! My mind's centered up on the North Pole but I've leaned
over and put my hand on the ground and it's dead center on a fire
ant nest!
Boy! You talk about somethin' bringin' you back down to earth!
They ain't nothin' like about a kazillion fire ants a chewin' on
your hand! That'll do the job. One minnit I'm at the North pole a
feelin' sorry fer some pore ole overworked mail man, all loaded
down with about ten tons of paint and buildin' materials he's
tryin' to stuff in this little ole mail box, and the next minnit
I'm a fightin' the dark hordes a tryin' to have my hand and arm
fer dinner! My mind flashes back to that little rabbit up there
in the snow. He better be glad he's up there where they ain't no
fire ants!
Where does he get off, a feelin' sorry fer hisself fer bein' out
there in the snow! If he thinks he's got it so bad, let him come
down here and hop around on one of these dad burn fire ant beds
and see what happens to him! He'd swell up like a big ole furry
balloon. I'm mad at that rabbit. I'm mad at them fire ants. I'm
mad at Santy Claus. I'm mad at JC Penney fer sendin' me that wish
book. I'm mad at the mail man fer bringin' it. I'm mad at Marie
fer bein' up there to the house while I'm down here fightin' off
these fire ants. I'm jist mad! I take that Christmas book and I
wield it like the weapon it is!
But I got over it. I had me a little mad spell and I got it outta
my system. I decided it was too early fer me to be lookin' at a
Christmas catalog like that. So, I took it up there and give it
to Marie. She was proud to get it. She's already got a bunch of
stuff picked out to order!
Aint life somethin? 'Specially here in Down Town Holly Springs.
Merry Christmas, y'all.
==============================================================
BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK
by Des Weeks
Sometimes the urge, which I should resist, comes over me to try
something new, something that I have never tried before. Last
year it was gliding. This year I thought about trying horseback
riding. So when I heard that my friends were courageously
planning an exhilarating gallop over Dartmoor, I decided this was
my chance to "have a go." I duly signed up with some twenty
other brave souls.
Eventually the day dawned and I set out for a stable on the edge
of the moor. Here a miscellaneous herd of horses in all shapes,
sizes and colours waited. Now I don't know if you have ever seen
a horse close to -- they are ginormous! I mean, the littlest one
(which I didn't get), stood about as high as Smeaton's Tower, and
was nearly as wide too.
Naturally, Belle, the horse I was presented with was twice as
high, twice as wide and judging by her glaring eyes, twice as
mean. I had noticed that in cowboy films, when six footers like
John Wayne stood beside their steeds, they were the same height.
Not Belle and me; I could just manage to look her in the nostrils
while standing on tiptoe!
However, the time came to mount. That was a laugh too. The
stablehands didn't provide any ladders, so with a great deal of
pushing and pulling plus some skittering and snorting from Belle
-- I didn't think she was very amused -- I finally arranged
myself in the seat -- sorry, saddle. Here I quickly made another
discovery: saddles are not in the slightest way comfortable or
soft -- quite the opposite. Still, with a quick check of the
controls -- whoops, none to be found -- no brakes, no steering.
no clutch or accelerator -- just horse, so I grabbed on to the
reins which the stable boy indicated to me, and hung on for dear
life!
Then came the great moment, a mass exodus setting off in the
general direction of Dartmoor. Now, a horse standing still is one
thing -- but one on the move, that's a completly different kettle
of fish! Talk about rock and roll. No, on second thought, don't
-- I'd rather not be reminded of it.
Being in a convoy of about 20 horses and "hangers-on" is quite a
novel experience. The horses were used to this daily trek and
knew just where they were going. They also knew that the sooner
they got there, the sooner they would be back to their comfy
stable and oats. So there was quite a lot of shoving and pushing
-- all very well but not when my legs were dangling in the way.
One of the guides politely informed me as to the use of stirrups.
Belle just glared and kept on pushing her way through to the
front of the column. However, things finally got sorted out and
shortly the open moorland was reached.
So far, so good. Progress was steady and the horses plodded along
sedately. It was almost becoming enjoyable. Then suddenly, all
the horses took it into their tiny little brains to charge across
the land at a tremendous rate of knots (or so it seemed to me --
you try hanging on to a bouncing bundle of hay with a steel rod
down its back and you'll appreciate what I mean). I was told
afterwards that this had been only a gentle trot. The silly
horses tried this "gentle trot" several times along the way. No
amount of cajoling, pleading or direct threats about a glue
factory made any difference to Belle -- she was doing her thing.
I was only along for the ride! I tried the steering once but all
I achieved was a steely glare from a wicked looking eye -- so I
quit!
Finally, at last, after what seemed an eternity, the leaders
headed back home. All was going well. There I was gently plodding
along the well worn trail when Belle suddenly decided that she
wanted a drink! Being Belle, she could not just drink from the
nearest stream. Oh no, she had other ideas. Pushing her way
through the other horses, forgetting about my legs, she plowed
her way upstream until she was stuck in a little gully with steep
banks on both sides and her progress any further was stopped. So
there we stood, Belle drinking gallons of water and me losing
gallons in perspiration, wondering what was coming next.
Eventually an expert appeared on the scene. "Boy. She's gone a
long way up." He observed. "Yes, she has rather." I meekly
agreed. "Er, how do I get her out?" "No problem," said the
expert. "Put her in reverse." Put her in reverse? Was he kidding
me? But no, a sharp tug on the steering and Belle came slowly
backwards -- for a litle way -- then she lunged sort of sideways
and twisted and scrambled up over the bank. "Oh, well ridden,"
said the expert. Well ridden? If only he knew! Soon after the
stables were reached.
After I had dismounted with some stiffness and said my sad(!)
farewells to Belle, I struggled gamely back to my car. Now here
was a steed I could really depend on to go where I wanted without
any hassle, and the seat -- Oh bliss! Quickly I started the car
and headed back to civilisation. The great adventure was over. I
could now cross horse riding off my list. So, what next? How
about hang gliding or parachuting -- neither could be as bad as
horse riding.
===============================================================
TO MY GRANDSON
by Eloise Blanpied
I see in each unguarded laughing glance
a sparkling of your younger self, when joy
and trust spilled from your heart and you would dance,
small hand in mine, a whirling, soaring boy.
So brief, bright world! Too soon life's darker side
bore through the joy with death and cruelty.
Brave child who met that dark and would not hide,
my arms recall your sob-wracked agony.
I see in each unguarded laughing glance
a seasoned strength, hard-tempered by hot tears;
the wisdom yet to leap at life and chance
at joy; compassion for another's fears.
Though not a boy today, still not a man,
your laughing glance tells how your soul began.
===============================================================
end cybersenior.4.3(#14)
