"There are plagues and horrors enough inevitable; at least in what we freely choose and place before us there should be perfection and beauty. It is not possible for any man to be happy. It is not possible for any city to be perfectly well governed, unanimous and always victorious. But it is possible for some of us to cull many an absolute delight, and to taste before we die some moments of utter enchantment. I have snatched them repeatedly from the chase, from music, from wine, and from love. The rest is slavery."
The NYTimes this morning has a front page article on one of those ridiculous issues that keep us either amused or disgusted by human stupidity. The Sunday P-I has it, too. Apparently the Newberry Prize (i.e., the award for the best children's book) novel "The Higher Power of Lucky" has a bad word in it, a word so bad that libraries all across the country are refusing to buy it. Censorious people and sensitive librarians are horrified that the word could show up in a book, a book that an actual child might READ! The astonishing word is "scrotum," used in reference to a dog. I tremble even at the thought of actually typing out such a terrible word. Heaven forbid, the word is not used in a sexual way, just used in reference to a portion of a dog's body that happened to be bitten by a rattlesnake. (Wow, now that is really something hard to type out!) And we have to be sympathetic. Here is the book that is honored with a prize that makes it the best book of the year in its category, yet that book uses a totally disgusting and filthy word which would soil all the minds of the innocent children who would encounter it. Not to mention all the innocent librarians, people so sensitive that they would have to check it out on google to discover its meaning.
I just finished vacuuming the rug and setting the dining room table. Our daughter, son-in-law and grandson are due any time for Sunday supper. K****n has shifted from mostly crawling to mostly walking, so the experience will be interesting. He can go where he wants now, maybe at faster than grandparent speed. We are having a slow cooker beef stew, garlic bread, salad, wine. Grammy has spent the afternoon planning and putting it all into effect.
And the InkSpots are coming out of the speakers, singing "I love coffee, I love tea" doing the Java Jive. And the old wall clock from my grandfather's corner store is ticking steadily above my right shoulder by the computer.
(I amaze myself how willing I am to put down entries that will bore my readers to tears.)