Sir Walter Scott

I’ve finished reading the “Little House” books and begun Caroline Fraser’s celebrated Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder.

This quotation is from LIW’s First Four Years – a posthumous publication, much sadder than the other books. (The quotation isn’t sad.)

In December Laura felt again the familiar sickness.

(Nicely put.)

The house felt close and hot and she was miserable. But the others must be kept warm and fed. The work must go on and she was the one who must do it.

On a day when she was particularly blue and unhappy, the neighbor to the west, a bachelor living alone, stopped as he was driving by and brought a partly filled grain sack to the house, and taking the sack by the bottom, poured the contents out on the floor. It was a paper-backed set of Waverley novels.

“Thought they might amuse you,” he said. “Don’t be in a hurry! Take your time reading them.” And as Laura exclaimed in delight, Mr. Sheldon opened the door, closed it behind him quickly, and was gone. And now the four walls of the close, overheated house opened wide, and Laura wandered with brave knights and ladies fair beside the lakes and streams of Scotland or in castles and towers, in noble halls or lady’s bower, all through the enchanting pages of Sir Walter Scott’s novels.

She forgot to feel ill at the sight or smell of food, in her hurry to be done with the cooking and follow her thoughts back into the book. When the books were all read and Laura came back to reality, she found herself feeling much better.

It was a long way from the scenes of Scott’s glamorous old tales to the little house on the bleak, wintry prairie, but Laura brought back from them some of their magic and music and the rest of the winter passed quite comfortably.

The drawing is by Robert Scott Moncrieff.

Of names, etc.

Karin’s colleague: “What’ll you name your baby?”

Karin: “It’s a secret.”

“Another biblical name?”

“Yes.”

“Thomas?”

“No.”

“A name from the Gospels?”

“No, from the Old Testament.”

“Noah?”

“No.”

“Ishmael?”

“No.”

“LOL Cain and Abel ha ha ha ha ha ha …” (leaves).

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Our son was born this afternoon. His name is Abel Barnaby.

Likely nicknames: Abe, Abey, Abey Baby, Abey Barney. His pre-natal name, “Pip,” might stick for a while. His cousin, Ada, is fond of that name.

Anyway, there’s no reversing the decision. The paperwork has been submitted.

Samuel was adamant: His little brother was to be called Abel; he was to be born in December, not in late November as his parents hoped. Oh, how glad Sammy was on Dec. 1 when I told him “Pip” definitely wouldn’t be born in November!

Daniel’s feelings are unknown. He’s a cheerful little boy, though, so I am hopeful.

The two big brothers are at home with their grandparents. Abel is with Karin & me in the hospital. The three brothers will meet tomorrow or the next day.

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“Abel” is spelled the same in English and Spanish. It’s a simple and recognizable name, if not a common one.

The namesake came to grief, but he is honored in the Old and New Testaments.

As for “Barnaby” … well, there’s the biblical Barnabas, another fine person; there’s D.C.I. Tom Barnaby of Midsomer Murders; and there’s Dickens’s Barnaby Rudge, which opens with this sentence:

In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about twelve miles from London – measuring from the Standard in Cornhill, or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore – a house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew.

Of the titular character, I know nothing; but the sentence is worthy of commemoration.

It’s late and I’m exhausted. Details and pics will follow. Just know that Karin is well; Abel is well; I love him; and he sleeps peacefully and preciously, wrapped up like a burrito.

Painful anticipation

Not nice for expectant dads, really not nice for expectant moms: prodromal labor.

When Karin’s contractions started, I cleaned the house and packed supplies; I thought we’d soon leave for the hospital. Well, days have elapsed. We’re still at home. The house is a mess, again, and I’m running out of clothes.

We went to church and received diapers, gift cards, and well-wishes. The pastor & his wife put out a tray of delicious Walmart cupcakes in our honor. Few adult congregants partook. Those who did, were shy to. The pastor, bless him, has slimmed down this year, conspicuously enough that he must work the theme into his sermons. Gluttony is as sinful as lying, he said last week.

Well, I suppose it is. And so this morning our church stood around the cupcake table, not eating, remarking that sugar fuels cancer.

A few of us ate with gusto. The frosting turned our lips and teeth blue.

“Pip” flips

“Pip” is upside-down, so that’s a relief.

Apparently, he has lots of hair. The latest ultrasound even showed his eyelashes.

Now, we wait. …

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R.I.P. our wonderful church sister, Donna – another driving force behind our adult Sunday School. She was ninety-two and quite spry, physically and mentally, until this year.

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Tomorrow, in Guayaquil, Ecuador will play a crucial World Cup qualifier against Bolivia. We’re shorthanded; the Bolivians, more so.

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Lest I neglect them – and before they lose to 2nd-ranked Ohio State – the 10–0 Indiana Hoosiers are ranked 5th in the land, in football. They lead the conference. They’ve brutalized every foe but one (the defending national champs).

Their stadium is packed every week. Their uniforms are simple and good.

I’m glad.

But it is a sign of the Apocalypse.

Nesting-time

From a friend’s Facebook page:

Yeah, well, Trump and Vance reside in counties that went to Harris. So there. 👅

Life goes on. “Pip” is due to be born in three-and-a-half weeks. Fellow churchgoers have been giving diapers and other tokens. At home, the task of the season – instinctive for Karin, imperative for me – is “nesting,” i.e. reconfiguring one’s living quarters for the baby. The most urgent time for this appears to be 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.

Anyway, that’s why I didn’t post last night – I was busy “nesting.”

Physically, things are progressing well, except that “Pip” still needs to flip upside-down. Karin lays frozen veggies on herself to goad him.

We feed our children

Another “dine-in” attempt – this time with Daniel and Samuel, at a Chinese buffet. It was a success. Buttery cabbage on buttery whitefish on buttery, spicy, sugary chicken, on buttery noodles, with dumplings. Daniel ate for free; Samuel’s rate was reduced; the boys mostly stayed in their chairs. You could see the calories rushing through their arteries and veins, draining away their consciousness.

Not the fetus’s, though. “ ‘Pip’ loves this food,” Karin said. “He’s dancing around.”

Daniel heard a very tiny baby crying in the restaurant. He smiled. “Meow, meow,” he said.

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I’m sorry to admit, our sons have terrible eating habits. Daniel wakes up at 6:30 or 7:00 and begs for candy. (No, I don’t give him any.)

He may have finally turned a corner. He’s been asking for meals with more balance: today, peanut-buttered toast, strawberries, and Spanish rice.

Now that Karin is “in pig” (Nancy Mitford’s phrase), our WIC allowance has been raised: At the end of each month, we realize we haven’t claimed anything like our full share of vegetables. So, half-panicked, we go to the store and pick out avocados and other “costly” free items. This month it was dragon fruit, from Ecuador. I wondered if any of the fruit we looked at was descended, nearly or distantly, from Hoku’s parents’ farm.

Great expectations

A portrait of our family:

Before you ask if one of the children is a prodigy: No, I drew this.

Our unborn one’s “placeholder” name is Pip.

(Permanent name TBD.)

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Having mostly recovered, healthwise, we’re happier tonight. The weather – lately rather droughty – has been recovering, too. Yesterday there were wild rains (and hail); the lawn is greening again.

The boys have inherited their second cousins’ trampoline. Their use of it, so far, is reminiscent of the WWE (née WWF). But with less pretending.

Ah for those proto-anglophilic days in Esmeraldas when I would cheer for the British Bulldogs, and then emulate them with David.

Goodbye, hobbits

I finished reading LOTR and its appendices (spoilers follow). I reiterate: The book is excellent so long as the hobbits take center stage. The rest is fine if one already likes Beowulf and such; but I was glad when Mordor, Gondor, Rohan, and Rivendell finally dropped out of view and Frodo & Co. set about restoring peace and homeliness to the Shire, expelling the non-hobbits. (Ultimately, though, the four little heroes and old Mr. Bilbo would all depart to live out their days with elves or man-kings: some in the last chapter, others at the end of Appendix B.)

Karin doesn’t want to call our new son “Frodo.”

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Speaking of ol’ J.R.R., I also finished the fourth installment of Anthony Powell’s Dance to the Music of Time, and it occurred to me that we might not be living in some Wild West regarding when to put a space between a person’s initials; there might be a rule, after all. Dance features a character, J. G. Quiggin, a writer, whose initials are spaced when grouped with the surname and unspaced apart from it. So, on Quiggin’s books’ covers, the name appears as “J. G. Quiggin”; but his friends (or, rather, frenemies – he’s that sort) use the familiar unspaced “J.G.” Well, they say the letters out loud, but that’s how the narrator transcribes them.

This topic interests me because I’m sometimes referred to by my initials; although, because of the hyphen, the letters of my name shouldn’t ever be spaced: they should always be written “J.-P.” (Or “J-P” if the writer does without the periods.) I actually prefer “JP” – less fussy – but who am I to decide my own name and its cognates?

(Not that society has made up its mind on this. Trump’s running-mate’s homepage calls its subject “JD Vance,” but the Google search result says “J.D.” Wikipedia says “JD,” deferring to Vance’s personal preference. But I wonder if the editors shouldn’t overrule him. Isn’t that what Wikipedia is for? There’s the precedent of this book cover, too.)

Plumb tuckered out

An absolute knackering (knacking?) this day, what with the intensive cleaning of various ground-floor rooms. I have been dozing intermittently since 8:00pm. The boys, for the third or fourth time since the floor’s uncluttering, are running in circles, as in Alice in Wonderland’s Caucus Race. This is lively even by their standards – doubtless a spillover of last night’s mirth (we attended an “open house” at Samuel’s new school; I spent most of it chasing Daniel through the halls).

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I saw very little of the Olympics – none of it in “real” time – but was taken with this handballer’s story (NYT). He, too, has sleep apnea. Yes, this is what it’s like.

Earlier today I was slumped on the sofa, unable to remain fully conscious, while Samuel and Daniel crawled over me. I’d beg them to do a little cleaning. They wouldn’t. At last I rallied, was a virtual tornado for an hour and a half, and made the place spotless. The boys helped enough to earn some basement TV time. Then they came back upstairs, beheld the emptiness, and ran their first Caucus Race. Samuel tackled Daniel a few times. Daniel would urge him to stand up and keep running. High spirits.

I actually am the least tired adult in the house. Karin is pregnant again, you see.

Lord willing, our third son will be born the first week of December.

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P.S. The boys have been watching the infamous (but, to my mind, charming) Peppa Pig show. Samuel now calls himself Peppa; Daniel, he calls George; Karin, Mommy Pig; and yours truly, Daddy Pig. My parents visited; they are, respectively, Abuela and Abuelo Pig.

Some wisdom from Mary Midgley

Here is a short and (for us) timely piece written in the 1950s by the philosopher Mary Midgley. It’s lovely from beginning to end – in many ways.

The topic of abortion is introduced in the last paragraph, which I quote here (but do read the earlier paragraphs first, if you are up to it):

Great men, simply by their ignorance of a topic, can lay a remarkably strong taboo on the mention of it even where it happens to be entirely relevant. I saw a singular instance of this lately in a correspondence about the law of abortion. A writer pointed out that many women who had wished to be rid of their child two months after conception were eager to bear it three months later, and finished apologetically, “Expect no logic from a pregnant woman.” But of course there was nothing wrong with the logic. The premises were changed. A child at two months feels like an ailment; at five months it feels like a child. The woman had passed from the belief, “I am not well” to the belief, “I am now two people.” And the only thing wrong with that belief is that it is one which is unfamiliar to logicians. That, I suspect, is an unphilosophic objection.

One might disagree that the mother’s feelings during pregnancy shed light upon the moral status of the unborn child (or upon the mother’s moral position vis-à-vis her child). But the burden of proof lies with the person who’d discount those feelings.

What’s cavalier is this sort of attitude:

P.S. Midgley’s piece was rejected when it was drafted. It appears now in The Raven,

a magazine of original philosophy written for intellectually curious readers with or without academic training in the discipline. It aims to revive an essayistic style of philosophy that was more common in academic venues as recently as thirty years ago but has gradually disappeared – that is, to publish contributions to the “literature” that deserve to be called literature.

P.P.S. I want to make one rejoinder to Midgley’s piece. It’s true that Descartes never married; but he did have a daughter, Francine, who died young. He’s thought to have been profoundly affected by the experience.

P.P.P.S. Just how solitary is Descartes’s theory of knowledge, anyway? Yes, the meditator’s own consciousness is the “Archimedean point” from which he comes to know the world. But when he examines his consciousness, he detects another person: a person more perfect than himself: a person whose commitment not to deceive, whose commitment vis-à-vis the meditator, is what enables the meditator to know the world. This may still be “adolescent.” A youth hopes that contact with one other person will open a window onto the world. But that’s not so self-centered as when a philosopher accepts the Cartesian starting-point and then tries to gather knowledge without looking to another person – outside, or inside, himself.

The naming of cats

“Sammy, what is Jasper?”

“Jasper is a cat.”

“Sammy, what is Ziva?”

“Ziva is a cat.”

“Sammy, what is Sammy?”

“Sammy is a cat.”

We correct him. We repeat our questions. He says: “Sammy is a little boy.”

We’ve long been telling him about his little brother, Baby Danny. It’s not clear what he understands; although, one day, he did greet Karin: “Hi Mommy. Hi Baby.”

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Daniel James was born this afternoon.

“Daniel,” for the OT prophet. I’ve known quite a few Daniels; each, in his own way, has been rather good. Also, “Daniel” is spelled the same in English and in Spanish.

“James,” for the NT epistle writer, and for my brother Stephen James. “Stephen” isn’t spelled the same in English and in Spanish, but “James” is; or, put it this way, there are many Spanish variants of “James” – “Jaime,” “Diego,” “Tiago,” “Santiago,” “Iago” (corruptions of Ya’akov or “Jacob”) … but also there is “James,” i.e. HAH-mess, as in “James Rodríguez” (the footballer). A Latin American name, by way of English.

It counts. It’s passable.

I have photos of Daniel but can’t upload them because the hospital’s Internet signal is weak.

When Samuel was born, I was wracked with dread. This time, the journey has seemed familiar, and I’ve enjoyed some of it. I couldn’t help but grin when Daniel was being wrenched out. Afterward, Karin was very hungry, and she ate a footlong Subway sandwich. Having viewed her exertions – and sensing that much iron had been lost – I ate even more than Karin did, and I opted for the steak rather than the chicken. Daniel also ate and ate. What with his tongue-tie, though, it isn’t clear how much food he’s been swallowing.

We did a video call to introduce the brothers to one another (Samuel has been staying with his abuelos). Samuel was mostly indifferent, except that he wanted to play with my Mom’s phone. Daniel was annoyed to have had his feeding interrupted.

A “budget” option

Monday is a bank holiday, the holiday of Washington and FDR and Trump and the fellow buried in Grant’s tomb, who might be my favorite of them all because he was the best writer. (The criterion isn’t so ludicrous. Whenever I see informal polls about the greatest [U.S.] Americans of the 19th and 20th centuries, writers get lots of votes, and I often catch myself thinking of writers first – especially, Frederick Douglass and Mark Twain – not so much because of what they did or stood for, though that also matters, but because of how they wrote.) Anyway, today, Karin worked her last shift in a good while. She expects to be on maternity leave through March – which isn’t a paid leave, she keeps having to tell people who assume otherwise. It’ll be good to have her at home. It’ll be good, though not so pleasant, to live more frugally.

Speaking of frugality.

I’d known about the Cambridge Elements book series, but I hadn’t known that so, so many of those books are free to download (some only temporarily).

Most are shorter than 100 pages. They all try to painlessly introduce the reader to important recent scholarship.

This webpage states the series’s goals and subject categories, and this one lists the titles in reverse publication order. You can see which books are currently free by ticking a box on the left.

I can vouch for this author, a professor of whom I was fond. Is he the world’s leading free-will philosopher? Maybe. Does he believe in free will? No; he comes as close to believing as one can do while disbelieving, which is cheeky. Does he believe in moral responsibility? Not if it should require free will; but he is open to revising the concept so that a person can be held responsible even if she isn’t free. Is he a religious believer? Yes. He is a Calvinist. But his main arguments don’t presuppose much, or anything, by way of doctrine. But whatever you think of his position, the point of reading this book is to get an overview of the recent secular literature, and so it is valuable.

Is he a great writer and therefore a great (U.S.) American? I should say not; he was born in the Netherlands, and as for his identification with this side of the pond, I believe that when he wrote his most famous book he was merely a Canadian.

His Cambridge Elements book is free to download through February 23.

Waiting

After weeks under the cover of deep snow – during which Samuel and I hardly ever left the house – we had two days of warmth and rain. Almost all the snow was melted. I took Samuel strolling; he was pleased to travel through the puddles. Then, this morning, Karin & I looked out the kitchen window and were amazed to see a field of shaggy grass. We’d almost forgotten that we own grass.

But a couple of hours later, everything, again, was covered in snow.

If I go into labor tonight, Karin says, it won’t be easy to get to the hospital.

Karin’s belly is so enormous now, she doesn’t like to go up and down the basement stairs. I have brought the TV upstairs, to the front parlor. This has changed the whole ecology of the house.

Apart from the matter of the TV, we are expecting a great change by Tuesday the 22nd. Labor will be induced late at night on the 21st, if the baby hasn’t already been born.

A plan for success

So here’s the plan.

(1) Karin takes the day off from work; maybe goes to the mall, walks up and down, prepares her muscles.

(2) She takes tomorrow off, too, for more of the same.

(3) If, by 7:00 tomorrow evening, she hasn’t begun laboring, we check in to the hospital.

(4) On Wednesday, someone takes our car to get an oil change. Karin produces our son.

Our dwelling is about as ready as we’ll make it. Today, looking for more to do, we separated unexpired grocery coupons from expired ones. Then we slept a little. Karin is still sleeping. I might put away our ironing board.

Still waiting

Our little son, whose name will be Hamish Macbeth (not really), refuses to come out of his mother.

The doctor says that if he hasn’t been born by Monday, we’ll make a “birthing plan.”

There’s little else to report. I finished reading Down a Dark Hall by Lois Duncan:

It was a slow burn, but the last pages were – as kids these days like to say – fire.

(Its cinematic adaptation, released in 2018, isn’t well regarded.)

Next, to read another boarding school classic: Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock. Copies have become readily available due to the popularity of the new miniseries. I’ve only seen the movie of 1975. It’s one of my favorites.

A truce

… has been declared. The protesting has (mostly) ceased. President Moreno has repealed the controversial Decree 833, which made fuel more costly for citizens. Together with the protestors, he’s negotiating a new law.

The unrest left a death toll of six or seven (I’ve seen conflicting reports).

Ecuadorian citizens and businesses lost a great deal of money due to looting, vandalism, work stoppages, etc. Apart from this, the protestors destroyed hundreds of millions of dollars of exportable oil.

President Moreno has accused his predecessor, Rafael Correa, of conspiring with Nicolás Maduro of Venezuela to overthrow Ecuador’s government.

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Ecuador lost a “friendly” soccer match against Argentina, six goals to one. I’m somewhat alarmed. No one else is. The Ecuadorian players have the excuse that they were distracted by the country’s turmoil.

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Ana and Ada have returned to Texas, along with David, who, for a couple of days, also visited South Bend.

Some photos of Ada and me:

My own child is due to be born tomorrow (which isn’t to say he will be). Currently, he weighs about 9 lbs.

October’s poem

… is by the Puritan, Anne Bradstreet. It’s called “Before the Birth of One of Her Children.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

All things within this fading world hath end,
Adversity doth still our joyes attend;
No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,
But with death’s parting blow is sure to meet.
The sentence past is most irrevocable,
A common thing, yet oh inevitable.
How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,
How soon’t may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,
We are both ignorant, yet love bids me
These farewell lines to recommend to thee,
That when that knot’s untied that made us one,
I may seem thine, who in effect am none.
And if I see not half my dayes that’s due,
What nature would, God grant to yours and you;
The many faults that well you know I have
Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave;
If any worth or virtue were in me,
Let that live freshly in thy memory
And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms,
Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.
And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains
Look to my little babes, my dear remains.
And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me,
These o protect from step Dames injury.
And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,
With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;
And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,
Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

I also worry, sometimes.

Birthdays; visitors; dinners; autumn; Ray Bradbury; hyphens

Happy birthday to Karin! She looks about to burst, but the doctors say she could remain pregnant for three more weeks.

Tonight’s dinner was provided by Karin’s mom and grandpa.

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Happy birthday, also, to our sister-in-law Ana, who has flown up from Texas with Ada, our new niece.

Karin & I saw them yesterday, and then we were all fed by our Aunt Lorena & Uncle John.

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Not many leaves have fallen, but the weather is unambiguously autumnal.

I remarked that this is Ray Bradbury Month.

Mary: “What? You’re going to name your child Ray Bradbury?”

John-Paul: “No.”

When a nosy person asks what our child’s name will be – as Karin’s mom did, again, tonight – I say, “His name will be John-Paul-Karin.”

Events of the weekend

Friday night, we had quite a rainstorm. It was loud and flashy and lasted several hours. Jasper and Ziva hid.

Karin took this video from our living room window:

The next day, when Karin & I went to the zoo, hardly anyone else was around, what with everything so wet. I’m glad we waited until this weekend to use our free tickets.

One of the lions was in fine form:

Tonight, Karin’s dad bought us chicken wings for Karin’s birthday:

The two youngsters in the photo are Julian, Karin’s stepbrother from one of her dad’s previous marriages, and Lily, Karin’s sister.

It seems Karin & I won’t be moving to Muncie. I was notified of my rejection this morning.

Preparing, pt. 10

Today it’s my turn to be ill, though, so far, my suffering has been less than Karin’s.

John-Paul: “Are you still infirm, dearest love?”

Karin: “No. I just have the residual coughing.”

John-Paul: “The residual coughing?”

Karin: “The coughing that goes on for two more weeks.”

We keep on acquiring furniture: today, we received a metal bookcase that used to belong to the public library. Karin has filled half of the shelves with cloth diapers.

She’s also rearranged our bedroom, bringing out the cardboard box that the newborn will sleep in, as well as the metal grate that will cover it to keep out Jasper and Ziva.