In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

By Major John McCrae – 1915; In Flanders Fields Museum.

Born American, but in the Wrong Place | Ashbrook

The only thing worth bombing in Gyor where I was born and where we lived (it had a population of about 100,000 and was just east of Austria on the road to Budapest) was a factory that had been converted to build Messerschmitt planes. It employed about 10,000 people by then, my father among them. When the Americans decided to bomb the plant—in 1944, I think—they first dropped thousands of leaflets informing people not to go to work that day because they were going to level the plant, and they didn’t want people to get hurt. They said the bombing would begin at noon.

My father believed the Americans. He didn’t go to the factory. The Germans, however, insisted that everyone go into the factory and start production. They rounded people up, including my father, at bayonet point. The Nazis explained that those who wouldn’t go in would be lined up and shot. Everyone but about a dozen people went in. The recalcitrant dozen were lined up against a factory wall. The Germans prepared a firing squad. As they were about to commence their grisly work, the American bombs started to fall. It rained fire and steel. Everyone ran away from the factory grounds, including the German soldiers lined up as a firing squad. Almost no one who had gone into the factory survived. The dozen, my father among them, survived. It was noon.

via Born American, but in the Wrong Place | Ashbrook.

Awesome Metaphor

Also an example of thread drift at Hoyt’s, but mostly I wanted to share a really neat metaphor.

McChuck | May 12, 2015 at 1:03 pm | Reply

Yep. The body is a finely tuned nation of cooperating microbes. The natural-born citizens, we call cells. The immigrants, we call microbes. Illegal immigrants and freeloaders, we call diseases. Colonies and client states, we call children.

Growth and healing happen primarily during sleep. That’s part of what it’s for. (Construction crews work at night, when there’s less traffic to disrupt.)

via Of Trust and Processes | According To Hoyt.

Pope John XXII: Angry Chemist!

Foxfier:

Details matter. The irony of someone who actually did something about fraud that abused science being attacked as anti-science is darkly amusing.

Originally posted on Aliens in This World:

Sometimes you see people saying that Pope John XXII wrote a bull against chemistry. Actually, it was a decretal (canon law) against alchemy scams and counterfeiting coinage. He took alchemy himself as a young guy at the university (he also studied both medicine and law, which is pretty good for a shoemaker’s son) and was a patron of science as pope; so it’s a rage for science, not against science!

Here’s a literal translation:

On the Crime of Counterfeiting (De crimine falsi)
aka Spondent pariter and Spondent quas non exhibent.
Pope John XXII, at Avignon, circa 1317.

Riches-poor alchemists promise riches that they do not produce; equally, those who suppose themselves wise (Rom. 1:22) fall “into the pit that” they have “made.” (Ps. 7:16) For it is by no means doubtful that professors of this art of alchemy make fun of each other; at the same time…

View original 525 more words

Our Sunday Visitor: Company Rag | The American CatholicThe American Catholic

When the Pope tells us that innocent human life is sacred he speaks as the Vicar of Christ.  When he ventures an opinion on climatology, a matter of science, he has all the authority of Jorge Mario Bergoglio, and not one iota more.

via Our Sunday Visitor: Company Rag | The American CatholicThe American Catholic.

True no matter how much I may agree with a prudential judgement by any pope.

A former sailor's ramblings on anything from family, country and Church through general geek-ness.

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