Premiere Issue - Now Available

I apologize for the last entry. I'm going to be taking a break for a bit.
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When I got to the office today, I found the Pointy Hair Boss saying, "I give this magazine the top rating possible! Four Running Little Iggys!" and the Beauty Queenies oooohing and ahhhing like little teenage girls over a new magazine that came in the mail over the weekend.


Not knowing the OCHAs (Orange Cone Head Aliens) to be big on dogs; I mean, they probably get peed on more than anything when a dog has anything to do with them; I investigated a little more closely.


Excerpts from "Exclusive! Interview with Koda the Corgi"

Koda: "I really like laying out in the sunshine in my full naked glory. I don't burn at all and just lap up all things solar. I really want to get some of those really cool blue mirror sunglasses someday..."

Koda: "Some days, just for fun, Adok the dog in the mirror, and I like to go around pretending we are each other but then I start to feel bad because Adok never gets any doggy treats."

Koda: "The highlight of my year was going to Florida and just chillin' with the lil' gators. I even got a hole in one playing mini-golf. It was really nice coming home to my peeps though."

Koda: "I want to meet Castellan Keroberous, the worlds finest West Highland White Terrier, and knock back some Guinness goodness with him while puttin' down the Queen's mangy flea-bitten mutts. Now those Corgis are spoiled rotten! Oh! and I sure hope he lets me call him Kero."

Koda: "I'd like to give a shout out to RJ, Toby, Bachman, Pesto, Pargo, KatyLou and Whiskey! You the dogs!"

You will find this magazine at discerning veterinarian waiting rooms everywhere.

Dear Diary - Another Day Gone

Warning: This is very dark and bleak. Read on only if you insist.

Dear Diary,

Today, I woke up in a foul mood. I realized that I hadn't actually spoken to anyone using my vocal cords in over three days. I looked outside the window of the living room from my low angle of laying on the sofa and saw gray clouds moving slowly as the garish rainbow colored flag on my flagpole snapped in the breeze.

Having gone to sofa the night before with a mix of head cold, depression, inexplicably elevated blood sugar after having only eaten a high fiber bowl of sawdust cereal called All-Bran, and a huge headache, I had hoped I'd feel ... even a little more energetic when I awoke. I had even told myself I could sleep in if it would help.

Having not made any really definite and concrete plans for the day, I watched Thomas the Train on PBS with slack-jawed disinterest. Emily was mean to Thomas. Sighing at the pointlessness, I finally got up because nature called.

Showering and putting on brand new walking shoes for the first time, I pondered the forlorn worn out pair on the floor beside the door. Deciding I needed to find the sage turtle of age-old wisdom as well as a forgiving dirt path to break in the new shoes, I went to the Oaks Reach of the Schuylkill Canal in Mont Clare, near Phoenixville. On my way out, I reached down and picked up the old worn boots... just in case. Someone was right, my parents should have named me "Ole Justin Case". Always with the Plan "B."

I found my temper quick to rise even before pulling out the driveway, as the guy that lives across the street backed down his driveway doing about 30 mph, slammed on the brakes, skidded 20 feet, hopped the curb, just missing my mailbox, and then tore down the street blowing the stop sign and failing to indicate when he turned. What a moron - somehow he managed to reproduce and has two little girls. ‘Wonderbar.’ He was no doubt, off to buy lottery tickets or something of equally critical urgency.

As I turned down Long Level Road to go to the parking lot where the road bends at the canal, a street department work truck was sitting in the road with a dozen orange traffic cones and six guys standing around it with absolutely no one working. There were two flag guys to direct the non-existent traffic and when the first guy saw me he waved me to go by, "Doh! You idiot, I know! There is NEVER anyone on this road!" I drove by him doing the speed limit so he decided to wave his flag indicating I should slow down. I reacted by rolling the window down and giving him a one finger wagging salute. No wonder every public works job costs millions of dollars and takes weeks to get done.

As you can tell, my mood was rapidly improving, not...

Parking the car, I took a deep breath and told myself to settle down. Deep breaths... in and out... I walked over to the canal towpath past a big sign indicating "No Bikes, Walking Trail Only!" I think to myself, "Thank gosh, I won't have to content with the idiots that think they are training for, or worse yet, actually in the Tour De France!"

No more than thirty feet down the narrow towpath I hear, "Hey you! Get out my way!" from a jackass on a bike. I turn to him, and softly said, "I'm in a very, very bad mood. I suggest you just turn around and disappear quietly." which prompts a long string of profanity from the guy to which I turned my back on and pointedly ignore.

A few minutes later I hear him crashing through the woods as he goes around me via the jungle. Morons can be so stubborn.


After a time, I get to Sage Old Turtle’s hideout. By now, I know not even seeing the big turtles is going to brighten me up any. Not even one that is as big as the lid on a 5-gallon paint bucket. I feebly wave to him or her on the way by, deciding not to speak, as I wasn’t going to be in the proper mood to listen. I continue my solitary walk up towpath and go under the road bridge and onto the river road.

Here I see people walking – and to my dismay, they are all couples. Each guy had a woman with him. Each woman had a guy with her. Lowering my eyes and pretending they simply just didn’t exist, I go on to the towering Pennsylvania Railroad bridge.


Usually the sight of this grand structure stirs some sort of awe in me, but today I just saw the flaws, cracks, rusty and broken railings and damage that time and man had inflicted on it.

Deciding to get off the road and down to the river for a better view of the bridge, I slip slightly in the mud straining a muscle in my leg. Muttering to myself while wincing, I head further down the side trail to the river’s edge more closely watching my footing and I bang my head on a low hanging branch. You really do see stars, you know.


At the river’s edge, beneath the crumbling bridge, half buried in the mud was a badly beaten bicycle. I stopped, looked at it, and thought to myself, “I wonder what its story is? Lost, forlorn, physically mangled, alone, half buried, and perhaps long forgotten by the little boy that once rode it.

I suddenly backed away – the image of the bike burning, searing, engraved in my head. To identify so strongly with a rusty old bike badly frightened me.

I slowly retraced my steps, as I walked back to my car, deep in thoughts far too dark to ever share with anyone – back past the handholding couples, the big turtles and the folicking dogs at the dog run, ignoring them all.

Sigh, another day gone. How many more will there be?

A bad day to match the good day I had previously. My life has been very full – with many highs and many matching lows – the good equaled by the bad.

Already mangled, I am quite ready to “be one with the bike” – half buried somewhere and soon to be forgotten. I’ll never know some of the highs like finding a soulmate – or having children and watching them graduate high schools or attending their weddings and seeing grandchildren come along – nor will I ever endure the lows of losing any of them. I guess, just in case.

Weekend Wordle

It's that time of week again!

It's time for Shan's Weekend Wordles.

Here's what you do:

1) Go to Wordle.net to create your Wordle.

2) Post it on your blog with a link to Shan's Week~End Wordles or Last Shreds Of Sanity.

3) Once that's done, go back to Last Shreds Of Sanity and sign the Mr Linky that she'll have up - this will help direct those who play along to your blog.

From The Fighting Quakers


The threads of history are tangled but lie just outside the door

Driving Mr. Iggy

Borrowing a page from the delightful Tooj over at Circling the Square Table, I did a little trip down memory lane and found pictures on the Internet for the cars I either drove a lot, owned, leased or just borrowed from the bank.


I kind of liked my Mom chauffeuring me to places so I was in no hurry to get my driver's license but shortly before going to college, I pulled out the Pennsylvania Drivers Examination material and gave it a quick read before driving for the first time and taking my Mom's bright orange Plymouth Voyager Van over to the driver's testing place where I got my license. Yeah, they really just give them away around here - qualifications? Just don't run over the examiner's foot.

The van in the photo is similar to the "Orange Peel" as my parent's call it. They named all their cars rather unimaginatively after their color. Of course this is the era long before SUVs and my parents did a lot of odd-delivery jobs - so they had 5 or 6 vans like this one (never more than two at a time) while I was growing up.

I hated this particular van. It was built right after the "new emissions control" law was enacted around 1972? 1975? and it ran horribly. Flooring the accelerator would stall it out. I was often left hanging with my backside half out on a busy highway with a locked up steering wheel.


My younger brother, on the other hand, didn't like my Mom's driving, so he got his license a couple days after turning 16. He bought a very used, but much loved and well maintained, 1967 VW Beetle with a manual, no-syncromesh 3-speed on the floor shift. I learned how to drive stick with this car. My brother drove this car throughout his college years and sold it to one of his college professors.

A year later, the Professor was broadsided by someone running a red light and the car was totaled with over 290,000 miles on it. The professor had a broken leg but recovered fully.

I loved this car except for its complete lack of heat and defrosting ability in the winter. This was one very cold car.


My grandfather owned a "satellite white with purple vinyl roof" 1972-ish Plymouth Custom Fury something.. I think III. He sold this to me so I could get around at College. He declared, "I'd buy myself a Mercedes, but I'll never live long enough to wear it out." This was about 1980. He is still alive today at 100 plus years old and from that point in time went on to wear out about five cars! He never did get himself a Mercedes though. He also no longer drives.

I loved the huge V8 engine in this car! It had a three-speed automatic gear selector on the steering wheel - eh, so not cool. I hated the burgundy-purple vinyl top that it had. And I also hated the "on a good day," I got 8 miles to the gallon too! When I started commuting 30 miles one way to work everyday - this car simply had to go.


The one and only brand new car I've ever owned. A 1986-ish Chevrolet Camaro Berlinetta. A black-grey beauty with gold trim number with a more reasonable V6 engine and five-speed "gas saving" manual stick shift. The clutch was so heavy, I frequently said, while driving in the usual for these parts, bumper to bumper, stop and go traffic, that I was being tortured on a rowing machine.

This car was an American quality control and assurance disaster. I think it was recalled at least a dozen times for this, that, and the other thing. It handled atrociously in the snow. I left the snow covered, paved surface of the road more than once (this is a cute way of saying dozens and dozens of times) but with nary a dent.

My love-hate relationship with this car went from one extreme to the other within minutes. It got egged on mischief night and one of the eggs scarred the paint - and that left me near tears - but on the very same day I got the umpteenth recall notice - this one for a potential cracked tailpipe assembly.

Soon after that - I got a new job and the new employer leased a car for me!


Life was good. A 1992 BMW 325is. Sleek German silky magic! "Mine" was jet black with gold wheels. I was often on the road for this employer and I loved driving this machine! The manual shifting was effortless and precise. The clutch was silky smooth. I was, however, responsible for my own gas and all the maintenance costs which ended up being the reason why this car, when the lease was up, went back to the dealership. I think the "routine" 60,000 mile service cost over $1,600!

I had my one and only "bad accident" in this car. No fault of the car though. There was (and is) a sharp curve in the road that I commuted on - and along side the curve was a closed down gas station. When they closed the station, they put steel barrels out at the edge of the driveway and several of them had waste oil in them from oil changes

Time and rust, a rainy day...

I hit an oily, rain dampened spot in this curve in the road doing a breath-taking 25 mph, narrowly missing some children playing on the wet sidewalk in the rain, I found myself still belted in when the dust cleared, teetering on a railroad siding. I took out 4 chain link fence posts and managed to damage every single body panel on the left side of the car as well as sever all the hydraulic lines (controlling the anti-lock brakes) underneath it.

I love State Farm. My single claim cost more than I had paid in insurance payments in ALL the years I had driven to that fateful day. Without fuss, they paid for everything (except the self-soiled pants) and about 2 weeks later I got the car back looking better than new.

But time marched on and the lease expired and the maintenance boogey man overruled my lust for this automobile.


I think I had a testosterone failure the day I went car shopping. I got myself a nice used, green 1995 Subaru Legacy 4 door sedan built in Lafayette, Indiana. I think this is the day I officially "got old".

My Mother had gone from driving a van to a Subaru Legacy wagon - and at that time it had 240,000 miles on it without any servicing beyond the routine. It was also all-wheel drive. I liked how it drove and how it dealt with rain-slicked or snow covered roads. I got one for me - but I wasn't so fuddy-duddy as to get a wagon - yet.

This car was a war horse. It served me well - it finally died of old age after I had it for about 9 years. My Mother's wagon is still out there (no longer hers) and at last report had cleared 310,000 miles without a hiccup. Hey, GM...Ford? This is how you build a car, OK?


Last year, I replace the green sedan with a lightly used 2004 blue and gold Subaru Legacy Wagon. It's now official. I'm a fuddy-duddy old fart.

It has absolutely nothing that would attract the law's eye except the driver waving a solitary upright finger at the oh-so-many (other?) morons on the road. I've come a long way from the days of squealing the rubber and doing burnouts in the "police cruiser".

Thanks Tooj! :)

My Midlife Crisis

I have one or two entries more or less written on the prison series - but all the grimness and all the history of late made me get a little stir-crazy - so to lighten up a bit, I offer you this:


Thank you, YellowDogGranny
Yesterday I was talking to someone that hadn't quite finished their college degree. They said they were halfway done getting their degree in Communications. Specifically they wanted to be a light news reporter. I think they meant Gossip or Celebrity Exposes' and not being an underweight writer but I'm not really sure.

I got to thinking (I hear you saying "Ut-oh") that I've always wanted to write for a very special pet magazine...one that would be put out at the Vet's waiting room and be just for dogs. I think I would really enjoy writing in Dogese and its dialects. Dialect such as Deutch Woofing for the German Shepards, British Snuffle for Bulldogs and Weezyanna for Coon Dogs and Bloodhounds.

I'd try to write fascinating and entertaining articles like:

"What To Do When Master Thinks You Need To Be De-Nutted"

"Those Lousy Fleas: Are They A Sign Of Bad Hygiene?"

"Little Wiener? How To Be A BIG Dog!"

"Ham Bones Versus Steak Bones: What Does The REAL Dog Prefer"

"Doggone Doggy Breath: Does Your Front End Smell Like Your Back End?"

"Lick Her Face or Chew Her Shoes?"

"Chase The Cat or Ignore Them: What's Right For You"

"Why Dry Kibble Sucks, brought to you by Alpo"

"Celebrity Corner: A Day In The Life of ...." where each month would feature a special dog. The premiere issue would feature Koda. Then Toby...and then Katylou followed by Whiskey and Kero. Queen Elizabeth's Corgi's might get in there around issue 23. Maybe.

Of course some titles would be naughty and all tease, like "Bring Out The Bad Dog In You: Be A Pussy Hound" (Oh dear - There goes my PG Blog rating again.)

The magazine would need a neat, catchy title... Something like "A Paws At the Vet's Place" or "The Smarter Dog" or maybe "Doggy Quarterly" so they could call it "DQ".

Of course the magazine would have the usual sections in it and be full of slick ads with awesome smelling scratch and sniffs - like WetDog, Old DogGas, and the very exclusive and very expensive ImInHeat.

I can foresee some ads for medical products, like "FacebookoDerm Patches" for dogs who have Masters that are too addicted to silly computer games to take them out for walks, throw sticks, or shudders, feed them and keep the water bowl filled. They'd read, "Bark at your Master's Doctor about ..."

Oh, and an advice column with Dear Arnold the sage and savvy Black Labrador. They'd go something like this:

Dear Arnold, I have the Tidy Bowl blues. Recently I was made to stop drinking out of the toilet when my Master put this blue stuff in the tank. What should I do? Is peeing on the Kitchen floor an acceptable form of protest? - Signed, Bluesy.

Dear Bluesy, Absolutely....


Dear Arnold, Recently my Master got a new puppy. Are they trying to replace me? - Signed, Whines Myself to Sleep.

Dear Whiney, Of course not. It just means someone to play with and the dry kibble will be fresher since they will have to buy more much more frequently.


What do you think? Will it sell?

The Fighting Quakers

She was born Elizabeth Griscom in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to Samuel and Rebecca James Griscom, the 8th of 17 children. She was the great-granddaughter of a carpenter, Andrew Griscom, who had arrived in New Jersey in 1680 from England.

Young Elizabeth attended Quaker schools and learned needlework there and at home. When she married John Ross, an Anglican, in 1773, she was read out from the Friends Meeting for marrying outside the faith. She eventually joined the Free Quakers, or Fighting Quakers because they did not adhere strictly to the "Thou shall not kill" pacifism of the sect. John and Elizabeth Ross began an upholstery business together, drawing on her needlework skills.

You know her as Betsy Ross.

John was killed in January 1776 on militia duty when gunpowder exploded at the Philadelphia waterfront. Betsy acquired the property and kept up the upholstery business, making flags for Pennsylvania as well.

In 1777 Betsy married Joseph Ashburn, a sailor, who was on a ship captured by the British in 1781. He died in Old Mill Prison in England the next year.

In 1783, Betsy married again - this time, her husband was John Claypoole, who had been in prison with Joseph Ashburn, and had met Betsy when he delivered Joseph's dying farewells to her. He died in 1817, after a long disability.

Betsy lived until 1836, dying on January 30. She was buried in the Free Quaker Burying Ground.

--------------------------
"The Fighting Quakers," or the Free Quakers as they are sometimes called, were a splinter group who broke with the main body during the American Revolution. They took the oath of allegiance and bore arms which put them at odds with the main body of Quakers. There were about 200 of them in the beginning and from 1783 until 1834 they met at the Free Quaker Meeting House at Fifth and Arch Street, in downtown Philadelphia. Betsy Ross, as Mrs. Claypoole, worshiped here.

Betsy Ross gave her tissue pattern for a star to Samuel Wetherill, one of the founders of the Free Quakers. Tradition has it, she told George Washington she could fold a piece of cloth and with one snip of the scissors make a perfect five-pointed star. Wetherill put the pattern in a safe which was, in true Philadelphia fashion, not opened for 150 years.

The last two Fighting Quakers to worship in the meetinghouse were Betsy (Ross) Claypoole and John Price Wetherill. In 1834 (Betsy was 82) the pair decided to sell the meetinghouse due to financial problems. With the value of land increasing tremendously in Philadelphia at the time, the pair also took the unusual step of selling the burial ground, for $42,000.


I'm going somewhere with this, I promise!

One of the prominent early families of the Philadelphia Quakers was the Wetherill family, the owners of Mill Grove early in the 19th century. They also purchased a large nearby farm across Pawlings Road.

That farm was previously owned by a man named William Bakewell, whose daughter married John James Audubon (the famous naturalist painter). Bakewell established a family burial ground on the property. It was his barn that was used as a hospital during the encampment at Valley Forge.


A Civil War soldier named Francis Wetherill died in Pottsville in 1895. He was a devoted Quaker, but more importantly he was the owner of the Wetherill Farm when he died. In his will, he bestowed on the society of Free Quakers the right to use the burial ground established earlier by William Bakewell.


Thus it came about, in 1905(!) all the tombstones in the Philadelphia burial ground, 61 in number, and the remaining bones of those buried there, were removed to the burial ground on the former Bakewell Farm.

Along with Bakewell and others, two distinguished and well known Americans, Timothy Matlack and Ira Allen, are buried in the cemetery, and their presence is noted by two historical markers, one on Pawlings Road and one on Audubon Road.


Matlack was a Revolutionary patriot, state official - in capacities such as Secretary of the Supreme Executive Council, Master of the Rolls and member of the Constitutional Convention of Pennsylvania - and member of the Continental Congress (1780-1781). A Colonel of a rifle battalion, Matlack fought in the Battle of Princeton. It is Timothy Matlack's penmenship you see on the Declaration of Independence.


Ira Allen was a Quaker from Vermont. "He was most heralded as an officer of the renowned Green Mountain Boys in the northern campaign of the Revolution. He was an author and the principal founding father of the University of Vermont."


It took me over 5 miles of walking and nearly 2 hours to find this cemetery. It was nearly dark when I did. If anyone wants to visit it, I'll be happy to give you directions or be your tour guide.

P.s., As for Betsy Ross herself, after being reburied twice, is now (sort of*) buried on Arch Street in the courtyard adjacent to the Betsy Ross House in Philadelphia.

* When they dug up her second grave they didn't find any body, bones found elsewhere and unidentified were declared hers and re-buried in her grave at the Betsy Ross home.

My Trip to Prison (Part 3)

This entry is not for the timid or faint at heart.

The first inmate was brought to Eastern State on October 23, 1829. He was 18 year old Charles Williams. His prison record states: "Burglar. Farmer by trade. Can read. Theft included one twenty-dollar watch, one three-dollar gold seal, one gold key. Sentenced to two years confinement."

The moving forces behind construction of the prison wrote that the exterior appearance should be "a cheerless blank indicative of the misery which awaits the unhappy being who enters."

A revolutionary radial design by a young architect named John Haviland was chosen. Each cellblock was to radiate in different directions from the hub. This allowed easy view of every cellblock from the center.

After Charles Williams was brought through the three sets of giant doors, he was assigned a number, prisoner number 1, which would be his new name during his entire stay. Before he was taken to his cell, a black hood was placed over his head. The black hood was used whenever inmates were outside their cells so they could not see any other inmates.


Williams was then placed in a cell with nothing to do. The warders knew what would happen: "His mind can only operate on itself; generally, but a few hours elapse before he petitions for something to do, and for a bible. No instance has occurred, in which such a petition has been delayed beyond a day or two."

It's probably safe to assume that Charles Williams sincerely regretted stealing those gold trinkets before those first few days were up, and he probably memorized the Bible stories in their entirety during the next two years.

The inmates were not allowed to communicate with each other or meet for any purpose, not even for religious services. Ministers sermonized to the inmates while walking through the prison, their voices echoing through the cellblocks.


The inmates weren't allowed to sing, whistle, have visitors, see a newspaper, or hear from any source about the outside world. They were allowed in their exercise yards, which were attached to their 8 by 12 foot cells, just one hour per day. At Eastern State, you went into your cell and you stayed there. You saw no one except a guard, and you spoke to no one.

The official explanation: "No prisoner is seen by another after he enters the wall. When the years of confinement have passed, his old associates in crime will be scattered over the earth, or in the grave and the prisoner can go forth into a new and industrious life, where his previous misdeeds are unknown."

The cells were damp and musty with very little air circulation. The original sewer system didn't work properly so the cells reeked. The central heating system, another new idea at the time, didn't work very well either. The toilet plumbing soon broke down and instead of flushing once a day for all the cells at the same time, it became a once or twice a week happening.

If you misbehaved, you were chained to a cell wall or denied a blanket in winter. One prisoner was kept in a dark cell in irons for 42 days. When a counselor discovered the delirious inmate and gave him some bread and water, the counselor was fired.


Even crueler was the "iron gag." This was a five-inch piece of metal that fit over the inmate's tongue. The inmate was also cuffed with his wrists behind him, and a chain was connected from the gag to the cuffs. If the inmate fought the device and pulled with his arms, the gag was forced deeper into his mouth. At least one inmate died from the iron gag.

By the time Eastern State was completed in 1836, it was the most expensive building in America at a cost of $772,600. It immediately became a popular tourist attraction, being visited by sightseers and dignitaries from around the world. By mid-century the prison was being toured by 10,000 people per year.

But Eastern State was criticized relentlessly for the use total solitary confinement. The London Times claimed that it was "maniac-making."

Charles Dickens visited the Eastern State Penitentiary in 1842 and later wrote about it. "The System is rigid, strict and hopeless...and I believe it to be cruel and wrong... I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain, to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body."

There are no figures on how many people went insane at Eastern State. Prison officials persistently claimed that solitary confinement had no ill effects on the inmates. Cases of mental illness were frequently attributed to "excessive masturbation."

Through the 19th century, problems of mental illness and overcrowding forced Eastern State officials to abandon the idea of complete isolation. The black masks were thrown out in 1903.

By the 20th century, Eastern State Penitentiary was just an old, crowded prison.

Today, 1% (1 in every hundred) civilian in the USA is incarcerated and 80% of them for drug-related crimes. It's a different world - and there are still no answers to the problems of crime.

It is furthermore, ironic to see the new "Super Maximum Security" prison in Colorado is built with the same underlying (and failed) premise - solitary confinement - 23 hours a day.

Adapted from here

My Trip to Prison (Part 2)

Before we get started, I'd like to see all the dogs in sitting down here in the front row. Koda the Corgi, Kero, Willow, Dog the Teddy, Toby (how's the tongue hanging Toby?), Katylou, Whiskey the Demon Dog, Huntababes, Nova, RJ, the Bachman, Ringo and your new 'personal trainer' sweety Amber, Pesto, Pargo and yes, even Yaya's nephew dog Bernie, and her parent's wiener dogs - this means all of youse guys.

Karma, Dharma, Tiger, George, and Gracie, let's see youse cats up here too.

Be seated pooches and ummm, cats. Now listen up.


See this dog? His name is Pep, but the world knows him as Eastern State Penitentiary inmate number C2559. Pep was a Cat-Murdering dog, a black Labrador Retriever admitted to Eastern on August 12, 1924. Prison folklore tells us that Pennsylvania Governor Clifford Pinchot sentenced Pep to serve life without parole at Eastern State Penitentiary for killing his wife's cherished cat.

Prison records support this story: Pep's reported inmate number, C2559 is skipped in the sequence of the numbers assigned new receptions - receptions is prison speak for new intakes, plainly put, newbie prisoners.


Now the Governor, like all politicians, has another story for what went down...He claims Pep was sent to Eastern to act as a mascot for the prisoners.

His PR flack said at the time, "Pep is the answer. Here, in brief, was the answer to the Governor's thought, the fit and fine dog to be sent to those who are in prison. No despairing man brooding in his cell can feel that he is forgotten by God and man, who will feel Pep's loving tongue caressing his languid hand."

Yaright, who's gonna believe that sappy story?

Seems the Governor and Warden Herbert Smith were best buds.

Anyway, Pep lived at Eastern State Penitentiary for a least a decade...that is 70 of your doggy years you know and he's said to be buried at the Correctional Institution at Graterford. Sad thing is, they aren't even sure.


Now Pep, he weren't the only one. See this Beagle here? That's ESP-1B, he was admitted on July 7, 1957. He never left the place alive.


See this corridor? This is a cell block. Each of those doors opens into a room about 8 feet wide by 11 feet deep. It has a steel frame cot an end table and a smelly combination toilet and sink. Do you see anything remotely looking like a grass lawn? Or bushes? Or milkbones or butterflies? No...nor do you see any fire hydrants or interesting places to sniff and relieve yourselves. This is a prison. It's not a fun place for a dog. Any dog.

Got it? No murdering cats. No barking after quiet hours. No biting your own human. No wetting or pooping on the floor inside the house. Got it? Let's see your best behavior at all times. Nuttin' personal okay? I don't ever wanna sees you back heres again.

My Trip to Prison (Part 1)

To prevent escapes, this gate is the only way in or out. Inside are 12 acres of cell blocks and rubble.

Once the most famous and expensive and prison in the world, the Eastern State Penitentiary stands today in ruin, a haunting world of crumbing cell blocks and empty guard towers.


Opened in 1829 as part of a controversial movement to change the behavior of inmates through 'confinement in solitude', the Eastern State Penitentiary was the first of its kind. This was the world's first true 'penitentiary,' a prison designed to insprire penitence, or true regret, in the hearts of prisoners.

It is estimated that more than 300 prisons worldwide are based on the Penitentiary's wagon-wheel, or "radial" floor plan.

The prison remained in operation for 142 years. It closed in 1971.


For now, enjoy the infectious smile of our tour guide - as she laughs when:

I dropped a bar of soap at her feet and sloooooooowly bent over in front of her.

And when that didn't work, I demanded to be strip-searched for nail files or metal saws which didn't get any takers either.

And finally I just said in a quiet, menacing Clint Eastwood sort of way, "Does your Mother know you hang out at an all-male prison all day?"

She probably blogs about how she hates dealing with the public.


I'll write more about the prison's history and quirks later, which include Chicago's Al Capone eight month stay and the life-time without parole Cat-Murdering Dog...

Happy Birthday Wishes!

Happy Birthday Marmite Toasty!

xoxo

The Perfect Orange Cone Head Dessert

Sorry, I've not been feeling well this week - but rather than whine about a headcold I'll leave you with a cool way to get a brain freeze.

Oh, and by the way, I'm going to prison tomorrow... the Eastern State Penitentiary which is near the Phildadelphia Art Museum (if you want come visit...)


INGREDIENTS
3/8 cup Orange Sherbet
2 tablespoons Vanilla Ice Cream

4 ounce paper solo cone cup


DIRECTIONS
Hold paper cup in hand
Pack one tablespoon of orange sherbet into it and smooth it down
Next pack vanilla ice cream into a layer and smooth it down
Pack remaining orange sherbet and level off the top (bottom) of the cup
Turn cup over on serving plate and remove it



Serves one or two (or thousands of ants at a picnic!)

You can find this recipe and many others in the Perfect Orange Cone Head Cookbook whereever you see this sign!



Thanks to Stock Toons for the graphics and LadyStyx for finding them. Thanks to Yaya for the Iggy Apparel picture!

St. Peter's In The Great Valley

Last Saturday, the weather was gloomy and threatened rain at any moment - so I stayed close to home and visited some Revolutionary War sites that, while nearby, I haven't visited or paid much attention to - Amongst those sites was the Paoli Massacre in Malvern, PA, the Diamond Rock (Octoagonal) Schoolhouse, and an old Church used as a hospital during the War of Independence. Some of the other pictures I took Saturday are in the Flickr photostream on the right.


"The township of Tredyffrin, in which St. Peter's Church principally resides, is translated from the Welch word "Tryduffrin" meaning "great valley". This Great Valley, where they had planted themselves, reminded many of the Welsh colonists of vistas from their beloved homeland; the natural conditions are strikingly like those found in the Welsh Border counties."


"The log church that would become St. Peter's lay at the 'upper' or north-western corner of Tredyffrin Township within an already existing burying ground at the crest of the highest hill within the middle of the Great Valley. It was common to build a church on ground already used as a burial place."

The Church is the white building in the center of the picture above at the edge of an abandoned limestone quarry.


"As revolutionary fervor against Great Britain increased by 1776, the dilemma of Anglican parishes in general, and St. Peter's Church in particular, became acute. This quandary was exacerbated by the refusal of the Rev. Currie to renounce his vow of loyalty to the King, taken as a young priest years before."


"Considered a Tory by many throughout the parish, the confrontation between parishioners and priest became so hostile that Rev. Currie no longer had the consent of his flock to lead and thus resigned from active service in May 16, 1776."

The Church then went without a leader for many years.


"Tradition has long held that immediately after the Paoli battle, the British, viewing St. Peter's as a Church of England property, supervised the burial of a British officer, at least two other British enlisted soldiers, and at least five Continental troops killed in the Paoli battle. They lie buried side by side along the old west wall of the churchyard."

"Each grave is marked by a single fieldstone, with no inscription or epitaph of any kind, to indicate the British or American occupant."

There are many other old graves.


"In memory of David Williams,
who departed this life September the 4th,
in the year 1801 In the 63rd year of his age
My flesh shall slumber in the ground
Till the last trumpet's joyful sound
Then burst the chains with sweet surprise
Aid in my Saviour's image rise"

"In memory of Roger Little who departed this life Oct. 1st, 1819 In the seventieth year of his age (Revolutionary Soldier)."

"In memory of Mary Little who departed this life May 11th, 1841 In the seventy-ninth year of her age."

I wondered if this was the Mary that had the little lamb.

Source of the quoted text.

A Moment in the Sun

I wrote the core of this entry as a comment over at Sherri's Matter of Fact. I found a picture I had taken of the general location and decided to share -


On Sunday, I was walking alone on a particularly beautiful stretch of the Perkiomen trail - it has rock ledges, forests, and the Perkiomen Creek babbles and burbles on one side.

I had walked a considerable way - my legs were tired and my left knee was aching, but the sun was shining for the first time after several wet, cold, and gloomy days and the pleasant breeze was blowing drying air so I just had get outside and enjoy it.

I was walking up to one of the many memorial benches that line the trail and noticed an older, neatly dressed, white-haired man sitting on it eating some cookies he had brought along in a plastic sandwich bag.

As I pulled along side of him, I noticed he seemed a little sad and perhaps slightly forlorn so I smiled extra big and sunny and waved hello to him, and he responded with a "Beautiful day today isn't it?"

To which I replied, "Yes, indeed, they don't come much nicer - and you have picked a beautiful spot, one of the most beautiful ones along the trail." He smiled broadly and patted the bench with one hand, and said, "This is my bench."

Suddenly I realized what he meant. The bench has a memorial plaque that says "Mary, delightful companion, treasured mate, truly wonderful soul and daily missed. Love you always, Buck". I stopped and turned to him and said, "You must be 'Buck'." His face lit up and his eyes sparkled as he nodded affirmatively.

I reach over and shook his hand and said, "You don't know me, but I feel like I know you. I've walked past this bench hundreds of times and I have always admired the setting here in the curving bend of the creek with the deep woods on one side." I continued with, "I have also marveled at a woman named 'Mary', she must of been really special, and I'm sorry I never got to meet her. And likewise I have admired a man named 'Buck' that unabashedly speaks of his love for his wife of many years. I am pleased to meet you."

His eyes got a little shiny and he said, "Mary was a wonderful person and an even more wonderful wife. She was so full of life." He offered me a cookie and even though I didn't really want it, I took it and ate with him. Sharing time with someone is somehow greatly enhanced when you share food too.

He spoke of the times he and Mary had taken their bikes out onto the trail and shared God's work - the woods, the birds and animals, the seasons and the weathers, and when they got home they were revived and ready to face another day and another week.

I smiled to him as I made ready to leave and continue on with my walking. I shook his hand again and said, "Take care Buck. It was a pleasure meeting you and in a way, to meet Mary too." He grinned from ear to ear and I noticed as I walked away, my legs felt a new spring in them and that my achy knee didn't ache anymore.

How's The Weather Up There?

Robert Pershing Wadlow
High School Graduation
1936 Class Photo
Robert Pershing Wadlow was born, educated and buried in Alton, Illinois. His height of 8' 11.1" qualifies him as the tallest person in history.

What do Jimmy Buffet, Ellen DeGeneres, Chris Farley, Mel Gibson, Heather Graham, Faith Hill, Adolf Hitler, Katie Holmes, Elton John, Sophia Loren, Tobey McGuire, Mary Tyler Moore, Tom Petty, Edgar Alan Poe, Caroline Rhea, Meg Ryan, Cybill Shepherd, Ben Stiller, Robin Williams, Catherine Zeta-Jones and I have in common?

We are all the same height. Frankly, I'd rather be Janet Reno's height (6'2")!

Who are your "height neighbors"?

Find out here :)

Weekend Wordle!

It's that time of week again!

It's time for Shan's Weekend Wordles.

Here's what you do:

1) Go to Wordle.net to create your Wordle.

2) Post it on your blog with a link to Shan's Week~End Wordles or Last Shreds Of Sanity.

3) Once that's done, go back to Last Shreds Of Sanity and sign the Mr Linky that she'll have up - this will help direct those who play along to your blog.

From Random Acts of Kindness


Warm and Fuzzy

Sunset

Yesterday, Thursday September 10th, the rain that had been falling steadily let up and the sky cleared slightly just before the sun set signalling the end of yet another day.


I was aware of many changes going on - the season's move from summer to autumn as the breeze was chilly, blowing a wet spray into the air.

What the dawn would bring, I didn't know beyond the expectation of another day at work and continued struggling with two projects I barely understand. Both of these projects deal with computer-based learning systems - one is for "low-verbal deaf" students and strives to teach them basic English sentence structures. The other is labeled "Multiple Intelligence Teaching Approach" that seeks to use "Problem Based Learning" to overcome 'non-learning' on the part of secondary (High School and Collage) level students that are bored and "disengaged" from their class(es).

As the light left the sky last night, I was also aware of the sounds of passenger jets overhead as they were on their approach to a landing at Philadelphia International Airport. The noise of these jets has changed over the years - the wailing whistling scream has become a more throaty organ-like humming throb. The noise was, in an odd way, reassuring - indicating life goes on - day in and day out - with or without me.

Eight years ago, the skies were silent.

I recall sitting in my office that fateful day working on a project quite different from the ones I grapple with today and seeing the news on CNN's website showing videos of something I couldn't comprehend. Airplanes flying far too low, flashes of fire, billowing smoke and raining debris.

I remember thinking that the bravery and nobility of mankind shone brightly in the bleak darkness of the cruelty and savageness that day.

Today, it is eight years later and ... have we gotten any closer to ending the hatred that climaxed on that day? Sadly, I doubt we have even begun.

In our remembrance of the many acts bravery and sacrifice and the tragic loss of the innocent - we need to remember that the violence that caused them is a universally human condition that we need eternal vigilance to guard and to protect against - and for which we need to find a solution.

It may be idealistic and naive on my part - but I believe that the solution probably doesn't lie in the direction of extermination and termination but rather in understanding motivations.

People that see other people as "regular folks just like themselves" do not hate each other - nor do they call the others "axis of evil" or "monsters" - they see them as neighbors, to help and to aid when the need arises.

I don't suppose my opinion will be terribly popular but I have to wonder just what it was that caused the people to strike out against the USA on September 11, 2001 - How many times has the USA meddled, interfered and plain "messed things up" in the middle east? How is it that one day we give weapons like Stinger missiles to Bin Laden to use against the Russians; aid to Saddam Hussein's Iraq for use against Iran, and the next day they just "aren't our buddies anymore"?

Just what strings were attached to those weapons and what (probably broken) promises were made to them? Were they 'justly' angry at our government?

I understand that how they expressed their anger at a "country with a superiority complex that listens to no one" was misguided and most unfortunate.

...But think about it... work your way past the overheated rhetoric ... What were the actual and real causes for the obvious results? I don't claim to know - I don't - but I won't buy the U.S. Government's self-protective sound bites - without reasoning, proof and critical thinking.

Geeks from the 'Hood

Perhaps some of you remember my taking boxes of old photographs out of the attic to sort out and place into photo albums recently. I eventually ended up rediscovering eight boxes full of them!

Tucked away in a corner of one those boxes, was a small yellow box with eleven slides in it. Try as I might, I was only able to get a general sense of what the pictures might be by holding them up to the light.

A good field of mine had a nifty gadget that would scan slides into computer photo files. I hesitated to impose upon her, but in the end, I just had to see the pictures. My friend agreed to scan them in for me - and yesterday sent the photo files to me via e-mail.

Getting the photos was like opening up a long forgotten, dusty, secret drawer in an old oak roll-top desk. As I gazed upon them, I left my office and aging body behind and travelled back, back, back in time, a time of boyhood before I had many of the cares, concerns and aches that I have today.

The photos were taken by my honorary Uncle George. Uncle George was an old man of about 85 years, from Lawrence, Kansas. (Hey! I know someone that lives there!) He went on an overseas trip with my Grandparents and my younger brother to Austria and Switzerland in 1972. He was a true gentleman and made good friends with my Grandparents.

After they returned from their trip abroad, Uncle George remained in touch, sending letters and photos reminiscing about the time they had shared together and expressed his hope of being able to see parts of Pennsylvania. Soon things were arranged and Uncle George came for a visit and my parents took him and my Grandparents to see Washington Crossing, PA (where George Washington crossed the Delaware that fateful Christmas day in 1776 to surprise the British/Hessians in Trenton and Princeton NJ), he also visited Bowman's Tower (a watch tower in Buck's County), the Franklin Institute (an unparalleled science museum downtown Philadelphia, and Valley Forge.

While he was staying with us, he took some pictures of my brothers and I playing lawn croquet. And it is one of these pictures I find myself gazing at, over and over again - and feel so transported by -


From right to left, me, my younger brother's neighborhood friend Scott, my younger brother, and my older brother. I am about 12 or 13 years old.

The four of us played - ate - went to school - studied - attended day camps - 4H club meetings - swimming lessons - scouts...and just about everything else together. We had not a care in the world except to do what our parents asked of us. How badly I miss those days.

Thank you Uncle George - your memory is still alive and well here.

And thank you, my friend, for scanning in this little box of slides for me. The images you created are of long lost treasures and now are treasure in their own right.

Random Acts of Kindness

Yesterday, I received a box containing the handmade items LadyStyx made just for me as part of a giveaway via Dorkys Ramos' giveaway.

I was tickled pink with Dorkys' giveaway items. They were so "me" and I still smile when I think about them - which is every day since one of the items is on my desk.

What would LadyStyx send an old guy like me?


A cute little monkey holding his security banana, a monkey with his finger in his mouth looking slightly puzzled, a dog with a blue bandana with a bone in his mouth, a dalmation waving hello, and two delightful fishes. Her card, was also handmade (by Dorkys)! So a (not so*) random act of kindness trickles along bringing smiles and warm fuzzy feelings as it goes. If I didn't know these two friends didn't already have one - I'd give them the "Warm and Fuzzy" award!

Thank you very much LadyStyx! I am hard pressed to select a favorite - but not hard pressed to find a place to put these little charmers. :)

*I hestitate to call these "random" acts since so much thought was put into them. Someone knows me and knows me pretty well. :)

For those of you that I've promised giveaway items to, they are being put into shipping envelopes today and should be on their way by tomorrow.