I was reading an article about Leap Year and in the middle of otherwise tedious calendar-speak was this little bit of history:
In 46 B.C., after his affair with Cleopatra, Caesar chose to adopt the superior Egyptian calendar, and this became known as the Julian calendar. In the first version of the Julian calendar, February had 29 days most years and 30 days in leap years. Caesar named the month of July after himself, so when Augustus came to power, he decided he needed a month too. He named August after himself, but he had to steal a day from February in order to make August as long as July.
He decided he needed a month too? He stole a day from February? The ego is amazing and yet I find the story charming.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I'm asking nicely
Would someone please translate this for me:
ut fert divina voluntas
I am connected to these words and yet do not know their meaning.
Do you have any idea what they mean, or any resource suggestions?
ut fert divina voluntas
I am connected to these words and yet do not know their meaning.
Do you have any idea what they mean, or any resource suggestions?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Take a left, then right, then a left and another right
In a couple of hours, I'll get in my car and begin the 90 mile drive to our family's cabin southeast of here on the Colorado River. The drive will take me off the freeway about a third of the way there and then along country roads and farm roads, through small towns with single stop lights or four-way stop signs. I'll pass enormous round bales of hay dotting pastures, and idle farm equipment spilling out of the barns. I'll pass local grocery stores that are one tenth the size of my grocery store, where teenage cashiers greet customers by name. I'll drive by a John Deere Farm Equipment facility and a lone chemical plant that sullies the countryside view but is one town's main employer, and therefore provides the livelihood of many. I'll drive a lazily winding road with enormous Live Oak trees in the fields to the left and right and a few with branches reaching across the road. I'll pass a Sno Cone stand and a trailer with "Best Bar-B-Q" painted on its side and if the number of people there in the summer is any indication, the sign might be true. The roads will take me through the familiar and I'll mentally note what has changed since my last drive, where the progress is and where time has seemingly passed by. It's a drive that is as comforting and enjoyable to me as the destination.
And if I do not stop here, I'll be late for the start of my journey.
And if I do not stop here, I'll be late for the start of my journey.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Way back when
My first best friend was a girl named Amanda. I met Amanda when I was seven and my family moved into our second house. Amanda lived in the neighborhood beside ours and her house was a short walk along the bayou trails and through a couple back yards. We were inseparable, she and I, and the bayou and neighborhood were ours to discover and explore.
That house was paradise for a young girl filled with curiosity and energy. The property was seven acres with a bayou running along the length of the back. On a portion of the property, my father built a barn and fenced a pasture. Then he turned around and bought horses. One for my mother, one for my sister, and when I was eight years old, he bought me a Shetland Pony. A beautiful speckled gray guy, a tolerant and sometimes grumpy friend I named Ajax. Ajax was ever present in my young days and much of mine and Amanda's exploring was upon his back or with him in tow.
A week ago, Amanda sent me a letter of sympathy over the loss of my mother. In that letter, she shared many memories she had of our childhood and my mother. This one is my favorite:
As I write this, crazy times come back to mind, and your mom was soooo cool about everything. Like when we rode Ajax into the living room and broke an expensive lamp.
I don't remember how we came upon the idea to bring the outside in, but I do remember that neither of my parents were home at the time, so we rode Ajax right through the front door and into the house. When we were in the living room, as our luck would have it, Mom arrived home. As she pulled through the circle driveway, she looked through the window and there we were, two little girls and a pony. In her living room. Amanda is right in that Mom was cool about it. I think the surprise took over any other reaction she might have had. As we scrambled to get out, our sudden energy naturally startled Ajax and we did knock a lamp off a table in the entryway, and it did break. We knew we were out of line and were sincere in our apologies, something I believe she she knew was true. And so, she let it go. She just shook her head at us and told us to stay outside and play while she cleaned up the mess. Amanda and I were stunned and enormously relieved.
My Mom had many rules in my childhood and for the most part I abided by them. But where there were no rules, my curiosity or ideas were pursued without a second thought. That night at dinner, Mom announced a new rule: No horses in the house.
That house was paradise for a young girl filled with curiosity and energy. The property was seven acres with a bayou running along the length of the back. On a portion of the property, my father built a barn and fenced a pasture. Then he turned around and bought horses. One for my mother, one for my sister, and when I was eight years old, he bought me a Shetland Pony. A beautiful speckled gray guy, a tolerant and sometimes grumpy friend I named Ajax. Ajax was ever present in my young days and much of mine and Amanda's exploring was upon his back or with him in tow.
A week ago, Amanda sent me a letter of sympathy over the loss of my mother. In that letter, she shared many memories she had of our childhood and my mother. This one is my favorite:
As I write this, crazy times come back to mind, and your mom was soooo cool about everything. Like when we rode Ajax into the living room and broke an expensive lamp.
I don't remember how we came upon the idea to bring the outside in, but I do remember that neither of my parents were home at the time, so we rode Ajax right through the front door and into the house. When we were in the living room, as our luck would have it, Mom arrived home. As she pulled through the circle driveway, she looked through the window and there we were, two little girls and a pony. In her living room. Amanda is right in that Mom was cool about it. I think the surprise took over any other reaction she might have had. As we scrambled to get out, our sudden energy naturally startled Ajax and we did knock a lamp off a table in the entryway, and it did break. We knew we were out of line and were sincere in our apologies, something I believe she she knew was true. And so, she let it go. She just shook her head at us and told us to stay outside and play while she cleaned up the mess. Amanda and I were stunned and enormously relieved.
My Mom had many rules in my childhood and for the most part I abided by them. But where there were no rules, my curiosity or ideas were pursued without a second thought. That night at dinner, Mom announced a new rule: No horses in the house.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
These days as my own
If you've seen a grass fire, then you know that when one fire is smothered, another can break out in a different place. It's impossible to perceive what will happen next, or where. I can liken that to what my life has been like the past three years, seemingly running from one emergency to the next, chasing solutions like a ghost through a fog.
So perhaps it's not odd at all that over the past several weeks, without the grass fires, I've been getting reaquainted with myself. The juggling has ceased, the urgency has ceased, the worry and the running have ceased, the grueling emotions have ceased. While I do mourn my mother, there are enormous parts of my mind and heart that are no longer spinning and chasing and struggling, and that has opened my mind and my time to my own life.
Right now, I am experiencing me. It's an interesting discovery, this process of seeing who I am with this newfound time in my day and space in my mind, this time where the recipient of my strength is my own self.
So perhaps it's not odd at all that over the past several weeks, without the grass fires, I've been getting reaquainted with myself. The juggling has ceased, the urgency has ceased, the worry and the running have ceased, the grueling emotions have ceased. While I do mourn my mother, there are enormous parts of my mind and heart that are no longer spinning and chasing and struggling, and that has opened my mind and my time to my own life.
Right now, I am experiencing me. It's an interesting discovery, this process of seeing who I am with this newfound time in my day and space in my mind, this time where the recipient of my strength is my own self.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Sunlit from heaven
It's the kind of morning my father would relish. He'd quietly observe the cornflower blue sky, the wisps of clouds of pink and white, the birds singing and busily calling, visible in the bare skeletal branches of the trees. He'd breathe it in and breathe it out, enjoying the land and the sounds.
It's the kind of morning I find inspiring. When I walked Cheyenne, some part of me delighted in being part of the dawn, of the beginnings of the day. I cannot see the breeze, or the fragrance of the young blooming flowers. I cannot see the relentless determination of nature to change, but I can see the changes. Slight and subtle, tiny blooms bursting through, color appearing where just yesterday there was none.
It's the kind of morning in which I half recall and half imagine walking out onto the porch, two cups of coffee in hand, one for my father and one for me. He takes the cup I hand him, says Good morning Cat, and we stand beside each other, silently enjoying the miracle that never grows old.
It's the kind of morning I find inspiring. When I walked Cheyenne, some part of me delighted in being part of the dawn, of the beginnings of the day. I cannot see the breeze, or the fragrance of the young blooming flowers. I cannot see the relentless determination of nature to change, but I can see the changes. Slight and subtle, tiny blooms bursting through, color appearing where just yesterday there was none.
It's the kind of morning in which I half recall and half imagine walking out onto the porch, two cups of coffee in hand, one for my father and one for me. He takes the cup I hand him, says Good morning Cat, and we stand beside each other, silently enjoying the miracle that never grows old.
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