Jody says Republican law makers live in a dim and dangerous alley

It was what happened behind the scenes of President Barack Obama’s Jan. 24 State of the Union speech that made the president’s yearly update on our currently cracked country so memorable.

Before the president went into Congress’ chambers, before Obama swept Arizona’s Rep. Gabrielle Giffords into his arms for an emotional embrace — she resigned from Congress on Jan. 25 to work on her recovery — Obama received the good news that the same Navy SEALS unit he ordered to kill Osama bin Laden had freed two hostages from Somalia kidnappers.  Very successfully, too, I might add.

The two released hostages, American Jessica Buchanan and Denmark’s Poul Hagen Thisted, both aid workers, were freed and nine kidnappers, Somalia pirates, were killed.  Our president called Jessica’s father to let him know his daughter was safe.

Only a little later at the State of the Union speech did Obama recognize Defense Secretary Leon Panetta for his work monitoring the situation by applauding him, “Good job tonight.  Good job.”  That was the first indication Obama had done it again, authorizing events that would successfully eliminate not only one of the world’s worst terrorists (bin Laden), but bring two hostages to freedom (Jessica and Poul).

No wonder Republicans are fit to be tied that twice now Obama has shown them to be sorely lacking in any capacity to handle successful raids in troubled parts of the globe.  Or to handle much of anything.

Then there was Obama’s State of the Union address that yes,  set the foundation for his reelection campaign, and again showed why he is president and why no Republican contender should be.

In covering a wide range of issues, Obama clearly proved that he is far from anti-American, that he is completely removed from the delusions Republicans hold, that he is no socialist, that he is well fit to be commander-in-chief, and that he, not Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul nor Rick Santorum have even a thimble’s worth of intelligence to make the decisions he has made.

Nowhere is that more evident than when Obama clarified the starkly opposite views that he desires for the nation in contrast to what the Republicans think is best for the United States.  Since Democrat President Franklin D. Roosevelt laid out his vision during the New Deal era of the 1930s, Republicans have spent the past 80 years denouncing and degrading every Democrat president who has tried to improve America and make us a great nation.

What the GOP believes is that American citizens should be on their own; Democrats want government to help.  As Obama said, “We can either settle for a country where a shrinking number of people do really well while a growing number of Americans barely get by, or we can restore an economy where everyone gets a fair shot, everyone does their fair share, and everyone plays by the same set of rules.”

But do the Republicans want to play fair?  Not a chance.  Take the money and run to the nearest Swiss bank (or Cayman Islands investment account) is what the Republicans do.  It’s beyond comprehension that they accuse Obama of creating class warfare in our country when it has been the GOP who sits on top of the heap, at the expense of every American citizen.

You’ve heard it said that power is a corruptive, corrosive force.  By isolating themselves, by letting greed guide their planning, by wailing into the wind, by using “divide and conquer” tactics, by deepening the worst fears of their followers through lies and hypocrisies, the Republicans have spent the last eight decades carving out a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon to split our nation in two.

In particular, Obama has tried to reverse the damage caused by the Republicans’ dark and angry vision.  In his soaring State of the Union address on Tuesday he declared, “We’ve come too far to turn back now.”  Damn right we’ve come a long way.  It would be insanity to turn back the tide, to deny Americans a chance to achieve the American dream.

What’s wrong with a health plan to help those who need the boost?  Why derail a retirement system that American workers pay into that has been a part of our country since FDR?  What’s wrong with having wealthy people pay a fair portion of taxes?  Why, as Obama pointed out, would billionaire Warren Buffett’s secretary be taxed at a higher rate than Buffett himself?  And why oh why, undermine all the progress since the Civil Rights Act in 1964, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965?

It is Obama’s aim to steer us away from the deranged dreams of the Republicans.  That’s what he so plainly directed in his State of the Union speech.

It’s anybody’s guess as to why the GOP is trying to ruin our nation.  It’s plain crazy that Republicans, many who virtually sat on their hands and refused to applaud during most of Obama’s speech, insist Obama is responsible for all our economic trials, of dashing America’s hopes, of turning American dreams into nightmares.

It’s a simple choice, really: Do you go up the bright road of hope and greatness for America, or do you blindly turn down that dim, dangerous alley, where Republicans are headed?  Do you stand with a president who stands with those who serve our country, the men and women who volunteer in our military, or do you ignore those who sacrifice everything?  Are you a caring person or do you hate?  Do you want Americato win?  Or lose?

I’ve made my choice.

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal.

Jody says, where’s winter?

Where did the snow go?  Why isn’t the storm of the century blasting its way through Southeast Idaho yet?  Whatever happened to winter?  And if you think we’ve got something to complain about, let me regale you with some extreme cold weather facts.

In other words, if you reside in Antarctica, maybe you would have good reason to whine.  On July 21, 1983, what is thought to be the coldest temperature ever recorded on earth occurred.  It was — are you ready for this — minus 128.5 degrees F.

OK, OK, maybe that’s not the chilliest temperature ever since the world existed (think Ice Age), but since 1912, when humans began recording temperatures for whatever reasons, minus 128 degrees is icy enough!

This coldest temperature happened at Vostok, a Russian research station (and the Russians know a few things about extreme cold).  The station sits astride an ice sheet and the elevation is 11,220 feet.  With no wind, being on top of a massive block of ice and clear skies, you can bet this place was primed to be extra, extra cold.

Years ago (back to the Ice Age again), I lived in Cut Bank, Mont., and I can recall some freezing temperatures that I thought were extreme, but what would you expect from a Southern Californiagirl?

Back in the early ‘60s, circa 1963-1967, we lived in Cut Bank because my father had been transferred there for business reasons.  Nobody in my family had any clue what we were getting into.  Daddy may have had a taste of cold when he served in the Army during World War II in Germany (how he stole a jacket to keep as warm as he could).  But the rest of us?

Firstly, Cut Bank is a dinky little town pretty much in the middle of nowhere.  Its one claim to any fame is the Lewis and Clark expedition went through the area and made note of the “cut banks” that lined the small river nearby.  Since Lewis and Clark didn’t bother to claim this spot forAmerica, my guess is they were singularly unimpressed and moved on.

Cut Bankians (Cut Bank residents) recorded the moment and the supposed spot with a small, rusty metal plaque that claimed “Lewis and Clark Trail” on the grass in front of Cut Bank High School.

That’s it.  You’d miss the sign if I hadn’t told you.  By now the sign is likely long gone, probably trampled by hordes of students (all five of them).

Anyway, one year while we lived there it was noticeably cold.  As in piles and piles of snow as far as the eye could see, all the way to the horizon, smashing down the wheat in the wheat fields, leaving residents blind from all the snow glare.  The smallest breeze (usually of hurricane force, or “snowicane” in this instance) would make things drastically cold.

As in busted pipes cold.  As in don’t try the stupid trick of sticking your tongue onto a metal surface cold.  As in if you’re fool enough to go out in it, we’ll check on your thawed remains in the spring or summer (snow was common enough in the month of June, so Cut Bank’s one month of warm weather was usually August).

How cold was it?  With the wind chill factored in, the temperature was about minus 50 degrees F.

I do remember rejoicing that schools were closed for the duration, and that it was the talk of the town for a few days, but as soon as we could we all got back to our usual routine, in this case my brother and me spent our days sledding down gopher-size mounds into barrow pits next to U.S. Highway 2.  Or building snow forts.  (I have pictures to prove it.)

Anybody who lives in cold climes shrugs their shoulders — “no big deal” — at a balmy -50 degrees.  For instance, Russia has a town located in its Siberia area, called Oymyakon, that has average winter temperatures in the minus 100s or thereabouts.  The city lives with permanent permafrost.  The residents have learned a few ways to not let the cold get the best of them.

They recommend people not wear glasses.  They highly recommend using indoor toilets (the first indoor toilet came to Oymyakon in 2008, at the local school).  If you have a vehicle, let it run all the time. It goes without saying that you bundle up appropriately (bear skins, reindeer hides).  Hunting and ice fishing are the most common occupations, and the one store in town often lacks necessary provisions that would seem downright uncivilized to the rest of the world.

Back in earth’s old days, as in the Ice Ages, which occur about every 650,000 years or so, things were pretty darn cold.  Glaciers and ice sheets covered parts of the planet that extended well into North America,Asia and Europe.  You had to be tough to survive, and that’s why now-extinct huge, fur-covered animals roamed these regions, such as mammoths and mastodons, woolly rhinos, bison, camels, horses, big cats, wolves and bears.  Mankind struggled along, but most of our ancestors kept to Africa to avoid the worst of the cold. What a bunch of wusses.

If and when our wintery blast ever comes to Pocatello, we might thank our lucky stars (and knock on an icicle) that things here aren’t too bad.

Then again, there’s always the hope we might break a record — record cold, record snow, record blizzard, that is.

Wait, I’m kidding!

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal.

Jody thinks about legacy

The horrors of the Holocaust were terrible enough.  What Stalin did in his purges was mind-boggling.  The deaths of innocent men, women and children, perpetrated by Nazi monsters or Soviet butchers makes us recoil in disgust.

But imagine if you are the son or daughter of these people.  Imagine that one of your own family was slaughtered by them.  How would you feel?  How could you live your life?  What would be your legacy?

Then think about Svetlana Alliluyeva.  Think about Monika Hertwig. Think about Pope Benedict XVI and you may have an inkling of how much the sins of the fathers affected these sons and daughters for their entire lives.

Svetlana was the daughter of Soviet Premier Joseph Stalin.  By any accounts, Stalin was a brutal man who, while he ruled the USSR either as premier or as the first general secretary of the Communist Party starting in 1922, conducted a series of purges of Russian people that rivaled the catastrophe of the Holocaust.

During Stalin’s reign millions of people were sent to penal labor camps, famine raged from 1932 to 1933 because he drastically changed the way agriculture was done in the Soviet Union, and in order to rid himself of any rivals and opposition, he conducted a campaign that came to be called the Great Purge, during which hundreds of thousands of people were executed.

How did his daughter cope?  It appears on the surface that she may have had no knowledge of what her father did.  For years she was told that her mother, Nadezhda Alliluyeva, Stalin’s second wife, had died of peritonitis caused by a burst appendix in 1932.  It wasn’t until Khrushchev came to power in the 1950s that Svetlana learned her mother had committed suicide.

For the rest of her life, Svetlana was left to fend for herself.  When she lived in the U.S. she denounced the USSR; when she lived in the USSR, she thoroughly denounced the West.  It wasn’t until 1967 that she asked for political asylum in the West and came to New York City in April of that year.  Later, she returned to live in the Soviet Union in 1984.  She returned to America in 1986.

Svetlana, who became known as Lana Peters, died Nov. 22, 2011, from colon cancer, in Wisconsin, at the age of 85.  She ended up living a life of obscurity, wandering and poverty.  She died unable to forgive her father for his personal cruelty to her.  “He broke my life,” she once said.

Now in her 60s, Monika Hertwig was 11 years old when she learned her father, Amon Goeth, commander of the Plaszow concentration camp in Poland, was not killed during World War II but was hanged in 1946 for his murder of tens of thousands of people, 500 of them by his own hands.  Goeth was portrayed by actor Ralph Feinnes in the 1993 movie, “Schindler’s List.”

Hertwig said, “He liked to shoot women with babies in their arms from the balcony of his house, to see if one bullet could kill two.”

In 1958, she met a man employed in a cafe as a dishwasher who had a number tattooed on his arm.  She asked him about them.  He told her he had been in the Plaszow camp and had been branded with the number by Hitler’s SS.  She said her father ran the camp there.  The man froze, and then ordered her to leave the cafe and never come back.

She recounts her story in the 2008 documentary, “Inheritance,” when she meets with Helen Jonas, who had been enslaved in Amon Goeth’s camp.  Hertwig learned from Jonas about many of her father’s unspeakable acts. At the age of 11 she learned for the first time that her father routinely slaughtered Jews.  From that point on Hertwig struggled with painful, gut-wrenching knowledge of what her father was — a virulent anti-Semite who made no excuses for his monstrous behavior.

She says today, “I am tormented by how much of him is in me.”

Maybe it was only one man who was able to rise above the devastation he saw and even took part in.  Pope Benedict XVI was born Joseph Ratzinger in Bavaria, Germany.  Shortly after he turned 14 he was drafted into the Hitler Youth movement, which required by law all youths to become members.  At this time one of his cousins, also 14, who had Down syndrome, was taken away by the Nazis and killed during the campaign of Nazi eugenics.

In 1943, the Pope was drafted into the German army but in 1945, as the Allies closed in, he deserted to his family’s home just as the American troops established their headquarters in the Ratzinger household.  He spent a short time in an Allied POW camp, but was released in the summer of 1945, and rejoined the seminary in November that year along with his brother, Georg.

Perhaps the Pope became a priest in the Catholic Church because of what he was forced to do in his youth, because of what he witnessed.  It is testament to him that when he was elected Pope after the death of Pope John Paul II, that the Jewish Anti-Defamation League welcomed him because of “his great sensitivity to Jewish history and the Holocaust.”

So far, during his papacy, he has made considerable effort to welcome leaders of other religions, including meeting with the Dalai Lama in 2006 at the Vatican.

In 2007, Pope Benedict XVI has said of the sufferings of the indigenous Americans that it is “not possible to forget the suffering and the injustices inflicted by colonizers against the indigenous population, whose fundamental human rights were often trampled.”

Truth is, for these three people, and maybe for many of us, history, however horrific, never leaves us.  We carry it in our genes, we relive it in our behaviors, we often refuse to learn its lessons.  We rarely overcome it.

It is as if we remain doomed by our own legacies.

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal.

 

 

 

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Jodeane’s Christmas 2011

I admit I get a little silly this time of year, and a little sappy, too.  All right, make that a lot silly and sappy.  But hey, it’s Christmas!

Throughout much of the year I’m usually prone to grumping, with occasional bouts of sheer hysteria, so I guess warbling Christmas carols at the top of my lungs goes along with my general mental instability.  (That’s what other people think of me, I think I’m perfectly normal.)

We finally got our tree last week, so the wonderful pine scent is wafting through the living room.  We haven’t gotten so far along as to put the lights and ornaments on it, and at the rate we’re going (me and my husband and two cats), it may very well be  Christmas Eve before that happens.

In the meantime, while Richard and I nod over our eggnog, the cats are using the tree as a playground.  It makes for a great hiding place, the better to attack unsuspecting humans.  Smoki in particular gets really revved up, her eyes black and wide with wild excitement, and the next thing you know, your toes are toast.

Cooki is more nonchalant about the whole thing, but she does like batting the branches.

We keep the tree up until the start of the year.  After that, the tree is unceremoniously dumped in the front yard as pretend mulch on the roses.  If there’s enough snow, we might stick it directly into the white, fluffy stuff and pretend the poor thing is still alive, but that probably won’t happen this year, as weather forecasters say it’s going to be a brown Christmas.  Sigh.

As for the presents, part of my family from “down south” (Ariz.), has sent along a batch of very prettily wrapped gifts, but because of the aforementioned Cooki, all the pretty presents have to be turned over so she can’t chew on the ribbons.  If she does, we will invariably, in the middle of the night, step on a cold, wet, slimy bit of cat barf with a chewed-up ribbon in the middle of it.  Definite yuck, and what a wonderful excuse to display our profanity vocabulary.

I’m sure the cats just sit back and laugh at us.

Christmas is also the best time of year to go off the rails with your diet.  Wait, what diet?  Plus, who cares about exercise?  It’s too cold anyway to go outside, and you can only run up and down the stairs so many times before that gets old and boring.

So, it comes as no surprise that we both make hefty inroads into cookies from “down south” (Ariz., mostly my mother, who at 86 years old is still baking up a storm of delectables this time of year.)

It used to be when my brother and I were growing up that Mother would go into overdrive with baking.  During the holidays, there was always a traditional open house, wherever we lived, whether it is in the shivering environs of Cut Bank, Mont., the mild climes of Santa Maria, Calif., or the California-style suburbia of Palos Verdes.

It was all for the adults, of course, so while she spent weeks before making a variety of appetizer-type dishes such as chili cream cheese rolls, ground ham with mustard sauce, sometimes chopped chicken liver with hard-boiled eggs that you put on pumpernickel squares, and other things I’ve long forgotten, the booze would flow freely — and Mother added a massive amount of cookies to the smorgasbord, too.  These cookies were kept fresh in yellow-painted tin boxes, packed to overflowing with so many types of cookies that you could have fed a platoon.  Each layer was covered with waxed paper.  The cookie recipes ranged from gingerbread angels, deer, palm trees and such with colored frosting on them, to cardamom stars with almonds for decoration, to rum balls, to anise cookies, to tiny cookies that you shoot the dough out of a can (my favorite) — well, the food just went on forever.

Then there was the year John Howell, who I had a crush on at the time (I was all of 15) spiked my hot apple cider with brandy, and that year I had the Hong Kong flu, and the alcohol shocked me right into being suddenly healthy, so at least I could enjoy some of the open house goodies, even if I was still in my bathrobe.  Nobody cared.  Like I said earlier, the drinks were flowing freely.

Ahh, the memories of Christmases Past.

By the time Christmas Eve rolls around, finally, somehow or another we get the lights on the tree, the glittery ornaments drip from the piney boughs, we shove the gifts underneath the tree.   Then around11 p.m. we try to find a channel that brings us Midnight Mass from the Vatican so I can get weepy and sentimental and exclaim in awe over Michaelangelo’s magnificent sculptures as well as Bernini’s extravagant columns, all while whichever pope chants during the sacred ceremony.

Then we collapse into bed.  We’re done.  Done in.  We plan on awakening long after the sun rises.  Then we will rip through the presents, laugh or cry or shout in surprise or disgust or puzzlement and I’ll get sentimental and silly and sappy all over again.

I guess that’s why it’s a good idea Christmas only comes once a year.  I’m just a sloppy, emotional mess.

Merry Christmas to you, too.

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal and she’s getting altogether too old to keep behaving like an idiot.

Christmas at the south pole

Christmas is celebrated the world over, even in the most unlikely of places — such as Antarctica.

It’s not your usual Christmas, either.  Firstly, Antarctica is smack dab in the middle of summer.  About the only thing that will remind you of Frosty the Snowman is all that ice, which is pretty well normal any time at the South Pole.  But there won’t be starry nights or expectation of Santa and his reindeer flying overhead, silhouetted by the moon.  That’s because at Christmas time, Antarctica is “enjoying” 24 hours of daylight.  (That’ll certainly mess with your circadian rhythms.)

You may get an hour of dusk, but that’s it.

Nor are the populations  of Antarctica inclined to go door-to-door singing Christmas carols or roasting chestnuts on an open fire — mostly because the populations here are scientists or penguins.  Plus the adventurous tourists who think spending the Christmas holidays at the South Pole is a blast.

But tourists will be disappointed if they plan on seeing the sights Antarctica has to offer during the holidays.  Basically, Christmas is just another work day for the scientists, another day for feeding, breeding or whatever it is the penguins and other wildlife do. There’s no advertising of the holidays because there’s no TV, there are no glossy photos and articles about how to cook the Christmas goose because newspapers and magazines are not available, no one decorates the streets because there are — you guessed it — no streets, and I’d venture to say, no shopping at the mall because malls don’t exist, either.

There is one tradition the scientists look forward to all year, and that’s the annual Christmas Race Around the World.  If you go the American Amundsen/Scott base at the literal South Pole, many of the scientists will take time out to race around the globe, going through all the world’s time zones by any means of transportation they wish.  Doesn’t take too long, ‘cause at the actual South Pole all you have to do is race through the longitude lines and zip! you’re all done going around the world.

Now wasn’t that fun!

Speaking of that delicious holiday goose or turkey with all the trimmings, that meal is only going to happen in your dreams.  The average Christmas dinner scientists will have consists largely of dehydrated food.  Sometimes, if the boy and girl scientists have been especially good, someone might ship them a Christmas ham.

As for all those boy and girl penguins, maybe Santa can leave them a good catch of fish under their penguin-decorated icicle trees.

In recent years McMurdo Station goes all out, as much as they can, to celebrate Christmas.  In fact, most of the scientists and researchers are so desperate for a good time that they have to sign up way in advance for seats at the Christmas buffet.

McMurdo Station is run by New Zealand, and in an effort to bring a bit of holiday cheer, everyone gets together and celebrates everyone else’s Christmas traditions.  Since McMurdo is a small city in and of itself, there are all manner of holiday fetes, ranging from Kwanzaa to Hanukkah, lots of parties, spray painting metal cables to look like candy canes and decorating artificial Christmas trees (pine scent will just have to come by other means).

There’s a lot singing and wassailing that goes on at McMurdo during this time of year.  The station’s scientists will gather in the garage at the station to offer up their hosannas and hallelujahs in celebration of the season.  Sometimes Christmas parties are held in a carpenter’s shop, or in a laboratory. Not exactly Christmas at Trump Plaza, but I’ll bet it’s more fun (unless you get a kick out of Donald Trump’s hair waving in an icy breeze).

Another holiday tradition, which is good around Christmas or by New Year’s Day is what has come to be known as Icestock.  This is a music festival that has all the sensibilities of Woodstock as put together by scientists, which means things might not be quite as freewheeling as the original Woodstock, but definitely their brand of fun.

A stage is set up for anybody who wants to perform and by performance, I mean, you can dance, sing, do comedy or just sit around and watch everybody else dance, sing or do comedy or whatever.  There will be snacks and drinks galore.  Oftentimes everyone will take part in a chili cook-off (or is that chilly cook-off?  You know, “chili = chilly” — oh, never mind).

Everybody gets into the act and tries to outdo the other in creating the hottest chili on record.  Interestingly enough, New Zealanders make the spiciest chili, described as a “fry-your-mouth, pure jalapeno brew.” Kind of unlikely for this usually staid group of scientists.

So there you have it, Christmas down South, way down South, at the South Pole.  Personally, I’d just as soon stay home and bask in the balmy breezes (by comparison) of Pocatello, Idaho.

But if you’re in the neighborhood Christmas Eve …

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal.

 

A sneeze gets the best of Jodeane

Did you know sneezing is hazardous to your health?  Let me tell you …

Tuesday morning I got groggily out of bed, like I normally do, and for some strange reason I stood there in the middle of the living room and before you knew it, I sneezed.

Not just a dainty “poof” of a sneeze, but one of those explosive, blow-out-the-ceiling sneezes.

Then I doubled over in pain.  And couldn’t straighten up. Nor barely breathe.  And lightning bolts of pain were racing up my back, down my butt and across my hips.

It was all I could do to whimper, piteously.

You couldn’t get ibuprofen into me fast enough.

Somehow or another I got through my usual morning tasks, with considerable groaning.  My usual frenetic pace dropped to a snail crawl — no, a snail would have moved faster than I did.  Richard took me to work because I simply wasn’t up to driving — between the ibuprofen and my screaming every time I moved, I didn’t think my motor reflexes would work.

Work?  Even plain sitting down in a chair, was a chore.  I lasted but three hours and by the time lunch rolled around, that was more than enough for the day.  My husband picked me up and assured me I didn’t have to move off the couch if I didn’t want to for the next year.

That sounded fine with me.  I complied.  After a warm meal, more pain killers, the heating pad wrapped around my back, I snuggled deep into as many blankets as we could find and promptly passed out.

Well, drifted immediately into sleep, that is, looking like a wizened Buddha contemplating the wonders of the universe. Except I wasn’t smiling, that was a grimace.

By the time I came to the sun was ready to set, and frankly, I was ready to set, too.  However, by evening, more pain killers, a lot of coddling and a hot bath, I crawled into bed, quite literally, and somehow or another I made it through most of the night.  Every toss and turn elicited a groan.  By about five in the morning, I crashed onto the couch, trusty hot pad on my back, and was able to finish off the remainder of my sleeping.

Thankfully, by the next day I knew I was going to live.  A bit bedraggled, moving slowly, begging for around-the-clock ibuprofen (don’t talk to me about the dangers of drugs right now, this back stuff hurts!), and I was able to push through the morning and the rest of the week.  I knew by the weekend I’d be just fine, whatever passes for normal in my life.

I heard that sneezing is one of the best ways to ruin your health, or so my co-workers assured me.  That’s because a hearty sneeze wracks your body at 100 miles an hour, which sounds to me faster than a speeding bullet.  It’s no wonder my back spasmed.  I’m lucky I didn’t blast myself into the next county.

But you can’t hardly stop a sneeze. It’s all an instinctive nervous reflex when that damn mucus starts burning deep inside your nasal passages.  It’s got to come out, and it does, come hell or high water.  When it does, you spew about 100,000 germs into the air.  That means you can infect anyone within spewing distance, but, you’ll be just fine.

Here’s the rundown on a sneeze: Whatever enters your nose, or whatever triggers it (sunlight makes you sneeze, so does hyperventilating and exercising), it sets off your “sneeze alarm” and within nanoseconds something in your brain stem says tighten up your throat and close off your eyes and mouth.  Then your chest muscles contract and then your throat suddenly relaxes. Then you eject all that mucus and saliva.  Yuck!

You can try and stop a sneeze (good luck) if you’re faster than it is by exhaling deeply, holding your breath and counting to 10 or pinching the bridge of your nose.  I wish I had known this ahead of time.

FYI: Another name for a sneeze is sternutation, but by the time you’ve said it you’re done sneezing.

I’m taking a vow to never sneeze again if it means my back will have an attack, but if I hold back any forthcoming, future sneezes, that means my nose will blow up like a balloon.  Then I’d need a nose job.  Then I’d have to pay for a plastic surgeon, then …

Achoo!

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal.

 

Those in power haven’t learned a damn thing during the past 40 years

For Heaven’s sake, he’s an Iraq War veteran and a Marine to boot!  Why are you targeting him for taking part in Occupy Oakland’s movement?  And since when do any people in law enforcement, or the mayor of Oakland have any right to deny any soul in America their constitutional right to freedom of assembly — the very First Amendment he put his life on the line for?

I’m speaking of Scott Olsen, the young man critically injured when he was struck on the head by a police projectile, possibly a tear gas canister on Oct. 25.  Olsen took part in Oakland’s Occupy movement and the scenes of his injury played around the world on video.  Blood streamed down his face from a head wound and he was carried to safety on a stretcher by fellow Occupy demonstrators.

It was like a war scene; think of the irony of Scott serving in Iraq, only to risk his life on the streets of Oakland.  All because Mayor Jean Quan ordered the police to move in, remove the protesters by any means necessary.

Lord, if this isn’t playing out like riots in the ‘60s.  And just as expected, police are overstepping their bounds, hurting protesters in the process, just like they did to demonstrators in that era.  I guess the calcified “establishment” never learns, protesters have a right to protest, demonstrators have the right to demonstrate, and injuring peacefully assembled people is out of the question.

Truth is, who’s really breaking the law here?

Thankfully, Olsen, 24, is recovering fairly well from his injuries; however, his speech remains somewhat hesitant, and he struggles to pronounce words.  He is still wearing a neck brace, and scars and bruises are very noticeable around his left eye.  His brain injury, while not physically evident, will take longer to heal.

Yet his memory of being hit is quite clear.  He describes the event as follows:

“I took a step back and I walked across the right a little bit, and I had my phone out and I was texting or something to a friend of mine.  And next thing I know I’m down and on the ground and there are people above me trying to help me and they ended up carrying me away.

“I didn’t want them to — I wanted to get up and stay there, pick up my bag. But they carried me away, and they asked me my name several times.  I couldn’t answer them.  I couldn’t answer what … I don’t know if I couldn’t recall the answer or I couldn’t spit it out.”

Olsen said his recovery has been very frustrating. And to think it didn’t have to happen.

Olsen has become a potent symbol for the anti-Wall Street movement, and rightly so.  Here is a young man in his 20s who already, because of his time in the Marines, has proven he is more selfless by nature, patriotic, and believes in the anti-Wall Street cause.  He is clearly the more responsible person; compare that to the stonewalling by Oakland’s police, who have yet to complete an investigation, although the matter has been taken to the Oakland Citizens’ Police Review Board.

During his hospitalization, Olsen’s friends and other demonstrators of the Occupy Oakland movement held candlelight vigils and marches in his honor.  It was the least they could do for him.

When he was first injured, his fellow protesters came to his aid.  There is also video of a police officer hurling another tear gas canister toward the group helping Olsen.

Olsen served two tours of duty in Iraq and earned medals as well for his service.  When he chose to take part in the anti-Wall Street protest movement he was doing something similar that galvanized young people in the ‘60s.  He became disillusioned with the war in Iraq, just as youths in the 1960s protested the Vietnam War.

Also, clearly, and rightly, Olsen opposes the conservative idea that power and money are synonymous with righteousness — i.e., that’s why he participated in Oakland’s Occupy movement against the corporations of Wall Street.

I find it irresponsible that conservatives rant against the Occupy protesters.  I find it painful that police are brutalizing these demonstrators, wounding Olsen, using tear gas and pepper spray.  I think it is without conscience that anyone would deny any American the right to peaceful protest.

But as we clamped down on protesters in the ‘60s, we’re ramping it up today, the same way.  I guess those in power haven’t learned a damn thing during the past 40 years.

Jodeane Albright, community editor of the Idaho State Journal, very much remembers the protests of the ‘60s; she supported their efforts then, and does so with the Occupy movement now.

Jodeane gives thanks to the turkey

When Founding Father Ben Franklin said he preferred the turkey to be our national bird instead of the bald eagle, I think he might have been pulling our — er — drumstick.  Knowing Franklin’s wry sense of humor, he might not have been as serious as we have been led to believe.

About a year or so after the Great Seal of the United States  was adopted by Congress, which was on June 20, 1782, the bald eagle was set in as the centerpiece.  Ben Franklin was not impressed; and in a letter to his daughter Sally in Philadelphia (Franklin was writing to her from France), he said that the poorly drawn eagle looked more like a turkey to him.

To wit, Franklin said, in part: “For my own part I wish the Bald Eagle had not been chosen the Representative of our Country.  He is a bird of bad moral Character … For the Truth the Turkey is in Comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original Native of America.  He is besides, though a little vain and silly, a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a Grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his Farm Yard with a Red Coat on.”

Take that, you rapacious and despicable bald eagle … at least in Franklin’s mind.

But consider this: If we had taken Franklin’s advice and raised the turkey to iconic status, then we would be serving bald eagle on our dinner plates and as far as I can presume, the bald eagle is not very tasty.

Franklin also said the rattlesnake was a possible symbol because it represented “the temper and conduct of America” during his time.  Yikes.  That means Americans were as low as a snake?  Or that we’re full of snake oil?

FYI: Other symbols under consideration for our national symbol were a two-headed eagle, sort of like imperial Russia, a rooster (“cock of the walk”), a dove (meant for peace) and “a phoenix in flames” (a bit too dramatic for my tastes).

In a strange sort of way, turkeys have become America’s favorite bird and certainly a large part of our culture.  Unlike a bald eagle, a bird that can even out glare the grande dame of turkey cooking herself, Martha Stewart, the turkey has a strong place in our national affections.

There was a time, about Franklin’s time in the 1700s, that when taken to market, turkeys were herded kind of like sheep.  However, turkeys got to wear little booties to protect their feet.  Why, no one knows.  Maybe turkey tootsies were covered up because “frankly,” (as in Franklin, ha ha), turkey feet are damn ugly.

Male turkeys, or toms, when they stand up to their full height, are said to be almost regal in appearance.  Well, that’s debatable, but a tom turkey strutting his stuff is a sight to behold.  He dances and gobbles with his head held high and eyes staring straight ahead, huge chest thrust forward, he fans out his tail feathers.  And if that’s not enough to impress the Miss or Mrs. Turkey, he’ll stamp his feet several times.

Isn’t it amazing how the male of any species, including turkeys, will do anything to get us females’ attention?

How did the turkey get its name?  There are sources that say Christopher Columbus, who was already confused when he landed in Hispaniola instead of India in 1492, and happened to see a turkey, he thought it was a peacock, so he called it a tuka, a word for peacock in India.  Of course, after a long voyage of dragging the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria across the ocean, Columbus may have been delusional about the bird he saw.

There are other sources that claim the word turkey came about because it’s the sound the bird makes, a “turk, turk, turk” sound.  Or maybe the word turkey sounds like firkee, but I think that’s stretching things a bit.

Other turkey lore: The first Thanksgiving was in 1621, but it would be until 1863 before it became a national holiday for feasting.  These days Americans consume more than 18 pounds of turkey a year.  And the breast of tom turkeys are so large that the poor bird can’t even mate with the female the normal way.  Nowadays it’s done by artificial insemination … a turkey baster, perhaps?

There was a time in the early 1900s that a dance known as the “turkey trot” was popular.  Conservative Americans thought the dance, where participants bobbed their heads up and down, was completely lacking in grace and dang near immoral.  By 1914, the turkey trot became known as the fox trot and the dance became a little more tame to suit 20th-century Puritans.

And don’t forget Wild Turkey bourbon, darn near a staple of the Thanksgiving dinner table, at least in some parts of America.  Kentucky Wild Turkey bourbon became famous after Thomas McCarthy, a hunter and distillery executive, brought along a supply of bourbon on an annual wild turkey hunt with his friends in 1940.  It must’ve been a mighty smooth bourbon because the next year McCarthy and his turkey hunting buddies wanted the liquor again, and they called it “Wild Turkey.”  McCarthy could do no less than dub this bourbon accordingly and serve it up regularly forevermore.

So on this Thanksgiving, please give proper thanks to this magnificent bird that looks ridiculous but sure is mighty good eating and yes, mighty good sipping, if you’re settin’ a spell out on the Kentucky homestead with a glass of Wild Turkey bourbon, or if you’re in a romantic mood and feel like fanning your feathers, or if you are “gobbling” down the last of the turkey leftovers …

You get the point.  Enjoy.  Happy holidays and don’t forget to salute that good old boy, our illustrious Founding Father, Ben Franklin; maybe he was on to something after all.

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal, and she wishes all of you a safe and satisfying Thanksgiving.

Jodeane swoons over the “Sun drop Diamond”

They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and I’d sure like to be friends with the individual who bought the 110.3-carat yellow diamond that went up for sale at Sotheby’s Geneva this past Tuesday.

It was expected to fetch a price between $11 million and $15 million, this fancy bauble named the “Sun-Drop Diamond.” By the end of the day on Tuesday in the Sotheby’s branch in Geneva, Switzerland, the huge diamond sold for a record $10.9 million.  The gorgeous gem went to an owner who wishes to remain anonymous (understandable).  In fact, he or she made the winning bid by telephone.

Pear-shaped or teardrop shape, it’s about the size of a woman’s thumb (lucky the person who gets this diamond, he or she can wear it on any part of her anatomy).

There is something about the beauty of diamonds that makes even the most jaded of us drop our jaws in awe and amazement.  In the words of David Bennett, who heads Sotheby’s jewelry division for Europe and the Middle East, he gushes, “It’s the largest vivid yellow pear-shape known — at 110 carats it’s absolutely huge.

“Every time we’ve shown it around the world, people have gone, ‘oh my God.’”

The gem was discovered in 2010 in South Africa, and then cut in New York by U.S. diamond company Cora International.  Recently, it was displayed at London’s Natural History Museum.

Colored diamonds are extremely rare in nature, and to find one a bright canary yellow weighing more than 100 carats in the rough, is exceptional and breathtaking.

The yellow color, although technically considered a flaw, comes from nitrogen traces, although diamonds are made of carbon.  Most diamonds are dazzling, crystalline white.  The pear shape of the cut was used specifically to bring out the unique qualities the diamond possesses, said Suzette Gomes, Cora International’s chief executive.

The process is “like art,” she said, “… it takes a lot of courage and experience.”

I’ll say.

Because diamonds are the hardest material known, it takes great expertise to cut them.  Diamonds also are fragile and a tap in the wrong place can split them.  Obviously, the Sun-Drop was expertly cut.

Like all diamonds, the Sun-Drop was formed in the earth’s crust more than a billion years ago.  It took eons of time to grow and when it was ready to be born, it journeyed through rock magma to find its way to the surface.  Then, in the year 2010, miners mining in kimberlite rock in South Africa, found the Sun-Drop, patiently waiting to be faceted into a multitude of tiny cuts so that its brilliance could shine as clearly as the sun.

It’s no wonder the Sun-Drop, which has no previous history, no prior owner, is steeped in magnificence and mystery.  It’s bound to rank with the most stunning of these gems, such as the Koohinor Diamond that is part of England’s crown jewels, and the Hope Diamond, a deep blue diamond that is said to carry a curse (Rumor has it Marie Antoinette once coveted the Hope Diamond and owned it, and we all know what happened to her.)

Do diamonds really live up to their reputation?  Hard to say, but having owned a few small diamonds myself, and one pink, I have to admit I’m as fascinated as the next gal with their scintillating sparkle.  Does that make me a Material Girl?

For untold centuries, diamonds have captured our imagination.  Sure, they’re the long-standing symbol of fidelity and devotion, of purity of heart and soul.    They’ve transfixed humans for ages because no tool can cut them and fire leaves them untouched, unharmed.

The ancient Greeks believed diamonds were teardrops of the gods.  The Romans believed diamonds were splinters of fallen stars.  Ancient India wouldn’t cut diamonds because the gems would lose their magic.  During medieval times, diamonds were said to grow dark if you were guilty, and would shine brightly if you were innocent.  Concurrently with medieval thinking, diamonds could tell you if poison was  nearby because diamonds would change color.  Also, if you wanted victory over your enemies, it was recommended you wear it on your left arm.

Diamonds are great betrothal gifts.  Just ask Archduke Maximillian of Austria, who gave an eight-sided diamond ring to Mary of Burgundy in 1477.  It was designed to resemble an Egyptian pyramid.  This is the first known use of a diamond used as a declaration of love.

Other times include Napoleon giving his wife, Marie Louise, a diamond necklace when she gave birth to their son in the early 1800s.  And we all know about how the late Richard Burton gave his wife (twice) the late Elizabeth Taylor expensive diamonds, including a 33-carat diamond that he spent more than $9 million on, as well as a 69-carat diamond.  Man, but that’s a lot of millions for a marriage (or two) that didn’t last!

Sigh oh sigh, the Sun-Drop has now joined the ranks of remarkable diamonds that have gone to the highest bidder.  All I can do is wistfully sing the lyrics …

“But square-cut or pear-shaped,

“These rocks don’t lose their shape,

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal and is drooling in envy for the new lucky owner of the Sun-Drop diamond.

 

 

Occupy, from the 30′s and 60′s

It used to be the word “occupy” simply meant “to take possession of.”  Never was it meant to be a substitute word for revolution.

But that’s what has happened with the Occupy Wall Street movement.  What started out as a small group of people peacefully protesting against the New York City financial district on Sept. 17 has become a global rebellion against wealth itself.

And the movement’s power is growing substantially.  On Nov. 3 the 99 Percent group in New York marched on Goldman Sachs, a financial firm that has become one of the largest symbols of economic corruption and fraud.  A People’s Hearing was held that included testimonials from people who were directly affected by Goldman Sachs’ manipulation of the markets and thus disruptedAmerica’s economy.

Not only that, the word has been sent out for people to close their bank accounts and open accounts only in community banks or credit unions.  Planned for Nov. 5, this “Transfer Day” asks that if you have an account with a major bank, Saturday would be a great day to remove your money from these huge, conglomerate financial institutions.  Repercussions to these firms are bound to be resounding.

Although the Occupy protest movement seems to be reminiscent of a ‘60s sit-in, the demonstrations have gone through violence.  On Oct. 5 the protests in New York City included thousands of union workers joining the movement and marching with the other Occupy protesters.  Trying to storm barricades around Wall Street and the Stock Exchange, the protesters were met with pepper spray from police andNew York’s finest surrounded the group with netting, meant to pen them in.

Suffice to say that was a moment also reminiscent of the ‘60s — police brutality.  Apparently, no one inNew Yorklaw enforcement learned from the riots of the 1960s that you can’t stop pent-up rage.

More serious was the Occupy movement in Oakland, Calif., on Oct. 25.  Former Marine and Iraq War veteran Scott Olsen suffered a skull fracture when San Francisco  law enforcement fired a tear gas canister into the crowd.  Police from Oakland and San Francisco treated the protest movement as if they were raiding a speakeasy during Prohibition.  The world saw, through television and social media, how badly Olsen was injured, blood pouring from his head wound, his expression dazed and shocked.  The police, with considerable use of force, also arrested 102 people at the Oakland demonstration.

Then, then, here comes the salt rubbed into the people’s wounds: House Majority Leader Eric Cantor, Republican fromVirginia, has characterized these protest movements as “growing mobs.”  The GOP crop of presidential candidates has accused the movement as “anti-capitalist” (Herman Cain).  Newt Gingrich, former Speaker of the House during the Clinton administration, says the protesters are “left-wing agitators.”  There were even rumors of Wall Street brokers sipping wine and arrogantly eyeing the demonstrators.  Our GOP-controlled Congress continues to obstruct every move to help the American public by refusing to increase taxes on corporations and the wealthy.

The Occupy protest movements have every right and reason to demonstrate, to rage, to revolt.  A study released by the Congressional Budget Office shows that since 1979, only the top 1 percent of the nation’s households — the rich — accrued wealth, to the tune of a 309 percent increase.  Most other Americans saw their incomes go up only 18 percent.  This means the chances for achieving the American dream has gone up in flames of nightmarish proportions.

Isn’t it interesting, even fascinating that what happened in the early years of the 20th century is hitting our society again.  Back then there was an enormous discrepancy between big business and the rest of us.  Names like Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, J.P. Morgan, or the empire builders of the railroads, and the burgeoning oil companies held power of the country’s wealth; it was no surprise that conservative politicians and these big businesses were in bed together, politically speaking.

And yes, it was about this time that socialism and communism stepped into the fray, and yes, because of the huge chasms between rich and poor, revolutions were carried out, governments were toppled.

So here we are a century later, faced again with the bitter truth that pure capitalism is pure hogwash, that good people suffer because of it.

Capitalists should consider the Occupy protest movements a severe warning.  Capitalists can either continue on, “business as usual,” they can isolate themselves from the Cantor-dubbed “mobs,” they can continue fattening the wallets of conservatives.  They do so at their peril.  Because in due time Occupy Wall Street will become the wave of revolution.

And capitalists will become dead ducks.

Jodeane Albright is the community editor of the Idaho State Journal.