®RM65¯start cybersenior.4.3(#14) ==================================================== ************ * THE * CYBERSENIOR * REVIEW ************ =================================================== VOLUME 4 NUMBER 3 (#14) OCTOBER 1997 =================================================== The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet Elders List, an active world-wide Internet Mailing List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and published by members of the Elders for interested seniors worldwide. Contributions from non-Elders are welcome. Please query one of the editors first. Contents copyrighted 1997 by the Internet Elders List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the authors. Brief quotes permitted with attribution. The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review: Elaine Dabbs esudweek@mail.usyd.edu.au Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us ====================================================== CONTENTS, Volume 4, Number 3, October 1997 (#14) EDITORIAL by James Hursey SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES by Robert S. Davidow Roberts tells us of Succoth, the week-long festival of Thanksgiving in Israel A POLISH CHRISTMAS by Jan Mokrzycki Jan describes Christmas traditions in his country, including recipes for holiday goodies you may want to try. CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS by Langston Kerr Langston finds a Christmas catalog in his mailbox and sits down right there to start looking at it, until fire ants give him other ideas. BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK by Des Weeks Des tries horseback riding for the first time and finds that Belle has a mind of her own. TO MY GRANDSON a poem by Eloise Blanpied ============================================================== EDITORIAL by James Hursey Greetings to seniors world-wide from the State of Ohio in the USA, where, as I write, lovely October is just now beginning to don her most colorful garb. Ah! October! What more can you say, the very word a poem. I can look out the window at a cloudless, deep-blue sky, trees just starting to turn, some, getting the jump, as it were, on their fellows, already yellow and orange and brown, while others, still green with envy, await their turn. Yet, linked as we are, worldwide in cyberspace, we must remember that our friends Down Under, where the season are reversed, are even now enjoying Spring's re-awakening. Are they six months ahead of us, or six months behind? But no matter where we are, all enjoy the Holiday season, and in this issue of The CyberSenior Review, we get a taste (quite literally, including a recipe) of Christmas traditions in different cultures, starting with Robert's description of the Jewish Succoth, or Feast of the Tabernacle, a Thanksgiving festival. Then we may read about a Polish Christmas, as described by Jan, followed by Langston's humorous reaction to the arrival of the first Christmas catalogs in downtown Holly Springs. While perhaps clinging a-horseback to a barely controlled horse bound to have her own way is not exactly a holiday story (could be, however, consider the toy "rocky horse" Langston sees in the catalogue), we stretch a point and include Des's hilarious description of his first attempt at riding. We close with Eloise's lovely sonnet to her grandson, since, to all of us seniors especially, grandchildren are always in season. Holiday greetings (however you may celebrate in your part of the world) from the editors of the CyberSenior Review. ============================================================== SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES by Robert S. Davidow This month we are in the midst of one of the joyous festivals, Succoth. Though marred by the recent violence, we still always have Succoth. Many of you will know this season as the Feast of Tabernacles. It is primarily a festival of Thanksgiving for the abundance of the harvest. Many of our citizens construct simple booths called a Succah (plural: Succoth). The biblical instructions given in Leviticus 23, 42-43, are followed very closely and it is considered an act of reverence and piety to eat and sleep in the Succah during the festival. In addition to the Succah there is another symbol, a cluster of plants -- the lulav, esrog, myrtle and willow -- which are held prominently as the worshipper chants prayers or praises of gratitude to the Giver of all that is good. The lulav, a tall palm branch, denotes men of power and influence; the aromatic esrog men of saintliness and learning; myrtle the average men and women of the community; and the willow represents the poor and lowly. All of these together represent the Brotherhood of Man, where each member is responsible for the welfare and good name of the whole. In the period between the end of Yom Kippur and the beginning of Succoth (ten days) every spare moment is spent in gathering the materials of construction and building the family or community Succah. Children are major actors in these activities. The Succoth are usually simple frames roofed by palm leaves in this part of the world, reeds or other abundant plants in other parts of the world. The side walls are frequently sheets taken from the home. Inside, the walls are decorated by pictures (very frequently they are the renderings of the children) depicting the season. Hanging from the ceiling are the symbols of the harvest: beards of wheat, pomegranates, fruits of all kinds, and colored strips of paper. Each meal is accompanied by joyful singing. The week of Succoth is also a period when the family wanders the country rejoicing in the beauty of the land. Every park and tourist area is normally full to capacity. Lila and I really enjoy wandering the streets, examining these wonderful examples of folk art and rejoicing with the occupants. It is truly a fun time. Isn't this more interesting then the machinations of politics and violence? It is certainly better for the psyche. In a short time the winter rains will arrive and the land will blossom with new life and the cycle begins once more. =============================================================== A POLISH CHRISTMAS by Jan Mokrzycki In Poland the most celebrated day is Christmas Eve, the Wigilia or the vigil awaiting Christ's coming. The tree stands already decorated and shining with all the presents piled up underneath, surrounding the crib. The women (we are a male chauvinist nation) have sweated for days preparing the supper which traditionally should consist of 13 dishes (number of apostles) all of which are non-meat as it is a fast day. This requires a lot of ingenuity from the cooks. In the table centre are the oplateks, thin communion-type wafers which have already been blessed in church and which the family will share, exchanging Christmas wishes with one another. Traditionally the table is covered with a white table cloth for Jesu's innocence and has some hay underneath to remind us of the manger. There is always an extra place set at the table for the unexpected guest as on this day anyone is welcome. Following the breaking and sharing of oplatek, the supper starts usually with either beetroot soup, white barszcz (recipe follows), or mushroom soup; then fishes, cabbage based dishes, mushroom gellieg fish, gefulte fish, finishing with a compote of dried fruit and cakes. After supper we sing carols, give out presents and at midnight everyone goes to the midnight mass. I should mention that the supper starts as soon as the first star appears in the heavens. Polish Christmas otherwise is similar to the Anglo-Saxon Christmas, only a bit more family based. ZUR OR WHITE BARSZCZ Scald 2 cups of rye flour with boiling water to make a thin dough, stirring quickly. When cool add one and a quarter pints of lukewarm water and place a smallish piece of wholemeal or rye bread in it. Cover the dish with gauze and leave for several days. It may form a crust of mildew which needs removing carefully. This liquid is the ZUR essence and is added to stock to form the soup. It will last for several home made soups with a special tangy taste. When essence diminishes you can replenish it by adding another piece of bread and more lukewarm water. This soup can be made with a vegetable stock for fasting feasts and on other occasions meat stock can be used. Quite often it has boiled potatoes added to it and pieces of sliced polish sausage making it into a meal on its own. I love it but it is not to everyone's taste. However it is worth trying. Crust (elephant's ears) makes 24 pieces. 100 gr plain flour 25 gr butter 2 egg yolks 1 tbs water lard for deep frying and icing sugar for sprinkling Sift the flour into the bowl and rub in the butter. Mix in the egg yolks and water to make a smooth dough. On a lightly floured surface roll out the dough into an oblong measuring 18x6 inches and cut in half lengthways. Cut into strips an inch wide by 4 inches long. In each strip put a slit in the middle pushing one end of strip through making into a bow. While making the bows keep other strips covered to prevent them drying out. Heat the oil to 170 degrees C. for deep frying. Fry the pastry bows in batches until crisp and golden. Drain them on double thick absorbent kitchen paper, dust with icing sugar while hot. Cool on a wire rack then carefully place on serving dish, piling them up and up. Smacznego (ie. bon apetite). ============================================================== CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS by Langston Kerr The Christmas catalogs are out again. Me and Marie got one from JC Penney in the mail a couple of days ago. We get all of them catalogs in the mail. Not as many as they used to be. Some of 'em quit sendin' out catalogs. Sears did. And Wards. Montgomery Wards used to send out a big ole catalog, but I ain't seen one of 'em in a long time. I reckon they quit. I hear tell you can't even buy things through the mail from a lot of them places like you used to. Times change, I reckon. I'll tell you somethin' else that's changed. Used to be you didn't start hearin' nothin' about Christmas till the first of November. And that was early. Back when I was a young'un, you didn't hear much about it till after Thanksgivin'. Now, they's a race on to see what starts first, school or the Christmas season. So far, school's got it beat but Christmas is comin' up fast. It ain't but a heartbeat behind. And if school didn't start earlier than it used to, Christmas would've beat it out. Is they somethin' wrong with that, or is it just me? Don't get me wrong here. I'm proud of my Christmas catalog. Me and Marie here just about fight over it. I love gettin' 'em in the mail. It made me feel like a kid when I went down there and pulled that thing outta the mail box. I set down right there on the ground beside the mailbox and looked at it. I didn't even take it to the house. I knowed if I took it back there, Marie would be rushin' me to get finished with it so she could look at it. I bet I set down there a hour or more, just lookin' through the thing. I like to look at the pitchers. It's got a big ole pitcher of Santy Claus on the front of it, settin' there at a table all surrounded by toys he's been makin'. He's got this little paint brush in his hand and he's paintin' on a little rocky horse. I wonder who's gonna get it? I think maybe a little girl somewheres. Little girls like little horses like that. It's too little to sit on and rock. You're just supposed to look at it I reckon. You give a little toy rocky horse like that to a boy and he's gonna sit on it and break it first thing. A little girl will put her dolls on it and play with it and keep it ferever if her brother don't get aholt of it and tear it up. That's the difference in boys and girls. One difference. They's a reindeer and a little raccoon and a little bunny rabbit a lookin' through the winder behind Santy Claus, a watchin' him paintin' on that little toy horse. It's dark out there where they're at and you can see a star in the sky behind 'em. And they's snow piled up on the winder panes. It's dark and cold and snowy. I set there on the ground by the mail box and I got all these Christmas thoughts runnin' through my head. I wonder if them little animals in that pitcher ain't gettin' cold a standin' out there a lookin' through that winder at ole Santy. Specially that little rabbit. I can almost see him a shivering out there in that snow. I ain't never seen snow on the ground at Christmas. I wonder if it snows anywhere on Christmas. You see all of these pitchers where it's snowin' on Christmas, but it ain't never snowed here on Christmas. Maybe it don't snow nowheres 'cept at the North Pole. On that pore little bunny rabbit. I look at that pitcher and I wonder where ole Santy Claus gets all the stuff to make them toys out of. Like that can of paint he's usin'. They's a can of yaller paint a settin' right there on the table. Where did he get it? Do they have paint stores up there to the North Pole? Maybe he orders it outta the JC Penney catalog. I start leafin' through the book to see if they got any paint in there. I don't see none. I go to the index and they ain't no paint listed. But I might be lookin' at it wrong. I ain't fer certain how to spell paint. They's some "pant sets, boys" on page 204, but that's britches. Ain't no paint in the Christmas book. But they got other catalogs. Maybe he orders it outta the big spring-and-summer book. Maybe he calls 'em up on the telephone and they ship it up there to him in March. I'm settin' there imaginin' the mail man pullin' up to his house at the North Pole with all of this paint and stuff he's got ordered outta the catalog. I'm really gettin' into this. And about that time a fire ant bites me on my finger. And another. And another. They's ants all over me! I'm gettin' eat up here! My mind's centered up on the North Pole but I've leaned over and put my hand on the ground and it's dead center on a fire ant nest! Boy! You talk about somethin' bringin' you back down to earth! They ain't nothin' like about a kazillion fire ants a chewin' on your hand! That'll do the job. One minnit I'm at the North pole a feelin' sorry fer some pore ole overworked mail man, all loaded down with about ten tons of paint and buildin' materials he's tryin' to stuff in this little ole mail box, and the next minnit I'm a fightin' the dark hordes a tryin' to have my hand and arm fer dinner! My mind flashes back to that little rabbit up there in the snow. He better be glad he's up there where they ain't no fire ants! Where does he get off, a feelin' sorry fer hisself fer bein' out there in the snow! If he thinks he's got it so bad, let him come down here and hop around on one of these dad burn fire ant beds and see what happens to him! He'd swell up like a big ole furry balloon. I'm mad at that rabbit. I'm mad at them fire ants. I'm mad at Santy Claus. I'm mad at JC Penney fer sendin' me that wish book. I'm mad at the mail man fer bringin' it. I'm mad at Marie fer bein' up there to the house while I'm down here fightin' off these fire ants. I'm jist mad! I take that Christmas book and I wield it like the weapon it is! But I got over it. I had me a little mad spell and I got it outta my system. I decided it was too early fer me to be lookin' at a Christmas catalog like that. So, I took it up there and give it to Marie. She was proud to get it. She's already got a bunch of stuff picked out to order! Aint life somethin? 'Specially here in Down Town Holly Springs. Merry Christmas, y'all. ============================================================== BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK by Des Weeks Sometimes the urge, which I should resist, comes over me to try something new, something that I have never tried before. Last year it was gliding. This year I thought about trying horseback riding. So when I heard that my friends were courageously planning an exhilarating gallop over Dartmoor, I decided this was my chance to "have a go." I duly signed up with some twenty other brave souls. Eventually the day dawned and I set out for a stable on the edge of the moor. Here a miscellaneous herd of horses in all shapes, sizes and colours waited. Now I don't know if you have ever seen a horse close to -- they are ginormous! I mean, the littlest one (which I didn't get), stood about as high as Smeaton's Tower, and was nearly as wide too. Naturally, Belle, the horse I was presented with was twice as high, twice as wide and judging by her glaring eyes, twice as mean. I had noticed that in cowboy films, when six footers like John Wayne stood beside their steeds, they were the same height. Not Belle and me; I could just manage to look her in the nostrils while standing on tiptoe! However, the time came to mount. That was a laugh too. The stablehands didn't provide any ladders, so with a great deal of pushing and pulling plus some skittering and snorting from Belle -- I didn't think she was very amused -- I finally arranged myself in the seat -- sorry, saddle. Here I quickly made another discovery: saddles are not in the slightest way comfortable or soft -- quite the opposite. Still, with a quick check of the controls -- whoops, none to be found -- no brakes, no steering. no clutch or accelerator -- just horse, so I grabbed on to the reins which the stable boy indicated to me, and hung on for dear life! Then came the great moment, a mass exodus setting off in the general direction of Dartmoor. Now, a horse standing still is one thing -- but one on the move, that's a completly different kettle of fish! Talk about rock and roll. No, on second thought, don't -- I'd rather not be reminded of it. Being in a convoy of about 20 horses and "hangers-on" is quite a novel experience. The horses were used to this daily trek and knew just where they were going. They also knew that the sooner they got there, the sooner they would be back to their comfy stable and oats. So there was quite a lot of shoving and pushing -- all very well but not when my legs were dangling in the way. One of the guides politely informed me as to the use of stirrups. Belle just glared and kept on pushing her way through to the front of the column. However, things finally got sorted out and shortly the open moorland was reached. So far, so good. Progress was steady and the horses plodded along sedately. It was almost becoming enjoyable. Then suddenly, all the horses took it into their tiny little brains to charge across the land at a tremendous rate of knots (or so it seemed to me -- you try hanging on to a bouncing bundle of hay with a steel rod down its back and you'll appreciate what I mean). I was told afterwards that this had been only a gentle trot. The silly horses tried this "gentle trot" several times along the way. No amount of cajoling, pleading or direct threats about a glue factory made any difference to Belle -- she was doing her thing. I was only along for the ride! I tried the steering once but all I achieved was a steely glare from a wicked looking eye -- so I quit! Finally, at last, after what seemed an eternity, the leaders headed back home. All was going well. There I was gently plodding along the well worn trail when Belle suddenly decided that she wanted a drink! Being Belle, she could not just drink from the nearest stream. Oh no, she had other ideas. Pushing her way through the other horses, forgetting about my legs, she plowed her way upstream until she was stuck in a little gully with steep banks on both sides and her progress any further was stopped. So there we stood, Belle drinking gallons of water and me losing gallons in perspiration, wondering what was coming next. Eventually an expert appeared on the scene. "Boy. She's gone a long way up." He observed. "Yes, she has rather." I meekly agreed. "Er, how do I get her out?" "No problem," said the expert. "Put her in reverse." Put her in reverse? Was he kidding me? But no, a sharp tug on the steering and Belle came slowly backwards -- for a litle way -- then she lunged sort of sideways and twisted and scrambled up over the bank. "Oh, well ridden," said the expert. Well ridden? If only he knew! Soon after the stables were reached. After I had dismounted with some stiffness and said my sad(!) farewells to Belle, I struggled gamely back to my car. Now here was a steed I could really depend on to go where I wanted without any hassle, and the seat -- Oh bliss! Quickly I started the car and headed back to civilisation. The great adventure was over. I could now cross horse riding off my list. So, what next? How about hang gliding or parachuting -- neither could be as bad as horse riding. =============================================================== TO MY GRANDSON by Eloise Blanpied I see in each unguarded laughing glance a sparkling of your younger self, when joy and trust spilled from your heart and you would dance, small hand in mine, a whirling, soaring boy. So brief, bright world! Too soon life's darker side bore through the joy with death and cruelty. Brave child who met that dark and would not hide, my arms recall your sob-wracked agony. I see in each unguarded laughing glance a seasoned strength, hard-tempered by hot tears; the wisdom yet to leap at life and chance at joy; compassion for another's fears. Though not a boy today, still not a man, your laughing glance tells how your soul began. =============================================================== end cybersenior.4.3(#14)