Last week we were working on a house half way down the slope of monument hill, in sight of the bay and the distant beach.  About 5 pm I happened to look up and saw an amazing sight.  High above were hundreds of seagulls circling in a great flock in the light of the setting sun.  Their wings glinted white as they wheeled and turned in slow, graceful interwoven patterns.  They were at such a height that at first I only saw bright flickering white lights before I realized it was birds.  When  I was a boy living a stone's throw from the Charles River I remember the gulls would also congregate in flocks high above the river at the end of the day.

Es, pues, la fe la certeza de lo que se espera, la conviccion de lo que no se ve.


I am beginning a new course at Umass Boston and I will occasionally post bits from the writing I do for that course.  The first one is below.

Culture is probably as complex and multifaceted as language, deeply engrained in every individual save perhaps feral children.  As such, a definition is going to be hard to come by without some serious consideration.  But what we immediately think of when asked to define culture is the particular way that a particular group of people do things.  Culture has to do with group identity, it is a set of shared characteristic behaviors.  On one level cultural differences are easy to detect,  language is probably the principal identifier of culture, followed by cuisine, social manners, music, shared mythology, taboos, religions, world views, religious views, rituals and rites surrounding festivals and feast days, coming of age, marriage, childbirth and death.  As part of our nature, we human beings form cohesive social units that enable our survival in the primitive world, fortify us against enemies, let us overcome obstacles impossible to scale  individually,  that constrain us on one hand and on the other release immeasurable creative potential for all manner of things both good and evil.  Culture is the glue that holds us together as a tribe, a people or a nation, and perhaps, transcending tribalism at some ethereal level, as human beings.

Tu le peux si tu le veux, lui disait-il
                          
                               Marcel Proust

You can get it if you really want
                          
                               Jimmy Cliff

锄禾日当午

汗滴禾下土

谁知盘中餐

粒粒皆兴苦

To the Farmers

Plowing in the midday heat                  

Sweat drips into the tilled soil
Did you know in a bag of wheat
Every grain is gained by toil.

By Min Yong,

My translation

I have started another blog where I will attempt to write political and social commentary.
franmaloney.blogspot.com

I am therefore precisely a thinking thing
                                               Rene DesCartes


The following is excerpted from a paper I did for a course in applied linguistics I am taking at UMB

For the philosopher or the theologist, there might be no compromise on the issue, but when it comes to human behavior, most scientists take a stand in the middle and admit that nature and nurture function together to determine the behaviors we exhibit. No child is born with a propensity to speak German over Chinese but that child will speak one or both of those languages depending on the environment he or she is born into. On the other hand, no one would deny that many traits we have are exclusively genetic. The distinction is less clear when we address language acquisition itself. There are many universals common across all cultures which some attribute to genetics as do Chomsky and other Innatists. Because the scope of language research ranges from the microscopic biochemical level of genes to the macroscopic level of socio-cultural environment, it is necessary to narrow our focus with a discussion of the nature of language itself.

All animals seem to be endowed with specialized anatomy perfectly suited to their role in the environment and to the ecological niche in which they exist; ants have mandibles for biting and carrying food, mosquitos have probosci for extracting blood to feed their eggs, sharks have rows of razor sharp teeth for ripping flesh, the sandpiper on the beach has little legs for running along the water’s edge and sharp eyes to spot tiny crustaceans which it stabs with its specialized beak. Human beings, in many respects similar to the other animals, have two highly specialized traits which are also adapted to highly specialized roles; these are two hands with opposable thumbs and the ability to use language, each connected to a neural array in the cortex without equal in its complexity and adaptability. As marvelously designed as a mosquito’s proboscus is for extracting blood, it remains, in essence, a simple tool. This is not true for language; unlike the mosquito, there is no exchange of fluids involved or extraction of material sustenance. Language use is not even primarily utilitarian but rather its purpose is to construct and to communicate identity. Descartes verified his existence by reference to his thought processes; “Cogito ergo sum”, “ I think therefore I am.” Language is used to exchange the essence of our existence, that which what is in our minds.

In order to discern how biology relates to culture in language acquisition, we need to begin with the basic biology behind this specialized trait. At first glance, we seem to have the same facial anatomy as many other mammals; tongue, teeth, voice box, nasal cavity, nose. Notwithstanding that they might have little to say, with appropriate training, one might expect chimpanzees to form words if only for the banana they would receive. If this were possible, we would be inundated with showmen and their talking animals. However, it is not. No animals can speak in any sense of the way that humans speak either through intelligence of discourse or intricacy of phonetic expression. The anatomy behind language in humans is extraordinarily specialized and complex. Sound is produced by air passing up from the lungs through the vocal cords, the sound is then modified by the action of the tongue, and lips and by the shape and resonance qualities of the oral cavity and the nasal cavity. Hundreds of muscles work in coordination to achieve the multitude of sounds required by speech, and the muscles are controlled by areas in the brain, Broca’s area being the chief area of the cortex associated with speech production. Speech production is only half of the story, however, the other half is comprehension; there has to be a part of the brain that initially processes the linguistic information coming in through the ears before, another part of the brain formulates a response. But, on this level, we are still only talking about mechanical aspects related to making and receiving the sounds that make up language. We still need to answer the question, “what is language?”.

Is language simply a code for the transmission of information through sound waves? “There are three cows in that field” is a simple sentence, but only a human being could be consciously aware of the reality of three cows in a field. A machine could add three more cows, it could translate the sentence into another code, it could store the information, send it around the world to another machine, but could it wonder, “what is a cow?”, could it understand a sentence like:

So much depends upon a red
wheelbarrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens
             
                William Carlos Williams.

 A joke is funny to the teller along with the hearer because they both discern in the words a commonly understood reference to something comic and absurd that goes beyond the information carried by the words themselves. That is where we begin to move into the cultural aspect of language.

Generally when we learn a new language, we are attempting to learn the code consisting of vocabulary and grammatical words, and desire to acquire that code as part of our verbal repertoire, that is to say to be able to fluently express ideas using that code and to understand what is written or spoken in that code. Much of the accompanying cultural information cannot be taught in a classroom and, in fact, may not need to be taught in the classroom. Many Americans take a foreign language in High School or College they are taught by an American teacher who speaks English as his or her first language and they learn surrounded exclusively by other English speaking students, yet most do acquire some ability in the new language. Throughout the world English is recognized as a lingua franca and many people learn English as a second language entirely within their own culture and will commonly speak English outside of any English language culture. To conclude this introduction then, let us define language as a highly complex audible code originating in the neural and physical anatomy of human beings and designed to communicate thoughts and ideas between human beings; the higher level meta-communication associated with language is not here included as part of language itself. We can now take a look at some of the current research in the field of language acquisition.

For the Pickin'

Every evening near Hall's Corner as the sun sets this tree or one nearby fills up with turkeys.  In the day they wander in the neighborhood yards afraid of nothing but when the day is done, one by one gobbling on their way they flap up into the tree for the night.  It is an unusual sight.

I Don't Mind Winter

One must have a mind of winter
to regard the frost and the boughs
of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

Wallace Stevens

I have not been writing.  It hardly seems important to me, although it is the one thing I keep coming back to.
There is so little that I write that has any importance or lasting significance.  My friend has finished a novel and it will soon be published by Paragon House Publishing.  He has worked long and hard on this project and he has endowed the story with meaning from a deeper struggle about faith.  Stories have the most significance and are along with poetry the only writing that lasts more than a generation in the minds of men.  This post is just to ramble on and perhaps to take up with writing again or should I call it the attempt to write.  I have been laid up with a herniated disc in my back for 3 weeks.  I am someone who loves to walk and who works with his body.  So I have been really set back, unable to work in the most difficult time of the year for a carpenter.

Wyoming

Passing through Cheyenne Wyoming, we ran into a hail storm that caused the car to hydroplane badly.  We did not go out of control but a car and a tractor trailer were off the road.  The trailer ploughed into the median strip and into the car in the oncoming lane.  Cheyenne seemed dark and dirty in part because of the rain.  We passed an oil refinery.
     Approaching Laramie, it was nicer, snow was still visible on the mountains.  We arrived in Laramie about 5 pm.  First impression : Nice little college town with tree lined streets and nice buildings.  There are lots of people and shops, many book stores, just the opposite of  DesMoines.

Sunday morning, October 17.  I sit alone in the upper room typing on the laptop and looking out the window at the maples across the street, and at the fallen leaves and the still green grass.  A tangle of power lines passes through the branches.  I have time to think this morning instead of running off to another hectic day of work and obligations.  I think God wants us to rest on Sundays for this reason, to contemplate and reflect, to enjoy his creation and to trust in his provision aside from our own efforts to keep ahead.  We need to remind ourselves that our lives are entirely in his hands.  He gives us the strength to work and the opportunities but commands us to be aware that, as it says in the book of Psalms,

Unless the LORD builds the house,
its builders labor in vain.
Unless the LORD watches over the city,
the watchmen stand guard in vain.


In vain you rise early
and stay up late,
toiling for food to eat—
for he grants sleep to those he loves.


  

Here's the gang at Applecrest farms in Hampton New Hampshire on our annual apple picking day in September.

Last night we attended the feast of Saint Anthony in Boston's North End.  It is quite an experience and one that anyone visiting the city in August should not miss.  But this Saturday night it was just too crowded to be enjoyable.  More people could not have fit into those narrow streets; moving from place to place was almost impossible.  There is plenty of good food and the immigrant flavor of this neighborhood survives strongly along with traces of colonial Boston.  There were surprisingly few police and good order in spite of people packed six inches apart for blocks around.  The  blue "Direct TV" blimp circled overhead in the night sky with its sides lit up with high definition tv images and advertising.

Who thought I would still be alive for the year 2010 back when I could barely imagine crossing the millenial divide. And yet I am here today with a good life ahead of me. In fact with my son Scott and Pam and her girls I have wealth beyond imagining. And I believe there is more to come although I could scarcely ask for more. I do still ask for financial security. And yet God has always provided and I know He will continue to do so abundantly. I could ask for a more distinguished career, I am hoping to become an excellent teacher and I have never given up a desire to be a writer. But in this as well, I believe God will open doors of opportunity that I scarcely expect now. I cannot complain at all about my health. And above all I am at peace with God. I would not mind being young again and undoing all the mistakes of my life, and I am not looking forward to old age and death. I think less about death now than I did as a young man, in part I think because I have come to believe that death is not the end and to know that I have eternal life in Christ. This might seem trite and formulaic on the surface but I assure you that belief did not come easily or without supernatural inner changes.

The Stewart Brothers

Two elderly gentlemen, now deceased, once lived in this house pictured above.  The building to the left was their home and the one  to the right was their shop where they worked on cars, especially old volkswagens.  They were machinists and  when I worked in Duxbury in the eighties, they were the ones to go to to have something made or repaired.  They used to ride around town in modified volkswagen bugs and sometimes one would hang out at the bottom of the road sitting on the stone wall.   I did not know much about them.  I remember when there was only one left, and then I remember noticing that the second brother was gone too.  I am not sure why but their property remains well cared for but unnoccupied.  It is prime real estate near the bay with a considerable amount of land.

Near the end of fourth grade, I was assigned my teacher for the following year. I found out that it would be Mrs. McDonough, the dreaded. I remember saying to myself on the way home that day that I couldn't believe that I was going to have the Old Battle Ax. I do not know where I got that name for her but I know that is how I thought of her.

She was old, her hair was white and all but gone on top. She was very strict and her favorite punishment, administered at the slightest infraction was to be made to write the same sentence such as, "I will not talk in class", over again until your hands were cramped in pain. She spent a part of each day reading aloud to the class from some work of literature or tell stories from her life and knowledge. She was strict but fair, ugly but with a depth of knowledge and character and a true passion for teaching.

My fifth grade year was her last year of teaching and, near the end of that year, the Phillips Elementary School of Watertown Massachusetts held a special assembly to honor her. We, her last students, participated. I remember thinking and telling my parents that she was the best teacher I ever had. I have not had a teacher since then or before who I felt that strongly about.

Real education must be limited to men who INSIST on knowing, the rest is mere sheepherding.
Ezra Pound

When I was in High School in the early 1970s, I took, as an elective a one semester course in Anthropology. My mother used to have us watch Channel 2 in Boston which did a series filmed by an anthropologist in the twenties. There were two silent films; one was about an eskimo, the other about south sea islanders. I remember the eskimo hunting seals through a hole in the ice and building an igloo; the south sea islanders filed their teeth and tatooed their entire bodies. Later, I was fascinated with a book we had in our house called Four Ways of Being Human, which featured four different cultures. So, out of that interest, I elected to take this short course in the subject.

Our teacher's name was Mrs. Kramer. She was a student teacher or a first year teacher, I don't remember exactly but she was young and I think, still attending one of the Universities near Boston. She was plain, not beautiful in the conventional sense, not vivacious or remarkable in her personality. But she was intelligent and diligent in her work teaching us. She, in one incident, made an impression on me that I have never forgotten.

She had brought a movie for us to watch. It was about negative stereotyping of blacks in Hollywood and it started with clips from Birth of a Nation and showed young black school boys struggling with their self image. The class, our class, was not paying any attention at all to the movie. Kids were talking and generally did not have any interest in it. That was when Mrs. Kramer stopped the film. She was furious. She yelled at us and told us that this was an important subject that we ought to care deeply about and she expressed such disappointment in us and so much passion about the movie and its subject that we were struck dumb and watched the rest of the movie in silence.

I have never forgotten that teacher and it has been almost forty years. And I went from uninformed and disinterested in racial injustice to passionate about it.

Enee hymself ane zow was blak of fleece
Brytnit with his swerd in sacrifice ful hie
Unto the moder of the furies thre.

                                 

Around one in the afternoon I decided to take a look at the beach.  It was high tide and a strong wind was blowing out of the northeast.  An icy wind-driven rain was my escort over the bridge.  The surf was strong, up almost to the snow fence before the dunes.  It was too cold to stay long so I just snapped this picture.  When I got back to my truck, I was soaked to the skin.

                                    

Here are some old photos I took as a boy in my neighborhood in Watertown.This is a picture of my mother and my two oldest sisters, Janice on the left and Nancy in the middle, in our car in 1964 when our Dad was running for state representative.

This is a picture of my three sisters, Judy in front, Nancy behind on the left, Janice behind on the right.  In the middle, are Bobby and Patricia D'amico who lived across the street.  In the distant background you can see the smokestack for Lewandos by the Charles river.

This is a picture of Nancy, Bobby, Janice, Patricia and on the right Peter D'amico all are standing in front of the house directly across from ours at the head of Dana Terrace.  An old woman lived here who was over one hundred years old.  She used to sit on this front porch in a rocking chair.   Her son continued to live there for some time after she died.  There last name was Ferris.

There are bees in this wall.' He struck the clapboards, fierce heads looked out; small bodies pivioted.
                                          R Frost

This house still stands behind the police station in Watertown.  It is magnificent but beyond repair.  When I was a boy, there was a row of victorians here one to the right and one to the left of this one.  I had friends who lived in both of those houses.  I remember playing in their yards and homes.  Even then, in the sixties, they were pretty much beyond repair.  Saltonstall park had been ringed by such houses.   They had been built within walking distance to the railroad station and in the center of town; this was once a choice location to live before the automobile made it possible for high income earners to move farther out into the suburbs.  To the right of the house pictured above is the corner of a red brick apartment building.  The economics or the architecture of the sixties seemed to demand that every time an ornate victorian home was torn down it would be replaced by a square apartment building.

I sat for an hour in Watertown Savings Bank looking out at the Square while a customer service rep named Rachel transferred my dad's account balances into an estate account. On the wall to my right is an old painting of the very scene the window looked out on, now facing directly on the Armenian museum.  In the picture, the spot is occupied by a large federal style building with steps coming down front.  I believe this was the old town hall.   I remarked to Rachel that my dad remembered sitting on those long-gone steps as a child.  I did not say but I remembered sitting in a nearby pine tree, now twice as tall and watching the old victorian train station also in the painting behind the town hall burn to the ground.  And behind that in the picture was the top of the old wooden church torn down in the seventies. I could have told her I remembered sneeking into that church and climbing up into the bell tower and onto the roof.  On the other side of the street facing our window was the old Federal Savings Bank building I remembered that being built in the early sixties.  And I could have told her that my dad used to send me down to Mum's doughnuts on Sunday mornings to get a dozen doughnuts; it was a little shop directly across the street briefly occupying the space before the Armenian museum was built.   By the way, the Armenian museum building was originally built for Watertown Savings Bank and I had my first bank account there.