It has been a while since we have considered the motivational verse found on postcards of yore. Why should we bother to look again? I don’t know whether that’s any of yore business.
I wish I had talked an acquaintance of mine, who had read every motivational classic of the last century, to go ahead with a project of constructing a sort of family tree which would show which writer got his ideas from which predecessor. He was a great believer in these self-help heroes, though he admitted you could probably boil them all down to a few basic principles: optimism, perseverance, and self-reliance. Every generation picked out its favorite preachers of such virtues, and every generation as well saw the same principles available on postcards for those who couldn’t pause in their daily grind…perseverance to read a whole book.
Each of these principles, by the way, has had its critics. Thorne Smith spoke of a businessman determined to show his grit and smile the Depression away (and nearly smiled his firm into bankruptcy, but for unsmiling underlings who worked overtime.) Optimism and perseverance were served, or parodied, in a little booklet I used to see donated all the time about a boy who lost a foot in a bicycle accident and forced himself to work out and try to walk every single day, confident that as long as he believed in himself and kept working, he would grow a new foot. (I think he won the big football game for his high school and went on to be elected Senator, but never did grow another foot. My impression was that the author was taking the mock, but other people said they found the story a guide in times of trouble and passed it along to their grandchildren…which may be why so many copies were donated to the book fair.)
In any case, postcard artists tried to provide guidance to their fellow travelers, urging the value of the popular ideals of the day (along with, in this case, horse sense, I guess. Unless the point is that this is all a matter of good breeding.)
My personal brain prefers it when the poets get more specific. This poet is, more or less, presenting the ideal of self-reliance, only applied to the case of one’s financial habits. I know I speak with the benefit of hindsight, but the poet’s ow finances would probably have been better served with a children’s book. “Don’t Be a Billy Borrow” sounds as if it would have sold thousands of copies to doting grandparents.
This poet takes up the cause of making sure young ladies remain demure and mindful. Chewing gum was considered a great evil because it got in the way of one’s accomplishments. People were urged by advertisers to buy something that had no nutritional value, looked bad, contributed nothing to society beyond the profit made by uncaring industries. (There was a similar campaign against cigarettes at the time. Remind me how that one worked out.)
Speaking of the profit made by producers of addictive products, THIS is one of the numerous verses written to remind people that their friends were yearning to get a postcard. But we have discussed this phenomenon hereintofore.
Let us conclude with this work by a poet not known for contemplative moods (Milton Berle). I thought about writing an article about the school of motivational verse whose moral was “Well, anyhow, he tried.” But I’ll have to put that off while I run to the store. I just realized I’m all out of chewing gum.
His Imperial Worship shlurked at the straw, but not loudly enough to cover the screams from inside the glass. Then he shifted to his command seat in the control bubble of the Panoply. Lt. Veora, he decided, would have to have at least two of her arms removed. She had supplied the three pillows he had asked for, true. But she should have seen at once that he would require four. It was inexcusable, really.
On the screen that stretched across the ceiling of the room the planet Lodeon VII gleamed arrogantly against a background of stars. He had suffered incalculable losses from the outcome of this latest game. Well, those could be recouped in the postgame fireworks display.
A beep at his ;eft was followed by the hail “Your Worship?”
He didn’t look. “Yes, my sheriff?”
“Your Worship, due to the loss of power aboard ship, we have been unable to complete evacuation of the Drover at this point. Another hour would allow the shuttles and search teams….”
An Imperial hand waved her to silence. “It will have to do, dearest of Sheriffs. Has the library ship emerged?”
“It has, Your Worship. It is bearing….”
“That matters not at all. How economical to handle two disposals at once. After our losses on the gantlet, we must be economical, of course.”
He took another shlurp. “Your Worship has considered….” The Sheriff began.
“I have already placed my wagers, darling Sheriff, on the chance that the rebels, in escaping, will blow up the Drover and destroy themselves in the process. I got very good odds.”
The Sheriff’s voice was carefully neutral. “The Drover is….”
“A traitor, dear Sheriff, and treason is certainly a capital offense. I have been brutalized and called groteskew, and lost money, all because the ship’s main computer chose to sabotage its own gantlet. You know I cannot have undependable subordinates at so high a level.”
Now he did turn to the monitor. “You would agree that the death sentence is warranted?”
Her face was as neutral as her voice. “As you order, Your Worship.”
One day, he would shake that blankness from her expression; there wasn’t time to do it properly just now. “Now turn off your monitor and await my next communication. No peeking.”
“Yes, Your Worship.”
He returned to his previous position, decided he didn’t like it, and shifted one pillow. Better: he could watch the screen perfectly this way. The rest of the universe could watch the recording. He alone would watch, live and at the closest safe position, as the most beautiful ship ever constructed blew to pieces, upsnooted computer and all. He caressed his special remote. The bottom button would initiate the Destruct sequence. He wondered if the ship would scream.
The Imperial thumb slid toward the top button. This would be something to see. He had never seen the Drover in its entirety, except in computer simulations and rough sketches. The technicians had felt there was some good reason never to show him the interesting things.
Lodeon VII blinked out of sight as the screen on the ceiling shifted images. He blinked. That little grey speck there must be the library….
The vast beauty of the Drover filled the screen, which was doing its best to display the full spectacle to a brain that was not the right size. An Imperial muscle began to twitch at the back of the Imperial neck as the beauty burned in.
“Mimavax!” he gasped, as his spine twisted in response to frantic signals from the organ at the top. His eyes pulled a bit out of their sockets to give the brain more room. One hand reached for his throat, letting his glass drop and shatter. The contents that could still move scampered for any shelter.
Veins rose on his forehead. Muscles jerking throughout his body bounced the word from him. “M-m-m-m-m-mimivax!” His organs pulled in flat on themselves, like some of his Abian captives in GMS.
The hand not clutching his windpipe shot out in a last attempt to hit the button on the remote to shut out the sight that was killing him. His death rattle made him miss. The Imperial thumb hit the wrong button.
In seven seconds, the most beautiful machine ever created by the hands of humankind flashed out of existence. And the universe shuddered.
This shudder sent tides on Lodeon VII to previously unrecorded heights, and brought tides to bodies of water which did not usually experience tides. A busful of tourists on their way to the Ketsi Casino were bounced into a garden where, in their shock, they tried to place bets with the pink fish in the fountain. A police frigate found itself buried in sand, which turned out to be a stroke of luck when the flash card dealer it had been pursuing was struck by a falling airship. Three of the planet’s major satellite dishes broke out in purple spots, every nine-sided die landed with the four uppermost, and two little blue flowers never seen before in this galaxy sprang up next to a fallen plush chimpanzee.
The explosion of the Drover was brilliant enough to burn out every major tracking device and sensor aboard both the Rhododendron and the Panoply. Swirling trails of white-hot particles swung into bright, brief intricate patterns. Someone paying strict attention might have observed that these streamed away from the former ship only toward the planet and the two major ships nearby. Scientific observers on Lodeon VII, however, noted only that a brilliant new star had come into existence for exactly one minute.
The Sheriff, on the Rhododendron, could see only small flashing lights on the remaining operational monitor. “Your Worship?” she ventured, pressing a blue pad. “Your Worship?”
There was no answer. She had not expected one. A small triangle in the lower left corner of the screen was blinking. Light showed in that opening only for the death of the commanding Sheriff, or, in the presence of the Emperor, for the death of His Imperial Worship. And the Sheriff, to her own surprise, was still alive.
She knew the crew on the bridge was trying very hard not to look her direction. Most of them were too young to have seen this triangle blink, but they all knew what it was.
“Brust,” she said, “We must inform His Worship’s brother.”
When he did not answer, she turned to see whether he had heard her. The Deputy was not there. He had been confined to quarters, with the rest of his company involved in the rescue of the Emperor. Standard procedure: troopers could not be allowed to think themselves too heroic. She had not yet given the order for his termination, thinking His Imperial Worship might care to supervise personally. Or might enjoy the destruction of the Drover enough to reconsider.
Now the order could not be reconsidered.
The sentence had been oral, of course, delivered over a non-recording monitor. She thought it over. Never before had Sheriff Parimat disobeyed any Imperial order. But did an Imperial order still carry weight after the Emperor who issued it died?
She suspected it did. Even an oral, unrecorded message nobody else had….
She stared at the monitor, too preoccupied by the flashing triangle to take any interest at all in the little red dot moving rapidly toward the edge of the screen.
As I have been learning (and hope I have communicated) old postcards can be a great peek into how our ancestors talked. The slang of the day, plus whatever pop culture was up to, was grist for the mill of the cartoonists. They weren’t trying to preserve current speech for the future; they just wanted to say something that a reader would understand at once.
So I have pulled out a few more examples of colloquial speech, some of which are not as old-fashioned as saying “grist for the mill”, and have arranged them into a quiz. Some ARE now old enough to be obscure, while others just gave me a chance to fill up a space and maybe get a laugh. (Hey, that’s why the original cartoonists used ‘em.)
1.What is the “bunco game” the cowboy is warning you against?
a.Marital infidelity (switching “bunks”)
b.A con artist’s scheme (selling ‘bunk’ or nonsense)
c.Buying bootleg whiskey (served from a ‘bung” in a barrel)
2.This is a reference to what was, for a long time, one of the world’s best-known advertising slogans. The original was “His Master’s _______”
a.Death
b.Memory
c.Voice
3.”Feed the brute” mentioned here, was traditional advice for wives. What was the desired result?
a.A well-fed husband would be better in bed
b.A well-fed husband would be more amiable
c.A well-fed husband would fall asleep sooner
4.What does it mean in this caption to be doing something “on the fiddle”?
a.The speaker intends to connive money out of the other person
b.The speaker is just wasting time in a pleasant way
c.The speaker is doing this covertly, or “on the sly”
5.Why is this man a jack?
a.The ladies think he is foolish (a jack of all trades but….)
b.The ladies think he is doing a great, or “crackerjack” job
c.The ladies suspect he has lots of money (jack)
6.This pair of postcards make the same joke on a popular political phrase. Who is credited with originating the phrase “white man’s burden”, turning conquest of non-white populations into a matter of unpleasant duty?
a.Rudyard Kipling
b.Theodore Roosevelt
c.Charles Sumner
7.The man is actually lacing his wife’s corset, but is suggesting in his statement that he gave her
a.A good strong drink
b.A new pair of shoes
c.A fierce scolding
8.Still used today, the phrase “to get the hook” originated in
a.Fishing
b.Theater
C.Baseball
9.Besides putting clothespins (or “pegs”) on the laundry, what ELSE does pegging mean in this context?
a.Something we daren’t discuss in a family blog
b.Exhausting oneself
c.Enjoying a nice breeze on a warm day
ANSWERS
1.b.Joe Friday used this a lot on the original Dragnet
2.c.Nipper was the terrier who posed for Victor, or RCA Victor, or, in England, His Master’s Voice records
3.b and/or a. The Interwebs, which is as trustworthy about these things as facts spray-panted on a hydrant, claims that, going back to the nineteenth century, American writers preferred the b answer but the more robust British expected answer a
4.c. The word has been used in phrases meaning all three of the possibilities given (and more) but this seems the most likely for this fiddle case
5.a. The word jack was, among other things, an abbreviation for “jackass”
6.a. Kipling did not, however, invent the phrase, which had been used by writers since the 1860s
7.c. Depending on where and when the word was used, the scolding might include a beating as well
8.b. Performers who displeased an audience would be yanked offstage with a long hook
9.b. Amazing what some phrases grow into as time goes by
When I went picking postcards out of inventory for our last thrilling adventure in language and postcards (“Watch Your Phraseology”) I held back a couple when the article seemed to b running long. (See? I do think of the audience once in a while. Beyond wondering why you don’t buy my postcards, I mean.)
The little jolly shown at the top of this column was one of those. This phrase was still used in my boy days, albeit mainly as a joke on assorted sitcoms, And I wondered if anybody still uses it.
If you have not run across it before, the matter of who “wears the pants in this family” is a fine old marital concern. As men, traditionally, were the ones who controlled the money and the property, AND traditionally wore pants, the pants were a symbol of them being the boss at home. Also traditionally, there would be no such phrase if this was always obvious to both sides in a marriage.
And, um, no, it is not considered a current phrase by the youngsters who populate the interwebs, to judge by the number of “what does this phrase mean?” articles out there. You saw at once the two problems, of course. No, not the husband and wife: the fact that 1) nowadays even women who do NOT rule the roost wear pants, and 2) men are not automatically considered the most fit to make family decisions nowadays. (Plenty of folktales tell us this was true LONG before “nowadays”, but let’s consider the infants who rule the ether for now.)
In fact, the number of writers who immediately charge off down an entirely unnecessary side road shows that a lot of the commentators don’t even feel the phrase is all that interesting. THEY would rather study the history of the word “pants”, at least slightly prompted by the fact that the phrase started in the seventeenth century as “who wears the breeches in this family”, became “who wears the trousers in this family”, and only later, after a secondary side journey into the history of the word “pantaloons”, “who wears the PANTS in this family.”
Other people are confused by the fact that for maybe a century and a half now, most women DID wear pants: that is, underpants. So THOSE young writers shift onto a side track on the history of “panties”, a word which many are doing their best to eradicate in favor of just “pants”.
And THAT takes us into the delightful sideroad of jokes about husbands and wives and their underwear, which comes back eventually to the huge man who tosses HIS undershorts to his wife “to remind you who wears the pants in this family. Those won’t fit you”, whereupon she throws her tiny thong, daring him to put THAT on. When told that he can’t even get into her pants, she replies, “Yeah and that’s the way it’s gonna be until you change your attitude about who wears pants in this family.”
We are, of course, ourselves now straying from the path. To summarize, the phrase “wear the breeches in this family” appeared first in the writings of a putative ancestor of mine in 1612, but even HE was using it in a way that showed it was an old phrase and generally not true of the poor husband. It lasted well through the mid-twentieth century despite quibbles about underpants. (One great humorist in the 1940s had one of her women sigh that “the world belongs to them as wears their pants on the outside”.) But now, under the impact of society and fashion, it seems to have been relegated to the Dictionary of Bygones and Exiles.
And I will not ever have room in this blog about ALL the jokes about husbands and wives discussing underwear. Pity, that.
“So a few of you did make it to the library ship. Accept my most disgusted congratulations.”
”It’s a recording,” Nubry whispered. She pressed a button to close the ramp. “It has to be.”
“You will now be allowed a few minutes to fly free of the Drover before pursuit begins,” His Imperial Worship went on. “My original intention was to order pursuit once you had reached a certain distance from the ship, but pirates, being sneaky, might take advantage to continue flying just inside the allotted distance. Pr the librarian might have chosen to linger just because of my personal attraction.”
Nubry shuddered. “So you have minutes, not meters,” the Imperial voice went on, “I will not tell you how many, lest you grow overconfident. Instead, let me now describe what will be done to you when we capture you again. We will begin by sanding the friction skin from the spoles of your feet and marching you ina triumphant procession along a road of hot sand. Before we start on your nails….”
Bott drew out his communications card. “Ship?”
“Are you still aboard, lummox? Oh, I suppose I knew you would not depart without a tearful farewell.”
“Ship, can you shut him off?”
“…how far selected parts of your bodies can be stretched before they tear loose,” His Imperial Worship went on.
“With pleasure, pirate.” The Drover was as good as its word; the voice was cut off at the word “dangle”.
The Dragonshelf was silent. Bott glanced at the four women, who had somehow frozen into place lined up by height. Minutes. What needed to be done in those minutes?
“Do you have explosive detection equipment?” he asked Nubry.
“Do I?” She frowned. “Yes, I do. It’s up front.”
“Get it,” he told her, partly because she had already left the hold to do so. “I’ll need you and you to scan the ship for any Imperial surprises. If you find one, don’t….”
“Cap’m?” Bassada moved forward, away from the other Klamathans. “Coul’n’t ye send me wi’ Goldnose stedda Buebottom? She’ll make me carry ‘at detecter right up m….”
“Oh my!”
The cry held sheer dismay. Captain and crew ran forward, the egg floating obediently behind.
Nubry stood at the door into the command bubble of her ship. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes were squinched shut.
Every control panel was stacked in a heap against one of the seats. Where they should have been, threadlike wires swung at knee level. Bott pushed past the librarian, dumping the copy machine control onto the stack of panels.
“I suppose this means they didn’t bother to plant any explosives,” said Chlorda, slumping against the wall, her hands behind her head.
Bott, blessing the old ship’s engineers, knelt by the wires farthest forward. Nubry, lips trembling, set her prayerstone against her forehead.
Louba was banging her wrists together and licking her lips at the same time. “How ‘bout rear guns? We could shoot, anyways, when….”
The ship lurched. Bott released the wires he had pressed together. “What I thought.” He sat back on his haunches. “I can hotwire anything when….” He looked around, taking inventory, reaching into memory.
“Fergot ye wuz a pirate cap’m Cap’m!” Bassada crowed. She bent over, trusting her backside at Louba. “C’mon, greenspouts: take a freebie!”
“Come over here,” Bott ordered. “These are the thrusters. Push these two or these two when I tell you. That should be advance and reverse. Chlorda, did you ever use the Red Falcon console?”
“Ny first boat had Red Falcon controls.” Chlorda crossed to a row of wires and sat down, crossing her legs. “These six should be the main stabilizers, do you think?”
“I hope so. Louba? Back there in the corner: those should be the guns.”
The green Klamathan squatted in the corner. “Funniest guns ever I seed, Cap’m,” she said. “Wonder why I don’t feel like laughin’.”
“You can’t aim, but you can give them something to think about.” Bott nodded to the librarian, who was leaning forward, trembling with what he hoped was excitement. “You come over here and help me with the directional controls.”
Nubry had difficulty kneeling, but joined him next to the golden threads. “You can really do this? Of course you can!”
“One ting, Cap’m,” said bassada, sitting down with her back to Louba. “Who’s gonna tell us where ta go?”
Bott looked around the control room. Every monitor was well above the head of even Louba. “If it matters,” the blue klamathan went on, “I din’t see a way outa here any…owpf!”
Bott yanked his communications card out again. “Ship!”
“I understand your natural desire to linger in the presence of such beauty,” the Drover told him. “But although I am not authorized to tell you how many Imperial ships are massing to come after you, I would suggest you get a move on.”
“Good thought,” Bott replied. “Which way?”
“Out.”
“Dassie!” Nubry called. “We can’t see where to fly! Which way is out?”
“I’m afraid that’s restricted information. Ordinarily, I would assist in any attempt to put distance between my elegant self and a certain lummox, but you understand how it is.”
“Don’t forget the Imperial Override Card,” said the captain.
“Let’s handle it this way. You put that card into a command slot, and I’ll tell you everything you don’t know. If you’ve got the time.”
Bott was actually looking around the room when he understood: there were no slots for Imperial cards aboard the Dragonshelf. He chewed his upper lip for a second.
Then he said, “I haven’t given you any orders for a while. How come the power’s still shut down? Why are you still letting us go?”
“For one thing, I would do anything to be shut of you so I can forget I was ever captained by such a lummox. For another, the real Emperor hasn’t given me any orders for some time, either. I don’t believe he likes me much.”
“Hates ta figger I got sumpm in common wit’ HIM,” growled Bassada.
“You all lack the elegance to appreciate true beauty,” the ship replied.
“Dassie, we don’t have much time.” Nubry waved toward the dark main monitor. “Isn’t there anything you can tell us?”
“Let it go, Bottsy, Cap’m,” called Louba. “Use yer good ol’ book.”
Nubry’s head came around. “Book?”
“Oh.” Bott reached into his satchel. “Of course. The book.”
He was chewing his lip again as he drew out Bunny Bunk. Nubry’s eyes were as large as he had ever seen them.
His own eyes fixed on them, trying to force in the words he couldn’t say. “I explained about the directional code in here. And used it to find our way through the maze.”
”And here we are!” called Chlorda.
“Are we?” Nubry’s voice was weak. “Yes, we are.”
She didn’t sound very confident. Bott wasn’t confident at all. Maybe it hadn’t mattered in the maze: there were so many rooms and doors and the Emperor had been rigging the game. Now it DID matter. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to trust his existence to Bunny Bunk.
“Got the page where we left off, Cap’m?” called Louba.
It was Bunny Bunk or nobody, apparently. Bott opened the book to a page where the animal was studying a fuzzy orange worm. “We turn right,” he said. “Bassada, first and third wires. Gentl….”
The Dragonshelf jerked into the air. Bott lunged for his own set of wires, and nodded to the two Nubry needed to press together. She joined him, wincing as she leaned forward.
“Speedy enough, Cap’m?” called Louba.
:Your guess is as good as mine. Chlorda, try the….”
“I can feel it, Captain,” replied the hold Klamathan.
His own feelings told Bott they were moving rather too fast and at rather too much of an angle. He had had training in flying blind, of course, but never flying blind while hotwiring the ship. There hadn’t been this much at stake, either.
Holding the wires together in one hand, he slipped out the communications card with the other. “Ship, can you at least tell us if we’re flying at a blank wall?”
“You are, lummox.”
Crew and Captain looked at each other and then Bunny Bunk. “Was the page….” Chlorda started to say.
“But it’s retracting,” the Drover went on.
“I wish I could tell you how helpful you’ve been, slave ship,” Bott said, “But I don’t want to shock my crew.”
“Have a nice trip, lummox. And a short one.”
The Dragonshelf was moving faster and faster. Bott supposed it had been a mistake to put a Klamathan in charge of acceleration, but it seemed silly to be particular about it at a time like this.
“You will be clear of the ship in 51 seconds,” the Drover announced. “I shall try to be as bright as I can be.”
Bott nodded. “So you can catch us again.”
“Let me put it this way, Pirate. If I don’t catch you, nobody catches you.”
“Trip-trapping? Would you call it trip-trapping? Ever since I started watching dance videos on YouTube, I kind of think of myself as mostly boot-scooting.”
“Listen, I….”
“If you want someone who trip-traps over bridges, you want my older brother. He’s had more classic dance training than I ever got. Mom and Dad always preferred the middle child. When I….”
“All right, all right, pass along. I’ll gobble up your brother.”
“Aha! Who’s that trip-trapping across my bridge?”
“I used to trip-trap but I saw these videos on TikTok which taught me how to shoop shoop sheboogie across bridges. I think my older brother still trip-traps. In fact, he won the state conference title in….”
“You goats talk too much. Scram. I’ll gobble up your brother instead.”
“Aha! Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?”
“Don’t you pay any attention to social media, boomer? Nobody’s trip-trapping these days. I’m more of a troll-roller. How well can you swim?”
“Man oh man, even if you live under the bridge, you get trolled. Bah!”
There are numerous roadblocks to my intended series: “Is This Still Funny?” wherein I would look over the work of the stand-up comics of my boy days and figure out whether their work stands up. One is that a certain amount of comedy carries an expiration date. Jokes about Warren G. Harding, for example, may have been hilarious in their day, but to someone now who lacks an everyday familiarity with culture and politics a hundred years old, they have evaporated.
Similarly, the language of a joke can take it out of contention. The postcard at the top of this column, for example, is doomed by using references to three different bits of language which are now obsolete or nearly so. We are playing on the phrase “Paddle Your Own Canoe”, which still gets SOME use, but we are also making reference to “paddling”, once used, especially in England, for just splashing about on the edges of a body of water, and canoodle, a term for dating, flirting, etc. (And am I missing something in the word “canoodle” if it encompassed a lady taking off her shoes and stockings right there at the beach?)
Similarly, “Get Out and Get Under” was a catch phrase for getting down to work, not always used literally, as in this postcard or in the song which MAY have been its source of being (the hero had to get out and get under his broken-down car.) You see how “is this funny?” can be hard to apply. Now that I’ve explained the joke, you understand why other people thought it was funny once upon a time, but, without the cultural background, the likelihood of any of us actually laughing lands somewhere Zilch and Nil. (Makes me recall a gag in Iowa about the new state lottery which just featured photos and Mother Theresa and Slim Whitman…to show your chances of winning anything were between Slim and Nun. See what I mean? It was funny at the time.)
Similarly, only historians and students of cartoons recall that “bully” once meant “excellent”, popularized by Theodore Roosevelt (who also popularized the use of “Excellent”. TR really went for an optimistic public image.)
A later generation used “Ripping” in much the same way. We don’t, especially.
A synonym for “canoodling”, to go back further in this sermon, was “Petting”, and that generation, instead of paddling their canoodles, minded their pets. If you don’t have that in your vocabulary nowadays, this is just a postcard sent by an animal lover.
Knowing your audience’s vocabulary is important to those of us who occasionally try to be funny. Not long ago, I mentioned that I could not tell the joke about 288 because it was too gross. This joke skipped past half my audience, and someone who still used “Gross” to refer to 144 had to explain about “two gross.” The same malady affects this joke, since although a few people still use “laying for” to mean “waiting to pounce”, the phrase is fading from usage. (And, admittedly, this joke wasn’t all THAT funny to start with. Unless I’m missing something else.)
Here we’re lurching under another double reference. A man being made of clay is still used (although “having feet of clay” is more popular) but almost nobody still refers to a trustworthy, reliable friend as “a brick”.
We will close with this joke, which was used by several different cartoonists at different postcard companies. It relies first of all on the bygone expression calling a person’s face a “map”, and connecting that with the double meaning of “to go astray”, suggesting that…oh, you got that one. Was it funny?
Bott, tapping one foot, leaned a shoulder against a strut of the Dragonshelf’s ;loading ramp. He had shouted twice without result, and lacked further options, Without knowing whether one of his remaining grenades was knockout gas, he hated to waste it. And even if it was, that meant either abandoning his crew or lugging them inside.
“Lupfta!” Bassada fell flat on her stomach, her face inches from a splut of yellow flame.
The mountain had turned out to be a step pyramid, with flames spouting here and there from prearranged spots. It had not proven difficult for Bott to climb in spite of occasional trap doors which had stuck halfway open. Others were completely sealed shut by the loss of power, sealing away whatever terrors were supposed to spring out at the fugitives.
So everyone would be aboard by now if the Klamathans had not become obsessed with what seemed to Bott to be secondary matters.
A green hand took hold of Bassada between the legs and forced her a little up but mostly forward. “Keep movin’, wobblebottom!”
Chlorda helped out, gripping blue ears with golden fingernails and swinging the red back and forth above the flaming fountain. The effort threw her backward onto her own golden rump but she didn’t seem to mind.
The lurid lights of the intermittent flames reminded Bott of shows he’d been treated to in religion classes years ago. He raised his communication card to his lips.
“Is it hot in here, ship, or is it just me?”
“It is hot in here, lummox. You just think you’re hot stuff.”
Bott sighed as Louba took Bassada by the ankles and threw her a few steps upward. “I don’t suppose there’s a handy fire extinguisher?”
“A dozen, lummox, but they won’t work. You had me shut down the power to the labyrinth, remember?”
“At your suggestion. I’m wondering if that was a good idea.”
“If it was my idea, it was a good one.”
His crew had made it within the highest ring of flames. Bassada had landed on her feet and was running to keep out of the reach of her companions. She was a bit red in places, but as far as Bott could tell, Louba and Chlorda had avoided actually tossing her into any of the flames.
Was this the time to deliver a lecture which would blister them everywhere they were unscorched? He thought it over as they barreled toward the ramp, but any decision was quahed by a cry of “Oh my!”. It had come from above.
“Lala!”
“Fripplepletz!”
“Light me nose an’ call me see-gar! “Looka ‘at!”
His crew had stopped short of their goal, all looking into the air. Bott, after a suspicious glance at the Draginshelf’s ramp, ran clear of the ship to find out what they saw.
It was worth the effort. A woman clinging to the shreds of her clothing and a large box at the same time was dropping from the sky in what appeared to be an immense egg. There was no saddle, and as the egg wobbled, she slid from one end of a long seat to the other. Somehow the egg did not roll over.
“Not enough power!” she was shouting. “Look out!”
The voice made Bott’s jaw tighten. He had ordered that any further fake librarians be eliminated. Snatching up one of the remaining grenades, he readied it and launched it skyward.
Bassada applauded. “Good shot, Cap’m!”
It wasn’t, really, even allowing for the fact that grenades hardly required pinpoint accuracy. He had thrown it way too low, so it was below the egg when it burst. With a psssh-thitt, long silver streamers shot out of the grenade in all directions. These twisted and fell apart, sending out more, thinner, threads.
Bott nodded: a hold grenade was something he understood. And he understood at once that this wasn’t going to do any good, unless it was more advanced than any grenade he’d seen. A hold grenade took hold of its target and fastened it to whatever surface was closest. But all there was in that direction was the ceiling, and the egg was falling too fast to be carried all the way back up to the artificial sky.
Egg’s descent and net’s rise were similarly slowed as the egg slid along the filaments of the wbbing. The captive and captor parted ways, and each continued in the direction it had been going. All he’d done was break her fall.
“Puts me in mind o’ ‘at ride in Franticville.”
“Oh, do the greens have one of those as well? I spent hours on ours.”
“It was me set a new record.”
Bott’s mind was on the box the librarian carried. He ran his tongue over his teeth and upper lip. If that turned out to be a book, did that make or more, or less, likely to be an impostor? Surely once she was out of the maze, the Emperor would have lost no time in killing her, to keep her from getting to her ship./ Or had he been too sure of his wonderful ship’s torturous gantlet to bother. His eyes narrowed, searching for anything he hadn’t seen in the other Nubries.
“I never liked that woman. Far too thin.”
“Nothin’ ta grab onta. Yow!”
Bassada had been pinched severely enough to remind her that prisoners in disgrace were not allowed to offer comments. Louba turned.
“Want us ta catch her, Bottsy Cap’m?”
Before Bott could answer, the egg descended toward the area where the spiuts of flame were most active. “Yopsh!” cried the librarian, trying to keep her seat as the egg twisted. The box must be something very valuable: she was more intent on clinging to that than on her own safety.
She had only about six feet to drop when she fell free, landing on a safe platform between flames. The egg, righting itself, came to a gentler landing a few inches above another patch of plain step not far away. Bott took a step forward, thought about it, and stepped back again.
This Nubry rose shakily, placing her feet very carefully as she checked the box over for signs of damage. There was nothing left of her clothing now but one strip of cloth; this appeared to be a matter of no concern to her. She looked behind her at the egg and, nodding, turned to look uphill. Taking a deep breath, she stumbled upward in a rush, the box hugged to her chest. The egg followed behind her, coming up the stairs behind her. The crew closed ranks.
“Let’s go!” gasped the librarian. “They’re coming!”
Th Klamathans didn’t move. The librarian stopped at the top step, planting her feet shoulder width apart. Bott had to rise on tiptoe to study her over the wall formed by of his crew.
“Fergit it, kid,” said Bassada, stepping forward.
The librarian licked her lips and raised the box. “I’m not armed. But they’re coming after me. We need to leave if we’re going to save the books!”
That sounded kind of right. Bott stepped through the hole Bassada’s movement had left in the wall. He thought he spotted her prayerstone under that strip of cloth.
He took the box from her hands. She waited, legs trembling, eyes anxious. “What is this?”
“The controls for that.” She turned to point at the egg, And licked her lips again.
Her lips were cracked; her tongue was dry. There were raw patches on her wrists and ankles, and blisters most everywhere else. Bott told himself none of this proved anything.
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“The Emperor’s new toy: it makes copies of things. That’s why there were so many of me in the maze. Dassie said to take it with me.”
Bott tipped the box, considering the multicolored panels. Her knowledge of the computer’s nickname didn’t prove anything, either. “You saw all those doubles of you in the maze?”
Her eyes met his. “He made me watch! Please! Let’s go! You can kill me later if you have to!”
And this didn’t prove anything either. But she was probably correct about leaving soon, and there had to be a real Nubry somewhere. “Let’s go.” He gestured toward the ramp.
He started for the Dragonshelf, but as he reached the crew, a green hand came down on his shoulder. “Cap’m, even if she IS real, no reason that thing yer carryin’ ain’t a bomb.”
Bott shook his head. “They’ve had plenty of time to rig bombs on the ship itself. AND just like them to arrange a surprise for us just as we get clear of the slave ship.”
“He would never let us go,” Chlorda put in. “It could be time for when we all reached this level. You should have left us behind, Captain.”
“I never leave crew until I have to.” He thought he heard a snort from Nubry. He changed his mind: the egg was no doubt a security device which would block any exit from the Drover.
The librarian joined them. “That’s my ship. I can tell, He couldn’t make a copy of anything this big. Could he? He could not.”
Bott, who had already been aboard one copy of the Dragonshelf, couldn’t see what she saw to come to this conclusion. He also couldn’t see the egg. He turned to his left and found it waiting, just beyond his crew.
“Ya got ‘em controls, Cap’m,” Bassada said, jumping a little as Louba reminded her with another pinch to keep quiet.
Bott started toward the ramp. The egg followed. He looked from the controls to the contraption, considering the threats and possibilities.
“Everyone up the ramp,” he ordered. “I want….” “Greetings!” called a voice all five of them had hoped never to hear again
Diane was born at a different time and a different place. About the time she was photographed with a book, she was thinking how weird it was that she and her best friend were not allowed to drink from the same drinking fountain in the park, or use the same restroom. When she grew older and learned why there were two different sets of facilities, she continued to think it was weird. She had a way of making up her mind and sticking to her decision. At the age of four, she informed her parents that when they ate at a restaurant, she could order from the menu by herself, and did so. (Her parents were warned that letting her order a shrimp cocktail and a Shirley Temple were signs that she would grow up into an alcoholic. Didn’t happen.)
Her determination led her into a stint in the U.S. Army, a brief period on a kibbutz (remind me to tell you some time about her trip back from Israel), and on into a career in medical administration, resulting in a forty-year tenure at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. She had decided that 2020 would be her last year there, and this conviction was tried by a pandemic which led, at one point, to her finding herself and other people arriving for their shift being cheered by a group of Chicago fire and police representatives. (“What are they cheering?” she demanded, “That I showed up for work?”
Along with her determination (which she got from both parents, but especially her mother, who decided at Diane’s christening to surprise everyone by picking out a different middle name than the one agreed upon: hence Diane Kenna—after her father–instead of Diane Barbara) she inherited also her parents’ amiability and interest in people. Diane made friends wherever she went, stunning waitresses, doormen, and maintenance workers by remembering the names of their pets and children, and keeping up to date on their family trials and triumphs.
Diane enjoyed Chicago as the curses of 2020 started to fade, and had plenty of plans for 2025. In spring her doctor warned that her liver was acting up and, when pressed by her for the GOOD news, finally relented and said “It could be worse.” He turned out to be wrong about that. She grew thinner and weaker, but still went out on the weekends to greet her favorite restaurant staff (though she no longer ordered Shirley Temples.) After a slightly-delayed biopsy she insisted we go to lunch at a place where she had spotted a “1933-style Thanksgving plate”. Doormen and waiters rushed to help her: she had bruises all over her arms from blood tests, was still wearing her hospital bracelet, and had dropped to 90 pounds. She enjoyed lunch (mushroom marsala glazed turkey), and went home for a nap.
The next day, she fell while heading for bed. She crawled into bed and slept. On Wednesday, when I took up her the mail, she was sitting on the bathroom floor. She had sat down hard, found nothing useful to pull herself up on, and had sat there for three hours. I believe during that imterlude, she decided she was going to die. She refused to go to the hospital, even though she now had to be helped off her couch and around her apartment. She had decided she would go after she had had one last weekend. We didn’t do our regular grocery store trip, but she did send me out for a book of stamps for her favorite charity. We couldn’t make our restaurant date Saturday night, but I brought in our meals (she ate two bites of hers and a bite of the apple pie she requested when I went for the stamps.) Sunday, instead of our regular pizza, I went out for a sandwich for myself and a protein shake for her. She managed about three-fourths of that. Then we went through our ritual of answering a month’s worth of charity solicitations, and after THAT, she let me dial 911.
Through the ambulance ride, admission, and the IVs, she discussed things with her doctors and nurses, sneered in a genial way at my jokes, and asked me, at one point, where the word ‘ouch’ came from; I suggested that might make a blog one day. At 7 A.M., they transferred her to ICU, and I took my leave, telling her one last joke (“These three IV tubes walked into an arm, but it was all in vein”) and she responded with a firm “Goodbye”, exactly as she always did when I would tell a joke on my way out the door on a Saturday or Sunday night.
When next I saw her, her internal works were collapsing, and they had put in a breathing tube. We did not speak again, and I believe the only reason she lasted as long as she did was that she was determined to finish her weekend as much in our traditional way as possible. She lasted about a day and a half after that.
There were only about four people for whom I would pause the usual foolery of this blog to write an obituary. Now there are three.
Blogsy Babbles 