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.
Sitting on the soft, brown sofa left her centimeters above the floor, lower than any exhibits in this, the deepest, dimmest, dustiest section of the Rhododendron’s museum. Leaning back, the Sherriff looked up at the pictures of her father, with a younger Taw Brust, in rooms of a bygone design. There were even pictures of herself and her sister, and one very small one of her mother and grandfather. Most of the exhibits, however, documented the career of her father—and her predecessor as Shariff—in the days before his disgrace and death.
Marah Parimat came here in search of serenity that was always elusive and sometimes, as today, illusive as well. Her own disgrace and death doubtless waited behind a sealed door that Taw Brust was having Sergeant Bruvitt cut open. The whole gantlet section of the Dragonshelf had inexplicably shut down. The situation’s inexplicability was continuing because every computer with access to the system was told “Awaiting Further Orders” whenever anyone tried to turn the power back on. Her entire tech staff could provide no suggestions for an override.
The Emperor’s Recreational Command Module was sealed completely, and his updates and images of the progress of the Game had cut off. The governor of Lodeon VII was reporting violent demonstrations in five major gaming centers. Incidents of violence between privileged citizens allowed to watch aboard the Drover and Imperial troops had had to be quashed. Brust had mounted a rescue effort, in case this turned out to be one of His Imperial Worship’s little jokes. (Indeed, betting on this possibility was all that was keeping the population of Lodeon VII under even partial control.) The Sheriff, meanwhile, had ordered the Drover evacuated until the source of the problem could be pinpointed.
She shifted in her seat, trying to enjoy her little sanctuary: this might be her last chance. The whole mess was no doubt due to some glitch in the Drover’s computer system: an inevitable occurrence on what was still the slave ship’s maiden voyage. The Drover was vast and complex: one little error in programming could have huge consequences. The Sheriff did not let this idea trick her into believing His Imperial Worship would not blame HER.
The little monitor to her left blinked on; the face of Taw Brust filled the screen. “First large section of the door has been removed. A second will need to be removed before we can attempt entry.”
“Very good. What do you see?”
“The heat of the metal is preventing a clear sight, even with scopes. The Imperial Chair appears to be empty. There are two large unidentified objects in a corner. They appear to be albino slugs from Astafa, but I cannot see any way these could have entered His Imperial Worship’s chamber.”
Her Grace nodded. “Proceed with caution. Keep me apprised.”
She turned her head slowly, memorizing each picture. There had been bright days. Her father had awarded her that silver medal after the Strength Competition; her mother had dropped a glass of water on hearing she had won that certificate for torure development.
She set her back against the sofa. At the very least, she would be awarded weeks of concentrated pet duty. She knew she could survive two consecutive shifts; they would likely assign her two shifts on duty and one dangling in a cell to rest. Or she might be named the personal plaything of one of Stenge’s particular champions, like Kenjegge, allowing her to suffer in a corner of the Imperial Sty for a year or more.
The monitor hissed a little when it clicked on. She did not glance at it. “Yes?”
“Hello? Hello? Is this thing working?”
The Sheriff did not immediately recognize the nearly noseless face on the screen. It was illuminated only by the glow of whatever monitor it was using, and faint light in the background.
The signal to the left of her screen indicated that the message was coming from somewhere in a maintenance conduit on the slave ship. She sat up. Someone in Tech might be reporting on the source of the shutdown.
“Where are you?” she demanded. “Tell me now, in case the signal is shut down.”
“I don’t know. Do I? I do not. Who are you? My screen isn’t showing anything; I had to patch in power from the copier.”
The Sheriff knew the face now: it was the rebel librarian, who had been removed from the Game and held in the Emperor’s New Toy. More than that, it was someone the Emperor would want to punish even more than the Sherriff and Captain of the Rhododendron.
Now what? She pressed buttons which would send a couple of swift, silent security guards to the most likely computer stayions. In the meantime, best to pretend concern for the caller.
“Are you all right? Did you get lost? Everyone was to have evacuated the Drover during the blackout, but it’s easy to get lost on a ship so large. Don’t try to maneuver in the darkness. We’ll send help.”
“It isn’t all dark. I have light from the machine.” The escapee gestured behind her, rising enough to show that she was nearly naked, and bore the marks of His Imperial Worship’s attention. “Maybe the power’s coming back on, or the copier picks up power from a long way away.”
“Three thousand meters, or so I read in the manual.” The number was actually two thousand. If the prisoner did escape from the tunnel, she would run out of power long before it was convenient.
“I’ve read about mechanisms like that. It was ten….” The blistered forehead wrinkled; the escapee winced, but was thinking of something else. The little chin came up. “You’re the Sherriff, aren’t you?”
Marah Parimat, piqued at having been discovered so quickly, said, “What makes you think that?”
“You can read.” Split lips pursed, causing another wince. “Do you…need any books?”
The Sheriff drew back. A quick plan to pretend to be part of a rebel literate force was discarded; the Emperor could use anything she said when he tried her for her failures. “I read only government approved manuals and directives! Anything else is unnecessary.”
Now the traitor recoiled. “Unnecessary! I…. Unnecessary!”
Marah Parimat could see the pictures on the wall; fingers that had been poised to strike other alarm buttons gripped the monitor. Her voice was steady, though, as she replied, “Reading is treason. My father, the Captain of the Rhododendron before me, picked up a confiscated issue of the Bee Inspector’s Journal and read through it. This was not on the forbidden list, but was added later, and for having read it, he was condemned to be pressed to death slowly under blocks of ice.”
The refugee’s eyes were immense. “Did you…have to watch?”
“I was allowed to help!”
The face on the screen shook a little, the way a prisoner might shake its head if Bundar lace mites were dropped on it. “Why do you work for someone who would order that? What harm did the Bee Inspector’s Journal ever do to the Emperor?”
The Sheriff, forgetting the prisoner could not see her on the monitor, shook a fist at the face. “When infractions are not dealt with, dangerous rebels like you attempt to take advantage of the law, pressing against any leniency to widen the avenue of escape. If it weren’t for you rebels, His Imperial Worship would not need such restrictive laws.”
“But he killed….”
“You people killed….”
The conversation broke off in a burst of static. Quite another face took over the screen. It was rather a red face, but the Sheriff recognized it at once. It took only a second longer to recognize that His Imperial Worship was sitting in the control room of his own ship.
“Very good, Btust,” he was saying. “You may go.”
The face now turned toward the Sherrif. “Your Imperial Worship! Are you well? Uninjured?”
“Thank you for your concern, Sheriff. I will reserve the tale of my sufferings until you have the leisure to enjoy it.” His tone was similar to that she expected to hear from the lips of Death. “In the meantime, you will concentrate all your efforts on retrieving a prisoner. She called me groteske.w”
The Sheriff nodded. “What does it mean?”
“I have no idea, but I don’t like it. See that she is not damaged. I will finish that job myself.”
“Yes, Your Worship.” Was there still a chance to let the full weight of Imperial displeasure fall on the fugitive librarian?
No: the Imperial eyes promised that. “:I shall expect her aboard the Panoply within the hour. And those two men who pulled me out of the Drover—Brust and the others.”
“Yes, Your Worship?”
“Kill them.” Imperial eyes narrowed. “No one sees me barebottomed and lives to tell about it.”
The Sheriff’s nod was slower this time. “It was…no doubt a great honor to them, Your Imperial Worship.”
The Emperor smiled sweetly, unconvincingly. “An honor which could not be improved upon, so we shall spare them years of anticlimax. In fact, kill them so painfully that by the time they die, they can remember nothing but pain. See to it.”
So before we had Interwebs to do this sort of thing more cheaply, publishers would release pocket-sized little volumes with brief essays or stories suitable for giving or carrying around in a pocket or purse. It was the equivalent of the 45 RPM single of our record days, as opposed to a LP, or full collection of stories equivalent. If all you wanted was that ONE song/article you liked, it was convenient (and less expensive.)
In the days when I used to redistribute people’s libraries, certain little hardcover booklets came in repeatedly. Some were health-related, and some were motivational tracts. But it was fiction, and frequently humor, which accounted for the perennials.
The convenience of the little booklets sometimes had side effects. Though the authors might have produced many, many more works that the one represented in the booklet, THOSE hardly ever appeared in donations. The success of their booklet eclipsed everything else the writer had done. Some of the all-time favorites in pocket reference literature include:
Ellis Parker Butler: Pigs Is Pigs: Someone ships a pair of guinea pigs to a recipient who is unable to claim them because the stationmaster at the railroad depot demands the fee charged for shipment of hogs. When the customer points out that these are GUINEA pigs, the diligent but uninformed official, Flannery, responds with the title of the poem: it doesn’t matter if the pigs are Guinea Pigs, French Pigs, or pigs of ANY nationality. Since the guinea pigs are male and female, and he is required to keep feeding the livestock and their offspring until claimed, the man grows to regret his stubbornness.
Butler produced over two dozen books and hundreds of short stories in his career. These may be all very well, but the little volume about comic Irishman Flannery’s stubborn belief went through dozens of printings. Several animated adaptations have been made, and there was even a silent movie version.
Langdon Smith, Evolution: A Fantasy: One lover expresses to another that their lives have been linked through eons of evolutionary time, beginning “When I was a tadpole and you were a fish”. Various stages in the history of their relationship are covered in the poem, concluding with a belief that whatever happens in THIS life, they will meet—and love–again.
Smith was best known as a reporter in the wild and woolly years of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. His poem really burst forth in those little volumes after his death at the age of 50. His wife, in a poignant postscript to the poem, committed suicide a few months later.
Chic Sale: The Specialist: A self-trained architect reflects on his career and about the principles involved in building the structures he is famous for: outhouses. He notes the considerations which go into the proper construction of a privy: the nearness of apple trees, the efficiencies in locating an outhouse for a shy woman, especially as opposed to a more courageous one, the dangers of asking the seats so comfortable people simply want to sit and read the catalogue which is provided for purposes other than reading.
Chic Sale was a comedian who often played rural old men (HE died at 51). “The Specialist” was originally a play, but he adapted it into a monologue to be published in book form primarily to safeguard his copyright. The reception of the book meant he had to spend months answering fan mail, and led to the use of his name as a euphemism for outdoor toilets just at a time when these were starting to disappear from the scene.
There are other booklets: I might have included Corey Ford’s How to Guess Your Age or Henry Van Dyke’s The Other Wise Man, or even Clement C. Moore’s A Visit From St. Nicholas. But there’s no point making this column longer than some of the books discussed in it.
It is hardy the job of this blog to critique architecture, but I a as ready and equipped to give advice on the matter as anybody else who dispenses information on the Interwebs. So today we will consider some of the principles in constructing a useful dachshund domicile, collie cottage and other dog houses as seen in the encyclopedia offered by old postcards.
What strikes us right away is how standard design was: a basic single-occupant building with four walls, arched door, and peaked roof. I don’t know about you, Gainesburger goulash, but I was expecting a little more variation at least once we got back into airedale architecture of a century or more ago. But no, there were no spaniel split-levels or poodle porches. (Okay, I’ll stop now.) This design was set at an early period, and everyone has followed suit, on postcards, anyhow.
A FEW old photographs show a flat roof or a square door, but most builders, like our cartoonists, took no such chances. (I kind of like the open attic shown in this postcard from 1914. Maybe Skipper there rented out the second story to pigeons.)
What variations occur involve plain decoration, The color of the house depended on what sort of wood or paint was available. Several designers also included the name of the occupant over the door.
We have discussed hereintofore the moon cut above the door in outhouses. I don’t know if our cartoonist felt this was a neat feature, or based his picture on a real doghouse cut down from a repurposed privy.
In general, cartoon doghouses have doors which open flush with ground level, unfortunately making things easier for squatters and other two-legged visitors.
But quite a few examples exist with a threshold which needed to be stepped over. This probably kept rain puddles from flowing in, or impeded snow that could drift inside during the winter.
A more common option was the tether. Unlike the little doorstep (which possibly also made the structure a little more stable), this depended almost entirely on the joke involved.
Which is also true when it comes to the length and composition of the tether. (Hey, do I get any points at all for NOT using a joke about him calling the landlady to extend his leash? No? I guess virtue really is its own reward.)
And that is all I can find to discuss in the architectural history of doghouses. Maybe next tine we can tour a few postcard chicken coops. I was thinking about discussing cartoon cathouses, but you would not believe the kinds of things that came up when I tried to search the Interwebs about THAT.
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