Monday, August 3, 2026

Butterfly of the Week: Ruby-Spotted Swallowtail

(This link-and-photo-loaded post may overload some browsers. If I receive reports of problems in the e-mail, I'll break it up for you.)

Arbitrarily I'm going to call an end to the genus Graphium, although we spent enough time there for scientists to propose reclassifying and renaming, meaning that there are valid Graphium species names we have yet to study. The article on Graphium wenlinga was frustrating to write and, no doubt, to read. In a few more years, as Asian scientists and naturalists publish more about the newly named species, it should be possible to write better articles about them.


Photo by Tania102, September, Veracruz. 


Same butterfly, showing his gorgeous underside.

The next genus in the Swallowtail group is Heraclides, "Sons of Heracles." Heracles was said to have been the strongest man in all Greek history. He was not described or portrayed as a giant, though he was usually drawn with massive muscles. The Heraclides aren't always the biggest Swallowtails in their range, but they run large; they include Florida's "Giant Swallowtail."


Photo by Danisoroldani, September, Ecuador. Wings are often held away from the body and can even have a cut-away look, like the wings of some sphingid moths.

The first butterfly on the list is Heraclides anchisiades, the Ruby-Spotted Swallowtail. It is found from the southern tier of the United States to Chile. A fair bit of what's been published about it is written in Brazilian Portuguese. In the US it lives only in the southern point of Texas, but strays have been found as far north as Kansas and along our southern border.


Photo by Jeffharding, November, Peru. Like some of the tropical Asian Swallowtails, Heraclides can move their fore and hind wings independently. 

Anchisiades means "son of Anchises." A few different characters in ancient literature were called Anchises. The best known character called Anchisiades was Aeneas, the Trojan warrior in the Iliad. Heraclides anchisiades is not very toxic to predators and looks very similar to Parides anchises, which is very toxic. Some scientists think Parides anchises, which moves slowly, also gains some benefit from resembling Heraclides anchisiades, which can lead birds a merry chase.



Basically a tropical butterfly, Heraclides anchisiades looks huge to North Americans, with wingspreads often over 4 inches and caterpillars often 3 inches long. It doesn't look much like the Giant Swallowtail but gets mistaken for it, anyway, because if it's not a swallowtail of giant size, what else could it be? It is also confused with India's "Mormon" swallowtails, some of whose color patterns it really does resemble, and with Hyalophora cecropia, which is just ridiculous. 

It is well represented on social media, with many photos and videos available free to admire online. Here are some pretty videos.









This one's not so pretty but it does document how peaceable the caterpillars are. Subjected to all sorts of threatening, harassing behavior, most don't fight or flee, but freeze. One seems to be the designated osmeterium-waver for the family.


This family seems to have two osmeterium-wavers but most of the caterpillars will let themselves be picked off their perch in a solid sheet:


Papers have been published describing the parts of each section of its body, and its caterpillars. Google didn't do well translating this article into English, and the photos didn't show properly, but those of The Nephews who have tried to stay in touch with their grandmother's friends from Brazil may enjoy reading it in Portuguese.


It is fairly common in the places it frequents; sometimes its size, gregarious habits, and taste for ornamental shrubs and citrus trees, can make it a nuisance. 

Male Heraclides are often observed pollinating, but they spend some time composting. They are sometimes found at puddles and occasionally, as shown above, lick sweat off human skin or clothes. 

In South America Heraclides anchisiades is sometimes called Rosa de Luto, the Mourning Rose. Among North Americans who like fanciful names it has been called the Ruby Black Phoenix, or Ruby-Spotted Cattle Heart.  (Like a good composter, Heraclides anchisiades may be found among cattle, fanning its wings, sometimes into a position like a Valentine heart. Or some might see a resemblance between the shape of some individual's spots and the shape of an actual beef heart. Whatever.)

Currently five subspecies are recognized. Each has been given a few other names.

H.anchisiades anchisiades may or may not have a white spot in the middle of the forewing. The size and shape of the reddish spot on the hind wing may vary. Their hind wings show short tails or none. Females tend to have slightly larger wings with slightly larger spots than males, though the size ranges of wings and spots overlap. They are found across the wide northern section of South America.


Photo by Joao_Pedro01, January, Brazil.

They are not nearly so abundantly documented as the subspecies capys and idaeus.

H.a. capys are less likely to have a white spot in the middle of the forewing, and are found further south, southern Brazil to Argentina. The forewing pattern may be better described as solid black toward the body, with lighter, sometimes translucent, grayish or brownish black toward the tips, and sometimes a border of paler spots between the two sections.  (Capys was the name of one of Aeneas' friends, and also of his grandfather.)


Photo from ButterfliesOfAmerica.com.


Photo by Belweyermanns, April, Brazil.


Photo by Andressaultravioleta, April, Brazil.


Photo by Negromonte_Ion, August, Brazil. Caterpillars have that humped back all Swallowtail caterpillars have, but may be more likely to stretch out their necks ahead of their humps and make the humps less conspicuous. Some Swallowtail caterpillars seem to curl down into their humps and present themselves to the world as cones. (And yes, if you could say to any Swallowtail caterpillar, "You're ugly!" would it say, "Thank you, I try," or "Thank You, Lord"? Caterpillars don't get any prizes for beauty.)

H.a. idaeus are found from the US to Colombia and Venezuela. They may have fewer, smaller, or no white spots on the forewings and more red spots on the hindwings. (In the Iliad, Idaeus was a messenger and mediator between the armies.)



Photo by Ag18, November, Mexico. The color is produced partly by the angle at which light hits the butterflies' wings; nevertheless, individuals can fade to brown and orange rather than black and red.


Photo by Harlin20, January, Honduras. Some photos of egg-laying females show black and pink colors, but in this case the female shows that tendency toward more faded, lower-contrast, browner coloring than the male. But it's only a tendency. She's not exactly hard to see.


Photo by Felipecastilla, October, Colombia. The female's abdominal section normally looks black, but shows rings of yellow underskin when she stretches to lay an egg. To predators, at this vulnerable moment she may look more like a wasp they don't want to eat.


Photo from ButterfliesOfAmerica.com. The second instar is yellowish green. Working efficiently as a family, they are munching up these leaves. They can be quite alarming, even threatening to a young or damaged tree. 


Photo by Luisguillermomx for INaturalist, July, Yucatan. Instinct tells them that collectively they can disguise themselves as a knothole. These are "maturer" caterpillars.


Photo by Juancruzado, May, Nuevo Leon. One caterpillar in this group has been provoked to show his osmeterium. 


Photo by That_Boy_Gustavo, July, Honduras. Parides anchises caterpillars have that hard-to-swallow-looking texture with lots of little bristles all over. Heraclides anchisiades are comparatively almost smooth, at least pebbly rather than branched, but there's a resemblance. Subspecies idaeus sometimes show a vestige of the girdle effect Parides, Battus, and Atrophaneura caterpillars share. 

H.a. lamasi are relatively little known. They are found from western Ecuador to northwestern Peru. (Lamas is the name of a place in Peru.)


Photo by Marleenc, April, Ecuador.'

Two perfect museum specimens and a few more live action shots of H.a. lamasi


H.a. philastrius are found on Trinidad island. The spot on the forewing may be yellow. (Philastrius was a fourth century author, the Bishop of Brescia; for a while he was remembered as a saint, but few remember him at all now.) INaturalist doesn't even have a page for them.


Museum specimen from ButterfliesOfAmerica. Scallops are consistently irregular, with the inner section of the hind wing being shorter so that the next section looks like a short "tail," as if these butterflies were trying to grow "tails" and not quite succeeding.

Adult butterflies are pollinators, especially attracted to flowers in the genera Hamelia, Igna, Ixora, Lantana, and Senecio


Photo by Andres Hernandez for smithsonian.com. The flower is Ixora chinensis.

Eggs resemble round yellow beads. This is one Swallowtail species that seems to know the benefit of safety in numbers. Although the caterpillars eat their own eggshells and shed skins, they don't eat those of other caterpillars. Female butterflies are thus free to lay up to seventy eggs at a time, all on one leaf, and as the caterpillars hatch out, they line up side by side, touching one another, and munch munch munch until they burst. Though good for the survival of the caterpillars, this is not always good for their host plants. They can be very efficient feeders. 

Generally they rest during the heat of the day on a trunk or root, usually of their host plant, and eat at night. Litters may mix.


Photo by Stevenw12339, January, Yucatan.

Clumps of full-sized caterpillars found on one tree have included over 100 individuals. Full-sized Heraclidd anchisiades caterpillars are the size of adult human fingers; these clumps look massive and can do as much damage as they look as if they would, though the trees recover. 

They're also quite good at the gross-out as survival strategy many large caterpillars use. There are subspecies variations; all tend to be yellowish and can manage to resemble both tiny snakes, and large unhealthy bird droppings, at the same time. Like all Swallowtail caterpillars, they have humped backs that conceal osmeteria, which in this species are  orange.

Individuals separate from the crowd to pupate; pupae are camouflaged as short thick broken twigs.


Photo by Pedrosantoss, August, Brazil.


Photo by Macelocosta, April, Brazil.

Although the caterpillars hatch and molt more or less in synchrony, with most of the litter maturing and pupating at the same time (sometimes a few are still side by side), they don't all emerge from the chrysalis at the same time. For no obvious reason some eclose in a few days, and others wait for months, one or two butterfly generations. Anyway, adults find mates, and the whole thing starts again...


Photo by Fabiobabi, February, Brazil. 

This blogger claims to have reared one living butterfly from an egg surgically removed from a dead female butterfly:


As the timing of these photos shows, these tropical butterflies are active continuously throughout the year. The life cycle takes a few months. There are local generational cycles, but there are always anchisiades at every stage of life, somewhere. The life cycle of tropical plants takes place at a similarly furious pace. Caterpillars may seem to be killing a plant when they are actually pruning it back to a rate of growth that allows it to survive. 

Still, a phalanx of caterpillars who instinctively form part if they can't form all of a knothole shape, when they're on a plant you are trying to cultivate, can be an alarming sight. They may be part of the Creator's plan for the way tropical rain forests work. They are not part of the chemical agriculturists' plan for the way a factory farm should work. They can't possibly be good for immediate crop yields.


Photo by Sckell, September, Brazil.

There is a Green strategy that actually benefits individual butterflies as well as farmers: stopping monocropping.

When it's easy for butterflies to overpopulate, never having to travel in search of the caterpillars' next meal or the butterflies' next host plant, they often do overpopulate. An unthinking appetite for dead skin keeps many large butterflies and moths from overpopulating--by producing inadvertent, and in some species it's not even always inadvertent, cannibalism. This control mechanism does not operate in Heraclides anchisiades. Siblings get some safety benefit from lining up side by side, so they stay in close-knit families, even merging with other families in heavily populated areas. 

So Nature rolls out a different control mechanism. Heraclides anchisiades are vulnerable to infestations by mites and fungi. There is, D. Lewis observed, abundant documentation of these parasites. This recent paper seems to have been first published online.


You can find individual butterflies that look "crusted" or "rusted" with layers of parasites covering large sections of their wings or bodies. From citrus farmers' point of view this may be a lovely sight to behold. Papers have been published about rearing the butterflies in laboratories to cultivate more virulent strains of parasites. 


Or just getting control of their population, thinning it down, in order to exploit the butterflies commercially. So many of the Asian Papilios, Parides, and Atrophaneuras that look similar are rare or endangered. Couldn't anchisiades wings be exported for use in making junk jewelry in Taiwan?


A Colombian community farm-reared the butterflies successfully for use in junk jewelry.


For the butterflies it means death, and probably discomfort that the butterflies can't do anything about. Individual butterflies are probably happier when their populations are sparse enough to keep parasitic infections down.

Humans can help by planting, instead of acres of solid citrus trees one after another, mixed orchards where trees planted next to each other don't host the same butterfly species. Keeping Heraclides populations sparse helps maintain a healthy distance among butterflies, reducing infections and also reducing the number of caterpillars feeding on any specific tree.

Sunday's Book Review: When God Doesn't Make Sense

Book Title: When God Doesn't Make Sense

Author: James Dobson

Author's web page: http://www.focusonthefamily.com/

Date: 1993

Publisher: Tyndale House

ISBN: 0-84323-8227-5

Length: 250 pages

Quote: "'Why would God permit this to happen to me?' is a question all believers--and many pagans--have struggled to answer."

When God Doesn't Make Sense is probably the least popular book the founder of "Focus on the Family" ever wrote. To some extent it deserves to be. For instance, the opposite of "believers" is "unbelievers," not "Pagans," who are, technically, subscribers to a different system of belief.

In the 1980s, Dave Hunt claimed that Christians had been "seduced" by the "positive thinking" movement. Not only did positive thinkers claim that people could simply tell ourselves how to feel (and cure diseases, including AIDS and cancer) by "choosing to be happy"; they also claimed that people needed to tell God how to smooth and straighten out our lives. Even if the focus of a positive thinker's prayer was trivial, positive thinkers preached that it would inevitably be granted if the positive thinker wished hard enough, or "visualized" in enough detail.

James Dobson wrote this book as a corrective. In his long active ministry, he said, he saw many situations in which prayers seemed to be miraculously answered. The book includes a color photo in which a partial rainbow appears oddly inverted in the sky, like a smile or like a cradle supporting the small airplane for which he hoped prayers were being answered with protection. On the other side of the page is a photo of Dobson in a group of four friends, taken shortly after all four friends died in a plane crash despite Dobson's prayers for their safety.

Dobson's reasoning about how God can allow good people to die young, while people who would never be missed live on and on, is biblical. People whose questions have to do with deaths and natural disasters may find some comfort in this book.

My objection to When God Doesn't Make Sense is that it barely touches on what I believe to be its more valuable theme. Most human suffering begins when humans violate a law of nature. The Bible teaches that we have been given the gift, and the burden, of consequentiality; things we do have consequences. We don't always know the consequences of an act. Marrying someone you love, in spite of the person's genetic physical quirks, and trying to raise a family ought to have better consequences than "hooking up" with strangers, but either choice can cause children to be born with horrible diseases. Not only does reality seem to ignore our prayers; often reality makes no moal sense whatsoever.

I wish Dobson had had more to say about this idea, and less in support of the positive thinkers' "crutch" argument that, if something wasn't going well, at least some good could be brought out of bad things if people would try hard enough.

I remember sitting in a Sunday School class where ignorant people were trying to convince themselves that everything was working for the good of two absent members of the class, sisters I'll call Rachel and Leah. Rachel was a beauty queen who had done well in college, found a good job, married well, and had two adorable babies. Leah had suffered damage to the skull and the brain during the birth process, had never gone to school, had never done a job, had never walked all the way across a room, could hardly speak, and had spasms of the facial muscles that continually distorted her face. Leah's parents had built her a wheelchair-accessible house of her own, with a large and luxurious room for entertaining friends, which she often used for church gatherings. "Maybe God needed for Leah to have cerebral palsy," a young man gushed, "so there'd be room in her house and life for our church!"

I've never gone back to that church; so far as I know Leah never did either. There may be times when it's easy to believe that God is a sadist who "needs" for people to suffer, but I've not observed any good results coming from anyone's attempt to love a Cosmic Sadist...or even to bond with "friends" who assume that able-bodied people never open their homes to the church.

I could wish, further, that Dobson had been more biblical about what we can sometimes do about suffering. We are never told to sit around, like Job's comforters, trying to defend God's honor by blaming the sufferers, or like the people James chastised, passively murmuring "Depart in peace, may you be warmed and fed [somewhere else]" to the homeless and hungry. We are specifically told that the first of these bad choices is a sin and the second is an exercise in futility.

When the Bible writers address people whose friends are suffering, they are less likely to offer any abstract "spiritual" thoughts than they are to use active verbs in the imperative mode. "Bear one another's burdens." "Divide your substance with" those in need. "Be a father to the fatherless, and in place of a husband to the widows." Or, in a modern paraphrase, "Give until it hurts."

In order for human suffering to become a means of grace, Christians need to rediscover what the Bible plainly tells us to do about human suffering. Not say--do. Those tempted to utter "positive thoughts" when they ought to be offering time, money, or labor to relieve suffering should go to someone who understands the Bible better than they do (click here to contact me) and request Duct Tape Therapy.

When God Doesn't Make Sense is recommended to those who may still be tempted by positive thinking. I think it's better read and absorbed before grief has caused a person to doubt his or her faith. The truth it contains may be too harsh for the sick, the recently bereaved, or the unjustly punished to read...if this book is handed to them by anyone who has not met their physical, material needs in humble silence first. Those who have seen Jesus living in their fellow believers will at least have something on which to base their faith when inappropriate verbiage threatens to blow away the remaining shreds of it.

There is a base for faith. Our prayers do change us. Other people's prayers, if sincere, change them. People who pray and believe are guided to help one another. There are even times, and some of us may live to see one of them, when the answers to prayers can be explained only as either supernatural, requiring direct intervention by God, or extraordinary coincidences. (Nor does this mean that God is not involved when what happens seems normal and natural.) But although there is a God, and there even used to be a Bishop Nicolas of Myra in whose memory people still give presents to children, there is not and never was a Santa Claus.

Friday, July 31, 2026

Web Log for 7.30.26

Music 

Pat Boone.


Politics 

Calvin's figured out how political "discourse" goes these days...


Meme-ified by Joe Jackson. 

Book Review: Mrs. Sharp's Traditions

Title: Mrs. Sharp's Traditions

Author: Sarah Ban Breathnach

Author's web page: http://simpleabundance.com/

Date: 2001

Publisher: Scribner / Simple Abundance

ISBN: 0-7432-1076-X

Length: 256 pages, mostly illustrated

Quote: "It gives me great pleasure to introduce my first book to the admirers of Simple Abundance. You see, the seeds of my simply abundant life (and yours!) were lovingly sown in Mrs. Sharp's Traditions, which was originally published in 1990."

Sarah Ban Breathnach is a multilayered, semi-fictional character in her own right. In an earlier, more ordinary life, she was married to Ed Sharp, who became mayor of Takoma Park, Maryland. Takoma Park is one of the suburban towns around Washington, D.C., each of which tended to attract different demographic groups. Takoma Park was "developed" in the 1890s; its first buildings, other than farmhouses, were a hospital, schools, and office buildings brought in to create the world headquarters of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. This global church was founded in New England, so the community that hosts its headquarters was, naturally, a mix of New England and total multicultural madness.

Later, cheap housing attracted students and artists as well as Adventists. The real Mrs. Sharp, not an Adventist, liked collecting antiques and adored presiding over the historical pageants, re-enactments, folk festivals, craft shows, and flea markets her husband's electorate staged almost every weekend. Much of this pageantry commemorated the 1890s, when a few of the older houses had actually existed and some of the antiques in their attics had been new.

Mrs. Sharp's first fictional alter ego was a hypothetical ancestor, Victorianna Sharp, who liked to reenact Victorian entertainments using the Victorian paraphernalia the real Mrs. Sharp collected. Paper dolls, May baskets, and magic lanterns naturally suggested daisy chains, flower "fashions," and terribly cute things made from pine cones. Mrs. Sharp found that children loved these pastimes. Parents loved them, too, because they're cheap and wholesome.

So the first edition of Mrs. Sharp's Traditions was published, and sold well, especially in the Washington Metropolitan Area where people knew Mrs. Sharp. It wasn't a bestseller, but it encouraged Mrs. Sharp to write other books, including Simple Abundance...which sold so well in the 1990s that Scribner named a whole division of its publishing operations for that book.

By the time Simple Abundance came out, the author was no longer married to Mr. Sharp, and chose to write under her Irish Festival name (pronounced more or less like "Bonn Brannock"). By 2001, the daughter with whom she'd shared all those Victorian games, crafts, and poems had grown up. Other people entered her life. She moved to Britain. As she summarized in this 2001 edition of Mrs. Sharp's Traditions, she hardly felt like the same person who had written the first edition. "While aficionados of the original volume begged me not to make any changes, I couldn't help but indulge in revising and redesigning it." Most of the same poems, recipes, and projects are in this book, but it looks completely different from the 1990 edition.

It's also "more sensitive" to single-parent families (less interest in Daddy's role in the fun and games).

Mrs. Sharp's traditions mostly come from the British Isles. This was not a problem in multiethnic Takoma Park, where neighbors re-created their own cultural traditions; the idea was to keep your own little display of ancestral art, music, cuisine, etc., as pure as possible when you were displaying it to the public, and also appreciate everyone else's. If your heritage isn't British or Irish you'll probably have a lot of traditions of your own to add to Mrs. Sharp's. She wouldn't mind. She would have been a nice guest at your special celebrations.

Some of Mrs. Sharp's traditions actually fell out of favor because they were historically linked to Celtic and Saxon Pagan traditions. How bad is that? You decide. The book is arranged in calendar order. Each month of Mrs. Sharp's year includes something that's completely secular, sensible, and accessible to everybody.

Mrs. Sharp's Traditions is warmly recommended to anyone looking for ideas for simple family fun and wholesome alcohol-free parties.

Bad Poetry: Books with Intriguing Titles

Prompted by Poets & Storytellers United. Fellow poets should know that Google is failing to post comments on Blogger/Blogspot blogs in a desperate bid to clutter my computer with even more cookies, and I won't back down. For now, that means I can't comment on your poems where they're posted. If you really want me to, I'll post comments and links to them here. 

Anyway, some rhymes:

One hundred years of solitude
had left Macondo weird and crude.
Witty, concise, and on the mark is
the prose of G. Garcia-Marquez.
The author always said that he
heard people mutter "Can it be?"
then wrote his book as if it were.
The book created quite a stir.
It's mostly gross-outs, as we've seen,
desde el principio hasta el fin,
yet memory will long retain
the grandfather who tried in vain
to bring with him a little loam
from the old graveyard back at home
so that he guarded bones, each night,
of his ancestors, as was right,
and so preserve some sense that he
was still where he'd been born to be.


Rainforest photo from Audley Travel, by way of Google.

Desde el principio hasta el fin = from the beginning to the end.

This is the beginning of a series. There'll be another book title poem on my Substack in an hour or two.

Thursday, July 30, 2026

Web Log for 7.29.26

Animals 

Anger-triggering video showing that mental illness is a male thing: For no apparent reason, young male walks up to a sea lion on the beach and kicks it--probably as hard as he can. 


When he's caught I hope somebody takes him to a nature preserve with bison, drops him three feet from a bison bull, and peels out. And somebody else records the live video.


May this be the only cyclonic pattern you see all year, Gentle Readers. Meme from Tom the Backwoods Traveller's Blogspot.

Comedy

Anthony Fauci treats his congressional hearing as comedy.

Senator Hawley: "What day is it?"

Fauci: "On the advice of counsel I respectfully decline to answer according to my rights under the Fifth Amendment." 

Even after being advised that, under a legal technicality, he has no right to refuse to answer. Biden's pardon is supposed to mean that he feels free to testify. 


The comments include a three-hour video, for those who (1) have nothing better to do and (2) want to know whether their US Senator vapped Fauci in an entertaining way. Fauci looks, not completely stoned, but as if he took some sort of prescription pharmaceutical to get through being raked over the coals by a committee of people all of whom are probably taller than he is.

If awarded a certain lucrative writing job for which I've applied, I'd be doing things like sitting through the three-hour video, speeded up, in order to advise paying subscribers at what point in the video their Senators speak. That thought may at least offer consolation if someone else gets the job.

Statement 


Shared by Sanaa Rizvi at dVerse. 

Book Review: Sock Craft

Title: Sock Craft

Author: Helen Roney Sattler

Date: 1972

Publisher: Lothrop Lee & Shepard

ISBN: 0-688-40004-3

Length: 150 pages including index

Illustrations: diagrams on almost every page

Quote: "This book is full of things you can make from socks."

More specifically, this book gives very clear, detailed instructions, with drawings, for using old socks to make eight different kinds of stuffed animals, six kinds of dolls, extra doll clothes, a hobby horse, a jack-in-the-box, a ball, a beanbag, a jumping rope, a bag, four kinds of puppets, headbands, caps, mittens, purses, dog toys, dog sweaters, pincushions, glasses cases, shoe bags, padded coathangers, doorstops, potholders, mats, and several kinds of decorations.

Different sizes, colors, and types of socks are recommended for the different projects. This book contains some suggestions for using up every discarded sock in the house, but the project you want to make may not be ideal for the socks you want to recycle.

Color photographs aren't provided. You know some of these projects will look like kindergarten projects, and some will make satisfactory gifts, but you have to rely on experience and intuition to decide which. Recycled bands cut from sock tops make satisfactory yarn for mats and potholders. Stuffed socks attached to broken broomsticks don't really look like horses, whatever you do. Some of the dolls and puppets will look like old socks, and some won't.

Sheer nylon stockings are recommended primarily for use as stuffing. Opaque nylon tights, which have gone in and out of fashion several times since 1972, would work for some projects; the author doesn't recommend them, probably because she wasn't sure that readers would have any to use up.

Sock Craft is recommended to anyone in search of cheap craft materials and instant-gratification recycling projects.

Meet the Blog Roll: Cantos y Oraciones

Did I just forget about the "Meet the Blog Roll" series? I did not! I did, however, come to a blog that I've followed for a long time, that was going through one of several transitions. 

CantosYOraciones.blogspot.com is published in Spanish. Google will translate it if you give it a chance.

So far as we know I have no Spanish ancestry. My parents used to like Southern California, though; they wished they spoke Spanish and wanted their children to learn Spanish. Allowing children to grow up bilingual was the cutting-edge trend of the moment. None of us really became bilingual, but we had friends and relatives who were. My brother, natural sister, and adoptive brother could tell someone who spoke only Spanish that my adoptive sister and I speak Spanish better than they do. Though we speak it slowly, with accents. 

I think trying to have multiple official languages is a mess and the US government shouldn't go there, but I also think all good North Americans should at least be able to read all three of our European-origin languages, and should at least try to learn one indigenous language. If you have no indigenous ancestors, learn what people who were indigenous to your part of the continent spoke. 

Is learning foreign languages in school a mere bourgeois affectation? By no means. You never know whom you may be able to help by knowing even one isolated word of someone else's language. Three languages seems to be the number people can remember how to speak fluently at one time--if they start using a fourth language, they start to forget one of the first three. You might think that French and Spanish are similar enough to English that the brain could lump them together and have room left over for Chinese or Xhosa, but no. Still, any language learning we can manage to do is good.

Languages that people don't use, they tend to lose. I try to take every opportunity to read anything in Spanish. 

Cantos y Oraciones has gone through many changes over the years. It has never been a personal blog; it seems to have been maintained by different people, each of whom posted a different collection of Christian songs, prayers, Bible passages, and devotional messages. Gaps between each blogger's term of service have sometimes gone on for months. Nevertheless, this Blogspot has consistently delivered a Christian message in Spanish for more than fifteen years.

It has qualified for Google Ads, which has been a contributing factor in my not trying to get Google Ads on this site. I think Google is too lenient in allowing ads to become intrusive. Google Ads are guaranteed not to do permanent harm to computers, but they can be annoying and leave cookies behind them. 

Nevertheless, I've appreciated this blog's modesty and focus on its Christian message for more than a decade now. 

This post has been a favorite with readers since it first appeared...


I don't think my posting a snarky song that fits the same tune helped promote the blog very much, but I was one of the first bloggers who linked to this post...

Well. The proper words that you might sing in church begin:

Bienaventurados son los de limpio corazon,
que no aman el tesoro de aqui;
de tranquilidad y paz gozan cada dia mas,
y del cielo el gozo tienen ya en si.
Oh, cantemos aleluya!
Si, de todo corazon;
por amor al Salvador, a su nombre dad loor,
y por siempre cantaremos de su amor.

The rest of the words are at the post linked above.

The snarky words are about a corrupt preacher:

"Bienaventurados son los de limpio corazon,
que no aman el tesoro de aqui."
Con ternura y con amor, dando gracias al Senor,
traen lo que tienen y me dan a mi.
Con amor y alegria
me dan todo que han de bien,
y por compartir la fe con los que conocen, me
traen lo que sus amigos han tambien!

Some once popular posts have gone missing from this blog, but some more favorite cantos that are still available include




The current posts at this blog seem to be some person's spiritual thoughts, not illuminated by Bible texts, but this is only one of Cantos y Oraciones' many phases. Taken as a whole this web site is a rich source of material for Christian reflection. 

Wednesday, July 29, 2026

Web Log for 7.28.26

Animals 

Well, I chortled. 


Flowers 

Daylilies! I think of them as orange, but gardeners have bred for lots of different colors. (It would be pleasant if The Grouch would share photos of his daylilies.)


Fruits 

Since Blogspot is blocking my comments in a pathetic bid for permission to clutter the computer with more cookies, will someone please tell Jeanie that I liked and linked this post.


Heat Wave 

The seventeen States that are facing "energy emergencies," as people crank up that air conditioning to cope with the terrible heat, are Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, New Mexico, both Dakotas, Oklahoma, Texas, Utah, and Wyoming. If you live in one of those States, here is what this web site wants you to do: Switch off and then unplug everything but the refrigerator, a fan for each room, lights, and one clock if you don't use battery-powered timepieces already. To keep cool, melt an ice cube on your head while in front of a fan. Make sure your pets' water dishes are cool. Find non-electric, non-electronic things to do. Hang out with real friends in the real world. Go to the library, the mall, the lake...save the air conditioning for elderly cardiac patients who really can't take the heat. If the heat wave sticks around until the first cold front of August, this web site will wait for you. You'll be surprised how many of your e-friends can wait till August. 


Hubris, the Cost of 

Do you ever wonder which browsers people use to visit your blog? Google provides that information free of charge. During the past week we had approximately 87,000 visits from people using Chrome, 6,000 from people using Firefox, and 18 visits from people using Microsoft Edge. And I'm sure that is because of, not in spite of, Microsoft's efforts to force people to use Edge and Bing. 

Years ago there was an agreement that one sister used Edge, one used Firefox, and I used Chrome on this computer. Then there were a few months when I tried moving my passwords and lists into Firefox since that sister wasn't here, using it. Then I moved back to Chrome. My original reason not to use Edge was simply that my passwords and lists are in Chrome; from what I could see the browsers seemed to work pretty much the same way, equally well, or badly, given Windows 10. Edge has a different, shorter, set of passwords in it, on this computer. 

But Microsoft, with its boyboss, couldn't let it rest. Microsoft rolled out a "products elevation program" to nag and harass people who chose to use programs that don't come from Microsoft. Microsoft thus made Edge wix. Now I'd have to be paid lavishly to use it for other people's purposes, even on a brand-new computer with nobody else's information stored anywhere. 

Music 

Tracy Chapman.


Ta'Kaiya Blaney. A true Millennial, she was thirteen when she sang the background music for this video in aid of a local nature park.


Pat & Sean Kelly.


Beach Boys. (Alana Mautone shared several of these links. What they have in common is a saxophone played by the late Plas Johnson, who may have been best known, or least obscure, for playing the "Pink Panther" theme. Her post today is a tribute to his work. If you follow the link-up at her Blogspot, you'll find several other music links that have been copied below...only the ones for which I found the time to click and listen, though.)



The Platters.


Boz Scaggs.


Plas Johnson on video of a different than usual rendition of the "Pink Panther" theme.


Simple Minds.


John Mayer.


Led Zeppelin.


Bob Dylan.


Boston.


John Hiatt.


Bananarama.


Billy Joel.




Readership 

GOOD MORNING, AMERICA! It's great to see the majority of our readership in the country that matters most to advertisers!

Bom dia, Brazilian readers.

Good morning, Singaporean readers.

Hello, Vietnamese readers. 

Bonjour, French readers.

Assalamu alaikum, Bangladeshi readers.

Guten Tag, German readers.

Namaste, Indian readers.

Good morning, British readers.

Buenos dias, Mexican readers.

Selamat pagi, Indonesian readers.

Dobryi den, Ukrainian readers.

Good morning, Canadian readers.

Buenos dias, Spanish readers.

Assalamu alaykum, Saudi readers.

Gunaydin, Turkish readers.

Dobroye utro, Russian readers.

Salaam alaikum, Pakistani readers.

Magandang umaga po, readers in the Philippines.

Now please virtually meet and greet the federal government agents who are virtually here too. Good morning, FBI readers.

Everybody is welcome. All human readers of good will are welcome. I've not even mentioned some of these countries lately and I thought that Russian game with the character called "Priscilla King" was over, but whatever. If you're here to read about life in these United States, to practice parallel reading using Google Translate, you're welcome here.

Any renascent bots from some of these countries where Google has had to shut down botswarms in the past, including the US, should sink in a pit. No bots wanted here. And the sudden attention to some older posts with outdated links suggests that some of these page-view numbers are coming from a botswarm, possibly a new one based in the US. This web site never has endorsed any foreign gambling sites and it never will.

Book Review: Ten Minutes from Normal

Title: Ten Minutes from Normal

Author: Karen Hughes

Date: 2004

Publisher: Viking Penguin

ISBN: 0-670-03305-7

Length: 335 pages

Quote: "The most important thing you do in life is choose your loves and order them very carefully. I reordered mine when I came home to Texas."

While campaigning with George W. Bush, Karen Hughes visited a town called Normal. Hearing a train conductor announce that they were "ten minutes from Normal" gave her the idea for a book about campaigning, or about advising her candidate after his election. Ten Minutes from Normal is both.

Some readers might have hoped that Mrs. Hughes would tell tales on W Bush, or wither him with faint praise, in the way the Clinton staff did. Those readers will be disappointed. Mrs. Hughes is a twentieth-century-conservative wife and mother whose business relationships with men are strictly professional, and a political campaign manager who knows better than to say anything indiscreet...so you might have known that the worst story she'd tell would be about how she told W to stop using a certain line in his speeches, and he finally saw the wisdom of her suggestion (page 87). The topic of her advice is usually communication; the content discussed in the stories she tells is very "safe."

Mrs. Hughes didn't "quit," and she wasn't fired, when she left Washington. She discovered the joys of telecommuting. She didn't want to be judged by her co-workers according to how well she lobbied for one specific office space. She was embarrassed by being told that, as an assistant to the president, she now ranked "roughly equivalent to...a three-star general," when "my [D]ad had retired after thirty-six years and three wars as a two-star general." She missed a favorite chain restaurant that hadn't (yet) invaded Washington. She wanted more time with her son. She didn't like having to start work early: "I sure like to stay in bed until 8:00 to 8:30. By that time, the [former] president has run three miles, walked two more, made coffee, read the papers and had his morning intelligence briefings." And she was "horrified" that her fifteen-year-old son thought of living in Washington as "like being away at boarding school": "It's hard to imagine being fifteen years old and having where your family lives or whether you are happy make any difference whatsoever to the president of the United States."

And of course the fact that the Hughes family were in Washington during years of official near-constant alarm and despondency had nothing to do with this...Mrs. Hughes describes the autumn of 2001 as a public event during which she mourned for other people's losses, noting poignantly that Barbara Olson had been just one year older than she was. Although both the anthrax mailer, later that year, and the snipers, a year later, turned out to be troubled individuals without political motivation, anyone familiar with the Arab concept of vengeance as a duty would have been afraid for W Bush and his staff.

Possibly the staff, themselves, genuinely repressed their fear from consciousness and hid it behind tactful displays of empathy for other people. Sometimes acting with courage requires a certain amount of sublimation of natural feelings.

Left-wing readers may think Ten Minutes from Normal airbrushes too much. Well, there was a war on; information about a war is supposed to be airbrushed during the duration of the war. When Mrs. Hughes describes how glad she was to be back in a "normal" home in Texas, as a wife and mother who still occasionally went to Washington to advise the President, as of 2004, I incline to believe her. Otherwise, there's a fine line between evading ugly facts and respecting the feelings of living people; I think what Mrs. Hughes does in this book is the latter.

This does not, of course, make for the most exciting memoir you've ever read. On the other hand, it offers high-level validation to those who've chosen to simplify their lifestyles, even and especially if we've chosen to do it without bashing Washington. Karen Hughes demonstrates that you don't have to be a failure, a quitter, a coward, a fanatic, excessively (or even noticeably) introverted, or otherwise inferior to eager-beaver yuppies in any way, to appreciate telecommuting.

On behalf of all those who may never be asked to advise the President of the United States, but who hate traffic, global warming, office politics, wasted time, and schlepping things that would be safer if stored in one place or another, Ten Minutes from Normal is warmly recommended.

My Life in Photos?

What a topic for Long & Short Reviewers to propose. Photos of living people do not belong on the Internet.

But wait--this might be fun. They didn't say "my life in photos of me." 

Typical house in the suburb of Los Angeles where I was born...


Photo from Zillow.

The kind of car my mother drove across the length and breadth of the continental States when I was a wee tot. It was called the Plymouth Fury and advertised as having "a hellcat of a motor." It behaved very well in the hands of a competent, responsible driver. It must have been her generation's counterpart to the Camaro.


Photo from Daniel Schmitt & Co., thanks to Google.

The model horses my brother and I used to play with. We had all five of these and hundreds of other, smaller models. These were Barbie-size, two inches to one foot; Our "herd" of model horses included "Matchbox" horses that were just one inch high. The company that sold these horses, all cast in one mold, would later develop a line of horses that stood up in different positions; we never had those. We did have the one with jointed legs.


Photo from Google.

The first books it was known that I actually read, as distinct from memorizing stories after they'd been read to me a hundred times. I must have been reading Little Golden Books before these, but when I moved from memorizing to reading I don't remember.


Photo from Amazon.

The first game I played with my brother involved me shouting "Bz-z-z-zip!" and him giggling, when he was six months old. Later these little plastic things were all his.


Photo from EBay. They lived in houses and forts like these, if anyone took all the pieces out of the box to build the house.


Photo from NYPathSociety. We both liked Legos, too, and Tinker Toys, but neither of us ever got into Erector or Meccano building sets. We branched out. My Barbie collection started with this.


Photo from Etsy. Mine had an amateurish haircut when I got her, but I had fun with her and her foot-high friends, anyway.

Beyond the nursery...Historical events happened. I have very little memory even of joyous historical events like this.


Photo from Forbes.

A teacher brought in a TV set on which we could watch this. I was bored.


I do remember this. We were renting a place that had television. I watched the speech.


My brother and I tried to listen to this debate. Both of us fell asleep in minutes.


I wore this little cotton dress to school almost every Thursday in grades three through six. We actually chanted, at summer camp,

"We are Girl Scouts green and jolly.
We don't swear; we just say "Golly."
We don't smoke, and we don't chew.
We don't go out with boys that do.
Do you think we don't have fun?
You're right. We don't."

Actually swearing, smoking, and dating boys who did weren't much temptation in the middle grades.


Photo from Etsy. Of course the insignia on the shoulder sash were individual souvenirs. I had a sash full of badges, though. The only one I now remember earning was the "Pets" badge, in which my mother documented that I fed a goldfish every day for a month.

Having one of these was mandatory though having a place to ride it was never guaranteed. The important thing was that although it had small wheels that didn't make good time, the seat and handlebars could be adjusted to fit any child, up to and including one tall enough to ride a full-sized bike. My brother's was a Schwinn Stingray, as shown. As I recall mine was a Schwinn Daisy, though I learned to ride on an off-brand model, first.


Photo from Google.

In the 1970s Girl Scout uniforms changed to give us more options. None of the options was very flattering but I think the one my mother picked for me, as modelled by the little nerd kneeling at the far left, was absolutely the most unflattering to me. Sturdy Polyester Pants That Wouldn't Tear or Show Dirt and Would Grow Up With the Child! (Static cling city and, since nobody wanted to bother with Scouts after grade seven, destined never to fit me.) And That Vest with Extra Room to Display Lots and Lots of Badges! Way to make a scrawny, though already top-heavy, body look fat! I wore it, anyway. 


What I did after school on the other days:


Photo by Hope Gardens.


Photo from Music Teacher. ("Don't fear the French Horn" indeed. No. There's nothing to fear. It just makes a horrible noise in the hands of a child who wanted to play the flute. Wear ear plugs. You'll survive.)

The dog who met us at the bus after school legally belonged to the neighbors, though she was my pet. The dog we had euthanized, after he ate a bantam, legally belonged to us, and was nobody's pet. Go figure. The dog who met us at the bus looked something like this.


Some teenagers hid porn under their beds. I hid this.


Photo from Etsy. I display this book with pride now. In junior high school I hid it under the bed. Dad hated Latin and said no child should have to study it. So we didn't have to study it any longer. So I wanted to study it. Even nice, quiet children who hardly ever make trouble are perverse and rebellious.

Bantams are chickens bred to grow to about half the size of the standard breed they resemble. There are lots of different breeds with different looks. All healthy chickens have bright red wattles, crests, and eyelids, except a few who have been bred for melanism. This melanistic specimen resembles my little buddy Loretta. Free-range chickens normally live up to five years; at the time Loretta's six and a half years was just half of the world's record life span for a chicken. By now it's been confirmed that some chickens have lived more than fifteen years. 


Photo by Grubbly Farms.

We knew two horses who looked something like this one. One had a white star on his forehead, so his name was Star. The other one was dark all over, so his name was Blackie. Like my current resident cat, they were animals of good will but visitors were warned that they weren't pets, so stand back. Usually they ignored me, or at most sniffed at me. My brother rode them. Bareback. It got him scolded with pride.


Photo from Picryl.

House on one of the streets where we had to occupy a rental property, some years, in winter. This is not the same house but they all looked as if they'd been designed by the same man. (This was not necessarily true. Some of my "Aunt Dotty's" houses had been designed and built by Aunt Dotty. They fitted in with the other houses on their streets.)


The college I attended has had so much renovation that Google photos of it don't look like anything I remember. The campus church was architecturally distinctive: Built to look like a new movie theatre instead of a church, it got around "wartime" building restrictions, It had individual seats that folded up as you stood up, rather than pews.


Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

I voted against Mondale.


Photo from Biography.com.

University: We spent the first week learning where things were, on the huge sprawling campus.


Photo from Adventist Universities.

Home with mononucleosis. Back to the city to work...wherever the little four-car Metrorail trains ran. 


Photo from Yelp. 

In the 1980s floppy disks were really floppy, and Google tends to feature the later, smaller designs. We did not yet think of computers as portable. If an office had its own computer network, the main computer had its own room and was typically between the sizes of a cooking range and a refrigerator. An individual terminal linked to such a computer looked like this (if you were lucky--often the screen lighted up in orange). It did not run different programs at the same time in different windows. In fact each computer's programs were limited strictly to what the employee was paid to do, and pity the fool who tried to get the office computer to do something more interesting.


Photo from Newretro.net.

The Awesome Eighties ended when the Gulf War began. President G.H.W. Bush advised all nonessential personnel to leave Washington and gave us a good example by going to Kennebunkport. I went to Pittsburgh. I saw things that still make me cry, but I loved the people I met in Pittsburgh.


Photo from Next Pittsburgh.

Berea College had been my first choice, if I haaad to go to college, when I was sixteen and knew some people who'd gone there. Years later, when they'd graduated and all the attractive men my age on college campuses were teachers, I had a chance to go to Berea. Loved the courses, the library, the computers. The people...I suppose there are cliques and rivalries everywhere. I did not like the social atmosphere at Berea and did not want to support it by staying another year. They really did proclaim that "God hath made of one blood all nations of men." So far as I could tell, that meant all equally hostile and competitive. Continued residency depended on grades. Grades were on a curve system. If you got an A someone else couldn't get that A, so look out behind you. More aggressive people claimed to love Berea. I didn't.
 

Photo from Wikipedia. I will say that Berea has a beautiful campus. 

Everyone who liked computers loved Berea's computer labs. Shiny new terminals with this wonderful new layout that looked almost like a printable page, right on the screen...Windows! We wrote programs to tutor freshmen and tested programs older students had written to tutor us.


Photo from Computer History Museum.

I could still earn a BS at a public university. Which one? Johnson City, Tennessee, and Wise, Virginia, were about equally long commutes. I was accepted by both in June. Each of my parents was in a different hospital in July. Long commutes didn't seem feasible. I never did finish that BS. I had a CGNA certificate, although I hated sitting with geriatric patients. I earned a CMT certificate so I could work with healthier people. In the 1990s the overnight express Greyhound bus was my friend. Board that bus, go to sleep, wake up on the other side of Virginia...


Photo from Yelp.

Married my business's best asset, found a little fixer-upper house in between his house in Clarksville and mine in Virginia...Google currently shows five different houses, and (inexplicably) a street carnival that couldn't fit into a residential neighborhood, at the address of our little house in Maryland. Of the five houses this one doesn't look like the one I remember, but is the only one that has a chance of being the same house after twenty years of redecorating.


It was interesting to find books with which I helped writers on Amazon. Some books of which I wrote the complete first draft can't be found on Amazon because, of course, they were revised and published under different titles. Some books on which I've worked weren't completed, or weren't published. These three, for which I did typing and copy editing, are still available and warmly recommended. They are their authors' own work. I might have suggested a phrase here and there, but although these are books on which I spent time they're not my books at all.




The brand known as Priscilla King was "born" into cyberspace in the summer of 2006. Since brands aren't born in the physical sense and Priscilla King was born a middle-aged aunt, "she" has been given various "birthdays" between 1961 and 1967. "She" was originally a collaboration among three people. "She" was born in, and named for, Kingsport, Tennessee.


In the public library's computer center. Photo from Yelp.

From this point on, youall know the story. The pictures are on this web site. Browse about.