I wrote about Talk Like a Pirate Daylast year. It didn’t stop me from being excited about writing about it this year, though. And I was very excited to find something piratey that happened in history to perhaps give a little credibility to the date. I scrolled down today’s date on wikipedia, hoping to see a famous crash or a victorious plunder that I could share, along with a yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
I got nothin’. The destruction of Jamestown, the passing of the first budget by the United States Congress, the publishing of George Washington’s Farewell Address in major newspapers… but nothing piratey. (Jamestown was burned because of Bacon’s Rebellion, and I can find no piracy involved; I’m not sure about the first budget, though, but that would only be political piracy, as I don’t believe any of the founding fathers had peg legs or wore eye patches or brought their pet parrot with them to discuss the running of the country.)
Sadly, nothing of note happened of a piratey nature on this day in history, except in 1995, when the holiday was first observed. Maybe that’s a good reason to celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day on September 19: there’s nothing more important, pirate-wise, to upstage it.
I trotted into the living room. She was on the phone again. We had finished playing and she’d made sure I was curled up for a nap. She didn’t hear me come in, she was intent on her conversation.
“No, I couldn’t give him up,” she was saying. “He’s too sweet!”
A moment passed and she seemed persuaded by the person on the other end. “Well,” she said. “He’s far too young for that. He needs to grow, gain some weight first.”
After another pause, she continued. “That does sound delicious, but there’s no way I could do it myself. I suppose you could…”
I sat down, waiting to hear the the conclusion of the conversation. “Fine. The luau this spring sounds like a perfect time. Of course,” she laughed. “I’ll bring the pineapple!”
She wrapped up the conversation and set down the phone, and when she got up to go to the other room, she spotted me sitting there in the doorway. “Oh! Were you listening in?” she gasped, looking guilty. I merely gave her a look that showed her my feelings of betrayal in one I had trusted so deeply. She stepped over and patted me on the head. “Let’s go have some nice lunch!”
My ears flopped as I followed her into the kitchen, but with less of a happy bounce in my step; for every pig knows the difference between when the word “lunch” means eating or being eaten.
It was from that moment that I began to plan my escape.
During the summer I don’t use the lights in my house until late in the evening: 7, 8 pm sometimes. I can get away with leaving the blinds down, there’s no need to open them when there’s plenty of light to see by just filtering through them (also, by not letting in that light, it keeps the house cooler).
This morning my husband turned on the light above the sink in the kitchen because there wasn’t enough light outside to let him see the coffee he was making. I had to turn the brightness on the laptop screen down to the lowest setting after I opened the curtains to let in as much light from outside as possible, because the screen was still too bright.
For some people it’s back to school, leaves changing color and falling, or cooler weather. I finished school, and my kids haven’t started yet. The trees outside my house have green leaves fluttering in the wind. And I don’t trust the forecast when it says it’s going to be 90 degrees tomorrow.
These are three windows I always have up in my browser: facebook, gmail, & Google Drive. Google Drive has no need for notifications, but if someone “likes” a status on my facebook wall or sends me a message, a little number appears on the tab to let me know how many pressing pieces of information are waiting for me there. And gmail always lets me know how many unopened emails are sitting quietly, hoping I’ll read them soon.
The problem is that right now my husband and I are sharing our only laptop and existing off of internet on our smart phones when the other one is using the computer. We both get email on our phones, so my gmail account is pretty much always the one that’s signed in on the laptop, since I do my work on it. It’s a big day for me when I have more than seven emails to read; I’m not signed up for a gajilliondy-five mailing lists, and my spam folder is in fine working order.
So I did a double take when I glanced at the top of my computer screen today, where I saw that I had over a thousand emails.
It only took me a second to realize that it was probably that my husband had left his email account signed in, but that “HOW HAVE I SUDDENLY BECOME FAMOUS” second was one I can enjoy looking back at to laugh.
Maybe someday I’ll have trouble keeping on top of my email, but now I think I’ll enjoy being able to read and respond to every one. And I’ll enjoy still being surprised at how many emails my husband doesn’t read.
One of the greatest things about my job as a photo booth operator is that my boss lets me make props for it. I’ve made signs, mustaches, a monocle, lips, and have even brought along a couple of things I’ve crocheted.
Yesterday, I took the booth to a nearby country club to a dinner for a charity golf tournament: the Jason Peter all fore Git -R- Done Foundation!
I spent several hours of the morning painstakingly drawing, cutting out, and taping together this sign especially for it.
It was enjoyed by quite a few people during the event, including one guy who shouted, “Git -R- Done!” the whole time his pictures were being taken.
Since there was a lot to do and a ton or people to talk to, Larry himself did not have time for the photo booth. I wasn’t offended, but to make up for it (and to make up for the fact that I got to meet him and my sister-in-law Gwen, who is a fan, didn’t), I got him to sign it.
I love making props for my job, and enjoy it even more when I can see that people like them. This time I get extra fun: giving a gift!
Britain was right in the middle of fighting Napoleon in 1812. They needed sailors to fight the maritime side of the war, and any British sailors hoping to desert tended to head to the same place: a neutral country with a large navy which held plenty of work for them. The United States was perfect.
At the time, the United States was happily trading with both Britain and France, and got kind of annoyed when the British boarded their ships and pressed American sailors into service (allegedly, sometimes it was hard to tell which sailors had official papers to prove they were American citizens and which of them were forged), and they were even more offended when Britain tried to mandate America’s trading. “Hey, you’re supposed to be neutral, quit trading with our enemies,” said Britain, and the United States was like, “Um, what?”
There was also the matter of American expansionism into the “west,” (which we now call Ohio and nearby states), which the native peoples objected to. The British, who didn’t mind there being a buffer of native tribes between American settlements and their own settlements in Canada, helped by providing arms. Those in the United States saw this as a really good reason that the British shouldn’t have holdings in Canada anymore.
It wasn’t like President Madison could email the British Prime Minister or give him a call. (Which was too bad, since the Prime Minister was assassinated shortly before and the man who took his place was determined to be friendlier to the United States.) It took around two months for news to reach the other side of the Atlantic in those days. So when the United States declared war in June of 1812, the British ambassador and consul escorted the declaration to the nearest British territory in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I’m sure the reaction of those in power in Britain on receiving the news was something like, “What, seriously? Ugh, come on, we’ve got a lot going on, here.”
But they wanted a war, so a war they got. It wasn’t glorious and victorious for the United States. I think that’s why we like to forget it. After burning Washington DC in 1814 (in which the White House was famously torched), British forces turned to the nearby city of Baltimore. A force of American soldiers marched out to meet them, and the battle they fought bought the city enough time to prepare for the naval onslaught during which Fort McHenry refused to surrender and the words of our national anthem were penned.
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air gave proof, through the night that our flag was still there.
By April of 1814, Napoleon was finished, and the British no longer needed as many sailors to man ships of war. Britain and France decided to be best friends after the government changed hands in France, so there wasn’t need for any trade to be restricted. And as a result of naval action in the Great Lakes, many of the raids conducted against American settlers by natives who had been encroached upon had stopped. There wasn’t any reason for a war anymore.
Nobody told the men fighting in the United States. The Treaty of Ghent was signed on Christmas Eve in 1814, but the Battle of New Orleans, the final major battle of the War of 1812, was fought on January 8, and skirmishes continued after that until the news was able to reach Louisiana in the middle of February.
The War of 1812 was messy. It was fought on land and at sea, in the north, south, and in the west, and it didn’t really have a winner. Each side fought valiantly, and victories were won, but the real losers were the native groups and First Nations tribes who, despite their struggles, lost their land in the end anyway.
Since there was so much going on in Europe, it’s easy for lots of people to forget what was happening in the New World during this time. Those who have heard only a little about it are sometimes confused about what happened and find that it’s easier to ignore it. Although there are some who remember every battle and get annoyed when other people don’t remember their history.
This comic, and other awesome things, are property of the amazing Canadian artist Kate Beaton, and can be found at harkavagrant.com
Happy Defender’s Day, Maryland! Let’s never forget (or at least try to remember) the War of 1812.
My friends enjoy the outdoors; I like to stay inside. They like to hunt and fish; I’d rather read or play cards. When it’s thunder storming, they’d rather be in a tent by the lake; I’d like to be safe in an actual building.
They used to badger me and try as hard as they could to guilt me into coming with them. I always refused, until about six months ago, when one of them whined, “Come onnn. We always go bowling with you!” and I relented.
It was just fishing, they said. No hunting or camping, they promised. Both of them were really excited about catching lots of fish. They kept talking about “beginner's luck” and how my lack of experience would translate to exponential luck and that luck would rub off on them and their endeavors would be more successful because I didn’t know what I was doing.
First, they got me up at an ungodly hour. I refused to hear what they were saying until one of them gave me a cup of coffee. Then, I understood that for some reason my wife had betrayed me and let them in. I wanted to take a shower but they insisted it didn’t matter, and that we were wasting time just by allowing me to wake up before they dragged me out of bed. I fell asleep on the way to the lake, and they denied me more coffee until we were out on the water. This didn’t help my productivity, but it did make me look forward to fishing for the first time since I’d agreed to it.
Finally, we were out in the water. I was given a crash course on casting and reeling, after which I was awarded with coffee. If they’d done it the other way around, I probably would have retained more. But I sat in silence with them, listening to them speak whenever they got a bite, or whenever something bit them (the mosquitoes were terrible).
Around ten in the morning, they passed around some sandwiches. Just as I was about to open mine up, the boat tilted in the direction of my rod. They both freaked out, saying that I’d hooked something big and that my beginner’s luck was finally kicking in.
“About time!” one said, to which the other replied,
“Don’t! You’ll jinx it!”
Apparently fishing superstitions are very intricate.
We tugged. And pulled. It tugged and pulled back.
“Just cut the line,” one of them said, frustrated. “It’s caught on something.”
“No!” the other insisted, “what if it’s something really big?”
So we tugged. And pulled.
Finally they figured out that what was on the other end must have been the lake’s legendary fish: Ole Herbert. The only other time anyone had come close to catching him, they’d towed him most of the way back to shore before he escaped. Immediately the decision was made to haul the beast to the beach as fast as we could. One started up the motor and the other helped me hold the line. As we headed back, I came to the realization that there was no way that this could be an overgrown catfish.
All three of us got out of the boat and hauled what I’d caught up onto the sand.
“That’s one hell of a first catch,” one said.
“I didn’t know the lake was that deep,” said the other.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Hang on,” said one, pulling out his phone. “I think I know a taxidermist who makes house calls.”
