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Subdeacon Joe

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Posts posted by Subdeacon Joe

    The Song of the Onion

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    2 hours ago, Alpo said:

    I'm obIviously missing something here.

     

    There are subtitles. One language is Oriental of some sort. The other is French.

     

    But the title of this video says English subtitles.

     

    Or do (Eng CC) mean "Chinese" in YouTube language?

     

    :P

     

    Dang!  And here I thought you'd comment on the ballista.

    • Haha 1

    The Song of the Onion

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    The humble onion.  Caused the first recorded labor strike. I. myself, am quite fond of onions.  

    In butter. In oil. In bacon grease. When I'm stumped for what to make for dinner, I'll heat some oil/butter in a pan, or maybe chop a little bacon to render, and then add a chopped onion or two, maybe some garlic. Then look around for something else to go with or into it. Some nights it's just onions and bread.
     

     

    • Haha 1

    A Story

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    I know,  I  know, 

     

    "FAKE!"

    "NEVER HAPPENED!"

     

    Nothing is forcing you to read it. 

     

    Every Tuesday I found a boy’s crumpled homework in my trash. One night, he told me farmers were worthless—like me.

    I’ve lived seventy-two years on this patch of dirt. My name’s Ray. Folks around here call me “the old farmer with the broken barn,” and that’s fair enough. My wife’s gone, my kids grown, and most days it’s just me, the cows, and this stubborn land that refuses to quit.

    What people don’t know is that, for months, I’ve been finding someone else’s life tossed into my feed sacks and trash barrel. Crumpled notebooks. Torn math worksheets. English essays with red F’s bleeding across the page. At first I thought it was just wind carrying scraps from the school down the road. Then I noticed the same handwriting, always scrawled in anger:

    “I’m dumb.”

    “Nobody cares.”

    “School is useless.”

    It punched a hole in my chest every time. Because once upon a time, I was that kid. Teachers said my hands were good for milking cows, not holding pencils. My father said, “Brains don’t grow corn.” And I believed him, until it was too late.

    One night, I caught him. The boy. Standing by my shed under the security light, clutching another ripped page. His name was Tommy, the neighbor kid, twelve years old, freckles and too-big sneakers.

    “What are you doing with my trash?” I barked, trying not to scare him.

    He flinched but snapped back: “It’s not trash, it’s my homework. Dad says I’ll end up like you anyway—digging dirt, nothing to show for it.”

    I froze. Like me. Worthless. Dirt.

    I didn’t yell. I didn’t chase him off. I just let him run, his voice echoing long after he was gone.

    That night I sat at the table with an old seed bag beside me. Pulled out a Sharpie. Wrote on the back:

    “This seed looks useless. But give it sun, water, time—it feeds the world. Don’t throw yourself away.”

    I tucked the note and a handful of kernels into the barrel where he always left his papers. Felt foolish, like a farmer writing fairy tales to the night.

    Next day, it was gone.

    The following week, there was another sheet in the barrel. Math problems, half-wrong. At the bottom, written in shaky pencil: “How can a seed be smart?”

    I grinned. Wrote back: “Fractions are seeds too. Slice a pie into 4. Eat 1, that’s 1/4. Even a farmer knows that.”

    And so it began. A secret exchange. Him throwing broken pieces of himself into my trash. Me sending them back stitched with hope.

    He confessed he couldn’t spell “because.” I circled it and wrote: “You spelled it right this time. Keep going.”

    He said his dad called farmers dumb. I scribbled: “My dirt puts food on his table. Dumb don’t do that.”

    Week by week, his words softened. He started signing them: “Tommy.” And one day, tucked beside the page, was a candy wrapper folded into the shape of a star.

    But secrets don’t stay buried long in small towns.

    His father stormed over one Saturday, red-faced, fists like hammers. “You stay the hell out of my boy’s head! He don’t need farmer nonsense. School’s already enough of a joke without you filling him with lies.”

    I didn’t raise my voice. Just said: “Your boy’s not broken. He just needs someone to believe it.”

    That was enough. He spat at the dirt and left.

    It should’ve ended there. But the next week, another note showed up in the barrel. Shakier handwriting, but determined:

    “He says you’re wrong. But I think seeds are smart. Because they don’t give up, even in bad soil.”

    My throat burned. The boy was fighting for himself now.

    Months passed. Then, in spring, the school held a parent night. I wasn’t planning to go—farmers don’t belong in classrooms—but one of the teachers, Mrs. Carter, stopped by my gate.

    “You should come,” she said gently. “There’s something you’ll want to hear.”

    So I went. Sat in the back with dirt still under my nails, trying to disappear into the folding chair.

    They had the kids read essays aloud. When Tommy’s turn came, he walked to the front, clutching a paper. His voice shook but carried across the gym:

    “My hero is Farmer Ray. He taught me that seeds look small, but they feed the world. He taught me that being smart isn’t just about grades—it’s about not giving up. He taught me farmers aren’t dumb. They’re the reason we eat. When I grow up, I want to be both: a student, and a man who works the land.”

    The room went silent. His father stared at the floor. The teacher wiped her eyes. And me? I sat in the back, fists pressed to my knees, trying not to break apart.

    Afterward, Tommy slipped me a folded page. Inside was a drawing: a stalk of corn with roots tangled deep, and next to it a boy holding a book. Underneath, one line: “Thank you for seeing me.”

    I walked home under the stars, his words heavier than any sack of feed I’d ever carried.

    People think changing the world takes money, degrees, or power. Truth is, sometimes it takes nothing more than a stubborn farmer and a few scribbled notes in the trash.

    Tommy doesn’t know everything yet. Neither do I. But we both know this: seeds grow when someone bothers to plant them.

    And kids? They’re the most important crop we’ll ever tend.

    So before you dismiss a farmer, or a janitor, or anyone who works with their hands—remember: without us, the world starves. And before you dismiss a kid struggling with fractions—remember: they just need one person to believe.

    I believed. And now he believes.

    That’s how you grow a future. One seed. One boy. One note at a time.

    • Like 4
    • Thanks 5

    Player ejected for spitting

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    42 minutes ago, Rye Miles #13621 said:

    Football of all the sports is really becoming a thug hood game! Basketball too,  to a certain extent. It seems like Baseball and the other sports are more under control and the players seem to have a little more respect for the fans. Just MHO

     

    In the '80s and '90s the NBA seemed a haven for Crips and Bloods.  

    I wonder at times if I'm the only one that thinks about this?

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    5 hours ago, Alpo said:

    wonder how much money Bruce Wayne has got now?

     

    On the Batman TV show, back in 1964, there was much reference to "billionaire industrialist Bruce Wayne".

     

    If he was a billionaire in 1964 I wonder how much money he's supposed to have now.

     

    He was 37 in 1964, which would make him 98 now. So. Unless he is in that ~0.01% of men who live to that age, he's likely dead and so had no money.  :P

     

    :D

     

    54 years, 8 months, 6 days, 32 minutes and 20.3 seconds

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    A Marathon Record

     

    Quote

    Kanakuri had a difficult 18-day long trip to reach Stockholm for the 1912 Olympics. After travelling by ship and Trans-Siberian-Railway he had to rest for five days to be able to run the marathon. After 30 km of the Olympic marathon, he stopped at a house and asked the residents for a glass of water. The residents gave him water, and he lay down on a couch, fell asleep awakening the next morning. Ashamed of his actions, he at first refused to return to Japan. In 1967 he returned to Stockholm at the age of 76 and finished his marathon run. Therefore he has the "slowest" finishing time ever in an Olympic marathon with 54 years, 8 months, 6 days, 32 minutes and 20.3 seconds, a record surely not to be broken.

    Personal Best: Mar – 2-36:09 (1924).

     

    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shizo_Kanakuri

     

    Quote

    Return to Sweden

    A Swedish reporter discovered him working as a geography teacher in southern Japan[12] and in 1967, Sveriges Television offered Kanakuri the chance to complete his marathon.[15] He accepted. Immediately upon arriving in Sweden, he "jumped off the plane" and "jogged around the tarmac" to warm up his legs, and "showed great vigor" according to the Associated Press.[14] On March 20, 1967, he finished the marathon. His official time was 54 years 8 months 6 days 5 hours 32 minutes 20.3 seconds. He commented, "It was a long trip. Along the way, I got married, had six children and ten grandchildren."[16]

    While he was in Sweden, Kanakuri returned to the garden villa, where he had gulped orange juice. He met Bengt Petre, the son of his original hosts. While they drank more orange juice, Bengt Petre explained that one of the Petre family's treasured heirlooms was the scroll with Japanese writing that Kanakuri had given the family to thank them for their hospitality. Upon inspecting the scroll, Kanakuri sadly told the family, "It is just an old customs form."[15]

     

    • Thanks 1

    the coffee thread got me thinking about this

    in SASS Wire Saloon

    Posted

    1 hour ago, Jiminy Cricket said:

    I’ve only perked coffee over a campfire.  We did some testing and found that we liked it at 10 minutes in the mountains and 8:ish at sea level.  It’ll perk for as long as the water is boiling.

     

    Regards,

    Cricket

     

    We = the wife and I

     

    Slightly different boiling points give different results.  

     

    Do you find that it gets bitter very quickly if you go much past those times?

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