Quotes o’ the Day

There is nothing more sublime that is so readily accessible as the natural world.

— Leslie T. Sharpe


All the people like us are We, and everyone else is They.

— Rudyard Kipling


We do not remember days, we remember moments.

— Cesare Pavese


I do not pretend to understand the moral universe; the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways; I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see, I am sure it bends towards justice.

— Theodore Parker

Sharpe LT


Parker T



The Number Seven

The number seven has juice like no other number. For thousands of years, civilizations have empowered seven with a special mystique and significance. Just look around…

— The week has seven days.

— The Earth has seven continents. (Not really, but it sounds good.)


— God created the world and rested on the seventh day.

— The Koran and the Talmud both speak of seven heavens.

— Hinduism describes the existence of seven “upper worlds” out of 14.

— Hell, according to the Jain religion of ancient India, consists of seven levels.

— The Japanese are protected by the Seven Gods of Fortune.

— Christianity teaches of the Seven Deadly Sins. Dante listed them as avarice, envy, gluttony, lust, pride, sloth, and wrath.

— Catholicism tells of the Seven Heavenly Virtues — justice, fortitude, prudence, temperance, faith, hope, and charity.

— The Japanese code of Bushido sets down the Seven Virtues of a Samurai warrior.


— In some parts of the world, the seventh son of a seventh son is said to have supernatural powers.

— Spouses, beware of the seven-year itch.

Want more?

— We define a rainbow as having seven colors (red orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet).

— The earth has seven major oceans — aka the “Seven Seas” — the North Atlantic, South Atlantic, North Pacific, South Pacific, Indian, Arctic, and Antarctic.

— We celebrate not the five, not the 10, but the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World — specifically, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the Colossus of Rhodes, the Lighthouse of Alexandria, and the statue of Zeus at Olympia.

— Shakespeare described the Seven Ages of Man (helpless infant, whining schoolboy, emotional lover, devoted soldier, wise judge, on the decline, and incapacitated).

— The seven visible stars in the constellation Taurus, known as the Seven Sisters, are named for the seven daughters of Atlas from Greek mythology (Alcyone, Asterope, Celaeno, Electra, Maia, Merope, and Taygete).

— In the world of gambling, seven is the big kahuna. Score triple sevens on a slot machine and reap the big payout.

— Dice are six-sided, with opposing sides of one and six, two and five, and three and four. In each case, a total of seven.

Seven’s legacy dates back to the dawn of civilization, and it remains on a roll today.

— In Rogers & Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music,” the Von Trapp family had seven children: Brigitta, Friedrich, Gretyl, Kurt, Liesel, Louisa, and Marta.


The 1954 movie “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers could have been about any number of brothers and brides, but seven it was.

Also in 1954, the acclaimed Japanese film “Shichinin No Samurai” (Seven Samurai) celebrated the gallant warriors Kambei, Gorōbei, Shichirōji, Kyūzō, Heihachi, Katsushirō, and Kikuchiyo.

— In 1960, the same story became an American western, “The Magnificent Seven.” This time, the warriors were gunslingers Chris, Vin, Bernardo, Britt, Harry, Lee, and Chico.

— The Brothers Grimm published the fairy tale “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” in 1812. The Disney cartoon version in 1937 popularized them as Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, and Sneezy.

— Between 1940 and 1962, Bing Crosby and Bob Hope made seven “Road to” movies. The seven destinations: Singapore, Zanzibar, Morocco, Utopia, Rio, Bali, and Hong Kong.

So, what’s going on with the number seven? Why the attraction to that number above others? The experts have some thoughts about that.

First, of course, we are conditioned to see seven as special because of its long history of being linked to the mystical, the spiritual, and the superstitious. No surprise there.

Second, seven is unique in actual fact. It’s a prime number. It can’t be divided neatly into smaller parts. It has two syllables, whereas all the other single-digit numbers have one. And it sounds good. “Six Brides for Six Brothers?” The Eight Dwarfs? Puh-leeze.

Third, there is scientific evidence that we are naturally attracted to the number seven because of the way our brains function.

In 1956, psychologist George Miller argued that our short-term memories seem to function best when handling between five and nine — ideally, seven — chunks of information.

That theory was bolstered in 2008 by a study of neurons in the hippocampus, the brain’s memory specialist. The study found that the neurons appear to function best when their dendrites have seven branches.

(I looked it up. Dendrites are spiny little extensions on nerve cells. The job of the dendrites is to transmit information via chemical synapse. Seven spines per dendrite is thought to be the most optimal for learning and memory.)

So, our brains seem to have a natural affinity for the number seven. The science is, of course, subject to change when new information surfaces, as it assuredly will.

But for the moment, it appears that we gravitate to the number seven because it feels right. And it feels right because it’s ingrained in us — hard-wired in our brains down to the very synapses.

Which probably explains why your lucky number is seven.



Barbaric Idealism

When he was growing up in Philadelphia, Frank R. Stockton (1834-1902) aspired to be a writer. His father, a Methodist minister, strongly objected. Writing? A frivolous pursuit.

So, young Frank became an engraver in the printing business. He pursued that profession until his father died in 1860.

Immediately, Frank began a writing career that lasted for 40 years and made him a nationally-known author, primarily of stories for children. Stockton often used humor to ridicule negative behavior — greed, violence, etc. — as a lesson to the kiddies.

The Lady, or the Tiger?” is his most famous story. The title has become an allegory for a problem without a solution; an impenetrable ambiguity.


The Lady, or the Tiger?

By Frank Stockton
Published in The Century Magazine, 1882

In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric.

He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing; and, when he and himself agreed upon any thing, the thing was done.

When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight, and crush down uneven places.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people.

This vast amphitheatre, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished. Or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of tile accused person would be decided in the king’s arena, — a structure which well deserved its name; for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.

When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial, to walk directly to these doors and open one of them.

He could open either door he pleased: he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punishment for his guilt.

The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.

But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection: the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward.

The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers’ and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an measure, advanced to where the pair stood side by side; and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home.

This was the king’s semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady: he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married.

On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty; and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments or the king’s arena.

The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan; for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands?

This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom; and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong.

This love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king’s arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion; and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial.

Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of a king. In after-years such things became commonplace enough; but then they were, in no slight degree, novel and startling.

The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that he, young man, might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny.

Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of; and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.

The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena; and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, — those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity.

All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king: but he did not think at all of that royal personage; his eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it is probable that lady would not have been there; but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested.

From the moment that the decree had gone forth, that her lover should decide his fate in the king’s arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done, — she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady.

Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them; but gold, and the power of a woman’s will, had brought the secret to the princess.

And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of tile fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her.

Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that?

The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door.

When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady.

He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed.

Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: “Which?” It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a Rash; it must be answered in another.

Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.

He turned, and, with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it.

Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?

The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way.

Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?

How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands, as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady!

How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eve of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned!

Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!

Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door, — the lady, or the tiger?

Lady or the Tiger

The Questions…

1. Candy corn was first marketed in the 1880s under a different name. What was it?

2. How big and how heavy, exactly, are cumulus clouds (the fluffy white ones you see on a pretty day)?

3. The first food eaten in space was squeezed from an aluminum tube by astronaut John Glenn aboard Friendship 7 in February 1962. It was an experiment to see if humans could swallow and digest food in a weightless environment. What was in the tube?

4. A blacksmith is a craftsman with a general knowledge of forging metal, usually iron and steel. How did the term blacksmith originate?

5. What is sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia?

The Answers…

1. “Chicken Feed.” The logo was a rooster, the tag line “Something worth crowing for.”

2. On average, cumulus clouds are roughly half a mile in width, length, and height. The water in the cloud weighs about one million pounds. Or 500 tons. Or 100 elephants.

3. Applesauce.

4. A “smith” is a craftsman skilled in a particular specialty — gunsmith, locksmith, coppersmith — and in the old days, iron was known as “black metal.”

5. That’s the scientific name for an ice-cream headache, aka brain freeze. The literal meaning of the term is pain in the ganglia (nerve cell clusters) in your palate.

Candy corn

Ice cream headache


Insanity Writ Large

Well, we’ve had another school massacre, this time in Florida, and the gun reform issue is back in the news.

The high school protesters have been impressively sincere and articulate, but other than that, not much about this round of the debate is fresh or notable. Same song, 30th verse.

My opinion on this subject doesn’t count for much, but I’ll express it anyway.

Clearly, the US needs to put more restrictions on guns and gun ownership. We’re killing each other at record rates. Nothing gets done about it because the conservatives, malignant as always, block every reform effort, however modest. Because freedom.

For me, this is easy. We can reduce the numbers of gun deaths quickly and significantly. Other countries have done it.

I favor vigorous reforms to the gun laws for two reasons. First, it’s the right and rational thing to do.

And second, I simply don’t like guns. I have no use for them, don’t want to be around them. To my mind, firearms have no redeeming qualities except as necessary tools for police and soldiers in their official capacities. This isn’t the frontier anymore.

Further, I have no sympathy for gun lovers — be they hunters, collectors, or people trying to compensate for a personal shortcoming — because guns are too dangerous to be so easily obtained, brandished, and used.

My common sense tells me to avoid things that imperil me and others when I have no legitimate need for those things.

As a civilian in America in 2018, I have no reason to possess dynamite, nitro, TNT, nerve gas, cyanide, Samurai swords, or firearms. Especially when the restrictions on possessing and using them are so feeble.

It should be an easy call. My access to dangerous stuff should be either denied or severely restricted to protect me and the people around me.

Nationally, we regulate motor vehicles quite effectively, to the detriment of virtually no one. Couldn’t we manage firearms in a similar way?

At this point, gun people trot out the Second Amendment.

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Dreadful syntax, archaic (227 years old), and vague enough to allow a range of interpretations.

One interpretation is that the Second Amendment was ratified so we can protect ourselves in case of a coup or an outbreak of sinister government trickery.

Another take: it was added to secure the Virginia vote in the ratification process, because well-regulated militias kept the slaves under control.

(The founders were accustomed to having, and comfortable with, separate state militias. There was no such thing as a national army until after the US was created. Actually, many of the founders opposed forming a standing national army.)

To my mind, the Second Amendment refers to arming police and soldiers, not to allowing every bonehead with a manhood problem to amass an arsenal.

Well, that’s a bit unfair. Not all boneheads have a manhood problem.

The Supreme Court, I realize, has ruled that the Second Amendment allows civilians to own guns. But the court also made clear that limits and regulations on firearms are acceptable.

The fact is, most Americans live in a bubble regarding this issue. People tend to pay attention to what goes on in the US, but they don’t understand, and usually don’t care, what happens in the rest of the world.

That’s a mistake. Understanding what happens elsewhere is important. Facts can contradict predetermined beliefs, and reality can be unsettling and annoying, but we need the context.

Let me lay some statistics on you.


In 2016, the American Journal of Medicine looked at total gun deaths in the world’s 23 highest-income nations during 2010. It found that 82 percent of the gun deaths occurred in the US.

The US had half the population of the other 22 countries combined, yet our gun-related murder rate was 25 times higher.

Of those 23 high-income nations, the US had the highest firearm homicide rate, the highest firearm suicide rate, and the highest total firearm death rate.

In 2010 in those 23 countries overall:

— Of the total gun deaths of people 14 and under, 91 percent happened in the US.

— Of the total gun deaths of people ages 15-24, 92 percent happened in the US.

— Of the total gun deaths of women, 90 percent happened in the US.


According to statistics, Norwegian police drew their weapons 42 times during 2014. Of those 42 incidents, two shots were fired, and no one was hit.

We don’t know how many shots were fired by American police officers in 2014, because, incredibly, keeping the stats is prohibited by federal law; however, we know that police shot and killed 632 people that year.

But Norway is a tiny country compared to the US. Consider how we compared to the UK.

In the UK, population 65 million, 51 gun homicides occurred in 2014. In the US, population 318 million, 8,124 gun homicides occurred in 2014.

In other words, while the US population is roughly six times that of the UK, we experienced 160 times as many gun homicides.

According to the World Health Organization, Americans are 50 times more likely than citizens of the UK to be shot to death.


More random facts to contemplate…

— Compared to the rest of the world, Americans are 10 times more likely to be killed by a gun and six times more likely to be killed accidentally by a gun.

— The US has more firearms per capita than any other country in the world.

— 31 percent of global mass shootings occur in the US.

— In 2007, it was estimated that 650 million guns were owned by civilians worldwide. Americans, accounting for five percent of the world population, owned 48 percent of those guns.

— Since the 2012 shooting massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut, 1,600 more mass shootings (those involving four or more fatalities) have occurred in the US, resulting in 1,800 dead and 6,400 wounded.

— Annually, about 100,000 Americans are shot, and 30,000 are killed. Two-thirds of the gun deaths are suicides.

— 400,000 guns are stolen each year in the US.

— A 2015 survey found that about 50 percent of US gun owners possess just one or two guns, and 14 percent have between eight and 140 guns. That 14 percent, amounting to three percent of the US population, owns half of all the civilian firearms in America.


We all have beliefs and belief systems that we champion. On issues large and small, we instinctively take the side that makes us feel good about ourselves — makes us feel respected for our values, maybe accepted by a group we admire.

Some people share their feelings freely, some keep it to themselves, but the behavior is natural and universal.

When you do it right, it’s a healthy thing. When you engage your brain, apply your common sense, fire up your BS detector, and come to conclusions that are reasonable, honest, helpful, and fair, good for you.

But it isn’t healthy when you do it wrong. When you let the talking heads do your thinking for you. Or fall for propaganda. Or buy into conspiracy theories. Or accept the notion that entire groups, mostly people who don’t look like you, are a threat.

If you want to feel good about yourself, try using your intellect — your advanced reasoning abilities as a homo sapien — to decide where you stand.

If you want respect, earn it. Stop going with your gut and your reptilian brain. Break from the herd.

You might see that guns and gun ownership can to be regulated in rational ways for the public good, while affecting you virtually not at all.

You might realize that evil forces are not plotting to confiscate your guns.

You might conclude that, when a country has 90 guns for every 100 citizens, and even minor safeguards are stonewalled, that is insanity writ large.


Student protests-2

Tune o’ the Day

Try a Little Tenderness” was first recorded in 1932 and given the orchestral treatment of the day. Bing Crosby did a version.

In 1966, Otis Redding recorded a soul version of the song, notable for a slow beginning that built to a frenzied conclusion.

Then came the 1991 film “The Commitments,” the story of a group of Dubliners who form an R&B group. They deliver amazing renditions of such classics as “Mustang Sally,” “In the Midnight Hour,” “Chain of Fools,” and, of course, “Try a Little Tenderness.” “The Commitments” gave us a terrific soundtrack.

And, believe it or not, when lead singer Andrew Strong belted out those stunning vocals, he was a tender 16 years old.

The Commitments

Try a Little Tenderness

By The Commitments, 1991
Written by Jimmy Campbell, Reg Connelly, and Harry M. Woods

Oh, she may be weary.
Young girls they do get weary,
Wearing that same old shaggy dress.
But when she gets weary,
Try a little tenderness

You know she’s waiting,
Just anticipating
For things that she’ll never, never, never, never possess.
But while she’s there waiting without them,
Try a little tenderness (that’s all you gotta do, this is for you).

It’s not just sentimental, no, no, no.
She has her grief and care.
But the soft words they are spoke so gentle,
It makes it easier, easier to bear.

You won’t regret it, no, no.
Young girls they never forget it.
Love is their only happiness.
But it’s all so easy.
All you gotta do is try a little tenderness.

Oh, she may be weary.
Young girls they do get weary,
Wearing that same old shaggy dress, yeah yeah.
But when she gets weary,
Try a little tenderness, yeah, yeah.

You know she’s waiting,
Just anticipating
For things that she’ll never, never, never, never possess, yeah.
But while she’s there waiting without them,
Try a little tenderness (that’s all you gotta do).

It’s not just sentimental, no, no, no.
She has her grief and care.
But the soft words they are spoke so gentle, yeah,
It makes it easier, easier to bear, yeah.

You won’t regret it, no, no.
Some girls they don’t forget it.
Love is their only happiness, yeah.
But it’s all so easy.
All you gotta do is try, try a little tenderness.

Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her.
You’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got
Just try a little tenderness, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.

Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her.
You’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got
Just try a little tenderness, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.

Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her.
You’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got
Just try a little tenderness, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.

Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her.
You’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got
Just try a little tenderness, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.

Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her.
You’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got
Just try a little tenderness, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.

Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her.
You’ve got, you’ve got, you’ve got
Just try a little tenderness, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.

Thoughts and Prayers

This obscure short story by a little-known writer is a fantasy/allegory that makes a small point in an agreeable way, leaving you pleased to have discovered it.


Mr. Chipfellow’s Jackpot

By Dick Purcell
Published in Imagination Science Fiction, April 1956.

“I’m getting old,” Sam Chipfellow said, “and old men die.”

His words were an indirect answer to a question from Carter Hagen, his attorney. The two men were standing in an open glade, some distance from Sam Chipfellow’s mansion at Chipfellow’s Folly, this being the name Sam himself had attached to his huge estate.

Sam lived there quite alone except for visits from relatives and those who claimed to be relatives. He needed no servants nor help of any kind because the mansion was completely automatic. Sam did not live alone from choice, but he was highly perceptive and it made him uncomfortable to have relatives around with but one thought in their minds: When are you going to die and leave me some money?

Of course, the relatives could hardly be blamed for entertaining this thought. It came as naturally as breathing because Sam Chipfellow was one of those rare individuals — a scientist who had made money; all kinds of money; more money than almost anybody. And after all, his relatives were no different than those of any other rich man. They felt they had rights.

Sam was known as The Genius of the Space Age, an apt title because there might not have been any space without him. He had been extremely versatile during his long career, having been responsible for the so-called eternal metals — metal against which no temperature, corrosive, or combinations of corrosives would prevail. He was also the pioneer of telepower, the science of control over things mechanical through the electronic emanations of thought waves. Because of his investigations into this power, men were able to direct great ships by merely “thinking” them on their proper courses.

These were only two of his contributions to progress, there being many others. And now, Sam was facing the mystery neither he nor any other scientist had ever been able to solve.


There was a great deal of activity near the point at which the men stood. Drills and rock cutters had formed three sides of an enclosure in a ridge of solid rock, and now a giant crane was lowering thick slabs of metal to form the walls. Nearby, waiting to be placed, lay the slab which would obviously become the door to whatever Sam was building. Its surface was entirely smooth, but it bore great hinges and some sort of a locking device was built in along one edge.

Carter Hagen watched the activity and considered Sam’s reply to his question. “Then this is to be a mausoleum?”

Sam chuckled. “Only in a sense. Not a place to house my dead bones if that’s what you mean.”

Carter Hagen, understanding this lonely old man as he did, knew further questions would be useless. Sam was like that. If he wanted you to know something, he told you.

So Carter held his peace and they returned to the mansion where Sam gave him a drink after they concluded the business he had come on.

Sam also gave Carter something else — an envelope. “Put that in your safe, Carter. You’re comparatively young. I’m taking it for granted you will survive me.”

“And this is –?”

“My will. All old men should leave wills and I’m no exception to the rule. When I’m dead, open it and read what’s inside.”

Carter Hagen regarded the envelope with speculation. Sam smiled. “If you’re wondering how much I left you, Carter, I’ll say this: You might get it all.”

Hagen strove to appear nonchalant but his eyes widened regardless. Sam enjoyed this. He said, “Yes, you’ll have as much chance as anyone else.”

“You mean as much chance as any of your relatives?”

“I mean what I said — as much as anyone. I’ve given them no more consideration than anyone else.”

Carter Hagen stared, puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

“I didn’t expect you to, but that will come later. I’ll tell you this much, though. No one will be barred. The winner will take all, and the winner may be anyone on this planet. My one regret is that I won’t be around to see who gets the jackpot.”

Carter Hagen dutifully pocketed the will and left. He returned on other business a week later. Sam Chipfellow’s first question was, “Well, what did you think of it?”

“Think of what?”

“My will.”

Carter Hagen straightened to an indignant five-foot-six. “Mr. Chipfellow, I don’t like having my integrity questioned. Your will was in a sealed envelope. You instructed me to read it after your death. If you think I’m the sort of man who would violate a trust –”

Sam put a drink into his attorney’s hand. “Here, take this. Calm down.”

Carter Hagen gulped the drink and allowed his feathers to smooth down. As he set down his glass, Sam leaned back and said, “Now that that’s over, let’s get on with it. Tell me — what did you think of my will?”

The attorney flushed. It was no use trying to fool Chipfellow. He was a master at that damned thought business. “I — I did look at it. I couldn’t resist the temptation. The envelope was so easily opened.”

Sam was regarding him keenly but without anger. “I know you’re a crook, Hagen, but no more so than most people. So don’t sit there cringing.”

“This will is — well, amazing, and getting an advance look didn’t help me a bit unless –” Hagen looked up hopefully. “unless you’re willing to give me a slight clue –”

“I’ll give you nothing. You take your chances along with the rest.”

Hagen sighed. “As to the will itself, all I can say is that it’s bound to cause a sensation.”

“I think so too,” Sam said, his eyes turning a trifle sad. “It’s too bad a man has to die just at the most interesting point of his life.”

“You’ll live for years, Mr. Chipfellow. You’re in fine condition.”

“Cut it out. You’re itching for me to shuffle off so you can get a crack at what I’m leaving behind.”

“Why, Mr. –”

“Shut up and have another drink.”

Carter Hagen did not have long to wait as life-times go. Eighteen months later, Sam Chipfellow dropped dead while walking in his garden. The news was broadcast immediately but the stir it caused was nothing to the worldwide reaction that came a few days later.

This was after all the relatives, all those who thought they had a faint chance of proving themselves relatives, and representatives of the press, radio, and video, gathered in the late Sam Chipfellow’s mansion to hear the reading of the will. Carter Hagen, seeking to control his excitement, stood before a microphone installed for the benefit of those who couldn’t get in.

He said, “This is the last will and testament of Samuel Chipfellow, deceased. As his lawyer, it becomes my duty to –”

An angry murmur went up from those assembled. Exclamations of impatience. “Come on! Get on with it. Quit making a speech and read the will, we can’t wait all day!”

“Quiet, please, and give me your closest attention. I will read slowly so all may hear. This is Mr. Chipfellow’s last testament:

I, Samuel B. Chipfellow, have made a great deal of money during my active years. The time now comes when I must decide what will become of it after my death. I have made my decision, but I remain in the peculiar position of still not knowing what will become of it. Frankly, I’m of the opinion that no one will ever benefit from itthat it will remain in the place I have secreted it until the end of time.

A murmur went up from the crowd.

“A treasure hunt!” someone cried. “I wonder if they’ll distribute maps!”

Carter Hagen raised his hand. “Please! Let’s have a little more order or the reading will not continue.”

The room quieted and Hagen’s droning voice was again raised:

This place consists of a vault I have had erected upon my grounds. This vault, I assure you, is burglar-proof, weather-proof, cyclone-proof, tornado-proof, bomb-proof. Time will have no effect upon its walls. It could conceivably be thrown free in some great volcanic upheaval but even then the contents would remain inaccessible.

There is only one way the vault can be opened. Its lock is sensitized to respond to a thought. That’s what I saida thought. I have selected a single, definite, clear-cut thought to which the combination will respond.

There is a stone bench in front of the vault door and I decree that any person who wishes, may sit down on this bench and direct his or her thought at the door. If it is the correct one, the door will open and the person causing this to happen shall then be the possessor of all my worldly wealth which lies inside.

Because of the number of persons who will no doubt wish to try their luck, I decree further that each shall be given thirty seconds in which to project their thought. A force of six men shall be hired to supervise the operation and handle the crowds in the neighborhood of the vault. A trust fund has been already set up to pay this group.

The balance of my wealth lies awaiting the lucky thinker in the vaultall save this estate itself, an item of trifling value in comparison to the rest, which I bequeath to the State with the stipulation that the other terms of the will are rigidly carried out.

And so, good luck to everyone in the world. May one of you succeed in opening my vaultalthough I doubt it.

Samuel B. Chipfellow.

P.S. The thought-throwing shall begin one week after the reading of the will. I add this as a precaution to keep everyone from rushing to the vault after this will is read. You might kill each other in the stampede.

S. B. C.

There was a rush regardless. Reporters knocked each other down getting to the battery of phones set up to carry the news around the world. And Sam Chipfellow’s will pushed all else off the video screens and the front pages.

During the following weeks, millions were made through the sale of Chipfellow’s thought to the gullible. Great commercial activity began in the area surrounding the estate as arrangements were made to accommodate the hundreds of thousands who were heading in that direction.

A line began forming immediately at the gate to Chipfellow’s Folly and a brisk market got under way in positions therein. The going figure of the first hundred positions was in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars. A man three thousand thoughts away was offered a thousand dollars two days before the week was up, and on the last day, the woman at the head of the line sold her position for eighteen thousand dollars.

There were many learned roundtables and discussions as to the nature of Chipfellow’s thought. The majority leaned to the belief that it would be scientific in nature because Chipfellow was the world’s greatest scientist.

This appeared to give scientifically trained brains the edge and those fortunate in this respect spent long hours learning what they could of Chipfellow’s life, trying to divine his performance in the realm of thought.

So intense was the interest created that scarcely anyone paid attention to the activities of Chipfellow’s closer relatives. They sued to break the will but met with defeat. The verdict was rendered speedily, after which the judge who made the ruling declared a recess and bought the eleven thousandth position in line for five hundred dollars.

On the morning of the appointed day, the gates were opened and the line moved toward the vault. The first man took his seat on the bench. A stopwatch clicked. A great silence settled over the watchers. This lasted for thirty seconds after which the watch clicked again. The man got up from the bench eighteen thousand dollars poorer.

The vault had not opened.

Nor did it open the next day, the next, nor the next. A week passed, a month, six months. And at the end of that time it was estimated that more than twenty-five thousand people had tried their luck and failed.

Each failure was greeted with a public sigh of relief — relief from both those who were waiting for a turn and those who were getting rich from the commercial enterprises abutting upon the Chipfellow estate.

There was a motel, a hotel, a few night clubs, a lot of restaurants, a hastily constructed bus terminal, an airport and several turned into parking lots at a dollar a head.

The line was a permanent thing and it was soon necessary to build a cement walk because the ever-present hopeful were standing in a ditch a foot deep.

There also continued to be an active business in positions, a group of professional standers having sprung up, each with an assistant to bring food and coffee and keep track of the ever fluctuating market in positions.

And still no one opened Chipfellow’s vault.

It was conceded that the big endowment funds had the inside track because they had the money to hire the best brains in the world; men who were almost as able scientifically as had been Chipfellow himself but unfortunately hadn’t made as much money. The monied interests also had access to the robot calculators that turned out far more plausible thoughts than there were positions in the line.

A year passed. The vault remained locked.

By that time the number of those who had tried and failed, and were naturally disgruntled, was large enough to be heard, so a rumor got about that the whole thing was a vast hoax — a mean joke perpetrated upon the helpless public by a lousy old crook who hadn’t any money in the first place.

Vituperative editorials were written—by editors who had stood in line and thrown futile thoughts at the great door. These editorials were vigorously rebutted by editors and columnists who as yet had not had a chance to try for the jackpot.

One senator, who had tried and missed, introduced a law making it illegal to sit on a stone bench and hurl a thought at a door.

There were enough congressional failures to pass the law. It went to the Supreme Court, but was tossed out because they said you couldn’t pass a law prohibiting a man from thinking.

And still the vault remained closed.

Until Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, farm people impoverished by reverses, spent their last ten dollars for two thoughts and waited out the hours and the days in line. Their daughter Susan, aged nine, waited with them, passing the time by telling her doll fairy tales and wondering what the world looked like to a bird flying high up over a tree top. Susan was glad when her mother and father reached the bench because then they all could go home and see how her pet rabbit was doing.

Mr. Wilson hurled his thought and moved on with drooping shoulders. Mrs. Wilson threw hers and was told to leave the bench. The guard looked at Susan. “Your turn,” he said.

“But I haven’t got any thought,” Susan said. “I just want to go home.”

This made no sense to the guard. The line was being held up. People were grumbling. The guard said, “All right, but that was silly. You could have sold your position for good money. Run along with your mother and father.”

Susan started away. Then she looked at the vault which certainly resembled a mausoleum and said, “Wait — I have too got a little thought,” and she popped onto the bench.

The guard frowned and snapped his stop watch.

Susan screwed her eyes tight shut. She tried to see an angel with big white wings like she sometimes saw in her dreams and she also tried to visualize a white-haired, jolly-faced little man as she considered Mr. Chipfellow to be. Her lips moved soundlessly as she said,

Dear God and all the angels — please have pity on poor Mr. Chipfellow for dying and please make him happy in heaven.

Then Susan got off the bench quickly to run after her mother and father who had not waited.

There was the sound of metal grinding upon metal and the great door was swinging open.


Original illustration from Imagination Science Fiction, artist unknown.