For some reason, Ken Follett included me Monday morning in a broadside email transmission recapitulating his eventful year, complete with pictures including his attendance at the ceremonial reopening of Notre Dame Cathedral, chatting with Queen Camilla at a luncheon, standing inside Stonehenge (a rare privilege, indeed), subject of his forthcoming book “Circle of Days”—14 pictures in all. A rather busy, impressive year for the Welsh author whose 37 novels have sold more than 195 million copies and whose historical fiction series on medieval construction of churches in Kingsbridge, England, enlightened many on the superhuman task involved during those “dark ages.”
Most quizzical to me, however, was Follett’s failure to include a photo of his dog Nell, a black Labrador he had apparently had to put down six days before Christmas.
I say this because Follett began his year-end review with the following paragraph:
“My old dog Nell died six days before Christmas. Her hips had been bad for years, but she was very game, struggling up and down stairs and even running in the garden with the other dogs. Sadly she got to the stage where she couldn’t stand, and after that her life wasn’t worth living. I miss her.”
Given the love affair with dogs most residents of the British Isles enjoy, I couldn’t help but wonder why Nell was not accorded justifiable visual recognition.
I’m in a Trump Funk: Ever since November 5 I have been less than engaged in all sorts of things. I don’t get paid for writing blogs so I have let my ennui dictate my lethargy. Even some of my inanimate objects have been disappointing me:
My plug in electric hybrid car suddenly stopped running battery power. Seems it needed a software update, fortunately at no expense;
One of our dishwashers started leaking. The repair man could find no reason why for his $150 service charge;
Twice now I’ve forgotten to shut off the towel warmer after my shower. Gilda has, I believe, taken perverse pleasure pointing out my indiscretion;
My skin keeps popping out dry spots that itch like crazy despite repeated applications of ointments proscribed by my dermatologist. No relief is in sight.
Blood Brothers: Watching the last episode of “Yellowstone,” I saw Casey Dutton and Tribal Chairman Chief Thomas Rainwater perform a ceremonial blood brothers ritual, slicing their respective palms. They did not commingle their bloods by shaking hands.
No doubt 21st century healthcare precautions ruled the day. But back in 1950s Brooklyn, my friends and I routinely pressed our bloodied fingers together when we swore eternal brotherhood.
And just to be clear, our hands were not clean, nor was the knife blade we used, when we became blood brothers by piercing one of our fingers.
We didn’t normally carry pocket knives. Just when we played a game called “Territory,” usually on the dirt near the Sycamore tree in front of my Avenue W home. Territory required players to stand with feet apart as an opponent threw a knife into the dirt they were standing upon. If the blade stood upright, the thrower usurped their territory from its edge to the vertical knife. The game became increasingly dangerous as one’s territory diminished. A winner eventually amassed all the territory.
I can recall no one being injured in the process. That same knife was used to make us blood brothers. In the 1950s little thought was given to transmittable diseases.