July 2013

Online
NEWS
Monthly
July 15, 2013—August 15, 2013
EDITION
This Month’s Historical Matters of Note
HISTORY’S MYSTERIES REVEALED
by Burns Jones
Scholars have helped us to understand much about our
past. We know a great deal about our forebears and
how their words and deeds shaped the world of today. But there are still many
enigmas in history, which historians are diligently trying to unravel. In this issue, I
will reveal the solutions to some of these intriguing puzzles. No need to thank
me; I’m just doing my job.
One of History’s (as well as literature’s) most enduring conundrums is, “Who
wrote Shakespeare’s plays?” The “Stratford man’s” works have been attributed
to the Earl of Oxford, Christopher Marlowe, Sir Francis Bacon, even Queen Bess,
and others. None of these is correct. The true author was The Rev. Dunstan
Throop, Vicar of St.-Swithin’s-in-the Swamp, Little Puddleby, Oxfordshire.
Throop’s bishop, The Rt. Rev. Augustus Hinkle, forbade his clergy from having
anything to do with the theatre, which he called “The Devil’s cesspool.”
Consequently, Throop was forced to pen the plays anonymously. He gave the
manuscripts to one William Shakspere, the Earl of Oxford’s third assistant
swineherd. This Shackspere took the plays to London, where he sold them under
his own name - hence the misattribution. Some of Throop’s unpublished works,
which he wrote for the Puddleby Little Theatre, have been discovered. Among
these are Antony and Juliet, An Error of Comedies, Romeo and Cleopatra,
Thirteenth Night, and The Tragedie of Gimlet, Prince of Schleswig-Holstein.
You have probably lain awake nights wondering what happened to Judge Crater.
You are not alone. On August 6, 1930, New York Supreme Court Justice Joseph
E. Crater stepped out of a taxi and was never seen again. A massive manhunt
ensued, but it was as if the jurist had vanished from the face of the earth. For
years, speculation raged about the why and how of his disappearance. Well, now
it can be told. Judge Crater, tired of his juridical duties, ran off with a chorus girl
from Ziegfeld’s Follies, and fled to Florida. He changed his name to Archibald
McGoogle and became a professional alligator wrestler. When I spoke to him, he
was peeved, and in fact was quite rude. I thought about revealing his address
and phone number, but decided that Crater (now McGoogle) was entitled to his
privacy. So I left McGoogle (nee Crater} in peace with his alligators. Besides, we
historians are used to the occasional rebuff in our relentless search for the Truth.
An intriguing mystery of our own time is the possibility of extraterrestrials among
us. To narrow down this broad topic, let us focus on one incident: a hangar at an
(unnamed) Air Force base in a Western state where, it is alleged, there is
concealed the wreckage of a spaceship and the remains of its alien passengers.
Is there any truth to this widespread belief? In a word, no. This was actually the
site of the Air Force’s experiments in teleportation. After years of unsuccessful
trials to send animate creatures through space, the effort was finally abandoned.
The final failure was an attempt to teleport a guinea pig named Edgar from the
air base to Phoenix. Edgar wound up in Mrs. Clotwilder’s fourth grade classroom
in Fiddler’s Green, Missouri, where he was adopted as a class pet. After this
disaster, the Air Force started the alien rumor themselves to distract the public
from their failed “Star Trek” experiments!
I hope these revelations have settled questions that have perplexed folks for so
long. In the future, more solutions to historic mysteries may be forthcoming. In
the meantime, remember: You read it here in the Chronicle, so it must be true!
I Remember a Hurricane by Jean Shambley
There are few things more comforting
than waking up on a dark morning and
hearing pouring down rain.
However, rain can be discomforting.
I remember a Florida hurricane in the
1930’s when I was in grammar school.
Roses and Raspberries
ROSES: by the score ... pun intended ... for the
rousing, exciting, enjoyable July musical
program put together by Marcy Davis;
presented by Bob Wallace; including the
eight piano hands of Marcy Davis, Joan
Kearsey, Morita Reposa and Mary Tatum with
Norma Aarons and Goldie Marrs, page
turners; the quartet of MiIton Hadley, Mike
Kearsey, Woody Mason and Don Wright, and
the Rusty Pipes, including Ruth Ambrosius,,
Jackie Atkinson, Ed Dougherty, Dick
Grambow, Bob Kelb, Goldie Marrs, Woody
Mason, LInda Pendelton, Bev Stubbe, Don
Wood and Don Wright, all under the
leadership and talent of Kathy Sillbiger.
RASPBERRIES: to our dining room servers
who seem to get lost somewhere between
drinks and dessert.
ROSES: to all residents and employees at
Croasdaile who dislike a “gated” community,
but recognize and appreciate the reason for
these safety additions.
ROSES: to our dining room servers …
especially the ones who manage to smile, be
considerate and helpful to residents who are
not necessarily the same … but
There was no snuggling down under
the covers. Our time was spent running
from window to window mopping the rain
water bubbling up from under a closed sash
and running down the wall. The roof leaked,
the rugs were rolled up and buckets were
catching the drips. The doors were braced
with chairs to keep the wind from blowing
them open. The house shook from the force
of the wind; it actually lifted from its
foundation and then luckily dropped back
into place. The candles all flickered from the
draft while the winds howled. We each
wondered if the house could hold together.
Morning came at last with a calm,
clear day, as if Mother Nature was
apologizing for the horrible night just
passed. But daylight revealed that the storm
had blown over trees, and there was trash
everywhere. Every shingle had blown off one
side of our roof. We were busy with mops
and rakes and gathering and stacking
shingles for hours.
Still, we were luckier than many.
News and Views
page 2
by Jack Adams
Certainly our instinctive morbid curiosity about someone else’s problem may help keep a local TV
audience coming back. But is it really news that I have a right, or a need, to know?
On one evening’s 6pm local news, WTVD aired 19 stories – they were categorized to match a broad
study done by the reliable Pew Research Center (which will be mentioned later). Here is the array:

Crime and Trials – 5

Traffic and Weather – 4 (not all local; there was a blizzard somewhere that we all needed to know about. Sure.)

Human Interest -- 1 “News You Can Use” is a slogan one of our local TV news programs uses sometimes. I’m not sure how they
know what news I can use; but, one thing is sure, I really can’t use most of the “news” I’m provided. Maybe the station thinks I am
interested in who got shot in Fuquay-Varina, or who had a terrible accident on a rainy highway. This type of story follows the cynic’s
motto – “If It Bleeds It Leads.”

Politics and Government – 4 (probably because of the new Governor and Legislature pursuing a controversial (hence newsworthy)
agenda).

Sports – 6

Accidents and Bizarre – 1

Business and Economy, Foreign Affairs, Science, Technology and Health – 0
This array is misleading in some ways. Weather and sports together took nearly half the 30-minute program and each had about
the same number of on-air minutes. But sports covered different stories (six of them) while weather, which usually has one or two, had
four, thus skewing the data for this evening’s show.
The Pew Research Center publishes an annual report on the state of the news media and one section of that report looks at local
TV news. The Pew study showed that TV stations nationwide are cramming weather and sports into about 40% of the local news programs (not including commercials). WTVD’s offerings were close to half the show when commercials were included.
Other findings matched what is happening locally.




There are fewer “hard news” stories than in the past (government, economy, etc.) and more “soft news” (human interest, etc.).
There are fewer significant investigative reports.
The average live report is 44 seconds long.
There is an increase in the number of stories provided from outside sources rather than local reporters. That includes inexplicable
use of network segments that will air on the network show a half hour later.
Some believe that local news is about where newspapers were 10 years ago -- still making money, but clearly having to find a
way to adjust to alternative sources now available. Their efforts to survive emphasize some of our less likeable traits (morbid curiosity,
for example).
Of course, cheapening the quality of their programs is not exclusive to local news. The networks, too, are trying to keep their audiences. I wonder how long they’ll last.
It's Not A Dodo by Ruth Ambrosius
Who says marriage is as extinct as the dodo bird? Certainly
not I, and I should be considered a pro since I attended a
wedding as recently as this past month. My younger grandson, the one I think of as that sweet, smart, curly-headed little moppet who loved my BLTs, beat me at card games, listened to me sing "I’m an old cowhand from the Rio Grand, and
my legs ain’t bowed and my cheeks ain’t tanned" was married in
Nashville Tennessee. Oh, yes, he’s still sweet and smart and
curly-headed, and would still allow me to sing "I’m an old
cowhand" but now, in addition, he makes a competent, compassionate difference to special youngsters who have special
needs, and he is husband to a beautiful, smart, fun, young
woman.
First, a few words about Nashville: Nashville’s biggest assets have long been considered to be the Grand Ole Opry and
cowboys - cowboys whose music was sad novels with guitar
accompaniment. Not anymore. It is a big, growing, modern
metropolis. Yee-Haw!
But let’s get back to the wedding. It was exactly what I
think of as “traditional: the vows, with nothing said about
being married to their “best friend” and/or “soul mate”; the
wedding was in a chapel, not on a beach in Timbucktoo; the
bridesmaids wore yellow, not black. Another fashion note
was that even though they
were married in Nashville,
none of the wedding party and
none of the guests wore cowboy boots or jeans, designer or
otherwise. They kissed instead
of shoving wedding cake all
over one another’s faces, and
they made it a point to visit all the tables to extend thanks
for the guests’ presence and best wishes.
The bride and groom had been considerate of the scale of
the wedding and all of the traditional accoutrements that
went with it. Consequently, the father-of-the-bride was not
walking around with empty pockets hanging out. Here’s
another traditional kudo: both sets of parents were still
married to the ones they had had traditional weddings with
some 30 years previously. How about another Yee Haw!
As optimistic as I am, I have no expectation of being present at my three-year-old great grandson’s wedding, so it
was a treat to see him in the traditional “penguin” suit
with brand new black and white sneakers.
A final thought: although I am averse to being considered
“the matriarch” of an old folks’ home, it was lovely to be
one of the family matriarchs.
Yee Haw!
sn July, 2013
The Good Life—Music, Books and Food
page 3
by David Arons
Shakespeare's words have inspired many composers to write operas, songs, ballets and
musical tributes to the greatest wordsmith who ever lived. Words, words. But what about music in
the plays themselves, and by the master himself?
In the 397 years since Shakespeare's death, most scholars have concerned themselves with his
words, while some have studied his use of music. One such researcher claims that the reference to
music appears 267 times in Shakespeare's 38 plays. That number doesn't count in the 154 sonnets, narrative poems and
ditties--just the plays.
Generally, Shakespearean scholars accept these numbers; they're easy to verify. What's more, they agree that he was a
master of stage craft and special effects who used music, fanfares, chanting, twitters and ditters. And he must have
known the baroque musical instruments of Elizabethan England. There were trumpets, cornets and hunting horns, bagpipes, viols and lutes, hoboys (oboes), cithrens, bells, bangits and whistles.
But the scholars don't agree on where he got the music he used in the Globe Theatre performances, or how much of it
Shakespeare himself composed. One source was probably the saucy ballads and London street music of the day. Also, he
surely "borrowed" tunes, pavans and galliards from his contemporaries--John Dowland, William Byrd, and the best-seller
song books of Thomas Morley. There were no copyright laws in 16th century England. It was more like adulation than
plagiarism.
Another source was certainly the music of John Wilson, Shakespeare's close friend--Number One on London's hit parade
list--singer, lutenist and fiddler who performed frequently at the Globe. Finally, there was Old Will himself as a source.
One researcher offers solid proof that Shakespeare himself wrote words and music in certain plays.
Here in the USA, and in England, there are occasional recitals by dedicated musicians, in costume, who perform the music of Shakespeare, his friends and contemporaries--Byrd and Dowland, Tallis, Morley and Wilson--on early baroque instruments. Not what you would call hit parade stuff, but well worth our attention because there's more to Shakespeare's
art than the written word: it's music!
Leisure-Time Reads
Rage Against the Dying by Becky Masterman
Ode to
Broccoli
As a young reader, I devoured Nancy Drew mysteries because the girl had brains and
bravado. Now I've found a grownup Nancy: She's retired FBI agent Brigid Quinn, a flawed
heroine who's nonetheless strong, sensitive and oh-so-experienced. At 59, Quinn is a
rule breaker unafraid to kick some major butt. (Don't call her "Cupcake"; the nickname's
"Stinger"!) In Rage, a page-turner more thrilling than last summer's hot read Gone
Girl, Quinn sets out to nail a serial killer. Masterman writes with the forensic certainty
you'd expect from an editor of medical texts — her job in "real life." But it's her smart,
sure-footed character that will make you hope Rage is merely the first episode of Agent
Quinn's retirement saga. — Lorrie Lynch
by Laura
Spencer
Norwegian by Night by Derek B. Miller
Boiled or steamed or stewed.
Eighty-two-year-old Sheldon Horowitz — an American Jew who happens to be a Korean
War veteran — moves to Oslo to stay in touch with his granddaughter, Rhea, when she
marries a Norwegian man. Sheldon's short-term memory ain't what it used to be, and the
ensuing culture shock only makes it worse. Then he witnesses a murder that orphans a 6
-year-old boy. Sheldon doesn't know his name or speak his language, but he takes the
boy under his wing and heads for the back of beyond — that is, rural Norway — to keep
him safe. With family members, an evil Balkan mobster and two Norwegian detectives in
hot pursuit, Miller's novel becomes a stunning examination of how our lives shape our
character, and how our allegiances shape our destiny. — Bethanne Patrick
If you’re short of food for salad,
When ALBERT EINSTEIN met CHARLIE CHAPLIN
But the best place for that veggie
Einstein said, what I admire most about your art is its universality.
You do not say a word, and yet … the world understands you.
Is in the nearest garbage can!
It’s true, replied Chaplin,
but your fame is even greater.
The world admires you when
nobody understands you!
Let’s sing a song to broccoli,
The omnipresent food.
You can eat it raw or cooked,
Just throw some broccoli in.
Put some cheese sauce on it,
And call it au gratin.
Mash it, add some milk
And heat it in a pan,
"An investment in knowledge
always pays the best interest."
Benjamin Franklin
sn July, 2013