Welcome to the Wannaskan Almanac for Friday.
Today is the birthday, in 1773, of William Henry Harrison, ninth president of the United States. Harrison was born into the slave owning Virginia aristocracy. His father sent him to Philadelphia to study medicine which Harrison did not care for. After a year, his father died and the 18 year old Harrison headed to the Ohio wilderness to fight the Indians. He served as Mad Wayne Anthony's aide-de-camp and learned how to run an army on the frontier. The war ended with the Indians ceding most of Ohio for white settlement. Harrison served in various territorial positions until a new Indian war erupted. Harrison, serving as general now, defeated the Indians at the battle of Tippecanoe. It was more of a skirmish than a battle, but it made Harrison famous. Harrison ran for president in 1836, but was defeated by Martin Van Buren. This was just as well for Harrison, because Van Buren took the blame for the "Panic of 1837" and lost to Harrison in the following election.
Harrison was a president of many extremes: the last president born a British citizen, the oldest president at the time of inauguration (68), the shortest serving president (30 days), and the first to die in office. Harrison came down with pneumonia just three weeks after his inauguration. Treatment at the time was not helpful: opium, castor oil, leeches, and Virginia snakeweed. Peace and quiet would have been the best medicine, but there was none to be found in a White House full of office seekers. Also, the White House water supply was downstream of public sewage. Modern researchers conclude that Harrison died of septic shock due to typhoid fever.
Amy Lowell, the American poet, was born on this day in 1874 into the intellectual aristocracy of New England. Her brother Percival was a famous astronomer and her brother Abbott was president of Harvard. Amy was not sent on to college because the family did not believe college was the proper place for women, so Amy educated herself through reading and book collecting. She started her career as a socialite, but switched to poetry at age 28.
Growing up, she hated her looks which she considered "masculine and ugly." A glandular condition leading to plumpness did not help. She was a social outcast at school. Her classmates considered her outspoken and opinionated. Based on some of her poems and her companions, she is labeled a lesbian. She smoked cigars constantly.
But back to her poetry. She joined the Imagist movement which was changing the conventions of poetry at the time. Imagism favored precision of imagery and clear, sharp language, as opposed to the high-falutin' namby-pamby poetry of the past. She was a champion of "free verse" which allows the lines to flow as they will when read aloud.
Lowell died in 1925 at the age of 51. The next year she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, after which she was mostly forgotten, until the women's' movement of the early '70s revived her poetry, though she herself argued against feminism.
It's also the birthday, in 1923, of Brendan Behan. Born into obscurity, he grew up into the aristocracy of Irish writers. He joined the Irish Republican Army at 16, which led to a couple of spells in prison. He turned these experience into plays and a novel, resulting in worldwide acclaim. By his mid thirties he was hanging around New York City with the likes of Harpo Marx and Jackie Gleason, and drinking way to much. He died in 1964 at the age of 41.
Here are some of his delightful one-liners:
One drink is too many for me and a thousand not enough.
It is a good deed to forget a poor joke.
There is no such thing as bad publicity except your own obituary.
I saw a sign that said 'Drink Canada Dry'. So I did.
If it was raining soup, the Irish would go out with forks.
The most important things to do in the world are to get something to eat, something to drink and somebody to love you.
Today is the birthday, in 1773, of William Henry Harrison, ninth president of the United States. Harrison was born into the slave owning Virginia aristocracy. His father sent him to Philadelphia to study medicine which Harrison did not care for. After a year, his father died and the 18 year old Harrison headed to the Ohio wilderness to fight the Indians. He served as Mad Wayne Anthony's aide-de-camp and learned how to run an army on the frontier. The war ended with the Indians ceding most of Ohio for white settlement. Harrison served in various territorial positions until a new Indian war erupted. Harrison, serving as general now, defeated the Indians at the battle of Tippecanoe. It was more of a skirmish than a battle, but it made Harrison famous. Harrison ran for president in 1836, but was defeated by Martin Van Buren. This was just as well for Harrison, because Van Buren took the blame for the "Panic of 1837" and lost to Harrison in the following election.
Harrison was a president of many extremes: the last president born a British citizen, the oldest president at the time of inauguration (68), the shortest serving president (30 days), and the first to die in office. Harrison came down with pneumonia just three weeks after his inauguration. Treatment at the time was not helpful: opium, castor oil, leeches, and Virginia snakeweed. Peace and quiet would have been the best medicine, but there was none to be found in a White House full of office seekers. Also, the White House water supply was downstream of public sewage. Modern researchers conclude that Harrison died of septic shock due to typhoid fever.
Amy Lowell, the American poet, was born on this day in 1874 into the intellectual aristocracy of New England. Her brother Percival was a famous astronomer and her brother Abbott was president of Harvard. Amy was not sent on to college because the family did not believe college was the proper place for women, so Amy educated herself through reading and book collecting. She started her career as a socialite, but switched to poetry at age 28.
Growing up, she hated her looks which she considered "masculine and ugly." A glandular condition leading to plumpness did not help. She was a social outcast at school. Her classmates considered her outspoken and opinionated. Based on some of her poems and her companions, she is labeled a lesbian. She smoked cigars constantly.
But back to her poetry. She joined the Imagist movement which was changing the conventions of poetry at the time. Imagism favored precision of imagery and clear, sharp language, as opposed to the high-falutin' namby-pamby poetry of the past. She was a champion of "free verse" which allows the lines to flow as they will when read aloud.
Lowell died in 1925 at the age of 51. The next year she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, after which she was mostly forgotten, until the women's' movement of the early '70s revived her poetry, though she herself argued against feminism.
It's also the birthday, in 1923, of Brendan Behan. Born into obscurity, he grew up into the aristocracy of Irish writers. He joined the Irish Republican Army at 16, which led to a couple of spells in prison. He turned these experience into plays and a novel, resulting in worldwide acclaim. By his mid thirties he was hanging around New York City with the likes of Harpo Marx and Jackie Gleason, and drinking way to much. He died in 1964 at the age of 41.
Here are some of his delightful one-liners:
One drink is too many for me and a thousand not enough.
It is a good deed to forget a poor joke.
There is no such thing as bad publicity except your own obituary.
I saw a sign that said 'Drink Canada Dry'. So I did.
If it was raining soup, the Irish would go out with forks.
The most important things to do in the world are to get something to eat, something to drink and somebody to love you.
A Blockhead
Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.
Check back Sunday for more Squibs by @jmcdonnell123
Amy Lowell's poem is loaded with paradox, which only the best writers truly master. I can also imagine Thor murmuring this pram as he girds his loins within his winter trousers to do battle with another heavy snowfall...
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