Today is my daughter’s 26th birthday. Although I have had no contact with her in over five years, I do want to wish her a happy birthday. Hopefully someone who knows her will see this and relate a message for me. It would be nice if she and I could get together and talk. Maybe we could resolve our differences and go back to talking again. I know her mother and her brothers would love for that to happen. They miss her probably more than ideal, and I miss her a lot.
Also, happy birthday to my niece Margaret, who is 45 today. She is my brother’s Tom’soldest firstborn, just as Heidi is my firstborn. Kind of a weird coincidence that they share the same birthday! What are the probabilities on that one? Anyway, happy birthday to you as well, Margaret.
Peace and love!
John you are
According to the Oxford English dictionary, the origin of the word barbarian is from “Late Middle English (in barbarous (sense 2)): via Latin from Greek barbarous ‘foreign’ + -ous.” Since I am technically a foreigner in America, that makes me a barbarian. I also am a barbarian by ancient heritage. I am descended from one of the Germanic tribes and one of the Slavic tribes, both of which are not Roman or Greek in origin. That certainly qualifies me as a barbarian, something I am very proud of.
The word barbarian has the same root as the word barber. Mostly, from the Latin word for beard. If you are a student of Roman history, you know the Roman men were pretty much always clean-shaven. It was only the “savage and primitive” tribes that the Romans warred against and usually conquered who had beards. Well, I have a beard. I guess I qualify as a barbarian on that count as well. 🙂
Continue reading The Barbarian
I did the original draft of this post close to two weeks ago, but decided to hold off posting it for reasons that will become clear as we go through the new version below. I want to dedicate this post to those former high school classmates who were on my Facebook “friends” list with whom I have had an interesting exchange of comments in the last week. I’m not going to name names. There is no need for that because the relevant parties will know who I am talking about, if they happen to read this.
The whole thing started over a week ago when one of my friends called me Bernard instead of Bernhard. You would think that someone that I went to school with for six years and whose brother I considered my best friend would know my name. At least he did not call me Bernie, which is the name that most people called me back in high school. That is the name I absolutely hate. Even my mother really disliked people calling me Bernie. She often asked me why I put up with it. I explained that I had tried to get people to call me Bernhard when we first moved to Willow Grove, PA, and I started attending North Willow Grove elementary school. That was an exercise in futility. Back in those days I did not enjoy banging my head against the brick wall, so I gave up and resigned myself to being Bernie. I also swore to myself that the first chance I got I would change my name to something people would have a hard time screwing up.
Continue reading A Voice Crying in The Wilderness