R. Harrison's Blog, page 24
April 27, 2016
The Power of the Dog
Rudyard Kipling, 1865 – 1936
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair—
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
April 26, 2016
Easter, 1916
W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone’s in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse —
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
The picture is the muzzle of an American Civil War rifled cannon. There’s a connection between the Irish brigades that fought for the Union and the resurgence of Irish nationalism in the late 19th century. More than a few veterans decided they should apply their hard-earned skills back home.
April 25, 2016
Of Love: A Sonnet
Robert Herrick, 1591 – 1674
How love came in I do not know,
Whether by the eye, or ear, or no;
Or whether with the soul it came
(At first) infused with the same;
Whether in part ’tis here or there,
Or, like the soul, whole everywhere,
This troubles me: but I as well
As any other this can tell:
That when from hence she does depart
The outlet then is from the heart.
One of his more contemplative poems. The photo, of Tybee Island Lighthouse, is near where I spent my 34th wedding anniversary.
The Curious Profession of Dr Craven. #Mondayblogs #free #romance
For a taste, here’s chapter 1. Anyone know where I found the names Garth and Craven, and why I might have chosen them? (A prize for the first correct answer!)
The Resurrection Men.
The vicar intoned the familiar words from the Book of Common Prayer while the family mourned their loss. She died quickly, almost overnight, and now being placed in the family crypt.
FORASMUCH as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.
That night, the four resurrection men met the verger in the dark churchyard. They carried shaded lanterns and intended to retrieve the ‘vile body’ before it became too vile for their client to use. They wore scarves over their faces to mask their identity. Grave robbing, while technically just a misdemeanour, was a serious offense so they made sure to leave nothing to chance. Still, the money they earned was good, and the likelihood that they would be caught was small.
Elias, the verger, pocketed the four crowns the oldest resurrection man had given him. Then he led them to the Patterson family crypt and put the key in the lock on the barred, iron gate and gave it a turn. He pushed on the gate, and as it creaked open, he turned and said to the resurrection men, “She was just put in here this morning. Should be fresh.”
“That’s what the doctor wants.”
“Take care, this hasn’t been a quiet one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I’d heard noises.” They all listened and other than the distant “goo-de-who” of an owl it was quiet.
“Elias, you daft bugger. You’ll have us jumping out of our skins. Which one is it?”
Elias led them to the newest coffin. There hadn’t been time to etch a metal plaque for its occupant. A temporary paper label attached to the top said, Cecelia Jane Garth 1790-1810. Resting in Peace with the Lord.
He pointed, “That’s her. The poor lass, she was just engaged to a rich suitor. She faded so quickly, and even Sir William Knighton couldn’t save her. One day she was happy, and then she was gone.”
Then he anxiously looked at the four resurrection men, “Do I have to watch?”
“Nay, man. Not if you don’t want. Why don’t you keep an eye out for the curate?”
Elias stood at the door to the crypt and kept watch while the resurrection men pulled the coffin off its shelf and lowered it to the floor. They opened it and gazed at the contents.
“Aye, Dad,” the youngest said, “She was a beauty. Pity to anatomize her.”
“That’s how we stand the nonsense, Lad. Up with her, and careful. The doctor wants them unblemished.”
“She’s not stiff, and a touch warm.”
“Maybe she’s not as fresh as Elias said. Starting to rot mayhaps.” The senior resurrection man turned to the verger and said, “Elias, are you sure this is the one?”
Elias looked, “That’s her. Miss Cecelia Garth. God rest her soul.”
The four resurrection men stretched her body on the hard ground of the crypt. It was wrapped in a winding sheet for burial, with ties to bind her legs and arms together. A bandage around her head held her mouth shut. Then they put rocks in the casket, resealed it, and replaced it in the crypt. In the process, the paper label ended up on the inside of the casket.
Then they carried her out of the crypt and into the dark churchyard.
The gate creaked again as Elias shut it. There was a faint gasp at the same time as he turned the key in the lock.
“Did you hear that, Da?” the youngest resurrection man asked, shocked at the noise.
Elias said, “That’s what I mean. She hasn’t been a quiet corpse.”
Jonas, the eldest resurrection man, spat and then said, “What a lot of superstitious buggers you are. It’s just the wind.”
Together they carried the body to a waiting cart. It was tied to the kissing gate at the church, and the sorry looking excuse for a horse waited patiently to take up his labours. Since the body had been a beautiful young woman, they carefully laid it in the back. They pulled a blanket over it and then covered that with straw. It wasn’t often they encountered the watch, but it was just as well to be prepared. They hopped onto the cart, and Jonas held the horse. They clumped off into the night at the fastest pace the horse could manage.
****
Elias pulled the four crowns from his pocket and carefully examined them. The pound they summed to, equivalent to almost half a month’s work was a welcome addition to his meagre wages.
He said, “Just hope I don’t get caught,” to the wind that was whistling in from the dark of the night. He pulled the gate to the graveyard shut with a loud creak, then latched and locked it. The noise seemed to echo forever in the distance so he listened for the footsteps that would presage a hue and cry. All he heard was that bloody owl.
****
“Dad,” the youngest resurrection man said, “where are we bound?”
“We’ll drop these two lads off at the Red Lion. Then you and I shall take the young miss to her final destination.”
“Jonas, you said.”
“Now shut your gob. I’ll pay thee. No reason to risk us all getting run in by the watch. Now is there?”
“Reckon not. Still, we should be there when you meet the anatomist. How do we know you’re not trimming us over the price?”
“Listen Lads, the less you know, the safer you are and the safer he is. The safer we all are. I’m only taking my boy because I need his muscle. Gettin’ old. ‘Sides which, he’s family and we’ll both hang together, any road.”
“It’s not a hanging offense, is it?”
“No, but it’s a fine and prison if we’re caught.” While not technically a death sentence, a long stay in prison wasn’t exactly good for the health. Scanty, poor quality food and the lack of light or ventilation in a crowded building tended to eliminate prison overcrowding.
The wagon pulled up to the pub, and the two unnecessary resurrection men jumped down. Jonas passed them a crown each, “More for you tomorrow after I’ve been paid. Now keep your blubbers shut.”
An hour later, Jonas pulled the wagon up in front of the old tithing barn in Streatham and tied it to a hitching post. An ancient building left over from the dissolution of the Abbey under King Henry; the barn was a massive stone building with high narrow windows that discouraged the curious. The tall arched roof still kept the rain out, at least most of it. While it was far enough from the centre of the village to avoid prying eyes, it was also slowly falling into disrepair. Dr. Richard Craven used it for his private laboratory.
The massive door squeaked as he opened it and greeted them, “Jonas, what have you for me tonight?”
“Just what you wanted, a young woman, fresh.”
“Excellent. Now bring her inside.”
“You’ll be paying me now. Like we agreed?”
“Ten pounds. I have it here.” Dr. Craven pulled a note from his coat pocket.
“Ten, nay man, twenty.”
“Twenty? You said ten before.”
“Twenty or we take her straight back.” Twenty pounds was almost a year’s wages for a skilled labourer.
Dr. Craven was in no place to argue. He needed a woman to continue his studies, and there she was almost close enough to touch. She was just another cadaver, on her way to returning to the common clay.
“Twenty it is, you rogue.” He handed Jonas two banknotes.
Jonas nodded to his son, “Bring her lad.”
The boy uncovered their cargo and shouted, “she’s moved Da’. She’s moved.”
“Nonsense boy. Must have been shifted by the roads. Now stop yer yammering and bring her in.”
“Da’ alone, by myself?”
“She’s a light one. Not like some of them.”
Light or not, a body is hard to carry one handed. The boy staggered under the weight. He followed his father inside with the good doctor. Once there, he asked, “Dad, can you help?”
Together they laid her out on the cold stone floor.
Dr. Craven inspected the body, gave it a sniff, and then nodded. “She looks to be in good shape. Smells fresh. Did you want the winding cloths?”
“Of course, and it has been thirsty work. Bringing her here. Deuced thirsty.”
The doctor sighed, “I’ll get the brandy for you.”
Then he walked to the far end of the barn where he kept a small store of run French brandy. Jonas, a man with a nose for the spirits that was only matched by his capacity for imbibing them, followed him. The dark shadows hid the debris of the doctor’s studies, the prepared examples, the bottles of preserved organs, and the strange retorts of his research from their view. A chorus of squeaking rats from the cages at the far end of the building only added to the atmosphere. What little Jonas could see through the flickering candlelight was disturbing enough, even for a hardened resurrection man.
Jonas tugged on Dr. Craven’s sleeve, “You will take the brandy from the right cask, won’t you? Not one of these odd spirits and poisons?”
The doctor laughed, “Of course, I need a dram myself. It’s been a cold night.”
In the meantime, the boy undid the bandage that held the woman’s jaw shut tight. As he pulled it off her, her mouth opened and she gasped for air.
He ran to his father and the doctor, shouting, “I tell you, Doctor, she’s alive!”
Jonas and the doctor walked back to him, carrying a decanter of the brandy with them.
Dr. Craven said, “Can’t be, Lad. That must have been gas escaping from the body. They do that, you know, as they decompose.”
The elder resurrection man nodded, “I’ve seen it before, many times.”
“So have I Dad, but this wasn’t that. She gasped for breath when I undid the bandage.”
Dr. Craven said, “I’ll prove she’s dead. Put her on the table.”
The resurrection men lifted the body from the floor and put it on the examining table. It having once been a delicate young female, they were gentler with it than they were usually. The doctor gave his hands a quick rinse. Something he did more for superstition than any rational basis, and then he proceeded to examine the body.
“She is warmer than I’d expect. The decomposition must be advancing rapidly. I’ll need that ice.” He paused. It, no not it, she breathed. It was a gasp, a weak one at that, but a breath.
“Brandy!” He shouted, “and be quick about it, man. She’s alive.”
The youngest resurrection man ran for the decanter and returned as fast as he could. “Here, sir.”
The doctor took some and moistened the woman’s lips with it. She gasped again and stirred. “She’s cold, bring a blanket and a warm brick.” He immediately unwrapped the winding bandages from her body and untied the bindings on her legs and arms. “Come man, rub her legs. We must get the blood flowing.”
Between the warmth, the brandy, and the commotion, the woman’s eyes suddenly opened, and she sat up. She saw this handsome dark-haired man looking at her. His concern for her was evident in his face.
“Is this Heaven?”
“No. England.”
“Close enough.” Then she lay back and closed her eyes again.
April 23, 2016
The Art of Deception 11 #wewriwar #amwriting
or Pride and Extreme Prejudice
Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This week I continue another book, that will eventually come out via booktrope. It’s a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar Last week, Roderick Lord Fiztpatrick’s story continued. He proposed to demonstrate some practical abolition. This week describes the immediate consequences of his actions.
The British Minister was summoned to the President’s House the next morning; Captain Lewis met him, and he was not pleased.
“Where is Lord Fitzpatrick?”
“Lord Fitzpatrick, may I enquire why you wish to see him?”
“Someone burned down the slave pens at the Yellow House; thousands of dollars of property has gone missing, vanished into the night.”
“It has … What possibly could this have to do with him?”
“One of the chattel who disappeared was the wife of his servant; Mr Jefferson wanted her out of the President’s House; we also found the remains of a phosphorus jar … it was used to start the fire.”
“Indeed, I still fail to see how that is relevant,” Mr Merry was a master of obtuseness. It stood him in good stead, especially in times like these.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Mr Merry stared at him, and completely missed his point; again he said deliberately, as he was being annoyingly obtuse and enjoying it, “That reminds me, we’re looking for a housekeeper … you wouldn’t know of one who is available?”
Please see the other talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.
Both Robey’s Tavern and the ‘Yellow House’ were notorious examples of slave pens. They were roughly located where the FAA offices and/or the Air and Space Museum are today and were in plain sight of both the White House and the Capitol building. While the white Southerner’s claimed that slavery was natural and good, a real benefit to mankind, it is interesting to note that the documentation about its practice is sketchy at best. Even the ‘fire breathers’ weren’t proud of it in the end.
On a non-literary note, one of my students, Brendan Benshoof, just defended his Ph.D. Tuesday. It’s been a flurry of activity (to be honest, a blizzard of activity) getting the last little bits of papers and dissertation complete before he takes off for a job at Google.
I’ve also released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere 
This is a fun read, and unlike “The curious profession of dr craven 
” seems to not carry a curse. However, Dr Craven is on sale this week.
Frankenkitty is available.
> What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.
Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.
April 21, 2016
Long term review of the Opteka 500mm lens
About a year ago i purchased one of these lenses to take pictures of wildlife. 
I now have enough experience to write a review.
Good points:
Inexpensive. $140 on Amazon. A “real” Nikon lens can run into the thousands.
Works. It does what it says. It will bring things into close focus. Including things you don’t want to get too close to.
Small, light and maneuverable A conventional telephoto lens is much longer and heavier.
Close focus You can focus on surprisingly close objects. This makes it great for taking pictures of things that don’t appreciate humans getting up close and personal.
Bad points:
Weakly coupled to the camera. Everything is manual, including exposure.
No autofocus. This limits its use in rapidly changing situations. Following a moving bird for example.
Paper-thin focus. Be prepared to take several photos to get the focus right
Infinity is not set at infinity on the lens. Don’t assume the stars are in focus.
The 2x extender leads to barrel distortions.
I generally use it with a fast shutter exposure (1/4000 s) to avoid blur and then control the exposure with the camera’s “film speed” setting. In bright light that’s about 2000ASA. In dim light, you may have to play around.
It’s also critical to make sure that the T-mount is firmly screwed into the lens. If it comes loose you won’t be able to focus.
This picture shows what I mean by paper thin focus:
Note that I’ve focused on one wing of the butterfly and the other wing is completely out of focus.
This picture of an alligator and heron show the same effect at a longer distance.
It should look like this:
It can be an advantage to have a thin focus. The bird is clear and the reeds have disappeared.
It’s great for taking pictures of things that aren’t moving too quickly, like this female cardinal.
And you can get some great effects:
In summary, you get what you pay for. It works. There are several things that could be better, but you have to fork over the cash. I wouldn’t use it for rapidly changing things like sports or moving creatures. But if you have the time to focus and remember to take several shots, it’s a great little lens.
April 20, 2016
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore (Sonnet 60)
William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
April 19, 2016
The Peddler of Flowers
Amy Lowell, 1874 – 1925
I came from the country
With flowers,
Larkspur and roses,
Fretted lilies
In their leaves,
And long, cool lavender.
I carried them
From house to house,
And cried them
Down hot streets.
The sun fell
Upon my flowers,
And the dust of the streets
Blew over my basket.
That night
I slept upon the open seats
Of a circus,
Where all day long
People had watched
The antics
Of a painted clown.
April 17, 2016
Savannah Natural Wildlife Refuge. #birding #photoblog
Only about ten miles from the city, but a world away in reality, the Savannah NWR is a fantastic place to watch birds and … other creatures. 
The internet died at my lodging before I could post the bird lists. The cover shot shows a flock of glossy ibis (sort of, ahem, unusual). There are also grey ibis and two species of egret (snowy and great white). I saw chimney storks, blue and tricolor herons, killdeer, american coots, boat-tailed grackles (sort of hard to miss – they were demonstrating their vocal abilities), and a couple of cardinals. Not at the site, but on the way were terns and grey vultures. I wasn’t trying to identify the “little brown birds” which are now where my life list is lacking.
This is a better picture of a tricolor heron.
But the stars of the show are alligators.
You’re not supposed to mess with them. For good reason, come late afternoon they wake up and start to give you the eye. Fortunately, they don’t think much of humans.
April 16, 2016
The Art of Deception 10 #wewriwar #amwriting
or Pride and Extreme Prejudice
Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This week I continue another book, that will eventually come out via booktrope. It’s a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar Last week, we left Alice to her Uncle Grey’s tender mercies. This week we resume Roderick, Lord Fitzpatrick’s story. He’s just told his African American manservant that he is returning to England, but that he has arranged for his servant’s wife to be freed. There is a complication.
“They’re sending her South.”
“Bugger it! Where, when?”
“Today, she’s in Robey’s warehouse, chained; auction tomorrow.”
“Robey’s tavern?”
“Either that or the Yellow House next door.”
Roderick paused, while he claimed crude methods were beneath him, there were times, and this was one of them, that they were appropriate, “Thomas, I think a change of garment is in order; lay out the gentleman’s ken cracking clothes; I’ll need my screws, the phos bottle and … whatever happened to my jemmy, by the way?”
“I was visiting Hannah.”
“Thought as much; that was a tad sloppy of you; if you’d see that our mounts are ready, and I’ll need a light travelling bag packed; can Hannah ride?”
Please see the other talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.
The cover image shows a map from 1856 that shows the scene of the action. The Smithsonian, wasn’t yet there.
I’m on a trip to Tybee Island and may be a little late at replying.
I’ve also released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere This is a fun read, and unlike “The curious profession of dr craven ” seems to not carry a curse.
Frankenkitty is available.> What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.
Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.
