I collect very old Chinese porcelain. I used to have a lot more of it, but in the name of de-cluttering, I divided my collection and gave the other half to my best friend who I knew would appreciate it.
The Chinese government has not always been diligent in managing their national treasures. Sometimes, it was a political decision. Many times, foreigners have stolen the best and most beautiful, which is why you will see so much Chinese art in English and American museums. They didn’t give it to us; we didn’t buy it. We stole it. What a shock they aren’t as in love with us as we think they ought to be.
In recent decades, the issues have been pragmatic — lack of money. There is so much that needs preservation. The U.S. has difficulty preserving our 250 years of history. Imagine how hard — and expensive — if your nation’s history goes back thousands of years. And your country is huge and densely populated.
Suddenly, preservation becomes more than slightly daunting.
Private collectors — like me — who have become custodians of some of these very old things have an obligation to care for them. We have to make sure they will be inherited by others who will treasure them. That’s not as easy as you might think. Not everyone “gets it.” And many people have no room; they have their own stuff and can’t help with yours.
I could have sold my pots but I didn’t want them to go to the highest bidder. I wanted them to be where they would be loved. If that sounds weird, you have never collected antiquities.
When you hold one of these pieces, you hold history in your hand. Imagine how many people have held this vase, this statue, this oil lamp. How many lives this pot has touched. Imagine!
This Han dynasty pot is approximately 2000 years old, give or take a century or so. It’s in remarkably good condition for its age, probably because it was buried for most of its life. I have two of these, almost a matched set, but the other is in the care of my best friend. I think this qualifies as more than 50 years old.
This is blizzard time in New England, when the biggest baddest storms hit.
Traffic was, as usual, heavy. Snow started falling at more than an inch per hour trapping more than 3,000 automobiles and 500 trucks in rapidly building snowdrifts. Route 128 (aka Route 95) became a giant snowdrift where 14 people died from carbon monoxide poisoning, huddled in their trapped cars.
There are so many scenes that remain clear in my memory from the Blizzard of ’78.
I was smack dab in the middle of it from the beginning. I lived just down the street and was able to slog through the snow to the newsroom. As one of the few reporters who could get to the station without a car, I found myself doing myriad live shots across Massachusetts and other parts of New England.
I would like to give a special shout out to my colleagues who ran the cameras, the trucks, set our cable and mike lines, found signals when it seemed impossible and worked nonstop under the most dire and difficult conditions. All I had to do was stand in front of the camera or interview people. I recall standing in the middle of the Mass Turnpike, the Southeast Expressway, Rt. 495 and other major arteries doing live shots. Nothing was moving.
There was no traffic. No people. Abandoned vehicles littered the landscape. It was surreal. Sometimes it felt like Rod Serling was calling the shots. The snow accumulation was beyond impressive. I am or was 5 foot 6 inches. I often had to stand on snow “mountains” to be seen. My creative camera crews used the reverse image to dwarf me (no snickering, please) to show the impressive snow piles. No trickery was needed. Mother Nature did it all.
Downtown Boston looked like something out of the cult movie “The World, The Flesh And The Devil”. The end of the world at hand. No motor traffic, very few people: just snow as high and as far as the eye could see.
Ironically, people who were usually indifferent to each other became friendly and caring. Acts of kindness and compassion were commonplace, at least for a few days. Those of us working in front or back of the camera logged long hours, minimal sleep, lots of coffee, lots of pizza and intermittently laughed and grumbled. There are some behind the scenes stories that will stay there for discretion’s sake.
The Blizzard of ’78 will always be among the top stories in my news career. It needs no embellishment. The facts and the pictures tell it all. It needs no hype or hysteria.
About Photographs of the Blizzard of ’78:
There aren’t many pictures of the blizzard available. You’ll see the same shots whenever the blizzard is remembered. In 1978, everyone didn’t have a digital camera and a cell phone. People didn’t have instant access to photographs the way we do now.
If you have pictures and can share them, I’d love to see different images. All of the photos I’ve included are archive news photos. I’m betting some of you out there have photographs and lots of us would find them very interesting! You would need to scan them, I guess. Hard to remember all the way back to pre-digital.
From Google, this is dedicated to Harriet Tubman, Activist, humanitarian, African-American abolitionist, humanitarian, and Union spy during the American Civil War. (See Wikipedia for more.)
She was born in 1820 in Dorchester County, MD and died on March 10, 1913, in Auburn, NY. Married to Nelson Davis (1869-1888) and John Tubman (1844-1851), she had one daughter, Gertie Davies. She was the child of Harriet Greene and Ben Ross.
There is a huge amount of information about Harriet Tubman available in libraries and across the Internet. Today is the first days of African-American History month. Google Harriet Tubman to find out wonderful things you will love to know.
Not all heroes wear uniforms.
Today is a quiet day…a co-o-o-old day so definitely a day to stay inside simply enjoying the warmth of hearth and home. Just finished reading The 12-ft Teepee by Marilyn Armstrong (featured below) and thought I would take some time to visit blogs I am following. How surprised I was upon coming across The Lost Spirits @A Misbehaved Woman.
What better topic to revisit than that of the American Indians?
Disturbing, however, is the fact this story is not totally past history…it is tied to history, yes, but it is also right here, right now, in America, in New York City.
So much good stuff to read in this post … including (blush) the best review I’ve ever gotten of my little book.
See on awakenings2012.blogspot.com
I always wondered about Galahad, why he showed up in some tales but not others and why sometimes Lancelot was called Galahad. Here are the answers!
Originally posted on Tallhwch:
The grail hero was originally Peredur/Perceval. He is present in the oldest extant “Arthurian” stories and is the most common grail hero in Arthurian literature. He also seems to have the older elements associated with him; the relationship to the Welsh Peredur and the grafting of the story from Phillip of Flanders’ life.
However, as the Arthurian corpus began to grow and develop, there were two problems with the continued use of Perceval in the grail story. For one, he was associated with an established tale involving a buffoon who persevered and gained wisdom through his own efforts. Such literature was simple and had roots deep in the legends of Europe, but did not appeal to the higher echelons of society that were reading grail stories.
The second problem was even greater than the first, that Perceval was not Lancelot. Lancelot grew in popularity from the moment he came off…
View original 359 more words
In the early 1990s, Garry did a feature about Alfred Eisenstadt and Lois Maillou Jones, both of whom lived on the Vineyard and had been given Presidential Medals of Honor for their work. We became friends with both artists. Eisenstadt was in his early 90s and Lois Maillou Jones was in her mid 80s. It was a great moment when Eisie told Lois she was “just a kid.” We laughed then, but time has changed our perspective.
I had been an admirer of Eisenstadt’s work as long as I’d been taking pictures. I took my first ever roll of film on Martha’s Vineyard in 1966. I had stayed at the Menemsha Inn where (it turned out — a wild case of serendipity) Eisenstadt lived from late spring till Labor Day. Books of Eisie’s work — that was what everyone called him and he preferred it — were all over the inn, in bookcases and on tables. Most featured Eisie’s landscapes of Martha’s Vineyard.
I was using my first camera, a Practika with a great Zeiss 50mm lens, but no light meter, nothing even slightly automatic. It had a crank film advance, a barebones camera. Perfect for a beginner. I had to learn how to take pictures, how to take a light reading with a handheld meter. I had to focus it myself.
No zoom lens — no other lenses at all. Just a single f2.8 50 mm prime and no flash. My feet did the zooming, God did the lighting. I learned the basics of photography many people of the digital generation never learn. Most of today’s photographers have never used a non-automatic camera much less a hand-held meter. Maybe it doesn’t matter. But maybe it does.
The camera was a gift from a friend who had moved on to more modern and expensive gear. With that Zeiss lens and a good eye, I followed Eisenstadt’s path. I discovered where he’d taken each picture, figured out how he’d gotten the perspective, framed it, and not only duplicated his shots down to the clump of grass he’d crouched behind to create a foreground, I also added a few ideas that worked out well. Surprising because I was winging it.
My first roll of film was declared brilliant. It was, except that the photographs were Alfred Eisenstadt‘s pictures reproduced by me on my camera. I learned photography by following his footsteps and seeing what he saw. By the time I was done, I’d gained a whole education. The technical stuff took … is still taking … the rest of my life. I was good in a darkroom with black and white film, but Photoshop has been an ongoing challenge.
As we got to know Eisie better, I asked him to autograph his books for me and he did, but he didn’t merely autograph them. He went through each book, photograph by photograph. He was in his early 90s and forgot many things, but he remembered every picture he’d taken, including which film and camera he was using, what lens was on it, the F-stop and most important, what he was thinking as he shot it. He could remember exactly what it was about the image that grabbed his attention. It was an education money could never buy.
For example, the picture of the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square on VJ Day, he said he was walking around Times Square with his Nikon and he saw them, the dark of the sailor’s uniform against the white of the nurse’s dress and he shot. He knew it was what he wanted. The light, the contrast, perfect. Great street journalism looks accidental … but it isn’t. It’s, in my opinion, the most difficult of all the various types of photography because you have to see your shot and grab it, get it right the first time. If you miss it, it’s gone. No second chances.
Were we close friends? Close enough I guess, considering the late date at which we entered his life. At that point in his life, he spent most of his time in the company of Lulu, his former sister-in-law who took care of him. She was a lovely, warm, sweet lady who sometimes needed an afternoon off. We were happy to Eisie-sit and let her go to town for an afternoon. Eisie was interesting and funny, but high maintenance. He did not suffer from a lack of ego.
We spent time with him every summer for about five years until he died, and we were honored to be among those invited to the funeral which was closed to the public. Although it was sad because Eisie was gone, we also found things to laugh about. Knowing him was special and some memories are worth a laughter. I don’t think he’d have minded.
A few thoughts on YOUR story
For the past few weeks I have had the opportunity to post a few small works of fiction. They were just little stories that I hoped would make a point. While they are no one’s story in particular, they all contain elements that are familiar to me. I filled in the details with characters and descriptions that would make a story. That was the fun part of telling a tale that in some ways I know well. If you read any of them these on past Sundays, I hope you found some enjoyment. I would like to recommend to you now a more important story. It is one that only you can fill in the details and it is imperative that you do it soon, before the chance slips away. That story is your story.
How often have you wondered about the details of your ancestry? How often did you wish to know more about your parents’ lives or your grandparents’ lives? Where did they come from? How did they meet? How did they fall in love? What did they do before you were around? Perhaps you have parents who were around at pivotal points in history. What do they recall? Did you wait until it was too late to ask these questions or is there still time?
It is not that my brother and I did not think to ask our parents about their earlier lives, we just did not get good answers. Of course, we did not press them on anything, especially when we were young. My mother lived through the Great Depression and the family was so poor that a wealthy relative offered to raise my mother since my grandmother had so many kids she could not properly feed. Apparently my grandfather was not a good provider. Details of his bad habits are sketchy. My mother was not given away as they struggled through the thirties. As for the war years, I have no idea.
My father was born into rural American farm life. He joined the war effort as soon as he was old enough. Like many of our “greatest generation” he said little about it. “What did you do in the war, dad?” we might ask. “I learned to peel potatoes”, he would usually respond. Even if that were true, it does not tell the story. My father was a member of the army air corp. 509 Composite. That is the group that was on Tinian Island. There the secret mission was to assemble the team and enough support personnel to drop the atom bomb on Japan. Did my father know any of that? Probably not as records indicate he was trained in first aid and medical support. Some of what is left is a matter of contradictions. Some of the record may have been untrue to cover what was the actual story. It is hard to imagine he left the war in Europe or Africa where he had medals, for “agricultural training” here. He was raised on a farm. More likely, he trained as support staff before going to a small island in the South Pacific.
Late in dad’s life it was futile to recover any details. My brother tried to get some information and did a lot of research that allowed us to only confirm a few things. We have medals, his discharge paper and the 509 Composite book with some pictures as the only definite facts. The rest of the story was my father’s joke or dismissive answers. Of course, we have heard that many who came back from the war, did not want to talk about it. In my father’s later life we did attend some family reunions and travelled to the rural community where he was born. My grandparents are buried there. We learned some of his past, nothing about the war.
I tell you all this to remind you that you may want to learn as much of your ancestry as you can. It is part of your story. You may have heard of ancestry.com or the PBS television series that traces the ancestry of famous people. These have become popular because of our desires to know who we are and where we came from. If your parents and grandparents are alive, ask them your questions now, before it is too late.
When my grandmother was still alive and in her 90′s, there was a picture take with her holding her great-great grand-daughter with her daughter, grand-daughter and great grand-daughter behind her. I wonder if there is a copy of that photo for the infant in the picture. More importantly, can anyone recount the stories of those in the picture? Save your priceless photos too. There may be no telling how valuable these pictures will be to future generations.
What about the most important story of all? That would be your story, of course. You may not think it now, but your story may be important to the future. Consider what your friends and offspring may wish to know. Tell the stories as honestly as you can. That does not mean you have to tell everything. Some things are best if they are not passed along. Tell the things the next generations will want to know about you and who and what came before you as far as you know. You will be honoring the future generations in this way. What you wanted to know about your past may be what your offspring will want to know about you. Toss the dirt out the window and save the good stuff for future generations to know.
National Public Radio has featured stories from Story Corps. Over 90,000 people have recorded their stories there, some more than once, years apart. Some are absolutely moving accounts of where some people have been in their lives. I heard one on the radio of an elderly couple who told their story on-line and then updated 10 years later before the husband’s death. Then he recounted how he wrote love letters to his wife every day for over 40 years and their love had never died. Did following generations know this? They know it now. Do not leave your story untold and unwritten. It is your legacy. It is the most important story you know.
Jefferson and Hamilton: The Rivalry That Forged a Nation
Publication date: October 1, 2013
One of my professors in college was Broadus Mitchell. He was the foremost Hamiltonian scholar of his day, author of multiple biographies of Hamilton and associates. Not surprisingly, my freshman year at Hofstra’s New College with Broadus Mitchell was an intensive study of Alexander Hamilton and the founding of America. The textbook was (surprise!) one of the several biographies of Hamilton authored by Broadus Mitchell.
When I was given the opportunity to review this book, I was intrigued. I wondered what the author could tell me I hadn’t read elsewhere and if he could tell the story better or differently, perhaps offer some fresh insights.
I have patience with history books. I don’t expect it to read like fiction. Much to my delight, John Ferling’s opening chapters in which he compares and examines the youth, upbringing and psychological makeup of both men is beautifully written — entertaining and lively. Perceptive. Astute. What drove them, what inspired them to become the men who built America.
All was going swimmingly well for me until the war began. The Revolutionary War.
I am not a war buff. I was not expecting a play-by-play of the revolution. But there it was. Battle by battle, troop movement by troop movement. I could feel my brain switch to off. I’m not sure why the full details of the war are included. Aside from showcasing Hamilton’s military career (doable in a few paragraphs), it adds little to my understanding of either man. As far as I’m concerned, it mainly adds hundreds of pages where a page or two of summary would have sufficed.
If you are a military history buff, you will want to read it. I’ve read other accounts of the military side of the Revolution and this is as good or better than any other book I’ve read on the subject. Perhaps that’s the reason I didn’t want to read it here. It’s your choice. You can choose to skim sections. It’s a long book and there’s plenty of excellent material to engage you. When Ferling is writing about the character and personality of his two extraordinary subjects, he’s brilliant. It makes everything else worthwhile.
Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton were two of the most influential men in American history. The author said it well when he commented (sorry, this isn’t a quote … I’m paraphrasing) that there are lots of statues dedicated to Jefferson, but we live in Hamilton’s world. True enough. Hamilton was the consummate advocate of a strong central government with economic control through a central bank. Jefferson advocated extreme individual freedom, leaving most government to local authorities.
It amuses me that Hamilton is the darling of the conservatives while Jefferson is a liberal ideal. Given Hamilton’s belief in strong central government and Jefferson’s preference for isolationism, individualism and decentralization — well, it pretty much defines our nation’s problem with cognitive dissonance.
If you’re a serious history buff, there is much to like, even if not every part of the book is equally gripping .
It is said that “Both men were visionaries, but their visions of the United States were diametrically opposed.” That may have been true in 1780, but it has long ceased to have any relevance. The strands of their initially opposing philosophies have twisted into a single ball. Both strands are necessary to our American dream.
Jefferson and Hamilton is the story of the struggle — public and ultimately personal — between two major figures in our country’s history. It ended when Alexander Hamilton died in a duel with Aaron Burr, Jefferson’s vice president.
Worth reading for sure, but it’s not light entertainment. This is history buff material. Fortunately, there are still a few of us around.
Of all the reviews I’ve written, I’ve gotten the most feedback on this one (especially on Amazon), both pro and con. I didn’t expect that kind of response and it’s a pleasant surprise. Apparently there are still people out there interested in history, interested enough to argue about it. I find that very encouraging. Maybe there’s hope for our future after all!
About the author:
John Ferling is professor emeritus of history at the University of West Georgia. He is the author of many books on American Revolutionary history, including The Ascent of George Washington; Almost a Miracle, an acclaimed military history of the War of Independence; and the award-winning A Leap in the Dark. He and his wife, Carol, live near Atlanta, Georgia.
Dan Brown’s Inferno is a page turner. The author has created a highly successful formula for his best sellers. They are entertaining, fast-paced. Inferno is no exception. In this adventure sent in Italy and loosely following stuff drawn from Dante Alighieri’s Inferno, he offers readers a sense of inclusion, as if we are all reading something that contains Truth and Meaning, but without requiring we perform any real mental exercise.
It’s a formula that works. Inferno – all 560 pages — whisks you along while feeding you tantalizing tidbits of apparently arcane knowledge. You feel you’ve been let into an exclusive club and taught the secret handshake.
As with all of Brown’s novels, Robert Langdon — my pick for The Most Interesting Man in the World – is hired (hijacked?) to unravel a mystery wrapped in an enigma, to follow a trail, find and stop a catastrophe on which the fate of humankind hinges. Which is what he does in every book in which he appears. There is (of course) a beautiful woman of mystery. In this case, two. There are dangerous men of questionable loyalties, dreams and visions of death and plague. There is the inevitable evil genius who has constructed a terrible mechanism of ultimate destruction (or is it?) and the clock is ticking.
Only Robert Langdon, of all the professors in all the universities in all the world could possibly unravel the knot. This is made more difficult because, for much of the book, Dr. Langdon is suffering from amnesia and doesn’t remember several critical days and events. Not that this will stop the intrepid professor.
It’s almost as good as a trip to Italy, without the expense and stress of physical travel. Whatever Dan Brown may lack as an author, he has a remarkable gift for description. He brings his locations alive. You see them through his eyes in all their glory and it is, in my opinion, what raises his books above the ordinary and makes them memorable. You probably only remember the outline of the plots, but you remember the places because he describes them so vividly.
It’s something of a scavenger hunt. Langdon and his companion(s) follow the bread crumbs (clues) to the ultimate destination. Will he get there in time? Can he stop it from doing the evil thing the madman who set it in motion planned?
There’s a bit of a surprise ending to the book. A few extra plot twists leave the story wide open for a sequel. Inferno is a much better story than The Lost Symbol (probably because Florence trumps Washington DC) though he has not topped The DaVinci Code. As far as stories, got, Angels and Demons (the book, not the movie) was almost as silly as Harrison Ford surviving a nuclear explosion by locking himself in an old refrigerator. Nothing will ever top the nuke vs. the refrigerator for the “surely you don’t expect me to believe that” medal … but Langdon’s parachute jump using his jacket comes pretty close. He didn’t even sprain an ankle. What a guy!
If you examine it closely, you will notice more than a few parts don’t make sense, but it’s fiction. Do not take it seriously. If you read it just for fun and don’t think too hard, you’ll enjoy it. Not only is Dan Brown the master of non sequitur, but his hero, Robert Langdon makes leaps of logic that go far beyond impressive, They are absolutely psychic. The cherry on top is Langdon does most of this while suffering from amnesia! Again all I can say is, what a guy!
It’s not great literature — maybe not even good literature — but it is great recreation. It’s all action, sexy without anyone having sex, no small achievement. And, if there’s a trip to Florence in your future, it’s a must-read. It’s better than any guide-book.
Inferno is available in bookstores everywhere and of course on Audible.com and Kindle. I listened to it as an audiobook and it was excellent, so if you prefer listening, this is a good one.
The first mention of either the Lady of the Lake or Ninian (Niniane, Vivian, etc.) is to be found in the late work Prose Merlin. Her character remains much the same through to Sir Thomas Malory, who simply makes the story more complex. In all the stories that name her Ninian is a fully developed character. She is the original owner of Arthur’s second sword and later becomes Merlin’s pupil.
However, as with many aspects of the Arthurian literary world, there are serious gaps in reasoning with her story, and these gaps suggest a very different origin for her. For instance, Merlin somehow knows she will betray him, but teaches her anyway. The romances explain that he does so because he loves her, but that sounds like more of a rationalization of something not understood than an historical fact that is.
The end of her story is that Niniane does trap Merlin in a cave the moment her studies are over. He is left there, alive (again, no serious explanation). It certainly is not out of malice for Arthur. Ninian takes over as his counselor for the remainder of his reign and does her best to help him. She is also one of the four women who takes him to Avalon. That is the extent of Ninian’s literary career. Clearly her original character and the transformation have been hidden by chance and misunderstandings.
Uinniau was a prominent ecclesiastic of sixth century Britain who may have been Columba’s teacher. He was known as Ninian in Welsh saints’ lives or Nynia by Bede. However, much of Scotland has place-names derived from his proper name of Uinniau. This Uinniau was known for three things mainly. First, he was one of the most knowledgeable persons of his age. Second, he was a great teacher who made his monastery of Whithorn was a primary center of learning in Britain. Finally, it is known that he would occasionally go on a retreat to a nearby cave, known as St. Ninian’s Cave, which was several miles away from his monastery.
Ninian would eventually became the form by which Uinniau was exclusively known. In fact, the process must have been an early one. Bede, writing in 725, knew him only by that name. It was an unfortunate circumstance that Ninian was a Celtic name, and the romance writers who would treat Arthur on the continent spoke Germanic and Latin languages. The unfamiliarity with Celtic would lead to confusion over his gender, and he became a she there.
Arthur was an attractive figure in the literature of the Middle Ages, gravitating all manner of figures, motifs, and stories to him. In previous blogs I have mentioned the attraction of the Myrddin (Merlin) legend and the figure of Urien. The same sort of fate awaited Uinniau. Long before Arthur had become a figure of romance, Uinniau’s dominant name-form had become to Ninian. For the Celtic speaker that was still a male name, but for continentals it was female.
That change from male to female, from independent ecclesiastic to intelligent layperson was where Uinniau became a different literary figure. Once Uinniau was a part of the Arthurian universe, his reputation for intelligence would have drawn him to the already established Merlin; in an irony of history a lunatic (Myrddin) became the teacher of one of the best-read people of the age (Uinniau). Once that transformation was accomplished, the latent aspects of Uinniau’s memory easily made their way into Arthurian the tales, and Merlin was trapped in the cave Uinnau had used as a refuge.
I won’t pretend to know how Ninian became the Lady of the Lake. However, she would not have begun her Arthurian career that way. She would have started off as Merlin’s pupil and successor with the qualities of her historical precursor intact. She was associated with a lake only by Robert de Boron, an author that I have discovered in my research was not one to stick with his traditional sources. It is possible he knew of some Celtic tale which he used to enhance Uinniau’s mythology. It is equally possible he used something more contemporary. That part of the history of the Lady of the Lake we may never know.
From my favorite blog, one of my favorite mysteries … partially solved, but leaving enough unanswered questions to hold my interest. I love this stuff. If you have never visited TALLWCH, you are missing a treat. Check it out at - http://tallhwch.wordpress.com/2014/01/09/niniane-the-lady-of-the-lake/
See on tallhwch.wordpress.com
It’s a tiny church hidden behind houses in Amherst. If you don’t know to look, you would never find it. About the size of my living room and dining room combined, the cross on top is a bit crooked. Such a small church, such a long history.
The Goodwin Memorial African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church is a historic church on Woodside Avenue in Amherst, Massachusetts.
The church, built in 1910, is located down a narrow lane in the otherwise residential neighborhood. It is about 25 feet by 50 feet, styled in the Craftsman style popular at the time of its construction. It remains essentially the same since being built.
The church is named for Moses Goodwin, a local resident and parishioner. It was the second building for the African-American congregation that occupies it. The first — built in 1869 on a nearby lot — was demolished in 1917. It continues to be a social and religious center for Amherst’s African-American community.
Zion Church was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2000.
I love westerns. I hate westerns. I grew up wanting to be a western hero, maybe the Lone Ranger. Never mind the gender issue. I knew by the time I was 5 that boys get to do a lot more stuff than girls, so I wanted to be one.
When I was a kid I didn’t know much. I didn’t count bullets and wonder how come they didn’t reload. I had no idea how many bullets there ought to be. I didn’t notice prejudice, bigotry and the near-genocide of Native Americans … hey, I was a kid. But I’m not a kid now. I know what it means when someone says “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”
I understand westerns are not historical documents and I don’t need them to be. I’m used to historical manipulation, ignoring facts to make a story work. But I can’t seem to ignore cruelty, mass murder and the adulation of psychopaths. The claims of heroism for what are really acts of malice, stupidity and greed. It doesn’t roll off me.
Big things bother me a lot while small things bother me proportionately less — like an itch I can’t scratch. “Print the legend” does not work for me. I can’t wrap my head around the myth. There are exceptions of course … but mostly … westerns have become painful to watch. New-style and cynical — or old-fashioned and racist — it’s the same. The only difference is style. For me, it’s no longer entertainment.
It just hurts.