Saw the 1932 movie “Red Dust” this week.  I noticed that the Jean Harlow character pronounced the word “forehead” the way I was taught to say it — for’ – ed.  Actually, that is still the preferred pronunciation.  I looked it up.

Recently, one of our number commented on the grandeur of her own forehead, which I must admit, I had never really noticed.  Then, when I started looking through family photos, I could see that we all, whether genetically-linked or not,  seem to have magnificent frontal lobes.  Much evidence follows, in no particular order.  Kindly note that no one thought of concealing this fine physical feature with silly bangs.

I am not Roman Catholic, and, consequently, have no interest in popes one way or another.  But you don’t have to be a member of that church to know that they have had serious problems with their clergy forcing themselves on little children.  Am I the only one who is creeped out by the pictures of this screaming little one being forced to allow a priest to touch him against his will?  Looks like perhaps his own father is offering him up.  I know this is a chaste kiss, but any child who was ever forced to kiss an old uncle or to sit on his lap just knows this is wrong. Jeeze!  No touching!!

My “literary discussion group” is coming to 1880 this afternoon (Read “book group.) so I knocked down a few cobwebs and re-arranged things a bit.  Elizabeth sent me this beautiful original wood block print of Kipahulu Falls for my birthday.

It looks good above the sofa.

And the chest in the front hall got some seasonal touches.

I have this fantasy that at the equinox, everything is, for just a moment, in perfect balance, and the earth pauses there motionless for just a moment and sighs “ahhhhh.”  I understand that here, this year, that magic moment will occur at precisely 4:23 a.m.  I’m not sure how we know that but I am sure that I will miss it, so I decided to begin my vernal celebration today.

This “Daylight Map” is one of my favorite sites.  On solstices, the dark and light areas have very curved shapes.  At the equinoxes, they are straight up and down:

http://www.daylightmap.com/index.php

I snapped a picture out my upstairs east window this morning as the sun rose precisely in the east behind my neighbor’s cedar tree.  It does this every equinox.

I took Kobe over to the Oregon State Capitol Mall for his annual photo shoot with the cherry blossoms.  Handsome boy.

“Welcome, sweet springtime, we greet thee in song” — and you greet us with “a host of golden daffodils.”  (I guess these lines just lurk forever in the dark recesses of  my mind where they were instilled in grade school.)

I have no Irish heritage other than a very tenuous connection. I descend from an Indian tribe which was death-marched to the Indian Territory (now Oklahoma) in 1842. In 1947, the survivors, that is one-third of the tribe, very poor farmers themselves, learned of the Irish potato famine and collected among themselves $170 to send to the needy farmers across a sea they had never seen.

Still, one should never miss an opportunity to celebrate. I have nothing truly green in my wardrobe and spent the weekend in chartreuse. Susan and I began by going to Deepwood House for an Irish tea on Friday.

Then, on Sunday, after a very musically-Irish service at St. P’s, Gillian and I went to the Konditorei for some green food — I had spinach salad and she had split pea soup.  The Konditorei’s locally-very-famous owner was on the scene, in some colorful attire.  He posed with Gillian.

Then out to the Shoemaker’s wonderful country place where I was treated to a delicious and beautifully presented traditional dinner.

My contribution was a bit of a mixed-metaphor — gelato and shortbread.  It least it was green.