Music was a haven for me when I was young living in my parents’s house. Much of what I’ve heard and enjoyed throughout my life has had Quincy Jones’s hand involved. May he rest in power. This is sad.
You cannot write the history of Black music and entertainment without Quincy Jones. During his 70 year artistic career as a musician, producer and composer, his impact has been felt throughout our culture. According to a statement from his family, Jones died Sunday night at the age of 91, at his home in Bel Air, Calif. (snip-much MORE; tissue alert)
OK, so it didn’t take me this long to eat lunch; I’ve had some other things to do, and wanted to let the first post settle a bit. Since I got that all out, some of my urgency has abated, though I still want to tie the subject up, until/unless there are comments where we can discuss and enjoy however long we want.
Lunch was brunch. My plate was frambled eggs with toast. I know I said it wasn’t a cooking post, and look what I’m doing. When I make frambled eggs, I cook the eggs as if for over-easy (yolks runny, whites cooked.) Turn the eggs when it’s time, let them get a bit of heat on that side, then gently drag your spatula through, to break the yolk and drag the white through the yolk. My personal goal is not a hard-cooked yolk, but what I guess they call a jammy yolk; you get a bit of liquid, even, but it’s not drippy. You just keep gently lifting and turning until you like the consistency of the eggs. I had whole wheat toast, and oatmeal that I apple-pie spiced, and sweetened with honey. We’ve been having a rain “event,” so I’d got the laundry to the laundry room to run and to dry between/before rains.
Our laundry room is at the front of our front carport, front being the direction the front end of the car points; we park in front of the laundry room. Our house is a whole post in and of itself, but not quite as Scottie’s and Ron’s house; they may run theirs by crisis and we rarely have a crisis, but their house is nicer and more modern than ours. Also, while Sat. and Sunday are fitness rest days, I still do 10 min. every hour on the rebounder to get my steps. So, lunch hour took a little while. It’s a rest day! 😎 And the first day of Standard time, so everything’s a little later because our bio clocks are still running on Saving time. 🕰
I wonder if everybody has that one or two commercials that the last time it airs cannot come too soon. For me, right now, (and I know the winter holidays commercials are coming…) it’s that Wegovy commercial. I just want it to stop. Interestingly, while I’m not a big fan of Big Pharma, one of the ads I enjoy, all its versions, is the Jardiance ad! It makes me dance. Well, the newest one’s tempo is too slow for fun dancing, but it’s still a nice ad. This is neither a plug for or against either drug. Those have their place and may be discussed with a person’s doctor. This is just about the ads. The ones that use music from my youth especially tick me off, so I just ignore them and dance to their background music. I hate that King Harvest’s “Dancin’ in the Moonlight” is one that’s been appropriated. It’s been one of my top favorites forever, and they can’t take it away from me!
I turned all the clocks back last night, except one. But our son came out, noticed, and said, “Aren’t we supposed to turn the clocks back? The bathroom clock is an hour fast.” Truly, I’d turned the clocks up. I find the semi-annual time change abhorrent and stupid, but I disdain Saving time the most, because there goes another hour of my life, every year, that doesn’t come back, not really, so I guess changing the clock put me in a negative mindset and I went the wrong way. Anyway, it’s been enough years of my life now that I don’t care which we have, we simply need to pick one and be done. I don’t change the analog clock in the kitchen; it’s over the kitchen table, and I can’t reach it unless I stand on the kitchen table. Some day there could be a reason for me to stand on the kitchen table, but I’m not doin’ it to change the damn clock. The guys will get tired of it sooner or later, and I have the stove clock. And my Fitwitch on my wrist.
Well, that’s a sort of round up of trivia and drift. I hope readers have enjoyed it, at least smiled or giggled, and maybe feel a little better.
We can do this stuff. It’s still way too early to let Republicanism mess with our mental health.
Deep in the forest lies a wildflower that defies expectations. Often mistaken for a fungus, the plant is a pale, translucent white in bloom—sometimes tinted pink or, rarely, a deep red. The ephemeral flower blackens if touched and quickly decays if plucked from the earth.
This month, as we celebrate all things spooky and supernatural, it’s only fitting to spotlight a species that is both ghost and vampire: Monotropa uniflora.
This peculiar plant can be found throughout much of North America, East Asia, and in northern regions of South America. It typically grows in moist, shaded areas of mature forests, springing from the soil to flower between June and September. Each plant has only one cup-shaped flower per stem, which droops toward the ground at first bloom. This downward orientation is thought to protect its nectar and pollen from rain. Carl Linnaeus had these properties in mind when he classified the plant as Monotropa uniflora in 1753. “Monotropa” is Greek for “one turn,” a reference to the arched stem that supports the nodding flower, and “uniflora” means “one-flowered” in Latin. Once pollinated and fertilized, the flower gradually turns upright, eventually maturing into a dry, woody capsule filled with thousands of seeds.
Monotropa uniflora’s hooked appearance has also inspired its common names. “Indian pipe,” for instance, derives from the flower’s resemblance to ceremonial smoking pipes used by many North American Indigenous communities. Other common names are more closely linked to the plant’s eerie coloration, including “ghost pipe,” “ghost plant,” “corpse plant,” and “ice plant.”
Monotropa uniflora’s ghostly presence has just as much to do with what’s happening beneath the surface as above ground. Like any plant, Monotropa uniflora needs sugar to grow and reproduce. Most plants meet this need through photosynthesis, but Monotropa uniflora lacks chlorophyll, the pigment that gives plants their green color and powers the process by absorbing energy from light. It must seek sugar from another source.
The solution? Mycoheterotrophy: a form of plant nutrition in which plants obtain nourishment through networks of mycorrhizal fungi rather than photosynthesis. In this case, tiny threads of fungi in the Russulaceae family act as an underground bridge between the roots of Monotropa uniflora and those of nearby trees. The mycorrhizae deliver water and essential minerals to the trees in exchange for sugar. Monotropa uniflora takes advantage of this relationship by acting as a parasite on the fungal network, taking sugar and nutrients and giving nothing in return.
Monotropa uniflora seed capsules by Ryan Hodnett via Wikimedia Commons
Mycoheterotrophy is a stroke of evolutionary genius. Monotropa uniflora essentially cheats the mycorrhizal fungi and trees from which it receives sustenance.
“The photosynthetic host cannot select against the mycoheterotroph without selecting against its own mutualist mycorrhizal fungi,” explain scientists Sylvia Yang and Donald H. Pfister. Additionally, because mycoheterotrophs aren’t dependent on light for photosynthesis, Monotropa uniflora can flourish in dark environments where many plants would fail.
Monotropa uniflora in Lore and Literature
All of these curious traits have made Monotropa uniflora an object of fascination for generations of storytellers. The plant is woven into oral histories and written narratives across cultures.
Cherokee storyteller Lloyd Arneach chronicles the plant’s creation as a product of human selfishness. As the legend goes, the chiefs of two quarreling nations smoked a pipe together before resolving their weeklong dispute. According to Arneach, “[The Great Spirit] decided to do something to remind all people to smoke the pipe only when making peace. So He turned them into grayish-looking flowers we now call ‘Indian Pipes’ and made them to grow wherever friends and relatives have quarreled.”
Cover of the first edition of Poems by Emily Dickinson via Wikimedia Commons
One of the most prominent storytellers to depict Monotropa uniflora was Emily Dickinson. Although widely recognized for her poetic prowess, Dickinson was also an amateur botanist. While taking botany courses at Amherst Academy and Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, she assembled more than 400 plant specimens in an herbarium that resides in Harvard’s Houghton Library today. Monotropa uniflora is among the hundreds of pressed plants that fill the book’s pages.
Plants provided constant inspiration for Dickinson’s literary works.
“Like flowers in an herbarium, the odd little poems are a faithful inventory of the natural world,” writes Barbara C. Mallonee. Monotropa uniflora is no exception, appearing in a number of Dickinson’s poems and letters. In one quatrain, she writes:
White as an Indian Pipe Red as a Cardinal Flower Fabulous as a Moon at Noon February Hour—
Scholars including Yanbin Kang are working to decipher the symbolism of Monotropa uniflora in Dickinson’s poetry. The plant’s white color could represent purity. Its nodding flower could suggest humility. Its ability to thrive where other plants cannot calls to mind both strength and loneliness—qualities that might have resonated with Dickinson, who lived reclusively at her family’s homestead later in life.
In 1882, Dickinson received a painting of Monotropa uniflora from Mabel Loomis Todd, a family friend who would become the poet’s first posthumous editor. In her letter thanking Todd for the gift, Dickinson wrote “[t]hat without suspecting it you should send me the preferred flower of life, seems almost supernatural, and the sweet glee that I felt at meeting it, I could confide to none.”
Eight years later, Todd shared Dickinson’s words with the world by publishing the first collection of her poems. Todd’s illustration of the poet’s beloved “preferred flower of life” graced the front cover.
Dickinson wasn’t the only poet to pay homage to this otherworldly plant. Sylvia Plath, another Massachusetts resident with botanical interests, mentions Monotropa uniflora in her poem “Child.” She wrote this poem in January 1963, only two weeks before her death. It’s addressed to an infant discovering the world, unburdened by the darkness that casts a shadow over the narrating mother. Immersed in “the zoo of the new,” the child learns of “Indian pipe” along with “April snowdrop”—two white, nodding flowers linked with the fleeting innocence of childhood.
More recently, Christine Butterworth-McDermott’s 2019 poem “Monotropa Uniflora” plays with the plant’s simultaneous embodiment of force and fragility. The employment of bold, active language (“you feast off other hosts”) and softer expressions (“how pale! how delicate!”) reminds us of the complex nature of Monotropa uniflora’s existence. It’s both a skillful parasite and a sensitive species that begins to decompose upon separation from the fungal network that provides its nourishment.
Medicinal Benefits and Modern Use
Monotropa uniflora’s significance isn’t only poetic, it’s practical. Several Indigenous groups in North America used the plant to treat ailments including inflamed eyes, epileptic fits, and toothaches. These properties were later echoed in books on the medicinal benefits of plants. In 1887, Monotropa uniflora was even deemed “an excellent substitute for opium,” easing pain and inducing sleep.
Today, tinctures made with Monotropa uniflora are sold on various online platforms. Foragers have also taken to social media to share the process of gathering the plant and making tinctures of their own. Their posts often advocate responsible harvest practices, namely leaving pollinated flowers untouched and collecting only in regions where the plant is abundant. Monotropa uniflora is at risk of local extinction in states including California, Nebraska, and South Dakota. It faces increasing pressure from wild collection for medicinal use, although more research is needed to determine the scope and severity of this existential threat.
With ties to ecology, poetry, medicine, and more, the ghost of the forest has several stories to tell. If you spot Monotropa uniflora in bloom, bright against the darkness of the forest floor, take a moment to contemplate the many ways in which humans have interacted with it for centuries. This is the mission of the Dumbarton Oaks Plant Humanities Initiative: to appreciate the unparalleled significance of plants to human culture.
November 2, 1920 Socialist Party candidate Eugene V. Debs received nearly one million votes for President though he was serving a prison sentence at the time for his criticism of World War I and his encouraging resistance to the draft. More on Debs
November 2, 1982 Voters in nine general elections passed statewide referenda supporting a freeze on testing of nuclear weapons. Only Arizona turned it down. Dr. Randall Forsberg, a key person behind the Freeze movement Dr. Randall Forsberg
November 2, 1983 A bill designating a federal holiday honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (to be observed on the third Monday of January) was signed by President Ronald Reagan. King was born in Atlanta in 1929, the son of a Baptist minister. He received a doctorate degree in theology and in 1955 organized the first major protest of the civil rights movement: the successful Montgomery Bus Boycott. Influenced by Mohandas Gandhi, he advocated nonviolent civil disobedience of the laws that enforced racial segregation. The history of Martin Luther King Day (pdf)
For me, baseball takes too long and also I’m a lifer Cubbies fan, but I remember really enjoying listening to my Opa’s Cardinals on the radio in the backyard when visiting in St. Louis, and I enjoyed getting an afternoon in the all-purpose room watching TV as the Mets won the World Series in 1969. Just now, I enjoyed this poem, and I hope everyone else does; it’s about baseball, yet more. Click through, and read a bit about this poem from the author.
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my ancestors rose and cheered. From their ancient graves,
pairs of arms rose to make the wave. Every burial site, a stadium and,
for every one of his at-bats Mayon Volcano spat a puff of smoke
visible for miles. Children in T-shirts with the number 50, hand-scrawled by Sharpies
would run into the streets and clang on metal pans calling all to feast
and when Benny’s cleats dug into the box, the little cloud of dust rising from his spikes
would drift across continents, into the living room of every Filipino, issuing a sneeze
which would be followed by a blessing. The diaspora, a flood of blessings,
watching the orange, blue, and white uniforms pixelated into millions of screens.
Tens of thousands of nurses held their breaths when they looked up between shifts
and saw him rest the bat on his shoulder staring down the pitcher. When Benny Agbayani
was a Met, whole families, once torn apart by distance held each other close, wrapped
together tightly in the embrace of phone cords, the web of telephone lines crisscrossing the nation.
Each long distance call the shimmering pulse of a wrist bracing for the recoil of the bat making contact.
When Benny fielded fly balls we’d all look into the sun for the speck of something—
something to ease us into the heartbeat of Americana where it was always
summer and the lawn markings formed grids visible from space.
When Benny Agbayani was a Met we thought the organ’s roar was for us and the syncopated applause
put us into a rhythm in tune to our hearts. When Benny Agbayani put his mitt to the ground
to stop a daisy cutter, millions of us put our ears to the earth to hear the rumblings
of what we hoped would be thousands of footsteps, following his path. But instead they were galloping
towards home. We’d raise the brim of our caps and nod our chins at a cool breeze
or the smell of fryer oil. And when Shea sang in one voice “B-B-B-Benny and the Mets”
we stood and put are hands to our hearts. We rocked back and forth on our heels
watching the strike zone get smaller and smaller. Watched as the sun made
our shadows grow and we waited until the roster made room for us in the show, now and in the ever after.
Scottie's Playtime 
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