dual personalities

The DH and I were chatting the other day about the wreck of the HMS Birkenhead off the coast of South Africa in 1852. The wreck occurred in the wee hours of morning when the ship struck an uncharted rock that effectively cut it in two. It only took 25 minutes for the Birkenhead to sink. During that time, the captain ordered the 7 women and 13 children to be evacuated first, thus beginning a tradition that has continued down to this day.

What made the gesture particularly noteworthy was the behavior of the men left on the ship. After the initial evacuation of the women and children, when the captain ordered ‘every man for himself’, one of the officers realized that the order would create disaster as the men would swamp the lifeboats. That officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Seton, drew his sword and ordered his men to stand at attention while the ship sank. No one demured and all of them, Seton included, died so the others could live.

Rudyard Kipling immortalized the incident in his poem “Soldier ‘an Sailor Too”. Here are the relevant stanzas:

You may say we are fond of an ‘arness-cut, or ‘ootin’ in barrick-yards,

Or startin’ a Board School mutiny along o’ the Onion Guards;

But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,

The same as the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

They come of our lot, they was brothers to us; they was beggars we’d met an’ knew;

Yes, barrin’ an inch in the chest an’ the arm, they was doubles o’ me an’ you;

For they weren’t no special chrysanthemums — soldier an’ sailor too!

To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,

Is nothing so bad when you’ve cover to ‘and, an’ leave an’ likin’ to shout;

But to stand an’ be still to the Birken’ead drill is a damn tough bullet to chew,

An’ they done it, the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

Their work was done when it ‘adn’t begun; they was younger nor me an’ you;

Their choice it was plain between drownin’ in ‘eaps an’ bein’ mopped by the screw,

So they stood an’ was still to the Birken’ead drill, soldier an’ sailor too!

We’re most of us liars, we’re ‘arf of us thieves, an’ the rest are as rank as can be,

But once in a while we can finish in style (which I ‘ope it won’t ‘appen to me).

But it makes you think better o’ you an’ your friends, an’ the work you may ‘ave to do,

When you think o’ the sinkin’ Victorier‘s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

Now there isn’t no room for to say ye don’t know — they ‘ave proved it plain and true —

That whether it’s Widow, or whether it’s ship, Victorier’s work is to do,

An’ they done it, the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

The incident became famous — justly I think — and reinforced the Victorian veneration of gallantry. But now, in the age of feminism, the women and children first rule has become problematic. After all, if women are equal to men, we can make the same sacrifices. We can’t be equal AND receive special treatment, can we? Is gallantry is passé? Hmm…something to ponder.

When I wasn’t discussing shipwrecks, I was either madly trying to prepare classes or recover from teaching them. No kidding, projecting one’s voice through a mask in a lecture hall is hard work, and this lady is old and out of shape. Anyway, such was the effect that I found myself unable to do much of anything by Friday, so I self-comforted by watching soccer videos on Youtube. There is something genuinely restorative about watching people who are really, truly the best of the best. The very existence of those who are better (e.g., John Piper of yesterday’s post) or just infinitely more talented than I am is somehow simultaneously comforting and invigorating. After coming across the truly great, one feels that there is hope for humanity. In this vein, I give you the GOAT (greatest of all time), Barcelona’s #10 Lionel Messi (follow the link. It wouldn’t let me embed the video). Even if you don’t like soccer (I don’t really follow it myself), you should watch the whole thing. He’s amazing — and a nice guy to boot.

Have a lovely weekend!

Do you believe it? Katiebelle is 12 weeks old. We have survived a week of teleworking — should I make a joke about loving my newest colleague?

She really is a good work-from-home buddy. I get to have some built-in breaks in my day to feed her, DN is typically on nap duty, and we alternate playtime.

Her tummy time skills have skyrocketed in the past week, and we are very proud. Watching her lift her head up is far more interesting than the latest email correspondence!

I used to think monthly baby updates on social media were pretty cheesy, but I am 100% guilty of finding every little thing Katie does to be supremely fascinating. And of speaking in the third person as “mom.”

Katie loves her hands, she smiles at mom and dad all the time, and she rubs her eyes when she’s tired — adorable. Mom and dad are getting a lot more sleep now that Katie sleeps through the night — about eleven hours with a “dream feed” before mom goes to bed. We love her so much!

The other day I was making the pleasant block and a half walk home from a tiresome day at work. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky, my sunglasses barely made a dent in toning down the brightness. It was hot. I couldn’t wait to get my nice, cool apartment building, put my key in the historic lock that turns the wrong way, and let myself into my clean and spacious apartment.

And I had this odd moment that felt almost out-of-body, like, ‘What if you were walking 20 blocks home in the summer heat and then you’d only get to be in that dark, shabby, one-room apartment where there was barely an inch that you couldn’t see from another and that had only an old window unit for cooling?’ I think I actually shuddered remembering what it felt like to be in that NYC apartment.

Somehow, in thinking about that contrast I found a sense of calm settling over me. The reporter who sent me that out-of-nowhere email that was unnecessarily rude and unprofessional vanished from my psyche. The daily COVID-19 stressors dissipated. Worrying about the future didn’t seem so necessary.

It’s all going to be okay. I am in the right place. There’s no need to pound those skittles. It felt like a little nudge from above, reminding me to stop worrying. The ever-present struggle to be a Mary when, despite my name, I act like a Martha.

In other news, I heard this song on the radio this weekend and I think you’ll like it.

*Romans 12:12

Happy Wednesday!

Well, I made it through my first day of classes and it went much as expected, which is to say that I experienced a lot of technical difficulties. It wasn’t too bad teaching in a mask and the students weren’t too grumpy about wearing them, but I wonder how much they will learn. C’est la vie.

When not attempting to get classroom computers to work, I rediscovered T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, particularly concentrating on the Dry Salvages which really appeals to the historian in me. Isn’t “the trailing consequences of further days and hours” a great line? It evokes images of layer upon layer of human experience rather like this 19th century painting of the Roman Forum.

I don’t know if Eliot is still fashionable among literary types, but I think that he has much to teach. Take this passage:

It seems, as one becomes older, That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.

How apt! Nowadays people seem determined to disown the past and shake off its lingering consequences. That will be harder to do than they imagine, for the past has a way of sticking with us. In fact, the past may not be past at all.

Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think ‘the past is finished’
Or ‘the future is before us’.

The Dry Salvages is a good reminder (as if we need one!) that we aren’t in control of our lives, and no manipulation of past, present and future will lend us the control we seek. It may seem odd, but I find Eliot curiously comforting. In taking favorite passages out of context, I have done the poem an injustice. There’s much more to it than I suggest. Read it again for yourselves here and fare forward! Also, check out DN’s recent post on Eliot — he knows whereof he speaks.

Have a relaxing weekend — I intend to do the impossible!

Wednesday was my first day back “at work” at home! I made my way through my e-mail inbox and survived 90 minutes on Zoom.

Of course teleworking is a much easier scenario in which to return to my job. I still get to be at home with the darling Katiebelle and I am very, very grateful for that. If there is a silver lining to the pandemic, this is definitely it!

On Tuesday, we planned an outing to a favorite farm of ours, where we have picked apples in the past. We were craving peaches and I liked the idea of picking my own bouquet. Now, this involved at least two hours in the car round trip, nursing in a parking lot, and timing our “wake windows” just right to avoid a baby meltdown — all for about thirty minutes of outdoor activity.

But in these unprecedented times thirty minutes of outdoor activity is worth it, am I right?

And (I’m paraphrasing here) but it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good camera, must be in want of a butterfly to photograph.

In other news: the darling babe (and her mother) adapted well to nighttime sleep in the nursery as discussed last week. Here she is waking up one morning, thrilled to tackle the day: