Whew, whirlwind weekend. We went [the “w” alliteration ends now] to Detroit Thursday afternoon to see my wife’s family: First a stop in Livonia at her aunt’s, then to her parents’ in Grosse Pointe Woods. Friday morning, Grosse Pointe parade, followed by a trip to Old Country Buffet (eat till you burst or vomit), then hungout with family during the afternoon and evening. Saturday, we went to Ford Field to see a football team from my region (Mendon) play in the high school championship game, drove around Detroit (okay, we were slumming), got pizza, hung around the house with family. Sunday: Mass, cleaned my in-laws’ house and packed, then home.
Traveling has always tired me, but trips with seven children are simply grueling, especially with Tess (terribly tornadoish two) and her sidekick Max (4). I’m starting this post on Sunday night because I’m not sure I’ll be able to roll out of bed early enough Monday morning to blog much.
Pretty cool: Masquerade: The amazing camouflage deceptions of World War II that details the ingenious ways that the Allies used camouflage to fool the Nazis, everything from hidden gun-encampments to inflatable tanks and trucks. Via.
Coming to a First Amendment Center near you: A 14-year-old New Zealand girl nearly lost her eyesight when her eyes were gouged by relatives in a Maori exorcism ceremony in which her cousin died, a report said Monday. The girl is recovering after emergency operations on her eyes to save her sight after relatives scratched at her eyes to remove the devil.
Thank goodness: The Pope is considering a dramatic overhaul of the Vatican in order to force a return to traditional sacred music. I simply can’t stand the junk from the 1960s and 1970s (perhaps represented best by We Are the Light of the World and gathered together in Glory and Praise). We have a good priest, but he insists on singing every verse of every hymn. Raised a Lutheran, I grew up with this practice and am comfortable with it, but the sheer vapidity of the folk hymns practically sends me into seizures when the third verse starts. I would protest by throwing the “hymnal” (it scarcely merits the name) across the aisle and “harumping” in a loud voice, but I need to set an example for my kids. I typically open the kumbaya book and act like I’m singing. If they sing a song I like (or even a traditional song I don’t like), I try to belt it out even though singing isn’t one of my gifts.
My basic position on the whole matter: Bring back Gregorian Chant and the baroque, or give me AC/DC and Elvis. This conflicted tripe is junk.