Well, I've been haunted by a cold for almost 2 weeks now. Had it's highs and lows but in that time I've smoked maybe 4 bowls, enjoyed a couple and the others I just couldn't taste. That's where I've been for a couple of days now, can't taste a damned thing! But enough's enough! I'm going to try to burn the little virus bastages out with a rather large bowl of 1995 Bombay Court in a Charatan Selected large Dublin . If that don't do it I may have to go with some straight perique! :affraid:
It's the birthday of John Steinbeck, born in Salinas, California (1902). In the late 1930s, Steinbeck was sent by a newspaper to report on the situation of migrant farmers, so he got an old bakery truck and drove around California's Central Valley. He found people starving, thousands of them crowded in miserable shelters, sick with typhus and the flu. He wrote everything down in his journal, and he decided that he had enough material to write a novel. In less than six months, he had a 200,000-word manuscript. He finished on October 26, 1938, when he wrote in his journal: "Finished this day — and I hope to God it's good." He wrote by longhand, and his wife, Carol, typed up the manuscript. She also suggested a title: The Grapes of Wrath, from the song "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." The Grapes of Wrath was published in 1939, sold half a million copies in its first year, and won a Pulitzer Prize.
It was on this day in 1812 that Lord Byron made his first speech in the House of Lords. The economy and work force of Britain was being transformed by the Industrial Revolution, and skilled workers were being replaced by machines. Some of these workers protested by destroying machines, and the British government proposed the Frame Breaking Act, which said that anyone guilty of breaking a machine would either be sentenced to death or sent to the penal colony of Australia.
After Byron traveled through rural England and observed the uprisings, he argued against the Frame Breaking Act in his speech in the House of Lords. But it was passed anyway. In 1816, Lord Byron wrote "Song for the Luddites."
It's the birthday of the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Portland, Maine (1807). He went to Bowdoin College and became a scholar of literature and modern languages. In 1826, he traveled to Europe to study German, French, Spanish, and Italian. He got married, and in 1835 he returned to Europe to learn Scandinavian languages, but his wife came with him, and she had a miscarriage and died in the Netherlands. He fell in love again, with a young woman named Fanny Appleton, but she rejected his marriage proposal. So grieving for his first wife, despairing over Fanny's refusal, he threw himself into his work and became a popular American poet.
In 1843, Fanny agreed to marry Henry after all. They were very happy, they had six children, and Fanny helped her husband with his work. Longfellow wrote incredibly successful book-length poems, like Evangeline (1847), about separated lovers in Nova Scotia, and The Song of Hiawatha (1855), about an Ojibwe leader. Whenever he published a book of poetry, it would sell out almost immediately.
But in 1861, Fanny Longfellow was using sealing wax and her dress caught on fire. Longfellow rushed in from the next room and tried to smother the fire by throwing his arms around his wife. But Fanny died the next day, and Longfellow was heartbroken. He wrote "The Cross of Snow" in her memory.
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/