Monthly Archives: April 2010

Saint’s Oil

St. Walburga, the eve of whose feast day is celebrated tonight as Walpurgisnacht, is the subject of a most interesting post at Fish Eaters:

It is what happened…in A.D. 893 that helps keep St. Walburga in our consciousness. In that year, the successor to the Bishop who translated her relics opened her tomb to retrieve some of those relics for the Abbess of Monheim. He found that her remains exuded an oil — a healing substance known as the “Oil of Saints.” This precious substance has been exuding from her remains yearly ever since between 12 October and 25 February, her Feast in the Benedictine Breviary, only stopping “during a period when Eichstadt was laid under interdict, and when blood was shed in the church by robbers who seriously wounded the bell-ringer.” The Abbess got her relics, and some were also sent to Cologne, Antwerp, Furnes, and other places — many of these translations giving rise to Feasts — but it is her tomb in the church in Eichstadt that, to this day, exudes the fragrant, healing oil. A Benedictine nunnery immediately arose near the church that houses her tomb so that the Sisters could tend to her relics and help with the pilgrims who came for the healing oil. The Sisters have been there now for a thousand years.

St. Walburga is depicted in art as a Benedictine holding a vial of her Oil of Saints.

(A tip o’ the crozier to Amy, off lighting her bonfire.)

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Opening Day

The Opening Day baseball parade through town, past the mustard-colored house.

The 126 Self Storage Cardinals took on the Ashland Mini Storage Dodgers.

Go Cardinals!

Jazz at Ebbets Field



Rudy Friml Jr.’s hot jazz band, playing at Ebbets Field during the Brooklyn Dodgers and St. Louis Cardinals baseball game, Brooklyn, 1939

From the Life archive

Tomorrow’s dragsville, cats

From High School Confidential (1958),

a beat poem recited by the inimitable Phillipa Fallon,

to musical accompaniment by Uncle Fester:

“High School Drag”

My old man was a bread stasher all his life.
He never got fat. He wound up with a used car,
a 17 inch screen and arthritis.

Tomorrow is a drag, man.
Tomorrow is a king sized bust.

They cried ‘put down pot,’ ‘don’t think a lot,’ for what?
Time, how much? And what to do with it.

Sleep, man, and you might wake up digging the whole
human race giving itself three days to get out.

Tomorrow is a drag, pops, the future is a flake.



I had a canary who couldn’t sing.
I had a cat who let me share my pad with her.
I bought a dog that killed the cat who ate the canary.
What is truth?

I had an uncle with an ivy league card.
He had a life with a belt in the back.
He had a button-down brain.
Wind up a belt in the mouth with a button-down lip.

We cough blood on this earth.
Now there’s a race for space.
We can cough blood on the moon soon.

Tomorrow’s dragsville, cats.
Tomorrow is a king size drag.



Tool a fast shore, swing with a gassy chick.
Turn on to a thousand joys.
Smile on what happened, or check what’s going to happen,
You’ll miss what’s happening.
Turn your eyes inside and dig the vacuum.

Tomorrow, DRAG.

The men’s leaders at the four-mile mark

Passing the Ashland clock tower, 18 minutes into the Boston Marathon.

Eventual winner Robert Kiprono Cheruiyot of Kenya is in the group.

He went on to set a new course record.

A close-up detail of the shot above.

Beware of Octocoffee!

From Odd Old Ads, a Flickr set by LisaGenius

Via Ye Olde Evening Telegraph

“The home of the American citizen after the tax bill has passed”



Scroggs says he is ready and willing to pay any amount of tax, but he would like them to leave his wife’s crinoline and other domestic trifles alone.

~ From Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, 1862

Via the Library of Congress