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27 July 2015
Vol. V, No. 255

From Elizabeth Boleman-Herring: This summer weekday, Weekly Hubris’s offerings range from an essay of stoic outrage filed from Troika-besieged Greece, to an arm’s-length contemplation written in South Carolinian tranquility . . . to a bit of bemused wonder-fluff observed in Upstate New York. All of our writers call the same planet home, but we raise our voices to very different tunes this Monday.

Hope’s feathers are drooping.

Hope’s feathers are drooping.

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

“Athens Calling, Summer 2015” By Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—(7/27/2015)—Dear Old Friends, some of you have written or called; some of you have not. I can only say to those who have been quiet that it’s OK. I hope you are sending positive vibes and keeping us in your hearts. In any case, I thought you might want to know what it’s like here even if you haven’t asked—and some of you have. I’m sorry not to be able to write to each of you individually. (Read more . . .)

Confession takes many forms.

Confession takes many forms.

Skip the B.S.

“Claiming One’s Baggage: The Confessions of Friends” By Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—7/27/2015—When my father and a handful of his best sappers came under friendly fire while crossing the Rhine, one of the men panicked. The night mission on March 23, 1945 was to sabotage the Datteln Canal, which ends at Wesel, not far from the Dutch border. It was a fraught mission from the start because, when the locks were blown, no one knew how much water would surge toward the flat-bottomed, plywood boat and the river, which was already near flood stage. And, of course, German snipers were always a possibility even this late in the war. (Read more . . .)

If we can just hit the right button...

If we can just hit the right button…

Won Over By Reality

“Remotely Amusing” By Tim Bayer

BRIGHTON New York—(Weekly Hubris)—7/27/2015—Kids and the elderly use language very differently. Well, in fact, we speak entirely different languages, and we interact in entirely different ways. (My Gosh, do we ever!) I found it interesting, entertaining, and a tad terrifying to hear the conversation of an elderly couple “arise” from the mouths of babes. See what you think. (The little actors get my kudos for their performances, too.) (Read more . . .)

Pileated Woodpecker chicks in the nest.

Pileated Woodpecker chicks in the nest.

Epicurus’ Porch

“The Trials of Job in the Garden” By William A. Balk, Jr

South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—7/6/2015—In the windbreak of pine trees planted 30 years ago to slow winter’s westerly winds upon the camellia garden and that side of the house, one of the trees, now some 60 feet high, had succumbed to age or disease. The snag—bare of bark from the voracious work of resident pileated woodpeckers, flickers, and red-cockaded woodpeckers, porous with holes for nests of birds and mammals—the snag had fallen silently in the night and lay segmented, stretched across a swathe of lawn and up a low rise marking the camellia garden’s edge. (Read more . . .)

It might be your heart.

It might be your heart.

Waking Point

“The Heart of the Matter” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris) —7/6/2015—You go to the UCSF Clinic with an issue you think will be easily resolved. “My lungs feel tight,” you say to a doctor with a benevolent smile. “My sinuses are blocked. It’s difficult to breathe. It feels like a weight on my lungs, here.” You point to the center of your upper chest, hope that you are conveying your symptoms precisely, realizing that physical symptoms are as difficult to put into words as deep emotions, fear, epiphanies. You add, “It’s my allergies. An inhaler would probably do the trick.” (Read more . . .)

The Manx shearwater: a bird that does not know from lost.

The Manx shearwater: a bird that does not know from lost.

Skip the B.S.

“Every Which Way: Direction” By Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—7/6/2015—Before humans devised atomic clocks, a network of Earth-orbit satellites, and the Global Positioning System, we suffered a directional disadvantage compared to our scaly, furry, and feathered kin. But even with the best GPS device, I’m not sure we can compete with the Manx shearwater. (Read more . . .)

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