Less than two hours from the corporate headquarters of Gorgias Press, nestled just north of the Tappan Zee Bridge, is the quiet hamlet of Sleepy Hollow. Long on the radar of children, courtesy of Walt Disney, the town is best known for a local legend written by the able hand of Washington Irving. "Sleepy Hollow" is a name so idyllic that it screams for the excitement of a headless horseman rampaging through its soporific streets. Although the legend lives on in local commerce, it seems unlikely that the brush of a ghostly riding cloak still glances the cheek of any late-night wanderer. And yet the legend continues to draw the curious to the banks of the Hudson River. On a fine, sunny weekend just as the trees were beginning to light up, we betook ourselves to Sleepy Hollow, safe enough in the daylight.

Focusing on the famous cemetery, we hobnobbed with such famous dead as Andrew Carnegie and William Rockefeller. Ever the philanthropist, Carnegie's humble cross cowers below the mighty monument of Rockefeller. Like all who've gone before, ghosts still betray the soul of a person. In this cemetery, all the dead are not equal. Xenophobia, it seems, extends beyond the grave.

Gazing at the monument to Washington Irving, however, brought a rare moment of pride in American achievement. Once simply a beloved creator of a childhood legend, Irving also became an important literary figure. Not content to be the inventor of Ichabod Crane and Rip Van Winkle, Irving was the father of the short story and an important figure in American Gothic literature. Eagerly would I return to this little hamlet that now rests in sight of the skyline of Manhattan!

Here's some fun for those of you who are dedicated leaf-watchers this time of year. Now you can track foliage change in the northeast, southeast and the midwest through The Foliage Network. The network is updated twice a week from data collected by foliage spotters. It includes suggestions of places to stay and things to see and do.

Recent hot, muggy temperatures have delayed some of the color change this year. But I still have high hopes for good viewing this weekend as my family takes a trip up the Hudson Valley.

From the Foliage Network, October 6,
2007

Whether el chupacabra or Bela Lugosi, the fascination with mythical creatures of the night that thrive on the lifesource of others is a concept never far from religionists. While teaching in a gothic seminary setting, I was not surprised to find students with an interest in vampires. The daily emphasis of the sacrament of the Eucharist probably underscored the interest in this genre.

Ancient peoples believed in a world peopled with unusual, quasi-supernatural beings, including blood-drinkers and baby-snatchers. Theirs was a world of harsh realities where death was more closely observed than it tends. to be in many nations today. The fascination is one that continues to hold on, as can be seen on any given Halloween.

A childhood penchant for Dark Shadows books has recently been reactivated in the restless gray-matter in my head. As I ponder where novelettes of this genre might be located when the days grow shorter and shadows become an increasing element of daily experience, I marvel at how the human imagination parodies our daily experiences, dressing them up in fanciful garb to parade about with the other ghosts of October. What is perhaps even more unusual is that money is still to be made in this business of selling the parasite. How else can we explain Buffy and all her cohort?

When did angels become cute? This is one of the ranking mysteries of religious studies. In ages past, way back before monotheism, most people in western Asia believed in a plethora of deities, sub-deities, and heroic characters. A cosmic continuum of animal-to-human-to-superhuman-to-divine seems to have characterized their universe. They had little reason to suspect that anyone more powerful than a human might be "cute!"

The first angels mentioned in the Bible, cherubim, are today often associated with Hallmark and Valentines. In the world of the Bible, however, they were not so tame. I tell my students to think of sphinxes when they read "cherubim" - scary hybrids of human and lion or ox and eagle. These creatures were intended to be guardians of the very throne of God, they had to be scary.

Your garden-variety angel was indistinguishable from a human being. They had no wings, halos, or - (gasp!) - harps. The reaction to angels by the people of the Bible was essentially that of a visit of a stranger, a stranger who sometimes said weird stuff.

But somewhere along the line, angels had an extreme makeover. They became winged, effeminate people who could save your life or that of your puppy. They became guardians of human interests and loves. In so doing they lost the awe and majesty of being the Frankensteins of the supernatural world. Is this what a fallen angel really is?

The autumnal equinox is this weekend, and the recent halcyon days of September sunshine have served to enhance my reflective tendencies. A recent, soporific day at an undeveloped beach helped to prepare me for the turn of the season. I am reminded of the poem "September" by Hermann Hesse , which includes the line, "Summer laughs, amazed and exhausted":

Langsam tut er die großen
müdgewordnen Augen zu.

(It's amazing where the contemplative journey of the mind will take you; this started out as an entry on Hildegard of Bingen!)

The image can be seen in its original context at this site.

In the late 1960s, when many staid Christian homes were struggling against the onslaught of what they perceived as a new secular takeover-bid for the soul of Protestant America, rhythmically-driven Rock-n-Roll seemed to be the most powerful device in the Devil's toolbox. A form of music that was loud, crass, and terribly compelling, Rock had become the musical style of choice among the younger generation and to the elders it sounded like the Apocalypse with guitars.

In the middle of this furor arose a most unusual character. A man unafraid of convention, but in many respects the picture of convention, Larry Norman hit the charts with his band People and a song entitled "I Love You." But Norman was pulled toward evangelical Christianity too, and soon his two loves, Jesus and Rock, were wed.

When he began to produce a new genre of music, now known as Christian Rock, he found himself in limbo. Christian bookstores wouldn't carry his albums because they were Rock; secular music stores wouldn't carry his albums because they were Christian. He was a voice singing in the wilderness.

It took a few decades, but Christian popular music eventually became successful. Its edge was dulled and its evocative lyrics ("He's an unidentified flying object, you will see Him in the air" Larry Norman had sung of Jesus) were candy-coated. It became mainstream. You might hear Christian artists gently swaying sinners toward Jesus while shopping at Target, or while buying bok choy at the supermarket. It was tame, conventional, unthreatening. Christian Rock had become Christian Mush.

Back in the days when I was a burgeoning Christian Rock fan in my misspent youth, I went to see the master himself, Larry Norman, in concert. Maybe 300 chairs were set up in the gym at Gordon College where a few aging hippies like myself sat and sank into a music-induced spiritual experience. When it was over, my friend asked if I wanted to talk to him, to Larry Norman. Knees shaking, I agreed to go back to the locker room, an ersatz dressing room, to meet him. The experience was pivotal in my young life; I was in the presence of the man who'd begun it all, what is now a multi-million dollar industry fighting the onslaught of Satan in the music world with sugary lyrics and divas in not-too-tight clothes. And he had a head of hair that has been the envy of my entire life. He refused to sign any autographs, but showed a genuine interest in who we were, a couple of seminary students out to change the world. He was a classic gentleman.

My theology and outlook have changed since those days, but whenever I hear a slick and syrupy version of Christianity dripping out of the overhead speakers in a public place, my mind goes back to a man I consider a true genius, the man for whom the term "Jesus Freak" was coined, Larry Norman.

As a young lad I was fascinated by the supernatural. This may explain, but in no wise excuses, my choice of a career in religion. As I grew in years and skepticism, this interest began to feel like a security blanket in a college dormitory, an embarrassment to be grown out of as quickly as possible. Along the way, of course, I'd jettisoned what I thought to be the detritus of childish fantasy, including my prized collection of cheap, pulp fiction tending toward the Gothic.

As I grow more ancient, and more observant, I see that sometimes the impetuousness of youth cradles a profound wisdom. Sometimes we get it right the first time. I still haven't figured out if that's the case, but it seems to be a hypothesis worth the exploration. Part of my current search for reality is the reassessment of my childhood learning in the school of classical Gothic fiction. Now I find, however, that the cheap books I used to buy in Goodwill on Saturday mornings for a quarter are no longer easily found!

One of my lost memories was reading a juvenilized version of Rod Serling's Stories from the Twilight Zone. Unfortunately I sold my copy when I "grew up" and now I wish I had it back. Even seeing the picture on the cover (I've only found one web site that even has it) can transport me back to my angst-filled teenage years with the force of a tsunami slamming the Outer Banks. Oh to find a copy of that book again!

Perhaps the real lesson is that childhood should not be dismissed as wasted time playing and indulging in carefree amusements. The longer I live, the more it seems that childhood outlives the adult phase of our existence.

My fifteen minutes of genealogical notoriety stems from the fact that one of my ancestors, Jacob Towne, was the brother of two women hanged as witches during the infamous Salem witch trials in Massachusetts in 1692. Why—how—did my ancestor escape their fate? Who knows—perhaps it was because he might not have spoken out against the accusers, perhaps it was because he might not have cared to be involved in the land or church disputes that are believed to have been part of the background to the hysteria, perhaps it was simply because he was a man (most of those executed in Salem were women).

The Salem Witch Trials

Whatever the reasons, I admit to having gained quite a lot of mileage out my ancestor's sisters, Rebecca Towne Nurse and Mary Towne Easty. (A third sister, Sarah Towne Cloyce, was accused but never brought to trial. PBS produced a historical drama centered around Sarah entitled, Three Sovereigns for Sarah; it is available on DVD.) I have not yet found any other family stories quite as colorful as this one; for the most part I seem to be the descendant of farmers, ministers and university professors of English, Irish and German extraction. Only last night I discovered the existence of the Towne Family Association, which has an annual gathering. The 2007 gathering takes place this weekend, September 14-16. Activities are centered around Rebecca and Mary and the other innocent people who were executed in Salem. The Rebecca and Francis Nurse home still stands and is one of the stops on the itinerary.

For an insightful, well-researched read on the Salem Witch Trials, check out A Delusion of Satan: The Full Story of the Salem Witch Trials by Frances Hill. This 1997 book is a historical page-turner, detailing the local circumstances that contributed to the frenzy. Hill also demonstrates, in a fascinating and professional discussion, the critical role played by clinical hysteria. Great reading for the turn of the season!

In my latest reading project to keep me edgy and paranoid, I have been going through Surenda Verma's The Tunguska Fireball. Quite apart from giving me a quick X-Files fix, this book is a thorough and reader-friendly account of an event that, no matter what you make of Mulder and Scully, should have been a major wake-up call for those of us who call planet Earth home.

On June 30, 1908, a fireball exploded over a remote region of Siberia. Even today it is nearly impossible to reach the spot. The traces of this event, which don't seem to support and given theory completely, point to an explosion on the order of 10-20 megatons (the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, for contrast, weighed in at about a thousand times lighter on the TNT scale). The sparsely populated region was devastated by shock waves and fire, and only by a slim thread of fate did all of us not end up on the extinction list. A blast of that intensity, had it been located lower in the atmosphere, could have easily brought on a nuclear winter - with no Jingle Bells!

Sometimes when the publishing business, or life in general, seems too intense, I find it helpful to think of what a wonder it is to be here at all. Earth's history is replete with mass extinctions that ultimately allowed for our own evolution, but wiped out over 99 percent of all species that have ever lived. The Permian Extinction, which allowed for the rise of the dinosaurs, nearly obliterated life itself from our rocky home.

When I look to the future I see disjunction and continuity. Not so different from the publishing business I suppose. But it still makes me want to travel to Siberia and see for myself.

Ugarit. Not the kind of name that brings to mind great riches or fabled emperors. Nevertheless, in the late 1920s scholars discovered a previously unexcavated site in northern Syria that turned out to be the ancient city-state of Ugarit.

Ugarit, it turns out, was quite the important little town. Not as wealthy as Egypt, nor as powerful as ancient Turkey (called Hatti back then), it was, however, in a great location. Moderately powerful and cosmopolitan, it would have been a great place to spend a Saturday night before shipping out on the Mediterranean. Of the many documents discovered there, several were written in a new language (well, actually an old language, newly discovered). Although it was likely used, and perhaps even invented elsewhere, it was dubbed "Ugaritic." It is the world's oldest readable alphabetical language.

Everyone has heard of the Dead Sea Scrolls and it is well-known how important they are for understanding the world of the Bible. Few people outside the seminary and Hebrew Bible grad-school crowd have heard of Ugarit, but its importance for understanding the Hebrew Bible is far greater than even the beloved Dead Sea Scrolls. So why hasn't anybody heard of it?

Trying to answer such questions leads only to speculation, but I have a favorite speculation that I share with those who care to listen. Ugarit was born out of time. Discovered just before economic depression and world-wide-war dominated the atmosphere, in that period of uncertainty following the First World War, the tablets never captured the public imagination. After the Second World War ended, Israel became a state and the Dead Sea Scrolls soon shot into the limelight. Ugarit was left as the preserve of scholars interested in where the Hebrew Bible got many of its ideas.

If you are interested in the fascinating site of Ugarit, Gorgias Press is launching a new series on Ugaritic studies this fall. It may not be Egypt, but it has some great stories about what Baal does after hours!

The book will be in print by late August. (note: color tinting and borders were added for journal presentation only. Originals are in black and white).

Like millions of other red-blooded Americans, I was recently in line to see The Simpson's Movie. As I've noted in a previous entry, the Simpsons stand as a barometer for American culture, imho. The theater I attended was showing the movie every hour, on the hour. I knew that I was in for a treat.

Apart from the emphasis on saving our humble, little planet, which I whole-heartedly endorse, the movie has many redeeming values that are overlooked by critics of our little yellow friends. They may be neurotic, self-centered, and irreverent, but then, they are intended to be a mirror rather than a paradigm. These illustrated characters frequently show us our own foibles and allow us to laugh at our own obsessions.

Laura Crescio, Breathe

Chris Barnett, The Day the Music Died

....or that what we've learned and come to regard as good taste is nothing but an informal agreement among a handful of people from the powers that be.

In my teaching days, standing sentinel in my office was the 8" action figure of Bibleman. I first discovered Bibleman while surreptitiously skulking through a Christian bookstore seeking Veggie Tales paraphernalia (don't ask). I quickly rounded the corner in the kids' section and there he was, encased in purple and yellow body armor, packing a Bible and laser sword and a packet sealed forever from the curious eyes of Biblegirl. I knew then and there that I had to have him. I sent my wife back to buy him later.

Naturally curious, I found a website and learned that an entire culture and industry had grown around this ultimate good guy. He had a sidekick called Cypher (sold separately), and arch-enemies with such names as Primordious Drool and Wacky Protestor. I marveled at the missed opportunity here; they could have called them Text Critic and Doctor Mentary Hypothesis! Fascinated I watched video clips of Bibleman's deft swordplay in a scene that brought back the poignant death scene in Robocop. This was certainly not the old-fashioned fundamentalism I'd grown up with.

Then my wife recently showed me the newspaper. Wal-Mart is now planning to carry Bible action figures, manufactured by One2believe. The line includes Noah, Moses, Daniel, Goliath, and of course, Jesus. I must admit that I was let down that David and Bathsheba figures did not seem to be available. Jesus does have a pull-string, however, quoting his favorite Bible verses. Even as I threw the paper aside in vexation, I knew that come fall, when I find my way back into a classroom, Bibleman will likely have a new companion on my office shelf.

Condiment-philes, take note! Saturday, August 4 is National Mustard Day. Whether you like your mustard yellow or brown, spicy or sweet, proletariat or gourmet, don't miss the opportunity to celebrate. Those of you near central Wisconsin will of course be heading to the Mount Horeb Mustard Museum for the occasion.

Having visited the Mustard Museum several times with my family, I can testify that it is a must-see establishment. Here you can watch a video on mustard production (did you know that Canada is the world's leading producer of mustard seed?) and browse the astonishingly large collection of international mustards.

In the museum store and gift shop, you are allowed unlimited samples of any mustard that is for sale. They even hand out free pretzels to cleanse the palate. Every time we go we purchase the outstanding Ipswich Ale Mustard, the 2001 Grand Champion of the World-Wide Mustard Competition. You can also buy your very own collegiate gear from Poupon U. Rah, team!

The curator of the Mustard Museum is Barry Levinson, who started collecting mustards in 1987 after the Red Sox lost the World Series. (Desperate times call for desperate measures.) In 1991 he left his job as Assistant Attorney General for the State of Wisconsin in order to devote himself to his mustards. He still lectures around the country on food laws, and has a puckish sense of humor that makes even his mustard catalogs a joy to read.

Mustard means different things to different people. My husband and I lived in Scotland for three years when we were first married, and when we went to the grocery store to buy mustard, it was not shelved next to the ketchup and relishes. We looked all over before we finally found it next to the beef. That was one of our first cultural lessons, that the British associate mustard with beef. The French consume the most mustard, 1.5 pounds per person per year.

Let us not forget the health benefits of mustard. The seeds contain high levels (in a good way) of selenium, magnesium, and omega-3 fatty acids. And don't forget that a good, strong mustard will roto-rooter your nasal passages, if you're needing some help with that. Mustard is a far healthier condiment choice than mayonnaise and even ketchup. Slather it on!

Here is a simple recipe for a mustard butter that goes smashingly well with fire-baked potatoes. Mix 2 teaspoons of your favorite mustard with one stick (1/2 cup) of softened butter; add 1 teaspoon chopped parsley. Place the mixture on waxed paper and roll it into a 1" thick log. Chill until set. For the potatoes, split each potato down the middle; put it back together and wrap in foil. Bake at 425 degrees for 30 minutes, then place in hot coals and bake for an hour. Open up the potatotes and let generous dollops of the mustard butter melt into the insides. Serve with a salad of mixed greens (with mustard vinaigrette, of course). Life is good!

It's hard to keep my mind on work with the knowledge that in 48 hours my family and I will be on holiday in northern Idaho. I look forward to stepping out of the airport in Spokane, WA, where the humidity is about 16%—air so light that you can float on it. (Here in New Jersey, humidity is a state of being.) I look forward to being able to drive for miles and not see any other cars. I look forward to the clear greens and blues of the lakes and mountains of northern Idaho. But most of all I look forward to happily indulging myself with all edible forms of the huckleberry, which is Idaho's state fruit. The huckleberry is smaller and purpler than the blueberry, and the taste is tarter, too. This makes it the perfect foil for ice cream and pancakes. Devotees also consume it in cobblers, coffeecakes and much, much more. The worst thing you can do to a huckleberry is to add so much sugar that it tastes sweet. Let the huckleberry wow you with its flavor. Similar berries are the Canadian Saskatoon berry, the British whortleberry and the enormous bilberries we found on the shores of Lake Superior one summer.

Idaho Trivia

• It is a fact that over 50% of the state names in this country are based on Native American words. "Idaho" is not one of them. The name was deliberately coined to sound Native American.


• It is also said that if you were to iron out all the mountains in Idaho, it would be as large as Texas.

Our Cultures in Dialogue series at GP explores encounters between Eastern and Western women and their varied world views. Written by Ottoman, British and American women between the 1880s and the 1940s, the books explore various attitudes of the harem, female emancipation, nationalism and modernization.

At first glance, these titles might appear to be self-contained time capsules with no real relevance to us today. However, while wandering through the local Borders bookstore recently, I was struck by the number of current books available by women that could easily qualify for the CID series: The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstad, Kabul Beauty School: An American Woman Goes Behind the Veil by Deborah Rodriguez and Kristin Ohlson, and Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi all explore the CID themes concerning veils, female emancipation, nationalism and modernization.

Is this coincidence or have we come full circle? The cultural fulcrum may have moved east, but one hundred years on, writers and readers all over the world are still making the same discoveries as our Cultures in Dialogue writers. History—and literature—repeats itself, but always with a contemporary twist. This is why history is my choice for recreational reading.

Poe was a master of metrical writing, and he used profound and disturbing images to great affect. I have always appreciated the irony of how his name seems to be a cipher for the art of poetry itself.

In contrast, Hebrew poetry was a completely different animal. Based on the old Semitic concept of "reduplication" Hebrew poets strove to lay ideas out in parallel cola, a phenomenon modern scholars call "parallelism." The study of Hebrew poetry is an on-going discipline with new insights being uncovered all the time. Gorgias Press has a contribution to the discussion as well: click here to see!

Poetry is an unrated medium. Just consider the number of times you hear music booming from the next car at the stoplight during the summer to realize how much poetry means to people - they want to share it with you! Poe knew something that many people come to realize at some point in their lives: a life without poetry, no matter in what language, is not a life well-lived.

Several of the Gorgias crew are in Toronto for the North American Syriac Studies Symposium, June 25-27.

We hope that they'll take time off to visit the wonderfully fascinating Bata Shoe Museum, where historical and ethnic shoes on display run from the practical to the ridiculous. This is a place where you learn that shoes are not just fashion statements. In some cultures they were symbols of power; in others, symbols of subjugation. Smirk at Elton John's platform shoes, marvel at the intricately decorated 18th century English mules, and cringe at the miniscule slippers made for the bound feet of Chinese women. This is one of the most interesting museums I have ever visited. If you like cultural history, this is the place for you.

At GP, shoes are things meant to be shoved out of sight under your work station, so don't come to us looking for accessory inspiration. Me, I'm just grateful for the woman who first decided to wear Reeboks with her business suit instead of heels on the subway.

(And I'm also impressed with women in Minnesota, who unapologetically wear snow boots to Minnesota Symphony Orchestra concerts.)

Does anybody out there have shoe stories to share? C'mon, everybody's had a favorite pair of shoes!