ADMINISTRATION  OIG AMD 019/Jun/HQAID CH 3.52a

USE OF PAPER PERFORATORS BY OIG PROFESSIONAL EMPLOYEES

Purpose: 

The purpose of this directive is to standardize the use of Paper Perforators throughout D–/OIG.  This Directive, herinafter referred to as AMD019/Jun/HQAID CH 3.52a for purposes of brevity and clarity, also establishes the Office of Perforation Management (OPM) at the National Office (N.O.) and creates within each OIG Region the position of Regional Perforation Officer  (R.P.O.)to instruct field professional staff in the handling and use of issue paper perforators and to monitor adherence to the Perforation Guidelines (PGs) set out below, and to be amended/updated and otherwise  enhanced as time and circumstance dictate.  RPO’s will be required to submit a report on Perforation Monitoring (RPM) each quarter

Scope:

This directive is applicable to all OIG Personnel whose Position Description (PD) mandates the use of Paper Perforaters and to such other OIG personnel whose duties and responsibilities will from time to time be extended and increased to require the temporary use of one or more Government Issue Paper Perforator Types (PPTs).  (NOTE: Temporary Paper Perforation Operation (TPPO) is covered in AMD 155/Feb/HQAID CH12.5a:ii)

Responsibilities:

All OIG personnel currently assigned to duties in the above categories shall follow the instructions set out below. Responsibility for following these directives ceases upon transfer and shall not apply thereinafter. Previously Responsible Personnel (PRP) are responsible for notifying the responsible PRO of their Change in Responsibility Status (CRS) as per the requirements outlined in AMD027/NOV/HQAID CH 0101.2.ii(d)sub.5 (as amended).

BACKGROUND

AMS is aware of the existence of localized paper perforation methods.  These methods make for a confusing situation when positioning of paper reports over two and three pronged paper fasteners or within two and three ringed binders is required.  With this directive the standard non deviational method for proper Paper Perforation is hereby established throughout OIG

THREE HOLE PERFORATION (3HP)

1.     One adjustable three-hole, hand-lever paper perforator; protective base, desk model round hole, 9″ scale at perforator top, 13/32″ hole, will be issued for each three employees.  Offices currently staffed with less than a number of employees divisible by three will have their issue perforators rounded to the next lowest number.  (NOTE: In the event that office personnel levels descend below the number three, application may be made to OPM in a timely manner for an exception to this standard as per AMD52a/NOV/HQAID CH11o.3(rev).A.1a, continued use of existing perforation equipment may be made while application decisions are pending except in those instances when offices are closed or otherwise unoccupied.)

2.      Adjustable three hole, hand-lever, paper perforators will be calibrated at 1″, 4″ and 7″ by the RPO.  Re-calibration may only be done by qualified professionals.  Calibration Qualification Training (CQT) will be conducted by the RPO at Regional Calibration Training Facilities (RCTF) or at NO.  Calibration Qualified Personnel (CQP’s) will re-qualify on the Adjustable three-hole, hand-lever paper perforator at least once quarterly.  (NOTE: Calibration Qualification Training (CQT) will be accomplished by the RPO at the Regional Calibration Facility (RCF).  All CQT RCF facilities will receive regular inspections from the OPM Inspection Force (OPM/IF) as per requirements and standards established at the time of OPM’s creation.) Calibrators must achieve a Calibration Tolerance (CT) to within 1/16″ minimum average deviation from standard per each hole punched.  Failure to achieve CT will result in the loss of Calibration Certification(CC) and Calibrator Premium Pay (CPP) for the next subsequent period.

3.   Adjustable three-hole, hand-lever, paper perforators will be used for 8 1/2″ x 11″ paper only.  They may only be applied to the left hand text side of the sheet being operated on and may not be used in any other fashion.  Paper perforated in other than the the abovein described fashion will be rejected as non-perforated (NP) by the RPO and returned to the Perforating Agent (PA) by the RPO for re-perforation.  Personnel consistently mis-perforating will have their perforation privileges (PP) suspended until such time as they have successfully been re0cycled through the RCTF for CQT.

TWO HOLE PERFORATION (2HP)

1.      The non-adjustable, two-hole, hand-lever operated paper perforator with protective base will be standard issue office property to all OIG personnel.  All personnel will be trained in the use, care and maintainance of this in-valuable time saving device. (REF: AMD010/DEC/051.a.12/B2x)

2.      The two-hole, hand-lever, paper perforator will be used as needed on both 8 1/2″ x 11″ and 81/2″ x 14″ paper only.  In the case of 81/2″ x by 14″ paper, the two-hole, hand-lever operated paper perforator may be used only as long as existing supplies last.  Use on 81/2″ x 14′ paper after that time is expressly prohibited and strictly forbidden.  For perforation purposes, the top of a sheet is defined and described as the end of the paper under which the majority of the writing, numbers and/or illustrations appear in an upright position.  For the purposes of this directive the term majority is self-explanatory.  Questionable majority issues will be decided by the RPO after submission using Questionable Majority Issue Referral Form (QMIRF) 1325a-3 within three working days of submission, other duties notwithstanding (REF: AMD010/DEC/051.r.2/N17d).

3.      In the case of blank and not previously perforated sheets of paper, herein defined in accordance with standard procedure as sheets of paper in their original condition and not bearing any marks other than USG approved watermarks, initial perforation may be made at either 81/2″ end with the two-hole perforator.  In exigent circumstances, perforations of blank paper made be accomplished with the three-hole adjustable paper perforator along the 11″ dimension of the sheet. File Uniformity (FU) paper folding operations are to be undertaken to ensure FU after such emergency operations.  In all such cases, nevertheless, the initially perforated edges become and remain the top and left side of the now perforated sheet respectively, REGARDLESS OF FUTURE RE-FORATION PROCEDURES, which may only be made at these loci.

FIELD ACTION PERFORATION (FAP)

USE OF THE SQUEEZE ACTION PAPER PUNCH (SAPP)

1.      All Special Agent and Audit Personnel are required to familiarize themselves with and become competent in the use of all perforation equipment in the OIG armory.  All such personnel will be issued one corrosion resistant metal Squeeze-Action Paper Punch with knurled handles and 1/4″ hole (SAPP) for field use upon successful completion of the Squeeze Action Paper Punch Course (Basic) (SAPP-C Course).  It should be borne in mind that the SAPP is a light duty piece of equipment intended for no more than occasional field use under exigent circumstances.  Use of the SAPP will be closely monitored by the RPO.

2.  The SAPP may be used on all sizes of paper in a manner dictated by circumstance, provided its use ad-hoc application does not preclude more lasting and uniform paper perforation in keeping with Regional and National standards and perforation guidelines.

3.      Personally owned SAPPS may be used by Special Agent or Auditor personnel provided they have conformed them to agency standards,  Off duty use or carrying of the SAPP is not at this time condoned for OIG personnel.

4.     Further perforation instructions will be issued with initial publication of the Quarterly Perforation Report (OIG Form POI/5250-3G/aia)

Perhaps it’s simply sleeplessness that make my mind build these connections; a kind of waking nightmare.

Rest in peace.

She has languished in a cell for more than a year, now.  Her cell is in a prison in a country which we call an ally in the so-called War on Terror, yet her days are terror unrelenting, terror of lonliness, filth, neglect and abuse.  Even the prisoners awaiting the beasts in pagan Rome were better treated than she by her captors, the followers of The Religion of Peace.

She is not alone, and perhaps in some macabre way, she is luckier than most.  She is still alive, even if barely able to understand that.  She has not been beaten, burned, slaughtered in the name of the All Merciful and his Prophet, peace be upon him.  Not yet.

Spare a thought for her, for Asia Bibi, in an ante-chamber of hell, a prison cell in Afghanistan, under sentence of death because she is a Christian, and say a prayer for her release.  Spare a though and say a prayer for the hundreds of others like her in places like Sudan, Egypt, Iraq, Turkey, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, India, Bangla-Desh, Malaysia, Indonesia and elsewhere who suffer an die because they believe in Christ.  And pray for their captors, their tormentors, their executioners and the people, religion and governments which condone and support this and similar horrors; that they see the evil they do and repent of it.

I know.  I know.  That kind of thing is not nice.  But, lately, every time the temp around here gets above fifty I hear the chattering idiots on the 6 and 11, and Bob or Missy, the grinning boobs of weather dudes and dudesses, predicting the melting of building and people, glaciers, ice caps and the beginning of Endless Summer all over the world as this place becomes another 900 degree Venus sometime next Tuesday…IF SOMETHING ISN’T DONE IMMEDIATELY!!!  These things begin to remind me of being a patient and hearing from the doctor’s mouth, “Well, Mr. Crumple, the numbers here don’t look good, don’t look good at all.  Your afganistan levels are too high and there way too many morroci in your blood.  Can you come in next Tuesday?  I want to run some further tests.”

If your heart wasn’t thumping erratically before, it certainly would be then, and for a while after.

Is it really necessary to pile it on the way they do?  It seems that the media is simply a machine that exists to give folks a little more to worry about in the never ending list of worries we have until we break.  It begins to make the famine and plague years  seem like “Happy Days”, the threat of barbarian invasions and massacre of whole cities merely another evening with “Ozzie and Harriet”.

I suppose it would be alright if someone would turn off the darn machine, say that the test was over and allow us to go home to wait for the undertaker.  It would be, as they say, a “mercy”.

Now, I find out that the data which led to the reports, which led to the predictions of the imminent death of us all prematurely from overheating was assembled from spurious sources by people who had no more idea of what they were doing in many cases than I have of how to do a jig saw puzzle or darn a sock.  And, I further find out that the data has been assembled from the scholarly equivalent of gossip and rumor, hints and guesses and the assemblers…the lab assistants to the chrome domed Ph.D.’s who are regulars before Congresses, Parliaments, Committees, Sub-Committees and Blue Ribbon Panels all over the bleeping planet; whose eyebrows are raised in alarm and voices cry alarum, like klaxons warning of death from the sky…are with their bosses little better than liars.

That’s a heck of a sentence to build.  But, it ain’t any worse than what’s being done even as I write by this snake in the grass IPCC and the guys and gals who are making a good living off it.

I think they ought to be occupied by the great unwashed down on Wall Street.  But that happens and all that would come of it would be a few hours of Eyeworthless Reports all over the place, and then more hearings, harangues and helpless mumblings and mutterings.  Well at least the cooks and caterers, the champagne and fancy food dudes will continue to make a buck off them.  At least we won’t have to see them next to all the iron workers and auto workers and other honest guys in the unemployment lines.  At least the hotel and convention hall folks will still have some place to go from Monday to Friday, and the First class seats will be filled on all the flights to Switzerland, South Africa, Tokyo and other places where Accords are signed.  And, lord knows the world has a crying need for accords.

The whole thing stinks, like a dead dog left in the sun for a few days, and it’s about as good looking, too.

Since her name is derivative of the Latin word for light, she became patroness of those who suffer diseases of the eye.  Sometimes she is portrayed holding a plate on which are two eyes, a rather gruesome and graphic depiction in no way connected with her death.  But that was then, back in the good old days when folks didn’t scruple to make a point if it needed to be made.

Some people I know got into a discussion on Facebook about St. Lucy and her plate of eyeballs.  While the exclamation “Eeewwwww!” did not appear in print that was the general tone of the remarks on such things as those which were rather common in the good old days.  Someone brought up the many paintings of St. Sebastian, and most of the reactions to those ranged from horror to a kind of air-sick queasiness about the way he’s always depicted; tied up and as full of arrows as a pincushion.

Truth is, though, that while he was filled with arrows, he didn’t die that way.  He was healed by another saint, Irene, but insisted on remaining a Christian.  So, he was simply clubbed to death; no swords being handy, I guess.  Or, since this was during Diocletian’s persecution, perhaps Lucy was being sliced up a few doors down with the sword used for Christians who just wouldn’t take a hint.

As I read the variously horrified and recoiling reactions to these distasteful displays of suffering I couldn’t help thinking about them myself.  I remembered being at the christening of my granddaughter Mary, now twenty.  Just before he poured the water over her, the priest held her up for all to see and said that what was going to happen to her was, in many cases, a dangerous thing.  It could, some day, lead to her death; in this world.  Also I remembered the story I had read only a while before this discussion which so paralleled St. Lucy’s that  it took my breath away.

In a small town in Pakistan recently a young Catholic girl’s home was invaded by some men.  They held her mother and her hostage demanding that the girl become a Muslim and marry one of them who wanted her for a bride.  She refused on both counts and was shot dead, no swords or oil being necessary, obviously.  Her mother was forced to flee, and the police aren’t really interested in doing much.  Yawn.

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it but my favorite stained glass window is in the nave of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, my home town. You can see it above you on the right as you walk down the center aisle toward the altar . It is a vivid rendering of the death of St. Lawrence.

He is on the grill, his flesh beginning to roast, the flames beneath him turning the metal a deep red. I first saw it when I was a young fellow of about ten  at a Holy Name Society Mass with my father and about 3,000 other men from around the city. Today we avoid like the plague installing such bloody and gruesome things in our churches, preferring not to think of such things as burnings and worse some are forced to suffer for being Catholics, Christians.  In my own parish there is a nice sanitized window devoted to the North American Martyrs.  To look at it one would wonder whether or not they had all died peacefully in their sleep.  I’ve been to their shrine and read the account of their sufferings.  Peaceful death is as far from their actual deaths as is the east from the west.   (NOTE:  I wonder if we could gather even 300 Catholic men and boys anywhere for a Mass today.  I expect I will hear from the folks who will mention WYD in that vein, and the visits of pontiffs here and there, which only prove my point I’d say.)

What would be the case if some church were built today with one of its windows showing St. Maximilian Kolbe naked in the death cell surrounded by the corpses of his fellow prisoners as the Nazi guard injects him with cyanide? I do not think it would be quiet contemplation.  I have never seen any rendering of his actual martyrdom; nothing beyond a few photos of him long before that horrible act was committed.

But such things are done, and in some places the truth is told and the acts represented for one’s contemplation.  I was in a church in Gdansk several years ago and saw a statue of Fr. Jerzy Popiulsko. It was on the floor, he trussed in chains and beaten and bruised. They don’t pull punches over there.  Someday perhaps there will be another window in a church in Pakistan showing a young girl held by some men while another, face contorted with lust and rage shoots her brains out as her mother looks on in horror. It might be just the needed to remind us all of the real cost of the”Pearl of Great Price”.

I think I know the reason for those very graphic depictions of the saints’ and martyrs’ sufferings.  We should know, we need  to know “the wages of sin” and the “cost of discipleship”.  When we begin to value life too highly, to desire our ease and comfort here more than joy “ever after”, our real death begins.  How yucky can that get?  Maybe the first step to heaven is always down the path labelled martyrdom…of one kind or another.  It isn’t something to be shied from you know, if one is at all interested in the imitation of Christ.   And, there will certainly be an awful lot of company along the Way if recent events are any indication.

Some rats have gotten into the cheese, here, and they are eating it all up.  The rest of us, thinking the pantry is safe, have not even gone to look when we hear the suspicious scratchings and snufflings; the little squeaks and hisses from the Sebeliuses and that ilk immensely concerned that No Child Will be Left to Live in the name of compassion or fashion.  OK, sorry.   I sometimes allow myself the luxury of a brick through the window.  Whatever.

Poison is abroad in the land, and  its name is Obama Care; a gas, a kind of paralyzing nerve gas.  Hope in him it seems is a false one.  But anyone with a brain knew that from the beginning.  What surprises me is that we still have millions of blissfully ignorant people walking around prattling about how great this will be.  Great for whom, is what I wonder.

This is the beginning, I think.  And it begins quietly, subtly, stealthily disguised as something good.  Always such things begin as something for the Greater Good, always the Hope Filled result of our compassion for others and desire our own comfort and ease, the light at the end of the tunnel, progress, the dawn of a new day.  This is, after all, a democracy.  We do, after all, have leaders, not rulers.  And we can after all change them.  What else is the Constitution for?  What is the government for if not to obey the will of the people?

“They came for the Communists” is the way the quote begins.

It has started, drip, drip, drip.  Well, some would argue it actually started a long time ago.  I am amused really by the design.  Not a real repeal of an unalienable right, this; not at all.  Just a small bite, rat sized,out of teeny clause in one of them, the one least paid attention to, “…or respecting the free exercise thereof…”.  Hope creeps away on little rat feet.

Here is a nice poem to think about after you have read the article and watched the little video it contains:
Hangman
by Maurice Ogden

1.
Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.

The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.

And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.

And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead –
Till one cried: “Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?”

Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
“He who serves me best,” said he,
“Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree.”

And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another’s grief
At the Hangman’s hand was our relief

And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow’s sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman’s cloak.

2.
The next day’s sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.

And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.

And we cried, “Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?”
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
“Oh, not for him was the gallows raised.”

He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
“Did you think I’d gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That’s a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new.”

Then one cried “Murder!” and one cried “Shame!”
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man’s place. “Do you hold,” said he,
“with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?”

And he laid his hand on that one’s arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman’s cloak.

That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman’s scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;

Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.

3.
The third he took — we had all heard tell –
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
“What,” said the Hangman “have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?”

And we cried out, “Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?”
The Hangman smiled: “It’s a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam.”

The fourth man’s dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
“And what concern,” he gave us back.
“Have you for the doomed — the doomed and Black?”

The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
“Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?”
“It’s a trick,” he said. “that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow.”

And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.

The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.

4.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name –
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, “There is no one left at all

For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree.”
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman’s tree and the Hangman’s rope.

He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.

And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap –
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.

“You tricked me. Hangman!,” I shouted then,
“That your scaffold was built for other men…
And I no henchman of yours,” I cried,
“You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!”

Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
“Lied to you? Tricked you?” he said. “Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true –
The scaffold was raised for none but you.

For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward’s hope?” said he,
“And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?”

“Dead,” I whispered. And amiably
“Murdered,” the Hangman corrected me:
“First the foreigner, then the Jew…
I did no more than you let me do.”

Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried “Stop!” for me in the empty square.

“I simply can’t bear the thought of having this around all that time and missing the Queen’s birthday, or Ascot and all those lovely hats.”

“Not a problem, Lady Snuffem.  We’ll have this out of you in plenty of time for tea.”

The writer asks if the report means that now 98% of British abortions are illegal.  Good question.  Who’s lying to whom?  And, what about the odd duck who does commit suicide, or feel bad for years about having had an abortion.  Would she have felt as bad had the child been born and lived, and was living now?  Is the stress of child rearing a good enough reason to have them all killed…or 98% of them anyway of all of them who are headed for the recycling center?  Shhh!  There are questions which politeness requires us not to ask.

Good Lord, it just occurred to me that may be the reason why the British have all of those fogs and mists and moors to wail upon.  The whole place is neurasthenic.

It is encouraging to note that the doctors who have done the study seem to think that there is some stress accompanying the decision to end a pregnancy before a pregnancy ends.  That may be, if the 98% number tells the truth.  Of course it must tell the truth.  Don’t we all know numbers don’t lie, because , well, who really wants to be pregnant?

“Oh, Dr. Slippenfall, Montague says we just cannot visit Majorca this summer if I am still preggers.  There is such tension at home.”

“Now, now, Adelaide, I know Montague.  His practice requires a rest every once in a while, and you do have that lovely little bulldog Chelsea.”

“Well, if you say so.  There are all of those new things I bought which would just devastate me to leave behind.”

And, so, they will probably conclude and recommend that more should be done about this problem of unwanted pregnancy.  The solution, since ending them seems to be about a guilt free as getting rid of the trash, will probably be to recommend more abortion.

That’s what I think will happen, anyway.  Given the trend toward the death option over there from both ends of the average life span, I figure the place will be empty in about 50 years.

I used the time the past couple of weeks, time stolen from other duties as assigned, to wander about outside and clean up a bit from that storm where each snowflake that fell weighed at least ten pounds and contained a bit more than a gallon of water.  It’s a wonder the weight of it didn’t cause the clouds containing it all to call for a triple A tow!  Anyway, during my walk I saw that while such things as tomatoes and cucumbers and the like were toast already, the herbs were just fine, thank you.  The parsley was vibrantly green, so was the marjoram, hugging the ground and curling in the tangle around the base of a sage plant that was almost as big as the 30 year old forsythia that keep threatening to engulf my neighbor’s home.  Basil, dill, lovage and hyssop were all gone a month or so before.  In another place the oregano looked like a small forest.  And, if the weather held, I had thoughts of putting Christmas decorations and lights on the rosemary.

It was then that I decided to bring some inside to try my hand at drying them.  So I snipped a few twigs from the rosemary and parsley, prepared them and spread them out in one of the rooms upstairs, and walked away.  In a week or so they were drying nicely.  The room was pleasantly fragrant, too.  This was good.  Going outside in my shirtsleeves to cut some more, adding bunches of still green and growing parsley to the harvest, now the room was beginning to fill up, the closet draped with parsley hanging from the empty hangers. But it was fun imagining the next  couple of months cooking with our own herbs.

Thanksgiving came and I stuffed the turkey simply putting several hands full of herbs in the cavity and listening to the compliments, after smelling the aroma sweetly circulating around the house.

Thus encouraged, in came more herbs.  This time marjoram was added to the list.  Though not bursting with drying vegetation, it was becoming a bit difficult to make one’s way around the dryatorium.  So yesterday the marjoram and rosemary came downstairs.  The twigs were stripped and leaves and needles put them into airtight jars (jelly and stuff like that).  They look great, and when the lid’s taken off, the aroma leaps out and fills the room.  My hands smelled so good after that and for the whole day they stayed that way until I washed them before making supper.

Which leads me to this morning.  I realized that it is probably the last opportunity to harvest what I can.  Though not yet dressed I slipped out back in the frosty morning stillness and snipped off a bunch or two of sage, rosemary, marjoram and oregano.  They rest now in the room across the hall, and I can smell their aroma seeping all the way over here.  Sometimes a big nose is a blessing.

I’ll clean them up, arrange them on clean paper towels and fill up that room again with summer smells spending time thinking of more delicious meals, a whole bunch of them.  And next year?  Next year we’ll get started earlier, and we’ll have basil, dill, lavender, parsley, mint, sage thyme (two or three different kinds)…all of them.  Maybe there’ll even be enough for you?

I’ve saved the twigs and am thinking of some way I can dry them, pulverize them and make some kind od incense of them.  There are already have a bunch of Russian Sage twigs drying in the garage.  They’ll go on one of our fires over Christmas.

Here’s a bit of the abundant harvest:

Hanging Parsley

Sage, My Favorite Right Now

A Few Twigs of Oregano

When we were in Killarney there was a show on the local station from Limerick that I enjoyed.  The host would chatter amiably for a minute or two and then play some bit of music…from anywhere…plucked as it were randomly out of mid-air.  I heard a Beatles’ song the on the anniversary of Brian Epstein’s death right after he had played this.  I remember the first time I heard this song, too long ago for me to own up to, on a similar “unstructured” and loosely organized radio show, on a cluttered morning of the mind and made it a personal favorite immediately.

The segue from “Bailero” into the Beatles was a quick something about the one song’s being about love and Epstein’s managing of the Beatles.  Go figure, eh?

The wonderful thing about it was that it worked…for me…at least.  Now where in these Untied States would a radio show like that last for fifteen minutes after the demographics came in?  And not once did anyone shout or utter a “bleep”.

A couple of days before up in Galway we sat in a quiet place at the Glenlo Abbey Hotel in the late afternoon looking out the window at the clouds rolling by.

We were having tea.  The radio was softly playing a similar program of music and quiet conversation.  I never heard a word of the latter, but I did hear and softly sing along with Billie Holliday, Nat king Cole, Sinatra and Tony Bennet, tunes I hadn’t heard on any radio program over here for it seems decades.  It was another “no bleep” zone.

Oh, the soprano on the  video clip was Netania Devrah, a name I’d never heard until I heard it in Ireland. The Beatles song?  It was “All You Need Is Love”.  Yeah, the segue worked.

That is a fact better established and more sure of verification than the rising of the sun in the east mere hours after its disappearance beyond the horizon in the west.