Happy President's Day

written by Rosa MorganPresidents' Day, originally known as Washington's Birthday, falls on the third Monday of February. Here are a few historical tidbits about our nation's leaders, including Grant's speedy equine mischief.

3rd President, Thomas Jefferson spent more than 40 years designing and building his Virginian home, Monticello.



16th President, Abraham Lincoln's son, Tad, successfully pleaded for the turkey's life who was intended for Christmas dinner. Now every Thanksgiving, the U.S. president grants one gobbler a last-second reprieve from the butcher's block, to be released into the wild at a national reserve.



Late one night, 18th President, Ulysses S. Grant exceeded the speed limit while riding his horse in the streets of Washington, D.C. . After recognizing the president, a police officer was reluctant to issue the $20 ticket, but Grant insisted he be fined.








24th President Grover Cleveland was a draft dodger. He hired someone to enter the service in his place.









28th President,Woodrow Wilson is thought to have had dyslexia because he could not read until he was 11 years old.












32nd President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt contracted polio at the age of 39, however, millions of Americans never knew he was a wheelchair bound paraplegic. He was so superstitious that he refused to leave town on a Friday or sit at a table of 13.

Oh Miss Astor What A Disaster!!!!

Salutations Gentle Reader,

Ain't technology grand; at least it is for semi- intelligent persons, present company excluded. I have destroyed my blog with one misplaced click of a button on my Smart phone. That is, I deleted a year's worth of photos on my blog, and now must laboriously replace them. So, be patient, and all of them in due time will be replaced.

Crying, rather wailing, in my teacup!
Rosa

Martha: The Last Known Passenger Pigeon

written by Rosa Morgan



My tail feathers shudder when I consider I'm the last of Ectopistes migratorius. And so, I, Martha the Passenger Pigeon, feel compelled to bear witness to my noble species, and how swiftly we were massacred into extinction.













John James Audubon's painting catches the loving nature of our life long mating character. Hen and cock are so dedicated to their young squabs that they both lovingly sit on their eggs, and once hatched, they feed them a cheesy milk, which they produce.












Our numbers were once huge. An 1866 sighting in southern Ontario noted 3.5 billion migrating birds made up a flock that spanned 1 mile wide, 300 miles long, and took 14 hours to pass a single point.







So how did the most abundant bird in the world in the 19th century dwindle down to me being the last one alive?

Part of the problem was that our sheer numbers left devastation in our path. The weight of large nesting groups broke off tree branches. We ate all edible nuts, seeds, and berries as we went, and our droppings were so thick, it often destroyed the forest understory. In other words, we were not environmentally friendly.






However, monetary gain was the biggest factor which led to our demise. At a penny a bird, we were a ready and inexpensive source of meat for slaves and the poor; and huntsmen attacked us without compunction.









Due to our communal breeding habits, we were easy targets, but that didn't stop trap-shooters from using us in tournaments. In 1881, at Coney Island N.Y. 20,000 of my kin were killed in one sporting event.







Mr. Bergh's Anti-Pigeon Bill was passed by the Senate, but this law was generally ignored by huntsmen, and attempts to save us by breeding surviving captive birds proved unsuccessful.






That's where I come into the story. I lived my entire life in the Cincinnati Zoo. They gave me a cock to mate with, but how can one feel amorous under such dire circumstances. We were genetically programmed to breed with hundreds, thousands, even millions of our brethren surrounding us with love. I died at at 1 p.m. on September 1, 1914 at the age of 29, but do not shed a tear for me in vain. Let my death and that of all passenger pigeons be a reminder that life on Earth is precious, and we must do our best to preserve its diversity.


John Herald sings tribute to Martha

The Hoarding Collyer Brothers

written by Rosa Morgan

"Langley? Brother, what happened? Are you alright?" The plaintive cry came from Homer, who sat entombed in the pitch black two by two foot space he used for sleeping, eating, and using the bathroom. Narrow pathways through the junk filled, three-story Harlem brownstone led to him, but he was blind and paralyzed, and it was years since he'd last navigated them. And even if he managed the treacherous way, he didn't know where his brother, Langley, had set up the booby-traps. Again he called out, "Langley, can you hear me? Did you fall?"


Desperate hours passed before sixty-six-year-old Homer, heard a faint confirmation. A mere ten feet away, beneath a stack of weighted suitcases and newspapers reaching floor to ceiling, lay the broken and dying Langley. He moaned, "I can't move my legs." The immediate relief Homer had felt upon hearing the familiar voice, turned to horror. He relied on his younger brother for everything. "Langley, I warned you we'd fall prey to one of those damn traps well before any thief would?"
Realizing their hopeless situation, tears filled the eyes of gruff old Langley. Even though the two misers could have easily afforded it, they'd let their utilities go unpaid and eventually turned off. Candles and kerosene replaced electricity, water was hauled from a nearby park, and the phone that could now possibly save their lives, had long been disconnected. "I'm sorry," Langley said, groping for the flashlight, just beyond his reach.



Even if Homer wasn't blind, and there was a source of light, he couldn't have seen his brother lying on the floor. Between them was a piano, one of fourteen in the house, mountains of books and junk, and parts of a Model T Ford that Langley had adapted to generate electricity. Homer called in the direction of the labored breathing. "You could've left me to fend for myself like father did, but instead you took care of me; kept every paper printed for the past twenty years, so when I got my sight back, I could read them. You're an inventive genius, and would've made a success of your life if I hadn't been an albatross around your neck. That means a lot to me."







In those few hours left to share, the devoted brothers reminisced. Langley recounted, "Do you remember mother's sweet voice; she was an opera singer who could have had a brilliant career." Homer opined, "The neighborhood went down hill after the war. Everyone said we were off our rockers; supposedly because Mother and Father were cousins, but honestly "I didn't give a fig what people said about us, as long as they left us alone."


Langley said with pride, "Found some salami in the butcher's garbage this morning. It's a travesty how people throw away perfectly good food." Homer mused, "One man's junk is another man's treasure. Did you get my oranges?" With his strength fading, Langley answered, "Of course; a hundred a week will reinvigorate your vision." Homer said optimistically, "I'd like to organize our stuff when I can see again; put everything into alphabetical categories. What do you think?" Hearing no answer, Homer wailed into the silent darkness. Where life could not part them, death had succeeded.







The stench of death brought the police and six hundred curious onlookers to the residence of the eccentric Collyer brothers. With doors locked, the emergency squad broke into a second story window, and began throwing out garbage in order to make their way through. After two hours they found Homer dead of malnutrition, dehydration, and cardiac arrest. Unaware Langley was in the house, a nine state manhunt was undertaken. Eighteen days later they found the crushed body of Langley in the residence

130 tons of garbage were removed from the Collyer brownstone with salvageable items fetching less than $2,000 at auction; their cumulative estate was valued at $91,000. The chair in which Homer died was exhibited at Hubert's Dime Museum.

The house, eventually deemed a fire hazard, was razed and became a park named for the brothers.

Gentle Reader, The Collyer brothers were born in the Victorian era, while their death was after that glorious period, however, I was compelled to write about them, considering their remarkable lives, and my fascination with hoarding.