CAESAR
(gloating to soothsayer)
The ides of March are come.

SOOTHSAYER
(speaking truth to power)
Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

CAESAR
Well, I'm Caesar, and I say they are. Effective immediately, we're seasonally adjusting all the sundials forward one hour! Goodbye, Ides of March. Hello, Seventeenth Kalends of March!

BRUTUS
What a huge improvement you've made, boss! Now I can enjoy an extra hour of gladiator fights at the Circus Maximus after work. You're not such a terrible tyrant after all! (sheaths his knife) Hooray!

SOOTHSAYER
This play sucks.

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There's only one more week remaining in this godforsaken presidential election, and still no one has answered the single most important question of our times: do the candidates wear boxers or briefs?

I'm of the MTV generation, and I recall when Bill Clinton was asked the question. His answer was "Usually briefs." Bernie Sanders said the same thing when Ellen asked him last year. But what about Trump? Or Hillary?

Personally, I used to wear standard white briefs until one evening in 1993, when an icebreaker at my coed freshman dorm had everyone trade underwear and mingle until we had all recovered our own. While everyone else revealed a pair of boxers or silk panties, my only option was a pair of tighty-whities. My underwear was very, very easy to recover. At least my name wasn't written in them.

You can imagine my humiliation. I spent the rest of the mixer sitting alone on a bench holding some stranger's underwear in the air. Scarred by that experience, I naturally changed my underwear preference. Now I only wear colored briefs. (The pair I'm wearing right now are navy blue.)

Based on my experience, I know that what you wear under your clothes says a lot about you. That's why it's so important to see what our presidential candidates are wearing. Trump, Hillary, it's time to drop your pants. It's a matter of national security.

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MentalFloss.com has compiled a list of the most distinct last names by state. That's the name that appears most often in each state compared to the frequency of that name nationally. Imagine my surprise to discover that the name associated with Georgia is Stephens.

The Internet Surname Database says that Stephens means "the son of Stephen" and derives from the Greek "Stephanos," meaning "crown." It claims the name was popular in the Middle Ages because it was the name of the first Christian martyr (St. Stephen, who was stoned to death).

Maybe that's all true. Maybe Georgia is full of Greek Catholics who were named after saints. However, that has nothing to do with my last name.

Sometime in the late 19th century, probably around 1875, my great-great grandmother Rosa and her four children traveled from Lebanon to America. U.S. customs officials apparently misunderstood (or didn't care) when she told them she had come to meet her husband, Stephen Basil. No one in the family ever changed it back, so the family name has been Stephens instead of Basil ever since.

For the record, Rosa was a practicing Catholic, and most of her descendants remain so. However, you can see that my name has nothing to do with Catholic martyrs. I wonder how many of Georgia's other Stephens are descendants of my great-great grandfather?

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Among the other things my aunt dropped off while housecleaning last week was a copy of The Literary Digest Vol. 55 No. 14 cover dated October 6, 1917. Much as the Newsweek would be familiar to modern readers, so too this magazine's warnings about the dangers posed by illegal aliens (in this case German agents), military chaos in Russia (in this case the result of two Russian Revolutions), and the failure of the public at large to respect its soldiers (in this case resulting from a lack of patriotic songs). If you think shit in the world is bad now, be glad you weren't living in 1917.

The most familiar aspects of this magazine are the advertisements. Covering everything from handsaws to night shirts, most of the advertisements are — unsurprisingly in a "literary" publication — for books. Mail away and you can teach yourself electrical engineering, learn how to raise rabbits for fun and profit, and speak French in time for your deployment to the front. But the most intriguing ad might be this:

A "wholesome" guide to everything I need to know about sex in 1917? Must be a short book. Thanks to the magic of the Information Age, we no longer need to mail $2 to Philadelphia to find out what Knowledge a Young Man Should Have. All 232 pages of Sexology by William H. Walling (including its 2 illustrations!) are available for free on Google Books.

First of all, the book was 13 years old by 1917, so some of its medical advice was probably outdated. But that wouldn't have been an issue for Professor Walling. Most of his teachings were based on tradition, anecdote, or religion that would have been more at home in Ripley's Believe It or Not. Chapter IV, "Masturbation, Male," opens with the incrimination, "viewing the world over, this shameful and criminal act is the most frequent, as well as the most fatal, of all vices." Is that so? I don't think there are many episodes of Law and Order where the coroners has listed "jerking off" as the cause of death.

"Dr. Doussin Deubreuil relates the case of a child who contracted the habit spontaneously at the age of five years, who, in spite of all that could be done, died at sixteen having lost his reason at eleven."

The book gives no guide to what sorts of cures could be used to prevent the inevitable "loss of memory and intelligence" inflicted upon even the occasional masturbator. Just know that if you do it, you're gonna lose your marbles and die. I suspect this is the prototypical case of the cure being worse than the disease.

This sort of drivel takes up 8 pages. A further 7 pages are devoted to the equal dangers of "Masturbation, Female" ("Alas, that such a term is possible!"). There's also guidance on the physical and moral dangers of abortion and incest and an accompanying medical explanation that the "softer and less voluminous" brains of women make them easily confused and stupid. You can't argue with science, ladies!

But the good doctor isn't a monster. His book advises strongly against rape (even by married men of their wives) and does its best to dispel myths about marriage, pregnancy, and childbirth. (He's a big fan of breast over bottle.) "A husband is generally the architect of his own misfortunes," is the first bit of wisdom listed in his final chapter. Of course the same chapter ends with "The only recipe for permanent happiness in wedlock: Christianity" does go a few steps too far.

In the 21st century, we've gotten use to misinformation and bad science disseminated through blog posts and cable news. Isn't it nice to know that the self-proclaimed experts of a century ago and their mail-order instructional manuals were just as bad?

(Footnote: If you want to read about how the motion picture industry is actually becoming — gasp! — big business in 1917 America, you can also read that copy of The Literary Digest online here.)

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I stumbled upon this not-quite-as-informative-as-it-pretends-to-be image yesterday. For unknown reasons, it tells you how much Clark Kent would have paid for rent in 1938, but not what his power or grocery bills would have been or how much of his salary as a newspaper reporter would have been consumed by his listed expenses. (Hint: even adjusting for inflation, he'll do a better job saving for retirement in 2015. Assuming he could find a paper to work for.)

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Vacation Day 3: Patriots Point and Fort Sumter

Patriots Point is a museum primarily anchored by its star attraction, the USS Yorktown.

Even at the rip old age of 72, she's an impressive ship. She survived World War II and lived to pull Apollo astronauts out of the sea. But she's showing her age in places: Brian got rust stains all over his white shirt while descending from her bridge.

The volunteer docents — all exceedingly friendly old sailors — were disappointed by our refusal to take the guided audio tour, but they agreed that we were short on time since we also planned to take the ferry to Fort Sumter. We hustled out to the flight deck and looked around as best we could in the time Brian and I had allotted ourselves. The ship is so big, it would probably take two days to explore fully.

Compared to a 20th century aircraft carrier, Fort Sumter feels tiny. Otherwise, its a good looking ruin on a man-made island in the middle of the busy Charleston Harbor. It's small size seems disproportionate to its importance in the Civil War. The big, black battery that now takes up most of the island didn't exist in 1861, so maybe Sumter had more room for whipping slaves back in the day.

We were harried by rain all afternoon, and the recurring thunderstorms that washed over the harbor also kept us from seeing most of the island. The rain came in wave after wave, chasing us back to shore. The ferry ride back was a wet one.

Returning to Patriots Point, we toured the USS Laffey destroyer and USS Clagmore submarine before taking another shot at the Yorktown. This time we walked through the galley where we saw the Navy's super scientific recipe for Peanut Butter And Jelly Sandwiches (Sandwiches No.N 014 00).

Ingredient:

• Bread, White
• Peanut Butter
• Jelly, Grape

Method:

1. Spread each slice of bread with 1 Tb peanut butter. Spread 1 slice bread with 1 Tb jelly. Top with second slice.
2. Cut each sandwich in half.

Notes:

1. in step 1, jam may be used.

And that, boys and girls, is how we won the war.

More to Come.

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Vacation Days 1 & 2: Charleston, South Carolina

The first day of my vacation was mostly a travel day. We got a late start and only had time for a brief orientation drive through Charleston before they closed the bridges. ("Bridges closed for maintenance," according to the local news. Nearly the whole town shuts down at 5PM, so I guess they figured anyone not out by sundown was getting what was coming to them.)

On the recommendation of my old friend Jason, we took dinner at Ye Olde Fashioned Cafe & Ice Cream. Their chili dog was worth the drive into South Carolina. Good call, Jason.

Tuesday morning, my traveling companion, Brian, and I set out to see some old stuff in historic downtown Charleston. And we found it!

For all the old buildings in town, the thing that stood out most was the presence of a telephone booth. They literally don't make these like they used to.

Of course, the town is chock full of history. We started in the Charleston Museum ("oldest museum in the United States") and worked our way south down Charleston's "museum mile." We didn't spend much money on admission on the historic houses because I spent all our time in church graveyards.

Desire Peronneau does not have the best tombstone at Circular Congregational Church, just the best tombstone in a picture I took. (The best overall tombstone belongs to "The mortal part of" Mary Smith, "Who after happily exemplifying the Conjugal and Maternal virtues for upwards of 37 Years Was fuddenly arrefted by the hand of Death to the no fmall grief of her numerous Relations and Friends" in 1795.)

Charles Town became Charleston in 1783. That didn't do much to help Mrs. Jackson, whose final resting place remains a mystery.

Quick history: Pinckney's opposition in those presidential elections were Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. Obviously, Pinckney lost both times. Badly. John Rutledge remains the only man ejected forcibly from the Supreme Court. John's brother, Ed, youngest signer of the Declaration of Independence, is buried in the only graveyard in town I didn't find the entrance to. I had to leave myself at least one reason to go back.

After the town closed on day 2, we trekked over to Sullivan's island to take a look at Fort Moultrie, the location of the battle that gave South Carolina its nickname and flag. But as it was after 5PM, the place was locked up tighter than a... well, a fort. Day three would give us a closer look at Charleston's military history when we took the boat to Fort Sumter.

More to come.

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Fifty years ago, Florida was ranked #9 headed into the World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party in Jacksonville. UGA would go on to win 14-7, and more importantly, Steve Spurrier was publicly embarrassed.

The above picture ran in the November 10, 1964, issue of UGA's Red and Black newspaper. Reading the old newspapers, you get the impression that the students of UGA were more concerned about football players cutting in line at the cafeteria, drunks at Sanford Stadium, and supporting Barry Goldwater than they were interested in new coach Vince Dooley leading the Bulldogs to their first winning season in four years. It seems that there's more to life on campus than just football. Who knew?

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More in the life and times of Mrs. W.C. McBride. Published today in The Newnan Times-Herald:

This item was published in The Herald and Advertiser, predecessor of The Newnan Times-Herald, on Aug. 14, 1914:

"Among the numerous floral offerings displayed at Mrs. Woodrow Wilson's funeral at Rome on Tuesday last, and one of the few carried into the church with the casket, was a beautiful wreath formed of magnolia leaves contributed by Sarah Dickinson Chapter, D.A.R. of this city. The wreath was designed and put together by Mrs. W. C. McBride, who [sic] artistic taste was never more prettily displayed, and we understand it was much admired."

This belated celebration of the centennial of Mrs. Wilson's death didn't come out of the blue. It was published to illustrate Newnan's ties to the former first lady, a Georgia native whose paintings are currently on display in Rome.

The city of Rome must have been very important to Ellen Axson Wilson and her husband, the future 28th President. As the supporting article emphasizes, "They met in Rome, where they met and where she gave birth to two of her daughters." That two of the daughters were born in Rome is mentioned again later in the article. It also goes on to add that she attended Rome Female College, and Mr. Wilson became "immediately attracted" to her after seeing her in church. They sound like a happy couple. I wonder where they met?

(I should also be absolutely clear on this point: Ellen Axson was the first Mrs. Wilson. Ellen was the third first lady to die while her husband was in office, and perhaps not so coincidentally, Woodrow was the third President to be married while in office. The Mrs. Wilson history recognizes as managing the nation's affairs while President Wilson convalesced from a 1919 stroke was his second wife, Edith Bolling, who so far as I know had no ties to Rome. The article gives no mention of the second, probably more famous Mrs. Wilson.)

The first Mrs. Wilson's paintings are now on display at the Oak Hill & The Martha Berry Museum in Rome, GA. That museum is no relation to the Oak Hill Cemetery where the aforementioned Mrs. McBride rests.

So that's your Jennie Hardaway McBride update for 2014. For a woman who died 90 years ago, she still gets around!

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"Why haven't you posted the pics of the cemeteries yet," Mother asked me yesterday.

"Because I didn't think anyone else would care about that," I replied. "That's the sort of thing only I find interesting."

"You're the only one who finds anything interesting about your blog," she said.

She's right. So here are some pics I took of the Georgia and Chattanooga National Cemeteries last month.

The Georgia National Cemetery is on top of a mountain in Canton. It opened in 2006 and has plenty of room, though judging by the number of tombstones it has picked up in just the last 7 years, it sadly might be full before I'm dead. It is beautiful and quiet and would be a great space for a picnic if the Veterans Administration allowed that sort of thing.

While I agree that cemeteries are not the place for littering (that's what the side of the highway is for), I think banning all "boisterous actions" takes it a bit far. I understand their reasoning, but I disagree. Maybe I'm an old-fashioned Victorian, but I think cemeteries should celebrate life, not death. I politely suggest that the VA should spend more time trying to heal the living and less time trying to police the dead.

If the Georgia National Cemetery seems like a beautiful place, it's got nothing on the Chattanooga National Cemetery just a few hours up the road. It's 139 years older, and has its monuments encircling a picturesque hill that overlooks the surrounding region. Among many other, it is the final resting place of the 8 Union soldiers executed as spies for their participation in the Great Locomotive Chase of 1862. As final resting places go, this one is hard to beat.

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