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	* THE
	* CYBERSENIOR
	* REVIEW
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VOLUME 4 NUMBER 3 (#14)                OCTOBER 1997
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet
Elders List, an active world-wide Internet  Mailing
List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and
published by members of the Elders  for  interested
seniors worldwide.  Contributions  from  non-Elders
are welcome. Please query one of the editors first.

Contents  copyrighted  1997  by the Internet Elders
List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the
authors.  Brief  quotes permitted with attribution.

The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review:

Elaine Dabbs esudweek@mail.usyd.edu.au
Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk
James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us

======================================================

CONTENTS, Volume 4, Number 3, October 1997 (#14)

EDITORIAL by James Hursey

SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES  by Robert S. Davidow
     Roberts tells us of Succoth, the week-long festival of
     Thanksgiving in Israel

A POLISH CHRISTMAS  by Jan Mokrzycki 
     Jan describes Christmas traditions in his country, 
     including recipes for holiday goodies you may want to try.

CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS  by Langston Kerr                      
     Langston finds a Christmas catalog in his mailbox and sits 
     down right there to start looking at it, until fire ants 
     give him other ideas.

BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK  by Des Weeks 
     Des tries horseback riding for the first time and finds that
     Belle has a mind of her own.

TO MY GRANDSON  a poem by Eloise Blanpied

==============================================================

EDITORIAL
by James Hursey

Greetings to seniors world-wide from the State of Ohio in the 
USA, where, as I write, lovely October is just now beginning to 
don her most colorful garb. Ah! October! What more can you say, 
the very word a poem.  I can look out the window at a cloudless, 
deep-blue sky, trees just starting to turn, some, getting the 
jump, as it were, on their fellows, already yellow and orange and 
brown, while others, still green with envy, await their turn.

Yet, linked as we are, worldwide in cyberspace, we must remember 
that our friends Down Under, where the season are reversed, are 
even now enjoying Spring's re-awakening.  Are they six months 
ahead of us, or six months behind?

But no matter where we are, all enjoy the Holiday season, and in 
this issue of The CyberSenior Review, we get a taste (quite 
literally, including a recipe) of Christmas traditions in 
different cultures, starting with Robert's description of the 
Jewish Succoth, or Feast of the Tabernacle, a Thanksgiving 
festival.

Then we may read about a Polish Christmas, as described by Jan, 
followed by Langston's humorous reaction to the arrival of the 
first Christmas catalogs in downtown Holly Springs.

While perhaps clinging a-horseback to a barely controlled horse 
bound to have her own way is not exactly a holiday story (could 
be, however, consider the toy "rocky horse" Langston sees in the 
catalogue), we stretch a point and include Des's hilarious 
description of his first attempt at riding.

We close with Eloise's lovely sonnet to her grandson, since, to 
all of us seniors especially, grandchildren are always in season.

Holiday greetings (however you may celebrate in your part of the 
world) from the editors of the CyberSenior Review.

==============================================================

SUCCOTH, THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES
by Robert S. Davidow

This month we are in the midst of one of the joyous festivals, 
Succoth. Though marred by the recent violence, we still always 
have Succoth. Many of you will know this season as the Feast of 
Tabernacles.  It is primarily a festival of Thanksgiving for the 
abundance of the harvest. 

Many of our citizens construct simple booths called a Succah 
(plural: Succoth).  The biblical instructions given in Leviticus 
23, 42-43, are followed very closely and it is considered an act 
of reverence and piety to eat and sleep in the Succah during the 
festival.

In addition to the Succah there is another symbol, a cluster of 
plants -- the lulav, esrog, myrtle and willow -- which are held 
prominently as the worshipper chants prayers or praises of 
gratitude to the Giver of all that is good.  The lulav, a tall 
palm branch, denotes men of power and influence; the aromatic 
esrog men of saintliness and learning; myrtle the average men and 
women of the community; and the willow represents the poor and 
lowly.  All of these together represent the Brotherhood of Man, 
where each member is responsible for the welfare and good name of 
the whole.

In the period between the end of Yom Kippur and the beginning of 
Succoth (ten days) every spare moment is spent in gathering the 
materials of construction and building the family or community 
Succah.  Children are major actors in these activities.  The Succoth are usually simple frames roofed by palm leaves in this 
part of the world, reeds or other abundant plants in other parts 
of the world.  The side walls are frequently sheets taken from 
the home.  Inside, the walls are decorated by pictures (very 
frequently they are the renderings of the children) depicting the 
season.  Hanging from the ceiling are the symbols of the harvest: 
beards of wheat, pomegranates, fruits of all kinds, and colored 
strips of paper.  Each meal is accompanied by joyful singing. 

The week of Succoth is also a period when the family wanders the 
country rejoicing in the beauty of the land.  Every park and 
tourist area is normally full to capacity. Lila and I really 
enjoy wandering the streets, examining these wonderful examples 
of folk art and rejoicing with the occupants. It is truly a fun 
time.

Isn't this more interesting then the machinations of politics and 
violence? It is certainly better for the psyche.  In a short time 
the winter rains will arrive and the land will blossom with new 
life and the cycle begins once more.

===============================================================

A POLISH CHRISTMAS
by Jan Mokrzycki 

In Poland the most celebrated day is Christmas Eve, the Wigilia 
or the vigil awaiting Christ's coming. The tree stands already 
decorated and shining with all the presents piled up underneath, 
surrounding the crib. The women (we are a male chauvinist nation) 
have sweated for days preparing the supper which traditionally 
should consist of 13 dishes (number of apostles) all of which are 
non-meat as it is a fast day. This requires a lot of ingenuity 
from the cooks. In the table centre are the oplateks, thin 
communion-type wafers which have already been blessed in church 
and which the family will share, exchanging Christmas wishes with 
one another.

Traditionally the table is covered with a white table cloth for 
Jesu's innocence and has some hay underneath to remind us of the 
manger. There is always an extra place set at the table for the 
unexpected guest as on this day anyone is welcome.

Following the breaking and sharing of oplatek, the supper starts 
usually with either beetroot soup, white barszcz (recipe 
follows), or mushroom soup; then fishes, cabbage based dishes, 
mushroom gellieg fish, gefulte fish, finishing with a compote of 
dried fruit and cakes.

After supper we sing carols, give out presents and at midnight 
everyone goes to the midnight mass. I should mention that the 
supper starts as soon as the first star appears in the heavens.

Polish Christmas otherwise is similar to the Anglo-Saxon 
Christmas, only a bit more family based.

ZUR OR WHITE BARSZCZ

Scald 2 cups of rye flour with boiling water to make a thin 
dough, stirring quickly. When cool add one and a quarter pints of 
lukewarm water and place a smallish piece of wholemeal or rye 
bread in it.

Cover the dish with gauze and leave for several days. It may form 
a crust of mildew which needs removing carefully. This liquid is 
the ZUR essence and is added to stock to form the soup. It will 
last for several home made soups with a special tangy taste. When 
essence diminishes you can replenish it by adding another piece 
of bread and more lukewarm water. This soup can be made with a 
vegetable stock for fasting feasts and on other occasions meat 
stock can be used. Quite often it has boiled potatoes added to it 
and pieces of sliced polish sausage making it into a meal on its 
own. I love it but it is not to everyone's taste. However it is 
worth trying.

Crust (elephant's ears) makes 24 pieces.
100 gr plain flour
25 gr butter
2 egg yolks
1 tbs water
lard for deep frying and icing sugar for sprinkling

Sift the flour into the bowl and rub in the butter. Mix in the 
egg yolks and water to make a smooth dough. On a lightly floured 
surface roll out the dough into an oblong measuring 18x6 inches 
and cut in half lengthways. Cut into strips an inch wide by 4 
inches long. In each strip put a slit in the middle pushing one 
end of strip through making into a bow. While making the bows 
keep other strips covered to prevent them drying out. Heat the 
oil to 170 degrees C. for deep frying. Fry the pastry bows in 
batches until crisp and golden. Drain them on double thick 
absorbent kitchen paper, dust with icing sugar while hot. Cool on 
a wire rack then carefully place on serving dish, piling them up 
and up.

Smacznego (ie. bon apetite).

==============================================================

CATALOG TIME IN HOLLY SPRINGS
by Langston Kerr

The Christmas catalogs are out again. Me and Marie got one from 
JC Penney in the mail a couple of days ago. We get all of them 
catalogs in the mail. Not as many as they used to be. Some of 'em 
quit sendin' out catalogs. Sears did. And Wards. Montgomery Wards 
used to send out a big ole catalog, but I ain't seen one of 'em 
in a long time. I reckon they quit. I hear tell you can't even 
buy things through the mail from a lot of them places like you 
used to. Times change, I reckon.

I'll tell you somethin' else that's changed. Used to be you 
didn't start hearin' nothin' about Christmas till the first of 
November. And that was early. Back when I was a young'un, you 
didn't hear much about it till after Thanksgivin'. Now, they's a
race on to see what starts first, school or the Christmas season. 
So far, school's got it beat but Christmas is comin' up fast. It 
ain't but a heartbeat behind. And if school didn't start earlier 
than it used to, Christmas would've beat it out. Is they 
somethin' wrong with that, or is it just me?

Don't get me wrong here. I'm proud of my Christmas catalog. Me 
and Marie here just about fight over it. I love gettin' 'em in 
the mail. It made me feel like a kid when I went down there and 
pulled that thing outta the mail box. I set down right there on 
the ground beside the mailbox and looked at it. I didn't even 
take it to the house. I knowed if I took it back there, Marie 
would be rushin' me to get finished with it so she could look at 
it. I bet I set down there a hour or more, just lookin' through 
the thing.

I like to look at the pitchers. It's got a big ole pitcher of 
Santy Claus on the front of it, settin' there at a table all 
surrounded by toys he's been makin'. He's got this little paint 
brush in his hand and he's paintin' on a little rocky horse. I 
wonder who's gonna get it? I think maybe a little girl 
somewheres. Little girls like little horses like that. It's too 
little to sit on and rock. You're just supposed to look at it I 
reckon. You give a little toy rocky horse like that to a boy and 
he's gonna sit on it and break it first thing. A little girl will 
put her dolls on it and play with it and keep it ferever if her 
brother don't get aholt of it and tear it up.  That's the 
difference in boys and girls. One difference.

They's a reindeer and a little raccoon and a little bunny rabbit 
a lookin' through the winder behind Santy Claus, a watchin' him 
paintin' on that little toy horse. It's dark out there where 
they're at and you can see a star in the sky behind 'em. And 
they's snow piled up on the winder panes. It's dark and cold and 
snowy. I set there on the ground by the mail box and I got all 
these Christmas thoughts runnin' through my head. I wonder if 
them little animals in that pitcher ain't gettin' cold a standin' 
out there a lookin' through that winder at ole Santy. Specially 
that little rabbit. I can almost see him a shivering out there in 
that snow. I ain't never seen snow on the ground at Christmas. I 
wonder if it snows anywhere on Christmas. You see all of these 
pitchers where it's snowin' on Christmas, but it ain't never 
snowed here on Christmas. Maybe it don't snow nowheres 'cept at 
the North Pole. On that pore little bunny rabbit.

I look at that pitcher and I wonder where ole Santy Claus gets 
all the stuff to make them toys out of. Like that can of paint 
he's usin'. They's a can of yaller paint a settin' right there on 
the table. Where did he get it? Do they have paint stores up 
there to the North Pole? Maybe he orders it outta the JC Penney 
catalog. I start leafin' through the book to see if they got any 
paint in there. I don't see none. I go to the index and they 
ain't no paint listed. But I might be lookin' at it wrong. I 
ain't fer certain how to spell paint. They's some "pant sets, 
boys" on page 204, but that's britches. Ain't no paint in the 
Christmas book. But they got other catalogs. Maybe he orders it 
outta the big spring-and-summer book. Maybe he calls 'em up on 
the telephone and they ship it up there to him in March. I'm 
settin' there imaginin' the mail man pullin' up to his house at 
the North Pole with all of this paint and stuff he's got ordered 
outta the catalog. I'm really gettin' into this.

And about that time a fire ant bites me on my finger. And 
another. And another. They's ants all over me! I'm gettin' eat up 
here! My mind's centered up on the North Pole but I've leaned 
over and put my hand on the ground and it's dead center on a fire 
ant nest!

Boy! You talk about somethin' bringin' you back down to earth! 
They ain't nothin' like about a kazillion fire ants a chewin' on 
your hand! That'll do the job. One minnit I'm at the North pole a 
feelin' sorry fer some pore ole overworked mail man, all loaded 
down with about ten tons of paint and buildin' materials he's 
tryin' to stuff in this little ole mail box, and the next minnit 
I'm a fightin' the dark hordes a tryin' to have my hand and arm 
fer dinner! My mind flashes back to that little rabbit up there 
in the snow. He better be glad he's up there where they ain't no 
fire ants!

Where does he get off, a feelin' sorry fer hisself fer bein' out 
there in the snow! If he thinks he's got it so bad, let him come 
down here and hop around on one of these dad burn fire ant beds 
and see what happens to him! He'd swell up like a big ole furry 
balloon. I'm mad at that rabbit. I'm mad at them fire ants. I'm 
mad at Santy Claus. I'm mad at JC Penney fer sendin' me that wish 
book. I'm mad at the mail man fer bringin' it. I'm mad at Marie 
fer bein' up there to the house while I'm down here fightin' off 
these fire ants. I'm jist mad! I take that Christmas book and I 
wield it like the weapon it is!

But I got over it. I had me a little mad spell and I got it outta 
my system. I decided it was too early fer me to be lookin' at a 
Christmas catalog like that. So, I took it up there and give it 
to Marie. She was proud to get it. She's already got a bunch of 
stuff picked out to order!

Aint life somethin? 'Specially here in Down Town Holly Springs. 
Merry Christmas, y'all.

==============================================================

BELLE AND I, OR: A NOVICE TRIES HORSEBACK

by Des Weeks 

Sometimes the urge, which I should resist, comes over me to try 
something new, something that I have never tried before. Last 
year it was gliding. This year I thought about trying horseback 
riding. So when I heard that my friends were courageously 
planning an exhilarating gallop over Dartmoor, I decided this was 
my chance to "have a go."  I duly signed up with some twenty 
other brave souls. 

Eventually the day dawned and I set out for a stable on the edge 
of the moor. Here a miscellaneous herd of horses in all shapes, 
sizes and colours waited. Now I don't know if you have ever seen 
a horse close to -- they are ginormous! I mean, the littlest one 
(which I didn't get), stood about as high as Smeaton's Tower, and 
was nearly as wide too. 

Naturally, Belle, the horse I was presented with was twice as 
high, twice as wide and judging by her glaring eyes, twice as 
mean. I had noticed that in cowboy films, when six footers like 
John Wayne stood beside their steeds, they were the same height. 
Not Belle and me; I could just manage to look her in the nostrils 
while standing on tiptoe!

However, the time came to mount. That was a laugh too. The 
stablehands didn't provide any ladders, so with a great deal of 
pushing and pulling plus some skittering and snorting from Belle 
-- I didn't think she was very amused -- I finally arranged 
myself in the seat -- sorry, saddle. Here I quickly made another 
discovery: saddles are not in the slightest way comfortable or 
soft -- quite the opposite. Still, with a quick check of the 
controls -- whoops, none to be found -- no brakes, no steering. 
no clutch or accelerator -- just horse, so I grabbed on to the 
reins which the stable boy indicated to me, and hung on for dear 
life! 

Then came the great moment, a mass exodus setting off in the 
general direction of Dartmoor. Now, a horse standing still is one 
thing -- but one on the move, that's a completly different kettle 
of fish! Talk about rock and roll. No, on second thought, don't 
-- I'd rather not be reminded of it.

Being in a convoy of about 20 horses and "hangers-on" is quite a 
novel experience. The horses were used to this daily trek and 
knew just where they were going. They also knew that the sooner 
they got there, the sooner they would be back to their comfy 
stable and oats. So there was quite a lot of shoving and pushing 
-- all very well but not when my legs were dangling in the way. 
One of the guides politely informed me as to the use of stirrups. 
Belle just glared and kept on pushing her way through to the 
front of the column. However, things finally got sorted out and 
shortly the open moorland was reached.

So far, so good. Progress was steady and the horses plodded along 
sedately. It was almost becoming enjoyable. Then suddenly, all 
the horses took it into their tiny little brains to charge across 
the land at a tremendous rate of knots (or so it seemed to me -- 
you try hanging on to a bouncing bundle of hay with a steel rod 
down its back and you'll appreciate what I mean). I was told 
afterwards that this had been only a gentle trot. The silly 
horses tried this "gentle trot" several times along the way. No 
amount of cajoling, pleading or direct threats about a glue 
factory made any difference to Belle -- she was doing her thing. 
I was only along for the ride! I tried the steering once but all 
I achieved was a steely glare from a wicked looking eye -- so I 
quit!

Finally, at last, after what seemed an eternity, the leaders 
headed back home. All was going well. There I was gently plodding 
along the well worn trail when Belle suddenly decided that she 
wanted a drink! Being Belle, she could not just drink from the 
nearest stream. Oh no, she had other ideas. Pushing her way 
through the other horses, forgetting about my legs, she plowed 
her way upstream until she was stuck in a little gully with steep 
banks on both sides and her progress any further was stopped. So 
there we stood, Belle drinking gallons of water and me losing 
gallons in perspiration, wondering what was coming next.

Eventually an expert appeared on the scene. "Boy. She's gone a 
long way up." He observed. "Yes, she has rather." I meekly 
agreed. "Er, how do I get her  out?" "No problem," said the 
expert. "Put her in reverse."  Put her in reverse? Was he kidding 
me? But no, a sharp tug on the steering and Belle came slowly 
backwards -- for a litle way -- then she lunged sort of sideways 
and twisted and scrambled up over the bank. "Oh, well ridden," 
said the expert. Well ridden? If only he knew! Soon after the 
stables were reached.

After I had dismounted with some stiffness and said my sad(!) 
farewells to Belle, I struggled gamely back to my car. Now here 
was a steed I could really depend on to go where I wanted without 
any hassle, and the seat -- Oh bliss! Quickly I started the car 
and headed back to civilisation. The great adventure was over. I 
could now cross horse riding off my list. So, what next? How 
about hang gliding or parachuting -- neither could be as bad as 
horse riding.

===============================================================

TO MY GRANDSON
by Eloise Blanpied

I see in each unguarded laughing glance
a sparkling of your younger self, when joy
and trust spilled from your heart and you would dance,
small hand in mine, a whirling, soaring boy.

So brief, bright world!  Too soon life's darker side
bore through the joy with death and cruelty.
Brave child who met that dark and would not hide,
my arms recall your sob-wracked agony.

I see in each unguarded laughing glance
a seasoned strength, hard-tempered by hot tears;
the wisdom yet to leap at life and chance
at joy; compassion for another's fears.

Though not a boy today, still not a man,
your laughing glance tells how your soul began.

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end cybersenior.4.3(#14)