We here in the south love our college football. In fact, it would be easy to say that many worship college football. If a pittance of the devotion some give to their team were directed toward more worthy causes, there could be a substantial positive change in this world.

Don’t get me wrong, I love football. I love tailgating, fatty foods, friendly arguments, and the whole game day experience. But I don’t live or die with it. If my team loses, I am pretty much okay twenty minutes afterwards unlike some who can’t recover until a potential perfect season starts again the next year. Maybe that’s the benefit of your team never being very good, I don’t know.

I’ve noticed a disheartening trend among some fans. It happens when one of the players messes up and gets disciplined by the coach or school. All of the sudden, that kid is labelled “bad”… a ne’re-do-well. I have to say that upsets me more than the many losses my team racked up last year.

What many forget is that these are just kids put in a crazy situation that contains spotlights and cameras all pointed at them. When they do something stupid, everyone acts surprised and offended as if they have soiled the hallowed reputation of the university. Of course they are going to do something stupid! They are eighteen year-old boys. If all of my stupidity at that age was laid out on ESPN, I would have had a ton of labels thrown on me also. And my guess is that these superfans have skeletons, as well. Come on, if you are willing to paint your fat, nearly-naked body as an adult, what stupidity did you enter into as an adolescent?

Here is what we need to remember. There is Stupid and there is Wrong  – and they are two totally separate things. By stupid, I don’t mean unintelligent.

Portsong’s definition of Stupid – impulsive actions a young man undertakes with no forethought or consideration of consequence. Stupid.

“Hey, stop the car. You see those cows, let’s go cow-tipping?” – Stupid

“You bring your gun, let’s shoot that cow.” – Wrong

Need I list more examples?  They are boys! Don’t confuse stupid behavior with bad intent. Stupid and Wrong are totally separate things. You get your belt out for wrong. You take away a privilege for stupid.

There are plenty of gray areas. “You wanna smoke some of this,” blurs the line between stupid experimentation and wrong. But I think you get my point. Just because a kid does something that gets him disciplined by his team or coach, he isn’t a bad kid. He’s just exercising his prerogative to be his age – lights, cameras, and microphones or not. Fans have created this surreal college sports environment where they expect young men to live up to a ten-thousand page code of conduct that they themselves would have torn up and eaten on a dare at their frat party just a few years ago.

Putting expectations like that on an 18 year-old kid is both stupid and wrong.

By Eugene Milne

My card-carrying North London media brother, Ben, describes himself on his Twitter feed as a ‘recovering Northerner’.

In my case the disease is almost certainly incurable. Despite spending a good deal of last year in cosmopolitan London — beautiful, exciting and diverse as it is — I found myself on occasions near tears of joy as my feet hit the platform at King’s Cross.

“I need to know I can be at the coast or in miles of open countryside within 20 minutes,” I told Ben.

“I need to know I can get Vietnamese food at 3.00 a.m.,” he replied.

While mine is clearly the healthier individual craving, the gulf in population health outcomes between the North and South of England, or, perhaps more accurately, between the provinces and the capital and its South Eastern sprawl, remains as wide as ever.

On examining the distribution of age-standardised mortality for Nomenclature of Territorial Units for Statistics regions, the United Kingdom remains the most starkly unequal of European nations. This is starkly illustrated in our new analyses of the North South divide in England, when compared with the experience of East and West Germany following the fall of the Berlin Wall. After that great political upheaval, notably for women, life expectancy in East Germany began to climb rapidly. Twenty years on, it is indistinguishable from that of the former West Germany.

In contrast, the gap between the North East of England and London, which in 1990 was similar to that between East and West Germany, remains just as wide in the most recent figures. Of course, life expectancy has risen markedly in both countries and their regions; modern North East English life expectancy is significantly higher than that which obtained in 1990 for West Germany. But the English failure to narrow its inequality gap despite overt national efforts signals that those efforts are simply too light-touch to be effective.

As Johan Mackenbach has commented, in reflecting on the English strategy from 1997-2010:

“it did not address the most relevant entry-points, did not use effective policies and was not delivered at a large enough scale for achieving population-wide impacts. Health inequalities can only be reduced substantially if governments have a democratic mandate to make the necessary policy changes, if demonstrably effective policies can be developed, and if these policies are implemented on the scale needed to reach the overall targets.”

Of course, fundamental to this problem is economics. The wealth of London and the South East in comparison to, well just about anywhere else in the UK, is now extraordinarily stark. London now feels more alien to my Northern sensibilities than much of Europe, and the reason is not people but cash.

The difference is illustrated rather well by the contrasting artistic expectations of the South Bank Centre — close by the Waterloo offices of Public Health England, for whom I worked last year — and the Culture budget of the City of Newcastle — for whom I now work as Director of Public Health.

On consecutive days in 2013, the Guardian and BBC reported the Southbank Centre’s unveiling of its £100m redevelopment plans (6 March), having made a successful first stage bid for £20m from the Arts Council, and Newcastle City Council was reported (7 March) as having cut its £2.5m culture budget by 50%. This comparison could equally be drawn in many other ways: for transport and infrastructure, investment in business, development of academic institutions (why did the Crick Institute need to be in King’s Cross?). And it all matters because, despite the cleaner air and wide open spaces, the English provinces and in particular the North, are losing out — on culture, mobility, urban environment, jobs, and crucially on health.

The English North has many charms, both for its natives and many who come upon its joys by accident (see this delightful, recent New York Times piece). For too many, however, it remains a place of shorter and poorer lives. The German experience suggests that it need not be so.

Prof. Eugene Milne became Director of Public Health for Newcastle upon Tyne earlier this year, after working nationally for Public Health England as Director for Adult Health and Wellbeing. He is an Honorary Professor in Medicine and Health at the University of Durham, and joint-editor, with his colleague Prof. Ted Schrecker, of the Journal of Public Health. He has research interests in health improvement, inequalities and ageing.

The Journal of Public Health invites submission of papers on any aspect of public health research and practice. We welcome papers on the theory and practice of the whole spectrum of public health across the domains of health improvement, health protection and service improvement, with a particular focus on the translation of science into action. Papers on the role of public health ethics and law are welcome.

The post Is the past a foreign country? appeared first on OUPblog.

        

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I saw an odd sign today and had to investigate. It simply said:

Church for Rent

Because I have been told all my life that The Church isn’t a building, it is the body of believers, I found the rental concept intriguing. Remember the little folded hand thing little old ladies taught you in Vacation Bible School when you were six?

Here is the church

Here is the steeple

Open it up

And see all the people

How do you rent that? Are you renting people? Because that is clearly illegal and otherwise immoral. Hopefully, no kind of church (collection of believers) would do that.

Are you renting beliefs? Seems plausible, but slightly ridiculous since one church down the road is giving them away and on the other side on town there is one forcing them on any poor soul wandering past.

Maybe you are renting the building. Interesting…what do you do with a church building? This led to a whole other set of questions that forced me to survey the property. My initial investigation told me that this had been a Pentecostal church, most likely a Primitive Baptist church. I narrowed it down because of the booths that I found on the side, I think they are for potluck dinners and that is certainly a Baptist thing. I wiped a window and peeked inside to find a strange box next to the pulpit that I can only believe housed snakes in its day – thus the primitive. One other note, I live in the Deep South where you can’t swing a cat without hitting a Baptist church, so that is always the go-to denomination. (Yes, in this day and age, cat-swinging is discouraged, but only on Sundays with the blue laws and all.)

So if you are a Primitive Baptist Church and someone comes to rent your building (We will take the rental of members off the table because no one is going to pay for a bunch of staunchy guys yelling hellfire & brimstone at you, anyway), do you have a list of belief clauses the perspective renter has to adhere to before they can take over? I mean, you can’t let the building become a pool hall, bingo parlor, or a YMCA – which is just two towels short of a brothel. And what if a gaggle of Presbyterians comes along with their slick predestination/sovereignty of God talk and fermented drink? Do you even let them into the building? How about a flock of Methodists who debate the stickiness of salvation? Or God forbid, a cloister of Catholics? They would be crossing themselves, kneeling, and serving real wine in the very aisles that you used to charge up and down under the influence of the Spirit (not the alcoholic kind, the Holy kind). It flutters the mind to think of the radical change these denominations could bring to this sacred place.

The real question is, why does the church need to rent the space anyway? Tough times, I assume. But who holds the deed? The preacher, chairman of the deacons, or the head of the finance committee? If the church is caput, where does the rent money go? To the three guys probably responsible for its caputness?

You see the dilemma I’d fallen upon. You also know what all of these questions meant!  I simply had to call the number. It rang four times and then to my disappointment, a nasally clerk named Eunice answered the phone with a boring explanation. It seems the church has been vacant for years and the city owns the property.

What seemed like a huge let-down led to one more question – where do they keep the charred remains of the poor slob who foreclosed on God?

“Come, Henry,” Colonel Birdwhistle called as he shouldered his cane pole. “We should be on our way. The day is ending and your mother will be spreading supper soon.”

“But we didn’t catch nuthin’” replied the glum boy.

“We didn’t catch ‘anything’, you mean. And catching fish is but a small portion of our purpose here. We are here primarily to enjoy each other and the beauty of creation. If a fish should happen to find our bait attractive, that, my boy, is simply a bonus.”

Unconvinced, Henry pulled at his pole hoping for a nibble that would keep them a little longer. Receiving nothing for his trouble, he reluctantly stood and followed the Colonel toward home.

The two had not gone far when they heard the sound of an approaching horse. Soon it came into view as it galloped their way. Noting its speed, they moved well off of the path. When horse and rider came alongside the pair, the man on top pulled back on the reigns bringing the chestnut to a stop in a cloud of dust.

“Hello there,” called the rider from atop his mount. “Is this the way to Warbler’s Ridge?”

“I believe it used to be…” began the Colonel.

“I’m in an awful hurry,” interrupted the man. “I have urgent business at the paper mill there. This must be the right way, it was given me by the sheriff. I believe Whitaker was his name.”

“Yes, Hub Whitaker is the local sheriff. But as I was saying, this road…”

“Big fella, your sheriff. I’d guess you don’t have to worry much about crime here with a huge man like that minding the wall.”

“No sir,” answered Henry. “Things are pretty quiet round here. But…”

“That’s good, son. Real good,” cut in the stranger. “Well, I ain’t got time to sit around here talking. Like I said, I’ve got important business in Warbler’s Ridge. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

With a click of his tongue and flick of the reigns, he urged his horse forward while Henry held up an arm in protest.

“Mister, wait!” called Henry in futility, for the horse was gone. Turning to his companion, he asked, “Why wouldn’t he listen?”

“Henry, you have just learned an important lesson,” returned the Colonel. “Some people don’t understand that having a conversation means listening as well as talking. If he had taken a moment to close his mouth and open his ears, what would he have learned?”

“That the bridge he’s headed toward fell into the river a long time ago,” answered the boy slowly.

“I believe he should figure that out for himself any time now.”

As if on cue, a loud splash could be heard from the direction of the river. The old man and his young friend ambled quickly to the river and past the horse to help the fallen rider out of the water.

“You okay, mister?” asked Henry.

“Why didn’t you warn me, son?” inquired the dripping stranger.

“We tried, but couldn’t get a single word past all of yours,” returned the Colonel. “You missed a turn a ways back and need to follow the river a mile north to get to the nearest working bridge.”

Once more on his horse, the humbled rider continued on his way with every intent of listening for an answer the next time he asked a question. Henry and the Colonel headed home for supper, laughing the entire way. They may not have caught a fish, but they netted a good story to tell.

Photo credit:  Ward, Lock, & Tyler of London [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Today, a word from the Reverend Josiah Crane, who has been the preacher of the Goose Creek Country Church in Portsong for as long as anyone can remember. He’s a masterful orator of the Scriptures, but could be described as somewhat distant when it comes to the shepherding side of his calling. In his own way, he cares for the souls of his flock very much.

◊

I see you there.

I know you are squirming in your seat and I know why. What I just said hit close to your wandering heart…that is what the bead of sweat on your forehead tells me. A more compassionate man might offer you his handkerchief to mop your brow. But I say, better a little sweat now than hellfire for eternity!

So while you think I am speaking to the back wall, know that both God and I have you in our sights. Neither of us is oblivious to what goes on in these holy pews. For example:

1.  I know the children count the number of times I hit the pulpit every week and even play a little game with it. While I don’t condone wagering, I have stacked the odds for a couple of my favorite little lambs over the years.

2.  I know precisely what time it is. If you think repeated checks to your wristwatch will give me a subtle hint, understand that it only makes me slow my pace. You’ll get to your precious lunch, even if the Lutherans beat you there.

3.  You cannot hide your dozing off – see point one, that’s why I pound the pulpit. When your head bobs up and down, I assume you are agreeing with me, which stokes the fire of my verbosity.

4.  I do not believe in alliterations or acrostics like some word game player. I’ve got the Scriptures on my side and I don’t even care for the little numbers that man added.

5.  You are absolutely correct – I do, in fact, like to hear myself speak.

6.  I will not tell you how old I am or what year I was born! Before you were, I was. No one is going to win that bet. You may as well put the proceeds into the offering basket. I am not older than dirt, but recall firsthand accounts of its creation.

So next time you think you are pulling one over on the old preacher, remember that I have been doing this a long time. Ecclesiastes chapter 1 and verse 9 tells us, “There is no new thing under the sun.” I’ve seen quite a few suns rise and fall. Further, I’ve seen all the tricks.

◊

I hope the old Preacher will forgive me the edits I made to his submission. He sent me 3491 words that I condensed after dozing off a few times. If you have any memories of being terrified by an old preacher, then you can identify with my friend, Virgil Creech – who is more than a little afraid of the Reverend Crane.

◊

Photo Credit: National Galleries of Scotland Commons from Edinburgh, Scotland, UK via Wikimedia Commons

Welcome to the South! But beware – we have some surprises for you. If you are just passing through on the way to the beach, leave your car parked in Chik-fil-A’s parking lot long enough to get a sandwich and you’ll find it. The yellow nightmare that welcomes spring here every year: pollen.

We are used to it. We don’t love it, but accept it as one of the few drawbacks of living in God’s Country. I wonder what the Union soldiers thought of the yellow cloud in April of 1864. Did it slow them down or just shock the troops and make them sick along the way? I can’t imagine muskets are easy to aim anyway, but I’m guessing more than a couple Southern soldiers escaped the bullet because of the itchy eyes and runny nose of the enemy.

Despite our ideological divide, the Confederacy was short lived and we are united. This unity allows many Yankees to set up residence here when they get sick of the cold weather and frosty attitudes up north. I’m told they were called ‘carpetbaggers’ back in the day. We have nicer names for them now (when they are in earshot). We sell them our cow pastures at over-inflated prices and say things like “Bless your Heart”, which they think is nice but is actually a veiled insult.

Just kidding (except about BYH) – everyone is welcome here.

I had a humorous run-in with pollen at our first home. It was a cute little starter home that had one issue – when it rained, the run-off from the street came down our driveway and off into the side yard to a retaining ditch. You can never see something like that unless you happen to be visiting in the rain before the purchase. We weren’t and the community real estate agent didn’t share that fact. He was from Connecticut. Anyway, the first time it rained in April, our entire driveway and yard was painted yellow with pollen run-off. Being an inexperienced home-owner and relatively dull anyway, I marched up the street in the rain to confront whoever was spilling yellow paint into my yard. I figured it out fairly soon.

Now I have a new boss moving from New Jersey. He seems like a really nice guy and I look forward to working with him. I wonder how he and his family will feel about Johnny Reb’s revenge. They will mostly likely wait to move until after school is out and will miss it this year. So the question is, should I warn him?  Or let him enjoy the surprise in 2015…

♦

Photo credits: “I Heart Pollen !” by Brooke Novak & USGS Native Bee Inventory and Monitoring Laboratory from Beltsville, USA

by author Travis Nichols

Matthew Meets the Man is set in an unnamed mid-sized city in Texas, similar to my hometown of Abilene. It's a part of the country where much of the year revolves around football. You don't have to be on the team or even be interested in the game. From dances to marching band competitions and beyond, football is the center of attention. I was never into football, but I participated several times in a tradition that I only recently discovered isn't well-known nationally.

In Texas and Oklahoma (and apparently some parts of Louisiana and Arkansas), the most grand and opulent of football-related traditions is THE HOMECOMING MUM. In the '70s, a guy would pin a chrysanthemum on his main squeeze's blouse for homecoming. How quaint. As time passed, the real flower was replaced with a fake, and ribbons and charms sprouted out in greater and greater numbers. Then, the double mum. Then, the triple mum.

Then, stuffed animals. Neckstraps became necessary. I've seen recent photos of mums with LED lights. SPEAKERS. Sure, you can still buy/make a more modest mum for $30 or so, but what's the point? If she doesn't need a back brace after, what does that say about your affection?

I was visiting Texas in the fall, and I took photos of part of the mum-making section at a craft store. Repeat. Part of the mum section. Do an image search online to see more of the glorious madness.

RECOIL IN (SCHOOL-SPIRITED) HORROR. Note: the first image is of pre-charmed mums.

I love telling people about homecoming mums, so I knew early on that I HAD to include mums in Matthew Meets the Man. In the book, to avoid depleting his drum fund, Matt makes his date a skimpy nothing of a mum. His mom sees it and does NOT approve. He adds to it and ends up with something that is on the tasteful end of the spectrum.

Matt's friend Greg makes a mum for his date, and it's a whole different animal. Hint: the illustration takes up a page and a half.

Looking back on my pre-teen and teen years in a football town while writing Matthew Meets the Man was a lot of fun. Sure, I never cared about football, but the traditions and energy that surrounded the games was a great part of growing up. Most importantly, immortalizing the mammoth mum my friend Kip (who, um, in no way is, ahem, er, the basis for 'Greg') made for his girlfriend one year makes me feel like I accomplished something really special with my life.

In your face, Kip. In your face.

 The Wild West: 365 days

 Wallis, Michael. (2011) The Wild West: 365 days. New York, NY: Abrams Press. ISBN 978-0810996892 All ages.

 Publisher’s description: The Wild West: 365 Days is a day-by-day adventure that tells the stories of pioneers and cowboys, gold rushes and saloon shoot-outs in America’s frontier. The lure of land rich in minerals, fertile for farming, and plentiful with buffalo bred an all-out obsession with heading westward. The Wild West: 365 Days takes the reader back to these booming frontier towns that became the stuff of American legend, breeding characters such as Butch Cassidy and Jesse James. Author Michael Wallis spins a colorful narrative, separating myth from fact, in 365 vignettes. The reader will learn the stories of Davy Crockett, Wild Bill Hickok, and Annie Oakley; travel to the O.K. Corral and Dodge City; ride with the Pony Express; and witness the invention of the Colt revolver. The images are drawn from Robert G. McCubbin’s extensive collection of Western memorabilia, encompassing rare books, photographs, ephemera, and artifacts, including Billy the Kid’s knife.

 Our thoughts:

 This is one of the neatest books I’ve seen in a long time. The entire family will love it. Keep it on the coffee table but don’t let it gather dust!

 Every page is a look back into history with a well-known cowboy, pioneer, outlaw, native American or other adventurer tale complete with numerous authentic art and photo reproductions. The book is worth owning just for the original pictures.  But there is more…an index of its contents for easy reference too! Not only is this fun for the family, it is excellent for the school or home classroom use too. A really fun way to study the 19^th century too and also well received as a gift.  I highly recommend this captivating collection! See for yourself at the Litland.com Bookstore.