Katya

On June 1, 2010, Yekaterina Noreen was born into our family. Little Katya was 6 lbs, 6 oz, and 18.5 inches long. She and her mother are perfectly healthy.
This song, Katyusha, is a Russian folk song written during WWII. Katyusha (Kate) is the diminutive of Yekaterina (Catherine). Katya (Katie) is the nickname form.
The English translation of the lyrics is below. The song is performed by the Russian Red Army Choir.



Pears and apples blossomed on their branches.
River mist was spreading high and wide.
On the steep and lofty bank at morning
Katyusha came walking by the riverside.

Katyusha came walking, singing in the morning
Of a brave gray eagle of the steppes,
Of a man she'd come to call beloved
Of a man whose letters she had kept.

"Darling song, song of a loving maiden,
Following the sun fly high and straight
Toward a soldier far out on the border
Bringing greetings from yours truly Katyusha.

Bid him then recall a simple woman,
Bid him hear her voice in every verse,
Bid him with his life guard mother Russia,
And his Katyusha shall guard their love with hers."

Pears and apples blossomed on their branches.
River mist was spreading high and wide.
On the steep and lofty bank at morning
Katyusha came walking by the riverside.

When Will She Arrive?

With delivery looming ("hopefully," Cori says) it's time to have a little baby fun.
Who can guess Katya Noreen’s birth: day, time, weight, and length?

Here is some basic information to help you get started. Cori's due date is May 28. Katya's last estimated weight was 5.5 pounds on April 28. At birth, Cori weighed 7 lbs 0 oz, and measured 19". Now-a-days Michael is 6' 3" and Cori is 5' 7".

So, list the following in the comments section:
Birthday (Cori will only accept dates on or earlier than may 28th - ha!)
Delivery Time
Weight
Length

Good luck!

The Benefits of Traveling the World

I’m currently reading Lunatic Express by Carl Hoffman, a gift sent to me by my sister, Mary Ellen (thank you, again!)

It’s a relatable (for me, anyways) true story of a travel writer who embarks on a trek, the only goal of which is to experience transport by the world’s most dangerous means, in other words, transport the way most of the world’s nearly 7 billion people move from place to place.

At one point the author’s 17 year old daughter Lily flies to Lima to join him during her spring break from high school. They boarded a rickety old bus for a 450 mile journey that would take 36 hours, through the rain forests and over the Andes Mountains on single-lane, winding, clay roads.

Here the bus has taken a brief stop for the driver to urinate and have a bite to eat:

I wolfed down a quick meal of rich, gamey chicken  soup ladles from a pot big enough to throw a couple of toddlers inside, sitting on a wooden bench the width of a single two-by-four under a ragged blue tarp. Lily didn’t want any, but the chef could spot a hungry, nervous girl and brought her a bowl, insisting that she eat, which she did under the pressure of a mother, even if it wasn’t her own. Then, as church bells pealed, we piled on an even older bus. "Aren’t you afraid you’ll get sick?” said Carleton (a Canadian tourist who was clearly in over his head at this point), shaking his head. “I’m starving, but there’s no way I’m going to risk eating that!”

I looked at Lily and we laughed. “See how brave you are!” I said, secretly praying she wouldn’t get sick. As soon as the sun went down, roaches swarmed out of the curtains; they fell into Lily’s lap, crawled into my coat, scurried under our feel. It was black outside, the bouncing headlights illuminating dirt road and sheer drop-offs. Lily was scared; I felt bad for her and proud of her. I hoped she’d love the journey, but even if she didn’t, at least I knew she’d remember it and feel, perhaps only later, strengthened by it. That she’d learn that the world was big, rich, complex, sometimes dangerous, always interesting. That you could hide from it or explore it and embrace it in all its complexities.

Amen.

Life Without Electricity

In the rural parts of Ghana life is very different than in the cities. And as you move north, away from the capital, away from the concentration of population and industry conditions change. I should note, however, that certain characteristics apparent in these people, who live in a village without electricity, are also visible in city dwellers, a certain blend of hopefulness and optimism along with resignation to fate. (hat tip to my dad for the video)

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True Journalism

(Updated Below)

A free and independent press is an essential component for a functioning democracy – one that is appropriately people-centered. In 21st century America the so-called ‘fourth estate’ is failing us. Dominated by corporate-owned, profit-driven firms, modern media has become a ratings circus, a mix of eye-catching headlines and commentary aimed at polarizing the audience in an attempt to generate loyalty.

Jeremy Scahill is an independent journalist and author best known for his investigative reporting into the actions of private security firm Blackwater. He was recently awarded the “Izzy Award” for outstanding independent journalism. In an interview with alternet.org he does a wonderful job describing the proper role of a free and independent press:

I would define an independent journalist as someone that's totally un-embedded when it comes to their relationship with the powerful. In other words, you don't get into bed with any political party. I'm not a Democrat; I'm not a Republican. I'm a journalist. It means that you don't get in bed with the military, with the CIA, or wealthy corporations, and you don't compromise your journalistic or your personal integrity in the pursuit of anything, including a story.
I believe that the way independent journalists are most effectively able to conduct their work is by maintaining their independence from the powerful. I don't hob-nob with the powerful. I don't count among my friends executives or other powerful people. I think it's important for independent journalists to not be beholden to any special interests whatsoever.
On the flip side of that, it's the role of independent journalists to embed themselves with the victims of U.S. foreign policy -- in the case of U.S. journalists -- or domestic policy. What I mean by that is to actually go out to where the people live who are most affected by these policies -- be it Afghanistan or the slums of the United States. You have to be un-embedded from the powerful and you have to embed yourself with the disempowered, because I think part of our role as independent journalists is not only to confront those in power, but to give voice to the voiceless.

Can you imagine the conflicts of interest that arise when Katie Couric or Chuck Todd shares a glass of Champaign with the Obama press secretary at the White House Christmas Party? Apart from the obvious insider’s club that is created, do you really think 6 and 7-figure earning media personalities are able to relate to the rest of us, or to the billions around the globe who are affected by our actions?

During my stay in Ghana I have been pleasantly surprised by the quality of Ghanaian journalism. Though not as ‘polished’ as their American counterparts, journalists here do a much better job of focusing on the concerns of the people. Reporters cover issues such as access to clean water, corrupt customs and police officials, and dangerous or unsanitary working conditions, all without pandering to government or corporate interests. Beyond refreshing, it has been nothing short of eye-opening. A reminder of what journalism can and should do for a nation.

Back in the US, and around the world, there are many ‘Jeremy Scahills,’ embedded with the disempowered, helping their voices to be heard. Unfortunately their reach is limited, and moreover, all but drowned out by the braindead megaphone (.pdf) of corporate media.

Update

With perfect timing for my posting, salon.com blogger Glenn Greenwald offered this today:

Every now and then there are little vignettes that capture what Washington really is:  an insular, incestuous, fundamentally corrupt royal court, populated -- as all sickly imperial capitals are -- by political and media courtesans and other hangers-on.

Click here to read the rest