Sir Edmund Hillary, who with his climbing partner Tenzing Norgay is credited with being the first team to reach the summit of Mount Everest, has died at the age of 88.

Sir Edmund was an unassuming New Zealander who always listed his profession as beekeeper. He became interested in mountain climbing as a young boy, and in 1953 was invited to be a part of the ninth British expedition to attempt to climb the great mountain, five and a half miles high.

After an earlier pair was unable to summit, Sir Edmund and Norgay reached the goal on May 29, 1953.

In his later years Sir Edmund remained interested in travel and adventure. In 1960 he led an expedition seeking to find the truth about the legendary Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas; he was of the opinion that the creature was precisely that, a legend.

His first wife and the younger of his two daughters died in a 1975 plane crash near Kathmandu. He is survived by his second wife, whom he married in 1989, and a son and daughter from his first marriage.

We have lost a true hero today: a quiet man who accomplished great things, but at the end of the day wanted to be known, simply, as Ed.

Rest in peace.

Been a busy day. Started last night, actually, when the Princess came over while her mom and dad attended a wake. She could have stayed home and helped Bubba do chores, but he won't let her play pinball and Mahjong Titans on his laptop, and I will. My cool factor has gone way up since I've got the puter.

Then of course there was all night coverage of the New Hampshire primaries. A number of media types eating crow. I take malignant pleasure in that; as you know, I've said harsh things before about media types. That crows are carrion birds, and therefore about as edible as buzzards, makes the visual all the sweeter. Guess that makes me a hillbilly sadist.

All in the past though. Willard came up to visit today, and we went out to do some errands. Madame Sadie called before we left the house and asked could she go along; she was out of Bud Light.

We agreed it would be cruel to refuse, so we rode down the creek and up the holler and picked her up. She was a bit hung over (the Bud Light must have run out while she was watching Colbert last night) and not dressed up; she was in a sweatsuit and tennis shoes, and she was remarkably quiet until we got to Wal-Mart.

Our Wal-Mart has a beer license, so Madame could get her tipple of choice there. It took us awhile to work our way back to the beer cooler, though. Willard and I hit HBA, electronics, stationery and cleaning supplies before we even started to the back of the store where the coolers are located. On the way, in addition, we ran into another old friend of Willard's and mine, a sweetly raunchy old gal whom we call Aunt Ornery. We both want to be just like her when we grow up. Auntie and Madame hit it off immediately, and all went well till we got to the beer display. We figured Madame would just pick up a couple of cases of Bud Light and we'd move on.

However, it was not to be. Madame spotted a Parrot Bay display. As you know, Parrot Bay is associated with her beloved Captain Morgan. She saw his picture and was struck stiff as a board with rapture. We tried to jolly her along; to tell the truth, Willard and I wanted to get our shopping done and pick up some lunch for Mom, waiting at home. She did not respond to our gentle proddings and so Willard grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away. Madame began shrieking like an angry two year old. "NO! NO!"

Auntie ended up having to help us drag a tearful Madame away from the display. Willard and I decided we would take a jaunt down the Valentine candy aisle; Christmas might as well not have happened, because the Valentine's displays were up two days after Christmas (just like Christmas was up before Halloween). Madame doesn't have a jones for chocolate, but she does love those stuffed critters with the paws you squeeze and they play music and dance. There were a lot of those.

The first one was a turtle. Willard squeezed its foot and it began to move slooooooowwwwwllllyyyy to the tune "Love to Love You, Baby." We all shook our heads; as Auntie observed, that one would have been more appropriate for the Pointer Sisters song with the chorus "I want a man with a slow hand. . ." We moved on to another: a slinky kitty with some slow jazzy something we didn't recognize.

Then Willard spotted a lion with a guitar. Its box proclaimed it played an Elvis song. So she squeezed its paw. I knew what would probably happen, and sure enough it did: the lion began shaking its booty and Elvis began singing "Well-a bless-a my soul, what's-awrong with me. . ." And we all, seized by a single impulse, began to dance up and down the aisle to "All Shook Up." Willard, Auntie and I took care to stay out of Madame's way; as I've said before, Madame gets a little overenthused when she dances, and nobody wanted to get kicked or punched in the middle of Wal-Mart.

Some people have no sense of humor. Somebody sent for store security and told them there were four drunk women dancing on aisle eight. What hurt especially was that not even Madame had been drinking; she had enough wit about her, in spite of her hangover, to observe the open container statute. We were escorted to the checkout lanes in a disapproving silence. Once there, though, we had a grand old time laughing over the gossip rags, so in general a good time was had by all.

Madame was still singing "All Shook Up" when we dropped her off at her house. And for all we know, so was Auntie. Willard and I had the giggles.

And on that riant note, fair thee well.

First, there was a battle.

On January 8, 1815, American troops under the command of the incomparably ornery Andrew Jackson met in pitched battle with British troops under the equally ornery Edward Pakenham some five miles from what is now downtown New Orleans. This was in effect the last battle of the War of 1812, and a useless one at that; the war had ended with the signing of the Treaty of Ghent on December 24, 1814, but news of the treaty would not reach the United States until February. I won't bore you with details, save to say that Jackson and his forces, outnumbered two to one, trounced Pakenham's troops, and Pakenham was killed. Although they had reinforcements nearby, the new British general retreated from the field, and Old Hickory's legend acquired new burnish.

Next, there was a fiddler.

Sometime after the battle, a frontier fiddle player, whose name is lost to history, composed a little lilting tune he called "Jackson's Victory" in honor of Jackson. Most fiddle tunes have some English, Scots or Irish background; this one is generally agreed to be purely American in origin. Sometime around the Civil War era, when Jackson's popular reputation went downhill--most likely as a result of memories of his staunch Unionist sentiments--the name of the tune was changed to "The Battle of New Orleans," in commemoration of the battle but not of the commander.

Fast forward to 1936. In that year, a high school teacher who was also a musician and songwriter had the brilliant idea of composing a song about the great battle in order to get his students more interested in history, which is way too often merely a collection of dates and places and lifeless themes. The teacher's name was James Corbitt Morris (1907-1998). He would in the 1950s legally change his name to Jimmy Driftwood, and he would write other great story songs in his time, but "The Battle of New Orleans," which he set to the old tune "Eighth of January," is still the best known.

In eighteen fourteen we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans
And we fought the bloody British in the town of New Orleans. . .

Driftwood wrote a total of thirteen verses and a chorus of the song. In 1957 he recorded it on an album called NEWLY DISCOVERED EARLY AMERICAN FOLK SONGS; the recording was unfortunately deemed unsuitable for radio play because the lyrics contained the words "hell" and "damn."

However, one person who did hear the album was a country singer in dire need of a hit: Johnny Horton (1925-1960). Horton had recorded a number of story songs, and when he heard "The Battle of New Orleans" he knew it would be a hit. Trimmed down to four verses and a chorus, Horton's version was released in 1959, and in 1960 won a Grammy for Best Country and Western Recording.

Horton's hearty rendition of the song remains remarkably fresh and memorable even now. Awhile back a workmate of mine came in chuckling about his son coming home talking about what "a great new song" he'd heard in class that day. Asked what it was, he said, "The Battle of New Orleans."

No doubt the last verse of Horton's version still raises hackles at PETA, with its genial (and obviously tall-tale) use of an alligator for warlike purposes:

We fired our cannon till the barrel melted down
So we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round
We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind
And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind. . .

And what can compare to the description of the British retreat?

Yeah, they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go
They ran so fast that the hounds couldn't catch 'em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.

There is one last witticism about the outcome of the battle that not even Jimmy Driftwood would touch, however. Lord Pakenham, the British commander who was killed, was packed into a keg of rum for shipment back to his family burial ground in County Westmeath in Ireland. Pakenham was infamous for his surly temper, and it is said that when the rum keg arrived, bearing his remains, a relative of his remarked brightly, "The General has returned home in better spirits than he left."

And on that bibulous note, fair thee well.

Returned from Hawaii to find we are, to quote a friend from a thawing Wisconsin (thanx Miss B), back in global warning. Sunny early, clouds rolling in, a high of 70 degrees and a threat of thunderstorms today and tomorrow. Gives a whole new meaning, when you lie there on a January night getting blissfully sleepy and incurious about what's going on around you, to "a voice from on high" so to speak.

Miss A and the Princess back to school today; Bubba back to college later in the week. Willard cleaning today, I think; Madame meanwhile has returned from Ireland, nattering about how she singlehandedly sent a wandering soul on to its eternal home (I have my doubts; Madame frequently talks in that exaggerated vein when recounting her past triumphs as a psychic, an exorcist, and for that matter, drinking whole gatherings of people under the table.) I think she probably made her excuses, sneaked off to the airport, and returned for the return of Stephen Colbert. She has had sad lapses ever since the writers' strike began; Madame's not a big fan of reruns.

Me, I rather wish the presidential candidates and pundits were all stricken with, if not laryngitis, then with compunction; that way, with less purple rhetoric coloring the airwaves, we might all be able to settle down and make our own decisions about who to support, and why to support them. Think I'm gonna retreat to Willie's Place until they leave New Hampshire. Diet Coke and classic country work wonders for politically strained nerves.

And with Ol' Hank singing in the background, fair thee well.

Well, let's put it this way: we are no longer in the teens and single digits at night and barely makin' it to freezin' during the day; it's back up to a high of fifty degrees, but it's a chilly damp fifty, clouds and possible rain showers late in the day. The Princess is out of the socks and back to her Crocs, but had to have a blanket when she came in to visit, to thaw out a bit. The cat, meanwhile, spends his nights in the corncrib. Plenty of mice, and some hay stored there; cozy place.

Bella sort of inspired me, with her Friday blog incl. pictures of Malaysia, to spend some time "away"--so I've been dreaming of Hawaii the past few nights. (Farthest I could go without a passport.)

Hawaii, warm, sunny, frequent rain, jungle (guess that's the right word; it's all woods to a hillbilly). I could learn the hula, which is always performed better by women like me, with Jennifer Lopez (or larger) cabooses--listen to conch shells, eat fantastic seafood--gorgeous men all over the place--

Sounds like heaven. AND they tell some of the most wonderful legends of Madame Pele, the fire goddess; not to mention have some of the most fascinating and frightening ghost stories of any state in the Union--

Think I'll take another "vacation" there tonight. We need the rain here, but it is awfully gloomy. Aloha, loves, and until next time, fair thee well.