You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Historickal Musings’ category.
I see where today was commemorated over in Blighty as the 75th anniversary of the “hardest day” of the Battle of Britain via a nice fly-by of Spitfires and Hurricanes. While September 15 (I believe) is the o-fficial Battle of Britain Day, August 18, 1940 saw a massed attack of the Luftwaffe against Biggin Hill and other RAF fighter bases as part of the then-German strategy to wipe out Fighter Command on the ground. Almost worked, too, and had Hitler kept it up instead of switching targets to London and other big cities, the skies over south-east Britain and the Channel could well have been wide open for any German invasion.
(Of course, there are those who argue that as long as the Royal Navy held command of the sea – and they never really lost it – such invasion would have been impossible regardless of air superiority. But that’s a different sack of cats.)
Back in the day when I had a real P.C. instead of this stupid disk drive-less Apple product, I used to play Microsoft’s WWII: Air War in Europe a good bit. Even had a joystick. My very favorite scenario when going through the RAF series was the one depicting the “hardest day”. It was a predawn attack by swarms of Dorniers and Heinkels with a few 109’s thrown in for luck and you had to scramble off the runway as bombs fell all around you. I would always lose my squadron because they would bank off to chase a flight of bombers moving across from right to left while I kept my sites on another one coming dead straight at me. If you crammed your throttle wide open and held your nose just right, you could gain both enough speed and enough altitude to take a crack at the lead planes from below. I would shoot up that flight, then go help my mates and then (if I was playing with unlimited ammo and hadn’t taken too much damage) would go hunting stragglers.
Oh, and as we observe the 75th anniversary of the Battle of Britain, it appears that 40% of young Brits don’t even know what it is. I used to think this kind of historickal ignorance was the product of incompetence in the school systems (both there and here). Increasingly, I’m coming to the conclusion that it is, in fact, quite deliberate: It’s much easier to brainwash kids with social justice pablum and rainbow-skittles utopianism when they don’t possess any real factual knowledge.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Many, many years ago, ol’ Robbo picked up the collected works of Charles Kingsley at a library sale somewhere in (if I’m not mistaken) the Hamptons. At the time, I knew he was a Victorian writer of schoolboy adventure stories, but not much more. However, since the books were very cheap, I bought them anyway with the intention of eventually getting around to reading them.
Whelp, 20-odd years later, prompted by a reference I’ve seen repeatedly somewhere else,* I finally cracked the cover of what may well be Kingsley’s most remembered novel, Westward Ho!
Good God, Almighty.
The book is a massive, sprawling story of the loyal sons of Devon and Cornwall during the glory days of Good Queen Bess who, under the leadership of such stout figgahs as Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh, repeatedly biff the Dons along the Spanish Main and in Ireland while, at the same time, foiling the plots of nefarious Jesuits prowling around Merry Old England like the Hosts of Midian, trying to topple the Golden Age of Elizabeth and bring said enlightened paradise back under the foul claw of teh Whore of Babylon, sometimes referred to as the Pope in Rome. In this, Kingsley drifts mighty close to outright libel. For example, so far as I know, there is absolutely no credible evidence that St. Edmund Campion was in any way involved in any plot to dethrone Elizabeth, but Kingsley does not seem to concern himself with actual facts in pursuit of his theme.
If you’re sensing my bias here, you’re not wrong. The book was published in the early 1850’s** and here and there Kingsley breaks out of the past tense to take jabs at those then-current Papists who wished for the reconversion of Britain to Holy Mother Church. As I remarked to the Mothe this past Sunday in our weekly telephone chat, it sounded to me like Kingsley was taking a whack at the Oxford Movement. And damme if I wasn’t right. Upon a bit of further research, I found that Kingsley, who was himself an Anglican clergyman, was virulently anti-Catholic and got into a printed dispute with the Blessed John Henry, Cardinal Newman, in which the former accused the latter of being a liar and a fraud. It was as a result of this spat that Newman penned his Apologia Pro Vita Sua.
Since several of ol’ Robbo’s guiding figgahs for his own swim across the Tiber came from the Oxford Movement (including not only Cardinal Newman but also Msgr. Robert Hugh Benson and Msgr. Ronald Knox), you can understand why I might be a wee bit touchy about this. I wonder what I would have thought about it when I first bought the books twenty-odd years ago.
Anyhoo, despite all these defects, Westward Ho! is a right ripping yarn in parts, with some terrific descriptive imagery and an action-packed plot. Also, I’ve got little problem with his bashing of the Dons over their treatment of their New World conquests, which amounted to not much more than rape in the classical meaning of stealing anything and everything that wasn’t positively nailed down.
Besides, I’m almost 400 pages into it and am not going to quit now. So, there.
* I simply can’t remember where, now. However, I also know that Evelyn Waugh, himself a Catholic convert, has his title character in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold attempt to slog through Westward Ho! in order to drown out the possibly psychotic voices in his head. Heh.
** Of interest, the book was dedicated to the “White Rajah” Sir James Brooke, for no other reason than that Kingsley thought Brooke a hell of a fellah. George MacDonald Fraser sharks will, of course, recall Brooke from Flashman’s Lady.
See? Hang around long enough and it all ties together…..
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Last evening found ol’ Robbo attending a concert of the Piano Guys over at Wolf Trap, in company with Mrs. R and the Middle Gel, who is a certified hyper-fan of the group. Because the gel is such a nut, we splurged to let her sit right down in the pit about three rows back from the stage. Meanwhile, Mrs. R and I found ourselves a spot out on the lawn and, amidst intermittent showers and drizzle, hunkered down to wait out the gel’s little self-indulgence.
This lawn-seating biznay is rayther interesting. Over the years, I don’t think I’ve done it more than five or six times, but you can easily spot the regulars by all their paraphernalia – blankets, coolers, wet-weather gear, folding seats and so-forth. What I like about it is that, if you find the time weighing a bit heavy on your hands during the performance, you can simply wander off and buy yourself a glass of wine. (Ask the Beautiful People down in the amphitheater if they can do that! I don’t think so!)
The last time we were there was to see Huey Lewis a few years ago. We found ourselves seated immediately in front of a bunch of very drunk college kids who kept cat-calling all evening. I reckoned that the crown for the Piano Guys would be somewhat different, and for the most part they were: Lots of younger kids (which was great), families and older couples. I didn’t see a single member of the rowdier element in attendance.
Nonetheless, there was a couple behind us who were probably in their late 30’s or early 40’s. They had the complete lawn encampment going, right down to china plates, silverware, real wine glasses and corkscrew. Throughout the entire performance, though, they never stopped talking. Two more candidates for teh Special Hell, I found myself thinking.
The funniest thing to happen was that as I sat there I suddenly noticed a woman a few spaces over who looked exactly like the gal I’d grown up across the street from back in the San Antonio of my misspent yoot. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her since leaving high school over 30 years ago, although I’d had a vague report that she lived somewhere in our neck of the woods.
When I mentioned all this to Mrs. R, she said, “Well, why don’t you go over and talk to her?”
“What?” I replied in horror. “I couldn’t! If I turned out to be wrong, she’d think I was some kind of psychopath and I’d have no choice but to take my own life in shame!”
“What stuff,” Mrs. R said, and went over to find out for herself. Turns out I had been right after all and that this was my old neighbor. We chatted with her and her husband for a couple minutes and then went back to our spot much gratified.
Small world, ain’t it.
Oh, as to the actual musick. If you aren’t familiar with them, the Piano Guys’ (they’re actually a piano/cello duo) basic shtick is to take classical themes and interweave them with pop favorites, then doll it all up with a lot of fancy electronic effects and dramatic audio/visual presentation. As I say, teh Gel is mad about them. For myself, I will certainly acknowledge that they’re a hell of a lot better to listen to than some of the stuff that could have seized her imagination, and for that I am grateful.
One thing that struck me as amusing: The cellist, in talking about their musickal influences, mentioned Victor Borge a couple of times. Only he kept pronouncing the name “Borg” instead of “Borzha“. I couldn’t help thinking that if ol’ Victor were still around, he could have incorporated this into his “Phonetic Punctuation” routine. “You vill be azzimilated! Shwoop! POP!”
All in all, a good time was had by all.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As I see from a quick dekko at sitemeter, it seems the demand for the return of Robbo from his summah hols has been astronomical. Well, my friends, your wait is over, as I am most definitely back.
As I mentioned, the Family Robbo met up with the Former Llama Military Correspondent and his brood at a lakeside retreat this year. More specifically, it was Lake Anna, nestled in the heart of the Great Commonwealth of Virginny and also sporting its own nuke plant a couple miles up the shore from us, the wastewater discharge from which kept our part of the lake at a temperature somewhere in the mid-80’s. Indeed, splashing about in it was not unlike taking a bath and, frankly, wasn’t all that refreshing.
As a matter of fact, ol’ Robbo spent very little time actually swimming and much of his time kayaking. I would roll out of bed earlyish in the morning and put in an hour and a half to two hours of industrious paddling about, then go for another round later in the afternoon. It was most soothing. As it happens, I have the kind of body that, with any kind of regular exercise, buffs up quite quickly, so I am also feeling quite fit at the moment, although my arms are still killing me.
In between bouts of rowing, I found time to get in a goodish bit of reading, too. My list included the following:
A Map of Life: A Simple Study of the Catholic Faith by Frank Sheed. This book is not an argument but rayther, as its title implies, a simple statement of the Faith. Here is what we believe. Here is why we believe it. Here is what we do and don’t do as a result of these beliefs. Here are what we think are the consequences of following and not following them. Easy, logical, lucid prose without all that heavy breathing you get from somebody like Scott Hahn.
Frémont’s First Impressions: The Original Report of His Exploring Expeditions of 1842-1844. I picked this up because of my recent visit to Wyoming and views of the Oregon Trail Fremont’s first expedition in 1842 was to map said Trail as far as South Pass. I was delighted to recognize the area he describes in and around Ft. Laramie. The second took him all the way to near what is now Portland, down across the Sierra Nevadas (in the dead of winter) into the Sacramento River valley, around the souther Sierras through Arizona and New Mexico, back up into Colorado and then hey for home. The book is very well written and “The Pathfinder” obviously knew what he was about: exact scientific measurements and observations; good judgment of terrain; (mostly) careful travel with the occasional calculated risk; an instant grasp of the strategic importance of the Columbia River and San Francisco Bay to the rapidly expanding United States; and genuine curiosity about that area of the Intermountain West known as “The Great Basin”. Unfortunately, for some reason this edition does not contain any of the maps, drawings or appendices attached to the original reports. Also, it is fronted by a somewhat condescending introduction by some modern academic who is quick to point out what a racist/imperialist/white male aggressor Fremont was, and that, of course, we aren’t like that now. Sheesh.
The End of the Battle by Evelyn Waugh. I won’t say anything about it here. Waugh is one of my very favorite authors and the Sword of Honor trilogy (of which this is the third book) is probably my very favorite Waugh. I’ve read this book many, many times. One question that occurs to me, though: Why do references to J.H. Chase’s No Orchids for Miss Blandish keep popping up in Waugh’s novels? It is usually found in officers’ messes, masters’ common rooms and elsewhere and I can’t help thinking that Mr. Wu is getting in a little dig for his own amusement although I don’t quite get the joke.
Pirate Latitudes by Michael Crichton. A swashbuckler set in the reign of Charles II featuring a dashing privateer taking a whack at the Dons in the Caribbean. I’ve never read any Crichton before although I’ve heard of his good reputation. Frankly, I don’t understand it, if this book is any example of his writing. It might have made a good screenplay, but the prose and characters have a Tom Clancy-like cardboard quality about them. Also, Crichton doesn’t seem to grasp some basics of nautical terminology. He uses “ground” when he means “deck” and he persistently refers to ships (including a galleon) as “boats”. He also describes a gunnery trick used by the hero to elude his pursuing enemies that is patently absurd. (I also started out on Crichton’s Sphere but ran out of time and only got about a quarter of the way in – the book belonged to teh rental house. Just as well, really, because the prose was as bad as in P.L and was beginning to irk me.
And why was I able to get so much reading done? Because the house turned out to be quite big and roomy enough for the ten of us not to suffer that ghastly feeling of being on top of each other all the time and I was quite able during the mid-day hours to snuggle into a corner relatively undisturbed, apart from some bouts of door-slamming and children running about that reminded me of something out of “Arsenic and Old Lace”.
All in all, a good week, leaving ol’ Robbo tanned, ready and rested.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As of 5:30 p.m. yesterday afternoon, ol’ Robbo’s summah hols officially began. (I say “officially” because at least in spirit I had already left the office at the beginning of the week, doing nothing much more than sorting things between that which I could ignore until I get back and that which I could ignore full stop.) Tomorrow we go to meet up with the Former Llama Military Correspondent and his family at a lake house on which we’re going snacks, there to loaf about, perhaps kayak a bit, play some croquet and badminton, and drink large quantities of adult beverages.
We tried this a couple years ago down in the Outer Banks and I can’t say I enjoyed it very much. The “house” there was actually a condo built right smack in the middle of a zillion other condos. It was too small for the ten of us and the whole area was far, far too crowded for Robbo’s taste. This year we’ve got a real house, set on its own on a little point of land with a dock and a small beach, so I’m hoping it will be genuinely relaxing.
“Say, Robbo, don’t you usually go up tah Maine and stare at the bay?” I hear some of you asking. Well, yes, we did for many years, but I’m afraid that’s about over. The cottage is crumbling and, not being very efficient slumlords or investment wizards, we just don’t generate the kind of dosh necessary to really fix it up or, better yet, knock it down and start over. So it’s on the market. (If any of you are interested, ignore that part about crumbling.) Also, I just don’t think Mrs. R and the gels really liked it very much – they are of the school of holiday-making that requires stimulation and entertainment, two things you’re just not going to find in Midcoast Maine. I’m sure gonna miss it, though.
Anyhoo, I probably won’t be around here very much for the next week, so for your consideration I present some few thoughts still idling round my otherwise rapidly stagnating braim:
♦ I must say that I continue to delight in watching
Gozer the Gozarian Teh Donald flip the bird at the MSM (or, as the Puppy-Blender likes to call them, “Democratic operatives with bylines”) and cause the GOP Establishment to soil its collective undies. The GOPe has absolutely nobody to blame for all this than themselves. While the Donks have gone national socialist, the GOP has gone Vichy despite being elected specifically to stop the drift lurch left. Teh Donald is simply filling the void where we fools thought the Establishment would stand and fight. To hell with them. (Oh, and here’s a pro tip, GOPe: Don’t call us stupid.)
♦ Speaking of such things, I see where Berke Breathed has resurrected Bloom County. Good on him and I hope he keeps it up. I’m curious to see how well he gets on. Although he’s something of a lefty, B.C. was never of the same self-rightious un-funny smarminess as Doonesbury and Breathed wasn’t afraid to go after twits on his side of the fence from time to time. However, that was back in the 80’s and 90’s, before the advent of the Social Justice Warrior cadre. Wonder what will happen the first time he takes a swipe at one of their sacred cows. (Small point of trivia: Breathed went to college with my high school Latin teacher.)
♦ What can ol’ Robbo say of his beloved Nationals except thank God the rest of the N.L. East is so awful this year. In case you haven’t been following things, our trouble is injuries: better than half of our starters are out at the moment. And while the bench guys have been doing as well as anyone could possibly hope, there’s a reason they’re bench guys after all. During the game last evening, F.P. Santangelo (the Nats’ teevee color guy) said the team reminded him of the Memphis Belle – banged up, shot up, but still leading. I chuckled appreciatively at that little bit of historickal allusion.
♦ Following up on our bear-sighting of this week, I was out mowing in the little clearing behind the back fence this morning (keeping an eye peeled over my shoulder, you may be sure) when I suddenly stepped in the answer to the rhetorical question about bears and woods. Yes. Yes, they do.
♦ The Family Robbo has been obsessed over the past couple weeks with playing a board game called Colorku, which seems to be Sudoku involving colored balls instead of numbers. Being a crossword snob, I never got into sudoku myself so have no real interest in this game either, but anything that gets the gels off their damned iThingies is just fine with me.
Whelp, I suppose I had ought to go and see about packing. Or at least thinking about packing. Or possibly thinking about when it will be time to start thinking about packing. Or something. Meanwhile, you all know the drill: Decanter and walnuts are on the table and the Stilton is on the sideboard. Swill till your eyes bubble and I’ll be back later.
UPDATE: Forgot to mention that no, Daisy dog does not accompany us. Instead, she’s off this afternoon to a sort of free-range kennel we found. It’s a big farm of so many acres and they basically just let the dogs run around all day and bring ’em inside at night. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! A rainy Saturday morning at Port Swiller Manor allows me to duck mowing the lawn and instead bore those two or three who still gather over the decanter with my first impressions of the great state of Wyoming, or at least of its south-easternmost parts. (Ol’ Robbo was taken camping in Yellowstone as a toddler, but that hardly counts.)
This area is pure High Prairie, the westernmost part of teh Great Plains lapping up against the Rockies, and resembles, in large part, nothing so much as the Ocean. George Armstrong Custer puts it rayther well in the early part of his “My Life on the Plains”:
Starting from almost any point near the central portion of the Plains, and moving in any direction, one seems to encounter a series of undulations at a more or less remote distance from each other, but constantly in view. Comparing the surface of the country to that of the ocean, a comparison often indulged in by those who have seen both, it does not require a very great stretch of the imagination, when viewing this boundless ocean of beautiful living verdure, to picture these successive undulations as gigantic waves, not wildly chasing each other to or from the shore, but standing silent and immovable, and by their silent immobility adding to the impressive grandeur of the scene. These undulations, varying in height from fifty to five hundred feet, are sometimes formed of a light, sandy soil, but often of different varieties of rock, producing at a distance the most picturesque effect.
The constant recurrence of these waves, if they may be so termed, is quite puzzling to the inexperienced plainsman. He imagines, and very naturally, too, judging from appearances, that when he ascends to the crest he can overlook the surrounding country. After a weary walk or ride of perhaps several miles, which appeared at starting not more than one or two, he finds himself at the desired point, but discovers that directly beyond in the direction he desires to go rises a second wave, but slightly higher than the first, and from the crest of which he must certainly be able to scan the country as far as the eye can reach. Thither he pursues his course, and after a ride of from five to ten miles, although the distance did not seem half so great before starting, he finds himself on the crest, or, as it is invariably termed, the “divide”, but again only to discover that another and apparently higher divide rises in his front, and at about the same distance. Hundreds, yes, thousands of miles may be journeyed over, and this same effect witnessed every few hours.
In fact, thanks to modern speed (80 mph speed limit, baybee!), these “gigantic waves” do seem to chase each other wildly. I’ve been on the Plains before, mostly in Illinois and Iowa. I’ve driven between Omaha and Lincoln. Because I flew in and out of Denver on this trip, I got a chunk of Northern Colorado, too. But it was only once I got into Wyoming, especially north of Cheyenne, that I really got the full effect, most of these other areas being either urbanized or else thoroughly tamed farmland. It was absolutely humbling – wave after wave after wave of land, all under an enormous sky. However, it was not all plain sailing, because these hills are also broken up by a succession of creeks and rivers.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! A few odds and ends on this stormy, Nats rained out, evening, for your consideration:
♦ Ol’ Robbo continues to believe that Social Media is the new young god on the political scene these days: swaying Low Information Voters, stampeding Big Biznay and scaring the absolute shite out of the politicos. Unfortunately, it’s also a petulant, spoiled, adolescent god with a massive Narcissist complex, an absentee father, a mother driven to bribe it for faux-affection, and an agenda that amounts to showing them all how wrong they were.
God (the real one) help us all.
♦ On these lines, I recently looked into purchasing a complete DVD set of The Dukes of Hazzard in protest of the sudden urge to airbrush the Confederate Battle Flag off the top of the General Lee. 250 to 300 bucks? Not bloody likely!
♦ An completely gratuitous note: John Schneider, who played Bo Duke in TDoH:TOS, bought a house in San Antonio originally built by ol’ Robbo’s parents. Yeah, buddy, I and my brother were the guys who first cleared that 2.5 acres of brush and scrub and established the lawn and gardens. You’re welcome.
♦ Also, perhaps more importantly, on these general pre-totalitarian lines, I absolutely love this bumper sticker.
♦ Speaking of new things, are other friends of teh decanter slightly creepified by the new Kentucky Fried Chicken ad campaign featuring a zombie Colonel Sanders? I’m old enough to remember ol’ Harland himself doing said spots. He was gracious and dignified. This new fellah? Snarky, flippant, and, for lack of a better term, icky. Not a good thing. Is there no one in the Sanders family who could step up and do a legacy thing the way Dave Thomas’s daughter did for Wendy’s? (Okay, I confess that I thought the “Wendy” Thomas ad campaign was rayther lame and much prefer the current hot ginger, neo-Dana Delany thing, but that’s a different matter.)
♦ Dana Delany. Be right back.
♦ Modern Times. I was 13 before I took my first commercial jet flight – a fly-fishing trip to Alaska, accompanied by much ballyhoo and bedlam- and also accompanied and heavily monitored by the Old Gentleman. This evening I finally caved in to teh youngest gel’s request to hop a flight some time soon with her best friend to Chicago to visit said friend’s father.
♦ Okay, to finish up, I still love this.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo will be away tomorrow retrieving the younger gels from camp and probably will not have much time for posting over the holiday weekend, so let me go ahead and wish you all a happy 4th of July here and now.
Unfortunately, I must say that I cannot recall another 4th in my half century on this earth when I did not feel more anger, disgust, and fear about the state and direction of our country than I do now. We’re despised by our allies and laughed at by our enemies. At home, we’ve slipped into what amounts to soft fascism and rampant social libertinism, all the while floating our “lifestyle” with money that doesn’t actually exist. 21st Century bread and circuses, indeed.
Of course it can’t go on because both math and the gods of teh copybook headings are hard. My only hope is that when the crisis comes on (and it will), we remember what we came from and will rebuild accordingly.
In the meantime, fire up your grills, grab your favorite adult beverages, pop a few (real) fireworks, and salute the flag, not for what it represents now but for what it has stood for and can stand for again.
UPDATE: Sorry to be such a grump, especially after I had counseled my own brother (a Ditto-Head of long standing) against despair.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
This evening, ol’ Robbo popped over to the devil’s website and bought himself the 7oth Anniversary Edition of “Gone With The Wind”. Why? Because he fears that, if some people have their way, the movie will be disappeared from public view as suddenly have been all Confederate-relatated symbols at National Park gift stores, major retailers and on-line game producers, and as some hope will be at various national memorials, statues and monuments.
Not that I hold any particular brief for displaying the Confederate Battle Flag. I certainly wouldn’t want one. After all, my people were Scots Presbyterian Abolitionists who ran a stop on the Underground Railroad in southern Ohio, and my great, great grandfather was a Union artillery officer who fought in the Atlanta Campaign. But I tolerate the right of others to display the CBF much as I’m asked to tolerate things like crucifixes in jars of wee-wee or Illinois Nazis (I hate Illinois Nazis) or Che or Mao t-shirts, and I fear and detest this kind of digital Jacobin airbrushing.
Anyhoo, this allows me to trot out a story I’m sure I’ve told here before: Mrs. R had a classmate in college whose grandmother knew Margaret Mitchell back in the day and who attended the world premier of GWTW in Atlanta. A year or two after we were married, we dropped in on this classmate for a visit and got taken to meet her grandmother at brunch. As I recall, teh woman was aged and petite but ramrod-straight.
When the classmate introduced us to her grandmother, the woman’s first question was, “Wheyah are you from?”
“Well, we live just outside Dee Cee in teh Virginia suburbs,” I answered.
“No, no,” she said, “Wheyah are yor people from?”
“Erm…,” I replied, “Well, my family has roots in Ohio and Upstate New York, and Mrs. R is from Long Island.”
“Oh,” she sniffed, and I could tell exactly what she was thinking: “Dayum Yankees!”
UPDATE: Whoops! Catching up on the comments to posts below, I see that I, in fact, told this same story within the past 48 hours. Sorry about that. Know what else I’ve done two days straight? Accidentally left my wallet at the office.
I thought I had a few years before Alzheimers’s set in. Guess not.
UPDATE DEUX: Prof. Mondo has thoughts on the vainglory and moral preening behind the airbrush movement.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers and OH, HELLZ YEAH!!!
Sweet Briar College will stay open next academic year under a mediation agreement announced today by the state attorney general’s office.
Sweet Briar’s embattled current president will resign as will at least 13 members of the college’s current board of directors under the agreement, which will be presented Monday to Bedford County Circuit Judge James Updike for approval.
The agreement requires Saving Sweet Briar Inc., the alumnae group that filed suit with the Amherst County attorney to block the closing, to deliver $12 million in donations to keep the college open. The first $2.5 million must be delivered by July 2.
Attorney General Mark Herring will agree to release restrictions on $16 million from the college’s endowment to support ongoing operations, according to the agreement.
The agreement represents a significant victory for Saving Sweet Briar and County Attorney Ellen Bowyer – at least 18 new members will be elected to a newly reconstituted board of directors from a list of candidates nominated by the group. The new directors would constitute a majority and control the board.
The new board will appoint Phillip Stone, the former president of Bridgewater College, to replace the college’s current president, James Jones. The change in leadership will occur seven business days after the court approves the settlement.
This is amazingly good news! We had heard yesterday that something big was about to come out, but I wasn’t expecting something quite this big…..
We’re still digesting the initial reports, but the important part is that the deal seems to neutralize the bad players in all this mess and allows Saving Sweet Briar a fighting chance to get the school back on the right track.
It’s still an uphill struggle, but I’ve every confidence that the Vixens can do it.
As you might imagine, both Mrs. Robbo, who as an alum has put in countless hours fighting for the Resistance this spring, as well as the Eldest Gel, who was planning to apply for early admission this fall, are ecstatic.
Bumpers all ’round, ladies and gentlemen, gunn’ls under and no heel taps! Here’s to Sweet Briar with three times three! Holla! Holla! Holla!