An old, stone, bridge support – put out of commission many years
ago – remains standing, overlooking creek water that is covered with euglena.
This week's photo was shot along an ancient branch of Silver Creek, west of
Lebanon, Ill., where the stream's surface looks lime green because of a euglena bloom.
Euglena are unique, one-celled organisms that feature traits of both plants and
animals. They have chloroplasts and, just like plants, can produce their own
nutrients through photosynthesis. If they cannot produce enough food, they can
prey on other things, just as animals do. Those other things must be minute or
microscopic, such as amoeba, paramecium and algae. So, are euglena plant life or
animal life? That's still undetermined. Most scientists place them in Kingdom Protista, along with such other microscopic organisms as amoeba and paramecium, and classify them as Phylum Euglenophyta. OK, that's boring, but it's interesting to see euglena
change from green to red, which it can do in minutes. When I was a teenager, and
biology was my favorite academic subject, I reported on a euglena bloom  –  millions of euglena, as in this photo –  covering the surface of a large marsh near Silver Creek; one day the marsh was an expanse of red, from the euglena, and the next day it was bright green. Now, if we could only figure out how to make food or fuel out of euglena!  

National Bad Poetry Day was Saturday, and I missed it.

The special day of observance was proclaimed, I understand, to make people appreciate good poetry. So, I guess a day of bad poetry is supposed to make us see the light, to see the worth and wonder of really good poetry. For those who don't appreciate good poetry, it can still be a pretty good bad day, an excuse to throw a party, although I've never been to a bad-poetry party.

I have, though, written bad poetry. Why, look, here's one now:

I wrote some poems,
When I was young,
good enough to be sung,
But since that time,
Can't write a rhyme,
Only really bad poems.

I think I did write some good poetry when I was young. I wrote the poems and then printed them neatly on the lined pages of a green, hardback, poetry journal, which was actually a government issue-style log book. The poems were inspired mostly by love. A young woman I knew in Paris read them and said that whomever I was writing about certainly was a lucky girl. Not long after that, I threw away my book of poems. I've always regretted that. My judgment back then was as bad as my poetry is now.

My grandfather was a good poet. I have a very old hardback book of poetry he edited, and it includes some of his own poetry. That small, aged volume from the early 20th century is one of my treasures. 

Another little volume on my bookshelves is a book of poetry titled "Through Smoked Glass: Glimpses of a life before, during and after Vietnam," by Ernest W. Richardson. Ernie and I served together in the Marine Corps; so, of course, I like his stuff. And I have a signed copy of  "The Story So Far," poetry by David Allen. David was a reporter on Okinawa, writing for Stars and Stripes when I worked in the Pacific Stars and Stripes editorial office in Tokyo. I like David, and I like his poetry.

Two special books of poetry round out my small collection. One is "Poe's Poetical Works," published in 1882 and first copyrighted in 1856. The first page is inscribed: To Kathryn from Anna "A Happy New Year" 1899. Kathryn was my grandmother. The other one of her poetry books that I inherited is "Longfellow's Poems;" the first couple of pages are missing, but I'm sure it was printed during the same time period as "Poe's."

Poetry was one of the special joys shared by my grandparents on my father's side of the family. I never knew them, because they lived a very long time ago. But I'm sure they're looking down from heaven, and my grandmother is saying, "George, that lad cannot write a single verse of decent poetry, even if he tries ever so hard from now until he joins us up here." And my grandfather is saying, "Yes, Kathryn, I'm afraid that is so."

That sad assessment is probably correct. However, I'm not bad at throwing a party, so
stop by our house next Saturday for my Week After National Bad Poetry Day barbecue, beer and wine tasting. It will be a BYOBP affair – that's bring your own bad poetry.

On this date in 1918, the first phase of the Battle of Amiens
ended in World War I France. The battle was considered a turning point for the
allied forces on the Western Front. This week's photo, above, honors World War I
hero Calvin Lee of Trenton, Ill. Calvin was laid to rest in the Trenton
Cemetery, where a striking, nearly life-size statue of a World War I soldier
stands guard over Calvin's final resting place. Calvin was killed while serving
with Company B, 333rd Infantry.

A guest pastor preached at our church this past week, and his excellent Sunday service revolved around bread.

The bread of life was the subject in the gospel reading, the sermon and, of course, the communion.

"There's bread, and then there's bread," the reverend said at the start of his sermon. He grew up eating Wonder white bread, he said, and then told us how he progressed to home-baked whole wheat.

As a chow hound and bread lover, I was quickly drawn into his sermon, in which he baited me with childhood reminisces, hooked me with recollections of bread, and then switched to the bottom line: "There's the bread that fills your belly, and then there's the bread of heaven that fills your soul."

I'm not going to get into religion here, and I don't care if you're Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian or whatever. I am, however, going to get into bread. I love bread, and I need bread.

Like the preacher, I grew up on Wonder bread. It was white, soft, void of texture, and rather tasteless. It hasn't changed much, if at all, in all these many years since. I have to go back to Wonder bread on certain occasions – for egg-salad sandwiches and for old-fashioned, kid-again, Wonder grilled cheese.

I did not abandon white bread when I left home and joined the U.S. Marine Corps at age 19. The Corps saw fit to serve us bread products made with bleached white flour, and I paid no attention. Bread was bread. White bread was fine. I ate what the cooks served.

Then the Corps introduced me to combat rations – the field chow in the little, olive-drab, tin cans. Even bread came in a little tin can. It was about the size and shape of a breakfast biscuit. The taste and texture were not especially good. But the thing was edible if you held it over the flame of a burning dab of C4 plastic explosive, scorching it a little. And if you combined that toasted bread with some c-ration meat – the ham slices worked well – and some c-ration cheese, you had yourself a decent meal. It tasted even better with some Louisiana hot sauce stolen from the chow hall back in the rear.

I finally experienced really good bread, when the Marine Corps assigned me to embassy duty. My first embassy was in Saigon – now known as Ho Chi Minh City –  and I discovered the Vietnamese banh mi. That's a sandwich that starts with a delicious little loaf of baked dough. Picture submarine roll meets mini baguette. Then it's filled with good meat and veggies and condiments.

After a year in Saigon, I was transferred to the U.S. Embassy in Paris. Yes, I mean that Paris, the one with the best bread in the world. Heavenly bread. Not the "bread of heaven" the reverend was talking about, but I thought I was in heaven when I ate Parisian bread. A baguette a day kept the doldrums away.

Now I eat mostly whole wheat, whole grain. I eat the stuff, because supposedly it's not good for me to eat white bread, white rice and white pasta. People can be trimmer and healthier, we're told, by switching from white to brown. So, we should eat whole wheat bread, making sure it's 100 percent whole wheat; brown rice, which we're supposed to think tastes nice and nutty; and whole wheat pasta, some of which resembles cardboard in taste and texture, despite being shaped like noodles or other pasta shapes.

I think the French eat a lot of white bread, but I don't recall seeing a lot of overweight Parisians. I lived several years in Japan, where white rice is a staple, but the only large people I saw were sumo wrestlers. And how about the touted benefits of an Italian-Mediterranean diet? Don't Italians eat a lot of pasta?

Frankly, I think we can eat some of our favorite white stuff, if we also consume plenty of healthful fruits, vegetables, nuts, fish, lean meats. And how about smaller portions? Or how about cutting out a lot of those potato chips, fudge brownies, chocolate chip cookies, pepperoni pizzas and – say it ain't so – moose tracks ice cream. 

I'm going to continue to enjoy the occasional white baguette, white croissant, and that wonderful egg salad on Wonder white bread. I'll also eat my vegetables, like my mom told me, and I'll try to eat smarter overall. My belly and my soul will be well fed.

I plan to visit Japan again and eat white rice. I want to get back to Paris and visit a bread shop every day I'm there. Heaven, however, can wait. I'm in no hurry.

I'm not the best English-language speaker and writer, but  I know that a lot of the English usage allowed these days is – as we say in the Marine Corps – totally unsat, as in totally unsatisfactory.

One of the most annoying assaults upon our language is the stupid misuse and overuse of the word "like." We're bombarded with: it's like, he's like, she's like, I'm like, they're all like. Cease fire, people!

He's like, "Blah, blah, blah." No way! He's not like blah, blah, blah. He said, "Blah, blah, blah." Get it? That's what he said, not what he's like.

Some folks misuse "like" several times in a paragraph. Some say it several times in a sentence. Some start almost every sentence with  "like." Like, stop it, please! Thank you.

How about the overuse of "amazing" and "awesome"? The clout of each of those words has been diluted, diminished. Everything that used to be called good, really good, great, or fantastic, is now called amazing. If it's not amazing, it's awesome.

What will "American Idol" watchers do this coming season without Jennifer, who called every performance amazing?

Please don't tell me that something or someone is amazing or awesome, if it or she or he is not really amazing or awesome. Thanks much.

Here's one of my pet peeves – healthy versus healthful. I recently saw a food-magazine article titled: "Make your hot dog healthy." Oh, please, people! When is the last time you saw a hot dog knocking out some push-ups or whipping out some pull-ups?

Even if the title was "Make your hot dog healthful," which is what it should have been, it would ring wrong, because real hot dogs cannot be made to be healthful, and soy dogs or fake dogs are totally unsat.

We hear this kind of rhetoric a lot: Eat healthy foods, such as broccoli and blueberries. Once again, when was the last time you saw broccoli pumping out sit-ups? Never, right? And never once have you seen blueberries running a 10-kilometer race.

Let's get it right. We eat healthful foods, and we exercise, so we can have healthy bodies and benefit from being healthy. Keep that straight for me, OK? Thanks again.

What kind of assault on the English language boggles your mind or drives you crazy? Let me know, and we'll rant and rave about it. Like, it'll be awesome, and I'll be like: "That was amazing! Now, let's have some healthy broccoli." Just kidding.