Perun and the limits of Google Translate.

I've mentioned that I'm taking a couple of classes during this year's legislative session, just to keep things, y'know, interesting. One of them is on Cernunnos, the Celtic god of the forest, animals and the hunt (among other things); His most famous image is found on the Gundestrup Cauldron, which was unearthed from a peat bog in Denmark in 1891. Despite the cauldron having been found in the Balkans, experts say it's of Celtic origin. Here's Cernunnos on the cauldron: 

Stolen from https://balkancelts.wordpress.com/2016/09/06/the-gundestrup-ghosts-hidden-images-in-the-gundestrup-cauldron/

I grew up in the woods, but I have never had a strong affinity with Cernunnos. Still, the class has been worth taking; it's always good to learn new things. And it may have led me to something else.

While watching the final class video, for some reason I began thinking about Perun, the Slavic god of thunder. Perun has some attributes in common with Thor -- they're both red haired and they both wield a hammer and lightning bolts -- but Perun has a bigger role in the Slavic pantheon than Thor does in the Norse, as Perun has been billed as the supreme god of the Slavs. Now, feel free to take that with a grain of salt. As usual, the chroniclers were Christian, and so they were predisposed to view polytheist pantheons through the lens of "there's gotta be One Big God because that's how it works for us". So maybe Perun is the main dude, but maybe he's coequal with Veles, the Slavic god of the underworld and the animals and is sometimes depicted in the guise of a dragon. He and Perun have an epic fight in the skies at the end of winter every year, complete with thunder and lightning, and Veles is always defeated, and then it's spring.

Anyway, Perun played a part in Dragon's Web, the first book in the Pipe Woman's Legacy series, so I included Him in A Billion Gods and Goddesses, the companion book to the Pipe Woman universe's mythology. And in that book, I mentioned that I'd found among my mother's things a little songbook that had been produced, I'm assuming in the 1930s or '40s, by a Czech printer in Cicero, Illinois, and in that songbook was a song that I believed called on Perun to fight against Hitler and free Czechoslovakia. When that memory came up, I was sitting at my desk; I opened my desk drawer, and there it was.

Here's a photo of the song I was thinking of. The verse numbered 2, toward the bottom of the page, is the one that mentions Hitler and Perun: 

Lynne Cantwell 2025

My Czech is extremely rusty and was never great to start with. So I figured I'd plug the verse into Google Translate, right? So I did, and...hmm. 

Lynne Cantwell 2025

Wait a minute. Perun would be thrown into hell? They're equating the top Slavic god with Hitler? I mean, the Czechs had been Christianized for a long time by then (nowadays the country is largely atheist), but man, I dunno.

I sure hope someone who knows more Czech than me reads this. I was sure that Czech-Americans were asking for Perun's help in defeating Hitler -- and given that success, and what we're up against in Washington right now, I was all set to petition Perun for some help for our side.

I asked Mama Google about any connections between Perun and the Czechs in World War II, and I did find a publication that mentions a branch of the Czech intelligence, "responsible for sabotage and subversive operations", that was codenamed Perun. It's kind of sad that the Czechs made their mightiest god go undercover to beat Hitler. But at least He did fight against Hitler -- or anyway, some Czech operatives fought against the Germans in His name.

And it beats the fate of Lugh, the Irish god of light -- the guy who could do anything -- who in later years was turned into a leprechaun.

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These moments of questionable bloggy translations have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Hang in there!

Of humanity and a memory.

elaelo | Deposit Photos

Here we are, the Sunday after Trump's second inauguration, and so of course all the preachers in all the churches in America are talking about it, in one way or another. A lot of them are talking about the homily delivered to Trump and his vice president, J.D. Vance, on Inauguration Day at the National Cathedral by the Right Rev. Marian Budde, the Episcopal bishop of Washington, DC. (For those who aren't clued into ecclesiastical stuff, the National Cathedral is an Episcopal church. That's a Protestant denomination. It's more or less the American version of the Anglican Church, which King Henry VIII created when the pope wouldn't grant him a divorce from his first wife.) The Rev. Budde had the temerity to call on Trump -- to his face, even! -- to "have mercy upon the people in this country who are scared now." How dare she, right? A priest calling on a parishoner to do the right, moral thing! The very idea!

The reactions fell into the usual camps, with Trump and his MAGAts attacking her. One Republican member of the House of Representatives suggested that she be added to the deportation list. Where does he think she should be deported to? She was born in New Jersey!

Pope Francis is siding with the Rev. Budde, at least on the issue of mass deportations. He's calling the plan "a disgrace". So of course the MAGAts are mad at him, too.

None of this stopped ICE from rounding up migrants -- some of them legal -- working at a fish market in Newark, NJ, on Friday. According to Newark Mayor Ras Baraka, one of those rounded up was a veteran who had his military service questioned -- an "indignity", the mayor said. And how.

We knew this was going to happen, and worse. Trump and his minions are not interested in showing anybody mercy, least of all nonwhite, noncisgendered people. But make no mistake: They are all still people, no matter what. As an animist, I think it's a no-brainer: all humans are people (my definition of "people" is a lot broader than just humans, as alert hearth/myth readers know - here's just one of my several posts on the subject), and all people deserve dignity and respect.

Pace yourselves, guys. It's gonna be a long four years.

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Let's talk about something more cheerful. This memory bubbled up in my brain when an author friend made a Facebook post in which he asked people to tell about the first single they ever bought. (In this context, "single" refers to a 45-rpm vinyl record, smaller than an LP, that had just one song on each side.)

I couldn't tell you which single I owned first. I mean, it was probably a Monkees record; I just don't remember which one. But I can tell you that virtually my entire hoard of singles came from one of two stores in my hometown: either Shoppers Fair or 212 Bargain Center. 

The name "212 Bargain Center" was not exactly creative: The store was located on Indiana Highway 212, a spur that connects US 12 and US 20. If you've ever read any of Andrew M. Greeley's early novels, you may have run across a mention of the highway; he would sometimes send his priests up to Grand Beach, MI, for a summer outing, and at least once, they stopped at Roxanne's Drive-In on Highway 212 for a bite.

Anyway. When I was a kid, Mom, Dad, and I had a tradition on Saturday nights: after we ate supper at home, we'd get in the car and do some shopping (either at one of those two stores or the mall), then maybe stop for milkshakes at McDonald's (which we consumed in the car -- no indoor seating, folks, this was the '60s), and then head to the South Shore train station on 11th Street downtown so Dad could buy the Sunday editions of the Chicago newspapers as soon as they came off the train Saturday night. 

Shoppers Fair often ran a coupon in their weekly advertising circular for singles -- 25 cents each, or four for a dollar. At 212 Bargain Center, you didn't need a coupon; they had a big bin of cut-out singles. Each of these 45s had a hole drilled through the label. They played fine, though, and most importantly, they were cheap. I could usually talk my mother into buying me one or two.

On this particular night, as I browsed the cut-out bin, I ran across a song I liked and asked Mom if we could get it. "Which song is that?" she asked. The house was small and I had my radio on a lot; she'd heard them all. Suddenly, the background music in the store played the record I was asking for. "That one," I said, and she said okay. Then I ran across another song I liked -- and the same thing happened. And then it happened again!

I don't remember how many records I ended up with. I only remember how surprised and delighted I was that the songs I wanted kept playing when Mom wanted to know what they sounded like.

Coincidence? Maybe. Somebody in the office at the store having fun with us? Doubtful. The office was pretty far from the record bin; they would have needed binoculars to see the record labels. A miracle? It's an odd sort of thing to put down as miraculous, don't you think? Serendipity, maybe. Or maybe ... magic.

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These moments of magical blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Hang in there, guys.

Good omens sought.

It's Sunday night, and I know I owe you guys a post. It's not really where my brain is at tonight, though -- prefiling of bills for the new legislative session ended at 5:00 p.m. Friday, so work was nuts all week, and of course we have the craziness in DC looming tomorrow. (I'm trying to gin up some sympathy for the Trump supporters who spent thousands of dollars on a trip to DC to attend the inauguration, only to be told it's been moved to a much smaller indoor venue because of the cold and their tickets are now commemorative. Trying to gin up sympathy, I said. It's not working very well.) 

So we could be forgiven for feeling like fate is breathing down our necks. Although it might just be Tigs. 

Lynne Cantwell 2025

Anyway, here are a couple more pictures from this past week.

We finally got into our newly renovated office space at work this week. It was supposed to be turned over to us in early November, but construction was delayed because reasons. You know how it goes. 

Anyhow, we proofreaders have been given cubicles adjoining the word processors (who used to have a big office with actual desks) and the bill clerks (who used to have the whole space that our three departments are now shoehorned into). I personally think our department got the best end of the deal. Our previous space was a weirdly configured bullpen with extremely non-ergonomic counters for our computers. Trust me when I say that the cubes are an improvement. My cube is on the far end in a corner, and for some reason, I have been given windows atop a partition that's bang up against a wall. 

Some view, huh? | Lynne Cantwell 2025

I'm taking suggestions for what to do with this setup. I could go wild with gel clings, but if you've got a better idea, lay it on me.

Speaking of views, though: On Monday, I had an appointment with my endocrinologist in Los Alamos (just a checkup, no biggie), and of course I hit a blizzard on the way up. I was worried about driving home in snow after seeing the doctor, but I needn't have worried -- the storm had passed, the streets were already clear and mostly dry, and the Jemez Mountains were stunning in their fresh dusting of snow. 

Lynne Cantwell 2025

Here's hoping that's a good omen.

***

Anyway, who knows? The second Trump administration may blow itself up before it half starts, and all of our angst will be for naught. Vivek Ramaswamy already plans to quit the DOGE thing to run for governor of Ohio, and Elon Musk, the other half of the DOGE brain trust, reportedly couldn't be happier. All I want to know is how many Scaramuccis ol' Vivek lasted.

Then there's the shock-and-awe immigration crackdown that Trump's team had planned for Tuesday in Chicago. I've seen unconfirmed reports that the plans are off because word about it got out. It's tough to create chaos when the "enemy" has time to prepare.

And best of luck to House of Representatives Speaker Mike Johnson; he'll need it to keep his teeny tiny majority from splintering. This Congress could end up being even less effective than the last one.

We live in hope.

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I won't be watching the inauguration tomorrow because I have to work. If the election had gone differently, I might have stolen a few minutes out of the day to see the swearing in. But now, I'm sure I'll be far too busy to get away.

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These moments of not-too-ominous blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Stay safe and warm!

Why I hate the word "deserved".

As I mentioned last week, we're heading into our busy season at work. This year, it's coinciding with Trump's second inauguration and all the crazy-making stuff that we know will go with his return to power. During the first go-round, I was working in an office building two blocks from the White House; I am not the most empathic empath, but to me, the dysfunction and insanity seemed to seep from the White House and permeate the air around it. One of the reasons I decided to retire when I did, in mid 2020, was to escape that madness.

Now the madness is returning to power, and I'm hoping I'm far enough away from it that I won't feel that same ol' anxiety creeping back. 

Here on the blog, I don't plan to comment a lot on the day-to-day craziness. Instead, I'll probably write about peripheral or tangential stuff, which is what I did last time with my several posts on gaslighting. 

Today's post is in that vein. It's not about gaslighting; instead, it's about this idea that people get what they deserve.

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lightsource | Deposit Photos

I have two problems with the word "deserve". First, it's often deployed as a way to part you from your money. Marketers bait the hook with "You deserve this!" to convince you to spend money on things you don't need. I put it right up there with "pamper yourself" (which always brings to mind an image of swaddling one's bottom with a disposable diaper, but maybe that's just me). We can all think up justifications for impulse buys and impulsive actions: we had a hard day/week/month/lifetime, we need to complete the set, just one more won't hurt, whatever. But the shiny thing we're convincing ourselves that we need might have hidden within it a painful hook in the form of a price we won't want to pay.

That brings me to my second problem with the word "deserve", and it's wrapped up in being judgy.

Every morning for several years, I was sprinkling Penzey's Justice seasoning on my morning eggs and chanting three times, "Trump in prison." It wasn't much, as spells go, and the fact that I was asking for something that I had no direct effect on made it unlikely to succeed. But spellwork sometimes acts as a nudge to make a thing happen. And it seemed for a while like Trump going to prison really could happen; he was facing dozens of criminal counts, after all -- surely some of them would make it through to a conviction. 

Then one by one, each of the four cases bogged down in legal challenges. When Trump won re-election in November, I stopped casting my little daily spell; the chances that he'd face any sort of penalty for his actions, I figured, had pretty much evaporated.

But then, at the eleventh hour, Justice Juan Merchan of the New York Supreme Court came through. As a practical matter, he couldn't sentence Trump to jail time, house arrest, or even community service. But he made damn sure it was on the record: Trump was a convicted felon.

It's not the perp walk and orange jumpsuit I was hoping for, but I'll take what I can get. I'd given up on getting any results. Oh, me of little faith.

But did he get what he deserved? 

The temptation is to say no, right? He should have gone to prison. Others guilty of far less have done time. Our system of justice is skewed to favor those who can afford high-priced lawyers and who can buy, one way or another, their own Supreme Court justices. And so on.

But that way lies bitterness and anger. Is that any way to live? 

Or would it be healthier to acknowledge that the outcome was the best one possible, given the circumstances? Especially since I had no control about any of it from the beginning. I don't work for a prosecutor; I don't work for any court system; I wasn't on the jury. All I had was a jar of Justice seasoning.

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I've said before, although maybe not here on the blog, that I don't see any point in seeking revenge because people do themselves in by their own actions, and sometimes the Universe even lets you watch. That last part is kind of tongue-in-cheek; I've come to believe that "the Universe" is as much a construct of Western thought as Jehovah or the Force. I'm not a Buddhist, but my ideas may actually be closer to the Buddhist concept of karma, which has less to do with "you get what you deserve" and more to do with the results of the choices you've made in this life and the actions you've taken in response to those choices. Karma also speaks to the intent behind your actions. There's no Sky God of any sort judging you as Good or Evil; whatever happens is just the consequences of your intent.

Donald Trump is a convicted felon. He'll have to live with that for the rest of his life. 

Did he get what he deserved? I can't say. For one thing, it's not my place to judge. 

For another, his life isn't over yet. He won the blue ribbon he was after, but he's still on that hook.

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These moments of karmic blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell. Pace yourselves, guys -- it's gonna be a long four years.