Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts

Monday, May 25, 2020

"Thank You for Your Service"

By Linda Lee Greene


Memorial Day, May 25, 2020


When commissioned to paint an image of Jesus, artist Leonardo da Vinci chose a young man as his model whose beautiful face was full of innocent light and love. Years later, the artist combed the streets of Florence in search of a man who appeared ugly, dark, and hateful enough to use for his model of Judas, the Great Betrayer of Jesus. Da Vinci found the perfect subject, and in response to his request of the man that he model for the painting, the man replied, “Don’t you recognize me, Maestro? Years ago, I was your model for your painting of Jesus.” One can only imagine the circumstances that befell da Vinci’s cross-starred model that had changed him so greatly, and it is a fitting metaphor of the profound impact that life, especially deeply traumatic life-circumstances, can have on people of every persuasion. This is especially true of our warriors in the armed forces.


World War II gripped the throat of humankind when I was born, and too soon afterwards, the Korean conflict spewed its never-ending pox upon the world, followed in my teen- and young-adult years by the Vietnam War. As I mothered my two babies, terrifying and shocking images of American boys and their allies, as well as innocents caught in the crossfire, being maimed and/or killed in that doomed Vietnam conflict flashed across the screen of my television. In current times, the slaughter rages on in the desecrated streets and countrysides of Afghanistan, Syria and other places, and again, we cringe in horror at the carnage on our monitors and screens. 


Idealistic, or angry, or desperate, or naïve, but nevertheless fresh-faced young people sign up for military service and soon discover that it is a far different experience than membership on a football squad or volleyball team. Like da Vinci’s model for his artwork, life in the form of World War II altered greatly the men and women of my parent’s generation, and their young brothers and sisters succumbed to a similar fate in the Korean War. Not enough can be, or has been, said about the horrific consequences sustained by our brave fighters in Vietnam. And today, as our lovely young guardians walk among us on prosthetic legs, or carry their babies in artificial arms, or cower homeless in shadowed corners lost irretrievably to their former selves and society, adrift in incurable brain injuries or post-traumatic stress disorders, let us pray for them; let us help them. Let us also honor the brave warriors who never made it back home. 


This year, let us pay a special tribute to our precious armed forces veterans who were taken from us by a silent enemy called Covid-19.©        

Sunday, April 12, 2020

GREAT-GRANDPARENTS, GRANDPARENTS, MOTHERS AND FATHERS


INSIDE THE TICKING MOMENTS OF A PANDEMIC – III – EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 12, 2020, COLUMBUS, OHIO, USA, LINDA LEE GREENE, AUTHOR & ARTIST



GREAT-GRANDPARENTS, GRANDPARENTS, MOTHERS AND FATHERS



Of my early childhood, I recall quite a lot, both great and small—little things such as the floral pattern of my grandmother’s apron; the chewing-tobacco aroma of my grandfather’s breath; the giggle of my Uncle “Neenie.” I remember big things, as well, such as the gnarled old man, his cavernous eyes shadowed beneath a snow-white pair of shaggy, brush-like eyebrows, whom from time to time nodded off on the davenport in the front room of my grandparent’s farmhouse. Landon Howard Caplinger was his name, and he was the father of my grandmother, a worn-out farmer and grieving widower. Great-grandmother, Sally, his wife of over fifty years, had died when my mother was in the early days of her pregnancy with me, and by all evidence, he mourned her passing until his own death nine years later at the age of eighty-nine. It was also one day before my ninth birthday.  



My great-grandfather, Landon, was the first old person I ever knew, and I recollect that I was always on guard around him while he was alive—on guard so as not to disturb his sleep, but also because I think I somehow feared I would catch what he had—that I would also grow suddenly old if I failed to keep a very long and very safe distance between him and me. Shielded behind the frame of the doorway between the kitchen and front room, at every chance, I peeked around the edge of it and studied the strange old man, scanning him from head to toe, rooting out his secrets—secrets, I suppose, of what it was like to be such an ancient being.



Religion weaves through the history of my family, but by the time of my childhood, church attendance was a luxury they could no longer afford. Sundays on the farm were like all other days. The cows still needed morning milking, the pigs slopped, the chickens fed, and meals prepared for the many of us. Animals didn’t take out time to worship God, nor did the members of my family whom were their busy caretakers. Even so, there was a kind of reverence in the air of those Sundays, a softly-spoken devotion among my grandparents, my parents, and my aunts and uncles. I hail from a family of talkers, chatterboxes whose verbal excesses required of me to take cover beneath tables and behind chairs and to listen, to observe, and to examine their words for myself. No doubt my soul was rehearsing me even then for my role as the chronicler of their story.  



It was there in those times of overhearing that I learned about another sad man, a man by the name of Jesus. While all around my great-grandfather the house bustled with that activity and chatter, out of the corner of my eye, I watched him half-prone on the davenport, silent and sad. That old man added a kind of curious weight to my childhood. I seemed to understand that he was the linchpin of my family, indeed of my very existence, while at the same time he seemed to me to be of another world. I think that deep down I had a feeling that Landon and Jesus were one and the same.©



Image: Landon on the davenport between my grandfather and grandmother, Adams County, Ohio, circa early-1950s.     





Multi-award-winning author, Linda Lee Greene’s books are available for purchase at Amazon.com.

Sunday, November 3, 2019

ACROSS THE ROOFTOPS OF THE GHETTO OF ROME



By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



My eldest son, Sabato, he is like a goat since he took his first steps—climbing whatever has been before him. In the beginning, he scaled the furniture in our little home. As he grew older, he scooted a chair to a window, slinked up and through it, and made his way outside. My wife, she could not control him. Whenever she turned her back, he scurried away to climb something. Most of the time, it was the wall in which the window is located that gives onto a tall tree beyond arm’s reach of it. The limbs of the tree provide him the means of disappearing among the rooftops of our cramped neighborhood. He is one of an ancient breed of climbers among our people, myself included when I was young, spawned by the stifling four walls that enclose us in this Ghetto of Rome, which has been our people’s prison during much of the time between the middle of the sixteenth century and now.

Jews have been counted among the population of Rome since a century and a half before the birth of Jesus, the Christian’s Jewish savior, and the ironies of our history here are ceaseless. First we were in favor, and then out of favor—in and out, in and out, our fortunes have varied over two millennia according to the mood and the politics of the separate ruling powers of the times. It is the same throughout this hemisphere of the world, where there are also Jewish ghettos—many of them—but the Ghetto of Rome holds the dubious distinction of being the oldest. Like its history, its boundaries are irregular, comprising about two thousand Jewish people at its inception in 1555, the whole of them shut behind a gated trapezoidal urban enclosure measuring a cramped, four blocks in size. At its longest border, edged up against the Tiber River, the quarter was then and is to this day perpetually damp and murky, our narrow streets, homes, and businesses infested with vermin inhabitants of waterways and their nearby areas. The river also guarantees that the ghetto is subject to incessant flooding. Diseases wrought by the forced overcrowding and unsanitary circumstances are rampant. Crushing poverty is our lot as well, because gainful employment among the larger society is denied to us. To state that our close and substandard living conditions are inhuman, is merely a restatement of our situation during most of our history.

            The very night of his Bar Mitzvah five years ago, not only did Sabato become a man, but he also transformed into a cat-burglar. I do not suggest that he indulges in breaking and entering. Certainly not! Soon after the authorities shut us inside the ghetto behind locked gates, as they do each evening, donned head to toe in black, Sabato creeps across the rooftops of adjoining habitats of our neighbors, drops to his feet outside the boundary wall, and slinks into the wider city. Darkness comes early at this time of year and the curfew hour begins soon afterwards. The darkness is intensified by the mandatory blackout—all windows and doors are shrouded in black cloth or by other means. Keeping to the shadows, and being careful to avoid the armed patrols that like cockroaches infest every corner, Sabato scours the sinister streets and alleyways for whatever he can find. That first evening upon his return, his black eyes shining triumphantly, he said to me, “Papa, look what I found for you! Now you will have many nights of good light as you study the Torah.” And from behind his back he produced four tall and thick, white candles, only slightly used. “I found them in the dust bin behind the Cathedral,” he informed me. The Cathedral has become one of his regular foraging sites. There he gleans an assortment of treasures, including medals of the saints, candelabras, and other religious articles. We trade them on the black market through a friendly Roman Catholic who acts as our trusted agent, which contributes greatly to the livelihood of our family. One of Sabato’s happiest finds was for his sister, Ada. The day of her Bat Mitzvah looming before her, she was mortified that she lacked a nice pair of shoes for the small ceremony we planned for her. God Himself, with the help of Sabato, provided. As Sabato stole down a pitch black street a few nights before, a pair of barely-used girl’s sandals beckoned to him on a doorstep of a house. He snatched them up and stuffed them in his rucksack. Later that evening, like the prince kneeling before Cinderella and placing the glass slipper on her foot, Sabato lowered to his knees and slipped the sandals on his sister’s feet. They were just the right size!      

Since Nazi Germany seized Rome two days after the Italian surrender to the Allies on 8 September, 1943, discrimination against us has been at a fever pitch yet again. Many of my close friends and associates have escaped the persecution by pulling up stakes and moving south in search of protection among places now occupied by the Allies. I am skeptical of such a drastic measure. After all, several non-Jewish Romans pooled their resources and helped us to meet the Nazi demand that we Jews hand over 50 kilograms (110 lbs.) of gold to them, a sum that we were promised would insure the freedom of 200 family heads marked for deportation to a concentration camp. It shows to me and many of my neighbors that the Nazis are only after loot, and as long as we can fork over commodities, we will be safe. Sabato sees it differently. He begs me to leave, but I cannot find my way to ripping my sickly wife and our other six children, the youngest of whom is still a babe in arms, from the only home they have ever known. I recognize that restless look in Sabato’s eyes—he is ready to go, to climb through the window, to scale the tree, and to escape across the rooftops and over the walls of this ancient ghetto once and for all, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me because I fear that if he leaves, we will lose him forevermore.

Even as I come to the end of this writing in my journal, the German security and police forces have sealed off the ghetto and announced that our final removal will soon be underway. “Papa!” my son exclaims. “Please, Papa come with me. I can get all of us to safety. We will go south and find protection among the Allies.” But it is too late. My wife and baby daughter would never survive such a journey. I feel certain that a concentration camp is our better option.

“I must go, Papa. I must join the co-belligerent forces and fight the Nazis.” His rucksack filled with his scant possessions strapped to his back, Sabato takes my face in his hands and kisses my cheeks. And then he bundles his mother in his arms in a goodbye embrace. One after the other, he kisses his brothers and sisters, and then he turns from us and disappears through the window. I run to it and through misty eyes watch my son scale the tree and step foot onto our rooftop.© 



Note: On October 16, 1943, the German Gestapo raided the Ghetto of Rome. At its outset, 363 men, 689 women, and 207 children, mainly of Jewish persuasion, were rounded up. Among that number, 224 non-Jews were released. It is recorded that two days later, 1,035 Jews were loaded onto Holocaust trains and shipped off to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. Only fifteen men and one woman survived the bloodbaths of the deportation and internment in the camp. If the narrator of my story of historical fiction had actually existed, it would have been a miracle if he and his family had been among the survivors. Sabato, on the other hand, because I sent him south to the Allied encampments, very well might have escaped. I like to think that he would have made it to one of the British Isles or the United States soon after the end of the Second World War.



Image: LIFE IN THE GHETTO OF ROME - 1880 Watercolor by Ettore Roesler Franz

Saturday, August 5, 2017

My Talking Heart: An Introduction by Linda Lee Greene



Once upon a time a very long time ago, I had a dream—not the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s overcoming injustice kind of dream, but the kind of dream we have while we are sleeping, when our conscious mind turns off for the day, and the fairies and devils of our unconscious mind come out to play, or to make mayhem, or to implant a message that might be crucial to our lives. Upon awakening, the dream to which I refer latched on to me and wouldn’t let go—not that it hounded me, but it did show up unsolicited from time to time, as it still does. I have the very real sense that it contains a lesson I need to learn, and over the years I’ve entertained various ideas of what that might be, but none that seemed plausible. The dream went like this:
I was at an art show, or an art gallery, or perhaps an art museum. The backdrop isn’t unusual in my case since in my waking life, I am an artist and have occasion to frequent places where artwork is displayed. Although other people were in attendance, I felt completely alone in the room, alone and lost in the paintings on exhibit, as is also normal for me. My spirit took flight from my body and walked barefoot and bare-headed among the grasses and trees of landscapes, dipped naked toes in the cool clear flow of streams and rivers in waterscapes, and sucked sweet juices of peaches and pears arranged in crystal bowls in still lifes. A painting of a man across the span of the room caught my eye—no, it was more than that. I don’t suggest that it called to me, or beckoned me. But I somehow knew I was supposed to go to it and stand before it at full attention.
It was a painting of a holy man, a bronzed face, dark dips and depressions beneath pronounced cheekbones and ancient eyes, near-black beard and hair touching his white tunic. The garment fell from his shoulders and ballooned open at his chest, and caught again in closure at his waist. In the center of his chest sat his exposed heart. I remember thinking in my dream that it was a duplicate of photos I had seen of the Catholic Jesus assuming the same pose—the same face, the same exposed heart.
I am not a Jesus person, or a Buddha or a Mohammad person, nor any other holy-man or holy-woman person. I adhere to no specific genre of religion, therefore I wondered why this particular image caught me so—when suddenly, the heart moved and expanded as if to sigh, and then a pair of lips parted in its center, a mouth that opened and spoke to me. I couldn’t make out the words. I just couldn’t hear them or even to intuit the message that heart had for me. But today, I have an idea of the lesson the talking heart conveyed to me, one I was unable to absorb then, because I wasn’t ready yet. I think the heart said to me, “Talk, Linda. Open up and communicate. Be vulnerable. Tell your story. Let people know you. They are waiting out there, waiting for you to connect with them sincerely.”

This is a tough mandate the talking heart laid upon me. I don’t talk about myself easily, at least not the unmasked me. I’m going to give it my best shot, though, in a series of writings I am calling “My Talking Heart.” Today is the introduction; the next one will be chapter one, and then chapter two, and on and on. I hope you hear me in my musings. And if you do, won’t you let me know, please?     

Monday, October 15, 2012

For Love of Redheads


"We redheads are a minority—we tend to notice each other—you know, and notice our identity." Julianne Moore, actress
Despite the fact that less than 4% of the population of human beings on earth has naturally occurring red hair, most commonly in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England, Australia and the USA, as is apparent in this circa 1976 photograph of my mother, Roma, my two sisters, Susan and Sherri, and me (the blonde on the left), I have been surrounded by redheads for my entire life—and it doesn’t stop with the three of them.  My paternal grandmother was a redhead, as was my maternal grandfather.  Among my redheaded mother’s seven siblings, four of them also had red hair, as does one of my paternal first cousins.  On top of all of that (pun intended), of my two grandchildren, the younger one is a redhead.  Even though the hair color is the product of a genetic mutation manifest in the recessive gene, MC1R on the 16th chromosome, it is the dominant one in my family.
The redheads in my family are in a lot of good company beginning with the speculation that Adam himself was a redhead, justified by his “red-earth” beginnings and the Hebrew word “adom” meaning “red.”  Adam’s first wife, Lilith, you know the one who was kicked out of Eden because she refused to be subordinate to Adam (which is code for her refusing to lie beneath him in bed), was also—you guessed it—a redhead, as well as a sister of my soul and all other feminists!  In Michelangelo’s Temptation, Eve is a blonde, but after she eats the apple, naughty Eve is a redhead.  Then there was Alexander the Great; DaVinci; Lafayette; Mary Queen of Scots; Nero; Helen of Troy; Aphrodite/Venus; Napoleon; Vincent Van Gogh; George Washington; Thomas Jefferson; Andrew Jackson; Henry VIII; Galileo; Emily Dickinson; Katherine Hepburn; Maureen O’Hara; Susan Hayward (my mother’s favorite); Robert Redford; Nicole Kidman; Little Orphan Annie; Wilma and Pebbles Flintstone; and on and on and on.
            Now, I can hear in my mind’s ear all of you gents of our greatest generation mumbling under your breaths, “But Linda, you forgot to include the most beautiful redhead of all.  What about our own Love Goddess, Rita Hayworth?  Why, she almost singlehandedly won World War II in terms of the motivation she was to all of us guys to bring home victory for God, country and Rita Hayworth, in that order!”       
I hate to burst your bubbles, fellas, but underneath all of that red tint on her head, Rita was a raven-haired beauty.  “It was the turning point in my career.  As soon as I became a redhead, things began to happen for me,” Rita is on record as stating. 
"Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead." –Lucille Ball, actress
Both of my gorgeous, redheaded sisters were born under the sign of Libra, and since we are currently in the Libran cycle, in celebration of their birthdays, I thought it would be fun to explore some of the myths and legends of redheads, both familiar and obscure.  This is not intended to be an exposé on my sisters, therefore I will withhold my views as to whether or not any of the characteristics fit them—no doubt they would dislike my assessments anyway, and then I would have to spend the rest of my days making amends to them.  Besides, my dance card in that respect is full enough, therefore I’m really watching my P’s and Q’s in that department.  I’ll wimp out right now and state emphatically that my only goal is to bring a bit of enjoyment to them, and to the rest of you fabulous redheads out there.       
            Among the inestimable traits of human beings, red hair has provoked more passion than any of them.  Passion is the operative word since the most well-known myth about redheads is that they are fiery and hot-tempered, an idea probably spawned from the fact that Scots, with their high percentage of persons with red tresses are descended from ferocious, warrior Celts.  To a great extent, the spate of controversial notions about the hair color is credited to that source, and it is aptly illustrated by a judge in Ireland who in 2001 stated to a redheaded man charged with disorderly conduct, “I am a firm believer that hair coloring has an effect on temper and your coloring suggests you have a bad temper.”  Maybe this is why Mark Twain once quipped, “…while the rest of the human race was descended from monkeys, redheads derive from cats.”  Since his hair was red before it turned the white with which we are most familiar, he should know.        
“Red on the Head, Fire in the Bed” –Unknown
Another well-known perception is that redheads are more highly sexed than the rest of us.  According to the myth, it is the color of their hair that makes them do it—it is a mark of uncontrollable bestial sexual cravings and relapses in moral conduct.  For these reasons, Satan is often portrayed as red of hair.  "It is observed that the red-haired of both sexes are more libidinous and mischievous than the rest, whom yet they much exceed in strength and activity," wrote Jonathan Swift in Gulliver’s Travels.  Swift is validated by Dr. Werner Habermehl, a Hamburg sex researcher.  The good doctor postulates that women with red hair have more sex than other women, outdoing brunettes who have more brains and blondes who have more fun.  Wait a minute!  If blondes have more fun, isn’t it a foregone conclusion that they also have more sex?  I take it that in this instance sex is categorized as something other than fun.   
Attention you guys out there!  If the woman-of-a-different-hair-color in your life dyes her hair red, she’s signaling her dissatisfaction with your performance in the sack and is on the hunt for something spicier in her life.  There must be a lot of discontentment on the female sides of conjugal beds in the western world because according to a Clairol survey, more women dye their hair red than any other color—thirty percent of us will be redheads at some point in our lives.  But then again, the trend might be related to male preferences:  “My husband said he wanted to have a relationship with a redhead, so I dyed my hair red,” actress, Jane Fonda admitted once upon a time.  I wonder which husband it was?!  I bet it was that scrumptious, Roger Vadim.  I’d dye my hair for him, too, no problem! 
            It seems that Groucho Marx also had a thing for redheads.  In a letter to his sick son, Marx wrote, “According to the wire, you are resting well and being taken care of by a nurse.  I hope she is beautiful and that she has red hair.  I don’t know why, but whenever I dream of a nurse she always has red hair.  Red hair makes a man want to recover his health quickly so that he can get on his feet and get the nurse off hers.”  On the other hand, writer Sylvia Plath would have known what to do with guys like Vadim and Marx.  “Out of the ash, I rise with my red hair, and eat men like air,” she wrote.
“There was never a saint with red hair.” –Russian Proverb
While Russian tradition advocates that redheads are fiery-tempered and crazy, it didn’t prevent such controversial Asian redheads as Genghis Khan, Lenin and Stalin from rising to dizzying heights.  Only artistic interpretations of Genghis exist, but Persian historian, Rashid-al-Din stated in his Chronicles that the legendary "glittering" ancestor of Genghis was tall, long-bearded, red-haired, and green-eyed.  Rashid al-Din also described the first meeting of Genghis and his grandson, Kublai Khan, when Genghis was shocked to find that Kublai had not inherited his red hair.  Genghis shouldn’t have despaired because chances are that the red hair gene manifested down the line somewhere.  There is a commonly-held belief that redheads will become extinct in one hundred years or so, but according to a recent report in National Geographic, more than likely, the numbers will decline rather than disappear. 
These “glittering people” might be fewer in number, but they are mighty—as evidence, the Manchu ruling caste in old China who were predominantly red of hair, and the ancient mummified remains in western China where the majority of them are of people with red hair.  In addition to the legend that King David was a redhead, in the earliest images of Jesus done on frescoes and murals in the Middle East, His dark hair has a red tone to it, identified in the spectrum of colors as auburn.  The Prophet Muhammad is credited with possessing red hair, a speculation validated by Muslims who dye their hair and beards with henna in emulation of the Prophet.   Many religious leaders of orthodox Islam also use henna to tint their beards red.  Legends abound of giant, red haired Native American tribes in present-day Texas, Utah and Nevada.  Scientists recently reported that the gene for red hair also was present in the Neanderthal—that‘s good enough odds for my money that redheads aren’t about to vanish from our midst. 
                Besides, redheads might be too mean to die—there may be justification for “gingerphobia,” or “fear of redheads.”  Some Bible scholars posit that Judas was a redhead, and even that the ‘Mark of Cain’ was red-pigmented hair.  Even though it is thought that Ramses the Great was a redhead, the color of red was deemed unlucky in those ancient times, and redheaded Egyptian maidens were burned to death in an effort to eliminate the tint.  In addition, the prevailing belief during the Middle Ages was that the color red was the sign of the Devil, and that children born with red hair were the result of unclean sexual relations during menstruation.  Ancient Greeks believed that redheads turned into vampires when they died, and during the Inquisition, the Spanish burned redheads at the stake because they held that their coloring was proof that they were witches and had stolen the fires of hell.  If you are a redhead, the Corsicans won’t burn you at the stake, but they will spit and turn around if you pass them on the street.  That might be more dangerous to your health than getting too close to a bull pen of the Yankees. 
                The modern age has continued to greet redheaded people with suspicion and prejudice as seen in the policy of the Nazis to prevent redheads from marrying in order to forestall their bringing degenerate offspring into their lily-white Arian Nation.
Blondes are noticed, but redheads are never forgotten.” –Unknown
Who can forget redheaded, King Arthur and his flame-haired, Guinivere?  The founder of Camelot was believed the answer to the British legend that a redhead would rise to lead the country in a time of trouble, a fable that can just as easily be applied to redheads, Elizabeth I and Sir Winston Churchill.  The Merovingian rulers of ancient Gaul were said to derive their royal powers and military prowess from their long hair.  Renowned for his thick, golden-red hair (strawberry blond, in the parlance of today) was Childeric III, the last of the Merovingian kings.  The custom was for men of the Early Middle Ages to wear their hair at, or near, the shoulders, making Childeric's mane, with its striking color and length, a major asset, and possibly his greatest claim to the throne.  Pepin, Childeric’s most powerful and craftiest rival for the throne, reasoning that the psychological impact of cutting Childeric's famed hair would be critical in bringing an end to the dynasty, captured the king and sheared his head bald.  To secure his challenge, Pepin also shaved the head of Theuderic, Childeric’s son, whose blond tresses reached to his waist.  Pepin’s strategy worked.  In the eyes of their countrymen, when Childeric and Theuderic lost their hair, they also lost their royal mystique and the throne.
                "All throughout history, from Reubens to Robbins, redheads have been recognized as a rare breed.  Blondes may have more fun, brunettes may be brainier, but when it comes down to raw energy, creativity, and personality, you just can't beat a redhead, well, you can, but beware—she'll probably beat you back!"  –Redheads Unlimited
            "Nobody who has known a redhead can say that redheads are tame.  Even shy redheads have a burning spark of adventure inside them. Opinionated, hotheaded, logical, loyal, friendly, reserved, whatever the redheads' personality, you can bet they'll have SCADS of it!" –Review of the Redhead Encyclopedia
"I do believe my redheadedness plays a huge part in who I am.  If I were a blonde or brunette, I would be an entirely different person." –Unknown
            "It's not the hair that turns men on, it's the spirit that redheads exude." –Unknown
             "Gentlemen may prefer blondes, but it takes a real man to handle a redhead." –Unknown
             "I used to hate my red hair, but now I love the attention I get with it.  I think that very smart, daring men love red hair, and I love that in a man." –Unknown
            “Blondes are wild, brunettes are true, but you never know just what a redhead will do!” –Unknown
"When a fellow has a home and a dear little, red-haired wife in it, what more need he ask of life?" –Gilbert in Anne's House of Dreams
An aside about henna that I find interesting is that it has been used for 6,000 years to dye hair, skin, finger- and toenails, wool and leather to various shades of red beginning with orange and then darkening over a three-day period to reddish-brown.  It is known to have been common in ancient Egypt, India, Africa, and the Middle East to apply henna to the hair.  Since the Bronze Age in the Eastern Mediterranean it has been accepted practice to apply henna as body art in the context of marriage and fertility rites—the earliest references are of women adorning their bodies with henna markings in preparation to meet their husbands.   
During the 1800s it was used as a hair dye among women connected with the aesthetic movement, Renoir’s famous painting Daydreams of the lovely young actress, Jeanne Samary sporting saucy, henna-dyed hair is one case in point.  Images such as this rendered by Renoir and his fellow Impressionist painters were instrumental in popularizing the hair color among adventurous women, but the most credit goes to famous, as well as notorious, women of the time such as opera singer, Adelina Patti, and to the Parisian courtesan, Cora Pearl, known as La Lune Rousse (the red moon) who not only applied henna to hair, but also to the coat of her little dog.  And who can forget the most famous housewife of all time, Lucille Ball’s “henna rinsed” Lucy Ricardo on American television in I Love Lucy? 
            Aside from the recessive genes from which redheads spring, as well as their susceptibility to sunburns and cancers of the skin, they are attributed with other documented physical differences.  Due to the fact that each strand of their hair is thicker than other hair, they have fewer hairs on their heads than do persons with different colors of hair.  It is also held that redheads are more prone to developing Parkinsons Disease.  Typically, redheads also require twenty percent more anesthesia during medical procedures.  In addition, rather than turning gray with advancing age, red hair turns yellowish, then white due to a phenomenon whereby the hair pales with time.     
The mystique of redheads cannot be denied, and life would be much less colorful without them. With everyone who loves a redhead, I add my voice to the Gaelic declaration, “Ruadh gu brath!" meaning, "Redheads forever!”
         
To order my latest novel, Guardians and Other Angels, either in paperback or in eBook for your PC or Kindle, log onto http://amzn.to/PUOXl9.  To read excerpts of it, as well as of my co-authored novel, Jesus Gandhi Oma Mae Adams, and my future books, log onto http://booksbylindaleegreene.gallery-llgreene.com.
An exhibition of my artwork can be found at www.gallery-llgreene.com.