Opinion Page 4 University Daily Kansan, February 13, 1981 Preserving the land In "Gone with the Wind," Scarlett O'Hara's father told her, "Land's the only thing that matters; it's the only thing that lasts." Not anymore. The fruited plains are disappearing. That's the warning the new secretary of agriculture, John R. Block, gave this week when he called for a national policy designed to slow the spread of cities and suburbs into productive farmland. Sprawling suburbia and shopping centers eat up 3 million acres of farmland every year. That's 3 million acres that won't be used to grow food any more. And over the years, those lost acres add up. Block cited a recent federal study, which suggested some simple ways to slow urban destruction of farmland. The study said, for example, that the laying of sewer lines across farmlands should be discouraged, for suburbs are bound to follow. Not all the solutions are that simple, of course, and the nation needs to take a good, hard look at the problem to devise other answers. With all the other problems waiting on the national agenda, it may seem trivial to worry about the disappearance of farmland. But Block's convinced that if we don't do something about it now, we'll regret it in years to come—just as we now regret the lack of a national energy policy. The time to start thinking is now, because once a field is paved with asphalt, it can't be used to grow wheat again. As Block says, "The effects of urbanization are irreversible." Armageddon gloom, doom might just be coming soon You're probably aware that today is Friday the 13th. And as if that weren't bad enough, next month has a Friday the 13th, too. On this date, you'll need to be ready for troops to move over than the end of the world? Remember last year, when that religious group in Montana went underground after proclaiming that the next day would be the end of the world? And remember how that day came and went, so they set another date—which also came and went? At last report, they were above ground, grumbling that the pyramids had thrown off their DON MUNDAY Editorial Editor calculations, or some such rot. It's all a part of the doomsday syndrome. You can expect the doomsday hype to pick up when Halley's Comet returns in 1985. And if that doesn't suit your fancy for a doomsday year, then wait until 1994, a magic year that both psychic Jean Dixon and the 16th century clairvoyant Nostradamus have predicted will be the year of Armageddon, or at the very least, a nuclear war. The seer Criswell's even more precise; he says the world will end on Aug. 18, 1999. Mark your calendar today. (Makes you wonder why she didn't wear a hat if you plan to collect after that date, right?) But wait—the end of the world might not be a whole 18 years away. In fact, according to one famous prophet, there's an excellent chance that the world will end this year, 1961—a year that you're probably just now getting used to writing on your checks. The prophecy was presented in the Farmers Almanac a couple of years ago. Oh, sure, you're saying, we're supposed to believe the Farmers Almanac? Well, the prediction was in a poem by a 18th-century prophetess, Mother Shipton, and her story goes back long before the Farmers Almanac got started. Mother Shipton her real name was Ursula Sonlihel, assuming she ever actually existed at all. An ugly old croc who was believed to be a witch. Mother Shipton was widely known for her weiled riddles about characters in the court of King Henry VIII seemed to come true. But it's a particular poem attributed to her that's our concern today. She died in the 1560s, the 13 or 14 individual predictions in the verse can be interpreted as telltelling all technological wonders that would have been unknown to anyone of Tudor times. For example: 'Around the world thoughts shall fly, in the twinkling of an eye." (Electronic media and communications. Good prediction.) “In the air men shall be seen, in white, in black, in green.” (Airplanes, obviously, but how could Mother Shipton have predicted Braniff back in the 1900s?) The rest of the poem has been interpreted as predicting submarine travel, cars, railroads and the like. But look at the closing lines of the poem: "And to this world an end shall come, in nineteen hundred and eighty-one." Wow! Sometimes in the next 10½ months, something big's going to happen. Bad news is that we are only a few days away from it. Now, if she's right, you won't have to wait for a comet or anything; this bonafide prophete says the world's going to end this year. Remember, she accurately predicted the great London fire of 1666 and the death of Mary Queen of Scotts. Or so it's said. But there's a problem with the poem just presented. Basically, the problem is, she didn't write it. Mother Shipton may indeed have been an early practitioner of a mid-19th century prankster named Charles Hindley. Around 1862 he forged the poem, which caused quite a stir exasperately a century ago—because his version concluded, "And to me this was my first time, in eighteen hundred and eighty-one." A lot of people, particularly in England, spent a lot of sleepless nights in 1818 worrying as they waited for the bang or whimper or whatever was supposed to happen that year. Obviously, at New Year's parties, 1882, they must have all felt a little silly, so the poem's lines were often marked by a period in order that we in the marvelous 20th century could all feel like fools, too. And it's this updated version that worked its way into the Farmers Almanac. Nobody's likely to sweat this year over "Mother Shipton's" prophecy, but people have been choosing various years since the beginning of history as the year of the end. The year 1000 was widely expected to forebore ill, and 2000 promises to be a repeat-assuming, of course, that Dixon, Nostadramus and Crisium are in error. For thousands of years, prophets and psychics have been promising us an end to the world, but so far, nobody's had the courtesy to deliver. Oh, sure, there've been some close calls—like when the Royals lost their lead in the playoffs. Armageddon of sorts for liberals—but the sun has invariably risen the next day, spoiling a good night of doomsday-ridden despair. Thus, unless Hindley's forgery is inadvertently correct, you'll have to keep waiting for the End. Naturally, there's always the possibility that the great Day of Judgment coming will occur in May of this year—probably right about the time final balls roll around. Let's look at what you're really saying when you "care enough to send the very best!" instead of a letter penned in your own words. If your intentions are amorous, chances are you'll be delighted with a well-chosen determined formula for a besteller. Hallmark's top ten valentines all include the same basic elements: a rhymed verse, lots of red or pink and a prominent "love symbol," like hearts or flowers. (The basic formula does change a little with the times, though). Used to be that cupids were leaving blooms being lost on the more contemporary butterflies and rainbows.) After poring over some of the infinite number of valentines on the racks--Hallmark alone has 1,500 designs--you select the card that says what you want. The card says "I love you," have the courage or the ability. You sign it, seal That's more than a little romance; it's big dollars. Hallmark, the undisputed leader in the greeting card industry, puls in more than $1 billion yearly in card sales. But considering the 1,700-year history of the holiday, it wasn't until comparatively recent times that lovers became sweet on the idea of cards. The original St. Valentine sent a letter, not a studio card, to the jailer's daughter on the eve of his execution. (Too bad the Catholic Church decided in 1989 that he probably wasn't a priest.) In the early 20th century a list of saintly personalities, More recently, in the 1790s and 1800s, most Valentine's Day dustoms involved the delicate problem of finding matres for nubile women. Star-struck girls would pain leafy leaves to their pillows at night in the hopes of either dreaming of their future husbands or turning into a beef roast by morning. I think, however, that greeting cards owe their popularity not so much to a quantum leap in romanticism over the last 100 years as to the growing inability of Americans to communicate with one another. Why bother messing around with the English language, struggling to come up with the words that say what you really feel, when HallMark can say it so much better? And judging from the number of would-be wooers clustered around the valentine card display in the Oread Bookstore this week, these paper ones have lost none of their charm. Ironically, the present-day popularity of the American mass-marketed valentine has its roots in warfare. Cards didn't really hit the big time here until the Civil War, when wives and sweethearts ran out of things to say in letters to their men in the gray and blue. The ready-made sentiments of a valentine card filled the bill nicely. Statistics show that most of the nation's schoolchildren can't write coherently—let alone poetically. But why should they? If Johnny can't write, let him send a card. Valentine's Dav rather disheartening Valentine's Day is the No. 2 card-selling occasion in the United States, second only to you-know-who's birthday. This year, 230 million valentine cards will exchange hands. Include the little love tokens that kids exchange in school—you know, the ones that moms buy that say things like "You're the cat's palms"—and it boosts the number to a hefty 800 million. My high school psychology teacher went by "Ms." before most people had even figured out how to pronounce it. She arranged our desks into "study clusters" and tried to get us to 'dialogue' with one another. We thought she was slightly louter tunes, but basically OK. One February, about this time, she gave us all valentines that were, predictably, different. They had pictures of spongy, clay, convoluted brains on them because, she said, that's where love really comes from. I thought she had gone a little too far. "Gross," I sneered to a classmate, while twisting my current bea's gargantuan ID bracelet around my wrist. "That's got to be the unromantic thing I've ever seen." Looking back, I wonder whether my teacher's brainy valentines were any less romantic than the virulent rash of red hearts that breaks out all over stores, newspapers and magazines every winter after the Christmas sales are over. You're not going to be stuffed animals are filling up with heart-emblazoned stuffed animals, coffee mugs, T-shirts, jockey underwear—and cards. it and send it on its way, all the while believing that you have truly bared your soul. And we call it romance. If you remain unconvinced, here are some other rather unromantic facts about valentine cards: Hallmark repeats about 500 of its top card designs each year. Simple arithmetic will show that you therefore run a one-in-three risk of sending your sweetheart the same card that his or her former flame sent last year. You don't run with a straight-from-the-root love letter. And if Hallmark had been around during Elizabethan times, Shakespeare might never have become a household word. Romeo and Juliet would have been pitching greeting cards to each other instead of exchanging tender lories of love. These prefabricated professions of passion are choking the impetus for creativity right out of us. Every greeting card that exchanges hands sends another unborn poem in somebody's head. What ever happened to the love letter? The kind of letter that gets tucked in a desk drawer or tied up in ribbon and stashed in a shoeoak. The kind that goes opened years later and cried softly over to the sounds of old Gershwin sonatas. The kind that go down in history, like these words written by Napoleon Bonaparte to his wife, Josephine in 1796: "I hope before long to crush you in my arms and cover you with a million kisses burning asbury Try finding that in a 75-cent greeting card. KANSAN Editor David Lewis (USPS 590-640) Published at the University of Kansas daily August through May and Tuesday and Thursday (USPS 590-641) Published except Saturday, Sunday and holidays. 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David Lewis Managing Editor Ellen Iwamoto Editorial Editor Don Munday Art Director Bob Schand Campus Editor Scott Pasat Associate Campus Editor Gene Myers Assistant Campus Editors Ray Fermanek, Susan Schoenmaker Assignment Editor Katherine Bruner Sports Editor Kevin Berkel Associate Sports Editor Tracee Hamilton Entertainment Editor Shawn McVevey Associate Entertainment Editor Blake Gurprecht Business Manager Terri Ery Retail Sales Manager Larry Leibergand National Sales Manager Justin Laght Campus Sales Manager Katie Wakeup Production Manager Kevin Katcher Classified Manager Amethte Courdet Tamhair Management Jan Wendell Staff Artist Bick Blinkey General Manager and News Advisor Rick Masse Raman Advisor Charles Doughne Pot Shots In this notoriously liberal University environment, only one taboo remains—television watching. For example, when one student made this statement at a recent party, she was immediately "I like watching 'The Love Boat.' When it's on. Vanessa Nerron I don't have to think, I just watch the colors go by." Perhaps the hostility toward such students stems from the fact that within every righteous intellectual, there is a television fiend struggling to escape. Do you count You Cleaver among your closest friends? Have you seen every episode of "Gilligan's Island?" Can you imitate Tom Snyder's cackle? If the answer to even one of these questions is affirmative, you have latent symptoms of TV addiction. But don't deny these symptoms. Now is the time to come out of the closet. Television-watching may not be socially acceptable yet, but it has at least one strong point. It takes 10 hours a week of studying Jean Paul Sartre to become one of the people everyone needs to vegetate once in a while. A family friend with a gift for clear vision has dealt with the gasoline crisis by buying a horse. It is, for him, the most economical form of transportation and, as he says, it's easier to talk to a horse than to a car. It's the ultimate in transportation and doesn't stall on cold mornings. After feeling smug for too long about driving a functional two-liter European car, I'm beginning to consider a bicycle motor-bike or even a horse myself. When the United States introduced the 55 mph speed limit, it required a conscious effort to drive so slowly. Then everyone — well, almost everyone — discovered how much the scenery improved when they slowed down, they asked themselves why they were on the turntable at all. Without a significant speed advantage, the American driver has every incentive to drop the ram-rodt straightness of freeways that tunnel or blast their way across some of earth's most beautiful wrinches. What are the odds that a steam car using alcohol fermented from grape juice can be invented? Someone, somewhere, maybe they make a huge amount of money on this idea—it's more practical than telling Middle East powers to go and drink their oil.