Sort of a Dear John letter

Yesterday I received a letter from River City Publishing. It was complimentary about my Big Baby novel, but said that it did not qualify as a finalist in the Fred Bonnie Memorial Award competition. Said my book gave an accurate regional picture of the South in its time setting. It also said they had extended the deadline to June 30, 2012, so I guess they're still receiving entries. So I hope they find whatever they're looking for.

Up until a few days ago, I was hankering to rewrite Big Baby. But with this new novel to work on, I now plan to send BB somewhere else to linger for another year, while I finish this one.

Susan's Memorial Day dinner yesterday was wonderful. We were quite a crowd, gathered around her new dining room table. And I sat in her beautiful new armchair in the living room. Ramey and Reed spent an hour or so going up and down the street with Reed's scooter, so Ramey was too tired to go to the poetry reading at seven p.m. She and Suze were planning to watch the Hatfield-McCoy miniseries on TV at eight o'clock, anyway.

The poetry reading at the Arts Council drew a small crowd and lasted a long time. I was the only one there who didn't bring a poem to read. Something's wrong with my printer. Joan had brought a printout of the poems we wrote at the Private Eye lecture, and I did read my two short ones.

Speaking of TV, I watched "Mermaids" on Animal Planet last Sunday. They showed photographs of bone weapons supposedly made by the sea people, and webbed fingers and ridged skulls that had washed up in various places, or that were found in the bellies of sharks. They found evidence of these people first because of the difference in their calls from dolphins or whales, and they told how primitive "ancestors" might have developed, some on dry land and some in the sea. Uh huh.

"And when the Sirens sang,
and we bound each other to the mast,
I could have tied slip-knots, and where would you be
now?"

I also thought of the "perfect little woman" that SDS and Lawrence found.
*
"Dear Mrs. Cage:

"Thank you for submitting Big Baby to the Fred Bonnie Memorial First Novel competition. Even though we extended the entry date until 30 June 2012, we have decided to start sending out letters to those whose works we have already read carefully.

"Competition is keen this time around, and there were many variations in genre--from literary, experimental, romance, science fiction, hardboiled mystery, fantasy, historical, and suspense. We received manuscripts from all over the US, and your story captures the time period and the mountain people beautifully; it was a very good read. However, I regret to inform you that your manuscript did not place for future readings for the final Fred Bonnie award.

"I am sure you will find a home for this novel! Just continue writing and submitting your manuscripts to competitions around the country. As you know, the more exposure your work gets, the better. We wish you the best of luck and great success in your writing.

"Yours truly,
____(signed)____
"Editor"
**
I think I've found a competition for entering BB again. Most of the publishers I've found aren't accepting new submissions except through annual competitions, so I'll go that route.
***
I've also found a flea exterminator. But it seems all the work will have to be done by me, like thoroughly cleaning the house and vacuuming some more, and me and Mo staying out of the house for four hours after they bomb the rooms, then vacuuming more and more. So after I get another supply of vacuum cleaner bags, I'll go that route.

Progress

Today I added five sentences (long ones) to the new novel.

Have to get ready for dinner at Sister Susan's this evening, then poetry group meeting after that.

It's harder to start writing something than to keep going after you've written a few dozen pages. Starting out, you want to say everything at once. Somebody said the best way is to start at the beginning. But Diane Chambers is probably the only story-teller who ever literally applied that method. Or maybe Sophia Petrillo.

Maybelle

Grandma had tried to keep Maybelle with her in the city ever since her parents were killed in a buggy wreck in 1907. But she kept running away, back to her home at Graymont. However, when Granny Gray passed on, Maybelle said that all the "servants" left, so she consented to stay with Grandma in her city apartment. Most of the time.

Maybelle is a pretty little red-haired girl, a bit fey. She is almost a year older than Camilla, though very tiny. Her room at Graymont is on the third floor in the south wing, and the Dolls have cleaned out the other rooms on that floor and arranged a guest room, plus bedrooms for Dolly and Camilla. There's a tiny bathroom at the end of the hall behind these rooms. The only sources of heat in this wing are on the first floor, so the Dolls will have to move back home before winter comes.

Mama and Daddy have legally adopted Maybelle, in accordance with Granny Gray's wishes, although May always makes Daddy uncomfortable with her chatter about nonexistent servants, animals that act like people, and learning to fly like the birds. Grandma says that she will "grow out of this." But Grandma is an optimist, and she really doesn't pay much attention to children's chatter.

Unable to find enough bedroom furnishings at Graymont, the Dolls moved their upstairs furniture to Graymont instead of putting it into storage while work on their home is in progress. When they picked up Dolly's big blue piggy bank to move it, the parents were amazed at how heavy it was. This is Dolly's room,

and this is Camilla's:

The "guest room" at the east end of the hallway now contains things from Daddy's study at home, and a long narrow daybed that can be made up for sleeping. They didn't move all the books. The box with Leonardo on it is really a disguised strongbox where valuables are stored, including the chess set when it is put away.

The chess set was a gift from Brother Ned when he was in Russia. Ned said the black pieces are solid gold and the white ones are solid silver. Daddy doesn't quite believe it, but he treats the set as a treasure anyway. He has never asked how Ned acquired the set, and he feels very guilty for having lost the "gold" bishop.

The pig in the corner is made of lead, and was a gift from a family friend, Mr. Jack Dyno.

What I Need

1. Someone to tell me to put on some clothes and get busy. To get this house in shape would take a crew of nine large men, working nonstop for about forty days and forty nights. Or two Chinese gentlemen a weekend. Or that's how it feels to me.

2. A dedicated writing room. I've started a new novel. It's all in my head, but I'm too lazy to write it down. It isn't laziness, exactly. It's worrying about all the stuff that needs to be done around here. Sort of paralyzes me.

3. Energy. I've started back taking calcium, aspirin, B12 and Spectravite (multivitamin). I may add Vitamins C and D, when I get used to swallowing the first four.

*

The new novel involves nasty-mouthed little kids, or teenagers, and I don't know if I can write that stuff without throwing up. But it'll probably develop at some point.

Revoltin' Development: I've lost my taste for ice cream. Last time I had some, I threw half of it down the drain.

A Letter From Ned

Dear Brother Lex,

Thank you for relaying news of my miraculous survival to our mother. I knew that you could handle that job!

From the postmark you'll notice that I'm writing you from up in Canada. I have been in a hospital, just got out. The telegram I sent was a bit misleading, in that I claimed to be unqualifiedly (if that's an English word) "all right."

The fact of the matter is that one could hardly have escaped whole cloth. A couple of wet and freezing hours in the old Atlantic O., with a broken leg--I should say a crushed leg--complicated matters to the point of an amputation of the offended limb. Just above the knee, don't you know, not anything tragic--and at least it was the left appendage instead of the right, like poor old Billy Bones! Now, Billy and I can be mirror images.

"How's your right stump, old Bill?"

"Tolerable, old Ned. How goes it with your left stump?"

For G__'s sake, don't show this note to Randa or Mother, or anybody. Sorry to run so graphic.

The upshot is, when I finally get down to your neck of the woods, it could be quite a shock to the family. I count on you to inform and prepare everyone for the sight of a somewhat diminished,

But still your faithful bro.,

Mycroft Edward Dahl, Esq.
23 May 1912

The Gathering Room

The family are increasingly frustrated in trying to get into the main house at Graymont. So far, the only areas they've penetrated are the south wing and some cellars. They've done the best they could for a living-dining room, with some metal garden furniture and a round stone table. The fireplace and columns were already in place, and the girls found the big Art Nouveau posters. For chair seats and pads, Mama doll chose the colors in the posters, and she added more garden style with the screen and drapery at the far end of the room.

 The glass tea table and frosted glass sideboard help to keep the room from looking too crowded. Mama hates to think of bringing oil lamps into this pretty room, and having gas lights or electricity put in doesn't seem worth the money (which they don't have, anyway), since their residence there will probably only be temporary. Maybe she'll use candles, if she can find something to set them on.

The 4 posters are by Alphonse Mucha, and are called "4 Times of Day."

A Sad Little Song

Red Wing

There once was an Indian maid,
A shy little prairie maid,
Who sang a lay, a love song gay,
As on the plain she'd while away the day;

She loved a warrior bold,
This shy little maid of old,
But brave and gay, he rode one day
To battle far away.

Now, the moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wing
The breeze is sighing, the night bird's crying,
For afar 'neath his star her brave is sleeping,
While Red Wing's weeping her heart away.
*
I don't know why this song makes the hair rise on the back of my neck. There's a link to it in my left column/Music Links.

Graymont Kitchen

The Dolls (and a lot of helpers) have made a couple of Graymont rooms usable, but it was hard work. The south wing originally consisted of three floors of tiny rooms and narrow hallways, with a cupola on top.

They created the kitchen by knocking out one wall of an old butler's pantry that adjoined the dining room in the main house. It had a sink with a water pump and leaky faucet, and a whole wall of empty shelves. They repaired the floor as well as they could, then painted it white, and brought the wood stove from the attic at home, also the lead-lined icebox.

The girls keep finding what they consider treasures, a lot of copper and brass, even a silver tea set missing its sugar bowl. Mama only wants to find a long table and enough chairs to seat everyone around it.

While the work was going on, a little brown-and-white cow kept wandering in every time someone left the back door open. The girls decided to name her Buttercup.

Time Out

I have sat down for a cigarette and some juice before I finish re-re-vacuuming my half-acre of house. And it occurs to me, I don't eat enough. In the past two years or less, I've lost twenty pounds avoirdupois. "Avoirdupois" sounds like "to have some peas." Which sounds good to me. Anyway--

I would eat--I do eat, a lot, when it's set before me. Or late in the afternoon when I get hungry, I cook something or heat up a can and eat all of it. When I run the microwave and the toaster at the same time, it blows a fuse and I have to go downstairs and flip circuit switches. And then I have to come upstairs.

The point is, like all old folks, I need someone to cook it and serve it to me, then go away and leave me alone. Maybe I could start eating at least one meal a day at a restaurant. That would involve ironing clothes, showering and dressing, getting there and back, and then the day would be over. All day for a meal. And then when would I run this wrist-straining vacuum cleaner? Middle of the night.

I once saw a science fiction film in which David Ogden Stiers played an alien from a culture where at age sixty, each person was obligated to pull the plug and go down the drain, so to speak. It may seem like a bright idea, except from the 60-year-old individual's standpoint.

I'm not really depressed. Just tired.

Maybe I could get "Mills own Whills."

I didn't write it.

Said the flea to the fly, "Let us flee!"
Said the fly to the flea, "Let us fly!"
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

Daddy Doll Teaches Chess

Daddy Doll is going to teach Camilla to play chess. Somehow, he has lost a bishop, but thinks they can substitute something for that piece.

Little Dolly takes a look at the board.

"But it's all wrong," she says. "The big ones ought to go in front to protect all those little ones."

"Well," says Daddy, "the little ones are--they're like soldiers."

"I don't like that game," says Dolly.

Bra la la, how the life goes on!

Lunch today was okra and tomatoes, great northern beans with chopped onion, and cornbread fresh from the skillet. I ate until I couldn't eat any more, though I wanted to.

Mo is still lounging in the bathroom, getting served a small 2-course meal five or six times a day. I need to relocate him and scrub the bathroom down again.

My favorite Jeopardy contestant won the Teen Tournament today, a tiny teen named Elyse with braces on her teeth and big glasses, giving me a good laugh.

Maybe the fleas came to teach me how good life was before the plague. But it's getting better. Mo doesn't have any, and I have a plan to finish them off tomorrow. As usual, tomorrow I'll do great things.

Another Guy's Poison

My lunch today was a big tray of grilled vegetables. Unfortunately, I shook on a little too much Zesty Italian, and about three-quarters through the tray, I had to throw the stuff out. All I could taste was oil. If your mama ever made you swallow a dose of castor oil, you'll understand why I've always been a little bit leery of oil of any kind. Lucky for them, by the time Susan and Ramey came along, Mama had discovered that castor oil is poison.

Ricky Reed is outside cutting down dead shrubbery and mowing grass. To the tune of another C-note. "Oh, time, life, cash and patience!" Or something like that. Quoting Herman Melville or Samuel Johnson.

A New Quilt

Mama Doll saw the quilt Dolly found in the attic and thought, "iAy, caramba! I can do that." So she made this pink and green print quilt for Camilla in about a day and a half.

Kitty and Spot look indifferent, but both are planning naps on quilts as soon as the girls leave the room.

The girls have lots of books, and Camilla tries to keep them organized in the bookcase. But Dolly's favorite, "Mother Goose," can usually be found on top of the big dresser. She's not quite five years old, but she can already read almost anything. She finds that "Mother Goose" makes more sense than some of the adult books around the house, such as The Peep of Day by Mrs. Favell Lee Mortimer--which Dolly was not supposed to read. A few nightmares made her wish she hadn't read it.

Camilla remembers learning to read, sitting on Cook's knee and reciting what Cook called "the A-B-abs."

Dolly can't remember when she couldn't read, at least a little bit.

Ars Longa, Angst Longior

One day when I was working for Social Security, I interviewed a guy who was a professor, or some type like that who knows everything. The interview turned into a conversation, and he asked what my hobbies were. I said painting and writing. He said, "The writing doesn't matter. The painting does." Maybe he was right. Maybe I took the wrong road. Maybe the world needed a painting of Walt Whitman instead of a poem about him. Unfortunately, I never saw him close up enough to paint him.

I did try to paint him from a photograph. Got as far as a pencil sketch on the canvas and gave up in disgust with myself.

I think, if I had to paint Walt Whitman, I would just paint some tall grass with a wolf or a coyote gnawing at some carrion. I think that would please Mr. W.

Tuesday

Brought Mo home from the Clinic yesterday. Maybe he's better, but he looks worse than when I took him in. He has chosen the front bathroom for his domain, and won't leave it. When I carried him upstairs to the living room, he ran and jumped up onto the coffee table and sat staring around as if he didn't believe it. But since then, he hardly moves. But he eats every couple of hours and drinks a lot of water, so maybe he'll recover by and by.

I called Dave to come and clean the carpets and kill what fleas are left. Mo's hidey hole seems to be clear of fleas, maybe because he and the beach towel I had him wrapped in are still [I can't think of the word] soaked with flea repellent. So maybe he'll last until Dave has been here on Friday.

Yesterday I petted the stray white cat, and he bit my hand twice so that I had to disinfect and bandage the puncture wounds. I'm done with pets. Finished. I don't ask them to say "thank you" for the food and water and the porch to lie on or under. Just don't injure me, that's all.