A Stage and Screen Dynasty, Shrinking

Lynn Redgrave has died of breast cancer. She was the daughter of Sir Michael Redgrave (1908-1985), and younger sister of Vanessa and Corin Redgrave.

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Corin was a successful British actor who died in April 2010. His daughter Jemma Redgrave is also an actress.

Vanessa Redgrave is now 73 years old. She is the mother of actresses Joely Richardson, and the late Natasha Richardson who died in December 2009. The only movie I saw Natasha in was Nell, with Liam Neeson and Jodie Foster. I thought she was very beautiful.

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Vanessa starred in the film Julia, opposite Jane Fonda, and won an Academy award for the role. Julia is one of my all-time favorite movies, not least because of Jane Fonda who portrayed Lillian Hellman, narrator of Julia's story.

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Vanessa, her niece Jemma Redgrave and daughter Joely Richardson are, as far as I know, all the surviving actors in this great thespian clan.

Cloudy Sunday

Gretchen is sitting on the deck, trying to decide whether she wants to be inside or outside. The sky and the TV say it's going to rain--flood warnings everywhere.

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When I started this blog three years ago, I only wanted a blog because everyone else had one. That's the same reason I signed up for Facebook. Ever since 2007, I've hunted for comments on my blog, which I seldom ever get except from the family--which I appreciate! Anyway, I've decided to go back to my original blogging purpose, which is a sort of diary, so I can look back and see what happened when, like when it snowed, and which flowers bloomed when--very few, very seldom. What books I started writing and abandoned, and which dogs I wanted and didn't get.

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I'm still regretting that I didn't keep Buck. He was such a sweet dog. If he and I would have slept for 24 hours after that first exhausting night, I'd probably still have him.

Or maybe I'd be going around in a wheelchair instead of hopping on an occasionally sore foot.
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Anyhow, I'm starting over, I think. From now on, when I'm sure I want something, or want to do something, I'm gonna get it or do it. So there. And I'm not ashamed of talking to myself on the computer.

So long, April, and thanks for all the blooms.

Here's the chipmunk. When I got a little closer, he disappeared down the stump.

The white peony isn't as doubled and full as the pink ones.

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The old hydrangeas are full of buds. Can't wait for them to bloom out!

On Humility

On Humility: To a Squirrel in the Ivy Tree

Close to the black bole
sit, and catlike hiss
at sparrows, scold
a bold blue jay.
Climb high--
though branches sway,
your foothold never misses;
to your eye
the ends of boughs
are pathways, firm as houses,
built to stroll.

Proximity to sky
should keep you humble, though;
remember, all your kind
are sure of foot; with similar speed
(at will, as in elusive flight)
the multitudes proceed,
and, unafraid of letting go,
through high noon light
all dance the insubstantial air.
Leap, dash--but be aware
some squirrels really fly.

By JRC, June 24, 2001

Quotations

Aristotle: It is the mark of an educated man to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.:
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George Burns: Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.
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Winston Churchill: History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.
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Rodney Dangerfield: Life is just a bowl of pits.
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Ralph Waldo Emerson: Children are all foreigners.
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Gandhi: Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
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Joe Gores: Old age means realizing you will never own all the dogs you wanted to. [See top photo.]
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John Lennon: Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.
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Oscar Wilde: I was working on ... one of my poems all the morning, and I took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.
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Rose Nylund: You never know how much you love a man till you see him streaking toward the earth, trying to grab a bird.
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Almost Sorry I Found It

The Listeners, when I read it in the magazine a long time ago, was just a story, which is the first part of this whole novel-length thing. He should have left it alone, but no, he had to go and make a novel out of a good story. Then Carl Sagan came along, took the thesis and wrote a better novel (Contact), but not as good a story as "Robert MacDonald," the first part of this novel. James Gunn was still alive in 2008; maybe he still is. But Carl isn't, at least not here.

Arecibo is in Puerto Rico, not Peru. I get those P countries mixed up.

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I brought in some flowers that the wind was whipping around. The rain was a blessing, although the storms had tragic consequences elsewhere.

Searching for an old science fiction story

The setting was the Arecibo radio telescope observatory in Peru, or a place like it. The narrator was a lonely man, director of the project, whose wife didn't want to be there. One of the quotations in the story was from Dante: "In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself in a dark wood..." The author must not have been one of the now-better-known or remembered ones, because I can't remember who it was. I thought Ross Rocklynne or Thomas Disch, but I can't find it by either of them.

It was published in one of the pulp SF magazines that were popular in the 1950s to 1970s, before Asimov's series.

It's one of the best SF stories I've ever read. Does anyone else remember it?

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Later: I found it! It's a novella, The Listeners, by James Gunn. I ordered it on "Kindle for PC."

Barley and bean soup

It came in a package, and I hope it turns out as good as it sounds.

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Thurs. evening: The soup was pretty good, but the little cornbread pancakes I made to go with it were scrrrrrumptious!

Back on the Bay

I've resumed listing some stuff on eBay, and there's a link to my site in the left column of this blog. At present there are only three items on it, but I plan to add an item every day.

If any of my kin has a deep desire for, or sentimental attachment to, any listed items, please let me know and I'll remove them from eBay and you can have them gratis. I've got plenty more to list.

The wall pocket vases were Jenny's, the Harvard mug belonged to Julius, and the mini-quilt top was made by MER, quilted by me.

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In addition to my TV being fixed, my disposal in one of the sinks healed itself. I think there was probably a bone or something stuck in the blades, which finally came loose. Anyway, it works again, for the first time in 2-3 or more years.

Soup's on!

I've got a pot of chicken-vegetable soup on the stove, but I'm too hungry to wait for it to simmer long enough. I'll probably eat an orange or some peanuts to hold me until a decent dinner hour.

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I've got several peony plants with big buds; hope they open up nicely instead of shriveling, as some of them did last year. The hydrangea plants all survived the winter and are leafing out, the six I planted last year plus three or four old plants. I hardly expect the new ones to bloom, they're so small, but you never know until it happens or doesn't.

Better days ahead

At least regarding my prescriptions. Co-pay on the new one is only five bucks, rather than the thirty I was paying on the old one. And my foot seems to be OK for now.

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When I went to get my prescription filled, I had to wait, so I ran up to Sonics and got a big milk shake. This hot weather will probably see me drinking lots of big icy things, when I can stand the heat enough to go get 'em.

Back to the grindstone

Today I'm going back to writing four hours a day, no matter what happens. If the doorbell rings, I may peek out the window to see if I recognize a car on the curb, but I won't get up unless it's the President. If it's the police, they can break the door down, but I'll still pound these keys until they drag me out.

As a reward, I'm going to put a fresh flower or bouquet on my desk every day when I've done my writing time.

That little Aynsley vase in the photo is one I brought from England for my mother. I reclaimed it after she passed away.

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Something odd: I posted last week about the doctor's report on my blood work, about how everything was copasthetic, better than last checkup. Then yesterday he phoned and said he had got my blood work back, and it was good but there were a few minor problems. My immunoglobulin was low (I think that means my resistance to infection), my bad cholesterol was a bit high and my good c. a bit low, etc., etc. I said thank you very much for letting me know.

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I have pondered this, and I think what happened is that he (on the phone) was reading my results from my checkup last year instead of the one from last week. Something like that has happened before, when he would turn too many pages in my chart and ask me if I was still taking some med he had discontinued long ago. Curious.

Empty Houses

Somebirdy threw away a perfectly good nest. Or maybe the wind, or a vandal bird, dislodged it.

I added it to the row of town-birdhouses on the porch rail.
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Here's my first rose, just opening.

The other day I saw a bird fly up to a tree with what looked like a whole Kleenex in its beak. There ought to be a poem in that.
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I almost forgot. My TV won't work. The cable box won't come on, and all I get without it is static. I checked to see if it's unplugged, and it wasn't. I tried all my many remote controls, and nothing seems to work. I thought if I left it alone for 24 hours, it might heal itself, but it didn't.

Weds., 4/14/10 - The cable box was dead. They brought me a new one.

What's In a Name? ("A possum by any other name...")

One of the hardest things about writing, to me, is naming my characters. The first three books I wrote were "romance" novels. The heroine of the first one was named Liz, a big part-Hispanic girl based on someone I knew. The second was Sandra Scott, nicknamed Scotty. The third girl was so obnoxious, I can't even remember her name.

The fourth book was that NaNoWriMo November novel in 2007; it started out on The Mountain, and my aunt Betty Lou was the main person. I never got around to thinking up a different name to call her. Young Douglas was the best character in that book, and he didn't have a book name, either. This is the one I need to rewrite and try to market, but it'll have to have about another 50,000 words to explain World War Two and the ending, which I just sort of sketched in. Great-Grandma Missouri Ella was great in this book, too; her bonnet strings kept getting in her plate. She made a quilt for everybody she liked, and her kin made her dresses and bonnets out of the prettiest feed sacks.

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The one I'm writing now, I'll talk about so far as to tell the twins' names (unless I change them), Jane and Tracey. And a little demon named Peyton.

Another busy day

Book club meets today. I've got to scrape up something to wear, also shop for some snacks and beverages since I'm the hostess. This morning I scanned through the book again to refresh my memory, and I'm going to gather up some small quilts to display. I need to return a movie that Jed and I rented Tuesday.

When I get all this stuff done and get home this afternoon, I'm going to go to bed for the duration of the weekend. I looked up plantar fascitis on the internet, and I'm going to do what it says, starting with a couple of days off my feet and doing the exercises Dr. G. recommended. Then when I can walk a little better, I'll hunt up a good orthotic and probably a pair of old-lady shoes to wear it in. Walking with Jed this week, I got right irritated with myself, taking 3-4 little short hopping steps to his one and not being able to keep up with him. I'm thankful for my good health, but something irritating like this puts me in an ill humor, sometimes.

If I don't sleep all weekend, I've got a couple of good books to read.

Recovering nicely

Yesterday Jed and I drove to The Kirklin Clinic early, where I got my blood drawn so they could send the results to the M.D.'s office. Then we went up the street to a new cafe I've forgotten the name of and ate lunch (breakfast for me after fasting), then back to the Clinic for my 2:20 appointment. I had a list of complaints, and Dr. G. laughed when he saw "wart on forehead," but he didn't say anything to do about it. Come to think of it, it does look sort of distinguished. On the serious side, all my numbers were favorable. My LDLs were low, and my HDLs were high. We decided I didn't have to go back on the cholesterol med, which I haven't taken in the last six months anyway. My cholesterol, which wasn't very high in the first place, was down 20 points.

After mashing my foot with his bear-like paw and making me holler, he said I had plantar fascitis, which I understand is something like toothache in my heel. He told me some exercises to do, and to get a thingy to go in my shoe, and if it's not better in a couple of weeks, call him and he'll refer me to the real foot doctors.

Jed went back to Atlanta after lunch today, at which we finished up a pork loin with sandwiches and half a cantaloupe. He's a good guy. Wears a white hat, figuratively.

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On her blog today (The Painted Possum, which see), my sister Ramey announced the publication in May of her book, Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge. I'm proud, and suitably jealous, and can't wait to hold a signed copy in my hands.

On the subject of books, last night I thought of something funny:

Question: What would I do if I knew I couldn't fail?
Me: Write another novel?

For some reason, that made me double up laughing. The one I'm writing now is number 5 (of first drafts). I'd do better to work on trying to make one of them publishable, instead of starting another one. I'll do that. I will, I will.

On the whole, I feel good now because I don't have to go back to the doctor until next April 7th.

Tomorrow's another day to worry about...

One bright spot: Jed will be here today and the next day and the next day--to encourage, accompany, and revive me--before, during, and after my Wednesday check-up appointment. I'd hate to be a doctor and have people dread seeing me. Some people don't dread it, I understand, old people who don't get to see many people. I'm glad I'm not old and shut in. Thanks, Lord.

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Sunday afternoon was just wonderful! We ate chicken, salads, barbecue, yams and cake. I drank a little wine to break my long Lenten abstinence. Reed was a very entertaining host, told lots of stories or incidents or something about bugs, showed the purple flowers he and Ma planted. "Quel age as-tu?" I asked him, and he said, "I'm four" (after Ma translated). About the bunny cake, he looked at me like, "You've got to be kidding me."

I'm afraid this is going to be the lost week, writingwise. Maybe Friday I'll be recovered enough to write a little. I hope. -- No, Friday's book club day, so I'll have to think about Gee's Bend.
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The other day Mable sent me a link to a wonderful song, "Going Home," to the music of Anton Dvorak's symphony. I posted it in my Music Links (in this blog's left column). They played the music during President Ford's funeral, and if I can find a cd or dvd of it, I want to arrange to have the song played at mine, if I should ever have one. I'm sure Gerry wouldn't mind my copying. He was a lovely man, though as a president, opinions vary.

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I remember these

flowers from my childhood, when Daddy and Alfred built the house in Irondale for Iris and Alfred. Granny lived with them, and she had banks of these tiny pink flowers in the spring and summer. I don't know the name of them, but they're some kind of clover or sorrel-related plant. I've had them at lots of my houses and apartment, all descended from Granny's plants. Here, they died in the flower bed, but survive in the lawn. I guess getting cut down every 2 weeks just makes them more stubborn and spreading.

Wishing Easter Blessings To All!

Reed's bunny cake. I started to take a photo of my sugar-coated kitchen, but I can't be cute. I wanted to make a sculpture, but it turned out sort of a bas-relief.

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Tip from The Art of Cuisine (a book I haven't written yet): Don't ever try to sculpt a jelly-roll.

Eureka!

I just remembered something in my book notes that makes me happy--this is Saturday, and I don't have to write on weekends! I've been sort of shying away from the file today, but that's normal; I always dread getting started. But anyway, I don't have to overcome inertia today, or tomorrow.

I've made barbecued pork ribs, and I plan to cook a vegetable and buy some whole-wheat buns for the barbecue, and maybe make a cake. Ramey has invited me to come up there and eat Easter dinner with her and the girls and Reed Daniel, so whatever else I cook, I'll wag it up the hill.

Hard Work

I fixed my writing goal on the new novel at a thousand words a day. Yesterday it took me four hours to write that much, but today I did the same thing in little more than an hour. That's reassuring, as it looks like when I get into the story, it flows--except I'm not really into the story yet.

I spent all day yesterday in the illusion that book club would meet today, and bracing myself for the event. I guess it was just an April fool's joke on myself, because today is the first instead of the second Friday in the month, and the meeting isn't until April 9th.

Anyone who thinks writing isn't hard work may not believe it, but yesterday afternoon I was so worn out that I lay down on the sofa and slept for four hours (beside Gretchen, on her blanket). And now, having just written for an hour or so, I'm exhausted. It's like a long tramp in the woods, without the exhilaration of fresh air and exercise.

I'm keeping a hard copy of the first draft in a loose-leaf notebook. I guess I should also back it up on a CD, which I'll do when Jed shows me how again.
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I haven't abandoned the cleaning, it's just going slower than molasses in January.

L'apres-midi d'un auteur

This morning I've packed a book and an eBay package, and I have to go to the P.O. So I'll have to write in the afternoon. I also scraped skin off two fingers on a new-fangled tape dispenser with little teeth like a shark--not all the skin, just a little bit.

Starting to write a new book or story is like starting a journey, with all the aggravating minutiae connected with travel. Like deciding what to pack and knowing you'll regret it, getting to the airport without going the wrong way on their one-way streets, being sure to lock your car before leaving it.

Yesterday or the day before, I finished reading Teresa Thorne's book, Noah's Wife. It really is a good book, but I wish these Alabama authors who write about people's wives would learn the changes of the moon. They seem to think the "new" moon looks big and round and shiny, whereas you really can't see the new moon at all. Thorne even, in one place, puts horns on the "new" moon.

And I wonder how soon we'll see an Alabama author's book entitled "Beowulf's Wife" or "Stonewall Jackson's Wife."

Get Ready, Get Set--

Tomorrow I plan to start a new writing project. I was hoping to finish cleaning today, but it's not going to happen. I hope to spend the next few months being a real writer, so today I'm going to rest and store up some energy.

Yesterday I read Noah's Wife, by T.K. Thorne, on Kindle. Good book.

Gotta Get Busy!

Well, I slept late, because I spent hours last night trying to go to sleep. Last time I looked at the clock, it was 3:30 a.m. That seldom happens to me; I usually go to sleep any time I get prone or close my eyes sitting straight up. I think the dawn was coming up like thunder when I finally passed out.

I've got more than my fair share of things to do today, not counting getting on with cleaning and straightening up the house. The Exchange Club truck will come by in a few days; last time they called me, I asked what they need besides clothing, and the lady said they take furniture and any household items. So that means two chairs and a bunch of other stuff don't have to live in the basement.

I've sold an afghan (on eBay) that I made a long time ago. It's a pretty thing and contains about 50 different crochet patterns, but it's 'way too big and has always just taken up a lot of space. It measures about 72" x 60". Looking at it makes me want to crochet something. But if I do any sewing, I have two quilts to finish and some summer pajamas to finish making.

Yesterday evening I made soup, all that my biggest pot would hold. I ate one bowlful and froze six servings, and that was all of it. Everyone, including me, needs a great big soup pot. But all the real soup pots I remember seeing look like they're made of aluminum. I don't use aluminum cookware. When I worked at the Alzheimer's Disease Center, I followed a study that seemed to show that aluminum contributes to causing AD. Dr. H., who was director of the Center, wouldn't touch aluminum, let alone eat out of it.

Steve is outside cutting the grass. The weeds, rather. But the grass is coming along, too.

Poem for Sunday

Moving Day on Oak Mountain

With my big sharp claws
I will scratch out a hole
like the chipmunk's,
and dig myself in so deep
no one can find me.
I will stay here forever.

By JRC on August 21, 2001

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What brought that on? I guess it was the thing about the Tent. Or my Irish love of the land. Or thinking about Chief Seattle's letter to the President.

Stretching the Deadline

I'm almost ready to take a shower in my newly cleaned-up bathroom. And I really need one. I am almost totally wo' out! I've been bathing in the tub--the shower head in the front bath is so close to the ceiling, it rains on the top of my head, no matter how I adjust it. And with my sore foot, it's harder than you'd think, getting out of that little narrow tub.

Anyhow, I've got to get out this afternoon and hunt up packing materials, a great big box in which to ship that little chair, and something to mail a large hard-back book in.

Since it took three days to clean the bathroom ceiling-to-floor, it looks like spring cleaning may last until about the first of May. I'm just not as swift as I used to be, for some reason(s).

I've about decided to take all the stuff that won't fit into a closet or a bookshelf down to the basement, and as soon as the project is done, to have a yard sale, and put everything that's left-over on the curb for trash pickup. I've counted eight pillows--I mean bed pillows. Since there are only two beds, I think I can live without such excess. And space is precious, less than 2,000 square feet, and only three inadequate closets.


Isn't that ridiculous? I'm only one relatively small person. I ought to be able to live and do well in a tent. Sometimes I wish I had a tent, and a spot of land over by the Grind-Rock Spring...

Day Two

Day 2 isn't going so well. I got a lot done yesterday, but today I spilled Clorox all over the bathroom floor, which ought to make cleaning easier, but you know Ms. Klutz here.

This is some wallpaper I've been thinking of slapping up on the bathroom walls, but I know I'd make a mess, and it would take me a month to do it. There's enough to paper the room twice, I think.

The top photo shows the color better; it's more of a yellowish green, but not as yellowish as the photo.

The Importance of Being Earnest

This time I mean it: Spring cleaning starts today and ends at midnight on March 31st. I've already started, with the remotest room in the house--my bathroom. Scrub, scrub; paint, paint; decorate, decorate. There!
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Not really. That's the way it used to look, and will again.

Wisdom from Cooper's "The Pathfinder"...

"...there is no more certain way of arriving at any particular notion, than by undertaking to defend it; and among the most obstinate of our opinions may be classed those which are derived from discussions in which we affect to search for truth, while in reality we are only fortifying prejudice."

I quote this to myself, as much as to others.

It had to happen sooner or later.

I grow old, I grow old,
I...wear the bottom of my trousers rolled... (T.S. Eliot)
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Now I know what he meant. The older I get, the shorter I get. Capri pants get to be ankle pants. Bermuda shorts become crops. And watching myself hop around town on my sore foot makes me sincerely repent the embarrassment I felt at being seen with my mother in her walking-stick days. My punishment is looking in the mirror and seeing her face and her poor crooked back.
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But most of the time, I don't give a hoot.

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Today I sold the little Eames era chair.

Erin Go Bragh!

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Tomorrow's the big day for the Irish, but I'm celebrating today because I haven't been able to get anything useful done. Some days are like that: The hurrier I go, the behinder I get. Anyway, cheers to everyone with a drop of green blood!
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Tomorrow's supposed to be a big day for me, too, in terms of getting all these half-finished chores and jobs done. I've got books and eBay stuff to mail, some of them late. Wurra, wurra...
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Jed, if you see this, just bring me one Aubrey book next time you come over. If you bring two, I'll gulp them both down and get indigestion of the brain.

3-Book Sale!

A nice lady ordered three books from me today. Unfortunately for me, I'll only clear about $15. But it'll be 3 fewer books to take up space.

Today I watched the movie "Mr. Brooks" on TV. See there--K. Costner can play a very un-nice guy. I loved William Hurt as his ego. If they would just do something about Demi Moore's hair, she would be a lot better-looking. A wig or something. Whoopie Goldberg has better hair. But I guess it's too late now, DM's getting too old to change, like the rest of us.

Patrick O'Brian's The Mauritius Command was a bit of a disappointment. I'm glad Aubrey wound up as just a post captain at the end. This book rather obnubilates the series (one of Maturin's words; for a Spanish-Irishman, he has an amazing English vocabulary).
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I forgot--yesterday I signed up for Free Kindle Online. Hard to believe: the hand-held device is so expensive, but you get the same thing online free, if I understand what I read.

More signs of spring

Last summer Steve soaked the area at the end of the flower bed with weed poison, and said it would also kill any flowers that were planted there. So I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to see little crocuses in several spots pushing through the dead grass and leaves. I planted them several years ago. The bulbs must have sunk too far down for the poison to hit them. It did get the poison ivy and nettles, thank goodness.

The old tulips have put up healthy-looking plants in that flower bed. They did the same thing last year, but they didn't bloom.

Yesterday I also called Dr. Gruman's office and made an appointment for my annual checkup. It's for the afternoon of April 7th. I'm making a list of things to complain about, prescriptions to change, and so forth.

Speed reading go blah!

I've got to quit reading so fast, and so much. Sometimes I have gone for months without reading a book. But I just finished H.M.S. Surprise this morning, and now I'm nearly halfway through At Play in the Fields of the Lord. There are things more important than pursuing "the ghosts in books," so said Walt Whitman. Things like brushing down the cobwebs around the deck door, scrubbing the basement stairs, getting rid of a lot more junk. Making several important phone calls, like one to get an appointment with my honorable physician, because my foot hurts; the only shoes I can walk normally in are my cowboy boot/mules.
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The book club plans to meet tomorrow at the library, not to discuss a book but to eat, drink and watch a movie about Irishmen, because St. Patrick's day is next week. I think I'll take some soft drinks and some of those little croissants with chicken salad inside. Or chicken liver pate, if I get ambitious enough this evening to cook.

Rain, rain, go a-...rain, rain...

It rained and thundered for about 24 hours, and now it's just raining. I find it hard to do anything but sleep when it's raining and thundering, but not really storming.

When I went downstairs to start the car--Surprise! The basement's as dry as a bone. Wonders never cease, unless you're expecting one.

Last spring, I swore off trying to make a vegetable garden. "But was I sober when I swore?" Yesterday on TV, I saw a guy make a vegetable garden in less than 3 minutes: wooden frame set on concrete, plastic sheet in the bottom, layer of newspaper on the plastic, soil and compost on the newspaper, plants 2" deep, scatter soil over seeds, water lightly, done! Yeah.

It's about to SPRING!

Spring, that is. Today has been glorious, sunshiny, warm but not too. My little hyacinths are coming up along the front walk, and these tiny blue flowers are all over the place. The camera didn't get the color right--they're as blue as the sky!
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I've done so many loads of laundry today, I've lost count. People shouldn't have so many clothes, linens, rags... I did also throw away a few things, but there are still too many.
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I received two more of the Patrick O'Brian books from son Jed today. So you know what I'll be doing this week.

Soup du jour

This is all that's left of the big pot of soup I made yesterday, after I ate like a hog and gave some to Ramey and India. It's a poor imitation of McAlister's tortilla soup, but it's pretty good, lacks the flavor of the roasted jalapenos and cilantro and stuff that I didn't have on hand. I put just about everything else I had on hand into it, including a package of potato flakes and a package of four-cheese sauce mix, to thicken it. Mo insisted he wanted some. I said, "It's got pepper in it, Mo," and he said, "But it smells so goooood!" Which was right.

I had to take the bowl away from him, for fear it would make him throw up. Which it did.

Last night Ramey and I scanned some photos of Uncle Cobb, Paw Paw and GMR to send to Cobb's great-granddaughter. I emailed them to Pat this morning, and she's going to send them on to--I think the granddaughter's name is Susan. Good name. After our Susan was born, I was jealous, wishing they had named me Susan after Maw Maw instead of Sara after Granny. But as I grew, I came to like all my names OK. Especially after learning that Paw Paw had wanted to name me Willie Christine.

I picked our Susan's middle name, Elaine; I had probably been reading about the Lady of

Shalott. When Pat was born, I wanted to name her Stephanie. Banty (Millard) Isbell wanted to name her Patricia Kay, but Mama didn't like Kay all that much (and wouldn't even talk about Stephanie), so she settled for Patricia Ann, which is prettier but not as euphonious.

I wish we could have a National Ramey Family Reunion, and see who-all would turn up.

More about Cicero than I wanted to know

This book was published in the UK under the title of Lustrum. It changes the way I thought about Rome. Especially my suppressed admiration for Julius Caesar. Gah!
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Cicero was born January 3, 106 B.C. Lawyer, statesman, philosopher. Also a typical Capricorn. Murdered in December 43 B.C.

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At least he outlived Caesar. It was left for Marc Antony to have him killed.

I don't think I want to read the third book in the trilogy, which isn't published yet.

My final impression is that Augustus (Octavian) was probably the best thing that could have happened to Rome at that period. "Best" only in the sense of the least of many evils. It was all a bloody mess.

Master and Commander, and Post Captain

The article on mules actually tied in with the Jack Aubrey books, as Dr. Maturin rode a mule over the Spanish landscapes. Other animals also figure into some of the stories, particularly a bear. Some of Maturin's preposterous schemes and scheming make me wonder if he valued Capt. Aubrey more as a close friend, or more as an object of fun. Of course, they loved each other like brothers; I guess it's just that Stephen had a spark of the devil in him, which in Jack Aubrey was altogether missing. Except when it came to warfare.

Aubrey thought nothing of chopping off heads and running swords through men in battle. Yet when a robber accosted him in the dark, Aubrey accidentally injured the man seriously as he knocked him down, then picked him up and toted him home for Maturin to patch up.