Poetry Reading Canceled

This was the night for our poetry reading at the Arts Council, but Cookie called this morning and said it was canceled due to illness and other member business. I'm right disappointed. I had planned to read my Mother Teresa poem, and the one I wrote a long time ago about Andrea del Sarto's Madonna of the Harpies (above).

Somehow my blog has got messed up. It will no longer let me position pictures to left or right; they all come out centered, and I can't control the size. Jed and Ramey say they can't post to it sometimes. I hope everyone will keep posting--hit the Refresh button under View, if you get a "Service Unavailable" message.

I really appreciate Ruth's looking in and posting occasionally. New readers welcome!

I'm glad the picture enlarges when you click on it. I love this painting. The base is decorated with sphinxes, which have been misidentified as harpies, accounting for the popular name of the work. They look more like harpies than sphinxes, I guess.

Andrea was called "The Perfect Painter." Robert Browning wrote a wonderful poem about him and his unfaithful wife--Andrea's wife, not Browning's.

Here are two of the angel ornaments. They don't have their wings yet, because I can't find any white lace. Mo is driving me to distraction; he meows and complains constantly, and if I sit down and try to work on anything, he claws my leg and meows louder.

Captain Horatio Hornblower

A few days ago I saw the last half of this movie on TV. It was interesting to see the ships, the riggings close up, and the costumes. Hornblower (Peck) wore his hat the right way, like Jack Aubrey. The love interest was Virginia Mayo, which may be one reason the movie didn't make much of a splash.
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In contrast to the break-even Amazon.com sale of the big book last week: Yesterday I cleared nearly $8.00 on a 1967 paperback copy of Portrait of Jennie. I still have my copy, even older than that, which I enclosed in cardboard covers years ago.

Heavy, Heavy, Hangs Over Your Head

Today I'm afflicted with the above. I can't do anything because of everything that needs to be done. Usually on days like this, I just get a big garbage bag and go through the house filling it up; then all I have to do is put it in the trash cart. But that never helps much, because it just exposes parts of the next layer.

I would seriously consider getting "maid service" again; but it was my observation that the service is mainly to vacuum the middle of the floor and flick a little dust rag around the tops of the furniture. And pick up their hundred-dollar check.

I know you're supposed to follow them around with a whip, but I've never been a good slave-driver. I'm too polite to protect myself except explosively. I always remember the time I lost my temper at Mrs. Harshaw for putting the carving-knives blade-tip-up in the dishwasher and bending up and down over it while looking at me and talking. Things like that haunt the troubled midnight and the noon's repose.

Drunkard's Path

We've got half of the blocks cut out for Ramey's drunkard's path quilt. Can't wait to get started sewing it together. The other half of the cutting will go quicker, because it's all white, and I can cut multiple layers at once. Could have done that with the prints, if the pieces of cloth had been more uniform in size.

The book I'm reading now is The Archer's Tale, by Bernard Cornwell. I wonder if he's related to detective novel writer Patricia Cornwell. His writing is good, simple and straightforward, with no attempts to be cute, fancy or solemn. The book is pretty good so far.

I was proud of the box I made to mail the big book Friday. It cost six dollars to mail, so I made six dollars profit, not counting my labor, which was only about four hours' worth. And most of a $4 roll of tape. And gas to take it to the post office. I need to work smarter, not harder.

The weather continues hot. We could use some rain. Wish we had Lily C. and Willie T. to do a rain dance.

I've just about abandoned the old computer. This new one is great. I just need to make sure I have everything essential on it from the old one.

Boxed--or Stumped!

I was thinking I had met my limits in box-making. I've got to mail this 14" x 18" x 2" book that weighs over 7 pounds. I've got a piece of corrugated cardboard big enough to make a box, but I'm feeling so inadequate! However, I find from my records that I sold--and shipped--another copy of the same book a year or so ago. So I know I can do it. I know I can. Especially if I go eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich first.

Ka-boom!

This book I'm reading explains plates, tectonics, subduction, and all that stuff that causes earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions. A lot of it also ties in with the David O'Brian books. I'm so poor in knowledge of geography, I had to spread my big National Geographic world map out on the living room table to see where everything is. I can't keep it straight in my head where Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope are situated--on the southern tips of which continents. For some reason, I thought the Falklands were near Australia, but they're off of South America. I found Mauritius, St. Denis and Reunion islands on the map.
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More than 35,000 people were killed when Krakatoa exploded. At least two thirds of them were killed by the big waves caused by the explosion.

Angels With No Faces (so far)

This is the long-labored-over kind of ornament that I'm trying to make for Christmas. The button is the halo; all that's missing is the head.

For years, I've been growing a little cedar tree in a pot. I dug it up out of the flower bed and put it in a big planter. It's about 2 feet high now, so I think I'll use it for my Christmas tree. This prototype angel ornament is about 4 inches long, but once I get the production line going, they'll be smaller. There will also be Santas and reindeer. I hope.

I'm reading a book, Krakatoa, by Simon Winchester. It makes me want to re-read The Little Prince by St. Exupery and The Twenty-One Balloons by Du Bois. I ordered the English version of The Little Prince from Amazon this morning. Krakatoa Jr. has been forming itself ever since the big one blew in 1883, and now it's several hundred feet high. It grows several inches a week.

Ramey and I are going to Michael's this afternoon to get wooden beads to make angel heads.

Experimental Cuisine

My cooking doesn't always turn out pretty, but the results usually taste OK. Yesterday I had two big chicken breasts that had to be cooked or frozen, so I split one of them and made cornbread dressing to layer around it. By the time the thermometer said it had cooked long enough, the chicken was dry and tough, but the dressing was delicious. So next time, I'll know not to cook it an hour and a half.
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This is the kind of sofa that I want. Overstock has it on sale for between $400-$500. It looks like a loveseat, but it's enormously long, over 80 inches. I think it would be practically indestructible, cats or not. If they claw up a cushion, you can just re-cover it. Of course, you'd probably have to re-cover all the cushions, but at least it would be possible. If you didn't like the two seat cushions, you could get Tom (upholsterer) to make one big long foam cushion for the seat. The real reason I would like this kind of sofa is that it's mission oak, Arts and Crafts style, which is what I like for this house. As far as matching the other furniture, it is approximately like the TV cabinet and the maple table. You don't want everything "matchy-matchy."

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Jed and I have been looking at Lowe's for a new light fixture to replace the Wal-Mart special in the foyer. I found this antique one online for several thousand bucks, but this style would be great. Maybe someday we'll see one that looks approximately like it.

Friday's book club meeting was good, although most of the members were out due to illnesses, travel, and (in poor Ramey's case) sitting in the dentist's chair with her mouth propped open. And Mable was just "wo' out." So the group consisted of only Nell, Susan, Betty and me. Like last month's meeting, I was reluctant to see this one close. We really tore that author's parents UP! Unfortunately, it was too late. I admired Susan for getting to the meeting, because she was obviously in a lot of discomfort.

This morning I have figured out the first step--just the first step!--in making the Christmas tree ornaments that I started last month. I thought I knew exactly how to go about it, but I'm not always as smart as I think I am. The project turns out to be much simpler than I thought, and now I've wasted boocoos of time and about two dozen clothes pins! But "Man's reach should exceed his grasp, /Or what's a heaven for?" (Robert Browning)

Robert Browning, while we're on the subject of my favorite poet, also said in that same poem that we only go to sleep so that we can wake up. So (almost) every night when I've said my now-I-lay-me-down's, I repeat, "We sleep to wake."

Book Club Today

Last month Nell gave us a sheet of discussion questions for The Glass Castle, and one asked, Which scene in the book is the funniest? I'm anxious for someone to remind me of any scene in this book that could remotely be called funny. I think it's a good, well-written book, and it isn't depressing. Hard to say exactly what it is. Most of it makes you furious at such parents! And even when someone gets what's coming to him, it isn't satisfying, because it's all so unnecessary. If Rose Mary's laissez faire life-style had been mixed with even a little love, it would have been better. If Rex's what-passed-for-love had not been focused on Jeannette only, and had a bit of humor in it, his drunken foulness might have been excusable.

What's missing in The Glass Castle is love. What's there is so subtle that it hardly meets the eye, just tugs gently at the heartstrings. I think Dinitia, and the other black girls at the swimming pool, supplied the most normal human touches. Maybe that scene was funny; I'll read it again.
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I'm almost sorry I read The Reverse of the Medal. I'm afraid the events destroyed Jack Aubrey's sunny nature. Which is the same as saying I'm afraid they destroyed Jack Aubrey.
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So, late yesterday afternoon I ordered a big pepperoni pizza, ate a couple of slices, then reclined on the sofa to read until time for Project Runway to come on at 8:00. The next thing I knew, I woke up and it was 4:30 this morning. I had slept all night on the sofa, about 9 hours, with a book under my head. Back in the 60s or so, there was a sleep-learning theory, where you could have a recording playing while you slept and you'd remember what it said. Between the TV going last night, and the book I was sleeping on, I should have learned something. Well, the sound wasn't on the TV, so maybe it doesn't work just by sleeping on a book.

The Reverse of the Medal

There's a very moving scene near the end of this book. Captain Aubrey is convicted of a crime, or an illegality, that he didn't commit, and is sentenced to be put into the stocks for an hour every day. News traveled fast, and on the day they put him in the stocks, it seems every onshore sailor and naval officer in England was there, gathered around him and chasing away the filth peddlers and abusers. When they had everything cleaned up, they set up a great cheer for Jack Aubrey, Post Captain, and stayed with him until he was released. He wasn't pilloried again.

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Labor Day was lots of fun. Jed came over on Sunday and helped me clean and shop and cook, and we ate Sunday lunch at McAlister's (I had a "Big Nasty"--it wasn't pretty, but I ate the whole thing). We had hot dogs, beans, and potato salad for lunch on Monday, and Ramey brought a salad. I had invited all the family and Mable, but Mable couldn't come. Susan, Ramey, India, Buffy, Philip (Buffy's boyfriend) and Reed were here. I hope I didn't forget anyone.

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Project Runway is on TV this evening. I think I'll order a pizza--I haven't had pizza since 'way back in the summer, sometime in July.

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Every time I save a post, Google throws up an advertisement on my posting page that somehow relates to what I posted that day. Today it said, "The 9mm Won't Save You--What the Self Defense Masters and the Army Don't Want You To Know."

Oops!

I had a big long post going but accidentally lost it. It's just as well, I guess, and I'm certainly not going to do it again.

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When I Was One-and-Twenty

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As I was going to St. Ives

All in the month of May,

I met an aged, aged man

With hair like moldy hay;

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His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

His boots were up to the thigh;

And I never saw a man who looked

So wistfully at the sky.

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"Rain, rain, go away!"

He cried into the blue;

But the sun shone bright, where never lark

Or even eagle flew.

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So now, whene'er I see my cat

Twirling the kitchen knives,

And look again, and find it's just

A bowl of leeks and chives;

I realize that sight grows dim

After old age arrives,

And I understand that man I met

A-going to St. Ives.

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This is the last of the fall contest poems. It wasn't easy. In this category, you had to take lines from well-known poems and put them together to form what the sponsor called a "Cento." They may throw this one out on technical grounds, because I broke down halfway through and started making up lines.

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I have small hope for the easy poems, ones I wrote quickly, like "Old Abe" and "Mother Teresa." But I'm entering 10, so maybe one or two of the old ones will win something.

A New Poem for Sunday

I'm trying to get all the poems written for the Fall 2010 contests. In this one I played fast and loose with the facts, like '83 for '93. And where it refers to speed, you ought to read efficiency and dependability--I never really outran the troopers. And old Abe is still going. This poem is for the category "Look On the Bright Side."
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Eulogy for Old Abe

Old Abe was my car that traveled near and far
In all kinds of weather and places;
Born in '83, it was very plain to see
That he'd never lay down in the traces.

He guzzled the gas, and no other car could pass
When I put my foot on the pedal;
Any time we had a mind, we could leave 'em all behind
Waitin' for the gravel to settle.

I can't forget the time on I-59,
When I saw the state troopers up ahead;
The gauge said 102, and I thought, Uh-oh, we're through!
But Abe wasn't ready to play dead!

He edged to the right, so the mirror caught the light
And blinded the law with the glimmer!
When we left them there a-blinkin', they must have been a-thinkin'
That what passed them was only a shimmer.

But since it's Nature's way, in '09 there came a day
When we couldn't keep up such a ruction;
We were 'way out in the woods, when I popped up the hood
And saw a tragic scene of destruction!

The engine was gone and the radiator blown;
Every B had come loose from its A (so to speak);
There was no use to boo-hoo--Abe had met his Waterloo,
Just like that old Deacon's one-hoss shay!

So Abe came to be a mere streak of memory,
Like so many other wonders from my youth.
They can build all kinds of tripe, but they'll never see his like;
Old Abe was the best, and that's the truth!

And if there's a place where ghost cars can race,
Some track out beyond space and time,
You can bet that Old Abe is leavin' 'em in the shade,
Just like he did on I-59!

By JRC, 09/05/10

Nearly 300,000 to go

Macintosh--I meant MacAfee--has been scanning ever since I turned on the computer this morning about 10 a.m. So far it says it has scanned 61,892 things--somethings, I don't know what. Several days ago when it stopped scanning, I clicked on it, and it said it had scanned 350,000-plus things. That's one reason my old computer is so slow and takes me all day to get anything done.

Today I mailed my Mother Teresa poem to be included in the 2010 Alabama Poetry Society anthology. Robert Frost said his goal was to "lodge a few poems where they can't be ignored." I wish I could hit some places like that.

Remembering

Today my heart is with Susan. Vann passed away a year ago today.

On July 9th, I remembered not only my Jenny and other loved ones, but also my good friend Vann Cleveland. They are all never far from my thoughts, and I miss them so much! The world gets smaller on this side of the river.

Well, I've read three fifths of Doctor Zhivago, and it seems a shame not to finish it, although it's like running uphill. My hat's off to anyone who has suffered through the whole thing. Hundreds of characters that seem like thousands, with unpronounceable names; there may really be only a few dozens, their names change so often that you can't be sure whom you've met before. The very length of the names makes them exhausting to read. Yuri and Tonia are almost always referred to as Yurii Andreievich and Antonina Alexandrovna. And those are two of the easiest.

The first half of the book takes place during "the war" that's going on before the Russian revolution, and you don't know which war or who "the enemy" is until deep into the quagmire.

This is one instance where the movie is definitely better than the book. In fact, it's one of my favorite movies. Or used to be. I don't know if I'd ever watch it again, except for the exquisite landscape scenery, and the great and beautiful actors in it--Omar Sharif, Julie Christie, Geraldine Chaplin. Even old Rod Steiger was great; corrupt and nasty as Komarovsky was, he had a good heart, and I felt sorry for him every time he got his come-uppance. And even in the book, he was always Victor Ippolitovitch Komarovsky--only eleven syllables.

A New Poem

Mother Teresa Enters Heaven

Rich men's houses everywhere I look!
And golden streets--I'm in the wrong part of town;
Even the gates I came through gleam like pearls.
Where do the homeless go, the sick lie down?

A new hospital should rise on this spot,
But these great mansions seem to go on for miles.
If I get funding, surely we'll find a site.
Where is that girl who keeps my business files?

Oh, dear, I must have died! I think I know
This place; it's like the dream before my birth.
But I can't stay here--people are cold and ill,
Starving--I must get back to the streets of earth!

"But this is heaven, ma'am," they tell me now,
And, "No one's sick or homeless in this place."
I'm sure they're right--the natives ought to know--
But I think I'll build a shelter, just in case.

jrc 8/30/2010

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

I've walked a couple of miles this morning, around and around my house, contemplating all the things I have to do today. Sometimes it's harder than other times, to make myself get into the shower and get ready to face the world and its vicissitudes. (Checking the dictionary, I see that I spelled it right. It means a lot of things, all related. Could have said turmoil. I love words; there's nothing like them; they're in a class by themselves.) But today, it's time to get down to business.

First I have to finish packing and mailing an e-normous book to New York. And a spoon to some foreign country like Oregon or Omaha, something with an O, where they don't have many spoons.

Then I have to pay a bill or two before the next billing cycle. I need an infusion of about 1.125 million USD. Who doesn't?

It has been raining softly for 2-3 days, and it slows down my metabolism. I've slept until I'm groggy. Groggier.

The Last Emperor

I put off going to the grocery store most of the afternoon because I couldn't quit watching this movie. I saw it many years ago, probably soon after it was released in the 1980s. I think it's probably one of the best films ever made, and one of the saddest. John Lone was brilliant, as he always was. Peter O'Toole was already old. Good movie.

Thinning Out the Books

The charity truck comes tomorrow, and I've got two trays of books ready to be picked up. And I've only gone through two of the big bookcases. I hope to get rid of that stack on the right-hand side of the bench, before I start using it as furniture.

My creative juices seem to have dried up this month. I do have one new project going, which is making holiday ornaments for Christmas presents, but it's still in the stage of assembling the materials and tools. If I were better organized, I would finish some of the old ones before starting something new. But Christmas is coming fast, and tempus fugit.

Sick o'Chicken

Recently while finishing up a batch of drumsticks, it occurred to me how tired I am of chicken. So today for lunch I made a good old shoe-leather--I mean, steak sandwich. It was delicious, but mighty chewy. I'm not a good steak cooker. Anyway, I sliced up some of what was left and made a big old pot of beef stew, which is now simmering on the stove, and saved the rest for Gretchen or the black cat.

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If he ever gets tame enough to catch, I'm going to take that black cat to the vet and see if she'll do some pro bono surgery on his tail. When he first turned up on my porch, he was in very bad shape; looked like someone had tied wires around his neck and his tail, besides other wounds. He looks right beautiful now, but half of his tail came off and what's left is a real mess. Even if I have to pay to make him a bobtailed cat, I guess I'll do it. He has reached the point where he'll let me touch him when he's eating, but if I try to get hold of him, he's off like a shot.
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He's really a pretty cat, but he can't come in the house on account of Mo.

Anyway, for dinner I'm going to have beef stew, black eye peas, chow chow and cornbread. People don't founder, do they?

The Prize

This morning while doing laundry and other stuff, I watched this old Paul Newman movie, "The Prize." I think it may be the best one he ever made (leaving out the Butch Cassidy of it all). Perhaps because it didn't have Elizabeth Taylor to ham it up, or Joanne Woodward to make you want to look the other way.

I've been working on the house since 6:30 this morning. After today, I'm not going to worry about it.

A goal

All this week I've been going over the novel I wrote in 2007. It's really pretty good, just needs a plot and some rewriting. At least, I think the writing is pretty good.

I've also got half a dozen poems ready to enter in the ASPS contests, including a couple of new ones.

What I'm thinking of doing is combining the 2007 novel with the one I started this year, which is primarily about an elderly woman. A book about old people has to be spot-on excellent to catch anybody's attention. Anyway, I'm hoping I can (1) work her story into the 2007 book, and (2) improve the whole thing. I'm not saying I'm going to do it, as my resolutions often get bogged down. But that's a goal.

Rue

Here's something to make you wonder "what the vendor buys/ one-half so precious as the stuff she sells."

I spread it on the deck to get some of the fust of decades out of it. I sold it for a few cents more than twenty dollars.

Of course, there are remedies. I could refuse to mail it to the buyer, and send her money back. Especially since the sale makes me want to take the damned $20 and process it down the Disposal.

This is the only thing I've sold that caused me a large twinge of regret. And makes me angry. My sister wouldn't take it as a gift.

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If I were planning to hang around this [expletive deleted] planet for another three-quarters of a century, I would keep it regardless, and finish it someday. But folks, why bother? Elvis is dead these 33 years, and I don't even feel as lively as I used to.

The Tale of the Nancy Bell

By W.S. Gilbert

'Twas on the shores that 'round our coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone

An elderly naval man;

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he;

And I heard this wight on the shore recite

In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bosun tight, and a midship mite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

And he shook his fist, and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

But I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said,

"Oh, elderly man, 'tis little I know

Of the ways of men of the sea;

But I'll eat my hand if I understand

How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bosun tight and a midship mite

And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then giving a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen l'arn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,

He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas on the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian Sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,

Which has often occurred to me;

"And well-nigh all of the crew was lost

(There was seventy-seven o' soul),

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Cried 'here' to the muster-roll:

"There was me and the cook, and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bosun tight, and a midship mite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungered we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot

The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite on the midship mite

We seven survivors stayed.

"And next we murdered the bosun tight,

And he much resembled pig.

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Till only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which

Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,

And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook, he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,

And 'That,' says I, 'you'll be.'

'I'll be boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,

And 'Exactly so!' quoth he.

"'Dear James,' says the cook, 'to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,

While I can--and will--cook you!'

"And he boils the water, and takes the salt

And pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot

And some sage and parsley, too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride

Which his smiling features tell;

''Twill soothing be, if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell!'

"And he stirred it 'round and 'round and 'round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth,

When I ups with his heels and smothered his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I et that cook in a week or less,

And as I eating be

The last of his chops--why, I nearly drops,

For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never larf, and I never smile,

And I never lark nor play,

But I sit and croak, and a single joke

I have, which is to say,

"Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bosun tight, and a midship mite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

If wishes were pigs...

Or if horses could fly (something like that), wishes might come true. On my sister Susan's blog one day, I found a device that would tell you which famous author's style your writing most resembled. It said that I write like James Joyce. I tell you, if I could write like Patrick O'Brian, author of the Master and Commander books, I think I would spend half my time writing and the other half thanking Providence on bended knees. With brief intervals for looking after physical needs.

The one I'm reading now is The Far Side of the World, surely one of the best books I've ever cracked, although so far it seems to be a sort of calm or hiatus between real battling sea-adventures. I keep thinking that, when I've sailed through all twenty books of this set, I have to read Moby Dick again. Maybe even sooner.

The book club meeting yesterday was really great. At the end, four of us sat for a long time telling personal adventures in the supernatural or, briefly, ghostly experiences. This indulgence was brought on by the apparently supernatural elements in Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge. I must say that getting to the library and back, with loads of food and other hospitable necessities, almost melted me down to a nubbin. I slept off and on for the rest of the time from then until now.

In The Far Side of the World, O'Brian in an aside flings off the recipe for grog, the seaman's thirst-quencher and legal stipend. Grog it seems is merely a watered-down, unfrozen daiquiri. "Three of water, one of rum, with the proportionate lemon juice and sugar." "Six-water grog" was punishment for misdemeanors. Anyway, I have been longing for something to drink all day that's thicker than water and less insipid than my version of tea, but not as calorie-laden or kidney-damaging as fizzy soft drinks. So I made a jug of grog using white Zinfandel in the absence of rum, which has always given me bad headaches anyway. Luckily I had lemons. My mixture could use a lot more sugar; otherwise it serves the purpose.

Suddenly I remember Baskin & Robbins's daiquiri sherbet. Which also gave me headaches, but which I loved to distraction.
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Sometime recently, I found scattered in my computer files a tiny poem I wrote in 2009, that fits one of the fall contest categories. It needs work, but it's not too bad.

My Holiday in the U.K.

Today while cleaning out a desk drawer, I found and re-read a 17-page typed account of our 1997 trip to England. I wrote it about a month after we got back home. It's probably still somewhere in my computer files. It has some amusing spots, and it made me nostalgic about some of the people I used to work with, as well as people and places we met on the tour. I had forgot that our tour guide is the one who told me about the books Sarum and Pillars of the Earth, which I read when I got home.

I haven't done anything useful today except brush the cobwebs off my new back door and the whole back wall of the house that my long-handled brushes would reach. I was trying to get one desk drawer cleaned out so I could keep my bills, stamps, address labels, etc., in it, but there's just too much stuff, so I put most of it back where I found it.

Today I had a delicious lunch of rutabagas with butter and cornbread. Think I'll fix just an enormous salad for my dinner, and a grapefruit for dessert.

Poems for Comfort

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made;
Nine beanrows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade. (W.B. Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree)
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the banks of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky,

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me! (Wordsworth, a Lucy poem)

*
...She turned away, and with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours,
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers;
And I wonder how they would have been together!
I should have lost a gesture or a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon's repose. (T.S. Eliot, La figlia che piange)
*
*
Jed came over Saturday and left Sunday. In between, he installed a new computer, but left my old setup until I get used to the new one.
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On Friday, the Lowe's man and the Pella windows man came and measured all our windows. I only want to replace the big window unit in the living room, but the estimate was free, so I let them wander through the house measuring all the windows.
*
Saturday afternoon, while Jed was working on the computers, I went to the thrift store with Sister Ramey. She found two pretty T-shirts for me, and I found a beautiful antique bowl for myself. I know--coals to Newcastle, etc. But aside from my collection of yellow ware, I don't have enough serving bowls. Or didn't.

Rooster Party!

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I don't have a whole bunch of roosters, but here they are, plus a little flock of hens to keep them company. The one at the top is Samuel, painted by me in the 1980s. Happy Rooster Party!

I'm off to Barb's Bella Vista site to see more roosters.

The Poet's Workshop

The Alabama State Poetry Society's wonderful and generous members are sponsoring fourteen separate writing competitions for this fall, in addition to the "big" award given by the ASPS organization. At least two of the contests are designed and funded by my good friends Joe and Gail W. Each sponsor assigns a title and subject to his or her award, then specifies the form and maximum length of the poem to be submitted, and the number and amounts of prizes to be awarded. Needless to say, the sponsor shells out the do-re-mi for these awards.

I'm just sorry I haven't sponsored a contest in a long time, and I intend to do so in the future. The contests take place twice a year, in spring and fall. Yesterday, when I received the email from Donna Jean, our contest manager, I got busy and sent in my membership dues for this year and next year, which I had neglected so far.

The subjects of the awards this fall are so fascinating, I hope to write something to enter in every one of them. An example is Contest #6, "Travel the World Award," which requests a poem about "any trip you've taken." This one is sponsored by Mary H., a very fine poet herself.

As my photo shows, I've been perusing Wildflowers of Alabama and Adjoining States, seeking inspiration for Contest #15, "My Favorite Alabama Native Flower Award," designed by Mary Jean S.

If I should win a prize and get to stand up at the fall meeting, I intend to thank every one of these individuals who have "put on" one of the biggest award seasons ASPS has had in a long time. I hope this is the beginning of a revival of the old enthusiasm and participation in this great organization.

Freedom--It's Grand!

Or, What Retirement Means To Me: When you get tired of a job, you can put the rest of it off until tomorrow, or next week.

This morning I toted another load of paper out of my office, old tax returns, bank statements, Amazon.com sales slips--more than half of the stuff in my file tub. I was thinking I'd like to have a paper shredder; but I asked myself, what for? If anyone was misguided enough to steal my identity or plagiarize my writing, pity them. I have also thought about renting a big dumpster from Veolia--I could really get my house in order if there was just somewhere to put stuff. The curb?

*
I've made a lot of progress lately, getting my office the way I want it. Jed hooked up my new printer over the weekend. (He also installed a new switch in the foyer, so the chandelier works.) I moved the white desk out to where I can use it just by swiveling my chair around; and I put the book bins in the corner where the desk was. Once I get everything out of here, down to the bare essentials, then I can do some scrubbing and painting, new curtains, all the cosmetic stuff.

The main obstructions are books: I've sold about 500 books on Amazon, and now I've got more than I had to start with. The bookcases won't start to hold them all. I'm thinking of putting a big box on the curb with a sign that says BOOKS! And then tote armloads of the same out there to fill it up.


The camera didn't want to do this; too much light-and-dark contrast, I guess. But it gives a general idea. The molding around the door is sort of beat-up, but someday I'll get everything painted.

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Mitch Miller
July 4, 1911 - July 31, 2010

This was a man I would have married, if he had ever asked me.

"Be kind to your web-footed friends,

For a duck may be somebody's mother.

Be kind to your friends in the swamp,

Where the weather is very, very damp!

You may think that this is the end--

Well, it is!"

Busy Saturday

6:45 a.m. - Jed phoned yesterday and said the Lowe's people would be here at 7:00 a.m. today to install the doors!

Ramey's book signing at the Little Professor Store is at noon, but unless the workers finish before then, I won't get to go. If they do finish up quickly, Jed and I will ride over to Homewood and try to find the place.

Right now I need another cup of coffee--I just got out of the shower and dressed, and I feel great! Except I need another cup of coffee.

More of the Same

Speaking of heroes-->>>>>>>>

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Mea culpa

At a family gathering recently, I spoke slightingly of the effort of one of our poetry group's members. I'm ashamed of myself.

I'd like to deliver my speech about The Trouble With Modern Poetry, i.e., that there are no standards--but I'm too put out with myself to speechify. Besides, as Walt Whitman said about a bird, "If thou wast not given to sing, thou would'st surely die." The same may be true of modern poets. Who am I to say? I'm just one of the birds.

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The "family gathering" was Ramey's birthday supper cum birthday cake, insisted upon by Master Reed Agan, which took place I think it was Wednesday evening. This was, to my knowledge, the third celebration of this birthday of Ramey's, and I suspect the most congenial and satisfying, as more people were there, and "Happy Birthday" was sung with gusto. I certainly enjoyed it immensely, gobbling pizza and birthday cake as if I hadn't eaten in a week.

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I've figured out what's wrong with the green lamp: The glass chimney is too high. With a shorter globe, it won't look so ungainly and top-heavy. I hope.

Poems and Heroes

These lines kept running through my mind, and I wanted to read the whole poem:

Bear down upon me, winds of destiny;
I'll show you how to tote a heavy load!

I'll show you how to breathe hot wind that's free!

I'll show you how to climb a boney road!

I thought they were by Countee Cullen, but can't find them anywhere. I remember first reading that poem when I was 10 or 12 years old, and I thought it was a pretty reckless challenge. "Just asking for it!"

Countee Cullen, 1903-1946

Even if he didn't write it, he was that brave and stoical.
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My lamp arrived yesterday, something of a disappointment. It's in brand-new condition, and will go perfectly in the living room. But I thought it was yellow, and it turns out to be green. And the shade sits too high.

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All-Day Singing and Dinner on the Grounds

I wonder if any of the old country churches still hold such events. If I could find one that does, I might join it.

An Evening Out

Last night I went to the poetry reading at the Arts Council building. (I'm making a resolution to go to every meeting.) The group meets on the last Monday of every-other month. When I attend, I find myself wishing we met every month.

I did get there on time yesterday, but the group had already arrived and arranged chairs in the lobby--which was much more congenial than a table in the meeting room. There were Joan and Frank, Cookie, Sherry, Joe W., and a gentleman named DeWitt who is something at one of the schools, I didn't catch all the details. Cookie read her "Cats" poem, and Joan also had a poem about how she and Frank acquired a cat ironically named Angel. Sherry read a reminiscence, and Joe shared a poem about a very moving personal experience from his childhood, and another one about the phenomenon of aging. Everyone read several pieces; Frank had a group of very brief verses, plus a couple of longer poems. I guess Mr. DeWitt (actually, that's his first name) took the prize for longest poem; his was an analogy about the Gulf of Mexico, very insightful.

I read "Exodus," "Splendor Before a Storm," "The Muse Contemplates Departure," and "Jane Austen Never Married." Everyone had very kind comments. They even understood "Departure," maybe because I took the trouble to utter an explanatory sentence before I read it. It's about the environment, earth, rather than exclusively about poetry. They made me read the last part of "Jane Austen" twice:

But you almost found him, didn't you, once or twice?

You were right in his path once, almost, weren't you?

You caught a glimpse of his white horse through the trees,

A sunbeam flashed on his armor, and you saw

The plume on his helmet disappear into the forest.

I had brought along a copy of Ramey's book, Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge, for show-and-tell, in case anyone hadn't seen it. I think everyone except Cookie and DeWitt had read it. We discussed the book and its characters, and I told a little bit of background about life on the mountain. Everyone said to tell Ramey "hi" and congratulations.

A sad note was Gail W.'s absence. Joe said she'd had chemo in the past week, and it takes several days for her to get back to feeling well.
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Happy Birthday to Ramey! She's about 21 today, give or take a few. She and I went to lunch Sunday to celebrate in advance, at Caney's Fork or Creek or Park, or something, I can't keep that name right in my muddled head.

Art Nouveau influences in American Arts & Crafts

Mucha, Galle, Daum, Lalique--

Peacocks, butterflies, cats, grapevines, women with weird hair--

There are quite a few of these elements in my hoard of stuff, such as my charcoal peacock drawing, a peacock picture on a basket by Ramey, a tumbler or vase with raised vines twisting around it, my Pompeiia painting, a crystal cat that's almost identical to a Lalique cat, and lots of other things.

If I could just get it all together!

Ramey's book signing in B'ham is set for next Saturday, so I'll have to postpone my yard sale--which I needed to do anyway. Sometime in August, the weather will probably take a turn towards Autumn, and that will give me more time to get things organized, anyway.

Decisions, decisions!

I've been trying to decide whether to sell this quilt top, or to have it machine-quilted. My eyes and I are too old to think about hand-quilting it.

I think this big old (12"+) butterfly will fit in with my Arts and Crafts theme for the house. Today I painted it white and gave it some little eyes. It was originally one of those corroded-looking brass objects that are made in India. I got it at the thrift store--A long time ago, my sister Ramey and I went to the thrift store. We didn't ask anyone else to go with us, but then we never do.

EBay research

Several years ago, the Antiques Roadshow filmed here in Birmingham at the Civic Center. I took my metal plaque of the Last Supper to see what I could find out about it. The gentleman who finally spoke to me more or less brushed me off. He didn't know what kind of metal it's made of, but he said it's worth less than a hundred dollars. I don't know what kind of metal it's made of; I suspect lead, but is lead very hard? The plaque is extremely hard metal. It isn't iron, because it doesn't rust (does cast iron rust?). It isn't silver, because it doesn't tarnish. Where the black paint or glaze has been scraped away, it's extremely shiny and stays that way. I guess it's lead.

Some time after the Roadshow, I painted over it with white acrylic paint, which will wash off, so that I could see the details. On eBay I've found an antique plaque, similar to mine but finer and more intricate, made of silver; and another antique, also very finely worked, made of copper and marked by a maker in Germany. My plaque is almost exactly like the German copper one, except that mine is extremely pocked and blurred, as if details have been worn away over time; but I know that's not the case, because of the hardness of the metal and the intact nature of the black glaze.

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The German copper one:

I tell myself that I didn't want to sell mine anyway. But if it were worth several hundred or a thousand, like the antiques, would I be that resolute?

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There are other replicas on eBay, some made of alabaster and other stuff, even plastic. From what I've read about them, I think mine was probably made in the U.S., in the 1940s or '50s.

Almost time for a nap!

I spent a great deal of time today constructing an odd-shaped box to fit around this ugly old Red Wing pitcher, and inside a bigger box. I'm always scared stiff that these fragile things I ship will reach the buyer in a thousand splendid shards.

I did get another useful thing or two done. One was calling the doctor's office and getting my old prescription reinstated. That new stuff gave me intense nausea every time I took it, and I have completely tapered off of it, but feel that I need to go back on the old stuff.

I also succumbed to the temptation to bid on a lamp on eBay, and accidentally won it. I'm really glad, because it's a beautiful old tin toleware lamp, the kind I've wanted ever since I started thinking about lamps as anything except a source of light.

I've also planted my little sunflower plants in a sunny spot--should have done this a long time ago. Actually, in two sunny spots. And transplanted one of the non-blooming lily of the valley plants. Maybe it'll bloom next year.

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We just had a good hard rain shower.

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"Who loves the rain, and loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes,

. . . Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise."

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Something like that. Emerson, I think. Ralph Waldo.

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Last night--no, Monday night--I watched two old movies on TCM while making little quilt yo-yos. They were "Soylent Green" and "2010." I had never seen the latter before. It was right silly. Sillier than "2001: A Space Odyssey." If not for TCM, I would try to get rid of television altogether. There's just nothing on any more, not even the TV guide channel--Paris Hilton has taken that over. No more "Golden Girls" reruns. Of course, you can always watch the news, if you can stand it.

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This morning I was looking at an old book about the American Arts and Crafts movement. There was a photo of a Frank Lloyd Wright window that looks very much like the glass in my front door-to-be. Lowe's phoned a few minutes ago and said my "lock set" had arrived. I assume this is the hardware for the front door. I asked her to hold it until the door comes in.

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I also planned the yard sale which I hope to have organized by the weekend after next, July 30-31. If people would buy all the stuff I want to sell for a dime apiece, it would be worth having a yard sale. I'm going to need some moderately heavy lifting help. There's a big TV set in the guest room closet, sitting on top of a cheap but very heavy and sturdy night stand. That's a very good TV set, or I suppose it still is. I bought it at Wal-Mart many years ago, and it always made the prettiest picture--colors were soft, bright and true. It has been in that closet, disconnected, for 8-10 years. I can plug it in and check to see if it's still in working order.

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Also, I may decide to sell that nearly immovable iron anvil sitting on the hearth, if I can find 2-3 men strong enough to get it down the stairs. Or maybe sell it, and let the buyer worry about moving it.

Farewell to Ow-EE

My cousin Milton Alfred Satterfield died Saturday. He was known in the family as "Little Alfred," and at least as a child he was the image of his father, Alfred Franklin Satterfield. When he first started talking, he couldn't pronounce Alfred, and called himself "Ow-ee." When he grew up, he became Milton. I remember him well, and hope to see him again someday, in the Sweet Bye and Bye.

Yesterday I worked some more on my Camilla quilt. Or throw.

"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtledove

. . . and am still on their trail." (Thoreau, Walden)

Well, I lost the squirrel who was sitting on yon "rock" eating his lunch. By the time I got back with the camera, he was gone, of course. I thought, as long as I had the camera out there, I might as well use it.

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This is the limb where the hawk sat one day last week, when I didn't have the camera out. Framed, she was.

My crape myrtle.

Jerry/Jared's pretty bed of cone flowers, zinnias and marigolds.

Cloud lady eating lunch or smoking a cigarette.

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I accomplished a thing or two this morning, including calling up and speaking sharply to PayPal. They changed the shipping label procedure and I couldn't figure it out. Why is it when something isn't broken, people want to fix it, or at least change it?

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Speaking of lunch, I think I'll go reheat a bowl of chicken soup.

One of those Frankly-My-Dear mornings

Of which I get too few. I usually wake up with the weight of the world--or of things I have to do--staring me in the face. Today, who cares? If you wash the dishes or the cat or the clothes, it just encourages them to get dirty again.

The book signing and club meeting yesterday were fascinating, thanks to the Signer who stayed for the meeting, seeing as how her book is Ramey's choice for this month's reading selection. Between the first event and the second, some of us ate a quick lunch in the meeting room. (Sweet Susy made a run to Milo's for burgers.)

Teresa (T.K.) Thorne, in photographs, is a cute elf. In person, she is a truly beautiful woman. Makes you think of the word Levantine. Oriental and exotic. And "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands" (e.e. cummings). Her book, Noah's Wife, is a winner. In October, she is going to travel over all the country she wrote about in that book. (An aside: She said she started out writing science fiction, and wanting to be an astronaut.)

Regarding Travel: After the meeting, Betty and I talked about the pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She told me all the details, who to call, where-all they're going, etc. A few minutes into the discussion, I remembered that familiar feeling, "God, I wish I were at home!" So I know the trip is not for me.

I wore my "fish dress" on Friday, black wood-block print on beige linen, as a farewell tribute to the Gulf of Mexico. After I wash and iron it, I mean to donate it. I only remember wearing it once before, on the unhappy jaunt to the Amish community in Tennessee, where everyone else (except the Amish) wore jeans or cut-offs--much like yesterday, as far as how everyone was dressed.

Teresa wore ivory silk cropped pants, and Ramey was her fascinating self in a Jean-Mock-dressy top that put other T-shirts to shame. Might call it a Tea Shirt.

That's the fashion report. I notice in the photo at left, which I snapped during the book-signing, T.K. was wearing white long pants. She must have changed before the book club meeting. I remember the ivory silk crops, because she dripped Milo's sauce on them.

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Regarding books, Thursday night I read The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. It may be my favorite book of 2010. And I may be alone in that choice. Anyone who hasn't spent a lifetime reading everything, especially everything by L. Tolstoy, probably wouldn't appreciate it. I'm sorry I didn't read it before our book club meeting when that was the selection. Thanks, Barbara, for choosing that book, and for lending me your copy. BTW, Barbara didn't attend the events yesterday. Hope she's OK. Barbara is one of the few people in the book club, or in the world, for that matter, older than I am.

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P.S. I love that ocean-scene wall hanging in the library meeting room. Makes you feel like you're on the deck of a ship. I'm reading The Surgeon's Mate, by Patrick O'Brian. "I," as Mable told Ms. Thorne, "am a readah!"

Changes

. . . There's been a change in the weather and a change in the sea--
From now on there'll be a change in me;
My walk will be different, my talk and my name--
Nothing about me is gonna be the same:
I'm going to change my way of living, and if that ain't enough,
I'll even change the way I strut my stuff!
Nobody wants you when you're old and gray--
There'll be some changes made today--
There'll be some changes made!

(Benny Goodman)

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I keep waiting for the remorse to set in, about all or some of the items I've got rid of lately. So far, I'm just glad I don't have to put up with, worry about, or feel guilty over them any more. There were three beautiful granny-square afghans in the basement that Jenny made. Thank goodness, there wasn't any mold or grunge of any kind on them; all they needed was a fresh laundering to look new. I've sold one of them and eBay-listed another, and am keeping the one I like best:

That makes two afghans or throws that I've sold, one listed, and eight more that right now I can think of in the house.

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Pork-and-Bean Pie for lunch.

Recipe:

Dump a can of baked beans in a casserole, add some chopped up roasted weiners and the half a cup of white wine you left in your glass last night. Mix pretty well. Top with a pi made of Stonehenge-like slices of a single frozen pie crust. Bake until you remember to take it out of the oven.

Bake the rest of the pie crust at the same time, then throw it away because it's burnt black. (Optional: Throw the remains of the pie crust away before baking.)

With a big plateful of shredded lettuce, I think this will make a great lunch. No matter what anyone else thinks about how it looks.

Someday I'm going to write a cookbook called "Casual Cooking." Or "Causal Cooking."