The 18

I have a recurring dream of running to catch the No. 18 bus on the Southside. Sometimes it's from my apartment, sometimes at Five Points, occasionally at UAB. Always, when I'm just a few steps from it, the bus pulls away. It's as if the driver watches me and leaves when I'm almost there. That really used to happen sometimes.

I had the dream last night. The scene before and after I run to catch the bus is always different. This time, I was getting dressed to go to work, and Mama was there, and she told me I could wear her blazing hot-pink printed skirt. Then after the bus left me stranded, a convertible car full of six of my college acquaintances stopped at the curb, and I squeezed into the back seat and started talking to them. But close up, they weren't who I thought they were, but a bunch of unshaven, sort of thuggy-looking guys. When I explained and apologized for getting into their car, the one beside me said it was all right, they would drop me off at work.

Explain that one, Dr. Freud.

The Blahs

Lately I'm not in the mood for holidays. Or much of anything else. There's too much of this-and-that that I need to do hanging over my head, that I can't think of anything else. And I don't get anything done. It's not that I don't give-a-damn. I'd love to see all the repairs done and the house spotless, and the car washed and the oil changed, and the clothes washed, and the teeth cleaned and filled and the hair cut and the nails clipped--all that stuff that life is full of.

What I need is another cup of coffee, and I'll be right back in the game. I hope.

The Man With the Moxie

If half of the politicians in the U.S. were half as smart and half as concerned as this guy, I would be much less afraid for the future of our country.

Really Stupid Songs

Often, songs that I heard as a child will play in my head, or snatches of them. Thank technology for the internet, so I can find some of them and try to banish them forever. Here's one:

O dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
O dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

. . . He promised to bring me a bunch of blue ribbons
To tie up my bonny brown hair.

I just remembered 2-3 lines of this one, but that was three too many:

He sat down beside her and smoked his cigar
Smoked his cigar, smoked his cigar
He sat down beside her and smoked his cigar
Smoked his cigar-r-r


She sat there beside him and played her guitar,
Played her guitar, played her guitar
She sat there beside him and played her guitar,
Played her guitar-r-r

Each of the following lines is a repetitive stanza like the two above:

He told her he loved her but oh how he lied...
She told him she loved him, but she did not lie...
They went to be married, but she up and died,,,
He went to the funeral, but just for the ride...
She went up to heaven and flip-flop she flied...
He went down below her and sizzled and fried...
The moral of this tale is never to lie...
Or you, too, may perish and sizzle and fry...

I may write a poem called "Sizzle and Fry."

"When you don't see him, he's somewhere else."

Last night I watched "Michael," the movie. That has to be one of the best, or at least among my top favorites.

Why didn't anybody show the Alabama game yesterday? Since those overblown giants of LSU beat them by a hair, I guess the Tide is not considered worth broadcasting. That LSU win was shown at least a dozen times on TV in the past week. It really was a big accomplishment, to beat Bama.

I've been decorating the dollhouse. I can't help it, tedious though it is.

Coffee! For the love of heaven, coffee!!!

I saw Mo curled up in a spot of sunshine on the carpet. Made me want to do the same. There's a poem in that somewhere. I guess Mo is older than I am, in cat years. Still, it would seem inappropriate for me to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. I may do it, anyway.

Yesterday was a bit stressful, so I went to bed about 7:30 p.m. and slept until ten this morning. I'm still so sleepy I can't sit up straight.

Thing is, I had a dental procedure yesterday, and they said not to drink coffee or anything hot for "several days." How many days  can I survive, awake, without coffee? Makes me think of Ramey's espresso-colored tee shirt that says "Instant Person--Just Add Coffee."

Iced coffee?

*

Iced coffee with lots of creamer and a little bit of sugar is really good, I find. But it doesn't work the same as a big mug full of the hot stuff.
*
Back about 1949, I wrote a poem called "Kitten in the Sunshine." But I've lost it.

things are bad all over

When a new crisis arises, I have to give myself a day or two of craziness before my usual sense returns. This crisis is a dental one, so the rest of this year will probably be dominated by running back and forth to the dentist, needles, screaming and running mad. On top of the doors, the basement, and the wee little piddling retirement income.

It's enough to make you cry, or laugh. Or start feeling your age. I was ten years older than Joe Frazier, who died Monday. And I'm still running around in my raggedy jeans and tee shirts like a 60-year-old, moaning about my little crises. A hundred years from now, who'll know the difference?

Crossroads

Yesterday I discovered that I have a lot of purchase "points" on Amazon. So I ordered this video that I've wanted for a long time, free of charge and free shipping. Ralph Macchio and Joe Seneca. And Jamie Gertz. This is one of my 100 favorite films.

I've fallen behind in my clean-up schedule this week. But I haven't given up. Today I aim to FINISH THE DOLLHOUSE and get it out of the way. Or off my mind. All I have to do is install the stairs--they're all put together and painted--and touch up the paint here and there.



*



6:00 p.m. The D.H. is finished, so I can relax and watch the Tide beat LSU (knock on wood).

Night on Bald Mountain

In the middle of doing laundry, I was thinking that if I ever got thrown into solitary confinement, I could occupy myself by hearing music in my mind. Mozart string quartets, Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique," Beethoven piano sonatas, Chopin preludes and piano concertos. Then for some reason I thought about "Night on Bald Mountain," and I thought Berlioz, but it's not by Berlioz, it's Mussorgsky/Chernov/Rimsky-Korsakov. So I ran to the computer and found this arrangement on YouTube, all piano with the sheet music pictured, and spent ten minutes listening to the ghosties and devils and witches and stuff on the "Bare Mountain." Why didn't I think of it during Halloween? It would be perfect to play and scare the trick-or-treaters. If one had any trick-or-treaters.

Anyway, I posted it in my Music Links in the left column. It's really a pretty piece of music, with a lazy left hand and a real workout to try with the right hand, if one had a piano.

Welcome, November!

Boy'm I glad Halloween (the whole month of October) is over! Everything on TV was haints and horror, and old reruns of Project Runway.

Counting Reed Sunday night, I had six trick-or-treaters, three of them in one visit. So there's the great bowl still full of every kind of Tootsie Roll candy ever made. I kept urging the little ghosties to "take some more--don't you want another Tootsie Roll pop?" But they were all too polite to be greedy.

The weekend was sort of fun and sort of disappointing. On Saturday, Jed and I went to Montevallo U. to the ASPS Fall Awards luncheon. I signed up to sponsor a spring contest, to the tune of eighty bucks. As to awards, I won an honorable mention (aargh!) and a second prize, out of all those good poems I entered. At least I thought they were good; the most disappointing thing was my wondering if they weren't so good, after all. But, compared to the winning poems that were read aloud, I believe they're pretty great.

Like a fool, I left my keys at home and all the doors locked. So Jed had to break the foyer door to the stairs. So now I've got to go to Lowe's and buy a door and get them to install it.

So, this morning I paid bills, and finished all the painting for the doll house, and started washing the heaps of dirty laundry. Yesterday, besides the 2-pound bag of treats, I bought allergy masks, gloves, and other supplies for cleaning the back room of the basement, which I plan to finish up this week.

Shirley S., my first landlord at the Southside apartment, once said that she liked for everything to be fun. I managed to make the nose surgery sound like fun while it was going on, so maybe I can get a laugh or two out of cleaning the basement. Speaking of the nose surgery, today I received a bill for $300 due after Viva and Medicare paid their parts. It's always something.

Poor Robin Crusoe

For a couple of days, I've been working on the dollhouse, and re-reading Robinson Crusoe for the first time in many years. My near vision is almost out, but I can still look a squirrel in the eye from 20 paces or so.

To answer the questions in late "Comments," about Dave W., he was the best friend of my best friend at the University. Karl was my special buddy, not to say my boyfriend, as he was a great handsome hulk who followed or carried me around, better than a dog or a horse but maybe not quite as intelligent. We all worked in Radio and Television, at the first educational radio-TV station to broadcast live on TV. (Karl once announced, in opening a radio program, "This is Karl Pickens Perking," instead of "Perkins speaking.")

Karl's best friend was Dave, who was about as tall as Michael Crichton, with flaming red hair, not handsome in the face but spectacular to look upon, and of course I had a crush on him, but he was engaged to a hateful little brunette that he could have thrown away with one hand, and I often wondered why he didn't. Years later I learned, through my sister-in-law (whose best friend, and a former roommate of mine at the U., was Dave's cousin), that he was a radio DJ and sometimes did comedy acts at local events, but I don't remember where that was, but not in Alabama.

Also a few years later, a friend of mine in college, Helen L., inherited a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and bought Karl a sports car, and they got married. Helen was almost as tall as Dave W., with flaming red hair and skinny as a rail and quite ugly. But that $150K at that time was probably equal to several millions of today's money. So hooray for Karl.
*
Poor Robin

When Robinson Crusoe left England in 1651, not to return for 35 years, the English Civil War was raging, King Charles I had been beheaded in 1649 and his son fled to France or somewhere, and England was run by the Puritans, to be ruled for 7 years by Oliver Cromwell, a right handsome dude.

So while Crusoe was absent from England, the English civil war years had come and gone, Kings Charles I and II had come and gone, James II was the English monarch, and the Church of England restored. But all this time, Crusoe was still a Puritan, though at times, in Brazil and Portugal, letting himself be thought a "Popish" Catholic. He was marooned on his island for 28 years, and, contrary to modern impressions, for 25 of those years totally without human companionship, having rescued the savage Friday toward the end of his isolation. He did early on hear English spoken, by an island parrot that he tamed and taught to speak, such phrases as "Poor Robin Crusoe!"

What amazed me most about the book was the modernity of Defoe's usage and writing of the English language. Even some of his odd expressions and spellings are not strange to today's usage in England. Although since first reading the book, I had read Defoe's Moll Flanders and Journal of the Plague Year, I was impressed all over again with the clarity and modernity of his English.

Considering that before Robinson Crusoe, published in the year 1719, there was no such thing as a fiction novel in the English language, I think it was the first and perhaps greatest of such, though with no plot and no explicit sexual references.

*
I've lost a day somewhere. I thought this was Wednesday. Jed will be here tomorrow, and I haven't washed any clothes or cleaned the Augean stable in the basement.

The Tragedy of My (Love) Life

Yesterday at the Clinic I saw a Dr. Sami, a dark little clown of a doctor who yelled, "Well, hello! hello! hello!" when he saw me sitting on the exam table, and I grinned and hollered, "Hi-de-doo!" Anyway, after he and his resident doctor lady rubbed and conjured and consulted over my nose, he decided what I had was a whole bunch of little some-kind-of-pillomas, and prescribed me some cream to rub on them. He said if they changed, or bled, or bothered me, to call him. Yeah. Sounded familiar. But I decided to believe him, and went home and dozed in front of the television until about midnight, and then I went to bed and slept through Mo's hollering, the telephone ringing, and lots of stranger noises, until eight o'clock this morning.

I got up and fed Mo and staggered back to bed, where I dreamed practically my whole life running before me but changed a whole lot. At the end of it, I was 25 years old and an old maid, and I was trying to get Dave W. to marry me, because he looked like my cousin Jim. Jim had got out of the Army and married some little southern belle, and I might as well marry someone else. But, said Dave, "I don't like you." Damn! Why was he always hanging around, if he didn't like me?

But during the dream we were always moving from one place to another. Finally we were moving from the house in Leeds to somewhere else close around. Daddy had two suits, and Mama was about to fling them on top of the truck, but I took them on hangers across my back and walked all the way to the new house with the little girls. In another scene, I was in the empty house with Mama and some lady to whom she was showing all the little multi-colored child-sized pants she had made, and I was thinking I could use some of those colors in the doll house.

I woke up again around 2:00 p.m. and fed Mo again to get him to shut up. Whether I'll go back to bed, after I take my pills and rub my  nose-cream, I haven't yet decided.

They say when you're dying, your whole life runs before you. Well, I ain't dead yet, unless I'm still dreaming. I feel very glad and relieved, because I don't have a growth on my nose that's going to spread its roots all through my body--or my head! And because I didn't marry my cousin Jim or Dave W., the other red-headed man. Back of my hand to all of them.

I really feel OK.

I've almost decided to keep the little white cat. Except I'm afraid he would live for 25 years or so, like Mo. And I can't let him into the house as long as crazy Mo is around.

I've been sort of down, because there's another anomaly on my nose, opposite side from the first one. (I hate to say that C word.) Yesterday I made a Dermatology appointment for next Wednesday, to get them to look at it. But I'm pretty sure that's what it is.

Shakespeare's "Tired with all these" poem keeps running in my head. Sometimes I think I'll just give up and eat ice cream and hot dogs until I'm as big as old Lucy. Last night I watched "Thinner" on TV; that guy was pretty happy as long as he weighed 300 pounds.

The critique group meets tomorrow at Joe's, and I don't have any poems to read. The awards dinner is scheduled two weeks from today in Montevallo, and I don't know whether to make reservations or not. It would be just like TKC to schedule me for surgery the day before.

"The leaves decay, the leaves decay and fall. . ." I was looking out the window and down the street a while ago, and it looked like it was snowing leaves.

The big white-faced possum came back a night or so ago, to clean up the cat food that the strays left.

Southern Snow Dance

*
Beloved, let us make our Christmas white.
Let us invent a conjure more complex,
a chant, or many-patterned morris-dance,
to coax the icy hexagons to fall:
on every fence-post, see in our mind's eye
a pyramid of snowflakes; on each roof
a blanket blue-white in the morning light;
and every blade of grass in crystal bloom.
And if we, in our air-cooled southern room,
perfect our fervent prayer or pagan hex,
perhaps our childhood dreams of snow, by chance,
may come to pass to bless us after all,
and Santa, sleigh-borne from the winter sky,
spring earthward to the dance of tiny hoofs.

by JRC, 10/08/11

*
"I've got to admit, it's getting better, a little better all the time." I mean, I'm feeling better.

Acting Funny

It's the computer, not me, that's acting funny. I seem to be shifting or grinding my gears out of neutral. I've got things to do and places to go today, and I don't mind so much. The Birmingham Arts Review people are meeting at the Leeds Arts Council tonight, and at some point I volunteered to bring some snacks. So I have to go to the store, and then make chips and dip, and then go down there. And now I only have about four hours to get myself and the makings ready to go.

Somebody said, "You don't have to like it. You just have to do it." A beer would help get me started. I haven't had a beer in years and years, but I think about it often.

This morning I wrote one page of a story. And people, that's progress. Four paragraphs.

Moving On

My doorbell rang at 4:30 this morning. I ignored it for a few minutes, and it rang again, so I got up and cooked oatmeal and ate a few bites. The outside lights were on, so the little people must not be scared of lights.

Anyway, I'm going to do something today, if it's just housework. I've sat around and dozed most of this week, but now I'm going to--to--move, at least.

Up From the Ashes

Well, I'm slowly climbing out of the trough into which I fell Monday night. Started back on the antidepressant and B12 Tuesday, so I'm beginning to feel human again. Still low on energy, and feel like my mind needs some new spark plugs. I also started taking the multivitamin and calcium+D. I'll probably add all those other supplements as I get used to swallowing pills again.

What I need to do is write another novel. Or make another quilt. When I feel like lifting my hands.

Making a list

Okay. The things I must do today. Can't get out of doing. Laundry. Print out a poem or two for the meeting tonight. Haircut. Shampoo and shower. Manipedi. I guess that's all. I can let the house and car go on festering for twenty-four hours. After all, tomorrow is another you-know-what.

Thinking of a new quilt

Tracy's guys came by this morning and chopped down the perennial cottonwood that grows up by my office window. This time it was at least 8 feet high, and the trunk down at ground level is about 4 inches in diameter. I wish it had grown up somewhere else; it would be a beautiful tree by now. But where it is, smack up against the house, it has to be cut down once or twice a year.

The basement got wet again night-before-last, and Tracy said he was coming by yesterday to look at it, but he never did. I don't know what they're going to do about it, if anything. I'm afraid if they dug that well any deeper for the pump, water would gush up like an oil well. Maybe, as Jed suggested, we should just bring in some heavy equipment, level the house, and build a community swimming pool. Or pour in enough concrete to make the basement floor several inches higher. Or move to Santa Fe, New Mexico, above it all.

I'm wanting to make a pink-and-white quilt, and I think Aunt Carrie's quilt that she made for one of my boys would be a good pattern. I sketched the block(s) this morning.

Each large block is actually made up of 4 each of 2 sections, plus the center square. I think it would be pretty in light and dark pinks, plus white. For a mini quilt, you could just make one block, based on an 8-inch center square, and the quilt would be 40" square plus any borders.

5:45 p.m.: I watched most of the game, and it didn't jinx Alabama. Tide rolled all over Arkansas.

Pizza At Last!

Yesterday Ramey stopped by after work with a load of pizza, cupcakes, and lots of other goodies! We had a feast, and I've got pizza and other necessities for the weekend.

Later, I watched the New York Philharmonic on PBS, playing Richard Strauss's Salome, based on the play by Oscar Wilde. I don't like Richard Strauss, he was "Hitler's composer," very anti-Semitic and pro-Nazi. But musically he was a genius. That's not to say his music appeals to me. It is great, but not appealing. Salome was terrifying, especially the parts sung by Deborah Voigt, a very powerful dramatic soprano. I guess I'm glad I finally sat through something by R. Strauss, but once was enough.

This is probaby the least horrible illustration by Beardsley, for Wilde's play.

*

I said Strauss was a genius, but that's just hearsay. It's what "they" say. What do I know?

What's Going On Here?

I don't understand. I used to be able to order a pizza about once a week and not feel too much of an effect on my bank account. Some time ago I switched to picking up the pizza to save $5-$10. Now, on this dark rainy day when a pizza would be so appropriate, I don't even have the wherewithal to go to the market and buy a Red Baron or even a Totino's to cook in the old gas oven.

The mailman just delivered the staircase for the dollhouse. The package is about 3 feet long, so I suspect I'm going to have to return the thing. It was supposed to be 14 inches long. I'm afraid to open the box.

Is Mercury retrograde? Worse, is Pluto back in my sign? I'm about ready to pack it up and move to Oregon, or Oklahoma or Ohio. Or the West Coast. No, not that. A bologna sandwich sounds good.
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Worst Commercial (even worse than the Progressive one): The girl who sings (hollers), "OOhhhhhh, Pie in the sky, you know how I feel..."

I know it's not "pie in the sky." But that's what runs around in my head for a few hours, every time I accidentally hear a few bars of that commercial.

Vincent Van Gogh's "Bedroom in the Yellow House At Arles"

Blue Door, Stage Left

To think the great Paul Gauguin will sleep there,
in that small room adjoining my chamber!
I've made my own room up in many colors,
hoping it will cheer me, while I rest,
improve my health and my exhausted nerves.

I need to get well, to be at my best
when he arrives. I hope he'll be surprised
and pleased with all the plans I've made for us.
Perhaps he will acknowledge me his equal,
in art his brother, and in life his friend.

O let me sleep tonight, if I can sleep,
with no nightmares, no images of crows,
black clouds and somber faces to disturb
the sanctuary of this simple room!

By JRC, 09/17/2011
*
I think it was my friend Joan D. who didn't believe me when I said that a poem can come into my head, pretty much fully formed. This one took less than half an hour to write down and make a few word changes. Maybe because I've been thinking about it and looking at that picture for more than two weeks. But I hadn't thought before of letting it be something Vincent might have been thinking. The germ of the poem was "blue door, stage left." And I'm not even sure about stage directions; anyway, there are two blue doors in the picture.

Psalm 100

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.
Know ye that the Lord, He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture.
Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations.

*

Last night I turned on the deck light, and a great big possum was running its nose around the bottom of the door.

Other houses, other rooms

I've decided to put all my dollhouse furnishings and people back in the old metal bookcase. It originally consisted of nine rooms and a rooftop garden, and I'll either have to use all those things I made or throw them away. Throwing away stuff I've made is not something I like to do.

When I finish working on the big dollhouse, I will sell it for the highest bid. Which will probably be less than the house and staircase cost in the first place.

The Bedroom in the Yellow House at Arles

September is halfway over, and for 15 days I've been trying to write a poem for the fall ASPS contests. A poem about Vincent Van Gogh's painting of his bedroom at Arles. He said he was going to get total rest until he was healthy again. Though how he expected to rest in a purple room with green chairs, yellow sheets and and a blood-red bedspread-- The walls don't look purple in this picture, but he wrote to his brother and said the walls of the room were lavender. He must have liked the room. He painted it three times.
*
Strange how many yellow houses there are. Vincent's Yellow House at Arles. Jared's little yellow house next door, which is the pretty view from my kitchen window. One of my sisters lives in a yellow house.

Keeping a Small House

This tiny dollhouse is only eight inches high from the peak of the roof. A long time ago I  bought it at one of Sylvia I.'s yard sales. It was just a curio shelf, in bad shape, but I painted it and added the floors and ceiling effects.

These tiny porcelain pieces are Red Japan, one of my favorite antiques. The bed and piano are less than two inches long. I've probably got more little china things I can display in the newly-painted dollhouse.

The big dollhouse is frustrating in a way. After all the work I've put into it, it doesn't look much different from when I began. It doesn't shout, "Look, I've got new moldings, new floors, clean windows, a new chimney," etc. After days of biting my fingernails and throwing away piles of wood strips and cardboard failures, I finally broke down and ordered a staircase kit, although I couldn't find one the right size. Someone with a little fine saw will have to shave off half an inch from one side of the stairs.

But it must be fun, or I wouldn't keep doing it. Last night I went through my boxes of dollhouse furnishings, all the little animals, toys and people. Camilla, Tracy, Dolly, Peter, Kenya, Heidi, Beauty, Ben Gunn, Sir Hugh Davenport, Mrs. Buff-Orpington, and others. I made most of the furnishings, and some of the people, when I lived in the Southside apartment. The only "house" I had for them was an old 3-foot-wide metal bookcase. I bought the big house at Hannah Antiques after I moved to Leeds.

At first I thought I would try to sell all this stuff when I have a yard sale. But I may just have to keep it and bequeath it to my heirs. I know they'll be thrilled speechless.

A Helping Hand

Tracy came by yesterday to check on the aftermath of the flood. He said he would call the new city director of public works or whatever she's called; said she's a friend, and maybe he can get them to clean out the drainage ditch behind my lot, which would help a great deal during heavy rains. That ditch is blocked, and when it overflows, guess where all the water goes. He's also going to send his crew to clean up the yard.

Tracy backed his big old truck halfway into the garage and loaded up the rest of the trash from in there. He also cleaned out the closet under the stairs; there were two ironing boards in there--one was Flora Cage's, but I have no idea where the other one came from. Lovvorn's has a thrift or junk store, too, where they refurbish stuff and distribute it to the needy, so I gave them a lot of things that might be usable. I kept the brass bedstead and a few other things out of that closet, to sell at the yard sale which I've got to get busy and throw before another flood. Or before Christmas, or New Year's.

I have pared my "collected poems" down to fifty of my favorites, and find that none of the publishing companies I know about are considering poetry. So I guess I have to bite the bullet and go through the misery of self-publishing. I do want to get at least these fifty between covers.

I found on River City Publishing's website that they will notify the winner of the awards contest, in which I entered my novel, "before December of 2012." When you think about it, that's not unreasonable, considering how long it might take them to read all the entries. It's the same way with them and with NewSouth, when they're accepting poetry; reading time is from three to nine months.

Saga of the Ringing Bell

The flood has subsided, and I'm trying to summon the grit to deal with the mess it left. Lot covered with trash, deck covered with pine straw, leaves and twigs. A few wet spots on the basement floors. Bedraggled cat who looks like he was out in the middle of it, but he wasn't.

The dollhouse has a new chimney, new moldings, this-and-that. Ready for a new staircase. I've paced the floor, trying to figure out how to make one. If I had fifty dollars, I'd buy one ready-made. Maybe I can find a "stringer" at Michael's.

Last night the doorbell rang and woke me up. I lay there for a minute, thinking, "It must be Ramey on her way to work." So I turned over and looked at the clock, and it was 2:30 a.m. Deja-vu all over again.

This has happened several times before. The first time, several years ago, I got up in the dark, crouched by the office window, and watched someone running away from the front porch. And it has happened at least once in the past year, because I remember telling Ramey about it.

The reason it bothers me is that I think they may be planning to try to break in, if no one reacts to the bell.

Last night I finally got up, turned on the porch lights, and called 911. Apologized for bothering them, explained that it happens every once-in-a-while, and they sent a police car cruising by. End of story. I finally lay back down and slept till noon.
*
There ought to be a programmable device to connect with the doorbell. Between midnight and six a.m., it would shoot a non-lethal load of buckshot at whoever pushes the button.

New poem

Il pleut.
Bonheur.
Je suis tres heureuse.

I'm not sure it rhymes. But it's true. How in the world do French babies ever learn to talk?

OK. I've solved the problem of floors for the doll house. Rather, Susan solved some of it for me by dropping off three Scrabble sets from the thrift store, so I can use the wood tiles. Thing is, I need to complete the repairs before doing any painting necessary, before I install the floors. But then it'll be done. I give myself three days for the job. On America's Next Top Handyman, they'd only get three hours.

Today is Labor Day. So je travaille.

6:45 p.m.: The sump pump was doing well until an hour or so ago, but now the basement is flooded. I guess you can't expect it to handle a real flood, which I think is what we're having.

Looking northwest

I had to stand out in the rain to get these pictures.

Northeast

The green in each of the back yard pictures is a little island strip with water on all sides.

Out the kitchen window

And the lights keep flickering off and on. I hope that's not a bad sign.

It's still morning--

And I've already cooked eggs and toast for breakfast, done 3 loads of laundry, run one errand, and put the start of a beef roast in the crock pot. And fed Mo several times. Now I've got the misery in my back when I stand up, so I think I'll take the rest of the day off.

I want something good to read, but I've become too picky in my advanced age. I get impatient with most of the stuff that's being written these days.

New poem

The Lighthouse

The house was light, with no dark corners.
It rose on a pinnacle of dreams
and faced both east and west
with gardens all around.
There were fountains
numerous as the breasts of Artemis,
and a glittering stream that lit the way
to a river of light.

The house was light itself;
I see it still, from a century away.
There I was born, and there
I dreamed my life, and there
when it flowed away, I planted
an evergreen of children.

jrc Sept. 2, 2011

*
4:20 p.m.: Today I mailed eight poems to the Ala. State Poetry Society contests. I wrote the lighthouse poem this morning to enter in one of the categories--i.e., "The Lighthouse."  I feel guilty about winning prizes and seldom sponsoring a contest. From now on, I'll reinvest at least some prize money into sponsoring contests. If I ever win any more prizes.

Bodies at rest tend to remain at rest...

Today I'm slow getting started. The AC man came and inspected the installation job and pronounced it OK. Otherwise, all I've coped with is a shower and shampoo and some clean clothes I found somewhere.
*
I had a few errands to take care of, buy gasoline, pay the light bill, go to Wal Mart for some necessities. This evening I plan to work on the doll house some more. If I could get all my tools, materials and plans organized in one place, I could finish this thing in a day. I keep telling myself.

What Else?

It gets harder and harder--or more and more of a nuisance--to live by oneself and deal with everyday disasters. In the past week, the AC has crashed. The living-room light fixture broke--or I broke it trying to turn on the ceiling fan. A stray cat got in through the pet doors that I unwisely unstopped; Mo ran it off but not before it had ruined the foyer floor. I get dozens of telephone calls where the caller I.D. just says "Texas," "Wisconsin," "Georgia," etc., and if you answer, there's just silence. I forgot to put out the discards for the charity trucks.

There. That doesn't look so bad, does it? It was less than one disaster a day, and only a few nuisances. Don't count the computer freezing up in the middle of something, or burning my hand taking something out of the oven.

I just resent the waste of my time. It's the servants' job to take care of such stuff. But where are they when you need them?

An Old Poem

Great-Uncle John

I know what he meant when he said,
“My old cup runneth over!”
Mine doeth that so often,
I’m afraid I’ll go to hell
for loving life too much.

He looked like one of the Indians
in an early photograph
of Geronimo and his band,
all hung about with extra clothes
and miscellaneous items.

I looked for his grave the other day
over at Pleasant Ridge;
I know it’s there, for I’ve seen it,
but it seems to move around,
much like the old man himself.

Never at home anywhere,
he was always on the move, walking
“to Gilead for the balm,”
or “up the old Jericho Road,
to hear Paul, that new little preacher.”

My mother says she thinks
he was buried somewhere else,
but Aunt Bob says he’s there.
She puts flowers on his grave
on Decoration Day.

I asked her if she remembered
the bags of sweet buns he carried
to share with children he met;
he'd give one to a tot, then tease,
“Don't you eat my pie!”

(by JRC, October 2000)

*

The installers finished the AC at noon yesterday, just in time to keep me from lying down on my back and sticking my arms and legs up in the air and hollering "calf rope!" It took ten hours to cool the house down from 85 to 77. I guess that was pretty reasonable; cooling about 3600 square feet, counting the basement. It's not really supposed to cool the basement, but somehow it does.

Rather Warm

Yesterday afternoon, the air conditioner totally quit. I mean, every whatchamacallit in the whole system froze up or burnt out. Our friendly AC guy Brent had been trying to sell me a new system for more than a year, so he was Johnny-on-the-spot with the installers. They almost got it done but about nine p.m. needed something they didn't have, so they left. Said they'd be back about nine or ten o'clock today. Maybe by the time the temp hits 100 today, I can close the windows and turn off the ceiling fans.

At the book club meeting, I borrowed Barbara's copy of Cleopatra: A Life, and I've started reading it. The Pharos lighthouse at Alexandria was taller than the Saturn V rocket. The picture is a modern image based on the ancient descriptions. The mosaic is ancient, referring to the top of the structure with a statue of Poseidon. They don't identify the other guy up there.

To care, and not to care...

"Teach us to sit still."

It's hard to blame people for not reading great poetry. Because when I read it, like Eliot's Ash Wednesday, it breaks my heart and makes me cry and think too much. Not for its own self only, but because I know I will never create anything that beautiful. The harder I try, the worse is my result.

Maybe you could say I'm just not a poet. I agree that I'm not and never will be a great poet. I remember saying once that I would be content to be a minor poet of my time. Looks like I'll never even attain that mediocre post.

Teach me to be a minor admirer. Teach me to care and not to care. Teach me to sit still and keep my mouth shut.
*

*

6:30 p.m. Last night Ramey helped me move the dolls' house onto the living room table. Today I finished all the demolition I needed to do--removed the old kitchen cabinets and the warped remains of "boards" from the floor of the hall/dining room.

Next I need to sand that floor--there was wood under the veneer of plastic or whatever it was--and repair/replace the inside moldings and the "bricks" on one of the chimneys. And buy or build a staircase. Then paint, decorate and furnish it.

A New Poem

The Day We Buried Mama

The priest assured us that she went to heaven,
and who were we, to doubt this welcome news?
We knew she wasn't mean, or sinful, even,
but “aggravating” is the term we used.

She never seemed to like us, yet she claimed
to love us, though we treated her “unkind.”
But how could we be sweet, when we were blamed
for faults originating in her mind?

For instance, she insisted “cheese” was plural,
though she was smart and had excelled in school.
Her eccentricities were intramural:
away from home, she was nobody's fool.

She used to want to help us with our homework—
but she declared that two-times-two was eight,
and was offended when we did our own work,
rejecting her and trusting to our fate.

Since any shade of green to her was blue,
to disagree was stubbornness and vanity.
To challenge her at Scrabble was, we knew,
to dabble in confusion and insanity.

When urged to heed the advice of her physician,
her arguments were sharp as razor blades;
she always took the opposite position,
and made her point by living nine decades.

So now she's with the angels. Heaven help them,
if they suggest she change the way she acts.
We're sure that, if she chooses, she can squelch them
with arguments contrary to the facts.

We miss our mom, though; and when memories reach us
concerning her plaid coats and purple socks,
we wonder if she only meant to teach us
to use our wits and think outside the box.

by JRC 8/17/11

Christmas Projects

I'm thinking of using my pieces of Laurel Burch fabrics to make decorations for Christmas. Don't know yet what or how.
*

Always On My Mind

Top of the Wish List

To me, the second movement of Beethoven's Pathetique sonata is like the calm, creative mind moving sometimes under, sometimes above the ta-ta-ta/ta-ta-ta/ta-ta-ta of the busy, intrusive world and worry. This is Freddy Kempf playing it. Like the Moonlight sonata, it's a simple composition; I think I could play it myself if I had a PIANO!

Once, the Christmas season when I was about to turn five years old, Mama took me to consult Santa Claus at Loveman's or Pizitz. I had on a blue-striped dress and a dark blue corduroy jacket, and my hair was straight with bangs.

"What do you want for Christmas, little girl?"

"A doll, and a PIANNER!"

If I had a piano, I would bang it in the morning, I would bang it in the evening, I'd bang it for justice, I'd bang it for freedom, all over this land.

And annoy the neighbors, I guess. The City of Valor would probably send me a letter giving me a week to stop disturbing the peace. But that would be a blissful week.

Supercat

I wish Jean Mock was on email, so she could send me a photo of her cat. We had book club meeting at Jean's wonderful house yesterday, and this enormous white and orange tomcat was the highlight for me. He curled and rolled around on the ottoman in front of me for most of the meeting. Jean estimated he weighs about 25 pounds or more, although he eats nothing but Meow Mix and not too  much of that. He must have a glandular problem. Anyway, he was the sweetest, friendliest thing, like a little old kitten!

The book club meeting was interesting, to me and Jean, at least. Well, I guess everybody enjoyed talking about Cleopatra. I hadn't read the book selection, but I had read other biographies and plays about Egypt's last pharaoh. I read a few stanzas from my Cleopatra poem. The snacks Jean served were out of this world, especially the marinated mushrooms and artichokes.

Every time I've been to the Mocks' home, I go home disgusted with mine by comparison to that perfect, perfectly decorated house. Maybe I need to get married, so I'll have someone to help around the house and provide money, expecially the latter. On second thought, I think I'd prefer to live down under the interstate. I've lived by myself so long, I don't think I could live with an angel 24/7.
*
4:05 p.m. There's a movie on TV, with Ernie Kovacs in Technicolor. I'm not watching it, because I'm writing a poem about the lady who lived down under the insterstate. But it's a pleasure to look at that man, although he wasn't all that handsome, just sort of delightfully goofy-looking, and beautiful in Technicolor. I don't think he made many films. His wife was Edie-somebody, and together they were a comedy team-side show all by themselves. When Ernie died in a car wreck, Edie worked for years and finally paid off his hundreds-of-thousands in debt, which would be millions today. I remember how they used to recite poems in pidgin-German.

Is it fatal, or does it keep you alive?

I know I've been worried all my life, and I've lived a long time. So "worried to death" must mean worried Until death. And it isn't true that the things you worry about never happen. Most of them have already happened, and you get a new one (or more) every day. Maybe worry is what makes the wrinkles in your brain, so that you can be intelligent.

You go through life thinking, tomorrow everything will be all right. Tomorrow has to be better than today. Every once in a while, when you realize what's going on, you stop and count your blessings. Which gives you a lot more to worry about. Some comedian--Oscar somebody--Levant, maybe-- said that comedians are the most miserable people in the world; they have to make fun of life to keep from kicking it in the shins.

In other words, one of my garage door openers doesn't work, and I can't figure out how to fix it or whom to call.

*

3:30 p.m.: I fixed it, I fixed it! It wasn't the remotes or the inside button that wouldn't work--it was the door. I had accidentally disengaged the door-opener mechanism on the garage door. So I compared it to the other door that still worked, and saw where the difference was. So I got Willis's ladder out of the basement closet and clumb up there and fixed it.

Sleeping Weather

Yesterday Juan and Flavio (Flah-vio) installed the sump pump in the basement. Looks like a well in the floor, including water in the bottom. The house seems to have been built over a natural spring. The basement floor was wet by the time they got through drilling. They still have to bury the pipe outside.

I love to listen to the Mexicans talk--or to Juan. Flavio doesn't say anything. You have to listen to a whole paragraph or two to gather what Juan is saying, with about two English words per sentence in this swift hysterical-sounding patois, with hand gestures sketching the air. He seems to think the louder and faster he talks, the more likely one is to understand him. Which may be true. His English words all seem to be nouns, pronouns and adjectives; I know it's harder to learn verbs, and I guess English verbs with all their ramifications are probably the hardest language to learn.

Anyway, I want to go back to bed, with the thunder rolling and the rain pattering. But I guess there's enough to do today to keep me awake the rest of the day.

Got an email from Jim Reed, a "call for works" for next spring's Birmingham Arts Journal. I think I'll send them a whole bunch of stuff. A poem, a play, a story or vignette, maybe a drawing or a quilt. Maybe some of the remaining junk from the basement. No, wait, I'm thinking of the Exchange Club.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, Life goes on...

I thought of this song and found the Beatles singing it on YouTube. That's what's wrong with the world today, why it's in the shape it's in: There's no such talent and beauty in the world now to make it happy. Bad as the world was in their day, they shone so bright, it didn't seem as bad.



Life goes on, anyway. Bits and pieces of it. Here and there.

Liz Reed's meeting is tomorrow at the Birmingham Public Library. She's going to tell the steps in getting a book published. Nearby at Jim Reed's book store, Barry Marks is going to read poems and sign books. I thought I might try to hit both meetings, but don't know if I'll feel like driving around town, hunting a parking place, in the heat or thunderstorm or both. Anyway, my manuscript is away at the River City judging. I sure would like to see Barry, though.

Well--!!!

I've got a migraine, which hasn't happened in many years. One of those with big blank spots in my vision. This time there is some pain, but not severe. Guess I have to take some Tylenol, which is something else I haven't done since 1980. I think I'll wait it out instead.

A Cup Of Tea

When things go wrong and make the day seem dreary,

It helps to seek a good friend's company;

But in the evening, when alone and weary,

I find real comfort in a cup of tea;

The taste is bland, and sugar scarce improves it,

And by the second sip it grows too cold;

Yet the aroma, rising as one brews it,

Performs a kind of healing to the soul.

A cup of tea can soothe a lot of troubles;

I don't know why--I only know it's true;

The world grows calmer as the kettle bubbles,

With just the promise of this magic brew.

jrc 8/5-6/11

Really, Thank God it's Friday, and no longer Thursday!

Whaddaday! The whole process of Dermatological Surgery was more messy than painful, ending with a huge bandage for 24 hours, that blocked my right eyesight and the right side of my mouth. I'm mighty glad Jed came over and provided practical as well as spiritual support. I tried not to take on or complain too much, so through it all I felt right noble, joking with the surgeon about how he wanted to hear me holler. So now I'm graduated down to a smaller bandage and a Bandaid, so I'm happy once more. More or less. About as happy as it gets in the current political and meteorological climate.

Usually the hot weather breaks a little, sometime in the month of August. I don't think I've ever been gladder to see Autumn a-coming in, than I will be this year. Fall is my favorite season, September through December. And I like pure-dee old winter a lot better than these hot-furnace summer days.

I think the next problem I've got to solve is hair. Yesterday I couldn't put on any makeup or hair spray, and by the time we got to Clinic, my hair looked like a stump full of granddaddies, only not that curly. I wasn't concerned about how it looked, just couldn't keep it out of my eyes, nose and mouth. I guess a short kinky permanent is the only solution, with the bare scalp shining through. I've got a wig. Or two or three. But can't stand to wear one in this weather. "There's always something to be sorry for." I think W. H. Auden said that. He was uglier than I am, but had a lot more hair. So what did he know?

Lovely Party, If I Do Say So!

Yesterday was great! I wish I had thought to photograph Ramey's beautiful and delicious birthday cake (brought by Susan) before it was consumed. But too late now. I also wish I had thought to photograph everyone. I seldom remember the camera while things are going on.

We had a great little crowd. Reed was in high good humor. It was a really fun and enjoyable day.
*
 I hope to get through this week without melting down. I hope I can hold onto the thought that this time next week, or next month, or next year, the surgery and hard time will be behind me.

My prismatic paperweight on the window sill cast this rainbow on the ceiling. I hope I can take it as a good sign.

One Down, About a Thousand To Go

It looked almost this good.

Funny, when you've cleaned out the refrigerator, taken all the drawers and shelves out and washed them, put the milk and eggs back and shut the door--it feels like you haven't done anything. The big jobs are still ahead.

Anne George once wrote a poem about cleaning out the refrigerator. It got published in the ASPS Sampler or something. I hardly ever write poems about nightmares.

I've invited the family over here for a cook-in this weekend--Sunday. So I thought a few clean spots would look good. IDEA: When they get through eating, I could assign each of them a room to clean. Why haven't I thought of this before?

Last night I made the mistake of looking at this thing on my nose close up in the mirror, and like to scared myself into fits. It does look like they could have been a little more speedy in getting rid of it. My appointment isn't until next Thursday. To get to sleep last night, I had to plan a makeover for the dolls' house. When I do that, I never get any farther than the front hall/dining room, before falling asleep.

The offspring of Croupy Ben Lee

Mr. Ben Lee was called "Croupy Ben" because while he was talking, his voice would shift back and forth between tenor and bass. In my novel, there's a story about him, in which he was trapped under a wagon, calling for help, and a passerby thought there were two people under the wagon. My grandma remembered Mr. Ben telling his children's names in that same up-and-down sing-song: "Eskew, Oskew, Bank Hugh and Reevie, and the baby calls itself Naintsy." Ten or so years ago, I used this idea to write an Alabama Limerick:

A family living at Dancy

named all of their boys something fancy;

they had Noel, Patrice,

Gabriel and Maurice,

and the baby girl called herself Nancy.

When Maw Maw would tell the names, she would laugh like anything. As a child, I thought it was really bad of the Lees to put so much thought into their boys' names, and apparently to leave the little girl to think of a name for herself. I guess it used to be a man's world, for sure.

I wish I could have conveyed the unfairness of it all, when I wrote the limerick.

If It's Tuesday, I Must Be Awake

I sure am glad my sister Susie invented Pajama Days--or at least made them respectable. I'm tired out from ironing an outfit, taking a shower, washing my hair, putting goo on my face, and sallying forth somewhere--four days in a row! Today, I don't intend to stir.

Then, just now, it occurs to me how badly I want to make a cake and don't have all the ingredients. And Mo is out of canned food, and I'll probably be out of cigarettes before nightfall. One of these days I'm going to quit smoking. And quit feeding cats. And quit eating cake. I hardly ever eat cake, anyway, but yesterday evening at the Arts Council poetry reading, Joan had brought cake left over from our Sunday night gathering at her house. One little slice of cake made me want more.

Sunday the poetry critique group met at Joan and Frank's fabulous house, which is built around one of the old Moon River Beach cabins on the Cahaba river, off of Highway 78 East. They've been living in it and building onto it for more than 40 years. Besides writing poems, Frank is an artist, and the rooms are decorated partially with his paintings.

Anyway, at that meeting, I read the poems "Sourwood Honey" and "My Twin." The latter caused a lot of amazement, laughter, incredulity. Made me feel right silly, having to explain that it was just an idea, I'm not really crazy, etc. Sweet little Sherry W. read the best poem I've heard from her, full of images that mark her as an artist, which she is.

Then last night at the poetry reading meeting, I read this poem I had just written that morning:

Why I Collect Rocks

Certain rocks remind me of my father.
My father was a rock; he was transparent,
whereas your average rock is mostly solid.
My father, though transparent, was a rock,
the kind called porphyry, or maybe gneiss.
Metamorphic, he was laid down in layers,
my father, and pressed almost into granite.

I have said my father was a rock,
and what I meant was, you could lean on him.
Life leaned on him, and battered him, and broke him,
as even solid rock will break when hammered.
I have said my father was transparent,
and what I meant was, you could see his heart;
he wore it in  his eyes or on his sleeve.

 *

Ramey read a wonderful long poem, of which the rhythm reminded me of Vachel Lindsay's "Congo" poem.

There was a big crowd, the meeting room was full. I felt it was sort of an honor that Jim and Liz Reed came from Birmingham. They have a "Ye Olde Bookshoppe" which is the first place to look when you're hunting a really old or out-of-print book; they publish the Birmingham arts magazine or quarterly, and Liz invited us to a meeting in August to discuss "what writers need," or something. Due to my deafness, I couldn't grasp all the details.

Mr. DeWitt was a return attendee, and I told him my son's middle name is DeWitt, which is true. Michelle, a young woman from New York and Canada whom we met at Joan's on Sunday, also came; and Randall F. who still works in Neurology at UAB, had to remind me who he is, as I hadn't seen any of those folks in more than ten years. Randall's friend, Sherry, Joe W., Grady Sue (Leeds' most famous poet), and a handsome husband and wife who jokingly claimed not to know each other, in all made thirteen people in that little room.

So that's enough excitement for this week. I may go back to bed in a few minutes. Unless I get hungrier for cake.

More on Caxton

Scarcely a hundred years after Chaucer wrote, in a vernacular that we can't read without a glossary, William Caxton wrote, translated and printed works in the English of his day, a form that is much plainer. Once I got into The Game...of Chess, the language presented very few problems. Caxton spelled phonetically, and retained many French words and terms, and the book gives a good picture of the colloquial English of the fifteenth century. They still said "ben" for various forms of the verb "to be." He used the letter u for the small letter v, so that the word poverty was often printed as pouerte.

Another interesting usage was the possessive pronouns his and her. Apparently, "its," meaning "belonging to or done by it," was not used at that time. Also "her" was often used instead of "their." By Caxton's time, the old black letter sign for "th" was represented by the letter "y," so that "ye" or "y'e" was pronounced "the," "th'" or the personal pronoun "thee." When we call it "yee," we're probably wrong except when using it as the plural of "you."

Caxton traveled on the Continent, to Belgium and Germany. In Cologne, Germany, he learned all about the Gutenberg press, and eventually set up a printing press in England. The first book he printed in England was an edition of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. The Game and Playe of the Chesse was one of these first books. It was the first printed in the English of that time, because Caxton translated it from Latin into his version of English.

It was a prodigious task. This was a very long book.

So Long, Big Baby

Yesterday I printed out the novel, prepared cover letters and stuff to go with it, and got it ready to send to River City Publishing's Fred Bonnie Award contest. So when the laundry gets done and I have some clean jeans to put on, I'll go to the P.O. and mail the package. If that doesn't "pan out," I'll see if Mary Chris will read the whole thing and consider it. And if that doesn't, I guess it'll join the others in the bottom drawer.

Next I'll tackle the book of my poems. I'm determined to get this between covers and looking professional, though I'm sure I'll have to have it done myself.
*
 The Game and Playe of the Chesse, by Jacob Cessolis, translated and printed by William Caxton in March 1474, via Project Gutenberg Ebook - It took me 8 days to read this; I finished it today. It doesn't dwell much on the actual game, but it's a great lesson in medieval thought and lifestyles. In describing each chess piece, he identifies them with the particular levels of society and tells the right way for each to act and move, and all the ways not to act and move. This is one of the antique books in Eustace's bookcase, in China Court. I think it was the first book printed in England.

I'm carved.

This morning I divided the novel into chapters. Then I went to the Clinic and got my nose sawed on, and it hurts like the dickens. Well, not that bad, but some. They said I'd get the lab report in about a week. I dread taking the bandage off, and I hope this is the last time I have to go down there until next year.

Feel like I could sleep for the rest of the week.

Should I be scared?

It occurred to me that, this time tomorrow, I'll be out there with those little dermatology gremlins carving on my face. Why don't I feel anxious? More concerned about the weather and the traffic late tomorrow afternoon--my appointment isn't till 3:30 p.m.

Yesterday we browsed the Big Saver thrift store, and I got a couple of jewel-like picture frames, plus these Bremen-town singers on a doorstop:

A quiet, restful weekend--I hope!

Yesterday, after lounging around the Clinic all day, I drove home in a rainstorm again. This is getting monotonous. Went by Alabama Art Supply and got some panels that I hope to turn into drawings for my bedroom, and later went by Walmart and got some things to perk up the guest bathroom.

All my test results were normal. I don't even have to go back on the Fosamax, but just take calcium and Vit. D. I've been off the antidepressant since about Christmas-time, the longest stretch free of medicine in many years. I sort of think it's because of my writing, and staying so busy, with new ideas and projects all the time, that my brain gets healthier instead of weaker. Except for my memory, which sometimes fails me.

I do have to go back Tuesday to Dermatology to get the thing on my nose taken care of. I guess they'll mess up my magnificent nose! Then, like Cyrano de Bergerac, I can dare anybody on pain of battle to say the word "nose" in my presence.

*

The hope of a calm weekend was vain. I've already had one emergency telephone call.

Banquet vs. Stouffer's

About once a week or so, I get a Banquet frozen lasagna and have it for a couple of meals. Today I decided to splurge on the higher-class Stouffers, much more expensive, but what the heck. It was heavier than the Banquet one, had more meat, had the big noodles and a layer of what I suppose was the cottage cheese. It was also nearer to tasteless than I ever imagined a lasagna could be. So I'll stick with the Banquet. It's delicious.

Sturm und drang

I watched a few raindrops making big polka-dots on the deck. This went on for about 5 minutes, and I decided maybe if I came inside and quit watching, it would really rain. But now that I'm inside, it seems to have quit altogether.If it would really rain, I might go out there and do an Andy Dufresne stretch to welcome it.

*

A little later came a storm that knocked out the lights and warped the trees around and blew limbs down in the yard. Needless to say, I didn't go out and frolic in it. The power was out for a couple of hours, long enough for me to thank God and Benjamin Franklin and them for electricity, when the lights came on again.

In the next few days, we're replacing a couple of doors and installing a sump pump and a gutter drain. After that, sometime this summer or fall, I want to get a lot of painting done, inside and out. I know the outside is more important and should be done first, but I'll really be glad when the inside walls are fresh, and maybe some color other than dirty white--and brown, as in my bedroom! Steve said he could use a white stain on the ceiling beams in the living room, so they wouldn't seem so prominent, like they're about to fall on one's head.

I've been trying to read an old book at Gutenberg on the computer, and my eyes are about out.

A walk under the trees

Got so tired of staying in out of the heat, Mo and I went out there and walked around in the shade on the west side of the house for 15 minutes or so. The hickories are full of nuts, but the persimmon tree is dropping them green on the ground. The tree I call a water oak has shivered a lot of its bark off in strips. Some leaves on the dogwoods are bright red, and the hydrangeas have given up and turned olive-green.

So now I've got the laundry going.

Yesterday I cooked a big pot of yellow squash and heated up some leftover cornbread. Then I ate the whole thing, over the course of the day. Wish I had saved some. I did freeze a lot of squash raw, but I don't want to heat up the kitchen to cook anything.

My poetry manuscript is ready to go to a printer. What do I do next?

The Maze and the Lumps

Viewed one way, life is like one of those puzzles, or a garden maze, where you follow one path for a while and suddenly come to a dead end, then have to go back and decide which path to follow next. Some people seem to sail straight through the maze with no, or very few, setbacks, as if they could see the puzzle from above and avoid the dead ends. Such people, if there really are any, must be very, very lucky. Jesus really could see the puzzle from above, and he had to run the obstacle course, anyway, hopping from place to place and listening to the jeers from the sidelines.

The point I'm trying to make is for my friend Deb. Divorce is a major dead end, right? I remember it well. That's one reason I didn't get married again: I couldn't stand the possibility of having to go through another divorce which, given my personality, was more on the lines of a probability. You might say it cured me of marriage.

I wish I had useful advice for a divorced person who takes it hard, for social, economic, political or religious reasons. My reasons were mainly social and economic, and I was thankful that Daddy had insisted I learn a skill so I could get an inside job.

Ancient as I am, I ought to have lots of good advice stored up to pass around when people need it. But I don't remember ever receiving free advice of any kind in that crisis--or any other. Don't even remember anybody saying "Good Luck!" When  you're running for your life, you hear lots of familiar voices baying with the hounds. And ominous silence from corners where you thought you might get a little support. You forgive them, because they didn't know all the details, and wouldn't believe them if they did.

Anyway, all I can say is "Good Luck!"
*
I've got to go back to the clinic this Friday for an ultrasound. I've had one before. It's probably the same old lump.

Writing On and On

Thursday I wrote the first short story using my Writer's Toolbox, which gives suggested ideas and structure. I expect all of the early ones will be 1,000-words-or-less short-shorts. I've never been any good at writing short stories, so I'm creeping into it slowly.

Yesterday I worked some more on my book of poems, and started an appendix for Big Baby. I'm reading through the novel and making a note of anything I think needs to be explained or enlarged upon. These may wind up as additions in the body of the manuscript, instead of an appendix. A map of the Cedar Grove/Dover area could be endpapers or a frontispiece. Since there are so many generations of people in the family, I'm thinking of a genealogical chart as well. I know, I know: it should be written well enough that you don't have any trouble keeping up with the characters.

Jed flew north yesterday for a vacation trip to Chicago.

Glory, glory,--etc.

Steve and Aaron-I-think-his-name-is are cleaning out the basement--no fuss, no questions, just dumping everything blue-taped into the dumpster. I'm up here dancing a jig--mentally, of course.

Fourth on the Third

Yesterday we celebrated Independence Day and Daddy's birthday on Sunday. We had a grand gathering and feast at Sister Susan's beautiful home. Then we went over to the country church cemetery where so many of our forebears and family are resting. Thanks also to Susan for the wonderful photos she took and shared with all of us.

On Saturday, Jed and I went to the silk flower lady's store and gathered up an armload of pretties, and I put together a couple of quick arrangements. I love arranging flowers--I won a few prizes, back in my garden club days.

The work on the roof, and plans for more work on the house, are still in progress.

Pretty roof, good book

We certainly made some good choices of colors and styles of shingles. My house looks new, and the roof matches the brick so well, it looks like they were planned together.

I just finished reading Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Jed read it first, then loaned it to me. This is one of the best books I've ever read in my whole life. It's also the last book I aim to read about the Civil War. I alternately cried and cursed, silently or aloud, all the way through it. I had already wept my way through John Brown's Body. So I think I've had enough education/enlightenment concerning The War.

One amusing incident that Goodwin put in her book: A prominent Chicago politician got into all kinds of ruin and trouble when he spoke out against the War of 1812. Later, during the Mexican war, someone asked him, "Do you oppose this war?" He said, "No. I opposed one war, and that was enough for me. From now on, I am perpetually in favor of war, pestilence and famine."

I already knew that Abraham Lincoln was the best knight of the world. I was glad to learn, though, that William Seward and Edwin Stanton were also good. I had read a book, many years ago, that presented the assassination of Lincoln as a widespread conspiracy, and hinted that Edwin Stanton, Lincoln's Secretary of War, was at the center of the conspiracy, and that Sec. of State Seward might have been involved. I didn't believe in the conspiracy, but that old book did in my mind cast suspicion on the whole cabinet.

Both Walt Whitman and Louisa May Alcott were nurses for the wounded Union soldiers.