This morning I watched one of my favorite movies on TV, "A Little Princess." Aside from washing a load of clothes, running the dishwasher, and transferring some decorations from the mantel to the coffee table, I haven't done much else today.

For All Christmases Yet To Come:

"I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony!
I'd like to buy the world a Coke, and keep it company!"

I'd really like to buy every starving person in the world a great big Christmas dinner, American style, and give each one of them a little goat like the one in the story, where all you had to do was say, "Little goat, if you are able, please to spread my little table," and a table loaded with good things to eat would appear. Presumably, the goat eats all the leftovers, plus the table and dirty dishes, etc.

Sad note: Bhutto was assassinated in Pakistan today.

Jed and I ate lunch at Chili's today, and then he went back to Atlanta. Wonderful holidays, wonderful birthday. God bless America!

On the Feast of Stephen...

Yesterday we enjoyed Christmas dinner with Ramey, India and Mable, and Buffy dropped in later. Jason's mother was at her house, so she had to leave shortly. I took my little Volkswagon to Ramey's so Reed and I could play with it and watch it scoot around, but doggone it, he didn't come with Buff.

Today I'm just lounging around and trying not to eat to excess. Jed has gone to Wal-Mart to look at garden stuff, after his initial spell of lounging around.

Last night we watched the first two videos of "Lonesome Dove," and plan to eat and watch the last two episodes this afternoon. It has been a lovely, quiet and peaceful Christmas for us, and I wish everyone all over the world could have had as good a time.

This morning my friend Sandra in Tuscaloosa phoned. Her son is a Marine colonel in Iraq, home right now but going back soon. He's helping build power stations all over Iraq, which I'm sure will be a huge benefit to that country. Jed said Baghdad already has twelve hours per day of electricity.

Yesterday, Mable said she can't get the sound on You-Tube on her computer. I suggested she try to get to it from my blog, from the "Waltz of the Flowers" link at the bottom of the page. This site has clips from the "Nutcracker" movie which was made a long time ago, and is still the best Nutcracker I've ever seen. I hope she's able to hear the music this way. I didn't think to tell her, but it may be that she needs to turn up her volume control.

The Christmas Eve soup supper at Vann and Susan's was delightful. We got to meet Lori, whose little dog Daisy is a pal of Sophie. Jesse and Andie were there, and Andie's friend Steve; also Ramey, India, Buffy, Jason, and Reed. Suze served many kinds of delicious food and drink, and Vann took oodles of great photos.

Christmas Present

Guess what Santa brought me? A new Canon Power Shot that does everything except take shorthand. Hmm--I haven't tried that, so maybe it will!

Back in harness

I've put in about three hours this morning working on the book. Feels good to be doing something again instead of running around in circles and wringing my hands. My own opinion is that it's already a good story; with a lot of work, it may turn into a good book.

Looking forward to:

1. Seeing Jed on Sunday
2. Soup supper Monday night at Susan and Vann's
3. Christmas with Pat and them. Hope Mable comes.

Coincidences

Yesterday I was looking up the Atchisons' phone number to ask Steve to come clean up the yard, when I heard a motor start up out front. He was out there scooping up leaves, and the boys were blowing leaves out of the flower beds, etc. He asked if I wanted him to clean the gutters and trim the shrubs, and I was nodding my head before he got through asking.

"What about those big bushes at the side of the house?" Yes, yes. I asked if they could replace gutters, and he said they didn't normally do that, but he would ask his dad and maybe he could recommend somebody. So now the leaves are gone, the grass is brown, but the weeds are still green.

Then today I was feeling guilty about not starting to rewrite the book. I picked up a Writer's Digest, and there was this step-by-step article on rewriting. The first step it recommends is to take a vacation from the book after you write the first draft. Well, now I feel so proud! I've already completed the first step.

And, the Muellers came this morning (as scheduled) and cleaned the carpeting. So things are looking better around here. Steve's guys even cleaned the deck and steps and the front porch.

Strange goings-on

Yesterday we had a hard rain, and I guess that's what caused the hiatus. All day the electricity and cable have been doing funny things. I ran the computer diagnostics several times, and it kept saying the cable was unplugged, when I knew perfectly well it wasn't. But I wasn't able to get on the internet all day, my phone wouldn't even work, and neither would the TV.

I knew I had paid the cable and power bills, but had I paid them enough? It should have been a quiet, relaxing day, but I was about to run screaming from the house when I noticed, about five o'clock, that the cable modem's bottom light had decided to light up.

In between the electricity going off and on, I washed and dried a load of clothes, cleaned a little, decorated a little, and wondered how many important phone calls I was missing.

Cycled on

In the last 36 hours, I've sold four books, which were my second, third, fourth and fifth orders this month.

Yesterday Dr. Gruman called me and said all my tests were unchanged except the cholesterol, and it was normal. He added that he expected me to quit smoking after the holidays. Let's see: in January there's New Year's, Valentines Day in Feb., St. Pat.'s day in March, all my kids' birthdays in April, Mother's Day in May, Father's Day in June, oh the fourth of July--so I guess I'll have to quit in August. Nobody's brave enough to have a holiday in August, except maybe a few saints in a cooler climate.

If anyone was offended or astonished by anything in my old Christmas poem, please consider that it was all supposed to be humorous and, as Jed said, randomly insane. I.e., Santa was pulling things out of the tow sack and randomly stuffing them in the stockings. No way would I ever give Jude a wild cat. He could have Wilder, if he wanted it, but Wilder doesn't even growl unless I run out of canned chicken cat food.

I miss Betty Lou. I also miss writing every day. I've got to get back to that. Writing the book made me remember what a cute girl Bobbie was, and how curly was her hair. And the time Maw Maw wrestled Doug down on the floor and squeezed his jaws open and poured a spoonful of 666 into his mouth, which he refused to swallow; and Gordie walked by, bent over and blew in his face. Doug swallowed and coughed, then hollered, "Mama, Gordie made me swallow vat old Free Sixes!" And my mama made Betty Lou's graduation dress, or maybe her prom dress--it was long, and had a little bolero (in the picture, that's me in my pink organdy Tom Thumb Wedding bridesmaid dress, and red-and-green-striped tennis shoes). Boy, was I skinny!

Christmas Past

A Country Visit from St. Nick
.'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the shack,
The onliest sound was the wind through a crack.
The fire had died down, and my hunting dog Jaws
Lay on the hearth, waiting for Old Sandy Claws.

.

In the loft lay the young’uns–not one was awake;
They were dreaming of firecrackers, candy and cake;
And me in my long-johns, and Maw in her gown,
Had blowed out the light and were settling down–

..

When out by the barn come a CRASH! and a WHOOP!
The cow went to mooing, the hens flew the coop;
The rooster he crowed, and the mule kicked the shed,
And old Jaws give a yelp and crawled under the bed.
.I says, “Get up, old woman, and look out-of-doors,
For something is after them chickens of yours.”
“You’re crazy,” says Maw, “I aint going out thar–
It may be a pant’er! It may be a b’ar!”

.

So I flew to the mantel and took down my gun,
Then to the back window I went at a run.
The wind had died down, and the moon had come out;
Some old dirty snow was still lying about.
.

And there in the barnyard, as plain as could be,
Was the funniest rig that I ever did see:
There was four yoke of jackasses, balking and dragging,
Hitched up to the front of a covered chuck wagon;

.

The driver was cracking his whip without pause,
And I wondered if this could be Old Sandy Claws.
He whistled and bellered and jerked at the reins,
And he stomped and he hollered, and called them by name:

.

“Hi, Sam’l! Ho, Dan’l! Hey, Mosey and Millie!
Gee, Colic! Haw, Stupid! Giddyap, Dave and Willie!
Now, fly up the wall, if you don’t want a fight!
I’ll get on that roof if it takes me all night!”
.
As hound dogs a-hunting, when hot on the trail
Of the tricky raccoon, almost take wings and sail,
Then more rapid than beagles them jackasses soared
Up into the sky, and the driver he roared;

.

And quicker than lightning that chuck wagon flew;
It was loaded with toys, and Old Sandy Claws, too.
Then all four wagon wheels, and each hard bony hoof,
Landed light as a feather on our old tin roof.
.I pulled in the shutters, went and hung up my gun,
And down through the chimley Old Sandy Claws come;
He bumped his fore-head on the low mantel shelf,
And I couldn’t help laughing in spite of myself,

.

For his whiskers were singed, his red suit a disgrace,
And the tail of his coonskin cap hung in his face.
His boots were all tarnished, and flung on his back
He had play-pretties stuffed in a ragged tow sack.
.He was tall as a sapling and thin as a rail,
As straight as a plow-line and sharp as a nail.
He put down his tow sack and shook his gray head,
And the ashes flew off of his jacket of red.

.

He jumped when he saw me; I thought he would go,
But he filled all the stockings, while muttering low:
“A ’possum for Ramey, a raccoon for Jed,
A rag doll for India with hair on its head.
.

"A slingshot for Kane, and for Jude a wild cat;
Crow feathers for Buffy on top of a hat!
For Andie a frock trimmed with ribbons and bows;
For Jesse some new double-nine dominoes.
.“A powder-keg pony for Reedy to tame;
A sock full of cinders for mean What’s-Her-Name.
Some apples and oranges; a big candy cane
For D. Vann, a sock-monkey for Susan Elaine.
."The apron’s for Mamma; the lantern is Paw’s;
And here’s a banjer for Jack, and a bone for old Jaws.”
Then the tow sack was empty. Old Sandy said bye;
Up the chimley he climbed in the bat of an eye.
.
He jumped on the wagon and let out a howl
That was halfway between a haint and a screech-owl;
It scared the team so, they took off like a shot,
Till you’d think the woofeener was after the lot!
.I leaned out the window as far as I could,
And I watched them fly over the fields and the woods.
Then Sandy Claws waved, and I clearly could hear:
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO Y’ALL, AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
.

..................((((Written in 1985; abridged, and names updated, in 2007.)

WWII Memories

Last night I watched two WWII movies on TV: "From Here to Eternity" was about an Army installation on Oahu just before the Japanese invaded Pearl Harbor, and "Wake Island" was about the Marines left on that island who were in a sort of General Gordon position when the Japanese invaded, and died to the last man. I should have seen them before I wrote the book instead of afterward, because I had a few things wrong that I'll have to fix. Of course, I had seen both films before, but so many years ago I hardly knew what they were about. I almost can't stand that stupid beach scene in "From Here to Eternity," but Frank Sinatra was so great in it, and Montgomery Clift was so beautiful--this was before his auto accident and subsequent plastic surgery ruined his face--it's worth watching. Old Boit Lancaster wasn't bad, either, except in the stupid beach scene.

I didn't go to the book club meeting Friday. No excuse, I just didn't go. I could plead old age and novel writing, but I won't.

I actually plan to finish my rewrite this month, and think of a title, and in January I'll try to place it somewhere.

I been working, J.D. Salinger style.

Spent the weekend walking back and forth, sleeping, lying on the sofa, looking out the window, washing clothes and dishes, feeding cats, whistling and singing, paying a few bills--all those things that writers do while thinking and working out problems with a story. The problem isn't with the story, to tell the true, it's with me not wanting to write another 50,000+ words. So I might as well just sit in the chair, wiggle the fingers, and get it done.

First, I've got to go to the post office and mail a 5-lb. book. I only sold 7 books in November, and I think they added up to about 20 pounds collectively.

"The easy part's over now."

On Nov. 21st I wrote that this quilt was made by Mrs. Julius Cage Sr. But that was wrong. Granddaddy Cage was Julius I.

The quilt was made by Jed and Jack's great-grandmother, who was Mrs. DeWitt Barnett Cage. I don't know what her first name was, but her maiden name was Hatfield. Aunt Emma Cage wrote and, I think, published a genealogy of that line of Hatfields. I believe GGM Cage's name might have been Hester. The Cages were fond of unusual or historical names; there was a Pulaski Cage, named for that personage; I don't know if Pulaski was a great-great-grandfather or what. Granddaddy Cage had a sister named Eusophronia, but they called her Flora.

I've gone through the novel and changed nearly all the names that were people's actual names. Now the real work begins--getting the thing in shape to submit somewhere.

What Now--Start Another One?

Just got back from my two appointments at TKC. I want to write, but the November novel is done (first draft). Can I say it's done, when it doesn't have a title? I kept thinking the title would magically appear as I went along, but it didn't. Nor did I write a deathless line of prose that contained a good title, like, "Was Tara, too, gone with the wind that swept through Georgia?"

Well, not counting titles, I can say I've written three and a half novels. Wish I could say I had written, rewritten, published and marketed one or two.

Ms. Fixit

One of my fixes worked, because now the NaNoWriMo site shows all my info, including the complete Ms so far. When I scrambled it, it didn't take, but when I didn't scramble it, Presto! I expect to wind it up today or tomorrow. The ending isn't essential at this point. I haven't even got to Pearl Harbor day yet. When I get to 50,000 or so, I'm gonna print it out and work on it.

"The world will little note nor long remember..."

For days I have been trying to update my NaNoWriMo profile. It shows that I have made no submissions and have no word count. I've checked and rechecked that I've done everything right in my submissions of word count, scrambled manuscript for verification, and novel excerpt. Still, my profile shows nothing except "Registered October 15." I may be a winner, but I may have to do without the word of recognition. I've emailed twice and posted comments twice concerning my dilemma, but as yet have heard nothing. Only four more days to go, three, really, as I have to spend Friday running to The Kirkland Clinic for scheduled tests.

Word count now stands at 45,005, and I still don't know how it's going to end.

The faster you pedal, the quicker you get there.

Thanksgiving was great, except little Reedy was sickish and not in a smiling mood. Both India and Buffy looked like America's-Next-Top-Model finalists, and Jason his usual unique self. Jed was lookin' handsome in his Banana Republic shirt. If these children only knew how lovely and smart and young they are, they'd run out and set the world on fire. Well, for all I know, they could be doing that at this moment.

Mable brought a luscious corn pudding, and later emailed me her recipe. Jed and I took some Wal-Mart potato salad, because I forgot to make some, and it was almost as good as home-made. B&J brought two pies to die for. If I had stayed longer, I would have et more.

"Et" is a good Old English word; one of those bug-eating aliens said it on a Star Trek NG episode.

Of course, over the weekend I got behind on my word count. At one point I thought, the story's over anyway, so why bother, just go back and pad it some. But then I started writing again, and--it just unfolds as I write. So now I'm caught up, 40,000 and counting.

Where has November gone? I've got it down on the computer, I guess. Writing every day is as bad as an outside job for making time speed up and slip away. Isaac Asimov said, "What would I do if told I had only six months to live? I'd type faster." Bud, that would make it seem like only six days.

Cleaning the Augean Stables

Tomorrow Jed is coming, Pat is cooking, and I've got to hit the floor running to get the house up to the state of its usual shining perfection. Satire is me.


P.S. This quilt is also in my story:

It was made about a hundred years ago or more, by Mrs. Julius Theodore Cage, Sr. (the first), Jed and Jack's great-grandmother.

The big flower bed is a solid mass of roots and rocks, under the thin layer of soil. Yesterday and today I took the pitchfork and dug enough roots out at one end to plant the bluebells. I'll go to Wal-Mart soon and get another load of garden soil, because the tulips and big daffodils have to be planted 6 inches deep. Still haven't received the snowdrops, and I guess the peonies will be shipped in the spring. Maybe by then, I can get a bed fixed for them in a sunny location.

I want to dig out the mailbox base and put soil in, and see if I can save that vine with the little red star flowers for summer, and plant the snowdrops in the box, too. Whatever comes up in the flower bed, besides the bulbs, I'll try to keep weeded out or cut down low.

This place also appears in my story.

Veggie supper

Guess what I've just cooked? Corn bread, fresh yellow squash, and field peas with snaps to eat with what Peter Piper picked a peck of. All that's missing is a big red ripe sliced tomato. I may run to the store to get one.

Today I finally opened the box of bulbs, and they're not what I thought I had received (hyacinths and snowdrops). Instead it's the tulip mix, English bluebells, and big white daffodils. I found that I was supposed to open them immediately and let 'em cool before planting, so I hung them outside and will plant tomorrow--if it isn't raining, which it looks like it's going to.

I wrote all morning. Wow! This is turning into a habit. Halfway into the book, I write the first preliminary love scene. More than halfway; I'm up to nearly 30,000 words. Some parts are just sketched out, like a synopsis, so when I rewrite, it'll probably be much longer van 50 fousand words (the "v" and "f" for "th" is a clue to one of the characters).

While thinking I had writer's block, today I wrote and wrote and wrote--and I'm nearly a thousand words ahead of tomorrow's quota. I still don't know where the story is going from here. But maybe I don't need to know. When I start typing, the words just start coming.

What I need to do tomorrow is get out there and plant my hyacinth and snow drop bulbs. Hope tomorrow is pretty and a little bit warm.

The little cedar tree that I planted in the plastic urn is plumb beautiful. I think it has grown a few inches.

Cheers from the Rich and Famous

I've had emails from several published authors who participate(d) in Nanowrimo, including Sue Grafton and Sara Gruen. Sara has published 3 books that started as November novels, including Water for Elephants, and has a fourth one to be released soon. SG and SG; hmmm, could they be the same? I don't have another clue, as I haven't read any of their books.

Today my word count is just a little over the halfway mark--or will be, at the end of the day. And my story has pfffft! hit the proverbial snag. But

We are not afraid!
We shall overcome! (Someday.)

Autumn Leaves

This may not be the most beautiful autumn I've ever seen, but it's certainly close. I remember driving through Tennessee one November when the fall colors were glorious, the temperature had dropped in the night and coated everything with ice, and the morning sun made the ice-glazed leaves blaze with color.

Today Mo and Wilder and I walked under the trees for an hour, gazing and rolling in the leaves. That is, the cats rolled; I just gazed, and picked up a load of beautiful colored leaves to carry inside. Jerry's little yellow house is framed in gold and green and red. On the other side, there's a huge perfectly shaped evergreen tree, out beyond Mark's back yard, against a setting of fiery autumn colors. The view from my deck every day gets more gorgeous in all directions. I'm so glad I live here, in one of the most attractive neighborhoods in Leeds.

But I still like to remember the Southside apartment: the brown-and-white pigeons; the little fluffy birds that looked like baby robins, that migrated through; the December day that a big bush across the alley was full of painted buntings that were all colors; the mockingbird that collected Bob's hair when I brushed him on the steps; the stray cat I called Socks who helped me hunt for Bob; the Meltons who made me come to their big house in the tornado, and when the blue house caught on fire; the bathroom floor that Jack and I put in to replace the torn-up linoleum; the night Jack and I "stole" Mus from in front of what we convinced ourselves was an empty house. And Larry Cohn's black lab named Blackie that traveled in the bed of Larry's truck. I had a lot of sad and glad times during the apartment years, wrote a lot of poems and made a lot of quilts, most of which I sold or gave away.

This morning I called and rescheduled the CT scan for November 30, the same day as the Dexa-Scan.

I finally went today for my yearly medical checkup. Everything was OK except my right ankle is infected from that fall the other day. I thought it was just bruised, but Dr. Gruman said it looks like it has some infection, so he wrote a prescription for some antibiotics--which I forgot to stop and get filled, doggone it!

Anyway, from the time I left the house this morning until now, I haven't coughed. I also slept for hours and hours yesterday and last night, so I guess the bronchitis is cured.

I still have bruises on my torso from the fall. Dr. Gruman said "Bless your heart" three times, looking at my leg and my bruises. It sounds like a lie, but he really did. I guess he's getting old and weak.

They set me up an appointment for a CT scan on THURSDAY--THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW! Confound these people! Also a bone scan (Dexa-Scan) on November 30, and a mammogram on December 12.

If I can write 50,000 words and keep up with everything happening in November, I will give myself a medal of honor. It's a good thing I'm ahead on the word count. I'll try to get even further ahead in case I have to fly to Africa or something this month. Come to think of it, I would give up the writing project if I could fly to Africa.

Hawk tales

This morning when I let Mo out and Owen in, a big hawk fluttered off the ground onto a low limb in one of the oak trees, and then flew over to another tree in the back yard. I guess he was after a chipmunk, or had caught one, I don't know which. I ran to get the camera, and of course the hawk was gone when I got back, but I did get a little sweet gum color and a nice shot of my thumb.

Yesterday after I wrote the troublesome episode and worried about it for a while, I went back and just started writing again. I can go back later and either cut it out or rewrite it to fit in. This writing every day has come to feel like my life. I don't know why I haven't been doing it all the time rather than in fits and starts. Someday I may even rewrite the 3 "romance" novels.

In nine days, I've written 50 pages, nearly 15,000 words. So now I'm confident I'll finish it, and I'm not going to talk about it any more until it's done.

Now I've got to clean up and go to the store for cat food and some of the multitude of pills I take to keep me young and mobile.

I really messed up the story today with an impossible episode, so not counting that, I'm still behind in my word count. I've really got to stick to it in the next three days, because Monday the carpet cleaners are coming, on Tuesday I've got a doctor appointment, Wednesday the month will be practically half over, and the next week will be Thanksgiving week.

Well, I had it backwards: Jed stopped by yesterday on his way TO Selma, and spent the night. He left this morning before I woke up. Last night we searched the aerial maps online trying to find our house and his school in Selma, and he will check out our conclusions today on site.

He said the flower bed does look $150-worth better than it did, and I agree. But I still want to dig up the few clumps of undesirables that Steve's crew left. The bulbs still haven't arrived, though Brecks's sent me an email about a week ago saying they were being shipped.

Have been trying to knock my sorely neglected house into some kind of shape. Now have to go to the store, etc., and then spend the rest of the week catching up on the November novel. Mary Anne has canceled Book Club Friday because of a plumbing disaster in her house, so I guess I don't have to go anywhere this week.

Almost Like Being 9 Months Preg.

I can't wait any longer--Brag! Brag! Brag!

Somehow I stumbled across Nanowrimo online. It's a nationwide project that pits everybody against everybody else and his brother, in an effort to write a novel in a month. They do this every November, and if you succeed in writing a 50,000-word novel in November, you're a winner. You don't win anything except the declaration that you're a winner. According to the originator, Chris Baty, some publishable (and published) novels have come out of this insane fiasco.

Well, the Brag comes in because in spite of the yard sale effort and being sick as a dog, I have written thousands of words of what I hope will be a good story, if not a publishable novel. Shoot, I hope and trust it'll be a doggone best-seller! When I get started writing every day, the words just flow. What kind of words, don't ask; but I'm so proud I'd bust if I didn't carry on about it a little bit.

Jed is working in Selma today, and he's planning to come by here on his way home this afternoon.

Yard sale trauma

I got up very early this morning and wrote for 2-3 hours. By 8:00 I was at the post office (had to wait until they opened at 8:30), then the bank to get change for the yard sale, and spent the day selling stuff. People will buy anything. One couple bought the overstuffed sofa and the spool bed, plus a pile of other stuff. Pat came in the afternoon and brought a purely gorgeous bedspread and pillows with matching shams that she got at Susan's yard sale last week. Neither of them wanted the set because it's yay heavy--trapunto-quilted or matelasse, king-sized. I'm going to try it on my bed tonight, and if it looks good I'll buy the set for my big bed. I don't really think it's any heavier than the cut-velvet spread that I made. The trouble with the velvet spread is that every time I wash it, it shrinks a few inches, and now it's really too short for the bed. It's cotton cut-velvet, washable but obviously not shrink-proof. I can use it on the guest room bed. The set that Pat brought is very pale green, sort of celadon.

I sold two Gene Marshall dolls and the British Bird doll, plus all their clothes. One man bought a box full of McCoy pottery. The lady who talked her husband into buying the truckload of furniture (sofa, etc.) asked if I had any rings to sell. I went upstairs and came back with six or seven rings, mostly silver with agate or faux pearls or plain glass, but also those two gold rings with tiny diamonds that I found when I lived in the apartment. The lady bought all of them, including the gold ones at $10 each. She and her husband bought so much stuff that I got sort of flustered trying to keep up with it, and I tripped and fell with that big McCoy swan in my hands, broke the swan, cut my hand and skint my knees (I could tell, because of the little drops of blood coming through my pants legs), but thankfully didn't hit my poor old head.

All in all, it was a good day, beautiful weather, many extremely friendly people, several lovely children (each of whom I gave a toy or two). One big old rough-looking man, looked about thirty-five years old, never said a word, looked glum and irritable--until he spied the toy typewriter, and he almost went into fits over it. Bought it and left, beaming like a kid with a new bicycle.

One couple spotted my framed photo of Stonehenge, and we talked about our trips to England for about half an hour--especially about the horrid English food. The man said during their trip, his wife tricked him into ordering a beef tongue sandwich, and didn't tell him what it was until he had eaten a bite. She said yeah, he turned sort of green when she told him.

While I was waiting at the P.O., Joanne Malone came in and we chatted about Arts Council doings.

I'm so beat, I just want to go to bed. But I've got several more loads to take to the basement for tomorrow.

Little ghouls and goblins

Had some cute little trick-or-treaters earlier, then one big group of teens a few minutes ago. The costumes get better and better. Two tiny black boys, maybe twins, had on white-on-black skeleton costumes. Their mama was with them, and when she told them to say thank you, they both puffed up their chests, glared at me, and roared in big scarey voices, "Thaaank youuuuu!"

Little Tree

The Education of Little Tree is a rather short little novel--if it is a novel. Apropos of something this morning, I got the book down to see how many words are in it (rough count 77,000). Not as short as a standard Harlequin-type romance, probably a good deal longer than The Old Man and the Sea.

Anyway, I had read all the front information, the table of contents, and the first 16 pages, before I stopped and remembered why I opened the book. Something takes hold of you when you start reading that book, something like walking barefoot up the side of a mountain, on a hard-packed dirt trail embedded with little smooth white quartz stones. Maybe up ahead there's a stray hound, starved and mangey-looking, pausing and wagging his tail so you'll think he's somebody you know and will take him home, and you give him the dime-pack of peanut butter crackers you bought coming through town and only ate one of and were saving the other four to eat when you got to the top of the mountain. This makes me put my hands over my face and cry, and remember when I lived on the mountain, the times when I would sit at the top of the tram track, and would cover my face with my hands and cry because the mountain was all I had, and think of the time when I would be grown and maybe old and would remember being on the mountain and would cover my face and cry because it was gone.

Time gets mixed up. Especially when you've been sick.

2:45 p.m. I just ate a large bowlful of extremely delicious vegetable soup, with a handful of rice thrown in for weight, and cornbread. While occupied with soup, I failed to notice the temperature rising up to about 75 degrees, higher than that in the house, and now I'm too hot, but feeling fed and sassy. I've taken so much antibiotics, steroids and asthma medicine, I feel ten or nine times better than I did yesterday. Remind me never to hate a doctor again.

Anyway, The Ed. of Little Tree has over 75,000 words, and The OM&theS less than 35,000. I wonder how long it took Hemingway to write that little book.

On the doctor's scale the other day, I was 10 pounds lighter than the last time I trod thereon. Guess I lost it trudging up and down the stairs about a thousand times. Think I'll do it again this week and see what happens. The skin on my arms looks like old worn crepe that has been washed but not ironed. "Vanity, vanity! All is vanity, saith the Preacher."

Friday

By today I was pretty sick with this congestion. Susan very kindly drove me to the Kirklin Clinic to see Dr. Gruman. After a chest X-ray and a lot of thumping and poking, he said my lungs look OK, but I've got asthmatic bronchitis. I told him about the mold in the basement, and he said that could be a factor but not necessarily. He didn't say what else could be a factor. He gave me prescriptions for a Z pack (antibiotic), some steroid tablets, and an inhaler, all of which I got filled and started after we got home.

By the time we got home, Susan sounded like she needed to go back to the doctor; sounded about like I did a day or so ago. I hope to goodness I didn't infect her, and I hope she throws off whatever she has in a hurry. I didn't think to ask the doctor if I was infectious, but I had been trying not to breathe on Susan or anyone else.

Thursday

Went to bed early and slept late, so I'm feeling rested, but that sore throat has turned into some serious congestion. I think it's probably from mold in the basement. Looks like the rain has just about quit, so I'll stay out of the basement all possible today. Got to get the details (permit, money for change, putting out signs) done this afternoon, and then sleep some more.

Ten lashes upon the back of Caedmon

or the Phoenicians, or whoever it was that invented yard sales!

I can't find my long-handled Swiffer.

My feet hurt, and I've got a sore throat.

*

8:30 p.m.:
Will I ever get all these things down those stairs? I've only got two more rooms full of stuff to tote. And the funny thing is, when it all gets downstairs, it doesn't look like much, and what there is looks worth about two cents total.

Getting ready for the yard sale

Jed gave me this walking kangaroo from Australia, besides I like it, so it stays. The collapsible pussy-cat is from Buffy, and the collapsible rooster from Pat, and I wouldn't dream of parting with either. Sell my Cracker-Barrel bunny rabbit? Not on your tintype! Nothing wrong with him except a dog (Buck) toted him around the house for a few hours. I can't sell my camel, because I intend to collect camels, but the Ty monkey can probably go.

I only used that crock-pot once, about eleven years ago, but if I put this odd ceramic lid on it instead of the plastic one that came with it, I might use it all the time.

This aluminum angel candlestick will be lovely at Christmas. I know it's an angel, even though it doesn't look like one. And I may get a dog someday, so I'd better save old Buck's leash and the spare chew bone.

The British Byrd dolls and the Gene Marshall dolls didn't sell at the last yard sale. Hmmmm. Maybe if I gave up the nine boxes of clothes that go with them, someone would bite. But they'll all probably be worth a fortune someday.

A wooden plaque with decoupaged hot-air balloons! It matches my two china balloon plates. They'd make a lovely group on the wall facing the guest-room bed. And with this wire pineapple lamp on the night stand, the room will have a decorator feel.

Where did I get two identical tablecloths (or bedspreads), crocheted of coarse tan thread, weighing 16 pounds each?

I can certainly do without the stacks of New Yorkers, Smithsonians, and various needlework magazines; but first I have to go through them and cut out the articles and patterns I want to save. The ones I don't cut up could go in the next yard sale (in 2012).

Gee, I feel so carefree and industrious, getting rid of so much stuff!

Grand-daddy of a beef stew

is what I made this morning. The biggest pot I had barely held it. Ate some for lunch, and am thinking of going back for an afternoon snack. Yum.

I had a Gordie Ramey moment when I heard Steve's estimate for doing the flower bed. He left a message on my phone, and I thought, "Now, you know you can't do all that stuff I asked for, for that price. It ought to be at least twice that much." But after thinking it over, I probably won't tell him that.

Wish I was still getting paid $17 an hour.

Steve finally returned my calls yesterday and said he'd come by today to look at the flower bed. So today he did come and mow the grass. We looked at the flower bed, and he said he'd get some more garden soil to add to the bags I've got stacked in the basement, and would call this afternoon and let me know his estimate, and that he could probably clean out the bed one day next week.

I've ordered a whole lot of bulbs from Breck's, and they'll probably arrive next week. Some hard work ahead. I ordered daffodils, snowdrops, a pastel tulip mix, snowdrops, English bluebells, peonies, and a few yellow and a few coral-color hyacinths. In the spring I'll probably get Breck's begonia mix to replace the bloomed-out chrysanthemums at the east corner of the house, which I'm going to pull up in the next week. [Added Friday: I like them snowdrops.]

I dug the little cedar tree out of the flower bed yesterday and put it in one of those white plastic urn planters, and it looks great. Today I pulled a 5' tall sweet gum out of the flower bed against the front of the house, and tried to dig up the peony tubers but I only got three; they're too big and too deep. If I can save the little ground roses, I can put them in urn planters, too. I need to remember to get Steve to cut down whatever that tree is that's growing against my office window, right against the house. By the way, he did not call me back this afternoon.

I've got masses of stuff pulled out for the yard sale, and am thinking about having it Saturday. I'll have to go tomorrow and get my permit. Unless I decide to wait until next weekend. But if it looks like the weather will be clear Saturday, I'd rather do it and get it over with, and get all this stuff off the furniture and out of the corners. Many, many pieces of McCoy pottery, lots of odd dishes and glassware, piles of clothes (I didn't know I had that many clothes), two large bins of books, zillions of gew-gaws, etc.

It Was Mary. . .

I saw Mama very briefly in a bright but misty dream. She looked like herself when I first remember her, but she was absolutely perfect, with glowing skin, light glancing off her soft dark-brown curls. She was seated outdoors at a table, totally absorbed in whatever she was looking at, and dressed in a long filmy-looking short-sleeved dress of pale yellow with peach-colored splashes of print. No, it wasn't a Scrabble game she was studying; she looked more like a dutiful schoolgirl trying to absorb a lesson.

It's That Time of Year

O wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's being--
Thou from whose unseen censer the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing...












Here are some little autumn arrangements in my living room (inspired by the magazines which are my door prize from Book Club). The flat basket on the hearth holds a pumpkin with a bunch of purple grapes draped across it. They have little glass beads on the surface, so the colors wouldn't come through in the photo.

Jed phoned this morning. Today he's on his way to South Carolina on business.

A very nice weekend

The Book Club meeting on Friday afternoon was great, with all of Susan's pretty Halloween decorations, wonderful food including mini quiches on which I over-indulged, and a banana nut cake with peanut butter sauce to die for! The book discussion was fine, too, concerning the Cormac McCarthy book, The Road. We forgot the door prize drawing, which is about status quo for this group--we get so involved in the discussion, which usually occurs in the second half of the meeting, that we forget the extras. Anyway, Suze emailed me and said she drew names from those who attended, and I won the door prize! A new issue each of Southern Living and Country Living magazines, plus a little jack-o-lantern with candy corn. Sophie's canine friend Daisy was visiting at the house, and proved to be a loving little pet.

Then Saturday, Jed arrived from points north where he worked Friday, and we ate a good old home-style lunch at Cracker Barrel. Saturday evening Jed and I sat around and dissected, analyzed and reassembled the world economy, so let's hope everything gets better, or at least doesn't get any worse.

Sunday noon we chowed down at Chili's in Trussville, then later on visited Ramey and India up on Hawk Hill. Pat wants us to have a sort of family 1950's Nerd Festival sometime soon, which sounds like crazy-fun; I might recite the Redneck Visit from Sandy Claws. And we could have a pickin' and singin' group a la "The Darlings" on the Andy Griffith show.

Jed headed back to Atlanta about 4:00 p.m., and I started packing a couple of books to mail tomorrow to customers. Pat gave me a stack of books, all of which I listed on Amazon for nice prices.

Mo and Owen Wilder (he recently told me his first name) are doing as fine as cats can do.

Well, pfui.

After that hard work yesterday (or was it Sunday?) with untangling the muscadine vine and pulling out the limbs and brush from it, getting scratched and itchy in the process, I no longer want an arbor. Right now I don't want anything that I haven't got, at least not in the category of property.

Arbor Magna Mea

What do you see, a tangle of leaves,

a vine that must be attached to something?

To me, it's what I'll see looking up

when I'm standing under my muscadine arbor.

I think I wrote about it back in the summer, when it fell onto the ground and was full of berries. The critters ate them, and welcome to them, I never was fond of muscadines. But I want an arbor, I WANT an arbor, and somebody better do something about it. If they don't, I'll haul off and build it myself, and the results may not improve the property.

If you think it's tangled now, you should have seen it before I removed (the top half of) this pile of brush and limbs from it, including another vine that had poisonous-looking leaves, and another one that had long black bean hulls hanging down.

RIP? No, it's just a cover for the hole Gretchen dug while hunting a chipmunk.

Fun With Numbers

Here's a recent conversation I had online with Some Joker and EM:

SJ: "The Fibonacci sequence determines the life of textbooks."

Me: "Your mentioning Fibonacci numbers reminds me painfully of how quickly any education about numbers goes in one side of my head and out the other. I ordered a course that included Fibonacci numbers, about 6 months ago, and understood it all perfectly. Now all I can connect with "Fibonacci" is something about pineapples. Or was it pine cones?"

EM: "Or rabbits. My favorites are flower petals and leaf arrangements. And Fibonacci stock chart retracements. [Includes several links to number sequences in nature.]"

Me: "Thanks for the fun links, EM. Now it all comes back to me. This reassures me that if ever I find myself in a spot where FNs may save my skin, I can reach 'way back in the file cabinet and pull them out. ...I'm thinking one could filet-crochet a mat that illustrates the numbers. Conversation piece, if one ever had Stephen Hawking or Richard Hoover to tea."

EM: "Good idea, because those two are just ALWAYS dropping by!"

This got me thinking about Richard, so I Googled around and found that he's a group leader or something at NASA in Huntsville, and has written numerous books about astrobiology and diatoms and more, and has been to Siberia and the South Pole and all over the place. The pictures are from online sites and won't copy very well.

Many years ago I read an article by him in National Geographic, in which he mentioned that he had traveled all over the world and a lot of other good stuff, which I felt was aimed at me if I should happen to read it. Just to show me what I missed by not marrying him. I had very few regrets.

Just any old silver lining will do. . .

I had a hunch that the Kings and Queens book wouldn't last long on the Amazon site, so I read it, and it sold within hours. Now I'm wishing I had kept it, or priced it higher (it sold for ~$27). It was a modern edition of an old book, with a caricature and a funny poem for each English monarch starting with Wm. the Conqueror.

The weatherman predicts rain for tomorrow and Friday, or did last night. If that holds, I guess I'll put off the yard sale. Not ready, anyway. Mumble, mumble. I think I need to make another batch of biscuits to put me in a better humor.

I think Jed is coming over, the end of next week, maybe will be here for the book club meeting. So that's a bright spot to look forward to.

Pass the Biscuits, Miranda!

"Shootin' gives a man an appetite!"

Well, I had biscuits and ham for lunch. They were pretty good. Started out with Susan's recipe, then switched to the recipe on the White Lily bag because all I had was 5 pounds of self-rising flour. Ate two while they were hot, froze 8 for later, and saved a couple to see if I can bite them when they get cool. Dang it, I didn't have any orange marmalade.

From the Bookins swap site the other day, I received M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio, and started reading it yesterday. It's a fascinating story, in which the author, an Australian, seeks to amend somewhat the centuries-old impression that Michelangelo Merisi from Caravaggio, Italy, was a crook and a murderer. It's aggravating reading, however, because the author attempts to be what in the '60s would be called hip. Uses words (or non-words) like "sus" (apparently an adjective) and "yakka" (a very dirty noun). His favorite contraction, judging by its frequent appearance, is "they'd" for "they had" or "they would." I expect any paragraph to see "they'd've."

A peculiarity that this author points out, and illustrates with lots of details from Caravaggio's paintings, is that many of his men and some of his women are self-portraits, even the severed heads of Goliath and Holofernes.

Added at 6:30 p.m.: For dinner I had roasted squash and the couple of biscuits, which were still very good. And I did find some orange marmalade, about half a jar hidden in the refrigerator; I ate a little of it with a biscuit and didn't die right away, so I guess it wasn't too old to eat. What I wonder is why am I eating all this cooked food suddenly? Just got tired of sandwiches and canned spinach and microwaved eggs, I reckon. I have cooked a lot of cornbread lately to eat with the spinach. I bought a hunk of sliced ham yesterday, thinking I was craving meat, but didn't like it much. Next time I cook dried beans, though, it'll be good with them.

The Devil Made Me Do It...

About the time I was supposed to be going to the poetry reading at Leeds Arts Center, I just happened to slip a VHS into the slot, and it caught me and wouldn't turn me loose. Which means I haven't done anything remotely useful today.

Pie, Motley, and a Tortoise Shell

I'm so gratified that there's still a slice of Hershey pie in the freezer. I made it Thursday, with the troubling thought that I would probably eat it all before Friday. But discipline prevailed, for once.

I have just finished reading A Damned Serious Business, written by Rex Harrison, who was still putting the finishing touches on it when he died in 1990 at the age of 82. The finest comedy actor of the twentieth century, in my opinion, he made me laugh without resorting to farce.

Here's Wilder. See how pretty and stout he has grown, a far cry from the poor bones with the inverted funnel-shaped tail that I thought for a while was a large rat when he first started zipping out the pet door when I would walk toward the kitchen. Now he lets me pet him while he's eating, and he wasn't a bit fazed by the camera, possibly because it didn't make any noise. Noise is his nemesis, and still makes him dive through the pet door and fly down the stairs.

Autumn Skies

"Well, children," as Sojourner used to begin her talks, I have to tell you:

The heavens declare the Glory of God,
And the firmament showeth His handiwork,
Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge;
There is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard...

There's no speech nor language to describe the sky this afternoon. I don't believe I've ever seen anything else that beautiful in all my life. It almost made me cry.

Here's a book I received a few days ago from the publisher, because it has half of one of my poems in it. The poem was a linked sonnet, which means two sonnets, but they only published one. Oh, well.

After working on my books this morning, I went to the Post Office, of course, then to the library sale to do my volunteer hours taking money, and found they had added a lot of yard sale items. I came away with one book, and a beautiful Christmas tablecloth still sealed in its original plastic cover.

Speaking of skies and books, below is a book of mine that I wouldn't part with, mainly because of the beautiful cover.

As a final word about skies, I think this is the best poem I've written.

~

Clouds with wings of gold

enfolded pale blue morning,

that a moment died,

rose up white noon, and oh

bright cumulus flung clear around

my unsuspecting stratosphere!

~

How can even God

behold this gleaming day,

yet stay in place, while higher

every mile the sky grows! I

would tumble treeward, rumbling,

"See My wonders! See Creation glowing!

Hear My thunder!"

~

I myself, although

no god or wing-blessed being,

must fling my senses somehow high enough

to reach and reel among

those sun-dipped fields of light,

dance there, cling there,

or of sheer worship

die!

Book Bargains!

At the Friends of the Library sale Thursday evening, I didn't guess very well in picking books. But today I went by there coming back from the P.O. I bought 7 books for 6 bucks. When I got home, I found that one had listings up to $50+, so I listed mine for $30.00. Another one had only one listing on Amazon for $35.00, so I matched that price. BUT, a third book was listed nowhere, but based on a little research of some similar later books, I priced mine at $195.00! Listed two more of the books I bought at more ordinary prices (under ten dollars), and will return the other two for them to sell again.

Makes me feel a little bit guilty, but not much. But to sort of make up, tomorrow I'm taking them a big bagfull of nearly new books to add to the sale. I also signed up to "sit and sell" next Thursday evening, the penultimate sale day.

Two of the books I bought Thursday night are biographies of Sojourner Truth. I read one of them. Surprised to learn that she was a northern slave, not southern; she was born Isabel Van Wegener, and later renamed herself. All her slave years were spent in New York state. She met a lot of famous people, including President Abraham Lincoln who autographed one of her books for her. Apparently it was easier for slaves to gain their freedom in NY than in a lot of other states, maybe because slavery there grew out of the original Dutch settlers' custom of having indentured servants who worked for a certain period of time and then were free. After awhile, finding they could get away with it, the Dutch started keeping people as slaves, but it was still possible to make a "freedom deal" in rare cases. Sojourner and her parents and siblings had to speak Dutch; she didn't learn English until various slave-owners scolded, cajoled, or beat it into her. She never learned to read and write; she dictated her books and other papers.

Purple Crows

I looked out the back door at a "murder of crows," actually only four, pecking around in the wet grass. Among bows and flows of gray and white clouds, the sun suddenly blazed out and shone on the crows, turning their flat black plumage to a rainbow of peacock colors as if they had been dipped in an oil spill. Then they all rose and flew away, the hues converging to deep purple as long as they were in the sun.

The Book Club meeting was well attended and very noisy. All three Ramey sisters were there: Susan didn't go to Atlanta, Pat decided to stop by there after all, and I didn't sleep quite all morning. The highlight of Nell's table was an apple spice cake with good thick caramel icing, which I understood her husband Bill made. Mary Anne told all about her two weeks in Greece, making me wish I could at least go to Italy and take that Adriatic cruise among the islands. Betty White mentioned that one of the possible side effects of the cholesterol medications could be memory loss. Alopecia and absentmindedness, dang! I'm cutting that flat rose-madder tablet out of my pill diet until I see the doctor next month, at which time I may just blister some of the black porcupine quills off his head, if I feel like talking or if he says "O-KAY?" one too many times.

Mary Undeutsch and Barbara were also at the meeting, and the elegant Jean Mock came late and left early. Neither Jean, Pat nor Barbara had read the book (My Sister's Keeper), so the rest of us talked about everything but the ending, so as not to spoil it for them when they read it.

When I came home, after resting and changing clothes, I had to go to CVS for cat food, and then I finished reading Havana Bay by Martin Cruz Smith. I was tempted to give it four stars, but it really wasn't as good as Gorky Park. Mighty good book, though. It tied up a couple of loose ends from the other books, i.e., Irina (she and Arkady had been reunited somehow after their sudden traumatic parting, had been together, maybe married for a time, until Irina was accidentally killed by a nurse); and the fate of Sergei Pribluda.

Note above: I think the cruise I was looking at while we were in England was around/among the Aegean islands, instead of the Adriatic. The Aegean sea is the one between Greece and Turkey, I think.

Coming Attractions

Wednesday, September 12, 2007. How did it get so late so soon? How did I get so old, so young?

The Friends of the Library are having our preview party tomorrow evening. I feel guilty for not volunteering to do more than sit and collect money for a day, during the sale. I can't use age as an excuse, as some of the movers and shakers are--I won't say older than dirt, but at least older than I am. Anyway, I hope I can pick up a few books worth listing.

Then Friday is book club day. The meeting is at Nell's, and the book is Wish You Well, which I read some time ago. [Added at 6:20 p.m.: Susan posted a correction--the book is My Sister's Keeper. Wish You Well was last month, which we didn't attend.]

Every morning, Mo and I open the deck door and breathe a little to see how hot it is outside. Of course, September is heave-a-sigh-of-relief month, after the August inferno. "Thank You, Lord, for letting me make it through another summer" month. Tomorrow is Rosh Hashanah, when the People stand before the Almighty to ask for another year, after their preparation month of Elul, when they contemplate what they'll do with the coming year if it's granted. Which is good.

And I've got five, count them, (5), books to pack and mail before 5:00 p.m., so I've got to get packing.

A Few Russians

I finished reading Polar Star today. I liked all the Martin Cruz Smith books I read, but Gorky Park is still my favorite. There were characters in it, besides Renko, that I cared about. Seems the other two books weren't as suspenseful as GP, I guess partly because I knew by the time I read them that Arkady would survive.

I like books about Russia and Russians. Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov are two of my favorites.

Goodbye To All That

Because I never had a brother, in the 1970s I decided to "adopt" Elvis and Luciano Pavarotti. We were all born within a year of each other, first me, then Elvis, then Luciano. If I'd had the voice, I would have been a singer, too, but I learned in the 8th grade "glee club" that my voice was in the very restricted mezzo range. This broke my heart into little pieces, but I sort of got over it.

I'm glad that I never saw either of the "brothers" in person, though I was once invited to a sort of party where Elvis was staying; I was stuck at the University with no way to travel, but if getting there had been possible, I wouldn't have gone.

No more fantasy brothers. In the fifty or so years I've got left down here, I'll make do with reality. The wonderful real folks who like me, even though I continue to sing like a scratchy 78 whose crank wasn't wound tight enough.

"...if thou wast not granted to sing, thou would'st surely die." --Walt Whitman

All about books

I had two orders for books Tuesday and three Wednesday, so yesterday I went to the P.O., then to the grocery store for a few things. No orders yesterday or today. They come in flurries.

I'm still reading Stalin's Ghost. I stopped to read Gorky Park, because I thought, since the same protagonist was in both, that GP would immediately precede SG, which is right, but a lot seems to have happened in between.

Today I received an email request to mail Elie Wiesel's book, Night, to a Bookins member. Bookins is a swap site. When you mail a book, you print the postage-paid label from an online site, and the postage is charged to the recipient's credit card. I received the book from a Bookins person just a few days ago, and since it has only 120 pages, I sat down and read it, just now finished it. A protracted nightmare. I remember my uncle, Alfred Satterfield, saying that the group he was with liberated one of the concentration camps; I couldn't remember if he said Auschwitz or Buchenwald. It had to be the latter, as the Russians were the first to arrive at Auschwitz, from which most of the prisoners, including Wiesel and his father, had been force-marched by the SS to Buchenwald, during which march many of them died.

<><><><><>

Great Performances at the Met L'Elisir D'Amore - Sunday, September 09, 2007 at 3:30 PM, Alabama Public Television pays tribute to the life of Luciano Pavarotti, who died on September 6, 2007, with an encore performance of one of his most treasured roles, Nemorino in Donizetti's L'Elisir D'Amore (The Elixir of Love). The two-and-one-half-hour, two-act opera was originally broadcast on PBS stations from the stage of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City on March 2, 1981. A highlight of the telecast is Pavarotti's stunning rendition of "Una Furtiva Lagrima," an aria he made his own in his illustrious career. Charlie Rose introduces the In Memoriam broadcast. This special broadcast will replace the first episode of BROADWAY: THE AMERICAN MUSICAL originally scheduled for Sunday.

Ciao, Luciano.

Good Night, Sweet Prince

Luciano Pavarotti died yesterday.

Take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night...

A White Lion?

Look at this old darling. Don't you want to just reach out and hug him! I found the picture on a free site on the internet--or best I could understand, it was free.

I'm reading Stalin's Ghost by Martin Cruz Smith. Very good writing, sort of interesting story. Little boy in it is a chess genius, but the book is very different from Searching for Bobby Fischer.

I sold one book today. I think I'm going to have to put off the daily story-writing thing until October. I started to cheat by using a couple that I patched up from old ideas, but I'm still 2 days behind. So I'll just do this in October instead of Sept.

A Good Holiday Weekend

Jed arrived Thursday evening and stayed until this afternoon. We really had a good visit. Made one shopping tour over at Costco, and covered Food World at Moody, Wal-Mart, Chili's in Trussville and the good old Cracker Barrel before the weekend was over. I probably gained 10 pounds--I'm afraid to get on the scale.

The D.T.s in September

A long time ago, I wrote a vignette (fiction) every day for a month, limit 1,000 words each. I called them the Daily Themes, D.T.s for short. To get myself back into the writing mode, I'm going to do this starting Sept. 1, only this time they're supposedly going to be short-short stories, limit 2,000 words each. They're supposed to have a beginning, a middle, and a surprise or at least unexpected end. I have lots of scraps of stories tucked away in drawers and on the computer, and I may use some of them.

Tomorrow (August 30) will be my one-year anniversary of selling books on Amazon. I've sold more than 200; haven't tallied up yet what profit I've made, if any.

This is probably my best quilt, although it isn't my favorite. I made it in 1983, every stitch by hand, and it has more than 6,000 pieces. The pattern is Broken Sash. It has other names, too, but I don't remember what they are.

The Things People Say...

I've noticed that people use/mangle cliches or old sayings lots of times without having the least idea what they mean. That becomes especially noticeable online, where they have to write what they're saying. Here are some Malaprops I've noted on the Amazon soapbox:

"...the sorted details."
"...waiting on pens and needles."
"...dividing the wheat from the shaft."
"...beyond the pail."
"Taxation is running rapid..."
"...not too gun ho on either side."
"wreck havoc"

I know it sounds a bit snide, but at least I posted it here instead of on the Soapbox.

Here's another unquilted quilt top:

Man, what a dream that was!

On the Amazon soapbox yesterday, someone was telling about rescuing a mastiff that was near death from starvation, and that gained 20 pounds in 2 weeks. That reminded me of the lady on "The Dog Whisperer" who rescued and trained mastiffs. Then last night I started re-reading The House of the Spirits, and got a little past the part where Clara raised Uncle Marcos's puppy Barrabas, who grew to the size of a colt.

Then I dreamed I had this huge dog who I was afraid would keep on growing. Really, he was just a German shepherd, but he was mostly black and looked fierce. Laziest dog that ever was born, and never made a sound, and I wondered if he was really a GS, and if he could really bark. Then one evening I looked out the screen door and a big half-grown pig was standing on the porch. I threw the door open and hollered, "Get away from here, pig!" And mixed with the pig, a whole bundle of cats and kittens exploded in a corner of the porch and tumbled down the steps, from where they had been sleeping on top of the (sleeping) dog. The dog jumped to his feet and shook himself awake, looked around as if to say, "Did somebody call me?"

I said, "And you said you were going to be my watchdog, if I would let you stay!"

In the last few days I haven't been doing anything creative except thinking. x2 + 7x + 23 = 11/3, and such. Oh--about The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, I really did like that book, especially the ending. And another one that I read lately was Mr. Timothy; I loved Colin, the Dickensian kid who was sort of a nasty little Baker Street Irregular.

Bel canto

As a music genre, opera really doesn't appeal to me all that much. I love La Boheme, L'Elisir d'amore, Madame Butterfly, Rigoletto, and Die Fledermaus, in their entirety; but most operas would put me to sleep within the first five minutes. However, there are songs from operas that have haunted, or at least accompanied, my adult life. There's a quintet, I think, from Lucia di Lammermoor with music so wonderful it ought to be in the Hymnal with a poem of praise set to it.

The opening three bars of Musetta's waltz in La Boheme is one of the loneliest, most desolate musical phrases I have ever heard. Gilda's last aria in Rigoletto is too beautiful to describe (knowing the story but not understanding the words helps a lot to appreciate the music). La Gioconda has one of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard, but I don't remember the title. And of course everyone listens when Pavarotti sings "Nessun dorma."

One reason I love La Boheme so much is that we performed it and filmed it (remember Kinescope?) in English, at the Univ. of Ala. my freshman year, and broadcast it live on PBS. We were the first PBS station to broadcast television. Of course, I didn't sing, but I was learning to use the TV cameras, and during rehearsals I was technical director (on the control board!), and while filming I was floor manager part of the time (the one who lowered [and raised] the boom), and my name was on the crawl in the TV credits. The guy who sang Marcello had the best male voice in the production (Rodolfo was kind of whiney), and his face was so completely p0ck-marked it looked like a map of the moon, but on film he was very handsome. Good makeup covers a multitude of flaws. Pat Huddleston (who was 1955 Miss Alabama) sang Mimi.

I must say, as far as recommendation goes, if you've never heard Daughter of the Regiment or seen L'Elisir d'amore, there's a part of your life that's like a big empty balloon.

Favorite Songs From Movies

Chu-chi Face (from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang)

~

You're my little chu-chi face

My coo-chi, coo-chi, woo-chi little chu-chi face

Every time I look at you I sigh

And you're my little teddy bear

My lovey lovey dovey little teddy bear

You're the apfel strudel of mine eye

Your chu-chi woo-chi nose

Your chu-chi woo-chi eyes

They set my heart a-flutter

Your coo-chi coo-chi ways

Your coo-chi coo-chi gaze

Wilt me down like melting butter

You're my little chu-chi face

And you're my teddy bear

Together we're a chu-chi woo-chi, oo-chi coo-chi pair

~

Whatever you may ask becomes my happy task

I only live to serve you

I never will divine what magic made you mine

I only know I don't deserve you

You're my little chu-chi face

And you're my teddy bear

Together we're a chu-chi woo-chi, oo-chi coo-chi

Chu-chi, woo-chi, oo-chi, coo-chi

Chu-chi

Woo-chi

Oo-chi

Coo-chi pair

A Severe Mercy

I've been trying for an hour to write something about this book, but it's too difficult. And now I'm hungry.

But the book includes excerpts from 18 of C.S. Lewis's letters to the author during and after the time when both their wives were dying. Joy lasted longer than Vanauken's wife Davy. That's all I want to write about it, except it's a good book.

It Aint Gonna Rain No Mo'?

Yesterday it rained 57 drops on the deck. Or was that Thursday?

This is the next quilt top I intend to make into a finished quilt, when I finish the one I'm working on now. I need to work faster, not smarter.

Just finished reading My Sister's Keeper, by Jodi Picoult, which is our book club selection for September. The book has a section in the back addressing different points in the story, which was helpful in deciding what to think about it, if you don't readily know what to think about it. I think the author could have spent a lot more time rewriting and cutting, instead of going over the same points so many times. Overall, it was a good story. My favorite characters were Anna and her pyromaniac brother Jesse. I thought the ending, although something of a cop-out, was appropriate, as it chopped the Gordian knot the characters had managed to tie themselves into.

Praise...

Morning has broken, like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for the springing fresh from the Word.


Cat Stevens, Freddie Fender, Otis Redding...
where have all the voices gone, I wonder.
Listen: the wind sounds like the voices softly
singing; hear the music in the thunder...

Y

Added Sat., Aug. 18: Re: Voices - Elvis and Maria Callas are the only two singers I've heard of who could allegedly sing 3 octaves. I read this a long time ago about Elvis. And I've seen different stories about Callas: some say she was one note short of 3 octaves, and others say she hit a high E in an unrecorded performance. Wouldn't E.P. have made a great operatic baritone or tenor?

Nice Matters

My sister Susan at Blackberry Creek Winter nominated me and Sourwood Mountain to receive this "Nice Matters" award. The originator of the award, Penny at Lavender Hill Studios (her blog), wrote: "This award will be given to those that are just nice people, good blog friends and those that inspire good feelings and inspiration! Those that care about others that are there to lend support or those that are just a positive influence in our blogging world!"

What an honor! I thank Penny for creating the award, and send my heartfelt thanks to Susan for nominating me.

Slaving over a hot computer...

I've really worked hard in the past few days, listing nearly a hundred more books for sale. I'm finally getting a grip on this book thing: separated out the books to keep, books for sale, and books for the huge big grand yard sale I'm going to throw as soon as the weather cools down enough that I can stay outside most of the day. I've got most of them back on the shelves, freeing up the big plastic bins for storing stuff in the basement. I also sold three books this weekend, and have to go mail them this afternoon.

Another doll from the collection. On the right is Holly, a Gene (Mel Odom) doll; I made the dress and cape, Jenny made the purse.

Oh, I nearly forgot--Thursday and Friday last week, I wrote the Bookmark newsletter as guest editor, and mailed it. Arf, arf!

Those were the days...

One Turner movie channel is showing Peter O'Toole films tonight. I just turned on the TV for the first time in 3 days, and Becket is on channel 37. They can't make movies like they used to, for the simple reason that there are no eyes like Richard Burton or voices like Peter O'Toole (or vice-versa) any more. If Thomas Becket and Henry II were not like Burton and O'Toole, it was their misfortune.

To hear that magic voice from that angelic face snapping at some underling, "Shut-tup!" is worth the price of a ticket or a VHS or a DVD.

Edit: Oh, today's his birthday! That's why they're showing his old films. He's 75, as far as anyone can tell. He looks 175. Dried up old mummy! Or mangey old lion. He's in something called "Stardust" that's supposed to be released this month. Hmph. Even though it seems there's more fuss being made over him now than when he was young (nominated 8 times for Oscars and never got one), it must be sad to have been what he was, and then turn into a relic. Sometimes I think the lucky ones were those who never grew old and repulsive.

Well, in the movie Becket, of course, Richard Burton died exquisitely. He received 7 Oscar nominations and never won one. He was actually born in November of 1925 and died in 1983 of a brain hemorrhage.