Jed's going to stop by here today on his way back from Mississippi, and I'm trying to get awake enough to shovel out the house a bit. I wish I were an instinctively neat housekeeper, but it's a little late in life to be worried about it. If I can just stay awake long enough to get this novel finished, then I'm going to sleep all summer. No, actually, when I finish this one, I'm thinking about rewriting that first "romance novel" that I wrote when I lived up on Oak Trail.

I've been trying, for two days, to read Stephen Ambrose's book Crazy Horse and Custer, but it's too disturbing, so I think I've given it up. I've requested several from Bookins that I want to read, including Bel Canto and The Mists of Avalon to re-read. I also want to read A Season of Fire and Ice, but Bookins doesn't have it, so maybe I can get it from the library. I've forgotten what the book club book for February is. Maybe that was A Season of Fire and Ice? I took We Took To the Woods off my Amazon listings. I couldn't possibly sell it; that's one of the best books anyone like me ever wrote.

I keep going back to look at the snow pictures. The poet Conrad Aiken wrote best about winter, and rain.

Winter for a moment takes the mind; the snow
Falls past the arclight; icicles guard a wall;
The wind moans through a crack in the window;
A keen sparkle of frost is on the sill.

and

Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet
for this, the often-praised, and be ourselves,
the rain, the chickweed and the burdock leaf,
the green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
and all that welcomes rain; the sparrow, too--
who watches with a hard eye, from seclusion,
beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done...

I recommend memorizing poetry. Or what I do--read stuff over and over for years, until it sticks in my head. It's one of life's surest comforts.


I noticed yesterday that the hard wind we had Monday night blew down a tree in somebody's yard down on Rowan Road. Thankful none of mine went down.

Mercury in Retrograde

Mary Margaret Truman Daniel, Feb. 17, 1924 - January 29, 2008. Like her dad, a tough old bird. She had several careers, and was admired and successful in all but the first one.

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I went by the P.D. yesterday and picked up my billfold. Sgt. Reeves (a beautiful young woman) had it and all contents, wet and soggy, in a plastic bag. When I got home, I threw the old leather wallet (age: ~10) away. Everything essential was there, even one of the credit cards. The officer said she took pictures of all the contents, but didn't have time to dry them out. She said I probably won't have to do anything more, unless the girl asks for a court trial, which she isn't likely to do.

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I'm going on record with this, so if I didn't do it, I'd be ashamed, demoralized, and thoroughly transmogrified.

FEBRUARY is REWRITE month. I even get an extra day to tie up the loose ends. By Friday, February 29, 2008, my book will be as ready as I intend to get it, to submit to an agent in hopes that he/she/they will peddle it somewhere. Matter of fact, I get five extra days, counting what's left of January.

What it is, I just had a flash of what to do to fix the book. In case, a hundred years from now, someone wants to write my biography, here's what my flashes are like (not my hot flashes; that's another kettle altogether):

After I've mulled something (in this case, a story) to distraction, I get totally bored with the whole thing and am almost ready to shred it.

Then I can be playing solitaire on the computer, drinking double-strength coffee in an effort to wake up, lighting a cigarette when I've already got one burning in the a.t., and the flash comes. Or maybe I'm in the shower singing "Sourwood Mountain" or some such, and water goes down my goozle and the flash happens.

It's signaled, or accompanied, by a spark of light, like the asterisk above but sparkling, in my extreme northwest visual field, whether my eyes are open or shut. And all at once, the solution is laid out in my head like a road map.

"...More in the Letting Go than in the Loving"

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(That's a line from one of my old poems, for all you fans!)
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Today I sold (online) my only copy of Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess. In the 1970's, how I studied this book, and how many times I fell asleep over its cryptic mazes! When I worked in the space program, all the guys were enamored of Bobby Fischer and floated around on clouds when he beat Spassky or any of those Russians with unpronounceable names. I admired him, too, and followed his erratic actions, consistent only in beating any player that stuck its head up.

However, "the chesse" just wasn't my game. As a matter of fact, no game is my game. They have always bored me squirmy. When I was 15, I visited my aunt in Chicago, and we played Canasta every day for hours and hours. Just thinking about it makes me want to go back to bed. Not to mention Scrabble!

When Caxton or Dame Juliana Berners, or whoever it was, wrote The Game and Playe of the Chesse, he might as well have handed me one of those tiny fine necklace chains, in one big knot, to straighten out. If I went into a trance, I could tell you where and how each piece moves and all that jazz, but please don't ask me to play!

Anyway, this was supposed to be about selling my old books. Each one of them brings back a big chunk of the past (as in see above). Now and then, selling one brings a lump to my throat. But money talks loud, n'est ce pas?

P.S. I'm re-reading We Took To the Woods, by Louise Dickinson Rich, before somebody grabs it.

Wilder

He's three feet long from the tip of his tail to the end of his nose. I think he must be one of those wild cats come down off the mountain, masquerading as a domestic short-hair. He comes to the top of the stairs and tries to meow like a regular cat, but sounds like a woman in the throes of labor pains. Maybe his daddy was some old feral tomcat, and his mammy a thing of the wild. Whatever, he's not your ordinary stray. Try to pick him up or pet him, it's like you had a big old snake in your hands, before he slithers away.

And a Funny Dream - This was several days (or nights) ago. I dreamed that someone had twin babies, a boy and a girl. Another woman kept the boy, and they gave the girl to me to raise. Sometime around the second week, I was so proud of myself: the girl baby was clean and fat, done up in one of those improved Pampers they make nowadays, sucking on a clean sterilized bottle of formula. I flattered myself that I had almost taught her to talk, because when I talked to her she smiled and grunted, etc. I told her, "Your brother's mom is going to be jealous when she sees what a good job I'm doing!" I was about to change her diaper, when the little boy twin came to the door, grinning and bowing. I thought, "What the--!" He was dressed in tiny jeans and a tee shirt, and asked in perfect English if my little girl could come out to play.

The Torn Curtain

I go along thinking nothing bad can happen to me, as if there's a protective shield between me and harm. Well, somebody found a hole in it yesterday about 5:30 p.m. I was coming out of CVS into the near-empty parking lot about dark, with my keys and wallet in my left hand and several bags in my right, when a tall skinny person in an Alabama jacket and red cap came up and said, "Do you have a few dollars I can have to buy gas?" While I stood there with my mouth open, she snatched my wallet out of my hands, broke two of my fingernails, and skedaddled around the back of the stores.
~
All that rigamarole, the police are pretty sure they know the person, blah blah, and I'm using a copy of the police report as a driver's license. I'm thankful she didn't slam me upside the head with something, and I feel like it was all my fault. If I had gone to Quilt Guild with Susan yesterday,--no, it could have happened anyway, because I'd probably have gone to the store after we got home. Well, into each l. some r. must fall.
~
A pretty picture or two to mend my mood:

Snow memories

I made a tiny snowman yesterday and put him in the freezer. But he turned into a pillar of ice and broke in two at the waist.

The sky is falling!

"I saw it with my eyes, and heard it with my (good) ear, and some of it fell on my head!"

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Robert James Fischer

March 4, 1943 - January 17, 2008

"...the old men know when an old man dies."

If we had some eggs, we could have some ham and eggs, if we had some ham.

Why is everything so slow today? I've been sitting here since 9:00 trying to list a few books, and it takes forever to get the internet to do anything, and then half the time I've asked for the wrong thing. On days like this, I should just go back to bed, but I did that yesterday. Now I've got to pack one book and go to the post office. I'll drive slow. Slowly? No, slow. Well, slowly, too.


9:08 p.m. I made the jumbo skillet full of cubed steak and gravy, just because Monday in an unwary moment I bought about 3 pounds of the beef. Well, it was pretty good--of course, I didn't eat it all. After all, it isn't apple pie. Anyway, I've got food now for a few days, so let it snow! Did you hear that, weather man? Snow!

When I went to the P.O., after driving about a block, I saw ice accumulating at the end of the wiper blades, and after that, sleet and/or frozen rain peppered me all the way there and back. I love it. I especially love it when I'm inside this nice warm house.

I fixed the cats a facility in the basement so they don't have to go out in the weather. Mo understands, but I'm not sure about the Wilder; he came in shaking rain and ice off his fur.

I watched Brubaker this afternoon on TV. Disturbing. Apparently it was based on a true story. I had never watched it before. Morgan Freeman was so young. And there was a guy in it that I thought was Patrick Swayze in his youth, but it was another fellow with a similar face.

Food

I was mistaken on the whereabouts of the Masolino painting: It's in the National Gallery in Washington, DC, and I did see it. It's in the set of art books I bought there in 1960. But I don't remember seeing the real painting.

Today I've done laundry, mostly, and a dab of necessary shopping. Last night I made soup for dinner, with chicken bouillon, lots of vegetables, a few bow-tie pastas, and lots of spices and Louisiana hot sauce. It was good, but somehow not as tasty as the potful I made last week. I make enough soup to last two days, usually on Friday evenings. The week after Christmas, I made cream of chicken soup: potatoes, carrots, broccoli tips and onion cooked in seasoned chicken broth until they came all to pieces and just made thick soup, then added a cup of skim milk. That was THE best soup I've ever made. When I make something good, I ought to sit down right then and write down the recipe, so I'll know how to do the same thing next time.

I could always cook pretty well (after I got married and observed my mother-in-law's cooking for a few years), but I didn't especially enjoy the act of cooking. Since retiring and living by myself, it has been a relief not to have to cook. But lately I want to cook something almost every day. Last week I made a medium-sized apple pie and, with extraordinary restraint, ate the whole thing in two days. That's why I haven't made the orange layer cake I've been intending to make ever since before Christmas; I'm afraid I'll eat it all, and gain another ten pounds.

Daddy used to like what he called orange cake. I don't remember if it was actually orange cake, or just white cake with orange filling and glaze. Man, I wish I could see him now. I would make him eggs over-easy, fried potatoes with tomatoes on top, at least half a pound of bacon fried crisp, fried bananas, fresh coffee, about a quart of orange juice, and I can't remember if it was biscuits or toast--this is a breakfast I cooked for him one time in Huntsville, when he stopped by on his way to Kentucky to pick up Mama from Pat's house. I kept cooking and setting food on the table while we talked ninety-to-nothing, the longest conversation he and I ever had, and he ate every bite and drank every drop.

2008 Project

I've always wanted to make a quilt based on this, one of my favorite paintings. So tonight I'm going through my voluminous scads of cloth and scraps, trying to find suitable fabrics. This is Masolino da Panicale's idea of the Archangel Gabriel. I wish I could see the real painting, but it's somewhere in Italy and I'm here.
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Sometimes when I'm doing something else, I suddenly get the urgent desire to quilt. Then I usually get out that leaf quilt that's almost finished, and I pull it and tug it, trying to smooth out an unquilted area that I've managed to bunch up, with stitching on both sides. I've even pulled out a lot of stitches, and I still can't get it smoothed down. When I get irritated with it, I fold it up and put it back on the stack, and wait another few months.
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But I think the thing to do is go ahead and quilt my other tops, or make something new, and just go around the snag of the leaf quilt.
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Our book club selection today was The Time Traveler's Wife. Susan remarked that the older a person gets, the more his life is compacted and the faster his time goes. "I know," she said, "that I don't have as much time in a day to do things as I used to have." I heartily agree with that. Sometimes I try scheduling things I want to do, like writing or sewing or sketching, like "do this for two hours without stopping." But before I can get well started, I find I've been at whatever it is for four or five hours and haven't made much progress.
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In the past, I have made several mini-quilts in two days (each), doll quilts in one day; made clothes, including shoes, for a doll in a couple or three evenings after work. Now, some days, I can't even hold a needle; it feels as if my finger have about doubled in size. Besides that, sewing machines have always hated me, and lately they positively try to hurt me, and often succeed.
~
Anyway, I'm going to try very hard to make this angel quilt, because I've thought about it for so long.

You never miss it till it's gone.

I watched Judge Judy while eating lunch, because that's the only TV channel I could get. The Charter man came this morning and installed the converter box. He handed me a new remote and a brochure of instructions, and said, "Do you have any questions?" Duh!

All I could puzzle out was how to put new batteries in the remote, should it ever need them.

I'll just have to wait for my electronics tutor's next visit from Atlanta.

He touched my heart

He would be 73 today.

Cold piercing gaze of the artist

Way to go, Reed Daniel!

(Is this his Chinese period?)

OK, now I'm ready.

This afternoon I made a run to the store for four of the five basic food groups: cat food, cigarettes, Coca-Cola and coffee (the fifth is Vlasic kosher dill sandwich stackers, but I'm pretty well stocked up on those).

During the trip, I realized I'm hankering to get to work on the rewrite. I've divided the Ms up into what I hope are manageable chunks, and tomorrow I'm going to work on Chunk 1. I know pretty much how to do it, having spent about six weeks chasing it around and around in my head. Thanks to Ramey and Jed for reading the first draft and making valuable, thought-provoking comments--and even just plain provoking comments.

Post-holiday blahs

Almost reminiscent of post-partum blues. Keep telling myself, all you have to do is get a bin and put it in the living room, and every time you go through there, put something in the bin. But all that wrapping, and deciding what to put on the bottom and what on the top. Better idea: Put every-other item in the garbage can.

At least I'm exercising every day. And selling a few books. And the kitchen floor has never been cleaner since First Man walked on it.