Smell the roses

The roses are really gorgeous this year. The white one is a John F. Kennedy, and I forgot the name of the yellow ones, but they remind me of Mama's old Peace rose.

Got to go check on my pot of great northern beans!

Sister and Tab

I woke up this morning thinking about the November novel. Calling it "Dolores" or "Dolly." Was "Dolly" Bobbie or Betty Lou? Anyway, then I decided to write why they were all so scared of Papa, and that would have to begin with Tab, or with Sister. So now it's all jumbled in my head again, but at least I know where it has to start.

Treasure or lemon?

The mailman rang my doorbell at 2:30 and handed me a big raggedy package. It turned out to be The Diaries of Andy Warhol, paperback but weighing more than 3 pounds, from Bookins. It's in very good condition, in spite of the plain manila envelope it was in being torn and tattered. I thought it would sell for a good price, but I should have checked it before ordering. On Amazon, the prices start at about what I paid in postage. Anyway, I listed it for $14.95. If it doesn't sell, at least I won't have to scrounge up a box big enough to mail it in. If it does sell, I'll have made about six bucks on it.

The pictures are interesting, lots of celebrities mainly from the 1970s-'80s.

I didn't think Caesar was a Native American.

From Quikshave.com: ' "50 B.C. -
In ROME, many men are following the grooming example of JULIUS CAESAR (101-44 B.C.), who has his facial hairs individually plucked out with tweezers every day." He also writes this same year that "the Britons shave every part of their body except their head and upper lip." '

JRC: Well, Caesar wasn't a very hirsute person, e.g. his early pattern baldness.

"It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience." (Julius Caesar)

Some would have needed more patience than others.

(Head of a giant statue of Hadrian.)

Did I say that?

Went to bed early last night, but Mo woke me up about 4 a.m. After some coffee and breakfast, I spent hours searching Britannica and the old literature books, trying to find out why I said Caesar plucked his beard instead of shaving. Romans had been shaving with sharp instruments for at least 300 years before Julius Caesar was born. I don't know where I got the idea.

At last, Woods, Watts and Anderson's The Literature of England, Volume I, fell open to Beowulf, so I spent a couple of hours reading that, thinking of Beowulf and his companions as depicted in the movie, The Thirteenth Warrior. I had forgot what a wonderful (and readable) story it is. I also read the footnotes, which is why it took so long.

Someday I'll rewrite the last stanza of the poem, restoring his razor or barber to Caesar. Britannica stated, "Caesar was not, and is not, lovable." I thought that was amusing--as if a person whose brain travels about 90 mph, 24/7 his entire life, has time to worry about being lovable.

Snow Tree

The dogwood is so thick with blooms, it looks like it's covered with snow.

An Old Head

So little hair is there! Within reside
great pompadours of hair, French braids, chignons,
neat powdered queues, full-bottomed periwigs,
and baby curls in rose and azure ribbon.

While outside, here and there begin the hairs
to sprout and businesslike to grow and curl,
but strayed from up to down--on chin, pure white,
but dark beneath the nose--pursued and tweezed.

Recall how Caesar shaved, plucked hair by hair--
painful necessity! The Roman relish
for anyone's discomfort, yours or mine,
we must adopt. Rue hair, remember Rome.

(By JRC 4/16-17/08)

Fronk-en-shteen and Smart Alec

I watched Alec Baldwin interviewing Gene Wilder. Good show. Learned stuff I didn't know. For instance, Gene Wilder and Gilda Radner were married when she died. Wilder will be 75 years old in June; he looks about 95. A.B. has grown so fat, you can hardly see his eyes.

Steve came today and mowed the lot. He said he means to put some topsoil and grass seed on the low spot in the yard so the grass will grow. I didn't tell him not to; need to discuss with Jed.

The Good, the Bad, and the Scary

The good was the book club meeting yesterday afternoon at the library. Mable, Peggy, Susan, Pat and Jean attended. Great meeting. Afterward, I went by the P.O. and mailed a book. I started selling books on Amazon in August 2006. I've had 300 sales, and have more books now than when I started. That just doesn't listen right.

The bad was how totally exhausted I felt after the meeting. I slept from ~5 o'clock until the lights went out, and then spent an hour or so wandering around in the dark, finding the flashlight, lighting candles, then blowing them out when the power came back on, then sleeping until nine or ten this morning. The storms were the scary part; they were all over Alabama last night, and the Fox News site has hundreds of photos of clouds, rainbows, hail, and damage.

After heavy rain here, my lot is well drained except for the very lowest spot in the back yard.

Chopin Etude Opus 10, No. 3

This is the best recording anyone had posted of this piece on Youtube, although the old guy looks and moves like a zombie. He plays it as Chopin wrote it down. Mrs. Rogers always said that was the best way to play any composer's work. I had heard this etude (in a Cornell Wilde movie), but didn't know the name of it, when I was taking piano from Mrs. Rogers, and I tried and tried to communicate to her what it was, and to get her to get the sheet music for me, but she couldn't recognize my picking out the melody on the piano.

I'm all uptight about having the club meeting at the library--what can I serve them for snacks? Have no idea. All I can think of is cheese and crackers and wine. I could live on those three items, myself, though I don't know for how long. Mable is coming and is reading the book for the second time. I love Mable, although her accent reminds me of Mary Riley {{{{shudder}}}}. Actually, I loved Mary, too, but we had some merry go-arounds in my early days with Social Security.

Mary was the office supervisor in Selma. One day I was hunched over my desk, totally absorbed in a file, and ker-bang! Mary slammed a stack of files down on my desk. I caught myself, standing with the Scotch-tape holder drawn back like Tom Glavine about to deliver one at her back as she walked away. All eyes except Mary's were on me, when I realized, uh-uh, we don't clout the supe. Mary read "Gerth" (that's how she pronounced Goethe; I've never pronounced it myself, and don't plan to).

The picture is of me in Selma, about 1978.

Is this still Wednesday? I better go to bed.

Feeling Pretty Good Over Very Little

I've got this upbeat, sort of expectant feeling, like something good is going on. All that has happened lately is that I've removed about three bushels of old papers and magazines from my office, and put all my books in alphabetical order by author or editor, and am getting ready to clean the carpet or call old Dave to clean it. Also thinking about losing these old plastic window blinds. Got to call old Steve to come mow the weeds. Am I cleaning because I feel good, or do I feel good because I'm cleaning? There's a tune that fits that question. From Gigi, I think.

Small Cozy Club Meeting?

Monday, Apr. 7, 10:30 a.m. - Well, I got sidetracked last night when I started this post. What it is, Saturday I notified the Bookmarkers that our meeting this week will be at the library meeting room. Betty White said she'd be out of town, and she doubted that Jean could come because of her husband's problems. Nell said she couldn't come, Mary U. called and said she and Walter are going camping. That still leaves enough for a quorum, I guess. The book is that pesky (fascinating) Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, and I hope Susan and I aren't the only ones who read it.

I've started reading December 6 by Martin Cruz Smith. Apparently it isn't about the Russian guy but an American no-good named Harry Niles, sort of ex-patriated to Japan.

The library still doesn't have A Season of Fire and Ice, and it isn't on Amazon. Maybe I dreamed it.

Re: Mozart's "Musical Joke" - Explanation

In the explanation that I found on this Mozart piece, it's stated that he was imitating the way starlings sing, including the flat notes and the changing tempos. (He had a pet starling that died, and this piece was written shortly after he threw an elaborate funeral for the bird.)
~
I've heard a different and more plausible possible explanation, which is that he was making fun of other composers' musical styles. This may have been in the movie "Amadeus," but I don't know where it came from. Maybe Richard Hoover.
~
Either explanation works, considering who composed this crazy, funny piece.
~
Speaking of funerals for pets, Lord Byron forced all his servants and guests (read hangers-on) to attend the funeral of Boatswain, his Newfoundland dog. The inscription on the headstone is a long boring poem, ending with these lines:
~
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies.

Painting the roses yellow...

Not just the roses, everything around here has a thick coat of pollen. And my sinuses feel like I've been breathing mud instead of air, not to mention the drip, drip, drip. And not to mention the temperature going up to 80 today and adding to the discomfort.

I'm reading a book called American Indian Mythology. Just finished Twisted Hair, a Cherokee story--I read it quickly today, because I got an order for it and hadn't read it yet. It's amazing how the different tribes had (or have) different myths, but they all seem to have a Grandmother Spider. Maybe it was the displacement of so many tribes by the palefaces that mixed them all up, plus the mixing in of Christianity. Twisted Hair was a wandering stranger whose long hair was twisted into ropes and bound with buckskin; he traveled the Southeast warning the people that the end of the world, i.e., the coming of the white man, was imminent. This book didn't offer any references, so it may just be something the author made up. It's OK with me, because I sold it for thirty-something dollars.

This afternoon, Mo and Wilder were under the deck howling like banshees at a pretty blue-gray short-haired cat, who finally walked calmly out to the back of the lot, sat down under a tree and refused to budge. My neighbor Rev. Mark was picking up dead limbs and twigs under my west-side trees, I don't know why. Anyway, we remarked on all the stray cats in this neighborhood, and he mentioned the orange cat that I called Conrack and Mark's wife called Cosmo, who disappeared I think it was two years ago. It's nice to know someone else who likes cats well enough to remember the name of a stray for two years after it moves on.

The story of the Rainbow Bridge comes to mind. How sweet it would be someday, to see Monty, the black mama cat, Carly, Chink, Bob, Bear Bryant, Socks, Mus, Misty, Griffin, Conrack, and little Darcy come running to meet me. Bob would lag behind, trying to pretend it wasn't a big deal to him. (I would probably be carrying Mo.)

Think about Doug, if Tony met him.