Chicken Bella

No, I don't have a pretty chicken, or even a picture of one. But Jed and I ate lunch at Ruby Tuesday's today, and I had a dish called Chicken Bella. It was enough to turn one into a gourmet, or even a gourmand. Grilled chicken with a parmesan sauce full of baby portobello mushrooms and artichokes. Not fond of broccoli? Just dip an edge of it in that sauce and wow! And mashed potatoes with chives, white cheddar and bacon bits. And when we were finished, our waitress had the nerve to mention cheesecake. If I ate like that every day, I would get terminally enormous, but I'd die happy.

Yesterday Jed came over, and we discussed and made a list of everything we needed for a garden to plant my poor tomato and pepper plants: how many cubic yards of dirt (he's a whiz at turning 4 x 8 x .5 feet into cubic yards without a pencil and paper), whether to choose a wood or brick frame, how to keep the crows and squirrels out. Suddenly Jed said, "Do we really want to do this?" And I said, "Heck, no, I wish I had never planted the rotten little seeds. Let's put the tomatoes and peppers in planters. We'll plant the flowers around the mailbox and let them fend for themselves." So that's what we did.

Then after a supper of peanuts, leftovers, and the meatloaf I made Friday night, we watched "Legends of the Fall," which neither of us had seen in years, and which is one of the best movies ever made. (Sister Trois gave me the DVD one day last week. She's a good kid.)

Fifteen Books in 15 Minutes

My sister Susan tagged me to list 15 books that will always stick with me. The trick is, I have to do this in 15 minutes. So, I'll start now.

1. Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell
2. China Court, by Rumer Godden
3. A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
4. The Once and Future King, by T.H. White
5. The Education of Little Tree, by Forrest Carter
6. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte
7. The Razor's Edge, by W. Somerset Maugham
8. Le Morte D'Arthur, by Thomas Malory
9. David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens
10. Portrait of Jennie, by Robert Nathan
11. The Black Cauldron, by Lloyd Alexander
12. Ahab's Wife, by Sena Jeter Naslund
13. Kim, by Rudyard Kipling
14. Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
15. The Confessions of Saint Augustine

Those are not in any particular order, and I listed them in 10 minutes. And I trust the Bible will stick with all of us when all else is forgotten. I know if I read over that list, I'll kick myself for leaving out _____________________ and ____________________. It should have been 20 books, or 50.

I notice some of mine are also on Susan's list. I hope my sister Ramey lists hers.

This beautiful moth lit on the deck door outside, then disappeared. I ran and got the camera, came back and opened the door, and it flew into the house. After it flopped around and I took a few photos, I opened the door and it flew out.


(Added May 29, 5:50 p.m.) The name of it, if I remember right, is a luna moth.

I think it was Walt Whitman who wrote, "...I could turn and live with the animals." Sometimes I feel that I could, too, if it wasn't necessary to live in a house.

Added Monday, June 1: After I had written the above, the moth got into the house again, and I chased it all around the kitchen trying to get it outside, but it lit somewhere and I couldn't find it. Then Saturday, Jed spotted the moth flopping around on the carpet in the living room. He herded it toward the front door and finally got it to go outside.

Summer Is Icumen In

And I'm done with the wigs, except for fun. If you see my pink scalp shining through what's left of the hair, just think of the old saying "less is more." In my case, the less hair, the more coolth.

Thunderation. Even though I cringe, squint and grow faint in the sunshine (not to mention sweat), I think it has rained just about enough this month, thanks a lot. The basement is still dry, and I'd like for it to stay that way.

The lilies of the valley are growing like weeds, that is six of the ten that I planted. I think the others are dead, but time will tell. Breck's still hasn't shipped my astilbe.

There's an ant heap in the slight bank in front of my mailbox, and this afternoon the inside of the mailbox, including all the mail in it, was covered with ants and their eggs. They must have been working all weekend to transport all that stuff up the post. Fortunately, only one piece of mail was a keeper, a book I had ordered from Bookins. I left the mailbox open, hoping the next shower will wash the ants away. Weird things have been happening with all this rain, such as soap suds coming out of the tap in the kitchen.

***

(Added about 5:30 p.m.): When I went to the post office today, out of the corner of my eye I saw a gentleman at the big counter in the lobby. I said, "Hi!" and he laughed and said hi back. Then I saw that it wasn't Vann, but looked a bit like him. He said, "I bet you thought I was my brother."

I said, "For a second, I thought you were Vann Cleveland. Are you his brother?" He said no, and told me his and his brother's names, but of course I forgot the names immediately. He said he surely was sorry about Vann's illness, and I said me, too and told him Vann's my brother-in-law and who I am. He said his brother is married to Jane Wright, so we're all related in some fashion.

The Mole Who Came In From the Cold

Yesterday I was watching Starman, when I saw this tiny barrel-shaped body run under the TV cabinet. I started to climb on a chair and say, "Eeek, it's a mouse!" But it almost had no ears at all and just a little twig of a tail. Ever since then, Mo and I have been trying to catch it, but don't know what we'd do with it if we did. It has run into Mo's feet several times, then turns around and scoots back under something. He chased (or followed) it, all around the East Wing last night.

The back yard was almost totally flooded at one point yesterday, but there was no water in the basement. So I guess the little critter found its way under the garage door or through a hole somewhere. But how did it get up the stairs?

In the past few days, I've read The Gravedigger's Daughter, and People of the Whale, both very excellent books. (Both are future selections for the book club, so I hope I don't forget too many details in the interim.) In between, I read Rebeccca of Sunnybrook Farm for the first time. And then I watched Starman, which is incomparable. But as antidote to all this sweetness, I feel like taking another go at Herodotus's History, or at least a few good murders.

A Bird Adventure

The Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, now thought to be extinct. Julius and I got lost in Tennessee or North Carolina one time in the 60s. One of these flew out of the woods and over our heads. We could see it perfectly from underneath, and caught a glimpse of red on the head as it flew into the woods on the other side of the clearing that we were lost in. It was as big as a hawk or bigger, and its undescribable call was like it was coming through a loudspeaker. We heard it first and looked up; that's why we saw it so clearly for a few seconds.

We were so excited, we finally found our car before we could find our voices.

The little red-headed woodpecker that frequents my back yard is prettier, just not so big.

Hypercritical Me

On the Amazon Soapbox, in a discussion of the Darwinius masillae primate skeleton, I found another priceless example of someone's taking a cliche that they didn't understand in the first place, and twisting it into something hysterical: "While all the clock and dagger?"

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Every day I promise myself that tomorrow, I'm going to hop out of bed and into the shower and get ready to do wonders--whether in literature, home maintenance, landscape architecture or fine art. Then next day I find myself at 3:30 p.m. hovering over the danged computer. Whoever invented it ought to get at least a couple upside the head. It all started with Lord Byron's daughter Ada and a male friend of hers--they invented the first computer, if you don't count the abacus. Called it a "difference engine." Those cussed Byrons were too smart for their own good. Lord Byron had the biggest brain ever recorded, and, I've read, about the (estimated) second highest IQ (next to Einstein)--and look where it got him! For that matter, look where it got Einstein.

Which reminds me that Dr. Britt Anderson, while I worked at UAB, read that Harvard Med. was going to dispose of its samples of Einstein's brain, and any medical center could have it that would ask. Britt called up Harvard and got them to send him a jarful. Looked exactly like pickled cauliflower.

This is the Difference Engine. Don't know why it won't load right-side up.

This is Augusta Ada Byron Lovelace.

Morning's minion

"'The Windhover'

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth in swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, --the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.


-- Gerard Manley Hopkins"


Between rain showers this morning, I saw a pair of tufted titmice (titmouses?) at a puddle by the roses in back. (This photo is from the internet, I think the Cornell Ornithology Lab.) One day when I lived in the Oak Trail apartment, a pair of them sat on my balcony rail and sang. Of course, they're not falcons, but they are little birds with big voices.

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I planted the lily-of-the-valley bulbs--sprouts, actually; they sprouted in the bag of dirt they were shipped in. It took two bags of Miracle Gro to fill up the big planter, but it was big enough to place them 4-6 inches apart. They're supposed to be tough as nails, so maybe I won't kill them.

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I've also got my entry ready for ASPS's John and Miriam Morris chapbook contest. The prize is $100 and 50 copies of the book, if one should win. Now all I need is a book title.

Hey, Mr. or Ms. Weatherperson!

I've got lots of running-around to do today, and here it is raining off and on, which makes me want to go back to bed. But I can't. I've got to go buy dirt to fill up the big planter, to plant bulbs. Also, Mo is out of cat food again, and he hasn't yet learned to drive the car, so I'll have to go.
*
Jed came by yesterday and we celebrated Mother's Day. He gave me 3 movies on DVD, and the neatest thing--a big round brush with a telescoping handle! Imagine what-all I can do with that, and besides, it's blue! I gave him a room and bed for the night, after we watched "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button." (Brad Pitt will never look the same to me.) This morning Jed headed back to his Atlantical home.
*****
(8:30 p.m.) So I went and bought dirt. I had made a resolution, that any time I was in a fabric store or department, I would only buy one piece of fabric. So I got the pink dots for my Camilla quilt.

But the blue is so perfect for my Una quilt that I'm going to make. Now that I've got started, at least I'm pretty sure that the tops will be finished someday.

Rotten little squirrels!

They scratch in my flower pots and scatter my little plants, dang their destructive hides. That's probably what happened to most of the flowers I've ever planted in the yard, and how a daffodil appears here and there where no flower has any business to be. Guess I'll have to make some kind of a Scare-Squirrel and put it on the porch in front of the plants.

The mail carrier delivered my lily-of-the-valley bulbs Saturday. I'm afraid to put them out, until I've fixed up some kind of squirrel-deterrent. I know the squirrels are the culprits, because the first time it happened, I heard a flower pot fall and looked out the door, and Mo was chasing one off the deck. That is, Mo was sitting by the door watching one scamper off the deck.

They're the cutest little critters I about ever saw. They sit upright, usually facing the house, to eat, and their white undersides look like tiny white snowmen scattered around the yard. They're almost as pretty as flowers, anyway. If they came in assorted colors, I'd just forget about the flowers.

How fragrant the rose...

I fear this may be the swan song of this rose. There's only one cane. Maybe if I cut it down this fall, it'll sprout some new growth. That one has certainly put on a show this year.

I'm host for the book club today, so I've got to get cracking.

Remembrance of Things Past

Sister Susan forwarded Isbell information she found on Ancestry.com, and I've been excited about that and following links. I've got to pack and mail a book, which I'm late mailing, which ain't good for the feedback. So I've got to get off the puter and get on the stick.

Second Post on Monday - Pictures

My sister Ramey (Pat) has been in contact with our cousin Chris Isbell for months, regarding old photographs in the collections of our relatives. He has recently emailed her copies of some of the pictures, and Pat has very kindly forwarded copies to me. Various people had labeled the original photos with the names of the people they understood were depicted. Of course, Pat and I know our Grandma and Grandpa Ramey (above), and can see that the toddler between them is our dad, Gordy Ramey. He looks just like Daddy did in teenage photos and in adulthood. Pat's grandson Reed (Daddy's great-grandson, and big Reed's great-great-grandson) bears a remarkable resemblance to this picture of Gordy as a child.

Both Reed Ramey and Vettie Isbell Ramey (pictured above) were born in or around 1890, and this photo was made around 1912, so they were around 20 to 22 years old. My reason for thinking the picture was made in 1912 is that Gordy looks to be about a year to a year-and-a-half old, and he was born in 1911. (Note: This may not be correct, about their age. Their parents had to sign for them to marry, as they were under age, and I think that was in 1909. So they were probably younger in this photo than I said. Maybe 19 or 20.)

The picture at left is our grandfather, Reed Ramey (on the right), and probably one of Vettie's brothers on the left. Whoever owns the original has marked it as "Bud" (Milton Isbell), one of Vettie's brothers, and Reed. I think the brother looks more like our great-uncle Andrew, Vettie's next-to-youngest brother. Bud was much older, and this fellow looks as young as Reed, if not younger.












The original of the photo at right was marked simply "Gordy Ramey," but Pat and I agree that neither of the boys looks like Gordy, and that their clothing appears to be from an earlier generation than his. It may be that these are two of Reed's brothers. Pat points out that the little guy has Indian beads, and perhaps an additional Indian artifact, around his neck; this supports the family story that our great-grandmother Eliza Jane was an Indian (Paw Paw/Reed himself told me she was, when I was a child).




We have no idea of the identity of the three ladies below. They could be sisters of either Vettie or Reed, as Reed and Vettie's daughter Betty Lou looked a little like the one on the left; and the one in the center looks somewhat like our great-aunt, Ella Ramey Hope.

I hope that Pat, or both she and I, can get prints of these photographs. If so, I'm sure we will get multiples and distribute them. I have very strange reactions looking at them, as if I ought to be able to reach in and touch these dear people. The little boy with the Indian beads looks a tiny bit like Douglas, and I want to know who it is. The boys could possibly turn out to be Gordy (big boy) and Douglas (little one), but I would be extremely surprised.

The hurrier I go, the behinder I get!

I spent most of the weekend quilting but still didn't finish my project. Also watched the tornadoes bouncing around Alabama on TV, and spent a few minutes in the basement while a big wind of some description passed over here.

All my seeds that I sprouted looked hardy until I put them in planters on the porch. Now most of them are dead, but I think a few will make it, if I can keep them from drowning. (See the very bottom of this blog for the seed packets; I think I've saved some of everything except the delphiniums and the Chinese lanterns.) Need to get out there and dig around to make garden space for them, and try to do the thing right. Watching Jerry (in the little yellow house next door) make 3 excellent garden plots has shown me how to do it. He got his all done and planted before our recent rainy days set in.

I can get along pretty well in the daytime, keeping myself busy with this and that. But in the evenings, when I settle down and try to find something on TV worth looking at, I get the strongest urge to write. Really don't know why; I think I've demonstrated about a million times that I don't have much of a tale to tell. Probably, what I need to do is stop comparing my writing to the books I read. Just do it because I want to. I guess. I don't know. Dammitall. Or 90% of it.

The bloomin' season

I think the white rose is a JFK.

The peonies that I planted 3-4 years ago have decided to bloom--at least one of them has.

***

Regarding Ahab's Wife, or The Stargazer, by Sena Jeter Naslund. The ending, consisting of the last hundred pages or so, falls rather flat after the amazing, incredible rest of the book. I think she should have stopped with the death of Ahab, but that's just me. All I can say in summary is Wow! If I could write like that--if I could write like that--I'd never do anything else, I would just write, let it pour.

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"(But do you know me? Una? You have shipped long with me in the boat that is this book. ...If I am your shipbuilder and captain, from time to time I am also your comrade. Feel me now, standing beside you, just behind your shoulder?)"

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and

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"If you meet a woman of whatever complexion who sails her life with strength and grace and assurance, talk to her! And what you will find is that there has been a suffering, that at some time she has left herself for hanging dead."