So long, April, and thanks for all the blooms.

Here's the chipmunk. When I got a little closer, he disappeared down the stump.

The white peony isn't as doubled and full as the pink ones.

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The old hydrangeas are full of buds. Can't wait for them to bloom out!

On Humility

On Humility: To a Squirrel in the Ivy Tree

Close to the black bole
sit, and catlike hiss
at sparrows, scold
a bold blue jay.
Climb high--
though branches sway,
your foothold never misses;
to your eye
the ends of boughs
are pathways, firm as houses,
built to stroll.

Proximity to sky
should keep you humble, though;
remember, all your kind
are sure of foot; with similar speed
(at will, as in elusive flight)
the multitudes proceed,
and, unafraid of letting go,
through high noon light
all dance the insubstantial air.
Leap, dash--but be aware
some squirrels really fly.

By JRC, June 24, 2001

Quotations

Aristotle: It is the mark of an educated man to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.:
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George Burns: Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.
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Winston Churchill: History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.
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Rodney Dangerfield: Life is just a bowl of pits.
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Ralph Waldo Emerson: Children are all foreigners.
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Gandhi: Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
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Joe Gores: Old age means realizing you will never own all the dogs you wanted to. [See top photo.]
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John Lennon: Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.
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Oscar Wilde: I was working on ... one of my poems all the morning, and I took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.
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Rose Nylund: You never know how much you love a man till you see him streaking toward the earth, trying to grab a bird.
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Almost Sorry I Found It

The Listeners, when I read it in the magazine a long time ago, was just a story, which is the first part of this whole novel-length thing. He should have left it alone, but no, he had to go and make a novel out of a good story. Then Carl Sagan came along, took the thesis and wrote a better novel (Contact), but not as good a story as "Robert MacDonald," the first part of this novel. James Gunn was still alive in 2008; maybe he still is. But Carl isn't, at least not here.

Arecibo is in Puerto Rico, not Peru. I get those P countries mixed up.

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I brought in some flowers that the wind was whipping around. The rain was a blessing, although the storms had tragic consequences elsewhere.

Searching for an old science fiction story

The setting was the Arecibo radio telescope observatory in Peru, or a place like it. The narrator was a lonely man, director of the project, whose wife didn't want to be there. One of the quotations in the story was from Dante: "In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself in a dark wood..." The author must not have been one of the now-better-known or remembered ones, because I can't remember who it was. I thought Ross Rocklynne or Thomas Disch, but I can't find it by either of them.

It was published in one of the pulp SF magazines that were popular in the 1950s to 1970s, before Asimov's series.

It's one of the best SF stories I've ever read. Does anyone else remember it?

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Later: I found it! It's a novella, The Listeners, by James Gunn. I ordered it on "Kindle for PC."

Barley and bean soup

It came in a package, and I hope it turns out as good as it sounds.

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Thurs. evening: The soup was pretty good, but the little cornbread pancakes I made to go with it were scrrrrrumptious!

Back on the Bay

I've resumed listing some stuff on eBay, and there's a link to my site in the left column of this blog. At present there are only three items on it, but I plan to add an item every day.

If any of my kin has a deep desire for, or sentimental attachment to, any listed items, please let me know and I'll remove them from eBay and you can have them gratis. I've got plenty more to list.

The wall pocket vases were Jenny's, the Harvard mug belonged to Julius, and the mini-quilt top was made by MER, quilted by me.

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In addition to my TV being fixed, my disposal in one of the sinks healed itself. I think there was probably a bone or something stuck in the blades, which finally came loose. Anyway, it works again, for the first time in 2-3 or more years.

Soup's on!

I've got a pot of chicken-vegetable soup on the stove, but I'm too hungry to wait for it to simmer long enough. I'll probably eat an orange or some peanuts to hold me until a decent dinner hour.

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I've got several peony plants with big buds; hope they open up nicely instead of shriveling, as some of them did last year. The hydrangea plants all survived the winter and are leafing out, the six I planted last year plus three or four old plants. I hardly expect the new ones to bloom, they're so small, but you never know until it happens or doesn't.

Better days ahead

At least regarding my prescriptions. Co-pay on the new one is only five bucks, rather than the thirty I was paying on the old one. And my foot seems to be OK for now.

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When I went to get my prescription filled, I had to wait, so I ran up to Sonics and got a big milk shake. This hot weather will probably see me drinking lots of big icy things, when I can stand the heat enough to go get 'em.

Back to the grindstone

Today I'm going back to writing four hours a day, no matter what happens. If the doorbell rings, I may peek out the window to see if I recognize a car on the curb, but I won't get up unless it's the President. If it's the police, they can break the door down, but I'll still pound these keys until they drag me out.

As a reward, I'm going to put a fresh flower or bouquet on my desk every day when I've done my writing time.

That little Aynsley vase in the photo is one I brought from England for my mother. I reclaimed it after she passed away.

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Something odd: I posted last week about the doctor's report on my blood work, about how everything was copasthetic, better than last checkup. Then yesterday he phoned and said he had got my blood work back, and it was good but there were a few minor problems. My immunoglobulin was low (I think that means my resistance to infection), my bad cholesterol was a bit high and my good c. a bit low, etc., etc. I said thank you very much for letting me know.

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I have pondered this, and I think what happened is that he (on the phone) was reading my results from my checkup last year instead of the one from last week. Something like that has happened before, when he would turn too many pages in my chart and ask me if I was still taking some med he had discontinued long ago. Curious.

Empty Houses

Somebirdy threw away a perfectly good nest. Or maybe the wind, or a vandal bird, dislodged it.

I added it to the row of town-birdhouses on the porch rail.
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Here's my first rose, just opening.

The other day I saw a bird fly up to a tree with what looked like a whole Kleenex in its beak. There ought to be a poem in that.
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I almost forgot. My TV won't work. The cable box won't come on, and all I get without it is static. I checked to see if it's unplugged, and it wasn't. I tried all my many remote controls, and nothing seems to work. I thought if I left it alone for 24 hours, it might heal itself, but it didn't.

Weds., 4/14/10 - The cable box was dead. They brought me a new one.

What's In a Name? ("A possum by any other name...")

One of the hardest things about writing, to me, is naming my characters. The first three books I wrote were "romance" novels. The heroine of the first one was named Liz, a big part-Hispanic girl based on someone I knew. The second was Sandra Scott, nicknamed Scotty. The third girl was so obnoxious, I can't even remember her name.

The fourth book was that NaNoWriMo November novel in 2007; it started out on The Mountain, and my aunt Betty Lou was the main person. I never got around to thinking up a different name to call her. Young Douglas was the best character in that book, and he didn't have a book name, either. This is the one I need to rewrite and try to market, but it'll have to have about another 50,000 words to explain World War Two and the ending, which I just sort of sketched in. Great-Grandma Missouri Ella was great in this book, too; her bonnet strings kept getting in her plate. She made a quilt for everybody she liked, and her kin made her dresses and bonnets out of the prettiest feed sacks.

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The one I'm writing now, I'll talk about so far as to tell the twins' names (unless I change them), Jane and Tracey. And a little demon named Peyton.

Another busy day

Book club meets today. I've got to scrape up something to wear, also shop for some snacks and beverages since I'm the hostess. This morning I scanned through the book again to refresh my memory, and I'm going to gather up some small quilts to display. I need to return a movie that Jed and I rented Tuesday.

When I get all this stuff done and get home this afternoon, I'm going to go to bed for the duration of the weekend. I looked up plantar fascitis on the internet, and I'm going to do what it says, starting with a couple of days off my feet and doing the exercises Dr. G. recommended. Then when I can walk a little better, I'll hunt up a good orthotic and probably a pair of old-lady shoes to wear it in. Walking with Jed this week, I got right irritated with myself, taking 3-4 little short hopping steps to his one and not being able to keep up with him. I'm thankful for my good health, but something irritating like this puts me in an ill humor, sometimes.

If I don't sleep all weekend, I've got a couple of good books to read.

Recovering nicely

Yesterday Jed and I drove to The Kirklin Clinic early, where I got my blood drawn so they could send the results to the M.D.'s office. Then we went up the street to a new cafe I've forgotten the name of and ate lunch (breakfast for me after fasting), then back to the Clinic for my 2:20 appointment. I had a list of complaints, and Dr. G. laughed when he saw "wart on forehead," but he didn't say anything to do about it. Come to think of it, it does look sort of distinguished. On the serious side, all my numbers were favorable. My LDLs were low, and my HDLs were high. We decided I didn't have to go back on the cholesterol med, which I haven't taken in the last six months anyway. My cholesterol, which wasn't very high in the first place, was down 20 points.

After mashing my foot with his bear-like paw and making me holler, he said I had plantar fascitis, which I understand is something like toothache in my heel. He told me some exercises to do, and to get a thingy to go in my shoe, and if it's not better in a couple of weeks, call him and he'll refer me to the real foot doctors.

Jed went back to Atlanta after lunch today, at which we finished up a pork loin with sandwiches and half a cantaloupe. He's a good guy. Wears a white hat, figuratively.

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On her blog today (The Painted Possum, which see), my sister Ramey announced the publication in May of her book, Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge. I'm proud, and suitably jealous, and can't wait to hold a signed copy in my hands.

On the subject of books, last night I thought of something funny:

Question: What would I do if I knew I couldn't fail?
Me: Write another novel?

For some reason, that made me double up laughing. The one I'm writing now is number 5 (of first drafts). I'd do better to work on trying to make one of them publishable, instead of starting another one. I'll do that. I will, I will.

On the whole, I feel good now because I don't have to go back to the doctor until next April 7th.

Tomorrow's another day to worry about...

One bright spot: Jed will be here today and the next day and the next day--to encourage, accompany, and revive me--before, during, and after my Wednesday check-up appointment. I'd hate to be a doctor and have people dread seeing me. Some people don't dread it, I understand, old people who don't get to see many people. I'm glad I'm not old and shut in. Thanks, Lord.

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Sunday afternoon was just wonderful! We ate chicken, salads, barbecue, yams and cake. I drank a little wine to break my long Lenten abstinence. Reed was a very entertaining host, told lots of stories or incidents or something about bugs, showed the purple flowers he and Ma planted. "Quel age as-tu?" I asked him, and he said, "I'm four" (after Ma translated). About the bunny cake, he looked at me like, "You've got to be kidding me."

I'm afraid this is going to be the lost week, writingwise. Maybe Friday I'll be recovered enough to write a little. I hope. -- No, Friday's book club day, so I'll have to think about Gee's Bend.
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The other day Mable sent me a link to a wonderful song, "Going Home," to the music of Anton Dvorak's symphony. I posted it in my Music Links (in this blog's left column). They played the music during President Ford's funeral, and if I can find a cd or dvd of it, I want to arrange to have the song played at mine, if I should ever have one. I'm sure Gerry wouldn't mind my copying. He was a lovely man, though as a president, opinions vary.

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I remember these

flowers from my childhood, when Daddy and Alfred built the house in Irondale for Iris and Alfred. Granny lived with them, and she had banks of these tiny pink flowers in the spring and summer. I don't know the name of them, but they're some kind of clover or sorrel-related plant. I've had them at lots of my houses and apartment, all descended from Granny's plants. Here, they died in the flower bed, but survive in the lawn. I guess getting cut down every 2 weeks just makes them more stubborn and spreading.

Wishing Easter Blessings To All!

Reed's bunny cake. I started to take a photo of my sugar-coated kitchen, but I can't be cute. I wanted to make a sculpture, but it turned out sort of a bas-relief.

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Tip from The Art of Cuisine (a book I haven't written yet): Don't ever try to sculpt a jelly-roll.

Eureka!

I just remembered something in my book notes that makes me happy--this is Saturday, and I don't have to write on weekends! I've been sort of shying away from the file today, but that's normal; I always dread getting started. But anyway, I don't have to overcome inertia today, or tomorrow.

I've made barbecued pork ribs, and I plan to cook a vegetable and buy some whole-wheat buns for the barbecue, and maybe make a cake. Ramey has invited me to come up there and eat Easter dinner with her and the girls and Reed Daniel, so whatever else I cook, I'll wag it up the hill.

Hard Work

I fixed my writing goal on the new novel at a thousand words a day. Yesterday it took me four hours to write that much, but today I did the same thing in little more than an hour. That's reassuring, as it looks like when I get into the story, it flows--except I'm not really into the story yet.

I spent all day yesterday in the illusion that book club would meet today, and bracing myself for the event. I guess it was just an April fool's joke on myself, because today is the first instead of the second Friday in the month, and the meeting isn't until April 9th.

Anyone who thinks writing isn't hard work may not believe it, but yesterday afternoon I was so worn out that I lay down on the sofa and slept for four hours (beside Gretchen, on her blanket). And now, having just written for an hour or so, I'm exhausted. It's like a long tramp in the woods, without the exhilaration of fresh air and exercise.

I'm keeping a hard copy of the first draft in a loose-leaf notebook. I guess I should also back it up on a CD, which I'll do when Jed shows me how again.
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I haven't abandoned the cleaning, it's just going slower than molasses in January.

L'apres-midi d'un auteur

This morning I've packed a book and an eBay package, and I have to go to the P.O. So I'll have to write in the afternoon. I also scraped skin off two fingers on a new-fangled tape dispenser with little teeth like a shark--not all the skin, just a little bit.

Starting to write a new book or story is like starting a journey, with all the aggravating minutiae connected with travel. Like deciding what to pack and knowing you'll regret it, getting to the airport without going the wrong way on their one-way streets, being sure to lock your car before leaving it.

Yesterday or the day before, I finished reading Teresa Thorne's book, Noah's Wife. It really is a good book, but I wish these Alabama authors who write about people's wives would learn the changes of the moon. They seem to think the "new" moon looks big and round and shiny, whereas you really can't see the new moon at all. Thorne even, in one place, puts horns on the "new" moon.

And I wonder how soon we'll see an Alabama author's book entitled "Beowulf's Wife" or "Stonewall Jackson's Wife."