The jo-ree is back on the windowsill. I apologized for misleading him yesterday, and told him to go about his legitimate business. This time he isn't just cheeping, he's singing a tune! If I were more superstitious, in this tumbled landscape, I would hope he's not trying to tell me something.

I've worked on the book--AGAIN!!!-- all morning. Remarks from Ramey keep sending me back to clarify and elaborate on a few points.

Stormy weather used to be something I could joke about, even sing about. But never no more! The devastation is too terrible to comprehend. I sent an email to my friend Sandra H.B., who is a consulting professor at the University. She has an apartment in Florence, Italy, which is where I hope she was when the monster rolled over Tuscaloosa. I hope to hear from her. Sandra B.H., Hoyt's widow, lives up toward Gadsden somewhere, on a lake, and I hope she's OK, too. Yesterday, when I went to see about Susan, I passed Betty Jo's and Carole M.'s houses, and they seemed to be OK. In fact, I don't think I saw any real damage on Ziegler Road or close to Susan's house.
*
I called Betty Jo, and she hadn't heard from any of our far-flung classmates. She said Sandra has children and grandchildren who live in Tuscaloosa. She also said a bunch of people were killed in a retirement home near Leeds, probably in St. Clair County, and a daughter of our 1950's police chief, John Pledger, was one of them. Betty said something about Joyce Earle, but not that she was hurt.

I also emailed Jack, but haven't heard from him yet.

Well, Come On In!

A pure-dee, Peterson-Plate-56-perfect, rufus-side towhee (jo-ree) is on my office windowsill, acting like he wants to come in. This is one of the most beautiful birds, to me; not quite as big as one of our full-grown robins. His breast is white, with a black V from his throat, like a meadowlark. The two wide sides, like a cutaway coat, are a deep terra-cotta color, and his back and tail feathers are dark gray with white spots. His head is black or dark gray, and his eyes are supposed to be red, but they look black to me. This bird has hopped around in front of these two windows for at least five minutes. I told him, "If I let you in, you'd want out again five minutes later. Just like Mo." Now he has the sun in his eyes, and they are dark orangey-red. He makes a little "cheep" whistle every few seconds, which I try to copy. Scratching fleas or mites.
*
Yesterday was Jed's birthday, which I forgot in all the tornado trauma that was going on. Tried off and on all day yesterday to call Susan, but her phone was out. I drove down there this morning to check on her, and all is well. I think she even has the power back on now.
*
Now the bird is pecking and scratching at the window-glass. What's going on here? Maybe my whistles have fooled him into thinking there's a bird in here?
*
I went outside and followed the bird with the camera, but could never get a clear shot at him. I found what he was whistling at, though--a nest in the privet hedge, with a mama bird sitting on it. I guess he thought she had somehow got behind that window-glass.

*

A tree is down in Mrs. Adams's yard, across the street. But it fell away from the house, fortunately. There are several houses on this street with trees laid across the roofs. Many people died in those tornadoes yesterday, mostly in Alabama. It's heartbreaking.

"...Scarcely/ Dare we hope oak galls."

Something has given one of the hickory trees a tremendous shake, as the bark is in strips all over the ground. I gathered up some of the bark, in hopes that one day I'll get around to redoing the dolls' house, make some rustic furniture for the garden and porches.

As for Browning's poem, I've always rather identified with Brother Lawrence. He may be, as accused, a lecher and a hypocrite, but he's certainly more likable than the narrator. I think it was in China Court that an old lady said, a little hypocrisy sometimes makes for better manners.

After I passed the age of twenty-one years, I tried very hard to stop writing in books--except for textbooks, of course. But this Patrick O'Brian novel, The Yellow Admiral, tempted me beyond endurance on two pages, and I made tiny light red marks. Forgive me, J.D.

You'd think that after 15 or so books about the same bunch of characters, the author's inventiveness would wane, not to mention the reader's enthusiasm. But, to me, these O'Brian books just get better and better.

Tracy's son Aaron is out there cutting the weeds/grass again. Got to go see if I've got enough wherewithal to pay him.

Airs Above the Ground

Okay, so here are Jenny's horse blocks, all laid out and ready to be stripped together. It took a week just to get the strips cut, but first it took a lot of thinking, which accounted for most of the time. I thought about sewing the quilt top together, then taking it to a quilt conservator or something to get it cleaned without wrinkling the horses or disturbing the embroidery. But I'll probably just finish the top, put it together and quilt it, then spend a day hand-washing and smoothing until it gets dry. There won't be much quilting on the horse blocks, so it should turn out all right. I want to embroider something on the sashing, inspired by a quilt of Joe W.'s, maybe a piece of one of the designs on the horses' blankets.

Also this week, I finally got the tag for the truck, but that was just yesterday. I don't remember everything I did before that. When I presented all our paper work on the Tracker and said, for the third time, "I want to register my car," the courthouse lady studied everything, then said, "Did they inspect your vehicle when you were here before?" She noticed the blood draining from my face and the tears springing to my eyes, and laughed. But she took care of that computerwise, instead of telling me I had to make a fourth trip.

One quasi-UFO I got rid of was a bagful of old bed and table linens that wouldn't allow me to close the drawers of the chest in the foyer. What you bet that I'll eventually forget that I donated them, and wonder what happened to Mama's old red tablecloth with the cigarette burn in the corner, or the beautiful set of napkins and placemats that never got used in the 15 years that I owned them? Not to mention four new ready-made dining-chair covers that Jed gave me (sorry about that) because they didn't fit his chairs, and of course didn't fit mine, either.

One reason I didn't get to the courthouse until Thursday:  I was reading The Commodore by Patrick O'Brian, and lines in it kept inspiring germs of poems that I had to write down. And think about. And mull over. Something in the book made me think of what "mad" Nijinsky said, in perfect iambic pentameter: "I simply leap into the air, and pause." And that made me think about the horse quilt, which looks to me like the Lippizaner stallions in their dance.

I'd give a pretty to have my old photo program back, that would let me brighten the pictures and Photo-shop them a little.

*

About Big Baby: Before I start torturing myself with years of trying to find an agent and laboring in hopes somebody will publish the book, I've decided to enter it in River City Publishing's 2011 competition. The winner will get published and receive a pittance of an advance against "royalties" (yeah, right). I'm aware that Big Baby is not your great American novel, and if it could get published some easy way, I'd feel that I had fulfilled Betty Smith's (or some woman author's) instruction on how to live the full life: "Have a child, plant a tree, and write a book." Even if it doesn't win, maybe somebody will read it, and maybe somebody will comment.

What makes an object irresistible?

NW-J-203-E is the underglaze mark on this little "fairy lamp" that my mother gave me about 50 years ago. It was complete and as near-perfect as most antique china gewgaws get. The only thing lacking was a chimney. I always knew that someday I would find a chimney to fit. Well, about a month ago I found a new one online. One-and-a-quarter inch base, eight inches high. Thirteen dollars, plus $7.95 shipping and handling. Gad. But I would have paid twice that, or more, for an antique one with etching, faceting, or scallops around the top. "Vanity, all is vanity, saith the Preacher." This is surely a minor example.

When I was about eight years old, Bonnie Ann had a miniature oil lamp, about 2 inches high, made of plastic or some antiquated equivalent. She gave it to me. It was a good thing, because if she hadn't, I might have stolen it.

*

Once more, I think Big Baby is finished. Might-nigh 80,000 words. Every time I read through it, I find a few more typos--quotation marks left off, names unchanged, etc.

"Shootin' gives a man an appetite--"

So does writing most of the day. I had to fix lots of things in the book, and now I feel like I could "eat the heater." All I've got in the refrigerator, except frozen stuff, is one old potato and some mozzarella cheese. Sounds good to me.

"I dream of a [pink] rose tree..." - R. Browning

The Cecile Brunner is about to take over one of the oaks. I wish it had climbed that high several years ago. Probably would have if I had never cut it back.

The little pink oxalys-type flower, original stock from Granny SDS's garden, still pops up here and there in the yard. Before Tracy started cutting the grass Monday, I dug up some of it and put it in the big pot with the surviving lily-of-the-valley--which, by the way, had one tiny raceme of blooms earlier this month. Last summer, I transplanted a lot of the oxalys across the back of the lot, but of course the floods washed it away.

I almost planned to go buy a tag for the Tracker today, but it's thundering in the thicket, and storm watches and warnings abound. So I decided to hunker down today.

I think today was SDS's birthday. Either the 15th or the 14th. She would be about 121, if she were still topside. So would Maw Maw and Paw Paw.

When Money Goes Out the Door, Penury Comes Inuendo

I've decided to get fat. I mean I've decided to quit smoking, which is saying the same thing. I've always had a sort of Vettie-Ramey-like superstition, that I would die if I quit smoking--as if Karma would say, "You can't outsmart me!"

In recent years, my logic has been that I'm so old, why quit smoking now? The reverse of that is, why not quit smoking now? If I die from wanting a cigarette, which isn't likely, it's better than dying because I wouldn't quit smoking. Is that clear?

Anyway, economically, it comes down to Eat or Smoke, and I enjoy eating, just a fraction of a hair more. So I'll probably get fat, and more slovenly. When you're all the time cooking stuff like bacon and ham and biscuits, it increases the amount of slove.

It Was Monday, a Good Day

I hired a local Landscape Artist to cut the weeds. We'll see how he works out.

Also yesterday, I revised an old, old poem:

Desiderata

Could I write with my heart, and not my hand,
each poem would rise, original and plain
as the great oaks that on the mountain stand,
or a quick shower of September rain.
I fear I'm marked by all the poems I've read,
in neighbors' gardens sniffing all that bloomed,
till stems and blossoms hang about my head,
a patchwork veil of all I have consumed.

If muses do exist, then let them flood
my soul with light to wash my verses free,
nor dip my pen in alien wine or blood
to counterfeit the heart's true currency.
Let elements as rough as tears and mud
and rainbows, all my ink and parchment be.

A Great Meeting

Yesterday evening Joe W. send an email around reminding eveyone that we had rescheduled the poetry critique meeting for today, since the last Sunday this month is Easter Sunday, and the 17th is something, I don't remember what. So today Jed and I ate lunch at Cracker Barrel, then he went on to Atlanta and I went on to Odenville. It really was a fine meeting. The other five poets included a lady I hadn't met before, and all of them had outdone themselves. I had not outdone myself; the poems I read were old ones that are not too great. But I'm very glad I went. Joe showed us a bunch of the most fabulous antique quilts I've ever seen. My favorite was a star pattern that I've never seen before, in pink and white. Made me want to go home and make another quilt.

The Day the Monitor Died

I've been without computer access since last Monday, when all of a sudden the monitor went un-re-light-ably black. I had to wait until the Chief Fixer, Jed Cage, came over today and fixed it. Rather, trashed it and hooked up my old monitor. Seems the new one had blown a gasket or something.

It was a week of various aggravations, due to which I couldn't get anything done that I had planned for the book club meeting until Friday morning. At which time, I was scurrying around like a madwoman, when Susan phoned. She said she'd had emails and phone calls from the members, and nobody was coming to book club except her and Ramey and me. Susan hadn't finished reading the book, and Ramey hadn't started it, so I said to heck with the whole thing. So we didn't have the meeting.

A man came to service the air conditioner and furnace, and went into a frenzy because he said the AC is leaking freon and must be replaced, which is what they've been saying ever since the blamed thing was installed in I think it was 2002. Since it still works perfectly, I told him to talk to my son, and lots of luck. So he harassed Jed for a while, then phoned me about half a dozen more times trying to get me to sign a contract, which is becoming more and more something my hand refuses to do.

I didn't get the curtains and tablecloth made. I didn't get the house cleaned up until this morning (Saturday). And I don't plan to do anything else useful until I finish reading the biography of G. Washington that Jed brought me. And maybe the two Patrick O'Brian novels he also brought. Next Wednesday, I may june around and get something done; that's the day I'm supposed to go to The Kirklin Clinic for my annual checkup

I had an appointment last Wednesday for my checkup, but the office called and said Dr. G. had a death in the family so the office would be closed, and they changed my appt. to next Wednesday. I aim to ask the doctor what meds I need to start back on, after he gets my lab results back.

Something strange: I have tapered off and just plain quit all my meds and supplements. I don't think I've swallowed a pill in the past two weeks, and I feel better every day. My "affect" is returning; by that, I mean I feel some emotions other than aggravation, remorse and disappointment. I may even write a poem. Tomorrow is Joe W.'s poetry critique meeting day, so I need to write one anyway.

The Big Baby novel is finished, ausgepast, done with. I changed her name from Betty Lou to Barbara Lee, but kept the nickname. Jed's going to print it out on his laser printer so he can read it comfortably. Maybe we'll search for a publisher or an agent or something, but I'm already pretty deep into a novel I started in 2005 and expect to be writing that for the next few months. I know I need to concentrate on geting published, but writing is hard enough, without all that straining for fame. Maybe all these novels will be my opera posthumi.

Good Movie

Jed got back to Atlanta from Phoenix Friday, rested up Saturday, and came over here yesterday. Last night we watched "Shutter Island," and thought it was a good movie. I complained that there were too many "spoilers" in the movie, as compared with the book, but if I hadn't read the book, I might not think so.

So now, I have what seem like the labors of Hercules in front of me--getting the house and the self ready for our book club meeting on Friday. I wanted to have new kitchen curtains and tablecloth by then, but it probably won't happen. Where does the time go?

Head noises

I keep hearing tiny bells. It's something the computer does when I do something, but the tintinnabulation gets mixed up with my tinnitus. It made me go back and read "The Bells" by Edgar Allan Poe. That man was daffy as a duck.

*

Here's one of the "germ" poems I read at the meeting last week:



"Up There"

There--it is up there that souls set free
do sail, hail and hallow Maker of all made! We
below believe--Believe? Long led, we
hope, hail and hallow, worship with wild
wailing or soft sighing. Faith, either mild
and hoping, wild and groping--Either, child,
behooves us, stamps and proves us not beguiled.


I'm sure I knew what I meant when I wrote it, nearly two years ago.

"When I wrote that, only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant. And now--" (quoting Robert Browning)

*
I sort of know why I wrote that poem. I was thinking about putting Stevie Weidman in my "Big Baby" book. Stevie was autistic or something. He looked and sounded intelligent but very nervous, and he had this tic of saying "up there," apropos of nothing. I remember hearing him talking to Paw Paw, and he would say, "Uncle Reed (up there), yesterday (up there) I was over at the spring (up there, up there)--" Sometimes he would get started saying it and couldn't stop. Anyway, I thought maybe Stevie knew something that was going on Up There.
*
Mr. Jarrett, who could hear them talking in that town "up there," had two sons. The older one was named Hoyt, and he's the only one I can remember. Mrs. Jarrett had a refrigerator with the motor on top, and that's what I visualize when I talk about the electric refrigerator at the boarding house, in the Book. But probably, by the time the boarding house got one, the motors were enclosed. I'll Google it.
*
*

This is the 1935 Frigidaire, probably what would have been in the boarding house in 1941, when Betty was showing it to Mary and Philip. 

This is like the gas stove in the story. It's also like the one that was in Granny SDS's apartment in Powderly, about 1945-46.