One Down, About a Thousand To Go

It looked almost this good.

Funny, when you've cleaned out the refrigerator, taken all the drawers and shelves out and washed them, put the milk and eggs back and shut the door--it feels like you haven't done anything. The big jobs are still ahead.

Anne George once wrote a poem about cleaning out the refrigerator. It got published in the ASPS Sampler or something. I hardly ever write poems about nightmares.

I've invited the family over here for a cook-in this weekend--Sunday. So I thought a few clean spots would look good. IDEA: When they get through eating, I could assign each of them a room to clean. Why haven't I thought of this before?

Last night I made the mistake of looking at this thing on my nose close up in the mirror, and like to scared myself into fits. It does look like they could have been a little more speedy in getting rid of it. My appointment isn't until next Thursday. To get to sleep last night, I had to plan a makeover for the dolls' house. When I do that, I never get any farther than the front hall/dining room, before falling asleep.

The offspring of Croupy Ben Lee

Mr. Ben Lee was called "Croupy Ben" because while he was talking, his voice would shift back and forth between tenor and bass. In my novel, there's a story about him, in which he was trapped under a wagon, calling for help, and a passerby thought there were two people under the wagon. My grandma remembered Mr. Ben telling his children's names in that same up-and-down sing-song: "Eskew, Oskew, Bank Hugh and Reevie, and the baby calls itself Naintsy." Ten or so years ago, I used this idea to write an Alabama Limerick:

A family living at Dancy

named all of their boys something fancy;

they had Noel, Patrice,

Gabriel and Maurice,

and the baby girl called herself Nancy.

When Maw Maw would tell the names, she would laugh like anything. As a child, I thought it was really bad of the Lees to put so much thought into their boys' names, and apparently to leave the little girl to think of a name for herself. I guess it used to be a man's world, for sure.

I wish I could have conveyed the unfairness of it all, when I wrote the limerick.

If It's Tuesday, I Must Be Awake

I sure am glad my sister Susie invented Pajama Days--or at least made them respectable. I'm tired out from ironing an outfit, taking a shower, washing my hair, putting goo on my face, and sallying forth somewhere--four days in a row! Today, I don't intend to stir.

Then, just now, it occurs to me how badly I want to make a cake and don't have all the ingredients. And Mo is out of canned food, and I'll probably be out of cigarettes before nightfall. One of these days I'm going to quit smoking. And quit feeding cats. And quit eating cake. I hardly ever eat cake, anyway, but yesterday evening at the Arts Council poetry reading, Joan had brought cake left over from our Sunday night gathering at her house. One little slice of cake made me want more.

Sunday the poetry critique group met at Joan and Frank's fabulous house, which is built around one of the old Moon River Beach cabins on the Cahaba river, off of Highway 78 East. They've been living in it and building onto it for more than 40 years. Besides writing poems, Frank is an artist, and the rooms are decorated partially with his paintings.

Anyway, at that meeting, I read the poems "Sourwood Honey" and "My Twin." The latter caused a lot of amazement, laughter, incredulity. Made me feel right silly, having to explain that it was just an idea, I'm not really crazy, etc. Sweet little Sherry W. read the best poem I've heard from her, full of images that mark her as an artist, which she is.

Then last night at the poetry reading meeting, I read this poem I had just written that morning:

Why I Collect Rocks

Certain rocks remind me of my father.
My father was a rock; he was transparent,
whereas your average rock is mostly solid.
My father, though transparent, was a rock,
the kind called porphyry, or maybe gneiss.
Metamorphic, he was laid down in layers,
my father, and pressed almost into granite.

I have said my father was a rock,
and what I meant was, you could lean on him.
Life leaned on him, and battered him, and broke him,
as even solid rock will break when hammered.
I have said my father was transparent,
and what I meant was, you could see his heart;
he wore it in  his eyes or on his sleeve.

 *

Ramey read a wonderful long poem, of which the rhythm reminded me of Vachel Lindsay's "Congo" poem.

There was a big crowd, the meeting room was full. I felt it was sort of an honor that Jim and Liz Reed came from Birmingham. They have a "Ye Olde Bookshoppe" which is the first place to look when you're hunting a really old or out-of-print book; they publish the Birmingham arts magazine or quarterly, and Liz invited us to a meeting in August to discuss "what writers need," or something. Due to my deafness, I couldn't grasp all the details.

Mr. DeWitt was a return attendee, and I told him my son's middle name is DeWitt, which is true. Michelle, a young woman from New York and Canada whom we met at Joan's on Sunday, also came; and Randall F. who still works in Neurology at UAB, had to remind me who he is, as I hadn't seen any of those folks in more than ten years. Randall's friend, Sherry, Joe W., Grady Sue (Leeds' most famous poet), and a handsome husband and wife who jokingly claimed not to know each other, in all made thirteen people in that little room.

So that's enough excitement for this week. I may go back to bed in a few minutes. Unless I get hungrier for cake.

More on Caxton

Scarcely a hundred years after Chaucer wrote, in a vernacular that we can't read without a glossary, William Caxton wrote, translated and printed works in the English of his day, a form that is much plainer. Once I got into The Game...of Chess, the language presented very few problems. Caxton spelled phonetically, and retained many French words and terms, and the book gives a good picture of the colloquial English of the fifteenth century. They still said "ben" for various forms of the verb "to be." He used the letter u for the small letter v, so that the word poverty was often printed as pouerte.

Another interesting usage was the possessive pronouns his and her. Apparently, "its," meaning "belonging to or done by it," was not used at that time. Also "her" was often used instead of "their." By Caxton's time, the old black letter sign for "th" was represented by the letter "y," so that "ye" or "y'e" was pronounced "the," "th'" or the personal pronoun "thee." When we call it "yee," we're probably wrong except when using it as the plural of "you."

Caxton traveled on the Continent, to Belgium and Germany. In Cologne, Germany, he learned all about the Gutenberg press, and eventually set up a printing press in England. The first book he printed in England was an edition of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. The Game and Playe of the Chesse was one of these first books. It was the first printed in the English of that time, because Caxton translated it from Latin into his version of English.

It was a prodigious task. This was a very long book.

So Long, Big Baby

Yesterday I printed out the novel, prepared cover letters and stuff to go with it, and got it ready to send to River City Publishing's Fred Bonnie Award contest. So when the laundry gets done and I have some clean jeans to put on, I'll go to the P.O. and mail the package. If that doesn't "pan out," I'll see if Mary Chris will read the whole thing and consider it. And if that doesn't, I guess it'll join the others in the bottom drawer.

Next I'll tackle the book of my poems. I'm determined to get this between covers and looking professional, though I'm sure I'll have to have it done myself.
*
 The Game and Playe of the Chesse, by Jacob Cessolis, translated and printed by William Caxton in March 1474, via Project Gutenberg Ebook - It took me 8 days to read this; I finished it today. It doesn't dwell much on the actual game, but it's a great lesson in medieval thought and lifestyles. In describing each chess piece, he identifies them with the particular levels of society and tells the right way for each to act and move, and all the ways not to act and move. This is one of the antique books in Eustace's bookcase, in China Court. I think it was the first book printed in England.

I'm carved.

This morning I divided the novel into chapters. Then I went to the Clinic and got my nose sawed on, and it hurts like the dickens. Well, not that bad, but some. They said I'd get the lab report in about a week. I dread taking the bandage off, and I hope this is the last time I have to go down there until next year.

Feel like I could sleep for the rest of the week.

Should I be scared?

It occurred to me that, this time tomorrow, I'll be out there with those little dermatology gremlins carving on my face. Why don't I feel anxious? More concerned about the weather and the traffic late tomorrow afternoon--my appointment isn't till 3:30 p.m.

Yesterday we browsed the Big Saver thrift store, and I got a couple of jewel-like picture frames, plus these Bremen-town singers on a doorstop:

A quiet, restful weekend--I hope!

Yesterday, after lounging around the Clinic all day, I drove home in a rainstorm again. This is getting monotonous. Went by Alabama Art Supply and got some panels that I hope to turn into drawings for my bedroom, and later went by Walmart and got some things to perk up the guest bathroom.

All my test results were normal. I don't even have to go back on the Fosamax, but just take calcium and Vit. D. I've been off the antidepressant since about Christmas-time, the longest stretch free of medicine in many years. I sort of think it's because of my writing, and staying so busy, with new ideas and projects all the time, that my brain gets healthier instead of weaker. Except for my memory, which sometimes fails me.

I do have to go back Tuesday to Dermatology to get the thing on my nose taken care of. I guess they'll mess up my magnificent nose! Then, like Cyrano de Bergerac, I can dare anybody on pain of battle to say the word "nose" in my presence.

*

The hope of a calm weekend was vain. I've already had one emergency telephone call.

Banquet vs. Stouffer's

About once a week or so, I get a Banquet frozen lasagna and have it for a couple of meals. Today I decided to splurge on the higher-class Stouffers, much more expensive, but what the heck. It was heavier than the Banquet one, had more meat, had the big noodles and a layer of what I suppose was the cottage cheese. It was also nearer to tasteless than I ever imagined a lasagna could be. So I'll stick with the Banquet. It's delicious.

Sturm und drang

I watched a few raindrops making big polka-dots on the deck. This went on for about 5 minutes, and I decided maybe if I came inside and quit watching, it would really rain. But now that I'm inside, it seems to have quit altogether.If it would really rain, I might go out there and do an Andy Dufresne stretch to welcome it.

*

A little later came a storm that knocked out the lights and warped the trees around and blew limbs down in the yard. Needless to say, I didn't go out and frolic in it. The power was out for a couple of hours, long enough for me to thank God and Benjamin Franklin and them for electricity, when the lights came on again.

In the next few days, we're replacing a couple of doors and installing a sump pump and a gutter drain. After that, sometime this summer or fall, I want to get a lot of painting done, inside and out. I know the outside is more important and should be done first, but I'll really be glad when the inside walls are fresh, and maybe some color other than dirty white--and brown, as in my bedroom! Steve said he could use a white stain on the ceiling beams in the living room, so they wouldn't seem so prominent, like they're about to fall on one's head.

I've been trying to read an old book at Gutenberg on the computer, and my eyes are about out.

A walk under the trees

Got so tired of staying in out of the heat, Mo and I went out there and walked around in the shade on the west side of the house for 15 minutes or so. The hickories are full of nuts, but the persimmon tree is dropping them green on the ground. The tree I call a water oak has shivered a lot of its bark off in strips. Some leaves on the dogwoods are bright red, and the hydrangeas have given up and turned olive-green.

So now I've got the laundry going.

Yesterday I cooked a big pot of yellow squash and heated up some leftover cornbread. Then I ate the whole thing, over the course of the day. Wish I had saved some. I did freeze a lot of squash raw, but I don't want to heat up the kitchen to cook anything.

My poetry manuscript is ready to go to a printer. What do I do next?

The Maze and the Lumps

Viewed one way, life is like one of those puzzles, or a garden maze, where you follow one path for a while and suddenly come to a dead end, then have to go back and decide which path to follow next. Some people seem to sail straight through the maze with no, or very few, setbacks, as if they could see the puzzle from above and avoid the dead ends. Such people, if there really are any, must be very, very lucky. Jesus really could see the puzzle from above, and he had to run the obstacle course, anyway, hopping from place to place and listening to the jeers from the sidelines.

The point I'm trying to make is for my friend Deb. Divorce is a major dead end, right? I remember it well. That's one reason I didn't get married again: I couldn't stand the possibility of having to go through another divorce which, given my personality, was more on the lines of a probability. You might say it cured me of marriage.

I wish I had useful advice for a divorced person who takes it hard, for social, economic, political or religious reasons. My reasons were mainly social and economic, and I was thankful that Daddy had insisted I learn a skill so I could get an inside job.

Ancient as I am, I ought to have lots of good advice stored up to pass around when people need it. But I don't remember ever receiving free advice of any kind in that crisis--or any other. Don't even remember anybody saying "Good Luck!" When  you're running for your life, you hear lots of familiar voices baying with the hounds. And ominous silence from corners where you thought you might get a little support. You forgive them, because they didn't know all the details, and wouldn't believe them if they did.

Anyway, all I can say is "Good Luck!"
*
I've got to go back to the clinic this Friday for an ultrasound. I've had one before. It's probably the same old lump.

Writing On and On

Thursday I wrote the first short story using my Writer's Toolbox, which gives suggested ideas and structure. I expect all of the early ones will be 1,000-words-or-less short-shorts. I've never been any good at writing short stories, so I'm creeping into it slowly.

Yesterday I worked some more on my book of poems, and started an appendix for Big Baby. I'm reading through the novel and making a note of anything I think needs to be explained or enlarged upon. These may wind up as additions in the body of the manuscript, instead of an appendix. A map of the Cedar Grove/Dover area could be endpapers or a frontispiece. Since there are so many generations of people in the family, I'm thinking of a genealogical chart as well. I know, I know: it should be written well enough that you don't have any trouble keeping up with the characters.

Jed flew north yesterday for a vacation trip to Chicago.

Glory, glory,--etc.

Steve and Aaron-I-think-his-name-is are cleaning out the basement--no fuss, no questions, just dumping everything blue-taped into the dumpster. I'm up here dancing a jig--mentally, of course.

Fourth on the Third

Yesterday we celebrated Independence Day and Daddy's birthday on Sunday. We had a grand gathering and feast at Sister Susan's beautiful home. Then we went over to the country church cemetery where so many of our forebears and family are resting. Thanks also to Susan for the wonderful photos she took and shared with all of us.

On Saturday, Jed and I went to the silk flower lady's store and gathered up an armload of pretties, and I put together a couple of quick arrangements. I love arranging flowers--I won a few prizes, back in my garden club days.

The work on the roof, and plans for more work on the house, are still in progress.

Pretty roof, good book

We certainly made some good choices of colors and styles of shingles. My house looks new, and the roof matches the brick so well, it looks like they were planned together.

I just finished reading Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Jed read it first, then loaned it to me. This is one of the best books I've ever read in my whole life. It's also the last book I aim to read about the Civil War. I alternately cried and cursed, silently or aloud, all the way through it. I had already wept my way through John Brown's Body. So I think I've had enough education/enlightenment concerning The War.

One amusing incident that Goodwin put in her book: A prominent Chicago politician got into all kinds of ruin and trouble when he spoke out against the War of 1812. Later, during the Mexican war, someone asked him, "Do you oppose this war?" He said, "No. I opposed one war, and that was enough for me. From now on, I am perpetually in favor of war, pestilence and famine."

I already knew that Abraham Lincoln was the best knight of the world. I was glad to learn, though, that William Seward and Edwin Stanton were also good. I had read a book, many years ago, that presented the assassination of Lincoln as a widespread conspiracy, and hinted that Edwin Stanton, Lincoln's Secretary of War, was at the center of the conspiracy, and that Sec. of State Seward might have been involved. I didn't believe in the conspiracy, but that old book did in my mind cast suspicion on the whole cabinet.

Both Walt Whitman and Louisa May Alcott were nurses for the wounded Union soldiers.