A Hitch In My Get-Along

Did you ever have a "crick" in your neck? Of course, you did. Well, I've got one in my left leg. Makes walking sort of House-like and painful. But I'll give it the usual treatment: Ignore it till it goes away. Only, it's hard to ignore, because sometimes you have to walk.

I've always wanted one of these "brilliant-cut" glass paperweights for my collection. I received this one as one of my birthday presents. If the sun had been shining, I could've got a prettier picture.

So now I'm officially old. The "Old Party."*

"I grow old, I grow old,
I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."**

At least I've got pretties to play with and a little bit of money to spend, and my name as a poet is locally renowned with half-a-dozen or so people.***

*Somerset Maugham
**T.S. Eliot
***"The Bohemian Girl," Balfe

The Good, the Bad (Flu) and the Precious

Sister Susan's Soup Night at the Yellow House yesterday was really wonderful. All kinds of good food, two gentlemen at the table (Jesse and Jed), two beautiful nieces (Andy and India), and we three sisters. The bad part is that Susy seemed to get the crud, the flu probably. I'm worried about her.

Jed and I are spending Christmas Day inside, probably. Salads and soups and pie for lunch, if I can get myself together enough to cope.

Two of my favorite dolls in the collection. My dear friend Miriam, and her two lovely girls Christy and Brittany, gave me the big doll, and I made the pink dress and named her Margaret after my cousin Margaret Isbell. The little doll is Charlotte Anne Tommicarr, that I rescued from a junk/antiques shop many years ago, and beautified her a little bit.

We're supposed to get thunderstorms today and tonight. Hope everyone stays safe and dry.

Pictures

Foyer

TV

Fireplace

Coffee Table & Raggedy Sofa

Little Tree With Topper



Kitchen Table

OCD

I'm sort of a "Pure-O." Have been all my life. "If I win this game, everything's going to be all right."

"I just touched something, so I have to wash my hands."

"I must pay my bills, so I'll do it tomorrow."

"I know that if I step on a crack, it won't break my mother's back, but I avoid stepping on cracks, just in case."

"While I've been trying to decide what's best to do, all the time has slipped away."

"I know how to dance, how to jump rope. But if I move a certain way, something bad will happen."

They aren't conscious or vocalized thoughts, just urges and habits and ways of avoiding suffering.

I guess knowing this about myself, and sometimes managing to act anyway, has enabled me to live this long.
*
I started to major in psychology in college, but it scared me so I switched to English.

Spanish Lady

As I went down to Dublin city,
At the hour of twelve at night,
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady,
Washing her feet by candle-light.
First she washed them, then she dried them
Over a fire of amber coals,
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so sweet about the soul.

CHORUS:
Whack fol the toora, loora laddi-o
Whack fol the toora loora lay

As I went back through Dublin city
At the hour of half-past eight
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady
Brushing her hair outside the gate.
First she brushed it, then she fluffed it,
In her hand was a silver comb.
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so fair since I did roam.

CHORUS

As I came back through Dublin city
As the sun began to set
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady
Catching a moth in a golden net.
When she saw me then she fled me
Lifting her petticoat over her knee
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so shy as the Spanish Lady.

CHORUS

I've wandered north and I've wandered south
By Stoneybatter and Patrick's Close
Up and around by the Gloucester Diamond
And back by Napper Tandy's house.
Old age has laid her hand on me
Cold as a fire of ashy coals
But where o where is the Spanish Lady,
Neat and sweet about the soul?

CHORUS

(traditional Dublin version dating from the 19th century)

Hope and Trust

I've lost 30 pounds in the past couple of years, but getting back on the meds and supplements may reverse the process. I can't seem to get enough to eat, and believe me, I'm trying. Before long, I may be a roly-poly, merry fat clown of a person. Yeah.

Children, let me assure you that the world doesn't end on Friday. It doesn't leave enough time for all the other stuff to happen. Something dreadful may happen. What day passes without something dreadful happening? But it won't be the last time.

I've been hoping that the increased intake of nourishment would give me the rush of energy necessary to get the house and myself ready for the Christmas festivities. So far, it hasn't worked. But I've still got a day or two left, and a few cans of Progresso chicken-noodle. So glad that Christmas comes but once a year.

***

Curly Sue and the Nutcrackers are ready.

***

And to top it off, last night I got an order for an enormous "coffee-table" book, that will cost almost as much to ship as the sale price.

Light In the Tunnel

If anybody ever tells you that coffee doesn't help, send them to me for education. Woke up this morning with my usual plodding, hopeless anxiety, although not as bad as usual. After a cup of coffee, I began to feel, "Well, Sista, evathang gonna be awright."

And then my cousin Chris emails me a beautiful video of people singing Christmas carols in a mall. I didn't even know that Chris remembered me or knew I was alive. Chris is my cousin Bill's son, and he looks like Santa Claus or Dale Short, all those dear people with big white beards. Bill was my first cousin once removed, so I guess Chris is my first cousin twice removed, or my third cousin, or just one of God's chillun. Anyway, I love him.

So what I'm going to do today, Lord willing, is to finish straightening up and decorating and so forth.

Devastating News

The school shooting in Connecticut--makes you want to hug every child you see.

Making an Effort

Big Effort





Little Lop-Sided Tree, No Topper

Christmasy Stuff

I long ago picked up an old raggedy tablecloth at a yard sale. I bleached and ironed it, and made the apron that this doll is wearing.

Mama gave me this old doll in the late sixties or early seventies. I named her Sylvia, after my cousin Sylvia Ramey, and because it's my favorite girl's name.

Later on, I made a bunch of Christmas stockings and gave one to almost everybody I knew. I kept these two:

The white one is made from the remains of the tablecloth, and the knit one from an old sweater.

***

Seems like every day, I wear myself out thinking of all the dirty jobs around the house that I should be doing. And I do tackle one of them, every now and then, but I don't last very long at them. It gripes my soul to admit that I'm old, but one has to take 156 years into consideration (I feel twice as old as I'll be on the 27th of this month). So, I guess I'll just muddle along, striking a lick at the house when I feel a modicum of energy, and letting the rest of it wait till some sunny day.

Deck the Floor and Furniture

I've practically wasted the day, pulling out Christmas decorations, untangling garlands

and lights,

and trying to figure out how to hang the wreath on the door (I don't have one of those metal things).

I've found a few of my miniature ornaments,

while the poor little lop-sided tree still stands cold and naked:

There are so many dirtier, more useful jobs that I need to be doing.

While I was hunting my favorite Christmas cards to put in the window on the mantel,

Mo jumped into the box and lay down on top of everything.

Ms. Fixit

A couple of days ago my TV went black. Nothing I tried would get anything on the screen except the channel directory. I phoned Charter, and a nice lady led me through the process of dis-/reconnecting the cable box and a lot of other stuff. I missed Jeopardy, but the service person was very clear in her instructions. When my TV came back on, the lady and I told each other how smart we are.

POP OT DEPOOP OOT

Today I've cleaned out cabinets and toted out trash, until I'm thoroughly that spelled back'ards. Much of what I threw away was "treasure," and some of what I kept ought to be trashed. And may be, next bagful.

James James Morrison's Mother

Today I drove down to the end of the town, and got back in time for tea. I wanted to see what has been built where Uncle Doug's house used to be, and I think the Canterburys'. There's nothing at all there, but Leeds stretches several blocks further on towards the trestle, all kinds of what might be little businesses.

Then I went and bought a Christmas wreath, so now I've got to find something that will enable me to hang it on the door, which is made of glass.

Then I went by Sonics and ordered a bacon cheeseburger. When I got home, in the Sonics bag was a bacon-and-egg sandwich, but by then I didn't care any more.
*
The news says that Voyager I, which left earth in 1977, is now 11 billion miles from the sun. I'll bet that's where Elvis went, and when he gets back, he'll still be middle-aged, and the rest of us will be dust.

New Poem

Went to the LAC poetry group meeting yesterday evening. This time, there were about twenty people there. I read this little new poem, that needs a lot of work:

The Near-Sighted Shepherd

There was heavenly music, and dazzling lights,
and we all looked up at the sky;
I saw what looked like some fuzzy white lambs,
but thought they were clouds floating by.

When someone said “Angels!” I wanted to weep
because of my poor feeble sight
that couldn't see angels but only some sheep
and a light that made day of the night.

When the “lambs” started singing, I suddenly could see
more angels than stars in the skies!
But the Babe in the manger, to me, seemed to be
a Lamb with heavenly eyes.

by JRC 11/26/12

Feeling Useful

Cleaning out kitchen cabinets. Such fun.

Quilting Daze

I've been working on this quilt for several days, trying to finish quilting it, and now it's complete except a couple of outer blocks and the border. Hope I can get it done by Christmas. Got holes in my fingers. This will be the third of my "Big Three" quilts, the best ones I've made, except for a couple that I've sold or given away. The other two "best:"

Bear's Paw with Flying Geese Border



Broken Sash

The one I sold was called Mountain Echoes, and the one I gave to Sharon O. for her wedding was a Palm Leaf pattern. Wish I had pictures of them, but I don't. They were both more intricate and striking than any of these. But the Bear's Paw, shown above, is still my favorite.

Mouthing Off

I don't know why it suddenly strikes me funny, that so many of our body parts are verbs as well as nouns.

Head for the hills. Face the music. Foot the bill. Back up. Butt out. Toe the mark. Arm the troops. Knuckle under. Heel!

What got me started on this was, the handle of the tea kettle being too hot to handle.

Looking Up

The sister supper Friday was great--just Ramey, Susan and me, but a good time was had by us! Susan's chicken and dumplings was scrumptious, and Pat brought a luscious lemon crunch cake.

Dr. G.'s prescription for my problem is working, and I'm about well. Which reminds me of a story. Long ago, Alabama had an elderly senator named Albert Boutwell, and he had an elderly wife. One day I was in Burger-Phillips department store when Mrs. Boutwell was shopping there. A saleslady said, "How are you today, Mrs. Boutwell?"

The lady answered, "'Bout well, 'bout well!"

The saleslady whispered, "She always says that."
*
I sent my poetry manuscript, The Lightness of the Dark, to the Walt Whitman competition, or did I already say that? And I'm getting the Big Baby ms. ready to submit to a N.Y. publisher. So those two things will be out of my hands and off my to-do list for several months.

There's really not much to hope for in the poetry line. I've received a couple of the American Academy of Poets' prize-winning books in the past. It may be an oxymoron to call my poems, and the kind that the AAP chooses, poetry in the same sentence. But there's always a faint possibility they'll assign the wrong judge this time.

Hurricane Mo

I'm thankful for this beautiful, glorious day in which to clean up after him.

Cedar Waxwing, by Rod McIver

It's a pretty watercolor, but doesn't look like the Cedar Waxwing I've seen--a beautiful crested brown-and-yellow bird with a scarlet-tipped feather on each wing.

But the real bird that I saw at the apartment in Birmingham was more amazing than any picture. The red spots on the wings were deep scarlet and looked like jewels.

Man!

I'm having a spell of the visual aurae that the neurologist once said was migraine. Been so long since I had this, I almost didn't recognize it at first. There's no pain, just drifting clouds and flashing lights. I guess it's the equivalent of a headache, and it'll pass in a few minutes or so.

Yesterday the doctor reviewed all the medications I'm not taking, told me to get back on some of them, told me to quit smoking, got Onae to give me a flu shot, and sent me to the lab. Said he'd call me in a prescription if necessary, etc.

Mr. Obama is still presiident, and I hope they give him a little more cooperation and elbow room this term. A little is about all  you can hope for. It was trying to figure out how to vote on the state constitutional amendments that took so long at the voting place. Seemed to me, best I could decipher, that the state wants to go back a few decades--amendments to repeal amendments that that were made years ago. I hope the way I marked them didn't help to make things worse than they already are in this state. I hope.

This morning I got out my unfinished autumn leaf quilt (part of which is shown in the masthead of my blog), spread it out on the living room floor, and gave myself orders to finish the thing and redecorate the guest room around it, before Christmas. So that's my project for now--as soon as I can see again. I gave up on the November novel; didn't like the people in it.

As Usual

Have to be at the Clinic at 10:00, and of course I'm feeling fine, except hurried and anxious. I've left my coffee mug somewhere in the house, and it's probably empty anyway.
*
So, I went to the Clinic, then I voted. So I've done two things today.
*
A pretty good book: Bag Men, by Mark Costello. Yesterday, to calm the fidgets, I picked up this book and read it. Ultra-violent and gory, but very well written, gripping and suspenseful. And only 3-4 typos. One of the worst, most vengeful killers in literature--the author saved him, probably for another book.
*
I noticed that our PBS channel is showing Season 1 (and presumably Season 2) of "Downton Abbey" again. I think it was on Sunday that I saw the tail-end of episode 2 or 3 on the channel.

What a Team!

Never thought I would cry over a football game, but when Alabama got that ball in the last minute of the 4th quarter, I clapped and cried all the way to the extra point!

Done

I went through the poetry manuscript and just deleted most of the ones that didn't make me cry or make the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Then I submitted it to the Academy of Amer. Poets for the Walt Whitman Award. They expect the judging to be done by April of 2013.

For the Walt Whitman Award Competition

I've got my collected poems pared down to 120-something, but the limit is 100 pages. So I've got to cut out about twenty of them. Wish I had someone who's familiar with publishing as well as modern poetry, to read them and help me decide what to cut, and where to rewrite if necessary. Guess I'll just have to use my own judgment, which is biased in favor of every blessed one of them.

Slow Start on the Novel

Well, I wrote 800+ words this morning and ran out of steam. Maybe after I find something for lunch, I can add some more.

So we'll probably postpone the sister supper until a week from tomorrow, since Ramey is going to a writer's retreat in Florida for the weekend, Friday through Sunday. I hope she gets a lot of writing done, on her next book in the Moonlight Ridge saga.

Susan has a new maid, who left her house spick-and-span yesterday. Lucky her, poor me in comparison. But comparisons, as they say, are odious.

Last night I had three groups of trick-or-treaters, all dressed in delightful costumes. I gave them most of the candy, so maybe I won't get fat on what's left.

Yesterday evening I watched some episodes of Downton Abbey. I'm trying to get so familiar with it that, while I'm watching it with the family, I won't tear up and sob when Thomas cries or Bates kisses Anna.

Boo!

Remembering Bob Ross

Those were the days, TV-wise.

*

Good Resolutions

Tradition says they're the paving-stones to You-Know-Where, but I still make them, usually while I'm falling asleep at night. When I'm lying there, waiting to go to sleep, doing hard things seems so easy. It's all a matter of organization and scheduling.

For instance, seasonal house-cleaning. There are only about 10-12 rooms or areas to conquer, so it shouldn't take more than a couple of weeks, doing one area per day. Right. I'll start that in the morning, and by Christmas, the house will shine.

Say again?

When morning comes, it's the same old same-old: Mo clawing at the covers and howling to tell me the alarm clock is about to go off--it buzzes before it starts ringing. Then dragging around for a couple of hours, trying to wake up. Finding that I'm out of coffee, or cat food, or cigarettes. By afternoon I'm sometimes (reluctantly) ready to face the world, or the house--but not often.

Wow! (Frantically)

Today is NOT the 28th day of October--it can't be! Why, just yesterday it was the 10th or 11th, wasn't it? I've eaten up most of the M&M's I bought for Halloween, so now I'll have to go to the store again.

The crux of the matter is that four days from now, I'll be writing one-to-two-thousand words of a novel, and haven't made up my mind about what. Besides, November was an unwise choice of writing month--I've got a clinic appointment on the sixth, which will also be voting day, I think. Guess I'll just have to vote a straight ticket, if they'll still let you do that.

And then there's Thanksgiving somewhere in there, and three or four Sister Suppers. Lots of sleeping and cooking to get done--I've sworn Mo off of canned cat food, and have to find some people-food that he likes every day.

By Ned, if I write 50,000 words next month in the middle of all that hooraw, I'll be so proud of myself, I'll have to get a bigger hat!
*
After I wrote that, I scanned through the Big Baby manuscript and deleted about a hundred "justs." I don't know if it's true with all amateur writers, but "just" seems to turn up in my writing, every few sentences.

Make haste swiftly!

I've really got to get cracking, to get ready for our dinner tonight. Last night I remembered a girl who was called "Magalene" (the country folks' way of saying Magdalene). So after I cooked the pie and washed some clothes this morning, I sat at the computer, pulled up the Big Baby manuscript, and changed the mean aunt's name from Maylene to Magalene. Then of course I started reading the manuscript from some point, correcting typos which I was amazed to find, and just now came to myself and remembered that I've got a lot of cleaning and cooking to do, and I'm still in my pajamas. So the kitchen and bathroom are probably all that'll get cleaned.

The Birmingham Arts Journal meeting last night was a moderate success. More people came than attended the same event last year. My onion dip was a big hit, at least with Frank, and I got to read two poems to the group.
*
Jed just phoned. He's coming over and bringing a new set of Dixit cards, so we can play after dinner. Or tomorrow, whichever comes first.

The Good News Is. . .

Lord willing, we will have the sister supper tomorrow evening.While I was shopping for the Arts Council do, I also loaded up on groceries. Including pie and ice cream. Maybe the sisters will bring a vegetable.

There isn't any bad news, except I dropped my orange slush in the basement and have to clean that up. And I have less than two hours now to get ready and get to the LAC and help Joan set up.

Little Joe

Miranda's new baby is a boy, which secretly pleases her. She respects her daughters but doesn't understand them, and she will always feel closer to her sons.

Daddy Doll of course is euphoric over having another son. There is much thoughtful conferring among the senior Dolls, concerning a name for the new baby. After siring two daughters, Alexis insisted on naming Peter for all the fathers and grandfathers--Peter Alexander Hugh Barry Doll, lest that be his only son. So he has to search farther afield to christen the new boy.

Grandma's cousin on her mother's side is connected by marriage to the English painter Edward Burne-Jones, who is connected by marriage to Mr. Rudyard Kipling. When the Kiplings lived in Vermont, Grandma and Step-Grandfather Buff-Orpington visited them at their new house.

Before his return to England, Mr. Kipling had gifted Alexis and Ned with signed copies of all his books that he wrote in New England, and these are collector items in the green bookcase in Daddy's study. All the Doll children have heard the "Just-So Stories," "Kim," and the "Jungle Books," and they entertain the childish notion that they will someday travel to India where Mr. Kipling and his sister Trix were born.

All this explains the names given to the new boy, Joseph Kipling Doll. (They left out Mr. Kipling's middle name, thinking "Rudyard" might prove a bit extreme and showy.) Daddy insists on calling him "Kip," but this doesn't last very long. Peter's brother will always be known as "Little Joe."

The Stargazer

Above the pine trees facing my back door,
a strip of sky eludes the city glow,
and on clear nights I've watched and waited for
Perseids and Orionids to show--
those fragments of celestial debris,
the fireworks of the atmosphere. But more
than shooting stars, that heavenly degree
of high way seems a star-filled corridor;

there, mystic seers made their vision soar,
and I can wander where the ancients trod
and feel the wonder that they felt before.
That bright immensity becomes the sod
where poets walk, where Keats stood on the shore
of the wide world, and touched the mind of God.

JRC 10/23/12

*
I think it's still in progress, but maybe it works pretty well as it is.

It's Full Of Stars!

After midnight I wrapped up in a blanket and went out on the deck to watch for the Orionid meteors. I only saw a couple of "shooting stars," but the view was magnificent.

Looking straight up from my deck, there's a narrow dark strip of sky above my trees, with the glow from Birmingham to the west and the glow from Leeds to the east. At first I could only see a couple of stars, Polaris and something right near it. But as my eyes grew adjusted, they came out gloriously--Cassiopeia very bright and upside-down, the bowl of the Big Dipper, and Polaris directly overhead.

The sky was so cold and clear, the longer I watched, the more stars appeared. It's a long time since I've seen so many stars. I thought of Keats's poem about standing on the shore of the universe. But where Keats felt that it made everything down here seem unimportant, it makes me feel very important, a part of it all, part of the Milky Way galaxy, part of a star. Part of the Mind of God?

*

When I lived at the Oak Trail apartments, the north-sky view from my balcony was so spectacular, I learned many of the constellations and star formations. Ones I remember are Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco, the Big and Little Dippers, and Cassiopeia.

Scraping the Bottom Of the Barrel

My mid-month impecuniosity obliges me to forgo the Downton Abbey dinner today. I've committed myself to helping with the Birmingham Arts Journal convention at the Leeds Arts Council next Thursday, and my share of the refreshments for that gathering will just about demolish what pittance I have left. As for me, "I could turn and eat grass with the animals," or some such Whitmanism. But I hate to invite people over and only offer them knife stew, potato peel pie and ice water.

Of course, all this is exaggeration, but it's near enough. The rest of the story is that I haven't been awake long enough to feel optimistic and human.

One Step Forward, Two Back

This week I've decided to be Hercules, although I feel more like Sisyphus.

I really am ready to take the bulldozer to this house.

On the other hand, my back feels like a million dollars, after spending two days mostly in bed or prone on the sofa. And even after a few hours of being Hercules.

Sort of like Friday the Thirteenth.

On Saturday, a series of minor catastrophes led up to my being like something dragged through a knothole by dinnertime. Not the least or greatest of which was spilling a platterful of beef drippings in the middle of the kitchen floor after I had mopped it. Then Susan showed up with the backache, and both of us moaned and groaned all evening--I moaned louder, I'm afraid. Reed came with Ramey, and he wasn't a bit happy, wanted to go home, to which Ramey finally gave in, and they left just a few minutes into Episode 4 of Season One of D.A.

However, the food turned out fine. India came in a few minutes after everyone else left, and carried away some choice leftovers. We had roast beef with brown gravy, cheesy mashed potatoes, grilled veggie skewers (squash, red bell pepper, mushrooms and Roma tomatoes), purple-hull peas, and Susan brought steamed cabbage which I chowed down on quite a lot. I managed to run get a tray of delicious rolls in time to heat for dinner, and Susan brought a purely fabulous almond torte which she had whipped together at home. If I ate like that every day, I'd soon be fatter than Old Lucy.

I did eat pretty much like that today: A roast beef and tomato sandwich on whole wheat for lunch, and I'm steaming the veggies that didn't get skewered for my dinner.

Friday come on Saturday today. -- Walt Kelly

We're having the Friday dinner on Saturday this time. And as usual I forgot to get bread or rolls. Everything else is pretty much under control, but after I rest a minute, I've got to run out and hunt bread. We're having roast beef and steamed or grilled vegetables. If I can figure out how to grill them, they'll be grilled. I don't guarantee the results either way. As for me, I can enjoy them raw if it comes to that, and everybody else can pretend they like it, just to be polite.

I haven't done enough to be tired. I just have to sit or lie down after standing up for half an hour or less.

Wow! (Softly)

Trying to get a poetry manuscript ready to submit to the Walt Whitman award, I have amazed myself this morning. I thought I had about sixty of the "best" prize-winning poems arranged in some kind of order. But today I have gone back and read all those Volume One poems, written from the 1950s into the '70s, that hardly ever saw the light of day, and I just absolutely love them. They sound as if they had been written by somebody else, a water sprite or a "perfect little woman" who crawled out from under a rock. But of course, that's just my impression.

So I don't know what to do about it. Maybe just throw them all into the ring? Maybe the book should be in two sections, the old ones and the newer "best" ones.

Also, I'm thinking why bother with competitions any more? Why wait one to two more years to see if it gets published, and then probably be disappointed, and have to start all over? Just get it printed between hard covers, then sit in a corner
like little Jack Horner,
and read it over and over by myself,
and think, "Oh, what a good poet am I!"

*

And here it's almost time for Jeopardy, and I haven't done anything about the Friday night sister supper. Nothing in the house to eat except half a leftover pizza, and old cans of rutabagas, spinach and such. So I guess we'll have to put it off this week.

Excelsior!

This is the first day in a long time that I have awoken with my ambition uppermost, my confidence level almost as high, and the determination to have fun for the rest of my life. Matter of fact, it may be the first day ever that all three of those conditions have coincided and congrued in my normally scattered awareness.

I know that I can make slipcovers, because I've made at least half a dozen in the past. The fact that they got shredded by cat claws notwithstanding.

I know that I can throw a yard sale, because I've done it before. I can always be careful not to fall and bruise my whole body again, the way I did last time I threw a yard sale.

I know that I can put together a volume of my poems, because I've done it before. I can pay somebody else to publish the next one under their imprint, instead of stapling together a "chap book" by myself.

I know that I can write a novel, because et cetera. Maybe nobody will ever publish it, or want to read it. Who cares? Their loss. Of course, that's not the way a writer is supposed to feel. You're supposed to want to get rich and famous for writing a book, or you're not really a writer. Well, I've gone for a good many years without being rich or famous, so I know that I can do that some more.

So, the Plan for October is to dummy up a volume of my "Collected Poems" and get it out of my hands and into the process. Also to get all the extraneous stuff out of my house, some sunny day, and see if anyone will stop and buy some of it, or take it for free.

The November Plan is to write another first-drafted novel. That'll give me two worth working on and submitting here and there.

The December Plan is to spruce up the living room for Christmas, by making slipcovers for the old ratty furniture.

And in my spare time, I can redecorate the dollhouse. Any questions?

*

Looks like I forgot my nemeses, housework and paying bills. Oh well.

Wonderful Weekend

The Ramey sisters met here at "Rowanwood" for supper Friday evening, and as soon as he could escape the Atlanta and I-20 traffic, Jed arrived. Susan brought brownies and ice cream, and I declare, I would ask her for the brownie recipe, except I would mess it up. Let Susan make the brownies, and I'll stick to cooking the beans and cornbread. Or whatever.

Jed brought his "Dixit" game, which we played after dinner. It was so much fun, we gathered again Saturday evening and played Dixit into the large hours.

I've got a drawer full of Timex and similar wrist-watches with dead batteries. Well, the drawer isn't full, but cluttered with 'em. Several weeks ago, Jed took my newest dead-battery watch, and the works out of my dollhouse grandfather clock, to Atlanta to get the batteries replaced. Apparently there's a mall over there where you can stand on the corner, look around you, and find a shop that does impossible things, like removing the backs of watches without using hammer and chisel. Anyway, he brought my timepieces back this weekend. I thank him. All my dollhouse dolls thank him.

While I'm posting pictures, here's Barbie who got sold into eBay slavery a few weeks ago, with her voluminous handmade wardrobe. All of which I won't show.

Yesterday I read a book that Jed brought, About a Boy, by Nick Hornby. If you laugh and cry easily, and want to read a book that makes you do both all the way through, this is a good one. I read a review of the movie, and apparently it followed the book up until the best part, then simplified and changed the ending to something sort of bland and uncomplicated.

Symbols?

"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travelers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who have heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves." - Henry David Thoreau, Walden
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 When his aunt Louisa asked him in his last weeks if he had made his peace with God, Thoreau responded: "I did not know we had ever quarreled."

Another'n?

I'm thinking about doing the November novel thing again. Not by way of NaNoWriMo, with all its little side issues, word scrambling and socializing. Just write 1,700 words a day for 30 days and see what emerges. The biggest problem is that I can't rewrite, so the big chunks of prose that I've got tucked away somewhere will probably never be proper novels.

Don't say "can't." Of course I can. I'm just too lazy. Or have been heretofore. Writing is easy. Rewriting is torture.

Rewriting is not just correcting typos and adding descriptions. Rewriting is making a shapeless thing conform to some kind of architecture.

Ring Lardner said, "Riting is a nag." Dang you, Ring Lardner--get out of my head!

Like It Or Not

Just finished reading Gone With the Wind again. There's so much wrong with that book. It's almost impossible to read some of the mawkish foolishness in it. But there it is. It draws you on. It's simply the best novel ever written, for all its flaws. My favorite line in it: "I'll tell my father, and he'll kill you!"

Grunge

I've got to clean this house, or find out where to rent a bulldozer. What it needs, almost as bad as cleaning, is new carpet and new paint throughout. In a past life, I painted the inside of Mama and Daddy's little house on Mimosa Road, but they looked sort of scared while I was doing it--I'm afraid painting ruined my disposition.

Anyway, I guess that's what I'll be doing this week, if I ever get started. Cleaning, not painting.

Same thing over and over, with a twist

Of course, the radiologists can always find some excuse to call one back. But this time they've managed to scare me. So not only do I have unending clinic visits to look forward to with my usual glee, but also concern for the outcome.

So I've moped around here most of the day with nothing done, not really giving a hoot whether anything's done or not.

Dammitall anyway! Or 90 percent of it. At least 90% of The Kirklin Clinic.

Have to buy that bed that's high enough to crawl under.

What day is it? Where am I?

I knew my clinic appointment was today, but I thought it was Friday. But it's Thursday, so I'll go to TKC this afternoon for another test which they haven't put me through in the last year or so. Then I'll come home and try to crawl under the bed, with no success. Then, if I can get the house raked out and some vittles cooked, we can have the sister supper tomorrow evening.

Part Of a Real Poem

From "Ode To a Nightingale," by John Keats:

". . . Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."


Keats had tuberculosis and knew he was dying. He wrote his "Five Great Odes" in 1819 and died in 1821 at age 25.

 'Severn—I—lift me up—I am dying—I shall die easy; don't be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come.'

John Keats

1795-1821

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If surpassing this poem is possible, Percy Bysshe Shelley surpassed it with his "Ode To the West Wind." These guys wrote 200 years ago, when English was not yet a dead language.

Not much of a poem.

Go Away, Black Cat

I saved your life, but don't assume
that it means you belong to me;
this isn't your home; I have no room
or need for your company.

I only called you “Toby” because
of your white feet and one black toe;
but your pretty paws with their dangerous claws
have not caught my heart, you know.

I've no more chicken-broth or stew
for a poor old lonesome stray;
I'm tired of warming milk for you
because you like it that way.

When you disappear, I start to think
you won't come back any more;
but there you sit like an ebony sphinx,
next time I open the door.

Your eyes are bright, and your meow is light,
and your fur is soft as silk
as you rub my shins. I give up. You win--
I'll just go and warm up the milk.

By JRC September 24, 2012

This Sunny Day

I feel no more than 154 years old--well, maybe a few months older. I'm aware that it's a blessing. I woke up sometime today while it was still a.m., and eventually managed to get out of bed. Knowing what was ahead--and still is: clean the litter box, feed a bunch of cats, pack the eBay sale, take a shower, go to the P.O., hop over the hills to pay my water bill which somehow has slipped through a crack. And now it's nearly 2:30 p.m., and all that is still ahead.

Are we downhearted? No, no, no! When all that is done, I've figured out a way to repaper the wall(s) of the dollhouse. Something to look forward to. Something to which to look forward.

"This is utter nonsense, up with which I refuse to put." -- Sir Winston Churchill

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Sold another doll on eBay. I crocheted this dress a long, long time ago. Bought the doll for a dollar at a dollar store.

A terrible invention

Today I got brave enough to Google a few words from a song that terrorized me in the second grade, and continues to make me feel sick when I think about it.

At that time, there was a family living in or near Leeds. They had a son with a neurologic handicap of some kind. He was red-headed, very large, very loud, and was in my second-grade class. He was probably a good bit older than the rest of us. They called him Bobby.

Although it didn't last long, in the first and second grades, I was a pretty little girl, and Bobby seemed to take a special liking to me. And this seemed to be his favorite song, which he sang often:

"Oh, Johnny Rebeck, oh Johnny Rebeck,
How could  you be so mean?
I told you you'd be sorry
For inventing that machine!

The cats and dogs and horses
Will never more be seen--
They'll all be ground to sausage
In Johnny Rebeck's machine!"

As the song progressed, Johnny Rebeck suffered the same fate as the dogs and cats and horse. On the internet I found that it was really Johnnie "Verbeck" or "Trebeck."

It's just the hideous song I remember with terror, not Bobby. Even that young, and in spite of the song, I felt sorry for him. His younger sister was in some of my classes at the University, and she said that Bobby died young. The sister herself was later killed when her airplane, that she was flying solo, crashed in the mountains near Huntsville, Alabama.

Probably what keeps the memory alive is watching Alex Trebek on "Jeopardy."

Like "The Chambered Nautilus"

. . . Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from Heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

1809-1894

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It looks as if a lot of people read my blog. Want to thank all readers, even though you don't often post comments. Sorry if anyone gets offended by my occasional "outbursts." Y'all come back.
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Went to the pharmacy, and coming back I saw a one-legged crow in the road. That ought to be a song.

One-legged crow, hopping like a fool;
Two boys fishing in a swimming pool...

Only it was a man and a little boy fishing in the "creek" at the park.

Autumn pas de deux

Saw two yellow butterflies doing a square dance around the back yard.

Not really a slouch. Not really a blue-eyed Indian?

Every day I do at least one important thing, usually more, then wind up thinking I've wasted the day because I don't get done everything that needs doing. Today I've done some stuff around the house, shopped for our sister supper tomorrow night, paid some bills, visited the Saint Theresa's Church yard sale, and I don't know what all. So there.

Son Jed sent off for one of those genetic tests that tell you where your ancestors came from. His came back indicating that he is 100% European. Looks like there were some Vikings in the woodpile at several points. Even if Grandpa Ramey (Paw Paw) was wrong about his mother, the Satterfields have Indian-mixed ancestry. The American Indians supposedly came from Asia. Maybe all their Asian blood froze up when they walked across Siberia and Alaska.

Or maybe all the original Indians were really from Siberia, which is considered European. So maybe I'm really one-eighth Russian. It ain't gonna worry me for long.

A poem 15 years in the making

Swans At Portsmouth, On a Receding Tide

That woman on the shore is staring at us,
Her eyes like saucers in her rain-washed face;
Perhaps she wonders why we paddle wildly,

Only to remain in the same place.

She wandered over here, while her companions
Explored aboard the ship called Victory.
Inside that little shop, out of the downpour,

She might have sheltered with a cup of tea;

Instead she stands there dripping, spies upon us,
And makes us awkward in our exercise;

It's hard enough to concentrate on paddling,

Without the scrutiny of foreign eyes.

Why do we struggle in this muddy water,
Performing an insane impromptu dance?
The tide would bear us farther off from England,

And leave us shivering on the coast of France;

And that wet, dripping, maybe weeping woman
May sense that swans, and humans even more,

Must paddle, row and swim with all their power

Against the terrors of an unknown shore.

Our wings are strong, and human wings are stronger,

And yet the weight we carry weighs us down;

And though we're left hip-deep in mud and gravel,

We did our damnedest, and we didn't drown.

By JRC, September 10, 2012

Maybe sometime I can make a better last line, but that's all I could think of at the moment.

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5:10 p.m.: I've already thought of a better last line: "The distant shore may be a paradise." So I have to redo the whole last stanza. Back to the drawing board.

First Friday

Jed arrived Friday evening in time for dinner. Then Pat and India came bearing libations and tiny roast potatoes, and Susan brought a divine dessert, fresh apple cake with ice cream and caramel sauce toppings--recipe on her Blackberry Creek blog. So much food in one place--chicken and salad and grillin' beans and green beans and mashed potatoes! And those little crescent rolls that I can eat a bagfull of, if somebody doesn't stop me.

When we three sisters get together, it's rare that anyone else can get a word in edgeways. The air rang with conversation, and little India and little Jed did manage to speak now and then. They actually were the tallest members of the party, so they should have asserted themselves more.

Part one of Season One of "Downton Abbey" was good, too.

On Saturday, Jed helped me clean out and reorganize one section of the kitchen cabinets, which I can't totally reach into without climbing. Then we went to Logan's and lunched on grilled tilapia, then Jed went back to Atlanta. He has to give five presentations in Florida in the coming week, so it was very good of him to come over for my Friday dinner.

Just thinking

Wore myself out yesterday, yet everything looks about the same. I think it was Friday, tugging at that rug. Got a crick in my neck, and it took a while to recover.

A few thoughts on the Bible: It seems to me that some of the new "translations" of the Bible are more like paraphrases, or putting the verses into what the "translators" think are clearer terms, so that children and dummies like me can understand them. The trouble, it seems to me, is that each paraphrase may really get a little bit further away from the original meaning. Maybe we can't know precisely what was intended to start with. Translating from the original scripts probably got one step away from what was intended, in some cases. As some scholars have pointed out, one word in an ancient language can have different meanings and associations, and choosing differently from what the original speaker or writer intended, can be misleading and even more confusing.

As an example: I heard one preacher comment on the Bible verse that said Jesus "had not where to lay his head." Au contraire, said the preacher, Jesus was affluent and owned a lot of houses. The verse simply meant that the disciples hadn't found or fixed up the place for Him to sleep that night. This same preacher said that when Jesus told the young man to "sell what you have and give to the poor and follow me," that He only meant for the rich young man to keep on selling his products and contributing to the poor, and to follow Jesus's teachings.

So the more you "tranlate and simplify," the less certain you are of the original meaning. I think that's why a lot of scholars, especially in bygone times, preferred to read classic writings in the untranslated versions.

Saint Jerome was close to the true meaning of the scriptures he translated. Wycliffe was farther away, but closer than we are. The men who put together the "King James" version were still farther away, but they were much closer than nineteenth- and twentieth-century "translators," and they largely agreed on what they wrote down. And seventeenth-century English is not impossible to read and understand with a good dictionary at hand.

Anyway, that's what I think right now.

September High

Funny, I still feel that rush of excitement on the first day of September, that I felt as a child. Looking forward to the first day of school, seeing lots of people instead of moping around by myself. Sometimes a new dress and/or a new pair of shoes.

So far I've sold two of the dolls on eBay:


Red Venus

Shirley

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Back in the spring, the carpet cleaners left the big area rug in the living room placed wrong, with a big streak of the carpet pad showing in the front. I had tried many times to reposition it, but the rug was too heavy and the pad was sort of stuck to the carpet underneath. Yesterday I made up my mind to fix it or set fire to it. So I rolled up the rug, put the pad where it's supposed to be, then rolled the rug out on top of the pad. It wasn't nearly as easy as it looks. My arms and shoulders are sore.

Friday Dinners at Downton Abbey

I've decided to watch an episode of D.A. every Friday evening, after dinner, in preparation for Series 3 which is scheduled to be broadcast on PBS in January 2013. I'm inviting all the kin to eat Friday dinners with me, and watch the DVD's. I know everyone doesn't like the show as well as I do, but I can always eat dinner by myself if nobody comes.

In planning table settings, I find that I have (at last count) ten different china/pottery patterns in sufficient amounts to set a table. I plan to use each setting once, and after dinner to list that pattern on eBay for a dollar or so, if it's one that I don't want to keep. Maybe I can pare them down to half a dozen sets, at most.
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The human voice, singing or even just speaking, has always fascinated me. One of the pleasantest voices currently extant on this planet belongs, in my humble o., to William Shatner. I enjoy listening to him speak, even on the Mike Slocumb law firm commercials.
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Have to doll up and go to the p.o. to mail a book.

Change of Venue

Last night I went into the guest room and shut the door so Mo couldn't get in. I went to bed with my head in that double window, slept for 12 hours, and got up feeling good. I've always thought that's the best room in the house. Once in a while, when I'm extra-weary and sleep-deprived, I go to sleep in there, and it always does me good.

Maybe it was the rain that kept me snoozing and snoring for so long. I feel a little guilty for loving the rain so much, when I know that somewhere closer to the center of the storm, it's tearing up the country and ruining some people's lives.

Ricky cut the grass yesterday, and it looks like a sparkly green carpet out there. When it's all mowed down evenly, you can't tell that a lot of it is weeds.
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Yesterday I hunted out all the "art pottery" in the house, with the object of getting it out of the house. I lined up all the planters, vases, mugs, etc., on the porch rail, and they went almost all around the deck, forty-odd pieces that I don't want. I kept my yellow-ware bowls and a few other pieces. What I had in mind was having a yard sale to get rid of the extra stuff. But then I thought about the hurricane, and brought it all inside again, so the kitchen is full of it. Over the years, on eBay mainly, I had already sold all the vases and things that I knew had value.

Most of the pottery is what I inherited from Jenny's collection, oodles of which is still in the basement in the form of odd dishes and sets of dishes. I think from now on, when I go to a thrift store, I'll take a bag or box full of dishes to donate.
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I listed some of the pottery on eBay.

A McCoy vase

McCoy ashtray

A Royal Copley vase