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

From Don Juan, by Lord Byron

...A little curly-headed good-for-nothing
And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth.
Instead of quarreling, had they been but both in
Their senses, they'd have sent Young Master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipped at home,
To teach him manners for the time to come.

His father's name was Jose--Don, of course;
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse--
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again--
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
Begot--but that's to come. Well! To renew--

His mother was a learned lady, famed
For every branch of science ever known;
In every Christian language ever named,
With virtues equalled by her wit alone.
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded,
In their own way, by everything that she did.

Her memory was a mine; she knew by heart
All Calderon, and greater part of Lope;
So that if any actor missed his part,
She could have served him for the prompter's copy.
For her, Feinagle's were an useless art,
And he himself obliged to shut up shop--he
Could never make a memory so fine as
That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez.

She knew the Latin--that is, the Lord's Prayer--
And Greek--the alphabet, I'm nearly sure.
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure.
For native Spanish, she had no great care;
At least her conversation was obscure.
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she thought that mystery would ennoble 'em.

Her favorite science was the mathematical;
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity.
Her wit--she sometimes tried at wit--was attic all;
Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity.
In short, she was in all things fairly what I call
A prodigy; her morning dress was dimity,
Her evening silk, and in the summer, muslin,
And other stuffs with which I won't stay puzzlin'.

More of the same, and a transformation

Dr. G. almost persuaded me to schedule a test that I've resisted for ten years or so. It must be the only test I haven't had at one weak moment or another. He did send me for a chest X-ray and scheduled a diagnostic mammogram/whatchamacallit--ultrasound, for next week I think. I asked him again about the big red spot on my right leg, about the size of the red spot on Jupiter. Several years ago he prescribed an antibiotic for it, which had no effect on the spot. Another time he said it was probably fluid collection due to my age. This time he said it's a bunch of miniature varicose veins. Sent in some new prescriptions for my meds, so when my swallower is feeling empowered, I'll start back on that stuff.

Dr. G. has been my internal med. physician for going-on twenty years now. When I first started seeing him, he looked purely scary. He's about as tall as Michael Crichton, with white skin, black hair and eyes, bushy black eyebrows, enormous bone structure. As a young man he wore a sort of long crew cut, which meant his hair stood up like a brush. I guess you call it a brush cut, only it was spiky. His head looked too small for the rest of him, and he had this sort of stiff self-conscious posture that made you want to look somewhere else to keep from embarrassing him.

Now the man must be in his late forties or early fifties. I've always said that age was kinder to men than to women, all else being equal. Dr. G. is now one of the handsomest men I've ever seen in person. Over the years he has developed composure, a comfortable sense of humor, a little meat on his bones, and a decent barber for his straight, white-streaked black mop.

Family Tree of Dahls/Dolls

"Daddy" - Alexander Hugh Dahl (a.k.a. Alexis Hugh Doll), born 5/2/1876

"Mama" - Amanda Miranda Marquez y Ortiz Doll, born 6/30/1882

Camilla - Maria Camilla Doll, born 7/27/1904

"Dolly" - Dolores Juanita Doll, born 12/31/1907

Peter - Peter Alexander Hugh Barry Doll, born 11/30/1911

"Grandma" - Dorothy Jane Kemble Dahl (2nd marriage: Buff-Orpington), born 3/10/1857

Maybelle - Maybelle Buff-Orpington Doll, born 10/12/1903

"Ned" - Mycroft Edward Dahl, elder twin to Alexis/Daddy Doll, born 5/2/1876

Servants: "Beauty" - Alice Joan Smith, parlor maid, born 4/10/1892

"Cook" - Kenya Beauchamps, cook, from New Orleans, born 10/23/1881)

"Beau" - Beolius Beauchamps, Cook's baby, born 4/4/1911

Lucinda - Lucinda Brown, upstairs maid, born ca. 1870

"Billy Bones" - William Praise-God Bare-Bones Bonnet, handyman, born ca. 1876

Mrs. Gudenov - washerwoman

Katryshina - Mrs. Gudenov's daughter

Deceased Persons: Daddy's father, Peter Alexander Dahl, born 11/3/1849, died 1/1/1880

Daddy's step-father, Sir Donald Barry Buff-Orpington, born 12/10/1859, died 2/11/1906

Pets/Dogs: Tiny, Airedale terrier mix
Spot, some kind of spaniel
Sooner, Echo and Belman, three greyhounds that Daddy thought would make good hunting dogs.

Pets/Cats: Missah, blonde Persian. Dolly was trying to think of a name for her and kept saying, "Miss--ah--Miss--ah...."
Bob and Not Bob, Missah's kittens
Kitty, black-and-white DSH with long hair

Pets/Other: Aesop, turtle, belongs to Dolly
Hook, parrot, belongs to Billy Bones

One of these days...

I'm going to buy me a bed that's high enough to crawl under. That's what I feel like doing when I get home from one of these all-day clinic visits. And it didn't even rain when I was driving home.

Driving in the rain

Someone posted on Facebook a link to a story that says Larry McMurtry, age 76, is getting rid of most of his enormous collection of books, and won't write fiction any more. I hate to see someone give up at such an early age. Seriously, "age" is "becoming my concern of late" (R. Frost). I'm trying to wash all my dirty laundry and throw away the rags--which won't leave me much laundry to worry about. But I'm not giving up much else, certainly not my scribbling.

Wish I could give up driving. Mama gave it up at age 65, and we spent the next 25 years driving her around wherever she commanded. When I lived in Montgomery and Selma and Birmingham, I would come to Leeds almost every weekend and take her to the grocery store and TG&Y or TJ Maxx. When I lived on Oak Trail for seven years, I would go to her apartment after work almost every day to watch Magnum PI with her and play Scrabble. I miss Mama.

But I can't give up driving. I've got a Clinic appointment on Thursday for my annual checkup, which of course I dread like--like I-don't-know-what. Driving in the daytime isn't really a problem, except that when I've got one of these pesky medical appointments, I get nervouser and nervouser. And when it's time to drive to Birmingham, I'm so keyed up I can't see straight. And there's always a rainstorm when I'm driving home.

I've been canceling appointments all this year, so I reckon I'll go this time.

If at first/second (ad infinitum) you don't succeed--

The procedure for restoring my printer to life gets longer and more complicated. Yesterday, in desperation, I tried removing the ink cartridges and replacing them, and that worked. I shake my head.

Ramey and Reed stopped by yesterday to retrieve Gretchen. Seeing Reed for the first time in many weeks was a real treat. He spent most of his summer vacation in Los Angeles, and now he's bound for first grade. I took him on a tour of Graymont, while he's still young enough to appreciate miniature stuff.

Is it just me--?

My printer has quit again. This time, none of my strategies have (has?) worked. Talking to it doesn't seem to help. I've got a book to mail, but I guess I can print the address on the envelope by hand, if I still remember how.

What I miss about the "old days" is that I almost always had a best friend, we were at each other's house all the time, it seemed. I miss Bonnie, Gayle, Jo Ann, Doris and Jane.

Someday I'm going to write a book about Jane.

I miss Miriam, too, maybe most of all. But our friendship wasn't in what I call the "old days," and we didn't hang around each other's houses.

Great Weekend

Jed had a business meeting in Birmingham Friday morning, so he stayed here for the weekend, just left going back to Atlanta. We watched the movie "Capote" last night, although it was hard to watch. It softened my opinion of Truman into pity. For Harper Lee, too. Neither of them ever published another book after "In Cold Blood."

I ended the eBay auction for my Pinkie doll. It got down to one hour, and none of the watchers had bid. I know what they were doing--I've done it myself. Wait till the last minute to bid, and get the item for the starting price. But not this baby. I think it's a keeper. Just wish I had a grand-daughter, or grand-niece. Why don't any of these nieces have girls? Though I love the nephews. Boys are more fun, but they probably don't want your doll collection.

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Regarding the Dolls: The painting that Ned found in the old stable looks like an El Greco, something like this:

The night after they found it, lightning struck in the woods and burned the remains of the old stable to the ground. After the family recovered from hysteria and running around in circles, they sent Ned off with the painting to have it examined at Christie's, authenticated if applicable, and an attempt made at establishing provenance.

Second Thoughts?

I've listed my Pinkie Baby doll on eBay. It's 1936 vintage and in almost perfect condition. There are no bids yet, and I'm beginning to hope it won't sell. I washed and ironed all the clothes. I always meant to make a really fabulous christening outfit for this doll, but of course I never did. It has been in my closet most of the time for about ten years. If I could decorate my house in "my style," it wouldn't have dolls sitting around for show. So why do I need this huge doll collection, sixty or so items?

Of course, I have acres of storage room--not! And the dolls take up a great portion of the space I've got. So bye-bye 6 Gene Marshalls, 9 Madame Alexanders, 3 Barbie types, one Shirley Temple, one Ling Ling, and all sorts of nameless, homemade, junk shop and yard sale specimens. That's if anyone will buy them.

Irony

Cheered myself up today by Googling Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier. Two of the most beautiful people who ever walked are now older, balder and uglier than I am.

Last night I watched about three minutes of an old Technicolor movie they were both in. Sorry movie, but boy, that Belafonte!

Goals For This Week

(1) Finish redecorating dollhouse.

(2) Clean my office.

(3) Set up Amazon and eBay files.

Appreciation

Yesterday I discovered a book which has been in my possession since the 1960s and which I had always meant to read someday. I was prompted to hunt it out and read it, by watching the PBS program on art collector Albert Barnes. The book is Appreciation: Painting, Poetry and Prose, by Leo Stein, a friend of Mr. Barnes. Stein was primarily an art critic and collector. He was Gertrude Stein's brother, but, loyally, he never really said he thought she was silly. He loved the paintings of Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso and Renoir, although he did say that the works of Picasso, after his early promise, turned silly.

The book was published in 1946 or '47, I forget which, and is largely autobiographical, fascinating for its glimpses of Paris life and European artists earlier in the century.

What have I done this week? Went to Susan's for supper on Thursday, which was scrumptious--supper, not Thursday. Spaghetti and meatballs, one of my and great-nephew Jesse's favorite meals. And today I finished reading that book. I wonder what other treasures lurk unread in my thousand-or-so books.

I also went to the poetry reading at LAC Monday night. A very large gathering, good poems.

Demo Is No Fun

Getting the house fixed up before Ned and Beauty's wedding.

I hardly ever regret what I don't say when I'm ticked off. In contrast to the many times I wish I hadn't said so-and-so. But for years I have fumed over a certain situation at a certain church in Leeds. I've told myself it's really none of my business, although I am nominally a member of that church, so why isn't it some of my business? But I can't do anything about it, and to speak of it might be to stir up a hornet's nest. Which might be a good thing, but would probably be a bad thing.

But every time I drive by there and see someone, who ought to be at least the head deacon, tending the grounds or taking in the garbage can, it makes me furious all over again. Humility is all well and good, and maybe that's his schtick, but I can't help it, it makes me angry for him and at him. Those high-and-mighty rich folks could hire someone to take in their damned garbage cans.

I usually live to regret saying that I'll never do something again. But I don't think I'll ever attend that church again. I was sort of a founding member, but I won't be missed, because I only went a few times in ten years, anyway.
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Maybe if I had attended and contributed regularly, I could have had some influence. Or at least a forum for my opinion, before I quit.

Falling Up (Thanks, Shel!)

I really, really hate making concessions to old age. Hate it. Really. That's where I take out my hate instinct.

Anyway, I've decided to abandon the basement stairs. The deck steps are less steep, and I don't mind touching the clean, open, rain-washed railings. The deck is 15 steps from the ground, whereas there are only 12 basement stairs. I can always go around to the basement/garage, instead of by the steep, dark stairs.

I thank the good Lord that the fall yesterday didn't hurt me. And the stairs were'nt even involved in it. My knees are not even bruised, though the right one is a bit sore.

Anyone who knows me would agree that mentioning "dance" and myself in the same sentence is an oxymoron. However, in college I took body mechanics and modern dance for my physical education courses, and I believe that some of it has stuck with me. You learn, among other things, how to fall backwards and forwards, which parts to flex and which to relax, so that it looks accidental but actually is deliberate and controlled.

But I'm aware, of course, that I can't sail along at normal speed, depending on learned behavior to protect me from trauma.