Fireworks Popping

The Christmas decorations are all hidden away. This is my 80th New Year's Eve. I would do it all again if I could, and would try to be a better trooper next time around.

 

***

Here's a little poem I found on a scrap of paper under a pile of books. I wrote it about a year ago. It's about a photo I saw of Leeds poet Grady Sue S., who was holding a little bird in the palm of her hand:

 

What storm or flood untimely orphaned you

and flung you tumbling forth on unfledged wings,

she does not ask, but only offers up

her hand, where you can lie and rest awhile.

 

by JRC 2013

Lovely Christmas, Lovely Birthday

Someday I shall regale the world with an account of the symptoms of withdrawal from the codeine in cough medicine. Or maybe not. But in between those, I had the most wonderful week of celebration with family. Even received a card from my lovely and famous niece on the other side of the world in far-off Rhode Island.

Jed got me set up with a new paint set, rainbows of colors in oil, acrylic and water, bunches of brushes, canvas boards and water-color pads, and even a portable easel for the small work. So I take it as a mandate to paint pictures, however limited my expertise and inspiration. Lovely gifts and good wishes from all my kin. Many thanks.  I'm going to paint something, as soon as I finish reading The Far Side Of the World by Patrick O'Brian. This is one of the best books ever written by anybody anywhere. Of course you have to know a foretopgallant mainsail from a jib boom.

Christmas Scenes

 

I hunted up some of my angels, wise men, shepherds, lambs and crèche figures, and set up a little Nativity scene in the foyer.

 

 

My best blown-glass wise man got dropped and smashed into smithereens, a long time ago.

And while I was hunting, I got most of my paperweight collection together in one place. Couldn't get down low enough to photograph the whole bookcase at once.

And of course my old Father Christmas.

 

Light At the End Of the Tunnel

After a bit of decorating and a lot of sewing and running to the post office, I'm looking forward to tomorrow when all the stuff will be done. Then I can relax and start cleaning up the house, all the messes I've made while trying to prettify the place. Can't wait to see Jed and the other folks next week, when somehow we all will be together. "Until then, we have to muddle through somehow."

Susie may be too pooped to have soup supper, and I haven't heard anything about Christmas dinner. Maybe we can all just bring some beans and cornbread and pork chops or something, and choose a place to gather quietly and play Yahtze or sing Christmas songs. Sing them quietly.

Hit the Floor Running

I couldn't sleep, so after lying there for two or three hours, I finally got up, hunted up materials, and started making Christmas gifts. When daylight comes, I'm going to try to shop for a few boy presents that I can't make something for. So I plan to spend today making Christmas gifts and curtains, after I go to the P.O. and (sigh) Walmart. I'll probably fall asleep in the middle of it all.

Maybe It's Time To Get Some New Decorations.

 

 

Wishing Him Justice and Freedom

 

Card Sent To Leonard Peltier, In Prison

 

"Warmest Regards, Leonard! Working and Praying

For You To Receive

Justice and Freedom."

 

***

 

Last Chance For Christmas Decorating

 

I would love to put up a 10-or-12-foot tall pre-lit tree, with all my ornaments on it, and lots of icicles, tinsel garlands and things. But it's not going to happen. And if it did, it would have to be taken down and stored after Christmas. Does that sound like me?

 

***

Sunset Show

 

Near sunset, the sky was loosely covered with clouds in shades of gray-blue, peach and rose, with streaks of silvery-white. So beautiful.

Not As Good As It Looks

Lunch was meatloaf, rice, green beans and cornbread. I ate all the beans and cornbread, some of the rice, and a couple of bites of meatloaf. Why I bother to make meatloaf, I don't know. Gretchen and the stray cat don't even like it.

About the poem I posted yesterday and deleted today: It was meant to be satire, and at first I thought it was so funny. But then I began to hate it and feel guilty. Goodbye to "Naming the Beasts." Maybe satire offends most of all. At least it suggested man (male) as a poetic type instead of a pragmatist.

Jim R. posts an announcement on Facebook. On a day in January, all our great (published) Alabama poets will gather at the Museum of Something-Or-Other to sign and/or read from their books. With an "open mic" after the program. Part of me (the social being) wants to be one of them, but most of me (the hermit section) knows I never shall. If I publish my book, it will endure or (more likely) it won't, without a lot of showing off by me. And when the roll is called Up Yonder, I don't suppose it will matter one way or the other.

Winter Sunshine

Sometimes I want to curl up, like a cat, in the sunshine on the living room carpet. If I ever give in and do this, I will consider myself either truly free or finally insane. Which of these, remains to be seen.

When I was a child, I wrote a poem about a cat lying in the sunshine. It seemed to me the height of luxury.

A Night In the Lonesome October

A fantasy novella by Roger Zelazny.

At first I thought Jack was Jack the Ripper. But when the blade went zip! and the woman screamed, it seemed that all that Jack took was a strip of the green cloth from her dress.

I kept picturing Jack as Castle and the witch Jill as Beckett. They both seemed as alternately smart and dumb as the TV characters.

An interesting little Halloween tale.

So Long, Facebook?

It has become plain that some of my Facebook "friends" enjoy and wallow in shocking and revolting images. It's bad enough when they project their hatred and nightmares in written words, but at least you can feel sorry for them. But some pictures are worse than a million words, and early in the morning, when I'm still on my first mug of coffee, when my hair is already standing on end from a restless night, it's almost unbearable to confront some previously unimaginable horror on Facebook.

Of course I could "unfriend" these people, but one of them is a distant cousin and one is a "fellow poet." I don't want to offend them, regardless of how many times they offend me. One wants to tell them to get help, but they would probably take that as the worst of insults. I have tried the "show me no more posts" from them, but this only lasts for a day or two, and then they reappear.

I know that horror exists, and I know that it's important to be able to face a certain amount of it without losing one's cool. But one hopes to have to face it only accidentally and from some enemy or force of nature. Not at random with one's morning coffee.

***

New Favorite Movie
I had never seen it before, because I wasn't crazy about Humphrey Bogart and thought "Casablanca" would be about as exciting as "The Maltese Falcon" or "Key Largo." But I watched "Casablanca" last night, and think it's one of the best movies I've ever seen, regardless of (or maybe because of) the corn and ham.

Bogart: "This gun is pointed straight at your heart."

Raines: "That is my least vulnerable spot."

Now Inhale

 

****************************

 

". . . My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry;

But fill me with the old familiar Juice--

 

 

Methinks I might recover by and by."



Worse and worse

 

"If I feel tomorrow, the way I feel today,

I'm gonna pack up my bags, and make my get-away!"

More accurately, if I don't feel better by this afternoon, I may call 911 and get myself transported to the ER. I remember taking azithromycin several years ago: It doesn't seem to be doing anything as long as you're taking it, but after you finish the course, you begin to feel a wee tiny bit better every day for about a month, until you almost feel normal.

And I get a teaspoon of "cough medicine" every four hours, which keeps me drowsy and makes me doze off every time I sit down, if I can keep from coughing long enough to fall asleep.

I did manage to sleep nearly four consecutive hours last night, on the couch propped up in a half-sitting position.

I hate to whine, but this is ridiculous.

Still here but just barely

Another Tree

***

 

I haven't slept much the past two nights, because of the coughing. Today I have really felt bad, so I called the doctor's office. So now I'm working on a Z-pack and a bottle of delicious cough syrup, and hope to feel better eventually.

O Christmas Tree!

There are so many little Christmas trees around the house, I thought I'd see if I could post one for each day of Advent.

I'm recovering, and feel much better, but the last stages of a cold tend to hang on until you get plumb tired of it.
*

1 Corinthians 13

King James Version (KJV)

13 Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

² And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
³ And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
⁴ Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
⁵ Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
⁶ Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
⁷ Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
⁸ Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.
⁹ For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.
¹⁰ But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
¹¹ When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
¹² For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
¹³ And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

Breathe and blow

Looking back over the week, I remember that one day, probably Tuesday, maybe Monday and Tuesday both, we had a light cold rain, around in which I ran outside, off and on, without an umbrella. So Wednesday I developed a light cough, and by Thursday I had this horrible sore throat. So I spent all day yesterday drinking honey and lemon juice, and this morning I've just got a really nasty cold. But at least my throat feels a lot better.

So don't let anyone tell you that running around outside without a coat or umbrella won't give you a cold. When it's cold and raining.

It's been so long since I had a really bad cold, at first I didn't recognize the symptoms.
*
2:20 p.m.: Now, working on my second box of Kleenex, I am totally miserable.

Update On the Dolls

After their wedding last year, Ned and Beauty lived at Graymont for a while. The whole family is more comfortable living in the country, and they talked and argued about selling the house close to town.

Little Maybelle Buff-Orpington is clairvoyant, or so she says. During one of the debates about selling the house, Maybelle took command of the situation.

"I tell you what's going to happen," she said. "Ned and Beauty are going to adopt me, and the three of us will live in the house by ourselves until Beauty's baby is born, and then there'll be four of us. We'll be a family."

Ned looked at Beauty. "Is there something you want to tell me, my dear?" he said.

"I--," Beauty began, but was interrupted by Maybelle.

"Furthermore," said the tiny autocrat, "I'm going to have flowered paper on my walls, and all the things I like best to furnish the house." Then she left the room, followed by indignant stares from the family.

That was several months ago. Now the Dolls' house is getting decorated for Christmas. The leaning column has been fixed more than once, but somehow leans again when no one is looking.

Beauty is decorating a tree in the living room.

The bookcase is out of the picture, but Ned is looking for a reference book he needs for his law studies. (That's another story.)

 

 

Maybelle is talking to Spot, who is one of the things she liked best and brought with her from Graymont. She didn't really change much about the house except for her new wallpaper, and a new bathroom set to replace the old noisy fixtures.

Down Under the Interstate

One night this week, I dreamed that Jed and I were looking at houses in a new development. One house we saw, from some distance away, was perched on a slab at least six or eight stories above the ground. The column under the slab that held it up was an elevator shaft. There were windows at every story level, so the elevator must have stopped at a room or observation point at each level. I thought, I'd rather live down under the interstate, or in a tent over by the Grindrock Spring.

Just now I Googled and found pictures of several houses built on pedestals, but none that looked as high up as the one in my dream.

***

Wish-Washy
Of course, I'll sell the dollhouse. I've already got plans to turn my dining room into a sewing/crafts room, and move the d.r. furniture into the front end of the living room. I'll make Dave help me move the furniture when he comes to get the dollhouse. Meanwhile, I've got to get busy making curtains for my bare windows.

Tom Baker, My Favorite Dr. Who

His brother George played Tiberius in the 1976 "I, Claudius" TV series.

***

Yesterday I did get all the reno work done on the dollhouse. The new bathroom set arrived, but the new doll family is still on the way. Today I've been dusting and cleaning the furnishings, washing rugs and arranging furniture. And realizing that I can't possibly sell the dollhouse. Too bad, Dave. I'll give the new family to the little girls for a Christmas present, and I'll try to find a smaller house online and persuade Dave to buy it for them.

My decision is based partly on concern for the little girls' safety: There are so many nails and straight pins, not to mention tiny swallowable/chokable items in my dollhouse, it's not suitable for small children. Yeah, that's it.

***

Well, I guess I was wrong about Tom and George Baker being brothers. Wikipedia says George was born in Bulgaria, while Tom was born in Liverpool. It says George did appear in one Doctor Who episode; maybe that's what made me think they were brothers.

Frantic Friday

Tony said the fleas are in the yard, and that's the reason they're so hard to get rid of in the house. Someone from Cook's is coming over today to treat the yard, or to arrange a time to do it, I didn't understand which.

Yesterday I succeeded in getting the white cat into the pet carrier, and took him to the vet, wailing all the way--both of us: The cat wailed, and I sang to him. But however, the vet was closed, as it always is on Thursday afternoon, which I didn't know or had forgotten. So we wailed our way back home, and I set the pet carrier down on the patio. I called Ramey at the lib. and told her he was in the carrier, and we decided we'd just let him out for the time being. So I went outside to let him out, and the dear thing had got out of the carrier and was sitting on the deck rail. So I warmed him a bowl of milk, he drank it and left.

I've made progress on the dollhouse. All I have to do is finish papering the spare room walls, replace the floor, restore the baseboards and window moldings, and paint the upstairs hall ceiling. And put some curtains on the spare room windows. I'm determined to get it done today.

Yesterday I ordered a set of dollhouse dolls for Dave's little girls, because I want to keep all my people, which are too small and mostly fragile for children to play with anyway.

***

This is a poem I wrote in 1982, in remembrance of JFK. It doesn't seem to have much relevance to him except the name, but it's what I felt at the time:

November 22

 

The tide’s out, the tide’s in;

Watch ne’er so faithfully,

But nevermore comes Johnny,

Our Johnny o’er the lee.
 

The beckon light’s a glimmering

Half over to the sea;

And all the song that I can sing

Is Johnny o’er the lee.

It's Always Something

I thought today I could finish spiffing up the dollhouse, but remembered that Tony, my amiable bug man, is coming to do the outside stuff and make sure the basement is flea-free. So I had to get dressed, which takes more time than it should. And then there's all that business about lunch, and I'm out of mayonnaise and several other things. And then come all those holidays to take up time.

If I had my way, we would forget about all the holidays except Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. And Fourth of July, of course. And Labor Day, and Mother's and Father's Day, and Martin Luther King Day, and Presidents' Day, Halloween and St. Patrick's Day. Maybe one or two others.

Ode To Autumn

 

 

I'm planning draperies for the living room, and I think the making of them will go pretty fast once I get everything together. The darkness of the office, however, with those heavy curtains across the windows, makes me hesitate about darkening the living room. But maybe my clumsy sewing will do until I can think about and shop for the kind of blinds I want.

Beg pardon?

Well, my hearing is 88% normal in what I call my "good ear," and 95% normal in what I call my "bad ear." Maybe I just don't pay attention. The doctor said I could get a hearing aid if I really wanted one. That's just about exactly what they told me when I had a hearing exam ten or fifteen years ago.

At the clinic, a very tall elderly gentleman got on the elevator. He says to me, "I almost ran over you, Shorty. Are you sure you're standing up?"

I said to his belt buckle, "When I was a young spring chicken like you, I was six feet tall."

A lady who I presume was his wife said, "The last person he said that to, told him, 'If I was as big as you, I'd beat your a--.'"

I love talking to strangers.

*

The girl at the reception desk in Radiology said, "And when is your birthday, Mrs. Pinson?"

I wanted to tell her to go upstairs and get her hearing tested, but decided I had been witty enough for one day.

Strange Goings-On

My doorbell rang sometime before four a.m. I lay there for a while, telling myself maybe I dreamed it, but knowing that I didn't. Then I got up and went around turning on outside lights, and saw through the glass door and kitchen window that some of my neighbors had inside as well as outside lights on. I stood in the kitchen, looking out the window while the water for coffee heated. A long bright beam of light shone either to or from the next-door lot, all the way across the street, just for a second, then went out.

So I came into the office and turned on the little lamp, and I sit here listening to the roof ventilator go thump-thump-thump, like a slow heartbeat, and wait for dawn to break.

I'm either going to sleep for most of the day, or call and reschedule my Monday appointments at the clinic, and then sleep for most of two days.

Reading O'Brian's Desolation Island

Jack, Stephen. Pullings, Killick, Barrett Bonden, Babbington. Mrs. Wogan.

Yesterday I finished reading The Mauritius Command. Poor Lord Clonfert.

For breakfast a large bowl of Quaker Oats, laced with raisins and topped with margarine. Filling enough to last all day. I haven't even thought about lunch.

Reading such elevated writing, as done by Patrick O'Brian, makes me want to talk and write precisely and elegantly. Or not at all, for shame.

So here I sit, another weekend looking forward to two clinic appointments on Monday. One at 8:20 a.m., Lord help me. I'll have to leave before eight o'clock in all that going-to-work traffic. At least I won't have to stop at UAB or proceed to 2121 (the old Social Security building). Twenty-four years I gave those entities, overworked and underpaid. Seven pleasanter years to General Electric and NASA, and eight or ten more to various businesses and law firms. I EARNED my Social Security, and I DESERVE it! Pittance that it is. However, I remember telling my mother, "I wish I received a thousand dollars a month without having to work." Among many things I regret having said to my mother. Three, to be exact.

Re: Cage Family

Purvis. Aunt Pearl and Uncle Ludwig's last name was Purvis. Julius and I visited them in Jackson, MS. Their son Jimmy, his wife Anne, and their terrifying toddler son Mike. When we walked into their house, Mike aimed his bow and arrow at me and said, "I'm going to kill you!" Jimmy looked sheepish and said, "He means it!"

Jimmy Purvis looked like this picture of J. Smits:

Maybe not that handsome, but enormous, with copper and black coloring.

It's odd: Grand-Daddy Cage (Julius Theodore) had blond hair, turning white. So did Aunt Emma.  Willa had sort of dark red hair, natural or not, and the rest of them that I knew were so gray-headed, you couldn't tell much about their coloring. An old photograph of Aunt Margie looks very dark-haired and light skinned (and extremely pretty). So their dad must have been fair-colored. I think this is a photo of Margie:

 

***

 

On the other hand, this could be a photo of Flora Walker Cage's sister Carrie. I know it's the oldest sister of either Jack or Flora. But I believe it's Margie.

 

More Or Less. . .

I've cleaned out and organized the chest of drawers in the foyer, and I don't know what all. Now the water from the kitchen faucet only runs in a tiny trickle, and a plumber is on the way. It's always something.

Dave and Mary Lou cleaned all the windows today, and Mary Lou cleaned all the mirrors she could find. That girl is a cleaning machine, and she's going to come back and help me some more in days to come.

I threw away all the old beat-up plastic blinds except the one in my bathroom. I rehung the dining room and kitchen curtains, and hung some old heavy drapes in the office. That leaves the living room and guest room windows that need some kind of non-sheer coverings. I'm thinking natural wood blinds for the living room. My bedroom is so dark, the woven wood blinds I've got in there will do for the present.

Dave still wants the dollhouse. His grand-daughters are aged three and seven now, and he said he'd pick up the house closer to Christmas. That'll give me time to fix it up some more. And give me some Christmas spending money. All the Doll family have gone to live at Graymont, anyhow.

Cuisine--Yuck!!!

Cooking is a very messy and tiresome procedure, in my experience. You see all these women (and men) on TV cooking shows, dressed to the nines, earrings and all, making all these neat colorful dishes in less than thirty minutes, laughing all the way. White-capped and white-coated chefs who look clean and sterile, up to the elbows in beautiful white flour, not a spot on their clothes, never considering the clean-up.

But when I get right down to it, and while it's going on, I really hate it. Especially afterwards. I hate to get my hands into a gooey, ground-beef-ketchup-and-eggy mess. I hate dough, raw or cooked, if it can be identified as dough. I hate it when flour sifts onto the counters and the floor. I especially hate it when grease spatters on the walls and cabinets, and you know you'll forget about it when you're finally released from the curs-ed kitchen. I'll bet I've washed my hands fifteen times during the making of tuna salad. Aargh! I hate grease, and "oil" is one of the ugliest words in any language.

I hate stirring a pot over a gas flame, the heat of which creeps up and burns your wrist, the steam of which has pepper in it and makes you sneeze, from which of course you have to protect the pot and/or start over.

Sometimes I'm skeptical of the I.Q. of people who love to cook. But then there's my son, who is much smarter than I am, who loves to cook, or at least takes it gracefully. And my sister, whose I.Q. is at least as high as mine, whose chili and brownies are historic in cooking circles.

***Sigh!*** Until I can afford to hire a cook and three scullery maids, I guess I'll just muddle along, eating all the raw or processed foods I can get away with.

My Facebook Comment Today

'Unless he/she is looking for personal martyrhood, a president needs to have at least a little support from the "loyal opposition," and from most of the public. There's not much "loyal opposition" left in today's politics. I love her, but if I were Hillary Clinton, I would run--for the woods!'

I remember Geraldine Ferraro.

Lunch Today

Grilled squash, zucchini, onion and tomato with lemon slices. And a Coke to keep it from being too healthy. Enough vegetables left over for a side dish at dinner.

Dave phoned and said he couldn't do the windows until next Tuesday, and that's fine. Gives me time to do some more organizing. And getting closer to payday. And DUSTING! Somebody needs to do something about all the dust that accumulates. I've sort of willy-nilly drifted into fall cleaning. Considering all the stuff I've thrown away, given away and donated, there ought to be more space than there is around here.

Surprised Myself

I have a rather flexible rule for myself about cooking: If I cooked it, I will eat at least some of it, unless it's burnt or purely impossible to tolerate.

I started to scrape this one out into the disposer, rule or no rule, it looked so yucky. But I made a sandwich, and it's almost delicious. Just cream cheese and crushed pineapple, whole wheat bread very lightly spread with mayonnaise. Definitely edible.

*

The carpeting and the rugs in every room are very clean, and tomorrow Dave is coming back to clean all the windows and glass doors, inside and out. It's costing a deal of money, but not as much as I would charge to do all that, even if I were 50 years younger. Six rooms of carpeting, three wool rugs, and 25 windows and doors.

 My part is to wash all the curtains, which I've done, and take down and wash the venetian blinds, and I've got a good start on that. Makes me feel so damn' virtuous!

 

*

On Monday, Dr. G. said the ENT exam would probably show whether I've got Meniere's or some other vestibular disturbance causing the vertigo and stuff.

Plumb wo' out!

Today I've mailed a manuscript, driven to Birmingham, and spent the afternoon at The Kirklin Clinic where I walked about five miles and had umpteen tests, all of which were okay, and a flu shot. Except my cholesterol was on the "high end of normal," and I haven't got the chest X-ray results yet.

Don't know if I'm really as tired as I feel, or if it's just letdown from nervous tension. Anyway, I'm glad it's over for another six months or so. Except they're scheduling me for a bone density test and a hearing exam in the near future. And I need to get some new glasses. Maybe by Christmas they'll leave me alone.

Tomorrow Dave is coming to clean the carpets, so I've got to get everything possible up off the floor, tired notwithstanding.

It's Later Than You Think

I thought I was getting up early this morning; looked at the computer clock and it said 10:30, so I thought it was only nine-thirty, the western hemisphere having fallen back an hour. But no,--these smart machines these days!--the computer had automatically adjusted.

As my friend Christy Cobern used to say, I'm not eating today. For the past week, I've been eating like a hog, and I've gained five pounds. Probably nerves over having to go the TKC tomorrow for two appointments. I never seem to manage to see my doctor when I'm feeling skinny so he'll feel sorry for me instead of fussing at me for smoking.

On my computer desktop there's a poetry manuscript that I thought I had sent to the Poets & Writers Maureen Egen competition, to win a trip to New York City and another trip to Montana. The deadline is December first, so to make sure, I started checking my records and find that I never sent it. At least, I can't find where I ever sent it. Probably because when I first made it up, my printer cartridge was too low to print the required five copies. It'll be a pretty hefty mailing charge, but at least there's no entry fee. Sometimes I wonder, counting contest entry fees and mailing expense, have I really made any money with my writing. One of my favorite poets, Judson Jerome, in his advanced age said that he had made approximately $2,000.00 from writing. I may have done a tenth of that, everything considered. But maybe I've still got a way to go.

Discourse, Or Rant?

I started to call it "Doggone People Who Don't Have Children or, having them, won't let them go trick-or-treating." I exquisitely understand why people won't let their children go running around after dark by themselves or in packs. But my one lone little tiny trick-or-treater last night was accompanied by her daddy. Now, was that too hard?

I also understand that most of the people in my neighborhood are nearly as old as I am, or are young singles looking for cheap old houses, thus don't have children hanging around. Why don't some of these old folks adopt their grandchildren, like civilized people? If I had grandchildren, -- no, I wouldn't adopt them. But I might let them visit once in a while.

But across the street from me lives a young couple who have three doorstep kids, Tiny, Little and Middle-Size. And one of the finest dogs I've ever seen. When they moved into that house several years ago, I visited and introduced and invited, but have the couple ever been here? No. Have the kids ever crossed the street? No. The dog was here once, and I treated him like a king. But the people, never. I know they know that I'm friendly, because I wave every time I see them playing in their yard or toting in their groceries.

I've a good notion to take this basket of candy across the street and strew it all around their property. That'll show 'em.

Go and Get the Candy Corn!

Tomorrow's Halloween, and no treats in the house. That's all right, though; I also forgot to buy rice yesterday, so I have to go to the store today anyway.

Also yesterday, I started binding the leaf quilt, and found that I'm short one package of bias binding. Seems like I'm always forgetting something. Hope I'm not losing my head.

 

*****

***

**

*

 

 

I love Google's tribute to Edith Head's 116th birthday. That lady designed not only beautiful gowns, but whole wardrobes for movies all the years of my youth and early maturity. In my opinion, she was a better designer than all those French and Italian guys put together.

*

Well, it was a terrific weekend around here. Jed came over Friday and brought a new haunted-house game. Ramey, Susan, Jesse, India and her friend Jason came over, and we all went to Logan's where Jed treated us to dinner. Then we (all but India and Jason) played the game, which has about 1.5 million game pieces and two or three volumes of instructions. Jed and Jesse had to tell us how to proceed. We're lucky to have two such savvy gamesters in the family.

Then on Saturday, Jed and I went to Montevallo for the state poetry society awards luncheon. I won four prizes, including a first, a second, and two honorable mentions. Ramey won a prize in one of the contests, and Jerri H. and Evelyn H. won a couple of dozen prizes apiece. Evelyn is one of my favorite poets, and a beautiful lady. This time I remembered to take my camera, but didn't take any pictures.

I forget what we did Saturday evening. Jed read A Wrinkle In Time again over the weekend. Then Sunday we ate lunch at Chili's in Trussville, and Jed went back to Atlanta.

I hope a good time was had by all; it certainly was by me.
*
Here's what I forgot: Friday night we gathered at Susan's and ate fried chicken and looked at the game. It was Saturday evening that we went to Logan's. I'm learning to live with my aging memory. In one of Alice Munro's short stories, there's a priceless line by a woman whose husband was concerned about her losing and not remembering things: "I don't think it's anything to worry about," she said, "I'm probably just losing my mind."

LAC hosted Bham Arts Journal

LAC table decorations

Pretty Stacey at the Birmingham Arts Journal meeting

Mr. Marchant chowing down

It was a good gathering Thursday evening at the Leeds Arts Council. There were several artists and writers there whose works were published in the current issue of Liz and Jim Reed's Birmingham Arts Journal. Some of the writers read from their works. Then Frank and Stacey and I read; I think we were the only readers who weren't in the current Journal. I read my witch poem.

Stacey is a new member of our Leeds poetry group which we have named "The Open Circle."

The picture of Spurgeon won't sit up straight. His right arm has a rolled shirtsleeve, and his left arm looks like it has a buttoned cuff and a jacket. I don't know how that happened. But that's okay. Spurgeon would approve of the photo.

*

Re: Spurgeon's shirt: I think both his cuffs were buttoned. The left wrist is just sticking out from behind the black vest he had on.

*

One day this week while I was driving up Montevallo Road, there was a hawk with outspread wings sort of hovering over the street, just above treetop height. The sun shining on him showed all the colors, and it took my breath away, and took my feet up off the floor. Fortunately, there was only one car behind me, going slow. I started waving my arms and pointing up at the bird.

Then yesterday, coming home from somewhere, I saw what might have been the same hawk above Rowan Road. Wings spread out, just sort of hanging there. "The heavens declare the glory of God," for sure. Especially when there's a hawk in the sunshine.

But First, the Internet

Well, I slept five solid hours, and probably needed more, but with all I have to do today, I couldn't stay in bed. All I have to do is more than any 156-year-old crone can possibly get done, but have to give it a shot.

Jed had some tests yesterday and was feeling a bit goofy, so he decided not to come over today for the Birmingham Arts Journal meeting. He said the tests were OK. He will come over this weekend, and we'll go to Montevallo for the Alabama State Poetry Society meeting, Lord willing.

I had threatened to dress up for the meeting tonight, so yesterday I tried on The Dress, which still had the price tag.

The photo insists on lying sideways. But man, it looks great on, and it isn't too short, which I was afraid it might be. It should have been a couple of sizes smaller; but the sleeves would have been too short. I have unusually long arms for my size, which I guess proves I have a common ancestor with the great apes.

First thing, I have to choose and print a poem to read tonight. Tempted to read "Poof! There Goes Mr. G.," which I wrote in 1955. But no. I need to keep my reputation, such as it is.

*

4:40 p.m. Now I'm too tired to take another shower and pull on some clean clothes. But I will anyway. Just hope I don't go to sleep in the meeting.

*

9;45 p.m. I'm so tired, it hurts to move my arms. How will I get this dress off?

Interesting Note On Genetic Testing

Jed's "100 percent European" analysis still has me puzzled, even more so now. The lady (Barbara) in Nebraska who phoned me for information about Cages is the granddaughter of Nell Josephine Cage Reis, who was Grand-Daddy Cage's sister. In talking about her ancestors, Barbara said that, according to "the old folks," Mary Hatfield Cage was half Indian.

Mary Hatfield Cage was the mother of Julius Theodore (Jack) Cage I, Nell Josephine Cage Reis, and all their brothers and sisters. Jack Cage I was the grandfather of Jack Cage III (or IV--there was an older nephew named after Jack the First), Jenny Cage and Jed Cage.

I'd like to know which agency did Jed's testing, and which one is doing Susan's testing, and compare the two.

Is it probable that two women of approximately the same generation, when American Indians were mistreated and vilified, would claim to be Indians if they were not? Mary Hatfield Cage is the same relation to Jed as Eliza Jane Miskelly Ramey is to us. If Mary were half Indian, then Jed would be a sixteenth, I think. That ought to be enough to show up somewhere in the DNA.

Archimedes

But what are all such niceties to me,
Whose head is full of indices and surds?

x² + 7x + 53
 

= ¹¹/<sub>3

***</sub>

 I didn't remember what Barbara said about her great-grandmother until this morning after I started to throw away a sheet of paper on which I had written notes while talking to Barbara.




***

Mary Emma Hatfield

Found 10 Records, 10 Photos and 1,014,804 Family Trees

Born in Woodville, Mississippi, USA on 1865 to Thomas Hatfield. Mary Emma married Dewitt B Cage and had 13 children. She passed away on 28 Aug 1944.

Family Members

Parents

• Thomas Hatfield
• Unavailable

Spouse(s)

Children

• Dewitt B Cage1864-1915

• Euphrozine Cage
• Pearl Clarice CageUnknown-1975
• Mary Martha Cage1890-Unknown
• Ellie Josephine Cage1892-Unknown
• Alice Lea Cage1893-1920
• James Edward Cage1894-Unknown
• Dweitt Barnett Cage1899-1916
• Marguerite Cage1901-Unknown
• Julius Theodore Cage1902-1966
• Emma Hortense Cage1904-1971
• Millie Juliette Cage1905-Unknown
• Thomas George Cage1906-1956
• Laura Virginia Cage1907-1908

By me:

"Euphrozine" is the one they called Flora.

Aunt Pearl married Uncle Ludwig, but I forget his last name.

Ellie Josephine was Aunt Nell.

James Edward and Dewitt Barnett are the ones Jed is named after.

Marguerite was Aunt Margie.

Julius Theodore (Jack) was Granddaddy Cage, married Flora Walker.

Emma Hortense was Aunt Emma who lived in Washington, DC.

 

I don't know which one was called "Uncle Harvey," who was still alive in the late 1950's and lived in Nebraska with Aunt Nell. Maybe Harvey was Nell's husband's uncle. But he looked just like a Cage. So did Nell's husband.

I don't know which one was Willa, who married Jere Camp. They lived in Mississippi, and I think their son's name was Howard. Willa was the youngest of the sisters, so I guess her birth name was Millie Juliette. They tended to call themselves anything they chose.

***

November 14th: Purvis. Aunt Pearl and Uncle Ludwig's last name was Purvis. Julius and I visited them in Jackson, MS. Their son Jimmy, his wife Anne, and their terrifying toddler son Mike. When we walked into their house, Mike aimed his bow and arrow at me and said, "I'm going to kill you!" Jimmy looked sheepish and said, "He means it!"

 

Blue Shadows

Blue shadows on the trail
Blue moon shinin' through the trees
And a plaintive wail in the distance
Comes driftin' on the evening breeze

Move along, blue shadows, move along
Soon the dawn will come and you'll be on your way

But until the darkness sheds its veil
There'll be blue shadows on the trail

-- Roy Rogers

*

I watched my old video recording of "Michael" this morning, to banish some of my blue shadows.

Chunks Of Prose: Muddy Waters

Leaves, By Me

You can tell people all kinds of truths, except the truth about themselves or their offspring, or their works. The truth about my oeuvre is that it's all poor imitation, except for this colored drawing,

this sketch,

this sky painting:

and a few of what I stubbornly call poems.

Until 1994 when the Alabama State Poetry Society was revealed to me, I didn't presume to call my verse "poetry." The "poet," Mr. Ralph H., chided me for saying that I wrote verse instead of poetry. Upon acquaintance with the output of the ASPS membership (and their contemporaries around the country), I understood why he said that. What most of them wrote might at a long stretch of the definition have been poetry, but it sure as H. wasn't verse. We all long to belong, so I settled in, consenting to be called a poet.

What happened was that in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, some famous poets started occasionally dispensing with obvious forms, end rhyme, and a few other traditional elements of poetry. The world at large took this to mean that all the bonds were loosened and anything one chooses to write down and call a poem is one. Maybe they're right. I don't know. I DO know, but who am I to judge? The waters are muddied.