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.

 

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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.

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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.




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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.

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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

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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.

Excellent, dude!

While I ate my lunch, I watched a few minutes of "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure." I think this film is probably what inspired my poem "River Cruise," in which we picked up Joan of Arc, Richard II and a couple more Plantagenets, Mary Queen of Scots, Father Murphy, and a lot of other folks in danger.

Almost forgot

Maybe this month will get me out of solitary and into a more sociable mood. In addition to reunion and ASPS meeting, on October 24 (Thursday) the Leeds poetry group will host The Birmingham Arts Journal's quarterly meeting at the Leeds Arts Center. For this I have threatened to "dress up" in the latest new dress that I've never worn. Everybody else will probably be in jeans and tee shirts, and I'll wind up feeling like a fool. But that's OK; it has happened before.

Reunion

Met today with about 20 old friends and classmates for lunch at Fishmarket on 280. It was such a joy and privilege to meet so many good friends again, some of whom I hadn't seen since high school. There were only about 40 people in our graduating class, and we are blessed that so many of us are still around. Sandra came from Tuscaloosa, and the rest of us live in or near the Birmingham/Leeds area. It's amazing, how many of "the girls" have grown from pretty girls to purely beautiful mature women. Our whole class was right good-looking, I think. So many cute boys, and now most of them have gone on to the next place. Georgia, Joyce Earle, Evelyn Jo, Helon and Virginia were our beauty queens, all of them still sashaying around, though Helon and Virginia didn't make it to the luncheon.

Very satisfying day. And a week from next Saturday, I get to see a bunch of the Alabama State Poetry Society folks at the fall awards luncheon in Montevallo. Which reminds me, I have to send in reservations for Jed and myself.

Next week, on the 15th, one of the charity trucks will prowl the neighborhood. I think I'll get brave and donate all the clothes I've shrunk out of, instead of holding onto them and expecting myself to alter or have them altered. I need a new fall/winter wardrobe, anyway. A "wardrobe" to me is a new pair of jeans and a couple of cotton shirts.

The Little Black Boy

Here's a poem that broke my heart and influenced me from an early age:

My mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black, but O! my soul is white;

White as an angel is the English child: 

But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

 

My mother taught me underneath a tree 

And sitting down before the heat of day,

She took me on her lap and kissed me,

And pointing to the east began to say: 

Look on the rising sun: there God does live 

And gives his light, and gives his heat away. 

And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 

And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face

Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear 

The cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice 

Saying: Come out from the grove my love and care,

And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.

Thus did my mother say and kissed me, 

And thus I say to little English boy: 

When I from black and he from white cloud free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy: 

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear, 

To lean in joy upon our father's knee. 

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,

And be like him, and he will then love me.

 

By William Blake

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I've always tended to think of Blake as an ethereal creature, solitary and withdrawn, lost in his poetry and imagery. Actually, according to history, he was a prickly, pugnacious rebel, of the earth and earthy. Friend of rebels, including Mary Wollstonecraft, preaching for women's rights and opposing institutions such as organized religion.

Hitting the Wall

I got out of bed and something slammed me against the wall. I didn't fall down, but had to hold on for a while to walk around. Later, the beams in the living room ceiling whirled around, but not as fast as they did in 2006 or whenever it was that I had that spell, and no nausea this time.

I rescheduled my September checkup appointment for November 4th. So with the vertigo, I'll have something interesting to discuss with the M.D.
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Searching online for the symptoms, I believe I may have Meniere's disease. Which is preferable to a lot of other diseases; but it can be pretty scary if you don't know what's the matter.

Ancestor Relics - 2.

Aggie

Once I had an aggie, genuine,
smaller than an ordinary marble.
I envied Doug, who had a flour sack
full of marbles of all shapes and sizes.
I have to hope my aggie was a gift
from Doug, and that I didn't steal it from him.

Recent Stuff

Last night I watched "A Beautiful Mind" on TV. That's a powerful movie. I hadn't seen it in several years. "Terrified! Mortified! Petrified!"

Mo passed on a couple of weeks ago, and I still occasionally start to the basement to check on him, then remind myself that he's gone. I'm very tempted to let the white cat come in and establish residence; but then I remind myself of my resolution. Haven't seen the black cat in several weeks, so I guess he's gone, too.

Today I reworked my Amazon.com inventory, lowering many of the book prices.

Ancestor Relics

1. The Hunting Horn

Say his name three times quickly:
Reed Roe Ramey--
Some wits would call him Railroad Ramey.
With Loud and Drive he'd hunt
the wily 'coon all night,
the dogs baying,
the horn echoing around the mountain,
while the bored raccoon most likely fell asleep
in the high fork of a sweet gum tree.

By JRC 10/01/13

Idle Gossip

My neighbor(s) to the east, who moved in after Jared moved out, have four vehicles in their yard, one with a car cover on it. I think the covered one is an open red sports car of some ilk. One of the others is a pickup truck. I haven't seen a sign of life over there in weeks. I don't spy on my neighbors, but can't avoid looking that way out my kitchen window, when I'm washing dishes or filling the dishwasher.
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I look forward to the day when I'll wake up with enough energy and grit to clean my house from the basement to the ceilings in one day. It's bound to come, because I've been saving it up for so long.

And to wash the car, as well.

The Plan For Today

"O paladins, the lesson for today
Is how to be unhappy, yet polite!" -- Robert Frost

The Plan:

Today I will accomplish great things, if I don't go back to bed.

No: Today, I will clean the toilets.

The manuscript
is now in print,
in large type that
requires no squint.

The cat's defunct,
the dog has fled.
I will not
go back to bed.

Although today
my moods may vary,
I'll not resort
to Harry Carey.

[OR: Although of life
I may be weary,
I won't resort
to hara kiri.]

And after all
is said and done,
I'll burn my bridges
one by one.

Another cup
of coffee, mates;
and we'll see what
segatuates.