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.