Did you ever?

Photo by Agan

The Twelfth Fairy's Wish: That he'll always be as sweet and happy as he looks today.

Who Is Me?

"My sinuses," "my brain," "my tree"--who is talking?
~
Me Again

Must I be me again today?
Why can’t someone else take a turn?
I know how an actor feels in a play
That runs so long, he begins to yearn
For a different role, would like to learn
How someone else would handle his lines,
And yawns to think he has to say
The same words for the hundredth time;

But clinging to his small success,
He walks through the part, remembering when
Safe boredom would have seemed to bless
The days before his ship came in.
So I, though wondering now and then
How someone else would handle the lines,
I put aside my wistfulness,
And play the part for the thousandth time.

By JRC, June 17, 1974

"I measure myself against a tall tree..." - Wallace Stevens, Opus Posthumous, 1930-something.

Happy Good Friday, and a Very

Happy Easter Sunday!

What a Morning!

It's amazing how good I feel on cool, dark, windy, rainy days. Normal people feel better, or so they say, on hot dry days with the sun blazing down and no clouds in the sky. When the wind is blowing and rain is falling, my sinuses clear up, I can see better, and the wheels of my brain go around and around. Of courses, this is all aside from being scared a storm is going to blow me away.

Could this be a weather-controlled form of a bi-polar disorder? Depressed on "pretty" days, comparatively manic on dreary days? Though I don't know how you could call a day like today "dreary." Everything outside is moving, including the limbs that have blown down into the street. If people could only live in harmony with the weather, and safe from its ups and downs, we could enjoy stormy weather without qualms.

A Wee Bit Lopsided, But Cute

My mother made this little quilt top, or large quilt block, and I quilted it over this past weekend (it's about 30" square). It wasn't sewn together quite securely, so I didn't stretch it in a frame but just did a few repairs and quilted along the seams. I have several much bigger, better and prettier quilt tops that Mama gave me, but I need to practice and get used to holding and manipulating a needle again so I can finish some of them. There are several miniquilts in the cedar chest, made by Jenny and me, that I can practice on.

Here are some of my doll quilts that I made years ago. If you click on them, they'll enlarge, all except the pinwheel one--which is my favorite, and I wish you could see all the little doll and animal prints. I don't know why it won't enlarge. The Easter basket one is approx. 18" x 24"; the others are smaller.

Did St. Pat miss a few leprechauns?

No, I guess he was only chasing the snakes.

Maybe this Little Person was watching Steve's crew "stoning" the flower beds. I myself was oversleeping, but they did all right without supervision. Maybe I only dreamed the episodes of discussing natural colors/gravel/pea gravel/large pea gravel--or maybe it was real, and the only word that stuck was "large." Whatever, I'm satisfied. And the reason I'm satisfied is that I learned a long time ago not to expect more of the human race than they're capable of; after all, 90% of them have IQ's of 100 or less, God love 'em.

What you want to bet that when the back-yard drains are installed on Wednesday, they'll be covered with a layer of brown pea gravel?

Rock Sample

This is rock sample Steve left yesterday, of rocks to cover the drains in the back yard. I tried all this morning to get the picture into an email to Jed, but couldn't get the picture to reduce from about 3-page size. I want smaller, smoother rocks--gravel, I think. The sample rocks are pretty, but some of the broken ones have very sharp edges, like this quartz chip.

Today is Susan's Birthday!

Dear Suze - Happy 39th (or whichever)

Old Poem (Oct., 2000)

A Pear Year, A Bare Year

The third year that the pear trees didn’t bear,
She cursed them, and poured salt around their roots.
“If you won’t bear fruit,” she said, “then, damn you, die.
I hope I never see another pear.”

Of course, you know what happened: the next year
There were so many pears that limbs broke off;
Some of them weighed a pound and a half or more,
Those big hard sweet ones that make good preserves.

She claimed she had known exactly what they needed,
Something in salt that worked like lime or potash.
The orchard had the last word, though; next spring
Every pear tree was dead as four o’clock.

Party Night

The Friends of the Library pre-sale get-together gets together tonight, so I'm hoping to find a book or two worth reading and/or selling. I mean, most of them are worth reading, but I meant ones I haven't read before. I think I'm in the mood to read another one of those David Poyer books; really excellent reading, and I keep wondering about the boy with the lung infection, and the girl who stepped off the ferry.

My beautiful niece Angela had surgery this week, and I'm wishing her a swift and easy recovery. She must be camera-shy, because my only pictures of her are little snapshots and school pictures. I had to steal this one from her mom's blog, so if anyone wants to sue me, my personal net worth is only slightly in excess of $1.365 US dollars.

Uncle Obe's Tale

“Boys,” said Deacon Boley, “these meetings of the Sourwood Men’s Temperance Union are mighty slow getting off of the ground.”

The Union was formed back yonder during the Great Depression, and there was about a dozen of us when it first started, but after a few weeks we had dwindled down to five or six regular members.

“Instead of just telling how our old ladies decided we was to quit drinking,” the deacon went on, “why don’t we take turns telling the most amazing drinking experience we ever had? Maybe something that got us to consider turning over a new leaf?”

Uncle Obadiah Purvis spoke up.

“I can tell you what happened to make me quit drinking, and the old lady didn’t have nothing to do with it.”

Uncle Obe hardly ever said anything at one of these meetings, so everybody looked towards him setting in a cane-bottom chair in the corner, and he told this story.

One day back in the summer, when the plant whistle blowed for quitting time, me and Stevie Lee stopped by the saloon for a beer. Stevie had more money than I had, so I left first. Still, I was maybe three sheets to the wind when I started home up the gravel road. When I got to the quarry on top of the mountain, all of the trucks and workmen were gone, and I set down to rest on a big sandstone block at the edge of the quarry.

I was thinking of getting out my pipe and pouch and lighting up, when out of the corner of my eye I seen something move. You know when you’re hunting, you get the habit of not moving too quick, so I turned just enough to get me a clear sideways view towards the bed of the quarry. Moving slow, about knee-high offen the ground, was something shiny, shaped like a football and maybe six foot long. All of a sudden it settled down in the sandy bed of the quarry and stopped. Flabbergasted though I was, I knowed it was real. I had been a lot drunker before and never saw things that wa'nt there.

A hole opened up in the side of the thing, and a little man maybe a foot high slithered out. Soon as that one hit the ground, another one come out right behind him, and both of them stood up and looked straight at me. Their eyes looked like little shiny dots from where I set. I tried to jump up and run, but my legs wouldn’t hold me up. I decided I’d just have to bluff my way out of it. Maybe a big noise would scare them away, so I give a whoop like you holler at the dogs when they’ve treed a coon.

“Whoooo-eeee!” I yelled. “What are y'all doing upon this here mountain?”

The little men jumped about a foot and grabbed onto each other. They looked more spooked than I felt. They didn’t open their mouths, but I could hear something in my head like regular talking, only real proper, like a radio announcer.

“If you please, sir, could you tell us what sector of the galaxy this is? Some of our navigation instruments have failed, and we are not sure how far we are from home.”

“Lost, are ye?” I said, real bold-like, beginning to get over my scare. I pointed to the gravel road going down the mountain. “Down thataway is Selby.” Then I pointed east. “And if you go far enough yonder way, you’ll hit old Mount Cheaha.”

The two manikins put their heads together like they was jabbering at each other, but their mouths still didn’t move.

“Speak up, there!” I hollered. “If y'all expect any help, ye’ll have to say so.”

I heard this voice again in my mind or my brain.

“Sir, we would like to know where we can find an instrument to aid us in our journey home.”

All I could think of that might help them was an old carbide light that I take along when I go hunting, and I reckon they heard me thinking, because the voice in my head spoke again.

“No, no, not a light. We need an instrument, to calculate the angles and distances between the stars.”

“Why, I’ll be!” I thought. “I bet I’ve got the very thing, right here in my jumper pocket som’ers.”


I felt around in my jacket and pulled out a slingshot whittled out of hickory wood, with black inner tube strips and a leather pouch for the rock. My cousin Tom had made it for my oldest boy, I was taking it home to him. I chucked it across the sand and it landed by the men’s feet.

“See what you can do with that, boys,” I said. “Sight through the fork of it at any star you want to shoot at. I gyarntee hit’ll work.”

Which was a lie, but I just wanted to get shut of them and go home.

The two men looked at each other kind of hopeless like, but one of them stooped over and picked it up. This is the spookiest part of all. When he stood up with it in his hand, the slingshot was the same size in proportion to him as it had been to me when I was holding it. They handed it back and forth between them, and every now and then one of them would hold it up and pull the rubber strips back, or look through the fork towards the evening star that was shining brighter every minute. Finally one of them nodded his head at the other feller, then both of them looked
at me.

“The device looks simple enough,” said the voice. “We believe it will take us where we want to go. Once we are beyond the distorting effects of your atmosphere, we should be able to make the necessary calculations. What will you take in exchange for this instrument, sir?”

I figured the slingshot was worth at least three beers.

“Well, now,” I said, “hit’s a real good sling, ought to fetch at least seventy-five cents. Maybe eighty.”

“Sir,” the voice said, “we are not familiar with your barter system. Perhaps an artifact would interest you. Would you care to have a small memento which we picked up on a satellite of your star system’s largest planet?”

I was disappointed but wanted to be good-natured about it.

“Shore,” I said. “If yens have got no money, any little thing will do. I can see ye’re in a tight, and I always stand ready to help out a stranger in trouble.”

One of the men knelt in the sand beside his little blimp and slid through the side of it. Then he crawled back out, dragging a big shiny doo-lolly shaped sort of like a watering can, with a spout on one side and a handle on the other.

“This,” the voice says to me, “is a relic of the civilization, now extinct, that once flourished among the satellites of the great mottled planet. Its function, we have discovered, is to turn things backward. There is evidence that its most recent effect was to turn one of the great planet’s satellites backward in its orbit. So whenever you wish something to go backward rather than forward, simply point this nozzle toward the object and press this lever down.”

Whilst he was talking, he aimed the nozzle at a lightning bug that was flying around and flashing its little light. When he pushed the handle down, that bug went zooming backwards down the tram track and out of sight.

He set the shiny thing down in the sand, and before I could hardly blink my eyes, both of the little men jumped through the side of that blimp, and it shot up in the sky like the wolfeener was after it. Before it disappeared I heard the voices again in my head. They was laughing like hyeners, and the laughing conjured up a lot of pictures of things going backwards that I didn’t like to think about.

I walked over to the shiny thing and looked it over. Hit was a lots bigger than it had looked before, about the size of a five-gallon bucket. Under the handle was a gap so the handle could move up and down. I picked up a piece of flint from the ground and wedged it into the gap so the handle couldn’t be moved by accident. I looked around the quarry for a place to bury the thing, but between me and the blasted out rock cliff I spied the sinkhole. The water was still and shiny as a black mirror. Y'all know that the quarry men say the sinkhole is a bottomless pit.

I picked up the outlandish thing by the sides, not touching the spout or the handle, and toted it the hundred feet or so to the sinkhole. When I let it down into the pool, it disappeared, and the black water just bubbled once and lay shiny in the twilight again.

I don’t know if anything could make a world whirl backwards, or a tree grow down instead of up, or any such doings. And I don’t know if two beers, or even three or four drinks, could cause a feller to make up a happening like this in his head. But I know I aint had a drink since then, except at the shivaree last month for the wedding of one of the Stracener gals.

Books? What Books?

There have been years when I read 200-300 books. There have been a few years when I read hardly half-a-dozen. This year is looking to be one of the latter kind. They don't seem to hold my interest, especially big long books that I've read before. There are so many other things I want to do (and I don't do them, either), like redecorating the doll house...

Getting a real haircut at a beauty shop (I'll spare the picture)...

Making a quilt based on the angel painting...

~

Using my two boxes of 10 years worth of broken dishes to learn how to make mosaics...
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Making new clothes for all my dolls...

And FINISHING THIS BLESSED NOVEL!

Stormy weather

I had no idea the storm had torn up the town, until just now reading Susan's and Buffy's blogs. Luckily, I had grocery-shopped Monday so haven't been out riding around since then. During the storm, while I was floundering around, all the outside lit up with orangey-red lights, and I thought something was on fire, but decided it was the fire truck going up the road toward Pat's area, so there was probably some damage up that way. My boom box had batteries, for once, and the weather news was straight-line winds and heavy rain. Mo and I mostly stayed in the center hallway away from all the windows and doors until it was over. My electricity came back on soon after the storm.

Last night I had left the hallway lights on, because I can't sleep unless there's a light somewhere. Before I went to sleep, the hall light went off, and Mo and I both jumped, and I thought, Oh no, not again. But then the light came back on.

I can't think of anything useful that I did yesterday. Guess I'll get out this afternoon and look around.

4:00 p.m. I've walked around the lot, got the mail, etc., and didn't see any damage. Was going to drive up Rowan Road, but the Fox News vans (2), and a couple of utility company trucks, went up that way while I was out, and I was kind of scared I might not want to see what was going on. One of my near neighbors, whose lot is even lower than mine, has had a tree blow down on their house twice since I've lived here. But they had finally removed the tree closest to their house, and today I couldn't see any damage down that way.

I called Mary Anne, who lives on Julia Circle, and she said the only damage she knew about up there was a tree down on Lynn Avenue, the part that's close to her. We agreed we couldn't remember Leeds ever getting badly hit before by a storm.

The Mists of Avalon

This is a book to be read slowly, to savor it, and to remember the crags of Tintagel, to remember standing at the top of the rise and seeing the remains of the castle covering acres and acres, with the grass spreading green all between and around. The grass stopped at the lip of the precipice, and the stones went down the cliff to an impossible landing-place in the Celtic Sea.

~

When I read this book before, I was calling the castle Tin' ta gel, with a hard g, a beautiful name to me. Imagine my disappointment to find that it was really Tin ta' jel, an unimaginative, unpoetic pronunciation, which took away the magic and left only ruins. I had to get to Old Sarum, to Salisbury, to find any abiding magic, and to Stonehenge for a whiff of horror.

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These are the bests pictures I could find on the internet, and not from the perspective I remember. It's unbelievable that we didn't take any pictures of Tintagel when we were there, but I can't find any.

Spring has sprung...

Such as it is.

This tiny little daffodil, about four inches high, is blooming out on the edge of my front yard, where I've never planted one. It's the only one that has even stuck its head up out of the soil, and everyone else in the neighborhood has crowds of daffodils. Embarrassing.

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I just called Steve Atchison and told him this would be a perfect time to look at the back yard to see what needs to be done--the west side is flooded, and water is in the basement. He said he looked at it the last time we had a substantial rain (when was that?), and that he's right now in the process of putting together an estimate. Said he would email it to me or Jed, and I told him to send it to Jed.

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Also just got back from the P.O., where I mailed a book to an Amazon customer and two to Bookins customers. February has been a dismal month on Amazon; I've only had nine sales.

Bookworming

Yesterday I took time out from The Mists of Avalon and read Kabul Beauty School (which I kept embarrassing myself at the library by calling "The Kabul Beauty Shop"). Some books, and not always the ones you love, seem to get inside your skin and become part of you from then on. The KBS is one of those, and the lingering images from it promise to be disturbing far into the future. So was Kite Runner, which is the reason I quit reading it near the beginning.

Books that don't matter, such as horror (aux Stephen King, Thomas Harris, etc.) and most ghost stories and the like, don't affect me this way, because every word has the author's style which fails to open up the empathetic door into my brain. The KBS is real, written in the author's real, slap-dash, very mod conversational tone, and it gets to you. Well, it would get to you, even if the author's style were different, because it's true. One of the most poignant images is that of the little cow; you'd think there were enough human images to grieve or shiver over, but no, she had to throw in the little cow.

I'm feeling much more alert and less sleepy lately. I'm sure this morning exercise bit has a lot to do with it. I haven't done it absolutely every day, but most days, and it's helping my feelings. The downside is that it, or something, is making me eat more. Seems like I about live from one meal to the next. I do persevere in having oatmeal for at least one meal a day; it's supposed to help keep the cholesterol level down.

Yesterday I received The Mists of Avalon from Bookins, and am looking forward to reading it again, after twenty years or so. The only thing I remember about it is that I liked it. Also, the library is holding The Kabul Beauty Shop for me, and I've got to go pick it up. Hope the lib. is open tomorrow.

Another thing I've got to do tomorrow or Tuesday is to take Wilder to the vet. Looks like something bit him on the side of the head, and it has made a bad sore. (Wonder what the other combatant looks like!) Lots of luck to me, getting him into the car, into some kind of carrier. I may just have to wrap him up in a blanket, or make him a straight jacket.

Happy Day To All!

(Thank you ver' much...)

Carolina Lily

And for lunch, the best corn casserole I've ever made, with crunchy brown bottom crust. For supper, I'll probably have the last of yesterday's chicken soup.

I'm feeling much better today.

Starting yesterday, I'm getting up in time to watch Denise Austin's 30-minute exercise show on TV--and not just watching, but also doing the exercises. Of course, on some of the exercises, I'm a bit slower than Denise and don't last as long. After that, it's to the showers, and then breakfast (oatmeal or dry cereal with skim milk).

This blog award was passed to me by Susan, from Anita at Take Joy. Thanks, Suze! I treasure it.

Also yesterday, my cousin Betty Joyce phoned, and we talked for a long time. The excuse for the extended conversations is that we only talk about once a quarter. She always reminds me of some event or person from our childhood that I hadn't thought of in many years. I'm so glad that she and her husband Charles visited here last year before Charles ("Cooter") passed away in the summer. He was a dear person up until he developed the dread Alzheimer's disease. He and I were once in a math class together at UAB, in which both of us were lost dogs in high weeds!

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I wish people would wait until I get through reading a book before they ordered it off of me! A few days ago, it was Thunderstruck, and today it's Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee.

Tragedies

The storms last night killed at least 50 people in southern states, injured and left homeless many more. This was worse than April of 1974. I feel for everyone affected, and pray for them.

Alabama voters went for Obama and Huckabee. Huckabee doesn't stand a chance; John McCain is so far ahead of the other 3-4 candidates, they can't catch him. Obama will probably win the Democrat nomination; he and Hillary Clinton just about split the delegates between them, although Hillary has a slight lead. But when the remaining states vote at various times this spring, he's almost sure to catch up and probably surpass her. It's just hard to believe. Even Ted Kennedy supports him.

I might have to hold my right hand with my left hand in November, to force it to vote Republican for the first time in my life. I like John McCain, but I'm afraid he's too old to be president. And a Republican victory would most likely put us right back where we are today.

Late this afternoon, I noticed/realized that this is Ash Wednesday. I should have gone to church. I regret not going.

Good weekend

Last night I watched "The Robe" on television. Extremely good movie. Burton was a fine actor, although vertically challenged.

It's almost lunch time; my mind keeps showing me that quart of beef stew in the refrigerator. Then I've got to pack books and go to the P.O.--had three orders this weekend! Jed brought me a big boxful of bright pink bubble wrap. Say that three times.

A Fine Stew

My soup this weekend turned out to be beef stew, very thick and extremely spicy. Thing is, I used 2 cans of diced tomatoes, and one can was Italian style, which means it had garlic and olive oil and all kinds of stuff I can mostly do without. It smelled so strong cooking, I almost decided to take the pot out to the back of the lot and dump the stuff. Sure glad I didn't. It was truly scrumptious. I hate to admit how much I ate.

Jed's going to stop by here today on his way back from Mississippi, and I'm trying to get awake enough to shovel out the house a bit. I wish I were an instinctively neat housekeeper, but it's a little late in life to be worried about it. If I can just stay awake long enough to get this novel finished, then I'm going to sleep all summer. No, actually, when I finish this one, I'm thinking about rewriting that first "romance novel" that I wrote when I lived up on Oak Trail.

I've been trying, for two days, to read Stephen Ambrose's book Crazy Horse and Custer, but it's too disturbing, so I think I've given it up. I've requested several from Bookins that I want to read, including Bel Canto and The Mists of Avalon to re-read. I also want to read A Season of Fire and Ice, but Bookins doesn't have it, so maybe I can get it from the library. I've forgotten what the book club book for February is. Maybe that was A Season of Fire and Ice? I took We Took To the Woods off my Amazon listings. I couldn't possibly sell it; that's one of the best books anyone like me ever wrote.

I keep going back to look at the snow pictures. The poet Conrad Aiken wrote best about winter, and rain.

Winter for a moment takes the mind; the snow
Falls past the arclight; icicles guard a wall;
The wind moans through a crack in the window;
A keen sparkle of frost is on the sill.

and

Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet
for this, the often-praised, and be ourselves,
the rain, the chickweed and the burdock leaf,
the green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
and all that welcomes rain; the sparrow, too--
who watches with a hard eye, from seclusion,
beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done...

I recommend memorizing poetry. Or what I do--read stuff over and over for years, until it sticks in my head. It's one of life's surest comforts.


I noticed yesterday that the hard wind we had Monday night blew down a tree in somebody's yard down on Rowan Road. Thankful none of mine went down.

Mercury in Retrograde

Mary Margaret Truman Daniel, Feb. 17, 1924 - January 29, 2008. Like her dad, a tough old bird. She had several careers, and was admired and successful in all but the first one.

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I went by the P.D. yesterday and picked up my billfold. Sgt. Reeves (a beautiful young woman) had it and all contents, wet and soggy, in a plastic bag. When I got home, I threw the old leather wallet (age: ~10) away. Everything essential was there, even one of the credit cards. The officer said she took pictures of all the contents, but didn't have time to dry them out. She said I probably won't have to do anything more, unless the girl asks for a court trial, which she isn't likely to do.

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I'm going on record with this, so if I didn't do it, I'd be ashamed, demoralized, and thoroughly transmogrified.

FEBRUARY is REWRITE month. I even get an extra day to tie up the loose ends. By Friday, February 29, 2008, my book will be as ready as I intend to get it, to submit to an agent in hopes that he/she/they will peddle it somewhere. Matter of fact, I get five extra days, counting what's left of January.

What it is, I just had a flash of what to do to fix the book. In case, a hundred years from now, someone wants to write my biography, here's what my flashes are like (not my hot flashes; that's another kettle altogether):

After I've mulled something (in this case, a story) to distraction, I get totally bored with the whole thing and am almost ready to shred it.

Then I can be playing solitaire on the computer, drinking double-strength coffee in an effort to wake up, lighting a cigarette when I've already got one burning in the a.t., and the flash comes. Or maybe I'm in the shower singing "Sourwood Mountain" or some such, and water goes down my goozle and the flash happens.

It's signaled, or accompanied, by a spark of light, like the asterisk above but sparkling, in my extreme northwest visual field, whether my eyes are open or shut. And all at once, the solution is laid out in my head like a road map.

"...More in the Letting Go than in the Loving"

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(That's a line from one of my old poems, for all you fans!)
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Today I sold (online) my only copy of Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess. In the 1970's, how I studied this book, and how many times I fell asleep over its cryptic mazes! When I worked in the space program, all the guys were enamored of Bobby Fischer and floated around on clouds when he beat Spassky or any of those Russians with unpronounceable names. I admired him, too, and followed his erratic actions, consistent only in beating any player that stuck its head up.

However, "the chesse" just wasn't my game. As a matter of fact, no game is my game. They have always bored me squirmy. When I was 15, I visited my aunt in Chicago, and we played Canasta every day for hours and hours. Just thinking about it makes me want to go back to bed. Not to mention Scrabble!

When Caxton or Dame Juliana Berners, or whoever it was, wrote The Game and Playe of the Chesse, he might as well have handed me one of those tiny fine necklace chains, in one big knot, to straighten out. If I went into a trance, I could tell you where and how each piece moves and all that jazz, but please don't ask me to play!

Anyway, this was supposed to be about selling my old books. Each one of them brings back a big chunk of the past (as in see above). Now and then, selling one brings a lump to my throat. But money talks loud, n'est ce pas?

P.S. I'm re-reading We Took To the Woods, by Louise Dickinson Rich, before somebody grabs it.

Wilder

He's three feet long from the tip of his tail to the end of his nose. I think he must be one of those wild cats come down off the mountain, masquerading as a domestic short-hair. He comes to the top of the stairs and tries to meow like a regular cat, but sounds like a woman in the throes of labor pains. Maybe his daddy was some old feral tomcat, and his mammy a thing of the wild. Whatever, he's not your ordinary stray. Try to pick him up or pet him, it's like you had a big old snake in your hands, before he slithers away.

And a Funny Dream - This was several days (or nights) ago. I dreamed that someone had twin babies, a boy and a girl. Another woman kept the boy, and they gave the girl to me to raise. Sometime around the second week, I was so proud of myself: the girl baby was clean and fat, done up in one of those improved Pampers they make nowadays, sucking on a clean sterilized bottle of formula. I flattered myself that I had almost taught her to talk, because when I talked to her she smiled and grunted, etc. I told her, "Your brother's mom is going to be jealous when she sees what a good job I'm doing!" I was about to change her diaper, when the little boy twin came to the door, grinning and bowing. I thought, "What the--!" He was dressed in tiny jeans and a tee shirt, and asked in perfect English if my little girl could come out to play.

The Torn Curtain

I go along thinking nothing bad can happen to me, as if there's a protective shield between me and harm. Well, somebody found a hole in it yesterday about 5:30 p.m. I was coming out of CVS into the near-empty parking lot about dark, with my keys and wallet in my left hand and several bags in my right, when a tall skinny person in an Alabama jacket and red cap came up and said, "Do you have a few dollars I can have to buy gas?" While I stood there with my mouth open, she snatched my wallet out of my hands, broke two of my fingernails, and skedaddled around the back of the stores.
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All that rigamarole, the police are pretty sure they know the person, blah blah, and I'm using a copy of the police report as a driver's license. I'm thankful she didn't slam me upside the head with something, and I feel like it was all my fault. If I had gone to Quilt Guild with Susan yesterday,--no, it could have happened anyway, because I'd probably have gone to the store after we got home. Well, into each l. some r. must fall.
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A pretty picture or two to mend my mood:

Snow memories

I made a tiny snowman yesterday and put him in the freezer. But he turned into a pillar of ice and broke in two at the waist.

The sky is falling!

"I saw it with my eyes, and heard it with my (good) ear, and some of it fell on my head!"

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Robert James Fischer

March 4, 1943 - January 17, 2008

"...the old men know when an old man dies."

If we had some eggs, we could have some ham and eggs, if we had some ham.

Why is everything so slow today? I've been sitting here since 9:00 trying to list a few books, and it takes forever to get the internet to do anything, and then half the time I've asked for the wrong thing. On days like this, I should just go back to bed, but I did that yesterday. Now I've got to pack one book and go to the post office. I'll drive slow. Slowly? No, slow. Well, slowly, too.


9:08 p.m. I made the jumbo skillet full of cubed steak and gravy, just because Monday in an unwary moment I bought about 3 pounds of the beef. Well, it was pretty good--of course, I didn't eat it all. After all, it isn't apple pie. Anyway, I've got food now for a few days, so let it snow! Did you hear that, weather man? Snow!

When I went to the P.O., after driving about a block, I saw ice accumulating at the end of the wiper blades, and after that, sleet and/or frozen rain peppered me all the way there and back. I love it. I especially love it when I'm inside this nice warm house.

I fixed the cats a facility in the basement so they don't have to go out in the weather. Mo understands, but I'm not sure about the Wilder; he came in shaking rain and ice off his fur.

I watched Brubaker this afternoon on TV. Disturbing. Apparently it was based on a true story. I had never watched it before. Morgan Freeman was so young. And there was a guy in it that I thought was Patrick Swayze in his youth, but it was another fellow with a similar face.

Food

I was mistaken on the whereabouts of the Masolino painting: It's in the National Gallery in Washington, DC, and I did see it. It's in the set of art books I bought there in 1960. But I don't remember seeing the real painting.

Today I've done laundry, mostly, and a dab of necessary shopping. Last night I made soup for dinner, with chicken bouillon, lots of vegetables, a few bow-tie pastas, and lots of spices and Louisiana hot sauce. It was good, but somehow not as tasty as the potful I made last week. I make enough soup to last two days, usually on Friday evenings. The week after Christmas, I made cream of chicken soup: potatoes, carrots, broccoli tips and onion cooked in seasoned chicken broth until they came all to pieces and just made thick soup, then added a cup of skim milk. That was THE best soup I've ever made. When I make something good, I ought to sit down right then and write down the recipe, so I'll know how to do the same thing next time.

I could always cook pretty well (after I got married and observed my mother-in-law's cooking for a few years), but I didn't especially enjoy the act of cooking. Since retiring and living by myself, it has been a relief not to have to cook. But lately I want to cook something almost every day. Last week I made a medium-sized apple pie and, with extraordinary restraint, ate the whole thing in two days. That's why I haven't made the orange layer cake I've been intending to make ever since before Christmas; I'm afraid I'll eat it all, and gain another ten pounds.

Daddy used to like what he called orange cake. I don't remember if it was actually orange cake, or just white cake with orange filling and glaze. Man, I wish I could see him now. I would make him eggs over-easy, fried potatoes with tomatoes on top, at least half a pound of bacon fried crisp, fried bananas, fresh coffee, about a quart of orange juice, and I can't remember if it was biscuits or toast--this is a breakfast I cooked for him one time in Huntsville, when he stopped by on his way to Kentucky to pick up Mama from Pat's house. I kept cooking and setting food on the table while we talked ninety-to-nothing, the longest conversation he and I ever had, and he ate every bite and drank every drop.

2008 Project

I've always wanted to make a quilt based on this, one of my favorite paintings. So tonight I'm going through my voluminous scads of cloth and scraps, trying to find suitable fabrics. This is Masolino da Panicale's idea of the Archangel Gabriel. I wish I could see the real painting, but it's somewhere in Italy and I'm here.
~
Sometimes when I'm doing something else, I suddenly get the urgent desire to quilt. Then I usually get out that leaf quilt that's almost finished, and I pull it and tug it, trying to smooth out an unquilted area that I've managed to bunch up, with stitching on both sides. I've even pulled out a lot of stitches, and I still can't get it smoothed down. When I get irritated with it, I fold it up and put it back on the stack, and wait another few months.
~
But I think the thing to do is go ahead and quilt my other tops, or make something new, and just go around the snag of the leaf quilt.
~
Our book club selection today was The Time Traveler's Wife. Susan remarked that the older a person gets, the more his life is compacted and the faster his time goes. "I know," she said, "that I don't have as much time in a day to do things as I used to have." I heartily agree with that. Sometimes I try scheduling things I want to do, like writing or sewing or sketching, like "do this for two hours without stopping." But before I can get well started, I find I've been at whatever it is for four or five hours and haven't made much progress.
~
In the past, I have made several mini-quilts in two days (each), doll quilts in one day; made clothes, including shoes, for a doll in a couple or three evenings after work. Now, some days, I can't even hold a needle; it feels as if my finger have about doubled in size. Besides that, sewing machines have always hated me, and lately they positively try to hurt me, and often succeed.
~
Anyway, I'm going to try very hard to make this angel quilt, because I've thought about it for so long.

You never miss it till it's gone.

I watched Judge Judy while eating lunch, because that's the only TV channel I could get. The Charter man came this morning and installed the converter box. He handed me a new remote and a brochure of instructions, and said, "Do you have any questions?" Duh!

All I could puzzle out was how to put new batteries in the remote, should it ever need them.

I'll just have to wait for my electronics tutor's next visit from Atlanta.

He touched my heart

He would be 73 today.

Cold piercing gaze of the artist

Way to go, Reed Daniel!

(Is this his Chinese period?)

OK, now I'm ready.

This afternoon I made a run to the store for four of the five basic food groups: cat food, cigarettes, Coca-Cola and coffee (the fifth is Vlasic kosher dill sandwich stackers, but I'm pretty well stocked up on those).

During the trip, I realized I'm hankering to get to work on the rewrite. I've divided the Ms up into what I hope are manageable chunks, and tomorrow I'm going to work on Chunk 1. I know pretty much how to do it, having spent about six weeks chasing it around and around in my head. Thanks to Ramey and Jed for reading the first draft and making valuable, thought-provoking comments--and even just plain provoking comments.

Post-holiday blahs

Almost reminiscent of post-partum blues. Keep telling myself, all you have to do is get a bin and put it in the living room, and every time you go through there, put something in the bin. But all that wrapping, and deciding what to put on the bottom and what on the top. Better idea: Put every-other item in the garbage can.

At least I'm exercising every day. And selling a few books. And the kitchen floor has never been cleaner since First Man walked on it.

This morning I watched one of my favorite movies on TV, "A Little Princess." Aside from washing a load of clothes, running the dishwasher, and transferring some decorations from the mantel to the coffee table, I haven't done much else today.

For All Christmases Yet To Come:

"I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony!
I'd like to buy the world a Coke, and keep it company!"

I'd really like to buy every starving person in the world a great big Christmas dinner, American style, and give each one of them a little goat like the one in the story, where all you had to do was say, "Little goat, if you are able, please to spread my little table," and a table loaded with good things to eat would appear. Presumably, the goat eats all the leftovers, plus the table and dirty dishes, etc.

Sad note: Bhutto was assassinated in Pakistan today.

Jed and I ate lunch at Chili's today, and then he went back to Atlanta. Wonderful holidays, wonderful birthday. God bless America!

On the Feast of Stephen...

Yesterday we enjoyed Christmas dinner with Ramey, India and Mable, and Buffy dropped in later. Jason's mother was at her house, so she had to leave shortly. I took my little Volkswagon to Ramey's so Reed and I could play with it and watch it scoot around, but doggone it, he didn't come with Buff.

Today I'm just lounging around and trying not to eat to excess. Jed has gone to Wal-Mart to look at garden stuff, after his initial spell of lounging around.

Last night we watched the first two videos of "Lonesome Dove," and plan to eat and watch the last two episodes this afternoon. It has been a lovely, quiet and peaceful Christmas for us, and I wish everyone all over the world could have had as good a time.

This morning my friend Sandra in Tuscaloosa phoned. Her son is a Marine colonel in Iraq, home right now but going back soon. He's helping build power stations all over Iraq, which I'm sure will be a huge benefit to that country. Jed said Baghdad already has twelve hours per day of electricity.

Yesterday, Mable said she can't get the sound on You-Tube on her computer. I suggested she try to get to it from my blog, from the "Waltz of the Flowers" link at the bottom of the page. This site has clips from the "Nutcracker" movie which was made a long time ago, and is still the best Nutcracker I've ever seen. I hope she's able to hear the music this way. I didn't think to tell her, but it may be that she needs to turn up her volume control.

The Christmas Eve soup supper at Vann and Susan's was delightful. We got to meet Lori, whose little dog Daisy is a pal of Sophie. Jesse and Andie were there, and Andie's friend Steve; also Ramey, India, Buffy, Jason, and Reed. Suze served many kinds of delicious food and drink, and Vann took oodles of great photos.

Christmas Present

Guess what Santa brought me? A new Canon Power Shot that does everything except take shorthand. Hmm--I haven't tried that, so maybe it will!

Back in harness

I've put in about three hours this morning working on the book. Feels good to be doing something again instead of running around in circles and wringing my hands. My own opinion is that it's already a good story; with a lot of work, it may turn into a good book.

Looking forward to:

1. Seeing Jed on Sunday
2. Soup supper Monday night at Susan and Vann's
3. Christmas with Pat and them. Hope Mable comes.

Coincidences

Yesterday I was looking up the Atchisons' phone number to ask Steve to come clean up the yard, when I heard a motor start up out front. He was out there scooping up leaves, and the boys were blowing leaves out of the flower beds, etc. He asked if I wanted him to clean the gutters and trim the shrubs, and I was nodding my head before he got through asking.

"What about those big bushes at the side of the house?" Yes, yes. I asked if they could replace gutters, and he said they didn't normally do that, but he would ask his dad and maybe he could recommend somebody. So now the leaves are gone, the grass is brown, but the weeds are still green.

Then today I was feeling guilty about not starting to rewrite the book. I picked up a Writer's Digest, and there was this step-by-step article on rewriting. The first step it recommends is to take a vacation from the book after you write the first draft. Well, now I feel so proud! I've already completed the first step.

And, the Muellers came this morning (as scheduled) and cleaned the carpeting. So things are looking better around here. Steve's guys even cleaned the deck and steps and the front porch.

Strange goings-on

Yesterday we had a hard rain, and I guess that's what caused the hiatus. All day the electricity and cable have been doing funny things. I ran the computer diagnostics several times, and it kept saying the cable was unplugged, when I knew perfectly well it wasn't. But I wasn't able to get on the internet all day, my phone wouldn't even work, and neither would the TV.

I knew I had paid the cable and power bills, but had I paid them enough? It should have been a quiet, relaxing day, but I was about to run screaming from the house when I noticed, about five o'clock, that the cable modem's bottom light had decided to light up.

In between the electricity going off and on, I washed and dried a load of clothes, cleaned a little, decorated a little, and wondered how many important phone calls I was missing.

Cycled on

In the last 36 hours, I've sold four books, which were my second, third, fourth and fifth orders this month.

Yesterday Dr. Gruman called me and said all my tests were unchanged except the cholesterol, and it was normal. He added that he expected me to quit smoking after the holidays. Let's see: in January there's New Year's, Valentines Day in Feb., St. Pat.'s day in March, all my kids' birthdays in April, Mother's Day in May, Father's Day in June, oh the fourth of July--so I guess I'll have to quit in August. Nobody's brave enough to have a holiday in August, except maybe a few saints in a cooler climate.

If anyone was offended or astonished by anything in my old Christmas poem, please consider that it was all supposed to be humorous and, as Jed said, randomly insane. I.e., Santa was pulling things out of the tow sack and randomly stuffing them in the stockings. No way would I ever give Jude a wild cat. He could have Wilder, if he wanted it, but Wilder doesn't even growl unless I run out of canned chicken cat food.

I miss Betty Lou. I also miss writing every day. I've got to get back to that. Writing the book made me remember what a cute girl Bobbie was, and how curly was her hair. And the time Maw Maw wrestled Doug down on the floor and squeezed his jaws open and poured a spoonful of 666 into his mouth, which he refused to swallow; and Gordie walked by, bent over and blew in his face. Doug swallowed and coughed, then hollered, "Mama, Gordie made me swallow vat old Free Sixes!" And my mama made Betty Lou's graduation dress, or maybe her prom dress--it was long, and had a little bolero (in the picture, that's me in my pink organdy Tom Thumb Wedding bridesmaid dress, and red-and-green-striped tennis shoes). Boy, was I skinny!

Christmas Past

A Country Visit from St. Nick
.'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the shack,
The onliest sound was the wind through a crack.
The fire had died down, and my hunting dog Jaws
Lay on the hearth, waiting for Old Sandy Claws.

.

In the loft lay the young’uns–not one was awake;
They were dreaming of firecrackers, candy and cake;
And me in my long-johns, and Maw in her gown,
Had blowed out the light and were settling down–

..

When out by the barn come a CRASH! and a WHOOP!
The cow went to mooing, the hens flew the coop;
The rooster he crowed, and the mule kicked the shed,
And old Jaws give a yelp and crawled under the bed.
.I says, “Get up, old woman, and look out-of-doors,
For something is after them chickens of yours.”
“You’re crazy,” says Maw, “I aint going out thar–
It may be a pant’er! It may be a b’ar!”

.

So I flew to the mantel and took down my gun,
Then to the back window I went at a run.
The wind had died down, and the moon had come out;
Some old dirty snow was still lying about.
.

And there in the barnyard, as plain as could be,
Was the funniest rig that I ever did see:
There was four yoke of jackasses, balking and dragging,
Hitched up to the front of a covered chuck wagon;

.

The driver was cracking his whip without pause,
And I wondered if this could be Old Sandy Claws.
He whistled and bellered and jerked at the reins,
And he stomped and he hollered, and called them by name:

.

“Hi, Sam’l! Ho, Dan’l! Hey, Mosey and Millie!
Gee, Colic! Haw, Stupid! Giddyap, Dave and Willie!
Now, fly up the wall, if you don’t want a fight!
I’ll get on that roof if it takes me all night!”
.
As hound dogs a-hunting, when hot on the trail
Of the tricky raccoon, almost take wings and sail,
Then more rapid than beagles them jackasses soared
Up into the sky, and the driver he roared;

.

And quicker than lightning that chuck wagon flew;
It was loaded with toys, and Old Sandy Claws, too.
Then all four wagon wheels, and each hard bony hoof,
Landed light as a feather on our old tin roof.
.I pulled in the shutters, went and hung up my gun,
And down through the chimley Old Sandy Claws come;
He bumped his fore-head on the low mantel shelf,
And I couldn’t help laughing in spite of myself,

.

For his whiskers were singed, his red suit a disgrace,
And the tail of his coonskin cap hung in his face.
His boots were all tarnished, and flung on his back
He had play-pretties stuffed in a ragged tow sack.
.He was tall as a sapling and thin as a rail,
As straight as a plow-line and sharp as a nail.
He put down his tow sack and shook his gray head,
And the ashes flew off of his jacket of red.

.

He jumped when he saw me; I thought he would go,
But he filled all the stockings, while muttering low:
“A ’possum for Ramey, a raccoon for Jed,
A rag doll for India with hair on its head.
.

"A slingshot for Kane, and for Jude a wild cat;
Crow feathers for Buffy on top of a hat!
For Andie a frock trimmed with ribbons and bows;
For Jesse some new double-nine dominoes.
.“A powder-keg pony for Reedy to tame;
A sock full of cinders for mean What’s-Her-Name.
Some apples and oranges; a big candy cane
For D. Vann, a sock-monkey for Susan Elaine.
."The apron’s for Mamma; the lantern is Paw’s;
And here’s a banjer for Jack, and a bone for old Jaws.”
Then the tow sack was empty. Old Sandy said bye;
Up the chimley he climbed in the bat of an eye.
.
He jumped on the wagon and let out a howl
That was halfway between a haint and a screech-owl;
It scared the team so, they took off like a shot,
Till you’d think the woofeener was after the lot!
.I leaned out the window as far as I could,
And I watched them fly over the fields and the woods.
Then Sandy Claws waved, and I clearly could hear:
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO Y’ALL, AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
.

..................((((Written in 1985; abridged, and names updated, in 2007.)

WWII Memories

Last night I watched two WWII movies on TV: "From Here to Eternity" was about an Army installation on Oahu just before the Japanese invaded Pearl Harbor, and "Wake Island" was about the Marines left on that island who were in a sort of General Gordon position when the Japanese invaded, and died to the last man. I should have seen them before I wrote the book instead of afterward, because I had a few things wrong that I'll have to fix. Of course, I had seen both films before, but so many years ago I hardly knew what they were about. I almost can't stand that stupid beach scene in "From Here to Eternity," but Frank Sinatra was so great in it, and Montgomery Clift was so beautiful--this was before his auto accident and subsequent plastic surgery ruined his face--it's worth watching. Old Boit Lancaster wasn't bad, either, except in the stupid beach scene.

I didn't go to the book club meeting Friday. No excuse, I just didn't go. I could plead old age and novel writing, but I won't.

I actually plan to finish my rewrite this month, and think of a title, and in January I'll try to place it somewhere.

I been working, J.D. Salinger style.

Spent the weekend walking back and forth, sleeping, lying on the sofa, looking out the window, washing clothes and dishes, feeding cats, whistling and singing, paying a few bills--all those things that writers do while thinking and working out problems with a story. The problem isn't with the story, to tell the true, it's with me not wanting to write another 50,000+ words. So I might as well just sit in the chair, wiggle the fingers, and get it done.

First, I've got to go to the post office and mail a 5-lb. book. I only sold 7 books in November, and I think they added up to about 20 pounds collectively.

"The easy part's over now."

On Nov. 21st I wrote that this quilt was made by Mrs. Julius Cage Sr. But that was wrong. Granddaddy Cage was Julius I.

The quilt was made by Jed and Jack's great-grandmother, who was Mrs. DeWitt Barnett Cage. I don't know what her first name was, but her maiden name was Hatfield. Aunt Emma Cage wrote and, I think, published a genealogy of that line of Hatfields. I believe GGM Cage's name might have been Hester. The Cages were fond of unusual or historical names; there was a Pulaski Cage, named for that personage; I don't know if Pulaski was a great-great-grandfather or what. Granddaddy Cage had a sister named Eusophronia, but they called her Flora.

I've gone through the novel and changed nearly all the names that were people's actual names. Now the real work begins--getting the thing in shape to submit somewhere.

What Now--Start Another One?

Just got back from my two appointments at TKC. I want to write, but the November novel is done (first draft). Can I say it's done, when it doesn't have a title? I kept thinking the title would magically appear as I went along, but it didn't. Nor did I write a deathless line of prose that contained a good title, like, "Was Tara, too, gone with the wind that swept through Georgia?"

Well, not counting titles, I can say I've written three and a half novels. Wish I could say I had written, rewritten, published and marketed one or two.

Ms. Fixit

One of my fixes worked, because now the NaNoWriMo site shows all my info, including the complete Ms so far. When I scrambled it, it didn't take, but when I didn't scramble it, Presto! I expect to wind it up today or tomorrow. The ending isn't essential at this point. I haven't even got to Pearl Harbor day yet. When I get to 50,000 or so, I'm gonna print it out and work on it.

"The world will little note nor long remember..."

For days I have been trying to update my NaNoWriMo profile. It shows that I have made no submissions and have no word count. I've checked and rechecked that I've done everything right in my submissions of word count, scrambled manuscript for verification, and novel excerpt. Still, my profile shows nothing except "Registered October 15." I may be a winner, but I may have to do without the word of recognition. I've emailed twice and posted comments twice concerning my dilemma, but as yet have heard nothing. Only four more days to go, three, really, as I have to spend Friday running to The Kirkland Clinic for scheduled tests.

Word count now stands at 45,005, and I still don't know how it's going to end.

The faster you pedal, the quicker you get there.

Thanksgiving was great, except little Reedy was sickish and not in a smiling mood. Both India and Buffy looked like America's-Next-Top-Model finalists, and Jason his usual unique self. Jed was lookin' handsome in his Banana Republic shirt. If these children only knew how lovely and smart and young they are, they'd run out and set the world on fire. Well, for all I know, they could be doing that at this moment.

Mable brought a luscious corn pudding, and later emailed me her recipe. Jed and I took some Wal-Mart potato salad, because I forgot to make some, and it was almost as good as home-made. B&J brought two pies to die for. If I had stayed longer, I would have et more.

"Et" is a good Old English word; one of those bug-eating aliens said it on a Star Trek NG episode.

Of course, over the weekend I got behind on my word count. At one point I thought, the story's over anyway, so why bother, just go back and pad it some. But then I started writing again, and--it just unfolds as I write. So now I'm caught up, 40,000 and counting.

Where has November gone? I've got it down on the computer, I guess. Writing every day is as bad as an outside job for making time speed up and slip away. Isaac Asimov said, "What would I do if told I had only six months to live? I'd type faster." Bud, that would make it seem like only six days.