"The hand that's open to give, is also open to receive."
A great big TV set has been sitting on a night stand in my guest room closet for I-don't-know-how-many years. This morning when the E.C. truck came by, I got the guys to come in there and tote both items out to the truck. And guess what--not only do I have an extra closet now, I found two more Mary Ramey quilts that had fallen down behind the TV.
At least I got my picture on the front page of the Leeds News, with a slightly garbled account of my prizes in the ASPS fall poetry awards. For example, I didn't claim to be a graduate of the University of Alabama, but I guess it's OK if people think so.
I've worked on the book today until I'm blue-eyed. And red-eyed. And now I've got to get my donation bag ready for the Exchange Club home's truck that will come by tomorrow. Maybe I can clear out some of stuff piled in the corners of my bedroom so I can get that room straightened up. Dave has been calling me wanting to clean the carpets, which hasn't been done since early last spring.
I think my files and research for the book may turn out to be more interesting than the story itself. I've found a lot of information online about the history of Oak Ridge, Tennessee from 1939 to after the war. And of course the book will only have scant mentions of the place because Betty Lou worked there. One story I found online said that, when it was announced nationally that the A-bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima, one employee at Oak Ridge Laboratory ran up and down the halls yelling, "Uranium! Uranium!" because now they were allowed to say the word.
No, I didn't finish the book in November. But I enjoyed or coped with a class reunion, a missed book club meeting, a smashed garage door, another holiday, a new computer and scanner, and a fire in my yard. Thank you, Lord. And thank you, J.D. Cage.
Excitement On the Street
Yesterday, Travis across the street came over. He said Joe C. called him and told him to rake Mrs. Cage's leaves, so he was going to let his boy attack them with the big mower. I thought, "That little boy?" I'd forgot that those two little kids across the street are now big old teenagers.
Anyway, Jonathan chugged over on the mower and cleaned a couple of strips across the front yard. Then the mower caught on fire, and neighbors converged from all directions. They couldn't put the fire out, but they got the mower out into the street, and nobody got burned or hurt. They kept saying, "When the fire gets to the gas tank, it's going to explode," and the flames and black smoke really looked fierce. But here came two fire trucks and twice that many firemen. They put out the fire and shoved the black metal skeleton over to Travis's curbside.
So when the excitement died down, Jonathan started raking leaves and stuffing them into bags, but in a little while it started raining so he had to desist.
*
Hollingsworth Manor Is Empty
I've been reading Edmund Morris's new book Colonel Roosevelt. Theodore has shot so many animals in Africa, I think he's getting a little sick of the bloodbath, himself. Well, he's doing it for science, for the Smithsonian Institution, so maybe he'll get over it. But I'm not sure I can read any more of it.
Here it is two days from the end of November, when I meant to have this blessed book finished.
The best laid plans of mice and men
gang aft agley,
and lea'e us naught but grief and pain
for promised j'y.
We had a fine Thanksgiving feast, thanks to the good cooking and hospitality of Sister Susan. On Friday I ate leftovers and watched Auburn come from behind to beat the Crimson Tide 28-27.
Can't think of any more cheerful news for the moment.
I've got to make about 10 gallons of potato salad for Suzie's Thanksgiving feast tomorrow. Jed is on his way from Hotlanta, so it looks to be a good day.
The installer just phoned and said he's on his way. So I went and took another pill. Besides that, I woke up this morning with the misery in my chest, so when I ever get Old Abe back on some wheels and out of the garage, one of the first trips will probably be to the The Kirklin Clinic.
I have a lot to look forward to: Sometime soon, old Pluto is bound to get out of my constellation and things will get better. I'll finish the book and maybe sell the house and move to Bangkok, Thailand.
Yesterday I talked to Betty Jo on the phone, and told her about my destruction of the garage door. She laughed and said she did the same thing some time ago, only hers wasn't as totally destroyed as mine. Then she went on to tell about two different people she knew who had done as good a job, if not better than mine. That really made me feel so much better. I had been thinking I was the probably the only person in the world who had done something that dumb, but these three other cases were all in Leeds, in recent years.
Betty also came by later in the afternoon and we went to the grocery store, for which I was mighty grateful, as I was getting desperate. But then I forgot to get butter after all.
One of the flat tires has a great huge nail sticking in it, I noticed yesterday. The other one is the tire that has trouble holding air; I've had to blow it up about every time I got near the gas station. I guess tomorrow, if and when the door replacement gets done, I'll call Murray's to come and put my spare on in place of the one with the nail. Maybe they can bring some aid for the other one. I don't know.
I think I've worn out this little black keyboard. Sometimes when I hit a key, nothing happens. I need to be using the new computer and keyboard all the time, but I can do a few things with this old system that I haven't yet figured out on the new one. And sometimes I just forget.
...last night, it came to me--the essence of this novel, and the new enormous task before me. So I plan not to talk about it any more until it's done, sometime in 2012 or '14.
The delay about the doors is because Sally, the Sears' lady in Atlanta, was sick the past three days and didn't return my calls until this morning. Right now if I don't take a bath and put on some clean clothes, I can't even talk to anybody on the phone.
I was never any good at telling a story or even a joke out loud. Thought I was better with writing, but this manuscript is a mess. I've spent two weeks rethinking, adding to and taking away, and still have half of the thing staring me in the face. And always at the back of my mind gallops the rest of the story to be added on before the end. Then I'll have to rewrite that! Mother of Pearl!
I finished reading this month's book club selection this morning, then dooded myself up to go to the meeting. Then I checked my email and found that the hostess, Betty, has postponed the meeting until next Friday because her son is having an arteriogram. Surely do hope he'll be okay.
This was a very fine book, published in 2003 and sharply predictive of Hurricane Katrina which came in 2005. Besides the pitiful predicament of the disappearing Louisiana wetlands, the characters in the book, mostly Cajuns, were all interesting to read about. While reading Bayou Farewell, I was also inspired to finish a short story I began many years ago, a sort of Somerset Maugham-ish detective tale in which the protagonist gets tied up in "Coon Ass" country. I didn't finish writing it, but at least I got inspired.
A few people have remarked on how much I look like my mother, which has puzzled me because she had dark hair, swarthy skin, and a low hairline. But that picture of me and Sandra (see below) looks like a picture of Shonsey Hurst and Mary Ramey.
I still have to make a run to the P.O. and the bank (to deposit my poetry prizes). But then I'll have the rest of the day to work on--you know what--The Book.
*
2:00 p.m. - Well, here's a story that I wish could be hushed up for a decade or so. My horoscope probably says that today is not a good day to travel. I went downstairs to the garage and saw that two tires on my car were almost totally flat and I went into a panic. Hoping that they would hold out until I could get to the service station, I jumped into the car and backed it through the closed garage door. Not all the way through, just enough to smash it and cave it in. So now I can't get what's left of the garage door open, so I'm going nowhere soon.
*
I've called two places for estimates on replacing the door. One of them is supposed to come tomorrow, and the other is supposed to call me back when they get time.
Very distressing. I'm always so careful not to let it appear that old age is getting to me. Pray and everything. Oh well, I have to remember what Jed says: "It's a hassle, but nothing else."
*
The manager of the Sears garage door section phoned, and just talking to her made me feel better. She's going to send someone tomorrow to measure and give me a firm estimate on the door. Apparently it won't cost quite an arm and a leg.
We had a pretty good crowd, more than a dozen folks. Only about half were actual classmates, the others were spouses and friends. But there were me and Betty, Sandra H.B., Joyce, Evelyn Jo, Dale, and John Earl. We missed and figuratively drank to Helon and Spank, Claiborne, Sandra B.H., Georgia, Frank, Bobbie Ann, and others who are still topside.
John Earl's wife Kathryn is still one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, but she's probably ten years or so younger than most of us. I dimly remember baby-sitting her and some other kids in Dunnavant, and thinking she was one of the prettiest little girls I'd ever seen. Matter of fact, we were all a pretty good-looking bunch. Evelyn Jo and Joyce were beauty contest winners, as were Helon and Georgia. Of course I forgot to take my camera, but Dale took a lot of photos and maybe he'll email me some.
The Fish Market is right at Highway 280, and is very nice.
I've slept most of the day so far, while the sun shone and the rain rained, alternately and then together. And I did chicken out last night and enable the furnace.
How many times I heard that forecast when I was growing up: "It'll rain and turn cold." Well, that's what it's doing now. The hall thermostat says 70, and if it gets 'way down in the 60s, I guess I'll turn on the furnace, though I hate to do that.
Our little class reunion is tomorrow, and Betty C. just phoned and said she would pick me up to go to the Fish Market on 280 tomorrow morning. I hope my innards will be in better humor if I have to smell the Fish Market. This morning the Lowe's men came to measure the windows again, and I was feeling rather unstable. After they left, I lay down for a while and now I feel OK.
The Fish Market doesn't smell bad, and actually I've never been to the one on 280. But at different times, strong smells of cooking affect me in different ways.
I'm glad it's time to start wearing winter clothing.
I'm SO pleased with the progress on the book yesterday and this morning! Changes and additions that I hope will take away the need to add another 50,000 words, but will stir up the action and passion and make it a nice size after all. Of course, most of it is still in my head, but I'm pretty good and fast at putting words on paper. Or on screen, as the case may be.
First, I need to spend a cartridge or two printing out the ms. as it is now. No, I'll wait till I've got this new stuff down, and do the print-out for the final proofing. I can print it back-and-front, and it'll only take about half a package of paper, which I need to buy some more of.
I've read a little in The Thirteen-Gun Salute, Patrick O'Brian's 13th, I think, in the Aubrey series. If I could write prose like that, I wouldn't never do nothing else.
I was worried the last few days, thought I had an ear infection. But I think I had just been sleeping on my right side too much, with a hard pillow stuffed under my right jaw. Last night I slept facing larboard instead of starboard, and now there's hardly a twinge.
I had so many trick-or-treaters, I had to search the cabinets for remnants of packages of taffy, peppermints, and some old miniature Hershey bars--not that old but not brand new.
Yesterday evening I cooked a beef roast, and today made gravy on the pan drippings. And I learned not to eat a heavy meal and then try to write. Didn't get anything done on the book this afternoon; I just caught up my poetry files on the prize-winners and those that didn't win. I do write better at night, anyway, and I hope to make some progress this evening.
I'm going to take a long walk every morning from now on. This weather is heavenly--though I'm half afraid to say so. Seems like every time I wax poetic about the weather, a short time later we get a tornado or floods.
I know what I'm going to be doing at seven o'clock this evening, Lord willing--watching "Titanic" for the umpteenth time. This one is the James Cameron film. I think I've seen just about every movie that has been made about that disaster; one starred Peter Gallagher and Catherine Zeta Jones. But this one with DiCaprio and Kate Winslett is my favorite.
*
Well, this was the big day, for me and Ramey both, as well as other Alabama poets. Jed came over and went to the State Poetry Society fall meeting with us. The luncheon was held at the beautiul Newton-Davis House in Odenville. The food and service were superb, and we had a large crowd, compared to attendance at some of the meetings in recent years.
Ramey won first prize in the "Parody" contest with a great take-off on a poem by Emily Dickinson.
I won two honorable mentions for little poems that I didn't expect would win anything. My "Mother Teresa" poem (on my blog August 30, 2010) won one of 4 prizes that were not designated as 1st, 2nd, etc. (Note: I find later that the winners were assigned places; mine won second place. The contest was named "When the Saints Go Marching In" and Wayne D. of Huntsville won first place with a really fine poem.)
The poem about the Madonna painting by Andrea del Sarto (see blog, September 27) won first prize in that contest. Then I nearly fainted, and did shed a tear or two reading it, when my poem "Ode: On Grief" won the "grand prize," first place in the Alabama State Poetry Society Fall 2010 Award.
Poet Jerri H. (a girl) of Huntsville won the "Performance Poem" award. Hers was a description of what it's like to be a poet--deep, humorous but also dramatic, and very true.
It was a delightful day--or would have been, if one's nerves hadn't been keyed up like banjo strings. Ramey had a book signing (of Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge) after the meeting, at the new shopping mall; and shortly after we got home, Jed had to make tracks back to Atlanta--he's flying to Houston, Texas tomorrow.
I'm still going around in circles, but now I'm going to settle down and watch "Titanic."
I wish I could write the sound of trying to start a car when the battery's dead. I worked so hard and long yesterday, I can't get my motor running today. Maybe a milkshake will help. Or maybe I'll just go back to bed.
The installer didn't come yesterday, and he's not coming today. "It was raining" yesterday, so he couldn't finish his other job. I told them to call me Monday, or as soon next week as he has time for my house. I have to spend today and tomorrow getting ready for the ASPS (Alabama State Poetry Society) luncheon on Saturday. It has been hinted that I'll have to stand up and read poems at the meeting, so I've got my clothes picked out and ready. Gonna give myself a mani-pedi, and I may go tomorrow and get me a short kinky perm and some hair color. They'll just have to put up with the face, or look out the window.
Has been raining off and on all day, but I do have to go to the post office anyway. I sold a book yesterday (surprise) and promised to mail it today.
If it rains cats and dogs, I hope the dogs are Airdales and the cats are all black and white domestic long-hairs--cat hair and claws notwithstanding.
The window installer is supposed to come today or tomorrow to measure the living room windows. What you bet he comes while I'm gone to the P.O.?
I plan to spend the month of November rewriting the BL novel, finishing Draft No. 2. There's a class reunion on Nov. 4, and book club on the 12th, plus the holiday doings. But all in all, it'll give me at least three solid weeks of writing time. And how ever the book comes out at the end of November, I'll start trying to market it. I think the hardest part will be finding a title.
My eBay "store" is empty at present, and my Amazon listings are pretty well inactive, so I'm going to leave them as they are until the end of November.
As for the rewrite, I've got the equivalent of what Francoise Sagan said a writer has to have: a sheet of paper, a pen, and not the foggiest idea of what I'm going to do with 'em.
Yesterday I accidentally dropped one of the angel ornaments in a full mug of steaming hot coffee. I took her out and rinsed her off, but all the glue came loose and the brown color stayed, so I threw the whole mess away and made a fresh mug of coffee.
Got an email from the state poetry contest chairman, encouraging me to attend the fall luncheon meeting Saturday-week to read my winning poemS. So I must have won a prize in more than one of the contests. He also emailed Ramey that she had won, and told her that I "hit the jackpot." Hmm. Those prizes range from money, down to penniless Honorable Mentions, and we're supposed to read the "money" poems before the group. There's one I submitted that I hope didn't win money, because I'm ashamed of it and will not read it before one person, let alone a group. Don't know why I entered it; just to bring my entries up to 10 instead of 9, I guess.
I looked in the mirror this morning. Big mistake. I really, really could use a facelift. I would importune my rich relatives for the price of one, but it's probably too late to worry about it. If hats would come back in fashion, I could wear hats with veils any time I had to leave the house. Would look really sharp with my usual outfit of threadbare jeans and motheaten tee shirts.
Yesterday at the store I met and talked with one of my Isbell cousins, four or five years younger than I am, who looked like a miniature Granny Ella. She also had a bigger bald spot than mine.
In my opinion, when a person gets too old to look presentable, he or she ought to stay in the house. Which would work if he or she had someone to shop, fetch and carry. At any rate, I don't need to buy a Halloween mask.
They say that that road is paved with good intentions, and I had a lot of those for today. Yesterday I made another quilt block for Ramey (that makes 4 I've done), and wrote a poem about the swans at Portsmouth getting left in the mud as the tide went out. I organized my winter wardrobe, on paper at least, and found that I have plenty of clothes that are less than 10 years old, only need some dress shoes and a white shirt. Then I made a detailed list of things to do today, and went to bed.
So this morning I woke up and looked at my list with real determination. I took my meds and my shower, and meant to eat breakfast and give the kitchen a good scouring. On the way to the kitchen, I thought of something important for The Novel, and sat down to make a quick note. But instead I worked on the book for hours, until Mo got insistent, and I found there was not a can of cat food nor a cigarette in the house. So I just got back from the P.O. and the store, and consumed a burger and an orange slush. Now I'm feeling very much coffee-deprived.
*
Actually, what I was feeling was nausea. So I went and--excuse me--threw up the burger and the slush, and now I feel much better. I wonder if there was something wrong with them. Surely there's nothing wrong with me!
But I never had to travel to store up memories. It's almost as if I actually went to Burma and stood near the old Moulmein pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea...
Or, Continued On Next Rock...
I have tentatively decided that I want to go to Ireland, just to see the Giant's Causeway.
I had to force myself to quit sewing about half an hour ago. I've completed three of the quilt blocks and started another. In the past three days I've probably gained 10 pounds; it took a pizza, two or three homemade steak burgers, a pineapple sandwich, and any number of lettuce and tomato salads--plus a couple of milkshakes every day--to keep me sewing for three days. And it was hard to get out of the routine.
Tomorrow I want to make an effort to clean up the additional mess the house has suffered this week. I think Jed is coming over this weekend. I really hope so, and that he brings me another book or two. I haven't read a book in a long time, several days. Also, I think we'll make a decision about replacing the living room windows, and get Lowe's started on the job, now that the weather is not August-hot. I think it has rained a couple of time this week, but I was too busy or too deeply asleep to notice very much.
I have let my medications and supplements slide. That's another thing I've got to get back into tomorrow.
Yesterday, due to many interruptions, I only got one Drunkard's Path block made. Hope today is more productive.
Tomorrow, and Wednesday, and Thursday, I'm going to work on quilts and nothing else. So today I'm getting other stuff done in preparation.
About "the dog": It was Gretchen. The time before yesterday that Ramey came to take her home, she jumped up on her blanket and looked like she was saying, "See! I'm not bothering anybody, I'm just lying on my blanket. Why can't you leave me alone?" I felt so sorry for her, I decided next time, I won't call them to come get her. So she turned up on the porch early Saturday morning, and I didn't give up and call Ramey until sometime Sunday. I'm just too old to start over with a dog. She ate up most of the canned cat food, and Mo wouldn't eat at all while she was here. She barked most of Saturday night, mostly outside, and I only slept about 3 hours. Gretchen is a sweet, smart dog, and I love her and feel sorry for her. She's getting old and only wants space, peace and quiet--except for the noise she makes herself. But there are millions of poor old dogs in the world, and you can't make them all happy.
Ramey can't help it because her house is crowded. She loves Gretchen, and I'm sure they'll work it out.
Today I'm finishing the angel ornaments. I intended to make a dozen, and only have two more to go. Plus wings for all of them. I'm also cutting out the white pieces for the Drunkard's Path quilt; all the red pieces are already cut out.
I woke up early this morning and juned around some, half-way decided to keep the dog, then went to the store to load up on cat-and-dog food. So I think I'll take the rest of the day off and do nothing intentionally.
Book club yesterday was pleasant and the discussion was interesting. Betty brought a visitor who I initially thought was Reita returned from the sick list, but who turned out to be a lawyer's widow from Highland Avenue. I thought Reita looked unusually big and healthy. Anyway, the meeting broke up early because Jean stood up and said she had an appointment, so everybody left except Susan and Ramey and me, so we ate up most of the goodies. We can't have wine at the meetings any more, because Mondretta (I presume) changed the library schedule to stay open on Friday afternoons from now on. Somehow, I feel the demise of the book club fast approaching. What's a meeting without wine to loosen up everybody's tongue? Mable has just about quit attending, Barbara hasn't been there in a 'coon's age (her husband is sick), and Mary only hits about one meeting in three. What we need are some new members who were born a little later in the 20th century.
Joe W.'s wife died last Sunday, I saw in the Leeds News. I tried all yesterday afternoon to send an email to Joe, but kept getting error messages. Gail always accompanied him to writers' meetings, and I've missed seeing her for a long time. She'd had cancer for years, but I guess she finally gave it up.
This morning the thermostat in the hall said "70," although the AC was off. Who could ask for more?
*
3:25 p.m. I've been working on the Book since noon, and my back is giving me fits. If I thought I could find or make a box big enough to ship it in, I would sell my office chair on eBay for a dollar and a half and sit in a straight kitchen chair. But as long as I've got it, I keep on trying to sit up straight in it. The back leans back, and the seat tilts forward and wants to dump me out in the floor. After a while I find myself crouched forward on the edge of the seat.
I've read several books in my lifetime that made me think, "This is the best book I've ever read in my life!" Here's another one.How did it get so late so soon?
Anyway, last night about 8:30, I quit watching "Jesse James" and worked on The Book until 11:30. It made me proud.
I have to admit, I'm bogged down in Moby Dick. It's not because of the story, but because the volume that I have is one of those cheapie reprints from the 1980s, loaded with typos and misprints. The print is so small and dim it's hard to read. Maybe I'll finish it before the year becomes 2011.
Maybe I'll switch to the newer paperback I've listed on Amazon.com, if I haven't sold it.
I quit making the angel ornaments because I decided they're not cute. But now that I look at them all together, I think maybe they're cute after all.
Today I'm afflicted with the above. I can't do anything because of everything that needs to be done. Usually on days like this, I just get a big garbage bag and go through the house filling it up; then all I have to do is put it in the trash cart. But that never helps much, because it just exposes parts of the next layer.
I would seriously consider getting "maid service" again; but it was my observation that the service is mainly to vacuum the middle of the floor and flick a little dust rag around the tops of the furniture. And pick up their hundred-dollar check.
I know you're supposed to follow them around with a whip, but I've never been a good slave-driver. I'm too polite to protect myself except explosively. I always remember the time I lost my temper at Mrs. Harshaw for putting the carving-knives blade-tip-up in the dishwasher and bending up and down over it while looking at me and talking. Things like that haunt the troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
We've got half of the blocks cut out for Ramey's drunkard's path quilt. Can't wait to get started sewing it together. The other half of the cutting will go quicker, because it's all white, and I can cut multiple layers at once. Could have done that with the prints, if the pieces of cloth had been more uniform in size.
The book I'm reading now is The Archer's Tale, by Bernard Cornwell. I wonder if he's related to detective novel writer Patricia Cornwell. His writing is good, simple and straightforward, with no attempts to be cute, fancy or solemn. The book is pretty good so far.
I was proud of the box I made to mail the big book Friday. It cost six dollars to mail, so I made six dollars profit, not counting my labor, which was only about four hours' worth. And most of a $4 roll of tape. And gas to take it to the post office. I need to work smarter, not harder.
The weather continues hot. We could use some rain. Wish we had Lily C. and Willie T. to do a rain dance.
I've just about abandoned the old computer. This new one is great. I just need to make sure I have everything essential on it from the old one.
I was thinking I had met my limits in box-making. I've got to mail this 14" x 18" x 2" book that weighs over 7 pounds. I've got a piece of corrugated cardboard big enough to make a box, but I'm feeling so inadequate! However, I find from my records that I sold--and shipped--another copy of the same book a year or so ago. So I know I can do it. I know I can. Especially if I go eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich first.
This book I'm reading explains plates, tectonics, subduction, and all that stuff that causes earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions. A lot of it also ties in with the David O'Brian books. I'm so poor in knowledge of geography, I had to spread my big National Geographic world map out on the living room table to see where everything is. I can't keep it straight in my head where Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope are situated--on the southern tips of which continents. For some reason, I thought the Falklands were near Australia, but they're off of South America. I found Mauritius, St. Denis and Reunion islands on the map.
*
More than 35,000 people were killed when Krakatoa exploded. At least two thirds of them were killed by the big waves caused by the explosion.
This is the long-labored-over kind of ornament that I'm trying to make for Christmas. The button is the halo; all that's missing is the head.
For years, I've been growing a little cedar tree in a pot. I dug it up out of the flower bed and put it in a big planter. It's about 2 feet high now, so I think I'll use it for my Christmas tree. This prototype angel ornament is about 4 inches long, but once I get the production line going, they'll be smaller. There will also be Santas and reindeer. I hope.
I'm reading a book, Krakatoa, by Simon Winchester. It makes me want to re-read The Little Prince by St. Exupery and The Twenty-One Balloons by Du Bois. I ordered the English version of The Little Prince from Amazon this morning. Krakatoa Jr. has been forming itself ever since the big one blew in 1883, and now it's several hundred feet high. It grows several inches a week.
Ramey and I are going to Michael's this afternoon to get wooden beads to make angel heads.
My cooking doesn't always turn out pretty, but the results usually taste OK. Yesterday I had two big chicken breasts that had to be cooked or frozen, so I split one of them and made cornbread dressing to layer around it. By the time the thermometer said it had cooked long enough, the chicken was dry and tough, but the dressing was delicious. So next time, I'll know not to cook it an hour and a half.
*
This is the kind of sofa that I want. Overstock has it on sale for between $400-$500. It looks like a loveseat, but it's enormously long, over 80 inches. I think it would be practically indestructible, cats or not. If they claw up a cushion, you can just re-cover it. Of course, you'd probably have to re-cover all the cushions, but at least it would be possible. If you didn't like the two seat cushions, you could get Tom (upholsterer) to make one big long foam cushion for the seat. The real reason I would like this kind of sofa is that it's mission oak, Arts and Crafts style, which is what I like for this house. As far as matching the other furniture, it is approximately like the TV cabinet and the maple table. You don't want everything "matchy-matchy."
Last month Nell gave us a sheet of discussion questions for The Glass Castle, and one asked, Which scene in the book is the funniest? I'm anxious for someone to remind me of any scene in this book that could remotely be called funny. I think it's a good, well-written book, and it isn't depressing. Hard to say exactly what it is. Most of it makes you furious at such parents! And even when someone gets what's coming to him, it isn't satisfying, because it's all so unnecessary. If Rose Mary's laissez faire life-style had been mixed with even a little love, it would have been better. If Rex's what-passed-for-love had not been focused on Jeannette only, and had a bit of humor in it, his drunken foulness might have been excusable.
What's missing in The Glass Castle is love. What's there is so subtle that it hardly meets the eye, just tugs gently at the heartstrings. I think Dinitia, and the other black girls at the swimming pool, supplied the most normal human touches. Maybe that scene was funny; I'll read it again.
*
I'm almost sorry I read The Reverse of the Medal. I'm afraid the events destroyed Jack Aubrey's sunny nature. Which is the same as saying I'm afraid they destroyed Jack Aubrey.
*
So, late yesterday afternoon I ordered a big pepperoni pizza, ate a couple of slices, then reclined on the sofa to read until time for Project Runway to come on at 8:00. The next thing I knew, I woke up and it was 4:30 this morning. I had slept all night on the sofa, about 9 hours, with a book under my head. Back in the 60s or so, there was a sleep-learning theory, where you could have a recording playing while you slept and you'd remember what it said. Between the TV going last night, and the book I was sleeping on, I should have learned something. Well, the sound wasn't on the TV, so maybe it doesn't work just by sleeping on a book.
There's a very moving scene near the end of this book. Captain Aubrey is convicted of a crime, or an illegality, that he didn't commit, and is sentenced to be put into the stocks for an hour every day. News traveled fast, and on the day they put him in the stocks, it seems every onshore sailor and naval officer in England was there, gathered around him and chasing away the filth peddlers and abusers. When they had everything cleaned up, they set up a great cheer for Jack Aubrey, Post Captain, and stayed with him until he was released. He wasn't pilloried again.
I'm trying to get all the poems written for the Fall 2010 contests. In this one I played fast and loose with the facts, like '83 for '93. And where it refers to speed, you ought to read efficiency and dependability--I never really outran the troopers. And old Abe is still going. This poem is for the category "Look On the Bright Side."
*
Eulogy for Old Abe
Old Abe was my car that traveled near and far
In all kinds of weather and places;
Born in '83, it was very plain to see
That he'd never lay down in the traces.
He guzzled the gas, and no other car could pass
When I put my foot on the pedal;
Any time we had a mind, we could leave 'em all behind
Waitin' for the gravel to settle.
I can't forget the time on I-59,
When I saw the state troopers up ahead;
The gauge said 102, and I thought, Uh-oh, we're through!
But Abe wasn't ready to play dead!
He edged to the right, so the mirror caught the light
And blinded the law with the glimmer!
When we left them there a-blinkin', they must have been a-thinkin'
That what passed them was only a shimmer.
But since it's Nature's way, in '09 there came a day
When we couldn't keep up such a ruction;
We were 'way out in the woods, when I popped up the hood
And saw a tragic scene of destruction!
The engine was gone and the radiator blown;
Every B had come loose from its A (so to speak);
There was no use to boo-hoo--Abe had met his Waterloo,
Just like that old Deacon's one-hoss shay!
So Abe came to be a mere streak of memory,
Like so many other wonders from my youth.
They can build all kinds of tripe, but they'll never see his like;
Old Abe was the best, and that's the truth!
And if there's a place where ghost cars can race,
Some track out beyond space and time,
You can bet that Old Abe is leavin' 'em in the shade,
Just like he did on I-59!
By JRC, 09/05/10
Macintosh--I meant MacAfee--has been scanning ever since I turned on the computer this morning about 10 a.m. So far it says it has scanned 61,892 things--somethings, I don't know what. Several days ago when it stopped scanning, I clicked on it, and it said it had scanned 350,000-plus things. That's one reason my old computer is so slow and takes me all day to get anything done.
Today I mailed my Mother Teresa poem to be included in the 2010 Alabama Poetry Society anthology. Robert Frost said his goal was to "lodge a few poems where they can't be ignored." I wish I could hit some places like that.
Today my heart is with Susan. Vann passed away a year ago today.
On July 9th, I remembered not only my Jenny and other loved ones, but also my good friend Vann Cleveland. They are all never far from my thoughts, and I miss them so much! The world gets smaller on this side of the river.
Well, I've read three fifths of Doctor Zhivago, and it seems a shame not to finish it, although it's like running uphill. My hat's off to anyone who has suffered through the whole thing. Hundreds of characters that seem like thousands, with unpronounceable names; there may really be only a few dozens, their names change so often that you can't be sure whom you've met before. The very length of the names makes them exhausting to read. Yuri and Tonia are almost always referred to as Yurii Andreievich and Antonina Alexandrovna. And those are two of the easiest.
The first half of the book takes place during "the war" that's going on before the Russian revolution, and you don't know which war or who "the enemy" is until deep into the quagmire.
This is one instance where the movie is definitely better than the book. In fact, it's one of my favorite movies. Or used to be. I don't know if I'd ever watch it again, except for the exquisite landscape scenery, and the great and beautiful actors in it--Omar Sharif, Julie Christie, Geraldine Chaplin. Even old Rod Steiger was great; corrupt and nasty as Komarovsky was, he had a good heart, and I felt sorry for him every time he got his come-uppance. And even in the book, he was always Victor Ippolitovitch Komarovsky--only eleven syllables.
