Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Writer

Or doesn't want me to be one. One such something is Mo the Cat. Well, if it isn't one damn' thing after another, it's something else. I strove all week to have a day when I didn't have something urgent to do, so I could have a whole day to write. It came down to Friday, which is hardly ever a good day to get anything done. I paid some bills and a few other such nuisances, then was going to the P.O. or somewhere, and both--BOTH cars had dead batteries.

I got the Murray's guy to come and jump-start the cars. He said the cold weather could make batteries lose the charge, but I asked him to check the truck to see if I was leaving something turned on, and sure enough, the light switch behind the rear-view mirror was turned on.

I backed the Lincoln out and left it running in the driveway while I drove the Tracker around on my errands. Then I drove the Lincoln to the Chevron to put air in the tires, so I could drive it to Moody to the tire store. But the Friday, school bus and going-home-traffic was so heavy, I came on back to the house.

I turned on the computer and the doorbell rang. With that dreadful "What Now!" feeling, I answered the door, but it was just a bunch of school kids wanting a contribution for something or other. After I dealt with that, it occurred to me that I was hungry. (So was Mo, but he's always hungry.)

After I ate something--leftover mushroom pie, but that's another story--I made that pie Wednesday, and had 2 dishwasher loads to clean up after it. Anyway, I got mad and finished binding my Una quilt; I even sewed a hanging tube on the back of it. The camera hasn't yet healed itself; you'll just have to imagine a 1/4-inch dark red binding around it.

This took what hours remained of the day, pulling out all that tangled thread and dealing with the (expletive deleted) sewing machine, and a thimble that wouldn't stay on my finger.

And then I didn't sleep well or long. So that's what I plan to do today. I ought to take the Lincoln and get those tires fixed, but when didn't I ought to do something I don't feel like doing?

I am proud to have the quilt finished and off my mind.

Fortune Made His Sword

This book is excellent reading. However, the author, Martha Rofheart, made one big mistake in her history. It's in chapter three, with Henry, later to become Henry V, narrating, so I guess you could take it as the boy Henry's mistake. But he is portrayed as intelligent and alert, so he ought to have known the English kings back a couple of generations.

Rofheart has Henry say that the father of Richard II was the Black Prince, so called because he wore black armor. This is true, but she also says that the Black Prince was King Edward III. This is not true. The Black Prince's name was Edward, and he was the crown prince to his father, King Edward III. The Black Prince had two sons; the elder died in childhood, and the second was Richard. The Black Prince died while Richard was a young boy, leaving Richard next in line to the throne. A short time later, King Edward III died, and Richard became king. So Richard succeeded his grandfather, not his father, as king. His father never was king.

I caught this error when I read it, but doubted my memory. I didn't look it up until I finished the book this morning, but all through the book, because of that glitch, I didn't quite trust her history.

Anyway, it's very good, as a novel.
*
I just cooked and ate three small biscuits. Should have stopped at one or two, because I feel stuffed. Maybe another mug of coffee will help.

Funny How Tastes Change

Strange change. For a while I was so hooked on "Without a Trace" on TV, I couldn't stand to miss an episode. I would even watch a "Criminal Minds" episode if it wasn't too gory. Now I can't stand either one of them.

I started watching "Without a Trace" because Anthony LaPaglia is in it. I had seen him as a gangster in "The Client," the movie where Susan Sarandon is a lawyer with a little boy as a client and Tommy Lee Jones as a disapproving lawman. LaPaglia plays an FBI section director in WaT. He's a good actor, but I've seen enough for now.

Marianne Jean-Baptiste is the best actor on the show. When "Viv" appears, the liars and prevaricators sort of curl up and spill their guts.

Good Eats

Yesterday I baked some baby carrots with butter and spices and dumped them on a bed of rice.  It was so good, I'm doing the same today with some rutabaga chunks from the freezer. I love rutabagas. I used to get those cans, Busch's I think. But nowadays the canned ones all seem to be from the core or stem end, like trying to chew pieces of cork or cane. So now I buy fresh ones and chop 'em up.

Evvabody better stand back and give me room--I'm starting this novel over from scratch. I woke up this morning with a light bulb popping on and off over my head, about this novel. I also woke up thinking I'd give $5 for a Coke, but I didn't have to--there was an unopened carton in the basement that I bought back before Christmas, just in case. But then I had to go to the store anyway for milk and you-know-whats.
*
So many book I thought I had read, I find when I start to read them "again" that they're new to me. Yesterday I spied Fortune Made His Sword in the bookcase. Had Jed forgot that he'd already brought it back? Or did I have two copies? Anyway, I started reading it.

Being so steeped in the Shakespeare chronicle, and so many English-history books, I know that when I open a book about England, I've got another tear-jerking experience coming. All the old kings were little above savagery, but I have always loved and pitied Richard the Second above them all. He sponsored and supported Chaucer and any number of others, worthy and unworthy. And here comes this little Lancaster telling a York how to be a king. But I like Henry-the-Fifth-to-be, too; especially knowing that he doesn't have long on this earth.

Englishmen all. And women. So silly when they let their guard down. Churchill and Darwin, even Captain Bligh, can draw a tear or two. They all seem to carry the past and the future around somewhere on their persons. Like George Patton.
*
The rutabagas weren't as good as the carrots.

Baseball Used To Be Serious

"Stick it in his ear!..."

Leo Durocher was for a time manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers, then switched over to manage the New York Giants. “Branch Rickey had the best description of Leo. He said, 'Leo is the only person I ever met who can walk into an impossible situation and immediately make it worse.'” I guess he was baseball's most-hated man. The players, both his and his opponents', hated him. “Durocher wanted to win through any means possible, legal or illegal. He stole signals. He screamed obscenities...from the dugout. Occasionally he ordered our pitchers to throw at the opposing hitters.



Babe Pinelli

“After Leo defected to the...Giants, he ran into two problems at the same time: Carl Furillo [the Dodgers' giant outfielder] and Babe Pinelli. Babe was the most mild-mannered umpire you'd ever see, so mild he was almost meek. He'd call a borderline strike and then apologize. ...He was as nice as Durocher was arrogant. And he was another Durocher hater.

“During one [Dodgers vs. Giants] game Durocher's pitcher, Ruben Gomez, hit Carl [with a pitched ball], and as Furillo...was standing at first base, he looked into the Giants' dugout and saw that Durocher seemed to be beckoning to Carl with his index finger. That was all Carl needed. He asks the umpire, Pinelli, for time and then bolts toward the New York bench. Durocher, who never ducked, comes charging out—behind Monte Irvin and Jim Hearn. But Furillo simply bowls those two over, grabs Durocher, and body-slams him to the ground.

"Both benches emptied...and I was on the fringes making sure I didn't do anything stupid like getting hurt. Furillo is on top of Durocher with his fingers around Leo's throat and he's choking him. Leo is turning white; I'm afraid the guy is going to die. And there's Babe Pinelli, Mr. Nice Guy—in all his umpire's neutrality—yelling, 'Kill him, Carl! Kill him!'”

Duke Snider, in The Duke of Flatbush

*

I always kind of liked Leo Durocher. Daddy and I used to listen to the games on the radio. Dizzy Dean mispronouncing everyone's name. I guess Dizzy did as well as anyone could, pronouncing "Red Schoendienst."

Nonfiction malgre lui

I mean in spite of the fact that a lot of good biographies, letters and memoirs read like fiction. I don't remember the authors of some of these, and am too lazy to look them up.

The All-Colour Book of Henry VIII, by ?
All the Golden Lads, by Daphne duMaurier (about the courtiers of Queen Elizabeth I)
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin
The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini
The Autobiography of Malcolm X, by Malcolm X with Alex Haley
The Autobiography of Mark Twain
Balzac, by Stefan Zweig
A biography of Emily Dickinson, by ?
A biography of Felix Mendelssohn, by ?
The Brontes, by Juliet Barker
A Damned Serious Business, by Rex Harrison
Darwin, by James Moore and somebody else
Dickens, by Peter Ackroyd
A Distant Mirror, by Barbara Tuchman
Down the Garden Path, by Beverley Nichols
Eleanor of Aquitaine and the Four Kings, by Amy Kelly
The Elephant To Hollywood, by Michael Caine
Elizabeth the Great, by Elizabeth Jenkins
Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage, by Alfred Lansing
Gerard Manley Hopkins, by G.F. Lahey, S.J.
Imperium, by Robert Harris
John Adams, by David McCullough
King Charles II, by Antonia Fraser
The Kings and Queens of England, by ?
Letters From the Earth, by Mark Twain
The Life and Times of Chaucer, by John Gardner
Loitering With Intent, by Peter O'Toole
A Lovely Light: A biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay by ?
M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio, by ?
A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway
The Mysterious William Shakespeare, by Charlton Ogburn [Jr.]
Only a Novel: The Double Life of Jane Austen, by Jane Aiken Hodge
Out of Africa, and Shadows on the Grass, by Isak Dinesen
Puccini, by Howard Greenfield
Religion in Shoes [Biog. of Brother Bryan of Birmingham], by Hunter B. Blakely
The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, by Edmund Morris
Robert Frost, [a biography] by ?
Rudyard Kipling, by Lord Birkenhead (F. Smith)
Samuel Johnson, by John Wain
Schindler's List, by Thomas Keneally
Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts
Sir Thomas More, by Richard Marius
The Six Wives of Henry VIII, by Antonia Fraser
Stephen Crane, by ?
Tallulah, by Tallulah Bankhead
Thomas Jefferson: An Intimate Biography, by Fawn M. Brodie
Thomas Wolfe, by Elizabeth Nowell
Two Years Before the Mast, by Richard Henry Dana
Virginia Woolf, by Quentin Bell (or Clive Bell)
W.C. Fields: His Follies and Fortunes, by Robert Lewis Taylor
We Shook the Family Tree, by Hildegarde Dolson
We Took To the Woods, by Louise Dickinson Rich
The Weaker Vessel, by Antonia Fraser
*

Tallulah Bankhead before the Hollywood makeup artists (and cocaine, booze, etc.) changed her image. This may have been the black wig she was wearing when a monkey who was part of the stage play snatched off her wig and jumped down into the audience waving the hair in the air. What did T. do? She turned a cartwheel.

"Daddy, that's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life."

[Daphne duMaurier to Gerald duMaurier, seeing Tallulah at a play]

Some Favorite Movies

Advise and Consent, 1962
Amadeus, 1984
Anne of the Thousand Days, 1969
At Play in the Fields of the Lord, 1991
A Beautiful Mind, 2001
Becket, 1964
Beetlejuice, 1988
Beloved, 1998
Ben Hur, 1959
The Big Country, 1958
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 1969
The Color Purple, 1985
Contact, 1997
The Crucible, 1996
Cyrano de Bergerac, 1950
Dances With Wolves, 1990
The Dead Zone, 1983
Dirty Dancing, 1987
Doctor Zhivago, 1965
The Education of Little Tree, 1997
A Few Good Men, 1992
Gaslight, 1944
Ghost, 1990
The Ghost and the Darkness, 1996
Giant, 1956
Gone With the Wind, 1939
Great Balls of Fire, 1989
The Haunting, 1963
The Homecoming, 1971
Iceman, 1984
The Inheritance [TV movie], 1997 (Thomas Gibson, “Hotchner” in “Criminal Minds”, was in this movie. It's based on an early Louisa May Alcott novel.)
Julia, 1977 (About Lillian Hellman, Dashiell Hammett's friend--starring Jane Fonda and V. Redgrave)
Julius Caesar, 1953
The Juror, 1996
Last of the Dogmen, 1995
The Last Samurai, 2003
Legends of the Fall, 1994
A Man For All Seasons, 1966
The Manchurian Candidate, 1962
Meet Joe Black, 1998
Mercury Rising, 1998
A Midsummer Night's Dream, 1935
Misery, 1990
My Fair Lady, 1964
Out of Africa, 1985
Places in the Heart, 1984
Rebecca, 1940
The Reivers, 1969
The Robe, 1953
A Room With a View, 1985
The Scarlet Pimpernel, 1934
Seabiscuit, 2003
Searching for Bobby Fischer, 1993
Sense and Sensibility, 1995
The Shadow, 1994
Shakespeare in Love, 1998
The Sixth Sense, 1999
Soylent Green, 1973
Starman, 1984
The Sting, 1973
Sweet Dreams, 1985
A Tale of Two Cities, 1958
The Third Man, 1949
The Thirteenth Warrior, 1999
Thunderheart, 1992
Titanic, 1997
True Grit, 2010
The Uninvited, 1944
The Way We Were, 1973
Wuthering Heights, 1939

***

Notice that I only liked a few movies—The Homecoming (about the Waltons), Soylent Green, The Sting,  Julia, and The Way We Were—that were made in the 1970s. And I wasn't wild about any of these except The Homecoming. The best thing about The Sting was Robert Shaw, and Ray Walston reading the racing tape. After 1980, the movie industry got back in the groove.

As for art and cult movies, I don't care for them. Not that I've seen very many. I've seen a little bit of Rashomon and two or three Charlie Chaplin films, and as much of that Crouching Tigers thing as I could see before going to sleep. I loved Groucho Marx and his TV show, and the book Why a Duck?, but the Marx Brothers movies are boring; I'd rather watch the 3 Stooges.

***

UFO Bust: I haven't finished anything. It must be that this cold weather has frozen my sewing machine as well as my camera and printer. The printer rattles and buzzes and spits out blank sheets of paper, and when I ask what's wrong, it says, "Disable wireless." The sewing machine tangles up all the top thread in the bobbin thread. The camera just gives me a blank look.

Book Club Today: At least the Tracker still works (knock on wood).

50 Or So Favorite Novels

I keep thinking of books I've left out. Those listed by Mark Twain, Rex Stout, Patrick O'Brian, and a few others, just represent the body of their works, as it's hard to pick a favorite. Most of these, I've read more than once--the asterisks indicate the ones I've read the most times.

Advise and Consent, by Allen Drury
Ahab's Wife, by Sena Jeter Naslund
All the King's Men, by Robert Penn Warren
Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy
Beloved, by Toni Morrison
*The Black Cauldron, by Lloyd Alexander
The Black Stallion, by Walter Farley
The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Call for the Dead, by John Le Carre
*China Court, by Rumer Godden
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, by Mark Twain
Cry, the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton
*David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens
*The Dead Zone, by Stephen King
A Distant Trumpet, by Paul Horgan
The Dollmaker, by Harriette Arnow
Dreadful Hollow, by Irina Karlova
*The Education of Little Tree, by Forrest Carter
Fer de Lance, by Rex Stout
The Goblin Reservation, by Clifford D. Simak
*Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell
Green Mansions, by W.H. Hudson
The Harvester, by Gene Stratton Porter
*The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson
Heidi, by Johanna Spyri
The House of the Spirits, by Isabel Allende
Kim, by Rudyard Kipling
Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
Moby Dick, by Herman Melville
The Once and Future King, by T.H. White
One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Pathfinder, by James Fenimore Cooper
Peachtree Road, by Anne Rivers Siddons
Post Captain, by Patrick O'Brian
Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
Quo Vadis, by Henri Sienkiewicz
*Random Harvest, by James Hilton
*The Razor's Edge, by W. Somerset Maugham
*Rebecca, by Daphne duMaurier
The Robe, by Lloyd C. Douglas
Robinson Crusoe, by Daniel Defoe
The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Orczy
The Shining, by Stephen King
The Sign of the Ram, by Margaret Ferguson
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, by David Wroblewski
Sweet Music on Moonlight Ridge, by Ramey Channell
*A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
Taran Wanderer, by Lloyd Alexander
Tess of the D'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy
The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas pere
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
True Grit, by Charles Portis
Way Station, by Clifford D. Simak
A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L'Engle
*Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte
Youngblood Hawk, by Herman Wouk (resembles the life of Honore de Balzac)

(Add on Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, and Buffalo Girls by Larry McMurtry.)

Cold and Lonely

Seeing the numerous squirrels' nests in the bare oak trees makes me sad and sorry for the little fellows. Wonder why they don't nest in the pines, where they'd have a little bit of a wind-break. I guess they're just not as architecturally savvy as the intelligent hawks, whose nest is in the highest crook of one of the pine trees.

Yesterday, driving around, I saw pure-dee flocks of what I thought were hawks, but I decided they were just the crows who have grown so huge around here. "Pure-dee" reminds me of Don Snow, who once told an inquiring client in the Social Security office, "Whah, SSAh is pure-dee ol' welfare!"

Speaking of snow, we're still getting flurries when one of those fleecy clouds passes in front of the sun. And cold--I mean!

Mo' Snow

I went to the bank and the store a few minutes ago, and it was snowing lightly. The roads were pretty much OK. But now it's snowing heavily, and it looks beautiful coming down. I was most careful walking up and down the driveway to check the mail. Thanks to my sink disposal, my trash cart only contains a couple of bags, so I didn't push it up to the curb.

Last Thursday when I went to the courthouse, I came out of the parking deck in the middle of the block. I walked down to a traffic light instead of up, and the other side of the street was much steeper. An icy wind was blowing in my face, and I was thoroughly winded by the time I climbed to the CH and the top of the marble stairs. So since then, I've cut down on the cigarettes and made an effort to exercise more. But the next time I go down there, I'll remember to walk up to the traffic light so I can walk down to the courthouse.

At the store today, I looked for a Mrs. Smith's apple and raisin pie like the one we had Christmas, but there wasn't one. That was the best pie I've ever had in my life, I think. But today I just bought a plain apple pie, which is good enough in a pinch.

Yesterday I bound the sides of my Una quilt, but the sewing machine messed up when I tried to sew on the top and bottom bindings. So I'll work on that this afternoon. I've got a frozen lasagna baking in the oven for my late lunch.

TCM or one of those channels has shown the old "True Grit" movie several times lately. Watching it, I decided that the new one really is better, saving John Wayne over Jeff Bridges. I like the Big Lebowski/Starman a lot, but in the movie he tended to mumble at strategic moments. It goes without saying that Matt Damon is a real actor and a much better Texas ranger than Glen Campbell.

***

I was surprised Thursday to notice that the courthouse steps are not really marble. They're either granite or some kind of composite rock. I guess I was remembering the steps at the capitol in Montgomery, that I believe are real white Alabama marble.

Snowed (or iced) in with no new books

My camera is completely pffft. I put new batteries in, forgetting that I had done the same about a month ago. No picture, no flash, not even a streak like the last one I was able to snap.

I'm reduced to reading old books. I may have to start searching--is it Kindle? I've momentarily forgot the name of that online job. Or pretty soon I may read Moby Dick again, or Gone With the Wind for the 24th-plus time.

R. Kipling before he got old and ugly.

Sea-Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick, and the wind's song, and the white sails' shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking...

John Masefield

England's Poet Laureate 1930-1967

*

John Masefield was not a great poet, but he understood what makes great poetry. It has been many years since I read Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. I have never completely read Dante's Divine Comedy or Aeschylus's great trilogy. I have always thought that Macbeth is the greatest of Shakespeare's plays. These are the four great poets Masefield discussed in his bound lecture, Poetry, which I re-read today after many years. The man really understood why we write, and how we succeed or fall short.

**

I'm hungry for baked sweet potatoes, and I happen to have some in the veg. drawer. Hope they're good and not pale and stringy.

***

The sweet potatoes baked up perfectly. I ate one, and thought I'd save the other to make something by a recipe. But then I ate that one, too.

Impossible Blue

Snow, huh? Am I scared? Of snow?

I got through the 1993 blizzard when the house attached to my apartment annex burned up because the residents had fled and left the thermostat turned up and the gas on or something.

I mean to go in a few minutes and stock up on the four basic food groups--coffee, creamer, cat food and cigarettes. Plus some Great Divide ice cream, milk and--and--bread, I guess, although one shelf of the freezer is stuffed with bread, buns, croissants, all kinds of bread. I've got bowls of soup in the freezer, and in the pantry cans of soup, veggies, chili and different kinds of fruit. If I'm snowed in for a day or two, maybe I'll hit a few more licks at the novel.

Thursday when I went to the courthouse, I was almost distracted on the way home by the most beautiful sight I have ever seen in my life except my babies' faces. The sky was the most perfect Tiffany-box blue--even softer and bluer than that. With little snow-white puffs of cloud scattered about. If a painter could achieve that impossible blue, he wouldn't have to paint anything else to please me.

P.S. The Tracker is a joy to drive.

Ta-dah!

If I should ever take up dealing in "pharmaceuticals," and got caught one day with a hundred grand in the car, at least I wouldn't be ashamed to show my driver's license. I'm not saying it's a pretty picture, that would be a lie. But at least it looks like me instead of like the plucked chicken on my old DL.
*
Having read and enjoyed True Grit by Charles Portis, I started reading it again last night. One of my favorite passages is where Mattie goes back to buy a pony from Col. Stonehill for less than she sold it to him. That poor sick browbeaten gentleman tells her that he heard a young girl had fallen headlong into a 50-foot well and died. He had thought it might be Mattie.

Pepper and Vinegar

Woke up this morning feeling peppy, eager to get at some of those UFOs. I've put them all in the cedar chest, and hope to get it emptied out sometime in the future. But I can't think about them now; I've got to use this burst of energy to get myself down to the courthouse and take care of business.

I need a picture of myself sitting at the computer, my hair all wild, and Mo invariably in my lap waiting to be squeezed.

2011 Goals

1. Finish this here novel

2. Get rid of the Lincoln and clean the basement

3. Clean and organize all my closets, including the laundry

4. Paint and redecorate my bedroom and bath

5. Get the house pressure-washed

6. UFO Bust - Finish binding my Una quilt

and finish quilting the patchwork leaf quilt:

 I'll probably add a couple more unfinished projects to the UFO (Un-Finished Objects) list.
*
4:45 p.m.: I've decided to come clean and list all my UFO projects. My camera is disabled right now--I think the battery needs replacing--so I can't photograph them all. But I will later on.

1.-2. The two quilts mentioned above
3. Yo Yo Table Runner - Sew all those yo yos together.
4. Log Cabin Quilt Top, made by me, to be quilted
5. Basket Quilt Top, made by Mama (MER) and me, to be quilted
6. Jacob's Ladder Quilt Top, made by Jenny, to be repaired and quilted
7. Hands All Around Quilt Top, made by MER, to be quilted
8. Christmas Star Quilt Top, made by MER, to be quilted
9. Log Cabin Quilt Top, made by Jenny, to be repaired and quilted
10. LeMoyne Star Quilt Blocks, made by MER, to be sewed together and quilted.
11. The Lord's Prayer Embroidered Sampler, made by Jenny, to be framed
12. Persian Horse Quilt Blocks, made by Jenny, to be put together and quilted
13.-19. Cross-Stitch Pictures, made by MER - To be outline-stitched with black, and framed. There are two parrots, two irises, two tulips, and a raccoon.
20. Broken Sash blocks sewn in strips, enough for a quilt, made by Jenny, to be sewn together and quilted

At least there are not very many that I started myself and left unfinished. I was sure I had made more quilt tops; but I sold a brown Irish chain, a blue Dresden plate, and a multicolored Sunshine and Shadow top.

Counting Coup

I have to count over the things I've done since Christmas to assure myself that I haven't done nothing. Hard to believe it's been nearly two weeks. There are so many things I should be doing (that's a line from my Cleopatra poem) that I keep putting off. Putting off going to Birmingham, because by the time I can get ready to go, it's always too late and I'd have to drive back after dark. But I'm going tomorrow for sure.

I mean to join Susan's UFO Bust, but haven't got my list ready. At least I've got the decorations down and packed up. Got my new dust buster charging--I thought it was charging yesterday but I didn't have it quite right. Maybe by the end of January I'll be charged up myself.

Ghost Oysters In the Sky

The [Am] sun was shining on the sea

[c] Shining with all his might

He [Am] did his very best to make

The [c] billows smooth and bright

(repeat: He [Am] did his very best to make

The [c] billows smooth and bright)

And [f] this was odd, because it was

The [Am] middle of the night

Yippee yi [c] yay, Yippee yi [Am] yo

The [f] middle of the [Am] night

The moon was shining sulkily, because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there after the day was done,

"It's very rude of him," she said, "to come and spoil the fun."

The sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry;

You could not see a cloud, because no cloud was in the sky.

No birds were flying overhead--There were no birds to fly.

A Walrus and a Carpenter were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see such quantities of sand.

"If this were only cleared away," they said, "it would be grand!"

 "If seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "that they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter, and shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us," the Walrus did beseech;

"A pleasant talk, a pleasant walk along the briny beach.

We cannot do with more than four to give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him but never a word he said;

The eldest Oyster winked his eye and shook his heavy head,

Meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster bed;

But four young Oysters hurried up, all eager for the treat;

Their clothes were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat--

And this was odd, because you know, they hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, and yet another four,

And thick and fast they came at last, and more and more and more,

All hopping through the frothy waves and scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock conveniently low,

And all the little Oysters stood and waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things,

Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, and cabbages and kings,

And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "before we have our chat,

For some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter; they thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides were very good indeed.
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, we can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, turning a little blue;
"After such kindness, that would be a dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said, "do you enjoy the view?

"It was so kind of you to come, and you are very nice."
The Carpenter said nothing but, "Cut us another slice--
I wish you were not quite so deaf--I've had to ask you twice."

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "to play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far and made them hop so quick."
The Carpenter said nothing but, "The butter's spread too thick."

"I weep for you," the Walrus said, "I deeply sympathize!"
With sighs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size,
Holding a pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run;
Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one.
*
Sung to the tune of "Ghost Riders In the Sky," this makes a very scary song. Sing it at Halloween. (This is what I was thinking or dreaming when I woke up this morning.)

Packed Away Till Christmas '11

It took 4 bins--2 flat under-the-bed jobs and 2 of the big blue ones--one of which was full of old books that I had read and handled all to pieces, including my first copy of  Gone With the Wind. It's doubtful anyone would ever want them, so I trashed 'em.

If the Lord lets me see another Christmas, I plan to have about a 12-foot tree with every garland, light and ornament I own, some of which are, I'm sure, hiding in nooks and corners of the house and basement.
*
7:55 p.m.: A while ago, I watched Hal Lindsay's program for a few minutes. I get too emotional about Israel and Palestine, so I don't watch such shows very often. But I'm going to say this once: Think what you will about him, Lindsay knows and tells the history and situations in the Middle East the way they really are and have been. I read Chaim Potok's history many years ago, besides a lot of other stuff, and I know about the history. I've read what the Bible says about it, and what the Arabs say about it. And pretty soon, Jesus is going to come and straighten the whole thing out, probably to the surprise of a lot of Jew-haters.

It's Only Pain

My sinuses are making themselves felt today, with pain in the upper right quadrant of my nose, my right eye and across my forehead. I may take an Advil and go back to bed. Had it made up to go to Bham today, but I'll probably put it off until tomorrow or Monday. I want to finish reading Colonel Roosevelt, but that too can wait.

Otherwise I feel OK, so maybe I'll undecorate the house this afternoon. I think it'll take about 3 bins to hold all this stuff.

Technology and Other Blessings

One day maybe we'll be able to project our mental images onto a wall or a screen, and record them photographically. This morning, one of the times I woke up, I was mentally walking the road from the top of the Mountain down to the Old Farm, seeing every detail on an early fall day. The iron-red sand-and-clay stretch from the Top to the rocks below the quarry, and the gently sloping rocky place with the huge slanting flat rock in the middle, and the rubble of rocks below. Then you came to a level light brown sandy part, the sand scattered with hickory nut shells, that ran to the top of the first big curve. The road and bank at the top of the curve was studded with gravel, and below it the sand was lighter beige and likely to be muddy, because a run-off stream ran down from the hill below the quarry and across the road, and down the steep banks on the left-hand side. There was a persimmon tree in this curve, and on the lower bank I remember picking a paw-paw and tasting it.

Up from the muddy place and at the top of the next curve, there was a huge hickory tree on the left-hand side, growing almost in the road. Below the tree, the road overlooked a field and then the plum orchard and the log barn. To the right, up the mountain, was Mr. Lowery's log cabin and a trail leading up to it. From here to Maw Maw's house, the sand in the road was powdery and almost white. At the end of Maw Maw's place, the road dropped down to red clay all the way across in front of the storm pit, the road to the spring, and our house.

What will Heaven be like? I'm almost sure that part of it, for me, will be a walk down from the top of the Mountain.
*
Christmas and Birthday (or the Feast of Stephen) and my actual birthday Monday were so full of gatherings, feasting and adventure, that I can't even remember all of it. I gained two pounds and lots of lovely presents from my folks. I drove the Tracker to Trussville and back, shaking in my boots (literally) because I hadn't driven on the interstates for nearly a year. If I hadn't had Jed co-piloting and then leading the way back in his silver rental Ford, I might not be here today. He left the Tracker here for me, and we're going to donate the Lincoln or pay somebody to take it away. It's only 18 years old and has only been driven 48,000 miles. I may decide to buy a new set of tires and a major "tune-up," and keep it myself. Funny I didn't think of that during our discussions.

I've got to go this week and renew my driver's license, register the Tracker, and see if Birmingham is still there.

Christmas Eve and All's Well

Yesterday Jed came over, we went "out"--ate too much for lunch, then went to see "True Grit," which was a true riot. Old Jeff Bridges outdid himself as a super-drunk Rooster Cogburn, and the other actors also accentuated the comical. "Mr. LaBeef" looked reverently westward when announcing that he was a Texas Ranger. The movie was accented throughout by someone behind us who had a markedly melodious laugh.

For a long time, the original "True Grit" was one of my favorite movies. The thing is, I don't remember its being something to laugh at. There were moments poignantly gratifying in a humorous way, but you didn't necessarily laugh out loud: As when Tom Cheney said, "Now I've been shot by a child." And when Rooster said, "By God, she reminds me of me." And when he took the reins in his teeth and a gun in each hand, and rode towards the 4 gunmen, muttering, "Fill your hands, you--" John Wayne's Rooster was someone a girl could trust, with a lot fewer drunken antics. Anyway, TGII was a very good movie in its way.

Yesterday evening, Jed took my list of last-minute items and went to the store, and brought back Chic-Fil-A sandwiches and stuff.

I'm going to start cooking at noon and probably won't stop until sometime tomorrow afternoon. I'm looking for everyone to start arriving about one o'clock, and we'll probably devour the turkey, thawed or not, around two.

Fate? Or Karma?

Some too-perspicacious poet said, "We cannot choose what we are free to love." I can put my foot down and make an immovable resolution never to have another pet after Mo, but it looks like there'll always be creatures waiting (or clawing) for food, warmth and love. Gretchen Dog purely begs to stay, every time someone from Hawk Hill comes to get her. And usually, when it's raining, sleeting or snowing, I can look out and see that tuxedo cat shivering and mewing on the back porch. He looks like Lamont Cranston walking into a night club, in the best "Shadow" movie ever made.

(I'll bet A.B.'s ugly brothers hated him when he was young and gorgeous. Wonder if they ever thought about "a pit in Dothan.")

Yesterday when I was out gathering greenery at the back of the lot, the enormous black Rottweiler or pit bull or whatever he is inside my back neighbor's fence barked at me fiercely. In my sweetest voice I said, "Yes, you're a beautiful big black monster, aren't you, you sorry SOB?" and kept up such endearments until he was beside himself with fury.

Almost Prepared

The old turk is in the refrigerator, thawing, I hope, and the CB sauce is cooling. I only have to go shopping once more and then cook all this stuff. Actually, a lot of it is in cans so won't require much oven time. I believe in time-savers.

Deck the Halls, etc.

I put some vintage cards in the old window.

This is my ancient Father Christmas. He's rickety, but he'll still stand up.

And the little tree with a star on top.

*

Today I'm working on the dining room, and of course the living room and kitchen are so full of stuff that you can't walk through them without a map. Next I've got to wash the windows. I don't do windows, but I gotta.

This is such a beautiful day. I go outside on every excuse. Don't even mind taking out the trash. The voluminous trash. Lots of stuff I didn't think was trash, but am trashing it anyway. I need to rent one of Veolia's dumpsters.

The Ice Man Cameth

Freezing rain and ice all over the place. I dasn't go out the back door. All my trips outside are made through the basement/garage.

I haven't yet made a lot of progress in getting the house spiffed up for Christmas, but I've got it all planned, including dinner. I'm good at planning, and that's the main part, isn't it?

The Sunday Flurries

"It's snowing! It's snowing! The old man is--"

I can only think of one rhyme, and it's inappropriate.

In a little while, I have to go out in it to get cat food and stuff. Something told me to go yesterday, but I said, "Something, don't bother me, I'm busy."

The black cat is on the deck, his fur all bushed out, looking like a black and white teddy bear with little specks of snow on him. When I gave him some Meow Mix, I told him he could go into the basement if he had sense enough to find the little door, but I expect he'll just go back to where he hangs out most of the time. I think he must have found a home, because he looks all healthy, clean and fat, and he doesn't get enough here to effect such a change. I just see him 2-3 times a week. Yesterday his visit coincided with Gretchen's, and he ran away. Gretchen would have run away, but the cat left first.
*
At Friday's book club meeting, Ramey read aloud to us, the "Cajun Night Before Christmas." I passed around a grab-bag full of the angel ornaments and only had one left over, besides the one on top of my little tree.

Just so I'll remember:
Blue at top left: Leftover
I gave the Yellow one to Betty Jo.
The Ivory one is on top of my tree.
Hope C. drew the auburn-haired Green one.
Susan drew the Pink one.
Betty W. drew the Red one.
Ramey drew the Rose one.
Nell drew the little Pink one.
I gave Ramey the blonde-haired Green one.
Mary U. drew the Bisque one.
I gave Susan the Lavender one.
Mable drew the Blue one.

I guess Mary and Mable got the ones I thought were prettiest. Susan, appropriately, got the pink one, she's so fond of pink. Several days ago, I had let Ramey pick out the one she wanted, the green one with the fancy hairdo.

Crouches on Couches

In that photo (below) of Jed's quilt, you can see the front of his new leather couch.

Pretty soon, I'm going to be able to replace the one above which that scoundrel Mo has clawed all to pieces.

Right now I've got to get ready to go to book club meeting.

Rainbows on the Floor

The front door has lots of prisms. Because of the direction it faces, the streaks of rainbow colors only hit the floor and lower walls.

When Jed and Jack were boys, their great-aunt Carrie Blevins (Grandmother Cage's sister) made each of them a quilt. The one shown below is Jed's; he sent me the photo a day or so ago. I had forgot how pretty it is.

It took Jonathan two and a half days of hard work--not to mention his dad's mower--to get the leaves off this huge lot. So I paid him double what I usually paid Joe for a day's work, and still felt like it wasn't enough. But he was quite pleased. He and his fiancee have both joined the Air Force and are being sent to the same training camp in February.

I've put my tiny Christmas tree on the hearth in front of a mirror screen, to make it seem bigger, and a wreath in the hall. I've invited all my family members for Christmas dinner, and I'm thinking about cleaning and decorating, so I may change things around before the big day.

Niecy's Creed

"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.

I'm sorry about the quality of the pictures. My Adobe (if it's still Adobe) system has changed, and at present I can't do all the stuff I could do with pictures before. Maybe I'll get better at it.

I haven't forgot about the quilt picking that I promised to the family some time ago. But it'll take me a long time to wash and do up all these quilts, and decide which ones I can't part with. So y'all keep reminding me.

Maybe I Amount To Something At Last!

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.

Excuses

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.

Flames and Old Codgers

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

Leslie Nielsen, the very funny actor who played "Golden Girl" Dorothy's bridegroom, died Sunday at a very ripe old age. Of course Dorothy (Bea Arthur) herself had already passed on.

*

The Elephant To Hollywood
Jed brought me Michael Caine's second autobiography, The Elephant to Hollywood, which was published this year. Yesterday afternoon I thought I'd glance at it, and turned out I couldn't put it down. Caine knew everybody in the world who had any connection to the entertainment industry. He didn't tell all their secrets, but his sketches of their personalities are very sharp. Besides, the book is a good travel diary; he went everywhere. He's a very good writer, and if he ever writes a novel, I'd like to read it. His mama had Alzheimer's, and I hope it doesn't trickle down to him. He's 77 and has escaped so far.

I've never cared a whole heap for English comedians, and I believe the only Caine movies I ever saw were The Last Valley, which I walked out of about 30 years ago because it was so violent, and the very late Miss Congeniality, which was cute and lots of fun. Of course, all his movies weren't comedies, and now I'd like to see "The Ipcress File" and a couple of the others.

Nothing Much Going On

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.

Cooking Today

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.

Done!

The opener and light buttons are mounted on the stairway wall.

The installer said, "You'll have to wait till we're gone to test these, to see if they work." Funny guy. I got two remotes for each door. But each remote will open either door, depending on which button you push.

The overhead motors inside have two lights each, with covers. I'm very well satisfied, and I hope Mr. Hogan is, too.

I have been calling around to get someone to rake or blow the leaves, but haven't succeeded yet.

I still have a question or two. Initially, Charles said something about a way to open the doors if the electricity goes off, but yesterday I didn't think about it, and he didn't mention it. So I'll have to call them again tomorrow. I forget what my other question was.

I slept off and on from 7:30 yesterday evening until 9:30 this morning, so I ought to feel better than I do. But I don't.

Double Dose

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.

***

The City of Valor is makin' me crazy. Especially its grammar.

The Betty Lou Notebook

This is where I scribble when I'm thinking about the book while I eat, read or watch TV.

I jumped up this morning (yeah, right), showered and dressed after only one cup of coffee. Then the installer called and said they haven't got the garage doors ready yet. I immediately started craving grits and butter and a cigarette.

"Charles" sounded like he was half asleep, I bet he was still in bed. He said it takes 4 hours to install them and they won't arrive until this afternoon. I said could he install them this afternoon? No, he has family activities planned for this afternoon, don't we all? I said how about Saturday morning? Nope. Frednesday? Monday? Yes, he thought they could get to it Monday, he would call me Monday morning and let me know.

Grrrrr!

Sometimes the illusion of reality is enough to make you holler calf rope.

So I'm Not the Only Klutz!

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.

It'll be fixed Friday.

Then the real fun will begin. I've got two flat tires. Flat. That's why I made this bow-shaped mess in the first place.
*
I'm always learning. This time I learned that, when one "mishap" haps, you better look around before you move. The next one may be sneaking up on you.

Just before falling asleep...

...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.

Nowhere to go but out, nowhere to fall but off, nothing to do but keep on or quit

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!

Bayou Farewell

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.

Back to the Grindstone

I really am making progress on the book, except for typing, which will start pretty soon.

Dale emailed some of his reunion photos.

Sandra and me.

Betty Jo

Joyce Earle (I think that's her husband Jack's hand on the right.)

Dale and his wife Ruby

Kathryn and John Earl

Evelyn Jo

Wing Day

The angels now have their wings.

Reunion

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.

"Rain and turn cold"

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.

Eureka!

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.

Halloween and All

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.