A Cabbage As Big As Your Head

Daddy Doll pretends to hate flowers. His real motive is keeping anyone from prowling around in his study, making changes.

Lucinda the maid, jealous of all the flowers downstairs, has begged and begged him to let her put an arrangement in the study.

"No!" says Daddy. "I won't have my room being set up for the ladies' garden club meeting!"

"If I done it anyway, sir, just to see how it looks, would you sack me, sir?"

"Sack you? What do you mean, 'sack' you?"

"I mean, would you like fire me?" Lucinda has a mischievous side.

"Why, no," says Daddy, "I'd never go that far! You injure me, Lucinda! Have I ever mentioned firing anybody? Do I strike you as a cruel person, Lucinda? Have you ever seen or heard me make anyone unhappy? Doing violence to anyone's feelings?"

"No, sir," Lucinda lies.

She was finally permitted to put one blossom in the study.

"One blossom!" Daddy boomed. "Get one of those d__'d things from the kitchen garden--one of those cabbages as big as your silly head!"

Of course, they're not cabbages, but an old bush of cabbage roses that grow to gigantic size. When fully opened, they're bigger than a dinner plate. Lucinda was happy enough, so she stuck one big rose in the stein on top of the green bookcase--as instructed by Daddy. She had to use the library ladder to get up there, and nearly had a fall.

Other Stuff Around the House

The quilt on this bed was made by Grandma's cousin, a Mrs. Cleveland.

*

This is what Daddy mockingly calls "the kitchen garden!" The erstwhile* handyman, Billy Bones, occasionally plants herbs or something there, but his addiction to alcohol prevents his taking proper care of things, so they die. All except the cabbage rose which has been there all along.

*in the sense of "sometime"

*

If any spot around the house can be called a garden, this one on the other side of the house is it. Maybe you can't see him, but Dolly's pet turtle Aesop has escaped the house and is trying to climb into the pond.

If It's Tuesday, It Must Be Valentine's Day!

Have a happy day, Everyone!

Giant

Another movie I had never seen in its entirety was on TCM this morning. It was worth watching to the end, I guess. But I've got to get busy around here. Anyway, whatever else he was, Rock Hudson was the handsomest man I ever saw, in or out of the movies. Which just goes to show you. In the '50s and '60s, I kept hoping they would remake "Gone With the Wind," with him and Liz T.

I'm getting busy.

Lassie Came Home

I had never seen the movie, "Lassie Come Home," until yesterday on TCM. Everything about it was perfect except a close-up of tiny Elizabeth Taylor's face in which, with so much makeup, she looked exactly like the adult E. Taylor in one of her skinnier moments.

Yesterday my Sister Susan had an afib episode with much pain, and sensibly called the paramedics and went to the hospital. They stabilized her and ran tests, but I haven't heard today whether she's still there or has come home. I hope the MD's and techs weren't in the mood to put her through a transesophageal EKG, as they did me the only time I called 911--I was routed to the stroke center, when all I had was vertigo--those ceiling beams in the living room were whizzing around like in a tornado, and I got scared, was all.

I came out of my hole this morning and saw my shadow. I'm in the mood to hibernate for another six weeks or so.

It's here.

My favorite months, from best to worst:

December - November - October - September - May -April - June - March - January - August - July - February

The best thing about February is that it's short.

One of the worst things about it is that it's hard to pronounce.

Help Is Where You Find It.

Charlie, the Lowe's installer, came today and put up a new door at the top of the stairs. He said they ordered the wrong door for the basement, so he's going to reorder it. While he was working in the foyer, I asked if he would do me a big favor--help me move the dollhouse so I could put a cloth on the table, and then set the house back on the cloth. He said sure, and wanted to know all about the dollhouse while we were moving it.

I had packed up all the furnishings in the house, because I need to repaper at least one of the walls and make some other changes.

The white cat's ear has healed up nicely, though it'll be scarred. He's such a sweet kitty. I fixed him a bed again in one of the big plastic bins turned on the side, and put it on the deck. Trouble is, it all gets wet and frozen when the weather is bad.

The poetry reading last night was very good. We had eight attendees, and some good stuff was read. Joe read a sympathetic poem about a somewhat scary incident with a black person, which made me brave enough to read my Autherine Lucy poem. I think that's the first time anyone except Ramey, Barry M., and Prof. M., at UAB, had read or heard it. Years ago, Barry gave it and another poem of mine to Prof. M. to read, and the great man said the other poem was worth working on but the Lucy poem wasn't. Our poetry group seemed to like it, though.

***

Here's a poem, or song, that I wrote in the 1980's after Bob disappeared.

Bob the Cat
His mother was Carly, a proud calico,
His dad was a rogue black as jet;
But my feline companion called Robert the Bob
Was loved by all that he met.

They called him Beautiful Bob;
He was gentle and never a snob.
With eyes golden yellow,
A most handsome fellow.
Was my dear Rob.

He was brave and faithful and true,
The best pal that I ever knew.
The years can’t erase him;
No pet can replace him.
He’ll always be Beautiful Bob.

Vickie and Albert

Jenny and I used to make dolls out of clothespins, but I've sold, lost or given away most of them. I don't know where Mama got these two big antique clothespins, but she gave them to me long ago. She had used her tiny drill to make holes through for their arms. All these many years, I've meant to ask my artist sister Ramey to paint their heads to resemble Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and I've collected pictures of the royal couple so I could make their costumes. But I never think to tell Ramey. So I'm posting this as a self-reminder.

The taller pin is nearly 5 inches high, and I've thought about using it to make a new Daddy for the Dolls' house, so he would be almost as tall as Mama. But I hate to abandon the Prince Albert idea.

Queen Victoria was a pretty good-looking little woman until she had twelve children, Albert died, and she didn't care much any more.

***

Shakespeare's prettiest poem:

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,

As: to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily foresworn;

And gilded honor shamefully misplac'd,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongully disgrac'd,

And strength by limping sway disabled;

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill--

Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

This is the thing he wrote that, in my opinion, most strongly indicates Oxford as the author. It sharply describes his life, and the influence of Authority over his works.

The Dolls' Storage Shed

Besides the unsightly piles of household stuff in the attic, the Dolls have to keep some things handy in the storage shed, like garden and carpenter tools, the sewing machine and the ironing board. And the trash cans.

Daddy has acquired three new hunting dogs, Sooner, Echo and Belman, who currently sleep in the shed because Tiny the Airedale won't let them come into the house.

Daddy himself gained a lot of weight over the holidays. He also quit dyeing his hair black, and looks quite different. Will show new pictures of him later.

***

I looked out the window this morning, and it looked like someone had turned on the lights. Oh--it was the sun, which I hadn't seen in several days.

***
A poem so beautiful it makes me cry:

"Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.

Let us discover some new alphabet,

For this, the often praised, and be ourselves

The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,

The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,

And all that welcomes rain; the sparrow, too,--

Who watches with a hard eye, from seclusion,

Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done. ...

"...The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop, --on a hawthorn leaf,--
Orion in a cobweb, and the World."

by  Conrad Aiken

Hello, Goodbye

One cold rainy day last week, I went to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. When I got back and opened the garage so I could get in, a pretty black and white dog ran in ahead of my truck. He was wet and cold and shivering, and I sort of rubbed some of the rain off of him. Then I went upstairs and fixed him a plate of leftover beef stew and rice and things and took it down there.

He tucked his long bushy tail between his legs and looked sort of sheepish, but after a while he ate it all up. He had on a collar, and I turned it around and around, looking for a tag, but he didn't have one.

"You're a right nice dog," I said. "Matter of fact, you're the very kind of a dog I've been looking for, with your long wavy hair and your medium-sized build. How would you like to hang around here?"

"No'm," he said. "Much obliged for the dinner and the rubdown and all, but I reckon I'll get on back to the house when it quits raining."

"Well, it was mighty nice talking to you," I said, and he said likewise. So we shook hands, and after a while I let him out. When I looked out the window, he was long gone.

I really don't want a dog, but it had slipped my mind.

Crossroads

The movie "Crossroads" (1986) was shown on TV last night, and I watched it, of course. They don't make movies that good any more, and probably never will again-- Is that true, or is it just the old-timer's classic "good old days" versus "bad new days"? It's a subjective thing, of course.

Watching the movie on TV saved me the difficulty of opening my new DVD package and figuring out which remote to use to play the disc, all of which I've been putting off for a month or more. I've got several unwatched DVD's. Must remember to arrange another tutoring session with Jed, and label the relevant remote. I may not be tech-smart, but at least my kids are.

I think I'll copy Roger Ebert and start a Four-Star Movie column on this blog.

21-0, by gosh!

That's a little better than 9-6. What happened to the No. 1 LSU Tigers, y'all?!!! The Tide sort of casually rolled over them, that's what!  You won't find a whole heap about it in the news, not at all like what you would have found if Auburn had done anything near this. But then, it's Alabama's what? fourteenth National Championship, big deal. Nick Saban said he was happy, and almost smiled.

Book Club and Other Stuff

It's January, and as far as I know, no one has mentioned resuming book club. It's probably just as well.

During the twelve days of Christmas, I got old. It seems to be different for different people, the point at which one surrenders and admits to being old. For me, it was a day when I realized that I feel, not just tired, but superannuated. I think I need a new hairstyle. Or A hairstyle. What's a good style for thin, gray, straight, baby-fine, flyaway locks? If you can call them locks. Maybe like Mirren.

Would need a face-lift to go along with the style. And lots of makeup. All of which really boil down to lots of money.

I have to say that for me, December was the best month of 2011. Dec. 31st wasn't the best day of that year, but at least it was the last one. I wish everyone I know, and don't know, a Happy New Year, and I hope to goodness everyone wishes me the same. A year with no broken doors, broken teeth, broken resolutions, flooded basements, carcinomas, new stray cats, paucity of poetry prizes, lost things-- Last week I laid a newly opened deck of smokes and a lighter somewhere, and have been looking for them ever since. "Many are the travelers . . . "

I think this year I'll read Walden again. And The Once and Future King. Hank's poem about Lynn, in Then We Came To the End, was heartrending. That was really a good book, worthy of all the prizes it won.

Then We Came To the End

By Joshua Ferris

I started reading this book about an advertising agency where employees were being laid off left and right. Good writing, but execrable personae and lack of story. Several times I started to quit reading it. Man, I thought, I hate these people, and I'm not a person who hates people. I'm not a person who keeps on reading a bothersome book just because I don't have anything better to read.

And then, after so many pages of no positive reactions except to the most offensive characters, on page 108 I find myself rubbing my eyes and screaming with a sick sort of laughter, just because they finally revealed who stole Tom Mota's chair.

Come to think of it, Brizz's totem pole was pretty good, too. I guess I'll read a few more pages.

It has to be a pretty good day...

when I win Spider Solitaire. But I'm down to 1%.

It's still a mighty beautiful day. I'm going to walk around outside, bundled up if necessary.

My Best-Loved Christmas Carol

My favorite verse:

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray!
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And take us to Heaven to live with Thee there.

Seems like I nearly always get the Christmas spirit, about a week later.

Adventures in Atlanta, GA

Jed appeared Friday a week ago, in a big beautiful new vehicle that Santa brought him. We spent a delightful evening (Soup Night) as Sister Susan's on Friday, and then Saturday evening Sister Ramey hosted a wonderful feast of turkey and the trimmings at her house.

We didn't do much on Christmas day except open some presents and read some books. Then Monday we were off to Jed's house in Atlanta. I had been there once before--to his house, I mean. Since then I had been to Atlanta to an Oxford-Shakespeare convention. Mostly what I remember doing for the best part of four days was eating until I was stupefied. We ate steak at Longhorn on the way out of Leeds, and in Atlanta we ate Mexican and I don't know what-all. The staff at the Mexican restaurant hollered and took on over Jed, hugged us repeatedly, and fed us sumptuously--turns out that Jed hangs out there a lot and has charmed the proprietress.

Here are some pics of Jed's renovated kitchen.

Directly above, on the left, is a bit of the marble tile backsplash, and the beautiful granite countertop with undermounted sink. The photo on the right is the gorgeous travertine floor. Click on the photos to enlarge for detail.

For Christmas Jed gave me a new toaster-oven, and for my birthday (which was Tuesday) a lovely pair of furry leather scuffs so I'll quit running around the house in my socks.

It was a wonderful Christmas and birthday season, and I thank the Lord for all my loved ones and friends, both those who were here and those who were not. Jed and I got back to Leeds Thursday evening. I persuaded him to stay over that night and rest instead of driving back immediately. So he went home yesterday, and I have slept most of the time since then.

The Dolls' House



All decked out for Christmas



All the rooms.

The Front Door



Kitchen - Cook has brought her baby to work.







The Living Room - Where is everybody?

Daddy is calling up the stairs, telling Mama that Grandma has arrived--they're taking her out to dinner!




But Mama Doll is still in the bathtub! (Baby Doll is in his cradle,
minding his own business.)

Lucinda the upstairs maid is admiring the Christmas tree in the study.



Little Dolly has dressed up to go out with the grownups, but
big Camilla knows they won't be allowed. (The girls' room with
their books and dolls.)

***
The house is crowded, with ten people, four cats and two dogs.

***
Merry Christmas from the Family!

Left to Right
Front Row: Peter Alexander, age 6 mo.
Camilla, age 8
The rocking horse Peter got for Christmas (Daddy will buy him a bicycle next year.)
Dolly, age 4
Daddy (Alexis Hugh Doll)
Tiny, the terrier
Back Row: Beauty, the parlor maid
Lucinda, the upstairs maid
Spot, the spaniel
Grandma (Mrs. Dolly Buff-Orpington)
Keenya, the cook, and her little boy Beolius
Mama Doll (Miranda)
(The cats were hiding.)

A carrot for the donkey

Spent the morning trying to get inspired to stand up and move. Actually, moving is one of the few things I still like to do. While making coffee, I do stretching exercises, make sure I can still touch the floor without bending my knees, etc.

Samuel Johnson said (I paraphrase), "Of all the noises, music is perhaps the least offensive." I still like some music, sometimes.

Food? Ho hum. Unless I get hungry, I don't care much. Yesterday I did make an effort, cooked squash and cornbread, and made a bowlful of corn salad. And a Great Divide milkshake for dessert. Food is pretty good, if you're hungry. Trouble is, after a great meal, you have to go to the store to replace what you cooked and ate.

Shakespeare is still worth moving for. But it's pretty exhausting, after most of a lifetime spent trying to straighten out the matter.

Writing poems? It's not something you can just sit down and do. You have to have some emotion to remember in tranquillity (Wordsworth--Bill or Dorothy).

I think the only thing that would make me holler, and jump up and down, would be for River City to call and say, "Mrs. Cage, we would like to publish your book."

"Anonymous"

I recently read a comprehensive review of the movie "Anonymous," and now I want to see it. Apparently, it either alleges or hints at many of the things I believe to be true about the real Shakespeare, including the most important "fact."

A few nights ago, I watched "Neverland" on TV, and that Ifans guy played Hook. He looks like a good choice to play Oxford in "Anonymous."

So, my plan is to see the movie, then write a paper and add a string of references from my 50-odd years of studying Shakespeare. And then I want to see if the Leeds Arts Council will schedule me a program time to read my paper to an audience. That probably can't happen until next season, so maybe I should negotiate the time, before I start writing the paper.

This idea is part of an appeal by the Oxford Shakespeare Society, for members to "educate" the public on the identity  question, and to explain some points in the movie. I received their letter yesterday, and it commented favorably on the movie, and put the presentation idea into my head.

Another Recurring Song

This is another one that runs through my head sometimes (I like this one):

I'll Be There

There ain't no chains strong enough to hold me
Ain't no breeze big enough to slow me
I never have seen a river that's too wide
There ain't no jail tight enough to lock me
Ain't no man big enough to stop me
I'll be there if you ever want me by your side
So love me if you ever gonna love me
I never have seen a road too rough to ride
There ain't no chains strong enough to hold me
There ain't no breeze big enough to slow me
I'll be there if you ever want me by your side


Now there ain't no rope tight enough to bind me
Look for me honey you will find me
Any old time you're ready with your charm
I'll be there ready and a waitin'
There won't be any hesitatin'
I'll be right here if you ever want me in your arms
So love me if you ever gonna love me
I never have seen a road too rough to ride
There ain't no chains strong enough to hold me
There ain't no breeze big enough to slow me
I'll be there if you ever want me by your side
I'll be there if you ever want me by your side

The 18

I have a recurring dream of running to catch the No. 18 bus on the Southside. Sometimes it's from my apartment, sometimes at Five Points, occasionally at UAB. Always, when I'm just a few steps from it, the bus pulls away. It's as if the driver watches me and leaves when I'm almost there. That really used to happen sometimes.

I had the dream last night. The scene before and after I run to catch the bus is always different. This time, I was getting dressed to go to work, and Mama was there, and she told me I could wear her blazing hot-pink printed skirt. Then after the bus left me stranded, a convertible car full of six of my college acquaintances stopped at the curb, and I squeezed into the back seat and started talking to them. But close up, they weren't who I thought they were, but a bunch of unshaven, sort of thuggy-looking guys. When I explained and apologized for getting into their car, the one beside me said it was all right, they would drop me off at work.

Explain that one, Dr. Freud.

The Blahs

Lately I'm not in the mood for holidays. Or much of anything else. There's too much of this-and-that that I need to do hanging over my head, that I can't think of anything else. And I don't get anything done. It's not that I don't give-a-damn. I'd love to see all the repairs done and the house spotless, and the car washed and the oil changed, and the clothes washed, and the teeth cleaned and filled and the hair cut and the nails clipped--all that stuff that life is full of.

What I need is another cup of coffee, and I'll be right back in the game. I hope.

The Man With the Moxie

If half of the politicians in the U.S. were half as smart and half as concerned as this guy, I would be much less afraid for the future of our country.

Really Stupid Songs

Often, songs that I heard as a child will play in my head, or snatches of them. Thank technology for the internet, so I can find some of them and try to banish them forever. Here's one:

O dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
O dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

. . . He promised to bring me a bunch of blue ribbons
To tie up my bonny brown hair.

I just remembered 2-3 lines of this one, but that was three too many:

He sat down beside her and smoked his cigar
Smoked his cigar, smoked his cigar
He sat down beside her and smoked his cigar
Smoked his cigar-r-r


She sat there beside him and played her guitar,
Played her guitar, played her guitar
She sat there beside him and played her guitar,
Played her guitar-r-r

Each of the following lines is a repetitive stanza like the two above:

He told her he loved her but oh how he lied...
She told him she loved him, but she did not lie...
They went to be married, but she up and died,,,
He went to the funeral, but just for the ride...
She went up to heaven and flip-flop she flied...
He went down below her and sizzled and fried...
The moral of this tale is never to lie...
Or you, too, may perish and sizzle and fry...

I may write a poem called "Sizzle and Fry."

"When you don't see him, he's somewhere else."

Last night I watched "Michael," the movie. That has to be one of the best, or at least among my top favorites.

Why didn't anybody show the Alabama game yesterday? Since those overblown giants of LSU beat them by a hair, I guess the Tide is not considered worth broadcasting. That LSU win was shown at least a dozen times on TV in the past week. It really was a big accomplishment, to beat Bama.

I've been decorating the dollhouse. I can't help it, tedious though it is.

Coffee! For the love of heaven, coffee!!!

I saw Mo curled up in a spot of sunshine on the carpet. Made me want to do the same. There's a poem in that somewhere. I guess Mo is older than I am, in cat years. Still, it would seem inappropriate for me to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. I may do it, anyway.

Yesterday was a bit stressful, so I went to bed about 7:30 p.m. and slept until ten this morning. I'm still so sleepy I can't sit up straight.

Thing is, I had a dental procedure yesterday, and they said not to drink coffee or anything hot for "several days." How many days  can I survive, awake, without coffee? Makes me think of Ramey's espresso-colored tee shirt that says "Instant Person--Just Add Coffee."

Iced coffee?

*

Iced coffee with lots of creamer and a little bit of sugar is really good, I find. But it doesn't work the same as a big mug full of the hot stuff.
*
Back about 1949, I wrote a poem called "Kitten in the Sunshine." But I've lost it.

things are bad all over

When a new crisis arises, I have to give myself a day or two of craziness before my usual sense returns. This crisis is a dental one, so the rest of this year will probably be dominated by running back and forth to the dentist, needles, screaming and running mad. On top of the doors, the basement, and the wee little piddling retirement income.

It's enough to make you cry, or laugh. Or start feeling your age. I was ten years older than Joe Frazier, who died Monday. And I'm still running around in my raggedy jeans and tee shirts like a 60-year-old, moaning about my little crises. A hundred years from now, who'll know the difference?

Crossroads

Yesterday I discovered that I have a lot of purchase "points" on Amazon. So I ordered this video that I've wanted for a long time, free of charge and free shipping. Ralph Macchio and Joe Seneca. And Jamie Gertz. This is one of my 100 favorite films.

I've fallen behind in my clean-up schedule this week. But I haven't given up. Today I aim to FINISH THE DOLLHOUSE and get it out of the way. Or off my mind. All I have to do is install the stairs--they're all put together and painted--and touch up the paint here and there.



*



6:00 p.m. The D.H. is finished, so I can relax and watch the Tide beat LSU (knock on wood).

Night on Bald Mountain

In the middle of doing laundry, I was thinking that if I ever got thrown into solitary confinement, I could occupy myself by hearing music in my mind. Mozart string quartets, Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique," Beethoven piano sonatas, Chopin preludes and piano concertos. Then for some reason I thought about "Night on Bald Mountain," and I thought Berlioz, but it's not by Berlioz, it's Mussorgsky/Chernov/Rimsky-Korsakov. So I ran to the computer and found this arrangement on YouTube, all piano with the sheet music pictured, and spent ten minutes listening to the ghosties and devils and witches and stuff on the "Bare Mountain." Why didn't I think of it during Halloween? It would be perfect to play and scare the trick-or-treaters. If one had any trick-or-treaters.

Anyway, I posted it in my Music Links in the left column. It's really a pretty piece of music, with a lazy left hand and a real workout to try with the right hand, if one had a piano.

Welcome, November!

Boy'm I glad Halloween (the whole month of October) is over! Everything on TV was haints and horror, and old reruns of Project Runway.

Counting Reed Sunday night, I had six trick-or-treaters, three of them in one visit. So there's the great bowl still full of every kind of Tootsie Roll candy ever made. I kept urging the little ghosties to "take some more--don't you want another Tootsie Roll pop?" But they were all too polite to be greedy.

The weekend was sort of fun and sort of disappointing. On Saturday, Jed and I went to Montevallo U. to the ASPS Fall Awards luncheon. I signed up to sponsor a spring contest, to the tune of eighty bucks. As to awards, I won an honorable mention (aargh!) and a second prize, out of all those good poems I entered. At least I thought they were good; the most disappointing thing was my wondering if they weren't so good, after all. But, compared to the winning poems that were read aloud, I believe they're pretty great.

Like a fool, I left my keys at home and all the doors locked. So Jed had to break the foyer door to the stairs. So now I've got to go to Lowe's and buy a door and get them to install it.

So, this morning I paid bills, and finished all the painting for the doll house, and started washing the heaps of dirty laundry. Yesterday, besides the 2-pound bag of treats, I bought allergy masks, gloves, and other supplies for cleaning the back room of the basement, which I plan to finish up this week.

Shirley S., my first landlord at the Southside apartment, once said that she liked for everything to be fun. I managed to make the nose surgery sound like fun while it was going on, so maybe I can get a laugh or two out of cleaning the basement. Speaking of the nose surgery, today I received a bill for $300 due after Viva and Medicare paid their parts. It's always something.

Poor Robin Crusoe

For a couple of days, I've been working on the dollhouse, and re-reading Robinson Crusoe for the first time in many years. My near vision is almost out, but I can still look a squirrel in the eye from 20 paces or so.

To answer the questions in late "Comments," about Dave W., he was the best friend of my best friend at the University. Karl was my special buddy, not to say my boyfriend, as he was a great handsome hulk who followed or carried me around, better than a dog or a horse but maybe not quite as intelligent. We all worked in Radio and Television, at the first educational radio-TV station to broadcast live on TV. (Karl once announced, in opening a radio program, "This is Karl Pickens Perking," instead of "Perkins speaking.")

Karl's best friend was Dave, who was about as tall as Michael Crichton, with flaming red hair, not handsome in the face but spectacular to look upon, and of course I had a crush on him, but he was engaged to a hateful little brunette that he could have thrown away with one hand, and I often wondered why he didn't. Years later I learned, through my sister-in-law (whose best friend, and a former roommate of mine at the U., was Dave's cousin), that he was a radio DJ and sometimes did comedy acts at local events, but I don't remember where that was, but not in Alabama.

Also a few years later, a friend of mine in college, Helen L., inherited a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and bought Karl a sports car, and they got married. Helen was almost as tall as Dave W., with flaming red hair and skinny as a rail and quite ugly. But that $150K at that time was probably equal to several millions of today's money. So hooray for Karl.
*
Poor Robin

When Robinson Crusoe left England in 1651, not to return for 35 years, the English Civil War was raging, King Charles I had been beheaded in 1649 and his son fled to France or somewhere, and England was run by the Puritans, to be ruled for 7 years by Oliver Cromwell, a right handsome dude.

So while Crusoe was absent from England, the English civil war years had come and gone, Kings Charles I and II had come and gone, James II was the English monarch, and the Church of England restored. But all this time, Crusoe was still a Puritan, though at times, in Brazil and Portugal, letting himself be thought a "Popish" Catholic. He was marooned on his island for 28 years, and, contrary to modern impressions, for 25 of those years totally without human companionship, having rescued the savage Friday toward the end of his isolation. He did early on hear English spoken, by an island parrot that he tamed and taught to speak, such phrases as "Poor Robin Crusoe!"

What amazed me most about the book was the modernity of Defoe's usage and writing of the English language. Even some of his odd expressions and spellings are not strange to today's usage in England. Although since first reading the book, I had read Defoe's Moll Flanders and Journal of the Plague Year, I was impressed all over again with the clarity and modernity of his English.

Considering that before Robinson Crusoe, published in the year 1719, there was no such thing as a fiction novel in the English language, I think it was the first and perhaps greatest of such, though with no plot and no explicit sexual references.

*
I've lost a day somewhere. I thought this was Wednesday. Jed will be here tomorrow, and I haven't washed any clothes or cleaned the Augean stable in the basement.

The Tragedy of My (Love) Life

Yesterday at the Clinic I saw a Dr. Sami, a dark little clown of a doctor who yelled, "Well, hello! hello! hello!" when he saw me sitting on the exam table, and I grinned and hollered, "Hi-de-doo!" Anyway, after he and his resident doctor lady rubbed and conjured and consulted over my nose, he decided what I had was a whole bunch of little some-kind-of-pillomas, and prescribed me some cream to rub on them. He said if they changed, or bled, or bothered me, to call him. Yeah. Sounded familiar. But I decided to believe him, and went home and dozed in front of the television until about midnight, and then I went to bed and slept through Mo's hollering, the telephone ringing, and lots of stranger noises, until eight o'clock this morning.

I got up and fed Mo and staggered back to bed, where I dreamed practically my whole life running before me but changed a whole lot. At the end of it, I was 25 years old and an old maid, and I was trying to get Dave W. to marry me, because he looked like my cousin Jim. Jim had got out of the Army and married some little southern belle, and I might as well marry someone else. But, said Dave, "I don't like you." Damn! Why was he always hanging around, if he didn't like me?

But during the dream we were always moving from one place to another. Finally we were moving from the house in Leeds to somewhere else close around. Daddy had two suits, and Mama was about to fling them on top of the truck, but I took them on hangers across my back and walked all the way to the new house with the little girls. In another scene, I was in the empty house with Mama and some lady to whom she was showing all the little multi-colored child-sized pants she had made, and I was thinking I could use some of those colors in the doll house.

I woke up again around 2:00 p.m. and fed Mo again to get him to shut up. Whether I'll go back to bed, after I take my pills and rub my  nose-cream, I haven't yet decided.

They say when you're dying, your whole life runs before you. Well, I ain't dead yet, unless I'm still dreaming. I feel very glad and relieved, because I don't have a growth on my nose that's going to spread its roots all through my body--or my head! And because I didn't marry my cousin Jim or Dave W., the other red-headed man. Back of my hand to all of them.

I really feel OK.

I've almost decided to keep the little white cat. Except I'm afraid he would live for 25 years or so, like Mo. And I can't let him into the house as long as crazy Mo is around.

I've been sort of down, because there's another anomaly on my nose, opposite side from the first one. (I hate to say that C word.) Yesterday I made a Dermatology appointment for next Wednesday, to get them to look at it. But I'm pretty sure that's what it is.

Shakespeare's "Tired with all these" poem keeps running in my head. Sometimes I think I'll just give up and eat ice cream and hot dogs until I'm as big as old Lucy. Last night I watched "Thinner" on TV; that guy was pretty happy as long as he weighed 300 pounds.

The critique group meets tomorrow at Joe's, and I don't have any poems to read. The awards dinner is scheduled two weeks from today in Montevallo, and I don't know whether to make reservations or not. It would be just like TKC to schedule me for surgery the day before.

"The leaves decay, the leaves decay and fall. . ." I was looking out the window and down the street a while ago, and it looked like it was snowing leaves.

The big white-faced possum came back a night or so ago, to clean up the cat food that the strays left.

Southern Snow Dance

*
Beloved, let us make our Christmas white.
Let us invent a conjure more complex,
a chant, or many-patterned morris-dance,
to coax the icy hexagons to fall:
on every fence-post, see in our mind's eye
a pyramid of snowflakes; on each roof
a blanket blue-white in the morning light;
and every blade of grass in crystal bloom.
And if we, in our air-cooled southern room,
perfect our fervent prayer or pagan hex,
perhaps our childhood dreams of snow, by chance,
may come to pass to bless us after all,
and Santa, sleigh-borne from the winter sky,
spring earthward to the dance of tiny hoofs.

by JRC, 10/08/11

*
"I've got to admit, it's getting better, a little better all the time." I mean, I'm feeling better.

Acting Funny

It's the computer, not me, that's acting funny. I seem to be shifting or grinding my gears out of neutral. I've got things to do and places to go today, and I don't mind so much. The Birmingham Arts Review people are meeting at the Leeds Arts Council tonight, and at some point I volunteered to bring some snacks. So I have to go to the store, and then make chips and dip, and then go down there. And now I only have about four hours to get myself and the makings ready to go.

Somebody said, "You don't have to like it. You just have to do it." A beer would help get me started. I haven't had a beer in years and years, but I think about it often.

This morning I wrote one page of a story. And people, that's progress. Four paragraphs.

Moving On

My doorbell rang at 4:30 this morning. I ignored it for a few minutes, and it rang again, so I got up and cooked oatmeal and ate a few bites. The outside lights were on, so the little people must not be scared of lights.

Anyway, I'm going to do something today, if it's just housework. I've sat around and dozed most of this week, but now I'm going to--to--move, at least.

Up From the Ashes

Well, I'm slowly climbing out of the trough into which I fell Monday night. Started back on the antidepressant and B12 Tuesday, so I'm beginning to feel human again. Still low on energy, and feel like my mind needs some new spark plugs. I also started taking the multivitamin and calcium+D. I'll probably add all those other supplements as I get used to swallowing pills again.

What I need to do is write another novel. Or make another quilt. When I feel like lifting my hands.

Making a list

Okay. The things I must do today. Can't get out of doing. Laundry. Print out a poem or two for the meeting tonight. Haircut. Shampoo and shower. Manipedi. I guess that's all. I can let the house and car go on festering for twenty-four hours. After all, tomorrow is another you-know-what.

Thinking of a new quilt

Tracy's guys came by this morning and chopped down the perennial cottonwood that grows up by my office window. This time it was at least 8 feet high, and the trunk down at ground level is about 4 inches in diameter. I wish it had grown up somewhere else; it would be a beautiful tree by now. But where it is, smack up against the house, it has to be cut down once or twice a year.

The basement got wet again night-before-last, and Tracy said he was coming by yesterday to look at it, but he never did. I don't know what they're going to do about it, if anything. I'm afraid if they dug that well any deeper for the pump, water would gush up like an oil well. Maybe, as Jed suggested, we should just bring in some heavy equipment, level the house, and build a community swimming pool. Or pour in enough concrete to make the basement floor several inches higher. Or move to Santa Fe, New Mexico, above it all.

I'm wanting to make a pink-and-white quilt, and I think Aunt Carrie's quilt that she made for one of my boys would be a good pattern. I sketched the block(s) this morning.

Each large block is actually made up of 4 each of 2 sections, plus the center square. I think it would be pretty in light and dark pinks, plus white. For a mini quilt, you could just make one block, based on an 8-inch center square, and the quilt would be 40" square plus any borders.

5:45 p.m.: I watched most of the game, and it didn't jinx Alabama. Tide rolled all over Arkansas.

Pizza At Last!

Yesterday Ramey stopped by after work with a load of pizza, cupcakes, and lots of other goodies! We had a feast, and I've got pizza and other necessities for the weekend.

Later, I watched the New York Philharmonic on PBS, playing Richard Strauss's Salome, based on the play by Oscar Wilde. I don't like Richard Strauss, he was "Hitler's composer," very anti-Semitic and pro-Nazi. But musically he was a genius. That's not to say his music appeals to me. It is great, but not appealing. Salome was terrifying, especially the parts sung by Deborah Voigt, a very powerful dramatic soprano. I guess I'm glad I finally sat through something by R. Strauss, but once was enough.

This is probaby the least horrible illustration by Beardsley, for Wilde's play.

*

I said Strauss was a genius, but that's just hearsay. It's what "they" say. What do I know?

What's Going On Here?

I don't understand. I used to be able to order a pizza about once a week and not feel too much of an effect on my bank account. Some time ago I switched to picking up the pizza to save $5-$10. Now, on this dark rainy day when a pizza would be so appropriate, I don't even have the wherewithal to go to the market and buy a Red Baron or even a Totino's to cook in the old gas oven.

The mailman just delivered the staircase for the dollhouse. The package is about 3 feet long, so I suspect I'm going to have to return the thing. It was supposed to be 14 inches long. I'm afraid to open the box.

Is Mercury retrograde? Worse, is Pluto back in my sign? I'm about ready to pack it up and move to Oregon, or Oklahoma or Ohio. Or the West Coast. No, not that. A bologna sandwich sounds good.
*
Worst Commercial (even worse than the Progressive one): The girl who sings (hollers), "OOhhhhhh, Pie in the sky, you know how I feel..."

I know it's not "pie in the sky." But that's what runs around in my head for a few hours, every time I accidentally hear a few bars of that commercial.

Vincent Van Gogh's "Bedroom in the Yellow House At Arles"

Blue Door, Stage Left

To think the great Paul Gauguin will sleep there,
in that small room adjoining my chamber!
I've made my own room up in many colors,
hoping it will cheer me, while I rest,
improve my health and my exhausted nerves.

I need to get well, to be at my best
when he arrives. I hope he'll be surprised
and pleased with all the plans I've made for us.
Perhaps he will acknowledge me his equal,
in art his brother, and in life his friend.

O let me sleep tonight, if I can sleep,
with no nightmares, no images of crows,
black clouds and somber faces to disturb
the sanctuary of this simple room!

By JRC, 09/17/2011
*
I think it was my friend Joan D. who didn't believe me when I said that a poem can come into my head, pretty much fully formed. This one took less than half an hour to write down and make a few word changes. Maybe because I've been thinking about it and looking at that picture for more than two weeks. But I hadn't thought before of letting it be something Vincent might have been thinking. The germ of the poem was "blue door, stage left." And I'm not even sure about stage directions; anyway, there are two blue doors in the picture.

Psalm 100

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.
Know ye that the Lord, He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture.
Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations.

*

Last night I turned on the deck light, and a great big possum was running its nose around the bottom of the door.

Other houses, other rooms

I've decided to put all my dollhouse furnishings and people back in the old metal bookcase. It originally consisted of nine rooms and a rooftop garden, and I'll either have to use all those things I made or throw them away. Throwing away stuff I've made is not something I like to do.

When I finish working on the big dollhouse, I will sell it for the highest bid. Which will probably be less than the house and staircase cost in the first place.

The Bedroom in the Yellow House at Arles

September is halfway over, and for 15 days I've been trying to write a poem for the fall ASPS contests. A poem about Vincent Van Gogh's painting of his bedroom at Arles. He said he was going to get total rest until he was healthy again. Though how he expected to rest in a purple room with green chairs, yellow sheets and and a blood-red bedspread-- The walls don't look purple in this picture, but he wrote to his brother and said the walls of the room were lavender. He must have liked the room. He painted it three times.
*
Strange how many yellow houses there are. Vincent's Yellow House at Arles. Jared's little yellow house next door, which is the pretty view from my kitchen window. One of my sisters lives in a yellow house.

Keeping a Small House

This tiny dollhouse is only eight inches high from the peak of the roof. A long time ago I  bought it at one of Sylvia I.'s yard sales. It was just a curio shelf, in bad shape, but I painted it and added the floors and ceiling effects.

These tiny porcelain pieces are Red Japan, one of my favorite antiques. The bed and piano are less than two inches long. I've probably got more little china things I can display in the newly-painted dollhouse.

The big dollhouse is frustrating in a way. After all the work I've put into it, it doesn't look much different from when I began. It doesn't shout, "Look, I've got new moldings, new floors, clean windows, a new chimney," etc. After days of biting my fingernails and throwing away piles of wood strips and cardboard failures, I finally broke down and ordered a staircase kit, although I couldn't find one the right size. Someone with a little fine saw will have to shave off half an inch from one side of the stairs.

But it must be fun, or I wouldn't keep doing it. Last night I went through my boxes of dollhouse furnishings, all the little animals, toys and people. Camilla, Tracy, Dolly, Peter, Kenya, Heidi, Beauty, Ben Gunn, Sir Hugh Davenport, Mrs. Buff-Orpington, and others. I made most of the furnishings, and some of the people, when I lived in the Southside apartment. The only "house" I had for them was an old 3-foot-wide metal bookcase. I bought the big house at Hannah Antiques after I moved to Leeds.

At first I thought I would try to sell all this stuff when I have a yard sale. But I may just have to keep it and bequeath it to my heirs. I know they'll be thrilled speechless.

A Helping Hand

Tracy came by yesterday to check on the aftermath of the flood. He said he would call the new city director of public works or whatever she's called; said she's a friend, and maybe he can get them to clean out the drainage ditch behind my lot, which would help a great deal during heavy rains. That ditch is blocked, and when it overflows, guess where all the water goes. He's also going to send his crew to clean up the yard.

Tracy backed his big old truck halfway into the garage and loaded up the rest of the trash from in there. He also cleaned out the closet under the stairs; there were two ironing boards in there--one was Flora Cage's, but I have no idea where the other one came from. Lovvorn's has a thrift or junk store, too, where they refurbish stuff and distribute it to the needy, so I gave them a lot of things that might be usable. I kept the brass bedstead and a few other things out of that closet, to sell at the yard sale which I've got to get busy and throw before another flood. Or before Christmas, or New Year's.

I have pared my "collected poems" down to fifty of my favorites, and find that none of the publishing companies I know about are considering poetry. So I guess I have to bite the bullet and go through the misery of self-publishing. I do want to get at least these fifty between covers.

I found on River City Publishing's website that they will notify the winner of the awards contest, in which I entered my novel, "before December of 2012." When you think about it, that's not unreasonable, considering how long it might take them to read all the entries. It's the same way with them and with NewSouth, when they're accepting poetry; reading time is from three to nine months.

Saga of the Ringing Bell

The flood has subsided, and I'm trying to summon the grit to deal with the mess it left. Lot covered with trash, deck covered with pine straw, leaves and twigs. A few wet spots on the basement floors. Bedraggled cat who looks like he was out in the middle of it, but he wasn't.

The dollhouse has a new chimney, new moldings, this-and-that. Ready for a new staircase. I've paced the floor, trying to figure out how to make one. If I had fifty dollars, I'd buy one ready-made. Maybe I can find a "stringer" at Michael's.

Last night the doorbell rang and woke me up. I lay there for a minute, thinking, "It must be Ramey on her way to work." So I turned over and looked at the clock, and it was 2:30 a.m. Deja-vu all over again.

This has happened several times before. The first time, several years ago, I got up in the dark, crouched by the office window, and watched someone running away from the front porch. And it has happened at least once in the past year, because I remember telling Ramey about it.

The reason it bothers me is that I think they may be planning to try to break in, if no one reacts to the bell.

Last night I finally got up, turned on the porch lights, and called 911. Apologized for bothering them, explained that it happens every once-in-a-while, and they sent a police car cruising by. End of story. I finally lay back down and slept till noon.
*
There ought to be a programmable device to connect with the doorbell. Between midnight and six a.m., it would shoot a non-lethal load of buckshot at whoever pushes the button.

New poem

Il pleut.
Bonheur.
Je suis tres heureuse.

I'm not sure it rhymes. But it's true. How in the world do French babies ever learn to talk?

OK. I've solved the problem of floors for the doll house. Rather, Susan solved some of it for me by dropping off three Scrabble sets from the thrift store, so I can use the wood tiles. Thing is, I need to complete the repairs before doing any painting necessary, before I install the floors. But then it'll be done. I give myself three days for the job. On America's Next Top Handyman, they'd only get three hours.

Today is Labor Day. So je travaille.

6:45 p.m.: The sump pump was doing well until an hour or so ago, but now the basement is flooded. I guess you can't expect it to handle a real flood, which I think is what we're having.

Looking northwest

I had to stand out in the rain to get these pictures.

Northeast

The green in each of the back yard pictures is a little island strip with water on all sides.

Out the kitchen window

And the lights keep flickering off and on. I hope that's not a bad sign.

It's still morning--

And I've already cooked eggs and toast for breakfast, done 3 loads of laundry, run one errand, and put the start of a beef roast in the crock pot. And fed Mo several times. Now I've got the misery in my back when I stand up, so I think I'll take the rest of the day off.

I want something good to read, but I've become too picky in my advanced age. I get impatient with most of the stuff that's being written these days.

New poem

The Lighthouse

The house was light, with no dark corners.
It rose on a pinnacle of dreams
and faced both east and west
with gardens all around.
There were fountains
numerous as the breasts of Artemis,
and a glittering stream that lit the way
to a river of light.

The house was light itself;
I see it still, from a century away.
There I was born, and there
I dreamed my life, and there
when it flowed away, I planted
an evergreen of children.

jrc Sept. 2, 2011

*
4:20 p.m.: Today I mailed eight poems to the Ala. State Poetry Society contests. I wrote the lighthouse poem this morning to enter in one of the categories--i.e., "The Lighthouse."  I feel guilty about winning prizes and seldom sponsoring a contest. From now on, I'll reinvest at least some prize money into sponsoring contests. If I ever win any more prizes.

Bodies at rest tend to remain at rest...

Today I'm slow getting started. The AC man came and inspected the installation job and pronounced it OK. Otherwise, all I've coped with is a shower and shampoo and some clean clothes I found somewhere.
*
I had a few errands to take care of, buy gasoline, pay the light bill, go to Wal Mart for some necessities. This evening I plan to work on the doll house some more. If I could get all my tools, materials and plans organized in one place, I could finish this thing in a day. I keep telling myself.

What Else?

It gets harder and harder--or more and more of a nuisance--to live by oneself and deal with everyday disasters. In the past week, the AC has crashed. The living-room light fixture broke--or I broke it trying to turn on the ceiling fan. A stray cat got in through the pet doors that I unwisely unstopped; Mo ran it off but not before it had ruined the foyer floor. I get dozens of telephone calls where the caller I.D. just says "Texas," "Wisconsin," "Georgia," etc., and if you answer, there's just silence. I forgot to put out the discards for the charity trucks.

There. That doesn't look so bad, does it? It was less than one disaster a day, and only a few nuisances. Don't count the computer freezing up in the middle of something, or burning my hand taking something out of the oven.

I just resent the waste of my time. It's the servants' job to take care of such stuff. But where are they when you need them?

An Old Poem

Great-Uncle John

I know what he meant when he said,
“My old cup runneth over!”
Mine doeth that so often,
I’m afraid I’ll go to hell
for loving life too much.

He looked like one of the Indians
in an early photograph
of Geronimo and his band,
all hung about with extra clothes
and miscellaneous items.

I looked for his grave the other day
over at Pleasant Ridge;
I know it’s there, for I’ve seen it,
but it seems to move around,
much like the old man himself.

Never at home anywhere,
he was always on the move, walking
“to Gilead for the balm,”
or “up the old Jericho Road,
to hear Paul, that new little preacher.”

My mother says she thinks
he was buried somewhere else,
but Aunt Bob says he’s there.
She puts flowers on his grave
on Decoration Day.

I asked her if she remembered
the bags of sweet buns he carried
to share with children he met;
he'd give one to a tot, then tease,
“Don't you eat my pie!”

(by JRC, October 2000)

*

The installers finished the AC at noon yesterday, just in time to keep me from lying down on my back and sticking my arms and legs up in the air and hollering "calf rope!" It took ten hours to cool the house down from 85 to 77. I guess that was pretty reasonable; cooling about 3600 square feet, counting the basement. It's not really supposed to cool the basement, but somehow it does.

Rather Warm

Yesterday afternoon, the air conditioner totally quit. I mean, every whatchamacallit in the whole system froze up or burnt out. Our friendly AC guy Brent had been trying to sell me a new system for more than a year, so he was Johnny-on-the-spot with the installers. They almost got it done but about nine p.m. needed something they didn't have, so they left. Said they'd be back about nine or ten o'clock today. Maybe by the time the temp hits 100 today, I can close the windows and turn off the ceiling fans.

At the book club meeting, I borrowed Barbara's copy of Cleopatra: A Life, and I've started reading it. The Pharos lighthouse at Alexandria was taller than the Saturn V rocket. The picture is a modern image based on the ancient descriptions. The mosaic is ancient, referring to the top of the structure with a statue of Poseidon. They don't identify the other guy up there.

To care, and not to care...

"Teach us to sit still."

It's hard to blame people for not reading great poetry. Because when I read it, like Eliot's Ash Wednesday, it breaks my heart and makes me cry and think too much. Not for its own self only, but because I know I will never create anything that beautiful. The harder I try, the worse is my result.

Maybe you could say I'm just not a poet. I agree that I'm not and never will be a great poet. I remember saying once that I would be content to be a minor poet of my time. Looks like I'll never even attain that mediocre post.

Teach me to be a minor admirer. Teach me to care and not to care. Teach me to sit still and keep my mouth shut.
*

*

6:30 p.m. Last night Ramey helped me move the dolls' house onto the living room table. Today I finished all the demolition I needed to do--removed the old kitchen cabinets and the warped remains of "boards" from the floor of the hall/dining room.

Next I need to sand that floor--there was wood under the veneer of plastic or whatever it was--and repair/replace the inside moldings and the "bricks" on one of the chimneys. And buy or build a staircase. Then paint, decorate and furnish it.