From Don Juan, by Lord Byron

...A little curly-headed good-for-nothing
And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth.
Instead of quarreling, had they been but both in
Their senses, they'd have sent Young Master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipped at home,
To teach him manners for the time to come.

His father's name was Jose--Don, of course;
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse--
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again--
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
Begot--but that's to come. Well! To renew--

His mother was a learned lady, famed
For every branch of science ever known;
In every Christian language ever named,
With virtues equalled by her wit alone.
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,
And even the good with inward envy groan,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded,
In their own way, by everything that she did.

Her memory was a mine; she knew by heart
All Calderon, and greater part of Lope;
So that if any actor missed his part,
She could have served him for the prompter's copy.
For her, Feinagle's were an useless art,
And he himself obliged to shut up shop--he
Could never make a memory so fine as
That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez.

She knew the Latin--that is, the Lord's Prayer--
And Greek--the alphabet, I'm nearly sure.
She read some French romances here and there,
Although her mode of speaking was not pure.
For native Spanish, she had no great care;
At least her conversation was obscure.
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,
As if she thought that mystery would ennoble 'em.

Her favorite science was the mathematical;
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity.
Her wit--she sometimes tried at wit--was attic all;
Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity.
In short, she was in all things fairly what I call
A prodigy; her morning dress was dimity,
Her evening silk, and in the summer, muslin,
And other stuffs with which I won't stay puzzlin'.

More of the same, and a transformation

Dr. G. almost persuaded me to schedule a test that I've resisted for ten years or so. It must be the only test I haven't had at one weak moment or another. He did send me for a chest X-ray and scheduled a diagnostic mammogram/whatchamacallit--ultrasound, for next week I think. I asked him again about the big red spot on my right leg, about the size of the red spot on Jupiter. Several years ago he prescribed an antibiotic for it, which had no effect on the spot. Another time he said it was probably fluid collection due to my age. This time he said it's a bunch of miniature varicose veins. Sent in some new prescriptions for my meds, so when my swallower is feeling empowered, I'll start back on that stuff.

Dr. G. has been my internal med. physician for going-on twenty years now. When I first started seeing him, he looked purely scary. He's about as tall as Michael Crichton, with white skin, black hair and eyes, bushy black eyebrows, enormous bone structure. As a young man he wore a sort of long crew cut, which meant his hair stood up like a brush. I guess you call it a brush cut, only it was spiky. His head looked too small for the rest of him, and he had this sort of stiff self-conscious posture that made you want to look somewhere else to keep from embarrassing him.

Now the man must be in his late forties or early fifties. I've always said that age was kinder to men than to women, all else being equal. Dr. G. is now one of the handsomest men I've ever seen in person. Over the years he has developed composure, a comfortable sense of humor, a little meat on his bones, and a decent barber for his straight, white-streaked black mop.

Family Tree of Dahls/Dolls

"Daddy" - Alexander Hugh Dahl (a.k.a. Alexis Hugh Doll), born 5/2/1876

"Mama" - Amanda Miranda Marquez y Ortiz Doll, born 6/30/1882

Camilla - Maria Camilla Doll, born 7/27/1904

"Dolly" - Dolores Juanita Doll, born 12/31/1907

Peter - Peter Alexander Hugh Barry Doll, born 11/30/1911

"Grandma" - Dorothy Jane Kemble Dahl (2nd marriage: Buff-Orpington), born 3/10/1857

Maybelle - Maybelle Buff-Orpington Doll, born 10/12/1903

"Ned" - Mycroft Edward Dahl, elder twin to Alexis/Daddy Doll, born 5/2/1876

Servants: "Beauty" - Alice Joan Smith, parlor maid, born 4/10/1892

"Cook" - Kenya Beauchamps, cook, from New Orleans, born 10/23/1881)

"Beau" - Beolius Beauchamps, Cook's baby, born 4/4/1911

Lucinda - Lucinda Brown, upstairs maid, born ca. 1870

"Billy Bones" - William Praise-God Bare-Bones Bonnet, handyman, born ca. 1876

Mrs. Gudenov - washerwoman

Katryshina - Mrs. Gudenov's daughter

Deceased Persons: Daddy's father, Peter Alexander Dahl, born 11/3/1849, died 1/1/1880

Daddy's step-father, Sir Donald Barry Buff-Orpington, born 12/10/1859, died 2/11/1906

Pets/Dogs: Tiny, Airedale terrier mix
Spot, some kind of spaniel
Sooner, Echo and Belman, three greyhounds that Daddy thought would make good hunting dogs.

Pets/Cats: Missah, blonde Persian. Dolly was trying to think of a name for her and kept saying, "Miss--ah--Miss--ah...."
Bob and Not Bob, Missah's kittens
Kitty, black-and-white DSH with long hair

Pets/Other: Aesop, turtle, belongs to Dolly
Hook, parrot, belongs to Billy Bones

One of these days...

I'm going to buy me a bed that's high enough to crawl under. That's what I feel like doing when I get home from one of these all-day clinic visits. And it didn't even rain when I was driving home.

Driving in the rain

Someone posted on Facebook a link to a story that says Larry McMurtry, age 76, is getting rid of most of his enormous collection of books, and won't write fiction any more. I hate to see someone give up at such an early age. Seriously, "age" is "becoming my concern of late" (R. Frost). I'm trying to wash all my dirty laundry and throw away the rags--which won't leave me much laundry to worry about. But I'm not giving up much else, certainly not my scribbling.

Wish I could give up driving. Mama gave it up at age 65, and we spent the next 25 years driving her around wherever she commanded. When I lived in Montgomery and Selma and Birmingham, I would come to Leeds almost every weekend and take her to the grocery store and TG&Y or TJ Maxx. When I lived on Oak Trail for seven years, I would go to her apartment after work almost every day to watch Magnum PI with her and play Scrabble. I miss Mama.

But I can't give up driving. I've got a Clinic appointment on Thursday for my annual checkup, which of course I dread like--like I-don't-know-what. Driving in the daytime isn't really a problem, except that when I've got one of these pesky medical appointments, I get nervouser and nervouser. And when it's time to drive to Birmingham, I'm so keyed up I can't see straight. And there's always a rainstorm when I'm driving home.

I've been canceling appointments all this year, so I reckon I'll go this time.

If at first/second (ad infinitum) you don't succeed--

The procedure for restoring my printer to life gets longer and more complicated. Yesterday, in desperation, I tried removing the ink cartridges and replacing them, and that worked. I shake my head.

Ramey and Reed stopped by yesterday to retrieve Gretchen. Seeing Reed for the first time in many weeks was a real treat. He spent most of his summer vacation in Los Angeles, and now he's bound for first grade. I took him on a tour of Graymont, while he's still young enough to appreciate miniature stuff.

Is it just me--?

My printer has quit again. This time, none of my strategies have (has?) worked. Talking to it doesn't seem to help. I've got a book to mail, but I guess I can print the address on the envelope by hand, if I still remember how.

What I miss about the "old days" is that I almost always had a best friend, we were at each other's house all the time, it seemed. I miss Bonnie, Gayle, Jo Ann, Doris and Jane.

Someday I'm going to write a book about Jane.

I miss Miriam, too, maybe most of all. But our friendship wasn't in what I call the "old days," and we didn't hang around each other's houses.

Great Weekend

Jed had a business meeting in Birmingham Friday morning, so he stayed here for the weekend, just left going back to Atlanta. We watched the movie "Capote" last night, although it was hard to watch. It softened my opinion of Truman into pity. For Harper Lee, too. Neither of them ever published another book after "In Cold Blood."

I ended the eBay auction for my Pinkie doll. It got down to one hour, and none of the watchers had bid. I know what they were doing--I've done it myself. Wait till the last minute to bid, and get the item for the starting price. But not this baby. I think it's a keeper. Just wish I had a grand-daughter, or grand-niece. Why don't any of these nieces have girls? Though I love the nephews. Boys are more fun, but they probably don't want your doll collection.

*

Regarding the Dolls: The painting that Ned found in the old stable looks like an El Greco, something like this:

The night after they found it, lightning struck in the woods and burned the remains of the old stable to the ground. After the family recovered from hysteria and running around in circles, they sent Ned off with the painting to have it examined at Christie's, authenticated if applicable, and an attempt made at establishing provenance.

Second Thoughts?

I've listed my Pinkie Baby doll on eBay. It's 1936 vintage and in almost perfect condition. There are no bids yet, and I'm beginning to hope it won't sell. I washed and ironed all the clothes. I always meant to make a really fabulous christening outfit for this doll, but of course I never did. It has been in my closet most of the time for about ten years. If I could decorate my house in "my style," it wouldn't have dolls sitting around for show. So why do I need this huge doll collection, sixty or so items?

Of course, I have acres of storage room--not! And the dolls take up a great portion of the space I've got. So bye-bye 6 Gene Marshalls, 9 Madame Alexanders, 3 Barbie types, one Shirley Temple, one Ling Ling, and all sorts of nameless, homemade, junk shop and yard sale specimens. That's if anyone will buy them.

Irony

Cheered myself up today by Googling Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier. Two of the most beautiful people who ever walked are now older, balder and uglier than I am.

Last night I watched about three minutes of an old Technicolor movie they were both in. Sorry movie, but boy, that Belafonte!

Goals For This Week

(1) Finish redecorating dollhouse.

(2) Clean my office.

(3) Set up Amazon and eBay files.

Appreciation

Yesterday I discovered a book which has been in my possession since the 1960s and which I had always meant to read someday. I was prompted to hunt it out and read it, by watching the PBS program on art collector Albert Barnes. The book is Appreciation: Painting, Poetry and Prose, by Leo Stein, a friend of Mr. Barnes. Stein was primarily an art critic and collector. He was Gertrude Stein's brother, but, loyally, he never really said he thought she was silly. He loved the paintings of Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso and Renoir, although he did say that the works of Picasso, after his early promise, turned silly.

The book was published in 1946 or '47, I forget which, and is largely autobiographical, fascinating for its glimpses of Paris life and European artists earlier in the century.

What have I done this week? Went to Susan's for supper on Thursday, which was scrumptious--supper, not Thursday. Spaghetti and meatballs, one of my and great-nephew Jesse's favorite meals. And today I finished reading that book. I wonder what other treasures lurk unread in my thousand-or-so books.

I also went to the poetry reading at LAC Monday night. A very large gathering, good poems.

Demo Is No Fun

Getting the house fixed up before Ned and Beauty's wedding.

I hardly ever regret what I don't say when I'm ticked off. In contrast to the many times I wish I hadn't said so-and-so. But for years I have fumed over a certain situation at a certain church in Leeds. I've told myself it's really none of my business, although I am nominally a member of that church, so why isn't it some of my business? But I can't do anything about it, and to speak of it might be to stir up a hornet's nest. Which might be a good thing, but would probably be a bad thing.

But every time I drive by there and see someone, who ought to be at least the head deacon, tending the grounds or taking in the garbage can, it makes me furious all over again. Humility is all well and good, and maybe that's his schtick, but I can't help it, it makes me angry for him and at him. Those high-and-mighty rich folks could hire someone to take in their damned garbage cans.

I usually live to regret saying that I'll never do something again. But I don't think I'll ever attend that church again. I was sort of a founding member, but I won't be missed, because I only went a few times in ten years, anyway.
*
Maybe if I had attended and contributed regularly, I could have had some influence. Or at least a forum for my opinion, before I quit.

Falling Up (Thanks, Shel!)

I really, really hate making concessions to old age. Hate it. Really. That's where I take out my hate instinct.

Anyway, I've decided to abandon the basement stairs. The deck steps are less steep, and I don't mind touching the clean, open, rain-washed railings. The deck is 15 steps from the ground, whereas there are only 12 basement stairs. I can always go around to the basement/garage, instead of by the steep, dark stairs.

I thank the good Lord that the fall yesterday didn't hurt me. And the stairs were'nt even involved in it. My knees are not even bruised, though the right one is a bit sore.

Anyone who knows me would agree that mentioning "dance" and myself in the same sentence is an oxymoron. However, in college I took body mechanics and modern dance for my physical education courses, and I believe that some of it has stuck with me. You learn, among other things, how to fall backwards and forwards, which parts to flex and which to relax, so that it looks accidental but actually is deliberate and controlled.

But I'm aware, of course, that I can't sail along at normal speed, depending on learned behavior to protect me from trauma.

The Old Gray Mare

One of the worst things about growing old is wondering whether living in the world is really so much harder now than it used to be, or whether it just seems that way because one's brain is getting addled.

The heavy rain last night flooded the basement, among other things. This afternoon I was going to mail a book, the garage floor was still wet, and I slipped and fell flat on my foreparts. Fortunately, the concrete floor broke my fall. Really, I fell with my arms outstretched and my head didn't hit anything. Pretty hard on my knees, though. I fell in exactly the same spot where I fell during the yard sale in 2007, only turned around the other way. I guess one fall every five years isn't too bad a score.

I had to go upstairs and clean up, and repack the book because the envelope was ruined. But otherwise, the day really went okay.

A Walk In the Woods

Daddy Doll, Billy Bones and Brother Ned take the three greyhounds for a stroll in the woods. Ned suggests that the dogs may even learn to chase squirrels or something, but Daddy knows they're too lazy and housebound to do much beyond lying in the shade. In fact, before they've gone very far, Sooner has disappeared--gone back to the house, Billy opines.

In a clearing, 'way out beyond the Temple spring, they find a ramshackled stable, the boxes all caved in, the roof fallen sideways, and the tack room stuffed with--stuff.

Daddy, the perpetual worrier, remarks, "Billy, we need to get this mess cleared away. Looks like a fire ready to start."

"We could bring marshmellers and winnies," Billy says, "and start it ourselves."

"Whatever," says Daddy. "We'll have to find out if Mother and Miranda want to save the pictures or anything."

Ned scratches his head, looking puzzled. Something is tugging at the edges of his memory. Something about a manger. He wanders away.

The only sound or sudden movement from the dogs occurs when Echo flops down in a patch of grass, and a rabbit jumps over him and makes a beeline for cover. Echo gives a muffled yip and streaks away homeward.

"That was a gigantic rabbit!" Daddy exclaims.

"Looked like a big old Loosiana cane-cutter," says Billy.

"No wonder the dog fled," Daddy says. He is always quick to defend his dogs.

Ned reappears from behind some leaning beams and loose planks, bearing a large flat canvas-wrapped, cord-bound object.

"I think I may have found something," he says. "I pulled up a corner of the wrap, and it's a painting."

Rabbit by me.

In From the Cold

So I've read five John Le Carre spy novels this month:

Call For the Dead
The Spy Who Came In From the Cold
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
The Honourable Schoolboy
Smiley's People

 To me, the best one is The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, published in the 1960s. This is a link to William Boyd's 2010 review and synopsis of the novel: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jul/24/carre-spy-came-cold-boyd. A great review, because he seems to agree with me. Ha ha.

 I had read at least three of these novels before, but reading them all in a bunch, and nearly consecutively in the order they were written, provides a pretty good grasp of the spy novel as a genre, and of Le Carre's genius as a novelist.

Richard Burton was a great actor, maybe one of the two or three greatest* in modern times, in my opinion. But I think the movie of The Spy Who Came In From the Cold was largely a failure. It certainly didn't come near the appeal of the book, to me, anyway.

*The other two greatest actors, according to me, would be Alec Guinness and Marlon Brando. But one gets the feeling that Brando, as an actor, was made, not born. Alec Guinness was born with it. Years ago, Dick Cavett cryptogrammed Guinness' name to "Genuine Class." And I think Burton was born with it, just didn't always give a damn.

Burton had the best speaking voice I've ever heard. It wasn't a pretty voice; I remember it as sort of nasal and raspy. But I don't think the man ever uttered a syllable that wasn't clear as a bell, and spot-on to whatever effect he meant to convey. I remember him in some minor movie, reading Hamlet's speech to Gertrude, "Return not to mine uncle's bed," and the memory of that few seconds has made me go back and read Hamlet over again more than once.

What Can You Expect? It's July.

When I was a young thing, there was a song, or a book, or something, entitled, "Been Down So Long, It Looks Like Up To Me." So I guess I'll go back on the old perk-up pills. I made an appointment with Dr. G. to talk about it, also for my annual exam, which is supposed to be semi-annual, which I skipped in April.

There are good things about July.

(1) My sister Ramey was born on the 27th of it, a few years ago. So today's her birthday. Couple of days ago, I asked her to pick a day this weekend, and we'll go out for lunch or dinner to celebrate.

(2) The Romans added July and August to the calendar. Before that, we only had ten months in a year, and if we still only had ten months, I would be 92.4 years old.

(3) Autumn/winter gets a little nearer every day.

An Important Announcement

Ned has summoned everyone to the living room. He announces that he has proposed to Beauty, and she has accepted him. They're going to be married!

A Welcome Visitor

Jed had to work in Birmingham yesterday, so when he finished his meeting, he came to my house. We had dinner at Logan's, most delicious, then Jed spent the night here and went back to Atlanta a few minutes ago. He was anxious to get there while his hair-cutting lady was still working, because he said his head felt like it had a built-on pillow. His hair did look a bit abundant.

A.k.a. Mr. Bates

Brendan Coyle looks like my uncle Lawrence Satterfield. He plays John Bates in "Downton Abbey." My favorite scene of him is where he grabs Thomas the footman and warps the wall with him a couple of times.

That series has lots of really funny scenes. Molesly sampling the wine. Carson the butler's confession that he used to be half of a song-and-dance team called "The Cheerful Charlies." Matthew's grim exclamation, "Crikey!" when told he should dance with Miss O'Brien at the servants' ball. Thomas and Daisy dancing in the kitchen. Sibyl threatening the horse.

That's the kind of gentle, naturally-occurring comedy that I like. Comedy that makes you laugh inside before giving yourself permission to laugh out loud. I've never liked slapstick or the Charlie Chaplin kinds of comedy. Never cared for the Marx brothers' movies, although Groucho alone could be hilarious, and Chico's "Why a duck?" was priceless--also Harpo when he ever said something, like, "In Russia, my name is Xapno Mapcase." The Three Stooges had their moments, although Larry always looked rather sorry to be part of it all. Clowns scare me, except for poor old Emmett What-was-his-name. Kelly.

And if Bates killed Vera, my inclination is to say, "What took you so long?"
*

I'm almost afraid to say it, but I feel good today, for the first time in weeks.

Troubles come "not single spies, but in battalions."

In the last twenty-four hours, Daddy Doll has received the tax bills on Graymont and the other house. His contractor has just telephoned to say that the ceiling has been restored and other repairs made but that, for various reasons, the attic cannot be made liveable. And, adds the contractor, he must have money to pay off the workers. And himself.

This means that the family are stuck at Graymont; they can't possibly all fit in the little house near town. It also means that after paying all these bills, Daddy will be poorer than the legendary church mouse. In fact, he'll have to borrow money. Go into debt, just to pay everything he owes.

On top of these worries, he has recently been bothered by the children--well, by Maybelle, at least--chattering about "servants" who, Daddy knows, don't exist. Even Ned has mentioned seeing a man working on the grounds; Daddy thinks it must have been a tramp or passer-by, up to no good. Heaven forbid that anyone who worked for Granny Gray thinks he's still a family employee!

The Hunger

As my friend Christy used to say, I'm not eating today. At least not yet. I ate so much yesterday, it scared me. Seemed like I was craving something and couldn't find it. I thawed, heated and ate a chicken/rice/vegetable casserole and thought, "No, that's not it."

Then I made a bacon-dog (3 strips of bacon in a bun) and ate it, but that wasn't it.

Then I cooked a jar of sauerkraut and 3 Ball Park franks and ate it, and thought, "No, that's not it."

I ate the remains of a Jiffy one-layer cake with cranberry icing, and that wasn't even the thing I was looking for. Finally gave up and went to bed.

This morning I jumped up and ran to the P.O. and mailed the book I sold Thursday. On the way, I stopped by the grocery store and bought a package of Nutter Butters. That's probably what I was craving yesterday.
*
The Culprit Identified

The tiniest woodpecker I've ever seen, making holes in my chimney. When I'm in the house and hear him pecking, it sounds like a drum beating.

The start of something?

That day when Ned came to Graymont, he and Alexis were talking in the great room when Beauty came in with drinks on a tray. Ned recognized her, of course, as Alice Joan Smith. She was a raggedy little kid when he and Alexis were in high school. The story of how she (and the twins' childhood comrade Billy Bones) came to work for the Dolls can be told at another time.

Anyway, when Ned and Beauty looked each other in the eye, you could almost see the little Cupid arrows flying around their heads.

So, what will the future bring? Que sera sera.

*

I've restarted my book sales on Amazon.com. Sold a book yesterday. It's mainly a source of irritation to me. Don't know why I'm adding that boredom to my life. Guess I had a moment of weakness and decided to be a bookseller again, instead of just custodian to a superannuated cat.

An Important Message

May catches Ned in the study.

"Hello, Miss Maybelle! How are you today?"

Maybelle doesn't repond well to cliches and hackneyed greetings. Sometimes she doesn't respond at all. This time she gets straight to the point.

"Putois says to tell you something."

Ned is puzzled, but decides to humor the child. He scratches his head.

"Now, let me see. Do I know Putois?"

Maybelle stamps her foot impatiently. "You saw him in the garden. He told you to save Saint-Pierre."

"Oh," says Ned, "he's the gardener chap. Yes, I remember him and his little song. I didn't know it was a command."

"He says to tell you, Saint-Pierre is in the manger. You have to save  him, or go on being poor."

"I see," says Ned, although he doesn't. "And who is Saint-Pierre?"

"He was one of the twelve 'Postles."

"Right. Right-o! But how can he be in the manger, after all these years?" And where in the world is the manger, Ned wonders; are there stables somewhere?

"You have to ask Putois," says Maybelle. "That's all I know."

Monday is washday.

The spring in the woods near Graymont is an ideal place to wash clothes. The stream flows under the ruins of an old folly, and runs off over a bank on the far side. Mrs. Gudenov and her daughter are preparing to do the week's wash, and Billy will help them.

He's filling the tubs and the boiling pot from the spring.
*
On my cat food/Cokes/cigarettes run today, I went by the pretty thrift shop on the Parkway. I saw oodles of good stuff for the dolls' house; fortunately, most of them were a bit too big. Anyway, I did find a beautiful ribbon-embroidered pillow--the center one on the settee:

Three Cups of Tea

Greg Mortenson's book was wonderful. I just wonder why he didn't publish it as a novel, in light of the apparently true accusations that some of it is "lies." Maybe bad advice from agent/publisher? Gregory David Roberts' marvelous book Shantaram was based on his own experiences but published as a novel, which was the right way to do it. I'm sorry Mortenson didn't do it that way. I'll probably read both books again someday.
*
Our Fourth of July celebration, for which Susan outdid herself in the way of a feast for everyone, was really, really fine. Great food, great conversation. Jed came over Monday and stayed until this morning. We met Pat, Buffy and Phil at Ixtapa for Mexican food on Monday evening, then Jed and I had dinner at Chili's on Tuesday. This week has been a real treat for me, and I hope for others in the family. I've missed seeing Reed, but he's still visiting his Pa in Los Angeles.
*
Jed brought stacks of books, including the four-volume opus, The Years of Lyndon Johnson, which I admire my son for having waded through all four books. Also several John Le Carre novels, and I'm already halfway through The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, which I hadn't read before, only saw the movie.

Here Comes the Rain

Woke up early this morning, feeling pretty good. Jed's coming over today to stay for the Fourth.

It's too blamed hot to cook out, or to cook in, for that matter. And now it's thundering in the thicket.

Yesterday I risked heat stroke by toting containers of water out under the trees for the birds and squirrels, cats and dogs and such.

Got a few chores to do this morning. I think I hear the rain coming.

Up on the mountain, when I was little, I used to watch the rain progressing across the fields toward our house.

*

I really like Big Daddy Hollingsworth's song:

"It ain't gonna worry me for long,
It ain't gonna worry me for long,
I'll just get up in the morning,
And I'll still be a-singing my song!"

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?

The reason I'm posting this old poem here is that I don't want to have to search my bookshelves or the internet to find it, next time I want to read it. Never can remember which book it's in.

*

Were beth they that biforen us weren,
Houndes ladden and havekes beren,
And hadden feld and wode?
The riche levedies in hoere bour,
That wereden gold in hoere tressour,
With hoere brightte rode;

Eten and drounken, and maden hem glad;
Hoere lif was al with gamen i-lad,
Men kneleden hem biforen;
They beren hem wel swithe heye;
And in a twincling of an eye
Hoere soules weren forloren.

Were is that lawhing and that song,
That trayling and that proude gong,
Tho havekes and tho houndes?
Al that joye is went away,
That wele is comen to weylaway,
To manye harde stoundes.

Hoere paradis they nomen here,
And nou they lyen in helle i-fere;
The fuir hit brennes hevere:
Long is ay, and long is o,
Long is wy, and long is wo;
Thennes ne cometh they nevere.

Anonymous

A little French ditty

Wandering around outside one day, Ned notices someone working in what might once have been a garden--and might someday be such again.

Walking closer, he can hear the man singing a little song with French words, the tune of which Ned dimly recognizes as "Sur le pont d'Avignon."

Glancing up toward Ned, the gardener sings the verse again, this time louder and very slowly, as if the words are important.

"Depechez-vous! Depechez-vous!

Sauvegardez! Sauvegardez!

Depechez-vous! Depechez-vous!

Sauvegardez Saint-Pierre!"

Amused, Ned calls back, "Save him yourself!"

Walking on, he wonders where Brother Alexis found these apparently French servants. Maybe they are some Granny Gray holdovers, and considering Alexis' usually strapped financial condition, maybe they really ought not to be here. He decides that, first chance he gets, he'll discuss the matter with Billy Bones.

A Visitor

On his first night at Graymont, after sitting up late giving Alexis a long account of his recent adventures, Ned has just entered his pleasant room. Beauty, Lucinda and Billy Bones have scurried around all afternoon and into the evening, hanging curtains, making the bed, arranging Ned's books in the bookcase and stowing his other baggage in the big old wardrobe.

Feeling almost too tired to start unpacking, he lights a candle and is about to sink into a chair, when the door to his room gives a soft squeak and opens a crack.

“Yes?” he says, turning toward the door.

An attractive young woman in a long white gown comes a little way into the room. Ned has not seen this person before. As she stands quietly looking at him, he realizes that his mouth is slightly open.

“May I help you?” he says, finally speaking in spite of his amazement.

“Mon nom est Corday,” says the apparition. “Je suis la gouvernante.”

“Oh! Oh, I see,” Ned says, not “seeing” at all, but understanding that she says she is the governess. “I b-b-believe the children's rooms are two flights up.”

“Oui. Deux vols jusqu'a.” She continues to stand in the doorway, gazing at him.

“Then shall we say g-good night? Bonsoir!” Ned says, a sense of panic creeping over him.

After pausing for a moment, she says, “Bonne nuit, Monsieur Edouard.” She backs out of the room and pulls the door closed after her.

Ordinarily, Ned is never flustered by an encounter with a beautiful woman. Puzzled, perhaps, but not to the point of a stammer and nervous perspiration. But this was a stranger in his brother's house, when he thought he had met all the staff. No one had told him there was a governess. And what the devil was she doing there, wandering around downstairs barefoot, and opening doors in the middle of the night?

He will certainly speak to Miranda about this.

No, cooling down, he thinks it might be unfair to the governess to mention the event. After all, the girl was probably just curious to see the new resident of Graymont.

What I mean is, . . .

"I'm liberal. You, you aristocrat,
won't know exactly what I mean by that.
I mean, so altruistically moral,
I never take my own side in a quarrel."

Frost was probably half-joking, but I think that's about the size of it. I seem to feel a bit of a sense of guilt that goes along with it: Half-suspecting that the conservatives are almost as correct on a few points as they think they are, and feeling guilty for disagreeing with them. Maybe guilt because I used to call myself conservative back when conservative (so I thought) meant supporting the U.S. Constitution.

"Home from the sea...."

"Well, Brother Ned, I was expecting to see you in a sailor suit, with an eye patch and one trouser leg pinned up. Instead you look like Percy Bysshe Shelley."

Alexis (Daddy Doll) had hair like Ned's, before he dyed it black.

"The newest thing in wooden legs, and I hardly even need a cane. Keep leaving the d---d things on trolley cars. Listen, Lexi, I've started writing a book about my travels. I wondered, now that you have Granny Gray's idyllic country estate, would you accommodate me with an attic hideaway and a crust of bread now and then? Just somewhere I can sit and think, and maybe write a word or two."

"We can do you a bit better than that," Daddy says. "We had the devil of a time tunneling through Granny's hoard of trash and treasures, but across the passageway from our kitchen, there's a room we've just finished raking out. I'll show it to you later, and until we find you a bed and a chair, you can sleep in my study. Here's Beauty with a snack and a drink for us. Welcome home, old salt!"

Migraines and Dead Heroes

Reed looking nice

My son Jack asked me if he could be Oliver Reed, and if not, why not? I gave him my permission to be Oliver Reed, or Robert Shaw, or any star he pleased. Recommended he check out Bobby Darin before he transmogrified.



Shaw looking sexy - He needed to sweep his hair to the left, to balance the slant of his nose.

 I slept ten hours last night, and now I've got the migraine messing with my vision. I wonder if this is how cataracts affect the vision--sometimes you can see things, and sometimes you can't, or they have holes in them.

Ramey and India brought me a pot of vegetable soup yesterday. And I made cornbread and a crock-pot full of beef stew. Gonna go heat up something.

Grrrr!!!

I knew that when I ever got my printer to work again, the solution would be something simple that made me feel about as stupid as a clod of dirt. Sure enough, I got so frustrated about a week ago, I turned the printer off. Today I turned it on again. Still wouldn't work. After going through troubleshooting and all that jazz again, it still wouldn't work. I decided to throw it through the window or stomp on it or something, so I unplugged it from the wall socket. Then I regained my composure and plugged it back in, and it works fine.

Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart

People with children are supposed to train at least one of them to do everything around the house, and to stay at home to help out in their parents' old age. Take care of their parents. Clean the cat's litter box. Tote groceries up the stairs from the basement. Et cetera, et cetera.

We three Ramey sisters were thought to be pretty smart. At least, we thought we were. Yet, all of us having had multiple children and step-children, only one of us has proved smart enough to keep a child at home to take care of her in her old age. And Ramey doesn't even have a basement.

*

On Seeing a Cloud With Three "Heads"

I seem to hear a heavenly host,
The Trio that I love the most:
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Though They have not been heard to sing,
They manufactured every thing
That ever went a-caroling--

Alto and bass, the high, the low,
Allegro and fortissimo;
We sing because They made us so.

Thanks, High and Heavenly Mystery,
One Deity shown forth in Three,
For sky, clouds, life, breath, song, and Thee!

By JRC 6/21/12

New Poem

The Lightness Of the Dark

Atop a mimosa tree that never bloomed
in all my tenure here, a dozen vines
around its slender trunk leafed out so thick,
they brought it crashing down. One of the vines,
the wild grape muscadine with heavy leaves,
likewise had never bloomed and never borne.

I almost see them, had they bloomed and borne,
a torch of blossoms lighting up the sky,
festooned with chandeliers of musky fruit.
It is my heart that sees them, not my eyes,
and wishes that the eyes could be so blessed.
The heart has vision that defeats the dark
of nothingness, and puts nonbeing to flight.
The dark is but a shadow of the light.

By JRC 6/20/12

Who Killed Vera Bates?

The case against O'Brien:

Motive: Her guilt over causing Cora's miscarriage makes her determined to protect Cora against further threats. Vera is a threat to the Grantham family, thus to "my lady." For some reason, O'Brien is fond and protective of Thomas. Bates is a threat to Thomas's ambitions. If Vera is murdered and Bates is hanged for it, that gets rid of both threats.

Clues: (1.) She tells Thomas twice that she won't stand by while Vera hurts "my lady."

(2.) We see her wandering around the village, so it wasn't impossible for her to get away from Downton if she wanted to go to London, or to get away from the family when they're in London.

(3.) She borrows baking soda from Mrs. Patmore. This is seemingly innocent, but in her twisted mind it might possibly have some connection to disguising the poison.

(4.) The family goes to London to visit Rosamond. Presumably, O'Brien goes along because she is Cora's maid. This is O'Brien's chance to find out about Vera, maybe to visit her and get acquainted, to find out about her household arrangements and any convenient means of getting rid of her. An opportunity to tell Vera stories about Bates and Anna.

(5.) In an online blurb, it is announced that some "difficult person" will die in Series 3. This could be a clue that O'Brien is convicted and hanged for Vera's murder.

Others:

John Bates: Bates would have had to do it in a fit of rage. He would have broken her neck or strangled her. Poison would never have occurred to him, unless Vera had it on the table. Bates didn't do it.

Richard Carlisle: I don't think there's any case against him, as far as murder is concerned. He had other means of retribution.

Vera's paramour: We don't know enough to speculate.

Vera herself: If she killed herself, it was probably accidental. Such as, on John's last visit, she brewed tea and put poison in his share, then somehow the cups got switched. But she seems too clever for this.

I vote for O'Brien.

Downstairs is really Upstairs

The rooms in Graymont's south wing are comfortable enough for a nice relaxed summer, while work goes forward on the family home. Daddy is off somewhere with the dogs, probably reclining under a tree. While he's out, Lucinda has arranged the study to suit herself. If Daddy doesn't hurry back, she'll probably set vases of wildflowers all over the room.

Billy Bones is helping Mrs. Gudenov arrange the washtubs at the Temple Spring, in the woods halfway between her home and Graymont, and they're having trouble stringing a clothesline between some columns--more about that later.
*
I started out with the living room and kitchen on the top shelf and was too lazy to shift them to the bottom. So the upstairs rooms ended up on the lower shelves. Click on the picture for a slightly better view.

Sister Susan is making a dollhouse quilt. I'm looking forward to seeing the individual blocks (rooms) as they emerge.
*
My blog is five years old this month.

The Magazine That Never Dies

On June 5, 2012, one of my favorite writers of fantasy and science fiction was translated to the next world, a little more than two months short of completing his ninety-second year on this planet. Ray Bradbury was a constant and a shining light in his literary genre, and his passing made me resolve to read my long-held Weird Tales anthology, published by Marvin Kaye in 1988.

Weird Tales was subtitled "The Magazine That Never Dies," probably because it failed, went out of business and was resurrected again so many times, from the 1920s to the (I think) 1980s. Mr. Kaye recalls that it was published under the aegis of Ms. Dorothy McIlraith from 1940 to 1954. This incarnation of the magazine was one of my earliest reading experiences. My grandmother, Sarah Dova Mullins Satterfield, subscribed to Weird Tales during my childhood years, probably until its 1954 demise. I read anything that anyone left lying around, anywhere I happened to be, so of course I consumed many of Granny's WT issues.

Last night, after sleeping four to six hours, I woke up. As I wandered around the house and fed Mo, my glance fell on the WT anthology that I had unshelved and left on top of my defunct printer. I picked it up and read Marvin Kaye's introduction and the first reprinted story in the collection, which was a very brief tale, almost a vignette, written by a very young Ray Bradbury.

Leafing through the book, I read titles of stories which, if I ever read them before, I have surely forgotten. Stories by the old guys and girls from Sir Thomas More to Edgar Allan Poe, from Charles Dickens to H.P. Lovecraft and Fritz Leiber ("der lieber Fritz!") and them. They made me realize, once again, how much has been written that I haven't read or don't remember, and that the recent hiatus in my reading is inexcusable.

So let the Weird Tales anthology, a two-inch-thick tome of pulpy pages with tiny print, restart my reading motor. Given a few more years, I may even finish reading The Great Books of the Western World.
*
Before I read any more fantasy-sf stories, here are some that so impressed me that I haven't forgotten them:

Xong of Xuxan, by Ray Russell
The Last of the Spode, by Evelyn Smith
The Quest For Saint Aquin, by Anthony Boucher
The Ugly Little Boy, by Isaac Asimov
Now Inhale, by Eric Frank Russell
The Mezzotint, by Montague Rhodes James
The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James
Four Ghosts in Hamlet, by Fritz Leiber
The Willows, by Algernon Blackwood
The Cask of Amontillado, by Edgar Allan Poe ("Montresor! Montresor!")
Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury (which contained a germ that seems to have infected Stephen King.)
The Portable Phonograph, by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
The Silly Season, by Robert A. Heinlein
Leg. forst., by Clifford D. Simak

Pretty Stuff and a Dictionary Word

Over the weekend, I went with Pat and Susan to the thrift store, and found a pair of Johnson Bros. salad plates to add to my blue-and-white dishes,

 and this great old ten-inch Taylor, Smith & Taylor vegetable bowl:

Susan had brought along her "Mama in the Mirror" quilt to show me. It is gorgeous, and truly an amazing work of art, fully illustrated today on her blog "Blackberry Creek" (link in my left column). This quilt won all kinds of prizes in her quilt guild show on Monday.

The big square doily in my photos was made by our Mama, and the pink candlesticks glimpsed in the top photo were given to me by my sister Susan.

Monday evening, we had a lollapalooza of a wind storm, constant lightning, electricity off and on for hours.

Wondering if I had spelled "lollapalooza" right, I looked in the dictionary. Not only did I spell it right, it's really a dictionary word. Amazing.

Commentary

The world is too much with us. Late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away-- a sordid boon!
This sea that bares its bosom to the moon,
These winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers--
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

By William Wordsworth

*

". . .The angels keep their ancient places--
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry--and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry--clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!"

From "In No Strange Land," by Francis Thompson

Little Two-Eyes

I dreamed I was leaving some kind of performance at "The Center," when the left side of my face felt numb and I couldn't open that eye. The numbness seemed to be creeping across my face, and the right eye would only open spasmodically. Panicked, I rushed out and left my blue coat and purse in the seat. In the lobby, I realized I had left my things, so I started back, just in time because a guy was locking the door. He let me in, and I grabbed what I thought was my blue coat and left the room again. Outside, I realized I had left my purse, and the blue thing I had was somebody's shirt.

All this time, my left eye was shut and I could only see occasionally with the right eye. I realized I was standing near a policewoman or guard, and I asked her if anyone else in the building had a key to the theater besides that man who had just left. She said no, but he would probably be back in a couple of hours to check the building before he went home.

I told her my eyes weren't working right and I had left my things in the theater. She said what was wrong with my eyes was a nervous spasm, and if I'd sit down and get calm, it would probably pass. So I sat down on a bench and tried to relax, and tried to hold my right eye open with my fingers. After a while I noticed sunlight coming in through a window, so I must have been there all night.

Then I woke up, and my face was buried in my pillow. When I turned over, my eyes opened OK.

Emails

"MCB:

I’ve entered my novel, Big Baby, in one competition. They were very complimentary, but did not choose it for publication.

This is the book of which you read the first chapter. It’s 80,000+ words long. I wondered if you might have time (in your spare time!) to read it and tell me what you think.

Don’t think for a moment that I will be offended or miffed in any way, if you decline. I’ll just send it somewhere else.

This book may not be your cup of tea at all. It’s about an Alabama mountain family in the early 1940’s, trying to get their heads above water after the Great Depression. Specifically, it’s about one of the daughters, her education, love life (such as it is), and care for her family. It touches racism rather lightly, sex even more lightly, and homophobia not at all, so it’s not up-to-the-minute on popular causes.

Speaking of homophobia, I’m now writing a book (probably novella) about a couple of gay boys in the 1950’s, before gay was cool.

Love, JR"

*

"Hello, Joanne!

I'll be glad to read it. Send away.

MCB"

*

So now I've got to go through the ms. and do something about the little boy's speech defect, which bothered MC when she read the first part.
**
Dinner, with the sisters at Susan's yesterday evening, was scrumptious. Now that I've got the fleas on the run, I aim to start inviting everyone to my house on a regular basis. Maybe we could watch "Downton Abbey" some more, or maybe "Balzac" or "Lonesome Dove."

Problems

The ceiling in the study is definitely coming down, its fall accelerated by the movers.

Billy and Beauty were left in part-time supervision of the house. Billy is interviewing Mrs. Gudenov, the Dolls' washerwoman, trying to persuade her to go out to Graymont once a week to do the laundry. She actually lives near the edge of the Hag Woods, but protests she would have to walk two miles to and from Graymont. Billy assures her that Mr. Doll will drive her both ways in his automobile, but then worries because he wasn't authorized to make this promise.
*
My poem "Southern Snow Dance" won honorable mention in the Ala. Writer's Conclave contest.

Sort of a Dear John letter

Yesterday I received a letter from River City Publishing. It was complimentary about my Big Baby novel, but said that it did not qualify as a finalist in the Fred Bonnie Memorial Award competition. Said my book gave an accurate regional picture of the South in its time setting. It also said they had extended the deadline to June 30, 2012, so I guess they're still receiving entries. So I hope they find whatever they're looking for.

Up until a few days ago, I was hankering to rewrite Big Baby. But with this new novel to work on, I now plan to send BB somewhere else to linger for another year, while I finish this one.

Susan's Memorial Day dinner yesterday was wonderful. We were quite a crowd, gathered around her new dining room table. And I sat in her beautiful new armchair in the living room. Ramey and Reed spent an hour or so going up and down the street with Reed's scooter, so Ramey was too tired to go to the poetry reading at seven p.m. She and Suze were planning to watch the Hatfield-McCoy miniseries on TV at eight o'clock, anyway.

The poetry reading at the Arts Council drew a small crowd and lasted a long time. I was the only one there who didn't bring a poem to read. Something's wrong with my printer. Joan had brought a printout of the poems we wrote at the Private Eye lecture, and I did read my two short ones.

Speaking of TV, I watched "Mermaids" on Animal Planet last Sunday. They showed photographs of bone weapons supposedly made by the sea people, and webbed fingers and ridged skulls that had washed up in various places, or that were found in the bellies of sharks. They found evidence of these people first because of the difference in their calls from dolphins or whales, and they told how primitive "ancestors" might have developed, some on dry land and some in the sea. Uh huh.

"And when the Sirens sang,
and we bound each other to the mast,
I could have tied slip-knots, and where would you be
now?"

I also thought of the "perfect little woman" that SDS and Lawrence found.
*
"Dear Mrs. Cage:

"Thank you for submitting Big Baby to the Fred Bonnie Memorial First Novel competition. Even though we extended the entry date until 30 June 2012, we have decided to start sending out letters to those whose works we have already read carefully.

"Competition is keen this time around, and there were many variations in genre--from literary, experimental, romance, science fiction, hardboiled mystery, fantasy, historical, and suspense. We received manuscripts from all over the US, and your story captures the time period and the mountain people beautifully; it was a very good read. However, I regret to inform you that your manuscript did not place for future readings for the final Fred Bonnie award.

"I am sure you will find a home for this novel! Just continue writing and submitting your manuscripts to competitions around the country. As you know, the more exposure your work gets, the better. We wish you the best of luck and great success in your writing.

"Yours truly,
____(signed)____
"Editor"
**
I think I've found a competition for entering BB again. Most of the publishers I've found aren't accepting new submissions except through annual competitions, so I'll go that route.
***
I've also found a flea exterminator. But it seems all the work will have to be done by me, like thoroughly cleaning the house and vacuuming some more, and me and Mo staying out of the house for four hours after they bomb the rooms, then vacuuming more and more. So after I get another supply of vacuum cleaner bags, I'll go that route.

Progress

Today I added five sentences (long ones) to the new novel.

Have to get ready for dinner at Sister Susan's this evening, then poetry group meeting after that.

It's harder to start writing something than to keep going after you've written a few dozen pages. Starting out, you want to say everything at once. Somebody said the best way is to start at the beginning. But Diane Chambers is probably the only story-teller who ever literally applied that method. Or maybe Sophia Petrillo.

Maybelle

Grandma had tried to keep Maybelle with her in the city ever since her parents were killed in a buggy wreck in 1907. But she kept running away, back to her home at Graymont. However, when Granny Gray passed on, Maybelle said that all the "servants" left, so she consented to stay with Grandma in her city apartment. Most of the time.

Maybelle is a pretty little red-haired girl, a bit fey. She is almost a year older than Camilla, though very tiny. Her room at Graymont is on the third floor in the south wing, and the Dolls have cleaned out the other rooms on that floor and arranged a guest room, plus bedrooms for Dolly and Camilla. There's a tiny bathroom at the end of the hall behind these rooms. The only sources of heat in this wing are on the first floor, so the Dolls will have to move back home before winter comes.

Mama and Daddy have legally adopted Maybelle, in accordance with Granny Gray's wishes, although May always makes Daddy uncomfortable with her chatter about nonexistent servants, animals that act like people, and learning to fly like the birds. Grandma says that she will "grow out of this." But Grandma is an optimist, and she really doesn't pay much attention to children's chatter.

Unable to find enough bedroom furnishings at Graymont, the Dolls moved their upstairs furniture to Graymont instead of putting it into storage while work on their home is in progress. When they picked up Dolly's big blue piggy bank to move it, the parents were amazed at how heavy it was. This is Dolly's room,

and this is Camilla's:

The "guest room" at the east end of the hallway now contains things from Daddy's study at home, and a long narrow daybed that can be made up for sleeping. They didn't move all the books. The box with Leonardo on it is really a disguised strongbox where valuables are stored, including the chess set when it is put away.

The chess set was a gift from Brother Ned when he was in Russia. Ned said the black pieces are solid gold and the white ones are solid silver. Daddy doesn't quite believe it, but he treats the set as a treasure anyway. He has never asked how Ned acquired the set, and he feels very guilty for having lost the "gold" bishop.

The pig in the corner is made of lead, and was a gift from a family friend, Mr. Jack Dyno.

What I Need

1. Someone to tell me to put on some clothes and get busy. To get this house in shape would take a crew of nine large men, working nonstop for about forty days and forty nights. Or two Chinese gentlemen a weekend. Or that's how it feels to me.

2. A dedicated writing room. I've started a new novel. It's all in my head, but I'm too lazy to write it down. It isn't laziness, exactly. It's worrying about all the stuff that needs to be done around here. Sort of paralyzes me.

3. Energy. I've started back taking calcium, aspirin, B12 and Spectravite (multivitamin). I may add Vitamins C and D, when I get used to swallowing the first four.

*

The new novel involves nasty-mouthed little kids, or teenagers, and I don't know if I can write that stuff without throwing up. But it'll probably develop at some point.

Revoltin' Development: I've lost my taste for ice cream. Last time I had some, I threw half of it down the drain.

A Letter From Ned

Dear Brother Lex,

Thank you for relaying news of my miraculous survival to our mother. I knew that you could handle that job!

From the postmark you'll notice that I'm writing you from up in Canada. I have been in a hospital, just got out. The telegram I sent was a bit misleading, in that I claimed to be unqualifiedly (if that's an English word) "all right."

The fact of the matter is that one could hardly have escaped whole cloth. A couple of wet and freezing hours in the old Atlantic O., with a broken leg--I should say a crushed leg--complicated matters to the point of an amputation of the offended limb. Just above the knee, don't you know, not anything tragic--and at least it was the left appendage instead of the right, like poor old Billy Bones! Now, Billy and I can be mirror images.

"How's your right stump, old Bill?"

"Tolerable, old Ned. How goes it with your left stump?"

For G__'s sake, don't show this note to Randa or Mother, or anybody. Sorry to run so graphic.

The upshot is, when I finally get down to your neck of the woods, it could be quite a shock to the family. I count on you to inform and prepare everyone for the sight of a somewhat diminished,

But still your faithful bro.,

Mycroft Edward Dahl, Esq.
23 May 1912

The Gathering Room

The family are increasingly frustrated in trying to get into the main house at Graymont. So far, the only areas they've penetrated are the south wing and some cellars. They've done the best they could for a living-dining room, with some metal garden furniture and a round stone table. The fireplace and columns were already in place, and the girls found the big Art Nouveau posters. For chair seats and pads, Mama doll chose the colors in the posters, and she added more garden style with the screen and drapery at the far end of the room.

 The glass tea table and frosted glass sideboard help to keep the room from looking too crowded. Mama hates to think of bringing oil lamps into this pretty room, and having gas lights or electricity put in doesn't seem worth the money (which they don't have, anyway), since their residence there will probably only be temporary. Maybe she'll use candles, if she can find something to set them on.

The 4 posters are by Alphonse Mucha, and are called "4 Times of Day."

A Sad Little Song

Red Wing

There once was an Indian maid,
A shy little prairie maid,
Who sang a lay, a love song gay,
As on the plain she'd while away the day;

She loved a warrior bold,
This shy little maid of old,
But brave and gay, he rode one day
To battle far away.

Now, the moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wing
The breeze is sighing, the night bird's crying,
For afar 'neath his star her brave is sleeping,
While Red Wing's weeping her heart away.
*
I don't know why this song makes the hair rise on the back of my neck. There's a link to it in my left column/Music Links.

Graymont Kitchen

The Dolls (and a lot of helpers) have made a couple of Graymont rooms usable, but it was hard work. The south wing originally consisted of three floors of tiny rooms and narrow hallways, with a cupola on top.

They created the kitchen by knocking out one wall of an old butler's pantry that adjoined the dining room in the main house. It had a sink with a water pump and leaky faucet, and a whole wall of empty shelves. They repaired the floor as well as they could, then painted it white, and brought the wood stove from the attic at home, also the lead-lined icebox.

The girls keep finding what they consider treasures, a lot of copper and brass, even a silver tea set missing its sugar bowl. Mama only wants to find a long table and enough chairs to seat everyone around it.

While the work was going on, a little brown-and-white cow kept wandering in every time someone left the back door open. The girls decided to name her Buttercup.

Time Out

I have sat down for a cigarette and some juice before I finish re-re-vacuuming my half-acre of house. And it occurs to me, I don't eat enough. In the past two years or less, I've lost twenty pounds avoirdupois. "Avoirdupois" sounds like "to have some peas." Which sounds good to me. Anyway--

I would eat--I do eat, a lot, when it's set before me. Or late in the afternoon when I get hungry, I cook something or heat up a can and eat all of it. When I run the microwave and the toaster at the same time, it blows a fuse and I have to go downstairs and flip circuit switches. And then I have to come upstairs.

The point is, like all old folks, I need someone to cook it and serve it to me, then go away and leave me alone. Maybe I could start eating at least one meal a day at a restaurant. That would involve ironing clothes, showering and dressing, getting there and back, and then the day would be over. All day for a meal. And then when would I run this wrist-straining vacuum cleaner? Middle of the night.

I once saw a science fiction film in which David Ogden Stiers played an alien from a culture where at age sixty, each person was obligated to pull the plug and go down the drain, so to speak. It may seem like a bright idea, except from the 60-year-old individual's standpoint.

I'm not really depressed. Just tired.

Maybe I could get "Mills own Whills."

I didn't write it.

Said the flea to the fly, "Let us flee!"
Said the fly to the flea, "Let us fly!"
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

Daddy Doll Teaches Chess

Daddy Doll is going to teach Camilla to play chess. Somehow, he has lost a bishop, but thinks they can substitute something for that piece.

Little Dolly takes a look at the board.

"But it's all wrong," she says. "The big ones ought to go in front to protect all those little ones."

"Well," says Daddy, "the little ones are--they're like soldiers."

"I don't like that game," says Dolly.

Bra la la, how the life goes on!

Lunch today was okra and tomatoes, great northern beans with chopped onion, and cornbread fresh from the skillet. I ate until I couldn't eat any more, though I wanted to.

Mo is still lounging in the bathroom, getting served a small 2-course meal five or six times a day. I need to relocate him and scrub the bathroom down again.

My favorite Jeopardy contestant won the Teen Tournament today, a tiny teen named Elyse with braces on her teeth and big glasses, giving me a good laugh.

Maybe the fleas came to teach me how good life was before the plague. But it's getting better. Mo doesn't have any, and I have a plan to finish them off tomorrow. As usual, tomorrow I'll do great things.

Another Guy's Poison

My lunch today was a big tray of grilled vegetables. Unfortunately, I shook on a little too much Zesty Italian, and about three-quarters through the tray, I had to throw the stuff out. All I could taste was oil. If your mama ever made you swallow a dose of castor oil, you'll understand why I've always been a little bit leery of oil of any kind. Lucky for them, by the time Susan and Ramey came along, Mama had discovered that castor oil is poison.

Ricky Reed is outside cutting down dead shrubbery and mowing grass. To the tune of another C-note. "Oh, time, life, cash and patience!" Or something like that. Quoting Herman Melville or Samuel Johnson.

A New Quilt

Mama Doll saw the quilt Dolly found in the attic and thought, "iAy, caramba! I can do that." So she made this pink and green print quilt for Camilla in about a day and a half.

Kitty and Spot look indifferent, but both are planning naps on quilts as soon as the girls leave the room.

The girls have lots of books, and Camilla tries to keep them organized in the bookcase. But Dolly's favorite, "Mother Goose," can usually be found on top of the big dresser. She's not quite five years old, but she can already read almost anything. She finds that "Mother Goose" makes more sense than some of the adult books around the house, such as The Peep of Day by Mrs. Favell Lee Mortimer--which Dolly was not supposed to read. A few nightmares made her wish she hadn't read it.

Camilla remembers learning to read, sitting on Cook's knee and reciting what Cook called "the A-B-abs."

Dolly can't remember when she couldn't read, at least a little bit.