Quilting Daze

I've been working on this quilt for several days, trying to finish quilting it, and now it's complete except a couple of outer blocks and the border. Hope I can get it done by Christmas. Got holes in my fingers. This will be the third of my "Big Three" quilts, the best ones I've made, except for a couple that I've sold or given away. The other two "best:"

Bear's Paw with Flying Geese Border



Broken Sash

The one I sold was called Mountain Echoes, and the one I gave to Sharon O. for her wedding was a Palm Leaf pattern. Wish I had pictures of them, but I don't. They were both more intricate and striking than any of these. But the Bear's Paw, shown above, is still my favorite.

Mouthing Off

I don't know why it suddenly strikes me funny, that so many of our body parts are verbs as well as nouns.

Head for the hills. Face the music. Foot the bill. Back up. Butt out. Toe the mark. Arm the troops. Knuckle under. Heel!

What got me started on this was, the handle of the tea kettle being too hot to handle.

Looking Up

The sister supper Friday was great--just Ramey, Susan and me, but a good time was had by us! Susan's chicken and dumplings was scrumptious, and Pat brought a luscious lemon crunch cake.

Dr. G.'s prescription for my problem is working, and I'm about well. Which reminds me of a story. Long ago, Alabama had an elderly senator named Albert Boutwell, and he had an elderly wife. One day I was in Burger-Phillips department store when Mrs. Boutwell was shopping there. A saleslady said, "How are you today, Mrs. Boutwell?"

The lady answered, "'Bout well, 'bout well!"

The saleslady whispered, "She always says that."
*
I sent my poetry manuscript, The Lightness of the Dark, to the Walt Whitman competition, or did I already say that? And I'm getting the Big Baby ms. ready to submit to a N.Y. publisher. So those two things will be out of my hands and off my to-do list for several months.

There's really not much to hope for in the poetry line. I've received a couple of the American Academy of Poets' prize-winning books in the past. It may be an oxymoron to call my poems, and the kind that the AAP chooses, poetry in the same sentence. But there's always a faint possibility they'll assign the wrong judge this time.

Hurricane Mo

I'm thankful for this beautiful, glorious day in which to clean up after him.

Cedar Waxwing, by Rod McIver

It's a pretty watercolor, but doesn't look like the Cedar Waxwing I've seen--a beautiful crested brown-and-yellow bird with a scarlet-tipped feather on each wing.

But the real bird that I saw at the apartment in Birmingham was more amazing than any picture. The red spots on the wings were deep scarlet and looked like jewels.

Man!

I'm having a spell of the visual aurae that the neurologist once said was migraine. Been so long since I had this, I almost didn't recognize it at first. There's no pain, just drifting clouds and flashing lights. I guess it's the equivalent of a headache, and it'll pass in a few minutes or so.

Yesterday the doctor reviewed all the medications I'm not taking, told me to get back on some of them, told me to quit smoking, got Onae to give me a flu shot, and sent me to the lab. Said he'd call me in a prescription if necessary, etc.

Mr. Obama is still presiident, and I hope they give him a little more cooperation and elbow room this term. A little is about all  you can hope for. It was trying to figure out how to vote on the state constitutional amendments that took so long at the voting place. Seemed to me, best I could decipher, that the state wants to go back a few decades--amendments to repeal amendments that that were made years ago. I hope the way I marked them didn't help to make things worse than they already are in this state. I hope.

This morning I got out my unfinished autumn leaf quilt (part of which is shown in the masthead of my blog), spread it out on the living room floor, and gave myself orders to finish the thing and redecorate the guest room around it, before Christmas. So that's my project for now--as soon as I can see again. I gave up on the November novel; didn't like the people in it.

As Usual

Have to be at the Clinic at 10:00, and of course I'm feeling fine, except hurried and anxious. I've left my coffee mug somewhere in the house, and it's probably empty anyway.
*
So, I went to the Clinic, then I voted. So I've done two things today.
*
A pretty good book: Bag Men, by Mark Costello. Yesterday, to calm the fidgets, I picked up this book and read it. Ultra-violent and gory, but very well written, gripping and suspenseful. And only 3-4 typos. One of the worst, most vengeful killers in literature--the author saved him, probably for another book.
*
I noticed that our PBS channel is showing Season 1 (and presumably Season 2) of "Downton Abbey" again. I think it was on Sunday that I saw the tail-end of episode 2 or 3 on the channel.

What a Team!

Never thought I would cry over a football game, but when Alabama got that ball in the last minute of the 4th quarter, I clapped and cried all the way to the extra point!

Done

I went through the poetry manuscript and just deleted most of the ones that didn't make me cry or make the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Then I submitted it to the Academy of Amer. Poets for the Walt Whitman Award. They expect the judging to be done by April of 2013.

For the Walt Whitman Award Competition

I've got my collected poems pared down to 120-something, but the limit is 100 pages. So I've got to cut out about twenty of them. Wish I had someone who's familiar with publishing as well as modern poetry, to read them and help me decide what to cut, and where to rewrite if necessary. Guess I'll just have to use my own judgment, which is biased in favor of every blessed one of them.

Slow Start on the Novel

Well, I wrote 800+ words this morning and ran out of steam. Maybe after I find something for lunch, I can add some more.

So we'll probably postpone the sister supper until a week from tomorrow, since Ramey is going to a writer's retreat in Florida for the weekend, Friday through Sunday. I hope she gets a lot of writing done, on her next book in the Moonlight Ridge saga.

Susan has a new maid, who left her house spick-and-span yesterday. Lucky her, poor me in comparison. But comparisons, as they say, are odious.

Last night I had three groups of trick-or-treaters, all dressed in delightful costumes. I gave them most of the candy, so maybe I won't get fat on what's left.

Yesterday evening I watched some episodes of Downton Abbey. I'm trying to get so familiar with it that, while I'm watching it with the family, I won't tear up and sob when Thomas cries or Bates kisses Anna.

Boo!

Remembering Bob Ross

Those were the days, TV-wise.

*

Good Resolutions

Tradition says they're the paving-stones to You-Know-Where, but I still make them, usually while I'm falling asleep at night. When I'm lying there, waiting to go to sleep, doing hard things seems so easy. It's all a matter of organization and scheduling.

For instance, seasonal house-cleaning. There are only about 10-12 rooms or areas to conquer, so it shouldn't take more than a couple of weeks, doing one area per day. Right. I'll start that in the morning, and by Christmas, the house will shine.

Say again?

When morning comes, it's the same old same-old: Mo clawing at the covers and howling to tell me the alarm clock is about to go off--it buzzes before it starts ringing. Then dragging around for a couple of hours, trying to wake up. Finding that I'm out of coffee, or cat food, or cigarettes. By afternoon I'm sometimes (reluctantly) ready to face the world, or the house--but not often.

Wow! (Frantically)

Today is NOT the 28th day of October--it can't be! Why, just yesterday it was the 10th or 11th, wasn't it? I've eaten up most of the M&M's I bought for Halloween, so now I'll have to go to the store again.

The crux of the matter is that four days from now, I'll be writing one-to-two-thousand words of a novel, and haven't made up my mind about what. Besides, November was an unwise choice of writing month--I've got a clinic appointment on the sixth, which will also be voting day, I think. Guess I'll just have to vote a straight ticket, if they'll still let you do that.

And then there's Thanksgiving somewhere in there, and three or four Sister Suppers. Lots of sleeping and cooking to get done--I've sworn Mo off of canned cat food, and have to find some people-food that he likes every day.

By Ned, if I write 50,000 words next month in the middle of all that hooraw, I'll be so proud of myself, I'll have to get a bigger hat!
*
After I wrote that, I scanned through the Big Baby manuscript and deleted about a hundred "justs." I don't know if it's true with all amateur writers, but "just" seems to turn up in my writing, every few sentences.

Make haste swiftly!

I've really got to get cracking, to get ready for our dinner tonight. Last night I remembered a girl who was called "Magalene" (the country folks' way of saying Magdalene). So after I cooked the pie and washed some clothes this morning, I sat at the computer, pulled up the Big Baby manuscript, and changed the mean aunt's name from Maylene to Magalene. Then of course I started reading the manuscript from some point, correcting typos which I was amazed to find, and just now came to myself and remembered that I've got a lot of cleaning and cooking to do, and I'm still in my pajamas. So the kitchen and bathroom are probably all that'll get cleaned.

The Birmingham Arts Journal meeting last night was a moderate success. More people came than attended the same event last year. My onion dip was a big hit, at least with Frank, and I got to read two poems to the group.
*
Jed just phoned. He's coming over and bringing a new set of Dixit cards, so we can play after dinner. Or tomorrow, whichever comes first.

The Good News Is. . .

Lord willing, we will have the sister supper tomorrow evening.While I was shopping for the Arts Council do, I also loaded up on groceries. Including pie and ice cream. Maybe the sisters will bring a vegetable.

There isn't any bad news, except I dropped my orange slush in the basement and have to clean that up. And I have less than two hours now to get ready and get to the LAC and help Joan set up.

Little Joe

Miranda's new baby is a boy, which secretly pleases her. She respects her daughters but doesn't understand them, and she will always feel closer to her sons.

Daddy Doll of course is euphoric over having another son. There is much thoughtful conferring among the senior Dolls, concerning a name for the new baby. After siring two daughters, Alexis insisted on naming Peter for all the fathers and grandfathers--Peter Alexander Hugh Barry Doll, lest that be his only son. So he has to search farther afield to christen the new boy.

Grandma's cousin on her mother's side is connected by marriage to the English painter Edward Burne-Jones, who is connected by marriage to Mr. Rudyard Kipling. When the Kiplings lived in Vermont, Grandma and Step-Grandfather Buff-Orpington visited them at their new house.

Before his return to England, Mr. Kipling had gifted Alexis and Ned with signed copies of all his books that he wrote in New England, and these are collector items in the green bookcase in Daddy's study. All the Doll children have heard the "Just-So Stories," "Kim," and the "Jungle Books," and they entertain the childish notion that they will someday travel to India where Mr. Kipling and his sister Trix were born.

All this explains the names given to the new boy, Joseph Kipling Doll. (They left out Mr. Kipling's middle name, thinking "Rudyard" might prove a bit extreme and showy.) Daddy insists on calling him "Kip," but this doesn't last very long. Peter's brother will always be known as "Little Joe."

The Stargazer

Above the pine trees facing my back door,
a strip of sky eludes the city glow,
and on clear nights I've watched and waited for
Perseids and Orionids to show--
those fragments of celestial debris,
the fireworks of the atmosphere. But more
than shooting stars, that heavenly degree
of high way seems a star-filled corridor;

there, mystic seers made their vision soar,
and I can wander where the ancients trod
and feel the wonder that they felt before.
That bright immensity becomes the sod
where poets walk, where Keats stood on the shore
of the wide world, and touched the mind of God.

JRC 10/23/12

*
I think it's still in progress, but maybe it works pretty well as it is.

It's Full Of Stars!

After midnight I wrapped up in a blanket and went out on the deck to watch for the Orionid meteors. I only saw a couple of "shooting stars," but the view was magnificent.

Looking straight up from my deck, there's a narrow dark strip of sky above my trees, with the glow from Birmingham to the west and the glow from Leeds to the east. At first I could only see a couple of stars, Polaris and something right near it. But as my eyes grew adjusted, they came out gloriously--Cassiopeia very bright and upside-down, the bowl of the Big Dipper, and Polaris directly overhead.

The sky was so cold and clear, the longer I watched, the more stars appeared. It's a long time since I've seen so many stars. I thought of Keats's poem about standing on the shore of the universe. But where Keats felt that it made everything down here seem unimportant, it makes me feel very important, a part of it all, part of the Milky Way galaxy, part of a star. Part of the Mind of God?

*

When I lived at the Oak Trail apartments, the north-sky view from my balcony was so spectacular, I learned many of the constellations and star formations. Ones I remember are Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco, the Big and Little Dippers, and Cassiopeia.

Scraping the Bottom Of the Barrel

My mid-month impecuniosity obliges me to forgo the Downton Abbey dinner today. I've committed myself to helping with the Birmingham Arts Journal convention at the Leeds Arts Council next Thursday, and my share of the refreshments for that gathering will just about demolish what pittance I have left. As for me, "I could turn and eat grass with the animals," or some such Whitmanism. But I hate to invite people over and only offer them knife stew, potato peel pie and ice water.

Of course, all this is exaggeration, but it's near enough. The rest of the story is that I haven't been awake long enough to feel optimistic and human.

One Step Forward, Two Back

This week I've decided to be Hercules, although I feel more like Sisyphus.

I really am ready to take the bulldozer to this house.

On the other hand, my back feels like a million dollars, after spending two days mostly in bed or prone on the sofa. And even after a few hours of being Hercules.

Sort of like Friday the Thirteenth.

On Saturday, a series of minor catastrophes led up to my being like something dragged through a knothole by dinnertime. Not the least or greatest of which was spilling a platterful of beef drippings in the middle of the kitchen floor after I had mopped it. Then Susan showed up with the backache, and both of us moaned and groaned all evening--I moaned louder, I'm afraid. Reed came with Ramey, and he wasn't a bit happy, wanted to go home, to which Ramey finally gave in, and they left just a few minutes into Episode 4 of Season One of D.A.

However, the food turned out fine. India came in a few minutes after everyone else left, and carried away some choice leftovers. We had roast beef with brown gravy, cheesy mashed potatoes, grilled veggie skewers (squash, red bell pepper, mushrooms and Roma tomatoes), purple-hull peas, and Susan brought steamed cabbage which I chowed down on quite a lot. I managed to run get a tray of delicious rolls in time to heat for dinner, and Susan brought a purely fabulous almond torte which she had whipped together at home. If I ate like that every day, I'd soon be fatter than Old Lucy.

I did eat pretty much like that today: A roast beef and tomato sandwich on whole wheat for lunch, and I'm steaming the veggies that didn't get skewered for my dinner.

Friday come on Saturday today. -- Walt Kelly

We're having the Friday dinner on Saturday this time. And as usual I forgot to get bread or rolls. Everything else is pretty much under control, but after I rest a minute, I've got to run out and hunt bread. We're having roast beef and steamed or grilled vegetables. If I can figure out how to grill them, they'll be grilled. I don't guarantee the results either way. As for me, I can enjoy them raw if it comes to that, and everybody else can pretend they like it, just to be polite.

I haven't done enough to be tired. I just have to sit or lie down after standing up for half an hour or less.

Wow! (Softly)

Trying to get a poetry manuscript ready to submit to the Walt Whitman award, I have amazed myself this morning. I thought I had about sixty of the "best" prize-winning poems arranged in some kind of order. But today I have gone back and read all those Volume One poems, written from the 1950s into the '70s, that hardly ever saw the light of day, and I just absolutely love them. They sound as if they had been written by somebody else, a water sprite or a "perfect little woman" who crawled out from under a rock. But of course, that's just my impression.

So I don't know what to do about it. Maybe just throw them all into the ring? Maybe the book should be in two sections, the old ones and the newer "best" ones.

Also, I'm thinking why bother with competitions any more? Why wait one to two more years to see if it gets published, and then probably be disappointed, and have to start all over? Just get it printed between hard covers, then sit in a corner
like little Jack Horner,
and read it over and over by myself,
and think, "Oh, what a good poet am I!"

*

And here it's almost time for Jeopardy, and I haven't done anything about the Friday night sister supper. Nothing in the house to eat except half a leftover pizza, and old cans of rutabagas, spinach and such. So I guess we'll have to put it off this week.

Excelsior!

This is the first day in a long time that I have awoken with my ambition uppermost, my confidence level almost as high, and the determination to have fun for the rest of my life. Matter of fact, it may be the first day ever that all three of those conditions have coincided and congrued in my normally scattered awareness.

I know that I can make slipcovers, because I've made at least half a dozen in the past. The fact that they got shredded by cat claws notwithstanding.

I know that I can throw a yard sale, because I've done it before. I can always be careful not to fall and bruise my whole body again, the way I did last time I threw a yard sale.

I know that I can put together a volume of my poems, because I've done it before. I can pay somebody else to publish the next one under their imprint, instead of stapling together a "chap book" by myself.

I know that I can write a novel, because et cetera. Maybe nobody will ever publish it, or want to read it. Who cares? Their loss. Of course, that's not the way a writer is supposed to feel. You're supposed to want to get rich and famous for writing a book, or you're not really a writer. Well, I've gone for a good many years without being rich or famous, so I know that I can do that some more.

So, the Plan for October is to dummy up a volume of my "Collected Poems" and get it out of my hands and into the process. Also to get all the extraneous stuff out of my house, some sunny day, and see if anyone will stop and buy some of it, or take it for free.

The November Plan is to write another first-drafted novel. That'll give me two worth working on and submitting here and there.

The December Plan is to spruce up the living room for Christmas, by making slipcovers for the old ratty furniture.

And in my spare time, I can redecorate the dollhouse. Any questions?

*

Looks like I forgot my nemeses, housework and paying bills. Oh well.

Wonderful Weekend

The Ramey sisters met here at "Rowanwood" for supper Friday evening, and as soon as he could escape the Atlanta and I-20 traffic, Jed arrived. Susan brought brownies and ice cream, and I declare, I would ask her for the brownie recipe, except I would mess it up. Let Susan make the brownies, and I'll stick to cooking the beans and cornbread. Or whatever.

Jed brought his "Dixit" game, which we played after dinner. It was so much fun, we gathered again Saturday evening and played Dixit into the large hours.

I've got a drawer full of Timex and similar wrist-watches with dead batteries. Well, the drawer isn't full, but cluttered with 'em. Several weeks ago, Jed took my newest dead-battery watch, and the works out of my dollhouse grandfather clock, to Atlanta to get the batteries replaced. Apparently there's a mall over there where you can stand on the corner, look around you, and find a shop that does impossible things, like removing the backs of watches without using hammer and chisel. Anyway, he brought my timepieces back this weekend. I thank him. All my dollhouse dolls thank him.

While I'm posting pictures, here's Barbie who got sold into eBay slavery a few weeks ago, with her voluminous handmade wardrobe. All of which I won't show.

Yesterday I read a book that Jed brought, About a Boy, by Nick Hornby. If you laugh and cry easily, and want to read a book that makes you do both all the way through, this is a good one. I read a review of the movie, and apparently it followed the book up until the best part, then simplified and changed the ending to something sort of bland and uncomplicated.

Symbols?

"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travelers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who have heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves." - Henry David Thoreau, Walden
*
 When his aunt Louisa asked him in his last weeks if he had made his peace with God, Thoreau responded: "I did not know we had ever quarreled."

Another'n?

I'm thinking about doing the November novel thing again. Not by way of NaNoWriMo, with all its little side issues, word scrambling and socializing. Just write 1,700 words a day for 30 days and see what emerges. The biggest problem is that I can't rewrite, so the big chunks of prose that I've got tucked away somewhere will probably never be proper novels.

Don't say "can't." Of course I can. I'm just too lazy. Or have been heretofore. Writing is easy. Rewriting is torture.

Rewriting is not just correcting typos and adding descriptions. Rewriting is making a shapeless thing conform to some kind of architecture.

Ring Lardner said, "Riting is a nag." Dang you, Ring Lardner--get out of my head!

Like It Or Not

Just finished reading Gone With the Wind again. There's so much wrong with that book. It's almost impossible to read some of the mawkish foolishness in it. But there it is. It draws you on. It's simply the best novel ever written, for all its flaws. My favorite line in it: "I'll tell my father, and he'll kill you!"

Grunge

I've got to clean this house, or find out where to rent a bulldozer. What it needs, almost as bad as cleaning, is new carpet and new paint throughout. In a past life, I painted the inside of Mama and Daddy's little house on Mimosa Road, but they looked sort of scared while I was doing it--I'm afraid painting ruined my disposition.

Anyway, I guess that's what I'll be doing this week, if I ever get started. Cleaning, not painting.

Same thing over and over, with a twist

Of course, the radiologists can always find some excuse to call one back. But this time they've managed to scare me. So not only do I have unending clinic visits to look forward to with my usual glee, but also concern for the outcome.

So I've moped around here most of the day with nothing done, not really giving a hoot whether anything's done or not.

Dammitall anyway! Or 90 percent of it. At least 90% of The Kirklin Clinic.

Have to buy that bed that's high enough to crawl under.

What day is it? Where am I?

I knew my clinic appointment was today, but I thought it was Friday. But it's Thursday, so I'll go to TKC this afternoon for another test which they haven't put me through in the last year or so. Then I'll come home and try to crawl under the bed, with no success. Then, if I can get the house raked out and some vittles cooked, we can have the sister supper tomorrow evening.

Part Of a Real Poem

From "Ode To a Nightingale," by John Keats:

". . . Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."


Keats had tuberculosis and knew he was dying. He wrote his "Five Great Odes" in 1819 and died in 1821 at age 25.

 'Severn—I—lift me up—I am dying—I shall die easy; don't be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come.'

John Keats

1795-1821

*

If surpassing this poem is possible, Percy Bysshe Shelley surpassed it with his "Ode To the West Wind." These guys wrote 200 years ago, when English was not yet a dead language.

Not much of a poem.

Go Away, Black Cat

I saved your life, but don't assume
that it means you belong to me;
this isn't your home; I have no room
or need for your company.

I only called you “Toby” because
of your white feet and one black toe;
but your pretty paws with their dangerous claws
have not caught my heart, you know.

I've no more chicken-broth or stew
for a poor old lonesome stray;
I'm tired of warming milk for you
because you like it that way.

When you disappear, I start to think
you won't come back any more;
but there you sit like an ebony sphinx,
next time I open the door.

Your eyes are bright, and your meow is light,
and your fur is soft as silk
as you rub my shins. I give up. You win--
I'll just go and warm up the milk.

By JRC September 24, 2012

This Sunny Day

I feel no more than 154 years old--well, maybe a few months older. I'm aware that it's a blessing. I woke up sometime today while it was still a.m., and eventually managed to get out of bed. Knowing what was ahead--and still is: clean the litter box, feed a bunch of cats, pack the eBay sale, take a shower, go to the P.O., hop over the hills to pay my water bill which somehow has slipped through a crack. And now it's nearly 2:30 p.m., and all that is still ahead.

Are we downhearted? No, no, no! When all that is done, I've figured out a way to repaper the wall(s) of the dollhouse. Something to look forward to. Something to which to look forward.

"This is utter nonsense, up with which I refuse to put." -- Sir Winston Churchill

*

Sold another doll on eBay. I crocheted this dress a long, long time ago. Bought the doll for a dollar at a dollar store.

A terrible invention

Today I got brave enough to Google a few words from a song that terrorized me in the second grade, and continues to make me feel sick when I think about it.

At that time, there was a family living in or near Leeds. They had a son with a neurologic handicap of some kind. He was red-headed, very large, very loud, and was in my second-grade class. He was probably a good bit older than the rest of us. They called him Bobby.

Although it didn't last long, in the first and second grades, I was a pretty little girl, and Bobby seemed to take a special liking to me. And this seemed to be his favorite song, which he sang often:

"Oh, Johnny Rebeck, oh Johnny Rebeck,
How could  you be so mean?
I told you you'd be sorry
For inventing that machine!

The cats and dogs and horses
Will never more be seen--
They'll all be ground to sausage
In Johnny Rebeck's machine!"

As the song progressed, Johnny Rebeck suffered the same fate as the dogs and cats and horse. On the internet I found that it was really Johnnie "Verbeck" or "Trebeck."

It's just the hideous song I remember with terror, not Bobby. Even that young, and in spite of the song, I felt sorry for him. His younger sister was in some of my classes at the University, and she said that Bobby died young. The sister herself was later killed when her airplane, that she was flying solo, crashed in the mountains near Huntsville, Alabama.

Probably what keeps the memory alive is watching Alex Trebek on "Jeopardy."

Like "The Chambered Nautilus"

. . . Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from Heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

1809-1894

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It looks as if a lot of people read my blog. Want to thank all readers, even though you don't often post comments. Sorry if anyone gets offended by my occasional "outbursts." Y'all come back.
*
Went to the pharmacy, and coming back I saw a one-legged crow in the road. That ought to be a song.

One-legged crow, hopping like a fool;
Two boys fishing in a swimming pool...

Only it was a man and a little boy fishing in the "creek" at the park.

Autumn pas de deux

Saw two yellow butterflies doing a square dance around the back yard.

Not really a slouch. Not really a blue-eyed Indian?

Every day I do at least one important thing, usually more, then wind up thinking I've wasted the day because I don't get done everything that needs doing. Today I've done some stuff around the house, shopped for our sister supper tomorrow night, paid some bills, visited the Saint Theresa's Church yard sale, and I don't know what all. So there.

Son Jed sent off for one of those genetic tests that tell you where your ancestors came from. His came back indicating that he is 100% European. Looks like there were some Vikings in the woodpile at several points. Even if Grandpa Ramey (Paw Paw) was wrong about his mother, the Satterfields have Indian-mixed ancestry. The American Indians supposedly came from Asia. Maybe all their Asian blood froze up when they walked across Siberia and Alaska.

Or maybe all the original Indians were really from Siberia, which is considered European. So maybe I'm really one-eighth Russian. It ain't gonna worry me for long.

A poem 15 years in the making

Swans At Portsmouth, On a Receding Tide

That woman on the shore is staring at us,
Her eyes like saucers in her rain-washed face;
Perhaps she wonders why we paddle wildly,

Only to remain in the same place.

She wandered over here, while her companions
Explored aboard the ship called Victory.
Inside that little shop, out of the downpour,

She might have sheltered with a cup of tea;

Instead she stands there dripping, spies upon us,
And makes us awkward in our exercise;

It's hard enough to concentrate on paddling,

Without the scrutiny of foreign eyes.

Why do we struggle in this muddy water,
Performing an insane impromptu dance?
The tide would bear us farther off from England,

And leave us shivering on the coast of France;

And that wet, dripping, maybe weeping woman
May sense that swans, and humans even more,

Must paddle, row and swim with all their power

Against the terrors of an unknown shore.

Our wings are strong, and human wings are stronger,

And yet the weight we carry weighs us down;

And though we're left hip-deep in mud and gravel,

We did our damnedest, and we didn't drown.

By JRC, September 10, 2012

Maybe sometime I can make a better last line, but that's all I could think of at the moment.

*

5:10 p.m.: I've already thought of a better last line: "The distant shore may be a paradise." So I have to redo the whole last stanza. Back to the drawing board.

First Friday

Jed arrived Friday evening in time for dinner. Then Pat and India came bearing libations and tiny roast potatoes, and Susan brought a divine dessert, fresh apple cake with ice cream and caramel sauce toppings--recipe on her Blackberry Creek blog. So much food in one place--chicken and salad and grillin' beans and green beans and mashed potatoes! And those little crescent rolls that I can eat a bagfull of, if somebody doesn't stop me.

When we three sisters get together, it's rare that anyone else can get a word in edgeways. The air rang with conversation, and little India and little Jed did manage to speak now and then. They actually were the tallest members of the party, so they should have asserted themselves more.

Part one of Season One of "Downton Abbey" was good, too.

On Saturday, Jed helped me clean out and reorganize one section of the kitchen cabinets, which I can't totally reach into without climbing. Then we went to Logan's and lunched on grilled tilapia, then Jed went back to Atlanta. He has to give five presentations in Florida in the coming week, so it was very good of him to come over for my Friday dinner.

Just thinking

Wore myself out yesterday, yet everything looks about the same. I think it was Friday, tugging at that rug. Got a crick in my neck, and it took a while to recover.

A few thoughts on the Bible: It seems to me that some of the new "translations" of the Bible are more like paraphrases, or putting the verses into what the "translators" think are clearer terms, so that children and dummies like me can understand them. The trouble, it seems to me, is that each paraphrase may really get a little bit further away from the original meaning. Maybe we can't know precisely what was intended to start with. Translating from the original scripts probably got one step away from what was intended, in some cases. As some scholars have pointed out, one word in an ancient language can have different meanings and associations, and choosing differently from what the original speaker or writer intended, can be misleading and even more confusing.

As an example: I heard one preacher comment on the Bible verse that said Jesus "had not where to lay his head." Au contraire, said the preacher, Jesus was affluent and owned a lot of houses. The verse simply meant that the disciples hadn't found or fixed up the place for Him to sleep that night. This same preacher said that when Jesus told the young man to "sell what you have and give to the poor and follow me," that He only meant for the rich young man to keep on selling his products and contributing to the poor, and to follow Jesus's teachings.

So the more you "tranlate and simplify," the less certain you are of the original meaning. I think that's why a lot of scholars, especially in bygone times, preferred to read classic writings in the untranslated versions.

Saint Jerome was close to the true meaning of the scriptures he translated. Wycliffe was farther away, but closer than we are. The men who put together the "King James" version were still farther away, but they were much closer than nineteenth- and twentieth-century "translators," and they largely agreed on what they wrote down. And seventeenth-century English is not impossible to read and understand with a good dictionary at hand.

Anyway, that's what I think right now.

September High

Funny, I still feel that rush of excitement on the first day of September, that I felt as a child. Looking forward to the first day of school, seeing lots of people instead of moping around by myself. Sometimes a new dress and/or a new pair of shoes.

So far I've sold two of the dolls on eBay:


Red Venus

Shirley

 *

Back in the spring, the carpet cleaners left the big area rug in the living room placed wrong, with a big streak of the carpet pad showing in the front. I had tried many times to reposition it, but the rug was too heavy and the pad was sort of stuck to the carpet underneath. Yesterday I made up my mind to fix it or set fire to it. So I rolled up the rug, put the pad where it's supposed to be, then rolled the rug out on top of the pad. It wasn't nearly as easy as it looks. My arms and shoulders are sore.

Friday Dinners at Downton Abbey

I've decided to watch an episode of D.A. every Friday evening, after dinner, in preparation for Series 3 which is scheduled to be broadcast on PBS in January 2013. I'm inviting all the kin to eat Friday dinners with me, and watch the DVD's. I know everyone doesn't like the show as well as I do, but I can always eat dinner by myself if nobody comes.

In planning table settings, I find that I have (at last count) ten different china/pottery patterns in sufficient amounts to set a table. I plan to use each setting once, and after dinner to list that pattern on eBay for a dollar or so, if it's one that I don't want to keep. Maybe I can pare them down to half a dozen sets, at most.
*
The human voice, singing or even just speaking, has always fascinated me. One of the pleasantest voices currently extant on this planet belongs, in my humble o., to William Shatner. I enjoy listening to him speak, even on the Mike Slocumb law firm commercials.
*
Have to doll up and go to the p.o. to mail a book.

Change of Venue

Last night I went into the guest room and shut the door so Mo couldn't get in. I went to bed with my head in that double window, slept for 12 hours, and got up feeling good. I've always thought that's the best room in the house. Once in a while, when I'm extra-weary and sleep-deprived, I go to sleep in there, and it always does me good.

Maybe it was the rain that kept me snoozing and snoring for so long. I feel a little guilty for loving the rain so much, when I know that somewhere closer to the center of the storm, it's tearing up the country and ruining some people's lives.

Ricky cut the grass yesterday, and it looks like a sparkly green carpet out there. When it's all mowed down evenly, you can't tell that a lot of it is weeds.
*
Yesterday I hunted out all the "art pottery" in the house, with the object of getting it out of the house. I lined up all the planters, vases, mugs, etc., on the porch rail, and they went almost all around the deck, forty-odd pieces that I don't want. I kept my yellow-ware bowls and a few other pieces. What I had in mind was having a yard sale to get rid of the extra stuff. But then I thought about the hurricane, and brought it all inside again, so the kitchen is full of it. Over the years, on eBay mainly, I had already sold all the vases and things that I knew had value.

Most of the pottery is what I inherited from Jenny's collection, oodles of which is still in the basement in the form of odd dishes and sets of dishes. I think from now on, when I go to a thrift store, I'll take a bag or box full of dishes to donate.
*
I listed some of the pottery on eBay.

A McCoy vase

McCoy ashtray

A Royal Copley vase

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.

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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.